In spite of things, Dean feels like he's got it pretty good.
Sure, maybe he's got shooting pain through his entire right leg. Maybe he's still horribly disoriented from the goofy meds the fucking leviathans gave him. Maybe he's in a constant state of panic (maybe someone should check him for chronic anxiety?). And maybe he was seriously considering a double suicide (is it suicide-homicide if your brothers crazy?) not even twenty four hours ago.
And his brother. His poor fucking baby brother. Who's curled so tightly around a grimy trashcan because his poor head won't stop pounding and it's making him sick (and fucking really? Like Sam didn't have enough problems with his head, some asshat had to go give him a few good whacks?) and he's sweaty and cold at the same time, and his brow is formed into a permanent frown because of the headache, and it's really just bad all around.
But Dean's got it pretty good. Because at least his brother's here and not rotting in hell. And at least they're not in that godforsaken hospital anymore. And at least someone up there has managed to bless this asshat and his kid brother the surrogate father that they must surely deserve at this point. God, at least Bobby's still alive.
Dean steals a glance at Sam, who's looking grayer by the minute. He's sort of rocking back and forth, like he used to do when he was a kid and stressed out about some pointless 9th grade project (and Dean really did try to tell him it was pointless but did he ever listen? No.). Dean chalks it up to the nausea. Poor fucking kid.
“Hey, Sammy you doin’ okay there?”
Sam startles a little. (And no matter how many times he does it, Dean will never stop thinking about what the fuck happened to him in the cage that he startles that bad at his big brother's voice, okay? Seriously, what the fuck did they do to his kid?) He gives a thin, forced smile. “F-fine…” And that's all he says before the blank staring is back (Dean knows he's not watching the TV, okay? He knows what engaged Sammy looks like, and this ain't it.)
Deans about to flip the channel to Desperate Housewives or something, just to see if Sam would notice, before his little brother lets out this strangled little moan (and Dean really doesn't wanna think about how many times in hell he made that noise to not be able to hold it back now, but he's really trying to think on the positive side, so he really actually doesn't think about it).
“Sammy?” Dean asks carefully.
“Ugh…” Sam moans again before spitting into the garbage bin. “Sorry… just really fucking nauseous… guh…”
Deans face twists up in concern, because God, the poor kid’s apologizing for feeling sick, and that's just not okay (but it's better than hell flashbacks in epilepsy form, Dean, keep it in perspective) so Dean gently rubs a hand up and down Sam's shaking back (he's shaking so bad, Jesus Christ).
Dean wonders if saying biblical curse words will ever feel strange. He guesses not, since it's been three years since his visit and barely a fucking month since Sammy’s, and Dean stills asks what the hell kind of shit they're playing on the radio these days.
“Shhh… just relax…” Dean soothes. “You're getting yourself all spun up, just take a few deep breaths and your stomach will calm down.”
Sam nods, determined not to throw up again. He succeeds in about three shaky half-breaths before his face crumbles into sudden tears and Dean begins to panic again.
“Sam? Sam?!” Dean fumbles for words. “Hey, hey, what's wrong?”
Sam sobs, the inhales deeply, trying to quell the sudden meltdown. “S-sorry…” he gasps out. “Sorry I just--” He sobs again, voice cracking on his last words. “I just feel so miserable…”
Dean sighs sadly (also in fucking relief, because he expected the worst), knowing all too well that a Sam this sick is constantly and unpredictably weepy.
Dean wraps an arm around his brother, carefully pulling him into his side. “Don't worry about it, Sammy. You'll be feelin’ better soon, I promise.”
Sam gulps loudly and nods, snuggling into Dean's shoulder. There's something (hell) that keeps Dean from making a crack at him for it.
Sam dozes off eventually, still tucked under Dean's arm, still sweaty and cold (Dean's entire side is utterly soaked). But alive. He's alive. And he's right freaking here (soaking his brother's side in sweat).
Bobby comes in maybe an hour later. Checks Sam's temperature. Gives Dean a few more pain killers (Singer dosage always seems to be on the high side) and gives Dean a fatherly clap on the cheek like he did in the hospital and Dean feels loved. He pops in a Harry Potter DVD (who the fuck owns DVDs anymore?) and sits in an arm chair by the couch Sam and Dean are on, pretending to read through a lore book. He sits there. Alive.
Yeah, Dean's got it pretty good.