Work Text:
what do my eyes see
(not see)
what do my ears hear
(not hear)
Do not wake me, for I dream
and it is all the world to me
* * *
"Doctor, all I want to know is--when is my brother waking up?"
Dean Winchester stood at Sam's bedside, scowling at the neurologist. Dr. Bissel was six inches shorter than Dean, but nevertheless he stood nose to nose with Dean over the belligerent query.
"Mr. Mendelbaum, I can't answer that. Your brother's injuries were so serious that we had to induce a medical coma for his body to concentrate on healing. Now, the broken ribs are a slow go, but we're past the danger point for the skull fracture and resultant swelling of the brain. The swelling is subsiding nicely, and all of the internal damage is healing as well as we could hope for." Dr. Bissel's tone was firm during this speech, while his gray eyes regarded Dean steadily. "We have already discontinued the meds inducing the coma. From his readings, Sam should be waking up anytime." The doctor shook his head wearily. "Frankly, I'm at a loss to explain why he is not responding to external stimuli yet, even if he isn't conscious."
Dean ran a hand over his face. His frustration and fear soared; he felt like he was filled with white-hot flames, but he couldn't lash out at this doctor, who'd fought to pull Sam back from the brink. Dean had dragged Sam, bloody and unconscious, here to Saint Agnes Hospital after a fight with a wendigo. The wendigo had surprised them as they were investigating its lair, and its legendary speed meant it had attacked Sam savagely, hurling him into a rock wall with its enormous claws, before Dean had been able to get the flamethrower alight. Dr. Bissel and the trauma staff had put Sam back together, but now--now he should be waking up.
But he wasn't.
"Okay, thanks, Doctor. I really appreciate everything you've done. I know Sam would be dead if it hadn’t been for you." Dean reached out and shook Dr. Bissel's hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, but I wish I had a better prognosis for you. It's up to Sam and time now." Dr. Bissel walked off, leaving Dean still standing at Sam’s bedside.
Dean looked down at his brother. Even after the last several days, it was a shock to see Sam lying so quietly in the hospital bed. He was unnaturally pale; a bloodlessness underlay the usual tan of his skin, and his head was still swathed in white bandages. The ventilator obscured half of his face, the hoses running to a machine next to the bed. His chest rose and felt softly, regularly, its motion dictated by that machine rather than by his heart and lungs. Smaller tubes and wires were hooked into his arms and hands, some red with blood and others clear with fluids and medications, and a larger tube snaked underneath the blanket, taking care of his waste.
It hurt Dean to see Sam like this. Sam was such a large, vital man, muscle and bone creating someone beautiful and unique. And yet here he was, dependent on flimsy hoses and soulless machines, only alive by their proper functioning. Sam's being itself, his consciousness, his personality--all were absent. He was a husk.
Dean clenched his jaw, willing the hot tears brewing behind his eyes to evaporate. He had to be strong for Sam. He needed to figure out what was blocking his brother from returning to consciousness--to Dean. There was no time or energy for stupid chick flick moments, not when his brother's life was still so fragile. Dean curled his hands into fists, digging his short nails hard into his palms, willing the pain to battle the tears.
He lost. The tears overran the pain, welling out of his eyes and trailing down his stubbled cheeks, pooling at the corners of his mouth and in the collar of his shirt. Dean fumbled toward the empty chair at Sam's bedside, half-falling into it as he took his brother's hand gently, pressing it to his dry lips and shaking with silent sobs.
* * *
Sam woke up slowly, smiling as he snuggled luxuriously into the sheets. Dean was already gone, probably to make coffee, but his warmth lingered. Sam gave a little sigh, relishing the comfortable mattress, the soft but firm pillow, the gentle weight of the comforter atop him. He stretched, felt the ache of last night's activities throughout his body, and chuckled. They'd rolled around together, laughs and little tickles leading to kisses and more measured touches, and then...
Sam's ass told him about the 'then', but he didn't care. He loved feeling the after-effects of making love with Dean. A little bruising, a few bite-marks, an achy ass, all were just signs they'd had rousing sex. Better yet was the way it left his heart so filled and complete, secure in the fact that Dean loved him as much as he loved Dean.
"Coffee's ready!" Dean called out from the kitchen. Sam threw off the covers and pulled on the pajama pants lying on the floor, where they'd been abandoned last night. Going downstairs into the kitchen, he smiled at Dean, who was stirring eggs in a fry pan, bacon already sitting on another plate. The aroma in the kitchen was delicious.
"Morning," Sam said, kissing Dean on the cheek.
"None of that," Dean answered, turning to catch Sam's mouth with his. "Go sit, these are ready."
Sam sat down at the small kitchen table and watched Dean divide the eggs and bacon onto two plates. Depositing the plates on the table, he went back for mugs and brought them over in one hand, the other holding the coffee pot.
"You're the best," Sam said. "Thanks for making breakfast."
Dean snickered. "Thanks for last night. You were pretty spectacular."
"You weren't too shabby yourself," Sam countered with a grin.
They both began to eat, and Dean started talking about getting the paint for repainting the kitchen and living room. Sam sat watching him, noting how Dean's green eyes sparkled, how his plump lips grew shiny from the bacon, how relaxed his face was.
The food was tasty, and Sam sipped his coffee afterward, feeling easy in his skin. The sun shone in through the window over the sink, and his belly was full. Dean was puttering with the dishes, moving around the kitchen with his natural grace.
I could live this way forever, Sam thought. It's perfect.
* * *
"Bobby, thanks for coming." Dean ushered Bobby into the motel room, kicking an empty pizza box across the stained carpet.
"Of course, Dean. You should have called sooner. No need to deal with this alone." Bobby looked around the unkempt room. Takeout bags overflowed the wastebasket, with empty soda cans and beer bottles piled next to it. "You might wanna think about letting housekeeping in for one day."
"What?" Dean looked around, seeing the mess he'd become inured to with fresh eyes. It was pretty grody, even for his standards. "Ohh, uh, yeah. I've been at the hospital most of the time."
"Sure, I understand." Bobby sat in one of the two wooden chairs at the small table. "What can I do? How is Sam doing?"
Dean sat in the other chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. "The doctor says he's doing great, physically. Bones mending, brain swelling down, yadda yadda."
"Okay, that's great. What's the 'but', since I assume there is one."
Dean sighed and sat back. "He's not waking up. He should be responding to, uh, 'external stimuli'--like when they pinch him or knuckle his chest. But he's not. And even though they stopped the meds for the coma, he's still out cold." Dean ran a hand over his face. "The longer he's out, the greater chance he has brain damage. Or that he won't ever wake up at all." He cleared his throat, which seemed to be narrowing as he spoke. "I can't--he--"
Bobby reached over and squeezed Dean's knee. "I got you, boy. What d'you have in mind? 'Cause I'm guessing you have an idea, or I wouldn't be sitting here."
Dean nodded. Getting up, he went over to the mini fridge and pulled out two beers, handing one to Bobby. Opening his own bottle, Dean took a swig before continuing.
"I want to go in after him, Bobby. Wanna find out where he is, and see if I can bring him back."
Bobby drank and set his beer down. "You thinking about visiting the astral plane?"
Dean shook his head and sat back down. "Nope, not astral. Too iffy; I don't know what plane he's on, and it's too big to just wander around in."
Bobby tilted his head. "Ohhhhh. You're thinking African dream root."
Dean nodded. "You mind watching over me while I go on a little excursion?"
* * *
The African dream root tea tasted as terrible as it had the first time Dean had it. He swished it with Sam's toothbrush for the biological element, deliberately blocking out how gross that was. Tea downed, roiling stomach ignored, he'd felt himself falling back and back and back...
And then he was standing in a house. More specifically, a kitchen. Crappy old paint, beat-up linoleum floor, that chrome-legged Formica table that every 50's kitchen boasted. A fry pan with remnants of scrambled cheesy eggs was in the sink, along with greasy plates and stained coffee cups.
Dean took a moment to take it all in. What was this place? Why would Sam be here?
He moved toward an open doorway that led to the living room. A worn couch sat along one wall, the red upholstery dulled to a rusty pink. A similarly worn chair, a coffee table, and a television that hadn't ever heard of flat screen technology rounded out the room. Half a dozen paperbacks leaned tipsily in the shelves on one side of the TV, and a boldly colored crocheted afghan was draped over the back of the couch, lending the room a warm feel despite the shabby furniture.
"Where am I?" mused Dean, turning to survey the room. "Why am I here, Sam?"
He heard some noises, kind of squeaky and growly at the same time. Looking out into the hallway, he saw stairs leading up to another floor. He eased onto the stairs, moving his weight slowly to avoid any squeaking of loose boards. The sounds grew louder as he ascended, and while they didn't sound dangerous, he still went cautiously. A thwacky kind of noise was mixed in there now, and he could not for the life of him place it, despite recognizing that it was something he'd heard before.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he came out onto a landing with a couple of doors on each side. One door was slightly open, so he moved silently closer to that one first.
Dean lined himself up with the crack in the door, trying to give himself the best angle to see inside without being seen himself. The sounds were quite loud now, but they still confounded him rather than giving him clues as to what was going on.
When he looked into the room, it all became much clearer.
He saw himself, naked as a jaybird, atop his brother, fucking him like there was no tomorrow. Ass pumping, thighs flexing, 'Dean' was sparing no effort to boink 'Sam.' The thwacking noise suddenly made sense--it was the smack of flesh against flesh. Dean could see 'his' balls slapping 'Sam's', could hear 'Sam's' whimpers and 'Dean's' grunts. 'Sam' was loving it, judging by his desperate pleas of "more" and "God, Dean" while his hands groped at the sheets. Dean could see 'Sam's' cock bobbing between his legs, hard and dripping, swaying with each solid thrust from 'Dean'.
Dean was stunned. Most of him was stunned, anyway. His brain froze, baffled at how to react to such an unexpected scene. His dick, though, was immediately down with the show happening in front of it, promptly stiffening inside Dean's jeans and poking insistently at his fly.
The men in front of him had to be approaching their climaxes, because their noises grew even louder and more urgent. 'Dean' hammered mercilessly into 'Sam', who moaned like a stuck pig and started slapping the bed with one hand.
"Fuck, Dean, fuck...I need..."
"I know what you need, baby. My cock in your ass, my come filling you up. Gonna fill you up right now, yeah, shit!"
'Dean' threw back his head and howled as he ground his hips against 'Sam's' ass. Still standing by the door, Dean watched 'Sam' likewise cry out when his cock jerked hard and spewed white over the sheets. Locked together, they moved now in slow-motion, writhing as one while they orgasmed simultaneously.
Slowly 'Sam' and 'Dean' broke apart, each drifting down to the bed like leaves shed from a tree. They curled together, arms and legs encircling each other, still breathing hard as they exchanged soft kisses and murmurs.
His lungs full of the heavy smell of sex, Dean turned away from the bedroom door. His mind churned unceasingly, trying to sort out the jumble of emotions evoked by what he'd just witnessed. Like werewolf fangs tearing through flesh, his heart had been ripped open, but instead of blood spilling out, it was a torrent of new--or at least previously unrecognized--feelings.
Holy Jehoshaphat. That was the hottest thing I've ever seen tumbled out first, followed by that should have revolted me, but...it didn't. In fact, his boxers were wet with pre-come. What the hell, that's my brother... He stumbled back down the stairs, only keeping his feet by clutching the banister.
Dean rushed out the front door and collapsed in the grass at the side of the steps, belly cramping but cock twitching. The searing images of those naked bodies rutting together made his breath hitch. His hand moved of its own volition to pull his zipper down and yank himself out. Fuck, gotta--need to-- Already hard and leaking, Dean grabbed his dick and stripped it while the erotic scene played over and over again in his mind's eye. 'Sam's' straining cock, flushed dark and swinging heavily, pre-come pattering down from the swollen tip. The sweet curve of his ass under 'Dean's' hands, muscular thighs spread wide. Watching his 'own' ass bunching and flexing while he reamed 'Sam', hands squeezing hard on 'Sam's hips, only releasing one to slap one plump cheek, the fleshy reverberation echoing in the room.
Their mutual cries of ecstasy exploded in Dean's mind and he groaned loudly, his release spurting over the grass as he fell to his knees. The overpowering orgasm shook loose the truth long bottled up in his head.
I'm in love with my brother.
* * *
"Son? You okay?"
Dean opened his eyes blearily. A blurry face hovered over him; oh, right, Bobby. The African dream root tea. It all oozed back into his mind, which felt like jello.
Oh shit. It felt like jello in his boxers. Cold, sticky jello. Oh fuck, did he--
Bobby cleared his throat. "If you're conscious again, I'm, uh, I'll go get some food and drinks. You good?" He stepped back from the bed, nervously adjusting his hat. "Be back shortly. In case, you know, you need to, uh take a moment."
Dean managed to sit up and wave at him. "Got it," he whispered hoarsely. " 'm fine." Or I will be once I peel these boxers off. Ugh.
Bobby left the room, stepping briskly through the door and shutting it firmly.
Dean groaned and flopped back onto the bed. Great. He took a dream tea ride and had a fucking orgasm in front of Bobby. Yeah, like that wasn't going to scar both of them.
He pulled himself upright and headed for the bathroom.
When Bobby returned with two Italian grinders, chips, and a six-pack of beer, Dean was showered and dressed in clean clothes. He'd stuck the incriminating evidence in a plastic shopping bag, tied it up, and stuffed it into his duffle under the rest of his laundry.
He and Bobby sat together at the table, eating the first half of their grinders in silence.
After several bites, Bobby took a swig of beer and broke the silence.
"Now, I don't wanna pry necessarily, but we gotta talk about what you saw if this is gonna help Sam at all. So just put any embarrassment outta your head for now. We've all seen and done things under the influence, whether it's alcohol, drugs, spells, curses, what have you. Okay, son?"
Dean choked down the bite in his mouth. He drank half his beer, trying to relax his throat so he could speak.
"I hear ya, Bobby, but I think you watching me nut has to be a first. And now it's a last."
Bobby snickered, and suddenly Dean felt more relaxed. It's not like he'd actually jerked off in front of Bobby, after all. Every male had wet dreams.
He'd lay odds that Bobby didn't anticipate hearing about Sam's incestual fantasy though.
"So, I was in a house. Kinda small, just ordinary, and inside it was...kinda beat up, but like homey still. Cozy. Shabby furniture, but an afghan on the couch, and cans of paint lined up in one room like they were gonna paint it."
Bobby nodded encouragingly. "Okay, go on."
Dean drank the rest of his beer. "I, uh, heard some noise, but it was empty downstairs, so I went upstairs. Hadn't seen any sign of Sam yet. When I got upstairs, there was an open door, and so I, uh...it uh..."
"Come on, Dean, just spit it out. It's Sam, it can't be that bad."
Dean harrumphed. Maybe if he just said it all at once, ripped off the bandage.
"ItwasSamandmeinbedfuckinglikerabbits."
Bobby stared at him. Dean looked at him with wide, innocent eyes.
"Can you, uh, slow that down for me?" Bobby asked quietly. "I don't think I understood that right."
Now that the seal was broken, Dean could say it more clearly.
"Sam and me--I mean, y'know, dream-Sam and dream-me? We were in bed, and we--they--were fucking like rabbits. Like horny little critters, wham bam thank you ma'am. Happy ending and everything."
Bobby got up and went over to his bag. Unzipping it, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He opened it, took a big swig, and offered it to Dean. Dean took it gratefully and also took a large swallow. Bobby sat back down, took another drink, and then waved his hand.
"Go on. Can't get worse than that."
Dean rubbed his eyes with one hand. Talking about what he'd seen just made it more real, the words hanging in the air.
"Jesus, Bobby, what else is there?"
Bobby tsked. "Come on, you're a better hunter than that. What else happened?"
It was Dean's turn to drink. Coughing from the bite of the booze, he choked out, "They, uh, finished. And I went back downstairs and freaked out."
Bobby gave him a stern look. "That before or after you popped your cork?"
Dean felt the flush burning his cheeks. He didn't know where to look, but for sure he was never looking Bobby in the face ever again.
Bobby sighed. "You boys...you been different all your lives. And I don't mean Sam's brush with demon blood, or your trips to Hell. I'm talking about how you two don't hardly need to talk during a hunt. How you know almost telepathically when each other is hurt. You're a hound dog, Dean, but you got no interest in anything more than a one night stand." He got up and walked over to his bag. "Not many brothers could live hand-in-glove like you and Sam do and not kill each other. Maybe there's something buried in there you need to think about."
Dean was shocked at both Bobby's words and the calmness of his delivery.
"Jesus, Bobby, are you telling me to go ahead and--that me and Sam should--"
"Calm your tits there, Romeo. I'm just saying...a hunter's life can lead to some strange situations. You ponder that. I'm heading back to Sioux Falls, but call me when Sam wakes up." He picked up his duffle and opened the door.
"So you think--you think he will wake up?" Dean asked, feeling unsure again.
"I think so. Depends on you, don't it?" And with that Bobby nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.
"Fucker," Dean mumbled. "Depends on me to what, say yes to the incest?" He spied the bottle still sitting on the table. "Well, at least he left me this!" He picked it up and gulped some down.
* * *
Sam felt himself wake up, smiling as he snuggled luxuriously into the sheets. Dean was already gone, probably to make coffee, but his warmth lingered. Sam gave a little sigh, relishing the comfortable mattress, the soft but firm pillow, the gentle weight of the comforter atop him. He stretched, felt the ache of last night's activities throughout his body, and chuckled. They'd rolled around together, laughs and little tickles leading to kisses and more measured touches, and then...
"Coffee's ready!" Dean called out from the kitchen. Sam threw off the covers and pulled on the pajama pants he found lying on the floor, where they'd been abandoned last night. Going into the kitchen, he smiled at Dean, who was stirring eggs in a fry pan, bacon already sitting on another plate.
"Morning," Sam said, kissing Dean on the cheek.
* * *
Dean sat on the bed and looked at the mug of African dream root tea. It smelled as bad as it tasted, kind of like dirty socks boiled in swamp water.
I gotta go back. I gotta bring Sam back.
He hadn't wanted to call Bobby back after the last embarrassing trip, so he was just flying solo this time. Dean resolutely gulped the foul brew down, trying not to gag, before stretching out on the bed. He was resolved that he would talk to Sam and convince him to come home. To come back to Dean.
Closing his eyes, Dean fell into the dream.
* * *
Sam curled together with Dean, arms and legs encircling each other, still breathing hard as they exchanged soft kisses and murmurs after their explosive climaxes. He was just drifting off when he heard something--someone--bang the screen door of the kitchen.
Who's here? His eyes snapped open. Dean was fast asleep, mouth slightly open, breathing deep and slow. Sam gently extricated himself and stood up, grabbing the pajama pants he'd abandoned earlier on the floor. He quietly slipped down the stairs, wishing he had a gun, or a baseball bat, or anything.
At the base of the stairs, he peeked into the kitchen. His heart hammered with shock at what he saw.
Dean.
Dean was standing in the kitchen. Sam looked back up the stairs. He'd just left Dean sleeping.
But here Dean was, fully dressed and leaning against the counter, looking perfectly normal.
"Heya, Sammy."
"Dean? What--but you--" Sam stammered, at a loss to comprehend what was happening. How was Dean in two places at once?
"Oh, you mean Sleeping Beauty upstairs? Yeah, about that," Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Here's the scoop, Sam. You're in a coma, this is all a dream, and it's time to come home."
* * *
Dean watched Sam's eyes widen in shock at Dean's words. Of course it made sense that Sam didn't know this wasn't real. It was his consciousness, his reality at the moment. A pretty soap bubble of a world, and Dean was here to pop it. Rip off the bandage.
"What?" Sam gaped at him. Dean tried not to think about how adorable Sam looked with his hair sticking up all over and his baggy pajama pants.
"You're in a dream here. You're actually in the hospital. We hunted a wendigo, and it...well, it didn't go so great. You got hurt pretty bad, so I brought you to the hospital." Dean straightened up, meeting Sam's eyes directly. "You had some serious injuries, and you had to have a bunch of surgery, so the doctors put you in a coma while they fixed you up."
"Wow, uh...wow." Sam ran a hand through his hair, making it even wilder. "I don't know what to think about this. I mean, I'm here. And I'm okay." He gestured to himself. "I'm fine."
Dean shook his head. "Here, you are. But really, you're lying in a hospital room with a bunch of stuff hooked up to you. I've been sitting there with you for days." Dean couldn't hold back from reaching out to Sam and squeezing his shoulders. "I know it's a lot to get your mind around. You've been here because your big brain had to heal. But now, it's fine, except you ain't waking up. So, I came here to see why and bring you back." He felt his voice grow husky. "I need you, Sammy."
Sam pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sank down onto it. "How can this be, Dean? I mean, I'm living here. This is real." He thumped the table.
"Yeah, buddy, I know. But it's not really real." Dean sat down at the table too. "I don't know how to prove it to you. And I...I get why you're happy here."
Sam clapped a hand to his mouth. "Oh, shit!" He bit his lip. "What have you--did you see--"
Dean nodded. "Yeah, Sammy, I saw. It's us keeping you here, isn't it? You and me, being together--that's why you want to stay?"
Sam flushed. "God, I never meant for you to know. Didn't want you to think I was crazy, or a perv. But somehow here, you already did know? This is so confusing." He took Dean's hand, resting his thumb on the inside of Dean's wrist. "I can feel your hand, your pulse. But upstairs--I could feel--"
"Yeah, yeah, I know what you felt," Dean interjected. It was his turn to blush; his cheeks grew hot, and he had to clear his throat. He tried to just barrel on, his voice gruff. "It's okay, Sammy. I never woulda said anything, but now...well, it's pretty clear how you feel. So let me just say, uh, me too. Ditto."
"Ditto?" Sam tilted his head and glared at Dean. "Are you really trying to profess big gay love for me with 'Ditto'?"
Dean snickered. "Well, I could have said, 'I know.'"
Sam laughed and smacked Dean's leg. "Asshole."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
Dean grabbed Sam's hands and pulled him up to standing.
"Fine, how's this?" Tilting his face up, Dean pressed his lips to Sam's. Sam stood still, barely pressing back. Dean sighed and took his face in both hands. He kissed Sam again, but this time, like he really meant it, with lips and tongue engaged, his fingers stroking Sam's cheeks. Dean heard soft moaning, and he wasn't really sure if that was coming from Sam or him.
What was definite was Sam's response. Long arms wound around Dean's waist and shoulder, pulling him close. Sam's lips became as hot and urgent as Dean's, his tongue as curious, his need palpable. Desire, long ignored and denied, surged through Dean, and his dick hardened in one blood-dropping rush. Dizzy with want, Dean ground his hips against Sam, seeking pressure and friction.
"Okay," Sam panted, pushing Dean away. "I...I believe you. This is the dream."
Dean looked at him, feeling dazed. "What? How did a kiss convince you?"
Sam cupped Dean's face with one hand, his multi-colored eyes gazing into Dean's. "The Dean upstairs kisses me like I always dreamed of." He kissed Dean softly. "You kiss me like I'm your dream."
Dean's breath caught, his heart swelling with his newly freed emotions, and he pulled Sam back into his arms for another scorching kiss.
Several timeless moments later, they pulled back from each other, chuckling and smiling.
"Okay, so come home, and we can do this for real." Dean reluctantly disengaged fully from Sam. "I'm going to go back now and get over to the hospital."
"Okay," Sam said. "I'll see you there as soon as I can. I don't quite know how I'm going to get there, but I'll be there."
* * *
Dean awoke with a start. His cock was throbbing in his jeans, and his lips still buzzed from their kisses.
Fuck. And that's the dream? The reality's gonna kill me.
Arriving at the hospital, Dean hurried to Sam's room. One of Sam's nurses was inside, checking his vitals. She gave Dean a sad smile.
"I'm sorry, Dean, there's been no change. I think Dr. Bissel wants to discuss transferring Sam to a--"
"No. It's okay. He's going to wake up." Dean tugged the crappy plastic hospital chair to Sam's bedside. "Anytime now. He's gonna wake up."
Dr. Bissel walked in. "Dean! I was just going to call you. With Sam still unresponsive, I think we need to look into transferring him to a long-term care facility."
Dean shook his head, not even looking at the doctor. Taking Sam's hand into his, Dean rubbed it gently.
"No. He's waking up today."
Dr. Bissel sighed heavily.
"I know how difficult this is--"
"No!" Dean cleared his throat. "Sorry. Just, no. He's on his way back. We just have to give him a little more time."
Dean heard the nurse tsk sadly. Dr. Bissel opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the clipboard the nurse handed him.
"Another day, but then--"
Sam's hand twitched in Dean's grasp. Dean almost forgot how to breathe.
"Doctor!" The nurse's voice was shocked.
Dean leaned closer to Sam. "Come on, baby brother. Come on, you can do it." He gave Sam's hand a little encouraging squeeze.
"Doctor, the readings--" the nurse began.
Dr. Bissel came over to the other side of Sam's bed, looking at him closely.
Sam's hand moved again. His eyes rolled underneath his eye lids.
"Oh my God," the nurse murmured.
Sam's eyes opened, blinking at the light. They flicked to the doctor, then turned and found Dean. Even with the ventilator mask on his face, Dean could tell Sam was smiling from the joy and love in his eyes.
"Hey there, tiger." Dean smiled back. "Welcome home."