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Dean can’t honestly remember feeling this shitty in a long time and that’s saying something. In their line of work, there’s always something aching or bruised.
But it’s been a while since he’s had a concussion so nasty that he’s knocked on his ass for days. The piercing pain behind his temples has him writhing when he opens his eyes and nausea overtakes him whenever he tries to sit up.
He wishes he could inhale a couple of painkillers, wash them down with whiskey, and get on with it. But despite his lack of self-preservation, even he knows that is a bad idea.
The worst thing about it is that keeping his eyes closed makes him feel vulnerable and unprotected. Right now, he’s fully relying on Sam to deal with whatever might come at them.
“Hey,” he hears his brother say quietly and cool fingers gently touch his naked shoulder. He took his shirt off a while ago – again, with Sam’s help – because he felt that the chilly air on his skin helped marginally with the pain.
“You feeling any better?”
Dean doesn’t dare shake his head. In fact, he doesn’t want to move at all, having just now found a position in which the throbbing in his head is bearable. He stays lying still and simply brushes his hand across the mattress in Sam’s general direction.
After a moment, Sam’s fingers find his and squeeze softly. There is no harsh light filtering through his closed lids, so he chances a peak at the room.
Sam has hung towels in front of the windows to block the light from the outside, only allowing a sliver of it into the room. All lamps were off, no offending lights assaulting Dean’s aching brain.
He closes his eyes again when strong, long fingers start gliding through his short hair, carefully stroking his scalp. He lets out a sigh and answers Sam with a squeeze of his own fingers.