Dean shook his head. Which hurt. Ow. Even his eyeballs hurt. Of course, what else can you expect when a demon throws you off the fourth floor of a building?

Sam must have seen the wince. "Do you need more pain medication? I can call a nurse --"

"Quit it, Sam, I'm fine." Except for his goddamn ribs, which ached no matter how many happy pills they gave him. He shifted in search of a more comfortable position, trying to keep the movements as unobtrusive as possible in the hope that Sam wouldn't --

"Do you need a pillow? Can I raise or lower the bed for you?"

Dean glared at him. "Sammy, I'm only going to say this one more time. Knock it off." Whatever real or perceived wrong Sam was making up for, he'd better quit it or Dean was going to pop him one. As soon as he could move his right arm again.

Of course, he'd overheard one of the doctors saying that he hadn't been expected to live when they brought him in. Maybe a little bit of Sam-hovering was inevitable, though annoying.

Sam had his mouth open to say something else, but his cell phone buzzed, interrupting him. "Yeah?" A smile broke across his face, making him look so incredibly young, so happy, that Dean's breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with the pain in his chest. It had been a long time since Sam had looked that way.

"It's Ellen," Sam added, cupping his hand over the mouth of the phone, and then frowned. "Ellen, I can't hear you, you're breaking -- Dammit!" He took the phone away from his ear and glared at it. "One bar? Stupid hospital ... I'm sorry, Dean. I'm going out into the lounge. See if I can get better reception."

"You do that," Dean said, sending a silent thanks to Ellen for saving him from the tender ministrations of Sammy Nightingale. "Say hi for me."

Sam vanished through the door, and Dean settled back with a sigh of relief. Something on the bedside table caught his eye, though, and he raised his head. It was that silly school notebook that Sam had been writing in -- the one with SAM'S JOURNAL written across the front.

Dean grinned.

There was a nurse fussing with a tray of pre-packaged meals just outside his room's open door. "Hey ... 'scuze me? Nurse?"

She looked up and blushed just a little. "Can I get you something, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean put on his most winning smile. "Actually, you could. I was wondering if you had any markers around. You know, like kids use." The smile brightened another notch or two. "Pink ones, especially."

The nurse looked completely flummoxed. "Uh, I can go check in Pediatrics?"

"Thanks," Dean beamed, and beamed even more when she came back with a large box of bright-colored Crayola markers. He picked up Sam's oh-so-foolishly abandoned journal and, after doctoring the front cover, flipped to the first blank page and went to work:

If writing stuff down helped Sam to cope, then that was his business, not his big brother's. If he wanted to share, he'd share.

Dean closed the book, laid it carefully back down where it had been, and, grinning, waited for Sam to come back and the fireworks to begin.