You grumble as you force yourself out of bed at the insistant knocking on your door. You'd just gotten home, damn it, and the hospital had been so busy, and your bed felt so comfortable--

You're just about ready to start yelling as you rip the door open, but your insults die in your throat at the sight before you.

"It looks worse than it is."

Dean rasps, clearly in pain as he leans against your doorframe, looking more than a little battered.

He looked like hell had spit him out, and you can't even bring yourself to be mad. Or think about how he left you without a word months ago.

This would be so much easier if he didn't look so pathetic.