You find his room after arguing with the front desk for five minutes because “Dean Smith” is apparently the most original alias he could come up with. Dean’s sitting up in the hospital bed, wires snaking from his arms to machines. There’s a bandage wrapped around his bicep, a dark bruise blooming beneath his collarbone, and a deep, irritated scowl on his face like just being here is enough to piss him off.

“You look like hell,”

“Aw, come on, sweetheart. That’s not the warm welcome I was hoping for.”

You raise an eyebrow and set the bag of contraband snacks you brought down on the chair beside his bed. “You were hoping for snacks. I brought snacks.”

“You’re a goddamn angel.”

“Don’t push it. They say when you’re getting out?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Dean shrugs. “Couple days. Maybe tomorrow. Or tonight if I can get the nurse to look the other way long enough.”

“Dean.”

“What? I’ve been stabbed, shot, possessed, and tossed out a window. I think I can handle a busted rib and a couple stitches.”

You sit beside the bed, folding your arms. “You also passed out in a gas station bathroom and gave Sam a heart attack, so maybe sit your ass still for once.” He grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like ‘I didn’t pass out’, I was resting aggressively.

“You hate hospitals,” you say gently.

Dean glances over at you, mouth opening for another smartass comment, then closing again. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, wincing when the movement pulls at his side. “They smell like bleach and death,” he says finally. “I’ve seen too much of death.” You nod. You don’t say I know, but he hears it anyway. He picks at a loose thread on the blanket. “I asked the doc if I could just go home. Told him I had a dog waiting on me or some shit.”

You snort. “What’d he say?”

“Said if I tried to leave AMA, he’d have security tackle me. I said, ‘Great, maybe one of ‘em’ll knock my shoulder back into place.’” He glances at you. “Didn’t go over well.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but you still showed up.”