Dean stumbled out of the Impala, just managing not to face plant by grabbing his baby's door. He cringed both at the sound she made and the horrible pain in his side as his body dipped, letting the car take his weight. Standing gingerly, he shut the door and tripped the few short steps into his motel room. It was stuffy and the air was as stale as he'd left it, but at least there was a bed for him to drop onto. Two, actually, as Dean had never gotten out of the habit of booking double rooms, even when Sammy ran off to Standford and Dad stopped taking most of his calls months ago.

His breath hissed out in painful gasps as he tried to wrestle his jacket and long sleeve shirt off. He didn't even want to contemplate his t-shirt or boots or pants. He was already covered in sweat, panting. It shouldn't be this hard. He shouldn't be this weak. Dean forced that thought down viciously as he finally tore his layers away to observe the damage. The scratch was long, with jagged edges, deep enough to bleed like a motherfucker and definitely need stitches, and of course it was in the most awkward place possible. He was going to have to twist and reach and stitch some of it blind. Stitching like that meant no whiskey to help ease the pain, not until after.

He groped around in his duffle for the first aid kit, spilling the contents everywhere. He cursed. His hands were already trembling. Retrieving the needle and surgical thread from the floor, he determinedly tried not to think about the myriad of bodily fluids and dirt and bacteria on that floor that were now on the needle he'd have to stick through his skin.; there was no way he'd make it to the bathroom to try to sterilize it. He used a little rubbing alcohol, but most of he used on the wound, making him hiss and flinch. Shaky, sweaty hands threaded the needle, passing it through his skin with a steady stream of curses that would have made John

Winchester blush if he had bothered to check up on his eldest son. Nausea rolled through Dean, and twice he had to stop to vomit, stomach heaving and quivering, stitches nearly tearing. By the time he finished, every muscle in his body hurt from being so tense, and he no longer cared about finding alcohol or even pain medication, he just wanted to pass out. The way the room spun was making it difficult for Dean to grab the glass of water on the nightstand. Distantly, he heard shattering glass and felt the sharp sting across his wrist and palm.

Everything was hot, too hot. Like that time when Dad left him and Sammy in that apartment down south while he went to deal with that witches coven and it got over one hundred, but the electricity and water got shut off. Dean remembers being this hot back then, but he doesn't remember being so cold at the same time. And right now he's freezing. It's coming at him in waves. He tried to call for dad or Sammy, but he couldn't make his jaw or tongue work. Nothing felt right.

He can hear them in his head now, Sam and Dad, telling him why this happened how if he'd only been fast enough or smart enough he wouldn't be in this predicament. Oh god, he can just picture Sam's sneer, the one he gets with that voice, and it's telling him why he left. Dean was too clingy, never smart enough, never enough period, for Sam. He didn't have a backbone, just followed Daddy's orders like a good little soldier, and where had that gotten him? Dad didn't care. He'd left him. He could hear Dad telling him to man up, stop being a baby. Couldn't do the only job he'd been given, what use was he? What a disappointment.

"Enough, Dean."

The voice is low and rough. Commanding and powerful. It drags Dean away from the voices of his family, the ones he wants desperately to cling no matter what they are saying—it's all true. He wasn't strong enough to hold his family together, and he hates that, hates how he's wallowing in this self-pity too. What a useless—

Dean felt hands grip his shoulders, almost too tight and he whimpered, low in his throat. "Shhh. I said enough, Dean Winchester."

The grip lessened until the hands faded away. Dean felt a cool washcloth on his forehead, and a hand against the back of his head lifting, something else pressed to his lips. Aspirin or cold medicine followed by water. Dean wanted to gulp greedily, but the water was kept at a steady trickle. When it was gone, he felt two fingers press against his forehead, gently, and all was quiet.

It was worse than when he'd woken earlier. At least the pain and heat and shivering had made him feel real and grounded. Now, he felt as thought he'd float away, disconnected. He did not exist, and it did not even matter. If he slipped away now, not a soul would notice. There'd be no one to give him a proper hunter's burial, get rid of the arsenal, research, take care of his baby. Before, he couldn't get his mouth to work properly; now he didn't have one.

The only thing that would run through Sam and John's minds would be relief, Dean realized with a feeling that he could not even begin to identify.
He almost sobbed in relief when he felt a hand on his shoulder and the rough voice calling his name again. "Dean, it is time to wake now. You must return; there is work yet for you."

Dean tried to stir, his eyes fluttered, and in that moment he saw the dark shape of wings across his hotel room. Screwing his eyes shut, he bit his lip. Alright, he was hallucinating now. A frustrated sigh drew his attention and the bed dipped. Strong, steady hands stroked his forehead and hair, lulling him into a near doze, though he wanted to ask who the hell this person was. He tried to be afraid, and all he could manage was weary.

After nearly an hour the hands stilled, "Rest, Dean Winchester, Angels watch over you yet."

Dean felt the soft press of lips to his forehead before his exhaustion carried him away.

When he awoke, it was to an empty silent room. He tried to hold onto the memories, but he could feel them sliding away the more he tried to focus on them. All he was left with was the impression of a hand on his shoulder and shadows of wings on his walls.