Dean was in a haze when he came to.
He was on the ground. Hard. Cold. His back ached and his head was throbbing, yet he was floating on air.
Waves crashed against the inside of his skull, his entire body was warm pinpricks that rode up and down like electricity in a closed circuit. His mouth was dry and every few seconds he was thrown backward in a rough, jerking motion.
While Dean could see Sam over him, he didn’t think anything of it. He was struggling to think much of anything, if he was being honest. Every few seconds he was reminded of the cold floor when he was jerked against it and he started to feel an overwhelming sense of fullness the longer he was awake.
Dean’s hands were held up above his head at his wrists, his pulse pounding against a large palm. He rolled his head backward and tipped his chin towards the ceiling, breathing in slowly, struggling to put the scene together. His muscles were lax and his body was pliant, very much so as Sam pushed his thigh up to his side. Dean’s leg flopped like he wasn’t in his body, like he was nothing more than a corpse.
But he didn’t feel alert. He felt no need to try and move, to interrupt whatever it was Sam was doing. He was liquid and even as the clouds started to clear from his mind, it felt too good for him to question anything.
Dean was just glad that of all the witch spells they could have been hit with, it was one as easy to reverse as this.