He thinks he wakes. It burns like waking.
A cool hand on his forehead, Sam leaning over, bright blue eyes staring into his own.
He thinks he sees Sam glowing, pale radiance, faint, steady like moonlight.
Sam seems to speak, the familiar voice low and soothing, lilting like music, words he's too tired or too drugged to understand.
The hand moves to his chest, light and painless, a slow, soft warmth spreading through his body...
He wakes, breathing in, and it hurts a little less.
Sam stands at his bedside, eyes dark, smiling wanly, not glowing at all.