Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.
Sam can't stop the shaking. The adrenaline-fueled, Oh my God, what am I going to do if he doesn't make it, full-body tremors that tempt him to steal some of the magic juice they keep feeding into Dean's veins for his own use.
And he can't stop the flashes of memory, even with his eyes tightly closed. Especially with his eyes tightly closed.
Black matted fur.
Fetid breath.
Blood. So much blood.
Sam glances over at Dean, lying quietly on the hospital bed, his face carefree and peaceful in sleep. What are we going to do if he pulls through?
()()()()()()()()
Awareness washes over Dean slowly, the need to swim up through to the surface gradually overtaking the pull for continued unconsciousness.
"Sam?" he mumbles, the first words out of his mouth an almost automatic.
"Hey man." The voice is reassuring, as is the gentle pressure of Sam's hand on his chest.
Dean turns his head in the direction of the voice and blinks slowly, his vision taking its good old time in bringing his brother's face into focus.
He gives Sam a sleepy smile, then lets his eyes meander around the rest of room. "Sammy," he asks, having determined he's lying in a hospital bed, "you ok?"
Sam lets out a soft huff; Dean's default will always be set to Big Brother.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he replies, the hand on Dean's chest making almost undetectable circles in reassurance.
"Am I ok?" Dean asks, the drugs not yet allowing him full access to his awareness.
At Sam's hitched breath, Dean turns his head back to his brother, takes in the look of abject despair on Sam's face, and feels the last of the brain fog burn out of his system. Even if Sam couldn't feel Dean's heartrate increasing steadily under his hand, years of cohabitation have honed their connection; he's acutely aware that Dean's joyride in the blissful land of nod is over.
Shit.
Dean's heart monitors are beating out a monotonous tattoo, steadily climbing as wave after wave of crushing pain threaten to plunge him back into the darkness. Pain in his legs. Pain in his arms. He can't help but try to get away from the PainPainPain, and his thrashing around dislodges the dull white hospital sheets that had been Dean's last line of defense about his new reality.
Dean blindly reaches out, searching for Sam's hand, the "No Chick Flick Moments" mantra put up on the shelf in times of hospital-level sickness and injury. When he fails to make contact with his intended target, he turns his gaze to his left, where Sam sits, dumbfounded look on his face, hand poised in midair. Following Sam's gaze, Dean looks down at his own left arm where it's searching on the bed, vainly looking to make contact with Sam. But can't. Because there's no hand.
As if touching a white hot stove, Dean draws his arm away from Sam, instead, holding it in front of himself. Attention focused solely on his damaged limb, he isn't even aware of the unconscious movement of his right arm; almost an effort to comfort the left. Dean's breathing pauses long enough that Sam contemplates hitting the call button for the nurse before it shifts dangerously close to hyperventilation as he stares at his arms. What's left of them.
Mirror images of disability, each ending several inches below the elbow in a bulbous mass of pristine white bandages.
"Sam, what…?" he manages to choke out between his gasping breaths.
Sam's head snaps up, Dean's pleas reminding him of his role of protector and comforter. He springs from his chair, plants his hand firmly in the center of Dean's chest, face directly above Dean's. "Breathe, Dean," he says, attempting to break his brother from the ineffectual breathing pattern that's threatening to send him back into oblivion. Sam figures he'd rather just go ahead and get the rest of it over with now as well; shatter his brother's life in one foul swoop.
Dean tries desperately to follow Sam's directions, gradually replacing the uncontrolled gasps of air with a more rhythmic, although shaky, breathing pattern.
"What the fuck Sam?" he asks his brother when he finally has a spare breath.
Sam can see the wild-eyed panic, see the questions of both past and present, and does his best to maintain Dean's eye contact while he figures out what to say next.
"What do you remember?" he finally asks, trying to find a way to say it without saying anything at all.
Dean lets his arms fall to his sides and relaxes his head against the pillow, closing his eyes as he tries to pull out any fragments of memory. "There was a wolf?" he asks tentatively, then mutters more to himself than to Sam, "no that's not right." In a clearer voice he continues, "It was a Black Dog, wasn't it?" Dean cracks open an eye, seeing Sam nod in the affirmative. "It almost had you," Dean stops as he opens his eyes and casts a concerned look in Sam's direction. "Are you ok?" he reiterates, his previous question holding more weight now that he remembers the circumstances.
Sam gives him a sad smile and reassures him that yes, he's fine, just a couple of scratches that he's already taken care of with Holy water and antibiotic creams.
"What else?" Sam coaxes gently when Dean's attention drifts down to his left arm where it lays on the bed, inches away from Sam's right hand.
"Uhhh," Dean says, screwing up his forehead. "I jumped in the way?" Dean figures that's a good bet, even though he can't quite remember the details. He pauses a few seconds and then tries to jackknife upright in bed when a few horrific images do make their way through his still fuzzy brain.
Wet, dripping fangs.
Ripping at his legs.
His arms trying desperately to unhinge the beast's jaw.
"Sam, my legs, it had my legs." Dean's breathing works its way back up to hyper drive while his eyes search Sam's face for any reaction to the memory.
"Yeah, Dean, it did." Sam's face falls and he's unable to control his emotions. Tears leak out of the corners of his eyes, one by one soaking into the fabric of Dean's hospital gown.
"Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," Dean chants, struggling against the hand Sam still has planted on his chest. Sam slowly pulls away, wary yet resigned of Dean's next move. Dean raises his head from his pillow, neck straining in an attempt to see the end of the bed. "Help me up, Sammy."
"You sure?"
Dean blinks slowly, then takes a deep breath and clenches his jaw, nodding in the affirmative.
"Ok, on three." Sam pushes the button to raise the head of the bed, then, in one of the rare Winchester moments in which three actually does follow one and two, Sam slides his hand behind his brother's back and offers further support.
"Nononononononononono," the hoarse wailing keen and a weak shake of his head all he has left to offer. He can see the outline of his legs. Or where they should be. And there's not nearly enough of them. He reflexively tries to shove the blankets off his legs but his arm stumps haven't yet figured out their purpose in his new life.
At Dean's imploring look, Sam takes his free hand and removes the last veil of normalcy. Both Dean and Sam look at what Sam's gesture has made known – the fact that Dean's legs look very similar to his arms, both ending in bandaged stumps midway between where his knees used to be and where his hips still remain.
Dean continues to stare at what's left of his legs, then slowly raises his arms in front of himself as well. "What the fuck am I supposed to do now, Sammy?" he asks softly before slumping into Sam's arms, back to the safety of unconsciousness.
()()()()()()()()
The next couple of times Dean resurfaces, the initial moments of safety brought about by Sam's presence are quickly replaced by abject terror. First in response to memories of the attack, then by the realization about his new body. The nurses are quick to administer both pain medications and sedatives and Sam is actually quite surprised by the amount of thrashing around Dean is capable of without the aid of his hands and legs.
It's during one such session that Sam makes a final plea for Castiel's help. The angel had initially appeared while Sam was still in the clearing of the woods, trying desperately to save his brother's life as Dean's blood poured from his severed limbs.
A strangled, "Cas, help," was all Sam could manage, in between tying tourniquets and applying pressure, trying to keep Dean's life force from leaving him to face the world on his own.
Castiel was able to help stop the bleeding, but no further miracles were performed.
"I can't heal what's not there, Sam."
And now Sam makes another plea, just asks Castiel to help his brother get through this. Castiel touches Dean's forehead while he's sedated and gives a sad tilt of his head before blinking out of existence.
Sam comes to think of it as Angel Prozac.
()()()()()()()()
From that point on, the awakenings are less traumatic. While not quite what Sam would call "accepting", and let's face it, an accepting Dean would've gotten "Christo'd" right out the door, Dean at least allows the nurses to do their jobs. The bandage changes, the frequent vital sign monitoring, the constant offers of medications.
The first couple of days are a never-ending litany of doubt as the significance of Dean's injuries sinks in. Dean reaching for the spoon to eat his cereal and realizing that he doesn't have a hand with which to grasp it. Dean struggling to sit upright without help, his arm stumps too sore to hold his weight and his leg stumps too short to offer much help. Dean having to use the bedpan and realizing that even when he graduates to a regular bathroom, he might not be able to use it by himself.
The first day he sees his stumps in their naked glory, he almost vomits. When the nurse (one of the no-nonsense ones that Dean actually doesn't mind) asked him that morning if he was ready to help, he thought she was crazy. What the fuck does she expect me to do, give her a hand?
And now, looking down at his unwrapped limbs, he has to clench his teeth together to keep his emotions from escaping. Four stumps, a torso, and a head; sounds like the start to a bad joke.
"It's Ok to let it out, you know," the nurse says, correctly interpreting the muscles jumping at his jawline.
Dean gives a quick nod and swallows, whispering a wholly unconvincing "I'm ok".
"Oh honey," she says not unkindly, "you are a lot of things, but I'd be surprised if ok was one of them right now."
Her words break the dam, and Dean pushes his head back into his pillow, allowing the tears to trickle down his cheek. He lets them fall unchecked, unwilling to let her see his hesitance in using his new stumps, and steels himself for a wave of pity that doesn't come.
"You'll make it," his nurse continues, ignoring his tears and waiting patiently until she has his attention again. "Especially if the stories your brother has been telling are even halfway true." She gives him a grin and a wink, knowing that if anyone can beat the enormous odds against him, this young man can.
Dean takes a couple of deep breaths and makes eye contact, announcing his readiness for his next task. She helps him inspect each residual limb, showing him the ends of his legs with a mirror. He still has stitches in place which she notes will be coming out in the next couple of days and she tells him that the amount of swelling is to be expected. Lastly, she has him use the ends of his arms to help hold the bandages in place as she wraps his stumps back up in their protective cocoons.
()()()()()()()()
True to her word, the same nurse returns with his doctor several days later and they remove the stitches, noting how well he's healing and pronouncing him ready to graduate to increases in his activity levels. This means increased work with the physical therapist who up to this point has been keeping a pretty low profile.
The first day Nadine met Dean (and yes, the similarity in names did not go unnoticed), she walked into his room and held out her hand for a handshake. She refused to be turned away when Sam elicited something akin to a low growl, despite the fact that she was five foot three and would have been lucky to weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her three older brothers (all football linebackers she tells them later) left her unflappable to the likes of Sam and since Dean's her patient, she knows it's really him she needs to reach anyway. So instead, she kept her hand extended towards Dean, finally nodding in satisfaction when he set his jaw, extended his right stump, and allowed her to shake it. From then on, they had a relationship of trust and respect.
But Dean is hard-pressed to either trust or respect what Nadine's trying to get him to do today. "Seriously?" he asks, looking back and forth between Nadine and Sam from where he's sitting against the raised head of the bed.
Sam just gives a shrug, this is nowhere even close to his wheelhouse after all, and Nadine maintains the same calm demeanor that the brothers have come to admire.
"You're healing very well Dean," she says, echoing the litany of his nurses and doctors. "But we need to keep the healing process moving along. And we've got to work on getting your stumps desensitized."
Dean still finches at the use of That Word but allows her to proceed.
"Up to this point," she continues, ignoring the flinch, "Your medical team have been the ones doing the stump care, the massage. But you need to start." She makes sure Dean is paying attention, then guides both of his arms to his right leg stump. "See?" she says, showing him how to knead the ends of his residual leg between the stumps of his arms, "you can do this." Nadine watches as he continues the process, correcting his motion and positioning from time to time. "And Sam," she says, drawing the youngest Winchester back from wherever that pained expression says he is, "when his arms get too tired, especially at first, you can do this too."
Sam hesitates, eyes darting back to Dean, unsure of the acceptance of this breach in personal space. Not that there's a lot of that left anymore. Dean gives a brief nod and holds out his left arm stump for Sam to practice on while he continues to use his right to poke at his thigh.
"And the purpose of this again, is…" Dean says, attempting to switch to his opposite leg, having to contort himself a bit more since Sam still has his other arm.
"Prosthetics," Nadine answers. "In order to get you back on your feet, so to speak," she says without batting an eye, "we need to make sure your stumps can handle the prosthetics."
Sam and Dean exchange a glance; prosthetics are so far out of their range it's not even funny. Although Sam has his feelers out, help has been scarce and their bargain basement insurance won't likely extend that far.
"And another thing we need," Nadine continues, unaware of the brother's nonverbal conversation, "is mobility and flexibility. From what your brother's said and from all assessments, you're young and were very fit prior to your injury. Which makes my job a whole lot easier. But we need to work to maintain the strength of your residual limbs as well as your core, since you'll be using the muscles you have in a whole new way now."
Dean holds the flinch this time, although Residual Limb is not any better than Stump.
She takes him through several range of motion exercises to work on his remaining joints – elbows, shoulders, and hips – and shows him the core workout she wants him to begin immediately. "And finally for today," she says, eliciting an "Oh thank God" from Dean, "is positioning."
"Ok," Nadine says, clapping her hands together like she's getting ready to break a huddle. Dean wouldn't be surprised if the words 'Go Team' were the next out of her mouth, but instead, she says, "rehabilitation is all about getting you back to as close to normal as you can get."
Dean glances briefly at his remaining limbs and then back at her, questioning if he'll ever even get into the same universe as normal.
"And we need to use what you have," she continues, thankfully leaving out the words residual, limbs, and stumps. "Let's work on getting you upright." She lowers the head of the bed until Dean's lying flat, then instructs him to sit up, waving Sam back to his corner when he makes an automatic advance to help out his brother.
Ok, Dean thinks, I can do this. Just need to figure out the logistics is all. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, evidence of his mental calculations, and runs through a couple of scenarios in his head. Just as Sam is ready to throw his weight around a little more, Dean decides on a plan that might work. He works his way up onto his elbows, then has to pause as he figures out how to haul himself the rest of the way to a seated position. He glances at Nadine, giving her the "now what" look she's come to recognize and she decides he's done a good enough job for the first day.
"Not yet," Dean says, surprising both Nadine as Sam. "Help me get the rest of the way up." Sam moves forward but Dean waves him off with a shake of his head, instead wanting Nadine to help him figure out the rest of the maneuver.
"Sure," she says. She instructs him on using the remainder of his arms to push himself up even further, then using his core and hips to scoot himself backwards into a sitting position. After a couple of assisted attempts, Dean finally gets it on his own. As she leaves Dean's room at the end of their session, she can't help but sense the feeling of change in the air. Rehabilitation only truly begins when the patient wants to help themselves. And Dean is finally ready.
()()()()()()()()
With his increased mobility, Dean requests a change of clothes "so my ass isn't hanging out for ogling". Nadine notes that it is about time that he learns how to dress and undress himself and instructs Sam on what to bring. The next day, Nadine spreads Sam's offerings out on Dean's bed – one of Dean's favorite short sleeved T shirts and a pair of elastic waist shorts that are usually relegated to emergency laundry days. She unties the back of his hospital gown and steps back, allowing him to work through the tasks on his own. She's learned that Dean likes to process things through himself and only wants her help when he asks for it.
Sam and Dean both sit there, staring at the clothing as if they can make it move on its own accord. Sam attempts a brief "What about" which Dean shushes, adding, "I'm thinking, man."
"Fine," Sam huffs, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest.
Dean continues to stare pointedly at his latest challenge, then begins to work the gown down off of his arms before tossing it to the foot of the bed with a cheerful "Good riddance". He then pulls the T-shirt closer to him and works his stumps up from the bottom, finally lifting it over his head and ducking his head through the bottom of the shirt. Sam and Nadine can see him struggling to get his head through the collar, but Nadine holds up a finger when Sam shifts closer to his brother. Dean works his arms through the sleeves, then gets the bottom of the shirt between his stumps and pulls, trying to free his head in the process. After a few more moments of self-induced claustrophobia, Dean lets out a muffled, "A little help here, guys." Nadine finally nods to Sam, effectively releasing him from his restraints and Sam practically leaps off of his chair to tug the collar over Dean's head.
"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says sheepishly, trying in vain to pat his hair back into place. He then turns his attention to the shorts, which he assumed would be the more difficult of the pieces of clothing to get on. He was right. He can't quite picture what needs to take place in order for him to get the remainder of his lower body back into regular clothes. He's pretty sure there might be some acrobatics. And probably some form of self-contortion. He gives the shorts the hairy eyeball and then decides to just wing it. He wiggles himself closer to the shorts and decides that that might work to get them on as well. He places them close to his leg stumps, then uses his arm stumps to hold the elastic band open. He slowly wiggles himself down, using his arms to pull against the band in the opposite direction. With a few helpful (and requested) insights from Nadine, he gets the shorts in place, then scooches back up to the head of the bed for a well-deserved break.
He's exhausted from the workout (who knew getting dressed was an Olympic sport?) and the additional mental fatigue allows the ever-circling doubt and self-pity to inch closer to the surface of his brain. He looks down at what remains of his body, fully clothed for the first time since his injury. The shorts barely cover the ends of his leg stumps and his T-shirt covers to just above his elbow, leaving his arm stumps on display for the world to see. But, as Nadine had pointed out during one of his low times, "at least you have your elbows." While Dean scoffed at her initially, he's now beginning to realize that every little bit that he still has really does matter when it comes to getting his life back; at least some form of it.
()()()()()()()()
Dean's days are now dominated by the rehabilitation process, Nadine and Sam his ever-faithful servants in his effort to gain back some control. And while he's really come to appreciate Nadine – her dry sense of humor, her unwillingness to give into Sam's puppy dog eyes, and even her resistance to Dean's own sparkling personality – right at this moment, he can't help but wonder if she might be possessed.
"You want me to do what, now?" he asks, eyebrow cocked to the ceiling, his wary glance bouncing between his therapist and her torture devices.
"For your balance," she repeats calmly. "We need to work on your core. Retraining your muscles, re-establishing your center of gravity."
He allows Sam to lift him out of his wheelchair onto the floor of the physical therapy room next to a half-ball that Nadine indicates will be the torture device of the day. After a couple of failed attempts to mount the ball, and man, how wrong does that sound, he allows Nadine and Sam to help him. While the ball is much more secure than the traditional exercise balls he's used in some of his kinkier days, there's enough wiggle and jiggle that pitching off the damn thing is a very real possibility. He finds that he needs at least one steadying hand from either Sam or Nadine to keep himself upright, and he gains a new appreciation for muscles he never really thought much about.
He increases his efforts to get his core strength up to snuff, blazing past his initial thoughts that the sits-ups, crunches, and toe touches (or stump touches, as the case may be) Nadine insisted upon were "awkward as fuck". The fact that half the time he looked something akin to a turtle on its back, legs waving futilely in the air, offset by the drive to keep gaining mobility.
And Nadine keeps pushing. He's back on the half-ball, having climbed up there himself this time, and it's evident that his balance has improved. So much so, that Nadine introduces a new layer of complexity to the day's exercises. Sam now has a task. His job, she informs them, is to gently force Dean to reshift his balance while staying on the ball. Nadine demonstrates what she means, alternately pushing gently against Dean's shoulders, chest, and back in attempts to unseat him. After a few initial stump-flailing maneuvers, Dean quickly figures out how to contract his muscles to oppose the exerted force.
Nadine then passes the job to Sam, recalling their stories of out and out wrestling and figuring that this might help the both of them. Dean and Sam warily eye each other, no doubt recalling the same stories while trying to figure out how to adjust to today's lesson. A light comes on in Dean's eyes and he nods at Sam that he's ready to begin. Sam's initial few attempts are half-hearted, his hesitancy to hurt Dean all too evident in his eyes.
"That all you got?" Dean asks, a slow smile spreading across his face as he tries to tempt Sam out of his all-consuming role of protector and back into that of his little brother.
Sam gives him one of his patented Bitch Faces and Dean beckons him forward with his right arm stump.
"Fine," says Sam, reaching out and beginning to repeat the sequence that Nadine had earlier performed. He allows Dean to regain his balance between each new attempt and Nadine can see the guys gradually relax as they settle into old habits.
As Sam's efforts increase, so do the taunts.
"Come on Samantha," Dean cajoles. "Get the lead out."
"Weebles wobble but they don't fall down," Sam mutters after one attempt finds Dean's limbs wheeling in the air before he regains control.
"Bitch," Dean says with a smirk.
"Jerk," the automatic reply.
()()()()()()()()
When Dean proves the necessary core strength and mobility, Nadine announces that the next step is transfers.
"Like to another hospital?" Dean asks, his stomach knotting at the thought of leaving Nadine and her endless fount of knowledge behind.
"Not yet, no. Like to a wheelchair." Dean's been using a wheelchair since his injury, but to date it's taken Sam or one of the nurses to lift him into and out of it. He casts a dubious glance at the chair Nadine's parked next to his bed, the gears turning as he tries to figure out how to do this without ending up on the floor. He's been using his arm stumps more as they become less painful and he uses them now to help maneuver himself to the side of the bed. Nadine pulls out a flat sturdy-looking board, bridging the wheelchair and the bed next to Dean, then guides him as he gradually inches himself down along the board and into the waiting chair.
One of the hidden hazards of transferring, Dean soon finds, is the ever-present threat of the wedgie. And for him, the lack of a discrete way to correct it.
Nadine pulls the board away and stows it in the back pouch of the chair, then takes up residence behind Dean. "Eventually you'll be able to do that by yourself, but it'll take some time. And you'll be able to push yourself as well," she adds, referring the wheelchair, "but I need your arms fresh for other things today."
She wheels him back down to the therapy floor, but instead of their usual left, she takes a right hand jag and stops outside of a set of heavy double doors. Dean looks at her quizzically when they don't proceed any further and after a few brief seconds in which Dean begins to question if Nadine has had a stroke, it finally dawns on him that she's waiting for him to open the doors. His initially thought of Lady, we'll be sitting here a long time is followed closely by a lightbulb moment; he reaches out his right stump and pushes the handicapped panel, allowing the doors to open with a soft "whoosh".
The area is subdivided, a large open space containing various workstations and different "rooms" of a house. Nadine steers Dean towards an open table in the center, allowing him to set the parking brake when he's close enough. Dean shifts himself around a bit in his chair, gaining better access to the table, then uses his arm stumps to sort through the various offerings on the table – utensils, toothbrush, toothpaste, place settings.
Nadine takes the seat next to him and gestures to the various possibilities, asking where he wants to begin. Dean takes a minute to ponder, then determines that food always wins. After he's pulled the cups, plates, and utensils in front of him, she asks him if he wants to begin with the hard or the easy tasks. "Hard," he answers, ready to begin the day with a bang.
By the end of the first hour, however, Dean has changed his mind. They've been working on feeding and Dean's getting frustrated by his lack of control.
"Just be patient," Nadine reminds him. "This is your first day. You're doing fine."
Fine my ass, Dean thinks. Sam's going to be spoon-feeding me until I die. He lays his arms back on the table, visualizes clenching and unclenching the fists he no longer has. Ok, he thinks, you can do this. Once again, he guides the adaptive cuff onto his right arm stump, using his left stump and his teeth to pull it into place just below his elbow before tightening the Velcro strap with his teeth. This cuff has an attached fork and he rotates his arm in an attempt to spear a piece of chicken. At least, it was chicken when I started; by now it could be a recipe for botulism. He uses his left stump as a guide like Nadine showed him to do until his motor control improves, and finally pushes the chicken onto the fork.
"Hallelujah," he says sarcastically to Nadine, letting out a deep breath he wasn't aware he was holding. He looks at the piece of chicken attached to the end of his arm, then groans when he realizes his job is only halfway completed. "Alright," he says with a sigh, "what's next?"
()()()()()()()()
Turns out that the actual feeding portion of the lesson isn't all that difficult; thankfully, his residual limbs are long enough to allow him to maneuver the utensils to his mouth without an overabundance of awkwardness. Not that anything Dean does anymore isn't awkward. And so they move on to drinking. Water, Nadine assures him when he asks for the top shelf options. Cuff removed, Nadine goes about coaching him on the various methods of using a cup. He works on using his stumps to squeeze the ceramic cup (anything without definite structure will collapse, he quickly realizes) while bringing it into range of his mouth. When it's evident that he won't be mastering this task today and this was supposed to be the easy task? she sets a straw in front of him.
He recalls telling Sam on numerous occasions that real men don't use straws. He can almost hear the Karma Fairy laughing at him now. Bitch.
Pulling the straw towards himself with his right stump, he attempts the same squeeze technique that worked with the cup. The straw's too small and lying flat on the table, however, so he can't pick it up between his stumps. He looks at it for a couple more seconds before finally drawing the straw closer, allowing the edge of the straw to hang off the edge of the table. Using his right stump to trap the straw against the table, he brings his left stump underneath and carefully guides the straw the rest of the way off of the table until it's trapped between his arms. He's then able to place the straw into the cup which Nadine promptly fills with water. The straw bobs dangerously for a moment, considering trying to escape to the freedom of the floor, before Dean manages to trap it. Watching closely to make sure the straw maintains its current position, he carefully pulls the cup back towards him and leans forward, pulling several sips of water through the straw that are more satisfying than the tepid tapwater really deserves.
()()()()()()()()
After a couple more days working on the feeding aspect of Dean's rehabilitation, they shift their focus over to the bathroom. By this time, Dean's also insisting on wheeling himself to and from their therapy sessions and he's hopeful that the shaking of his arms is hidden as he pushes his wheelchair into the therapy room. Up to this point, the nurses have been taking care of his toileting needs; Sam's been nowhere near that indignity. But now, he's afraid of what limitations these next sessions will reveal.
They begin with the easier tasks this time, again seated at the table he's been using for the past few days. He's gotten used to the universal cuff and works his way through different ones attached to a toothbrush and a hairbrush at least I don't have Sammy's hair and they work on figuring out how to squeeze the toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Eventually he settles on holding the toothpaste between his legs and using his left arm to squeeze the tube against his thigh onto the brush on his right arm. Dean has never been so satisfied to have control of his oral health.
His feelings of accomplishment are fleeting, however, when she leads him into the bathroom replica. Here, he's faced with a toilet, a sink, and bathtub. Two out of the three of them cause his stomach to churn in anticipation.
Although he's been working on his transfers, he and Nadine both agree to use the board for today; no sense in taking a toilet bath, Nadine says with the dry sense of humor that's emerged during their therapy sessions.
So instead, she helps him set up the transfer board between the toilet and his chair and guides him through getting himself into the proper position. After they practice the transfers and verbally walk through a rough sketch of the actual "how to's", they move onto the sink. Dean's able to turn the water on and off as long as it's either got a motion sensor or a lever he can push or pull with his stumps.
"Just say No to Knobs," is one of Nadine's catch phrases.
They then move over to the bathtub/shower combination, working through the various possibilities he might encounter. Transferring into and out of the tub is his next big obstacle; he has absolutely no clue how to finagle this one and Nadine finally rescues him, showing him how to brace himself while straddling the tub before transferring all the way in. Kind of hard on the family jewels, there, flashes through his mind before he questions if anyone would ever actually want his family jewels in the future.
Before he can wander too far down that path of despair, Nadine continues to show him the adaptive equipment he may need for bathing. He's declined the shower chair for today, considering that the tub's dry and he's got to learn how to change heights at some point anyway, and decides to sit in the tub instead, even though he's fully clothed. He demonstrates to them both that he can still wash his hair using the ends of his stumps and Nadine shows him how to slide his stumps into a bath mitt which can be used to clean the majority of his body.
She exchanges the previous pump type shampoo bottle that's been sitting in the tub with him for a more traditional flip top and takes a seat on the closed toilet lid, letting him figure out what to do next. He takes his requisite few moments to ponder the new challenge, then picks up the bottle between his stumps. No, that won't do. I'd have to hold it upside down to get anything out of it. He briefly considers lifting the container above his head while it's upside down, then decides that might be safer to attempt when he's actually ready to take a bath; just in case it works a little too well. Plus, I have to figure out how to open the damn thing. Dean, as is true with most people, never realized just how many everyday objects were designed for the use of a finger or thumb. His stumps are too large to snap the flip top open and while his mouth has proven to be more useful than even he gave it credit for, he's not sure he wants to add a chipped tooth to his current list of injuries. He casts his glance around the small room, his gaze landing on one of the cuffs with a stick attached.
The stick device has been one of Dean's most favorites; well, next to the fork. With this attachment, he's been able to regain use of the remote control (although half the time he ends up on the wrong channel), has finally been able to scratch the various itches that have been plaguing him (his stumps just don't quite get the job done), and has even given Sam a modified Wet Willie when he fell asleep within Dean's reach.
"Gimme," he says, waving at the requested device with his left stump. Nadine obliges, and Dean makes short work of getting the cuff in place and opening the bottle, using the stick to open the flip top while keeping the bottle secured between his legs.
Congratulating him on another good session, she helps him out of the tub and back into his chair. Dean clears his throat as she begins to leave the bathroom. "Ummm," he says, absently rubbing his stumps on the arms of his chair. "What about… How do I…" he gestures back to the toilet, hoping that Nadine will take the hint before she makes him say it out loud. How do I actually do this?
Nadine nods, taking a few minutes to run through the various ways that other upper extremity amputees perform the task. As she talks, she watches the color drain out of Dean's face, and she decides it's time for one of The Talks. This is the part of the job Nadine hates. Dean's been doing so well, has come so far. She hates to take away any hope that he has for a completely independent life but in his situation she's not sure how far sheer determination alone will take him.
"Dean," she begins, seating herself back onto the toilet to avoid looming over him in his chair. "I'm not going to lie to you. There are going to be some things that will be extremely difficult, if not impossible, for you to master, especially without prosthetics." She knows the topic of artificial limbs is a touchy subject with the two men; she's walked into heated discussions several times that abruptly stop with her entrance, but not before she can overhear phrases like, "insurance fraud" and "too expensive". She continues on, listing for Dean the areas where he'll likely need daily help; Dean contemplates a lifetime of his brother helping him on the toilet while Nadine runs through other scenarios that may be difficult if not impossible for him. Screw top lids. Meal preparation. Holding heavy objects.
When Nadine's completed what she considers the opposite of her Pep Talk, Dean asks her to give him a few moments alone. She heads outside to give him some space, settling herself in to complete some paperwork once the telltale lock of the bathroom door confirms her suspicions that he needs more than just a couple of quick minutes.
Dean sits in his chair, chest heaving, his mind racing beyond the safety of this facility to his life back out in the Real World. He knew his life would never be the same, but he's not sure he can accept the picture Nadine's painted. Although, it sure shouldn't be a shock. I haven't even been able to use a spoon yet, he thinks, the memory of soup sloshing over the sides, leaving the utensil empty by the time he's brought it to his mouth still fresh in his mind. Tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes as he has flashes on things he'll probably never be able to do again.
Driving.
Walking.
Running.
He gives a sad smile at the thought that at least he won't have to learn to tie his shoes.
Squeezing a trigger.
Holding a knife.
Hell, holding almost anything.
Hunting.
The tears are now running in rivulets down his cheeks, his stumps doing an ineffectual job at diverting their coarse. He briefly contemplates hitting something, but his only options are tile and porcelain and he doesn't relish the thought of trying to tangle with any of those. Not when he needs all the residual function he can get.
He's broken out of his musings by a knock on the door and Sam's voice, a muffled, "Hey man, can I come in?" Sam gives Dean a couple of moments to collect himself, Nadine having filled him in on her little Reality Bites talk when he wandered down to see what was holding them up. She assured Sam that Dean was in no danger, jingling an extra set keys in front of him, calmly telling him that any breakdown on Dean's part was to be expected and actually slightly overdue.
Sam picks his head up off his arm, where he's rested it against the doorframe and takes a slow measured breath when he hears the door handle jangling, the signal that Dean is working to open the door. Dean cracks the door open before rolling himself backwards against the tub, allowing Sam to push the door the remainder of the way open and have a seat on the toilet. The words Sam had planned to say evaporate completely out of his head as he watches his brother; Dean's looking at the floor, rubbing his arm stumps against his leg stumps in an unconscious gesture he's not even sure Dean realizes he's doing.
"Sammy," Dean utters quietly, the broken sound threatening to turn on Sam's own waterworks.
"It's ok Dean," Sam replies automatically, reaching forward to comfort his big bother.
Dean's head snap up, fire replacing the previous dullness of his eyes. He raises his arms in front of him. "No Sam, it's not ok. Nothing about this is ok," he says, his arms sweeping to include the remainder of his body.
Sam's mouth closely resembles a ventriloquist dummy sans voice before he gathers his wits. "I just meant…"
"I know what you meant Sam." He takes a few deep breaths and rubs at his face in an attempt to remove the last vestiges of his tears. "Everyone's been telling me how well I'm doing. Well fuck that," Dean says, raising his voice. "Want to know how well I'm doing? Good enough that I can balance on a ball. But not even a whole one; half a one. Because I'm half a man." Dean holds up an arm, warning Sam to hold his piece when he looks ready to interject. "Good enough," Dean continues, "that I have to preplan my whole freaking day to make sure I have the right equipment available," he says wheeling himself ever closer to Sam. "Good enough that I'll never shoot a gun or a hold knife again, although I might just be able to shake a salt canister in the general direction of good old Casper," this said with a sarcastic laugh tacked to the end. "Good enough, that either a stranger or my baby brother may have to wipe my ass for the rest of my pathetic crippled life."
Dean's seated right in front of Sam, panting heavily from his diatribe while resuming his previous habit, stumps taking the place of palms rubbing against jeans. "Why me, huh? What'd I ever do to deserve this?" The thunderous look on Dean's face is matched by the steel in his voice. Unable to keep his secret thoughts to himself, he finally says, "Why didn't you just let me go Sam?" When Sam can offer no coherent reply, Dean's final wall breaks and he yells, "Dammit, you should have just let me go!" He takes a swing with his right arm, catching Sam on his left bicep. His left stump finds Sam's leg and Dean lets his pretend fists keep on venting his frustrations until he's panting and a bead of sweat appears on his forehead.
Sam, to his credit and Dean's consternation, doesn't make a move to stop his big brother. Instead, he figures it's his punishment (albeit a light one) for being the one to put Dean in danger in the first place. He owes his brother his life. And he couldn't face living without him. So he saddled him in a body that will always be dependent on others. Dean's hell on earth. Which was actually worse than the real Hell. Because at least there when they're done tearing you limb from limb, you eventually end up back in one piece.
"Because I'm selfish," Sam finally replies once Dean's limbs are no longer flailing in his general direction. "You asked why I couldn't just let you go out there in the woods. It's because I can't do this without you. Not the hunting thing. Life. What have I got left if you leave me?" His liquid eyes search Dean's face, the rhetorical nature of the question left dangling in the air between them.
Dean takes several additional heaving breaths, then utters in a broken voice, "Sam I don't think I can do this."
"Dean," Sam says in the voice that exudes patience and implies Come on. "You're already doing this. We can figure this out." He reaches out and holds onto Dean's arms, waiting for his brother to make eye contact before he continues. "Together. You and me."
Dean gives a sharp nod, followed by a slow measured breath before a watery smile cracks his face. "Dude, if you break out into some Emo song, I will slap you silly, even without hands."
Sam gives an exaggerated eye roll as his own smile works its way over his face. His brother really is such an ass sometimes.