It's day twelve, and Dean has long since realised that this was not the start of a healthy relationship. A lifetime on the road meant that he certainly had a tendency of becoming rather attached to items of clothing. Take for example a pair of Levi 501's that were literally worn until the denim surrounding the ass was threadbare.
/
"Dean," Sam spoke pointedly from his position on the motel bed, "When did you get those jeans?"
"Huh?" Dean twisted around to glance towards his brother, "No idea. Somewhere between Connecticut and Ohio in..." He lifted his hand, began counting fingers. "2004."
Sam was mildly disturbed by Dean's confident accuracy. "You can't wear them."
"Excuse me? Since when did you give fashion advice?"
"It's not fashion advice, Dean. Look at the back of those."
Head over shoulder unnaturally in an attempt to gauge what Sam was whining about, Dean returned only with a scoff.
"Still gets me the ladies."
"Only because you're exposing yourself."
The words elicited an exagerrated sigh and a roll of the eyes from Dean. "Fine. Ebay?"
"Ebay?" Sam questioned, "We won't be sticking around long enough."
Dean shrugged, "I wouldn't be so sure, Sammy. They deliver quickly if you're really nice."
"I..." Sam shook his head, holding up his hands. "I do not want to know. We'll go to the mall on the way out of here."
/
But this wasn't an item of clothing. It certainly was not an accessory, and perhaps worst of all, it couldn't even be hidden. Dean could not bear to look at the hideous contraption, it turned his stomach and gag reflex ensued almost every time.
"This is going to be all right, you know." Sam spoke softly from his position near the doorway, arms folded and brow furrowed. Dean hadn't asked for any reassurance, but there was no single target for comfort.
"Easy for you to say." Dean grumbled in annoyance. "Tell me, Sammy, how exactly is this a good situation?"
After twelve days, Sam was used to the snarky comments and he allowed Dean his moments.
"I didn't say that." He shook his head, raising a hand to run fingers through his greasy brown hair. "But we don't have a choice."
Although Dean was constantly making a conscious effort to draw his gaze away from his damaged leg, Sam didn't have the luxury of avoiding it. The nurse had spent an hour teaching him how to correctly clean every single pin that speared bone. Dean had put up his defences, made an attempt at convincing the medical staff - and Sam, that he could do it himself. The first time Sam jarred one of the pins, Dean quickly decided that it would be easier for his brother to undertake the task. He saw stars as a bolt of agonizing pain rippled through the forced-together bone ends and knew that from his position above the frame, gentle was not an option.
Dean let his eyes close for a few moments, almost pretending that he was anywhere other than in that hospital room. His reverie barely lasted a minute before Sam began speaking again.
"At least we're out of here today." He said, attempting to pull up a tired smile. "That's a good thing, right?"
"Barely." Dean muttered, turning his head in the opposite directing of Sam. "Only means I have to start moving around."
Sam understood his brother's pain, he really did, but it was frustrating not being able to lift his spirits. Hopefully once holed up comfortably in a motel room with normal food and a routine, it would get better. At least there was hope for them both. It was only temporary. It would take a long time for Dean to be back on his feet, but he would be. He'd be reliant on the crutches for a couple of months, but after that? After that things would be normal again. Normal in the loosest sense of the word.
/
When they are running, Dean realises that he really has the disadvantage. Sam's long legs carry him about ten feet ahead and no matter how hard he pushes himself, the older brother lags behind as the first target if something catches up with them. This evening, they have the pleasure of not being chased. Sam has just located the whereabouts of a swimmer-gone-crazy who is now spending his afterlife drowning unsuspecting swimmers at the local pool. Salt, matches, petrol and shovel in tow, they run towards the gravesite. There is no hurry, but when Sam decides to 'race ya', he's damn well leaving you behind unless you follow.
"Jesus Chris, Sammy." Dean pants, hunched over with hands on his thighs. "When did you get so fit?"
Sam bent down to examine the stone, 'Wilbur A. Greenwood' etched onto the marble surface. "It's all the burgers you eat." He spoke softly, and then, "This is our guy."
They took turns in digging, as per the normal arrangement. It wasn't the most enjoyable aspect of the hunting lifestyle, but Dean always felt a sense of accomplishment seeing a deep hole with bones at the bottom, knowing they had done what they came to do.
"I would say I'm sorry..." Dean mumbled down into the ground, tossing a lit match atop of bones doused in salt and petrol. "But hey, I'm not."
Sam grinned, patting his brother hard on the shoulder. "Another job well done."
"Yeah." Dean agreed, satisfaction coursing through his veins, "Let's celebrate with a beer."
So the day ended with another successful salt 'n' burn. In a way, the most enjoyable method of ending supernatural beings. The guys had a history with it, with their father, and it still sent a little chill down Dean's spine every time those flames burned.
A quarter of a way through the graveyard, Dean thought it would be amusing to attempt to get one up on his brother.
"Race ya." He grinned, already taking off without looking back.
It goes without saying that Sam followed, almost taking over before Dean had really found his pace. The running was nice. It sped their hearts and gave a rare sense of freedom, especially considering their hearts were usually racing for far more sinister reasons.
Both boys were smiling when it happened. Somehow, the ground must have been weak. An old tomb or perhaps a gravedigging attempt that was halted for one reason or another.
With both gazes locked on the finishing line, the Impala parked just outside of the cemetary, neither could have prepared for the ground to give way under Dean's feet.
"Holy mother of -!" Dean exclaimed as he fell, then silence.
Sam's lightening-fast reflexes meant that he was on his knees before his brother hit the ground. He heard what must have been twigs breaking and reached down into the newly formed hole.
"Dean?" He called down, the darkness obscuring his view. "Shine the flashlight!"
But nothing.
For several minutes Sam held the view that his brother might have been playing a prank. A 'let's see how much I can scare Sammy' prank, which was fairly common in their youth. Unfortunately it quickly became apparent that Sam needed to take some serious action. Dean wasn't moving and there was nothing but silence to assist him.
/
"I've got it, Sam." Dean growled as he shrugged Sam's huge hand from the small of his back.
The move from wheelchair to the back seat of his car was awkward, but the physiotherapists had been practicing transfers with Dean for a couple of days and it went without a hitch.
"Do you need a pillow under that?" Sam motioned to the 'thing', knowing well enough not to even attempt the medical term or even a pet name. Dean hated it enough already.
He moved at Dean's nod, positioning a recently purchased feather pillow next to the afflicted limb. It was still sore, he knew that well enough, and had to restrain his strength not to jar the device in any way. Slowly and tentatively he placed hands underneath the knee and ankle, both of which were free of mental, and shifted the position so that the pillow lay underneath. The general lifting went well, but he apparently set it down a little too heavily.
"Jesus Christ, Sam!" Dean snapped, reaching down to rub the knee of the afflicted leg. "Be more careful."
Sam nodded his head, biting down on his lower lip. He knew it was just the pain speaking. He'd had his fair share of injuries to know that cranky went with the territory. Shutting the car door didn't go without complaint either, but Sam just moved to the front seat without letting Dean's wince phase him.
"Pot holes, Sam." Dean spoke pointedly as his brother settled behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. As the car sparked into life, the last played tape began to fill the interior with sound.
Neither one could hold a chuckle as Sam began to tap his fingers on the wheel to one of Dean's favourite songs.
"Pot holes." Sam nodded, repositioning the rear-view mirror and catching sight of his brother, whose lips were moving in time with the lyrics. "I'll take it slow."
/So many times, it happens too fast/You change your passion for glory/Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past/You must fight just to keep them alive/
Sam drove carefully, as promised, and they arrived at the motel without incident. He gave his brother a chance to manoever himself out of the car without assistance, but it was clear that Dean was going no where fast.
"Just tell me what you need me to do." Sam spoke softly, holding open the door and watching his brother's movements.
As much as Dean hated to admit defeat, there was no chance he was getting that leg out of the car on his own.
"Just do whatever you need to, Sammy." He shook his head softly, tired eyes puffy and red.
Sam nodded, reaching down with hands hovering over the framework that held Dean's broken fibula and tibia in position.
"Actually," Dean interjected, hands moving between Sam's and his leg, "Can I just stay here?"
"I'm not having you injuring your back as well, Dean." Sam shook his head, laughing a little. "Come on."
Grumbling under his breath, Dean scooted himself out of his car with Sam supporting his leg. Every movement sent waves of pain radiating hip to ankle and it took all of his concentration just to grit his teeth and function.
The doctor had told them that after a month the leg would be at weight-bearing status, but from the way it felt at that moment, Dean doubted the pieces ever fusing back together. The medical professionals had insisted that the Ilizarov frame was the better option. It prevented severe bone infections and would allow the bones to heal without permanent plates and screws being inserted. Given Dean's hate of flying, it wouldn't have phased him to set metal detectors off.
The crutches had seen very little use. Dean had outright refused to take the standard under-armpit crutches. He'd argued with the nurse, insisting that the last time he was mounted on a pair of those they chaffed his armpits so badly sweat stung for weeks. She argued back, telling him that wouldn't happen if he used them properly and that if he didn't cooperate she'd make him practice for a week before discharge would even be considered. When Sam appeared, his charming good looks apparently convinced her to reconsider and he was issued with a pair of aluminum forearm crutches. Although, the nurse had made sure to inform Dean that the previous owner was now deceased. He smiled and told her he liked things with history.
Taking an upright position was agony. Blood rushed through the slowly knitting bones and caused a deep throb and burn to reverberate up through his leg and to his skull it seemed. Sam was there with his hand again, just close enough to provide support if a stumble were to happen. But Dean kept his composure and although slowly, very slowly, he made his way over to the motel room which had been pre-booked earlier that day. Sam had ensured they had a handicapped room, which he had purposely kept from Dean, but really it went without saying.
Sam took charge of locking the Impala and carrying the duffles and making sure he grabbed the bag of medication prescribed by the hospital pharmacist. It felt strangely good; responsibility without being constantly questioned or observed. As he looked back towards the motel though, breath hitched in his throat. This is how it was going to be for a while. But it would get better.
/
"It was a complex fracture, Mr Allen." The doctor spoke with a clipboard in hand. "The external fixation you see now is only temporary. In several days I expect the swelling to have reduced significantly, at which point I will construct an Ilizarov frame around your lower leg to stabilise the fractures while they heal."
Sam beat Dean to any questions, although in his subdued state from medication and shock he doubted he would have risen to the challenge.
"Why can't he just have a cast?" Sam asked, turning towards the doctor. "It wasn't that bad, right? It didn't break the skin or anything."
"It was still displaced." The Doctor shook his head softly. "I am sorry, boys. There is no easy fix if you want to continue to live a fully functional life."
Sam's eyes flickered to his brother and he gulped down a lump in his throat.
"Thank you, Doctor." Sam nodded. "I think we understand."
Dean remained silent, eyes glazed over in a transfiction with the adjacent wall.
Once the man in the white coat had left, Sam moved to be at Dean's side. He slumped down in the plastic chair next to the bed and turned to look at his brother, dark eyes, pain lines and all.
"I screwed up this time, didn't I?" Dean murmured softly, words that would go unheard without focus.
"We always screw up, dude." Sam smiled softly, leaning an elbow on the hospital mattress. "But guess what?"
Dean raised a sluggish eyebrow. "What, Sammy?"
"We always get through it."
/
"So, which bed do you want?" Sam asked as he dropped the duffles, taking in the surroundings which they would need to learn to live with for the next few weeks.
"This place is awful."
"Have we ever stayed anywhere pretty, Dean?" Sam laughed, still holding onto that feather pillow. "So, which will it be?"
"You always take the first bed, Sam." Dean sighed, looking towards the taller guy. "If you're going to start acting weird..."
"Fine." Sam shrugged, tossing the cushion onto the bed on the left side. "Hope it's comfortable."
Dean chuckled, appreciating the act. "Just wait 'til I'm lying down and then you can ditch me."
Sam rolled his eyes, knowing full well his brother would call every five minutes if he did leave.
"Sit your ass down then, brother of mine." Sam grinned, folding his arms in bossy-mode.
Sam purposely did not mention the leg, the frame or anything of that nature. He wanted Dean to remain positive, and although he knew the reality was harsh, it would be forced upon them soon enough when Sam would need to tend to the medical aspects. Dean did not relish the idea of Sam poking and prodding his leg with Q-Tips either. The pain was managed with frequent pain medication and the leg being propped up, so as long as Dean didn't move, he was fairly comfortable.
"Where do we go from here?" Dean spoke quietly, shifting a pillow behind his back. "I'm clearly done with hunting."
"For the time being." Sam nodded, taking position on his own bed.
"You though..." Dean sighed, leaning his head against the headboard and closing his eyes. "You can do whatever the hell you want. No need to feel obliged."
"We'll see." Sam shrugged. "Need my pillow?"
Dean smiled and nodded his head. "I wouldn't refuse, Sammy."
Sam contemplated throwing the lumpy item over to his brother, but the thought of jostling that leg sent shudders through his body.
"Back?" Sam asked, pulling himself up from the bed and hovering slightly.
Dean nodded, leaning forward to give enough room for the pillow to be jammed between his shoulders and the wall. "Thanks man."
As they progressed into the second week of recovery, Sam discovered something: it was incredibly boring to sit awake in a motel room for twelve hours every day. He visited every gas station within a five mile radius and came back with a different magazines each time for Dean. A small stack was forming on the bedside table with magazines about cars, motorbikes, rock music and skin, but Sam doubted many of them had seen much use other than a quick flick through. He spent the rest of his days reading newspapers and conspiring theories to even the most menial news stories. They spent hours just chatting about life, and whilst Sam went out for food three times a day, they had only that time alone.
"Dude." Dean sighed, turning his head to observe Sam. "You need to get out. Do something."
"Like what?" Sam smiled, shaking his head. "I'm good."
"You can't sit still, Sam. You keep moving around and it's starting to bug me."
"Do you want to go out?" Sam enquired hopefully, "We could go... somewhere."
"I don't want to go out." Dean shook his head, "I don't need to. I'm fine just here. My leg's not hurting, I'm comfortable, yadda yadda."
"I'm insulted that you want me to leave." Sam joked, "Seriously though Dean, there's nothing to do around here even if I did leave."
"Here." Dean picked up one of the newspapers from the bedside cupboard and tossed it into Sam's lap. "Page thirteen. Check it out."
Sam flicked through the pages and scanned the page, looking back at Dean after a few seconds. "You want me to investigate a cat home that was broken into?" He repeated with an amused expression and raised eyebrow. "They stole ten kittens Dean, what do you envisage is going on?"
"Demon? God? It could be anything."
"Or it could be a couple of thugs selling cats on the black market." Sam shook his head. "It's not a case."
"I'm not a case either, Sammy." Dean growled, "You don't need to babysit me."
"Woah..." Sam glanced up defensively, "I'm not babysitting you." He dropped the newspaper.
"You haven't left my side for six days unless it's been for food."
"For Gods sake, Dean... I'm trying to manage here, but look at you."
"Look at me? What are you saying, Sam?"
"It's not a good idea to leave you alone."
"No?" Dean shifted in position to turn to look at his brother, frown evident.
Sam hated it when this happens. When Dean riles him up. He tries to hold out from being mean, but it's difficult when you are actually frustrated.
"Just leave it, Dean." He shook his head, looking back down at the newspaper.
"No, Sam. I won't just leave it. What the hell do you mean?"
He sucked in a deep breath, shrugging his shoulders. "It's just that you can't do anything by yourself. You need help to get to the toilet."
Dean's glare cut into him, but he continued. "You can't clean your shitty leg without help, you can't get food on your own..."
"Me and my 'shitty leg'..." Dean spoke harshly, "Would manage on our own just fine. I can do things for myself, Sam, I just let you mother me because I know you would just whine if I refuse."
"No, Dean, I-"
"Shut up, Sam." Dean shook his head, turning his head away. "Just take the case. Get the hell out of my face for a few hours."
Sam knew that it would just blow up if he retaliated, so shrugged his shoulders and stood up.
"Fine." He muttered, pulling on his trainers and snatching the keys up for the Impala. "I'm gone."
Dean grimaced and inhaled deeply as Sam slammed the motel door. He didn't mean to piss him off, but truth be told he was getting frustrated too. His leg was still a sore, aching, mechanical mess, and moving around still wore him out. He was bored and agitated, and it was freaking annoying that he couldn't just get up and take a drive. Sam really wasn't being too irritating, he was helping him get dressed and cleaned up without saying a word, but there was just something niggling. He hated everything about being injured. He also hated that he had just picked that fight with Sam just for something to do. Everything about the situation was crappy, but at least it was temporary.
/
In the car en-route to the kitty farm, Sam was pretty much at a loss with the 'case' Dean had just thrust upon him. It was painfully obvious, probably to them both, that this was just sending him on a whole long road to no where. But he understood. He understood Dean's need to be alone.
Sam had half a mind just to ditch the newspaper and spend a couple of hours at one of the bars he'd spotted along the highway. Although the idea of it did sound pleasing, he didn't think he'd be able to bring himself to ditch Dean and go off galavanting with women and beer – just what Dean would much rather be doing. Sam knew he had also left his brother's pain pills and anti-inflammatories in the bathroom, and on those crutches navigating the tiny space and slippery floors was damn near impossible. He looked down at his wrist and made a mental note to be back in an hour and a half. He would leave, fair enough, but he wouldn't want Dean to be in agony just to prove a point.
So, yeah. The cattery. Who the hell was he supposed to be? The FBI? He didn't even have his suit with him. He drove past the run down building at least four times before actually pulling into the tiny parking lot. Thumbing through their supply of fake ID's did little to help the situation, the closest he got was 'Pest Control' but that just wouldn't work. The only real option was to just go in as a visitor and snoop around a little, if only to satisfy his brother.
Inside the building, it just appeared to be your average, 'come look at ugly cats' home. A little old woman greeted him at the front desk.
"Hello there." She spoke kindly, beckoning him into the small reception area. "How may I help you today, young man?"
Oh, Lord please help him. He so did not want to be doing this.
"Hey." He forced a smile in return, twitching slightly out of discomfort. "I've come to look at the, uh, cats?"
"Of course!" The woman giggled, covering her face with a decrepit hand. "I will show you to them."
Sam nodded, walking slowly as he followed the woman. He noticed that she used a cane in her right hand, and found himself wondering whether that would be Dean in a few years time.
"It's my brother." Sam shrugged, still following her through the rickety building. "He got injured recently. I was thinking of getting him a cat. As a gift, you know?"
"Cats are lovely animals." The woman nodded her head enthusiastically. "They can be very loving and rewarding."
Sam couldn't believe he was doing this.
She pushed open a large wooden door and ushered Sam into the large room filled with cages, cat toys and several roaming felines. He could almost see the cat hair on his clothes already and he had to stifle himself from turning up his nose in disgust.
"Great." He nodded, taking a tentative step inside. "I'll have a look around then."
So there he found himself, shut inside a room with around one hundred cats, all meowing and demanding his attention. Sure, he was a guy who could appreciate a cute, furry kitten every once in a while, but this? To prove a point? God, he really was wet.
He walked around, stepping over tabby cats and wind-up mice, only to end up at the window. There was a familiar yellow substance sprinkled over the windowsill and as he lifted it to his nose, the smell was definitive.
"It was sulphur, Dean." Sam shook his head, raising one hand in the air as he paced, almost forgetting the cats this time. "Sulphur." He repeated again, still shocked at the discovery. "You were joking when you sent me up here?"
Apparently not. Dean told Sam that he and Dad had seen a similar story a few years back, and after mocking it as a case, discovered at least ten demons, gods and supernatural beings that favour kittens and cats as an afternoon snack.
As Sam went to leave the room, after realising that he had no weapons aside from a small silver knife in his shoe, he found the door locked.
"You've got to be kidding me." He moaned, placing both hands on his temples. Reaching into his back pocket for the cell phone, it refused to turn on. "And a dead battery?" He muttered to himself, "Great."
/
Dean had spoken to Sam merely half an hour ago, and now the phone from which he received the call was no longer available. It wasn't that he regretted sending his brother out, but only that he was now slightly concerned. If he found sulphur in that room, anything could have come back and decided to make a meal of his, admittedly more like giraffe than feline, brother. Oh, and his leg was beginning to hurt again. Like a bitch. More than a throb, more like grating sensation everytime he shifted and constant cramp in his calf muscles. He hadn't missed a dose of meds since coming out of hospital, and the feeling wasn't a good one. To make matters worse, he was increasingly beginning to think that Sam would need to be rescued.
Dean was not up to anything. He wouldn't even leave the motel room out of choice, so throwing himself in the face of some creature that could probably crush him in an instant? Shit.
He decided to wait.
The clock ticked by for another half an hour.
An hour.
Two hours.
His leg was killing him by now. Where the hell had Sammy left his pain meds? His hands were shaking and his eyes were just spilling out liquid. Where did Sammy last go to get them? Bathroom?
He managed to hobble to the bathroom, bad leg with metal and pins and rings held tentatively above the ground.
"Aha." Dean grinned, making sure his crutches only moved onto the shower mat rather than slippy tiles. He popped open the tub and took four for good measure. The normal dose was only two, but hey, he'd missed one already.
Besides, he needed to be pumped if slightly delirious to proceed with the insanity he was just about to attempt. At least he knew the thing could go down with a silver bullet. No need to get too close. Perfect.
Dean just wished he could be saving his brother on two feet, because really? If he didn't need his brother so damn much he would not leave the room. His leg was seriously hurting now, throbs that replayed the beat of his heart and just a general sense of 'ouch' that wouldn't go away. He knew he was not allowed to bear weight on the leg but if it didn't hurt so much, that instruction would have been completely disregarded.
He made the journey to the cat shack in a cab. Certainly a first, but anything for his brother. Eyeroll. This journey was a lot less comfortable than the one with Sam just two weeks ago, the guy seemed to hit every single hole and bump and stone in the road, and he felt them all.
"Thanks," He mumbled, thrusting $10 towards the driver and making a hasty yet painful and clumbsy exit from the vehicle. He really would have appreciated a hand, but being alone was never helpful.
The place was a dump, for lack of a better word. There were two boarded up windows and the front door had a number half-hanging from the faded paint. He could only imagine how Sam had reacted when he turned up. Guilt stabbed him in the chest and he sighed. Apologies would come later.
Thankfully there was a slope reaching up to the front door. It would have just about slayed Dean if he had to navigate a flight of stairs. Perhaps Sam would have just been sacrificed in that situation.
On arrival at the front desk, there was nobody there. Dean wasn't suprised really, he imagined the demon had already morphed into the old lady Sam was talking about and the likelihood was that whatever that demon wanted, it had either tied Sam up to prevent him from having an impact or... well, Dean didn't want to imagine the worst case scenario.
So now there were a couple of doors to choose from, and Dean really wasn't in the mood for playing games.
"Sam?" He called out in the hopes of hearing something – anything – to guide him.
He was quickly releasing that his leg was not going to appreciate this, and in a few minutes he'd probably be bent over in agony. Thankfully he'd managed to avoid jarring the metal frame yet, but if he came into contact with this demon then it wasn't worth thinking about just yet. If he had to risk himself, then so be it. Sam always has his back, and this is no different.
"Sammy? He called out, louder this time, his heart rate increasing by the second.
Then he heard something. A bang of sorts. The sound was unplaceable, but he could determine the direction. Left. Another loud band from that direction reinstated the need to move.
Alongside the steadily increasing pain in his leg as blood continued to find its way through damaged passageways, the burn in his upper arms and shoulders was also becoming harder and harder to breathe through. The trouble was, the whole situation was ridiculous and Dean really did not feel like it was reality. Why had he sent Sam out for that ridiculous newspaper prompt?
"Fucking hell, Winchester." He growled to himself, pulling himself along on his crutches down the corridor, hearing the bangs, meows and other various noises becoming more audible.
"Sam?" He shouted, hoping that something would come back to affirm his need to either remain in position to take action.
Nothing.
This was going to turn out nasty, Dean just knew it. He began feeling sick to his stomach, looking down at the disgusting contraption that prevented him from moving as quickly as he would have liked. This demon was some screwed up mental case from another dimension – if Sam had thought to take silver bullets within him then he would have been golden. But then again... if Dean hadn't told him to go...
It was a losing battle.
When Dean reached the same wooden door that Sam had been previously led to, he knew that his brother was on the other side. He had a faint plan, if the creature had its back to him, shoot. If not... well, he just hoped that was the case.
That was never, ever going to be the case. Nothing is ever simple. Especially not in their world.
Dean almost fell over pushing the heavy door open whilst attempting to keep his balance, and that was a sign of bad things to come.
The demon – the old woman – was stroking a cat. She was sitting on the floor, stroking a cat. Sam was tied up against a wall with his arms up high above his head and his feet barely touching the floor. It was a scene from a crazy, psycho-cat-woman nightmare. But it was real. And Dean was going to feel the reality soon.
She turned to look at him, and as he raised the gun and fired, she simulateously unleashed some otherwordly mojo and sent him flying. Literally flying. Across the room flying. Landing on his godforsaken bad leg flying. Slow motion would have seen his leg cave in beneath him, the pins being forced through his skin as the whole rear side of the Ilizarov frame came into contact with the floor and then the back of his leg. Pins had broken inside his bones, bones had splintered and pierced the skin, blood splattered.
Dean was unconscious instantly, but at least his own bullet had met it's target. Square in the chest, that demon bitch was gone.
But Jesus Christ.
Sam's mouth was wide open, tears being jerked from his eyes instantly as his brother hit the floor and he could actually hear the damage.
That leg was gone, and he knew it. There was no way in hell the doctors would be able to salvage any of it.
"Oh, god..." Sam mumbled, tears trickling down his cheeks and a weak attempt at pulling the ropes failing. "Dean?" He whispered, and again, louder, "Dean?"
But he wasn't waking up. Not for a long time.
/
Sam hadn't been able to stop himself from crying. He hated that it was his fault, and that he had been the first to know. To see.
His brother was still unconscious even after the anaesthetic had worn off. The Doctor had said that it wasn't uncommon for some people to remain in a comatose state for days after such a violent shock on the body.
Sam had spoken to the police, told them all that he knew. He'd lied of course, demons were not a valid excuse for the local Sheriff's department.
Dean had been a mess after his original accident, he was slipping into a state of depression and it wasn't difficult to see. This... this was going to kill him. Sam knew it.
It took two more days for Dean to wake up. Sam had slept by his side, his gaze constantly locked on the face of his older brother. In this state he was relaxed and unaware of the challenges that lay ahead of him.
Sam didn't know how, but they were going to have to live with this.
Forever.
As Dean's eyes fluttered open for the first time since that day, Sam didn't hesitate to let out a choked sob.
"Dean..." He shook his head, "I am so sorry."
It didn't take long for Dean to recall what had happened, and to guess his fate. He didn't say it, but...
"They couldn't..." He trailed off, the color of his eyes stark against the redness from welling tears.
"No." Sam shook his head, his body shaking too. "No."
Dean nodded, his jaw tight and a tear trickling down his cheek. He was still feeling cloudy and out of it, but he understood. He could see the state Sam was in, and he did what he knew was necessary.
"Sammy." He murmured, voice rough from the extended period of unconsciousness. One arm lifted, and it was all the invitation Sam needed.
He dove into his brother's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his shoulders.
"We'll be OK." Dean mumbled against his brother's mass of tangled brown hair.
It wasn't a lie or the truth, it just was.