Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.
"Get a room you two," Sam says, the eye roll offset by the smile he's can't fully bite back. In other circumstances, Dean's moans of pleasure and occasional, "Oh Baby," would encourage Sam to beat a hasty retreat before he'd have to scrub yet another filthy image from his brain. As it is, however, Dean is merely getting reacquainted with his first love after the prolonged separation that's upended the worlds of both Winchester men. Sam merely watches as Dean runs his arm stumps over the leather seat of the Impala, a pale imitation of the loving caress he's seen his brother perform countless times over the years.
He leaves Dean in his own little world, instead, focusing on transporting his brother to their new abode. The apartment has been carefully chosen, the list of Dean's requirements weeding out their usual level of hovel. It's a first floor two bedroom, one bath, with automatic doors that allows for easy wheelchair access into and out of the building. All of the doors in the apartment have had their knobs replaced with handles, allowing Dean to use his residual limbs to pull them open, and they're ready to MacGyver the crap out of the place in order for Dean to be as fully functional as possible.
Despite Dean's low moments, For Pete's sake, I don't have any fucking legs or arms, I'm allowed to be pissed off, Castiel's Angel Prozac, as the boys have taken to calling it, has kept the darkest of depressions from ever fully manifesting. And bonus side effect – no phantom limb pains. Sure he still gets the regular old aches and pains that come with building up new muscles, but the Big Scary Pain issue that his nurses and therapists kept preparing him for never reared its ugly head.
And while Dean's come a long way, the significance of his disabilities continue to whomp him in the face on a daily basis. Like now, for instance. Sure, he's managed to transfer himself from his wheelchair into the passenger seat, but Sam still has to get the chair into the car for him. And once he's here, it's not like he can go anywhere. No hands to open the door. No feet to push the gas pedal and brake. He rests his head against the back of the seat, then lets his glance fall to the dashboard. His arm stumps aren't long enough to reach the radio from where he's sitting and even if he could, it's not like he could turn the dials. He gives a derisive snort, thinking that even though he's permanent shotgun now, there's no way he's gonna shut his cakehole for the next umpteen decades.
()()()()()()()()
Sam has fared about as well as can be expected; not that you ever expect to become a significant caregiver for your older brother when you're both still in the prime of your lives. It's helped that Dean's kept his snark. Well, some days it's just annoying as hell, but at least it's better than a suicidal sibling. Because without Castiel's intervention, Sam would have lost his brother one way or the other - either by exsanguination out in the woods or through the dark vortex of severe depression. And even though he still thinks life is vastly unfair, he's ready to help Dean begin to put down roots. Just not quite the way either of them had pictured it.
Sam's made quick work of finding a job, their new apartment and need for stability necessitating he become an upstanding citizen of the workforce. Or something close to it. As long as you don't dig too deep. He's managed to get a decent-ish job as a paralegal, thanks in part to his time at Stanford and Dean's brilliance with developing fake personas, which at least puts food on the table and keeps a roof over their heads.
He's met the neighbors, he knows all the baristas at the coffee shop by name, he's even been out on a date or two. Nothing serious, just enough for Dean to bust his balls.
Dean, on the other hand, is busy just trying to get his life back together. Or something that faintly approximates it. His days are spent doing exercises and stretches to continue to build his core and residual limb muscles, figuring out what household tasks he can relearn, and trying to push the boundaries of his new limitations.
He's learned how to feed himself for the most part. The fork and spoon on the adaptive cuff work well for most foods although the knife is still a point of contention. He's given up ever holding a burger again (his stumps just don't allow enough control over the slippery little devil for the entire journey to his mouth) although he's figured out how to dismantle it and eat it in its individual pieces. Sam just tells him he's on the forefront of the 'deconstructed food' movement.
He's working on figuring out how to open a beer. Cans are out of the question, but he's practicing with bottles – wedging the bottle between his thighs and holding the bottle opener between his arm stumps, one on top of the other in an "X". One of these days he'll figure out the necessary torque needed to pop the top. Although he still may need a straw. Dammit.
While his computer skills were never on par with Sam's, he's working on getting back to a level where he can at least entertain himself for a couple of hours. He's tried reading with regular books, but more often than not the pages get stuck and he can't manage to turn them without fingers. So online reading has become the better option. His adaptive stick is enough to allow him to use the up and down arrows to scroll through the pages and by now he has his favorite websites (which may or may not include Busty Asian Beauties) bookmarked for easy access.
And Sam, the saint that he is, somehow manages to find an old video game system. Dean can manipulate the joystick and large button with his stumps, allowing the brothers at least a modicum of normalcy for a couple of hours a week.
Look out life – here come the Winchesters.
()()()()()()()()
Some days are better than others; in that respect Dean's as normal as the next person. But Dean's bad days put most other peoples' to shame. The first time Dean meets Kelli, Dean's having a really bad day. Not the worst of his oh-so-screwed-to-hell existence, but still, it's not good.
First off, he oversleeps. Not that it should be that big of a deal; he doesn't have anything going on today. Or ever, for that matter. But it means that Sam's already gone to work and Dean's left to fend for himself. And for the most part that's ok. He's fine to get himself out of bed, transfer into and out of his wheelchair, and empty his bladder.
Breakfast is where things begin to fall apart. Sam's considerate enough to pour his coffee into a mug for him every day since he can't really handle the coffee pot, but his late start means he has to contend with a beverage that's lukewarm at best. He could use the microwave, but it still hasn't been cleaned out from the last time Sam tried to warm up soup. Kid's a genius and can't even work a microwave. He manages to shake a decent portion of cereal into his bowl without too many "man overboards", but when he pulls out the quart carton of milk, he's reminded that he forgot to ask Sam to open it for him the previous night. Screw top lids are virtually impossible but as long as it's already been opened, he can usually handle up to a quart sized carton of juice or milk. Groaning at his lack of forethought, he makes a few attempts to will the thing open using a combination of Jedi mind tricks and increasingly hostile curse words. When that fails to produce any results other than a gradually rising blood pressure, he wheels himself around the apartment in full-on MacGyver mode, perspiring milk carton wedged between the stumps of his legs.
Dean can remember having trouble opening the damned cartons when he had fingers. What the hell is he supposed to do now? Eyes desperately scanning the room for a solution knife – yeah right, I'd probably impale myself; scissors – if only. Of course! A smile crosses his face as he sees a sharpened pencil laying near Sam's computer. He wheels himself over to the table, finagles the pencil into a grip between his stumps before transferring it to his mouth, and wheels himself back into the kitchen.
At least the kitchen's got a linoleum floor. Dean's played this game before; it doesn't always end well. Clean-up on linoleum is much easier than explaining to Sam why their carpet smells like curdled milk.
And so Dean goes to work, holding the perspiring carton as tightly as he can between his legs, using his arm stumps to drive the pencil into the top of the carton while bracing the backside of the carton with his chest. After several minutes of out and out cursing (at least his vocabulary has expanded since his injury), he feels the satisfying 'pop' of the pencil puncturing the side of the carton. Giving a cackle of accomplishment, he removes the pencil and repositions himself to pour the milk.
The small puncture site doesn't leave any room for return air flow, causing the milk to glug and slug its way into the environment and the carton to jerk around in Dean's grip. When all is said and done, Dean has a bowl of cereal. And a small lake around his bowl. And a slightly soggy lap. All in all, it could have been worse.
Cleaning up the table as best he can (all the while grinning maniacally at the thought of not crying over spilled milk), he then heads for a shower and change of clothes. Showering for the most part is fine – he can wash his hair, wash most of his body, and even dry himself off with the strategic placement of a couple of towels.
Of course there's a lot he misses since he's been injured. The obvious notwithstanding, one of the surprise things he misses is his soap. Something as simple as a bar of soap. The first time he took a real shower (the dry runs with Nadine don't really count), he ended up chasing the squirrely bar of suds around the bottom of the tub for several minutes before he was finally able to hold it hostage between his stumps. Reminded him of the time their dad took him and Sammy to that fair in Bumfuck, Missouri and they watched the greased pig competition. Now, as much as he hates it, he uses a body wash that comes out of a container with an amputee friendly pump.
While the showering part of the plan goes off as well as can be expected, Dean's not quite so lucky when he goes to get dressed. The only clean shirt he can find is a long-sleeved T shirt that hasn't been worn since his injury and the shorts he pulls out are his least favorite – they leave more than the usual amount of his leg stumps on display. Sam hasn't gotten around to doing laundry yet and Dean, while working on figuring out how to help around the apartment, hasn't yet been able to do much with that particular household chore. The screw top lid on their detergent notwithstanding, he can't reach down into the top load washer. The dryer stacked on top of the washer might as well be on the moon.
He considers pulling out a couple of articles from his dirty laundry, then decides to just suck it up and deal. Which is pretty much his mantra these days. He makes quick work of the shorts – now well-versed in the awkward wiggle, shimmy, tug routine he has to use to get them in place and then moves on to his shirt, swiftly getting it up over his head now that he knows the proper order and tricks. The trouble comes, however, in the fact that either his arm stumps are too skinny or the sleeve cuffs too stretched out to stay in place. The sleeves keep weaseling their way down, even when he manages to tug them back above his elbows using his opposite stump and his teeth, which leads to more than one instance of Dean being jerked quickly to a stop while wheeling around the apartment, one or the other shirt sleeve caught in the wheels of his chair while he curses up a blue streak.
When he's finally had enough, he roots through his laundry basket and changes the shirt out for a short-sleeved one he wore two days ago; it manages to pass the sniff test (barely) and he makes the quick exchange. He throws the long-sleeved shirt into a corner of his room, imagining a salt and burn in its future.
Having wasted the better part of this ridiculous morning with things that he could've done in under half an hour in his former life, he glances at the clock. Just in time, he thinks, ready to lose himself in some Dr. Sexy, MD. He transfers himself to the couch, getting settled for his hour long diversion from his sucky life. He carefully uses his adaptive cuff stick to press the buttons on the remote control, heart beat quickening when it fails to garner a response. Scrambling over to the TV, he does a quick check of the cords and hookups and then hangs his head when he remembers Sam saying that he needs to pick up some batteries for the remote control.
And now he's stuck in the hallway, trying in vain to open the door to his apartment. Not because he can't manage to work the handle, but because he's an idiot. He's locked himself out. The only thing he can figure out is that the button lock on the inside didn't fully depress when he left to get the mail. It's not like he ever locks the door behind him. Not due to carelessness but because he hasn't yet figured out how to use the keys. His stumps don't allow him the dexterity to hold and twist in the necessary motion and when he tried it with his teeth a few times, he almost broke his neck.
So now he's sitting in his wheelchair, trying to remember what time Sam will be home (because, of course his phone's inside the apartment) and trying not to freak the fuck out. He does a brief survey up and down the hallway, trying to remember who might be home. He hasn't really met many of his neighbors yet, but of course Sam has. He's sure there's all sorts of gossip flying around the building about them – people have questioned their relationship for years. Add on the fact that one of them is a little less than able-bodied, and it's a pretty good bet that everyone knows about them.
He strikes out on his first try. He remembers belatedly that Mrs. Walters from across the hall is away visiting her grandchildren. He knows this only because Sam's been watering her plants while she's out of town. He considers asking the building's super to unlock his door, but he lives one floor up and he'd really rather not crawl up the steps. Besides, the guy might not be too keen on some of the "improvements" they've made to the place.
Stumps poised on the wheels of his chair, he idly pushes himself back and forth, the only form of pacing open to him anymore. As the wheels of his brain turn in kind, he hears a clatter and a muffled curse from behind the door of his next door neighbor, followed by giggles and the thumping sounds of little feet. Hopeful that at least someone's home, he wheels himself over and knocks on the door as best he can – a weak imitation all his stump will allow.
More muffled voices and a sharper, "Put that down", hang in the air before the door opens, revealing a young man who looks to be somewhere between Sam and Dean's age, hair slightly disheveled, hopping on one foot.
"Damn Legos," he's muttering, eyes still focused on the goings on inside his apartment. "What…." he trails off, eyes doing a quick scan of Dean's body before snapping his attention back to his face.
"Hey, sorry to bother you," Dean says with a sheepish smile, "but I locked myself out."
"Oh, uuuhhh," the man replies glancing between Dean and his own apartment.
"Any way I could have you give my brother a call?"
"Oh – right. Brother," the man says stupidly, body blocking the rest of his apartment. Dean really hopes he's not interrupting this guy getting his freak on although he can't quite imagine how the Legos fit into the equation. Then the man's face clears slightly and he tries again. "Brother! Sam?"
Dean's face relaxes at the recognition on the man's face. "Yeah, I'm…."
But before he can introduce himself, a little body worms its way around the man, planting itself firmly in front of Dean. It's a little girl of five or six, hair in pigtails that are slightly askew, bib overalls with one unbuttoned strap trailing behind her, and she's bouncing on the balls of her feet just like that puppy Dean remembers from the summer at Pastor Jim's. Damned thing peed all over the place.
"Hi," she says brightly, inspecting Dean in the way only little children can. "I'm Kelli with an I." She holds out her hand and after a brief flush on his part and a sharp inhalation by the other man, he reaches out his right stump which Kelli accepts readily.
"Dean," he says, voice raspy.
"This is my uncle Justin," she says, pointing to the wide-eyed, slack-jawed man behind her. She screws up her face, plants her hands on her hips and continues her inspection, finally asking, "Why don't you have any arms or legs?"
Justin makes an ineffective "uuuhhhh" while Dean's face flushes even more. He really hates that this is now a standard part of his introduction. "What's your name? Where are you from? What happened to half of your body parts?" But at least her question is out of genuine five-year-old curiosity – akin to why is the sky blue – instead of accompanied by the pitying glances of the majority of society. And while his standard answer anymore is a tame version of the real story, he's not sure that "wild animal attack" won't give the little girl nightmares for the rest of her life. So instead he offers a vague, "I got hurt really bad," which she accepts with a nod.
"My kitty got hurt really bad. Mom and dad had to take him to a farm," she says, imparting her knowledge of hurt and pain. "Did you have to go to a farm?" she asks, head tilted to one side.
He bites back a smile, thinking how many times he's almost bought the damned farm, then shakes his head. "No. But it is how I ended up here."
She nods, as if that answers all of her questions about life and then turns to her uncle with pleading eyes. "Can Mister Dean stay and play with me?"
Dean's not sure if he or Justin are more surprised at this request, and he really didn't mean to impose. "Maybe some other time, huh?" he says, ready to wheel himself down the hall to try his luck elsewhere.
Justin finally gets his brain cells to rub together and tells Dean he's more than welcome to stay, if he's willing to put up with the shenanigans of his niece. "I don't watch her all that often," he explains, "so I'm still trying to figure out what's what."
Dean's own brain cells do some calculations, recalling Sam at this age, and he offers Justin a deal. "How about you give my brother a call and let me hang out here until he gets home and I'll help try to keep 'Kelli with an I' here entertained?"
"You sure?" Justin asks, relief and wariness warring on his face.
"You've met Sam, right?" Dean asks rhetorically. "Sasquatch is huge. But he's actually my little brother."
"What's a Sasquatch," Kelli asks, round eyes locked on Dean.
"It's a really big hairy smelly beast," Dean says, leaning forward in his chair.
"And he's your brother?" she asks in awe.
"Yeah."
"I hope I never have a brother," she says in all seriousness.
()()()()()()()()
When Sam gets home from work, he pauses outside of Justin's door, unsure if he should be apologizing for anything. After all, he's not the one who locked the door. But shouldn't he have seen this as a possibility? How is he supposed to protect Dean from a locked door?
Sam knocks on Justin's door, deciding he'll have to up his game a bit more, then wanders distractedly into Justin's living room when his neighbor invites him in. He stops abruptly, a slow smile creeping over his face when he takes in the tranquil scene playing out in Justin's living room.
Dean's sitting in front of the window in his chair, the soft evening light illuminating Kelli, who's seated on his lap, swinging her legs off the front of the chair while Dean reads her a story. She's tucked back against his chest holding the book and turning the pages for him while he alternates voices to differentiate between characters. Neither of them look up when Sam enters the room.
Justin gives Sam the same wide-eyed stare that Kelli was practicing a while ago. "Your brother's a friggin child-whisperer, man." He shakes his head, "she hasn't been this quiet, like, ever."
Sam's chest gives a little squeeze; he's always thought Dean would make a great father someday and he's not sure if the constriction is in response to what may never be or the hope of what is to come. "Yeah, he practically raised me," Sam reiterates. He ambles over to where Dean is finishing his story, then kneels down next to Dean's chair. "That one was always one of my favorites," he says, pointing to the book Kelli's just closed.
"Mine too," she says with a sigh. She pats Dean on the cheek and grins before scrambling back down to the ground. She's chattering rapidly to Justin, reiterating the story Dean's just read, then breaks abruptly when Sam rises to his full height.
"Sasquatch," Kelli breathes, eyes wide open in awe.
Sam huffs and leaves Justin's apartment, Bitch Face firmly in place and any warm fuzzy emotions or protective tendencies towards his brother effectively quashed.
()()()()()()()()
Dean buries his face deeper into his pillow, the warm cocoon of safety and wholeness still wrapping him in its loving embrace. Before he makes the full transition from dreaming to waking he is still limitless. He can still walk. Can still run. Can still hold his weapons. Can still caress a woman.
If anyone were to see him now, it would take a minute or two to see what's not right with the picture. As he's lying on his stomach, arms tucked under his pillow, his missing hands aren't noticeable. The missing legs are what would give him away. Laying as he is now, he can pretend to be clutching his beloved knife in his phantom fist, ready to slay whatever monsters enter his door. But how does that help him slay the monsters in his head?
Contrary to what one would think, given the situation, these types of thoughts don't swirl through his brain unchecked. It's really only in those hazy transitions between waking and dreaming when they tend to run rampant. Once his brain cells begin their daily calisthenics, the Angel Prozac seems to kick in and he's able to ignore the "what if's" and the "why me's". And he gets up and goes about his business.
And today, Dean hopes, is going to be a decent day. It's Thursday. And that means a break in the monotony of his day to day survive/relearn playbook. Because Kelli will be here.
It's kind of a shock to all involved how deeply Kelli has weaseled her way into Sam and Dean's lives. Mostly Dean's. It's only been a few short weeks since their first meeting, but already they have weekly "playdates" (Sam calls them this, Dean tells him to shut his face). Justin's glad to farm his niece out to someone with the energy and the time to put up with her. Justin's sister, after vetting the brothers for herself, is glad to have someone besides her clueless brother to help keep Kelli in line. Kelli's glad to have someone who reads to her in multiple voices and who lets her help around the house. Sam's glad Dean has an age-appropriate friend. Because Sam's often said that his brother has the sense of humor of a five-year-old.
Dean's glad to have someone who just accepts him for how he is. Someone who thinks it's "neato" that he can give her rides around the apartment in his chair. Someone who thinks it's fun to help him learn how to fold laundry and unload the dishwasher (the cabinets he can reach, anyway). Someone who doesn't look and him and say, "Poor guy".
()()()()()()()()
"Mister Dean, Mister Dean!"
A smile spreads across Sam's face at the image of the tiny girl, messy pigtails bobbing to their own beat, backpack bouncing on her back, as she prances around his brother's wheelchair in a little girl dance of joy. Or bathroom necessity.
Sam hopes it's the former.
The nonstop bouncing is rivaled only her incessant jabbering; Sam can't hear what she's saying from his seat in front of the computer but whatever she says makes Dean laugh out loud. A good old-fashioned tilt-the-head-back belly laugh that Sam hasn't seen or heard from his brother in far too long. Definitely not since the Black Dog and who knows how long before that.
Justin's sister, Tammy, gives Sam a look that screams "they're your problem now" before turning her attention back to her five-year-old firecracker and reminding her to be on her best behavior for her hosts. "And remember," she says to Sam and Dean, "No candy or soda." She gives a pointed look at Dean, and he flushes, recalling the hopped-up girl who'd been talking at triple speed by the end of their last visit.
"But mom," Kelli protests, hopping from one foot to the other.
Tammy raises her finger and her eyebrow, an unspoken directive the boys recognize as the universal parenting signals for "enough".
"Fine," Kelli agrees, eyes downcast as she scuffs the toe of her scuffed sneaker against the living room carpet.
Sam crosses his heart that no sugar shall cross the lips of either of their "children", which garners a scowl from Dean who then promises Tammy that they'll all be on their best behavior. Dean winks at Kelli and Tammy rolls her eyes before planting a kiss firmly on her daughter's head and throwing a wave over her shoulder as she exits the door.
Kelli waves back, then resumes bouncing in front of Dean as soon as her mom's out of earshot. "Mister Dean, Mister Dean," she cajoles again as she scrambles up onto his lap. She turns to face him and with an open expression she continues, "It's just like what you said before." Her eyes search his, watches his face closely as his eyebrows furrow, and then adds helpfully, "The thing under my bed."
Sam's head snaps up and his focus zeroes in on his brother, a low "Dean" growled out in the direction of his brother.
Dean shrugs back, his best "I have no idea" expression evident on his face and he refocuses on Kelli. He wheels them over and parks himself next to Sam who's failing miserably at trying to work from home.
"What do you mean," he asks cautiously, still unable to recall any ideas or discussions he might have let slip involving monsters. He didn't even tell her what really happened to him, why would he tell her about monsters?
"You 'member," she says, her finger poking him gently in the chest. "Last time, when you were cursing that thing under your bed."
Dean's mind does a quick rewind, a fleeting wince gracing his face as he recalls the few choice words Kelli had walked in on. He'd been trying to get the storage container out from underneath his bed, in search of a few of his missing Black Sabbath tapes. Sam had been threatening to throw them away for years and he wouldn't put it past his brother to have "accidentally" thrown them out when they moved into the apartment. He'd been seated on the floor in front of his bed, trying in vain to get the container out from where it was wedged under the bedframe, his arm stumps not allowing the grasp he needed to pull it out and his leg stumps not offering enough force to dislodge it.
"What 'cha doing?" Kelli had asked, plopping herself down next to him.
Dean had cut off the verbal assault he'd been directing at the container and instead answered with a wry, "regretting my life decisions". The simple equation Dean's learned is that one less Black Dog hunt equals four more important body parts.
She'd looked at him blankly for a few seconds before he'd huffed out his remaining frustrations and asked her if she had any bright ideas on how to solve his problem. She'd laid herself flat on the floor, taking a quick look around, and had then hopped up and disappeared around the side of the bed. He'd heard a muffled, "Eeew," from underneath the bed and then grinned as the container began to emerge from its holding area.
Container freed, Kelli had emerged from under the bed, cobwebs and dust balls clinging to her pony tails and clothes. She'd pinched her nose and held an old sock out to Dean, draping it across his offered arm with an exaggerated shudder. "Boys are gross," her only insight. Dean had briefly sniffed the sock (not his obviously) before rapidly agreeing that boys are indeed gross. Their apartment had been fully furnished when they'd moved in and Dean belatedly thought they should have done a more thorough cleaning.
"Good thinking, Kelli," Dean had said. "Don't know that I would've been able to get under there."
"Of course not," she'd said, "you're too big. Big people don't fit under beds."
"Just kids and Dust Bunnies," Dean had agreed.
"Dust Bunnies?" she'd asked, a puzzled look on her face.
"Oh yeah," Dean had said with a nod and a serious expression. "They like to live under beds, come out only on full moons or when you leave them a bowl of chocolate pudding." Dean had kept this ruse going with Sam until his brother turned eleven. Poor kid got pantsed at a slumber party when he'd tried to put out a bowl of chocolate pudding for his host's Dust Bunny.
"You mean the Dust Bunnies?" Dean asks Kelli now, the memory of their conversation bringing a smile to his face. He glances at Sam and smiles wider, seeing the narrowed eyes that show Sam's recall of his own unfortunate episode.
She nods, and both Dean and Sam let out a sigh of relief that Dean hasn't spilled the "monsters are real" beans to a five-year-old. "I saw them, under my bed. After I went home that night." Her eyes are saucer-round as she searches Dean's face for a clue as to what to do next.
"Dean," Sam ahems, trying to get his brother to keep the kid from the same fate he had. When Dean fails to contradict his previous story, Sam decides to step in. "Kelli, Dean's just making up stories. Dust bunnies aren't real." He thinks about it for a second, then hustles on "I mean, they're real, they're just a figure of speech." He glances at Dean, looking for a little help on how to explain a figure of speech to a five-year-old, only to see his brother's enjoyment in his predicament. Ass. "I mean, they're really just balls of dust that collect in places that don't get cleaned often."
"But I heard it growling," Kelli interrupts, glancing between the brothers, a concerned look on her face. She stage whispers to Dean, "It growled at me".
Sam and Dean exchange a glance and Sam continues, "Are you sure it wasn't all the sugar running through your system?"
"No" she says, poking Dean in the chest for emphasis. "That's what mommy and daddy said too. Not the sugar." She traces an abstract pattern on Dean's chest and then adds, "I heard it again last night. And I haven't had any sugar since I was here last time."
Dean gives her face a hard look and sees the determination that begs to be taken seriously. He purses his lips and gives a couple of quick nods to himself before bowing his head and engaging in a quick whispered discussion with Kelli.
"Ok Sam," he says, adjusting the angle of his chair so that he's facing his brother head-on. "Rock, paper, scissors for what we do next."
"Seriously?" Sam asks dubiously, his eyebrow rising into his hairline as his glance trails to where his brother's stumps rest on the arms of his wheelchair. "Don't you think that's a bit…" he trails off, waving his hands ineffectually when he fails to come up with the appropriate verbiage.
Dean merely narrows his gaze, wondering if he'll put out the "double dog dare" to get his brother to agree, when Sam finally blows out a breath and says, "Fine".
They assume their positions, both arms bobbing up and down as they simultaneously count off from one. On three, Sam's hand shows paper and Kelli proudly forms a pair of scissors.
"What?" Sam yelps, his voice several octaves about his usual timber. "You can't use kids to do your dirty work for you!" Sam had thrown paper, sure that Dean's stump would be a rock.
Dean and Kelli ignore him, dissolving into giggles as they give each other awkward high-fives.
"Sorry Sammy," Dean says when he catches his breath. "Them's the breaks." He bends his grin upside down and pulls a pathetic sad face. "Besides, how else could your disabled brother play the game?"
Sam narrows his eyes at his brother, sees the gleam evident in Dean's mossy eyes. My brother is such an ass.
()()()()()()()()
"Dean," Sam says later that night, the exasperation clear in his voice. "It's your own stupid fault." He gives his brother a shrug, then continues, "Well it is. That's what you get for lying to little kids."
"Whoa, whoa," Dean says, waving his stumps for emphasis. "First off," man I wish I had fingers to count off the ways I'm right, "I did not lie to Kelli." Sam's Bitch Face emerges and Dean again pats the air with his residual limbs. "Alright, embellished the truth a little maybe. But it's practically the same as Santa Claus." He wheels himself around the kitchen in his own form of pacing while Sam glowers at him from his position against the kitchen counter. "And second," he pauses, searching in vain for another point in his favor. Crap. He tries another tactic. "Just because you got pantsed doesn't mean I'm at fault here."
Sam pushes himself off the counter and grabs two beers from the fridge, pops the top off of them both and puts one down on the table for Dean before taking a swig out of his own bottle. Dean eyes the beer, unsure if Sam's being nice or mean. His last attempt at drinking from a bottle ended up in an alcohol sponge bath.
Sam ignores his brother's argument, instead focusing again on Kelli's claims. "And besides," he continues, "it's probably just a five-year-old's imagination".
"Yeah," Dean concedes, wheeling himself towards the patiently waiting beer. He considers trying to drink straight from the bottle again but doesn't really feel up to cleaning the floor tonight if things don't go so well. So he bites the bullet and asks his brother for a straw. Sam obliges and Dean keeps a grip on the sneaky bastard before it can defect to the floor. After a couple of cool but less than satisfying sips, he turns his attention back to his brother. "I won, dude. We take a look."
"Fine," Sam says with a huff, "we can at least do some research." The boys head into the living room and Dean huddles as close as he can to Sam while Sam searches for anything hinky involving Kelli's family or their house.
Turns out that Kelli may be right about something more than some innocuous dust bunnies living under her bed. A few decades back there was a murder that involved an unknown intruder, a family of four, and no survivors. And one child and a family pet who hid (unsuccessfully) under the bed.
"Crap", Sam says as he leans back in his chair and runs his hands distractedly through his hair. "But I mean, does it even mean anything? And why'd she just now notice it?"
Dean shrugs, his bottom lip held captive in his teeth while he processes the new information. "I don't know Sammy. Maybe it's nothing. But can we afford not to check?" He thinks of his new friend, how much trust was in her eyes when she was describing what she saw and heard. Tries not to think about anything bad happening to her. Or what he'd do to himself if something did.
()()()()()()()()
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Sam says from his location just inside the threshold of Kelli's parents' house. The verbal sparring match between the brothers had been long overdue and a poor imitation of their physical out and out wrestling days, but overall Dean was feeling rather pleased with himself. He's not stupid – it would've been a hell of a lot easier just turning a blind eye or even letting Sam check things out on his own. But he can't just sit back and let bad things happen to people. And "people" includes Sam. Especially Sam. So instead, he'd yammered at his brother until Sam finally caved, agreeing to check the house out together.
Dean's too busy taking stock of the layout of the house to add any fuel to Sam's fire. The brothers have the place to themselves, Kelli's pleading that Mister Dean and his brother needed to investigate the Dust Bunnies having slowly driven her parents to the brink of insanity. Add a couple of good natured "We don't mind, really, it's the least we can do" (wink wink) to the equation, and the family's out of their hair long enough for dinner and a movie.
Looking around the place now, Dean thinks he really should have gotten the floor plans ahead of time. The doorways are narrower than those at their apartment, the furniture placement looks like a slalom course, and he's not quite sure that there's enough room for him to maneuver his chair. He considers his options of staying here in the front of the house versus figuring out a way to explore further, quickly shooing away the thought of Sam carrying him like he did initially following his injury. Instead, he wheels himself as far into the family's living room as he can get before disembarking from his chair, choosing to explore the rest of the house from the floor. He propels himself into Kelli's room, stopping just inside her door to get his game plan together. Yep, you're a genius. No weapons. No way to defend yourself. No way to kill the Evil. Unless it's an evil Dust Bunny, then you can sweep it up by scooting your ass over it.
He takes a couple of deep breaths, nervous now that he's actually possibly maybe looking for Something, and then slowly works his way deeper into the room. He pauses every few seconds, ears straining for the sound of something out of the ordinary. But he's only met with the sound of his own measured breathing and the soft "swooshing" sound of his shorts against the carpet. He vaguely thinks that he really needs to just start wearing pants with the legs sewn up; he's working on one hell of a wedgie, his shorts and carpet mixing almost as well as oil and water.
He moves around to the side of the bed, then flips his body so he can lie flat on the floor, enabling him to peer into the dark spaces underneath. He hears a low growl coming from somewhere in front of him and cautiously begins to pull himself closer when a tug on his outstretched right arm hastens the process.
"Sammy!" Dean shouts, remaining limbs flailing, unable to find purchase on anything to stop his movement.
"Dean!" Sam skids to a stop inside the door, in time to see Dean's head begin to disappear underneath the bed. He dives down onto the floor behind his brother and lets loose a few choice words. Usually he'd grab a hand or a foot, but Dean's got neither. His leg stumps are too short to hold onto and Dean's left arm is busy trying to fend off whatever is under the bed with him. Sam's brain clicks a solution into place and he wraps his arms around his brother's waist, sitting down on the floor and bracing his own legs against the bedframe to halt the movement. There are a few seconds of tug of war before Sam wins, a breathless and surprised Dean finally popping free.
He quickly scrabbles backwards, then flops down beside Sam, a wary eye fixed on the dark nether regions of his almost prison while he rubs his right arm stump with his left. Because what he needs right now is yet another limb out of commission.
"What the hell?" Sam questions when it's evident Dean's not yet up to an explanation.
Dean's breathing gradually slows and he leverages himself into a sitting position so he can look at Sam's face. "They're not dangerous, Sam", he finally says, wiping the sheen of sweat from his forehead with his arm.
"Dean," Sam says, the disbelief evident in his voice. "Something just tried to pull you under the bed."
Dean gives his brother his "No shit Sherlock" look before he continues. "It was a little boy and his dog. Kid was probably around Kelli's age. And I think the dog was just trying to protect the kid. That's probably what Kelli heard growling." He looks at Sam for a few seconds, head tilted to the side, eyes narrowed in concentration, head cocked as if he's listening to something just out of his range. "And they didn't seem so much malicious as scared."
"Ok," Sam says, slowly nodding as he recalls the story they'd found on the house's history. "I'd be scared too if an intruder came into my house and I tried to hide under the bed. So I guess that makes sense. But again, why show up now?"
"I don't know."
The brothers wait out in the living room until the family returns, determined to investigate the situation further while they can. They decide to divide and conquer; Sam talks with Tammy and her husband Greg while Dean interrogates Kelli.
"Hey kiddo," he asks, leaning his arms on his legs in an effort to try to get closer to her to get a better read of her face, "how was dinner?"
She jabbers on about the "pascetti" and then about the movie where her dad fell asleep and got shushed for snoring. Dean bites back a smile, sure her parents cringe to hear their daily missteps broadcast to the world.
"Kelli," he says softly, redirecting her attention. "Can you tell me about what happened the other night?"
She looks down at her feet, scuffing her toes in the now familiar gesture of introspection and contemplation. Or at least what passes for the same in a small child.
"It's ok," he says catching Sam's quick glance, "I won't tell."
"Mommy and daddy already know. I told them."
He considers what else could hold her back. "Ok then, I won't be mad."
She glances up at him and then makes him promise, "cross your heart", which he does in a solemn display.
"K," she says, letting out a rather grown-up sounding sigh. "After you told me about the Dust Bunnies, I told Justin. He just laughed and said the dust bunnies wouldn't get me but the monsters might. He said he was just joking. But they're real." She takes a deep breath, looks at him with her round eyes, and studies his face to see if he'll keep his promise.
He nods, worries his bottom lip in his teeth, and then finally smiles wryly. "So you weren't scared of your bed until I told you about the Dust Bunnies, huh?"
She shakes her head emphatically, pigtails in danger of whipping Dean across the face. "I wasn't scared of what you said. Bunnies are fuzzy. It was uncle Justin. Monsters are scary."
Dean can't keep the smile from breaking free and he barely contains an exclamation of triumph. Hah Sammy – it wasn't me!
The brothers reconvene to discuss their findings and Dean keeps himself in check. His triumph can wait until after this ordeal is over. Then his brother can suck it. Sam confirms that from what her parents said, Kelli's never been afraid of her room, never questioned the existence of something scary under the bed until the same day that she claimed to have seen and heard something under there. Her parents are quick to write it off as typical five-year-old imagination, but Sam gently guides them through the events that took place in their house long before their time as well as his and Dean's experience just a few hours ago while his brother occupies Kelli in a rousing game of "I spy".
Sam can see that Tammy's on the verge of flipping out and her husband's right hand is ever-so-slowly creeping towards the phone, no doubt a call to the local police on his mind.
"We don't think they're dangerous. We think they were actually trying to protect Kelli," Sam says, slowly positioning his body for a quick getaway should the need arise.
Dean wheels himself closer to the other adults, adding his two cents. "And we think we need to borrow Kelli to show them that she's safe. To convince them they can move on."
Tammy's eyes bulge out of her head, "Think? You think? Who the hell are you guys anyway?" She grabs Kelli and heads towards the girl's bedroom, then abruptly changes trajectory when both Sam and Dean let out strangled, "No's". Instead, she takes them both into the master bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
The brothers are left in a stand-off with Greg, none of them making a move to the offensive.
Greg's absentmindedly stroking his chin, eyeing Kelli's room, before he finally questions the boys. "Move on?"
Dean can see the chink in the wall of disbelief and wheels himself closer, figuring his disability makes him the less threatening Winchester. "To the light. Or whatever." He rubs his arm stumps against his thighs, giving away his nervousness to his brother, while he considers how much to reveal to this relative stranger. He locks eyes with Sam and he gets the nonverbal go-ahead to say whatever he needs to in order to get this job done. So, he takes a deep breath and gives his concise "monsters are real" speech, ending with "Why don't you come, just hang out in the background?"
The boys don't think it'll matter if the parents are present, just that Kelli lets the spirits know that she's safe. In fact, it might even help show them that she's not afraid.
"And if there's nothing there, we'll leave you guys alone."
Greg's eyes flit between the brothers. "And if there is something there and it's not so friendly?" he asks.
The brothers run through their checklist in a few brief silent glances.
"You got any salt?" asks Sam.
Greg takes a mental inventory of his house, then admits to having several bags of salt in the storage room for their water softener.
"Perfect," says Dean.
Sam helps Greg obtain the necessary salt, then unpacks a couple of iron pipes from their duffel bag while Greg goes to talk with Tammy. No way are they bringing a gun, even just a rock salt gun, into the house while the family's here. They'll just have to be ultra-cautious.
The family of three enter Kelli's room as Sam finishes laying a circle of salt around Dean's prone form, enough room in the circle for another small body.
The brothers glance at the family, then at each other. This would have been so much simpler a couple of months ago. Practically a walk in the park, assuming they've got it right. Now, all bets are off and each Winchester has his own doubts swirling through their head. But they've got a job to do. Saving people.
Dean makes sure Kelli's safely within the circle next to him while Sam encircles Greg and Tammy before creating another circle of safety for himself. Dean's decided to take point on this one, figures his connection with Kelli will help him act as "negotiator" between her and spirits. Sam hopes his brother's mouth doesn't doom them all.
Dean and Kelli are laying side by side on their stomachs, Dean's head propped on the crooks of his crossed elbows while Kelli's head is propped up on her arms, her legs bent at the knee while they swing idly back and forth through the air. He takes a deep breath and then begins his "friendly interview" to see if the spirits will take the bait.
"You're not really afraid, are you Kelli?"
"Only of what's under the bed."
Kelli's parents give a collective gasp when a young boy's voice wafts out from underneath the bed in question. "But we're under the bed. We're not scary."
Kelli's little face notes her uncertainty, forehead wrinkling and eyebrows furrowing as she asks, "Then why'd you growl at me?"
The spirit voice answers proudly, "That was Sport. He's good at patecting people".
"But I don't need 'tecting from anything. My mom and dad are here. Mister Dean and his brother are here. I'm safe."
"But you were scared the other night." The worry in the spirit boy's voice is evident and Sam's hand tightens around the pipe he's carrying "just in case".
Kelli rolls her eyes and gives a huff that makes Dean smile; it's the spitting image of Sam's. "Cause you growled at me," she says in the tone of Duh. "I was only scared because my Uncle told me there are monsters under my bed. You."
"We're not monsters."
Dean can just barely make out the watery form of the little boy's head as it shakes back and forth, certain that he and his dog are not causing any trouble.
"Do you know where you are?" he asks gently of the boy.
He can see the boy's head as he nods, then begins to absently stroke the dog who's been sitting at attention by his side.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Dean tries again.
The boy gives a careful account of the last night he can remember. He remembers Sport whimpering. Remembers loud bangs outside his door. Remembers Sport nudging him under the bed. Remembers seeing the door slowly open and a pair of boots, "too big for my dad and too ugly for my mom", walk slowly to the bed. Then remembers nothing else. Silent tears begin to trickle down the boy's face and Sport starts to whimper, nudging his head against his owner's face.
Kelli gives a solemn "It's ok. You're safe now. We won't hurt you. You can even stay and play with me if you want."
The little boy thinks it over, then gives a nod and says that he'd really like to see his parents and brother again. He looks at his dog with longing, then offers that Sport can stay behind if Kelli would like.
Kelli smiles at him, then tells him that he needs Sport more than she does. A soft glow radiates from under the bed, the light reflecting on the faces of Kelli and Dean as she gives a sigh and rests her head against his shoulder.
Dean can hear Tammy and Greg trying valiantly to stifle their sniffles and his own heart is feeling rather squeezed at the moment. Kids never cease to amaze him.
"Mister Dean?," she asks seriously. "Did they go to the farm?"
"Yes Kelli. Yes they did."
()()()()()()()()
"Hey Dean," Sam says later that night. They're decompressing after one of the more poignant spirit moments they've had, locked in an epic battle of Mario Cart, one of the only games available for the controller Dean can use. "You did a really good job tonight."
Dean glances at his brother just long enough to send his character careening off course. "Thanks?" They don't usually congratulate each other too much on the jobs that go right. They just tend to kick themselves to death over the jobs gone wrong.
"Yeah," Sam continues, "I mean, who knew we'd be good at the softer side of hunting?"
"Shut up. You sound like a commercial for Sears." He gives his brother's statement a brief consideration, wondering whether or not there actually is a market for that particular "side" of hunting, and then continues. "Besides, what's with the 'We'? That was all me. You just sat there looking pretty."
Cue the Bitch Face.
()()()()()()()()
Kelli prances through their doorway, Tammy mouthing the boys a silent "thank you" both for their help a couple of days ago and for their continued willingness to help with their "little tornado". While Tammy's questioning Sam on something that sure is making his brother squirm, Kelli scrambles up onto Dean's lap and gives him a hug before shrugging out of her backpack. She roots around inside of it for a few moments, flinging wayward crayons to the floor, and pulls out a piece of paper. She turns sideways on Dean's lap and proudly shows him the picture she drew of her new bestest friend, Mister Dean.
Dean has to take a few deep breaths before he wheels them both into the kitchen and has Kelli tape her drawing to the fridge for him. His throat closes a little bit as he looks at one of the rare pieces of artwork any fridge of theirs has ever seen. Kelli's drawn Dean sitting in his wheelchair, a goofy smile on his disproportionately large face, hands and feet in their proper places.
It's closer to whole than he's been since waking up in the hospital. And he'll take it.
Author's Note: This is not where I thought this story was headed, but what can you do?
Feedback welcome!