Then
At first they thought Sam wouldn't eat and then they realised he couldn't. lj-cut text="Read more"
Dean wanted to see frustration in his brother's eyes when his big hands couldn't hold the knife or fork that was given to him; he wanted to see anger in Sam, anger that he was unable to do this simple task for himself.
Instead Sam stared – vacantly – at the plate and Dean found himself picking up a spoon and mashing down the potatoes, holding the spoon up against Sam's mouth, relief obvious when Sam opened up and let Dean feed him.
Dean couldn't look at his brother; Sam had stubble on his chin and the food was catching in it and Dean had to tuck chestnut curls behind Sam's ear to stop his hair from hanging in the gravy. Dean found – if he looked into Sam's hazel eyes that he could pretend that Sam was a baby again – that Sam was his still his little brother – a brother that depended on Dean for everything. Sam ate obediently and when he had finished he let Dean clean him up and give him a drink.
That night Dean went back to Bobby's and wept for the first time; unable to hold back the tears, silent sobs shaking him, not wanting Bobby to see him without his game face on.
****
Now
Sam was sleepy, half awake, the bear tucked under his chin. He gave Dean a dopey smile and shuffled a little in the bed so that he was sitting up. Dean settled on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hand across Sam's face, knuckles catching on his chin. Sam shook and Dean was happy to see that Sam was laughing – silently – pulling Dean's hand into his own and holding it against his face wanting Dean to do it again and again.
"Mr Winchester," Sam's doctor was smiling but Dean never took that as a good sign. The doctor's always smiled – but sometimes it was the difference between polite, pity or hopeful and Dean could never really tell the difference. "Mr Winchester – we have Sam's test results – would you like to come to my office to discuss them?"
Dean bit his lip and he felt Sam tug at his hand, turning to see wet hazel eyes staring at him, the plea in them obvious.
"We should discuss them here," he said, decisive, "I don't want to hide anything from Sam."
"Mr Winchester," and there it was – the pity smile – "Your brother can't really understand….,"
Dean knew what the doctor was going to say but he didn't care. Perhaps Sam didn't understand – would never understand – but he was still Dean's brother and he still had rights.
"Just tell me doctor," he said, softly, so as not to upset Sam, "just tell me."
****
Then
Tests – endless and frustrating – and Sam – like a baby – unable to even go to the john – having to wear diapers – diapers at the age of thirty and it made Dean sick just thinking about it – wanting to help Sam – help him cope and maybe get better.
Dean knew he needed a permanent base and he broached the subject with Bobby cautiously. The old man just shook his head – angry.
"Didja really need to ask Idjet?" he growled and Dean smiled for the first time in so long it made his face ache.
When he came back to Bobby's a week later – someone had painted the back room bright yellow and hung curtains. The beds were covered in red quilts and there was a laptop on the table and some books in the bookcase. Dean didn't know if Sam would ever use the laptop or books but the thought was there and he stared at Bobby, throat full.
"Thanks," he said and Bobby's curt nod was the 'don't mention' it that Dean had been expecting.
****
Now
"The brain does seem to be healing a little," the doctor pointed to the chart and Dean nodded, pretending to understand. He had little knowledge of what they were doing – even saying to him – all he wanted was some sign that Sam might be more like – well Sam – again and he clung to the doctor's words like a drowning man to a lifebelt.
"What does that mean?" He broke finally and the doctor smiled at him – an odd smile that Dean couldn't place.
"Sam – he – there is room for progression – he is walking now – something we never thought would happen and – and he can feed himself and – and do the most basic of tasks,"
Dean swallowed and nodded, eyes slipping over to his brother who appeared to be listening, his usual blank expression replaced with something more recognisable – eyes a little brighter, mouth pursed.
For a moment Dean's breath caught in his throat. He wondered if his Sam was in there – if his Sam was coming back. He reached out and gripped Sam's hand again and Sam gripped back, a single tear threading down his flushed cheek, a tear that Dean quickly wiped away before he started bawling himself.
"We cannot even begin to tell you what his mental state is at this time. As you know – Sam is like a child – a blank slate – he has no real memories – and he has problems with people – he – he has tantrums and cannot control his emotions – but – but we believe that he could begin to communicate with you again – that he could perhaps re-learn some of his old skills."
"How?" Dean kept a tight hold on his emotions, his breath tight in his chest, "how can we achieve this?"
"Ah," the doctor looked down at his notes for a moment and Dean knew – just knew – he wasn't going to like what was coming next. "To achieve this we would have to have Sam assigned to a special unit – to someone better qualified and equipped to deal with his problems."
"I told you before Doc – I'm not letting my brother go – he – we – we belong together."
"I understand Mr Winchester – but for your brother's sake…"
Dean looked up again, looked at Sam. His brother looked scared, his eyes wild and fixed to Dean's face. Dean swallowed mouth dry. There was definitely something there – something tangible – something that was, most definitely, Sam.
****
Then
They took Sam out of hospital in a wheelchair.
The doctors had been against the move but Dean had steamrollered them, wanting only to get his brother in a familiar setting, wanting to get Sam home and safe.
Sam had improved a little; he still needed help in eating, still needed help in going to the john but he was more responsive, his eyes always fixed on Dean, prone to tears and tantrums when Dean wasn't around.
Sam – the doctor explained – had the mental capacity of a toddler. He couldn't walk or couldn't remember how to, he never made a sound when he was awake and that – oddly – hurt Dean more than anything.
Sam was never silent; Sam had always been the curious one – the cautious one – the one who soothed victims and fooled cops. Sam had been the clever one – the smart one – he had always had something to say.
Riding back to Bobby's in the Impala, Dean had glanced at Sam as he sat in the passenger seat. Sam's eyes were fixed on some distant point, his hands hanging lax in his lap, his mouth open a little, his breathing slow and shallow. At that point – Dean wondered if it were worth it – Dean wondered if it had ever been worth it and he thought – just once – of running the Impala into a tree and putting an end to it all.
****
Now
Dean signed the papers without a word.
When the medics came he helped them get Sam out of bed and up on his feet. Sam was watching Dean the entire time, his hand clasped around Dean's arm, his eyes so bright that Dean knew his brother was on the verge of tears.
"We have to do this Sam," Dean stroked his brother's fingers, throat so tight he thought he might choke, "the doctor promised me it is a good place – expensive – but hey – we can afford it – been saving for a while Sam – got a whole new batch of…," he lowered his voice, "well they don't have to know what we've got dude – but we've got enough."
Sam stared at him; Dean saw it now – saw the realisation dawning in Sam's eyes and he felt his heart leap even as his stomach plummeted.
"Let's do this Sammy," he whispered, "you'll be ok – I'll come as often as I can – I swear – we have to do this Sammy – we have to do this – because – I don't think I can live without YOU anymore…."
TBC