3/?
Dean wakes up the next morning groggy and confused, a headache throbbing behind his eyeballs and no fucking clue where he is. Instead of the familiar white walls of the hospital he sees a cluttered room, with big stuffed armchairs and books stacked everywhere. Dingy wallpaper. A broken television set. He knows this place.
He moves to sit up and look around, but pain shoots through his body and he has to grit his teeth and will himself still.
All right, he tells himself, eyes screwed shut. All right. Breathe through it.
And he does; takes deep, rhythmic breaths till the pain in his leg recedes and his head is clear and he remembers whose couch he's laid out on.
He sees Bobby's note tucked under the water glass, and he reads it with a half smile, rolling his eyes at the doodled decorations.
Bobby with a cellphone, huh? Who'da thunk it. He imagines Bobby sending text messages, and lets out a chuckle that shudders down to his leg and makes him wince.
It's pretty obvious he's not going to be good for anything until he gets some drugs in his system, so he palms his pills and chases them down with the lukewarm water. Leans back, waits for them to kick in.
God.
He'd do anything for a beer. He dreamed about it in the hospital, actual dreams and not just fantasies. He'd drift off to sleep and all of a sudden he'd be popping the top of a cold, sweating bottle, taking a long pull and feeling it slide down his throat.
Didn't really know what that said about him. Probably nothing good.
Damn, but he'd had weird dreams in the hospital. Dreamed a lot about Sam, though that wasn't really anything new, and fuck, he doesn't want to think about Sam right now.
Dreamed about Cassie a couple times, but not the usual dreams, the dreams where he wakes up like a thirteen year-old boy who suddenly tells his mom he'll make his own bed from now on; nothing like that.
In these dreams they didn't touch. They just kind of sat there. Like they were listening to a speech about construction, or something equally mind-numbing. Side-by-side, zoned out. Boring fucking dreams.
What the hell is the point of dreaming about women if all you do is sit next to them?
Dean hears a creak on the floor above him, and for a second of blind panic he's one hundred percent certain that the whole house is going down and he's going to be crushed flat.
Chill the fuck out, he chastises himself. Not every house is made of freakin' dust.
God, what an idiot he'd been, going into that cabin. The place was falling apart – you could see the sky from inside, and that was never a good sign. But no, he'd just charged in like a brainless moron, and now –
"Mornin', sunshine," Bobby says, coming into the living room. Dean starts, so lost in his own thoughts that he hasn't even heard the booted steps thumping down the stairs.
"Hey," he says, rubbing a hand across his face. The meds are taking effect and he sits up slowly, carefully moving his legs off the couch and onto the ground.
"How you feelin'?"
"Like a freakin' rose, Bobby."
"I always said you were a delicate flower."
Dean wags a finger at him. "You're funny." He eases himself to the edge of the couch, bad leg stretched out in front of him. Under his jeans a metal edge of the brace on his leg is cutting into tender flesh. Shouldn't have slept with it on. Stupid.
He casts his eyes around for his cane, muttering, "Where the hell's that fucking…"
Bobby leans over and plucks it up from where he'd dropped it on the ground the night before.
"Thanks," Dean says, and takes a sip of water, stalling for time. How's he going to do this? Not like he hasn't had some practice in the hospital, but there were always metal bars and shit, or some big brawny dude in scrubs ready to catch him if he fell.
He puts one hand on the edge of the coffee table and with the other grips his cane tightly. One, he thinks. Two. Three. Pushes off with his good leg, leans just right on the cane, and he's up.
He looks at Bobby, trying not to grin like a six-year old who just learned how to ride a bike. It hurts, but he did it. He can do this.
He takes a step forward, and everything is still all right. Bobby's doing a pretty good impression of Sam, though, tense and worried as hell but trying to conceal it with casually folded arms and a bored expression.
"Hungry?" Bobby asks, and Dean nods, following him slowly into the kitchen.
There's a tiny step up from the living room to the kitchen and Dean navigates it without too much trouble, his free hand on the doorframe for a little extra support. He feels Bobby's eyes on him and he resists the urge to snap out something nasty.
In the hospital, EVERYONE was all fucked up; hell, he was downright lucky compared to the some of the people in there – but out here, in the real world, it's just him that's screwed to hell.
He guesses he's got to get used to people staring, get used to that look he's getting from Bobby right now, half-pity half-concern and one-hundred percent not fucking welcome.
Bobby kicks out a chair for him, and Dean lowers himself down into it. The smell of woodsmoke catches his nose, somebody burning something somewhere, and he suddenly wants a cigarette so bad his palms start itching.
He knows he left his pack in the living room, and the thought of making his way back in there is exhausting, but if he's going to get himself back up to speed he's got to start now.
Before the accident, no way would he have thought twice about going twenty steps from one room to another. Now shouldn't be any different.
Except, it is. Pulling himself into a stand takes almost a full minute of careful rearranging of body parts and kitchen chairs and his stupid fucking cane which is so ugly he would snap it in two if he didn't need it to take even one damn shuffling step.
He accidentally lets a low growl escape his lips and Bobby looks up from where he's cracking eggs into a pan.
"Sit down, Dean," he says. "Don't be an idiot. If you need something, just tell me."
Dean goes for a grin, and shakes his head. "Nah, I'm fine. Feeling a lot better than yesterday, actually."
"Uh huh," says Bobby. His eyes under the brim of his cap are skeptical. "I'm just sayin'. You need something – you let me know. Within reason."
Dean huffs a laugh and continues into the living room, concentrating on getting his leg to respond to his brain's commands. He has to admit, the brace does help. He isn't sure he'd be able to do this without the ankle-to-hip contraption of plastic and metal and leather.
Lifestyle changes, the doctors had said. Readjustments.
He snorts as he leans down to get his cigarettes, a steadying hand on the arm of the couch.
Lifestyle changes, my ass.
He'd heard a woman in physical therapy earnestly asking a doctor if he thought there was a chance she'd ever play tennis the same now that she'd busted her shoulder, and he'd had a good chuckle, imagining himself asking the doctor similar questions.
"What, doc, no more getting thrown against walls? No more midnight romps through the graveyards? Well, I can still beat the shit out of a demon, right? No? What the hell! You trying to suck all the fun out of life?"
He shakes his head. For four months he did it their way – slow walks down a padded floor, clutching parallel bars, swinging his foot on cue and pushing his leg against some enthusiastic nurse's hand… well, fuck that shit. Now he was going to do it his way. The same way he'd always gotten everything done – he was just going to fucking DO it.
That's right, he thought to himself, starting the long haul back to the kitchen, I'm a walking Nike ad. Well. Not really walking too well at the moment. But hey. Nike. Good slogan.
"Eggs're done," Bobby says, glancing up from the stove as Dean comes into the kitchen.
"Coffee?" he asks, his mouth watering at the thought.
"Be another few minutes."
Dean nods, leans against the kitchen counter, gets the weight off his leg. "I think I'm just going to go outside for a second, have a smoke. I'll be right back in."
Bobby looks at him for a moment, exasperation and capitulation clear on his face. Bobby always sucked at poker. "Listen," he says. "You can smoke inside if you want."
"But it's not raining anymore."
"Yeah, well. Rules change."
Dean wants to wave it off, wants to go outside and let Bobby have his smoke-free kitchen, but honestly? Nike ad be damned. He needs to sit down. Like, NOW.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, but not so Bobby can really hear, and sinks into the kitchen chair. He tugs a dirty mug in front of him and one-hands a light, trying to let the cigarette calm him down a little. He can feel himself getting agitated and he wants to nip that shit in the bud.
He gets angry so quickly lately – he's gotta watch out for that. Doesn't want to be a powder keg, doesn't want to go crazy.
Bobby sets a plate of eggs in front of him, along with a couple thick slices of brown bread slathered in butter, and sits across the table, starting in on his own breakfast.
Dean takes a bite of toast and a flurry of ash from his cigarette falls into his eggs. Shit. He looks up guiltily, hoping Bobby didn't notice.
"So," he says, scooping up the ashy mouthful and swallowing it quickly. Ugh. "What's on the agenda for today?"
Bobby shovels a heaping forkful of egg into his mouth and says thickly, "Gotta get into town to grab some supplies. Some parts I need for this engine, some groceries. Then I figured I'd do a little work on the Camry you might've seen out back. Owner's supposed to come by tomorrow. Easy job; shouldn't take more than an hour or two."
Dean nods. Chews, smokes. Kind of a gross combination, actually.
"You need anything from town? I thought I'd call in your prescriptions, but besides that?"
Dean thinks for a minute. "Coupla packs of cigarettes, maybe? Camels?"
Bobby purses his lips. "Your daddy know you smoke those things?"
Dean tries to quell the beat of panic he feels at the mention of his missing father. Takes a drag. "Yup."
"Bet he has a thing or two to say about it."
"Sure does."
"Then I guess I won't go repeatin' something you've probably heard a million times."
"I appreciate that." Dean grins. "You'd be surprised, actually. It's not him I'm scared of. My dad, hell, we both know he's a lecturer, but Sammy, shit. You'd think I was burning holes in his eyeballs the way he carries on. Makes that famous bitchface."
Bobby looks up and Dean takes a hasty bite of toast to stop himself from speaking another word.
It felt good, saying his brother's name out loud, too fucking good. He doesn't want good. He wants to be as angry at Sam as Sam seems to be at him.
As if in retaliation for his wayward mouth, his leg pulses a white-hot bolt of pain as he tries to change position on the hard kitchen chair. He almost drops his fork. He's still figuring out this new body, what's going to hurt it and what'll feel okay.
He's been in pain before, shit yes, but not like this, not this steady ache that makes it seem almost as if the leg weren't a real part of his body, almost as if it's an enemy soldier in disguise, an infiltrator, a traitor.
Fuck you, he thinks at it savagely, and for one confused moment he's not sure if he's swearing at his throbbing limb or at some other traitor; one that's six-foot-five with shaggy brown hair and slanted hazel eyes.
to be continued...