Hey, guys! I know it's been a while. I also haven't given up on the last chapter or so of 'Here 'Till Forever'. I've just been hit hard from school starting. I hope you're still interested in this story and the end of that one which I'm working on but keep changing my mind about. But for now, here's chapter three. :)

Ch. 3

He's sitting on the end of the bed flipping through channels on the TV when Sam emerges, towel around his waist. He does his best to push his mind into 'objective' mode. And the objective is to make sure Sam is okay and he gets to bed. "You feeling alright?"

Sam nods, gesturing to the TV. "S-silent?"

Dean shrugs. "Just didn't turn the volume up yet. The last people probably had it turned down."

"Mhmm." Sam rolls his eyes, turning to dig in his bag for clothes. "Los… lis-tening," he says.

Dean sighs, standing and going to dig in one of the Walmart bags. "Was not." He pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a few new t-shirts. "Here."

Sam turns, smiling when Dean throws him the new clothes.

"Figured you needed a few new shirts and got a pair of sweatpants seeing as how your last ones were ruined months ago." He turns away from the grateful look to give Sam some privacy to pull his clothes on as he clears off his bed. "We need to wrap your head, too."

Sam makes a noncommittal grunt.

Dean chuckles. "Just for a few more days. And we'll have to go back to get those staples removed. I'm not even going to try to do those."

Sam sighs.

Dean turns to see him pulling his shirt down the rest of the way. "What?"

"Hate sopitals." He blinks. "Hos-pit-als."

Dean chuckles, meeting Sam's eyes to make sure his brother can see it's a loving laugh, not making fun of him for the mixed up word. "I do too. But I'll let the professionals handle this for once."

Sam nods and sits on the end of the bed, fingers fiddling with the ends of his shirt. "Dean?"

Dean pauses his digging in their medical supplies. He looks over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"W-what… what if I di-don't get b-bi-better?"

Dean frowns, pulling out the bandages and walking over. "You'll get better Sam. Don't plan on the worst. And what if you don't? Would that be so bad? You're breathing. Alive. It could have been a lot worse."

Sam shrugs, still not looking up. "I w-won't be able to t-talk to twinses." He huffs. "W-wi…"

"Witnesses." Dean sighs. "Sam, talking to people isn't a two person job. It'll be fine. If I have to be the one to do all of the talking, I'll do it."

Sam lifts his head up as Dean touches his head to start wrapping it. He holds statue still. They don't talk again until Dean is done, Sam pulling his beanie right back on. He gives Dean a reassuring smile when he sees him frowning. "P-pat-padding."

Dean sighs. "Okay. Just… don't let this control you, man."

Sam tilts his head.

"Like that. Talk to me. I don't care how long it takes for you to get a sentence out. Just don't cut me off. And don't hide around me. I don't mind if your hair isn't even or whatever. Just…"

Sam reaches out, hand gently wrapping around Dean's forearm before he can turn away. He smiles softly up at him. "Okay. B-but I real-ly like the h-hat."

Dean smiles back. "I'm glad." He turns to put the supplies away before heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed himself. He takes a much needed shower, hurrying in case Sam needs him. He still doesn't trust the head injury to not give Sam problems the hospital didn't anticipate.

Sam is laying down when Dean walks to his own bed, opening his eyes to smile reassuringly when he hears him walk over. Dean rarely ever takes fast showers. He knows his brother is still worried. "I'm okay."

Dean shrugs, getting into his own bed. "Just let me know if you wake up hurting in the night. Okay? I'll get you your drugs."

Sam chuckles. "Okay."

Dean finally relaxes as he reaches over to turn of the remaining lamp by his bed. "Night, Sam."

"Night."

Surprisingly, they both sleep soundly.

It's the morning that sucks. Dean wakes up to Sam groaning his name, eyes snapping open and turning to see his brother's face, pale next to the cream colored sheets. He's practically curled up in them. "Shit. You alright?" He jumps up to go get the bottle of strong pills.

"H-head sup-ploading."

"Exploding," Dean corrects gently, shaking his head. "And no it's not. Here." He hands him two pills and a bottle of water. When he sees Sam struggle to sit up and gets dizzy while doing so, he curses sharply but reaches out to steady him with an arm around his shoulders. "Easy. Go slow."

Sam leans heavily into him, trusting Dean to hold him up while he focuses on getting the pills down. Knows it's his only hope of feeling better. "God. K-klil-ling me." He downs the pills and half of the water bottle before falling more into Dean. "H-hope they kick in sin. Soon."

Dean chuckles. "I like your word mixing."

Sam rolls his eyes, not moving to extricate himself from Dean's hold. He feels comfortable here. Safe. "You wi-would."

"It's fun," Dean says, patting Sam's arm where his hand is resting. "As soon as you're feeling up to it, we need to scram. Find a place to set up in before meeting your doctor. A nicer hotel I suppose. Since we'll be there for a little longer than usual. And I'll have to get a job."

"Me too."

Dean sighs. "Only if you're up to it. I'll do fine on my own. Until your head is better, I'd prefer if you didn't. Okay?"

Sam sighs. "Okay." He doesn't really want to think about what kind of job he could get without being able to talk clearly anyway. As soon as the dizziness and blinding pain leave, Sam starts helping gather their stuff. Within a half hour, they're on the road.

"Whenever you're hungry for breakfast let me know. We'll sit down somewhere. Don't want the movement of the car added to the pain in your head to make you sick."

Sam chuckles. "Wheveren." Whenever. Sam sighs, frustrated.

Dean smiles. "Relax. I can mentally translate. An hour or so good for you? Whenever I find something?"

Sam nods. He lets his knee fall over to bump Deans. "Thanks."

"Not something I haven't ever done before."

Sam turns to him. "Huh?"

Dean chuckles. "You mixed up words when you were little too. Right before your brain exploded and you got smarter than me."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Jerk."

Dean laughs. "Bitch."

Things revert back to normal for a while. Unless there was something pressing on Sam's mind, he doesn't talk much in the car so things seem to take a break from the unusual. They have the windows down in what is a fairly mild fall day, but the sun is warm to contrast the cool air so Sam didn't mind. Just let his head lean against the window edge and feel the breeze.

After breakfast, where Dean ordered for him with no complaint, Dean turns up the radio and sings along, laughing when Sam throws a wadded napkin at the side of his face. He punches his brother in the shoulder, turning the radio up even more with a grin.

Sam just rolls his eyes.

They don't stop for lunch, going through a drive through and going straight back on the highway afterwards, music being turned up to full volume again. Sam steals some of Dean's fries, only to throw them at Dean's face until he finally turns the music down to keep the Impala from getting punished for teasing Sam. He huffs at Sam's laugh, barely able to keep an answering smile back. As long as Sam is still laughing, things are okay.

They get to the city before dinner, finding the building where Sam will be meeting his speech therapist and locating the hospital before driving only ten minutes out of town to a quieter place to find a hotel. They find a nicer one right on the edge of where the city seems to dissipate into the country.

"How about this one? Looks nice. Away from city traffic and right down the road from a bar and a gas station."

Sam rolls his eyes. Of course a bar would have to be in that equation. "It's f-fine." He climbs out when Dean parks. "I'll un-l-load."

Dean gets them a room, coming back to pick up his bags before they go to their room. "Got a bottom floor suite. Kitchen, bedroom, living room. They only have two rooms like that. We're lucky one was open. Figured if we're going to be here for a while, might as well get a bigger place to stay."

Sam smiles. It doesn't really surprise him that Dean is thinking this all through. It really does make it sound less daunting though. He chuckles when Dean opens the door and they walk in. "N-nice change."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, well I thought we might want a kitchen. Don't want you bitching about getting tired of diner food."

Sam grins to himself, heading to the bedroom. He stops inside the door.

Dean comes up behind him. "Oh… right. This room only has one bed. I figured everything else was more important than this. So we can share if you think it's big enough. Or… I can sleep on the couch if you want."

Sam shakes his head, reaching back to touch Dean's arm. "Not lit-let-ing you hurt your n-neck," he says, rolling his eyes. "The bed is h-huge."

Dean shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. "If you're sure." He drops his duffel on the closer side of the bed.

It isn't lost on Sam that Dean still puts himself between Sam and the door. It makes him smile. He walks over to drop his own duffel on the bed.

"You're appointment with the therapist is in an hour. You wana take a nap?"

Sam gives Dean a grateful smile. It's been a long day, and the pounding in his head has never fully gone away, even with his dose of pills in the afternoon. Not that he told Dean. Even when it hurt a little more from the loud music. He was just glad to see him smiling. "Pills?"

Dean nods, pulling the bottle from his pocket and looking at his watch. "It's only a few minutes early than you're allowed. I don't think that will hurt you." He pours a few out and hands them to Sam, pulling one of the many water bottles he's kept in his duffel for this very use today.

Sam downs the pills, letting out a sigh of relief at the thought of the pain not getting much worse than this. The painkillers will work soon.

Dean takes the bottle from Sam, setting it on the table by the bed before gently reaching up to tilt Sam's face down to him. He inspects the bruise by his eye, bluish-green now in color. Massages the area gently, knowing it's the edge of the epicenter of pain. "Hurting too much today?"

Sam's eyes fall closed at the gentle touch, letting out a soft puff of air at the relief it immediately causes. He shakes his head a little. "I'm fine."

Dean lets his fingers slide from Sam's face, regretting having to do so. "Well… get some rest. Then you'll be feeling even better to learn English again," Dean teases.

Sam rolls his eyes, climbing into the bed. He barely remembers his head hitting the pillow.

Dean hates shrinks. Hates therapists. Doesn't matter what kind. He hates anyone who thinks they can figure him out. Or Sam, for that matter. Because Dean has never been able to fully figure Sam out, so why should someone else think they have the right to say they do?

He found this out way back when Sam had to talk to the guy about the haunted asylum. After the case was over Sam finally got Dean, who was extra stubborn back then, to talk about what happened inside the asylum. And his meeting with the doctor came up. Along with it, came so much depression and confusion from Sam about his own thoughts or choices that Dean wanted to go punch the guy.

He'd set Sam straight of course. Telling him that no one should think they can understand anything about their lives. Not without knowing every single little complicated detail. It helped a little. At least Sam stopped freaking out about his own choices and started only freaking out about making sure Dean knew Sam would never really shoot him. That wasn't much fun either.

This therapist though, Dean might be able to stand. For one, it helps that he happens to drive the classic Nova out front. Yeah, Dean has his priorities. Also, he's just a speech therapist. Not exactly what Dean would see as someone who thinks they know Sam better than Dean does. Looking to be around Dean's age might also help. He's a younger, good looking-guy. Not some old man who can barely remember words himself.

It gets even better when he introduces himself. "I'm very laid back with my patients. I believe that one-on-one has to be equal on a social level, not a patient-teacher thing. Call me Keith. Not Doctor Keith. Not Doctor Michaels. And definitely not Mr. Michaels. That was my father."

Dean chuckles. "Fair enough."

Keith grins. "So…" He opens the manila folder in front of him. "I'm assuming you," he looks to Sam, "are Robert."

"S-Sam," Sam corrects.

Dean nods. "He likes his middle name better."

Keith chuckles, nodding. "You look more like a Sam, anyway." He looks to Dean. "And you are…"

"Dean. His brother."

Keith nods. "Got it. Okay. Let's get right to it then. I have the gist here in your file from the hospital, but go ahead and tell me exactly what's going on with you. I understand you're having some trouble talking."

Sam nods. "N-no-thing c-coming out ro-right."

Dean holds up a hand to interject. "Can I answer for him if I know what he'd say? Make it easier for him? He says it's exhausting trying to talk clearly."

Keith frowns, but nods. "That should be fine. If Sam agrees that's exactly what the answer should be."

Sam nods, reaching out to lay his hand on Dean's shoulder. "M-mind r-read-er." He grins when Dean laughs.

"Hardly. But I'm pretty good at understanding you." He turns back to the doctor. "Fire away. We're ready to figure this out."

Keith starts out with a few questions. About the stuttering, the garbled words, and how often each happen. Keith is surprised at how well Dean seems to be able to describe the condition, summing up in a few sentences to really help him answer his own questions and determine what tests he needs to have Sam take.

"He seems to stutter only when he's trying to take his time and figure out a word. Unless it's just at the beginning of a word. The prolonged stuttering is him trying to figure out a word. If the word just comes out wrong, it's because he's not trying to figure it out. Even if he knows it's coming out wrong. He just wants to keep the conversation going."

Sam nods his agreement.

Keith makes notes. "Well… looks like we might be able to pinpoint this fairly quickly." He begins the tests. Writing. Reading. Talking. He determines that Sam writes clearly, reads fine in his head but twists words when spoken out loud, and understands spoken speech just fine. After an hour or so, he decides he doesn't need to do anymore tests.

"Well there's a lot of good news with this."

Dean looks to Sam. "Wow. That's new for us."

Sam gives him a small, crooked smile.

"It's not Aphasia, or you may not be able to understand our speech or may not be able to write clearly. It's a more specific kind of disorder. Apraxia of speech."

Dean frowns. "Disorder?"

Keith holds up his hands in a calming gesture, smart enough to have already determined Dean's protectiveness of Sam. "Just the word we have to use. Disorders can be caused by injuries. It doesn't imply anything about the person."

Sam reaches over to pat Dean's arm. "S'okay."

Keith continues. "The fact that it's just his speech that's affected is encouraging. Along with how he knows it's coming out wrong. That maybe with speech therapy and the healing of the brain, his speech may go back to normal."

Dean's hand clenches the arm of his chair. "Maybe?"

Sam's hand tightens where it's still resting on Dean's arm. His worried eyes meet Keith's.

Faced with the infamous puppy eyes, Keith sighs. "Everyone is different. Speech Therapy isn't absolute. But it does help most people. We can set up appointments. Get going on the therapy and take it one day at a time. Even if the going is slow now, he might be able to recover his speech as his brain heals itself. It's up to you how long you want to continue the therapy in sessions, and when you want to just start doing what you can at home."

Dean looks to Sam. "Whatever you want, Sam. We'll do it."

"W-wi-worth a sh-shot," Sam answers. He turns to Keith. "A m-month." He looks to Dean for elaboration.

Dean nods. "Sam wants to try for a month. See if coming in and working with you will help. If it doesn't, or eventually evens out in progress, we'll start doing it on our own." He shrugs. "No use paying for what won't help."

Keith nods. "I understand. And I hope things go well." He smiles at Sam. "I guess I'll start scheduling you in a few times a week then. And we'll talk about payments later," he adds, turning to Dean. "I know it's a lot, but we have some pretty good payment plans."

Dean nods. "I'll pay whatever I have to." To help Sam, he doesn't say aloud.

Sam hears it loud and clear. He smiles to himself.