A/N: Alright, so I think it's time I put a itty bitty disclaimer/explanation in here. Surprisingly, no one has flamed this story, and everyone who has told me this is difficult to read has still managed to stick with me - so thanks so much for that. I've said this before, but I'll say it again - I'm well aware that this is a difficult topic to cover and I truly want to do it justice. I don't like writing what's already been written, but it's getting harder and harder to find unchartered topics that are worth writing. For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with the human body and the potentially traumatic injuries we can face. But I've been equally fascinated with the human mind's ability to overcome such injury, living through it. I despise stories that portray an injured party as incapable of normal life; sure, initially it is difficult to care for oneself and therefor I will write a weak and needy Dean first. But trust me when I say that Dean will be OK eventually, or at least as OK as Dean Winchester will ever be. Once again, thanks so much for sticking through this story. Your reviews and support are well beyond appreciated and I can't even begin to say thank you for giving this a chance. Keep those reviews coming. Love you all...
Darkness had fallen by the time Bobby and Missouri made it back to the hospital, the pitch black of the moonless night invading the room, making it seem even colder and drearier than it should have been. Dean was moody; not exactly depressed and unresponsive as he had been, but certainly less animated than normal Dean While picking at the inedible crap the hospital tried to pass off as food he had cast a final realization to the fact that his leg was no more. But it would take a while before he managed to accept it without the noticeable shudders that overtook his body both outwardly and inwardly.
When the television lost it's draw far too soon, Sam had suggested a game of poker to take Dean's mind off his leg, and he now sat across the rolling cart from the morose hunter fisting a royal flush and chewing his lip nervously as he contemplated how to get rid of the winning hand. Luck had not been with his older brother that night and Sam had won the last three hands in a row as he watched Dean's face steadily drop. On any other day Sam would have been reveling at his lucky streak, throwing the cards in his brother's face with an obnoxious and mighty flourish. But this wasn't any other day, and Dean wasn't in a mood to take his little brother's light hearted jabs. He could barely manage simply losing the game – and they were only playing for q-tips and cotton balls.
With a sigh of relief, Sam threw his cards face down on the table as the cavalry arrived, quickly shuffling the five unwanted cards back into the deck before Dean had a chance to look at them.
"Dean, honey, I'm so glad you decided to come back to us," Missouri sang out happily, crossing the room to the young man and planting a kiss on his forehead before he had the opportunity to protest. "We missed you so much. Your brother, here, was just about to go out of his mind with worry."
Sam felt his cheeks reddening and he quickly turned away before Dean could look up and see his embarrassment. His eyes traveled to the doorway where Bobby remained standing, arms crossed nervously. He appeared stressed, like he'd been walking around with the weight of the world on his shoulders for the entire day. Their eyes met and Bobby immediately took the opportunity to signal the youngest with a sharp nod of his head that they needed to talk.
"Dean, I'm uh... going to make a quick run to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Will you be alright here with Missouri?"
Glancing uncertainly at Sam, then to Bobby and then back to Sam again, Dean nodded. His little brother was not a good liar; never had been, never would be. And it didn't take much for Dean to know that the boy wasn't being completely honest with him. Bobby's look of severe discomfort didn't help matters. But he let it slide; Sam would tell him when he was ready. "Just bring a cup back for me?" he begged instead.
Bobby was out the door before Sam had even vacated his seat and the young hunter had to sprint to catch up with the man. They were halfway to the elevators before Bobby spoke, needing to be absolutely certain Dean was no where within hearing distance.
"I don't know for sure what you boys were hunting out there, but it's not dead," Bobby stated bluntly. He continued to press forward, towards the elevators, not turning to see Sam's reaction to his statement.
Sam stopped dead in his tracks at Bobby's words and then ran once again to catch up with the man. "How do you know?" he asked breathlessly.
"Missouri and I heard it on the news this morning. Two more campers were found mauled to death in their campsite. Weird though, 'cause they said this one seemed almost like they'd been trampled. And one had been speared by something pointed, but blunt, like an antler or something. From the looks of it they'd been dead for a couple of days at most."
"You think it's the same thing?" Sam asked, although he already knew the answer.
"I don't think it's in the same shape that you boys faced, but I think it's the same spirit or whatever. Just took on the form of a different animal. A moose maybe?"
"Is that why you two were so late coming today?"
Bobby nodded affirmatively. "We went back to the rangers station hoping to maybe get them to close down that area of the park."
"And?"
"And it's a no go. They said there's just no way to close off so large an area. They can warn the campers, but I guess anyone could wander over there without even knowing how close they are."
"So what," Sam spat out angrily, arms flailing in disgust. "They're just going to let people die? Don't they even care?"
"I asked them that myself," Bobby replied, noticeably lowering his voice in hopes that Sam would do the same. "Ranger said it was more trouble than it was worth. Said he'd make sure to tell anyone venturing out that way to steer clear, but there's not a whole lot they can do. It's not like they can tape off a 20 mile radius with police line."
Sam shrugged in defeat. "We need to get out there then and stop this thing before it attacks anyone else. Let me just tell Dean that I'm– Shit. Dean." Sam's eyes went wide and he grabbed Bobby by the arms. "Bobby, he can't know about this," Sam ordered anxiously.
The older man nodded in agreement. He opened his mouth the speak, to reassure Sam, but was interrupted as the young man rambled on frantically.
"If he finds out it's still out there he's gonna want to go after it. And he can't...obviously. I mean someday...but not now...and I just don't want–" Sam paused, gathering his thoughts in one deep breath and tried again. "He knows how much this is going to change his life, but it's too soon to rub it in. Dean can't know he's being excluded, so we're just going to have to figure out some way to explain my absence. It can't be that hard, can it?"
Bobby held in his laughter at Sam's frenzied words, knowing it would just hurt the boy's feelings. After patiently waiting for his young friend to finally settle down and shut up enough to listen, Bobby finally spoke. "I think you need to slow down, Sam. We can't just go out there half-cocked, guns at the ready, without knowing what it is that we're dealing with here."
The words stung, and Sam had to take a step back from the man just to regain his bearings. Bobby may not have realized what he said, but he'd essentially replayed exactly what had happened before; when Dean got hurt. Sam had been tearing himself up for days thinking about how unprepared for the hunt they had been, and Bobby and Missouri had been nothing if not supportive of his decision, repeating over and over that it wasn't his fault. However, the reassurances may have said one thing, but Bobby's words just now said something entirely different. You were careless, Sam. Reckless. The words mocked him mercilessly and he just didn't know what to do with them.
The older hunter didn't seem to recognize the power his statement had on Sam as he continued through the cafeteria, heading straight for the coffee stand. "You said you found something out there; some sort of pouch. Do you still have it?"
"Huh? What?" Sam sputtered, not realizing the man was still talking to him.
"A leather pouch, Sam," Bobby repeated, trying to suppress his impatience. "Do you know where it is?
They each filled a large Styrofoam cup with steaming hot coffee, and a third for Dean, and Bobby waited as Sam added cream and sugar to his own.
"I think I put it back in my pack," Sam replied, following Bobby to a small table far away from the rest of the crowd. "I'm not sure though. I was looking at it just before the bear came, and it may have just ended up on the tent floor. It wasn't really top on my list of priorities at the time."
"We need to find it," Bobby announced, not seeming to care about the sarcastic tone in Sam's voice. "Your pack is in the room, so let's start there. And the tent is bunched up in the back of my truck. If we don't find it in the pack, I'll check the tent."
Sam nodded. "And then what?"
"Then we analyze what's inside; see if we can figure out who, or what, might have put it there. Maybe Missouri can tell us something."
"But we agreed that Dean learns nothing of this, right?" Sam's hands fiddled nervously with the lid of the cup, opening and closing the seal repeatedly without ever taking a drink of the steaming hot liquid.
"You have my word on that," Bobby assured him. "And Missouri's too. That's why we didn't just barge right in with the announcement back in your brother's room. He won't find out until you're ready to tell him."
"Thank you." Sam stood, anxiously hopping from foot to foot. "We better go back. Dean's gonna know something's up if we don't return soon."
They walked back to the elevator in silence, the thud of their footsteps and the soft slurping as they sipped their coffee the only thing breaking the monotony. Sam pressed the button for the eighth floor; and then pressed it again when the doors didn't close immediately. He looked down at the floor and stared at his feet; his two feet and suddenly felt guilty agin. It shouldn't be Dean lying in the bed missing his leg and foot; it should be Sam. Dean hadn't wanted to go on the hunt in the first place. He'd complained incessantly at the idea of hiking into unchartered territory and camping on the cold, hard ground. He'd protested the fact that they didn't have enough information to put together a solid case; they didn't know how to kill the thing; hell, they didn't even know what the fuck the thing was they were hunting. Sam still didn't know what they were hunting. And yet he'd risked both their lives because he wanted some adventure. And Dean had paid the price. Not Sam, who deserved it, but Dean.
"I swear to you, he will survive this," Bobby voiced quietly, laying an apprehensive hand on Sam's uninjured shoulder.
Sam's head shot up. How did Bobby know what he was thinking? How could he?
"It may not look like it now, but one of these days your brother will realize that the only thing holding him back is himself." The wizened hunter continued. "This is still an extremely fresh wound. Just give him time. Things will bet better in time."
Feeling Bobby's hand on his shoulder, he leaned in, desperate for contact. He nodded his head, still unsure if he believed his father's friend, but it was the only thing he had to grab hold of. Bobby's confidence, Missouri's assuredness; they were the only lifeline's he had and Sam was going to hold on as tightly as he possibly could. Because letting go meant drowning.
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Sam found himself relieved to discover Dean asleep again when he and Bobby arrived back in the room. A sleeping Dean meant fewer questions, a postponed interrogation. And it meant Sam could go directly to the pack that lay on the dresser in search of the small pouch. Hastened searching brought no success and Sam finally turned to Bobby, admitting the object wasn't there; hopefully it was mixed up somewhere with the mess of tent in Bobby's truck. The older hunter disappeared and returned half an hour later with the freshly retrieved leather pouch and Sam's requested Laptop computer. Together, Missouri, Bobby and Sam gathered around the pouch, examining its contents and wracking their brains for possible solutions.
Missouri sifted through the dirts and twigs with her fingers, eyes closed and humming softly to herself as she opened her mind to its energies. "It's very old," she announced softly, continuing to finger the contents. "And very powerful. This was created by a shaman, or a chieftan, someone with great powers."
She picked up the tiny bone that was collected within the contents and held it tightly between her fingers. "It's human," she supplied. "It doesn't belong to the one who made this, but he was related to that man. The one who owns the bone is the spirit you're dealing with."
Sam eyed Missouri with uncertainty. He'd never had a reason to doubt the psychic before, but things just didn't add up. "I don't understand. It was corporeal. How can it be a spirit? I touched it. It touched me."
"These are magic's more powerful than witchcraft," She explained. "Or different, at least. It's not the same kinds of sorcery as you are used to dealing with. The Indians had a way of making things happen that you or I may never understand."
But Sam still wasn't convinced. "It didn't take on human form," he protested. "It was a bear. And then a wolf. And Bobby said this most recent attack seemed like a moose."
Missouri shrugged. "Like I said, Sam. These are powers we may never understand. The Indian people worshiped multiple gods; many of them animal-like in form. I don't have an explanation for you. I can only tell you what I sense from the material you've provided me with. If you want more you're going to need to do some research of your own."
And Sam did just that. As Dean slept he worked away in the meager light coming in from the hallway. Missouri curled up in a chair in the corner, the unspoken decision between herself and Bobby to never leave the boys completely alone preventing her from seeking a restful nights sleep at the hotel. Bobby went to the hotel for his share of sleep. Sam was urged to do the same, but he refused, asserting that he needed to use Dean's sleeping hours to do his research. He was adamant; Dean absolutely could not find out that, after all they'd been through, the creature was still creating havoc.
Research turned up several interesting facts that, while they didn't exactly help to ascertain how to kill the thing, at least gave Sam an understanding of why it appeared the way it did. The Algonquin Tribe thrived on hunting and were expert at skinning animals. But by the late 18th century the British had invaded their lands and began pushing them further and further back. Under the guise of assistance, the British began accepting fur trade from the tribe, and then convinced them to instruct the British in their hunting methods. Fewer and fewer trades took place as more and more the British became competent in their own hunts. Desolation and starvation became a prominent factor for the tribe and their numbers dwindled as they lost more land. In some instances the members of the tribe were slain when they refused to move from their sacred lands. And then he found it. The key to their hunt lay in a series of unexplained animal attacks that took place on land the tribe refused to vacate; land that housed a sacred burial ground for some of the tribe's most prominent and esteemed chiefs. After several warriors were murdered protecting the land the tables seemed to turn and suddenly the British found themselves the victims of brutal attacks by vicious animals. The strange part: there were no Algonquin fatalities to these attacks. Yatzee.
Sam figured this is where the curse came into play. What he couldn't understand, though, is why, after all these years, had the spirit come back to play again. Another hour scouring the internet turned up no other leads and Sam found himself at an impasse. He knew the cause, or at least a vague understanding of the cause, but that just wasn't enough.
A hastened glance at the clock surprised the young hunter to discover that he'd been at his search for close to five hours, and that it was almost two in the morning. Dean hadn't stirred since Sam started his research and he said a silent prayer thanking the hospital for whatever drugs they'd deemed best for the man's system. Missouri was fast asleep in one of the two uncomfortable chairs in the room and he hated to wake her just to run his ideas past her. He preferred to wait until he could broach his finds on both her and Bobby at the same time. And with that, he found he had nothing more to do but sleep.
Dragging the other chair up to Dean's bed, Sam curled himself up as much as his lanky frame would allow, kicking off his shoes for more comfort. He used the edge of his brother's pillow as one for himself as well and within minutes his exhausted body was asleep.
Waking was far less simple and just over an hour later Sam was pulled from his much needed slumber with a jolt. He sat up fast, groggy and disoriented, but quickly recovering as he noted the cause of his alarm.
Dean was sitting up in bed, sweat rolling off his forehead as he panted heavily. His cry of anguish as he was torn from fitful sleep was the noise that had woken Sam up, and Sam now jumped from his chair and onto the bed in a single swift motion, arms wrapping around his hyperventilating brother. Dean was now doubled over, hands frantically pawing at the noticeable emptiness where his leg should have been, mumbling to himself in a low chant, the sound practically incomprehensible to Sam's nervous ears. "IcanfeelitIcanfeelitIcanfeelit–"
From her chair in the corner, Missouri also heard the commotion and jumped up, crossing the room to offer her assistance if necessary, but staying out of the way until she knew she was needed. She crossed her arms against her chest, sad eyes betraying the sympathy and pity that she knew Dean wouldn't want. Fortunately for her, he was too messed up to see it.
"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam tugged gently at his brother's arms, pulling him back up and resting the panicked hunter against his chest and waiting patiently for Dean to gather himself.
"It hurts, Sammy," he moaned, leaning desperately into his brother's embrace. "I can feel it. Oh God, it hurts so bad."
"What hurts, Dean? Where does it hurt?" Sam's arms wrapped tighter, offering what little bit of comfort he could provide.
"Where is it? Why can I feel it? Why does it hurt?" Dean's sobs grew louder, more desperate as he rocked back and forth still staring in confusion at the bottom of the bed.
"Dean!" Sam yelled louder, reaching one hand up and firmly grasping his brother's chin, turning it gently towards his own face. "Dean, talk to me," he pleaded, eyes searching for any sign that Dean was even aware that he was being spoken to. "What hurts?!"
For several seconds Dean seemed to focus on Sam's face, and then he wrenched his chin from Sam's grasp and went back to staring at his missing leg. "Christ, Sam, my whole fucking leg feels like it's on fire. My leg. My calf. My FOOT!"
"Your foot?" Sam questioned nervously, doubt obvious in his voice. "Dean, man–"
"I know," Dean spat out defensively before Sam could vocalize his doubts. "I know, Sam. It's crazy. But I can feel it. It's not in my head, I swear. I can feel my whole leg, just like when you first pulled me from the trap. Everything hurts. I swear it, Sammy. I swear I can feel it." Desperation took hold and he swivelled his body enough to bury his head in Sam's shoulder and grab on tight to the younger man, sinking into his nervous embrace.
"Shhh, Dean, it's okay," Sam soothed, holding the man tight in his arms. "I believe you. I do." He looked up, gaze locking with Missouri's and he didn't need to say anything more.
The maternal woman sprinted from the room as fast as her arthritic body would allow in search of a doctor and returned minutes later with a young intern in tow, her doubt and displeasure at only being able to provide a novice MD apparent in her expression. Dr. Hurley had gone home for the night, and interns typically roamed the halls in the late hours of the night. It was either that or wait until morning for a solution to the problem. Dean couldn't wait that long.
The intern couldn't have been any older than Dean himself, but he carried himself well and made an exceptional effort at pulling off credibility as he crossed the room to the anguished patient curled in his brother's arms. "I'm Dr. Tolka," the dark-haired doctor introduced himself, bypassing the pleasantries of a handshake to assess his patient.
Sam filled him in quickly, voice unwavering and confident as he told the doctor that Dean was feeling pain in his missing leg. Sam still held his doubts, but Dean needed reassurance that Sam believed him.
Dr. Tolka's explanation didn't do much to calm Dean down or ease Sam's discomfort. He called it Phantom Pain, and explained that it wasn't uncommon for amputees to experience sensations seeming to arise in the missing limb. It sounded supernatural; something they should have been able to fight. Sam found himself desperately resisting the urge to grab a gun and blast the area where the leg would be with several rounds of rock salt.
But it wasn't supernatural, and there was nothing Sam could do but sit there and hold his suddenly needy brother as he fought through the pain. Sam wasn't used to this Dean; this Dean who was altogether too frantic and too vulnerable and too...scared. He had no idea how to deal with this Dean. He didn't know how to help him, how to comfort him. Because he'd never seen this Dean before.
There were too many drugs already floating around in Dean's system to give him much more for the pain. The wound was still too new, too tender, to provide any form of massage to the remaining stump. Dr. Tolka asked a nurse to bring a heating pad and it was wrapped loosely around the gauze wrapped portion of Dean's leg. But that was the best he could offer. That, and an off-handed suggestion that Dean simply push it out of his thoughts, which would have been fine if it didn't feel like bolt after bolt of white-hot lightening was invading every synapse of the missing limb.
Several minutes passed after the child doctor left, and the three remaining in the room sat there in anguished fear. Dean didn't talk; just groaned through the pain as he squeezed tightly to Sam's offered hand. He flinched and bucked, waiting for the heat to do its job and Sam flinched and winced along with Dean as the choppy movements continuously collided with the healing injuries in Sam's chest and shoulder. He worked through his own pain, and didn't let Dean know he was making Sam hurt. Because anything Sam was feeling couldn't possibly compare to the pain that Dean was feeling, and it wasn't fair that Sam could walk away from his hunt with wounds soon to heal while Dean would have to suffer for the rest of his life.
The pain finally subsided to a dull throb and Dean leaned back against his pillows in defeat, eyes closed tightly as he tried to regain his lost breath. Sam relaxed, too, although guilt wasn't far from his mind as he realized he was relieved to be free of the constant pain that Dean's movements had been causing him. He dug his hand into the wounds on his chest, reawakening the pain as punishment for his unlawful thoughts.
"It felt so real, Sammy," Dean finally sobbed after taking a couple minutes to catch his breath. His hands fidgeted nervously, as though he didn't know what to do with them now that the need to hold on to his brother had passed. He ran them through his hair and down his face, bunched and smoothed the sheets that lay across his midsection, prodded at the IV port that entered through the back of his right hand.
"I know, Dean."
"I mean...before I opened my eyes I thought for sure my leg was there again. I thought...I thought..."
"What did you think?" Sam prompted, gently.
Dean turned his head away from Sam, eyes closing tightly against the threat of tears. He was silent for a long time, gathering his thoughts and deciding whether or not he actually wanted to tell Sam. He did. He wanted to share; needed to share. "I thought this whole week had just been some really, really graphic nightmare. I thought I was going to wake up and my leg would still be there and you could stitch me up and we could get on with our lives."
He continued to refuse to look at Sam as he slammed the palm of his fist against his forehead. His voice caught in his throat. "God Sam, I don't want to live like this," Dean announced miserably. "I don't think I can."
Sam had no words that would comfort his brother. He'd already tried the conventional responses, and they clearly had done nothing to encourage the man. You'll be okay - but would he? It will get easier - but would it? Really? This was unchartered territory, for both of them. Sam had never tread these grounds. He'd never dealt with the in-between. Their father's death had been horrible, and the guilt Dean had carried with him for months had put a strain on their relationship. But in the end they had worked through it, knowing without doubt that their father had sacrificed himself for them.
And they had all prepared themselves for their own deaths, and each other's deaths. Their line of work; death was inevitable. But this...this line in-between death where there wasn't dying, but there really wasn't living anymore...none of them had faced that possibility and Sam didn't know how to help Dean face it now.
He didn't have the answers; didn't know for sure if everything could be the same. He didn't know if a prosthetic leg would allow Dean to continue hunting, and how the hell did you ask a therapist if it would? Sam didn't know what a prosthesis cost, and if they would be able to afford one in the first place. He had no idea how much work it would take to train Dean to walk if they could afford one. And would Dean even go for it?
Voice filled with far more confidence than Sam knew he had in him, he spoke the only thing he could think to say, hoping it would be enough. "You survived for a reason, Dean. We both did. There's no medical reason to explain why either one of us managed to survive such life threatening injuries going for so long without proper treatment. We have to assume there's some reason we survived this, and you have to know that you can live through this. If you can't do it for you, Dean, then please...do it for me."
A/N: Although some of the history behind the Algonquin tribe is accurate, I took liberties with certain aspects in order to make it fit this story. Don't shoot the author. Send me a review instead!
