Chapter 10

They'd done all the tests. Medicine had advanced remarkably, new techniques and methods were being developed all the time, and David made sure that no avenue was left unexplored. But there was no thwarting the ugly reality. Dean Winchester was going to face life as a paraplegic. Bone could heal, muscle, skin...but nerve connections, once severed, they stayed that way. There wasn't going to be any miracle. David chose a time when they were alone to break it to him. He wasn't sure how he would react, people always dealt with these things in such varied ways. Dean heard him out, and said nothing for a while. Finally he nodded. He had no questions, David had been thorough in his explanations. He waited in patient silence while his friend absorbed the news. Finally, Dean spoke.

"Well. Guess that's it then. You gave it your best shot David, I know that. Just my lousy luck, I guess..."

"Once you're stronger, Dean, with rehab, you can-"

"Yeah." he sighed. "Yeah, I know. I can be a happy, productive cripple. Just save it, alright? I know what you're going to say. You and I both know it's bullshit. That may work for the rest of them, but things are a little different here." He looked away for a moment, his expression hard. "I'm supposed to save the world, David. They told me I'm supposed to stop the Apocalypse, for christ's sake. How does this fit into it? Can you tell me that?"

David couldn't offer any comfort or wisdom now.. He didn't understand this. He understood the randomness of fate, or fortune. Nobody could predict the paths their life would take, but Dean was special. He did have a divine mission, and this terrible thing shattered all his faith now.

Dean sighed again and turned to him. "I'm sorry David. I shouldn't take this shit out on you. Nothing you could do."

David sat with him for a while. He knew Dean wouldn't accept anything more than his simple presence as support, but he wanted to embrace him, to do something to help him bear this. He settled for a lame patting of his shoulder, but Dean stared at his hand with an expression that radiated irritation, and he withdrew it. "Tell me what I can do for you, Dean. Please; I don't want to crowd you, but you've got to know I'm here for you. We all are."

Dean softened for a moment. "Yeah, David, I know. I appreciate it. But it doesn't change anything. I just have to figure this out on my own."

David had to leave. "Sam's outside. Do you want to see him?"

"I guess. Might as well get the melodrama over with."

Sam entered the room, his discomfort acutely evident. He sat down beside his brother, and waited for him to speak. When he didn't, he took a shaky breath and started. "Dean, did David talk to you, about...everything?"

"Uh huh."

"You ok?"

Dean snorted. "Oh yeah, sure Sam. Nothing I can't handle. I'm still here, lucky to be breathing, right? Nowhere to go but up from here."

Sam squirmed. "Dean, I-"

"You what? What, Sammy? Just drop it, alright? We've got bigger problems than this right now."

Sam was shocked. Despite everything, Dean still put himself second to everything else. "No, Dean. There's nothing more important than this. We've got to get Castiel to make this right again, or find Trickster-"

Dean turned to him with barely contained hostility. "Just shut up, will you? Stop living in fantasy land; this isn't something you can fix. And I think you're missing the big picture just a little. We need to come up with some strategy for Lilith, and the rest of it. It's a little different now, with you literally in the driver's seat."

Sam stared at the blanket for a moment. "Dean...things can't happen like that now. You need protection, you can't head out into the storm like before."

"Bullshit I can't! I'm not a freaking vegetable, Sam! I'm not useless!"

"Dean...nobody said you were useless, but you have to be realistic..." Sam said quietly. He knew he was treading dangerous ground now. "You can't walk-"

"Yeah Sam, that's right!" Dean snapped. "I can't walk. I also can't run, I get to piss into a bag strapped to my useless leg from now on, I'll never take a hot chick home with me, and I'll never, ever drive my f~~cking car again! So don't sit there with your dewy, puppy eyes, trying to protect me now, begging to take care of me just so you can sleep at night! And don't you dare even dream of taking off to try to do the rest of this shit on your own! Don't you think of leaving me! You put me here, you sonofabitch; if you think I was a weight around your neck before, it's nothing compared to how it's gonna be from now on! "

His eyes sparked with anger, emotions twisting his pleasant features into something bitter and harsh.

Sam had no words. Dean was right, everything he said was true It cut him to his core, and he retreated. "Sure...sure Dean, anything you say. Look, I've gotta go...we'll talk more later. ok? I just, I've gotta go.." He stopped for a moment, by the door frame. "Dean, I am really sorry. I can't..." he sighed. "I wish it were me and not you..." He left at that.

Dean lay with his arms crossed tightly, as his eyes prickled with angry tears. He wiped at them roughly and swore. -no you don't-you have no idea-

Ellen and Bobby had spoken with David. They'd seen Sam's hastened retreat. She pushed Dean's door open and they stepped in quietly. He didn't look up.

''Not now. Leave me alone."

"Honey, we heard the news. we just want to say-''

"I said not now!" he barked.

She was torn between ignoring him and staying, and giving him some time alone. She settled for the latter. She took a chance and kissed his forehead, and whispered that they'd come back whenever he wanted, and even if he didn't. He nodded and waited for them to leave. Once they had gone, he closed his eyes, willing himself to fall into the comforting oblivion of sleep.

When Dean awoke again, he was alone. He was glad. The room was dark, as dark as his mood. He knew there was a small army of anxious and caring people in the hospital somewhere near. He wished they would all get into their cars and drive far away. -leave me alone...for christ's sake, just leave me alone- The nurses had come earlier. They turned him again, like some roasted pig on a barbeque spit. They took care of his needs, his functions. He ground his teeth and shut his eyes throughout the ordeal, so humiliated he wanted to puke. They left, finally, and he didn't have to endure their bright, sunny pasted-on smiles any longer, their saccharine encouragements, and brisk, efficient handling. It left him choking with impotent rage. He managed to keep from lashing out at them; they were just a bunch of working stiffs, just doing their job. But it took every ounce of self control he could muster to stop himself from telling them all to go to hell. If one more upbeat jackass came in, encouraging him to stay positive, to keep looking up, keep smiling-he was gonna knock somebody's teeth down their freaking throat.

He snorted to himself, and again felt hot, bitter tears escape his lashes. Loser. He couldn't even raise himself, let alone have the strength to do something like that. Once the floodgate opened, he couldn't stop. He cried hard, in silence, burying his face against the pillow, gripping it to his chest with both hands, so hard that his nails bent back and his fingers ached. He wanted a gun, a blade, a bottle of pills, anything to stop this god-damned nightmare. When he had nothing left, he fell asleep, exhausted and empty.

When the nurses came again, he was hardly aware of them this time. He didn't care anymore.

Bobby stopped one of them. "How is he..?"

She smiled sadly. "He's crying, finally. He needed to do that."

Bobby glanced at his closed door, pained and uncomfortable. "Should I go in and talk to him-?"

She shook her head and squeezed his arm. "No. Let him be. He's angry and bitter and confused. It's good for him to shed some of that emotion. Honey, there's alot you can do to support him, but he needs to come to terms with this himself. You can't help him with that, and it isn't an easy road. Give him his space now, go to him in a little while. I've seen this many times; this is a really hard point for him and he needs to work through it alone."

Bobby stared at her for a moment, then nodded in a daze. His own feelings were threatening to suffocate him, all he wanted to do was go in there and make it all better somehow, just like he always did, just like he was supposed to. But this time it was different. He couldn't undo this, and Dean Winchester, whom he'd seen grow up from a tough and mouthy little bastard into a strong, loyal, selfless man; was broken. And there wasn't a god-damned thing Uncle Bobby could do about it. That reality struck him hard and left him reeling. This was not fair. Too much was asked of that boy already, too much expected, and he'd always thrown himself fully and willingly into the trials he was subjected to. He gave everything of himself, despite the toll. He deserved better treatment. Quid pro quo, Lord. Step in any time-

He suddenly felt grey and drained, like he was a hundred years old. He turned away from the nurse, not hearing her anymore. He didn't see the floor in front of him, he walked slowly, and stopped only when Ellen stood in front of him. She didn't say anything, she just wrapped her arms around him and gently pressed his head against her shoulder. He slumped in defeat, overwhelmed by helplessness, hating being useless, and he gave in and wept. -Any time, Lord. We're all waiting here-

Sam sat in silence. Alone in the Impala, surrounded by everything that was quintessentially Dean, he tortured himself by reliving his brother's angry, bitter words; a screaming audio loop that refused to stop playing. -you put me here, you sonofabitch- Lilith may have done the violence, but it was Sam who ignored Dean's pleas to get Castiel. If he hadn't been so damned overconfident in his own power, if he'd done it right away, maybe... He knew that Dean was angry and upset, and would probably forgive him in time. He always forgave. But the truth would always be there, glaringly obvious, and he knew it. And no matter if Dean softened toward him, Sam would never be able to forgive himself. Dean accused him of living in fantasy land. Well, that was nothing new; the world they knew was far from normal anyway, and they'd seen stranger things than miracles happen. If Castiel wouldn't step up, then he himself had to. Despite how it had all played out-he was sure that the Trickster was still out there. Uriel had attacked him, stabbed him with a stake, but there was nothing left behind; no body, no elemental leftovers, no mist or smoke or dust; nothing. Surely if such a powerful thing had been extinguished, there would have been evidence. It was all he had to go on, and it was thin.

Thin. Not nearly enough to compensate for what he'd caused. He leaned against the smooth, worn leather seat and covered his eyes. Things were already so hard. His destiny, the demon blood... Dean was still his champion, no matter what. He never strayed from his protection, no matter what ugly realities swallowed them. Just like when they were kids.

And dad...he'd been so driven. But he was useless when they needed a father. He was the Sergeant, the General; they were mere foot soldiers, especially Dean. Do as I say...My way or the highway. Hell, Bobby Singer had played more of a paternal role than John Winchester ever had. But Sam couldn't go to him now to talk about this. The guilt he felt was a palpable weight, and he couldn't stand to see the reproach in Bobby's eyes if he dared tell him the details of why it went down this way. He'd see Dean's in his nightmares forever. Sam sat still, as tears slid down. He saw Dean's face, so taut and stony, and his angry, hurt words refused to quiet, they echoed in his head; -you put me here, you sonofabitch-

He'd never seen hate in his brother's eyes before, not for him anyway. But he was sure he did now. Dean deserved to feel whatever he did. It was Sam's fault. This would have been a different ending if he'd just tucked his ego away and left the fight to Castiel. If the angel couldn't send Lilith to hell, he would have at least chased her away to lick her wounds. And Dean would have gotten up and walked away from this..

He had to fix this. But Sam knew that the angels were wary of him at best. He would find no sympathy with Uriel, that was certain. And regardless of how he felt, Castiel would obey whatever the stronger one dictated. He couldn't count on turning his allegiance to provide some miracle for Dean. That left one alternative. Well, two really. He could scour every available source to find or summon the Trickster, if he still existed, and beg, or bully him to undo his handiwork. Or he could seek aid from... No. Don't even think it. He'd learned what repercussions could come from the powers of hell. Dean certainly had. He knew he was a coward. But he couldn't face Dean again, not like this. He couldn't bear his hostile stare, his bitter, accusing words. Dean was a tough, uncompromising SOB, but Sam had always been able to rely on his fierce and loyal affection. Without it now, he felt weak and exposed and raw. He decided that it was best this way. He would go, immediately, and throw himself into this hunt. He vowed to pore over every known piece of literature about the Trickster, follow every lead, no matter how obscure. He would find him, god-damn it. He'd make him reverse this horror. And yes, Dean would hate him at first, he'd be sure that Sam had done just what he'd warned him not to; certain that he'd abandoned him. But when he'd been successful, when he'd found Trickster and returned with him, Dean would forgive him. It would all be ok...

Sam stared at the Impala's interior. -and I'll never drive my f~~king car again- He closed his eyes, and fought a fresh and suffocating wave of guilt and remorse. Driving the Impala meant everything to Dean. It was his solace, his sanctuary, one that was sorely needed in his complicated life. Even if that was now denied him, at least the car would be here for him when he was stronger; he could still fuss over it, still maintain and preserve it, even if he couldn't drive it anymore. Sam couldn't take the car now to pursue his purpose. He just couldn't. It would strip Dean of every remaining thing that was dear to him. He sighed, realizing he'd have to find some other wheels. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and opened the door. He left the keys under the seat, and when he'd made sure he was alone in the parking lot, he searched for and found David's truck. Dean had taught him well; he made short work of getting into it, and when the roar of the engine showed he was successful in hot-wiring it, he left the hospital and the horror behind. He clenched his jaw hard as he drove, blinking his eyes clear -I promise you, Dean-if it costs me everything-I'll fix this, I swear-

Dean never asked for them to come. He withdrew from them all, from the hospital room, the procedures, from the miserable routines of his new and limited life. Bobby fretted and paced as days passed; he had no idea how to deal with this. He wanted to go in there and shake him, tell him to snap out of it and fight like the Dean Winchester he knew, but every time he had his hand on the door knob, he just couldn't do it. But Ellen wasn't about to accept it, she'd barged in and stayed with Dean time and time again, talking to him, cajoling him to keep going, to lean on them and talk it out. But he remained silent, barely acknowledging her presence. It was obvious that he was growing more and more despondent. His condition was deteriorating, he was pale, dark-eyed and listless, his surgery incision was frustratingly slow to heal, and David was hearing worrisome sounds in his chest. He was already developing pressure sores. David was concerned that his lack of fight was severely affecting his recovery. Most significantly, Dean had stopped asking for Sam. Ellen fumed over the younger Winchester's apparent flight, cursing his lack of loyalty and backbone.. But Bobby knew better. He knew that Sam felt things deeply, and that he'd fled for more reasons than simple cowardice. He knew that that boy was on a mission to provide the miracle his brother needed. He just wished the damned fool would have included him in that quest.

Bobby left countless messages on his cell, but Sam had apparently decided to go it alone; all he got was voicemail. Finally, Bobby stopped leaving impassioned pleas or angry diatribes; instead, he left information, clues, anything he could come up with from his own sources about Trickster lore. He prayed Sam was at least getting them.

And David Bowman was pulling out his hair. He was bitterly disappointed in Sam Winchester. The truck, that was nothing, he had planned to get something else soon anyway. But he watched the toll his absence took on Dean when he could least afford it. Dean needed his brother close, no matter how he may blame him for what happened. Sam should have known that. He was still in shock that the young man had fled the situation. It didn't seem like him. He talked with Ellen about it, and she agreed.

"Bobby thinks he's gone to find a way out of this for his brother. He thinks Sam will only come back if he's successful. -ugh, Damn that boy! Can't he see what's more important here? Dean's fading fast, but all Sam can think of is reversing his own damned mistake, instead of staying around to support his brother, no matter how hard. Dean needs him by his side; that's the only way he'll find any peace with the changes in his life. He won't let us in, we can't even try to fill that role! And Sam's off chasing ghosts, while his brother fades into one right in front of us all!" She broke down, finally. Ellen had been a tower of strength for the rest of them. She just didn't have anything left anymore. "Stupid men!" she railed through her tears. "Stupid-!" David didn't even try to defend his half of the race. He just enfolded her.

Castiel had always been plagued by this. The others around him seemed so singular of purpose, so unquestioningly loyal to the cause, blindly following orders from superiors without ever once needing to hear the words from the Lord himself. Why did he always question? Why had he never felt he had enough direction? What made him so weak, or arrogant, as to have these constant doubts? They weighed on his mind like lead; he wanted to stand in the light and shrug them off, to accept his role and find happiness and fulfillment in it. Only Anna had been thus, and it had been his task to kill her or chase her back to obeisance. She was outcast, considered a danger, a cancer in the ranks for it. But he knew her to be nothing but good. There were none more pure of heart and purpose than Anna, she felt the beauty and sorrow around her as keenly as he did. Uriel was a tower of virtue, but he was stone; he had no empathy. He was hard and driven, and at times, capable of cruelty, things that rivaled the work of their very enemy. He envied his companion now. Uriel was a dragon, but he was a pious, unbending, righteous one. At least he seemed to be...he certainly told everyone around him that it was so. Castiel felt like a delinquent child being dragged back into the classroom. He knew his wandering mind and nagging questions were a fault, but somehow, what he saw in Uriel was no closer to what he should aspire to. Castiel could not accept that the end always justified the means, and that they, as Angels, had divine permission to do what ever was required to fulfill their purpose. The line was blurring, far too much for his comfort.

And he begged for revelation. He sat in quiet places, praying fervently for enlightenment, but it never came. He wondered why it was so, when good Uriel always seemed to return from his own meditations with clear, god-given directives. Uriel always came back with orders so specific that he must have been conversing with the Lord himself. Castiel wasn't bitter, but it only served to fuel his own self-doubt, and the waters were muddied further, rather than clarified. It felt wrong, lately; something was just...wrong.

He sat on his bench, under the massive chestnut tree in the place that he always chose. It was his favourite. As always, he tried to tune out the distractions, listening hard to the silence in the hope that a message would reach him. But he found his efforts lacking. He couldn't keep Dean Winchester out of his thoughts. The scene played out, over and over in his mind, when he was forced to leave him there, in the barn, broken and agonized. He picked it apart, searching desperately for some evidence that what he'd done was right. It certainly felt anything but. But nothing came to light. In fact, the more he broke that horrible event down, the more he knew he had to go back. Intervention was strictly prohibited, unless you had orders. Well, he'd prayed and begged and sweated for the word. He felt abandoned, and he knew that the Winchesters felt the same. He couldn't live with it, he just couldn't.

But Uriel was his shadow. It was obvious that he knew what Castiel was considering. It was his purpose to keep Castiel in line; he had said as much. And he performed his duties admirably and thoroughly; Castiel rarely had a moment alone where he wasn't being watched or harangued at by the powerful angel. He hovered over Castiel, suffocating him with his insistent presence and his endless pontificating. Castiel couldn't think, which was the point, he supposed.

He needed to see her. Anna, she was the one he could talk to about all this. He hoped she would come. He found some excuse to leave Uriel for a short while. A subterfuge, something believable. When he'd shed himself of Uriel's oppressive surveillance, he made his way to a hidden place and called her out. He waited anxiously for her answer. -please, Anna...I need perspective, I need guidance-