A/N: I'm leaving for vacation soon, so I'm not sure when I'll be able to post again. I hope you guys are still liking it enough to stick around for Chapter 12. Shouldn't be more than two weeks. Things should start heating up a bit more, so don't give up on me. Also, here's a shout out to all you lovely readers in Scotland and London. I'll be in your neck of the woods for the next ten days! Love, Liz

Chapter 11

Azlin rubbed at her mottled wrist where Sam had gripped it, imprints from his long fingers still visible. His hand, warm and gentle at first, had suddenly clamped down on her wrist like a vise before he abruptly let go in reaction to her involuntary cry of pain. He hadn't hurt her on purpose. Something was wrong. He was hurting.

"S-Sorry," he stuttered, writhing.

Azlin tried not to panic at the sheer agony that was written all over his drawn face. The surprising strength of his grip on her wrist had been a testament to how much pain he was in. She reached for the call button to summon a nurse.

He caught her wrist again, much weaker this time. "No. Don't." His teeth clenched.

"Sam, what's wrong? You have to let me call someone!"

He shook his head, wincing. "Just a...cramp. 'S okay."

"It's not okay! You're clearly hurting. Let me get help."

He shook his head again, his eyes closing tight. "Could you just..." He trailed off, sounding almost like he didn't want to impose, like he was embarrassed.

"Could I what, Sam?" she prompted with urgency, hating to see him in pain, wanting to do anything to make it stop. "What do you want me to do? It's okay. Just tell me."

His breath hitched, and he forced his eyes open. "My leg. Could you—ah!" he gasped, and his eyes slammed shut again.

She nodded, her heart racing. "Just tell me what to do!"

He let go of her wrist, his forehead creased. "Right calf," he gritted out hoarsely.

She pulled the covers off of his legs and was shocked at the unnatural tension in his right leg and the way his right foot was drawn down to a point. Not sure exactly what to do, she pulled up the cotton pant leg of his dark-gray pajama pants and began kneading and working at the rock-hard ball that was supposed to be his calf muscle. It didn't seem to be helping.

A gasp of pain escaped from him, although he was obviously trying to hold it in.

She reached for his contorted foot and tried bending it back to a more natural position.

"Guh," he grunted between panting breaths, his face still lined with pain.

"Is this better or worse?" she said, trying to stay calm.

"Better," he croaked.

With one hand, she bent his foot a little more in order to stretch the calf and, with the other hand, began massaging the clenched muscle again.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tension started to fade from his body, the hard planes of his face beginning to relax.

She could feel his calf muscle releasing, but kept massaging just to be sure the pain had abated. The crisis coming to an end, Azlin became acutely aware of the weight of his leg resting in her hand and the feel of the arch of his foot in her other hand as she massaged both areas, his brown skin next to her white, the pleasant warmth of him, the coarse hairs on his leg tickling the palm of her hand. His legs were long, and she wondered how tall he would be if he were standing. He was still too thin, but he had begun to fill out a little, his muscles slowly but surely starting to rebound.

His face was completely relaxed now, and she wondered if he had fallen asleep. She could feel her body beginning to react to the feel of him, a tightness in the pit of her stomach. She stopped the massage and stepped back a little.

He cocked one eye open and gave a tired smile, dimples showing.

She felt a skip in her pulse and fought to ignore it. "You want to tell me what just happened?"

He opened the other eye and held her gaze. "You were massaging my leg."

She rolled her eyes. "Before that."

He looked away from her. "It was just a cramp."

"Yeah. Like, a fucking fifteen-minute, horrendous, agonizing, foot-contorting cramp. Was that the first time?"

He hesitated and sighed before turning his attention back to her. "No."

"Have you told anyone?"

"No."

"Why not?"

He worked his neck from side to side as if it were stiff. "Look, it's not a big deal."

"Sam, that was a big deal. I'm sure there's something Dr. Davis could prescribe to help prevent it or at least help with the pain. Why would you want to experience that again if you don't have to?"

"So you can give me another massage?"

She felt a familiar heat flare within her. He was flirting with her, and she had to force herself to focus. "I'm serious, Sam."

"So am I."

"I'm telling Francine."

He rolled his eyes. "That one was...worse than normal. They're usually not that bad."

"All the more reason you should tell someone. What if they're starting to escalate?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "You care, Azlin?"

Oh, he was good. "Yeah. I care," she said. "I wouldn't let my horse suffer like that." She took in his long, skinny legs and arms. "Or a giraffe, either."

He leaned his head back and gave a husky laugh, his dark-brown hair falling away from his face. Then, sobering a bit, he queried, "You have a horse?"

Azlin released an exasperated breath and ignored his question. "I have to tell someone about your cramping, Sam. If I don't, and it's something more serious, that opens up the rehab center to a huge liability."

He studied her with his intelligent, evergreen eyes. "You are worried about liability?"

Shit. She shouldn't have said that. He was too good at coaxing her into revealing little tidbits about herself that were none of his business. "What's the big secret, Sam? Either you tell, or I will."

He sighed. "Look, it's just because my muscles are out of condition. All the new activity from the therapy sessions is making them fatigued, and sometimes it causes a Charlie horse. Karl warned me about this, and it's perfectly normal."

"Okay. Are you going to tell Karl about this one, that it was worse than usual?"

His brows drew together slightly, and he looked kind of guilty. "No."

There was something he wasn't telling her. "You haven't told Karl about any of this, have you?"

He didn't answer.

"Why, Sam?"

His jaw tightened in that trademark way of his, and he looked intense. "Because, Azlin," he said, his tone acerbic and defiant, "I'm tired of lying in this bed. I want to be able to use the damn bathroom and take a real shower without someone helping me. I want my right hand to work properly so that I don't have the table manners of a three-year-old. I want to be able to sit in a chair for more than fifteen minutes without feeling like I've run a marathon. I want to be able to get dressed by myself in something other than pajamas. I want to run, but even walking right now would be stellar, or how about just standing? I want to be tall again. I'm tired of looking up at people from a bed or a wheelchair." His eyes pierced into her. "If I tell Karl about the cramps, he won't let me push as hard during my therapy sessions, and my rehab will take even longer than it's already going to. I'm not gonna let that happen. I'm not gonna back off."

His words hung in the air, and she stood there a moment, her heart aching for him. He never complained, at least not that she had seen, never let on just how difficult things really were for him, and she wanted to comfort him in some way, ease his frustration. Without thinking, she reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze.

He closed his eyes, and some of the intensity of before left his features.

She exhaled a deep breath, aware of their hands touching, not ready to let go just yet. "Okay. I get it. Your life sucks, and you want to fix it. But what if the cramps are more serious than you think? What if they end up hindering your recovery in the long-run?"

He looked up at her, eyes sincere, and it was his turn to squeeze her hand with reassurance. "It's just muscle cramps," he said in his husky, gravelly voice. "I promise, they're not a big deal."

Azlin suddenly found it hard to comprehend what he said, distracted by the broad point of his nose, the way his brow creased in that serious way he had, the way his mouth and lips moved. His dimples showed almost all the time—not just when he smiled, but when he talked or moved his mouth in any way, and she was fascinated by their various depths.

She came back to herself and almost groaned out loud, catching herself just in time. Fuck. She was in big trouble if she was now contemplating the finer nuances of his dimples. She was so screwed.

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

Azlin jerked her hand away from his as if she'd been burned.

Sam's mouth curved in amusement, but his eyes were darker with something more intense.

Francine was peeking her head in the open door. "Are you hungry yet, hon?" she said to Sam.

Sam looked wary. "You bring something other than turkey?"

Francine winked and nodded as she came into the room carrying a tray of food. "I told the dietician you were gonna start gobbling like a tom soon if they didn't give you something besides turkey eight different ways."

He smiled. "Then I'm starving."

Francine glanced at Azlin, taking in the fact that her earphones weren't on and she was standing by Sam's bed. "Hey, sugar. How are you?"

Azlin didn't answer. Instead, she folded her arms over her chest and looked at Sam.

He was giving her a more subtle version of that soulful look of his, imploring her to keep quiet.

Azlin hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to say something to Francine, but, God, that look of his. It made Azlin want to give him anything he asked for. She would jump off a fucking cliff for him. Reluctantly, she decided to table the issue—for now.

She looked at Francine and said flatly, "I'm fine. Thanks." Then she turned her back to both of them and grabbed the dust mop that was still leaning against the chair. She started mopping, discouraging any further conversation.

By the time Azlin was finished with her work in Sam's room and pushing her cart toward the door, she heard Francine exclaim, "My stars, Sam! That's the best I've seen you eat yet. You just about licked the platter clean."

He cleared his throat and gave an embarrassed half-laugh. "Uh, yeah."

"Having something other than turkey did improve your appetite. Who'd a thunk it?" she asked, voice laced with sarcasm, as if someone should have figured that out a lot sooner. "I think it helped moving your suppertime 'til later, too. You were right about that."

Azlin froze. Her back was to them, but she could feel Sam's eyes on her, daring her to turn around. So that's why he'd been alone when she'd come in. He'd asked to have his dinner brought in later, and the reason had nothing to do with his appetite.

SWDWSWDW

Two days later, Azlin awoke groggily on her sofa with the usual morning breath and a jones for caffeine. She ran her fingers through her short hair in an attempt to tame some of the more errant strands. She didn't have a mirror in the office but could feel it was still sticking up in some places and flattened in others. She didn't care.

She half folded her blanket and threw it on top of her pillow. It was just after nine in the morning, and she was going to get her usual hot, Earl Grey tea from the cafeteria and then go to her home to shower and maybe work on some music before attending to her daily routine. She grabbed her iPod from the desk and made her way out the door, her back turned to Sam's room across the hall. As she was shutting her door, she heard Sam's hoarse voice behind her say, "Azlin?"

She froze for a fraction of a second, her stomach doing a cartwheel, and then turned to see Sam sitting in a wheelchair wearing navy swim trunks and a white t-shirt, rehab issue flip-flops on his feet, Karl pushing. A large, fluffy, white towel was sitting in his lap. His long hair was a little mussed, and he looked tired. He also, of course, looked totally hot. He seemed pleasantly surprised to see her, dimples present and accounted for. "What are you doing here this early?" he asked.

She glanced up at Karl, whose face was impassive, except for the bland, polite smile he gave her.

Azlin knew everyone at the rehab center thought she was strange for sleeping there, but, of course, that was just one of many things that made her strange. She knew everyone also knew to wisely stay out of her business, and, obviously, no one had told Sam that she slept there, not even Dean. Still, she was surprised this hadn't happened earlier, and she swallowed, a little embarrassed. She didn't want Sam to think she was weird, and she was startled to realize she actually gave a fuck what someone else thought of her. She cleared her throat, hoping her morning breath wasn't wafting over to him. "I, um, just got up."

Sam's eyebrows drew together in a faint frown. "So, you came here?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Fuck it. She shouldn't care what he thought. "I sleep here. That is my office," she indicated the room behind her with a jerk of her thumb, hitch-hiker style, "and I sleep on a sofa in there."

He nodded his head slowly, still frowning, as though trying to understand. "Oh." He blinked and rubbed his eyes with the fingers of one hand.

She was struck again by how tired he looked.

He focused on her again, and she could see the questions forming in his mind.

She wasn't going to make it easy for him. She was sure someone would eventually fill him in on how fucked up she really was, but she didn't want to be there when they did. "I've got to go," she said, and walked away before he could ask anything more.

SWDWSWDW

Sam was exhausted from the aquatics session with Karl—and from not sleeping at night. The muscle cramps were getting worse, but he was convinced that, once his muscles were more conditioned, the cramps would go away. He just needed to keep pushing. He knew his limits, and he wasn't going to let anyone tell him what was best for his recovery. He'd been an expert at honing his body into a lethal weapon before, and he would do it again.

Although the cramps were more intense—much more—he'd still managed to hide them, except for that time with Azlin, of course. So far, she hadn't said anything, and he was grateful. He felt bad about putting her in an awkward position, but he didn't see a way around it.

He smiled at the memory of the way she'd looked earlier in the hallway, pixie hair spiked in places and eyes puffy from sleep, wearing her work clothes from the night before. She'd looked cute and rumpled, and he had been surprised to find out that she slept in what he'd thought of as a supply closet right across the hall from his room. He liked the thought that she was so close to him.

The big question, though, was why. Was it all she could afford? What did she do during the day when she wasn't here? Where did she shower, eat, and do things like laundry? The more he learned about her, the more questions he had. He'd tried to milk Francine and Chad—and even the stoic Karl this morning—for information about her, but they were surprisingly either vague or downright tight-lipped where Azlin was concerned. It was a little weird, a little suspicious, and Sam was an expert on things weird and suspicious. It was time for a little research on Azlin and on the rehab center itself. He had a gut feeling there was maybe more to both than met the eye.

He eyed the iPad on the overbed table. All he had to do was lean forward a couple of inches, and he'd be able to pull the table closer. Then, of course, he'd have to expend the effort to actually turn the iPad on and type. He'd done it before, but, right now, the simple tasks were beyond him. He was so tired, and his arms felt heavy and shaky, like they were weighted down by three hundred pounds of Jell-O. As badly as he wanted to, his research would have to wait. He quit fighting his exhaustion and let his eyes close. The iPad would still be there after a much-needed nap.

SWDWSWDW

Azlin's shift was done, and she had just finished up the last of her paperwork. She was sitting at her desk, drumming her pen absently against the scarred wood of the desktop. Since she'd seen Sam in the hallway, the last couple of evenings she'd noticed how exhausted he looked when she went into his room to clean. He was always a little tired from the day's exertion, but this went way beyond that. He was almost listless, like he could hardly keep his eyes open or lift a fork to eat. Azlin had seen concern on Francine's face and listened to her coax and fuss at Sam to eat, even threatening him with the feeding tube, and finally resorting to feeding him herself when Sam didn't protest. Azlin felt guilty for not saying anything about the cramp she had witnessed. If he didn't look any better tomorrow, she was spilling the beans—wounded-puppy eyes or no.

She looked at the digital clock. 2:04 am. She was tempted to go look in on him, but it would be really embarrassing if she woke him up or he happened to be awake already. How would she explain it? Besides, Francine had probably just checked on him before her shift ended anyway.

Azlin tapped her pen again and looked at her "bed." She wasn't that sleepy, hadn't unwound yet. It couldn't hurt just to go listen by his door, could it?

She walked across the hall and stood by his door, feeling like a pathetic, lovesick teenager instead of a 32-year-old woman and prayed no one appeared in the empty hallway and caught her. She pressed her ear as close to where the closed door met the doorjamb as she could and heard nothing. Okay. Good. No harm done. Now she could sleep.

And if she'd pulled away a split second sooner, she wouldn't have heard the sharp, muffled groan of pain coming from inside, but she hadn't pulled away in time, and her gut clenched at hearing Sam's distress. Adrenaline kicking in, she opened the door and made her way through the dark room to Sam's bedside. He was lying on his right side, face turned into his pillow, blanket pulled up over his shoulders. If she hadn't heard him seconds earlier and didn't now see the tension emanating from his body, she might have believed he was asleep, but she knew better.

Her body was blocking the light that spilled in from the hallway through the mostly open door, and she shifted her position so it could illuminate him. She touched his rigid shoulder. "Sam, are are you cramping?"

He turned his head a little away from his pillow, one visible eye opening. "You make it sound," he winced, "like I have PMS."

She pressed her lips together to hold in a smile. "Let me see. Is it your leg?"

He closed his eye. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Let me see."

His eye opened again, and his one visible dimple deepened. "Are you gonna give me another massage?"

"Only if—"

"Guh!" Sam panted and clenched his teeth, clamping his eye shut, his pain clearly getting worse.

Azlin's pulse kicked into overdrive, and she yanked the covers off of him, exposing his legs, but was surprised to see that they looked normal. Momentarily perplexed, she finally looked up the length of his long body and noticed his left hand was cradling his right wrist, and his right hand was bent forward at an unnatural angle, fingers painfully contorted. "Oh, God, Sam."

She quickly grabbed his right arm and started massaging the underside of his arm and wrist with one hand while gently pressing his hand back and straightening out his fingers with the other.

Sam buried his head in his pillow, his breathing ragged and pained, his good hand white-knuckling the bed blanket.

After what seemed like an inordinately cruel amount of time, the muscles and tendons began to relax, and Sam's rigid posture deflated. As she had before, she continued the massage, kneading his palm, wrist, and fingers.

His breathing slowed and evened out, and his head rested more comfortably on the pillow, his face more relaxed.

She still held his long, tapered fingers in her hand, knowing she would miss the feel and warmth of him when she let go. Finally, she gently released him, her heart heavy with trepidation. She was going to have to tell someone about this and hated the thought that she was somehow betraying him, even if it was for his own good.

He rolled himself more to his back, wincing with exhaustion from the effort, and sighed. "You're going to tell, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Soulful eyes. "Please. Don't."

"I have to, Sam."

His jaw tightened. "Look, I'll back off a little bit, won't push as hard."

"You're full of shit."

He gave a half-laugh, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah. I am. But you know what? You and everyone else around here seem to forget that it's my goddamn body. I'm the one that should get to decide what happens to it."

"Not if you're an idiot."

He pressed his lips together and blew out a frustrated breath through his nose. "You don't know what it's like. You—"

"Spare me the sob story. You're exhausted, Sam, because these fucking cramps are keeping you up at night. It's affecting your appetite. You're too tired to pick up a damn fork to feed yourself." She shook her head. "I can't believe Karl hasn't figured out that you look like death warmed over, that he hasn't already cut back on your therapy. How could he not have noticed?"

He gave her a wan smile. "I'm touched you've noticed."

"How many times a night are you having them?" she pressed.

He closed his eyes for a moment, looking weary to the bone.

She snorted. "You're so exhausted you can't even stay awake right now."

He looked at her with droopy eyes. "It's past two in the morning, Azlin. What do you expect?"

"How many?"

He set his jaw stubbornly, refusing to answer.

"Going without sleep isn't going to help you, Sam. You need sleep to heal."

His eyes widened. "I was asleep for seven months, Azlin!" he croaked. "That's why I'm in this mess."

She rolled her eyes. "It's not the same thing, and you know it." She was resolved. "Sorry. I'm calling someone now. Maybe they can give you something to help you sleep the rest of the night." She reached for the call button.

He grabbed her wrist with his left hand to stop her, and his voice was low and soft. "Why are you here, Azlin? You're not a frigging janitor."

He was trying to distract her, and it had worked. It obviously hadn't taken him long to find out about her, but how much did he know? Not that it really mattered. Her heart beat faster, and she yanked her wrist from his grasp. Two could play at this game, she thought angrily. "What about you, Coma Boy? Why are you here? And while you're at it, why don't you tell me your real name?"

His face became unreadable. "My name is Sam Blackmore," he said evenly.

"What was so fucking traumatic that you fell into a coma for seven months?"

"I don't remember."

She laughed without mirth. "Oh, that's convenient. Are you a criminal?"

"No." He said it with a sad smile, and his eyes looked a thousand years old.

She reached for the call button again and gave him a hard look, silently daring him to try to stop her.

He closed his eyes but was so tense, like he was poised to spring, that she thought he might try for another grab.

When he didn't, she pushed the button.

"Yes?" a tinny voice said through the call speaker.

"Evelyn?"

"That you, Azlin?" The nurse sounded surprised.

"Yeah." Azlin swallowed. She hated doing this. "Sam—Sam's having severe muscle cramps. He's having trouble sleeping."

Sam's eyes opened, fiercely green and smoldering with fury, and his face hardened to stone.

"Oh, my goodness. All right, hon," said Evelyn's voice. "I'll be right in."

"Thanks," said Azlin numbly. She waited for the grandmotherly nurse to arrive, not knowing what to do with her hands, shifting on her feet, pacing a little, wishing Sam would say something, but he wouldn't look at her.

When Evelyn came in, Azlin told her everything she knew about Sam's muscle cramps.

If the nurse wondered why Azlin was in Sam's room at two-thirty in the morning, she didn't let it show.

Azlin then watched as Evelyn turned on the lights that illuminated Sam's bed and questioned him, Azlin warning him the whole time with her eyes that his answers better be truthful.

Sam was broody and answered in one-word answers.

"All right, sweetie." Evelyn patted Sam's shoulder. "Dr. Patterson is on call tonight. I'm going to call him for instructions, and then we'll see what we can do to get you some relief."

After Evelyn left, the silence in the room was stifling. Sam's eyes were closed again, and he seemed beyond tired, but Azlin knew by the iron set of his jaw that he was also livid. She felt a sick feeling of guilt for betraying him, even if it had been for his own good, and she hated the thought that he was so mad at her. "Sam—"

"You should mind your own damn business." His tone was cruel. "You're fucked up enough as it is without getting into mine."

She felt a physical pain in her chest and labored to inhale a breath through her constricted throat, tears stinging her eyes. The words weren't anything she hadn't said herself before, but coming from him, they were devastating. She swallowed hard, struggling to control the bitter ache, and made her voice strong. "Go to hell," she said, and turned to leave.

She heard a sardonic laugh behind her. "Sorry," he rasped. "Already been."

SWDWSWDW

Castiel, eerily silent and still in the dark room, stood and watched Sam sleep.

Sam seemed uneasy, although he slept deeply, as though drugged.

Castiel let his hand hover over Sam's heart and felt many emotions emanating from it—anger, hurt, frustration—but not evil. The evil he'd always sensed buried in Sam was no longer there.

Castiel felt a strange, powerful tightening in his stomach and felt almost ill. He'd hoped irrationally that the evil would still be there. It would have made what he was contemplating more justified. It would have made him feel less...despicable.

But certain regrettable things were now required of him. He was at war.

TBC

A/N: The last line of the chapter was taken almost directly from something Castiel said in one of the episodes. I borrowed it.