Sam expected that they'd have to tie Dean down to keep him from charging out of the house and back on the road, and he was almost right. Dean grumbled and whined and tried to get out of bed every time he thought no one was watching—but the fact that he fell flat on his face when he did try seemed to make him rethink his stupidity. Sam hoped that was all it was. He wouldn't know what to do with a brother who had some common sense.

And now that Dean was awake and in control of his own conversations, Sam got to take his share of taking care of Dean, which meant he was dealing with all that whining. The removal of the feeding tube and IV port helped Dean's mood considerably, but the catheter was still a forbidden topic, Dean was still grumbling about the liquid diet, and God help you if you said the words sponge bath, as that job fell strictly to Corinna. She was immune to both charm and bitching, and she had no problems administering a good smackdown (verbal or otherwise) if Dean got too cranky. She only came in the early mornings, though; the 10-5 shift was Sam's. "Making up for lost time," Buffy had pointed out, with an evil little smile, and she'd promptly gone to bed, so she could get back to her normal Slaying routine. Sam supposed it was only fair, considering that he'd made a horrible worried relative of a patient.

Fair, maybe, but annoying.

Corinna said that it was good for Dean to sit up for as long as he could stand it, supported at first, so that was the first distraction Sam used when he found himself entertaining violent thoughts. "You think you can sit up?"

Dean pushed himself up. "Of course I—" He went white. "Um. Maybe—" He fell back onto the pillow. "Son of a bitch. I've never seen a room spin like that."

"You were supposed to try it gradually."

"What difference does—"

"Dean. You've been flat on your back for three months. Your heart's not used to maintaining that kind of blood pressure. Here, lean on me." He helped Dean up and stuffed a pillow behind him, then lowered Dean back onto it. Priss, displaced by the maneuver, hissed at him, but stalked over to another spot on the bed rather than biting him. "Little bit at a time."

"Sam, if you try to feed me chicken soup, I swear, I'll shoot you."

"Uh-uh, no guns in the Slayer's house, remember?" Dean growled—actually growled—at him. "Corinna says you should be about ready for something soft. Pudding?"

"Chocolate?"

"Of course."

Dean sighed. "Well, at least it's not chicken soup."

Sam couldn't quite keep back his snicker. "I have even better news."

"The only better news I wanna hear is about a Porterhouse with my—"

"Wanna get dressed?"

Dean's expression completely—transformed was the only word for it. "Oh, God, can I?"

Sam chuckled. He'd never heard Dean so excited about putting clothes on. "Well, sort of. The catheter's not—"

Eagerness morphed into embarrassment. "Can we not talk about the damn catheter?" Sam grinned. "I saw that," Dean added grumpily.

"I know you did," Sam replied, in his best annoy-the-big-brother voice, and rummaged through the drawers where he'd stashed the new clothes, while Dean was still prone to dozing off mid-conversation. "Here."

Dean frowned at the shirt—the black pristine and never washed, the fabric never stretched, the design on it (an AC/DC logo, how appropriate) sharply new. "This isn't—"

"Buffy told the babies that they had to match our gifts. Whatever they spent on me, they had to spend on you. The idea was that it would persuade them not to."

"Didn't work?"

"They took up a collection, split it in half, and went clothes shopping." Dean pulled on the shirt, frowning a bit at the feel of the new cloth. As far back as Sam could remember, they'd always bought their clothes at thrift stores and yard sales; there had always been more pressing demands on the family funds. The only exceptions had been for shoes (good-quality, properly-fit shoes were required for safety's sake) and the occasional costume, like the suits they kept folded in the Impala's trunk for when they had to pretend to be official. Most of the babies, on the other hand, were from families that thought the term thrift store qualified as profanity. "All brand-new. They also bought you a bathrobe."

"A what?"

"According to Brittney—she was the ringleader—they wanted to get you stuff you could use during your recuperation. Oh, and we're both up to our ears in new socks and underwear."

"Wait a second." Dean pushed himself up a little more. "You let a bunch of girls buy me underwear?"

Sam managed not to laugh at the sheer indignation in Dean's voice. Barely. "I just gave them your sizes. They're the ones who bought the stuff. What was I supposed to do, throw the presents back in their faces?" Dean glared at him. "Really, they worked hard. These girls don't get a lot of shopping time, between school and Slaying and training."

"Underwear."

"Think of the money we'll save on buying clothes for awhile."

To his surprise, the practicality worked.

Dean didn't get his steak till the day after New Year's, and only then because Sam, tired of listening to him bitch about pudding and applesauce and mushy pasta, went to the store and and bought the most expensive one he could find and chased Willow and Buffy out of the kitchen and cooked the damn thing himself. Corinna made her final visit that evening, to Dean's obvious relief, with the admonition that he would have to start getting out of bed at least once a day, preferably more. Dean was only too eager to obey that order.

"Dude, quit hovering."

"I'm not—"

"Sammy." Dean, balancing precariously between Buffy and Kellie, glared at him. Sam had been deemed "too tall" for the task of helping Dean stay upright on this first official excursion out of bed. "Back. The fuck. Up."

"Oh."

"I don't know what you see in that boy," Dean said to Kellie. She just grinned.

"What do you—" Sam began, but Dean just grinned at him. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"Children," Buffy chided. "Dean, how're you doing?"

"The room's not spinning."

"That's good. Will—" Willow brought over the walker that normally lived in storage downstairs; she'd said they kept it because it was cheaper for the Council to buy one than to rent one every time somebody got hurt. "Careful, now—" First Kellie, then Buffy eased away from Dean, letting him get a good grip on the walker's handles. "How's it feel?"

"Shaky."

"You're pretty much going to have to learn to walk again," Willow said. "Shaky is the least of it."

"Uh. Huh." Dean had all his attention focused on his feet, forcing them to move. He wobbled, just a bit, and Sam thought he saw one knee give way, but Dean managed to recover and actually moved forward. "Outta—the—way—"

"Where do you think you're going?" Buffy asked.

"The bathroom," Dean said through clenched teeth. "Now that I can."

Sam couldn't resist. "Need any help?"

The slammed door muffled any other response Dean made.