I do not own Dean or Sam, but the creative process is all mine.

Here's another chapter for you guys. Keep those reviews coming! I feed off of feedback! Enjoy. Thanks for reading my story.

Rubbing his tired eyes Dean glanced over at the clock, blinking several times to bring it into focus. The fuzzy green numbers read 2:34 am. Sam was locked in deep slumber, pain and confusion erased for those few sacred hours of escape. But he would wake up again, he always did, and when he woke up it would be back into the world of doctors and hospitals and wheelchairs. As long as Sammy couldnt walk Dean wouldnt be sleeping. He let out an exasperated sigh and then turned back to the open laptop, scrolling to the next page. After several futile attempts to call their father for help, receiving nothing but voicemail and silence Dean had turned to Sams methods. The little laptop was almost foreign to Dean when he'd first opened it up, and Sam had been no help. Denial had consumed his little brother since he'd first woken up, and just that night he'd given in to anger. At least he's moving through the stages quickly. But Dean had pressed on, determined to master the laptop before it was too late.

Dean had been at this for the last three days, researching website after website for cures, rehabilitation methods, and explanations of the injury. He'd searched under every keyword he could think of. The computer, which had at one time housed hundreds of bookmarks for supernatural sightings and defense mechanisms, now was a cache of medical jargon. His favorites menu referenced wheelchair options, rehab hospitals, therapy methods. Everything hed read had Dean understanding that a cure was not an option; medical science had not advanced that far. And without their fathers help Dean didnt know where to look supernaturally. That kind of information just wasnt available in cyber space - at least not any legitimate options. Their experience with the faith healer months before meant that that wasnt an option either. Even mentioning the idea to Sam had brought out a moments lucidity in his little brother. I'm not letting someone else suffer just cause I got hurt, Sam had insisted before reverting back into his depression.

But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Taking a chance on a link, Dean had discovered a sight where patients had recounted determination and rigorous therapy as a means to recovery. Every one of the stories on the sight had resulted in complete recovery. So theres hope. I knew there was hope. Sammy just has to want it enough.

Dean pressed on, determined to understand more about the therapy methods. Desire alone wouldn't be enough. It was a question of reminding the nerve cells that there was more below the level of injury. And Sam had to allow the hospitals physical therapists to perform their exercises on his legs. If they began to atrophy it would be that much harder to recover. Dean remembered the conversation he'd had two days ago with the PT assigned to Sams case.

Sam stands a better chance of regaining strength if he would cooperate. He has to want this. Harry, the aging therapist had explained to Dean out in the hallway. Inside, Sam was throwing a fit, refusing to admit there was anything wrong with him, and therefore resisting all advances at doing exercises. Even Dean had failed to get through to Sam.

So what happens if he doesnt let anyone help him? Dean had asked, soaking up all the information the therapist was giving him. Unlike the doctor, this guy exuded hope. It was his job to get Sammy back on his feet, and in the first minute Dean had met him Harry had admitted that he deemed failure to be unacceptable.

If he refuses to help, the muscles in his legs will become weaker and stiff. They will shrink from lack of use and he will lose any possibility of walking. Its a hundred times harder to come back from atrophied muscles.

Dean wasn't about to let that happen to Sam. Shutting the laptop with a soft click Dean crossed the room to his brothers sleeping form. If Sam wont allow us to help him when hes awake then dammit I'm gonna help him when hes sleeping. Dean ripped the sheets off of Sam and went to work, grabbing one leg the way hed been shown and pulling it, pushing it, and stretching it in an effort to keep the muscles limber. Range of Motion, they'd called it. The muscles need to be worked in the same way that walking and running would work them. It's like exercising without ever getting out of bed.

"What the hell do you think youre doing?" Sams angry voice cut through the air like a knife and Dean jumped, almost dropping Sams other leg which he'd just picked up.

"I'm doing what you're too chicken to do yourself," Dean retorted, continuing with the exercises despite Sams protests.

"Dean, just leave me alone. If I wanted your help I would have asked for it."

"That's where the problem lies," Dean explained. "By the time you realize you want my help it just may be too late. I'm simply beating you to the punch. Trust me little brother; you'll thank me for this someday."

"You're such a prick."

"And youre a stubborn bastard, Sammy."

"Its Sam." Sam glared at Dean, his anger seething through every ounce of his body. He hated that damn nickname, and right now it felt even more demeaning. The nickname was babyish, and only babies couldn't walk. Babies...and Sam. Why can't he just leave me alone? Doesn't he realize that every time he touches my legs I'm reminded of the things I can't do anymore? He can feel my legs, but I cant! Those damn things; its like they're not even mine. Its like they don't even exist! "Dean, just back off!" Sam shrieked, swatting at his brother when he bent his numb leg at the knee and stretched it to his chest. Sams ribs screamed at that particular stretch, but he welcomed the pain. He'd never been so grateful to have pain in his life because pain meant nerves were alive. He wished the same pain would appear in his lifeless lower half.

"Dammit Sam, just let me finish and you can go back to sleep. I'll leave you alone for the rest of the night."

"I can't sleep anymore" Sam whined. "You woke me up. Now I wanna get out of here."

"The nurses would be all over my ass if they came in here and found you missing. Besides, It's 3:00 in the freaking morning.

"And I need fresh air!" Sam was practically begging now. Dean never could ignore Sammy's begging, and this time would be no exception. "Please, Dean. You can tell the nurses we're leaving. It's not like I'm asking you to get me out of the hospital – just out of this room. It's so stuffy in here. I hate this place."

Casting a sideways glance at the hospital issue wheelchair shoved ominously in the corner, Dean ran an unsteady hand through is short hair. Harry had spent much of yesterday's therapy session explaining about and teaching Dean the art of transfers, but Dean wasn't so sure he was ready to do one all by himself. His should was still weak, and the idea of accidentally dropping Sam terrified him.

Sam wasn't giving up so easily, though. If Dean won't help me I'll do it my damn self. With fierce determination Sam reached above him and clasped the triangular shaped grab bar hanging over his head. He pulled with all his strength until he was finally balanced in a sitting position, propping himself up with one arm locked at the elbow behind his back.

"For pete's sake, Sammy, what the hell are you doing?" Dean had shot to the head of the bed the minute Sam had begun his struggle and he now towered over him angrily. "Are you trying to hurt yourself?"

"I'm just trying to get my life back together," Sam spat. He already had his free arm hooked under the knees of his unfeeling legs, trying to pull them over the edge of the bed inch by inch. "Now you can either get that wheelchair and help me or you can stand there like an idiot. What's it gonna be?"

Dean was in shock. Sam had never talked to him like that before. His little brother knew he'd get a faceful of fist if he ever said anything like that. Apparently Sam knew Dean would never hit him in his current state; he was right. "Fine!" Dean snapped, dragging the chair beside the bed. Lemme help you." Together, they managed to ease Sam into the chair without any major incidents. Sam reached over the sides of the armrests and grasped the wheels, but it wasn't a comfortable fit. His elbows bumped painfully against the metal of the tall armrests every time he shoved forward and the exertion was too much for his still injured ribs. He stopped before even reaching the door and looked pitifully at Dean.

Wuss. Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation but jumped forward to assist his brother. It was necessary to keep up the hardcore older brother exterior, but inside Dean's heart was breaking. Poor little bastard can't even make it across the room without needing help. Why can't that be me? Why is it always Sam?

Sam was no happier to be on the receiving end of the assistance. When Dean took the handles Sam pulled his hands in his lap and stared ahead self-consciously. The nurses stared at him with pity as they passed the nurses station, but said nothing when Dean flashed his million dollar smile at them, explaining that they would be going for a little walk. "Take good care of our little patient," one of them drawled in a thick southern accent. Our little patient. Sam repeated the words over and over in his head with disgust. Dean gets to be the ladies man. Look at them; they're drooling all over him like a pack of rabid dogs. And me…I get to be the pitiful little sidekick. They don't see me as anything but a kid in a wheelchair. A poor, pathetic kid who can't even get out of bed without help. They were rounding the corner to the atrium when rage consumed Sam. Bringing both fists down hard on his dead limbs Sam let out a wild roar, the sound a mixture of pain, anger, and fear. Adding insult to injury, Sam's legs didn't react to the blow which he had been certain would awaken them.

Two of the nurses tore around the corner before Dean even had an opportunity circle the wheelchair and calm his brother down. Upon silent assessment of the situation they arrived at the fact that Sam was not harmed, just angry. They asked no questions, but confiscated the handles of the wheelchair and turned it back toward the room. "We can't have him waking the other patients," one explained haughtily to a protesting Dean.

Sam didn't say a word when the nurses shoved him quickly down the hall, or when they transferred him back into bed, or even when they insisted on injecting him with a fast acting sedative despite Dean's angry protests to the contrary. Anger would always consume him, but he'd moved on in the grief stages. He'd skipped over bargaining, believing no one would answer his pleas, and was now in full stage depression. His life, as he knew it, was over. Sam could care less what anyone did to him anymore, and as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep he wondered if he might be better off ending his life. Ending his emotional trauma.