I do not own Sam or Dean, but I do own the story. It's mine...all mine. Mwahaha
Hey guys! I'm still extremely grateful for all the reviews you take time to write. I really appreciate you expressing your desires for the direction of this fic and future fics. Although I have several more chapters to write in between I have already come up with and written an amazing end to this one, so we are definitely heading off to do some more ghost hunting very soon. But I will take all reviews to heart, and try to keep the characters real. Here's the next chapter...enjoy.
Climbing out of his precious Impala, Dean gazed at her admiringly. You look good girl. Damn, you look good. He backed away, circling the car as he inspected every inch of body, stopping a couple times to wipe a smudge of dust that had dared to adhere itself to the coat in the drive from the car wash back to the motel. Hours earlier, Dean had left Sam pounding furiously away at the laptop so he could give his baby a long overdue bath in the unusually warm March weather. He'd spent an hour alone just washing and waxing the car, and the result was a shiny, spotless coat of paint. The green flecks in the coat sparkled radiantly. Dean had considered forking out the requested seventy five bucks for a full detail, but in the end logic had won out. Not that seventy five big ones was an exorbitant amount to spend on the precious car; he would have gladly spent ten times that for a sparkling interior. No, logically, no one could do even half the job that Dean himself could, and would, do. The idea that he'd even considered allowing some stranger to touch his baby sent chills up his spine. It felt like handing your girlfriend over to some stranger in a bar and letting him have his way with her for a fee. It was just disgusting. Never gonna happen.
So Dean had spent the next couple of hours stooped over with vacuum, cloths, sprays, and other tools in hand, cleaning every square inch of the interior. Not until Dean possessed the replica of the Hope Diamond did he allow himself to accept the car as finished. And now, with lunch getting cold in the passenger seat, Dean was wasting time admiring his handiwork again.
Finally pulling himself from his conceit, Dean grabbed the food and headed into the hotel room. It was already midway through the day, and he figured Sam would be starving by now. "Come and get it little brother!" Dean called as he set foot in the room. "I got food." Dean froze, casting his eyes frantically around the room. Something was out of place, or rather, missing entirely. Sam. Sam's gone. Sammy! It wouldn't have worried him nearly as much if it weren't for the fact that Sam's wheelchair was still very much present in the room. But it sat empty, with absolutely no sign of his brother anywhere. Dean panicked, dropping the bags of food as he darted out the room, screaming Sam's name.
Ignoring every rule he'd ever learned about hunting, Dean circled the hotel like a maniac in search of any sign as to where his brother had been taken. Because that was the only explanation, right? Sam isn't well. There's no way he could have just gotten up and walked out of the room. Come on Sammy, leave a clue. Give me a sign! Dammit, Sam. "SAAAAAAM! Where are you? Sammy, please!" He didn't notice the curious faces coming to the motel windows to stare as Dean ran past, screaming in desperation. He didn't notice the small flock of children in front of one of the rooms scatter nervously as the psychotic man practically tripped over them. But most of all, he didn't notice that the room he had just vacated, their room, was largely undisturbed. There was absolutely no sign of a struggle.
As Dean rounded the corner to the backside of the motel his chest had begun to tighten and he was finding it difficult to breathe. I can't lose him now. Not after everything we've gone through. He's got to be Ok. He just HAS to be. All the thoughts jumbled in Dean's mind, thoughts of what had happened to Sam, where he was, was he OK? And then Dean's mind went completely blank as all color drained from his complexion.
There was Sam. Right there, in front of him. "Sammy!" Dean hollered, racing toward his brother. At this point, he didn't care about the promise he'd made to his little brother. He was going to call him any name he wanted as long as it meant Sam would hear the words. Relief flooded through him as Dean stopped in front of Sam, panting as he looked up at the beautiful sight of his baby brother. Wait. Up. Up? "Sam, you're walking!"
How could I not have noticed that before? How did I not see it? With Harry sticking very close to his side, Sam was slowly making his way around the building, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. In the last week, Sam and Harry, many times just Sam, had spent every available minute working on reclaiming the lost sensation and movement in his legs. The process was agonizingly slow to poor Sam who was desperate for the whole nightmare he was living to just be over. As the numbness in his legs gradually began to recede, Harry had begun working on strength training exercises as well, preparing Sam for that very moment. The moment he would stand on his own two feet and take his first step. In actuality, Sam's first step, and the subsequent steps, were actually more like a slide and shuffle. But he didn't care. He was on his feet and moving forward. As they made their long trek around the building the wheelchair had long since been forgotten. Against Harry's better judgement, Sam had convinced him to go for a walk, which is exactly where they'd been when Dean had found him missing and gone postal.
"Dean!" Sam snapped, nearly losing his balance in the process. "What the hell's the matter with you? I don't think they heard you in New Zealand!"
The pasty white skin Dean had modeled just seconds before quickly disappeared, replaced by a deep shade of crimson as he looked sheepishly at Sam and Harry. Words couldn't explain it without making him sound like an idiot, so Dean tried to shrug it off. "Sorry, Sam. I don't know what came over me. I just...never mind. Pretend it didn't happen."
Sam couldn't help himself as he tried to suppress a chuckle. The panic in Dean's face as he'd rounded the corner had been priceless. "Dean, were you scared?" Sam teased, mock surprise on his face.
"Just shut up, Sammy," Dean growled lightly. "It was a moment of weakness. Don't worry. It won't happen again." Dean was tempted to reach out and give Sam a light punch to the shoulder, but the boy looked like he would collapse any minute. In spite of Sam's original gung ho actions in taking his walk, he was quickly losing strength, and there was still almost half the motel to circle before they would make it back to their room. Every pound of his six foot five frame leaned exhausted on the metal crutches, and he didn't look like he would make it another step let alone another several hundred feet.
"Maybe I should run back and get your wheelchair," Dean said, his good humor being immediately replaced by concern. "I think you've gotten enough of a workout on your first trip out."
"I'm fine," Sam's short reply didn't reassure Dean, but the determination in his face got the message across. Dean backed off, falling into step beside his brother as they inched forward, shuffle by shuffle, to the room. Dean watched his baby brother with intense anticipation, prepared to grab him at the first sign of a stumble. He had nothing but admiration for the boy as he watched Sam fight with everything he had to make it back to the room without assistance.
Sam's legs still lacked strength and muscle control. They were still waiting for the day that the odd tingling sensation and numbness disappeared completely and began to feel the way healthy legs were supposed to feel. In the meantime, Sam had to struggle for enough to control to propel the disobedient limbs forward. Without the appropriate control, it was necessary to swing from the hips, shoving an entire half of his body forward and following it with the other half. It was rhythmic in his mind, and Sam had only enough energy to chant the necessary motions silently. Crutches forward. Left hip forward. Shuffle the foot. Right hip forward. Shuffle the foot. Crutches forward... His toes dragged haltingly behind the rest of his body, his ankles still lacking the strength to hold an angle. His knuckles were white as he clutched with a death grip on the handles. His armpits screamed from the pressure of the weight hanging on them. Sweat poured down his face from the exhaustion, the energy draining from him faster with every step he took.
"Sammy, are you sure you don't want me to get the chair?" Dean insisted, his arms now stretched cautiously behind his brother, sure they would be getting a workout any second.
"There's no shame in admitting you're tired," Harry was quick to add, his only feeling of respite being that he was no longer Sam's only source of protection from a fall. The old man wouldn't have been very successful in catching Sam and lowering him safely to the ground.
"It's Sam," the determined hunter hissed through clenched teeth. "And I said I'm fine." He took a second to glance up ahead, relieved to see they were only a few doors down from room 9. Thank you Jesus. It was nothing less than blind faith and stubborn determination that got Sam safely to the room, but he collapsed the minute he made it over the threshold, his body and legs refusing to go one step further.
As Sam's knees buckled Dean jumped forward, catching his little brother in a tender grasp, the crutches clattering loudly to the floor. "I've got you little brother," Dean whispered gently in Sam's ear as he readjusted the boy in his arms and carried him to the bed. "You did great. I'm so proud of you." But Sam barely heard the last part. Exhaustion had all out consumed him, and his head barely glanced the pillow before his eyes closed and Sam was asleep.
Dean waited until Harry had pulled out of the parking lot, watching the bumper disappear down the road before closing the door and returning to the interior of the room. The crutches still lay strewn haphazardly on the floor intermingled with the now stale burgers and fries Dean had dropped earlier. As he cleaned up the mess, throwing away the wasted food and propping the crutches against the wall, the question popped into his head with indeterminable ferocity. Why had he never thought it before? With everything going on, why had he never asked it. He'd just made assumptions; assumptions based solely on brief observations. I wonder what it's like. What does it feel like? To not be able to feel your legs? Not be able to move? What has he been going through?
Dean stealthily crossed the room to Sam's bed, trying to be as quiet as possible despite the fact that Sam was, for once, sleeping harder than the dead. But Dean still felt the need to reassure himself that his brother was out. Assured, Dean crept over to the wheelchair, hesitating before lowering himself into the chair and settling his feet on the footrests. For several minutes Dean just sat, erasing his mind of all feeling in his legs. If he closed his eyes and sat very still, Dean was able to imagine the feeling in his legs disappearing. It still wasn't the same. Sam had said once that it just felt as though there was dead weight hanging from his lower body. As though there was a sack of potatoes tied around his waist. Dean's imagination had his legs completely gone. But it was the best he could do, and it gave him better understanding than nothing.
He opened his eyes again and looked at the wheels, unlocking the brakes. Dean tested the motion, resting his hands on the rims and rolling the chair back and forth a couple times. Did it feel this odd to Sam when he sat in this chair for the first time? Or did it just come naturally to him? Maybe it becomes a second nature like walking used to be. "Ooohkaay," Dean whispered, gripping tighter on the rims of the chair. "Here goes nothing."
Dean pushed off as he'd seen Sam do so many times before, gaining the initial momentum he needed to keep the chair in motion. For a few minutes Dean circled the room, adjusting himself to the new angle and wider girth. But when he felt confident in his abilities Dean ventured outside. Or at least he tried. His first attempt at opening the door was met with resistance as the foot rest blocked the door from opening more than a crack, and he found his coordination to be lacking in holding the doorknob and backing the chair away in the same motion. It took several tries before he angled himself enough away from the door that it could be opened and he could push himself outside. The door closed behind him, and Dean sat heaving on the other side, emotions deviating between triumph and incompetence. Oh God that was hard. That was...how does he do that by himself? How did he learn to do that? Why can I kill just about any monster that chooses to attack me, but I can't get out a stupid door? What the fuck?
Moving beyond the initial frustrations, Dean pushed off again, this time down the sidewalk to the ramp. He'd watched Sam with this move, making it seem so effortless. But Dean had apparently missed the day in therapy when Harry told Sam to brace the wheels as though he were braking, because the ramp bested him and Dean began rolling across the parking lot with uncontrollable reckless abandon. Dean grasped frantically at the wheels, the metal heating in his hand as he fought to regain his hold. So that's what the gloves are for. He was halfway across the parking lot before he finally won the battle, spinning himself around so fast he almost tipped over. He was O for two, and Dean's confidence was quickly waning. There was one more battle he wanted to try before giving in entirely. He approached his car on the passenger side and grabbed the keys from his pocket, only realizing after the fact that he'd automatically hitched his hip up higher to make access to the keys easier. Man, the things we take for granted. This must suck for him.
Dean opened the door without much difficulty and then reached behind him for the transfer board Sam kept concealed in a pocket in the back of the chair. "How did he do this?" Dean muttered to himself, wracking his brain as he tried to remember the exact sequence of events, and then following them with a methodic motion. The armrest goes up first...OK, that's done. Now, my feet. How does he...under the knees, that right. And then the foot rests go up. Alright. Now...nowww, the board. The board slides under my ass and the other end sits on the seat and he braces himself, kinda like...so. Dean locked his elbows as he'd seen Sam do countless times and began to slide his body across the board, grunting and straining as he crossed onto the car seat. And then the legs. One at a time, Dean pulled his legs into the car and then he stopped. Tears threatened to fall and a knot the size of a bowling ball formed in his throat. How does he do this? How can he live like this? I don't know...I think I would kill myself if... I mean, this whole thing is so hard. Dean sat in the car for a good half hour, his thoughts focused solely on Sam and everything he'd gone through in the past weeks. He'd known it was hard, seen the pain and anguish and intense determination that Sam had confronted everyday. But nothing, none of his thoughts or his imagination could have prepared him for the harsh reality of what Sam was actually experiencing.
When he was certain his emotions would no longer betray him, Dean climbed unsteadily from the car, no longer taking for granted the feel of standing on his own two feet, powering himself into the room on two perfectly working legs. Dean parked the wheelchair beside Sam's still sleeping form and slid the transfer board back into its pocket. Sam would never hear about Dean's experience. It was a secret he would take to the grave. But as Dean gazed down at his little brother he was overcome with new appreciation for the strength and willpower the boy possessed. It was a description of self Dean knew he would never own no matter how hard he worked toward it. To Dean, it was either life or death. There were no in between's in his mind. That simple fact, in all its glory, made Dean weak. It made him realize. Sam was by far the strongest person Dean Winchester knew, and he had nothing but admiration and envy for the boy. His brother was an exceptional person.