Any of the characters or situations mentioned in this story are solely for the continuity of the story and are not mine in any way. But the story itself is my brainchild, but I give up my rightsshould the producers choose to create an episode based on my ideas. Hint Hint.
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It took Sam more than an hour to return, and by the time he did Dean was just about crawling out of his skin. "You damn well better have been in a coma yourself for as long as it took you to get your ass back here," Dean growled, not wasting a second beyond the his first notice of Sam's foot stepping through the door. "I could kill you for making me wait this long."
"I'd like to see you try," Sam taunted, calling Dean on his bluff. "But you really would have killed me if you'd seen the crap the hospital was handing out for wheelchair's. And as many hours as you spend in front of the mirror, I didn't want you staring back at those monstrosities. Nothing but then best for my big brother." Sam backtracked into the hall, returning immediately with a sleek blue aluminum chair with a sharp black seat and back.
"Are you trying to be patronizing, or does this just come naturally to you?" Dean sneered, rolling his eyes. "I don't care what the hell kind of chair you got me. I just want to get the hell out of this damn hospital. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can figure a way out of this mess."
Sam felt a sharp pang in his chest, and he had to fight against the air that seemed to have been slammed out of his lungs. Dean didn't realize what he was saying, but Sam couldn't help wonder what it meant for the rest of them. What happens to us, in this world, when Dean figures his way out. And what happens to us in Dean's world? Blinking, ignoring his own worries, Sam shoved the chair forward and aligned it with the bed. "You're sure you want to leave so soon?" he asked for lack of anything better to say.
Dean nodded firmly. "Damn straight, Sammy-boy. Let's blow this pop stand."
Memories of Sam's transfer efforts still hung fresh in Dean's mind, and he used those images to mentally talk himself through his own. Dean leaned over his numb legs, only noticing for the first time how weird they felt attached to his body. He'd spent every waking minute worrying about where he was that he hadn't wasted a minute focusing on his legs. But now he took the time, silently damning them because it was one more thing to contend with in this black hole he'd become trapped in. Damn, this is so much harder than Sam made it look, Dean thought as he slowly dragged the lifeless limbs off the bed and draped them over the side. Move, Damn it. I don't have time for this! Bracing his arms, Dean scooted himself forward, seating himself on the edge of the bed. He reached for the wheelchair and angled it the way he'd watched Sam do it so many times, raising the armrest out of the way, and setting the brakes. His mind wandered to the day he'd tried the chair after their fight. I had no idea. Even when I thought I was only using my arms, I was still using my legs. This is so much harder than I thought. Reaching out, Dean placed his hands strategically, one on the chair and one still on the bed. Sam stepped forward, sliding his arms under Dean's armpits, and Dean halted.
"Dude, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean snapped, spinning his head in Sam's direction.
"I'm trying to help," Sam answered timidly, not backing off.
"Well get off me," came the irritated reply as Dean shrugged his brother's unwanted hands out from under him. "I can do this myself. If I'd wanted your help I would have asked for it."
Sam stepped back, arms crossed, nervously watching his brother as he swung himself awkwardly into the chair. He had to suppress the urge to jump in and help as Dean's hand slipped from the armrest, causing him to fall painfully into the hard plastic. Dean winced as his ribs took the brunt of the impact, but he wiped the give-away expression from his face as soon as it had landed there. I'll be damned if he sees me hurting. I won't be weak. Not in front of Sam. Not in front of anyone. Dean quickly righted himself, planting his feet on the footrests of the wheelchair, smugly smiling at his stunned brother.
"I can't believe you just did that all by yourself," Sam announced incredulously, not even attempting to hide his surprise. "That...that's amazing."
"I'm not a dog," Dean snapped, shoving the chair forward, towards the door. "So don't be getting excited about all the fancy little tricks you think I'm performing. I lived through this with you. If there's one thing I brought with me into this world, it's knowledge about paralysis. Now let's get moving."
Sam followed reluctantly, Dean's bags slung over his shoulder. "We have to stop at the nurses station," he practically whispered, not wanting to endure his brother's wrath anymore. "You need to sign your AMA papers."
Dean scoffed. "Like hell. The whole point of leaving against medical advice is that they can't tell you what to do or when to do it. Their stupid papers are just another way to prove they still have power. I'm not signing a thing.
"But Dean–" Sam protested, sprinting to catch up to his brother who was already halfway down the hallway.
"I said now, Sam," Dean interrupted, pressing the down button for the elevator. "You're either with me or you're not. But tell me now so I can find another ride if I have to."
"I'm with you," Sam mumbled, scuffing his toe on the floor of the shiny tile floor. "I just don't think this is a good idea."
"Yeah, well, I don't keep you around to think. So I guess you're in luck."
They made it out of the hospital and through the parking lot in complete silence. Sam had to bite his tongue several times as he watched Dean struggle through crowds of people, a sharp corner, and two seemingly shallow and yet all too steep ramps. But Dean had made it perfectly clear that he wanted no help, and Sam didn't look forward to the words that would escape his brother's newly foul mouth if he even attempted to offer his assistance.
"Where'd you park?" Dean finally asked as they wound their way through the monstrosity of a parking lot. He would never admit it to Sam, hell he could barely admit it to himself, but he was getting tired. His arms ached and his breathing was getting shallow, and he wanted nothing more than to be stationary again.
Looking behind him at his brother's pale, haggard face, the words slipped out of Sam's mouth before he could stop himself. "Do you want me to get the car for you?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "No, I don't want you to get the car for me," Dean replied stubbornly, shoving harder against the rims. "I can make it just fine."
"Fine. Have it your way." Sam stormed ahead again, worried thoughts on how he would explain this to his parents shoving their way to the front of his subconscious. God, I'm in so much trouble.
The red Ford F-350 super cab towered over the smaller vehicles surrounding it, and Dean's mouth gaped open as he heard the unmistakable blip blip emit from it as Sam pressed into the remote on his key chain. "That's yours?" he asked, incredulously.
"Yeah," Sam answered proudly, puffing his chest as he walked toward his own baby. "You like it?"
Dean slowly shook his head, disbelievingly. "I just never pegged you for the truck type," he answered, moving toward the passenger side. "I always saw you as more of a two-seater sports car. You know, fast. Sleek."
"Nope. Mom and Dad bought this baby for me as an early graduation present. I picked her out myself." Hesitantly, Sam leaned out and opened the heavy door for his brother, holding his breath as he waited for the complaints that surprisingly never came. Dean was too busy gawking at the monstrosity of a truck to notice the open door. "You just gonna sit there all day or are you getting in?"
Dean snapped out of his trance, rolling forward and sidling up against the truck. He reached high, planting his hand firmly onto the seat and the other clutched tightly onto the door frame, and pulled. "Dammit, Sam, you had to have a truck," Dean scowled. His shoulders screamed as the muscles and ligaments were stretched to the limit. Arms shook fiercely through the strain, and Dean had to put every ounce of his efforts into climbing in the seat that was several feet higher than the wheelchair. When he'd finally won the battle, he leaned back against the seat, panting heavily, face red.
"You alright there?" Sam inquired, folding the wheelchair and setting it into the bed of the truck. "That looked tough."
"Yeah, well, if you owned a car like the rest of the normal world..."
Sam chose to be smart, ignoring Dean's not so subtly dropped hint. He made his own effortless leap into the driver's side and started up the car without ever glancing at his combative brother. This is ridiculous. He's ready to blow at any minute and I'm taking his ass home? I must be just as crazy as he is.
Dean stared out the window in faded curiosity as he watched the busy city streets give way to smaller suburban streets. He had no idea how long the drive had taken them, but soon enough the truck was turning into one of the many driveways along the residential street. It wasn't until he'd lowered himself painfully back into the wheelchair that he allowed himself to ingest the house that joined the paved driveway. Oh my God, we're the fucking Cleavers, Dean thought to himself sarcastically as he took in the sight of the picturesque sky-blue Victorian house with gingerbread trim and a little white picket fence surrounding the entire perimeter. The whole scene was disgustingly perfect, not a paint chip in sight, not even a faded board. Even the landscaping had every flower in place with no sign of a weed anywhere. He half expected to see his parents emerge from the house, grins from ear to ear, his mother in a floral house coat and ruffled apron, father in a brown double breasted suit and matching fedora. And just when Dean thought he'd seen it all, a chocolate lab bounded out from behind the house, whining happily at the sight of his 'boys.'
"We have a dog?" He made no efforts to hide his shock as he sat motionless in the driveway, hands clenched tightly against the steel rims, knuckles white.
"Correction," Sam explained, gripping the handles of Dean's wheelchair and pushing him towards the porch when he'd realized Dean wouldn't be moving anytime soon. "You have a dog. His name's Atlas, and we've been taking care of him since you got hurt."
"I don't even like dogs!" Dean protested, the fact that Sam was pushing him barely registering above the newest obscure turn of events. "At least I think I don't like dogs. Honestly, I don't know– never really had time for dogs."
Sam sighed, bringing Dean to a stop on the porch at the top of the ramp, and spun the chair around, forcing Dean to face him. Leaning back on his haunches, Sam made direct eye contact with his stubborn brother. "Look, Dean, I know this is weird for you. Don't get me wrong, cause it's weird for me too. And, for some reason I'm willing to try to help you figure this whole alternate world thing out. But Mom and Dad– they're not going to want anything to do with this. They're not going to understand this. To be perfectly honest, I don't even think we're going to manage to get them to understand why you're already home. The old Dean –the Dean you were before the accident– would never have argued with doctor's orders. So if it's not too much trouble, do you think you could make my life just a little bit easier and try to pretend like everything's normal? At least around Mom and Dad?"
Man, the kid looks so desperate. It's not gonna kill me to help him out just a little. I mean he is trying to help me, too. And I guess it would be interesting to find out how my life would have turned out if things had been different from the start. Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah. Okay, I guess I could help you out a bit. I guess I could do that."
Smiling gratefully, Sam returned to his full height and reached around Dean to open the door, giving his brother passage into yet another part of this unknown world. Dean rolled forward, entering the massive house and carefully analyzing every detail. He vaguely noticed Sam calling out to their parents, but when the answer never came Dean was free to explore.
The walls of the entry hall and the stairs contained photo after photo of the family. Pictures of the whole family, Dean and Sam, Dean alone, Sam alone, graduation pictures, professional photos, casual snapshots, their mother loved pictures of the men in her life and she'd filled the walls with them. In the living room were more pictures, and a bookshelf in the corner was littered with strategically placed plaques and trophy's. As Dean drew nearer, he noticed that half the shelving had been reserved for Sam and his baseball and swimming trophy's, and the other half contained Dean's multitude of soccer trophy's and a few baseball trophy's of his own.
"She sure like's to collect memories, huh," Dean muttered, not really expecting that Sam would answer him.
"Mom's just proud of us." Sam had remained several steps behind his brother, allowing him to absorb the information without interruption or distraction. But he'd felt the need to defend his mother against Dean's intoned sarcasm. "She care's Dean. She really does. Dad, too."
"I never said they didn't," Dean argued, leaving the bookcase and making his way from the living room and into the dining room. Oddly enough, he didn't find it strange that their mother had set the dining room table for four, despite her lack of knowledge of when, or even if, her oldest son would wake up. Having noticed her compulsive need to create a homey environment, Dean would have been more surprised if she hadn't had a place set for him. In the china cabinet Dean finally noticed something familiar, and he rolled closer so he could get a better view. On display in the cabinet was his mother's prized china, a collection of dishes that had passed through his mother's family for five generations. He could remember a day, as a child, that he'd been running through the house and almost smacked into his mother as she carried a stack of the precious dishes to a different cabinet in a different house. After setting them safely on a table she had chided him for several minutes on his carelessness, explaining to him that their house was no place to be running. If he had that much energy, he should be outside, enjoying the beautiful weather. She had died less than a month later, murdered in a fire over Sam's bed.
Cautiously, Dean reached a hand to the glass that separated him from the priceless artifacts, fingering the outline of the etched serving dish on display in the front of the cabinet. "She doesn't bring those out very often," Sam offered in hushed tones. "I guess you almost broke one when you were a kid, and she got nervous. Only brings them out on special occasions."
Dean turned quickly, angry with himself for showing even the slightest hint of emotion. There could be no nostalgia; not in his life. Not in the life of a hunter. "So let me meet this dog of mine," he announced, pretending he hadn't heard Sam. "He's allowed in the house, right?"
Sam walked briskly to the kitchen, opening the back door as he yelled back to Dean. "Of course he's allowed in the house. He's extremely well trained."
The dog bounded through the door, body quavering with puppish excitement as he tore past Sam and landed his front paws with hyper exhilaration on his master's lap, the unlocked wheels of the chair causing Dean to roll backwards several feet before he could get control of them. All seventy pounds of the hairy, chocolate colored brute followed the chair, oblivious to its purpose. All he cared about was reaching the man who had been absent from his life for the last six weeks. "Whoa, whoa dog, chill." Dean pushed against the dog's chest, his head seemingly going into convulsions as he attempted unsuccessfully to escape the wet tongue that seemed to cover his face with every swipe.
"Atlas," Sam called, laughter getting in the way of his attempt to sound firm. "Atlas, get down. Sit."
Thankfully, the dog obeyed the wavered command, his rear falling quickly to the floor. But he continued to wiggle, whining desperately for more attention from his beloved person. In spite of himself, Dean found he actually enjoyed dishing out his attentions on the furry beast and his hand reached hesitantly to its head, patting it self-consciously. The petting grew with more intensity as the dog responded favorably to Dean's affections. Now this I can live with. No questions. No back-talk. Just unconditional love. Man, I should have gotten myself a dog a long time ago. He even listens better than Sammy.
As he continued to stroke the pet, Dean's eyes glanced something else he hadn't noticed earlier, and he reached his other hand out to grab it, setting the book on his lap. Sam stepped closer, sitting on the table the photo album had just vacated and leaning over his brother to see the pictures too.
"The family photo album," Sam stated unnecessarily. "Mom pulled that out the day you got hurt. I think she flips through it just about every day, just to see you."
Dean opened the album to the first page, staring at an aged family portrait taken in the early eighties when Sam was just a few weeks old and he was four. He knew the picture; had carried a wallet sized version of it for as long as he could remember, as long as his mother had been dead. Dean stared at it for several minutes, absently stroking the dog's head which had become permanently glued to his unfeeling leg. He finally flipped the page, and on that one and the next several pages he viewed images of himself and his parents from birth to age four, all of which he remembered. But that's where his memories ended and new ones began, and he gazed intently, engrossing himself in images of what could have been.
It was difficult to swallow down the knot that was forming in his throat as Dean looked through yearly school pictures of himself and Sam, birthday photos, family vacations, and every other milestone he'd experienced in his twenty-six years on this version of the planet. So this is what it's like to have a normal family. This is what my life would have been like if there was no demon. In one photo, he and Sam beamed, awestruck, beside Micky and Minnie Mouse on the family vacation to Disney World when they were eight and four. In another, a ten year old Dean proudly held up a large bass he'd just caught, his father's arm wrapped lovingly around his son's shoulder. A third photo depicted sixteen year old Dean dressed in an oversized monkey suit standing stiffly beside his cute little blonde date on their way to the sophomore prom. So many memories, and yet he hadn't experienced a single one of them. A sharp pang of resentment flowed through his body. But the time Dean allowed himself to mourn was cut short as he and Sam heard the front door slam shut and their parents came into view, anger unmistakable on their contorted faces. He quickly closed the album and slid it back onto the table, face flushing as though he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But John and Mary Winchester could care less about the photo album he'd been looking at, and as Dean looked into their furious faces he realized just how foolish he'd been to worry about the stupid book.
"You boys are in so much trouble," their father's voice boomed, reminding Dean of the childhood he knew. The brother's froze, waiting expectantly for the bomb to drop.