I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own Supernatural or any of its characters. But everything else in this story are mine.
Hey hey! Thanks so much for all your awesome reviews. I love hearing from you, and I love seeing all the gears turning in your curious little minds as you try to figure this out. Some of you are on the right track with your thoughts, but I'm not saying who! Keep reading. Everything will come to light in due time. Enjoy!
Their father's icy stare unnerved the brother's, and Sam felt himself scooting closer to his big brother, looking for protection. Or maybe to give protection; he didn't really know. Face red, John Winchester took an angry step toward his two boys, his wife trying her best to calm him despite her own furiousness. Dean shrank back, reaching for the wheels of the chair in case he needed to make a fast escape. Even the dog seemed to notice the tension in the air, but instead of hiding he planted himself between Dean and John, staring down the man as if to warn him, take one step towards my boy and I'll prove I can do more than just be a happy little puppy.
Dean slapped on his best 'I'm ignorant and have absolutely no idea why you're so mad,' grin and looked at the fuming couple in the doorway. "Hi guys," he grinned innocently.
They didn't buy it. "What the hell kind of stunt do you two boys think you're pulling?" their father boomed, enunciating each word with infinite clarity. "This has to be the stupidest idea ever to have crossed either of your pea-brained minds! It was dumb! Idiotic! What the hell were you thinking?"
Glancing nervously back and forth the brother's went into a silent battle over who would be the one to explain their predicament. Dean, at least, was used to this side of John Winchester, and had plenty of experience attempting to deflate his anger. But Sam had grown up with Mary Winchester, knew the way she ticked far better than Dean ever could. Who would be the better one to defuse their parents?
Finally taking the lead, Sam stood, taking a hesitant step toward his father. "Mom, Dad, I can explain," he stuttered, nervously biting his bottom lip as he reached deep into his brain for a plausible lie.
"No, I can explain," Dean interrupted, saving his brother, not to mention himself, from a lie he knew would never be believed. This is my mess. I have to get us out of it. "It was my choice, Sam. You just drove the getaway car."
"This better be good," their mother warned through clenched teeth, leading her husband to the couch. "Because I can't think of one possible excuse that would make it OK for you to check yourself out of the hospital less than a day after you woke from a coma. Do you have any idea how worried we were when we got to the hospital and found somebody else in your room?"
Dean held his tongue, wisely choosing not to correct his mother on the idea that he'd actually taken the time to check himself out of the hospital, instead fast-forwarding to the part where he explained why he'd made the great escape. "I just couldn't stay there anymore," he explained, adding a bit of whine to his voice for added measure. "I felt like I was suffocating. Sure, maybe it wasn't the smartest move, but I'd rather recuperate at home." This better work. I can't very well tell them that I've recovered in a run-down motel in worse shape than I'm in now. And I certainly can't explain to them why I don't want my own therapy. "Please just let me stay here for now. If I start getting worse, I'll go back to the hospital. I promise." He was a good actor, an excellent one actually, so Dean knew that he would easily be able to hide it if his condition worsened. This father didn't embody the unnatural lie radar that his father had represented, and even with honed mothering abilities he doubted this mother would be able to read him that well. He was just too good. It was a safe wager that he could avoid ever returning to the hospital with this deal. He finalized his efforts with a pleading, puppy dog gaze that directly matched the one Atlas was shooting at him.
When Dean put on the charm, no woman had ever been able to deny him, and his mother was no exception. She softened, shoulders slumping some from their original squared tenseness. "Dean, we're not trying to be mean here. We just want what's best for you. And what's best for you is that you return to the hospital until the doctor feels you're well enough to be discharged to a rehab hospital. And then you need physical therapy. You need to learn how to use that wheelchair; how to take care of yourself." Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she didn't bother trying to wipe them away. It was obvious that it killed her to even think about her oldest son being paralyzed, and talking about it was even worse. She choked on her words as she continued. "We– we've already talked to s– some people about a really great rehab hospital out in Oregon. They say they've gotten people up and wal–"
"Save it, Mom," Dean interrupted, hesitating when he realized he'd just called her 'mom'. The word sounded foreign, unfamiliar. But it still felt good to say it. "You and I both know I'm never getting out of this chair. We all do. Sam already told me what the doctor's said."
"The doctor's are wrong," she insisted, leaning forward towards her son, eyes pleading with him to accept her words. "But you need to be willing to fight."
"I am willing to fight," Dean assured her, "but for now I want to fight from home. Please, Mom. Just trust me for now."
Mary hesitated, looking anxiously at her husband for confirmation. Twenty-four hours ago her son had been in a coma, totally lost to the world. A few hours after that, he'd been awake but far from lucid. And yet now he was sitting in front of them, in their home, asking them to trust him; to believe what he was saying and to accept his pleas. He was twenty-six. Legally an adult. But did that mean they had to give way to his idiotic requests?
Slowly, barely noticeable, John nodded his head in affirmation. "I don't think we have any choice other than to trust our son," he relented, speaking quietly to his wife as though he believed it would keep the boys from hearing him. "He's promised to go back if he get's any worse. That's about as good as we can ask for right now."
She pulled a tissue from her pocket, finally wiping her eyes. "OK," she agreed, yielding stubbornly. "But you still go to therapy. We'll set up an out-patient program."
He'd won. Truth be told, Dean would have preferred to skip the therapy all together, but his mother's compromise was better than the alternative and he accepted it without complaint. So why did he feel so deflated?
It had been more than an hour since Sam had brought him home. More than an hour since he'd over-exerted himself wandering through the halls of the hospital and struggling into and out of the torture trap his brother called a vehicle. Tough as he believed he was, Dean was no more immune to the effects of six weeks in deep slumber and brunt force trauma to the spine than any other human being. His physical struggles of the day, combined with the emotional outburst he'd just dealt with were quickly taking its toll on Dean's consciousness. His eyes, lined with dark circles, felt heavy. His arms leaden. Dean was exhausted and, much to his chagrin, Mary's intuitive eye noticed despite his best efforts to hide it.
"There's something else that I have to insist upon," Mary added, crossing her arms stubbornly. "As long as you're living under my roof, you live by my rules. And right now, I say you need to get some rest."
Even if he'd wanted to Dean couldn't have protested, and right now he was grateful for the order. It meant not having to admit his own exhaustion. He nodded slowly, even that move requiring more effort than he'd expected. "Lead the way."
She stood, dabbing the final bit of moisture from her eyes before putting the damp tissue in the garbage. "Since your old room is upstairs, we had to turn the den into a bedroom for you," she explained, glancing worriedly back at her older son as he followed her weakly from the room. Sam and their father pattered just behind Dean, Sam's hand resting unobtrusively on one of the handles, pushing ever so gently in an effort to help. Whether Dean noticed or not, he didn't say anything as the family wove through the hallway to the back of the house where the den lay nestled between a bathroom and the door to the basement.
"Here we are." Mary held the door open for the men, looking more than apologetic. "I'm sorry it's not dressed up the same way you had your bedroom. We just didn't expect you to be home nearly so soon, so I haven't had an opportunity to do much more than move the equipment in. We'll fix it up together, if you like."
If he hadn't been so tired Dean probably would have alternated between laughter and annoyance at the sight of the room. Had she not actually called the room a den he never would have been able to tell that it wasn't his old bedroom; or at least someone's old bedroom. Maybe it was simply his affinity for lackluster hotel rooms, but Dean saw no reason to improve on the design. It lacked any den-like qualities, with the exception, maybe, of the large oak desk that sat in the corner, covered with stacks of medical magazines. Otherwise, it could have easily been a male's bedroom. Along one wall was a large home entertainment system with a 32-inch TV, DVD player, three different video game systems, and a treasure trove of DVD's and video games. The table beside the bed was stacked high with back issues of Sports Illustrated, Car and Driver, Motor Trend, National Geographic, and Rolling Stone. Peeking out from under the stack, as though they'd been carefully hidden at the bottom, Dean noticed issues of Maxim and GQ. He mentally reminded himself to thank Sam for sneaking those into the mix, too. Along another wall, Dean noticed a separate table with a six disc CD player and a massive collection of CD's, making a mental note to check them out when he was more awake.
His annoyance was triggered by the all too sterile, hospital environment that glared at him despite the attempts at normality in the room. The bed was high-class, expensive, but still appeared to be hospital issue with its moveable parts, bed rails, and remote controlled access. Even with the blue and green checked bedspread and dark blue sheets covering it, Dean still couldn't get past what it represented. Hanging over the bed Dean noticed the grab bar, the same triangular shaped metal that he remembered hanging over Sam's bed when he'd been in the hospital. This is so gonna suck. Blanking his face, refusing to show any emotion at all, Dean pushed forward towards the bed and lined himself up, ready to transfer into it.
"Let me give you a hand their, son," John offered, stepping towards Dean before he could answer.
"I'm alright," Dean insisted feebly, flailing hand brushing off the older man's advances. But from the corner of his eye Dean could see Sam cross his arms against his chest and shake his own head firmly at Dean. Let him help, Sam mouthed to his brother, and Dean got it. This worlds' Dean doesn't have the strength and stubborn willpower that he'd brought with him. They'd get too suspicious if he was able to climb into the bed so soon after waking.
Controlling his urge to slap the man's hands away took the remaining energy Dean had left, but he allowed himself to be helped into bed, not protesting when his arms were draped over John's shoulders and his limp body was lifted effortlessly onto the bed. Mary took over where her husband left off, propping her son against herself as she assisted him with his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift move. But she soon froze, efforts halting unnaturally when her eyes landed upon Dean's now bare chest. Sam noticed it, too. And Dean was suddenly wide awake again as the realization hit him. This one may not be able to be explained.
Mary gasped sympathetically, confusion written all across her face as she reached a hand hesitantly out to her sons stomach. "Where did these come from?"
Dean gulped as he looked down, staring at the three inch scar she was fingering gently. That one was from the Wendigo. And that one, where her eyes are looking now, was where that bastard Bender seared me with the hot poker. And those pucker marks are from the rock salt at the asylum. Those are from the shadow demons. Scar by scar, Dean recalled the history of every one. His arms, chest, and torso were marred by reminders of the angry welts and gunshots and stab wounds that had haunted his entire existence, and he had no way to explain them away.
"He was in a horrible car accident, Mom," Sam supplied, hoping desperately that she hadn't just heard his voice crack. "He's bound to have scars."
Thank you, Sammy! Dean had to give the kid credit; at least he'd tried. But Mary was far smarter than that, and she shook her head stubbornly, pulling her husband down to take a closer look. "No. You didn't have these in the hospital. I would have noticed them; I helped with your sponge baths."
Well shit. Of course she would have seen me undressed while I– he was unconscious. She couldn't be an absentee parent, could she? He watched nervously as his father leant down to study the grid of imperfections of his son's skin, stomach inflating and deflating frantically as he tried to come up with a believable explanation. "Dean, some of these look old; years old," his father noticed, calloused fingers pushing against the rough keloids.
"Soccer injuries?" Dean suggested weakly, wracking his brain for what he knew about his 'other' life.
Mary rose from the bed and began pacing the floor, adamantly spouting her knowledge. "I told you, I don't remember those scars being there. There's no way they can be old. They can't be soccer injuries. They can't even be from the car accident."
Sam crossed the room toward his mother, clasping her arms tightly in his hands to stop her movement. "Mom, there was a lot going on. You were probably just too worried about everything else to take notice in a bunch of old scars. They did have him bandaged up for a while there."
"He's my son," she protested, squirming out of her younger boy's grasp. "I think I would have noticed if he'd been that covered in scars before. Look at him! Can you honestly tell me that this doesn't worry you?" She looked back and forth between Sam and her husband, waiting for someone to back her up as Dean sat in silence, listening to the exchange that was taking place around him. He wondered if it would be safer to interject his own suggestions, or if he would be better off to continue to allow them to forget he was even there. The latter soon won out as his mother's voice escalated.
"Don't tell me I'm blowing this out of proportion!" Mary shrieked at Sam, who had apparently told her just that. "Look at him! He looks like he was massacred!"
John finally interceded on his boys' behalf, pulling his wife toward the door. "Mary, our son is tired. It's been a long day. Could we please just save this for later? Just let him get some rest."
She mercifully relented, and followed her husband out of the room, but not until she'd turned back to her boys who now sat wide eyed on the bed. "This isn't over," she assured them, obviously more worried than angry. "We'll pick this back up when you're feeling better."
"Wow, that was a close one," Sam sighed, running his hands shakily through his long brown locks. "How did you get those scars anyway?"
Pulling himself slowly back, leaning against the pillows, Dean rolled his eyes at his brother. "What, have you been sleeping through the last 24 hours? I thought I explained all that to you. I got them hunting demons."
Sam whistled a breath out through his teeth, finally taking a good look at the patchwork pattern etched into Dean's chest. "Looks painful."
"Yeah, well, they weren't nearly as painful as the pain we're gonna be feeling if we can't figure out a way to get mom off my back. But right now, I want to get some sleep. We'll figure this out later."
Understanding his dismissal, Sam climbed hesitantly back to his feet and headed toward the door. "Do you need anything before I leave?" Like, maybe a roommate, because I don't think I'm gonna get off nearly as easily as you did. The minute I step out the door Mom's gonna be riding my ass again like their's no tomorrow.
"Nope, Sam. I'm good. Thanks." As Sam cowered from the room Atlas made his way happily through the door, finally assuming it safe to enter. Oddly enough, Dean found himself enjoying the dog's company, and he fell asleep to the therapeutic comfort of his new companion's steady panting.
As Dean slept, Sam had crept quietly from the den and hesitantly slipped up the stairs. He would have made it without notice had the stairs themselves not given him up with a loud creaking on the second to last one. He cringed, leaning heavily on his heel in an effort to stop the creaking before it went any further, but it was too late.
"Sam!" his mother's voice nagged heatedly. "Get down here!"
Crap. What the hell am I going to say? He tiptoed back down the stairs and timidly entered the living room, standing stiff as a board, hands clasped behind his back.
"What do you know?" She demanded, eyes burning into his.
Sam considered playing dumb, but he knew they were far beyond humor. "Mom, I don't know what kind of an answer you're looking for here. I mean, how could he possibly not have had the scars while he was unconscious? You probably just didn't notice them." Sam crossed his fingers behind his back, silently praying she would accept it and let it go.
His mother eyed him sternly, and Sam began to squirm as she took her time considering his promulgation. "It still doesn't explain where they came from in the first place," she persisted, still unwilling to drop the issue.
Sam sighed, making audible his exasperation and annoyance at her line of questioning, and immediately feeling guilty for doing so. "I don't know, Mom. You're going to have to ask Dean if you want more answers. He said they're a mixture of soccer injuries and injuries form the accident. I'm sure there are other explanations as well. He's an active guy, Mom. And in addition to soccer, he likes extreme sports. I don't know what else to tell you."
"So you're saying you don't know how or why your brother looks like he got thrown into a meat processing plant?" Her tone was accusatory; she knew Sam knew more than he was telling her.
"I don't know any more than I've told you. What the hell do you think is going on? It's not like we've jumped into an alternative dimension or something." When all else fails, sometimes hinting at the truth is the surest way to halt the line of questioning.
Mouth agape, she stared at Sam. For the slightest moment, Sam thought he'd blown it; that he'd just blurted out the one secret that would tear her world apart. But then her mouth twisted into a smile, and she was laughing. And Sam was laughing with her. "An alternate dimension?" she chuckled. "That's wild Sam. And I guess you're right. I probably did have more on my mind than looking at some old wounds. I suppose I was just blowing things out of proportion." She pulled Sam towards her, stretching on tiptoes to reach his forehead as she planted a kiss. "I'm sorry if I sounded like I was accusing you of anything. I was worried about your brother."
"Don't tell me that. Tell Dean." Sam looped his arms around his mother, kissing her back on the cheek as she nodded her understanding.
After calming down, the house returned to normal. Sam escaped upstairs to study, their father made his way outside to work on one of his many landscaping projects in their perfect lawn, and their mother went about her usual daily cleaning ritual. All was quiet for several hours until a rattling crash brought everyone back together outside the door to the den.