Chapter Three
Getting Dean home was actually easier than Sam had expected. Well, in all honesty he hadn't really known what to expect, but it went smoothly, which was better than he had anticipated. Dean hadn't said more than two words. A short "yeah" when Sam had asked him if he was ready to 'blow this popsicle stand' and a quick "sure" when he'd asked him if he was comfortable sitting in the front seat of Sam's SUV. Other than those two short words, he hadn't said a thing. Nothing when Sam had come to pick him up, nothing when he'd helped him get dressed, nothing when the doctor had come to talk to Sam about watching for signs of remission and nothing during the car ride home.
Sam had done all of the talking. Trying to keep the mood light. He'd chattered. Rattling off anything that popped into his head. And Dean had just sat there, head against the window, wincing when Sam would hit a bump, but not saying a word or giving any indication that he was listening to what Sam was saying. He probably hadn't been. And though Sam was keeping in mind Sarah's words from earlier, about not expecting a miracle the first day, he couldn't help but think that by now, Dean should be at least talking. When Sam had gone to see him that first day in a frantic panic with tears in his eyes, Dean had talked. You really went shopping for tutus? But it was just fuel for a fire that wasn't burning. That had been all Dean could offer.
During the two weeks Dean was confined to the hospital bed, the hope that that one small joke had lit inside Sam had all but gone out. It was the last of Dean's jokes. When Sam came to see him, they'd sit in uncomfortable silence. And when Sam tried to break the silence, Dean would sigh or close his eyes. Trying to get away, not wanting to talk. Sam wondered if this was how Dean had been after the fire, after their Mom died. You know, when I was your age, I saw something bad happen to my Mom and I didn't really feel like talking either. Sam had never thought of how a four year old Dean would have coped with their mother's death. Sam had barely coped with Jessica's death and he'd been twenty two. Silence, for Dean Winchester, meant he'd come across something he couldn't handle. It only happened twice in Dean's life.
Sam pulled the SUV into the driveway and put it in park. After turning off the ignition, he sat for a moment, keys in hand, staring hard at the steering wheel as if it held the answers to all the questions in the Universe. Finally, he got his wits about him and turned to look at Dean. His brother's eyes were focused on the house. But Sam didn't think he was really seeing it. He was seeing what was inside. Sarah, the kids, Sam's life. Not Dean's life. Never Dean's life.
"You ready?" Sam asked quietly and Dean's eyes fell. But he reached to unfasten his seatbelt with the arm that wasn't in a cast. Sam watched his brother move painstakingly slow for a moment before he hopped out and rounded the car to pull open the passenger side door. He pulled Dean's wheelchair out of the back seat and had it open and ready for him. Dean eyed it wearily for a moment, his face crumbling when he realized he wouldn't be able to get in it without Sam's help. "Okay," Sam whispered, noting the tears welling in Dean's eyes. "Let's get you out of there."
Dean had never hated anything more in his life than how he hated himself right then. He hated the way Sam kept pausing, watching him, looking at him, seeing him. He hated the way Sam was gentle, nervous around him. He hated that he couldn't do anything for himself, that his baby brother had to dress him and move him and keep his hands on him to make sure he was still there. Dean didn't have the heart to tell him that he wasn't. Sammy, we can't fix this one. Just let me die, it will be better for the both of us.
Sam positioned the wheelchair with delicate precision, making sure it was just right before he reached up to grab Dean's arm and sling it over his shoulders. The cast was bulky and awkward, but Sam didn't mind. He slid his arms beneath Dean's legs, pausing when he heard Dean take a sharp breath. "All right," Sam said, to let Dean know what was coming. Then he lifted his brother and bent to put him in the chair, straining at the weight but also thinking that Dean used to be heavier. He'd lost a lot of weight. Lost a lot of muscle.
While Sam was getting Dean's legs straight on the footrests, Dean watched him with growing anger. His mind was screaming 'I can do it, Sam. Let it alone. Stop taking care of me. Leave me the fuck alone.' But his body refused to acknowledge the thoughts. He wanted to reach out and shove Sam's hands away, to take control back over his own body, but he couldn't. He couldn't because Sam was being so careful. Because Sam looked so dedicated and focused. Because Sam was going to worry that bottom lip bloody if he didn't stop chewing on it. Sam needed this. And as much as Dean hated it, he took it. His punishment for being weak. Give Sam the control, let Sam have what he wants. It didn't matter what Dean wanted anymore. Nothing else mattered except for Sam.
"There," Sam announced and Dean looked down at himself, at his legs he no longer felt, at his arm laying limply in his lap, at the bulging of bandages underneath his shirt. Yeah. There. Sam patted Dean's arm and straightened his shirt for him, not really realizing what he was doing. He just wanted Dean to look okay, to feel okay, to be okay. "Ready to go inside?" He paused, as if he almost expected an answer, but then continued. "Sarah's got the guest room all set up for you. We figured you'd probably be pretty tired."
Sam came around behind Dean and started pushing him towards the house. But as soon as they rounded the car, Dean's head lifted fractionally and he whispered a distressed, "Sam." Sam stopped and leaned forward to get a look at his brother's face. Dean was looking at the ramp Sam had worked on all day.
"Hey," Sam forced a smile, trying to keep his voice light. "You need to be able to get around so, I thought this would help. I mean, I know there's a bump at the top but I can fix that." He watched Dean close his eyes and put his head in his hand. "I can fix that," Sam repeated quieter, unsure of whether he was talking about the ramp or about his brother. He hoped it was both.
Pushing Dean up the ramp, Sam wondered again why he was so nervous. Sarah knew Dean and the two of them had always acted like family together. He didn't think Sarah would look at Dean any differently. His children loved Dean, or what they could remember of him. Hannah practically worshiped him. There was no reason to be nervous. Things would work out. You'll see, Dean. Things will work out.
When Sam reached over Dean to open the front door, the aroma of cookies baking wafted out and Dean had to close his eyes again. Not just because the thought of food made his stomach lurch, but because it was so…normal. A beautiful house, a beautiful family, and cookies baking. It was everything Sam had ever wanted. God, why was he here? Why was he intruding on this? He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't fucking be here.
"We're home!" Sam called, startling Dean a little.
Sarah poked her head out of the kitchen and as soon as her eyes found Dean, she was smiling. She came out, pulling an oven mitt off one hand and placing it on the hall table as she made her way towards them. "Dean," she said, face still bright. It was the brightest smile Dean had seen in a while. Sarah bent down and gave him a light hug. "We were just making you cookies. Hannah remembered your favorite. Peanut Butter."
As if on cue, Hannah suddenly came barreling around the corner, a smaller boy at her heels, and a toddler waddling at a slower pace behind them. Sarah took a step back and intercepted her children before they could jump on their uncle.
"Hi," Hannah said shyly as she stood beside her mother. The little boy who'd been her shadow clung to Sarah's leg, peeking at Dean from behind his human shield. The toddler mirrored his older brother.
And all Dean could do was look at them. Look at that perfect family. Sam and Sarah, the perfect couple. I think this Sarah girl could be good for you. That's what he'd said to Sam the first time they'd met her. He'd never said truer words. Look at this. Look at what she's given him. It's more than Dean could ever give him. And the kids. The three brown haired, wide eyed, beautiful kids. Hannah with her hair in a braid. The last time he'd seen her, she'd been five. She was eleven now. Eleven. Patrick was eight. He'd been just a gurgling baby the last time Dean had seen him. And Cameron. The baby. The one Dean had never met. The one who was now looking at him with wide, adoring eyes. It was too much. This was too much. This is too much Sammy, get me out of here, I can't be here, I don't want to be here.
Hannah looked up at her mother when Dean didn't say anything and just continued to stare at them with watery eyes. Sarah put an arm around Hannah and smiled. They'd talked about this. Sarah had sat her kids down to tell them that Uncle Dean is sick. He probably won't want to talk a lot. You have to be nice and you have to be gentle. Will he be okay Mommy? Give it time, baby. He just needs time.
"Well, we've got your room all ready, Dean," Sarah said, her eyes meeting Sam's, who nodded tensely and started to wheel his brother down the hallway, towards the guest room they'd made up for Dean. "We'll let you get some rest and we'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight," Hannah called but Dean didn't answer. How could he? Don't get her hopes up. Her uncle's dead and he's not coming back. Don't give her a reason to think differently. Just before Sam pushed Dean into his room, he heard Hannah whisper quietly to her Mom, "Why didn't he say goodnight?" Dean didn't hear the answer.
Sam wheeled Dean into the room, over to the bed, near the window. Sam locked the breaks and took a step back. "You need help getting into bed?" he asked. Dean just gave a small shake of his head. Sam accepted that answer. He looked around the room, making sure there were enough blankets and pillows. "We uh, we set up the TV in here with cable so, uh, if you watch any violent movies just make sure the kids aren't peeking in, they like to do that." Dean looked out the window with a sigh, his only answer. Sam nodded and hit his fists together out of nervous habit. Why was this so awkward? Just say it already, Sam. This is your brother for cripes sake. "Dean…"
"Don't." Sam stopped what he was going to say, watching his brother's face stare impassively out the window. Dean just shook his head and said it again. "Don't." Don't pretend this is okay. Don't pretend to be happy I'm here. Don't pretend you can fix this.
"Okay," Sam whispered. He wished Dean would look at him. But his brother just kept staring out the window, like Sam wasn't even there. Maybe in Dean's mind he wasn't. Sam scratched the back of his neck, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't make Dean shut down. But he couldn't think of anything. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to his brother. His brother. Dammit. Why is this happening Dean? Why did this happen to you? Why doesn't the world want you to be happy?
"Then, I'll…uh, I'll see you in the morning, I guess," Sam said uncertainly. Dean didn't answer and Sam felt like crying. Just look at me, Dean. Please, just once. This isn't your fault. None of this is your fault. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay, even if it's the last thing I do. "Night then."
Sam paused in the door to watch his brother for a moment, but Dean was lost in his own mind. That was a dangerous place to be lost in. Especially all alone. Sam would have to make him realize that he wasn't all alone. Not this time. Not ever again. He closed the door to Dean's room and leaned up against it, fighting back the burning in his eyes. This wasn't the Dean he knew. This was some stranger pretending to be his brother. Some stranger who'd taken over his body. Sam had half a mind to go back in there and exorcise this stranger. Give me back my brother you bastard.
Sarah appeared at the end of the hall and their eyes met for a moment. She gave him an encouraging smile but Sam couldn't return it. Tears welled up in his eyes and he had to look away. She came over to him, wrapping her arms around him, rubbing his back softly. They didn't talk. They didn't have to.
Sam put his head on her shoulder and cried.
