ENTITY (Chapter Fourteen)

From Chapter Thirteen:

"A skunk baby."

She chuckled. "Most likely."

"Don't tell Sam, he'll torment me for weeks," he said sleepily.

"Oh, don't you worry, I have plenty of things planned for that boy. Smelling like a skunk will be the least of his concerns," she said it lightly, without thought.

"Good. Make him smell really bad. Make him suffer," Dean murmured, his words teasing and devoid of any intent.

Missouri stiffened, the smile dying on her lips. "Go to bed, Dean. I'll see you in the morning." She turned away, capped the small jar and returned to the back room. Her gaze lingered on a rectangular brown package tucked at the back of the shelf. The small box belonged there, its power to heal unmatched by the potions and balms that surrounded it. It was a blessing, a unique gift. Hard to locate and nearly impossible to obtain. But her hand shook as she placed the soothing balm before it, deliberately blocking it from view. For now she could ignore it, but soon she would have to let Sam decide.

Chapter Fourteen

Clothes lay folded on a dresser by the door, a makeshift wardrobe beside it and several bags tucked under the chair between it and the window. Sunlight streamed in through the open shutters, lighting dust particles that danced and weaved in the mid afternoon air. Sam's wheelchair, now parked under the window, glinted, slivers of reflected light scooping further into the room. One beam made it as far as Sam and he looked down at it, momentarily transfixed by the oval circle of light, one shallow loop on his left sock clad foot and the other folded into the carpet beneath it.

"Honey, you should have called me. I didn't realise you were awake."

Sam's gaze lifted to the stout black woman who stood in the doorway, she held a towel in one hand and a book in the other. The teasing scent of baked apple and cinnamon wafted down the hall.

"Where's Dean?"

"I sent him out for milk and sugar. He won't be long. Would you like to join us for tea and apple muffins?"

Sam's attention shifted to the window as he considered the invitation. For just over a week he had been at Missouri's home, coddled by the aging psychic and watched like a hawk by his brother. For most of that Sam had been too wearied by the daily physiotherapy sessions, the exercises, the medication and the constant pain to be bothered by the fact that every move, every bodily function, almost every single thought, was monitored, assessed and responded to by others. But as he had slowly gained ground, he had grown increasingly frustrated by his own ineptitude – and tired of the constant mothering. And now, over three weeks since the entity had tossed him around the warehouse like a toy, Sam had had enough. It had to stop. And that shiny wheelchair would be the first thing to go.

"That'd be nice," he finally responded.

"Give me a minute to clean off my hands and I'll get you your chair."

"No, it's okay, I can manage."

"It's no trouble, honey."

"I know." He said a touch too harshly. He drew in a breath and forced a smile. "It's okay, I can manage." She frowned and studied him, then glanced toward the door, to where Dean would appear. "Go back to your cooking, Missouri. I'm fine," he added, thrusting down the itch of frustration that needled through him.

"Sam, I'm not sure."

He carefully stood, ignoring her. He balanced on one leg, reaching out with his right hand to steady himself against the wall. He eyed the crutches that stood across the other side of the room. Between them and he lay two beds, his and his brother's. His own ruffled and over-used, Dean's neatly made. On the floor lay a pair of Dean's shoes, a towel that the older boy had tossed to the bed and missed, and a clothes hamper brimming with dirty laundry. He knew that would soon disappear. Missouri magic, she had said with a smile. Aside from doing their laundry, cooking their meals and generally playing nurse, Missouri left them to their own devices.

He glanced at her, saw her watching him, her dark face furrowed with concern. "You could bring them over," he suggested meekly, all too aware that his enthusiastic run for independence had just hit a pot-hole.

"Of course."

She moved quickly, snagged the crutches and presented them before him. Then she waited, hovering as he tucked them under his armpits and settled his weight. They dug in, tight into the pockets under his shoulders. Already uncomfortable. The fingers of his right hand nudged around the grip, he moved his left hand into place and careened right into the second obstacle, not a pot-hole this time, but instead a huge ditch. Irritation slithered through him as he struggled to get his recalcitrant fingers to lock into place. He exhaled heavily and looked toward the window, past Missouri and the knowing tenseness of her body as she waited beside him.

"I'm not going back to the chair," he bit out suddenly. She remained silent and he felt like a toddler having its first tantrum. Keys in the door alerted him to Dean's return. "Great," he muttered sarcastically, ignoring Missouri's look.

Dean stepped into the room, tossed his keys on the bed and shrugged out of his jacket. He regarded them both, then lightly lifted the bag. "Kitchen?" he asked Missouri, requesting direction on where to deposit the groceries.

"That would be lovely. Thank you."

Sam averted his gaze, aware as his brother hesitated before leaving the room. He grit his teeth and swung himself forward, momentarily entirely reliant on the thin metal poles and uncomfortable pads. Pain shot through his left palm and he twisted, landing awkwardly, his left leg and hip jarred as he fought to regain his balance. "Shit," he cursed as sharp pain spun through his left side. He hopped, momentarily panicked as he felt himself falling. Missouri caught him and she grunted as his six foot four frame came to rest against her much shorter stature. He breathed heavily, head down, tears burning. He felt like an ass, embarrassed, frustrated and longing for some way to blast the shit out of the shadowy bastard that had done this to him.

"Dean," Missouri called.

"I'm okay," he said weakly.

"No you're not, honey. Don't move."

"Dude," Dean said as he came back into the room. His voice was deliberately light, "what have I told you about trying your shonky moves on Missouri. She's not into you, little brother. It's that hair. Too much of it. It's freaking her out."

Sam huffed as Dean nudged Missouri away and grasped his arms firmly. Sam clutched at his brother, careful to avoid the older man's still bandaged arm. "This is getting fucking old, Dean," he whispered. "I can't even use the crutches. I can't even take a piss without a chaperone."

"You can, you just need help to get there."

"Semantics."

"So, what exactly are we doing? The Waltz, Tango, Macarena?"

"Funny."

"Seriously, Sam, you're no lightweight. Are we moving or do you want to sit back down?"

"Not the wheelchair."

"I'm not carrying your ass."

Sam drew back. He breathed hard and squinted at the wheelchair. It leered at him. Mocked him. He tore his gaze away and found Dean watching him closely. "What are you looking at?"

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Did you take those pain meds I gave you?"

"Yes Florence, I took them."

"Good. Just checking."

He rolled his eyes, once again settling on the damned wheelchair. He sagged, giving in. "Get me the chair," he said wearily.

Missouri brought it over, the thin steel wheels squeaking. Dean helped Sam to settle into it and then drew back. An awkward silence descended, then Dean turned on his heel and strode to the door.

"Tea and muffins," Dean started with forced cheeriness and a hideous imitation of a British dialect. "Jolly good then chaps, let's be getting at that, shall we. Righty ho. Off we go."

Sam smiled, more at Missouri's aghast expression than his brother's shocking massacre of the plumb in the mouth accent. She cast another appraising glance at Sam before she followed the older boy. Dean continued mouthing off all the way down the hall.

Sam's smile faded. He regarded his left hand, the thin bandages that wrapped around the wound through his palm. His fingers were bare, the heavy wrapping had been removed, replaced with thinner gauze that allowed movement. Except Sam could not move the fingers, could barely get the appendage to respond to any neural commands. And though pain had speared through his palm when he had placed weight on it, his middle two fingers were numb. His thumb and remaining two fingers had fared a little better, he could wiggle them, though being sure that he had a solid grasp of an object was proving harder to manage due to a significant loss of sensation.

He had long given up believing that it would improve. Unlike his leg which was improving by the day, and his pelvis which was almost fully healed, the level of flexibility and sensation in his hand was decreasing. Doctor Archibald's prognosis of claw hand was becoming a reality.

"Dude, get your ass in here before I eat it all."

Sam flinched, broken from his morbid reverie by Dean's shout. He heard Missouri rebuke the older boy a moment later. He reluctantly joined them, slowly wheeling his squealing and greatly loathed apparatus down the hall. He found Missouri and Dean seated at the dining table. Tea and muffins in a spread before them. He chose a chair and manoeuvred himself into it.

"Things must be going well with the Harrison's?" he started, keen to deflect attention away from himself.

"Tara?" Missouri clarified.

"She's not here is she?"

"No, but don't be speaking too soon. That child made such a mess of things with the Martins. Clear annoyed their dog to distraction, then started on their toddler. That might have all been tolerated if not for her continual hammering on about that damned toy. If she does the same thing with the Harrison's then she'll be back here. I'm running out of options for her. She needs an understanding home, someone who will be open to her psychic abilities. But she's not making things very easy on me and I don't have an unlimited amount of time before she will have to go into the public system."

Sam frowned, confused, his attention caught on only one thing that Missouri had said. "The toy? You mean Boris." He flicked his gaze between his brother and Missouri, suddenly aware that something was going on that he had not been made aware of. He struggled to remember where he had last seen the stuffed animal, then it hit him. The warehouse.

"Sam," Dean started.

"Is the toy still back at the warehouse?" As soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. His lips parted, he cocked his head to the side. "It's not, then where is it?"

"Honey, you don't have to worry about this."

He ignored Missouri and scanned to Dean. The older boy looked decidedly uncomfortable, pale even. Sam's anxiety notched up. "What's going on?"

Missouri answered. "I left the toy back there after… after everything. I took Tara and left."

"So the toy is still out there. We can go and get it."

"No, we have it, but it's heavily stained. It can't be given to the girl. I have tried almost every detergent and chemical on the market to get it clean."

"Stained," Sam breathed. Dean winced and Sam finally understood. "Oh," he breathed, unease and disgust prompting a shiver to trace the length of his spine. "Nice."

"I'm still trying," Missouri said, "I'm not sure there will be much left of the damned thing once I've tried all options, but I'm not going to give in."

"Does she know you have it?"

"No. She's persistently searched for it the few times she has been here so I've passed it to a dry-cleaner friend. The last thing that child needs is to see it. And, my friend knows someone in the business who is going to try a few industrial strength alternatives."

Sam could not help but wonder if keeping the toy away from the house had also been to keep it away from him. He swallowed hard, unsure of how he would cope with seeing the stuffed animal stained with his own blood. He straightened, needing to shift the conversation onto lighter ground. "So the dog was not afraid of her?"

"No, aside from dressing it is the toddler's clothes, decorating its tail with ribbons and trying to ride around on it, it was fine."

"Sounds like she was having fun."

"She was, unfortunately the dog wasn't and neither was the rest of the family."

"Was she really that much of a nuisance?"

Missouri sighed. "Apparently so."

Sam glanced at his brother, slightly taken aback to see the older boy stuff an entire muffin into his mouth. Dean looked up and grinned goofily. Shaking his head, Sam looked back at Missouri, noting with some relief that the black woman had not noticed his brother's antics.

"Do the Harrison's have a dog?" Sam asked.

"No, two cats."

"That could be interesting."

"Yes. I'm expecting it will be."

"Aside from tormenting people's pets, how is she doing? I mean, psychologically."

"Once she gets over Boris, things will be fine."

Sam nodded, his attention unwillingly caught by the oversized two year old who sat opposite him. Dean grinned suddenly, revealing a display of thick muffin goo plastered to his teeth and the inside of his lips. "Gross," Sam muttered, unable to withhold a chuckle as Missouri finally noticed.

"Dean Winchester. I know for a fact that your father taught you better manners than that. You behave, or I'll get my wooden spoon."

"What?" Dean pressed his lips together and widened his eyes in a classic who me pose.

Sam retrieved a muffin of his own. He placed it on his plate and then toyed with it. Gradually picking off crumbs before he eventually took a bite. He realised then that it was sort of gooey, clearly muffins were not Missouri's speciality. He met Dean's eyes and the older boy grinned, once more revealing the muffin mixture caught between his teeth. Sam glanced at Missouri, chewed a few times then bared his lips at his brother. Dean's eyes widened, then he sucked back a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. Sam adopted an innocent expression as Missouri eyed them both.

"Mice mffnz," Dean mispronounced. Sam covered his mouth, blocking the response that would have resulted in Missouri being peppered with partially chewed muffin pieces.

It predictably went downhill from there. After several minutes, Missouri removed herself from the table, threw them a feigned disapproving look and left them to it.

"These things are really bad," Sam said quietly. "So was that casserole she made the other night. And that cake thing yesterday. What was that meant to be anyway?"

"Chocolate mousse."

"Shouldn't it have been a bit… moussier?"

Dean smiled thinly, then cast an appraising eye toward Sam. "You're no chef yourself, bro. So what's with the sudden critiquing?"

Sam leaned back, ruffled that his attempted banter had been cut short. "No reason."

"Missouri is doing us a favor, Sam. She saved our lives."

"I know. Just drop it."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "No you're not. What's going on?"

Sam exhaled heavily. "This. All of this. I'm sick of it."

"This is the apple pie life you want, Sammy. Live it and enjoy it. It'll be over all too soon."

"Maybe not." He risked a glance at his brother then averted his gaze. It unwillingly drew back to his hand. He had rested it on the table, but had not used it.

"What does that mean?" Dean paused, then his tone took a harder edge. "Are you using that squeeze ball I gave you?"

"It makes no difference."

"It will. You have to keep trying."

"Dean, enough with the pep talks. It's not working. It's never going to work."

"Pessimism does not become you, little brother."

"Come here." He waved his brother toward him. "Now."

Dean shifted closer then waited, his hazel-green eyes wary. Sam held out his hand. "Touch it."

"Sam."

"Touch it, try to move the fingers, Dean."

The older boy swallowed hard, looking almost like a cornered animal. His fingers twitched but he made no effort to touch Sam's hand. Angered, Sam scanned the table, deftly retrieved a carving knife that lay on one side, then cleanly sliced it across his two middle fingers. Blood welled immediately and Dean blanched.

"Sam, what the hell—"

"I can't feel it, Dean. Nothing. They're numb. Always will be." He dumped the knife with a clatter, wincing as Dean caught his hand and placed pressure on the thin slices. The action jarred his palm, the only part of his hand that did respond to pain. He bit back a soft gasp as Dean glowered at him.

"Of all the stupid, melodramatic, idiotic things to do."

"Do you get it now?"

"I get something, Sam, but I'm not sure it's what you want me to get." He grabbed a napkin and folded it over the cuts. "Hold this. I'll get the first aid kit."

"They're just shallow cuts, Dean. I wasn't trying to cut off my fingers."

"You know what, I don't know what you were trying to do. But those will need disinfecting and bandaging. Your system can't deal with infection right now, you ass. Or are you self-destructing as well as practising your drama queen skills?"

Sam swallowed hard, realising that the possible consequences of his actions. "I just wanted you to understand," he said weakly.

"I understand that you're an idiot."

Maybe he was, but as Sam sat waiting for his brother to return, the napkins slowly soaking through with blood from a wound he could not feel, he realised that Dean was not accepting that things had changed. The older boy was in denial about the extent of Sam's injury, and about what that meant for them. He had to set his brother straight.

"I'm going to go back to school once I'm well enough to walk," Sam said softly after Dean had returned and was bandaging his hand.

Dean stilled. Sam saw a glimpse of his brother's darkened gaze before the older man shifted, turning so that his face was hidden.

Sam continued. "I can't hunt like this."

"You could."

"I don't want to."

"You haven't tried."

"I can't feel my fingers. I can't handle a weapon. I can't load a shotgun. I can't react fast enough. I'm a liability."

Dean stopped then and faced Sam head on. "You are not a liability, Sam. This would not make you a liability. You would adapt. We would adapt."

He knew his brother was right, he would adapt. It was only a hand. But it would make things harder, make Dean even more protective. All the ground Sam had gained with his sibling would be effectively lost. Never to be regained. They would never be equals, not in the heat of battle at least. And one day, Dean would sacrifice too much. He would be too slow. Too preoccupied with watching Sam's ass. He held his brother's gaze and knew Dean saw that too.

"You've made up your mind," Dean ground out and his tone was cold, harsh, unforgiving.

Sam took a moment to respond, then said, "Yes."

Dean nodded tightly. He finished off the dressing and packed up the kit. The silence was heavy and awkward and Sam ached. Physically and mentally. He lacked the strength for this. The fortitude he needed to turn his back on his brother. Though he had made the decision, he wanted Dean to fight for him, to offer him a way back, a choice. But Dean did not. He accepted it with a stiffening of his shoulders and a shuttering of his emotions. Dean in. Sam out. It had happened so quickly that Sam was left reeling.

"I have no choice," he whispered.

"You always have a choice, Sam. It's how you go about choosing that makes the difference."

Dean left him alone with the gooey muffins, the cooling tea and his miserable thoughts. Even Missouri did not return. Maybe she had overheard his rudeness, his lack of appreciation. Sam shuffled back to the wheelchair, dumped himself into it with a pained gasp and slowly returned to their room. He did not really expect to find his brother there, but it still hurt when he was proven right. Dean had probably gone upstairs. Somewhere Sam could not go, but he made no attempt to confirm that.

Several hours later, Dean returned. Sam sat in front of the television, mindlessly watching. He was half asleep, his body aching with pain that he lacked the strength to respond to.

"Hey," Dean said softly. He started, unaware that Dean had moved to his side and crouched down. The older boy pressed the back of his hand against Sam's forehead. It was a tender gesture that took him back to when all this had started. The café in Bridgeport Nebraska when Dean had found him after he had experienced the first vision, the first onset of the pain. Sam closed his eyes, his breath hitching on the memory.

Dean withdrew. "You're not running a fever and you're not due for your meds for another two hours. Missouri is cooking, you going to join us or eat in here?"

He blinked and looked up at his brother. Dean moved back a little, but his eyes held concern. Always the big brother, Sam thought, even when he had just admitted he was going to walk out on him, an equivalent to a swift kick in the balls. Dean had taken it, gone away and licked his wounds then come back for more. Sam averted his gaze, his throat constricted. "I'll come out," he managed.

"It's casserole."

"It better not be tuna."

"Beef."

"Okay."

Dean stood. "It will be a while yet. You should sleep. I'll wake you when it's ready." He left then, and Sam again found himself alone with the mindless television and wandering thoughts. He eventually hauled his aching body out of the chair and shuffle-hopped across to the bed. He collapsed onto it, panting hard. He lay there for several minutes before he twisted, leaned over and snagged his bag. Tucked inside was the yellow squeeze ball with the face Dean had drawn onto it in permanent marker. The older boy had teased and told Sam to think of him when he worked with it. All that pent up rage, he had said. It was a reference to the incident at the asylum and it was meant to be a joke, but it had still stung more than it should.

As he lay back on the bed, the yellow ball in his left hand, he imagined the entity. Imagined at it had a face, features, something he could hold onto, something he could form an image of in his mind. When he had it in place, he directed all that anger and hatred to his hand, to making the fingers work, to regaining the function. Soon, his forearm ached, his palm burned and blood slicked across the yellow rubber from the cuts through his fingers. Still, he kept going, his eyes closed and jaw clenched. But sometime later his exhausted body could fight no more and he gave in to the pull of sleep. The ball in one hand – fear, uncertainty and loss riding him down.

He woke later to find Dean beside him, his brother's face lit by the television, the yellow ball in his hand. The elder hunter stared down at it, fingered the bloodied stains and his eyes held a dark sadness that twisted through Sam. Dean looked up and their eyes held for a long moment but no words were spoken. Instead, uncertainty, responsibility and resentment moved back and forth between them. Sam looked away first and when he looked back, Dean's expression was once again neutral. His shifting emotions hidden, shuttered away, locked down.

"Dinner is on," Dean said. "You want to try the crutches?"

"I can't."

"I can help. We can make it work if you want to give it a try."

Sam felt an up welling of an emotion he did not recognise. He nodded, the strange sensation passing as Dean offered him a hand and pulled him up. He saw the crutches then, leaning against the bed, within reach. He snagged them and tucked them under his arms. "I can't put weight on my palm."

"You don't need to. Control the swing from your armpit, not your hand. Here, like this."

Ten minutes later, Sam was navigating his way down the hall on the crutches, his brother at his side and a guiding hand at the small of his back. He felt that strange emotion again, the one that he now recognised as being acceptance without pity. His earlier anger and frustration at being coddled, treated like a child, vanished because he now understood it. Neither Dean nor Missouri saw him as a burden, grew tired of his needs, his helplessness, the times that they had sat with him because he was in too much pain to sleep. The infuriating way Dean had never let him win at Nintendo despite Sam's inability to handle the controls properly. The respect they offered him truly made him feel humbled.

At the dining table, a spread of home-cooked food before him, his brother at his side and a woman who was as close to a mother as he had ever had before him, Sam realised that Dean was right. This was the apple pie life that he had longed for. Right here. But it no longer meant jack-shit. He could no longer hunt side by side with his brother as an equal, and to be anything less was unacceptable. Anything less would lead to Dean sacrificing more than he could give. He overtly watched his brother, the shortened stubble of new growth at the back of his head, the heavy bandaging on his right arm, the darkened shadows under his eyes.

Sam looked down, overcome by the bitter cruelty of the situation. The entity had given he and his brother a taste of the apple-pie life they had never had, and at the same time it had left them both without a means by which to hold on to it.

End Chapter Fourteen