OK, so I've been running around like a crazy person these last few days and I haven't had much time to devote to writing. So here are my apologies: I haven't had a chance to reply to any reviews and I haven't had time to go back and edit this chapter, but I figured posting for you guys was more important than the former issues, so here you go. Hope it's not too bad. Also, my week really isn't going to slow down anytime in the next few days, so I may not get the next chapter posted until Sunday or Monday. Bear with me, things will slow down soon. Here's one giant shout out to all you guys who were nice enough to leave those wonderful reviews. Thanks so much! And for those who just read; your presence doesn't go unnoticed. Much appreciated. And now on with the story.

Sam gave Dean exactly one day to settle in at Missouri's; one day to learn to drag himself step by step to the second floor of the house because that's where the bedrooms were and no way was he sleeping on a lumpy old couch. One day to figure out how to balance in the shower, because the rod in Missouri's bathroom was about as stable as a wet spaghetti noodle so he had to rig up a hold from the stem of the shower head, which was totally annoying because the water sprayed into his arm, sending it splattering in every direction including his face and his nose and his eyes, and he had to keep his head constantly turned to the side if he wanted to see anything or, for that matter, breathe.

And he had one day to learn that Sam had given up on coddling him, and that if he wanted to eat he would come to the table, or go out with the rest of them - which he'd be damned if he was about to do - and if he needed help with something he would have to ask, because Sam was done with the guessing games. One day of this nonsense reassured Dean that he would be going hungry more times than not, and there was a pretty safe bet that a lot of things would go undone or half-assed because he'd be damned if he was going to ask his baby brother for help changing his bandage and pinning his pants up and all the other totally obnoxious and yet totally necessary requirements that now went along with his crippled life. Because Sam imposing himself on Dean was one thing, but Dean actually admitting he needed help was yet another. Uh uh. No fucking way.

On the second day, Sam dragged Dean out of bed just after dawn broke on the horizon. He made him eat a full breakfast, and insisted he dress in sweats despite his protests to the contrary, and they were out the door by 8am. Dean moped the entire drive, knowing full well what his baby brother had planned for him, but too stubborn to ask. When they pulled up in front of an expansive building, and Dean read the sign his suspicions were confirmed. Large block letters announced their arrival at LAWRENCE REHABILITATION HOSPITAL, with smaller letters underneath announcing New Lives, New Chances. Dean felt like gagging.

Sam had circled the car and was holding out the crutches before Dean had even released his seatbelt, and the older man rolled his eyes before opening the door. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, he thought miserably as he grabbed for the crutches and hoisted himself up. I can't fucking believe this is my life now.

"You ready?" Sam asked nervously, bouncing from foot to foot as he waited for Dean to take off.

"No." It was blunt. Harsh. Honest.

"Oh..." Well shit, Dean, what the hell am I supposed to say to you?

"Do I have a choice in this?"

Sam shook his head. "You need to do this, Dean."

"Fine." And Dean pressed forward, making quick but awkward progress across the parking lot. If he had to do this, he might as well do it with dignity.

But dignity went out the window the minute they crossed over the threshold of the facility and Dean found himself staring at a whole different world; one where debilitating injury reigned supreme and he was just a dime a dozen. He should have felt more comfortable with these people, all of whom were hobbling around on crutches and rolling across the floor in their wheelchairs. Maybe he would have felt comfortable with them, even superior to some, until he looked around and saw the same pitying stares on their faces that he'd feared from the able-bodied world.

Even the cripples of this god forsaken fucked up world pity me. He just about turned around, and certainly would have if Sam's freakishly tall body hadn't been blocking the way. But Sam pushed him forward, leading him to the reception desk where a disgustingly perky aide was manning the large block of oak by herself.

"Hi there! You have an appointment?" She chirped.

Sam nodded. "I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean. I spoke with someone on the phone the other day about getting him fitted for a prosthetic leg. We're supposed to see a Dr. Jennings."

She nodded and punched a few buttons on the computer before looking back up at them. "You're right on time. Dr. Jennings will be out with you momentarily. Why don't you have a seat and we'll call you when he's ready."

Dean refused to sit because it was easier to remain standing than it was to drag himself back up, and Sam remained obediently at his brother's side as they waited for the specialist. A blond, curly haired man in his late thirties appeared soon after and made his way over to the brothers after stopping at the receptionists desk for confirmation of his patient. He greeted them warmly, shaking hands with Sam and quickly brushing off Dean's refusal to do the same, and then got down to business.

"Why don't you come with me to my office. We can talk more candidly there."

Sam matched gates with the tall doctor, keeping pace as he eagerly soaked up all the man had to say about the facility, and Dean followed several steps behind. He didn't care what the man wanted to share, didn't really give a rat's ass how esteemed the facility was, or how big the exercise arena was, and he sure as hell couldn't give a damn about how much of a success rate they had in restoring their patients to near normal lives. He just wanted to go home and curl up in bed and forget about his missing leg and the fact that it just added to a long stream of shit that had been tossed at him in this lousy excuse for a life that he'd been forced to endure for far too many years.

Dr. Jennings offered them both a seat before taking his own behind his desk, he watched in explorative curiosity as Dean slumped down into his chair, crossing his arms tightly into his chest and fixing his steely gaze on a spot just below the edge of the desk.

"So," the man began, flipping open a manilla folder and riffling through some papers as he spoke. "The hospital sent all the records they had on you, Dean. Below the knee traumatic amputation three and a half weeks ago as the result of a bear trap. From what I can see of your x-ray records it looks like the residual limb is more than adequate to fit a prosthesis. Below knee amputation is ideal for as complete a recovery as is possible. With time and practice you should even be able to walk without a limp."

"So what do we need to do to get started?" Sam questioned, leaning in on his chair, elbows braced on his knees to hold him up.

God, Sammy, you're such a do-gooder. Just drop it already. Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes as he shifted in his seat, uncrossing and then recrossing his arms before returning his dulled gaze to the seemingly perplexing spot on the desk.

Once again, Dr. Jennings stopped to study Dean's attitude before returning to the subject. "I like to start out my sessions by explaining what will be going on over the next few months. Then we can take a tour of our facilities, and finally I'll do a preliminary assessment of the residual limb."

Sam leaned in further, ready to absorb as much information as he could.

Dean brooded.

Sam listened as Dr. Jennings explained the initial strengthening exercises Dean would

need to focus on.

Dean pouted.

Sam took in the technical explanation of the molding process, how they would take a cast of Dean's stump to ensure the prosthesis would fit perfectly, the fact that every single prosthesis was different to fit the needs of each individual patient.

Dean moped.

Sam soaked up the description of the actual rehab process, how and when Dean would learn to walk, and the general timeline that all this would take place.

Dean sulked.

The elder hunter remained mute and silent and perfectly miserable as he listened to his little brother ask question after question about the entire process and feeling as though the younger man might be enjoying this just a little too much.

"Dean, you've been awfully quiet throughout all this," Dr. Jennings observed once he'd finished his lecture. "What do you have to add?"

Dean shrugged stubbornly and refused to speak, his eyes still locked downward and away from the sympathetic eyes of his brother and the well-meaning doctor.

"I can understand this is very hard for you, Dean." Dr. Jennings rose, circling around his desk before coming to rest on the front edge. "Trust me when I tell you that you're not the first person to go through this, and you won't be the last. But you have to want to get better, you have to want to work hard, before you will ever have a chance at succeeding at this therapy. I have no place in my clinic for someone who doesn't want to put one hundred percent into recovery."

"Dr. Jennings, please, this whole thing has been so hard on him," Sam interjected. "He'll put the effort in, I promise. It's just going to take a little more time to adjust. We just got back into town two days ago."

The doctor sighed and crossed his arms as he turned to look at the younger brother. "Sam, I don't mean to be rude, but I think your brother needs to learn to speak for himself. Maybe you could step outside so we can talk alone."

Sam's mouth gaped open despite his attempt not to look affronted at the doctor's suggestion. But he ultimately stood up and crossed the room to the door. His hand was on the knob when Dean finally spoke.

"He stays."

"What?" Sam and Dr. Jennings asked in unison.

Dean's words were muffled as he talked around a mouthful of dry, cottony tongue, and that mixed with the fact that he was talking only to the floor made him hard to understand. But he still got his point across. "I said my brother stays. I'll talk, but only if he stays here."

Dr. Jennings pursed his lips in thought and finally relented. "Alright. You've got a deal." And then, looking at Sam, added, "But you need to let your brother do his own talking. It's for his own good."

Sam nodded and planted himself back in the chair, wondering how well this was going to go, and knowing full well that Dean wasn't a talker, and he sure as hell wasn't a sharer. This should be interesting.

The doctor leaned back just a bit further against his desk as he looked pointedly at Dean and directed his first question to the sullen young man. "How have you been doing with all this, Dean? Have you been managing alright physically so far? Any problems you might have questions about?"

Dean shrugged again, and the doctor glared at him for several seconds before it struck Dean that he wasn't following through on his end of the bargain. I'll talk, he'd promised, as long as Sam stays. But I didn't say I would be pleasant about it. Inside his head, Dean could feel himself smirking, but the gesture didn't make it to his face. "How the hell do you think I've been doing? I'm missing my fucking leg. I can't walk god-dammit. And my life, my work, every fucking thing in my life that I've ever known is completely over because of one stupid misstep in the middle of the fucking woods. So you tell me how I'm doing."

"Dean..." Sam reached out a hand to his brother, settling it on his shoulder in a gesture of warning and comfort. Chill out man, it was just a simple question.

As the older brother went silent, Dr. Jennings took yet another minute to study his reactions, eying Dean up and down as he asked his next question. "Have you sought any psychological assistance to help get you through this trauma, Dean?"

He shook his head firmly, outraged by the question. "With all due respect, doc, I don't need some shrink messing with my head. I can work out my own problems. Always have, always will."

The doctor pulled his lips into a pinched smile as the abrupt stubbornness in Dean's words told him he would get nowhere fast on that topic. But he had to try; what kind of a doctor was he if he didn't. "Dean, I understand that you're used to doing things on your own. I can tell just by looking at you that you're not someone who is used to asking for help, and I can certainly understand that mentality. Really, I do. But everyone needs a little help sometimes in their life, and I would think–"

Dean cut the man off mid-sentence. "Doc, I'm only here because my do-gooder little brother here seems to think I can move on with my life if you set me up with a new leg. Now I think that's a load of crap, but if that's what Sammy wants that's what Sammy gets. So just get one thing straight, before I succumb to you manhandling me to get this blasted leg. I'm not here to have my head shrunk by some dime school psychotherapist. I'm not here for your touchy-feely seminar bullshit. And I'm sure as hell not here to become some poster child for the physically challenged. I'm here for one thing, and one thing only. So either you can shut up and stop feeding me these crap lines about talking out my feelings and help me get a new leg, or you can tell me that you can't help and my brother and I will be on our way."

Dr. Jennings went quiet, dumbfounded by Dean's severe depression and anger at the situation. He pushed himself off of his desk and paced the floor as he searched the recesses of his brain for something more he could say. Upon hearing about Dean a week ago he had immediately developed an innate desire to help the kid through the challenges he faced, and meeting him had only hammered that desire home. The information sent to him by the hospital had all but screamed disaster, hopeless case. And then he'd spoken on the phone for half an hour with Dr. Hurley, listening to what the man had to say about his troubled patient, cringing at the extensive list of problems Dean had created for the staff, but also encouraged by the sincere love his family seemed to have shown the boy. Because a loved patient only required time before they came around; and Dr. Jennings was determined to help Dean Winchester with every bit of his impending recovery.

But knowing this, he also realized he would have to tread very lightly until he'd managed to get the young patient to trust him. If that meant backing off from discussions he felt should be important, then that's what he would do; because pushing too hard would prove more detrimental than it was worth. He dropped the subject of the psychiatrist like a fifty pound sack of flour and moved on.

"Fine, Dean. But in order for me to fit you with a new leg I need to ask you some questions. And you're going to have to be completely open and honest with me."

For the next twenty minutes Dean grudgingly answered every question the doctor asked of him about the leg itself and his own physical abilities, stretching the truth on those he didn't feel comfortable admitting to. He admitted to the doctor that the scar was still tender to the touch, and that he hadn't been changing the bandages as often as he should because the sight of his unwrapped leg still repulsed him. He told him that, no, he hadn't been doing any of the strengthening exercises they had recommended at the hospital, and why the hell should he - it wasn't like the leg would be carrying any weight anymore.

When he admitted to still experiencing the phantom pain on an almost daily basis, and that on a scale of one to ten, most days it ranked somewhere around a three Sam practically fell off his chair, because this was complete news to him. And if Dean ranked it as a three then it was probably more along the lines of an eight or a nine, maybe even a solid ten, because Dean always sugar coated his pain. And that meant that Dean had been suffering through the pain all alone, hiding it from everyone, for almost two weeks now and Sam had been too blind to see it.

Shit, Sam, what the hell kind of brother are you? How could you not notice? He berated himself as he sat in silence, listening to everything Dean was admitting. And he realized the anger and the pushing everyone away had played a big part in Dean's keeping this a secret and that, along with Sam's full fledged concentration on figuring out the hunt in Algonquin, had kept him completely in the dark. Coming back to the conversation, guilt fully riding on his conscience, Sam continued to listen.,

When asked, Dean told the doctor that he'd only just begun using the crutches, and no, he didn't really feel all that steady on them yet, but that he felt he was making progress. And Dean asked the doctor the same question he'd asked at the hospital - was there anyway he could trade these god-awful metal contraptions for the traditional wooden ones? But he was bet with the same answer he'd been given before, almost word for word, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if they had memorized the same text for their template answers.

And then Dr. Jennings branched off, no longer interested in Dean's injury, and now interested in Dean's abilities pre injury and his expectations post. Dean answered as honestly as he could. Yes, he'd been in great shape before the accident. Yes, hiking and running and flexibility were key for him, and he spoken up in pleading tones that his job required him to be on top of his game at all times. He couldn't risk not being able to move and twist his body. Without divulging much, he even admitted that he used self-defense on a regular basis, and if they could figure out some way that the new leg wouldn't hinder those efforts, well, that'd be great.

As each answer was wrestled from Dean's unwilling mouth, Sam could see his brother deflate just a little bit more, because every question and every answer defined the new Dean, and chipped away at the old. Sam feared, if this kept up, that very soon there would be nothing left of his brother.

When the line of questioning finally stopped, Sam breathed a sigh of relief and he watched Dean do the same. And then Dr. Jennings was up and eagerly moving again. "I'd like to show you around the facility; introduce you to some of our staff; maybe send you home with some exercises to do before your next appointment." He hesitated, looking down at Dean sternly. "You may not want to talk to anybody about what you're going through, but it's absolutely vital that you listen to what we tell you physically. These exercises we give you are important, and you could get seriously hurt if you don't follow our advice. Understand?"

Dean hesitated. No I don't understand, dammit. I don't understand why any of this had to happen to me. I don't understand why I'm done everything right in my whole entire god-forsaken life, and this is my repayment. No fucking leg. Patronizing doctors. Ridiculous exercises.

"Dean?" Dr. Jennings prompted again.

He looked up, despondent; could see Sam's hopeful expression from the corner of his eye and realized there was no way he could dash his poor brother's hopes, regardless of how much he wanted to say 'Fuck it' and stomp off in total despair. "Yeah," he finally agreed half-heartedly. "Yeah, I'll do it."

Sam's face brightened and Dean could tell it was all the little shit could do not to spout off a mouthful of 'thank you, Dean; you won't forget this!' He turned and glared at his younger brother, daring him to say something, daring him to be obnoxiously bubbly and ecstatic over his agreeing to try the rehab thing. Sam got the hint, and shut his mouth before it could spew something he might soon regret.

The doctor clasped his hands as approval crossed his face, taking his great victory in stride. There was so much more to accomplish before he could truly consider himself victorious. He would have to take it one step at a time.

The remainder of their visit went by in a blur. Dean followed along in sullen silence as Dr. Jennings gave the boys a thorough tour of the facility and moped through the preliminary assessment of his leg, trying not to wince too much as the doctor poked and prodded a tad too roughly at his still tender leg. He'd flinched a little when Dr. Jennings admitted apologetically that the wound was still too fresh to be fitted for a new leg, and that it might be as much as another month before it was healed enough. But then Dean drew the mask back over his face because, hell, that was just par for the course for his fucked up life. What was another month to wait for something he'd never wanted in the first place.

Sam set up another appointment to start his rehab before they left and thanked Dr. Jennings profusely for all his help. And as he and Dean made their way back to the parking lot and the car, Sam dropped another bomb on his unsuspecting brother.

"Dean, it's after one o'clock," the younger brother observed, looking at his watch as he walked behind his fast tiring brother. Dean had been wobbling noticeably on the crutches for the better part of the last hour and Sam fast realized Dean hadn't been on his feet for this long since before the injury. "We've got a half hour drive back to Missouri's, and I'm hungry. I'm betting you are too..."

Dean paused, just about falling over as he stopped to fast. Don't say it Sammy. Don't you dare say it.

"...so I thought today would be a good day for you to suck it up and come out to lunch. Burgers and Fries sound okay with you?" Sam was fast talking and he knew it. His plan was to run his sentences together so fast that Dean wouldn't even know what he was agreeing to until it was too late to take it back. But Dean was quicker than Sam anticipated, and the older hunter was quickly at Sam's side, angrily starting down his little brother.

"How many times do I have to say no before you get the point?" Dean demanded, his hands gripping the handles of the crutches so tight his knuckles were turning white. "I don't want to be paraded out in public. I don't want to feel their stares and I don't want to receive their pity. What don't you understand about the fact that I just want to be left alone?"

Sam held firm, matching Dean's stare second for second. "It's not healthy, Dean. This whole becoming a recluse and hiding out from the rest of the world isn't good for you. And the longer you wait to see how people are really going to react, the harder it's going to be. Besides, since when have you ever cared what other people think of you. You're Dean Winchester, for crying out loud. I've never know you to give a shit about anything."

"Yeah, well I give a shit about this." Dean took off again, making a beeline for the car and wishing that he could just get in and take off. He needed to get away; needed to be free of his little brother's hovering and the kid's constant need to help when all he really seemed to be doing was making the situation a hundred times worse. But Sam didn't let up, and by the time Dean was grabbing at the door handle of his car Sam was yammering away again.

"Dean, I want to help you. I really do. I just don't know how. Everything I do seems to be wrong. Tell me, Dean. Tell me what I can do."

"You can stop trying, Sam. That's what you can do!" Dean shot back, slumping in the seat and tossing the crutches to the ground so that Sam had to stoop to gather them up. "And for god's sake, Sam, stop trying to make this about you."

"What...I–" Sam couldn't hide the hurt and confusion Dean's exclamation had caused. He didn't know what to say; how to respond. How am I making this about me? All I've been doing this whole time is trying to make Dean feel better. Trying to do what's right for Dean.

"All I ever hear coming out of your mouth is I I I, me me me. I'm sick of it, Sam. I want to know how to help you. Tell me what I can do. God, Sam, get over yourself."

Sam cringed, realizing he had been saying an awful lot of I's and me's. But wasn't that the way Dean normally wanted it? He never did anything for himself, as much as Sam had hated it all their lives. It killed Sam to admit it, to know it, but Dean never did anything for Dean; never felt his own life was worth the effort when there were other's out there to save. Dean was nothing if not a martyr, so if he wasn't going to get better for Sam then who the hell would he find important enough to get better for?

"Dean, I'm sor–"

"See, there you go again with the I's. This isn't about you."

"Fine." Throwing the crutches into the back of the car, Sam stormed around to the driver's side and climbed in with a huff, slamming the door. "You want me do stop making this about me Dean? You got it."

With a turn of the key and a loud rev of the engine Sam pulled out of the parking lot onto the road. They drove only a few minutes, neither one speaking but both stewing, before Sam turned the car into the parking lot of a roadside diner, cutting the engine before he addressed Dean.

"I've been holding off on doing this because as much as you need it, I didn't want to see

you go through all the pain and crap that you're dreading going through. But you know what, since you want me to stop making this about me then here we are. You have to stop hiding from the world. You have to stop being a stubborn bastard and start taking control of your life again. So here we go, Dean. This is about you; and you are coming into this restaurant with me and you are going to face your life again. There's no choice, Dean. You either walk in with me, or I carry you kicking and screaming. Cause this is getting old real fast. Got me?"

Dean stared hard at Sam, ready to call his bluff. But Sam's eyes didn't lie, and Dean wasn't ready to make an even bigger fool out of himself by actually being carried in by Sam. Sure, he could put up a pretty big fight against his brother, but the little brat could really do a lot if he put his mind to it. And this, Dean feared, was far too important to Sam.