Hi again! Just another note to say that you guys are all awesome for stopping by and reading this humble author's story. For those of you hoping for a nice, calm, angst free diner scene, well I'm sorry to say that you're going to be very disappointed. Hopefully you'll still enjoy this though. As always, drop me a line and let me know what you think.

Dean followed Sam through the entrance to the diner with his head hung low, concentrating heavily on the floor and the placement of his feet. Without looking up he knew, instinctually, that every eye in the place had turned to look at his gimp self, and he refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing he saw them.

They took the closest booth available and Dean slid onto the first bench so that his stump was to the wall and the complete leg was visible on the outside. And then he shoved the crutches toward Sam with so much force that Sam nearly lost his balance grabbing for them; anything to disassociate himself from being crippled. If Sam wanted to force him into this nightmare then Sam could deal with the crutches.

He immediately reached for the metal napkin dispenser, grabbing a handful and beginning to meticulously shred them into minuscule pieces as Sam slid first the crutches and then his own body into the opposite booth.

"You gonna brood the entire time we're in here?" Sam asked.

Dean just nodded, didn't look up. "You told me I didn't have a choice about coming in here. You said nothing about being happy about it."

"Well would it kill you to at least try?"

"Are people staring?"

Sam looked around, saw the half-full diner and the patrons with their heads turned away just enough that they could still glance at Dean from the corner of their prying, inconsiderate eyes, and let out a frustrated sigh. "So what if they are, Dean? Are you gonna let them get to you?"

"I don't like being a spectacle, Sam. Is that so hard for you to understand?"

"What I don't understand is when you started caring what the rest of the world thinks. You're letting them do this to you, Dean. You're letting their stares and their comments keep you down, and that's just not like you."

"Yeah, well I don't really know who I am right now, Sam, so just–" Dean stopped mid-sentence as he noticed a shadow fall across their table. Instinct had him looking up to see who had arrived, and then he immediately dropped his head to the table again when he saw the pity in their waitresses eyes.

She had seen the boy's come in, there was no mistaking that, and the slight hesitation and increased volume in her voice as she asked "what can I get you boys to drink?" was enough to tell Dean that she had to compose herself before she approached. People acted differently around people who were different, consumed by an irrational fear that they might me contagious; they tried too hard, spoke too loud, hesitated when they talked as though afraid to say the wrong thing. Their thirty-something waitress wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing was doing all three.

Sam eyed Dean, wondering if his brother would place his own order, and deciding he definitely won't.

"Two cokes, please." He forced a smile for the woman, whose nametag read 'Tammy,' and clenched his teeth in doing so, hoping that she would get the point. Don't screw with my brother. Please just act normal.

"I'll have those out for you in a jiffy," she replied, placing a menu in front of each brother before turning on her heels.

"Please, Sam, I just want to go out to the car," Dean implored as soon as the waitress was out of earshot, pulling out the puppy dog gaze as back-up. His fingers went back to the pile of shredded napkin he was creating and he continued to add to it.

"Sorry man, can't do that. You're only hurting yourself more when you hole up and refuse to come out. I don't want that for you, Dean. The more you face the world, the easier it will become for you. You'll thank me someday."

"Don't count on it," Dean mumbled, growing tired of the napkin destruction and now reaching for the salt shaker. He dumped a pile of the white crystals out on the table top and attempted to balance the glass container on one edge. It fell over six times before he finally had it balancing precariously on its edge and that was when Tammy returned with their drinks.

She dropped them heavily on the table, lined up in the center so there was no real definition as to which drink went with whom, but it shook the table and the salt shaker tipped over and Dean let out a low growl as he stared at his ruined hard work.

"You boys ready to order yet?" she asked, looking directly at Sam.

Neither one had even cracked their menu yet, but Sam grabbed for the greasy, laminated book and opened it up, scanning quickly over the typical diner fare and finally finding something acceptable - a grilled chicken sandwich - and requesting a salad with that instead of fries.

"How 'bout you, sugar, you know what you want?" Tammy looked over to Dean now, her eyes all jumpy as she looked without 'looking' at the despondent young man in front of her.

Dean didn't answer and he returned to fiddling with the salt shaker.

Several long, awkward seconds passed and Tammy glanced nervously over to Sam as if to say 'what am I supposed to get for him?' and Sam cleared his throat.

"Dean."

The salt shaker was now once again balancing on its edge and Dean next grabbed for the pepper shaker, determined to get it, too, on its edge. Sam called louder.

"DEAN."

He finally looked up, shooting Sam his most innocent expression as he asked in a low voice. "Yeah?"

"She's taking our order. What do you want to eat?

Dean shrugged. "Same as you, I guess."

Sam looked at him incredulously. "You want a chicken sandwich?"

Another shrug.

"And a salad?"

No, Sammy. I don't even want to eat. I just want to leave. Dean shrugged a third time. "I really don't care, Sam. Whatever."

One more skeptical look at his brother and Sam turned back to the waitress. "He'll have a quarter pound cheeseburger and fries. Hold the pickle." I got him in here; the least I can do is order him something he might actually enjoy.

As soon as the waitress left Dean went back to his architectural efforts, lowering his head

as far from Sam's prying eyes as he possibly could, effectively shutting the boy out. Neither one spoke for several minutes, and the only sounds wafting to their ears were the fragment's of conversation coming from the diner's other patrons.

A couple of booths back, a group of four college aged girls were very intently discussing another friend's choice in guy, their stuck-up mentality berating the girl for choosing someone so 'beneath' her. To their right and down a booth a suit clad man and his frumpily dressed secretary were carrying on a very noticeable affair. A few booths down from there, a mother and her two young children were in an important debate over whether The Wiggles or Sesame Street should be the show of choice for the afternoon. And then there was the booth directly across from them, where a husband and wife were in a hushed conversation about Dean.

Sam first realized the conversation matter when he began to get the distinct impression that the woman couldn't keep her eyes off their table. Sam had casually glanced over, and sure enough, she was in the process of whispering something to her husband and her eyes kept darting in their direction.

Shifting a little on the seat, Sam finally was able to hear bits and pieces of their hushed conversation and he couldn't help the annoyance that overtook his emotions. "...must be miserable...can't imagine how I would feel...wonder what happened..."

Sam looked over at Dean, hoping his brother was too lost in his own self-pity to have heard the conversation. Dean's eyes were closed tight and his fists were clenched ever tighter, making little nail indentations in the callused skin on his palms. He'd bit down on his lower lip in his anger. There was no doubt, Dean had heard every word.

If just hearing the couple's conversation had irritated Sam, knowing that Dean had heard, and that his carefully thought out plan to get Dean back into the world was being sabotaged, flat out pissed Sam off. He took a deep breath to compose himself before acting, and then quietly excuse himself.

It only took two strides to cross the aisle to where the other booth was and Sam casually slid himself in beside the woman, arm resting on the top of the bench, above her shoulders. "Hi!" he greeted with sickeningly sweet enthusiasm. "How're you two doing this fine afternoon?"

The woman looked desperately uncomfortable as her cheeks began to flush and she slid down and away from Sam in one fluid motion. She shot a panicked look at her husband, pleading with him. Do something! Her husband looked equally uncomfortable, but masked it with anger at Sam's intrusion. Neither one said a word and Sam continued.

"I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Thought maybe I could join in and offer my two cents to the mix. Figured you wouldn't mind, seeing as how you're willing to poke your nose into my business." He glanced over at Dean who was now glaring daggers in his direction, no doubt humiliated. But Sam had come to realize that to live in the disabled world was to stick up for oneself and to educate the rest of the world, and if Dean wouldn't do that for himself then Sam sure as hell was going to do it for him.

The couple continued to stare incredulously at Sam, taken completely aback at his brashness.

Sam place his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, speaking in low, conversational tones. "So the thing is, my brother over there, the guy you two have been talking about, well he just lost his leg to a bear trap not four weeks ago. He's not really feeling all that great about it - thanks for asking - and you're absolutely right, he is miserable. And what's worse is that, here I am, trying to prove to him that he's not different, and that no one's going to stare at him and pity him; and here you are doing your damndest to prove me wrong."

The woman's mouth dropped open in defensive stature, but Sam held his hand up to stop her from saying anything. He wasn't done. "Think about it. Put yourself in his shoes. You're injured; feeling vulnerable and as undesirably different as a person can possibly feel. And then not three feet away from you you start hearing people talking about you and how you must be miserable, and sticking their nose into your business when all you want to do is blend in with the crowd. How would you feel?"

Sam paused, looking expectantly from face to face as he waited for an answer. When none came, he pushed harder. "Well, how would you feel?"

"Iwoosu," the woman mumbled under her breath and Sam leaned in toward her.

"Hmm?"

"Iwoosu," she repeated, more softly if that was possible.

Sam crossed his arms and looked at her in stern disapproval. "Now come on, lady. You and I both know you can speak louder than that. Now try it again, and this time take the cotton out of your mouth."

"I said it would suck," she finally admitted. "I'm sorry."

"That's a bit better. But I'm not the one you really need to be apologizing too."

She seemed horrified, but had finally realized there was only one way they would get rid of this lunatic who had intruded upon their lunch and she finally looked over to Dean who was watching with horrified curiosity, a shade of red on his cheeks that came close to matching that of the woman's.

"I'm sorry," she said, and it almost sounded genuine. "I was a jerk...we, were jerks."

In that moment Dean decided that he hated Sam. He hated him for dragging him into this god-forsaken diner to be gaped at and discussed. He hated him for calling more attention to him with this little escapade. He hated him for not letting things be and telling this woman and her husband all about what had happened to him and how he was feeling. He hated his life.

And then he realized his mistake. Because in his stubbornness, he had inadvertently isolated himself from his only escape out of the restaurant by making Sam take the crutches. Dean wanted to storm out of there; wanted nothing more than to stomp loudly from this damn diner and get in his car and leave little brother behind in a cloud of squealing tires and scattered gravel. But he could barely get himself out of the booth, and even if he could he wasn't sure if he would be able to get to the crutches. And how much fun would that be to hop angrily from the building like a rabid little bunny anyway. The crutches just ruined the effect.

But he had to get out; there was just no other way around it. He had to try. So Dean inched to the edge of the bench and pushed himself to a stand, hopping unsteadily as he leaned heavily on the wobbly table edge. And Sam was immediately at his side as Dean had feared he would be.

"Dean, where are you going? Let me help you"

Dean shrugged out of Sam's grasp. "You've done enough, Sam."

He bent over the table, reaching for the crutches and nearly losing his balance in the process. Sam's hand instinctually reached out for him, grabbing under his arm and pulling him back up. Dean let him, but as soon as he was up he yanked out of Sam's grasp again and planted his arms in the cuffs of the crutches, swinging unsteadily out the door without looking back.

"Dean wait, please!" Sam called as he wrenched a twenty from his wallet, dropping it on the table before taking off after his brother.

The stubborn hunter was halfway to the car by the time Sam made it out of the restaurant, determinedly evading the potholes in the crumbling parking lot. He heard Sam call out to him again and clenched his teeth in stalwart refusal to turn and acknowledge the boy. Sooner or later he would have to accept the fact that the car wouldn't unlock itself and he would have to allow Sam access to the keyhole.

But that didn't mean he had to look at his brother, and it certainly didn't mean he had to talk to him. He paused at the car, leaning against the side with more than enough space for Sam to maneuver in, open the door, and get the hell out of Dean's way. But Sam had other ideas.

"Dean, please, you have to talk to me," he begged breathlessly; and why the hell was Sam out of breath when Dean was the one struggling along on crutches.

Crossing his arms, the cuffs still locked onto Dean's forearms, he grunted and turned his head away from Sam. "I've got nothing to say to you, Sam. You shouldn't have done that."

"I was trying to help," Sam whined apologetically.

"Yeah, well you didn't."

"Dean, please–"

He couldn't stand it anymore. It was just too much. Dean exploded. "You're a hypocrite, you know that Sammy?"

Taken aback, Sam just stared at Dean.

"You sit there and you preach to me about all this 'act normal' bullshit. 'Don't let them get to you, Dean,' you tell me over and over again. But when the cards are down, you can't take the heat anymore than I can. You may even be worse."

Sam's mouth gaped open. "I...I'm sorry. I...what did I..."

"Those people start talking about me and you can't wait to get up and put them in their place. What happened to ignoring people? What happened to disregarding their ignorance?"

Shaking his head firmly, Sam denied the accusation. "No, Dean, that's not what happened. You were upset. I thought–"

"You thought what, Sammy, that I couldn't handle a little talk? People talk about us all the time; we're weird, we're different. What we do, how we dress, we're bound to get comments. I'm used to it."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Sam challenged, calling Dean's bluff. "All those days in the hospital, even now, all you've cared about is how people are going to see you. So tell me what this is really about or we're not going anywhere."

Dean hesitated. Was he really this transparent? But then again, if he didn't tell Sam now, then the kid would never learn.

"You embarrassed me," he finally whispered, turning his head away in shame. "Those people, the way they were talking, was rude and annoying, and I wanted nothing more than to smack them right across their self-righteous faces. But what you did was worse, Sam."

"I was trying to help," Sam repeated, slumping against the side of the car. "I'm sorry, I...I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry Dean."

"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't always cut it, Sam."

"What can I do, Dean? What do you need?"

Dean sighed. "Right now, I just need time. Take me home please. I need to be alone."

"Fine." Sam opened the door and held it as Dean struggled into the front seat, desperately trying to mask his emotions so Dean wouldn't know how hurt he was. He was right, this shouldn't be about Sam. He took the crutches from his brother without saying a word and stuffed them into the back seat, and then circled around to the other side of the car, slumping into the driver's seat in a huff. He waited with baited breath as he turned the key, expecting Dean to come back with an exasperated 'Awww, Sammy, come on man,' but the words never came and Sam knew any pleas he made would be shot down before all the words ever came out.

Not a sound was made between the two the entire drive home, and Dean couldn't even bring himself to pop in some music as he brooded, head resting against the window as he stared sightlessly at the scenery outside.

They pulled up in front of Missouri's house, Missouri's normal house, where Bobby was currently teetering at the top of a ladder fixing some loose shingles that he'd noticed the day before and just had to fix because, well, the man would go stir crazy just sitting around doing nothing while he waited for Dean and Sam to return. He'd wondered if it was time to head back to his own house when he found himself bored to tears that morning, but the sight of John's boys, both distraught and utterly tormented as they climbed out of the old Impala, had Bobby singing a different tune. He simultaneously glanced around for more work to do while calling gruffly down the ladder "How'd the first session go?"

Sam's look of desperation as he shook his head at the man, Don't ask, Bobby, just don't ask, made him cringe and he scrambled down the ladder just as Dean made it to the three steps leading up to Missouri's porch. Dean paused for just a second before his anger gave him the strength to grab the railing and hop the three steps up as the remainder of his weight rested on the two crutches now clutched in one hand. When he was at the top, he readjusted his support once again, one crutch in each hand again, and slammed into the house.

Bobby could see Sam struggling with himself, knew the boy was barely holding back a 'Dean wait,' as he agonized over following his brother into the house or staying put and unburdening himself to the father figure. Whether a good decision or a bad, Sam's allegiance to Dean finally had him racing off into the house after his brother.

The smell of homemade baked goods wafted throughout the entire house, stating yet another sense of normalcy to the tortured young man now scooting up the stairs on his rear. Sam caught Dean's eye as he cleared the fifth step and recoiled immediately, noting the utter despondency and desperation in his brother's expression. Dean was beyond angry anymore; somewhere in the silent car ride home Dean had completely fallen apart.

"Dean, stop," Sam called, finally finding the strength to speak again if only to implore hope from his brother as he watched the man scoot up the stairs in far more demeaning a fashion than either one of them would have liked, dragging the despised crutches with him inch by inch.

Missouri had heard them come in and came from the kitchen to greet the boys, but she abruptly stopped when she noted the emotion swirling between the two. She now watched from the doorway of the dining room, pressed against the side as though she might draw strength from the molding. She could see Bobby watching from the screen door, too wary to come in, but caring too much to turn away.

"I said I want to be alone," Dean glowered, his voice too monotonous and withdrawn for anyone's liking.

"I don't think you should be," Sam countered, his voice gentle, yet fear-laden.

Dean bit back a flinch as his leg chose that moment to once again return to the haunt, invisible pain flaring through every synapse of his leg. He shot his brother a glance as he stoned up his face again, desperately hoping that Sam hadn't noticed.

A flash of recognition passed over Sam's face because he had seen the flinch and Dean's words in the doctor's office suddenly came rushing back at him. Yeah, I still get the phantom pain. I'd say the pain level is about a three. I f Dean had thought he was getting rid of Sam before, he now stood no hope.

"You said the phantom limb pain was still bothering you." It was a statement, not a question, and it held accusatory tones despite Sam's attempts at keeping those hidden.

"Yeah, so what if it is," Dean replied, but his nonchalance was not working on Sam and he cringed as his little brother began his assent up the stairs just as Dean finally made it to the top.

Dean scrambled to his feet, frantically trying to outrun Sam. What he attempted to accomplish in this race he didn't know, but he knew he had to make it to the room before his brother; had to put as much distance between himself and his over-bearing little brother as he possibly could.

Sam sighed, watching the deer caught in the headlights look his brother had as he darted off down the hall. How am I supposed to fix this? He won't even let me near him.

The door was closed by the time Sam made it to the room, practically slammed in his face if truth be told. He knocked softly, trying his best to respect his brother's privacy despite his instincts to the contrary. "Dean, please, open the door."

"I asked you to leave me alone!" came the muffled reply.

"Dean, you're in pain!" Sam worried. "I can tell. Let me help you."

"There's nothing you can do about this, Sam. Just let me deal with it on my own."

"Dean, please..."

"SAM! Asking doesn't seem to work with you, so now I'm telling you; LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!"

Sam backed off, reluctantly accepting that Dean would not be appealing to him any time soon. "Alright," he called meekly as he finally backed off. "I'm leaving, Dean. But please call me if you need anything. Please." He finally turned on his heel and slowly made his way back downstairs, meeting the curious concern from Missouri and Bobby.

"I blew it," Sam moaned as he crossed into the living room and slumped on the couch. "I had one chance, and I fucking blew it."

Missouri hastened to Sam's side, biting her tongue on reprimanding Sam on his language and instead draping an arm around the young man as Bobby dropped heavily into a large easy chair. "What happened?"

Sam shrugged despondently, but didn't hesitate in speaking as he told Bobby and Missouri everything that had happened since they left the house early that morning. When he was done Missouri suggested he lay down and nap for a while, assuring him that things would all look better after Dean had a chance to rest. "We'll get him down here for dinner," Missouri assured. "Just give him some time."

Sam nodded, eager to believe the woman as she lay a blanket around his shoulders. He drifted off in an uneasy sleep, surprised at how tired his body had been, but Missouri brought him back to startled alertness a couple hours later with her frantic voice. "Sam. Sam! Get up!"

He blinked groggily, trying to bring his foggy mind to focus on her desperation. "Sam, something's wrong. I think you need to go check on your brother."