I'm not sure if I should have continued with this chapter or if it's okay stopping where it does, but I'm going out of town tomorrow and wanted to get something posted for you all before I left, so this is what we have. On the bright side, I should have lots and lots of time to catch myself up and get back on track with having several chapters written ahead. We're beginning to move forward with the healing process now. I hope I can continue to do justice to this story and the boys' emotions. Thank you all once more for your continued support and all those wonderful and encouraging reviews. I can't begin to tell you how much it excites me to open my mailbox and find such kind and heartfelt words toward my story. Keep 'em coming and I'll keep the story coming - seems like a fair trade, don't you think? Enjoy...
Dean refused to talk to Sam, or anyone else, about what he had done. In the three days he sat under suicide watch he was sullen and withdrawn yet oddly compliant. He ate when he was told to eat, slept when they told him to sleep, and even took a shower at their orders. The counselor Dr. Galvin had alluded to appeared each day and Dean sat through all three of the hour long sessions without so much as a negative word towards the woman. He didn't say much at all, for that matter, offering only single word, monosyllabic answers to her multiple questions. He refused to bare his soul to her, wouldn't acknowledge why he'd done what he'd done or how he was feeling presently. At times, though, she would make guesses to his emotional state, and when she was correct he would answer in the affirmative, when she was wrong he would shake his head no. And so, despite his reluctance to open up, for Dean, they were getting somewhere. It was a slow trek up a long, steep, winding, ice covered road, but Sam was strangely encouraged by Dean's sessions with the counselor.
In the end, though, it was Sam's over riding guilt that finally made Dean crack. The boy hadn't left his brother's side once since they admitted Dean to the hospital, and even when he was shooed from the room for the private counseling sessions Sam was never further away than the wall outside Dean's room. He was terrified that Dean might try something again; terrified that he might not be around to stop it the next time.
Bobby had started to call him Uncle Sam, as in 'Uncle Sam is watching you,' which would have been funny if it weren't so bittersweet. But that was a Dean joke, and Sam knew Bobby had really only said something because Dean wouldn't.
Nobody brought up the suicide attempt, each one too afraid of the answers they might be forced to hear. For Sam especially, he feared hearing out loud that Dean had purposely tried to leave him. It was bad enough having had the visual. But out of sight, in this case, was hardly out of mind.
Sam no longer slept because every time he closed his eyes he saw his brother's lifeless form on Missouri's bathroom floor. Dreams were cruel things, especially for Sam Winchester, and his mind seemed to play tricks on him more often than not. He'd tried to sleep the first night, curled up painfully in the too small wooden chair beside his brother's bed. But in sleep he not only saw the actual suicide attempt, but every additional possibility that hadn't happened, too. It was bad enough reliving the real thing, but it could have been so much worse and Sam had no desire to know just how much worse it truly could have been.
So when Dean was awake, Sam was awake, desperately trying to boost his brother's obsolete morale. And when Dean was asleep, Sam was still awake, his mind working overtime to come up with some way to help Dean that wouldn't be misconstrued as meddling or pushing or embarrassing. He'd replayed the memories of the diner scene over and over in his head, tearing it apart and lamenting each and every second of wrongness that he'd committed that day. If he had it to go back and do over again, there were so many things he would change. But he could only change the future.
Everyone had expected Dean to be climbing the walls of the hospital by the time his third day was over, but the morose hunter had never once even asked when he could go home, and he pretty much captured perfectly the 'deer caught in the headlights' look when Dr. Galvin finally told his family that they could take him home.
He'd watched Sam's face light up with relief and saw Missouri and Bobby intently listening to all the instructions the doctor gave before signing the final release papers. And he wished he could be that happy, that content, to be going home. But he wasn't happy or content, and if anyone had bothered to ask him, Dean would have told them he was downright scared to death about leaving the hospital. Inside the walls of the county hospital Dean was safe and cared for and he had people to make his decisions for him. They told him when to eat and when to sleep, when to get dressed, when to take his medication, and even how to feel. He could live with that. Right now he wasn't really feeling very confident in his decisions and Sam seemed okay with his new submissive attitude; maybe not thrilled to have lost the wise-cracking, smart ass, confident brother he once knew, but definitely glad just to have any brother. But Dean wasn't sure if he could be so agreeable once he left the confines of the one place filled with the only people that never seemed to judge him.
Even Sam judged him now. He could see it in the kids eyes; could see the hurt Dean had caused him, the doubt at Dean's every thought and action. Why'd you do it, Dean? He'd heard his brother ask late the first night when Sam had thought he was long asleep. I just don't understand why you thought so little of me that you couldn't come and talk to me. Suicide is not the answer. You should have come to me. I'm your brother, Dean. What did I do to make you doubt that you could come to me?
Dean's heart ached for the pain he'd caused his little brother, and he wondered if this might be his punishment for trying to kill himself - this eternal guilt that would eat away at him constantly as he watched Sam suffer in his own misbegotten guilt. He debated over whether or not he would have the strength to make it up to the kid, or whether their relationship had been completely destroyed by Dean's destructive tendencies.
He really wasn't ready to face it. He wasn't prepared for the onslaught of emotion that threatened to accompany a conversation about his attempted suicide. His hospital appointed therapist had urged him to talk through his feelings. She encouraged him to talk to Sam, to tell his brother point blank how he was feeling and what he needed from him. Sam had been much more forthcoming with information than Dean had been, and so she'd come to him on the final day with knowledge of what had happened at the diner. Sam had told her how he'd screwed up and pushed Dean into something he hadn't wanted to do, and she, in turn, had insisted that Dean needed to share his desires and thoughts with Sam in order to prevent such a disaster from happening again. And as much as Dean hated to admit it, somewhere in among her obnoxious psychobabble he had to admit that the woman had a point.
On the way out of the hospital and to the car Dean studied Sam, realizing all at once that Sam had been walking on eggshells around him for the past three days. He was still the same clingy, hovering little brother he'd always been. But now he maintained an emotional distance that had never existed between them before. And what unnerved him the most was that Sam would no longer look him in the eye when they spoke. He'd lost his baby brother's trust.
There was only one way to bridge the gap that now existed between them, and as much as he really didn't want to, Dean knew what he had to do. He owed it to Sam for the destruction he'd caused to their relationship, to Sam's emotional state. He owed it to Sam because he was the protector, and God knew he hadn't been doing a very good job of protecting the kid lately. He'd attempted to get out, and that hadn't worked. Instead, Dean had been dragged kicking and screaming and fighting tooth and nail from his one chance at peace back into a world that very closely rivaled hell. He had one chance, one opportunity, to get out, and when that didn't work he'd come to the realization that he was never getting out. And that meant doing everything he possibly could to make this life bearable to live in. Starting with Sam.
He waited until they were alone, just himself and Sam driving home in the Impala with Bobby and Missouri far ahead of them in Bobby's truck. "Head over to the park," Dean ordered quietly, never glancing in Sam's direction as he stared solemnly out the window.
Sam looked over to Dean, cocking his head in question. It was the first time in three days that Dean had said something without being spoken to first. But with Dean neglecting to look at him, his brother would never know that Sam was questioning his order. Nothing more was said through the drive, despite Sam's constant glances towards his brother, disappointed every time that Dean had yet to look in his direction.
Dean spent the time working up his nerve, maintaining a constant streamline of encouragement as he attempted to convince himself that he was strong enough to have the impending conversation with Sam, when every ounce of pent up frustration within him said that he wasn't even close.
The Impala came to a slow halt in front of the tree lined entrance to the city park, off in the shadows and away from the majority of the other cars in the lot. Sam's hands patted out a steady rhythm on the steering wheel, nervously deciding what was to come next. He glanced once again at Dean. Does he want to get out? Does he want me to get out? What the hell are we doing here?
Over on his side of the bench seat Dean was lost in thought, barely aware that the car was now stopped and that Sam was impatiently waiting to find out what the detour was all about.
"Dean..."
He looked up when Sam hissed his name and blinked dazedly at his brother. It wasn't that he hadn't known this would be hard. God, he knew. But thinking about saying the words, and actually saying them were two totally different things. He took in a deep breath and held it for as long as he could before slowly releasing it and looking over at Sam.
"I, um..."
Sam pursed his lips and turned his whole body toward Dean, nervously awaiting whatever it was his brother wanted to say. Unsure of what else to do with his hands, he finally tucked them under his armpits to keep them steady. If he knew Dean, any nervous movements on his part could distract the older man, ultimately silencing him before he even began.
"Sam, I don't know what to say to you, man." Dean's own hands were his focal points, something to latch onto that was strong and familiar.
"You don't–"
"No, Sam. Please don't interrupt me."
Sam closed his mouth as quickly as it had opened and nodded his head, accepting the order without question.
"I don't know what to say to you, but I know I have to say something. It...what I did," he couldn't bring himself to say the actual word. Suicide. I tried to commit suicide. He knew Sam knew exactly what he was taking about, though, and saying it wasn't necessary.
"I don't know if this is going to help at all, Sammy," God, do I even deserve to call you Sammy anymore? "I don't know if this is going to ease the pain, or help with the questions. I know you must have so many questions swimming around in your head, Sam, and I hope that someday I may be strong enough to help you to answer them all. But if it helps, Sam, you have to know that you were the one and only reason why I held on so long. I almost didn't do it...because of you."
It was a revelation that took time to absorb, and the car was once again filled with silence while Sam debated on his response. Or even whether or not he should respond.
"So what changed you mind?" Sam finally asked, his shaky voice almost a whisper.
Dean shrugged, but then caught the distressed look in his brother's eye and realized a shrug was no answer. He owed Sam more than that.
"Sam, I just...I don't...you don't know what it's like." He dropped his head into his hands, a heavy smack resounding through the deafening silence of the vehicle. Dean could feel himself losing control, feel the dreaded tears coming back for yet another attack on his all too frail mental state, and he wanted to get up and walk away, and only come back when he was strong again.
But who knew when that time would come...if that time would come. And so he had to do it now, and he had to be strong. Eyes glistening with moisture, he looked at Sam. Really looked...and saw the fear that filled his brother from the tips of his toes to the highest hair at the top of his head, and he knew he had to do this for Sam. His voice wavered when he spoke again, and even taking several swallows couldn't mask the emotion. "I'm a hunter, Sam. It's not just what I do. It's who I am. It's every single fiber of my being; the only thing I've known since I was four measly years old."
"Dean, I know that. It's–"
"Sam, please. This is hard enough without you interrupting me."
Again, Sam nodded, lifting both hands up, palms out, in surrender. "I'm sorry. Please, go on."
Another deep breath. God this is hard. He was about to admit things to Sam that he wasn't even sure he was ready to admit to himself. "When I woke up in that hospital, and you told me that I'd lost my leg I...dammit, Sam, I pretty much felt as though my entire life was over right then and there. And ever since then I've been drowning in this void of surrealism. It's like I've been underwater for weeks with no hope of ever coming up for air. I'm useless, Sam. I only knew one thing in my whole, entire, fucked up existence; and that's hunting, Sam. Hunting, and protecting you. But now..." the first tear dropped from the wet pools that filled his eyes and Dean reached up and wiped angrily at the moisture of betrayal. "God, what the hell am I supposed to do now, Sam?"
The pause was deafening. Dean gulped back breath after breath of the Murphy's Oil scented air, desperately trying to fend off new tears, while Sam debated over his role in this conversation. Can I talk now? Do I comfort him? Pretend he's not crying? Make a joke? What the hell am I supposed to do? What do I tell him.
Finally, Sam uncrossed his arms and reached a tentative hand out to his brother, willing the trembling appendage to be still, to speak of confidence where there was none. "We'll figure something out, Dean. Together."
Dean shrugged free of Sam's touch, his frustration evidenced in his angry tone. "No, Sam! That's just it! You keep telling me we'll figure this out. You tell me that everything will be okay. But it won't. Things can't go back to the way they were, and I have no idea how the hell I'm supposed to move forward. I'm not a boy-genius like you, Sam. I have no collegiate aspirations; I have no desire to be a father or a husband. I can't be tied down, Sam. It's not alright; it never will be! Why can't you understand that?"
"Because I don't believe it," Sam replied hesitantly, not uncertain about his beliefs on the topic, but uncertain about how Dean would take it. It wasn't worth wasting his energies on trying to convince Dean that he could be normal until Dean was ready to accept it.
Dean sighed, running his hand through his hair and looking back out to window. "You have no idea what this has been like for me, Sam. There's no way you could; and yet you keep trying to convince me that it's so simple to get over this. It's not like I broke a bone or needed a few stitches, Sam. This is never going to heal. They carved me up like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey - 'here ya go, Pop, how 'bout a nice leg'-" Even miserable, the snark was never very far from the surface and Sam winced at Dean's tone.
"Dean, I know it's got to be hard, knowing you look different–"
"It's not just the appearance, Sam," Dean interrupted, annoyed once more at Sam's presumptions. "I mean, yeah, I hate that part. The stares. The pity. The whispers. I hate being treated with kid gloves, Sam. But that's not the whole thing. It's not even the biggest part."
"So what is?"
There was no easy way to say it, and he finally just blurted it out. "It's knowing that I will always be dependant on something - for the rest of my life I'm going to have to rely on something other than myself. And you know as well as I do, that the only thing you can really trust is yourself."
Sam flinched. There was a time that that sentence would have sounded more along the lines of 'we can only trust each other,' but now even he had been eviscerated from the equation. Dean only trusted himself, now. And just barely.
"The doctors have all said that a prosthetic will be able to provide you with just about everything a real leg-"
"It's still not the same!" Dean protested. He just couldn't let Sam finish a sentence. "It's almost a real leg, Sam. But not the real thing. It's still something that I have to put on and take off, something that could fall off when I'm in trouble - when you're in trouble. It's not a sure thing, Sam. What's to say that it won't malfunction when I need it most?"
"What's to say that a bone in your real leg won't break and impede your performance?" Sam rebutted. "What's to say that a gun you strap to your back won't fall off? What's to say that your holy water has actually been blessed or that the batteries won't die on you in the EMF reader. Shit, Dean, just about anything could happen."
"It's different, Sam. You just don't get it."
"Then make me get it." Sam whined. "Make me understand."
Dean finally looked up, capturing his brother's look of desperation within his own steely gaze. "I'm trying, Sam. But it's hard to explain to someone what this is like without them going through it themselves. You just don't know, Sam. You can't. So you're just going to have trust me on this."
I do, Dean; with my life. That's why it's so hard for me not to be able to help you. "Dean, if I'm going to trust you, you have to trust me as well. You have got to let me in. If you need something, if you want something, don't want something - you've got to tell me. I'm not a mind reader, Dean."
Dean nodded. I just don't know what I want, Sammy. "I just..." Dean hesitated, once again about to admit something that he wasn't ready to commit to. "I'm scared to death Sam."
That stopped Sam dead in his tracks. He could feel the air rushing from his lungs and the gentle relief of more flowing back in never came. Dean's scared. And not only that, Dean's admitting to being scared. But how can that be? Dean is never scared; he's fearless. That revelation alone was Sam's undoing. Because, God, if Dean was scared then how the hell was he supposed to feel? Dean had always been Sam's rock, his lifeline, his ultimate saving grace. Dean always guided Sam; his actions told Sam when to be happy or sad, told him when he should be on alert and when he could relax and have fun. What Sam felt only came from what Dean felt, and Dean had never once admitted to being scared in as long as he could remember.
The thing about Dean's rock hard emotions was that, even injured, Sam had always felt a part of Dean guiding him toward the right direction, the right choice. Sam had always pulled his strength from his older brother, and now he realized that he would have to draw his own strength this time. He just wasn't sure he could do it.
Ever so slowly Sam drew the corners of his lips into a smile, forcing himself to radiate warmth and comfort and reassurance. He reached out again with his hand, grateful that the shaking had somehow miraculously subsided and he was able to emit convincing strength as he rested it on top of Dean's shoulder, inching closer to his brother.
"I know it's going to be a bumpy road, Dean. I know you may never truly feel whole again, and that you might not be able to do everything you used to do before. I know this is totally going to suck. I'm not going to promise you that everything is going to be okay, because you and I both know that's just a load of bullshit. But I can promise you one thing, Dean. I am going to be here with you through every single shit filled day and every tear and frustration this is going to cause you."
He paused to make sure Dean was listening to him, and that he was absorbing everything Sam had to say to him. And when Sam established that Dean was hearing him he continued, inching himself even closer as Dean continued to feed off the younger man's proclamation.
"There's one thing I can promise you, Dean. And this I do know from personal experience. One day you're going to wake up and it's going to feel like the weight has been lifted just a fraction of an inch. And then your going to wake up the next day and it will seem even brighter. And so on and so forth, until one day you wake up and the pain is no longer there, and all that's left is a realization that life really can go on...even when you've lost something so near and dear to your heart that you think the pain may never go away - life can move beyond that loss."
Dean looked over to Sam with tear filled eyes, his hands trembling like crazy as he reached one up to grab hold of the one Sam had resting on his shoulder. He locked his trembling hand onto his brother's, holding tight and never wanting to let go. "You promise?"
Sam nodded his head. "Yes, Dean. I promise."