A/N: Hey guys! Thanks, as always, for reading. I finally got an answer about the story not showing up on the site - Thanks a bunch, Adder574 for your help with this! Anyway, for everyone out there wondering, each time you check the main list of stories you will need to go to the sort specifications line (begins with page 1 of ### and is followed by a bunch of blue boxes). Find the one that says 'rated k -- t' and click on it so that you select 'rated all.' Because I have this story rated M it won't show up unless you specifically want to see those. And fyi - I think we're all missing out on some good stories because of the way this is done! Unfortunately, it won't save the settings so you will have to do this every time you open the screen, but at least we have the answer!
And now on with the story - it's a little shorter than last week, but serves as the seperation point between the hospital and rehab....
Before Adam's letter arrived Sam had somehow managed to convince himself that Dean was no longer in danger, that the threat was gone because Adam had succeeded in what he'd set out to do. The letter opens his eyes, heightens his awareness. Suddenly, Sam finds himself on the defensive, once again seeking out information and forcing himself to hear details that he hadn't taken the time to hear before.
It's not until he starts doing this that he realizes just how much of his attention has been focused solely on Dean and his recovery; not nearly enough on the surrounding details.
It's surprisingly easy to obtain the information he needs; embarrassingly easy, actually. Turns out Adam and Lori Ann had managed to escape police custody nearly two weeks ago, slipped free during a transfer from one facility to another. Because of Adam's circumstances, and the fact that the state didn't want to pay for 24 hour nursing care, they had allowed Lori Ann complete access to Adam during their incarceration. And apparently that allowed them plenty of time to plot their escape.
The police have no leads, have no idea how it is that an entire transport van can just disappear, driver, guards and all. But Sam's only question is how it is that he's gone this long without knowing about the escape. How could he have been so distant that he didn't know this? And why didn't anyone from the police station notify him?
As to how they'd made their escape, Sam has his suspicions; figures that after the events of the past few days the answer is as obvious as the nose on his face. Adam is back to his old tricks, creating more zombons to suit his needs. The police escort, the nurse from yesterday, who knows who else. And somehow he's managed to refine his technique so that the new zombons are walking, talking, functioning members of society. No more of this separation and distance present in Milla and the nurses during Dean's captivity.
The whole thing scares the ever-loving shit out of Sam, has him hovering over top of Dean non-stop, refusing to leave even during the normally obligatory time frame when Jeanette returns to finish the morning routine. And he can see in Dean's eyes that this time he's glad Sam doesn't leave. The humiliation of the process is far outweighed by the possibility that another zombon could somehow find its way to Dean. Neither of them is willing to risk the helplessness of the situation.
--
Milla shows up around 11:00 on the day Dean leaves the hospital. She seems awkward, out of place, as though she really isn't sure what her role is anymore. Sam can see where that must be a problem, to have once been an esteemed surgeon within the very same hospital that Dean is being cared for at, the same hospital that she can no longer practice medicine at.
In a moment of weakness, desperation, she'd shared with Sam the fact that she's been put on an indefinite leave until she can prove that she's capable of surgery. But her hands shake now, and time in surgery affects her breathing and her composure, and she's not sure when or even if she'll ever be capable of the talents she once had.
For the time being she is merely a civilian, out of place in the room. She doesn't really belong with the doctors and the nurses filtering into and out of the room as they prepare Dean for his transfer that afternoon. And she doesn't belong with Sam and Dean, either.
Yet she's here nonetheless; ready to offer her support in any way that she can, any way that Sam will allow. He'll need a ride, and she's got a car. He'll need information, and she knows how to ask the right questions. For now she stands in the corner, trying to stay out of the way. But later Sam will let her help. For Dean.
At 11:30 the transport team arrives, joins in the flurry of activity to finalize Dean's preparations. He is bundled in blankets and transferred from the hospital bed to a gurney, tightly secured by straps across his ankles, thighs, chest and shoulders. They switch him from the stationary ventilator in the room to a portable vent, snapping the hose in place through the hole in the c-collar he wears to keep his head steady and placing the portable machine on the gurney between his legs.
Sam is so anxious he barely says two words to Dean throughout this whole ordeal, but he makes sure he stays within his brother's line of sight at all times, and when everything is ready he finally speaks.
"You good?" Sam asks, dropping a hand to Dean's cheek for comfort.
Dean blinks once, indicating yes, but the moisture in his eyes is suspicious and Sam wonders if there is more to the blink than meets the eye.
"K, well they won't let me ride in the van with you. But Milla is giving me a ride to the rehab center. We'll be right behind you, okay? I've got your back."
Dean blinks once again, more moisture welling up and he blinks several more times to hold back the tears. 'You checked?' Dean mouths, suddenly desperate.
Immediately Sam knows what Dean is thinking. He's on top of his game this time, ready with an answer and certain of its truth. "I've been watching. You've got a good team," he says cryptically, knowing Dean will understand the meaning. "Twenty minutes, okay bro? Twenty minutes and we're back together. I'm right behind you."
Pursing his lips Dean nods minutely and closes his eyes, the meaning clear. He'll hold out until they're back together again.
Sam forces out a smile and pats Dean on the cheek.
He's come to realize that his mood, his level of confidence, is directly in correlation with his brother's. When Sam is upset, so is Dean. So he forces himself to let some reassurance rub off. His gaze lingers on Dean for several seconds, hand cupping his brother's chin and cheek with one final pat before he pulls away and nods to the transport crew.
"Right behind you," he says one final time as Dean is pushed from the room, doesn't even wait until the gurney clears the doorway before he's looking at Milla with desperation and anxiety in his eyes.
"Can we go?"
1
---
Sliding into the passenger's seat of Milla's practical Ford Fusion, Sam breathes a heavy sigh. He wants nothing less than to be riding over to the rehab hospital with her. He still doesn't trust her, doesn't want any more to do with her than he absolutely has to. But the woman has insisted, and moreover, she's convinced him that having her there as a liaison between the rehab staff and Dean would make everything go altogether more smoothly.
Because it's for Dean, he's agreed.
He glances at the clock, shocked to see that it's already almost half past noon. By his math that means it's taken close to three hours just to get his brother ready for transport, and that's not counting the time Jeanette was with him before that. Over the past few weeks he's become increasingly time conscious, ever aware of the lengths it takes each day to care for his brother. Just one more aspect of Dean's new life that Sam has come to realize is completely overwhelming.
He sighs heavily and tries to push the thought from his mind, save a worry for another day. Focusing instead on the activity in the ambulance bay, Sam tries to at least put himself in the moment.
The guy driving the transport bus climbs in and shuts the door behind him, starts the ignition with a hearty roar and pulls away from the curb. Milla does the same, following the ambulance into traffic, as Sam takes a deep breath and runs a shaky hand through his hair and down over his neck.
This is it. This is really happening.
Somehow none of the past few weeks has seemed real until just now, watching Dean being loaded into the back of the ambulance, so still and so helpless. His brother's eyes had been haunted, as though he too was just realizing how real things were.
Milla takes a chance, reaches over and puts a comforting hand on Sam's leg and squeezes. He jumps a little, contemplates shaking her off, but suddenly finds that he needs the comfort more than he's realized. In the few days since Dean convinced him to let her help Sam has only just barely been able to tolerate having Milla in the room with them, had to force himself to stomach the shopping trip they'd gone on, and he's been terrified of this day when Dean is transferred out of the hospital and Sam finds himself in need of another place to sleep. Milla's house, to be exact. Yet in an unexpected turn of events Sam discovers that it's not so hard to allow himself to seek solace with this woman.
He offers a hesitant smile, just enough to let her know that he's okay with the gesture, and she in turn leaves her hand on his leg for a few seconds longer before giving another squeeze of release and returning her hand to the steering wheel.
"I know it's hard to believe it now, but things will get better in time," she says, pressing her luck on how far to go.
Sam shrugs, but says nothing, keeping his eyes on the ambulance in front of them while wondering what Dean is thinking right now. Luckily, Milla takes the hint and goes quiet for the duration of the drive, only speaking up again when they actually pull in at New Beginnings and find a place to park.
"We're here," she says quietly. Sam doesn't move, doesn't even twitch. The ambulance is a good thirty feet away, pulled up right in front of the entrance to the building, and Sam watches in a dazed stupor as the transport team animates. All doors open on the bus as people climb from the front and jump into the back to pull Dean's gurney out. Two men and a woman emerge from the entrance to the rehab center and make a beeline to the crowd, immediately inserting themselves into the action.
For a minute Sam sees nothing, and then the gurney appears and there's Dean, all bundled up in blankets and strapped down. The portable ventilator is still lying between his legs, hoses snaking back and up to his neck through the hole in the Philadelphia collar. The collection bag just hangs obtrusively off the side of the gurney, half full of pale yellow liquid. Nothing has changed since Dean was loaded in back at the hospital, yet Sam can't help the sense of shock that overcomes him at the sight.
The wheels drop down as the gurney emerges from the back of the bus, and then someone raises the head up a little so that Dean can see more of what's going on around him. Sam watches someone lean over his brother for a minute then straighten up and look around the parking lot and back toward the road, shrugging when he turns back to Dean and pats him on the shoulder. Immediately, Sam is aware of what the man is looking for. Who he is looking for. And it's clear that Milla knows, too.
"Are you going in?" she asks gently. For the second time that day she lays a hand on Sam's leg, but this time he barely even notices it.
Tears rim his eyes and he blinks them back furiously, digs the heels of his hands into his sockets to try and stop the flow of emotion. "God, I hate this," Sam says. He sniffles a couple of times, checks his eyes once more, and grabs for the door handle. "Okay, let's go."
In an instant Sam is all business again, no sign of the insecurity and emotion that plagued him just seconds before, and he walks a fast path to the front of the hospital where they're just now pushing Dean through. Out of the corner of his eye Sam catches a glimpse of Milla struggling to keep up with his long legged stride, but he doesn't slow down. His concern is only for Dean.
He catches up with the group just as they're leaving the spacious entry hall and turning left down a corridor. Sam sprints to cover the last few yards of distance and comes to the side of the gurney, planting his hand down on Dean's shoulder as he watches his brother visibly relax.
"D'jyou think I was gonna miss this?" Sam asks, forcing cheerfulness into his voice in an effort to make things seem better than they actually are. He knows if Dean could speak that he'd be making some sort of sarcastic comment about Sam stopping for tampons on the way or some other stupid suggestion to imply that his little brother is a girl. As much as they annoy him, Sam finds he misses those remarks when they're no longer being spouted at every turn.
For a second, Sam is certain that Dean is glaring at him, eyebrows arched down toward his nose and mouth pursed tightly. Sam backs off just a few inches as he wonders if him not being there immediately has caused his brother to be angry with him again. But just as quickly as the reaction came on it disappears, replaced once more by the insecurity that Sam has been dealing with all week.
Dean bites his lower lip and shakes his head marginally, blinking twice. He says nothing else; just locks his eyes on his brother and allows Sam to be his strength as the gurney is pushed down the hall. Sam squeezes Dean's shoulder, even though he can't feel it, and looks away from Dean's stalwart gaze, scanning the group for recognition.
He recognizes the four members of the transport crew, an EMT, a nurse, a physical therapist, and an occupational therapist that all work at the center. The other woman who met up with the group when they arrived is Tanya Jackson, the director of New Beginnings. He's met her before, just the other day when Milla brought him for a tour of the facility, and he gives her a slight nod of the head in recognition as he continues his scan of the group. The other two men Sam doesn't know, but when his eyes fall to them Tanya takes notice and provides introductions.
"Sam, this is Dr. Liteman and Jamie Brand. Dr. Liteman will be overseeing Dean's medical care while he's here, and Jamie is the case manager assigned to your brother." Sam reaches back to shake hands with the two men, but never leaves Dean's line of sight.
"It's nice to meet you both," Sam says, though he doesn't really mean it. He'd rather not be meeting any of these people, would rather that Dean not be in the situation he's in.
They continue down the hallway, making a right turn halfway down and then another left before they come to a row of doors. Most of the doors are open, and some of the rooms hold patients in various stages of rehabilitation. But Sam doesn't pay much attention to them at the moment, focusing only on finding out which door they take Dean through. Tanya stops at the fourth door on the right and pushes the half closed door all the way open, pressing her back against it to provide room for the gurney and everyone else to enter.
The room is obviously already lived in, although the other occupant is nowhere to be found. There are two beds on the right wall, both highly technical and obviously expensive, with two nightstands side by side that create a large gap between the beds. The closer bed is made up in dark blue and white striped sheets with a Philadelphia Eagles blanket folded neatly at the foot. On the wall above the bed is a corkboard over-filled with pictures and cards, a big sign over that reading GET WELL SOON DADDY in large, childlike scrawl. More pictures and cards are taped to the wall that makes up one side of the bathroom.
Sam's heart skips a beat, his chest clenching, as he looks to the other bed, corkboard bare and empty, and wonders if Dean will get any cards. Probably not, seeing as how Dean won't even let him contact any of their small selection of friends to tell them about what's happened.
Tanya's voice breaks into his thoughts, and Sam immediately abandons them to focus on her, needing to soak in as much information as he can. "Dean, we're going to get you settled in bed and give you some time to rest. Someone will be by soon with lunch for you, and after that we'll assemble you and the rest of your family and team to discuss what will happen over the next few months. How does that sound?"
Dean mouths 'fine' to the administrator, then bites his bottom lip again as he prepares to be transferred into bed. Sam's noticed he's been doing that a lot lately, and it really unnerves him how his once brash and confident older brother has taken on such an insecure habit. It's like the whole world has just been turned upside down on its axis, everything is backwards now and inside out, spinning out of control. Sam just wants to stomp and scream, throw a tantrum in the middle of the room.
Stop the world, I want to get off!
As the team undoes the straps holding Dean onto the gurney and removes the blankets Sam is confronted with more out of the ordinary, more stuff that makes Dean no longer Dean. The rehab hospital insists that its patients be dressed every day, no longer this laying around naked under a sheet that the hospital has been pushing. Problem is, Dean is a t-shirt and jeans kind of guy. He's rugged and brazen and kind of cowboyish. But jeans are impractical for rehab. They're heavy and bulky and don't really yield all that much, not to mention the problem with rubs and pressure sores. Underneath the blankets Dean is now dressed from head to toe in a pair of sweatpants and a button-up shirt, tennis shoes that have replaced Dean's standard steel-toed boots. And seeing his brother all prepped out like some jock on the high-school football team just doesn't fit with the brother he knows, the brother who would be more likely to salt and burn the school gym than he would participate in organized sports.
It's just another thing he'll have to get used to, Sam realizes, another change in their topsy-turvy world.
SUPERNATURAL
Things are awkward during the first day at rehab. With Milla huddling in the far corner of the room trying to stay out of the way, and Sam pacing anxiously back and forth and clearly trying to seek out problems and malfunctions in the equipment that have the potential to be life-threatening. He's pressed the call button twice already, sheepishly apologizing both times when a nurse shows up needlessly. He's been all over the ventilator, checking the outlet it's plugged into and following the wires and the tubing in search of any kinks or weaknesses. The new bed, a combination of sand and air moving on a rotation that allows pressure on Dean's skin to be relieved without having to turn him as often, is clearly mystifying to Sam with all the bells and whistles that he describes eagerly to Dean. His geekboy brain works overtime to understand all the functions, but it's all Dean can do to find the energy to offer up a smirk and an eyeroll, the gesture merely an act with no emotion behind it.
Within minutes of the transport team clearing out a young nurse peeks her head into the room. She's maybe thirty at the oldest, curly, flaming red hair pulled high on top of her head with a few wispy tendrils framing her freckled face and otherwise porcelain white skin. Green eyes stand out sharply, contrasting the maroon color to her lipstick. They don't wear scrubs here, or polyester uniforms. Instead, she's wearing a pair of fitted khaki pants that emphasize her slender waist and a deep forest green polo shirt with the logo of the New Beginnings Rehabilitation Hospital embroidered over the pocket on the left; a pocket which lies flatteringly overtop of her firm, perky breasts.
She fits Dean's type to a tee, represents every girl he's ever chased down in bars over the years, every girl he's ever gone home with after finishing a hunt. There is a flicker of desire that flows through him as she introduces herself as Chelsea, a moment in which he forgets his situation and prepares a surefire pickup line.
And then she continues, telling him she'll be his nurse during the weekdays, and pulls a can of Ensure seemingly from thin air and gets to work on the g-tube setup. It's an instant, and he's right back in the present, understanding he will never be anything more to her than a patient, convincing himself that his days of being desired by women that look like her are long since over.
It's a whirlwind of a turnaround, has him sinking into a fog of despair before he can even blink. His world, the world as he once knew it, has completely changed and Dean is just beginning to realize that. Never before has he not left a hospital under his own steam, signing out AMA long before the doctors feel he has any rights to even be standing. Yet now, not only has he been genuinely and formally discharged, but it's only to a different hospital. And he will need help to leave this one, too. Christ, he'll be lucky if he's sitting when they send him home next time.
"That should help you feel better," Chelsea says, smiling warmly as she leans over and glides the back of her fingers across Dean's forehead. "Would you like some ice chips, too?"
Dean blinks once and Sam jumps in, ever helpful. "It's a system we worked out in the hospital," he says, proudly. "One blink means yes. Two is no."
Chelsea smiles politely. "I think I may have heard that one a time or two," she says, winking at Dean. Sam blushes and backs off, obviously realizing that this system of theirs may not have been as unique as he'd once thought.
"Open wide," Chelsea says. She spoons a few ice chips out of a disposable plastic cup she's brought with her and slides them onto Dean's tongue as he waits hungrily for them. Lately his mouth is always dry, and the few times a day that he's offered the savored ice chips never seems to be enough to satiate him.
Closing his eyes completely, Dean savors the ice on his tongue, waits as long as he can to swallow the melt off from it. He realizes that this is one of the few things he looks forward to during the day, thinks to himself how pathetic that is even as he opens his mouth for more. If this is all he has to look forward to anymore, what the hell kind of life is this?
Opening his eyes once again, he can see Chelsea waiting patiently with the ice, Sam hovering anxiously on the other side of the bed waiting for some way to be useful, and Milla still hiding in the corner pretending to fit in. Not one of them seems to be happy to be here, and yet, he just can't find it in himself to care. Instead, Dean opens his mouth for another ice chip and pushes all thoughts of the rest of the world out of his mind.
Which works for all of thirty minutes. Tops.
At some point Chelsea leaves. He doesn't remember her saying goodbye, but he know when she returns, this time part of a group of New Beginning's staff all dressed in the same casual uniform of khaki pants and polo shirts and obnoxious smiles. Dean hasn't even met any of them yet, and already he hates every last one.
Dr. Liteman leads the team, reintroducing himself before he introduces the other members and explains their purpose in Dean's recovery. Recovery, yeah right. What a laugh.
Dean barely pays attention. He doesn't make an attempt to remember names, and barely remembers occupations. And besides, he's got Sam to take care of that kind of thing. His little brother's probably got a pencil and a notepad, poised and ready to take notes verbatim over the course of this little meet and greet session.
And Dean figures, let him.
He's got a million therapists; physical and occupational and speech and respiratory, and figures that not one of them is going to do him much good if the doctors have gotten his prognosis right. Seriously, how much good can physical therapy do on a body that's completely locked down on itself. Laughs humorlessly to himself as he thinks, maybe I can learn to wiggle my ears…
The team of psychologists is laughable at best. He's never seen much use for them in the past, can't really see any purpose for them now. Isn't their job to sit and listen to their patients, and evaluate their needs? Well Dean can't talk, for one, and for another, he's got nothing to say. So unless they can end this nightmare he's stuck in they're not going to be of any use.
He can only see one purpose for the nurses; sponge baths and eye candy. And he's already been down that route mentally with Chelsea, has already figured out that his fantasies will remain just that. No chance anymore of actually taking one of them to bed. So, again, what's the point?
And that pretty much only leaves the social worker, aka 'discharge planner.' His ears perk up, finally, at that one and suddenly he's got something to look forward to. Discharge. Yeah. Now that guy Dean figures he'll make friends with. Makes a point to remember his name. Jamie. Jamie Brand.
They don't really say much, after all the flash and flare of the introductions. Each one says some iteration of the same thing; 'it's a pleasure to meet you Dean, we've got a long road ahead of us, can't wait to get started.' But the only thing he notices is that not a one of them says 'can't wait to heal you, Dean. Can't wait to get you up and on your feet, walking again. Looking forward to seeing you breathe on your own again.'
When they leave he hates them even more. Hates Milla for her part in this. Hates himself for not being able to overcome the odds. Ah, hell, adds in hating Sam for good measure, just because he's trying so damn hard to keep things positive and upbeat, and it's just fucking annoying!
He's kind of figuring Adam be damned, at this point; zombons be damned. Right now he just wants to be left alone, left to wallow in the ever deepening black pit of despair that's slowly been encroaching over the past several hours. So isn't it just perfect that at the time when he would just love to be left alone, he ends up coming face to face with the thus-far absent roommate.
He's in a wheelchair, which Dean had pretty much expected, and guides it by pushing his fists against a series of togs on the rims of the wheels. He doesn't seem to have any hand control, and limited arm control, muscles straining to propel the chair forward. The guy wears a pair of khaki pants and a white tank top, both falling loosely over his atrophying body, but Dean can just make out the history of muscle that must have once filled out a well-built physique.
Instantly Dean begins to think of his own body, the way it looked before and the way it looks now. It's barely been a month and he already looks like a weakened kitten; it scares him to think he'll develop the same stringy muscles and bony build that he can see on the roommate.
A deep blue tattoo of a firehouse crest covers the left bicep, and a barbed wire chain tattoo wraps around the other. Both sag now, as does the snake that entwines the lower right forearm. For once, Dean is glad that he's never seen fit to waste money on tattoos.
"Hey-heeey, what've we got here?" the guy sneers upon entry. He looks back at the aide trailing him and grins wickedly, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Fresh meat."
Dean cringes and purses his lips, and Sam jumps in between him and the new arrival, pulling himself to his full height and working the menacing stature to its full advantage.
The roommate laughs, waves a fisted hand at Sam as he maneuvers himself further into the room. "Relax, Kujo, I'm not gonna do anything to him. Just gotta toughen the guy up a bit. You'll see. I'm Kyle by the way. Kyle Tennyson."
He holds out his fist and Sam takes it awkwardly, pumping several times. "I'm Sam," he finally relents, stepping back. "That's Milla, and this is my brother Dean."
Kyle nods. He leans himself forward in the chair, propping up with elbows on the knees, and jerks a head in the direction of the aide that's followed him in. "That's Stu…Stuey. He's just here to make sure I behave myself." Smirking, Kyle sets his sights on Dean.
"What're you in for, dude?"
Dean's eyes widen, a mixture of shock and uncertainty, maybe some incredulity, and he looks to Sam for help.
"He can't talk," Sam interjects. "The…the vent."
"Ahhh," Kyle says knowingly, reaching a fisted hand to Dean's bed and patting his leg. "No worries. You'll be off of that thing in no time."
"It's permanent," Milla says in her soft voice as she steps from the shadows of the corner, suddenly feeling a need to protect the boys. "Dean is C-2 complete." Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to void out the sound of his diagnosis. He hates hearing it, the reminder of all he's lost and what little he's got left. A month ago he barely knew what a vertebrae was, and now he's got the whole damn spinal structure down.
"Damn. Tough break." Kyle never breaks his stare at Dean despite the conversation aimed at him from the others. "So, you're like all trapped in there, huh? You got anything? A twitch in a finger? Sensation in your toes?"
Dean blinks twice, uses the signal for no as a means to blink back the ever present emotions that seem to insist on coming out at the most inopportune of times nowadays. Before his injury he can't remember one time in nearly twenty years that he's shed tears the way he's been doing it over the last few weeks. He's weak, now.
"Twice for no, right?" Kyle guesses. "And one is yes?" And damn does he hate it.
A single blink. Grudgingly. This is his roommate, and Dean doesn't want to start out on the wrong foot with him, realizes he may need him as an ally if things should go south one day, but god he just wants to be left alone right now. He wants everyone to leave, needs time alone with his thoughts, time to figure some stuff out.
"Guess you've got the right idea, man. If you're gonna lose it, lose it all, right? Let the nurses wait on you hand and foot?" Kyle is smirking again, jerks his head back to the aide behind him once more. "This guy…he's not so much to look at. But I gotta tell you, some of the nurses here are H-O-T." He lets out a low whistle and raises his eyebrows. "If my old lady weren't such a saint for putting up with me, I'd tap every last one of those fine asses. I swear it's like a hiring requirement or something."
This time, even Dean can't help but be amused at Kyle's comment. The man is a fireball of energy, and it's hard not to react to him.
Dean pulls one side of his mouth up, about the best he can do for a smile, and draws on an image of Chelsea. If all the nurses look like her he figures things here won't be so bad. Just as soon as he can get past the hope that any of them might actually give him a second glance, that is.
"Kyle, we gotta get you in bed, man," Stu interrupts. "It's been a long day."
Kyle rolls his eyes in a private moment between himself and Dean, but pushes himself back to sitting upright and takes control of the joystick. "Yes, mo-oom."
"It's like boot camp in here," he directs at Dean. "They all just love giving orders."
Dean tries to smile again, thinking of his childhood and his father, the orders he'd endured growing up. And the fact that he would do anything to be back in those days, chasing after spirits and sparring with Sam. The smile falls short.
But Kyle doesn't appear to notice as he pulls a smooth wooden board out from under the pillow on his bed, removes the armrest of the wheelchair with awkward hands and slides the board under his limp legs, creating a bridge between himself and the edge of the bed.
"This is how the pros do it," he boasts.
Spastic muscles strain as Dean watches Kyle pull himself inch by agonizing inch over to the bed, refusing help from the aide with a shrug of the shoulders and a heavy glare.
The whole thing is painful and disheartening to watch. But the difference is that, where once upon a time Dean would have felt sorry for the guy, now he's jealous. Jealous of what he does have that Dean doesn't. If only the damage to his spinal cord had been just a vertebra or two lower things would be different. At this point Dean would do just about anything to have the mobility in his hands and arms that Kyle has, anything to be using his own power to drag himself into bed. He'd do anything to be talking and snarky and breathing on his own.
One glance over at Sam, at the vacant expression in his little brother's eyes, and Dean guesses that he's dreaming of the same things. He's tired of it; tired of seeing the lost hope in his brother's eyes and wishing he could make things all better like he used to do.
Clicking his tongue, Dean manages to get Sam's attention. He puts on a brave face, his big brother face, and hopes his acting is up to par. 'You should go,' he mouths. 'I can see you're tired.'
Sam's immediate reaction is to shake his head, eyes widening in disbelief. "Dean, no. I'm not leaving you here tonight."
"Family isn't allowed to stay the night," Milla reminds Sam from behind. Dean sees her petite hand fall to Sam's shoulder shakily, but can't see her behind his behemoth of a brother. "Besides, we need to get you settled in the house."
"Your brother's in good hands with me," Kyle adds, now sitting propped up in bed with the head raised to a 45 degree angle. "I'll take good care of him."
The way he says it, like a frat brother offering to take care of the freshmen rushes, has Dean just about recant his request for Sam to leave. But he's hoping that, with the fact he can't talk, Kyle won't waste too much time on him. He musters up the courage to smile reassuringly at Sam. 'See? I have my own bodyguard.'
Sam still seems nervous, loathe to leave him alone, but it's clear his defenses are crumbling, and Dean forces himself to play the part of the happy cripple for just a few seconds more until his brother is gone.
"I can be back here in 15 minutes if you need anything, Dean," Sam says seriously. "You call me. Promise?"
Dean blinks once, although internally he's wondering just how he's supposed to do that when he can't talk and can't move. But what the hell, if it will get him some alone time he'll promise just about anything.
"You're sure you're okay alone?"
Dean has always had a very expressive face, and he pulls on that talent right now, widening his eyes and tensing his lips so that Sam can see just how annoyed he's getting with the unending questions. 'I'm fine, Sam. Now go.'
"Alright, alright. I'm gone. I'll be back bright and early tomorrow morning, though," Sam finally relents. He strokes a hand across Dean's forehead and back over his hair before turning on a heel and heading for the door, saying goodbye to Kyle before leaving. Milla follows suit, although she's not yet comfortable touching Dean, and then he's finally alone.
Kyle seems to understand Dean's need for silence, says nothing more than "Good night, sleep tight," before turning on the television and plopping a set of headphones over his ears to drown out the sound.
And then Dean gets his wish, solitude and quiet. And time to think, time to dwell. Time to sink further into despair.
SUPERNATURAL
Before they have even turned out of the parking lot, Sam has fetched Adam's letter out of his backpack.
"Do you know where the Ninth Street Bank is?" he asks.
"Sure. About ten minutes from here." Milla seems to have understood by now that no matter how hard she tries, Sam isn't up for idle conversation, and that short confident answers soothe his nerves.
"We'll make a slight detour and stop there first." Sam says, with a perfect copy of his father's commanding voice, and then, as an afterthought he adds a rough "That okay?", because hey, he's sitting in her car on the way to her house to stay there for god knows how long, so he should at least appear to be aiming for polite. Even if he still has to wrestle down his anger every time he looks at her.
"Sure" she says, slightly more forceful this time, reminding Sam of her words a few days back. Whatever it may take...
The bank building in the center of town is completely generic, nothing out of the ordinary. They stay in the car for some time, while Sam scans the surroundings for possible Adam-related threats. At least on the sidewalks, there is no obvious zombon activity. He fiddles with the paper in his hand, weighing the pros and cons of just walking straight in, when Milla clears her throat.
"Can I ask what we are doing here?" she asks in a carefully neutral voice. Without a word Sam hands her Adam's letter.
He watches her face as she reads, scans for any signs of obvious acting, of phoniness. But there is nothing but genuine fury in her eyes when she gives the letter back to him. Her hands are shaking so hard that he has to focus to pluck the paper out of her fingers.
"That bastard" she rasps, and Sam can tell that she is close to tears.
"Those bastards" he corrects. "Believe me, she's just as bad as he is."
Milla doesn't respond. Instead, she is pressing herself into the driver's seat, eyes squeezed tightly shut, her hands in tight shaking fists in her lap. She's silently crying now, Sam can tell, and for a second the urge to comfort her like any other victim of an evil force, like he would have done it a month ago, is almost overwhelming. It would be so easy to offer comfort, maybe even a form of forgiveness; a little pat on the shoulder would probably do the trick right now.
But he cannot bring himself to do it. She hurt Dean. Her hands were the tool to destruct his brother. And it's not Sam's part to forgive her. No, that's strictly between her and Dean, just as it is Sam's right to hate her for the rest of his life. If he wants.
Taking action seems to be the way to escape his confusion.
"Be right back!" and he's out of the car in a second.
He sprints across the street and into the lobby of the building as if he was chased. When he comes to a stop, standing right in the middle of the foyer, he still can't spot anything suspicious. There aren't many people around at this time of day, so there is only a group of men in suits in the corner that keeps the place from being deserted.
Sam turns in every direction, careful not to miss anything. Soon, he starts to question himself. Maybe he misinterpreted the numbers, maybe it meant something completely different and he just sprang to conclusions, maybe Adam wanted ---
Someone taps him on the shoulder. Sam swirls around, fists instantly up to defend himself. But before he can throw the first punch, he looks into the very confused face of a young man in a suit. The eyes are alert, there is no sign of zombon possession. The man has obviously quickly recovered from Sam's strangely defensive reaction and holds his hands up in a calming gesture, showing both palms in the ancient sign of "I won't hurt you". Sam lowers his fists slowly.
"I'm so sorry that I startled you, Mr Keyser" The guy even has the audacity to smile. "But you didn't react when I called your name."
Damn it, Sam scolds himself, because – really – that was sloppy.
"Yeah, sorry for the whole, you know," he punches two perfect right hooks into the air, "Muhammad Ali thing."
Suit Guy smiles politely and gestures for Sam to follow him to the wall, out of the spotlight.
"So you finally came to pick it up? We expected you yesterday." What the fuck?
"Oh yeah, right... I was working, got a little held up. You know how it is."
"Of course."
And then they have crossed the room and Suit Guy pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to Sam. It's an envelope, not as heavy and not as bulky as the other one, but the same format. Sam accepts it with a terrible feeling of dread. He won't be able to open it without Dean, that's for sure.
"How did you know that I was ... me?" he asks the guy. The answer comes with a puzzled look.
"But you were here when your sister gave it to me. For safekeeping. Don't you remember?"
"My sister? .... hmm... Which one? Short, blond, sort of a crazy look in her eyes?"
Suit guy is visibly confused by Sam's questions, but reacts to the description.
"Yes, sir, exactly! She has very captivating eyes, hasn't she? You really can't remember?"
"Of course, I can remember now! At least now, I can. So sorry. Sometimes, with all the working, I forget... things. Thank you. Goodbye." And Sam flees the building before Suit Guy informs the loony bin, the one burning thought on his mind being Hypnosis... Oh, Lori Ann, you bitch!
---
They are silent in the car, again. Sam leans his head against the cold glass of the car window, watching the shoulder go by, playing with the new, still unopened envelope between his fingers. There is something hard inside, but strangely enough he doesn't feel any curiosity or any urge to open it. Sam is too torn with the bone deep guilt he feels for not turning the car around to tell him about this new development, for leaving Dean behind, knowing his brother will have to spend a night alone for the first time in a month.
Still, there is a budding anticipation, but that has nothing to do with Adam's schemes. Hiding behind his bangs, he casts a surreptitious glance to Milla's tense figure in the drivers seat. Nothing could ever betray that she was crying not even half an hour ago.
She looks determined, head held high and eyes on the street, the epitome of efficiency. Only her hands give away that something happened to her that she couldn't deal with, and even their constant trembling is better right now than he has ever seen. It is obvious that she's convinced that Dean is in good hands at New Beginnings, and while the thought makes Sam feel a little bit better, it doesn't take away any of his pent-up tension.
Sam knows that he will spend the next odd months living in this woman's house, no matter how much he wishes things were different. As she said, it's the most sensible thing to do, but he hasn't even been to the place before, has no concept of its size at all, of what – or better who - will expect him at their arrival. It dawns on him that they have never talked about anything more than the bare necessities.
"So..." he starts and tries hard not to sound completely awkward. He fails. "Anyone I should prepare myself to meet? Husband, boyfriend, kids, pets?"
She shakes her head. "No. No one. No husband, no kids, allergic to every animal that could survive a weekend shift on its own, you know, like guinea pigs or a hamster. I've always wanted a dog, though." She smiles sadly. "Just never had the time, I guess."
"Oh. So... just the two of us then?"
"Just the two of us." A small pause. "We're almost there by the way."
For the first time since they pulled out of the New Beginnings parking lot, Sam starts to really look at his surroundings. They are driving down a wide street in what is clearly the better part of town. Well-kept houses stand detached like ships, surrounded by green lawns and tall trees. It's the kind of neighborhood where kids can ride their bikes and stay out all day in summer, the kind of neighborhood where parents don't allow their kids to be friends with the new boys in class if they happen to be people like the Winchester brothers. It hurt every time again.
Suddenly, Sam is reminded of the first time he ever walked into a house like this and his buddy's parents treated him like a normal guy and not like the weird boy from the motel that might carry the Ebola virus. That was in his first term in Stanford, and he still remembers how happy he was that day, despite the gap that separated him from his father and brother or maybe even because of it. Happy to be away from the darkness and the road and his dysfunctional family.
Sam wants to have them back so badly.
The car finally stops in front of a nice looking house that is not as big as some others Sam has seen in this street but has definitely way more space than a single person could ever need. They get out of the car and Milla notices Sam's calculating look.
"I bought it with my ex, way back in 1992. We were engaged."
Sam doesn't say anything, can tell that the subject is nothing she is keen on talking about, and so he follows her in silence across the lawn to the covered porch with its white railing and wooden pillars. Milla unlocks the door, gives him a final shaky smile, and - with a "Here we go. Home sweet home" that was probably supposed to be cheerful but turns out apologetic - she pushes the door wide open.
The inside of the house is just as grand as the outside, if not in scale then in completion. The rooms aren't as big as Sam has suspected, the house itself isn't as big as he initially thought, but the ceilings are high and there is no clutter that could minimize space. He definitely won't bump his head on door frames here, and at the thought Sam draws himself up to his full height.
"Do you want a tour today? Or rather explore on your own later?"
They are standing in the middle of a big foyer that leads off to a den or office. Further on down the hallway he can see more rooms branching off to the right and left, maybe the main living area.
She continues to walk, despite her question, and Sam follows - out of habit – until they reach the back of the house. The space at the back of the house is sectioned off by walls, but still appears to be one giant flow of living room into dining room into kitchen. A patio door leads to a back porch and a lush garden, there is a fireplace with a mantelpiece crammed with family pictures, and two inviting looking couches. The sight of them, kitted out with woolen blankets and an army of pillows, reminds Sam that he hasn't slept in a real bed for a really long time. Suddenly, he feels so tired he can feel it in his bones, even though the sun hasn't set yet.
"No tour, thanks. I think I'll crash. Had kind of a hard month, you know."
Milla smiles at his attempt of a joke out of politeness, and they both know it.
"Your room is upstairs. It's usually a guest bedroom for one of my nephews, so I don't know if you'll fit into the bed." She sounds timid now, as if she doubts herself and her plans of looking after them all of a sudden, but again Sam has no time for her hurt feelings, just nods and follows her upstairs. This new tiredness dulls everything; all his agitation, all his pain has made room in his head for the absence of feeling. When she takes him to the second floor and shows him a room with a bed in it, he already sees the world through the blurry haze of exhaustion. The bed is barely 6'5'', a standard twin mattress, and his feet will hang over the edge, but it is a real bed with a real mattress. Right now, this is heaven.
Sam unceremoniously drops his bags to the floor, then turns to Milla, who is still standing in the door frame, her arms crossed and a tense expression on her face.
"See you tomorrow then?"
"See you tomorrow. Sleep tight"
She clicks the door shut behind her, and Sam doesn't even bother to get out of his clothes, just kicks off his boots and falls asleep a second later.
The next morning, he wakes up at dawn, rays of soft morning sunlight stream into the room. There is a little moment of disorientation that he's not woken up by the sounds of Dean's care, reliving the experience of waking up without at crick in his neck and tense back muscles. He stretches a little.
There are sounds downstairs, Milla already up. The scent of fried bacon reaches Sam's nostrils and his stomach growls in response. He'd had no dinner yesterday, and the thought of food makes him forgo a much needed shower.
SUPERNATURAL
Dean has gotten used to being put to bed. It's a familiar routine, now; the nurses wiping down his body with a wet wash cloth, suctioning his trach and changing out the collection bag, arranging him in a comfortable position for the night ahead. He's used to the schedule, but that doesn't make it any easier to do it alone for the first time.
Earlier he'd wanted to be alone, wanted Sam gone. But now he's in a strange room, with a strange roommate and a strange nurse, and the familiarity of the routine doesn't make Sam's absence any less obvious. This is his first night alone. His first night without the reassurance of his brother close by as his own personal advocate. Sam knows him, knows his quirks and his habits and his needs. Sam knows when Dean is in trouble, sometimes even before Dean himself knows.
Who can he trust to be there for him if something fails? If he has another emergency? Or hell, just an itchy nose? How does Dean call for help?
He's ashamed of himself for thinking such wimpy thoughts, for worrying like such a little baby. And for a brief moment Dean wonders what Sam would think of him if his brother knew how scared his once fearless older brother actually is. But he can't help it; when he's trapped inside his body, screaming for an escape. He thinks he knows, now, what it must feel like to be possessed, knows what his father must have experienced, and Sam; something he's never felt before. Until now. Now he knows what it's like to have something else take control of your own body, to be able to see and think and be afraid, but not be able to do anything about it.
The nurse is new to him, an older woman named Mona with chocolaty skin and her graying hair done up in a thousand tiny braids and pulled back into a ponytail. She talks to him like he thinks a grandmother would her grandchildren, all soothing and calm and gentle. Like Jeanette and Holly, she understands Dean's need to feel hands on his skin where he can still feel, and she stays with him for a good ten minutes after the evening routine is complete just to sit with her hands on his face. Her fingers are rough and dry, from constant washings and not enough lotion, and as she rubs her thumbs in circles on Dean's forehead he decides they feel a bit like Sam's hands. If he closes his eyes he can even allow himself to pretend it is Sam, that he's safe and secure under his brother's watchful eye.
It's probably exhaustion more than anything else, but Dean ends up falling asleep under the calming sensation of the hands on his face. He was convinced that he wouldn't sleep this first night alone, too afraid of the dangers that surround him, the dangers that he can no longer face on his own. But he's somehow managed to convince himself that Sam is still here with him, and that thought alone allows him the clarity of mind to rest.
When he awakens the next morning it is to the sounds of his roommate struggling to dress himself, cursing over buttons on a shirt he has foolishly decided to wear that day. Nurse Chelsea is back, arguing with Kyle about letting her do the buttons for him as he stubbornly refuses.
She finally gives up when she realizes that Dean is awake and she quickly crosses to his bed and hovers over top of him with a bright smile on her face. "Good Morning, sleepyhead. Are you ready to get to work?"
Dean groans to himself and closes his eyes again, deciding it's too early in the morning for perky and upbeat. In his mind he turns over, pulls the covers back over his head, and goes back to sleep. But in reality, Chelsea is having none of that as she gently strokes his cheek and continues talking in her chipper voice.
"You must be hungry, yeah?"
Feeling her hands pull away, Dean knows without even opening his eyes that Chelsea has uncovered him and is currently messing with the g-tube, flushing in fluids and preparing his Ensure. He relents, figuring there's not much he can do anyway, and finally makes himself wake up and face the new day. First step, breakfast.