Redemption

by neonchica

Death was always an option. This - this was not. Dean has been rendered permanantly disabled by an enemy. Now, quadriplegic & vent-dependent, Dean and Sam must work hard to overcome their new obstacles and learn to accept this new definition of living.

5. Chapter 5

Hey guys, Once again, thanks for all the wonderful reviews! I started to reply, but RL kicked my butt this week and I didn't have time to get back to everyone yet - they're coming, though...promise. So here's what's happening today - I have time this morning to post the story over here, but not enough time to post pictures and format over at LJ. So I'm getting the story up for those of you who want a head start, and the pictures will go up sometime this evening! Will still be posted on my Sunday (EST...). I apologize for the delay!

Enjoy the next chapter...

Dean feels sick. He's trying to focus on getting dressed, on watching Sam shove his stupid, lifeless feet into the shiny new tennis shoes that will probably never get scuffed up for as long as he owns them. He's trying to focus on Lanie, his physical therapist, as she does up the buttons on his shirt and checks the seals on the tubing around his trach. Not that those actions are so much better to be concentrating on, but it sure as hell beats dwelling on the bulky black wheelchair that Lanie has just entered the room with ten minutes ago. And the damn wheelchair is making him ill.

He'd known it was coming, knew it the moment he woke up and was told his life sentence. But knowing and actually doing are two completely different things. And right about now he's not sure that he's ready to face the reality of life in a wheelchair. It's just one more nail in the coffin, one more step that makes the devastating truth of his life all that much more unbearable.

The butterflies that seem to have taken up a permanent residence in his stomach are fluttering frantically inside, the only thing he seems to feel below the neck, and even those he knows are phantom sensations. But the nausea is real, and so is the damn chair. And any minute now they're going to throw him in there and make him pretend that it's liberating, that being able to move around and get out of his room is all he needs to fill the gaping chasm in his life.

Before he's managed to fully prepare himself – and let's face it, not likely to happen any year in the near future – Dean is dressed and Lanie disappears into the hallway to call for an aide while Sam turns a curious eye to the obtrusive wheelchair in the middle of the room.

To Dean, it's nothing new. Same basic structure as the one he'd been stuffed into when Adam had him. It's massive; with four giant wheels that have lots of tread in them for gripping and traction and a solid frame that clearly has been built to withstand hurricanes and tsunamis and every other natural disaster he's not likely to encounter in his current condition. There is a shelf on the back, which Dean remembers is for the portable ventilator, and a curved headrest and giant pads at the end of the armrests for his hands. The thing easily takes up a 4 foot diameter circle, and all Dean can think is so much for being stealthy and inconspicuous.

The only noticeable difference between this chair and the one from captivity is the obvious lack of a joystick for control. As a matter of fact, this one doesn't seem to have any mode of self-control. Because you can't do it, you moron, Dean berates himself, quickly answering his own question before he'd even realized he'd asked it.

Lanie returns with Stu, and she hauls the wheelchair closer to the bed, positioning it carefully as Stu moves directly to Dean's side.

"So you're ready to go for a test-drive, huh?" Stu asks good-naturedly, putting his hands to his hips and waiting for Dean's go-ahead before he starts manipulating his body. It's not the first time Dean has been moved into and out of bed since he arrived, just the first time into a wheelchair instead of a gurney, and Dean has been pleasantly surprised at the amount of respect the staff seems to have for their patients. They all work with an air of necessity, forcing him to understand that everything they're doing for him is for his own good. But despite that, no one begins anything without permission. As easy as it might be for them to simply do, and not ask, the mere fact that he's helpless to object either physically or verbally doesn't stop them from seeking approval to invade Dean's personal space. It's one difference from Adam and Lori Ann that helps to make this whole thing minutely endurable.

But that's where the differences stop. In the end, nothing else has changed. He's still stuck inside his body, screaming to get out and yell that he can do it himself. He still is forced to rely on people he doesn't want touching him for the most basic of functions. Feeding him and bathing him and wiping his ass, getting out of bed. Just because he's come to accept the fate physically, doesn't mean he's managed to accept it emotionally. And with his lower lip held firmly between his teeth to stop it from quivering, Dean nods almost imperceptibly and gives Stu permission to move him.

He tries not to cry in front of Sam. He's been doing that a lot lately, and it's really putting a damper on his manly image. But the only way he has managed to keep his eyes dry is to remove himself from the situation. And that's definitely easier said than done.

Particularly today.

He manages to fight it off for a while, though; puts on a strong air as he watches helplessly while Lanie and Stu slide his legs over the side of the bed and Lanie climbs in behind him on the mattress. She supports him upright, leaning his body back against hers and settling his floppy head securely in the space at her neck, between her head and shoulders. They haven't put the neck brace on today, at least not yet, and the muscles in his neck are as weak as a newborn colt. Lanie tells him they've got to get working on rehabilitating those muscles, that he's got a good chance of strengthening them and being able to support his own head again. But for now he flops around like a bobble-head doll.

"How're you feeling Dean?" Lanie asks when they've got him sitting relatively upright on the bed. "You doing okay so far?"

In his mind, Dean wonders what they're expecting of him. What is he supposed to say to that question? He looks over at Sam, standing off to the side with his arms crossed nervously against his chest. He's clearly upset at the circumstances, and Dean can well imagine how scary it must be for his baby brother to see him being manhandled like this. Dean knows, because he feels the same way. And no matter how much he wants to blow this whole thing to bits, start screaming and crying and shooting people, Dean forces his composure for Sam's sake and mouths, 'peachy.' But then rolls his eyes and grimaces as soon as Sam turns away.

Lanie doesn't see his response, but Stu does, and the aide smiles, choosing only to read the positive, and nods his head at the PT as a sign of reassurance.

"Okay, we're gonna scoot you closer to the edge of the bed and then Stu's gonna lift you into the chair. Sound good?"

This time Dean just blinks his prefabricated 'yes' and waits for the action to begin. There's not much to feel; the slightest hint of pressure as they slide him across the bed, Lanie on her knees and Stu straddling Dean's legs as he pulls them toward the edge. His head rocks against Lanie's neck, chin dipping down against the plastic tubing that forces air through the hole in his throat so that he can see his hands folded lifelessly in his lap, but when they reach their destination she gently tips his head back up and he's once again able to see faces and expressions. He can see Stu with his ever eager smile, just waiting to help, and Sam looking all the more uncomfortable as he backs away slightly and leans against the far wall of the room.

I'm sorry, Sammy. Wish it didn't have to be this way. And he does - wish for a different outcome, that is – but in the grand scheme of things Dean has to keep reminding himself that he's made this sacrifice for Sam. That Sam is standing in front of him, alive, because he chose to save him. Traded his mobility, his life, so that Sam would live. And Dean is determined to ensure that Sam makes the most of this new chance. Truth be told, he doesn't even like the fact that Sam is wasting so much time hanging out with him at rehab. But until he's got things more under control, until he can talk and issue orders without tearing up like it's the first day of allergy season, Dean's realizes that he's just got to suck it up and accept the fact that Sam is here for good.

Dean tries to smile at his brother, offer up some semblance of encouragement in the bleak situation.

Sam barely acknowledges the gesture, though, and instantly Dean's attitude changes. Ungrateful little brat.

And then immediately hates himself for the thought. He can't help it. His emotions have been going all screwy and haywire for days now, hot and cold, one minute he's okay and the next he's reacting with fire and brimstone.

The reaction and emotion in his features seems to have alerted Stu, because the guy is suddenly in his face, hands cupping his cheeks firmly. "Hey, buddy, you good? What's going on?"

Dean blinks and tears his gaze away from Sam to look at the aide, once again biting his lower lip as he desperately tries to rein in his emotions. He doesn't say anything, but somehow the gaze latching onto Stu gives away enough without words. The aide nods and drops his hands down to Dean's legs. "It's a long, tedious process," he says apologetically, as though that's the reason for Dean's change in attitude. "It'll get faster in the future. Sorry."

"You ready?" Lanie asks, her sweet voice soft in Dean's ear.

'Yeah,' he replies, knows the response would barely have sound to it even if he did have air to speak.

But it's enough, and before he knows what's happening Lanie and Stu are rearranging positions as the stocky aide leans down and slips his arms underneath Dean's armpits and pulls his body tight against his chest, careful of the tubing going to the vent. The bed shifts as Lanie climbs off and stands up, but her hands never cease to support Dean's neck and head. On the count of three Stu lifts and Dean experiences the weightless feeling of floating as he's lowered into the waiting wheelchair. Immediately, Lanie adjusts his head against the curved support as Stu searches for something at the sides of the chair and finally emerges with black straps that clip together in the middle like a seatbelt. The strap goes across his chest, just underneath his armpits, and it's only once it's securely locked that either one of them lets go.

"Can't have you falling out of the chair," Lanie explains cheerfully as she circles around and crouches in front of Dean.

I won't fall out, he wants desperately to snap. I'm not that much of a klutz. But then again, he can't really know for sure anymore. After all, he can't even keep his head upright without something to support him.

Sam hesitantly crosses back to Dean and lowers himself onto the bed, watching the process without ever making eye contact. And Dean doesn't try to make him. He's too focused on what's being done to him.

Stu and Lanie each take a side, and their careful hands grab up his useless legs, bending them at the knee before placing them on the respective footrests. Another strap goes across his ankles to secure his legs. And then one over his abdomen, just above the waist, overkill in Dean's opinion.

It's the straps across his arms, though, just beyond his wrists that really hit home. Suddenly, he finds himself remembering Gordon and being tied up as bait for Sam. He remembers the Wendigo, and hanging by his arms from the cave ceiling. And another time, another hunt with just his father, when he'd been captured and tied up by a witch for days. And now, they've got him tied up again, helpless and unable to break free. And what does it matter that the straps aren't what's keeping him bound to the chair? It's the idea behind them, the symbolism.

The only reason he's getting air is because the ventilator is forcing it into him. Otherwise he'd be hyperventilating right along with all the other symptoms of the panic attack he is currently experiencing. Dean can feel the sweat beading along his forehead and the heat rushing up his neck and over his face. He can't stop the trembling in his neck muscles, nor can he release the solid lock he's got in his jaw. And that's just the physical symptoms.

His mind is racing a mile a minute, flashing image after image of being helpless and tied down, unable to free himself or protect those around him.

A firm grip surrounds his head, his cheeks and chin, and Dean weakly, desperately tries to shake himself free of the vice-like hold. But it's not going anywhere, and he lacks the power or control to escape. He's trapped.

"Dean! Dean, stop it. You're safe. I've got you." Somehow Sam's voice manages to break into his sub-conscious, soothing and calm and worried all at the same time. And then Dean experiences the sensation of falling and he forces himself to open his eyes just as he sees the ceiling come into view as the wheelchair is reclined backwards.

"Dean?" Sam sounds relieved now, and his lips turn up into a smile even though his eyes don't drop the concern etched in them.

It's only once Dean starts to focus that he realizes the grip on his face is Sam, his brother's hands trying desperately to give Dean some sensation of touch. He relaxes into the contact and allows that to be the focal point to his thoughts, manages to push the remainder of his fears aside in that one moment.

"Hey, you with us?" Lanie asks, peering over Sam's shoulder and down into Dean's eyes. She turns at the sound of footsteps and speaks to the newest visitor. "I think we're good here," she says. "He just had a momentary bit of panic. But he's back now." She turns back to Dean and smiles. "Right? Are you okay?"

There is no question that drugs are on the menu if he's not, and Dean manages to rouse himself enough to blink his eyes in confirmation.

"Thanks for coming, though. We'll call if we need anything else."

Sam's hands relax, but he doesn't remove them from Dean's face for several minutes as the group slowly eases back into some semblance of calm. For the most part silence reigns in the room, interrupted only by the constancy of the ventilator and a few random comments from Lanie or Sam about things getting better and everything being okay.

But it's not okay, not by a long shot. And just because Dean has managed to get past his momentary panic attack doesn't mean he's over the image of being tied down. And it certainly doesn't mean he's comfortable being in the chair. But to say that, to explain the emotion behind it, will take a whole hell of a lot more effort than he's capable of expending right now and he seeks deep down inside his reserves for the control to just let things happen.

When it finally seems clear that Dean has relaxed Lanie tilts the chair back to the 45 degree angle it had started at and dismisses Stu with a 'thanks' and a 'we'll call when it's time to get back into bed.'

"Shall we?" she asks when the aide has left the room. Before Dean can answer she's circling the chair and setting it into motion, somehow managing to steer it with controls on the back that he can't see. She speaks loud enough that both can hear, but it seems clear that the conversation is directed mainly at Sam, and Dean just tries to listen and garner as much information he can.

"Dean's got a date with the Occupational Therapist to go over some of the equipment that will be needed for when he goes home. He's the one who will help you choose an appropriate wheelchair and get you set up with a ventilator, get you the best deals on the trach kits. That sort of thing."

"So this isn't the wheelchair he'll be going home in?" Sam asks, interest piqued. He's walking beside Dean, making certain to stay within view, but he's turned to face the PT.

Dean's heart sinks at the choice of words, realizing this is the first time Sam has spoken of the future without a denial of the situation. Until now, he's always been so certain that Dean would walk out of the rehab center; that things would improve. And now, now he seems to have accepted the fact that equipment is necessary. Dean wonders what's changed so much in the past couple of days to make him change his views.

"Nope," Lanie replies in her cheerful voice. "This one is just a loaner; just until we order one for Dean. You will be able to custom fit a wheelchair to Dean's size and needs. I'll let Justin explain more when we get there."

Sam nods thoughtfully, and then an impish gleam appears in his eye. "So we can soup that baby up and really make it something special, huh?" he asks, winking at Dean before looking back to Lanie. "I mean, give it a hemi engine and some chrome wheels, a sleek black paint job, maybe some racing stripes?"

Understanding what Sam is trying to do, Dean frowns, closes his eyes, and tries to drown his little brother out. It's clear that he's trying to make the most of a bad situation, but the last thing Dean wants to do is try and make his wheelchair take the place of his car. There's no comparison, and he'd rather not even try. And speaking of the car, that's just another topic that he'd just assume not discuss. He's trashed, his car is trashed. And there's not much of either left to rebuild.

Lanie laughs, and the sound forces Dean to open his eyes and focus even though he'd rather not. "I'm sure you can come up with something." She stops then, in front of a set of wooden doors, and pushes against a large, circular metal button with the traditional wheelchair logo that symbolizes ADA equipment. The doors swing inward on its own and stops, and she pushes Dean into a large room with several strange looking tables and fewer chairs than Dean would have expected. Several cubicle style offices line one wall, and on the other are tubs and boxes filled with what looks like toys and equipment.

Dean scowls, hopes they don't plan on making him play with toys.

She takes them to one of the tables, a rectangular one with a cutout on one side that Dean soon learns is just wide enough to fit his wheelchair, and offers a chair to Sam before excusing herself for a minute.

"You as nervous as I am?" Sam asks when she's gone, actually looking at Dean, making eye contact, for the first time that morning.

Blinking once, Dean scowls.

Sam doesn't seem to know what else to say, apparently isn't sure how to comfort Dean when he can't even comfort himself. But he taps his hand several times across Dean's, the effort mostly futile since Dean wouldn't have even known he'd done it except for the fact that he could actually see the gesture.

It isn't long before Lanie returns with a pale, slightly heavyset man with her. He's vaguely familiar from the meet and greet party the other day, but Dean really hadn't been paying all that much attention that day. He's older than Dean expects of a therapist. Probably in his late 50's at least, and short, maybe 5'6" or 5'7" at the most. His dark hair is peppered with grey, but combed neatly, and he's got wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He wears the obligatory staff uniform of khaki's and polo shirt, this one a bright red.

"Dean, Sam, this is Justin Moore. He's the Occupational Therapist who will be working with you over the next few months."

Justin smiles and shakes hands with Sam, then greets Dean. "I'm glad to know you both," he says before pulling up a chair on the other side of the table and opening up a thick manila folder he's brought with him. On the tab is Dean's name and injury level, and when Justin opens it up he can see what appears to be medical records and charts.

"I can see we've got our work cut out for us," Justin announces without even glancing at the contents inside. "It's my job to make sure that you've got everything necessary to make your life as easy as possible. And the first thing you need to know is that nothing is too small of a problem. If you're having trouble doing something, you need to let me know so that we can try and fix it. You'd be surprised at the options we have to make your life easier and help you to be more independent."

Well, gee, Dean thinks grumpily, rolling his eyes. I can't walk. Can't breathe. How the hell are you going to fix that?

"My brother can't move anything below the neck," Sam says, as though he's reading Dean's mind. "I'm not sure there's much he can do right now."

Justin smiles knowingingly, nodding as he lifts the folder and grabs up a stack of pamphlets. Shuffling through them for one in particular, he begins to explain. "There is no doubt that Dean will experience limits and difficulties. This is just about the worst physical injury a person can receive and still survive. But that doesn't mean we can't create some semblance of independence for him."

Right here, you bastard, Dean wants to snarl. Talk to ME!

Handing the pamphlet over to Sam, Justin continues. "He's got many options available. There are electronic systems that he can control with his chin or head or by sip 'n puff. It will allow him to control his own wheelchair and watch television or listen to music. He can work a computer, write and surf the internet. There's a whole slew of stuff that Dean will be able to do on his own."

And then you can put me on display as a new circus act for all the little kiddies to see and point. Golly Gee, wouldn't that just be swell! By now Dean's got a permanent scowl fixed to his face, a glare that could kill, and it's just too bad that Sam's the one who got all the super powers in the family because Dean would just love to be able to shoot a deathray from his eye and have it set fire to the Occupational Therapist right where he sits.

Sam finally looks over to Dean and, seeing the look on his brother's face tries an uncertain smile out on him, seeking out a silver lining. "It all sounds promising, huh? Something to look forward to?"

Dean rolls his eyes and pulls the sides of his mouth up into a tight, forced smile that doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. 'Yeah, great.' He mouths. The way Sam looks at him Dean doesn't think his brother has understood what he just said, but to the same degree Sam doesn't seem too concerned to find out either because he immediately goes back to the initial discussion without asking for Dean to repeat himself. To his credit, though, Dean does notice that Sam's head and eyes seem to be moving back and forth a bit more, trying to include Dean in the conversation.

"So what are we looking at here? What do we need to get?"

Justin selects two more pamphlets from his collection, slides them across the table to join the first. There is a similarity with all three pamphlets, everyone of them offering photographs of people in wheelchairs smiling and happy, antagonistic and grating. Dean can't see how these people can possibly be happy in their situation, proud and accepting of the numbness in their legs, their bodies. He doesn't see how he will ever be one of them.

So lost is Dean in musings about the pamphlets that he doesn't realize Justin is speaking until he's halfway through his first sentence. "…a wheelchair, first," Dean hears, and drops his eyes to the multi-page booklet that Justin opens to reveal a full size color spread of wheelchairs and accessories.

Dean fades in and out of the conversation as Justin launches into a full spiel about customizing a wheelchair, but he gets the main points. He'll need a chair that can fully support him, arms and hands, legs and body and head, and one that reclines to relieve pressure throughout the day. A head rest is a must, and he'll need to select a way to control the chair. Depending on his range of motion – which, at this point is about nill – he can choose from chin, head, tongue, or sip 'n puff controls. Also, a shelf for the portable vent. And, just like the loaner chair he's using now, he'll need straps to keep him from falling out, to keep him captive inside his new mobility.

Problem is, Dean's looking at the price list for the chairs and realizing there's no way they can come up with the kind of money they're going to need to pay for one. Once again, Sam is on the same page as he is, and his brother lets out a low whistle.

"Those are some hefty asking prices on these things."

Justin nods, apologetic as he clasps his hands against his chest. "They don't come cheap, I know. And unfortunately, you're just looking at the price for the chair itself. Adding on the necessary extras could potentially double the price. But insurance should cover a large part of it."

Sam purses his lips, but doesn't bother to offer up the fact that they've got no insurance, that once it became clear they were making this town permanent for the next few months the insurance scam pretty much had to go out the window. Something akin to determination finally clouds his expression and Sam's right back into the swing of the conversation. "Right. So we add the chair to the equation. What else? That can't be it."

Once Justin is done listing everything they're looking at a pretty hefty tab. Dean will need a special bed, some kind of a lift to get him into and out of the wheelchair (like hell, he thinks), and a special chair for showers and baths. He'll need at least one, and preferably two ventilators. And if he doesn't want to be completely dependent on Sam for the rest of his god damn life then he'll need an environmental control system that allows him to use voice control and head control to open doors and raise up his bed and answer a phone.

It's a lot of damn money. Like, a lot - a lot. And that's only the basics. Doesn't include the extras that might make his life easier. Doesn't include home improvements and transportation. Doesn't include the weekly necessities like medicine and tubes and other medical supplies.

Sam hasn't even bothered to tell him just how much rehab is costing them on a daily basis, hasn't told him how much they spent on a month in the hospital. And yeah, he knows Milla is supposedly footing the bill for some of this, but if he knows his little brother – and he does – Sam is already calculating just how he's gonna manage to pay her back. But Dean just isn't sure how the hell that can happen when, by his count, they're looking at being in debt at close to a quarter of a million dollars by the time he gets released from rehab.

He starts to feel dizzy thinking about everything, head spinning and neck heating up and nausea taking hold. He can't think about it anymore, and he desperately tries to get Sam's attention away from all the pamphlets and information. But of course, no sound comes out, and suddenly his tongue feels heavy and full and takes on a paralyzed quality all its own that keeps him from clicking like he's done in the past.

Thankfully – and how the hell does she do that – Lanie reappears just as Dean starts feeling like he just might pass out. He feels himself jerked backwards and down, and then cool hands on his face and Sam's frantic voice somewhere in the background sounding all moody and emo and apologetic.

Blinking, Dean revives enough to see that Lanie has his cheeks tightly ensconced between her small, smooth hands. She is calling out to him, and explaining things to Sam at the same time, and Dean gets a barrage of words coming at him, all mixed up and jumbled and not making any sense. Really, all he gets out of it is that he's spent too much time in the chair, needs to get back to bed, and then they're pushing him out the door and down the hallway.

Dean feels better by the time they get him back to the room, and he's aware enough as Stu returns to do a reverse of what they did to get him into the chair. Chelsea comes in the middle of the transfer and uses the vent switch as an opportunity to suction his lungs, and the coughing and gagging as he fights for air just adds to his misery.

They lay him on his left side, to give his back a break, and use pillows to prop him up and arrange him like a rag doll – one between his legs, one underneath his right arm, several at his back.

"There now, how do you feel? Any discomfort?" Chelsea asks.

'Fine,' Dean mouths, stone faced and emotionless, thinks How the hell would I know?

He realizes that Stu has once again left the room once the initial transfer was completed,

and he's now just looking at Chelsea and Lanie, Sam off by the window trying to stay out of the way. He really wishes the two girls would scram, too, because he's got a lot on his mind and he needs to talk to Sam. But it's only Lanie who leaves, assuring him, much to his chagrin, that she'll be back later in the afternoon for some therapy.

Dean can't help but glare at Chelsea as she pushes some fluids into the g-tube in his stomach and then starts a can of ensure slowly flowing before checking the colostomy bag, emptying it quickly and then reattaching it. He doesn't have time for this nonsense right now. All the time they're wasting, he's certain Sam has been able to come up with a whole slew of hair-brained ideas for how they'll make money, how they'll pay for rehab. And Dean really needs to put a stop to all the thinking before Sam ends up selling himself on the street like a cheap whore.

Somehow, by some miracle, Chelsea seems to read into Dean's need to be alone with his brother right after starting the Ensure. Instead of doing it herself, she hands Sam the cup of ice chips and asks him to feed them to Dean, then excuses herself from the room.

Sam tries to smile as he pulls up a chair beside the bed and spoons out the first sliver of ice, sliding it onto Dean's tongue with a shaky hand. Dean sucks on it greedily as he composes himself for what is to come, prepares what he's going to say. He isn't sure what to say, how to get his point across. He's got to pick his words carefully, knowing how hard it is to be understood. There is no way they'll make it through a long-winded conversation, no way he'll keep Sam's attention on him if his little brother gets upset.

'We have no money,' Dean finally mouths out when the chip has melted. He bites the corner of his lower lip, wondering what his brother's response will be. But nothing could prepare him for the hesitant anxiety that exudes from Sam.

Sam quickly lowers his eyes, a hitch in his breathing as he sets the cup full of ice to the side. "Dean, you can't worry about that. I've got everything under control."

It's several seconds before Sam finally looks back up, and even then it's only because Dean starts clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get Sam's attention.

'No. Too much,' Dean insists when he's finally captured Sam's wavering gaze. He finds himself desperately trying to get his point across in his eyes since he's got no sway with his tone.

This time Sam stands up, jumps up is more like it. He nearly takes the chair with him as he moves to get away from Dean, remove himself from Dean's pleading, knowing eyes.

"I don't know what the hell kind of options you think we have, Dean." Sam says, his voice low and level, but barely controlled. He's got all the signs of agitation, hands shaking and the lack of eye contact and the skirting around the subject matter. It's pretty clear that Sam is hiding something but Dean stands about a snowball's chance in hell of actually finding out what until his stupid little brother decides to divulge. And right now, Sam is on a rant that doesn't seem close to ending anytime soon.

"Seriously, Dean, it's not like we've got much of a choice here. I mean, hell…I'm not gonna leave you lying in some bed for the rest of your life. You need a fucking wheelchair. You need the ventilator and the special bed and all of the god damn equipment Justin talked about. A lot of it will just be to keep you alive for christ's sake! You're paralyzed! Have you realized that yet? Do you have any idea just how bad off you really are?"

Dean can't help but roll his eyes sarcastically at that, mouth curling up into a sneer-like laugh. Because, yeah, he kind of knows what the hell's wrong with him. He lives it every freakin minute of every freakin day, and there's really no escaping it. So yeah…he's fucked, and he's pretty much realized that much.

What he hasn't realized, up till now, is just how guilty his little brother is feeling about everything. And if the beginning of his tirade isn't enough to get him to figure that out, what Sam says next sure as hell does.

"Do you have any clue what it feels like to know that you did this to yourself just to save my life?! I'm not worth it, you jackass. I'm not worth you living like…like this. You never shoulda… Damn It!"

I'm gonna fix this, Sammy. I didn't do this to torture you. This isn't your fault. Please, Sam.

Sam sinks to the chair, sobs coming fast and heavy from his chest. He drops his head into his hands so that Dean still can't get his attention, and this time Sam's too caught up in his own misery to respond when Dean clicks his tongue.

So he just lays there, silent and helpless, as he watches his little brother fall apart in front of him. He's expected some kind of confrontation about the money issue, but this sure as hell isn't it. He's pissed at himself; pissed for not thinking things through better, for not weighing the options longer. Dean had never really thought of things in this light, but in a way he's done this to himself. And now Sam has to live with it.

Literal minutes go by, Sam sobbing the whole time and Dean trying desperately to figure out a way to console his brother. And then, finally, Sam stands again. His hands shake, and he stares at them as though they belong to someone else. "I have to go, Dean. I'll be back, but right now I have to go. I'm sorry."

SUPERNATURAL

Pain and guilt and exhaustion and shame and a million other emotions overwhelm Sam as he tears from the room. All he can see is red, a burning desire to punch something – anything – as long as it's not his paralyzed, emotional train wreck of a brother. Because he knows that's not right, and as much as he would give just about anything for Dean to be healthy enough to murder, his mind recognizes the major ramifications of attacking him right now.

He stumbles blindly down the hall, trying not to hyperventilate on top of everything else, and eventually makes his way to the cafeteria where a handful of patients and staff watch in shock as he starts beating on the painted cinderblock wall to within an inch of its life. He's screaming nonsense, cursing and spitting and kicking and panting until he suddenly feels arms wrapped around his, squeezing them to his sides and pulling him back away from the wall with quiet shushing sounds whispered into his ear.

For a minute he lets himself think it's Dean. He lets his body collapse completely into the arms, sobbing and heaving into his brother's embrace, and then he remembers that it's not possible for Dean to be hugging him right now, or soothing him, and his sobs get louder as he fights against the person holding onto him.

"Hey, shhh. Sam, come on, shhhh." Finally turning around Sam finds himself with Stu, Kyle sitting in his chair just a little ways off. Sam finally calms down, embarrassed by his display of emotion, and he wipes away the tears from his face and shakes his right hand a bit when he realizes just how much it hurts from pounding it into the wall.

"I'm sorry guys. I don't know what got into me. I'm sorry." He tries to walk away, but Kyle is faster, skirting into Sam's path and grabbing for his bruised hand with more speed than he would have expected possible. Kyle scrutinizes the knuckles for just a second before making a decision.

"Hey Stu, go get him some ice. I got this," Kyle orders to the aide before turning back to Sam. "Sit down. Let's talk."

For some reason, Sam doesn't even question the command despite the fact that he's only used to obeying Dean's and his father's voices. But Kyle's air of authority is enough for Sam to respond, or maybe it's just a matter of need - a need to relinquish control and let somebody else take the reins for a change.

"Now, what's going on?" Kyle demands.

The Winchester's are familiar with clamming up, bottling their feelings and their emotions. But Sam is way past that right now, so done with not having anyone to talk things over with, and he just spills all before he's even got a chance to think about what he's saying. "It's Dean. He's pushing me away and just giving up. Bastard won't even fight for himself!"

Kyle is silent for a minute, scrutinizing Sam and waiting for him to calm down enough to listen. "Then you're just gonna have to fight twice as hard for the both of you," Kyle finally says, forcing Sam to meet his gaze. "This is the point where you can't give up on him, no matter how much he tries to force you away. This is the critical point."

Stu comes back with the ice and Sam busies himself with adjusting it on his bruised knuckles, assessing Kyle's advice as much as he does his next question. He waits, watches, as the aide sits down beside and a little bit behind Kyle, ready to jump in if he's needed but otherwise prepared to stay out of the conversation.

"I don't know how to deal with this. I've never had to deal with something this extreme before. And he won't let me call any of our friends, either." Not that we have many, Sam adds only to himself.

"You think there's a manual out there for this kind of thing?" Kyle scoffs. "Dealing with tragedy 101? Quadriplegia for dummies? It doesn't work that way, Sam. Everybody is different. Everyone grieves the loss in a different way, deals with the fallout at a different rate. It's not supposed to be easy – but trust me when I tell you, man…the way you handle this now is going to make a world of difference in the way Dean responds in the future. You just gotta give it time."

Sam sighs, shaking his head as he drops it down into his hand to hide the tears that are about thisclose to falling.

"I wasn't exactly a dream to deal with when I first got hurt either," Kyle adds.

A snort accompanies it, presumably from Stu, and Sam's assumption is confirmed when the aide speaks up. "Understatement of the year. Dude, you were the biggest freakin pain in the ass on the planet. Seriously – Dean's got nothing on you. Had just enough mobility to throw things on the floor and lash out with a mean right hook; not nearly enough to control exactly where things landed. And geez, when you got off that ventilator we could hear you screaming all the way on the other side of the building."

"Thanks man," Kyle mutters good naturedly. "Didn't really need the visual and audio to go with that."

But actually, that's exactly what Sam needed. Because, were Dean able to use his arms he's got a pretty good hunch that he would have been reacting in much the same way. And yet, clearly Kyle has managed to get his emotions under control, get his life under control. Doesn't necessarily mean the same can be said for Dean, but it gives him hope nevertheless.

He swipes his arm self-consciously across his eyes, not having realized he'd actually been crying until he felt the wetness on his shirt. "I really hope you guys are right about him accepting things and moving on. Because I'm not sure how much more I can take of this. Thanks, though. Really."

Kyle smiles, nods. "Just stay the course, man. You guys'll get through this. You seem like maybe you've made it through worse."

You've got no idea, Sam thinks to himself as he stands up, intent on leaving. "I think I just need a little bit longer to get myself together – maybe give Dean a chance to let this blow over. Can you do me a favor and tell him I'll be back in tomorrow?"

"Will do, man," Kyle agrees. "You take care of yourself, y'hear. Me 'n Stu – we've got Dean covered."

*******

Sam makes it as far as the parking lot before he realizes he doesn't have a way home. Looking at his watch, he realizes Milla isn't due back for another three hours and he just doesn't have it in him to explain why he's leaving so early. Besides, he's carrying enough pent-up frustration to demolish a small city. An outlet would be nice, and Sam realizes it's been over a month with no real exercise. A walk is just what he needs.

Testing his knee, Sam decides it's plenty healed to handle some low key cardio, realizes it's been over a week since he's even noticed a twinge in the once injured limb, and he starts out toward the main road at a nice, brisk pace.

As he walks, though, his mind filters through everything that's happened since Dean got captured. He finds himself realizing all the simple things he takes for granted that Dean can no longer do, will never do again. Like taking off on a walk, or for that matter, taking off on his own - period. Instead of clearing his mind, the walk ends up just adding more to it, inciting more frustrations and agony. All he wants to do is find a silver lining in all the pain, yet he can't come up with a single positive.

After a while, Sam finds himself in the middle of a park. All around him kids are playing baseball and tennis, climbing on the jungle gym, parents are talking and laughing and yelling at their children. Dogs bark as they run circles around their owners. And the sound of birds chirping overhead provides a soundtrack to the day.

Here, the world hasn't stopped. Here, people go on as though everything is perfect. They have left their cares and their fears behind, escaped their homes and their offices and their hectic lives to live in a sense of solitude and quiet. Here, Sam can pretend that he doesn't have a brother being kept alive by a ventilator, isn't facing a life of wheelchairs and tubes and adaptive equipment. Here, Sam can go back to being a child again, innocent and trusting and so certain of everything in life; knowing that as long as big brother is there to watch out for him everything will be alright with the world.

So why is it that Sam can't allow himself the escape? Why can't he get Dean and the hospital and stupid Adam and Lori Ann out of his mind? Why can't he disappear from the pain just for a few seconds?

Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, drops himself into an empty bench on the outskirts of the park and just watches for a while, willing his mind to go blank. But instead, he unconsciously finds himself reaching into his pocket and pulling out the envelope the banker had given him the day before.

It's wrinkled and worn already, the ink smudged over the 'm' in his name from where sweaty hands have turned the envelope over and over in indecision. He's debated all day over whether or not to show it to Dean, whether he should open if first or they should open it together. That morning, Sam had finally decided they would look together. And then Dean had gone to OT, and he'd ended up in such a foul mood after discussing all the equipment he would need that Sam had no longer been in much of a mood to discuss it with him.

Which brings him back to the present and the overwhelming pull he feels towards that envelope. Like somehow, the answer is inside if he would just open it. But at the same time, Sam has no doubt that the answer to their problems won't come without a huge price and he's not sure it's a decision he wants to have to make. Maybe not having options is better than having too many.

He's got his suspicions about what's inside. There were enough clues in the previous letters to figure out that Adam was trying to support Dean in this new life. What Sam can't figure out is why – why Adam would go to the trouble of paralyzing his brother and then start sending them money. But inside the envelope, Sam is sure he will find the answer.

Shaky hands fumble with the seal, trying to tear it open cleanly and giving up halfway through, ends up tearing it down the center on one side. He pulls out a folded up sheet of paper from inside, opens it to reveal a type-written letter and gulps in a breath as the first line reveals exactly what he'd suspected. Adam had opened up a savings account in Sam and Dean's name, had deposited enough money inside to get them through the first year. And as he reads on, hatred filling his heart, he discovers why.

Dean Winchester,

Or, I should probably be addressing Sam, yes? Because knowing how the two of you operate Sam is probably reading this letter alone, trying to figure out how to protect poor, helpless big brother Dean from evil little me.

As I'm sure you have learned by now, I have deposited a significant sum of money into a bank account with your names on it. Five hundred thousand dollars, to be exact. And more will follow as you find need for it. How I came up with the money is of no consequence to you – just know that its origins can't be traced. The money is yours to use, yours to spend on Dean's mounting hospital bills and impending medical needs. Use it for the building renovations you will most certainly require in a place of your own, use it for the equipment he is sure to need. Use it for whatever you choose – just so long as it keeps Dean living, keeps him rotting away in that horrible chair, keeps him eternally dependent on others just to survive, to function in this god-forsaken world.

Just as Dean has sentenced me to live as a mere shell of who I once was, so have I sentenced him. Enjoy this new life, Dean. Enjoy the hell it brings you. And just know… I will be watching, witnessing your suffering and pain, and enjoying every single minute of it.

Sam feels a lump form in his throat as he recoils from the brutal honesty of Adam's letter, folds it back up and tucks it back into the envelope only because he can't bear to leave it lying around for anyone else to find. As he's doing so, he notices for the first time something else tucked into the envelope and reaches in for it, fearful of what else he might find.

It's another photograph, this one of Dean in his room at the rehab hospital. By the darkness of the room Sam can tell it's late. Dean is asleep, propped on his side and supported by pillows, braces on his hands and feet and neck. He is clearly unaware that anyone is even in his room, let alone taking photographs of him, and Sam can't help but let out a little moan of remorse at how easily Dean allows himself to be snuck up on these days, and how little Sam can do about it when he's forced from the room at night.

He's got no clue how the picture was taken. Doesn't know if it was a member of the staff or another patient, or someone sneaking into the building after hours. But the who doesn't really matter as much as the how, and the why, and most importantly the question of what Sam can do to stop it from happening again.

It has never been more obvious to him than now just how helpless Dean is, how much assistance he will require every day, and how much that is going to cost him. The idea of taking Adam's money disgusts him in more ways than he can count, but the idea of allowing Dean to suffer for want of finances scares him more. And Sam can think of no better way than to use Adam's money, and turn around and prove to him just how adaptive Dean can be. They'll show that bastard that Dean can turn this around, can become the picture of peace, make do and persevere with what little he's got left. Adam wants a miserable shell, so they'll shove it right back in his face and prove to him just how happy Dean Winchester can be with his current situation.

Now all Sam has to do is convince Dean of that.

He swallows hard, bites on his lower lip. They've sure as hell got their work cut out for them…

SUPERNATURAL

(Just after their argument…)

Sam doesn't bang the door shut when he leaves, but to Dean his brother's sudden exit still has more than enough dramatic effect, and he stays behind, staring at the wall and contemplating the nature of sacrifices. He has known he fucked up for some time, knew that things wouldn't turn out well even before he touched the joy stick in the old school, before he sealed the deal and tore his life apart. But for some reason the true extent of his failure, the magnitude of the burden Sam has to carry now and that Dean himself put on his brother, hasn't been clear to him until now.

He didn't mean for things to turn out this way. Back in that school, being faced with the choices he was given… wasn't much of a choice, really, his life for Sam's. It's always been Sam, from the time his little brother was placed into his arms after the fire everything has been about Sam. And during the intensity of the moment, when Sam's life was on the line, there was nothing to do but save him.

Except Dean hadn't planned on living; at least not the way he's living now. Sure, he'd understood the ultimatum just fine, understood the semantics of there's a fucking wire around your spinal cord that will sever all the synapses with one push of the joystick. But in that moment it just didn't matter. What mattered was the part about moving the chair forward and saving Sammy from being strangled to death. What mattered was the part where Dean didn't plan on surviving the severing of his spinal cord, didn't plan on sticking around to face the torture of what was to come.

And he sure as hell didn't plan on putting his brother through all this torture. Sam doesn't deserve this; he never did. Sam is supposed to have a normal life with a normal job and a normal wife, 2.5 normal children living in a normal house with a normal white picket fence in a normal neighborhood right smack in the middle of the suburbs in Normalsville, USA.

Caring for his disabled 27 year old brother has never been on the agenda. Neither was worrying himself sick over how he's supposed to come up with a quarter of a million dollars just to keep Dean alive for a year. One fucking year – that's it. That's all that amount of money will cover. And then there will be another year, and another one after that, just throwing money away into a black hole. Because let's face it, Dean thinks, he can't even control his neck, let alone any of the other muscles in his body. And with those kind of odds there's no way he's ever going to amount to being a productive member of society.

A black hole; a money pit – that's all he is. All he'll ever be anymore. And the possibility of Sam's future as Dean's constant caregiver is a shit poor way for Sam to be living, especially compared to the potential he's got in other avenues. It all comes down to a sacrifice poorly thought out and then executed in vain. Dean has failed. Failed himself, and failed Sam.

Oh, Sammy.

Dean is still deep in thought when Lanie comes back to do some stretching exercises. The first thing she does is remove the pillows behind his back and then she slowly rolls him on his back again, one hand keeping his head and neck steady all the way. He knows that he flops around whenever they turn him, and his legs and arms inevitably end up in positions that look unnatural and – it's the first time ever he thinks about it – must be horribly uncomfortable.

She's got him angled in such a way that he can see how his right leg crosses limply over the left, the way both feet are hyper-extended, toes curled in but pointing towards the wall as though locked in an eternal stretch. He can see his arms, so still as they flop against the atrophying muscles in his abdomen, his hands and wrists curled in toward his body. It disgusts him to see what has become of the body he once took such pride in.

Dean has noticed Sam watching him a lot lately, staring expressionless as he fights to hide his emotions, and Dean can't help but wonder if the same thoughts are going through Sam's mind as are going through his own. Is Sam as disgusted as Dean is by the shape of his body? Is he as uncomfortable with seeing the way the limbs curl so unnaturally, as though they're trying to shrivel up and disappear?

He can't help but hate himself for doing this to Sam, for giving his little brother yet one more reason to feel self-conscious and uncertain. Their lives are screwed up enough as it is, constantly feeling the need to hide and blend in, not get caught. And now this… The wheelchair and the ventilator and the mechanics. How do they hide something like this? How do they blend in with a crowd, try to stay inconspicuous when he's suddenly become anything but? It's not fair to Sam to make him have to deal with it.

Lanie doesn't seem to be interested in Dean's philosophical mood and continues to straighten him out in his new position. The pillow between his knees stays where it is, and the one between torso and right arm gets put under his elbow. One last maneuver to adjust his head, then she sits down on the chair Sam vacated a good thirty minutes ago and takes his left hand in hers, massaging it gently. Everyone with a pair of eyes could tell that Dean isn't in the present right now, definitely not in the mood for talking, and so they both stay silent while she carefully bends and rotates each joint in his hand.

"There you go", she says softly as she puts his hand back down on the bed and takes her chair to the other side to start working on the other one. Dean doesn't hear her.

Lanie is just about to finish with her task when a stream of low cursing from the corridor announces Kyle's return and pulls a disoriented Dean out of his thoughts. It's nothing new to see Kyle worked up about something - it's part of his alpha dog act - and he can rant about trite topics like hospital food for hours, but today there is a new dimension of feeling in his voice when he greets Lanie that is unusual enough to attract Dean's attention. And sure enough, instead of transferring to his bed immediately as he normally does, Kyle stops his chair in the space between their beds and turns to face Dean, getting as close to him as possible. Lanie, who has already proven not to be the most perceptive one, doesn't react with more than a smile and a nod before she arranges Dean's hands on his chest and stands up to leave.

"Could you...?", Kyle asks and motions to Dean's head that is positioned to look straight at the wall. "I'd like to have a little talk with him. Just from man to man, you see." He winks, and Lanie laughs and gives Dean a questioning look. Nothing done to you without your permission, the look reminds him. Yeah, how true.

Dean blinks once, because for one thing he doesn't really care what they do to his body right now but mostly because he can tell that behind the flippant facade, Kyle is actually dead serious about something and Dean is still himself enough to find the hint of a mystery absolutely irresistible even in the darkest of moods. Kyle waits until Lanie has raised the bed a little more, turned Dean's head to the left, and is way out of earshot, then all the humor drains from his face like water from a leaky pipe.

"Now listen, kid, I know it's not fair to spring this on you while you still can't talk, but apparently you can communicate well enough to make Sam cry" - Dean squeezes his eyes shut at this; too much information, too much memory, but Kyle is merciless - "no, open your eyes, Dean. Listen to me."

Kyle's voice is so very much John Winchester's now, the same unshakable sense of authority drenching every word, that Dean simply has no other choice than to do whatever the voice asks him to do. When he looks up again, Kyle's face is filled with sympathy.

"Believe me, I know that it's not easy. And it will be far from easy for a long time, but... You see, my point is that life... life really does go on even if you don't believe it ever will. And for that you need your family around. No, Dean, eyes open, remember? So, can you tell me that you weren't trying to push Sam away? Or why else was he punching holes into the cafeteria walls earlier, hm? Dean, just don't, okay? I guess what I want to say is that family is important. Don't make it harder on yourself than it needs to be. And especially don't make it harder for them. It's not only you who's hurting. It's usually just as hard for the family.... sometimes even harder."

At the last words Kyle's eyes wander to the overflowing cork board on the wall, and for the first time Dean can see that Kyle is a father, too, and probably even a good one. His words, however, are nothing but salt in Dean's emotional wounds.

"Just think about what I said, huh?" Kyle implores. His eyes bore pleadingly into Dean's, begging for obedience.

Dean doesn't even try to respond, taking advantage of his inability to speak as an excuse not to. He closes his eyes again, and this time Kyle doesn't order them open. Instead, Dean registers the sounds of Kyle transferring back into bed, and then the muted sounds of a television coming on and the volume turned down low.

His throat tightens reflexively as he thinks about what his roommate has just said, emotions of right and wrong warring with each other in the vast openness of his mind. The logical part of him knows that Sam is hurting too, knows that there is no greater pain than seeing someone you love going through so much hurt. Even back in the hospital when Adam was mocking Dean and trying to convince him that Sam would leave…even then he'd known there was no way Sam was going anywhere. He knows this because he'd be feeling the same way if it were Sam.

But the irrational part of his brain wonders if Sam is only staying out of some skewed sense of obligation. There is no doubt in Dean's mind that Sam feels responsible for what happened to him; Sam as much as admitted it outright. And Sam's got a history of jumping into things without thinking clearly, without realizing what he's admitting to until it's too late to retract. He wears his heart on his sleeve…constantly taking emotional situations and dropping himself right into the middle of them. He's always finding ways to blame himself no matter how little choice he might have had in the situation. Jessica's death was a prime example of that, with Sam ultimately chasing after the demon out of guilt and revenge. Dean can't help but worry that Sam is thinking the same thing now, refusing to leave Dean behind because he blames himself for the decision Dean made.

Dean can't let him do that. Somehow, he's got to make this right.

He's still worrying about Sam and his misplaced idea of duty when Mona comes in to start his evening routine. Like Lanie, the older woman seems to realize that Dean isn't really in the moment, isn't up to participating in a conversation. She seeks his permission to begin, but then leaves him to his thoughts as she goes about her duties. It's all more of the same as she suctions his trach and flushes water into his stomach through the g-tube before starting his dinner. And as the Ensure is flowing, she grabs a washcloth and a basin of soapy water and starts to bathe him.

It's nothing he hasn't experienced before, but usually he manages to tune it out and find someplace in his imagination that he'd rather be.

This time is different.

This time Dean starts paying more attention to the actual tasks and to Mona's part in them. He starts to imagine Sam in that job, acting as a caregiver and a nurse. They don't have money; there's no way they can even pay for rehab, so Dean knows they won't be able to afford in-home care. It will be all on Sam, his baby brother. Dean can't even begin to stomach it.

The worst part by far is the bowel routine. He always makes sure he's somewhere else for this one, absolutely despises the idea of someone else being down there, physically stimulating him to make him take a crap. This time, though, he watches. Because he wants to understand what he's subjected Sam to, wants to remind himself of just how bad things are and how much they can't stay this way.

Mona frogs his legs, bending them out and up, and then tucks pillows underneath to support them as she slides a waterproof pad under his ass before beginning to collect the supplies she will need. She's got gloves and suppositories and wipes, and just watching her begin the routine is beyond unbearable. But then it gets abundantly worse when he imagines Sam in her place and begins to picture what it would be like to have Sam doing for him everything the nurses do. Dean isn't sure who would hate it more - himself or Sam – but he decides right then and there that he doesn't want to find out.

Dean feels his face begin to flush just thinking about it. It's bad enough that Sam feels guilty for Dean being paralyzed, but he'll be damned if he lets Sam start to resent him for having to take care of him. It can't happen – no matter what, Dean can't let their relationship go beyond brotherhood.

He finally closes his eyes when things start to happen down there, when his insides get to churning and releasing and suddenly he can no longer stomach even the idea of what's happening. This is why Dean always breaks away, because he can't deal with the reality.

He doesn't even realize when Mona finishes with him. Once he'd turned off his awareness of the outside world that was it. His mind has wandered elsewhere, to a place where Sam can be Sam and Dean isn't standing in his way, a place where disabilities and wheelchairs and home care are just things out of other people's worlds. Not theirs. He's thinking of a place where Sam is free of Dean and his problems, where Dean is simply free.

Something jars him back several minutes (or hours?) after Mona is gone, but he never registers what it is. Just that it makes him return his thoughts to his room in the rehab facility, makes him come back to his nightmare. Everything is darker now. Only the emergency lights are still lit in the room and the hallway, and the floor is quiet. He knows Kyle must be asleep, but can't turn his head to verify that. And he knows he needs to be sleeping too. He's just not ready yet.

Admittedly, it has been a pretty tiring day, with all the thinking and freaking out and stuff, but Dean has had more exhausting ones and he won't give in to sleep just yet. But with the medicine the nurse administered just at the end of his bedtime routine flowing swiftly through his veins it is becoming more and more difficult for him to keep his eyes open. He can tell he's starting to fall asleep as his thoughts become muddled and the sound of Kyle's soft snoring merges with the whoosh and swish of the ventilator, creating a unique hissing sound that Dean ironically finds soothing.

He fights the sleep with all his might, despite the fact that even if he was able to turn his head away from looking at the ceiling, there would be nothing to see in the dark room. That doesn't matter right now. What matters is that Dean desperately needs to figure some things out before Sam inevitably returns. He knows his little brother won't stay gone for long. There is a solution to all their problems at the end of all this thinking, Dean's absolutely sure of it, but right now all he gets is the result of "Sam must be free of this" without any idea of how to achieve it.

He sinks farther into sleep, falling into that final stage between awake and asleep when suddenly something changes. Something bad, he knows, but for a split-second he can't tell what exactly it is; then all the air is gone from his lungs.

In an instant adrenaline has him wide awake and realization comes to him at once. Alarms scream as he tries ineffectually to gulp in air against lungs that refuse to respond to his brain's request. He immediately rewinds to a time not so long ago in the hospital when Lori Ann had pulled the plug on his ventilator. It's a nightmare he has refused to acknowledge since that time, unwilling to think it could happen without her ruthless hand causing it.

An eternity goes by in the dark as Dean struggles against the blatant tightening in his chest and his lungs expend the last of their remaining air. And then there are footsteps and voices. A light goes on overhead, blinding him as he blinks furiously in the war with black spots on fluorescent lighting.

The stillness of the night turns into organized chaos as orders are given and carried out. "It's a pop-off, people. Kate, check the plug. Thomas, the lines on the vent. I've got the trach site."

"We gotcha, baby. Nothing's gonna happen to you." Mona's face, expression serious and business-like, appears above Dean but she doesn't look at him as her fingers gloss easily around the seals on his trach. He feels the tug and push as she secures the seal before working her way down the tubing.

It's right then, at Mona's words, that the answer comes to Dean. Suddenly Dean realizes that this is his out. Sam's out. Just a few more seconds without air and he'll slip into oblivion, then death and a release from the hell he's found himself in.

He stares at the ceiling, a calm finally settling over him as he waits for the inevitable. Fully prepared for what is to come. He knows Sam can get over his death, just like he got over Jess's and their dad's, and someday he might even come to appreciate the sacrifice Dean made for him so that he might have a better life. Resignation settles over Dean and he stops struggling and lets his eyes slide closed, ready for death to take him.

"Guys, we're gonna lose him. Get me the ambu bag!"

Dean's eyes shoot open, not expecting the measures the nurses are prepared to take to save him. 'NO!' he mouths, blinking his eyes two times over and over again. There is sudden panic in his expression. 'No, please. Nononononono."

Mona isn't even looking at him, though, as she removes the hose from the trach and replaces it with the mouth of the ambu bag. She is squeezing before the equipment is fully sealed, and Dean suddenly finds himself choking on the stale air that she pumps into his rebellious lungs.

He keeps blinking and mouthing 'no' over and over again until finally Mona looks up at him with confusion in her eyes. "We gotcha, hon. I promise," she insists, smoothing the sweat dampened hair from his forehead.

I don't want you to promise! Dean wants to scream. I don't want your help. Just let me go. It's better for everyone.

But Mona either isn't understanding the frantic no's he keeps blinking or she doesn't want to, either way she is conveniently overlooking his desperation to be freed from the prison he's been trapped in for the last month; a life sentence with no parole.

She just keeps pumping air into his lungs as the rest of the nursing staff inspects the faulty equipment for the malfunction. Tears finally well in Dean's eyes when Thomas lets out a relieved 'got it,' and then makes quick work of sealing the leak before they trade off the ambu bag for the vent once again.

The hissing of the machine starts up again and the three nurses look down to see what they perceive as tears of joy. "See baby, I told you we weren't going to let anything happen to you. You're fine," Mona says. She has yet to stop stroking his hair, and Dean trembles in frustration underneath her ministrations.

'NO! I wanted to die!" He mouths to her, still blinking a steady stream of 'no.' Two blinks and a pause, two blinks and a pause…

"Sweetheart, I don't understand," She says, finally realizing Dean is trying to tell them something. "Say it again."

'Let. Me. Die." Dean repeats the words slowly, enunciating each one with his lips in an effort to be understood. It's still only Sam who can read his lips so well; no one else even comes close.

She still doesn't get it, and neither do the other two nurses at her side. Dean's anxiety gets worse, desperation to be understood coming out in the only way possible. His face get's red, sweat beading on his forehead, and he makes an attempt at holding his breath.

It's that – the action more so than the result – that has Mona coming to a realization that Dean isn't exactly pleased with the lifesaving measures that have been taken. "He's panicking. Someone needs to call his brother. Thomas, go. And a sedative – Kate, go get approval from one of the doctors. Come on, move it team!"

His attempts to hold his breath are met with the reality that he doesn't control his own lungs, can't save himself by breathing, but can't kill himself either. Frustrated beyond all reason, Dean does the one thing he can control, bites down so hard on his lower lip that it begins to bleed and Mona calls louder for someone to hurry up with that sedative.

Within moments there is a syringe in Mona's hands, brought within his line of sight and down towards his neck where he feels a slight prick and suddenly lines blur and sounds mix and everything gets hazy. He thinks he hears a male voice – Kyle probably – comment on what a stubborn son of a bitch he is, and then it's all psychedelic colors and distorted voices and a sense of fading and floating.

*****

The sedative doesn't put him fully out like the ones at the hospital used to. This one is more of a twilight haze, just enough to keep him on the edge of lucidity and awareness but still ease the anxiety screaming throughout his body. He's got no concept of time as detached voices filter in and out of his awareness. He sees a few faces over the course of his haze, vaguely recognizes the soothing gestures for what they are as hands stroke over his sweat soaked forehead.

At some point, Dean senses a bit of a frenzy in the room as the gentle massage of fingers on his face comes to a halt. He forces heavy eyes open, blinks several times to clear the haze, and can finally make out a tall shadow fidgeting anxiously just inside the doorway, lit by a soft glow of the hallway light. He can tell in an instant that it's Sam, clearly still sleepy. His hair is a mess, disheveled and matted and flying every which way. He's wearing a wrinkled t-shirt that he's most likely been sleeping in, and when Sam steps closer Dean realizes that it's one of his favorite Metallica shirts. Aww, Sammy.

The sound of voices – Kyle and Sam and Mona - conversation filters in around him, hollow and distant, and he only picks up on a few choice words. Pop-off. Panicked. Could have died. I wanted to die, he thinks. They should have let me die.

And then Sam is hovering over him, eyes puffy and red from crying and interrupted sleep. "Dean, I'm so sorry about everything. I should have been here, should have come back sooner. I'm sorry you had to go through that alone."

Dean can't look at Sam. He looks away, eyes roaming to the window as he lets his head roll to the right. He blinks back his own tears and tries to forget the fact that Sam is crying as well. All he can think about is how his one chance to make things better has been ruined. The nurses at this place are too quick, too well trained. He shouldn't have survived the pop-off; shouldn't have been saved. Shouldn't be here wondering how he can explain to Sammy that his plan has failed, but that it was meant to help.

"Look at me, Dean." Sam orders. There is a quiver in his voice that he can't hide, but he doesn't seem too concerned about it at this point.

I can't, Dean wants to say. I can't look at you, Sam. I've failed you – again. Shit-poor excuse for a big brother, I am. Can't protect you, can't save you. I can't even die right for you. He squeezes his eyes shut, tight until he sees stars in the blackness behind his eyelids. It serves a dual purpose: to keep the outside world out and to keep his despised tears in.

"Dean, please look at me. We need to get past this. We need to fight together – I can't fight for the both of us."

'I don't want you to fight for me,' Dean mouths out, finally realizing that Sam isn't going anywhere if he doesn't say something to get rid of him.

"What, Dean? What did you say?"

Sam is so excited at the prospect that Dean has decided to communicate with him that Dean almost can't bring himself to repeat it. But he reminds himself that he's got to be the responsible one, needs to be the one to send Sam back out into the world where he can find a life for himself.

'Don't. Fight. For. Me.' Dean repeats, forming his mouth perfectly around each word so that Sam is sure to understand. 'Didn't. Want. You. Here.'

He knows that must sting, is even more certain of it when he watches Sam flinch and take a while to recover.

"Did you tell the nurses not to call me?" Sam demands, angry. And he doesn't seem entirely surprised at the question he's asking although it still clearly disgusts him. Dean figures Mona must have filled Sam in on more than he'd thought – just as sure as he knows Sam denied the possibility until just this very second.

One blink, yes, is all Dean offers. He keeps his eyes closed after that, fighting back more tears that threaten to spill.

There is a pause as Sam takes in the implications of Dean's actions, thoughts, and then incredulousness, whispered. "Did you tell the nurses not to reconnect the ventilator? Did you ask them to let you die?"

Dean keeps his eyes shut for a long time. The actual act of dying, he realizes, doesn't scare him. But admitting it to Sam terrifies him. And he realizes that letting himself go without finalizing things with Sam is the cowards way out. He doesn't want to admit that he's a coward – no matter how much it means saving Sam in the end.

Finally, Dean opens his eyes, slowly as though the lids are made of several tons of lead. He stares through Sam, refusing to connect with his brother's steel gaze, and then allows his eyes to close again. One blink. Yes.

"Oh god, Dean. Why – why would you do something like that? Why would you give up on life like that?"

He doesn't want to explain, isn't really sure he can. But Dean knows he owes Sam something. 'For you.'

Sam gets that one right off the bat, eyes going wide. "For me?! Why would you think I want you to die?"

'Too much money. Too much time.'

"Dean…"

'Burden. Can't let you ruin your life.'

Sam doesn't seem to get the whole of Dean's words, but he catches onto the first and he's livid when he responds. "If you think for one second that I would even think twice about whether or not to be here for you one hundred percent then you're delusional," Sam snaps. "You're not a burden to me – you never could be. I'm right where I want to be, Dean. Don't you think I should be allowed to make my own decisions?"

It's a hard question to answer, a trap really, and Dean immediate response is to not respond. Because, yeah, Sam needs to make his own decisions. He needs to be independent, and that's pretty much the point Dean is trying to get across. But right now Sam is thinking with his heart and not his head – he's not thinking about the years and years worth of servitude he'll be subjecting himself to by choosing to stay with Dean. He's not thinking about the limitations he will face, the experiences he'll lose out on. And for that, Dean has to be the one to make the decisions. Sam isn't ready to choose for himself – not this.

"I asked you a question, Dean," Sam says when enough time has passed in silence. "Don't you think it's only fair that you let me make my own decisions about my life?"

When Dean still refuses to answer, Sam sighs and tries another tactic. "Okay, Dean, here's the deal. You're making it pretty obvious that you don't want me around. I can't for the life of me figure out why you would want to go through this alone…lord knows I couldn't do it…but it's clear that you're trying to get rid of me. So just say the word. Tell me to leave, tell me to never come back, and I'll go. Is that what you want?"

An eternity passes as Dean runs through the scenario in his head. It's exactly what he wants. It's what he's been trying to say all along. Dean blinks once, ready to leave it at that, and finds some uncontrollable force pushing his eyes closed a second time. No. No, that's not what I want.

No matter how much he wants to, he can't push Sam that completely out of his life. He can't live without his little brother – that was the point all along, the reason why the pop-off was such an opportunity. Because he wouldn't have had to be left alone… Sam could get past it; that much he knows. But Dean also knows that he has always been the weak one, the one that can't live without his family there by his side, the one that can't be left alone.

He blinks twice again, tears on his eye lashes as he finds that he can't look at his little brother, too afraid that his weaknesses are on display for all to see. Before long he feels Sam's hand fall gently to his forehead, callused thumb stroking gentle lines against the creases in his furrowed brow. Dean leans into the gesture, desperate to soak up the touch that he craves so much. He resigns himself to let tonight go, to not dwell on what might have been and instead look towards the future and finding his next opportunity.

In the meantime, he will let Sam stay. Under the guise that Sam has asked it, not because Dean is too weak to let his brother walk away.

Sam lets out a soft snort as Dean starts to relax under his touch, falling once again under the spell of the light sedative he'd been given. "This has been quite a night, hasn't it big bro. Quite a day, really. Almost as exciting as old times, right?"

Sam can't leave Dean alone today no matter how much he wants to. Yeah, he's pissed as hell at his brother; hates the fact that the stubborn SOB had tried to forbid the nursing staff from calling Sam out there the night before. And the fight they had, Dean's insistence that he's a burden, useless, Sam could just about haul off and smack him. Nevermind the fact that Sam had said it first, that Sam had alluded to the fact that he resents his big brother for sacrificing himself so that Sam could live. He hadn't really meant it then and he doesn't mean it now. None of that matters anymore. None of it. The pop-off, the reality that one tiny little malfunction in the equipment could mean the difference between whether Dean lives or dies; that's what's important right now.

Problem is, they're both damn stubborn mules. And it's a sure bet that Dean doesn't want see him anymore than Sam wants to see Dean, neither one of them willing to extend the olive branch and start over. He's got no doubt that last night's submission had been borne out of fear, anxiety, and probably a little bit of sedatives coursing through Dean's system. Every chance in the world suggests that Sam is going to walk back into Dean's room to find him grumpy and irrational and probably combative. He's really not looking forward to facing that on the cusp of his own panic at the phone call he'd received about Dean's pop-off.

The only thing that's got Sam trudging into the rehab center today is the knowledge that right now it's got to be him. If they're going to get over this, get past it, it's got to be Sam that caves first. Not necessarily because Dean will never back down first (because he probably would), but because Dean isn't able to chase after Sam when he finally comes to his senses.

Looking at his watch, Sam steps out of Milla's car and offers her a brief nod of thanks for the ride before closing the door. It's going on three o'clock in the afternoon. He's stayed away long enough.

The woman hesitates at the wheel, and Sam can see the gears turning in her head, searching out one more way to ask if he wants her to stay. She knows something is up between him and Dean, but Sam hasn't been willing to give her any details. It's clear her mother-henning instincts are itching to come through and fix whatever is wrong, but Sam is keeping her just on the shy side of informed, and there's nothing she can do until he lets her in.

Determined steps take him away from the car before she has a chance to ask. Sam hears the gears final shift and the car starts moving as he makes it to the entrance, and he forces himself not to look back. Ball is in his court, and Sam's pretty much resigned himself to doing the right thing whether he wants to or not. He raises his chin high and pushes through the doors into the entry hall, doesn't stop for pleasantries with the receptionist he's come to recognize, and makes his way steadily down the maze of hallways until he gets to Dean's room.

That's when he stops dead in his tracks, hand poised over the doorknob. The door is cracked open and he can hear voices inside; Lanie and Stu.

"He had a vent pop-off last night," Stu is explaining. "Nurses said it shook 'im up pretty bad, but he put up a hell of a fight when they called his brother."

Lanie's concerned voice comes next, and Sam can only assume she's talking directly to Dean. "You didn't want Sam here? That surprises me. That why he's not here now?"

There is a slight pause where they must have given Dean an opportunity to respond, and then Lanie is speaking again. This time there is an edge to her voice, like she's trying hard to stay polite, but she has to restrain herself. "I don't know who pissed in your cornflakes this morning, Dean, but I'll ask you not to speak to me that way."

Sam has no idea what his brother's just said, but he's got a pretty good idea and he's guessing it involves some pretty colorful vocabulary. Deciding he'd better go in there and rein him in, Sam moves for the door once again, and suddenly finds himself frozen on the spot, unable to move. He doesn't want to go in there right now, doesn't want to face Dean and his anger and indifference. Doesn't want to be the bad guy that reprimands him for responding to a god-awful situation that sure as hell would have Sam reacting much the same way. He just doesn't have the energy for it.

Moving so that his back is against the wall, Sam breathes low and long, trying to get his mind under control as he continues to listen to the sounds coming from Dean's room. From his angle, now, he can actually see through the crack in the doorway. They already have Dean moved into the wheelchair, and Lanie is standing in front of him with the portable vent hosing in her hand. Dean's still hooked up to the stationary vent, and his eyes are wild with hatred, nostrils flaring as he stares at the therapist.

Sam knows he should go in there, offer a hand. But instead of helping, he hides away like a coward, skulking in the shadows outside of Dean's door and just watches, a voyeur setting his sights on his biggest prize.

Too far away from his brother, Sam isn't able to make out what Dean says next, but he guesses it isn't any better than the last comment Dean had made. Lanie shifts on her feet and leans over him, one hand braced on either side of the wheelchair.

"I won't tolerate that kind of language here, and I won't tolerate the name calling. I'm giving you a choice – you can do this the easy way or the hard way, but you've got therapy today no matter how you want to play this."

It hurts, what Sam sees next, because what he sees cross his brother's expression appears to be resignation. Dean seems to calm down, no longer spouting silent curses and putting up a fight with what little he's got left. Lanie seems to relax, too, as does Stu, and within seconds they're swapping out the ventilators as though nothing had happened.

Sam doesn't miss Dean's wince when the first hose is disconnected. The reaction is raw and unchecked, unmistakable, showing the fear that Dean had tried so hard to deny the night before. His brother's mouth moves up and down, trying to gulp in air in a way Sam hasn't seen since the first few days in the hospital. That desperation, like he doesn't trust another breath will come.

An acidy bile rises in his throat at the sight, hating that he's witnessing it, hating that he's too terrified to step in and offer comfort. Frozen in place, Sam can only watch and finally sigh in relief as the new hose is connected and Dean receives the breath of air that he's been so desperate for. The change is immediate, Dean's desperation and fear being instantly replaced by a quiet indifference that is neither anger nor relief. He has merely accepted his current position and chosen not to react to it, good or bad.

"Alright, we're set here. Let's get you to the therapy room and get those limbs moving, shall we?" Sam waits just long enough to see Lanie circle the wheelchair for the handles before he's on the move, ducking into a vacant room to avoid being seen when the trio exits his brother's room. He waits for a count of fifty before peeking out the door and watching them disappear around a corner.

Sam knows where the therapy room is, so he's not terribly concerned about following immediately behind. He lingers for another couple of minutes, just to be sure he won't run into them stopped in the halls somewhere, then finally sets off at a steady pace. It's not that he truly enjoys spying on Dean this way, but Sam's got a need to know how things are going – the truth of how things are going. Because if he thinks about it, tries to interpret his brother's mood the night before, Sam would have staked money on the fact that Dean had given up. But watching just now, he could see a desire to be strong, to fight, to live. And Sam's really got to figure out just what the hell Dean is playing at here, because something is seriously wrong. He just doesn't know what.

The room where the majority of the therapy activities takes place is as large as a full sized gym, complete with an overwhelming supply of tables and equipment and people. It's easy to get lost in the room if no one knows to look for you, and Sam finds a spot behind some workout equipment that he knows Dean can't use and disappears in its mass.

From where he stands he's got a pretty good view of the goings on all throughout the room, can see the large table that Lanie and Stu are currently lowering Dean onto. It's square, about the size of a double bed, with a wooden frame and a large blue pad that reminds Sam of a gymnastics tumbling mat. They remove the ventilator from the wheelchair and set it up by Dean's head, and then Lanie sets to work as Stu disappears.

She starts with the same exercises Sam had watched them use in the hospital; Range of Motion exercises, Sam remembers, or ROM's. But she's already working him harder, pushing Dean's legs back farther to his chest and extending the limbs and muscles higher in the air. Sam isn't close enough to hear anything she is saying, but he can see Dean's face and it amps Sam's confusion.

It's not like Sam is expecting determination; he knows Dean's prognosis just as well as his brother does, and recovery isn't an option. The therapy is only meant to maintain muscle tone and reduce spasticity, keep his brother from becoming stiff and immobile to assistance. But up until now he's always seen a flicker of hope in his brother's eyes, a thought that if he concentrates hard enough he might defy the odds and feel something, move something. There is none of that now; and in its place is a steely resolve of anger and hatred. He's glaring at the therapist as though he might be able to make her disappear, and although his lips aren't moving Sam can only imagine the colorful words that must be flying through his brother's head.

After the ROM's, Lanie moves onto some new exercises that Sam hasn't seen done before. She disappears for a minute and returns soon after with help, another young kid like they'd had at the hospital and Sam assumes this is another student. The boy has an infectious grin that even has Dean smiling for about half a second before he remembers himself and resumes the scowl.

For several minutes the trio doesn't move much, as Lanie talks – explaining the next step, Sam assumes – and her assistant listens like an attentive puppy. Sam notices that Dean's got his eyes closed during this, although whether he's just resting or trying to remove himself from the situation is unclear. Soon Lanie is in motion again, directing the action. She has her aide take his place behind Dean, hands on his shoulders, while Lanie takes his legs. Together, they maneuver Dean so that his legs are hanging over the edge of the table, and then they pull him into a sitting position.

It would appear, from Sam's careful observation, that they're working on balance of some sort. But for the life of him he can't figure out what the use of that is for someone in Dean's situation. The boy at Dean's back is supporting him from behind as Lanie lowers herself into a crouch at the front, hands wrapped around Dean's wrists. On her say-so both let go but continue to hover within centimeters of their original position. In a matter of milli-seconds Dean begins to slouch to the right, and their quick hands stop the momentum and set him right again. They try it again, and again, every time with the same result until Sam begins to feel as though the exercise isn't meant to be helpful at all, but rather a new means of torture. It's like some obscure game bullies play with their victims on the playground, shoving the helpless victim back and forth as they taunt him.

Judging from the disheartened expression on his brother's face, Sam figures Dean's feeling about the same way he is. Finally seeing enough, Sam decides it's time to step in and interrupt the daily fun. If this is all they're going to do for Dean they might as well send him home and let Sam care for him.

Drawing himself up and securing the necessary confidence he knows he'll need, Sam steps from the shadows and circles around several pieces of equipment so that it looks like he's coming from the entrance to the room. The last thing he needs is for his brother to figure out he's been spying.

"Hey, guys, what's going on here?" Sam says brightly, hoping his cheerfulness doesn't seem as forced as he knows it is. "Dean, you're sitting up! That's great."

Dean glares at Sam, and Sam ignores him as he directs his attention to Lanie. "So what's this little exercise you've got going on? What's it meant to do?"

"We're working on strengthening Dean's abdominal and back muscles," Lanie replies, not a hint nervous or self-conscious of the fact that Sam's just walked in on them.

Sam nods thoughtfully, nervously considering his next question because he knows just how careful he needs to be about his wording. Asking flat out why they're doing that since Dean isn't ever again going to have the muscle capability to hold himself up will only succeed in hurting his brother. But then again, how else is he going to get the question answered.

As he's contemplating his words, Lanie jumps in to continue her explanation, saving Sam for the time being. "Quadriplegic's have a tendency to get what is informally called 'quad belly' where their stomachs distend because of a lack of musculature to keep them sitting straight. If we tackle that problem now and work on building and maintaining strength we just may be able to keep your stud of a brother here in tip-top shape for all those women that undoubtedly chase after him." She winks at Sam and he, in turn, can't help turning to Dean with a goofy grin on his face, all set to give him the raised eyebrow and the silent question of hear that, man? You still got it.

But if anything, Lanie's comment seems to dampen Dean's mood even more. He doesn't even meet Sam's eye as Lanie and the –as of yet unnamed – assistant lower Dean back down to the table and scoot him to the center again.

Sam isn't done trying, though. "My brother's a real ladies man," Sam volunteers. "You should see this guy work a room; I swear, give him about 5 minutes and he'll have half the girls eating out of the palm of his hand."

Dean rolls his eyes and glares at Sam, and it's abundantly clear by his expression that he's hating Sam for saying that. Sam pretends not to notice, pretends he doesn't understand what Dean is thinking. That was then. This is now. But it's hard not to when his once self-assured brother is wearing a hangdog expression that would turn anybody off. Wheelchair or not.

He's all set to try another tactic, but the words get stuck in his throat and try as he might he just can't manage to push out any more enthusiasm when the response is so far from positive. Instead, Sam just nods in defeat and steps back to watch as Lanie finishes the exercises and collects help to bundle Dean back into his wheelchair. Dean never once makes eye contact with Sam the rest of the session, in actuality doesn't make contact with anything but the ceiling, and Sam feels his gut clench at the sheer devastation that has taken over his brother's mental state.

---

Dean's mood doesn't improve on the way back to his room, like Sam hopes, and it really doesn't help matters any when they walk in only to discover that Kyle has visitors. They're barely through the threshold when Kyle's booming voice and eager smile greet them. He's got a toddler on his lap, dressed in corduroy overalls and a blue t-shirt, short blond locks peeking out underneath a child-sized baseball cap.

"Hey! Dean, Sam, I was hoping you would make it before my family left. This is my wife, Melissa, and my kids, Patrick and Stephanie - Steph." He gestures to the little boy he's holding and then to the young girl, blond haired and blue-eyed – just like her brother, sitting on the bed in a yellow seer-sucker sundress as the woman sitting next to her rises and crosses the room.

"Melissa, this is my roommate, Dean, and his brother, Sam."

"Kyle talks about you all the time," Melissa says gently, a soft smile across her face as she quickly shakes Sam's hand and bends down to Dean. She puts her hand across his, ignoring the look of irritation across Dean's face. "He thinks very highly of you. I'm so glad to finally meet you."

Dean doesn't react; no reply, no change in expression, nothing. And after a few awkward seconds Melissa removes her hand and backs away as Sam tries to salvage the conversation. He relies on his hunter's instincts, ingrained interview skills, to steer the conversation away from his brother. Experience has taught him that parents like to talk about their kids, and kids like to be talked to, so he crouches down to eye level with the little girl on the bed and beams at her.

"You're Stephanie, huh? How old are you?"

She grins right back, revealing a gap-toothed smile where one of her teeth is missing, and eagerly holds up her hand in Sam's face. "Stheph," she corrects him. "I'm five. But I'll be thicth in July," she reports excitedly, lisping on the 's' sounds."

"Oh yeah? Wow, six." Sam asks, over emphasizing the enthusiasm as he's learned to do. "That's so old, Steph! I bet you'll have to get a job after that, huh?"

Stephanie giggles mercilessly, clearly enamored with Sam. "Noooo, thilly," she says, drawing out the 'no' with a shriek and another giggle. "I'm thtill in thchool."

Sam pretends to grab his chest and fall over from shock, inciting more giggles from Steph and finally encouraging Patrick to join in. "You can't possibly still be in school! What grade are you in?"

"I'm only in Kindy-garten!"

"No way," Sam jokes. He turns to Patrick. "Your sister can't be just in kindergarten. That's impossible!"

Patrick laughs, puts his chubby little hands over his face and pulls them down to his neck.

"So how old are you, little man?"

Feigning shyness, Patrick turns and buries his face in his father's chest, but continues to peek out at Sam through spread fingers. Kyle laughs.

"Since when are you shy? Tell Sam how old you are."

Not wanting to be left behind in the excitement, Steph joins in like a little mother, and coaxes her brother. "How old are you, Pattie?"

The little boy hides his face again, laughing as he does so, and then Melissa is at his side, poking him gently like she's tickling him to get him to look out again. "Are you this many?" she asks, holding up two fingers.

Patrick nods again, giggling, and finally lifts his hand to reveal two plump fingers. "I two," he admits proudly.

Before he can reply, Sam feels a tug on his shirt and he turns back around to see Steph staring intently at him, a suddenly serious expression on her face as she points to Dean. "Everybody elth ith happy. How come he looks tho thad?"

Looking around the room Sam realizes that everyone else, Lanie included, is smiling and having a good time with the kids. Everyone, that is, except for Dean, who has been staring straight ahead at the empty wall, obviously trying to melt into the floor and disappear, ever since introductions were made. But the expressions seem to fall just a bit at the innocent question.

Melissa looks down at her hands uncomfortably. "When Kyle got hurt, we encouraged the kids to be honest and ask questions. I'm sorry if he—"

Shaking his head, Sam holds up a hand to stop her from feeling the need to apologize and then kneels down to Steph's level again. "He's just being a Mr. Grumpy-pants today," Sam explains, looking pointedly at Dean as if to say, See, even kids notice your sour mood. But in Dean's defense, he also tries to explain away the mood. "Dean's injury is still new to him, so it's a little hard sometimes to be happy even when the people around you are having a good time. I bet you have days like that, sometimes, when you just feel sad and don't know why?"

Steph takes a minute to think about it before finally nodding her head slowly in agreement. "When I feel thad, Mommy and Daddy give me hugth," she says, her eyes brightening as an idea comes to her. Jumping from the bed, she scurries the few feet to where Dean sits in his wheelchair and plunks herself against his body, wrapping her little arms as far as she can reach around his waist.

"Now you're supposed to hug me back," she accuses, backing up and putting her hands on her hips in such a way that the rest of the room can't help but laugh. Everyone, that is, but Dean who seems bewildered and uncertain about the little girl and several shades of pissed off at Sam for letting it happen.

For just a second Sam debates staying out of it, letting Steph give Dean a lesson on manners and being polite. He's certain that she could get a better response in the long run – after all, even a grumpy Dean can't help but back down in the face of a young child. But Sam can see the way Dean's expression has changed from I'm gonna kill someone, to I just need to be left alone in an instant and he realizes that there's been a lot to take in over the past couple of days. Putting himself in his brother's place, Sam knows that he would probably be acting the same way if their situations were reversed, and he sure as hell would be looking to Dean to save him.

Finally deciding not to torment Dean with the child at least until he's able to speak on his own, Sam kneels down beside her and adopts his "child" voice again. "Sweetheart, I know Dean loves the hug you just gave him, and I think he would like nothing better than to hug you back, but he can't. How he got hurt…he isn't able to move his arms anymore."

Steph gives an understanding nod. "Kinda like my Daddy at first. He couldn't move much, and he had one of those things." She points to the vent. "But he's getting better. Don't worry, Dean, you will too."

Dean shoots the little girl a look that's a cross between a smirk and a sneer, rolling his eyes before he blinks and goes back to staring at the wall. Sam sees Deans swallow, as though he's trying to gulp down the emotions threatening to expose his vulnerability through his toughened exterior. His heart goes out to his brother, realizing that Dean's attitude is due more to a need for self-preservation than it is truly annoyance or indifference.

Sam slides his body between Dean and everyone else in the room and catches Lanie's gaze. "I think he's probably ready to get back into bed," he says. "Can you…?"

Nodding, Lanie disappears out the door to find an orderly as Melissa takes the hint and begins to gather her children. She kisses Kyle goodbye and scoops Patrick up in her arms. "Steph, we need to get going if we're going to have time to go shopping before the store closes. Say goodbye to your father and his friends."

As children often do, the little girl nods enthusiastically, immediately forgetting her frustration from just seconds earlier. "I'm gonna get a new dreth," she announces proudly. "Bye guys! Bye daddy."

She's out the door before anyone can respond, just about plowing into Lanie and Stu as they return to the room for Dean. Sam catches Lanie's eye, seeks reassurance that she's got things covered with his brother, and then makes a casual excuse to follow Melissa out the door, grabbing the diaper bag from her shoulder as she struggles with her arms full of squirming toddler.

Melissa seems to recognize Sam's need to do more than just be a good Samaritan, calls firmly to Steph to slow down, and then falls into place beside Sam as they wind their way through the halls to the front doors of the facility.

Sam stays quiet for the majority of the walk, but it's clear he's got something on his mind, clear that he's mentally preparing himself to ask a question. And then, when they're almost to the door, be finally blurts it out. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Melissa prods, playing dumb in an effort to get Sam to voice things that he might otherwise never say.

More silence follows, nervousness and awkwardness exuding from Sam's pores. They get to the door and he holds it open for Melissa and her kids before he finally manages to speak again.

"When Kyle got hurt, your world must have been completely turned on its axis. And he told me himself that he fought with an abundance of bitterness and caustic reactions. How did you stick by him through all that? How did you not let it get to you?"

Melissa lets out a gentle laugh, a reaction to the irony of the question, but not aimed directly at Sam. They've made it to her SUV by this time, and she opens the back door to let the children climb in as she carefully chooses how she'll answer Sam's question.

"I'm not a saint, Sam. It's not like I just woke up the day after Kyle's accident and decided to put on my happy face and ignore everything else that went on around me. His words hurt, his actions felt like betrayals. I hated him for getting hurt in the first place, for taking the pain out on me, for leaving me and our children to deal with the bills and the emotions and the decisions while he was just lying in a hospital bed doing nothing. And then I hated myself for having those thoughts, because I knew none of this was his fault and I felt absolutely evil for even thinking about blaming him for any of it. I think I spent more time crying in my car than I did driving it. For the longest time I felt like I was all alone in this world, that no one had any clue what I was going through."

Sam finds himself nodding his head in agreement, hearing his own thoughts and fears coming out in Melissa's past. "But you two seem so happy together, so in sync."

"It's taken us a long time to get back to that. Lots of counseling – both together and individually. We've both had to let go of a lot of pent up feelings and emotions. We found people who had gone through the same things and we talked to them and we asked questions. And we're still working on it, Sam. Trust me when I tell you – it's not easy taking care of a loved one who's quadriplegic. You suddenly find yourself in a role that neither one of you ever saw for yourself, you become everything for a person who was once completely independent. And with Dean, you're looking at tasks far and beyond even what I had to do for Kyle. This isn't something that ever comes easily for you, Sam. You're going to have to wake up every single morning and tell yourself that you want to be there for your brother, that you want to do everything in your power to help him. You'll have doubts – everyday, probably. But in the end, all you've got is your love for your brother and the decision that you would rather be in his life however you can be, than be out of it to avoid the pain."

She finishes buckling Patrick into his car seat and closes the door, leans against the car and runs a hand through her hair. "You know you can talk to me whenever you need a friend. Or Kyle – he can give you things from Dean's perspective. Just… just don't give up on him just yet, huh? He'll come around; it's just going to take time. Dealing with this shit – it's not an exact science. There's no timeline for the healing process. You just have to take things one day at a time and hold on to the good moments when you get them – no matter how few and far between they may be. Get me?"

For the first time in a long time Sam feels a sense of relief, that maybe he and Dean aren't going through this alone. He nods in agreement with Melissa's request. "Yeah, I do. You've helped a lot – thanks."

The sentiment is genuine, and so is the hug Sam wraps her up in seconds later, mumbling thanks over and over again so that she really understands just how much her words have meant.

When Sam returns, he finds Kyle gone and Dean asleep in bed, hooked up to another meal of Ensure and fluids. He watches his brother sleep for several minutes, wonders how he can look so peaceful and calm one minute and so tormented the next. It's the tranquility of sleeping Dean that finally reassures Sam that he's doing the right thing, that staying with Dean and making him fight to regain a life for himself is the best thing for both of them. Because it's clear to Sam that the desired outcome is possible, that Dean is capable of accepting his situation, as long as they do it together.