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.

6. Chapter 6

Sam's resolve strengthens in the wake of Dean's reaction to the pop-off and their subsequent encounters with each other since. As the reality of his brother's situation becomes prominent - the terror of how easily his life can be extinguished, the helplessness of Dean's depression – Sam decides to take solace at the insight of Melissa and Kyle's words, decides to trust them that things will get better if he just perseveres through the worst of it.

He becomes an advocate; the poster child for 'family of an SCI', and manages to drag himself out of bed every morning to spend the whole day with Dean, forces a smile on his face when he would really rather punch someone then curl back up under the covers and never come out again.

But Sam has decided it's up to him – and him alone - to improve Dean's attitude, and the only way to do that is with carefully masked enthusiasm.

It doesn't hurt when Dean's speech therapist, Linda, appears, just before lunch on the sixth day, with Stu and announces her plans to feed Dean real food. Sam watches his brother's face for a reaction, ends up thrilled when Dean's mouth twitches just barely into the beginnings of a smile. It's enough for now, and he happily stands back as Dean is prepped and moved from bed to wheelchair, reclined to a 60 degree angle, and strapped in.

Sam falls into line beside his brother, chattering happily about how thrilled Dean must be about finally getting real, honest to god food, as Linda takes control of the chair and guides it towards the cafeteria. So it's a real shocker when they arrive, pull up to a table, only to discover that the "real" food Sam had expected – hamburgers and fries and pie – turns out to be cups full of mush and disgusting liquids. One glance at Dean and Sam knows his brother is equally disappointed – probably more so.

Linda is no stranger to that reaction. She pinches her lips into an apologetic smile as she lowers herself into the seat across from Dean. "I know it's not what you wanted, but it's a good start – trust me. As soon as you prove you can handle the pureed foods we can move you on to solids."

"Piece of cake," Sam scoffs, looking for a reaction from Dean that never comes. He takes the seat to the other side of his brother, eyes darting nervously between the food and Dean as he pleads internally for this experience to have a positive effect on his brother no matter how disgusting the food is. It's got to be better than the tan glop they've been running through the tube in his stomach.

"So what's the game plan?" Sam finally asks, suspiciously watching Linda prepare the food. He can just barely identify most of it, and that's more unsettling than the actual consistency of the food. Individual cups hold each item separately. One he's certain is applesauce, another some kind of green jello and a third looks like it might be vanilla pudding. But another cup holds some kind of off white colored mush with black specks in it that he can't make out to save his life, and she's got a cup of what is probably apple juice, but she's just added some sort of funny looking powder to it that seems to be making it more into a syrup than a juice.

"Well, I've got several kinds of soft foods here," Linda begins, pointing to each as she names it until finally she identifies the suspicious off-white stuff as mushed banana. "We will try Dean on whichever ones he wants, let him get a taste for chewing again and swallowing, learn the feel of the food moving near the trach. We're monitoring for signs of choking or aspiration – where the food would be going down into his lungs. If all goes well we can start Dean on a soft food diet twice daily and just supplement with the Ensure through the g-tube."

She smiles as she looks at Dean. "Does that sound good, hon? Maybe we can get rid of that thing once and for all."

Dean just rolls his eyes, fails to bring a smile to his face, and Sam frowns at him.

"You could at least pretend to be excited, Dean. Master this and I'll sneak you in some good stuff before you know it. Just think – hamburgers and French fries, maybe a steak…"

"Don't be sneaking food in here and feeding him when no one is around to watch," Linda interrupts, clearly horrified at the idea. "You go giving him something too big to swallow and he could choke. It could make for a huge set back, understand?"

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, letting out a giant huff of air. Uptight much? "I'm not going to do anything that will endanger my brother," he assures her, pushing the sincerity despite his desire to laugh at her anxiety. It's what he and Dean have always done, joking about hospital food and promising better stuff to come. But he means what he says about not putting Dean in danger, and right now – this situation – Sam pretty much feels like a fish floundering on dry land. He's got no idea how to deal with the intensity of Dean's care, and he is more than ready to accept any and all help the professionals want to provide.

"I'm sorry," he adds. "I just thought he needed a little something to look forward to in the future… a loooong way into the future."

Linda nods, accepts the apology, and immediately goes back to the food like the conversation had never happened. She picks up the juice she's just turned into syrup and places a straw into it, holding it up to Dean's mouth as he eyes her suspiciously, lips tight.

"It's apple juice, Dean. Just thickened so it will go down easier. You won't even notice a difference in the taste. Promise."

Biting on his lower lip, Dean mulls over his options but eventually accepts the straw and takes his first sip. Sam watches in eager anticipation, and realizes several seconds later that Dean is just holding the liquid in his mouth.

"Swallow, Dean. Give it a try," Linda coaxes, clearly realizing the same thing. "Nice and slow, you'll be fine."

Sam hadn't even considered the idea that eating again might be a scary prospect for Dean. But as he thinks about the conversation, even just in the past two minutes, he hears all the unanswered questions and concerns that this could pose. Choking and aspirating… dying. At least it reinforces Sam's conviction that last night's episode hadn't been well thought out – despite what Dean might be trying to convince himself, inherently Dean doesn't want to die.

Dean finally swallows. It's a hard gulp that looks like it hurts, but Linda looks pleased by the effort.

"Great job, Dean!" she exclaims, as though he's just discovered the meaning of life or figured out the answer to cold fusion. "No choking, doesn't sound like there was any aspiration. That's good – do you want some more?"

Dean blinks 'yes' and opens his mouth for the straw. He closes his eyes as he slowly sips more, as though relishing the taste, and Sam realizes it's now been close to a month since Dean has tasted anything other than ice chips and toothpaste on his tongue.

"It's good to get some flavor again, huh?" Sam says when Dean finally opens his eyes and releases the straw again.

Dean scrunches up his face, rolls his eyes at Sam's lame comment. But Sam isn't one to be deterred easily. If he squints he can see past Dean's façade to the scared little boy who is just happy to feel anything – to taste anything.

"Yeah, I know. You're mister tough guy, and apple juice is for sissies. When you get out of here we'll get you some beer, how's that?" Sam holds his breath for another outburst from Linda, but apparently he's worded this statement well enough that she doesn't see a reason to reprimand him.

'Yeah,' Dean mouths, actually sort of smiling at that one. 'Beer is good.'

"Alright, Dean, are you ready to try some food?" Linda asks. She's got the spoon hovering over the tray as she waits for him to blink a 'yes' response, then studies him thoughtfully for a minute before selecting the pudding.

"You look like a guy who appreciates a little sugar. Vanilla pudding a good start?"

Dean blinks again then opens his mouth just enough to accept the spoonful. Linda scrapes the last of it against his teeth then pulls the spoon out and she and Sam wait eagerly as Dean moves it around his tongue then swallows.

Everything seems to go down the way it's supposed to, and Dean's meager grin grows just a touch bigger.

Sam beams. "Better than the hospital stuff?"

He knows the answer to that one even before Dean can give a response. They've both spent enough time choking down hospital food to know when it's not fit even for pigs. So he's not surprised when Dean blinks yes with strong conviction. Sam can't hide the smile that creeps onto his face, thrilled that Dean is not only responding, but that he actually seems to be enjoying the situation just a little. It's a first for them in a while, and Sam watches Dean happily for a few minutes longer before his attention begins to wander.

Being lunchtime, the room is beginning to fill with patients and families. Sam's natural observation instincts kick in as he searches the room, takes in the state of the many other patients milling around. A pang of jealousy stabs him in the gut as he realizes that Dean is by far one of the worst affected patients at the place. Save for maybe the traumatic brain injury patients, Sam can't really find anyone worse off than his brother. And even most of the TBI's are moving and breathing on their own. He knows, without a doubt, that he would rather see Dean how he is now than drooling and moaning and out of it like the guy two tables over from them. But otherwise, he's ashamed to admit that he would take just about any other complication in the room over Dean's injury.

It doesn't seem fair that so many of the SCI patients seem to be improving. Just in the past week they've been here Sam has witnessed a patient get rid of her ventilator, another making strides on hand control, and a third get up and start walking with the assistance of parallel bars. But it's not that long ago that Sam finally accepted the fact that Dean will never achieve any of those milestones. He'll be doing well to talk again, and learn to steer his own wheelchair. It will be a day to cheer when he can hold his head up without a neck brace.

Sam returns to the task at hand, realizing sadly that they've accomplished a milestone just by the fact that Dean is eating. This time his smile is forced when he watches Dean devour the jello, sucking it down so fast Linda has to caution him to ease up a bit. It's hard to believe they're lives have come to this now, nearly impossible to accept that just two months ago they were chasing down a Chupacabra through acres and acres of farmland in Indiana and now Dean can't even sit up on his own.

Taking a deep breath, Sam reminds himself that he can't be thinking this way, needs to be finding the positives, helping Dean to accept his situation. His resolve becomes stronger, the smile along with it.

And that's when Dean's blood pressure plummets.

It all happens so fast Sam hardly has time to register what's going on. One minute Dean is happy as a clam, sucking on his jello. The next, his head and neck turn a bright tomato red as a sweat breaks out across his forehead and his eyes start to roll around in their sockets. A hint of panic crosses Dean's face and Linda rolls into motion, calling for help as she lowers the chair to a more reclining position.

An aide and a doctor, neither of them Dean's regulars, show up at his side almost immediately. Among the three of them, they work to keep Dean alert and cognizant of his surroundings as vitals are checked and possible causes of the dysreflexia are sought out. And through it all, Sam can only stand in shell shocked silence, staring disbelievingly at the frenzy in front of him as he thinks, this can't be happening. When does it end? When does he get a break?

This bout doesn't end quickly, the cause refusing to make itself known readily, and before he knows it Sam is chasing the group down the hall and back to Dean's room where they work double time to transfer him back into bed. Medications are administered through the port in Dean's arm, and within seconds he's calm again, although lucidity seems to be a thing of the past.

It takes another ten minutes to finally discover the cause is a catheter blockage, and several more as staff works to remove the old tubing and replace it with fresh while Sam watches with a mixture of curiosity and horror. For all the procedures he's been around to witness, this is a first for any of the indepth bathroom functions, and he has to admit it's frighteningly disheartening to see the most important part of Dean's anatomy, the one that once defined him, so limp and unresponsive. For some reason, to that point, Sam had still held out hope that Dean might still have that, might be able to maintain appearances in front of the ladies. Clearly, though, that won't be the case. Sam's heart breaks for his brother, and fleetingly he wonders if it is unfair of him to expect Dean to live when so much of what he has to live for is now unreachable. So far, it seems that for every single step forward in Dean's recovery, there is at least two backward to ruin the mood. And it's hard to feel optimistic in the wake of such fleeting hope.

But then the doctors and nurses finish up with Dean and encourage him to come sit with his brother, and Sam finds that he wants nothing more, that he can't think of a single thing he would rather be doing than sitting at Dean's side as he fights back to consciousness. Sam reminds himself of what Kyle and Melissa had said, that it takes time but he'll come around. And he really doesn't care if it's selfish or not, he just wants to see the day when Dean is himself again. And as he's done so often in the last few weeks, he vows to see Dean through to the end.

SUPERNATURAL

During the entire first week, Sam can't bear to look at the empty cork board on the wall in front of Dean's bed. Next to its cheerful counterpart – this Kyle guy seems to a have a trizillion friends and a family with a total head count that equals the population of a small nation, maybe Luxembourg or something – it feels like an accusation, a constant reminder that Sam is Dean's everything now, and he's failing him, leaving him behind every evening, alone in the emptiness.

That first week Sam's guilt almost kills him.

Every evening, Milla comes to pick him up and spends around half an hour to make sure that Dean is well looked after. She is every inch a figure of authority, years of experience and a flawless reputation backing her up, but Sam knows her tells by now. Hands trembling worse than ever, she never touches anything that is connected to the machinery but mercilessly quizzes nurses and therapists instead, who soon learn to avoid her.

They are both around for Dean's dinner, and now that Dean is able to eat again Sam insists on feeding him as Linda watches and throws out praise and suggestions and cheerful enthusiasm that must surely have Dean wanting to slaughter the woman because he knows he sure as hell does.

All his attention focused on the task and the spoon in his hand, it is so much easier to ignore the murderous look in his brother's eyes. After the awkwardness of dinner is finally over, Dean gets a last pat on the head and they abandon him again for the night, and that might as well be forever. The fact that this Kyle guy is around all day to keep Dean company isn't any consolation at all. A short drive that Sam can never remember later, Milla and him are back at her perfect little house and have some late dinner, in silence and not together. Sam can carry a grudge for a really long time, especially if it's completely unreasonable.

He lies awake at night, thinking of Dean. How his brother is alone right now – this Kyle guy doesn't count, neither do the nurses – how he has nothing to remind him of ... And at this point he has to stop himself, because he was about to think home and they haven't had a home in a long, long time. Sam desperately wants to call someone, Bobby or Ellen or oh, who is he kidding... Sam wants his father, wants a gruff voice telling him what to do without the mere option of doubt. At this point, he would do anything and obey without a question, just a sharp "Yes, Sir" and a straight back, if it meant to have that responsibility, that guilt, that loneliness lifted off his shoulders. For so long, his home was Dean babbling in the car with those stupid cassettes blaring guitars in the background when all Sam wanted to do was listen to some Jack Johnson and maybe sleep a little. Now, he'd sell his soul to have that back.

More than 35 days have passed since he has last heard Dean's voice.

It actually takes Sam a whole week to figure out the first solution to one of his problems. Wasn't he supposed to be the smart one? On Sunday morning Sam strolls into the room with a rolled up poster under his arm. Dean's still in bed, and Sam greets him with a casual head rub. All he gets in return is a slightly annoyed eye roll. Of course, Sam doesn't need words to understand what his brother wants to know.

"Just wait and see", he says and walks up to the cork board, the currently most-annoying-thing-he-can-potentially-do-something-about in his life. He unrolls the poster and pins it to the board, making sure that his back is blocking Dean's view in the process. When he's finished and steps back with the "Ta-dah" motion of a magician's assistant, Dean's eyes go wide.

It's a Led Zeppelin poster, arguably their most famous one. A pitch black background, the band name in large red letters towering over the hermit with the lamp to the right and a quote from "Stairway to Heaven" to the left. It doesn't cover even half of the board, but it's definitely better than nothing, Sam thinks. Dean is biting his bottom lip again, his face an otherwise carefully blank mask.

Sam can't wait for that damn speaking valve.

"Well?" he prompts. "What do you think? Do you like it?"

Dean blinks once, hesitant, with a questioning look on his face that asks what's it for?

Glancing at Kyle's board and then immediately away, Sam shrugs. "I thought maybe you would like something familiar to look at. I'll look around and see what else I can scrounge up, too."

They don't have all that many pictures to begin with, let alone anything Dean might actually want posted on his board. And not for the first time does Sam resent Dean's roommate for having so many photos of before. Despite his determination to not look at Kyle's board, Sam finds himself strangely drawn to it, studying the photographs more closely and fighting his own regrets off in the meantime.

In one corner of the board is a professionally shot photo of Kyle and his co-workers from the fire company, all in their dress blues and hats as they stand lined up in the rest position. Right next to that is the same group of guys in jeans and t-shirts, goofing off and grinning from ear to ear. A ways below it is one of Kyle and Melissa on their wedding day, another of the whole family on Christmas morning, and yet another a professional shot of the two kids.

There are more photos, lots more, and the one thing that Sam notices about all of them is how happy and uninhibited and carefree everyone seems to be in those photos. Sam can count on one hand the number of photos he and Dean have taken like that, and most of them are on his cell phone…never developed. And most have been taken under the guise of blackmail, the victim asleep with straws sticking out of nose and ears.

He can't remember the last time they got a photo of the two of them together, thinks it was probably before Sam left for college which makes it well over six years. It makes Sam sad to think that more photos have been taken of them in the last month than were taken in a whole lifetime – and that's not saying much.

As if on cue, Chelsea enters the room on rounds. She stops when she sees the poster, a grin forming on her mouth. "Hey! You guys are finally starting to use the corkboard, that's great! Hold on a sec, I think we've got something down at the nurses station for you to add to it."

She leaves before Sam can get a word out, comes scurrying back in less than a minute later with a small photograph printed out with an inkjet printer and holds it out so both boys can see it. It's one of the two of them that Sam hadn't even realized had been taken. Dean is strapped into a wheelchair, surrounded by several staff members in the middle of an examination, Sam standing off to the back out of the way, and Sam realizes it was taken on the day of Dean's second team meeting, when plans were formulated all around for his care and goals.

"Here, we can post it up on the board, right next to your poster. Is that Zeppelin? My brother's a big fan – I'm guessing you are, too?" She looks over to Dean, laying so still in his bed, and waits for his assertion before going on. "I don't know much about the music myself; I've always been more a fan of country music. Craig – that's my brother – he can't really stand most of the music I listen too, always says it's too depressing and once you've heard one country romance turned bad you've heard 'em all. Lucky for him, he lives halfway across the country, so he doesn't have to listen to my music and I don't have to listen to his. Works pretty well, I guess."

Sam's head is spinning, and he's certain Dean isn't faring much better. The petite nurse seems to have had about 5 cups too much coffee this morning. "Sounds like your brother and Dean would get along great," Sam finally says, unsure of where else to take the conversation.

"I'm sure they would," Chelsea agrees, then turns to Dean, hands on hips as she studies him and changes the topic. "You, sir, are in dire need of a good bath. You're hair's getting awfully greasy."

Dean scrunches up his face in a grimace. He hates feeling so grungy and disgusting, but he also hates the baths – mostly because he can't feel them, but also because the hair washing is nothing more than a rinseless powder shampoo that really doesn't do much beyond changing his greasy locks into stiff formless clumps.

He finally concedes to the care, figuring he doesn't have much choice in the matter anyway, and Chelsea happily prances from the room to gather supplies. When she returns, Sam has settled himself into the chair in the far corner with a magazine, back turned so that he's not intruding on Dean's privacy, but still nearby if he's needed. He tries to ignore most of what's going on, tries to keep his nose buried in the book, but he can't ignore the casual conversation Chelsea continues to make as she surreptitiously cleans Dean from head to toe. Sam finally can't help but look up, just to get a feel for what's going on. What he sees surprises him – because in the past Dean has always had a glazed look to his eyes whenever he's being manhandled by the nurses, always seems to be somewhere else. But this time he's actually focusing, his eyes locked on the poster Sam's just put up, and his lips are moving. And although Sam can't hear a word they're saying, instinctually he just knows Dean is singing. A smile comes to his lips as Sam realizes the poster is already making a difference. Which means that, maybe, he's making a difference too.

SUPERNATURAL

Day ten at rehab marks the return of Dean's voice. It seems rather ridiculous to be so excited about being able to talk again, especially when he remembers – once more – the reasons why he's got to learn all over again in the first place. He doesn't want to have to be thrilled about speaking again, doesn't want to be in the situation where something so ingrained and normal has become an obstacle in his path. But such is his life these days, and at least speaking again means voicing his displeasures and telling Sam how much he doesn't want to be living this life. Having a voice will certainly garner him some benefits once again.

A whole crowd has gathered in his room this time, staring and waiting expectantly for Dean's first words. A respiratory therapist has come to keep an eye on his oxygen levels, Chelsea to monitor the rest of his vitals, Linda for the actual speech valve. And then there's Sam and Kyle and Milla off in a corner looking for all the world like a little lost puppy, and some new intern or student or something that is just there to 'observe and take notes.'

This time Linda lets Dean stay in bed, explaining that he stands a better chance at success if he's comfortable and relaxed. Dean can't help but scowl at that, though, because comfortable and relaxed are two adjectives that haven't described him since before the kidnapping. And whether he's in bed, in the wheelchair, or standing on his head for that matter, he doesn't figure it's likely to get much better in the foreseeable future.

But Dean forces himself not to overreact because Sam seems so anxious for everything to go as planned. He waits patiently as the respiratory therapist suctions his trach and deflates the cuff inside, then vaguely listens as Linda takes over, explaining as she attaches the passey-muir valve to his equipment until he finally feels a whoosh of air make its way through his nose and mouth. He immediately coughs weakly, not having expected the sensation to feel so foreign to him. It's been over a month since he's felt air in those areas.

"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Linda says gently as she sits on the edge of the bed . Looking over her shoulder at the others in the room, at Sam, his arms crossed, legs spread, and standing all anxious at the foot of Dean's bed, she explains the newness of the sensation. "He'll get used to it eventually," she adds, "it just takes time to readjust to air flowing over the vocal folds rather than going straight out the throat. Before we know it, Dean'll be talking your ear off again."

She turns back, focuses her attention on Dean. "The machine is still breathing for you, but now most of the exhale is going out your mouth and nose instead of back through the hosing. For now we've got it set to 32 breaths per minute, so the rate at which you will be able to talk will be limited. When we know for sure you can tolerate that level we'll start decreasing the number of breaths per minute so you can say longer sentences. With me so far?"

Dean blinks his standard 'yes,' trying not to look too frustrated by the medical speak. He could honestly care less how many breaths per minute he's set to, or how the valve works. As long as someone else has to do the work for him anyway, he'd just rather let them worry about the specifics.

"Good." Linda beams, and inches herself closer to Dean on the bed. "Alright, so this is all about timing. You're going to talk on the exhales, when you feel the air start to flow through your vocal passages. You should probably be good for about two to three syllables at the volume you're at now. Ready to give it a try?"

The funny thing is that Dean's just spent a month and a half desperate to be heard, desperate to vocalize his displeasure and his wishes and his feelings. And now, when he's finally given the opportunity to say something he can't think of a damn thing to say! His eyes dart frantically around the room, seeking out some form of inspiration. A question to ask, something to criticize. He loses several opportunities before he falls back on the old, tried and true.

"Sammy…" The word comes out forced, whispered, nothing at all like the strong voice he's used to emoting across a room. Dean winces at the sound. But across the bed Sam is beaming, eyes lit up like a Douglas fir on Christmas morning.

"Hey, Dean," Sam sighs, runs a hand shakily through his unruly hair. "Man, it's good to hear your voice again. You've got no idea."

Dean grins back, for the moment unable to resist Sam's goofy, dimpled smile. He doesn't let it go at that, though, pulling from his far reaching stock of big-brother protection. "You need some ---" his air supply is cut off, straining the last syllable, and Dean has to sit frustratedly by as another breath is delivered into his lungs before he gets the opportunity to finish the thought. "Food. Too thi—"

Sam laughs, understanding immediately what Dean is trying to say and fully appreciating its meaning. "Too thin, huh? Have you looked in a mirror lately, bro? I think you're giving me a run for my money."

"Not my faul---" he starts, frustrated when he finds he's got to say the last word again. This 32 breaths a minute thing is ridiculous, he thinks, despite the dizziness that already seems to be accompanying the lowered levels of inspiration from what he's been used too. But they've got a conversation going; real, brotherly banter that Dean isn't about to give up for anything in the world. He begins again as the next whoosh of air comes up through his vocal cords, doesn't give up until the full statement is out.

"Fault they're fee--- feeding me--- slop," he states, looking pointedly at Linda as he does so. "Shit's not fit--- for a pig. ---I'd be fat--- and happy--- if they'd just--- give me steaks--- like I want."

This time everyone laughs, particularly Linda who has been working with the dietician on Dean's special diet. "Guess that's my fault, huh?"

"Your menu," Dean accuses when the air flow returns.

Linda sighs good naturedly. "I can't get you steaks just yet, but I'll see if we can work on some hamburger or something. Can you live with that?"

"Could be worse." Switching back to his original line of thought, Dean looks at Milla, his eyes locking hard on hers. "He needs to e--- eat. I'm count--- ing on you."

The woman smiles nervously, glancing between Dean and Sam. It's clear she's still unsure of her place, clear there is still a line drawn between her and Sam and that makes her uncertain of where she stands with Dean.

"I've been trying to get him to eat," Milla answers, although she says it to Sam, avoiding looking at Dean. In retrospect, Dean realizes she hasn't directly spoken to him since the hospital. With the tension between her and Sam Dean would have expected she would be more inclined to talk to him and avoid Sam, but instead she has been talking to Dean through Sam, almost as though she's afraid to talk directly to Dean. As though Sam has forbidden her to directly address Dean.

The revelation comes on like a lightbulb and his emotions immediately war between anger and gratitude. Sam is trying to protect him – and he appreciates the sentiment, but he's protecting him from the wrong person.

"Milla you can--- talk to me."

Her eyes jump quickly to Dean and then immediately drop back down, focusing on her shaking hands as she mumbles a barely perceptible response. "Just trying to keep things peaceful."

"Peaceful how?" Dean asks, struggling to discern her statement as Sam backs away sheepishly. Milla shakes her head, lips pursed tightly. Suddenly Dean becomes aware of the audience they've got, realizes that whatever is going on between Sam and Milla is bigger than he'd realized and it's about to play out here in front of his roommate and several members of the hospital staff. He's gone from having no voice to playing peacemaker in the course of ten minutes and, quite frankly, he's not in the mood.

But there isn't much else that can be done, either, so Dean looks pointedly to the attending group. "Can we have--- a minute?"

Linda seems hesitant, respiratory even more so, but a quick glance at the monitors show that Dean is stable with the current vent settings and they grudgingly consent to leave for a few minutes, shooing Kyle out with them despite his protests that it's his room and he should be allowed to stay.

When the door is closed, Dean looks back from Sam to Milla, mustering his sternest glare and lamenting just how hard it is to be scary when you're lying motionless in bed with a bunch of tubes trailing out of your body. "Wanna tell me--- what's going on?"

"It's nothing you need to worry about, Dean," Sam objects. "I'm handling it. You need to focus on getting out of here."

"Not happening--- for awhile--- Tell me."

"Sam's just finding it difficult to trust me still," Milla volunteers quickly, before she loses her nerve.

"Milla," Sam hisses warningly. His eyes grow wide as the older woman shrinks back to the wall.

"Sam," Dean says, trying to sound just as threatening as Sam is to Milla, and failing for the most part. "You need to--- let this go. You--- have to for--- give her."

"Why, Dean? Why do I have to forgive her? Have you looked at yourself? Do you know what she did to you?" Agitation has Sam pacing the room already, arms flailing wildly the way they always do when Sam gets emotional about something.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a moment to wish this wasn't happening. He'd expected some major emotion on this day, had anticipated that finally being able to speak again would stir up conversation topics that he didn't want to be a part of. But playing shrink between his brother and the woman who had paralyzed him was the furthest thing from his expectations. Dean hadn't prepared for this.

Looking between the two of them, Dean can feel his anxiety amp up. Milla looks so lost, so dejected and hopeless, and despite everything his heart goes out to her. One thing Dean has always been able to do is see the clear line between good and evil, victim and aggressor. Where Sam sometimes seems to see in shades of grey, Dean's colors are sharp black and white. So yeah, he's pissed at the situation, desperately wants someone to hate, to take his emotions out on. And unfortunately Sam has already take the brunt of a lot of Dean's anger. But he knows Milla is a victim, and he needs Sam to see that too. Because Dean needs to lean on Sam right now, and he can't shoulder Sam's emotional load so that means Sam needs someone else to talk to. And Milla seems the best option right now.

Furrowing his brow, Dean glares at Sam and answers his question in the best way he can. "I know what Adam--- did to me," he says softly. "I know what--- Lori Ann did. ---and I know--- what they did--- to Milla. But--- she's a vic--- tim, Sam. You can't---blame her for--- something she--- had no control--- over." Damn, it would be so much easier if I could finish a whole sentence without the damn interruptions of forced air.

Sam throws his hands up, frustration evident in his features. It looks almost as though he wants to reach out and throttle Dean, strangle him or something. If the situation weren't so serious Dean might have wanted to laugh. But as it stands now, he just wants to scream.

"I don't understand how you can be so forgiving of this! Your life as you knew it is over. You're relying on a ventilator to keep you alive, for god's sakes. You can't say more than three words without a huge break in the middle. And you're just okay with this? With her? How can you be ok with everything?"

A few tears leak out of the corners of Dean's eyes, trail down his cheeks to his lips, and Dean blinks furiously before more fall. The words sting. How can Sam know so little about me? Of course he's not okay with everything – not even close. But it's not Milla that he's having a hard time with right now; it's Sam.

"You of all--- people should--- know what it's--- like to be a--- victim," Dean says, referring to Sam's history of possession, not once, but twice.

Sam at least has the grace to look humbled by that comment, and he stops pacing the room. "That's different, Dean."

"How? You pulled--- a gun on--- me both times. ---Actually hit--- me the second time."

"Yeah, but you healed. You got better. And I still haven't forgiven myself for that."

"You weren't in--- control, Sam. ---And neither was--- Milla. You know--- what it's like."

"I just can't—" Sam stops himself mid-sentence and finally takes a minute to look at Milla, hunched nervously in the corner of the room trying to make herself appear much smaller than she actually is. Cocking his head, Sam seems to be taking her in, reevaluating, and Dean allows himself to feel hopeful at the sight.

"She's a victim," Dean says once more, feeling the need for that final push to get Sam moving in the right direction.

"So are you," Sam says, but now it's only half-hearted as he allows himself to truly hear Dean's words. "I need time to think, Dean. I can't talk about this anymore."

As much as he would like to get to the end of this, Dean is tired too, and he can't find it in himself to be particularly disappointed when Sam brings the conversation to an end. He throws and encouraging smile towards Milla and goes silent, realizing for the first time just how lightheaded he's feeling. Talking has really taken it out of him.

It's Milla, not Sam, that notices the change in Dean's pallor, and the doctor in her takes over. "I think maybe you should get his therapists back in here," she says, her voice the firmest it has ever been towards Sam. Dean sees the argument in his brother's eyes, expects him to protest out of sheer spite. But when it comes to each other, both boys can put their feelings aside and Sam does just that, pursing his lips and making a stiff line to the door as Milla shuffles forward towards Dean.

"Are you feeling alright? You're looking a little pale."

"Kinda dizzy," Dean admits, closing his eyes as the room seems to spin around him. "Just came on."

"I think you aren't getting enough oxygen. You've spent an awful lot of time speaking for someone who isn't used to the change in air distribution. Hang on just a minute, they'll come fix it."

"Don't want to--- lose my voice," he says pitifully, the realization of the situation slamming full force into his awareness. It had been bad enough with no means of communication all those weeks, but now that he's tasted independence he can't bear the thought of letting go.

"They have to start you slow, Dean. I promise you'll get more used to the change in air flow. You can keep the speaking valve in for longer periods of time the more you work with it. But for now it's in your best interest to let them take it out."

The argument has left him, and Dean mouths 'ok,' without even bothering to utilize the air necessary to voice it. But as Sam returns to the room, the therapists hot on his heels, Dean sees the raw emotion filtering through his brother's body and he can't let this argument be the last thing on Sam's mind before Dean is silenced once again. He looks frantically around the room, searching for a light-hearted topic, and his eyes land on the cork board across the room. He smiles at the poster Sam had put up there, pleased that his brother knows him so well. But there's still plenty of room for more, and Dean knows just the thing to turn the day around.

"Sam," Dean calls out as Linda approaches the bed. Her hands hover over his throat, waiting patiently as Dean says his peace.

When he has his brother's attention, Dean looks pointedly at the board and grins goofily. "Poster's great," he says, then automatically stops while he waits for more air. "Now, need some--- naked girls."

Sam's emo frown immediately draws into a grin, laughter lighting up his eyes. Linda and the respiratory therapist shake their heads in mock disgust, but amusement is hidden beneath the surface as Linda makes a point to tell Dean he's silenced as she removes the speaking valve and Dean's air flow is returned to what it had been previously.

They pull out the suction hose again, but this time Dean barely notices because Sam is smiling. And that's a rare thing these days – for either of them.

"I'll see what I can do," Sam agrees, heartily. He waits for the therapists to finish up and then scoots closer to the head of Dean's bed, placing his fingers on the limp spikes of hair just beyond Dean's forehead. "I'll bring you something tomorrow, Dean. You did great today…I'm proud of you."

What he doesn't say is "thanks for the advice" and "I'll try to be nicer to Milla" and "sorry for angsting out on you," but the message is implied in Sam's hesitation before he whispers good-bye and reluctantly follows his ride out the door.

SUPERNATURAL

Maybe the first thing that truly turns Sam around on Milla, starts to make him realize that she is serious about making amends and helping them through this debilitating injury, is when she wakes him up and tells him that a contractor will be coming by that day to assess the house for renovations. It's a drastic step, one Sam hadn't even considered up to this point, and it means a lot that she is so willing to physically restructure her house so that Dean has a place he can move around in. It means they will be staying for a while – indefinitely – and Sam realizes then and there that Dean is right. He's got to move past his issues with her and begin to embrace her as the mother figure they've never had before.

For the first time since they met Sam produces a genuine smile for the woman, accepts her help as more than just a means to an end. And then he jumps right into the meat of the issue; establishing the necessary changes.

The contractor comes at 11:00, and Sam has already been through every room in the house multiple times by the time the doorbell rings. Milla opens the door to reveal a giant of a man; head shaved, tattoos adorning every inch of his exposed skin, muscle upon muscle bulging through the armholes of the white wifebeater he wears. Sam actually feels small next to him, garners a sense of intimidation that he's not used to experiencing. But he begins to feel more at ease when the man sticks out a calloused, meaty hand to him and heartily introduces himself as Dave Reddick of Reddick Brothers Contracting, voice pleasant and relaxed and strongly southern, not at all sounding as though it goes with the rest of the body.

Milla leads the group into the kitchen and has Sam and Dave sit at the table while she pours coffee and Sam fills the man in on the circumstances surrounding the renovation. "My brother, Dean, was injured a few months ago. He's…quadriplegic, and he'll be leaving the hospital in a wheelchair," Sam says quietly, almost choking on the words as he says them. He's not used to voicing it out loud, not used to admitting to strangers that Dean is less than perfect anymore. And it doesn't help when the guy's entire demeanor shifts, pity and empathy emoting from his now slouched frame and saddened eyes.

"I'm sorry to hear about your brother," Dave says, with genuine sincerity. He glances at Milla and offers her a grim smile, lips pursed. "It's never easy when your children get hurt. My sister's boy has got some problems, and I know it's very difficult for them, too."

"Oh," Milla says, clasping her shaky hands together as she looks between Sam and Dave in surprise. "Dean and Sam aren't my children. They're just…well I—"

Sam jumps in to rescue the nervous woman. "She's just a good friend. Both of our parents have passed on and Milla was kind enough to take us in when Dean got hurt." The hesitant smile that Sam flashes her says he's ready to forgive and Milla visibly relaxes, gratitude written all over her face.

"That's amazingly kind of you," Dave says. "Not a lot of people would be that generous." He jumps topic, pulling out his clipboard and a pen and preparing himself to write. "Now, what kind of changes are we looking at here?"

Sam has a lot of it written down, much of the specifications taken from pamphlets that Dean's Occupational Therapist had provided them several weeks earlier. He slides everything he's got over to Dave and starts to speak, falling comfortably into the discussion as he would research for a hunt. Every room on the first floor will be affected by the renovations. They have decided not to worry about the second floor, but Milla has insisted that they do work on the basement level since there is access from the back of the house. Every doorway will need to enlarged, doors will be replaced, and the plush carpet in the bedroom and dining room will be removed and replaced with hardwood floors like the rest of the house.

After establishing the general specifications Sam leads the way outside to provide specifics, feeling a little out of place directing renovations on someone else's house. But multiple glances at Milla show her nodding in agreement at every request and suggestion he's got, a hint of a smile on her face and probably the most comfortable stance she's had since they met, and it quickly puts Sam at ease. In a way it's like cleansing a house of a poltergeist, knowing exactly where things must go and what needs to go there in order for the final product to be a success. He convinces himself of this, tries to push out of his mind the fact that these changes are permanent, like Dean's injury.

Sam has been living in Milla's house for over a month, but it's not until he starts making changes to it that he truly appreciates the architecture and beauty of the property. Standing outside in the driveway, the three look up at the ornate, Corinthian columns that hold up the roof of a porch that extends all the way across the front of the red brick house and wraps around to the breakfast nook on one side. Five steep steps descend from the front door and meet up with a short walkway before wrapping around to the drive. A plush lawn extends a good 20 feet before meeting up with the sidewalk beside the road. There is more lawn to the side and around back of the house, which sits on an entire acre of land in total. A quick discussion in logistics has Dave suggesting taking out the right side of the porch rail and building a longer shallower ramp to meet up with the edge of the driveway instead of building the ramp beside the stairs in the front. It will allow Dean a more direct route from porch to drive and eliminate several turns in the long run. Milla seems pleased with this suggestion, and comments on the fact that it will also preserve the face of the house – something which Sam could care less about. He doesn't care if the entire house looks like something out of a sci-fi movie just as long as Dean is comfortable. But he keeps that thought to himself as he leads them around to the back of the house and the basement entrance.

A concrete path will be poured over the grass from front drive way to the back garage, and to Sam's surprise Milla suggests heating it underneath for the winter, to keep the ice off. Inside the finished basement is a large room that is virtually empty except for some boxes stacked alongside one wall, and Sam has already confirmed that this can become an equipment room for Dean's therapy. Not much needs to be done to the space other than the obligatory widening of entrances, so they move on to a discussion of some type of lift to get from the that level to the first floor. The contractor suggests knocking out a portion of one wall, building the lift space as a bump-out on one side of the house, and everyone nods eagerly at the idea.

Sam finds himself relaxing as they climb the stairs to the first floor, just having this one weight lifted off of him that he didn't even know existed. The major work will be done here, but he feels confident that Dave and his team will be able to pull everything off without a hitch.

Milla has insisted that Dean get her bedroom, and since it's the only one on the main floor Sam didn't put up much of an argument. They talk about installing more outlets for the equipment, revamping the shower in the master bathroom so that a wheelchair can just roll in, installing a Hoyer lift that runs on a track from bedroom to bathroom. There is talk of lowering cabinets and raising counter space, until Milla gently reminds Sam that Dean won't be able to access them anyway, no matter where they're positioned, and for the first time that day Sam has to swallow down a lump in his throat as he nods in reluctant agreement with her assessment.

He stops at that, scanning the house and thoroughly ingesting everything they've just discussed, not just the technical factors, but the emotional ones, and actually realizing what it all means. So far, Sam has managed to get through the process by convincing himself that is was just a renovation, but suddenly the repercussions of why they're changing so much hits him hard and fast, knocking the wind out of him. They're not just widening doorways, they're widening doorways so that Dean's wheelchair can fit through them. And they're not just adding outlets, the outlets are being added to keep a life-sustaining ventilator running and a wheelchair battery charged and operating. The ramps are being added for access – access to places that Dean will otherwise never be able to get to. It's a lot to think about, too much to process, and Sam suddenly finds himself running for the bathroom, stomach tied in knots.

Dave leaves soon after that, promising a quote for all of the work by the end of the next day, and Milla collects a shaky Sam and pulls him through the house to the living room. She sits him down with a firm, but gentle order, and Sam complies without thought, limbs loose and pliant. She has realized the overwhelming emotion that the renovation discussion has finally caused, and she gives him a minute or two to just sit in silence before broaching another uncomfortable conversation.

"I know you don't want to think about this Sam, but we need to be ordering furniture and equipment for Dean, too. The house will need more than just structural renovations."

Sam shakes his head firmly. I can't think about that right now."

"He will be home before you know it," Milla presses. "And some of this stuff needs to be special ordered."

"I said not now, Milla," Sam snaps.

"Then when?"

Shoulders drooped, body visibly shaking, Sam draws back into the safety of the couch. For several moments there is no answer, and when he does start speaking it isn't in reply to the woman's question. "Do you know that my brother has taken a bullet for me? Not once even, but twice."

Milla shakes her head slowly, eyes wide and curious as to where this is going.

"And there are monsters out there, supernatural creatures with no regard for human life. He's put himself between them and me more times that I can count, been on the brink of death because he was protecting me…it seems like hundreds of times. Our whole lives, Dean has always protected me."

"He loves you, Sam. It's a natural thing to want to protect your family."

"Yeah, but Dean has always gone above and beyond the call of duty…half the time I don't even think he's conscious of doing it, it's just ingrained in him…"

He shifts on the couch, planting his feet several inches apart and leaning forward, elbows resting on knees and chin sitting atop his closed fists.

"Our dad didn't raise kids…he raised soldiers," Sam admits, spits it out like it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. "He raised us to fight to the end, never give up, leave no one behind. Dean always took it a step further, my life was always more precious to him than his own. That's why he did what he did in the schoolhouse. That's why he ended up like he is. And it's my fault – I should have seen Lori Ann for who she was way back in the beginning. If I'd known who she was I could have stopped her, I could have stopped this whole thing from happening."

"But Sam, you couldn't have known," Milla protests. She leans forward in her own chair and reaches a hand out to Sam, stopping just before she reaches his knee, unsure if the gesture will be welcomed. Her hand hovers in the air as Sam continues, misery etched in his voice.

"Do you know that I spent two days with her? Two days out searching for my brother, not knowing that the woman driving me around town was the very same one who had kidnapped him in the first place? She knew exactly where he was the whole time How could I have been so stupid? So naïve? All of the signs were there!"

"You can't beat yourself up over this. You can't live your life on what if's and if only's. I'm sure the signs seem clear to you now, but that doesn't mean they were so obvious then." She makes the final gesture, hand falling to rest comfortingly on Sam's knee, patting several times before she withdraws slowly in time with Sam's desperate response.

"Dean would have figured it out."

"How do you know that?" Milla demands. "How can you possibly know that Dean would have been any better off than you; how can you know that changing your positions wouldn't have resulted in the exact same outcome? You can't possibly know that, Sam. You can't. You have to stop blaming yourself for what happened."

"How come you get to walk around all broody and guilty over what happened to Dean and I can't?" Sam demands angrily. "You've got us living in your house, you're paying for renovations and driving me back and forth and treating my brother and me as though we were your long lost nephews or something…why is it okay for you and not okay for me?"

"The difference is that I'm trying to make amends for what happened. You're sitting here wallowing in the past, worrying about something you can't even change…but I'm just trying to move forward and do what I can to help both of you get through this."

"That's just it, though, I don't know if we can get through this. It's a massive change. I'm worried about Dean's mental state."

"He seems fine to me," Milla says, "all things considered, of course."

"Trust me, he's not fine. He's far from it."

"Sam, there is a grieving process that everyone has to go through when such a traumatic thing happens in their lives. You can't expect Dean to pop up and be himself right from the start."

"You don't know him the way I do. He gets hurt plenty – enough to be laid up for days or weeks, but usually he ignores the injury as much as he can. It's all we could ever do to keep him in bed and heal. I can't even remember the last time he was formally discharged from a hospital."

"But this is a different kind of injury, Sam. As much as Dean might want to get out of bed and forget that he's hurt, he's physically incapable of doing so anymore. He can only just now talk, so he can't argue with you, can't fight the treatment…"

"That's the problem! He can't fight. All his life the only thing Dean has ever done is fight…fight for me, fight for justice, fight for a safer freakin world. And this is the thanks he gets for all of that – Adam took the fight away from him. So what's he supposed to do now?"

Milla sighs, clearly frustrated and at a loss for words. "I don't know, Sam," she finally says in defeat. "I'm not sure where you go from here, but I do know that you have to move forward. You can't turn back the clock, and you and I both know it. So does Dean."

There isn't much to say at that, not much of an argument to the truth, and Sam finds that he doesn't want to try to protest. If nothing else, Sam can hear the sincerity and the honesty behind the advice. It's a bit surreal to comprehend what has just happened between them. This is the first time since Dean got hurt that he has truly opened up. Yeah, he's had his outbursts, gotten advice from Kyle and Melissa and the staff at New Beginnings. But he's never really opened up about his fears, his worries and failures. And the fact that it's Milla, of all people, that Sam finally decides to confide in is almost as worrisome as the truth itself.

But it's also something of a relief, finally realizing that someone is available to listen to him. Someone that isn't Dean. It's a relief to finally unload when Sam has been bottling so much up since Dean was hurt.

He's been forcing a happy face around his brother for so long that Sam has actually forgotten what it's like to let his guard down and truly feel relief. The concept is actually foreign to him.

It's not Milla's words of advice that make Sam feel better (he's heard them all many times before) so much as it is the fact that she's listening to him, absorbing his fears and worries and troubles as her own, and just offering him a reprieve from the weight if it all.

Taking a long hard look at the woman, suddenly Sam finds himself understanding what Dean has been trying to say all along – that Milla is just as much of a victim in this as Dean is, and Sam. It's amazingly clear now that she doesn't have a mean bone in her body, nor does she possess any feelings of vindication for Adam and Lori Ann – something to which Sam can't even claim. Despite the PTSD that lies prominently on the surface – or maybe because of it – Milla has chosen to make the best of a truly fucked up situation. She's brought two complete strangers into her home, into her life – something which requires a great deal of trust and understanding that Sam isn't sure he would have possessed.

"I owe you an apology," Sam says, sincerity in his epiphany. "I've been horrible to you."

"You have just been protective of your brother," Milla replies, noticeably uncomfortable with the change in Sam's attitude. But the tension in her shoulders eases up, too, and some of the stress disappears from her voice.

"We're fiercely protective of each other. But that doesn't make my attitude any more reasonable. Dean's right – we've been hunting for years, yours wasn't the first possession I've witnessed in my life. You couldn't help yourself when you were under Adam's control and I should have acknowledged that a long time ago. Dean told me how you ran to him the second you regained control, he told me how you put yourself between him and the cops, that you probably saved his life. Thank you for that, Milla. I'm sorry I couldn't see it sooner."

Milla seems ready to dispel the apology once more, but she changes her mind at the last minute, understanding Sam's need to have her accept his apology as much as he needs to give it. Finally, she nods her head once in acknowledgement. "I'll accept your apology on one condition."

Sam cocks his head, inquiry written in his expression.

"You and I have to work together to make your brother's homecoming as smooth as possible. We do this together…as a team."

Sam's smile lights up the room as the tension lifts completely. "I think you've got yourself a deal," he says, and reaches for one of the pamphlets Milla has left on the coffee table – outlining different types of hospital beds. "I guess you and I still have some work to do before I go visit Dean today."

SUPERNATURAL

At Sam's request, Dean tries his best to actually listen at his next team meeting, tries to take part in it as much as possible. Linda has already told him that she will put the speaking valve back on before the meeting is over so that he can ask any questions he might have, and the promise is enough to make it worthwhile to participate. So far, everything regarding his care has been told to him, but not necessarily explained. If he's lucky, Sam asks the right questions and he gets the answers he needs, but most of the time Dean just goes without answers. It's been hard, frustrating, to be on the outside looking in while the rest of the world manipulates his body. And it doesn't matter that they have his best interest at heart, doesn't matter that Dean would probably give his consent anyway – he just wants to be informed!

The group comes about an hour before lunch, when Kyle is in the gym doing PT and Dean's got the room to himself. He's been told that eventually they will go to an actual meeting room, but for the time being they want Dean's time out of bed and in the wheelchair to be at a more productive interval, when therapists can be actually working with him and not just talking. So instead, chairs are brought in and positioned in a semi-circle around his bed, and they prop him up to about sixty degrees and get down to business.

Milla has come to this meeting, the first she has attended, and there is a palpable difference in the way she enters the room this time, with Sam instead of behind him. It looks as though they have actually come to some sort of understanding – maybe even a friendship. She still stands out of the way, just an observer amidst family and medical professionals, but she's not altogether separated from the group now, either, and Dean notices Sam turn his body to include her in the discussion as he plants himself right next to Dean. Sam rests his hand comfortingly over the sheet that covers Dean's unresponsive left leg, unconsciously massaging the limb while making small talk as people file into the room. The remainder of the group joins quickly – Lanie, Justin – the OT,Dr. Liteman,Linda – the Speech Pathologist,Nurse Chelsea, Jamie Brand – the case manager.

His group therapist, Jeff Kierig enters pushing the wheels of his wheelchair and expertly maneuvering himself into a slot between two chairs. Of all of them, Dean thinks he despises this guy the most – because of what he represents. Since he was young, hospitals and social workers have been trying to force psychiatrists on him, get him to express his feelings and emotions, to talk about what troubles him. And so far, Dean has managed to avoid each and every one of them. But Jeff is different; he's like a leech that just grabs on and won't let go. Dean has only been to one group session so far, but Jeff has visited him every day, offering words of encouragement and trying to decipher what Dean is mouthing at him – fortunately failing miserably as Dean's just been cussing at him over and over again. But now that he's using the speaking valve, that means no protection anymore, and not being able to run away means being held against his will, a prisoner, the next time Jeff wants to talk.

Dean breaks eye contact from him immediately, scans around the room until his eye catches the bright new pictures Sam has added to his cork board, pictures from this year's Sports Illustrated Swimsuit calendar torn out and pasted in a semicircle around the Led Zeppelin poster. He can't help but smile to himself, imagines the words Sam must have grumbled under his breath as he searched for Dean-style pictures, and it's enough to put his mood back to amiable once more as he turns his attention back to the meeting.

When everyone has assembled Dr. Litemanshuts the door and begins the meeting. The doctor provides a simplistic history for those gathered and then launches into the progress reports, getting through his quickly before turning the floor over to the various therapists who work with Dean on a daily basis.

Dean can't help but feel completely disheartened by the discussion, though, despite the positive twist everyone tries to put on his progress. The group gets excited over milestones that a toddler could accomplish, and he just can't bring himself to be nearly as enthusiastic as they are.

Dr. Liteman announces that Dean's vitals have been showing a marked improvement over the past week, says he's impressed by the speed to which Dean has progressed in sitting upright, the length of time he can maintain the position.

Lanie gives an enthusiastic report about trunk control, and that Dean has managed to maintain a sitting position unassisted for two whole seconds. She also raves over his musculature, eager to report a reduction in atrophy just in the past week.

Speech and respiratory therapy go hand in hand, with Linda eagerly covering Dean's feeding milestones and his success during the first try at speaking, then a report by respiratory on the vent settings during that session.

Justin repeats an abbreviated version of the equipment needs he's discussed with Dean and Sam, announces what has already been ordered, and explains that the booties and hand splints he's had Dean wear for the past several nights have already shown a marked improvement in foot drop.

And Chelsea proudly tells the group that Dean has slept through the past two nights without an additional dose of medications, says it like she's a new parent announcing the sleeping patterns of her newborn baby, and all Dean can think is la dee freakin dah, I can sleep without drugs.

The goals for the upcoming week are even more ridiculous than the report for the past week. They're looking for such menial tasks as chewing a banana and turning his head on his own, learning to use the sip n' puff controls that Justin plans to install on his bed that day, sitting in the wheelchair at 75 degrees for an hour and making a short trek outside, tolerating the speaking valve for 20 minute intervals.

Through it all, Dean is begging them to challenge him more, give him something to actually work towards. Screw turning his head, how about moving his foot? How about walking? How about breathing? He wants to scream, throw something, kick something. If they would just give him better goals, he'd be getting better. He's sure of it!

The bitterness over his situation overwhelms him to a point that he can no longer concentrate on the conversation around him, or the people for that matter, so it comes as something of a surprise when he finds Linda with her hands on his neck gently tugging open the cap at his throat and starting to suction his lungs out. "You ready to ask your questions?"

Hell yeah, he's ready. Dean blinks his 'yes' and waits to feel the air whooshing up around his vocal cords as they had yesterday. He's prepared this time, but it doesn't prevent the soft tickle that works its way through his windpipe, a desperate need to cough that comes out more as a wheeze because his muscles don't work anymore to bring up the mucous.

Dean only allows one breath of air to pass by him before he's chiding the group in front of him. "You're not--- challenging--- me enough. ---Need bigger--- goals."

It seems almost as though a group sigh sounds out from the room, their faces immediately taking on that look of pity that Dean hates so much. They all look to each other, silently deciding who will be the one to break the bad news that Dean expects from the tension in the air.

Finally, Dr. Liteman clears his throat and takes a step forward, hands outstretched towards Dean in a gesture of peace. "These are challenging goals," the doctor says, genuinely apologetic. "I know it must seem as though you're being reduced to infantile expectations, but unfortunately your injury level doesn't allow for much in the way of fast progress. You're on a different time scale here, Dean. We can't go at the fast pace you're probably used to moving at. Some of these goals for next week may actually take weeks or even months to achieve."

"I can do--- better," Dean insists, for once glad for the reduced inflection in his whispery voice that hides the whine he knows would be prominent otherwise.

"I hope you can prove that to us," Dr. Liteman adds.

He seems sincere enough, but Dean can't help but wonder if the reply is just a way to put an end to the uncomfortable topic. And Dean doesn't have it in him to protest, just determines to do exactly what the doctor has said – prove that he's got more in himself than the therapists are giving him credit for.

For just a moment Dean closes his eyes and gathers himself, forcing out the negative vibes he's getting from the rest of the room and tries not to allow himself to be overwhelmed by the situation. It's hard enough keeping his head above water when he's drowning in his own feelings of negativity – harder still when he's feeling as though no one else has faith in his recovery, either.

"I could use--- a real--- shower," he finally tells them, and immediately flinches while waiting for another 'no.'

To his surprise, though, Dr. Liteman nods his head and looks at Chelsea. "See if you can organize the staff for that in the next couple of days, will you? I think Dean is stable enough to try a shower."

SUPERNATURAL – two weeks later

1 It must be the meds they have him on. Has to be. Because Dean can't think of another reason why he'd be sitting here spouting the things he is to a group of strangers. If it was Sam, he would have been teasing him, giving him grief to no end, calling it diarrhea of the mouth, this angsty, moody shit spouting in every direction and he just can't stop himself, can't hold it in any longer. Someone's got to know the truth. And if not them, if not the seven other quadriplegic's sitting in this little group therapy session, then who? They're the closest thing he's got to finding people who know what he's going through.

"I can't let my little--- brother put his life on--- hold to take care of--- me like this," Dean says in his breathless, broken speech to the group assembled in the room. "He's got plans, a chance---. He's got a future. But not--- if he's stuck taking care--- of me. I think--- he would have been better--- off if I'da died that day---. Think I'da been better--- off, too."

He sort of expects the therapist leading this session to put a stop to what he's saying, tell him that's not the way to talk and to think positive and all that other crap. But Jeff likes to create controversy and discussion, so instead, he's just sitting there in his own wheelchair, one thin bony leg pulled up and crossed over the other, with a hint of a smile on his lips as he and the rest of the group listen to Dean speak. The man is more concerned with getting Dean to open up than he is about what he's saying exactly.

"You might think that now, but things will get better eventually. You won't always be so dependent on him," one of the other patients volunteers. Dean looks over at the woman and remembers her from other sessions. He'd nicknamed her "Debbie do-gooder" a few back, when he still couldn't talk, because she was always offering up words of advice and comfort to the others. She's a C-6 quad who has never known the terrors of being dependent on a vent, never known the fear that something on your only lifeline might become disconnected. She has movement in her arms, which she blatantly displays in wild gestures as she talks, and most of the time is able to push herself around in a manual wheelchair. She has no idea what Dean will go through for the rest of his life, and to him, her comfort is more patronizing than helpful.

Dean looks around the room at the other's assembled with him today. Most, he knows - or at least recognizes from other sessions over the past month. Other's are brand new to him. There're nearly 30 in-patients with some sort of paralysis at the rehab center, more than 20 are considered quads, and among those the selection gets mixed up for each group session to create groups of no more than 8. He's not the only one on a vent, but as near as he can tell he's the only one right now with an injury high enough that he'll remain on it for good. The others are lower, have some muscle control to work their lungs, and have already been started on the process of being weaned off.

"Lady, you got no idea--- what you're talking about," Dean snaps, immediately frustrated because even that isn't nearly as effective when he's got to wait for the ventilator to give him more air halfway through what he's saying. "The whole lot of you. You've all--- got stuff to look forward--- to in your recovery. Me?--- This is all I got. This--- is everything, for me." It takes him four breaths to get it all out, and he's amazed that the rest of the group just sits there and listens, waits, doesn't try to interrupt him when he's got to pause for more air.

"Every one of you can--- look around and find someone who's worse--- off than you are. You all have the luxury of--- being able to say 'thank--- god, that's not me.' But I--- can't - I'm as bad off as--- it gets."

"But you still have your mind," 'Debbie' says, unwilling to give up until she's accomplished her goal.

"Yeah," Dean snaps back. "So I can--- sit around all day and think about--- the things I can't do anymore--- I can think about what I'm--- putting my little brother through--. Thanks, but I'm not so sure--- having my mind is a good--- thing."

"You would prefer he sit there wiping the drool from your face while he talks to an empty shell?"

"No!" Dean spits back, and immediately wishes he could put more volume to his convictions. "I would rather I was dead!"

That's where the conversation grinds to a halt as the group therapist finally jumps in. His hands go up and the calm facade he usually wears has just a little bit of panic and concern in it when he looks at Dean. "Alright guys, that's enough sharing for today. Dean–" he looks him straight in the eye, maintains the contact until Dean is forced to look up and meet his gaze. "Dean, it will get better. Trust me, you don't want to die. Things will improve."

Dean looks away, back down to his hands. He's too spent to continue the conversation, and honestly, what does it matter if he can convince them of his feelings or not. It's not as though he's got any control over his death. He's completely helpless. Can't breathe on his own, can't eat without help. Damnit, can't even kill himself.

Session wraps up pretty swiftly after that, and Dean can feel the lingering gaze of the therapist as one of the orderlies retrieves him and takes him from the room, back to his own room where they will pick him up like a baby and lay him down for a nap before lunchtime.

Useless, he tells himself in regards to his wasted life, to Sam's wasted life. Gotta figure out a way to set Sammy free.

---

Later that afternoon Dean finds himself relegated to the activity room and sat in front of the TV while some feel good afternoon movie blathers on in the background. He's tuned it out, focusing instead on completely blanking his mind until someone returns to take him back to his room. The rest of the sound in the room blends together into white noise in his head. He is barely aware of the game of checkers being played in the back corner, or the round of Hearts at the table right behind the couch, or the three or four other conversations taking place at various other locations throughout the room.

Right now it's just him. And my mind, he thinks bitterly, recalling the conversation from therapy that day. This just isn't right. He's not supposed to be dwindled down to just his mind. He's the brawn of the operation; Sam's the brain. But then, that's not right either because by that logic it would be Sam stuck rotting away in a wheelchair. And he wouldn't wish this hell on anybody, least of all Sam. God, this sucks.

He's so lost in thought that be doesn't even notice the guy facing him in his own chair until fingers snap in front of his face, practically brushing against his nose. Dean startles, lets out a little cry of surprise, and immediately recovers with, "Who the fuck are you?"

Dean has seen the guy around, but he's part of the other group. Low level, got full use of his hands and arms and upper body, goes to different therapy sessions and hangs with a different crowd. God, it's like highschool all over again, forming different cliques, staying with your own kind.

The guy blinks and offers an amused smile, but doesn't back off. "Not exactly the reaction I'd been going for, but I guess I can't blame you under the circumstances." He's got an accent, sounds Australian almost, but Dean isn't about to worry himself about this guy's nation of origin.

"I asked you who you are," Dean repeats, staring the guy down in what he hopes is his most withering glare.

"Name's Mitch, mate. I'd offer my hand but I don't really get the impression that'd do much good."

"What the hell do you--- want, Mitch?" He hates that damn, stupid ventilator. Wants to talk without sounding like a freak!

The guy sighs and looks down at his feet, frowning. "Friend of mine said you were having a hard time of it. Wanted me to give you something."

"What?"

"Guess he was right," Mitch replies, reacting to Dean's harsh, abrupt tone. "Look, man, I don't really agree with this. Truth be told, I think you need more time to work things out before you go making such rash decisions. But everyone's entitled to make their own choices."

"What the hell are you--- talking about?" Dean demands, way above annoyed that he's been interrupted from his thoughts like this. He doesn't want to talk to anyone, doesn't want to know anyone. Especially not if they're just going to ramble on with nonsensical blather like this guy is.

Mitch pauses again, takes a good long hard look at Dean, then reaches between his legs for a small piece of paper. He folds it up into an even smaller square and reaches for Dean's hand, gently uncurling the clenched fingers and placing the paper inside before allowing the fingers to curl back in on themselves.

Dean watches all of this in disdain, humiliated that this guy who he doesn't even know has just taken it upon himself to touch him, to manipulate his hands, and the fact that there's not a damn thing he can do about it.

"You only use that if you're truly convinced there's no other way out," he warns, still hasn't told Dean what it is or what he's supposed to do with it. For that matter, how the hell is he supposed to look at it in the first place?

"Still don't know what you're--- giving me."

Mitch looks away, back down at his lap. "It's a name and a phone number. Guy who helps people–" he hesitates and struggles over the words, "people in your situation. Who want to get out."

Leaning forward in his chair Mitch clasps the hand that holds the paper with both of his own and pats it, hard from the looks of things, but what does Dean know. He forces eye contact with Dean, looks deep into his soul with the strength of his own eyes. "Just promise me you'll think about this. Don't rush into anything."

All Dean can do is nod, barely, since he's still wearing a c-collar when he's up and out of bed. He returns Mitch's gaze and doesn't break it until the aussie severs contact and turns away, leaving the room as quietly as he'd entered.

'Thank You,' Dean mouths behind him as he leaves, no sound to back it up. And then looks down to his hand where the paper just barely peeks out from his fingers. Despite his promise to Mitch his decision is made in an instant, made because of the fact that he's helpless to even unfold the paper curled in his limp hand and look at the number inside. He can't ask Sam to follow him around for the rest of his life, bathing him and dressing him and feeding him and moving him back and forth from bed and a wheelchair. It's not fair. To either of them.

It's just not fair.

SUPERNATURAL

By the time Kyle shows up in their room that evening Dean has already been fed his dinner and laid in bed, propped up on his side by a stack of pillows. He's been thinking about the paper for hours, debating how and when he'll make the call. It's frustrating, having to plot such a simple task – just a phone call. And yet, so much more. The thing about having no control of your body is that it means no privacy, no secrets, nothing ever easy. It's a fact that hits Dean hard as he lays in bed contemplating the logistics of how he's supposed to make his phone call without anybody finding out.

The only thing he knows for sure is that it must be done. He can't make Sam sit out the rest of his life, throwing all his hopes and dreams out the window in order to take care of Dean. It's just not happening; no way, no how.

"Hey, man, how was your day?" Kyle asks casually as he heads straight to the dresser for a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, sleepwear.

"Great," Dean replies sarcastically, once the air catches up with his words. "Went for a jog this," a pause as he waits for more air. "---morning. And then joined a few--- friends for a basketball game."

Kyle chuckles to himself, appreciating Dean's sense of humor and completely missing the fact that his sarcasm is a fierce cover-up for the intense pain deep inside. "Ah, productive then." He wiggles out of the shirt he's currently wearing and starts to pull the cotton T over his head.

"That's nothing. Tomorrow I'm running--- a triathlon. Care to join?"

"Think I'm gonna have to pass on that one. Bunch of friends and I will be sky diving tomorrow. But have fun."

"Thanks," Dean says, then pauses, squeezes his eyes shut for several breaths before working up the nerve to ask. "I need your help," Dean says, desperation in his whispy voice. The vent forces another breath into his lungs, and Dean grits his teeth against the emotion. "I've been waiting all evening for you."

"Sorry I was MIA" Kyle answers, good-naturedly, but hinting at requiring some respect if Dean wants anything from him. "You could have gotten an aid to help, or your nurse."

"It has to be you," Dean snaps, then quickly apologizes – or, at least as quickly as his air flow will allow. Despite his conviction, butterflies are fluttering all throughout his stomach, turning it in knots.

Kyle gets suddenly serious, wheeling himself closer and giving his full attention to his roommate. "What's going on, man?"

"I need to make a phone call."

"That's it? A phone call? That's what's got you so worked up?"

"This is serious, Kyle," Dean insists, glaring at his roommate. "Are you gonna help--- me or not?"

Sighing and raising and dropping his arms in surrender Kyle agrees. "Of course I'm gonna help you, idiot. I just don't understand what all the fuss is about. Who do you need me to call?"

"On the paper under the--- clock," Dean says, eying the white corner that just barely peeks out beneath the digital alarm clock and remembering, with trepidation, just how it had ended up there.

It had been sheer force of luck that he'd managed to keep Mona from reading the numbers as she and the night aid had put him to bed. The piece of paper had stayed hidden within his clenched fist as he'd been fed dinner and went through another trach suction, and only once it was time to go back to his room did he realize that at some point someone was going to straighten out his fist, put the brace back on that he wears at night, and the note would be discovered. There was no way to know how recognizable the number is, no way for him to know if there is a name written with it and how well the staff would know this mystery savior that will end Dean's troubles. But seeing as how the place wasn't exactly a glaring ad for excitement and livelihood he imagined quite a few of the patients had come across this guy during their stay. What actually seemed more mystifying is the fact that Dean hadn't heard any stories of patients offing themselves while in rehab – but assumed it was just the case of the hospital doing a superb job of keeping those stories on the down-low.

Mona had found the paper as she unclipped the straps that keep him secured in the chair, and she'd been close to reading it, in the process of unfolding the paper as she asked Dean where it had come from, and he'd been tongue-tied, trying to keep her prying eyes off. But the night aid had chosen that moment to call her attention to the start of a sore on Dean's left ankle which, in itself, was bad news but seeing as how Dean has got no intention of staying alive long enough for it to fester he just thanked his lucky stars for the distraction and considered it a fortuitous turn of events. That, and it just stood to emphasize his reasons for his plans.

He'd watched carefully as Mona dropped the paper on his nightstand, kept an eye on it through the whole transfer process and nighttime routine. He'd seen it get pushed underneath the edge of the clock as she laid supplies on the table.

And he'd been checking on it ever since, keeping his head turned just so as the television blared on in the background. It hasn't moved – not that he expected it to, but still, this was his life on the line here. And he's ready to be free of the hell he's living.

Dean continues, afraid he might chicken out if he doesn't get it all out. It's frustrating when the vent still limits the speed to which he can speak, but the frustration serves to spur him on. "I need you to call the--- number on it. Then I--- need some privacy."

Rolling his eyes, Kyle reaches out and pushes the clock back, manipulating his uncooperative hands to pick up the paper. With his fine motor skills nonexistent he's got to grip it between the palms of both hands, then use his mouth to help unfold the paper until the number is revealed. It's the first time Dean has seen the number and relief overwhelms him when the only thing on the paper is the name Frank and a phone number – no distinguishing information whatsoever.

"What's so special about this phone call that you needed me to dial it?" Kyle demands, still annoyingly curious, as he forces the phone into the hands-free cradle beside Dean's bed and adjusts the height so that it sits right by Dean's ear. Dean notices he doesn't start dialing, just waits for an answer as if to say 'I'm not doing anything until you tell me what's going on.' He's looking at Dean and the number suspiciously.

"They were busy," Dean lies.

"No they weren't. You just said it had to be me to make the call. Who is this, Dean? Who's Frank?"

Dean pauses for a long time, gears tuning in his mind as he tries to formulate some sort of explanation that Kyle might buy. He's rusty, though, hasn't had to come up with a lie in forever. It's enough just to speak these days, and most of the time nobody expects him to talk long enough to say much more than is necessary. He finally settles for the truth, or rather, a rough estimate of the truth – a bit of a stretch, but one he thinks will work.

"One of the guys from my group--- gave me his number, said he--- was a counselor or some--- thing and that he might be--- able to help. I just don't--- want them to know that--- I'm going outside the--- center."

He holds his breath, metaphorically speaking, and waits for Kyle's response, unsure what he'll do if the man doesn't buy the explanation. Kyle studies him for several seconds, a look of skepticism shadowing his face. But finally he nods, and reaches once again for the phone.

"Mr. Big-shot can't admit that he's actually willing to seek help, huh?" Kyle presses, clearly coming to a different conclusion based on the situation. Dean does a dance of relief in his mind – smiles grimly and allows his roommate to think what he wants, just so long as he's following Dean's request.

"Need to be alone for this," is all he says, eyes pleading with Kyle to agree as Dean hears the phone ringing on the other end.

Miraculously, Kyle nods in agreement and turns from the room just as the phone is answered and a gruff voice says "hello" into Dean's ear.

Dean waits for his next breath, hoping that Kyle is far enough out the doorway before he says anything. "Is this Frank?" he asks. Trepidation fills him, chest clenching and heart pounding with a daunting fear as Dean waits for the anticipated yes. When it comes, he finds himself procrastinating, allowing a full breath to pass before taking advantage of the next. Surprisingly, the man on the other end waits patiently, seemingly aware of the ventilator that forces regulation of Dean's speech. "What can I do for you?" he asks in the silence that follows.

"I was told you could help--- me," Dean says, finding power in his voice where there hasn't been in some time. But his conviction holds as he adds, "I need you to--- come soon."