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.

7. Chapter 7

Later Sam will claim it was fate that he noticed his untied shoelace right in front of Dean's room, but at this very moment it is just another annoyance in this already very crappy day. He's kneeling down to re-tie it right there, a little bit aside from the half closed door, when he hears the voice inside the room, and instantly he knows that something in there must be very very wrong.

For once, it's a voice he doesn't know; it's male, cultivated and confident like a doctor's, with a hint of the self-assured arrogance Dr. Prentiss had, and yet... too benign. There is something not right, something hidden and fake in this voice, but Sam decides that he should at least try to listen to the actual words of the conversation before he storms

"So... there is absolutely no chance of recovery?"

Definitely not a doctor then, one of them would have been privy to that kind of information. Sam can't hear Dean's reply, his brother's new strange voice rarely gets louder than a whisper these days, but he still knows what Dean is telling the man. Spinal cord completely severed, no function below site of injury. The whole painful story that has shaped their life for the last months and will remain with them for the rest of their lives. It will never go away, never get better... Then the voice says something that shatters Sam's world like few things in his life have managed to do.

"Well, Mr. Keyser, I must say that my ... organization rarely deals with people whose injuries are so recent. We find that – after an initial stage of depression that is, of course, completely natural - they often manage to adapt despite all sorts of adversities and never consider suicide again. But if you have special reasons... Can you tell me why we should make an exception in your case?"

Suicide.

The word itself hurts like a knife, the pain vibrating in Sam's brain and heart and stomach. This guy wants to... Dean wants to... Suddenly, there is nothing but the feeling of burning, blinding rage, hot like the center of a flame, like Sam has never felt before, an emotion so beyond anything else that Sam's whole being is consumed by it. Rage drowns out his senses, his sense of time, his mind.

The world melts.

When he comes around again, Sam is inside of Dean's room and the first thing that breaks into the haze is the intense pain in his throat. A millisecond later, he realizes that he's yelling at the top of his lungs - the strength of his voice tearing at his vocal cords - then that he is yelling at a man he has pinned against a wall. He doesn't understand his own words, his ears still trapped in the red world of fury, but his sense of touch is all there and his big hands clutch the man's shoulders harder, pushing his fingers deeper into the flesh. He wants to hurt this bastard so badly, wants to punish the guy for even thinking about taking Dean away from him, wants to kill... Then his ears are back and he hears his own voice, rough and torn, repeating the words over and over again.

"I'll kill you if you touch him! I'll kill you if you touch him!"

His eyes are able to focus again, and then he stops shouting because the man's eyes look up to him completely without fear and in a situation like this nothing can be scarier than a man who gets himself kicked around by a berserk giant and still looks so utterly unimpressed. More than that. The man looks sympathetic.

Sam is too dumbfounded to continue his attack, and then someone jerks him away from the guy and there are voices, too many at a time, arms grabbing him. He's still too far gone to understand, so he simply gives up and he lets the hands guide him down to the floor.

He's numb now, and empty.

Some people leave the room, some others stay behind; he can tell that much. Someone, no, not someone, the red hair is familiar... Chelsea is kneeling in front of him, her hands carefully stretched out to lightly rest on his shoulders.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay, nobody here will hurt Dean, you hear me? It's okay, I promise."

Her voice relaxes him a bit, her familiar face an anchor to steady him. Until he hears another voice - a man - standing right behind her, talking to a third person.

"I'm so sorry, Tanya. I was sloppy. It won't happen again."

The voice is cultivated and still very confident, maybe slightly shaky now; but before Sam can jump up to finally off the guy, Chelsea intensifies her grip and keeps him down, the effort more symbolic than anything, futile against the raw power of Sam's muscled body, but most effective against his addled brain.

In the end, it's the face of Tanya Jackson that brings him fully back down to earth. She extends a hand to help him stand up, and as Sam brain gets more and more alert, it dawns on him that she is suspiciously calm about the whole thing. But then again, she probably tries to keep everyone relaxed till the cops arrive, he thinks. After all, he just pretty much tried to kill a guy who had pretty much volunteered to kill his brother.

But, as soon as he is steady on his feet, Tanya takes one step back and waves the guy to come closer. Coming face to face with the guy does nothing for Sam's composure. The man is almost as tall as Sam is, and what intimidation he lacks in muscle he makes up for in sheer academic appearance. Instead of the seemingly requisite khakis and polo shirt that Sam has grown used to throughout the day at the rehab center, this stranger has on a pair of tailored pants, creased neatly down the center, and a light blue long-sleeved dress shirt and striped tie underneath a darker blue knitted vest. His salt and pepper hair is trimmed short, every strand combed neatly into place, and he wears square wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusts from their skewed position as he is standing in front of Sam. It is clear that he is used to being respected and given wide-berth. Sam tenses again, and he shoots the guy a glare that could cut through steel.

"Director Jackson, you don't understand! That bastard, he - "

" - is the head of our Psychology Department."

" - said he'd help... WHAT?"

"Sam, this is Dr. Ed Reynolds. I promise he meant no harm..."

A sound comes from Dean's bed at this revelation, something between a cry and a sob. Dean. In his rage, he has forgotten about Dean.

Sam pushes Tanya aside with a little more force than necessary. Now that he has himself under control again, his only objective is his brother.

Dean's face is even scarier than Dr. Reynolds' fearless eyes. The usually handsome features are contorted with emotion, the eyes tightly shut, the forehead wrinkled. It looks unnatural, like it must hurt to screw up his face like this, and it probably does. There are wet trails on Dean's cheeks, and more and more tears are streaming down. His lips are bloody from biting down on them so hard in his agitation, and he moves them constantly, speaking but completely out of sync with the vent, so Sam can hear only fragments of sentences whenever the ventilator doesn't interrupt Dean's speech.

"Stupid---how could I be --- not check --- trust someone --- so stupid"

"Oh god, Dean."

Sam reaches with one hand to stroke his brother's hair, too scared to touch a face that convulses with pain that isn't physical, but before he can touch him Tanya holds him back.

"Sam, we think you should leave now. Just for a little bit. Let him calm down a bit first, okay?"

Dr. Reynolds leaves the room with him, and when they're at the door Sam thinks he has figured out what happened, so he follows him down the corridor towards the elevators.

"He thought you were the real deal, right?"

"Yes. Until you blew my cover."

"But.... why? How?" Sam doesn't even make an attempt at sounding apologetic about the whole cover thing; his heart still hasn't stopped pounding and he's a little bit pissed that they didn't consult him before they started this whole damn façade.

"Standard procedure when people get too desperate. Better they seek help", he does air quotes at the word, wincing when he lifts his arms, and guilt blooms in Sam's chest, "with us than with an outsider who might actually do the deed. We stall them until things are looking up again. Some find out it's a hoax, some don't. In the end, though, almost all of them are grateful they didn't go through with it."

"Oh. So you don't really..."

"Of course not"

"But Dean really wants to..."

"That's what he thinks. With a little luck, we have cured him of that notion today."

"Would it help then if I was really sorry about, you know, almost killing you?"

Dr. Reynolds smiles. They are at the elevators, now, and the psychologist pushes the up button, to where Sam remembers the rooms of the psych department are located.

"Sam, your reaction, no matter how ferocious it might have looked, was still completely natural. I think you might actually have done some good by almost killing me." The doctor chuckles nervously. "You just proved how much he means to you."

Sam looks more than skeptical at this, but the doctor nods reassuringly.

"You see, Dean's reason for special treatment? He doesn't want to be your burden, wants you free to live your life." He air quotes again, the elevator tings, the door opens and before Sam has fully grasped the words, Dr. Reynolds is gone. Then it sinks in. Dean wants to sacrifice himself for Sam. Again.

That stupid idiot.

SUPERNATURAL

When Sam returns to Dean's room he's trembling with anger all over again, only this time it's a controlled familiar feeling that has been with him many times in his life.

Dean has been turned on his side, so that he faces away from the door and Kyle's bed and towards the wall instead, pillows under the major joints to keep him supported. Apart from the rhythmic expansion of his chest, his body is absolutely still, and for a second Sam wonders when or if he will ever get used to the sight of a body that just won't move. He decides right then and there that he will indeed and it will be soon.

He circles the bed slowly, lets his footstep fall hard to announce his coming but doesn't say a word until he's standing right in front of Dean.

"Hey."

Dean's eyes are open, face recently washed, and there is the white sheen of ointment on his lips. His head is angled to look directly at the wall, but at Sam's greeting he rolls his eyes up as far as he can, both of them waiting for the ventilator and the right moment. Then it comes, like a whisper.

"Hey"

Sam crouches down until their faces are at the same height. There is so much he wants to say, so very very much and yet, his next words flow out naturally.

"You stupid selfish bastard!" And he doesn't regret his words, not even when Dean flinches at them like a slap in the face. His brother opens his mouth to say something, but Sam exploits his advantage and just goes on.

"How dare you! How dare you even think about shit like that... Dean, I can barely live with this and you want to fucking kill yourself for me. Are you insane?"

Dean wants to say something, Sam can tell, but right now, oh, he so doesn't care.

"I couldn't live with myself, you know. Shit, Dean, you saw what happened right there. If... if you actually died for me like that, without even a warning, you bastard... I think I'd lose it completely."

"Not for you. I wouldn't do it --- for you alone, Sam. For --- me, too. This is hell!"

"Oh, please. Do you think I'll believe for a second that Dean Winchester would take the coward's way out of a situation? There are thousands of people out there who live with an injury like yours. And if they can do it, then you can do it, too!"

"You are really obvious --- Mr. Pep-Talk"

And Sam could cry for joy at Dean's sarcasm, because that is a side of his brother he can deal with. It's to his own surprise that he feels actual tears run down his face.

"Dean..." and he reaches out for their ritual touch of his hand on his brother's temple – finally- and then he falls apart completely, crying and heaving and sobbing, with his face next to Dean's.

"Oh, Dean. Don't leave, promise. Please. Promise that you won't leave me."

An eternity later, when Sam sits back to wipe his wet face, Dean's eyes are dry, calm and scarily serious.

"I promise, Sammy. I promise that I won't leave you."

There is a silent second, then Dean smiles.

"But you won't --- have it easy. Now get me --- a new pillow, 'cos this one --- has your snot all over it."

-----

Promises, Dean soon realizes, are a bitch. He's never lied to Sam, never made a promise that he didn't intend to keep. And he's not about to go back on his word now. But promises made in the heat of the moment, backed by emotion rather than consideration, are the hardest to uphold.

Sam stays that night, too afraid to leave Dean's side after the heavy revelation of what Dean had intended to do. He sleeps curled up restlessly in the chair beside the bed, just as he had night after night in the hospital. Dean is positioned slightly on his side, facing Sam. He still has a bootie on his right foot, but the other has been left off, the ankle propped on a pillow so that the developing sore is untouched and exposed to the air to heal.

For a long time that night Dean just watches Sam, jealousy frayed around the edges of his subconscious as Sam's chest moves up and down on its own in the shadows and he shifts unconsciously in his sleep as he tries to find a better position. Dean would give anything to be that uncomfortable, to feel the cramping and stiffness from a night curled up in a too small chair. He would do anything to escape the confines of his body. Would do it, but now he can't, because he's promised Sam.

He tries to remind himself that the plan never would have worked anyway, angrily remembers that the mysterious doctor that rushed to his side was not who he'd thought him to be. The head of the Psychology Department, Tanya had said. The man had misrepresented himself, had made Dean believe that he was there to relieve him of his pain, would help him to let go, to die peacefully. Everyone had been in on it, Dean realizes, and it's a bitter pill to swallow.

He wonders just how long this plan has been in the works – just since the group therapy session or maybe since the pop-off or longer than that even? It doesn't feel right, them messing with his mind the way they did, screwing with his emotions and his thoughts as though he hasn't had enough time to think things through on his own. That's all Dean does is think – day in and day out as he lays motionless in bed waiting for someone to bathe him and get him dressed and feed him, to give him a voice and stretch his limbs and move him from bed to chair and chair to bed. Dean's entire world is dictated for him, when he wakes, when he eats, where he goes. He doesn't have a choice in any of that – but can control his own thoughts. And it's not fair that even those are now being controlled for him.

Sorry, Dean. You're not allowed to have suicidal thoughts. You must be happy, he thinks, sourly picturing the happy-go-lucky staff that seems determined to improve his mood despite his determination to do just the opposite.

It's not fair. If he wanted to be happy, he would be. But it's been a long time since Dean has found a reason to be cheerful – much longer than he's been injured. The spinal cord injury is just the icing on the cake, just one more reason for Dean to feel as though his entire existence on this god-forsaken earth has been for nothing. Before, the only reason Dean really cared was his family – keeping them safe and protected. Now he doesn't even have that. Now it is Sam's turn to protect Dean, to care for him.

But being Sammy's protector is all Dean has ever known in his life, and if he doesn't have that there isn't much else to live for.

But you are protecting Sam, a voice inside his head reminds him. Outwardly, Dean scowls, but he can't help but picture the emotion Sam displayed when he attacked the doctor. There was something carnal in his brother's reaction, something honest and raw. That kind of emotion isn't created, Dean realizes. So maybe – just maybe – staying alive for Sam and fighting to make something worthwhile of himself would be considered protecting Sam. Not in the way he's used to, no longer physically, but emotionally. And heaven knows Sam could use some emotional protection in his life. With watching Jess die, and their father, and their father's ominous deathbed confession about Sam – and then Dean's injury, too. Sam's life is like living inside his own soap opera.

Dean would be lying if he said he it would be easy to move forward, that he was willingly ready to give life in a chair, dependent on a ventilator and nurses, a try. Just watching Sam sleep has him feeling sick, the fear that he's going to end up resenting his brother for guilting him into staying put so strong and completely irrepressible.

But he will try. He will keep his promise to Sam, like he's always done.

Resolve strong in his mind, Dean closes his eyes and tries to get some sleep

---

Sam's phone rings early the next morning, loud and shrill and just obnoxious enough to wake everyone in the room.

"Shut that damn thing off," Kyle groans, struggling to pull his pillow over his head to drown out the sound.

"Sorry. Sorry," Sam says. He struggles into a sit, his muscles protesting the long night spent curled up in a too small chair, and finally paws the phone from his pocket, hits the answer button and snaps 'hello' into the phone without looking to see who was calling.

He expects the voice to be Milla's, checking up on him because he's got her car and he didn't come home last night, and he's all ready with a cursory explanation to get her off his back long enough for him to get home. So the familiar gruff voice that demands attention as it thunders through the phone is more than a shock.

"Bobby?" Sam squeaks out. He looks up just in time to see Dean's eyes widen into saucers, watches his brother silently, frantically beg that he not say a word to Bobby. They've been through this already, multiple times. Doesn't matter how much Sam thinks they need to tell their friends, Dean is adamant that nobody find out what's happened to him. And as much as Sam would love to defy his brother on this one thing, as much as he would love a familiar shoulder to cry on and mourn with, he can't bring himself to go against Dean's wishes.

"I'm trying to sleep here," Kyle snaps.

Schooling his emotions, Sam takes a deep breath and tries again, nearly whispered this time. "Bobby, what's going on man?"

Sam? Are you boys okay? I've been trying to reach you two for weeks. Where the hell have you been?

Well shit, nothing like coming right out and asking exactly what Sam doesn't want to talk about. "We're fine, Bobby. Just laying low for a while. We've had a few rough hunts back to back, needed some time to regroup." It's not exactly a lie, he thinks, just a stretched version of the truth. On the bed, he can see Dean relax, and that's enough to tell him the lie was believable.

What kind of hunts? What happened, Sam?

Ok, so maybe believable, but unfortunately not thorough enough.

"Nothing happened, Bobby. Not really – we're just tired. Needed a break."

And needing a break means you can't pick up a damn phone? Do you have any idea how many times I've tried to call in the past weeks? Dean's phone doesn't even seem like it's working anymore, just goes straight to voicemail. And yours, it rings and rings… I don't know what's worse, Sam.

"Yeah, I know, Bobby. I'm sorry – really. We just…" He trails off, sighs, "we figured if we answered the phone it would be too compelling to take a hunt. Just needed to totally segregate for a while. Why, what's going on Bobby…did you need something?"

Well, I did need you idgits to take a hunt out in New Hampshire. But I got someone else to do it when you didn't pick-up. So now I'm just checking up on you, making sure you didn't decapitate yourselves or something.

Sam winces, swallows hard. The man doesn't realize just how close he's come to the truth in that statement, and it takes Sam several moments to compose himself before he can speak again. "No, nothing like that," he finally chokes out, turning away from Dean before he finishes the statement. He can't look at his brother, can't face the memories and the reality that Bobby's comment has brought forth.

So how long do you boys plan to do this retirement act? There is no malice in Bobby's tone, but Sam does sense a bit of irritation.

Closing his eyes, Sam rallies himself to finish the conversation, and finally realizes that his best bet may be to turn the subject around on Bobby. "We're coming back slowly. We're actually working on a case already, and I'd like to pick your brain about something, but this isn't really a good time to talk. Can I call you later tonight?" He would love to not have to continue this conversation, but Sam can't come up with another way to stonewall the man, and at least this way he'll have time to come up with a good explanation.

Bobby seems caught off guard, but encouraged by Sam's willingness to share. Yeah, Sam. Call me later – no problem. Just make sure that idiot brother is available to talk, too. I'd like to hear from him that he's alright.

"Yeah, okay," Sam says, distracted. He can hear the medicine carts rattling out into the hall and the last thing he needs is one of Dean's nurses coming in while Bobby is still on the phone to overhear. "I'll talk to you tonight."

He doesn't wait for a good-bye, just hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the tray at Dean's bedside as though he'd just been stung. "Shit," he curses under his breath, doesn't mean for Dean to hear but he does anyway.

Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for Sam to fill him in on the conversation. "I'm not sure how long I can lie to him, Dean. It doesn't feel right."

Sam watches as his brother's gaze hardens, and he can't help the flinch that accompanies his reaction to the change. "Look, Dean, I promised you I wouldn't break your confidence and I won't – not without your permission. But he's family, Dean, about as close to a real father as you and I ever had. And now with Dad gone…"

Dean doesn't have to say a word to get his point across, his eyes say it all, and Sam doesn't have it in him to argue. Especially not after last night, not after the revelation of Dean's intention for assisted suicide. Sam still has a queasy stomach just thinking about it, and he can't really look at his brother anymore without wondering how long it will be before he tries something like that again.

"I won't say anything, Dean, but that means you have to stay with me. You can't make me shut out our friends and then leave me too." It's playing hardball, probably a pretty jackass thing to do, but he just has to be sure. He's got to know that Dean's promise from the night before wasn't a lie.

But they're in a bit of stalemate, because right now it doesn't matter what Dean says, Sam isn't ready to trust. And until they can both come to an agreement, there won't be any peace between the two of them.

Salvation comes in the form of Chelsea, arriving to prepare Dean for his morning. The surprise on her face when she sees Sam, still disheveled from his night on the lounge chair, is genuine, and it's apparent that she hasn't been filled in on the previous night's events yet.

"How's it going, boys?" she asks, pretending not to notice the tension in the air. Giving Sam a minute to pull himself together, Chelsea stops at Kyle's bed, her back to the Winchester's, and rouses the other man with a gentle shake of the shoulder, ignores his groans and mild cursing with a smirk on her face and another pat before she returns her attention to the patient that needs her most.

Sam sits back down in the chair, knee bouncing agitatedly, and pretends not to notice the longing look that crosses Dean's face when he looks at Sam's exaggerated movements. He tries so hard not to be overly mobile in front of Dean, tries not to make a bigger deal than necessary about that fact that he can so easily move when Dean is so still, so hindered. But right now it's hard to care, not when he's afraid his whole world is going to fall apart right in front of his eyes.

Chelsea looks back and forth between the brothers as she begins the morning routine, starting with Dean's trach, suctioning and cleaning and then attaching the speaking valve so that he's got a fair chance at communicating.

"Everything okay here?" she asks again, once he can talk. "You two are looking pretty serious, something I should know?"

"Just a stressful phone call from—a friend," Dean says. He glances at Sam, gives him a warning leer to keep his mouth shut on any additional details. Sam nods in affirmation. He certainly won't be adding anything, they both know the drill.

Chelsea just lifts her chin, mouth skewed and eyes wide, not exactly believing that she's been given all the information, but it's not her job to play shrink, and as long as Dean's physical well-being is in check she'll let everything else go for the time being.

She pulls out a washcloth and dips it in the basin of warm, soapy water she's brought in with her, and scrubs it gently over Dean's face and neck, goes slowly because she knows just how much Dean revels in the sensation. Sam watches in silence, thinking back to the night before and his fear of losing Dean, but also tries to put himself in his brother's shoes. There is a part of him that understands wholeheartedly Dean's reasons for wanting to do what he'd tried to do. As much as Sam goes back and forth with Dean, wishing it was him who'd been hurt and not Dean, he can't honestly imagine what it must be like to be locked inside his body, doesn't think he could stand the constant fear every minute that his life support might fail.

On more than one occasion as Sam has laid in bed trying to fall asleep he's closed his eyes and imagined away the feeling in his limbs, pretended that the only thing he can feel is his head, tried to discover what it must be like to be his brother. But he knows it's not the same. There is always that little part of him that is aware of the difference, the safety net that says he can pretend his body away but it's still there, ready to walk him through life again at his beckoning.

He thinks the ventilator is probably the biggest red flag, the thing that – if there was any doubt in his mind – slams home the fact that all of this is real. Sam knows what it's like to be on a ventilator, but Dean's reaction to it now is far different from how it's been in the past. Instead of fighting it and choking on it and begging to be rid of it, Dean just goes with it, accepts it. And when Sam asked one day, curious and just a tad nervous at how the question would be received, Dean told him the difference was in the necessity. You can only fight it if your lungs are strong enough to take over, he'd said sadly. Mine aren't.

And that was that. It's what summed up the whole of Dean's new life; strength and capability, the lack of both. Where before determination could win out over adversity, now his brother is forced to define a line between when to fight and when to accept. And unfortunately, acceptance has become a bigger part in their lives than it has ever been before.

Dean can eat solid foods now, but he still isn't getting the sustenance he needs with just that. He's lost a lot of weight, most of it the muscle that once defined his well-maintained physique, and in place of that now is a pile of too big skin and bones. The nurses want him to bulk up some, ease the fears of bone pressing too hard onto skin and creating pressure sores like the one on his ankle, and so Chelsea pours a can of Ensure and starts it through the G-tube as she makes her way down Dean's body. He'll finish that first, then they will take him for breakfast.

Stu shows up right on schedule, just as Chelsea is finishing with Dean's sponge bath and starts pulling out a fresh outfit for him to wear. It is only as Sam sits, passively watching the two staff members carefully dress Dean in the navy blue sweatsuit and shiny white socks and shoes, that he realizes neither of them has mentioned the night before. He had sorta figured it would be big news, a patient attempting suicide, and despite the fact that he really hadn't given it much thought until now he's sorta figured it would be at the top of the conversation list. But both Chelsea and Stu are going about the morning as though it were a normal day, like his brother wasn't so ferociously depressed that he'd seen no other option than to escape the planet. And he can't figure out if he's grateful to them for not bringing it up, or frustrated that they're not scolding his brother and giving him a whole lot of grief for his thoughts.

Around the time that they're switching ventilators and transferring his brother from bed to wheelchair Sam realizes that Dean seems to have checked out. He's usually somewhat interactive with his morning routine, grousing and complaining, if nothing else. He's usually got a comment about his clothes not looking right, or the need for more separation of the spikes in his hair, the fact that he'd rather have his steel-toed boots than the Nike tennis shoes Milla picked out. But today he's doing nothing of the sort.

Instead he's just got his head resting against Chelsea's shoulder, putting forth no effort to hold it up on his own, and Sam cringes as he sees it flop backward as Stu performs the transfer. Dean hasn't been that floppy since two weeks before when a breakthrough in therapy had him relishing in the fact that he'd retrained his neck muscles to be strong enough to support his head without the brace. Now it's like he doesn't care.

Stu has taken notice, too, and the aide slaps Dean gently on the cheek as he situates him against the wheelchair's headrest. "Come on, man. Snap out of it. I need you to work with me here, bud."

But Dean doesn't respond, except to roll his eyes; just enough of a gesture to tell everyone that he's coherent, that he knows exactly what he isn't doing, and that he just doesn't care.

Chelsea and Stu share a glance and then they both look to Sam, looking for information.

"It was a rough night," Sam volunteers, but nothing more. He sees Dean wince at the comment, realizes just how much of an understatement it is. "Let's just go get breakfast. He'll perk up."

---

But he doesn't perk up. Not at breakfast that morning, or lunch, or dinner. For days, Dean remains just on the border of "I don't give a damn," refusing to participate in any of his many therapy sessions, refusing to talk in discussions. He eats when food is placed near his mouth, talks only when absolutely necessary, but otherwise seems to have decided to retreat into his own little hell away from hell.

On the contrary, Sam talks all the time. He's a constant fountain of pleas and reassurances, constantly spewing promises of rainbows and silver linings and greener pastures. Not a morning goes by that Sam doesn't wake Dean with a smile, and a "thanks for being my big brother." Every evening before he falls asleep, it's "thanks for today. One more day closer to getting out of this place."

He verbalizes every thought in his head, from discussions on the house renovations to comments on the staff, makes daily observations on how much better he and Milla have been getting along – despite the fact that he's only been back to the house maybe a grand total of 5 hours in four days, and then it's only because Milla has come to relieve him long enough to take a shower and get a change of clothes.

It's a slow progression back to some semblance of normalcy; a two word answer here, a vague comment there. Dean picks his battles carefully, questioning the resolution of Sam's conversation with Bobby but otherwise maintaining a steadfast refusal to get involved in anything, having to do with him or anyone else.

That all changes four days later.

SUPERNATURAL

It's been a long day. A long week, if he really thinks about it. Draining, both physically and emotionally, and the only thing Dean can think of right now as Sam pushes him back to the room after OT while Stu follows along beside is that he just wants to be alone. He needs sleep and time to regroup, time to breathe. Ever since the suicide fiasco Sam has been watching him like a hawk, won't go home to sleep, and will only leave Dean's side if he knows someone else will be with him until Sam returns.

It's been four days, and he gets it now. He gets how much Sam's love extends, gets how their worlds intertwine, gets just how much worse if would be for Sam if Dean left him behind. But he can't make Sam see that, and until he does, until he figures out a way to get the point across, what little peace Dean had been able to get prior to that is inaccessible to him now.

He's never been so eager to have someone lift him into his bed and turn him on his side, facing away from Sam and the angsty mood and those sad little kicked puppy eyes of his. And the last thing Dean wants, needs, is exactly what is waiting for them when they return to the room.

The mail has come since they've been gone, and there is a package sitting on the table beside Dean's bed. It's a thick envelope, plain brown with red marker for the address, and it sits unopened – which is maybe the thing that catches Dean's attention most. Because Kyle is here, lying on his bed watching TV, and Dean never gets packages, which means it must be Kyle's. But then, why didn't he open it?

"Something came for you today, dude," Kyle says without looking up as they enter the room. He's trying to remain nonchalant, uninterested, but there is something about the way his eyes light up that makes it look like he's far more eager than he should be. "You finally decide to tell some of your friends you're here?" And there's the reason – Kyle's been like a dog with a bone, won't give up on the whole let your loved ones in bullshit that he's been spouting almost since the day Dean was admitted. And he's excited at the prospect that Dean might have received a get well card.

"Nope," Dean replies, squashes that line of thinking like a bug. He rolls his head on the headrest and catches Sam's eye as he raises an eyebrow, silently carrying on the conversation of what do you think it is? I don't know. Well let's open it and see.

Sam crosses the room in two steps, picks up the envelope and turns it over several times, studying it. "No return address."

Something sinks like a stone in Dean's stomach, a sense of dread rolling over him. He can sense the agitation in Sam, too, and wonders if they're on the same page. They haven't heard anything from Adam and Lori Ann in weeks, but no one else knows what's happened to Dean. "You don't think…" Dean trails off, unable to finish the thought.

Sam shrugs, sinks to the bed as he continues to finger the lip of the envelope. Kyle and Stu have disappeared somewhere into the background, and right now the only two people in Dean's world are himself and Sam. "Should I open it?"

"Don't really have much of a choice."

A nod, a deep breath, and Sam's finger slides under the edge, ripping into the paper. His hands shake, and he doesn't even try to hide it as he dips inside and pulls out a piece of paper and a smaller envelope. The paper is just a thick piece of blue stationary, folded once, and Sam drops everything else onto his lap so that he can open it up and read it.

Dean can't help the impatience as he watches Sam read the letter silently, waits to hear what's written in it. He'd like nothing more than to reach out and rip it from Sam's hands, but instead he's forced to be still, hands splayed out on the armrest and refusing to obey command. Only the ventilator makes a sound, keeping time with its steady rhythm, in-click-out, in-click-out.

A series of changes comes over Sam's expression, first confusion and curiosity, then disgust, and finally flat out anger until Dean can't wait any longer. "Sam," he barks out as loudly as his limited air supply will allow. He has to wait for another breath, having used all of the first one in his outburst. It's worked, though. Sam breaks from his trance and looks at Dean just as he's able to say more. "Is it Adam? What's it say?"

His brother only gives a minute shake of his head, lips pursed, as he glances from Stu to Kyle and back again to Dean. Dean had actually forgotten the other two men were even in the room, but he understands immediately what Sam is trying to tell him. They only know the Reader's Digest version of what's happened to him, know that he was targeted by a sick man, know that the paralysis that plagues him was no accident. But they don't know that Adam still hunts him, don't know of reason behind the attack or the supernatural elements to it. And the less they know the better it will be for Dean.

"Stu, I need to talk with Dean alone. Is there somewhere we can go?" Sam puts on his most pitiful, pleading expression, tries to erase the fear that has come over him since reading the letter.

The aide seems a bit reluctant, and it's no wonder. Dean's well-being is his responsibility, not the contents of the package or the fact that the brother's have obviously fallen into family crisis mode. "He's been up for nearly six hours now. Dean needs rest."

"I know," Sam says. He's already off the bed, inching his way to the chair and his brother. "And I wouldn't do this if it wasn't terribly important. Please, I'll make sure he shifts his weight, and we'll come get you just as soon as we're done talking. We just…this is kind of urgent."

Stu takes another moment to think about it, uses the time to check Dean's temperature and pulse and reassure himself that his patient won't be going into autonomic dysreflexia anytime soon, before finally nodding his consent. "I'll take you to one of the conference rooms. Come on."

They make it down the hall, into an empty room, and Stu wastes no time in lowering the head of the chair and raising one side, relieving pressure on the spots Dean has been resting on for too long. And then he goes to the door, hesitates for another spilt-second. "Come get me if you need anything. And don't stay too long."
The door hasn't even closed all the way before Dean pounces once again, trying to make himself as authoritative as possible from his strange position. "Out with it, Sam. What does the letter say?"

There was a time where just that simple command would be enough to get his brother talking, an ominous knowledge of the physical consequences that will come of keeping quiet posing a very real threat. But now, Sam knows that Dean can't actually make him do anything, and Dean braces himself for his brother's refusal to answer.

But Sam just sighs, a defeated look on his face, and pulls a chair around so that he can sit and hold the letter within Dean's sight. "They're horrible people, Dean," he says by way of explanation before he opens the stationary to reveal the words.

Lori Ann's familiar block lettering jumps out at him from the page. She has written it, but there is no doubt that the words are Adams. They're vicious and cruel, mocking, and Dean finds that he can't fight back an array of tears from falling from his stinging eyes.

DEAREST DEAN,

TRYING TO GET OUT SO SOON? SHOCKING, REALLY, THAT YOU COULD LAST SO LITTLE TIME LIVING AS I DO AFTER ALL THE SANCTIMONIOUS ENCOURAGEMENT YOU TRIED TO SPOUT AT ME. YOU CAN'T EVEN MAKE IT THREE MONTHS? TRY 3 YEARS. IT'S NOT AS EASY AS IT MIGHT LOOK, IS IT DEAN?

BUT SUICIDE IS NOT THE ANSWER, NOT FOR YOU ANYWAY. I'M WATCHING YOU, DEAN. I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOU LIVE LIKE THIS FOR THE DURATION OF YOUR NATURAL LIFE. YEARS, DEAN. DECADES. YOU DON'T GET THE CHOICE OF TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT; NOT ON MY WATCH. IF YOU GET TO TELL ME HOW TO LIVE MY LIFE, THEN I GET TO TELL YOU HOW TO LIVE YOURS. ONLY FAIR, RIGHT?

BUT IN THE SPIRIT OF FAIRNESS, I'M WILLING TO THROW YOU A BIT OF A BONE. SO GO AHEAD AND CHECK OUT WHAT ELSE IS IN YOUR CARE PACKAGE, AND USE IT WELL. WE'LL BE IN TOUCH.

It's not so much what is said, as how it's said, and Dean feels a shiver go up the remaining portion of his spinal cord, into his skull. Just the knowledge that they're being watched, that Adam knows his whereabouts, knows about the suicide referral, and the fact that they have no clue where their tormentors are or how they're getting their information is enough to incite fear once again in him. And he's not sure, now, if he's relieved that Adam isn't planning to kill him, or if he's terrified by the alternative.

"What's in the envelope, Sam?" Dean finally asks once he's composed himself enough not to choke on the words.

Sam's hands shake as he opens it up and pulls the contents from within. There are more pictures, photos that neither one of them had known were being shot, and a post it note attached that says ADD THESE TO YOUR MEMORY BOOK. Sam immediately stuffs them back into the envelope, and Dean can't help but feel relief that he doesn't have to look at the painful reminders, not that he needs a photograph to remind him of something that he lives day in and day out.

Next is a bank slip, more money that Dean doesn't want to spend and Sam insists they have to. It's been an ongoing battle between the two of them, but once again, Dean doesn't exactly have a choice in the matter. He can protest all he wants, but if Sam wants him to use equipment paid for by Adam there is absolutely nothing Dean can do about it.

And finally, on the bottom of the pile in a ziplock bag is a folded up page of brittle paper that looks as though it's been ripped from a book. Another note is attached to this, with a message that reads THEY WON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH ME ANYMORE, THANKS TO YOU. SEE IF YOU HAVE BETTER LUCK.

It's weird how the notes can seem so cordial, friendly almost, as though Adam has allowed for the prospect of other peoples' prying eyes getting a good look at the pages. But for Dean and Sam, the malice behind the words speaks loud and clear, a siren in an otherwise deathly quiet night.

When Sam pulls the page out from the bag and opens it Dean watches as his body tenses exponentially and his jaw begins to work, as though his baby brother is trying to restrain himself from destroying something. He doesn't have to wait long to find out what it is, but Sam never actually shows him the page, just tucks it back into the bag with a nervousness that isn't typical for a Winchester.

"It's the demon spell," Sam says. "The one Adam used to walk again, when we had to exorcise him."

The understanding comes as a punch to the gut for Dean, fast and out of left field. Sam wouldn't let him see the spell because his brother is actually afraid that Dean might consider using it. He can't help but feel hurt at the fact that Sam doesn't trust him anymore, not even with something they have spent their whole lives fighting against. How Sam could possibly believe that Dean would even consider taking such drastic action, risk so many others' lives just to be whole again, is unfathomable. But he doesn't have it in him to argue right now.

"I think I need to go– back to my room." Dean says, quieter than normal. He won't meet Sam's eyes, which doesn't really matter because Sam won't meet his either. But Sam opens the door, finds Stu – who hasn't gone but five feet in the time since he's left – and lets the aid take Dean back to his room while he follows slowly behind. Dean can hear Sam's feet shuffling on the floor and knows without a doubt that Sam is fully immersed in emo-mode.

They will never mention it again, the spell. Dean, because he doesn't want to talk about Sam not trusting him, and Sam, because he doesn't want to remind Dean of its existence. But the implications of the letter will live on for a good while, fulfilling the expectations that Adam has plotted out.

---

For a while after that things just aren't the same between them. Dean once again doesn't want to talk, at least not to Sam. He will speak to the staff and the doctors, for once even to his psychologists, but purposely ignores his brother in every way possible. Sam, on the other hand, finds himself at an impasse between being afraid to leave Dean alone and needing to take some time for himself to breathe. He's been there almost night and day, except when Milla comes to relieve him, and it's becoming apparent that his presence isn't doing either of them any good.

Dean takes care of that problem one day when, finally fed up, he asks his doctor to have Sam removed from the facility until further notice. And despite Sam's protests, when Tanya shows up to escort him out, he leaves like a whipped puppy, tail between his legs and head down. Tanya plays the sympathetic role the minute she gets Sam into the hallway, putting her arm around his shoulders as she leads him to the exit.

"You can't smother him, Sam. You've just got to give him time to figure things out on his own."

"But I don't know what's going to happen to him if I'm not there," Sam protests. They both know what he's referring to, but Tanya doesn't look particularly concerned.

"Dean is in good hands, I promise. He won't be able to pull anything like that off unless we want him to. Don't worry, I will call you if anything happens, but in the meantime you just go home and get some rest. Trust me, you need to be stockpiling your energy for when Dean goes home."

Sam nods, disheartened but unwilling to appear any more out of control. He gives Tanya a curt thank-you and a cursory wave as he lets himself out the glass entrance and to the car he has borrowed, once again, from Milla.

Having been forced into a leave of absence because of her PTSD, the doctor doesn't go anywhere anymore, so it's not like she's missing her car most days. She drops Sam off on Mondays when she uses the car to grocery shop, but otherwise allows him free access, showering him with excuses as to why she needs to stay home. Most days it's too oversee the construction or to get some cleaning done, once it was to clear her things out of her room (Dean's new bedroom) and set up a new room upstairs for herself. She declines Sam's help when he offers, says the work will do her good and help to clear her mind.

When Sam arrives at Milla's that afternoon he finds the doctor behind the house, ripping out weeds from her meager flower garden as though they had personally done her wrong. He doesn't say anything to her, turns back to the house as though he'd never even seen her, and ends up walking straight into the middle of absolute chaos. Sam has spent so much time at the hospital, he's missed all the demolition that's taken place in the house, and has to remind himself that it's a necessary evil for renovation.

Friendly faces look up at him, smile and call out greetings, as Sam takes in the chaos on the main floor. He recognizes most of the faces, but doesn't remember any names. And he's really not in the mood for formalities anyway.

It's only once he has made the rounds of the house that Sam realizes another reason he's spent so much time at the hospital is to avoid the reminder of the permanency of Dean's injury. Not that seeing his brother strapped, immobile in a wheelchair with a tube breathing for him from his neck says livelihood and prosperity, but it's somehow different. And seeing the changes to the house come to life is doing nothing for his emotions.

The new elevator shaft is in, having been completed quickly in order to minimize the time with a big gaping hole in the side of the house. From the inside it just looks like a closet door, and Sam stares at it for a long time, relishing in the normalcy of the structure. He finds himself dwelling in a wish that Dean could find that for himself, and for Sam.

It isn't possible, though, for Dean to look anything but fragile now. Sam has taken note of that in the past few nights, when he'd find he was unable to sleep. Kyle's injury occurred only two vertebrae below Dean's – a factor of two, maybe three inches. But the differences between the two are staggering.

Where Kyle can breathe on his own, talk without mechanical assistance, move his wheelchair, Dean relies on the all too visible reminder of tubing and machinery. In sleep, Dean never moves, his bony body remaining frozen in position on the pillows the nurses have arranged around him. On more than one occasion Sam has found the emotion overwhelming when the nurses come in the middle of the night and turn him to the other side, Dean barely waking as they manipulate a body that can no longer feel their ministrations.

Kyle doesn't get that care. He does everything himself, waking to a quiet alarm and rearranging himself with spastic limbs that Sam envies for Dean. It doesn't matter the noticeable struggle Kyle has, his arms strong but his hands and fingers impossible and unresponsive. Sam would give anything for Dean to have that – to have more than he has now.

Sam envies the way that Kyle's injury isn't quite so noticeable, the way the sleek manual wheelchair is so much less obtrusive by comparison to the beast of a chair Dean uses, the way it takes so much less planning to prepare Kyle for the day than it does Dean, the way no one has to fear for Kyle's life every minute of every day because he's not being kept alive by a machine that breathes for him. Kyle can be left alone. Dean can't.

Thank God for the nurses, Sam thinks. Because suddenly he's realizing that rehab is the only time Dean can kick Sam out and be safe. When he comes home – to Milla's – that will all be over. No more chances to send Sam away in anger. Sam wonders if Dean has realized that, wonders if Dean is aware that he's about to discover what it really means for them to live out of each others pockets. Maybe that's why he insisted on sending Sam away.

After awhile Sam breaks from the door, but doesn't tour the rest of the house either. He's seen enough for the day, and he's really not eager to find out what sort of thoughts he'll prompt by looking in the bedroom.

Sam's stomach growls just then, reminding him that it's been ages since he's had anything of substance to eat. He makes a detour to the kitchen where he reheats some leftover soup in the microwave and carefully carries the bowl upstairs to his bedroom.

Milla had told him she rarely used the room. Until moving upstairs herself she'd barely spent any time upstairs period. And the emptiness of the space confirmed the revelation. It was a small room to begin with, just barely big enough for the twin bed and dresser she had set up in there, but for Sam it was plenty. The closeness of the walls actually helped to make him feel secure where, on contrast, he knows Dean would be feeling claustrophobic. His brother has never done well in tight spaces, and Sam supposes that was maybe why he'd been so comfortable with life on the open road. Of course, all that is behind them as well.

Slurping up a spoonful of soup, Sam begins studying the barren walls, seeking out imperfections and flaws in an effort to push thoughts of Dean out of his mind. He would drive himself crazy constantly thinking about his brother when there was absolutely nothing he could do about the present situation. If Dean wants him out he will give him that.

Time passed surprisingly quickly. Sam didn't remember hearing the work crew pack up for the day, or the sounds of Milla preparing for bed. At some point he must have stripped down to his boxers and fallen asleep, but he doesn't remember doing that either. Only knows that when he sleeps he dreams, and when he dreams things become much clearer.

---

"Son of a bitch! That little bastard." It's nearly three in the morning when Sam sits bolt upright in bed, realization dawning on his sleep addled mind. It had taken him forever to fall asleep, his brain grinding away as he considered the implications of Dean having him kicked out earlier in the day. Something didn't seem right, besides the obvious, and in dreams it's finally kicked in.

"It was a test," he mumbles to himself as he jumps out of bed and feels around in the dark for the pair of jeans he'd taken off earlier. "He wanted to see if I would really leave…and I did. Damnit!"

Now dressed, Sam stumbles down the stairs. His hand is on the doorknob when he realizes there is a light on in the den.

"Where are you headed this late?" comes a soft voice from inside, not scolding, just curious.

Nevertheless, Sam freezes like he's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He turns slowly and walks towards the door to the den until he can see Milla. She's sitting on the couch, legs pulled up beside her, and she's got a book in her shaking hands.

"I need to see Dean."

"Thought he'd had you kicked out for a few days," she says, once again with no accusation in her voice.

Sam shrugs, and can't help the cloud that crosses his face at the thought. "He did. But he didn't mean it."

Milla raises an eyebrow. "He didn't?"

"I mean – I thought he did, at first," Sam explains, "But then I realized he's just testing me." At Milla's look of confusion Sam sighs, realizing things will go much smoother if the woman is on his side. Besides, he doesn't have the car keys, and with her actually watching him he can't exactly take off in her car without getting permission.

The last time they'd talked Sam had been overwhelmingly surprised at how much better he felt afterward, impressed at the idea that she was actually rational and considerate, that she genuinely seemed to care how their lives ended up.

"Remember when I said we got another letter from Adam the other day?"

Milla nods, but doesn't press him for information.

"Well, in it he made another comment about how it's only a matter of time before I walk out on Dean. Bastard keeps trying to plant these ideas in Dean's head that I can't deal with the injury, that he made the wrong choice and now I'm going to leave him because of it."

"Dean can't possibly believe that," Milla protests behind a little gasp of surprise. "I barely know the two of you and I don't doubt your love for him."

"I know, but he's not exactly thinking straight these days. And it's always been his biggest fear – to be left alone. And I didn't exactly do anything to convince him otherwise today."

"You can't blame yourself for that, Sam. Dean had you physically removed from the facility. What were you supposed to do, pick a fight with the staff? Start throwing punches?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know. All I know is that he was testing me to see if I would actually go, and I did. I just proved Adam right."

"Sam—"

"No, don't. In Dean's eyes I left him, and I have to get back there and try to convince him otherwise."

"They're not going to let you in tonight, Sam. Think about it. You show up there at three in the morning, half crazed out of your mind, they're more likely to have you committed than let you in to see your brother. Why don't you call instead. He's probably sleeping anyway."

As much as Sam wants to do exactly what Milla is advising against, once again he can see the rationality in her words. She's already got the phone out of its cradle, pushing it towards him. Sam takes the unit, dials the number from memory, and asks to be patched back to the night nurse on duty for Dean's unit.

Mona answers, clear bewilderment in her voice at the late hour of the phone call.

"Mona, it's Sam. Listen, I know it's late, but I couldn't sleep and I just wanted to check on my brother. Is he…" He's not quite sure how to finish that question, because he doesn't really know what it is that he wants to find out.

Mona sighs softly. "Oh, Sam. Dean had a rough night tonight. He was being very stubborn – we couldn't get him to eat so he's been on feeding supplements all night to replace what he didn't get at dinner. And he's been verbally abusive to the staff. I actually had to threaten to take out the speaking valve if he couldn't say anything nice – you know how much I hate to make threats like that. I heard he had you thrown out today."

Sam nods, and then realizes she can't see him doing so. "Yeah, he did. That's actually why I'm calling – I realized why he did that, and I wanted to check on him. See if I could convince him to let me back in."

"Well he's finally asleep, Sam. But I'll tell you what… My shift if over at 8am tomorrow morning. You get yourself in here just before that and I will see what I can do to get Dean to talk with you.

For a moment Sam says nothing, virtually tongue-tied at the nurse's generosity. He's not used to people trying to help him, even now in the wake of so many caring individuals stepping up for Dean, and his immediate reaction is to wonder what the catch is. It's all he can do to keep his mouth shut.

"Thank you," he finally stammers out.

"No problem hon. Last thing I want to see is your brother pushing all his lifeline's away. He doesn't have many to begin with."

Ain't that the truth, Sam thinks as he hangs up the phone and sinks down into the chair across from Milla. He takes another look at the time, three fourteen am, and lets out a heavy sigh. "He's asleep right now. But Mona's gonna try and get me in before she's off duty tomorrow morning," he tells the woman.

"Good. That's good." She finally closes her book, but continues to hold onto it, the pressure around the cover keeping the trembles in her hands at bay. "Maybe you should try to get some sleep now too."

Sam shakes his head. "Can't sleep. Too wound up."

"So what are you going to do?"

"No clue," Sam throws up his hands. But he stops them abruptly halfway up, quickly drops them back down as an idea comes to him. Suddenly he's feeling unsure of himself once again, but he finds himself compelled to pursue it, determined to right a wrong he's quickly realizing was made.

"Your hands have been trembling an awful lot lately," he states, matter-of-factly.

Milla pulls them closer to her body self-consciously, eyes flicking down across the betraying appendages. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

"I don't think it is. Are you seeing anyone about it?"

"I've been seeing a therapist. She knows about it – says it's PTSD from the abduction. Says I need to be more open about what happened."

"And you don't believe her?" Sam asks, skeptically.

Milla bites her lip, apprehension clear in her reaction. "I believe her," she clarifies, "Just don't know what it is I'm supposed to tell her. How do I make her understand where this fear is coming from when there's no way she'll believe what really happened at that school. I can't talk about everything or she'll have me committed on top of everything else."

"Welcome to my world," Sam mutters under his breath.

"What?"

Sam smiles, understanding. "My whole life was about keeping the fairytales and the lore under wraps. We weren't allowed to talk to anyone about what we knew, what we'd done, what we'd seen. It was all about keeping the rest of the world protected."

"That must have been so hard on you boys, especially when you were younger. So what did you do?"

"My dad wasn't much of a coddler, but I had Dean to talk to. Mostly, though, we just kinda pushed everything out of our minds. Tried to live in the moment. It was easier if we didn't think about it."

"But that's all I do is think about it. I don't know how you did it, Sam."

Sam just shrugs and shakes his head. "I think it's easier when that's the only thing you know. See you – you've known better times. You've known a time when monsters were just fairy tales. But Dean and I never really knew that. He was four years old when the demon killed our mother, and Dad was on a vengeance path ever since."

"I guess that makes sense."

"You know you can talk to me about it," Sam offers, finding that the offer rolls off his tongue a lot easier that he expected it to. "I know I haven't exactly been the most forgiving of people, but I think you've proven yourself to me enough. And I'm sorry for treating you like I did. I was just…angry. Ya know? I mean, at Dean's situation. And I needed someone nearby to blame, since Adam and Lori Ann disappeared on us. You were just…convenient. I'm sorry."

"Sam, no one can blame me as much as I blame myself. Every time I look at Dean I find myself wondering if maybe I could have fought harder, resisted more. There are a million what ifs that go through my head. I'm constantly trying to figure out what I could have done to stop these events from happening.

"There's nothing you could have done," Sam reassures her. "Dean knows that, and so do I. Adam's power over you was too strong. And besides, Dean made a choice. He could have saved himself from this mess."

"At the cost of your life. I know I don't know you boys all that well yet, but if there is one thing I don't doubt it's the love you share for each other. Dean wouldn't have let you die – I'm certain of that."

"I know that," Sam sighs. "And I'd do the same for him. But it's hard knowing I'm up and walking around because of what he did for me. It's hard to see the sacrifice he made just so I could live. For someone like us it's a much greater payout than death."

"Is that why he tried to contact that guy?"

Sam nods. "We've prepared ourselves to die. But being disabled for the rest of his life wasn't in the plans."

"I can't imagine living that life," Milla shudders. "To be so ready to die, constantly."

"You get used to it." A shrug.

They sit in silence for a moment, then Milla breaks it with a humorless laugh. "I think you and I have more in common that we think. And on top of the list is the fact that we're both convinced Dean's injury is our fault."

"Guess we're both doomed." Sam gives her a sour look. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair and leans back against the couch.

"What are you going to say to him?" Milla finally asks.

Another shrug, and Sam realizes he's been doing that a lot lately. "Doesn't matter what I plan, it's all gonna take on a life of its own when I start talking. Hopefully something will get through to him."

"Do you really think this was just a test to see if you would leave?"

"Yeah. No doubt."

"But why?"

"Because it's one of the few things he can control right now. Because people have left him behind his entire life and he's convinced it's going to happen again. And he'd rather it happen on his terms."

"That's just dumb."

Sam can't help but laugh at that one. Because it's such a simplistic way to sum up the fucked up complication of their lives. It's always been one giant, tangled mass of understanding and miscommunication, starting from before Sam was even old enough to speak and progressing to him leaving for college. Even after he'd returned there were secrets and lies and half-truths, all under the guise of protecting one another. But in the end the only thing that truly did any good was honesty. And that's what Sam hopes to convey when he gets in to see Dean.

---

It's early, but for some reason Kyle is already gone when Mona sneaks Sam into Dean's room that morning. He doesn't question it, though, just accepts the privacy and treads lightly across the floor to where his brother is propped up on his side in bed, back to the door.

"Dean," Sam says hesitantly, quietly. He waits for a response, and when he doesn't get one he circles the bed so that he's facing his brother.

Dean's got his eyes squeezed shut, trying too hard to appear as though he's asleep, and Sam lets out a low sigh and drops his hand to his brother's cheek, rubbing the thumb against the coarse growth of beard from the night before.

"Fine, don't talk to me. But I know you're awake and I'm gonna talk. So just listen."

Sam watches Dean's nostrils flare, knowing it's a sign to choose his words carefully.

"Look, man, you and I? We're not communicating well. You're trying to make decisions about my life without consulting me first, and I know I've been doing the same thing to you a lot. We used to do better, ya know?"

Dean doesn't respond, despite the lengthy pause Sam creates in hope of some sort of acknowledgement. But he doesn't let it bother him – just forges on.

"So here's the deal, man. From now on, you and I are gonna consult each other on everything before making any drastic decisions. And I'll start."

Glancing down, Sam sees Dean scrunch his eyes tighter as he shifts his head minutely across the pillow towards Sam's hand and the gentle touch of his thumb. Sam smiles, and increases the speed to which he's stroking Dean's cheek.

"I've been selfish," Sam begins, taking a huge breath to prepare himself for what he's about to say. "This whole thing, the whole time, I've been making everything about me. I never actually stopped to think about how horrible it must be for you, to be so…dependant. I mean, you must be going out of your mind, man. So…I've been thinking…and if you want a way out I'll help you." He says the last in a rush of breath that jumbles all the words together, and then he takes a deep breath and holds it, refusing to continue until Dean says something. And hoping that Dean doesn't actually go for the offer, because Sam doesn't know what he'd do if Dean said yes, that he still wanted out.

Apparently the revelation has been enough to bring Dean out of his self-induced shell. His eyes pop open in disbelief, and for several seconds his mouth works like a fish out of water before he finally manages to make his voice match the timing of the air going through his speaking valve.

"Sam, that's not what I want." He says it so quietly, Sam almost isn't sure he's heard the right words. He's too afraid to believe his ears.

"It's not?" he asks finally.

"No. At least, I don't think it is. I mean…"

Sam raises an eyebrow.

"I want to live, I just…it's hard-- to live like this. I need more time-- to come to terms with everything."

"But just last week—"

"I know what happened last week—. And I can't promise I won't—think it again. But I've—realized that I'm not mad you—rushed in there when you did. –I'm glad you stopped me."

Sam doesn't bother to remind Dean that he would have been stopped regardless, instead simply stammers out "you are?"

"I think I'm just afraid to—be left alone. This can't—be easy for you, either."

"Doesn't matter, Dean. There's no where I would rather be, no matter how tough this is. I've got your back – just as you had mine."

Dean smirks, reverting to his usual ploy of brushing off the chick flick moments. "That's beautiful, Sam. You ever consider a job with Hallmark?"

Swatting lovingly at Dean's shoulder, Sam huffs. But then gets serious. "Dean, really, I'm not going anywhere. Ever. And you need to stop trying to push me away first. That stunt you pulled the other day was not cool."

"I needed some space," Dean argues, never one to admit his own mistakes when he can help it. "You were smothering me."

Sam just rolls his eyes, shoots a look of disbelief his brother's way. "Yeah, whatever dude. Just try telling me that next time. Things will go a whole lot smoother for the both of us if you don't actually try to get me thrown out of here every other day."

A grin. "Yeah, I guess that was a bit extreme."

"Ya think?"

"I just…didn't know what else to do."

"Well you're gonna have to figure out something else, because I'm not putting up with this crap again. You got me?"

This time Dean just nods, resigned to obey.

"And another thing," Sam adds, ignoring his brother's eye roll. "When you get out of here you'll be under my care. That means I have to learn what to do. No more of this kicking me out of the room for the dirty stuff – I know it sucks, man, but you've got to get over your hold ups and let me learn."

"Sammy, no," Dean pleads. It practically breaks Sam's heart to witness the desperation written all across his brother's face. But Sam holds his ground, staying silent as he lets Dean work through the agony of the decision at hand without pressure. Eventually resolve replaces the angst and Dean quietly agrees.

"I know this doesn't mean much, but for what it's worth I'm sorry it has to be this way. I promise I'll be sensitive."

---

When Chelsea comes ten minutes later to start the morning routine, Sam is every bit the eager student as he shadows the young nurse, but he's reserved, professional, as he makes every effort to put Dean's mind at ease. She covers every detail of the process; from hand washing to gloving up, checking and changing the catheter and suctioning the trach, flushing out and connecting the g-tube. She shows Sam how to check for pressure sores and the right (and wrong) way to move limbs so as not to risk breaking bones or spraining tendons. They go over the right way to apply pressure bandages and the reasoning behind the wrist and ankle braces.

Much of it is stuff they've already explained before, but Chelsea makes sure to go in depth this time, now that Sam is actually taking part in the process rather than just being a bystander.

And through it all, Dean can't help but feel like some fucked up version of a science experiment gone wrong. Anatomy lab, and he's the cadaver. Except he's not dead yet. Not his mind, at least.

Sam asks question after question, constantly afraid of messing up, of doing something that might hurt Dean instead of help. But through it all Chelsea's voice is quiet and calm, soothing as she reassures him that Dean isn't as fragile as the directives and precautions make him out to be.

Dean tries to keep a brave face. Indifferent. Tries to make it ok that his little brother is handling him as a thing, handling him period. Because in twenty-seven years Dean had never thought it would come to this. Never in a million years did he expect that his baby brother would be caring for him like an infant.

Eventually they've got him washed and dressed, the finer details taken care of, and it's time for morning PT. Stu arrives just in time for the transfer, but Chelsea quickly fills the aide in on Sam's new role in his care. And suddenly Dean finds himself not only an unwilling lab rat, but he also finds himself dropped into his usual big brother role. Except this time he's not sure this is something he can do.

Sam is nervous. Scared as hell is maybe a better term for it.

Dean knows that Sam has had some practice in the caregivers class, but only with a sand-filled dummy. But Dean is a different story, a whole different liability, and that fact registers like a neon sign flashing across Sam's face.

So the minute Chelsea suggested to Stu that they talk Sam through transferring Dean his brother has thrown out every excuse in the book why he shouldn't. And as much as Dean would rather agree, would prefer his brother not to be the one picking him up like a baby, he also knows Sam's arguments are completely and utterly unfounded. He's spouting nonsense about possibly dropping Dean or knocking out the vent hose, breaking something. Any of which could happen, but not with Sam at the helm. His brother is, if nothing else, meticulous to a tee and there is absolutely no way Sam would be so careless as to allow any harm come to him.

"Just do it, Sammy. I trust you." The words are hard to push out, but Dean stands by them.

"Dean, there are too many things that can go wrong. I can't—"

"You have to, Sam. You said—it yourself. You've got to—learn."

"Yeah, but maybe I'm taking things on too quickly. I mean look at everything I've already done today. Maybe this should wait another day. Or two."

"No Sam. Today." Dean glares at his little brother, hating Sam for making him have to be the strength in this, because he doesn't want to reassure him. He doesn't want to be the one telling Sam it's alright that he take a chance. He doesn't ever want Sam having to touch him in this way.

Sam finally nods, nervously, and looks to Stu for guidance.

In the past it's taken two of them, one to do the transfer and one for guidance of his wasted limbs. But lately, now that Dean can hold his head up on his own, Stu has been doing all the work himself. This time Chelsea crawls back onto the bed again, prepared to be support and guidance if necessary.

Dean sees Sam visibly relax at the backup.

Stu talks Sam through it step by step. Has him place Dean's legs over the edge of the bed, his feet nearly touching the floor. Has him prop Dean with pillows behind his back so that he's mostly sitting up and in an accessible position for Sam to lift him. They check to make sure the hose has a clear path, make sure Dean himself has a clear path, and that the wheelchair is properly aligned. It is amazing how much thought and preparation has to go into every single motion, every step. One miscalculation and the whole thing could go to pot.

When Stu gives the go ahead Sam bends down and slips his arms under Dean's armpits, grasping them together at his back and hugging him close. On a three count Sam heaves upward and swings him into the chair like he's been doing it his whole life. And then lets out a slow exhale that is the only sign he'd been nervous.

Dean forces a smile, a good job, but can't bring himself to say the words. He just hopes its enough.

Sam's confidence seems to increase by leaps and bounds from there. He straps Dean in and swaps out the hoses expertly, smoothes out the wrinkles in his clothes, and does a thorough once over to make sure everything is in place before nodding to Stu and Chelsea that he's all set to go.

Lanie is waiting for them in therapy, and apparently she's got some sort of surprise.

---

After delivering Dean to therapy Sam excuses himself for a few minutes to get a drink, take a bathroom break, have some time alone. He's suddenly found himself overwhelmed with everything, just needing to get away before he loses his composure in front of Dean. Because the effects of that would be far too detrimental to their healing to risk. So he goes off, takes some time for himself, and then forces himself back to watch before anyone becomes suspicious.

The thing that kills Sam the most is seeing Dean in therapy. Because Dean's therapy isn't what it is for everyone else. It's not about regaining motor control or improving dexterity. It's not even about maintaining muscle function for the day he can improve. For Dean, the only thing therapy really does is keep his limbs from turning inward and stiff, keeps his body flexible so that it's easier for his caregivers to move him. And it sucks, big time, that so much is being asked of him when the let down on the other end is so fucking huge!

They're in a big room with at least ten other patients at any given time, and every single one of them is in a better position than his brother. He scans the room, taking note of who else is there right then, and fights back his anger at the injustice of the situation as he does so.

Cindy, two doors down from Dean, is working on shoulder control. And Mike, across the hall, is learning to use the utensil holder on his right hand so he can hold a pencil. Lauren's on the hand cycle, strengthening muscles and learning control. They've got Henry catching and throwing balls, and nine-year-old Violet is up shuffling along in her walker like she hadn't been in a serious car accident just six weeks previously.

For weeks Sam has sat along the back wall and watched patients improve, seen them get better and check out, witnessed their ecstasy at breaching a milestone in their recovery. But he hasn't gotten to share any of that with Dean. There have been no milestones, no miraculous recoveries, and checking out of this place isn't about getting better. It's about making sure that Sam is ready to care for his brother, that Dean is emotionally ready to be released to the outside world.

Dean's improvements have come only in the form of technological advancement; not physical. Yeah, he can talk now, but he's still on the vent. He's learning to use his mouth to control machines that run the bed and the pager for his nurses, will soon have a wheelchair that he can control with a straw, but he's still stuck in the damn thing. For Dean there will be no learning to feed himself or write or comb his hair, there's no need to strengthen muscle, no need for control, no chance at throwing a ball around. Where Dean is at right now is pretty much where he will stay. And to say that doesn't suck would be a lie.

Sam can't even bring himself to try to be positive anymore. He's sick of it; sick of plastering on fake smiles and forcing cheer into his voice as he encourages his brother to make a go of things for just one more day, one more hour, one more minute. He just doesn't have the energy left – not after Dean's little suicide stunt.

He's sitting in a folding chair just inside the door, staring at his hands and trying not to appear too lost, looks up just in time to see Lanie wave him over from across the room. Sam gives a tired nod and pushes himself up, dragging heavy limbs across the floor to where Lanie's got Dean strapped into some new device that looks more like a medieval torture trap than therapy equipment. Dean doesn't make eye contact with Sam as he strides up beside them. He seems a bit nervous, chewing on his bottom lip as he's taken to doing a lot lately.

"Thought you might like to be here for this, Sam," the petite therapist chirps, bouncing around like she's got a million things to do and only a few minutes to do them in.

Sam raises an eyebrow but says nothing, and Lanie forges on without waiting for more.

"Dean's been doing well with sitting upright for long periods of time. We haven't had a bout of autonomic dysreflexia in nearly three weeks now, and I want to try something new."

"OK. What kind of new?" Sam can't hide his skepticism, thoroughly aware that there isn't much Dean can do. Sitting up, strapped tightly into the wheelchair is about it as far as Sam can tell. He eyes the equipment that Dean is on warily, taking in the narrow, padded table and the board sticking up from the bottom of it where Dean's feet are resting flush against it. Thick black straps like the ones that secure him in his wheelchair stretch across his chest (just under his armpits), his thighs and ankles. Sam can't even begin to imagine their purpose.

There is a twinkle in her eye as Lanie circles around to the side of the table she's got Dean strapped into and picks up a remote control. "You'll see," she says, mysteriously. "Ready Dean?"

Dean swallows, waits for the exhale of air. "Let's try it," he says on the whispery breath that has become his new voice. Sam flinches everytime he hears it, feeling a punch to the gut just as strongly as if someone had physically hit him.

There is the whir of gears that seeks to drown out the hum of Dean's ventilator, and suddenly Dean and the table he is laying on begin to move, slowly tilting from horizontal position to angle up. She brings the movement to a stop when Dean is laying at a 45 degree slant and starts messing with him, asking how he's feeling and tugging on the straps that keep him from falling.

Once she is reassured that Dean is okay, she proceeds and the table springs to life again. It takes to this point for Sam to truly realize what is happening here, and his face lights up with a giant grin. Within seconds Dean is nearly vertical, standing eye to eye with Sam, and it's the first time they've stood side by side in months.

"You're taller than I remember," Sam jokes. There is something about being face to face with his brother that suddenly puts a lot of things into perspective. Suddenly Sam feels like, once again, they're on the same level, and he finally feels himself relax just a bit.

"Don't know how you can-- tell," Dean scoffs. "What with your head so—high up in the clouds. –Sasquach."

Sam laughs, and it feels good. He realizes it's been probably as long since he's laughed as it has been since he's seen Dean standing, and it doesn't escape his notice that the two, once again, seem to go hand in hand. That Dean in that chair, right now, seems to automatically make the world a darker place, but to see him up makes the world light again.

It's not the same. And god knows, it never will be again. He knows he will never be able to look at Dean again without seeing the the equipment that allows him to continue living. But something about this standing table has made most of that disappear into the background. He doesn't see the straps or the hose or the lack of motion in Dean's limbs. All he sees is his brother, all he hears is the banter that they so rarely engage in anymore.

Less than five minutes later Dean's blood pressure rises and Lanie has to lower him down before it becomes a serious issue. But the significance of the opportunity sticks with Sam, and Dean too, and Lanie's reassurance that there will be more chances has both of them reaching out and grabbing onto the idea of future opportunities like a lifeline.

It's odd, Sam thinks as they head back to the room to lie down, how sometimes the most insignificant things, the things most people take for granted most days, can make such a big difference. Who would have ever thought that the boys would be taking so much stock in something as simple as standing eye to eye.