A/N: Beta'd by Catsluver, sallyloveslinus, and SKZB. They are, of course, the best betas in the universe. Any mistakes are ones I put there right before I posted because I'm OCD. Someone just needs to slap my hand away from the computer and tell me to STOP EDITING! :)

Also, don't forget that I will be posting EVERY Wednesday unless I tell you guys something different. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 3

Mid-September 2009

Sam pushed himself toward the break room of Mauze, Mathis & Howell. The prestigious law firm was located in an old house that had been converted to offices in west Berkeley. Sam was on his way to report to his boss, Parker Bankler. It was the beginning of the third week of September, four weeks since he'd started school and three weeks since he'd started clerking for the law firm. He had seen TJ last weekend for the long Labor Day holiday, but he already missed her. At least he would see her again next week when he was off for fall break.

His workloads were unbelievably intense, but it was paying off. He'd gotten an article accepted by the Berkeley Journal of Criminal Law to be published in their January 2010 edition, and his classes and clerking job were going well. He was working his ass off, hardly sleeping between work and school.

He tried to maintain a healthy diet and stay on schedule for his personal routines, but it was unbelievably hard. It was also hard to make time for yoga, but he killed two birds with one stone by doing his poses while talking to TJ in the evenings. He could talk to her on the speakerphone of his cell during his yoga practice before he went to bed or studied. It wasn't ideal because he didn't get the quiet meditation time that was so beneficial to his mindset, but at least he kept up his strength and stretched his muscles, which helped tremendously with spasticity and pain in his legs. And, of course, talking to TJ always cheered him up.

As he approached the door to the break room, he heard Leland Mauze, one of the founders of the firm, talking to Parker. Parker was a nice guy and a good attorney who worked like a slave trying to make partner. Leland, on the other hand, was the typical arrogant, overbearing type of lawyer in his sixties that gave lawyers a bad name. Sam hadn't liked him from the get-go. There was no other way to say it. Leland was the very definition of the word "dick."

There was the sound of coffee being poured into a mug and then Leland's booming voice. "How's that cripple been working out, Parker?"

Sam didn't want to eavesdrop, but how could he ignore that? Leland's voice was the kind that carried, and he was obviously referring to Sam. Sam wasn't aware of anyone else in the office that had a disability—at least, not one as obvious as his.

He stopped in the hallway and tried to keep his emotions in check. He normally ignored it when people called him a cripple, although, when he'd first been injured, he had hated the word. However, he realized now that most people who used it did so because they weren't aware of what the politically correct term was, and he didn't take offense.

It wasn't the word itself that annoyed him. "Cripple," "handicapped," "disabled," "paraplegic"—they all meant pretty much the same thing, the way he saw it. It didn't matter which one was considered PC for the moment. It was being labeled, the changing of his identity, that he didn't like; but he'd come to terms with it. Like it or not, in some ways he wasn't the same person he was before his injury, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It certainly didn't make him a lesser man. Leland hadn't used the word "cripple" out of ignorance, though. He was just being a jerk.

"Are you talking about Sam?" There was a tone of disbelief and disapproval in Parker's voice that Sam appreciated.

"Yeah," Leland answered, oblivious to the fact that he'd offended Parker. "The one that was sent here by the work-study program at Berkeley. Goddamn affirmative action. Do we get any tax breaks or anything for employing him?"

There was a long silence before Parker spoke. "Sir, Sam is a sharp guy and a hard worker. He's only been in school a month, and I've already had him writing a few briefs. In fact, I made an exception and chose him over other applicants because I was so impressed with his interview. Berkeley itself usually doesn't even recommend a first-year student in their first semester for work study because, most of the time, they want them focusing on class. He was an exception to the rule."

"Oh, come on, Bankler. You can't tell me his handicap wasn't the reason he got into Berkeley and probably why they sent him over here. I'm sure they have a quota for cripples just like they do for ethnic minorities. Pisses me off, you know? It ought to be based on merit, not what color you are or the fact you can't walk. Damn ADA and NAACP. Bunch of whiners, is what they are."

Sam rolled his eyes and exhaled. It was people like Leland that were the reason those organizations had been formed. Sam hated shit like this. It was always the wheelchair people saw first and the person in it second. He was used to it for the most part, but sometimes it hit him like a punch in the jaw.

Parker cleared his throat. His tone was respectful, but there was an undercurrent of subtle sarcasm. "It could be he was accepted to Berkeley because he scored a 174 on the LSAT. Or maybe it was because he had a 3.9 GPA as an undergrad. By the way, most of his undergrad was at Stanford."

Leland made a grunting noise. "Impressive, but you mark my words. He'll probably be out half the time for health problems or crap like that. We're not paying him sick leave, are we?"

"No, sir." Parker's voice was stilted. "He's a part-time employee."

"Good."

Sam decided he'd heard enough. He pushed himself into the break room and gave Leland a respectful nod of acknowledgment, as though he hadn't heard what had been said. "Sir?"

Leland nodded back. "How's it going, Tom?"

Sam clenched his jaw but didn't bother to correct him. "Fine, sir."

Leland levered away from the counter he'd been leaning on. "Well, I better get back to work," he chortled. He patted Sam's shoulder as he passed by. "Welcome to MM&H, son."

Sam kept his expression neutral, not wanting to reflect the fact that he thought Leland Mauze was a complete douche bag. "Thank you."

After Leland was gone, Sam looked up at Parker. "Just wanted to let you know I'm here."

Parker—average height, dark hair, mid-thirties, well-tailored suit—looked embarrassed. "How much of that did you hear?"

Sam shifted his shoulders. "Hear of what?"

Parker was dubious. "Sam—"

"It's Tom."

Parker laughed. "Leland is an ass. I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

Parker opened his mouth like he wanted to say more but then shut it, apparently realizing Sam just wanted to let it go. He nodded and started giving Sam instructions on what he needed to get done that day.

By the time Sam got home that night, he was exhausted. It was late in the evening, and he heated a quick dinner of frozen vegetable lasagna and made a salad. Once he was done with dinner, he changed into his workout clothes—shorts and a T-shirt—and transferred himself to the three thin yoga mats he had stacked together on the floor of the tiny living area to provide him extra padding. He called TJ on his cell and started his yoga practice while he waited for her to answer, trying not to think about the studying he still had to do for his Torts and Criminal Procedure classes.

When she answered, the sound of her voice warmed him from the inside out. "Hey," he said softly.

"Hay is for horses," she replied, her voice sounding small and tinny on the speaker.

"So, what are you wearing?" he teased, exhaling loudly as he flowed into a more challenging pose. He always asked her that as a joke.

"Ooh, it's my favorite creepy phone sex guy."

He smiled and felt some of the tension from the past couple of days begin to wane. Lately, they hadn't been able to talk every day because of hectic schedules, and they hadn't talked last night. He had missed hearing her voice. It seemed like forever, even though it had only been two days.

"I'm wearing," she said, bringing him back to the moment, "a tight black T-shirt with the sleeves and the midriff cut off, lime-green satin hot pants, and knee-high black socks with fuchsia peace signs. My T-shirt has my roller derby nickname on the back, 'Sammyvore.'"

"'Sammyvore'?"

"Yep. I actually liked 'Attila the Honey' or 'Genghis Connie' better, but they were already taken."

He laughed. "Wow. I didn't realize you were such a roller derby fan."

"Mm-hm. I think Sammyvore fits me, though, because I'm gonna devour you next time I see you."

"Ah, I like it. But next time we get together, don't forget the elbow and knee pads."

She gave a little giggle, then yawned in the background, the release of her breath slow and sounding sleepy. "So, what are you wearing?"

"Uh, a silver Members Only jacket, Patrick Swayze's pleated white pants from Roadhouse pulled up high on my waist, and Judd Nelson's boots from The Breakfast Club."

She giggled again. "Mercy. You really know how to turn a girl on."

"I try," he said with a grin. He shifted into Warrior I pose, which looked something like a lunge. Using his hand, he placed his left leg forward, thigh parallel to the floor, sole of his foot flat on the mats, and placed his right knee behind him on the floor, shin flat on the mats. His right palm was on the mats to help maintain his balance, but his legs were actually holding up his body in this pose. It was something he never would have believed he could do if his yoga teacher hadn't shown him. He slowly raised his left arm, making the pose more challenging and working on his balance. "So, tell me what you did today."

She didn't answer.

He glanced at his phone, wondering why she wasn't talking. "Teej, you still there?"

"What?"she said sleepily.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Something wasn't right about her voice.

He lost his balance and braced himself, palms on the mat. "Are you sure?"

"Just tired, I guess. Gretchen and Ralph were here last night and stayed late."

"Here" was her apartment. She had moved back into it after Sam left for Berkeley. She'd felt weird about living with Dean without Sam there and didn't think her parents would approve. Her parents were all for flouting convention in some ways and old-fashioned in others.

"Ralph was there?" He tried to keep his tone even, tried not to be jealous.

"And Gretchen," she reiterated. "They came over and we watched a movie. I think they have the hots for each other. We've all been hanging out lately."

"Really?" He wondered just how much they'd been hanging out.

"I think they're using me as a sort of mediator or chaperone or something. I told Ralph he should just man up and ask her out, but he keeps hesitating."

Sam didn't like the sound of that and wondered just exactly what was making Ralph hesitate. He hated that Ralph lived so close to TJ, in the apartment just below her. It hammered home the fact that Sam lived five hundred miles away.

There was a time that something romantic might have developed between TJ and Ralph. If Sam hadn't told her his true feelings on the night of what was supposed to be her first date with the blond frat boy, things might have turned out a lot differently.

"Sam, you still there?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm here."

"Why are you being so quiet?"

He almost shrugged but realized she couldn't see it. He had been distracted and had stopped his yoga, so he forced himself to pay attention and flowed into another pose. "Sorry," he finally said.

There was a slight pause. "You know there's nothing going on with Ralph and me, right? I mean, I have no feelings whatsoever for him other than friendship."

"Maybe it's not your feelings I'm worried about."

He could almost hear her eye roll. "He doesn't feel that way about me, either, Sam."

"Right." He was skeptical.

"He knows you're the one I love and always have." Her tone was quiet and a little reproachful, as if she shouldn't have to say that.

Sam sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm really missing you."

"I know. Me, too." There was a beat of silence, and then her voice sounded more chipper. "So, tell me what you did today."

He told her about some of the more interesting discussions in his classes and the people in his small study group. He'd made several friends. Berkeley had a different method than most law schools and encouraged more camaraderie and less competition among its students. It created an environment that was more conducive to learning and less stressful, although the workload was still grueling.

"What about work?"

He thought about the remarks he'd overheard from Leland. He didn't want to talk about it. "Work's fine."

There was a pause. "Are you sure?"

She was always so intuitive where he was concerned, could almost always tell by his voice when something was wrong. Still, he didn't feel like getting into it. "Yeah. Everything's fine. Parker's a decent guy."

She didn't say anything.

"So, you never told me about your day," he said, diverting the conversation from himself.

"Not much to tell. I spent most of the day in the lab with Dr. Rostom. Did you walk with your braces today?"

He paused, knowing she wasn't going to approve. "Uh, no."

She exhaled an exasperated breath. "Sam, how long has it been?"

"I know. I'll wear them all week when I'm home for break."

"Promise?"

"Yeah. I promise."

"'Kay. I think I'm gonna have to go. I'm so tired."

"Okay. I'll see you in a few days."

"I'm counting the minutes. Goodnight. I love you."

He closed his eyes, wishing with all his soul he was there to kiss her and hold her in his arms. "I love you, too, Teej. Goodnight."

XXXXXXXX

Sam frowned, not liking how TJ sounded.

It was a week and a half after his return to Berkeley from fall break, and he was having a hard time engaging her in conversation on their nightly (for the most part) phone call. "TJ, are you okay? You're not saying much."

"Yeah. I'm fine. Just tired."

He was instantly concerned. He paused in his yoga practice, too distracted to continue.

It had been great spending fall break with her, but he didn't like that she had lost weight and was tired a lot. Her appetite had been almost nonexistent, but she had chalked it up to a cold. The fatigue seemed to be a part of every conversation with her now, but she always brushed it off when he said something about it. "Are you gonna go to a doctor?" he prodded.

She huffed like that was silly. "Because I'm tired? No. I've just been workin' my ass off."

"You weren't a hundred percent when I was there for break, and you don't seem any better. I really think you need to see a doctor."

She sounded annoyed. "It's not a big deal."

"TJ, if you're sick—"

"I'm not sick." She sounded defensive.

He wondered if her lack of appetite while he'd been home for break was a sign of something more sinister. He didn't want to think it, but what if the bulimia and anorexia were rearing their ugly heads? "TJ, have—have you been eating enough?"

There was a heavy pause. "What exactly are you asking me, Sam?" Her tone was neutral, but he sensed that she wasn't happy with him for asking that.

"I'm sorry. It's just..." He trailed off, not knowing how to broach the subject without pissing her off.

"Just what?"

He exhaled. "It's just that I could see when I was home that you had lost weight, and you were so tired. Obviously, you still are. It's—the symptoms—I—"

"You're afraid I'm starving myself or that I'm making myself barf."

He didn't want to blatantly admit it, so he didn't answer.

"I swear to you, I'm not starving or purging. I've got it under control. You know that. Caitlin wouldn't have released me from therapy if she didn't think I was better."

Caitlin was TJ's counselor for what TJ called her "ED," her eating disorder. TJ had been in therapy with Caitlin for over a year—diagnosed as bulimic with anorexic tendencies—and had been released from Caitlin's care during the summer. However, it wasn't out of the question that TJ could regress. After all, it had happened before. She had fooled everyone after her first bout with bulimia and anorexia. A different counselor had released her that time too. TJ eventually relapsed and almost died from a ruptured esophagus as a result of violent vomiting.

It was a sensitive issue with her, and he needed to be careful what he said. More than anything, he knew it was important to her that he trusted her. She hated it when people were suspicious and treated her like a mental case. He wanted to believe her, but, at the same time, he knew how the disorder could distort things in her mind. She could convince herself that she was fine, that starving herself or purging wasn't wrong, and he knew the lengths she might go to in order to hide it.

"What the hell, Sam? Are you still there?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"I'm not—" She stopped abruptly, sounding angry, and exhaled a harsh breath. When she spoke again, she sounded defeated. "It's not the ED."

He hated that he had put that tone in her voice and tried to explain. "It's just—you looked thinner when I saw you last week, and you didn't eat very much. And you were so drained of energy. I'm sorry. It's—I worry sometimes. I don't want anything to happen to you." He paused, feeling uncomfortable, not sure he should say what he was about to say. "That's, you know, how it started before."

She was silent, but he thought he could hear her breath hitch, like she was maybe on the verge of tears, if she wasn't crying already. He felt like a dick for upsetting her. "Please, TJ. I trust you. If you tell me it's not the ED, then it's not the ED. I believe you."

"It's not the ED. I made a promise to you. Remember?"

"Yeah. I remember."

She had promised him that she would always tell him if she was struggling with the bulimia, that she would tell either him or Caitlin if she started wanting to starve or purge again.

"So, if you're not better by next week, will you go see a doctor? If it's not the ED, don't you think you should make sure nothing else is wrong?"

She gave a long sigh. "Yeah. I guess."

"I love you, TJ."

She didn't reply.

"Teej?"

"Goodnight, Sam." The line clicked, and she was gone.

XXXXXXXX

Sam was using a desk in the library of MM&H to do his work, researching obscure precedents on his laptop, hoping to find something online that would help Parker in his latest case. If he couldn't find anything online, he'd have to do it the old-fashioned way, going through books, old court records, or making a trip to the Berkeley law library.

He arched his back over the backrest of his chair and pressed his palms into his seat, lifting his buttocks a bit to do a pressure release. It was four in the afternoon. Between class and work, he'd been in his chair for eight hours and still had another couple of hours before he was done and could head to his apartment. He wouldn't blow off walking in his braces tonight. He hadn't been doing it enough lately, and if he wasn't careful, his upper-body strength and stamina would suffer.

He rolled his neck from side to side, trying to ease some of the tension out of it, and was about to get back to his research when his cell phone rang. It was Dean. They talked several times a week, so Sam didn't think anything of it as he hit the talk button. "Hey, man. What's up?"

Dean got right to the point. "Sam? Have you noticed anything weird about TJ lately? She sound okay when you talk to her on the phone?"

A ball of dread formed in Sam's stomach and slowly seeped outward. "I—uh, what do you mean?"

"I went home for a late lunch today, and I ran into her when she was at the apartment to let Rocket out. I hadn't seen her since you were here for your break. Sam, she's lost more weight, and..."

Sam swallowed. "And what?" he prompted.

"When I first came in, I heard her in my bathroom. Look, I might be wrong, but it sounded like gagging sounds, and when she stepped out into the hallway, her face was blotchy and her eyes were watery. She seemed kind of nervous when she saw I was there."

Sam slowly closed his eyes, his heart sinking like a stone. He didn't want it to be the bulimia. She had worked so hard, had been doing so well. He had begun to think she'd really beaten it.

"I'm sorry, man."

"Fuck," Sam muttered to himself.

"You, uh, want me to maybe have a talk with her?" Dean sounded like he'd rather eat dirt.

If Sam hadn't felt so heartsick, he might have smiled at the fact that Dean was willing to risk having a talk with what was more than likely going to be an extremely pissed off TJ about a really awkward, touchy subject. "Thanks for the offer, but no. I'm gonna check flights. I'm coming home."

XXXXXXXX

Dean picked Sam up from the airport, and they were in the Impala on their way to the apartment. After Dean's call earlier in the day, Sam had booked an outrageously expensive last-minute flight on Delta. He'd almost been tempted to charge it the "Winchester way" on a fake card, but his conscience wouldn't let him do it. He'd charged the flight on his legitimate credit card and figured it would cost him twice as much once he finally paid it off with the exorbitant interest the credit card bank charged.

He'd called Parker to let him know that he would have to miss a few days. He hated to do it, especially after what he'd overheard Leland say about how he would probably call in sick a lot because of his disability, but TJ needed him. He'd be damned if he was gonna sit on his ass five hundred miles away. He told Parker it was a family emergency but didn't give an explanation, and Parker didn't ask for one.

Parker was understanding and suggested that Sam could work remotely if he wanted to. Since Sam didn't get paid for sick leave and didn't know how long he'd be gone, he had readily agreed. It would be a huge help if he didn't have to go those days with no pay.

His flight had landed just after eleven, and his first time to travel by air as a wheelchair user had been uneventful. Luckily, the booking agent advised him to get a window seat so that the other passengers on his row wouldn't have to climb over him to get up. His knees were cramped in the small space, but since he couldn't feel them, comfort wasn't an issue. However, he had to check them periodically to make sure they weren't pressing too hard into the seat in front of him. He had to constantly be on the lookout for anything that might cause a pressure sore.

The only part he hadn't liked was having to gate-check his wheelchair and ride down the rest of the Jetway in the specially-made, extremely narrow wheelchair that would fit down the aisle of the plane. He was irritated by the fact that the flight attendant had insisted he buckle the seat belt on it and that he had to be pushed by someone else because there were no hand rims. Plus, he'd felt a bit like a clown riding a tricycle, folding his large frame into the chair that was obviously made for a much smaller person.

Next time, he would still use his wheelchair most of the time but wear his braces. That way, he could just walk onto the plane and avoid the aisle chair altogether, plus he'd have his crutches and braces for wherever he was going and wouldn't have to worry about packing them. He kicked himself for not thinking of that. He had packed hastily and thought the braces and crutches would be a hassle.

Dean glanced over at him. "So, Heather got TJ to come over to our apartment under the pretense of watching a chick flick. You won't have to deal with trying to get up the stairs to TJ's apartment."

"Good. She suspect anything?"

"I don't think so. She didn't act like she thought anything was up."

Sam nodded and looked out the passenger window. He hadn't wanted Dean to tell TJ he was coming. He was afraid she would be upset and try to talk him out of it if she'd known, and he wanted to see her for himself and talk to her in person about what was going on. He was looking forward to seeing her, to surprising her even, but he dreaded the conversation that would follow.

Dean broke into his thoughts. "She seemed glad to come hang out, said she didn't have that much studying to do. Maybe she's a little lonely at her apartment, you know?"

Sam snorted. "I doubt it."

One of Dean's brows curved upward. "Why do you say that?"

Sam shrugged, wishing he hadn't said anything. "Nothing. It's just that I think she hangs out with Gretchen and Ralph a lot."

"Ralph, huh? Do I detect a little jealousy, Sammy?"

"No," he lied. "She says Gretchen and Ralph have a thing for each other. They're using her as the matchmaker."

"Uh-huh." Dean sounded skeptical.

"Shut up, Dean."

Dean's expression was innocent. "I didn't say anything."

Sam looked out the window again, annoyed.

"I'm just kiddin'. Like TJ would ever cheat on you."

Sam gritted his teeth.

"Although, you do live eight hours away..."

"Shut up, Dean."

Dean waggled his brows and smirked. Sam ignored him.

A few minutes of silence went by, and when Dean spoke again, he was more serious. "I'm glad you're home, but I'm sorry it's because of this."

Sam felt his stomach knot at the reminder that he wasn't home for a holiday. "Yeah. Me, too."

Shortly after that, they were at the apartment. When Sam pushed himself through the front door into the dim interior, he immediately saw TJ curled up on the sofa sound asleep, motley hues of color flashing across her face from changing scenes on the television's flat screen. His heart swelled at the sight of her. She looked so innocent, so at peace.

Rocket bounded over to him and leaped up onto his lap, tail wagging so hard his entire body shook, bathing Sam's face in wet dog kisses.

"Hey, boy," Sam whispered, laughing a little at Rocket's exuberance and trying to get his face away from the slobbery licks. He grabbed the scruff of Rocket's neck and gave it an affectionate squeeze before scratching the dog's chest and his floppy, Labrador ears.

Heather got up from the hideous, mauve-plaid recliner that sat near the sofa, a fossil from the '80s that was part of the living room furniture Dean and Sam had gotten secondhand. She switched off the TV and set the remote on the coffee table, then headed toward Sam.

He gave Rocket another pat and nudged his rump. "Rocket, off." He kept his voice low so as not to wake TJ. Rocket reluctantly did as he was told but stayed near Sam, his tail wagging hopefully.

Heather approached Sam and leaned down to give him a welcoming hug. "Hey, Sam," she said with her usual shy, sort of crooked smile, voice hushed. "It's good to see you."

He returned her smile, genuinely glad to see her. "You, too."

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'll put your bags in your room."

"Thanks."

Dean nodded and disappeared down the hallway.

Heather bent her knees and crouched to more or less eye level with Sam. He was actually looking down at her a little bit now, which was a rare thing. She was holding onto one of the push handles on the back of his chair for balance. He didn't like when strangers did that, but Heather was a good friend and knew not to do anything that would throw him off kilter.

Even in the feeble light from the lone table lamp in the room, her eyes were a startling color of light blue. She tucked her coppery hair back behind her ear and gave a fond glance at TJ. "She fell asleep about ten minutes into the movie. She's been out like that for about three hours."

Sam studied TJ's sleeping form with worry. That wasn't like her. She never fell asleep during a movie, no matter how bad or boring it was or how tired she was. It was a pet peeve of hers when people did that, and she would poke him in the ribs to wake him up if he started to fall asleep.

Heather smiled with sympathy, like she had an idea of what he was thinking. "Well, I'll let you have some time alone with her." She gave his shoulder a parting squeeze and left the room.

Sam pushed himself over to the sofa, getting as close to TJ as his chair would allow, careful not to bump the end of the coffee table. He had the type of chair that had a footplate that didn't stick out, that kept his feet tucked closer in and more out of the way, but he still had to watch that he didn't ram them into anything.

TJ's head was lying on a throw pillow on the arm of the couch. He leaned forward, resting one forearm on his knee and reaching out with his other hand to brush back a few stray strands of her dark hair from her face.

Rocket seemed to sense that he'd been upstaged by TJ and crawled under the coffee table, giving a disgruntled snort as he got settled. Sam smiled and then focused his attention back on TJ.

Her hair was like fine silk and was always escaping from its ponytail. He wondered why she even bothered to put it up. It looked good down, sort of framed her face. In fact, she wore it down a lot when she was helping to teach a class with Dr. Rostom, but she always wore it in a ponytail when she was lounging around or wanted to be more casual.

She was lying on her side, one hand supporting her head under the pillow and one hand in a relaxed fist under her chin. Her long legs were curled up so that her bare feet wouldn't hang off the end.

God, how he loved her and how he'd missed her. He traced her nose with his finger. "Teej?"

She scrunched her nose like she had an itch, temporarily causing her freckles to be displaced.

He chuckled softly. "Teej, wake up."

She flattened her hand out so that her palm was flat against the fake leather of the sofa, and he rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. She smiled faintly but was still obviously asleep, like she was having a good dream.

"Wake up, Joy."

She frowned a little at that, which amused him. She really hated it when he used her middle name. She made a little moaning noise of protest, still not awake.

"TJ, wake up." Obviously being gentle wasn't doing the trick, so he shook her shoulder and spoke louder. "It's me, Sam. I'm here."

She inhaled a deep breath that was heavy with sleep and opened her eyes, squinting at him. "Sam?" Her voice was groggy with a note of doubt.

"Hey," he said with a smile.

She rubbed her eyes and blinked. "I'm dreamin', right?" She drawled out the word "right," her Kentucky accent coming through.

He shook his head. "Uh-uh."

She rose up a little, bracing herself with her elbow. A grin of delight spread across her features, but then it faded and her expression morphed into one of confusion. "What...what are you doin' here?"

"Oh, you want me to go?" he teased. He gripped his wheels like he was about to swivel his chair around and leave.

Her hand shot out and grabbed the frame of his chair, stopping him. "Not so fast, Bubba. Of course I don't want you to go."

"Good. I was hoping you'd let me stay awhile."

Her eyes settled on his face, wry humor in them. "That depends on why you're here."

"I came to see you," he said quietly.

She sat up all the way, her expression wary. "But—but why? It's a Wednesday. You're gonna miss class and work."

"Scoot over."

She wiped more sleep from her eyes and slid over, making room for him. He transferred easily onto the sofa, not even bothering to lock the brakes on his chair, and put his arm around her. With his other hand, he cupped her chin and pressed his lips to hers. She curled her hand into his button-down shirt.

He kept the kiss gentle, tasting her slowly and savoring it. They lingered that way until, finally, he pulled away a fraction to look into her eyes.

She was troubled, despite the tender kiss they'd just shared. She frowned and lowered her gaze.

He knew in that moment that she had a pretty good idea why he had come. He drew in a breath, inhaling the flower-and-mint scent of her hair, and hugged her close. She laid her head on his shoulder and he rested his chin on the top of her head. Neither one of them spoke for several minutes.

She was the first to break the silence, her voice barely audible. "It was Dean, wasn't it?"

He was hesitant to admit it. He didn't want her to be mad at Dean.

"He called you after he saw me today," she stated. Her tone was strangely flat, devoid of emotion.

"Yeah."

She didn't say anything, but Sam knew she wasn't happy about it.

"Don't hold it against him," said Sam. "He was just looking out for you."

She sighed. "How much did it cost you to fly here?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does," she insisted. "It's stupid. I'm fine. He shouldn't have called you."

Sam kept quiet. He didn't think arguing with her would get him anywhere, and, besides, he figured his silence let her know he disagreed.

"You're in the middle of the semester, Sam. Your first year of law school. You shouldn't be missing class."

"I'll catch up. It's mostly reading."

She huffed. "What about work?"

"I can do a lot of it from my laptop. It's fine."

"Did you tell your boss that your loony girlfriend went off the deep end again?" She sounded bitter.

"No. Just that I had a family emergency."

"I'm not an emergency."

He waited a moment before answering. "No. You're my life."

She made a noise that was part sob, part frustrated laugh, and gripped his shirt tighter. "No fair. I'm really, really ticked off right now. You don't get to say sweet things that turn me to mush."

He kissed the top of her head and idly stroked her arm with his fingertips. She was quiet for a long time, but he was patient, knowing she would talk to him when she was ready.

"It's not the bulimia," she finally said. She let the declaration hover in the air between them, as if daring him to challenge her. When he didn't, she went on. "But Dean was right. He did hear me throwing up."

Sam felt a jolt of sickening fear at her admission and wrapped his other arm around her, almost crushing her to him, wanting to protect her with everything he had. But how did he fight something that was invisible, that couldn't be touched? He exhaled slowly and tried to keep any judgment out of his voice, tried to be gentle. "If it's not the bulimia, why would you make yourself throw up?"

She gave a derisive huff. "I didn't."

"I don't get it."

She let out a shaky breath, like she was trying to keep from crying. "Something's wrong with me, Sam."

He didn't like how fragile she sounded, how afraid. "What do you mean?"

"It's not the eating disorder," she reiterated, "but I feel nauseous all the time and I've kind of been throwing up a lot. Everything makes me sick, even my favorite foods. I keep losing weight, but I swear I'm not trying to.

"I keep getting headaches, and I'm so tired all the time. Every minute of the day, I am utterly exhausted, even though I sleep sometimes ten or eleven hours at night. Sometimes I fall asleep at nine and don't wake up until seven or eight the next morning. I've been blowing off some of my classwork because I'm just too tired, and I know I've been doing a crappy job for Dr. Rostom. He's just too nice to say anything, at least not yet."

Sam didn't like what he was hearing, but he couldn't help the relief he felt that it wasn't the bulimia. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry, and I kept thinking it would go away. I thought maybe I had the flu or something or that I was pushing myself too hard with school and work, but..."

"But what?"

She was hesitant. "Don't get mad."

"Why would I get mad?"

"Because it's been going on for a while now."

She was right. It made him mad that she hadn't told him, but he tried to keep it from his voice. "TJ, I thought we agreed we weren't gonna hide things like this from each other."

"I know, and I'm sorry. It's just weird. It's gradually gotten worse, and I really thought it would go away. I didn't think it was really a big deal until recently."

He exhaled a long breath.

"I was afraid if I told you, you'd overreact." Her tone turned ironic. "Like get on a last-minute flight that probably cost you an arm and a leg and fly here in the middle of the week."

"I didn't overreact. You need to see a doctor, TJ."

She was quiet for a second, and when she spoke, her voice was filled with emotion. "I'm scared, Sam. I've researched my symptoms on Google. It could be anything from chronic fatigue syndrome to a brain tumor or stomach cancer. None of it good."

"We need to know what we're dealing with. You've got to see a doctor. What if it's something that can be easily cured if we catch it early enough? Maybe it can be treated with something simple, like a change in diet."

She leaned her head back and looked up at him, a large tear rolling down her cheek. "What if I'm dying, Sam? What if I finally have everything I've ever wanted in life, and now I'm dying?"

He knew she was genuinely distraught and felt bad for her, but he couldn't help but be slightly amused at how dramatic she sounded. "You're not dying, TJ. Those symptoms are pretty general. They could be a sign of a lot of other things."

She nudged his shoulder in an admonishing gesture. "It's not funny."

"I know."

"I can still see your dimples," she accused petulantly.

He chuckled softly and brushed away a strand of hair that was stuck to her damp cheek. "You're going to call first thing in the morning and make an appointment. We'll find out what we're dealing with and fix it. Okay?"

"'Kay."

He kissed her forehead, but when he drew back, he saw that she was still terrified. "TJ—"

"I love you so much, Sam." Her words tumbled out in a rush. "I don't wanna die now. I don't wanna leave you."

He locked eyes with her, making sure he had her full attention. "Listen to me. You are not dying. Do you hear me?"

She sniffed and lowered her eyes, nodding.

He drew her into a hug, gently pressing her head over his heart and combing his fingers through her hair. She wasn't dying. That was impossible. She was just freaking out, fearing the worst because she hated doctors as much as he and Dean did.

He tried not to think about all the people in his life he'd lost for one reason or another. Winchesters seemed to be cursed (himself in particular), and it rubbed off on anyone associated with them.

But, no. He was done with all that. He'd broken that curse when he killed Yellow Eyes. He wouldn't lose TJ. She would be fine, and he refused to believe anything else.

TBC