Thanks to all those of you who are still with me on this story, and also thanks for all the reviews. They are exxxcellent and mean a whole helluva a lot to me. But as a sidenote, to those who believe I should have given some warning as to where this story was headed in the summary, all I can say is that I let the story write itself as it unfolds. And truthfully, I've never once opened a book that had a detailed summary as to what I might find questionable so I could decide whether or not to read it. And if the worst thing I ever do as a writer is try to give as accurate of description as possible to any series of events, well, then I've done my job and have nothing to be ashamed of. Sorry for the little rant, but I feel I deserved to have my say. Seth
Chapter Nine
Dean didn't want to be angry with Sam, didn't want to resent the fact that his little brother would leave the hospital and crutches behind while he wasn't so lucky, but he couldn't help it. Every single twinge and burning sensation he felt from his non-existent lower left foot, reinforced his growing rage toward the one person he cared about most in all the world.
The doctors had called it phantom pain, and had explained how his brain was reworking its circuitry. However, he had stopped listening to them when they went on to explain how they could attempt to combat the symptoms.
"I'm being haunted by my fuckin' foot," he muttered under his breath, a wry chuckle escaping him at the irony. "Already know how to combat that – salt an' burn the damn thing the first chance I get."
"You say something, Dean."
"No," he said in a curt manner, although he had heard the sound of hope in Sam's tone, and saw his little brother's face fall in response.
"Well, if you wanna talk, I'm here." A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Sam's lips, but faded rapidly when Dean shook his head.
"There's nothin' to talk about." It was a lie. There were a million things ramming around inside his mind that needed to be said. He wanted to tell Sam it wasn't his fault, and really make him believe it. He wanted to say that things would all work out, and have it be the truth and not just wishful thinking on his part. He wanted to say that they would hunt again. But every time he opened his mouth to speak, his gut clenched tightly and the words died on his lips.
He was saved from having to make awkward conversation when the door opened and a woman entered the room. She looked to be in her early forties, graying slightly at the temples of her curly chestnut hair. With a clip board tucked under her arm, she maneuvered a wheelchair between the two beds. At first Dean thought she had come to speak with Sam, but she turned to face him instead.
"Hello, Dean," she extended an arm to shake his hand, but when he failed to take hold of it she let it fall back to her side. "My name's Sandra Richards, and I'm the resident Prosthetist here at Saint Anthony's.
"You're a what?" Dean's eyes widened in confusion, thinking her title sounded vaguely like a prostitute, but highly doubted she was here to bring him any pleasure at all.
"I'm a Prosthetist," she restated as if he hadn't heard her the first time. "I've been working with your doctors to fit you with a temporary prosthesis so you can be up and walking before you leave the hospital."
Dean could feel the weight of Sam's puppy-dog eyes on him, and purposely kept his gaze averted. It was hard enough to have to listen to this woman talking about his missing lower leg and walking again as if it were not a big deal, without having to deal with his little brother's guilt at the same time.
Eye on the prize, Dean, he reminded himself, trying to bolster his dwindling resolve. Walking is one step closer to hunting again – One step closer to being able to protect Sam.
"Do you mind if I take a look at your leg?" she asked permission as if he really had a choice in the matter. It wasn't like he could really say no if he wanted to walk again. Hell, if it meant he would walk again, a whole circus full of crazed freaks could join her in probing and prodding at his leg and he wouldn't have given a rat's ass.
"Go ahead," he muttered, and heard movement coming from Sam's bed as he shifted to take a look at Dean's leg as well. Dean squeezed his eyes shut, hating the thought that his little brother would see how useless he was as a human being now, but there was nothing he could do about it. I'm gonna walk again. I'm gonna walk an' then hunt. I can do this. Nothing else matters.
The Prosthetist removed the tight elastic bandages from around his knee, and with soft fingers she delicately probed the stitches from surgery. "Everything looks good." She smiled at Dean, pressing her fingertips on either side of his knee cap. "You'll need to continue doing exercises with your knee so you don't develop a flexion contracture."
"Flexion contracture?" Sam piped in, moving forward on his bed to watch her bend and flex Dean's knee joint. "What's that?"
Dean inwardly groaned. The very last thing he wanted was to have his little brother harping on him to do the exercises the doctors had showed him how to do to keep his knee from locking up on him.
"After below the knee amputation there's always a risk of the knee locking in a bent position," Sandra went on to explain to him, and Dean's groan became more audible as he knew that Sam would doggedly have him doing knee exercises in every spare moment of the day. "If it becomes bent and frozen in that position, your brother won't be able to use a prosthesis."
"There won't be any risk of that," Sam assured just as Dean feared he would. "I'll make sure he keeps up with them."
"I don't need help remembering to bend my damn knee, Sam," Dean snapped, the venom and hurt in his tone unmistakable. "I've been doing it my whole fuckin' life without any help from you, so I don't see why I need it now."
"Dean, I was just trying – "
"I know what you were trying to do, Sammy," Dean abruptly cut him off, eyes glittering with scarcely controlled fury. "But this is my problem, an' I can handle it without any help from you."
"Dean."
"Just shut up, Sammy – Just shut the hell up."
"Would you rather we continue this discussion in my office?" Sandra spoke up, to which Dean shook his head. Even if Dean didn't want Sam to interfere, his little brother had a right to know what kind of rehabilitation lay ahead.
"No, just tell me what I need to do to start walking again."
"At first we'll need to fit you with a cushion that will sit between your knee and the prosthesis." She pulled a pad of thick, cushioned foam out of her lab coat, and demonstrated what she meant as if Dean couldn't figure it out without a visual aide. "It will protect your leg while it's still healing, and make it less painful to walk on."
"How soon can I start?"
"Well, I brought the wheelchair so I could take you down to be fitted for a prosthesis, and scheduled you for PT in an hour."
"I wanna go with you, Dean." There was a silent plea in Sam's voice that Dean was hard-pressed to deny. Yet for as much as he wanted to mend the damage the avalanche had created between them, the thought of his brother watching as he tried to learn to walk again made his stomach squirm into tight knots. "Please, just let me come with you."
"Dude, it's just walking, you've seen me do it like a million times before," Dean tried to play it off as if it wasn't a big deal, and he would take to it as easily as he had the first time his father had given him a gun to fire. But from his past few physical therapy sessions that left him feeling incredibly weak and shaky afterward, he knew that wasn't the case. "It's not like I'm planning on doing any special tricks to entertain anyone. So you're better off staying here an' watching some tv."
"I'm going with you." The determined set of Sam's jaw, and the look in his hazel eyes told Dean that no matter what he said or did, there would be no getting around the fact that Sam was coming with him.
Heaving a deep sigh, he feigned a tight-lipped smile for the Prosthetist's benefit. "My brother's coming with me."
"That's fine." Sandra let down the guard rail on the side of the hospital bed and waited while Dean stood and transferred himself from the bed to the chair. "You're doing great, Dean." She lightly pat him on the shoulder.
"Yeah, I'm Batman." Dean's grip tightened around the handles of the wheelchair, inwardly seething that to her the idea of standing to move to a wheelchair was a huge accomplishment, and acted as if he should be proud of himself. I've fought ghosts, werewolves, and every damn hellish creature imaginable, yet I'm supposed to be happy cause I can stand while holding onto something.
"At first the PT will have you practice standing like you've been doing over for the past few days," Sandra went on to say, ignoring the sarcasm in Dean's tone. "Once you're comfortable and have found your sense of balance we'll have you try taking some steps with the prosthesis."
"How much physical therapy is he gonna need?" Sam asked, and Dean could see in his little brother's eyes how he was mentally preparing himself for the worst case scenario.
"No two people are the same," Sandra explained as she wheeled Dean to the door and out into the corridor while Sam followed behind on crutches. "So it's really kind of hard to say, but at the very least he'll need a few weeks of outpatient physical therapy."
"I've already arranged for us to stay with our Uncle in South Dakota for a while, so can he do it there?"
"No, Sammy," Dean cut off Sandra before she had the chance to reply. "I've already lined us up a place to stay until I can return to work."
"You can't be serious, Dean." Sam picked up his pace, and stopped short in front of Dean, forcing Sandra to halt the wheelchair in its tracks. "Are you out of your freakin' mind? There's no way in hell I'm letting you go back to the job."
Dean swallowed hard; Sam's conviction that he could no longer be a hunter leaving him as cold inside as he had felt buried beneath the mountain of snow. "In that case you should have just left me buried beneath that damn avalanche because it's the only thing I know how to do – the only thing I wanna do, an' it's the only thing I'm fighting for at the moment."