Thanks for all the great comments, and a huge thanks to Neonchica for sending people my way. Very cool of you!! Thanks for having my back!! Seth

Chapter Ten

Sam sat off to the corner by himself watching as Dean struggled to gain and hold his balance on one leg. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and dripped down his brow as he slowly lifted his hands away from the parallel bars. His dampened t-shirt clung to him, attesting to how hard he was working, but Sam could tell he had a ways to go before he would be able to walk without difficulty. I can't believe he still thinks he can hunt. How the hell am I supposed to talk him out of it without making him hate me anymore than he already does?

"That's it, Dean," the young sandy-blond haired physical therapist encouraged. She stood close to Dean as he practiced standing for longer and longer periods of time without the assistance of the bars, but Sam could tell she was making it a point not to hover. "I know it's difficult and feels awkward, but you have to find a new center of balance to compensate for the loss of your limb."

Sam saw Dean's posture stiffened at the reminder of his leg. His concentration diverted, Dean wavered unsteadily on his one good leg for a moment before he fell forward, grasping a hold of the bars at the last possible second.

His own injuries forgotten, Sam leapt out if his chair to help Dean. Stumbling, his hands shot forward and he luckily caught himself before he did a face plant into the floor.

With his hands locked firmly around the bars, Dean lifted his head to glare at Sam. "I told you not to come with me, Sammy," he breathed, gruff tone full of raw emotion. "But you couldn't listen, could you?" Bicep muscles straining, he pulled himself back up to a standing position. "So tell me are you happy now? Have I proved how worthless I am or do you want more of an example?"

"That's not why I came with you, Dean." Sam jerked away from the male physical therapist who had rushed over to him and was trying to help him back to his feet.

"Just go back to the room, Sammy," Dean gritted out, green eyes flashing with fury and resentment. Closing his eyes, he lowered his head to the side and away from Sam as if sickened by the sight of him.

"Dean, I – "

"I don't want you here, so do us both a favor an' get the hell out of here before I say something that – " Dean's posture stiffened, fingers clenching around the sturdy wooden handrails as he reined in his anger. "Just go."

The physical therapy room went deathly silent and still as everyone turned their attention to the confrontation between Sam and Dean. Sam could feel the weight of their stares on his back as the same physical therapist who had tried to help him a few moments before handed him his crutches. Heat flushed his face, tears stinging at his eyes as the man assisted him to his feet.

"I think it would be best if you did leave," he commented, bobbing his head toward the double doors, but Sam scarcely noticed as his eyes were locked on Dean.

He waited, hopes rising slightly when he heard his brother let out a weary sigh and noticed his rigid stance slacken, but if he had relented he gave no other outward indication. "Alright," he finally managed to choke out through the thick lump that had formed in his throat.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean heard the door open and then close a few moments later, and cursed under his breath. Sam had only been trying to help, but in doing so he had drawn everyone's attention to them. Complete strangers who were supposed to be recovering from their own injuries were now staring at him. Pitying him. Their eyes burning holes through the empty space where is leg use to be.

He had always been able to blend into his surroundings before, a necessity of the job, but now even in a room full of people with various disabilities he stuck out like a prostitute in church. His heart grew heavier and heavier as the moments ticked by and the other patients returned to their therapy. After his conversation with Hank, and the older man's talk of returning to his job after his accident, Dean had actually believed he could return to hunting. But the truth was, Hank wasn't on the run. He didn't have to sneak into towns, and leave in the same manner. He could return to his old life because there were people there who welcomed him with open arms. Dean's only ally was Sam, and his little brother had made it quite clear that he felt Dean wasn't capable enough to do the job anymore. And if Sam didn't believe in him, what chance did he really have?

"Alright, Dean," his therapist, Monica, said, clapping her hands together, "let's get back to work. You need to locate your new center of gravity," she reminded again as she had done numerous times over the past few therapy sessions. "I know it's hard but you're still gravitating toward the left."

Hard? What the fuck does she know? How can she even begin to know how hard it is? Finding his balance, he slowly let go of the handrails and wobbled precariously on his leg. His mind kept telling him to put his left leg down to steady himself, and for as weird as it sounded, a few times he actually thought he had done just that.

"You're still leaning to the left, Dean." Monica moved around the bars and came to stand behind Dean. With her hands around both sides of his waist, she gently guided him into a more straighter position. "You'll expend a lot more energy using your prosthesis, so you need to be strong on your right leg."

She let go and moved away from him. Breathing hard, he focused all his energy on standing perfectly still, but the moment he closed his eyes, his leg began to wobble again and he lost his balance. Quickly reaching out, he gripped hold of the rails, and caught himself before he fell.

"Again, Dean," Monica ordered, her voice now sounding more like Dean's father's voice to his ears. "If you wanna walk, you first need to learn how to stand."

Sweat dripped down into his eyes from his drenched hair, blurring his vision as he once again let go of the bars, and tried to steady himself. You're still gravitating toward the left, he could hear his father say, his gruff voice ringing throughout Dean's mind. Focus. Remember what I told you the first time you held a gun? Find your center. Slow even breaths. This is no different, Dean.

Dean felt Monica's hands snake around his waist once more. He instantly tensed, furious with himself that no matter how hard he tried he was still getting it wrong. "Le' go," he snapped, stomach churning at the thought of how weak and helpless he appeared to everyone around him. "I can do this on my own."

"I'm here to help you, Dean," Monica said, not the least put off by his abrupt tone or the anger that burned in his eyes. "This is new for you, and I know it's hard, but you're not in a race with anyone to get to the finish line, and you certainly don't have to do it on your own."

"I need to walk," Dean gritted out, jerking free of her hold on him. "I need to run. I need to kick ass if need be – so I am in a race, an' I'm running it alone. So move the hell out of my way, an' let me do this."

"That may very well be true," the feisty therapist said with a curt nod, placing her hands back around Dean's side to straighten his posture. "But at the moment, every single thing you think you have to accomplish is impeding any progress you might be making here. So get it out of your head that you're gonna run a marathon right off the bat, and concentrate on the steps that make up that race." Monica released her hold on him and stepped back. "Now, try again."

Every muscle in Dean's body throbbed as he fought to stay standing for more than a few minutes without wobbling. His foot twitched and shook back and forth beneath him, a not so subtle reminder that at any given moment it would give out on him. Breathing hard through his nostrils, he moved his hands further and further away from the safety net of the bars.

"Don't lock your knee," Monica ordered, "You lock it, and eventually it's gonna give out on you."

"Easier said than done," he muttered under his breath, but tried to do as she had said. He softened his stance, and within a matter of moments he lost his balance again and toppled forward. "So much for not locking my knee," he groaned, wearily pulling himself back up to a standing position.

"You're doing fine. Like I said, this gonna take some time." Monica glanced at her watch, and gave Dean an encouraging smile. "I think we've done enough for the day."

"What?" Dean stared at her in utter disbelief. From there his gaze shifted to the temporary prosthesis the Prosthetist had given him to learn to walk on, and he shook his head. "I came here to learn how to walk again an' I'm not leaving without at least trying."

"You're not ready yet, Dean." She placed a sympathetic hand on his, and had the nerve to give him a smile of encouragement. "You're doing great. It just takes time."

"You don't seem to be getting it." Dean yanked his hand away from hers. "I'm not leaving here until I can walk on that damn thing." He steadied himself, preparing to keep on practicing until someone dragged him out of the therapy room.

"Alright," she gestured at the clock on the wall, "I'll give you another half hour, but that's it for the day." Monica came to stand in front of Dean, close enough to help him if he fell, but far enough away as to leave him believing she held some confidence in his progress. "This time when you let go of the bars, I want you to close your eyes, Dean."

"Why?" he asked, letting go of the handrails, and doing as she asked. Understanding immediately dawned on him as his center of balance was thrown completely off. Tumbling forward, he opened his eyes and gripped hold of the bars at the very last moment possible. The muscles in his arms and shoulders burned, and it took every ounce of sheer willpower he had left in him to pull himself back up.

"When your eyes are closed, it tends to throw off your sense of balance," she replied although it wasn't really necessary. "Which is not really a big deal when you're standing on two feet, but it's something you should be aware of and learn to compensate for."

"Well, as I don't plan on walking around with my eyes closed, I don't think it's gonna really be a problem," Dean snapped, frustration coloring his tone.

"Maybe not, but you still need to be aware of it," she said without the slightest bit of sympathy for him. "Now do it again."

Dean glared at her for a moment, hating her condescending manner, now more eager than ever to prove to her that he could walk. Lifting his hands away from the bars, he closed his eyes and steadied himself.

"That's it, Dean, find your center of gravity," she coached, lightly taking a hold off both sides of his waist. "Block out everything else and concentrate."

Dean's foot wobbled, leg muscles straining until they finally gave out on him, and he collapsed weakly into her arms. Carefully she maneuvered him so he was sitting on the ground, crouched beside him, and began to knead the bunching muscles in his thigh.

"Sonuva – " Pushing her hands out of the way, he dug his fingertips into his throbbing leg, massaging his muscles to try to work out the painful cramps.

"Tommy," Monica called to another therapist, and a man with bright red hair immediately rushed to their side. "Help me get him back into the wheelchair."

"I don't wanna go back in that damn wheelchair," Dean snarled, even as they helped him into it. "I wanna walk."

"An' you will," Monica promised, "just not today."