Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews and encouragement. This fic is difficult to write and requires a lot of research, so please keep those reviews coming. They make all the work worthwhile!
Disclaimer: Forgot to do this last chapter, so here goes: I own nothing of Supernatural. It's all Eric Kripke and his bunch. I'm not claiming any of it or making any money off of it. All my OCs are fictional, and any similarities to real people is purely coincidental. Hope that covers it!
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Chapter 2
"Open your eyes, Sammy," said a smooth, unfamiliar voice.
Who said that? thought Sam through the heavy ache in his head. It definitely wasn't Dean. Dean would be freaking out if he'd found Sam lying on the floor.
Sam could feel the cold tile of the bathroom flooring underneath his left palm, his right cheek, and his right ribs. He felt bruised and battered in all those areas, and his right shoulder hurt like a bitch, like it might be dislocated.
"Come on, Sammy. I'm here to help you." The voice kind of sounded like a reproachful used-car salesman.
"It's Sam."
The voice chuckled.
Slowly, Sam blinked his eyes open, and the bright light of the bathroom caused a sharp pain to stab into his head. He grimaced and slammed his eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea.
The strange voice tsked and then said in sympathy, "Ouch. Light sensitivity, huh? Looks like you might have a concussion there, Sam. Here, I'll turn out this overhead light and just leave the mirror light on so it won't be so bright."
Sam heard the clicking of light switches and tentatively opened his eyes again. The pain in his head was still there, but it wasn't as excruciating in the dimmer room. Slowly, he moved his left arm to try to lift himself a little bit, but even that minor movement jarred his injured shoulder, and he grunted in pain. His shoulder reacted to every movement he made, and yet he couldn't feel his right arm and prayed that it had just gone to sleep pinned under him. He had the scary thought that he might have somehow further damaged his spine, and the possibility that one of his arms might be paralyzed was terrifying. It was hard to take a deep breath, and he fought to stave off panic, wondering how long he had been out of it.
He couldn't see his legs and had no idea where the lower half of his body was, but his upper body felt twisted, and he guessed his legs might still be half in the tub. He was fucked.
And then the stranger crouched down on the floor to eye level with Sam, cheek touching the floor in an almost childlike way, and Sam remembered that he wasn't alone. He knew he should be alarmed that a stranger had somehow gotten into the apartment and, worse, was seeing him naked, but all he felt was relief that maybe he wouldn't be stuck there until Dean came home after all.
It was a man in his forties with strange blue eyes and a deep dimple in his chin. He was smiling. "You've gotten yourself into quite a predicament here. Let me help you."
Before Sam even comprehended what the man was doing, the stranger lifted him up by his waist with hardly any effort, as if barely even touching him—none too careful of Sam's injuries—and dumped him in his wheelchair, throwing a towel over his naked lower half.
Sam reeled from the pain of his pounding head and wrenched shoulder, holding his numb right arm against his side, and fought nausea again as the room spun and he saw black spots before his eyes. It was all he could do to remain balanced upright in his chair, and this was one of the rare times he wished he had a wheelchair with armrests so he would have something to hold onto.
The man clapped his hands together in a job-well-done kind of way and said, "All right, Sam. Now that we have you up and at 'em, we have some things to discuss."
Still trying to keep from passing out, Sam winced as a wave of pain washed through him. He swallowed and said weakly, "Who the hell are you?"
The man gave him a cryptic smile. "We'll get to that in a minute." He moved Sam over a little to make room and sat down on the side of the tub opposite Sam's wheelchair and crossed his legs, resting his elbows nonchalantly on his top leg. He was wearing khakis, brown loafers, and a light-weight, zip-up jacket. "So, tell me, Sammy. How's life as a cripple?"
Instant anger pulsed through Sam in time with his aching head and shoulder, making him short of breath. Almost a year out from his injury, and no one had ever called him a cripple to his face. It pissed him off, even if it was true. "Fuck you."
"Ooh, such hostility. I'll take that to mean you're a little unhappy with your current situation."
Obviously, this guy knew who Sam was, and he couldn't be human, if the way he'd effortlessly hoisted Sam back into his chair was any indication. He'd lifted Sam's six-four frame as if he were light as a feather. "What are you?" questioned Sam in between pained breaths.
The man held out a hand to shake and said, "Azazel at your service."
As if Sam was in any condition to shake hands. He could barely hold his head up. He looked at the proffered hand with weary disdain. The name meant nothing to him.
There was a moment of tense silence, and then Azazel withdrew his hand and gave Sam a sly look. "What if I told you I could get you out of that wheelchair, Sam?"
Sam eyed the man warily and tried to hide how just the mere suggestion of getting out of his wheelchair made him emotional, made his heart beat faster.
"What if I could get you back to the way you were before that nasty poltergeist ruined your life? What if I could get you back to that athletic, hunk o' burnin' love you used to be?"
Sam was tempted to tell the man to sign him up and ask no other questions, but he knew there had to be a catch. Was this a crossroads demon, even though Sam hadn't summoned him? Sam remained silent as another stabbing pain radiated through his shoulder and his now-tingling right arm, and he was relieved that, at least, the feeling was coming back into his arm.
The man rubbed his hands together, almost gleeful. "So what do you say, Sammy? You ready to get out of that chair?"
God, was he ever ready. He could feel his body tense, could feel his head and shoulder hurting even more because of it, and he exhaled a shaky breath, trying to force himself to relax and stay calm.
"Don't you want your muscular, powerful legs back? Aren't you tired of these skinny, useless legs you have now? They're only going to shrink more, you know? Don't you want to be whole again?"
Sam's throat felt thick, and he swallowed convulsively. "What do you want in return?"
Azazel smiled again. "Nothing you weren't already meant to do, Sammy. You're one of the special children—my favorite. You were on the path to greatness until," he made a gesture indicating Sam and the wheelchair, "this happened, but it's nothing that can't be fixed."
Sam hardened his jaw. "What are you talking about?"
"The visions you had before your injury, the spurt of telekinesis, they were just the beginning, Sam. You had so much potential. You still have so much potential. You were stronger than the others." His eyes gleamed with a fanatical light. "I want you to lead a demon army. I want you to help me free Lucifer—the devil—from his cage." The demon's eyes suddenly turned a bright, sulfuric yellow. "I want you to do what you were destined to do."
Sam was shocked at first, and then his gut knotted with rage and hatred. It was the Yellow-Eyed Demon. "You bastard! You killed my mom and Jessica. You're the reason my dad is dead!"
The demon gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry about that, but it had to be done. They were interfering with the plan."
"I'm gonna kill you, you fucking dick. I'm gonna send you to the foulest level of hell!"
The Yellow-Eyed Demon gave him a mock look of hurt. "Now, is that any way to talk to the guy that's gonna give you your legs back?"
Sam wished with every fiber of his being that he had the Colt right now, but he knew Dean had hidden it somewhere safe. Up until now, Sam had never bothered to ask where Dean had put it, not caring anymore. Unable to hunt, Sam had given up on his desire to avenge Jessica's death, had thought it would be impossible to continue the hunt for Yellow Eyes when he was a useless cripple. But now that the demon was standing right in front of him, Sam's desire for revenge had been rekindled with brutal force. He wanted to blow this fucking thing that had ruined his family and his life to kingdom come. With lethal calm, he said, "I don't want anything from you except your head on a platter."
The demon raised his brows. "You sure about that, Sammy? You, Bobby, and Dean have been researching a cure for a year now, and what have you come up with? Nada. You're going to be in that chair for the rest of your life if you don't take this deal."
Sam closed his eyes, the magnitude of what he was giving up hitting him full force, causing his chest to tighten. He wanted more than anything to be whole again, but the consequences were too dire, the number of people it would hurt too huge to even fathom. No matter how badly he wanted to walk again, he couldn't ally himself with this evil in front of him, the thing his father had spent his whole life trying to kill, the thing that had killed Jessica, the girl Sam had wanted to marry. Gritting his teeth, he said with bitter revulsion, "I'm sure. I'll never take anything from you, and I'm sure as hell not gonna help you free the devil."
The demon stood and gave Sam a look of regret. "I think I should have sent one of my minions to you instead. I know what you've been thinking, what you've been feeling. If I were a run-of-the-mill crossroads demon, I think you'd take the deal in a heartbeat."
Sam's blood ran cold at the realization that the demon had guessed his darkest, most private thoughts.
Yellow Eyes raised his index finger and wagged it as if Sam were a naughty little boy. "Never say never, Sammy. I tell you what. I'll come back in a few weeks and see how you're doing. I have a feeling you just might change your mind."
"Fuck you. I'm not gonna change my mind. If you come back, I'll be ready. I'll kill you."
Yellow Eyes sighed. "So stubborn, but such a good trait in a great general." He walked around behind Sam's wheelchair and bent down to say in Sam's ear, "Sorry about this, Sam, but we don't want Dean asking questions about how you got yourself back into this chair with only one usable arm."
Suddenly, Sam felt himself lifted from his chair, the towel that had been covering him falling to the floor, but the demon wasn't physically touching him. Sam seemed to be floating over the floor, and then a split second later, he felt himself falling. On instinct, he reached out with his right arm and felt his already-injured shoulder jarred when his right hand met the floor. He could feel his upper arm jam up into his shoulder socket. A sharp, cracking agony blazed through his shoulder and arm and radiated throughout the rest of his upper body, and then his head hit the floor again, hard. He saw stars and was on the brink of oblivion.
"Don't worry, Sam," Yellow Eyes said in mock assurance. "I have it on good authority that Dean will be home for lunch. That's only two more hours."
The demon's brown loafers were in Sam's line of sight, and then they were gone in an instant, leaving Sam alone, cold, helpless, and in excruciating pain.
It was a relief when the darkness finally claimed him yet again.
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Dean opened the front door of the apartment and stepped into the quiet living room. It was his lunch hour from the auto shop, and he had wanted to come home and check on Sam. He'd had a bad feeling all morning for some reason and was hardly able to wait until his lunch hour. He'd tried to call Sam around ten-thirty, but Sam hadn't answered. Of course, Sam didn't answer a lot of times when he saw Dean's number on the caller ID.
The apartment was too quiet, and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickled, his hunting instincts kicking in even though he hadn't been on a hunt since Sam had been hurt. Why wasn't Sam in here watching TV? That and researching a cure for his SCI on the computer were the only things that Sam had any interest in anymore, and he could almost always be found doing one of those two things, usually not even bothering to look up and acknowledge when Dean walked through the door.
It was painful on a deeper level than Dean would have ever thought existed within him, the way Sam had withdrawn from him. His little brother hated and resented any effort Dean made to reach out to him or help him, and Dean didn't know what to do. Sam kept sinking deeper into depression and bitterness and had been drinking heavily for about a month, now. Dean had smelled the whiskey on Sam in the mornings and knew that his brother's drinking wasn't just confined to the evenings. He worried that the alcohol and the drugs Sam had to take were a dangerous mix, but there was nothing he could do aside from forcing Sam to stop drinking by taking the alcohol away. He hadn't been able to make himself do that yet, hadn't wanted to make Sam feel like a child, but if Sam kept up the excessive drinking, Dean would have to take action.
His once level-headed, smart, emo little brother had morphed into a morose, hateful, self-pitying stranger that Dean didn't know. He tried to be understanding. God knew if he were in Sam's position, he'd be angry as hell. He detested the fact that Sam was suffering and there was nothing he could do to fix it.
A "normal" cure for Sam was out of the question, but it was frustrating that they'd come up with bupkis from the supernatural world, too. Dean had been sure they would find something, but so far nothing had been uncovered except for dealings with demons, which he didn't think even the new, pissed-off Sam would contemplate.
Dean checked in the kitchen, and there was no Sam, no signs that any lunch had been made. "Sam?" he called out, but there was no answer.
It was rare that Sam left the apartment and ventured out on his own. He had refused to let Dean fit the Impala with hand controls and took the bus on the unusual occasions that he did go out. Dean knew that Sam hated riding the bus, though, because he hated that people sometimes stared or just randomly started talking to him when they would never have noticed him before the wheelchair.
"Sam?" called Dean again, louder this time.
Still no answer.
The door to Sam's room was open. Clothes were discarded on the floor, and the bed was unmade as usual—yet another sign of how his once compulsively neat brother had changed. The door to Sam's bathroom was closed.
Dean walked over and knocked on the door. "Sam, you in there?"
No response.
"Sammy?"
Still not hearing anything, he was hesitant to open the door. Sam would be furious if everything was fine and Dean barged in on him in the bathroom. Sam was extremely private about it all, and Dean understood why and tried to respect Sam's right to a little dignity. "Sam?" he tried again.
This time, he heard a faint moan behind the door.
His pulse quickened, and he opened the door. At the sight of his brother, his heart almost stopped. "Sammy!"
Sam was lying on the floor on his right side, naked, his left hand weakly moving along the floor tiles. He had obviously fallen either getting into or out of the shower, although the wheelchair was at an odd angle far away from the tub.
Dean flew to Sam's side and brushed the hair out of Sam's face. "Sammy?" he breathed.
Sam's eyes fluttered open halfway, and the motion of his left hand stopped. "D'n?" he slurred, his voice barely audible.
Dean put his hand gently on Sam's left shoulder and could feel how icy cold Sam's skin was. "I'm here, Sammy. You're gonna be okay." Dean could see that Sam's right shoulder was grotesquely swollen, even though Sam was lying on it.
"Hurts," Sam mumbled, closing his eyes.
"I know, man. I'm gonna get you some help." Dean hastily pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his black work pants and dialed 911, calling for an ambulance.
Sam looked way too pale, and Dean's hands started shaking. He wanted to turn Sam over but was afraid to move him. He couldn't afford to risk injuring him further. He could at least try to warm him up, though, so he grabbed a couple of large bath towels from a shelf along the wall. It was then that he noticed the puddle of urine near Sam's hip, and his heart sank. Sam seemed unaware of what had happened, and Dean hoped he wouldn't notice. It was nothing to be ashamed of, but he knew Sam would be mortified anyway. Dean quickly grabbed another smaller towel, wiped up the mess without a word, and then covered Sam's body with the larger bath towels.
Eyes still closed, Sam said, "You mad?" He sounded like he was eight years old.
"It was an accident. Shit happens."
"Shouldn't have happened." Sam winced. "'m a friggin' idiot."
"So what else is new?"
A faint dimple appeared on Sam's cheek, despite the pain he was in, and then his face morphed into a grimace. "'m fucked."
"It's gonna be okay."
"'m sorry, D'n," said Sam, and a tear slid down his cheek.
Dean's own eyes burned. He'd never seen his brother look more dejected and vulnerable. He squeezed Sam's left forearm in reassurance. "Nothing to be sorry for."
Sam was quiet, and Dean was afraid he'd passed out. He lightly tapped Sam's cheek with his fingers. "You still with me, Sammy?"
Sam mumbled an incoherent response.
Dean rubbed Sam's good shoulder. "Stay with me, Sam. The EMTs will be here in a second."
But Sam's body suddenly went lax, and he lost consciousness.
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Several hours later, Sam was settled in a bed in the ICU doped up with painkillers and who knew what else, and Dr. Salazar, the chief resident at the hospital, was once again Sam's doctor.
They were standing outside the observation window of Sam's room, and Dean could see Sam sleeping peacefully through the glass.
There was a younger, blond man who looked to be in his late thirties with Dr. Salazar. "Dean," Dr. Salazar was saying, "let me introduce you quickly to Dr. James Ogden."
The younger doctor stuck out his hand, and Dean shook it politely.
"He's an excellent orthopedic surgeon," Dr. Salazar went on, "and he's going to be doing the surgery on Sam's shoulder."
Dean tensed. "Sam needs surgery?"
Dr. Salazar looked sympathetic. "I'm afraid so. I'll let James explain everything to you and Sam in a few minutes, but I'd like to go over a few things myself, first."
Dean gave a short nod.
"We've got Sam on an anti-inflammatory drug to reduce the swelling in his shoulder, and we're keeping him in the ICU for at least 24 hours for observation because of his concussion. He took a pretty hard knock to the head."
"Is he gonna be okay?"
Dr. Salazar nodded. "The concussion is a Grade 3, meaning he lost consciousness, is disoriented, and he couldn't remember what happened to him. I mean, he knows he fell getting out of the shower, but I think that's more a deduction of the circumstances rather than an actual memory. He's been nauseous, and he's got a hell of a headache and some dizziness, too. The pain meds he's on for his shoulder will also help with his headache. The good news is the MRI of his brain showed only a small amount of edema, which is to be expected, and no bleeding, so hopefully rest and sleep is all he needs for a full recovery."
Dean blew out a relieved breath.
The doctor frowned. "I'd really like to know exactly what happened in that fall, though, because the severity of his injuries, especially to his shoulder, are not consistent with the distance he would have fallen from the shower chair. He also has some bruised ribs, so we've got him on oxygen to help make breathing easier."
"What exactly do you mean about the severity of his injuries?" asked Dean.
"Well, it could just be that he was somehow able to get himself up and then fell again, since he has two pretty big goose eggs on his head, but I don't see how he could have lifted himself high enough to have fractured his shoulder like he did."
Dean wanted more time to ponder what Dr. Salazar had said about the fall, but he was horrified by what the doctor had said about Sam's shoulder. "He has a fractured shoulder?" said Dean in disbelief. "I never even knew that was possible."
Dr. Salazar furrowed his brow in sympathy. "It's pretty serious, Dean, but I think it's best if I allow Dr. Ogden to explain everything. Let's go in and see if Sam feels up to having a talk."
The two doctors and Dean filed into Sam's room and surrounded Sam's bed.
Dean looked at Dr. Salazar, and the grey-haired doctor nodded toward Sam and said, "Go ahead."
Dean took in the state his brother was in. Sam's bed was inclined to a thirty-degree angle, and his head was tilted a little to his left, oxygen cannula in place in his nose. He had an IV in the back of his left hand and one on the inside of his left elbow.
Dean noted they hadn't put in a PICC line, so he hoped that meant that Sam wouldn't be in the hospital for an extended period of time.
There was a pulse ox clip on the middle finger of Sam's left hand, and his torso was uncovered. ECG pads were stuck to his chest, and leads from the pads lead to the heart-rate monitor.
Dean was relieved to hear the steady beep and see that the rhythm was normal. He'd learned after Sam's SCI what the various monitors in the ICU meant and what to look for.
Sam's right shoulder and arm were supported a little bit by a pillow placed next to his side, and his right arm had been placed in an immobilizer sling. To Dean, Sam's shoulder still looked hideously swollen. Mottled, reddish-purple bruising on Sam's shoulder and ribs, at least the parts Dean could see that weren't obscured by the immobilizer, made Dean want to cringe in sympathy.
Sam's dark-brown hair had always been too long, but since the stabbing, he'd been even more lax—or just wanted to annoy Dean—and had let it grow even longer. His bangs had grown past his eyes, and Sam wore them brushed back out of his face. The look made him seem older somehow. Of course, it could be that the hell of this last year had aged him, too. Whatever the cause, Dean's once sensitive, compassionate little brother had grown world-weary and jaded.
Dean put a hand on Sam's left forearm, which was resting by his side, and squeezed. "Sammy?"
Sam's eyes rolled under his eyelids.
"Sammy, can you wake up for us?"
Sam's lashes fluttered slightly, and his forehead creased a little.
"Come on, Sam. Wake up."
Finally, Sam opened his eyes all the way. He didn't seem to be in pain, but the glassy look he had attested to the fact that he was getting the good stuff for a painkiller.
"How are you feeling, Sam?" asked Dr. Salazar.
Sam's eyes flicked over to the older doctor, and the wrinkles in Sam's brow deepened. "'m fine," he said weakly.
"Are you comfortable?"
Sam blinked and then gave a tired nod.
"As you know, Sam, I'm Dr. Salazar, and this is Dr. James Ogden."
Dr. Ogden nodded in acknowledgment.
"Dr. Ogden is an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in shoulders. He's here to discuss your injury. Do you feel like talking?"
Sam blinked slowly, taking in the orthopedic surgeon, and closed his eyes for a moment. Finally, he exhaled and said, "Yeah." Then his face took on a worried, pained expression. A severe shoulder injury would make things a hell of a lot harder for a person with paraplegia, and it was obvious Sam was all too aware of that, despite the drowsiness caused by the concussion and painkiller.
Dean squeezed Sam's good shoulder in a show of support, trying to tell him without words that they'd get through it.
For once, Sam didn't stiffen or shake Dean off like he had pretty much since the day he'd been told he would never walk again. He seemed to relax into Dean's touch, but he was pretty out of it, so Dean tried not to make too much of it, tried not to hope that it was a glimpse of the old Sam.
Dr. Ogden cleared his throat and moved over closer to Sam, opposite Dean. He had a large, Manilla envelope containing some x-rays and a computer-generated picture, which Dean assumed was the CT Scan. "All right, Sam," said the young doctor, "The scan and x-rays of your shoulder show that you have a three-part fracture of the proximal humerus. As you can see here," he pointed to one of the x-rays, "there are fracture lines and angulation along the epiphyseal lines or bone growth plates of the humeral head, the greater tuberosity, and the lesser tuberosity. Here on the CT Scan, you can see that there's a tear in the rotator cuff, too." He looked up from the scan to make sure Sam was still with him.
Sam's lids looked heavy, but he seemed to be paying attention.
"To put it into English," Dr. Ogden continued, "you have a severely fractured shoulder and some minor soft tissue damage. The good news is that it can be fixed with surgery and physical therapy."
Dean felt instant relief.
Sam, however, seemed to be reserving judgment until the doctor finished. In a quiet, tired voice, he asked, "What's involved in the surgery?"
"Since you are young and healthy, I'm recommending open reduction with internal fixation. Basically all that means is that I would go in and insert some screws, plates, and sutures or wires and sew everything back together. If the hardware ever starts to bother you, once the bone has grown back together, we can always go back in and remove it. However, if you don't have a problem with it, it can just be left in there.
"Post op stay is usually two to five days, but given that you have a pretty severe concussion and, also, the issue of your paralysis, Dr. Salazar and I will probably recommend that you stay five to seven days, if your insurance will allow it."
Sam's jaw tensed, and he looked toward the window, not saying anything.
"You'll be given prophylactic or preventative antibiotics intravenously for the first forty-eight hours after surgery."
Sam frowned. "How long is the rehab period?"
Dr. Ogden sighed. "That's the not-so-good news. I know that since you use a wheelchair, this is going to be hard on you. The first three to four weeks, you'll be wearing a shoulder immobilizer with a sling and swath that will keep your right arm absolutely still, similar to what you have on now but more heavy-duty. For an additional two to three weeks, you'll wear just a normal sling. After that, depending on how your therapy goes, you're looking at another seven weeks to two months, and it could be even longer to get back to where your shoulder can withstand transfers to and from your wheelchair."
Sam went pale, and he looked away again.
Dr. Salazar, understanding what this all meant to Sam, tried to reassure him. "It's not as bad as it sounds, son. If you'd like, I can give you a prescription for an electric wheelchair until you are out of the regular sling, and after that, you should be able to propel yourself again in your manual chair, unless it's over rough terrain or a steep incline.
"You will need help with your bowel program and your catheter until you are out of the immobilizer, but, hopefully, you will only have that for three weeks, and one week of that will pretty much be post op here in the hospital, anyway. If it makes you more comfortable, we can leave an indwelling cath in for those weeks your arm will be immobile, and then someone would only have to help you empty a leg bag."
Sam went even paler, and he closed his eyes as if completely humiliated.
Sensing Sam's distress, Dean said, "We can deal with that later," effectively ending the subject.
Dr. Salazar nodded, oblivious to the embarrassment he had caused Sam. "As for transfers, you'll have to use a transfer board again until you're able to do it yourself, even if Dean or someone else who is pretty strong is helping you. You can't take any chances that you might reinjure that shoulder while it is healing. Aside from those issues, though, you should still be able to be fairly independent. The first weeks will be the hardest."
Dean's mind began to reel as he thought of the implications of it all, not only for Sam but for himself. How was he going to take care of Sam during the day? He wouldn't be able to take much time off work for this because he'd already taken a lot of time when Sam had been on bed rest for the pressure ulcer. Although he would have rather worked for a mom-and-pop garage, Dean had intentionally chosen to work for Firestone because he'd wanted the benefits that came with a large, commercial company. As a result, he had good insurance and sick leave, but even that had limits.
And then there was the issue of the evenings. Dean worked as a bartender and night manager of a bar and grill near San Diego State. Maybe he could bring Sam with him. Yeah, right. Sam would love that.
His thoughts were interrupted as Dr. Salazar said, "We can talk about this more later. I think Sam needs to rest right now."
Sam was looking a little green around the gills and was getting groggier.
"Sure," agreed Dr. Ogden. He placed a hand on Sam's leg in a comforting gesture.
Dean almost winced, hoping it wouldn't piss Sam off. The doctor obviously had forgotten that Sam couldn't feel his legs, and Sam usually hated for anyone to touch him where he had no sensation, hated the reminder.
However, Sam's only reaction was to slowly shut his eyes.
"If the swelling in your shoulder goes down enough, I'm going to schedule your surgery for tomorrow morning at eight, if you're on board with that, Sam," said Dr. Ogden.
Sam gave a faint nod.
Dr. Salazar patted Dean on the back as he walked out, and Dr. Ogden nodded politely as he followed.
After the doctors were gone, Dean, although reluctant to bring it up, said, "I think we need to call Bobby, Sam. I think we're gonna need his help, at least for the first few weeks after you get out of the hospital."
Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean a moment, brow furrowed in that pensive, brooding way he sometimes had, and then he simply nodded, closed his eyes, and turned his head. He clenched the beige bed blanket with his left hand, one of the few parts of his body he could still move. The small gesture made it obvious that he didn't want Bobby there, but he wasn't going to fight it.
It should have been a relief to Dean that Sam had agreed so easily, but it wasn't. It was like Sam had finally broken, and there was nothing left but hollow resignation. Dean thought of what Sam would have to go through in the upcoming weeks, thought of what it would be like for him to have to rely on someone like Bobby to help with the most basic of personal needs, and Dean felt like he was betraying him.
Dean understood why Sam didn't want their old friend to help. It would be better to have a stranger around rather than someone who knew what Sam had been like before he'd been paralyzed. It would be better to have someone who would hopefully accept Sam at face value for who he was now, someone with a blank slate. No matter how much Bobby or Dean himself were willing to help, there's no way Sam would ever be comfortable with either of them doing the things Dr. Salazar had mentioned earlier, and Dean couldn't blame him.
Dean scrubbed a hand over his face in frustration. What was he supposed to do, though? He was already barely making ends meet working two jobs. He couldn't afford to hire a private assistant to help Sam.
The whole situation sucked out loud.
Dean looked at Sam. The hand that had clutched the blanket earlier was lax now, and Sam's breathing was steady and even as he slept. He looked like the old Sam, just Dean's little brother, the kid who had hung on Dean's every word when they were growing up, the kid who had believed Dean could fix anything.
Dean sighed and lightly touched Sam's good arm, hating that the meager comfort was all he could offer. I'm trying, Sammy. I'm trying.
TBC