A/N: I think I told some of you that Bobby wouldn't actually show up until later in the story. Boy, was I wrong. He demanded to be put in this chapter, so I obliged. :) Hope you like!
Chapter 3
Bobby walked down the corridor to Sam's hospital room, absently noting that this hospital smelled better than most, lacked the odors of bodily functions masked by antiseptic. Instead, it smelled sterile and sort of minty, almost like a dentist's office.
It had been five days since Sam's surgery, but Bobby'd had some loose ends to tie up before he'd been able to close up the salvage yard and make the two-day trek to San Diego. Besides, Dean had assured him that Sam wouldn't really need his help until after Sam was released from the hospital. The word was that Sam would be released either tomorrow or the next day, barring any unforeseen complications with Sam's recovery from surgery and depending on how quickly Bobby learned what he needed to know to help Sam, since he would be Sam's primary caregiver during the next two to three weeks.
Dean had called Bobby while Sam was still in surgery, reluctantly asking for Bobby's help, and Bobby had called him an idjit and told him that, of course, he would come stay with them for a few weeks while Sam was recovering. Bobby hadn't been too happy about the fact that the boys had been dealing with Sam's spinal cord injury all alone, but Dean had made it clear from the get-go that Sam was adamant Bobby not be involved. He had hinted that Sam was not dealing with things well, that he had become kind of reclusive and didn't want anything to do with anyone they had known before he'd been hurt.
Bobby would be lying to himself if he didn't admit the exclusion had hurt his feelings a bit, but he wasn't in Sam's shoes, and the least he could do was respect the boy's wishes. He loved both Sam and Dean like sons, but he knew both boys were fiercely strong, stubborn, and independent, and he had a good idea how devastating the injury had been for Sam. Bobby'd had friends in 'Nam that had been paralyzed and knew the hell they had gone through trying to adjust. He hadn't wanted to make things worse for Sam by sticking his nose where it didn't belong. He might love Sam like he was his own, but he would never be his father and didn't feel like it was his place to force the issue.
When he reached Sam's door, it was slightly ajar, and he could hear voices. He paused for a moment before knocking, unsure of how he would be received by Sam and trying to steel himself for Sam's sake. He sure as hell didn't want Sam to see any pity on his face.
He had gotten to San Diego fairly late last night, and Dean had given him a brief rundown of what was to be expected. Sam had physical therapy five times a day for thirty minutes starting at nine in the morning, which would be continued at home once he was released from the hospital. In addition, he would have physical therapy sessions at the rehab facility of the hospital twice a week with his physical therapist. Dean had asked Bobby to come to the hospital this morning a little before nine for Sam's first PT session of the day so Bobby could learn how to do Sam's passive range of motion exercises.
Sam would already be dressed by the time Bobby got there this morning, but, at some point, either later today or tomorrow morning, Bobby would have to learn how to help Sam with his personal needs and help him get his clothes on and off. It was this part that Bobby was the most nervous about, not because he minded, but because he knew that it would be the hardest part for Sam. Dean had warned him that Sam was very private about the way his personal needs had changed and that he was embarrassed to have to have Bobby's help. It made Bobby's heart hurt to know that Sam was ashamed of something that wasn't his fault, something that was just a fact of life, just a different way of doing things, but Bobby understood. He just hoped that someday Sam would be able to come to terms with it.
Bobby took a deep breath to fortify himself. Here goes nothin', he thought, and he tentatively knocked on the door.
"Come in," called Dean.
Bobby walked in to find Sam lying on his back at a slight incline on his bed. The covers were pulled off of him, and he was wearing a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, white socks on his feet, and his legs were neatly, too perfectly in place on the bed—too inert. Bobby tried not to stare at Sam's legs and instead forced his eyes to Sam's face, noting the utter lack of any lingering remnants of adolescence that Bobby had sometimes glimpsed the last few times he'd been around Sam. The planes of Sam's face were hard, a man's face. His hair had always been a little too long, but now it was even longer and gave him an air of irreverence, as if he just didn't give a shit anymore.
Bobby nodded in greeting. It had been a year since he'd seen Sam, and in other circumstances, he would have given the boy a hearty, gruff hug. Instead, he tried to keep the emotion from his voice. "Sam, it's good to see you, kid."
Sam swallowed, his expression unreadable. "Hey, Bobby," he said quietly.
"Hey, Bobby," echoed Dean with a nervous smile. "We just took off the immobilizer to get started." He indicated an elaborate-looking, flesh-colored sling lying on Sam's overbed table with several straps and pieces to it that Bobby imagined made Sam feel trussed up like a turkey when he had it on.
There was a petite, dark-haired woman with a trim, athletic build in her late thirties to Dean's right. She was wearing a light-blue polo shirt with the hospital's logo on it and khaki work slacks.
"This is Karen," said Dean. "She's Sam's physical therapist. She's watching me to make sure I'm doing Sam's exercises the right way."
Karen smiled politely and said, "Hi, Bobby. Nice to meet you."
Bobby tapped the bill of his trucker hat and nodded. "Likewise."
Dean cleared his throat. "So, uh, Bobby, you wanna just watch during this session, and then maybe in one of the later sessions, you can, uh, try it yourself?"
"Sure," said Bobby, although it all made him a little uneasy, just jumping into things so abruptly. He felt like there was a step missing, like maybe he should have talked things over privately with Sam first. It would be an understatement to say that a lot had happened in the past year, and Bobby felt like he had stepped through a wormhole in time. It was like he had gone to bed and everything was fine, only to wake up and find one of his boys changed irrevocably in the blink of an eye.
Sam was staring at the ceiling, seeming to not have much interest in what was happening around him.
Karen gave a short, encouraging nod to Dean. "Okay. You know the drill, Dean. You're going to start with forward elevation to ninety degrees, and then we'll do thirty-degree external rotation and some internal rotation until Sam cries uncle." She smiled teasingly at Sam.
Sam ignored her, continuing his inspection of the ceiling.
Dean's eyes shifted to Bobby for a second, and then he returned his focus to Sam. He carefully picked up Sam's right arm, which had been resting across Sam's stomach, and straightened it out. Then he slowly began to lift it until it was at a ninety-degree angle to Sam's torso.
Sam's jaw tensed, and he closed his eyes.
"How are you doing, Sam?" asked Karen.
He opened his eyes and exhaled. "Fine."
Standard Winchester reply, thought Bobby. It was clear the kid was hurting.
"I'm sorry, man," said Dean, sensing Sam's discomfort and wincing as if the exercise hurt him as much as it did Sam.
Dean had looked tired and haggard when Bobby had first seen him last night, and a good night's sleep hadn't really done much to change that.
"No pain, no gain, Sam," said Karen in a no-nonsense, professional way. "We want it to hurt a little, but not to the point that it's excruciating. If at any time it doesn't feel right, you need to let Dean know. Okay?"
Sam nodded.
Dean gently lowered Sam's arm and then repeated the exercise several more times before moving on to the next set. Under the watchful eye of the physical therapist, Dean went through exercises manipulating Sam's elbow, wrist, and hand. Then, after he and Karen helped Sam to turn onto his left side, his back to Bobby, Dean did flexion, extension, and abduction exercises, moving Sam's right arm to the side, forward, and back.
Sam never once made a sound, but the tension in his upper body belied his discomfort. His legs, again, stayed neatly in place where Karen had placed them, slightly bent at the knees to give him more stability while lying on his side.
It was a lot of exercises to remember, and Bobby's uncertainty must have shown.
"Don't worry, Bobby," said Dean with a grin. "We'll write it down for you. I know you're getting kind of senile." It was the first glimpse of the old, cocky Dean that Bobby had seen since he arrived in town last night.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "I've forgotten more than you'll ever know, you idjit."
Dean waggled his brows at Bobby and then helped Sam roll onto his back, and Karen moved Sam's legs for him.
Sam stared at the ceiling again, disengaged.
Karen said, "All right, Sam. You ready to do the pendulum?"
"Yeah," said Sam, quiet and aloof, not looking at her.
Together, Dean and Karen helped Sam to sit up, and then Dean picked up Sam's long legs and lifted them over the side of the bed.
Bobby could see despite the sweatpants that Sam's legs had lost muscle tone, were thinner, and, again, he tried not to stare.
Karen pulled a sort of sporty-looking, black wheelchair over to the side of the bed.
The wheelchair was the first real, tangible evidence of Sam's disability, and Bobby forced an impassive expression onto his face, ignoring the sudden burn behind his eyes
There was a sleek, narrow, rectangular board made of wood sitting in the seat of the wheelchair, and the shiny surface of the board kind of reminded Bobby of a surfboard, but, of course, much smaller.
Sam's shoulders were slumped, his left arm holding his right gingerly in front of his midsection. He never once looked up to see Bobby's reaction to the wheelchair.
Dean didn't look at Bobby either, but it was obvious that he was trying to be nonchalant, trying to pretend that the sudden tension in the room wasn't so thick that it felt like they were moving through molasses.
Karen placed one end of the board on the mattress of the bed and the other end of it on the seat of the wheelchair, making a bridge between the two surfaces.
Sam carefully placed his right arm in his lap and then hooked his left arm around Dean's neck.
Dean put his hands on Sam's upper torso, and Sam flinched.
"Watch his bruised ribs, Dean," warned Karen.
Dean's head snapped up, a frown on his face, and he immediately lifted his hands away from Sam. He saw the pained expression on Sam's face and said, "I'm sorry, dude. I forgot. I'm so sorry."
Sam closed his eyes, taking in a breath. "It's fine. Let's just get this over with."
Looking guilty, Dean placed his hands lower down onto Sam's hips. "Okay. On the count of three?"
Sam gave a faint nod, and then, on the count of three, Dean and Sam worked together to lift Sam minutely in order to get his butt up on the board, Dean lifting on Sam's hips and Sam using his left arm to pull on Dean's neck. Once he was on the board, Dean pushed on Sam's hips and helped him to slide the distance into the wheelchair and then get adjusted into the seat. Once that was done, Dean lifted Sam's legs one at a time and placed Sam's feet on the footplate.
Sam leaned back a bit and gave a little sigh of relief, although a pinched line between his eyebrows indicated he was still feeling some pain. He held his right arm cradled in his left again.
"You good?" Dean asked Sam.
"Yeah," Sam answered in a flat tone.
"Good job, guys," complimented Karen. "It'll be easier once Sam's ribs aren't so sore." She looked at Bobby. "You'll have plenty of chances to practice this, Bobby, in the next few hours."
Bobby gave her a short nod and glanced at Sam, surprised at how Sam fit into his wheelchair so perfectly. It accommodated Sam's long body like a glove. He had the thought that Sam looked like he belonged in it, and then quickly admonished himself. He didn't think Sam would have appreciated the sentiment.
The sweatpant leg on Sam's left leg had gotten scrunched up a bit during the transfer, and part of a small, clear bag with fluid in it was visible, strapped to Sam's leg.
With a jolt, Bobby realized that it was a collection bag for urine, and he quickly averted his eyes back to Sam's face, hoping Sam hadn't noticed his reaction.
But he had. There was a hard set to Sam's jaw, and his eyes held Bobby's. The mixture of humiliation, despair, and bitterness were impossible to miss, and Bobby felt a chill in his belly and a tightening of his throat at the intensity of Sam's emotions.
The look Sam was giving him was full of self-contempt and held an acrid warning. It was a look that said, You don't even know the half of it.
For the first time, the magnitude of Sam's injury started to sink in, the stark reality of just how much Sam's life had changed, and although he knew Sam wouldn't want his pity, Bobby couldn't help but mourn all that Sam had lost.
XXXXXXXX
Bobby reached over and clumsily turned off the alarm on his watch, surprised that he hadn't woken up when Dean had gone into the kitchen to make coffee and eat a quick breakfast, which was Dean's usual morning routine before he went to work. All was quiet, now, so Bobby figured that Dean was already gone. It had been one of Bobby's nights last night to help turn Sam, so he supposed that, after four nights of waking up every two hours, the lack of sleep had caught up with him. At least tonight would start Dean's stretch, and Bobby would hopefully be able to sleep through the night.
He sat up, rubbed his sore back, and then swung his legs over the side of the cheap, second-hand, sofabed mattress. The damn thing was killing him, but he'd never admit that to the boys. Dean had insisted that Bobby take his bed, but Bobby had insisted right back that he would be fine sleeping on the pull-out. He wasn't about to take Dean's bed. Dean needed all the rest he could get since he was working two jobs.
They had brought Sam home from the hospital seven days ago, and this last week had been exhausting for Bobby. It had been a blur of transfers—transfers to and from the bed, transfers to and from the sofa, transfers to and from the car, transfers to and from the shower chair, and the most fun of all, transfers to and from the toilet. At least Sam was able to do his bowel program on his own—thank God he at least had one usable arm—although Bobby had to help him pull his pants down and up and make sure he had all the supplies he needed.
It was, of course, embarrassing for Sam, but, to Bobby, it was just the way things were and not that big of a deal. He'd pretty much been over it after the first day. The most disconcerting part of the whole process for Bobby was the fact that Sam had to sit in there on the toilet for at least thirty minutes, sometimes almost an hour, before he was finished.
Getting dressed, in general, took a lot longer for Sam now, and on the days he had to do his bowel program, he had to allow even more time to get ready, especially if he had a PT appointment or doctor's appointment. It was a real pain in the ass, no pun intended, for a guy who used to take twenty minutes, tops, to do the three S's. At least he didn't have to do the bowel thing every day.
Sam had also been able to go back to catheterizing himself. Since he had to take his immobilizer off to do PT, Dr. Ogden had overridden Dr. Salazar's recommendation and given Sam the okay to cath himself before he started each home session of the passive range of motion exercises. The schedule for the sessions pretty much coincided with Sam's bladder program, so as long as he had promised to use his right arm as little as possible, Dr. Ogden had agreed that it was better for Sam to gain back some of his independence.
Bobby had to help Sam very carefully transfer to the toilet and, once again, help him get his pants down, but Sam was able to do the rest while Bobby stepped outside the bathroom to give him a modicum of privacy.
It had all been daunting because Sam's extreme embarrassment and discomfort at having to have Bobby's help with so many personal things was, in turn, making Bobby edgy and uncomfortable. He felt like he was torturing the poor kid by helping him, and it made for a tense situation to say the least. Bobby had tried to cut Sam some slack, hoping that Sam would get used to things, but after a week, Sam's unease hadn't diminished, and he just seemed to be more despondent and withdrawn with each passing day.
Bobby hated the lack of control he felt, the feeling of helplessness that nothing he did could make Sam snap out of the depression he was in, no matter how much he tried to show Sam that there was nothing wrong with asking for or needing help, that Bobby didn't mind helping him, that Bobby wanted to help him. The kid was definitely John Winchester's son, though—proud and stubborn to the core.
Dean was gone most of the time, what with working two jobs, so Bobby and Sam were left alone together almost twenty-four/seven. The only thing Dean was really able to help with was shifting Sam's position at night so Sam wouldn't develop pressure sores, since Sam was only able to lie in basically one of two positions and couldn't really move himself. He couldn't even lie on his stomach because he had to wear the shoulder immobilizer at all times, except for when he showered or was doing therapy.
Dean and Bobby would take turns helping Sam to turn over several times a night. Bobby insisted on doing it four nights a week, and Dean took the other three. They usually did their nights in a row so they would have a few nights back-to-back of uninterrupted sleep.
The nightly ritual was, of course, the hardest on Sam, who never got a full night of uninterrupted sleep, constantly being woken up to be turned over. Bobby knew it was yet another thing that made Sam feel helpless and frustrated, but the kid didn't complain. He never said much of anything.
As Bobby made his way to Sam's room, he tried to push back a feeling of dread. Today would be a doubleheader—bowel program and outing for a PT appointment. Bobby wasn't looking forward to the morose mood the pending appointment would almost certainly put Sam in. Sam hated going out of the apartment. According to Dean, he'd never gone out much before he hurt his shoulder, but now it was like pulling teeth to get Sam out of the house and somewhere on time.
The door to Sam's room was ajar, and Bobby pushed it open. Sam was on his left side, pillows behind him and in front to keep him comfortable and supported. He was facing the door, eyes wide open.
"How long you been awake, Sam? Why didn't you holler at me?"
Sam's only response was to look at some point above Bobby's head and sigh.
It was annoying that Sam didn't answer him, but Bobby let it go and walked over next to the bed. "You ready?"
There was a beat of silence before Sam said softly, "Yeah."
Bobby ignored Sam's usual morning moroseness and began the process of getting Sam out of bed. He removed the pillows from around Sam and pulled the light-weight, navy coverlet and top sheet off of him. Then he first rolled Sam onto his back, lifting and moving Sam's legs accordingly, before gently placing a hand underneath Sam in the middle of his upper back, careful not to jar his injured shoulder.
Sam's right arm was, of course, held in place close across his middle by the strappy, beige shoulder immobilizer. Bobby would be glad when Sam didn't have to wear it anymore. Of course, Sam never said anything about it, but it looked uncomfortable, too confining and constricting. Bobby didn't know how Sam managed to get any sleep at all with the thing on.
Sam hooked his left arm around Bobby's neck, and together they got Sam to a sitting position without causing him too much shoulder and rib pain. After Bobby placed Sam's legs to where they were hanging over the side of the bed, feet touching the floor, he said, "You ready for Big Bertha?"
Sam eyed the rented power wheelchair sitting next to his bed with an impassive expression, but Bobby didn't miss the faint, disdainful curve to Sam's mouth. The chair was cumbersome and bulky compared to Sam's sleek, compact manual chair, but until Sam's shoulder healed and he was able to push himself again, he was stuck with the power chair Dean had nicknamed Bertha if he wanted to be able to get around on his own. It was a hassle to transport, too, but, to Bobby, it was no more complicated than taking apart Sam's rigid-frame, manual chair to get in the car. At least they didn't have to take the wheels off of the power chair.
Sam nodded, indicating he was ready to transfer. His slightly tousled hair made him look unusually boyish, and Bobby felt a pang of nostalgia for the old Sam, the inquisitive, sensitive boy that used to spend hours poring over the books in Bobby's library.
They transferred Sam to the power chair using the ever-handy transfer board, and, using the joystick on the left side of the chair, Sam made his way to the adjoining bathroom. Bobby followed the faint electric whir of the motor.
After Sam had taken his meds and brushed his teeth, Bobby said, "You ready to pinch a loaf, kid?"
Sam gave him a funny look, as if kind of stunned.
And then it hit Bobby that that was, pretty much, exactly what Sam literally had to do to stimulate his bowel, and Bobby felt a stab of remorse for his crass words. "Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."
Sam stared at him for another moment, and then his chest started to sort of rumble. He clenched his eyes closed, the corners of his mouth drawn back in what might be construed as a grin—or a grimace.
Bobby was alarmed, unsure of exactly what was happening, and then Sam drew in a deep breath, threw his head back, and began laughing out loud. It was a belly laugh, the kind of guffaw that shook the whole body, the kind of laugh that released tension. Tears ran down his face, and he held his sore ribs with his left hand.
Bobby watched, still mortified at what he'd said. He didn't know if Sam's reaction was a sign that Sam was going off the deep end or if it was just the release of a year's worth of emotional and physical pain.
After what seemed like forever, Sam's laughing slowly morphed into a few intermittent snorts, and then finally into a dimpled grin that Bobby suspected hadn't made an appearance in a very long while. Sam wiped the moisture from his face and said, "It's okay, Bobby." Another short burst of a laugh escaped him, and he winced a little. "You should see your face."
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
Sam smiled. "It's okay. Really. Do you know that in a year, that's the first time anyone has made light of all this?"
Bobby was skeptical. "You've been livin' with Dean Winchester. I presume you've met."
The smile on Sam's face fell. "Dean hasn't been the same since my injury."
"Well, you ain't the most approachable guy anymore, Sam. Your angst makes Kurt Cobain look like Donny Osmond."
Sam's face grew stormy. "What do you expect, Bobby?"
"I expect you to move on, Sam. I expect you to live your life the best you can. Just because you're in that chair don't mean you're dead."
Sam's left hand fisted, and his features darkened. "I wish..." he started, but the trailed off.
"You wish what, Sam?" Bobby asked with intensity.
Sam didn't answer, but his eyes were locked on Bobby's face.
"You wish what?" Bobby persisted. He paused, and when Sam didn't answer, he said, "You wish that you were dead?"
Sam still didn't answer, but the stubborn look on his face said he wouldn't deny it.
Bobby felt a surge of anger. "You damn idjit! You think you're the only one who has to deal with this? What makes you so special? I've done the research. There's around 250,000 Americans with SCI, Sam. Eighty percent of them are men, and a lot of them are around your age. Now, I ain't saying that it's easy to adjust, but a lot of them have moved on with their lives and are happy, and they can do most of the things they did before they were injured."
Sam gave a derisive snort. "Yeah. Let me jump right back into hunting. I'm sure Dean would just love to have me backing him up. We'll just have to make sure when we do a salt-and-burn that the graveyard is wheelchair accessible."
Bobby ignored Sam's sarcastic comment. "It's about the choices you make, Sam. It's about not letting this beat you. I've known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, and I know you're strong. Put that stubborn streak of yours to good use and make a new life for yourself!"
Sam's mouth was in a tight line, and he exhaled harshly through his nose. "You don't think you're gonna find anything, do you, Bobby? You've stopped looking."
Bobby rolled his eyes, exasperated. "No. I haven't stopped looking, Sam, and I'm not gonna. But it's been a year, and we ain't found squat. In the meantime, you're sitting on your ass here feeling sorry for yourself while Dean damn near kills himself to make ends meet. For a guy who earned a full ride to Stanford, don't you think you're smart enough to find a job and take some of the load off your brother? I mean, when's the last time Dean even had a day off?"
Sam's eyes flashed with anger. "When do I get a day off, Bobby? When do I get one single day where there's something that I don't have to struggle with? When do I get a day where I don't feel loopy from the antidepressant and the antispasticity med or the painkiller I take when I get the random, excruciating burning sensation in my worthless legs?
"How can I hold down a job when it's all I can do to manage my bodily functions? Almost everything I do has to adhere to a rigid schedule, a rigid diet, unless I want to run the risk of having an accident—which still sometimes happens, despite my best efforts—like a fucking toddler being potty trained. This broken body that I can't ever escape from is my job, now, Bobby! It saps my strength. It's like I'm climbing a ladder, trying to get out of the hole I'm in, but I can't ever reach the top. There is no end in sight!"
Sam's breathing had become harsh, and he was trembling. He swallowed convulsively and closed his eyes, fighting to get control of his emotions. Finally, his voice full of despair, he said, "I want to move on. I'm tired of being miserable all the time, but how am I supposed to ever get used to this? You've seen how I have to live, Bobby. When does it stop being a nightmare and start being a life?"
Bobby's heart bled for the kid, and he sat down on the edge of the tub so Sam wouldn't have to look up at him anymore, holding Sam's gaze with intensity. "There's a point, Sam, that everyone reaches, a tipping point, a point where a trauma ceases to be a tragedy and becomes just how things are, a point where a person gets fed up with heartache and grief and frustration and learns to accept what's happened and move on. It's why people can rebuild a town after it's been wiped out by a tornado. It's why there was the Baby Boom after the horrors of World War II. It's why," his voice faltered and he felt a stinging in his eyes, "I'm able to get out of bed each morning knowing that I killed my own wife when she was possessed by a demon."
There was no expression on Sam's face, just a tightness in his jaw.
"I'm not saying it won't leave a scar, Sam, and sometimes they're real deep. But you're—what?—twenty-four years old? You've still got a lot of life ahead of you, probably more than you ever would have if you'd kept hunting. I'm not denying you've been dealt a bad hand, but you ain't lost the game, yet."
Sam looked away from Bobby, his throat working.
"What would Jessica say if she were here, Sam? What would your dad say?"
A myriad of emotions crossed Sam's features. After a moment, though, he seemed to master whatever feelings were going through his head, and his expression turned stony. "First they would be horrified, and then they would feel sorry for me, just like everyone else."
Bobby hung his head and wondered if anything he'd said to Sam had soaked in at all.
XXXXXXXX
Sam's anger simmered, and he gritted his teeth and looked at Dean.
Dean exhaled, clearly frustrated. "You know what Dr. O and Karen said, Sam. No transfers without the board."
"Dean, it's an easy one," he said, facing the bench seat of the booth that would be his home for the next five hours while Dean worked his shift as the evening manager and bartender for Shorty's Sports Bar and Grill. "It's stupid for you to go all the way back out to the Impala just to get the board."
"Dude, we're not taking any chances on wrenching your shoulder. Besides, you've still got bruised ribs, too. You've only been out of the hospital for a week."
Sam turned his head away, scanning the crowded restaurant. "Fine. Whatever. You're the one that's late for your shift."
"I think they'll cut me some slack," Dean said dryly.
Sam refocused his attention back to Dean. "You mean because you have to help your poor, crippled brother?"
Dean shook his head in disapproval, his jaw tense.
Sam waited to see what he would say, knowing the old Dean would have come back with some snarky remark.
Instead, Dean inhaled a deep breath, waited a moment, almost as if he was counting to ten, and said, "I meant they would cut me some slack because I'm the boss, Sam."
Sam clenched his teeth again, something he did a lot when he was around Dean. "It'll take less than a second, Dean. We don't need the fucking board."
Dean's face went neutral. "I'll be back," he said, and turned to leave before Sam could argue further.
Dick, thought Sam. He drew in a deep, frustrated breath and felt the pull of his sore ribs and shoulder. He tried not to think about how constricted he felt with the immobilizer holding his right arm in place, not to mention the dull, constant ache it caused in the bruised ribs it came in contact with. Hopefully, if all went well, he only had to wear it one more week, and then he could just wear a regular sling. Dr. Ogden had said Sam would be in the immobilizer three to four weeks. Knowing my luck, Sam thought cynically, I'll probably have to wear it the full four weeks.
He pushed on the joystick of the power chair with his left hand to turn himself around so that he was facing out toward the restaurant, noting that a few heads furtively turned back to their meals or conversations, pretending not to have noticed him. Sam felt the familiar tightening of his gut, felt the familiar, sickening feeling that he was an object of pity, the gimp.
It was the same everywhere. People always saw the chair first and Sam second, and it was impossible to be inconspicuous. It was impossible to just be himself and not the poor bastard in the wheelchair. It was why he only ventured out of the apartment if he had to and why he must have lost his mind to have agreed to come with Dean tonight.
Shorty's was the typical college hangout place. It had cheap beer, flat-screen TVs broadcasting some sort of sport all the time, pool tables, and a variety of breaded foods and the obligatory chicken wings that were a requirement of every American sports bar. Its patrons were mostly students from nearby San Diego State University.
Sam had been to Shorty's once before with Dean for dinner, but tonight he was there for the long haul. Things had been tense between Bobby and Sam since their argument earlier that morning, and Dean must have sensed that they needed a break from each other. Dean had suggested Sam come hang out at the bar and grill for a change of scenery, and Sam had reluctantly agreed.
Sam was quickly coming to realize, though, that this option wasn't any better than staying home with Bobby would have been. He'd only been around Dean for thirty minutes, and Dean was already pissing him off. Sam was going to stake his claim in the booth and hope that Dean would be too busy to hover over him.
When Dean came back with the transfer board, it took twice as long to get Sam into the booth as it would have if they'd done it without the board, and it made Sam feel twice as conspicuous. Dean had pulled Sam's ROHO cushion that was Velcroed to the seat of the power chair out so Sam could sit on it in the booth. The ROHO helped protect Sam's skin from breakdown. The seat of the booth was kind of hard, and Sam sure as hell didn't want to take a chance on getting a pressure sore, since he would be sitting there for a while.
Dean helped Sam scoot back to where his back was against the wall so Sam could stretch his legs out across the seat of the booth, crossing Sam's left leg over his right at the ankles so his left leg wouldn't inadvertently slide off the rounded, sleek surface of the bench seat. Dean had thought to bring a pillow from home to put behind Sam's back, and Sam was grudgingly grateful, although it made him feel even more like an invalid.
Dean then got Sam's laptop out of the wheelchair backpack and found an outlet under the table of the booth to plug it in, since the battery life on the laptop was only two hours, and Sam would be camped out in the booth a lot longer than that.
Sam put the computer on his lap, and, since he couldn't feel it resting on his legs, he had the weird feeling that the laptop was floating, sort of hovering over his lap. It was disconcerting, and he thought for the millionth time that he would never get used to being paralyzed. Bobby was wrong. Sam was never going to be able to accept what had happened to him.
I can get you out of that chair, Sam. Don't you want to be whole again?
Azazel's words haunted Sam, and he couldn't stop thinking about them, even though he had probably been hallucinating or dreaming because of the concussion. He couldn't really remember much of what had happened the morning he fell, but he remembered clearly those words, and the demon's bright yellow eyes were seared into Sam's brain. Part of him hoped that it had all been some kind of sick dream, and part of him at least wanted the option that Yellow Eyes had offered, even though Sam knew the horrible consequences.
It had been two weeks since his shoulder injury, and the demon hadn't appeared to him again, which supported the notion that Azazel's visit hadn't been real. Still, Sam hadn't said anything to Dean or Bobby about it because the more he thought about the deal, the more tempting it was. On the off chance that Sam hadn't dreamed it all, he couldn't bring himself to burn his bridges just yet.
He knew it was wrong to even consider it, but the last two weeks had made him feel more helpless and humiliated than ever, and he had no other hope. Either way, if Yellow Eyes was real or not, Dean and Bobby didn't need to know just how desperate Sam had become. He needed to find the Colt, though, just in case Azazel really had been there and made good on his threat to come back. How was Sam supposed to look for it, though? It was hard to be discreet with only one usable arm and a power wheelchair.
It had seemed so cut-and-dried when the demon had been standing before him. The need for justice and revenge had consumed Sam, but now he was ashamed to admit to himself that he wasn't even sure he would kill Azazel if given the chance. Sam still wanted the Colt as backup, though, just the same.
"You good?" asked Dean, pulling Sam back from his dark thoughts.
"Yeah," Sam answered curtly, his already sour mood ratcheting up a notch. He turned his attention to the laptop and switched it on.
"You thirsty or hungry? I can send over a beer or somethin' and some food, if you want."
Sam felt an unreasonable surge of irritation and gave Dean an annoyed look. "It's only five, Dean. I'm a paraplegic, not an eighty-year-old. I don't usually eat dinner until seven."
"Jesus, Sam," said Dean, exasperation finally breaking through. "Excuse me for just asking if you're hungry. Stop being such a douche."
Sam glared at him and said, "Just send a waitress over. My mouth still works. I can still read a menu and order food and drinks for myself. I don't need you to do it for me."
The muscles in Dean's neck tensed, and his shoulders hunched in a belligerent stance.
Sam waited for a moment, challenging him with a look, knowing that Dean was angry but that nothing would come of it. When Dean just stood there, Sam looked down to the computer screen, ignoring the tension between the two of them, barely containing the scorn he felt for Dean's lack of spine.
Dean exhaled a harsh breath, reining in his temper, just as he always did. Changing the subject, he said, "You, uh, want me to put the chair somewhere out of the way?"
Sam nodded, still not looking up, not giving Dean's presence any significance.
He could feel Dean staring at him, and after a pause, he heard Dean's footsteps walking away. When he looked up, he saw that Dean had grabbed the push handles of the power chair and was pushing it toward a door that led to the kitchen and the back office of the restaurant.
Sam tamped down a pang of something that felt a little like guilt as his brother disappeared into the kitchen. Bobby was right. Sam sure as hell didn't make things easy for Dean. Being a jerk to him was a habit now, one that Sam found hard to break, especially since Dean never really fought back. Dean was the easiest target for Sam's ever-present rage, and Sam didn't know how to stop.
Sam surfed the web for the next hour, glancing up every once in a while. Dean was busy at the bar, and the two waitresses, Heather and TJ, who often worked the same shifts as Dean, were run ragged taking orders and carrying out food to the tables.
There was a booth full of girls drinking beer on the opposite side of the room from Sam, and one of them, a beautiful, dark-haired girl, happened to make eye contact with him.
She smiled, and Sam quickly shifted his eyes back to his laptop, pretending he hadn't seen her.
Several minutes passed, and Sam became engrossed in a web site about faith healers, so he was startled when he heard a female voice say, "Fascinating reading?"
He looked up to see the girl with the long, dark hair he'd made eye contact with earlier. She was smiling down at him, her hand on the back of the seat across the table from him. She had gorgeous blue eyes and was wearing a tight, red t-shirt and jeans that hugged her shapely body.
Sam didn't know what to say. The only girls he'd spoken to since his spinal injury were his nurses and physical therapists, and they didn't count. He'd heard all the crap the therapists and psychologists spewed about paraplegics having fulfilling, loving relationships and knew it was bullshit. What kind of woman would ever be interested in him, now? He knew the door to that part of his life had been painfully and permanently slammed shut, unless he found a cure.
He realized that his wheelchair was out of sight and that she must have gotten to Shorty's after the whole production of getting him transferred into the booth. That was the only explanation for why she would be flirting with him.
She seemed amused that Sam was at a loss for words and said, "I'm Chanel, as in Coco. Mind if I join you?" Before Sam could come up with a reason why she shouldn't, she slid into the booth across from him.
Sam would rather have been sitting across the table from Lucifer himself.
TBC