Chapter 4
TJ pushed a strand of her mud-colored brown hair behind her ears. She was running her ass off tonight, and her annoying, baby-fine hair was coming out of it's ponytail holder. She hadn't even had two seconds to stop and fix it.
Tip money. Tip money. Tip money. She kept repeating the words to herself as she dealt with overly-friendly college guys and overly-bitchy college girls. She hated two-dollar beer night. Any beer Shorty's had on tap was two dollars, even the better stuff. The special started at four in the afternoon, and by six most of the partakers were well on their way to drunkdom.
She was at the bar, waiting for Dean to fill her latest drink order—beer, beer, and more beer—and one glass of wine. She snorted to herself. Only Chanel would order wine at a place like this. It wasn't even good wine—just some cheap crap that the owners had stuck on the menu for pretentious, stupid, wanna-be rich girls that might deign to slum it at a place like Shorty's.
TJ and Heather always drew straws to see who would have to wait on Chanel, and TJ almost always ended up drawing the short straw, as she had this evening. She had the worst luck in the world when it came to things like that. She'd begged Heather to have mercy and just start taking turns, but the usually good-natured, easy-going Heather had adamantly refused. TJ had even offered Heather a bribe in the form of a tip percentage, but Heather wouldn't go for it.
As Dean placed the drinks on TJ's round tray, he glanced over at his brother. No matter how busy Dean was, he never forgot about his brother, always keeping an eye on him. "That is so not good," said Dean, his brows drawing together in a slight frown.
TJ followed his gaze to the booth where Sam was sitting and saw Chanel in the seat across from him. Chanel said something to Sam, and Sam gave her a faint smile back that didn't quite reach his eyes.
TJ was a little surprised that Chanel had gotten a smile of any kind out of Sam. The few times TJ had been around him, he always seemed kind of surly and pissed off. For some reason, it kind of irked her that Chanel had gotten a smile out of him, even if it was a half-assed one.
TJ gave Dean a sympathetic grimace. "Looks like Chanel, as in bitch," TJ said, mocking the way Chanel always introduced herself, "has set her sights on Sam tonight."
Dean glanced at his watch. "Yeah. And it's almost time for Sam to, uh," he cleared his throat, "take a break. I need to get his wheelchair. He'll be so pissed if I bring it over there while he's talking to her, whether he likes her or not."
TJ understood. She had gotten to know Dean pretty well, since she worked almost all of her shifts with him. He mostly talked about how smart Sam was and how Sam had gotten a full ride to Stanford, but there was sadness in his eyes a lot of times when he talked about Sam, too. Although he never said anything about it, TJ figured it had to do with Sam being paralyzed, that Sam was having a hard time of it since he'd been hurt, and that had been more than evident when Dean had shown up with Sam tonight.
TJ had noticed Sam's air of despondency when he'd first entered the restaurant in the wheelchair and the dagger-filled look he'd given Dean while Dean had been helping him into the booth. It had kind of made TJ mad, since Dean didn't deserve it, but she supposed if she were a paraplegic and had a screwed up shoulder to boot, she might be mad at the world, too.
She looked at Sam again. He was sitting sideways in the booth, legs in front of him on the seat and crossed nonchalantly at the ankles, silver laptop resting on his lap. He occasionally typed something or touched the built-in mouse with his left hand, since his right was strapped to his body in a huge sling.
He was wearing brown Merrell loafers, which seemed a little too mature for a guy his age, and his crossed feet hung off the end of the seat a little because his legs were so long. There was no nervous twitch in his feet or any movement in them whatsoever, and his jeans were a little too loose. Those things weren't remarkable by themselves, unless you already knew that his legs wouldn't move, that they were a little thinner than they should be because he was paralyzed.
Aside from the sling thing holding his right arm in place, TJ would never have guessed Sam was disabled. He exuded that sort of natural coolness, confidence, and masculinity that some guys just had and that he seemed totally unaware of. He wasn't cocky like Dean, and TJ guessed he probably hadn't been even before his accident or whatever had happened to him, but there was a soulfulness about him that was almost magnetic. Even when he was so obviously unhappy, as he had been when Dean had been helping him earlier, he was still attractive.
There was nothing to be pitied about Sam. She thought "disabled" was the term to use these days instead of "handicapped," but "disabled" didn't seem an appropriate way to describe Sam either. She thought there had to be a better way to say it, some better, politically-correct term or something, without making it who he was.
With his sort of longish, dark-brown hair and dimples that were making an appearance as he talked to Chanel, he was as handsome as Dean, although, as brothers, they looked nothing alike. TJ marveled at the gene pool that could have produced such different, yet heart-stopping good looks.
Dean was more all-American with his short, dirty-blond hair, chiseled features, and smart-ass sense of humor; Sam had more of the angsty thing going on with his longer hair, brooding eyes, and a sort of tragic air that would make just about any girl want to solve his problems for him—or at least give it a try. Both guys were beyond hot, and TJ figured their parents must have been part Greek god or something.
Life wasn't fair, was it? What did these guys need with such looks? TJ mentally scoffed at her own corn-fed, farm-girl body that she'd abhorred ever since she'd first begun to notice boys—like, when she was in preschool. Well, maybe she hadn't hated her body quite that long, but it hadn't been too many years after that when she'd realized that she wasn't attractive, that people didn't ooh and ah over her like they did petite little Emily Maddox that lived down the street.
TJ's body would never fit the cheerleader mold. She was more the plain, lumberjack type, and it was futile for her to lust after guys like Dean and Sam. She'd never stand a chance. Heather was more their type—or, at least, she was Dean's, if the way he looked at her was any indication. Dean was a consummate flirt, but there was a certain twinkle in his eye that he reserved just for Heather, although, for some reason, he'd never acted on it.
TJ looked over at Chanel again, hating her for her beautiful long hair, perfect body, and the conceit that gave her the courage to just go over and start talking to a guy like Sam, never once questioning whether Sam would want to talk to her.
Well, at least TJ had a soul. At least TJ's heart wasn't made of a block of ice. She looked back to Dean. "You want me to get rid of her?"
Dean shot TJ a wary glance. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."
TJ had been known to be less than tactful to customers before, and Dean had had to intervene with Phil and Katherine, the owners of Shorty's, more than once to keep TJ from getting fired. "I promise I'll try to be good," said TJ. "I won't clock her or anything."
Dean gave her a warning look. "You're on thin ice, TJ. You know that. I don't know if I can save you the next time you piss off Phil and Katherine."
"Just let Katherine have a good squeeze of your ass and all will be right with the world. You know she's hot for you."
Dean made a face. "Hell no. I like you, sweetheart, but not that much."
TJ didn't blame him. Katherine was a wrinkled old bag, and that was putting it politely. She smiled wickedly. "Yeah. Phil's probably more your type anyway. I think he's got the hots for you, too."
Dean's expressive face scrunched into an almost comical look of disgust. "Excuse me while I swallow my own vomit."
She laughed and then said, "I'm off to save your brother from the clutches of evil. You owe me."
Dean arched a brow. "I think you still owe me for the eighty-five thousand times I saved your ass from getting fired."
"Exaggeration."
"Okay. Eighty thousand, then."
She shrugged and gave him a you know you love me grin, and Dean rolled his eyes.
TJ picked up her drink-laden tray and made her way over to the booth full of Chanel's friends, who weren't much more tolerable than Chanel. TJ doled out all the drinks except for the wine.
"Chanel's over there," said one of the girls with a dark tan and freeze-dried blond hair, and all the girls looked toward Sam's booth with blatant curiosity. TJ thought the girl's name that had spoken was Gucci or Gigi or something like that, but she couldn't really remember. They all had cheesy names like that.
TJ nodded in response to the girl, a wry twist to her mouth that conveyed that she had already worked that out, and headed toward Sam and Chanel. She wove her way between tables and reached the booth, and she smiled politely at Sam and then said to Chanel with disdain, "Here's your Merlot." She set the glass of red wine in front of Chanel.
Chanel's smile was saccharine. "Thanks, Nelly. Run along, now."
TJ stiffened at Chanel's use of her nickname.
Sam's brows drew together in a faintly perplexed look.
TJ was struck again by how good-looking he was, but quickly turned her attention back to Chanel. There was no way TJ should be having thoughts like that about Sam. "Your friends want you to come back over there, Chanel." It was a lie, but TJ was on a rescue mission and felt justified.
Chanel glanced at her cronies, who were all staring, and then tossed her hair. "They know better," she said haughtily.
Subtle, thought TJ, and she shot Sam a WTF look behind Chanel's back.
Sam gave her a crooked smile, and TJ felt an odd sense of relief that he didn't seem to be falling for Chanel's shit. She didn't think Chanel or her idiot friends were his type, and the look on his face confirmed that.
Chanel looked back at Sam and gave him a sultry, coy look as she took a sip of her wine.
TJ rolled her eyes, trying not to gag.
Sam looked down at his laptop screen, his lips pressed together like he was suppressing a smile, causing his dimples to deepen.
He was so cute when he wasn't all surly—okay, he was cute even when he was surly—and TJ knew she was in trouble. She was getting that surge, that feeling of infatuation she got whenever she was first attracted to a guy. Don't go there, she admonished herself. You're not his type, either. You're more Li'l Abner's type.
Chanel looked up at TJ and glared. "I thought I told you to run along, Nelly. Tell my friends I'll be back over there when I'm ready."
TJ clenched her teeth. "Fine. I'll put the wine on your tab."
TJ turned and had only walked a step when she heard Chanel say in an exaggerated, very poor impression of a country accent, "Fine. I'll put the wine on your tab." She was obviously mocking TJ.
TJ froze and then pivoted back around to face Chanel. She'd never in her life been in a fight, but at that moment TJ sorely wanted to kick Chanel's phony, bony ass. Chanel was like this every time, always needling at TJ like Chinese water torture, and TJ was tired of it.
"Isn't that such a sweet accent, Sam, the way she drawls out her I's?"
Sam didn't answer and eyed TJ warily, obviously sensing that she was ticked.
"Don't go there, Chanel," said TJ with dead calm.
"It's so...bumpkin. Tell me where you're from again." She put up her hand before TJ could speak. "No. Don't tell me. Oklahoma, right?" She looked at Sam. "So Dust Bowl, you know. The Okie coming to California for a better life."
Sam looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat.
TJ felt anger spread through her like hot lava. "Yeah. You're right, Chanel," she said, her voice dripping with derision. "I'm from Oklahoma." She grabbed the glass of red wine off the table and in one swift motion threw it in Chanel's face.
Chanel gasped as the Merlot splattered on her face and chest and promptly ran down onto her too-tight, red t-shirt.
TJ jutted her chin forward with pride. "And that, bitch, was the Grapes of Wrath."
XXXXXXXX
Sam's eyes widened, and he couldn't keep the grin off his face at TJ's last words.
Chanel's attention was solely on TJ now, and she stood up, slowly and deliberately wiping wine from her face with her hands.
There was a roll of brown paper towels next to the ketchup and the salt-and-pepper shakers on the table, but Sam didn't feel like being particularly helpful. He hadn't liked Chanel from the moment she'd sat down across from him uninvited, and he'd liked her even less when he had seen the condescending way she treated TJ.
He didn't really know TJ, but he'd heard Dean say she was a hard worker and likable, despite the fact that her mouth was always getting her into trouble with customers and, subsequently, the owners. Dean was always having to talk them out of firing her.
Chanel pulled her shoulders back and puffed up to her full height, which was only about to TJ's jaw line. TJ was a tall girl, and Chanel would be no match for TJ physically. Chanel was shaking with rage. "That's it. I'm going to get your ass fired, you stupid piece of white trash."
"Go ahead and try," said TJ, her eyes narrowed and jaw tense. Her menacing effect was a little undermined, however, by the girlish smattering of freckles across her nose and cheekbones.
There was another moment of tension, and then Chanel stalked off, giving TJ a dirty look over her shoulder.
Sam handed TJ the roll of paper towels with his left hand so she could wipe up the droplets of wine that had splashed onto the table and booth.
"Thanks," said TJ, brushing a strand of brown hair from her cheek. She began wiping up the mess, distracted when she saw Chanel talking animatedly to Dean at the bar, her brainless friends in a half circle surrounding her.
Dean was wiping down the bar with a beer-stained white towel, nodding his head occasionally as Chanel continued her rant, pointing at TJ.
TJ turned her attention back to the small mess, her mouth in a taut line. When she finished wiping, she wadded up the used paper towels, stuck them on her empty tray, and said to Sam with a hint of humor in her eyes, "Sorry I scared off your friend."
Sam huffed a laugh. "I owe you a big thanks."
"She probably will get me fired. I was kind of on probation, anyway."
"Don't worry. Dean'll get you out of it. Trust me."
"I don't know if he can this time. This might be the straw that broke the camel's back. I kind of have a hard time keeping my mouth shut. I should have just ignored her. She's an idiot." There was a beat of silence, and she changed the subject. "You ready for a menu?"
"Did Dean tell you to say that?"
She looked down at her tray and smiled before looking him in the eye. "Yeah. He told both Heather and me earlier. He said you'd get pissy if we didn't offer you the menu, even though he was pretty sure you'd order the Cobb salad and probably just an ice water."
Ordinarily, Sam would have been annoyed, but for some reason it just made him laugh. "What else did he say?"
"He also said not to ask until around seven." She looked at her watch. "I guess I jumped the gun."
Sam smiled. "I'm fine right now. Thanks."
"I'll come check on you at seven and not a minute before," she said with a teasing tone.
Sam nodded. "I'll try not to be too pissy."
"Good. I wouldn't want to have to go Grapes of Wrath on you, too." Her accent was pretty subtle, but it was more pronounced on certain words. It was kind of sassy and charming.
"Are you really from Oklahoma?"
She rolled her eyes. "Hell no. Never stepped foot there. I'm from Kentucky. I'm sure to Chanel, all us country girls sound alike, though."
A guy at a nearby table motioned to her, and she looked at Sam and gave a short sigh. "Duty calls. I'll be back after while."
Sam watched as she walked away in a hurry. She was way taller than average, thin, and wore jeans and the black Shorty's polo shirt that was the required uniform to work there, although her shirt was much baggier than Heather's. Her brown hair was in a ponytail, but several strands had fallen out and were tucked behind her ear. She wasn't beautiful like Chanel, but she had personality. Sam was glad that she'd given Chanel a comeuppance and simultaneously gotten Chanel out of his hair. Even if he'd been his old self, he wouldn't have been attracted to Chanel. He wasn't into the snotty, self-centered type.
Soon after Chanel and her friends finally walked out the door, Dean came over with Sam's wheelchair so Sam could take a break and go to the restroom. Sam was usually leery of public restrooms, even if they were supposedly wheelchair accessible, but, probably thanks to Dean, Shorty's was up to par, so there weren't too many problems, aside from the simple fact that Dean had to help him.
Sam hated it when Dean helped him even worse than when Bobby did. Dean represented all that Sam used to be—healthy, active, whole. Dean was supposed to be his brother, his equal, his friend—not his nursemaid—and Dean was a flesh-and-blood reminder of everything Sam had lost. When Sam had to have Dean's help, it stoked his grief and rage and always put him in a foul mood.
Around seven, true to her word, TJ intercepted Heather, who was carrying a menu toward Sam's booth, and took it away from the pretty red-head. She had looked at Sam mischievously, and, despite his bad mood, Sam had been amused that she wanted to be the one to take his order. He didn't think it was because she was interested in him, other than a friend, maybe, because she wasn't flirty. It was more that she just liked teasing him, and he liked her because of it. It made him feel halfway normal.
She made her way to Sam's table and told him he should be a rebel and not order what Dean had predicted, but in the end, he'd ordered exactly what Dean had said he would. The other stuff on the menu was pretty much crap, and Sam would have ordered the Cobb salad even back in the days when he didn't have to watch everything he ate. He also ordered water. He was on a pretty strong painkiller for his shoulder and hadn't drunk anything with alcohol since his fall.
Shorty's closed at ten on weekdays, and Dean and the girls finally got the last of the drunks herded out close to eleven. Dean took Sam for another bathroom break and then once again got him settled into the booth, this time sitting straight forward, facing the table, feet on the floor, to shift position, as Dean had helped him do a few times throughout the evening.
Sam had long since gotten tired of surfing the web, and he had closed his laptop and set it on the table. He leaned his head against the tall back of the booth and watched as Dean, Heather, and TJ began cleaning up for the night and getting things ready for the next day. Sam was tired, and he hoped they would be done soon.
He was almost dozing when TJ came over carrying a large, gray, plastic tub full of what looked like clean silverware and a clear sack full of little paper packets that said "Shorty's" on them. "Mind if I join you?" she said in her faint drawl.
"No, go ahead." He'd thought about denying her, but TJ seemed innocuous enough, and he was bored. It was almost the same situation as when Chanel had come over to him, but he didn't mind it like he had with Chanel. TJ was easygoing and Sam didn't feel nervous around her. There was nothing threatening about her, and, besides, she already knew that Sam was paralyzed and didn't make a big deal of it.
"Thanks," she said tiredly. "I need to take a load off, and I have to put the clean silverware in these," she said, indicating the little packets.
"Need some help?"
"That would be great. I hate doing this. It's so tedious."
Sam opened his eyes wider, surprised. He hadn't thought she would actually take him up on his offer. He wasn't used to anyone needing his help anymore.
She put a stack of packets and a sheet of small, round, neon stickers that said "Clean" on them in front of him and a pile of silverware.
Sam stared for a moment and said, "Uh, I have to do it one-handed."
TJ half-shrugged. "I know. It's not brain surgery. I could do it with my teeth if I had to."
Sam was quiet, and TJ raised her brows. "Oops. Was that insensitive? I mean, you know, since..." She indicated his wheelchair, which Dean had left by the table this time since the restaurant was closed and it wouldn't be in the way.
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm not a quadriplegic. I have full use of my arms. Well, at least I do when my shoulder isn't broken."
"Oh. Right." She started to get a pile of supplies out for herself to assemble. "It's just that you're the first person I've ever really met, you know, that's disabled or whatever, so just tell me if I say something offensive."
Sam was surprised by her honesty.
"I mean, like, you know, what should I call you?" she said, giving him a direct look. "Is 'disabled' even the right word?"
Sam hated that word. To him, it was no better than "handicapped." It all meant the same thing, no matter how you sugarcoated it, and he hated the fact that those words defined who he was now, that his identity had completely changed. However, he understood where TJ was coming from and appreciated the fact that she was actually asking his opinion, was aware of his feelings. He smiled a little and said, "I don't know. How about 'Sam'?"
Her ears turned a little pink, and she pushed her tongue into her cheek, which gave her mouth a funny quirk. "Right. I should have seen that one comin'."
His smile deepened.
"All right, Sam, I'm gonna show you this one-handed so you get the idea. The trickiest part is going to be getting the packet to stay open while you get the silverware in." She demonstrated it with her left hand, exaggerating the movements in a funny way that made Sam laugh. After he assembled one himself, she gave him her seal of approval.
They sat in companionable silence for a while as they worked, and then TJ let out a huge yawn and said, "This is putting me to sleep. What do you say we make it a little more interesting?"
Sam was intrigued. "How?"
"Let's make it a race. I'll do it one-handed, using my left, of course, so it'll be even."
"All right. You're on."
She eyed him with an arched brow. "We only count the ones from this point on, and sloppy ones don't count."
It was an extremely simple thing to do, and Sam looked at his pile of finished packets. They were all filled with a stainless-steel knife, fork, and spoon, and the top of the small sack was folded over and held in place with a "clean" sticker. Perplexed, he said, "What constitutes a sloppy one?"
She pretended to inspect his finished pile with a discerning eye. Gingerly, she plucked one from the pile. "This one, for starters. Look at the crooked fold on this."
Sam smirked. "Seriously?"
She waved her hand in dismissal. "Nah. Just kidding. Readysetgo!"
She'd said it so fast that it took Sam a second to realize that she had abruptly started the race. "Hey, that's cheating!" he said, but he grinned and started filling his packets in earnest.
"Person with the most packets when we're all finished wins," she said, not missing a beat as she stuffed, folded, and sealed—all with only her left hand.
Soon, the piles of sack packets and silverware had dwindled to nothing. "These are the last ones," she said, as they both sealed the last packets in their piles. "Count 'em up."
It took a minute to count them all, but when they were done, she looked at Sam and said, "24."
Sam raised a brow. "25."
"Oh, that kills! I demand a recount!"
"Score one for the gimp."
Her eyes widened. "I don't think that word is PC."
"Yeah. Probably not," said Sam, unrepentant. "I think if you're actually a gimp, though, you can get away with it."
She rolled her eyes.
Sam shrugged his good shoulder. "Being paralyzed sucks. There ought to be at least a few perks to it."
"Like awesome parking?"
He smiled. "Right."
"Of course, if some three-hundred-pound redneck with a scooter gets the parking space first, you're screwed."
Sam raised a brow.
"I'm sorry. Was that insensitive?"
"Maybe a little. I'm sure it would hurt the three-hundred-pound redneck's feelings."
She shrugged. "I don't think there's too many of them here in San Diego, unless you make a trip to Wal-Mart."
Sam winced. "I'm sure this whole conversation would make most people cringe."
She gave a wry smirk. "Now you can see why I'm about to get fired."
At that moment, Dean walked up to the table. "She put you to work, Sammy?"
Instantly, Sam was on edge.
TJ looked at Sam with something like curiosity at his reaction, and then she glanced at Dean. "He's a quick learner, although his technique could use some practice."
Despite his irritation with Dean, Sam smiled. "I schooled you, and you know it."
"You won by one packet!"
"And you even had a head start."
She gave Sam a look of mock affront. "I did not!"
Sam challenged her with a reproachful look.
Her eyes were full of humor. "It's not my fault if you weren't paying attention."
Sam smiled again, and he realized he'd probably smiled more tonight than he had in the past year.
"You ready, Sam," asked Dean. "I think we're done here."
"Bye guys," yelled Heather as she headed toward the door, leather hobo bag slung over her shoulder.
Dean's head turned toward her as if her pull was magnetic. "Bye. See you tomorrow."
"Bye," said Sam and TJ at the same time.
Heather hardly acknowledged them, though. Her coppery hair reached past her shoulders in a shiny mane, and she flicked it back with a coquettish toss of her head and then locked her eyes on Dean, a faint, seductive curve to her mouth.
Dean quickly looked away, pretending he hadn't noticed.
Sam frowned. It wasn't like Dean not to engage in a flirt with a beautiful girl who clearly had an interest in him.
TJ started putting the finished silverware packets into the big tub she had carried over. "God, I'm so tired," she drawled.
"I don't see any tar in here," teased Dean.
"Tired," corrected TJ with mock primness.
"Tell me about it," said Dean, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You ready, Sam?" Dean asked again.
Sam released an exhale through his nose, dreading the ordeal of getting into the wheelchair and then getting into the Impala and not wanting TJ to witness it.
TJ stood up, though, and suddenly went ghostly pale, swaying.
Sam tensed, his quick hunter's instincts surfacing as if he could spring up and catch her, which was completely futile, of course.
Dean instantly grabbed her by the upper arms. "TJ! Are you okay?"
She blinked and had a confused look on her face, eyes unfocused.
Dean carefully helped her to sit back down. "TJ? You all right?"
Some of the color returned to her face, and she smiled weakly. "It was just a head rush."
Dean frowned. "Did you ever take a dinner break tonight?"
Her mouth quirked in a wry line. "What do you think? When would I have had time?"
"You should've at least had a snack or something," said Dean. "When's the last time you ate?"
She frowned. "Lunch, I guess."
There was something in her tone that made Sam even doubt that.
"All right. The kitchen is closed here, but let's find somewhere that's still open and get you some food." He glanced at Sam. "You up for that, Sammy?"
"It's Sam," he corrected automatically, and, no, he wasn't up for going anywhere else. His painkiller was wearing off, and his shoulder and ribs were starting to hurt, not to mention that he was past due for his evening dose of the antispasticity med, but he wasn't going to admit it. He looked at TJ. "Let's get you some food."
She searched his face for a moment and then said, "I'm okay. Really." As if to prove it, she stood up again, slower this time, and seemed more steady on her feet. "Look. No hands," she joked.
She still looked pale, and Sam wasn't totally convinced. From the look on Dean's face, neither was he.
TJ rolled her eyes. "Seriously, y'all," she drawled, "all I need is a giant cup of coffee, and I'll be fine." She looked at her watch. "I've gotta go. I have to study for a test that I have tomorrow."
"I think you need to eat and go to bed," urged Dean.
She grimaced. "I wish I could, but I already failed the first test in this class, and if I fail tomorrow, I'm in danger of losing my scholarship for graduate school next year. This class is totally kicking my ass, and if I fail, it'll screw up my GPA."
"What class is it?" asked Sam.
"Latin. The professor is psycho. I've never had this much trouble in a class before."
Dean arched his brows and smiled. "You gotta be kidding me. What are the odds of that, Sam?"
Sam looked at Dean warily. "Odds of what?"
Dean smiled at TJ. "Sam here is practically an expert on that subject. I'm sure he wouldn't mind helping you out."
Oh, no, he didn't. He didn't just volunteer me to tutor her, thought Sam. He clenched his jaw.
"Really?" asked TJ hopefully, and she seemed to perk up.
"Dean could help you, too," said Sam quietly, trying to hold in his irritation.
"Oh?"
Dean gave Sam a direct look. "Your Latin is way better than mine, and I work every day of the week, Sammy. I'm sure you would have more time."
Sam's irritation morphed into bona fide anger. "I have therapy, Dean."
"You can work around it."
That infuriated Sam more. Dean knew what Sam's days were like, how rigid his schedule was. How the hell could Dean invite some girl smack into the middle of it? It would disrupt everything, not to mention be embarrassing. Sam liked TJ the little bit he'd hung out with her, but he didn't want her to see how he lived.
TJ was studying both Sam and Dean, her face unreadable. Almost cautiously, she said to Sam, "It wouldn't take long. Even just thirty minutes once or twice a week would help."
Sam probably would have been glad to help TJ in another life, but, now, it was too much to ask. "I'm sorry, TJ. I can't."
Dean's jaw hardened. "You can."
Sam glared at Dean. "Maybe I can, but I won't," he ground out.
He and Dean stared at each other a moment, and Sam felt the old tension he used to feel right before he and Dean would have one of their knock-down, drag-out fights. The hostility had been building between them for months, and Sam wished so badly he could still pounce on Dean and they could settle this the way they used to—beat the crap out of each other and then drink a beer afterward. But he couldn't, and that realization hammered home yet again the fact that half his body was lifeless and that nothing was the same and never would be again, unless they found a fucking cure for him.
TJ interrupted their standoff. "It's okay, guys. Really. Thanks, Dean, for the offer, but I can handle it. I've just got to get my ass in gear."
Sam apologized silently with a lame smile.
"All right," she said, picking up the tub and tucking it next to her hip, "I'm gonna put this away, and I'll see you tomorrow," she said to Dean.
Dean nodded, still clearly ticked off at Sam.
She smiled at Sam. "I'll see you around," and her Southern accent was more pronounced, maybe because she was fatigued.
"Yeah," he answered quietly. He felt a pang of guilt that he had refused to tutor her and a deeper feeling of something he couldn't quite explain, something akin to regret that he probably wouldn't be seeing her anytime soon. He sure as hell wasn't planning any more trips to Shorty's for a while.
As she walked away, Dean ordered, "Get something to eat."
She turned and looked at him over her shoulder, still looking too pale, but the smile on her face was a little cocky. "Yes, Boss."
After she was gone, Dean gave Sam a look of disapproval.
Sam gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, not in the mood for a confrontation. "Let's just go, Dean."
XXXXXXXX
Two days later, Sam began the day from hell. He'd woken up with his shoulder and ribs killing him, the phantom pain in his legs rearing its ugly head with a vengeance, and soaked sheets to top it all off. Sam was always careful not to drink anything after eight o'clock in the evening and always cathed himself right before he went to bed, but sometimes he still wet it occasionally.
He always made sure there was a large, absorbent pad under the bottom sheet on his bed and a heavy-duty, water-proof cover to protect the mattress. Before he'd hurt his shoulder, it hadn't been that big of a deal to just discreetly wash the sheets and wet clothing after Dean went to work, but, of course, now that Bobby had to help him out of bed, there was no hiding it. So, Sam had started the day with Bobby stripping him and the bed of soaked clothing and helping him change into clean boxers so he could begin his bathroom and shower routine. It had been demeaning and mortifying, and neither of them had said a word.
Sam did, of course, have the choice of avoiding it all by either wearing a catheter with a collection bag at night or an adult diaper. Some fucking choice. He'd be damned, first.
By the time he'd finally gotten dressed, the ache in his shoulder and ribs had been dulled by the painkiller, but, as usual, it had hardly made a dent in the searing ghost pain in his legs. He'd been told he was luckier than a lot of people with SCI. His pain was intermittent, and he didn't have pain at the site of his injury. He sometimes went several days without having it, whereas some people with SCI lived with it constantly. The doctors surmised that his pain was all due to a misfiring of nerves from the healthy part of his cord to his brain. In other words, it was basically all in his head. Yeah, he was really fucking lucky.
At least he didn't have any appointments today and was spared the ordeal of having to go somewhere and be around people. He'd already bitten Bobby's head off several times, and he'd only been out of bed for an hour and a half. He just wanted to go back to bed and curl in on himself and grit his teeth through the pain, but he knew Bobby wouldn't let him. It was too much of a hassle to get Sam out of bed for him to just turn right around and get back into it. Besides, they still hadn't done his morning therapy session. His overnight "accident" had gotten them off schedule.
He was sitting in the power chair staring at the TV, aimlessly flipping through channels. It was amazing that they had something like two hundred channels, but there was almost never anything good to watch. His neck and jaw were tense, and he tried to stop clenching his teeth, but it was his only outlet for the pain he felt in his legs. He couldn't clench his right hand because it would use forbidden shoulder muscles, and he was using his left to control the remote. He was about a nanosecond from chucking the remote at the wall in frustration when the doorbell rang.
He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and sighed. What now?
Bobby was taking a shower in Dean's bathroom, so it was up to Sam to answer the door. Maybe if he didn't answer, whoever it was would go away.
But, of course, they didn't. Whoever it was, they were persistent. Where was Bobby? Surely he was out of the shower by now.
The doorbell rang twice more in quick succession. Their visitor was obviously growing impatient.
With a deep sigh, Sam pushed the joystick on the power chair and made his way over to the door. He should have asked who it was, but in his annoyance, he carelessly opened it without thinking. He looked up and was surprised to see TJ standing there.
"Hey, Sam," she said with a genuine smile. She was wearing a black, oversized sweatshirt with red SDSU lettering, jeans, and flip-flops. Her brown hair was in a ponytail, and she had a small, brown leather purse slung over one shoulder and a gray backpack slung over the other.
Sam frowned. "TJ?"
"You ready to get started?"
Sam's frown deepened. "Started on what?"
"On the tutoring?" Her manner grew uncertain. "Dean said you'd changed your mind about helping me."
Instantly, Sam's stomach knotted with fury. He was going to kill Dean.
TBC
A/N: I know this chapter was pretty lame. I had a hard time writing it, and I apologize if it's boring. I'd still like to know what you think, so please review!
Also, for those of you who aren't familiar, The Grapes of Wrath is a famous novel by John Steinbeck. It's about a poor family of sharecroppers driven from their home in Oklahoma because of drought and economic hardship. They go to California, along with thousands of other Oklahomans, to seek a better life, but they were often scorned and looked down upon.