A/N: Thanks to all of you who reviewed the last chapter. You guys gave me the boost I needed to move on, and I think this one is better. Hope you like!
Chapter 5
TJ was feeling decidedly awkward. Judging by Sam's iron-set jaw and the scowl on his face, he had definitely not changed his mind about tutoring her. Of course he hadn't. Her luck never ran that way. Hot guys like Sam never wanted to help her out of the goodness of their hearts. She wasn't the type of girl that inspired that type of chivalry.
She should just pretend that she must have misunderstood Dean, that it was all a mistake, and turn on her heel and leave. And she would have, except that she was pissed off—pissed at Dean for setting her up and pissed at Sam because, dammit, he hadn't changed his mind, and he still didn't want to tutor her.
She needed his help. She had flunked another test in her stupid Latin class yesterday, and she had to practically ace the last two tests of the semester, or she was toast. Her dreams of being a famous research scientist (or—who was she kidding?—just making it to grad school) and her graduate scholarship all hinged on this required class for her major. The professor was a sadist, but she'd been confident she could handle it. After all, she'd always been a stellar student, almost to the point of nerdiness. For some reason, though, this class was about to get her goat.
She couldn't withdraw because this was the last semester of her senior year. She had a job lined up for the summer as a teaching assistant to undergrads before she started the molecular biology master's program at SDSU, and she sure as hell didn't want to have to take summer school or possibly screw up her graduation. She would pass this class, and Sam Winchester was going to help her do it. She couldn't afford to pay for a real tutor, and, well, she just wanted it to be Sam.
He was wearing a long-sleeved, navy-colored v-neck with a white t-shirt peeking out underneath at the neck, and his dark-brown hair almost reached to shoulder length and kind of curled a bit near his ears. He had on loose jeans like the ones he'd worn at Shorty's the other night, but he was only wearing white socks on his feet, which rested almost primly on the footrests of his wheelchair. His right arm was still in the ginormous sling, and his left hand rested on the little lever thing that controlled his wheelchair. His legs were lax and unmoving, of course, but his upper body was tense, the muscles in his neck and chest stiff. He was clearly ticked off but trying to hold it in, and he exuded strength and power—looking totally hot in the process.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she had to force herself to suck in a breath of air. Ignoring Sam's obvious displeasure, she said, "Well, can I come in?"
He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, and inhaled deeply. Then he looked up at her with those serious eyes of his, brow slightly furrowed. "TJ, I'm sorry. Dean—"
"Great!" she interrupted with false cheer and pushed her way past him, bumping the control panel that stuck out beyond the left armrest of the wheelchair in the process, since he was pretty much blocking the doorway. "Oops. Sorry," she said, without looking back at him.
"TJ—"
"Where should I set up?" She looked around the sparsely furnished apartment with its laminate wood floors and saw an eighties-style table with blond-stained wood veneer and a glass tabletop in the dining nook near the kitchen. It looked like a dinette set straight out of Mork & Mindy.
"Look, TJ—"
"Is the table okay?" She didn't wait for him to answer. She made her way to it and started unloading her backpack.
"TJ!" Sam said, raising his voice. He was still by the open door.
"What?" she asked innocently.
"I can't tutor you."
"Why?"
His jaw was firm, and he looked away for a moment. "I just can't."
TJ felt a strange tug on her heart. He looked sort of strained and forlorn, and it made her feel a little guilty for forcing her way into his morning. "Why not?" she asked again softly.
He winced, shutting his eyes for a second, and then looked her in the eye. "It's not a good time. Bobby will be out of the shower soon, and I have to do my therapy."
"Dean said you'd be done by this time."
His jaw turned to iron again and he swallowed hard before glancing out the door. "There was...a delay."
"Oh." She sensed struggle and anguish behind his simple words.
"If you can wait half an hour or so, he'll be done with therapy," said a gruff looking older guy who had just stepped into the living room. Obviously, he had heard some of TJ and Sam's exchange.
"Stay out of this, Bobby," said Sam. The volume of his voice was low but held a warning.
The man ignored Sam and gave TJ a silent look that seemed to say, Don't give up just yet.
Recognizing an ally, she smiled at him and said, "Hi. I'm TJ Nelek."
"Bobby Singer," he said, giving her a nod. "Nice to meet ya."
"Oh, so you're Bobby. Nice to meet you, too. Dean talks about you a lot," she said, letting some of her Kentucky accent slip through. She usually tried to hide it since it seemed to diminish her intelligence in the eyes of a lot of the Californians she met, but sometimes it just seemed appropriate and made her feel more like herself.
"Yeah, well, don't believe everything you hear," Bobby said dryly.
She laughed. "I don't believe most of what Dean tells me."
"Smart girl." He inclined his head toward Sam. "What's this chucklehead gonna tutor you in?"
"Nothing," Sam interjected with emphasis, glowering at Bobby.
TJ smiled with irony. "Apparently, nothing."
Bobby shot Sam a dour look and then said to TJ, "What did you think he was going to tutor you in?"
"Latin."
Bobby lifted the bill of the cap he was wearing and scratched his head. "Well, if he won't do it, I will. I know a little something about Latin myself."
TJ was a little taken aback. It was far from what she had expected. Of course, she would rather it be Sam, but a free tutor was a free tutor, even if he was a grizzled-looking, middle-aged man who had the vibe of a trucker. What was it with these men? Why did they all know Latin? She could maybe see Sam knowing it, but Dean and Bobby? It was weird, but, at this point, she just wanted to pass her nightmare of a class, and she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, everyone had their quirks.
"Wow, thanks, Mr. Singer," said TJ. "That would be great." She slanted a look at Sam to see his reaction.
Sam's jaw seemed to be permanently set in granite, still tense, and he was looking at Bobby with murder in his eyes. He slammed the front door and rolled his way into the living area, the soft whir of the wheelchair's motor almost deafening in the uncomfortable silence that followed.
Bobby cleared his throat and said to TJ, "I need to help Sam with his PT, but after that, I'm free. Do you mind waiting for about thirty minutes or so?"
"No, not at all," TJ replied. "I have other stuff I can work on while you guys are doing that."
Bobby nodded and raised a brow at Sam. "You ready, kid?"
Sam exhaled harshly through his nose, his mouth tight. "Not in here."
TJ realized he didn't want her to see, and she wondered what the big deal was.
"All right. We'll go to your room, then," Bobby said, his expression wary. It was obvious he was in hot water with Sam, and he knew it.
Without giving TJ a second glance, Sam pushed the control of the wheelchair and rolled himself down a short hallway, disappearing through a doorway at the very end that TJ guessed might be the master bedroom.
Bobby gave TJ a look of apology. "Make yourself at home."
TJ nodded, sympathetic to Bobby's plight. "Thanks again, Mr. Singer. You don't know how much I appreciate this."
Bobby nodded and then turned and headed down the hall, leaving TJ to wonder what the hell had gotten into her. She had a smart mouth sometimes, but she was never this pushy. She was a Southern girl, and it had been ingrained in her since birth not to overstay her welcome and always mind her manners. Clearly, Sam hadn't wanted her there, but she'd barged in anyway. Her grandmother was probably rolling over in her grave at TJ's rudeness.
Dismayed, TJ pulled out a brass-framed chair from the table and plopped down in it. She'd felt at ease with Sam the other night, like a friendship had begun. Once past his surliness, he'd been fun and seemed like a nice guy. Now, she'd made him mad, but what else was new? It was the story of her life.
XXXXXXXX
Bobby manipulated Sam's right leg, doing the prescribed exercises that kept Sam's muscles, joints, and ligaments more flexible and helped prevent muscle and joint contractures. They'd already done Sam's shoulder therapy, and the leg exercises were something that Sam had been doing twice a day for the past several months since he'd gotten out of rehab and would continue to do for the rest of his life, if, God forbid, they couldn't find a cure for him.
Sam was on his bed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, an extra set of clean sheets having replaced the wet ones while Sam had been in the shower. Bobby had placed the wet ones in the washer, and he reminded himself to put them in the dryer before he sat down to help TJ. Of course, he was hoping that, somehow, Sam might come around and change his mind about tutoring her, but the kid was stubborn, and Bobby wasn't going to hold his breath.
With everything that had happened that morning, in addition to the leg pain that Bobby knew Sam had woken up with and was still feeling, TJ couldn't have picked a worse day to show up on Sam's doorstep. Bobby could always tell when Sam was feeling the phantom pains because his upper body stayed tense and he clenched and unclenched his left fist constantly. Of course, Sam never said anything about it out loud.
Dean shouldn't have set up Sam and the unsuspecting TJ this way, but Bobby understood why he'd done it. Dean loved Sam, and he would do anything to try to help Sam get his life back, even if it was underhandedly sending a girl over to wreak havoc in Sam's strictly scheduled life. He was just sorry TJ had been essentially thrown to the wolves—or wolf, in this case. To her credit, though, she didn't seem to be a shrinking violet, and Bobby figured Dean had known that. Most girls would have turned tail and run at the fierce scowl that had been on Sam's face, but she'd pretty much ignored it.
Sam had been quiet and subdued during the therapy session, but Bobby knew that there was anger simmering just below the surface. He hadn't said anything to Sam except for the occasional words necessary for the PT session, had been just waiting for Sam to draw first blood.
"Were you in on it, Bobby?"
And there it was.
Sam's voice was calm, but the tight line of his mouth indicated that he was feeling anything but tranquil.
Bobby sighed. "No. I didn't know she was coming over today, but I knew that Dean was pissed that you wouldn't even consider tutoring her." He paused for a second, holding Sam's long leg in midair, and gave Sam a gimlet eye. "You could teach her Latin in your sleep, Sam."
Sam's gaze went back to the ceiling. "It's not about that, Bobby."
The dejected tone of Sam's voice cut through Bobby's heart like a knife, and Bobby hesitated for a moment before saying simply, "I know."
Sam's wet sheets that morning had been a big blow to Sam' self-esteem, mainly, Bobby suspected, because he had been witness to it. Sam's self-confidence was already in the gutter because of this damn injury, and Bobby wished like hell there was something he could do to help.
A few more moments of silence had passed when Bobby said, "Your legs still hurtin'?"
Sam's eyes shifted from the ceiling to meet Bobby's, but then he closed them tightly and furrowed his brow as a wave of pain seemed to wash over him. "Yeah," he rasped through clenched teeth.
It was rare that Sam ever admitted he was in pain, and Bobby knew it must be really bad if Sam was actually acknowledging it. "Maybe you should do something to get your mind off of it."
Sam swallowed, his forehead still wrinkled. "Conjugating verbs in Latin isn't gonna help."
Bobby quirked a brow. "Does sittin' around wallowing in it help?"
Sam drew in a deep breath, as if trying to force himself to relax. As the pain seemed to subside a bit, he went back to staring at his favorite spot on the ceiling, not answering the question.
Bobby put down Sam's right leg and started the exercises on his left.
They passed more time in silence, and as Bobby started the last set of reps, bending Sam's knee and pushing it up to Sam's chest, Sam sighed and said, "So, you're gonna tutor her?" Surprisingly, there was a trace of humor in his eyes.
Bobby shrugged. "Why not?" He gave Sam a sarcastic look. "As much as I love your cheerful, scintillating company, tutoring a coed who's young enough to be my daughter might be a nice diversion."
One of the corners of Sam's mouth curved upward. "Daughter?"
"Yes, daughter," said Bobby with narrowed eyes. "I ain't that old."
When Bobby was finished with the exercises, he helped Sam get the immobilizer back on and then helped him back into the power chair using the transfer board.
"All right, kid. Keep the TV volume low if you're gonna watch it. I don't want my study session to be disturbed by some damn rerun of Law and Order," Bobby grumbled.
Sam rolled his eyes. There was a beat of silence, and then he said quietly, "I'll do it, Bobby."
Bobby's heartbeat quickened with hope, but he didn't let it show. "Do what? Keep the TV turned down?"
Sam exhaled a deep breath. "No. I'll do the tutoring."
Bobby gave a short nod and tried to remain stoic, holding in a grin. "All right. I just hope TJ isn't gonna be too disappointed. You know how young coeds are always falling in love with their much older professors."
The humor was back in Sam's eyes. "I think she'll probably be okay."
Bobby nodded again.
Sam pushed the joystick, and the motor on the wheelchair came to life. He spun himself around toward the door.
"Sam?" said Bobby, as Sam had just rolled through the threshold.
Sam's back was to Bobby, so he twisted as much as he could to his left side, looking over his left shoulder, and said, "Yeah?"
"Go easy on Dean for the TJ thing. He did it because he loves you, kiddo."
Sam's jaw tightened, and he sat there as if frozen for a moment. Then he faced forward, and the chair moved down the hall.
Bobby wondered how Sam didn't crack a tooth, since the kid's jaw seemed to be permanently locked in a vise these days.
XXXXXXXX
TJ was absorbed in her organic chemistry textbook, completely losing herself in the complex and fascinating subject, as she always did. She was a scientist to the core, and anything having to do with research and even remotely related to molecular biology was her passion.
"Do you still want me to help you?" Sam's sort of husky, deep voice sliced through her scientific meditation.
She felt a tingling down her spine and looked up from her work to see him a few feet from the table. Quirking a brow, she said, "Are you gonna be pissy?"
"Probably. Are you gonna be insensitive?"
"Of course. I'm an equal-opportunity offender."
The corners of his mouth curved into what could almost be construed as a smile, but then it morphed into a grimace, like he was in pain.
Concerned, TJ said, "Are you okay?"
"Fine," he answered stiffly.
She wasn't sure she believed him, but the look on his face said there was no room for discussion.
There was an empty space at the table where a chair was missing, and TJ presumed it was that way so Sam could pull up to it. It was a four-top, round table, and a few seconds later, he proved her right by parking his chair to her right side, where the opening was.
He smelled good, all hunky guy and aftershave, and TJ mentally kicked herself for noticing. And then she kicked herself again for noticing that his eyes were hazel.
Snap out of it, TJ! He's out of your league, she reminded herself.
She put away her chem book and dug out the dreaded Latin textbook, and after she had explained to him the many things she was having trouble with in the subject, their tutoring session was under way.
Bobby came back out to the living area about fifteen minutes into their studying. "Sam, I'm gonna make a run to the store. You need anything?"
"I'm good, Bobby. Thanks." A brief look passed between them, and Sam glanced at his watch.
"I'll be back in an hour and a half, kid," said Bobby, and it was almost like he was reassuring Sam.
Sam nodded.
Bobby cocked his head at TJ in farewell. "TJ?"
She smiled and said, "Bye, Mr. Singer."
"Call me Bobby, kiddo."
"I can do that."
He winked and made his way out the front door.
TJ and Sam spent another twenty-five minutes or so on the Latin, and then, since TJ had said at the restaurant that she wouldn't stay too long, she said, "So, I guess I should probably go."
Sam frowned. "Are we done?"
She felt a little sheepish. "Well, since I practically forced my way in here and demanded you tutor me when you clearly didn't want to, I'm thinking I shouldn't overstay my non-welcome. I don't want to be insensitive," she added with a crooked grin.
He clenched his jaw, and anger flashed briefly in his eyes. "You weren't the one who was insensitive."
She was a little shocked by his sudden animosity, and her grin quickly fell away. "You're referring to Dean."
He looked away and exhaled, his jaw still tight.
"You know, I'm not exactly thrilled at how he set us up either, but I know he cares about you, Sam. He talks about you all the time."
He turned back to her, and the soulfulness of his eyes took her breath away. She felt something like an electric current buzz through her, but Sam seemed oblivious to her reaction to him. Of course he was. It's not like he would have the same kind of reaction to her.
"It's complicated, TJ," he said. "Since my injury..."
She waited, but he didn't continue. "He treats you differently?" she ventured.
He looked at her intently for a moment, as if he kind of wanted to open up to her, but then he raised his brows, glanced away, and changed the subject. "So, your last name is Nelek. Is that why Chanel called you 'Nelly'?
TJ released the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, a little disappointed that he chose not to confide in her, and started packing up her things. "Yeah. It's been one of my nicknames my whole life, but, coming from her, it's an insult." She shrugged. "I don't know. It's the way she says it."
"And this is all from you waiting on her at Shorty's?"
She packed the last of her study materials into her backpack and zipped it up. "No. She's been torturing me since freshman year. We lived on the same hall in the dorms."
"So what's the 'TJ' stand for?"
She was cynical. "That, you will never know."
"Why?"
"Because I'm convinced my parents were off their rockers on moonshine and possibly crack when they named me."
He laughed. "I'm sure it's not that bad."
"Yeah. It is," she said with finality, and tried not to stare at his dimples. She felt like that college girl from the Indiana Jones movie who had "I heart you" painted on her eyelids. "I will only tell it to my future soul mate, whomever he may be, and, yes, I did say he. I may look like a lesbian, but I'm not."
He frowned. "Um, I don't think you're a lesbian, TJ. Far from it," he added quietly.
"Thanks." She stared at her backpack and tried to hide how pathetically happy the fact that he didn't assume she was a lesbian made her feel. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had thought so. The lesbian regulars that came into Shorty's certainly did, and they flirted with her a lot. It wasn't that she didn't like them. They were cool girls, but for once she'd actually like to get hit on by a cute guy, since she wasn't even remotely gay.
"So what's your major?"
"Biology, with a double minor in chemistry and physics. I want to go to grad school for molecular biology."
"Wow."
She smiled. "I love it. My brain is geared toward it. It's crap like Latin that blows my mind."
"I'm the opposite, I guess."
"More of a liberal arts kind of guy?"
Something a little like nostalgia crossed his features. "Yeah, I guess."
"You were going to go to law school, right?"
"Is there anything Dean hasn't told you?"
"He didn't tell me why you quit Stanford. Was it because of your injury?"
"No. That happened after I had already quit. I just needed a break," he said vaguely. He rubbed an old nick in the glass top of the table with his left index finger.
TJ admired the length and grace of his fingers and then kicked herself again mentally. Stop it!
She knew there had to be more to why he'd quit, and she got the vibe that it was something very painful. She should probably keep her mouth shut, but since when had she ever listened to the inner voice that told her that? "You threw away a full ride to Stanford just because you needed a break? Why, Sam?"
"Maybe I'll tell my future soul mate someday." He said it with scornful sarcasm, like he stood more of a chance of seeing pigs fly.
She didn't know what to say to that without telling him she thought he was totally hot and could probably have girls lined up to be his soul mate if he would just let them. Instead, she asked, "Why don't you go back to school, now, and finish?"
His face hardened. "You mean why don't I use my brain since I can't do anything else?"
She rolled her eyes. "Maybe you could major in 'Get this damn chip off my shoulder.'"
He shot her a narrowed look. "Spare me the 'Think-about-what-you-can-do/not-what-you-can't' speech. You don't know what you're talking about, TJ. You don't know what my life is like."
She slung her purse and her heavy backpack over her shoulder, scooting forward in her chair but not standing yet, not wanting to tower over Sam. "You're right. I can only go by what I see."
They locked eyes for a moment, and then he said in that quiet, intense way of his, "What do you see?"
She felt herself blush a little, but she didn't back down. "I see an incredibly intelligent, interesting, and, um, attractive guy," she said, hoping that admitting he was attractive didn't sound like she was lusting after him, even though she was. She would die of embarrassment, though, if he knew that.
"Don't pretend you don't see the wheelchair."
"Of course I do, but the more I get to know you, the more it fades into the background."
He looked tense—and skeptical.
Why was that so hard for him to believe? She found it annoying. "I don't care if you believe me or not, Sam, but I don't pity you, and I never say anything I don't mean."
"You think I'm attractive?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't worry. I'm not going to jump your bones."
He held her gaze, an unreadable expression on his face.
She was the first to look away and then stood, suddenly feeling shy after her admission. Before the silence could get too weird, she turned back to him and said, "So, thanks for the tutoring session, Sam. You have no idea what a huge help you've been today."
He took a deep breath, and some of the tenseness in his shoulders drained away. "Actually, yeah, I do," he said, looking up at her with a bit of humor lighting his eyes.
"Ha. Funny."
He smiled, and then he pulled away from the table and rolled over to the front door to walk her out. Or roll her out. Or whatever. He even made the power chair seem cool somehow. With a quick twist of the doorknob and a deft maneuver to get his chair out of the way of the opening door, he got it open—all one-handed.
She admired the sure, graceful way he moved, and she stood by the open door, wondering what to say, feeling awkward. She wanted to ask him for another study session, but, since she'd been so pushy that morning, she wanted it to be him that offered. She could only go against the grain of her Kentucky upbringing to a certain point. When the silence became too drawn out, she gave him a little self-conscious wave and said, "Well, thanks again."
He gave her a look but didn't say anything.
Disappointed, she turned and stepped out into the nearly-always-perfect San Diego weather.
"TJ?" she heard him say.
She turned back to him, her heart beating ninety to nothing. "Yeah?"
"Thursday at ten a.m.?"
She couldn't help the huge grin that spread across her face. "Are you gonna be pissy?"
He smirked. "Probably."
"I guess beggars can't be choosey."
"No," he said softly, "I guess they can't."
XXXXXXXX
Sam shut and locked the front door and wheeled himself back to the living area. He had actually enjoyed being with TJ, but he felt drained of energy and wished for once that he could get a good night's sleep without being woken up to shift positions every two hours. He eyed the couch with longing, just wanting to be able to lie down on it and hating the fact that such a simple thing was beyond him.
The pain in his legs was more manageable now, and Sam had to admit that Bobby had been right. Getting his mind off of it for a while by helping TJ with the Latin had helped, had made the pain recede into a dull ache instead of the surges of excruciating agony that he had felt earlier in the morning.
He wondered what he had done to deserve it all. People thought the worst part about being paralyzed was not being able to walk, but that was nothing compared to everything else. It was the bladder and bowel issues, the skin issues-the utter silence of half his body that chipped away at his self-worth. Of course, the silence was sometimes interrupted, like it was today, with screaming.
Why was he cursed to feel absolutely nothing below his navel except for occasional burning pain? How was that fair? If he had to have phantom feelings, why couldn't his nerves conjure up the feeling of soft cotton sheets on his legs or the feeling of pleasantly-hot shower water sluicing over the backs of his thighs and calves? Why did it have to be this horrible, icy-hot pain that was like nothing he'd ever experienced in his life before this injury?
The loss of the lower half of his body was just as heart-wrenching as losing a loved one. The grief for all that he had lost was every bit as agonizing as the loss he felt for Jessica and his dad. He felt like a floating head and torso, incomplete, not himself, and the feeling was just as strong today as it had been when he'd woken up from surgery a year ago. He felt so sad, so adrift, constantly mourning the death of the old Sam Winchester. And, of course, fucking up his shoulder certainly hadn't helped matters. He was almost completely helpless, and he cringed to think what his dad would say, how disappointed he would be.
He felt like such a failure. His dad never would have gotten hurt like Sam had. His dad would never have let a fucking poltergeist ruin his life. His dad would have dodged that knife, would have gotten to the door faster. His dad would have never been screwed up on pills and whiskey and fallen out of the damn shower.
TJ had said she thought Sam was intelligent and even attractive, and he was grateful to her for saying it, but he just couldn't bring himself to believe her. She didn't know all of his embarrassing, shameful secrets. What would she think if she knew what had happened this morning?
He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to keep his emotions under control. His throat felt thick and tight, and his eyes stung. He was a fraction of an inch away from breaking, from bawling like an infant. The only thing keeping him from it was the fact that Bobby would be home soon, and Sam would be mortified if Bobby found him in such a state.
"Hello, Sammy."
Sam froze. He knew that voice, and a surge of adrenaline shot through him as he looked up.
Azazel was sitting on the sofa, smiling, bright yellow eyes boring into Sam. His legs were crossed nonchalantly, and he was wearing the same khaki pants, zip-up jacket, and brown loafers that Sam vaguely remembered from before.
Sam was speechless, his heart pumping faster, his ingrained hunting instincts kicking in. A year of paraplegia hadn't dulled years of drilling and training, and for a split second, Sam forgot that he was paralyzed as his brain assessed the situation and tried to figure out a course of action.
His upper body tensed, and he clenched both fists, ready for a fight. The action caused a sharp pain in his bad shoulder, and Sam was brought back to his senses, was reminded that not only could he not move his legs, but his upper body was pretty much useless, too. And then he remembered what Azazel had offered him the last time he'd seen him.
It must have been real after all. Sam wasn't hallucinating now. He was on a painkiller, of course, but his body was acclimated to it, and the effects of the drugs he had to take weren't enhanced by alcohol. He was sober as a judge and had been ever since his fall, and, yet, there was the Yellow-Eyed Demon in front of him, sitting on his sofa as if he were a cherished house guest.
"You look a little down, Sammy. Are you having a bad day?"
Sam's mouth felt dry, and he took a labored swallow. "What do you want?"
The demon gave him a pointed look. "I think you know."
Sam was quiet, unable to say the words that he should say, unable to tell Azazel that he could take his offer and shove it. He wondered again where the Colt was, but he suddenly knew that he wouldn't use it even if he had it, at least not this time.
"What?" said Azazel. "No angry words of denial, no threats to kill me? Are we having a change of heart, Sammy?"
Sam could feel his breathing getting more rapid, and he kept his mouth clamped shut, trying to stay in control, trying not to give in to temptation.
The demon stood and walked slowly around Sam, as if assessing him. "Nice new ride you got there," he taunted. "So invalid chic, so geriatric." He leaned down near Sam's ear. "How's the shoulder, by the way?"
Sam closed his eyes, trying to shut out Azazel, afraid to say anything for fear it might damn him. He was beginning to tremble with the exhausting effort it took to fight his emotions, to fight the overwhelming desire to give in to the demon's deceptively silky voice.
Azazel began to circle Sam's chair again, like a cat stalking its prey. "Are you ready now, Sam? Are you ready for me to get you out of that chair?"
Yes. Yes. Yes. It was excruciating, the sheer will it took not to say just one little word. He was one word away from freedom, one word away from having his body back, one word away from being a man again in every sense of the word—and he was one word away from becoming a monster.
"Come on, Sam. I know you want to. I can feel you burning with it. You want out of that chair so bad it's killing you."
A choked sound close to a sob escaped Sam, and he felt like he was being tortured. Azazel's words were just as potent as any physical torture he could have devised. Sam was shaking uncontrollably now, and the jarring movement made his shoulder and ribs ache.
"Would it really be so bad to help Lucifer escape from hell? Is the world all that great as it is? Lucifer is not what you think." Azazel had a fanatical gleam in his flaming eyes. "He's a fallen angel. He only wants to set things right." He knelt down to eye level with Sam. "He will reward you well if you lead his army. You would be like a prince. You would be stronger and have more power than you ever dreamed possible."
Sam winced, tormented by the decision before him, and his legs began to spasm along with his shaking upper body.
Azazel looked at Sam's legs in disgust. "Is this what you would choose instead? This life of pain and humiliation? You would choose to live in a body that is no longer your own?"
Sam could feel himself flush, could feel the muscles and tendons in his neck pulled tight as a bow string. He futilely tried to stop the spasms by leaning over and holding his legs down with his left forearm and hand.
"End this now, Sam!" commanded Azazel. "Let me end your suffering!"
Sam looked Azazel in the eye, breathing hard, acquiescence on the tip of his tongue.
Suddenly, there was the sound of a key turning in the lock of the front door.
Azazel's eyes flared with fury, and he stood.
Sam craned his neck to look up at him, still shaking, still tense, and breathing heavily. It was Dean at the door, not Bobby. Sam knew the subtle difference of the jingle Dean's keys made, and he also had a sixth sense where his brother was concerned. He was sure it was Dean, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or enraged that Dean was inadvertently taking the decision from Sam's hands, at least for the time being.
The doorknob began to turn, and Azazel glanced at it and then back to Sam, a maniacal glint in his yellow eyes. "I'll be back, Sammy," he promised. "Oh, and if you should have a stab of conscience and decide to tell Dean or Bobby about this, my proposition will no longer be on the table. Not only will you be stuck in that chair forever, but I might decide to kill Dean and Bobby just on principle alone."
He shot Sam an evil leer and then was gone—but definitely not forgotten.
TBC
A/N: What did you think? I would love to know, but if you don't have time to review, don't worry. I won't be obsessively carrying my phone around in my pocket straining my ears to hear that little ding that tells me I have a review alert. Nope, not me. Not gonna happen. No way.