A/N: So, this is a long one, which could be good if you like it or bad if it bores you. Hopefully, it's the former!

Chapter 6

Dean slid the key in the lock of the front door. He had decided to come home for lunch and face the music with Sam. He thought that, maybe, if he caught Sam right after the Latin session with TJ, and, maybe, if it had gone well, then, maybe—just maybe—Sam wouldn't be ready to strangle him when he walked through the door. And if Sam was still angry, at least he wouldn't have had all day to stew in it if Dean came home for lunch. Better to have it out now than to let Sam's anger fester all day.

Dean swung the door open and saw Sam sitting in Big Bertha in the living area, his silhouette to the door. Sam's shoulders were shaking violently, and Dean's fear of retribution was instantly forgotten and replaced by concern. "Sammy?" he barked, and made it to Sam in three long strides.

Sam's head was bowed, and he was breathing hard, like he was out of breath.

Dean knelt in front of him. "Sammy! What's wrong?"

Sam lifted his head up, and the turmoil and anguish in his eyes was almost tangible. "Dean?" he said, and swallowed hard. He grabbed Dean's red Firestone shirt and clenched it in his left fist, like he was grabbing on for dear life. He was still shaking, and even his legs were jiggling up and down in spasms.

Dean was alarmed by the spasticity because Sam usually didn't have much of a problem with it. The range of motion exercises he did daily and the medication he took for it worked pretty well, and the only times Sam had a problem with spasticity were when the medicine was wearing off or if there was some kind of upset to his body. The doctors had told them that the spasticity was usually a way of Sam's reflexes telling him something was wrong below the level of his injury, since he couldn't feel anything in the lower half of his body. It could be an indication of anything from an overfilled bladder to an injury of a leg or foot that had gone undetected.

"Sam, tell me what's wrong. Are you hurt somewhere?" Dean gently extricated his shirt from Sam's fist and immediately started looking Sam's legs over, trying to see any signs of an injury.

Sam shut his eyes and gulped in a breath of air, shaking his head. "No. I'm okay." His voice was strained, almost hoarse, and his fist was now clenched in his lap.

"The hell you are," said Dean. He scrunched up Sam's pant legs one by one and pulled the socks off his feet to get a better look, inspecting them the best he could in spite of the spasms that made the limbs stiff and jerky. There were no signs of cuts, bruises, swelling, or burns. Dean looked up at Sam's face. "I don't see anything. Do you feel sick?"

Sam took in a forcible breath of air, visibly trying to get himself under control. "I'm fine. I'm not sick."

Dean placed a hand on Sam's forehead. It felt a little warm, and his face was flushed, but Dean didn't think it was from a fever. He knew what Sam looked like when he was sick, and this wasn't it. This was Sam when he was upset.

Sam pulled his head back, breaking the contact. "I said I'm fine, Dean." His voice was a little stronger, his breathing starting to slow, the violent shakes morphing into more of a subtle trembling.

Dean almost cringed before he said it because he knew the reaction he would get, but he had to ask, worried that Sam's bladder might be the culprit. "Do you need to take a bathroom break?"

Sam's jaw hardened in an instant, the wall between them slamming back into place. "No."

Dean sighed and looked around the quiet, empty apartment. "Where's Bobby?"

Sam swallowed again. "Store. He'll be back s-soon." The small stutter was an indication that, as much as Sam was trying to regain control, he was still rattled. He self-consciously pushed down on his left thigh—the leg with the most severe spasms—with his left hand, futilely trying to make it stop.

Dean knew that sometimes a change of position helped. "You want to transfer to the sofa?"

Sam exhaled and then nodded.

"Where's the board?"

"Bedroom."

Dean went back to Sam's bedroom and got the transfer board off of Sam's bed and then helped Sam onto the sofa. Sam's legs were still so spastic that it made the transfer precarious and difficult, but they got it done.

Dean helped Sam lay on his left side, a little on his back, feet hanging off the end of the sofa even though his legs were bent a little. Sam's head was supported with the two pillows Bobby used at night when the sofabed was pulled out, and his right shoulder and arm were still secure in the immobilizer. The spasms in Sam's legs began to subside, and his breathing was more even and deeper. He closed his eyes, looking exhausted.

Sam's Sasquatch body took up the entire sofa, of course, so Dean scooted the wood-veneer coffee table back a bit and sat on it like it was a bench, facing Sam. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean a moment, and Dean thought that Sam might actually open up to him. The look in Sam's eyes was tormented and full of need, and Dean knew that Sam had something to tell him. He'd seen that look too many times in the past not to know what it meant.

Dean tensed, waiting for Sam to speak.

The moment passed, however, and Sam closed his eyes again. "It's been a bad day, Dean. Just let it go."

Dean felt a sinking feeling in his gut, hating the resignation and emptiness in Sam's voice. "I can't let it go, Sammy. Talk to me." Dean stressed the last three words, trying to convey all the things he couldn't actually say—Talk to me, Sammy. I'm your brother. I love you. I would die for you. I don't want you to be in pain.

Sam's forehead was wrinkled, and he was clearly still troubled.

Dean didn't know whether Sam's distress was from some kind of unseen physical hurt or something emotional—or maybe both—and it galled him that Sam wouldn't tell him. He looked away for a moment, fighting the choking lump in his throat, grieving the loss of the sensitive, open little brother Sam had once been and cursing himself for not protecting Sam, for letting that knife slice his spine.

It was Dean's job to protect Sam, and he'd failed. It was his fault Sam was paralyzed, his fault Sam was miserable. It was his fault Sam hated him now, but it was nothing he didn't deserve.

He drew in a deep breath, pushing away the thoughts that were constantly in the back of his mind, threatening to consume him. It dawned on him that maybe Sam was upset because Dean had sent TJ over, although it seemed like an overreaction, to say the least.

He cleared his throat and looked back at Sam, who appeared at first glance to be asleep. Sam's brow was smooth, now, but the tell-tale tick in his jaw that always seemed to be there these days was still present.

"Is it—are you pissed because I sent TJ over here? Is that why you got so upset?"

"You shouldn't have done that, Dean," said Sam without ever opening his eyes.

It wasn't exactly the volcanic eruption Dean had been expecting. "So, what happened?" Dean prompted.

Sam huffed. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"We went over some things that she was having trouble with, and she left."

"You tutored her?"

Sam cocked open one eye. "Isn't that why you sent her over here?"

Dean was suspicious. Why wasn't Sam angrier? "Well, yeah, but—"

"But nothing." Sam opened his other eye, his expression unreadable. "I tutored her after Bobby helped me with my therapy."

"So why aren't you tearing my head off right now?" asked Dean, wary.

Sam closed his eyes again and said tiredly, "What good would it do? You'd just grow another one."

The corners of Dean's mouth curved upward, but he couldn't bring himself to smile. Something was going on here. "You were doing a pretty damn good impression of an earthquake when I got here, Sam. It was like you were afraid or something."

Again, the hardening of the jaw. "It was just spasms, Dean. I don't know what caused it. It's over." Sam's legs were once again unnaturally still, as if to emphasize Sam's point.

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. It probably wasn't a good time to bring up the morning Sam had hurt his shoulder, but Dr. Salazar's words about how Sam's injuries didn't jive with the fall he took had been eating at Dean, and now there was Sam's obvious freak-out when Dean had walked in the door. "Sam," said Dean, "what happened the morning you fell and hurt your shoulder?"

Sam's expression was guarded. "Why are you asking me that now?"

Dean studied Sam's face. "I meant to ask you a long time ago, but right after the surgery, you were either out of it on painkillers or asleep, and then you started all the therapy and there was always a doctor or a nurse or somebody in your room. I went back to work after you were released, and there just never seemed to be a good time."

Sam swallowed. "I don't remember anything."

"Nothing?"

"No. Isn't it pretty obvious what happened?"

"Dr. Salazar didn't think so."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He said falling from the height of the shower chair to the floor shouldn't have fractured your shoulder and caused such a severe concussion, even though there were two lumps on your head and it appeared you had fallen twice. It takes a lot to fracture a shoulder, especially for a guy your age, and it would have taken a fall from a much higher point or a much harder impact to cause an injury like yours."

Sam seemed to grow paler, and his frown deepened. His eyes shifted away from Dean for a second before he said, "I don't know, Dean. I don't really remember anything."

"Sam, I know I'm on your shit list right now, but if something is fucking with you—"

"Nothing's fucking with me, Dean! I fell out of the fucking shower because I was a pathetic, fucking moron! What do you want me to tell you?"

"The truth!"

"I don't know why my shoulder was fractured! I...don't...remember," Sam enunciated, as if Dean were too slow to understand. "I don't know what Dr. Salazar is talking about, but the fact that my injuries were worse than they should have been doesn't surprise me. It's just par for the course, Dean, just something else that went wrong on a list of many."

"Just because we've stopped hunting the fuglies doesn't mean they've stopped hunting us, Sam. Have you—" he halted, unsure of how to say his next words. "Was it a vision, Sam? Is that what got you so upset this morning?"

Sam averted his eyes for a split second, and there was a flash of unease on his features that no one else but Dean would have noticed.

Dean was positive that Sam was hiding something.

Sam shook his head. "I can't even keep up with you, Dean. One minute we're talking about my leg spasms, then it's the morning I hurt my shoulder, and now you think I'm having visions? Make up your mind!"

Dean stood abruptly, unable to hide his irritation. He ran his hands through his short hair and said, "Something's going on with you, and I'm just trying to figure out what it is."

Sam clenched his jaw. "Nothing's going on with me, other than the obvious. In case you haven't noticed, Dean, I'm a fucking cripple."

Dean had had enough, could feel months of pent up heartache and frustration exploding to the surface. "Don't you fucking call yourself that, Sammy!" he roared.

Sam drew in a jagged breath and stared at the ceiling, gripping one of the pillows supporting his head with his left fist, moisture welling in his eyes.

Dean's chest was heaving, and he could feel the muscles cording in his neck, could feel heat in his face. He swallowed and forced himself to calm down, but he couldn't keep the emotion from his voice. "Don't you ever say that in front of me again."

Sam slowly closed his eyes, brows drawn together in a look of utter desolation and despair. "It's the truth," he whispered harshly.

"No, it's not," Dean denied, equally as harsh. He could almost feel his heart cracking in two, hating the way Sam saw himself. He reached out to touch Sam, wanting to comfort him, but his hand hovered uselessly over Sam's bad shoulder, which was ensconced in the immobilizer. Sam was lying on his good shoulder, and his left hand was still white-knuckling the pillow. Where could Dean touch his brother that wouldn't hurt him or that Sam could feel?

Dean knew he was about to enter major chick-flick territory, in addition to possible gaydom, but he didn't care. He reached toward Sam's face, a hair's breadth away from gently palming Sam's cheek.

Sam opened his eyes and saw where Dean's hand was, registering Dean's intent. For a moment, Dean saw his little brother looking back at him, eyes filled with need, and time seemed to stop; but then Sam's face shuttered, and he closed his eyes again. "I'm tired, Dean," he said in dismissal.

Dean remained where he was, reaching out, wanting so badly to reconnect with Sam, but the look on Sam's face was anything but receptive. Dean reluctantly withdrew his hand and sat back down on the coffee table, defeated. He rubbed his fingers over his mouth and tried to explain. "Yellow Eyes is still out there, Sam. You're...I don't want him coming after you. I don't want him hurting you. If he knows that you're..."

Sam eyed him with cynical contempt. "If he knows that I'm what, Dean?"

Dean didn't respond, trying to put together the right words without proving Sam right, without implying Sam was a cripple. It was true that Sam was more vulnerable, but Dean didn't mean it the way Sam thought he did.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," said Sam with dark vindication.

"Dammit, Sam! Yes. You're a cripple. Is that what you want to hear? Okay. Fine. You're a goddamn cripple—an emotional cripple. You're your own worst enemy!"

"Fuck off, Dean."

"You're depressed, and your self-esteem is for shit, Sam. If Yellow Eyes finds that out, he could use it against you. That's all I meant. He knows shit, Sam. You saw how he messed with our heads in that cabin with Dad. He can fuck with your mind."

Sam's entire upper body stiffened, and it was clear that Dean had hit a nerve, he just wasn't sure which one.

Sam's left fist clenched and unclenched on the pillow, and Sam closed his eyes. "Just leave me alone, Dean," he breathed.

Dean rested his head in his hands a moment and then stood up, looking down on his brother.

Sam's forehead was creased, and his eyes were still tightly shut. He looked haggard. It was obvious their conversation had taken a lot out of him, not to mention whatever had upset him that Dean had walked in on.

Dean would leave Sam alone for now, but his instincts told him he should warn Bobby that something was going on. Even more importantly, it was time to get out the Colt.

XXXXXXXX

Bobby was in the kitchen making turkey sandwiches for lunch. Sam was helping TJ again with her Latin, and she usually stayed for lunch after they finished. Surprisingly, Sam had eventually made adjustments to his PT schedule to mesh with TJ's downtime from class and work, and they had been spending a lot of time together. On the days when her class load was sparse, Bobby had noticed that, this week, she had started coming over just to hang out, too, and Sam seemed to actually look forward to when she came over. Bobby had even heard her trying to talk Sam into going with her to various campus events or just an outing to the beach or to a movie, but so far she had been unsuccessful. Bobby had no doubt, though, that, in time, she would wear Sam down.

Dean had been concerned that something was eating at Sam—something possibly supernatural—after the day he'd come home and found Sam so upset, and, at first, Bobby had agreed with him. But that had been three weeks ago, and Sam's disposition seemed to be slowly improving. Sam still had his moments of brooding, but overall, he seemed less morose.

For once, something had gone right, and Sam's orthopedic surgeon had said that Sam's shoulder was healing nicely. After only three weeks instead of four, Sam had finally gotten rid of the constrictive immobilizer and was wearing a regular sling, although he still had to wear it at all times, except for in the shower and PT, just as he had the immobilizer. The difference was that he was able to use his right hand a little bit because it wasn't strapped tightly to his body, and just that little bit of freedom gave him back a little more independence, although Bobby still had to help him with transfers and getting dressed.

TJ was a big help, too. She got Sam's mind off of his problems, and the more time she spent with him, the more he seemed to find himself. TJ had a way about her that put Sam at ease. She possessed a Southern charm that was down to earth and practical, yet she teased him relentlessly, and he teased her right back.

She was extremely intelligent, too, despite her apparent mental block against Latin, and she gave Sam a run for his money in the brains department. It was clear as day to Bobby that she was smitten with Sam, but she was smart enough to not let Sam know it. She was first and foremost his friend, and Bobby admired the fact that she seemed to know that was what Sam needed more than anything else right now.

Bobby glanced at the two of them through the extra-wide opening between the kitchen and living/dining area. Their heads were leaning toward each other, TJ's brow furrowed in concentration as Sam pointed to something in her textbook. She didn't have classic beauty, but she had a charisma and a certain zest for life that was attractive, that seemed to draw a person in.

She always wore her hair in a ponytail, but a few wispy tendrils of the dark-brown, sort of auburn locks were always falling down around her face, framing it. She had doe-like brown eyes, long lashes, and freckles across the bridge of her nose that added a sometimes saucy, playful air to her facial expressions.

She always wore baggy clothing, usually a sweatshirt, jeans, and flip-flops or sometimes her Shorty's uniform and sneakers if she was going to go straight to work after a session with Sam. She was tall and thin, and there didn't seem to be any reason that Bobby could see why she wouldn't want to wear shirts that actually fit, but who was he to judge? He was no expert on fashion, especially ladies fashion, but he mused that she might be even more attractive if she didn't always seem to be trying to hide her body.

She said something funny to Sam, and he grinned, and Bobby was glad that they'd been seeing a lot more of that lately instead of Sam's jaw stubbornly set in stone.

Bobby put the finishing touches on the sandwiches and said, "All right, you two. Grub's ready."

"Thank God," said TJ with relief, and she immediately started packing up her books into her gray backpack.

Sam rolled his eyes but then smiled with amusement. It was no secret that it always made TJ happy when it was time to put the Latin textbook away.

TJ peered through the doorway at Bobby. "Need some help?"

"Yeah. You wanna get the drinks?" asked Bobby, as he juggled three plain white plates with sandwiches on them.

"Sure." She set her backpack near the wall and looked at Sam. "I'll get the drinks. You carry the chips and napkins?"

Sam nodded. Pushing on the joystick of his chair, he rolled out from the table and followed TJ into the kitchen. Soon, they came back out of the kitchen, TJ carrying two glasses of ice water for Sam and herself and a Coke under her chin for Bobby. Sam's lap was laden with a can of Pringles, a bag of Cheetos, and three paper towels, which he steadied with his slinged right hand while he controlled the power chair with his left.

They got situated at the table, and TJ took a bite of her sandwich. "Mm, Bobby," she said with a look of rapture on her face, "this is the best sandwich I've ever had."

"Thank you, TJ," said Bobby around a bite of his own sandwich.

One corner of Sam's mouth curved upward. "Judging by the look on your face, TJ, I wouldn't be surprised if you took it out for dinner and a movie."

TJ gave Sam a calculating look. "How about I take you out for dinner and a movie on Friday if I pass my test tomorrow?"

Sam looked uneasy.

TJ rolled her eyes. "I'm not asking you to marry me, dork. It's just a friend thing. I just want to thank you for helping me with my Latin."

Sam took a sip of his water and then said, "You can just say, 'Thanks, Sam.' That would make me much happier."

TJ's mouth tightened in exasperation. "That would also be much lamer. Come on, Sam," she pleaded.

"No," he said, as he took a bite of his sandwich.

She looked to Bobby for help, large brown eyes and freckles almost irresistible. "Make him come with me, Bobby," she entreated, her accent slipping through.

"Leave me out of this, kiddo," replied Bobby, but he shot a reproachful look at Sam, letting Sam know he was on TJ's side.

Sam exhaled and leaned back, wiping his mouth with the paper towel that had been on his lap. "Okay. I'll go on one condition," he stated.

"What?" asked TJ.

"You have to ace your test."

She arched an eyebrow. "You don't think I can?"

"I know you can pass, but I'm talking about acing it—a perfect score."

TJ eyed him dubiously. "A hundred?"

"Yep."

"And if I do, you'll come with me?" she reiterated.

"Yes."

"And you won't be all surly and broody?"

Sam grinned. "Don't push your luck."

"All right," she said, and threw her wadded up paper towel on her plate, as if throwing down a gauntlet. She scooted her chair back, picked up her plate and glass of water, and headed toward the kitchen.

Sam frowned and gave Bobby a perplexed look.

Bobby raised his brows as if to say, Don't ask me.

She came back to the dining area and picked up her backpack and purse and hoisted them onto her shoulder. "Thanks, Bobby, as always, for an awesome lunch."

"You're welcome."

"You're leaving?" groused Sam. "You only ate two bites."

Her eyes darted away for a second. "I'm not that hungry."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Where are you going?"

She gave him a pointed look. "To study." Then, chin lifted in lofty determination, she made her way out the door and left without another word.

Bobby held in his mirth and said matter-of-factly, "Looks like you're going to the movies on Friday." He had no doubt TJ would nail the test.

Sam stared at the front door for a moment and then turned his attention to Bobby. With a wry smile, he said, "Yeah. I guess I am."

XXXXXXXX

Sam eyed the little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant with trepidation as he and TJ were nearing it. She was walking next to him, her tall body lithe and surprisingly shapely in the more fitted, shimmery pink top, light cardigan, and jeans she wore, although she was a little too thin. She looked good, though, and Sam wondered why she always wore such baggy clothing most of the time. She'd worn her hair down for once, too, and it fell in a silky, dark-chestnut cascade just past her shoulders.

Of course, TJ had aced her Latin test. She'd actually scored 112 on it after her professor added the extra-credit points for the optional bonus essay that she'd written. She had triumphantly texted Sam—in Latin, no less—the time she would pick him up for their "date" as soon as she'd seen her score posted. Sam had no choice but to go, but he'd dreaded it. There were many reasons he didn't like to go out, but, so far, things had gone surprisingly well. He suspected that TJ had scouted things out first to make sure that Sam would have easy access to everything.

Bobby had shown TJ how to help Sam transfer from the chair to her old, teal-colored Honda Accord using the transfer board. Luckily, the height of the seat in the Honda hadn't been too different from that of the power chair, so the transfers had been relatively easy. Bobby had also shown her how to take the power chair apart so that it would fold up and fit in her car and how to reassemble it. Sam had wondered if she might lose some of her enthusiasm once she saw what a hassle it was to take him out anywhere, but she had seemed unfazed by it all, as if it were something she did every day.

They had gone to see a screening of the artistic, subtitled film Wings of Desire, by the German director Wim Wenders. Sam had found himself engrossed in the movie, an observation of humankind from the point of view of angels. The movie had started at six and lasted over two hours, but Sam hadn't noticed the passing of time.

After the movie, there had been the awkward issue—for him, anyway—of how he would go to the bathroom, but now that he had more freedom of movement with his right hand, he'd found an accessible bathroom stall and cathed himself. He was able to use a disposable catheter and latex gloves that he carried in his wheelchair backpack while sitting in his wheelchair. It wasn't ideal to cath from his chair, but he couldn't make the transfer to the toilet, so he didn't have a choice. The most difficult part was getting his pants down and up, since he couldn't lift his hips, but he'd slowly and painstakingly managed to get it done without taxing his right hand and shoulder too much. At least he wouldn't have to worry about it again for several more hours, if he was careful of what and how much he drank.

The whole process had taken forever, and he had been embarrassed that TJ had to wait so long for him; but, as usual, she'd looked at him like she didn't know what he was talking about when he'd apologized for taking so much time. She had a way of making his difficulties seem ordinary and not a big deal, just like Bobby, but Sam always felt the most at ease with TJ. It was weird that he felt so comfortable with her, but maybe it was because she hadn't known him before and didn't have any memories of who he had once been. Of course, she also didn't know all the details of his personal needs, but he got the feeling that she would understand if she knew. The more time he spent with her, the more he felt like he could be himself and could tell her almost anything.

The only thing that put a damper on things was the offer Azazel had made. It was always hanging over Sam's head, but sometimes, when he was with TJ, he felt stronger, like maybe he was starting to get a handle on things, that maybe he could resist Azazel's proposal after all. He kept reminding himself that it was innocent civilians like TJ who would be hurt if he couldn't resist the demon's deal. He still didn't know if he could ever really adjust to being paralyzed, but, lately, things hadn't seemed quite so hopeless. He wondered how long Azazel would wait before he came back for an answer, and it made Sam nervous that the demon seemed to be biding his time.

Tonight was the first time Sam had really gone out to do something fun since his injury over a year ago, and he was surprised that he was actually enjoying himself. So far, he hadn't even felt that conspicuous, but as they approached the restaurant and he saw the three steep steps leading up to the front door, he knew that was about to change.

If he'd been in his manual chair, he could have gotten up the steps with a little help from TJ, but he wasn't sure about the power chair with its smaller wheels. He hadn't been anywhere in it but the hospital where every place he needed to go was accessible, and he wasn't sure about the chair's capabilities. Then there was the issue of maneuvering between tables once he was in the restaurant. The place seemed awfully small, and he had a feeling everything was going to be a tight squeeze.

"So," said TJ with a grin, "here we are. I thought Italian food would be appropriate, since, you know, there's the Latin connection."

Sam stared at the stairs uncomfortably and could feel himself stiffen.

She looked down at him, seeming to sense his wariness, and glanced at the stairs. "It's not Mt. Everest, Sam. It's stairs."

"What's the difference?"

She arched her brows and drawled with attitude, "So we find us some Sherpas."

"TJ—"

"Hold on. I'll be right back."

Before Sam could protest, she had already jogged up the steps and disappeared inside.

Sam was annoyed for the first time that night. This was going to be an ordeal, plus, it was already after eight, and he was breaking his rule about not eating or drinking anything after that time. He'd have to be really careful how much he drank, and he cringed at the thought of waking up with wet sheets again. At least he'd probably get into bed late, so he'd be cathing later before he went to bed, too.

It was tiresome that his life pretty much revolved around when he needed to take a leak. He could feel his stomach tighten in despair at the thought, and now he was about to be a spectacle for anyone in the restaurant who happened to look out the plate glass window because he couldn't make it up three fucking steps.

TJ came back out with a big smile on her face, followed by two wiry Italian guys who were probably waiters. She took one look at Sam's expression and rolled her eyes. Ignoring his immense displeasure, she said, "Sam, this is Marco and Robert. They're going to help us get you inside."

Sam clenched his teeth.

She crouched down to eye level with him, putting a hand on each armrest of his wheelchair, her big brown eyes confidently holding his gaze. "Don't freak out," she said in a voice meant only for his ears. "It's not a big deal. Three steps are not going to keep us from eating at the best Italian restaurant in San Diego."

Sam wasn't mollified. "I don't want to do this, TJ. Please, let's just go somewhere else."

"No," she stubbornly. "And don't give me those puppy-dog eyes, either, Sam Winchester." She then stood up and motioned to Robert and Marco. To Sam, she said, "Tell them how you want them to grab the chair so they don't accidentally dump you out."

Sam could feel warmth travel up his neck and face, and he felt both helpless and angry. However, he didn't want to call more attention to himself, so he quietly instructed the waiters on how to hold his chair, and they got him up the steps without much trouble.

Marco held the door open, and TJ stepped through, followed by Sam. As Sam had predicted, once they entered the dim, candlelit interior of the restaurant, there were about eight tables crammed into the small establishment, and it would be a very tight squeeze for Sam to maneuver his chair between them. To make matters worse, they were all occupied except for a two-person table in a far corner of the room.

Marco, who also seemed to have maitre d' duties, wrung his hands, clearly upset that they weren't prepared to handle Sam's needs.

Sam gritted his teeth harder and could feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense.

TJ was as calm as ever and said to Marco, "If everyone could just scoot their chairs over a little, I think we'll fit through just fine." She said it in her soft accent, polite and smooth as butter in that way that Southerners were known for. As regal as a queen, she walked toward the table in the back corner, asking the people sitting at the four tables impeding Sam's way if they wouldn't mind moving their chairs, and in some cases, the whole table, over just a few inches to make room for him.

Everyone seemed happy to oblige her, and conversations stopped as Sam followed her. He stared at the table that was his destination, not making eye contact with anyone he passed.

Robert scrambled to move one of the chairs away from their table and then pulled out the other chair for TJ. She sat down, and Robert unfolded her napkin and politely handed it to her.

Sam stiffly pulled up to the empty side of the table and was chagrined to find that the armrests from his chair and his knees wouldn't fit underneath the table. He would be just out of range to eat.

"Can we take the armrests off?" asked TJ.

Sam exhaled, and gave TJ a look of irritation. "Yes. They flip up out of the way, remember? But I can't take off my knees."

She poked her cheek with her tongue, quirking her mouth, and then said, "Can't you just take your feet off the foot thingies and put them on the floor? That should lower your knees enough that you'll fit."

Sam was a little taken aback by her suggestion. It was so simple, and yet it had never occurred to him to do that before. Of course, come to think of it, he hadn't been anywhere except Shorty's and one required outing to a restaurant in Iowa to "graduate" from rehab, and he hadn't encountered this problem. He would have thought they'd have taught him such an easy solution in rehab, but he'd realized the first week out on his own that there were a lot of things they hadn't covered.

Sam glared at TJ but acquiesced. He showed Robert the button to push that released the armrests, and Robert flipped them up with ease, since it was a little tricky for Sam to do one-handed. Then, Sam grabbed underneath each knee and lifted his legs one at a time with his left hand, taking his feet off the footplates, and made sure the soles of his shoes were on the floor. Next, he leaned over and folded up the footplates. Finally, looking up at Robert and feeling self-conscious, he said, "Okay. Would you mind, uh, pushing me closer now?"

Robert smiled politely and said, "Of course."

Once up to the table, Sam raised the white tablecloth covering it and looked underneath to make sure his feet weren't at an awkward angle, since he couldn't feel them, and adjusted them accordingly.

TJ gave Sam a look of smug satisfaction. "See? Easy as pie." When she said "pie," it sounded like "pah."

If he hadn't been so out of sorts, it would have made him laugh, but he felt more like squishing a pie in her face at the moment.

Robert unfolded Sam's napkin as he had done for TJ, and Sam took it and folded it on his lap.

The conversation and bustle of the restaurant began again once it was evident that TJ and Sam were settled without any further obstacles.

Marco and Robert fawned over them, handing them menus and asking if they'd like to see the wine list, which both TJ and Sam declined.

Robert promptly came back with glasses of ice water for both of them and fresh sourdough bread rolls that smelled delicious and made Sam's mouth water, despite his deteriorating mood. TJ ordered the chicken Marsala, Sam ordered the pasta primavera, and they both chose the house salad as the first course.

After Robert left, TJ tried to engage Sam in conversation, but he wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily, and answered mostly in monosyllables.

When Robert brought their salads, TJ sighed and said, "So, are you gonna be mad at me the rest of the evening?"

"Probably."

She looked down, a little guilty, and said, "I'm sorry. I forgot to tell them when I made the reservation that a table near the door would be better."

Sam was incredulous. "A table near the door? TJ, this place isn't accessible for me at all, but you knew that, didn't you? You brought me here anyway."

She shrugged. "Yeah. The food is to die for, and I thought you'd like it."

"TJ, places like this are the reason I don't like going out."

"I know," she said, but she didn't seem sorry. "I wanted you to see that you could survive it anyway. It's all about making do—adapting."

Sam could feel his blood pressure rising. "I know I can survive it," he said through clenched teeth, "but this is...hard for me. Why would you intentionally embarrass me like this?"

"Sam, why should you be embarrassed? They're the ones that aren't compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act. It's not like they don't want you here, though. Didn't you see how upset Marco was that they weren't geared up for you? They're just as embarrassed as you are."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

She ignored Sam's question. "I think you'll forgive them, though, once you taste the bread." She held the bread basket up, offering it to him, being deliberately obtuse. "Besides," she added, "maybe we'll get a free dessert because they feel so bad about it."

"How can you make light of it, TJ? Not only is it embarassing, but we interrupted the dinners of all these people," he said, encompassing the room with his fork.

"Oh, please. You're making a mountain out of a mole hill. They were happy to accommodate you."

"They felt sorry for me!"

She shrugged. "Maybe some did, but so what? Most people just want to help. At least, that's how it is where I come from. Why can't you just let them?"

"I don't want to need help," hissed Sam, surprising himself by admitting it.

She gave him a look of understanding and said softly, "I know, but we all need help from time to time." Then she paused, and her expression became challenging. "Before you were paralyzed, what did you think when you saw someone in a wheelchair?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Did you feel sorry for them?"

Sam inhaled, feeling himself tighten.

She arched a brow as if to say, Well?

"Maybe," he gritted out.

"Would you have wanted to help them if they needed it or if you thought they needed it?"

A hesititation, and then, "Yes."

"So I guess that makes you a hypocrite, doesn't it?"

Sam sat back in his chair, unable to believe she could be so insensitive about it all. "How can you say that?"

"How can you begrudge them for just wanting to make life easier for you, even if it does stem from pity? They don't know what it's like to be you, Sam, but you have the advantage of knowing what it's like to be them."

He sat there for a moment, unyielding, not wanting what she'd said to sink in. He'd spent so much time resenting every able-bodied person around him that it was hard to put himself in their shoes, precisely because he wanted to be in their shoes so badly.

She shrugged. "Look, all I'm saying is cut them some slack and stop getting so uptight if you need to ask for help. It doesn't mean you're weak. Think of it as teaming up with someone. There's strength in numbers."

Sam looked down and viciously speared an olive on his salad, wanting to be scornful of TJ's Pollyanna-style wisdom. Winchesters didn't ask for help. Deep down, though, he had the disconcerting feeling that she was right.

They ate the rest of their salads in silence. Sam mulled over what TJ had said, and TJ, as always, seemed to know when to stop pushing and was quiet.

Robert came and went, catering to their every need, and when he brought their entrees, Sam had to admit it was possibly the best pasta he'd ever tasted in his life. The combination of the extra virgin olive oil, fresh vegetables, homemade linguine, and freshly grated Parmesan cheese was simple, yet delicious. It was a little difficult eating the long noodles with the fork in his left hand, but he had gotten pretty adept with it in the weeks since his shoulder surgery and managed.

TJ ate her Marsala with intense gusto, and Sam realized he'd never seen her eat so much before. She never ate more than half a sandwich whenever she had lunch with Bobby and him. She pulled apart another roll, buttered part of it, and popped it in her mouth. Breaking the silence between them, she said, "Mm. I think that's, like, the eleventh roll I've eaten tonight."

Sam lifted his eyebrows as if he didn't really care.

She exhaled in frustration and stared at him for a moment. "Sam, look around you. Is anyone even paying attention to us?"

He gave a furtive glance around the room. Everyone at the other tables seemed to be in their own little worlds, enjoying lively conversation, good food, and wine. He took a bite of his pasta, not answering.

She gave him a sarcastic look. "Since you seem to have forgotten how to speak, I'll answer for you. No. No one gives a damn what you and I are doing, except Marco and Robert, and that's because they want us to enjoy ourselves."

He kept chewing.

She leaned toward him. "Is your food good?"

He swallowed his bite. "It's okay," he said, noncommittal.

She narrowed her eyes at him, the impish freckles across her nose and cheekbones contrasting with her serious manner. "Liar. It's awesome, and you know it."

It was hard to stay mad at TJ, and he could feel his anger and indignation begin to fade.

She pressed on. "Did you enjoy the movie?"

He sighed and felt himself relax a little. "Yes."

She looked pleased.

"Did you?" Sam asked, suspecting that she'd been bored to tears by it.

She avoided his eyes and said in an oddly pitched voice, "Yeah. It was great."

He held in a smile. "Wanna see it again?"

She looked up at him with a deadpan expression, but there was an almost undetectable upward curve of her mouth. "I'd rather stick a fork in my eye."

He laughed. "Why did you choose it, then?"

She suddenly became fascinated with her bread for a moment, and when she looked up, she gave him an enigmatic smile. "Because I knew you'd like it."

He locked his gaze onto her, unsure of how to respond. It was a simple thing to say, but something poignant seemed to pass between them.

She waved her piece of bread, as if to diffuse the heaviness of the moment. "I'm thanking you, remember? This evening is for you, for all the time you spent helping me, and I figured I couldn't go wrong with a foreign film. I didn't think you'd enjoy My Life as a Molecule quite as much."

He grinned, touched and a little amazed at how well she knew him after only three weeks. "You're welcome."

"So, aside from a few minor glitches—"

Sam rolled his eyes.

"—wouldn't you say tonight has been—dare I say it—fun?"

"You're gonna make me go out again if I say yes, aren't you?"

"Yep."

He paused, wondering what he was about to get himself into, and then cocked his head to one side in concession. "Yes, TJ. Tonight has been fun."

She smiled with delight, and it glowed brighter than all the candles in the room put together.

Sam was mesmerized by it, and for the first time, he realized that TJ was really kind of...pretty.

TBC

A/N: So what did you guys think? Are you still liking TJ? You guys made me and my phone very happy last time, so please review!