A/N: Are you guys ready for more TJ? I hope so, because this chap is all about her.
Chapter 8
TJ had just walked back into her apartment, out of breath, when she heard the text alert on her phone, which was on the counter. She bent over for a second and put her hands on her bare knees, trying to catch her breath. Her shorts and Nike tank top were soaked with sweat, even though they were made from the kind of material that was supposed to wick away moisture.
She'd had a good workout this morning—an hour of running hills on the treadmill and an hour on the elliptical machine at the highest level. It was a Sunday morning, and the exercise room in her apartment complex hadn't been very crowded, so she hadn't been forced to limit her time on the machines. Of course, once she'd finished in there, she'd done another mile or so of jogging around the complex and run up the stairs to her apartment to top off the workout. She had the energy because of all the carbs she'd eaten on Friday, and she was still sort of punishing herself, still trying to burn them off.
She'd only eaten two hundred and ten calories yesterday—a four-ounce skinless chicken breast, low carb tortilla, and a tablespoon of salsa—and, so far today, she'd had nothing. She felt a little lightheaded, but bending over seemed to help, and she wasn't feeling as faint, although she was shaky. Slowly, she straightened, and once she was sure she was steady, she grabbed her phone, made her way to the sofa, and collapsed on it, feeling the wrinkles of the cheap, yellow slipcover with navy flowers printed on it that she kept futilely trying to tuck into the cracks between the cushions. It always looked good until someone actually sat on it.
She looked at her phone and saw that the text was from Sam. Her heart did its usual little flip.
"Come over."
"Have 2 study," she typed in. Of course, she would rather hang out with Sam, but she had a major calculus test tomorrow and couldn't blow it off. She couldn't procrastinate on the studying because she was scheduled to work at Shorty's later in the day. She'd done a little before her workout, but she still had a lot of formulas to go over.
"Study here," came the almost instant reply.
"Bossy much?"
A couple of seconds went by, and then the phone bleeped. "Please?"
She had expected some smart-ass response, and his simple plea had her Sam senses on alert. She suddenly felt the need to make sure he was okay, could imagine he was giving her the soulful look. "No fair p-d eyes. C u after lunch," she typed.
"Eat here."
She looked at her Polar watch that told how many calories she'd burned. She'd burned seven hundred and twenty-two, and the time was a quarter past eleven. "Eating now," she lied. "Have 2 shower. B there in 45 mins."
"K."
Gingerly, she got up from the sofa and found a half of a Power Bar in one of the cabinets in the kitchen. She didn't have a pantry, so all of her food was in the cabinets. She grimaced, not really liking the overly sweet, gritty bars, but they were packed with a lot of protein and nutrients that were good post workout. Breakfast of champions, she thought, and forced herself to take a bite. She didn't really want the bar, but she didn't want to do a face-plant in the shower, either, and she was still feeling a little woozy.
A little over forty-five minutes later, she was knocking on the door of Sam and Dean's apartment, backpack and purse slung over her shoulder, as usual. She was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, hair thrown into a ponytail, usual Gap flip-flops on her feet. She'd left her Shorty's shirt and her work tennis shoes in the car. She wasn't sure how long she would be at Sam's, but she would probably go straight from there to work.
Bobby opened the door and looked a little surprised. "TJ?"
She smiled. "Hey, Bobby. I take it Sam didn't tell you I was coming over."
He cleared his throat. "Well, we just finished lunch, and he didn't mention it, but that don't mean nothin'. He ain't been too talkative." He motioned for her to come in and then, in a low voice, said, "I'm glad you're here. He ain't been sleeping well the past couple of nights, either."
TJ frowned, apprehensive. "What's wrong?"
Bobby made a motion with his hand for her to keep her volume down and glanced toward the couch, where Dean was sleeping. Even when Dean was sound asleep, he looked tired. He was obviously off from Firestone today, but she knew he was working the closing shift with her tonight. She didn't know how he did it. He never had a whole day off.
"We think it's nightmares, but he won't really tell us nothin'. You know how he can be," said Bobby, his voice a low grumble.
She nodded. "Where is he?"
"In his room."
TJ felt awkward. If Bobby hadn't been there, she wouldn't have felt as weird, but she'd always been taught that it wasn't ladylike for a girl to hang out with a guy in his bedroom, and she didn't want Bobby to think she had loose morals. She'd never been in Sam's bedroom before. "Should I—is it okay—I mean—"
Bobby's expression was slightly amused. "It's okay, TJ. Go on back. I know how it is between you two."
"Yeah," she said, ducking her head and blushing, feeling like an idiot. Of course Bobby wouldn't think anything of it. There's no way Sam would ever see her as anything but a friend. It was laughable to think that anything like sex might happen—or even a freaking kiss, for that matter.
Bobby looked sympathetic, and she got the feeling for a second that he could read her mind, that he knew how she felt about Sam. She blushed even deeper and mumbled, "Well, I guess I'll go back there." She didn't look back at Bobby as she headed for the door at the end of the short hallway and knocked softly.
"Come in," said Sam, his voice clear and strong, hardly muted by the door between them.
Her pulse skipped at the sound, the tenor of his voice warming her inside. She opened the door a little and poked her head in. "You decent?" she joked.
"Hey," he said, giving her a tired smile, and she had to steel herself not to turn to mush at the sight of his dimples and slightly mussed dark hair. He was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, a book in his left hand.
She opened the door wider and stepped into the room.
His bed was made, and he was lying on top of the plain, navy-blue comforter. His head was lying on a couple of thick pillows, and there was another pillow under his knees supporting his legs. His right arm was in the dark-blue sling, as always, and he wore a long-sleeved gray shirt, jeans with a few holes and rips, and socks.
She noticed that the mattress was extra long, and, for the first time, she had an idea of how tall he really was since he was stretched out. She realized that he was taller than she was—probably much taller, judging by how long his legs were—and her attraction to him reached a new level she hadn't thought possible.
She looked around for a chair. The room was sparse, just like the rest of the apartment, and the only chair she saw was his power wheelchair sitting next to the bed. "May I?" she said, asking permission to sit in it.
"Sure."
She pulled out the required study materials from her backpack and made a big production of sitting in the chair, surprised by how super cushiony it was. She let her flip-flops fall off and propped her feet on the side of the bed, using it as an ottoman, crossing her legs at the ankles. She was glad she'd just given herself a pedicure on Friday before her "date" with Sam.
"Comfy?" he asked with an amused curve to his mouth.
"Yeah. What are you reading?"
"The Grapes of Wrath."
She laughed. "No way."
"I was kind of in the mood for it. I read it a long time ago, but your, uh, run-in with Chanel reminded me of it."
She grimaced. "I had to read it in high school. I thought it was pretty boring."
"You should read it again. Now that you're older, you might appreciate it more."
"Do you really believe that?"
"Uh, no."
"I'll stick to my molecules."
"Right. Is that what you're studying?"
"No. Calculus."
"You're a masochist."
"You're just jealous."
He shook his head and went back to his novel.
She held in a smile and cracked open her book. They sat in comfortable silence for a couple of hours, the only disturbance an occasional shift of position on TJ's part. She was completely absorbed in her studying and Sam his book. Feeling a crick in her neck, she finally looked up and swayed her head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks and rubbing her neck with her hand.
"Hey," said Sam.
"Hay is for horses."
He rolled his eyes. "I need to turn onto my side. Will you help me?"
She arched her brows. "Somebody call CNN. Sam Winchester just asked for help."
He gave her a look. "Shut up and come help me."
She got up from the chair, more than happy to do whatever he needed.
He gripped the edge of the mattress with his left hand and pulled, rolling himself onto his left side. TJ helped him get comfortable and adjusted his legs, bending them at the knees to give him more stability and placing a pillow between them, making sure there were no major wrinkles in his jeans that might cause a rub, as he instructed.
"Why do you have to worry about rubs?" she queried.
He was hesitant, and she thought she maybe shouldn't have asked. Finally, though, he said, "The paralyzed part of my body doesn't sweat, and the circulation is slower, so my skin dries out more easily. That, combined with sitting or lying in one position for a long time, makes my skin more prone to rubs, which can turn into what's called a pressure sore. They can be really serious and really hard to get rid of."
"Oh." It was lame, but she didn't know what to say. She wanted him to feel like he could tell her anything and didn't want to say something that would offend him or make him clam up, since he was always so reticent when it came to talking about his paraplegia. She was a little surprised when he kept talking.
"The mechanism that controls body temperature doesn't function below the point of my injury, either, so my lower body doesn't shiver or, as I said, sweat. A lot of times, my upper body tries to overcompensate, so extreme temperatures make it harder for me to warm up or cool down."
"Good thing you live in San Diego, then."
He gave her a small smile. "Yeah. It is."
"Although, have you noticed the weird temperature changes, lately? It's been a lot more extreme than usual."
He frowned but didn't comment, seeming to zone out for a second, but then he looked her in the eye. His left arm was bent at the elbow to where his forearm was lying across the queen-size mattress, palm up and long fingers relaxed and slightly curled. He suddenly turned his hand over and patted the mattress, indicating she should sit there.
She was wary. He was taking up a lot of room, and she would be sitting close to him—really close. "I don't think my Amazon butt's going to fit there."
His brows furrowed. "Why do you say things like that, TJ?" he asked softly. It was a gentle admonishment.
She felt a twinge of old anger and self-loathing and shrugged to cover it up. "Let's face it. I'm no petite femme. I'm more the corn-fed variety."
"That's not true."
This was a subject she did not want to get into with Sam. "Whatever," she said, brushing it off. "Maybe if we scoot you over?"
"I don't want to scoot over. I want you next to me."
"I'm not done studying."
"TJ, you've been studying for two hours. Can't you take a break?" He gave her the eyes and seemed kind of sad.
She got the feeling that he really wanted to be close to her, that he needed it for some reason. Still, she was uncertain. "Sam, what if I, like, accidentally bump your shoulder or something? What if I hurt you?"
"I'm not that fragile. You just helped me turn over and you didn't hurt me," he argued. "Besides, I can't even feel half my body, so that knocks out a lot of area you have to worry about."
She didn't miss the almost imperceptible flash of bitterness that crossed his features when he said that, and it made her heart hurt.
"My shoulder is a lot better. I'll probably get the sling off tomorrow."
"Your ribs?"
"They're fine. They haven't been sore for a while."
She huffed a reluctant puff of air. "Okay. But don't come cryin' to me if I squish you or something."
He didn't say anything, but his brow creased again and his mouth tightened slightly.
She was having a hard time reading him today, figuring out his mood. He had seemed in good enough spirits when she had first gotten there, but now he was kind of broody, and she wondered what had brought it on.
He patted the mattress again. "Grab that extra pillow that's behind me and lie down with me."
Lie down? She eyed him with suspicion, wondering what had gotten into him. Sighing, she did what he asked, though, grabbing the pillow and gingerly lying down on the very edge of the bed facing him, trying to be careful not to jostle him and not topple off the bed at the same time. She felt suddenly shy and self-conscious, and her muscles were uncomfortably tense.
His expression was unreadable, but he held her gaze. "TJ, relax and come closer to me. You're gonna fall off the bed." He moved his left arm to where it was tucked under the pillow supporting his head to make more room for her.
"All right. Just make sure you don't get fresh."
He smirked, his dimples making another appearance. "'Fresh'? What is this, the '50s?"
She gave him a look of mock sternness. "Just keep your hands to yourself, Bubba. I know it'll be difficult being this close to perfection," she joked, "but try to control yourself."
"You're doing it again. There's nothing wrong with you, TJ. You're a very attractive girl."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."
"I mean it."
"Thanks for being a sweet friend, Sam, but you don't have to give me any charity compliments. I don't have any delusions of grandeur." She scooted in closer and felt a spark of electricity when her knee touched the knee of his bottom leg. Her top leg was even with the pillow between his legs. She knew he couldn't feel her, so she let more of her leg touch his leg, let her toes touch his sock-clad foot, relishing the contact with him, even if it was covert.
She mirrored his position, bending her right arm and tucking her right hand under her pillow. Her left arm was bent upward and resting close to her body. She was only a few inches away from him now, and he was staring into her eyes as if there was something about her he wanted to figure out. It was a little unnerving, and she looked down slightly to break the eye contact, willing herself not to blush.
"It wasn't a charity compliment, TJ. I wouldn't do that."
"Yeah, you would, because you're a nice guy."
He moved his left hand out from under his pillow and slid it under her left hand, wrapping his long fingers around hers, kind of like an arm wrestler's hold, only he was gentle and tender.
The warmth from his large hand spread through her, a liquid energy that ignited a fire in her belly. God, how pathetic was she that just holding a guy's hand made her react this way? Of course, it wasn't just any guy.
"I'm not just being nice," he argued. "Any guy would be lucky to go out with you."
"Next, you're gonna say it's the beauty on the inside that counts, not the outside," she said with derision.
He smiled. "I'm shallower than that."
"Good. Because I'd have to slap you upside the head if you actually said that," she said in her best Oprah-when-she's-being-Southern accent.
"So now you're a sassy Southern black woman?"
"Certain situations call for it."
"Uh-huh," he said, rewarding her with more dimples. After a moment, though, his face fell into a grimace, eyes tightly shut, and he squeezed her hand hard, a faint grunt of pain escaping him.
"Sam, what's wrong?" she said, her heartbeat quickening.
There was a beat of silence, and then he ground out, "My legs."
She froze, wondering if the fact that she was touching his leg was somehow causing him pain. She'd assumed he wouldn't be able to feel her, but maybe she'd been wrong. What did she really know about his condition? She pulled her legs back and felt an instant coolness, like she'd been snuggled up with a warm blanket that had suddenly been taken away.
He opened his eyes and let some of the tension go from his hand, although his grip was still firm. "Sorry. It's—I sometimes have pain in my legs, kind of like phantom pains, I guess. I took a painkiller, but sometimes it doesn't help that much."
Her stomach clenched at the thought of him in pain. "I'm sorry. That sucks. Why does it happen?"
He sighed. "Nerves going haywire, getting confused because the neural pathway connecting my body is severed. At least, that's what I've been told."
She wanted desperately to somehow give him comfort, to make it go away. She wanted to press his hand to her lips or touch his face with her fingertips or brush her fingers through his hair, but, instead, she resorted to teasing him in their usual way. "So that's why you're so touchy-feely today. You're trippin' on the good stuff."
He smiled faintly and then gave her an earnest look. "I'm on drugs all the time, TJ, for different things, so that has nothing to do with it."
"Oh." She felt like a tool for teasing him about it.
"I just needed you today," he continued, his voice soft and sort of husky. "You make me feel...better. You make me forget."
"Wow." She swallowed, her throat tight from emotion. It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her.
He squeezed her hand as if to say, I mean it, but then, after a pause, the corners of his mouth curved upward and there was mischief in his eyes. "You're so beautiful on the inside, TJ."
"I hate you," she said, rolling her eyes.
He laughed, and they lay in an easy silence for a moment or two. Then, out of left field, he said quietly, "Why don't you ever ask about it?"
"Ask about what?"
"What happened to me. I've had strangers on the bus ask me, but you've never once said anything about it."
"Do you like it when people ask you about it?"
His eyes darkened a bit. "No."
"Well, that's one of the reasons I haven't asked. I just—I figured you'd tell me if you ever wanted me to know."
"How do you know me so well?"
"It's a girl thing. I just know."
"Women's intuition?"
"Right. Plus, I'm just smarter than you."
He gave her a small, lopsided smirk, and then he grew serious. "Do you want to know?"
She sighed and thought about it for a moment, looking at their hands wrapped together. She gently pulled her hand out of his grasp and idly ran her fingertip in small circles over his palm before looking him squarely in the eye. "No. I don't want to know."
He raised his brows, looking surprised. "Why not?"
"If you tell me what happened, I—" She stopped, needing to take a second to compose herself. "I don't want to have a picture in my head of you being traumatized and in pain or in the hospital. Actually, I can't stand the thought of it," she said in a subdued tone. "To me, you're just you, and knowing how you got hurt isn't going to change anything."
He furrowed his brow and swallowed, his eyes filled with a strong emotion TJ didn't recognize, and then he, too, stared at their hands. He opened his palm to give her more area to work with, as if he was enjoying the feel of her fingertip caressing it.
"I do wonder, though, what it's like for you," she admitted. "I wonder what it feels like. I thought—" she stopped, unsure if she should go on.
He looked at her with understanding. "It's okay. You thought what?"
"I thought you couldn't feel anything, you know, in your legs, but maybe that's wrong? I mean, you know, since you have the pain like you have today."
He exhaled. "I don't have any sensation from my navel down. Those pains that I feel aren't real, basically. I mean, it hurts like a bitch sometimes, but it's manufactured by screwed up neurons in my spinal cord and my brain. It's not caused from any actual ache in my legs."
She digested that for a moment, hardly able to fathom it.
"If you touch me anywhere below my waist, it's like you're touching someone else, like that part of my body isn't mine. I won't feel it at all."
"At all?"
"At all," he said. "It's like the lower half of my body is a pitch-black, silent, empty room, and I can't open the door to it, no matter how much I pound on it or try to break it down. It is completely and utterly closed off to me, and it makes me furious." His features hardened, his tone filled with scorn. "That part of my body is pointless and useless."
"Don't say that, Sam," she admonished, hurting for him.
"You don't understand, TJ. There's so many—" He cut himself off, his features twisted with anguish.
She reached over and touched his cheek, rubbing his cheekbone with her thumb. "So many what?"
He stared into her eyes.
"You can tell me, Sam."
He swallowed and looked down. "There's so many things other than what I've already told you about." He looked back up at her as if trying to read her, trying to gauge what her reaction would be if he told her.
She didn't say anything, just met his gaze steadily.
"My injury is complete. Do you know what that means?"
She shook her head.
"My spinal cord was completely severed—literally cut in half. I'll never walk again. There's no hope of a miracle cure for me."
She put her hand over his again and squeezed, offering comfort and not wanting to think about what could have caused such a horrible injury, not wanting to think of the devastation he must have felt.
"I can't—I don't have any function below the level of my injury." He swallowed again. "I can't control..." He was becoming upset, his face flushing.
"Hey," she soothed, "it's okay."
He wouldn't look at her.
"You're telling me you have plumbing issues?"
He huffed a short, ironic laugh. "Yeah. I have plumbing issues."
She waited, knowing how difficult this was for him and giving him the chance to decide how much he wanted to tell her, not pushing him. She started rubbing circles on his palm again.
It seemed to have a calming effect on him. He stared at the motion her finger made for a moment and then seemed to find the strength to speak. "I have to use a catheter at certain intervals during the day to help me, you know..." He paused, obviously embarrassed.
She nodded, careful not to show a reaction that might make it harder for him to talk about it.
He swallowed and then went on. "I can't feel when I need to, uh, go, so I try to stay on a strict schedule for eating and drinking so that I can predict when to go and I won't have an accident." He looked at her with a self-deprecating, rueful grimace. "It doesn't always work."
"You've never—I mean, it's never happened when you were with me."
"Most of the time it's a good method. My body is pretty much regulated. I have...accidents more at night, really, than during the day. I'm sure if you hang out with me enough, though, it'll happen." The look on his face was almost apologetic, and he didn't quite meet her eyes.
She hated it that he was embarrassed, and her heart ached for him, but she didn't want him to know that. He would construe it as pity. She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
"TJ?" he asked, sounding perplexed.
She figured she should just meet the issue head on. "Give me a second. I'm contemplating what you just told me."
"What?"
She immediately rolled back onto her side, facing him as she had before, and said matter-of-factly, "Okay. I'm over it." Then she firmly clasped his large hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and felt a charge when the warmth of his skin mingled with hers. "So, what about when you have to visit the library?"
"What?" He sounded incredulous and eyed her as if she couldn't mean what he thought she did.
She was amused by his shock. "You know, how do you take a poop?"
He rolled his eyes and gave her a look of disbelief. "You didn't just ask me that."
"Inappropriate?" she asked with devilish innocence.
"Yeah, TJ. A little inappropriate," he said wryly.
"Sorry. Just curious."
"I think I'll spare you the details."
She half-shrugged. "It's only science, Sam. Everyone has to go somehow. You just have to do it a little differently. Even the Queen of England still has to pee and make a deposit at the bank, if you know what I mean. That's what my mamaw always used to say."
"Your mamaw?" he repeated in dimpled amusement.
"Yep. Sweet Mamaw. God rest her soul."
He smiled a second longer, but then he was more sober. "The Queen of England is not a paraplegic."
"No, but if she were, she'd have the same issues you do."
"Not really. She's a woman."
"Okay. Prince William, then."
"Does it really not bother you?"
"The only thing that bothers me about it is that it bothers you."
He was quiet for a moment, and she stared at him expectantly.
"You haven't asked..." He cleared his throat, and it was obvious he was forcing an indifferent expression onto his face, trying to pretend that what he was about to say didn't affect him as much as it did.
"About sex?"
He looked down again and colored a bit.
She knew this must be a painful subject for him and knew she needed to tread lightly.
He tucked his left hand back up under his pillow, as if he were protecting himself.
She missed the contact with his hand and felt something leave her at his retreat. She knew by his actions in that moment what the answer was, and while her heart broke for him, in her mind, she was already resisting the thought that he would never know pleasure like that again. There had to be some other way and, Heaven help her, she wanted to be the one to help him find it.
"I can't feel anything, not even that," he said softly. "I mean, I can get, uh..." he cleared his throat.
"A woody?"
He huffed a small, humorless laugh. "Yeah. I can get what's called a reflex erection. It's basically caused solely by touch, and it's not the same as, you know..."
She frowned, not really sure she understood.
He sighed. "If I am touched there, I can get an erection, but it doesn't stem from pleasure or thoughts and feelings like a normal erection. It's like it's happening to someone else."
"I knew penises had minds of their own."
"TJ!" he said with exasperation.
She grinned.
"It's not funny," he said with halfhearted annoyance.
"I know. Sorry."
"I can't feel an orgasm."
"The biggest sex organ in the body is the brain, Sam. There's other ways to feel pleasure and get satisfaction. Women have known that since the beginning of time."
"Who are you, Dr. Phil?"
"No. Angelina Jolie."
He smiled and then was quiet. Finally, he said softly, "I don't think I can ejaculate, either."
"You don't think? You're a guy, Sam, and you're not sure? You've never taken it for a test drive?"
He reddened a little.
"You're such a prude."
"What are you, the girl version of Dean?"
She wasn't sure what he was talking about. "What?"
"Never mind."
"The way I see it," she mused, "it's still good news. You can still have sex, Sam. You just gotta find a girl that doesn't mind being on top. Trust me, I don't think you'll have a problem with that."
He huffed. "Even if I did, I can't father children, TJ. How many girls do you know that don't want children someday?"
"First of all, you could always adopt. You don't have to be a biological father to be a good father."
He snorted.
"Well," she said archly, "I'm glad my daddy didn't have that reaction when my parents decided to adopt me."
He looked instantly contrite. "God, TJ, I'm sorry. I didn't—"
"Whatever. The point is, lots of people have trouble conceiving, Sam, and they find ways around it. That's not going to keep a girl from falling in love with you."
"No one is ever gonna want me like this," he said with vehemence.
"Don't say that, Sam. It's not true. You're such a great guy, and you've got so much to offer a woman in every way." She'd never meant anything more in her life.
He smiled with irony and echoed her words from before. "Don't give me any charity compliments."
She felt a surge of anger. "If you think that's what I'm doing, then you're a fucking idiot, Sam Winchester!" She shot up off the bed in a huff and started stuffing her books into her backpack.
Sam looked stunned and confused. "TJ?"
She was mad that he was so blind to her and the way she felt about him, mad that he couldn't see how wonderful he was, and she was mad at herself for falling for him in the first place. He was so far out of her league, she might as well be a Martian. She swallowed, fighting the tightening of her throat and the welling moisture in her eyes. "I gotta go. It's almost time for me to go to work."
His brows drew together into a frown. "You've still got another hour," he protested.
"I like to be early."
His frown deepened, and his tone was skeptical. "Right. Since when?"
So what if she was usually a little late? He didn't have to point it out, did he? She crammed her feet hastily into her flip-flops and then picked up her bag and purse and slung them over her shoulder. "Bye, Sam."
Now he was the one affronted. "I just told you personal things I've never told anyone, and now you're pissed? You're just gonna leave? What am I supposed to think, TJ? Did I say too much?"
"No. Everything's fine," she said, barely keeping the tremor from her voice and feeling bad that he was having second thoughts about opening up to her. "I'll call you later, okay?" She turned to leave, making her way to the door, not waiting for an answer.
"TJ?" he said, his deep, quiet voice halting her more effectively than if he'd shouted.
She froze with her hand on the doorknob, not turning to look at him.
"If I could get up, I'd take your hand, turn you around to face me, and get you to tell me what's wrong. But I can't, can I?" he said with soft reproach.
She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled, trying to keep her cool, and then looked up at the ceiling, hoping that gravity would make the unshed tears go back to wherever tears came from. Finally regaining control, she slowly turned around and went back over to the bed, sat down on the edge, and dropped the heavy burden of her backpack and purse onto the shiny, laminated wood floor. "That was a low blow, playing the gimp card."
He smiled. "I know."
She looked down at her short fingernails, suddenly fascinated by them.
"Are you gonna tell me why you went all Lindsay Lohan on me?"
She sighed with resignation and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "I don't like it when you're so down on yourself."
He raised his brows. "Seriously?"
She went back to studying her fingernails.
"Hi, Kettle. I'm The Pot, and you're black."
She gave him a look. "Ha. Funny."
The corners of his mouth curved upward. "I'll stop if you'll stop."
"Okay. Fine," she said, still feeling sad and wishing there was some way she could make him see the Sam that she saw. She found it disturbing that he had such a disconnect from his body, held such animosity toward it. She wondered if there was a way to fix it, to spare him the lifelong pain she had always lived with. It was too late for her, but maybe it wasn't for him.
He grabbed her forearm and tugged on it, giving her the Sam look. "Lie back down with me, just for a few more minutes?" He sounded tired and looked exhausted, and it was suddenly obvious that he hadn't been sleeping well.
There was no way she could resist him. She kicked off her flip-flops and lay down, facing him again as she had before, letting her leg and foot touch his, loving the feel of his sock-clad foot when she wiggled her toes, not afraid of hurting him anymore. She felt honored that he had trusted her enough to explain things to her, and none of it changed the way she felt about him. If anything, she admired him more for his strength and dignity in dealing with it all.
He shut his eyes and pulled her hand closer to him, very near to his lips.
She could feel his breath on her knuckles, and it made her stomach flutter. She waited quietly for a few minutes and watched as he drifted off to sleep, the lines on his face and forehead smoothing out.
She would leave for work once he was good and asleep, but, for now, she was enjoying the scenery, memorizing every feature of his face. He was a work of art on the outside and the inside, just as much now as he must have been before he'd been hurt, and she was going to figure out a way to make him see that.
XXXXXXXX
Shorty's was closed, and TJ was helping Dean wipe down the bar and put up clean glasses. Dean had let Heather leave as soon as they locked the doors, since she wasn't feeling well. They hadn't been that busy tonight, so the cleanup wasn't anything that TJ and Dean couldn't handle.
"Hey, TJ," said Dean, drying a glass with a bar towel, "what's your schedule like tomorrow?"
She scrubbed at a sticky spot on the bar with a damp rag. "Got a test at eight and classes at ten and two. Why?"
"Oh. Never mind. I was gonna see if you could squeeze in taking Sam to his doctor's appointment and PT session at the hospital."
"What time?"
"Ten."
"Why can't Bobby take him?"
"Bobby has something he has to take care of," he said vaguely. "Don't worry about it. I can take off from Firestone."
She wasn't about to pass up a chance to spend time with Sam. "I'll take him. My ten o'clock class is Latin." She smiled. "I'll probably learn more from Sam by taking him to the doctor than being in class with Professor Prick."
Dean smirked, but no humor reached his eyes. "You and Sam are getting pretty close, huh?"
TJ felt a little guilty, knowing things had been strained between Dean and Sam for a while. "Yeah. I guess."
"He feels comfortable with you," he observed.
She was hesitant. "Are you okay with that, Dean?"
His features were carefully devoid of emotion. "Yeah. I'm glad you're his friend. He needs that." He paused a second and then said, "Did he seem okay to you this afternoon?"
She felt a little strange talking about Sam behind his back, especially since they'd talked about so many intimate things, but she knew Dean was asking out of concern. "Well, he seemed a little down, if that's what you mean, a little pensive. I think his legs were hurtin' him." Her accent was slipping through a little bit, but she didn't care. She was so tired.
Dean's jaw hardened.
She could see that he didn't like to hear Sam was in pain.
He looked worried. "TJ, I need you to tell me if you ever think he's acting weird or not himself, okay?"
She felt the need to put him at ease. "Sure. Of course. Is there—is there something I don't know? Are you worried about him for some particular reason?"
"Just watch yourself with him, TJ."
She was a little wary. "What do you mean?"
Dean stopped what he was doing and looked at her intently. "I just don't want anyone to get hurt."
She was a little perturbed but reminded herself that Dean was always protective of Sam. "I would never do anything to hurt Sam. I hope you know that, Dean."
He gave her a direct look. "Sam's not the one I'm worried about."
She looked at the glass she was holding, feeling herself blush. "What are you talking about?" she said, playing dumb.
"I think you know, TJ."
She put away the glass, grabbed another, and gave Dean a sideways glance. "Is Sam the only one who's not in on the joke?"
He snorted. "Sam's a smart dude, but he can sometimes be amazingly slow when it comes to women. I don't think he has a clue."
She looked at him, dead-serious. "Don't tell him, okay? I know he doesn't feel the same way, and I don't want to ruin our friendship."
Dean looked sympathetic. "TJ—"
"Don't, okay? I don't need you to try to console me, and don't worry. I can take care of myself."
He eyed her critically. "You sure about that?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You look exhausted, TJ—"
She opened her mouth to protest that it was late in the day and of course she was tired, but she never got a chance.
He held up a hand to silence her as if anticipating what she was going to say. "You look exhausted even when I see you at the apartment with Sam," he clarified, "and you've lost a lot of weight since you been workin' here." He looked a little embarrassed, which was unusual for Dean. "Heather and I are just wondering if maybe you might be having, uh, health problems or something."
She rolled her eyes. "I just like loose clothing. They probably make it seem like I've lost weight."
He looked at her as if he wasn't buying it.
"Heather's the one that went home early tonight because she was sick, not me. I'm fine."
He still didn't look convinced.
It made her nervous that he was asking questions, and the thought that Dean might figure out her secret was almost as mortifying as it would be if Sam found out. It scared her that Dean might somehow interfere, even if he meant well. It was her life and her body. She was in control, and it was nobody else's business.
She unloaded the last of the clean glasses from the industrial-size portable dishwasher tray and picked it up to take it back to the kitchen. "Tell Sam I'll pick him up at nine-thirty," she said, trying to change the subject. "That should give us enough time to get there, don't you think?"
He scrutinized her for another second and said absently, "Yeah. That should be good."
She wanted to get his mind on something else besides her weight loss. "Maybe you should go check on Heather," she said with a wink.
"Maybe you should go eat a cheeseburger with a side of pizza."
That made her angry. "Maybe you should mind your own damn business."
He held up his hands in a placating gesture, white bar towel in one hand. "Look, TJ, I just don't want you keeling over with a tray full of pints and chicken wings some night."
"Whatever." She walked away, stomach in knots and feeling a little shaky, like she'd just been caught in a lie. She hadn't lied, though. She was fine, and she refused to feel guilty that all she'd eaten that day was half a Power Bar.
TBC