Chapter 17

Sam tried to ignore the gnawing pain in his legs that he'd felt all morning and pushed himself away from the bus stop, letting his wheels ghost through his hands as he coasted down a hill. Of course, he'd have to push himself up the hill on his way back, but it wasn't that steep, and his shoulder was almost back to a hundred percent. The incline wouldn't be a problem.

He was now transferring on his own without the board, since he'd gotten a grudging approval from Karen that it was okay. He was building strength and progressing faster than most people with his type of shoulder injury, but he'd learned that elderly people were usually the ones who ended up with shoulder fractures like his, and Karen had attributed his quicker-than-average recovery to his youth and good health.

His recovery didn't seem so quick to him. It seemed like it had taken forever, and he knew that if he hadn't had Bobby to help him, things might not have gone so well.

Bobby had left three weeks ago, and Sam would never forget Bobby's parting words. He'd put a hand on Sam's good shoulder and given it an affectionate squeeze, moisture welling in his eyes.

Sam couldn't remember Bobby ever showing that much emotion, and it made him feel a little emotional himself.

"Son, I want you to know that I'm proud of you."

Sam didn't know what to say as he looked up at the man who'd been like a father to him.

Bobby's expression grew even more intense. "Your daddy would be proud of you, too, and don't you ever forget that. You hear me?"

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir."

Then, Bobby had bent down and embraced Sam in a quick, hardy goodbye. When he stood, he narrowed his eyes first at Sam and then Dean, who was holding the door open. "If you idjits ever shut me out of your lives again, I'll have both your hides. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean and Sam both said at the same time.

Sam missed Bobby, and he would never be able to thank him enough for all that he'd done. Bobby had seen him through some of his darkest days—along with TJ, of course.

He felt an instant, sharp punch to his gut at the thought of TJ. She had been there at Shorty's yesterday, left him a birthday gift, a rectangular box that she'd wrapped with the comics section of the newspaper and topped with a huge red bow. It had made him smile, and he'd opened it in the privacy of the back office.

She'd gotten him black Converse sneakers with a note that said she'd checked it out and other people with spasticity liked them, that they usually didn't cause a rub, that Dean had explained to her why he wore the suburban-dad shoes.

Sam hadn't tried them on. Instead, he'd stuck them in the large bottom drawer of his desk, on top of old file folders that he never used. He couldn't wear the shoes. He'd be reminded of her every time he looked at them.

He had to lock her away in that hidden place inside of himself, tried not to think about her, but she had barged her way into his thoughts yesterday like a steamroller, making the misery of her absence from his life stark and raw again.

He'd woken up this morning missing TJ, feeling the darkness oppressing him worse than usual, dreading having to do his bowel routine and check his body for pressure sores and deal with all the other crap he had to put up with. He detested the thought of having to live another day as a paraplegic, sick of the struggle, thinking with a disturbing detachment that maybe he should have his worthless legs amputated because at least it would make his body lighter and make transfers easier.

He was fighting to keep the depression at bay, but it was hard, even though he was still on the antidepressant. It was useless, and he was weaning himself off of it, going against his doctor's recommendation that he stay on it or switch to another brand. His pain was too deep, and no amount of medication was going to help it. Nothing would—not pretending that he could accept his paralysis, not pretending to move on with his life, not pretending he would be fine without TJ.

He had to find another way to dig out of the grave it felt like he woke up in every day, and he was growing desperate. He'd told Dean and Bobby he had to either deal or die, and, lately, dying had seemed like a more logical choice.

Instead, he'd dragged himself out of bed, done everything he had to do like the poster child for SCI that Dean had said he was, and then broke down in despair, crying like a baby, knowing none of it would ever end, that he would have to do it every day for the rest of his life, and no amount of trying to better himself by getting a job or going to school or riding the fucking bus was going to change that. At least the pretending had made Dean and Bobby feel better, had given them hope that he was moving on with his life. It was the least he could do for them after all they'd done for him.

He wanted more than anything to find a way to climb out of the hole, to come up for air from the smothering blackness. He was at his breaking point.

It was then that he'd called the yoga place and made an appointment for a private session with Amber, who just happened to have an opening today. He felt like a complete idiot, knowing it wasn't going to help, but he was desperate, and beggars couldn't be choosy. He had no other options.

As he pushed himself up to the door of the studio, he tried not to think about the day TJ had brought him here and how he'd been too stubborn to listen to her, how he'd been so scornful of the whole yoga thing. It was ironic that, now, here he was, hoping that this would be some kind of miracle, that it would somehow bring him relief from the relentless pain, both physical and emotional. He thought cynically that at least he wasn't paying for it, so if it was as fruitless as he expected it to be, at least he hadn't lost anything but time.

Next to the door was one of those silver buttons with a disabled symbol, so he pushed it, and when the door opened, he rolled through. The lobby area was small with a low reception desk as the main focus, centered in the room. The place smelled of fresh paint and new furniture and had a modern feel to it. All the wood was a lightly-stained maple.

There was a cute, platinum blond with really short hair sitting behind the desk, and she smiled when Sam came in. "Hi. Can I help you?"

Sam wheeled up closer. "Uh, yeah. My name is Sam Winchester. I have a yoga session scheduled with Amber in about twenty minutes. I was told to come early to fill out some paperwork."

She eyed his jeans and button-down shirt. "And change clothes, too, I hope?"

He smiled a little nervously. "Yeah. I have a t-shirt and shorts in my backpack."

She opened a drawer and pulled out a clipboard with a pen attached to it with a string. There was also a small stack of papers under the metal clip. She handed it to him, wedged between her hands. "Just fill out the top sheet and give it back to me when you're done. My name's Zoe, by the way." She nodded toward the papers. "Don't worry about the ones underneath. They're just copies of the same thing you're going to fill out."

"Right. Okay." Sam noticed the unusual curvature of her fingers and was surprised to realize that she probably didn't have much use of them, that she must have quadriplegia, although her arms seemed to have a decent amount of movement and strength. Obviously, she was a lower-level quad and her injury was probably incomplete. He was curious to know what the exact level of her injury was.

Then he kicked himself mentally for assessing her like that. It was none of his business, of course, although he figured she was probably doing the same to him. It was a weird language those with SCI shared, a sort of club where your level of injury was your ID card.

He put the clipboard on his lap and pushed himself over to the wall, where there were open spaces in between a couple of regular chairs, getting himself more out of the way. He filled out the paperwork, answering questions about his injuries—both for the shoulder and his SCI—not going into too much detail, since he had called Karen after he'd scheduled his session and told her what he was planning to do. She had faxed over his history so that Amber would know where he was in his recovery process and how much to challenge him.

When he was done, he wheeled back over to the desk and handed Zoe his paperwork. She put it in a file folder, deftly maneuvering everything even though she didn't have full use of her hands. Sam was impressed.

When she was done, she activated her power chair, maneuvering the joystick between her thumb and palm, and pulled around the desk. "Okay. If you'll follow me, I'll show you where the men's locker room is. You can change in there."

"Okay." Sam followed her and saw that her chair was very similar to the power chair he'd had to use after his shoulder injury. He'd felt weak in it, like an invalid, but this girl's confidence and agile handling of hers made the chair lose that stigma of helplessness. It was her means of independence and freedom, and she was obviously okay with it, was used to it. Sam felt like a douche for being so disdainful of it.

When they reached the opening where the men's locker room was, she spun her chair around and faced him, smiling. "Okay. Here you go. Did whoever you talked to when you made your appointment this morning suggest you might want to use an adult absorbency product, at least for the first few sessions, until you're comfortable with how your body will react to the poses? If you forgot, there are products on a shelf in the locker room."

She was talking about a diaper, and Sam felt as if the blood in his head all rushed down to that dark part of his body he couldn't feel. He thought with mortification that this was why he couldn't be with TJ and was glad that he hadn't gone in with her the day she'd brought him here. He was sure no one had mentioned that little detail to her. What girl deserved a boyfriend with that kind of issue?

"The only thing that bothers me about it is that it bothers you," she'd said.

Her words came back to him, haunting him. He wanted to believe her, but he didn't think there would ever be a time where he got used to things like that, that it would ever stop bothering him. TJ didn't really know what she was saying, and neither had Dean last night in the Impala when they'd had the talk about Sam's sexual issues. It was easy to act like it wasn't that big of a deal when you didn't have to deal with the frustration and humiliation of it on a daily basis.

Zoe's brow furrowed in apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's just something we remind everyone of."

Sam cleared his throat. What was he supposed to say to something like that? 'Don't worry, I brought my own,' or, 'I'll make sure I cath right before class,' or, 'I'm on a rigid bowel schedule and don't usually have a problem with those kinds of accidents.' Yeah. That was totally the kind of conversation he wanted to have, especially with a young, cute girl he didn't know—even if she could probably relate.

She looked uncomfortable at Sam's silence. "Okay. Well, the class Amber is teaching now is almost done. I'll let her know that you're here when she's finished."

Sam made an effort to smile politely but knew it wasn't very successful. "Okay. Thanks," he said abruptly and made his way into the locker room to change into his shorts and t-shirt.

Several minutes later, Sam found himself waiting in a room that looked a lot like a dance studio. One wall had mirrors, and there was a huge, dark-green exercise mat lying in the center of the room on the lightly-stained hardwood floor. The lights were turned off, but the room wasn't dark. It was illuminated subtly by natural light coming in from a couple of skylights, giving it a peaceful glow.

The silence of the room held no distractions, and Sam was left with his morose thoughts and anger, not to mention the pain in his legs, which looked particularly skinny and useless exposed by his shorts. He was a nanosecond from throwing in the towel and just getting the hell out of there, thinking it was all a huge mistake to come, when the door opened and a young woman who must be Amber wheeled into the room.

When she was closer, Sam realized she was older than he had first thought, somewhere in her forties, maybe, although her petite, trim body made her seem much younger. She had dark, chin-length hair held back by a bandana tied kerchief style, the complexion of someone with Hispanic origin, and a welcoming smile. Her voice was smooth, and her speech was distinct and confident. "Hello, Sam. I'm Amber Macias. I'll be instructing you in your yoga practice today."

His mood was continuing to deteriorate with each second, and he couldn't muster a proper greeting. All he managed was a terse, "Hi."

She ignored his surliness and said, "I've heard a lot about you."

"From Karen?"

The corners of her mouth curved upward, and there was humor in her dark eyes. "No. From TJ. We had quite the conversation about you when she came to buy your sessions. I guess it's been a couple of months ago, now."

"You remember her from one conversation two months ago?"

Amber nodded. "That girl's got a lot of life in her. She's hard to forget, but I suspect you already know that."

His feelings for TJ, the ones he tried to keep locked away, escaped from their cell with a vengeance, rippling up through his body, temporarily stunning him, threatening to tear him apart. He closed his eyes against the terrible ache.

"She said you'd probably be kind of—what was the word? Oh, yes. 'Pissy.'"

For a split second, before his brain caught up with his emotions, he smiled, visualizing TJ saying that, and then he remembered how much he missed her, and he felt a lack of oxygen, his chest burning like he was drowning.

"Sam, look at me." Amber's voice was calm and commanding.

Reluctantly, he did.

"I know you're hurting, and I mean emotionally, not just the physical. We're going to deal with that. Okay?"

In another life, he would have rolled his eyes at her yoga-guru perceptiveness, her air of calm and inner peace, but he needed a life preserver, and, like an actual drowning victim, he was willing to latch onto the first person willing to save him. He nodded.

"Okay. Let's get started." She locked the brakes on her chair and held onto the frame of it with one hand. Then, she bent over and made a fist with the other hand on the mat, locking her elbow. Several thin, silvery bracelets clinked together on her wrist as she deftly and agilely lowered her petite body from her wheelchair onto the mat, legs falling neatly to the side.

Her maneuver was so quick and sure that Sam would have missed it if he'd blinked, and he was impressed, remembering that TJ had told him that Amber had a high injury. He was a little envious of her gracefulness and the way she seemed so comfortable in her own body, so sure of her movements and strength.

He was hesitant. He hadn't done a wheelchair-to-floor transfer since before his shoulder injury. Although his shoulder was almost back to normal, he wasn't sure if his upper-body strength was, and he knew the transfer would require a lot of it.

"Sam, it's okay if you need help. Would you like me to call someone to help you down?"

He eyed the mat. At least, if he fell, he'd land on a padded surface. "Uh, no. I can do it."

He inhaled and released a fortifying breath, flipped the levers that locked the brakes on his chair, and took his socked feet off the footplate, placing them on the mat. Then, he decided it would be better to hold onto the frame of his chair with his right hand, since his right shoulder was weaker. He bent over and made a fist with his left hand on the mat and locked his elbow, much like Amber had done.

His concentration was momentarily broken when he felt a particularly sharp wave of the pain in his legs, but he pushed through it and slowly shifted his weight onto his left arm and fist and carefully lowered himself onto the mat, straightening his legs out with his hands once he was down. It hadn't been as difficult as he'd thought it might be, and in his relief, he actually smiled a real smile.

Amber looked pleased. "That was good. It's been a while, huh?"

"Yeah. Who knows if I'll be able to get back up again."

"Don't worry. As I said, we can always call for help. It might be trickier getting back up, especially with those long legs of yours."

"Right," he said noncommittally.

She was sitting across from him on the large mat, legs folded yoga style, bracing herself with her arms slightly behind her. "I saw you wince. Did you feel pain in your shoulder?"

"Uh, no. It's my legs. I sometimes have phantom pains."

There was a little bit of sympathy in her expression. "Ah, yes. I've had them since my accident, too. Why do you call them 'phantom' pains?"

He shrugged. He decided to humor her, although he sensed she already knew all about it. "My injury is complete. There's no way I could be physically feeling anything in my legs. It's a misfiring of nerves that tricks my brain into thinking it feels something."

"Hm. And how do you deal with it?"

"I have a prescription painkiller for when it's really bad. On days like today, I just try to ignore it, force myself not to think about it."

"Interesting." She paused, and then said, "Tell me how you see yourself, Sam."

"What?"

"Describe to me what it feels like to be in your body."

He exhaled. It had been difficult to talk about it with TJ, let alone a complete stranger. Besides, Amber was supposed to be a yoga instructor, not a shrink.

Amber gave him a measured look. "Please. It's important."

He gritted his teeth for a second before speaking. "I, uh, feel like half my body is missing, like it's dead. I'm a floating torso, and when I try to move, to be free, something holds me back. My worthless legs hold me back, make everything a struggle. It's exhausting. It's infuriating."

Amber was quiet, watching him intently.

He felt uncomfortable, felt the need to fill the silence. "It's not just my legs. It's everything. Nothing works right." As soon as he said it, he was embarrassed, felt his neck grow warm.

"It's okay, Sam. I understand. You feel anger toward that part of your body that's paralyzed. You were taught in rehab that it's something that you have to overcome, that you have to defeat. It's all about upper-body strength. The stronger you are, the more you can compensate for what you've lost, the more chance you have of achieving a normal life. Am I right?"

He'd never thought of it quite like that, but she was right. "Yeah."

"What if I told you that there's another way to think about it, that the paralyzed part of your body didn't die. It just changed its voice."

Sam snorted. "I'd say that you're wasting my time."

She didn't seem to take offense, just gave him a patient smile. "Think about it this way. Your body didn't ask for what happened to it. It's not the fault of your legs that they can't move, and, yet, you are angry at them. You see them as a hindrance, and they're something you have to overcome. They serve no purpose anymore, and you hate them because of that."

It sounded ridiculous when she said it like that, like his legs were a person or something.

"But think about how amazing your body is, how committed to life it is." Her voice held a little bit of awe. "It sustained a devastating injury, and yet it keeps going. Its heart still pumps blood, and all the astounding processes still flow and work together in concert, even when you hate your body, even when you want to conquer it, even when you've written half of it off as dead."

Sam didn't know what to say.

"What if I said the doctors taught you wrong, that the pain you feel in your legs is real, that it's your paralyzed body talking to you, trying to tell you to listen, to stop ignoring it?"

"I'd say that it should find a better way to communicate," said Sam sarcastically.

"No. You need to find a better way to listen, and that's what I'm going to teach you."

"My spinal cord was totally severed. It's impossible."

"Okay. You said when your pain is really bad, you take a prescription painkiller. Does it work?"

"Not really," he admitted.

"How is that possible? If the pain is a result of a misfiring of nerves, shouldn't the drug alter the effect in your brain and make the pain go away? Why doesn't it work?"

"I guess the doctors haven't figured out exactly what's going on. They're not sure why the medication doesn't really help that much."

"Hm. If they're not sure, then how can they be sure that your paralyzed body isn't able to communicate in a different way? Maybe they don't know everything. But, even more importantly, who cares if they're right or wrong? To you, the pain is very real.

"How dare they tell you it's not, that it's just the result of something that's gone haywire, that it's all in your head? They're trying to convince you to ignore what's right in front of you. You are feeling something in your legs, Sam. That's monumental. It's a mind/body connection. Your legs are not dead. They're still there, and they're telling you so. Don't listen to anyone else. Listen to them."

Sam was skeptical.

"Sam, because the pathway from your mind to your body has been damaged, it is important for you to experience any kind of connection to the paralyzed part of your body that you can. Anything that reconnects your sense of self to your paralyzed body is a form of healing, even pain."

He was beginning to understand what she was saying, but he wasn't sure he was buying it.

Amber must have sensed his doubt. "Okay, Sam. I want you to watch something." She unfolded her legs with her hands and lay down flat on the mat. "Watch my left foot."

Sam watched, and, to his amazement, her left foot moved marginally, even though her form-fitting yoga pants clearly defined her thin, unmoving legs, the legs of someone who obviously had paraplegia.

She levered herself back into a sitting position, demonstrating amazing balance for someone who probably didn't have the use of their abdominal muscles. She folded her legs again, facing him, resting her hands on her thighs, and grinned. "Like yours, my injury is complete. I am completely paralyzed from my nipple line down."

Sam's eyes widened, and he tried not to look at her breasts at the reference to her nipples. He was a guy after all. "How did you do that, then?"

"I cheated," she said matter-of-factly. "I used my neck and upper back muscles to make it happen. I can show you how to do it, if you'd like. It's a great party trick. Really freaks people out."

He laughed. "What does that have to do with anything, though?"

"It let's me experience fun in my body again. It's a playful relationship to my body that isn't all strain and management and work.

"When I did that in rehab, it actually made my therapists wary, and they gently admonished me, reminding me that it meant nothing, that I would never walk again, that I wasn't really moving my foot, even though my eyes could see that I was. To them, the only valid connection between my mind and my body was a physiological one through my spinal cord.

"But they're wrong. Every time I make my foot move, by whatever means, it delights me. It makes me aware of my foot, reminds me that it is still there, that it's not gone, and whether I will walk again or not doesn't matter. In fact, it has nothing to do with it.

"Do you see what I'm saying? I feel a connection to my lower body when I do that, and my spinal cord and nerves are irrelevant. I know that my body is still whole. It is still all there. It is a relationship within my body that nourishes me, that matters, that makes me care about my body."

It clicked with Sam then, what she was saying, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope. As she'd said, it was important to feel a connection to his paralyzed body in whatever way it could be achieved, and he was beginning to understand that there might be other ways to do it than through his spinal cord.

She looked satisfied that he seemed to at least be listening to her with more of an open mind, and she said, "That's a visual way to see the connection, the wonder of how muscles way up on my upper body are able to move my foot. It's fascinating, and it makes me appreciate the finer nuances of my body and how they work together, its resiliency—makes me respect it, even though it is paralyzed."

She gave him an intense look. "Your paralyzed body deserves the same respect from you, Sam. It is the only body you have, and it deserves your attention."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. "Okay," he said lamely.

"The connection doesn't have to be just visual, and I'm going to show you what I mean. I'm going to show you how to listen to your body and let it teach you. Right now, however, let's begin by shaking hands with our feet."

He remembered the conversation he'd had with TJ about that, how he'd been so jaded. He felt a pang of remorse for being kind of a dick about it, although he still thought shaking hands with his feet was crazy and a little gay. However, he tried not to show it.

The corners of Amber's mouth curved upward. "I'm impressed by your restraint, Sam. TJ said you would, at the very least, roll your eyes."

He smiled, trying not to let on how hard it was to talk about TJ. She was always with him, in his thoughts wherever he went, no matter how hard he tried to tuck her away.

"Okay, Sam." Amber gave him a wry look. "First, you're going to have to take your socks off."

It was a simple thing to ask, but Sam hardly ever went without socks. He didn't like looking at his pale, limp feet. They sort of reminded him of dead fish.

Amber was waiting patiently, so he gritted his teeth and took off the socks.

"I want you to take your legs out in front of you like this," she said, unfolding her legs and spreading them straight and wide with her hands, like a vee.

Sam cleared his throat, feeling kind of girly, but did as she asked. He'd taken his antispasticity med, but it had been a long time since he'd had his legs out wide in such a way, and his legs were a little stiff and weren't cooperating. Come to think of it, it's not like he ever sat that way even before his injury. It took him several tries to get his legs to where they would stay in position. When he finally did, it made him feel surprisingly...free, although he didn't know why.

"Good. Okay." She enunciated her words in a precise, smooth way. "Now, put a finger between each of your toes and form a clasp, like this," she said, bending over her legs and demonstrating.

He copied what she was doing, linking the fingers of each hand with the toes of each foot. He felt an instant sinking in his stomach, a slightly nauseous feeling, at the way his feet and toes felt. They were too smooth and too cool to his fingertips, reminded him of how his legs and feet were usually a degree or two colder than the upper part of his body because of poor circulation. They weren't a part of him. They were inanimate, rubber objects.

"Now, I want you to gently roll the ball of your foot first in one direction and then the other."

Sam did as she instructed, although he was still repulsed.

After several rotations, she said, "All right. Good."

Sam took that as a cue that he could finally stop, and, with relief, he pushed himself back up with his hands into a sitting position.

His face must have shown the discomfort he'd felt because Amber gave him a small, knowing smile. "It's hard, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He knew she wasn't talking about physically.

She nodded. "It gets easier. I'm going to show you four yoga poses to do at home that you're going to practice every day, and you're going to always introduce yourself to your feet like that before you start. Okay?"

He wasn't thrilled about the idea, but he agreed. "Okay."

"All right. Now, I want you to put your hands slightly behind you and lift up your chest."

He did.

"Good. Now, this time when you do it, don't hold your breath," she said with a little humor in her eyes.

She was right. He hadn't realized it, but he'd been holding his breath. Legs still in a vee in front of him, he did the pose again, breathing deeply, the lifting of his chest making it easier, creating more room for his lungs to expand. It felt good.

"Okay. I want you to put your hands on your thighs, now, lift your chest, and breathe again."

This time, he felt something different, a feeling that felt a little like he had grown taller. He was amazed that such a simple, subtle change in his position could create such a feeling. It seemed to meld with the phantom pain, made it less intense somehow, more of an energy. He looked at Amber.

She met his gaze with a tranquil, wise air. She obviously knew what he was feeling, but she didn't comment. Instead, she said, "Good, Sam. The yoga we are practicing concentrates on precision and alignment, and your back is very straight and aligned. It's impressive. I take it your injury wasn't too damaging to your vertebrae?"

"Uh, no, it wasn't."

She seemed unfazed that he didn't elaborate on how he'd gotten hurt. "Okay. I want you to close your eyes and visualize that alignment. Start with your head and travel down your spine to the lower part of your body. Take a minute to assess your whole body, focus on what you know to be true, although you can't feel it physically. I want you to remember how the weight is distributed between your sits bones and imagine it now. Imagine a connection between your chest, your tailbone, and all the way down through your feet."

Sam was startled to realize that he could visualize it easily, that, on a very subtle level, he could feel a sense of his whole body—inside and out, paralyzed and unparalyzed. He realized that, although he couldn't feel it on a physical level, the logical part of him, his mind, sensed that parts of his body were still working together, that his sits bones were supporting his upper body, that his legs were contributing to his balance, and that there was an energy coursing through his entire body. He grinned with the elation and relief of it. It was the first time he'd felt whole in this body since his injury.

Amber nodded, smiling and sharing the moment with him. "You will be an excellent student, Sam."

XXXXXXXX

Dean watched as Karen and a tall, muscular PT named Michael helped Sam put his new leg braces on. Sam was wearing athletic style shorts—a rare thing for him to do in public—because Karen had told him he would probably want to wear the braces on his legs under his clothing, so it was better to see how they fit on his bare legs.

Sam's braces were called KAFOs, or knee-ankle-foot-orthotics, and, apparently without telling anyone, he had been measured for them about a month ago, around the time that he'd announced that he was going to get a job, go back to school, and that Bobby could go home.

Sam had informed Dean for the first time about the braces yesterday evening as they were driving to Shorty's for work. "So, uh, tomorrow morning I'm gonna try out my new leg braces. Karen called today and said they were in."

Dean gave a surprised look at Sam, almost hitting the car in the lane next to them and getting honked at because he wasn't paying attention. "You wanna say that again?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Leg braces. I got cast for KAFOs about a month ago because Karen said she thought my shoulder would for sure be able to withstand the strain by the time they came in, and now they're here. I thought if you could take off a few hours at Firestone tomorrow, you might wanna come."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Ya think? Sam, why didn't you tell me about this?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Didn't seem like a big deal."

"Dude, you walking is a big deal."

Sam looked out the windshield ahead of him. "Yeah. I guess it is."

Dean was quiet for a moment, and then he glanced at Sam again. "I'm proud of you."

"What?" Sam sounded unsure and was frowning, as if he'd misheard.

"I'm proud of you, Sam. Not just for the way you've been handling things, but for everything. The way you ganked that demon, the sacrifice you made, doing the right thing. I never should have doubted you. I never should have thought the demon could get to you."

Sam's brows went up. "Are we having a chick-flick moment here?"

"I just wanted you to know."

Sam's expression grew troubled. "He almost did get to me, Dean. Maybe I'm not as strong as you think."

"Hey, man, you're human. It doesn't matter what went through your head. All that matters is that, in the end, you did what was right. It takes a lot of balls to make the choice you did." He paused, feeling a little emo. "Bobby was right. Dad would be proud of you. And Mom, too."

Sam looked down at his lap, throat working, and then he looked at Dean. "Thanks."

So, now, here they were, and Sam was about to take his first steps with the braces. They went from his upper thighs down to his feet, part metal and part plastic, and had straps that Velcroed at various points to keep them on and secure. He was sitting in his wheelchair close to the parallel bars, watching as Karen showed him how to put his new Adidas tennis shoes—a size bigger than he actually wore—on around the hard, plastic foot-and-ankle part of the brace. He'd bought the shoes specifically for wearing with the braces.

When Karen was done, she said, "All right, Sam. You ready?"

"Yeah." He glanced at Dean, arching his brows a little and quirking his mouth for a second in that self-conscious way he sometimes had, before turning his attention back to Karen.

Dean could tell he was a little nervous, and Dean felt a little nervous for him.

Karen looked at Dean. "You wanna stand in front of him, and Michael will hold on behind him to the belt on his waist for stability? That way, if he loses his balance, you guys will be either behind or in front of him to catch him."

"Come on, Karen," teased Sam, "Aren't you gonna catch me?"

Karen huffed. "You'd squash me like a bug."

He grinned.

Karen was tiny. Although she was strong, and Dean had seen her help Sam transfer to and from his chair several times, a precariously-standing Sasquatch Sam was a whole other ballgame.

Karen went into her no-nonsense mode. "All right, Sam." She pulled up Sam's shorts on the sides so the thigh part of each brace was exposed, showing Sam small, black levers at the very top of the braces. "This is the locking mechanism. When it's flipped back like it is now, your brace is in free mode." She moved his lower leg, showing him how it moved easily, how his knee wasn't locked. "That's how you want it, obviously, when you're sitting down, so you can bend your knee."

Sam nodded.

"Okay. When you get ready to stand, you're going to flip the lever into locking mode. As you come up, it's going to lock every five degrees. It does that so that if you get tired during the process of standing up, you won't fall back into your chair and have to start over again. Once it begins to lock, the only way to get it into free mode again is to sit down and take your weight off the braces. It won't unlock if there's any weight exerted on the brace at all. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Ready?"

Sam took a deep breath. "Yeah."

"Okay. Get up close to the bars so you can grab them."

Sam pushed his chair up to the bars, and Dean ducked under one of the rails so he could stand in front of him.

Michael, a sort of snub-nosed, sandy-haired guy, stood to the side, ready to grab the wide, flesh-colored belt around Sam's waist. It reminded Dean of the belts weightlifters used, except that it had a loop on it that the therapist could grab hold of.

"Now, Sam, you're going to pull yourself up using the bars for now, but when you feel more comfortable with the braces, I'll show you how to stand up pushing yourself up from your chair."

Sam nodded, grabbed hold of the bars, and began to pull and then push down on the them. As he did so, he started to rise out of his wheelchair, and the braces started making a clicking noise as Sam got taller and taller, his legs slowly straightening.

Once Sam was almost to a stand, Michael pushed the wheelchair back a little so he could get more behind Sam, keeping a firm hold on the belt.

Karen scrutinized Sam with a professional eye. "You're looking good, Sam. Is that as far as you can go?"

Sam was straining. "I can't get up any straighter."

"Okay. What I want you to do is lean back a little on your heels. That'll give you the extra oomph you need to get the braces to lock into the straightest position.

Sam looked a little wary but carefully leaned back on his heels, his hands death-gripping the bars.

The braces clicked a final time, and his knees locked into place.

Karen smiled. "Good. Okay. Now, just stand there for a minute."

Sam looked at Dean, his face a little pale.

"How you feelin'?" asked Dean.

Sam grinned weakly. "Tall."

Dean rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed. It actually felt good to have Sam be taller than him again, but he'd never let Sam know that.

Karen looked concerned. "You getting a head rush, Sam?"

"Just a little bit. It's passing."

After a minute, Dean was relieved to see that Sam's color was returning, and he seemed more sure of himself.

Karen gave a short nod of satisfaction. "Okay. When you're ready, I'm going to have Michael let go of the belt, and I want you to see if you can balance standing up without holding onto the bars.

Sam looked at her like she was crazy.

She was unfazed. "You can do it."

He hesitated for a second. "Okay. I'm ready."

Karen gave Michael a look, and he let go of the belt.

Sam gingerly let go of the bars for a fraction of a second, wobbled, and immediately gripped them again.

"Good. Keep trying," said Karen.

He sort of straightened his back more, almost arching it a bit, and let go again. He wobbled, but he was able to let go for a little longer.

"Again. Find a focal point. Sometimes that helps with the balance."

Sam homed in on the amulet hanging down from the necklace around Dean's neck. It had been a gift from Sam when they were kids.

Dean tensed and stood as still as possible, holding his breath, not wanting to move and mess up Sam's sense of balance.

Sam let go of the bars again. This time he stood for four seconds on his own—Dean was counting—without anyone helping him, until he started to teeter, and then he grabbed the bars with lightning speed before he could fall or anyone could help him.

Karen was beaming. "That was great! That's amazing, actually. Most people, it takes several PT sessions before they can do it for that long. I know it doesn't seem like much, but that's huge. I think the yoga is already helping you with balance."

Sam colored a little.

Dean smirked. "Yoga?" The leg braces weren't the only thing Sam had kept from him.

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "I just started last week. I decided to try it out, you know, since TJ bought me those sessions."

He looked a little forlorn at the mention of TJ, and Dean didn't have the heart to tease him...for now. Dean settled for raising his brows and smirking. "Awesome."

Sam sighed again, as if he knew he was in for it later.

Karen, having no interest in their conversation, got back to business. "All right, Sam. Ready to start walking?"

He gave a short nod.

"Okay. We're going to start with your right side. You're going to use your abdominal muscles and any other upper-body muscles that'll help you to swing your hip and sort of pull your foot through."

His brow furrowed in intense concentration, and he drew in a breath. His arms and shoulders started to strain, his muscles bulging with exertion, and his face reddened. Then, slowly but surely, his right hip lifted a little and his right foot sort of swung forward. It was a tiny movement, but it was a step.

He released his breath in a whoosh, panting a little.

"One small step for man, one giant step for Sasquatch," Dean teased.

Sam smiled.

Karen, ever the slave-driver, said, "Now, the left side."

Sam repeated the maneuver on his left side, and his left foot moved forward in a bigger step than he'd taken with his right. Again, the exertion left him panting.

"Good, Sam. Keep going," said Karen.

Dean moved back a step to give Sam more room, and Michael still stood behind him, although he wasn't holding onto the belt.

Sam took several more stiff-legged steps, obviously getting tired, a bit of moisture beading on his forehead.

Karen's hands hovered around him, as if she wanted to help him but knew she couldn't. "How's the shoulder?"

"Good."

She arched a brow. "Really?"

He closed his eyes for a second and nodded. "Really. It's fine."

"Don't overdo it."

"I won't."

"Okay. Keeping going, then. Take another step."

Sam took in another deep breath, scrunching his eyes closed, but nothing happened. He opened his eyes, looking a little sheepish. "My shoulder doesn't hurt, but I think I'm getting tired."

"Try it again, Sam."

He exhaled, looking a little annoyed, but didn't protest. His faced tensed, straining like a weightlifter in the olympics, like one of those big, burly Russian dudes lifting three hundred pounds, and his right foot finally moved forward again. He released his breath, panting like he'd run a marathon.

"Good. One more, Sam."

He shook his head. "I can't."

"You can."

Dean piped up. "No pain, no gain, Sammy."

Sam looked irritated. "I hate it when people say that."

"Stop being so bitchy. Dude, you're walking. Suck it up and stoke your adrenaline. Take another step."

Sam gritted his teeth. "It's friggin' hard, Dean."

"Come on, Sammy. One more."

Sam gave him a baleful look but didn't argue. He shored himself up and groaned with the effort it took to take that last step, and his foot moved forward.

Dean was overwhelmed with pride for his little brother, and he stepped forward and took Sam into a tight embrace. "You did it, Sammy. You did it."

Sam sagged into him, completely exhausted and out of breath, letting Dean hold him up.

Karen was grinning as if the triumph was hers, too. In a way, it was. She'd helped Sam come a long way.

She nodded toward Michael, and he rolled Sam's chair up behind him, and Dean carefully lowered Sam into it, his legs sticking out straight and stiff in front of him.

"Now, that's a good look," Dean deadpanned.

Sam gave him a tired grin.

Karen showed Sam how to release the locks on the braces so that he could bend his knees again and patted him on the back. "That was amazing, Sam, especially for your first time." She shook her head in disbelief. "Even more amazing, you're only four months out from your shoulder surgery. It usually takes six to seven months or longer to get to this level."

Dean wasn't surprised. Sam always did everything quicker than the average person.

"I know it takes a tremendous amount of energy," Karen went on, "but it'll get easier. You should try to come back every other day or so to practice on the bars so you can build strength. We've really got to get you comfortable with your balance, too."

Sam gave a short nod, looking up at her. He was still a little out of breath.

She waggled her brows. "Then we'll move on to crutches."

Sam rolled his eyes a bit and groaned, like the mere thought of it was exhausting.

Dean knew otherwise. His little brother was a badass.

TBC

A/N: For all you cynics out there and also so I won't be accused of plagiarism, the yoga stuff is based heavily on a book I read by a real-life Amber, only he's a guy, and Sam's experience with his mind/body connection were taken directly from this guy. I didn't make it up, and it's really possible. I don't want to publish the guy's name here, since I don't have his permission, but if anyone is interested, send me a PM and I can give you the name of the book as one friend to another. :)