To say it was familiar would be an undisguised lie. My apartment was completely foreign to me. The only familiarities were the drifting smells of cigars and weed or the sounds of screams and gunshots. I had gone to sleep every night to the such, and it is strange to say that they were almost comforting. It is stranger to say that I found Dean to be almost comforting as well.

I appreciated that the would often sit back and simply watch me without a word, the only signal of his presence being the light breeze of his breath and the steady tapping of his foot every so often.

He allowed me the space that I needed to adjust, and he guided me through my every day plights with only a few sarcastic remarks. It would seem that limiting the sarcasm to less than one remark every hour was impossible for my mysterious caretaker, which frustrated me incredibly. I found him to be rather obnoxious.

"I can turn on the stove." I hissed as Dean reached over, his body presses close to mine, almost touching, the heat just hovering above my side and his warm apple pie and leather smell overwhelming my senses and momentarily making me forget my aggravation.

"I'm sure you can." Dean sarcastically responded. "But I'm not ready to let you around fire or a stove yet." He added, pushing me away slightly as if to protect me from whatever harm my own kitchen appliance could do me.

"I'm not helpless." I bit back, hearing the stove top click on and hearing the rustling of pasta and pans as Dean worked without my permission.

"I didn't say you were." Dean's voice was the verbal equivalent of a shrug. There was something so alluring about the way that he spoke. It was as if there was no effort in his word choice, and yet his words, no matter how simple and straightforward, always seemed to have such profound implications. I suppose it is similar to the way that literary scholars digest novels. Words mean something different to everyone, but the power is always present. It is the impact, the natural fluidity and hidden emotions behind words that make them memorable.

They say a person's voice is the verbal equivalent of their handwriting. At that time, I had to believe that. Dean's voice said so much with so few words, and yet it had such an influential appeal that was truly profound. I still had a voice. I could use mine like Dean used his. Perhaps I could even master it. It was small things like this that made me grateful for Dean's help, and I feel forever indebted to him for the unspoken aid he gave me at those times.

However, at that moment, I was certainly not appreciating him in that sense. "You didn't have to. I am capable of making my own pasta." I grumbled bitterly.

"Maybe you are, but it doesn't mean I don't want to do it, so say thank you, and let me do something for you." Dean lectured me without any anger or contempt. His voice was still the same cool tone I has become accustomed to.

I was stunned for a moment, shock snatching any words that could possibly tumble forth from my mouth. "Why would you want to do that?" I found myself asking, which was mostly because I myself found no desire to do anything for myself. I did not feel that I deserved anything, yet alone a person who genuinely wanted to help me.

"It's my job." Dean shuffled, his foot scraping the wood tile for a brief second in hesitation. "That's just how it is." Those words sounded almost forced, and I knew that they were not his originally intended words. I had become quite good at distinguishing Dean's different times whenever he slipped from his usual suave, informal tone.

"But why would you want that?" I pressed, my curiosity piqued.

"I've just always been like that. I take care of people. It's what I do." Dean cryptically reasoned, and I could hear the hidden stories that just begged to be unleashed, but he kept them buried and told me nothing at the time. "Sit down. I need space to work." He diverted the subject, turning on his heel to face the stovetop again.

I huffed, but I said no more. I supposed it to be only fair considering that I had told him next to nothing, and I certainly had much to hide. I would be hypocrite to push him any further, so I did as I was told and allowed myself to be on the receiving end of a good deed - something that I had never thought I would live to experience, but as I will come to explain, Dean Winchester brought about more than one new experience for me: he taught me a whole new way of life.

My frustration began to build with each trivial task I attempted. Nothing was the same anymore. Even getting dressed required more effort, and even after I had gotten the hang of feel of which fabric to know what I was putting on and how to do go about doing so, I still had no idea of what color that object was unless it had a very distinguished material.

Dean would stand by my dresser as I shifted through my clothing and tell me what color each object was.

For the first few days he picked out outfits for me, which, as you can imagine, only fueled my pettily redirected anger.

I felt lost and helpless. I feared that if I continued to allow Dean to aid me in everything that I would have normally been able to do, I would no longer know how to do them on my own. I would be dependent on Dean. I would need another person around in order to function, and that simply was not how I went about my business in my life prior to the accident.

I still had yet to accept that my life before was entirely gone. Some delusional part of me clung to the illusive hope that I would recover and rid myself of Dean and the helplessness he represented to me.

It was not until a few weeks after Dean had joined my company that I genuinely began to appreciate him for a realistic portion of all that he was. I was sitting at my old dining room table, feeling each of the cracks to remember what it looked like, but the image hardly came up in the slightest. I found myself grasping for the simplest of things - an image of a table I had known my whole life, dating back to when I had a family.

I felt my eyebrows furrow as I ran my fingers over the table with an increased pace in hopes of regaining the image, but I was interrupted by an almost entirely unfamiliar noise.

My head shot up as my ears strained to identify the sound. It had a familiar tone, like something I had heard described but never personally experienced for myself.

"It's a bird. A blue jay actually." Dean casually informed me.

"A… bird? Here?" I asked incredulously. My neighborhood never had birds. I suppose it was too violent, worn down, and obnoxiously bustling for a bird to make its home there, but for some reason one had come to me.

"Yeah, why not?" Dean inquired curiously, but his voice still sounded suave enough that it could not be considered prying.

"It's just… I've never heard one before. What… does it look like?" I hesitantly asked, feeling a blush creep to my cheeks as embarrassment washed over me. I truly seemed like a fool then.

"Never seen a bird before, huh?" Dean chuckled softly, the soft breathy laugh barely even audible. "It's a pretty bird with a black beak. It's got bright blue feathers a lot like your eyes actually, and the top of its head has jet black feathers. It kind of looks like you." I heard the teasing tone in his voice at his last statement, but I still took it personally because I was on edge, frustrated, and embarrassed.

"I look like a bird now?" I bristled up defensively.

"It's a pretty bird." Dean did not seem offended at all by my edgy attitude.

I paused for a moment, trying to decide whether that was a simple justification or a flirtation. "It sounds pretty." I decided after a prolonged pause. "I think I like it."

The sound was melodious, the bird chirping soft, high pitched noises that rang pleasantly in my ears. It was a gentle song that dragged me towards a peaceful slumber, and it was all entirely new to me. Perhaps if I had heard it before I would not have appreciated it as greatly.

"Me too. Like I said, it's a pretty bird." Dean sat down in the chair across from me, the inconstant scrape of the chair legs against the quasi-sticky floor sounding into my ears before I heard the light thud that coincided with his sitting.

I was hesitant to ask about what the phrase meant. I desired to know if Dean found me to be beautiful. I desired to know if I even found myself to be decent looking anymore. I also wondered what Dean looked like, what face was behind that comfortingly soft voice. I longed to look into his eyes and see his soul, and yet I knew I never could. My own eyes, perhaps even my own soul, had been taken from me, and I was left with numerous questions without answers. I voiced none of my questions out loud, and the reason why is still unknown to me.

"I quite like the sound of it." I repeated as I took the sound in once more.

"You could hear more. They go to the park not far from here all the time." Dean neutrally informed me.

"Would you… take me and describe them to me?" I shyly asked, afraid of losing my pride.

I heard the soft breathy sound of his laugh that greatly resembled the sound of a church bell. "There you go." He finally used his voice, which had a light, pleasant sound to it as it combined with his laughter.

"What?" I quirked a defensive eyebrow, feeling the hairs on my arm bristle up in defiance.

"You finally learned to ask." Dean seemed unfazed by my attitude. "I thought you'd never find your voice."

"I have a voice. I just choose not to waste it." I snapped right back.

"But you'll use it when you're upset. You're kind of like a cranky little chihuahua." Dean commented without much of a bite to his tone.

"I am not a dog." I hissed out.

"Whatever you say." Dean seemed to wave me off.

I snorted, trying my hardest to ignore him, but the sound of the bird chirping calmed me immensely, and I was reminded once again of the promise he had made to me. "Can we… Go tomorrow?" I finally asked, my tone begrudging.

"As you wish." Dean seemed to mock me, but his voice lacked any contempt as I heard him stand and tread out of the room, the steady creak and occasional sticking noise from his shoe as he made his way across the floor, leaving me alone with my calmed thoughts that for once were not dark and full of self loathing.