Heavy scarring from the back of the knee to the top of the ankle. Scar tissue is pink, shiny, and lumpy in texture, and is easily separated into two separate tracks on the calf. No damage to Achilles tendon; it was narrowly missed when the injury was received. Fibula broken cleanly and since healed well. Deep grooves in the tibia. An X-ray has not been taken in almost five years, but it is assumed that they are still present, given the amount of bone pain.
Heavy damage to the gastrocnemius muscle. Was largely destroyed by the injury, and was prevented from regenerating by the formation of excessive scar tissue. Very weak, because of reduced size, and possesses little stamina. Minimal damage to soleus muscle, largely healed.
Right leg (dominant leg) is mostly unaffected, besides superficial wounds to muscle and flesh that have long since healed fully. Damage is limited almost entirely to left leg.
Unable to put any weight at all on left leg directly after the accident. May have been largely due to presence of a painful and life-threatening infection, as well as above-mentioned bone damage. Amputation below the knee was highly recommended, but it's my damn leg and I can still use it - ability to walk was reclaimed after bones set and infection was successfully retreated, due to overcompensation of the undamaged soleus and fibularis longus muscles.
Chemical treatment of pain refused after second year, except in rare cases when normal activities are impossibly because of it. Pain level has not improved since then. Pain is constant, and spasms and cramps of what is left of the gastrocnemius muscle are frequent. Frequency is increased by stress brought on my uncomfortable positions, prolonged standing, and nightmares. A limp is necessary when walking. Running is impossibly. Daily use of a cane has been refused.
It's never going to get any better than what it is right now, but luckily, I'm used to it.
- Personal journal of Sam Winchester
The arrival of the morning wasn't something that Sam welcomed, sprawled out underneath his heavy covers and unable to force himself back to sleep. It wasn't that he was tired - quite the opposite, actually. He'd slept long, hard, and deep, even though he felt like he should have been plagued by nightmares, after what had happened yesterday. No chains had rattled, no chairs had tipped over. With those two factors combined, this was the best night he'd had all week. Ironically enough.
He hated the fact that it was morning because that meant that he had to get up and face his responsibilities. Or, well, he supposed that he didn't have to. He could just lay here all day and wait to starve to death. The fact that that actually sounded preferable to getting out of bed did not bode well for the rest of the day, in his opinion.
He threw the covers off and sat up anyway. Nadia and Vaughn needed to be fed, and Vaughn needed a shower. Which wasn't something that he could do unsupervised, unfortunately for them both.
But there was something that he needed to do before he could tend to them, Sam reminded himself with an internal sigh as he stood, opened his door, and walked out of his bedroom. The gate to the demon cell still stood wide open; he was suddenly very grateful for all of the heavy restraints that kept its occupant from just walking right out. He could see his journal sitting on the concrete floor just inside the doorway, and felt sure that the empty flask and the iron poker were also exactly where he'd left them. Sucking in a deep breath, Sam crossed the room, and was shocked when his leg let him. It hurt, but no more than it usually did. Maybe it was rewarding him for last night's deep rest.
The demon almost looked like he was sleeping when Sam stepped over the line of salt and entered the cell. Eyes closed, head bowed until his chin touched the metal collar on his clavicle. But he quickly opened his eyes and raised his head at the sound of footsteps, which didn't surprise Sam - he knew demons didn't sleep.
Green eyes followed him as he picked up the journal, the flask's cap, the flask itself, and finally the poker. He had a good view of the iron-induced burn on the demon's neck while retrieving that last thing, and he noticed that it seemed to have gotten worse during the night, swollen and angry-looking.
Sam didn't bother closing the gate behind him when he left the cell and put everything that he'd gathered up back in its place. He knew that the demon was watching him the whole time that he was in his line of sight, and he couldn't really blame him, since he knew that he had to look pretty interesting. He'd come straight from bed, so his hair was a feral mess, and he was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt too ratty to use for anything but sleeping.
When he was finished, he grabbed the first-aid kit from the bathroom and a washcloth from the kitchen, and then returned to the cell.
He could practically feel the demon's confusion as he walked over to him, but he didn't say anything to dispel it. He just knelt in front of him, leg unhappy about it, and began to work his way up. Opening the kit, he pulled out the scissors, and cut the right leg of the demon's jeans open after undoing the strap on his shin, to get at his swollen knee. Sam probed at it, frowning, and the demon twitched with what he tried to force himself to believe was an imitation of pain. Something inside of it was definitely broken, and several of the tendons had been torn. He wasn't a doctor, but he could tell that much. He had no doubt that it'd heal perfectly if it was just given enough time to knit itself back together. But he could help it along. He tightly wrapped bandages around the join, to cut down on the swelling. With that done, he moved up.
He cut the demon's blood-soaked T-shirt off of him, then peeled it away from his skin, which was much easier said than done, with the chain wrapped around his upper body and the straps across his stomach and chest. Sam couldn't make out specific wounds until he scrubbed some of the blood, so dry that it wasn't even sticky, off of the freckled skin of the demonic vessel with the cloth that he'd brought along. There was a messy, deep wound in his solar plexus, apparently made by a knife being brutally twisted in his flesh. His ribcage was blackened and misshapen by bruises and broken bones. Sam winced just looking at the damage, thinking about all the kicks and punches that it must have taken to do that to him. He didn't know how much he could do to actually fix it, but he guessed it couldn't hurt to try.
Sam washed out the wound, which wasn't fun, because it was very infected. At least Gordon hadn't torn open any of the demon's organs - it'd gone straight into his diaphragm. Sam stitched all the different layers shut once the pus and necrotic flesh were gone, which went quickly. Stitches were something he was good at giving; he'd had lots of practice. He taped a gauze pad over them to keep the wound clean and moist. The demon's battered ribs...Sam originally attempted to push them back into place, but gave up on that after about thirty seconds. He ended up swaddling most of his torso in the same bandages that he'd used on his knee and hoping that that kept it from getting any worse.
He changed the bandages on his throat. The injury there was looking a lot better, and Sam chose to believe that it was because of what he'd done with it. He wondered how long it'd be before the demon would be able to talk.
He slathered burn cream on what he'd inflicted yesterday, with the poker, and then wiped dried blood off of the bruised side of the demon's face and out of his close-cropped hair. Said demon let him work the whole time. There was no biting, no spitting - in fact, he moved his head to give Sam better access to certain areas.
Once Sam was finished, he dropped his stained cloth into its bowl of blood-clouded water and packed empty wrappers back into his first-aid kit with an air of happy exhaustion. It'd taken a lot out of him (specifically, a lot out of his leg) to do so much, but he felt like he'd done the right thing.
At least until he heard the demon speak.
He was staring down at him, watching him clean up, with green eyes that held about as much emotion as a snake's. His voice was a raspy, croaking thing, and it sounded like it was physically painful for him to get out the one word that he did: "Limp."
Sam froze, muscles stiffening. He wanted to look at the demon, but it only took him a split second to decide that he didn't want to give him that satisfaction. Instead, he finished what he was doing, stood with the kit in one hand and the bowl in the other, and walked out without looking back.
He closed the gate this time, and locked it, too.
"You," Nadia accused in a voice that was almost devastatingly casual, "are a coward."
"Well, that came outta nowhere," Sam replied. He raised the plastic bottle in his right hand and gave it a shake. "D'you want your blood or not?"
Nadia's dark, thick-lashed eyes narrowed slightly. The effect was unfairly sensuous. "You can't avoid this."
"I'll pour it down the drain," Sam answered. He shook the bottle again, harder this time. It made the gory contents slop messily around inside.
Nadia scoffed, shaking her head and looking away from him. She crossed her arms under her breasts, which emphasized them in a way that looked completely natural. At least she was wearing clothes today: her usual shapeless sweats.
"Lamb's blood," she said, distaste heavy in her voice. "As if I would have anything to do with that."
Sam shrugged, unconcerned. "Fine. See you tomorrow, then. Vaughn needs to shower." He reached for the inside knob of Nadia's door.
"Why don't you ever let me shower?" Her voice took on a childish whine that (thank god) wasn't even remotely sexy. "It's always the wraith boy. You give him so much special treatment."
"Uh, that's 'cause I trust him," Sam said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an incredulous grin. "Vaughn gets to shower. You get a washcloth and a bucket of soapy water. He's proven that he doesn't have any interest in killing me. You, on the other hand...you've been here almost as long as he has, and you still look at me like I'm something to eat."
"That's because you are something to eat," Nadia shot back. Her upper lip curled in a sneer, exposing perfect white teeth. "You're prey. You're weak - you're a coward."
"Oh," Sam said. "We're back to that, now, huh?"
Nadia didn't say anything, just lifted her chin and glared imperiously down at him. Never mind the fact that he was a full foot and a half taller than she was. He sighed, leaning against the door.
"All right, fine," he said. "I'll bite." He widened his eyes, the gesture exaggerated. "Why am I a coward?"
"The demon prince," Nadia replied.
"Knight," Sam automatically corrected her. "We've been over this. He's a Knight of Hell, not a prince."
Nadia gave him an unimpressed look before asking, "Does the title really matter? He's the most powerful thing you've ever had in your home."
She obviously hadn't been here when he'd summoned Marduk, but he decided not to bring up that particular incident. Instead, he stepped into the center of the room, set down the bottle that he'd been holding, and then stepped back.
"Maybe," he said. "But all that power's on lockdown. He's not going anywhere anytime soon." Nodding to the bottle, he added, "Please. You need to feet. You'll get sick if you don't."
"As if you'd lose any sleep over me if I did," she replied. "And as if this stuff won't make me sick on its own." But she picked the bottle up anyway, yanking the nottle up with her teeth in order to unseal it. "He's bound, you're right. He can't even touch you," she continued between gulps of blood. "But, somehow, he's still controlling you. And he's doing a great job of it, from what I've seen."
Sam cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest. "You haven't seen anything," he pointed out. "You haven't been outta this cell in months."
"But I've heard," Nadia replied, sounding much more smug than she had a right to be. "You know my hearing's a lot better than yours. And the soundproofing in this cell's faulty or something - I'd touch it up before I put another monster in here, if I were you."
"What'd you hear?" Sam asked. It wasn't really news to him that the soundproofing in Nadia's cell was the weakest out of all of them. The previous occupant had been a ghoul with a fetish for imitating the screams his victims had made right before he ate them alive. Sam hadn't batted a sleep-deprived eye when it was time to get rid of him.
"Every time that he chased you out of his cell before you were ready to leave," Nadia answered. She sank down onto her cot before tossing the empty bottle to Sam. He caught it easily. "With blood, with tears, and, today, with a word. Just one word." She blinked innocently. "I didn't actually catch that word, though. I can't help but wonder what one word could send you right out of his cell with your tail tucked between your legs like that."
"Yeah," Sam agreed neutrally. He pressed down on the knob of the door, and it swung soundlessly open. "That's a real mystery, isn't it?"
"You're a coward," Nadia called as he left, repeating herself from before. "You're weak."
Sam rolled his eyes, pushing the door closed and locking it. "I'll bring you your bucket this afternoon," he said. If her hearing was as good as she'd said, then she should be able to pick up on that.
He filled the sports bottle with warm water and left it to soak in the sink, then unlocked and opened Vaughn's door. The wraith looked up from where he was sprawled out on his cot, then swung his legs over the edge. Sam held up a hand as he picked up the bowl and the shriveled brain inside of it.
"Hold your horses," he told him. "Lemme take care of this, and then we can go."
Vaughn let out a deep, theatrical sigh, laying back on his cot. He eyed Sam accusingly before he closed the door, but didn't seem to have the time or the desire to say anything. It wasn't like he waited long. Once the bowl (and everything else) was clean and the brain was gone, Sam went back to get him and lead him into the bathroom.
Vaughn stripped when Sam obligingly turned his back, and he gathered up his clothes to toss into the laundry pile. After dropping a clean set of clothes on the counter, he sank onto the toilet, hissing in pain as he took the weight off of his leg and stretched it out.
"Leg bothering you?"Vaughn asked, apparently having heard the soft sound even over the cacophony of splattering water.
"My leg is always bothering me," Sam replied. "I just put it through a workout this morning."
Vaughn, an orange-and-white blur thanks to the heavy frosting on the glass of the door, moved inside the shower stall. Sam could tell that he was washing his hair, but it also looked like he had uneasily shifted his weight. "Did you…" He cleared his throat. Squeakily. His voice was still changing. "Did you do something with the new guy?"
Sam leaned back a little, contemplating. This was the first time Vaughn had asked about his relatively new neighbor. That was a little surprising, considering that he was usually at least a bit curious about the world outside of his cell. He was also much closer to the demon than Nadia was, even if his soundproofing was better.
"Are you afraid of him?" Sam asked mildly, putting one ankle on the opposite knee in an effort to get more comfortable.
Vaughn's head, a bright spot of color, shook violently back and forth. Droplets of water hit the door.
"Of course I'm not!" he snapped. "It's not like I'm human - I've got plenty of defenses. There's not a lot that scares me." There was a pause. Sam heard him squeeze something out of a bottle. "I can feel him, though. I don't know what he is, but he's strong, and I've - got a healthy respect for him."
Sam huffed out something that wasn't quite a laugh. "He's a Knight of Hell."
"He's a demon?" Vaughn asked, a little doubtfully.
"He's a kind of demon," Sam allowed. "Just like you're a kind of shapeshifter. But is to a normal, run-of-the-mill demon what you are to a chameleon."
There was a shocked silence that lasted for about two seconds. Vaughn turned under the spray of water with an impressed, "Wow."
"Yeah," Sam agreed as he folded his arms. "But he's not leaving his cell. Not until I figure out how to kill or exorcise him - and even then, it'll only be his vessel that I'm taking out. You don't have anything to be afraid of."
"Not afraid," Vaughn reminded him, sounding annoyed. "Did you take a shower this morning?"
"Yep," Sam said. Right before he'd turned his attention to Nadia and Vaughn, actually. "Is the water running cold?"
Vaughn shut it off in answer, then caught the folded towel that Sam tossed over the top of the door. He stepped out and let the wet towel hit the bathroom tiles once Sam had put his back to him, and he heard the rustle of fabric and the squeak of plastic as he dressed himself and combed his hair. Glancing over his shoulder, he caught sight of both Vaughn and the reflection that marked him unmistakably as a wraith - a withered, corpse-like, eldritch figure that didn't look anything like the kid on the other side of the mirror. Except for the height, build, and basic facial shapes that they shared. Sam had gotten used to it a while ago. He imagined that Vaughn had been used to it for most of his life, since it was him.
"Speaking of shapeshifting," Sam began as something suddenly occurred to him.
Vaughn groaned loudly, dropping the comb back to the counter. His hair still gleamed wetly, but at least it was neat now. He turned to squint at Sam, leaning on the counter with one hand and stuffing the other into the pocket of his fresh jeans.
"I thought I was gonna be able to avoid your weirdness today," he grumbled. Sam grinned.
"Is it okay if I take notes?" he asked, still sitting down. Vaughn's eyes narrowed a little more.
"No," he said bluntly. "You know it's not."
Sam lifted his hands, palms out, placatingly. "Right, right. Sorry."
"Go ahead." Vaughn turned so that his back was to the mirror, staring down at his bare feet and resting all of his weight on his hips, where they met the edge of the bathroom counter. He raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Shoot."
"You can...look like whoever and whatever you want, from what I understand," Sam began, spreading his hands as he spoke. As per usual, Vaughn's tense body language slowly relaxed while he talked. "But you've looked exactly the same - you've been yourself - for the entire time you've been here. Why?"
"How do you know this is the real me?" Vaughn asked, glancing at Sam and waggling his eyebrows.
"Because your reflection could be your burned corpse," Sam answered. "It looks exactly like you. No difference in size or shape." He didn't mention the fact that he knew Vaughn's mother had been a pale redhead, too.
Vaughn deflated a little. "Oh." His mouth moved. "You're no fun, Sam." He moved his hand down to scratch his chest, before abruptly asking, "Why don't you cut your hair?"
Sam blinked, caught off-guard. "Uh...I don't know," he said, then shrugged. "I guess because I'm not out in the field anymore. I'm not hunting or fighting, so...I don't need to."
"And it's a huge pain in the butt, right?" Vaughn pressed. When Sam nodded, he pointed at him. "Yeah. See? That's my answer. No reason to, and it's a pain."
Sam nodded again, slowly, then stood up. Vaughn was between him and the door, and that would have bothered him if he'd been anyone (or anything) else. He was fine with him blocking his escape route, though.
"Good answer," he said. "Ready to go back to your room?"
Vaughn made a face. "I'm almost outta books."
"I know. I'll get you more soon - promise." Sam put a hand on Vaughn's shoulder and guided him back to his cell. As he stood in the doorway, Vaughn turned to face him, and spoke.
"What were you doing with the Knight?" he asked. "This morning, I mean." Sam hesitated before answering.
"Patching up his wounds," he finally said, quietly. "The hunter who brought him in here really beat him up."
Vaughn snorted. "Sap." Sam smirked, but, after a pause, Vaughn sighed and added, "You're a good guy. That was a good thing to do."
"Yep," Sam replied, before closing and then locking the door to Vaughn's cell.