DEAN

One week later

Sam woke up three days ago.

At least that's what the doctors say—consciousness. For Dean, though, it doesn't feel like Sam is truly there. When he's awake, his eyes are glassy and unfocused, darting around the cubicle in a mixture of confusion and fear, as if he's trying to make sense of unfamiliar surroundings. His movements are slow and unsteady; he lifts a hand but hesitates halfway, unsure of what to do or where to place it. His fingers twitch slightly, clutching at the fabric of a nearby blanket as though searching for some kind of anchor. When Dean speaks to him, Sam responds hesitantly, with one or two slurred words, as if piecing together a sentence requires enormous effort. Every noise or motion around him seems to startle him, and he flinches, glancing over with wide, anxious eyes that fail to fully recognize what's happening.

It's painful to watch, but Dean stays with him every second, ready to calm him down when he begins to panic, making sure no discomfort reaches him.

Hygiene is the hardest. Touching, turning, and prodding make Sam extremely anxious, so when Nurse Lily enters with a few supplies, Dean prepares himself to help. She gives Dean a kind nod as she steps in, her movements quiet and practiced.

"Time for a quick change, Sam," she says gently, moving toward the bed with a reassuring smile. She glances at Dean, who nods, giving Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Hey, Sammy, we're just gonna help you get a little more comfortable, okay? I'm right here."

Sam's eyes flicker toward Dean, his brow furrowing slightly, but he doesn't respond. His gaze drifts around the room, disoriented, as if he's still piecing together where he is.

"Alright," Nurse Lily says softly, moving to the side of the bed and beginning to roll Sam gently onto his side. He makes a small noise, a flicker of discomfort passing across his face, but Dean murmurs quietly to him.

"Easy, Sammy. You're safe. I'm right here."

As the nurse carefully begins the process of cleaning and changing Sam, his breathing grows quicker, his eyes widening slightly as he glances between Dean and the nurse, a flash of anxiety crossing his face. Dean can feel the tension radiating from his brother, can see the worry building in his eyes as he struggles to understand what's happening.

"Dean…?" Sam's voice is thin, confused.

Dean immediately leans in, his hand resting on Sam's shoulder. "Hey, hey, it's alright, Sammy. We're just helping you get comfortable, okay? I'm here. You're safe."

Sam's breathing remains fast and shallow, his eyes darting around the room, searching Dean's face. Dean can see the fear there, the disorientation, and it twists his heart. He reaches out, gently brushing Sam's hair back, keeping his voice low and steady.

"Look at me, Sam," Dean says softly. "It's just me and Nurse Lily. We're taking care of you. You're okay."

Sam's gaze locks onto Dean's, his breathing gradually slowing as Dean's words settle over him. Nurse Lily works quietly beside him, giving Dean a nod as she carefully adjusts a fresh diaper, making sure it's comfortable and secure.

"See? Nothing to worry about," Dean murmurs, giving Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "You're in good hands."

Sam's eyes drift shut, the lingering anxiety finally easing from his face. Dean finishes the change, tucking the blanket back around Sam with care, his gaze lingering on his brother's face.

"You did great, Sam," Nurse Lily says quietly, packing up the supplies with a smile. "And Dean, you'll find that each time, it'll get a little easier."

"Easier…" Dean turns the word around in his mouth, like it's something foreign.

"Of course," the nurse continues. "Both of you are going to find a way to get through this. I can see that."

Dean nods, smiling politely as she leaves. Reaching out, he gently takes Sam's hand, feeling the faint warmth there—a small reassurance in a world that's become painfully unfamiliar. The silence is heavy, thick with the sorrow of all that Sam's lost and all that Dean can't fix.

MARY

Fuckin' overhead lights. Do they always have to flicker and buzz?

She and Dean are sitting across from Dr Coleman in his elegant, yet a little messy, office. They had been waiting for this talk, dreading it, but they both know it is time to hear the truth about what Sam's recovery would really entail.

Dr. Coleman folds his hands on his desk, his expression calm but serious. "First, I want to say that Sam's made progress just by stabilizing and coming off the ventilator. That alone is a testament to his strength," he begins, his tone gentle. "But we need to be realistic about what lies ahead."

Dean shifts forward, his voice rough. "Just tell us."

Dr. Coleman nods, meeting Dean's gaze. "Sam's condition is going to require extensive rehabilitation. He's been bedridden for weeks, and that alone has caused significant muscle loss and deconditioning. Regaining his strength will take months, and even then, he may never fully recover his pre-injury capabilities. He'll need physical therapy, occupational therapy, and likely some speech therapy as well."

Mary feels the blood drain from her face, but she keep her eyes on Dr. Coleman, nodding slightly as he continues.

"In the immediate term," he goes on, "Sam will need assistance with basic daily tasks—bathing, dressing, moving between his bed and a wheelchair. His muscles have weakened to the point where even simple movements are going to be exhausting for him. For now, he won't be able to walk unassisted, and when he does start, it'll likely require a walker or other support."

The flickering lights continue to buzz, grating against her nerves.

She sees Dean's hand tightening into a fist, his knuckles white as he absorbs each word. "And…long term?" he asks, barely able to get the words out.

Dr. Coleman sighs, his gaze softening. "It's difficult to say for certain. In rare cases patients with similar injuries and time spent immobilized do regain a high level of function, but others require lifelong support. There's a chance he may always need some level of assistance, especially with tasks that require fine motor skills or balance. We'll know more as he progresses through therapy, but I want you both prepared for the possibility that he may need partial or even complete care at home."

Mary lets out a shaky breath, her hands trembling as she presses them together. "Complete care? You mean…feeding him, changing him?" she can't help herself but asks softly, her voice barely steady.

Dr. Coleman nods gently. "Yes. There may be times when Sam struggles to do those things on his own, especially early on. He'll likely need help managing his medications, monitoring his vitals, and clearing his airways if congestion becomes an issue again. His immune system is also weaker now, so infection risk is something we'll need to keep a close eye on."

Mary stares at the floor, trying to wrap her head around the reality of it all. She'd known it would be hard—she'd seen the state Sam was in—but hearing it laid out like this made it hit harder than she'd expected. It was more than just a rough recovery; it was a complete reshaping of what their lives would look like.

Dr. Coleman offers a small, encouraging smile.

„I know it's a lot to take in, but there's hope. Every small step in rehab will get him closer to being more independent. We'll start with transferring Sam from the ICU to a rehabilitation ward. Doctors there will establish a care plan and connect you with specialists in physical and occupational therapy. They'll support you both in managing his needs until you're comfortable with the routines. And, if you have any questions—any at all—our team is here to guide you. Other option is a care facility of your choice, I can recommend places with specialized programs for patients like Sam."

Mary can sense the anger boiling in Dean momentarily.

„No facility," he growls at the doctor. „I'm not leaving him in a fuckin' nursing home."

"Dean," Mary cuts in, trying to keep her son's wrath in check. "Thank you, Eric. We'll need to sort this out as a family." She rises from the chair, prompting Dean to do the same. "We'll go back to Sam now, if that's all."

They leave Coleman's office and walk down the sterile hallway of the hospital in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, the doctor's words echoing in their minds. When they reach the small waiting area, Dean finally stops, hands pressed into his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere on the ground. Mary hesitates, watching him, sensing the quiet storm brewing beneath his controlled expression.

"Dean," she begins softly, reaching out to place a hand on his arm.

Dean flinches slightly, as if pulled from deep thought. He looks up at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and fear, emotions he isn't used to showing. "He's not coming back the same, is he?" he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mary's eyes softens, her hand tightening around his arm. "Dean, we don't know that yet. Dr. Coleman said there's hope, that he could still improve."

Dean's jaw tightens, and he shakes his head, a bitter smile touching his lips. "Hope… yeah." He pauses, running a hand over his face, his voice strained. "This isn't just Sam needing some time to recover. He's going to need… us, all the time. He might never be able to…" He trailes off, unable to finish the thought.

Mary takes a shaky breath, her own heart heavy with the weight of it all. She is Sam's mother, but Dean had been his protector, his constant. She can see the burden Dean is taking on himself, how he is already beginning to shoulder the responsibility without a second thought.

"He's still here, Dean," Mary reminds gently. "We're still together, as a family. And that's what matters."

Dean's face softens, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, I guess." He takes a deep breath, straightening slightly, that familiar look of resolve returning to his eyes. "I'll do whatever it takes, Mom. Whatever he needs, I'll make sure he gets it."

Mary nods, her own gaze filling with quiet pride. She reaches out, pulling him into a hug, her voice soft. "You've always been there for him, Dean. He's lucky to have you."

Dean stands still for a moment, absorbing the comfort of her embrace. When they finally pull apart, Dean looks back toward Sam's room, his expression set with quiet determination. "Alright," he says, almost to himself. "Let's get ready. Sam's gonna need us at our best."

Mary nods beside him, and together they walk back to Sam.

Two weeks later

"It's okay, Sammy," she hears Dean murmuring, leaning close, his voice low and calming. "You're safe. Just breathe with me, alright? In… and out… nice and slow."

Sam is having a particularly rough evening.

Mary's heart races as she stands by Sam's bedside at rehabilitation ward, watching him thrash against invisible fears, his face twisted in a panic that he couldn't explain and they can't soothe. Sam's breathing is rapid and shallow, his fingers clawing at the sheets, his voice weak and fragmented as he stammers half-formed apologies and words that barely made sense. Dean is on the other side of the bed, a constant source of calm, speaking to Sam in a low, reassuring voice, trying to pull him back to a place of safety.

"Sam, hey, it's okay," Dean said, leaning over the bed, his hands reaching to steady him. "You're safe, Sammy. You're in the hospital, remember? You're safe."

He is so great with Sam, so devoted, she thinks with sadness in her heart. It's been two weeks, but he acts like he's been taking care of him forever. She wishes she could say the same.

Nothing seems to break through Sam's fear. He grips the bedrails with trembling hands, his face twisted in terror as he seems to push back against something invisible, his mind lost in confusion. His entire body shakes, his legs kicking weakly under the sheets, while broken, frantic words spills from his lips.

"No…no, please…Dean…make it stop," he gasps, his voice raw with desperation. He tries to sit up, to pull himself away from the bed, but his limbs betray him, leaving him helplessly tangled in the sheets.

„Sammy, please," Dean asks his brother softly. „You're gonna hurt yourself if you don't calm down. Just breathe with me."

Mary notices the dampness spreading across the sheets beneath her son. Sam's thrashing has loosened his diaper, and he's wet the bed again. Sensing it, Sam's face twists in shame. He tries to pull himself away from the mess, but his weakened body betrays him, his hands shaking, his muscles refusing to obey.

"No…no…please…" he mutters, tears welling up as his panic climbed higher. "I didn't mean to…Dean…Mom…"

Dean tightens his grip on Sam's hand, his voice calm but urgent. "Sam, it's alright. You don't have to apologize. Don't worry about that, okay? We'll take care of it. Just breathe. We're right here."

Two nurses enter, a man and a woman, ready to help, but the sight of them seems to only heighten Sam's panic, his eyes filling with a new layer of anxiety.

As one of them prepares a sedative, Mary's own composure began to crumble.

It's all too much.

I've tried… John, you know I did.

„I…I need to step out," she manages to whisper, not trusting her voice.

Before anyone could say anything, she turns and storms out into the corridor.

DEAN

Dean's hands are so full, so focused on Sam, that he doesn't even realize Mary has left until he hears the door slam.

„Sam, we're just going to help you relax," one of the nurses says gently, her tone calm as she and her colleague carefully hold Sam still, one of them pressing down on his shoulder to prevent him from hurting himself as he continues to thrash.

Sam's face twists in panic as he feels their hands on him, his breathing growing more ragged, his voice hoarse and strained as he moans and cries incoherently.

"Shh, it's alright, Sam," the other nurse murmurs softly. "We're here to help you. Just try to relax."

One of the nurses reaches for a syringe, quickly prepping the sedative. She pulls back the blanket, exposing Sam's lower back. With practiced hands, she lowers the waistband of his pants just enough to reveal the upper part of his buttock, her movements careful as Sam continues to struggle weakly against them.

"This will help you calm down, Sam," she says gently, pressing the syringe into his skin and administering the sedative.

Sam lets out a muffled whimper, his body jerking slightly at the injection, but his movements soon began to slow as the sedative took effect. His thrashing fades into weak, sporadic tremors, his breaths growing slower and deeper as the panic ebbs away.

Dean moves closer, his hand resting gently on Sam's shoulder as he feels his brother's body finally relax. "Just rest, Sammy," he murmurs softly. "You're safe."

Sam's eyes flutters, a dazed look settling over him as he struggles to keep his gaze focused. His breathing evens out, his grip on the bedrail loosening as the sedative pulls him into a calmer, heavier state.

The nurses work quickly to change Sam's bedding and clothes, adjusting a fresh diaper and tucking the blankets back around him. One of them gives Dean a reassuring nod. "He'll be alright now. Sometimes, when they're this disoriented, the sedative is the best way to help them through it."

Dean nods, his throat tight, too full of emotion to reply.

Mary ran away three days ago. Dean called her many times, but she didn't answer.

He'd be angry if he wasn't so used to being abandoned. But what hurts more is worrying about how Sam will take it. Sam will blame himself, and Dean knows it'll break his heart.

So now it's just two of them against the world, like it's always have been.

Sam lies propped up in bed, looking fragile but alert, his eyes unfocused as he tries to concentrate on the small spoon of fruit puree Dean holds up to him.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean murmurs, his voice low and gentle. "We have to practice, just like Tabitha ordered. We'll take it slow, and you'll be ready to go home in no time. Sounds good, right?"

Tabitha Delaney, the chief of the rehabilitation ward, is Sam's assigned doctor. Her dedication and patience have gained Dean's trust.

Sam's gaze flickers toward the spoon, his expression a mixture of determination and frustration. His throat and esophageal muscles are still weak from the weeks of intubation and immobility, and each swallow feels like a monumental effort. He opens his mouth, allowing Dean to ease the spoonful of puree in, his lips pressing together as he tries to swallow.

But the action is harder than it seems. Sam's throat strains, and some of the puree leaks from the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin. Dean reaches for a napkin, wiping it away with practiced gentleness, his voice a soothing constant.

"It's okay, Sammy. No rush. You're doing great," Dean encourages, giving Sam a small smile. "Just try again. You've got this."

Sam blinks, his eyes clouded with frustration and fatigue, but he nods faintly, opening his mouth for another spoonful. He manages to swallow this time, though it's shaky, and he seems to struggle to keep his focus. His breaths are slow and measured, as if he's concentrating on the act of breathing itself, each movement cautious and deliberate.

They continue like this, one small spoonful at a time, Dean's voice soft and encouraging, his hand steady. When another bit of puree slips from the corner of Sam's mouth, Dean doesn't even pause, simply wiping it away with the napkin, treating the moment as if it's the most normal thing in the world.

"There you go," Dean murmurs, keeping his voice light. "Just keep going at your own pace, alright?"

Sam manages a faint, almost embarrassed nod, his eyes slipping to Dean's, showing a glimmer of gratitude mixed with weariness. He opens his mouth for another spoonful, swallowing with visible effort. But this time, halfway through, he chokes a little, a rough, uncomfortable sound escaping as his throat struggles to clear.

Dean's eyes sharpen instantly, setting the spoon down and leaning forward to steady Sam, one hand gently patting his back as he encourages him through it. "Easy, easy…just breathe, Sammy. It's alright, I'm here."

Sam coughs weakly, a flush of embarrassment crossing his face as he struggles to regain control. Dean continues to pat his back lightly, keeping his movements calm and controlled, never showing a hint of impatience or frustration.

When Sam's coughing finally settles, he looks up, his face flushed and his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He doesn't need to say anything; Dean can see that he's done, that the effort has drained what little energy he had left.

"Alright," Dean says softly, giving him an understanding smile. "That's enough for now. You did good, Sam. We'll try again later, okay? In the meantime, I'll get you fed through your PEG."

Sam's shoulders relax, relief and fatigue flooding his expression as he sinks back against the pillow. His eyelids droop, his body going slack as he allows himself to rest.

Dean gently adjusts the blankets around him, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sam's forehead, his hand lingering for a moment in a quiet show of care. "Get some rest, kiddo. You earned it."

As Sam drifts into a light sleep, Dean sits at the small table in the corner of the room, preparing Sam's nutrition. The formula is thick, stored in sterile containers that had become all too familiar in their routine.

Dean checks the PEG tube with practiced care, connects the syringe to the line, his hands steady but his mind swirling with thoughts. He'd gotten used to the mechanics of it—flush the tube, connect the feeding syringe, slowly push the formula through—but he would never get used to why they had to do it. It was just one more reminder of how far Sam had fallen, how much he'd lost.

"You're doing good," Dean murmurs, pushing the plunger slowly to feed the liquid into Sam's stomach. He keeps his eyes on Sam's face, watching for any signs of discomfort. "Almost done."

Sam shifts slightly in the bed, his head lolling to the side as his eyes blink open again. His voice, when he finally speaks, is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. "Dean… you don't have to…"

Dean pauses, looking up at him. "Don't have to what?"

Sam swallows, his hand twitching weakly in his lap. "Don't have to… do all this. Take care of me."

Dean frowns, shaking his head as he resumes the feeding. "Yeah, I do, Sam. You know I do."

Dean finishes feeding him, disconnecting the syringe and flushing the line with a bit of water. He cleanes up the supplies, wipes his hands on his jeans as he glances at Sam again. "You want to sleep for a bit?" he asks, his tone softer now.

Sam's eyes open again, and for a moment, Dean sees something flicker behind them—serenity, maybe, or fear. „I'm sorry… I'm like this. Please just leave me here…. D… Don't waste your life on me."

Dean clenches his jaw, forcing down the wave of emotions that threatened to rise. He couldn't afford to fall apart now. Not in front of Sam. "That's not gonna happen," he says firmly. "Sammy, we are brothers. You would do the same for me. Besides, it's only temporary. You're going to get better, alright? And don't apologize, not to me, not ever."

„And… if I'm not?" Sam whispers, his frame shaking lightly. „What if… Will you change my…" he gets stuck on the dreading word. „My… d… you know… for the rest of my life…? Just sign me in… some hospice and leave Dean. Like Mom did."

Dean's face tightens, his jaw clenching so hard he feels the ache spreading up to his temples. He swallows hard, fighting back the torrent of emotions building inside him—the anger, the frustration, but most of all, the heartache. He forces his expression to stay calm, steady, as if Sam's words hadn't shaken him to his core. He feels the need to scream at Sam for being this blind and stupid, but he can't. Sam looks so fragile, so defenseless in his hospital bed. So instead his gaze softens, a mix of fierce determination and sadness in his eyes as he searches his brother's face.

"Don't even think like that, Sam," Dean says quietly, his voice rough but steady. He reaches out, gently adjusting Sam's blanket just to keep his hands busy. "I'm not leaving you. Not now, not ever. I don't care about all of this, okay? And yes, I'll change your diapers for the rest of our lives if that's what it takes, and I'll do it gladly, as long as you're here with me. And Mom didn't leave us… she just… needed to sort some things out."

It's a lie, and Dean knows it, but he hopes Sam won't notice, thanks to the lingering brain fog.

Sam stays silent, wrestling with the reality of it all, gnawing at the weight of Dean's words.

"Don't think too much about it, Sammy," Dean says, trying to lighten the moment. "Just rest, okay? That's what you need to do. Leave the rest to us."

One month later

She waits for him in the bunker.

Dean stands in the doorway, barely inside the kitchen, his posture rigid, hands clenched at his sides. The weariness that clings to him is almost palpable, but it does nothing to soften the cold anger in his eyes as he stares at Mary.

She's sitting at the kitchen table, two glasses of bourbon set out, a hopeful gesture that now feels absurdly inadequate. She shifts uncomfortably, folding her hands together as if she's holding on for some sort of stability.

"You decided to come back?" Dean's voice is low and biting. He takes a step forward, his eyes narrowed. "What the fuck, Mom?"

Mary flinches, his words hitting her harder than she expected. She knew he would be angry, maybe even hateful, but seeing the depth of his resentment and disappointment up close hurts more than she anticipated.

"I'm sorry," she says, her voice trembling. "I just… I couldn't do it. Maybe if John was here…"

Dean scoffs, shaking his head, and the pain in his gaze turns sharper. "How could you?" he presses, the betrayal evident in his voice. "He thinks it's because of him, because of the state he's in. I have to tell him every day that it's not, but he keeps forgetting. He had surgery, you know? For his wound. They took skin from his thigh to cover the injury." His voice cracks slightly, but he pushes on. "I called you about it."

Dean's voice grows quieter, more anguished. "And me? I was scared to death, Mom. They weren't sure how his heart would handle the anesthesia. But his kidneys… they couldn't handle it, and he was out for three days before they could metabolize the drug, back on the vent." Dean's voice shakes as his words trail off, his throat tightening, his breath coming quick and shallow.

"Dean…" Mary's voice is soft, hesitant.

"Did you think about that?" he asks, his eyes fierce, his breathing unsteady. "Did you think that he still might die?"

Mary's face crumples slightly, but she tries to keep her composure. "I had no intention to…"

"And what were you doing, huh? Where were you?" His voice rises, frustration and pain spilling over. "He asks about you every damn day. We're your sons, for God's sake, and you ran because he's sick! Answer me!"

Mary looks down, feeling a sting of shame. "I… I cleaned out a vampire's nest."

Dean lets out a harsh, humorless laugh. "God, you're worse than Dad."

Mary's eyes flash with anger, but she reins it in, lifting her head. "Dean, let me finish," she says, her voice breaking. "Yes, I went hunting. I needed to clear my head. It's just… it broke me, Dean. Seeing him like this. It broke me, and…"

Dean cuts her off, his voice thick with emotion. "You think I'm not broken? Of course it broke you, it's freakin' heartbreaking!"

"Dean, I—"

"You know what, it doesn't matter." He shakes his head, taking a step back, his gaze hardening. "He's holding on, he has therapy, and I'll take him home soon and care for him, because that's what family does."

Mary's breath hitches, and she looks down at her hands before speaking. "I bought a house for us."

Dean's anger falters, replaced by a flicker of confusion. "What…?"

"I bought a house. For the three of us," she repeats, her voice steadying as she meets his gaze.

"How?" Dean asks, still wary, as if bracing himself for disappointment.

Mary takes a breath, gathering her words. "I still have friends. People I saved… some of them well-off. I collected on some old debts, and… I made it work. It's nothing fancy, actually the opposite, but it's yours. It has everything Sam will need—a porch ramp, handrails, all the features. I know I messed up, Dean. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough. I shouldn't have left like that, but I want to help, and I want to be with you and Sam."

Dean's expression softens, though there's still a hard edge of disbelief. "You should be saying that to Sam, not to me."

"I know. And I will," she promises, her voice low and certain. "Tomorrow, we'll go together to the hospital, and I'll talk to him. I'll make it right."

Dean lets out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to ease. He studies her face, gauging her sincerity, and after a moment, he gives a reluctant nod.

"You better."