Hard Times

Contains pieces of The Girl Next Door S07E03

July 11th

My insides feel like they're crawling as I lay on a stretcher in the ER, stuck staring at the ceiling until they clear my neck. I need to find Sam. I need to know he's okay. I haven't seen Dean since we got here either, though I heard some doctors in the hall discussing an ortho consult for "the guy in room 15." I don't know what room I'm in, so I do not know how far I have to go to get there.

Someone taps on my door and enters.

"Hey Bryn, I'm Dr. Dehlin; I'll be taking care of you while you're here." He walks over and stands where I can see him. "First things first, I'm gonna take off that collar; you don't have any fractures in your neck."

He reaches around and undoes the Velcro on either side of the brace. He gently slips it off my neck, then lifts the head of my stretcher.

"You have a pretty bad concussion, so I'll need you to take it easy the next couple of days. No intense activity, no TVs or computers, and be very careful not to hit your head again. I'm gonna get you some meds for the dizziness, nausea, and pain. Questions??"

I pause for a moment, then give him my best sad face. "Do you know where the two guys are that I came in with??"

The doctor smiles sympathetically.

"I'll ask your nurse to give you an update."

I nod. "Thank you."

He smiles and leaves.

I pat my pockets and pull out my phone, silently praying that it's not broken. Thankfully, it's perfectly functional, and I'm able to shoot Dean a quick text.

Bryn

Hey, you alive?? I'm trying to get an update on y'all from my nurse, but I know she's gonna take forever to actually give me the update

I set my phone on my bed next to my leg, closing my eyes and laying my head back. My head swims a little, aching from looking at my phone. On one of her previous trips in here, I had my nurse turn the lights off, and I'm lucky to have a room with a door to help keep the noise level down. I accidentally doze off for a minute or two until there's another knock on my door. I peek out as my nurse comes in.

"Hey, hun. I've got those meds for you, and Dr. Dehlin wants you to have some IV fluids too, since your blood pressure is a little low." She lays the syringes and fluid bag on the counter. "I was also told you wanted an update on the guys that came in with you. Dean is in room 15. His tibia and fibula in his lower leg were broken pretty badly, so they set it back in place and put him in a cast. Sam is in trauma room 2. He has some swelling in his brain and is still unconscious for the moment, but is doing much better than he was. We gave him some meds to help keep him comfortable, and he's stable."

I let out a sigh of relief. Sam's still knocked out, but he's okay. He's not dying.

My nurse (I think her name is Alexis) hooks everything up to my IV and gives me the medications. After a few minutes, the pain in my head dulls to a low ache, and the rocking of my stomach settles. I sit up a little, and, much to my delight, the world remains how it is and doesn't spin. I get to my feet and wrap my blanket around my shoulders, the warmth of the thin fabric long gone. I shuffle to the door and roll my IV pole with me out into the hallway. I squint at the harsh lighting and duck my head. I look at my room number, 20, and look up and down the hall, trying to figure out where 15 would be. I creep to my left and slowly make my way to Dean's room. I look around to make sure no one's watching and open the door, just peeking my head in.

Dean lies on his stretcher, fast asleep and snoring, obviously on some good drugs. A giant white cast covers his leg, spanning from his toes to about mid-thigh. He has a couple of cuts and some bruising on his face, but nothing too major.

I laugh to myself at his current state before closing his door and going to find Sam. I wander back towards my room and look for any signs that would indicate where trauma room 2 would be. As I wander past the nurse's station, my nurse pops up and comes to my side.

"Bryn, honey, what are you doing up??"

My eyes drop to her name tag. Yup, Alexis.

"I had to go to the bathroom, and now I'm trying to find Sam."

She sighs.

"Hold on, stay right here. I'm gonna get you a wheelchair."

I watch as she walks off, shaking her head. I lean up against the wall outside of my room and close my eyes for a minute, trying to give my brain a break from the fluorescent lights. It feels like a sledgehammer is hitting my skull, matching the tempo of my heart.

Alexis returns with a wheelchair and has me sit before she moves my fluids to the built-in IV pole. She tucks the rolling pole back into my room and shuts the door, then rolls me down the hall.

"I'm really not supposed to do this, but I can tell that he isn't just some guy to you. You don't have to share any details, but he's more than just a friend to you, isn't he??" Alexis asks quietly.

I bite my lip, and my stomach sinks. Everything is so complicated right now, and I'm not able to think of the right words to put together to form a coherent sentence explaining anything. All I can do is nod.

We spend the rest of the short trip in silence, and she wheels me in, stopping with me right next to his bed. She drops the side rail on the stretcher down and locks the wheels on my chair.

"Dr. Dehlin is assigned to Sam too, so I'll let him know you're in here with him." She says before leaving, turning down the lights and shutting the door behind her.

The monitor quietly beeps with Sam's heartbeat—nice and steady. I take his hand in mine and hold it against my face. He looks so peaceful, his face fully relaxed, almost like he's just sleeping. Tears prick at my eyes, so I close them, mentally reassuring myself that he's okay.

"I'm so sorry, Sam." I whisper into the quiet room. "You don't deserve any of this."

I adjust my position and lean over so my head rests on my arm, Sam's hand still in mine. I can't help but cry; too many thoughts are bouncing around in my head. I try to shove the painful ones aside and focus on Sam, as he is right now, not on what happened in the past. I just hold his hand and watch as his chest steadily rises and falls, the beeping of the monitor easing the dread in my gut.

—

1 week later…

I follow behind Bobby's old Dodge up a gravel road, which heads deep into the forest. We pull up in front of an old cabin, and I hear Sam sigh next to me.

"You ok??" I ask him.

"Yeah, I'm good."

I park my truck next to Bobby's car and turn off the engine, but I don't move to get out. I turn to look at Sam, who is looking at the cabin, eyes full of nostalgia.

"Be honest with me," I say, folding my hands in my lap. "How are you really doing??"

Sam sighs. "Bryn…"

"No, don't 'Bryn' me. You're hallucinating Lucifer; something horrifying hit you in the head with a fucking crowbar and almost killed you, and now you're sitting here with me like everything is peachy." I drop my eyes down to my lap briefly, hands idly picking at the skin on my fingers. "Even though I haven't seen you in years, I still know you, Sam. You're not ok, and I don't want you to lie to me anymore."

Sam averts his eyes as well. He clears his throat.

"You're right. I'm not ok. I don't know what I am. I'm just… here."

I pick at the skin next to my thumbnail.

"Well, we may not be on the best of terms, but I'm here if you need anything." I say, then climb out of the truck, leaving Sam before he can say anything in response.

I grab my bags from the back of the truck, thankful I hadn't taken them into the house before we left to go find Sam, sparing my things from the flames. I sling them over my shoulder and head inside, where Bobby and Dean are getting settled.

Dean is lying on the couch with his leg up next to him, eyes fixed on the small, old-as-shit tube TV sitting on a little cabinet in the corner, and Bobby sits at the dining table, scowling as he goes through some papers.

"The bunks are right over there." Dean says, tearing his eyes from the TV long enough to look up at me and point to the cased opening at the far end of the room.

I say a quiet thank you before heading back there to drop off my stuff. The small area contains a giant stone fireplace flanked by two bedside tables with lamps and windows with gauzy curtains, a set of old metal-framed bunk beds with sheets and blankets on each one, and a cot with basic sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. I set my things next to the bunk beds and leave them for later.

I hear the front door open and close as Sam comes in. I step back down into the main living area and take in my surroundings.

The cabin is old and worn, with a completely open floor plan on the main floor. Standing in the living area, you can easily see the kitchen, dining area, and a wall of newspaper clippings and lore articles next to the couch. There are stairs on the back wall next to me leading up to, I assume, an attic, and a second set heading down to a basement. The smell of musty wood, old tobacco smoke, and whiskey hangs in the air. The boys don't seem to mind, but I wrinkle my nose a little.

The kitchen is tiny, hardly even a kitchenette. It has a lower cabinet under the rusty sink with curtains covering the contents, a single overhead cabinet with no doors, a small electric burner on the counter of a singular lower cabinet, and a short fridge that's half the size of a normal modern refrigerator in both width and height. The fridge technically has a freezer, but I doubt it's more than just an icebox.

Next to the kitchen is a doorway leading to a small mudroom with a super old washer and dryer, a bench, a coat rack, and a gun rack, which seems appropriate. The door on the left-hand side of the mudroom leads out to the screened-in back porch that has a couple of old rocking chairs and a small table sitting between them.

The floors and walls are made with time-weathered wood, the once warm boards now reduced to a dingy brown, cracked and worn by time and its occupants. A fine layer of dust covers just about anything, returning a few minutes after you attempt to brush it off.

Behind the couch is a cased opening leading to another space. The desk in the small room is a clunky old oak desk, ornately carved and severely out of place in such a dumpy cabin. There are several drawers, each one adorned with a patinated bronze handle. I make a mental note to look through the drawers later.

The bathroom is just off the small room, on the back wall. It's fairly old and tells its age by the dingy grout, flickering light fixture, worn tile, and the old clawfoot tub/shower combo that honestly looks a bit like a death trap. I can't complain too much; at least this place has power, running water, and indoor plumbing.

Sam walks past me into the bunk area and sets his stuff down.

"I guess I'll take the top." I joke, smirking at Sam. "You're too tall."

Sam laughs. "Sounds good to me."

I walk over to one window in the bunk area, pulling back the curtain a little, revealing a gorgeous view of the woods. I can't help but smile at the serenity of it all. As the sun sets, the forest takes on a golden glow. That glow carries over into the open curtains in the main living area, casting rays through the cabin and onto the floor.

Sam and Bobby are sitting at the small dining table, Sam on his laptop again, and Dean is on the couch messing around on his phone. I sit in the chair next to the couch and stare out the windows some more. Sam and Bobby talk quietly, but I'm not listening closely enough to eavesdrop. I watch as some birds flutter around, and a squirrel runs up a tree. The sun sets fast, and I feel a little sad when I'm no longer able to see the forest. I turn my attention to the boys and rest my head on my hand.

Sam looks up and catches my eye. He smiles softly before returning his gaze to his laptop. I let out a large sigh.

Bobby leaves shortly after asking each of us what we want from the small diner nearby. He's only gone for about 20 minutes, returning with two heavenly-smelling, grease-stained bags.

Sam tucks away his laptop and takes his food from Bobby. Bobby passes me Dean's food, then my own after I've given Dean his. Bobby and I both sit down at the small table with Sam, and we eat in quiet, the only noise coming from whatever football game Dean found on TV, punctuated by a groan, curse, or yell at a bad call or play from Dean.

I shake my head at him and sink my teeth into my burger; the flavor spreading across my tongue as I chew. It's honestly fantastic—the best I've had in a while. The fries are still crispy and perfectly salty, improving my mood. It doesn't take long for me to finish my food, a satisfying weight settling in my stomach. I throw my trash away and return to the chair next to the couch, joining in on Dean's complaints occasionally. Now that I'm closer to the TV, I can see that Oklahoma and Mississippi State are playing.

If any of my time spent in Austin taught me anything, it's fuck Oklahoma.

"Man, if they would just throw the fucking football, maybe they could actually score some points," Dean gripes, rolling his eyes as he throws another fry in his mouth.

"I swear to God, some of these teams need to just fire everyone and start over." I shake my head as another play results in a loss. A flag is thrown, and I furrow my brow, throwing my hand out in disbelief. "The fuck is the flag for??"

Dean answers before the refs finish their little huddle. "Holding. Number 45 grabbed 8's jersey on the way down."

The ref confirms what Dean says, and I roll my eyes.

The game ends with Oklahoma losing 10-42. An ass whooping, as my dad would say. Dean changes the channel to some old Western, and I zone out, moving my focus to my phone. After a while, boredom sinks in.

"I'm bored, so I think I'm just gonna head to bed." I say, pushing myself up out of the chair.

Sam, Dean, and Bobby all look at me.

Sam smiles. "Goodnight, Bryn."

"Night, kiddo," Dean says, immediately looking back down at his phone.

"See ya in the mornin'," Bobby grumbles.

I head for the bunks and grab my pajamas. I run to the bathroom to change and brush my teeth, ready to just get into bed and lie there.

It's been a long day, and I want nothing more than to no longer be upright. My entire body aches, and exhausted doesn't even begin to describe how tired I am.

I climb up the ladder to my bunk, the entire frame creaking as I step on each rung. I pull back the covers and crawl in. It's not the most comfortable bed in the world, but it beats sleeping in some grungy old motel. I end up staring at the ceiling for a while, trapped in my thoughts, old memories and feelings returning. It's difficult being so close to Sam, considering how we last left things. I try to process as much as I can, letting tears fall if needed. Emotional exhaustion comes quickly, and sleep finally whisks me away.

—

2 weeks later...

August 15th

Bobby pulls into the driveway ahead of me, easily maneuvering the Impala next to my truck. I pull the old Dodge in next to him and cut the engine. I slide out and follow Bobby into the cabin.

Dean is on the couch with his leg propped up per usual, watching something on TV, and Sam is sitting at the table, a book in his hands, flipping the page as he reads.

The woman on the TV screen is crying over a man's body and saying something in Spanish. I roll my eyes. Dean and Bobby have been watching this Telenovela for the past few weeks and, for some reason, have gotten really into it.

Dean looks up as Bobby enters and nods at the TV.

"Dude... Ricardo."

"What happened??" Bobby asks.

"Suicidio." He says with a grimace.

Bobby shakes his head.

"Adiós, ese." Bobby pulls Baby's keys from his jacket pocket. "Well, this ought to cheer you up."

Bobby drops the keys on Dean, whose eyes light up like a little kid on Christmas.

"My baby!! Now I just got to get this stupid thing off, and I can drive again." Dean pats his cast.

I laugh as he scratches over the top, which I know never works.

"So, how is it out there??" Sam asks, closing his book and setting it on the table.

Bobby pours himself a mug of coffee and sits down at the table across from Sam.

"Weird with a side order of bloody. Talked to a few hunters. They're running into the same kind of thing that set up shop at that hospital."

"Yeah, and don't forget tried to kill us at your place." I add, kicking off my boots at the front door.

I walk over and lean up against the kitchen counter, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

"Well, consensus is they're, um, they're like shapeshifters, only a lot more into eating folk. And nothing can kill 'em," Bobby says, bringing the mug to his lips again.

Dean rolls his eyes, fiddling with his keys. "Good times. Anything else??"

"Yep. They bleed black goo." I chime in.

Sam sits up a little. "Like that stuff that came out of Cas—those things from Purgatory. Uh... Leviathan."

Bobby nods.

"What about those chompers that you and the sheriff saw at the hospital?? They still making spleen burgers??" Dean asks.

"Yeah, made some calls. That doctor never showed back up to work. Ditto a nurse and some administrator."

I glance over at Sam and see his eyes glaze over a bit as he stares off into space. He straightens up, and his eyes widen.

"So, they could be at any hospital in America." Dean says. "Great."

I step over to the table where Sam is sitting.

"What do you think, Sammy??" Dean looks over at him. "Sammy??"

"Sam??" I say, lightly touching his shoulder.

"Hey, ground control!! Sam!!" Dean yells.

Sam's right hand moves to his left, rubbing the scar. He shakes his head, looking down at his hands, and then leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"Yeah. What??" He looks at me and then Dean. "I'm—I'm right here."

"You okay??" I ask, taking a seat next to him.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

An awkward silence hangs in the air for a couple of minutes while we all look at each other.

"Good." Bobby sighs. "Every last bit of info I ever had burned down, so..."

"What about this place??" Dean asks. "Rufus leave anything?? Did you check the basement??"

Bobby shakes his head. "C-rations and dust. I don't think he'd been here in years. So, I got to go round up my old library."

Sam looks up at him, brow furrowed.

"I thought you said most of those books were one of a kind."

Bobby smirks.

"Yeah. That's why I stashed copies all over the place."

I can't help but smirk to myself, shaking my head. Of course he did, the paranoid old bastard.

"Okay, good. Um... Hey, uh, two-legs." Dean turns his body so he can look at Sam. "We're fresh out of grub. Want to make a run??"

"Sure. Yeah." Sam says, grunting as he pushes himself up out of the chair.

"Do you need any help??" I ask him quietly.

He avoids my eyes but smiles a little.

"Nah, I'm good."

Dean tosses him the keys to Baby as he walks to the door.

"Be careful with her, would you??" Dean says, making Sam chuckle. "And, uh, Sam??"

Sam turns back. "Yeah??"

"Pie," Dean says with a grin.

Sam and I both roll our eyes.

"Obviously." Sam scoffs, then leaves.

Dean sits up a little, watching as Sam leaves. I can tell something dumb is about to come out of his mouth, so I cross my arms.

"So??"

"So what??" Bobby says.

"Before you bail again, Girl, Interrupted over there." He gestures towards the door. "Any thoughts??"

Bobby shrugs. "Looks to me like he's doing better."

"Better?? What do you mean, better?? You just saw him!!" Dean replies, throwing his arm out in a vague gesture at his brother.

"Dean…" I say, running my fingers across my forehead in frustration.

"Saw him check out once. That's progress." Bobby says calmly.

"You're kidding!!"

Bobby glares at Dean. "Look, seems to me that Sam's head ain't no different than your leg. People heal on a curve."

"Not diff—Bobby, I get this thing off in five days: I'm golden. Sam's not a curve. He's a fuckin' time bomb."

I shoot a glare at Dean. That's a little harsh, especially since it's his brother.

"It ain't like he's keeping secrets. What you see is what you get. What's so nuts about calling an upswing??" Bobby rises to his feet and puts his mug in the sink. He picks up a dish towel and wipes his hands with it.

Dean rubs his face, looking frustrated.

"Because that's not how it works, Bobby, ever!! All right?? Especially not with Sam. The other shoe is gonna drop. It's just a matter of when."

Bobby huffs, throwing the towel down on the counter behind him.

"Okay. How 'bout we worry about today's problems?? And today, we need intel. I'm going. You sit there and stew. I'll check in." He pauses with his hand on the doorknob and looks back over his shoulder. "Look... you sitting here wringing your hands ain't gonna do nothing. Maybe he'll surprise you."

Bobby walks out the door, leaving me and Dean in silence.

"You're being really hard on him." I state.

"Bryn…" Dean runs a hand over his hair.

"No, don't 'Bryn' me. You're being an ass. Sam is struggling with horrible hallucinations, and you're not being very helpful. He is doing his best to deal with the shit he's been given, and you're just kicking him while he's down. He's your fucking brother, Dean. Show some sympathy." I fume.

Dean turns and looks at me, anger making his emerald green eyes darker.

"You have no right to say anything about how I'm treating Sam. Need I remind you that you cut him off completely?? That you never tried to reach out to him at all??"

"He fucking abandoned me, Dean!! He knew how I felt about him, and he fucking left anyway!! And you're no better!!" I stand to my feet, unable to contain my anger anymore. "One day I called you, and your phone number had been disconnected. I hadn't heard from you in years when you called me. I lost Sam, then Rhett, all in 2 years. I lost my family. You have no idea what I went through after that, what I had to do just to stay alive."

Angry tears build in my eyes, the pressure in my chest building.

"My mom was abusive, and my dad was an enabler. After Rhett died, mom withheld all affection, forcing my dad to do the same. I had to move in with Welch, so I didn't fucking kill myself. Then a year ago, they went on a hunt in fucking Colorado and got themselves killed. I have no family left. I have Welch and the crew, and I have Kam and the twins, but my family is gone. I have buried myself in hunting to distract myself from the near-constant pain, failing miserably. I cannot tell you how angry I was when you called me. I spent the entire drive to Lawrence fuming. I had to bury all of that when I showed up, because you're my family, and that's what family does, Dean."

I have to walk outside to keep from punching him in the face. The woods greet me and absorb the screams that escape my mouth. I walk into the tree line and find a tree to sit under, crying my lungs out, finally letting out years of anguish.

The only person who has truly been there is Welch, and I can't be more grateful for all he's done for me. He's been a lifesaver, both figuratively and literally. He was the only light in a long period of darkness, being the support I needed when I needed it most.

I cry myself hoarse, my eyes swelling, my body and mind exhausted. After sitting in the quiet of the woods for a few more minutes, I hoist myself back to my feet and make my way back to the cabin. I'm not excited to be back in the house with Dean, so I sit on the tailgate of my truck until Sam gets back from the supply run. The Impala pulls in, and Sam climbs out.

"Hey, you ok??" Concern flickers across his face.

My stomach sinks and I bite my lip. I know he can tell that I've been crying.

"Yeah, I just needed some fresh air. I'll be there in just a minute." I give him a small smile, hoping it's convincing enough.

He hesitates for a moment, almost as if he wants to say something, but he doesn't; he just nods and goes inside. I take a deep breath, trying to settle my racing heart. Once I regain my composure, I head back inside.

One bag Sam was carrying sits on the coffee table, Dean digging through it. He glances up enough to see that it's me walking in and goes back to digging in the bag.

"Where's Bobby?? He take off??" Sam asks, pulling things out of the other bag.

"Yeah." Dean looks up from the bag and over to his brother. "Hey Sam, how you doing??"

Sam shrugs and makes a face. "Fine."

"I mean, you still, you know..."

"Yeah, no, I—I know what you mean. Yeah, I'm—I'm still seeing shit that's not real. But, yeah, I'm fine. I mean, I can tell the difference." He touches his left hand briefly before grabbing more groceries to put away.

"Think it's getting better??" I ask, leaning on the back of a chair.

"Honestly??" He asks. I nod. "Uh... I don't know. I just know I'm managing it, so... So don't worry."

Dean digs through his bag again. He pulls out a plastic container.

"Where's the pie??" Dean asks, looking back at Sam.

"I got cake." Sam points at it while holding a loaf of bread. "It's close enough, right??"

I snicker as Dean looks like he's gonna have a conniption. He makes a face and throws the container back on the coffee table.

"You gonna eat that??" I ask.

Dean shakes his head and passes it to me. I grin and stuff my face with the white cake. Definitely helps with my feelings.

After a quick dinner, Sam settles in at the table, flipping through a local newspaper. Dean dozes off and falls asleep on the couch. I head to the bathroom and take a much-needed shower. The water isn't very warm, but it's warm enough. I wrap my hair in a towel and brush my teeth so that when I'm ready to sleep, I can just sleep.

I head out to the bunks and dig out my meds, swallowing them down with a large swallow of water. I walk out, and Sam is still sitting at the table. I throw a blanket over Dean and look up at Sam, whose eyes are locked on me. There's something in his eyes that I can't read.

"Goodnight, Sam," I say quietly.

He smiles a little.

"Sleep well."

I head back to the bunks, Sam's eyes still on me until I climb up to the top bunk and curl up under the covers. Within a few minutes, I'm fast asleep.

—

August 16th

I wake up relatively early, thanks to the morning sun hitting me in the face. I groan and drop down from my bunk. I walk into the living room, rubbing my face. I start the coffeemaker and lean against the counter as it brews. Once it finishes, I pour myself a cup and sit down at the table. I look around for a second before my stomach drops.

Where's Sam??

My ears tune into Dean's phone conversation.

"Yeah, but his me-time ain't just him. I mean, for all we know, he's road trippin' with Lucifer somewhere. Left me here like Jimmy Fuckin' Stewart." He grabs the stick he's been using as a crutch and hoists himself to his feet with a loud groan. "Straight to voicemail. He turned his GPS off, too. And he took my car!! … Too late!!" Dean sighs. "Alright." He hangs up.

"Where's Sam??" I ask.

"That's a great question. He took off in the middle of the night, left some bullshit note, and cut off the GPS on his phone."

I take a deep breath. Great, that's exactly what we need.

"I'm assuming you want to go after him," I say, running a hand through my hair.

"Damn fucking right, I'm gonna go after him."

I roll my eyes.

"Dean, your cast doesn't come off for another 4 days. Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you won't fit in my truck with your leg straight like that."

He purses his lips and thinks for a second. His eyes light up, and I brace myself for whatever stupid shit's about to come out of his mouth.

"Hey, there's a bunch of tools in the basement."

I nearly choke on my coffee.

"Dean, no. Bad idea."

"C'mon Bryn. We can't just sit around here hoping he comes home like a lost puppy. He could lose it at any minute, and he's all by himself."

I sigh and rub my face.

"Fine. I'm gonna get dressed, and then I'll dig around in the basement and see what I can find."

Stupid fucking soft spot.

I throw back the rest of my coffee and head to the bathroom. I quickly braid my hair into 2 Dutch braids and change into jeans, a distressed Led Zeppelin crop top, and some boots. I put on my jewelry and grab my keys, wallet, and sunglasses and set them on the dining table.

Dean looks on anxiously as I head downstairs into the damp basement. I look around and find a few small tools—nothing big enough to take off a cast with. I round the table in the middle of the room, and there lies an angle grinder. I cringe at the thought of Dean using it so close to his skin but grab it anyway, along with some scissors to cut the padding with. I jog lightly back upstairs and hold the angle grinder up.

"This work for you??"

Dean grins evilly. I plug it into one of the few outlets and hand it to Dean.

"You're goin' down." He says to his cast.

I turn away as he cuts, really not wanting to watch how close he gets to his skin. He turns the angle grinder off, and I turn back around, just in time for him to finish cutting the padding with the scissors.

He laughs semi-maniacally to himself and lifts his leg out of the cast. It's a little atrophied, and his skin could use some lotion, but honestly, not that bad. I hand him his makeshift crutch so he can try putting weight on it, and he stands to his feet.

"You, Dean Winchester, are an idiot."

He smirks.

"I dunno. I think 'evil genius' sounds better."

I roll my eyes.

"Go clean yourself up; I'll be in the truck."

I walk out, shaking my head at his dumbassery. Some things never change.