Clean Slate - Chapter Fourteen
Title: Clean Slate - Chapter Fourteen
Rating: T
Word Count: 2,056
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean, Bobby.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Summary: Death: 'Nasty, those memories. You don't want to know what they'll do to him.'
After an accident, Sam's memories of the last two years are wiped. What
starts out as a blessing soon turns into a curse as Sam's memories are
reawakened.
LIMP!HURT!SAM WORRIED!DEAN
Set S7 Episode 06 - Story picks up at the end of Slash Fiction and becomes AU.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.
Spoilers: Up to Season Seven: Episode 6
Thanks go to SnarkyMuch2 for beta’ing this fic.
Chapter Fourteen
"You can do it," Peter said encouragingly. "Just a little further."
Sam gripped the bar with all his strength and concentrated on forcing his foot to rise from the floor. He was exhausted. He had been working all morning, and more than anything, he needed sleep. He needed sleep desperately, but he wanted to be working on making the next few steps alone.
He gritted his teeth and pushed himself forward. His foot rose slowly from the floor and shook as he suspended it.
"That's great, John. Now one more step and we can take a break."
Sam leaned forward and his foot touched the floor. He smiled triumphantly and pushed himself to make the next step. Sweat beaded on his brow and his hands shook so much they rattled the parallel bars.
"I think that's enough for now," Peter said. He saw the signs of exhaustion in Sam and knew he was one step from dropping.
"One more," Sam said through gritted teeth.
Peter nodded to the nurse, and she pushed the wheelchair up behind Sam. Sam scowled as he felt the pressure against the back of his legs. He locked his eyes on Peter and forced himself to raise his left leg to take another step. His knee buckled and he listed against the side of the parallel bars. Peter stepped forward and grabbed the harness belt that Sam was wearing, steadying him.
"Down you go," Peter said, easing him into the chair.
Sam buried his face in his hands and huffed out an exasperated breath.
"You're doing great," Peter said, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezing it.
"This is great?" Sam scoffed. "I can barely take ten steps."
"Which is ten more than you were able to take a week ago," Peter said reasonably. "Give yourself some credit."
Sam was frustrated. Peter didn't understand the urgency. The longer Sam spent wasting time in the hospital, the more people that were hurt and killed as they didn't have Dean and Sam to save them.
Dean hadn't mentioned hunting once since Sam had woken up. Sam was glad in a way, he didn't want his brother out there alone, but he felt guilty about leaving people at risk. He hadn't shared these thoughts with Dean; there was no need to spread the shame.
There was a lot Sam wasn't sharing with Dean these days, his guilt for keeping Dean from hunting, the depression that was creeping in at him because of his slow progress recovering, and the niggling headaches he had been suffering with. He hadn't told Dean about them, but he had told the doctor. He wasn't so stupid as to hide symptoms that may mean something was still wrong. She ran a couple more tests and assured him that he was fine.
Sam was wheeled back to his bedroom, where Dean and Bobby were waiting for him. As the door was pushed open, they fell silent. Sam knew they were hiding something from him, but he guessed it was something about the two years he had lost, the two years that he was not supposed to remember for his own good.
Dean smiled as Sam was pushed into the room. "Hey there. How was PT?"
"Good," Sam said, forcing brightness into his tone.
"Yeah? What'd you do?"
"Just some walking," Sam said vaguely. He couldn't admit to his brother that he was only able to manage ten steps. He didn't want to see the downcast look in Dean's eyes when he learned just how far Sam still had to go.
What Sam didn't realize was that Dean was already well aware of Sam's slow progress and his declining mood. He had been taking care of Sam since he was a baby. There was little that missed his big brother radar and something as big as this didn't stand a chance.
Though he knew about Sam's depression, he didn't know what to do about it. He had broached the subject with Doctor Saunders, but now Sam was awake and cognizant, she couldn't discuss Sam's care with him the way she had before. She told him that it was normal for patients recovering the sort of trauma Sam had suffered to suffer from depression. She said she would broach the topic with Sam, but that was all she was able to say.
She had spoken to Sam about it the day before, but he had cut her off early. He told her he was fine, but if that changed, she would be the first to know. Sam knew that she would recommend drugs to help him, and he didn't want admit he needed chemical help just to keep him on track mentally. What would Dean say if he did?
In truth, Dean would have been relieved.
"So, what do you want to do this afternoon?" Dean asked, hoping to bring some of the light back to his brother's eyes. "Poker?"
Sam forced a smile. "Sounds good."
Bobby pulled out a deck of cards and began to deal.
That was how they spent their afternoon, playing cards, talking, and lying to each other.
Two weeks later, Sam had progressed to twenty steps with the aid of the parallel bars, and he could raise his hands all the way above his head and hold them there.
Peter raved about his progress. He said it was the fastest recovery he had seen. He praised Sam's efforts at every turn. None of this helped Sam though. He had sunk into depression so deep he didn't see how he would ever claw his way out again.
There was no hiding it from Dean now-not that he ever could. Bobby recognized the signs of depression in Sam as well, but he didn't know how to help his boy either.
"You need to eat something, Sam," Bobby said. "You're not going to be able to do your PT If you're falling on your ass from low blood sugar."
Sam pushed the slop that passed as hospital food around his plate and sighed. "I know, Bobby. I'm just not hungry."
"Then get hungry. Dean's gonna be back soon, and if you've not eaten, he's going to be upset."
"So?" Sam said laconically. "He's not my mother."
"No, boy, he's better than that; he's your brother, and he's been through a lot. He needs you to pull it together and take care of yourself."
Sam sighed heavily and picked up a forkful of rubbery eggs.
The door swung open then, and Dean entered brandishing a paper sack and grinning like a fool.
"I come bearing gifts." He plunked the bags down on the table beside Sam's tray and pulled out Styrofoam packages. "Pancakes, sausage, and best of all, real coffee."
Sam couldn't help but smile at him. Dean looked a lot like he had the Christmas Sam was eight-when he had robbed a house so Sam could have some Christmas gifts-triumphant and excited.
"Dig in," Dean said encouragingly. "You're getting scrawny."
Sam opened the package of pancakes and took a large bite. He still didn't feel hungry, but he forced down mouthful after mouthful, tasting nothing, but taking in the sustenance regardless.
Dean and Bobby exchanged a satisfied glance as they watched Sam eat. They knew it didn't mean Sam was back to normal, but to their mind, it was a step in the right direction.
When Sam finally finished his meal, he pushed the table away and sat back.
"Feel better?" Bobby asked, casting him a meaningful look.
"Much," Sam lied.
They sat in quiet conversation for a while, waiting for a nurse to come help Sam get cleaned up and dressed. Dean had offered to help him many times, but Sam was embarrassed enough already without having his brother watching him struggle to wash himself. At least the nurses had professionalism.
When the nurse came in, Bobby and Dean excused themselves, promising to be back in that afternoon when Sam was finished with his PT.
They went to a diner together to have breakfast. When they had settled at a booth, Dean raised the subject they were both thinking of.
"What do you think?" Dean asked.
Bobby knew what he meant, but he feigned confusion for a minute to give himself time to think.
"About Sammy," Dean prompted. "How do you think he's doing?"
"He ate. You did good bringing in the food."
"Yeah, I guess. Though I don't think it was the hospital food that was putting him off."
Bobby frowned. "You know what the doctor said; depression is normal."
"Yeah, but Sam isn't any other ordinary Joe. He's Sammy. He's stronger than this."
"Depression isn't weakness, Dean," Bobby chided.
"I never said it was. I just mean that I didn't expect it to knock Sam on his ass the way it has. How can someone that beat the devil get taken out by this?"
"He's only human."
Dean raked a hand over his face. "Only human." He sighed. "I guess he is."
"We just need to give him time. He's come this far, he'll come the rest of the way."
Dean hoped that Bobby was right, as the man he had just left in a hospital bed was not the same one he had known two months ago. He had prepared himself for a difference because of the amnesia, but not for depression. He could fight ordinary monsters for his brother, but he couldn't fight this.
"You want to get back into bed, John?" Beth asked. "Or do you are you happy in the chair?"
"I'll stick with the chair, thanks."
Beth patted his arm and clicked the door closed behind her as she left.
Sam sat back in the wheelchair and ran a hand through his hair. It had been a good PT session. He had walked without holding the bars for the first time. It hadn't been far, but it felt like a victory to him. He was slowly clawing his way back to how he had been before the accident, and for the first time since in weeks, he was in a good mood.
He pulled the rolling table over to him and booted up his laptop. Dean had brought it in a few days ago at Sam's request.
The hospital's Wi-Fi service was slow, but it was better than nothing. Eventually, the news page loaded and Sam skimmed through the top stories. He was trying to reacquaint himself with the world after drawing a blank for the last two years.
A headline captured his attention on the Columbia Falls Daily News website, and he delved into the story. A hiker had gone missing in the Glacier National Park. He was found dead a week later, having suffered an animal mauling. It could have been a bear or a mountain lion or a host of other natural predators, but something about it didn't sit right with Sam. It could also be a werewolf.
Smiling to himself, he set about the simple task of hacking the Columbia Falls police department's database. Their security was a joke. Sam had the relevant page open within minutes. He checked the coroner's report. There was no mention of missing organs, least of all hearts.
Sighing to himself, Sam closed the laptop and pushed the table away. He didn't know why he was disappointed that it wasn't a werewolf. It wasn't as if he could go out on a hunt if it was something supernatural. He would be relegated to research mode. The thought occurred to him that that was all he would be good for if he never got his strength back fully. He would be left behind in the motel while Dean and maybe Bobby went on the hunts.
Desperation swept through him, dropping him into a gaping pit of despair. He would be next to useless. He couldn't let that happen. He needed to be out there with his brother, atoning for his sins.
"It's not going to happen if you stay stuck in this chair," he muttered to himself. He needed to work harder at his therapy. He wasn't doing nearly enough, just a couple of hours each morning, and the exercises he did alone in the afternoons; it wasn't enough.
His eyes drifted to the closed door. He was alone now. There was no one to tell him he shouldn't do it, no one to warn him of what could happen.
Sam locked the wheelchair's brakes and shuffled to the edge of the seat. He lifted his feet from the footrests and braced them against the floor. The shoes Dean had bought for him were more like slippers, and they didn't have good grip, so he toed them off, opting to go barefoot.
Gripping the arms of the wheelchair, he pushed himself to his feet. He was hit with a wave of vertigo almost immediately, but he took a deep breath and it passed soon enough. He looked at the expanse of space between him and the bathroom door. He had walked further in PT, but that was always with the parallel bars for him ready to cling. Now, he was going it totally alone.
"It's gotta be done," he said and raised his left leg slowly.
The first step was the hardest. He wavered for a moment, but kept his feet. The next step was easier, and the next easier still. He moved slowly but surely across the room towards the bathroom. The harder part came then, as he had to step backwards as the door opened towards him. He hadn't tried going in reverse before, but the ease with which he had walked across the room gave him confidence.
He managed it. The door swung open. Gripping the doorframe, he was able to pass through. He paused and braced himself against the counter. He was surprised to find that he was panting; it had taken more effort than he had thought to make it this far.
Staring into the mirror, he appraised himself. It was the first time he had done so since he awoke. His hair was longer than he remembered, and his face was thinner. He would have to take more care to eat in future, as he was starting to look gaunt. More disturbing than anything in his changed appearance was his eyes. They were circled by dark shadows and they were dull and lifeless. No wonder Dean was looking at him differently lately, he looked terrible.
He sat down on the closed toilet seat for a minute to rest his shaking legs. The walk had worn him out, and he knew he should call for help to get his back to bed, but Winchester pride reared its head. He had got there on his own, and he was going to get back again alone, too.
He braced his hands on his knees and forced himself to a standing position. A wave of vertigo hit him, and it made him sway on his feet. He waited for it to pass, but this time it didn't. The room swum before his eyes. He reached for the counter to steady himself, but his hand missed.
He knew what was going to happen a moment before it did. He knew he was going to fall, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He cracked his head against the side of the counter as the floor jerked up to meet him.
Rating: T
Word Count: 2,056
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean, Bobby.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Summary: Death: 'Nasty, those memories. You don't want to know what they'll do to him.'
After an accident, Sam's memories of the last two years are wiped. What
starts out as a blessing soon turns into a curse as Sam's memories are
reawakened.
LIMP!HURT!SAM WORRIED!DEAN
Set S7 Episode 06 - Story picks up at the end of Slash Fiction and becomes AU.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.
Spoilers: Up to Season Seven: Episode 6
Thanks go to SnarkyMuch2 for beta’ing this fic.
Chapter Fourteen
"You can do it," Peter said encouragingly. "Just a little further."
Sam gripped the bar with all his strength and concentrated on forcing his foot to rise from the floor. He was exhausted. He had been working all morning, and more than anything, he needed sleep. He needed sleep desperately, but he wanted to be working on making the next few steps alone.
He gritted his teeth and pushed himself forward. His foot rose slowly from the floor and shook as he suspended it.
"That's great, John. Now one more step and we can take a break."
Sam leaned forward and his foot touched the floor. He smiled triumphantly and pushed himself to make the next step. Sweat beaded on his brow and his hands shook so much they rattled the parallel bars.
"I think that's enough for now," Peter said. He saw the signs of exhaustion in Sam and knew he was one step from dropping.
"One more," Sam said through gritted teeth.
Peter nodded to the nurse, and she pushed the wheelchair up behind Sam. Sam scowled as he felt the pressure against the back of his legs. He locked his eyes on Peter and forced himself to raise his left leg to take another step. His knee buckled and he listed against the side of the parallel bars. Peter stepped forward and grabbed the harness belt that Sam was wearing, steadying him.
"Down you go," Peter said, easing him into the chair.
Sam buried his face in his hands and huffed out an exasperated breath.
"You're doing great," Peter said, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezing it.
"This is great?" Sam scoffed. "I can barely take ten steps."
"Which is ten more than you were able to take a week ago," Peter said reasonably. "Give yourself some credit."
Sam was frustrated. Peter didn't understand the urgency. The longer Sam spent wasting time in the hospital, the more people that were hurt and killed as they didn't have Dean and Sam to save them.
Dean hadn't mentioned hunting once since Sam had woken up. Sam was glad in a way, he didn't want his brother out there alone, but he felt guilty about leaving people at risk. He hadn't shared these thoughts with Dean; there was no need to spread the shame.
There was a lot Sam wasn't sharing with Dean these days, his guilt for keeping Dean from hunting, the depression that was creeping in at him because of his slow progress recovering, and the niggling headaches he had been suffering with. He hadn't told Dean about them, but he had told the doctor. He wasn't so stupid as to hide symptoms that may mean something was still wrong. She ran a couple more tests and assured him that he was fine.
Sam was wheeled back to his bedroom, where Dean and Bobby were waiting for him. As the door was pushed open, they fell silent. Sam knew they were hiding something from him, but he guessed it was something about the two years he had lost, the two years that he was not supposed to remember for his own good.
Dean smiled as Sam was pushed into the room. "Hey there. How was PT?"
"Good," Sam said, forcing brightness into his tone.
"Yeah? What'd you do?"
"Just some walking," Sam said vaguely. He couldn't admit to his brother that he was only able to manage ten steps. He didn't want to see the downcast look in Dean's eyes when he learned just how far Sam still had to go.
What Sam didn't realize was that Dean was already well aware of Sam's slow progress and his declining mood. He had been taking care of Sam since he was a baby. There was little that missed his big brother radar and something as big as this didn't stand a chance.
Though he knew about Sam's depression, he didn't know what to do about it. He had broached the subject with Doctor Saunders, but now Sam was awake and cognizant, she couldn't discuss Sam's care with him the way she had before. She told him that it was normal for patients recovering the sort of trauma Sam had suffered to suffer from depression. She said she would broach the topic with Sam, but that was all she was able to say.
She had spoken to Sam about it the day before, but he had cut her off early. He told her he was fine, but if that changed, she would be the first to know. Sam knew that she would recommend drugs to help him, and he didn't want admit he needed chemical help just to keep him on track mentally. What would Dean say if he did?
In truth, Dean would have been relieved.
"So, what do you want to do this afternoon?" Dean asked, hoping to bring some of the light back to his brother's eyes. "Poker?"
Sam forced a smile. "Sounds good."
Bobby pulled out a deck of cards and began to deal.
That was how they spent their afternoon, playing cards, talking, and lying to each other.
Two weeks later, Sam had progressed to twenty steps with the aid of the parallel bars, and he could raise his hands all the way above his head and hold them there.
Peter raved about his progress. He said it was the fastest recovery he had seen. He praised Sam's efforts at every turn. None of this helped Sam though. He had sunk into depression so deep he didn't see how he would ever claw his way out again.
There was no hiding it from Dean now-not that he ever could. Bobby recognized the signs of depression in Sam as well, but he didn't know how to help his boy either.
"You need to eat something, Sam," Bobby said. "You're not going to be able to do your PT If you're falling on your ass from low blood sugar."
Sam pushed the slop that passed as hospital food around his plate and sighed. "I know, Bobby. I'm just not hungry."
"Then get hungry. Dean's gonna be back soon, and if you've not eaten, he's going to be upset."
"So?" Sam said laconically. "He's not my mother."
"No, boy, he's better than that; he's your brother, and he's been through a lot. He needs you to pull it together and take care of yourself."
Sam sighed heavily and picked up a forkful of rubbery eggs.
The door swung open then, and Dean entered brandishing a paper sack and grinning like a fool.
"I come bearing gifts." He plunked the bags down on the table beside Sam's tray and pulled out Styrofoam packages. "Pancakes, sausage, and best of all, real coffee."
Sam couldn't help but smile at him. Dean looked a lot like he had the Christmas Sam was eight-when he had robbed a house so Sam could have some Christmas gifts-triumphant and excited.
"Dig in," Dean said encouragingly. "You're getting scrawny."
Sam opened the package of pancakes and took a large bite. He still didn't feel hungry, but he forced down mouthful after mouthful, tasting nothing, but taking in the sustenance regardless.
Dean and Bobby exchanged a satisfied glance as they watched Sam eat. They knew it didn't mean Sam was back to normal, but to their mind, it was a step in the right direction.
When Sam finally finished his meal, he pushed the table away and sat back.
"Feel better?" Bobby asked, casting him a meaningful look.
"Much," Sam lied.
They sat in quiet conversation for a while, waiting for a nurse to come help Sam get cleaned up and dressed. Dean had offered to help him many times, but Sam was embarrassed enough already without having his brother watching him struggle to wash himself. At least the nurses had professionalism.
When the nurse came in, Bobby and Dean excused themselves, promising to be back in that afternoon when Sam was finished with his PT.
They went to a diner together to have breakfast. When they had settled at a booth, Dean raised the subject they were both thinking of.
"What do you think?" Dean asked.
Bobby knew what he meant, but he feigned confusion for a minute to give himself time to think.
"About Sammy," Dean prompted. "How do you think he's doing?"
"He ate. You did good bringing in the food."
"Yeah, I guess. Though I don't think it was the hospital food that was putting him off."
Bobby frowned. "You know what the doctor said; depression is normal."
"Yeah, but Sam isn't any other ordinary Joe. He's Sammy. He's stronger than this."
"Depression isn't weakness, Dean," Bobby chided.
"I never said it was. I just mean that I didn't expect it to knock Sam on his ass the way it has. How can someone that beat the devil get taken out by this?"
"He's only human."
Dean raked a hand over his face. "Only human." He sighed. "I guess he is."
"We just need to give him time. He's come this far, he'll come the rest of the way."
Dean hoped that Bobby was right, as the man he had just left in a hospital bed was not the same one he had known two months ago. He had prepared himself for a difference because of the amnesia, but not for depression. He could fight ordinary monsters for his brother, but he couldn't fight this.
"You want to get back into bed, John?" Beth asked. "Or do you are you happy in the chair?"
"I'll stick with the chair, thanks."
Beth patted his arm and clicked the door closed behind her as she left.
Sam sat back in the wheelchair and ran a hand through his hair. It had been a good PT session. He had walked without holding the bars for the first time. It hadn't been far, but it felt like a victory to him. He was slowly clawing his way back to how he had been before the accident, and for the first time since in weeks, he was in a good mood.
He pulled the rolling table over to him and booted up his laptop. Dean had brought it in a few days ago at Sam's request.
The hospital's Wi-Fi service was slow, but it was better than nothing. Eventually, the news page loaded and Sam skimmed through the top stories. He was trying to reacquaint himself with the world after drawing a blank for the last two years.
A headline captured his attention on the Columbia Falls Daily News website, and he delved into the story. A hiker had gone missing in the Glacier National Park. He was found dead a week later, having suffered an animal mauling. It could have been a bear or a mountain lion or a host of other natural predators, but something about it didn't sit right with Sam. It could also be a werewolf.
Smiling to himself, he set about the simple task of hacking the Columbia Falls police department's database. Their security was a joke. Sam had the relevant page open within minutes. He checked the coroner's report. There was no mention of missing organs, least of all hearts.
Sighing to himself, Sam closed the laptop and pushed the table away. He didn't know why he was disappointed that it wasn't a werewolf. It wasn't as if he could go out on a hunt if it was something supernatural. He would be relegated to research mode. The thought occurred to him that that was all he would be good for if he never got his strength back fully. He would be left behind in the motel while Dean and maybe Bobby went on the hunts.
Desperation swept through him, dropping him into a gaping pit of despair. He would be next to useless. He couldn't let that happen. He needed to be out there with his brother, atoning for his sins.
"It's not going to happen if you stay stuck in this chair," he muttered to himself. He needed to work harder at his therapy. He wasn't doing nearly enough, just a couple of hours each morning, and the exercises he did alone in the afternoons; it wasn't enough.
His eyes drifted to the closed door. He was alone now. There was no one to tell him he shouldn't do it, no one to warn him of what could happen.
Sam locked the wheelchair's brakes and shuffled to the edge of the seat. He lifted his feet from the footrests and braced them against the floor. The shoes Dean had bought for him were more like slippers, and they didn't have good grip, so he toed them off, opting to go barefoot.
Gripping the arms of the wheelchair, he pushed himself to his feet. He was hit with a wave of vertigo almost immediately, but he took a deep breath and it passed soon enough. He looked at the expanse of space between him and the bathroom door. He had walked further in PT, but that was always with the parallel bars for him ready to cling. Now, he was going it totally alone.
"It's gotta be done," he said and raised his left leg slowly.
The first step was the hardest. He wavered for a moment, but kept his feet. The next step was easier, and the next easier still. He moved slowly but surely across the room towards the bathroom. The harder part came then, as he had to step backwards as the door opened towards him. He hadn't tried going in reverse before, but the ease with which he had walked across the room gave him confidence.
He managed it. The door swung open. Gripping the doorframe, he was able to pass through. He paused and braced himself against the counter. He was surprised to find that he was panting; it had taken more effort than he had thought to make it this far.
Staring into the mirror, he appraised himself. It was the first time he had done so since he awoke. His hair was longer than he remembered, and his face was thinner. He would have to take more care to eat in future, as he was starting to look gaunt. More disturbing than anything in his changed appearance was his eyes. They were circled by dark shadows and they were dull and lifeless. No wonder Dean was looking at him differently lately, he looked terrible.
He sat down on the closed toilet seat for a minute to rest his shaking legs. The walk had worn him out, and he knew he should call for help to get his back to bed, but Winchester pride reared its head. He had got there on his own, and he was going to get back again alone, too.
He braced his hands on his knees and forced himself to a standing position. A wave of vertigo hit him, and it made him sway on his feet. He waited for it to pass, but this time it didn't. The room swum before his eyes. He reached for the counter to steady himself, but his hand missed.
He knew what was going to happen a moment before it did. He knew he was going to fall, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He cracked his head against the side of the counter as the floor jerked up to meet him.