Redemption 7/8
Redemption 7/8
(Arc 1 of a three part series - rehab)
Author: Neonchica (with assistance by co-author Betzz)
Title: Redemption 7/8 (Chapter 7, part 1)
Author: Neonchica (and Betzz)
Rating: R
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Anything through season 2 is fair game.
Pictures by neonchica and Angela
Summary: Death was always an option. This - this was not. Dean has been rendered permanantly disabled by one of his enemies. Now, quadriplegic and ventilator dependant, Dean and Sam must work hard to overcome these new obstacles and learn to accept this new definition of living.
Later Sam will claim it was fate that he noticed his untied shoelace right in front of Dean's room, but at this very moment it is just another annoyance in this already very crappy day. He's kneeling down to re-tie it right there, a little bit aside from the half closed door, when he hears the voice inside the room, and instantly he knows that something in there must be very very wrong.
For once, it's a voice he doesn't know; it's male, cultivated and confident like a doctor's, with a hint of the self-assured arrogance Dr. Prentiss had, and yet... too benign. There is something not right, something hidden and fake in this voice, but Sam decides that he should at least try to listen to the actual words of the conversation before he storms
“So... there is absolutely no chance of recovery?”
Definitely not a doctor then, one of them would have been privy to that kind of information. Sam can't hear Dean's reply, his brother's new strange voice rarely gets louder than a whisper these days, but he still knows what Dean is telling the man. Spinal cord completely severed, no function below site of injury. The whole painful story that has shaped their life for the last months and will remain with them for the rest of their lives. It will never go away, never get better... Then the voice says something that shatters Sam's world like few things in his life have managed to do.
“Well, Mr. Keyser, I must say that my ... organization rarely deals with people whose injuries are so recent. We find that - after an initial stage of depression that is, of course, completely natural - they often manage to adapt despite all sorts of adversities and never consider suicide again. But if you have special reasons... Can you tell me why we should make an exception in your case?”
Suicide.
The word itself hurts like a knife, the pain vibrating in Sam's brain and heart and stomach. This guy wants to... Dean wants to... Suddenly, there is nothing but the feeling of burning, blinding rage, hot like the center of a flame, like Sam has never felt before, an emotion so beyond anything else that Sam's whole being is consumed by it. Rage drowns out his senses, his sense of time, his mind.
The world melts.
When he comes around again, Sam is inside of Dean's room and the first thing that breaks into the haze is the intense pain in his throat. A millisecond later, he realizes that he's yelling at the top of his lungs - the strength of his voice tearing at his vocal cords - then that he is yelling at a man he has pinned against a wall. He doesn't understand his own words, his ears still trapped in the red world of fury, but his sense of touch is all there and his big hands clutch the man's shoulders harder, pushing his fingers deeper into the flesh. He wants to hurt this bastard so badly, wants to punish the guy for even thinking about taking Dean away from him, wants to kill... Then his ears are back and he hears his own voice, rough and torn, repeating the words over and over again.
“I'll kill you if you touch him! I'll kill you if you touch him!”
His eyes are able to focus again, and then he stops shouting because the man's eyes look up to him completely without fear and in a situation like this nothing can be scarier than a man who gets himself kicked around by a berserk giant and still looks so utterly unimpressed. More than that. The man looks sympathetic.
Sam is too dumbfounded to continue his attack, and then someone jerks him away from the guy and there are voices, too many at a time, arms grabbing him. He's still too far gone to understand, so he simply gives up and he lets the hands guide him down to the floor.
He's numb now, and empty.
Some people leave the room, some others stay behind; he can tell that much. Someone, no, not someone, the red hair is familiar... Chelsea is kneeling in front of him, her hands carefully stretched out to lightly rest on his shoulders.
“It's okay, Sam. It's okay, nobody here will hurt Dean, you hear me? It's okay, I promise.”
Her voice relaxes him a bit, her familiar face an anchor to steady him. Until he hears another voice - a man - standing right behind her, talking to a third person.
“I'm so sorry, Tanya. I was sloppy. It won't happen again.”
The voice is cultivated and still very confident, maybe slightly shaky now; but before Sam can jump up to finally off the guy, Chelsea intensifies her grip and keeps him down, the effort more symbolic than anything, futile against the raw power of Sam's muscled body, but most effective against his addled brain.
In the end, it's the face of Tanya Jackson that brings him fully back down to earth. She extends a hand to help him stand up, and as Sam brain gets more and more alert, it dawns on him that she is suspiciously calm about the whole thing. But then again, she probably tries to keep everyone relaxed till the cops arrive, he thinks. After all, he just pretty much tried to kill a guy who had pretty much volunteered to kill his brother.
But, as soon as he is steady on his feet, Tanya takes one step back and waves the guy to come closer. Coming face to face with the guy does nothing for Sam’s composure. The man is almost as tall as Sam is, and what intimidation he lacks in muscle he makes up for in sheer academic appearance. Instead of the seemingly requisite khakis and polo shirt that Sam has grown used to throughout the day at the rehab center, this stranger has on a pair of tailored pants, creased neatly down the center, and a light blue long-sleeved dress shirt and striped tie underneath a darker blue knitted vest. His salt and pepper hair is trimmed short, every strand combed neatly into place, and he wears square wire-rimmed glasses that he adjusts from their skewed position as he is standing in front of Sam. It is clear that he is used to being respected and given wide-berth. Sam tenses again, and he shoots the guy a glare that could cut through steel.
“Director Jackson, you don't understand! That bastard, he - “
“ - is the head of our Psychology Department.”
“ - said he'd help... WHAT?”
“Sam, this is Dr. Ed Reynolds. I promise he meant no harm...”
A sound comes from Dean's bed at this revelation, something between a cry and a sob. Dean. In his rage, he has forgotten about Dean.
Sam pushes Tanya aside with a little more force than necessary. Now that he has himself under control again, his only objective is his brother.
Dean's face is even scarier than Dr. Reynolds’ fearless eyes. The usually handsome features are contorted with emotion, the eyes tightly shut, the forehead wrinkled. It looks unnatural, like it must hurt to screw up his face like this, and it probably does. There are wet trails on Dean's cheeks, and more and more tears are streaming down. His lips are bloody from biting down on them so hard in his agitation, and he moves them constantly, speaking but completely out of sync with the vent, so Sam can hear only fragments of sentences whenever the ventilator doesn't interrupt Dean's speech.
“Stupid---how could I be --- not check --- trust someone --- so stupid”
“Oh god, Dean.”
Sam reaches with one hand to stroke his brother's hair, too scared to touch a face that convulses with pain that isn't physical, but before he can touch him Tanya holds him back.
“Sam, we think you should leave now. Just for a little bit. Let him calm down a bit first, okay?”
Dr. Reynolds leaves the room with him, and when they're at the door Sam thinks he has figured out what happened, so he follows him down the corridor towards the elevators.
“He thought you were the real deal, right?”
“Yes. Until you blew my cover.”
“But.... why? How?” Sam doesn’t even make an attempt at sounding apologetic about the whole cover thing; his heart still hasn’t stopped pounding and he’s a little bit pissed that they didn’t consult him before they started this whole damn façade.
“Standard procedure when people get too desperate. Better they seek help”, he does air quotes at the word, wincing when he lifts his arms, and guilt blooms in Sam's chest, “with us than with an outsider who might actually do the deed. We stall them until things are looking up again. Some find out it's a hoax, some don't. In the end, though, almost all of them are grateful they didn't go through with it.”
“Oh. So you don't really...”
“Of course not”
“But Dean really wants to...”
“That's what he thinks. With a little luck, we have cured him of that notion today.”
“Would it help then if I was really sorry about, you know, almost killing you?”
Dr. Reynolds smiles. They are at the elevators, now, and the psychologist pushes the up button, to where Sam remembers the rooms of the psych department are located.
“Sam, your reaction, no matter how ferocious it might have looked, was still completely natural. I think you might actually have done some good by almost killing me.” The doctor chuckles nervously. “You just proved how much he means to you.”
Sam looks more than skeptical at this, but the doctor nods reassuringly.
“You see, Dean's reason for special treatment? He doesn't want to be your burden, wants you free to live your life.” He air quotes again, the elevator tings, the door opens and before Sam has fully grasped the words, Dr. Reynolds is gone. Then it sinks in. Dean wants to sacrifice himself for Sam. Again.
That stupid idiot.
SUPERNATURAL
When Sam returns to Dean's room he's trembling with anger all over again, only this time it's a controlled familiar feeling that has been with him many times in his life.
Dean has been turned on his side, so that he faces away from the door and Kyle's bed and towards the wall instead, pillows under the major joints to keep him supported. Apart from the rhythmic expansion of his chest, his body is absolutely still, and for a second Sam wonders when or if he will ever get used to the sight of a body that just won't move. He decides right then and there that he will indeed and it will be soon.
He circles the bed slowly, lets his footstep fall hard to announce his coming but doesn't say a word until he's standing right in front of Dean.
“Hey.”
Dean's eyes are open, face recently washed, and there is the white sheen of ointment on his lips. His head is angled to look directly at the wall, but at Sam's greeting he rolls his eyes up as far as he can, both of them waiting for the ventilator and the right moment. Then it comes, like a whisper.
“Hey”
Sam crouches down until their faces are at the same height. There is so much he wants to say, so very very much and yet, his next words flow out naturally.
“You stupid selfish bastard!” And he doesn't regret his words, not even when Dean flinches at them like a slap in the face. His brother opens his mouth to say something, but Sam exploits his advantage and just goes on.
“How dare you! How dare you even think about shit like that... Dean, I can barely live with this and you want to fucking kill yourself for me. Are you insane?”
Dean wants to say something, Sam can tell, but right now, oh, he so doesn't care.
“I couldn't live with myself, you know. Shit, Dean, you saw what happened right there. If... if you actually died for me like that, without even a warning, you bastard... I think I'd lose it completely.”
“Not for you. I wouldn't do it --- for you alone, Sam. For --- me, too. This is hell!”
“Oh, please. Do you think I'll believe for a second that Dean Winchester would take the coward's way out of a situation? There are thousands of people out there who live with an injury like yours. And if they can do it, then you can do it, too!”
“You are really obvious --- Mr. Pep-Talk”
And Sam could cry for joy at Dean's sarcasm, because that is a side of his brother he can deal with. It's to his own surprise that he feels actual tears run down his face.
“Dean...” and he reaches out for their ritual touch of his hand on his brother's temple - finally- and then he falls apart completely, crying and heaving and sobbing, with his face next to Dean's.
“Oh, Dean. Don't leave, promise. Please. Promise that you won't leave me.”
An eternity later, when Sam sits back to wipe his wet face, Dean's eyes are dry, calm and scarily serious.
“I promise, Sammy. I promise that I won't leave you.”
There is a silent second, then Dean smiles.
“But you won't --- have it easy. Now get me --- a new pillow, 'cos this one --- has your snot all over it.”
-----
Promises, Dean soon realizes, are a bitch. He’s never lied to Sam, never made a promise that he didn’t intend to keep. And he’s not about to go back on his word now. But promises made in the heat of the moment, backed by emotion rather than consideration, are the hardest to uphold.
Sam stays that night, too afraid to leave Dean’s side after the heavy revelation of what Dean had intended to do. He sleeps curled up restlessly in the chair beside the bed, just as he had night after night in the hospital. Dean is positioned slightly on his side, facing Sam. He still has a bootie on his right foot, but the other has been left off, the ankle propped on a pillow so that the developing sore is untouched and exposed to the air to heal.
For a long time that night Dean just watches Sam, jealousy frayed around the edges of his subconscious as Sam’s chest moves up and down on its own in the shadows and he shifts unconsciously in his sleep as he tries to find a better position. Dean would give anything to be that uncomfortable, to feel the cramping and stiffness from a night curled up in a too small chair. He would do anything to escape the confines of his body. Would do it, but now he can’t, because he’s promised Sam.
He tries to remind himself that the plan never would have worked anyway, angrily remembers that the mysterious doctor that rushed to his side was not who he’d thought him to be. The head of the Psychology Department, Tanya had said. The man had misrepresented himself, had made Dean believe that he was there to relieve him of his pain, would help him to let go, to die peacefully. Everyone had been in on it, Dean realizes, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow.
He wonders just how long this plan has been in the works - just since the group therapy session or maybe since the pop-off or longer than that even? It doesn’t feel right, them messing with his mind the way they did, screwing with his emotions and his thoughts as though he hasn’t had enough time to think things through on his own. That’s all Dean does is think - day in and day out as he lays motionless in bed waiting for someone to bathe him and get him dressed and feed him, to give him a voice and stretch his limbs and move him from bed to chair and chair to bed. Dean’s entire world is dictated for him, when he wakes, when he eats, where he goes. He doesn’t have a choice in any of that - but can control his own thoughts. And it’s not fair that even those are now being controlled for him.
Sorry, Dean. You’re not allowed to have suicidal thoughts. You must be happy, he thinks, sourly picturing the happy-go-lucky staff that seems determined to improve his mood despite his determination to do just the opposite.
It’s not fair. If he wanted to be happy, he would be. But it’s been a long time since Dean has found a reason to be cheerful - much longer than he’s been injured. The spinal cord injury is just the icing on the cake, just one more reason for Dean to feel as though his entire existence on this god-forsaken earth has been for nothing. Before, the only reason Dean really cared was his family - keeping them safe and protected. Now he doesn’t even have that. Now it is Sam’s turn to protect Dean, to care for him.
But being Sammy’s protector is all Dean has ever known in his life, and if he doesn’t have that there isn’t much else to live for.
But you are protecting Sam, a voice inside his head reminds him. Outwardly, Dean scowls, but he can’t help but picture the emotion Sam displayed when he attacked the doctor. There was something carnal in his brother’s reaction, something honest and raw. That kind of emotion isn’t created, Dean realizes. So maybe - just maybe - staying alive for Sam and fighting to make something worthwhile of himself would be considered protecting Sam. Not in the way he’s used to, no longer physically, but emotionally. And heaven knows Sam could use some emotional protection in his life. With watching Jess die, and their father, and their father’s ominous deathbed confession about Sam - and then Dean’s injury, too. Sam’s life is like living inside his own soap opera.
Dean would be lying if he said he it would be easy to move forward, that he was willingly ready to give life in a chair, dependent on a ventilator and nurses, a try. Just watching Sam sleep has him feeling sick, the fear that he’s going to end up resenting his brother for guilting him into staying put so strong and completely irrepressible.
But he will try. He will keep his promise to Sam, like he’s always done.
Resolve strong in his mind, Dean closes his eyes and tries to get some sleep
---
Sam’s phone rings early the next morning, loud and shrill and just obnoxious enough to wake everyone in the room.
“Shut that damn thing off,” Kyle groans, struggling to pull his pillow over his head to drown out the sound.
“Sorry. Sorry,” Sam says. He struggles into a sit, his muscles protesting the long night spent curled up in a too small chair, and finally paws the phone from his pocket, hits the answer button and snaps ‘hello’ into the phone without looking to see who was calling.
He expects the voice to be Milla’s, checking up on him because he’s got her car and he didn’t come home last night, and he’s all ready with a cursory explanation to get her off his back long enough for him to get home. So the familiar gruff voice that demands attention as it thunders through the phone is more than a shock.
“Bobby?” Sam squeaks out. He looks up just in time to see Dean’s eyes widen into saucers, watches his brother silently, frantically beg that he not say a word to Bobby. They’ve been through this already, multiple times. Doesn’t matter how much Sam thinks they need to tell their friends, Dean is adamant that nobody find out what’s happened to him. And as much as Sam would love to defy his brother on this one thing, as much as he would love a familiar shoulder to cry on and mourn with, he can’t bring himself to go against Dean’s wishes.
“I’m trying to sleep here,” Kyle snaps.
Schooling his emotions, Sam takes a deep breath and tries again, nearly whispered this time. “Bobby, what’s going on man?”
Sam? Are you boys okay? I’ve been trying to reach you two for weeks. Where the hell have you been?
Well shit, nothing like coming right out and asking exactly what Sam doesn’t want to talk about. “We’re fine, Bobby. Just laying low for a while. We’ve had a few rough hunts back to back, needed some time to regroup.” It’s not exactly a lie, he thinks, just a stretched version of the truth. On the bed, he can see Dean relax, and that’s enough to tell him the lie was believable.
What kind of hunts? What happened, Sam?
Ok, so maybe believable, but unfortunately not thorough enough.
“Nothing happened, Bobby. Not really - we’re just tired. Needed a break.”
And needing a break means you can’t pick up a damn phone? Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to call in the past weeks? Dean’s phone doesn’t even seem like it’s working anymore, just goes straight to voicemail. And yours, it rings and rings… I don’t know what’s worse, Sam.
“Yeah, I know, Bobby. I’m sorry - really. We just…” He trails off, sighs, “we figured if we answered the phone it would be too compelling to take a hunt. Just needed to totally segregate for a while. Why, what’s going on Bobby…did you need something?”
Well, I did need you idgits to take a hunt out in New Hampshire. But I got someone else to do it when you didn’t pick-up. So now I’m just checking up on you, making sure you didn’t decapitate yourselves or something.
Sam winces, swallows hard. The man doesn’t realize just how close he’s come to the truth in that statement, and it takes Sam several moments to compose himself before he can speak again. “No, nothing like that,” he finally chokes out, turning away from Dean before he finishes the statement. He can’t look at his brother, can’t face the memories and the reality that Bobby’s comment has brought forth.
So how long do you boys plan to do this retirement act? There is no malice in Bobby’s tone, but Sam does sense a bit of irritation.
Closing his eyes, Sam rallies himself to finish the conversation, and finally realizes that his best bet may be to turn the subject around on Bobby. “We’re coming back slowly. We’re actually working on a case already, and I’d like to pick your brain about something, but this isn’t really a good time to talk. Can I call you later tonight?” He would love to not have to continue this conversation, but Sam can’t come up with another way to stonewall the man, and at least this way he’ll have time to come up with a good explanation.
Bobby seems caught off guard, but encouraged by Sam’s willingness to share. Yeah, Sam. Call me later - no problem. Just make sure that idiot brother is available to talk, too. I’d like to hear from him that he’s alright.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says, distracted. He can hear the medicine carts rattling out into the hall and the last thing he needs is one of Dean’s nurses coming in while Bobby is still on the phone to overhear. “I’ll talk to you tonight.”
He doesn’t wait for a good-bye, just hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the tray at Dean’s bedside as though he’d just been stung. “Shit,” he curses under his breath, doesn’t mean for Dean to hear but he does anyway.
Dean raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for Sam to fill him in on the conversation. “I’m not sure how long I can lie to him, Dean. It doesn’t feel right.”
Sam watches as his brother’s gaze hardens, and he can’t help the flinch that accompanies his reaction to the change. “Look, Dean, I promised you I wouldn’t break your confidence and I won’t - not without your permission. But he’s family, Dean, about as close to a real father as you and I ever had. And now with Dad gone…”
Dean doesn’t have to say a word to get his point across, his eyes say it all, and Sam doesn’t have it in him to argue. Especially not after last night, not after the revelation of Dean’s intention for assisted suicide. Sam still has a queasy stomach just thinking about it, and he can’t really look at his brother anymore without wondering how long it will be before he tries something like that again.
“I won’t say anything, Dean, but that means you have to stay with me. You can’t make me shut out our friends and then leave me too.” It’s playing hardball, probably a pretty jackass thing to do, but he just has to be sure. He’s got to know that Dean’s promise from the night before wasn’t a lie.
But they’re in a bit of stalemate, because right now it doesn’t matter what Dean says, Sam isn’t ready to trust. And until they can both come to an agreement, there won’t be any peace between the two of them.
Salvation comes in the form of Chelsea, arriving to prepare Dean for his morning. The surprise on her face when she sees Sam, still disheveled from his night on the lounge chair, is genuine, and it’s apparent that she hasn’t been filled in on the previous night’s events yet.
“How’s it going, boys?” she asks, pretending not to notice the tension in the air. Giving Sam a minute to pull himself together, Chelsea stops at Kyle’s bed, her back to the Winchester’s, and rouses the other man with a gentle shake of the shoulder, ignores his groans and mild cursing with a smirk on her face and another pat before she returns her attention to the patient that needs her most.
Sam sits back down in the chair, knee bouncing agitatedly, and pretends not to notice the longing look that crosses Dean’s face when he looks at Sam’s exaggerated movements. He tries so hard not to be overly mobile in front of Dean, tries not to make a bigger deal than necessary about that fact that he can so easily move when Dean is so still, so hindered. But right now it’s hard to care, not when he’s afraid his whole world is going to fall apart right in front of his eyes.
Chelsea looks back and forth between the brothers as she begins the morning routine, starting with Dean’s trach, suctioning and cleaning and then attaching the speaking valve so that he’s got a fair chance at communicating.
“Everything okay here?” she asks again, once he can talk. “You two are looking pretty serious, something I should know?”
“Just a stressful phone call from-a friend,” Dean says. He glances at Sam, gives him a warning leer to keep his mouth shut on any additional details. Sam nods in affirmation. He certainly won’t be adding anything, they both know the drill.
Chelsea just lifts her chin, mouth skewed and eyes wide, not exactly believing that she’s been given all the information, but it’s not her job to play shrink, and as long as Dean’s physical well-being is in check she’ll let everything else go for the time being.
She pulls out a washcloth and dips it in the basin of warm, soapy water she’s brought in with her, and scrubs it gently over Dean’s face and neck, goes slowly because she knows just how much Dean revels in the sensation. Sam watches in silence, thinking back to the night before and his fear of losing Dean, but also tries to put himself in his brother’s shoes. There is a part of him that understands wholeheartedly Dean’s reasons for wanting to do what he’d tried to do. As much as Sam goes back and forth with Dean, wishing it was him who’d been hurt and not Dean, he can’t honestly imagine what it must be like to be locked inside his body, doesn’t think he could stand the constant fear every minute that his life support might fail.
On more than one occasion as Sam has laid in bed trying to fall asleep he’s closed his eyes and imagined away the feeling in his limbs, pretended that the only thing he can feel is his head, tried to discover what it must be like to be his brother. But he knows it’s not the same. There is always that little part of him that is aware of the difference, the safety net that says he can pretend his body away but it’s still there, ready to walk him through life again at his beckoning.
He thinks the ventilator is probably the biggest red flag, the thing that - if there was any doubt in his mind - slams home the fact that all of this is real. Sam knows what it’s like to be on a ventilator, but Dean’s reaction to it now is far different from how it’s been in the past. Instead of fighting it and choking on it and begging to be rid of it, Dean just goes with it, accepts it. And when Sam asked one day, curious and just a tad nervous at how the question would be received, Dean told him the difference was in the necessity. You can only fight it if your lungs are strong enough to take over, he’d said sadly. Mine aren’t.
And that was that. It’s what summed up the whole of Dean’s new life; strength and capability, the lack of both. Where before determination could win out over adversity, now his brother is forced to define a line between when to fight and when to accept. And unfortunately, acceptance has become a bigger part in their lives than it has ever been before.
Dean can eat solid foods now, but he still isn’t getting the sustenance he needs with just that. He’s lost a lot of weight, most of it the muscle that once defined his well-maintained physique, and in place of that now is a pile of too big skin and bones. The nurses want him to bulk up some, ease the fears of bone pressing too hard onto skin and creating pressure sores like the one on his ankle, and so Chelsea pours a can of Ensure and starts it through the G-tube as she makes her way down Dean’s body. He’ll finish that first, then they will take him for breakfast.
Stu shows up right on schedule, just as Chelsea is finishing with Dean’s sponge bath and starts pulling out a fresh outfit for him to wear. It is only as Sam sits, passively watching the two staff members carefully dress Dean in the navy blue sweatsuit and shiny white socks and shoes, that he realizes neither of them has mentioned the night before. He had sorta figured it would be big news, a patient attempting suicide, and despite the fact that he really hadn’t given it much thought until now he’s sorta figured it would be at the top of the conversation list. But both Chelsea and Stu are going about the morning as though it were a normal day, like his brother wasn’t so ferociously depressed that he’d seen no other option than to escape the planet. And he can’t figure out if he’s grateful to them for not bringing it up, or frustrated that they’re not scolding his brother and giving him a whole lot of grief for his thoughts.
Around the time that they’re switching ventilators and transferring his brother from bed to wheelchair Sam realizes that Dean seems to have checked out. He’s usually somewhat interactive with his morning routine, grousing and complaining, if nothing else. He’s usually got a comment about his clothes not looking right, or the need for more separation of the spikes in his hair, the fact that he’d rather have his steel-toed boots than the Nike tennis shoes Milla picked out. But today he’s doing nothing of the sort.
Instead he’s just got his head resting against Chelsea’s shoulder, putting forth no effort to hold it up on his own, and Sam cringes as he sees it flop backward as Stu performs the transfer. Dean hasn’t been that floppy since two weeks before when a breakthrough in therapy had him relishing in the fact that he’d retrained his neck muscles to be strong enough to support his head without the brace. Now it’s like he doesn’t care.
Stu has taken notice, too, and the aide slaps Dean gently on the cheek as he situates him against the wheelchair’s headrest. “Come on, man. Snap out of it. I need you to work with me here, bud.”
But Dean doesn’t respond, except to roll his eyes; just enough of a gesture to tell everyone that he’s coherent, that he knows exactly what he isn’t doing, and that he just doesn’t care.
Chelsea and Stu share a glance and then they both look to Sam, looking for information.
“It was a rough night,” Sam volunteers, but nothing more. He sees Dean wince at the comment, realizes just how much of an understatement it is. “Let’s just go get breakfast. He’ll perk up.”
---
But he doesn’t perk up. Not at breakfast that morning, or lunch, or dinner. For days, Dean remains just on the border of “I don’t give a damn,” refusing to participate in any of his many therapy sessions, refusing to talk in discussions. He eats when food is placed near his mouth, talks only when absolutely necessary, but otherwise seems to have decided to retreat into his own little hell away from hell.
On the contrary, Sam talks all the time. He’s a constant fountain of pleas and reassurances, constantly spewing promises of rainbows and silver linings and greener pastures. Not a morning goes by that Sam doesn’t wake Dean with a smile, and a “thanks for being my big brother.” Every evening before he falls asleep, it’s “thanks for today. One more day closer to getting out of this place.”
He verbalizes every thought in his head, from discussions on the house renovations to comments on the staff, makes daily observations on how much better he and Milla have been getting along - despite the fact that he’s only been back to the house maybe a grand total of 5 hours in four days, and then it’s only because Milla has come to relieve him long enough to take a shower and get a change of clothes.
It’s a slow progression back to some semblance of normalcy; a two word answer here, a vague comment there. Dean picks his battles carefully, questioning the resolution of Sam’s conversation with Bobby but otherwise maintaining a steadfast refusal to get involved in anything, having to do with him or anyone else.
That all changes four days later.
Master Post On to Part 2