Reclamation 1/?
Reclamation 1/?
(Arc 2 of the Redemption series)
Author: Neonchica (with assistance by co-author Betzz)
Title: Reclamation 1/?
Author: Neonchica (and Betzz)
Rating: R
Characters: Sam, Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine
Spoilers: Anything through season 2 is fair game.
Summary: Dean has finally made it home from rehab, but that only brings new problems to the table. Now living with Milla (the doctor zombon), Dean and Sam start to rebuild their lives. On a quest for some semblance of normal in their screwed up lives, they discover many things about themselves along the way. And Dean discovers that he doesn't have to physically be the man he once was to still be Dean Winchester, badass hunter extraordinaire.
WARNING: This arc is not complete. Don't read if you don't like WIP's with long interlude's of space between posting.
Author's Note: So, I will warn again that this IS NOT FINISHED. I have a thousand bits and pieces covering the course of a two year period in this arc, but nothing is put together and there are an equal number of gaps where I have absolutely nothing written. Why then, you ask, am I posting? And the answer is simple - I'm more than a year beyond the posting of Redemption and people keep asking about the next installment. I'm hoping that posting will get the creative juices flowing more and I can keep up with this thing. But I make no promises, and I completely understand that some people won't be reading this solely because it's not finished. Hopefully I will complete it sooner rather than later - cross your fingers!
Author's Note 2: I do have some pictures created for this version, too, but I'm not posting them just yet. I will probably do it in a scrap book type post later, rather than embedded within the story. Hope that's okay with everyone!
---~<>~---
From day one Sam is meticulous in Dean’s care. That’s probably the first thing Dean recognizes in his first few days at home. He’s got a checklist that he carries with him everywhere, and a steno book full of notes from the caregiver’s class Sam took at the rehab hospital, and he literally checks things off step by step as they go through their daily routine.
On day three Dean starts to resent the chart, the fact that it seems to take up more of Sam’s attention than he actually pays to Dean. And Dean tries hard to remind himself that Sam is probably just nervous, that he’s scared of doing the wrong thing, of doing anything that might put his life in jeopardy. He tries to put himself in Sam’s shoes, to realize that he sure as hell would be just as attentive to details if their situations were reversed - probably more so if that’s at all possible.
But that doesn’t make the situation any more bearable. At least in the hospital, where the facts of his daily life were instinctual to the staff, Dean felt human. There, he was a person with feelings and emotions and an ability to carry on conversation.
With Sam he’s become a thing. Sam is so anxious about the fine details that he barely even talks to Dean until all the care giving details are complete and he’s sitting upright in the wheelchair staring at the TV screen or sitting on the porch.
At seven o’clock sharp Sam’s watch alarm goes off and he stirs from the chair in the corner of Dean’s room, where he’s been keeping watch all night. Sam refuses to leave overnight despite the fact that Milla has assured them over and over again that any problem will cause alarms to sound throughout the entire house. He appears at Dean’s bedside, hair a mess, still dressed in yesterday’s jeans and t-shirt, and immediately grabs for that damn clip board. It’s like being cared for by one of Adam’s zombons again.
Dean grimaces and rolls his eyes at the image. He can’t talk yet since they take out the speaking valve over night, but he’s become pretty adept at facial expressions. Except Sam barely even acknowledges him; he’s got his eyes firmly glued to the paper in front of him, softly repeating procedures to himself to internalize everything. Dean doesn’t remember Sam ever being this thorough, not even on a hunt.
“Morning Dean,” Sam finally says in afterthought. “Did you sleep well?”
There’s no time to answer before Sam turns away and starts gathering necessary supplies for the morning. It’s just as well, because honestly Dean slept like crap. He’d gone to sleep just fine, but woke up when Sam had turned him to the other side and wasn’t able to get back to sleep for a good hour after that, instead ending up staring into the darkness as he tried not to focus on the swish-whoosh of the ventilator in the otherwise silent night.
The funny thing, though, is despite the fact that Dean doesn’t even attempt to answer Sam his brother is now off in the corner responding to what - Dean guesses - Sam thinks he would have said. “Good, glad it was a good night,” he says, distractedly, as he grabs a stack of 4x4’s and the freshly cleaned Passey-Muir speech valve, a wash basin and washcloth, a sterile suction catheter, antiseptic wipes, and a fresh cannula.
Sam brings his loot back and sets it on the rolling cart beside the bed, reaches for the tubing of the suction hose with one hand as he continues to arrange his supplies with the other. Dean shifts his head across the pillow until he can reach the straw that controls the bed and raises himself up. He’s on his left side, though, so he can’t go too high without contorting his body into an uncomfortable position. But at least now he catches Sam’s attention, and smiles internally at his brother’s reaction to the steely expression he’s currently shooting his way.
“You alright?” Sam asks, genuinely confused. Which is a problem in and of itself, because Sam is so distant these days he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. The question is a reflex, as robotic as Sam’s actions are lately.
Dean blinks twice - no, and then mouths ‘my voice’ over and over until Sam gets that he wants to talk.
“Alright, hold on,” Sam says, now frazzled. It puts things out of order in the routine, and Dean can tell he doesn’t want to break schedule when Sam’s hand hovers hesitantly over the table before he grudgingly puts the suction hose back in its cradle on the wall.
Sam’s fingers fumble with the valve, tugging on Dean’s neck a little too much as he twists it into place. And Dean barely feels the air rush past his vocal folds before he’s talking.
“I’m a person, Sam-“ he starts, before the higher volume of air from the nighttime setting cuts him off. His voice is gravely from lack of suctioning, and he wonders just how long it will hold out before he’s suffocating in his own mucus.
Sam looks even more confused, doesn’t wait for Dean to get another breath and finish his sentence before he’s protesting. “Of course you are, Dean. You had to change up the schedule to tell me that? What’s the deal?”
Dean loses his air again because of Sam’s interruption and has to wait for more. “Not a toy. I’m-” Sam lets him finish this time. “your brother. Treat- me like that.”
Ok, so maybe he could have been a bit more verbose, maybe could have explained further before he left Sam to flounder on the anger he’s been presented with. If he were more aware of his actions the simple statement should have been enough, but as it is he just looks baffled.
“Fix the air, Sam.” Damnit, if he’s got to give a more detailed explanation he’s not doing it three words at a time.
His brother quickly obliges, happy to be doing something he can control. During the day, now, they have him up to a volume that allows for at least a full sentence before he’s cut off, and it’s much easier to work with that.
“You don’t talk to me anymore,” Dean begins, halts Sam’s attempt to interrupt and protest with a single look, and then continues on his next cycle of air. “You’re so caught up in the details that you forget I’m even here.” He sits through another breath and lets Sam ponder the impact of the statement. “I know this stuff is important, but you don’t have to completely ignore me. -One screw up isn’t going to kill me, Sam.”
“But it could put you in danger,” Sam argues. He sounds so desperate, a plea in the voice that begs Dean to realize he can’t be responsible for causing him any trouble.
“Honestly, I don’t think you’re going to mess up. You’ve got this.”
“I just don’t…”
Dean rolls his eyes, makes the next word out of his mouth sound firm and authoritative. “Sam. If you keep treating me like a science experiment-- there’s gonna be more issues than just you screwing up. I need you to treat me like your brother. It’s bad enough that you’re the one doing all my care- I can’t lose you in the process. We can’t lose us.”
Sam seems to deflate at that. He drops to the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping and head hanging low. “I didn’t realize I was doing that. I’m sorry.” It says a lot that he doesn’t try to make another excuse and Dean softens a bit.
“I’m not saying you have to give up your check list,” Dean says to his brother’s back. “I’m just asking you not to treat the morning routine like an anatomy test. Don’t be so lost in the technical details that you forget I’m a person.”
A hesitant smile seems to crack across Sam’s mouth as he looks warily up at Dean. “Am I really that bad?”
“Milla paid more attention to me when she was under Adam’s spell,” Dean shoots back before he really thinks about what he’s saying. He’d meant it as a joke, and while the topic of Adam is still a bit tough he’s past any issue with Milla. Unfortunately, it seems the combination is still too raw a memory to pass as humor in Sam’s book.
His brother visibly pales as he looks to Dean with a combination sad and horrified look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have said that,” Dean says as soon as he’s able. He’s got the biggest urge to reach out and grip Sam’s shoulders, shake him a bit, and the fact that he’s unable sits hard in his chest.
“No, it’s alright,” Sam brushes off hastily as he stands back up, trying to smooth himself out and refocus on the morning task. Clearly it’s not alright. “You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it. And I get it, Dean. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder.”
He doesn’t really give Dean a chance to answer as he starts to remove the pillows propping Dean on his side and carefully shifts him so that he’s lying supine, then raises the bed the rest of the way so that Dean is sitting up at about 70 degrees - anymore and he’ll fall forward without proper restraint.
“Sammy, I’m sorry,” Dean says again. This isn’t the way it was supposed to come off; he’s not supposed to be feeling like shit for standing up for himself.
“It’s okay, Dean. Just drop it,” Sam snaps, making it all too obvious that it really isn’t. But then he hides his irritation behind a mask and forces a grin. “I’ve gotta get you suctioned soon, Dean.”
Dean nods, closing his eyes against the pain of knowing he’s hurt Sam’s feelings. “Go ahead.”
He opens his eyes again when Sam starts tugging at the trach, feels the sensation of his air flow retreating out of his nose and mouth. Sam lets him get a good few breaths before he announces his plan to remove the vent, only a second before he actually does. The lubricated suction tube is threaded into the trach and down into Dean’s lungs, clearing out the goop and mucus that he can no longer cough up on his own. Several seconds later Sam pulls out the tube and shoves the vent hose back onto the trach, allowing several breaths of air to pass through before he repeats the process two more times. The final time he removes the hose he also pulls the inner cannula from within the trach assembly and replaces it with a fresh one, sliding it through the opening of the more permanent outer cannula and locking it in place before he reattaches the vent hosing.
The inner cannula is traded out three times a day, with each scheduled suctioning, and cleaned for a later use while the outer one stays in place for up to three months. Sam opens one of the antiseptic wipes and starts to clean around the outer cannula, his fingers once again gliding meticulously around the entirety of the mostly healed incision to be sure infection doesn’t set in.
“Just about done,” Sam says, pointedly looking straight at Dean - as if to say See? Talking to you - as he tosses the wipes and uses a 4x4 to dry the site. Two more pads are slit with scissiors halfway down the center and Sam tucks those around the tube under the flange of the trach, one pad placed with the slit facing up and the other with the slit facing down and all edges are tucked under to make it look as neat as possible. After readjusting the trach ties Sam uses another antiseptic wipe to clean his hands once more and then finally reapplies the speaking valve.
“Better?” Sam asks seriously.
Dean nods, unsure whether Sam is referring to the lack of gunk in his chest or the fact that he’s acknowledging him as he works. The former is much better, the latter still needs work but is a definite improvement and Dean feels bad enough about what he’s said to realize he’s got to encourage Sam where he can. “Thanks,” he says sincerely.
The wall lowers minutely around Sam’s irritation and he allows a smile to poke through. “Good. Time for your favorite part, then.”
Dean scrunches his nose in disgust and rolls his eyes. “Get it over with.”
Sam’s right. He hates the catheter more than he hates the suctioning. As someone who has always identified himself with his abilities - hunting, protecting, sex - it’s far worse for him to see those parts which used to define him now so useless.
It’s hard not to watch, though, as Sam pulls the sheet down below his groin. There is something about watching his baby brother care for him that makes it more difficult to turn away; much more difficult than when it was the nurses in the hospital. He feels the need to protect himself, and falls into his old style of wisecracks and sarcasm to do the job.
“How’s it feel, Sammy?” Dean asks as his brother takes his dick in one hand, starts cleaning it with a washcloth. “I know it’s bigger than you’re used to handling.”
Sam stiffens, his eyes trail up Dean’s body until they meet eyes, and there’s an expression Dean doesn’t recognize staring back at him. “Don’t make this harder on either one of us than it has to be,” Sam says, his message obvious. I don’t like having to do this anymore than you like me doing it.
But seriously? The kid needs to lighten up!
Dean wants to cry, seeing his limpness in his brother’s hand, being cleaned like someone would wash a dish. So much for maintaining his dignity. And the only way he knows how to handle it is to make jokes. “Sorry, Sam. Didn’t realize you were so self-conscious. I’d let you take it for a test drive, but, you know, the engine’s kinda shot.”
“Dean,” Sam hisses. His cheeks are flushed red as he forces himself to focus on the job at hand. He works quickly, finishing up with the washcloth and following the catheter tubing down to the collection bag in search of kinks.
Rolling his eyes, Dean watches as Sam reverts back to his stony, detail-oriented persona, ignoring his brother in deference to measuring out the urine output and emptying the bag, murmuring stats to himself as he works.
“Sammy, come on. Don’t check out on me,” Dean pleads.
When Sam grabs the fresh leg bag from the table he finally looks back at Dean again. He’s angry. “I won’t listen to you insult yourself like that.”
“I wasn’t insulting myself. I was insulting you.”
“You’re making jokes, pretending like this doesn’t bother you. You and I both know it’s tearing you up inside!”
Dean goes silent, doesn’t want to answer Sam’s revelation, not ready to admit how close he is to the truth.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Sam snaps. He’s far from smug like he should be. Instead, it’s pretty damn clear just how pissed he is as he rips the Velcro straps apart roughly and fastens the leg bag securely around Dean’s right leg. The motions are made in anger, but he still takes care to run a finger beneath the straps, making sure they’re not too tight and that it hasn’t created any creases in the compression stockings on Dean’s legs.
“Making jokes is what keeps me sane,” Dean finally says in his whispery voice, eyes pleading with Sam to understand.
“Yeah, well it’s doing nothing for my sanity,” Sam grumbles. He’s got his bitch face on as he turns away from the bed and stomps to the dresser, jerking a drawer open and starting to sort through the clothes. He changes the subject. “What do you want to wear today?”
For a second Dean wars with pressing the issue, fighting it out with Sam and coming to some sort of resolution. But he quickly realizes that they’re at an impasse, that he stands no chance of convincing Sam to accept the needed sarcasm if he doesn’t like it. Somehow, though, they will have to find a way to coexist. Sam will have to give a little if he wants Dean to heal emotionally.
Right now, though? Yeah, okay, he’s got a get out of jail free card to just start over for the morning, and Dean wisely takes it. “Navy pants, white t-shirt, green button up.”
“Shoes?”
“No point. Just socks.”
He watches as Sam seems to suck in a deep breath, maybe a preparation, before turning back with a plastered smile and an armload of clothing, lets himself feel the relief of a fresh start no matter how tense. Consciously, Dean starts focusing on his comments, makes an effort not to say anything sarcastic or snarky or offensive at least for the next twenty minutes or so until Sam has him situated in his chair and he’s got a little more freedom to move about.
---
It’s nearly impossible to keep the comments repressed without slipping back into his own misery again, so by the time Sam has him dressed and transferred, strapped into his chair, Dean is almost literally itching to get away from his little brother. And Sam clearly isn’t much happier with him.
This idea of constant hovering, never being more than ten feet from each other is quickly grating on both their nerves. And it’s only been, what? Three days? If this is how things are going to be for the rest of his life Dean figures he’s found another reason to get out of this hell.
Even when they were hunting together, living in hotel room after hotel room, driving for hours, days, side by side in the car there was opportunity for escape. Sam went for walks, Dean escaped to the bars. Hell, both of them at least had the chance to shower alone. Now Dean can’t get away. And Sam won’t.
Milla is in the kitchen fixing breakfast when they both enter, matching storm clouds hovering over each head like a neon sign screaming of their sour moods. She doesn’t seem terribly surprised, doesn’t even acknowledge the mood other than to comment on the beautiful sunny day and the fact that the warmth would do both of them some good.
Sam collapses into a chair on one side of the breakfast table and Dean, unable to choose his spot, grudgingly steers himself into the chair-free space at the end of the table, kitty-corner from Sam.
“That sounds great, Milla,” Dean says, forcing cheerfulness. “Maybe you and I can go out there after breakfast.” He leaves off the alone, without Sam, but the intention is clear. Sam glares at him, his jaw working back and forth as he keeps any comments he might have about Dean’s suggestion to himself. It clearly irks him. The idea of letting Dean out of his sight, even with Milla around, is definitely a concept he doesn’t want to face.
Milla nods, pleased at the invite, and - Dean thinks - maybe a little grateful. He can’t imagine what this must be like for her. No matter how much she pressed for this, no matter how much she worked to convince them that she wanted to open her house up, he figures it still has to be weird to have her home turned upside down by a couple of strangers. She has to feel like she’s lost something.
Within minutes Milla puts steaming plates of egg and sausage and toast in front of them and Sam somehow manages to forget his irritation in the face of his duties.
Both boys were raised to be ambidextrous, equally efficient with both hands because - as their father often reminded - you never knew when the dominant hand would be out of commission. Of course now Dean’s got two hands out of commission, but Sam doesn’t, and he’s quickly transferred the gun training to mealtime as well. Sam feeds himself with his left hand, Dean with the right, but he generally keeps about ninety percent of his attention directed at Dean.
Milla sits to Dean’s right, across the table from Sam, and on occasion she even manages to convince his do-it-yourself little brother to surrender the spoon and let her take a turn at Dean’s care. But it’s not often, usually only at dessert if at all. Dean savors those rare occasions.
It’s about the only time these days that Dean feels like Sam is his brother again, not just a caregiver. It’s the only time he doesn’t resent his little brother’s existence in his life. And he hates feeling that way, wishing that Sam would just disappear and leave him alone. Because that’s not what he wants - he just wants things to go back to the way they used to be.
This morning, though, Sam is going full bore. Trying to prove that the events from earlier didn’t phase him. Dean knows it’s all a show.
“Sam,” Milla begins hesitantly as he feeds the final bite of food to Dean. “How ‘bout you take a break after breakfast. Give me and Dean a chance to get to know each other better.”
Dean appreciates the way she says it, makes it sound like casual conversation between friends instead of the glorified babysitting everyone knows it really is.
He sees the gears turning in Sam’s head, an internal war between fulfilling a self-imposed obligation to Dean and taking some much needed time to himself.
“You are rank, little brother,” Dean pushes. “Even my jacked up sense of smell can tell that you need a shower.” And it’s true - Dean honestly can’t pinpoint a time since he’s been home that Sam has been out of his sight. Even bathroom breaks are made with quick precision, closing the door only if Milla is nearby, and even then he’s got it open again before he takes the time to wash his hands. “Please, go. We’ll be fine here, I promise.”
Sam still doesn’t seem able to pull himself away but it’s hard to argue when you’re outnumbered. Grudgingly, he gets up from the table and walks his dishes to the sink, obviously stalling. But when Milla follows him, takes the dishes right out of his hand and delivers a firm, ‘go,’ with the nudge of her head he finds he’s got no other line of defense. He looks like a child that’s just been disciplined, head hanging low, shoulders sagging, feet dragging on the ground as he makes his way from the room.
Soon, the sound of footsteps making their way up the stairs announces his compliance and both Dean and Milla breathe a joint sigh of relief.
---
They sit in silence for at least the first five minutes, just basking in the warm summer morning breeze. It’s not late enough in the day for the humidity and heat to overpower them. There is just something about a morning like this that exudes calm feelings and relaxed thoughts. Dean can hear birds chirping somewhere overhead, the rustle of the leaves, and it’s nice. Nice to finally be at peace for a while.
Beside him, Milla is doing the same thing, just resting and breathing in the smells of July. “There’s a pond,” she says in low, hushed tones when she finally speaks. “Over on the other side of the park. I thought maybe you would like to go over there sometime.”
Dean isn’t immediately certain how he feels about that suggestion. It means leaving the safety net of home, venturing out into public at the risk of being seen and discussed - or worse. But he appreciates that she’s thinking of him. That’d be nice,” he says hesitantly. “Maybe someday - I’m not-I don’t think I’m quite ready for that yet.”
Milla nods her understanding. “When you’re ready,” she agrees, and then goes silent again for another introspective moment.
“I know you must be feeling smothered,” she finally says.
And it’s funny, because a truer statement has never been spoken but immediately Dean feels defensive, protective of Sam and his ways. “He’s just worried. I’m alright.”
“Really?” One eyebrow rises skeptically.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s not like I’ve got much choice. Sam’s pretty much got to do everything for me. He’s doing it the best way he can.”
“That’s not really what I’m asking,” Milla protests gently, prodding him.
Dean stops for just a minute, choosing his words carefully, but her insistent gaze has him changing his mind, realizing how desperate he is to get some frustrations off his chest. “Okay, yeah. I’m kinda feeling a little bit smothered.”
“Is it Sam? Or just the situation?”
Another pause. “Both, I guess. I mean, I know he can’t really leave me alone all that much. But still - there’s caregiving…and then there’s hovering. Even the nurses weren’t at my side 24-7 in the hospital.”
“I can help more,” Milla offers. It’s tentative, unsure, and the way Sam has become dictator over the routine it definitely means that Dean needs to be on board for the suggestion to work. “We could find an excuse to get him out of the house for a few hours each day.”
“He won’t go,” Dean says, full of certainty.
“Well, even just to get him to sleep some during the day. He has to be exhausted.”
Dean nods. “He is. But you don’t know Sammy the way I know him. He’ll be bleeding out on the floor before he slows down.”
A shrug from Milla. “It’s your decision, Dean. I’ll back you any way I can, but the decision is yours.”
“I will give it some thought,” Dean says, a tight smile forming on his lips.
They go silent again, conversation still somewhat awkward between the two despite the fact that Milla clearly feels closer to Dean than she does to Sam. It’s just a difference, Dean’s immediate acceptance of her, the fact that he was so willing to forgive and forget, to recognize the role Adam played in her manipulation. But then again, Dean was without a voice for so long, and the choppiness of his words when he could finally speak again made it difficult to develop a smooth conversational flow. They’re still working on it, finding their place with one another.
“They suspended my surgical license yesterday,” Milla says, breaking the silence once again in a desperate need for companionship. She’s chosen this morning to confide in Dean, something he quickly realizes she hasn’t told Sam, and that easily works to seal their friendship. It’s been so long since Dean has felt needed, felt useful. But this he can do. He can listen.
It isn’t even a comment that Milla needs a response to - she forges on so quickly, actually, that Dean couldn’t have replied if he’d wanted to.
“I guess it’s basically PTSD, but my hands shake so bad I can’t operate anymore. They gave me a mandatory 4 month leave of absence, and then I have to prove that I’m better. I just…”
“You’re not sure you’ll get better?” Dean asks.
The now ex-neurosurgeon nods despondently. “It seems like such a trivial thing to be upset about,” she apologizes, doesn’t have to say considering what you’re going through in order for Dean to understand.
“We all react to things in different ways. You can’t help the way you’re feeling any more than I can help being in this chair. That doesn’t make you wrong to feel that way.”
Shrugging, Milla unconsciously reaches out a hand and places it on Dean’s knee, pats it several times. He would give anything to feel her touch, to be able to reach back and close his fingers around her own in a reassuring grip.
“You’ve got a good heart, Dean, you know that?”
He doesn’t really have an answer to that one, never been one to sing his own praises. “I do what I have to do for my family,” is all he can think to say. And tears well in Milla’s eyes at the reply.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Wiping tears from her eyes the doctor shakes her head quickly and brings one shaky hand up to cup Dean’s cheek. He leans into it unconsciously, never taking for granted a moment of physical contact on the far too few sensory spots left on his body.
“It’s not that,” she protests sadly. “It’s just been so long since I’ve had a family. Surgery has been my life for as long as I can remember. It’s why my husband left me, it’s why we never had children. I barely see my sister or brother, their kids… I guess I just never realized how important having family was until now. You and Sam…”
“We’re all each other’s got,” Dean fills in. “We’re all we’ve ever had. Even my dad - I mean, the man loved us but he had a hard time showing it. And raising us the way he did… that’s no way for a kid to grow up.”
“But still, you boys understand family bonds. You know who you are to each other.”
Dean just rolls his eyes. Right now he’s not really feeling all that close to his brother. As a matter of fact he’d really prefer to be about as far away from Sam as he can get - at least for the next few days. And maybe that’s because getting away from Sam also means getting away from his life, his fate. Maybe it’s because it would mean things are better, that there really isn’t a need for Sam to be living on top of him.
Huffing out a soft laugh, Milla smiles and rubs Dean’s neck. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” she says, trying to lighten the mood a bit. They’ve covered some heavy stuff in these few short minutes, both of them opening up and divulging secrets they’re used to keeping hidden deep down inside.
“I’m not embarrassed, I’ve just got something in my eye,” Dean protests jokingly, with a pitch to his whispery voice, bringing out a side of the big goofball he has always been, a personality trait that has not had much opportunity to shine lately.
“Well by all means, please let me,” Milla teases back as she moves her hand up Dean’s cheek and rubbing her thumb against the corner of his eye, pretending to wipe a tear away. She seems just as relieved to be away from the topic as Dean is, and he relaxes even more as he leans his head into her hand, offering a silent proclamation of thanks, gratitude.
---
That’s how Sam finds them several minutes later, locked in a silent display of trust and friendship that Dean hasn’t shared with Sam for weeks. He can see them from behind the solid glass of the swinging French doors that lead to the back deck, and for a minute Sam just stands there, frozen, as his stomach tenses into knots and a lump forms in his throat. This is the gratitude I get for wiping your ass and breaking my back hauling you into and out of that damn chair? He thinks bitterly. You go to her for comfort.
He will admit his defenses are beginning to erode where Milla is concerned, he’s beginning to see her as Dean sees her - as a victim and not the bad guy. Not that it helps, though, when he finds himself watching his brother slowly slip away from him little by little. Turning to her for friendship and a confidant in place of Sam.
They’d warned him at rehab that taking on full caregiver duties was a relationship killer. But Sam had assured them that he and Dean were different, that they’d done this before, cared for each other, been each other’s everything for most of their lives and this would just be an extension of what they were used to. He’d been certain that their story would be different.
He’s beginning to see just how wrong he was.
Problem is, Dean can’t afford for Sam to take the time to be upset about this. There’s no other option. He won’t burden Milla with caring for his brother - not when the woman has already given up her home and turned her life upside down for them. He can’t ask her to do more than that for them. This is Sam’s mess, his burden to carry.
Schooling his features, choking down the hurt feelings and the frustration and the despair, Sam pushes against the glass and approaches Dean and Milla with a forced smile.
“Am I allowed to join the party yet?”
He sees Dean’s features falter for just a second and then his wall is in place too, a small grin on his face as he rolls his head toward Sam. “Depends on whether or not we can sit within five feet of you without the smoke alarms going off.”
Sam takes the comment for what it is, rolls his eyes good naturedly, and plops himself in the chair across from Dean and Milla. “I’m showered, shaved, and ready to start the day fresh. More than I can say for you, big brother.”
“Hey, I got my shower yesterday. And one two days before that. That’s two more than you’d had until about ten minutes ago. Besides, I’m not the one running around like a border collie with ADHD.”
“Must be nice to be waited on hand and foot,” Sam snarks back. He holds his breath, unsure how Dean will take that one, but his brother seems to be in a good mood after their short time apart and he just laughs.
“Too bad it’s impossible to find good help around here.”
Continue to Ch. 1 Part 2