SPN fic: That's what we do 1/2
Title: That's what we do
Summary: A glimpse of Dean's rehabilitation. Second in the Final Concussion 'verse, won't make much sense if you haven't read the first story, A good day, which you can do here:http://etoile-etiolee.livejournal.com/1659.html#cutid1
Warning: PG-13 for language
Word count: 2800
Thanks to: My beta reader,disneymagics who did a great -and quick!- job and who found the 'verse title.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
That's what we do
"Come on, Dean. Harder."
"I c-c-can't."
"Yes you can. A little bit more. Just a little bit-"
"M-m-m tired."
"Okay, I know. Just ten more seconds. Can you do that?"
"I d-d-d … I don't kn-n-now."
But Dean doesn't stop and Sam winces, feeling the anger slowly crawling under his skin. His brother is lying on his back on a thin mattress, wearing an old pair of sweat pants and a Metallica tee that floats sadly around his thin shoulders and sunken stomach. His face is a deep shade of red, covered in sweat, and he pants rapidly as he tries to push against the physiotherapist's hand with the heel of his left foot. All of his left side is weaker. His leg is bent at the knee and Sam can see the muscles of his thigh jerking and shaking, even under the soft grey fabric.
"Dean, you're not pushing."
Dean's foot jerks in his brand new white sneaker, so new and shiny it's almost hard to look at. Sam hates these shoes. Dean does, too -the old Dean that is still talking in his head, that is. "I look stupid, Sam. Where're my boots?"
"I c-c-can't," Dean whispers again, a gob of spit landing on his chin.
"I bet you can. Just one more little push."
The physiotherapist's name is Emma. She's a short and slim woman in her early thirties, with sandy blond hair and dark eyes. She rarely smiles. She sometimes has this drill-sergeant vibe that makes Sam think of his dad. He doesn't like her.
"Dean, come on, you can do it."
Dean's whole leg is shaking now. He can't, why don't you let it go, Sam thinks, rising from his chair in the corner of the physiotherapeutic room.
Dean turns his head towards him, his faces scrunched up in pain. A tear glides from his eye and makes his way into his ear. "S-s-s… Sammy." He pleads.
"Okay, enough," Sam says, barely able to keep his voice calm. "Dean you can let go."
He kneels next to his brother whose leg has fallen heavily on the mattress. Dean bites his lips and tries to cover his eyes with his right hand, but controlling it is harder when he's tired or stressed, and he softly slaps his own cheek instead. That's when he starts sobbing.
"Hey Dean? What's wrong, man? Come on, you did great." Sam helps Dean sit up and lets his brother shove his face into the crook of his neck, crying hard and broken-heartedly. It doesn't matter what the doctors say, that he can't yet control or differentiate all the shades of his emotions, Sam can barely stand the sight of his brother sobbing like a small child, without restraint. He swallows the lump in his throat and wraps his arm around Dean's shoulders.
You should try to distance yourself from Dean's feelings a bit, the psychiatrist had said. He has to relearn how to deal with pain and sadness and fear. Fuck him. Like Dean hasn't suffered enough in his other life. Sam doesn't like Dean's psychiatrist either.
"Calm down, Dean. Everything is okay. I'm telling you, you did great. I'm sure Emma agrees with me, right?"
The young woman glares at Sam, but steps closer, careful not to touch Dean who doesn't like to be taken by surprise. Emma's features soften as she speaks calmly. "Sam's right, Dean. You know it's my job to make you work this hard, because I want you to get better. I'm not mad or anything."
Dean hiccups in Sam's arms and raises his head. "I was t-t-too tired." He whispers, still unconvinced that he didn't do anything wrong.
"I get it. You don't have to apologize."
"Wanna go home."
Dean's lower lip is wobbling again and Sam reassures him. "Yeah. We're done. Remember what we're gonna do?"
There's a light in the wide green eyes. Dean's lips quirk into a hopeful smile. "Grab burgers and watch the game." He says quickly. He stutters less when it's just him and Sam talking about easy-going subjects.
"That's right. You ready to go, now?"
Dean takes one last, shuddering breath and nods.
"Are you okay to walk or do you need a wheelchair?" Emma asks Dean, careful not to acknowledge Sam's irritated huff.
"We'll take the wheelchair, thanks," he answers coldly, getting up and dragging Dean along with him.
His brother falls into the chair gratefully. He had started to shiver as soon as he'd stopped working physically. Sam helps him into a warm sweater and a vest, pulls a scarf around his neck and a knitted hat on his head. Dean tries to help sliding his hands into the mittens but they start moving away in an awkward, shaky motion.
Sam immobilizes them between his. "S-s-sorry," Dean stutters, tensing as he tries to regain control over his arms.
"Hey, it's alright. Just relax. Let me do it."
"O-o-okay."
A few seconds later, Dean's arms finally go lax and Sam can slide the mittens on easily. It's only early October, but Dean suffers already from the cold, and fighting it exhausts him.
"I'll walk you guys out", Emma announces, to Sam's annoyance.
They aren't even outside the physiotherapeutic room when she turns towards Sam, a resolute look on her face. "I think maybe next time you should wait outside the room, Sam."
"What?"
"Dean relies on you. You're his safety net. He needs to let go. If you-"
"No, we're not gonna have this conversation," Sam cuts her off in a low, tense voice. "He was tired. He needed to stop."
"Sam. I know what I'm doing. Dean is stronger than you think."
Sam bites his lips and accelerates his pace.
"Sam."
Okay, that's it. Sam stops abruptly and tightens his grip on the wheelchair's handles.
"You think you know my brother better than I do? Who do you think you are? We've spent our whole lives together. You don't know anything about us and believe me when I say that I know what's best for him."
"S-sammy?" Dean asks in a hesitant voice.
"It's okay, Dean. We're out of here" Sam says, pressing Dean's shoulder gently.
He starts walking again, but Emma holds him by the sleeve of his jacket. She looks angry now. "You are a hypocrite, Sam. You've thrown fits to the nurses and doctors because they were treating Dean like a child but you're doing the exact same thing."
"Let me go" Sam snarls between his teeth, and Emma obeys reluctantly. She turns on her heels and walks away from them with a quick, determined pace.
"She m-m-mad?" Dean asks shyly.
"No."
Just when they reach the entrance, a tall slim black man steps in front of them, smiling. Sam feels himself relax, recognizing William, one of Dean's occupational therapists.
"Hey, it's the badass brothers. How are you guys?"
"Good, Will. How're you?"
"Kinda excited for the game. You gonna watch?"
"Yeah," Dean says, looking at William under his lashes. He likes the man. A lot. Sam does too.
"We're gonna kick your asses," Will states, smiling confidently.
"B-b-bullshit," Dean replies playfully.
Sam and Will exchange a quick look. Dean rarely takes part in a conversation unless he's specifically addressed. He has trouble interacting with people other than Sam since he had woke up. He's shy and awkward, easily scared or troubled. His embarrassment over his stuttering and speech problems only adds to his shyness. Bullshit is the first bad word he has used since he started talking again. It's good, Sam thinks, and seeing the light in William's eyes, he knows the man agrees.
"Wanna make a little bet, Dean?" the therapist asks, winking at him.
Dean turns his head towards Sam, seeking his approval.
"Hey, man. You decide." Sam says, shrugging.
"T-t-ten dollars?" Dean asks.
"Oh you're so on, Dean Smith. M'gonna wait for my money next time I see your ugly face."
Dean tilts his head backward and burst out laughing. This reminds Sam so much of the man his brother used to be that it's almost painful, like someone is slowly crushing his heart in a vice.
"Right, ten dollars. We need to shake on this." Will crouches and holds his hand in front of Dean who succeeds in gripping it clumsily with his right one. The man is good, Sam thinks. He can make Dean do things that all the other therapists fail at.
"Need me to get rid of that wheelchair for you or are you too tired to walk to your car?"
"M'gonna whu-w-walk," Dean says.
Yeah. The man is good. He winks at Sam and helps Dean up, then disappears with the wheelchair along the corridor.
Summary: A glimpse of Dean's rehabilitation. Second in the Final Concussion 'verse, won't make much sense if you haven't read the first story, A good day, which you can do here:http://etoile-etiolee.livejournal.com/1659.html#cutid1
Warning: PG-13 for language
Word count: 2800
Thanks to: My beta reader,disneymagics who did a great -and quick!- job and who found the 'verse title.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
That's what we do
"Come on, Dean. Harder."
"I c-c-can't."
"Yes you can. A little bit more. Just a little bit-"
"M-m-m tired."
"Okay, I know. Just ten more seconds. Can you do that?"
"I d-d-d … I don't kn-n-now."
But Dean doesn't stop and Sam winces, feeling the anger slowly crawling under his skin. His brother is lying on his back on a thin mattress, wearing an old pair of sweat pants and a Metallica tee that floats sadly around his thin shoulders and sunken stomach. His face is a deep shade of red, covered in sweat, and he pants rapidly as he tries to push against the physiotherapist's hand with the heel of his left foot. All of his left side is weaker. His leg is bent at the knee and Sam can see the muscles of his thigh jerking and shaking, even under the soft grey fabric.
"Dean, you're not pushing."
Dean's foot jerks in his brand new white sneaker, so new and shiny it's almost hard to look at. Sam hates these shoes. Dean does, too -the old Dean that is still talking in his head, that is. "I look stupid, Sam. Where're my boots?"
"I c-c-can't," Dean whispers again, a gob of spit landing on his chin.
"I bet you can. Just one more little push."
The physiotherapist's name is Emma. She's a short and slim woman in her early thirties, with sandy blond hair and dark eyes. She rarely smiles. She sometimes has this drill-sergeant vibe that makes Sam think of his dad. He doesn't like her.
"Dean, come on, you can do it."
Dean's whole leg is shaking now. He can't, why don't you let it go, Sam thinks, rising from his chair in the corner of the physiotherapeutic room.
Dean turns his head towards him, his faces scrunched up in pain. A tear glides from his eye and makes his way into his ear. "S-s-s… Sammy." He pleads.
"Okay, enough," Sam says, barely able to keep his voice calm. "Dean you can let go."
He kneels next to his brother whose leg has fallen heavily on the mattress. Dean bites his lips and tries to cover his eyes with his right hand, but controlling it is harder when he's tired or stressed, and he softly slaps his own cheek instead. That's when he starts sobbing.
"Hey Dean? What's wrong, man? Come on, you did great." Sam helps Dean sit up and lets his brother shove his face into the crook of his neck, crying hard and broken-heartedly. It doesn't matter what the doctors say, that he can't yet control or differentiate all the shades of his emotions, Sam can barely stand the sight of his brother sobbing like a small child, without restraint. He swallows the lump in his throat and wraps his arm around Dean's shoulders.
You should try to distance yourself from Dean's feelings a bit, the psychiatrist had said. He has to relearn how to deal with pain and sadness and fear. Fuck him. Like Dean hasn't suffered enough in his other life. Sam doesn't like Dean's psychiatrist either.
"Calm down, Dean. Everything is okay. I'm telling you, you did great. I'm sure Emma agrees with me, right?"
The young woman glares at Sam, but steps closer, careful not to touch Dean who doesn't like to be taken by surprise. Emma's features soften as she speaks calmly. "Sam's right, Dean. You know it's my job to make you work this hard, because I want you to get better. I'm not mad or anything."
Dean hiccups in Sam's arms and raises his head. "I was t-t-too tired." He whispers, still unconvinced that he didn't do anything wrong.
"I get it. You don't have to apologize."
"Wanna go home."
Dean's lower lip is wobbling again and Sam reassures him. "Yeah. We're done. Remember what we're gonna do?"
There's a light in the wide green eyes. Dean's lips quirk into a hopeful smile. "Grab burgers and watch the game." He says quickly. He stutters less when it's just him and Sam talking about easy-going subjects.
"That's right. You ready to go, now?"
Dean takes one last, shuddering breath and nods.
"Are you okay to walk or do you need a wheelchair?" Emma asks Dean, careful not to acknowledge Sam's irritated huff.
"We'll take the wheelchair, thanks," he answers coldly, getting up and dragging Dean along with him.
His brother falls into the chair gratefully. He had started to shiver as soon as he'd stopped working physically. Sam helps him into a warm sweater and a vest, pulls a scarf around his neck and a knitted hat on his head. Dean tries to help sliding his hands into the mittens but they start moving away in an awkward, shaky motion.
Sam immobilizes them between his. "S-s-sorry," Dean stutters, tensing as he tries to regain control over his arms.
"Hey, it's alright. Just relax. Let me do it."
"O-o-okay."
A few seconds later, Dean's arms finally go lax and Sam can slide the mittens on easily. It's only early October, but Dean suffers already from the cold, and fighting it exhausts him.
"I'll walk you guys out", Emma announces, to Sam's annoyance.
They aren't even outside the physiotherapeutic room when she turns towards Sam, a resolute look on her face. "I think maybe next time you should wait outside the room, Sam."
"What?"
"Dean relies on you. You're his safety net. He needs to let go. If you-"
"No, we're not gonna have this conversation," Sam cuts her off in a low, tense voice. "He was tired. He needed to stop."
"Sam. I know what I'm doing. Dean is stronger than you think."
Sam bites his lips and accelerates his pace.
"Sam."
Okay, that's it. Sam stops abruptly and tightens his grip on the wheelchair's handles.
"You think you know my brother better than I do? Who do you think you are? We've spent our whole lives together. You don't know anything about us and believe me when I say that I know what's best for him."
"S-sammy?" Dean asks in a hesitant voice.
"It's okay, Dean. We're out of here" Sam says, pressing Dean's shoulder gently.
He starts walking again, but Emma holds him by the sleeve of his jacket. She looks angry now. "You are a hypocrite, Sam. You've thrown fits to the nurses and doctors because they were treating Dean like a child but you're doing the exact same thing."
"Let me go" Sam snarls between his teeth, and Emma obeys reluctantly. She turns on her heels and walks away from them with a quick, determined pace.
"She m-m-mad?" Dean asks shyly.
"No."
Just when they reach the entrance, a tall slim black man steps in front of them, smiling. Sam feels himself relax, recognizing William, one of Dean's occupational therapists.
"Hey, it's the badass brothers. How are you guys?"
"Good, Will. How're you?"
"Kinda excited for the game. You gonna watch?"
"Yeah," Dean says, looking at William under his lashes. He likes the man. A lot. Sam does too.
"We're gonna kick your asses," Will states, smiling confidently.
"B-b-bullshit," Dean replies playfully.
Sam and Will exchange a quick look. Dean rarely takes part in a conversation unless he's specifically addressed. He has trouble interacting with people other than Sam since he had woke up. He's shy and awkward, easily scared or troubled. His embarrassment over his stuttering and speech problems only adds to his shyness. Bullshit is the first bad word he has used since he started talking again. It's good, Sam thinks, and seeing the light in William's eyes, he knows the man agrees.
"Wanna make a little bet, Dean?" the therapist asks, winking at him.
Dean turns his head towards Sam, seeking his approval.
"Hey, man. You decide." Sam says, shrugging.
"T-t-ten dollars?" Dean asks.
"Oh you're so on, Dean Smith. M'gonna wait for my money next time I see your ugly face."
Dean tilts his head backward and burst out laughing. This reminds Sam so much of the man his brother used to be that it's almost painful, like someone is slowly crushing his heart in a vice.
"Right, ten dollars. We need to shake on this." Will crouches and holds his hand in front of Dean who succeeds in gripping it clumsily with his right one. The man is good, Sam thinks. He can make Dean do things that all the other therapists fail at.
"Need me to get rid of that wheelchair for you or are you too tired to walk to your car?"
"M'gonna whu-w-walk," Dean says.
Yeah. The man is good. He winks at Sam and helps Dean up, then disappears with the wheelchair along the corridor.