Roses in December (8/14)
So I took a break from my challenges and wrote another chapter of RiD, just because. It's a bit of a slow chapter, but I'm choosing to think of it as a bridge to future excitement! :)
Master Post
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
It's a little trickier than Dean imagined to negotiate the wheelchair around the apartment, but he gets the hang of it after a few moments, steering carefully. Sam unlocks the leg rest, gingerly bending his leg at the knee to help with the maneuvering, and Dean can see that even though he's putting a brave face on it, this morning's exertion is already taking its toll on him.
“Okay, quick tour. You up for that?”
“Yeah, I'd like that. Get my bearings a bit,” Sam is looking around, his expression a mixture of curiosity and yearning, as though somehow just being around his old belongings, he might recall something, anything at all. He reaches out to brush his fingers against furniture as Dean wheels him into the living room, eyes bright, chewing on his lip, stares at the few photographs on the shelves, on the side tables. Photographs of him and Jess laughing under a tree, smiling in front of the main building at Stanford. The same faded photograph that Dean has in his own wallet, creased and a bit battered, taken in front of the house in Lawrence. Sam doesn't even blink at it.
“Okay. I'll push, Jess'll be the tour guide. We should have one of those microphones,” Dean looks at Jess and forces a smile. She returns it weakly at first, then more brightly.
“Right. Kitchen first, because it's why I picked the place,” she says, getting into the spirit of the game, and Dean nods approvingly over Sam's head at her.
Jess leads the way, chattering animatedly about the light and the space, and soon Sam's smile is less tentative, too. The only time it falters is when they get to the bedroom, and Dean can see him eyeing the hospital bed with very little enthusiasm, wedged against the wall nearest the door. The room itself is reasonably-sized, but together with the queen-sized bed (still a little too small for Sam, the way most of the world is made, but who can afford a king-sized bed these days?) and the dresser, it feels cramped and maybe a little claustrophobic. Dean certainly wouldn't blame Sam if he felt a little crowded in here, but it was the only arrangement that made sense.
It's not a big place, so the 'tour' only lasts a few minutes, but by the time they get to the garden Sam is leaning back in his chair, the corners of his mouth pinched. The original plan was to have lunch outside, but it's pretty obvious that whatever energy Sam had has run out. Jess glances at Dean when she's sure Sam isn't looking, and he gives her another nod, figuring they're on the same wavelength.
“Hey, Sammy,” he leans over. “I think maybe you should give that bed we got a test drive, make sure it's comfortable and that you've got the hang of the controls. Sound good?”
“Yeah, okay,” Sam's voice sounds strained. “It's stupid, being tired already...”
“It's not stupid,” Jess assures him, crouching next to the chair and rubbing his wrist with her thumb. “It's a lot for your first day back.”
Sam snorts softly. “Right.”
“Hey,” Dean nudges his shoulder. “Good to see you haven't forgotten the art of the bitch-face there, Sammy.”
“What? I'm not!” Sam twists in his seat and glares, and Dean gives him his best shit-eating grin.
“Whatever you say, princess. I'm tempted to stick a pea under your mattress just to see how long it'll take you to notice.”
Sam huffs, but it's mission accomplished as far as Dean's concerned, because he's no longer obsessing about whatever newest limitation has come to his notice. He already does way too much of that. Dean wheels the chair carefully back into the apartment and into the bedroom, watching his brother's face as best he can from his current angle, and not liking what he sees there.
“You want to take your pain meds before or after we get you settled?”
Sam shakes his head. “I'm okay for now.”
Dean clucks his tongue. “Yeah, see, that wasn't one of the choices. You let the pain get too bad, then the pills won't work, and we'll end up having to use the nuke 'em from orbit stuff, and none of us wants that.”
Sam makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat, but he lost the argument before it began. Dean hands him a glass of water, and drops two pills into the palm of his left hand. Sam doesn't meet his gaze as he puts the pills in his mouth and tries to lift the glass to his lips without spilling any of the water. The glass tilts a little too far, and Dean reaches out and holds it steady so he can drink, ignoring the embarrassed look on Sam's face which sometimes seems to reside there almost permanently.
“Thanks.”
“No sweat,” Dean is sure Sam doesn't mean to sound grudging -he's just frustrated and on the verge of exhaustion. “I've got the reflexes of a striking snake, and I almost never get to use 'em. You ready?”
“Sure.”
The bed is adjustable, which is a freaking blessing. It means there's minimal fuss during the transfer from chair to bed, and it also means that eventually, when Sam is stronger, he'll be able to manage it on his own. Sam's hands clench on the bedsheets as he lies back, his face grey with pain, and Dean gently puts a hand on his chest, leans over him.
“C'mon, Sammy. Breathe through it. Easy does it. Count your breaths, okay? Just like the therapist showed you,” he says softly. Sam doesn't answer, and for a minute or so his breathing stutters until he gets it under control and the painkillers start taking effect. Dean rubs his collarbone reassuringly with his thumb as Sam's eyes flutter closed. “Better?”
“Mm.”
“Think you can get some sleep now?”
“'S what I do best.”
“Attaboy. You need anything, you just yell, okay? We're not far.”
“'kay.” Sam's already mostly asleep.
Dean stays where he is for a moment, just watching his breathing even out further into sleep. When he looks up, he catches Jess leaning in the doorway, arms folded over her stomach, watching them both. She smiles, and for a split second he finds himself wishing he could wipe all the sadness away from an expression that should be reserved entirely for happiness.
“I'm going to make sandwiches,” she says quietly, mindful not to disturb Sam. “You want one?”
“I'd love one. We got ham?”
Her smile broadens. “As a matter of fact, we do,” she says, turning back toward the kitchen. “But I'm not cutting the crusts off your bread.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. I haven't needed that done since I was four, anyway.”
He follows close on her heels, and it occurs to him that, after everything, this is probably the closest they're ever going to get to normal.
*
When Jess was ten years old, she broke her arm. It wasn't a bad break or anything, and ten-year-olds are resilient, but what she does remember apart from the fact that it was pretty cool to get all her friends to sign and decorate her cast, is that for about a week or so it messed up her sleep completely. Her arm hurt and kept her awake, and then she'd fall asleep during the day, and then she wouldn't be tired at night, perpetuating the vicious cycle. Bearing that in mind, she tells herself she shouldn't be surprised that Sam's sleeping patterns are all out of whack.
Sam has always been a light sleeper, occasionally restless and prone to insomnia during times of stress -although that proved to be something of a blessing in disguise during exam season- but it's a lot worse now. She lies awake, listening to him shift uncomfortably on his bed, debates whether or not to get up and see if he needs something. It's not unreasonable to assume that the painkillers have worn off by now, and he never likes taking the sleeping pills the therapist prescribed, not that she can blame him. A quiet sigh of pain from Sam's bed makes the decision a no-brainer. She slips out from under the bedclothes, unconsciously smoothing down her Smurf t-shirt, pads over to his bed.
“Sam?”
To her surprise, she finds he's still asleep, moving restlessly on the bed, fingers tugging at the sheets, mumbling under his breath. She can't make any of it out, but whatever he's dreaming about, it doesn't look pleasant. She bites her lip, torn between waking him up from his nightmare and leaving him be, because even nightmare-ridden sleep is better than no sleep at all, and there's no guarantee he'll be able to fall asleep again afterward. A moment later the decision is taken out of her hands when he comes awake with a jerk and a gasp.
“Hey,” she says softly, trying not to startle him even more. “Bad dream?”
It takes a moment for him to focus on her. He's still breathing hard, sweat beading on his face. “Uh...” his eyes flick to her face, flick away again, uncertain, and she pats his arm. Disorientation is normal, she reminds herself. Even if he wasn't recovering from serious brain trauma, waking up from a nightmare is confusing enough.
“I'll get you some water and your pills. Hang tight, okay?” He doesn't answer, just stares anxiously into the darkness until she gets back, and lets her prop him up to swallow the meds. At least, she consoles herself, it feels like he's come down from whatever nightmare he was in before. “You okay?”
He nods. “'M okay. Sorry. I d-didn't mean to wake you.” He's stuttering badly, something he only does when he's extremely overtired or stressed. She hasn't heard him do it in a while, and she tries to cover her worry with a smile.
“You didn't, I was already awake. You want to talk about it?”
This time he shakes his head. “J-just a nightmare. D-doesn't mean any-anything. Painkillers do a number on me.”
“You been getting a lot of nightmares, then?”
“Uh...” he shifts, winces as he tries to sit up, and she reaches over to the controls to raise the bed. “I guess. I haven't really b-been keeping t-track. I d-don't know. What's a lot?”
She smooths the hair away from his forehead, watching his face. “I suppose it depends on your definition. Do you think you can get back to sleep?”
He chews on his lip, doesn't meet her eyes. “D-do you... would you stay? Here, I mean. I, uh, I d-don't...”
“Of course,” she spares him having to finish whatever he's struggling to say. “You want me to sit with you?”
“P-please.”
She lowers the rail on the bed and, on impulse, eases herself up gently and stretches out next to Sam. She can feel the tension radiating off him, but he smiles crookedly at her, reaches clumsily for her hand with his. She wraps her fingers around his, strokes the back of his hand with her thumb. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his face, and the lines around his mouth are still there.
“Are the pills helping yet?”
“A bit. I w-wish it w-wasn't like this,” he says, face pinched in concentration. “I d-don't...” he hesitates, stumbling over his words. “I w-want to remember you. From b-before, I mean. I c-can see why I l-loved you. I... shit,” he buries his face against her shoulder. “W-words.”
“It's okay. You don't have to talk if it's hard. Not tonight.”
His voice is muffled against the sleeve of her t-shirt. “I t-think I st-still love you. I d-don't remember, b-but I can f-feel it. J-Jess?”
Please stop talking, she thinks. She doesn't trust herself to talk, just rubs his arm. Her eyes are burning, and it's all she can do to keep her breathing even.
“Am I d-different?”
She swallows hard. “Not all that different.”
He shifts uncomfortably next to her, tightens his hold, and she can feel him trembling. “I d-don't... I'm sorry.” He's tense, fighting for his words -she's learned the tone by now. He's not finding what he wants to say.
“Sam... how bad is the pain? Be honest.”
He pulls away. “I dunno. Seven, maybe.”
“I'm going to get you some fentanyl, okay?”
“Okay,” he sighs. He's quiet while she sorts through the meds that she keeps on the dresser, and when he speaks again it's so soft she can almost tell herself she imagined it. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”
*
It's the worst awakening Sam can remember in a very long time. His head is throbbing and his whole body aches to varying degrees. For a moment he thinks he might not be able to open his eyes, let alone face the day at all. He blinks, feels his breath catch in his throat when he doesn't recognize his surroundings, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The walls are beige here, instead of white and green, and blue curtains have been drawn back from the window, letting sunlight spill into the room.
This is home, he remembers, feeling his pulse begin to slow again. It's where home is supposed to be, anyway. He fumbles for the controls to raise the bed, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. It's going to be a bad day, he thinks with something akin to resigned despair. His first real day back at home. The rail is down on the bed, and his wheelchair is parked next to the dresser where his meds have been lined up. It may as well be a thousand miles away. He props himself up on his elbows, takes a breath, shoves himself upright, shuts his eyes when the room rocks drunkenly. He should call Dean or Jess, he tells himself as he grips the side of the bed, just keeping his balance. He hasn't tried to move from the bed to his chair on his own here, and the room isn't designed the same way as the hospital.
Sam looks down at his legs, hanging off the side of the bed, toes barely brushing against the floor, at the external fixator still drilled into his leg, at the thick scars winding their way up his shin. Even to him the leg looks slightly off, or maybe it's just the knowledge that he needs to go through at least one, maybe two surgeries in order to get it back into proper working order. He can put weight on it, up to a point, but today it's not sounding like a good idea.
“Hey, Sammy, you're up!” Dean pokes his head around the door, sparing him the decision of whether to try to make it to the wheelchair on his own or to swallow his pride and call for help. “You want to come have some breakfast?”
Sam's mouth is dry, and his answer comes out a little more hoarse than he'd like. “Uh, sure. I'd like to g-get cleaned up first,” he stumbles over a word, and feels his spirits sink even more. Definitely a bad day.
Dean doesn't so much as bat an eyelash, for which Sam is grateful. “No problem, kiddo,” he brushes a hand over Sam's forehead. “How you feeling this morning? Jess said you kind of had a rough night.”
He shakes his head. “Tired.” There's so much more to it than that, but he can't muster the energy to find the right words, especially when he's not even sure he'll be able to get the words past his lips.
Dean just nods, though, and helps him up and into his wheelchair, letting Sam put as much weight on him as he can bear. He locks the leg rest in place, mindful not to jolt his little brother, then grabs a little plastic cup and carefully doles out all of Sam's morning meds, handing them to him with a cheeky smirk.
“Bottoms up,” he watches as Sam carefully lifts the little plastic cup to his mouth, then holds out a glass of water. “I should get one of those plastic boxes with the days of the week on it. That way we'll be able to keep track of your meds better.”
Sam makes a noncommittal gesture, the pills bitter on his tongue. He reaches for the glass, only to find that his hands are shaking too badly to hold it. Dean wraps a hand around his, helps him hold the glass steady enough to drink. The water goes a long way to making him feel more human, cool against his throat.
“I, uh... I should wash up.”
Dean grins. “Good thing you realized it, because I wasn't looking forward to being the one to tell you just how rank you smell.”
“Jerk,” Sam huffs a laugh, stops when he sees his brother flinch. “Sorry.”
Dean waves him off. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
Sam squirms in his chair, feels his face heat up. “I, uh... I'm going to, uh, need some help,” he lifts a hand to demonstrate how badly it's shaking. “I think Jess would be pissed if I accidentally slit my throat trying to shave.”
His brother pulls his chair backward out of the bedroom without hesitation. “Got it covered, little brother. We got some stuff set up in the bathroom already, but basically it's going to be trial-and-error until we figure out a system that works,” he pulls the chair into the bathroom, moves it into the corner.
For all Jess claims she picked out the apartment for the kitchen, Sam suspects that it was really for the bathroom, which is more than large enough to accommodate the wheelchair and two people at the same time. There's a plastic chair in the tub, along with hand rails drilled into the walls in the shower and next to the toilet, and he realizes with a pang that they must have installed all of it for his benefit. He can feel the meds kicking in already, muscles relaxing slowly.
“Ready?” Dean asks, then tugs his t-shirt over his head. “Lift your hips, Sammy,” he pulls off Sam's boxers, carefully keeping his gaze above waist-level.
Thanks to months of being in a hospital, Sam has mostly become used to being stripped and bathed and poked and prodded without much regard for his dignity, but somehow, in the privacy of his own home, it feels a little different. For one thing, it's not a nurse performing the necessary duty, but his brother. Showering is a whole lot more complicated than in the hospital, but after a few false starts he manages well enough, and doesn't even get the external fixator wet. It feels even stranger to have Dean shave him, kneeling next to his chair next to the sink, working carefully, concentrated on his task. It feels far too intimate, and it takes all his self-control not to squirm or pull away, and in the end he closes his eyes, shielding himself from the intensity of the moment. When he's done, Dean presses a toothbrush into his hand.
“All yours. You good?”
He stares at the toothbrush for a moment, and wishes he had a memory of a time when the simple act of brushing his teeth wasn't a complex undertaking. Then he looks up, smiles, and lies through his teeth. “Yeah, I'm good.”
*
Before it's even mid-morning, Sam is asleep on the sofa in the living room, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. His first morning back has been kind of stressful all around, despite their best efforts. For all he's tried to plan for every contingency, Dean realizes that he's kind of lacking in imagination when it comes to his brother's limitations, no matter how transient they might be. Sam's had a bad night, is pale and shaky, the circles under his eyes darker than usual. His movements are uncertain, jerky, and it's obvious after just a few minutes that he's in pain, no matter how brave a face he's trying to put on it. It results in more than a few frustrating moments for both of them while they figure out just how much help Sam needs cutting up his food or even getting around the apartment. There's enough room for the wheelchair, but it's difficult for Sam to maneuver it on his own. The crutches are easier, but tire him out almost immediately, and his grip isn't always sure enough to keep hold of them, meaning that Dean ends up hovering nearby a lot more than either of them would like.
In the end he settles Sam on the sofa with another dose of pills, finds himself wishing Sam would fight him on it a little more instead of looking so damned grateful to be off his feet again, face pinched with pain. They were told to expect this, to expect that the first little while was going to be hard, that there might be more breakthrough pain, as the doctors called it. Still, Dean found himself hoping that somehow Sam would be the exception to the rule, or whatever, and that he'd be even better once he was home. If he's really honest with himself, he was sort of hoping that being out of the hospital would magically spark something in Sam's mind, and that he'd remember everything and spare Dean the necessity of finding a way to explain the world which Sam worked so hard to leave behind.
Of course, nothing in his life is ever that simple. Sam still doesn't remember a damned thing, and in the morning he has to deal with a Jess who's red-eyed and almost entirely silent, wrapped in misery.
“He's asleep,” she says, her voice hoarse. “He... I think it was a bad night. You should let him sleep.” She doesn't say much more than that, just slips out the front door, disappears into the day. Promises to be back as soon as she can, leaving him to deal with the aftermath of whatever happened during the night that she can't bring herself to tell him about.
Dean lets himself fall into the armchair nearest the sofa, wishing it were late enough in the day for a drink. Sam isn't likely to wake up anytime soon, between the stress, the poor sleep and the narcotics, and Dean supposes he could use the extra time to figure out just how to explain the whole 'saving people, hunting things' aspect of their lives, because that's the one thing Sam keeps harping on about. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, checks it for a message he knows won't be there. Over three months, and Dad hasn't bothered with so much as a text message. He supposes he should be grateful that Sam doesn't remember Dad at all, that he hasn't asked much about him, that he doesn't have to deal with the smouldering anger that Sam used to harbour against Dad back when they were all still a family.
He toys with the phone in his hand, considers sending Dad a text message, scrolls idly through the list of contacts. Dad, Bobby, Sam. Except that Sam's cell phone is gone, crushed under the wheels of the car that took everything else from him as well. They haven't bothered to replace it yet, but maybe they should now that Sam's out of the hospital. He's going to need to call them, maybe, after his therapy appointments, which reminds Dean that he bought a calendar for that. He drums his fingers on his knee for a moment, then gets up stiffly, bad leg aching distantly.
“I'll be right outside, Sammy,” he says, even though Sam can't hear him.
He finds the blank calendar -an AC/DC one he found on sale at WalMart- and a pen in the kitchen, retrieves his pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and lets himself out the back door, leaving it open. He lights up a smoke, starts filling in the standing appointments he knows Sam has. It's going to be Labour Day in a week. Classes are going to start, and life is going to keep on going around them. He fills in the dates in September, flips to October and marks down those appointments too. He turns the page, finds himself staring at November, closes the calendar again, and lights another cigarette.
*
Chapter 9
Master Post
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
It's a little trickier than Dean imagined to negotiate the wheelchair around the apartment, but he gets the hang of it after a few moments, steering carefully. Sam unlocks the leg rest, gingerly bending his leg at the knee to help with the maneuvering, and Dean can see that even though he's putting a brave face on it, this morning's exertion is already taking its toll on him.
“Okay, quick tour. You up for that?”
“Yeah, I'd like that. Get my bearings a bit,” Sam is looking around, his expression a mixture of curiosity and yearning, as though somehow just being around his old belongings, he might recall something, anything at all. He reaches out to brush his fingers against furniture as Dean wheels him into the living room, eyes bright, chewing on his lip, stares at the few photographs on the shelves, on the side tables. Photographs of him and Jess laughing under a tree, smiling in front of the main building at Stanford. The same faded photograph that Dean has in his own wallet, creased and a bit battered, taken in front of the house in Lawrence. Sam doesn't even blink at it.
“Okay. I'll push, Jess'll be the tour guide. We should have one of those microphones,” Dean looks at Jess and forces a smile. She returns it weakly at first, then more brightly.
“Right. Kitchen first, because it's why I picked the place,” she says, getting into the spirit of the game, and Dean nods approvingly over Sam's head at her.
Jess leads the way, chattering animatedly about the light and the space, and soon Sam's smile is less tentative, too. The only time it falters is when they get to the bedroom, and Dean can see him eyeing the hospital bed with very little enthusiasm, wedged against the wall nearest the door. The room itself is reasonably-sized, but together with the queen-sized bed (still a little too small for Sam, the way most of the world is made, but who can afford a king-sized bed these days?) and the dresser, it feels cramped and maybe a little claustrophobic. Dean certainly wouldn't blame Sam if he felt a little crowded in here, but it was the only arrangement that made sense.
It's not a big place, so the 'tour' only lasts a few minutes, but by the time they get to the garden Sam is leaning back in his chair, the corners of his mouth pinched. The original plan was to have lunch outside, but it's pretty obvious that whatever energy Sam had has run out. Jess glances at Dean when she's sure Sam isn't looking, and he gives her another nod, figuring they're on the same wavelength.
“Hey, Sammy,” he leans over. “I think maybe you should give that bed we got a test drive, make sure it's comfortable and that you've got the hang of the controls. Sound good?”
“Yeah, okay,” Sam's voice sounds strained. “It's stupid, being tired already...”
“It's not stupid,” Jess assures him, crouching next to the chair and rubbing his wrist with her thumb. “It's a lot for your first day back.”
Sam snorts softly. “Right.”
“Hey,” Dean nudges his shoulder. “Good to see you haven't forgotten the art of the bitch-face there, Sammy.”
“What? I'm not!” Sam twists in his seat and glares, and Dean gives him his best shit-eating grin.
“Whatever you say, princess. I'm tempted to stick a pea under your mattress just to see how long it'll take you to notice.”
Sam huffs, but it's mission accomplished as far as Dean's concerned, because he's no longer obsessing about whatever newest limitation has come to his notice. He already does way too much of that. Dean wheels the chair carefully back into the apartment and into the bedroom, watching his brother's face as best he can from his current angle, and not liking what he sees there.
“You want to take your pain meds before or after we get you settled?”
Sam shakes his head. “I'm okay for now.”
Dean clucks his tongue. “Yeah, see, that wasn't one of the choices. You let the pain get too bad, then the pills won't work, and we'll end up having to use the nuke 'em from orbit stuff, and none of us wants that.”
Sam makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat, but he lost the argument before it began. Dean hands him a glass of water, and drops two pills into the palm of his left hand. Sam doesn't meet his gaze as he puts the pills in his mouth and tries to lift the glass to his lips without spilling any of the water. The glass tilts a little too far, and Dean reaches out and holds it steady so he can drink, ignoring the embarrassed look on Sam's face which sometimes seems to reside there almost permanently.
“Thanks.”
“No sweat,” Dean is sure Sam doesn't mean to sound grudging -he's just frustrated and on the verge of exhaustion. “I've got the reflexes of a striking snake, and I almost never get to use 'em. You ready?”
“Sure.”
The bed is adjustable, which is a freaking blessing. It means there's minimal fuss during the transfer from chair to bed, and it also means that eventually, when Sam is stronger, he'll be able to manage it on his own. Sam's hands clench on the bedsheets as he lies back, his face grey with pain, and Dean gently puts a hand on his chest, leans over him.
“C'mon, Sammy. Breathe through it. Easy does it. Count your breaths, okay? Just like the therapist showed you,” he says softly. Sam doesn't answer, and for a minute or so his breathing stutters until he gets it under control and the painkillers start taking effect. Dean rubs his collarbone reassuringly with his thumb as Sam's eyes flutter closed. “Better?”
“Mm.”
“Think you can get some sleep now?”
“'S what I do best.”
“Attaboy. You need anything, you just yell, okay? We're not far.”
“'kay.” Sam's already mostly asleep.
Dean stays where he is for a moment, just watching his breathing even out further into sleep. When he looks up, he catches Jess leaning in the doorway, arms folded over her stomach, watching them both. She smiles, and for a split second he finds himself wishing he could wipe all the sadness away from an expression that should be reserved entirely for happiness.
“I'm going to make sandwiches,” she says quietly, mindful not to disturb Sam. “You want one?”
“I'd love one. We got ham?”
Her smile broadens. “As a matter of fact, we do,” she says, turning back toward the kitchen. “But I'm not cutting the crusts off your bread.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. I haven't needed that done since I was four, anyway.”
He follows close on her heels, and it occurs to him that, after everything, this is probably the closest they're ever going to get to normal.
*
When Jess was ten years old, she broke her arm. It wasn't a bad break or anything, and ten-year-olds are resilient, but what she does remember apart from the fact that it was pretty cool to get all her friends to sign and decorate her cast, is that for about a week or so it messed up her sleep completely. Her arm hurt and kept her awake, and then she'd fall asleep during the day, and then she wouldn't be tired at night, perpetuating the vicious cycle. Bearing that in mind, she tells herself she shouldn't be surprised that Sam's sleeping patterns are all out of whack.
Sam has always been a light sleeper, occasionally restless and prone to insomnia during times of stress -although that proved to be something of a blessing in disguise during exam season- but it's a lot worse now. She lies awake, listening to him shift uncomfortably on his bed, debates whether or not to get up and see if he needs something. It's not unreasonable to assume that the painkillers have worn off by now, and he never likes taking the sleeping pills the therapist prescribed, not that she can blame him. A quiet sigh of pain from Sam's bed makes the decision a no-brainer. She slips out from under the bedclothes, unconsciously smoothing down her Smurf t-shirt, pads over to his bed.
“Sam?”
To her surprise, she finds he's still asleep, moving restlessly on the bed, fingers tugging at the sheets, mumbling under his breath. She can't make any of it out, but whatever he's dreaming about, it doesn't look pleasant. She bites her lip, torn between waking him up from his nightmare and leaving him be, because even nightmare-ridden sleep is better than no sleep at all, and there's no guarantee he'll be able to fall asleep again afterward. A moment later the decision is taken out of her hands when he comes awake with a jerk and a gasp.
“Hey,” she says softly, trying not to startle him even more. “Bad dream?”
It takes a moment for him to focus on her. He's still breathing hard, sweat beading on his face. “Uh...” his eyes flick to her face, flick away again, uncertain, and she pats his arm. Disorientation is normal, she reminds herself. Even if he wasn't recovering from serious brain trauma, waking up from a nightmare is confusing enough.
“I'll get you some water and your pills. Hang tight, okay?” He doesn't answer, just stares anxiously into the darkness until she gets back, and lets her prop him up to swallow the meds. At least, she consoles herself, it feels like he's come down from whatever nightmare he was in before. “You okay?”
He nods. “'M okay. Sorry. I d-didn't mean to wake you.” He's stuttering badly, something he only does when he's extremely overtired or stressed. She hasn't heard him do it in a while, and she tries to cover her worry with a smile.
“You didn't, I was already awake. You want to talk about it?”
This time he shakes his head. “J-just a nightmare. D-doesn't mean any-anything. Painkillers do a number on me.”
“You been getting a lot of nightmares, then?”
“Uh...” he shifts, winces as he tries to sit up, and she reaches over to the controls to raise the bed. “I guess. I haven't really b-been keeping t-track. I d-don't know. What's a lot?”
She smooths the hair away from his forehead, watching his face. “I suppose it depends on your definition. Do you think you can get back to sleep?”
He chews on his lip, doesn't meet her eyes. “D-do you... would you stay? Here, I mean. I, uh, I d-don't...”
“Of course,” she spares him having to finish whatever he's struggling to say. “You want me to sit with you?”
“P-please.”
She lowers the rail on the bed and, on impulse, eases herself up gently and stretches out next to Sam. She can feel the tension radiating off him, but he smiles crookedly at her, reaches clumsily for her hand with his. She wraps her fingers around his, strokes the back of his hand with her thumb. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his face, and the lines around his mouth are still there.
“Are the pills helping yet?”
“A bit. I w-wish it w-wasn't like this,” he says, face pinched in concentration. “I d-don't...” he hesitates, stumbling over his words. “I w-want to remember you. From b-before, I mean. I c-can see why I l-loved you. I... shit,” he buries his face against her shoulder. “W-words.”
“It's okay. You don't have to talk if it's hard. Not tonight.”
His voice is muffled against the sleeve of her t-shirt. “I t-think I st-still love you. I d-don't remember, b-but I can f-feel it. J-Jess?”
Please stop talking, she thinks. She doesn't trust herself to talk, just rubs his arm. Her eyes are burning, and it's all she can do to keep her breathing even.
“Am I d-different?”
She swallows hard. “Not all that different.”
He shifts uncomfortably next to her, tightens his hold, and she can feel him trembling. “I d-don't... I'm sorry.” He's tense, fighting for his words -she's learned the tone by now. He's not finding what he wants to say.
“Sam... how bad is the pain? Be honest.”
He pulls away. “I dunno. Seven, maybe.”
“I'm going to get you some fentanyl, okay?”
“Okay,” he sighs. He's quiet while she sorts through the meds that she keeps on the dresser, and when he speaks again it's so soft she can almost tell herself she imagined it. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”
*
It's the worst awakening Sam can remember in a very long time. His head is throbbing and his whole body aches to varying degrees. For a moment he thinks he might not be able to open his eyes, let alone face the day at all. He blinks, feels his breath catch in his throat when he doesn't recognize his surroundings, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. The walls are beige here, instead of white and green, and blue curtains have been drawn back from the window, letting sunlight spill into the room.
This is home, he remembers, feeling his pulse begin to slow again. It's where home is supposed to be, anyway. He fumbles for the controls to raise the bed, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. It's going to be a bad day, he thinks with something akin to resigned despair. His first real day back at home. The rail is down on the bed, and his wheelchair is parked next to the dresser where his meds have been lined up. It may as well be a thousand miles away. He props himself up on his elbows, takes a breath, shoves himself upright, shuts his eyes when the room rocks drunkenly. He should call Dean or Jess, he tells himself as he grips the side of the bed, just keeping his balance. He hasn't tried to move from the bed to his chair on his own here, and the room isn't designed the same way as the hospital.
Sam looks down at his legs, hanging off the side of the bed, toes barely brushing against the floor, at the external fixator still drilled into his leg, at the thick scars winding their way up his shin. Even to him the leg looks slightly off, or maybe it's just the knowledge that he needs to go through at least one, maybe two surgeries in order to get it back into proper working order. He can put weight on it, up to a point, but today it's not sounding like a good idea.
“Hey, Sammy, you're up!” Dean pokes his head around the door, sparing him the decision of whether to try to make it to the wheelchair on his own or to swallow his pride and call for help. “You want to come have some breakfast?”
Sam's mouth is dry, and his answer comes out a little more hoarse than he'd like. “Uh, sure. I'd like to g-get cleaned up first,” he stumbles over a word, and feels his spirits sink even more. Definitely a bad day.
Dean doesn't so much as bat an eyelash, for which Sam is grateful. “No problem, kiddo,” he brushes a hand over Sam's forehead. “How you feeling this morning? Jess said you kind of had a rough night.”
He shakes his head. “Tired.” There's so much more to it than that, but he can't muster the energy to find the right words, especially when he's not even sure he'll be able to get the words past his lips.
Dean just nods, though, and helps him up and into his wheelchair, letting Sam put as much weight on him as he can bear. He locks the leg rest in place, mindful not to jolt his little brother, then grabs a little plastic cup and carefully doles out all of Sam's morning meds, handing them to him with a cheeky smirk.
“Bottoms up,” he watches as Sam carefully lifts the little plastic cup to his mouth, then holds out a glass of water. “I should get one of those plastic boxes with the days of the week on it. That way we'll be able to keep track of your meds better.”
Sam makes a noncommittal gesture, the pills bitter on his tongue. He reaches for the glass, only to find that his hands are shaking too badly to hold it. Dean wraps a hand around his, helps him hold the glass steady enough to drink. The water goes a long way to making him feel more human, cool against his throat.
“I, uh... I should wash up.”
Dean grins. “Good thing you realized it, because I wasn't looking forward to being the one to tell you just how rank you smell.”
“Jerk,” Sam huffs a laugh, stops when he sees his brother flinch. “Sorry.”
Dean waves him off. “Nothing to be sorry for.”
Sam squirms in his chair, feels his face heat up. “I, uh... I'm going to, uh, need some help,” he lifts a hand to demonstrate how badly it's shaking. “I think Jess would be pissed if I accidentally slit my throat trying to shave.”
His brother pulls his chair backward out of the bedroom without hesitation. “Got it covered, little brother. We got some stuff set up in the bathroom already, but basically it's going to be trial-and-error until we figure out a system that works,” he pulls the chair into the bathroom, moves it into the corner.
For all Jess claims she picked out the apartment for the kitchen, Sam suspects that it was really for the bathroom, which is more than large enough to accommodate the wheelchair and two people at the same time. There's a plastic chair in the tub, along with hand rails drilled into the walls in the shower and next to the toilet, and he realizes with a pang that they must have installed all of it for his benefit. He can feel the meds kicking in already, muscles relaxing slowly.
“Ready?” Dean asks, then tugs his t-shirt over his head. “Lift your hips, Sammy,” he pulls off Sam's boxers, carefully keeping his gaze above waist-level.
Thanks to months of being in a hospital, Sam has mostly become used to being stripped and bathed and poked and prodded without much regard for his dignity, but somehow, in the privacy of his own home, it feels a little different. For one thing, it's not a nurse performing the necessary duty, but his brother. Showering is a whole lot more complicated than in the hospital, but after a few false starts he manages well enough, and doesn't even get the external fixator wet. It feels even stranger to have Dean shave him, kneeling next to his chair next to the sink, working carefully, concentrated on his task. It feels far too intimate, and it takes all his self-control not to squirm or pull away, and in the end he closes his eyes, shielding himself from the intensity of the moment. When he's done, Dean presses a toothbrush into his hand.
“All yours. You good?”
He stares at the toothbrush for a moment, and wishes he had a memory of a time when the simple act of brushing his teeth wasn't a complex undertaking. Then he looks up, smiles, and lies through his teeth. “Yeah, I'm good.”
*
Before it's even mid-morning, Sam is asleep on the sofa in the living room, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. His first morning back has been kind of stressful all around, despite their best efforts. For all he's tried to plan for every contingency, Dean realizes that he's kind of lacking in imagination when it comes to his brother's limitations, no matter how transient they might be. Sam's had a bad night, is pale and shaky, the circles under his eyes darker than usual. His movements are uncertain, jerky, and it's obvious after just a few minutes that he's in pain, no matter how brave a face he's trying to put on it. It results in more than a few frustrating moments for both of them while they figure out just how much help Sam needs cutting up his food or even getting around the apartment. There's enough room for the wheelchair, but it's difficult for Sam to maneuver it on his own. The crutches are easier, but tire him out almost immediately, and his grip isn't always sure enough to keep hold of them, meaning that Dean ends up hovering nearby a lot more than either of them would like.
In the end he settles Sam on the sofa with another dose of pills, finds himself wishing Sam would fight him on it a little more instead of looking so damned grateful to be off his feet again, face pinched with pain. They were told to expect this, to expect that the first little while was going to be hard, that there might be more breakthrough pain, as the doctors called it. Still, Dean found himself hoping that somehow Sam would be the exception to the rule, or whatever, and that he'd be even better once he was home. If he's really honest with himself, he was sort of hoping that being out of the hospital would magically spark something in Sam's mind, and that he'd remember everything and spare Dean the necessity of finding a way to explain the world which Sam worked so hard to leave behind.
Of course, nothing in his life is ever that simple. Sam still doesn't remember a damned thing, and in the morning he has to deal with a Jess who's red-eyed and almost entirely silent, wrapped in misery.
“He's asleep,” she says, her voice hoarse. “He... I think it was a bad night. You should let him sleep.” She doesn't say much more than that, just slips out the front door, disappears into the day. Promises to be back as soon as she can, leaving him to deal with the aftermath of whatever happened during the night that she can't bring herself to tell him about.
Dean lets himself fall into the armchair nearest the sofa, wishing it were late enough in the day for a drink. Sam isn't likely to wake up anytime soon, between the stress, the poor sleep and the narcotics, and Dean supposes he could use the extra time to figure out just how to explain the whole 'saving people, hunting things' aspect of their lives, because that's the one thing Sam keeps harping on about. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, checks it for a message he knows won't be there. Over three months, and Dad hasn't bothered with so much as a text message. He supposes he should be grateful that Sam doesn't remember Dad at all, that he hasn't asked much about him, that he doesn't have to deal with the smouldering anger that Sam used to harbour against Dad back when they were all still a family.
He toys with the phone in his hand, considers sending Dad a text message, scrolls idly through the list of contacts. Dad, Bobby, Sam. Except that Sam's cell phone is gone, crushed under the wheels of the car that took everything else from him as well. They haven't bothered to replace it yet, but maybe they should now that Sam's out of the hospital. He's going to need to call them, maybe, after his therapy appointments, which reminds Dean that he bought a calendar for that. He drums his fingers on his knee for a moment, then gets up stiffly, bad leg aching distantly.
“I'll be right outside, Sammy,” he says, even though Sam can't hear him.
He finds the blank calendar -an AC/DC one he found on sale at WalMart- and a pen in the kitchen, retrieves his pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, and lets himself out the back door, leaving it open. He lights up a smoke, starts filling in the standing appointments he knows Sam has. It's going to be Labour Day in a week. Classes are going to start, and life is going to keep on going around them. He fills in the dates in September, flips to October and marks down those appointments too. He turns the page, finds himself staring at November, closes the calendar again, and lights another cigarette.
*
Chapter 9