Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     He didn't know how, but the whole world was his arm. Specifically concentrated to just below his right elbow. He could see nothing, he couldn't remember his name. There was a sound though, a roaring white noise that filled everything. And there was his arm. It felt white hot, and there was a thunderous thumping coursing through it three, four, five times a second. Since there was nothing else in the world, he examined it more closely, using what little awareness he had available to him. He concentrated on the spot where he felt the most heat, where the rib-shaking bass of throbbing drumbeat that filled him seemed to originate from; and instantly, as if transported by an angel, sense and his senses returned to him.

     All in overdrive, they relayed too much information to comprehend, all fighting for attention and screaming for supremacy. The dull roar of sound doubled in volume and revealed itself to be an inhuman voice, a tortured breath-robbing cry. His vision was filled by the bloodied torso of someone standing close, threateningly too close, to him. Blood spilled languidly from a wound in the stomach in front of him, his nostrils were filled with the warm scent of it, he could taste it in his mouth. His body told him he was kneeling on something hard, and his sense of balance reported an alarming and uneven spinning sensation, threatening to knock him horizontal at any moment.

     But his arm won the frenzied battle for attention in the end. The heat in it had been replaced by pain, slicing, tearing, wrenching pain, and with each beat of his frantically pumping heart it intensified impossibly. He looked down at it and lost his breath, and only then, when he ceased to voice it, did he realize the cry had been his own. He began to gasp for air, seemingly in time with each rhythmic explosion of pain he felt, hyperventilating at the sight of his arm, which wasn't his arm, couldn't be his arm. That's not my fucking arm, because where's the goddamn rest of it? Oh good, there it is, he thought hysterically, as he spotted his forearm, the First Blade still in his hand, in an expanding pool of blood on the ground below him.

     Some part of his consciousness registered movement close by, but he was too overwhelmed by it all to defend himself. Everything he was seeing and feeling was quickly becoming too much to bear, his breath now ragged and punctuated by short anguished cries, his vision now veiled by tears brought on by pain, and creeping blackness brought on by blood loss. He thought he saw a pair of hands, reaching for his arm, they were holding something. The last comprehending part of him wanted to yell, to beg, DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME, GET AWAY FROM ME, DON'T TOUCH IT!, but all that escaped him was several sputtering sobs. A familiar voice was speaking inscrutable things now, and the hands were at his bicep, up to something with whatever they held, and he felt like he was moving, forwards, no backwards, maybe it was just falling, and he forgot his name again, and even the pain was receding, as his once again unseeing eyes closed. 

Chapter Text

     The next few days passed in a slowly receding haze, the hours he spent awake gradually outnumbering the ones he spent asleep or, more likely, knocked out by painkillers. One evening when he awoke, he kept his eyes closed, waiting for the jarringly new but now anticipated sensations in his arm to decide where they were going to fall on his that don't feel right to holy shit scale. The pain in the area just below his elbow, where his arm now officially ended, was a walk in the park; not that it didn't hurt, but at least it behaved as he expected. It twinged and twanged, reverberating to his teeth, when he moved it. It had been unbearable the first time a nurse had changed the dressing, despite being doped to high heaven beforehand, leaving him writhing and swearing, finally ramping up to such a pitch that he had blacked out. It protested loudly and angrily, causing him to avert his watering eyes and clear his throat gruffly to hide an involuntary groan, when the surgeon that had patched him up examined her work, checking his stitches, gently turning his arm this way and that, and lightly palpating each bone or part thereof that remained. But it was slowly getting better, and each time he woke up he knew it would, thankfully, be a little less than the time before.

     The sensations below that point, where they had no earthly right to be anymore and belonged to nerves that sounded like they had, from what Sam said, literally burst in to flame days ago, were another story. He knew he had felt the entirety of his limb, from fingertip to shoulder, when he had first awakened, but he figured it was because he hadn't known what had happened at the time; he had expected an arm, he felt an arm. He thought the sensations would cease now that he knew what went down. But they didn't. He felt like his own hand was mocking him, figuratively flipping him the bird every time he woke up, by remaining at best benignly present and unassumingly arm-like, and at worst, unendurable, screaming the final terrible slicing sensation it had felt back at him in an unending loop, every missing muscle clenched so tightly and painfully he couldn't think, and he with no control to release them, as much as he desperately and futilely strained. The first time it happened he had ended up sobbing in utter agony and frustration, eyes hidden behind his only real hand as Sam had ran for a nurse, a doctor, a firing squad for all he cared, anyone who could help. He hadn't quite been sure how morphine was going to extend its effects to something he left by the car a goddamn mile away, but it had done the job, at least for a couple of hours that day. 

     So now he cautiously and, though he would barely admit it to himself, a little fearfully, felt out the area by focusing his mind on it. It seemed all right; there was a slight sensation of something slowly drilling through the tendons and bones in his wrist that caused his brow to furrow, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Though fully awake, he still didn't open his eyes. It felt so strange to him that he had only been here for four days, or was it five? It seemed as if a lifetime had passed. The few but growing number of hours during those days that he had spent conscious and comprehending rather than drug-addled or driven out of his head by the brutalizing from his senses were enough for him to understand that his whole future was now a giant unknowable question mark. How could he do his job an arm down? How was he going to be any use to Sam on a hunt like this? He found himself far away on more than one occasion, simultaneously trying to picture it, and telling himself in a small voice to Stop, don't think about it. The battle between trying to imagine a life like this and denying that he had to bother doing so at all was making him incredibly tired and plaintively numb. He didn't want to talk and he knew if he opened his eyes Sam would be right there, god love him, but his brother would expect words, some sort of coherent thoughts from him about how he was doing, and he really didn't have any new ones, nor the energy to make any up. So it was easier to keep his eyes shut, and try to do the same with his mind. He lay there for he didn't know how long, the word useless echoing quietly over and over and over in his head, passively feeling the sensation in his wrist fade in and out, before he drifted off again. 

     It was a few hours later when a sound woke him. He opened his eyes reluctantly, the drill boring in to his wrist still there and more intense than before, and was met with the sight of one of the nurses he actually recalled seeing before standing to his right with a clipboard in hand, scribbling something down. Dean gave him a small nod when he noticed his patient was awake, and the nurse replied, "Hey," and continued to write. Dean turned his head now to search out Sam and was surprised to find him gone. The nurse saw where he was looking and inclined his head, indicating the right corner of the room behind him. He raised his head and saw Sam asleep under his jacket on what appeared to be the most uncomfortable love seat in creation; the thing looked to have about an inch of cushioning under threadbare fabric, and the frame, including the arms of it, against one of which Sam had wedged a pillow in a futile attempt to make it comfortable, was wooden and unpadded. To say he was asleep on it at all was stretching it; it was more like asleep half-on it. He had a leg bent and leaning up against the backrest and one foot on the floor, leg at a ninety degree angle to keep himself from falling off.

     "I think that's the first time any one has seen him sleep lying down. The girls took pity on him and gave him a pillow," the nurse said, just above a whisper, as he moved to the end of the bed and grabbed another chart. "I think I've only seen him leave once since you were admitted. Common around here, family forgetting to take care of themselves. We've all tried to tell him it's ok to take a couple of hours off, but I think he needs to hear it from you," he said wisely.

     Sam stepped out the door in to the hallway. After the dimness of his brother's room and his recently flying-pillow interrupted sleep, his eyes narrowed slightly in the brightness of the seemingly blazing lights, which seemed to magnify in glossy reflection off white floors, white walls and white-curtained windows overlooking other rooms. His feet carried him away from his brother but he had no intention of leaving. The time he had left three days ago had felt almost like physical torture. Every fibre in him had protested each second of the thirty-five minutes it had taken him to return to Dean's side, the grating urgency he felt in his gut and base of his spine palpable. He caught a cab, retrieved the Impala from its spot next to where it still looked like a massacre had occurred, found the closest motel to the hospital, checked in, and walked in one side of the shower and out the other, all the while a litany running through his head, Hurry, you shouldn't be here, you should be there, go back, now. And that had been before Dean had woken up. Sitting there for two days staring at the physical result of what he had done to save his brother had been bad enough. Once Dean woke up and gave anguished voice to the terrible agony he had caused, a distressed face to the irreversible change he had wrought, Sam knew he wouldn't leave again. He couldn't let him go through any of it alone. His brother didn't get to walk out the door and leave any of this behind even for a second, why should he be able to? It was his damn fault.

      He trod the now well known path to the cafeteria and grabbed a coffee, thinking he'd probably be ok to go back and not get told off for it in about ten, fifteen minutes. The continuous drip of morphine they had Dean on, and its drowsing side effects, meant that when his brother set his mind to sleeping he was usually out in under five. He drank his coffee even though felt wide awake now, more rested than he had in days. He figured he had gotten about four hours of sleep in that evening after he had settled himself on the small sofa when it looked like Dean was going to be out for a while. He would go back, fire up his laptop that he managed to remember to get and miraculously hadn't been stolen from the rental car, some good-hearted person seeing the door open had simply shut it and not touched a thing, and continue his research. He had been scouring the internet in any spare moment he had, his head swimming with the repercussions of his actions: contracture, occupational and physiotherapy, prostheses, phantom pain. And he hadn't stopped there. He had followed the orthopedic surgeon out of Dean's room one day and bombarded her with questions. He had asked each nurse in turn if they had seen something like this before and how they thought his brother was doing. He wanted to be as prepared as he could so he could help Dean on what looked to be a long road. He finished his coffee and, after the allotted time, headed back.

     He stopped in the doorway to check that his brother was indeed asleep. It was hard to tell; his eyes were closed but there was a slightly pained expression on his face, and his breathing seemed to be a bit laboured. He was about to go in and check on him when he heard a voice from behind him.

Chapter Text

       He woke up late the next morning, bleary-eyed and foggy-headed, wondering at first why he felt so unrested and tense, then vividly remembering flashes of the pain of the night before. The first feelings of his hand twisting unnaturally subsided quickly after Fred's intervention, but later, waking to his own uncontrollable voice, the twisting had turned in to impossible contortion, everything from his elbow down feeling as if it was crushed and sliced and so, so, wrong. It was as though his arm was bent grotesquely and inhumanly, every part reporting excruciatingly from a place it wasn't possible for it to be, forearm by the back of his upper arm, hand behind his shoulder, fingers splayed at sickening angles by his wrist. He hadn't be able to think, helpless in pain, or to move, save to grasp for the invisible and try desperately to pry it back where it belonged, but his good hand was met by miserable nothingness. And Sam was gone and he was alone; but Sam was there and he wasn't, and he didn't remember anything else.

       He was alone again now though. The only thing greeting him was the late morning sun falling across the floor in slits through narrow blinds over narrow windows. Other than the dull tiredness, the slowly uncoiling tension and feeling slightly nauseous from everything he had just remembered, he surprisingly felt almost normal. Still weak as hell, but his head was clearer than it ever had been inside this room. He didn't know what had changed from the day before; he thought about it and suddenly realized that for the first time since he'd lost it, there was a compete lack of input, benign or otherwise, originating from his missing arm. He felt like he was crazy, succumbing to pain, again and again, from something that didn't exist; for feeling anything there at all in the first place. But he had given up hoping that the sensations would cease. The feeling of no feeling where there once had been was strange; light, like trying to sense the air around you, and neither warm nor cool, like the brief moment after you withdrew your arm from a sun-filled car window before you noticed the absence of the heat. It was also a huge and welcome relief. Sitting up a bit straighter against the back of his bed, he ran his hand over his face, rubbing the remaining fogginess from his mind. He looked at his arm, taking in several angry finger-shaped bruises on his bicep that stood out vividly against his pale skin, and cautiously raised it, stretching it out in front of him as far as it would allow, then rotating his elbow slowly back and forth. It felt amazing and awful at the same time, and he winced but continued until the sensations met somewhere in the middle, and lowered it again. This, maybe, he could handle. He considered his arm now, really looked at it for the first time. The loss was still too hard to bear; but looking away from it and, it seemed, far back to some distant memory of when he'd had two hands, he thought he was far better off now. They had been no closer to finding a way to get rid of The Mark than the day he got it. It was crude but effective, and definitely the quickest way, maybe the only way to be rid of the goddamned thing. If he had the choice, he knew which he would pick. The thought was quietly comforting, knowing he'd rather be down an arm than up black eyes. 

       His sight switched from past to present, and he absentmindedly stared at the opposite wall, concentrating on the sensations he felt as he squeezed his arm with his hand, starting just below his shoulder and working his way down, half a hands-breadth each time, as if measuring what remained against what had been lost. He eased up on the pressure as he got lower, essentially just resting his hand over his elbow for a beat, then over the new end of his limb, where he let his hand linger. He winced and cursed silently at the wall as he bent his elbow slowly with his hand, bringing it slightly in front of him as if crossing his arms, then looked down. The empty space between his left forearm and chest was off-putting, and he imagined where each part would have fallen if it was still present: hand on upper arm, wrist to elbow, inside of his forearms touching. Comparing this way, side by side, seeing the left missing its mirror, what he lost again seemed monumental, so he looked away. His eyes settled on the ceiling as he lay his head back on his pillow and took a few deep breaths in through his nose, releasing them slowly. Could've been worse though, he thought. Way worse. He should thank Sam, really, for not just hacking at him blindly or missing entirely considering the state he was in at the time. Over the last few days, when he had been lucid, Sam had been filling in the blanks for him and had let him in on the fact that he had been a bit more stabbed than he initially let on, and about Cas' divine and timely intervention.

Chapter Text

       Sam awoke that morning and for the briefest of confused yet exquisite moments didn't know where, or even when he was. The times he had woken in the exact same type of place, surrounded by temporary comforts for impermanent inhabitants, all seemed to run together. Few mornings on the road stood out as remarkable or memorable; they were usually just the quiet times before he and Dean got down to the job at hand, or got back on the road in search of the next. So in the few seconds after he awoke, not being able to instantly remember, he tried to place himself in time and space, and his first thoughts were, Where are we, what are we hunting? Then the sickeningly unsettled feeling dully inhabiting him explained itself with a rapid drop in his stomach as he remembered the town he was in, what had brought him to it, what had led him to this room in it. All before blinking his eyes more than a few times.

       He rolled on to his back, breathed in a few long breaths, and tried to shake his mind out of the routine of the past in to the unwelcome reality of the present. Unable to stop himself, he turned his eyes to the untouched bed next to him, devoid of use and purpose, then immediately to the clock radio on the nightstand between them. It was late. If he left soon he'd be just on time to give Dean the satisfaction that he had listened to him and stayed gone until noon. If his brother was awake and coherent; if he remembered the day before.

       Sam got up and, sparing the empty bed another glance, made himself busy getting ready to go, trying not to dwell on how far away from normal it was to be waking up in a place like this without Dean; how strange it was to not be on a hunt or heading to the next one or home, not to be immediately at his laptop researching the monster of the day or packing up everything that had gotten strewn about the room, not to be fighting over who was doing the coffee run or loading up the Impala, not to be deciding where to eat that morning or scrounging up enough change to leave for the maid, not to be discussing their plan of attack or checking under the beds for lost socks or knives.

       It took him longer than usual to get out the door that morning. He tried to tell himself it was just because, even for all the sleep he had gotten, he didn't feel rested at all; he was still bone-tired, mind-weary. He shook himself when he found himself sleepily staring at the glazed sheen of the tile on the wall in the shower, lulled in to inaction by warm water and swirling steam. He caught himself dazedly gazing in to the depths of the well-tread carpet on the floor when he sat down on the bed to tie his shoes, his tired body stilled by the simple comfort of a soft seat beneath him. It was a relief not to think, even for just a moment, but each blissful lapse in to blankness was followed by a jolt of guilt and a tired but frenetic attempt to make up for his unintended pause.

       Mostly, with his variably successful attempts to hurry the fuck up, he was trying to prove to himself he wasn't delaying on purpose. Somewhere beneath the excuse of his exhaustion, in a place he was trying hard and failing to ignore, he knew he was dreading going back. It wasn't that he didn't want to go back. He knew he had to; he needed to. He definitely wanted to. Wanting it didn't dampen the burning unease in his chest at not knowing the state Dean would be in when he got there, or rein the barely bridled frustration running through him at his inability to do anything to help his brother if that state was a bad one. The previous night had been a terrible example of just that. Dean had been hurting and he had been useless, and he couldn't handle it. In that room arose the too familiar and oft-felt need to do something, anything to help his brother. It was a skin-crawling sense of urgency at the base of his spine that was usually answerable with action; the night before he had been powerless to give it a reply. So it had built and built and eventually he knew it wasn't going to allow him to stay there, to stay still. It needed the illusion of movement, to be appeased by the appearance of doing something, even if that something was running. So finally it had pushed him out the door, faster than thinking. And now, still with no answer for it, he was heading back, but dreading going, and wondering how long it would be before it again drove him away for not being able to help the one person in the world who needed him.

       After finally, on the third try, getting all the buttons on his shirt in to the right holes and telling himself to pull it together, he threw on his jacket, checked that his keys were in his pocket, and stepped outside, the door clicking mutedly behind him. A small but focusing chill went through him as he started walking, his first breath of brisk fall air like an Arctic blast after the befuddling heat of the motel room. He raised a hand to shield his eyes as he closed the short distance to the Impala, the near-noonday sun high and bright, reflecting at him at fifty miles per hour off the glass and metal of the steady stream of midday traffic rolling by on the nearby road. The combination of glaring light and rumbling sound seemed to sear the haze of uncertainty from his mind, and by the time he sat himself behind the wheel, he felt more awake and more resolute than he had in days. Pulling out of the small parking lot and in to traffic, he guessed if the only thing he could do to help Dean, besides stocking up on facts that weren't relevant quite yet, was to be there, then he'd be there. No more running. He wouldn't allow himself to leave, to be driven away by his uselessness.

       A thought sprung to mind as he pulled up to a red light near the hospital, and he didn't realize he had gotten lost in it until several cars behind him loudly and repeatedly sounded their displeasure at his lack of forward momentum at the green. He raised a hand and gave a slight wave to his ushers as he accelerated, then turned in to his destination and found a place to park. He got out, went to the trunk of the car and unlocked it, amusing himself slightly by wondering if demons packed pajamas. Dean's bag was there as he suspected, and he opened it to check the contents; it was his brother's usual 'ready' bag, shirts, jeans, socks, pj's all folded neatly but slightly wrinkled from extended confinement, with an assortment of weapons thrown in on top. He imperceptibly checked if anyone was near, then pulled the various knives and guns out and raised the false bottom in the trunk a little and deposited them underneath. He zipped up the bag and hauled it out, slung it over his shoulder and closed and locked the trunk.

       Sam started towards the door, then was driven back to the car once more when he realized he should try to raise Cas again; it had been a day or two since his last attempt to update the angel as to what was going on. He leaned up against the trunk and dialed, the call ringing through to voicemail as he expected. He left a terse message, realizing the moment he began speaking that nothing had really changed since his last call. Sam shook his head slightly as he ended the call, wondering what the hell Cas could be up to. He supposed it had to be more important than this; Dean was out of physical danger like Cas had said, but he still resented him a little for not even returning his calls. It wasn't as if he didn't know the extent of what had happened. He had been there, however briefly. And he knew the angel wasn't likely to be up to it, but he thought, hoped, that maybe there was something Cas could do to help. No miracles, no arm-regrowing obviously, but something, anything, some small thing to help, to ease Dean's pain. A call, a visit, would be something right now, a distraction, to help ease Sam's burden of being there alone as buoy.

       He realized he had been leaning against the back of the Impala, staring at his phone, lost in thought once again, and started towards the door. He thought of coffee, and directed his steps to the now-familiar cafeteria before he revisited his brother. He stopped abruptly at the threshold, quiet lunchtime conversations and the tinkling of glassware idling out at him with a dull almost melodious murmur that then faded to nothing as he realized he was doing it again. "What the hell are you doing. Stop stalling. Just go." he mentally scolded himself as he turned and instead headed down the hall. He felt his apprehension rising as he grew closer to Dean's room but pressed on, skirting the nurse's station as quickly as he could but throwing a cursory wave and a polite smile when he accidentally caught one of their eyes. As he approached the door, feeling the tension knitting his eyebrows, he arranged his face in to what he hoped was a neutral expression and went in.

*     *     *     *     *

       "Did she just tell me I have a frigging ghost arm?"

       He waited for Sam's reply, who turned back to him, eyebrows raised, with half a smile on his face that disappeared and was replaced by look of concern as soon they met eyes. He hated that look. He hated being its cause and he had seen it so often lately it seemed like the only arrangement Sam's face was capable of making. He hastily tried to relax his own features and remove the tense look he was sure he had thanks to the pain in his arm and the revelations he had just heard.

       Sam looked unsure, then gave a small laugh and replied, "Well, I never thought of it that way, but yeah, I guess she did."

       The concern didn't leave his brother's eyes and Sam looked expectant, ready for a 'serious conversation.' He wanted that look gone, so he tried to play it down, to keep joking. "Are you freaking kidding me? This is for real? You'd tell me if this was just a joke on the doped up guy right?"

       A look of mild surprise passed across Sam's face. "You really hadn't heard of it before? I'd heard of it, but I guess it's really common from what I've been reading."

       "Uh no, I had not heard of ghost limbs returning to haunt their previous owners. File that under messed up things I learned today." He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head, "Well, I hope it ain't vengeful, because I know who it'll go after." He gave Sam a pointed look, trying to keep the conversation light, which was becoming harder as his hand grew ever tighter.

       "Who? Me?" Sam asked.

       "That was my favourite hand Sam."

       Sam rolled his eyes slightly, shaking his head, but appeared not to be deterred as he answered, "I mean, it makes sense, the brain apparently has a kind of map of the body in space and just because your arm is gone doesn't mean the nerves in the brain related to it are so... What?"

       His brother trailed off and Dean was glad his own eye-rolling hadn't gone unnoticed, since it had cost him a lot of effort to pull it off. "You have been reading way too much," he managed to say without a hitch in his voice.

       He heard the hurt in his brothers reply and could tell he was trying to come off as only mock-defensive when he said, "Hey, you've been out a lot, I had a lot of time on my hands. It's really interesting actually, they still don't know how the whole process works, but there've been studies done recently that found –"

       He had to interrupt, he was getting tired again and he knew his brother would be unstoppable in relaying what he had found out if left to his own devices. "Hey, can you stop rubbing it in about all your 'hands' and save the anatomy lesson for another time? It's just... I appreciate it, but it's a little too much to take in right now."

       "Yeah. Yeah, for sure. I wish you would have said something though, man, I could've told you."

       "Ha, yeah no. I figured the psych ward was probably just a gurney ride away if I started spouting off about invisible hands." As he spoke he settled back against the bed. He could feel his concentration waning and it was becoming harder to keep his mind focused on anything other than his arm.

       Sam was silent for a moment, Dean could feel him watching him and could tell the look was back as his brother said, "This is good though. Now that they know what they're dealing with, they'll be able to help you manage it better right? That pump thing sounds like it'll be good."

       His thoughts turned to home. He didn't want to talk about pain and meds. "Yeah. I forgot to ask her when I'll be getting out of here though. Stuck here and it's not even the good Vegas."

       He heard the smile in Sam's voice when he replied after a beat, "Well, there's a hotel here with a 'supposed' resident ghost who can't keep his hands to himself. We can check it out when you're back on your feet. If we come up with nothing, they have good tacos.

       He opened his eyes to reply, the thought giving him a slight burst of energy, "Let's go. That'll be this afternoon. Physio doc is coming up to do just that." He was only half joking, he wanted to be out so bad, to be back at it, and the start of physiotherapy had been the only indication he had heard that he was closer to getting out of here.

       "That's great man. She's nice, been up a few times already, don't know if you remember."

       He closed his eyes again and shook his head in reply, all stamina leaving him as quickly as it had arrived at Sam's tone, that encouragingly optimistic one that people sometimes took with children or the sickly, and at the realization that he himself was so excited about what boiled down to simply standing up.

       There was another moment of silence, then Sam said, "I'm gonna go, I'll let you get some sleep ok. I'll be back in a bit."

       "K."

       He heard the sound of retreating footsteps, then they paused, "Oh, I brought your bag in from the car, there's clothes if you want them."

       "Thanks."

       He gave it a few moments to make sure Sam had really gone, then he opened his eyes and checked his surroundings. He was alone. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard, his neck and jaw hurting from holding back. He really should try and sleep; he was drained from the docs visit, all the ups and downs of the conversation, and then from putting on a good show of being all right for Sam. He felt an apprehensive but burning hope within him: he could work; but he was saddled with this phantom, for he didn't know how long.

       He was trying to ignore it, the newly named pain in the arm that wasn't there, but he couldn't help but focus on it. It seemed so real, and when he really paid attention he could feel each and every part. It wasn't so much that it hurt, there between where his arm had been severed to somewhere just above his wrist, but it was definitely there at the moment, existing. The real pain right now began where the tendons narrowed from wrist to hand, and each connected to missing finger. He closed his eyes again, feeling out each taut digit, every fingertip cutting deep in to his palm, thumb clasped over them, adding to the crushing weight. He couldn't feel the handle of The Blade anymore, it was solely skin and muscle against bone and sinew now. He tried to move it, to garner any kind of response from the invisible appendage, but no conscious direction got through.

       The fix he had on it suddenly made every sensation intensify, and he drew breath. Now actively trying not to think about it, so maybe it would stop, he turned his thoughts to what was to come. He probably could have got up now and taken a walk, get a head start on the docs afternoons plan, if he hadn't been so exhausted. It should be no problem; he'd only been awake and remembering for what, two days, and already he was sick of being in this bed. And once he was up, he'd be out, and he and Sam would be back at it in no time. He recalled Sam had mentioned clothes so he blearily opened his eyes to locate his bag. He strained to remember what comfortable clothes he kept in it and figured he very well could go and change out of his hospital garb. Except that required movement. As he groggily debated whether to do so he realized he had forgot to mention to Sam that's what this Dr. Roa had said, he'd be back on the job soon. His last thought as he drifted off was a reassuring one: they could carry on.

Chapter Text

      Weeks later, when Sam reminded his brother about some piece of advice she had given that first day, Dean said he barely recalled Dr. Silvey's introduction in to his life; he only remembered that he had been annoyed as hell at her by the time she left. It was a feeling that still permeated their relationship, Sam suspected. His brother's words were something along the lines of, "You expect me to remember something that ninety-pound drill sargeant came out with? That whole day? Freakin' train wreck. I'm sure whatever she said was just the icing on the annoying-cake."

      "You're still just pissed 'cause she gave you homework."

      That day, after leaving Dean to sleep, Sam had whiled away a couple of hours at his now usual table in the cafeteria, drinking the coffee he had previously avoided, then several more. He absent-mindedly took bites of whatever the place had on offer that day that looked half-appetizing, while meticulously trawling for unusual activity, trying to ignore all his useless open tabs about limb-loss. He added each suspected case he found to the spreadsheet he had started a few days ago to feel, if not normal, at least like he was doing something productive, noting, gladly, that there wasn't much going on at the moment. He vaguely answered some texts and emails from a few contacts looking for lore-help that he had blindly received during a time when he couldn't spare a care for them. He helped where he could, but mostly ended up saying sorry, he didn't have access to any of his books right now and they'd have to look elsewhere. He deduced where he could, who was on what job, and added a new column with that information to his spreadsheet.

      He stretched, checked the time and figured he might as well head back. He packed up, trying not to think about how Dean, when he arrived that day, had seemed miles away from where he had left him the night before, clear-headed and almost back to his old self, and how suddenly, that terrible, hollow look had returned to his brother's face, and it had all drained away in a trice before his eyes.

      When he got back, it seemed some rest had done his brother some good; he was lamenting the terrible food at least.

      Dean, picking disgustedly at a fruit salad, looked up when he entered and said, "I'd give my left arm for a decent burger right now."

      "You maybe wanna rethink that statement? What d'ya got?"

      "Well, definitely a few toes," he said petulantly. "I don't know, there was a chicken... thing. And this stuff makes two. Two! Kinds of salad," he said with a shudder. "It's inhumane."

      "I'll call the Human Rights Bureau."

      "Hey, stow the sarcasm man," he said as he took a bite and pulled a face. "Oh right, I forgot I'm talking to the guy who orders salad on purpose. Give me a few days and I'll be back to where I can kick your ass for comments like that."

      "Sorry. Duly noted."

      "With one hand tied behind my back too. I'll even let you pick which one," he grinned.

      "Oh, if we're doing hand jokes now, I've had a couple — "

      "Oh, it's no joke. Watch your back man."

      He widened his eyes and raised his hand in a mock-placating manner, and jokingly said, "I will."

      "So, what'd you do?"

      "Me? Not much, just checked for cases."

      "We missing anything interesting?"

      "Nah, not much going on to be honest."

      Sam couldn't tell if his brother, as he gave up and pushed the now nearly empty tray in front of him away, was pleased or disappointed by this news. He had a grim look on his face, but that could have just been a hangover from his sorry excuse for a lunch.

      When, not too much later, two-thirty rolled around, the doorway wasn't so much darkened as dimmed for a moment when the slight form of Dr. Silvey appeared and said, "Afternoon guys." A good foot shorter than he was, and likely a decade or so older, though it was hard to tell sometimes with extremely fit people, Sam half-rose to shake her hand. She extended an arm that might be mistaken for spindly, since it was covered by what he could only imagine to be the smallest size athletic wear available to adults and it still hung slightly loose on her frame, but her grip was mighty when they shook. He knew from their previous short-sleeved meetings that both arms were basically pure lean muscle and taut skin. "Good to see you again." she said, then she turned to Dean to reintroduce herself. She extended her opposite hand, shook his, no doubt with the same iron-grip, and said, "You likely don't remember me, I'm Dr. Silvey."

      "Yup. Never seen you before in my life."

      She proceeded to explain her role as a physical and occupational therapist, "There's a lot of crossover, PTs work to restore movement and mobility, OT’s work to restore function," outlined his brother's grand therapy plan, then launched in to what they were going to start with that day. "We want to get you ambulatory as soon as possible."

      "Oh, I was born an amblin' man."

      She said they were starting slow today since she could explain it, but she couldn't really have him practice the proper way to fall, which was extremely important to protect him from further injury, without being in the gym.

      "I don't wanna brag, but I'm a really good faller. Our line of work? We get a lot of practice."

      She warned him, before she coaxed him to the edge of the bed and upright for the first time in nearly a week, of the fact that he was likely to feel off balance due to the missing weight of his arm, and assured him that he would get used to it, and told him that prosthetics were usually weighted for this reason.

      Sam stood and walked around to the other side of the bed when she had his brother perch upon it, to observe, and he could tell Dean was struggling at this small effort; he had grown very quiet, his interjections to her monologue ceasing the moment he sat up, his eyes fixed on the floor, a faraway, detached look in them as he gripped the thin side of the bed tight. Sam intensely wanted to jump in, to help him up, but he held back; he told himself that would be no help at all. He watched as she corrected his posture, his right shoulder was already hitched high in what he hoped was compensation and not pain, before he had even given his legs weight.

      "When you're ready," she said, and a short, concentrated moment passed before he saw his brother tighten his already white-knuckle grip on the side of the bed and push himself up, only to sway slightly and immediately sit back down. Sam saw Dean's head fall even further, and words of encouragement caught in his throat; they probably wouldn't help either, and were most likely to draw withering looks out of his brother, who looked like he needed all his concentration at the moment.

      Dr. Silvey filled them in for him, saying something along the lines of, "Try again, when you're ready. You're on a lot of medications, and they can make you dizzy. You'll be off most of them once you're up." He wasn't really sure of the wording; his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear as he watched his brother struggle and was unable to help.

      He noticed Dean's hand was now slack by his side. All the fight seemed to have left him and he held his bandaged stump tight to his middle, shoulder hitched unnaturally high once again. He didn't give up though, Sam was proudly relieved to see, as he stood again, slowly, good hand hovering half open above the bed behind him to catch his fall. Sam stepped back to give them room as his brother turned and wagered a few steps, the tiny doctor mirroring them in reverse and raising her hands to gently force his back straight and shoulder lower once again as he went. As they rounded the corner of the bed, a look of surprise crossed his brother's face when he caught his eye over the doctor's head, and Dean quickly withdrew his gaze, but not before Sam saw what appeared to be a look of shame, or embarrassment, vacant but intense at the same time. In the split second their eyes met, he tried to convey reassurance, tried to say, "Good job man, you can do this, you got this," but he was pretty sure he didn't get his point across.

      They took a couple of turns around the uncurtained spaces of the room, Sam shifting out of their way as they went, until Dean suddenly stopped, rigid as stone, with his hand on a windowsill at the far end of the room. Sam saw him give his head a sharp, minute shake, eyes bright, when she said something he couldn't hear, then she moved to stand next to him, taking his weight and arm over her shoulder as he shut his eyes and set his jaw and seemed to shrink before his eyes. They slowly made their way back to the bed and he seemed pale and small when she sat him down again.

      He saw her peer in to his brother's face, hand on his shoulder, and said, "Good. You did really good," with the smile of one who knows this kind of thing. Dean nodded in reply, but didn't look convinced as he ran his hand over his damp forehead then raked his fingers down the sides of his mouth, a gesture so familiar, albeit made with the wrong hand, Sam couldn't help but smile.

      Dr. Silvey walked around to the other side of the bed, cleared the dismal, likely not-forgotten, lunch tray off the wheeled table, plunked a previously unseen pad of lined paper and a pen on the top, and dragged it around in front of Dean. "Ok. Homework. All the teenagers I work with laugh when I say this, but, writing? It's still a skill you need. Maybe you'll need a mortgage, maybe you'll need to be signing autographs for millions of adoring fans. You've got to at least be able to sign your name."

      His brother tiredly met his eye, then half-rolled his own and replied, obviously trying to be jovial like before, but half-heartedly and unusually flat, "Can't I just text you?"

      She chuckled, "That's what they all say too. You don't have my number, so no. Practice writing your name for me, and I want one legible sentence by tomorrow. Doesn't matter what it says."

      Dean didn't meet her eye. He just stared at the paper and said, "What's after that? Show and tell? Colouring inside the lines?"

      "I know it seems pretty basic, but humour me." She turned to Sam expectantly, "You'll make sure he gets it done?"

      He pulled himself out of the hollow pit of concern in his stomach at Dean's hollow voice and joked, "At the risk of being being stabbed with that pen? Not sure I'm in," but he smiled slightly and nodded that he would.

      "All right. Great. Good job today Dean," she said as she turned back to him. He saw his brother had already taken up the pen and was scratching away at the paper, and he cursorily nodded his head in acknowledgement of her words, but didn't raise his eyes or offer a reply. "See you tomorrow," she said as she bedimmed the threshold once more.

      Sam walked over to retake his place in the chair on the other side of the bed, glancing at what his brother was still slowly and labouriously writing. He spied an untidy and wildly spaced, 'This is fucking stu—,' smirked as he sat down and said, "She'll love that man."

      Dean finished his sentence, threw the pen down and pushed the table away as he settled back in to his bed.

      The silence drew out around them, broken only by a muffled snuffle from the closed curtain around the other bed in the room and Sam cast around for something to say. He settled lamely on, "That wasn't so bad, was it? Must feel good to be getting up and around again."

      His brother barely bothered to nod his head in agreement. "Yeah, that was great," he replied with tired sarcasm.

      "It's only your first try man, give it some time."

      His brother cast his eyes around to meet his own for a second as he nodded and scoffed a quiet, "Yeah," before returning to stare through the opposite wall at some faraway, and judging by the look on his face, thoroughly uninteresting, or possibly mildly depressing, place.

      Staring up at his brother's face in sad desperation, and wanting to draw him back from the invisible brink he appeared to be standing on, he turned to the old stand-by: talking about work. He drew his phone out of his pocket and navigated to one of the texts he had replied to earlier, held out the phone and cleared his throat, trying not to sound forced. "Oh, hey, can you take a look at this? Buddy texted me, but I didn't have anything for him. You got any ideas?"

      Dean turned his head and took the phone impassively, brow furrowing slightly as he clumsily scrolled back and read the wall of text. Sam watched his eyes as they glanced over the words, then turned back to the wall of drywall again as he shook his head and offered the phone back. "Sorry."

      As he pocketed the phone again, he saw a shudder pass through Dean, saw his hand reflexively spring to his arm, saw his eyes shut and a look of resignation pass over his face. His brother spoke as his eyes opened again, "Look, I know what you're doing and you can stop."

      "What am I doing?" he said, trying not to sound defensive, though he thought he knew what was coming.

      "Being you," Dean said, and Sam couldn't help but notice the accusatory tone in his voice, "Trying to make everything all right. Normal. I'm fine. I got this. I'm just tired man. You might as well head out."

      He was saved from having to come up with an argument against this or, more likely, being shouted out of the room, by a sharp rasp on the open door and the appearance of a squat and cheery nurse he hadn't seen before and one of the daytime counterparts of Fred, Nurse Krall, walking in to the room.

      "Hello, I'm Nurse Neves," said the new face almost sing-songily, "How are we doing today?"

      Dean somehow raised his eyebrows and grimaced at the same time, but didn't say anything. Sam replied after a confused beat, "Good."

      They bustled in with practiced efficiency. Nurse Neves explained cheerily that they were there to set up Dean's PCA, and efficient they were. They had his brother hooked up, and explained to both of them in very precise but understandable terms how it worked, all in under twenty minutes. Nurse Neves pulled him aside and told him under no circumstances should he ever administer medication for his brother if Dean was unable to do it himself, while he vaguely saw Nurse Krall show Dean the exact operation procedures and half-listened to her explain that they had to monitor him closely for the first twenty-four hours. They underscored to both of them that it was borderline impossible to administer anything close to a problematic dose due to lock-out times, and not to worry. They then had them explain it all back to them to make sure they got it, though Dean did so tersely, and gave his brother some practice on his homework when they had both of them sign a wad of forms.

      They bustled out just as efficiently, leaving an echo of their flurry of activity behind in a silent whirlwind. Dean seemed exhausted by it all as he stared at the plastic controller they had placed in his hand. Sam had heard the Nurse Krall say, over the practiced spiel of chipper Nurse Neves, when she first handed Dean the button, "It's ok, if you need to use it now, go ahead, you're all set up," and saw his brother shut his eyes and press, an audible beep sounding from somewhere, with a desperately sad look on his face over his lecturer's animated shoulder. He had found it hard to concentrate after that, and was glad when they left. But now he didn't know what to say or do. The accusation his brother had thrown out before their arrival was still fresh in his mind and he was finely tuned to Dean's thumb as he sat back down, hovering as it was over the button. He tried not to appear like he watching his brother's every move, but then he supposed it didn't really matter how he looked; Dean had his eyes closed.

      "You good?" he wagered tentatively.

      His brother opened his eyes almost surprisedly and met his, nodding. He said tiredly, "Well that was a lecture and a half. Do you think there's gonna be a test?"

      He chuckled, "Probably," then continued, seriously. "You got everything?" he asked, wanting to make sure Dean had been paying attention; he knew his brother tended to tune out during long explanations.

      "Yeah," he replied, looking away. "I lost an arm, not half a brain. It's not rocket science. It's barely kindergarten. This whole place is crayons and colouring books man.

      "K. Good," he nodded more to himself than anyone else, since Dean had closed his eyes once again. He stared at his brother's stricken face, then stood abruptly, unable to look at it any longer, and said, "I'm gonna go. I'll see you tomorrow ok?"

      Dean opened his eyes for a brief moment and barely shifted them in his direction as he nodded and replied, "All right."

      He left without another word, escaping in to the hall from the creeping tension he felt within his brother's room. It might have been all in his head, that palpable feeling that he wasn't wanted or needed within its walls, or that he was somehow being blamed; he couldn't stand to be there any longer, and didn't want to press his brother with conversation and find out the answer, definitively, one way or the other. He threw his bag, with his laptop, books, and notes inside, over his shoulder as he hurried down the halls, and clutched the strap to his chest, driving away dark thoughts of responsibility with thoughts of work, selfless and distracting. He had already absent-mindedly mapped out a plan for what he would research that evening in his head by the time he reached the parking lot, and got in to the car and started it up, driving away as he tried to forget what he had left behind, Dean's brief words and his own guilt trailing him.

*      *      *      *      *

      He was too tired to be seething. What had he been thinking? He shook his head at his own remembrance. They could carry on. What bullshit. All these docs were basing anything on was his fake job, his fake persona, how well he faked caring about any of this crap. And his real brother was walking on eggshells around their real problem, and he just wanted to sleep. Yet his own disappointment in himself was burning; he couldn't even make it five feet around the room without needing help. Hell, he couldn't even stand up without almost passing out.

      He had tried, he thought successfully, to conceal the fact that when he first stood up that day, wait, that week, the world had spun and fallen white around him, the pivoting feeling stopping and his vision returning only when he had slumped back and sat for a few gut-churning minutes on the side of his bed, breathing hard and staring at the floor. He had fought back though, not really sure that this could be considered any huge success since he felt weak as a demon in a trap the whole time. He had accidentally caught Sam's eye as he absymally walked around the room and thought his brother must know; surely Sam could see through this, see how weak and fucking useless he really was. He had been trying to forget that his brother was there at all.
     

      Then, when his arm had made itself undeniably known, and he had grasped on to the only solid thing he could to keep himself from collapsing to the floor, he had choked back his cries with difficulty. This new doc, she for sure heard him, dogging him as she was around the room. He had kept his eyes shut tight against its assault, and was relieved when the twisting let up a bit when he sat back down.

      He had played along after that, humouring the doctor with written scribbles, humouring Sam with feinged interest until he could ignore the forced normalcy no longer, then playing at rapt attention when two nurses beseiged his room.

      He was glad when the latter left, then was doubly glad when Sam left him alone not long after, without protest; he had been mentally, tiredly, preparing his argument to get his brother out of there. He didn't want an audience right now, not after such an embarassing performance. He wanted to slip in to the warm coma of medication they had offered up to him, had given him ultimate control over, and not think until later. Until tomorrow. Or next week. Until ever.

      When he roused later, he had no idea how long he had been out; it was dark outside the narrow windows of his room, and he looked around blearily, the words and actions of the day echoing back through his consciousness. He drove them all away with an abrupt shake of his head but couldn't drive away the feeling of urgent unease that had come with their recollection. He fumbled frantically for the call button that connected him to the hospital staff that lingered somewhere outside his room. He needed out. He needed movement, he needed to do something other than lie here for one more single goddamn minute.

      Fred appeared in his doorway a few moments later with a questioning look. He asked the concerned face, deadpan, "Can a guy get a shower around here without it being too much of an ordeal? Or is there paperwork involing my first born I gotta sign?"

      Fred smiled, "Yeah, you're good. Let me just get you disconnected from your lines. You've got to keep your bandages dry though. There's a shower room down the hall."

      He sat up and sat on the edge of his bed before Fred even got himself situated, then watched as the nurse pushed buttons on monitors and machines, withdrew needles from his hand and disconnected cables.

      He stood, and thankfully, since he was under the watchful eye of Fred, didn't sway or stumble like he had earlier, and his vision remained clear. Still, when he walked around to the other side of his bed, it was on rather shaky legs. Sam had brought his duffel bag in today or yesterday, or days ago, he wasn't quite sure, but it was there, under a chair, and he shouldered it. When he stood back up, he felt slightly light-headed but he shook it off and finally ventured in to the hall of the place he had been for nearly a week, but had yet to see any more of than the four walls he had stared at for hours on end in medicated stupor.

      Fred disappeared in to a small store room, then reappeared to walk beside him down the dimly lit hall to a swinging door with signs that indicated a men's washroom. The nurse pushed the door open for him and he went in. A mosaic of tiny tiles, dull blues and whites, covered every horizontal surface in front of him, and climbed most of the way up all the vertical ones as well. It looked like a normal public washroom, albeit dated and showing its years. A trough of sinks, a row of urinals and a hall of plastic-doored stalls were inside, but three shower stalls, with thin, plastic shower curtains hanging limply in their doors were there too.

      He made his way to the first shower stall and threw back the curtain, an overbright, narrow room revealed behind it, the tiny tiles repeating in here and causing his eyes to swim as they searched for an unpatterned place to rest upon; it was a bit much in the small space. There was a tiled bench that stretched the length of the far wall and to his right the shower, simply a sunken area of floor with a drain set in to it. He threw his bag on to the bench and turned to say thanks to Fred, and was surprised when the nurse stepped in behind him and wrapped a plastic something around and around his bandaged arm. He finished it tight just under his armpit, taped up the seams, then tapped his other wrist, oh right, he didn't have an other wrist, and, when he offered it confusedly, the nurse slapped an adhesive square over whatever plastic bits of his IV were still sticking out of him.

      "If it feels like water is getting in under any of that, get out and pull that cord there, I'll come take a look. And any light-headedness, dizzyness, nausea? Sit down right away ok, and do the same. "

     He looked at his arm and his hand, and, feeling like yesterday's leftovers, uttered an unsure, "Thanks."

      "Come find me when you're done."

      He nodded the nurse out of the tiny room and it was a moment before he slid the curtain shut behind him. Once hidden, he turned and set his sights on the tap, with a vague notion that he could simply shower, get dressed, and disappear from this place before he was noticed. He cranked it almost all the way towards the 'H' and tested the temperature and water pressure for a moment, then set about getting himself ready, forming an obscure plan in his head about how he would somehow leave, somehow find Sam and convince him to play along, and they'd be on their way.

      He unzipped his bag and rummaged around with his one good hand until he felt the rectangular plastic container that held his bar of soap, dragged it out and placed it on a, of course, tiled ledge in the shower. He turned back and continued digging until his hand grasped a tiny shampoo bottle, one of the many that littered the bottom of his bag, taken from the endless motel rooms they had occupied over the years; he couldn't remember the last time he had had to buy shampoo.

      He placed the bottle next to his soap, got undressed, and stepped under the water, hot steam swirling around him now after his delay in getting in. He kept his plastic-wrapped arm out beside him, askew, as he let the hot water flow over the top of his head and his face, and he brought his hand up to settle over his forehead under the deluge.

      He turned his back to the water, but kept his eyes closed, and swallowed hard against a tightness in his throat; it felt so nice to be doing something normal, and he could practically see himself leaving the place, and all its bullshit, behind. He dropped his hand to his side and tilted his head back, stretching his neck against the tightness he could barely breath around, and the water hit him on his crown and he let it fall, cascading backwards over his shoulders and forwards in to his eyes, for he didn't know how long.

      He finally opened his eyes and found himself staring at the only untiled portion of the stall, the dingy, drywalled ceiling, took a deep breath and remembered why he was there and his newly formed but now burning desire to get out of there. He turned and grabbed his container of soap, but was stymied for a while as he tried to shake the bottom away from the top and release the bar inside, with one hand. He vaguely wondered the last time he had used it, and figured it must have dried out, sealing itself together. He turned and ran it under the water for a bit, flipping it over and over in one hand, but it still wouldn't give. He wedged it rectangurlarly between his arm and chest, the plastic wrapped around his arm getting in the way, and pried, digging his fingernails in to the tiny semi-circles that were the only way of opening it. Who designed this shit anyway? Finally, with a slick slip, it opened, and the whole thing went flying, top and bottom bouncing with hollow thocks off the walls and floor.

      He cursed, stooped and grabbed the parts of the container from their disparate places on the shower floor with his hand, threw both on to the bench outside the flow of water, then stooped again and grabbed the bar, slippery at his feet. He soaped up wherever he could, wondering blankly if his left elbow would ever be clean again, but managed to contort himself enough to get some soap in to his left armpit. With a slight glance at the small shampoo bottle, he ran the bar of soap under the water then through his hair; he couldn't be bothered trying to struggle-fuck the tiny threaded top off that thing at the moment. Soap would do fine. He ran the bar over his face and behind his ears then slammed it on to the ledge beside him. He found his forehead with his hand again and turned his head beneath it, scrubbing the remaining bubbles from his face.

      He turned and wrenched the handle all the way to the right and the water stopped. He stood there with his eyes closed, hand on the handle, dripping coolly for a moment as a chill crept about him, and cursed himself for not thinking about a towel until that very moment. He must have one in his bag, or something that would suffice, so he turned and stepped out, wiping water from his eyes, and dug in its confines once again, trying not to drip all over the clothes inside.

      He eventually pulled out a threadbare towel, one that would be relegated solely for beach use if he had had any other sort of life, and tried to dry himself off. It was almost impossible to wrap a towel around his middle with one hand, he discovered, so he settled on drying as much as himself as he could, and started to get dressed. After he stepped in to a pair of underwear and got them all but soaked as they dragged along the floor, and pulled them up inch by inch, one-handed, he threw his towel down and repeated the same actions with the pajama pants he had settled on since they were near the top of his bag. Their hems only got slightly less soaked. Staring at his feet, he realized he didn't have any shoes, and his escape plans were thwarted for a moment until he regrouped and figured there must be some back in his room.

      When it came to his t-shirt, he wrestled it out and laid it on top of his bag, infinitely pissed at himself for not turning it the right way out when he had last washed it. He spent a good three minutes messing with it with his one hand before he knew it was actually outside-right and back to front. He threaded his arm through the bottom, found the sleeve, raised his arm and shook it until it fell to his shoulder, then shoved his bandaged arm in as well. He fished through and pulled back at the fabric for what seemed like a ridiculously long a time before plastic and gauze appeared from the other sleeve. He finally threw it over his head and pulled it down angrily, then, with difficulty, felt around for the ends of the tape that was stuck to him, ripped the plastic Fred had wrapped him with off, and threw it to the floor.

      He, as hastily as he could, packed up his limited shower parephenalia. He grabbed the tiny, unused, shampoo bottle and threw it back in to his pack, then, with one hand, tried and failed to slide the bar of soap off the shelf and back in to the bottom part of its container. He missed its falling and it slipped to the floor again. He shook his head, now just about ready to throw a punch at something, and biffed the molded plastic case hard, beside him, and sent it bouncing around the room once again. He bent and grabbed the slippery bar, trying to keep his knees dry, and slammed it in to the bottom of the case after he chased it around the floor of the stall for a moment, then slammed the top to meet it. He gave a small, exasperated laugh and shook his head again, wondering how the hell he'd ever get out of there, picking up the soap case and squeezing it until his hand hurt. He stood abruptly, threw it back in to his bag and glared daggers down at it as he reached out and almost punched the wall in front of him; he thought better of it at the last minute. He slowed his arm and opened his hand, but still slapped it hard in to the damp wall of the shower.

     Breathing hard, he raised his eyes skyward, grimacing at the total uselessness he felt. Chasing soap around, barely able to dress himself, wanting to leave but stymied by the simplest of things. He closed his eyes and levelled his head, trying not to draw back his hand and use his fist this time, and when he opened them again was met by a misty, obscured reflection. His hand was on a mirror that took up half the back wall of the stall. It ran from the top of the bench almost all the way up to the top of the tile. He hadn't even noticed it, maybe because he had been so engrossed in the task at hand, or had been wrapped, mummy-like, by Fred almost the second he had got in there. A part of him, possibly connected to the phantom part, wondered if he hadn't seen it because he wanted to avoid it. He had definitely registered the wall of plated silver above the sinks when he walked in to the bathroom though, but hadn't spared them a glance.

      He pulled his hand back slighly and took in the argent handprint he had made. Drops of condensation had pooled and were now running down the mirror in clean, vertical, lines from any point of pressure he had applied. They trickled from the imprint of each fingertip and the base of his palm. He put his hand back in to the print and wiped a squeaking circle clear and saw his own face for the first time in days.

      A hollow, slightly warped, reflection met his eye, the dampness still lingering on the mirror's surface distorting it in places. His complexion was wan, his cheeks were drawn, his eyes were sunken, but somehow too bright in his face, and there were shadows of dark lines beneath them; he looked fucking terrible. It wasn't just the pallor in his face that shook him. The eyes themselves, he recognized them as his own, but they seemed to belong to someone else, someone he didn't know; someone he definitely didn't want to know. They were watery and wide and stood out harshly. They were agonized and alien, and he had to look away, but not before he glanced down and saw the bandaged end of his arm, the first time he had seen what he was missing from another point of view, reflected back at him in the circular swath of mist he had cleared.

      He looked back up, raised his hand and cleared the mist off the remainder of the square, silver surface in front of him, all thoughts of escape now forgotten. Once faced with a clear and whole picture of his un-whole self, he stared blankly at it for far too long. "That's not me. That's not me," he shook his head as he heard the words in his mind, trying to convince himself that what his own eyes were seeing was wrong. His eyes darted to what he was missing more than he wanted, and he eventually smiled a brief, repulsed smile at himself. He didn't look away, as much as he wanted to. This was his reality now, hanging beside him, ending a foot above where it should, from where he felt it still, short and stunted and sickeningly wrong; he better get used to it. He felt queasy and he finally turned away, and threw his hand over his mouth as he gagged slightly, breathing hard, to lean heavily against the wall behind him.

      A moment later he heard the door open and thought it must be Fred, coming to check on him, and he righted himself quickly, grabbing his duffel bag and swallowing hard as he pushed past the shower curtain and back out in to the world.

      "All good in here?" the nurse asked.

      "Yeah. Good," he lied, and he walked through the bathroom and back in to the hall.

      "How'd you make out?"

      He didn't reply as they made their way back to his room. He threw his bag down beside his bed and sat down as Fred reattached him to twisting lines and cables.

      "There, all set," the nurse finally said, after completing his job and picking up his chart to make some notes. "So no problems? No light-headedness, no nausea? Nothing to report?"

      He stared at the floor unseeing, pretty much unhearing. He looked up in to the nurse's face after a moment, distracted, when he realized he had been asked a question, but still didn't offer a reply. No problems. Yeah, he'd had a few, but he didn't care to enumerate them.

      "Look, don't worry about it. It's gotta seem a like a pain in the ass to try and figure out how to do things one arm down. Dr. Silvey? That's what she's here for. She's great, she'll steer you right."

      His eyes drifted off Fred's face as he spoke, and the words he said became nothing more than unintelligible noise. He couldn't drive the image of his missing arm, reflected in the mirror, away. He eventually looked up and stared around the room, but he was alone. He hadn't heard the nurse leave. He pushed himself back to lay down in his bed, vaguely remembering that he had wanted to search for hidden shoes and get out of there not twenty minutes prior. In a numb corner of his mind, he laughed at himself, loudly and mockingly. He didn't even bother to shut off the light above his bed when he shut his eyes; he knew sleep wouldn't find him, what with the tight, unsettled feeling that was coursing through his chest with every beat of his heart.

      With a muted jolt he remembered the PCA newly introduced in to this life, and he slowly and blindly felt around for it at his side. He could medicate himself in to oblivion, he assumed, but he refrained. Some part of him, some old, ingrained instinct wanted his senses about him, even if those senses were tired and frayed, cut off in places, dulled by apathy yet somehow still crackling with unease, and pretty much didn't care what happened to him.

      He was sure he saw a piece of every hour that night, as he drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep and checked the clock that hung on the wall each time he not so much jerked as rolled hollowly in to consciousness. He reached up and switched off his light at some point, or maybe it was Fred that had done it during one of his many rounds. It made no difference. Darkness or light, seeing or unseeing, it didn't matter; he could still feel everything, whether it was there or not.

Chapter Text

        His return to consciousness was not abrupt or jarring. He opened his eyes and was simply aware that he was aware, a vague sense of unease filling him. Most of the details of the dream that roused him were receding from his mind as quickly as a mile marker passed at speed on the highway. It had been the most normal, throwaway dream; the kind that's weird as hell, but makes perfect sense while you're in it, randomly firing synapses causing abrupt locale changes, shapeshifting players, and absurd thought processes to seem commonplace. Only upon waking did you wonder how your sleeping mind had come up with something so unimaginable, and why you dreamt it at all.

        He had been in some sort of forest in the dark, suspended miles above the earth, yet it was brightly lit, or he, at least, had had no trouble seeing. He and Sam and someone he couldn't recall, who had morphed several times in to different people, had been navigating through dense undergrowth that had alternated between tugging gently and catching violently at his legs with each carefully measured step. They had had to get that person to somewhere, or some thing; it was the most important thing in the world.

        He had also been somewhere else, alone, he didn't know where, maybe everywhere, but he had been afforded a view of what was not just a forest in the sky, but an entire city. He could see it from all angles simultaneously, bird's eye, elevation, from the ground below; it had been perched on thick steel plates and a maze-work of pipes, its edges jagged, streets, buildings and woods severed abruptly in odd places.

        He remembered running down grated metal, together again with Sam and their charge, their footfalls thunderous and echoing as they descended in to maybe a basement, or the hold of some cavernous ship. He had been eager; this had either been the end of their journey or the start of some important fight. He had either been about to lay down or take up his weapons, which had suddenly materialized everywhere on him, in all shapes and sizes, in pockets and sleeves and down the sides of his boots, slung over his shoulder, tucked in to the waist of his jeans, and in his hands.

        That was why he had awoken; he had had two hands at the ready, whatever the situation might have been, and some vindictive, or simply realistic, part of him wouldn't let him carry on in believing that what he saw was real.

        He had barely blinked four times since opening his eyes. What he did remember rose quickly to the front of his mind while the rest faded even faster, never to be known. The feeling of it remained though, and he couldn't breathe. He tried to ignore it, to relegate it back to the realms of sleep and unconcern. Only seconds had passed since he had had his arm in his dream, and it seemed unreal what sight would greet him if he looked down now. He didn't move, but shut his eyes once again, wanting so badly to go back to sleep and to the dream, where the disjointed seemed everyday, and the waking world seemed the nightmare.

*     *     *     *     *

        He awoke with an start and a sharp inhalation the next day. The realisation that the high-morning sun was glaring him in the eyes only registered partially as recollections of the dream he had been having, over and over all night, flew past him like a half-spied blur on the edge of the road; it might have been some animal about to dart out on to the highway in the dark, or it might just have been an oddly shaped bush shuddering in the wind. You couldn't be sure either way, but still your heart pounded and your nerves crackled and your adrenaline coursed at the thought of the evasive manouevres you may or may not have been able to make in time, if nature decided to meet you, head on.

        His heart thumped in his chest, his thoughts swam in his head and his body shook against itself as he tried to contain it, to forget. It seemed no containment was possible; he couldn't breathe. What he had left behind, what wasn't real, what he couldn't remember. That was all that he could think about, and he broke down.

        "Hey. Hey? Are you ok?" The voice spoke from close by, but sounded faint, false. He heard the words only vaguely, and had no idea how, or if, he responded to their rising, worried queries. He felt something forced roughly against his palm, felt a hand close over his own so tightly. His senses, always so sharp, even when he wished they weren't, caught up. It must be Sam, forcing his PCA on him, trying to help. He didn't need medicating right now. The drugs would work, but they really wouldn't. They would only delay the inevitable, though that might be preferable at the moment, now that he knew he was observed. Yet he didn't press, even though everything he wanted to feel was false and everything he didn't was real.

        The voice spoke again, cutting its way in to his mind. "Dean? What's wrong?" It was alarmed, desperate, sad.

        He couldn't put it in to words, and even if he could he doubted he would ever speak them aloud, especially to his brother. It was the feeling that had stared him in the face when he had met his reflection the night before; the disassociated, dreadful feeling that he would never be himself again, that he was forever and unfixably broken, that he could never escape it, since it was attached, or rather detached from him, and that he was always going to be less, figuratively and very literally, than he used to be.

        He was seized like an engine and there was nothing to do but coast until he stopped, locked in a memory and a nightmare, and the harder he tried to gain control, the harder it became to steer; he couldn't do anything but let the terrible longing take over. He held his breath longer and longer after each stunted gasp. He let the controller go and pressed his hand to his face, to try and hide how wrecked he was. He let Sam place a hand on his shoulder, then on the back of his neck, then let him get in close and he broke down at the touch. He let his brother's words in his ear in; they were quiet and choked and he tried to listen to what Sam said. He knew, he hoped, they must be offering some sort of comfort, and his eyes sprang open in surprise that anyone was still there for him, as fucked up and useless as he was. He heard them as one trying to pay attention to two conversations at once, trying to follow but confused and overwhelmed. "It's ok man. Shh, shh. It's ok. You're ok." They seemed looped, on repeat, infinite, ad nauseam. A ghost of his former self wondered who his brother was trying to convince.

        Eventually he, and Sam's half-hearted, half-heard litany, ceased. He dropped his hand and in some numb corner of his mind felt his brother pull away. When he could bother to take in his surroundings, he saw Sam, still sitting unnaturally close, alternately staring between the floor and his face, a dead, drained look on his own.

        In that moment, he felt the need, from some normal, though far away and mostly excised part of himself, to speak, to explain away why he couldn't get a goddamn grip on himself. When he caught his breath and thought he could trust his voice to remain steady, he spoke, though haltingly, without looking around to see Sam's reaction.

        "I — I don't wanna be here anymore." The words weren't a lie, but they weren't the whole truth either. What he left unsaid echoed in his mind and tore at the deadening wall he was trying to build and almost sent him gasping for air once again.

       Sam had some reply to this, but he didn't hear it, concentrating as hard as he was on biting back bitter sorrow and not losing it once more. He found a spot on the far wall and stared death at it for a long time. He didn't look away until he noticed movement close by, though upon inspection, it obviously hadn't made it through to him until long after it had actually happened.

        He was alone; Sam's chair, it seemed like it was occupied only a moment ago, was empty, and a table bearing a plastic food tray had taken his place. He eyed it for a split second, then turned his attention away, back to the weary apathy that surrounded him, yet seemed unwilling to touch him. It was as if the room was filled with a cold-burning indifference. It festered around him and he felt its decay, but if he didn't move, didn't acknowledge it, it couldn't get in. If he just stared, and didn't think, if he kept up a front of uncaring, he would be spared its touch.

        The hours passed in leaps and bounds, with him trying not to feel, and only catching up to events long after they happened. Sam came back at some point and kept trying to cajole him in to conversation, and get him to eat, first breakfast, then lunch. The next minute, Dr. Silvey was there and he found himself upright in the hall, acquiescing to whatever she demanded, to whatever would keep them happy. The second after that, he awoke in the dim light of his room late at night and remembered and tried to forget everything in the same crushing instant. He guessed he must have slept, though it was hard to tell the difference between his burdened slumber and his waking self, He raised his head to check the clock and a disheveled form in the corner of the room drew his eye; Sam was sleeping here again, fully clothed and cramped on the couch.

        The next day raced on in much the same fashion, great dollops of daylight disappearing and he couldn't remember living them. There were intrusions from nurses and doctors, and he had seen the inside of a gym in the afternoon, and he didn't remember speaking a single word or meeting a single eye. He guessed Sam, the only constant in each numb recollection, had been filling in the blanks for him, and he was grateful. He wanted to say so, but something, the set of his jaw or the tautness in his chest, prevented him from uttering a single word; he couldn't fight through the indifference that hung in the air and threatened to engulf him, without garnering its attention. If he made a conscious move or sound, if he tried to sneak past it, it might notice him and get in; and if it did, he might never get it out.

        The next night was a bad one; pain drove any other thoughts from his mind and as he pressed and pressed on the button in his hand, something other than drugs seemed to flood through him; maybe it was because his defenses were down. He remembered being able to think at one point, and he thought it had to be so late; the darkness outside was deep, the light in the room was dim, and the silence of the place was shrouding, yet there was his brother next to him. Still there. Always there. Even though he, Dean, was useless, used up and broken beyond repair. Why didn't Sam leave? Cut his losses? Go?

        Through the pain and the tears, the cries and the curses, the indifference found its way in. He didn't know if something left him or something joined him, but he became empty. He couldn't escape the physical, that which ripped and cut at his side, so mentally, he gave up and gave in. He didn't care what happened to him anymore; he only still cared to vaguely exist at all because Sam, the stubborn bastard, didn't seem like he was ever gonna leave.

        He detached himself from himself, and watched from afar, as the body he couldn't leave twisted and writhed, then grew still and quiet. He might have dreamt it. He was never sure, but he opened his eyes in a medicated haze, not pained but hurting all the same, and it was dark. He saw his room through bleary eyes, and thought he saw Sam, not sleeping, just sitting in the corner, so still. His brother spoke after a long time, from far away.

        "Can you say something? Anything. Please. Just talk to me man. You're starting to scare me."

        The voice was flat and quiet, a pleading barely detectable; resignation overpowered it. It sounded like his own voice in his head; he ignored it.

        Until he remembered, and couldn't anymore. "I'm ok," he slurred. He meant to, and he felt like he even managed to summon a small, hopefully reassuring, smile, before he returned to uncaring and fell asleep again.

Chapter Text

        "Two more."

        "That just was three more."

        "Well, I lost count."

        "You sure you're qualified for this job? Freaking doctor that can't even count to three, damn suspicious if you ask me."

        "You're on to me. I flunked out of kindergarten. Don't know my shapes either, it's a real problem. Grab that round-ish thing, suck it up and do the reps."

        Dean scowled up at the stern face of Dr. Silvey, repositioned himself slightly on the bench he was trapped on until she said he could go, and began the exercise again, dumbbell in his hand and weighted water-wing, as he thought of it, around what was left of his other arm. He still felt slightly ridiculous, even after a week of this, as he pressed his arms up and in to where his hands would have met at the top of the press; they were never going to meet in the middle. He felt sweat break out on his brow as he hurried through the next rep, wanting to get it over with and on to the next annoying thing she had in store for him.

        "Slow down, it's not a race."

        He slowed to a crawl, as slow as he could possibly move on the last one, and she seemed pleased as he returned to the starting position. "Nicely done. I think you can do two more."

        He gave an exasperated, bordering on angry, laugh and muttered, shaking his head up at her, "If you could see which digit I'm flipping you right now."

        "It's a thumbs up right? Because you're just so psyched about physio. I can tell."

        He grumbled and mouthed a few curse words she didn't see since she had her eyes trained on his form, darting back and forth between each arm, hands following along with his movements. He repeated the motion, but when he went to, once again, start the supposed last repetition, a pain unlike anything he had felt before shot from the tips of his fingers to his elbow and he couldn't move, he couldn't even speak, and every detail above him disappeared as if his eyes could no longer relay what they were seeing.

        "One more, c'mon, then you're done," he somehow heard from above him.

        A second later he felt the weight of the dumbbell ripped from his hand as he tried to find his voice, shaking his head blindly and finally managing, "No. No, I can't. Get it off... get it off." His voice rose urgently, insistently, but she was already removing the weight that bound his arm, suspended it immobile out to his side dangling over empty space. The minute he felt it go he clasped his arm across his chest and held his breath as another unspeakable wave crashed over him.

        "Breathe. C’mon. Remember, we talked about this. Breathe, and try some pressure."

        He forced himself to take deep breaths, which stuttered as they escaped him, as he ran his thumb over and over and over the end of his arm. He was pressing so hard it should have hurt, there where his stitches had so recently been removed, but the only thing he felt were the continued white hot lightning strikes electrifying his arm at ever narrowing intervals. He shook his head as his eyes started to water and he broke out in a cold sweat all over. His breathes became rapid, each more shallow than the last as desperation set in, and still he increased the pressure he applied with his thumb, not sure if he was still hoping for a miraculous result, or if he was simply locked in a loop, pain blocking any other signals he might send out of his head.

        "Ok, just relax you arm, open your hand, relax your fingers."

         He tried; he really tried, but all he could see in his mind's eye was his arm, probably much as it would have appeared had it existed, whole, but dead across his chest, helplessly locked in its final grip. He couldn't stop it. He felt his face fall, he was crying in agony now, shaking his head again, gritting his teeth as a low choking sound caught in his throat.

        "Ok. Let's get you back to your room." Then, "Nikki, little help!"

        He felt an arm wedge itself under his shoulders and he was hauled in to a sitting position, then was jostled higher again and he felt the floor under his feet. He tried to help propel himself forwards and got a few steps in, then he woke up groggily in his room. It couldn't have been much later, judging by the angle of the sun in his windows and the throbbing still in his arm. He tried not to move, he was so nauseous, and simply stared at the ceiling, eyes glassy and mouth slack as he tried to let air escape him in short bursts. Gradually he was able to slow his breathing and he felt a deep drowsiness overtake him. His vision became blurred, eyes half-filling and closing every now and then. He wanted desperately to sleep but it didn't come; his heart still seemed to be racing.

        He heard a sound at the door and turned his head drowsily as he heard Sam ask, "Hey, how was physio?" Their eyes met, his brother's form wavering in his vision as though he was looking at him through a rain-drenched window and Sam said, "Jesus, are you ok?"

        He withdrew his gaze; he could feel the truth and anguish rising in him. A long, undecided, moment passed, and he imagined himself nodding, just shrugging it off; but the longer he delayed the more the thought of playing at fine seemed impossible. He didn't have the energy. He didn't know what to do. He shook his head, abruptly and unbidden, and closed his eyes and mouth hard against what was tearing to get out of him; it felt as though it would shatter his rib cage, lacerate his throat, burn out his eyes when it left him.

        "What happened?" The reply was too loud, aghast.

        The panic in Sam's voice filled him with alarm and it was enough to allow him to fight off the hopelessness clawing its way out of him. He steeled himself, fought back tears that threatened to fall and swallowed words he wanted to be rid of, and forced himself to look his brother in the eye again. Behind the worry of the moment he saw such a sadness there. His exhaustion doubled in that instant; he was so very tired.

        When he spoke he was surprised at the weakness in his own voice. He took a breath but still practically slurred his reply, tripping over each word, "Guess I blacked out."

        "Shit... that bad?"

        Like the question needed to be asked. He shrugged and said in a small voice, "Guess so." He fought and lost a battle trying to keep his eyes open.

        "Get some sleep man," Sam said quietly, and Dean registered the tightness in his brother's tone.

        He heard Sam sit down. A few minutes passed then he heard a rustling that must have been Sam shifting in his chair. Sleep still didn't come, but a weighty calm settled over him as his breathing slowed. Another time passed and he still happened to be awake, so he opened his eyes and, through heavy lids, observed his brother, slouched back, brow furrowed, staring past the end of his bed at nothing in particular. It was another lid-fluttering filled few minutes, in which his own eyes drifted off Sam but remained untouched by sleep, before his brother noticed he was still awake. When Sam turned his head, the movement drew his own gaze back to his brother's face, but neither of them said anything.

        He took a breath, and something he had only thought in the blackest of pain-wracked moments surfaced, but he managed to speak it calmly, almost lazily, in his medicated state. "What the hell good am I to you now?" he stated, more than asked, barely above a whisper. He was as intently focused on his brother's reply as he could be, and Sam looked more resigned than shocked by the question, almost as if he had been expecting it, but had hoped not to hear it.

        Sam leaned forwards, shaking his head, and it seemed an eternity before he answered. "Don't think like that man. It's not even a question. If it's between this and you dead, or this and you out there with the Mark..." His brother paused, then shook his head and spoke again, "This isn't forever man. I know it must seem like it right now... and I know it's been hard... but you're gonna get better. It's gonna get easier."

        The words rose out of him before he could stop them, driven by a fear he hadn't allowed himself to think about. "And what if it doesn't?"

        Sam didn't seem to have an answer; or he did, but didn't want to say it, more like, Dean thought. "We'll manage man. We always do," his brother replied after a time.

        His response was immediate, he shook his head again slowly, "No. No way. Too much of a risk. You can't be out there when the guy who's supposed to be watching your back is..." He trailed off. He didn’t know what he was, other than a useless, ticking time-bomb of a liability.

        "You're getting way ahead of yourself man. You don't know it'll be like that."

        "You don't know that it won't." He waited for Sam to say something, looking in to his brother's face, trying to keep the pleading from his own. When he was met with what looked like confusion and pity, another question that pressed on his mind filled the silence. "Shouldn't it have stopped by now? It damn well shouldn't be getting worse." He eyes were forced closed tight by the agonizing uncertainty he felt.

        "I don't know,” his brother replied, the tone of regret obvious. “You just gotta give it time, I guess, like they said. I know you just wanna to get back to normal but... look, just don't... don't worry about any of that until you need to ok? One day at a time, right?"

        He managed a small laugh at that. "Well today sucked."

        "Nowhere to go but up then tomorrow, right?"

        He closed his eyes tiredly at Sam's optimism and replied softly, not believing it. "Yeah."

        He felt now as of he might actually fall asleep, a warm, heavy, nothingness was gathering around the edges of his thoughts and worries, clouding them from view. After a bit, from through the fog, he heard Sam say quietly, almost as if to himself, "I'm sorry."

        He pried his eyes open to question his brother. "What the hell for?"

        Sam looked surprised then a pained look crossed his face. He gestured at him lamely, "For this. Everything. Doing this to you." His brother shook his head sharply, as if he was full of regret.

        He was so tired now it was hard to string together his reply. He found himself pausing after each sentence, not knowing how long he had stopped, if he was making any sense, or if he had even said the words aloud, but he continued on, fighting to keep his eyes open as he spoke. "Hey. Nothing to apologize for. Didn't know if we would ever find a way, right? You did what you had to. You were almost too late. I almost killed you. I did kill you. You got the job done man... It's better that I'm here, not out there hurting people."

        A sudden realization gave him a wakening jolt. He raised his head and said, "I should be thanking you. Did I thank you?" Sam stared at him for a second with a confused look, shook his head, then opened his mouth to say something and began shaking his head even harder. Dean nodded and spoke before his brother could cut in. "Thank you." He held his nod and Sam's gaze until his brother dropped his head and only then did he close his eyes again, still continuing to nod slightly in his stupor. Finally the sleep that had been threatening, but until then had been elusive, came.

         Sam sat there for a while, feeling sick, until was sure Dean was out, then stepped in to the hall, talked briefly to one of the nurses at the station, and left at the slowest pace he could muster that felt normal, that he felt wouldn't draw attention, but he still bolted down the hall. He made it to the car, but he didn’t remember getting in, starting it up or driving at all. He couldn't recall navigating through a single intersection, making a single turn or seeing a single other car on the road. When he came out of his reverie, he had no idea where he was. He pulled over in to the first parking lot he saw and tried to get his bearings. He had become familiar with a few areas of town during this seemingly never-ending stay, but he didn't recognize a thing. He hauled out his phone out of his pocket and found he was forty-five minutes outside of town. He wondered, not overly concerned, how on earth he had managed that.

        He should head back. Go to the motel, get his mind off of everything, get some sleep. He made no move to leave. He couldn't bring himself to walk in to a motel room by himself at the moment, even though he had been doing so here for three weeks already. It would have felt wrong, or ominous, or disloyal somehow, after the conversation he had just had. What he should really do was head back and check on Dean, make sure he was ok, make sure he had stopped questioning his own existence because of what he, Sam, had done. He made no move to leave. He couldn't go back there either, not when his guilt was boring slowly in to his guts and his brain, eating him alive from the inside out; not when there was a chance Dean might wake up and look him in the eye and sincerely fucking thank him for ruining his life again.

        After a while, bright neon lights and movement outside the car caught his eye. He had pulled over in to some sort of bustling strip mall with businesses and restaurants as far as his periphery could see, and he convinced himself he should eat. He should do something at least, and since he wasn't doing what he should, he should make an effort to appear as if he was doing something that was a necessity. You had to eat to live right?

        He got out and walked through the nearest door that looked like it sold sustenance, sat down and ordered something to eat, but not before ordering the first drink he saw on the menu that contained hard liquor; a beer just wasn't going to cut it at the moment.

        He tried not to think about anything, but his head was like a hate-filled echo chamber. Dean had finally touched on something he himself had only been thinking in times of blackest worry and most brutal honesty; and his brother must have been feeling it a thousand-fold, even if he wasn't talking about it. Dean was, sadly, right. If his brother didn't recover fully, if he was going to be fighting against this phantom pain, that could rear up at any moment, and seemed to be getting worse rather than better, it would be too great a risk for him to go back on the job. Not because of any risk to him, Sam, but because Dean was likely to get himself killed. A moment of lost concentration, one minute of painful distraction, could be all it took.

        He had said, truthfully and hopefully, that he didn't think it was going to be like that; to wait it out, because he thought surely his brother’s torment had to end. As the days had turned in to weeks, and Dean had continued to need drugs and sedation, Sam had still believed an end to all that had to come. But today, a shade of a doubt had crept in; his brother had blacked out, a terrible first, and Sam was now staring down the bleak possibility that he had hoped wrong. The task of having to tell Dean he was right, confirming his brother’s fears, and most likely taking away all his hope and thwarting his biggest, unspoken goal, in one, was going to be down to him. He ordered another of whatever drink he had just downed the first chance he got.

        That was what had forced his apology from him earlier. He hadn't thought Dean was going to hear it. He was apologizing for future deeds as much as for past acts when he said it. Then to sit there and listen to Dean not only not blame him, but thank him, had been more absolution than he could bear; much more than he'd ever deserve. He had tried to stop him. He wanted to tell him to not dare fucking say it until they knew the true and final outcome of what he had done, but he didn't know how; not without negating every bullshit platitude he had just spewed; not without basically kicking Dean while he was down at the very lowest he had been. So far. He shook his head slightly at his plate; he had to stop thinking like that. But it was so hard to watch Dean getting both better and worse as the exact same injury healed, but seemingly regressed; even harder was knowing what it meant if it continued on the same course.

        He threw his drink back when it arrived and asked for the bill, having eaten, without really tasting it, as much as he could, already having continued on long after he lost his appetite, solely for the fuel. He paid, left, stepped out in to the gathering twilight and got in the car, but had to sit there for a moment. The background buzz of normal conversation in the restaurant, the helter-skelter of people going about their shopping at the strip had drained him; he had been overwhelmed by it a couple times before when he had been out and about, getting necessities, pretending everything was ok. It made him feel unreal; people just going about their lives, when life as he knew it had ground to a halt, didn't look like it would be picking up the pace anytime soon, and when, if, it ever did, it was going to be near unrecognizable.

        He did what he had done before to bring himself back to reality, and mentally shook himself. Suck it the fuck up. Nobody died. Yeah, you fucking maimed your brother, no big deal, he'll get over it, so get the hell over it. It's not about you asshole. The world came in to sharper focus in front of him and he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, throat tight and guts churning, wishing he could believe his own voice in his head.

        He drove in the vague direction of town, remembering most of it this time around, and had no destination in mind. There was no place he felt he could really go. Drive to the motel, alone, and get a front row seat to how empty your life is, or drive to the hospital and observe first-hand how empty you've made another's. Inevitably, he found himself driving back to see Dean as the night above him bore down, filling the sky like the deepening blue-black of a fresh bruise.

        Once back inside and settled in his well-worn spot next to his brother, he took up his latest distraction, a terrible hospital gift-shop novel. He resumed his skimming, waiting out waiting hours to ensure they passed without problems, until Fred would most likely come kick him out again since he had lost track of time.

        He read for an hour or so, peering periodically over the top of his book to check on Dean, who, for the most part, slept peacefully. They said they had doped him up pretty well after the episode that afternoon, with muscle relaxers and a sedative among other things, and hooked him back up to the PCA if he needed it later. So when his brother started fidgeting in front of him, it began almost languidly, as if he was weighed down or bound, and after thirty minutes or so of this, Dean still didn't waken. Another time passed, with Sam's eyes darting more frequently off the page, then fidgeting suddenly seemed to give way to writhing and his brother awoke with a quiet moan, feeling around at his side for the button, which was just out of his reach. Sam dropped his book in to his lap, reached out and handed it to him.

        “Here."

        Dean opened his eyes at the word, as if surprised anyone was there, then hauled the button up, mashing it as he clutched it to his chest. His brother gave almost a groaning laugh, and said with closed eyes, "Oh Christ Sam, talk about something. What'd you do today, I don't care if it's boring."

        He filled the tense silence and Dean in on his day and tried to make it sound more interesting than it had been, and waited for the meds to kick in, which usually didn't take long. Except Dean's breathing was becoming louder and faster, not quieter, save when it was punctuated by silent lapses when his brother held his breath for longer and longer intervals, then had to give up and suck in air with a rapidity that was alarming. All the while Sam kept talking. He could see his brother's thumb on the button, pressing harder and longer each time. It mirrored the body of its owner, which was becoming tenser and tauter, pressing in to the bed as if to shrink, back as far away from its agonized world as it could get; but it wasn't enough. Sam only ceased his story-telling near the tail end of a breath his brother had held for so long it didn't seem humanly possible. He stood, alarmed, grabbed Dean by the shoulder and practically shouted his brother's name.

        "Dean?"

        His brother finally let the breath go with a terrible gasp and broke down at the end of it; he dissolved in to guttural cries and tears streamed down his face, and he raised both arms weakly. Sam grabbed his hand and was amazed at the force with which his brother pulled it to his chest. He kept his other hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed with all his strength, and said, "Just give it a minute man, hang on all right?" It was horrible to see, and was becoming unbearable to listen to, his brother's cries were getting louder with each passing minute, and all Sam could say, was, "Shh, shh. It's ok man. Shh, c'mon, you’re all right," over and over.

        Suddenly, as Dean thrashed terribly and yelled out, Sam realized this wasn't right. He quickly placed a hand on his brother's forehead then ripped his other, with great difficulty, out of Dean's iron grasp. He heard his name called out as he left his brother's side, once, twice, three times, each more desperate and confused than the last, and looked back, distraught, to see Dean’s hand following him, searching for him. He stuck his head out in to the hall, saw Fred was already on the move, but called urgently anyway, "Something's really wrong in here!" He sprinted back to retake his brothers still outstretched hand, and clasped it tight.

        Fred followed after him and set about checking read-outs on machines and following lines then Sam heard him utter a quiet, "Shit." He was aghast as the nurse mashed a button above Dean's bed and ran from the room calling, "Right back!" over his shoulder. It seemed like days of waiting, heart-breaking, helpless days, his words of soothing becoming ever, frantically, louder in an attempt to make himself heard over and by his brother. They eventually faltered, then failed altogether; nothing he said would help, and Dean probably didn't even know he was there anymore anyway. He stood in silence and tried to detach himself from the torment that echoed around the room, that crushed one hand and twisted under the other, that he had to close his own eyes and hold his own breath against.

        Fred returned with some unknown doctor and she ordered, "You need to move." The words didn't register. He had walled himself up miles away, but still in the chaotic midst of that awful, never-ending moment.

        When Fred yelled, "Sam, out of the way!" he tore himself away again and jumped back as if scalded, his hands in the air. For a split second he was at a complete loss, having been brought back to the scene so abruptly and unprepared that he wanted to run, or press his hands to his ears, or hide his eyes, or scream with all the air in his lungs. He pressed his hands to his head and stood there, chest heaving, then practically vaulted to the other side of the bed. He laid one hand on Dean's remaining, un-bandaged, upper arm and pressed hard on his chest with the other and watched as Fred tried to hold his brother's good arm down. The nurse finally got it under control, then the doctor stepped in. She quickly administered something and Fred released Dean's arm. It immediately clawed at the hand Sam had on his chest, then up his arm, then shoulder, finally balling the shirt there in to his fist as if hanging on for dear life. Fred and the doctor stood back to wait. They all seemed to be holding their breath now, except Dean, who was alternately staring wide-eyed in to Sam's face and wrenching his eyes closed, still making unearthly, inhuman sounds.

        Slowly, imperceptibly, Dean seemed to relax. Sam didn't know when his brother released his shirt and dropped his hand, didn't know when he rested his head back, didn't know when the writhing tension left his body, didn't know when he grew quiet. He just knew, there with his hand still pressed hard to his brother's chest, the horror left Dean's eyes and it was replaced by nothing. They were still wide, as if in shock, but there was nothing behind them, as blank and empty as if he were dead. Only the blinking, the slowing heartbeat and rise and fall he felt under his hand, gave him any sign that his brother was alive. The room emptied around Sam, but he didn't notice. He stayed as he was, waiting for Dean's eyes to close. They didn't. He waited longer and longer, then suddenly stood back and withdrew his touch, not able to stare in to his brother's vacant eyes any longer.

        Sam returned and sank in to the chair on the other side of the bed in a daze. He longed for a place to rest his eyes that didn't make him want to scream or run and settled on staring out the window. He saw nothing and tried not to think; he tried to find his way back to that place he had just sheltered in, behind towering, apathetic, walls, but in the silence, he didn't know how to get there. He managed to hold it together for about the space of two slow, deep, breaths, then out of his control, and apparently out of any conscious awareness of Dean, he broke down himself. His head fell and both hands found the back of his neck, as if he was trying to wring the life out of himself, as his shoulders shook silently.

        He stopped himself as quickly as he could, but stayed sat like that, utterly exhausted, lost and defeated, until he heard movement at the door, he didn't know how much later. Fred came back in and, needing to direct the anger he felt at something other than himself, he got immediately defensive. He looked up and shook his head with eyes still shining. "I'm not leaving. Call security if you have to."

        "Just doing my rounds," Fred said placatingly. The nurse shimmied between his chair and the bed and blocked his brother from his view.

        Sam slouched back and watched Fred work, detached. As the nurse moved to the other side of the bed, Sam shook his head and mustered enough energy to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to. "What the hell was that?"

        Fred stopped what he was doing, stared at the floor for a long minute, then looked at him gravely. "I'm shouldn't say anything. I'm sure they'll meet with you tomorrow." Sam had no idea what this meant, and was too tired to figure it out, but it wasn't an answer, so he looked up and met Fred's eye. The nurse continued after a beat. "It was the PCA. Something got messed up when they hooked it back up this afternoon, it wasn't working. I'm really sorry Sam, it shouldn't’ve happened."

        Sam nodded resignedly as he took this in, and Fred gave a sad shake of his head and went back to work. After rolling the reason around in his mind for a moment, Sam gave a sad laugh, and spoke robotically to the foot of Dean's bed. "That's almost worse. It’s not just some freak thing. That's how he'd be all the time, without it. Wouldn't he."

        "No. No, no no. Not all the time. Dr. Silvey, she said it was bad this afternoon, the worst she's seen him. You know it's not usually like that." Fred moved to the end of the bed and checked something on Dean's chart, replaced it then said, "If it's any consolation, he likely won't remember. What they gave him? Really strong stuff."

        Sam raised his eyes to meet Fred's and said with a small, sad, smile, "Any left over?"

        Fred returned it, shaking his head. "Why don't you head out? He'll be out for a good long while. Go get some sleep."

        Sam raised his eyebrows tiredly and shook his head.

        "All right. I'll be back later. You know where I am."

        Sam sat, head in hand, mind blank for a minute or two, then rose slowly and approached the bed, peering over in to his brother's face, still turned to the opposite wall, to check if his eyes had finally closed; thankfully they had. He wasn't sure he could have handled it if he had to look in to them, dull and unseeing, again. He took a deep breath, thinking that finally the worst of the night was over, then he clapped a hand to his mouth as a horrible feeling washed over him. He felt, and fought, his eyes welling up again as he thought, not for the first time, but with more regret and sadness than ever before, What the hell did I do? He backed away, as if distance would make a difference, and felt his knees hit the chair behind him. He sank in to it. He didn't deserve thanks for this. How could he? The feeling, as Dean lay drugged to oblivion in front of him in order to simply to survive what he, Sam, had done, was unbearable. He wanted to go back weeks in time and stop himself from ever leaving the bunker, or even just go back mere hours and scream in Dean's face, shake him and stop him before he uttered the damning words. After witnessing what he had that night, he didn't know how his brother had ever offered them to him in the first place.

Chapter Text

 LUN/A (Local Uranium Navigation/Acquisition) Site 10 - 62°23'09.6"N 96°28'39.5"W -

Kivalliq Region, Nunavut - 133 miles west of Whale Cove

          Most said they had never seen the Aurora Borealis so tinged with gold. That night, weather agencies worldwide reported that it hadn't been visible so far south in years. If anyone in New Mexico had looked out their window that clear night, they would have seen the great gilded ribbons rippling across the sky; a glittering river seemingly searching for a place to settle on the earth.

          Reesa McNie, and her team of geologists, geophysicists and old-timey prospectors, as Will Cronk liked to refer to himself, decidedly missed the show.

          They had arrived at LUN/A Site 10 a week ago and, though they realized now they had probably made the find of a lifetime for their company, hell, for geology in general, they were eager to be done with their task; it was fast heading in to winter. The days, and certain tempers, were getting shorter, and the nights much, much colder.

          When Derek, back-of-beyond delivery-man extraordinaire, had announced his arrival with the choppy swirl of helicopter blades late that afternoon, they had greeted him with surprised jubilation. Corporate had said it would probably be another day before their insanely expensive, and therefore highly-contested, requisition arrived.

          After the team helped him unload the chopper of their precious cargo and waved him on his way, Reesa asked Amelia, the junior geologist on her team, to help her unpack and assemble their new drill-bit while the rest of the team, prospector Cronk and fellow geologist Andy Singh, prepared the rig itself, though there wasn't much left to do except re-check what they had already checked multiple times. They had been there so long, poised and waiting; hell, they had had the bore hole churned and cased out three days ago.

          "Finally! Can you believe this Reesa?" Amelia asked.

          "Nope, still can't," she replied as she thought back to the day they had gotten their first indication that something was off about their survey site.

          "Reesa!" Cronk had called to her over the wind that first day, as she reviewed the satellite data of the area on a camp stool in the door of her newly erected tent. He jogged towards her, Andy and Amelia still dutifully navigating the ground-penetrating radar behind him, down a hill and out of sight. Cronk had reached her, slightly breathless, his long hair blowing in the wind outside his hat. "Look, I know they think this site is a long shot, but they could at least send us out with a working GPR?" he had said, scandalized.

          She bit back the first thought that popped in to her head, No, you think this site is a long shot, and had replied, slightly alarmed, "It's not functional?"

          "Well, so far it's been reliable up to about fifteen metres, but below that? To put it scientifically, it's fucking gobbledegook. Looks like a good vein of something, kimberlites maybe, which shouldn't be here anyway, then metres and metres of I don't know what."

          She had pushed her laptop aside, scowled and hiked up the hill then down the other side with Cronk to catch up with the team.

          "Let me see," she had called as they approached, and they halted and Andy had proffered the small field moniter dangling around his neck.

          She navigated through several screens and started a replay of the raw data they had acquired so far. She shook her head after watching for a few minutes, as puzzled as Cronk was by what she saw, "That's almost reading like empty space."

          "Yeah, which can't be right. Not that much of it," Cronk had replied in an 'I told you so' tone. "A fissure that big, in this area? Shit's gotta be malfunctioning Reesa."

          "Almost I said. There's something there, it's not nothing Cronk," she had said, trying to fathom what on earth would read like that.

          "So we've found some great big fart cavern. Still not what we're here for."

          She had tried to keep the smile from her face at Cronk's colourful description and said, "Well, whatever it is, you're walking away from it. It's a big sector. You got twelve metres when you started and now you're up to eighteen. Twenty. I don't see how that's malfunctioning, you're nearly at the limit, and everything else is reading fine."

          "We all know what should be down there Reesa, and this ain't it."

          "Just because it's not what we were expecting doesn't mean it's not working. We can analyze it in detail later, try and figure out what that anomaly is. Just keep looking for what we're looking for."

          "When's the last time any of the preliminary data has been wrong 'round here though? Reesa? You know as well as I do that there hasn't been any surprises!" he had called after her as she had turned and walked away, trudging up the bracken covered hill. She had heard his voice, now quiet, obviously speaking to Andy or muttering to himself, blown to her on the wind, "Don't know why they even fucking bothered anyway." She remembered thinking she would need to have a word with him about negativity and team morale.

          Cronk's demeanour couldn't be any more different now, and she hadn't even had a chance to meet with him; the difference a potentially groundbreaking scientific discovery could make. As she and Amelia unpacked and inspected their delivery, she could see him out of the corner of her eye, running back and forth between the drilling rig and his laptop in the fading sunlight, making adjustments and fine-tuning the angle of the machine. Amelia helped her heave the heavy drill bit on to a dolly and hold it as they pushed it, rattling over loose rocks, up the shallow incline to meet Andy and the excited Cronk.

          "All right. Let's do this," Cronk said, rubbing his gloved hands together with electric enthusiasm. His words reminded her of several he had spoken the second day of their survey, during their morning meeting, in a much different tone.

          "Why are we even doing this?"

          Andy had spoken irritably before she could reply; she guessed he had heard enough of Cronk's bitching. The two hadn't said one word to each other after returning from GPR surveying the previous evening. "Because Cronk, they sent us out here to find uranium? We look for uranium."

          "And you're so sure Singh, that they haven't sent us out here to a nothing of a site, with shoddy equipment — "

          "Yeah! I am! It's working. Checked it myself last night. Just because it's not what you expect, some easy, two-day, elimination job, you get — "

          "Enough," she had had to say forcibly. "What do we have?"

          Andy had glared at Cronk for a moment, then had seemed to remember himself, cleared his throat, and spoke to the group professionally, "Chemical tests are showing a few indicators of a primary halo in this sector, and results from the perimeter of sector 10-A, 100m elevation, show excellent visibility, up to 70m in some places, and it's what we expected, smooth sailing to the unconformity, excellent for core samples. We can start today. As we move up we gradually lose depth resolution, 105 we're still clear, 110 we're at the max we were anticipating, 21-22m, 115m we're at 15-18, 120m, only a 12m depth visible. I'd recommend further testing at 110-120m elevation before we send a drill down."

          Three of them had spoken nearly at once,

          "Good. We start at the perimeter and work — "

          "We're wasting our time, there's nothing worth — "

          "Hey, Reesa, have you looked at this? It's — "

          Amelia had been sitting next to Cronk, staring at the screen in front of her with furrowed brow, so Reesa had turned her attention there first when they had all stopped talking over each other, mid-sentence.

          "I'm sorry, what'd you say Amelia?"

          "Have you looked at this since it's been processed? The 3D model is rendering now, but from what I can see? It's... it's too perfect. This kimberlite-esque layer and this fissure, where we're reading the anomaly? It almost follows the grade of the hill. But it's just... too symmetrical. It's unnatural."

          Her words had hung in the air for a moment, then Andy had jumped to retake his place in his chair behind the computer screen and she had seen and ignored Cronk rolling his eyes behind her two dedicated colleagues as they moused around and pointed at the data onscreen. She had joined them, skeptical, but her eyes had grown wide as Amelia had shown her what she had seen.

          Shaking her head, she had ordered, "Andy, Cronk, get back up there and start the GPR on the other half of the sector. Amelia? You're with me, let's get a core sample started, see if we can't find out what we're sitting on."

          "Reesa, you can't be serious. Why waste our time drilling for something we know we're not here for?"

          "Call me perpetually curious. Look, they sent us out here to drill? We're drilling. If it's nothing? We tell them so. If it's something interesting, we tell them that."

          "If this shit is malfunctioning, and I still think it is, these readings ain't right, we have no idea what's actually down there. You're risking the equip — "

          Andy interrupted Cronk. "And all of a sudden you care about the 'shoddy' equipment they sent with us?"

          "Andy," Reesa had said sharply.

          "I don't want to be wasting my time, company time! On a goddamn scavenger hunt. If the stuff we've got ain't working, why risk damaging more genius?"

          "Will," she had said, even sharper, and had stared his glaring eyes down. "Get going guys."

          She and Amelia had manouvered the truck-mounted drilling rig in to position and got the equipment ready, and eventually Amelia had wagered, tentatively, "Should we be starting up here? There are some promising features along the perimeter."

          "Honestly? No. Don't tell him I said it, but Cronk's right. This site will likely amount to nothing. Not worth anybody's time. He just wants us to get our worthless cores, eliminate the site and be on to the next one. He's been a Site 12 champion since he laid eyes on it. But none of us get to forgo our due diligence on a feeling. So. They sent us out here expecting twenty-four bore holes? We'll give 'em twenty-four bore holes. We'll hit the perimeter next. Right now, we'll chalk this up to good old fashioned scientific curiosity," she had said with a wink.

          Amelia had smiled slyly back, "I've never drilled anything just for science." She had laughed slightly and continued after a contemplative beat, "Unless you count my boyfriend in grad school. I thought he was trying to sleep with TA's just for grades, and I was so right."

          She had laughed out loud at that.

          "He was a C student, all around."

          As she pushed the dolly in to place, smiling as she drifted out of her memories, she eyed the pile of ruin that were their drill-bits from that day, her own words echoed in her head. We'll hit the perimeter next. She had believed it until they had burned through their second to last drill head and had finally called it quits. A glittering at the base of their core, all bedrock as far as she could tell, caught her eye as they had drawn the barrel of the bit out of its frozen hole that day, and she had taken a sample, fixated on it as they had all returned to base camp that night, ignoring Cronk's pointed glances at their broken and busted signs of failure.

          She had prepped her sample, fired up the microscope in the back room of their main tent, away from prying eyes, and laid it out beneath it, expecting something unusual, since it had chewed through their bits in record time, but never expecting what she saw.

          "Whoa," she had whispered quietly to herself. She knew what it was, but still verified against every online resource she could access from their remote location, and even checked an old textbook she had brought with her. "Guys? Come take a look at this!" she had called, and her crew had come in in various states of enthusiasm, or lack thereof.

          "What is it?"

          "Take a look. Just... goddamn look."

          One by one they had peered in to the viewfinder of the microsope, and she had continued, "You know what that is? Screw uranium." Andy and Cronk had looked appropriately dumbfounded, but Amelia gave her an unsure look, so she explained. "This stuff is the hardest substance on the planet, harder than diamond. Explains why we're barely scratching it. Lonsdaleite. If it's naturally occuring here, in these quantities? This is huge."

          Andy shook his head. "There's no way this, uh, or anything really, forms so perfectly, naturally. The additional data is rendering now, I was just looking it over Reesa, it's a dome. Well what we surveyed shows a part of what has to be one. Like perfectly formed. Three metres thick. Just looking at it as is, I'd say it had to be man-made."

          Cronk had piped up, "No. No way people could work with it. Hell, we can barely even make a scratch now, with four diamond bits. No. This shit is buried under billion year old rock anyway, there weren't even any people around to work with it."

          A silence had drawn out in the room, then Amelia had asked, "How did it get here then? Like this I mean?"

          Reesa shrugged, "Who knows" She continued her explanation for Amelia's sake. "The only time it's been seen before is around massive craters, we're talking huge meteor strikes, and only ever in small particles. Maybe this is how this stuff structures itself in nature. All I know? I've got to call corporate. Let Darcy know what we've found. See if they can get us something that can drill through this shit, so we can get a real core sample."

          Amelia, wide-eyed, asked, "But... but what can drill through the hardest thing on the planet?."

          She had told her to let her worry about that and dismissed her crew with a wave of her hand, as she picked up her satphone and dialed, Cronk meeting her eye as he left with a knowing, albeit skeptical look; they read the same journals. She knew she was in for a hard sell.

          "Darcy? It's Reesa. Good. Look, we've found something huge out here at Site 10. Nope. Well, there might be a trace amounts of uranium, but what we've got? Lonsdaleite Darcy. You've heard of it? You know how rare it is then? My estimation? We're sitting on 300 cubic metres of the stuff. I just need a way to make sure. You read last month's Mineralium Deposita?
          

          She hadn't, and she had spent the rest of the night and the next day on the phone to her and various other higher-ups in conference calls. Reesa had explained her understanding of the synthesis of a new super-hard, and therefore super-expensive, material, and its applications. She had uploaded their data, written reports, and cajoled and sometimes almost begged them. She had been met with what she hoped was dwindling disbelief about their discovery, and the gradual acceptance of the astronomical costs involved with even just verifying it. A curt, "Let us get back to you," left them in limbo that next night, but the next morning, Darcy called back.

          "It's on its way. Give it four or five days. And they want the site fully mapped. Send anything and everything you can."

          The sun now setting, and everything now finally in place, they fired up their work lights. Thousands of lumens cast an almost surgical glow around the little group and their instruments at the top of the barren hill as they began their cutting. The new prototype drill bit and Cronk's expertise behind the rig's controls made short work of their previously barely-scratched prize, and it didn't seem like long before he called over the noise that he was almost done.

          Reesa drew in as close as she could, excited and impatient to get the core out of the ground, and watched as Amelia and Andy gathered around as well. She heard the revolutions slow for a moment, then ramp up again, and she turned, eyes questioning, to Cronk.

          He hollered the words that would be their undoing. "I think I can give 'er a few more inches, might as well get as much as we can. So corporate can get a full picture." He raised his eyebrows and grinned cheekily at his own last words.

          She rolled her eyes and couldn't help but smile: Will Cronk, ever the company cheerleader. She turned her attention back to the bore hole to wait. After a minute, a sudden chattering shook the drill spindle. Reesa turned back to Cronk, concerned, and looked in to the last eyes she would ever see.

          In the bright lights, none of them saw the change in the air around the top of the borehole; it took on a vague, sparkling, quality. Almost instantaneously the four explorers disappeared, leaving nothing but dust buffeting in the wind where they had stood. The heavier particles fell quickly; some of the finer travelled for miles on a cold, Arctic breath, but all eventually settled to the earth, dusting rock and dirt and water, a field that could take up a lifetime of study.

          The sparkling crept beyond the halo of light now, a glittering, somehow more noticable in the dark, expanded endlessly in all directions as if searching for something. It settled low over the hill, mirroring the curve of the landscape, churning slowly and moving ever outwards. Almost imperceptibly, it stopped; a rapid retraction, and the glittering returned to its source, circling the metal shaft that had cut through and freed it from its domed prison. Its slow swirling picked up speed at the top of the hill, as if gathering itself. Almost lazily, a streak headed skyward and continued up for miles, until the last of it trailed away.

          Unattended, the motor of the drilling rig chugged dutifully along for a good hour until it ran out of fuel, its bit spinning in empty space with no one left to force it on or call it back. The generator running the work lights and the electronics in the tents sputtered and died near dawn, since no one had been there to refill it before bed, the site now silent and dark and still. Nylon domes, all perched near the top of a desolate hill in almost exactly the middle of nowhere, shuddered slightly in the wind, lifeless.

          Most said they had never seen the Aurora Borealis so tinged with gold. Most had never seen it before at all. It lit the sky and rippled out in all directions. It spanned the globe and crosshatched the sky with the ebb and flow of its web. As day broke, its light faded, but it still lingered there miles above, unseen.

Chapter Text

       The next day was a strange one from the word go. First off, he had a hell of a time waking up. When he had his head about him enough to try and count, Dean figured he had already been through his morning at least three times in hazy, limbo dreams before he even actually started it. Each time, getting up and going through the mundane routine of hospital living, had seemed so real; even the latent dread of facing another boring day made it in. The arm always, eventually, gave it away.

       When he was sure he had actually reached the real world, he was stayed from getting up for a few moments; the world was spinning languidly around him, and it took grabbing on to the bed rail, and a couple of slow, deep breaths to get it to stop. He reluctantly rolled out of bed, a bit dizzy and still exhausted somehow, and was surprised to find Sam passed out in the chair next to it. It had definitely been pretty early in the afternoon when he, Dean, had conked out yesterday, why the hell was his brother still here? When he gave Sam's seat a slight kick in the leg on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth, his brother jolted awake, wide-eyed, as if his chair was of the electric variety, then slumped back like the death sentence had done its job. Dean asked him what he was still doing there, but never did get a straight answer. Sam, who looked as tired as Dean felt, rubbed a hand over his eyes, mumbled something and all he caught was 'crashed here'.

       Speaking thickly from around his toothbrush, a new electric one that Sam had got him, thank God, because even with it, he was still doing a piss-poor job, the angles of attack were all wrong with his opposite hand, Dean called from the bathroom, "Go to the motel man, I don't know why the hell you'd wanna sleep here if you don't have to."

       He eventually saw movement outside the door, out of the corner of his eye as he was spitting, and barely heard Sam say over the running water and the electric buzz in his head, "Yeah, I'm gonna head out, see you later." 

       Without looking around, he raised his non-existent hand with what he had intended to be a wave, but consigned himself, once he realized, to it just being an acknowledgement. He finished up, teeth feeling not quite clean, splashed some water on his face to try and clear the fog from around his brain, and the room was empty when he returned.

       As he dragged his IV stand back with him and stowed his toothbrush in his bag under the bed, he noticed a low murmur from the hall. It sounded like a group of people talking; not an uncommon occurrence, but it piqued his interest because he thought he heard his brother's voice among them. He turned to look, curious, but didn't see anyone in the narrow frame of reference the doorway offered. He took a slight step towards the door to get a wider scope and only then did he catch a split-second glimpse of four or five backs walking away, down the hall past the nurse's station. One of them might have been Sam, but he couldn't be sure.

       Dean leaned over a bit, to follow their path, but his interest was dwindling as fast as maybe-Sam and friends were retreating; his head had been pounding slightly since he woke up, and standing up, and definitely craning his neck around corners, hadn't helped. He gave it up as a bad job, turned, leaned against his bed and shut his eyes, twisting his neck from side to side slightly to try and alleviate the pressure in his jaw and behind his eyes. He had the prospect of a disappointing breakfast to concentrate on anyway.

       He choked back as much of it as he could when it arrived. He was just as thoroughly not hungry as it was mediocre, but he continued eating long after his stomach started protesting, knowing the ire an unemptied tray would raise from Jill, the orderly who delivered his breakfast. She seemed to take it as a personal affront if he didn't clean his plate; if anyone dared not to, for that matter. She didn't seem to have an indoor voice, and he had heard her chastising someone a couple of rooms up just yesterday.

       Dean only stopped and pushed his tray away when his guts did a nauseating somersault and the back of his mouth filled with bitter saliva. When Jill returned, he braced himself for a tirade, but all he got was a disappointed exhale, and, maybe it was just in his head, she didn't seem meet his eye as she cleared it away.

       Physio was an altogether different type of baffling right from the start that day too. When Mateo, the aide who usually came to get him, showed up, he was too quiet. Silence from the guy who, in less than two dozen three minute trips, had told Dean all about his mother and her troubles franchising her company, his twin sisters and their troubles deciding on colleges, and his brother and his troubles choosing between high school swimming and football, was unnerving. He forgot all about his quest to come up with questions to get Mateo talking on their return trip when he got to physio itself though.

       Everything Dr. Silvey had him attempt seemed three times as difficult as it had been just the day prior, almost as hard as when he first started, and as the day wore on, they were definitely four times as annoying. He felt like he had fallen back to square one, and he fully expected her to call him out on it. She remained almost silent though as well, only uttering a word here or there to count his reps or inform him of his next task. She didn't push him at all, and while he was secretly glad, since he was already trying with everything he had in him, he was perturbed all the same. This wasn't the doctor he knew, always spurring him on with 'one more, two more, ten more, try this, you can do it', usually to his chagrin.

       After the tenth or so exercise that he had obviously regressed in, and she hadn't said a thing, he called her out with a frustrated sigh, "So, should I just get outta here? If I'm gonna suck this bad I can do it by myself. Might as well stop wasting each other's time right?"

       She took a moment to reply, and when she finally did, it wasn't anything he wanted to hear. "You had a rough day yesterday. Maybe I pushed you too hard. I thought a bit of a break today was in order."

       He scoffed and shook his head. "Yesterday isn't on you. Why the hell am I telling you that? You should know that. That's on me."

       "And you just wanna play right through it, right?

       "Well a break every time I have a bad day sure as hell ain't gonna get me out of here is it?"

       She took her time responding again, and he felt his frustration mounting, until she spoke. All his anger trickled away as her words washed over him. "I know you don't want to hear it right now, and I'm not saying they'll be there forever, but you do have limitations. I know, they're new, you're not used to them. They suck. But you have to recognize them and work within them, rather than pushing through them sometimes, ok? I do know what I'm doing. You have that kind of a rough day? You take it easy the next. Trust me, you're not doing yourself any favours in the long run if you don't."

       Dean didn't know how to reply to this. He dropped his head under the guise of wiping his sweating brow on his sleeve as a weariness that had nothing to do with physical exertion settled on him. He stared at the floor, not wanting to meet her eye, swallowing hard around the tightness that seemed to have constricted his throat.

       She spoke again after a moment, "I know you want to get out of here. We'll go easy just for today, I promise. Ready to go again? You got this."

       He nodded, barely, and followed her few and far between instructions without comment for the remaining hour he was trapped there, then met Mateo's uncharacteristic silence with his own on their way back to his room.

       He climbed in to bed, settled against the raised back, and tried to find something to occupy his seemingly limitless, useless time here. Nothing presented itself. Nothing that seemed less than completely pointless at least. He eyed the small stack of books Sam had recently brought him with renewed disinterest, and glanced at the TV, high on the opposite wall, apathetically; you could only watch so many soaps in a lifetime. His new roommate, who had arrived just after breakfast, was having a quiet, quite boring, conversation behind his curtain with someone on the phone. His search for something to do was briefly interrupted by the arrival of lunch, and he picked his way through as much of it as he could, even less hungry than before. He was exhausted and his head was still aching and Sam hadn't returned, so he closed his eyes; he could definitely sleep. That's about all he was good for now: pathetic afternoon naps. Sleep didn't come though. A searing something in his gut wouldn't let it.

       A while later the noise of someone trying to slip in to the room without making a sound caught his ear, and he opened his eyes.

       Sam, looking just as tired and dishevelled as when he had left that morning, and Dean strained his memory to try and figure out if his brother had even changed his clothes, gave an apologetic look and said, "Sorry, didn't wanna wake you up."

       "Wasn't asleep."

       "How was physio?"

       He tried to swallow his sigh, "Pretty much pointless."

       "Good. Look, do you want a change of scenery for a bit?" Sam replied, obviously distracted. "I just noticed they've got like a little park area right outside here. It's pretty warm if you wanna go out."

       "And do what?"

       "I dunno, go for a walk, get some fresh air? Bring a book out and read? I got a couple of new movies downloaded," he said, grasping the strap of his laptop bag across his chest tight.

       Dean considered for a second how much he genuinely did not want to do any of that; even his desire to do something other than just sit here didn't outweigh it. He only capitulated with a shrug and an unenthusiastic "Sure," because of the look in Sam's eyes, which was a bit haggard, and the thought that he probably should want to. Who the hell wouldn't want a change of scene after three weeks of lying in the same spot? He realized, as he clambered back out of bed to find boots and a warmer shirt, his brother might be sick of staring at these same walls too.

       He couldn't just leave though, of course; nothing was that easy anymore. They were stopped pretty much at the threshold of his door by a nurse, Sarracino this afternoon, asking where they were going. Sam explained and she made a quick phone call, eyeing them beadily as if they might make a run for it, then ushered them back in to his room to equip him with some sort of off-roading pouch for his PCA. Everything tucked neatly away, and him annoyed that he had to carry the thing with him, they started out again, but didn't get very far. Both he and Sam had to sign a release form at the nurse's station; without reading it, he scribbled a mark that would barely qualify as an 'X', and even Sam, who usually took forms very seriously, hardly gave it a cursory skim.

       Finally, Sam led him up the hall to the right. He hadn't ventured further this way than the shower room, but it didn't matter; he hadn't been missing anything. Everything repeated, white walls, bright lights, white-curtained windows to calamity. His brother eventually took a right and led him down a narrower corridor, darker than the rest of the place, and a heavy metal door, that looked like it was probably alarmed in off-hours, opened in to a garden with high, stucco walls.

       It was warm. Christ, November in New Mexico. And, Jesus, bright. He hadn't been in the full glare of the sun in weeks, and he squinted as he stepped out on to a paved concrete path, bordered by a pebbly groundcover, as his headache upped its thrumming. The path curved away from them and out of sight to the left and right. Sam took the right, which led down a small incline that was bordered on both sides by native cacti, scrubby shrubs, low creeping plants, and several tall fir trees. They rounded a bend, and a flat area with picnic tables opened up before them. His brother stepped off the path, and, crunching on gravel, made his way to the nearest one and sat down.

       Dean followed and sat down opposite Sam as his brother hauled his laptop out and set it on the uneven surface of the table. Neither of them had remembered to bring a book, so it looked like a movie was the order of the trip. As his brother fired the computer up, Dean squinted around at this new space some more, trying to get his bearings, feeling slightly out of place, and still completely out of sorts.

       The path they had walked down curved around and away, back up the other side of the little hill, and disappeared amongst more curated nature. He heard a kid laughing from somewhere beyond the leaves and spines, and the upshifting of engines on some unseen road behind the walls. He turned his head and looked back at the building he had finally, for the moment, escaped from, and tried to orient himself to where his own room was, but couldn't locate it. The low building was nothing but rows of narrow, recessed windows, and they all looked the same. Hell, the windows in his room might not even overlook the place; he had never thought to check.

       The open area they had settled in was awash in a late afternoon sun that seemed to have bleached most of the colour from the place; everything was a shade of beige. Even the greens of the plants looked dull, but it was nearing winter. A slightly narrower path, lined by more shrubs and a fair number of benches, circled the area, skirting the high walls and then the building in a meandering arc. He could just make out what looked like administration offices through a few of the nearer windows; no beds or prisoners there, just desks and conference tables. A small fountain burbled in a far corner, and several towering trellises with creeping vines leaned against the outer walls.

       A slight wind ambled through the courtyard, not cold, but not warm either, and a brittle rustling whispered through leaves and branches; add that to the list of things he had forgotten he missed. He turned his face towards the sun and breathed deep. It was fucking amazing, but still fucking weird, to be outside. Sunshine and fresh air was all he'd ever wanted, now that he had it again. Dean felt a sudden thrill of energy, his headache fading, and felt more awake than he had in, Christ, he couldn't even remember. He looked around with renewed interest, now that he could actually focus, taking in more details, relishing the simple fact that he was looking at something other than the inside of his room. He scanned the outer walls again and his new-found enthusiasm drained away in a trice, and it took him a moment to realize why.

       This didn't technically count as the real world. It might look like a regular park, might be filled with regular people going about their day, maybe taking their lunch break, maybe chivvying their grandkids to an unseen playground, but it wasn't. There was no exit; no gate or break in the wall to be had. He was still stuck in here, trapped behind towering walls that shielded him from the outside world, and it from him. Nothing was real here, nothing was right, and as if to punctuate this thought, a woman pushing a wheelchair that contained a pale, slip of a man wrapped in blankets, came down the path they had just traversed. He tried not to stare as they went past. She parked the chair next to one of the benches in the sun along the outside wall, and sat down. He cast his eyes downwards to the pebbles at this feet, wondering if they saw him and Sam as he saw them: pitiable counterparts in their respective fucked up situations.

       Dean pulled himself from his reverie and looked back up when he realized Sam was speaking, and heard his brother prattle off a list of movies he had. He nodded at the third, not knowing what he agreed to, and feigned interest as Sam angled the laptop so it was out of the sun and could be seen by both of them. Dean didn't pay much attention to the movie, which was a comedy of some sort, pratfalls and sight-gags abounded, but he did see when the woman on the bench got up and left, pushing her frail charge with her, and, not long after, he noticed movement coming down the path on other side of the hill the second it appeared.

       A small boy, maybe three or four years old, flying a toy rocket ship up and down in his hand in front of him, wandered along the path. He must have heard the sounds of their movie, because he was drawn over like a magnet, and, forgetting his toy for the moment, stared from each of their faces to the back of the laptop, several times.

       "Can I watch?" the kid asked in a stage-whisper.

       "Uh, sure," Dean responded, after an uncertain look at his brother. Sam looked up briefly but returned his attention to the screen, face blank. "Where are your parents?" he asked.

       "Over dere," the kid replied happily, vaguely indicating the direction he had come from, as he deposited his rocket ship on the table and scrambled up on to the bench, to walk along it.

       "Do they know where you are?"

       The kid stood eye to eye with Dean on the bench and nodded confidently, with his whole head, "Yah, they say I could go play."

       Still unsure about the situation, Dean's protestations died in his throat. The kid settled himself on to his lap, and, after shifting around a bit to get comfortable, turned his head to watch the movie. He swung his little feet slightly as he watched, tiny kicks falling across Dean's leg every now and then, and whenever something funny happened, the kid looked up at him and giggled, then hid his face in Dean's good arm.
After a few minutes, the kid's attention seemed to wane, and Dean spotted him playing with his fingers, then staring around. His little head turned to the right and the kid must have seen something, Dean wasn't quite sure how, he hadn't noticed before.

       He sat up straight and said, "You only have one hand."

       Dean nodded down at him, "Uh, yup."

       "Where dit go?"

       Stymied for a moment, mouth half-open, he didn't know how to answer without giving this kid permanent nightmares. He finally settled on, "I had an accident."

       "Oh." The kid went back to staring at his own, ten, fingers, seemingly with renewed interest, then added, "My Pop-Pop has one foot. He said it 'cause of sugar."

       Dean didn't know how to respond to this, but was saved by a sing-song voice calling from over the hill. "Avi, we're going, come back now."

       Avi sprung up at his name, climbed down from the bench, and tore off, "Ok Mama!"

       A silhouette of a woman, hand shielding her eyes, appeared at the top of the hill, and as Avi retreated, Dean saw he had forgotten his rocket ship. He grabbed it, stood, and took a few paces forwards, meaning to run after the kid, but his head renewed its pounding at this slight exertion; he was in no shape to chase down a child, or anything for that matter, so he held it up so maybe the mother might see. When Avi reached her, she turned her son back towards him, pointed and whispered a word, and the kid came running back. Avi grabbed the toy out of his hand with a look of intense concentration on his face and turned heel again, without a word.

       "Say 'thank you' Avi," Dean heard his mother call, and Avi obliged as he retreated.

       "Thank you!"

       Dean watched the pair reunite and disappear over the hill, then turned back to retake his place at the picnic table, shaking his head.

       "Cute kid. But fucking weird right?"

       Sam finally gave an indication that he was paying a slight bit of attention to anything other than the movie, too little too late now that random children who needed entertainment had gone, and said, "I don't know, just seemed like a normal kid, didn't he?"

       "Just hanging out with complete strangers, on their laps?"

       Sam shrugged.

       "Must be just me then. This whole damn day's been off," Dean mumbled, running his hand hard across his forehead to try and relieve some of the pressure that had, once again, built there.

       His brother gave him a more tired than quizzical look, so he felt the need to go on. He didn't want to get in to the embarrassing specifics, like how shitty he felt from the start, or how much he had sucked in physio, so he stuck to the banal and unincriminating. "You know Jill? The Breakfast Nazi? Didn't even yell at me for not licking my plate clean. Mateo? No stories about his cousin's uncle's grandkid's uh, art installation. And Silvey? That was strange. She was nice."

       Sam raised his eyebrows, "Nice? Wow, the way you go on about her, didn't think that was possible."

       "Well not your traditional 'nice' I guess. She wasn't an asshole is more accurate." Mind's eye replaying the more niggling parts of the day, he got caught up in the unease he had felt, still felt, and didn't wait for his brother to reply. "You even. Never did get a straight answer. Why the hell were you still here this morning? You haven't stayed over in weeks."

       Sam looked away then took a deep breath and asked quietly, "Do you remember anything about what happened yesterday?"

       "Uh, yeah," Dean replied, edge in his voice, annoyed; he remembered it all. "It was shit. It was not fun. So I blacked out, don't know why that means everyone's gotta walk on eggshells around me today," he said, mad at himself that he hadn't put two and two together before just now. No wonder everyone was being weird, they all must've thought he was weak, about to keel over at any moment, and needed to be coddled and watched.

       Sam didn't reply immediately, and Dean thought it was to give him a chance to calm down, until his brother said, "It wasn't just that. There was a problem last night."

       Confused, he felt his anger fade as his stomach dropped. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, based on the look on his brother's face, but he pressed on, feigning impatience to keep up appearances, "What the hell kind of problem?

       Sam looked away and blinked for just a moment too long as he replied, "Uh... well, it was... bad."

       "What is this, Twenty fucking Questions? How bad?

       Sam seemed to hold his breath, then sighed and rushed to get the words out. "Like I was in a two hour meeting with hospital administration and a lawyer today bad."

       It was his turn to take an annoyingly long time to answer, and Sam didn't seem inclined to carry on explaining. He couldn't wrap his mind around what his brother had said. Various 'bad' scenarios played themselves out in his head, and the mental math of trying to add them up to get an outcome that landed Sam in meetings with lawyers was making his headache even more intense. An answer clunked in to place and resigned, he replied, "Shit. What'd I do, hit someone?"

       His brother turned back to look at him, eyes wide, "No. No, it wasn't you. They fucked up."

       This possibility hadn't really factored in to his calculations and all he could give in reply was a shrug and a tired shake of his head. Sam turned away again, digging in his laptop bag at his feet, then sat back up with a ream of paper in hand.

       "They fucked up your PCA when they brought you back yesterday." Sam flipped through a few of the pages and read, "Uh, investigation in to a breach of standards of professional care, breach of duty causing pain and suffering of the patient, uh, all relevant staff required to undergo retraining in the proper execution of the procedure, issuance of a formal apology... I think it's basically legalese for 'we fucked up, it won't happen again, please don't sue us'." His brother laid the metric tonne of paperwork down on the table and shrugged. "I signed it, they said all future medical bills are on them. They need you to sign too," Sam said. "Unless you wanna sue them," his brother added as an afterthought.

       His brother's question jolted him out of his disbelief at what he was hearing, and he gave a small snort, "No, I'm good, I don't even remember what the hell they're saying they did." He strained his memory to see if anything would surface, but nothing did, and his snort turned in to a short chuckle when he realized what this lack of recollection must mean: they must have had to hit him with the good stuff, hard. "Shit, must've been real bad if they're offering to pay. I guess the actual Mr. Fraser's insurance will be happy to be rid of me."

       His brother had some reply to this, but he tuned out as he felt the forced smile leave his face, not wanting to imagine what must have gone down for the hospital to make the offer, but not able to stop himself. Without his PCA, what the hell had he done? What had Sam had to see? Out of nowhere, he heard a word in his head, in Silvey's voice; limitations. When she had spoken it earlier, the word had been a twisting cut to his already wounded hopes of getting back to normal, to be sure, but it implied something that could be overcome. Now it just seemed ominous. His eyes fell on the too-tall stucco walls again, and they seemed to close in on him and fade away at the same time. What did it matter if it wasn't real in here, if out there, it wasn't going to be any different?

       He remembered his brother had been talking, and might have stopped by now, might be expecting an answer out of him to something or other, so he forced himself back to reality and hitched a fake look of interest on to his face.

       Sam was still going, "...any claims they've already submitted, they'll handle that."

       He didn't know what else to do, so he joked, tired from the effort of faking it before he even began. "So, should I start asking for extra dessert now? See if they can hook me up with some decent pie? Or should I just go straight to 'extra narcotics please'?"

       Sam gave a quiet laugh, a loud one in the movie still playing beside them almost drowned it out, and said, "Yeah, maybe getting them to make sure you've got a regular amount of narcotics would be a good start."

       There was nothing funny about the situation, his head was starting to pound even harder, but he persisted in making light, not wanting to think about what he was like without a regular amount of meds. "So, should I try and milk this, see if it can get me out of physio tomorrow?"

       Sam gave a half-smile, "Knowing Silvey? I don't think she'll fall for it. Sorry man."

       "But, could I pay her to go away now?" he asked, narrowing his eyes, keeping up the charade.

       "Ha, try it, see if it works."

       He snorted and smiled a fake smirk and shook his head. "Yeah, I don't think it's gonna."

       "No, probably not."

       "Even if I did pay her, she'd probably still show up anyway," he said as he leaned forwards and put his hand to his mouth, elbows on the table, his right protesting loudly at the pressure he had placed on it, and pretended to turn his attention back to the movie; Sam thankfully followed his lead. He caught himself shaking his head minutely at the screen, as if to tell himself no, trying to ignore the question burning with bitter bile in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and pressed down harder on his elbow, and protests there turned in to riots, but it wasn't enough; the question remained.

       He spoke from behind his hand, monotone, still staring at the screen. "So what was it, five minutes?"

       "Hm?"

       "Just want to know what I'm working with here. Five, ten minutes — half an hour maybe? —without painkillers and I'm a complete fucking mess?"

       "I don't know, I wasn't really timing it," Sam replied in an unsure tone.

       His brother didn't contradict his last words, confirming his worst fears. He chuckled, nodding, "Thought so. Great."

       Sam reached out and paused the movie, "Look, it's ok man, it's not gonna happen again. Yesterday was like a, a, perfect storm of shitty circumst —"

       He tried to sit through Sam platitudes, shaking his head, but he cut in, "It's not ok." He felt his voice rising, "None of this is fucking ok. Fuck, what I can remember of yesterday? That's bad enough. And how do we know that's really 'bad' huh? How do we fucking know that's not just normal now? With all the pills they're throwing at me, constantly hooked up to this damn thing," he gestured wildly at the PCA bag at his side, "how can they even tell? And somehow last night we go from 'really bad' to 'even fucking worse'? Five fucking minutes," his voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed hard. He held his breath for a moment, then continued, back to monotone, "and there's enough 'pain and suffering' for them to have to pay me off? Yeah I'm not liking my odds here."

       There was silence for a moment then Sam tried, "Dean — "

       "No, it's fine. Gotta know my limits right? Put the movie back on. Or," his eyes fell on the documents on the table, "actually, you got a pen?"

       "What?"

       "Better sign this shit while I'm still coherent, right?" he said flatly, as he pulled the papers towards him.

       "Oh come on man, it's — "

       "Just get a damn pen Sam."

       His brother gave him an exasperated look then disappeared below the table to dig in his bag again, as he clumsily flipped to the last page in the stack of papers. Sam's fake signature was already neatly inked alongside three others, a single blank line left awaiting his own. Sam reappeared and threw a pen on to the table, and he picked it up and tried to sign, but even tethered to a thousand other pages, this last one was still able to shift under his hand; he hadn't been practicing at all, and he didn't think an 'X' would suffice this time. He got a slow couple of letters in, then his brother's hand appeared at the top of the page and held it steady. He finished signing, not caring that it looked like a kindergartener had scrawled it, and dropped the pen.

       He resumed his former posture, elbows on the table, hand over his mouth, staring blankly at the still-paused movie on the screen, and wished his head would stop its drumming and his guts would stop their churning. In his periphery, Sam gathered up the paperwork from the table and stowed everything away. His brother sat back up and Dean heard him take a slow, deep, breath. He prepared himself for an incoming monologue, but it never sounded. Sam reached out and the laptop screen came back to life. They watched in silence for he didn't know how long, and the next thing he knew, the credits were rolling; then Sam was standing, waiting for him, computer already packed away, sounding irritated as he practically shouted his name to get his attention; then they were at the door to his room. Then Sam was gone. He was sure they had spoken somewhere in there, said their usual, 'nothing is wrong, everything about this is perfectly a-ok, see ya tomorrow' goodbyes, but he didn't really recall. He ate, not much, of his dinner alone, flipped through the TV channels and stared at a show for a bit, played at reading a book for a while, trying not to drop it with each fumbling turn of the page, then climbed under the covers and turned off the light above his bed, hours before he usually would have.

       He was awoken by his own sharp inhale at 1:03 in the morning. He knew, because once he realized what was happening, he made a point to look at the clock. He wanted to time it; he needed specifics. He must have rolled on to his right side in his sleep, and he stayed that way, clutching his arm across his chest, cradling the bad with the good. He closed his eyes and waited, trying not to concentrate on it and trying not to make a sound. When silence became too difficult, he tried to keep as quiet as possible; his new roommate was snoring softly behind his curtain, and he didn't want to wake him. He held his breath for as long as he could, and managed to keep his voice just above a whisper when he exhaled; he repeated this, over and over, as it grew worse and worse, for what felt like forever.

       There was suddenly a hand on his shoulder and he started, a low cry escaping him in his surprise. Fred was too close to him. The nurse reached over him, he felt something drag across his pillow, and tried to hand him the button.

       He shook his head and managed a mangled, "No, I don't want it."

       "Ok, that's fine, you don't have to. Can you do a couple of things for me though?" the nurse asked quietly.

       I can't do anything anymore. He wrenched his eyes closed in reply.

       "I need you to try and take a couple of deep breaths ok? In through your nose, out through your mouth."

       As soon as Fred said the words, as if commanded, he complied, eyes wide in concentration, sucking in shaking breaths and blowing them out in stutters.

       "Just like that, that's perfect. Now, can you let me see your hand?"

       The second he had to think about something other than breathing, he forgot to do it, and jammed his eyes shut again. He sensed the nurse drawing nearer and, though it didn't seem possible, tensed up even more as he pleaded pathetically, "No please don't touch me."

       "I just need to check your IV, it'll just take a second."

       I took him a moment to work up the nerve and the wherewithal to move. He pulled his hand off his arm and Fred took it, "Keep breathing," the nurse reminded him as he inspected it, but Dean couldn't get back to a half-normal rhythm until Fred released his hand and it was back around his arm.

       "Do you want to try something else? I can get you some Tylenol. It might help."

       He shook he head again, and forgot to breathe again. He felt a hand on his shoulder, rubbing his arm, and he didn't even jump. He listened to Fred's voice, speaking softly beside him about he didn't know what, until he found himself sobbing silently, but he still didn't reach out. His phantom gave a sudden and excruciating twitch, he felt everything from his elbow down jerk up violently, as if electrified, and he couldn't stop himself from crying out.

       Dean managed to pry his eyes open, it was there just in front of him, five inches away on the bed, and after a long moment of concentration he reached out and grabbed it, and brought his closed hand back to hide his face as he pressed. A beep from the machine, and he waited, and it wasn't long before he felt the first subtle, solacing wave pass through him. Every breath he took now was a bit longer than the last, and each wave a bit stronger, and he couldn't stop himself from sighing in relief at the end of each of them. Sighs suddenly turned in to quiet sobs, not from physical pain this time, but from mental exhaustion, but he swallowed those in short order. He dropped the button out of his hand and covered his eyes, ready to fade in to sleep.

       Fred had stepped away at some point, but Dean still heard him in the room, somewhere near the end of his bed scribbling away, probably making notes on his chart about how fucking idiotic the patient was.

       His eyes fluttered open; he had almost forgotten the whole point of this stupid exercise. He needed to know, but was too tired to raise his head and look around. "What time is it?" he asked flatly.

       "Uh, 1:21."

       He exhaled a soft, sad laugh and smiled slightly, nodding his head as he felt his eyes fill. Jesus fucking Christ. He shut them again, and began to shake his head under his hand, and didn't bother to try and stop his tears from falling, save for pressing his hand harder over his eyes. He knew he'd be out soon anyway; button magic would see to that. He didn't know why he was upset anyway; he had way more time than he'd thought. He drifted off, strange thoughts like you should be happy lulling him to sleep.

*        *        *        *        *

       Sam stepped stiffly in to the hall after bidding his brother goodbye and rubbed his neck; it had a awful crick in it from yet another night sleeping sitting up, or more likely, from jerking his head back to vertical a thousand times when gravity alerted him that he had fallen asleep. He supposed he should be grateful that he hadn't had to stay over for a good long while at least. He slung his laptop bag over his shoulder with a wince, and, thinking only of not thinking and sleeping horizontal, maybe with a pillow, for a few uninterrupted hours, he turned to leave. He got a few paces down the hall then heard his name, so he turned back. Dr. Roa and several faces he didn't recognize were approaching Dean's room and she beckoned him over.

       "We were just about to come meet with you and your brother, do you mind sticking around for a moment?" the doctor asked.

       Oh sure, he thought, knowing what this must be about, I just woke up, he just woke up, let's all go relive last night first thing. The tone of his thought might have come through when he replied, "Actually, can we do this another time?" Normally he would have just acquiesced and followed them, but he was tired. And it was too early in the morning to ruin Dean's day.

       "We'd prefer to meet with you together if possible," one of the unfamiliars said, extending a hand. "Dr. Mott, Risk Management. But we can set up a time to fill you in this afternoon or tomorrow if now's not good for you."

       "You're still going to talk to him now though?" he asked, muted alarm bells going off in the back of his head.

       "Well, we have it scheduled for — "

       "Look no, can you just hold off for now?" Sam threw a quick look towards his brother's room, then stepped away from the door, up the hall towards the nurse's station. "I don't think he remembers anything anyway."

       The little group followed, "We prefer to be open and honest in these situations, and like to address the issue as soon as possible when errors are made — "

       "Can you just let me then? We can meet now and I'll tell him?"

       A skeptical look passed between two of the unknown faces, "We find it preferable to present the information to the patient, in case there are any questions that ar — "

       Sam cut in again, voice rising slightly in his desperation, "I don't think he'll like being confronted with this by a bunch of people he doesn't know is all. I don't know how he's gonna take it. Do you enjoy getting yelled at first thing in the morning?"

       "It's not an uncommon reaction, we're prepa — "

       "Well good, do you want me to start right now then? You're not going in there without me and I'm not going back right now." He blinked back exhausted tears that had suddenly sprung up in his eyes, fighting an urge to just take off, as Dr. Roa stepped forwards and put a hand on his arm.

       "That's fine Sam. It's not a problem, why don't we just head up to the conference room and we'll talk?" She indicated up the hall and after a moment he nodded and fell in to step with her and the party of unknowns. They flanked him, all smiling reassuringly at him, and he felt like a prisoner being marched deeper in to a dungeon from which there was no escape.

       He just wanted a bed. Here he was in a building filled with them and there was no rest to be found. He just wanted to sleep and forget everything that happened the night before, not go have some big, drawn-out, discussion about it. They passed the bathroom and he quickly side-stepped his captors and pushed the door open, "I just need to..."

       "Ok it's just up the hall, administration offices, through the double doors then four doors up on the right, just come in and they'll..."

       Sam didn't hear any more. He let the door shut in their faces and walked towards the bank of sinks. He wrenched the strap of his bag over his head and laid it on to the counter, then gripped the basin in front of him for dear life, as if the world was tilting and deliberately trying to shake him off. After a long moment staring at the floor between his feet, he turned and leaned against the counter, rubbing his neck again, twisting his head this way and that to try and work out the kinks. He closed his eyes when he felt a sting in their corners and dropped his head, tightening his hand on the back of his neck, squeezing hard. The tiled room was too quiet; there wasn't even the drip drip of a leaky faucet to break the silence. The room seemed to echo and amplify what he was hearing in his head, the god-awful sounds his brother had made the night before, that he was sure were going to dog him in his nightmares forever, back at him.

       His eyes sprung open and he inhaled sharply, then turned and bashed blindly at the faucets until water started running, filling the silent cacophony and the sink. He bent over and splashed his face, trying to wake up or calm down, and couldn't tell if the water was too hot or too cold. He might have gotten a bit carried away; the collar and cuffs of his shirt were getting soaked, and the area around the sink was drenched, but he didn't want to shut off the stream and return to the screaming silence.

       He twisted the taps back to off, wiped the water out of his eyes, hard, clearing his throat loudly so it, and nothing else, would echo around the room, and made a loud job of retrieving paper towel from the dispenser to dry himself, and the counter, off. He shouldered his bag, binned his trash, and the squeaking of the swinging metal lid got him out the door without hearing anything else.

       Sam was stymied in the hall for a moment, then remembered where to go. The only things that differentiated his destination from the regular hospital rooms were the door and windows; the door was closed and looked heavy, and on closer inspection had a small plaque reading "Administration" affixed to it, and the windows were a bit bigger and covered by vertical blinds. He pushed open the door and was met by an unpleasant shade of green covering the walls and floors, and after looking around uncertainly, a man at a desk indicated a door to his left, in the far corner of the room.

       The mossy shade stopped at the door as if the floor had been salted; the inside of the conference room was relegated back to blinding white, helped along in its efforts by tall uncurtained windows that overlooked some sort of park area. The space inside was taken up almost entirely by a long table that looked to seat about twenty. When Sam sat down, they became a party of five, the three faces he didn't know sitting opposite him, backs to the windows, with Dr. Roa heading the table.

       She gave him a quick questioning look, and he nodded so she did the introductions, inclining her head at each person in turn.

       "Dr. Dan Mott you met, and Dr. Sara Trevino, they're part of the hospital's Risk Management team, and Leonie Morin is hospital counsel. This is Sam Fraser, the patient's brother."

       They each smiled their reassuring smiles at him as their names were called, but he didn't return any of them. Not out of anger, though he thought maybe it was expected of him, especially after his earlier outburst, just out of complete exhaustion. He had been so close to getting out of there; when he had sunk down in to the chair at the table, his eyelids seemed to have doubled in weight.

       The lawyer began passing out heavy reports, one for each of them, and Sam reached across the table and took his, then leaned back in his chair and opened it in his lap. His anger flared looking at the size of the stack of papers; how many pages did it take to say they fucked up, and caused his brother immeasurable pain? And they no doubt wanted to go through the whole damn thing with a fine tooth, right now.

       One of the Risk Management talking heads began, "First off, I'm sorry we're having to meet under these circumstances, and I'd like to apologize to you, and your brother, on behalf of the hospital."

       He nodded up at her, trying his best to look appreciative of the gesture, but didn't say anything.

       She continued, "Secondly, I don't want you misunderstand our name. Healthcare Risk Management always includes assessing risks to our patients, and we take this aspect very seriously. We're not here to cover for the hospital, or place blame on a practitioner and that's the end of it. We investigate any incidents, figure out the root causes of why they happened and put procedures in place so they aren't repeated."

       Sam was skeptical, "So you've done all that since last night?" He tapped the pages in his lap, "This seems pretty thorough. It's barely been 12 hours."

       "Yes, we began our investigation yesterday evening. In this case, the cause was identifiable fairly easil — "

       "If it was that easy to identify, why the hell did it even happen in the first place?" he asked, sitting up a bit, an edge slipping in to his voice. He slouched back almost immediately and closed his eyes, shaking his head; if he could only sleep.

       Dr. Roa spoke, "Please Sam, let them explain. They'll go over everything for you so it's clear ok?"

       He exhaled slowly and ran a hand over his face, then nodded, and bent to retrieve a pen from his bag. He better take notes if he wanted to remember all of this, and explain it to Dean properly. He sat back up and nodded, and Dr. Trevino continued.

       "If you'll turn to page three..."

       He followed along, and didn't make any more interjections to their spiel, taking notes most of the time, only staring out the windows, behind this troupe of people he wished he had never laid eyes on, at nothing every now and then, and only falling asleep once.

       When the constant stream of words and turning of pages ceased, he looked up, dazed and tired, hoping they would let him escape soon. He sat up, hauled the paperwork out of his lap and laid it on the table between his elbows, squinting at his notes in the margins. Were they even legible?

       "Do you have any questions?"

       He looked down, head in hand, trying to keep his eyes open, and pretended to peruse the pages again before he shook his head.

       "And the mitigation plan and compensation outlined are satisfactory to you?"

       He nodded, still barely bothering to look up.

       "Ok, then. We'll get you to sign this copy, your brother will need to sign as well obviously..."

       A flurry of papers being passed and pen-scratching erupted around him until the 'official' copy reached him and he added his fake signature, almost forgetting and signing his real name. He shoved it and his annotated copy in to his bag, stood and made for the door without looking back.

       He heard a fading, "If you or your brother have any further questions..." but he didn't stop. Out through the seafoam forest, then back in to the featureless hallways, he kept up his pace until he once again heard his name called. He turned to see Dr. Roa jogging to catch up with him, and as she neared, he sunk in to one of a bank of chairs that lined the wall.

       She stared down at him for a second then took a seat next to him. "Are you ok?"

       Grasping the strap of his bag tight across his chest, he nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine." She didn't continue, but he could see her looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He swallowed hard. "Last night? That's not something I ever wanna see again."

       He thanked her internally for knowing what he meant, and not referring him back to the fucking encyclopedia he had in his bag again. "I spoke to my colleague who assisted, I understand it was quite severe."

       "Ha, yeah. Understatement."

       "I know you just got an official apology but I'd like to add mine as well. I'm very sorry this happened Sam."

       He nodded his head at the opposite wall, not sure if he really wanted to get in to this right now. He wanted to get in to bed, or, at the least, get some coffee in to him. "Why the hell is it still like this for him? This bad I mean. I know it can take months but..." he trailed off, leaving the 'years' he had read about in some cases, unspoken.

       "It's different for everyone. There is no cookie-cutter, 'this recovery milestone by this date' to go by when it comes to PLP. I know that's not what you want to hear."

       "Ha, nope. Now I gotta go figure out how to tell him about this."

       "That is one of the reasons why we like to be the one's who bring these types of things to patients," she said gently. "The burden shouldn't be on you."

       He laughed again, "Yeah, I don't think he would've sat through all that. Not willingly at least. I'd have to chase him down and tell him anyway. Though at least here I know he can't get too far."

       "Would you like me to be there? I can make myself available. Draw some of the fire."

       He was grateful for the offer, and finally turned to look her in the eye. "No." He took a deep breath and gave her a small, actual, smile. He was surprised his face remembered how to arrange itself to make one. "No, but thank you. I'm gonna go get a coffee in to me and it'll be fine."

       "Ok. You know where I am."

       Sam nodded in reply as they stood and parted ways, but she spoke again before either of them got very far. "Oh, Sam," she said as she walked back, "I don't know if you'd be interested, but I know of a support group that meets at the church just up the road here. For family members of trauma patients."

       Someone seemed to have sucked all the air out of the hallway. "Oh," he replied blankly.

       "There's a flyer on the bulletin board in the foyer. They meet tonight I believe."

       After a beat he lied, "Ok, thanks, I'll take a look," and turned heel towards the cafeteria, though he didn't know why anymore. He was suddenly wide awake, his heart beating hard against his chest like he'd just downed a whole pot of coffee.

       As he neared Dean's room, he glanced at the clock behind the nurse's station, but it was too early for his brother to be back from physio; he took a quick look inside on his way past, just to make sure the bed was still unoccupied, to make sure there hadn't been any additional problems, then continued on.

       The cafeteria was a bit busy and quite loud when he arrived, an early lunch rush starting to accumulate, and he stood in line for a few minutes before he had coffee in hand. He wandered around, trying to find a table away from people, and eventually got a spot against the back wall.

       Once seated again, his exhaustion returned full force. He put an elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand, trying, and failing, to keep his eyes open. He turned his coffee cup absent-mindedly on the table with his other hand for a while, then realized he had yet to take a drink. He should get down to it: plan of attack time. That's what it felt like at least, that he was going to be ambushing his brother with all this.

       Dean appeared none the wiser when Sam woke up earlier, and he now was the one who had to pile on, on top of what had already happened yesterday, and let Dean know what went down last night. He should have just left and let Roa and friends do it. No, he should have stayed while they did. But he couldn't go back when they requested it, he knew that now. In his head, he'd been using being tired as an excuse, but that was far from the truth. In reality, he had just escaped that room and he couldn't face going back in so soon, not when the memories of the night before we so fresh, and so incongruent with how Dean appeared that morning. Screaming one second, fine the next. Writhing one second, up and walking the next. All he saw when he looked at his brother was a replay of the night before, agony laid bare, pain personified, and he couldn't look at him like that anymore, even if he was actually just brushing his teeth.

       He opened his eyes and finally popped back the lid on his coffee cup and took a long draught, then hauled the forest's worth of papers back out of his bag and plunked it on table with an audible thud. He sipped coffee and flipped pages for a bit, re-reading his notes and trying to make new mental ones, but he was finding it hard to concentrate. The noise level had increased two-fold since he first arrived, and after another couple of minutes he gave up and packed up. He downed the remnants of his coffee, grabbed another one for good measure on his way out, and made for the car after checking the time; still too early for Dean to be done.

       The relative silence of the parking lot was a welcome reprieve, the traffic zipping past on the nearby road a balming white noise as he stared around and tried to remember where he had parked yesterday; coming here so often, the days all seemed to run together and he couldn't think where it was. Around the side of the building, or had that been the day before? He picked a direction and started walking aimlessly, then spotted it at the far end of a row, just before asphalt gave way to dusty earth.

       It was surprisingly warm out. The noon-day sun must've burned a bit of the cloudiness from his brain, or his coffee must've been kicking in, because by the time he sat down in the passenger seat, he felt like a half-normal person. It was stifling inside the car so he left the door open for a bit to let some of the heat out, and sat sideways in the seat, feet out on the ground, as he felt the warmth escape out around him.

       He put his already half-drunk coffee on the floor next to him and resumed his reading, trying to fully understand the words on the page. So much medical terminology, and everything was described so clinically, but he still couldn't detach them from what they really meant: Dean, hurting, desperate for help, but unable to get it when he needed it. His mind's eye brought him back to his brother's bedside for a moment, and he felt slightly sick.

       The sun disappeared behind a cloud for a moment and he shivered slightly and shifted in his seat, drawing his legs inside and shutting the door. He flipped through the remaining pages to see how many more he had written notes on, checked the time, and figured it would soon be time to go back in. His thoughts turned, grudgingly, to how he was going to do this. So, remember how bad you thought your day was yesterday? Well, have I got news for you.

       The sun was blazing again, the car was starting to warm back up, and it reflected off the pages in front of him, bright as high beams. It was nice out, maybe he should try and get his brother out of there for a bit, see if he could come up with some reason, because God knew he still didn't really want to go sit in that room again.

       Plausible excuses to get Dean to come along were running through his mind, then he awoke with a start. Shit. He checked the time; he'd been out for almost forty-five minutes. Neck protesting again at this latest lapse in to vertical sleep, he gathered up the papers from his lap, shouldered the door open, and got out, kicking his forgotten coffee over in the process.

       "Shit," he said aloud this time. He dropped his bag and the papers on to the seat and scrambled for leftover napkins he knew were jammed in the back of the glove box, then dropped to his knees and tried to mop up as best he could, furious with himself. For forgetting it was there, for falling asleep, for not wanting to go back, for not already having done so, for not being able to get his head out of last night, for not just getting this fucking over with already. He felt a pricking in his eyes and almost laughed; crying over spilt coffee, Jesus, get it together. He gave up on his clean-up job, stuffed the soggy napkins in to his now empty cup, gathered the rest of his things and locked the door, and deposited the evidence in to a bin in the foyer when he reached it.

       Someone in scrubs walked past, and he had a sudden, desperate thought, now that he was on the brink of being back in that room. He asked her how to get to the garden he had seen from the conference room earlier, then thanked her for the directions, but he had only half-listened to them. He was distracted by a haphazard patchwork of different colours littering the wall behind her. He must've walked though here fifty times and he had never paid it any attention. When his guide continued on her way, he got a full view, and stepped a bit closer, reading snippets of what was written on the multitude of flyers that papered the wall. Volunteer opportunities, three nights a week; hospital fundraisers, dinner and silent auction; elder-care facilities, just like home; lost cat, last seen on Calle Dulce; and a million support groups, cancer, Alzheimer's, depression, brain injury, and on and on and on. The seemingly endless list of afflictions and calamities that could ever befall a person seemed thoroughly covered on a five by seven bulletin board. Amidst the tumult, he eventually spotted the one Dr. Roa must have been referring to, and blankly read about ten words of it before he turned away and headed inside.

       Trying to think about anything other than what the doctor had said and what he had just read or where he was about to be and what he was about to do, he tried to piece together the way to the garden from the fractured directions he remembered. There were two ways out, she had said, go straight here then left, or hang a left there then go right, but he wasn't sure where here or there was.

       As he reached Dean's door, he forgot he didn't know where to start; he heard his name, as a terrible cry, echo out of the room, once, twice, three times. He knew it was only in his head; he could see his brother sleeping silently not ten feet from him, but it still stopped him in his tracks. He stared hard at Dean, not really seeing him, and held his breath, the memories of the night before competing for precedence with the calm scene in front of him; he would never even make it though the door if all he was seeing was an instant replay. He needed to detach, be more clinical, like the five pounds of pulp and paper in his bag at his side, to relate but not relate. He pushed the hated sights and sounds to a far corner of his brain, somewhere in the back, until he couldn't see or hear them anymore. He could still feel them in the tension in his neck and shoulders and back, but, for the moment, they were still and silent. Sam took a breath and stepped inside, making ready to report what he knew, and preparing for the fallout. He wasn't the one who needed support. He was fine.

Chapter Text

          After a curt goodbye, Sam left his brother's room in an impatient huff. Two steps down the hall though, and he was stayed in his tracks, like he had forgotten why he had come out here. He took a breath, trying to remember, and found that he hadn't forgotten a thing; he just had nothing more to do. The deluge of stress and worries that had fallen that day circled the storm drain, leaving nothing but a faint, underground burbling of what he had felt in its wake. It was like that a lot lately. Whatever had happened, good, bad, neutral, he seemed to forget the second Dean was out of his sight, and he felt restless and uneasy until it was time to go back. He would never admit to himself that there was a small part of him, probably hanging out in the back of his mind with sounds he hoped to someday forget, that was relieved to be out of there.

         He had had no problem filling in the in-between times before. There was research to be done, and so many blog posts and message boards to read, about what his brother was facing. It was a never-ending detour along internet back roads and he sometimes wished he had turned around at the first sign. He had come to learn that reading about it was nothing, useless really, compared to actually staring it down.

         There was, initially, the job-related research too. His detailed spreadsheet had grown slightly over the last couple of weeks, but word seemed to have spread amongst the limited hunter community that Dean was out of commission and they were away from the treasure trove of books that was the bunker; inquiries were non-existent now. He had kept up on his searches, but maybe he had lost his knack during this self-created hiatus. There didn't seem to be anything going on; there was nothing to track, no information to digest and fill in to awaiting cells. There wasn't a potential job that he could find to even squint at sideways and imagine going on, nothing remotely weird to take to his brother with hypothetical questions, as a distraction. He should be glad really, that no one had had to become the target of some monster, or die in a strange way, to give him something to do; to give him and Dean something to talk about.

         After those first steps out the door, and his preoccupied pause and half-turn back, a nurse at the station caught his eye. He gave a wave and started back down the hall, trying to plan his evening around the fact that he had no plans, hoping he wouldn't be called back again, by anyone. His only job of the day, that of filling his brother in on what had happened the day before, was done. It had gone about as he expected. Well, he wasn't really sure what he had expected. There was less yelling at least; about the same amount of anger as he would have bet on, but at something unexpected. As far as he could gather, Dean was mad at himself. Or maybe it was disappointment, amplified; maybe it was shame, as unwarranted as that was. Maybe it was all of those. He didn't know, and as hard as he tried, he didn't understand.

         As he neared the cafeteria he decided to go in. He was still exhausted after a night barely sleeping and a day inadvertently catching up, dozing upright in cars and chairs. Why bother driving around for food when he was right here? And why bother leaving? He'd found his anger building earlier when Dean had been fixated on the 'how long' of it all. That seemed to be his brother's only concern, how long he had managed before shit went really bad. It was a one-off fuck up; it wasn't going to happen again. He didn't know why Dean was more concerned with the timing of it all than the fact that someone had fucked up his IV. But, as he placed his order at the counter and shuffled down the line, checking that the ringer was up on his phone, he figured he should stay close. Shit might go south again, be it isolated hospital mistakes or just the usual, run of the mill, unbearable pain Dean routinely suffered now, thanks to him. He paid, picked up his tray, and turned to find a table, then missed a step between the endless, neat rows, almost spilling his drink. Shit. Did he just answer his own question?

         When he got moving again, a hollow burning in his stomach, that had nothing to do with hunger, joined him as he found a table. He sat down and hauled out his computer out of habit. He ate in the muted glow of his laptop screen, under the too-bright lights hanging from the high ceiling, leaning in close to try and read with eyes that didn't seem to want to focus. He typed and clicked every now and then so it looked like he was actually doing something; something that mattered, other than simply eating to exist, existing to go back, going back to try and help, trying to help when he didn't even know how. There was nothing he hadn't read before, no new information about aiding the newly-amputated, no new emails asking for input on cases, no new posts about what his brother might be facing next, no new articles about strange happenings in small towns.

         Sam shut the screen and tried to concentrate on his food. He didn't know what he was doing anymore, in any part of his life. Trying to cling to his old one, what was familiar, seemed impossible. It was already a distant memory, demarcated by a sharp line, a silver flash, that split the before from the after. Everything that mattered then seemed pointless now, but he was still going through the motions, hoping to not forget what it was to be normal, or at least as normal as their lives had ever let them be. This new reality was jarring in new, unsettling ways everyday; he never knew what to expect. He was always on edge, but it was still somehow mundane, minute by minute. He felt like he had already lived a lifetime in it, at least as long as his whole life before, and he couldn't help but wonder, bitterly, why he hadn't gained any of the wisdom or experience that should come with years.

         He didn't know why he was bothering playing at any of it, trying to make sense of the new or hold on to the old. For whose sake? The random people sitting near him in this hospital cafeteria? They had their own problems. He tuned in to what was going on around him for a mere minute and he heard the couple a couple tables over discussing their sick kid, and the two older ladies by the window talking about their ailing dad. It must be for his own sake, but he didn't know what pretending got him. The illusion of work, of something, anything, to do, drove away the reality that there was nothing he could do, but lately, it was never for long.

         Maybe it distracted him from the fact that he was stuck, waiting on Dean to get better, if he could, in a limbo between the past and the unknowable future. If he could. He shook his head slightly and berated himself for even thinking the awful thought. If nothing else, his old standby of research, research, research, helped keep his mind occupied; the echoes of agony, that cast doubt on all his hopes and shone a glaring light on his guilt, were relegated to the back of it for a while at least. Maybe it wasn't even an old standby anymore; maybe it was a new play at avoiding the obvious: that his whole life had changed in an instant, and he couldn't deal with it. He smirked as he took a bite of his solitary dinner. Maybe that's what it's always been.

         When he finished eating he disposed of his tray and trash and headed for the door, sure of where he was parked at least. As he dug in his pocket for keys he stopped short, in the space between the doors, almost gone from the place but one thing still, perpetually, held him there and drove him away in equal measure. The bulletin board drew his eye, and this time he knew exactly where to look. He read the entirety of the muted flyer this time, noting the address and the meeting time. Roa was right; they met that night, just up the street, only nineteen minutes from now to be exact.

         Sam stared at it blankly for another second then turned away and pushed the door open, escaping in to the parking lot. He crossed it quickly, unlocked the car, threw his bag in and sat down behind the wheel. Only then did he remember his mess of spilled coffee from earlier, its only evidence a bit of deeper darkness on the floor of the passenger side. He knew he'd have to explain that one once Dean was an occupant of the vehicle again, though the way things were going, it seemed like he might have a while to come up with a convincing story; or better yet, time to clean it out of existence. Give you something to do at least, he thought, but he looked away, making no definitive plans to tackle it.

         The drive passed blindly, as only a regular commute can, until he saw a spire, towering above the road on the left, and a lighted sign announcing the 'Nuestra Senora' of something. It was right on his way. Why not? He didn't have any else worth doing at the moment. He slowed, turned in to the lot, and parked. There were only a few cars, but, after checking his phone, he supposed he was a bit early. As he waited, several more vehicles pulled in and parked around him, their occupants waving to each other, some of them hugged, when they reached the building at the same time. The clock turned past the hour, but he didn't move. A rap at his window made him start and he rolled it down to the inquiring face of a skinny, grey-haired man.

         "You droppin' someone off or wonderin' if you should join?"

         He raised his eyebrows; he didn't know what he was doing. He could already barely remember the question, after being asked so blatantly by this stranger, it seemed to him, if he needed help. "Uh, I'm just uh..." He shook his head and turned back to stare at the building, wishing this guy would leave, wondering why he had even bothered pulling in to the lot.

         "Well, they're a great group. But don't take my word for it. You can see for yourself if you want, seeing as you're already here."

         He threw the guy a curt smile and nodded.

         "No pressure a' course. We all been there, wondering why we're gettin' help when we ain't the ones who need it."

         He didn't realize how tense he was until he felt his body tighten even further. He nodded again, sharply, blinking hard, trying to release the white-knuckle grip he had on the two objects in his hands, his phone and the wheel.

         The man seemed to survey him for a moment before he continued, "C'mon in if you feel up to it, no rules or nothing about talkin' your first meetin'. Even just listenin' can be a help, I find. If ya don't, that's all right too. Take my card either way, you can call me whenever if you need an ear."

         He cleared his throat, pried his hand off the wheel and took the business card the man offered with a nod and a quiet, "Thanks."

         "Group don't mind if you're late neither. I run the thing and I'm never there on time, so, if you get halfway home and wanna come back, don't let a little thing like time stop ya."

         He pretended to be interested in the card and nodded as the man gave the roof of the car a soft tap and finally walked away.

         Out of the corner of his eye Sam saw the guy stop and turn around, then heard him holler back, "And 'call me anytime' means really anytime. I'm an old geezer, don't sleep much, so don't worry about disturbin'."

         He gave a small wave out the window and watched as the man crossed the rest of the parking lot and disappeared down some stairs in to the church basement. He turned his attention back to the card in his hand and really read it; it seemed entirely unrelated to the task at hand: "Levon Lilly, Contractor. New builds, renovations, additions, electrical, plumbing," it went on and on, with no mention of support groups. He stared back at where Levon had disappeared for a moment, definitely breathing harder than was necessary for sitting immobile in a car, then pocketed the card, turned the key in the ignition and drove away.

         Another building on his drive back to the motel caught his eye so he pulled off the road again, but this time when he stopped, he got out of the car and went in without hesitation. He sat in what he had come to think of his regular booth, ordered a beer when the bartender swung by, and drank it, without playing at distraction, when it arrived. He hadn't even bothered to bring his laptop in; his phone sat untouched, and, thankfully, un-ringing, on the table. No pretending at busy-work, just a drink or two so he could sleep. The motel was just up the street, he could walk back if it came to that; he had before. He sat back and tried, and failed, to relax his shoulders. Sam sighed quietly, shoved the hand not perpetually delivering alcohol to his face in to his pocket, and absent-mindedly turned the glossy card stock there over and over. When he finished his drink, he ordered another, then another followed quickly after that.

         A drowsing warmth was gathering somewhere behind his eyes so he ordered one more and downed it, then settled up at the bar and headed out. He grabbed his things from the car, locked it, got two steps away then turned back to re-check his work. Satisfied, he started across the mostly empty stretches of parking-spotted asphalt that faced the low buildings between him and his bed, disappearing in to darkness and reappearing every now and then in to the downcast light from towering lamp posts that dotted the lots at irregular intervals.

         It was a short walk, under five minutes, but when he reached his door and let himself in, he was wide-awake again, faced with an empty room and an emptier schedule. He sighed, thumped his computer bag and emptied his pockets on to the table by the window, threw off his jacket, grabbed up the remote and prodded the television to give him some company. He promptly ignored it, sat down and hauled out his computer yet again.

         After a half hour of fruitless searching, he dropped his head in to his hand. He meant it to be a momentary pause, propping himself up, elbow on the table, but he felt himself jolt awake when gravity took over, he had no idea how much later. Go to bed, he told himself sternly, no more sleeping sitting up, idiot. He didn't move, save to raise his head and skim the screen in front of him, trying to remember where on the page he had left off reading.

         He stopped himself, shaking his head, and shut the screen as he sat up straight and stretched. His eyes fell on his phone and he reached out to wake it up, to make sure he hadn't missed any calls, though he didn't think he had been out for long; there were no notifications. His hand brushed against the car keys and they jangled slightly, muted against the fake plastic wood of the table top; he should really just go get the car now, so he didn't have to walk up in the morning. He grabbed them and had his coat half on before he realized he was doing it again.

         Distraction. This was just another one. He rolled his eyes at himself. Sleep. Just go to bed. You're no help to anyone if you're exhausted. He laid the keys back on the table and only then did he see, or let himself see, Levon's card, buried under coins and receipts. He stared at it for a second, then went back to ignoring it as he got undressed, turned off the light and the TV, and, finally, in to bed. He thought he'd be out in an instant, as tired as he was, but actively trying to sleep and falling asleep without intending to were two very different things. He tossed and turned, then reached out in the dark and switched on the radio, turning it down so low he could just hear it. It was enough to give him something to focus on, other than what he was trying to ignore in the room, and forget in his head. He didn't need an ear, he just needed a quiet distraction, and to get some sleep. He was fine.

*          *          *          *          *

         Night turned in to day in skips and jumps. One moment the limited view from behind his hand was twilit and quiet, the muted blue of dawn from the windows fighting a slow battle across the floor with the yellow glare of perpetual day from the hall, the slow breathing of his unseen neighbour slow and metronomic. The next, day had won. Artificial and real melded. There wasn't a shadow left in which to shelter, and the sounds around him were jarring and unrhythmic. He re-positioned his hand and found a bit of darkness, shut his mind to the cacophony, and went back to sleep.

         It was a shallow kind, fraught with an unease that woke him constantly, wouldn't let him reach a place where real rest and dreams happened, though he supposed he should be glad; dreams were where he had an arm taunting him. Oh wait, that's when you're awake too. He did sleep just deeply enough for each awakening to be disorienting.

         A deepening of the darkness in front of him roused him several times, and after each, he struggled to place himself in time and space, and, after those repeated disappointing realizations, tried to figure out what had woken him. Two times were breakfast related, the appearance and disappearance of a tray on a rolling table gave it away; another must have been his ride to physio, Mateo's mutter of, "They're not gonna like this," only catching up to him minutes after it was spoken, and the room was bright and silent again. Another was Silvey herself, though she barely cast a shadow and he only caught a glimpse of her, as he heard her utter one word of something she appeared to be speaking to someone behind him. "...unacceptable."

         He finally fell in to a deep, dreamless sleep, then was awake again in an instant it seemed, and he felt like he had just missed something important. He would have sworn the room had been filled wall to wall with people talking, incessant, loud, bordering on yelling to be heard, and the moment he woke up, they were silenced. He could tell he wasn't alone though, and opened his eyes; once he saw who was there to greet him, he rolled on to his back, tried to rub the sleep from his eyes, and raised his brows.

         "Gang's all here huh."

         Dr. Roa stepped up to his bedside, while Silvey hung back, arms folded, and Sam looked blankly on from the end of his bed. "Well yes, we're becoming a bit concerned. How are you doing?"

         "Fantastic, how are you?" he said, forcing his tone chipper.

         Roa ignored his question and pressed on, "You haven't eaten today."

         He swallowed a sigh. "Guess I slept through breakfast."

         "And lunch," she said pointedly, eyeing a tray by the head of the bed he must have managed to sleep through the arrival of. "And you missed PT."

         "Did I? Well shit, what time is it?" he said as he mocked checking both wrists, looking for a watch to read, then shrugged. "I didn't think it was that late."

         "It is. How's your pain level now, one t — "

         "Yeah, I know, one to two, it's a zero, I'm fine."

         She raised a hand slightly, placating, "I just want to make sure you're ok. I know you refused medication last night."

         He was speechless for a second, galled by her presumption. "That's a crime around here, is it?"

         "No, it's —"

         "And really, is it really 'refusing' if I just didn't feel like drugging myself to la la land for one night?"

         "No, it's not, not at all. But we need to make sure we're managing your pain adequately, and we can only do that if you talk to us. If we're not, it can put your recovery plan in jeopardy. Cause you to miss meals and prescribed therapy sessions for example."

         "No," he said, shaking his head with an angry laugh, "this is not that."

         "Help us understand then, so we can help you. That's all we're trying to do here."

         He found himself holding his breath, and shook his head in reply, not because he didn't believe her, but because he didn't have the words to explain it. Even if he did, he wouldn't voice them. Even if he tried, they would have caught in this throat. If he found them and spoke them, they became the truth, and he didn't want that truth out there, that he was broken and useless, and nothing could put him back together.

         Dr. Roa's tone seemed gentler when she replied to his silence. "Are you experiencing any new side effects that are making you not want to use them? Are you finding them less effective?"

         Her suggestions were so far off the mark he found himself getting angry again, even though logically, he knew she couldn't be expected to read his mind. "No, the meds are fine. I guess I was tired? I overslept, it happens. Is it really the end of the world?"

         "We want to make sure we're doing everything we can to help you manage ok. I know the news you received yesterday — "

         "I'm managing fine. Thanks for checking in, you all can put your pitchforks away now all right?"

         "We're not here to accuse you of anythi — "

         Anger suddenly propelling him forwards, he pushed himself upright, half with his good arm and half with his half, and he immediately regretted it. Tears of pain sprung to his eyes as he interrupted, "Well it sure the hell seems like it. Christ, can a guy get a day off around here without getting the third degree?"

         "Honestly? No. We have a treatment plan in place for a reason, and we need to know what's going on if you're not adhering to it. If that's all this is, if you just need a day off, we can look at letting you go out for a few hours with your brother to get you a break from here."

         "Letting me huh? Great." He paused, put off by the phrasing, but also to catch his breath as his arm twanged its protest. As it quietened, he continued, "And who decides that?"

         "It would be a discussion between your medical team and the hospital admin."

         "Right, yeah, we all know the hospital has to cover their ass, but, 'honestly', final decision comes down to you I bet."

         "It most likely would, yes."

         "And you're just 'looking at it'."

         "Well yes, this is the first I'm hearing about it. I'm sorry if you don't like that answer. If you had asked me before, I would have allowed it, no problem. Right now, the answer would be no. You basically just took a whole day off here already, without talking to anyone, and I still don't really know why. All you're saying is you need a break. I understand the need for that, and I can accommodate that, if you let me know, so we can work it in to the plan. But all I'm seeing right now is you not managing your pain adequately, then not being honest with us about why."

         "Oh," he scoffed, "ok. I'm lying to you about wanting a break, so I can't have one. There's some brilliant fuckin' logic. I said I'm managing fine. Actually, I think I'm managing pretty freakin' great, considering."

         Roa surveyed him for a moment, then said, "I'm going to be blunt here. If you were managing fine, you'd show up. And if you can't, you'd talk to us. You'd let us know what's going on, and you'd let us help you. I know you said no before, but I really do think you should talk with someone. Our counsellor isn't ours full time but she's here tomorrow, I can arrange a time for you to meet."

         He scoffed a, "No thanks," without even considering it.

         She seemed prepared for this answer and pressed on, "If you won't talk to someone professionally, there is the option of a peer meeting. There's a young man in the area who lost his arm and volunteers his time to meet with patients. I really feel it would be beneficial if you — "

         "No. You're not getting it. I don't need to talk, to anyone. I need to be done with this. I need to get out of here and on with my life. What's left of it."

         Roa took a slight step back and raised her hands. "If you feel you've gotten all you can from your time here. You know we can't force you to stay and undergo treatment when you don't want to. We can start the discharge process right now if that's what you want. I do have to say, it would be against medical advice. My professional opinion, you're not there yet, physically or mentally. But if you've had enough, we can't stop you."

         He laughed, "Awesome. Good to know. I can leave, but I'm an idiot if I do. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

         "I just want you to think about what you really want. Do you want to recover from this, or just survive it?"

         Dean laughed as his hand sprung to his forehead and sunk back as he shook his head. He felt a sting in the corners of his eyes; what kind of absurd question was that? Blinking fast, still shaking his head in disbelief, he replied, "Christ, I just wanna go home."

         "I know you do. We all do. That's what we want too. We want to get you out of here, as soon as possible, in the best condition possible. When, and how you go home is entirely up to you." Roa paused and took another step back before she continued, "If you're leaving, let us know and we'll get the ball rolling. Have you out of here by tonight. But I do I hope you decide to stay, and if you do, I hope you'll make use of all the help we're offering you. Please, really think about it before you make up your mind. If you can give it until tomorrow? I'll stop back by in the morning, and you can let me know your decision."

         He didn't give an indication either way, he simply stared at the ceiling, shaking his head. Roa and Silvey left, and he forget Sam was there until he stepped in to view and spoke.

         "You really wanna just leave."

         Dean only sighed in reply. His brother hadn't asked anyway, he had accused.

         "Before they think you're ready."

         He shook his head and gave a short laugh at his brother's incredulity.

         "Why won't you talk to someone man? They're practically begging you to, I don't see the harm."

         His anger, that he'd managed to keep mostly in check for acquaintance's sake, erupted full force in a familiar face. "Tell me then huh? Really Sam, I'd love to know. What the hell do you think anyone is gonna be able to tell me that's gonna help? This isn't some fucking 9 to 5 gig we work here man, I'm not some cubicle jockey, how is anyone gonna be able to tell me how to adjust or adapt or 'how it'll all work out'? What's the fucking point? I'd just be wasting my time, and theirs."

         Sam stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded, then a look of anger snapped on to his face. "Does that matter, really? What kind of job someone has? They know about getting back to, to, something at least. Can you not just suck it up for a fucking second and listen to someone who might know more about this than you do? Christ, you're not the only one who wants to go home."

         He felt like he had been punched in the gut. He hadn't considered this. Well, he had considered, endlessly, what this meant for him and Sam in the future, but he hadn't considered how it was affecting Sam now at all. In his shock, he disregarded all that and replied with his first, scathing, thought. "No one's fucking keeping you here either man, just go, I'll see you when I get back."

         "Are you... are you really that f... You're keeping me here. And I'll stay, with fucking bells on, as long as it takes, as long you're in it to get better. If you're just gonna dick around and, and — "

         "Yeah, this is me, dicking around," he interrupted, sardonically.

         "It sure the hell seems like it! What the hell are you doing, why are you refusing medication when you need it?"

         He didn't mean to yell, but his voice rose with no control from him. "Well you were fucking useless, I needed to know!"

         His brother shook his head, anger still apparent on his face, but confusion joined it. "What?"

         "I had to time it!" He fought against the lump rising in his throat and continued, returning to normal decibel levels, "I had to know. You really want me to get out of here and back to the fucking job, you should wanna know too. It was impressive. Way fucking longer than the five I thought. Eighteen. Eighteen minutes. Good to know right? Real important information to have."

         After a beat, Sam asked quietly, "Is that what all this is about?"

         "I don't know!" he shouted, again uncontrolled; it had felt like an accusation, even though his brother looked more dejected than anything. "I don't know. I don't know man. I don't... What d'you want it to be? You want me in it for getting better? Then I need to know when, exactly, I become fucking useless." He took a short breath, probably poorly disguising a sob. "I need to know when 'better' stops ok? So there's no surprises. We can maybe work with that right?"

         He saw Sam shake his head but his brother didn't reply for some time. "Dean, that's... the job is honestly the least of my worries right now."

         "Yeah well, it's my only one. What the hell else..." he trailed off; he didn't want to give voice to his limitations, again. "What's the goddamn point otherwise?"

         "The point is you being ok."

         "Yeah, and what if I'm not ok if I'm not working? I don't know how to do anything else man."

         "C'mon, there's lots we can do."

         "Oh Jesus, don't start including yourself in this shit, I feel bad enough about my own life being ruined."

         "No one's life is ruined. Come on Dean, seriously." Sam seemed to hesitate, then continued, "Think of Bobby."

         "Yeah, you think I haven't been? I'm not ready for that. I'm not ready to retire," he said desperately, with the air of someone who had already packed up their office and been given a gold watch after a lifetime of service.

         "Ok, just, I think you need to slow way down for a second. First, you don't know it'll come to that. That whole thing the other night, was just a, a... an accident, it was a one-off, right? Something like that, is not gonna happen again. And second, if, and this isn't me saying it's gonna go that way, if it does, it wouldn't be retiring anyway, it's just a, a, a, Christ, it's probably more of a promotion if anything. No field work? A lot of people would kill for that."

         "Yeah, well, I'm not one of 'em."

         Sam didn't have an immediate reply to this. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see his brother shaking his head slightly. Eventually, Sam said, "Well, eighteen minutes is pretty good."

         He scoffed, "Yeah sure, it's phenomenal."

         "No really, think about it. If you're worried about being out there and something happening, eighteen minutes is a lifetime right? Enough time to realize something's up and get out of there at least."

         "Yeah, you hope."

         "Are you gonna stay?" Sam asked, his tone suddenly impatient.

         "What, here? Are you? If you wanna go, just go. "

         "Of course I am, come on. I'm in this as long as you are. Will you at least try talking to someone though? Please?"

         "No." He shook his head and tried to imagine how that would even go: Hi, I'm Dean, and I kill monsters, that you don't even know exist, for a living, and now I don't know if I can do that anymore. It's messing with my head, let's talk about it. "No. I can't. Can't do it man." He heard his brother give a small sigh, so he continued, to stave off the inevitable conversation, and stay his brother's disappointment. "But I know you wanna get out of here too. No more slacking off, I promise. And hey, maybe if I shape up they'll let us go on a field trip next week." He laughed at his own optimism and rolled his eyes as he added, "Maybe next month."

         "That'd be good man, I'd like that."

         He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "What, me shaping up, or you getting to cart my ass around town."

         "Both."

         The earnestness Sam conveyed in that one word hit him hard, and his eyes welled up. He blinked fast and continued, trying to sound interested for his brother's sake, "Is there even anything worth seeing around here? There a local 'world's biggest ball of twine'?"

         Sam gave a short laugh, "I don't know. I'll look it up, there's gotta be something."

         "All right, preparing to be amazed."

         "Oh, I'm sure you will be. Don't forget where we are."

         Dean looked at his brother in confusion for a second, then rolled his eyes. "Oh. Right. How could I forget."

         "Vegas, baby." They spoke at the same time, with varying degress of enthusiasm in their voices.

         Sam laughed, "D'you wanna watch another movie? I think I actually still have that one." He saw his brother glance at the clock as he dug in his bag for his laptop, "Silvey was talking about trying to make up your physio this afternoon, but I'm not sure she could fit it in."

         "Sure man, pause is a thing if I get hauled away. Not like there won't be plenty more time to occupy while I'm here."

         "You wanna go back out? It's pretty nice out again."

         He started shaking his head before his brother even finished speaking. "Here's fine." He didn't want to deal with the embarrassing rigmarole it took to get outside again so soon.

         Sam plunked his laptop down on the bed and searched in folders for what seemed like forever, until he found the movie he remembered they'd laughed their asses off at on first viewing, and hit play. It was a surprisingly good time, not having to think, knowing his brother's eyes were fixed on something other than him, wallowing in nostalgia for better days. About half-way through he remembered the lunch he had been chastised for not having eaten, and, though he still wasn't very hungry, choked down some of the now slightly stale sandwich and soggy fruit salad that he'd been delivered.

         The credits rolled, and Silvey hadn't intervened. His brother made idle chatter about what they had just watched, and he replied in kind, pretending to remember what had gone on. Sam started packing up the computer, then stopped suddenly and asked, "Do you want me to leave this? I've got tonnes of movies, you could watch something later if you want."

         He stared at the appliance for a moment then shook his head. It would just be wasted if his brother left it for him. "Nah that's ok, I got that if I'm bored," he said, inclining his head at the TV on the wall, "Or all these if I'm really bored," he added, eyeing the stack of books on the table next to him.

         "All right, I don't really need it if you want it though," his brother said as he resumed his packing.

         He shook his head, "Nah, it's ok. Sure it's more productive in your hands than it is in mine anyway." He laughed slightly at his own word choice, simultaneously imagining his own fumbling use of a trackpad, and his complete inability to do anything useful should he manage to actually search for, and stumble upon, a job.

         Sam stood and shouldered his bag, "All right, if you're sure. I'll guess I'll take off then."

         Dean looked up at his brother and meant to say some kind of goodbye, but the words caught in his throat; suddenly his jaw was tight, and he could only nod as he looked away.

         "Are you ok man? I can stay if you want. You wanna watch something else?"

         Shit. He thought he had hidden it, whatever this was, not well, but well enough. He shook his head, but Sam still sat back down and he could feel his brother's eyes on him as he held his breath. He cleared his throat, "No, I'm good." He nodded for emphasis when Sam didn't say anything. "I'm good."

         "It's ok if you're not y'know," Sam said quietly.

         He nodded a terse, "I know," and held his breath again, then he felt his face betray him. His voice broke when he asked, "Is it?"

         "Yeah, c'mon man, it's understandable."

         "I don't know." He had to take a breath before he continued. "Just seems like there's some timeline here that no one's let me in on, and I'm not keeping up with it. I should be getting better by now right? I should be out of here."

         "I don't know." Sam paused, then said gently, "You know who might though? That guy Roa mentioned."

         Oh here we go again, he thought bitterly. "Drop it."

         "I'm just say — "

         "And I'm just saying it's not happening. If all you're gonna do is spout the same bullshit they are, you might as well just go."

         "Is it really bullshit man?"

         "Yeah, it is, and I already fucking told you w — "

         "Oh I know. I know how you feel about it for you. But say, someone else wants to talk to someone. Say, I dunno, say I want to talk to someone, is it bullshit then?"

         Surprised by the hostile turn his brother's tone had taken, he lost his train of thought and all he could reply was a confused look.

         Sam continued after some glaring and a deep breath, monotone, "Roa mentioned a support group to me the other day, for family members of trauma patients, after... the other night. I almost went too. Figured it'd be kinda hard to explain to them though, when half my problem is that I'm the one who did this to you."

         "What's the other half, the rest of me?" Dean felt, rather than saw, Sam roll his eyes, and continued as his poor attempt at making light sailed over his brother's head, before Sam's indignation caught voice and rhythm. "Are you really still on that man? I told you, you did good. You gotta stop thinking this is your fault."

         "Yeah, well, I do. Can't help it."

         "If you wanna go talk to them then go, no one's stopping you."

         "How about I will if you will."

         He gave a short laugh and shook his head sharply, anger minimizing his movements. "Don't.

         "What?" Sam asked innocently, to his ire.

         "Don't fucking do that," he said, the threat palpable, but obviously lost on his brother, who kept talking.

         "What am I doing?"

         He opened his mouth, ready to shout the words, but couldn't find them, so he closed it and just shook his head again, anger building.

         "I honestly don't get it, if it's fine for everyone els — "

         "Don't fucking use me as an excuse man," he interrupted, finally finding his voice, and when he did it was already rising. "Don't put your shit on me, I got enough right now. If you wanna talk to someone, talk. I'm not."

         Sam echoed his volume and anger back at him, "Why? Why the hell not man, really? If it could hel — "

         "I fucking told you and if that's not good enough — "

         "Oh I know, I know you told me, it just seems like — "

         He spoke loudly, over his brother, "If you're not gonna let this go, you might as well just leave and keep right on going back to Kansas, I'm sure there'll be someone you can talk to there. I'll see you at the bunker, whenever they let me out."

         Sam stared at him for a second then scoffed. "Maybe I will." His brother stood, shaking his head, and got almost to the door before he turned back, his glare sharp as daggers, "You know what? Maybe the other half of my problem is the rest of you. I don't get it. And I'm really trying to. Why aren't you in this? It's like you're not even here anymore. Why aren't you trying to do everything you can to get better? What's the point of getting there physically if you're just gonna ignore everything else?"

         The words felt like blows again and his whole body tensed, recoiled as if preparing to strike back, as his brother spoke; he could feel both hands balled tightly in to fists, and this time he didn't know how to reply without actually lashing out, or breaking down, so he said nothing.

         Sam scoffed, shook his head, and turned away at his reticence. "See ya whenever man."

         Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother disappear out the door, and only then did a socially acceptable emotion take over. He laughed in disbelief; if he didn't he was liable to cry. He relaxed the one hand he had control over, with difficulty, and put it to his head. If he hadn't been tethered to the place he would have chased his brother down and tried, again, to explain himself, or slugged him, he wasn't sure which.

         Why couldn't Sam see? It wasn't just that it would be an exercise in futility to talk to any of these people, it was that he was already relying on everyone around him for so much, God, for everything, and he just wanted to do one goddamn thing on his own. The orderlies brought him his food and carted him everywhere, the nurses took care of him, made sure he had the meds that kept him half-sane when he was hurting, the doctors were doing their damnedest to make sure he got better and could function when he did. Hell, even for the most mundane things he depended on others; what his brother was doing, distracting him, giving him a vague sense of normalcy and breaking up the monotony, giving him a fucking point to even existing anymore.

         He just wanted one goddamn thing. And he could do it, if everyone would just give him a fucking second. He could. He didn't want to have to ask for any more help. He already felt worthless and weak, and asking for more, from anyone, would seal it for him that he was. He could figure this shit out. He could. He could get past all this shit himself. He would, if everyone would just stop asking him about it, pointing it out, making him feel like he was falling behind on some growth chart that they wouldn't let him see.

         Dean dropped his hand and blinked hard, and stared around for something he could do, on his own, that was normal, that would prove to anyone who looked at him that he was fine, that he was in it to get better. His eyes fell on the distractions the place offered, and they were few and far between; TV or books, a shower or a nap, waiting for a meal or some therapy of the physical variety, always waiting. There was nothing. His darting eyes caught a slim sliver of blue sky, obscured by the ever-closed curtains around his neighbour's bed, that cut the hopeless, white monotony around him, just as he was about to break.

Outside. Sam had mentioned going back out. Sure, he'd have to deal with them helping him to get there, but once he was out, he could... sit on a bench and stare at the wall? It'd be a different wall at least. He'd read, get some fresh air; surely that would be good for his health, mental and otherwise. He mashed the call button above his bed and got up to try and find his boots. Once he located them, he sat back down and pulled them on, and by the time he sat up, Sarracino had appeared in his doorway, giving him a questioning look.

         "I wanna... Can I go out? To the garden, or whatever it is? My brother said it was nice out." He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, and grabbed a random book off the pile next to his bed as evidence. "To read?"

         "Is he coming back?"

         "Huh?"

         "Your brother, is he coming back?"

         Dean gave a wry smile and barely stifled a laugh, "I don't know."

         "You can't go out alone. Let me check and see if there's someone available to take you. Give me a few minutes, ok?"

         He looked away with a derisive laugh, nodding his head, defeated. "Really."

         "Hospital policy. If there's someone who can go with you, it's no problem."

         "That's fine, don't bother," he replied, and bent back over to take off his boots.

         "Where are you trying to go?" an accusing voice questioned.

         He sat back up slowly, boots still firmly in place, and replied, "Out. Y'know, outside? Fresh air and all. Didn't think it would be such a pain in the ass to get there though."

         "I can take him Mary, if you want to get him set up. I have some free time this afternoon, for some reason," Dr. Silvey said with a pointed look at him.

         "Is this just a trick to get me to physio?" he asked Silvey, as the nurse disappeared.

         "Oh, no. Definitely not. No time for a session unfortunately. I moved everyone else up as best I could, tried to move some things around for you, but I've only got about 45 minutes. And some people do want to eat," she said, brandishing an insulated lunch bag, her tone surprisingly hostile.

         He raised his eyebrows as Sarracino reappeared and sat back as she set him up for off-roading again. When the nurse eventually said he was all set, and left, he didn't move.

         Tone still harsher than he was used to, Silvey asked, "Are you coming or not? I am on my break here you realize."

         "Well now I'm not sure I want to. You seem uh... frankly, you're a little scary right now."

         "You said you wanted out? This is how you get out." She paused, as if biting back words, then continued, "I'm going, come along or not," shrugged, and left.

         He sighed, got up, his front of a book still in his hand, and followed her out of the room. He trailed her slim shadow down the same halls he and Sam had taken to get outside, and traipsed after her across the courtyard as she settled at the same table. When he sat down, she was pulling all manner of healthy-looking rabbit-food out of her lunch bag and opening up containers. As she ate and he flattened his book on the table and pretended to read, they sat in silence, save for the occasional loud crunch of a raw vegetable and the dry rasp of a turning page.

         "So what's up?" she finally asked, in between bites of her salad and yogurt, her tone still not quite the chipper one he was accustomed to, but less angry than it had been inside.

         "Not really sure yet," he said conversationally, "there was a murder in a monastery in middle of nowhere Quebec and these two detectives have been sent to check it out."

         She nodded, feigning interest, then replied, rapid-fire, voice impatient, "Wow, that sounds super interesting, you know that's not what I mean."

         He sighed and flipped his book over. "What do you want? An apology?" He took on a mock-repentant tone. "I'm sorry, I overslept. I'll never miss another one of your sacred physio sessions again."

         "They're not mine you know. They're yours."

         He sighed again.

         "No, really, you're not wasting anyone's time but your own. Sure, I'm not thrilled that my schedule got messed up, but you're only hurting yourself if you don't show."

         "Yeah, I got that loud and clear from Roa earlier. You know, if you wanna go eat your lunch in peace, and leave me be, feel free."

         "I think I'm perfectly happy here, thanks though."

         He gave a short laugh,"I'm real happy for you. Can I read? This is the second time I've been outside in a freaking month, I'd like to enjoy it."

         "Go ahead," she said as she nodded and continued her crunching.

         He flipped his book back over, but only read the same line five times or so before he stopped, sighing again. "Look, I am sorry I messed up your day." He could see her nodding out of the corner of his eye as he stared, unseeing, at the stucco walls caging him in, but she didn't say anything. He went on, suddenly feeling the need to explain himself. "I guess I was just, uh... tired. Of all of this."

         "Are you tired of it, or just bored? There's a difference."

         He swallowed hard and laughed; he was already tired of the conversation. "Really. Ok, what's the difference."

         "Well if you're tired of it, you're not seeing the point anymore. You've got to work on remembering there is one. If you're bored? Well, I might be able to help with that. For my part of it at least. If you're bothering to stay that is."

         "Who's saying it can't it be both?" he replied sarcastically.

         "Can you at least acknowledge there's still a point to what we're doing?"

         Anger getting away from him, he replied, words short, "Yes, there's a point, obviously there's a point. I still don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time, you've seen me."

         Her tone reverted to the calm, encouraging one he was accustomed to when she replied, "You're doing great."

         Dean scoffed and opened his mouth to answer, disbelieving, but her assurance made his voice catch in his throat. He only managed a strangled, "Yeah. Right."

         "Honestly, you are. You're making great progress. You're nearly there. Really."

         He leaned forwards; his hand found his mouth and he pressed hard, eyes searching for distraction, or maybe a hidden way out, in the ivy covered trellis against the wall in front of him. When he thought he could speak without his voice shaking, he replied, "Sure as hell doesn't feel like it."

         "Hey, small setbacks, different challenges, they're a part of the game. I know it's probably not what you want to hear, but you've really just gotta stick with it and work through them."

         He raised his brows and nodded in agreement; it wasn't what he wanted to hear. He knew it was true, he knew what he needed to do, but that didn't mean he wanted to hear about it again since, up until today, that's all he had been doing.

         "Do you think you'll stay? And before you answer, just know there's nothing I hate more than leaving a job unfinished."

         He gave a short laugh, shifting his hand to his forehead, "Well, we have that in common then." After a pause, avoiding the question, he dropped his hand, sat back, and asked, "So I'm the job am I?"

         "Helping people get better is the job. And I know I'm not that type of therapist, but everyone I work with is just like you, trying to recover from something. A professional? A peer meeting? Those really are your best options, they're more equipped than I'll ever be. But, we see enough of each other, if you feel like talking, you can try me, ok?"

         He took a deep breath and found himself nodding, not meeting her eye.

         "So. Should I let Dr. Roa know you'll be sticking around? Save you from a meeting at the butt-crack of dawn tomorrow?"

         He was nodding again, and actually cracked a small smile, "Yeah, sure. Why not."

         He looked over and saw her break in to a wide smile in response to his fleeting own. "Good. Really, that's great to hear. Now as for boredom. I've been mulling over this idea for a while now, for some of my more mobile patients, and if I can get the administration to agree, I think you'd be a great candidate..."

         Dean stared off, fighting back tears at the daunting reality he had just agreed to, that he didn't think he could live up to, and listened to her talk enthusiastically about her plan. Something about getting patients out of the gym and in to the real world, using nearby running trails and outdoor exercise equipment. He nodded in agreement every now and then, and answered her hypotheticals when they came up, feeling slightly like a guinea pig, but grudgingly admitted to himself it would be nice to get outside. She finished up her lunch, which was borderline dinner now, and packed away her many containers, still espousing the benefits she saw in her idea, then stood to leave, eyeing him expectantly, but he remained seated.

         "I've got to get back."

         "I know you do. Me, my day's wide open. Can you just forget you saw me?"

         Her face took on a pained expression as she shook her head, "I'm sorry, I really can't."

         "Can't, or won't?"

         "Honestly, it's can't. It's a liability issue. The hospital can't have patients outside unattended, if you fall and sustain further injury, if you disappear? It's on them."

         "Does everyone around here think I'm just going to keel over the second I'm by myself?"

         "No they don't, but I'm responsible for you right now. I took you out, I take you back... and hey, no one's ruling out the possibility of a kidnapping here either."

         He smirked at her attempt at levity, but still didn't move.

         "Look, however slim the chance, I'm doing my best to keep you out of trouble here. Can you help me out and not get me in to it?"

         With one last look around at the illusory freedom and independence he had just gained, he grumbled, "Fine. Sure." and stood to leave.

         They said their goodbyes in the hall and once back in his room, he tossed his book aside, not bothering to mark his page. As he sat and removed his boots, then climbed back in to bed, he could hear his roommate talking quietly on the phone again. He could see the shadow the curled cord cast across the curtain, and he looked around. The landline phone next to his own bed had only gone noticed insofar as to be pushed to the side and buried in books. Where was his cell anyway? He hadn't come across it amongst the things Sam had brought in for him, or in the bag of bloodied clothes the hospital had stripped off him when he arrived. He had a vague recollection of stashing it somewhere after having, with utmost relish, powered it down. He'd have to ask Sam to check the car. That should be easy, he thought. He was sure his brother was well on his way back to the bunker by now; just give him a call, he's likely within arms reach of the glove box at this very moment.

         Nurse Sarracino came in to reattach him to the place. Maybe it was part of the new policy that was in place thanks to him, but she didn't stop talking the entire time, explaining every single step she took and move she made. When she finished up, and he mumbled his thanks, she left a blaring symphony of silence in her wake. Curtains, as he had been calling his roommate in his head, had hung up the phone at some point, and there was no sound to distract him from the thoughts banging around inside his head. He found the remote, turned on the TV and sat back, already not paying attention to the screen, wondering exactly how far the silence stretched.

         Fuck it. He reached over and unearthed the phone, tipping piles of books over as he shifted them aside. He grabbed the receiver off its cradle and dialed awkwardly, in part because he was using the wrong hand, and this old-ass phone had actual buttons, in part because he didn't have another hand to shift the handset to. When he finished punching in the numbers, that he knew by heart even though he hadn't actually had to physically dial them in forever, and put the phone to his ear, he was met by three familiar tones and a message, "Your call cannot be completed as dialed, please hang up — "

         He raised his shoulder to hold the receiver in place at his ear, reached over and pressed the switch to hang up. He eyed the area around the numbers, and read a label that he missed before, that basically amounted to please dial 9 to get out; if only it were that easy. He dialed again, more dexterous this time, he was already an old pro, adding the extra digit, and listened to the ringing coming down the line, though not for long.

         Sam answered after a ring with a short, strained, "Hello?"

         "So, how's Colorado?" he asked conversationally.

         There was a protracted pause, then his brother said, "I'm just up the road man, are you ok?"

         "Yeah, fine. Just curious if you stuck around or not."

         "Of course I did. You really think I'm just gonna leave?"

         "I don't know, I would if I could."

         "I thought they made it pretty clear you could if you wanted to."

         "Yeah, and I thought you made it pretty clear that I'd be stupid if I do."

         Sam sighed. "Can we not do this?"

         "Fine by me." There was a long silence; neither of them spoke, but Dean heard the familiar, irregular, rise and fall of passing cars in the background. His heart started pounding in his chest. He needed to be sure. "You are staying?"

         Sam answered, annoyance crystal clear. "Yes. Obviously."

         He breathed out slowly and silently. It felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He said what he wanted before he could think about it and stop himself. "I'll talk then. You're probably right. That one-armed kid might know something useful."

         He heard Sam sigh. "You don't have to."

         "That was the deal right? I do, you do."

         "That... I don't want you to, just 'cause you think you have to, because of me."

         He laughed, "Well that's good then. I was already thinking I wasn't really gonna."

         "Honestly, do what you want man, do what you need to. I won't... judge or whatever, I know it's not my place. But I don't think it's, it's a... it's not sign of weakness or anything, you know, if you talk to someone. The way I see it, they're experts. Makes sense to talk to an expert when you're up against something you don't know about right? We do it all the time."

         He sighed. "You and your fucking logic." He raised his eyes and took a deep breath. "I'll think about it ok?"

         "K. Wait, so this all means you're staying."

         "I will if you will," he replied, pointedly.

         He heard his brother exhale, a short laugh. "Yeah ok, I deserve that." There was a silence for a moment then Sam asked, "You know I was never really leaving right? I was just..." his brother trailed off.

         "I don't know, I wouldn't blame you. I know I must not be easy to be around right now."

         Dean heard a quiet snort, "So basically nothing's changed."

         He laughed and nodded in appreciation. "Ha, yeah. Nice. Good one man." It felt so normal to have his brother talking shit to him that he felt his eyes well up.

         "Oh, I found out about some local attractions. Alpacas are the biggest ball of twine around here."

         He laughed again, holding the handset with his shoulder once more as he ran his hand over his eyes. "Alpacas?"

         "Yup. A few llamas thrown in there too apparently."

         "Well, I'm amazed. Not in a good way, but I am amazed."

         "Ha, thought you would be. C'mon, we gotta check it out."

         "Oh for sure, no way we're missing that."

         "I literally can't wait man."

         Though he laughed along, and replied in kind in a sarcastic tone, "Me either," he was earnestly honest and fighting back tears when he said it. He looked around at a sudden clatter of a cart from the doorway, and, after swallowing hard and giving the orderly a nod, continued, "I better go, food's here. Can't be seen to be not eating. The implications and all."

         "Alright man, enjoy your dinner."

         "Yeah, don't see that happening."

         Sam chuckled, "I'll see you tomorrow."

         The doubt that had made him call in the first place reared up and his breath caught in his throat. He tried not to sound skeptical. "Yeah, you sure 'bout that?"

         "Yeah, I'm sure. I'm not going anywhere."

         Dean held his breath as he nodded, then finally was able to voice an, "Ok."

         They said their goodbye's and hung up and he barely managed to keep it together. He held on by turning his attention to Cory, the slip of a man who usually brought him his dinner, who had a chef's knack of making it sound amazing regardless of what was served. "So what do we got tonight?" he asked, clearing his throat.

         After consulting a clipboard, Cory grabbed a covered tray and deposited it in front of him with a flourish. "You will be supremely pleased to know, tonight we have your favourite."

         "Ah sweet, chicken thing?"

         Cory nodded seriously and continued, enumerating the ways in which his meal was actually a rare delicacy, before he disappeared behind Curtains curtain, then took his cart and left to carry on with his delivery service.

         As he ate, he tuned in absent-mindedly to the television he hadn't bothered to turn off, and tried to tune out everything else. He was vaguely hungry, he should eat, but his jaw was still tight. His thoughts turned back to his conversations with Sam, just now on the phone, and earlier. His brother was staying and he was so grateful he could have cried; he almost did. Sam was obviously still fucked up because of what went down, but he wasn't leaving. The ultimatum, that had made him so angry earlier, seemed reasonable, or at least understandable now. He, Dean, had only been thinking about it from his side really, worrying about how all this would affect Sam down the road, when he got out, about how this would affect their ability to work. He hadn't really considered that it might be hard for Sam right now. Well he had, but he thought he had dealt with that. How many times did you have to tell someone you didn't blame them before they believed it?

         Dean sighed around a bite of chicken thing, knowing he was doing it again. He, thankfully, only had vague recollections of how he was when shit really went bad, but he knew if he had to see his brother in pain, because of something he thought he had done to him, he'd probably still be fucked up too. He should cut Sam some slack. He wasn't easy to be around, and not just for his, lately, shitty attitude. If only his arm could cut him some slack; he'd feel better, and it was blatantly obvious his brother would too.

         Sam's ultimatum must have been a plea; I will if you will. His brother was practically begging him. He shook his head slightly as he pushed his tray away, not able to eat any more. He stared at the TV screen, not seeing it, and tried to reconcile his almost nauseating need to do something by himself with his need to do anything and everything for Sam. Why was it even a question? Sam came first. Fuck what he, Dean, wanted. He, according to everyone he talked to lately, didn't even know what was good for him anyway. This peer meeting or whatever it was called, the lesser of two evils, he should do it.

         Fuck it, I will, he made up his mind suddenly. It was just a fucking conversation with someone who also happened to only have one arm, though he wasn't sure he was ready to include himself in that category yet. He was just newly one-armed; formerly two-armed if anything. He smirked and cast his eyes down to what was missing; maybe that was his problem, thinking he could escape the denomination.

         Dean looked away. The sight still made him slightly sick and keenly anxious. He swallowed hard and vowed not to think about any of this for the rest of the night. He was gonna stay, Sam was gonna stay, they could carry on in this limbo for another while longer. He grabbed the remote up again and flipped channels furiously, trying to find something, if not engrossing, than at least mindless. He settled on some parody of reality show with wreckers, and promptly tuned out. He'd ask Roa to set something up in the morning. Tonight was for doing something for himself, one last ditch effort after a day of causing and experiencing so much disappointment; if that something was just ignoring the obvious and dreading the next day, so be it; his figurative hands were tied. He hoped Sam, at least, would be happy knowing that they were both staying, and both talking.

*          *          *          *          *

Chapter Text

       After leaving his brother that night, Sam drove around, trying to distract himself from his anger, and told himself it wasn't aimless. He stopped at a corner store and picked up some provisions to prove it, then resumed his cruising up and down the few main drags in town, trying to decide where to grab something real to eat. He ignored all the road signs that boldy directed him to the interstate. As the sun set, and headlights came on around him, the signs seemed to brighten as his resolve dimmed, illuminated in time with the turning of late rush hour traffic, lighting the route like a runway.

       He returned to the motel after annoying himself imagining the exhausting small talk he would have to make with his server if he went in somewhere, or the poor nutrition he would have to settle for if he drove-through somewhere, but he still sat outside in the car for a few minutes, playing on his phone, pretending he had something else to do. When he finally went in, Sam half-heartedly slammed the door behind him, but never got his frame-rattling release. It refused to be forced; there was only a soft exhale of hydraulics as it closed slowly behind him.

       Sam sighed along with it. It was a rare sound; they had hardly ever stayed anywhere near nice enough to have fancy, slowed-for-guest-comfort doors. Their usual haunts took them to the outskirts of town, cheap and not necessarily cheerful. He was only staying here, in this mid-range, but somehow still overpriced, franchise place in the middle of downtown, because needs must. It was the closest accomodation to the hospital, and when all that mattered was proximity, you took what you could get.

       Even with that dissonance, coming back here should have been a familiar procedure; a return to base, where ever it was, whatever it might look like that day, was a return to normal. There was a routine to it; you unload and debrief, you try to regroup and get some rest. It had never mattered that the interiors behind the doors, and the towns outside them changed, closing them, in anger or otherwise, had always felt like a homecoming; rooms like these were the closest thing Sam had had to one for most of his life.

       This time was different, and not just because it sounded wrong; it felt wrong too. Or maybe that was him. If he thought about it for a second, stopped pretending everything was ok, this whole stay had been different. For all the time he had spent here, in the lesser of two Vegas's, probably the longest they had stayed anywhere else since finding the bunker, he couldn't consider this a base. There was no normal to return to anymore, no strangeness to shut out; it followed him in each time he came back alone.

       The routine was gone. He had no guns to unload and clean, no knives to sharpen and sheathe, no ancient talismans or obscure books, with magic that might fix everything, to study then carefully pack away. He only had his laptop, and he might consider it a weapon if it ever provided him answers. He had no one to talk to, so debriefing was out, and he couldn't regroup either, being the sole occupant of the place. The only thing left was to rest, and that hadn't come easy lately. Before tonight, though, none of that stopped Sam trying.

       He had tried to go over the days' events as objectively as he could, catching himself muttering aloud every now and then, as he planned his next move. Up until last week, he had been calling Cas every few days, but there had been no answer. Sam hadn't really had anything new to tell him anyway, and after exceeding the voicemail time limit one too many times, he realized the messages he was leaving were rambling and pointless, so he stopped. He had thought about calling Jody once. His imposed isolation had been particularly unsettling that night, but he quickly dismissed the idea; as much as he wanted to talk to someone, he didn't want to burden anyone else with this right now either.

       He had spent hours trying to find other logical tacks to take to help his brother, replacing one kind of research with another, ghosts with phantom limbs, posession with pain, incantations with medications. He had tried to keep his notes, and his thoughts, organized, but both had become scrapyards, sprawling and haphazard, full of vague frames of ideas with parts that didn't seem to fit together. He kept thinking he could build something from them if he could just learn enough, but so far, nothing that helped had come together. He had always, eventually, been able to fall asleep with the dim hope that tomorrow, someone or something, Dean, or a doctor, or his own perseverance, would provide some schematic he could follow.

       Tonight though, the slow close of the door sealed it for him. He knew there was no solution, no salvation, in trying to following the routine, as stripped as it had become. There was nothing left he could piece together on his own, no plan of attack he could form that would save anyone. But still, he didn't seem to be able to skip to the end and just rest. Old habits die hard, especially in the face of a challenge to them.

       Dean was being Dean, stubborn and hard-headed; Sam didn't know why he had expected anything else, but he wasn't about to rise to his brother's ultimatums. He wasn't leaving. He was never leaving, even when he threatened it, even though, now that his anger had turned to apathy, some small part of him wanted to get back in the car and follow those blazing signs out of town.

He dropped his meager corner store provisions on the bed, then did the same with his laptop bag, vowing not to touch it. He looked around. Time for a new routine. What did normal people, in normal circumstances, do when they were in hotel rooms?

       Trying to summon his inner business traveller, he turned on the TV and flipped channels for a minute, then dropped the remote on the bed. He dragged the one small armchair in the corner of the room out to the middle and settled in, but nothing on the screen held his interest.

       Habit almost made him get up and start unpacking his computer, but he stopped himself. An odd, flat, lump in the outside pocket of his bag caught his eye though, and he vaguely remembered shoving a half-read paperback in there one, long, night. He got up, fished the book out and sat down in the chair at the table, thinking he could pick up where he left off. He flipped pages for a bit, but couldn't find his place. The story seemed completely unfamiliar, but he was finding it hard to concentrate on the words on the page anyway. The overhead light had glimpsed off something glossy and black on the table when he sat down; he couldn't help but wonder if the key to reclaiming some part of the old routine was lying right next to him.

       Levon's card was where he had left it the night before. The light obscured some of the lettering so he slid it towards him and read the entirety again. He tossed his book aside and fished in his pocket for his phone. He was dialling before he knew what he was doing, and when the line engaged, he wasn't ready.

      "Hello?"

       "Oh. Hi, I'm looking for Levon?"

       "You got 'im. How can I help ya?

       "Uh, you gave me your card. At the church last night?"

       "Oh yeah, yup, I remember. How's it goin' today now?"

       Sam couldn't stifle a scoff, at the question and the sudden tightness in his throat. He dropped his head, fumbling for a reply. "Uh..."

       "Bit of a rough one was it?"

       He laughed again and cleared his throat, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

       "Did ya eat yet?"

       Thrown off by the question, then eyeing his bag of empty calories, Sam replied, "Uh, no. No, not yet."

       "Well look, it's coming round on supper time at my place, and I got a big feed nearly ready, always make too much. I'll be eatin' soon if you wanna join."

       "Oh, uh, — "

       "Now I ain't guaranteein' it'll be five star, but a home-cooked meal and a sympathetic ear can make a world a difference sometimes."

       Eyes darting around his empty room, he found himself nodding, and he replied without thinking. "Yeah. Yeah, ok."

       "All right then. Take down my address, ya got a pen?"

       Sam scrambled up, dug his pen out of his bag and wrote down the address Levon rattled off.

       "Got it? Ok, I'll be expectin' ya then. See ya soon."

       Sam pocketed his phone and sat back down as he picked up the receipt he had scribbled the address on. He stared at it for a moment, then shook his head and looked away. He had somewhere to go, outside of Dean's room, outside of here. It still wasn't a base, a home, but it was someone's, and he had been invited for something as normal as a meal. If he couldn't find some semblance of the routine in that, at least there would be someone to talk to.

       He made to get up, but a slight shiver thrilled though him, and he was stayed in his seat. He must be tired; walking back to the car suddenly seemed like a monumental task. He sat up straight and forced his eyes wide, trying to summon some latent energy, and felt a tightness across his shoulders. He recognized the feeling; why was he apprehensive? He had done nothing but wait around lately, why now, when offered something to do, was he was reluctant to do it? He shook his head and scoffed quietly at his own vacillation. Don't know what to do when you get back here, don't know what to do when you get to leave. As foreign as this place felt, leaving it was still an unknown. He sighed and told himself to think of it like a job: you never wanted to find one, that meant trouble for some poor, usually undeserving, soul, but you knew when you saw it that it had to be done, and you were likely the only one who could do it.

       But calling for help, and getting it so readily, when Dean wouldn't, felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal and it definitely didn't seem fair. Fuck it. He should go; he should talk. He should at least try, with whoever was offering it, if not for the routine, if not for his own sanity, then to be able to throw it in his brother's face that talking wasn't a waste of time. He hoped it wouldn't be at least. This guy didn't know him from Adam and had invited him to his home, no questions asked. He was expected now. And, like any job, Sam now expected it would be worth his while. Best case, you could save someone, or stop some thing, or give someone some answers. Worst case? Well, he was pretty sure no one was going to die if this went badly, but it might end up being a pointless exercise. There was always the possibility you might end up more confused than you had been too.

       Sam exhaled hard, rubbed his eyes, hauled his phone out again and typed in his destination, then willed himself to get moving, ignoring the anxiety that had settled somewhere in his stomach. It was a short drive, less than fifteen minutes. The town proper wasn't very big, and Levon lived just on the outskirts, down a curving road that ran parallel to the highway, at the end of an arid cul-de-sac. He parked in front of a small bungalow with an attached garage, typical save for the southwestern influences. Terracotta tiles covered the roof instead of shingles, smooth plaster adorned the facade instead of plastic siding, and a tall, stucco wall boxed in the front yard instead of the classic white picket fence.

       Sam let himself in the creaking wooden gate in the wall and took a short ramp up on to a covered porch. Homey aromas of cooking wafted out of open windows and the rickety screen door. He knocked and the metal rattled in its frame, then it groaned open and he was beckoned inside.

       "Hello hello, come on in. Everythin's just about ready. Never did catch your name did I?"

       "Sam."

       Levon extended his hand and they shook, "Nice to meet ya properly. C'mon through."

       He followed the older man down a dimly lit hall littered with closed doors to the only open one at the end. He stepped in to a bright, humid, galley kitchen with a small dining room at the end. Pots and skillets bubbled away on the stove, and the countertops were nothing but paring knives, cutting boards, bowls and measuring cups.

       "Don't mind the mess, always ends up a bit of a disaster area when I cook, used t' drive my wife crazy. You go on through and have a seat there," Levon said as he indicated the table in the dining room. Sam waded through the room and settled in to a chair facing the kitchen. His host followed, rubbing his hands together, as if ready for anything. "All right now, a drink. I got lemonade, whiskey, beer? Hmm, milk, soda? Tea, coffee, water?"

       "I'm good right now, thank you though."

       "All right, well don't be shy if ya get thirsty. People have been known to get parched in here with the oven on," the older man said with a grin, as he turned back to the stove.

       Sam nodded with a small smile, then glanced around and saw a dewy build-up, condensation gathering and running in places, on the sliding glass door to his right. It obscured his view, but the railings of a small deck were thrown in to relief by the headlights of cars as they took the curve in the highway behind the house.

       Mesmerized for a moment, Sam turned back and called above the sizzling, "Can I help with anything?"

       "No, no, you sit, it's nearly ready here."

       Feeling slightly useless, but hey, he was used to it, he took a closer look around and his habit of mentally mapping escape routes took over. To his left was a darkened archway that led to what had to be the living room. As his eyes adjusted, he made out a few scant shapes of furniture; a couch and armchair were pushed against the walls, glowing numbers beneath a hulking rectangle in the corner likely a TV and cable box. Through a large picture window, shrouded by thin curtains, he could just see the glint of a streetlight off the roof of the Impala, and the cul-de-sac beyond, over the garden wall. From his once-over outside, he thought there were two open, but small, single-hung windows on either side of the expanse of glass, and a fluttering of the curtains confirmed it.

       A strip of light cut across the floor from the barely open door off the narrow hall. He took a mental inventory and there were another four, no five, doors off the hall, three on the left and two at the end, one must be to the garage but there had to be at least one window that a person could fit through in the bedrooms at least.

       Sam turned back to the sliding door, the closest escape point, and scrutinized it. One fixed panel, one moving, it had a simple plastic switch, set to a red dot, on the handle. He sat up taller and saw a long, heavy bar, probably wrought iron, laying in the track. The deck outside looked cluttered, but there was a narrow path to a break in the railings, likely a short set of stairs down to the lawn. Beyond that, it looked like there was a hedge enclosing a small yard, maybe a chainlink fence behind it, but he couldn't tell for sure.

       He was wondering which doors led to the bedrooms when he gave his head a small shake. He wasn't going to need to find a quick escape from here, at least not for the reasons he was used to. He could probably just use the front door if he felt the need to leave in a hurry.

       He turned his eyes to closer things and they fell on the narrow strips of wall on either side of the patio door. They were covered in mismatched photo frames. His eyes followed their irregular, rectangular pattern, and it extended up over the lintel too. Smiling people stared out at him, most prominently featured were three kids, two boys and a girl, and a woman with straight, dark, hair. He recognized a younger iteration of his host in some of them, smiling alongside them.

       The pictures centred on the narrow walls appeared older; a young family with a toddler smiled from one frame, then from another, parents embraced two small children in front of a pool. Prominent at the top of the door frame, a picture of two grinning kids and another obviously wailing, tonsils exposed to the camera, with Levon and the dark-haired woman caught candid, both trying to console the screaming tot. Interspersed, the children seemed to age rapidly, smiling school photos in front of fake library backdrops showed their progression, with holiday and vacation photos of the whole family thrown in.

       A sad story played out, frame by frame, if you looked long enough to put them in order. Official school graduation photos, replete with caps and gowns, adorned the walls next. The kids seemed serious in their pictures, but maybe it was all in his head. Next came photos of Levon and his children, now nearly grown, crouching down to get in the frame around a woman in a wheelchair who was sat at an unnatural angle. When the story seemed to end, only Levon and his wife were pictured; their smiles seemed strained, or tired, and didn't seem to reach their eyes. Or maybe he was just imagining it.

       His reading of the place and, unintentionlly, it's people, had only taken a minute, but he suddenly felt like he was intruding. He should say something, instead of just sitting there in silence, thank his host, who was humming along to a song playing softly on a radio from some corner of the kitchen.

       Sam cleared his throat, "Thank you for having me by the way."

       Levon turned, spoon in hand and smile on his face, and said, "You're welcome, anytime. In all senses a the words." His host turned back to the stove and continued, raising his voice slightly, "It's nice to have the company. Dinner's usually a solitary affair 'round here." Levon turned to face him again, with a grin, "Doesn't stop me from going all out all the time though."

       "You're sure there's nothing I can help you with?"

       "Nah, nope, I think it's done," Levon said as he turned away again, inspecting one pot closely. Seemingly satisfied, he brought serveral steaming dishes over to the table and set them down on top of crocheted pot holders. His last trip he sat down and set a glass of what looked like lemonade in front of Sam, then turned in his seat and finagled the metal bar out of the window's track on the floor. Levon leaned it against the wall and slid the door open a crack in one quick motion. The faint sounds of highway traffic, and a cool, gentle breeze, joined them as his host turned back and started doling out heaping spoonfuls of rice, layering some meat and vegetable dish over top of it.

       Grabbing up his fork, the older man said, "Dig in. My late wife's family recipe. Best picadillo you can get this side of the border." Around mouthfuls, Levon added, "Better than anything you been getting at that cafeteria at least I'd wager."

       "No offense to 'em a course, they make passable fare. It'll do when ya need it. But there's nothin' like a home-cooked meal."

       Sam nodded in agreement. "Yeah, no, this is awesome, thank you. We're on the road a lot actually, me and my brother, so we don't get home-cooked, uh, anything, that much to begin with."

       "Is that so? Part of a travelling circus are ya?" Levon asked with a wink.

       He chuckled, "Yeah, feels like it sometimes." He disappeared briefly in to some of his sillier memories of their travels, then returned and found Levon looking at him, expectant. He elaborated with the first thing that came to mind, what he had told the hospital. It was best to keep your stories straight in smaller towns anyway; you never knew who knew who. But as he said it, he knew it didn't really make sense in the context of travel. He was already talking though, so he spun it as best he could. "We teach self-defense, uh, advanced techniques, stuff like that. We do a lot of consulting work, mostly with law enforcement and security companies? Some private lessons. So we travel all over."

       "Well, that sounds like a interestin' line a work. How'd you get in to that? Military background?"

       "No, uh, sort of a family business I guess? Our dad was big in to us being able to protect ourselves."

       "Ah I see I see. So that means you're not from around here then?"

       "No, we're out of Kansas."

       "An' how'd you come to be in our little burg? Should I be wary of the newfound skills of our local police now?"

       "Ha, no, no, we were just passing through. I thought it'd be a short stop actually. I wasn't even planning on staying the night, but then, uh..." he trailed off. He wasn't sure how to work but then my brother, who was a demon at the time, ran me through with an ancient dagger and as good as killed me, so I thought I had to cut off his arm to save him in to the conversation.

       Levon waited for a moment, then finished for him. "Shit happened."

       Sam nodded with a short laugh; that about summed it up.

       "As it does."

       Sam nodded again, feigning interest in his plate, feeling like an idiot; what had he been thinking? There was no way he would ever be able to explain to Levon that he, Sam, was the shit that happened. He took another bite to seem normal, and to try and fill the emptiness that had been coming and going from his gut lately, but he didn't taste a thing and the hollowness remained.

       "Well, they're great down there at Alta Vista, always took real good care a my wife. Your brother's in good hands."

       He swallowed with difficulty, nodding, "Yeah. Yeah, for sure, everyone's been great."

       Levon nodded back at him with narrow eyes for a moment, then continued. "That's my wife there, Bea." Sam followed Levon's gaze back to the frames on the wall. The older man's eyes trailed over the photographs as his own had, but Levon's looked practised; they lingered in places and Sam saw a wisp of a smile drift across the man's face. "Beatrisa. I called her the bee's knees."

       Levon launched in to the story of what came after. Sam listened as best he could; he knew the older man was only telling it for his benefit. This was probably the only reason he had been invited over. The trauma support group guy, of course, was trying to help support him through trauma. If Sam was honest with himself, that was probably the only reason he had called too. But he wasn't ready. Talking nonchalantly to strangers about how your whole world had changed in an instant must come easier with practice, or with years. He nodded along politely, but Levon's honesty was hard to hear; the man didn't sugarcoat anything. Sam got the gist though, and it felt like a punch to his gut. He was sure there was advice in there, hope for a future where he could talk about everything like it was just a normal Tuesday night, but the few phrases that stuck out, and stuck with him, he wished he could forget.

       Levon kept taking long pauses, and Sam, through everything else, found it slightly strange. He only realized halfway though that Levon was probably doing so in case he, Sam, wanted to say anything. He shifted in his seat, feeling like his reticence cast him as a voyeur, reluctant witness to this man's, and his family's, pain. Uncomfortable as he was, and even if he'd wanted to, he didn't know how to explain his and Dean's situation without employing more lies he'd have to remember. The actual details wouldn't make any sense to someone who didn't know what they really did for a living. When Levon's monologue finally came to a close, he cast around for something to say, ignoring everything inexplicable at the tip of his tongue, but was saved by his host.

       "Shit, I am sorry. I'm usually the one who reigns people in in group, but I let myself go on and on there didn't I?"

       Relieved, Sam said, "That's ok," and latched on to the change of subject. "You run the group you said?"

       "Yeah, yup. Always been peer run as far as I know, the fella that ran it when I joined moved away, so he asked me to take over."

       "How long have you been doing that?"

       "Just shy a five year now I think? Yeah, yup. They were a great help when Bea passed, that was four years ago now."

       "I'm sorry."

       "Thank you. So am I. So am I."

       They ate in silence for a bit then Levon asked, "So your brother, older or younger than you?"

       "Older."

       Sam nodded.

       "My boys were always close growing up, an' close in age. My older boy, Danny, was always real protective of his brother. What's your brother's name?"

       "Dean. Yeah, he always looked out for me. Raised me really." He was reluctant to go in to details about his past with a stranger, but hey, it was easier than talking about the present, so he carried on. "Our mom died when we were really young, and our dad was always working, so it was just us a lot of the time."

       Sam nodded again.

       "Is your father here? He able to come down?"

       Sam shook his head, "No, he's been gone about eight years now."

       "Oh. I am sorry. So you're down here alone, or? You have other family you were able to call. Friends?"

       Sam felt like he was disappointing his host when he shook his head. "It's just us."

       Levon looked at him for a moment like he had just sprouted an extra arm, then said, "Well, I'm real glad ya stopped by the church then. We got a bunch a volunteers that can help, they'll come and drop off meals to ya at the hospital, or wherever you're staying. They're great, honestly, they'll visit with your brother if you need to get some errands done, they'll do 'em for ya. Walk your dog, mow your lawn. Well, I expect you won't need that, though I'm sure someone would drive to Kansas and mow if it needed to be done. But, really, anything ya need, they can and will have it covered."

       Sam's head was spinning. "Thank you, that's uh, that's honestly, uh," he wanted to say too much, "that's amazing. But I don't know if we'd need much of anything really."

       "Nonsense. You're down here all by yourself. Even if there's nothin' specific, you need a break every now and then, trust me. I know you probably feel like it's your job to be there all the time, but ya have to take some time off. Things can slip real easy. You put 'em off 'cause they don't seem important, but the little things you need to do, paying bills, or, runnin' your business, they snowball in to big things in a big hurry if you ignore 'em."

       Sam nodded, eyebrows raised, suddenly concerned that he had forgotten something he should have been doing; a moments reflection and he knew there was nothing. He started to reply as much, but Levon spoke again.

       "And you need to take care a yourself. What do they call it these days? A mental health day. You need those too. If this is your job right now, ya can't be expected to work all the time without a break."

       A skeptical laugh escaped him; this wasn't his job, it was his sentance, his penance. And there was no getting out of it until Dean did. Dean's sarcastic barb about field trips from earlier came in to his head, and a question struck him. He was glad he finally had something to contribute; he felt like he was continuing to disappoint Levon. "Well, they did say they might be able to let us go out on a day trip soon. I was gonna try and find something for us to do, is there anything around? I dunno, something you'd recommend to tourists?"

       "Well now, I can help ya with that. Personally, I think the alpaca farm outside town deserves more attention. Took the kids and the grandkids out there one Saturday not too long ago, they do interactive tours an' hay rides and they got an actual five star restaurant. They got other animals too, llamas and goats. The grandkids loved it, and I had a great time myself. Actually," Levon dropped his fork and turned in his chair to unearth his phone from somewhere on the counter behind him, "Do you mind if I pose your question on our message board?"

       Sam shook his head, and Levon typed away for a minute.

       "Any mobility concerns for your brother?"

       He shook his head again, biting back a wry smile. If a farm was the best the town had to offer, the only mobility concern would be getting Dean to get off his ass and go see something so boring.

       "Ok, give it half an hour and they'll have suggestions up the wazoo for ya. They're a real resourceful lot."

       "Thank you, that'd be a big help. Tell them 'thank you' for me."

       "For sure I will, for sure," Levon said as he picked up his fork again and resumed eating. After a couple of bites, the older man sat back in his chair as he chewed, and Sam felt scrutinized. He felt another monologue, or question he wasn't ready to answer, coming.

       Sam shoveled a huge forkful in to his own mouth to give himself time to come up with what would probably be another non-reply, when he felt a buzz from his own phone. He almost choked as he fumbled for it, and when he saw the local area code on his screen, he stood abruptly and managed a, "Sorry, I..."

       Levon nodded him away from the table with a knowing look, and he stepped to the closest escape, the patio door, slid it open wide enough to squeeze himself through and prodded the answer button before the third buzzing subsided.

       "Hello?"

       "So, how's Colorado?"

       Sam's knees went a bit weak when it was Dean's voice that answered, non-chalant as could be. He took a step across the deck and grabbed the railing in the dark, knocking over a few pots as he went, such was his relief that it wasn't the hospital calling him with more bad news. The rise and fall of headlights rounding the bend in the highway were almost in time with the skipping beat of his own heart.

       When he got the feeling back in his legs, he took the short stairs down to the lawn and paced a small circle as they talked. He felt awful about their argument earlier, and did his best to quell another one, "Can we not do this?" He still felt his anger rising again; not at Dean, but at himself. His brother was only calling because of doubt he, Sam, had sowed. He should have never said what he said. He was never leaving; it was nothing but an idle, childish, threat, and he was embarrassed he'd even voiced it. But after reassuring his brother that he was staying, he found himself getting defensive when he had to repeat himself. Did Dean really not believe him? What kind of an asshole does he think I am? He snapped, "Yes, obviously," then bit his tongue, trying not to repeat so very recent mistakes.

       Sam almost let out an audible, relieved, sigh at his brother's next words. Dean said he'd talk. He was elated for a moment, then guilt wracked him. There was something in his brother's tone. He wanted to believe Dean, but he didn't want his brother to capitulate, just because he, Sam, asked him to, guilted him in to it by threatening to leave if he didn't. His brother was probably just telling him what he wanted to hear, and that wasn't what he wanted at all. He wanted Dean to talk because he wanted to. He wanted his brother to want to try everything he possibly could to get better. His hypocrisy melded with his guilt; "I don't want you to, just 'cause you think you have to, because of me."

       Dean's laugh and admission that he probably wasn't going to follow through was proof enough for Sam that his brother had become his yes-man. He felt a sudden cut to his already sinking gut at the thought that Dean thought he had to lie to him to get him to stay. The disappointment he felt in himself was sickening.

       His pacing around the yard slowed and he kept talking, out of hope or habit he didn't know, trying to remove emotion from the equation and simply reason with his brother. "The way I see it, they're experts." He didn't have it in him to fight it out again right now anyway. Maybe it was the lights on the highway pinpointing their way towards him, a constant reminder that he was just an on-ramp away from the closest escape route. Maybe it was the voice coming down the line, quieter and less sure than he'd ever heard it, a constant reminder that even if he left, he'd just be on the run from what he had done.

       Sam was surprised when this new, half-hearted, tack seemed to work. His brother agreed to think about it at least. A sudden thought struck him, and he echoed Dean's words back at him, because he needed to be sure. "Wait, so this all means you're staying?" He regretted it the second he said it.

       "I will if you will."

       Sam suddenly felt so close to some sort of edge, but he didn't fall; he couldn't now, not when he had just reassured his brother he wasn't going anywhere. It was just a joke, he told himself, and he tried to take it as such, but Sam knew his brother; if it was a joke, it was a pointed one, more truth than farce. He tried to explain why he said he'd leave, and words failed him completely. How could he explain it when he didn't understand it himself? His eyes darted around for purchase. He didn't want to know how far he'd fall if he didn't hang on, but he felt like he already knew. He felt like not only had he seen this edge before, but had stared over it, tumbled in to its depths. He remembered vicious change, and gnawing regret, and not being able to handle it. The sudden stop at the bottom was not something he wanted to re-live.

       Dean tried to claim the blame, "I know I can't be easy to be around," and Sam hung on by deflecting. He joked. "So basically nothing's changed." He hated himself, but his brother seemed to appreciate it. What he should have said, anything else would have been better, swirled around in his head. Doesn't matter; I know it's not easy to be you right now; I know what I did to you. Sam scrambled for solid ground and to change the subject, so he didn't have to find out if Dean's laughter was forced. Don't look down.

       His eyes fell on Levon through the misty patio door, and latched on to their field trip as a distraction. "Oh, I found out about some local attractions by the way. Alpacas are the biggest ball of twine around here." Getting Dean away from that place for even a few hours, to do anything semi-normal, would be amazing. He was sick of that room, sick of looking at his brother in it, that room that he, Sam, had put him in. He was sick of wondering if his brother would ever escape it, and what he had done to him.

       The subject sufficiently changed, his brother scoffed, then laughed at his current prospects of escape. Sam was sincere when he said, "I literally can't wait man." He found himself smiling at just the thought.
They said their goodbyes, Sam a rote, "See you tomorrow," but Dean's reply gave him one more push towards the edge; it loomed out of the darkness, like a sharp curve in some unknown back road. "Yeah, you sure 'bout that?" Sam replied automatically in the affirmative, and only after they hung up did his throat tighten. He felt like he had just talked to a stranger. His brother sounded so unlike himself, and Sam knew it was because of him. Not just because of his stupid, heat-of-the-moment threat earlier, but because of everything he had done.

       Sam pocketed his phone and stared out in to the rising and falling darkness of the backyard. He ran a hand through his hair and scratched his head hard for a moment, trying not to break down completely, then took a deep breath. He should try and look at the good that had come from this stupid situation: Dean was going to think about it. Sam tried to let a mote of relief wash over him. It was a different kind this time, not just the base relief that Dean was ok for the moment; if he let himself believe it, it would be relief that his brother was going to do something to try and ensure it for himself in the future. He laughed at his own optimism, blinking hard. He didn't know how truthful Dean had been, but at the moment, he didn't want to care. He let his shoulders relax, just a bit, for the first time in days, maybe even weeks, because he had to; he couldn't take it anymore.

       A clink of metal on porcelain drew him back from his reverie. He should head back in. He gave the highway one last look, then turned, climbed the stairs, righted the pots he had knocked over, squeezed back through the door, and retook his place at the table with a, "Sorry about that."

       "No worries, no worries. Everything ok?"

       "Yeah, think so," he replied as he grabbed up his fork, trying not to smirk; all he had at the moment was thinking so. "The farm idea went over well, thanks for the suggestion."

       "Did it? Well that's great, I think you'll really enjoy yerselves."

       "Yeah, I think it'll be a good time." Sam went back to his plate and downed the remainder in no time at all.

       "You want seconds? There's plently leftover."

       "No, I'm good, thank you, that was awesome."

       "Need another drink? Something with more spirit maybe?" Levon asked with a smile and raised brow.

       Sam laughed, "Yeah, maybe."

       "Beer?"

       "Sounds good."

       Levon stood and cleared their plates and Sam followed, delivering a few of the dishes to a towering pile in the sink at his host's direction. They returned to the table and sat back down, Levon with two bottles of beer. His host cracked them both open, handed him one, and they cheersed, then sat in silence for a bit. Sam stared out the patio door; the condensation had evaporated, and the view to the highway was clear.

       Levon cleared his throat. 'That your brother who called ya?"

       Sam nodded.

       "How's he doing?"

       Sam almost replied automatically; he was already nodding, but his lie caught in his throat. He laughed, "He's... Well, he's telling me he's good."

       "You don't believe him."

       Sam couldn't meet Levon's eye as he gave his head a slight shake and took a long draw from his beer.

       Levon nodded knowingly and took a sip from his own bottle, then said, "Well, if ya wanna talk about it... I heard it all. If ya don't, no worries, I completely understand that too."

       Sam laughed. He didn't want to talk about it. He wished there wasn't anything to talk about, but the words spilled out. "I don't know, it's pretty stupid."

       Levon raised his eyebrows, "Try me."

       Sam laughed again, at Levon's expression, the man looked like he couldn't be surprised, and at his own reluctance. "It's uh... We had a fight today, a stupid... stupid fight, I said some things I didn't mean, I'm really hoping he said some things he didn't mean."

       "Hey, it happens, happens a lot. Be surprised if it didn't really. It's a real stressful time, things get said, but nobody means 'em."

       "Yeah. Yeah, I don't know. He didn't sound like himself when he called... he's not even the calling type you know?" Sam took another big swig from his beer. "I took it back, I tried to, but I don't know if he's gonna let me. And he wouldn't even have had to call if I uh... I hadn't... I made him think I wasn't gonna be there. Who does that? Tell someone, laid up in the hospital, that you're leaving?"

       "I don't know, what do you think made you say that?"

       Sam shrugged, "I don't know. I'm not leaving, I'm still here, right? I wouldn't, I can't... I just..." he shook his head, "I feel like a shit brother for making him think for one second... that I'd leave him alone in all this, but... I don't know. I guess I feel like I'm more invested in him getting better than he is right now."

       "How's that?"

       "I don't know, it's his life right? You'd think he'd be doing everything he could... but I know he's uh... he's having a really tough time." Sam cleared his throat and tried to clear the assaulting memories of Dean, twisted in pain, from his head with a small shake. He changed the subject to try and banish them further. "I never said what happened did I? He lost his arm." He laughed, "Well, it's a little more messed up than that, it wasn't an accident, this asshole came outta nowhere and just," he raised and lowered his hand like a guillotine, "cut it off." He laughed again, and couldn't stop for a long moment; if he did he might start crying. "I could have stopped it, if I just thought for one second. It's my fault. He says he doesn't blame me, but uh... none of this would have happened if it wasn't for me. Maybe I just want him to get better so I can stop feeling so guilty."

       "Hey now, it's not your fault."

       Sam raised his eyebrows and laughed again, "Yeah, it is."

       "Now don't do that to yourself. Trust me." Levon slapped the table between them suddenly, with some force, and Sam jumped in his seat. His host's tone turned harsh, "Trust me. We all play that game, the what-ifs and if-onlys, they're enough to drive ya crazy, and nothin' good comes from dwellin' on 'em. The sooner you realize that sometimes shit just happens, and there's nothing ya can do about it, the better off you'll be."

       "It really was though. It was my idea, I uh... I..." Sam was almost pleading, but he couldn't meet Levon's eye. He wanted to go on, but he knew there was no way he could make Levon understand his culpability without sounding like a crazy person.

       Levon replied, his tone softer, "I know. I know. It's easier said than done. Ya just gotta try an' remember your brother needs ya right now, and blaming yourself, trying to take on all that responsibilty? Well. It doesn't look like it's helping ya help him."

       Sam let go of a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and nodded, fighting back tears; if he could ever be honest with himself, he was holding in sobs. He swallowed hard, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right." It didn't matter how he felt. It didn't matter that it was his fault. He needed to set it all aside and do whatever he could for his brother, which was what? Nothing? He had already 'saved' Dean; he had done enough.

       "And he'll get there. Takes people some time sometimes to find their footing. I remember Bea said, for a long time it was like she forgot who she was. So that's what we're here for, to help 'em remember. So so what if you're in it more than him right now? It's to be expected honestly, and it's ok, it's good even. If you're in it for him, for the right reasons? Cos ya love him, and ya wanna help him remember? Best thing you can do. Only thing ya can do sometimes, truth be told. Is being there."

       Sam could only nod in reply. He shifted forwards in his seat and brought his hand to his head, then his beer to his lips, then his hand back to his head, in quick succession.

       They sat in silence for a few beats, then Levon said, "Now. You look like someone who could use some ice cream."

       A real laugh escaped him, and he looked at his host, confused.

       "One of the fellas at group makes it, homemade, all sorts a fancy ingredients, and I got more n' I could ever get through in my freezer at the moment, so you'll be helpin' me out."

       "Sure," Sam nodded, and Levon looked ecstatic as he stood and retreated to the kitchen.

       From behind the freezer door he heard Levon say, "I don't have much of a sweet tooth myself, but hoo, it's good, just wait 'til ya try it."

       Feeling like a kid, and glad of it, Sam tried to forget everything and dug in to the three huge scoops of frozen matcha, pomegranate and watermelon that Levon described and set down in front of him. He finished it all and, in a brainfreeze haze, took his bowl back to the kitchen and offered to help clean up.

       Levon waved his suggestion away, looking at the clock, and remarked that it was getting late. His host shoved a heaping plate of leftovers in to his hands from nowhere and chivvied him down the hall, ignoring Sam's insistence that he should help do at least some of the dishes. Levon stopped him at the door and texted him a link to their message board, before he forgot, and waited to hear the bing before he let him go, but not before he made Sam promise to return his plate at their next meeting, which was next Tuesday, and to let him know how their field trip went, and to call if they needed anything, anything at all.

       Thanking Levon again for having him over, he stepped outside, made it to the car, and drove away in a daze, but the second the cul-de-sac disappeared from his rearview, he pulled over. He looked at the dish rapidly approaching room temperature on the seat next to him, and had to laugh. Sam, from some part of his mind that still cared about decorum, hoped it wasn't an heirloom; Levon was never getting his plate back; Levon was never going to hear from him again.

       He dug in to his pocket, hauled out his phone and navigated to his recent calls list. He ignored the numbers at the top, scrolled back and hit one of the many, repeated, outgoing calls. He waited as it rang through to voicemail, as he knew it would. He hung up the second the line engaged, he knew the sound of the recording by heart by now, but he still lost his composure. He couldn't catch his breath. He dropped his phone in to his lap and gripped the steering wheel tight as he tried to be a normal human and just breathe.

       It took him a minute. Or thirty. He didn't know, but if felt like forever. When he finally sucked in enough oxygen to feel ok, he was weary. The world outside the windshield came to him in clips and starts. Every shift of his eyes seemed to bring a new reality, and each looked wrong. The streetlights and porchlights around him shimmered, they were too bright and too dim at the same time, too close and too far away. He had no idea how he was going to drive himself back to the motel when everything looked so sharp.

       He dropped his head, and the light from the screen in his lap was too bright. He reached out and dimmed it, and when the interior of the car went dark, he closed his eyes and took one deep breath. There was no one to talk to, no one who would understand. Well, that wasn't true. The only person who was handy, and would definitely get it, would just tell him it wasn't his fault and to get over it. So all he could do was suck it up and be there.

Chapter Text

         Dean couldn't catch his breath. His arm was killing him. He doubled over, good hand on his knee, and winched what was left of his arm to his middle with a wince; if anyone was watching, it would have looked liked he was just trying to relieve a stitch in his side.

         Footsteps crunched back to him over dust and rock, and his eyes went wide. He straightened up and wiped the sweat from his brow as the mid-morning sun tried to burn through a grey haze. "I'm good."

         Silvey didn't miss a beat. "I'm glad. Let's head back."

         "What? Why? We're almost there."

         "That's great for today. We'll take it slow, you can do some stretching."

         "So you dragged my ass all the way out here for nothing. Ok. Awesome."

         "Hey, not for nothing, cardio is just as important as strength training."

          The only thing that stopped him rolling his eyes was a renewed assault from his arm. He managed to stay upright and hold in a groan, but not his thoughts. "Oh save it, I can literally see where we're going, you can't just let me catch my breath for a freaking minute?"

         "Take all the time you need, but we're heading back. We had this conversation. Pushing through isn't always the best way to go."

         Dean avoided her eyes, staring over her shoulder at the exercise equipment in the distance. It was on a small rise, just off the trail they had been running, surrounded by tall grass; nothing but a glorified, boring, playground for adults, he thought as he set his jaw against another twisting in his arm. He didn't even want to get there if he was honest. It was too exposed. They had already encountered too many people for his liking just getting here and he had felt his heart double its thrumming at their stares. There were already a couple of people working out on the machines who, no doubt, would stare too. But the fact that he couldn't get there still upset him. He looked away, "Jesus, what's the point then?"

         "The point is, you got this far today, you'll get farther tomorrow."

         He shook his head with a laugh. "Yeah, I don't know if this thing is gonna let me," he said, gesturing to his arm.

         "Have you ever been down this trail before?"

         He got in an eyeroll this time, along with a pain-filled scoff.

         "So. It will. It'll get better. Or how we help you manage will get better. It's a learning curve, for all of us."

         "Well can we learn I don't like runn — ing?" His voice hitched when his phantom twisted, and he knew he made a face.

         Silvey stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder. "We can, yeah." She stayed that way as he dropped his head and tried to breathe, and when the worst of it subsided, he felt her trying to turn him back the way they had came. He looked back up and their destination suddenly seemed miles away, nothing but vague frames in the distance. He wasn't sure he ever wanted a closer look, so he let her, defeated yet relieved, and confused that he couldn't tell which felt worse.

         As he started walking, she gave him a pat on the back. "That doesn't mean you're gonna have to do any less of it." He barely managed a grudging laugh himself.

         The trip back was long and slow. She stopped him a couple of times to try and get him to stretch, or breathe, and he stopped her a couple when he was stayed in his tracks and ended up doubled over again, leaning on her to keep from sinking to his knees. If any other staring eyes passed them, he wasn't aware, and didn't care.

         When the hospital finally loomed ahead, he was glad of the non-descript side door they had escaped through earlier. Don't take this train wreck through the front. By the time they made it back to his room Silvey was carrying most of his weight. She deposited him on his bed and a harried nurse appeared and hurried to hook him back up to the place. Silvey stooped, started taking his shoes off him, and reminded him of something else that was likely going to end up a complete clusterfuck too.

         "D'you think you'll be ok for your meeting later? I'm sure we could reschedule."

         He shook his head and spoke through gritted teeth as the nurse worked beside him. "I'll be fine."

         Silvey reappeared with a tap on his knee as the nurse stepped back, and he took that as a cue to lie down. Thankful to finally be horizontal, the nurse proffered him the button and he pressed as soon as it was in his grasp. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on something, anything, else.

         Swift footfalls retreated towards the door and the chair next to his bed creaked as it took weight. After a silence, in which he would have felt watched again if he cared, Silvey gave him that something else, but he didn't want to think about that either. "Have you thought about what you want to talk about with him?"

         He grimaced and shook his head. Why wouldn't she leave? He just wanted to be alone and try and sleep this off.

         "Well, what are you hoping to get out of it?

         Dean replied shortly, "No idea."

         Silvey seemed undeterred. "Well, just give it a think about what you want to know. You could ask about the day to day, you know, get an idea what it's like for him at his job, find out what he does in his spare time. Maybe ask about some challenges he had when he got home, how he dealt with them. You could — "

         His arm twisted sharply, and pain and frustration, at it and her, interrupted with a groan. He tried to reign himself in, but something he never normally would have admitted still made its escape. "Christ, I just wanna know if I'm gonna be ok."

         After a beat, she replied gently, "I don't think he'll be able to answer that one for you."

         He tried to laugh, but he kept having to stop for breath as his arm wrung further behind him. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. Not any better than — you guys — been able to huh? Thought I — give it a shot."

         Silvey spoke slowly; she seemed to be choosing her words, but it wasn't carefully enough. "You know you're the only one who can really answer that right?"

         Anger dulled his pain for a moment, "Oh come on, that's bullshit and you know it." He shook his head and had to take another couple of breaths before he could carry on, "You think my hacked-up nerves don't got anything to say about it?"

         Her voice still gentle, she replied, "I know that's a part of it. I know it's a big one. But your attitude, that plays a part too."

         He laughed, indignant, barely believing what he was hearing, and his eyes suddenly stung, "You think I'm not out there right now because of my attitude?"

         She replied quickly, "Attitude was the wro— That's not what I meant."

        "Yeah I hope it's fucking not!" He almost shouted it.

         He saw her eyes go wide, in shock or anger, he didn't know or care. After a moment she replied, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. Get some rest."

         Dean closed his eyes as his arm made itself known again, multitudes louder than he'd just been, and his anger drained away in a trice as he heard her rise to leave. It took a lot out of him to voice a measured, "Wait," and not just unintelligible whimpering. He tried to focus, he wanted to apologize, but his chest felt tight and each word felt too big for his throat as he strained to say them. "Sorry. I know — st's not what you meant." He couldn't keep his eyes open for longer than a second; she turned back in stop-motion.

         "Hey, that's ok. Dean, listen to me, try and breathe ok?"

         He laughed, more likely he choked, he probably cried. Either way, words sputtered out of him. "No it's not — you're ri —you're right. Way to prove — your point hey? Perfect example a my shi — shitty fucking attitude."

         At some point she had stepped in close, grabbed his wrist, and put a hand on his shoulder. She was nodding emphatically in to his face and spoke over him, and if he'd had a second to feel anything else, he would have been pissed; it had taken a lot out of him to apologize. "Dean? Dean, hey, c'mon, I want you to forget about that right now and try and take a deep breath ok? Really deep, in through your nose, out through your mouth, c'mon. You know this."

         He nodded, near frantic, as what was obvious to her caught up to him: he could barely breathe. He tried to lean back and relax and do what she asked, he hadn't realized he had sat halfway back up, but his arm was twisting further and further behind him, and his fist was closed so tight somewhere so impossible, and all his non-existant tendons were screaming at him for release. He tried to take just one breath the way she insisted, but a guttoral sound escaped him. Then a beep sounded next to him, far away, and he pressed the button in his hand automatically, and he wasn't sure if he had ever let it go the last time.

         Slowly, his arm relented just a little, just enough for him to be able to take in some air and stop hoarding it like it was ass-wipe in the apocalypse. When he could open his eyes, she was still there, squeezing his shoulder, fingers still on his pulse.

         "That's good, keep that up ok? That better?"

         He nodded, and to prove it, or because he still felt dazed and light-headed, he took a few deep breaths the doctor-prescribed way. He sighed, then had to repeat the exercise. Finally, tiredly, he muttered, "I just wanna know how to do socks man."

         She patted his shoulder in a reassuring way, not meeting his eye, looking at machine read-outs over his shoulder most likely. She drew back, sat down, and finally looked at him again. "I know I showed you socks."

         He snorted, voice weak, "I know. But socks are assholes. Don't cooperate."

         "I'll schedule you a refresher for next session then."

         "No. No, thanks. I'm good. I get it. This guy doesn't have any tips, I'll just uh, barefoot-hippie it I guess."

         She chuckled, "All right, I hope he has some for you then."

         "Me too."

         There was silence for a moment, then Silvey said, "I'm going to try and catch him, but tell him I say 'hi' just in case. He was a patient of mine."

         "Oh, great. I got a mini-you coming to see me?"

         "Maybe," she shrugged innocently, then she shook her head with a laugh. "He's probably more of a mini-you actually. I don't think anyone can match you in snark, but he might be a distant second?"

         Dean could barely keep his eyes open. "I like him already."

         "I thought you would. But hey, try and keep it to a minimum, ok? He is here to help."

         "Yeah, so are you. Doesn't stop me does it."

         She laughed again, "Good point. They do pay me though." She stood, "Have a good meeting ok? And maybe try and expand on the socks question a bit?"

         "Yeah. Yeah, maybe," he nodded as his mind wandered to where he should have been at the moment, and, suddenly, he was embarrassed by where he was. This was her job. She was almost out the door again when he asked, now wide awake, "This isn't gonna mess up your trial thing is it?"

         She turned back again, a look of concern on her face, shaking her head. "No, no, not at all, don't worry about that."

         "Can't look good if your guinea pig can't even get there."

         She gave a soft laugh, "You know it's not just a one day trial right?"

         He did know, but feigned annoyed disbelief anyway, "Ah, we gotta go back?"

         "Yeah, sorry. You're going back Thursday I think? I'm going back in about an hour."

         "Wait, wait, wait, wait. Other poor suckers got volunteered for this?"

         She nodded, "You're not my only guinea pig."

         "Shit. Well, lucky us I guess? We should start a club... 'Silvey and the Go-Play-Outside Kids'?"

         She started to laugh, then stopped with a thoughtful look, "That's actually not a bad idea."

         "The Forced Outside-ers."

         She seemed to be talking to herself now. "Have everyone meet at the end of each week, discuss what you liked and didn't like, see if you all have any suggestions."

         He could barely keep his eyes open again, but he rolled them anyway."You know I was joking right?"

         "Oh I do. I think it backfired just a skosh?" she said with a chuckle. "I am going to see if I can set up a time that works for everyone."

         Tired already at the prospect of more meetings, he closed his eyes, "We'll get t-shirts: Help, I'm Being Kidnapped By My Physiotherapist."

         She let out a bark of a laugh, different than her usual, polite, chuckle. "I might have to get those made up myself." She seemed to rein herself in, "It's a good idea, really. It'll help with the trial. Get some rest ok?"

         He nodded as he heard her footsteps retreat towards the door, then called weakly after her, "I really don't like you ya know," but he was sure she didn't hear.

         Nothing left to distract him, he felt his arm start a pitched battle against drugs and sleep. He drifted in and out, then heard the beep sound somewhere, far away, beside him. He pressed again, one more to be sure, since it did seem to be taking that one more lately, then he jolted awake, confused and uneasy.

         Dean found the clock and breathed again after some slow, sleepy, math, scowling at it. It probably hadn't even been an hour, but it had felt like days and he thought he had missed his meeting, and he knew he couldn't miss things here. Like they'd let ya sleep through that anyway, he thought, rolling his eyes and rolling on to his side.

         Lids heavy again, he sighed; Silvey was right. He should think of some questions. It would probably be rude if he just sat there and stared at the guy, but he cast around and came up with nothing other than, 'How the fuck do you do this?'. Trying to think of anything better, he drifted off again; after a fourth press on the button, the drugs were winning. They outmatched his arm, and were just slightly stronger than his anxiety about meeting this other one-armed asshole.

         When he awoke next it couldn't have been much later. He looked around and saw Sam there, reading, as always. He smiled at the familiar face; he had expected to wake up to a stranger, prodding him to talk about how he felt.

         "Hey," Sam said, returning his smile, automatically it seemed; it disappeared as his brother closed his book and sat up in his chair. "How you doing?"

         "Just awesome. You?"

         "How was free-range physio?"

         He couldn't help but laugh at Sam's description; should put that on a shirt. "Oh, it was a shit show," he said without thinking.

         His brother's eyes, of course, snapped to meet to his. "Why? What happened?"

         Dean rolled on to his back and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he swallowed a sigh. Why hadn't he lied? "Nothing. It was fine. Just the usual, annoying, Silvey-making-me-do-shit-I-don't-wanna-do shitshow."

         "Oh. Ok. That's good then."

         Riled by the undue relief he heard in Sam's tone, Dean looked back with raised brows.

         "No, it was just, you were out pretty hard when I got here, so I thought... " Sam finished with a shrug.

         His anger suddenly flared; Christ, this again. "What?"

         "Hm?"

         "You thought what Sam?"

         "Nothing. I don't know, I just thought something migh—"

         "No, what did you think?" he asked again, voice rising as he propped himself up on to his elbow. "I couldn't handle a fucking jog? Had to give up? Turn around and come right back? And that little bit a effort took it out of me?"

         "No. No, man, that's n—"

         "Oh. Oh, ok." He sat up fully and stared down at his brother, "So you just thought I was beat by this thing right out of the gate then. A little bit of pain and I'm down for the count right?"

         "No, God Dean, not at all, I just wanted to make sure you w—"

         He found he couldn't stand the hear the letter 'o' or 'k' come out of his brother's mouth one more time. "Fuck you man."

         Sam sounded angry now, "Well what the hell happened then man? What am I allowed to think? I, I'm sorry, I'm not an idiot, and I do I know how to tell ti—"

         "Nothing," he spat. "Nothing happened. I took a goddamn nap." Someone had pulled a blanket over him as he slept, so he threw it off and got up, shaking his head, unsure how steady on his feet he was going to be until he actually put all his weight on them. "Must've been tired. All that fresh air ya know."

         "Ok. God. Sorry for daring to ask if you w—"

         "Yeah, ya didn't ask did ya?" Dean replied, voice lethal. He turned and mashed the call button above his bed, then started to gather his things, not looking at his brother. "I'm gonna grab a shower."

         "Ok," Sam said, taking that placating tone Dean knew meant his brother was trying to keep him calm, that only ever incensed him further.

         "And that one-armed kid is coming by later."

         "Yeah. I know." He could hear annoyance creep back in to Sam's voice and he relished it.

         He straightened up and met his brother's eye with malice,"So you might as well take off. I'm gonna be a while."

         Sam returned his gaze, then looked away with a nod and replied, slower this time. "Ok. Yeah. I'll uh, go find something to do."

         "Yeah, do that," he said shortly as he returned to gathering his things.

         Dean stared daggers at his brother, as best he could using only the corner of his eye, as Sam stood and headed out the door, but as soon as his brother was gone, Dean ran his hand over his face and sighed quietly. The nurse showed up and started to detach his IV and cover him in plastic wrap after he told her, a bit more gruffly than he intended, his shower plans. He perched on the edge of his bed while she worked, ready to crawl right back in to it.

         Sam had looked hurt at his banishing words; good for him, Dean thought bitterly, trying to feel bad, but he was pissed. He was doing everything he could, or at least thought he was putting on a good show of trying. This peer meeting in mere hours, doing free-range physio, as far as Sam knew, and generally just trying to be as chipper as he could, in front of his brother at least, biting his tongue so often lately he was surprised it wasn't chewed raw. When was Sam going to believe him? Maybe when you stop lying to him, ya idiot, a small voice answered, guilt bubbling hot and hollow in his gut. He ignored both.

         His brother hadn't asked him if he wanted him there for this weird-ass meeting either, he had just showed up and assumed. And yeah, maybe Dean wasn't sure he wanted to meet with the guy alone, maybe he wasn't sure he wanted to meet with him at all, but Sam shouldn't have just expected that he needed or wanted his only hand held through something that was likely going to be so personal, and so awkward.

         When the nurse finished with him, he cleared his throat, thanked her, and tried to apologize for being short with her, but she waved him away with a shake of her head, told him not to worry about it, and left. He sat for a moment with all his unsettled thoughts, then pushed them aside, gathered the rest of his things, and made his way down the hall.

         He showered and set a new record time, not that he was counting, then set another when he got dressed in to his best, clean, pajama pants and t-shirt. He had considered getting dressed dressed: jeans, boots, the whole shebang, but that would have looked too obvious to anyone who had seen him these last weeks. He wasn't sure why he cared so much. Maybe that was a question he could ask the guy: Did you care about looking like you had your shit together for people at this point, even if you definitely didn't, or am I just being stupid?

         Dean packed everything back in to his bag, threw back the curtain on the shower stall and made for the closest sink. He dropped his duffel on the counter, dug inside until he found his razor and shaving cream and sat them out in front of him, no doubt in his mind that he was being stupid. He scrutinized his scruff for a second, avoiding looking at anything else in the mirror, then clumsily dispensed some foam on to his fingers. He lathered up, rinsed off his hand, and, after about thirty seconds fumbling to hold the razor correctly and position it with any sort of force or dexterity, abandoned his poor attempt at shaving, shaking his head. He told himself it was only his first, real, try; Silvey had sat him down in his room in front of a small mirror a week or so ago and made him, nicks and cuts and all, but he obviously hadn't learned enough.

         He bashed at the tap and splashed his face clean, then straightened up, surveying his reflection. As he grabbed his towel and dried off, he decided that that scrubby, frustrated, disheveled, crazed-hobo look suited him. He should really just go all in and grow a beard; it would go with a barefoot-hippie lifestyle at least.

         Dean smirked at his reflection, then his smile fell away; this wasn't how he remembered himself. Even if he had managed to get himself somewhere near clean-shaven, it still wouldn't have been close. Well, the blood everywhere might a helped. He snorted at his own, bad, joke. The face in the mirror mimicked him, but it seemed like it was jeering back. Both iterations swallowed hard, shook their heads, and looked away. He packed up his things and returned to his room without another upward glance.

         The nurse took her time hooking him back up to the portable PCA they had recently procured for him, then lunch wasn't far behind. Taking advantage of finally being at least partly untethered from the place, he sat in the chair next to his bed and ate, his lunch tray on the too-high table next to him. He tuned in to the TV on the wall for a bit, and when the channel changed, he stared down Curtains' curtain. C'mon, I was watching that. Well, he had been trying to distract himself with that. His eyes flicked to the clock more often than was necessary; it wouldn't be long now.

         Dean finished eating in a bit of a rush when Curtains was whisked away for his afternoon whatever-he-went-to. He heard footsteps approaching the door and tensed up, but it was only the orderly, back for supposedly-empty trays. He passed his over, gave a nod and a, "Thank you," to the guy, then stood, not sure what to do with himself; he didn't want to be just lazing around in bed when this guy arrived. He glanced at the door again, then crouched down, unearthed his toothbrush and toothpaste from his bag and retreated to the bathroom, smirking; his anxiety was turning him in to Sam, brushing after lunch.

         Besides any oral health benefits, his time-wasting didn't do him any good. When he emerged, the room was still empty. He stopped in the doorway to listen, but there were no sounds from the hall. He took a deep breath, rolled his eyes at himself and tried to relax as he crossed back to his bed and stowed his toothbrush away. When he stood back up, he stood stock-still, shoulders taut with tension, then he couldn't take it.

         He went to the door and stuck his head out in to the hall. He looked up and down, but no one was approaching. He accidentally caught the eye of the nurse at the station and ducked back inside with a sheepish nod. Trying to get as far away from the door as he could, he crossed to one of the narrow windows opposite and looked out, out of nervousness or habit he didn't know; not that it would afford him any new information anyway.

         When he had finally bothered to check, the windows here did overlook the garden, right in the corner where its wall met the building, behind a bed of creeping shrubs, just one room over from a view to the real world. He wouldn't be able to see anyone approaching from this vantage point, unless it was the gardener, hell-bent on pruning. It wasn't like it was an attack he was on the lookout for anyway, though the pounding of his heart might suggest otherwise.

         Everything seemed a bit darker than he remembered; it must have rained since he got back. He raised his eyes and followed the slow-moving cloud cover for a moment, then surveyed the garden. His eyes fell on the picnic table he and Sam sat at their first venture out. They had moved tables, a couple nearer to his room for their second trip, since their original had been occupied, and they had stuck with it for their third trip; and their fourth; and their fifth. He scowled at it, and himself; he didn't want to start thinking of anything here as theirs, or his. Christ I don't wanna be here.

         He turned back to check the clock again. The guy must've cancelled, it was almost quarter after. They probably told him what a nightmare you are, doesn't want to waste his time. Probably doesn't wanna be reminded how shitty all this is anyway. Who would? He resigned himself to a boring afternoon, reading, or stealing over and stealing the remote from Curtains, and waiting for Sam to come back, relieved yet discomfited. He eyed his bedside table, and was about to go decide which book he was going to start, then never finish, next, when Dr. Roa appeared in the doorway.

         She knocked on the doorframe on her way in, "Hello! Good afternoon, sorry we're late."

         The one-armed kid, who wasn't a kid at all, the guy looked to be maybe a few years younger than Sam, stepped in behind her. Dressed business casual, one shirtsleeve rolled up higher than the other, with an impressive beard, he said, "Sorry, my fault, mix up at work. Forgot they gave me the afternoon off."

         Dean was lost for words; his stomach dropped as he stared. Christ, is that really what it looks like? His eyes flicked over to Roa and she gave him an encouraging, imploring, nod. He came out of it, feeling heat rising in his face as the people who had stared at him that morning jogged across his memory. He smiled as best he could and stepped across the room, "Hey, no worries man. I moved a couple things, think I can still fit you in around all the nothing I have on this afternoon."

         The one-armed guy laughed and Roa did the introductions, "Dean, this is Jason, Jason, Dean."

         Dean still had to consciously suppress extending his arm to shake hands with people, and managed it this time, but Jason extended his own. "Nice to meet you."

         Jason's right was all he had left, and Dean had no idea what to do. He didn't want to be rude, not to this guy at least, not within the first few seconds of meeting him anyway, so he put out his left just as he saw the kid's eyes go wide.

         "Oh shit, sorry." Jason withdrew his arm like it had touched sun-beat chrome.

         "Hey, don't worry about it," he laughed, just relieved he didn't have to reach out and hold hands with the guy.

         "Well. I'm off to a great start here hey?"

         "Really, don't, uh... Thanks for taking the time."

         Roa nodded, "Yes, thanks for coming down." She turned to him, "Jason's been offering his expertise for the past couple of years, he was a patient here, what, five years ago? When he was involved in a car accident."

         Dean nodded between both of their faces, not sure how to respond.

         Roa continued, to Jason, "Dean's been with us about three weeks now, and he's been making some great progress."

         He barely suppressed a snort. Roa gave him the side-eye, and he saw Jason raise his eyebrows behind her back with a knowing smile.

         "I'll leave you to it then," Roa said. "Just stop back by my office when you're done," she directed at Jason, then she ducked out of the room with a wave.

         Dean watched her go, then turned to his guest. "Uh. So. Sit I guess?" he asked, indicating the chair. Jason nodded, and Dean walked around and reluctantly, awkwardly, retook his bed. He sat on the edge and threw a knee up, keeping one foot on the floor, as the kid took the seat.

         There was a brief silence, then Jason said, "Ah, so I know she said a couple years, but, this is actually only my second time doing one of these things. So, fair warning I guess, I'm probably really bad at it?"

         "Hey, my first man. Doubt you'll be any worse than me."

         Jason nodded with a laugh, then looked at his feet. "Yeah. Shit. I am bad at this." He looked back up, sheepish. "So, ah. How's it been going so far?"

         Shit. He probably wouldn't be able to lie to this guy. Dean changed the inflection in his rote answer last second. "Good?" He smiled and nodded, then had to look away. Aghast, he felt his face fall, but he kept nodding; he couldn't seem to stop.

         Jason replied with a dark laugh. "Yeah. I know that 'good'."

         Dean cleared his throat and looked back with a chuckle to be sociable, still nodding, but he was blinking back tears, no idea where they were coming from. Well, he could take a guess where they were coming from: a split second spent not faking it, a few minutes faced with how things really were. He couldn't hold Jason's eye. He ran his hand over his mouth, picked a point on the opposite wall and stared hard, setting his jaw and holding his breath.

         Jason was quiet for a long moment, then said, "It's a tough go right now. I know."

         Dean shook his head, just barely; he didn't think he could make much more of a move without breaking.

         He saw Jason lean in out of the corner of his eye, "Look, we don't have to do this right now. Ah, or at all ya know really. Ah. I can just go, go walk around for a bit. Go see Dr. Roa later."

         Dean didn't care enough to look around, or cared too much. He was grateful that the guy seemed to be willing to lie for him after two minutes of knowing him though. He shook his head and gave a small shrug; what's one more thing I can't do.

         Jason didn't move to leave. "I never had one of these. I don't think I would've wanted one to be honest. Some stranger I don't know coming in and trying to tell me, ah, anything really."

         A short laugh escaped him. He glanced back, "Yeah tell that to my brother will ya?"

         "Hey, point me his way," Jason chuckled, but his face grew serious. "Family, hey? They mean well. Can't fault 'em for that I guess."

         Dean scoffed, then grudgingly had to nod in agreement. He tried to meet Jason's eyes, but his own were inexorably drawn to the kid's arm, missing between elbow and shoulder, whatever was left hidden by his pinned-up shirtsleeve.

         Jason sat back and scratched his head for a second. "So I hear you've got Dr. Silvey too."

         Dean realized he was staring. He looked away nodding, "Yeah," then remembered, "She said to say 'hi'."

         "No shit, really? I wasn't sure if she'd remember me."

         "Uh, seems to. Said something about 'snark'?"

         "Huh," Jason laughed, sounding proud, "Well, I guess I did kinda hope I gave her enough trouble to be memorable."

         Dean managed a laugh, "You and me both then."

         "She can be scary hey? But ah, she gets the job done. No matter your feelings on the matter."

         "Yeah. Understatement right there."

         "She's good though. Knows what she's doing. Somehow makes you think you can do anything she tells you ya can. Ends up being right ninety-nine percent of the time too."

         Dean turned his skeptical scoff in to a good-natured laugh and looked away nodding, scratching his forehead to hide how high his eyebrows had just shot.

         "I know she's a big reason I'm back to where I am."

         Dean knew he should ask something here, knew he was being baited to wonder, marvel aloud, about what Silvey had gotten this guy back to, but he just kept nodding; he suddenly found he didn't care. He cast around for something else to say, but drew a blank.

         Jason, thankfully, didn't elaborate, but still continued trying to engage, after an awkward silence. "So, ah, anything specific you wanted to ask? Any burning questions?"

         Dean looked back automatically with a pasted-on smile and a short laugh and his eyes fell on Jason's arm, or lack thereof, again. "Uh," he shook his head and tried to swallow around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat and breathe around the knot burning a hole in his chest.

         A thousand questions he did and didn't know he had, all the uncertainty and desperation he felt, everything he had been trying to ignore, suddenly found words and ran through his head rapid fire: When does it stop, does it ever fucking stop? Did it hurt like a bitch for you? Did it fucking kill this bad? For how long? Did you ever... Is it always gonna be like this? When does it stop? How do I fucking do this? I can't do this, I can't if it's gonna be like this. Did you ever... How do you live like this? How do you deal with people staring, how do you deal with them looking at you like you're a fucking cripple, like you can't do a goddamn thing? Do you ever get over it? How do you get over it? Please tell me how. How do you do this every fucking day? I can't do this, I know I can't. Did you ever... I just wanna go back. I don't know how to do this. Did you ever wish... you hadn't made it?

         He shook his head again, overwhelmed, and tried to forgot all that. Right now all he really wanted to know was when this meeting would be over. "No, uh. She told me I should come up with some, but," he shrugged, "not really? I don't know." He added a lame, "Sorry," as an afterthought, pissed at himself. He was wasting everyone's time because he couldn't ask a single goddamn question; he didn't know how. Asking anything meant admitting everything, to anyone listening, to anyone who would hear about it second hand, to himself. He couldn't; he wasn't ready for that.

         "Hey, no, no worries. I know I would've had no clue what to ask."

         Dean looked away again with a nod, trying to look like he was trying to come up with something, then he vaguely remembered the questions Silvey had suggested to him earlier. "Uh, she said to ask about your job. Uh, hobbies. Shit like that."

         Jason laughed, "Yeah, Dr. Roa told me to tell you the same kinda things."

         Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, they know something we don't I guess. Might as well hear it. So they can't say we didn't try."

         The kid nodded, and started off sounding reluctant, but after he got going, Jason launched in to his entire life story it seemed. Maybe the kid liked to talk, maybe he just wanted to fill the silence, because he could tell his audience was less than rapt; Dean didn't care either way. He suddenly just wanted to sleep. He cared even less when he learned the kid's job: Jason was an accountant. That didn't need two hands, the kid said it himself, some accomodations and he was right back to it, almost like nothing happened.

         But Jason was a rock climber in his spare time, a free climber, he stressed that more than once, and never thought he'd be able to get back to it. Dean feigned interest, nodding along, and, with no choice, learned about trad climbing and belaying, nuts and cams; he supposed there could be some similarities to what he and Sam did there if he squinted, but there was really only ever one life on the literal line with what Jason got up to, unless the guy on the ground was fighting off monsters no-handed while he held the rope.

         When Dean felt like his face was stuck in a permanent politely-puzzled pull, Jason seemed to finish, "So, you get used to it."

         About three seconds too late, Dean realized it was his turn in the conversation. He tried to recall a single thing Jason had been talking about, but it had just been rocks and noise. The kid's last few words stuck in his head at least, so he asked, "Do you?"

         "Yeah. Yeah, ya do. My experience? It just took time. It was ah, a big thing to get used to, but... When I was thinking about what to say when I came in here, you know, what I wished someone would have told me when I was where you are, that's the main thing I wanted to get across. You do get used to it, but, it's... They'll talk about 'easier', things getting easier. But, that? Honestly? Is a little bit of bullshit. Things are harder. Most things, at least a bit. But, you get used to harder. You just ah, kinda have to."

         Dean looked away again, eyebrows high. He blew out a breath, "That's some pep talk ya got there man."

         Jason seemed to consider for a second, then gave a soft laugh. "Yeah. Shit. Wasn't great was it."

         "Uh..." Dean shook his head, tact fighting honesty, "Ya know, all I'll say is maybe you are worse at this than me."

         "Shit," Jason laughed, "Well. I guess I did warn you?"

         Dean nodded with a wry laugh, then dropped his head and looked away again. There really wasn't anything funny about the situation, and he swallowed hard.

         Jason seemed to sense he was losing his audience again and tried to backpedal. "It sounded better in my head. Really. I shouldn't have said it like that. I know it's probably not what you wanna hear but... just how it is I guess. I wouldn't wanna tell you anything otherwise. It does get easier from where you are now. Harder than before, there's ah, no doubt there, but I promise, it gets easier than now."

         Dean took a deep breath, and let out a sigh; he wasn't sure if he was skeptical or capitulating. He looked back at Jason, and could only hope he spoke some kind of truth, since he didn't really see how things could get harder. "Yeah?"

         "Yeah." His guest nodded emphatically.

         "Everything gets less annoying?"

         "It does, it does, I swear. You gotta put in the work — Dr. Silvey'll see to that, she'll put you through everything eight hundred times — but it really does become second nature. You're a righty?"

         Dean nodded, not sure if he wanted to object to Jason's use of the present tense.

         "Yeah, I'm a lefty, so. It does. You adapt, you re-learn how to do basic shit. It sucks but, has to be done."

         Dean didn't want to know really, but he asked anyway, voice deadpan. "So, how long? Ballpark, I guess. 'Til shit gets easier?

         Jason sat back and considered for a moment, "Some things it honestly wasn't long at all, like maybe a month in I had it mostly down, just from repetition, didn't have to think about it too hard anymore. Some things it was at least six months? Actually? Probably more. 'Til I felt comfortable, or ah, confident with them I guess. I was in here ten days and they went over the absolute basics then, I'm sure they've been at you, but I was in OT and PT for months, just practicing, getting strength back. Going home I think was the biggest help ya know? You come across something you wanna do, you kinda just have to figure it out."

         Dean's stomach dropped. He barely nodded and looked away, throat tight.

         "Things to look forward to right?"

         He looked back with a feigned chuckle, but couldn't meet the kid's eye. Ten days. He should be angry; he wanted to be angry. Old him would have been. Old him would have scoffed and questioned, ranted and raved, and gone to track down Roa to ask her what the hell was going on, but he only felt numb; this kid had been out of this place in ten days. Why was he still stuck here? What the hell was so wrong with him?

         Jason continued and he sounded like he was speaking from behind a rolled-up window, "Fair warning though, I still forget every now and then too. Not as much as I used to, but it still happens. I'll go to grab a rope, or, ah, get outta bed, and get a rude awakening. Literally," he added with a laugh. Jason leaned in like he was revealing state secrets. "You know that feeling when you miss a step going upstairs?"

         Still dazed, Dean nodded; he felt like he had just missed a few or twelve himself, but going the other way.

         "Yeah ok, so imagine that, but when you go to just lean on shit."

         Dean laughed in spite of himself.

         His guest sat back and said with a chuckle, "I legit concussed myself off the railing on my friend's balcony one time. Ruined that party. And I used to get so mad at myself when I forgot, but y'know, I had two arms my whole life. I was twenty-seven. That's a pretty long-ass time to go and then have to get used to only one."

         Laughing slightly, Dean said, "So you're saying you really don't get used to it."

         "Ah, I don't know, maybe?" Jason said with grimace and an exaggerated shrug, then he laughed. "No, no, you do, you do. But, ah, give me your number. I'll text you in ah, twenty-two years and let you know for sure. But no, seriously, it, ah, doesn't happen that much anymore at all, I am used to it. You'll get there too. You've got your elbow, just maybe aim to lean on shit with it, instead of your hand?"

         "There's that expertise Roa was talking about."

         "Ha. Yeah, exactly," Jason said, rolling his eyes.

         They both chuckled for a moment, then lapsed in to silence.

         As much as Dean had hoped he might finally take a hint, Jason didn't stop. "They get you fitted for your prosthetic yet?"

         He looked back, eyebrows raised; Dean hadn't heard a word about one, and vaguely wondered why. Maybe he hadn't been paying attention, maybe he had been in a haze of meds, he'd have to ask Sam to be sure, but after a seconds thought he wasn't surprised he was behind the curve yet again. He replied flatly, "Should they have?"

         "Oh. Ah, I don't know actually. They got me started with one pretty early on, but I don't know. Different for everybody I guess."

         Dean nodded and looked away again, his lack of curiosity filling the silence.

         "Like I said, you've got your elbow. I hear that makes a big difference. That's probably it."

         Dean nodded and glanced pointedly at Jason's bare, barely-there arm. "So, yours in the shop, or?" Maybe he could antagonize the guy out of here.
"Yeah, if by 'shop' you mean gathering dust on my dresser."

         Dean raised his eyebrows.

         "I kinda stopped wearing it. Don't tell Dr. Silvey, I think she'd be up in arms if she knew."

         He gave a shake of his head that meant something between, 'won't say a word' and 'I couldn't care less.'

         Jason gave him an appreciative nod, but he continued, tone serious. "I don't, ah, want to say anything to put you off it, it really is worth it to learn how to to use it, makes some things a lot easier."

         Dean heard, and voiced, the, "But?"

         Jason laughed with a nod, then started shaking his head. "Other things, I find it's honestly not worth the bother. Just for me, for me. Really depends on what I'm doing. Actually, lately, I think it depends on where I'm going more than anything. Do I want to have something in the sleeve, or..." Jason shook his head and shrugged, "I don't know. I guess it comes down to would I rather deal with the questions or the looks? Both are just, always, ya know, super fun. I think people don't notice the prosthetic as much? But when they do, they ask why I have it way more. So you're dealing with that. But if I'm not wearing it, people notice that way more, so then you gotta deal with everyone staring. And I'd love to say I'm used to that by now, but," he shook his head and shrugged again, "Oh well. If people are rude I just come up with crazy stories about how I lost it."

         Not understanding, but for the first time in their conversation, slightly intrigued, he gave Jason a questioning look.

         "Oh yeah," Jason said matter-of-factly. "It's probably my second favourite pastime? I try and make 'em as topical as possible too, freak 'em out if I can."

         Dean laughed with a shake of his head.

         "No, really, I promise, it's kinda awesome. Ah, like... So ok. This one time we were out looking at appliances and this woman just appeared out of nowhere and asked me about it, she was being so loud about it too. So. I told her a fridge fell on me."

         Dean snorted.

         "Yeah, it was between that and a freak oven-door malfunction. Didn't see her back in that department. And if there's nothing really obvious around to freak them out with, I try and make it sound so insanely made-up. Like then maybe they'll realize it was a little fucking rude to ask ya know?" Jason put on a nonchalant tone, " 'Oh yeah, that. I bit my nails as a kid, got a taste for it I guess, couldn't stop gnawing'. Those types usually don't get it anyways. But, hey, it keeps me entertained."

         Laughing, Dean said, "Jesus, me too man, I need more a these."

         "Oh shit really? Ok, ahhh? Ah, this one time I was out at a movie and I told this old guy a popcorn machine broke down and sprayed hot butter everywhere. Oh, and, this one was good, I was at a fair, in line for a ride just minding my business with my buddies, and this asshole behind us butts in and asks. So I was trying to come up with something on the fly and then it dawned on me: I didn't have to say a thing. I just pointed at the ride." Jason mimed pointing, and opened his eyes wide in terror.

         Dean burst out laughing.

         "The look on that guy's face? Honestly, it was fucking priceless."

         He found he couldn't stop.

         Jason spoke over him, laughing along, "We were in line for the ferris wheel, made it even better."

         Dean was laughing so hard he was practically crying. When he could get a word out he said, "Ok ya sold me. There are definitely some things to look forward to."

         "Ha, well, glad I could help. Not exactly how I thought I would? But I'll take it."

         Dean sobered up a bit, "You really get that many people asking you?"

         "Oh yeah, these are all pretty recent too. And just the one's that made me laugh. I stopped caring, I don't know if you can tell," Jason said with a short laugh. "But I used to get so embarrassed. And it pissed me off. Like, yeah. I get they don't know, that's why they're asking, but in what world does anyone think asking someone 'oh my god, what happened to your arm?' isn't gonna bring up some bad memories? I've never heard a good 'this is how I lost my arm' story, but, pfft, I'm probably not asking enough people."

         Dean laughed and nodded in agreement.

         "Ah, I might be a little, ah, bitter about it, now that I'm thinking about it."

         "Sounds like you're allowed man."

         "Yeah. Yeah, maybe. I hope I'm not making it sound like everything after this is just bad."

         Dean shook his head. "No, you're uh, kinda making it sound awesome, messing-with-people wise at least."

         Jason laughed, "Yeah?"

         Dean nodded, "Oh yeah, messing with people is half what I live for."

         Jason nodded back, chuckling, then his face grew grave all of a sudden. "You're doing ok though? With everything?"

         Caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone, Dean replied, "Yeah," confused.

         "Yeah? That's good."

         Dean raised his eyebrows and nodded as his heart started pounding. He tried to keep the defensiveness out of his tone, "Should I not be?"

         "No, no, sorry, I'm just... Being back here. I'm just, ah, thinking back, and it was all such a blur at the start. Ah, like I definitely remember the bad shit, which is, ya know, great. There's good stuff too. At the time it didn't seem that good, but it was. I just don't remember anyone ever asking me, like point blank, ah, anyone really, just asking how I was actually doing. I dunno. I guess there was so much going on. You're healing up and they've got all these plans for you, like ah, all of a sudden, your whole life is laid out for you, for the next however long, so you just do it. They don't give you much time to think about it. Maybe that's the idea, keep us occupied. I just... I know it didn't really hit me for a long time. I was doing great. I thought so, everyone I knew thought so, that's what they were all telling me. But I dunno. I guess things caught up. I turned in to kind of a train wreck for a while there."

         Dean didn't know how to reply. He swallowed hard and nodded slowly as he looked away.

         Jason seemed to have a sudden realization. "Shit. I'm back to being bad at this again. I'm way better now. It took some therapy. Not physical. And I'm not saying any of this to be saying you shouldn't be ok if you're ok. I guess it's just so you're aware, I guess, ah... Like I said, it's a big thing to get used to. You will. I think what messed me up was thinking that when I got used to it, I'd be over it too? But, for me, it ah, it turned out it wasn't the kind of thing you get over. Ah, it was the kinda thing I had to learn how to live with. If that makes any sense."

         Dean nodded again, but didn't look back.

         "Well. I probably should've quit when I was ahead."

         Dean managed to look back, "No, uh —"

         "I need to take off actually anyway," Jason interrupted as he stood to leave.

         Dean nodded and barely held in a sigh of relief. Finally.

         "It was nice to meet you, even if it was because of this," he said with a twitch of his arm.

         "Yeah, you too. Thanks for uh... " he nodded as he trailed off, not sure what he could honestly thank the guy for. He settled on, "for coming down here."

         "No worries. Good luck with everything."

         Dean nodded.

         Jason turned to leave but turned right back, "Oh, shit, right, you got your phone handy?"

         Dean shook his head, "No, it's uh, no idea where it is actually."

         "Oh, shit. Ok. Ah," Jason looked around, spied the pen and paper on the table, and pulled them towards him without toppling over a single book. He scrawled dextrously, then ripped off a small strip and handed it to him. "Shoot me a text when you can then. I'll get you back in 20 years or so hey? Let you know for sure if I'm used to it."

         Dean took it with a small laugh and a nod.

         "And ah, ya know, anything else comes up, ah, anything you want to ask. Or if you're ever lost for a comeback about how you lost it."

         "Ha. Yeah, for sure. Thanks."

         "Yeah, no problem. All right. See ya."

        Dean waved Jason out of the room, holding the paper between a couple fingers, then dropped his hand to his lap to read what he'd been given. He blew out a breath and started laughing quietly. Jason - ferris wheel survivor - 505-425-3591. He clumsily folded the note, grabbed the closest book, shoved the paper between its pages, then put it back on the farthest pile, spine facing away from him. It became just one of many others in the stacks that he was never going to open again. Maybe Sam would find it somewhere down the road and wonder who the number belonged to, but Dean was going to try and never think of Jason again. The kid had given him far too much to think about, far too much to worry about, and had unknowingly answered far too many of the questions Dean never would have asked even if he did know how; it turned out he was right in thinking he didn't want the answers to any of them.

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