Archive of Our Own ^beta

Now in the morning I sleep alone
Sweep the streets I used to own

The sight of Dean in the hospital bed steals his breath away. It is not the first time Sam’s seen his brother too pale and still beneath thin, scratchy sheets, hooked up to too many monitors, thick tubes jammed into his mouth and throat that will leave him raw-voiced for days when he wakes up and they’re pulled out. Nor is it the first time he’s been taken aside by the RN on duty and told that it’s bad in that gentle, bracing tone that means he should probably prepare for the worst. It’s still a shock and he stops short in the doorway, his breath catching in his scarred lungs.

Charlie’s there, though, and she takes his elbow in both of her hands. She squeezes and he inhales, expanding his fucked-up lungs to their full capacity in what feels like forever. He’d never really recovered from the Trials. She doesn’t let go and the pressure grounds him a tiny bit and he allows her to lead him to the vacant chair pulled up to Dean’s bedside.

His legs fold and he half-falls, half-collapses into it, the hard surface a welcome distraction, too familiar in the worst way possible, his eyes never leaving his brother. He’s done this too many times and he swears that when Dean wakes up this time, both of them are going to hole up in the bunker forever and ever and arrange to have their groceries delivered. Or else prepackaged at the store for them to pick up, the fact they live in a bunker that doesn’t exist smack dab in Nowhere, Kansas be damned. As it is, a tendril of guilt, hot and burning, curls in the vicinity of his stomach — He shouldn’t have gone. Not without backup, at least. He knew it couldn’t end well; he’d dreamt it enough times that it’s become almost a memory. Behind his eyelids, he can still see the ground give way and Dean falling….

“Sam?” Charlie’s voice cuts into his thoughts. “Sam?” He starts at her insistent tone and sees her crouching at his side, hand hovering over his forearm, and he realizes that she must’ve called for him a few times.

He ducks his head, one hand cradling the other, his thumb pressing hard into the shiny, worn scar. It doesn’t hurt and it’s more habit than anything else but it helps. He manages a tight nod. Coughing into the bend of his elbow, he muffles it in the material of his hoodie, and hopes the wet, rattly hack he’s never shaken off like some kind of tuberculoid patient doesn’t get him kicked out.

Charlie rubs his back. “I’m gonna get you some coffee,” she says decisively, her jaw set in the same manner she rules over Moondor. “With sugar. Sit tight.” She rises to her feet and the lack of contact leaves him freefalling until he remembers and reality catches up.

He’s alone except for the low hiss of the ventilator and the blips of one of the monitors.

Charlie’s back before he knows it. One moment he was alone and the next she’s in his space, almost sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed, her thigh touching his knee as she settles. He flinches.

“Sorry,” she says and he can tell by her eyes that she means it. There’s a lidded paper cup in her hands. “You okay?” Her voice is low, soft.

He nods, his head rocking to-and-fro on his neck like one of those stupid bobblehead dolls. And he can't seem to stop. He nods and nods.

“He’s going to be okay, you know.” Her tone is sincere, full of conviction, as she bends forward and wraps his hands around the warm cup. The heat, having something to hold, helps him focus and his head stops bobbing. She doesn’t let go, her fingers overlapping his, keeping them steady. For a second, he thinks this is what it’s like to have a mom and he could kick himself because Dean did this for him when they were both growing up.

Still, it’s different and it feels good to just give everything up for a little while. Charlie doesn’t let go even as he brings the tiny opening in the plastic lid to his lips and tilts in the beverage. It’s still too hot, with more cream and sugar than actual coffee, and it burns his tongue.

He shivers and it’s then he realizes that he’s curled up on himself as small as he can go, the blanket from the foot of Dean’s bed draped around his shoulders. Charlie’s pressed up against him, her voice babbling. Nervous words he can’t quite make out because his ears are all clogged up, her hand rubbing his back. And he’s suddenly aware of just how tiny she is. Or how big he is. He has the bizarre thought that this is how Alice must’ve felt in Wonderland.

It’s hard — harder than usual — to breathe and his face feels wet. It’s another couple of minutes before he realizes he’s crying and isn’t even in Dean’s room anymore.

He can still hear Charlie and he’s pretty sure she’s crying too. He has no idea how she got him out of there. He forces himself to breathe, to concentrate, and the waiting room focuses. Somehow he still has that cheap waffle-weave hospital-issue blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the cup of coffee in his hands.

He hasn’t had a meltdown in so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like.

He blinks and then meets Charlie’s terrified gaze and he hates himself for putting it there.

“Can you get me outta here?” he whispers. “Please,” he adds in afterthought, his voice small and hoarse and breaking.

“Yeah,” she says, clearly unnerved. “Let’s go home, huh?”

He feels awful, like the worst little brother there ever was, but he doesn’t go back. He can’t. He’s gotten as far as the doorway to Dean’s room several times, but every single time he’d had to turn back. He can’t do this anymore — the waiting, the watching, the not knowing. Especially since this time there’s nothing supernatural involved and all there is to do is to let Dean’s body take its time to heal. The smells and textures of the hospital doesn’t help either; it brings him right back to those weeks after his stroke where nothing was familiar except his brother and it leaves him sweating and gasping like a fish.

Charlie’s technically a full-time Woman-Of-Letters these days but ever since his stroke that night the angels fell all those months — years — ago, she’s taken over a lot of the other stuff to the point where he knows he wouldn’t be functioning without her. He hasn’t been this bad in a long time but Dean’s fall into that ravine has shaken him and he withdraws into himself. It’s easier.

She goes to the hospital in his stead and reads to Dean — still comatose — from C. S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, sticking to publication-year order because she’s a purist and “that’s the way Lewis intended it”. She sets up a bedroom near Sam’s “just until Dean comes back. No one should be rattling around alone in this place,” rereading the sections she’d covered earlier that day to him at night, keeping both of them up to speed, and makes sure he has something warm to eat and that he cleans his plate. She isn’t Dean and she doesn’t try to be. It helps.

Sam hears through the grapevine that Kevin’s a regular at the hospital, visiting at least twice a week between taking classes at the local college and getting back to his pre-prophet plans. Garth stops by a couple of times too, between hunts, and once, if he’s to be believed, so does that hunter kid, Krissy. Charlie thinks she’s the one who left behind the anonymous teddy bear from Build-A-Bear dressed in sunglasses and a black biker jacket and says “Zeppelin Rules!” in a high-pitched prepubescent girl’s voice when its right paw is squeezed. Since he has no better ideas, Sam agrees.

The worst part is that everyone from before who would’ve gone to see Dean — Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Dad, Lisa, Ben, even Cas or Benny — is dead. Or as good as.

He still doesn’t go.

Charlie’s halfway through reading The Horse and His Boy out loud when Dean wakes. According to her, Dean’d screamed for Sam and didn’t stop until the sedation knocked him out.

The day after Dean wakes and the tubes are removed and most of the monitors are wheeled out, Sam visits for the first time in weeks. Dean is asleep, still under the hold of the drugs, and Sam manages to sit for thirty minutes before the anxiety of being in an unfamiliar setting gets too overwhelming and he asks Charlie to take him home.

The next time Sam goes, it’s nearly a week later. It takes an hour, but he eventually shuffles across the threshold, thumb pressing into the scar on his palm, gaze fixed on his feet. He’s wearing sneakers; white ones with Velcro. Charlie takes him by the elbow, settles him in her vacated chair and leaves, making noises about getting coffee and a sandwich and being back in a bit. He doesn’t dare meet Dean’s eyes, focusing instead on his dark-washed jeans — they’re newer, with no rips in the knees and still stiff from air-drying.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean croaks, barely above a whisper, and Sam looks up, out of reflex. There’s no blame or recrimination in his eyes and Sam inhales shakily. Dean grins up at him and the tight band in Sam’s chest loosens. His surge of relief fades as he notices how pale and drawn Dean looks. Dean blinks slowly, eyelids heavy, fighting sleep.

He’s only been out of a drug-induced coma for a week, Sam reminds himself as he catches the same scrutiny in Dean’s eyes, and he can tell his big brother doesn’t like what he’s seeing either.

“Come ’ere,” Dean says finally. His hand thumps the mattress beside him and Sam obeys without question, leaning forward and resting his head on the padding, forehead touching Dean’s side. Dean wraps an arm behind Sam’s back and it’s like when they were kids. Sam brings up his hand and spreads it palm-down on the center of Dean’s chest, as though he’s some kind of shaman transferring energy. Even through the thin hospital-issued sheet and threadbare gown, Dean’s a frigging icicle.

“I’m fucked, you know.” Dean’s rumble vibrates against Sam’s palm. “I’m never gonna walk again.”

“I know. I’ve known for a while.” Sam thinks of the single-subject, wide-ruled Five-Star notebook with the navy-blue plastic cover back at the bunker where the first page reminds him every day in his own blocky handwriting:

DEAN IS A T9-T10 PARAPLEGIC. HE WILL NOT WALK AGAIN.

Dean’s quiet for a moment. “How long was I out?”

“A while.” Sam opts for a vague enough answer and makes a mental note, even though he’s aware he’ll forget to ask Charlie for specifics later. TODAY IS WEDNESDAY AND IT IS MARCH. THERE WILL BE PASTA FOR DINNER, he recalls the generic message Charlie’d scrawled this morning on the whiteboard magnetized to the refrigerator. DEAN IS AWAKE had been punctuated with a smiley face.

“You don’t know, d’you?” Dean’s question is soft, devoid of accusation and Sam’s grateful enough to nod in reply. Then: “It’s getting worse.” This time it isn’t a question.

Sam tips up one shoulder, drops it. He doesn’t think he’s getting worse but it’s hard to tell. He clenches his hand, bunching the loose fabric against Dean’s chest and forces himself to relax, unfolding his fingers. It takes a few seconds for his muscles to get the memo from his brain and he’s appreciative when Dean doesn’t comment on it.

“Hey.”

Sam tilts up his chin and sees that Dean’s craned his neck at an uncomfortable angle and he’s looking at him.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll deal with it. Same way we’ve dealt with everything: freaky visions, demon blood, alcohol withdrawal, fucked-up Hell nightmares…”

Sam doesn’t have the heart to remind Dean that he’d missed out on the worst of his brother’s Hell-related traumas because he’d been out with Ruby and getting high on her blood and higher still on her sweetly-fed lies.

“…Breaking seals, putting Nair in shampoo…” Dean’s still talking and Sam realizes that — probably ever since that night at the church when Heaven split wide open — Dean’s been careful not to list only his crimes. Sure, Dean’s list is still more than a bit skewed in his favor, but he’s been including himself and there’s no malice or grudges anymore. “…All of it. We’ll figure it out. This is small potatoes.”

Sam nods. “Okay.” And the thing is, he believes Dean. He’s always believed Dean. Even when everything detonated in their hands.

They stay there until there’s the sound of a throat being cleared and Sam looks up to see a nurse dressed in a light green smock printed with darker green smiling, tap-dancing three-leaf clovers. He recoils off the bed, as though he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“We have to move him,” she tells Sam, like Dean isn’t there. Another nurse, this one in solid pink, comes up from behind and moves into Sam’s space in a way he doesn’t like, making him edge out of their way, retreating against the window. They get their hands around Dean and roll him onto his right side so he’s facing the door. Dean groans as he’s shifted and quiets as he settles in his new position. He’s still panting when they shoot something clear into the port at his elbow and depart with a murmured “We’ll be back soon, Mr. Winchester.” And Sam swallows at the realization there are no more aliases, no more lies, no more pretending. This is the end of the road.

“Sam,” Dean gasps out, the sound wheezy and faint with pain in his wrecked throat, and Sam goes to him. It’s instinctual, a relay he’s been running his entire life. When one of them goes down, the other delivers. He hesitates at Dean’s side, hands fluttering, unsure if his brother will accept contact and comfort. Sometimes it’s clearly craved, other times it’s better to let Dean maintain whatever dignity he’s managed to drag up from inside him. Part of Sam wants to ask his brother how he can feel pain if he’s paralyzed, but he doesn’t. Instead, Sam settles for hovering his hand over Dean’s shoulder and leaning close, shielding Dean from the doorway.

“I’m here.”

Dean’s eventually moved to the inpatient rehab center, where he’s fitted with a back brace to support his still-healing spine and given a wheelchair.

He complains about the handles and the armrests and the shitty geriatric food when Sam visits. His arms bulk and the calluses on his palms grow thicker as they get used to propelling him everywhere.

Charlie somehow appropriates the funds for a small sleek thing without handles or bars and tilted wheels that can pivot on a dime. Sam doesn’t ask. Dean pops wheelies.

Sam learns how to lift his brother without hurting either of them and practices on Charlie until it becomes muscle memory. Every day, Charlie drives him to the joint occupational therapy sessions at Dean’s rehab center where they learn how to live with a paraplegic. Sam wears t-shirts and sweaters and his old hoodie with the big zipper down the front to hide from the nurses that his motor skills aren’t what they should be.

Dean’s over halfway done with his six weeks in intensive rehab, the maximum their insurance will allow, when Sam realizes the bunker isn’t equipped for someone with a wheelchair.

Charlie’s about five thousand steps ahead and she takes Sam to the still-functioning service elevator tucked deep in the back of the bunker, near the garage, and tells him that Garth and Kevin will be coming in over the weekend to build a ramp over the low, wide steps leading to the sunken library area and make sure the rest of the place is accessible. She guides Sam into the largest bathroom, pointing out the handles and grab bars bolted into the walls and how there are more of them installed in Dean’s bedroom. There is a wheeled artist’s stool, complete with backrest, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, so Dean can still cook until he decides how he wants to renovate and outfit the kitchen to his needs and limitations.

That night, Sam cries in the shower until the water runs frigid and he can’t remember what he was crying about.

When Dean’s finally cleared, Sam goes with Charlie to bring him home. Charlie’s still driving her little yellow-and-black car that she’s had since she first drove out to the bunker. Sam’s knee keeps jittering against the glove compartment. He doesn’t remember the Impala being this cramped as he rubs damp palms up and down the length of his thighs. Charlie tactfully doesn’t say anything or move to fill the silence as Sam looks out the window, searching for the turn-off to the hospital. It makes him nervous the way the ride feels familiar but flitters just out of reach of his memory.

According to the lined sheet affixed to the inside of his notebook with clear contact paper, Dean’s handwriting announces that you, Sam, had a stroke back in May 2013 and it’s affected mostly the frontal and parietal lobes, the worst of it impacting the ability to forming new memories and day-to-day activities. Long-term memory and ability to recall everything before the stroke is intact because you’re a freak like that. "Sort of like a non-progressive reverse Alzheimer’s," Charlie tries to explain over cereal. Sam gets the impression that the speech is rehearsed, that she’s said it before. "Where the things that normally would be the last to go are kinda fubar'd…. Only you’re still potty trained and can feed yourself…" she finishes with a smile that doesn’t stick.

It scares Sam that Dean’s coming back in a wheelchair, painkillers tucked into the backpack he keeps hooked over the backrest, with his memory being the way it is. But the worries immediately get pushed into the background when Dean grins, greets him with a bright “Sammy!” and grimaces at the sight of the 1977 Gremlin. Sam feels better when Dean smoothly transfers himself into the front seat with the assistance of a board and his upper body, the day nurse standing at ready. Sam watches his brother buckle the seatbelt while Charlie folds his chair into the trunk and it’s only when she goes to the driver’s seat that Sam squeezes himself into the back.

When they get home, deep in the security of the bunker’s garage, Dean waves Charlie on, pulls the wheelchair alongside his seat, and doesn’t move. Sam lingers just beyond reach, wringing his hand.

“Dean?” Sam says after a long moment.

Dean looks up, wipes his palm across his mouth, and holds out the board. “Think you can help?”

Dean supervises the conversion of the old-school gym next to the shooting range into a John-Winchester-approved fitness center. He keeps the rings, parallel bars, and the boxing ring but brings in modern lighting that don’t glow sickly-glowworm yellow and buzz as they brighten and rubberized weights. He updates the padding and cover of the ring, and keeps the space open and navigable, making sure Sam puts everything back against the walls when they’ve finished.

After a workout one day, when they are lying on their backs on the extra-firm surface of the boxing ring, still panting from the impromptu wrestling match that, later, Dean will insist he won since Sam won’t remember he had his big brother pinned. Dean sits slowly, his sleeveless black muscle shirt soaked and clinging with sweat, and picks at the fingerless gloves he wears for traction these days.

Sam has the sinking sense Dean’s winding up for something.

Then: “It’s bad, isn’t it?” Dean’s voice is low, as though he’s afraid to hear the answer.

Sam sits up then, stretching out his legs in front of him and nods even though he knows Dean can’t really see him from this angle. “It’s bad,” he confirms. Sam’s voice cracks, soars, in a way it hasn’t since puberty.

“How bad?” Dean whispers. Sam knows Dean must have a damn good idea after watching him every day, that he must’ve noticed how Sam’s bare-chested and wearing the same boxer shorts he’s worn to sleep the night before, the ones with the rip in the left hem. Sam can’t remember the last time he’s switched them out and he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t showered in a couple of days, if his greasy hair is any indication. The prospect of undressing, of bathing, and then dressing again on top of remembering everything else, is enough to make his breath catch. Sam inhales slowly, reminds himself on the exhale how to breathe.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice as he scoots to the edge of the ring, lets his atrophying legs dangle over and reaches across to snag his towel. Instead of wiping his face and neck as expected, Dean lifts the towel and picks up a piece of torn notebook paper from beneath it. “This bad?” He holds out the paper and Sam crawls up to him and takes it. It’s damp and spotted with sweat, but Sam can still read his own handwriting, careful and blocky like a kindergartner’s:

TO DO:

MAKE BED

HELP DEAN WITH THERAPY

EAT BREAKFAST (SEE IF DEAN WILL COOK)

TAKE SHOWER

BRUSH TEETH

GET DRESSED

REMEMBER: DEAN IS PARALYZED

Air burns, hurts, coming up. “It hasn’t gotten worse,” Sam rasps. “It’s just…” he pauses, hopes Dean will fill in the blanks. When Dean doesn’t say a word and continues to fix his level gaze on Sam, he presses on. “It’s so much to remember… it’s the little things… the steps.” Another pause, this one shorter. “It’s too much. It’s hard.”

Dean exhales sharply, his breath morning-sour on Sam’s face. “Well, then. Maybe it’s time we switched off. I’ll be the brains, you be the brawn.” He holds up his hand, forestalling any words of protest. “Stop, Sam. I know what you’re going to say…” He exhales again in a sharp sigh. “But it’s true, you know. I’m not saying he was right and he wasn’t a bastard about it, but it’s how Dad primed us from the start — you were always the one with the books and the smarts, I was just the blunt instrument — but now neither of us can be what we used to be so what I’m saying is…. What if we switched it up a bit? Make it easier.” For both of us is unsaid. “How about we start with breakfast? It’s fucking hard to get around with that stool and I don’t want us to have to rip down all the cabinetry. I mean that stuff’s antique. They don’t make ’em like that anymore…”

“So you want me to cook?”

Dean ducks his head, nods. “I’d be there, giving instructions and reminding you the oven’s on if you’d like, but yeah. It’d be nice.” He pauses. “Same for showers — I could remind you to scrub behind your ears if you could help out a bit with the bull work.”

Sam swallows. Nods. Giving the remembering and thinking and day-to-day functions over to Dean sounds pretty damn fantastic. He meets Dean’s gaze; there’s deep lines and grooves by his mouth and eyes from what must be chronic, agonizing pain and Sam has the thought that maybe it hasn’t been so easy for Dean either. He slips between the ropes and jumps down, immediately turning back to raise the bottom rope high enough for Dean to slide under. Sam holds out his hand and Dean grips Sam’s shoulder hard, lifting himself. There’s a moment when Dean’s suspended and Sam’s bearing all of his brother’s weight, then Dean’s settling, strapping the weight belt he sometimes wears around his waist.

He exhales with relief, a grin easing back onto his face. “Awesome. What d’you say to grub and a shower? You’re making pancakes.” A pause. “And bacon.”