Chapter Text
"I know I said I'd be back this week, but something came up—"
"I just bet it did."
"Could you get your mind out of the gutter for a second?"
"But it's so comfy here."
"Dean."
"Fine. Why aren't you bringing my car back?"
"Sarah's been teaching herself some things about the occult, just a little, so that she can recognize incoming trouble, and this estate they got this week— 'Trouble' doesn't begin to cover it, this house has more shit than Bobby's basement, and she doesn't want to even try to manage it by herself after what happened with that damned painting. She wants me to help her get it straightened out. Without accidentally summoning a demon or anything."
"Why, Sam, that sounds suspiciously like a hunt."
"It's not a hunt. It's preventing a hunt. This idiot collected shit Bobby has the sense to stay away from. If this stuff gets into the wrong hands—"
"Whatever lets you sleep at night, man."
"It's not a hunt! We're just making sure her dad doesn't sell it to somebody who'll actually use it! Remember what happened the last time he had something like this on his hands?"
"Suuure."
"Also, I'm getting consultant pay."
"She's paying you? For a hunt? You lucky son of a—"
"If it works out, she might be able to turn this into a job for me. A real, permanent job."
"A job, huh? And a vacation? She really does like you, doesn't she?"
"It's not that, it's just—"
"I don't think I wanna be the third wheel on this bicycle, Sammy."
"Dean, it's not— I didn't mean— It's not like that!"
"Uh-huh."
"And according to the title, it's my car now."
"It was an adoption, and think of me as your caseworker. I want to make sure you're treating her right."
"I'd find it so much more reassuring if you were talking about Sarah and not the car."
"Pretty sure Sarah can take care of herself, dude."
Dean sat on one of the couches in the solarium with his heavily-bandaged feet propped up on a faded floral footstool and glared at them. Stupid experiments. He hadn't wanted to try the damned braces in the first place. Just because he could totter some with a cane—if he was very careful, if his ankles were trussed up so his feet wouldn't flop around, if he concentrated every damn second—and just because that would be hellaciously useful in an emergency didn't mean he wanted to abandon the chair altogether. He was getting really good at it, learning how to get the most speed with the least effort without sending himself careening into the wall, the most efficient way to transfer in and out, all the useful tricks of living without working lower legs. Even starting to win some of the hall races that Inez ran every week.
Besides, the hunter—who was always going to be part of him—didn't like the thought of not having his hands free, and you couldn't hide salt, holy water, and a gun in a cane and a pair of metal leg cages. Maybe braces would be good for somebody with different issues, but for him? The chair was better.
Of course, try telling that to an ass like Morgan. For a guy who worked with crippled people, he sure had a major problem with assuming that "wheelchair" meant "brain-dead." No, with Morgan, if you weren't walking, your brain didn't work.
And who the hell left broken glass in the hallway of a rehab center to begin with? If Tamara hadn't seen the blood trail, he would have gone on, grinding that piece of glass deeper into his heel, until he bled to death. Seven stitches on the outside, five inside.
Then again, if not for the glass, nobody would have found out about all the broken bones in his feet, either.
Dr. Reed had warned him to be careful. He definitely should have listened.
Mondays were his shrink days, and try as he might, he hadn't scared the idiot off yet, but today, Tamara and Linda had cancelled his session, parked him here after lunch, and kidnapped his chair. They knew full well that he wouldn't risk more damage by trying to walk. They couldn't even put on proper boots for the fractures yet, not until the stitches were out of his heel. The doctors (and Sam) had given him multiple lectures on the dangers of infection and how it could lead to amputation and how that meant he'd lose what little ability to stand and take very short walks that he had.
Unlike Sam, the doctors assumed that he understood after the first hundred. Which was why he hadn't told Sam about this whole fiasco yet.
So he sat here in the solarium, soaking up the sunshine in a room still draped in red, white, and blue for Memorial Day, staring at his feet because there was nothing else to do in the damn solarium. At this time of day, everybody else was in PT, seeing doctors, getting tests, or taking their post-lunch naps. The magazines that lived here were all old and mostly chick stuff, but Linda had taken even those away. He had his phone, but Sam was probably working on inventorying that collection with Sarah, and besides, he hadn't figured out how to explain this in a way that wouldn't get him the amputation lecture again. Or worse. A couple of weeks ago, he'd lost his balance and fallen trying to get into bed. Sam reacted like a bruise on his shoulder was as serious as the demon-clawings he'd gotten from Yellow Eyes right before Dad died.
It was a good thing the boy was still in New York. Dean hated to think how badly Sammy would have bitched if he'd seen that bruise.
"I hear you're being uncooperative with Dr. Morgan again," a sunny voice said over his shoulder.
Dean tilted his head back and saw a familiar, if upside-down, face. Dr. Reed was back from vacation. Thank God. "Did the son of a bitch tell you why?"
"I heard something about a clumsy accident." She came around the couch. "And your file mentioned something about thirteen fractured phalanges."
"Yep, only thirteen. Did my damnedest to break them all, but I just couldn't figure out how." He resumed glaring at his feet. Even socks were out of the question for another week or so, thanks to all the bandaging. Of course, with this much gauze and tape, he didn't really need socks to keep his toes warm. Not that he could actually feel any cold, but Sam had stayed here long enough to make Dean dread the frostbite lecture.
Maybe he should stay in this part of the country. Not usually a lot of risk for frostbite in the South, except from the a/c. These people loved their air conditioning. And the thought of trying to maneuver a chair through snow—or worse, on ice....
"Even you can't be perfect, Dean. Besides, that's almost half of them. Still very impressive." He snorted, and admired her as she pulled up a chair. Damn, he wished she wasn't married. He'd done without for so long that the senior citizens were starting to look appealing. "Any pain?"
"Not a bit." He couldn't help a grin at the memory of Tamara, syringe in hand, warning him that the shot was going to sting. He'd just laughed, and then laughed harder at the look on her face when she remembered that his feet didn't need anesthetic.
"Then can I...?" He nodded, and she undid the bandaging on his heel. "Now that took talent. No fever, anything like that?"
"Not that I can tell." He felt warm, but hell, he'd been sitting in a sunbeam for two hours. If he were a housecat, he'd be ecstatic.
"No more bleeding? Have you been checking them nightly?"
"Almost." That got him a stern glare. "No bleeding that I've seen."
"We'll give the stitches a few more days, then, before we take them out." She poked at his toes for a minute, then rewrapped them and checked the pulses in his ankles. The weirdness of watching someone touch his feet, of knowing they were even though he couldn't feel it, hadn't faded, not completely. "This isn't why I came down, though. There's another problem. Your insurance."
Not surprising, since he didn't actually have insurance, just a very pretty insurance card. It was meant to fool harried nurses in ERs and walk-in clinics, not hospital billing departments. He'd been expecting this ever since the hospital. He was actually surprised it had taken this long. Behold the power of red tape.
"Now, it doesn't bother me that your policy appears to be nonexistent," she went on, to his surprise. "Part of our charter is to take in a minimum percentage of uninsured patients. No problem to slide you over to the charity side of the ledger." She paused. "Morgan wants your liver, though."
"Think he'd settle for a couple of abused toes?"
She laughed, and leaned back in her chair. "Now, the hospital is another problem. You realize that, right? Not to mention paying for a chair of your own."
"Yeah." He'd tried to avoid thinking of the consequences of his extended hospital stay, but the truth was, he wasn't going to be able to skip out like he had every other hospital bill in his life. "How are they set on toes?"
She smiled, but didn't laugh this time. "It's going to have to be dealt with, Dean. Sooner rather than later. You have to choose between the chair and braces—"
"No more braces," he snarled.
"—and both of those cost money. And unless you've been hiding a remarkable resume somewhere in that dirty laundry of yours—yes, Tamara told me about the disaster she found in that bag, and a grown man like you, even a bachelor, should be ashamed of yourself—you're not going to be able to get any kind of job that'll pay for those bills on the kind of schedule the hospital wants to see."
Shit. He hadn't even thought about jobs, but she was right. Before, he'd always known that, if he absolutely had to, he could work in construction or as a mechanic—but in a wheelchair? He was going to have to rethink everything. Construction, definitely not, but if there was enough room in the garage, was being a mechanic still a possibility? You didn't have to really walk for that, just stand, and he could still do that, if he was careful. It might take some more careful arranging of the tools so that he didn't fall flat on his face, he'd get around the car a little slower, and somebody else would have to do test drives, but—
"However, I have an idea."
He raised an eyebrow. "I was kidding about trading in the toes."
"Nobody is doing toe research at the moment," she deadpanned. If only she were single. "The thing is, even charity patients cost money for somebody. Some have a little insurance, and we have some grants, but mostly, they're funded through donations. Summer fundraiser season starts in a couple of weeks. This is when we bring in all the money that keeps us running. There's just one thing: Donors, especially ones that write the really big checks, want to see proof that their money is going to good use. They want to see the people we've helped. Usually, I call patients who have been out in the world for a few years. They've had time to adjust to their lives. They've reached a point where they can smile again. Most of the people that are still here, or just out— Well, imagine what would happen if I asked little Tasha to smile and be nice to donors."
Dean winced. Tasha was thirteen, paralyzed from the chest down, and traumatized so badly that she wouldn't even smile for him, and God knew he'd tried.
"But you— I don't know how, I don't pretend to know why, but I've never seen anyone accept their injuries and adapt as quickly as you have, mentally or physically. At this point in your recovery, most patients would still be crying into their pillows or screaming at people, not giving Morgan perfectly logical arguments on why you prefer a wheelchair to braces."
"Threatening to shove a crutch up a man's ass is logical now?"
"Well.... Let's say it's not an uncommon reaction to Dr. Morgan's bedside manner." He chuckled. "Anyway. It's almost like you like this new life. And, on a less altruistic level, you're good-looking—do not give me that smirk, you know full well that you are—and not visibly scarred, and you can be quite charming when you want— I said not to smirk at me, Dean. Altogether, that makes you the perfect patient to show to donors."
"Me?" he echoed. "But you just said I'm not a normal patient—"
She shook her head. "Donors don't want normal. They want to reassure themselves that these poor, pitiful cripples appreciate their money and know their place—groveling and grateful. If they saw the actual emotional fallout, they'd scream bloody murder about how we're not doing our jobs."
"Morons." He was an exception, and he knew that. He'd spent most of his life knowing—and accepting—that the next hunt could kill or cripple him. Not like the other patients here, who had mostly been minding their own business when they got stomped by bad luck.
"Oh, I agree. It's completely unrealistic. But they don't want realism. If they could face reality, they'd be here working, or they'd volunteer someplace. These people...." She sighed. "There's a few honestly good-hearted people in there—even some people we've helped—but frankly, most of them are just looking for a tax write-off."
"And you kiss their ass—"
"Because it's kiss ass for the center or them starting a vanity foundation that'll swish money in circles for years on end before it helps anyone. It gets me what my patients need. I'm sure you've flattered somebody to get what you wanted." If she only knew. "The deal is this. We have seven fundraisers around the state. You do all seven. One will pay for the chair and polishing you up. Two will pay for your stay here. The other four will cover your hospital stay."
"The hospital will go for that?"
"I've already cleared it. They get part of the money, too, because of our affiliation."
Tempting. Very tempting. "What do I have to do?"
"Dress up—we'll find you the proper clothes. Smile at the rich people. When they ask, tell them what happened to you and how much the center helped you. Lay it on extra thick. Don't mention Morgan, or they'll think we're a bunch of incompetents. Charm them out of their money."
"You want me to hustle them." He could do that. All things considered, he probably could have managed it when he was twelve. Now, with all his years of practice? This would be easy.
"Of course not," she said quickly, mistaking his statement for condemnation. "This is a fair exchange. They get appreciation and a nice plaque and bragging rights to their country clubs, and we get money for what we need."
He grinned. His life might be upside down, Sam might have turned into the mother hen from hell, but this? This Dean could do. "It's a hustle."
"So Dr. Reed came up with this idea, and I'm paying my way by working some fundraisers for her."
"Working the fundraisers? Do I even want to know?"
"As a poster boy, Sam, not a gigolo, geesh."
"Poster boy? You?"
"Apparently I've adapted well and she thinks donors will like me enough to give her money."
"...fundraisers."
"That's what I said. Sounds stupid, I know, but it's that or ask you for a really big loan."
"Fundraisers sound good. What about after?"
"After?"
"When you're done with rehab. Do I need to come down and get you? I don't have a place yet, I'm living out of Sarah's guest room—"
"You haven't gotten out of the guest room yet? Did you learn nothing from me?"
"I certainly learned what not to do."
"Hey!"
"I've been looking for wheelchair-accessible places, but the landlords all want background checks—"
"Thanks, but Dr. Reed's trying to get me into this place here in Raleigh—some kind of group home or halfway house. Maybe both. Something for people in my kind of fix, anyway. It'll be a place to stay until I can find a decent job, anyway."
"A job?"
"Normal people work, Sammy. Or so somebody's always told me. And aren't we both supposed to be normal now?"
"That's not— I mean— Dean, you're in a wheelchair."
"Holy shit, am I really?"
"Dean—"
"Fuck me sideways, I am! I thought this was just a really uncomfortable couch!"
"DEAN!"
Raleigh, Greenville, Wilmington, Fayetteville, Asheville, Greensboro, Charlotte.
In three weekends, Dean saw more of North Carolina than he'd expected to see in his entire lifetime. Dad had avoided the Southeast. The southern states tended to have their own mythology, and a lot of it was so tied in to the locale that you pretty much had to be born there to be an effective hunter, because otherwise you just didn't know the right folklore—or who to ask about it, since most of the shit wasn't written down for outsiders to read about and locals seldom talked. Once Dean and Sam were on their own, they'd found plenty to keep them busy elsewhere, and mostly had only come through this part of the country on their way somewhere else. Florida, now, Florida was its own animal (all the Yankees, Dean's new neighbors would undoubtedly say), Virginia was actually too far north, and Tennessee, Kentucky, and Mississippi had the river to pull them into a more Midwestern/Mississippian mythology, but Alabama, Georgia, and the Carolinas kept to themselves, supernaturally speaking.
It wasn't a bad place, all things considered. A little too conservative sometimes, a little too obsessed with NASCAR and Mayberry, and they kept the a/c way too low for anything but a penguin, but on the whole, not bad. Then again, his experience so far was limited to one demon hunt, one hospital, one rehab center, and seven high-dollar hotels. Things might be different once he got out in it.
Oh, well. Nothing was keeping him here. If worse came to worst, he'd have Sam come get him, although that was definitely a last resort. The updates coming out of the auction house were too promising to disturb for anything less than real emergencies.
He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't help himself. Not all those updates were from Sam, not that he'd ever tell his brother that. Sarah had put an insane amount of effort into her "accidental" discovery of that occult collector's estate—and then she'd bullied her dad into creating an "expert" position so that Sam could double-check everything they sold to make sure it wasn't dangerous. Dean hadn't asked how much she'd helped when Sam started looking for apartments, but he was pretty sure there'd been bribery involved so that this last potential landlord would skip the background check, since that was what kept tripping things up.
Sam was blissfully oblivious, of course. And he wasn't picking up on anything else, either, even though Sarah had all kinds of plans for him. No, Sam was too busy looking for cheap furniture and worrying about Dean, like he needed worrying about. Sarah said the boy was still spending his off-hours researching the latest advances in neuroscience. The daily calls weren't getting better, either. At least once every conversation, Sam started apologizing, or went off in a flurry of promises about how this would only be temporary, how he'd find a way to fix it, the same way he had when Dean's heart was failing.
Did it matter that Dean didn't want a miracle? Apparently not. Maybe in a few more months....
A man could hope.
Tonight was Charlotte. The last, and the biggest, or at least that's what Dr. Reed had said on the way down here, with the chance of running into sports celebrities as well as your average unknown rich people. Raleigh might be the state capital, but apparently, in terms of anything but official state government-type things, it really wasn't all that important; the sports and important shit, even the FBI field office, were all in Charlotte. Hell, the fact that the hockey team was based in Raleigh told him everything he needed to know about the state's opinion of hockey.
Dean almost had getting ready down to a science. Sure, he'd been dressing himself for years, but getting his pants on now required an...interesting set of acrobatics. His usual jeans were tough enough that it didn't much matter, but the fancy duds meant he had to be more careful so that they didn't get too wrinkled or torn. He had to find something to lean against, and then there was the trying to get things on one-handed, since one hand had to hold on to the furniture or wall in order to keep his balance. He now had braces—lace-up ankle braces, not to be confused with those fucking metal things—that gave him some stability for standing, but without them, his feet flopped around like dead fish attached to the ends of his legs. And socks of any kind were maddening, whether they went under the braces or over them. Who knew that toes were that important?
Not that it mattered. For the fundraisers, Dr. Reed had asked that he not wear the braces at all, because people were stupid.
Maybe he should have asked her if there was something that could help with the damn socks.
He drove over to the mirror to check that everything was on straight, and swore. It needed to be lower. Or full-length. Neither would require Dean to stand up to get a decent look at himself.
And this was the fucking accessible room. How much harder would this be in a regular room? How did anybody with paraplegia handle this?
Because knee movement mostly involved the muscles in the thigh, not the calf, he still had most of the motion there, at least enough that he didn't have to use his hands to lift his feet on and off the rests. That was about all he could do, but every little bit helped. And in an emergency, he could probably surprise the hell out of somebody with a good kick. He might break some foot bones in the process, but if the situation was bad enough that he was reduced to kicking, it would probably be worth it. There wasn't a lot you could do for broken bones in the feet to begin with, except stay off them—he was already doing that—and it wasn't like he could feel pain there anymore.
Still thinking like a hunter there, Deano, he thought, and sighed.
He couldn't help it. Twenty-five years of training didn't vanish in a couple of months. There had been other priorities—teaching himself to slow down and get into the chair in the middle of the night, for instance, instead of just hopping out of bed. The message that his legs were useless hadn't quite soaked through all of his brain yet. Even the amputees had to retrain themselves on that one, and he still had the weight of his legs to confuse matters. No phantom pain, at least, not yet anyway. Nobody was sure if that was going to be a problem someday or not.
He finished levering himself out of the chair—Inez promised that one day it'd be more instinctive, but right now, he still had to think through all the steps and watch his balance very carefully. He made it several seconds before he caught his foot sliding and grabbed for the dresser for support before it got out from under him. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. He'd put some anti-slip strips on the soles of the dress shoes, which were almost as glossy as the tops, but clearly they weren't grippy enough for this carpet. Not having his ankle braces on didn't help either—without any control of those muscles, the lace-up braces were all he had to keep his feet from flopping.
But too many idiots out there assumed that if someone could totter a couple of steps with a cane, they were completely faking their need for a chair, and since a lot of those idiots were the very same loaded donors Dr. Reed wanted him to get money out of....
Fuck it, he thought, and settled back into the chair. They can deal with my jacket being crooked.
His new chair—the one he was paying for with this whirlwind tour—was worth the hassle, though. Nothing like the standard-issue ones in the hospital or at the center. Smaller, lighter, way more maneuverable, textured covers on the handrims for better grip, memory foam cushion. He'd opted for armrests, although he hadn't needed them, simply because that gave him a place to add on some hidden pockets—pockets Bobby had made to his specs and shipped to the center. They looked normal enough, just like the add-ons from the websites, except that the fabric concealed metal plates—to stabilize them, of course, keep them from flapping in the breeze or bunching up.
The fact that they also screwed up x-rays and metal detectors and were made out of blessed iron? Total coincidence.
Besides, who was going to look closely enough to realize that there was enough hidden space between the front and back panels for a small armory of the basics? Who would be looking for all that in the wheelchair of a nice, innocent—Dean snorted—cripple who just wanted to keep his cell phone and wallet handy? You couldn't expect a guy in a wheelchair to sit on his wallet 24/7. Think how hard it would be to get at the money. Think of the bruises.
He not only had a gun tucked in there, but three different clips and two knives, and the more obvious pockets held small containers of salt and holy water as easily as they held his wallet and cell and gloves. There was even a holder on the back of the chair for his very carefully selected cane.
Hell, with the sling under his seat? He could hang his duffel over the chair handles—a tight fit, but he'd checked, and it could be done—stuff his spare shoes in the sling, and have his entire life packed up even more compactly than usual.
He wasn't sure why saying that had made Tamara tear up and try to squeeze the air out of him, though. She'd nearly broken a rib with that hug. Girl was stronger than she looked.
The only thing his chair didn't have that it needed was a cupholder, because he just hadn't thought about it. That first night, he'd just stuck the drink between his knees when he needed to drive.
The next day, he'd rigged something up, and as soon as he had a permanent address, he was borrowing somebody's laptop and putting an order in from one of those accessory websites, even if he had to play on Sam's guilt to get him to pay for it. Putting his drink between his knees solved the problem, sure, but it also provided an excuse for all those elderly, dignified Southern matrons to stare speculatively at his lap, every last one of them quite obviously wondering if he could still get it up.
He hadn't liked the enforced celibacy of the last couple of months, and as a rule he didn't have anything against older women—or being ogled, for that matter—but he wasn't that desperate. Besides, generally, he didn't find smarmy rudeness a turn-on. And he was not a charity case. Not in that department, anyway. They could take the pity fucks elsewhere.
The old ladies were still staring, but now they were more subtle about it. So far, he hadn't found any more keycards dropped into his chair, either. Granted, the look on the face of that poor waiter when he'd started tossing the damn things onto the tray with the champagne glasses—the full champagne glasses—had almost been worth it.
There was a knock at the door—Dr. Reed, here to pick him up. So to speak. "Coming!" he shouted, yanking his gloves on and rolling for the door.
Despite what he'd said to Sam at the hospital, back when he didn't know better, his chair didn't have a motor, but that was probably safer, because after six fundraisers, Dean had learned that what he really wanted to do was charge full speed through the room, knocking over rich old people for kicks. These things were boring, and as for the hustling aspect— Well, rich old people were way more gullible than any small-town wanna-be pool shark. Dean only had to give the horny old ladies his best smile, maybe a touch of charm, and their money ran into the center's account like it was being chased by a monster.
Plus, the would-be donors were almost all patronizing assholes, most of whom had never been sick or injured—or around anyone who was—a day in their lives. Half of them yelled at him like he was hard of hearing, even after he pointed out (through gritted teeth) that the problem was his legs, not his ears. Some kept trying to grab the chair to drive him to wherever they thought he should want to go, which tended to end up awkward. These idiots apparently read his normal bored-and-trying-to-hide-it expression as "I need a bathroom now." A guy in Fayetteville had nearly lost a hand trying to be "helpful." He was lucky Dean had been able to keep his reflexes in check.
How fucking hard was it to ask if he needed something? Last he'd checked, humans didn't keep their brains in their toes. A couple of months ago, he'd been as ignorant on proper wheelchair etiquette as any other young and healthy guy, but he'd never been this rude. He'd grown up around too many vets and hunters. The one time Pastor Jim had caught him mocking someone's limp, Dean had literally not been able to sit down for a week. Not because of a spanking (though there had been one of those too), but because Pastor Jim had made him stand any time he was in a "public" space, including the church and the parsonage kitchen, dining room, and living room. Sam had barely been two and he'd learned the lesson, to say nothing of the impression it had left on Dean.
This is the last one, he reminded himself. Another hour or two, and he was free, all his hospital and rehab debts paid off—legitimately, even—and the rehab center safely funded for a while. He'd ride back to Raleigh with Dr. Reed in the morning and move into that group home until he could get a job and find his own place. Maybe buy a nice bed, or a really good TV. Something he'd never had. One of those normal things Sammy used to always go on about. He could find out what all the fuss was about.
And never have to share the remote with pesky little brothers again. That, at least, he wouldn't miss. Sam had pretty shitty taste in TV—all news, weather, and documentaries. Never anything with a plot. Sure, it had always been important to keep an eye out for possible demon signs or cases, but a rerun of Star Trek every now and then would kill him?
He got cornered by a talkative, somewhat hyper, very tall man—he might actually be a couple of inches taller than Sam; Dean was still learning to estimate height from this lower vantage point—with a butt-ugly chunk of gold on one hand, a championship ring of some kind, maybe, who wanted to talk to him about his injuries. This guy's passion was car safety, and he seemed a little disappointed that Dean's injuries resulted (officially) from an animal attack. And Dean couldn't even politely excuse himself because a group of rude fuckers had pulled up some chairs directly behind him, leaving him absolutely no way out.
He was thinking longingly of the good old days, when most of his problems could be solved by the scientific application of gunfire, when a vision in something blue and slinky squeezed between his chair and the assholes, and an equally gorgeous voice said smoothly, "Aren't you supposed to be in Bristol?"
"That was last week," Tall and Tacky answered. "We're off this week. How's your dad?"
"Oh, he's fine. Sorry to rush away, but I've got to make sure my cousin here eats. Doctor's orders, you know." She took firm hold of the chair handles and steered him away.
She stopped near the refreshments and leaned over. Long black hair brushed his arm. "Sorry about grabbing the chair like that," she said in his ear. "I swear I know better, but you looked like you were about to kill him, and the center really needs his money."
"I was thinking about it," he admitted, trying not to stare at her when she stepped into full view. Beautiful—which, if the rest of his experience in this state meant anything, meant she was married. All the gorgeous ones so far were. Tallish, he thought—he really needed to get this height thing figured out.
Dammit, he couldn't see her ring finger.
"My brother hates being trapped like that, so I figured you wouldn't like it much, either." She grinned and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind one ear. "Before your new friend comes charging over here, what do you want to nibble on?"
He shouldn't say it. He really shouldn't say it. He was supposed to be helping Dr. Reed con money out of the terminally wealthy.
But it had been months. And he'd been on such good behavior—okay, forced to it by the situation, but good behavior credits were good behavior credits, right? Sam wasn't here to scold him for being a dog, and he was pretty sure Dr. Reed didn't care which bed he wound up in as long as she didn't find him in hers.
He summoned up his most charming smile. "You?" he suggested.
He should have gotten slapped. Or had a drink thrown in his face.
Instead, those gray eyes twinkled, almost as bright as the silver in her bracelet, and the grin became a real smile, full of promise—a promise he sincerely hoped would be kept. "I'd have to know your name first."
"Dean." He stuck his hand out. "Dean Winchester."
"Marcy Reynolds," she said, accepting the handshake.
The instant their hands touched, the room seemed to spin, just for a second, and then the world dropped out from around him and went black. It came back, almost immediately, but he wasn't in that stuffy ballroom trying to get lucky. Instead, he was in—
In a fucking church?
The altar was decked with flowers and the pews were draped with white and packed with people; it stank of flowers and incense and perfume, and there was music playing, something instrumental that might be classical if not for the hard-edged guitar work. Dean was in a tux, not just a suit, parked in front of the altar, with a priest in full Catholic get-up on one side and Sam on the other. Sam was wearing a tux, too; his hair was a little longer, that new scar a little faded. Bobby and Ash, of all people, were on Sam's other side, clearly playing groomsmen, and Ellen and Jo and Missouri, all dressed up, were sitting in the second row—the front pew on that side was marked by a bouquet of roses with black ribbon.
Bridesmaids were coming down the aisle, and then Sam nudged him, saying, "There's Hannah." Dean pulled his cane out of the holder on the chair and used that to lever himself up so he could stand, because damned if he was getting married in that thing—and there she was at the entrance to the sanctuary, wearing the dress her mother and aunts and sisters had worn—
"Mr. Winchester?"
—and as soon as she saw him standing there for her—
"Dean!"
Marcy's hands were on his shoulders, giving him a little shake, and he was back in his chair, parked next to a pretentious buffet in an overheated hotel ballroom packed full of people with too much money and too little sense. "Son of a—"
"Are you okay?" she asked. Part of his brain demanded to know how she was kneeling in that dress without ripping seams. "You went pale all of a sudden, and you look like you got struck by lightning— You don't still have stitches or staples or anything, do you? Do I need to find Dr. Reed?"
"Air," he choked out, reaching for his wheels.
"May I—" He nodded, which was about all he could manage, and she grabbed the handles, expertly whirled his chair around, and drove him through the crowd with absolutely no respect for overdressed old people. I must look like shit, he thought, watching them scatter. The handful that looked like they might say something took one look at him and got the hell out of the way.
Once out of the ballroom, instead of going for the inner courtyard, the way he expected, Marcy turned down a back hallway, taking him out through a keycard entrance and onto a loading dock—baking-hot summer air, heavy with humidity and old exhaust, not the air-conditioned dryness of the courtyard, but quiet, and relatively private. No one else was here, except some of the staff taking a smoke break all the way on the other end, toward what was probably the kitchen entrance. She parked him, flipping the brake lever with an expertise that surprised him. No, wait. She'd said something about her brother.
"That better?" she asked.
"Yeah. Just—just give me a minute." To his surprise, she didn't push, just stepped back and let him—
Let him what? Breathe? Wait for his heart to stop racing? Figure out why he'd just had a—
Vision. That was a vision. Son of a bitch.
Sam had visions. Not him. He'd never had so much as a hint of precog, not even in a dream. So how the hell had he just had a vision?
Sam hadn't had one since they killed the demon. He was still stuck with the telekinesis, especially when he got too wound up—there had been that incident in the hospital, and another one with Mr. Blake and some very fragile figurines—but not a single vision. Dean had figured that was because the demon triggered them, so without the demon, the visions just didn't happen. Could there be another reason?
Christ. What if there was another reason? What if somehow—
Oh, shit.
Sam had bled on him.
Sam—a psychic with visions—had bled into his eyes.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
"Here." Marcy had pulled a flask out of her purse and was holding out for him. He accepted it gratefully, welcoming the burn of alcohol even if it did taste a lot like apples. Anything to dull the throbbing in his head and the thought—the idea— His hand clenched on the flask when she tried to take it back.
"If you're going to get drunk, you'd better go to your room first," she said matter-of-factly. Dear God, she was taking this well, for a woman who'd only intended to do something nice for a stranger. "What room did they put you in? 620?"
"How the—"
"Dr. Reed's fundraiser guests always go in there. It's our best wheelchair-accessible room."
"You need to fix the damn mirror, then, so you can see it from a fucking wheelchair." Dean took another swig from the flask to hide the fact that he was taking a closer look at it. If he didn't know better, he'd swear this thing was an antique. A high-end antique, possibly even real silver. "Who the hell are you?"
"Marcy Reynolds." He glared at her, because that wasn't in the least bit helpful. "My family does a lot of work with the center. It's where my brother went for his rehab. Also, it's our hotel." She deftly pried the flask from his stunned fingers. "I drew the Charlotte short straw this year. Actually, all the hotels you've been staying at are ours. We donate the use of the ballrooms twice a year, do the catering, staffing, all that. It cuts way down on the center's overhead, our accountants turn it into a tax write-off, and besides, we can't have the old geezers seen donating money someplace common. Come on." She headed for the door. He didn't think to argue, just undid the brakes and followed her.
"That's a keycard—" he began, just in time to see her pull a card out of her purse and swipe it. The lock clicked, and she held the door open for him to wheel through.
"I told you, it's my family's hotel. We didn't change the name, it's got a good local history that goes with it." She stopped in front of a pair of elevators that also had keycard readers. "Freight's quicker, especially with the antiques wandering the lobby," she explained, giving the card another swipe, then holding her arm in front of the door so it would stay open until he was safely inside. "Believe me, they'll stop us every five seconds wanting to know why we're leaving and giving me dirty looks for wandering off with a strange man. And since some of them know my daddy...." She punched a couple of buttons, and the elevator jerked upwards.
Before he'd gotten his baffled brain wrapped around half of what she'd said, they were out of the elevator and at a door, and it wasn't until he reached to swipe his keycard that he realized it wasn't actually his room. For that matter, it wasn't even his floor. "This isn't—"
She swiped her card again and pushed the door open, letting him into the room. No, a suite, and a fucking huge one at that.
Wait, what floor number had that been? Was this building tall enough that it would have an actual penthouse?
"The way you were holding on to that flask, I thought you might want to get really drunk, and one of the perks of having your own hotel is that you don't pay for raiding the bar. Or for room service. You never did get anything to eat."
Dean wasn't sure if that was concern or a come-on.
He wasn't entirely sure he cared.
Marcy tossed her purse onto a table, and then brought him a room service menu. "The liquor cabinet's over there—" She pointed at a massive piece of carpentry against one wall. He'd assumed it was an entertainment center. "Pick a poison. And look over that, you don't need to be drinking on an empty stomach. I'm going to change out of this sequined torture device." She vanished into one of the other rooms before he could say anything.
Dean tossed the menu aside—ah, no, that was the entertainment center—and slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
I made a crack about nibbling, and then there was that—that— He wasn't ready to deal with that just yet. —and then all of a sudden she's taking care of me like I'm a stray puppy. And he'd thought his life was complicated before.
Jesus. He needed a drink.
He drove over to the cabinet, but there was a couch in front of it. He could fit through the space fine, but he couldn't sit here and get the doors open. The couch was as massive as the damn cabinet; he'd need Sam here to get that thing to move more than an inch or so. Maybe Sam and Bobby. Possibly with a forklift. "Fucking hell," he muttered, parking at the end with the most room. "I hope you're as sturdy as you look," he said to the cabinet, flipping on the brakes. He debated his gloves—they weren't really the best for holding things even if they were saving him some blisters from the handrim—but finally pulled them off and stuffed them into a pocket. He lifted his feet off the rests, folded them back, and pulled himself out of the chair. Almost immediately, his feet tried to slide out from under him, and he grabbed for the cabinet. Without the gloves, at least he managed to get a decent grip on the wood and kept himself from falling. Damn it.
Floppy feet, slippery shoes, and no cane. This was going to be fun. They'd better have good booze.
That, at least, lived up to the promise. Most of the names he did recognize were limited editions or— Good God, there were six bottles of Pappy Van Winkle, and a shitload of others he didn't even recognize that probably cost ten times more. This one cabinet of alcohol possibly represented more money than he'd scammed in his entire career. Maybe his and Dad's. His, Dad's, and Sam's, if the wood the cabinet was made of was as expensive as it looked. And real glasses, not the cheap-ass disposable plastic tumblers he'd seen in even the best motels they'd stayed in. No sanitized-for-your-protection wrapping, either, which might actually mean this stuff got hand-washed between visitors. There was even ice waiting—not a bucket, but an actual small freezer with its own icemaker—and a whole separate chilled section full of assorted cocktail garnishes.
If he got any farther out of his comfort zone, he'd be on Pluto.
He decided on the Van Winkle. Might as well take advantage of the opportunity, since he was probably never going to get it again. Maybe this was why they had real glassware in here; pouring some of these things into a plastic cup would be a sin, if not a shooting offense.
He'd just gotten the lid off when Marcy came back. She stopped in the door, clearly surprised that he was standing. She actually looked better in jeans. His kind of girl. "You can walk," she said finally.
He wouldn't call this walking, but he'd already figured out that people underestimated just how difficult it was to get around when you couldn't feel your feet. "Kinda." He managed to close the cabinet door. "I work fine from the knees up."
She studied him for a minute. "I don't understand. Why the chair?"
"You mean, why not braces?" He leaned against the cabinet with one hand so he could pour the drink. "Braces mean a cane or crutches. Those require your hands. And if something happens and you need your hands—" He set down the bottle. "I can get my hands free a lot quicker in the chair. Besides, I wheel faster than I'll ever limp."
"Knees down isn't a spinal injury," she said thoughtfully, as if she actually knew something about it. Maybe she did, if her brother had gotten paralyzed from an accident or something.
"Nope." He took a long drink, hoping the bourbon kicked in quickly. Jesus Christ, this stuff deserved the rep. Could he sneak one of the bottles into his chair?
"Most of Dr. Reed's patients have spinal injuries."
"What can I say? I'm special." He topped the glass off and slid it carefully down the cabinet before limping after it. God, he hated these smooth industrial carpets. He used to be able to walk across ice better than this. The chair probably got better traction. "The nerves below my knees are dead. Dr. Reed says I basically had amputations without actually having amputations."
She watched him as he eased his way back to his chair, eyeing him with the expression of somebody who knew what they were looking for—noting the way he kept most of his weight on the table, the overly-precise way he placed his feet. "That's very...unusual," she said finally.
"I promise I'm not faking."
"I don't think you are," she said quickly as he sat back down. "That's not what I meant. Just— I'm used to my brother, I guess. He's a paraplegic. I'm sorry if I sounded like I was making accusations."
He shrugged. "Least you asked. Most of the people downstairs would scream 'faker!' and burn me at the stake."
Marcy laughed. "People are stupid." Oh, he liked her. "By the way, I called Dr. Reed, to let her know where you got to."
He flinched. "Damn. I'm supposed to be—"
"She said it was okay. It's almost bedtime for most of them, anyway. By this time of night, they've been seen by all the right people, drunk all the right booze, eaten enough to be able to insult the kitchen, and made their pledges."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Cynical much?"
"Go to as many of these things as I have, and you would be too."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you one of these rich people you're insulting?"
She laughed again, and opened the liquor cabinet. "Technically. My family never fell for the fairy tale about money making us superior, though. And Mama would kill us if we started acting like spoiled brats." She poured her own glass—one of the obscure Scotches, he thought, possibly actually from Scotland considering the incomprehensible label, and straight, which he approved of—and sat down in the overstuffed chair nearest him. "Want to talk about it?"
"Nothing to say."
"Really?" She sipped her drink. "You're doing the fundraiser circuit, and you weren't on the winter one, and you're still learning about the perils of a wheelchair around stupid people, which means you haven't been in it very long. When did you get hurt?"
"First of May," he admitted.
"May?" she asked. "Wow. It usually takes a lot longer before anybody's out of the center, let alone ready for the fundraisers."
"That's what people keep telling me." Dr. Reed had pulled strings to keep him in as long as she had, mainly because she knew he had nowhere to go. Dean wasn't entirely sure the whole brace experiment hadn't been Morgan getting back at him for not leaving.
"Were you— I mean—"
"Was I already halfway there?" he asked, laughing. Somebody in Asheville had asked the exact same thing, like there was no explanation for his rapid adjustment other than previous damage. "Nah. Just— It is what it is, you know? It happened. It can't be fixed. Given the choice between lying in a bed feeling sorry for myself or figuring out what I can do, I'll take the second."
"And your life before?"
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it," he admitted, "but it's gone. As gone as the feeling in my feet. There's no point in sitting around whining about it."
"Whining isn't the term I'd use," she said—a little sharply? "The ones who don't 'whine'—" she actually did air quotes "—are usually the ones stuffing it down and not dealing with it."
That felt vaguely like an accusation. "You sound like the shrink."
"They have their uses." She took another drink. "The funny thing is, the louder people scream that they're dealing with it? In my experience, they're the ones who aren't."
"Look, they wouldn't have let me out if I couldn't play well with society."
"I'm not saying you can't, it's just— It's a big adjustment, and I've never heard of anybody making it that quickly."
There was an unspoken question there, one he couldn't answer. I'd pay twice as much to make sure that son of a bitch was dead wouldn't fly. Neither would This means that my brother will finally get a chance to be happy. His reasons weren't normal reasons, and there just wasn't any explaining it to normal people.
She waited for him to reply, but when he didn't, she went on. "Then there's whatever it was that happened to you back in the ballroom, which frankly left you looking like you're half dead. Lacking anything else, you've just been dragged off to a strange woman's hotel room."
"That's never bothered me," he said, with his best smirk, and she chuckled. "Besides, you were right about the booze."
"We have high standards. Also, you're alone."
He flashed her a grin. "I've got you—"
"You know what I mean. Dr. Reed doesn't usually inflict the fundraisers on people without at least one person to run interference. Like keeping them from getting cornered by a bunch of assholes with no wheelchair manners."
It wasn't directed at Sam—couldn't possibly be directed at Sam—but Dean felt obliged to defend him anyway. "My brother went out of state."
She raised an eyebrow. Damn, she even made skeptical look hot. "He abandoned you?"
He'd seen too many families do exactly that to other people in the center, so he managed to swallow the immediate angry words. Besides, there was something about the way she asked that...like if the answer was yes, she might go hunt down Sam right this second and skin him alive. Or worse. "No. I really did tell him to leave. Practically had to threaten him."
"Hovering?" she guessed.
"Like a fucking floppy-haired Goodyear Blimp." She chuckled. "Luckily, a friend called and offered him a little vacation. He was supposed to be back before I got out. And I'm okay that he's not!" he added quickly, seeing her expression darken again.
"If you say so," she said, but she sounded unconvinced. "Hey, did you order something? You shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach, and I promised Dr. Reed I'd keep an eye on you."
"I'm f—"
"Not if you keep drinking like that, you're not. I'm ordering a steak. Want one?"
What the hell. "Steak it is."