ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2011-01-09 05:39 pm
ratherastory) wrote2011-01-09 05:39 pm
Entry tags:
Roses in December (12/14)
After far too long a delay, I am back in the swing of things. I think there are maybe one or two chapters left in this thing, and then there will be a sequel. Stay tuned!
Master Post
Chapter 11
Lord knows there's plenty of bad stuff out there to keep even a slack hunter busy, and Bobby Singer has never considered himself a slacker. So he's managed to keep himself fully occupied in the last four and a half months, busy enough not to let himself worry too hard about Sam and Dean, even though no one has seen hide nor hair of John Winchester since the week before Sam's accident. Still, Dean is lousy at keeping in touch, and there's only so much being in the dark that Bobby's willing to put up with. Palo Alto isn't all that far, he reasons with himself, just a few days' drive, and he could use the change of scenery. He doesn't bother to call, though in retrospect he realizes that was probably not one of his better plans as he ends up on the doorstep to the apartment that Dean has been sharing with Sam and his girlfriend early one evening. Oh well. It's not like he's planning to spend the night or anything —there are hotels, after all.
He rings the bell and waits, resisting the sudden urge to fidget with his baseball cap. Nothing happens, and for a moment he wonders if he mistimed his visit, if they're out for some reason, or even if he got the address wrong, but then he hears a soft scraping sound from the other side of the door, the sound of a deadbolt being drawn back. The door swings open slowly, and his breath lodges in his throat when he catches sight of Sam Winchester, leaning on a pair of shining silver forearm crutches. The kid's a lot taller than he remembers, even hunched forward awkwardly, though he was getting pretty tall the last time he saw him. Other than that, though, he's not sure he would have recognized him if he passed him on the street. The boy looks terrible, rail-thin and hollow-cheeked, with deep circles under his eyes, his face pinched, pain lines around his mouth and eyes. His right leg is encased in what Bobby guesses is an external fixator hidden underneath a modified pants leg.
“Can I help you?”
Something clenches hard around Bobby's heart, and he swallows a sudden lump in his throat. “It's good to see you, boy.”
Sam blinks, expression going from simply curious and maybe a little wary to outright anxious. “I'm sorry... d-do I know you? Am I supposed to know you?”
Bobby nods. Somehow, even knowing about the amnesia, he hadn't expected this. “I'm Bobby Singer. Did Dean tell you about me?”
Sam chews on his lip. “Uh, yeah. He said... yeah. You're Uncle Bobby?”
“Sam? Is everything all right?” A woman's voice floats through the entrance, followed shortly by its owner, a tall, pretty girl with blond hair who Bobby assumes must be Jessica. She puts an arm carefully around his waist, and directs a look at Bobby that makes him very glad he's not this girl's enemy. “Can we help you?”
He scratches his head under the baseball cap. “I probably should have called first, sorry. I'm the boys' Uncle Bobby.”
The suspicious look fades a little. “You're the one the hospital called when Sam had his accident.”
“Yeah, that's right.”
“Dean's at work,” she says pointedly, and he understands what she's driving at. He could be anyone, after all, without Dean there to vouch for him. Trust Sam to pick himself a girl who was smart as well as beautiful.
He pulls out his wallet, moving slowly enough that he won't alarm them, then flips it open. “This good enough?”
It's a photograph taken the year before Sam left for Stanford, taken before he threatened to fill John's backside full of buckshot, when the family was still getting along well enough to put up with his demands that they all hold still just long enough for a photograph. John and Dean are laughing at a shared joke, and even Sam is smiling a little, head ducked down, his hand on Bobby's shoulder. He can see the moment where Jessica relents, when her expression turns warm.
“That's perfect. Would you like to come in?”
He follows them inside, moving slowly to compensate for Sam's awkward shuffle with the crutches, and it almost breaks his heart to watch him move like that. It was always Dean whose physical prowess was John Winchester's pride and joy —and the boy could move like a panther it was true— but Bobby could tell that, given time, Sam would be just as lethal as his older brother. Just as soon as he got used to being half a foot taller than he used to be. Sam catches him staring as he lowers himself carefully into an armchair, setting the crutches aside, and his face flushes.
“I'm b-better than I was... but there's, uh. There's neurological d-damage, you know? Kind of fucked up my coordination.”
Bobby nods. The stuttering is new, too, he notes. “I figured as much. Dean's been phoning, now and then, but he ain't exactly been a font of information. I wanted to see for myself how you were.”
Sam's wringing his hands in his lap, head ducked down, but he glances up through his bangs, and smiles wryly. “W-well, here I am.”
“You're looking good,” Bobby lies. He's been a con artist for twenty years, he figures he can get away with it, but Sam looks up sharply, and then rolls his eyes.
“Y-you don't need to lie to me. I know what I l-look like. Believe it or n-not, it's an improvement.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Jessica is hovering, and directs a slightly hostile look at him even as she offers. “We've got beer, some soda, or water.”
“Beer'd be great.”
It's more to have something to do with his hands than anything else, but the beer feels good going down. None of this is how he imagined it going, this awkwardness, the heavy silences. He wishes Dean was here —Dean's always been the social lubricant between Sam and the rest of the world, all easygoing smiles and ready jokes.
Jessica hands Sam a glass of water and a small plastic cup full of pills of various sizes and colours, her look daring him to say anything, even though Sam squirms self-consciously as he swallows all of it.
“Do you have a place to stay in town?” she asks, very obviously changing the subject.
“Caught sight of a motel not far, I'll book in there later.”
Sam looks up. “You could always crash on the couch, if you're okay with that. We don't really have anywhere else.”
The lump reappears in Bobby's throat. “That ain't necessary,” he says, oddly touched. “I ain't exactly hurting for money, and I'm past the age of sleeping on other people's couches. But thank you.”
Sam shrugs diffidently. “Dean says you're family... and we don't exactly have much of that. So, y'know...”
His girlfriend smooths a hand over his hair, and he glances up at her with a look of such obvious fondness that for a moment Bobby feels as though he's intruding. And maybe he is, he tells himself. Sam looks even more tired and drawn than when Bobby first arrived, and that's when it truly hits home, how very fragile the kid is, even after all this time. He pushes himself to his feet.
“Well, look. I'm going to be in town for a couple of days. How about you or Dean give me a call when you're free to visit? I want to catch up, but I'm an old man and I need my eight hours.”
Jessica throws him a grateful smile for giving Sam an obvious out, pats her boyfriend's shoulder before seeing him to the door. “Thank you. I know it doesn't seem like much, but...”
“I get it. I'll be around, and then maybe we can get to know each other. The kid's obviously crazy about you, so that makes you good people in my books.”
She smiles wider. “You're sweet,” she says, and leans forward to kiss him on the cheek.
“Don't mention it,” Bobby grumbles, glad it's dark enough out that she can't catch him blushing, then heads down the stairs back to his truck.
*
“You sleep okay?”
Dean makes a face at Sam. “Shouldn't I be the one asking you that question, nightmare boy?”
“Shut up. Anyway, I asked first,” Sam wobbles a little, leans on Dean's arm as he helps him into the wheelchair and pushes him into the bathroom. “You look like shit.”
“Pot. Kettle. Etcetera.” Sam feels a little warm, but he jerks his head away when Dean tries to check him for fever.
“Dean.”
“Seriously, it's like that bitchface is a God-given, natural talent. I'm fine, Sam. I had a late night, and the bar was busy, that's all. I'm just tired.”
Dean does his best to deflect the question, but Sam's always been like a dog with a bone about these things, and he figures he's not going to let it go so easily. The truth is that Sam's not far off the mark: Dean pretty much feels like shit. After weeks of negotiation Dr. Blaize convinced him to see someone about his ankle, arguing that he couldn't take care of Sam if he didn't take care of himself —and goddamn all these people using Sam like an ace up their sleeve to emotionally blackmail him into doing stuff, anyway. It's like he's got a giant red button sewn in the middle of his chest that everyone knows how to push, and at this point it's starting to piss him off. Still, between the PT and the new, better painkillers, he has to admit it's helped a lot. He's still probably going to need surgery, somewhere down the line, but for now it's manageable.
It's just exhausting, keeping it all from Sam and Jess while trying to keep the rest of his life under a semblance of control. He's ever had to go it alone, before. Dad was always there, and even when Dad was temporarily out of reach, he used to have Sam. Now Dad is gone, God only knows where, and Sam... well, Sam isn't exactly Sam these days. Sure, he's a pretty close copy —still the same shy, geeky little brother with a temper and a stubborn streak a mile long— but the Sam from before always knew exactly what he was thinking without ever having to ask. Now sometimes Dean catches his brother looking at him like he's the world's most difficult riddle, lower lip caught in his teeth.
“Did Jess tell you Uncle Bobby came by?” Sam tries to keep his tone light, but he makes a soft, pained sound when Dean transfers him to the toilet seat.
“Yeah. I was gonna call later. What hurts?”
Sam huffs a long-suffering sigh, as though it's a major inconvenience to admit to being in pain, then shrugs. “I dunno. It's weird. My leg hurts, but it feels different. Like maybe the fixator is rubbing against the skin or something. It's nothing, I'm just being neurotic.”
“Why don't you let the professionals be the judge of that?”
“What, like you?”
“For starters,” Dean grins, drops to a crouch and delicately picks Sam's leg up by the ankle, tracing gentle fingers along the metallic pins embedded in Sam's flesh. He finds the source of the discomfort pretty quickly. “Looks like one of these is infected. I'll call the hospital when we're done, see if they can fit you in this afternoon, get you started on antibiotics. Hold still, I'll get the first aid kit.”
In spite of his warning, Sam flinches as Dean does his best to clean and disinfect the site, hissing through his teeth. “Ow.”
“Baby.”
“You try having, like, twenty metallic pins in your leg, see how you like it,” Sam grumbles, eyes closed, and Dean takes advantage of the opening to reach up and press his hand to his brother's forehead.
“Were you planning on telling me about the fever?”
“What fever?”
“Don't play dumb, Sammy.”
“It's Sam,” his brother snaps, and Dean grins, because in spite of it all, this feels so damned normal. “And I didn't realize, okay? I'm hot and cold all the time and I can't tell if my head hurts because of the accident or a fever or because I've been trying to read too goddamned long. I don't know anymore, okay?” he scrubs at his face with one hand in obvious frustration, drops his gaze to the floor and won't meet Dean's eyes.
“Aw, hey, Sammy —Sam. Come on,” Dean pulls out his best cajoling tone. “I didn't mean it like that, okay? I just don't want you hiding shit like this from me, okay?”
“Fine,” Sam mumbles, still staring at the floor.
Dean sighs. “Okay. Let's get this show on the road. I'll call the hospital when we're done.”
He ends up settling Sam in his now-customary spot on the sofa, adds a couple of Tylenol to the usual cocktail of meds to help with the fever and the headache, and leaves a glass of water within reach. There's a list of phone numbers for Sam's doctors half as long as his arm stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a ladybug, and it's depressingly easy to get an emergency appointment for mid-afternoon to get Sam's leg checked again. This isn't something anyone wants to mess around with. They've been lucky about infections —well, not so much lucky as really, obsessively careful— and they all knew that some infections at the piercing sites were all but inevitable, but sometimes it feels like they can never catch a goddamned break.
The phone rings while he's still holding it, startling him so badly he almost drops it.
“Dean?”
“Bobby, hey,” he grins, and suddenly the feeling of relief that comes over him is so powerful that he has to grab for the nearest chair and sits, his eyes stinging.
“You all right? Am I calling at a bad time? I know I left my number, but I guess I just got impatient.”
“God, no. It's, uh, it's good to hear your voice.” Dean clears his throat, hoping he doesn't sound as choked up as he feels. It's been such a damned long time since he's had someone nearby who understands, well, about everything.
“Idjit. You'd hear it more often if you bothered to pick up the phone once in a while and call,” Bobby snorts.
“Sorry, Bobby. Uh, you in town long?”
“Couple of days. You think you and Sam would be up to a visit?”
Dean resists the urge to smack his forehead against the kitchen table. “Shit, I'm really sorry, Bobby, I gotta take Sam to the hospital this afternoon. He's got an infection we need to get cleared up, and... uh, anyway,” he stops, reminding himself that not everyone is interested in hearing the details of Sam's medical care. “How about tomorrow? Would that be okay?”
“Yeah, of course. I got some things in town to look into today anyhow. You just tell me when, and I'll come by, how's that?”
“That would be great, thanks Bobby.”
“Don't mention it. I'll see you tomorrow.”
*
Sam has a bad night, for the first time in weeks. It's not like he sleeps perfectly at any given time, but generally he's been doing better. Dean's boss lets him go home, though, after Jess calls him, sounding like she's on the verge of tears, and doesn't even dock him for the hours, for which he's pathetically grateful. Jess is waiting at the door when he gets in, her face drawn.
“I'm sorry, but I just... it's really bad tonight. He's fighting me on everything, and he can't sleep but he's not really awake either, and it's been nothing but nightmares ever since I got him to even lie down.”
He pulls her into a hug, and for a second she lets herself sag against him, rests her forehead against his collarbone. Then she pulls herself together, rubs her face with both hands until her cheeks are red and shining, and tries a smile.
“So, how was your day?”
“Trivial, by comparison. Though you should remind me to tell you about the drunk lady in the emerald-coloured power suit at some point. There's a cautionary tale in there about mixing tequila and amaretto. I tell you, I cannot make this shit up. How is he now?”
She glances back over her shoulder, as though she might somehow be able to see right through the wall to where Sam is supposed to be sleeping. “I don't know. He's been quiet for about ten minutes, but that doesn't mean anything.”
“Is it the meds?”
“I don't even know anymore. I think the antibiotics aren't helping, but I don't think it's that. He's been throwing up all evening, then I thought he was getting better, but he says his head hurts, and nothing's helping. I was about to try the Imitrex, see if that works at all.”
“Okay. Take a break, I'll go check on him.”
Dean rubs her arm once, almost absently, and makes his way quietly to the master bedroom, inches forward in the darkened room. Sam is half-curled on his side in the hospital bed, and even in the darkness Dean can see by the set of his shoulders, the tension in the lines of his body, that he's awake. He pulls the wheelchair up to the bed and sits in it, putting him at eye level with Sam.
“Hey,” he keeps his voice low, just above a whisper, but Sam jerks as though he's been stung.
“You're early,” he says, and there are volumes in those two words. “I g-guess Jess called you?”
“Yeah, but don't sweat it. The boss isn't taking away my hours or anything. What's going on with you?”
Sam curls further in on himself. “I don't know,” he moans quietly. “I j-just f-feel like sh-shit. Everything hurts.”
“You take anything?” It's hard to imagine that half an hour ago Sam was fighting Jess on anything, but Dean has seen it before. He might be docile enough now, but it's only because he's spent the whole evening exhausting himself. Stubborn doesn't begin to describe his brother.
Sam snorts, one arm over his face, muffling his words. “I lost t-track. F-fuck. I-is Jess okay? I w-was really sh-shitty with her.”
Dean reaches over and smooths his hair a little. Trust Sam to be worried about his girlfriend's feelings when he's the one who's been puking his guts out the whole evening. “She's fine. Worried about you. You gonna hurl again?”
“D-don't think so.”
“Okay. First things first, we need to nuke that migraine from orbit.”
“It's th-the only way t-to be sure,” Sam agrees, and even though it comes out slurred, Dean grins.
“That's my boy.”
It's a routine enough matter now to administer meds of any kind, and the new migraine meds come in nifty disposable packets these days, which makes things a hell of a lot easier. Dean remembers when thermometers were still made of glass and mercury and he and Dad spent ages twisting the thermometers and holding them up to the light to figure out whether or not Sammy had a fever as a kid. Shaking the thermometer was kind of fun, though, and he misses it a little bit. Not enough to go back, but a little. He stays where he is, perched on the edge of Sam's bed one hand resting lightly on his brother's hip, until he feels him relax, ever so slightly.
Jess comes back in about fifteen minutes later, her hair brushed and pulled back in a tidy ponytail. She smells fresh, like soap and mint toothpaste. She drops a quick, gentle kiss on Sam's head.
“I figured you'd be good for your brother.”
Sam looks up tiredly at her. “Sorry.” Dean can't figure out what he's apologizing for, but Jess just strokes his hair.
“Apologize tomorrow, when you're not feeling like you've gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. I expect flowers and chocolate and a poem.” Sam snorts softly, amused, and she continues. “You think you can sleep now?”
“Can try.”
“That's the spirit. I'm going to grab Dean and we're going to have a drink, but we're not far, okay? Just in the living room.”
“'kay.”
Jess curls up in Sam's usual spot on the sofa, bare feet tucked under her thighs, cradling a beer in both hands, and lets her eyes close for a moment. She looks about how Dean feels —tired, worn thin in places. He lets himself drop into the armchair he likes best, cracks open a beer bottle with his ring and takes a swig. Jess opens her eyes to look at him.
“Did the hospital say anything about the surgery? Is this going to set back the date?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, we caught it early enough, they think. Ten days of antibiotics, and if we're careful they're going to go ahead with everything.”
“You know this isn't going to fix everything, right?”
He fiddles with his beer, picking at the label on the bottle. “I know. I keep sort of hoping, though. Stupid.”
“Not stupid. But you still need to remember that. He's getting his leg fixed, nothing more.”
“I know. I just can't get used to him like this,” he keeps his voice low, worried that Sam will overhear, even though the meds have probably knocked him out by now.
“I don't know,” she shifts a little. “He's not so different. It's hard when he's sick, but... on his good days, it's not so bad.”
“Easy for you to say. You've still got your boyfriend.” He knows he sounds bitter, but he's tired and for no good reason he resents being pulled out of work, even though he was kind of having a shitty evening, and being home is usually preferable to being on his feet all night.
She flushes, mouth pulling into the beginnings of a frown. “He's still your brother too.”
“I know that. But everything's changed between us, and as far as I can see, not much has changed between you two.”
Her mouth tightens further, and her eyes blaze. “You're trying to pick a fight. Just remember, Dean Winchester, that you don't know a goddamn thing about me, or about what I had with Sam while you were gone. So, you know what? You don't get to be a dick with me. I'm going to bed.”
She gets up, leaving her beer behind for him to clear away. He takes it into the kitchen, and doesn't bother switching on the light before he settles onto one of the chairs. He finishes his own beer, then shrugs and polishes off hers as well. He lights a cigarette, stays there for a long time, staring into the darkness.
*
“You feeling up to a field trip?” Brady asks, when he comes by on Wednesday morning.
Dean is long gone, off to see Bobby for the day, and Sam can't really begrudge him that, even though he always feels a little abandoned when Dean does leave him during the day. Not that he'll ever admit it out loud, because it's not like Dean doesn't feel guilty enough about it all. It's written all over his face every time, and even if Sam doesn't remember anything about what their lives used to be like before, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Dean's used to carrying burdens that are far too heavy for him. It's not fair to expect him and Jess to be around all the time.
Brady's looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Sam feels like ten kinds of warmed-over dog crap, but he forces himself to sit up a little on the couch, leaning back on his elbows. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, nothing too drastic, but I figured since it was a nice day and I'm not hungover, we could go hang out on campus. See the old haunts. I can take you on a 'Sam Winchester, this is your life' tour of places you hauled me out of when I was too drunk or high or both to see straight.”
Sam makes a face. “Sounds like fun,” he says sarcastically. “Why are we friends again?”
Brady makes a show of sticking out his tongue at him. “Because I'm fun and awesome, and when you're more mobile you and I will totally go out and party. I just can't see you burning up the dance floor with this little accessory,” he taps a finger gently against one of the rings of the external fixator. It's one of the things that, perversely, Sam likes about him: that he doesn't get all awkward about that fact that Sam is, for all intents and purposes, pretty much crippled.
“Actually, I feel like shit.”
“Beg to differ. For one,” Brady points out, “no stuttering, which means we're ahead of the game. For two, no fever. Also good, because that would automatically rule out taking you anywhere. For three, you've been cooped up in here way too long, winter's coming, and you're going to be cooped up in here even longer than that when that happens. So we're going out. We're taking the wheelchair, and we're going for a couple of hours, three tops, but we're going. It'll be good for you.”
“Well, you'd know, I guess,” Sam mutters, pushing himself all the way upright.
“I absolutely would. Trust me, I was almost a doctor once, remember? Seriously, Sam, it's not good for you to see only the four walls in this place and the hospital. You need to get out more, see people other than your brother and your girlfriend and, hell, even me.”
“Okay, okay,” Sam raises his hands in mock-surrender. “You had me at 'cooped up.' Jesus.”
Brady grins. “Knew you'd see it my way. Did you have breakfast yet? If not, I can whip something up before we go. And by 'whip up' I mean 'pour milk and cereal into a bowl,' because I don't cook.”
“Yes, I had breakfast.” He refrains from rolling his eyes. “And took my meds, and did my range of motions exercises and everything. I've been a very, very good traumatic brain injury patient today, doctor.”
“Bitchy, I like it,” Brady hands him his crutches. “Let's go, gimpy. Prove to me you can use those things without falling over.”
Sam huffs, but he forces himself to his feet, ignoring the pounding in his head that the movement provokes. He's not dizzy, though, which is an improvement over the past few days. “Do Dean and Jessica know what you have planned?”
“Only the parts that aren't disreputable. But yes, they do know we're going out. Dean bitched about it for a good ten minutes before Jess shut him up,” Brady follows him to the front entrance, one hand hovering at the small of his back, just in case, and even though normally it would drive him crazy, today Sam finds it oddly steadying. “You good while I get the wheelchair?”
It doesn't take long, but even so Sam can feel his arms starting to shake a little. Brady carries the chair down the front stairs, then turns and trots back up to fetch him. Sam glances up at him, but Brady doesn't move to take his arm, just positions himself nearby in case he falters. He has to take the stairs one at a time, moving the crutches carefully, and by the time he's cleared the short staircase there's sweat trickling down his spine, and he can feel his lower back cramping up, but he shoots Brady a triumphant grin. Stairs are still the worst part of it all, but he's been getting steadily better.
“Check you out, getting up and down the stairs all by yourself like a big boy,” Brady grins, pushes the wheelchair right up to him.
“Yeah, well,” Sam bites his lip. “I, uh, I could use a hand, here.”
“Your back?”
Sam nods, and tries not to feel too humiliated when he has to brace himself heavily on Brady's forearms in order to lower himself into his seat, but it's pretty much impossible for him to get up and down on his own when his back starts hurting, and he doesn't want to ruin the day before it's even started. Brady clips the crutches to the back of the chair, then grasps the handlebars.
“Ready?”
“Yeah, I guess.” It's strange, being outside in the open, and Sam finds himself wiping his palms on his thighs, hands clammy with apprehension. He feels exposed, and has to remind himself that the few people outside aren't, in fact, staring at him. It's just your imagination, he tells himself sternly.
“Hey,” Brady leans over, puts a hand on his shoulder. “You're fine. I figure we'll start out slow. I don't know about you, but I could use a coffee to get us on our way. How about I take you to the nearest Starbucks and we get you a low-fat vanilla latte? They're your favourite, right?”
“Are they?” Sam has to stop and think about it. “It sounds good, anyway.”
“You bet it is. Come on. It's not far, and I'm looking forward to treating you to the kind of coffee that would make your brother have a stroke.”
*
Chapter 13
Master Post
Chapter 11
Lord knows there's plenty of bad stuff out there to keep even a slack hunter busy, and Bobby Singer has never considered himself a slacker. So he's managed to keep himself fully occupied in the last four and a half months, busy enough not to let himself worry too hard about Sam and Dean, even though no one has seen hide nor hair of John Winchester since the week before Sam's accident. Still, Dean is lousy at keeping in touch, and there's only so much being in the dark that Bobby's willing to put up with. Palo Alto isn't all that far, he reasons with himself, just a few days' drive, and he could use the change of scenery. He doesn't bother to call, though in retrospect he realizes that was probably not one of his better plans as he ends up on the doorstep to the apartment that Dean has been sharing with Sam and his girlfriend early one evening. Oh well. It's not like he's planning to spend the night or anything —there are hotels, after all.
He rings the bell and waits, resisting the sudden urge to fidget with his baseball cap. Nothing happens, and for a moment he wonders if he mistimed his visit, if they're out for some reason, or even if he got the address wrong, but then he hears a soft scraping sound from the other side of the door, the sound of a deadbolt being drawn back. The door swings open slowly, and his breath lodges in his throat when he catches sight of Sam Winchester, leaning on a pair of shining silver forearm crutches. The kid's a lot taller than he remembers, even hunched forward awkwardly, though he was getting pretty tall the last time he saw him. Other than that, though, he's not sure he would have recognized him if he passed him on the street. The boy looks terrible, rail-thin and hollow-cheeked, with deep circles under his eyes, his face pinched, pain lines around his mouth and eyes. His right leg is encased in what Bobby guesses is an external fixator hidden underneath a modified pants leg.
“Can I help you?”
Something clenches hard around Bobby's heart, and he swallows a sudden lump in his throat. “It's good to see you, boy.”
Sam blinks, expression going from simply curious and maybe a little wary to outright anxious. “I'm sorry... d-do I know you? Am I supposed to know you?”
Bobby nods. Somehow, even knowing about the amnesia, he hadn't expected this. “I'm Bobby Singer. Did Dean tell you about me?”
Sam chews on his lip. “Uh, yeah. He said... yeah. You're Uncle Bobby?”
“Sam? Is everything all right?” A woman's voice floats through the entrance, followed shortly by its owner, a tall, pretty girl with blond hair who Bobby assumes must be Jessica. She puts an arm carefully around his waist, and directs a look at Bobby that makes him very glad he's not this girl's enemy. “Can we help you?”
He scratches his head under the baseball cap. “I probably should have called first, sorry. I'm the boys' Uncle Bobby.”
The suspicious look fades a little. “You're the one the hospital called when Sam had his accident.”
“Yeah, that's right.”
“Dean's at work,” she says pointedly, and he understands what she's driving at. He could be anyone, after all, without Dean there to vouch for him. Trust Sam to pick himself a girl who was smart as well as beautiful.
He pulls out his wallet, moving slowly enough that he won't alarm them, then flips it open. “This good enough?”
It's a photograph taken the year before Sam left for Stanford, taken before he threatened to fill John's backside full of buckshot, when the family was still getting along well enough to put up with his demands that they all hold still just long enough for a photograph. John and Dean are laughing at a shared joke, and even Sam is smiling a little, head ducked down, his hand on Bobby's shoulder. He can see the moment where Jessica relents, when her expression turns warm.
“That's perfect. Would you like to come in?”
He follows them inside, moving slowly to compensate for Sam's awkward shuffle with the crutches, and it almost breaks his heart to watch him move like that. It was always Dean whose physical prowess was John Winchester's pride and joy —and the boy could move like a panther it was true— but Bobby could tell that, given time, Sam would be just as lethal as his older brother. Just as soon as he got used to being half a foot taller than he used to be. Sam catches him staring as he lowers himself carefully into an armchair, setting the crutches aside, and his face flushes.
“I'm b-better than I was... but there's, uh. There's neurological d-damage, you know? Kind of fucked up my coordination.”
Bobby nods. The stuttering is new, too, he notes. “I figured as much. Dean's been phoning, now and then, but he ain't exactly been a font of information. I wanted to see for myself how you were.”
Sam's wringing his hands in his lap, head ducked down, but he glances up through his bangs, and smiles wryly. “W-well, here I am.”
“You're looking good,” Bobby lies. He's been a con artist for twenty years, he figures he can get away with it, but Sam looks up sharply, and then rolls his eyes.
“Y-you don't need to lie to me. I know what I l-look like. Believe it or n-not, it's an improvement.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Jessica is hovering, and directs a slightly hostile look at him even as she offers. “We've got beer, some soda, or water.”
“Beer'd be great.”
It's more to have something to do with his hands than anything else, but the beer feels good going down. None of this is how he imagined it going, this awkwardness, the heavy silences. He wishes Dean was here —Dean's always been the social lubricant between Sam and the rest of the world, all easygoing smiles and ready jokes.
Jessica hands Sam a glass of water and a small plastic cup full of pills of various sizes and colours, her look daring him to say anything, even though Sam squirms self-consciously as he swallows all of it.
“Do you have a place to stay in town?” she asks, very obviously changing the subject.
“Caught sight of a motel not far, I'll book in there later.”
Sam looks up. “You could always crash on the couch, if you're okay with that. We don't really have anywhere else.”
The lump reappears in Bobby's throat. “That ain't necessary,” he says, oddly touched. “I ain't exactly hurting for money, and I'm past the age of sleeping on other people's couches. But thank you.”
Sam shrugs diffidently. “Dean says you're family... and we don't exactly have much of that. So, y'know...”
His girlfriend smooths a hand over his hair, and he glances up at her with a look of such obvious fondness that for a moment Bobby feels as though he's intruding. And maybe he is, he tells himself. Sam looks even more tired and drawn than when Bobby first arrived, and that's when it truly hits home, how very fragile the kid is, even after all this time. He pushes himself to his feet.
“Well, look. I'm going to be in town for a couple of days. How about you or Dean give me a call when you're free to visit? I want to catch up, but I'm an old man and I need my eight hours.”
Jessica throws him a grateful smile for giving Sam an obvious out, pats her boyfriend's shoulder before seeing him to the door. “Thank you. I know it doesn't seem like much, but...”
“I get it. I'll be around, and then maybe we can get to know each other. The kid's obviously crazy about you, so that makes you good people in my books.”
She smiles wider. “You're sweet,” she says, and leans forward to kiss him on the cheek.
“Don't mention it,” Bobby grumbles, glad it's dark enough out that she can't catch him blushing, then heads down the stairs back to his truck.
*
“You sleep okay?”
Dean makes a face at Sam. “Shouldn't I be the one asking you that question, nightmare boy?”
“Shut up. Anyway, I asked first,” Sam wobbles a little, leans on Dean's arm as he helps him into the wheelchair and pushes him into the bathroom. “You look like shit.”
“Pot. Kettle. Etcetera.” Sam feels a little warm, but he jerks his head away when Dean tries to check him for fever.
“Dean.”
“Seriously, it's like that bitchface is a God-given, natural talent. I'm fine, Sam. I had a late night, and the bar was busy, that's all. I'm just tired.”
Dean does his best to deflect the question, but Sam's always been like a dog with a bone about these things, and he figures he's not going to let it go so easily. The truth is that Sam's not far off the mark: Dean pretty much feels like shit. After weeks of negotiation Dr. Blaize convinced him to see someone about his ankle, arguing that he couldn't take care of Sam if he didn't take care of himself —and goddamn all these people using Sam like an ace up their sleeve to emotionally blackmail him into doing stuff, anyway. It's like he's got a giant red button sewn in the middle of his chest that everyone knows how to push, and at this point it's starting to piss him off. Still, between the PT and the new, better painkillers, he has to admit it's helped a lot. He's still probably going to need surgery, somewhere down the line, but for now it's manageable.
It's just exhausting, keeping it all from Sam and Jess while trying to keep the rest of his life under a semblance of control. He's ever had to go it alone, before. Dad was always there, and even when Dad was temporarily out of reach, he used to have Sam. Now Dad is gone, God only knows where, and Sam... well, Sam isn't exactly Sam these days. Sure, he's a pretty close copy —still the same shy, geeky little brother with a temper and a stubborn streak a mile long— but the Sam from before always knew exactly what he was thinking without ever having to ask. Now sometimes Dean catches his brother looking at him like he's the world's most difficult riddle, lower lip caught in his teeth.
“Did Jess tell you Uncle Bobby came by?” Sam tries to keep his tone light, but he makes a soft, pained sound when Dean transfers him to the toilet seat.
“Yeah. I was gonna call later. What hurts?”
Sam huffs a long-suffering sigh, as though it's a major inconvenience to admit to being in pain, then shrugs. “I dunno. It's weird. My leg hurts, but it feels different. Like maybe the fixator is rubbing against the skin or something. It's nothing, I'm just being neurotic.”
“Why don't you let the professionals be the judge of that?”
“What, like you?”
“For starters,” Dean grins, drops to a crouch and delicately picks Sam's leg up by the ankle, tracing gentle fingers along the metallic pins embedded in Sam's flesh. He finds the source of the discomfort pretty quickly. “Looks like one of these is infected. I'll call the hospital when we're done, see if they can fit you in this afternoon, get you started on antibiotics. Hold still, I'll get the first aid kit.”
In spite of his warning, Sam flinches as Dean does his best to clean and disinfect the site, hissing through his teeth. “Ow.”
“Baby.”
“You try having, like, twenty metallic pins in your leg, see how you like it,” Sam grumbles, eyes closed, and Dean takes advantage of the opening to reach up and press his hand to his brother's forehead.
“Were you planning on telling me about the fever?”
“What fever?”
“Don't play dumb, Sammy.”
“It's Sam,” his brother snaps, and Dean grins, because in spite of it all, this feels so damned normal. “And I didn't realize, okay? I'm hot and cold all the time and I can't tell if my head hurts because of the accident or a fever or because I've been trying to read too goddamned long. I don't know anymore, okay?” he scrubs at his face with one hand in obvious frustration, drops his gaze to the floor and won't meet Dean's eyes.
“Aw, hey, Sammy —Sam. Come on,” Dean pulls out his best cajoling tone. “I didn't mean it like that, okay? I just don't want you hiding shit like this from me, okay?”
“Fine,” Sam mumbles, still staring at the floor.
Dean sighs. “Okay. Let's get this show on the road. I'll call the hospital when we're done.”
He ends up settling Sam in his now-customary spot on the sofa, adds a couple of Tylenol to the usual cocktail of meds to help with the fever and the headache, and leaves a glass of water within reach. There's a list of phone numbers for Sam's doctors half as long as his arm stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a ladybug, and it's depressingly easy to get an emergency appointment for mid-afternoon to get Sam's leg checked again. This isn't something anyone wants to mess around with. They've been lucky about infections —well, not so much lucky as really, obsessively careful— and they all knew that some infections at the piercing sites were all but inevitable, but sometimes it feels like they can never catch a goddamned break.
The phone rings while he's still holding it, startling him so badly he almost drops it.
“Dean?”
“Bobby, hey,” he grins, and suddenly the feeling of relief that comes over him is so powerful that he has to grab for the nearest chair and sits, his eyes stinging.
“You all right? Am I calling at a bad time? I know I left my number, but I guess I just got impatient.”
“God, no. It's, uh, it's good to hear your voice.” Dean clears his throat, hoping he doesn't sound as choked up as he feels. It's been such a damned long time since he's had someone nearby who understands, well, about everything.
“Idjit. You'd hear it more often if you bothered to pick up the phone once in a while and call,” Bobby snorts.
“Sorry, Bobby. Uh, you in town long?”
“Couple of days. You think you and Sam would be up to a visit?”
Dean resists the urge to smack his forehead against the kitchen table. “Shit, I'm really sorry, Bobby, I gotta take Sam to the hospital this afternoon. He's got an infection we need to get cleared up, and... uh, anyway,” he stops, reminding himself that not everyone is interested in hearing the details of Sam's medical care. “How about tomorrow? Would that be okay?”
“Yeah, of course. I got some things in town to look into today anyhow. You just tell me when, and I'll come by, how's that?”
“That would be great, thanks Bobby.”
“Don't mention it. I'll see you tomorrow.”
*
Sam has a bad night, for the first time in weeks. It's not like he sleeps perfectly at any given time, but generally he's been doing better. Dean's boss lets him go home, though, after Jess calls him, sounding like she's on the verge of tears, and doesn't even dock him for the hours, for which he's pathetically grateful. Jess is waiting at the door when he gets in, her face drawn.
“I'm sorry, but I just... it's really bad tonight. He's fighting me on everything, and he can't sleep but he's not really awake either, and it's been nothing but nightmares ever since I got him to even lie down.”
He pulls her into a hug, and for a second she lets herself sag against him, rests her forehead against his collarbone. Then she pulls herself together, rubs her face with both hands until her cheeks are red and shining, and tries a smile.
“So, how was your day?”
“Trivial, by comparison. Though you should remind me to tell you about the drunk lady in the emerald-coloured power suit at some point. There's a cautionary tale in there about mixing tequila and amaretto. I tell you, I cannot make this shit up. How is he now?”
She glances back over her shoulder, as though she might somehow be able to see right through the wall to where Sam is supposed to be sleeping. “I don't know. He's been quiet for about ten minutes, but that doesn't mean anything.”
“Is it the meds?”
“I don't even know anymore. I think the antibiotics aren't helping, but I don't think it's that. He's been throwing up all evening, then I thought he was getting better, but he says his head hurts, and nothing's helping. I was about to try the Imitrex, see if that works at all.”
“Okay. Take a break, I'll go check on him.”
Dean rubs her arm once, almost absently, and makes his way quietly to the master bedroom, inches forward in the darkened room. Sam is half-curled on his side in the hospital bed, and even in the darkness Dean can see by the set of his shoulders, the tension in the lines of his body, that he's awake. He pulls the wheelchair up to the bed and sits in it, putting him at eye level with Sam.
“Hey,” he keeps his voice low, just above a whisper, but Sam jerks as though he's been stung.
“You're early,” he says, and there are volumes in those two words. “I g-guess Jess called you?”
“Yeah, but don't sweat it. The boss isn't taking away my hours or anything. What's going on with you?”
Sam curls further in on himself. “I don't know,” he moans quietly. “I j-just f-feel like sh-shit. Everything hurts.”
“You take anything?” It's hard to imagine that half an hour ago Sam was fighting Jess on anything, but Dean has seen it before. He might be docile enough now, but it's only because he's spent the whole evening exhausting himself. Stubborn doesn't begin to describe his brother.
Sam snorts, one arm over his face, muffling his words. “I lost t-track. F-fuck. I-is Jess okay? I w-was really sh-shitty with her.”
Dean reaches over and smooths his hair a little. Trust Sam to be worried about his girlfriend's feelings when he's the one who's been puking his guts out the whole evening. “She's fine. Worried about you. You gonna hurl again?”
“D-don't think so.”
“Okay. First things first, we need to nuke that migraine from orbit.”
“It's th-the only way t-to be sure,” Sam agrees, and even though it comes out slurred, Dean grins.
“That's my boy.”
It's a routine enough matter now to administer meds of any kind, and the new migraine meds come in nifty disposable packets these days, which makes things a hell of a lot easier. Dean remembers when thermometers were still made of glass and mercury and he and Dad spent ages twisting the thermometers and holding them up to the light to figure out whether or not Sammy had a fever as a kid. Shaking the thermometer was kind of fun, though, and he misses it a little bit. Not enough to go back, but a little. He stays where he is, perched on the edge of Sam's bed one hand resting lightly on his brother's hip, until he feels him relax, ever so slightly.
Jess comes back in about fifteen minutes later, her hair brushed and pulled back in a tidy ponytail. She smells fresh, like soap and mint toothpaste. She drops a quick, gentle kiss on Sam's head.
“I figured you'd be good for your brother.”
Sam looks up tiredly at her. “Sorry.” Dean can't figure out what he's apologizing for, but Jess just strokes his hair.
“Apologize tomorrow, when you're not feeling like you've gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. I expect flowers and chocolate and a poem.” Sam snorts softly, amused, and she continues. “You think you can sleep now?”
“Can try.”
“That's the spirit. I'm going to grab Dean and we're going to have a drink, but we're not far, okay? Just in the living room.”
“'kay.”
Jess curls up in Sam's usual spot on the sofa, bare feet tucked under her thighs, cradling a beer in both hands, and lets her eyes close for a moment. She looks about how Dean feels —tired, worn thin in places. He lets himself drop into the armchair he likes best, cracks open a beer bottle with his ring and takes a swig. Jess opens her eyes to look at him.
“Did the hospital say anything about the surgery? Is this going to set back the date?”
Dean shakes his head. “No, we caught it early enough, they think. Ten days of antibiotics, and if we're careful they're going to go ahead with everything.”
“You know this isn't going to fix everything, right?”
He fiddles with his beer, picking at the label on the bottle. “I know. I keep sort of hoping, though. Stupid.”
“Not stupid. But you still need to remember that. He's getting his leg fixed, nothing more.”
“I know. I just can't get used to him like this,” he keeps his voice low, worried that Sam will overhear, even though the meds have probably knocked him out by now.
“I don't know,” she shifts a little. “He's not so different. It's hard when he's sick, but... on his good days, it's not so bad.”
“Easy for you to say. You've still got your boyfriend.” He knows he sounds bitter, but he's tired and for no good reason he resents being pulled out of work, even though he was kind of having a shitty evening, and being home is usually preferable to being on his feet all night.
She flushes, mouth pulling into the beginnings of a frown. “He's still your brother too.”
“I know that. But everything's changed between us, and as far as I can see, not much has changed between you two.”
Her mouth tightens further, and her eyes blaze. “You're trying to pick a fight. Just remember, Dean Winchester, that you don't know a goddamn thing about me, or about what I had with Sam while you were gone. So, you know what? You don't get to be a dick with me. I'm going to bed.”
She gets up, leaving her beer behind for him to clear away. He takes it into the kitchen, and doesn't bother switching on the light before he settles onto one of the chairs. He finishes his own beer, then shrugs and polishes off hers as well. He lights a cigarette, stays there for a long time, staring into the darkness.
*
“You feeling up to a field trip?” Brady asks, when he comes by on Wednesday morning.
Dean is long gone, off to see Bobby for the day, and Sam can't really begrudge him that, even though he always feels a little abandoned when Dean does leave him during the day. Not that he'll ever admit it out loud, because it's not like Dean doesn't feel guilty enough about it all. It's written all over his face every time, and even if Sam doesn't remember anything about what their lives used to be like before, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that Dean's used to carrying burdens that are far too heavy for him. It's not fair to expect him and Jess to be around all the time.
Brady's looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Sam feels like ten kinds of warmed-over dog crap, but he forces himself to sit up a little on the couch, leaning back on his elbows. “What did you have in mind?”
“Oh, nothing too drastic, but I figured since it was a nice day and I'm not hungover, we could go hang out on campus. See the old haunts. I can take you on a 'Sam Winchester, this is your life' tour of places you hauled me out of when I was too drunk or high or both to see straight.”
Sam makes a face. “Sounds like fun,” he says sarcastically. “Why are we friends again?”
Brady makes a show of sticking out his tongue at him. “Because I'm fun and awesome, and when you're more mobile you and I will totally go out and party. I just can't see you burning up the dance floor with this little accessory,” he taps a finger gently against one of the rings of the external fixator. It's one of the things that, perversely, Sam likes about him: that he doesn't get all awkward about that fact that Sam is, for all intents and purposes, pretty much crippled.
“Actually, I feel like shit.”
“Beg to differ. For one,” Brady points out, “no stuttering, which means we're ahead of the game. For two, no fever. Also good, because that would automatically rule out taking you anywhere. For three, you've been cooped up in here way too long, winter's coming, and you're going to be cooped up in here even longer than that when that happens. So we're going out. We're taking the wheelchair, and we're going for a couple of hours, three tops, but we're going. It'll be good for you.”
“Well, you'd know, I guess,” Sam mutters, pushing himself all the way upright.
“I absolutely would. Trust me, I was almost a doctor once, remember? Seriously, Sam, it's not good for you to see only the four walls in this place and the hospital. You need to get out more, see people other than your brother and your girlfriend and, hell, even me.”
“Okay, okay,” Sam raises his hands in mock-surrender. “You had me at 'cooped up.' Jesus.”
Brady grins. “Knew you'd see it my way. Did you have breakfast yet? If not, I can whip something up before we go. And by 'whip up' I mean 'pour milk and cereal into a bowl,' because I don't cook.”
“Yes, I had breakfast.” He refrains from rolling his eyes. “And took my meds, and did my range of motions exercises and everything. I've been a very, very good traumatic brain injury patient today, doctor.”
“Bitchy, I like it,” Brady hands him his crutches. “Let's go, gimpy. Prove to me you can use those things without falling over.”
Sam huffs, but he forces himself to his feet, ignoring the pounding in his head that the movement provokes. He's not dizzy, though, which is an improvement over the past few days. “Do Dean and Jessica know what you have planned?”
“Only the parts that aren't disreputable. But yes, they do know we're going out. Dean bitched about it for a good ten minutes before Jess shut him up,” Brady follows him to the front entrance, one hand hovering at the small of his back, just in case, and even though normally it would drive him crazy, today Sam finds it oddly steadying. “You good while I get the wheelchair?”
It doesn't take long, but even so Sam can feel his arms starting to shake a little. Brady carries the chair down the front stairs, then turns and trots back up to fetch him. Sam glances up at him, but Brady doesn't move to take his arm, just positions himself nearby in case he falters. He has to take the stairs one at a time, moving the crutches carefully, and by the time he's cleared the short staircase there's sweat trickling down his spine, and he can feel his lower back cramping up, but he shoots Brady a triumphant grin. Stairs are still the worst part of it all, but he's been getting steadily better.
“Check you out, getting up and down the stairs all by yourself like a big boy,” Brady grins, pushes the wheelchair right up to him.
“Yeah, well,” Sam bites his lip. “I, uh, I could use a hand, here.”
“Your back?”
Sam nods, and tries not to feel too humiliated when he has to brace himself heavily on Brady's forearms in order to lower himself into his seat, but it's pretty much impossible for him to get up and down on his own when his back starts hurting, and he doesn't want to ruin the day before it's even started. Brady clips the crutches to the back of the chair, then grasps the handlebars.
“Ready?”
“Yeah, I guess.” It's strange, being outside in the open, and Sam finds himself wiping his palms on his thighs, hands clammy with apprehension. He feels exposed, and has to remind himself that the few people outside aren't, in fact, staring at him. It's just your imagination, he tells himself sternly.
“Hey,” Brady leans over, puts a hand on his shoulder. “You're fine. I figure we'll start out slow. I don't know about you, but I could use a coffee to get us on our way. How about I take you to the nearest Starbucks and we get you a low-fat vanilla latte? They're your favourite, right?”
“Are they?” Sam has to stop and think about it. “It sounds good, anyway.”
“You bet it is. Come on. It's not far, and I'm looking forward to treating you to the kind of coffee that would make your brother have a stroke.”
*
Chapter 13