SPN Fic: Smoke Drifting By - Chapter 2
See masterpost for summary and further information.
Chapter 2
After that, Dean wasn’t allowed to come back for three days. Sam’s doctor made clear in no uncertain terms that he would actually like it very much if Dean never came back at all because Sam had had bad reactions to basically everyone at some point, but Dean had topped them all. At the same time he admitted that Sam had asked for him in his clearer moments and that Dean was the only one who ever came to see him, so if he insisted on coming to this disturbed boy he didn’t even fucking know but wouldn’t leave alone for some reason, the doc wouldn’t stop him.
How generous.
He still didn’t tell Dean what was actually wrong with Sam, but Bob did. He asked questions about Sam at the hospital under the guise of investigating the cause of the fire that had landed him there in the first place, and Dean would owe him for that for the next three hundred years.
“Your boy has problems,” he said one evening over beer, twelve hours before Dean was allowed back to Sam. “I mean, boy does he have problems! Take my advice and stay away from the kid. This isn’t gonna end well.”
“Well, give me details,” Dean urged him on.
Bob took a sip from his bottle. “For starters, he’s crazy.”
“I kinda noticed.”
“No, I mean, he’s crazy. He’s actually clinically insane. The doctors want to have him committed as soon as he’s well enough to leave their care. In fact, they are convinced that the only reason he wasn’t committed before is that he had no one to notice how troubled he is,”
After everything he’s seen, the words don’t really come as a surprise, so Dean doesn’t understand why they hit him so hard. “I’ve talked to him. A lot. He was clear, he’s fucking smart. Okay, so he has nightmares, but come on! A house fell on him!”
“He has nightmares, yeah. But he also has them when he is awake. There are good phases, okay, but there are bad ones as well, like the one you saw there. And then he’s a danger to himself. To others as well. Apparently he tried to attack a nurse, some pretty blond thing, yelling at her she should stop fucking with his mind. Almost fell out of bed and hurt himself even worse. Five minutes later he was completely fine.” Bob looked into Dean’s eyes and sighed. “You’ll have to admit that someone like that can’t be left alone. Even if he goes back to his hermit lifestyle, he’s gonna get himself killed sooner or later.”
“He seemed to be doing fine until now,” Dean argued, but Bob shook his head.
“He’s got injuries that don’t come from the fire. Cuts, mostly, and a few burns that are older. Doc thinks he did that to himself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Dean, you’re the one who’s ridiculous. You don’t know the kid, so don’t think you can judge his mental state. He’s gonna fuck over your life if you let him.”
“He’s just some kid who needs help!”
“Help, yes, Professional help. When I told the guys at the hospital that I needed info on him because I’m investigating the fire, none of them was surprised. They didn’t doubt one moment that he might have started it.”
“But he didn’t. We already know that. The fire started in the apartment above.”
“That’s not the fucking point.” Bob ran a hand through his hair. He looked frustrated. “I’m not saying your little friend is evil or anything. I’m just saying that he is more than you can handle.”
-
It had been Dean’s plan to get back to Sam the moment he could. In the end he didn’t.
He didn’t because the night before, at three in the fucking morning, some asshole decided to smoke a cigarette in a fucking hay storage, so at half past three Dean and the others were throwing water at the storage, and then at the farmhouse because they hadn’t been on time to keep the fire from spreading. Everyone got out, which was something at least, but in the end they fought until sunrise to save a house that had been lost before they even got there.
By the time Dean was finally able to change into his jeans and tennis shoes it was almost noon, and another hour passed before he could leave. He’d showered at the station, so all he had to do now was go home and fall into bed, but first he wanted to stop at the hospital. He had to stop at the hospital, in fact, just so no one would get the stupid idea that he wasn’t coming.
Once in the hospital, he couldn’t help dropping the information at the desk - and within earshot of Sam’s physician - that the fire at Sam’s apartment building had been caused by faulty wiring on another floor, just as a bit of totally unrelated information. The woman at the front desk acknowledged it with the empty smile of those not giving a damn.
In the end, he hesitated almost a full minute in front of the door to Sam’s room, trying to brace himself for what he might find when he went in. What he did find, when he found the courage, was Sam sitting on the bed unbound and awake, his pale face lighting up like a fucking forest fire when he recognized his visitor, and maybe Dean’s heat stopped for half a second there.
“Dean!” Sam exclaimed. “You’re okay!”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” What the heck had these guys told Sam about the reason for his absence?
“I heard about the fire last night. I thought maybe… I’m glad you’re okay.”
Great, so they decided that this kid was too fragile to be left without an army of shrinks, but they told him the latest disaster news? The latest disaster news concerning his only friend? Awesome.
Though, Dean would be lying if he said Sam caring about him enough to worry didn’t give him a little… something.
“Well, you seem to be doing well,” he observed. Of course, ‘well’ was a matter of viewpoint in this case. ‘Well’ meant that Sam needed a nasal cannula instead of full on intubation and that he could tell reality from nightmare.
Sam nodded. He suddenly looked exhausted, though, as if now he knew Dean was alright the strength that had kept him upright just packed its bags and left. Dean knew the feeling too well.
“If my fever stays as low as it is for another day, they’re going to operate my legs. See if they can get me walking again.”
“Walk?” Dean echoed. “What do you mean?”
“My legs have been shattered,” Sam told him without any of the gravity a statement like that demanded. “Apparently they aren’t all that optimistic about putting them back together again. There’s a lot of nerve and muscle damage as well. But I might get some mobility back.”
“Some?” Again, Dean could only throw out an echo, dumb folded. “You mean they can’t fix you completely?”
“Apparently not.”
“What does ‘some mobility’ mean?”
Sam shrugged. “I didn’t really ask.”
His obvious disregard if his own health and future was grating on Dean. He felt irrational anger rise in him, pushed by irrational and inexplicable panic. “These are your fucking legs we’re talking about! Doesn’t it bother you in the least that you might never walk again? They were right, you really are fucking crazy!”
The moment he said those words he regretted them. Sam’s face fell, for a second, then closed off.
“I guess I am,” he said tensely. “Nice of you to finally notice.”
Dean took a deep breath and tried to get a hold on the urge to throttle him. “You really do need someone to take care of you, you freak. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sam only blinked at him. “Excuse me, who are you again?”
“I’m the guy who saved your life, and apparently the only one, yourself included, who gives a shit about you.”
“You saved my life and now you can decide what I have to do with it? Is that it?” Sam didn’t yell. His voice was more of a hoarse whisper. “What am I, your fucking charity project? You don’t even fucking know me!”
“Yeah, and keep this up and you’ll make sure that I lose any interest I might ever have had in getting to know you, bitch!”
Dean didn’t know why this kid got under his skin so easily, He also didn’t know how he expected him to react, but certainly not like this. Sam flinched, his eyes turning wide while all color left his face. He looked like he was going to cry.
Then he lifted his fist and smashed it down onto his broken legs with all the force he could muster.
“What the fuck!” Dean jumped forward as Sam curled up in pain - a motion that had to hurt him even more, thanks to cracked rips and not nearly healed burns all over him, He grabs the kid’s shoulders to keep him from doing anything else to himself, but Sam seemed to be done. He looked up at Dean, covered in sweat and breathing hard.
“You’re real,” he gasped in wonder, barely audible over the shrill beeping of a machine “You’re just a dick.”
“Fuck, Kid,” Dean muttered and pulled him close. Sam buried his face in Dean’s chest and didn’t send him away.
-
The doctors didn’t restrain Sam again that day because Dean told them, when they came running in, that he had accidentally bumped into Sam’s injured legs and caused the reaction. As a result the doctor mostly responsible for Sam almost kicked him out - he never liked him in the first place, probably wondering just like Sam had what the fuck he wanted with the boy.
Dean had the next two days off anyway, and he took another two to be with Sam when he came out of surgery. The first day, Sam was mostly out of it, just lolling his head and whimpering softly. His hand reached for Dean’s whenever it was near him, though, so Dean felt justified for being there.
Frustratingly, the doctors couldn’t give any clear prognosis yet. Maybe Sam would walk again, maybe not. In any case, more surgeries would be needed. And it would be a very long process, filled with physical therapy and a lot of pain. From all Dean knew Sam wouldn’t mind the last bit too much, but the therapy could turn out to be a problem for him.
Especially since he didn’t seem to give a shit about himself, and there was no one else to take care of him.
“They want to have me committed to a mental hospital,” Sam whispered when Dean asked him about that - if there wasn’t anyone who could watch over him, make sure he took his meds and generally take care of him, because obviously he wouldn’t be able to do that himself for a long time. “They don’t think I should be on my own. And I don’t even have a place to stay anymore, let alone one adjusted to wheelchair needs.”
For the first time ever, he looked terrified. Dean took his hand, trying to comfort him. “Maybe it’s for the best. I mean, it’s not a permanent thing. They might be able to help you there and then you can go home again.”
“I don’t have a home,” Sam muttered. “And they can’t help me. They will pump be full with drug and take away the pain and put me into a fucking straightjacket, and after I tried to kill someone for the first time, they’ll lock me up permanently.” He trembled against Dean’s body. “What if I hurt somebody?”
“What are you talking about?” Dean asked softly, because the boy didn’t make sense, but he felt that maybe he did and Dean just didn’t see it.
Sam leaned back a little and wiped the tears off his face in a futile gesture. “I’m fucking crazy,” he said. “They’re right about that. But they won’t help me, they’ll just make it worse. I can handle it on my own, but they won’t let me. Now they know… but I need the pain, Dean, I really, need it. You’ve got to believe me.”
It was hard, but on the other hand surprisingly easy. Dean just didn’t like the thought of Sam hurting himself “It grounds you,” he guessed. “Let’s you tell what’s real.”
Sam nodded. “I have hallucinations,” he says quietly. “Bad dreams. And I can’t tell… but pain, pain tells me that this is real. You’re real. I wasn’t always sure of that.”
“Why would you hallucinate me of all people?”
“I did before,” Sam whispered.
“What? When? Are you sure it was a hallucination?”
“Pretty sure. Because that was before I even met you.”
Dean opened his mouth to say something and shut it again. That was unexpected.
“What, you’re psychic now?” he finally asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sam glared at him through his tears. “I must have seen you somewhere, on the street or in the shop, and my subconscious created something out of it. I don’t know anyone, so it has to make do with random people, I guess. None of the people I see I actually know. Except…”
Dean thought back to the first time Sam woke up and had a panic attack on him. It made sense now. “Except?”
“My neighbors,” Sam revealed. It seemed like a pretty anticlimactic answer. But then he continued. “One of my first days in my apartment, they came to say Hi. I didn’t want to let them in, but they wouldn’t be turned away. And then they… started saying things. I don’t know. And they hurt me. I fought them. Broke a few glasses and cut myself. When I woke up my hands were bloody but I didn’t know if it was just my blood or if I had really attacked someone. If they were ever really there in the first place. The police never came so I guess they weren’t. But… I just don’t know.”
Dean had been listening with growing horror. He hadn’t thought it was that bad. It was hardly a surprise that Sam was terrified of having his only means of grounding himself taken away.
Or that he tried to avoid contact with others wherever possible.
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean said, pulling closer again. His mind was already moving. “I’ll find a way to deal with this,” he promised. “You can count on me. Long as I’m around, you’ll be okay,”
It didn’t even occur to him that it wasn’t his place to take care of anything. Fortunately, it didn’t occur to Sam either.
-
“Are you fucking nuts?” Bob asked that evening, when Dean presented his plan over a beer and a game of cards. “Do I need to remind you again? You don’t even know the kid!”
“I know him better than anyone else on this planet,” Dean protested. “Which in itself is sad enough. Anyway, I can’t just let them make him even more crazy and lock him away forever, drugged mindless.”
“Did it occur to you that maybe they are going to make him better? That medication exactly what he needs?” Bob looked into Dean’s face and shook his head in despair. “It didn’t, did it?”
Dean didn’t say anything, because it really hadn’t. He just didn’t think it would.
For all his issues, Sam seemed smart enough. He’d probably thought of that himself.
“How the Hell do you imagine that’s going to work?” Bob went on. “I mean, seriously - do you remember that a year ago you didn’t even know your own name? Until six months ago you were drunk out of your mind every other day. And now you want to take in a guy with a severe mental illness and think you can handle it? Just - take your work, for example. As I see it, he can’t be left alone, like, ever. Are you going to tie him to your bed while you’re gone? Or are you gonna risk coming home to find he drank to bathroom cleaner while you were at work? Or blew up the kitchen?”
“I’m gonna work it out,” Dean said, unwillingly. “Before everything else I need to help him adjust. I have plenty of vacation days left - nearly a month of them. And a lot of overtime on top of that. I can do a lot in six weeks. And after that… I’ll think about that when the time comes.”
In fact, Dean had never used any of his vacation days. Until now, he just hadn’t known what for.
“I’m beginning to think you never think of anything at all,” Bob growled into his beer.
“That’s why I have a Bobby to tell me what to do,” Dean grinned. “Where would I be without you?”
“Probably right here,” Bob said darkly. “Because you never listen to me. And don’t call me Bobby, I’m not five.”
-
As expected, Sam’s doctor didn’t like the thought of Dean spiriting his favorite bucket of crazy away. But there was nothing he could do. Dean took full responsibility for his patient and Sam went with Dean willingly - or would go willingly as soon as the hospital let him. And even then it would be less of a going and more of a rolling. Or rather, a being shoved.
They still didn’t know if he would ever walk again but at least they were cautiously optimistic that he’d be able to move around on crutches eventually. For a short time. As long as the ground was flat.
Sam didn’t seem to have an opinion on that. Dean, on the other hand, read the list of medications he would have to make sure Sam took and felt like crying.
Amazingly enough, the kid seemed happy to rely on Dean and trust he would take care of everything. Not that Dean minded. It felt good doing this for him, felt right.
Bob, of course, had something to say about that, too.
It was still another two weeks until Dean could take Sam home. In the meantime, he prepared his house. Build a ramp going up the few steps to the door, moved around furniture so a wheelchair would be able to navigate in there. He moved the cutlery down to lower shelves so Sam would be able to reach it but left the knives out of reach.
Of course, that wouldn’t stop the boy from hurting himself if he really wanted to, but Dean didn’t have to make it easier than it had to be.
While he was making his preparations, Sam came down with another fever and an infection that postponed his release for another few days. Apart from that, he seemed to be doing well. He never flipped out again - at least not while Dean was present. Once he told his new friend, “It’s ironic, but with all these injuries I’m feeling better than ever before. It’s nice to always be sure that what you see is real.”
So Dean knew that it was important for Sam not to feel too well, that he couldn’t take analgesics too strong, that sometimes he had to hurt himself. And he got that Sam trusted he understood that and that he would let him. Dean was determined to do so. But he was also determined not to let it go too far.
He would soon learn that it was all easier said that done.
No one was happy when Dean announced his upcoming one month vacation two weeks in advance. It caused him some trouble, but he got his time off, in the end, starting the day Sam was released from the hospital.
That day he got a bucket full of medications, a long list with doctor’s orders and a sick kid in a wheelchair. The doctors didn’t let Sam go before his fever was gone but he was still pale and weak. He was also smiling, and looking at the world in wonder, as if he hadn’t seen it in years. Dean wished it had been a beautiful spring day, with the sun shining to greet them and birds singing in the sky. In movies it always worked that way. In reality, Sam got out into the open on a miserable, windy day in late summer and Dean had to wait for a break in the sporadic rain showers before he rushed him over to the car.
The first problems started there. Dean’s car wasn’t build to contain a wheelchair. He had considered getting one of those minivans for it but he kind of liked his car and absurdly wanted Sam to like his car, too. Besides, getting another one would have been expensive, and while Dean had some money saved, getting his place redone to meet Sam’s needs had eaten a great part of his fundus. So he figured he’d just help Sam into shotgun and fold the wheelchair up to fit in the backseat.
It was a nice plan, and it didn’t work. Sam’s legs were still fixed in casts and contraptions, which meant one was trapped in a half-bent position, the other already rid of the full-leg cast but still kept mostly immobile and bending it at the knee hurt like a bitch. Not that Sam complained, or even minded, but Dean saw the flinch when he was settled in the wheelchair, and noted the cold sweat on the kid’s forehead. Awesome. So he tried to be careful when he lifted Sam out of the chair, but Sam still fucking whimpered and then Dean couldn’t get him into the front seat because there was no room for his leg, so he had to put him into the backseat, which was still difficult and awkward, and then the chair didn’t fit in the trunk.
In the end Dean had to call Alice, his neighbor, to come and pick up the chair while he got Sam home.
They had to wait in the parking lot for her to show up, and when they got to the house they had to wait again because apparently she managed to hit every fucking red light in the city. Dean kept apologizing because this had to be god-awfully embarrassing, being manhandled like that and then having to sit in the open door of the car with these big awkward casts while people were staring from the other side of the street. When Dean apologized for about the hundredth time, Sam chuckled and told him to stuff it, because Sam was a fucking champ.
Dean could see him slipping, though. He was hardly ever among people and all this unwanted attention and the unfamiliar surroundings were getting to him. Dean very nearly picked him up and just carried him inside, away from prying eyes, but he knew that would hurt, and he already realized that letting Sam hurt himself to stay sane would be harder than he thought. Fortunately, Alice finally showed up and handed over the chair before Dean had to get over to the Millers’ kids and strangle one of them as a warning.
Getting Sam out of the car - who would’ve thought? - was no easier than getting him in. The wheelchair decided to be a bitch and fought a hard battle before taking the shape it was supposed to have, but at least getting it up to the door was no problem because of the ramp Dean had so smartly installed.
Inside the house, things got better. Sam was appropriately impressed with everything Dean had done to make it easier for him to navigate and reach things. “You did all of this for me?” he asked, baffled, actually looking a little guilty. And well, no, that was not the effect this was supposed to have, so Dean nodded but said quickly, “I like building stuff. Carpenting, painting… this place was a mess when I moved in, which was kind of why I chose it. Well, that, and the fact that it was cheap. Anyway, I had fun turning it into someplace nice. You moving here just gave me an excuse to get to work again.”
“You did this yourself?” Now the kid really sounded impressed, and that was much, much better.
Dean gave him a quick tour of the ground level, but could see that now they were home, Sam was fading fast. The day had been stressful and he wasn’t used to being up and about this long. So Dean showed him his room: the backroom past the stairs, small but big enough for a bed and the chair to move around. There was a small closet, too, though Sam had precious little to put into it.
Even the clothes he was wearing now were a gift from Dean. He had lost, literally, everything.
“Sorry the room is so small,” Dean said as he helped Sam out of the chair and placed him on the bed. “All the good rooms are upstairs.”
“It’s okay. I like it.” Sam eyed the window, trying not to be too obvious. Dean knew what he was thinking, though. He remembered the blocked window in Sam’s old place, the constantly shut blinds in his hospital room. Which was why he had put heavy curtains before the single, small window in this room and once he drew the shut, Sam relaxed a little more.
The hardest part of the day was still to follow. It made Dean realize that he might be in over his head after all.
The fact that Sam could do literally nothing on his own would prove harder than Dean had thought. So he had been warned that it would be difficult, but he hadn’t thought it would be this bad. Hell, he’d actually gotten training: the moment the hospital staff accepted that he could not be talked out of taking Sam in, a nurse had come and showed him how to help him get dressed, how to get him to the bathroom and how to get him clean. However, Dean hadn’t been paying all that much attention, too distracted by how very embarrassing this was for Sam and by trying to control himself so he would not lose his temper on the nurse and disqualify himself as a caretaker. Also, the bathroom in the hospital was somewhat larger, and somewhat more adjusted to accommodating wheelchairs.
Even without trying Dean could see that he had underestimated the size of the chair not only in regard to the car. He could get it into the bathroom, alright, but he couldn’t navigate in there. If Dean was in there with Sam, which would be inevitable, he wouldn’t be able to walk around the thing and help his friend, which would render him useless.
And tomorrow a nurse would come to check up on Sam, and if she saw that Dean couldn’t even help him shower, let alone relief himself, she would just pack him up and take him away to some asylum.
“Uhm…” Dean said, feeling awkward. “Would you like to take a shower? Or do you want to wait until after you got some sleep?”
“Later,” Sam said quietly. He didn’t look like he would make it through a shower without falling asleep, especially since Dean had little hope they would manage to get that done in less than an hour. But then Sam looked at Dean and whispered, “I’d like to go use the toilet, though.” And fuck, he was blushing and all embarrassed and no man should be embarrassed by needing to take a piss and fuck, Dean really shouldn’t be embarrassed either.
So he tried not to be. He tried not to stare when he helped Sam out of his super-wide-so-they-go-over-the-cast pants and then tried not to not stare because his not staring had to be pretty obvious. Not that Sam cared - he had closed his eyes and was probably pretending that none of this was actually happening to him. And yeah, Dean could understand that. He just hoped that Sam didn’t walk so far from reality in his mind that he didn’t find the way back. With him, there was no way to tell.
If Sam had gotten lost in his mind, he was definitely pulled back when Dean slipped the pants off his slightly more mobile leg, because he had to move it for that and that hurt. Sam flinched and Dean flinched because he hadn’t meant to hurt him, and yeah, he would definitely have to work on that.
So he carried Sam over to the toilet, put him on it, turned to leave to let him have some privacy, then thought better of it in case Sam managed to fall and hurt himself and in the end hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Then he helped Sam over to the sink because he insisted on washing his hands and finally put him back to bed.
Dean just wanted to pull the covers over him but Sam, God damn him, wanted to get into his sweatpants. And damn, that would make things more difficult, because everything he got into he needed to get out of on a regular basis, but he looked so uncomfortable that Dean’s heart melted in an entirely (familiar) alien way and he just gave up and did whatever the kid asked of him.
Afterwards Dean dosed him up on a dozen different kinds of medications. No painkillers upon Sam’s insistence, but antibiotics, stuff against infection, more stuff against infection, stuff against the side-effects of the other stuff and finally a light sedative to help him sleep. Not that that was necessary. Sam was basically out the moment he hit the pillow.
-
So everyone had told Dean he wasn’t up to this. So Dean hadn’t thought this through entirely. So what?
He just had to think back to Sam telling him how scared he was of what would happen if he was committed to know that he would not give up. Least of all after one day.
Sam slept for about three hours, then he woke with a gasp and tears in his eyes. Dean knew because he’d been sitting in the room - not because he intended to keep up his creepy habit of watching the boy sleep but because he couldn’t see this room from any other point in his house and he needed to know when Sam needed him.
So Sam opened his eyes, looked at him and froze. Dean froze too, suddenly remembering what Sam had told him about his hallucinations: that he’d hallucinated Dean before even meeting him. Cursing himself, he sat very still to give Sam time to adjust. He should have been somewhere out of sight when Sam woke up, to give him time to fully leave the nightmare he had been trapped in.
After some frightened staring, Sam took hold of one of his bandaged wrists and squeezed it. His face twisted in pain and then relaxed.
“Hey, Dean,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Have you been sitting there all the time?”
“What do you take me for, some creepy stalker? I only just came in,” Dean lied. “How do you feel about that shower now?”
“Actually, a shower sounds good,” Sam admitted. “I feel disgusting.”
It wasn’t surprising. Sam had woken covered in sweat. He was also pale and breathing hard when Dean helped him undress again, sure signs for the pain he was in. But Sam wanted it this way, Dean reminded himself. It was hard, but he made no comment.
After slipping off Sam’s shirt, Dean saw his naked torso for the first time and the sight hit him unexpectedly hard. The burns were ugly and a far cry from having healed completely, there were deep cuts and stitched wounds from the collapsed ceiling, and bruises that still hadn’t faded..
“How do we handle this?” Dean asked to avoid voicing what he really wanted to say. (He didn’t even know what he really wanted to say, but it wasn’t this.) “Can we take off your bandages for the shower or do we put plastic bags over your arms?”
“We can take them off,” Sam said, though if this was a medical fact or his own preference Dean wouldn’t dare question. He just unwrapped the bandages, revealing the burned, scarring skin below. Sam would carry these marks forever.
The casts Dean did wrap in plastic. Lots and lots of plastic for a lot of cast.
At least his guest (house mate, his mind auto-corrected) seemed to have made his peace with the fact that Dean would have to carry his naked self all over the place for the foreseeable future. He only blushed a little and readily wrapped his thin arms around Dean’s neck so he could better lift him.
Sam weighed nothing. Literally nothing. It reminded Dean that he would have to feed him and that that wouldn’t be easy either.
But first things first. First things involved the plastic bench that Dean had installed over the bathtub to make things easier for Sam, and Sam once again being impressed with this thoughtfulness. Dean quite liked that. He hoped Sam would manage to overlook the fact that without Dean around he wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom even when he was strong enough to navigate the wheelchair by himself.
Then he put Sam down on the bench - all six foot four of scarred nakedness, and suddenly it was more important than ever not to stare. Not even to look in passing.
Dean stood behind Sam to support him. Sam was a warm weight against him, vulnerable and gorgeous and completely pliable and Dean was quite possibly the worst person who ever lived. Ever.
-
Inevitably, Dean got soaked. Next time he should get naked as well, Sam advised him. Only, that wasn’t going to happen, not with Sam around and Dean having to keep his hips at a distance so the kid wouldn’t notice his erection digging into his back.
NEXT
Chapter 2
After that, Dean wasn’t allowed to come back for three days. Sam’s doctor made clear in no uncertain terms that he would actually like it very much if Dean never came back at all because Sam had had bad reactions to basically everyone at some point, but Dean had topped them all. At the same time he admitted that Sam had asked for him in his clearer moments and that Dean was the only one who ever came to see him, so if he insisted on coming to this disturbed boy he didn’t even fucking know but wouldn’t leave alone for some reason, the doc wouldn’t stop him.
How generous.
He still didn’t tell Dean what was actually wrong with Sam, but Bob did. He asked questions about Sam at the hospital under the guise of investigating the cause of the fire that had landed him there in the first place, and Dean would owe him for that for the next three hundred years.
“Your boy has problems,” he said one evening over beer, twelve hours before Dean was allowed back to Sam. “I mean, boy does he have problems! Take my advice and stay away from the kid. This isn’t gonna end well.”
“Well, give me details,” Dean urged him on.
Bob took a sip from his bottle. “For starters, he’s crazy.”
“I kinda noticed.”
“No, I mean, he’s crazy. He’s actually clinically insane. The doctors want to have him committed as soon as he’s well enough to leave their care. In fact, they are convinced that the only reason he wasn’t committed before is that he had no one to notice how troubled he is,”
After everything he’s seen, the words don’t really come as a surprise, so Dean doesn’t understand why they hit him so hard. “I’ve talked to him. A lot. He was clear, he’s fucking smart. Okay, so he has nightmares, but come on! A house fell on him!”
“He has nightmares, yeah. But he also has them when he is awake. There are good phases, okay, but there are bad ones as well, like the one you saw there. And then he’s a danger to himself. To others as well. Apparently he tried to attack a nurse, some pretty blond thing, yelling at her she should stop fucking with his mind. Almost fell out of bed and hurt himself even worse. Five minutes later he was completely fine.” Bob looked into Dean’s eyes and sighed. “You’ll have to admit that someone like that can’t be left alone. Even if he goes back to his hermit lifestyle, he’s gonna get himself killed sooner or later.”
“He seemed to be doing fine until now,” Dean argued, but Bob shook his head.
“He’s got injuries that don’t come from the fire. Cuts, mostly, and a few burns that are older. Doc thinks he did that to himself.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Dean, you’re the one who’s ridiculous. You don’t know the kid, so don’t think you can judge his mental state. He’s gonna fuck over your life if you let him.”
“He’s just some kid who needs help!”
“Help, yes, Professional help. When I told the guys at the hospital that I needed info on him because I’m investigating the fire, none of them was surprised. They didn’t doubt one moment that he might have started it.”
“But he didn’t. We already know that. The fire started in the apartment above.”
“That’s not the fucking point.” Bob ran a hand through his hair. He looked frustrated. “I’m not saying your little friend is evil or anything. I’m just saying that he is more than you can handle.”
-
It had been Dean’s plan to get back to Sam the moment he could. In the end he didn’t.
He didn’t because the night before, at three in the fucking morning, some asshole decided to smoke a cigarette in a fucking hay storage, so at half past three Dean and the others were throwing water at the storage, and then at the farmhouse because they hadn’t been on time to keep the fire from spreading. Everyone got out, which was something at least, but in the end they fought until sunrise to save a house that had been lost before they even got there.
By the time Dean was finally able to change into his jeans and tennis shoes it was almost noon, and another hour passed before he could leave. He’d showered at the station, so all he had to do now was go home and fall into bed, but first he wanted to stop at the hospital. He had to stop at the hospital, in fact, just so no one would get the stupid idea that he wasn’t coming.
Once in the hospital, he couldn’t help dropping the information at the desk - and within earshot of Sam’s physician - that the fire at Sam’s apartment building had been caused by faulty wiring on another floor, just as a bit of totally unrelated information. The woman at the front desk acknowledged it with the empty smile of those not giving a damn.
In the end, he hesitated almost a full minute in front of the door to Sam’s room, trying to brace himself for what he might find when he went in. What he did find, when he found the courage, was Sam sitting on the bed unbound and awake, his pale face lighting up like a fucking forest fire when he recognized his visitor, and maybe Dean’s heat stopped for half a second there.
“Dean!” Sam exclaimed. “You’re okay!”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” What the heck had these guys told Sam about the reason for his absence?
“I heard about the fire last night. I thought maybe… I’m glad you’re okay.”
Great, so they decided that this kid was too fragile to be left without an army of shrinks, but they told him the latest disaster news? The latest disaster news concerning his only friend? Awesome.
Though, Dean would be lying if he said Sam caring about him enough to worry didn’t give him a little… something.
“Well, you seem to be doing well,” he observed. Of course, ‘well’ was a matter of viewpoint in this case. ‘Well’ meant that Sam needed a nasal cannula instead of full on intubation and that he could tell reality from nightmare.
Sam nodded. He suddenly looked exhausted, though, as if now he knew Dean was alright the strength that had kept him upright just packed its bags and left. Dean knew the feeling too well.
“If my fever stays as low as it is for another day, they’re going to operate my legs. See if they can get me walking again.”
“Walk?” Dean echoed. “What do you mean?”
“My legs have been shattered,” Sam told him without any of the gravity a statement like that demanded. “Apparently they aren’t all that optimistic about putting them back together again. There’s a lot of nerve and muscle damage as well. But I might get some mobility back.”
“Some?” Again, Dean could only throw out an echo, dumb folded. “You mean they can’t fix you completely?”
“Apparently not.”
“What does ‘some mobility’ mean?”
Sam shrugged. “I didn’t really ask.”
His obvious disregard if his own health and future was grating on Dean. He felt irrational anger rise in him, pushed by irrational and inexplicable panic. “These are your fucking legs we’re talking about! Doesn’t it bother you in the least that you might never walk again? They were right, you really are fucking crazy!”
The moment he said those words he regretted them. Sam’s face fell, for a second, then closed off.
“I guess I am,” he said tensely. “Nice of you to finally notice.”
Dean took a deep breath and tried to get a hold on the urge to throttle him. “You really do need someone to take care of you, you freak. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sam only blinked at him. “Excuse me, who are you again?”
“I’m the guy who saved your life, and apparently the only one, yourself included, who gives a shit about you.”
“You saved my life and now you can decide what I have to do with it? Is that it?” Sam didn’t yell. His voice was more of a hoarse whisper. “What am I, your fucking charity project? You don’t even fucking know me!”
“Yeah, and keep this up and you’ll make sure that I lose any interest I might ever have had in getting to know you, bitch!”
Dean didn’t know why this kid got under his skin so easily, He also didn’t know how he expected him to react, but certainly not like this. Sam flinched, his eyes turning wide while all color left his face. He looked like he was going to cry.
Then he lifted his fist and smashed it down onto his broken legs with all the force he could muster.
“What the fuck!” Dean jumped forward as Sam curled up in pain - a motion that had to hurt him even more, thanks to cracked rips and not nearly healed burns all over him, He grabs the kid’s shoulders to keep him from doing anything else to himself, but Sam seemed to be done. He looked up at Dean, covered in sweat and breathing hard.
“You’re real,” he gasped in wonder, barely audible over the shrill beeping of a machine “You’re just a dick.”
“Fuck, Kid,” Dean muttered and pulled him close. Sam buried his face in Dean’s chest and didn’t send him away.
-
The doctors didn’t restrain Sam again that day because Dean told them, when they came running in, that he had accidentally bumped into Sam’s injured legs and caused the reaction. As a result the doctor mostly responsible for Sam almost kicked him out - he never liked him in the first place, probably wondering just like Sam had what the fuck he wanted with the boy.
Dean had the next two days off anyway, and he took another two to be with Sam when he came out of surgery. The first day, Sam was mostly out of it, just lolling his head and whimpering softly. His hand reached for Dean’s whenever it was near him, though, so Dean felt justified for being there.
Frustratingly, the doctors couldn’t give any clear prognosis yet. Maybe Sam would walk again, maybe not. In any case, more surgeries would be needed. And it would be a very long process, filled with physical therapy and a lot of pain. From all Dean knew Sam wouldn’t mind the last bit too much, but the therapy could turn out to be a problem for him.
Especially since he didn’t seem to give a shit about himself, and there was no one else to take care of him.
“They want to have me committed to a mental hospital,” Sam whispered when Dean asked him about that - if there wasn’t anyone who could watch over him, make sure he took his meds and generally take care of him, because obviously he wouldn’t be able to do that himself for a long time. “They don’t think I should be on my own. And I don’t even have a place to stay anymore, let alone one adjusted to wheelchair needs.”
For the first time ever, he looked terrified. Dean took his hand, trying to comfort him. “Maybe it’s for the best. I mean, it’s not a permanent thing. They might be able to help you there and then you can go home again.”
“I don’t have a home,” Sam muttered. “And they can’t help me. They will pump be full with drug and take away the pain and put me into a fucking straightjacket, and after I tried to kill someone for the first time, they’ll lock me up permanently.” He trembled against Dean’s body. “What if I hurt somebody?”
“What are you talking about?” Dean asked softly, because the boy didn’t make sense, but he felt that maybe he did and Dean just didn’t see it.
Sam leaned back a little and wiped the tears off his face in a futile gesture. “I’m fucking crazy,” he said. “They’re right about that. But they won’t help me, they’ll just make it worse. I can handle it on my own, but they won’t let me. Now they know… but I need the pain, Dean, I really, need it. You’ve got to believe me.”
It was hard, but on the other hand surprisingly easy. Dean just didn’t like the thought of Sam hurting himself “It grounds you,” he guessed. “Let’s you tell what’s real.”
Sam nodded. “I have hallucinations,” he says quietly. “Bad dreams. And I can’t tell… but pain, pain tells me that this is real. You’re real. I wasn’t always sure of that.”
“Why would you hallucinate me of all people?”
“I did before,” Sam whispered.
“What? When? Are you sure it was a hallucination?”
“Pretty sure. Because that was before I even met you.”
Dean opened his mouth to say something and shut it again. That was unexpected.
“What, you’re psychic now?” he finally asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sam glared at him through his tears. “I must have seen you somewhere, on the street or in the shop, and my subconscious created something out of it. I don’t know anyone, so it has to make do with random people, I guess. None of the people I see I actually know. Except…”
Dean thought back to the first time Sam woke up and had a panic attack on him. It made sense now. “Except?”
“My neighbors,” Sam revealed. It seemed like a pretty anticlimactic answer. But then he continued. “One of my first days in my apartment, they came to say Hi. I didn’t want to let them in, but they wouldn’t be turned away. And then they… started saying things. I don’t know. And they hurt me. I fought them. Broke a few glasses and cut myself. When I woke up my hands were bloody but I didn’t know if it was just my blood or if I had really attacked someone. If they were ever really there in the first place. The police never came so I guess they weren’t. But… I just don’t know.”
Dean had been listening with growing horror. He hadn’t thought it was that bad. It was hardly a surprise that Sam was terrified of having his only means of grounding himself taken away.
Or that he tried to avoid contact with others wherever possible.
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean said, pulling closer again. His mind was already moving. “I’ll find a way to deal with this,” he promised. “You can count on me. Long as I’m around, you’ll be okay,”
It didn’t even occur to him that it wasn’t his place to take care of anything. Fortunately, it didn’t occur to Sam either.
-
“Are you fucking nuts?” Bob asked that evening, when Dean presented his plan over a beer and a game of cards. “Do I need to remind you again? You don’t even know the kid!”
“I know him better than anyone else on this planet,” Dean protested. “Which in itself is sad enough. Anyway, I can’t just let them make him even more crazy and lock him away forever, drugged mindless.”
“Did it occur to you that maybe they are going to make him better? That medication exactly what he needs?” Bob looked into Dean’s face and shook his head in despair. “It didn’t, did it?”
Dean didn’t say anything, because it really hadn’t. He just didn’t think it would.
For all his issues, Sam seemed smart enough. He’d probably thought of that himself.
“How the Hell do you imagine that’s going to work?” Bob went on. “I mean, seriously - do you remember that a year ago you didn’t even know your own name? Until six months ago you were drunk out of your mind every other day. And now you want to take in a guy with a severe mental illness and think you can handle it? Just - take your work, for example. As I see it, he can’t be left alone, like, ever. Are you going to tie him to your bed while you’re gone? Or are you gonna risk coming home to find he drank to bathroom cleaner while you were at work? Or blew up the kitchen?”
“I’m gonna work it out,” Dean said, unwillingly. “Before everything else I need to help him adjust. I have plenty of vacation days left - nearly a month of them. And a lot of overtime on top of that. I can do a lot in six weeks. And after that… I’ll think about that when the time comes.”
In fact, Dean had never used any of his vacation days. Until now, he just hadn’t known what for.
“I’m beginning to think you never think of anything at all,” Bob growled into his beer.
“That’s why I have a Bobby to tell me what to do,” Dean grinned. “Where would I be without you?”
“Probably right here,” Bob said darkly. “Because you never listen to me. And don’t call me Bobby, I’m not five.”
-
As expected, Sam’s doctor didn’t like the thought of Dean spiriting his favorite bucket of crazy away. But there was nothing he could do. Dean took full responsibility for his patient and Sam went with Dean willingly - or would go willingly as soon as the hospital let him. And even then it would be less of a going and more of a rolling. Or rather, a being shoved.
They still didn’t know if he would ever walk again but at least they were cautiously optimistic that he’d be able to move around on crutches eventually. For a short time. As long as the ground was flat.
Sam didn’t seem to have an opinion on that. Dean, on the other hand, read the list of medications he would have to make sure Sam took and felt like crying.
Amazingly enough, the kid seemed happy to rely on Dean and trust he would take care of everything. Not that Dean minded. It felt good doing this for him, felt right.
Bob, of course, had something to say about that, too.
It was still another two weeks until Dean could take Sam home. In the meantime, he prepared his house. Build a ramp going up the few steps to the door, moved around furniture so a wheelchair would be able to navigate in there. He moved the cutlery down to lower shelves so Sam would be able to reach it but left the knives out of reach.
Of course, that wouldn’t stop the boy from hurting himself if he really wanted to, but Dean didn’t have to make it easier than it had to be.
While he was making his preparations, Sam came down with another fever and an infection that postponed his release for another few days. Apart from that, he seemed to be doing well. He never flipped out again - at least not while Dean was present. Once he told his new friend, “It’s ironic, but with all these injuries I’m feeling better than ever before. It’s nice to always be sure that what you see is real.”
So Dean knew that it was important for Sam not to feel too well, that he couldn’t take analgesics too strong, that sometimes he had to hurt himself. And he got that Sam trusted he understood that and that he would let him. Dean was determined to do so. But he was also determined not to let it go too far.
He would soon learn that it was all easier said that done.
No one was happy when Dean announced his upcoming one month vacation two weeks in advance. It caused him some trouble, but he got his time off, in the end, starting the day Sam was released from the hospital.
That day he got a bucket full of medications, a long list with doctor’s orders and a sick kid in a wheelchair. The doctors didn’t let Sam go before his fever was gone but he was still pale and weak. He was also smiling, and looking at the world in wonder, as if he hadn’t seen it in years. Dean wished it had been a beautiful spring day, with the sun shining to greet them and birds singing in the sky. In movies it always worked that way. In reality, Sam got out into the open on a miserable, windy day in late summer and Dean had to wait for a break in the sporadic rain showers before he rushed him over to the car.
The first problems started there. Dean’s car wasn’t build to contain a wheelchair. He had considered getting one of those minivans for it but he kind of liked his car and absurdly wanted Sam to like his car, too. Besides, getting another one would have been expensive, and while Dean had some money saved, getting his place redone to meet Sam’s needs had eaten a great part of his fundus. So he figured he’d just help Sam into shotgun and fold the wheelchair up to fit in the backseat.
It was a nice plan, and it didn’t work. Sam’s legs were still fixed in casts and contraptions, which meant one was trapped in a half-bent position, the other already rid of the full-leg cast but still kept mostly immobile and bending it at the knee hurt like a bitch. Not that Sam complained, or even minded, but Dean saw the flinch when he was settled in the wheelchair, and noted the cold sweat on the kid’s forehead. Awesome. So he tried to be careful when he lifted Sam out of the chair, but Sam still fucking whimpered and then Dean couldn’t get him into the front seat because there was no room for his leg, so he had to put him into the backseat, which was still difficult and awkward, and then the chair didn’t fit in the trunk.
In the end Dean had to call Alice, his neighbor, to come and pick up the chair while he got Sam home.
They had to wait in the parking lot for her to show up, and when they got to the house they had to wait again because apparently she managed to hit every fucking red light in the city. Dean kept apologizing because this had to be god-awfully embarrassing, being manhandled like that and then having to sit in the open door of the car with these big awkward casts while people were staring from the other side of the street. When Dean apologized for about the hundredth time, Sam chuckled and told him to stuff it, because Sam was a fucking champ.
Dean could see him slipping, though. He was hardly ever among people and all this unwanted attention and the unfamiliar surroundings were getting to him. Dean very nearly picked him up and just carried him inside, away from prying eyes, but he knew that would hurt, and he already realized that letting Sam hurt himself to stay sane would be harder than he thought. Fortunately, Alice finally showed up and handed over the chair before Dean had to get over to the Millers’ kids and strangle one of them as a warning.
Getting Sam out of the car - who would’ve thought? - was no easier than getting him in. The wheelchair decided to be a bitch and fought a hard battle before taking the shape it was supposed to have, but at least getting it up to the door was no problem because of the ramp Dean had so smartly installed.
Inside the house, things got better. Sam was appropriately impressed with everything Dean had done to make it easier for him to navigate and reach things. “You did all of this for me?” he asked, baffled, actually looking a little guilty. And well, no, that was not the effect this was supposed to have, so Dean nodded but said quickly, “I like building stuff. Carpenting, painting… this place was a mess when I moved in, which was kind of why I chose it. Well, that, and the fact that it was cheap. Anyway, I had fun turning it into someplace nice. You moving here just gave me an excuse to get to work again.”
“You did this yourself?” Now the kid really sounded impressed, and that was much, much better.
Dean gave him a quick tour of the ground level, but could see that now they were home, Sam was fading fast. The day had been stressful and he wasn’t used to being up and about this long. So Dean showed him his room: the backroom past the stairs, small but big enough for a bed and the chair to move around. There was a small closet, too, though Sam had precious little to put into it.
Even the clothes he was wearing now were a gift from Dean. He had lost, literally, everything.
“Sorry the room is so small,” Dean said as he helped Sam out of the chair and placed him on the bed. “All the good rooms are upstairs.”
“It’s okay. I like it.” Sam eyed the window, trying not to be too obvious. Dean knew what he was thinking, though. He remembered the blocked window in Sam’s old place, the constantly shut blinds in his hospital room. Which was why he had put heavy curtains before the single, small window in this room and once he drew the shut, Sam relaxed a little more.
The hardest part of the day was still to follow. It made Dean realize that he might be in over his head after all.
The fact that Sam could do literally nothing on his own would prove harder than Dean had thought. So he had been warned that it would be difficult, but he hadn’t thought it would be this bad. Hell, he’d actually gotten training: the moment the hospital staff accepted that he could not be talked out of taking Sam in, a nurse had come and showed him how to help him get dressed, how to get him to the bathroom and how to get him clean. However, Dean hadn’t been paying all that much attention, too distracted by how very embarrassing this was for Sam and by trying to control himself so he would not lose his temper on the nurse and disqualify himself as a caretaker. Also, the bathroom in the hospital was somewhat larger, and somewhat more adjusted to accommodating wheelchairs.
Even without trying Dean could see that he had underestimated the size of the chair not only in regard to the car. He could get it into the bathroom, alright, but he couldn’t navigate in there. If Dean was in there with Sam, which would be inevitable, he wouldn’t be able to walk around the thing and help his friend, which would render him useless.
And tomorrow a nurse would come to check up on Sam, and if she saw that Dean couldn’t even help him shower, let alone relief himself, she would just pack him up and take him away to some asylum.
“Uhm…” Dean said, feeling awkward. “Would you like to take a shower? Or do you want to wait until after you got some sleep?”
“Later,” Sam said quietly. He didn’t look like he would make it through a shower without falling asleep, especially since Dean had little hope they would manage to get that done in less than an hour. But then Sam looked at Dean and whispered, “I’d like to go use the toilet, though.” And fuck, he was blushing and all embarrassed and no man should be embarrassed by needing to take a piss and fuck, Dean really shouldn’t be embarrassed either.
So he tried not to be. He tried not to stare when he helped Sam out of his super-wide-so-they-go-over-the-cast pants and then tried not to not stare because his not staring had to be pretty obvious. Not that Sam cared - he had closed his eyes and was probably pretending that none of this was actually happening to him. And yeah, Dean could understand that. He just hoped that Sam didn’t walk so far from reality in his mind that he didn’t find the way back. With him, there was no way to tell.
If Sam had gotten lost in his mind, he was definitely pulled back when Dean slipped the pants off his slightly more mobile leg, because he had to move it for that and that hurt. Sam flinched and Dean flinched because he hadn’t meant to hurt him, and yeah, he would definitely have to work on that.
So he carried Sam over to the toilet, put him on it, turned to leave to let him have some privacy, then thought better of it in case Sam managed to fall and hurt himself and in the end hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Then he helped Sam over to the sink because he insisted on washing his hands and finally put him back to bed.
Dean just wanted to pull the covers over him but Sam, God damn him, wanted to get into his sweatpants. And damn, that would make things more difficult, because everything he got into he needed to get out of on a regular basis, but he looked so uncomfortable that Dean’s heart melted in an entirely (familiar) alien way and he just gave up and did whatever the kid asked of him.
Afterwards Dean dosed him up on a dozen different kinds of medications. No painkillers upon Sam’s insistence, but antibiotics, stuff against infection, more stuff against infection, stuff against the side-effects of the other stuff and finally a light sedative to help him sleep. Not that that was necessary. Sam was basically out the moment he hit the pillow.
-
So everyone had told Dean he wasn’t up to this. So Dean hadn’t thought this through entirely. So what?
He just had to think back to Sam telling him how scared he was of what would happen if he was committed to know that he would not give up. Least of all after one day.
Sam slept for about three hours, then he woke with a gasp and tears in his eyes. Dean knew because he’d been sitting in the room - not because he intended to keep up his creepy habit of watching the boy sleep but because he couldn’t see this room from any other point in his house and he needed to know when Sam needed him.
So Sam opened his eyes, looked at him and froze. Dean froze too, suddenly remembering what Sam had told him about his hallucinations: that he’d hallucinated Dean before even meeting him. Cursing himself, he sat very still to give Sam time to adjust. He should have been somewhere out of sight when Sam woke up, to give him time to fully leave the nightmare he had been trapped in.
After some frightened staring, Sam took hold of one of his bandaged wrists and squeezed it. His face twisted in pain and then relaxed.
“Hey, Dean,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Have you been sitting there all the time?”
“What do you take me for, some creepy stalker? I only just came in,” Dean lied. “How do you feel about that shower now?”
“Actually, a shower sounds good,” Sam admitted. “I feel disgusting.”
It wasn’t surprising. Sam had woken covered in sweat. He was also pale and breathing hard when Dean helped him undress again, sure signs for the pain he was in. But Sam wanted it this way, Dean reminded himself. It was hard, but he made no comment.
After slipping off Sam’s shirt, Dean saw his naked torso for the first time and the sight hit him unexpectedly hard. The burns were ugly and a far cry from having healed completely, there were deep cuts and stitched wounds from the collapsed ceiling, and bruises that still hadn’t faded..
“How do we handle this?” Dean asked to avoid voicing what he really wanted to say. (He didn’t even know what he really wanted to say, but it wasn’t this.) “Can we take off your bandages for the shower or do we put plastic bags over your arms?”
“We can take them off,” Sam said, though if this was a medical fact or his own preference Dean wouldn’t dare question. He just unwrapped the bandages, revealing the burned, scarring skin below. Sam would carry these marks forever.
The casts Dean did wrap in plastic. Lots and lots of plastic for a lot of cast.
At least his guest (house mate, his mind auto-corrected) seemed to have made his peace with the fact that Dean would have to carry his naked self all over the place for the foreseeable future. He only blushed a little and readily wrapped his thin arms around Dean’s neck so he could better lift him.
Sam weighed nothing. Literally nothing. It reminded Dean that he would have to feed him and that that wouldn’t be easy either.
But first things first. First things involved the plastic bench that Dean had installed over the bathtub to make things easier for Sam, and Sam once again being impressed with this thoughtfulness. Dean quite liked that. He hoped Sam would manage to overlook the fact that without Dean around he wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom even when he was strong enough to navigate the wheelchair by himself.
Then he put Sam down on the bench - all six foot four of scarred nakedness, and suddenly it was more important than ever not to stare. Not even to look in passing.
Dean stood behind Sam to support him. Sam was a warm weight against him, vulnerable and gorgeous and completely pliable and Dean was quite possibly the worst person who ever lived. Ever.
-
Inevitably, Dean got soaked. Next time he should get naked as well, Sam advised him. Only, that wasn’t going to happen, not with Sam around and Dean having to keep his hips at a distance so the kid wouldn’t notice his erection digging into his back.
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