When Darkness Calls

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Dean yanked on his grease smeared t-shirt in a hurry, and quickly tucked it in. Plopping down on the bed, he pulled on his boots, and then headed toward the bathroom of the small one bedroom apartment he and Sam had rented. He rapped on the door, and waited for all of ten seconds before knocking a little louder.

He glanced at his wristwatch, and shook his head in aggravation. "Come on, Sammy, your physical therapy appointment is in like twenty minutes, and I got to be to work right after."

"Not going," came Sam's muffled reply.

Dean leaned closer to the door, resting his head on the smooth wood surface. "What's your reason this time, dude?"

"Tired, Dean."

There was a sad resignation in Sam's tone that broke Dean's heart and frightened him more than he cared to admit. "It's only been seven months, Sammy. The doctor said you're making real progress."

Sam was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again Dean could tell that he was now sitting on the ground in front of the door. "Can't even hold a gun properly, much less pull the trigger if needed. Not to mention . . . ." his voice trailed off, and Dean knew he was thinking about the scars covering his chest.

His brother had been extremely careful never to let Dean see the damage left behind by the hot poker, Spanish Tickler, and subsequent surgery to repair the wounds, and to date, Dean hadn't even caught a quick glimpse at the scars. But, after doing extensive late night research on how to help Sam, Dean was fairly sure he knew what they would look like.

As far as Dean was concerned, the scars were badges of honor, they'd meant Sam had survived, that Charlie couldn't destroy him. Yet, he knew Sam would never see it that way. What the psycho had failed to do to Sam physically, he was now doing to him emotionally, and that absolutely terrified Dean.

Sliding down the wall, Dean came to sit on the floor. Resting his arms on bended knees, he sat there for the longest time thinking of the right words to say. All-the-while, he knew it wasn't just the bathroom door or even his own self-imposed walls that separated him and his brother now.

"Sam?" He waited, and when Sam failed to respond, his stomach clenched in tight knots. Lowering his voice, Dean tried again. "Sammy, it will get better. I promise it will. You just have to give it time."

"How long, Dean? A year . . . two?"

"I dunno, dude, but however long it takes, we'll get through it."

"Just want my life back . . . he took everything, Dean."

Dean scrubbed his hand across his face as he looked around the sparsely furnished apartment they'd rented from a kindly old woman named Ms. Burkitts. He then glanced down at the brace he wore on his left hand, and made a loose fist with it. What the hell do I say to that? Charlie pretty much screwed our lives all to hell, so how do I make him believe something when I don't know if believe it myself?

"Naw, dude, we're still here . . . yeah, our lives have changed . . . but, he can only take from us what we allow him to."

"Nice words, Dean, but do you really believe them?" Sam was quiet for a moment, and then added, "I know you'd rather be hunting then stuck here working as a mechanic and taking care of me."