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In the end, it’s Dean’s idea.
Sam would be lying if he said the thought had never crossed his mind—he remembers lying on the floor, the tile under his temple bloody as Dean shakes him, asking over and over if he remembers what happened, and briefly thinking that, if fainting turned into a habit, he should probably find something to keep anything this bad from happening again. But it was never anything solid, nothing close to a plan, just a inkling that didn’t even follow him off the floor when his brother dragged him up.
So he really never expected his brother to come back from his grocery run with a wheelchair, of all things, folded up and rattling.
Something heavy, dread-like, sinks into Sam’s stomach and he slowly closes his laptop, leans back in his chair to watch Dean warily, as he pushes it across the room, his strides long. Moving too quickly, his brother misjudges the length of the footrests, and accidentally slams one into a leg of the table. Sam winces, his fingers twitching.
“We’ll get the hang of it,” Dean says, not even a little bit chagrined, wearing an expression that, in Sam’s opinion, is far too pleased for the situation. Dean briefly spreads his hands, as if presenting the wheelchair to Sam, then clasps them together. “So, what do you think?”
Sam’s spine feels like it’s squirming, trying to break through his skin. Some part of him wonders if he’s dreaming, if he fell asleep while reading and he’ll wake up with lines pressed into his skin from the pages and his brother coming down the stairs, yelling about traffic like usual, no wheelchair to be found.
He pushes his hair behind his ears, trying to avoid looking at Dean straight on. “Think about what?”
Dean drops his hands, rolls his eyes. “The chair. I found it today.”
“You found it?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows. He can only hope his brother means legally, and he begins to prepare himself for the possibility that there’s a nearby ER they won’t be able to show their faces at for the foreseeable future.
“Yeah,” Dean says, and leans over the back of the chair, starts to wrestle down the sides until it pops open and the seat lies flat, ready and waiting. For Sam. “That’s what I said. I found it.”
Sam straightens, and sets down his pen. “Dean, the question I’m asking is: where?”
“Relax,” Dean waves his hands through the air, “don’t get all worked up—I didn’t steal it. I saw it at that Walmart. You remember the one?”
Sam shifts through his memory, frowning. “The one an hour away?”
“They have good snacks,” Dean says, crossing his arms, defensive. “It’s worth it for the non-gas station shit.”
“Right. Yeah.” Sam nods, trying to look like he agrees, even though he doesn’t care. It all tastes close enough to him. He looks at the handles, poking out over the top of the table, and his throat tightens, his stomach rolls. He didn’t know this was something Dean was considering, or something Dean thought he needed. Maybe he shouldn’t be, but he’s surprised—this is a big step to take without talking to him, even for Dean.
Dean sighs, rubs a hand down his face, and Sam knows he knows what Sam’s thinking. He can’t convince himself to feel bad for not hiding it better. “It wasn’t like I was conspirin’ behind your back, okay? I didn’t have any real ideas until I happened to walk past the medical aisle today and they were all laid out there. And now,” Dean wraps his hands around the handles, makes the chair do a small wheelie, “we don’t have to worry about you crackin’ your head open again.”
Sam stares at him, his mind spinning, struggling to find the words he needs. He’s not doing that badly. He’s fainted a few times, sure, and his balance is a little off, his legs shaky. But he’s still pushing through, still getting out of bed every day and still doing all the research he can and keeping quiet about how much it hurts and still trying.
He drops his eyes to the table, not wanting to look at any part of Dean, hiding any trace of the tears beginning to sting in his eyes. “You’re benching me?” He asks, quiet.
“It’s not like that,” Dean protests, immediate. When Sam doesn’t raise his head, Dean comes around the edge of the table, leaning against it, almost close enough to touch. Sam can feel Dean’s gaze on him, intense, and he shifts, restless, worried he’s going to fly apart at any moment. “Listen, it’s just us, here. It’s not like we’re bringin’ it out for a night on the town, okay? We can figure that out later. This is just so I don’t have to worry so much.” With his right arm, Dean clasps Sam’s right shoulder, firm. “Try it? Please.”
Through his hair, barely lifting his head, Sam glances at it, the metal peeking out around the wood. It’s just a wheelchair, he tries to tell himself. It’s not like Bobby changed much when he used one, or like Dean treated him completely differently.
And he’ll admit it would be nice to not be so worried about every step, to have a bit more security in his body again, something there to help a little. Especially if it would help Dean, too.
Slowly, he nods. “Okay. I’ll try it.”
Dean smiles, bright, the corners of his eyes creasing, and, shakily, Sam tries to return it. He stands carefully, trying to subtly brace himself against the table, and Dean puts himself behind the chair again, grasping onto the handles to keep it steady.
Sam takes the couple steps to in front of the chair and stares down at it, his chest tight. It’s just metal and fabric, he thinks, but he still hesitates—it feels like something he’ll never be able to come back from, something his body won’t ever forget.
He clenches his hands into fists—once, twice, working up the courage—then half-turns to gingerly lower himself.
It’s not as weird or uncomfortable as he expected—the seat’s cushioning is sewn in and thin, but it has some give, and it curves to the shape of his legs. And when he leans back, his shoulders press against the frame, almost uncomfortably, but he feels supported, like he can take a second to breathe. It creaks when he shifts, so he tries to move in small, precise motions as he carefully lifts his feet up onto the footrests.
“Is it okay?” He can’t see Dean’s face, but his brother’s voice is pitched-up, hopeful.
Sam runs one hand along the exposed metal frame beneath one of the armrest’s cushion, where the fabric doesn’t cover. It’s cool to the touch. Solid. “I think so.”
“You’re sure?” Dean asks, and Sam nods, slightly dazed.
Dean pulls the chair away from the table, and, before Sam can stop him or push the brakes down, spins them around once, Sam clutching onto the armrests with both hands, instinctively closing his eyes against the way the shelves of books blur.
“Dean!” He snaps, and his brother laughs, letting go. Most of Sam’s annoyance drains away at the sound, impossible to maintain in the face of Dean’s clear relief, but he keeps his lips pursed in a frown and reaches down to grab the handrims, pushing himself out of Dean’s reach.
It takes a moment, the wheelchair heavier than he initially imagined, and more awkward to manipulate, but he adjusts quickly, discovering that it’s easier if he shifts his hips all the way back on the seat, that he can turn faster if one hand pushes forward and the other pulls back.
When he’s finally made it all the way around to face him, Dean is smirking. “Looks like fun.”
Sam purses his lips, and he glares at Dean as he starts to work his way past him and back to his table chair. “Shut up.”
He pulls the wheelchair parallel to the table, opening up to his chair, and levers himself up, spinning to face his brother, another retort ready on his tongue.
But as he reaches his full height, he realizes he’s moved too quickly, black quickly crawling over his vision, and the floor tilts, him swaying with it.
“Jesus,” He distantly hears Dean hiss, filtering in through the ringing. One of his hands closes around Sam’s bicep, tight, and Sam tries to lock his knees, to stay standing, but Dean’s other hand clasps onto his shoulder, pushing him down to seated.
His stomach turning, Sam clutches onto the edge of the table to ground himself as the cloud slowly clear from his vision. He blinks, quick, and Dean, who followed him down, now kneeling in front of him, shakes him once.
“I’m okay,” Sam says, and breathes in deep, filling his lungs all the way, until they ache. He glances over at his brother, eyes darting quick, in case the exhaustion—exhaustion because of him—there is too hard to bear, and nods. “It’s okay. Sorry.”
Dean sighs, his face lined, and Sam wonders if today’s a day where he’ll storm away, his fear making it too hard for him to think, but his brother just squeezes Sam’s shoulder one last time, before he lets go, standing. A small, shameful part of Sam is jealous at the way he doesn’t need to take time to adjust, how he barely pauses as he takes a couple steps back, turning away and rubbing a hand down his face.
“Okay,” Dean says when he turns back around, a finger raised. “Maybe you can, uh, figure out how to change between without goin’ up so high. Limit the standing—we’re talkin’ close to zero.” Sam scrunches his face, displeased, and Dean makes a noise of annoyance. “Seriously, Sam. That’s the whole point of this.”
Sam didn’t think Dean was that serious about the wheelchair when he first suggested it—he figured it’d stay in the library, mostly for when Sam was feeling worse than usual, or when he couldn’t get out of bed, or when Dean was leaving for the whole day. Only when it was absolutely necessary.
“How am I supposed to get to the books up there?” He gestures with his hands as he keeps asking questions, “Or—or make coffee? Or food? Or get up the stairs?”
Dean looks at him like it should be obvious, then gestures at himself. “Me. I’ll do it for you.”
“No way,” Sam says, instantly. He tries to imagine Dean hovering next to him all day, having to ask Dean for help with almost everything. “You—you have things to do. You can’t spend your whole day waiting around for me.”
Dean crosses his arms, his jaw set. “Sure I can.”
“I—” Sam swallows, guilt already settling in his chest, “I don’t want to make you do that.”
His brother scoffs, like he thinks Sam is being completely unreasonable. “You’re not making me do anything.” Sam looks down, staring at his knees, and Dean sighs. Sam tenses, surprised, when Dean steps close, again, putting both hands on Sam’s shoulders. He looks up at Dean, eyes wide, and Dean’s face is serious, his voice is even more so. “Sammy, it was supposed to be me, remember?” Dean asks, and Sam could laugh. Of course he remembers—every day he thinks about how grateful he is that it wasn’t. “I can’t do anything about that, now, but this is something I can help with. I’ll find a way to keep myself entertained while you get through whatever boring, thick whatever you’re reading. This can be good for both of us.”
Sam swallows, feeling the weight of Dean’s hands, watching the steady movement of Dean’s chest rising and falling. He would still prefer to struggle through it himself, even if it would take twice as long, let the wheelchair fade into the background and keep himself from becoming extra weight Dean has to drag through the day, but he can’t say no to Dean like this, not with that argument.
“Okay,” he says. “Fine.”
“Great,” Dean says, visibly relieved. He lets go of Sam, and rubs his hands together, before he starts trying to drag the wheelchair around to be parallel with Sam’s seat. “‘Cause plan b was tying you down.”
Sam shakes his head, his lips twitching despite himself. “I figured it was something like that.”
“Alright.” Dean pats the back of the wheelchair, which is now armrest-to-armrest with Sam’s current chair. “Just slide on over.”
Sam starts to raise himself up, then pauses, and looks over his shoulders. “Bathroom trips are solo.”
Dean’s eyes narrow slightly. “Sam.”
“Absolutely not,” Sam replies, and drops himself back down, serious.
“It’s for safety.”
“Are you—door cracked.”
“Half-way.”
“Dean,” Sam stares at him. He needs to keep at least one thing for now, “please.”
Dean stares back, jaw working, before he sighs. “Fine. Door cracked. But we will revisit this if anything happens.”
Sam nods, at least somewhat satisfied, and maneuvers into the wheelchair using mostly his arms, making sure not to straighten his legs more than half-way, Dean’s hands hovering nearby, ready to catch him.
“Okay,” Dean says when he’s settled. “To the kitchen.”
Sam sighs, not excited at the prospect, but it doesn’t feel overwhelmingly weird when Dean gets moving, and he finds his mind is clear, something that’s almost uncanny to associate with movement at this point—he’s gotten used to dragging himself from place to place, from one seat to another. He’s missed being able to pay attention to his brother’s voice as they’re moving, or looking at something other than the floor, not needing to focus entirely on making sure his feet are landing where they’re supposed to.
The Trials will be over soon, there’s only one left, so he just has to hang on until then, anyways. And his pride, feeling weak, none of that matters in the face of the enormity of everything against them.
He’s died, he’s come back to life—he knows his body is just as temporary as anything else. And knows how to let things go, how to reach acceptance in what he’s allowed to keep.
He learned years ago that his body is just one piece of the whole—whatever happens to it, he can find a way to exist beyond it.