Log in

No account? Create an account
26 January 2013 @ 11:35 pm
While Angels Watched: May My Tongue Sing the Word (Chapter 3)  
Dean had always been told that life was short, and while he supposed that may be true, it did nothing to make the time now move any quicker.

A/N: Thank you Numpty and NongPradu!  Your beta work is so frickin’-frackin’ appreciated!  Thank you Beckydaspatz for reading and commenting on the story!

While Angels Watched

Chapter Three
May My Tongue Sing the Word


Dean had always been told that life was short, and while he supposed that may be true, it did nothing to make the time now move any quicker. Sounds of differing shapes and colors droned endlessly around him, blips and beeps—even Sammy’s stuffy snores somewhere not far off to his right—combined into a soft din that made complete oblivion impossible. He’d almost grown accustomed to the few distinct voices that had been swirling around him in a hushed but ceaseless babble. Even if he couldn’t latch onto what was being said, he’d at least known the unmistakable sound of his father’s and brother’s voices, and that had somewhat helped to keep his feet beneath him. At some point, however, the noise grew more earnest, and Dean became aware that several strangers had invaded his personal space as they quietly fussed, whispered, and bumped into things. He tried to filter through the murmuring, listening for his dad or brother, but he couldn’t hear them, and it was hard not to feel uprooted and overturned with this dull chatter spilling into his darkness. The new voices were no more relatable than the old, and no one seemed to care enough to tell him what was going on or what was wrong with him. It had to be significant for all the attention he’d apparently aroused, though. He searched his memory to try and tack down what had happened.

He’d been hunting with his dad, but he was certain that the skinwalkers had gone down quickly. The exhilaration of his first kill and his dad’s subdued respect was as fresh and crisp as it had been on that night. However, his memory of events after that was broken and vague. He released a small moan of frustration as he tried to stretch a little. His back hurt, but that was just the ache of having lain in one position for hours. Surely he wasn’t the center of all this activity over a little backache.

When he felt the bed shudder, he cracked his lids and watched as the strangers unhooked him from a couple of machines and tucked in his covers. They began moving the bed with him on it between two large double doors. His anxiety spiked.

“Dad? Sammy?” he scraped out. He wanted to stop whatever was happening, but he had absolutely no energy whatsoever, and it was too hard to keep his eyes opened for more than a few seconds at a time.

He suddenly saw his dad push one of the strangers out of the way and lean in, locking eyes with him. The man looked haunted and worn. Judging from the dark circles under his eyes, Dean figured his dad hadn’t slept in a couple of days. He looked sober, to boot. That sure as hell wasn’t a good sign. His dad drank when things were crappy—and things were almost always crappy—but the man never touched a drop when things were dire. Dean felt a hand on his arm and turned toward it. Sam was also there, looking moist-eyed and bleary. The little doofus had one of the worst cases of bed-head he’d ever seen, and under normal circumstances Dean would have loved nothing better than to draw as much attention to his brother’s pointy faux-hawk as he could. Right now, though, he couldn’t even turn his head let alone point and laugh. He tried to assess the situation and consider his options, but his thoughts stretched and rippled like moonlight on running water. It was so hard to hold onto anything or to concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time. Whatever shit they’d given him, it seriously had one hell of a kick.

The entourage began to move through the halls and down an elevator. John and Sam were right there with him, filling his line of sight, smiling bravely. Just the same, Dean could see real fear in their eyes. Some serious shit was about to go down. He dug deep to find his voice.

“Don’t worry about me, shrimp. I’ll be OK,” he weakly offered a frightened Sam. The young boy patted his arm and nodded.

“Isn’t on your flying by. Shame for line on your you.” Sam jabbered nonsensically through a casual façade. The kid couldn’t possibly be any more transparent. Whatever bullshit Sam was yammering, it didn’t hide the fact that the boy looked like he was about to piss himself. And didn’t that just take all the fun out of Sam’s silly bedhead? How could Dean really enjoy it after seeing such sharp worry and dread in those big, hazel eyes?

Hell, he was more concerned about the doctors fixing his dad and brother at this point. They needed more comfort and help than he did. Yet, he couldn’t deny that something was wrong with him, he knew that much. He was the one lying on a bed like a ragdoll, after all. As his thoughts Ferris-wheeled, so did the dim lights above the corridor he was floating down, and his eyes fell shut on their own despite his growing sense of impending doom.

He forced his eyes open when the bed stopped, and both John and Sam bent in close, babbling quietly and petting him. His dad gave him a shaky smile that said more than Dean could ever process or digest in one sitting, drugged or not. And if that wasn’t terrifying enough, the man followed up with a dewy wink and a thumbs up, like he was a coach about to send Dean out onto a goddamned football field or something.

“I don’t know if I can win one for the Gipper, Dad,” he joked, employing his usual foxhole bravado. “But yer kinda creeping me out, here.” His dad continued with that quivering smile and kept pumping that freaky thumb up and down in the air. The old man was about as subtle as a two-by-four to the head. God, he must be so screwed.

Sam bent in and started bobbing his bedhead at him. Dean tried to reach out and flatten the lumpy hump of hair, but his hand wouldn’t move.

“Put a hat on, doofus,” he grinned weakly. “You’re gonna poke someone’s eye out with that thing.” And, oh god, there it was again. A thumbs-up from Sam, too. Another electric-pink neon sign. This was so not good.

He wasn’t aware that his dad had walked around to Sam’s side of the bed until he was hoisting his brother up and in for a…Oh sweet Jesus…NO! And there it was. Right on his damn lips, no less. Moist and warm and so, so, so, so not good. That’s it. He must be dying.

The bed started moving through the large doorway without John or Sam following, and he started to lose it a little. He tried to get the people pushing the bed to stop, tried to talk them out of whatever they were planning, but they just smiled and nodded condescendingly. His dad and brother were gone and their absence was such a loud loss. Without the presence of his family, Dean began to suffocate. He gobbled as much air as he could, but nothing helped to release the pressure in his chest. It flattened him onto the gurney.

They entered a small room where a nurse dressed in green surgical scrubs met them. She was wearing a crape-like shower-cap covering her hair and a mask over her mouth. Approaching him, she rubbed his shoulder and spoke quiet nonsense to him, but Dean didn’t even try to listen.

“I want my dad and brother. Please go get them for me. Please?” Dean begged. He rocked and quivered in an attempt to launch himself up and away, but his body wasn’t having it. It was like trying to fight a dragon with spitballs. The nurse didn’t say anything; her eyes crinkled into a smile as she reached up and put a bonnet-thing on him, too. Oh god! Oh god! If that wasn’t enough, she then went to the side of the bed, pulled the covers down to his thighs, exposing him completely. Without a word, she spread his legs and began shaving around his groin.

“Don’t!” he cried out. He was mortified and humiliated. His breaths started coming in wild, shallow gulps, and he began to shiver violently. “Why are you doing this? I want to talk to my dad. Please…just for a minute. Please!” There was nowhere for the explosive panic to go, no purge available to him, no release offered other than his weak struggles as he jounced and wobbled under her razor. “Please don’t. Go get my dad…” His voice cracked and his eyes watered helplessly as he pled with all his might for the nurse to listen to him. “I need my dad…” She stopped and came up close, pressing a cool, latex palm to his forehead. Her eyes were soft and sympathetic as she wiped away one of his tears that had dripped toward his ear.

“Shhhh…shhhh,” she offered in comfort. Looking up, she nodded to another scrub-covered doctor or nurse with thick eyeglasses.

“Many next on the over stonikh bring asperray in for. Lap extra tree be my on the silk,” she said to her co-worker. The one with the glasses readied a syringe and pressed it into his IV port. The nurse continued to gently caress his head as the room bubbled and bled around him, and his awareness took a rapid nose-dive. Things became very sketchy after that. He had a vague sense of being moved one more time to a larger room and being transferred to a very stiff table. A piercing flood-lamp was in his eyes and a soft mask was pressed over his face before he could even think to protest. That’s when the sharp light fragmented into a dazzling starburst and the world ceased.



John stared at the closed door, listening to the sound of his son’s drugged, garbled protests and the slight squeak of the wheels as the bed retreated down the locked corridor.


There was a sudden pain in his temples from having clenched his jaw for too long. John blinked a couple of times as his surroundings coalesced, and he stopped trying to listen for the voice that was now far beyond his hearing.

“Hey, Dad…?”

John twitched and glanced at Sam as though seeing him for the first time. The boy was a hot mess of rumples, wrinkles and puffy, bloodshot eyes; he even had indentations on his cheek from the seams of the leather jacket he’d slept against.

The elder hunter looked the child up and down. “Good lord, kiddo, we need to do something about that mop,” he tutted with a humorless grin, licking his fingers and trying to tame the rogue tuft of hair that had pillared several inches above the boy’s head. Sam’s shoulders dipped and he turned to the door.

“I miss him, Dad,” Sam said. “I want him back. Really back.”

“Me too,” John agreed as he ruffled the hairs that would not be toppled by saliva alone. “Come on, Shaft. Let’s hit the head and get cleaned up a little. We both look like hell.”

After taking spit-baths in the restroom, John bought some orange juice and sugary donuts from a vending machine for Sam and a coffee for himself. “We’ll get some real food later, bud. Eat up,” he said. Sam looked at the donuts with disgust. Holding the package in front of him like it was the tail of a dead rat, he flung it onto an empty seat in the waiting room and sat in the next chair.

“Disgusting,” he said, with a repulsed swallow.

John sighed. Sam was the only kid he knew that would make a pickle-face at donuts. Dean would have devoured the package as though it was filet mignon, and John’s heart dropped at the thought. God, he wanted his kid back—really back, like Sam said. He wanted his loud-mouthed, loud-laughing, loud-loving child back. Seventy percent chance that he’d recover completely. That was doable. Hell, the Winchesters beat worse odds on a daily basis. These doctors didn’t know his kid. He was stronger than any of them could possibly conceive.

John couldn’t help but smile remembering Dean as a four-year old toddler, all red and sticky from a popsicle he’d just eaten, running to him, clutching a five-leaf clover he’d found in the yard. Lucky! Dean had announced. When John had knelt down and told his son that only four-leaf clovers were considered lucky, the boy studied the clover, counted slowly, and had simply plucked off the offending leaf. Lucky! he’d insisted with a cheeky smile and a squawk of triumph, waving the clover about proudly. John had pressed that clover in a book and still had the damned thing tucked away in a storage locker in New York. Dean didn’t need luck. He’d make his own. Seventy percent chance for the average person, sure, but this was Dean. Dean would make up the other thirty percent easily. It was as good as done, he convinced himself.

Both he and Sam sat without moving or speaking for quite some time. After a while, John stretched and cracked his knuckles. Eyeing the donuts, he grabbed them and wrestled the package open. The powdered sugar dusted his beard-stubble and snowed down onto his t-shirt as he shoved one in his mouth. The stale cake crumbled and clotted in his dry throat. He looked at Sam and tossed the package back onto the seat.

“Disgusting,” he admitted. His son snorted his agreement and leaned against his father, settling in for the long wait.


John’s heart skipped a beat when the doctor entered the waiting room not even two hours later, but the man’s easy gait and casual approach gave John a hot pang of hope. Still, as he and Sam stood, the hunter unconsciously pulled the child close. Dr. Michaels was smiling.

“Everything went very well. Dean’s doing just fine,” he said. John could feel the tension melt from Sam, and the boy let out a small gasp of relief which he tried to turn into a cough. Before John could say anything, Sam looked up at the doctor.

“Will he be able to talk normal?” the boy asked.

Dr. Michaels smiled. “We don’t know that yet,” he said. “The pressure has only just released, so it is going to take a little while for his brain to recover from that. Like I said earlier, don’t worry too much about that right off the bat. His language skills should start coming back gradually over the next few weeks. We’ll have a therapist work with him to help stimulate those areas of the brain. Right now, though, he’s heavily sedated and will remain that way for a while. We had to go through his femoral artery again like we did with the angiogram, so he is going to have to lay flat on his back and be very still for at least eight hours. Due to the aphasia we have to keep him asleep this time, because he will not understand how important it is to remain flat. We’ll wake him up this evening, and we can assess him more fully then.”

“What’s the long-term prognosis? Once we get through this, is he going to be OK?” John asked.

“We need to watch him closely for a while. Dean’s aneurysm was very large, and you cannot fill the entire space with the coil, because that would not reduce the size or the pressure. So we had to displace the blood and hope that the aneurysm will contract around the much smaller coil that has been put in place without any blood seeping back in. He’ll be in the PICU for the next forty-eight hours or so. If there is no rupture or bleeding, we’ll move him to a regular room. He’ll have to stay here for seven to ten days to make sure there are no further complications. Before he leaves we’ll do another angiogram and a round of CT scans to make sure everything has remained where we placed it and that no blood has seeped back into the sac. After that, I recommend that he have follow-up scans every six months or so for the next few years to make sure he’s still in the clear.”

John nodded. “Will there be any other limitations? He’s a very active kid. Can he do…um…sports and whatnot? He does a lot of training.”

The doctor laughed. “I know they’re hard to keep down. But he should be fine. I’d have him take it easy for a while. He’s young, and if he’s anything like my boy, he’ll probably push his limits. Try and have him start with some low cardio and keep his pace moderate for a month or two. In the long term, though, he should be free to do as much activity as he pleases. There really isn’t anything he could have done to prevent this. The problem was due to an anomaly in the structural wall of the artery. It’s a matter of genetics, mostly, so you might also want to get both you and Sam checked out now and again, as well.”

“I’ll see to it,” John said.

“Good,” Dr. Michaels said. “Now, why don’t you two go get some real breakfast,” he laughed looking at the crumbled donuts. “Dean will be out of Recovery in about an hour. Get some food and then go see him for a while. Like I said, he’ll be out of it in order to keep him from moving. Check on him, and then I suggest you both go home and get a real nap; you both look like you could use it. We’ll call you if anything changes, and this way you can be rested for when we wake Dean up after dinner. OK?”

Dr. Michaels shook both their hands and left, whistling briskly. It was a good day for him, but for father and son, it was the best they’d ever known. John gave Sam’s shoulders a squeeze and looked down at his beaming son.

“How’s that for news?” John said. “Still think it’s the skinwalker?”

Sam clouded a little. “We don’t know that it wasn’t, Dad. Maybe the doctor was able to fix what the skinwalker did.” John shook his head.

“Sometimes bad things just happen, Sam.” The boy shrugged, still not entirely convinced. But since Dean was going to be OK, neither of them wanted to argue the point. “Come on,” John said, snatching up their jackets. “Let’s go grab some lunch and then go see Dean. You hungry?”

Sam nodded and laughed weakly. “Actually, I’m starving.”


Sam’s eyes staggered open when his dad tapped him lightly. Looking at the clock, he couldn’t believe he had slept nearly five hours. They’d waited at the hospital until they could finally see Dean, but his brother had been completely out—dead to the world—lying flat on his back with no pillow again. The nurses were firm about not letting them stay long. They didn’t want Dean awakened or bothered at all. Sam hated waiting. He was anxious to know if Dean was normal again or not. Not that Dean wasn’t normal, but…still…the aphasia made Dean sound so weird. Sam didn’t like it. It scared him. On the other hand, he had to admit that when he’d seen Dean asleep in the bed, his brother had looked surprisingly good—a lot better than he’d looked last summer after the poltergeist had finished with him. There were no bruises, no blood, no stitches or casts. His head hadn’t even been shaved as Sam had feared. He couldn’t quite wrap his own brain around how they had fixed his head by going through his leg; that seemed so nutty.

The first thing he’d done when he saw Dean was to check his brother’s hand. The bite, or whatever it was, seemed to be healing. It had a small reddish-black scab on it, but the wound didn’t seem enflamed in the slightest. Maybe the skinwalker truly had nothing to do with this whole mess. That was a comfort, but he’d feel a lot better about everything once Dean was awake and talking again—for real talking. Everyone said it might take some time, and he would try to be as patient as he could. Still, if Dean didn’t improve like the doctors promised he would, Sam had every intention of calling his Uncle Bobby, no matter what his father said.

“Up and at ‘em, kiddo,” John said. His dad still looked exhausted with big circles around his eyes, but he said he’d gotten a short nap and a shower, so Sam let the matter be. Both wanted to get back to the hospital as soon as possible, so they wasted no time getting themselves out the door.

Sophia, the evening nurse who had scolded them yesterday for getting Dean riled up, was on duty again when they entered. She didn’t look cranky today, though. In fact, her smile was radiant when they walked in.

“Well, you both look better,” she beamed at the pair of them.

“How’s Dean?” John and Sam asked in unison.

Sophia met them by the bed. “He’s doing great. All his vitals are good. Dr. Michaels was in about a half hour ago and gave the go-ahead to stop the sedative. He’ll wake up in an hour or two.”

“Two more hours?” Sam looked bitterly disappointed. He sat down with a huff and rested his chin in his hands.

“It’s going to be OK, Sam,” John said. Sam didn’t move his head, but his eyes looked up anxiously at his father. “He’s doing well, champ.” Sam’s eyes fell onto his brother.

“He looks like he’s tired of sleeping,” he assessed glumly.

John smiled. “Yeah, I don’t doubt that for a moment. He’ll be bouncing off the walls in no time. You’ll see.”


There was no bouncing when Dean finally stirred, though. His first return to consciousness was nothing beyond a deep breath and pained wince against a body that had been in one position for far too long. It was enough to propel Sam to action, though. The boy was immediately up, patting Dean’s hand as he tried to coax his big brother out from under the sedative.

“It’s me and Dad, Dean. We’re here. Can you hear me? Can you understand? Dean?” he said in one breath. Dean opened his eyes for one glassy, disoriented second before closing them again. “Dean?” Sam called again as he shook Dean’s shoulder lightly, but the teen was unresponsive.

“Don’t be so rough, Sam. Give him a moment,” John coached. The elder hunter bent in and stroked his son’s jaw with his thumb for a moment before speaking in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. “Hey Sport, wanna open your eyes for us?” John’s breath caught when Dean’s brows arched and his forehead crinkled with the effort to seemingly do as his father asked. “I know you can do better than that, Dean,” he said with continued tenderness. He took his son’s hand in his own. “On three, now. One…” Dean eyelashes fluttered in response. “Two…c’mon Dean…” The boy’s breathing quickened a little and he winced in pain again. “Breathe through the pain, son. Three. Open your eyes, Dean.” The last was a command, and whether Dean could or couldn’t understand the words, there would be no mistaking that tone. Dean’s eyes opened obediently, big and wide and dazed. “Hey son. You with us?”

“Dean!” Sam said too loudly, making his brother flinch. Dean’s eyes rolled in an uncoordinated, lurching search to pin down the offending noise.

Dean tried to lift his head off the bed, but John held him down. “Nuuhhh!” Dean protested, his back arching off the bed, his face telling his fear and pain.

“It’s OK, son. Stand down. You’re fine.” The boy relaxed, but distress and confusion still lined his brow. John tightened his grip on Dean’s hand. “If you can understand me, I want you to squeeze my hand, Dean.” The young hunter closed his eyes and sunk into the bed, defeated by the drugs and gentle hands pressing him down. “Dean, squeeze my hand if you can understand me.” A wave of adrenaline and emotion shot through John’s body when he felt his boy’s hand grip his own and squeeze on cue. John’s jaw quivered and he clasped the hand with wild, greedy love. Sam looked at his father.

“Did he…?” Sam asked, not quite able to read his dad’s overwhelmed expression. John nodded, his eyes watering.

“He’s with us,” he said. He turned back to Dean. “Good job, son. At ease, now. Rest up, you hear me?”

Dean didn’t open his eyes again. His dry tongue attempted to lick even drier lips, and he squinched his eyes in discomfort, arching his back off of the bed with a groan. “Mmuuhgh! Am on the fork, but the sideways can lip sugar. Back. Back…with the fire. Move!”

“Dad?” Sam cried out, discouraged and frightened by Dean’s continued aphasia. John immediately pressed a finger to his lips and glared his younger son into silence.

“What is it, Dean?” John asked. “Where do you hurt?”

“On the sideways,” he insisted, his back arching again. “Back on the move.”

Sam looked crushed. “If he can understand us, why is he still talking like that, Dad? Why?”

“Shhh!” John snapped again. He turned back to Dean. “What are you trying to say, son?”

Sam thought over the words Dean said and leant in. “Is it your back, Dean? Does your back hurt?” Dean nodded.

Just then Sophia flitted over. “He’s waking up?” she asked as she quickly examined her patient.

“My boy’s in pain,” John said with a demanding edge to the words.

Sophia checked all of the equipment and assessed Dean’s status, asking him questions and getting him to grip her hand when prompted. Dean seemed a little less amiable and cooperative with the strange voice, but he offered enough for the nurse’s satisfaction.

“Wow,” she exclaimed jubilantly. “He’s doing amazingly well. I’m surprised.”

Dean opened his eyes and there was even a spark of snark in them. “Seeing you in the me over in over by the black man. Dying back move,” he mumbled.

“Well, he’s still verbally aphasic.” She looked at John. “But he seems to be reconnecting aurally. He’s responding to commands. That’s much better than I would have thought at this point. He’s getting there; aren’t you Dean?” Dean huffed out in annoyance and tried to sit up again. Both Sophia and John pressed him back down.

“He’s saying that his back hurts. He’s been lying on it forever. Can we let him turn on his side or something?” Sam asked impatiently. Dean gave his brother a tired but grateful look.

“Sure,” Sophia said. “It’s safe to raise the bed a little and let him turn over.” She adjusted the bed and helped Dean get into a comfortable position on his side. He was facing Sam, studying his younger brother’s face as the nurse wedged some pillows behind him to take the pressure off his back.

“You’re gonna be fine, Dean. You had an aneurysm,” Sam informed his brother. “That’s a thing in your brain that can bleed if they don’t shove wires into it. You’re, like, Bionic now or something!” he hooted quietly. Dean gave him half a sleepy smirk. “You were having seizures. Dude, it was so freaky. But you’re cool now. All fixed up. You still talk a little funny, but that’s just something called aphasia. It’s going to go away, so don’t worry, OK?” Dean seemed to mull that over and opened his mouth, but Sam was ahead of him. “It’s only been a couple of days. See? Not that long. You’re so awesome that you beat this thing quicker than anyone else. They made you sleep all day so that you wouldn’t get up and bleed to death. They totally cut your leg to fix your brain. Isn’t that weird?”

Dean quirked a drowsy grin and touched a finger to Sam’s nose. “Following isn’t on you cliff, Sammy.”

Sam’s mouth fell open. “That’s right! That’s my name, Dean! You said that right.” Sam looked at his dad. “Did you hear that?”

John came around to Sam’s side of the bed. “Hey son, you know my name?”

Dean nodded. “Sammy’s dad,” he said, but his eyes were starting to sag as sleep closed in on him.

“That’s right, Dean. I am Sammy’s dad. But I’m your dad, too.” John softly chuckled. Dean nodded, his body relaxing, fingers curling as sleep claimed him. Sam checked the wound on his brother’s hand just to be sure nothing had changed since he’d looked at it after the surgery. Nothing had. His examination was interrupted when Dean spoke again.

“Dean’s dad,” he murmured and twitched a finger toward himself. “I’m a Dean.”

“Yes you are, son,” John said.

“You’re the best Dean in the whole freakin’ world,” Sam agreed.


“Don’t be like that, Dean,” Angie said. The speech therapist put a calming hand on her frustrated patient’s arm. “You’re doing so well. This isn’t a test you can fail. Now, let’s try again.”

Dean was sick and tired of this whole crapfest. He was tired of the hospital, tired of therapy, and tired of sounding like ‘crazy Aunt Martha’ every time he opened his mouth. OK, not that he had a crazy Aunt Martha, but if he did…this would surely be how the old loon would speak. He was trying to listen to what Angie told him to do, trying to concentrate on the sounds she made, but judging from her body language, he clearly wasn’t getting it right. She made him nervous. He didn’t want to talk like a freak in front of the hot chick.

“Dean,” she tried to console him. “It’s only been a few days. You have to be patient. Trust me when I tell you that you are improving faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. Nobody thought you’d be this far along for weeks yet. My goodness, your comprehension and speech have improved tremendously in just the past twenty-four hours alone. Now,” she said, giving him a rather saucy look that Dean couldn’t help but find distracting despite his soured mood.

His eyes wandered over Angie’s young curves, lingering on her perfectly rounded breasts—the only thing lacking was a big, purple USDA stamp of awesomeness on those tasty beauts. Just one strategically timed stumble and he’d be heading for the Promised Land. No wonder he couldn’t concentrate. Angie was definitely his kind of speech therapist. He tried to follow the cadence of her voice, but he was more or less a goner at this point. Get a grip, dude! he chided himself. But, hell, he was a healthy kid, or, you know, a healing kid, and with those melons as big and luscious and ripe and her smelling like shampoo and lemons and…crap…was she waiting for an answer to something? Dean looked from her luscious melons to her ethereal, moon-shaped face.

“Speak more and more?” he asked with a guilty shrug. Angie filled her cheeks with air and blew out, her lips vibrating and tsking as Dean’s face blossomed into an unrepentant, lascivious grin. His eyes wandered back down. She immediately crossed her arms over the distraction, her elbows sticking out like pinions.

“I said, ‘now keep your eyes on the assignment, Casanova!’” she flapped. “Come on. Let’s try again.” The young woman couldn’t help but smile. She waited a beat and cocked her head toward the tray. Dean sighed and sat up straighter, trying to give his attention to the task.

He studied the assortment, but he was unsure and confused. “Don’t remember on it. What will you do?” he confessed.

“Put the pencil in the cup.” Angie patiently instructed him again. Dean reached for the pencil and held it, thinking the command through. He looked over the other items, a book, a brush, a fork, a key and a cup. He touched the cup, looking for a tell from Angie, but she was stubbornly unreadable.

He scratched his head. “Say, say?” he asked.

“Put the pencil in the cup,” she repeated herself, slower this time.

Dean sighed. General comprehension was getting easier, but following and carrying out detailed commands was still not unlike trying to ride a skateboard over gravel. The words became cumbersome and clunky and he had difficulty nailing them down exactly. He turned the cup over, topside down, and set the pencil on top of the cup. Dean bit his lower lip and looked up at Angie expectantly.

“That’s good, Dean, you got the names right. This is a pencil,” she touched the object. “And this is a cup.” Dean smiled triumphantly. “But I want you to put the pencil in the cup. Can you do that for me?”

The teen was taken aback for a moment and looked at the pencil and cup, trying to figure out what he’d missed. It suddenly dawned on him and he turned the cup over and put the pencil inside.

“That’s right. Very good,” Angie praised him. She held the pencil up in front of him. “Can you say pencil?”

“Strobe,” he said.

Angie held up the cup, “And cup?”

“Cup,” Dean answered. Angie nodded.

“That’s right,” she beamed. “You got the cup right.” She placed the spoon and cup back into the lineup. “Let’s try one more…” she began, but Sam and John bustled through the door.

“Dean!” Sam’s backpack was slung across his shoulders. John had forced Sam to return to school that day for the first time since Dean got sick. He tossed the pack into the empty chair and came to inspect what Dean and Angie were working on.

Dean’s smile was bright and genuine. “Heya Sammy,” he greeted. “Cup!” he said holding it high with pride.

“That’s awesome, Dean,” Sam cheered. “You’re a rock star!” He pointed to the brush. “What’s that?”

Dean picked it up and fidgeted the bristles between his fingers. “A…boob?” he said with a hopeful smile. Everyone looked at him startled, their mouths hanging open. He looked at them innocently. “What?” he shrugged.

“Better put that one aside and try again in a couple of days, Ace,” John laughed.

Sam struggled against his own guffaw. “He’s got boobs on the brain again. He’s almost back to normal, all right.” Dean just scratched his head, looking perplexed.

“Why in my boob brain for mean, Sammy?” Dean looked to John for backup when Sammy began shaking with suppressed laughter. “Sammy’s dad? What for it funny?” He waved the brush in the air. “It’s hair on my boob, hello?” He pantomimed brushing his hair.

Sam couldn’t hold it in any longer. He threw his arms around Dean and laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes. Even Angie started to giggle.

“All right,” she said, reaching out to gather her things. “I think that’s enough for today. We’ll pick this back up tomorrow afternoon, OK, Dean?” Dean put his hands over the items.

“Keep? Please? As for what we work again and again, in the tomorrow. Me and Sammy work with beans?” he asked.

“You want to keep them so you and Sam can keep working with them?” she confirmed. Dean nodded.


“Sure thing,” she said. “You can work on it as much as you like. Just make sure you get rest, too, OK?”

“OK,” Dean promised. Angie smiled and rose.

John followed her out into the hall. “How’s he doing?” he asked away from the boys’ ears.

“Oh Mr. Winchester, he is doing extremely well,” she said with an almost reverent awe. “Sincerely. His brain is still recovering, but quite honestly, I haven’t seen many people make the kind of leaps he’s made in the past few days. We’re all just blown away. He’s a remarkable boy.” Her voice lowered a little. “He does frustrate easily, though. I don’t think he understands how well he’s doing or how far he’s come—or how badly this could have gone. He expects perfection immediately.” John snorted at that and nodded.

“That’s Dean, though. He’s like that with everything, well, except maybe school,” he said with a quiet laugh. “He’s a doer, always wants to be on the move. Everything he tries to accomplish comes easy for him. I don’t think he realizes what a struggle it is for the rest of us.” John looked the woman in the eyes. “He’s magnificent. And he has no clue. No clue at all.”

Angie nodded. “Well, remind him from time to time as he heals from this. He dodged a bullet, and taking a few weeks to get his voice back is an extremely small price to pay. I’ve worked with many people whose aneurysms ruptured. Of those who are lucky enough to survive at all, the journey back is usually long and arduous and, more often than not, heartbreaking—their victories are often Pyrrhic at best.” She looked back at the boys lightly wrestling with the TV remote, Sam on the bed next to Dean as they good naturedly fought over the channel. “He must have someone up on high watching over him,” she said.

John nodded, looking at his boys. He knew that a horrific nightmare had been averted. “Maybe he does,” he admitted softly.


Dean had most of the staff wrapped around his charming little finger. They’d cater to his every whim, fetching him sandwiches from the cafeteria specially made to order: mayo on both slices of bread, just a dab of mustard, extra onions with a few potato chips thrown on top for crunch instead of lettuce. They’d plump his pillows, and when the boy stretched like a cat and asked for a massage, Nan or Layla would fly off to ease the boy’s aching back. Muriel, the stocky, menopausal tyrant that ruled the Pediatrics ward, didn’t think either girl was particularly skilled, both being fresh out of nursing school, but the boy seemed enraptured by their ministrations. She was certain that youth and shapely physiques made up for clumsy hands. Muriel was also dubious as to whether the boy’s back was necessarily all that sore to begin with, especially given his screwball antics the last couple of days while his brother was at school and his father was at work.

The nurses had to dodge his hourly wheelchair races up and down the hall. Then, when he tired of that recklessness, he’d make one of them time how long he could hold the wheelchair in a wheelie while tracing a large figure-eight pattern in front of the nurse’s station. The more he ruffled Muriel’s feathers, the more Dean seemed to relish the game. You love me, Muriel! You know you do! Come on, you feisty vixen. Time me! He’d laugh as the jowl-faced nurse would glare at him and then sigh, turning her plump wrist to watch the time for him. It wasn’t lost on her how his aphasia seemed less pronounced whenever he was pouring on the charm, trying to get her to break the rules for him. Not that it worked on her—not often, anyway. OK, she may have raided the vending machine for the candy bars he claimed were necessary to help tide him over between meals, and she may have let him persuade her to enable HBO and Showtime on his TV without noting it in his billing paperwork, because no charity would approve something like that. Of course, she’d adamantly shaken her head at first, her leathery lips pursed in steadfast refusal, but the kid had leaned against her station with such a sad face when she’d denied him. Aw, c’mon Muriel, don’t be a Puritan, now! I’m so bored! Is that good for an aneurysm? Well, maybe I could just do the wheelie thing for a while instead. What was she supposed to do with something like that? Other than those small lapses, though, the woman was proud that she hadn’t fallen for that beautiful face or his ridiculous shenanigans. Let those young nurses pander and coddle. Let them be manipulated by this shameless, teen Don Juan. She was immune. She really was.

Of course she still cared for him as a patient. She was a devout nurse, after all—had been for over thirty-five years. Each day that passed improved the boy’s chances of a complete recovery, and everyone who got to know the scoundrel breathed a little easier the longer he went without a bleed or rupture. He’d been incredibly fortunate. Dr. Michaels had checked in every day, and the old nurse could hear the normally humorless doctor laughing and joking with his patient. Incredible. Even Dr. Deadpan himself was putty in that boy’s hands. She was embarrassed for him. The physician had ordered one last angiogram first thing tomorrow morning, and if everything looked good the kid would be out of her hair by dinnertime. Good riddance! Muriel thought as she pulled a pencil from her tight hair-knot and began fastidiously checking charts. He was a nuisance and an insufferable flirt, and she wouldn’t be sorry to see him go—not much, anyway. She looked up to see Dean’s younger brother enter the room a bit later than usual. He and his father had been coming like clockwork every day at 4:00pm and staying until they were finally kicked out an hour past official visiting hours. Muriel glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost 5:00pm. She couldn’t help but smile when she heard Dean give the little fella hell for it, too. The nurse shook her head at herself. She wasn’t going soft. She really wasn’t.

“Where the hell have you guys been? Where’s Dad?” Dean bristled when Sam sped through the door.

“Parking the car. Dad got off late from work, and then we stopped and got you dinner,” Sam said.

“Forge? You brought me real forge?” Dean perked up, his grudge instantly forgiven and forgotten.

Food, Dean,” Sam said. “We brought you food. Dad’s bringing it in.”

Dean tapped his head. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Give a guy a break. Recovering from brain sugary, dude.”

Surgery” Sam laughed. “It’s cool man. You’re almost back to normal. Ninety-eight percent and counting.” Sam looked around. “One more night in this place. Ready to come home?”

“Oh man, I can’t wait,” Dean said. Sam rooted around in a bag he brought and tossed his brother the Black Sabbath t-shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants that he’d asked for. Dean effortlessly snatched the items out of the air. “Hallelujah,” he said. “If I have to stay one more night, I’m going to be comfortable, dammit.” He got up and began shucking off the paper-thin hospital PJ’s he’d been wearing. “I’m gonna miss Angie and the twins, though,” he said with a misty sigh through the shirt as he pulled it over his head.

“Twins?” Sam asked. “Nan and Layla?”

“No, you little geek,” Dean said, his eyebrows dancing. “Angie and the twins.” He cupped his hands to his chest, his meaning unmistakable. “Best speech therapist in the world, dude. She almost makes me want to fake it for a while.” Dean’s face went dreamy and wistful. He finally shook himself free. “But, hey, I’d rather ditch this place and go to bed.”

“And go home,” Sam corrected.

“That’s what I said, dork.”

“Uh huh,” Sam nodded. “But then you’ll have to go back to school.”

“Whoa, hey now,” Dean said as he pulled on the sweats and adjusted them with a shimmy and a couple of hops. “Don’t get crazy just yet. I’m still fragile and feverish.” He coughed feebly and patted his chest. “It could take a while before I’m good enough for school.”

“Right,” Sam scoffed. “You keep telling yourself that, smartass.”

“Watch your mouth, Sam,” John said from the open doorway. The youngster snapped to attention, looking a little guilty.

“Sorry Sir,” he said. “Dean started it, though.” Sam gave his brother a mischievous smirk.

Dean huffed. “Don’t listen to him, Dad. I’m an innocent little angel.”

“Sure you are,” John rolled his eyes. He shook the fast-food bag in his hand. “Brought you this. Think fast,” he said tossing it over to Dean. It surprised all three of them when Dean flung out his right arm sloppily and missed the bag by more than a dozen inches. It ricocheted off Dean’s chest and tumbled to the floor, french-fries scattering like pick-up sticks.

“Oh god, Dean. I’m sorry,” John said, turning his stunned eyes from the bag to his son, who was still standing there blinking.

Dean looked down, staring at the mess. “I don’t…” He stood, shaking his head. “I don’t…know…ww—what…” He looked at John in bewildered surprise. “Dad?” he winced. “Dad…I feel…ffff…” As he spoke John watched the right side of Dean’s face collapse like a building under demolition, half of his expression sliding down the slope of his skull. All the natural tension snapped and his smile melted. Even his right eyeball dropped like a marble, making him look frighteningly cock-eyed. His eyelid fell just a second later, hiding the damage. “Muhhhh!” Dean struggled to remain standing, his left hand trying to find purchase on the stand next to the bed. John raced over, catching him just as his right leg buckled, and together they fell among the strewn fries.

“Jesus, Dean. Son!” John called out. “Dean, speak to me. What is it?”

Dean looked at John through one terrified eye. “Mmmm…” His left hand went to the back of his head. “Ghhhnngh.”

“Dad?” Sam yelled in fear. “What’s happening?”

John didn’t respond. He held Dean in his arms as a violent seizure began rocking them both, the spasms tossing Dean’s arms and legs about carelessly.

John crushed his son to him. “Don’t Dean. Please don’t!” he begged. John turned his devastated eyes on Sam as Dean bucked and flailed in his arms. “Get help as fast as you can. Now, Sam. Go!”

Go To Chapter 4


“Isn’t on your flying by. Shame for line on your you.”—Don’t be scared, Dean. You’re going to be fine. I promise.

“Many next on the over stonikh bring asperray in for. Lap extra tree by my on the silk.”—The poor thing is absolutely terrified. Let’s go with 4mg of Versed.

“Mmuuhgh! Am on the fork, but the sideways can lip sugar. Back. Back…with the fire. Move!”—Mmuuhgh! I hear you, but my back hurts. Wanna move.

“On the sideways,”/”Back on the Move.”—I need to turn. Need to ease my back.

“Seeing you in the me over in over by the black man. Dying back move.”—Yeah, I’m friggin’ Batman, lady, but my back is killing me.

“Following isn’t on you cliff, Sammy.”—Thanks for the CliffsNotes, Sammy.

“Speak more and more?”—Can you repeat that?

“Don’t remember on it. What will you do?”—I don’t remember. What did you say?

“Say, say?”—Say again?

“Why in my boob brain for mean, Sammy?”—Why would I have a brush on my brain, Sammy?

“Sammy’s dad? What for it funny? It’s hair on my boob, hello?”—Dad? What’s so funny? It’s a hairbrush, right?

gypsy_atavarigypsy_atavari on January 28th, 2013 01:57 pm (UTC)
Poor Dean. This is such a gripping tale.
Rince1windrince1wind on January 28th, 2013 03:48 pm (UTC)
Did I mention my husbands a pediatric neurologist?
Enjoying this.
(no subject) - sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 08:34 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 08:33 pm (UTC) (Expand)
jpgr: SPN Deanjpgr on January 28th, 2013 03:34 pm (UTC)
I knew it was too good too soon. I like Muriel's thoughts as she fought a losing battle against Dean's charms. Now she's "stuck" with him a little longer.
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 08:37 pm (UTC)
Aw, yeah...it doesn't take much to make a "dean-girl". LOL. He had me at "Well, I was lookin' for a beer..." ;) Yeah...we couldn't have Dean get better TOO soon, could we? Oh cruel little author!
achoo987achoo987 on January 28th, 2013 04:02 pm (UTC)
Damn almost made it out of there, but it hit him when he was feeling so much better. So I will be waiting for the next part. And hopefully it's not too bad, pretty please. lol
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 08:38 pm (UTC)
Nawwwwwwwww...it won't be too bad. Not at all! Look...do I seem like the kind of person that would put Dean and his family through hell? Wait...don't answer that...

(no subject) - achoo987 on January 28th, 2013 10:55 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - sharlot1926 on January 29th, 2013 02:57 am (UTC) (Expand)
deangirl1deangirl1 on January 28th, 2013 04:59 pm (UTC)
Finally getting a chance to leave a comment! Loving this - of course! Poor Dean, I knew he'd never be lucky enough to recover so easily. I was also beginning to wonder when we might need to see the angels! This is going to be absolutely devastating for him - I can just imagine how frustrated immobility will be. As always, gorgeous writing. I'm always impressed at how well drawn your OCs are - even though we don't get a lot of Angie or Muriel, they really come across as 3-dimensional characters. Now I just have to be patient waiting for Thursday/Mondays!
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 08:41 pm (UTC)
Hey Joo! /hugs! Yeah, there are 8 chapters to the story...can you imagine me writing 5 more chapters of "and Dean got stronger and stronger with every passing day. Life was good." ;)

Aw, thanks for the sweet words for the OC's. There are not "florabels" in this story, but I do enjoy trying to create new characters for the boys to interact with, so I thank you very much for saying such nice things.

Yep...next chapter will be up on Thursday. You take care, sweets. Talk to you later!
Jo: Dean hospital bedapieceofcake on January 28th, 2013 07:55 pm (UTC)
Ack..he was doing so well too! Loved how he had everyone wrapped around his fingers :-)
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 08:44 pm (UTC)
I know, right? I was saying to someone else that it never takes much to make a "dean-girl" out of someone...even curmudgeonly old nurses! Hehe. I know I'd be done for.

Well, hopefully this is just a minor setback. /looks very innocent. You know...because I don't like putting Dean through the ringer. Just not my style, right...? ;)
(no subject) - apieceofcake on January 28th, 2013 10:43 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - sharlot1926 on January 29th, 2013 02:55 am (UTC) (Expand)
thruterryseyesthruterryseyes on January 28th, 2013 09:19 pm (UTC)
Sends you dirty look. As if my day didn't suck enough...
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 11:18 pm (UTC)
D'oh! It really does suck to be a Winchester in this story today. /gulp! I promise not to break him forever, though! Hope your evening goes much better! /pats you!
xlittleangxxlittleangx on January 28th, 2013 09:50 pm (UTC)
GAH! You can't do that to me! OMG I am literally hanging on your every word here dude! This is so gripping & fascinating! I kinda figured something bad was coming. The recovery seemed to be going far too well for a Winchester...poor Dean :( *squishes him*
Wow, I am learning so much about aneurysms and aphasia; who knew fanfic could be such a good teacher?!
I ached for Dean during the prep for his surgery. His fear & confusion were utterly heartbreaking. You know, it's nice to read a fic where John & Sam aren't arguing all the time and are just there to support each other and their beloved son & brother. It's a welcome change :) I love your OC's too. So often people write medical professionals as complete arseholes with no empathy, no compassion, no sense of humour. Your doctors and nurses and therapists seem so much more realistic to me.
Also, some of my favourite lines: "He tried to assess the situation and consider his options, but his thoughts stretched and rippled like moonlight on running water." Beautiful simile.
"The nurse continued to gently caress his head as the room bubbled and bled around him..." Wow!
"That’s when the sharp light fragmented into a dazzling starburst and the world ceased." Gorgeous writing!
Roll on Thursday! I need more! This is awesome! =D

Edited at 2013-01-28 09:52 pm (UTC)
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 11:47 pm (UTC)
Hah! Well, I did as much research as I could for the story. Nevertheless, my expertise is quite limited, and I’m sure there are misconceptions and outright mistakes mixed in with the facts, so bear that in mind! Medicine is not my forte. I can’t even watch my own blood being drawn without snuffling and calling for my mommy; and as my own husband would tell you, I go to the doctor only when I am dragged in kicking and screaming against my will.

I was a little worried that I may have made Sam and John (particularly John) too soft in this story, but I just didn’t think either John or Sam would be belligerent and so quarrelsome when Dean’s life was hanging in the balance. Yes, they fought in IMTOD, but that was due to a lot more baggage and the big misunderstanding of Sam thinking John was still hunting the demon while Dean was dying. Here, John is present and it is really Sam who is in “hunting-mode”. They will have some contention throughout the story, but I didn’t think it fit to have them consistently at each others' throats throughout. Besides…Sam hasn’t hit puberty yet, so again…I think things were a little more tolerable between them at this point in their lives; though, I’m sure the seeds were sown for their later battles Had I written just a straight case-fic with John and the boys, I think there would probably be more in-fighting and harshness from John, but this story, here…I just couldn’t see it happening like that…or not to that degree.

The compassion of the medical staff was definitely a conscious decision. I wanted to showcase humanity’s good qualities…while drawing parallels between “earthly” angels and their “heavenly” counterparts. I used a lot of angelic imagery when writing the nurses, for instance. And besides…the few times I ever did need medical attention in a hospital, I was always treated fabulously.

Thanks so much for the kind words about the metaphors. I have a kink for them. LOL. I don’t know why, but they just make me happy, so I love playing with them a lot. Doesn’t mean that I don’t run the risk of going overboard at times, as my betas will attest to. They have saved everyone from the most of the butt-puckeringly bad ones! LOL, but I do love me some figurative language!

Thank you so much for your comments. Until Thursday…!
(Anonymous) on January 28th, 2013 09:54 pm (UTC)
This story has me gripped, check a couple of times a day for updates. Ahhh the ending of this one has killed me!!! Poor Dean. Thank you so much for writing and sharing this. A
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 11:52 pm (UTC)
Re: Kudos
Well, you are more than welcome! Thank you so much for reading and commenting. You've made my day.

Yeah, I actually normally post the story to MY LJ on Sunday and Wednesday nights, but I don't link it to the comms until the next day. I do that because my husband is the one that actually posts to my LJ...I don't have the techy knowledge to get my stories looking right. I wouldn't be able to post here if it weren't for him. But the chapters are actually truly available the night before I link them (because he works early in the morning and doesn't want to fiddle with LJ before work). So there you go...a little tip. :)

Thanks again for the comment. You're a sweetheart!
Kallielkalliel on January 28th, 2013 10:57 pm (UTC)
Very engaging story. You can't help but wonder, not necessarily what happens, even, but how it happens. Thank you for posting!
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 28th, 2013 11:54 pm (UTC)
That's a really good point, and something that I discussed with my betas about quite a bit. I was worried that the tension would be low because...c'mon...like I'm NOT going to kill Dean, right? No...of course not...but I hope that getting there will be the journey and the enjoyment of the story. There will be some twists and some turns before we get there. :)

Thanks so much for the comment!
(no subject) - kalliel on January 29th, 2013 12:05 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - kalliel on January 29th, 2013 12:05 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - sharlot1926 on January 29th, 2013 12:26 am (UTC) (Expand)
(Anonymous) on January 29th, 2013 12:35 am (UTC)
LOVE THIS SO MUCH!!! Ok, first I adore your Dean. This is yet another reason why I love hurt!teen Dean. While half the time he's all scared and vulnerable and you're terrified for him right along with Sam and John, the other half he is hysterical. He was such an adorable horn dog when the show started you know he was like that times 100 pumped up on teenage hormones. One timely trip away from the promised land - I had to put my laptop down I laughed so hard!!! I mean you captured his humor, infectious charm, everything so perfectly dude! Of course I was living in dread the whole time because I knew the kid was healing way to fast for chapter 3/8. And now that he has the whole damn pediatrics wing wrapped around his finger the angst is going to go through the roof! Yay. :D
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 29th, 2013 02:54 am (UTC)
Thank you so much! I really prefer writing the Winchsters pre-S3...before they were both broken in one way or another. So, I'm with you on really enjoying teen!Dean. It's my first time writing him, but I really enjoyed the experience. He was so precious. I mean, he still is, and he has great child-like moments (the Braveheart recitation comes to mind), but I wish S3-S8!Dean was less...tired.

Hah...oh yeah...way too fast to heal. Nothing is ever THAT easy for Dean! C'mon! LOL. Look on the bright side, though...now you get to see Dean get better TWICE! ;)

Thanks so much for your sweet comment. You're awesome.
mdlawmdlaw on January 29th, 2013 04:01 am (UTC)
I can't believe you stopped there!!!! m :)
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 29th, 2013 04:41 am (UTC)
Oh, c'mon, mdlaw...of COURSE you can! Surely you know me by now! ;) LOL. Great to see you! /hugs
tifachingtifaching on January 31st, 2013 12:35 am (UTC)
No! LOL, I'm glad I didn't get to this one before you had the next chapter posted. Now I don't have to wait.

So much love for this chapter. Dean's terror on his way to surgery was palpable. John and Sam and their desperate wait for him to get out and their pride in how quickly he recovered hit me right in the heart. Then it all went to hell (of course it did).

Fantastic chapter.

I love, as usual, your outside characters. The doctor and the nurses and Angie. You always make their world come alive for us. Kudos!
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on January 31st, 2013 05:05 am (UTC)
Ah ha! So your evil plan to bypass the cliffies worked! You devious little thing! ;)

Yes, yes...poor Dean. He recovered just wayyyyyyyyy to fast for me...had to pull him back by the collar and toss him back into bed. I need a full 8 chapters worth of fun, dammit! ;)

Aw, thanks for your sweet words for the OC's. Nothing major like the last story, but they were all pretty fun to write.

Thanks for the comment, my darling! Joo are so awesome! Boop!
doneitalldoneitall on February 1st, 2013 08:32 am (UTC)
Oh my gosh! Right when I thought everything was going well you just had to rip my poor heart out.
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on February 1st, 2013 02:27 pm (UTC)
Oh yeah...that was some fast recovery time (for a Winchester), right? Wayyyyy too easy. LOL. Nope...I'm not done smackin' Dean around just yet. Got a few more licks to get in before we put this puppy to sleep.

I'm just that krool! ;)
werewolfsfanwerewolfsfan on March 28th, 2013 11:44 pm (UTC)
On no!
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on March 28th, 2013 11:50 pm (UTC)
I know!
maguiemaguie on September 7th, 2013 01:45 am (UTC)
OMG What happened!!!

I didn't see that coming, I thought Dean was recovering successfully,, although I knew there was 5 more chapters to go :)

this was very cute:

Dean: He waved the brush in the air. “It’s hair on my boob, hello?” He pantomimed brushing his hair.

Sam couldn’t hold it in any longer. He threw his arms around Dean and laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
sharlot1926sharlot1926 on September 7th, 2013 03:23 am (UTC)
Things were going too smoothly with Dean's recovery, weren't they? Always has to be an "other shoe" for the poor Winchesters.

Aw, I had a soft spot for aphasic!Dean. He was so precious. :)

Thanks heaps and gobs for the wonderful, encouraging reviews!

Edited at 2013-09-07 03:24 am (UTC)