“Dean, slow down,” you said gently, walking behind him as he half-rolled, half-dragged the wheelchair. “Dean.”

“I got it,” he snapped. He hated being hovered over. Hated that you’d seen him collapse the day before just trying to stand for longer than five seconds. They’d said he’d heal. Maybe not all the way. But functional. Human. Alive. But this wasn’t alive. Not to him. The silence dragged until he got stuck halfway through a doorway, the footrest catching on the frame. He growled and shoved at the wheel. “Goddammit-“

“Let me-”

“I said I got it!” He jammed the chair harder, and the front wheel caught weird and twisted. The whole thing lurched, and Dean spilled sideways out of it like a ragdoll. Your heart stopped.

“Dean-!” You were on your knees next to him in a second, but he was already pushing at your hands, struggling to sit up with shaking arms.

“I’m fine!” he barked. You didn’t say anything, just held your hands close but didn’t touch. He finally got upright, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead. His left leg twitched in protest like it was still trying to work right and couldn’t remember how. His eyes were glassy, unfocused for a second. Then they sharpened. “I’m not supposed to be like this.”

“I know.”

“I was dead,” he whispered. “And this is what I get? A busted spine and scrambled eggs for a brain?”

You swallowed. “You came back. That’s more than most people get.”

He didn’t answer right away. “I wish he’d left me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” he muttered, head tilting back to rest against the wall. “I’m not… I’m not useful like this. Not to Sam. Not to you. I can’t even take a goddamn shower without help.”

“Dean, you’ve taken bullets for people. Saved lives. Carried the whole world when no one else could lift a damn finger. If anyone deserves a break, it’s you.”

He stared at the ceiling, jaw trembling. “I don’t want a break. I want to be me again.”