This is my first Supernatural fanfic. I was inspired to write this after reading The Better to Gank You With by Zana_Zira. That story was actually a fill prompt for the Winchester Festival of Hurt/Comfort community on LiveJournal, so this story actually meets the requirements of the prompt as well, which was:
"While Sam was at Stanford, Dean's vision started going fuzzy and he ended up going to the optometrist for a prescription (per John's orders). Once he picks up Sam from school and they're back on the road again, he tries to be all sneaky about taking his contacts out at night and putting them on in the morning, hiding the case for his glasses, whatever."
After I read Zana_Zira's story, I wandered around online and discovered that the Supernatural fandom has a wealth of hurt/comfort stories, especially over at Hoodie_Time on LJ (yay!). So, I read a lot of Supernatural fanfic before I ever watched the show.
I'm only a few episodes in, and I don't have a beta-reader yet, so if you see any canon errors or want to beta if I get inspired to write more, please drop me a line. Thanks for reading!
This is set early in Season 1. Rated T for swearing. You know, for Dean.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun.
It took Dean several miles before he worked out that the pounding in his head was not actually the fault of Metallica. Turning down the car stereo resulted in a curious glance from his brother but did nothing to alleviate the ricocheting staccato bouncing between his ears. He tried to find a way to massage his temples without revealing anything to Sam, but, of course, his brother noticed.
"You all right?"
"Never better," Dean lied, forcing his eyes back on the road. Or eye, more accurately. With only one contact lens, his eyes were refusing to work together. Thankfully, it was his left eye that was affected, so Sam hadn't yet noticed that Dean was driving with one eye shut. Damn Wendigo, he thought.
Their last hunt had gone smoothly – well, as smoothly as Winchester hunts ever went. They'd reunited a young sister and brother with their lost sibling, and, last Dean had heard, the young man was recuperating in the hospital. He tried not to dwell on the fact that several other people had died before they'd managed to gank the beast.
Unfortunately, their time in the woods had left Dean's contact lenses permeated with something – pollen? dust? Wendigo fumes? – and he couldn't put them back in the next morning without his eyes immediately tearing and turning a bright bloody shade of red. Thankfully, Sammy had remained asleep during this minor disaster – he was still having nightmares about Jess, so Dean let him sleep in whenever he could – and Dean had found his last pair of contacts in the bottom of his duffel. Sometime soon, he had realized, he'd have to reveal this little visual flaw to his brother. But not today.
That, of course, had been before he'd accidentally dropped one of his new contact lenses down the sink in the filthy bathroom of their current fleabag motel. He'd only briefly considered taking apart the plumbing before realizing that he'd rather endure a few blurry days until he could get new contacts than risk contracting a raging bacterial eye infection.
Thinking back on the morning now, Dean shook his head. Clearly, his logic was flawed somewhere, because he couldn't function like this. A mix of tall pine and aspen seemed to flow back and forth across the cracked pavement of this winding road. The swaying green and gold branches revealed intense bursts of sunlight before plunging the Impala back into darkness. The effect left sparkles and spots before Dean's good eye and he had to fight not to swerve against the perceived threat.
Just my fucking luck, Dean growled under his breath. This isn't a headache, it's another damn migraine. He squinted at the bright road and tried to think around a growing internal vat of nausea.
"Dean?" Sam's voice seemed unnaturally loud. "There's a gas station ahead. Why don't we fuel up there?"
His brother glanced down at the gas gauge. Shit! Between his eyes and his head, Dean hadn't been paying attention to anything else.
He forced his voice to sound calm. "Sounds good, Sammy."
"It's Sam."
As soon as he had thrown the car into park, Dean bolted for the bathroom, disgusting as it was, with wads of toilet paper stuck to the walls and the expected accompanying smell. Once inside, he locked the door and stood before the sink, knuckles white as he gripped the chipped porcelain and fought to slow his breathing. He tried to think through his situation, but only one thing was clear. He couldn't keep driving like this. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could ride as a passenger in this condition.
Splashing cold water on his face, Dean took out his remaining contact lens and tucked it safely into its case in the interior pocket of his leather jacket before downing four Advil. He'd let Sam drive. Sammy had always wanted to drive the Impala when they were younger and Dean had never let him.
I'm making up for lost time, he rationalized. Being nice.
Sam, of course, didn't see it that way. When Dean exited the bathroom and threw him the keys, his younger brother immediately wore a look of concern.
"What's wrong?" The little squinty place between Sam's eyes was present in full force, and Dean knew, without a doubt, that he had tripped his brother's worry switch. It would take careful maneuvering before he could slip back off Sam's radar.
"Nothing." Dean blew out a frustrated sigh. "You're always bitching that I never let you drive." He threw out his arms in exasperation. "So drive."
Ten minutes into the trip down the other side of the mountain had Dean biting his knuckles to keep from throwing up as the Impala lurched from one hairpin turn to the next.
"You drive like a drunken sailor," Dean spat out. "I could do it better blindfolded."
Sam stared at him. "You wanna drive?"
"Eyes on the road!" he all but yelled, and followed up with a few choice curses. Once Sam was focused back on driving, Dean threw a hand over his eyes, stifled a whimper, and tried to rub away the pain.
Somehow, Dean managed to sleep through the rest of the ride down the mountain, and for that, he was grateful. The stretch of highway they were on now was straight and didn't leave him feeling quite so out of sorts. Thankfully, the Advil had kicked in. But, without his contacts, Dean still couldn't see properly.
"How many miles to Aspen Grove?" Sam asked. It was their next destination, and Dean was fervently hoping that the town was large enough to have a one-hour eye clinic. He was busy thinking up excuses he could give to Sam. Acquiring new contact lenses would take time. He'd have to have an eye exam, plus they'd need to double back later to pick them up. And, in the meantime, could he even hunt with just one working eye?
It suddenly occurred to Dean that Sam was waiting for an answer. "I missed the sign," he admitted, picking up the map. He pulled the page close to his face. "Looks like about eighty miles."
Sam cast him a curious glance as soon as he had dropped the paper back on his lap. "You always read like that?"
"Like what?" Dean huffed.
"With your eyeballs an inch from the paper, Dean. That's not normal."
Dean folded his arms. "I'm fine, Sammy."
Sam frowned but said nothing.
The silence stretched long until they reached the next town, a small, deserted community with one stoplight and exactly one diner.
Sam parked the car, turned off the ignition, and handed Dean the keys. Dean raised an eyebrow. Is this a test? Does Sam know something's wrong and wants to see if I'll admit it? Sam held his face impassive as he walked toward the diner. Dean exited the car and hurried to reach him. "Sorry if I criticized your driving. Been awhile since I rode with anyone." He tried to make his face appear contrite instead of anxious.
Sam shrugged, but he held his body rigid. "I'd rather you drove," his brother said tightly.
No, you wouldn't, Dean thought. You'd rather I told you what's going on. He sighed. "I have a headache," Dean admitted. "I need you to drive."
The worried crease between Sammy's eyebrows relaxed as he took back the keys. Dean breathed a sigh of relief as Sam opened the squeaky screen door and Dean followed him into the greasy diner.
His sense of comfort lasted exactly a minute. The diner didn't have menus, just a take-out board posted on the far wall over the grill. Dean could make out "Jill's Diner - Lunch Specials" but he had no idea what the rest of the board said. He wasn't going to squint in front of his brother. Dad had given him enough grief about that before - and after - he'd realized that he needed glasses. Never show any weakness before the enemy, Dad had said.
Dean wasn't even sure where his glasses were. Somewhere in the Impala? The prescription was sorely out of date anyway - he hadn't bothered updating his glasses when he had started wearing contacts because Dad never failed to remind him of how much of a weakling he was in specs. Contacts had been Dean's salvation, a way to prevent Dad from dwelling on the fact that his oldest son had any physical weaknesses at all. Because if Dad knew you had a weakness, he sure as hell would find a way to exploit it. Better me than the demons, Dad always said.
"Dean?" Sam was looking at him expectantly, and Dean realized that he'd spaced out and everyone was waiting for him to reply. He briefly considered ordering whatever Sam was having, but his brother had undoubtedly asked for a chef salad or some other equally green and disgusting option.
He took a calculated risk. "Uh ... cheeseburger?" he asked, hopefully.
The blurry face of the cook replied. "Fries or onion rings?"
"Fries."
"So, you want the number 2?"
Dean glanced at the board again, searching in vain for anything that looked like a number. He could feel Sam's eyes on him again. "Uh ... sure."
Which is how Dean found himself with a side salad, Coke, and a small bowl of ice cream along with his burger and fries. Sam eyed him warily from across the table, picking at his heap of greens.
"So, these headaches," Sam began, waving a forkful of lettuce at him. Dean felt his stomach clench. "They affect your eyes?"
Never admit weakness, never, Dean's training reminded him. He looked away and took a sip of soda. When he ventured a glance at his brother, that worried look was staring back at him, full force.
"I'm fine, Sam. It's just a headache."
They ate in silence.
Twenty miles down the road had Dean regretting everything: eating the cheeseburger, choking down the little salad, lying to Sam. They were winding their way up another mountain when Dean's stomach started to roll. He turned down the stereo and turned up the air conditioning.
"What the hell?" Sam levered the air vents away from his face. "It's freezing in here already." He turned the music back up. "And I like this song."
The man in the leather jacket closed his eyes and focused on his breathing.
"Dean?" Sam turned the stereo back down. When his brother didn't answer right away, Sam reached over and touched his shoulder.
Green eyes snapped open and Dean wrestled the wrist away from his body with a forceful twist. The Impala lurched across the double yellow line.
Sam shook his wrist and flexed his fingers as he fought to regain control of the car. "What the hell?"
"Never touch me when I'm sleeping, bitch."
Sam shook his head. "Jerk. I forgot how much fun you are when you're sick."
"Not sick," Dean mumbled. Just nauseous. And dizzy. And I can't see shit, Sammy.
"We're almost there, Dean," Sam said softly.
Fifteen minutes later, Dean's eyes popped open. "Pull over, now!" he barked. When the Impala came to a screeching halt, Dean promptly lost his lunch on the side of the road. Spent, he huddled beside the front passenger wheel well, sitting on the gravel at the edge of the road with his knees pulled up to his chest.
Sam knelt beside him. "Here." He handed his big brother a canteen of water and Dean forced himself to take a sip. Worried hazel eyes met his green ones. "Dean, we need to talk."
Dean rested his head on his knees. They were so close, only ten miles out of Aspen Grove. His stupid body couldn't wait fifteen more minutes to fall apart? "I don't do chick-flick, Sammy," he muttered.
"Fine," Sam replied as he rose to standing, and Dean just knew he was making his bitch face. "I'll take you to the nearest doctor and they can tell me what's wrong with you." He stood over his fallen brother like a giant, arms folded, looking as though he might bodily carry Dean, kicking and screaming, into the nearest waiting room.
Dean rubbed his forehead and fought another wave of nausea. "It's just a headache, Sam."
Sam stamped his foot, making him appear about five years old, instead of the Sasquatch he was. "Dean, I'm not kidding."
Dean looked up then, green eyes wide and unfocused. "I'm not either. I get migraines." There, I said it. Dean, the mighty demon hunter gets headaches bad enough that he can't stand up straight or keep his lunch down.
Sam sat beside him. "You have medicine for that?"
Dean shrugged. "I did, when I first got diagnosed." He leaned his head back against the right front tire of the Impala. "But it was expensive and Dad ... uh ... he ..."
"He didn't think you really needed it." When Dean gave a slight nod, Sam continued. "So, what do you take instead?" His brother's voice was kind, and Dean found himself wishing that Sam would just yell at him or something because he could feel his interior walls starting to crumble.
"Advil. I usually try to sleep it off in a dark, quiet place." His head lolled toward Sam's shoulder and his brother put an arm around him. Dean felt an unexpected prickle of tears and jerked his head upright, leaving him both nauseous and breathless.
"Hey, hey, Dean. It's okay. I've got you. It's okay." Sam gently guided Dean's head back onto his shoulder.
"Feel awful, Sammy," Dean admitted, speaking quietly into his brother's soft hoodie. "Day's been hell."
"I know." Sam's bangs fell into his eyes, and as he flicked them away with a practiced hand, Dean realized just how much he had missed his little brother. "Do you know what triggered it?" Dean lifted his head and blinked as Sam clarified. "Did something set off your headache?"
"Uh ..." Dean tried to think of an excuse but his mind was too fuzzy. Sam had begun massaging the tension from his shoulders and Dean found himself relaxing into the touch. Before he had realized what was happening, he blurted out the truth. "I lost a contact."
Sam stopped rubbing and stared at his brother. "When did you start wearing contacts?"
Dean met his gaze before quickly looking away. "Not long after you left for Stanford."
"You drove all morning with only one contact?" Sam's eyebrows had raised so far that they were hidden beneath his floppy hair.
The elder Winchester frowned. "My eyes aren't that bad."
Sam shook his head. "When were you going to tell me this, huh?" He stood and brushed the dirt and gravel from his jeans.
Try never, Dean thought. He shrugged as Sam helped him to his feet. Dean wobbled slightly as Sam guided him back into the car. As soon as Dean was seated, his brother handed him the canteen again.
"It's no big deal," Dean said, taking a sip and passing the canteen back.
Sam tucked it away before settling into the driver's seat beside him. He made no move to drive. "What else aren't you telling me?" he asked, both palms outstretched.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "What?"
Sam's hands curled into fists. "How am I supposed to trust you with my life on a hunt if you won't tell me when you're sick or hurt?"
Dean growled. "Grow up, Sam."
"I am grown up." He took a deep breath and turned to face Dean. "And I'm old enough to know that the way Dad raised us is crazy." He waited until Dean caught his gaze before continuing. "I'm not going to use your problems against you, Dean. But I need to know what they are so I can help." As Dean digested this, Sam added, "Which reminds me. I think I found something of yours this morning." He handed Dean a battered pair of thick-rimmed glasses.
"Where did you find these?"
"Under the driver's seat. Looks like the lenses are scratched, though. We need to get you a new pair when we get your contacts." Sam smiled at him. After a long, tense moment, Dean reluctantly put his glasses on, relieved to find that the prescription wasn't as far out of date as he'd feared. Even with the scratches, he could see pretty well.
And just like that, Dean thought, Sammy knows. Knows that his big brother is a four-eyed freak with migraine headaches and a weak stomach. And he doesn't even mind. Sam didn't laugh or tease or tell him that he looked like an idiot. He just sat there, with the same sweet and goofy smile on his face. The exact opposite of Dad.
Dean returned his brother's smile with a weak one of his own before he leaned back in the passenger's seat and closed his eyes. "Thanks, Sammy."
Sam started the car. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that Dean almost didn't hear him. "I missed you too."