"I just think we should take a break from all this. Why do we have to get stuck with all the responsibility, you know? Why can't we live life a little bit?" - Episode 2x09; Croatoan

Dean gets his wish. What no one ever told him, is what it would cost; though, he supposes by this point, he should have been able to guess.

This isn't what he'd had in mind.

Dean's world has folded around him into a tri-corner hat. On one point, there is sound; everything he can hear echoing around him, building up a world in which people are identified by what their voices sound like, how they smell. Another point belongs to touch. He crafts a castle of mental images, mapped out by careful fingers running along surfaces, some soft, some hard, some smooth, bumpy, sharp, rounded - a million different details, all carefully categorized and stored away until they are needed.

Standing proudly on the third – and arguably the most important - corner is Sam. Sam, who never once lost hope, who never pitied him or gave up when Dean had pitied himself. Sam, who makes the darkness that is the cornerstone of his new world, the fabric of his tri-corner hat, just a fraction lighter. When Sam is in the room, Dean can imagine that instead of black, he sees only a very dark shade of gray. But it is enough.

It's enough to hang on to and to let himself keep going, bounce back the way he always has before; as much as he can, anyway. There is no bouncing back from this, not really, and Dean knows it. But he is still alive, and at long last, he has given up the hunt. There is solace to be found in that.

Sam says he's given it up too. Dean knows better.

Every once in a while, Sam mysteriously needs to leave town for a few days and even though he doesn't tell Dean what he is doing, Dean knows. His instinct is still sharp as ever, perhaps more so, now that it has to compensate for the things he can't see and needs to guess about. And he can hear every hitch in Sam's voice as he spins his lies and packs his bags.

Dean lets him get away with it. He trusts his brother not to die or come back too hurt, not when Sam knows there's no one waiting here for him that can patch him up, knows if he were to kick it, Dean would go down right along with him. Dean lets him get away with it because Sam never goes far, and because Dean knows Sam needs something to blame. His brother needs to believe that all the evil out there is still at fault for how their lives have ended up, and not just because Dean himself just happened to make a careless mistake. Dean pretends oblivious and lets Sam go because Dean knows without something to focus on and destroy, Sam would turn on himself and Dean can't lose Sam, just can't. Not ever, now least of all.

Dean is still just as dependant on Sam as he ever was. Just in different ways, now. Needs Sam to work the stove and read him the newspaper and make sure his shirt is not inside out and a million other trivial, everyday things that are just downright impossible. It had been hard, at first, to admit that he needed the assistance. He had pushed Sam away and tried to fumble on his own and gotten hurt over and over because he was stupid and stubborn. Eventually, his will had been ground down into something resembling acceptance, his pride had withered up and crawled off like a beaten dog. He doesn't flinch, now, when Sam grabs his arm to keep him from running into something; doesn't hesitate, anymore, to yell for Sam when he can't find his shoes or remember which bottle is the shampoo and which is the conditioner. It's routine, now, and thems the breaks, after all.

Funny how a guy can get used to anything when given the right circumstances.

It isn't so bad, really. He finally manages to convince Sam to go to the Grand Canyon. And when he leans up against the railing and doesn't pale with the vertigo like Sam does because he can't see the cliff he is standing on the edge of, Dean tilts his face up to the sun and smiles bright enough to bring tears to Sam's eyes. Not that Dean knows it. Not that Sam would ever tell him.

They go to see the Redwoods after that, and Dean runs his fingers over the ancient trunks and marvels at the way the grooves are big enough that he can fit his fingers down into them. Old and tall and proud and strong, they stand. Dean inhales sharply, smelling dirt, flowers, and the reedy scent of the massive trunks that surrounded them and builds an image in his mind. Out loud, he jokes that Sam must feel right at home, seeing how this is Bigfoot's natural habitat and all.

Sam laughs, but Dean can hear how the sound catches in his brother's throat, strangled and brokenhearted.

--

They sleep together, limbs tangled like coiled serpents until Dean forgets where he ends and Sam begins. Lying there, eyes closed, Dean listens to Sam breathing, feels the way his brother's chest rises and falls, steady in and out, and draws his own breath to match. Sharing the same bed, breathing the same air; it's probably the closest thing to peace that Dean has ever known.

One day, there is an incident involving a particularly vicious stray dog (if you ask him, Dean will swear up and down it's a black dog or maybe a hellhound) and Dean, startled away from his routine, gets turned around en route to the mailbox and manages to get lost. He fumbles sightlessly across the lawn for a good five minutes before Sam finds him and leads him back to the safety of the house.

Later, when they're twined together in bed, Dean feels Sam's hesitant touch, can hear the questions fighting to break loose from Sam in the way his brother's breath has gone ragged and shallow. Dean says nothing, waits for Sam's courage to assemble and set the words free.

Silence flutters up and settles, almost tangible around them for several minutes. Until, at last, Sam pulls him close and just asks.

"What's it like, Dean?"

Dean gropes around until he finds Sam's wrist and runs a thumb across the skin and bone as he considers. Being blind is like…. It's like a void, black and desolate and with no chance of escape. It's like someone just flipped a switch and turned out the lights. It's like struggling and being overwhelmed and just fighting not to give up, every day. It's like helplessness, and hopelessness. It's like fear that never really leaves, weariness that refuses to lift.

In the end, Dean decides there aren't really words to describe it. At least none that he knows.

"You really wanna know?" he asks eventually, fingers tightening around Sam's wrist.

"Yeah."

The word comes out low and raspy, but there's conviction in the syllable, and Dean nods and extracts himself from Sam's hold. He rises from the bed and counts the steps until he finds the dresser, fumbles for the handles and slides open the top drawer. He finds what he's looking for, and counts the steps backwards, finds the bed right where his mental map says it should be.

"Go shut the shades and turn off all the lights," he tells Sam. The bed shifts as Sam moves to comply and Dean hears his brother move swiftly about the room, blinds clattering closed and a couple of clicks as lamps plunge the room into darkness; or so Dean assumes.

A moment later, Sam settles back on the bed and lands a cautious touch on Dean's shoulder. "Now what?"

Dean stretches out a hand, finds Sam's arm and follows it up until his fingers tangle in Sam's hair. He lifts his other hand – the one holding the bandana, carefully folded in the moments of Sam's absence – and wraps the material around Sam's eyes. The fabric slides through his fingers until his hands meet at the back of Sam's head and he ties a knot, strong and sure. His fingers need no help from his eyes for this task; they remember well their training.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice trembles, and there's a question there, a note of fear, but Sam is still waiting for cues from him. There is trust in Sam's voice, beyond anything else.

"Can you see anything at all?"

Between Dean's hands, Sam shakes his head. "No."

"Good."

Dean stands again, pulls Sam with him this time, his fingers locked tight around Sam's bony wrists. He leads his brother out into the middle of the room, counting steps. And when he knows they're away from the danger or hitting any furniture, he frees Sam's wrists and reaches up to grab his shoulders.

Sam grunts when Dean forcibly turns him around, but doesn't resist. Dean spins him around several times, plenty enough to disorient him and holds him until Sam stops wobbling from dizziness.

"You can't take the blindfold off, okay?"

Sam agrees and when his footing seems steady again, Dean lets go and backs away quickly, retreating the 10 steps it takes to find the desk and plops down on the chair. He's silent then, listens to the way Sam's breathing speeds up, harsh and thin and just a little panicked. And then, the slow shuffling of Sam's feet and Dean imagines Sam walking the way he used to walk before he started counting steps, hands splayed in front of him, feet never really leaving the floor.

There's a thump, somewhere off to Dean's right, and Sam curses. Dean smiles ruefully. Yeah, that trunk is a bitch. Dean still stubs his toe on it, occasionally.

More shuffling, and the jangle of the doorknob, when Sam finds the door. Dean hears the steady scrape-slide of Sam's hand as it runs along a wall Dean has only ever felt, never seen. Sam's hand slaps against furniture, feeling his way around the room with his hands, shuffling and bumping occasionally giving way to silence and Dean can only assume Sam has paused to further investigate something he's stumbled across.

It's strange.

Dean remembers how frustrated he'd been, how often he'd lost his temper and snapped at Sam and told his little brother to go fuck himself with his attempts at emotional interventions, he didn't need that crap. Dean can see now, that Sam had only been trying to help, to get him to face all of the things he had been trying to avoid. It's permanent, Dean. The doctor says you'll never see again. But Dean is a Winchester, and burying problems kind of comes with the surname.

Still, Sam had tried to coax him, gently, towards acceptance and Dean had told him quite firmly that until he knew what it was like he could kindly shut his piehole. Sam had given him reason to pause, though, (not that he'd admit it) and it wasn't long after that Dean had stopped bumbling and started counting steps.

Sam hadn't brought it up again, and Dean had assumed that it had been forgotten like so many of their arguments were. Apparently, this one hadn't quite slipped away, because here Sam is again, asking. This time, Dean is actually listening so he can hear the quiet desperation in Sam's voice, the deep-set need to be inside Dean's head, know what he's thinking, what he's feeling.

Dean is tired of being all alone in the dark. It's time to let Sam see… or not see, really.

It takes his brother roughly ten minutes to make it across the room to the desk. Dean's not too sure on that, he doesn't really have much of a concept of time, these days, but he counts to six hundred and twelve in his head before Sam's hands find the edge of the desk and pat across the smooth surface.

Dean reaches out then, smoothes his own hand over the top of the desk until his fingers tangle with Sam's, smirking a little at the quiet startled noise he makes when they touch. And then Sam is clutching at him with an urgency Dean hasn't felt before and it takes him a moment to realize that Sam is scared. Maybe even terrified. For him.

"Dean," The word is barely more than strangled whisper and Dean stands, pulling Sam closer. Not hugging, that's too pussy for both of them, but an arm on his brother's shoulder - a strong, reassuring grip to let Sam know he's here, always has been; turning out the lights won't change that. "God, Dean, I didn't…I can't—"

Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder, a silent command for him to be quiet and miracle of all miracles, Sam does just that. Dean knows already what Sam is trying to say. He doesn't need to hear apologies, doesn't need the pity, not now, not after all this time, not when Dean had thought that Sam would be the only one to never look at him like that.

Not that Sam is actually looking at him, but still.

It's quiet for too long. Dean is suddenly self-conscious of the extended contact; moreso because he knows Sam will always let him. Jesus, when had he turned into such a girl? He drops his hand and the ache of loneliness sidles up to nuzzle him seductively. He refuses its advances, has fought it off for months now. Blind and starving for tactile stimulation to replace the loss of vision and even Dean gives in sometimes; but really, he lost his eyes, not his testosterone. Even now, he can only handle so much before he starts to feel like he's entitled to a shot at Molly Ringwald.

"Cracked your foot on that trunk pretty good, eh?"

Sam laughs, the sound warm in Dean's ears because it's the first genuine laugh he's heard out of Sam's mouth in months. "How do you do it, man?"

"It's not that hard, once you get the hang of it," Dean admits and stands, tugging Sam closer. "Fifteen steps from here to the bed. Well, make that, like, twelve, for you Pippi."

They make their way across the room, together but separate, each counting in their head until the mattress, soft and inviting, swallows them both. It takes a moment for them to arrange themselves and Dean notes that Sam fails to remove the blindfold, but he doesn't mention it. Sam is weird like that.

They fall into a comfortable silence, but it's obvious sleep is far off and the thoughts in Sam's head haven't stopped yet. "You count all the time?" he asks at last.

"Seven steps to the door, thirty-two to the kitchen. Eighteen to the bathroom. Four from the toilet to the tub. Fourty-five to the mailbox. Should I continue?"

Sam laughs, easy, unhindered. "I didn't know you could count to fourty-five, Dean. I'm impressed."

"Shuddup."

More silence.

"So," Dean ventures, after a moment, "curiosity satisfied?"

"It's scary," Sam says, almost a whisper, as if ashamed to admit it.

"It's not so bad."

"How can you say that?"

"You take care of me." Dean shrugs.

Sam makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat, fingers tightening around Dean's shoulder.

"What?" Dean asks. There's something big brewing in his brother's brain, and previous experience indicates that it's nothing good.

Sam sighs. "Don't get me wrong, it's not that I mind, but I shouldn't have to Dean. You're the most stubborn, self-reliant person I know. You should be ,able to do things on your own."

Well, duh, Sam.

Sam's hands shift, run themselves down the length of Dean's arms, across his chest and Dean feels himself being pulled tighter. "You don't deserve this."

Sam's voice sounds so forlorn, so heartbreakingly mournful that Dean can't even bring himself to tease, or respond at all; but he does tug Sam a little closer. He feels Sam press his face into his shoulder and Dean realizes dizzily that his brother is still wearing the blindfold.

He runs his fingers over the dips in the fabric, feeling Sam's eyelids twitch beneath it. "You gonna take that off?"

"Not yet."

"Why?"

"There's still one more thing I need to know."

Sam touches him. There's no hesitation, but the way Sam's fingers roam -gentler, so thorough in the way they skim across Dean's flesh, making him shiver – it's different. Sam's contact is needier, now. Normally, Sam's touch is all business, a mere formality leading up to the good parts, as if the bond between fingers and flesh is not included in the pleasurable parts of the act.

It is now. God, it's all about touch. Sam's fingers trace over the skeletal ridge of Dean's collarbone, a stark reminder to the weight Dean has lost in the past months and there's a breathy whine, nearly inaudible, lingering in the back of Sam's throat as his fingers draw their way up, over Dean's jaw, across his face. Dean doesn't think he's meant to hear it, Sam probably doesn't even know he's making it. But it makes his breath hitch in his own chest, eyes sliding shut despite the fact that it doesn't make a difference either way.

Sam's fingers shift, exploring his facial features by touch alone. It's weird. Dean does this to Sam all the time, now; identifies Sam not only by his smell and his voice, but how his face feels beneath his fingers. Sam hadn't liked it, at first; Dean could tell by the way he'd tense up, breathe a little faster. Sam recognized that Dean had needed it, however, and so endured the touch until time and repetition had turned it into something he didn't mind, perhaps even enjoyed on some subtle subconscious level, Dean suspects.

But he's never been on the receiving hand and it's weird. Sam's fingers are tender, almost cautious, lingering over his eyelids, fingering the bony, slightly crooked ridge of Dean's nose, palm brushing over Dean's cheek, warm, almost hot.

His mouth is hotter. Sam presses his lips insistently against Dean's and his tongue is a welcome intrusion, teeth nipping at the corner of Dean's mouth, eliciting a groan. Dean grabs Sam's wrists and flips them over, rolling on top.

He bends down, fingers leading his mouth to Sam's neck, and he sucks on sweat-dappled skin until he's sure it'll leave a mark. "It has one advantage, you know."

His words are lazy, slow, interspersed between brief touches of lip to skin, a different spot every time, letting Sam get the effect of the sensory compensation. His fingers slide up underneath Sam's worn, threadbare t-shirt and brush feather light across his skin until Sam shivers.

"God, Dean," he says with a grunt when Dean pinches a nipple, rolling the hardened nub between thumb and forefinger. "Feels good."

Sam's voice is deep, heavy with lust. It's a rich sound that Dean has come to associate with everything good that is left in his life. To hear Sam speak, arousal wrapped tight around every syllable, God, that alone is enough to make Dean hard.

He cants his hips, thrusting down to grind against the hollow of Sam's hip and bites at Sam's Adam's apple.

"Your voice is nice," he tells Sam, hands working to push the t-shirt up, tugging until Sam gets the hint and complies, shedding what little clothing he's wearing in a matter of seconds. "Keep talking."

Sam laughs and Dean pulls off his own shirt, casting it aside and shimmies out of his boxers.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Anything. I don't care."

Sam clears his throat. Dean gropes for the beside table, sliding the drawer open to extract the little tube of lubricant, pressing it into Sam's hands before falling back against the pillows.

He can't see Sam, can't judge things by his facial expressions anymore, but Dean's fairly certain Sam's trying to figure out what he's been handed. It only takes his brother a few seconds before he gets it and is rocking on top of him, pressing his mouth fiercely to Dean's, a growl echoing up from the bottom of his throat.

He breaks away panting and Dean's fingers are wrapped tightly around his bicep, just holding. "Gonna say something or what?"

Sam clears his throat again and says, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus."

"Is that an exorcism?" Dean asks, half amused, half amazed, one hundred percent aroused.

"You have a problem with it?" Sam's tongue brushes against the shell of Dean's ear and his breath is hot against Dean's neck.

"No," Dean is quick to reply. "Latin's hot. But you're still a complete geek."

"You love it," Sam says, and emphasizes his point with one oil-slick finger.

Dean gasps at the intrusion and readily agrees. Sam lapses back into murmuring the blissful nonsense. It doesn't matter what Sam's saying, because what really matters is the way his voice rasps and hitches as he works Dean open with gentle fingers until Dean is bucking and swearing, desperate for more.

"This is weird," Sam says, and Dean can feel the way Sam fumbles, his cock missing its mark a few times without the aid of Sam's eyes to guide it. "You don't think it's weird?"

"It's weird," Dean agrees, groping until he finds Sam's hip and moves to cover Sam's hand with his own, guiding Sam until he can feel his brother pressing against his entrance. "It's okay. We're weird. Keep talking."

Sam huffs out a breath and Dean feels his cock slide into him on a slick burn until Sam comes to a rest, buried deep. "Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii."

It is weird. Dean has his blindfolded brother's dick in his ass and his words rising and falling around his ears as Sam grunts around his o's and Dean doesn't think he's ever been more turned on his his life. It's so weird. Dean doesn't care.

He rocks to meet Sam's thrusts and if there had been any demons around, they're gone now because Sam makes his way through at least three exorcisms as he slams against Dean, fingers tight around Dean's hips. Dean feels climax rising like a phoenix, bright and hot. He arches his back, keening in the back of his throat and can't take it anymore.

He wraps a hand around his aching cock and jerks with quick, hard motions, unable to hold back a gasp at the relief it provides.

A few more thrusts, a few more seconds spent as Schrödinger's cat - suspended somewhere between complete darkness and all seeing - and Dean is going…

"In nomine Patris,"

Going…

" et Filii,"

Gone.

"et Spiritus Sancti."

Sam cuts off with a strangled noise and goes rigid, coming deep and hard. Dean doesn't notice, not really; he's still distracted by his own post-orgasmic haze. What he knows next is Sam sliding out of him, moving to stretch out alongside Dean.

"Jesus," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam agrees.

Dean feels a cloth being drawn over his skin, wiping away the sticky mess and he raises a hand to Sam's face, pulls the bandana off. Sam lets him.

"Wish it worked that way for you," he says regretfully, but he doesn't sound sad. Dean wonders what changed. Perhaps acceptance really does come through understanding.

"Thems the breaks, little brother." He shrugs and cracks a grin. He can, now that Sam can see him again.

Sam leans forward and presses a kiss over each eyelid. Dean squirms, uncomfortable. Too much attention, too much sap. "Get off me, Molly," he snaps when he can't take it anymore.

"You're a jerk," Sam says sourly, flopping back against the pillows.

"And you're a bitch," Dean counters easily. This is familiar territory. "Hey, she was hot in the Breakfast Club."

"You've actually seen that movie?"

"You have exorcisms memorized?"

"Didn't hear you complaining."

"Touché."

Sam laughs and shifts a bit closer, daring enough to sling an arm across Dean's chest.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Dean asks, more seriously. Though his words are quiet, they sound so loud in the void that is his constant companion.

"Yeah," Sam says, sounding sleepy. "But it was there all along."

Sam's words don't make sense. Sam is weird. Not that Dean minds. But he still doesn't know what he's talking about. "What was?"

"You."

Really, there's nothing Dean can say to that. He settles, instead, for groping through the darkness until he finds Sam's lips and kisses him, slow and deep.

"You're such a sap, Sammy."

"Takes one to know one."

And even though Dean can't see Sam, he knows that his brother is grinning. Some things just never change.