Hey everyone! I have been trying for weeks to write something, but every time I start, I crumble the paper up in dissatisfaction. Then, last night this popped into my head and begged to be written. So, I am hoping this gets the creative juices flowing once again. This chapter alternates between present and flashbacks (about three weeks before).

Warnings: Language (that's all I can think of at the moment).

Takes place in season 2.

Enjoy!

Everyone assured him that apart from the new addition of a scruffy beard, he didn't look any different. His eyebrows still furrowed when he thought something, or someone, was stupid. His jawline still looked like it was chiseled out of ice. His eyes were the same bright hazel that had always drawn girls in, despite their better judgment.

They told him that nothing had changed.

Well, fuck them.

Rock Springs, Wyoming

"Come on, Dean!" Sam huffed out a breath as he watched his older brother meander through their motel room, looking for his other sock. First, Dean had taken forever to wake up, then he had spent half an hour in the shower (doing what, Sam didn't want to touch with a ten foot pole), and now that he was finally out, he set one of his socks down and couldn't find it again.

"Just grab another sock!" Sam ordered, pointing towards Dean's duffle bag.

"I don't need to 'grab another sock', I have a sock…I just can't find it right now," Dean said, lifting up his pillow for the third time.

"Well, I doubt it's under the damn pillow," Sam snapped. "Did you look under the beds?"

Dean's head emerged from behind the nightstand and he immediately rolled his eyes, "Of course I did." He pointed at Sam, "You could help me you know, we would find it faster and then we could get out of here."

"Just grab another sock!" Sam reiterated, refusing to budge from his position leaning against the door frame. Dean lost his sock in the time that it took him to stand up, one shoe on, walk to the bathroom to grab his necklace that he had taken off for showering, and return to the bed where his other boot was. It seemed impossible that he could lose it that quickly, but since he had, Sam certainly wasn't going to help him out. It was a lesson in being responsible.

…At least, that was what Sam told himself when his lips quirked upwards as he watched Dean shake out the sheets for the second time.

"They wouldn't match then," Dean almost whined. A creature of comfort he wasn't; hell, he didn't even care if his clothes were clean half the time, but mismatched socks? Hell no. There was just something about the way they felt under his toes that would bug him the whole day.

"Then grab another pair," Sam reasoned. "Jesus, Dean, this isn't difficult. By the time you find the damn sock, the monster is going to have died of old age."

Bobby's House

"Are you going to do anything today?"

He couldn't help but wonder if it was possible to have concern and judgment in the same question. And which one should he reply to? Concern was tricky, it was all feelings and 'I'm here for you, Dean'. Judgment just made him bitter and angry. Those were definitely emotions he could get behind. Although, to be fair, the concern pissed him off quite a bit as well. Best to keep it simple, "Not planning on it."

Dean didn't even have to look at his brother to know that Bitch Face #7, or "I'm trying to help, don't be a dick", was plastered across Sam's face. It was rapidly followed by Sigh #2, or "Why do I even bother, you won't listen to me anyways".

"You can't just sit there for the rest of your life. If you stay in Bobby's living room much longer, he is going to start using you as a shelf for more books," Sam tried to throw in some humor, but even as the words formed, he knew they were going to fall flat. And they did, only receiving an uncaring shrug.

"Dean, come on, man," Sam was almost to the point of begging, and far passed caring if he did. "Give me something to work with here."

A snort of disbelief escaped Dean before he could stop it, "There is nothing left to work with, Sam. When are you gonna get that through your thick head?"

"Half an hour later," Sam mumbled as Dean turned the Impala out of the motel parking lot.

Dean wagged a finger in his brother's direction, "Once again, if you had just helped me look, we would have been out of there quicker."

Sam shook his head and slapped his brothers finger away from him, "How about next time, you don't randomly carry your sock into the bathroom and then knock it off of the counter and into the garbage can?"

"Eh, next time I'll just grab a new pair of socks," Dean smirked as Sam tossed him Bitch Face #1, the one he had perfected at the age of seven and Dean would crack the worst jokes every time he started worrying about when their dad would get back. The exact title had changed over the years, but it was basically, "You're the only one who thinks you're funny.'

Dean reached across the bench seat and lightly punched Sam in the arm, "Lighten up, Sammy. The sun is shining, the girls are wearing dresses, and we know where our monster is. What could possibly make this day suck?"

The sun was shining brightly, almost mocking the dark atmosphere inside the house, as Sam stepped off of the back porch and made his way towards where he knew Bobby was working on his latest project.

Once he reached the car, he allowed his body to sink down onto the old fold out chair that Bobby had placed near the hood.

"How's our little ray of sunshine doin' in there?" Bobby asked him, his head shoved under the hood.

Sam ground his teeth together and his knee bounced rapidly in frustration. "I…he…"

He stood up abruptly and started pacing, the rickety chair falling over in his rush to expel some of the energy coursing through him. "He's doing horrible, Bobby! What did you expect?"

Bobby paused his tightening of the fan belt and glanced up out of the corner of his eyes. Sam looked like a caged animal, his hair had gone from shaggy to wild, his muscles bunched up with every step, like he was going to pounce on something, and he looked like he hadn't eaten or slept in days.

He really should've expected Sam to turn on him the moment he caught his gaze.

"Which, you would know if you ever bothered to go in and talk to him!" Sam stepped closer to the old hunter, everything in his body was screaming at him. For the past three weeks he had watched as Dean shut down. Everything that made his older brother, Dean, disappeared. He didn't even bother with snarky comments anymore.

He had never really realized how much of him, how he defined himself, had come from his older brother. In some ways, he was the antithesis of his brother; they worked to balance each other. Dean kept Sam from having his head up his ass, Sam kept Dean from always putting his foot in his mouth.

From food, to girls, to music, they were often polar opposites. He would often gripe about how immature Dean was, or how he shouldn't do this or that…but, when it came down to it, all the things that made him who he was, had come from Dean.

Sam would never be able to express that to Dean, it wasn't the way they worked. How do you tell someone who was firmly in the no chick-flick moments category that deep down, they were the person you tried to emulate?

It was never going to happen.

So, the question was, what do you do when that person disappears?

"This!" Sam shouted as they ducked around an overturned table in time for a chair to sail over their heads and smash against the wall.

"What!?" Dean questioned loudly over the roar of the monster, checking his gun to see how many more bullets he had.

"This! This could make our day suck! This sucks!" Sam answered Dean's question from earlier, peaking around the table to see the ogre looking monster start to lose interest in them and turn back to where he knew a small family of three was cowering in a closet.

"Nonsense, this is fun!" Dean flashed him a smile, noticing the same thing that Sam had. "Now, what do you say we gank this son of a bitch and get the hell out of here?"

"I've talked to him," Bobby defended, turning back to the car.

"That's bullshit, Bobby, and you know it," Sam snapped as he tried to burn a hole through Bobby's head with his glare.

Bobby wished that he could say Sam was wrong, but he had been hiding outside as much as possible lately. At first he had tried to get through to Dean, tried to reason with him, tell him that it wasn't that bad, that everything would be okay in the end. But, the kid wasn't stupid, and even Bobby couldn't believe the crap lies that everyone was telling him. It wasn't okay, it wasn't going to be okay. It sucked, it was so god damn unfair that no words could describe it and he couldn't watch it anymore.

"Dean!"

Anyone who had been in a real fight could tell you, the movies had it all wrong. Things were rarely as simple as the hero stomping his way through enemies, slicing them down, walking away unscathed, except for a small token cut above the eyebrow.

In reality, it was like someone pressed the fast forward button, but forgot to tell your brain. When things got sticky, you had to rely purely on your body to carry you through, no thinking, no second guessing, just reacting. So, when a big, smelly ogre monster runs at your little brother, the first thing your body does is shove him out of the way and take the hit.

It was really too bad that said brother had been standing near the second floor glass balcony door. Even worse that ogre monsters (he would really have to figure out what the hell it was called), hit like an offensive tackle on steroids, strapped to a moving train. And the crappiest part? When his body flew through the glass, clipped the balcony rails with his head, and then plunged down to the brick patio in the backyard.

Sam paused in the doorway to allow his eyes to readjust to the dim living room, only coming in after he garnered a promise from Bobby to come in and check on Dean in a while. He understood where Bobby was coming from, why he was hiding outside. Every time he tried to start up a conversation with Dean, hell, even when he just looked at him, his stomach turned over and guilt spread throughout him. Dean wouldn't be in this position if it wasn't for him. He was the one who didn't move quickly enough and Dean was the one to pay the price.

"I need more alcohol," Dean's voice shook Sam out of his thoughts and instantly put a scowl on his face.

"No, you don't," Sam corrected, having already gone through this the day before.

"Yes, I do," Dean all but growled at him, his nails biting into the palm of his hand. Why didn't Sam get it?

Unshed tears sprung to Sam's eyes as he took in his brother. He couldn't do it; he couldn't put the final nail in Dean's coffin. He just didn't understand where the fight went. His brother had never backed down from anything, but here he was, just giving up, content to live out the rest of his days drowning in booze.

Well, if he wanted to kill himself, then he could do it on his own. "There's some whisky in the third cupboard from the fridge, if you want it, go get it yourself."

"Mr. Weston?"

"That's me," Sam said quickly, immediately abandoning the waiting room chair to stand in front of the doctor. "How is he?"

"If you come with me, we can discuss your brother's a little more privately," the doctor gestured with his arm towards an office.

Sam didn't wait for the door to click shut before he began to bombard Dean's doctor with questions, "How is he? Is he going to be okay? When can I see him?"

"One question at a time," the doctor smiled as warmly as he could in order to put Sam at ease.

Sam wished the doctor would spend less time smiling and more time explaining.

"You can see him as soon as we are done in here. He woke up for a few minutes and we were able to examine him, we had to give him some painkillers, so he's currently sleeping."

"Why did you have to give him painkillers? What's wrong with him?" Sam jumped to the point.

"Mr. Weston, the back of the head contains the occipital lobes, which are responsible for sight."

"I…I don't understand," Sam said lamely. The logical part of his brain was screaming the answer at him, but the rest of him told logic to shut the hell up.

"Your brother hit his head very hard, which has caused increased intracranial pressure," the doctor paused to make sure that Sam was following him.

"Which means, what?" Sometimes being dense was safer than admitting the truth.

"Well, we weren't sure until he woke up and we ran some tests, but at the moment, the increased pressure on the occipital lobes has caused your brother to lose his eyesight."

"I…that's not…there's no way that…," Sam's breathing rose rapidly and he could feel the room start to spin.

A few hours later

"S'mmy?"

"Dean?! Dean, can you hear me?" Sam asked frantically, staring at his brother, waiting for any kind of response.

"Course," Dean's voice came out more gravelly than usual.

Sam's face lit up and as Dean's eyes flickered open, he let himself hope that the doctor had been wrong, that it was all some horrible mistake.

He should have remembered that hope and Winchesters never go well together.

"S'mmy, lights?" Dean asked, knowing Sam would understand that he wanted the lights turned on so he could make sure that the ugly ogre thing hadn't done any damage to Sam.

"Uh…" Sam panicked and trailed off. How was he going to explain this? This was going to destroy his brother. Ever since he was a kid, he had been protecting people. How was Dean going to react when he found out that he couldn't even tell what color the waitress's hair was?

It turned out that he wouldn't have to because Dean's doctor had taken that moment to walk in and check on Dean.

Dean listened as all the machines he was hooked up to went crazy at the revelation that he was blind. He caught phrases like "fleeting blindness" and "if the swelling decreases", but none of the words mattered. The only thing he could concentrate on was the fact that he could feel himself blinking, could feel the slight flutter of his eyelashes on his cheeks, but it no longer mattered whether his eyes were opened or closed.

"Hey, Sammy?"

Sam hesitated with one foot on the stairs; he was determined to comb through their dad's journal once again to see if there was anything that could help Dean. He half hoped that this was when Dean finally snapped out of it and talked to him, "Yeah, Dean?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Yeah, Winchesters and hope.

Let me know if you think this is worth continuing!