Title:Sensory Deprivation

Author:DreamBrother

Summary: It's said hearing is the last sense you lose when you die. Don Eppes should know.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not now. Not ever.

Author's Note: First fic. Be gentle. Please review and tell me if I should continue, or leave this ambition before it takes up too much of my time. No flames. If you want to offer criticism and advice, please be a writer yourself.

Warning: The end, I'm not sure about. If you're into tragedy, then it's the end. If you're an optimist, then it isn't. I don't know myself, honestly.

Sensory Deprivation

His sense of taste was the first one to go. Considering the circumstances, he didn't really mind, he didn't really care, about losing his sense of taste. He had more important things to worry about at the moment. The taste of blood, with its coppery tang, wasn't one he relished. He would rather remember the taste of a steak, grilled to perfection by his father. Not Charlie, though, Charlie pretty much toasted everything he tried to grill. Of course, he blamed it on the numbers, filling up his mind, rather than his lack of culinary skill or attention span. He would probably tell Don that more steaks can be bought, but a breakthrough in his Cognitive Emergence work can't. As always, Charlie was probably right. However, the last thing he remembered tasting was the blood that he had begun to cough up, a small line of it trickling a path down his cheek.

His sense of smell was next, and he was rather ambivalent about losing this sense. Where he was glad to not have to have his sinuses clogged up with the coppery smell of his blood, leaking steadily from the bullet wound in his chest, he didn't want to miss the comforting smell of his brother, in whose lap his head and shoulders were resting. Don had always associated a unique smell to Charlie: a mix of chalk, paper to a degree, and whatever aftershave or perfume or deodorant Charlie was a fan of. He wasn't always aware of it, but a sudden waft of Charlie's scent would catch him off guard at the weirdest of moments. It was what had made him come to his mind during the Charm School Boys case, when next to the Koi pond he had grabbed his little brother by the front of his hoodie and had shaken him, in his frustration. While he wasn't exactly a fan of physical shows of affection, with his brother he didn't hesitate when it came to a squeeze on the shoulder or a ruffling of his hair (which Charlie always protested to; said it made him feel like he was a dog) but he had never been physically violent with his brother, even when he resented him the most, so the act of grabbing and shaking his brother had surprised him. It was the sudden waft of Charlie's scent that reminded him who was in front of him, and had made him quickly let go and apologize, the big brother in him subduing the frustrated agent. The next time, he had reveled in the scent, thankful that it still existed, when Charlie had almost been shot by the sniper. Don had been relieved beyond words, more than his brother would ever know, wrapping a protective arm around Charlie as he leaned against the car, bending his head down Don had appreciated the scent of his brother. But in the here and now, as he was losing his ability to smell, he ceased to notice the smell of the leather backseat of the SUV where he lay, cocooned in his brother's arms, ceased to notice the smell of his blood as it filled the atmosphere in the vehicle, ceased to be able to smell his brother's scent to his regret.

The next sense was even harder to let go. True, he didn't exactly relish the sight of the tears making their way down his brother's face, the look of pain and anguish in his brother's eyes but it was better than nothing. And he didn't want to not be able to see his brother, no matter how painful it was. Don had always hated seeing his brother's tears, even though he knew that some of the time he was the cause behind them, especially when they were kids, but Charlie had never let him see it. He only knew from the evidence left behind; the red, puffy eyes. But right now, he knew exactly what the reason behind those tears was, and it was him. It was better than the alternative. What would it say about the brothers' relationship if the younger didn't experience any sort of strong emotional response to his big brother lying bleeding, dying, in his arms? Despite the deep emotional pain conveyed by his brother's facial features, he still didn't want to close his eyes, no matter how hard it was becoming to keep them open, his eyes staying closed just a bit longer every time he blinked. He wanted to remember his brother's face, his mass of curly hair, his youthful features. His only consolation to his eyes finally shutting was that the last thing he had seen was his brother, nothing else, not the blood covering his hands, not the roof of the interior of his car, but his brother.

Don certainly didn't want to let go of his ability to feel, his sense of touch. The pain wracking his body was overwhelming, but considering the alternative, he knew where his choice lay. And all was not simply pain, pain and pain. There was comfort in lying in his brother's lap, comfort he derived from the hand that was continuously running through his hair, hell even a small measure of comfort from the hand that was pressing down on the hole in his chest, trying fruitlessly to lessen the blood loss, to extend his life beyond the next few minutes as he was raced to the nearest hospital, his brother doing what he could to keep Don breathing till he was on a gurney and on the way to the OR, in the capable (at least, more capable) hands of the doctors. He tried his best, but he couldn't fight the increasing sense of numbness spreading throughout his body, preceded by a feeling of coldness, starting from his legs working its way up. He couldn't feel his brother's hand on his wound anymore, and little by little he stopped feeling the hand running through his hair, steady and trembling at the same time.

Having given up all of his other senses, just to be able to get through the next few moments, Don concentrated on his last remaining one: His sense of hearing. If this really was the end, the least he could do was pay attention to what his brother was saying, what he had continuously been saying since he had been shot. He tuned out the voice of Megan in the front passenger seat, on the phone with the hospital they were rushing too, giving details about his condition, having the staff be ready for their imminent arrival, tuned out the voice of David in the driver's seat, cursing in an uncharacteristic way, venting his frustration and worry at the people who wouldn't move fast enough out of their way on the road, despite the sirens and lights. He concentrated on the voice of his brother, the teacher used to talking continuously, the little brother who was a talkative brat ever since he had learned to speak, dauntless, especially when explaining something, be it to his students, to the FBI team or to any random person who showed the least bit of interest. He concentrated until the end, until the moment he drew his last, until he gave into unconsciousness and knew no more:

''Just hold on a little bit longer bro, we're almost there. Just a couple of more moments, then the doctors will have you patched up and drugged up to your eyeballs and smothered in care by the nurses until you're ready to break out, only then Dad and I will take you home. Don't give up, not after having made it so long. We're going to have a talk later, by the way, about you jumping in front of me and taking that bullet. You should have let me taken it. If I can handle walking home to Pasadena from the camping trip on your 13th birthday, I can handle a bullet, right? Come on, Don, just breathe. I love you, please don't give up on me now. Just hold on, be the fighter you've always been, since we were kids. Stupid bleeding it won't stop…Don? Don, can you hear me bro? Don?''

The End (?)

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