Chapter 2

The ringing in his ears drowned out all other sound, and his whole head felt like it was on fire. He didn't know how long he huddled there against the slab of rock before he caught his breath and the pain in his head faded, allowing for the duller ache of the bruising he could already feel forming on his back and shoulders. His head cleared of the ringing soon after, and he was able to muster a thought. Sam!

He invoked out loud this time, "Sam!" as his eyes startled open.

Or, he thought he did. He went still. Why was it so dark all of a sudden? It was late at night but there still should've been the faint glow of streetlights, or moonlight. And why didn't his voice work? He had to get up and figure out what was going on, where he was, where Sam was; his arms wavered as he tried to rise.

He put a hand to his throat and tried again. "Sam!" His throat vibrated as if he had spoken, but he still heard nothing. That's when he realized how deathly quiet—no, silent—everything had gone. No, no... "Sam, where are you?! Son of a—'' As much as he hoped he was making some sound, it would mean he was the one who couldn't hear his own shouts. He couldn't remember the last time terror like this had come over him, at least not for himself.

He felt a hand close on his right shoulder and instinctively swung out. "Get off me!" But he didn't feel his hand come in contact with anything and he started panting, panicking over the suffocating loss of control. It's so dark... Against his will, his body started to shudder out of fear, though now he kept himself stationary, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean could sense a presence near him, but it didn't feel threatening. Sammy? He reached out a hand, trying to stifle the tremors that wracked his whole body. Then familiar, long fingers touched his wrist, hesitantly, as if not sure how he'd react. "Sammy? S'at you?" He didn't really doubt now that it was his little brother, but he had to be sure.

The hand gently closed around his wrist, slowly pulling it up until he felt his hand brush against a cheek, an ear, then thick, longish hair. Dean gasped quietly in relief, smiling shakily as he lightly curled his fingers into the soft strands. Yep, definitely Sam's girly hair. A flood of memories from their childhood deluged him: Sam refusing to get his hair cut military short like their dad wanted, Dean hugging his little brother to him after a nightmare, stroking his hair back in comfort when Sam was sad or scared, the ridiculous bangs always covering his eyes so Dean couldn't read them, until not too long ago, when he started brushing them to the sides...

Dean's half-smile faltered and fell. He was scared, and he hated it. He could almost hear his father's voice. Suck it up, soldier. He bowed his head at the reminder, took his hand back, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, trying to force the darkness away.

A long arm—Sam's—wrapped around his shoulders while a casted hand settled on the knee he'd drawn up to himself. He was grateful for the contact. Normally he'd draw back from it, but…but he needed something to anchor him to the real world. To let him know that he hadn't been supernaturally transported to some hopeless, empty void. Alone.

But he could practically feel the fear radiating from his brother, who must've been as scared about all this as he was. He straightened his neck, his back, bringing down his arms. He had to be strong for Sam, be the older brother.

That was really hard when he couldn't see. Or hear. He mentally cursed his helplessness.

The weight on his knee vanished to be replaced by a grip on his elbow, urging him to stand. He did, surprised when he was blindsided by a sudden bout of dizziness, and the arm over his shoulders tightened to keep him from keeling over. Great, was he gonna pass out now?

But the feeling passed quickly. His dignity was safe. For now. He tried not to dwell on that and instead seized the shoulder attached to the arm that was still slung around him. He couldn't help but be comforted by the steadiness and assurance of Sam's presence. He was the only person he'd truly trust in this situation, besides maybe their dad. But that would never be an option again, so Sam was all he had.

Dean was tense as he felt his brother guide him out of the cemetery and to the car. He briefly thought about the unfilled grave and immediately decided he really didn't care right now. He trusted that the period of time between him getting whammied and Sam showing up was Sam torching the corpse. The authorities could puzzle over the defiled tomb themselves. They had to focus on how the hell they were going to fix him. Even thinking about this maybe being permanent made his head spin.

No, wait, he was actually getting dizzy again. Sam's hand on his shoulder moved to the back of his neck and another to his chest. Dean shot out a hand and it smacked what he assumed was the roof of his car. That brought him comfort as well as the hands holding him up, and the vertigo slowly subsided.

Sam's hand was now rubbing the base of his neck, and he nodded to show he was okay. He was pretty sure he could talk just fine, but not being able to hear his own voice unsettled him, and he'd wait till he needed to. He couldn't fathom how Sam would be able to communicate with him, but they'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

Dean slid his hand down the door frame and gripped the handle to open the door. Sam's hold adjusted, and he helped Dean ease inside without hitting his head. Once he was settled back against the seat, the new bruising on his back announced itself again, and he winced.

His brother's hands were still on him, seeming reluctant to let go. He placed a hand on Sam's forearm and nodded wearily again, and after a moment, the car shook a little with the closing door. Another tilt of the car's frame announced Sam's arrival into the driver's seat, and seconds later the vibration from the engine rumbled through him. Dean frowned sadly when he realized he couldn't hear the Impala's purr. Wouldn't be able to drive her. His disappointment grew when he remembered his music.

Dean swiveled his head to the right, so he'd be staring out the window if he were able to see. He had to consciously focus on his breathing, trying to keep from losing it again with no touch to ground him or way to orient himself, save for the vinyl seat beneath him. He held his arms stiffly to either side of him, palms flat against the seat in an attempt to steady the dizziness that seemed to keep coming back in waves. He wondered how he'd manage to get through this until they—well, mostly Sam—fixed this. But it could take days...or weeks? God, he hoped it wouldn't last that long.

…

This was... This was bad. Terrifying. And Sam didn't understand. He'd made sure Stiles had kicked it for good; so why were his powers still affecting Dean? It actually angered him.

That along with the fact that the spirit had felt the need to render his brother instantly both blind and deaf. His usual M.O. was to start by taking away the victim's hearing, and steal their sight about a day later not long before zapping them somewhere. He wanted to bring the ghost back just to ice him again. Maybe shoot him with rock salt a few times first.

Or maybe it was just fear again.

Sam had seen how quickly his big brother had calmed as soon as he'd known it was Sam with him. That alone had made Sam blink back tears. At least Dean was still here and hadn't been teleported God-knows-where. But Sam could still see how much all this perturbed Dean, and now he had to be the protector. He hoped Dean realized the severity of his situation, and would stamp down his pride for once and let him help. For heaven's sake, he was freaking blind and deaf. If that didn't warrant showing a little weakness, nothing did. Sam was his brother. Didn't Dean know that he'd never think any less of him, no matter what?

Sam had helped his newly deaf-blind brother navigate the graveyard and get to the Impala. Even though he knew his brother couldn't hear him, he'd murmured words of comfort to him the whole way. It made himself feel a little better...kind of, not really. Dean's apparent unsteadiness worried him, though, and he made a mental note to keep an eye on that so he didn't run into anything or fall and hurt himself.

Now Sam noticed that Dean's face looked crestfallen once he started up the car, and watched as he turned his blank gaze to stare sightlessly out the window, visibly working to suppress his panic. Sam's heart broke a little more, recognizing that many of the sounds of safety and home were lost to Dean. And he couldn't even see to make up for it. I'll fix this, Dean. He silently vowed. I'll find a way to fix it.

Dean's jaw clenched and unclenched repeatedly. Hating to see his brother so unlike himself, so quiet and despondent, Sam reached over to touch his taut arm. Dean jumped a little at the unexpected contact, then turned his head back towards Sam's general direction. His emerald eyes were unseeing, but they still held so much emotion that Sam found himself swallowing back his own emotions.

Sam was speeding the whole drive out of town, like he was trying to run from what happened. He left his hand on his brother's arm the entire way, and Dean never shrugged it off.

…

Two hours later they pulled up to a motel. The younger Winchester figured this was far enough for now to be safe; there shouldn't be any connection between them and a vandalized grave a few towns over.

He hoped Dean would realize he was just leaving to get them a room, and removed his stiff hand from Dean's arm. Dean shot him an anxious look before reigning it in, obviously trying to not appear so desperately dependent on the one with functioning eyes and ears.

Sam quirked an exasperated, if unseen, smile at his brother before running inside to quickly pay for a room for a few days. He returned only a few minutes later to see Dean restlessly bouncing his leg up and down and twisting his amulet in his fingers. He stopped and tilted his head when Sam opened his door and climbed in, like he was straining to hear. Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder, but only for a second as reassurance before he backed up the car to move closer to their room.

Once parked again, he got out to go to the trunk and retrieve their bags. Dean was already out of the car by the time Sam rounded the back with their duffels. The unsteady man had a hand placed on the top of the Impala to give himself a reference point.

This was all so bizarre—unless they were dead on their feet, normally the brothers would be exchanging words as they moved. "Grab the salt, would you, Sammy?" and, "Which room is it?" Even if they didn't talk, they were always in sync, having unloaded at countless crappy motels over the years.

Wanting to pretend as much as possible that nothing was wrong, Sam said, "Here, Dean," and pressed the strap into his brother's free hand, knowing Dean wouldn't want to feel completely useless. Dean wrapped his hand around it, confused for only an instant before comprehension lit his face, and his arm compensated for the weight.

"Our room is number 16," Sam declared as if not talking to a deaf man. Clutching only his elbow this time, Sam guided Dean forward, lifting his grip up to indicate for Dean to step up onto the curb. That small hurdle overcome, the younger brother stopped their shuffling gait to unlock and open the door. He urged Dean ahead of him, careful not to let him bang into the doorway on the way in.

They maneuvered over to the far bed, and Sam noted that Dean stiffened when he somehow realized this. Well, tough. There was no way Sam was letting his brother be more vulnerable to threat than he already was.

Sam huffed to himself. Wouldn't Dean love to hear that. He hates being thought helpless. Sam reconsidered; it wasn't quite true that Dean was helpless. Even in this state, Sam was certain that he could still be dangerous.

Hunter though he was, right now Dean would never see or hear an attack coming. So, Sam had to be his eyes and ears until they figured this out. He let Dean's knees hit the edge of the bed frame so he'd know where it was and saw Dean toss his bag forward onto the bed in a practiced move before carefully turning to sit. Sam slung his own bag back onto the opposite bed and hurried back to the car to get the rest of their usual supplies.

After he closed and locked the door and set the bags on the table, he rushed to salt the doorway and windows. Finishing that up in record time, he crossed back over to his own bed and sat across from Dean.

His brother looked so normal, besides the rigid posture and unmoving gaze, that Sam could almost pretend nothing had happened to him. When really everything was so, so wrong. Sam looked deeper, and Dean seemed forlorn, disheartened, unsure what to do, but also managing to look frustrated at how little he could do for himself. Sam smiled wanly despite himself. Dean always was a stubborn moron. Fights everything too much. Whether it be using physical actions or simply through denial of a situation itself. Oftentimes, both.

The younger Winchester placed a hand on Dean's knee, and Dean's hand moved to hover over his before setting it back down by his side.

Sam suddenly had an idea how to communicate with his senseless brother. It wouldn't work for long conversations but hopefully would work where shorthand was enough to get by. At least until he figured something else out. He reached forward and captured Dean's hand, trying to do it slowly so as not to startle him too much, and brought his own other hand up. He rationalized that this would be easier if he sat next to Dean and moved across the few feet to his brother's side, their shoulders and knees brushing.

Dean didn't even tense at his proximity. Sam held his brother's hand flat, palm up, and brought his other hand over to their clasped ones. Using his finger, he meticulously drew capital letters on his brother's open palm.

E-A-T. Never mind that it was three o'clock in the morning.

Dean's brow furrowed, and he shook his hand, indicating to do it again.

Sam repeated the motions and Dean perked up, understanding. He hesitated, then cleared his throat and uttered, "Uh, sandwiches?" raising an eyebrow as he did so.

Sam smiled warmly. Dean's voice was a little rough and overly-loud, but it wasn't as if he could control his volume very well. Glad his improvisation would only have to go one way, for now, he drew a "Y" on Dean's hand to signify a "yes", hoping Dean would get what he was going for.

Dean grinned a little as if he knew Sam was smiling at him and nodded his gratitude. Sam wrote again, I G-O.

Dean frowned, knowing he had no choice. He sighed and shrugged, muttered, "I'll just wait here, then," too quiet this time, but Sam could still make it out. The younger brother rubbed between Dean's shoulder blades once before standing up. Dean tensed at his absence.

Sam tried to think of a way to keep Dean from freaking out while he was gone. "Just a sec." He went to their bags on the table to look for something. He rummaged around and pulled out Dean's pistol and his favorite knife. Figuring they would have to do for the time being, he strode over to stand in front of Dean again. He set down the weapons for a second and pulled Dean's hand to him again, refraining from grabbing too suddenly.

Snorting to himself—he usually tried to avoid chat-speak—he spelled out, B-R-B, before adding a "15", telling Dean he'd be back in fifteen minutes max.

As Dean nodded, Sam let go of his hand to pick the weapons back up. He pressed the grip of the handgun into one of Dean's hands and the knife's hilt into the other. He smirked fondly when the older hunter became instantly more at ease, now that he was armed. At least Dean would now have a chance of defending himself in a close-quarters fight. Sam tried not to think about how Dean would have no warning of such an attack and started to wonder if he should just order in. But he'd seen the 24-hour convenience store down the street as they drove in and promised himself he'd be back in ten minutes. Food or no food.

Sam reached out and ran his hand over Dean's head from back to front in an affectionate, ruffling motion and actually laughed when his big brother scowled his disapproval of such a gesture.

Trying to ignore the distinct wrongness he felt from leaving Dean here alone, he grabbed his jacket and rushed out, eager to return as soon as possible.

…

Dean knew that Sam was trying to make him feel better, not so defenseless, by giving him his knife and gun; but really, who were they kidding? Unless someone or something literally threw themselves at him and actually let him use his weapons, he couldn't hope to protect himself like this.

How in the world was he supposed to protect Sam?

He shoved that thought down, knowing he would only work himself into a panic again, what with Sam having gone out by himself.

Chill out. Sam said he'd be gone no more than fifteen minutes. Knowing him, it'll probably be ten.

Sitting there, rigid and anxious, he waited for what seemed like forever, though he knew it wasn't very long at all. In his state there was pretty much no way to gauge the passing of time, and the seconds he counted ticked by agonizingly slowly. Of course, it didn't help that he'd have no way of knowing if Sam had returned or not until he let Dean know.

He'd given up counting and was distracting himself by awkwardly twisting to test the tender bruises on his back that were, no doubt, colorful already, when he felt a hand on his bicep. Not being able to help the little jerk of surprise, he was startled into yanking his hand off his back. But relief washed over him now that his brother was back. And maybe it was a good thing he'd set down the knife or he may have just skewered Sam.

Except now Sam had noticed he was hurting some. Great. He just groaned in objection when he felt Sam's careful hand pull up the back of his shirt and freeze at the sight. Unquestionably, Sam was currently beating himself up for not noticing earlier, and he'd be apologizing, getting all worked up... After another moment Dean decided that he'd had enough and he reached back to push Sam's hands away. "It's fine, Sam. I've had worse."

His petulant little brother smacked him lightly on the back of his head, most likely for not telling him that he was hurt. Dean almost laughed. As if they didn't have bigger things to worry about than a little black and blue on his back. Like his predicament. Or communicating.

Then Sam wasn't there for a minute, and he wondered what he was doing. He berated himself for the hitch in his breathing and little jump of his heart. Geez, how embarrassing. He's probably just getting the food out. He wasn't really all that hungry, but he didn't want to make Sam worry any more right now. He grappled with the weapons so he could use his free hand to find the nightstand. Locating it, he carefully set them down and waited for Sam.

And then Sam was back, getting Dean up to lead him to the table where he sat him down. An oblong, cellophane-wrapped object was pressed into his hands, and he was eternally grateful that he'd requested something simple to eat. No mortifying attempts at aiming utensils at his mouth, or trying to find his food on a plate by feel.

Still, this was difficult enough. You never realize how much you rely on depth perception for the food's short journey between hands and mouth. He flushed when he hit his face with the sandwich sooner than expected, fumbling it a bit. He prayed Sam wasn't just sitting there watching him eat or something, feeling the need to help. He sure wasn't going to let his little brother feed him like a little kid.

As if nothing had happened, Dean bit off some of the sub sandwich, which turned out to be beef and cheese, the textures of slightly soggy lettuce and tomato slices mixed in. At least I didn't lose my sense of taste. Though it almost didn't make a difference, convenience store sandwiches were usually only edible at best. He continued slowly, concentrating on taking tentative bites without mishap. Still, this sucked. Out loud. He hadn't thought about how hard just freakin' eating would be. He tried hard not to imagine other previously mindless tasks that would now be too hard for him to accomplish on his own.

Dean hadn't been that hungry to start with, and after a few minutes of silent—duh—eating, he set down the uneaten portion. Some seconds later Sam put a questioning hand between his shoulder blades, and he just nodded, miffed that he needed help to get to his bed.

Once deposited there, Dean sat on the edge of the mattress and kicked off his boots. He stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, tossing his clothes carelessly in the general location of his bag. He cautiously felt around for the corner of the sheets so he could crawl under them. He wasn't surprised when his hand met another, which was holding up a fold of the blanket for him. Sighing wearily, he took it from the grasp and pulled it back, getting up so he could push all the blankets over. He lay down, wincing slightly at his sore back, and he rolled onto his side, facing the edge of the bed.

He closed his eyes, and it wasn't any darker than when he'd had them open.