Chapter 11:

Ten Days Later:

Detective Land frowned down at her computer screen, her mind whirring. She had not been able to have another proper conversation with Dean Richards for over a week now, and while in the absence of any further proof she had not been able to actually arrest him she still considered him the most likely perpetrator of the crime, and it infuriated her to think of him walking free after committing such atrocities.

She had spoken briefly with Sam, too, two days previously, when he was reliably conscious for more than a few seconds at a time. It had not been a helpful conversation: he had supported Dean's story in every way and confirmed that he was his brother. She just quite simply did not believe them: she had a gut feeling that something was wrong, and in her line of work she had learned to trust such feelings. Sam's testimony in particular seemed to support this: to be sure, he was still recovering and very weak, and no doubt traumatised by his ordeal. He had barely survived at all. But he had been so wary, spoken so quietly, so haltingly, forever glancing around for Dean, though of course it was hopeless behind his blindfold. She just did not trust this whole situation.

Which was why she had decided to check up on them. And now it turned out that Dean and Sam Richards did not exist, that there was no record of them anywhere, and that the credit card Dean had used to pay for their treatment was false.

She got to her feet. Asking them to come quietly was the first step.

…

"Well, Sam, I have to say you've done better than any of us expected," Dr Lucas told the silent young man before him, trying to sound cheerful. Five days ago Sam's fever had peaked and for an entire night Dr Lucas-not to mention Dean-had been convinced that he would not make it. But by the morning the crisis had passed and Sam had been sleeping more or less naturally, his body having fought off the infection in his leg by itself: the doctor had been able to tell Dean that amputation was not going to be necessary.

The next stage had been a further set of scans and operations on his head to try and ascertain why he still could not see. Dr Lucas had kept on reassuring the brothers that this was most likely a temporary deficiency, though with less and less conviction with every passing day, and three days ago he had performed a very specialised surgery on Sam's eyes-it was since then that he had been wearing the blindfold, to prevent inflammation.

"Guess you just couldn't bear to leave me to deal with all these hot nurses alone?" Dean quipped weakly. It seemed sometimes like all his life he had been putting on a game face for Sammy, because if he broke down his brother would just crumble. Certainly now he had never done anything harder: Sam may have survived, but now that the initial crisis was over all Dean could think about was how his little brother couldn't even see, and it was his fault, all entirely his fault. He could have listened to what Sam was telling him about the spirit-should have listened, should have been less arrogant and sure that he was right, should never have forced Sam to see that shrink and pushed him out on his own for those terrible last instants-should have been able to save him.

And now look at what had happened.

Sam turned to him, acknowledging the joke, but he did not smile. He had barely spoken since the crisis had passed: aside from that conversation with the detective, Dean could not remember more than half a dozen words his brother had uttered. Nor had he smiled: he seemed locked into his own world, shrunk away from reality simply because it hurt too much. It tore Dean apart to see it, to realise that this was the only way Sam thought he could survive the ruin that had become his life, and that there was nothing he could do: for once, there was no way to protect Sammy from this horror.

Dr Lucas leaned forwards now to ease the blindfold away from Sam's face. He was fairly sure he knew what they would find: the scans had shown up nothing, and this seemed all set to be yet another random occurrence, an effect of a blow to the head that no-one could explain and no-one could deal with. It was common enough, and tragic enough. Sure enough, when the fold of black fabric was removed from Sam's face, Dean could see him blinking, see his breath catch as those fragile hopes crumbled, see his sudden desperate struggle not to break right then and there, in front of them. He moved fast.

"Hey, doc, you think you could give us a few minutes?" Dr Lucas nodded wordlessly and backtracked silently out of the room: Dean moved forwards and almost instinctively gripped Sam around the shoulders. Sam's hands came up to his face to hide it: he had always hated anyone to see him cry.

"Hey, hey, Sammy, it's okay, it's not the end, it's okay…"

No reply from Sam, but Dean felt his body convulse on a choked sob. He gritted his teeth, feeling his heart breaking for the pain inside his little brother. "Sam, there's still a chance, your sight could just come back on it's own, you can't give up hope…"

"Dean," came Sam's muffled, tight voice. "Dean, I'm not…not gonna see again…have to…accept that…" His words caught and Dean felt him shudder, deep inside, with an intense and desperate agony. He had no more words: he could only sit there with Sam crying silently in his arms, helpless and bitterly alone. Sometimes, when you were a hunter, things went badly and you lost something. It was a risk they were all used to taking. But that didn't mean it couldn't destroy you when it finally happened-or when it happened to the person you cared about most in the world.

…

"Detective, I really don't think you should go in there right now," Dr Lucas told her, standing square in front of the door to Sam's room like a castle guard defending his keep. "The boy isn't going to see again, you need to give them some time."

Detective Land was impassive. "That's as may be, doctor, but this Dean has broken the law and I'm going to have to take him for questioning."

"Yes, I understand that," Dr Lucas told her. "But they're dealing with a crisis. I don't know how Sam's going to deal with it, it's a huge blow. He needs his brother right now."

But her eyes were steely, inhuman. "Move aside, doctor."

Dean glanced up as the door burst open, expecting it to be Dr Lucas, but when he saw the detective he rose to his feet. Sam did not move from his huddled curl on the bed, hands still pressed against his face-it was as if he just did not care.

"Something wrong, detective?"

"There might be, Mr Richards," she said calmly. "Maybe we could step outside for a minute?"

Dean glanced down at Sam, then shook his head. "Whatever it is, you might as well tell us now."

"Maybe you could explain how you two apparently don't exist, then?"

Dean cursed silently. These things picked their moments…

"What makes you say that?" he demanded, playing for time, thinking fast. Whenever he had been in this situation before he had been able to run, to get out fast, avoid the law, but that wasn't an option right now, Sam was too weak to handle a prison break, they had no time…

"You apparently were never born, is what I mean," Detective Land stated. "And incidentally, your credit card faces similar doubt."

Well, that did it. He was going to have to get Sam out of here now, there was nothing else for it. But how was he going to do that?

"All that matters now," she went on, "Is whether you're going to come quietly or if I'm going to have to use force. Your brother I think can stay here, I imagine you're the real guilty party."

Why did everyone think that? Dean wondered in faint indignation. It was probably Sammy's puppy dog eyes, just making it impossible for anyone to mistrust him…thinking about Sam's eyes hurt. He raised his hands defensively.

"Okay, lady. I'll come with you, but my brother's just had a helluva shock and I need to be with him. Can't you give me five minutes to sort this out?" She looked dubious. "Please. Don't you know what it's like to have a brother?"

Something flickered in her eyes, a softening. Wow, thought Dean. Maybe she is human after all. She nodded.

"Five minutes," she said. "No more. I'll be outside the door the entire time." And she turned and marched out, slamming the door after her. Dean turned back to Sam, mind buzzing with urgency.

"Sammy, we're gonna have to get outa here somehow, okay? You okay? Damn-" He had come up against a brick wall. Sam couldn't even walk. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, trying to think, to reason. Nothing. At that moment Sam raised his head, mouth tightening in determination.

"Is there a window in here?" he asked hoarsely. Dean glanced to the side.

"Yeah."

"How high?"

Dean went to check. "Two storeys up. But you'll never make it, with your leg…"

Sam nodded, took a deep, steadying breath. "Go," he rasped. "Go, Dean, get outa here. They don't suspect me, remember?"

Dean stood motionless as a kind of panic flowered within, rising fast to rage. "No," he said firmly. "No way, Sammy, I am not leaving you here!"

"It's the only way," Sam returned angrily. "I can't run, there's no chance you'll escape if you've got me to look after. I'll get out later and I'll find you. But you need to go now or you're gonna end up in jail."

Dean strode back to the bed and grabbed Sam's arm. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "Sam, you won't be able to find me. You can't see!"

Sam screwed his eyes tight closed for the space of one second. "I know," he whispered. "But I'll be okay for a few days yet. You don't have any time. Please, Dean-" His eyes widened as if he could really see his big brother, pleading. "This way we can both make it out. I'll…I'll be okay, Dean. I promise."

Dean scowled to hide his anguish-he knew that Sam was right, that this was the only way, but it killed him to do it, went against every one of his instincts. To leave Sam to the cops, to abandon him after such an ordeal, sightless and helpless and injured-it was the direct antithesis of his personality, of his role in the world. He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

But if it was the only way…

"I am coming back for you, you understand?" he snarled into Sam's face. "I am coming back, and you had damn well better be okay, because if you get sick again or if anything else goes wrong with your freaky body I am going to kick your scrawny ass, you hear me? You hear me, Sammy?"

"It's Sam," Sam reminded him softly. "I'll be okay." His voice was quiet, catching on every word: Dean only hoped it was the smoke inhalation and not because he was fighting the tears. He stood up, hating himself, hating the world that made this necessary, hating the nobility and stupid courage that burned inside Sam-if only Sam would cry and plead with him to stay, not to leave him, be a coward or a child instead of who he was, and then Dean could do what seemed right to him. But no. "You take care of yourself, b*tch," he ordered.

"You too, jerk."

Dean went to the window, rolled it up and looked out. There was a handy bush positioned just beneath it, making the jump easy. He silently prayed he wouldn't break his ankle, swung his legs over the sill and cast one final glance at Sam. The kid was turned towards the open window, maybe judging the direction of his brother's exit-abandonment-by feeling the wind on his face.

"Get a move on," Sam said.

"Make sure your ass is still here when I get back," Dean returned, and jumped.

…

Dean ducked out of the hospital parking lot and headed for a patch of dark trees across the road, diving into the shadows and making his way on from there. He had parked the Impala two streets away, out of an old automatic precaution-they had a lot of those, in their family, although apparently not quite enough-and it only took him a few minutes to reach it. He got into the driver's seat and jammed the keys into the ignition, fighting not to look at the empty passenger seat where Sam should have been, if everything was right.

"I'm coming back for you, little b*tch," he muttered, and feeling as if another body moved his, he started the engine and eased the car out onto the open road.

He drove non-stop for four hours, until he had long passed the state boundary, thus far having met with no pursuit, before stopping in a forest track, pulling over and just sitting there in the driver's seat, head leaning on the wheel, unable to believe how badly he had screwed up, and how horribly wrong everything had gone. How Sam was suffering, endlessly suffering, blind and alone, for his mistakes.

Okay before anyone yells at me, what other way could they have done it? And Dean will be back, I promise, really really soon…I know nobody's going to like that he left Sam but it's not for long. You'll find out how Sam will deal with all this in the next chapter which I will try to get up tomorrow or the next day…please review!