Hi again, you wonderful readers. I'm overwhelmed at the response to this story. You have no idea how ecstatic I am that so many of you are enjoying this story. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I really appreciate your response to the question from last chapter, too. FYI - I know what I will do with this story, but I'm going to keep it to myself in an effort to keep the end result of at least one story secret. Enjoy the next installment. And as always, reviews are love!
Dean comes fully awake just before dinner time, startling at the sound of the clanging carts being pushed down the hallway. One of the nurses has made arrangements for a tray to be brought to Dean, but he refuses to eat it, unwilling to be fed by someone else even in his still half groggy state. Finally, Sam gives up pushing the food on him and proceeds to swirl it around the plate for several minutes before taking a few bites of it himself. He hadn't realized just how hungry he's been.
They sit in silence through an IV change, and then longer still through a nurse changing the bandages around Dean's eyes. Dean waits until after the nurse leaves the room before he makes a comment.
"I guess the surgery failed," Dean whispers, so quiet Sam isn't sure he heard right.
"What, Dean?" Sam leans in closer to his brother, breath hitched and hands clenched. He hopes he didn't hear what he thinks he did.
"The surgery," Dean repeats, only slightly louder. "I still can't see."
Holding back a grimace, in spite of the fact that Dean can't see it, Sam stops breathing entirely. He's been over this conversation a thousand times in his head since early that afternoon, yet he still never was able to fully wrap his mind around it. Pretending everything is fine, ignoring the giant white elephant in the room, seemed to be working just fine for him. Until now...
"Dean, it's...you just...give it some time." He can't bring himself to look at his brother. Instead, he stands and begins pacing the room, mentally berating himself for being unable to remain strong in the face of such adversity. Dean needs you, you ass. Get it together.
"What did the doctors say, Sam?"
Sam looks over at his brother, sees the slight cock of his head as he tries to follow the sound of Sam's footsteps, tries to figure out where his brother is in the room. His aim is slightly off, looking just to the left of where Sam stands. At this point Dean doesn't seem angry or frustrated - it's too early in the game for that - but he does seem weak and frail, like a small child missing his teddy bear.
"The scarring on your face will be very minimal," Sam replies, making every effort to discuss only the upsides to the surgery in hopes that Dean won't notice that he's omitted the biggest part. "The skin grafts seem to have taken. Dr. Reddig's work is impeccable, Dean. Better than I can do, that's for sure."
"You never were the greatest with a needle and thread, Sammy-boy. I could out-stitch you every day of the week."
"It's a wonder I wasn't a master at it, seeing as how you were always the one getting sliced up," Sam says, forcing humor as he goes along with Dean's line of ribbing.
"Someone had to protect your scrawny ass. If you weren't such a demon magnet maybe I wouldn't have gotten hurt so many times trying to save you." He pauses, then adds, "So my beauty is still intact."
"If you could call it beauty," Sam quips. "Let's just say you're not any uglier than you ever were."
Dean nods thoughtfully. He chews on his bottom lip and fidgets with the sheets as he waits for Sam to continue. For several minutes all that answers is an uncomfortable silence until Dean is once again forced to take the lead. "What about my eyes, Sam?"
"Huh? Your eyes?"
Dean sighs. He can tell where this is going, and he doesn't like it. "Yes, Sam, my eyes. What did the doctors say about my eyes?"
"They don't know what we know, Dean," Sam hastily replies, responding with what is clearly a non-answer.
That in itself gives Dean the answer he fears, but he pushes anyway. Until Sam says it, it's not true. It can't be true. "Sam," he says in a low, warning growl. He hears his brother jump, hears the deep intake of breath.
"Please, Dean, just trust me. I can fix this. I can make it right."
"Fix what, Sam? What did they say?"
"Nothing, Dean," Sam says, voice thick with exasperation and desperation alike. "They didn't say anything important. It's not true. We can fix it. We have contacts, people we can call."
"I don't want you calling anyone, Sam. I want you to tell me what the doctors said about my eyes. When will I see again?"
Another deadly silence fills the air. Dean can feel the suffocating thickness that comes with dread. He knows this is it, that Sam is finally about to tell him what he's demanding to know, and suddenly he isn't quite sure he wants to hear it."
"Never," Sam forces out in a hoarse whisper.
He can hear his baby brother's voice hitch, and wonders if maybe he's crying. Nah, not Sammy, Dean convinces himself. Winchester's don't cry. So why then, is there such a tightening in his own chest at the single word coming from his brother's mouth.
"They said there was just too much scarring, that the damage went too deep. Dr. Korpashan said if you're lucky you might be able to distinguish between shades of light and dark, but you won't ever see again."
And boy, when Sammy finally opens up he really opens up. Never, would have sufficed for Dean. He doesn't need to hear the rest. Doesn't need the clinical explanation that closes the coffin lid on his hopes to be normal again, someday. Now that he knows what Sam didn't want to tell him, Dean can understand why it was so important for Sam to grasp onto the little bit of hope - of their supernatural insight - to keep spirits up.
"We'll get a second opinion," Sam says, just as Dean slumps against the mattress of the bed in defeat. "A third, a fourth. I think I remember Dad mentioning a shaman in his journal. We could look him up - maybe he could help."
"Yeah, maybe," Dean says half-heartedly. The gears in his mind are already spinning, considering the ramifications of being blind, of being a blind hunter. It's too much of a liability. He's not safe if he can't see his attackers, Sam is not safe without him there to watch his back. The lives they lead require perfection, and the scariest part of all is that the Winchester's are hunted as much as they are hunters. Backing off and lying low is not an option granted to them.
"I promise, we're going to get through this, Dean. I'll call Bobby and Missouri - everyone we know. Someone has to have an answer."
"I don't want you calling them," Dean nearly growls. "I don't want you calling anyone."
"What? Why?" Sam asks in an almost childish whine.
"Just– Please, Sam, don't call them. I don't want anyone to know."
Sam opens his mouth to question once again, but stops himself. He doesn't know the exact reasoning behind Dean's request, but he's got ideas. And it's not really such a bad thing to grant Dean's request. At least for now. He doesn't have to promise not to do it forever, and maybe in the future he'll be better able to establish Dean's reasoning. "Alright, Dean. I won't call them now. But I'm still going to do everything in my power to fix this. That's a promise."
The day after Dean comes fully lucid is more of the same: silence, silence, and more silence. It nearly drives Sam to insanity, yet he's doing no better at creating conversation than Dean. He's tried to talk, but not about anything Dean wants to discuss.
The problem is that Sam wants to talk about a cure, but after a long conversation with Dr. Korpashan the night before Dean is no longer willing to embrace the idea. He's too afraid of being let down, discovering once and for all that he will never see again. It's easier to pretend there aren't options; it keeps him from worrying that any option will end in failure.
Dean, on the other hand, has been trying all morning to convince Sam to leave him behind, that it's no longer safe to be around him. "I can't protect you, Sam," Dean has said too many times to count, to which Sam replies, "I don't need your protection. I do just fine on my own." But it's not enough, for either of them. Neither is happy with what the other has resigned himself to thinking.
So Dean shoots down all of Sam's attempts to discuss cures, and Sam, in turn, shoots down all of Dean's attempts at pushing him away, until ultimately the day results in complete and utter silence.
"I'm going for a walk," Sam finally says. Dean has no idea what time it is, but he knows it's sometime after lunch. "Will you be alright here by yourself?"
Sam scrutinizes his brother, looking for signs of insecurity and finds a whole slew of them. Dean hasn't relaxed since he became fully cognizant of his infirmity. The head of the bed sits at an almost ninety degree angle, yet Dean refuses to lean back against it. His hands grip the corners of he sheet so tightly his knuckles are white with the effort, legs poised and ready as though he's just waiting for a need to bolt from the bed to safety. Dean's head has not stopped moving despite the obvious pain the spastic jerks of motion as he turns in the direction of the slightest sounds causes to the fresh stitches. He keeps his breathing even and shallow, a hunters trick to magnify surrounding sounds and keep his own breaths from muffling them.
Yet, regardless of the clear tells Dean lets off Sam finds himself unable to sit in the room any longer. He needs a chance to regroup, an opportunity to think about what he's pushing on his brother, the options they have. He needs to figure out a better way to present the options so that Dean won't shut them down before they can even take tangible form. Sam knows his brother is scared and hurting and completely uncertain of the future, but right now he's about ready to tear him a new one for not being willing to fight back.
Dean stiffens at Sam's announcement, but forces a calm facade in his words. "Could you bring me a coffee when you return?"
Realizing the request for what it is, Dean's calculated attempt at telling Sam not to be gone too long, Sam nods. Then realizes that Dean can't see him nod, and kicks himself mentally - again. "Coffee it is," Sam croaks. "I'll be back soon."
For a minute Sam's hand hovers over Dean's shoulder, but he can't bring himself to complete the touch. It was one thing when Dean was so out of it from the drugs; that touch was about the only thing keeping his brother grounded. But now he's lucid, and solid comfort is not the Winchester way. Finally, Sam drops his hand to his side and repeats, "I'll be back," before stepping from the room and leaving Dean alone.
Guilt immediately embraces Sam for being so selfish as to leave his blind brother alone and helpless. For a minute Sam debates on turning right back around and returning to Dean's side. But his stubbornness wins out. That, and the fact that Sam knows clearing his mind is the only thing that will make the rest of this bearable. Right now, he can trust the nurses on the floor to care for Dean. But once they leave the hospital it will be all Sam, all the time. There will be no more opportunity to be alone, to slip out and know that Dean will be okay. So Sam forces himself to walk away from the room, off the floor, out of the building entirely.
Getting to the Impala, Sam climbs in and just sits, thinks. It's snowing outside and he pulls the collar of his jacket around his neck as he watches the steady fall of crisp white flakes floating from the sky to build up on the hood of the car and the ground surrounding it. He's not yet been willing to discuss with the doctors the exact ramifications of Dean's blindness, but that doesn't stop him from thinking up ideas of his own.
Dean being blind means his brother can't drive his car anymore, can't wield a gun, can't earn them money in the ways he's become accustomed. Navigating hotel rooms will be a complicated task, but then again, their days of hunting might as well be over anyway, so maybe they'll have to settle down somewhere. Sam can find a job - a legitimate job - and they can settle into a small house. He knows Dean won't like that, but what other choice do they have?
Once again Sam considers calling Missouri or Bobby. He feels so lost and alone right now, needs a friendly voice to tell him everything will be alright. But ultimately it's a selfish desire, and one that he can't force himself to break his promise to Dean for.
When he finally decides to head back inside he's freezing from the cold temperature, fingers like ice, but he's really not feeling all that much clearer mentally. Sam has come up with a whole encyclopedia's worth of 'what if's' and 'how to's,' but still has no facts, has made no firm decisions. The only thing Sam really knows is what not to do, not to call their friends, not to leave Dean alone no matter how much he insists on it, not to give up.
It's been over an hour since Sam left, but he still stops at the cafeteria for the coffee he's promised Dean. Gotta make this look real. I didn't just up and leave him. He gets two large mugs of freshly brewed gut rot and it burns his hands through the too-thin cardboard cups as he rides the elevator to his brother's floor.
Struggling with the door while juggling the two cups of coffee Sam finally manages to push it open and then stands there in the open doorway watching his brother. Dean appears to be asleep, chest rising and falling gently in his light doze. He's on his side, one arm slipped under the pillow beneath his head, the other resting in front of him.
Sam hesitates before entering, then tiptoes quietly into the room, setting the steaming coffees on the small dresser beside the bathroom door before making his way over to Dean. He hesitates for a minute, then his hand comes out to stroke Dean's hair.
Sam barely touches Dean when his brother's hand reaches up and grabs Sam by the wrist, pulling him down as the other arm snakes out around his body. Dean has a plastic knife clutched in his right hand that is now pressed firmly against Sam's neck, bruising the area near his carotid artery.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Dean growls, jerking at Sam as he adjusts his grip.
"De–" Sam rasps out, voice barely above a whisper. "Dean, it's Sam. It's Sam! Please, Dean."
"Sammy?" Dean whimpers in a very un-Dean-like voice. He relaxes almost immediately, dropping the knife from his now limp grip. His hands tremble as he scrambles to sit up straighter in the bed.
"I'm sorry, Sam. God, I'm sorry. Where–" He jerks his head around spastically, trying in vain to find his brother. But even if he could see, the gauze wrapped around his eyes prevents it.
"I'm right here, Dean," Sam says. He's panting, his own hands shaking, as he sits beside Dean, knee to knee. All he can think is Thank God it was me who came in and not some nurse. He could have killed someone.
"Sam, I– I didn't– I could have–" Dean knows it, too. And he's just as scared as Sam.
"Yeah, Dean, I know. I know. It's okay, now, though. I've gotcha. I'm here."
"I don't want to be blind," Dean moans, leaning heavily into Sam. "I can't live like this."
"I know, Dean. I know. We'll fix this."
After that, Sam makes a point to enter the room slowly, sure to announce his presence before he is anywhere near Dean. He clears his throat, scuffs his feet, and finally speaks his brother's name before ever leaving the safety of the doorway. Dean jumps anyway.
But at least Sam is safe.
"Hey bro, it's just me," Sam says softly. He pulls the chair up to the bed and sits down, studying his brother's movements. Dean seems to relax a bit at Sam's presence, but he's still stiff and unsure of himself. His hands grip the blanket on either side of the bed, head turning toward any sound he hears despite the fact that he can't see them, and he never fully sits back against the bed despite the fact that it is in its most vertical position.
"Time is it?" Dean mumbles in response. He's become time obsessed in the last few days, asks the question dozens of times in the course of an afternoon.
"Little after three," Sam replies.
"And it's Sunday?"
"Yeah, Dean. It's Sunday."
"It's been five days?"
"Yes. You've been here since Tuesday. Actually, I think the doctors are going to come talk to us today about moving you to rehab."
"Don't think I want to go to rehab. Just want to get back to normal." Dean's voice is so weak, his posture so insecure. He's gotten progressively worse in the last few days, quickly losing his stubborn defiance only to be replaced by terrified innocence.
It's not that he's any more willing to accept help; quite the opposite really, as he spends more and more time pushing Sam and the hospital staff away. But he's still not his usual self. Not by a long shot.
Dean spends his days sitting rigidly on his bed. He refuses to move. Sam has offered to take him for a walk down the hall several times to no avail, and even getting Dean to make a trip to the bathroom is like pulling teeth. He doesn't eat, instead simply picks at the finger food placed in front of him, and barely drinks. The slightest sound makes Dean startle, people brushing too close to him makes him flinch. An orderly dropped a tray outside his room the other day and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin, refusing to relax until he was convinced that Sam was alright. He still talks to Sam, but it's short and succinct, to the point only. And they don't talk about his eyes.
The bandages have been removed and changed several more times in the past week, his eyes poked and prodded, tests performed. And it's led only to the conclusive evidence that Dean is permanently blinded in both eyes. He's sensitive to light, and the doctors have already told Sam to buy him a pair of dark glasses for when the bandages are permanently removed. Dean knows the glasses now sit on the bedside table, Oakley's - Only the best for my brother, Sam said. Yet all Dean can think about is how did Sam come up with the money to pay for the glasses? There has never been any question about who was the better card shark, the better pool hustler. Those just were never things Sam did well. And now they are things Dean will never do again.
Sam's heart nears the breaking point when Dean tells him he wants to get back to normal, because he knows Dean will never see that normal again. The normal life that Dean has led as a hunter, life on the road, hustling for money, picking up girls, 'saving people, hunting things, the family business,' is a thing of the past. Sam is certain they'll create a new normal, but it will never be the same. This new normal is sure to include obstacles, a few he can already figure out and a ton more they haven't even discovered yet. Rehab is really the only option the brothers have at discovering the best normal available to them.
"I know you don't want to go," Sam says in a placating tone. "But I need you to give it a try. For me."
"For you?"
"Yeah, Dean. Please? I need to understand this as much as you do. I'll be learning, too."
A short pause. "Alright, Sam. I'll go."
It's the easiest Dean has ever given in to something, and that scares Sam more than the void of unknowns they're about to face.
Less than an hour later Dean's room is overrun by doctors and nurses as they convene to remove bandages once and for all, and to discuss options for the future. The scars on Dean's face are healing nicely, just a series of pink lines after Dr. Reddig removes the stitches, and Sam has no doubt they will fade to almost nothing in the coming weeks. The pleased look on Reddig's face seems to confirm those thoughts.
Dr. Korpashan then presents the brothers - Sam, specifically - with a stack of pamphlets discussing rehabilitation centers. There is one in particular that she seems to be pushing, and has already called them to determine an opening. "They will be ready for you tomorrow, if you like," she urges, tapping the pamphlet that corresponds with this particular location.
Sam looks down at the colorful cover on the thick pamphlet proclaiming The Claude March Rehabilitation Center for the Blind. On the front are several candid photos of therapists and patients in various stages of therapy, and beneath the bold faced letters are tiny bumps raised on the page. Braille, he realizes. A knot forms in his throat and he gulps it down before it manages to take hold of his emotions.
Looking over at Dean, face now uncovered as his scarred, sightless eyes roam with no destination in the dim light of the room, Sam realizes that his brother has yet to speak. Chances are he won't until they are alone. And this is definitely something he needs to discuss with his brother before they make any decisions.
"Can you give us a few minutes to discuss this?" Sam asks the doctors, eyes shifting to the door in case his words don't get the point across.
If anything, Dr. Reddig is intuitive, and he quickly stands with a slight tug on Dr. Korpashan's shoulder. "Of course. It's a big decision. We'll go."
"Please call me when you have made a decision," Korpashan adds as she follows her colleague out the door, leaving Sam and Dean alone.
Sam waits only as long as it takes to close the door before he's addressing Dean. "It looks like a good facility, bro. Should give you everything you need to get back on your feet."
"Do I have to stay there overnight?"
Sam swallows as he watches Dean's unseeing eyes dart in search of Sam's voice. They rest on his shoulder, just off enough to remind him that Dean can't see, to make it all that much more true. "For a while," he finally says. "But not forever."
"Tell me I can leave when I want to," Dean says firmly, a hint of his old self peeking through.
"What?" Sam seems caught off guard by the question, as though he's not entirely sure what Dean means.
"The rehab center," Dean repeats. "I'll go, but only on the condition that I get to leave when I want to. If I don't like it, if it's not working out, you take me out of there the minute I say."
Sam freezes for a minute, contemplating the deal Dean is proposing. He knows it's a bad idea, too much power on his brother's shoulders. But how can he deny him that one wish? Finally, hesitantly, Sam nods, his neck rubbing against the collar of his shirt.
"Are you nodding, Sam?" Dean demands, a scowl on his face. "Cause I can't see you nodding, you jerk."
A snort, then Sam says aloud, "Yeah Dean, you've got yourself a deal. But I've got a condition of my own."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"You have to try," Sam says sternly. He stands, faces Dean, and plants his big hands one on each of his brother's shoulders for emphasis. "I don't want you sitting like a lump on your bed for days at a time, not trying, and then tell me you're ready to go. You have to actually put forth an effort at therapy or it's no deal."
Dean takes a minute to mull over the deal Sam has laid out on the table, chewing on his bottom lip in contemplation. But finally he, too, nods tentatively. "Alright, you've got a deal. But there's one more thing."
"Alright," Sam laughs, thinking this 'one more thing' ruse could go on forever. "Lay it on me, bro."
"You take me there. No ambulance transport or hospital shuttle, and no hospital staff riding shotgun. Just you, me, and the Impala taking a nice long detour to this place. No hurry to get there."
Sam doesn't even have to think about that one. It's an easy request, and one that assures Sam his brother is still in there, buried beneath a wall of hurt and uncertainty. Dean is trying to break free, and he's more than willing to encourage that.