Here we go again guys - and once again you all are awesome. FYI, I had never intended to write a road trip into the space between the last chapter and this one, it just seemed like a logical stopping point. However, I can assure you there there will be plenty of time on the road in the upcoming chapters. Hopefully that won't disappoint too much. Enjoy! And as always, remember reviews are like puppy treats - they keep me eager to perform!

Dean lasts a week in the rehab facility. Which is, to be fair, six days and twenty-three hours longer than Sam expected him to last, but still a good twelve weeks-plus shorter than he should have stayed.

He remains true to his word, accepting the help that the therapists offer and making a noble effort to learn everything there is to learn in spite of his disgust at how helpless it makes him feel. On the days when Sam has time to watch Dean from afar he actually has to give his brother credit for the amount of effort he's putting in; it's clear that he wants to become as self-sufficient as possible.

Rehab is all about learning new ways to do old tasks. It's about determining ways of recognizing items that otherwise would be indistinguishable now. In his wallet now are five dollar bills folded in half lengthwise, tens widthwise and twenty's folded lengthwise then widthwise so he can tell the difference. He learns a system, like the face of a clock, to establish positioning of his food and general household items. Meat goes at 6:00, vegetable at 3:00, starch at 9:00. Cups always sit at 1:00, just above the dinner plate.

They give Dean the traditional white cane the second day he's there and immediately set him loose in the halls with one of the therapists. He's slow and hesitant, gets frustrated easily, and stumbles often despite the fact that there is nothing in front of him. Dean makes a point of keeping one hand on the wall at his side, which the therapist says is okay for orientation, and keeps the other extended forward, gripping tightly to the handle of the cane, as he taps out his destination. The cane moves in a swinging arc, seeking out any obstructions that might trip him up. He feels ridiculous doing it, but can come up with no other alternative.

He is taught to count his steps for frequent destinations. 12 steps from the head of his bed to the bathroom, 8 to the bedroom door, from the his door to the dining hall is 74 and another 16 to the table that he always sits at with Sam. Family is allowed to come and go as they please, but the hesitant way Dean always asks 'so I'll see you at lunch? (Or breakfast, or dinner)' ensures that Sam is always there.

He hasn't made any other friends, refuses to talk to anyone beyond what they insist upon in group therapy sessions, and stays in his room or with Sam during free time. A few of the patients have tried to engage Dean in discussions, and some have even gone so far as to invite him for games or to listen to the TV, but he always adopts a polite smile (not that any of them can see it anymore than he can) and excuses himself to his room, tapping out the steps as he inches along.

There are simple solutions for identifying objects that are Dean's, and not Sam's, or identifying like shaped objects. A rubberband goes around the handle of his toothbrush to distinguish it from Sam's, and another around the handle of his razor. One band goes around the shampoo, two around the conditioner to tell the two bottles apart.

Dean's therapist tells him eventually he can learn braille and use it to label most household items, but Dean can't think of many things left in their small collection of belongings that will need to be labeled. He can just see Sam pulling out the braille labels for machete, Rugger, rifle, holy water, crossbow. No, Dean's days of wielding their cache of weapons is now over, which significantly lowers the number of possessions he has to distinguish between.

All things considered, Dean is doing relatively well in the rehab hospital. So it surprises Sam the morning he shows up to find Dean stumbling around his room, collecting the neatly put away clothes from the dresser and tossing them haphazardly into his duffle.

"Dean, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Sam demands, crossing the room and bracing his hands on Dean's shoulders. "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving, Sam. You told me we could go on my terms. You said I had to give this a try, but that I could go when I was ready. I'm ready, Sam. I want to leave."

"Alright, alright. But what happened, Dean? Why now?"

"Sam, I just want to go. Please."

"I said we would," Sam says, "But I just want to know why. You were doing so well. What changed?"

Hands splayed out in front of him, Dean finds the edge of the bed and sits, defeat plastered on his face. "I've learned everything they can teach me here. The rest, I want to learn with you."

Sam sighs, clearly frustrated by the series of non answers that Dean is throwing at him. There is so much more to learn. Dean has only breached the tip of the iceberg. "You're scared of something."

"I'm not scared," Dean snaps a little too hastily.

"Oh you're not, huh?"

"No! I just...I'm just tired of being here. I don't like it. I don't feel safe."

A part of that seems logical, and Sam backs off for a fraction of a second before he storms ahead, knowing that's not the only reason Dean is running. "What else, Dean? I know there's more. Tell me."

There is a heavy silence that falls upon the room for a minute as Dean gathers up the courage to admit the real reason he wants to leave. "They want to parade us around like freaks," he finally says, voice lowered, shoulders slumped. If he could see, he would be staring down at his hands, watching the fingers twine around each other nervously.

"What?" Sam's initial reaction is to be livid with the facility. What the hell are they thinking? But there must be more to this. They've been nothing but supportive and patient, certainly not in the habit of screwing with their patients' minds. "What are you talking about?"

Dean sighs and seems to deflate even more. "Today is supposed to be a field trip. They're taking everyone out to the center of town and expect us to work on what we've learned."

"What's so wrong with that?"

"What's not wrong with it, Sam? Everyone will be looking at us, feeling sorry for us. They'll know..."

And there it is. The unspoken words mixed in with everything else. Not us, me. Everyone will be looking at me, feeling sorry for me. Dean is terrified of making a spectacle of himself in public, of calling attention to himself and his disability. Winchester's live in the shadows, they blend in. They don't stick out like sore thumbs in public. And it doesn't help that Dean is still a wanted man, by humans and demons alike. Sam may have managed to get him out of the deal he made for his life, but that doesn't mean they fell off the supernatural radar.

"So, be honest with me," Sam says. "If I take you out of here, are you still going to work with me to learn everything you haven't mastered yet? Are you going to let me help you? Or are you going to go back to hiding out in a hotel room? Cause I gotta tell you, bro, you may not want to go out there with the rest of the group but that doesn't mean I'm letting you avoid it entirely."

"I just don't want to be so obvious," Dean insists. "There's too many of us. We'll be some kind of freak show out there. Too visible. Too vulnerable."

It doesn't seem fair that Dean has to put his recovery on the line because of what he hunts - and what hunts him. But Sam sees no other alternative; Dean is right, he can't be so conspicuous.

"Alright, Dean, we'll go. Let me just tell your therapists and I'll come back and get you. Finish packing."

Dean stiffens. "What are you going to tell them?" I'm too much of a target? I'm a little wuss that can't go outside without his blankie? What, Sam?

"I'll think of something," Sam assures Dean in a way that tells the older hunter the truth - whatever it is - will be nowhere near the story Sam is about to weave.

Twenty minutes later the therapists are frustrated and disappointed that they can't change Sam's mind about taking his brother out of the facility. Sam has told them that their dear Aunt Millie, from Utah, is ill and needs our help, but the therapists can only see a piece of the picture. Deanneeds help, too, they insist to an unrelenting Sam. He's not going to be able to help care for an old woman - he isn't even able to care for himself, yet.

"I'm sorry," Sam repeats over and over again as he removes himself from the room. "You guys have been great. I'll get Dean enrolled in another program as soon as we get where we're going." It's an all out lie, but somehow they finally accept it. As long as Dean gets help. And he will - Sam will help him.

Sam has to walk past the lobby to get back to Dean's room, which is lucky because that's where he finds his brother, sunglasses prominently displayed on his face, bag slung up over his shoulder as he feels along the wall for the exit. For the most part he knows his way around the interior of the facility, but as Sam watches his brother he realizes that save for the ride from the hospital to here Dean hasn't been outside since he was blinded. He can't even find the door to get outside, and Sam knows it will be so much worse once he's actually out there.

"You got everything?" Sam asks, swallowing down the feelings of trepidation in his gut. Dean may think he's ready for this, but I'm not sure I am.

Snorting humorlessly, Dean shrugs and hands his bag over to Sam. "Think so. Your guess is as good as mine."

It certainly doesn't make Sam feel any better, and he has to suppress the urge to tell Dean to wait there as he runs back to check the room for any items left behind. But it's a can of worms Sam knows better than to open, so instead he takes Dean by the shoulders and points him in the direction of the exit.

"Let's blow this popsicle stand then, bro."

The air is brisk and gloomy, snow obviously on the horizon, as Sam pulls the Impala into the parking space in front of the same room he's been staying in for two weeks. He wonders how much time they have left on Kristoff Froulein's visa gold before they have to be on their way, but the thought is fleeting as his eyes fall to his brother's fingers scrabbling for the door handle. Sam is up and out of the car in an instant, hurrying to Dean's side just as his brother gets the door open and starts to pull himself from the vehicle.

"Watch your head there, bro," Sam says nonchalantly as he slides his hand between the small gap between the door frame and the crown of Dean's head. "Here, let me help you." Once Dean is out of the car Sam immediately shifts his hold to his brother's shoulders.

"Dude, get off me," Dean snaps almost immediately. He shrugs out of Sam's grasp but remains rigid against the car, one hand holding on tight to the roof - his only form of orientation.

Sam jumps back, clearly stung by Dean's harshness, and tries to figure out what has happened in the short period of time between the rehab facility and the motel. But he can't think of a thing. They didn't talk, but that's not altogether unusual. Dean had allowed himself to be led to the car and slipped inside without complaint, hands fumbling a minute with the seatbelt until he was successful. Sam had put in one of his favorite Metallica tapes and made a point to drive the car extra gentle, knowing that - blind or not - Dean would feel every pothole he drove through and every ounce of unnecessary torque he put on the engine. At one point Sam had looked over to find Dean's hands ghosting across the dashboard, feeling out all the knobs and buttons and crevices, all the idiosyncracies that made up his car. But that hadn't led to any arguments, and Sam is at a loss for anything that might have affected Dean enough to make him shrug off Sam's help out of the blue.

"I'm just trying to get you to the room," Sam finally says, forcing himself to keep his voice to an even, non-threatening, tone.

"Yeah, well, I don't–" Dean comes to a dead stop as he realizes what he's about to say is no longer true. Damn it, Dean. You're such a loser. Of course you need Sam's help - you can't see to get inside the room. You don't even know where the room is. Stupid, blind loser! But he's hardly ready to admit that out loud. So instead, he covers with, "I don't need you manhandling me, sasquatch. Geez, quit being all grab-handy. I'm not gonna fall. Com'ere, gimme your arm."

Rolling his eyes, and grateful Dean can't see him do it, Sam steps to Dean's side and nudges him in the ribs with his elbow. Dean uses the contact to his advantage and slides his hand up Sam's arm until he's located the space just between Sam's elbow and shoulder, and rests his hand there.

"Alright, now lets go." He's gritting his teeth against the intense desire to just let go and find his own way. Or, even more, to reel back and punch his brother hard in the cheek, just to see if he still can. If he's still got it. But he holds it in. It's Sammy, man. Your brother. You don't want to hit your baby brother.

Once inside, Dean drops Sam's arm like a hot potato and waits for Sam to step around him. He can feel Sam hesitate, almost thinks he's going to have to order him to back off, but then there's a slight rustle of air as Sam silently stalks off. Two similar sounding thumps follow, spaced just seconds apart, and then another, louder thump and the sound of creaking springs before Sam speaks.

"Your bag's on the bed, the one closest to the door," he says softly from somewhere across the room. You need anything?"

"I'm good," Dean snaps, though he still has yet to move from the doorway. "Just...stay out of my way."

"Fine," Sam replies, voice edged with fatigue as he tries not to sound too anxious. "I'm on my bed, totally out of your way. Just um...please let me know if you, um, ya know–"

Dean waves Sam off with an air of irritation and takes his first hesitant shuffle-step forward. "I said I'm good, Sam. Please, just..." He growls instead of finishing the statement, hand hovering in the air, clenched in a fist. Finally lowering it, Dean steps in the general direction he assumes the bed to be in until finally his knees bump into the mattress and he loses his balance, catching himself with splayed out hands.

Covering for his clumsiness, Dean immediately starts groping for the duffle that Sam had thrown there. Finding it, Dean pulls it onto his shoulder and stands back up. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Sam grips the corners of the bed, ready to protest, but manages to hold it in. "Uh huh," he says instead, trying to remain cool and collected.

They may not have stayed in one place for very long, may have moved about the countryside like a family of desert nomads, but the one thing Dean can say for their lifestyle is that at least he knows the layout of a motel room. They all take on the same general shape and setup: Two beds, the first one just inside the door and the next spaced with enough distance to fit a small bedstand in between. The television will sit on a long dresser on the opposite wall from the beds and a wooden chair will have a home under the desk portion of the same structure. At the back of the room is the bathroom, usually along the same wall that the beds rest against, and that's where Dean heads.

Dean makes it as far as the TV before Sam sees the disaster in the making. He springs from the bed, shouting out a warning as he goes, but is too late to warn about the strap of the laptop case that lays looped in the middle of the floor. The toe of Dean's shoe slides through the loop just before he goes to take his next step, and the added pressure and confusion is enough to send him to his knees on the floor.

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean screams. He pounds his fist into the floor in frustration as Sam rushes to his aide.

"Shit, Dean, are you okay?" Sam demands, mother-hen complex coming to full force. He's got his hands under Dean's armpits within seconds, pulling him to his feet before Dean has an opportunity to protest.

"What the hell was that, Sam?"

Sam stutters. "I'm sorry. It was the shoulder strap to my laptop case. I should have moved it. I'm sorry."

"You can't leave stuff in my way, Sam!" Dean screams, arms flailing in every direction. "I can't see it. If I can't see it I trip on it. You can't do that!"

"Dean..."

"Damn it, Sam, just let it be. Leave me be!" Once again latching onto his duffle, Dean jumps to his feet. In his rage he shoves the chair out of his way, sending it clattering to the ground before he stumbles forward towards where he hopes the bathroom is.

For once luck is on his side. He doesn't find the doorway gracefully, instead knocking his shoulder into the corner molding, but he still manages to slip inside the small room before Sam manages to recover from his stupor and chase after him.

"Dean, please," Sam calls just as Dean shuts the door, practically slamming it in little brother's face. "Dean."

Inside the bathroom Dean slumps against the door in defeat, legs sliding out from under him on his way to the floor. A lone tear slides down from Dean's sightless eyes. He jerks the sunglasses off his face and hurls them across the room, hears them hit the wall and fall to the floor, but has no idea what he's just hit. Angrily wiping away the moisture from his eyes and wincing against the pain that still flares from the healing scars on his face, Dean silently mouths his apologies to the brother he knows instinctually is on the other side, hurting as much as he is. I'm sorry, Sammy. I can't do this. You need me to be strong for you, but I just can't. I'm sorry. I can't.

It doesn't take sight for Dean to know that Sam is a basket case about his injury, knows his little brother is literally about to burst from all the emotion he's bottling up inside of him. That's Dean's forte - to bottle his emotions - he's used to hiding his true feelings behind a mask of humor and indifference. But Sam, Sam has always been the emo king, taking every opportunity available to him to talk things out and get his feelings off his chest. This time is no different, Dean knows. The only problem is that now there is no one for Sam to talk his feelings out with. Dean is in no shape to comfort little brother, and - damn it - he shouldn't have to. But that doesn't mean his heart isn't breaking for that fact.

Several minutes pass before Dean hears Sam's footsteps softly retreating from the bathroom door. That's enough to spur him to action. He really does want a shower, hopes the spray of hot water will be enough to wash away the feelings of insignificance and helplessness that have plagued him since the Klower demon took his sight.

His duffle is still sitting at his side, and without moving from his position on the floor Dean begins to root around inside until he finds what he needs. In his toiletry bag are shampoo (one rubber band), and conditioner (two rubber bands), face wash and soap. His hand glosses over his razor and he pauses. He can feel the three days old beard growth on his usually clean-shaven face and knows he needs to take care of that too. One of the nurses aides at the rehab facility (totally hot, by Sam's own admission), had helped Dean two different times and he had let her because of the scars on his face and the knowledge that slicing into them with a razor was not going to help in the healing process. But he'll be damned if he's going to ask Sam for help, and he's not quite sure it's a wise idea to test out his new shaving skills. So shaving will have to wait.

It is a small bathroom. Dean can literally reach out and touch everything - the toilet to his left, sink just beside that, and the tub on his right. Without even standing up he's able to place the shower supplies on a ledge of the tub, grab a towel (god, he hopes it's clean) from the racks above the door and set it on the closed toilet lid before stripping down to his birthday suit and climbing into the shower.

Within the confines of the shower it's as if Dean never lost his sight. He's used to doing much of his routine with his eyes closed, water running over his face in a warm cascade of escape, and it's not much of a stretch to pretend that's all he's doing. Dean actually does close his eyes during the entire shower, finding the darkness less oppressive if it is self- imposed.

The water runs cold before Dean finally pushes himself to turn off the faucets and get out. Then it's back to being helpless again, back to fumbling his way around in the dark like some pathetic failure. He nearly slips climbing out of the tub and just about pulls the shower curtain down with him, regaining his footing just in time to avert major disaster.

Toweling himself off, Dean realizes that he no longer knows which shirts or pair of pants is which. They were organized in his drawer at the rehab center, but now they're just thrown in a slipshod mess within his duffel. The only bright side to it all is that he doesn't own much more than blue jeans and t-shirts, so nearly everything should match everything else.

He takes a chance, reaching into the bag in search of a t-shirt, boxers, and jeans. Initially the process is frustrating. His hand submerges into a cacophony of textures and weights, the bulk of which immediately confuses his senses and brings his mind into a tailspin. Forcing himself to draw back, pull his hand from the confusion, Dean leans against the door and fights with his lungs to steady his breathing.

Minutes pass before Dean is ready to try again, but this time he is prepared. He's considered the differences in texture, applied past knowledge to the present situation. He realizes, mentally smacking himself in the process, that he doesn't have to know that the shirts are in the top drawer, socks and underwear in the next, and pants below that. All he has to know is the feel of each item of clothing.

Jeans are rough, coarse, and heavy, not to mention the obvious difference in shape from any other item of clothing he has. T-shirts are old and warn, soft. Over shirts have noticeable buttons down one side and a folded collar. When he truly thinks about it, Dean realizes that everything has a different feel to it, and if he really pays attention he can fully dress himself without any help from Sam.

Now calmer, Dean separates out a fresh change of clothing from his bag and dresses himself before collecting his duffle and exiting the bathroom. He's ready to face Sam again. Or so he thinks...