Hey guys, Hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday! For those of you on spring break party hard for me! I apologize for not getting this in sooner, but I had a big test to study for last week and then a combo Easter weekend and Dad's birthday. All in all, I'm exhausted and just couldn't find time to to respond to any of your wonderful reviews, much less get this next chapter posted. Hopefully some of you are still out there and not cursing me too much. Enjoy the chapter, and of course let me know what you think. I promise I will get back to you on these! Love ya'll lots - Neonchica
Dean knows Sam is only trying to help; at least his logical mind knows that Sam is only trying to help. But his ego, the part of Dean that is falling to pieces over the loss of his independence and, subsequently, his manhood, is about ready to declare an all out war on his over-zealous, hovering baby brother.
They have spent close to a week pent up in the small motel room, mainly because Dean refuses to go out in public, and Sam refuses to leave him alone no matter how many times Dean pushes him to. The few times Dean has managed to get Sam to go out it's been to cross the street to the local diner to pick up a meal he's already called ahead and ordered. He's gone for five minutes, maybe ten tops, and then rushes back into the room as though there is a pack of hell hounds on his trail. It doesn't matter that every time he's returned to the room Dean is still sitting in the same place Sam left him, still alive, still fully intact. Sam still won't leave him alone for any greater amount of time.
The rest of the time Sam hangs on Dean's every move, offering unsolicited words of advice and obnoxiously 'helpful' suggestions that only prove to anger Dean more.
It started immediately, that first day out of the shower, when Dean emerged from the bathroom only to have that sickeningly placating tone - the tone that Sam adopts when he's trying to offer suggestions without sounding like he's trying to offer suggestions - come from the right to tell him that his t-shirt is on inside out. Dean had stopped, grit his teeth, and tried to casually pull the shirt off and flip it around without offering a word of thanks to his little brother.
That was the first of a very long progression of items that Dean is now stewing about as he goes about his morning routine, now a week later. He's not even out of bed yet, still trying to orient himself by sound and smell, and Sam's unsolicited advice is already freely flowing.
"Morning, Dean. You're up early today. It's only 6:17," Sam says from across the room. Dean can hear the clicking of the keyboard stop as Sam takes the time to greet him, and he wonders just how long Sam has been at it this morning. He doesn't talk about what he's researching day in and day out, and clams up when Dean has asks him about it, which automatically makes Dean realize that the research is about him. The only thing he doesn't know is whether it's about cures or rehab and acceptance - he figures it's a bit of both.
Dean grunts a reply that sounds like 'fuck off,' but Sam clearly takes to mean thank you for telling me the exact time before I asked for it, and could you please dote on me like the cripple I am, because just after he responds Dean hears the scraping of a chair on the worn carpet and Sam begins prattling away again.
"I've got the curtains drawn to keep the sunlight out, but your glasses are on your bedside table if you want 'em. 'Bout three o'clock to where you are now. I found them in the trash again, Dean. You've got to be more careful when you're in the bathroom. You keep putting them too close to the edge of the sink and then they're getting knocked in."
No I don't, Sam, I keep putting them directly into the trash. You keep taking them out.
"I made coffee, too," Sam says, and before he even finishes his sentence Dean feels a smooth mug being forced into his hand. Atta boy, Sammy. Now we're talking. He nods his head in a gesture of thanks, then brings the mug up to his mouth, lifting it to nearly a ninety degree angle to his lips before he tastes the bitter liquid because Sam only fills his mugs half full now, too afraid he might spill, and immediately spits out what he does taste.
"It's ice cold!" Dean snarls. His hand shakes as he holds in the desire to throw the mug across the room, but with his luck he'd probably hit something important and break it. Instead, his hands scrabble for the edge of the bedside table, sliding the mug onto it when he makes contact.
"You nearly burned yourself on the coffee yesterday, Dean. I let this one sit out to cool."
"I want hot coffee, Sam. I don't care if I burn myself."
"But I do," Sam protests haughtily. "You screamed like a baby when it landed on your jeans, and it was jut sheer luck that it didn't leave behind any welts. I'm not risking it again."
"Saaaam," Dean growls out in warning, but somehow even he has to admit that it doesn't hold quite the same amount of venom when he's not sure he's even looking at his brother.
"No, Dean. When you're steadier with your hands maybe, but not now. I won't be responsible." And clearly Sam is no more concerned by the tone of Dean's demands than Dean thinks he is.
Quickly changing the topic, Sam adds, "Are you hungry? We could go across the street to get some breakfast."
Dean hears the hope in his brother's request, knows Sam wants to get him out in the world, wants him to really practice at this whole being blind thing, but he's just not ready for it yet. He's not sure he ever will be - promise or not. "I'm not really hungry just yet. Maybe you could go out later and pick us up something."
A pause, then, "Yeah, all right. Later." The disappointment in Sam's voice is unmistakable, but fades quickly as he continues to launch his attack of helpfulness. "So, uh, what do you want right now? I could turn the TV on, or um, I could read the newspaper to you. Ya know, I was thinking about checking out the local library to see if they have books on learning to read braille. We could learn together."
Dean holds up a hand to stop Sam before he gets too far ahead of himself and snaps, "The only things I ever read were books on supernatural creatures and how to hunt them. Something tells me no one has gotten around to translating those ancient - almost non-existent, I might add - texts into braille. So tell me, Sam, exactly what good will it do for me to learn braille?"
"Dean, I–" Sam stops short, his words catching in his throat. He's got so many arguments running through his mind right now, so many reasons why Dean should fight to get his life back. But intuition tells him that they will just fall on deaf ears, and he fears that wasting his breath on them now might render them ineffectual later.
Taking the time to study his brother, Sam's heart nearly breaks in two. Dean looks so small, so scared, so much unlike his big hero of a brother. He's pushed himself off of the bed and now stands in the walkway between the two beds, knees bent to lower his stance, arms held out in front of him, fingers splayed to feel out impending danger as he inches along. His blank stare is fixed on a spot on the wall, several inches to Sam's left, clearly not seeing anything.
It's unnerving, seeing the dull, grey, scarred pupils that used to hold so much spark and life. Sam remembers a time when Dean's eyes belied everything he strove to hide from the world. Before, Dean would lock down his emotions, hiding anything that might define him as human, as anything other than rock solid and unaffected. But Sam could always see beyond that. He could always look into Dean's eyes and know everything he was feeling - when he was hurting, when life was just getting to be too much for him.
But now - now it's the exact opposite. Now Dean is making no effort to hide his anger and frustration, even his fear. Yet his eyes reveal nothing.
"You what, Sam?" Dean finally breaks the suffocating silence that hovers around both brothers. He turns the upper half of his body, trying to locate the general direction of his little brother solely based on the sound of Sam's breathing. Finally settling on a location, a good foot and a half from the intended target, Dean rages on. "What, Sam? What words of wisdom could you possibly have that could make this better?" He gestures angrily at his face, his eyes.
"I'm trying here, Dean. This whole situation is as scary to me as it is to you, but I'm trying. Which is a whole lot more than I can say for you." Sam knows that his methods aren't working, are clearly making matters worse instead of better, but he doesn't know a better way to do this.
"I'm not trying?" Dean steams, incredulous. "How can you possibly say that with a straight face? I try, Sam. I shower by myself, I dress myself, I even feed myself. I'm doing okay, Sam. And if you would trust me just a little bit and leave me alone for longer than the time it takes to sprint across the street and back, I might even be doing better!"
Sam winces, suddenly feeling guilty for just how much he's been doing for Dean that his brother doesn't even realize - or won't admit to. Dean might manage to shower by himself, but he doesn't see Sam following in behind him, picking up the wet towels from the floor, sopping up the additional water that could cause him to slip, replacing the shampoo and conditioner back on the shelf Dean expects it to be on because, more times than not, it's balanced precariously on the edge about ready to fall.
And that's just the shower. Their method of doing laundry is to wash the clothes the same way they came off the body, and then stuff them back into the duffles barely dry. Which means that most of Dean's clean clothes start out inside out, but Sam has since spent the time to turn them all outside in. In the time that Dean is in the shower Sam sneaks the bag from the bathroom, selects a full outfit, and makes sure it is sitting, neatly folded, at the top. Why Dean hasn't realized, he's not sure, but it keeps his brother neatly dressed without the big to do that stemmed from his first emergence from the shower.
Around the motel room Sam is constantly chasing after Dean, picking up anything he might trip over, making sure nothing is in his way. When he sees Dean reach for something he moves it toward him so that it's within easy reach. Anything with liquid in it is firmly held until Sam is certain Dean has a good grip on it.
The worst of all is the toilet. Sam knows the therapists told Dean to start sitting down - especially until he's figured out a way to improve his aim. But Sam knows Dean is still standing up, because he is the one who has to clean up after his brother. And he doesn't have the heart to tell him that. It's a vicious cycle - the longer Sam holds off on telling Dean he's missing the bowl, the more confident in his abilities Dean becomes. But Sam can't bring himself to burst his brother's bubble.
All in all Dean is a far cry from independent. But Sam is stuck between a rock and a hard place, and it's a terrible place to be. He can't tell Dean about the things he's missing because it will inevitably make him backslide; he won't see his accomplishments as anything worth celebrating. The only way he can make this go right is to push for more, and overlook the little things.
"But there's so much more you could be doing," Sam protests, finding it impossible to hold his tongue no matter how much he doesn't want to be doing this right now. "I've suggested at least half a dozen times that you map out the room, yet you continue to bump into things. You won't go outside, haven't picked up your cane since we left rehab, and won't let me get you anything but finger foods from the diner. You were doing so well at rehab, Dean. What changed?"
"You!" Dean screams, taking another step forward and stumbling as he loses his bearings. He recovers quickly, but halts in his forward progression. "You've been following me around for days, spouting suggestions from your stupid little pamphlets. And don't think I don't know what you've been doing all day on the computer. Looking for coping mechanisms? cures? Probably pouring out your heart in the chat rooms to people going through the exact same things? In the hospital, and then at rehab, you held back. You let me do things on my time, in my way. And you had hope for me. But now...now it's like you've lost all hope for everything. You've already stopped telling me things are going to get better, Sam. You've stopped offering words of hope. And now you hover over me like I'm made of glass, like I'll break at the smallest thing. When did you stop believing in me?"
That does it for Sam. Suddenly all the built up tension and frustration he's been feeling at pushing Dean to try harder suddenly drains, only to be replaced by even greater portions of heartache and devastation at the words his brother speaks. Everything in his chest balls up in knots as Sam watches Dean sink back onto the bed, too spent to continue in his current position. Is that what he thinks I've done? He thinks I've given up on him? God...no. "Dean, I didn't - I mean, I haven't. I just–"
He has to think hard about what he's about to say, realizing this may be his only chance to set things right. "Dean..."
Sam sees Dean flinch, and feels a set of tears break loose in his own eyes at the sight. "You have to understand where I'm coming from here. I'm lost, man. This isn't something I have any experience with, so the only resources I have are what I'm digging up on the internet and what your therapists told me before you left. And quite frankly, you really haven't been forthcoming with the suggestions either."
Dean's shoulders slump, head bows, and Sam amps up the effort as he realizes Dean is only hearing the negatives. He's desperate to bring his brother back from whatever depression he's fallen into. "I want to help you, Dean. I want to know what it is that you need to make this better, to make you want to get better."
"I'm not going to get better," Dean interrupts, voice coarse and matter-of-fact. "That's the problem, Sam. You seem to have accepted that. You're ready to move on, ready to deal. You've got all the answers for how to do that, what to do, why some things work and others don't. I don't want you to have the answers, Sam."
A quick snort shoots out of Sam's nose before he's able to rein it in. "You think this is me having the answers?" he asks incredulously.
"You're in your element, little brother. You thrive off of this sort of research."
"That's just it, Dean. It's research. They call it research because it's all about learning stuff you don't know. I'm floundering here, bro. I'm so far out of my element I'm practically in another universe. And if you honestly think this is me being all knowing then you don't know me as well as I thought you did."
"Oh no? So all those suggestions you've been spouting out to me have been from out in left field? You learning a new trick, there, Sammy? How to pull answers out of your ass?"
This time Sam actually laughs, a sardonic sounding grunt that holds no real humor at all. "Oh, that's rich Dean, coming from you. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm offering those suggestions because I don't want to see you in any more pain than you are right now? You ever think that maybe it's not because I want to annoy you, as you clearly think is the case, but rather that I'm trying to help you?"
By now Sam is pacing the floor, withholding an almost insuppressible urge to get in his brother's face and just start screaming like a banshee. "My god, Dean! I see you, damn it. I see the bruises all over your body, mounting on a daily basis as you slam into chairs and walls and doors. I watch you groping around on the counter tops, trying to find a toothbrush - a toothbrush, Dean - and it kills me to know that this is what your life has been reduced to. I know what you used to be, what you were once capable of. I'm dying inside watching you struggle, and I'm trying to do everything in my power to help you."
"I don't want your damn help, Sam!" In an instant Dean is back on his feet, lurching towards the general direction of his brother's booming voice with more bravery and recklessness than he's shown since before he was hurt. "You're not helping, Sam, you're just making things worse! I can manage on my own, god damn you. Just stay the hell out of my way."
Miraculously, Dean manages to find his brother in the dark void that's become his world. His hand connects with Sam's shoulder and he shoves hard, knocking Sam off balance, and himself as well.
"You really feel that way?" Sam screams, quickly regaining his stance and stepping out of Dean's way. "You're totally fine on your own?"
"Damn straight. I don't need you and your fucking help! I did just fine on my own when you went off to Stanford and Dad deserted me in the middle of god damn Louisiana. I handled it then and I can handle it now."
"Fine, Dean! You think you can do this on your own, then fine - You're on your own!" Storming to the door, Sam makes a final glance back to his brother before grabbing the edge of the door and slamming it shut behind him.
There is no time lapse between Sam slamming the door and the immeasurable guilt that floods through him, and it takes incredible strength not to turn right back around and rush back into the room spouting apologies. His hand quivers as it hovers over the door handle, his breath hitches in his chest, but he finally manages to move past his initial reaction. This will be good for us, he tells himself. Dean will be fine. He needs to experience this.
Unable to remove his final connection with his brother, Sam keeps his hand firmly planted against the brick wall of the run-down motel, sliding it along until he comes to the window. He had pulled the blinds to help with Dean's sensitivity to light, but somewhere along the line they had cracked open just enough to be able to see into the room. From the angle Sam is standing at he can see Dean standing in the middle of the room, body facing the door to the room, an expression of incredulity and desperation mixed on his face. Pushing aside feelings of guilt for his voyeurism, Sam places the palms of both hands on the glass window and finds the best position to see through the small crack in the curtain. He doesn't notice the bitter chill in the air, ignores the cold on his palms, as he settles in to watch Dean's attempt at independence.