OK, guys, here we go again. And I have to say, there is always at least one chapter that just won't fall into place and for me this is it. I don't like it, but there's just nothing more I can do about it. HOpefully this is just my own critical eye and the majority of you will enjoy it. Regardless, I think I've gotten my mojo back in the upcoming chapters so if you can make it through this we should be ok. THanks for reading. Hope to hear from you soon!
After Sam slams the door Dean just stands there, breathing hard and trying not to panic. He can hear the roar of his heart pumping blood faster than it should, the desperation of air filling his lungs to overcapacity, oxygen rushing to his head, and all around him the blaring thunder of dead silence. A part of him tries to convince himself that Sam never really left, that he simply slammed the door for show and is actually still standing inside the room having the laugh of his life as he watches his poor, pathetic, blind brother freak out.
"Sam?" Dean asks hesitantly. His voice catches on the single word, and he hates himself for being so weak, so needy. Clearing his throat, Dean tries again, more forcefully this time as he tries to sound nonchalant. "Sam, you there bro?"
But the only response is silence, and the ragged, inconsistent quality to his breathing. He's alone. Sam has left him alone. It is another minute or more before Dean comes to accept that. He issues a sardonic chuckle at the irony of the fact that his brother has given him exactly what he asked for, except now he doesn't know what to do with it, and he's not altogether certain he actually wants to be alone.
Finally Dean reaches out a hand, waving it in front of himself to gain his bearings. At first there is nothing there and he finds he has to take a few shuffling steps forward before he comes into contact with something solid. He runs both hands along the smooth, polished surface, quickly deducing it to be the dresser/desk unit. He knows the TV should be at the right hand side and reaches one hand in that direction until it makes contact with the large unit.
Just being able to feel something tangible, to recognize it for what it is calms to him and Dean begins to notice his breathing return to a normal state. Silently he tells himself that this is something he can do, that he can take care of himself. He doesn't need Sam.
On Dean's left side is the desk chair, the one Sam was sitting in when he woke up earlier. It seems so long ago, but in reality was mere minutes. Fifteen, maybe twenty. Time has no real meaning to him anymore. His hand grips onto the back of the chair and pulls it away from the desk, sliding himself onto the seat in the same fluid motion. He needs to think this through.
But's he's not quite ready for rational thought, he realizes, when out of nowhere his hand lashes out and swipes at the stacks of papers and books Sam has littering the top of the desktop. It is sheer luck that he manages to avoid doing irreparable damage to Sam's precious computer as it, too, takes a dive off of the desk and bounces off his foot before coming to a rest on the floor.
Dean jumps to his feet, letting out a carnal yell that encompasses both the pain of the computer landing on his foot and the desperation of his situation. He wants nothing more than to be able to concentrate on learning the layout of the room, finally put his clothes away in the dresser unit so he can find them better, get the week old hair growth off of his face. But the only thing he can concentrate on is the fact that Sam's not here, that his lifeline has left him. And somehow, with Sam gone he's incapable of doing anything for himself.
Mind reverting back to the rehab center, Dean thinks about all the stupid counseling sessions he was forced to attend, remembers all the inane words of wisdom and encouragement the therapists had spoken, and realizes they weren't so dumb after all. Now he tries to remember what he was taught in that all too short week he was there before running away like a frightened puppy, tail tucked between his legs.
Sam is right, he hasn't been trying much. They've been in this hotel room nearly a week and he still doesn't know where he's going, still bumps into things that haven't changed positions since they moved in. In the rehab facility he'd known every inch of the place by day two. He's living in a motel room barely the size of one room at the rehab center, yet can't even find the bathroom without slamming into at least two walls and a bed before he gets there. There is something truly pathetic about that, he finally realizes, and that's all it takes to decide he has to do better.
Except 'doing better' is easier said than done, and he's suddenly suffocating under the realization that he's now alone and faced with the prospect of making the changes on his own. He's too stubborn to realize that the abandonment is the work of his own doing, isn't ready yet to pick up the phone and beg for Sam to return. He's not yet done wallowing in a world of self pity.
Unwilling to seek out his little brother, despite his panic, Dean forces his mind to focus on something else. Anything else. It seems like so long ago since he woke up, yet he realizes he's still walking around in just a pair of sweats. He decides the first order of business is to shower and get dressed. That he can do, he's been doing it everyday since they've been holed up in this motel room. It's his own little escape from the outside world. His escape from being blind.
But first Dean has to find his bearings again.
Letting his mind wander as a blind man, Dean realizes, is not the smartest move he could have made, because coming back to the present simply means that he has no idea where in the room he is. His orientation is all screwed up and he has to slowly, cautiously inch around with his hands out until he makes contact with something - a wall this time - and then has to move along the wall until his knee hits the edge of a bed. That takes several minutes in itself, and then it's still a matter of figuring out whose bed and where to find the duffles from there.
The process is an agonizingly slow one as he scoots, inch by inch, around the bed until he comes to a corner. He reaches a hand out, hoping to find a wall, and instead finds empty air. Bending down and reaching out further finally allows him to come into contact with the second bed and Dean lets out a sigh of relief. At least now he knows where he is.
Outside the temperature is barely in the double digits and Sam has neither a coat nor the keys to the car. Snow crunches under his feet, the inch of dusting covering a sheet of ice that formed sometime during the night. Somewhere along the line Sam has gone from being too freaked out about his brother's reaction to being alone to now shivering uncontrollably. It's all he can do to force himself to remain outside, to not jump at the opportunity to go to Dean's rescue - and get himself in out of the cold.
But Dean has made it abundantly clear that he doesn't want Sam around, and a part of Sam realizes that the only way to get Dean to accept help is to let him come to realize he needs help on his own. Dean can be stubborn, but Sam can give it right back.
He almost breaks when he watches Dean go at the items on the desktop and sends his laptop crashing to the ground, and Sam has no idea whether he's more concerned for his brother or his laptop. But at the last minute Sam holds back and forces himself to remain in the freezing cold - for Dean.
A few minutes later it seems that his restraint will pay off as it becomes noticeably clear that Dean has calmed down and resigned himself to making some changes. Time passes almost imperceptibly, the cold barely touching him once again, as Sam watches his orient himself to the room and then make his way into the bathroom.
Several minutes pass without Dean reentering the room and Sam isn't sure what to make of his brother's absence. Logic, and the fact that he watched his brother collect some fresh clothes, tells him Dean is probably in the shower. And that is enough for Sam to feel comfortable about reentering the room. He's freezing without his jacket, so if Dean's stubborn streak is going to last much longer Sam knows he's got to get himself warm.
Taking out the electronic key card from his pocket Sam slips it into the lock and slowly, cautiously, opens the door a crack. He stands there, holding his breath, for several seconds until he hears the tell-tale sound of water running, reassuring himself that Dean is, in fact, taking a shower. The jacket is draped across the end of Sam's bed where he'd left it, and he skitters across the room grabbing the jacket and the car keys from the desk and pulling the curtains open a bit more before making a beeline back out the door.
Now warmer, Sam finds it much easier to wait patiently for Dean to finish his shower and return to his line of sight. It takes another fifteen minutes before Dean emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed and feeling his way along the wall to the beds. Sam cringes when he takes in the job Dean has done dressing himself, the buttons on his overshirt that are off making one side hang down lower than the other. It's more about paying attention to detail, and Dean is capable of feeling the difference if he would put his mind to it, but the fact that Dean can't see himself in the mirror is clearly an issue.
Sam finds himself caught off guard when he watches Dean crouch down beside the bed and finally come up victorious with his boots. What the hell does he need those for? Sam wonders, as Dean sits on the edge of one of the beds and begins to pull them on. Dean hasn't put anything on his feet since the day they checked into this room.
He's talking to himself - Sam can see his lips moving - as he finishes dressing and reaches for the sunglasses Sam had indicated earlier in the day. Sliding them onto his face Dean stands back up and uses the beds as a point of reference while he makes his way to the door.
Sam jumps back when Dean pulls open the door to their room, breath catching in his throat as he tries to shake his guilty conscious. He can't help but feel he's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and he waits in anticipation for Dean to call him out.
But his brother says nothing, instead surprising Sam when he holds the door open with his foot while carefully unfolding the white cane that has gone untouched for days. He stands in the door for several minutes, cane vertical and held tight in his hand, and once Sam calms down he realizes that Dean is mumbling to himself.
It's nearly impossible to hear what Dean is saying from Sam's position several feet away, but from the determination written across Dean's face it's pretty clear that it's some kind of pep talk. Sam inches forward a little, trying to get closer to his brother without giving away his position, but he doesn't dare get too close. Even blind Dean is far too great a hunter not to notice his little brother mere feet away.
Dean's knuckles are pasty white from the grip he has on the cane. His lips are set in a determined scowl, and it's going on five minutes before he ventures to make any movement forward. But finally Dean moves his foot from the door, taps the cane out in front of him, and inches a step closer to the sidewalk. It takes him five steps to clear the two feet of carpet between his starting point and the outdoors, and another two steps before he completely lets go of the door and lets it swing shut behind him.
And about two more seconds for Dean to realize he doesn't have a key to get back in. "Fuck!" Dean spits out as he spins to face the door in a valiant attempt at stopping it from
closing. But he's too late. The door is shut solid and no amount of pounding or jiggling of the handle is going to change that. Now he's stuck with his decision to leave the room, and suddenly it doesn't seem like the best decision he could have made.
Standing there facing the door Dean finally gives up his attempt to get back in and instead rekindles his endeavor for independence. He's determined to prove Sam wrong in spite of the ever-growing pit in his stomach telling him this is a bad idea.
"Come on, you loser," Dean urges, his backwards attempt at a pep talking wreaking havoc with his emotions. "You can do this. It's just a sidewalk, just a motel. You've seen plenty of these in your lifetime. Just pretend it's dark outside. Quit being a baby."
Slowly, Dean pushes himself away from the door and turns to once again face what he assumes to be the parking lot. Now his focus is on finding the office and getting another key, suddenly deciding that making it all the way to the diner (of which he has no idea of its location) is out of the question for this little excursion. The office will be a good start.
Chances are pretty good that the office is at the end of the sidewalk in one direction or the other. Left or right, a fifty-fifty chance that he picks right. "And if you can't find it on the first try go the other way and look again, moron."
Taking a chance, Dean decides to go left and sets his cane to sweeping out the obstacles in front of him as he slowly makes his way down the sidewalk. Dean can feel the slippery ice underneath his feet, causing him to go even slower than he might have if the walkway was dry. "Damn management can't even be bothered to salt the walk," he bitches, feeling more and more apprehensive about his decision the farther he walks.
Too late, Dean has to admit that Sam is right about needing to count his steps, figuring out how far has to go to get one direction or the other. He's already too far away from the door to know how to get back, and in hindsight, doesn't even know what room they're in to begin with. He thinks Sam might have told him when they arrive, but he'd quickly forgotten in his foul mood.
"Great. So now I'm out here in the middle of nowhere with no idea how to get to the office, no idea what room is mine, and no way to get back into the room even if I did know. You are such a freakin' loser Winchester. How did you ever make it as far as you did hunting?"
Behind him Dean hears a rustling and he breaks from his self-deprecation to stop and listen for more. "Who's there?" he demands, voice much louder than when he was berating himself just seconds before.
Not a sound. "Come on, this isn't funny," Dean snaps. If someone's there you have to tell me. Who are you?"
Once again no answer is returned and Dean finds himself trying to shake off the strange feeling that he's being watched. Slowly, he turns back around and continues along his path towards (he hopes) the office.
He makes it another several steps in silence before everything goes to hell. Somewhere over his right shoulder, a ways back, a cell phone begins to ring and Dean freezes. He knows that ring. That little SOB! He's been watching me all this time.
It's Sam's ring. And this time Dean knows it's not just his imagination.
"Son of a bitch," Dean snaps, spinning in the direction of the ringing phone, fingers clenched in anger around the handle of his cane.
Dean hears a gasp, knows it's his brother cursing getting caught, and vows - sight or no sight - to beat the living daylights out of his little brother for what he's been doing. Except things don't exactly go as planned as he feels his foot slip out from under him on the slick ice. In an instant Dean goes from standing upright, angrily storming in some direction remotely near his spying brother, to flying through the air.
He lands hard, knocking the air out of him, and hear's Sam cry out his name before his consciousness wanes.