Hey guys! I can't do much more than apologize to you for making you all wait so long for the conclusion of this little ditty. I've said it before – I hate writing the last chapter of a story. I struggle with tying all loose ends together, and know that inevitably I will discover I've forgotten something important. However, I've had some faithful fans prodding me to finish this thing, and today's push finally got me to finish this. I wrote the last of it at work – (and hopefully the boss isn't reading this…lol). I'm not super satisfied, but I'm happy enough to post it. Hopefully it suffices! Time to bring this project to a close…
For Sam, walking back into his brother's room post surgery is like a punch to the gut. It doesn't matter the purpose for the most recent surgery, doesn't matter the hope that comes along with it. Right now all he can see is the same image, the same vulnerability that appeared the day he'd walked in on Dean after his eyes had been burned. Dean, sitting upright in a hospital bed helpless and nervous, drugged up and in pain. His eyes are swathed in the same white bandages that wrap around his head several times, and an IV sticks out from the crook of his elbow, feeding him enough painkillers and antibiotics to make him loopy.
"Sammy?" Dean asks in the same weak, child-like voice that he'd used several months ago. He turns his head toward the door, seeking out the source of the footsteps.
"Yeah, Dean, it's me. I'm here now. How're you feeling?"
Dean shrugs, plays with the edge of the blanket. "Feels like the Klower got me all over again," he says quietly. "My eyes are on fire."
Sam's eyes widen in alarm and he rushes the last few feet to Dean's bedside, grabbing for the call button that sits just to the side of Dean's hand. But Dean reaches out and stops him before he can do anything more, hand gripping more tightly against Sam's wrist than he would have expected at this point.
"I've already told the doc. He says it's to be expected for the next few days. Just gotta live with it."
Sam calms marginally, but still can't bring himself to be totally okay with it. He can't help but think that he'd pushed Dean to have this surgery, and now he's in pain. Not exactly the way Sam had expected it to go down.
"What can I do?" he finally asks, knowing that going for more meds isn't something Dean will allow. It's a testament to how much pain he must be in that Dean has even accepted the dose they've got him on now.
"Just distract me. Tell me about the nurses."
Groaning, for appearances sake, Sam settles into the chair beside his brother's bed and tries to conjure up descriptions of the nurses that he knows will do Dean proud. He tells him about Dulcie, the leggy brunette that greeted Sam and Bobby after the surgery and directed them to the conference room. And about the red head that he spotted heading into another patient's room just as he was walking into Dean's. Tells him about one of the candy striper's he'd seen in the cafeteria while they waited on news of Dean's surgery.
Throughout it all Dean smiles and asks the appropriate questions, makes comments where Sam would expect him too. But he seems distracted still, and it isn't long before Dean interrupts Sam with a rushed, "Do you think it worked?"
Sam hesitates, gets his voice stuck on the first sound.
"The surgery, I mean," Dean says, as though there was any possibility that Sam might have thought it something else.
But it's not that. Sam knows exactly what Dean is asking; he's just not sure of the right answer. With everything he possesses Sam wants to be reassuring and certain, tell his brother that there's no doubt in his mind that it worked. But he's scared to death of what happens if that turns out to be a lie. Scared of what happens if he gets Dean's hopes up, gets his own hopes up, only to have them stomped on.
"I don't know Dean. I hope so," he says finally. It's a chicken shit of an answer. A cop out. And he knows it. So does Dean.
"Yeah, me too." Dean sighs, leans back into the bed some. He's not nearly as tense as he was that first time, finally having learned to relinquish some control over to Sam.
"So, at least three days before we know anything, huh?" Sam has to give Dean credit. He's trying to hold it together, trying not to appear so damn nervous. If only Sam had that same control.
"I guess," Sam answers. "Dr. Hourman seemed to be optimistic. He said things had gone well and now it's just a matter of time and healing. So yeah, maybe three days."
"Do you...d'you think it's just gonna be like flipping a switch? Like, they take the bandages off and bam! I can see again? Or is it gonna be gradual?"
"I don't know," Sam says again. He's no eye doctor. These are questions for Hourman, not Sam.
"But like, I'm gonna know, right? I mean, when they take the bandages off, I'll know if it worked. …or…or if it didn't?" He sounds so lost, so desperate.
Sam sighs, unable to completely deny his brother an answer. "Yeah, Dean. I think you'll know. From what Hourman says, there should at least be some sensation of light or dark within the next couple of days – you know, with the bandage changes and eye drops and stuff. But I don't know what it will be like when they come off for good."
"Yeah," Dean agrees uncertainly. He nods, slowly at first and then with more conviction as he gains more confidence. "It's gonna be good. That's how it'll be. Things are going to be good. This will work; I know it will."
---SUPERNATURAL---
There is no doubt about it; Dean is nervous. Scared shitless, if he's really being honest with himself. Nevertheless, he tries to remain stoic, aloof as the doctor comes in. Sam is jumpy enough for the both of them, and it's certainly not worthwhile to waste the energy when it can't change the outcome. At least that's what he tells himself. And hopefully, no one else is seeing the way his hands are shaking. Although, really, fat chance of that happening. Afterall, the rest of them aren't blind; only him.
Self-consciously, Dean slides his hands underneath the sheet and grips one within the other to try and still the jitters.
He's had eyedrops put in and the bandages changed several times over the last couple of days, but every time he's only seen a slight hint of light and shadow. The nurses are too fast, giving him only a matter of a second or two with the patches off his eyes before the drops are in and he's immersed back into the darkness that he's lived in for the last several months.
The surrounding sounds have been just background noise for the past several minutes, starting right about the time Dr. Hourman entered the room and started setting up for the big reveal. But suddenly Dean feels the bed dip and a hand gripping his shoulder, Sam's hand, and Dean shakes himself clear of his thoughts.
"You ready for this?" Sam's voice, low and controlled, soothing right by his ear.
Dean hesitates for just a second, uncharacteristically seeking out Sam's hand with his own. He finally nods when their hands connect and he can squeeze hard, working out all his anxieties on his brother's skin and bones. "Guess I have to be," he says softly. "Moment of truth and all, huh?"
"Either way, Dean, we'll work this out."
Dean snorts, schools his features, and pulls his hand away from Sam's quickly as though he's just realized they're touching. "Come on, Sam, don't start with your emo bullshit. Let's get on with this doc."
There's more rustling and then Dr. Hourman's hands are on his head, tugging at the gauze wrapped around his eyes. "Let's see what we've got here."
The gauze falls away, leaving only the cotton pads taped to his eyes, and Dean freezes. Just because he isn't saying it, doesn't mean he isn't scared to death about what he's about to find out. And keeping his emotions and worries to himself is hard, harder than he might like to admit.
Despite Dean's earlier reaction Sam is still by his side on the bed, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him and exuding his own form of confidence. Dean knows Bobby is somewhere in the room, but he's been quiet, save for the sound of the occasional clearing of his throat. But just knowing he's around is enough.
"I'm going to take the bandages off now," Hourman says. "Go ahead and keep your eyes closed until I've got both off. You can open them together, alright?"
Dean nods, and accepts the handful of tissues that Hourman nudges into his hand. "You may need these. You'll have a lot of goop on your eyes from the salve and the eyedrops."
There is a tug and a gentle pull as the tape peels away from the skin around Dean's eyes. He has to force himself to keep his eyes closed. No peeking. It's kind of a six of one, half a dozen of the other kind of scenario. On the one hand, Dean wants to look, doesn't want to wait the few extra seconds it will take to get the other eye patch off. But on the other hand, he's not ready to know. He's so scared of finding out that he's not been cured, scared of finding out that he's gotten his hopes – Sam's hopes – up just to be let down in the end.
The other patch comes off, but he waits for the go ahead before opening his eyes, okay with waiting.
"Whenever you're ready, Dean."
He waits just a few more seconds, needing that last little bit of time to prepare himself, and then reaches up with the tissues to wipe the residual gunk away. Dean can't help the wince at the pressure he feels on his eyes, and the reminder of the surgery once again causes him to question the chances of a positive outcome. The odds really aren't in his favor, he reminds himself, prepared to be disappointed.
"Ok, here goes nothing."
Dean turns his head to the right, where he knows Sam is, because he wants Sam to be the first thing he sees if it works. And he needs Sam to be the first to know he can't see if it fails.
His first blink is painful, a sharp ray of light and he has to quickly close his eyes again against the invasion. But that's positive! Light is a good thing, and a smile quickly forms on his face as he hears the doctor ask Sam to turn off the bedside light, explaining that it might be better for the room to be bathed in shadows.
Dean tries again, manages to keep his eyes open longer this time. The smile on his face grows immensely as a shadow comes into focus against a much more dull light in the background.
"Well? Can you see?" Sam's voice is impatient, as the shadow moves in front of Dean's eyes. The shadow is Sam, it has to be.
Blinking again, the shadow in front of his face comes even more into focus. Muted colors and blurred lines appear in his line of focus as the image in front of his face begins to look more and more like his little brother. "Sam? You really need to cut your hair, dude."
Relief fuels Sam's laugh, and Dean laughs with him, eternal smiles affixed to both of their faces. A blurry hand glides through tangled hair, the figure wiggles back and forth in laughter. "We're back to that already, huh? Think I liked you better when you couldn't see," Sam teases.
Next thing Dean knows, there is another figure in front of him, waving like a two year old. "So the surgery worked for ya, huh kid?" Bobby's gruff voice draws Dean to his face and the young hunter squints for a second to bring the new image into partial focus. "Everything's still kinda blurry, but yeah. I can see!" Dean says eagerly, still laughing jovially. Disbelief is clear in his tone, but so is relief and certainty.
He looks back and forth between his brother and his friend as the images continue to come more into focus. He can't make out the fine details, but the larger images are recognizable. Sam's arm is still hanging from a sling, but otherwise all signs of the hunt that started this whole thing have faded and Dean breathes a sigh of relief that he can finally see for himself that Sam is fine.
Dean beams. "Sammy…"
Just when it seems this moment is about to go down as one of Dean's despised "chick flick" moments the doctor steps into his line of sight, hands clasped together as he peers eagerly into Dean's face. "Mind if I take a look, Dean? See how we're doing?"
Nodding with relief, Dean turns his chin up and aims his face straight towards Dr. Hourman. "Go for it, doc."
Hourman pulls out a small penlight and aims it in Dean's right eye as he holds the lids open with the other hand. He flicks the light several times into and away from Dean's eye, intently studying the reaction of the pupils before he moves onto the other eye and repeats the same actions.
"It's looking good, Dean. There is no sign of scar tissue and everything appears to be healing up just the way we want it. Give yourself a couple of weeks and you should be as good as new."
"So the blurriness will go away?" Dean asks, blinking his eyes several times to remoisten them as he tries to focus on the doctor.
"There's no reason why not. As your eyes continue to heal you should have less and less trouble with your sight. Right now you've got a lot of mucus on the eye, trying to heal things up, but when that finally goes away you should be good."
Dean nods, considering the answer he's been given. "And when can I go home?" he finally asks, mind always reverting to that one track. It doesn't matter the reason, when he's in the hospital all he wants to do is get out.
Everyone in the room laughs, Dean himself, because they all know how anxious he's been. "I thought we might keep you here for a few more weeks," Hourman says, keeping his tone flat and serious.
It makes Dean freeze in place, murder written on his face, and it takes several seconds before finally realizing that the doctor is messing with him. "Not funny, doc," he grumbles. "Not funny at all. Seriously, when can I blow this joint?"
"How does tomorrow morning sound for you?"
---SUPERNATURAL---
It's strange, really, just how much Dean has come to rely on his other senses to get around. He had pretty much expected that once his sight returned he would abandon most of the new methods he's picked up over the past few months. But it hasn't exactly happened like that.
With his vision slowly returning, but not completely restored yet, Dean finds the drive home to be rather nauseating, blurry images passing by too fast for his healing eyes to fully process. After five minutes he gives in and shuts his eyelids to block out the sights. The darkness is oddly comforting, and he spends the rest of the drive orienting himself based on feel alone, grounding himself on the twists and turns that have now become so familiar. It's easier that way, he discovers, and within just a few turns he's certain he knows exactly where they are on the drive back to Bobby's.
Dean misses the curious looks Sam shoots at him more than once during the drive, oblivious as he leans back into the corner between the door and the bench seat, head pressed against the cool glass of the window. He's got his hands clenched tightly around the folded up cane that he's still refused to relinquish no matter how clear it is that Sam is desperate for him to do exactly that. It has become a crutch of sorts for him, a lifeline. He hasn't used it yet since his eyesight returned, but there is something comforting in feeling the grip of the handle so solid in his hands. He just hasn't quite gotten up the nerve to leave it behind.
They pull up into Bobby's junkyard and Sam parks the car within feet of the front steps, the passenger side door angled so that it's a straight shot into the house. It's the same thing he's done for the past couple of months, making an effort to make the little things easier on Dean. And it says something about Dean's still fragile state of mind that he finds himself grateful to Sam for not falling out of their new habits as quickly as he seems to want Dean to.
Pulling himself from the car, Dean blinks several times in the afternoon sun before he realizes the futile effort and shuts his eyes closed once again. He's not feeling nauseas now that they have stopped, but the daylight is still painful. A minute later he feels a hand on his shoulder and something being shoved into his hand.
"Here, put these on," Sam says.
Dean still doesn't open his eyes, instead using tactile sensation to determine that Sam has just given him a pair of sunglasses. Most likely the pair he's had on to drive them home. Dean smiles gratefully as he slips them on and carefully blinks his eyes back into focus.
For the first time he realizes just how much Bobby has changed his house around to accommodate Dean and his needs. Despite his blurry focus he can see how the path through the junkyard to the garage at the back has been meticulously cleared of its usual scattered debris and car parts to create a four-foot wide open pathway. The rickety railing leading up and down the steps to the house has been reinforced, and the broken step that Dean remembers even from childhood has finally been replaced by a fresh two by six plank. Beer bottles and dog dishes no longer lay scattered around the yard and porch, and the dog chain that used to be tied to a post at the front of the house has been moved around to the side where Dean would have been less likely to trip over it.
Dean sighs, missing the mess that used to epitomize his old friend's house. He's dreading seeing the changes inside, and knows they will be numerous. He hadn't really taken any of that into consideration before, when he was struggling to find his footing in the bachelor pad throughout the maelstrom that Bobby considers comfort.
Taking a deep breath, Dean grabs hold of the railing and starts to climb the steps to the porch, feet heavy as though treading through concrete. Behind him, he can tell Sam is climbing the stairs too, just one step behind, and Dean finds the comfort in his brother's proximity.
Inside the house there is more of the same, more clean and neat and disturbingly un-Bobby; disturbingly un-Winchester either, for that matter, but really – the point here is that things are different. And they were changed for one reason and one reason only – when Dean became blind.
It's suddenly overwhelming, and Dean staggers his way over to the couch where he sinks heavily into the worn cushions. Once again, he closes his eyes, unable to process the drastic changes he sees everywhere in the house.
A wet nose and a whimper brings Dean back to the present and he focuses his blurry eyesight on the massive head of a Rottweiler.
"Dante?" Dean asks hesitantly, suddenly unsure of the identity of his visitor and finding it strange that adding his missing sense back to the mix seems to be making him less certain of those he's always had.
The pup whines and nudges its head under his hand, demanding to be petted, and Dean reaches out unconsciously and begins stroking the dog's head. "Hey boy, how ya doing?" The feel of the coarse fur underneath his fingers relaxes Dean somewhat and he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the soothing reminder of safety and security.
Several minutes go by before Dean senses that he's being watched, and he opens his eyes once more to find a blurry image of Sam and Bobby hovering just outside the doorway, clearly uncertain of their place in his re-orientation to sight and the house.
He sighs, first instinct to snap at them and tell them to get lost. Because he's just spent the last few months with one or both of them hovering just inches from him, ready to guide him all over the place and keep him from smacking face first into doors and walls and anything else that might be waiting around to trip him up. But one look at their expectant faces, so unsure and desperate, and Dean makes himself suppress his own feelings.
"Hey guys," he says, forcing the edge out of his voice. "Just catching up with Dante, here. What's up?"
Sam and Bobby both shrug, tense shoulders immediately relaxing as they step further into the room. There's a moment's hesitation as they flounder for an explanation, something that won't tip Dean off to their concern.
"Thought I'd get lunch on," Bobby finally says in his familiar gruff voice. "You got any requests, boy?"
As if in response, Dean's stomach growls. "Guess I could eat," he laughs. "How about cheeseburgers? With bacon?"
Bobby smiles and nods, relieved that Dean's appetite still seems intact. "Bacon cheeseburgers it is," he agrees, turning on his heel and leaving the brothers alone in the room.
Sam shuffles hesitantly forward and lowers himself into a chair beside the couch Dean sits on. Nodding at the rottie Sam comments, "He missed you, ya know. Slept at the bottom of your bed the whole time you were in the hospital."
"He's a good dog," Dean agrees, patting Dante's head eagerly and changing the tone of his voice to address him. "Aren't you, boy?"
"I'm gonna miss him," Dean says, addressing Sam once again.
Sam cocks his head, questioning Dean with just a look.
"I'm better now, Sam. We'll be leaving soon. You had to have realized that."
"Yeah. Yeah, sure I did," Sam says, too quick to return a response. "It's just that…"
Dean raises an eyebrow, surprised when the move allows his vision to clear just a tad more. "Just that what, Sam? We've got a job to do and I'm getting better now, so we need to keep on going."
"But Dean, you haven't even been home an hour yet. Don't you think you should give yourself a few days to recuperate? I can tell you're not one hundred percent – doesn't take a rocket scientist."
"No, but I will be," Dean answers, realizing that denial will get him nowhere at this point. "Yeah, so my vision is still a little blurry right now. But that will change. It's already getting better…gimme a few days and I'm as good as new." He raises a hand against his eyes and wipes away some more of the tears and goop that haven't stopped flowing since the bandages were removed the day before, and at once he can see more clearly.
"That doesn't mean you have to jump right into things immediately," Sam protests.
"It also shouldn't mean that a bunch of innocent people should have to suffer any longer. Come on, Sam! I've been out of commission for months now. Just think how many cases have gone unresolved because of me."
Sighing in exasperation, Sam stands back up and paces across the room, his arms flailing wildly. "Dean! Seriously, you can't really be thinking of blaming yourself for anything that's happened since you got hurt. You're allowed to take time to recover, you know. Nobody expected you to be out there saving lives when you were trying to get your life back in order."
Dean goes silent, and suddenly Sam realizes that he may have gone a step too far, realizes that his brother has been thinking exactly what Sam's afraid of.
"You can't honestly be blaming yourself for getting hurt!" Sam repeats, voice a mixture of wariness and frustration.
"Just drop it, Sam." Dean climbs to his feet, taking on a defensive stance. "You've been in my seat before, too. Don't tell me you've never thought it."
"Yeah, I have! And every damn time you're right there to smack the self-pity right out of me. So don't go turning this around. Anything that's happened in the past couple months is by no means your fault. It's not like you went off to Cancun for an extended vacation; you couldn't see, Dean. I think people would consider that a forgivable offense."
"I don't want to talk about this, Sam. It's over. Done. But now we've got to get back out there. Soon as I don't have this damn blurriness everywhere I look we're back on the road. End of discussion."
In an instant Sam realizes that Dean is serious; that nothing he says or does is going to change anything. In a huff he throws his arms up in submission and stomps out of the room, muttering under his breath about going to check on Bobby and see how dinner is going.
Dean flops back down onto the couch, spent. He hadn't realized just how exhausting it would be to put up such a front for Bobby and Sam, but in the end he knows it will all be worth it. He's never been able to sit around and wait for things to happen. This is no different.
They need to be back out there, doing what they do best, but Dean knows that leaving things up to Sam will only result in an extended stay at Casa del Singer. Not that Dean doesn't appreciate everything their old friend has done and given up for him, but right now he just needs everything to get back to normal.
SUPERNATURAL ---
Dean waits exactly two days, and no longer. That morning he's up before the sun is shining, packing bags and preparing weapons. Sam hasn't exactly neglected their weapons over the past months, but he certainly hasn't kept them up to the standard their father drilled into them. Dean spends two hours just cleaning them, disassembling and reassembling guns and reveling in the fact that while he can do it blindfolded (as he's often bragged) he no longer needs to.
He's got a new lease on life with his sight back, and he's determined not to take anything for granted. Cleaning the weapons, Dean soaks in every nick and scratch and mar in the polished wood and metal, memorizing them by image alone until he's feeling the eye strain on his still healing eyes. He studies Sam as he sleeps, absorbing the information like a sponge – freckles and scars and wrinkles. Sam has a lot of wrinkles and worry lines for someone so young, Dean realizes. They've led a hard life, fraught with pain and stress and more information than most people deal with in their lifetimes. For a split second Dean allows himself to consider what it might be like if he hadn't recovered his sight, what it would cost them to settle down and start living their lives as civilians. It would almost be worth it, he thinks…almost. For Sam's sake, of course.
But then he gets to thinking about the fact that he has been healed, that he can see again, and all the 'what if's' and 'maybes' of another life go out the window. People need their help. Innocent people. And he's not about to let some misplaced desire for a normal life stand in the way of that. In the end, Dean knows for damn certain that he'd never be able to live with himself if others were getting hurt while he's off living some cherry pie existence. Never gonna happen.
He lets Sam sleep until eight, surprised that he makes it that far, then rouses him with a flick of the ear. "Sammy, up and at 'em. Daylight's wastin'!"
Sam comes to with a start, immediately turns it into a groan and a glare from beneath the covers as he mumbles incomprehensible words at his brother.
"Come on, Sam. We got rubber to burn, people to save. I've got us a hunt over in New Hampshire. Figure by the time we make it there my eyesight ought to be back up to one hundred percent. Come on, let's go!"
The excitement in Dean's voice is way too good to hear, and Sam can't bring himself to do or say anything that might jeopardize Dean's mood. He slowly rolls out of bed and pads to the bathroom without saying a word, although internally he's already deducing a plan to slow down their trip by at least a day, just enough to be absolutely certain Dean's ready.
When he emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later there is no sign of their stuff anywhere in the room. Dean has already cleaned it out. Sam groans, rolls his eyes, but gathers his shampoo and last night's boxers into a bundle and totes them down the stairs in search of his brother.
Dean isn't in the kitchen either, or the living room, and neither is Bobby. He finally finds them outside, both leaning against the car talking. Dante is at Dean's left hand, eating up his last few minutes of attention from the man he's come to think of as his own. Dean grins when Sam emerges, pats the dog one last time and grips Bobby's hand to say good-bye, thanks, see you soon. He barely gives Sam time to descend the stairs before he's got the motor revving and music blasting, doesn't allow for any questions as Sam says his own good-byes and climbs into the passenger seat.
Things are good right now. Dean Winchester is a whole man once again, ready to face the world and all the other-worldly creatures within it, and nothing is going to change that right now.
"So what's in New Hampshire?" Sam asks as they pull out of Bobby's dirt drive and onto the main road. He'll watch his brother over the next few weeks just to be sure he's not overdoing things, but for now he's content to let Dean lead, to fall back into the role he's played so well for so many years.
On the open road there is a sense of familiarity, security, as Sam looks over and sees his big brother behind the wheel of the Impala. For the first time in months everything seems right with the world – or at least the world they live in. They're back on the road carrying out the family business, doing what they do best. And one look at Dean gives Sam the confidence to know that everything's going to be okay.
A/N: Alright, so I am swearing of ever posting a incomplete fic ever again! That said, I will probably go offline for a while as I work on the upcoming projects. I've got 2 in the works that (hopefully – fingers crossed) will see the light of day very soon. Here's a little tidbit of what is to come…
One is a Retribution AU sequal. I was approached by a wonderful author and new friend – Betzz – who propositioned an AU story in Dean doesn't luck out at the end of Retribution. She wanted to see what happens to Dean if the wire actually did sever his spinal cord and ends up leaving him a high-level quadriplegic. I agreed to see where we could go with that idea and ended up allowing our imaginations to run wild! This will be posted in three parts (I will post as each part is completed) starting with Redemption. We're more than halfway through with part I and have multiple drabbles and scenes written for the additional 2 parts. Keep posted for that one!
The second is the promised and long awaited deaf!Dean story that I said I would write well over a year ago – so sorry guys! As I said early on in this story, I would choose one in which he is healed, and one in which the injury becomes permanent. So there is a very good chance that Dean will find himself permanently deaf very soon…
Thanks once again for being such loyal readers and not giving up on me! I'm grateful to everyone of you for your patience in seeing this through to completion. I start graduate school this coming fall and have been driving 3 hours back and forth to see my wonderful boyfriend as often as I can, so I can't speak for the amount of time I will have to devote to writing… But both stories are very dear to my heart and I will put forth every effort to get them out ASAP!