Chapter 3

The fact that Dean couldn't see Sam, couldn't hear him—or, anything else for that matter—terrified him. He couldn't bear the thought of going to sleep, losing any more stimuli to the world. But at least if he was sleeping, he could dream. He could hear and see in his dreams.

Would he be like this long enough that his dreams became just...silence and darkness and mere touches, too? He shuddered at the thought. Of course, he'd have to fall asleep to know, and he was having a hard time doing that. It seemed impossible, actually. The subtle, constant background noises, like intermittent traffic or voices or crickets that made up the nighttime quiet, weren't even there. It was surprisingly unnerving.

His spine twinged again, and he massaged it absently. It was too uncomfortable to lie on his back, and laying on his stomach, to him, was giving up any sort of defense he had left; it would make him utterly, one hundred percent exposed, and he felt so handicapped already.

How could he watch Sam's back like this? It went completely against the grain, against his nature, not to, and now Sam was the one who would have to defend him 24/7. That's so messed up. Who's the big brother here?

Sam. It had only been a few hours that Dean had been like this, and already his little brother was so patient with him, his care and concern so obvious. When he touched Dean to help him, he even did it slowly so as not to startle him too much, since Dean never had any warning. He could just picture Sam's dewy puppy-dog eyes watching him struggle to make sense of everything. He felt so lost, and his brother was his lifeline to the outside world, to reality, when it felt like he was floating in space.

He strained to sense any sort of evidence of another person being there, knowing Sam was only a few feet away in the other bed, and was unable to. Nervousness twisted his gut, and he clenched his hands. He stubbornly didn't call for Sam, though. His little brother shouldn't have to hold his hand all the time; he was an adult, for God's sake. Not to mention a hunter.

Except he could never be a hunter in this condition. Maybe, if only his hearing had been taken initially, like Warren Stiles was supposed to do. Yeah, he could adapt to that, using hand signals and always keeping his brother in his line of vision. But not like this, not ever. He was so freakin' powerless, he was practically an invalid, and that disgusted him. He couldn't help the pressure of worry and uncertainty that built up inside him and threatened to overflow. He curled inward on himself, trying to suppress it. It didn't make it any better that he could mentally picture any sort of thing happening to Sam or taking him without Dean being the wiser.

The line between wakefulness and sleep was fuzzier than normal, and after a while his distressed imagination somehow gave way to fitful dreams.

He saw Sam, heard him calling his name. Dean tried to run to him, but a wave of blackness and emptiness crashed over him, filling every part of him except for his father's voice in his head. "Watch out for Sammy" and, "You have to save him, Dean, or you'll have to kill him", and, "You have to protect him, whatever it takes." Dean cried out, dismayed, I'm trying, Dad, but I can't! I can't... M'sorry. He could feel his father's disappointment, the darkness suffocating him. Dad, m'sorry... Sorry, Sammy...I'm trying...M'tryin' to save you...

…

Sam tried to stay awake, knowing Dean couldn't sleep, and listened to him fidget in restlessness. He couldn't blame him. Seeing for himself how all this had thrown Dean was enough to put him on edge, his brother's agitation contagious.

But he was so tired from their long day and late night, the cemetery that seemed like days ago, the drive after, helping Dean get situated, going out to get food... He finally fell asleep to the staccato of his brother's uneven breathing.

It seemed like only minutes later that he was roused by Dean's mumbling in his sleep. The distressed murmurs soon intensified to soft cries and—God—whimpers as Dean writhed in the sheets. He could make out some of the words: Tryin', Dad...can't...s'rry...S'mmy... Sam's eyes burned at the heart-rending sounds, and he sat up on one elbow. Then Dean abruptly woke with a sharp intake of breath.

Sam immediately rolled off his bed to his feet and was kneeling at his brother's bedside as he flicked on the lamp. "Dean?" he implored. Still hazy with fatigue, he continued with "You okay?" before mentally slapping himself. Instead he pressed a hand to Dean's heaving chest, forgetting to do it slowly. He could feel Dean's frantic heart hammering beneath his palm, as well as his shuddering breaths.

Dean's heart and lungs stuttered, and Dean recoiled, disoriented and automatically rolling onto his back. He hissed, and his face screwed up as he landed on the expanse of bruises mottling his skin. Sam eased a hand onto his forehead, Dean's spiky hair grazing the edge of his hand, and began softly massaging away the pained crease between the eyebrows with his thumb. "Shh, sorry. Sorry Dean," he soothed with both words and touch. He rubbed his chest once, urging Dean to take deep breaths and was warmed when Dean responded to his touch, his inhalations steadily slowing.

For the first time, Sam found himself wishing he had psychic powers like Andy. Of course, not to coerce Dean to do his will. Never would he consider doing that. But, just to be able to talk to Dean. He didn't insult either of them by believing Dean wouldn't trust him inside his head. Maybe. At least not to take advantage. Well, when I'm not pissed at Dean for some reason, anyway, he mused.

It wasn't until a couple minutes later, when he removed his hand from Dean's forehead, that Sam realized Dean had flung out an arm to tightly clamp his hand on the crook of Sam's neck, as if desperate for the connection. Like a live wire that needed to be grounded. Another minute, and Dean had taken his hand back to drag it over his mouth and chin with a rusty sigh. He opened his eyes gradually, before surprising Sam with a short-lived smile. His voice was scratchy when he mumbled, "How will I ever scope out the hot chicks, now, huh, Sammy?" Humor: a typical Winchester defense mechanism.

A breathy laugh burst out of Sam, his shoulders shaking a bit from the laughter. He could tell when his brother was just trying to relieve the solemnity of a situation, and it worked. It made him feel even better when his brother's grin widened marginally at the vibration, obviously knowing what it was. Sam shook his head. Only his brother.

The younger brother relocated his hand from Dean's chest to his arm, letting his thumb rub lightly over the smooth skin. There were still a few grooves in Dean's forehead from the pain his back was obviously causing him. Sam got up long enough to retrieve some Tylenol and a bottle of water, then set the bottle on the side table and settled himself down by Dean's hip. He picked up his brother's wrist and dropped the pills into his hand. He slipped his casted arm around Dean's shoulders and helped guide him to a sitting position so that Dean could tip the pills into his mouth and chase it with a gulp of water, which he insisted on doing himself.

When he had taken the bottle from Dean and set it aside, Sam lowered Dean back down onto his side. As soon as he was situated, Dean shoved Sam's arms off with a grunt of indignation. Sam rolled his eyes, clapped a hand to Dean's calf. He switched off the light and made his way back to his own bed, where he sat for a moment instead of lying down right away.

Sure enough, within a couple minutes Dean was already stirring and twitching again, clearly uneasy with nothing familiar to give him reprieve. Sam felt gloominess creeping in on him again and he silently got up to sit on the floor with his back to Dean's bed. He carefully reached up and laid a hand on Dean's outflung arm to graze his thumb back and forth in a consoling motion like before.

Dean instantly relaxed and stilled, his head rolling towards Sam. He slid a hand under his pillow, let out one long breath and what Sam could've sworn was a mumbled "Bitch", and soon sunk into relatively peaceful sleep.

Sam's mouth turned up and he leaned his head back against the bed, closing his eyes and whispering, "Jerk." Comforted himself, he didn't remove his hand from Dean's forearm, but he stilled his thumb.

His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was, We'll figure this out, big brother. I promise.

…

Five hours later, Dean found out how much fun it was to wake up when it felt the same as being asleep. He was pretty sure he was part of the waking world, though—his full bladder told him so—so he lay there, not moving for a couple minutes. He waited because it was only a matter of time before—

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he could feel the edges of a cast. Using the pressure of his brother's hand as a point of reference, he sat up, groaning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He hoped he didn't sound too off when he grumbled, "Time s'it, S'mmy?"

He could feel Sam's arm twist but remain anchored to him as, he assumed, Sam checked the clock. His hand was grasped, and his shoulder was released so that "9-1-7" could be written on his hand. Dean grunted acknowledgment, then turned his head straight and mumbled, "Bathroom?"

Sam's hand squeezed his before sliding up to his elbow and guiding him up. They shuffled forward, right turn, shuffled some more, and then Sam was lifting his arm to place it against a doorjamb. He urged Dean forward just ahead enough that his feet knocked against something smooth and hard, unmistakably the toilet.

Pushing Sam away, he felt behind him until he caught the door and edged around it so he could close it most of the way. He kept his hand on the wall the whole time and managed to get through the ordeal. He'd done this in the dark enough times to be familiar with the motions. There was no way he was going to let Sam help with this, as much as Sam wanted to be a mother hen about the whole thing. Not while he was conscious, anyway.

Ignoring the fact that Sam had been right outside the door, Dean opened it and faced him—hopefully—to grumble, "I'm gonna grab a shower." He'd hoped to put this off, but he was still dusty from his little run in with a headstone, and hot water would do wonders for his back. He was determined to do this himself, as well; he refused to ever allow Sam to...to bathe him. Note above: "not while he was conscious."

Putting that out of his mind as quickly as he could, he waited as Sam slid past him and presumably turned on the shower, got the things he'd need, a towel ready, etc. Stewing in helpless frustration, his assumptions were confirmed when warm water was flicked on his face, Sam's way of telling him it was ready for him.

Dean scuffled forward, arms outstretched. It was easy to tell that Sam was hovering even if he didn't touch him. His toes hit the edge of the tub, and he waved Sam off so he could undress. Giving his brother enough time to leave the bathroom, he started to strip, keeping a leg pressed against the tub so he didn't lose his bearings. He turned haltingly and lifted his foot until it cleared the wall of the bathtub and stepped inside to a spray of perfect-temperature water. Dean sighed in pleasure at the soothing stream, and stood there a couple minutes to let it soak in.

He'd been tired enough in the past that he'd gone through the routine of taking a shower with his eyes closed, so he thought he could do it without too much trouble. It was actually harder than he'd thought, though after groping around a bit he found that Sam had lain out a bottle of shampoo (he hoped), a tiny bar of soap, and a washcloth for him. It just unnerved him that he couldn't even hear the sounds of water hitting his skin, the floor of the tub; he could only feel it. The silence was deafening. And wasn't that some fun irony right there.

Who was that one chick who'd been deaf and blind? Helen Keller? If Dean remembered correctly, she'd lost her sight and her hearing all in one clean sweep. He couldn't imagine living more than a few days like that, much less pretty much your whole life. What a lonely hell that must have been. His limited experience confirmed that it was.

But she had somehow learned sign language, using touch alone to feel the gestures people would sign in her hands. How she had learned enough to make complete, recognizable sentences was beyond him. Didn't she become a teacher or something like that? Dean shook his head in awe. Man, if a poor, sick little girl could grow up to achieve all that, surely he could suck it up and deal. Especially since he had a brother like Sam.

That was another thing. Dean knew Sam would help him through this, didn't really expect less, because he would do the same. They'd burned Stiles, yet he was still affected by the spirit's curse. If this was permanent... He didn't want his little brother to have to learn a whole new language for him; he didn't want to be a burden to him for the rest of his life. Even besides that, the idea of trying to learn enough signs to communicate solely through touch was daunting. The prospect of learning Braille...even if Sam had seemingly endless patience for learning, Dean wasn't sure he did. But Sam would still stay, do it all, for him; he was certain of that, and that's what he was afraid of.

Dean reprimanded himself. Get it together, Dean. It hasn't even been a day, and you're already giving up. He had faith in Sam. That he would figure it out. But that didn't mean he wanted to make it any harder for Sam in the meantime, his own pride aside.

Sighing, he finished up and yanked the shower handle down in the universal motion to turn the water off. He shoved the shower curtain aside and hesitated before remembering earlier he'd felt the towel Sam had left for him, folded on the floor by the side of the tub.

A hand on the wall, he was about to gingerly step out when a wave of dizziness hit him, causing him to sway forward. He automatically tried to take a step to catch himself but misjudged. His foot caught on the top of the fiberglass barrier, and, unbalanced, he lost his grip on the wall while his other foot slipped on the bottom of the shower.

A soundless yelp escaped from his mouth as he pitched forward in a tangle of limbs before he slammed down into a field of pain.

…

Sorry for all those who've had the nightmare of falling and dying in the shower only to be discovered naked. (C'mon, who hasn't imagined that horrifying possibility?)