Chapter 4

Sam chewed on a thumbnail distractedly as he fought the irrational urge to run into the bathroom and check if Dean was okay. He was scarred enough already, and he'd left the door cracked so he could hear if his brother needed anything. Still, that didn't reassure him all that much.

He had his laptop out and their dad's journal spread on the table, trying to find some sort of reversal spell or something that could change Dean back to normal. He'd promised Dean he would fix it, so he would find a way.

But so far nothing had turned up. At least, not anything that wasn't specific to a certain enchantment or creature of the night. Despite his researching skills, he couldn't seem to find anything about curses continuing to have hold on a person after a spirit was gone for good, and it frustrated Sam to no end.

He needed an outlet for his bottled-up energy soon, or he'd be bouncing off the walls. He started to tap his fingers against the table in no particular pattern. His constant straining for any sounds of distress from Dean's direction was making him edgy and impatient.

Sam continued his finger-tapping for another minute before a light bulb came on in his head, and he was mystified that he hadn't thought of it earlier. A different way to communicate with his brother. Morse code! He beat out an "A" on the tabletop with his pointer finger, then a "B", followed by a "C". It had been a long time since his dad had taught him Morse code, but if he still remembered, then surely Dean did. It would be tedious, and they still wouldn't be able to talk as freely or verbosely as before, but it beat sticking to short and abbreviated words drawn out slowly in his brother's hand.

Eager to try this new form of communication, it was fifteen minutes later, and he was seriously considering if he should check on Dean, when he heard a shout from the other room. That was followed by crash and a tremendous thud. Sam nearly knocked over his chair in his scramble to the bathroom.

"Dean!" He banged open the door and his heart stopped when he caught sight of his big brother sprawled on the floor, legs twisted, and head turned the other way. For one horrible second Sam thought his brother had broken his neck. But then Dean was moaning and starting to rise up on his elbows and knees, clenched fists sliding on the linoleum.

Sam let out a tremulous, "Dean," and was kneeling at his side, stretching over his brother's back to snatch the towel. He quickly draped it over Dean, hoping to save him some dignity. Sam caught and turned him as one of his brother's arms collapsed beneath him. He propped his slippery shoulders and head on his bent legs and rested a reassuring hand on his chest. "That's it. Breathe through it, bro," he intoned nonetheless to unhearing ears, biding his time until Dean recovered his composure.

Dean obviously wasn't too hurt or out of it, because only a minute later red was creeping up his neck as he became more aware of the situation. He moaned again, this time in mortification, and swatted Sam's hand from his chest as he sat up, holding the back of head. He tightened the towel around his hips and strove to stand. He flailed a hand out and it caught the muscled shoulder of his brother, who'd moved around to face him. "M'okay, Sam. Just had a klutzy moment, is all."

Sam snorted, Yeah, sure, and braced his own hands on both of Dean's shoulders, holding him at arm's length as they straightened up.

Dean stopped him then, before they could move anywhere, as if he wanted to say something. He bit his lip and 'looked' at his feet, then rasped, "Sam, you should go."

Sam blinked, then squeezed Dean's shoulder. Okay... I realize he's embarrassed, who wouldn't be? But I should at least—

As if sensing Sam's confusion, Dean clarified, "Like, go, go. Leave me here; take the car... It's not safe for you if you have to keep watching me every second of the day. Go and do your research, find a way to fix this, but away from me. I…I'm too much of a distraction, and you could get hurt." It was the longest he'd spoken since last night's events, and his voice dipped up and down irregularly, but Sam got the gist.

That...that was so far out of left field that Sam didn't know how to respond at first. His jaw had dropped, and he was pretty sure he had a deer-in-the-headlights look. That was until anger and hurt wiped the look off his face to be replaced by one of incredulous fury.

Not caring that Dean couldn't hear him and in need of the release, he bellowed, "What the HELL, Dean?! You think I would do that, just, what, ditch you and take off? Leave you here to fend for yourself? Because I could get hurt if I stay?! That's the STUPIDEST thing you've ever said, and that's saying something. You just friggin' tripped getting out of the shower. Don't you ever think of yourself? You're all I have left, too, you stupid... God, you're my brother, I wouldn't—" More hurt than he would say, even if Dean were able hear him, he cursed, and it took all he had to restrain himself from shoving Dean onto the closed toilet seat; rather...dropping him instead.

He noticed that Dean had picked up on the rage pouring off him and looked unbelievably tired, although not surprised at Sam's reaction. Several shades of contrition painted his expression now.

"Sorry, Sammy." It was almost a whisper.

Sam drug a hand through his hair, the appendage still quivering from his anger, but it was already receding, leaving Sam feeling as worn out as Dean looked. He crouched down in front of Dean. He should've seen this coming, but it still shook him how soon it had come up. Though, really, what else should he have expected from his selfless brother? And Dean probably had never believed Sam would actually leave him, even if he thought this was all so inconvenient for his little brother. But he acknowledged that Dean had had to try, even understood it; Dean had to put the idea out there. Didn't mean that Sam approved of it or didn't think his brother was an idiot for hoping he would leave. Then again, he probably didn't really want Sam to go either, was just too proud to ever admit it.

One hand still on Sam and one clutching the towel around his waist, Dean waited for any sign from his brother. Sam released a lungful of pent-up breath and patted the side of Dean's neck with one hand before letting go. "You're such an unbelievable jerk, you know that?" He stood up. "Back in a minute." Glad to have blown past that argument, he satisfied himself that his currently-impaired brother seemed to not have hurt himself too badly in his little 'tumble'. He strode out the door to get some clothes from Dean's duffel bag, shaking his head at dense, headstrong, inane, tenacious, noble, loyal older brothers.

…

Dean sat on the toilet, burning with leftover shame that he apparently couldn't even get out of the shower without face-planting, as well as regret for what he'd said. Well, more for the fact that he had clearly hurt Sam's feelings than for the offer he'd put on the table. He hadn't imagined Sam giving any other answer, really, knowing what he himself would say to a crap request like that.

Vaguely wondering where Sam had gone, he reached behind him to snag another towel from the rack above the toilet and started drying off his hair and arms.

He was running his fingers over his head to brush his hair into its traditional spikes when he felt a soft weight settle onto his lap. He identified the pile as fabric of some sort. Clothes, duh. Sam went and got you your clothes. "Thanks," he sighed and got to work distinguishing between the different pieces of apparel. T-shirt, flannel button-up, jeans, boxers, socks...

Shooting Sam a grateful look, the older Winchester shooed him out, knowing he could do this himself, remembering many nights of dressing in the dark. Then again, he'd assumed his showering skills were better, too. He huffed at the thought.

Dean really hoped that Sam hadn't given him a red shirt along with blue plaid or something like that in a last-ditch fit of annoyance... He snorted to himself and shook his head. He managed to tug on his clothes, keeping all the tags in the back. It went slowly, though, as he tried not to overwork even more newly-bruised muscles.

Finished, he made it out the bathroom door without any disasters and was doggedly making his way in what he hoped was the direction of the table. He barked a "No!" unerringly a moment before Sam could touch him. He felt a small triumph when he stubbed his toe on the leg of a chair and caught himself before he could stumble. He fumbled onto the seat with a sigh of relief, and he felt around on the table. His fingers came in contact with a keyboard and screen—the laptop—and then a smooth, curved surface that stirred when his fingertips brushed it—the pages of his dad's journal.

Just to make sure. "Last chance. You sure you don't want to take off, Sam?" Also, it would piss him off. "Might be easier to find a way to fix this without me in the way all the time. You could always come back, you know...if you want."

His hand was grabbed roughly and N-O-. was drawn on his palm, emphasis on the period. Dean shot him a smirk. Thought so. To be honest, he was profoundly appreciative for his brother's solid devotion.

He sat there for a few minutes, aimlessly flipping pages of the journal, not sure what to do. Man, being blind and deaf was sure going to be boring. TV, radio, and reading were all out of the question, as well as driving. What else was he supposed to do to fill his time?

He jerked his head up when fingertips brushed the top of it. He turned his attention to where he thought Sam might be standing. A gun and cleaning rag were pushed into his hands, and he brightened a little. Good thinking, Sammy. He was able to take apart and clean any one of his weapons in his sleep, and he certainly could now. It would give his hands and mind something to do for the time being. Trusting that Sam would've tripled checked to ascertain that the gun wasn't loaded, he pulled the clip back and got to work.

…

Watching Dean do something that occupied him for a couple hours rather than just sitting there listlessly and staring blankly into space actually took the edge off of Sam's own restlessness. He found himself glancing over the top of his laptop every couple minutes or so, monitoring as Dean field-stripped each firearm that Sam gave to him—after making absolutely sure there were no bullets in any of the chambers or clips, of course. The older hunter thoroughly polished each part by feel—twice—before expertly fitting them back together perfectly until there was a neat row of gleaming guns across the table. Sam's brother could be OCD like that.

When Dean was done with the last one, he set it down and raised his head expectantly. Sam blinked at him for a second before jumping up. "Oh! Right. Uh..." They didn't have any more weapons in the room; he'd only brought the one bag in. Abruptly recalling his idea about Morse code, he decided to try it out now.

He crouched next to Dean and took hold of his wrist, noting with gratification that his brother didn't even flinch in the slightest this time. Still using shortened phrases to make it easier to decode, he tapped out with his fingers on the inside of Dean's wrist, "Need 2 go 2 car. Understand?"

As soon as he'd started, he'd seen Dean concentrate on the rhythm of the beats, short and long, slowly unfurling the message in his mind. When Sam had finished, the older Winchester peered up at him—well, about a foot to his left—with raised eyebrows, appearing impressed. A fleeting expression that Sam, feeling his ears flush, could only interpret as pride flashed across Dean's face.

"Wow, Sammy, you figure this out on your own?" he croaked. "Always told you our training would come in handy someday." Dean beamed at him.

Ignoring the fact that Dean's voice was somewhat off-pitch, Sam just squeezed his brother's wrist in joy, gleeful that he could talk with him a little more effectively now. Adjusting his grip, he thumped out another message with his index finger, "Goin 2 car now. Be right back."

Dean just patted his casted arm in acknowledgment and slipped his hand out of Sam's grasp to wait patiently. Or impatiently; Sam wasn't sure if 'patience' was in his brother's vocabulary. Then he reminded himself how his brother could wait in silence for hours if he had to before attacking a monster at just the right moment. Or sit at the bedside of a sick little brother.

Sam determinedly held on to his good mood and quickly slipped out of the motel room to go to the trunk of the Impala. On his way to the car, he noticed the grove of trees on the border of the parking lot, and an idea started nagging at him. Taking a quick glance around, he fished the keys from his pocket and opened the trunk lid, followed by the false bottom, and still the notion wouldn't leave him alone.

Finally, after digging out a bundle of hunting knives for his brother to clean—hopefully he wouldn't slice open a hand—he closed the back end of the car and set the bag on the ground by the rear tire. His long legs carried him across the lot and he arrived at the group of trees.

Starting to look around in hopes of finding something that would work, Sam scanned the ground methodically. Just when he was about to give up, knowing Dean would begin to wonder what was taking him so long, he spotted a long, straight, dry branch that had broken off at some point. Triumphant in his search, he picked it up to examine it, snapping off some small branches that jutted out from the sides. Yeah, this would work. It was eroded and smooth enough that someone would be hard pressed to get any splinters from it.

Hefting the stick up so that he held it by the middle, Sam made his way back towards their room, snatching up the bag on the way. As he entered the room, he wondered if he should try to find a way to let Dean know he was there without having to go and physically touch him, which usually only served to startle him much of the time. Especially if Sam had been out of contact for a while. Maybe he could start throwing paper clips at him.

Amused with himself, he decided that was a topic for later. Sam dropped the bag of knives on his chair distractedly in his eager to get to Dean, who, frankly, was starting to look a bit agitated. Sam touched his forearm and ignored his brother's sharp inhale to slide his hand down to Dean's. Suddenly self-conscious about this idea, he nevertheless placed the staff into Dean's hand and waited until Dean folded his fingers around the dead branch.

Sam watched Dean's puzzlement grow as he tried to figure out why Sam had given him a stick and not another weapon to clean. He studied it with his hands, which ran over the length of the inch-wide pole, fingers passing over the knots and grooves of the wood. Then his face clouded with cognizance to be replaced by growing vexation. But his voice was a facade of barely controlled irritation. "Sam. What is this?"

Sam was then unsure of his decision and hesitated; he'd just wanted to help. Give Dean another option besides being led around whenever he needed to walk even just a few feet. He even justified it with the fact that he hadn't gone out to get his brother an actual blind-person cane, not that he knew where he'd be able to get one around here.

Dean interrupted his internal musings, "Sam! Did you give me a freaking walking stick? Seriously? It's not like I'm some old geezer with a screwed-up hip!" His voice was slightly too loud now, not that he would be able to know that. He probably wasn't going for calm and collected anymore anyways. "Tell me, Sam!" He held out his arm, demanding an answer.

Sam knew Dean was only overreacting a bit because he was on edge, scared this was long term. Rushing to make amends, Sam complied and tapped, "Cane. Help get around, not bump into things." It took the younger brother a minute to tap out his explanation, and sat back when he was done to brace himself for Dean's response. He knew that doing this was like admitting Dean could be in his condition for a while, but why not make it a little easier in the meantime? This way his brother could salvage some semblance of independence, just until they figured it out. I will not let this be permanent, Dean. Just humor me. Please, Sam silently implored.

To his astonishment, Dean finally acquiesced with a disgruntled, "Fine."

Sam grinned earnestly and patted his brother's hand to indicate to turn it over. When he obeyed, Sam messaged, "Practice?"

Dean clenched his jaw mulishly and shrugged. He didn't like it, but it wasn't a 'no' either. With that, Sam got up to clear things off the floor and out of the way so his brother would have less to trip on.

…

Sam helped Dean practice with the makeshift cane for over an hour until his brother seemed to get the hang of navigating the room. Eventually, Sam even purposely set obstacles in his brother's path so he could learn to identify and sidestep them. Dean also counted and memorized the number of steps it took to get from his bed to the bathroom, or to the table, and even to Sam's bed and the door. Most of the numbers were in the single digits, as small as the motel room was, and not that hard to commit to memory.

Sam was always hovering just inches away, ready to alert Dean in case he was about to collide with something, until the irritated older hunter just growled at him, "Lay off, Sam!" And then the scolded younger brother just fidgeted on his bed and observed guardedly.

Finally, he'd practically mastered the tiny space and Dean wanted to give it a rest, complaining that his gurgling stomach was 'eating him from the inside.'

Ecstatic about the results of his little proposal and proud of Dean for taking this all in stride, Sam was happy to do that for his big brother and was soon on his way to carry out the errand. He returned twenty minutes later with a couple of hot sandwiches, along with some cold ones that would keep for later—he figured they might was well stick with what was easy—and some French fries for Dean. He also indulged in a piece of apple pie, hoping it would cheer his brother up despite its potential messiness.

After Sam swore to Dean he wasn't just sitting there watching his brother eat and he pointedly looked away to give Dean some privacy, the prideful Winchester dug in. He commended Sam for his choice of foods via a hum of appreciation. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught that Dean accidentally jabbed himself in the corners of his mouth with fries a few times, but didn't think much of it as his animal of a brother devoured everything within ten minutes, regardless. Only a few stray scraps of sandwich and fries had ended up on the floor, which Sam discreetly picked up and threw away along with their wrappers. Globs of pie had managed to all fall back onto the tin plate, and Dean had scraped it spotless.

Both full and content, Dean used his newfound cane to find his own way to the bathroom. When he shuffle-stepped back to the table, Sam set him up cleaning his hunting knives, entrusting them to his blind brother in hopes that the routineness of the activity would save Dean from chopping a finger off. Nevertheless, Sam resolved to rush through the shower he desperately needed—as Dean himself pointed out with a turned-up nose—in order to get back.

The hunter was still sharpening and polishing the blades when Sam emerged in a cloud of steam, and he grabbed his laptop off the table to relocate to his bed. He still kept a wary eye on Dean from across the room as he researched some more, his findings fruitless. They passed the afternoon in much that same manner, with a break every now and then for a short conversation between them, as well as to snack on some chips and beef jerky Sam had dredged out from one of their bags.

Even though it was still early for them, Dean finally set down his last machete and announced he was tired. Little did Sam know it was partly Dean nicking himself a few too many times that he was tired of. And that the incessant dark and silence in his head, together with the day's inactivity, induced an undeniable lethargy in him.

Before the younger brother could get up, the older had retrieved his cane and started sweeping his way to the bed, which was really only a few steps, (four, to be exact). He sunk to the mattress, removed his over-clothes, and curled up stiffly on top of the covers, back to Sam. He didn't seem to relax at all despite being horizontal.

None of his online explorations having yielded any promising solutions, Sam deduced that he might as well turn in, too. After checking the wards in the room, he copied the motions his brother had completed a few minutes earlier and was preparing to climb into bed when he spotted Dean's uneasiness for what it was.

Both brothers neglected to mention the fact that Sam had to stretch out in the space behind Dean, a few fingers in contact with the back of his shoulder, in order for Dean to be able to relax into sleep.