Well, here we are, last chapter! Hope I didn't produce any inconsistencies in this rewrite. Either way, thanks for reading! I had a lot of fun writing (and rewriting) this story and posting it. Please let me know what you think!

…

Chapter 8

In the mere couple minutes or so that Sam was out, he relived the last few months, flashing from one memory to the next: pouring his heart out to his dying, unresponsive brother after the accident that wasn't really an accident; seeing his dad's lifeless body on the hospital floor; giving their father a hunter's sendoff; watching Dean tear himself up for weeks, months afterward; Dean's soul-baring speech on the hood of the Impala; discovering Andy, another one of the kids like him; Dean admitting under influence that he was afraid for Sam's destiny; the ill-fated hunt of Warren Stiles...

His reminiscing snapped to the present: finding his beaten and starved big brother and carrying him out; watching as flames flickered up the wooden struts, ceiling, and doors of the old, dry cellar in hopes of destroying any remnants of the spirit; witnessing his brother's excruciating agony as the house went up in a blaze; Sam begging him to be okay; seeing a look akin to wonder in Dean's hazy green eyes as he stared up at him...

Feeling the eruption behind him and being somersaulted over his brother, only to land on his head in a flash of pain before darkness flooded over him.

Seconds, and a lifetime, later, he was silently groaning, and a growing lump on the back of his head pulsated. Sam scrunched his eyebrows, still not fully aware of what was happening...though he felt a heaviness against his side. "D'n?"

He fought his way up through layers of fog and was just prying his weighted eyelids open when a second explosion went off, and the weight at his side changed to a blanket of pressure over his body as he curled reflexively against the light and heat.

After twenty seconds of nearly-intolerable heat and shrapnel flying around them and crashing to the ground, Sam wrenched his eyes open again. The pressure against him had become dead weight, and he knew what—who—had been shielding him. Coughing from the smoke and dust, he croaked out, "Dean!" as he tried to rise gradually so as not to dislodge his brother's motionless form.

Shoving a charred piece of wood from his brother's back, Sam oh-so-carefully turned him over. He noted with dismay that, underneath the partially unzipped coat, Dean's bandages were soaked with blood, and the stain was slowly spreading. His breaths had become short and uneven at best, and Dean was on the verge of going into shock. If he hadn't already. Not to mention he hadn't shivered once through this whole ordeal, and his lips and fingernails were still blue.

Shaking the remaining fuzziness out of his head, Sam knew they had to get out of here. He already distantly heard sirens, and he didn't want to get involved with the authorities. There was no explaining this away; he had set the fire. If he got them to the hospital before the police saw them, he could pass off their injuries as some sort of wild animal encounter while camping in the woods.

First things first: get Dean to the car. His brother was slipping away fast, and Sam had to strive to keep the trembling out of his own hands, which he slid under Dean once again. As he heaved up, he soothed, "Hey. Hey, Dean. I've got you. I'm gonna take care of you. You're gonna be okay." Dean didn't even make a sound as Sam lurched forward to grab their duffel bag—he'd have left it to burn, for all he cared, but there was too much evidence to let the police find it. So, he shouldered it with difficulty and staggered off towards the Impala.

By the time he got there, his arms felt like they were going to fall off. But he still tugged on the door handle and eased Dean into the passenger seat slowly, resting his head back. Sam opened the back door to chuck the bag in and took a few more precious seconds to scoop out some blankets to swaddle around Dean's legs and around his shoulders.

Sam closed the doors and bolted around the hood of the car to fall in behind the wheel. A few moments later they were roaring away in the direction of the hospital. He slowed to the speed limit when fire engines came into view, which sped past him without a second thought.

Sam let out a breath and turned to Dean. He pulled at his brother so he was leaning against him and Sam could stretch an arm around Dean, sharing body heat. His brother's head rolled onto his shoulder, and Sam accepted the burden willingly. As he drove one-handed, he hoped some of his words got through to his brother and his newly-regained sense of hearing. "Almost there, Dean. Gonna fix you up, alright? You're gonna be fine."

Sam prayed it was true as he slid to a halt at the front doors of the hospital.

…

For what seemed like an eternity, the most he was ever aware was enough to be miffed that he was so unaware of everything. He couldn't control his body, couldn't move his limbs or his head of his own volition. Even his thoughts tended to roam of their own accord.

But in detached, fleeting moments, he felt hands on him, both alien and recognizable. It was the same for the voices he heard, though he could never make out what any of them said, except for one that he'd know anywhere, the one that went along with those gentle hands that were so consolingly familiar.

There was a harsh brightness outside his closed eyelids and the feeling of air rushing by quickly. Then he lost his hold on the physical world and all conscious thought once again.

When he came back, he floated for a while, a soft, beseeching voice swirling around him at times. In contrast to the dull fire that he distantly recognized in his chest and shoulders, somewhat more muted than before, the rest of his body was quivering with cold. He wished for something to cover him, to block out the cold, but no one read his mind. He lay there, coughing occasionally, shrouded in icy air which seemed to only drop in temperature.

He felt cold, so cold, but when something finally happened, he was only made colder. A sudden dip into iciness, and he thought he'd scream from the torture, but he could no more make a sound than he could escape the restraining hands. It lasted for never-ending minutes, until he could feel himself shivering so violently that finally he was lifted up. Softness replaced the frigidness, but even that still felt cold. Everything did. Even the touch he knew so well that had settled on his forehead was freezing on his skin.

That was weird. He'd always thought of Sam as sunny, warm. Like his face when it was lit with a smile. How long had it been since he'd actually seen Sam smile like that, so untroubled and carefree?

Words, pleading and desperate, drifted past his ears from far away. "Stay with me, Dean. C'mon, man, don't do this. Please, I can't..."

Can't what, Sammy? He strained to move his head, his lips, his vocal chords, but it was useless. He struggled to remain even this alert, but fatigue tugged him down into encompassing numbness.

The next time he felt anything, it was because his body was jerking. Well, his lungs were. He'd started coughing, and then he couldn't stop, grating hacks tearing their way up his throat until it felt raw. He distantly heard his brother's despaired cries and frantically soothing words. A hand rubbing up and down his sternum in frenzied motions, trying to stifle the coughs that were wracking his torso. The breath whooped out of him relentlessly, and he couldn't breathe. He coughed until he didn't have the strength to cough, but he still wasn't taking in any breaths. His head whirled nauseatingly, and the last thing he felt for a while again was the touch on his chest being replaced by other, strange hands. Don't go, Sam.

The third time he surfaced, that he could remember, there was a hand—that hand—fastened to his, long fingers wrapped around his own, and they weren't quite so cold this time. His breathing was deep and even, and that wasn't his own doing. The expanding of his ribs was mechanical and accompanied with an airy whooshing sound off to his left.

He started to lose his nerve, but he was distracted by the hand that squeezed his tightly enough for him to feel that the arm it was attached to was trembling. And the slumped form that was propped on the bed by his side was softly convulsing. Dean's heart broke when he heard Sam lament between the soft sounds, "Please, Dean. Please." That was all he said, repeating those two words until they faded to nothing. But the quiet keens continued.

I'm sorry, Sammy. Didn't mean to put you through this. He wanted with all his heart to be able to squeeze Sam's hand in return, to touch the tousled hair he could feel resting near their joined hands, but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. He merely felt his own eyes filling in response to his brother's audible tears, and he willingly let the darkness take him away again. I'm sorry.

...

He awoke to the noise of some machine that he couldn't place right away. An annoying sound that was far away but also too close.

It finally registered as a low beeping sound. It was unvarying, really familiar...

Oh.

Dean slowly crept up to awareness in stages, first feeling his aching head, then his shoulders and chest, his back, then twitching his extremities. The beeping sped up a notch as more of his body informed him of its presence and glimpses of memories assaulted him.

He'd been alone, cold, hurt, in the dark. He couldn't sense anything. But...Sam. Sam helped him. He came for him. He fixed him. His little brother had recovered what he'd lost.

But he didn't want to open his eyes, not yet, afraid that his restored sight was just a dream, that he hadn't actually seen his brother's face hovering over him. It had seemed so long ago, like a forgotten dream—nightmare? Yet, there were more memories, memories of sight and hearing: crackling, flames, "Jerk", explosion...the distinct image of Sam, being thrown clear of him, followed by—

His eyes flew open automatically. "Sam!" Dean tried to call out, but his voice had no volume, and it only produced a silent, wheezing cough. Had he imagined hearing the heart monitor a moment ago?

No, that was still there—his voice just wasn't very strong at the moment. Had he been on a ventilator? The breathing tube was gone now; he should be able to talk. Before he could clear his throat and try calling again, though, a hand shot out to press against his good shoulder, urging him back to a lying position.

"Whoa, take it easy," a gruff voice rumbled nearby.

That was...not the voice he'd been expecting. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, Dean blinked owlishly and turned to his right to see a much older, bearded face underneath a tattered baseball cap.

"Bobby?" he was able to croak out this time. "What're you doin' here? Where's Sam?" He started to rise back on his elbows only to be shoved none-too-gently back down again. Obscure flashbacks to binding hands, cold so painful he couldn't think...

"Well, good to see you, too. " The older hunter said, mockingly affronted. "Now stay still, ya idgit, 'fore you hurt yourself more," he ordered. But his eyes softened when Dean shot him an imploring look, and Singer relented. "He was on his last legs. Yer brother just went to get some coffee. Otherwise he hasn't left your side since ya got here."

"How is he? He hurt?"

Of course he was asking about his brother's status before his own; Sam always came first. Recognizing this, Bobby just snorted. "He's all right, Dean. Worried about you, is all." The haggard man looked to be recuperating from his own feelings of uncertainty and concern.

Dean tweaked a smile of relief and sank back into his pillow to wait for Sam to return. Then he remembered Bobby hadn't answered his question. "Why are you here, Bobby? When'd you get here?"

Bobby sat back on his chair and crossed his arms, his eyes glinting. "Sam called. Jus' before he went to fetch you and finish off that vengeful spirit. I drove over fast as I could. 'Course, that was before he found you and you got your senses back. Now I'm just here for moral support."

Dean twisted his face in bewilderment. Sure, Bobby only lived a few states over, but still... "Wait, how long has it been since...?"

Bobby grimaced. "Boy, you've been out for the better part of six days. Sam was tearing out his hair, he was so out of his mind with worry. You almost didn't..." He trailed off and averted his gaze, letting Dean fill in the blank.

Dean was looking down and kneading absently at the stiff, white sheets next to his legs. He vaguely remembered... Cold. Voices. Voice. Touch. Anguished pleading. He clenched his jaw and raised his eyes to meet Bobby's. "Tell me," he demanded.

Bobby hesitated, but, knowing it would only be harder for Sam to tell Dean, he continued. "Well, you'd finally gone into shock, and you were suffering from hypothermia along with dehydration by the time you got here. Needed surgery and a blood transfusion for yer cuts. Not to mention you came down with a helluva case of pneumonia." Dean's eyes were hooded, stoic. "And to top it all off, once we got your body temp up, it kept right on goin' and went through the roof a couple times from the infection." The weary man sighed. "All in all, not a fun week. For any of us."

Not recollecting much of any of this, just indistinct rushes of sensation, Dean just stared at his hands and nodded. A laden silence fell between the two hunters. Dean rubbed thoughtfully at his freshly-shaven chin, then swiped a heavy hand over his combed-over hair with annoyance, partly because he still felt so weak. He was starting to wonder if Sam had gone across town to get coffee when the younger brother's stooped frame appeared in the doorway.

When he looked up and spotted Dean, Sam's eyebrows nearly rose to his hairline. "D-dean!" he exclaimed, quickening his long stride to the bed.

Bobby clapped his hands on his knees and stood, tipping a nod to the younger Winchester, which he barely noticed. Shaking his head, Bobby mumbled something about going to the cafeteria before escaping out into the hallway to give the brothers some time alone.

Sam had set the coffee down on the small table, promptly forgotten, and in another second he was leaning on the rail of Dean's bed, raking a hand back through his hair. "Dean. Thank God, you're awake." Emotion colored his voice, and his emo-eyes were out in full force as he scanned Dean for any indication of discomfort. His gaze moved back up to Dean's face so he could read him. "How d'you feel?"

Dean reveled in the sight and sound of his little brother, but quickly looked away so he wouldn't be caught staring. He shrugged in answer to Sam's question. "Been better, been worse." He tenderly massaged his bandaged chest, idly noticing the IV drip hooked up to the inside of his elbow.

Long fingers checked his hand from touching the bandages more. Sam softly chided, "Dude, don't mess with that. You had to have surgery to stitch it up, and then infection set in, and you..." Dean saw his Adam's apple bob as he choked up.

Dean rotated his hand so he could seize Sam's, palm to palm, for a moment. "Hey, no chick-flicks. It's okay, Bobby already told me." He moved to release his hand and set it on his stomach.

Sam ducked his head and clamped his fingers around Dean's so he couldn't pull back like he was about to. But he didn't say anything, and Dean let him cling for a moment. He could relate, and he was suddenly reminded of quiet, broken sobs that had wormed their way into and squeezed at his own chest all those hours...days ago?

He swallowed back the lump in his throat, and, trying to lighten the mood, Dean asked, "So, you get it?"

Sam's head came up. "Get what?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "The spirit, doofus. You sure Warren's bought the farm for good, now? Bit the dust? Sleepin' with da fishes? Gotta say, man, can't say I'd be disappointed."

Sam spluttered a slightly hysterical laugh. With a vague gesture at Dean's features, he replied, "You even have to ask?"

Dean snorted and smirked down at his lap. "Nah, guess not."

Contrary to Dean's intentions, Sam's expression drooped slightly. "Aw, man, I totally forgot to ask, you know, with everything else that... You havin' any...problems with your sight? Your hearing?" he prodded fervently.

Dean was already shaking his head in the negative. "No, they're fine." He aimed his gaze down to the sheets again. "Feels great, actually. You know, to see and hear again." He tilted his head back against the pillow, slowly tracing a finger in a mindless, circular motion on the white fabric of the sheet. "I know it was only a few days, but, uh..."

Sam's eyes shone. "I'm glad it was't permanent, Dean. I mean, if it was, if I couldn't find a way to fix it, of course I woulda...you know." He let his eyes fall, twisting his hands self-consciously and picking at his cast.

Dean drunk in the sight of him, now that Sam wasn't looking at him. Sam looked unhurt, except for a small, white bandage above his eyebrow and the minor squint of his eyes that betrayed a headache. He'd scrunched his nose with leftover emotion, and below his eyes there were dark circles, indicating how much he had—that is, hadn't—slept the last few days.

The corners of Dean's mouth curled up genuinely. "Yeah, I know you woulda. I 'woulda' done the same for you." He paused. "Thanks, for, you know..." he offered with a tilt of his head.

Sam peeked up at him, flashing his own smile, and the awkwardness in the brothers' words—both said and unsaid—wasn't uncomfortable.

For a few seconds, anyway.

Dean recalled, in one of his more desperately longing moments back in the cellar, his decision to tell Sam about what their dad had told him. But... His smile slipped at the reminder. He couldn't. It was his secret to keep; for now, at least, if not forever. He didn't want to reveal their father's fears to Sam any sooner than he had to, so he wouldn't bring it up until he had no choice. He could fulfill his big-brother role by protecting Sammy in more ways than one, and the choice John had burdened on him…he wouldn't ever let it come to that.

Instead, to change the subject, Dean spoke up, "Hey, so, what was up with the house? I mean, I know you torched the place, but why did it go all kablooey all of a sudden?" He mimed the explosion with his hands.

Sam looked bemused. "The house? Oh, yeah, uh, it was in the newspapers. Turns out the Warren's folks had a few spare propane tanks in the basement. When the rest of the basement went up, so did they." His expression turned sheepish, and he shrugged. "Didn't bother checking the place out before lighting a match to it."

The elder Winchester hitched his shoulders in return. "You didn't know. It got the job done, and we didn't get blown sky high. Too much. Hey, gotta give you points for being thorough, right?" He sobered a minute. "You're sure you're alright? You were knocked out for a minute there."

Sam was already waving it off. "I'm fine, Dean. Didn't even get a concussion."

Dean accepted that; it had been nearly a week since the cellar, and Sam hadn't gotten hurt besides being tossed around. "So, when do we get to break out of this place before they figure out our insurance is a scam?"

"It's already come back with a 'clerical error' once." Sam finally sat down on the chair. "I'm surprised the doc hasn't been in to check on you, yet. He said that once you woke up, you'd have to stay an extra few days, just to be sure nothing else came up and the infection was under control."

Dean raised an eyebrow and gave Sam a look. "So, what, tomorrow?"

Sam's mouth narrowed. "You realize you almost died, Dean. You really scared me, you jerk." His eyes were solemn, but his voice was laced with dark apprehension. Nevertheless, when he searched Dean's face, he sighed in surrender. "Yeah, I guess. Me and Bobby can figure out a way to bust you out. We've already got the nurses' rounds down pat," he joked.

"That's my boy," Dean beamed smartly, clapping Sam on the shoulder, though it was a bit of reach from the bed. "Hey, you should get us some grub. You look like you need it, and God knows I'm starving. And not the mushy, gooey crap the hospital calls food, alright? Sneak in something else." Dean pondered a minute. "Know what sounds good? Pizza. Meat-lover's, extra bacon," he nodded with a token grin. "Oh, and don't forget the pie."

Sam just rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation, shaking his head. He stood up. "Yeah, no problem. I'll get right on that." He gave Dean a pointed look, not really wanting to leave, but unable to deny such a simple request. The past few days of feeling like he'd give anything for his brother to be okay still haunted him. "Don't go anywhere, alright? Bobby should be back any minute if you need something."

Dean mimicked his eye roll. "Yes, mom."

Only his little brother could manage a look that was both bitchy and affectionate. A few more reluctant steps, and he had left the room.

Dean relaxed into the lumpy bed and sighed, closing his eyes. Truth was, he'd been fading fast, and he knew that if he'd fallen asleep, Sam would've stayed. He'd seen it in his eyes. But the kid really did look like he needed something to eat; who knows if he'd had anything besides coffee for the past few—God, six?—days. Surely Bobby had forced something on him at some point during his bedside vigil.

Dean was hungry, too, but...it could wait another couple of hours. Hopefully Sam wouldn't wait up for him for lunch.

He turned his head towards the door, and, for the umpteenth time in the last week, he gave in to the pull of unconsciousness.

…

Midafternoon the next day, the brothers found themselves in the Impala, cruising through the next town over and counting off the miles the farther they got. They'd ended up signing Dean out AMA, against the doctor's strong recommendation. After Bobby said his goodbyes and 'take care of yourselves, ya idgits', accompanied with an offer to go with them that they'd insisted against, the seasoned hunter had headed off back to South Dakota.

Dean was on some pain killers and antibiotics, and he was still weak from the effects of pneumonia and days of sleep, so Sam wouldn't let him drive. But his brother was content to watch the passing scenery with newfound appreciation. And, hey, at least Dean had gotten a look at how his baby gleamed after being washed almost a week and a half ago. Huh. It hit Sam again just how long ago that had been, and he ignored the curl of old fear.

Sam had his arm slung casually over the steering wheel. He saw Dean reach over to crank up the radio, and Black Sabbath started thumping through the speakers. Sam grimaced in chagrin, but he didn't argue with any of that 'driver picks the music' crap. He'd give Dean a break, given the last couple weeks. This time.

He glanced over to his brother, who had closed his eyes in order to savor the sound of the music and the bass beating through the car. Sam smiled, elated to have his brother back. He turned his eyes back to stare absently at the monotonous stretch of road in front of him.

He reflected on the events of the last two weeks. Sam couldn't imagine losing one sense, much less being concurrently blind and deaf, and he probably wouldn't have handled it nearly as well as Dean—who'd already freaking bounced back, emotionally, from the whole calamity. At least, as far as he could tell from what Dean was letting him see. Guess it helped to throw some dehydration, infection, pneumonia, and near death into the mix. Sam chuckled morbidly.

He would've felt so lonely, without use or purpose; a burden. He most likely would've sulked for a good two weeks...that is, if Dean would let him and didn't smack him upside the head for being so whiny.

Even so, with whatever the Demon had planned for him...maybe being useless wouldn't be such a bad thing. He wouldn't do anyone any good deaf or blind, demons and the hunting community included. He'd choose that over his brother suffering from the same affliction.

But he couldn't voluntarily do that to Dean; his brother would be vulnerable with him like that, not as on guard as he should be. In their life, that was as good as having a death wish. And Dean's sense of duty to his little brother wouldn't allow him to leave, same as Sam would never have left Dean while he was in that condition.

But on the other hand, if Sam being rendered useless saved Dean from being in the crossfire of the Yellow-Eyed Demon...

A smack of his leg startled him out of his reverie. Dean was squinting at him, eyes at half-mast, clearly preparing to take another nap. "Stop thinking so much, dude. You might break something."

Sam mumbled something under his breath that had Dean chortling in surprise before it transformed into a few wet, sickly coughs. Sam watched him warily, but the hacking died down, and Dean settled against the door, mindlessly rubbing his chest. "Bitch," he rasped in an undertone. His eyelids fell shut and his hand dropped to his lap, his hindered breathing soon evening out.

Without taking his eyes off the road for more than a couple seconds, Sam reached behind the seat for a blanket to unfurl over the sleeping form, tucking it around him. Patting Dean's knee, he replied softly with his customary, "Jerk," before facing forward again and turning the music down. A relaxed smile tugged at Sam's lips, and he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat.

Yeah, his brother was back, and that's what counted.

The end.