Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun.

Okay, there is absolutely no good reason to have continued this story, but it occurred to me that maybe Sam's eye problems weren't a quick fix. How would Dean react?

This chapter is set in Season 3, about six months after Dean makes the Crossroads deal. Somewhat AU. Rated T for swearing. Brotherly schmoop. I'm calling this done for now, but I may add more if the muse strikes again.

I'm still new to the fandom, so if you see any continuity or other errors, or if you want to beta any future stories, please drop me a line. Thanks!

I appreciate the comments from hectatess, anilkex, and Dr. Serpico on the previous chapter. My thanks to my younger son for reading this section over for typos, even if he did say it was way too sappy. Any remaining errors are mine.

Dean sat in the front seat of the Impala and stared at the door of the eye clinic. Still no sign of Sam. By his count, his brother should have finished at least an hour ago. Dean picked up his phone and glared at it. Nothing. He checked the time again and flicked another glance at the door, tempted to disregard his brother's request that he wait in the car.

Sam's bushy head finally emerged, dipped low as though his Sasquatch of a brother wore the weight of the world on his shoulders. In his arms, he carried a thin folder with a gigantic logo of an eye on the cover. Dean frowned, wondering about the contents. He'd expected to see Sam clutching a single slip of paper bearing an eyeglass prescription, not an entire notebook of material. His stomach clenched as his brother walked toward the car. Sam was chewing his lower lip, something he only did when he was very upset. Dean suspected that if he could see his brother's face, Sam would be wearing his sad puppy look. But his eyes were hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses and his brother appeared to be studying the pavement.

"Hey," Dean greeted Sam as he entered the car. "Took you long enough." Green eyes sought out hazel, but Sam kept the sunglasses on and refused to meet his brother's gaze.

The younger hunter sat down with a gusty sigh and stared out the windshield. "Sorry." He didn't offer anything else.

"What took so long?" Dean maneuvered the Impala out of the parking lot and merged with traffic.

Sam shrugged. "Just thorough, I guess." He leaned his head back against the seat.

Dean turned to study his brother. It wasn't like Sam to be so cryptic. Usually, you couldn't steer the kid away from conversation. "You okay?"

"Can we head back to the room and order dinner in? It's too bright out here." When Sam wrinkled his nose in what Dean thought of as bitch face number 5, he had had enough.

He slammed on the brakes, forcing his brother to look at him. The driver behind them honked and swerved around the Impala. Dean ignored her. Now that he had Sam's attention, he demanded, "What did the doctor say?"

Sam looked away. "Nothing much." He swallowed. "You were right. I need glasses."

Could Sam be this upset at the thought of wearing glasses? Dean didn't think so. He tested the waters. "No big deal. They're just for reading, right?" He stepped on the accelerator and resumed driving.

His brother sighed. "I'm supposed to wear them all of the time."

Maybe that's the problem. Dean could relate, although he hadn't relied solely on glasses in years. Contact lenses were so much easier. "You could always get contacts."

"I guess," Sam replied. His large hands fidgeted with the folder in his lap.

"What is all that?"

There was a slight pause before Sam replied. "Uh ... just some information the doctor wants me to read."

Dean was sorely tempted to stomp on the brakes again, rush hour traffic or not. "What kind of stuff?"

"Dean, it's not important, okay?" Sam's voice held an undercurrent of something raw and vulnerable, and Dean ground his teeth to keep from saying something he'd regret. He let the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Sam's leg began to tap against the floor until he was practically quivering. Dean waited him out, but the silent treatment didn't have the desired effect. It was a quiet ride back to the motel, late afternoon sun streaming through the windshield. Dean pulled the car into a parking space in front of their rented room, turned off the ignition, and abruptly snatched the folder from Sam's lap.

"Hey!" Sam reached for it, but Dean was faster. He exited the car, ran for the motel room, and slid the deadbolt in place before Sam could enter.

His brother pounded on the door. "Dean! Open up, you stupid jerk! It's bright out here and my eyes are killing me."

Dean stood just inside the door. "You promise to tell me what the hell's going on?"

A pause. "Fine. I promise. Just let me in."

Dean flipped the lock and opened the door. Sam burst in and flopped down on the far bed. "God, it's nice to be someplace dark," he mumbled into the pillows, still wearing his sunglasses.

Dean closed the door and slid the deadbolt back in place before sitting next to him and opening the folder. The expected prescription for Jared Jensen (younger brother of Ackles Jensen) was in there, but there was more: two referrals to other doctors, a pamphlet on vision therapy, a photocopied sheet of instructions for staring at a pencil, fliers on strabismus and intermittent esotropia, and a promotional sheet for an eye surgery center in Denver. What the hell?

"Sam?"

His brother rolled over and sat up slowly. "What?"

"What is all of this? What's intermittent esotropical?"

Dean suspected that Sam was rolling his eyes, but it was hard to tell with the sunglasses on. "Esotropia. It's a fancy way of saying that my eyes cross sometimes."

"They need a term for that? Your eyes cross because you need glasses." When Sam didn't immediately answer, Dean added, "Right?"

Sam blew out a breath. "Maybe." At Dean's puzzled look, he added, "Can you order us a pizza? I'm starving." He took the sunglasses off and Dean's hand automatically went for his knife. Sam's pupils were so large that his hazel irises appeared to be missing.

"Whoa! Dean!"

The older hunter held the knife in a defensive posture. He backed toward his own bed and fumbled around, one-handed, in his duffel.

"You are not seriously going to throw holy water on me! I'm not a demon. My eyes are dilated, you moron!"

Dean splashed him anyway. "Can't be too careful, Sammy." Nothing happened, except that his now wet brother gave him the death glare. Dean resheathed his knife. "Tell me what the doctor said. In English."

"Order my pizza first."

"Bitch," Dean said, but he was smiling as he dialed.

Sam waited until he had placed the order to reply. "Jerk."

Dean held off until Sam had downed two slices of pizza before he pressured him again. "So, you have this eso ... eso ..." Wide green eyes looked to dull hazel-black for help. Sam's eyes were finally starting to adjust to the light.

"Esotropia. It's a form of strabismus." At Dean's vacant look, Sam tried to explain. "It means the eyes turn in." Sam wiped the grease from his fingers on a napkin. "But in my case it's intermittent and only my right eye does it. They did extra testing after I mentioned that my brother noticed my eyes crossing when I try to read." Dean shrugged and Sam went on. "He thinks it's accommodative, meaning glasses will correct it. I'm more far-sighted in my right eye than my left. But he's not sure that's the only thing going on. There could be other causes for my eye to turn in, especially if it's a recent development." At Dean's frown, Sam continued. "It would help if I'd had ever a proper eye exam. That screening at Stanford was nothing like this. Either I've had a mild form of strabismus for years and it was never diagnosed, or it's something new." Sam's forehead crinkled. "When did you start noticing my eyes crossing?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. Seems like you've always done it when you're really tired or stressed or sick. But it's definitely been worse lately."

Sam nodded. "That's what I thought, too. The doctor didn't like that answer. He asked me if I'd had a head injury recently."

Dean winced, thinking of just how many times Sam had been knocked around in the past few months. Does dying count? "I guess you told him yes." He licked some pizza sauce from one finger and took a swig of beer.

Sam nodded. "He wants me to have a physical to rule out an injury or illness that could be affecting the eye muscles and causing my eye to cross."

"Okay." Dean watched Sam warily, wondering how much worse this news could get.

"And I'm supposed to consult with the ophthalmologic surgeon, to get some baseline measurements."

Dean felt his stomach curdle and wrapped a protective arm around his middle. He fought to keep his voice level. "You need surgery?"

Sam stared at his hands as he spun his beer bottle around on the cheap Formica table. "Maybe. He wants me to try wearing the glasses and doing a half-hour of daily eye exercises for awhile and then he'll reassess me."

"Then what?"

Sam shrugged. "If the problem gets worse, they'll recommend surgery."

"And if you don't have surgery?"

Dean could swear that Sam's face visibly paled at the thought. "The double vision could become constant."

The older hunter swore. "You didn't tell me you were having double vision!"

Sam looked at him through his bangs and shrugged. "If my eyes are crossed, I'm having double vision, Dean." He took a long slug of beer.

The older brother sighed. "So, when do you go back?"

Sam bit his lower lip. "Six months."

Suddenly, the room didn't have enough air. Dean rushed toward the door, flipped the open the locks, and burst outside to stand in the coolness of early evening. Leaning against the warm brick wall of the motel building, he opened and closed his eyes rapidly as he panted, trying to regain his bearings. Six months? I won't be here in six months.

His vision began to tunnel, and Dean could tell that he was starting to hyperventilate. He squatted down and put his head on his knees, but it didn't help. He felt nauseous and dizzy. Six months until my brother might need surgery and I won't be here. I'll be in hell.

Dean staggered to the nearest trash can, threw off the lid with a clatter, and threw up.

Warm hands grasped his shoulders. "Dean. Hey, Dean. Let's get back to the room, okay?" His brother gave his shoulders a squeeze.

An old woman stood in the doorway of her room and glared at them as Sam guided Dean down the row of motel doors facing the parking lot. "Stupid drunks."

Sam tightened his grip on his big brother. "Ignore her," he muttered into Dean's ear. Sam steered Dean back into their room and helped him sit down on a chair. "I'm going to get you a Sprite, okay?"

Dean nodded numbly and tried to regain control of his stomach, which was still spasming painfully. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the pizza and weakly shoved the remnants of their dinner across the table. He lay his head down on the cold surface. Six months. Six months until I'm in hell. Six months until my baby brother is all alone in the world. And I put him there. It didn't matter to Dean that without his intervention, Sam would be dead. All he could think of was, six months until I fail Dad.

A can of soda was pressed against his cheek and Dean felt a hand on his forehead. "No fever. You feeling any better?"

Dean nodded and accepted the soda. Flicking the pop top, he took a cautious sip before setting it aside and rubbing his eyes. Sam placed a wet washcloth in his hand as he sat down beside him. "Here."

The older hunter wiped his face and took a shuddering breath. "Okay." He looked at Sam. His brother's hazel irises had reappeared, and with them, a compassionate and worried expression. Dean caught his eyes before looking away. "We should head to the mall and pick out your frames -"

"Dean -" Sam interrupted.

"- or contacts if you want -"

"Dean -"

"- and then we should call in some favors and set up those doctor appointments. The physical's the most important thing, we can wait on the -"

"Dean!" Sam was standing. "We're not doing any of that right now. You just threw up. You need to take it easy."

"But -"

"No buts." Sam folded his arms and glared at his brother. He could be a menacing son of a bitch when he tried. "We can get my glasses tomorrow. I'm going to call that guy - you remember the doctor from the bedtime story murders? - and see if he can help me out. He owes me a favor." At Dean's hangdog expression, Sam placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm taking care of this, Dean. It's not your fight."

Dean could feel himself veering directly into chick-flick territory, but he couldn't help himself. Clasping his hand over his brother's, Dean swallowed over the lump in his throat and spoke in a whisper. "That's what I'm afraid of."