eachdraidhean (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eachdraidhean) wrote2022-06-19 11:45 pm
eachdraidhean) wrote2022-06-19 11:45 pm
Entry tags:
Always My Guide Chapter Two
Back to Chapter One
One month later …
Down in Bobby’s new panic room, Sam wakes when he hears the door upstairs open. He pushes himself up from where he’s been lying on the floor, and strains to hear everything he can. There are voices, Bobby’s and another man’s, which rise to shouting, followed by a scuffle. Sam’s heart races, and he reaches under the cot for the machete that lies on the floor beneath it. In the weeks that he’s been here, he’s refused to leave the room he’s lying in, not wanting to bother Bobby, and if he’s being honest, too scared to even think about dealing with what’s happened to him.
Bobby brings him food, often has to force him to eat it, and has tried so many times to get Sam to move into the bedroom he and Dean always used to share when they stayed as kids. But Sam doesn’t feel like he deserves that luxury, not after what he’s done.
Down here, he can almost pretend that he’s sitting in the dark, and if he wants to, he can open his eyes and look around. He also doesn’t want to face up to the fact that he can’t take care of himself anymore. If anything happens, if something gets past Bobby, he’ll have a hard time defending himself. He could swing the machete around but if he can’t see his attacker, he’ll have difficulty protecting himself. So he sits very still and listens.
“Where’s Sam? His cell phone’s out of service.” Dean’s voice. No, Sam reason’s it can’t be. He must be dreaming.
“He’s, well, there’s some things you need to know, Dean.”
“What things? Is he … he’s still alive, right?”
“He’s safe, but this … let me talk to him first.”
“Why? Where is he, Bobby?”
“Dean …”
“Where is he, Bobby?”
Dean’s voice sounds so real, Sam needs to know what’s going on. “Bobby?”
There’s a pause, followed by a furious, “He’s here? Why didn’t you tell me?” And then there’s a couple of heavy footsteps on the floor above him.
“Don’t, Dean. Listen to me …”
Now the footsteps are coming down the stairs and getting closer. Sam knows by where they stop that whoever is standing just inside the doorway.
“Sammy?”
“D …Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy, it’s me. What are you doing down here?”
“You’re not really here.” Sam mutters. “Dean’s dead and gone and he’s never coming back.” He turns his face towards the wall and his hair falls over his eyes.
“Sammy?” Sam feels fingers being gently thread through his hair just like Dean had often done when they were kids and Sam was upset about something. “I’m real, I promise.”
Sam’s reaction to the touch is immediate and violent. He pushes Dean away, hears him land with a thump on the ground behind him, and scrambles to his feet.
“Bobby!!” He yells, holding his hands out in front of him to ward off any further contact.
“Sam, it’s me, it’s okay.” Bobby’s suddenly right there and Sam grips his arm, his chest heaving.
“Someone touched me. I … I was hallucinating. I thought … Dean …”
“It’s him, Sam. Dean’s back.”
“No, no. He can’t be.” Sam shakes his head, but Bobby insists.
“I’ve checked him out, every trick in the book. It’s really him.”
“Sammy?”
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is small, quiet, too tired to hope.
“Yeah Sammy, it’s me.”
Sam hears scraping against the ground and fabric rustling as Dean gets up and takes a step towards him. Then there’s a hand on Sam’s arm. He trembles at the touch, but doesn’t pull away.
“Jesus, Sam, what happened?”
There’s shock in Dean’s voice and he doesn’t know what to say. He hangs his head, but it’s Bobby who answers, gruffly, with a note of warning to Dean in his voice.
“Hunting accident.”
Dean moves closer, putting a hand to Sam’s face.
“It’s good to … to be back.”
Sam wonders if Dean had been going to tell him it was good to see him. He chokes back an involuntary harsh snort of laughter and edges closer to his brother.
“Dean.”
Bobby lets go of his arm and pats Sam on the back as he leaves. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Sam reaches out, fingers tracing the edge of Dean’s shirt, up to the collar and onto his skin. They seek out the small scar behind Dean’s right ear that he’d had sewn up himself.
“How are you back?”
Sam keeps his fingers on Dean’s skin, feeling as if Dean will vanish if he lets go.
“I don’t know. The grave site looked like a nuke had gone off, but there was no sign of what pulled me out. No sign apart from this.” Dean shrugs off his shirt and rolls the sleeve of his tee back. He takes Sam’s hand and guides it to his shoulder. Sam’s fingers stroke over the raised, red flesh, gasping as he traces the edges of the mark.
“A handprint? Someone pulled you out.”
It’s a statement, not a question, and the possessive edge in Sam’s voice is unmistakable.
“Sammy?”
“What if they come for you, Dean?”
“I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m back and I’m not leaving you again.” Dean pulls him closer, and his hands roam over Sam’s back and shoulders.
“Has Bobby not been feeding you?” Sam knows that he’s trying to make a joke of it, but it comes out harsher than Dean probably intended.
“Haven’t been hungry.”
“Well, I’m starving. C’mon, I’ll make us some eggs.”
Dean always made him eggs when Sam wasn’t feeling great as a kid. Eggs with cheese and sometimes mushrooms and tomatoes. Eggs had become his comfort food at Stanford, when he felt homesick for Dean, even if he’d added herbs and the occasional avocado, sometimes a little salsa on the side. Thinking of food makes Sam realize just how hungry he is and his stomach rumbles, but he’s reluctant to leave his self-imposed prison.
“No, I’m fine. You go eat.”
Sam lets go, and tries to slink back into the corner, but Dean holds him fast.
“Sam, c’mon, man, I’m not leaving you down here.”
Sam hunches away from him, but doesn’t try to escape Dean’s arms. They sit in silence for a while, Dean leaning his head on Sam’s shoulder, with Sam needing the comfort that was given. After a while, Dean pats his back, and releases him, getting to his feet and reaching down to take Sam’s hand.
“Time to get out of here dude.”
Sam allows himself to be pulled to his feet and opens his mouth to protest again, but Dean squeezes his hand and guides him towards the door before he can say anything.
“Did you know that room is a full-on bunker now? A supernatural panic room? Devils trap on the ceiling, shelves packed out with supplies. Gotta wonder when he had the time. Last time I was down here, it was a store room. And that wouldn’t be my choice for a calendar, but each to their own, I guess …”
Sam loses himself in Dean's rambling and he’s being guided up the stairs and out of the basement before he has another chance to object. Dean settles him on the couch and walks into the kitchen, presumably to find Bobby.
Sam sits where Dean left him, and listens to Dean’s footsteps. He’s taken to counting Bobby’s steps when he hears him walking about the place, trying to visualize where Bobby is depending on where the sound was coming from and how many steps he’d taken.
Dean’s stride is longer than Bobby’s. Sam files that away with everything else he’s picked up since one of his eyesight deserted him. Even in his limited environment in the basement, every sound, every smell, had been documented. Touch and taste are harder to catalogue. Sam hasn’t eaten much in the last month, only the oatmeal that Bobby sometimes has to force down his throat when Sam’s stubbornly refusing to eat.
As soon as Dean had hugged him, he’d buried his nose in Dean’s neck, drinking in the familiar scent of home and love. He’d also realized how bad he must look to Dean. He’s not exactly been taking care of himself and now Sam feels bad that Dean’s seen him like this.
He hears the sound of plates or bowls being taken out of a cupboard, the metallic clink of cutlery, and whispered conversation coming from the kitchen.
“Let him be for a while.” Bobby suggests.
“What the hell, Bobby?” Dean snaps back.
“Before I tell you, you’ve gotta understand that he was a wreck after you went to Hell. He watched you get torn apart by Hellhounds, Dean.”
Sam can hear a chair being pulled away from the table and someone sitting down heavily.
“He survived Lilith’s death ray, and we buried you.”
“Buried me? I didn’t get a hunter’s send off?”
“Sam insisted that you’d need your body. Once he got you back. Then he took off and I didn’t see him again until ...”
“Until what?”
There’s a small sigh from Bobby before he continues.
“Then I got a call from Rufus. He’d seen the Impala in his neck of the woods, and I asked him to keep tabs on her, and on Sam if he could, to make sure he was okay. Turns out Sam was holed up in an abandoned farmhouse with a dark-haired girl. Then I got a call from Sam. He hardly got a word out before the call dropped, but he sounded like he was in trouble, so I drove out there and me and Rufus dragged him out of the farmhouse. He’d been there for days, Dean, looked as if he’d given up. He hardly recognized me. Me and Rufus brought him back here, cleaned him up and put him to bed upstairs. I fed him while he was still half out of it, but since he’s been conscious, he’s hardly been eating a thing. Soon as he was awake, he crawled downstairs. He’s always been a stubborn son of a bitch. Won’t listen to me when I try and help. Maybe you can get through to him.”
“Has he told you what happened?”
“Nope. Although he mumbled enough in his sleep to make me certain that Ruby didn’t die the night you did.”
There was a sigh from Dean, and the sound of a pan being taken off the stove.
“Now you boys both need to eat. Talking can wait until later.”
Sam hears two sets of footsteps approaching and feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder.
“Bobby’s made chili.” Dean takes one of Sam’s hands and places the bowl in it. “Spoon’s at two o’clock.”
Sam feels the couch dip as Dean sits down on the other end and the armchair creaks as Bobby sits too. Sam finds the spoon and takes a mouthful of hot chili and well-cooked rice, flavors exploding on his tongue as he eats. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to enjoy food since he lost his sight.
After they’ve finished, Sam feels overly full, even though he knows that he didn’t eat half as much as he usually would have. He guesses that’s something he’ll have to work on. Bobby takes their bowls and retreats to the kitchen, closing the dividing doors behind him. Sam sighs, knowing it’s time for the conversation he really doesn’t want to have.
“Sammy? I need to know what happened.”
“Ruby didn’t die the night you went to Hell. She turned up a few weeks later in a different body. And told me that she could help train me to use my powers, make me stronger, and it was working, I could almost exorcise a demon, but the last time I tried, there was … something happened, a pressure in my head, and when I tried to push through, this happened, and she bailed.” Sam leaves out the part about the demon blood. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to tell Dean that.
Dean pats Sam’s hand.
“But why won’t you see a doctor?”
“What am I supposed to say? Hi doc, I used my freaky powers, and I went blind. Any chance of fixing me?”
“No, we tell them you passed out, hit your head on the way down and when you woke up, you couldn’t see.”
Sam tries to pull away, but Dean won’t let him.
“Why don’t you want help, Sam?”
“Because I deserve it.” Sam whispered. “What I did, working with Ruby …”
“Was a mistake, and you’ve already paid enough for it. And punished yourself enough. I want you to see a doctor. For me, Sam.”
Sam rolls his eyes, and nods reluctantly. Dean never was above a little emotional blackmail.
“Good to see you haven’t lost your bitchface too.”
Sam’s close enough that he can punch Dean in the arm without missing, and he even manages to crack a smile when Dean yelps.
“Hey,” Dean protests, but Sam can tell he’s smiling too. And then he’s pulling Sam along with his rambling as well as his hands and Sam’s on his feet and halfway up the stairs before he knows what he’s doing.
“But right now, you need a shower. Trust me on that one. You stink, dude. And you need to get some decent sleep in a real bed, not on that thing in the panic room.”
“Don’t tell me what I need, Dean,” Sam grumbles, but it’s a halfhearted objection.
“Someone has to,” Dean chides. “Gotta say, I could really do with a shower too and some sleep in a comfortable bed.”
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Yeah? Well, you might as well give up now and follow my lead. Did I tell you I pulled my way out of a grave this morning? Man really needs somewhere comfortable to sleep after that, that’s for sure …”
“Okay, please stop. I’ll have a shower and sleep in a bed, okay?”
“Atta boy, Sammy.”
Sam can hear the grin on Dean’s face as they reach the top of the stairs and Dean guides him into the bathroom.
“I can undress myself,” Sam huffs as they both stand in the bathroom, which isn’t the largest of rooms.
Dean backs off as best he can while Sam toes off his boots, which weren’t laced tightly. Sam had wanted to be able to get them on and off quickly if he needed to, and isn’t good with laces anymore. Sam’s fingers move up the front of his shirt to find the buttons, then pop each one open. The shirt falls to the floor, and Sam pulls his tee off over his head.
Sam can hear Dean’s quiet gasp and realizes how bad he must look. He tries to hide from Dean’s gaze, but there’s no going back now without a fight so he fumbles with his jeans and then they and his boxers join the rest of his clothes on the floor.
Dean pushes the pile away from Sam with his foot, making sure there’s nothing for him to trip over. Sam’s grateful for the small kindnesses that Dean provides and shivers, small tremors making his shoulders shake. He hears the splash of water from the shower spray against tile, interrupted by Dean’s hand as he makes sure it isn’t too hot or too cold. Then Sam feels Dean’s hands on his arms, gently urging him to turn to face the bath.
“Bath’s right in front of you. If you reach out and down, you’ll be able to feel the edge.”
Sam does as he’s instructed, hands familiarizing themselves with the slowly warming tub. He runs his hands along the edge of it until he feels the curve at the top. He moves his hands higher, onto the tile that lines the walls surrounding the bath. He takes a step to the left, straightening up, then slowly lifts his leg and steps into the bath, keeping his hands braced on the wall. He hesitates, swallowing his nervousness down.
“You’re doing good, Sammy, and I’m here, I won’t let you fall.”
Sam nods, holding onto his brother’s reassurances like a lifeline, but he mumbles under his breath.
“Don’t call me Sammy.” He doesn’t add that Ruby had taken to calling him that, had stolen away Dean’s annoying nickname for him. In that moment, Sam decides to let Dean reclaim it, decides to take something else back that was stolen from him.
“Okay dude, one more step and you’re home free. You’ll be smelling fresh as a daisy in no time.”
Sam lifts his other foot and puts it down into the bathtub, and once he’s sure of his footing, turns, feeling his way along the back wall, until he’s standing directly under the showerhead, the spray hitting his skin. It feels good, the water pounding over his face and down his body. He closes his eyes instinctively, and pretends that when he opens them again, he’ll be able to see Dean, standing smirking at him.
He hears the snick of a plastic bottle being opened.
“Shampoo, left hand, ten o’clock, at shoulder level.”
Sam reaches out, the back of his hand connecting with the bottle first. He curls his fingers around it, then moves it back to meet his right hand so he can squirt shampoo into his right palm, carefully making sure his hands are in the right places first. Then he hands the bottle back to Dean.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
He scrubs the shampoo through his hair, making sure he doesn’t miss a spot. The lather dies quickly, a testament to how long it’s been since he’d last showered. He rinses it off, scrubbing hard, but Dean isn’t letting him off that easily.
“Shampoo, again, same place.”
“Again?” Sam huffs.
“Again. Trust me, you need it. One more time, then you can have some of that girly conditioner you like so much.”
“Whatever.”
Sam shakes his head as he takes the bottle again. Dean is an annoying jerk, but Sam’s missed that so much, he has to stop himself from crying right there. For the first time since he’d lost his sight, Sam feels the smallest glimmer of hope. He’s under no illusions that he will ever be able to see again, but with Dean back, he can, just maybe, begin to feel safe again.
Second round of shampoo and conditioner out of the way, Dean hands Sam the soap and a sponge, never moving in case Sam stumbles.
Once he’s clean, Dean talks him through getting out of the tub, holding onto his hand to help him. Sam stands still as Dean wraps a large towel around his shoulders and rubs at his wet hair with a smaller one.
“It’s like drying a shaggy dog.” Dean quips as he works.
“May as well get it all cut off. Not like I can see it anymore.”
Dean stops and rests his hands on Sam’s towel covered shoulders.
“No, but I can, and trust me, you wouldn’t look good with a buzz cut. I’m the one who has to see it day in and day out, so I get final say, okay?”
“Okay.” Dean’s insistence brings the tiniest of smiles to Sam’s lips.
“Finish drying yourself off.” Dean drapes another towel over Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll go get you some clean sweats.”
Sam towels the rest of the water from his body, wraps the towel around his waist and stands where Dean left him. Dean being back changes things. Before, even that very morning, he’d have been happy to waste away in Bobby’s basement. But now, Dean is really back, and Sam knows that his brother won’t let that happen. And for the first time since he lost Dean, Sam wants to live; he doesn’t want to die. Dean had to live through that once, and Sam could never do that to him again.
He takes a deep breath, and reaches out, turning to his right. Long fingers find the edge of the sink, and curl around the cool porcelain, left slippy and damp from the condensation of the shower. He turns a little more to face it and his questing fingers move slowly around, searching for the toothbrushes he knows usually sit on the left-hand side of the basin when he and Dean stay with Bobby. He finds one, and the tube of toothpaste that lies near it, but stops. What if things have changed in the last few months. What if it’s Bobby’s toothbrush?
Sam growls in frustration, just as Dean opens the door and steps back into the bathroom with clothes for Sam.
“Is this mine?” Sam asks.
"No, dude, it's one of Bobby's cleaning brushes."
"Oh." Sam puts it down where he thought he'd picked it up from, but it clatters into the sink. "Dammit."
"Hey, it's okay." Dean's hand is reassuring on his shoulder. "Small steps, Sammy. Let’s get you dressed first, then I've got an idea."
"I can dress myself." Sam mumbles.
"Let me help. I ... I need to know I can be your brother again."
Sam catches the hitch in Dean's voice, and nods. Dean squats in front of him and takes a gentle hold on Sam’s right ankle.
“Put your hand on my shoulder if you need to balance.” Dean instructs.
Sam reaches down, his fingers finding Dean’s head before they slip onto his shoulder. Only then does Dean pick Sam’s foot up. He slips it through one leg of Sam’s boxers, then does the same with his left foot, pausing first to make sure Sam was balanced again. He tugs the shorts up Sam’s long legs, pulling the waistband wider to ease over his ass and junk.
Sam blushes at how intimate it feels to have Dean doing this for him, and fights down the urge to insist he can do it himself. Realistically he knows that if he was left on his own, he’d still be figuring out where the leg holes were.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Sam nods, realizing that Dean must have seen the color rising on his cheeks. They’d both suffered injuries and wounds in the past which had meant being naked, or at least semi-naked in front of each other, and living in close quarters as they had all their lives, modesty was unnecessary.
Dean repeats his actions with a pair of sweatpants, rising to his feet as he pulls them up. The clean cotton feels good against Sam’s skin. It’s soft, worn and familiar, as familiar as the warmth of Dean’s body as he stands close.
“Hands in the air.” Dean orders.
Sam does as he’s told, muttering under his breath.
“I feel like a three year old.”
Dean snorts. The small huff of laughter brings memories of prank wars and easier times flooding back, and Sam whimpers. He cuts the weak little sound off, ashamed at how needy and vulnerable he feels.
“Sorry, I … sorry.” He hangs his head, only to have it tilted up again by Dean’s fingers gently exerting pressure under his chin.
“Quit apologizing. Remember when I broke my fingers the year before you went to college? You had to help me with more than I really want to remember. This stuff comes with the gig, you know that.” As Dean speaks, he pulls Sam’s t-shirt over Sam’s head and eases it down his arms. “Doesn’t matter how this happened, we’ll deal with it the same as we always do.”
“Together” was left unspoken, simply because it was unnecessary.
Once the t-shirt is on, and Dean is satisfied it is on properly, he takes hold of Sam’s hips and turns him back to face the basin. Sam hears him rummaging around in what he assumes was the small bag they keep their toiletries in, then a toothbrush is pressed into his hand and a tap is turned on. Water wooshes into the basin, and Dean moves the hand with the brush in it into the stream.
“There’s paste on the brush. Trust me when I say you really need to give them a good clean.”
Sam hears a small scrape and a chink, then Dean moves away, opening the door and letting cooler air inside the bathroom.
“I’ll be back before you’re done.”
Over the noise of the water and the scouring of the brush against his teeth, Sam hears Dean’s footsteps as he goes downstairs. There’s the low hum of voices for a moment, then two sets of footsteps move into the kitchen. At first, Sam thinks that someone has opened the door and left, but then he hears more doors being opened, and rummaging noises, low conversation then footsteps getting closer again.
“Thanks, Bobby, for everything.”
“Don’t mention it son, I’m just glad you’re back, for Sam’s sake as well as your own. I’ll see you boys in the morning.”
Sam spits out another mouthful of minty foam and sticks the brush back under the tap. He hopes he’s rinsing it clean but can’t be quite certain how clean it is by touch alone. He holds his hand under the water, filling his cupped palm, and rinsing his mouth out. He sighs. He’s been so caught up with feeling sorry for himself that he’s barely spared a thought for how Bobby must feel, trying to look after him and keep him going when he’s been ready to give up on himself.
“You done?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, this will make sure you never end up with a mouth full of whatever Bobby’s been cleaning amulets with.” There’s a small snicking sound, then another and another. Dean takes his hand and puts the toothbrush back in it. Immediately, Sam feels something wrapped around the handle, probably elastic bands by the way they feel.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll put it with mine, on the left. And this,” Dean pushes something else into Sam’s hand. “Is unbreakable so it doesn’t matter if it slips out of your hand. Didn’t think it would be a good idea to keep the glass tumbler around.”
“Is this …” Sam trails off as he examines the beaker in his hands. It feels a lot like the kind little kids use so they won’t spill whatever they were drinking, only without the lid. He’d had one when he was small, and at some point, it had gotten left behind at Bobby’s. He’d found it again years later and had been distracted before he could throw it away. There was always a slim chance he was mistaken. “It’s got handles. Tell me it isn’t pink?”
“Can’t do that, Sammy, I’d be lying.”
Sam can hear the smirk in his brother’s voice and sightlessly glares in what he hopes is his direction.
“Bobby never throws anything away, you know that. And I promise the next time I’m in town, I’ll pick up a more manly plastic beaker.”
Dean reaches over and guides Sam’s hand to where the beaker would sit.
“C’mon, you get settled in a comfortable bed for a change, and I need to take a shower. I don’t know about you, but I could sleep for a week.”
Dean takes hold of Sam’s hand and leads him from the bathroom. Sam hears the little click as Dean switches on the bedroom light. The air is drier and cooler in the bedroom, and Sam shivers. Dean’s hand moves up Sam’s arm, rubbing it in an unconscious effort to warm him up. He guides him to the bed to the left of the door, the one Sam always slept in as a kid.
“Wasn’t Bobby using this as a storeroom?” Sam remembers the last time he was in this room, the beds were gone, and it was lined with shelves packed with all manner of hunting supplies.
“He wanted to give you somewhere familiar to sleep, once he’d coaxed you out of the basement.” Dean says, no judgment on his voice. “And he reckons the supplies are safer in his panic room now, so it works for him too.”
Dean pats Sam on the arm. “Won’t be long.”
Sam listens to the water running again, quieter through two closed doors, but still enough that he hears the change when Dean steps in and disturbs the spray. He sits there for a while, taking in all the small noises of the house that he’d missed in his self-imposed exile in the panic room, like the wind rustling gently in the trees outside and the tiny creaks the house makes as if it’s settling down for the night.
He stands up, orientating himself in the room, and walks towards where he figures the window is. He keeps close to the bed until he gets to the end of it, walking so he can feel the edge of the mattress against his leg. Slowly, he walks forward, moving his foot across the floorboards in front of him to make sure there’s nothing between him and the window. When he gets there, toes hitting the wall, he reaches out until his fingers touch the glass. He closes his eyes, and imagines the view outside in the daylight. The big tree off to the left that he can hear rustling, and rusting cars in rows, piled up one or two high. He stands there for a little while, imagining that if he opens his eyes, he’ll be able to see the view that is so perfect in his mind’s eye.
In the bathroom, the shower turns off, so Sam makes his way back to the bed and gets in.
Dean’s quieter when he comes back into the bedroom. He checks on Sam, and leaves him to climb into the other bed.
“Needed that,” Dean mumbles sleepily. “Need this too.”
He yawns and Sam can hear him moving around to get comfortable. He feels like he should be closer for what he wants to ask, but there’s a trip of carpet between them again which may as well be a canyon for Sam now.
"Do you remember anything?" Sam whispers into the darkness. “About Hell?”
Sam hears Dean go very still, and he doesn’t answer for so long, Sam thinks he’s fallen asleep.
"No, I don't."
Sam shivers, partly at the distance between them after their earlier closeness and partly because he knows Dean is lying, sparing him from the horrible truth.
They are both broken, both damaged, and Sam wonders if they can put each other together again.
The next morning, Dean leads Sam downstairs for breakfast. Sam stops at the bottom of the stairs.
“I hate this,” he grumbles.
“We’ll work on it, right? After breakfast.”
“Work on what? Finding out how much furniture I can walk into?” Sam’s petulant, even as he’s annoyed at himself for being such a pain in the ass.
“Jeez, how could I have forgotten how cranky you are before your first coffee?”
Sam sighs, and can imagine Dean rolling his eyes.
“Think about it. How long have we been coming to Bobby’s? And in that time, apart from building himself a sweet panic room in the basement, has he ever moved anything around in this place?”
“I can hear you,” Bobby grumbles from the kitchen.
“You know the layout, inside out,” Dean reminds Sam. Then “Wait there.”
Sam hears Dean run down to the basement, followed by a rummaging sound. Then he’s back and curling Sam’s fingers around what Sam guesses is a broom handle.
“Not ideal, but it’ll do for this time.”
Dean puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders and turns him a little to the right. Then he steps away.
“Okay, reach out to the side with your left hand.”
Sam reaches out his hand and it hits the wall.
“So, you know where you are. You’re standing just inside the room, facing straight on. Remember the layout? The kitchen is straight ahead. Just follow the smell of coffee and bacon. You can’t go wrong. Wave that in front of you if you need to make sure there’s nothing in front of you.”
Sam takes a breath and steps forward. Then he takes another step, and another.
“The couch should be on my right?” He moves the broom handle in the air in front of him and to the sides, but it doesn’t hit anything.
“You’re taking smaller steps than usual, so it’s there, it’s just a little further.”
Sam nods, takes another couple of steps and then when he moves his makeshift cane, it bumps into the couch. He takes a breath and closes his eyes, which made it easier to visualize where he is in the room. He continues his slow steps, nodding to himself when he identifies the end of the couch. Another few steps and he stops, moving the broom handle around but not hitting anything.
“You’re just about in the middle of the doors to the kitchen,” Dean’s voice comes from not far in front of him to the left. “Two more steps and you should be able to touch a chair.”
The broom handle hits a chair leg and moves it a little, alerting Sam to where it is. He reaches out towards the sound and his hand connects with the back of the chair. Then he moves his fingers along it so he cand grasp which way it was facing.
“Dean, can you take this?” He holds out the broom handle, which Dean obligingly takes from his hand.
Bending forward a little, Sam reaches out until he can touch the table, and then the seat of the chair, before he sits down slowly, letting out a sharp breath once he’s sitting at the table.
“Dude! That was awesome!” Dean pats him on the back and Sam’s mouth twitches with a reluctant smile.
“Do I get to have coffee now?”
“And one of Bobby’s bacon and hashbrown breakfast sandwiches. Man, I missed food.”
Sam’s brain screeches to a halt. It’s so easy to forget that Dean has probably been through so much in Hell, even though he’s so far denying that he remembers anything, yet from the moment he found Sam, he’s been looking after him, just like when they were kids. Sam feels himself tear up, but gets it under control, for Dean.
He hears plates and mugs being put down on the table, and pushes his fingers across the familiar grain of the wood until they touch something. A plate.
“This mine?”
“Yeah. The sandwich is on the right side. There’s already ketchup on it. And mayo.” Dean adds before Sam can ask him. “There’s a mug of coffee to the right of the plate.”
The sandwich tastes amazing and Sam eats slowly, taking small bites, not overloading his stomach too much, and takes mouthfuls of sweet and creamy coffee, made just how he likes it. He’s in awe of Dean’s ability to push his own issues away to take care of him and resolves to, someday, in whatever way he can, return the favor tenfold. Dean deserves nothing less.
He wallows in the normality of conversation between Dean and Bobby as Bobby catches him up with things that had happened while he was gone, hunts, and hunters that they all knew. He also added that there’s been no word of Lilith for months. Sam briefly wonders what’s happened to Ruby. She must still be out there somewhere, and up to something, but he’s not up to dealing with her yet.
After breakfast, Bobby lays out his plans for the day.
“I’m heading over to Olivia’s to fix her truck. No need to man the phones, I’ve got that covered. Might want to check the Impala, Dean, she’s out in the barn.”
Dean bumps Sam’s knee under the table as he virtually vibrates at the mention of his beloved car.
Sam meanwhile visualizes where the small bank of phones is in relation to where he’s sitting. Another thing that he’ll not be able to do again, he thinks. He’ll never know one from the other, FBI, Wildlife Service and the rest. He can’t help feeling glum.
After Bobby leaves, Dean piles the breakfast dishes in the sink, and Sam wonders if that is something he might be able to manage to do soon. If he was careful. Something small, but at least he would be helping out.
“I’m gonna bring Baby round and give her the once over. When was the last time you got some fresh air?”
“Not since I arrived,” Sam huffs.
“Okay, I’ll bring her around and park her by the porch.”
“You want me to help?” Sam isn’t sure what he would be able to do.
“You can keep me company.”
“Right.”
“Think you can get to the porch?”
“I can try.” Suddenly, Sam is all steely determination. If Dean believes he can do it, maybe he needs to start having a little faith in himself again.
He stands up from the table, and Dean puts the broom handle back in his hand. He thinks about the way he’d been facing when he sat down, and orients himself in the room, trusting that if he was about to walk into something, Dean would tell him.
“You’re closer to the wall on the right.”
Sam finds it with the broom handle, then takes slow, steady steps straight ahead until he reaches the door. As he navigates through the porch at the back, hearing Dean behind him probably making sure that he misses the stairs down to the basement, he wonders how Dean can be so calm about this, about Sam having to relearn everything he once knew. Sam realizes that his own reaction has been fueled by grief. Knowing that Dean wasn’t around to help him through it had pushed him into a very dark place, one that he hadn’t thought he’d be able to get out of. And he’s never thought how his downward spiral was affecting Bobby, who was also grieving for Dean.
“You made it, dude!”
Sam is wrenched out of his thoughts and realizes after a bit of swiping about with the broom handle, that he’s standing at the door to the back porch. He’s navigated the last few steps without thinking about it.
“I’m going to get the car and park her at the bottom of the steps.” Dean informs him. “From now on, I’ll always leave her so that the shotgun side door is level with the right side of the steps, so you’ll always know where to find her, right?”
“Right.”
Dean leaves the door open and waits for Sam to emerge into the sunlight. Sam can feel the warmth on his face, and a faint breeze ruffles his hair.
“Remember how many steps down there are?”
“Three?” It’s something he’s always done automatically, running up the steps, so he has to think back and be sure he’s remembering it correctly. “Not sure I’m ready for solo steps yet.”
“Not expecting you to do that on your own. Wait there while I go and get her,” Dean instructs.
“Not like I can go anywhere,” Sam grumbles as Dean’s footsteps fade and then he hears the barn door opening.
Sam shivers a little, despite the warmth of the day. He hears the low purr of the Impala as Dean drives her closer. He guesses Bobby must have found her and brought her home after he’d found Sam. There’s guilt about that too, about not taking care of her while Dean was gone.
“She’s running fine.” Sam can hear the happiness and pride in Dean’s voice. “Just a little dusty, that’s all. Needs a bit of TLC.”
Sam listens to Dean opening and closing the Impala’s door, then to his soft footfalls on the dusty ground as he gets out of the Impala. He walks round her to the porch, joining Sam at the top of the steps before he takes Sam’s arm.
Sam gratefully holds on as Dean turns him and guides him so they both take a couple of steps to the right.
“First step is right in front of you, and the rail is within reach on your right.”
Sam takes a breath in, and puts his foot out and down. His heart is racing, until he realises that it's no different from making his way downstairs in the house. Being outside, in the open air, it feels like he’s stepping off the edge of the world. Then his foot is touching down, and he’s taken that first step.
Dean’s still holding his elbow, supporting him, there for him always, in case he falls. A couple more cautious steps, and he’s down.
“She’s parked just in front of you, just like I said.”
Dean takes the broom handle from Sam’s hand and Sam takes two small steps forward, holding his right hand out, and there she is, the warm metal of her roof under Sam’s hand. He closes his eyes, and his hand falls instinctively to the door handle, fingers curling around it. He pulls open the door, not as wide as he usually does in case Dean has parked closer than he expects and the door hits the porch.
“I’m gonna take her for a drive, you okay with that?”
Slipping into the passenger seat is instinctual, something that he doesn’t need to think about, and it’s as if the Impala is welcoming him home, the leather of the seats creaking just a little as they always do as Sam settles back. He’s enveloped in a feeling of home, wrapped up in the scents that have been part of his life since he was a baby. Dean gets back in and shuts his own door. Sam hears fumbling and low cursing as Dean sorts out his tapes and then the car is filled with the thumping bass of Metallica, although the volume wasn’t as high as it usually is.
“Remember that drive through burger place we stopped at last time we were both here? That would give her a good workout.”
Sam can hear the grin on Dean’s face, his words are brighter, his tone lighter.
“Sure.”
He tries to listen to every small sound as they drive away from Bobby’s, trying to visualize where they are, the route they take and what sounds he can associate with the journey, but that doesn’t last long, as the familiarly and comfort of being back in the Impala with Dean by his side lulls him to sleep.
He wakes up to Dean shaking his shoulder.
“Sam?” Dean gives him another shake. “Sammy?”
For a moment, Sam forgets that he can’t see. He sleepily blinks his eyes open, thinking that he’ll be able to see Dean sitting next to him, and reality crashes down on him.
“Dean?”
“Yeah, sleepy head. The server at the diner thought you were so cute, all curled up asleep.”
“Where are we?”
“Remember that quiet spot that looks out over the lake?”
“Oh yeah.” Sam stretches and sits up, pushing his disappointment down.
“It’s nice, quiet, no-one here but us. I’m gonna leave your shake where you usually have it,” Dean makes sure the shake is firmly upright for him. “And here’s your burger. I’m gonna put the tray in your lap. Burger’s on the right, fries to the left.”
They eat in companionable silence for a while.
“Bobby left me the number of a doctor he trusts. I called him while you were out and made an appointment so he can run some tests tomorrow. Scans, blood work, that kind of thing.”
“Dean, I don’t want to see anyone. He’ll not be able to help.”
“You don’t know that, Sam.” For the first time since he got back, Sam can hear an edge of anger in Dean’s voice. “When I was dying, you didn’t let up until you found that freaky faith healer, remember? Why’d you think that I’d do any less for you?”
“This is different.”
“Different how? Because it was caused by whatever powers you have? So what? That you believed her when Ruby told you she could train you? Big mistake, but I don’t get why you don’t want help.”
“Because I don’t deserve it! Not after what I did! I killed people, Dean, when I couldn’t get the demons out with my powers, I killed them with the knife, and the people they were in died! That’s on me, all on me.” Why couldn’t Dean just let it go? Sam’s suddenly claustrophobic.
“That’s happened before Sam, we know we can’t save all of them, and it’s hard, I know …”
“You don’t know! You don’t know where this power comes from Dean, it comes from blood, demon blood. At Cold Oak, Yellow Eyes showed me the night that mom died. He was in my nursery, and he dropped three drops of demon blood into my mouth. Then Ruby finds me and tells me she can make me stronger, so I can exorcise demons, so I can get you out of hell, and all I have to do is … all I have to do is drink a little of her blood.”
He hears Dean’s sharp intake of breath and has to get out. He knows he can’t go far, but he needs air. He wrenches open the car door, dumps his food tray on the floor and gets out. He slams the door and edges forward so he can sit on the hood and hangs his head. He actually feels lighter, now it’s out there, now Dean knows, but he doesn’t expect the fallout to be pretty. He hears Dean get out of the car too and close the door, not slam it. He joins Sam, sitting on the hood, close enough so Sam can feel the warmth of him against his side.
“So now I know.” Dean states. “And tomorrow, we’re gonna go and see the doc and have him run whatever tests he wants to.”
“But …”
“But what, Sam? We’ve both made mistakes. I was so blinded by losing you that I made a deal with a demon. Then you lost me and made some … questionable decisions. You didn’t have control over what Yellow Eyes did that night, and Ruby’s a manipulative bitch who took advantage when you were in a bad place. Now we’re both here, alive, with shit to deal with but we have to move on, man, not let any of that crap stop us. It’s not gonna be easy, but we have to try.”
Sam nods, not wanting to speak in case he completely falls apart. They sit in silence for a while, before Dean bundles him back in the car and drives back to Bobby’s. He helps Sam into the house, and the last thing Sam remembers is deciding to lie down on the couch for a while, then he’s out for the count.
When he wakes up, he’s not sure how much time has passed, but he can hear low voices in the kitchen and guesses Bobby must be back. He stays put on the couch, not up to company, and hears snippets of conversation. Enough to know that Dean is confirming that Ruby had something to do with Sam’s current state, but not about the blood. Sam really doesn’t want Bobby knowing about that.
Later still, they lie in their beds on opposite sides of the room, and Dean thrashes in his sleep. His pained moans wake Sam and for a moment, same as every time he wakes up, he thinks that he can’t see because it’s dark in the room. Reality punches him in the gut and it’s happened so many times, he wonders if there’s a bruise on his sternum.
“No, please …” Dean mutters, his voice cracking.
Sam turns to face the other bed. His heart aches to hear Dean suffering and he knows he should be the one to be looking after Dean now, and not the other way round. Dean’s right. He needs to get his strength back, but for Sam, that’s so he can take care of Dean.
“No, no more …” Dean whimpers.
Sam steels himself and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, the old worn carpet familiar beneath his bare feet. He flexes his toes and stands. He knows how far it is between the beds and has the added guidance of the sounds Dean is making. He walks slowly, pushing his feet across the carpet rather than taking proper steps, just in case there are clothes or boots lying in his path. His shin bumps against the side of Dean’s bed, just below his knee, and he half bends, half squats as his hands move over the bed, checking where he can sit.
Dean thrashes again and Sam reaches out, tentatively at first, not wanting to hurt him. His fingers encounter bare skin, and Sam traces up Dean’s arm to his cotton covered shoulder. Dean’s burning hot, and Sam thinks back, trying to remember if Dean sounded as if he was coming down with a cold or a sore throat. He hangs his head. He’s been so wrapped up in his own problems, that he hasn’t been paying attention to what’s going on around him. What if Dean’s running a fever? Sam realizes he’s been doing a piss poor job of being a brother since Dean got back.
His hand moves higher, onto Dean’s neck and gently up the side of his face to lie across his forehead. It’s hot, burning up. It could be a fever or it could be the nightmare that’s still gripping Dean. Sam touches him with both hands now, one on his shoulder, steadying but not restraining. The other cups Dean’s face, fingers stroking his temple, his cheekbone.
Sam closes his eyes, it makes it easier to imagine he’s choosing to be sightless, choosing to map out the contours of Dean’s face with his fingertips.
“Please …. No more …” Dean gasps out. Sam knows he’s not talking to him, knows that in his head, Dean’s seeing whatever he went through in Hell. It’s not something they’ve talked about, but Sam’s increasingly sure that Dean remembers more than he’s letting on.
“Dean, it’s okay, you’re safe.”
Dean whimpers again and pushes into Sam’s touch.
“C’mon Dean, come back to me. I’m here, I’ll keep you safe.”
Dean hitches out a broken sob, then stills as he begins to wake. Sam slips under the covers, sliding his body along the line of Dean’s.
“Sammy.” Dean breathes out and burrows against Sam’s chest.
Sam wraps his arms around his brother and holds him tight, fingers moving over Dean’s scalp. This he can do, he can keep Dean’s demons at bay while he sleeps. He wishes he could open his eyes and see Dean again, but he’ll settle for having him in his arms, solid and real.
After breakfast the next morning, Sam’s surprised when Bobby gives him a cane that he picked up the day before, so Sam doesn’t have to use the too long broom handle to help him get around. He’s also picked up some stickers for the phones which, when Sam runs his fingers over them, he can tell which letter is which. He washes the breakfast dishes, slowly, carefully, and knows that Dean is right there beside him in case he drops something, but he doesn’t.
His confession to Dean the day before has lifted something in him, and he knows Dean’s right. They have to move on and do what they’ve always done, make the most of whatever shitty situation fate has put them in.
The trip to the doctors doesn’t prove helpful, but he runs a lot of tests, and refuses to take payment from one of their stolen credit cards, he says he owes Bobby, but doesn’t go into detail. He promises to let them know as soon as he has the results of the tests.
By the time Bobby gets a call from Rufus, demanding help with a hunt, Sam has been practicing with the cane that Bobby picked up for him, and has even done a stint on the phones now that each one has a label on it with one large, raised letter, so Sam can tell them apart by touch. If one rings, he runs his hand across them to feel which one is vibrating and checks the letter before he picks it up.
And he’s acquired another very useful skill – iIf he’s careful, he can fix them coffee, but he has to take his time. That’s the worst, doing everything slowly, when before he took for granted his ability to be able to do everything at his own pace.
He can get down the stairs on his own, and even out to sit out on the porch to get some fresh air and sun on his skin, but he can’t run down the stairs, or dash out onto the porch, every movement has to be considered, thought about, and he’s finding that exhausting.
He knows he’s still skinnier than he should be, but he’s eating better now. It’s impossible not to when Dean’s fussing around him, making sure he doesn’t go back into the dark place he’d gotten into. He thinks a lot about the future, but he can’t picture it. He doesn’t know how to move forward yet.
Chapter Three
One month later …
Down in Bobby’s new panic room, Sam wakes when he hears the door upstairs open. He pushes himself up from where he’s been lying on the floor, and strains to hear everything he can. There are voices, Bobby’s and another man’s, which rise to shouting, followed by a scuffle. Sam’s heart races, and he reaches under the cot for the machete that lies on the floor beneath it. In the weeks that he’s been here, he’s refused to leave the room he’s lying in, not wanting to bother Bobby, and if he’s being honest, too scared to even think about dealing with what’s happened to him.
Bobby brings him food, often has to force him to eat it, and has tried so many times to get Sam to move into the bedroom he and Dean always used to share when they stayed as kids. But Sam doesn’t feel like he deserves that luxury, not after what he’s done.
Down here, he can almost pretend that he’s sitting in the dark, and if he wants to, he can open his eyes and look around. He also doesn’t want to face up to the fact that he can’t take care of himself anymore. If anything happens, if something gets past Bobby, he’ll have a hard time defending himself. He could swing the machete around but if he can’t see his attacker, he’ll have difficulty protecting himself. So he sits very still and listens.
“Where’s Sam? His cell phone’s out of service.” Dean’s voice. No, Sam reason’s it can’t be. He must be dreaming.
“He’s, well, there’s some things you need to know, Dean.”
“What things? Is he … he’s still alive, right?”
“He’s safe, but this … let me talk to him first.”
“Why? Where is he, Bobby?”
“Dean …”
“Where is he, Bobby?”
Dean’s voice sounds so real, Sam needs to know what’s going on. “Bobby?”
There’s a pause, followed by a furious, “He’s here? Why didn’t you tell me?” And then there’s a couple of heavy footsteps on the floor above him.
“Don’t, Dean. Listen to me …”
Now the footsteps are coming down the stairs and getting closer. Sam knows by where they stop that whoever is standing just inside the doorway.
“Sammy?”
“D …Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy, it’s me. What are you doing down here?”
“You’re not really here.” Sam mutters. “Dean’s dead and gone and he’s never coming back.” He turns his face towards the wall and his hair falls over his eyes.
“Sammy?” Sam feels fingers being gently thread through his hair just like Dean had often done when they were kids and Sam was upset about something. “I’m real, I promise.”
Sam’s reaction to the touch is immediate and violent. He pushes Dean away, hears him land with a thump on the ground behind him, and scrambles to his feet.
“Bobby!!” He yells, holding his hands out in front of him to ward off any further contact.
“Sam, it’s me, it’s okay.” Bobby’s suddenly right there and Sam grips his arm, his chest heaving.
“Someone touched me. I … I was hallucinating. I thought … Dean …”
“It’s him, Sam. Dean’s back.”
“No, no. He can’t be.” Sam shakes his head, but Bobby insists.
“I’ve checked him out, every trick in the book. It’s really him.”
“Sammy?”
“Dean?” Sam’s voice is small, quiet, too tired to hope.
“Yeah Sammy, it’s me.”
Sam hears scraping against the ground and fabric rustling as Dean gets up and takes a step towards him. Then there’s a hand on Sam’s arm. He trembles at the touch, but doesn’t pull away.
“Jesus, Sam, what happened?”
There’s shock in Dean’s voice and he doesn’t know what to say. He hangs his head, but it’s Bobby who answers, gruffly, with a note of warning to Dean in his voice.
“Hunting accident.”
Dean moves closer, putting a hand to Sam’s face.
“It’s good to … to be back.”
Sam wonders if Dean had been going to tell him it was good to see him. He chokes back an involuntary harsh snort of laughter and edges closer to his brother.
“Dean.”
Bobby lets go of his arm and pats Sam on the back as he leaves. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Sam reaches out, fingers tracing the edge of Dean’s shirt, up to the collar and onto his skin. They seek out the small scar behind Dean’s right ear that he’d had sewn up himself.
“How are you back?”
Sam keeps his fingers on Dean’s skin, feeling as if Dean will vanish if he lets go.
“I don’t know. The grave site looked like a nuke had gone off, but there was no sign of what pulled me out. No sign apart from this.” Dean shrugs off his shirt and rolls the sleeve of his tee back. He takes Sam’s hand and guides it to his shoulder. Sam’s fingers stroke over the raised, red flesh, gasping as he traces the edges of the mark.
“A handprint? Someone pulled you out.”
It’s a statement, not a question, and the possessive edge in Sam’s voice is unmistakable.
“Sammy?”
“What if they come for you, Dean?”
“I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m back and I’m not leaving you again.” Dean pulls him closer, and his hands roam over Sam’s back and shoulders.
“Has Bobby not been feeding you?” Sam knows that he’s trying to make a joke of it, but it comes out harsher than Dean probably intended.
“Haven’t been hungry.”
“Well, I’m starving. C’mon, I’ll make us some eggs.”
Dean always made him eggs when Sam wasn’t feeling great as a kid. Eggs with cheese and sometimes mushrooms and tomatoes. Eggs had become his comfort food at Stanford, when he felt homesick for Dean, even if he’d added herbs and the occasional avocado, sometimes a little salsa on the side. Thinking of food makes Sam realize just how hungry he is and his stomach rumbles, but he’s reluctant to leave his self-imposed prison.
“No, I’m fine. You go eat.”
Sam lets go, and tries to slink back into the corner, but Dean holds him fast.
“Sam, c’mon, man, I’m not leaving you down here.”
Sam hunches away from him, but doesn’t try to escape Dean’s arms. They sit in silence for a while, Dean leaning his head on Sam’s shoulder, with Sam needing the comfort that was given. After a while, Dean pats his back, and releases him, getting to his feet and reaching down to take Sam’s hand.
“Time to get out of here dude.”
Sam allows himself to be pulled to his feet and opens his mouth to protest again, but Dean squeezes his hand and guides him towards the door before he can say anything.
“Did you know that room is a full-on bunker now? A supernatural panic room? Devils trap on the ceiling, shelves packed out with supplies. Gotta wonder when he had the time. Last time I was down here, it was a store room. And that wouldn’t be my choice for a calendar, but each to their own, I guess …”
Sam loses himself in Dean's rambling and he’s being guided up the stairs and out of the basement before he has another chance to object. Dean settles him on the couch and walks into the kitchen, presumably to find Bobby.
Sam sits where Dean left him, and listens to Dean’s footsteps. He’s taken to counting Bobby’s steps when he hears him walking about the place, trying to visualize where Bobby is depending on where the sound was coming from and how many steps he’d taken.
Dean’s stride is longer than Bobby’s. Sam files that away with everything else he’s picked up since one of his eyesight deserted him. Even in his limited environment in the basement, every sound, every smell, had been documented. Touch and taste are harder to catalogue. Sam hasn’t eaten much in the last month, only the oatmeal that Bobby sometimes has to force down his throat when Sam’s stubbornly refusing to eat.
As soon as Dean had hugged him, he’d buried his nose in Dean’s neck, drinking in the familiar scent of home and love. He’d also realized how bad he must look to Dean. He’s not exactly been taking care of himself and now Sam feels bad that Dean’s seen him like this.
He hears the sound of plates or bowls being taken out of a cupboard, the metallic clink of cutlery, and whispered conversation coming from the kitchen.
“Let him be for a while.” Bobby suggests.
“What the hell, Bobby?” Dean snaps back.
“Before I tell you, you’ve gotta understand that he was a wreck after you went to Hell. He watched you get torn apart by Hellhounds, Dean.”
Sam can hear a chair being pulled away from the table and someone sitting down heavily.
“He survived Lilith’s death ray, and we buried you.”
“Buried me? I didn’t get a hunter’s send off?”
“Sam insisted that you’d need your body. Once he got you back. Then he took off and I didn’t see him again until ...”
“Until what?”
There’s a small sigh from Bobby before he continues.
“Then I got a call from Rufus. He’d seen the Impala in his neck of the woods, and I asked him to keep tabs on her, and on Sam if he could, to make sure he was okay. Turns out Sam was holed up in an abandoned farmhouse with a dark-haired girl. Then I got a call from Sam. He hardly got a word out before the call dropped, but he sounded like he was in trouble, so I drove out there and me and Rufus dragged him out of the farmhouse. He’d been there for days, Dean, looked as if he’d given up. He hardly recognized me. Me and Rufus brought him back here, cleaned him up and put him to bed upstairs. I fed him while he was still half out of it, but since he’s been conscious, he’s hardly been eating a thing. Soon as he was awake, he crawled downstairs. He’s always been a stubborn son of a bitch. Won’t listen to me when I try and help. Maybe you can get through to him.”
“Has he told you what happened?”
“Nope. Although he mumbled enough in his sleep to make me certain that Ruby didn’t die the night you did.”
There was a sigh from Dean, and the sound of a pan being taken off the stove.
“Now you boys both need to eat. Talking can wait until later.”
Sam hears two sets of footsteps approaching and feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder.
“Bobby’s made chili.” Dean takes one of Sam’s hands and places the bowl in it. “Spoon’s at two o’clock.”
Sam feels the couch dip as Dean sits down on the other end and the armchair creaks as Bobby sits too. Sam finds the spoon and takes a mouthful of hot chili and well-cooked rice, flavors exploding on his tongue as he eats. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to enjoy food since he lost his sight.
After they’ve finished, Sam feels overly full, even though he knows that he didn’t eat half as much as he usually would have. He guesses that’s something he’ll have to work on. Bobby takes their bowls and retreats to the kitchen, closing the dividing doors behind him. Sam sighs, knowing it’s time for the conversation he really doesn’t want to have.
“Sammy? I need to know what happened.”
“Ruby didn’t die the night you went to Hell. She turned up a few weeks later in a different body. And told me that she could help train me to use my powers, make me stronger, and it was working, I could almost exorcise a demon, but the last time I tried, there was … something happened, a pressure in my head, and when I tried to push through, this happened, and she bailed.” Sam leaves out the part about the demon blood. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to tell Dean that.
Dean pats Sam’s hand.
“But why won’t you see a doctor?”
“What am I supposed to say? Hi doc, I used my freaky powers, and I went blind. Any chance of fixing me?”
“No, we tell them you passed out, hit your head on the way down and when you woke up, you couldn’t see.”
Sam tries to pull away, but Dean won’t let him.
“Why don’t you want help, Sam?”
“Because I deserve it.” Sam whispered. “What I did, working with Ruby …”
“Was a mistake, and you’ve already paid enough for it. And punished yourself enough. I want you to see a doctor. For me, Sam.”
Sam rolls his eyes, and nods reluctantly. Dean never was above a little emotional blackmail.
“Good to see you haven’t lost your bitchface too.”
Sam’s close enough that he can punch Dean in the arm without missing, and he even manages to crack a smile when Dean yelps.
“Hey,” Dean protests, but Sam can tell he’s smiling too. And then he’s pulling Sam along with his rambling as well as his hands and Sam’s on his feet and halfway up the stairs before he knows what he’s doing.
“But right now, you need a shower. Trust me on that one. You stink, dude. And you need to get some decent sleep in a real bed, not on that thing in the panic room.”
“Don’t tell me what I need, Dean,” Sam grumbles, but it’s a halfhearted objection.
“Someone has to,” Dean chides. “Gotta say, I could really do with a shower too and some sleep in a comfortable bed.”
“I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Yeah? Well, you might as well give up now and follow my lead. Did I tell you I pulled my way out of a grave this morning? Man really needs somewhere comfortable to sleep after that, that’s for sure …”
“Okay, please stop. I’ll have a shower and sleep in a bed, okay?”
“Atta boy, Sammy.”
Sam can hear the grin on Dean’s face as they reach the top of the stairs and Dean guides him into the bathroom.
“I can undress myself,” Sam huffs as they both stand in the bathroom, which isn’t the largest of rooms.
Dean backs off as best he can while Sam toes off his boots, which weren’t laced tightly. Sam had wanted to be able to get them on and off quickly if he needed to, and isn’t good with laces anymore. Sam’s fingers move up the front of his shirt to find the buttons, then pop each one open. The shirt falls to the floor, and Sam pulls his tee off over his head.
Sam can hear Dean’s quiet gasp and realizes how bad he must look. He tries to hide from Dean’s gaze, but there’s no going back now without a fight so he fumbles with his jeans and then they and his boxers join the rest of his clothes on the floor.
Dean pushes the pile away from Sam with his foot, making sure there’s nothing for him to trip over. Sam’s grateful for the small kindnesses that Dean provides and shivers, small tremors making his shoulders shake. He hears the splash of water from the shower spray against tile, interrupted by Dean’s hand as he makes sure it isn’t too hot or too cold. Then Sam feels Dean’s hands on his arms, gently urging him to turn to face the bath.
“Bath’s right in front of you. If you reach out and down, you’ll be able to feel the edge.”
Sam does as he’s instructed, hands familiarizing themselves with the slowly warming tub. He runs his hands along the edge of it until he feels the curve at the top. He moves his hands higher, onto the tile that lines the walls surrounding the bath. He takes a step to the left, straightening up, then slowly lifts his leg and steps into the bath, keeping his hands braced on the wall. He hesitates, swallowing his nervousness down.
“You’re doing good, Sammy, and I’m here, I won’t let you fall.”
Sam nods, holding onto his brother’s reassurances like a lifeline, but he mumbles under his breath.
“Don’t call me Sammy.” He doesn’t add that Ruby had taken to calling him that, had stolen away Dean’s annoying nickname for him. In that moment, Sam decides to let Dean reclaim it, decides to take something else back that was stolen from him.
“Okay dude, one more step and you’re home free. You’ll be smelling fresh as a daisy in no time.”
Sam lifts his other foot and puts it down into the bathtub, and once he’s sure of his footing, turns, feeling his way along the back wall, until he’s standing directly under the showerhead, the spray hitting his skin. It feels good, the water pounding over his face and down his body. He closes his eyes instinctively, and pretends that when he opens them again, he’ll be able to see Dean, standing smirking at him.
He hears the snick of a plastic bottle being opened.
“Shampoo, left hand, ten o’clock, at shoulder level.”
Sam reaches out, the back of his hand connecting with the bottle first. He curls his fingers around it, then moves it back to meet his right hand so he can squirt shampoo into his right palm, carefully making sure his hands are in the right places first. Then he hands the bottle back to Dean.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
He scrubs the shampoo through his hair, making sure he doesn’t miss a spot. The lather dies quickly, a testament to how long it’s been since he’d last showered. He rinses it off, scrubbing hard, but Dean isn’t letting him off that easily.
“Shampoo, again, same place.”
“Again?” Sam huffs.
“Again. Trust me, you need it. One more time, then you can have some of that girly conditioner you like so much.”
“Whatever.”
Sam shakes his head as he takes the bottle again. Dean is an annoying jerk, but Sam’s missed that so much, he has to stop himself from crying right there. For the first time since he’d lost his sight, Sam feels the smallest glimmer of hope. He’s under no illusions that he will ever be able to see again, but with Dean back, he can, just maybe, begin to feel safe again.
Second round of shampoo and conditioner out of the way, Dean hands Sam the soap and a sponge, never moving in case Sam stumbles.
Once he’s clean, Dean talks him through getting out of the tub, holding onto his hand to help him. Sam stands still as Dean wraps a large towel around his shoulders and rubs at his wet hair with a smaller one.
“It’s like drying a shaggy dog.” Dean quips as he works.
“May as well get it all cut off. Not like I can see it anymore.”
Dean stops and rests his hands on Sam’s towel covered shoulders.
“No, but I can, and trust me, you wouldn’t look good with a buzz cut. I’m the one who has to see it day in and day out, so I get final say, okay?”
“Okay.” Dean’s insistence brings the tiniest of smiles to Sam’s lips.
“Finish drying yourself off.” Dean drapes another towel over Sam’s shoulder. “I’ll go get you some clean sweats.”
Sam towels the rest of the water from his body, wraps the towel around his waist and stands where Dean left him. Dean being back changes things. Before, even that very morning, he’d have been happy to waste away in Bobby’s basement. But now, Dean is really back, and Sam knows that his brother won’t let that happen. And for the first time since he lost Dean, Sam wants to live; he doesn’t want to die. Dean had to live through that once, and Sam could never do that to him again.
He takes a deep breath, and reaches out, turning to his right. Long fingers find the edge of the sink, and curl around the cool porcelain, left slippy and damp from the condensation of the shower. He turns a little more to face it and his questing fingers move slowly around, searching for the toothbrushes he knows usually sit on the left-hand side of the basin when he and Dean stay with Bobby. He finds one, and the tube of toothpaste that lies near it, but stops. What if things have changed in the last few months. What if it’s Bobby’s toothbrush?
Sam growls in frustration, just as Dean opens the door and steps back into the bathroom with clothes for Sam.
“Is this mine?” Sam asks.
"No, dude, it's one of Bobby's cleaning brushes."
"Oh." Sam puts it down where he thought he'd picked it up from, but it clatters into the sink. "Dammit."
"Hey, it's okay." Dean's hand is reassuring on his shoulder. "Small steps, Sammy. Let’s get you dressed first, then I've got an idea."
"I can dress myself." Sam mumbles.
"Let me help. I ... I need to know I can be your brother again."
Sam catches the hitch in Dean's voice, and nods. Dean squats in front of him and takes a gentle hold on Sam’s right ankle.
“Put your hand on my shoulder if you need to balance.” Dean instructs.
Sam reaches down, his fingers finding Dean’s head before they slip onto his shoulder. Only then does Dean pick Sam’s foot up. He slips it through one leg of Sam’s boxers, then does the same with his left foot, pausing first to make sure Sam was balanced again. He tugs the shorts up Sam’s long legs, pulling the waistband wider to ease over his ass and junk.
Sam blushes at how intimate it feels to have Dean doing this for him, and fights down the urge to insist he can do it himself. Realistically he knows that if he was left on his own, he’d still be figuring out where the leg holes were.
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Sam nods, realizing that Dean must have seen the color rising on his cheeks. They’d both suffered injuries and wounds in the past which had meant being naked, or at least semi-naked in front of each other, and living in close quarters as they had all their lives, modesty was unnecessary.
Dean repeats his actions with a pair of sweatpants, rising to his feet as he pulls them up. The clean cotton feels good against Sam’s skin. It’s soft, worn and familiar, as familiar as the warmth of Dean’s body as he stands close.
“Hands in the air.” Dean orders.
Sam does as he’s told, muttering under his breath.
“I feel like a three year old.”
Dean snorts. The small huff of laughter brings memories of prank wars and easier times flooding back, and Sam whimpers. He cuts the weak little sound off, ashamed at how needy and vulnerable he feels.
“Sorry, I … sorry.” He hangs his head, only to have it tilted up again by Dean’s fingers gently exerting pressure under his chin.
“Quit apologizing. Remember when I broke my fingers the year before you went to college? You had to help me with more than I really want to remember. This stuff comes with the gig, you know that.” As Dean speaks, he pulls Sam’s t-shirt over Sam’s head and eases it down his arms. “Doesn’t matter how this happened, we’ll deal with it the same as we always do.”
“Together” was left unspoken, simply because it was unnecessary.
Once the t-shirt is on, and Dean is satisfied it is on properly, he takes hold of Sam’s hips and turns him back to face the basin. Sam hears him rummaging around in what he assumes was the small bag they keep their toiletries in, then a toothbrush is pressed into his hand and a tap is turned on. Water wooshes into the basin, and Dean moves the hand with the brush in it into the stream.
“There’s paste on the brush. Trust me when I say you really need to give them a good clean.”
Sam hears a small scrape and a chink, then Dean moves away, opening the door and letting cooler air inside the bathroom.
“I’ll be back before you’re done.”
Over the noise of the water and the scouring of the brush against his teeth, Sam hears Dean’s footsteps as he goes downstairs. There’s the low hum of voices for a moment, then two sets of footsteps move into the kitchen. At first, Sam thinks that someone has opened the door and left, but then he hears more doors being opened, and rummaging noises, low conversation then footsteps getting closer again.
“Thanks, Bobby, for everything.”
“Don’t mention it son, I’m just glad you’re back, for Sam’s sake as well as your own. I’ll see you boys in the morning.”
Sam spits out another mouthful of minty foam and sticks the brush back under the tap. He hopes he’s rinsing it clean but can’t be quite certain how clean it is by touch alone. He holds his hand under the water, filling his cupped palm, and rinsing his mouth out. He sighs. He’s been so caught up with feeling sorry for himself that he’s barely spared a thought for how Bobby must feel, trying to look after him and keep him going when he’s been ready to give up on himself.
“You done?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, this will make sure you never end up with a mouth full of whatever Bobby’s been cleaning amulets with.” There’s a small snicking sound, then another and another. Dean takes his hand and puts the toothbrush back in it. Immediately, Sam feels something wrapped around the handle, probably elastic bands by the way they feel.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll put it with mine, on the left. And this,” Dean pushes something else into Sam’s hand. “Is unbreakable so it doesn’t matter if it slips out of your hand. Didn’t think it would be a good idea to keep the glass tumbler around.”
“Is this …” Sam trails off as he examines the beaker in his hands. It feels a lot like the kind little kids use so they won’t spill whatever they were drinking, only without the lid. He’d had one when he was small, and at some point, it had gotten left behind at Bobby’s. He’d found it again years later and had been distracted before he could throw it away. There was always a slim chance he was mistaken. “It’s got handles. Tell me it isn’t pink?”
“Can’t do that, Sammy, I’d be lying.”
Sam can hear the smirk in his brother’s voice and sightlessly glares in what he hopes is his direction.
“Bobby never throws anything away, you know that. And I promise the next time I’m in town, I’ll pick up a more manly plastic beaker.”
Dean reaches over and guides Sam’s hand to where the beaker would sit.
“C’mon, you get settled in a comfortable bed for a change, and I need to take a shower. I don’t know about you, but I could sleep for a week.”
Dean takes hold of Sam’s hand and leads him from the bathroom. Sam hears the little click as Dean switches on the bedroom light. The air is drier and cooler in the bedroom, and Sam shivers. Dean’s hand moves up Sam’s arm, rubbing it in an unconscious effort to warm him up. He guides him to the bed to the left of the door, the one Sam always slept in as a kid.
“Wasn’t Bobby using this as a storeroom?” Sam remembers the last time he was in this room, the beds were gone, and it was lined with shelves packed with all manner of hunting supplies.
“He wanted to give you somewhere familiar to sleep, once he’d coaxed you out of the basement.” Dean says, no judgment on his voice. “And he reckons the supplies are safer in his panic room now, so it works for him too.”
Dean pats Sam on the arm. “Won’t be long.”
Sam listens to the water running again, quieter through two closed doors, but still enough that he hears the change when Dean steps in and disturbs the spray. He sits there for a while, taking in all the small noises of the house that he’d missed in his self-imposed exile in the panic room, like the wind rustling gently in the trees outside and the tiny creaks the house makes as if it’s settling down for the night.
He stands up, orientating himself in the room, and walks towards where he figures the window is. He keeps close to the bed until he gets to the end of it, walking so he can feel the edge of the mattress against his leg. Slowly, he walks forward, moving his foot across the floorboards in front of him to make sure there’s nothing between him and the window. When he gets there, toes hitting the wall, he reaches out until his fingers touch the glass. He closes his eyes, and imagines the view outside in the daylight. The big tree off to the left that he can hear rustling, and rusting cars in rows, piled up one or two high. He stands there for a little while, imagining that if he opens his eyes, he’ll be able to see the view that is so perfect in his mind’s eye.
In the bathroom, the shower turns off, so Sam makes his way back to the bed and gets in.
Dean’s quieter when he comes back into the bedroom. He checks on Sam, and leaves him to climb into the other bed.
“Needed that,” Dean mumbles sleepily. “Need this too.”
He yawns and Sam can hear him moving around to get comfortable. He feels like he should be closer for what he wants to ask, but there’s a trip of carpet between them again which may as well be a canyon for Sam now.
"Do you remember anything?" Sam whispers into the darkness. “About Hell?”
Sam hears Dean go very still, and he doesn’t answer for so long, Sam thinks he’s fallen asleep.
"No, I don't."
Sam shivers, partly at the distance between them after their earlier closeness and partly because he knows Dean is lying, sparing him from the horrible truth.
They are both broken, both damaged, and Sam wonders if they can put each other together again.
The next morning, Dean leads Sam downstairs for breakfast. Sam stops at the bottom of the stairs.
“I hate this,” he grumbles.
“We’ll work on it, right? After breakfast.”
“Work on what? Finding out how much furniture I can walk into?” Sam’s petulant, even as he’s annoyed at himself for being such a pain in the ass.
“Jeez, how could I have forgotten how cranky you are before your first coffee?”
Sam sighs, and can imagine Dean rolling his eyes.
“Think about it. How long have we been coming to Bobby’s? And in that time, apart from building himself a sweet panic room in the basement, has he ever moved anything around in this place?”
“I can hear you,” Bobby grumbles from the kitchen.
“You know the layout, inside out,” Dean reminds Sam. Then “Wait there.”
Sam hears Dean run down to the basement, followed by a rummaging sound. Then he’s back and curling Sam’s fingers around what Sam guesses is a broom handle.
“Not ideal, but it’ll do for this time.”
Dean puts his hands on Sam’s shoulders and turns him a little to the right. Then he steps away.
“Okay, reach out to the side with your left hand.”
Sam reaches out his hand and it hits the wall.
“So, you know where you are. You’re standing just inside the room, facing straight on. Remember the layout? The kitchen is straight ahead. Just follow the smell of coffee and bacon. You can’t go wrong. Wave that in front of you if you need to make sure there’s nothing in front of you.”
Sam takes a breath and steps forward. Then he takes another step, and another.
“The couch should be on my right?” He moves the broom handle in the air in front of him and to the sides, but it doesn’t hit anything.
“You’re taking smaller steps than usual, so it’s there, it’s just a little further.”
Sam nods, takes another couple of steps and then when he moves his makeshift cane, it bumps into the couch. He takes a breath and closes his eyes, which made it easier to visualize where he is in the room. He continues his slow steps, nodding to himself when he identifies the end of the couch. Another few steps and he stops, moving the broom handle around but not hitting anything.
“You’re just about in the middle of the doors to the kitchen,” Dean’s voice comes from not far in front of him to the left. “Two more steps and you should be able to touch a chair.”
The broom handle hits a chair leg and moves it a little, alerting Sam to where it is. He reaches out towards the sound and his hand connects with the back of the chair. Then he moves his fingers along it so he cand grasp which way it was facing.
“Dean, can you take this?” He holds out the broom handle, which Dean obligingly takes from his hand.
Bending forward a little, Sam reaches out until he can touch the table, and then the seat of the chair, before he sits down slowly, letting out a sharp breath once he’s sitting at the table.
“Dude! That was awesome!” Dean pats him on the back and Sam’s mouth twitches with a reluctant smile.
“Do I get to have coffee now?”
“And one of Bobby’s bacon and hashbrown breakfast sandwiches. Man, I missed food.”
Sam’s brain screeches to a halt. It’s so easy to forget that Dean has probably been through so much in Hell, even though he’s so far denying that he remembers anything, yet from the moment he found Sam, he’s been looking after him, just like when they were kids. Sam feels himself tear up, but gets it under control, for Dean.
He hears plates and mugs being put down on the table, and pushes his fingers across the familiar grain of the wood until they touch something. A plate.
“This mine?”
“Yeah. The sandwich is on the right side. There’s already ketchup on it. And mayo.” Dean adds before Sam can ask him. “There’s a mug of coffee to the right of the plate.”
The sandwich tastes amazing and Sam eats slowly, taking small bites, not overloading his stomach too much, and takes mouthfuls of sweet and creamy coffee, made just how he likes it. He’s in awe of Dean’s ability to push his own issues away to take care of him and resolves to, someday, in whatever way he can, return the favor tenfold. Dean deserves nothing less.
He wallows in the normality of conversation between Dean and Bobby as Bobby catches him up with things that had happened while he was gone, hunts, and hunters that they all knew. He also added that there’s been no word of Lilith for months. Sam briefly wonders what’s happened to Ruby. She must still be out there somewhere, and up to something, but he’s not up to dealing with her yet.
After breakfast, Bobby lays out his plans for the day.
“I’m heading over to Olivia’s to fix her truck. No need to man the phones, I’ve got that covered. Might want to check the Impala, Dean, she’s out in the barn.”
Dean bumps Sam’s knee under the table as he virtually vibrates at the mention of his beloved car.
Sam meanwhile visualizes where the small bank of phones is in relation to where he’s sitting. Another thing that he’ll not be able to do again, he thinks. He’ll never know one from the other, FBI, Wildlife Service and the rest. He can’t help feeling glum.
After Bobby leaves, Dean piles the breakfast dishes in the sink, and Sam wonders if that is something he might be able to manage to do soon. If he was careful. Something small, but at least he would be helping out.
“I’m gonna bring Baby round and give her the once over. When was the last time you got some fresh air?”
“Not since I arrived,” Sam huffs.
“Okay, I’ll bring her around and park her by the porch.”
“You want me to help?” Sam isn’t sure what he would be able to do.
“You can keep me company.”
“Right.”
“Think you can get to the porch?”
“I can try.” Suddenly, Sam is all steely determination. If Dean believes he can do it, maybe he needs to start having a little faith in himself again.
He stands up from the table, and Dean puts the broom handle back in his hand. He thinks about the way he’d been facing when he sat down, and orients himself in the room, trusting that if he was about to walk into something, Dean would tell him.
“You’re closer to the wall on the right.”
Sam finds it with the broom handle, then takes slow, steady steps straight ahead until he reaches the door. As he navigates through the porch at the back, hearing Dean behind him probably making sure that he misses the stairs down to the basement, he wonders how Dean can be so calm about this, about Sam having to relearn everything he once knew. Sam realizes that his own reaction has been fueled by grief. Knowing that Dean wasn’t around to help him through it had pushed him into a very dark place, one that he hadn’t thought he’d be able to get out of. And he’s never thought how his downward spiral was affecting Bobby, who was also grieving for Dean.
“You made it, dude!”
Sam is wrenched out of his thoughts and realizes after a bit of swiping about with the broom handle, that he’s standing at the door to the back porch. He’s navigated the last few steps without thinking about it.
“I’m going to get the car and park her at the bottom of the steps.” Dean informs him. “From now on, I’ll always leave her so that the shotgun side door is level with the right side of the steps, so you’ll always know where to find her, right?”
“Right.”
Dean leaves the door open and waits for Sam to emerge into the sunlight. Sam can feel the warmth on his face, and a faint breeze ruffles his hair.
“Remember how many steps down there are?”
“Three?” It’s something he’s always done automatically, running up the steps, so he has to think back and be sure he’s remembering it correctly. “Not sure I’m ready for solo steps yet.”
“Not expecting you to do that on your own. Wait there while I go and get her,” Dean instructs.
“Not like I can go anywhere,” Sam grumbles as Dean’s footsteps fade and then he hears the barn door opening.
Sam shivers a little, despite the warmth of the day. He hears the low purr of the Impala as Dean drives her closer. He guesses Bobby must have found her and brought her home after he’d found Sam. There’s guilt about that too, about not taking care of her while Dean was gone.
“She’s running fine.” Sam can hear the happiness and pride in Dean’s voice. “Just a little dusty, that’s all. Needs a bit of TLC.”
Sam listens to Dean opening and closing the Impala’s door, then to his soft footfalls on the dusty ground as he gets out of the Impala. He walks round her to the porch, joining Sam at the top of the steps before he takes Sam’s arm.
Sam gratefully holds on as Dean turns him and guides him so they both take a couple of steps to the right.
“First step is right in front of you, and the rail is within reach on your right.”
Sam takes a breath in, and puts his foot out and down. His heart is racing, until he realises that it's no different from making his way downstairs in the house. Being outside, in the open air, it feels like he’s stepping off the edge of the world. Then his foot is touching down, and he’s taken that first step.
Dean’s still holding his elbow, supporting him, there for him always, in case he falls. A couple more cautious steps, and he’s down.
“She’s parked just in front of you, just like I said.”
Dean takes the broom handle from Sam’s hand and Sam takes two small steps forward, holding his right hand out, and there she is, the warm metal of her roof under Sam’s hand. He closes his eyes, and his hand falls instinctively to the door handle, fingers curling around it. He pulls open the door, not as wide as he usually does in case Dean has parked closer than he expects and the door hits the porch.
“I’m gonna take her for a drive, you okay with that?”
Slipping into the passenger seat is instinctual, something that he doesn’t need to think about, and it’s as if the Impala is welcoming him home, the leather of the seats creaking just a little as they always do as Sam settles back. He’s enveloped in a feeling of home, wrapped up in the scents that have been part of his life since he was a baby. Dean gets back in and shuts his own door. Sam hears fumbling and low cursing as Dean sorts out his tapes and then the car is filled with the thumping bass of Metallica, although the volume wasn’t as high as it usually is.
“Remember that drive through burger place we stopped at last time we were both here? That would give her a good workout.”
Sam can hear the grin on Dean’s face, his words are brighter, his tone lighter.
“Sure.”
He tries to listen to every small sound as they drive away from Bobby’s, trying to visualize where they are, the route they take and what sounds he can associate with the journey, but that doesn’t last long, as the familiarly and comfort of being back in the Impala with Dean by his side lulls him to sleep.
He wakes up to Dean shaking his shoulder.
“Sam?” Dean gives him another shake. “Sammy?”
For a moment, Sam forgets that he can’t see. He sleepily blinks his eyes open, thinking that he’ll be able to see Dean sitting next to him, and reality crashes down on him.
“Dean?”
“Yeah, sleepy head. The server at the diner thought you were so cute, all curled up asleep.”
“Where are we?”
“Remember that quiet spot that looks out over the lake?”
“Oh yeah.” Sam stretches and sits up, pushing his disappointment down.
“It’s nice, quiet, no-one here but us. I’m gonna leave your shake where you usually have it,” Dean makes sure the shake is firmly upright for him. “And here’s your burger. I’m gonna put the tray in your lap. Burger’s on the right, fries to the left.”
They eat in companionable silence for a while.
“Bobby left me the number of a doctor he trusts. I called him while you were out and made an appointment so he can run some tests tomorrow. Scans, blood work, that kind of thing.”
“Dean, I don’t want to see anyone. He’ll not be able to help.”
“You don’t know that, Sam.” For the first time since he got back, Sam can hear an edge of anger in Dean’s voice. “When I was dying, you didn’t let up until you found that freaky faith healer, remember? Why’d you think that I’d do any less for you?”
“This is different.”
“Different how? Because it was caused by whatever powers you have? So what? That you believed her when Ruby told you she could train you? Big mistake, but I don’t get why you don’t want help.”
“Because I don’t deserve it! Not after what I did! I killed people, Dean, when I couldn’t get the demons out with my powers, I killed them with the knife, and the people they were in died! That’s on me, all on me.” Why couldn’t Dean just let it go? Sam’s suddenly claustrophobic.
“That’s happened before Sam, we know we can’t save all of them, and it’s hard, I know …”
“You don’t know! You don’t know where this power comes from Dean, it comes from blood, demon blood. At Cold Oak, Yellow Eyes showed me the night that mom died. He was in my nursery, and he dropped three drops of demon blood into my mouth. Then Ruby finds me and tells me she can make me stronger, so I can exorcise demons, so I can get you out of hell, and all I have to do is … all I have to do is drink a little of her blood.”
He hears Dean’s sharp intake of breath and has to get out. He knows he can’t go far, but he needs air. He wrenches open the car door, dumps his food tray on the floor and gets out. He slams the door and edges forward so he can sit on the hood and hangs his head. He actually feels lighter, now it’s out there, now Dean knows, but he doesn’t expect the fallout to be pretty. He hears Dean get out of the car too and close the door, not slam it. He joins Sam, sitting on the hood, close enough so Sam can feel the warmth of him against his side.
“So now I know.” Dean states. “And tomorrow, we’re gonna go and see the doc and have him run whatever tests he wants to.”
“But …”
“But what, Sam? We’ve both made mistakes. I was so blinded by losing you that I made a deal with a demon. Then you lost me and made some … questionable decisions. You didn’t have control over what Yellow Eyes did that night, and Ruby’s a manipulative bitch who took advantage when you were in a bad place. Now we’re both here, alive, with shit to deal with but we have to move on, man, not let any of that crap stop us. It’s not gonna be easy, but we have to try.”
Sam nods, not wanting to speak in case he completely falls apart. They sit in silence for a while, before Dean bundles him back in the car and drives back to Bobby’s. He helps Sam into the house, and the last thing Sam remembers is deciding to lie down on the couch for a while, then he’s out for the count.
When he wakes up, he’s not sure how much time has passed, but he can hear low voices in the kitchen and guesses Bobby must be back. He stays put on the couch, not up to company, and hears snippets of conversation. Enough to know that Dean is confirming that Ruby had something to do with Sam’s current state, but not about the blood. Sam really doesn’t want Bobby knowing about that.
Later still, they lie in their beds on opposite sides of the room, and Dean thrashes in his sleep. His pained moans wake Sam and for a moment, same as every time he wakes up, he thinks that he can’t see because it’s dark in the room. Reality punches him in the gut and it’s happened so many times, he wonders if there’s a bruise on his sternum.
“No, please …” Dean mutters, his voice cracking.
Sam turns to face the other bed. His heart aches to hear Dean suffering and he knows he should be the one to be looking after Dean now, and not the other way round. Dean’s right. He needs to get his strength back, but for Sam, that’s so he can take care of Dean.
“No, no more …” Dean whimpers.
Sam steels himself and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, the old worn carpet familiar beneath his bare feet. He flexes his toes and stands. He knows how far it is between the beds and has the added guidance of the sounds Dean is making. He walks slowly, pushing his feet across the carpet rather than taking proper steps, just in case there are clothes or boots lying in his path. His shin bumps against the side of Dean’s bed, just below his knee, and he half bends, half squats as his hands move over the bed, checking where he can sit.
Dean thrashes again and Sam reaches out, tentatively at first, not wanting to hurt him. His fingers encounter bare skin, and Sam traces up Dean’s arm to his cotton covered shoulder. Dean’s burning hot, and Sam thinks back, trying to remember if Dean sounded as if he was coming down with a cold or a sore throat. He hangs his head. He’s been so wrapped up in his own problems, that he hasn’t been paying attention to what’s going on around him. What if Dean’s running a fever? Sam realizes he’s been doing a piss poor job of being a brother since Dean got back.
His hand moves higher, onto Dean’s neck and gently up the side of his face to lie across his forehead. It’s hot, burning up. It could be a fever or it could be the nightmare that’s still gripping Dean. Sam touches him with both hands now, one on his shoulder, steadying but not restraining. The other cups Dean’s face, fingers stroking his temple, his cheekbone.
Sam closes his eyes, it makes it easier to imagine he’s choosing to be sightless, choosing to map out the contours of Dean’s face with his fingertips.
“Please …. No more …” Dean gasps out. Sam knows he’s not talking to him, knows that in his head, Dean’s seeing whatever he went through in Hell. It’s not something they’ve talked about, but Sam’s increasingly sure that Dean remembers more than he’s letting on.
“Dean, it’s okay, you’re safe.”
Dean whimpers again and pushes into Sam’s touch.
“C’mon Dean, come back to me. I’m here, I’ll keep you safe.”
Dean hitches out a broken sob, then stills as he begins to wake. Sam slips under the covers, sliding his body along the line of Dean’s.
“Sammy.” Dean breathes out and burrows against Sam’s chest.
Sam wraps his arms around his brother and holds him tight, fingers moving over Dean’s scalp. This he can do, he can keep Dean’s demons at bay while he sleeps. He wishes he could open his eyes and see Dean again, but he’ll settle for having him in his arms, solid and real.
After breakfast the next morning, Sam’s surprised when Bobby gives him a cane that he picked up the day before, so Sam doesn’t have to use the too long broom handle to help him get around. He’s also picked up some stickers for the phones which, when Sam runs his fingers over them, he can tell which letter is which. He washes the breakfast dishes, slowly, carefully, and knows that Dean is right there beside him in case he drops something, but he doesn’t.
His confession to Dean the day before has lifted something in him, and he knows Dean’s right. They have to move on and do what they’ve always done, make the most of whatever shitty situation fate has put them in.
The trip to the doctors doesn’t prove helpful, but he runs a lot of tests, and refuses to take payment from one of their stolen credit cards, he says he owes Bobby, but doesn’t go into detail. He promises to let them know as soon as he has the results of the tests.
By the time Bobby gets a call from Rufus, demanding help with a hunt, Sam has been practicing with the cane that Bobby picked up for him, and has even done a stint on the phones now that each one has a label on it with one large, raised letter, so Sam can tell them apart by touch. If one rings, he runs his hand across them to feel which one is vibrating and checks the letter before he picks it up.
And he’s acquired another very useful skill – iIf he’s careful, he can fix them coffee, but he has to take his time. That’s the worst, doing everything slowly, when before he took for granted his ability to be able to do everything at his own pace.
He can get down the stairs on his own, and even out to sit out on the porch to get some fresh air and sun on his skin, but he can’t run down the stairs, or dash out onto the porch, every movement has to be considered, thought about, and he’s finding that exhausting.
He knows he’s still skinnier than he should be, but he’s eating better now. It’s impossible not to when Dean’s fussing around him, making sure he doesn’t go back into the dark place he’d gotten into. He thinks a lot about the future, but he can’t picture it. He doesn’t know how to move forward yet.
Chapter Three