Title: Looking After
Summary: Written for the
Again But With More Colds comment fic meme. Dean is blind and Sam is sick. Full prompt at the bottom.
Warnings/Spoilers: Just the usual language warning.
Wordcount: 3,183
Author's Note: Proof that I can torture Dean too!
--
The first thing he learns is Sam, because Sam is always there. He learns how to tell Sam's footsteps from fifteen feet off and how to brush his thumb over Sam's mouth to find out if he's upset or just thinking. He knows which part of Sam's arm is the perfect size for grabbing, and he starts being comforted by stupid fucking things like Sam's monologuing while he helps Dean get dressed and the smell of his sweatshirt when he leaves Dean to shower or grab some food. Dean's not as jumpy as he used to be. It's been almost a month.
They've been some pretty big changes, most of them Sam's decision. They've gone all fucking respectable in a matter of weeks; they have an apartment, and Sam is working at a bookstore and taking night classes to finish his degree, and when Dean asks why he says, "Because why the fuck not?" and Dean guesses that's as good an excuse as any. Sam's made it clear that Dean's going to be working, too, as soon as he's adjusted, and that they'll find something for him to do. "Be a masseuse," he suggests, driving home from the store one day. "You'll make good tips out of sympathy."
"Closest I'll ever come to sex again, probably," Dean says.
"This angry disabled guy thing is really charming, but is it almost over?"
"Bite me," Dean says, because between running into the cereal display and losing Sam for a fucking terrifying two hundred and fifty-two seconds (he counts now, what, he gets bored) it's been a long fucking day, all right?
Sam squeezes his shoulder.
**
Dean collides with the table a few steps into the apartment, and Sam says, "Aw, come on, you know the table," really gently before he puts his hand on Dean's arm and guides him to the couch. It's supposed to be Dean's hand on Sam's arm, but they both like this better, for some reason. Dean only gets grabby when he's panicked.
Sam hands Dean the remote. "Want to watch something?"
Dean can still glare.
"Shit, sorry. Sorry."
And then Dean feels fucking sad, because Sam sounds so desperately pathetic and Jesus, Sam, he was mostly kidding, you know? It's a fucking expression, Dean's not over here crying into his pillow about it.
"I'll find something." Dean runs his finger over the rubber buttons and turns on the TV's power. "I'm really hungry."
"Me too. Macaroni?"
"You always fucking make macaroni."
"Yeah, well." Sam gets up. His footsteps echo into the kitchen. "It's easy."
"I know it's easy. I could make macaroni."
"Then why don't you? I fucking hate cooking."
"Because you're taking care of me. Gotta get used to it, bitch. You're going to take care of me for the rest of our pathetic fucking lives."
"Juuuust 'til you're back on your feet," Sam says, which is what he fucking always says, and what does that even mean? Dean's on his feet. He's on his feet fucking running into everything.
"Then what?"
"Then we go back to being equal partners in our relationship." Sam redefines the word 'dry.' "I'll bring the eyes, you bring your pain-in-the-ass personality."
"Ugh."
"It is what it is," Sam says, and that's another phrase he throws out all the time, and that one confuses Dean even more. Like there's something going on, some fucking silent elephant in the room, and he's never going to know, because Sam will lead him around it forever and ever.
Sam comes over with a beer--sweaty bottle, unmistakable smell--and messes up Dean's hair on his way to the bathroom. You'd have to threaten another one of Dean's senses before he'd admit it to Sam, but he fucking needs these stupid touches, he wakes up in the middle of the night cold without these fucking touches, he pretends to stumble sometimes just to get that these fucking touches, that hand on his back, the arm around his waist, the grip on his bicep. Something. They all work. But not unless it's Sam.
He's getting too fucking sappy, so when Sam comes out of the bathroom he tells him, again, that he wants a seeing-eye-dog and why does Sam have to be so allergic and isn't that kind of selfish of him, impeding his brother's recovery like that. He can fucking hear that look on Sam's face. Dinner smells amazing.
**
Sam is quiet during dinner, so Dean gropes the fuck out of his face mostly to make him laugh. It works.
"You're fucking ridiculous," Sam says. "You're supposed to do it all gentle and pensive and shit."
Yeah, but all that would tell him is that Sam is sad, and he doesn't want Sam to be sad, okay?
"What are you all mopey about over there?" Dean says. "Did this plate grow or something? Where the fuck is my bread?"
"Top right. It's a scavenger hunt."
Dean growls, grabs it, takes a bite.
"I'm not mopey," Sam says.
"Yeah, you are."
"No. Just tired. Double shift tomorrow."
"Great," Dean says, because he fucking hates when Sam as at work, because what the hell is he supposed to do? He has the walk from the couch to the bathroom worked out, but the talk shows give him headaches and the soap operas aren't much fun when he can't see their exaggerated expressions (and he can't even follow his telenovelas anymore) so he ends up hitting 1 on his speedial every half hour and getting Sam in trouble with his supervisor but, come on, the kid has a recently disabled brother, it could be vital to his ward's mental health that Sam take five minute breaks to tell him whether Dianna Agron's haircut is any good ("who the fuck is Dianna Agron?"--fuck you, Sammy) or how many stripes are on the American flag ("I don't know, I'll look it up when I get home"--well Jeopardy will be fucking over by then, Sammy), but a double shift, that's fucking long.
Sam says, "Soon you'll be ready to take the bus on your own. You can come visit me at work, hang out in the coffee shop."
Dean can barely take the bus with Sam right now, because he feels everyone looking at him and the smells of the exhaust and these weird Midwestern people are too fucking strong, and because he doesn't have much practice because Sam just drives him without question, Sam knows when to baby him.
"You'll get there," Sam says. "You're getting there. Hold on, your macaroni fell off. You're about to eat an empty fork, there."
"Awesome."
Sam guides his hand back to the plate and helps him spear some noodles. "Seriously," he says. "You're fucking impressing me."
"I'm a fucking mess when you're not here," he says, and he tells Sam this all the fucking time but Sam doesn't believe him, Sam still thinks that Dean doesn't totally lose it and give in to ten minutes of bawling, snotty self-pity everyday while Sam's at work and rapid, hyperventilating panic the three nights a week he's at school.
"I'm just a security blanket," Sam says. "You don't really need me anymore."
"'S bullshit."
"Hey. I'm not going anywhere. Use me for as long as you want. But you don't need me, Dean. Give yourself some credit."
Dean almost believes him.
**
Apparently double shift meant that Sam didn't have time to get Dean up and help him get dressed and fucking feed him, and Dean wakes up to a lonely and silent house at what his talking alarm clock informs him is 10:48 and awesome, Sammy, thanks for that.
He fights his way out of the covers and trails his hand against the wall on the way past Sammy's bed (yeah, they're sharing a room, so what, it's habit and it's temporary and it makes this a fuckload easier when Dean has to piss in the middle of the night) to the bathroom. This apartment is full of empty space. It probably looks strange.
He runs his hand around the sink but can't find his fucking toothbrush until his fingers nudge it over the edge, and he can just fucking picture himself bending to pick it up and then hitting his head on the sink and lying here in a pool of blood until his brother comes home, so he'll just fucking rinse this morning, how about that.
He's making his way to the kitchen and wondering if there are any granola bars left-granola bars, he could handle a granola bar-when he hears a rustle from the bedroom and his heart about fucking stops. He doesn't even know where the hell is gun is.
But the noise doesn't repeat itself, and he thinks maybe he's fucking imagining it, but he can't fucking calm down, so he grabs his cellphone (always on his person ever since he freaked Sammy the hell out two weeks ago by not picking up until the fourth call-he couldn't fucking find it, Sam) and holds down 1 to call Sam.
And hears Sam's cellphone from the bedroom, then a small groan, then nothing.
“Sam?” He stumbles on the way to the bedroom but keeps going, and when he gets to Sam's bed he hears breathing, shallow and scratchy. “Sammy?”
He doesn't even make contact with Sam before he feels the heat coming off of him, so intense he can practically hear it.
“Shit. Shit. Sammy.” He gropes around and finds Sam's hair, then his forehead. Fuck. “Sammy.”
Sam groans a little-thank fucking God-and shifts under the comforter. “Dean? H-hey. You're up.” He sounds exactly the same as he did when he was a sick little kid, his voice wavering all over the place.
“Yeah. Are you hot or cold?”
“Freezing...”
Great. “I need you to try to sit up a little. I'm going to be right back, okay?”
“Where y'goin? I'll help.” Sam moves all the fuck around and maybe sits up and then goes, “Oh. Oh my God. Shit.”
Dean swallows and swallows and swallows. “Sam, are you...chicken pox or spots or something? Something infected? Did you get hurt?”
Sam doesn't say anything, but Dean hears him breathing-fucking panting-and he says, “Okay. Hold on. Don't fucking move.”
He has no idea what drawer in the bathroom the first-aid kit is in, and he has no idea where in the bathroom the drawers fucking are, but once he finally, finally tracks them down, the thermometer is familiar in its hard plastic case. He gets that and whatever fucking pill bottles he can find and carries them back with him.
He trips on the comforter and falls, drops everything.
“Y-you okay?”
“I'm fine. Don't you fucking move, Sammy.” He gathers everything up-he thinks he's missing one bottle but he can't fucking find it-and dumps it on the bed beside Sam. He finds Sam's knee, tries to figure out where the fuck the rest of him is...okay, he's sitting on the side of the bed, feet on the floor, holding his head. He used to sit like this after nightmares. Maybe he still does, Dean doesn't know.
He runs his hand down Sam's face, Christ he's boiling, and guides his mouth open and sticks the thermometer in and he's just going to fucking trust that the kid gets it under his tongue. Sam leans forwards and rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder and Dean puts his arms all the fuck the way around him.
“You're stuffed up,” Dean says. “I hear you breathing. Jesus. Jesus, you're sick.”
As soon as the thermometer beeps and Sam takes it out, Sammy's coughing, hard, and Dean doesn't let him the fuck go, and as soon as Sam's fucking breathing again he says, “Sam, I need you to tell me what your fever is, okay? Just look at it and read me the number.” He holds it right in Sam's face. “Just look at it and tell me.”
“I can't focus...”
“Yeah you can, you're the best at seeing. You bring the eyes, remember? What does it say?”
Sam pants for a minute and then says. “O-one oh three. Point six.”
“Jesus.”
“You hungry?”
“What? No.”
“I-I need to go out for milk.”
“Sam. Shut the fuck up.”
**
The problem isn't even getting around as much as that he fucking needs Sam's eyes. Sam has to tell him which bottle of pills is which and how often the directions say to take them and he has to tell Dean the number for his work so that Dean can dial it and tell them that no, no the fuck way is he coming in the rest of the week, and he has to read the thermometer every hour and read the WebMD pages for the flu and bronchitis and pneumonia to figure out what the fuck he has and Sam just wants to sleep. It's the only thing he wants in the whole fucking world (besides juice, and Dean fucking tasted every liquid in the fridge and fuck that milk really was old and why the fuck are you buying fucking wine coolers, Sam, and there's no juice) that he wants and Dean can't fucking let him.
He's in the kitchen on the phone with a nurse from some hotline trying to pour soda from one cup to another to flatten it out because Sam's feeling queasy and he's fucking blind, this is fucking ridiculous, when he hears Sam on his feet, Sam fucking rushing around, and he says, “Sorry, just a minute, just a minute.”
He's sticky as fuck from the soda and he fucking hates walking around without a hand on the wall (on Sam) even though he knows the layout, he just feels like he's fucking falling for ten steps but he finds the bathroom door, which isn't fucking hard because the sounds and smell of Sam puking is like a fucking beacon, and oh, God, Sam, Dean should have brought him a fucking bucket. He has no idea where he would find a fucking bucket.
He waits by the door until Sam stops heaving and then says, “Hey, buddy. You okay?”
Sam's voice is thick. “I'm okay, just stay back.”
“What's wrong?”
“I didn't make it, I...I gotta clean up.”
“No, I'll do it. We need to get you back in bed.”
“No, 's gross.”
“You've got to be fucking kidding me.”
“You'll slipfallhurtyourself.” He hears Sam breathing. “It's fine. I can do it.” Some rustling around, the woosh of something-a towel, probably-then water running. Sam is getting shit done.
Dean pours the soda into the sink and gets him a glass of water. He sits on the bed and waits until he hears Sam's footsteps, halting, stumbling. “Hey, hey, where are you? Talk.”
“Here,” Sam says. Dean gets a grip on him right as his knees buckle and fucking drags him back into bed.
“Fever's up, I think,” Dean says. He finds the kid's hair, pets it. He's always liked that.
“Don't make me look at the thermometer. Please.”
“Okay. Okay.”
Ten minutes later, Dean does a frantic fucking search for the trashcan-where the fuck is the fucking trash can, what corner, why can't he remember-and Sam throws up water and the nurse tells Dean that his kid needs a hospital.
**
“S' backwards, I think,” Sam says, quietly.
Dean stops, pants halfway up Sam's legs. “What?”
“M'pants, you're putting them on backwards. Hey, 'sokay, I can do it,” Sam says, but he's fucking full of shit, because he's a million degrees and he's passed out twice and Dean's been aware of his own rapid fucking heartbeat for two goddamn hours now and if he could just see Sam, if he could see how he looks and how sick he is and if he's scared and if he's throwing up blood or bile or all these fucking questions the nurse was asking him and you know what, Sam, you're almost as full of shit as you were last night when you said that Dean doesn't need you because clearly Dean fucking needs you, he can't even put your fucking pants on.
He feels Sam's hand underneath his chin. He tilts his head up and then Sam's lips, burning hot, are on his forehead.
“You're doing great,” he whispers. “You're fucking impressing me.”
**
He uses the cane on the way to the bus stop because Sammy, bless his heart, is not helpful.
“Bird,” he says.
“What?”
“There's a bird. Ahead of us.”
“Oh.”
“It flew away.”
“Good.”
“Bye, bird.”
**
Sam must look as bad as he sounds, because as soon as they're on a block with more people, everyone and their brother is asking if they can help the two of them get wherever they're going, and it takes every instinct in Dean not to growl at them to fuck off but fucking Sammy is telling them thank you so much and they're so grateful and asking Dean to remind him every five minutes where they're going. No one seems at all surprised when Dean tells them bus stop, kid needs to get to the hospital. There are hands all the fuck over him, and at one point Dean loses contact with Sam, and he yells Sam's name and some woman says, “Don't worry,” and Dean says, “I'm fucking worrying, give me Sam,” and his world his hideous and cold and horrible until this enormous fever-hot hand touches his cheek and it all melts away.
Sam sleeps on his shoulder on the bus.
**
It's a really, really terrible case of the flu. Sam's such a drama queen. He gets an anti-viral and a few hours of a fluid IV and some juice.
“Fucking sorry about all of this,” Sam says. The doctor says his fever's gone down a little.
“Sam, shut up.”
“You weren't ready for this.”
“Yeah, well, you weren't ready to become a nursemaid to your big brother before you're thirty, but shit happens. It is what it is, Sammy.”
“Yeah.” He hears Sam smile. He can fucking hear it. “It is what it is.”
**
It takes him almost an hour, and he burns himself and probably uses way too much butter and it comes out too gooey and tastes funny and he spills it all over the fucking kitchen but he finds the silverware drawer okay, so he'll count it as a win.
Sam's been nibbling on crackers but when Dean walks into the bedroom he can tell by his breathing that he's asleep. He sets the plate down on the nightstand, finds Sam's shoulder, gives it a gentle shake.
“Wha's wrong, y'kay?”
“Yeah. You still hungry?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“Good. I made you macaroni.”
---
Prompt: So, I'm wondering if someone could write a Fic with recently blind!Dean still getting to the whole not being able to see thing, and still has to be helped by Sam so he doesn't trip over chairs, use shampoo instead of bleach in his hair, IDK, stuff like that.
But then Sam comes down with a cold/flu thing from stress or being out in the rain or whatever, I don't really mind, but the main point is that he can't get out of bed.
So, Sam is still trying to help Dean out, and Dean's just focusing on helping Sam get better.