Archive of Our Own

Sam

They’ve been together for two months. Okay, technically they’ve been together for Sam’s entire life, except for the four years he spent at college, but they've been having sex for two months.

They are still in the butterflies-in-the-belly can’t-keep-their-hands-off-each-other stage of the relationship. Everything is still new and exciting and they are still discovering things about each other, what they like in bed, where to touch each other that drives the other one crazy, important things like that.

It’s been the absolutely best two months of Sam’s life.

Even if his ass is always sore which can make sitting for hours on the unforgiving seat of the Impala an experience.

They are in bed, Dean’s arms wrapped around Sam, bodies touching everywhere they can touch because they can’t stand to be separated by so much as an inch. Sam knows his need to be constantly attached to his brother is obsessive, but it’s an obsession Dean shares.

“I wish we could stay here forever, or at least for a while. Just stop the world and get off for a while. You know?”

Dean’s more than half asleep, he’s practically mumbling his words. Something about having bed-thumping, mind-blowing sex turns Dean into a huge pile of softie who, even though he denies it in the cold light of day, is open and honest and talks about his feelings more than an un-happily single woman in a Lifetime movie.

“Wouldn’t it be nice?” Dean asks. The fingers on Sam’s stomach are rubbing circles, the fingers in Sam’s hair are soft and soothing. If Sam was a cat, he’d been purring up a storm right about now.

“You want to live in this motel forever?” Sam asks.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” A not-so-gentle yank of Sam’s hair. Sam’s cock is suddenly not as sleepy.

And then he realizes what Dean is trying to say and suddenly the rest of him isn’t as sleepy either.

“You want to stop hunting?” Sam asks.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Dean sighs. “I just hate you getting hurt, that’s all.”
“You’re just as liable to get hurt as I am,” Sam points out. “Plus, hunting is what we do. The fact that we are sleeping together doesn’t change that.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment. His hand is taut against Sam’s stomach. Warmth and desire begin pooling inside of Sam, despite the seriousness of their conversation.

“You can't seriously be thinking of quitting hunting,” Sam says when the silence lingers.

“You always wanted a normal life,” Dean replies.

Sam snorts. “I’m in love with my brother. I think the ‘normal life’ ship has sailed. Where is all this coming from, Dean?”

“I don’t know. It’s stupid, I guess. I just had this dream the other night and you were on the sidewalk and there was so much blood and…”

Sam wiggles his body until he’s facing Dean, not an easy task with how tight Dean is holding him.

“Dean, it was just a dream. I’m fine. Hunting is what we do, who we are. You can’t seriously be thinking of quitting over a dream?”

Although they are so close together Dean’s lips are practically touching Sam’s as they move, Dean’s voice is so soft Sam can barely hear it. “It felt so real.”

“It might have felt real, but it wasn’t. This is real—you and me, together. Your arms around me, your lips against mine, your hands on my body—all those things are real. The way I ache for you, always. The way I need you, that’s real. The way you make me feel when we are together, that’s real.”

There’s still a haunted look in Dean’s eyes, a look that Sam is desperate to chase away. And there is one surefire way to do that.

Sam wedges one of his legs between Dean’s. Their cocks are pressed together.

“This is real.” Sam kisses Dean, kisses him like it’s been ages since they kissed instead of minutes, kissing him like he needs Dean’s lips more than he needs air, which is the truth of things.

“I’ve got something else real for you,” Dean says, his lips not leaving Sam’s. He’s got that growly tone in his voice that always turns Sam the hell on.

A shiver goes through Sam’s body. Two months and just the thought of Dean fucking him sets the blood in Sam’s veins on fire. Sex has always been good, but this is something else. This is the best kind of addiction.

Dean thrusts his hips forward and they both groan.

Sam rolls on top of Dean, their early conversation forgotten in his need for his brother. He’s already wet and open from having sex with Dean earlier. He straddles Dean’s hips, Dean’s hot and heavy cock pressed against his hole.

“I need you, Dean.”

Dean curses, his fingers a vise against Sam’s hips. Sam guides the tip of Dean’s cock to his hole. He slides down, hard, fast, needy.

“Fuck,” Dean says. He bucks his hips and Sam’s so full he feels like he’s bulging with Dean’s cock. Dean grabs Sam’s neck and yanks him into a kiss. Kissing Dean is the fucking best, next to fucking, because Dean kisses like he’s starving for Sam.

“I need to feel you,” Sam says. “Make me yours, Dean.”

Dean surges up, grabs Sam by the waist, and somehow a second later, it’s Sam who's flat on the bed, and Dean’s cock is still firmly wedged into his ass.

Dean pulls Sam’s body closer to him and thrusts into Sam and it’s hours before Sam has any thought that isn't Dean, Dean’s face, Dean’s body, Dean’s delicious, perfect, beautiful, cock.

Sam can’t sit without wincing for two days, not that he’s complaining.

Dean doesn’t mention the dream again.

Six months later

It had been a fairly boring hunt, a simple salt and burn, which was kind of a nice change, but left Sam with a lot of restless energy he would have liked to burn off by having Dean fuck his brains out. However, Dean had other plans, which is why they are in this dive bar in a shitty town somewhere in Nebraska. They’re about four hours away from the town they just hunted in, far enough away that people won’t recognize them as the would-be YouTubers who had come to record themselves visiting a haunted house. At least pretending to be reality ghost hunters didn’t involve having to dress up in Fed suits.

Anyway, Sam wanted to find a nice motel to spend a few days ‘celebrating’ the hunt. Dean wanted to earn some cash. So, here they are in this stupid bar. Sam guesses the honeymoon is over.

Someone has strung some cheap lights behind the bar, the only hint in the bar that Christmas is this month. Sam idly wonders what Christmas will be like this year. Neither one of them really cares that much about Christmas usually, but this is their first Christmas since getting together. Maybe they can exchange gifts to celebrate, something sexy. Dean’s ass would look amazing in a pair of assless chaps.

Dean’s playing a couple of punk college students, laughing a little too loud and a little too long as he fake-stumbles his way around the pool table. Sam watches out of the corner of his eyes as Dean reels the college students in. Dean bends over the pool table to make the next shot, his perfect ass on display in his too-tight jeans and Sam’s jeans are also suddenly uncomfortably too-tight. Damn, there’s no part of Dean that’s not ridiculously pretty.

Sam forces his eyes away from Dean’s ass, taking another sip of his now lukewarm beer, when he feels eyes on him that aren’t Dean’s. Sam keeps his posture deliberately relaxed as he looks around the room, never letting his eyes settle too long on anything. Dean’s lost the first round and has dumped all the money in his pockets on the pool table as he cons the college students into another round. This round will be brutally quick Sam knows and he hopes Dean’s ready to leave after because he’s beginning to feel unsettled.

There’s a scent in the air too now. It smells faintly like wet earth and incense. And peppermint. Sam’s uneasiness grows.

Sam leans back in his chair and drowns the rest of the beer. When he places the empty beer can on his table, he sees someone at the bar, sitting so he’s facing Sam and away from the bar. He’s young, doesn’t look old enough to even be in the bar. He’s wearing a too-small shirt and pants with so many holes he might as well have left them at home. As their eyes meet, the kid winks at Sam.

There’s something disconcerting about the kid. Something more than the way he’s clearly flirting with Sam.

Sam looks away. He doesn’t want to give the guy the idea he’s interested. There’s only one person that Sam wants to go home with, and that person is clearing the pool table as the college boys watch him, identical stunned expressions on their faces.

Sam stands up, avoiding looking over at the kid at the bar, to join Dean at the pool table. He’s pocketing the college students’ money as they mumble under their breaths and slink away.

“Are you ready to leave yet?” Sam asks.

“Soon. I just want to play one more game,” Dean replies.

Sam leans down, cups Dean’s face in his hands and kisses him. That might be a little dangerous in a hick bar like this one, but considering Sam towers over everyone here, and Dean looks like the kind of guy who knows his way around a fight, Sam doesn’t figure anyone will be messing with them in the short period of time they will be in the bar.

Sam breaks the kiss but doesn’t let go of Dean. “Are you ready to leave yet?” Sam asks again.

Dean looks dazed as he nods his head.

“Awesome,” Sam replies. He grabs Dean’s hand, leading Dean to the door. He glances at the bar on the way out, but the guy who winked at him is gone. As soon as they head out the door, the frigid cold air takes his breath away, but Sam’s too intent on getting to the car to be mindful of the cold.

Dean had to park across the street because the bar parking lot had been full when they arrived. Sam’s practically dragging Dean across the parking lot because the anxious feeling he’s been dealing with since he felt the guy’s eyes on him is increasing. He needs to get Dean in the car, needs to get on the road. Whatever that guy is up to, it isn’t good, and without knowing who—or what—the guy is, Sam doesn’t want to run into him again until he can do some research. But what exactly is he going to research? Sleazy twink who smells like wet earth?

And, as they reach the sidewalk, the kid appears again like somehow Sam summoned him with his thoughts.

“You boys looking to have a good time?” he asks. He’s slight, smaller than Dean, skinnier than Sam ever remembers being. He’s wearing black eyeliner and matching black lipstick.

“Yeah, but not with you,” Dean replies. He slides an arm around Sam’s waist. “Run along kid, there’s nothing for you here.”

“Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you. Hey, Sam, I’m sorry about this but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

“What the hell are you—” Dean starts.

There's a flash of light and then pain, blinding crippling pain, like someone has stuck an ice pick straight into both of Sam’s eyes. He can’t see, he can’t think.

He doesn’t remember sinking to the sidewalk, but somehow he’s there. He feels Dean’s arms around him. There’s a lot of commotion, a woman screaming, someone talking about blood—so much blood—

“Sam! Sammy! Look at me. Hey, Sam.”

Sam tries to lift his head despite all the pain. Dean needs him to look at him. He has to do this for Dean. He tries to lift his eyes, but they feel so heavy, so wrong. He can’t see Dean, can’t see anything but emptiness. His eyes are open, he’s pretty sure they are. Dean’s hands are on his face, he knows the hands are Dean’s. Dean is calling his name over and over again. Sam tries to speak, but he can’t get the words past the excruciating pain.

Dean screams his name one more time and then Sam sinks into nothingness.

Dean

Two weeks ago, Dean made the most stupid decision of his life and Sam is still paying the price.

Dean sits on the bed beside a sleeping Sam, or a Sam who is pretending to sleep. Sam sleeps a lot these days, ever since that awful night outside the bar. They are a few miles outside of Shyster, Missouri, staying in a cabin that belonged to a friend of Bobby’s. Bobby had agreed they needed to lay low until they figured out how to fix what that creepy-ass kid had done to Sam.

Dean looks over again at Sam and then calls Bobby’s number.

“Any changes?” Bobby asks, by way of a greeting.

Dean sighs, which is the only response Bobby needs.

“Damn,” Bobby replies. “I’ve got no good news either. I’ve been hitting the books hard, but I haven’t found anything that can help Sam. There’s some gods that can do this kind of thing. Course he could be a witch, but if he is he's using a spell I haven't found in one of my books. There are a few monsters that are possibilities. If we had a better idea of what the kid is so I could narrow the research—”

“I can’t stand to see Sam like this, there has to be a way,” Dean whispers back.

If he could leave Sam, he’d go and track the kid down. But no way is he leaving Sam like this.

“I’m going to keep looking. Just—take care of Sam. And get some rest, idjit. If you keel over, that’s not going to do Sam any good.”

“Call the second you know anything.”

Sam stirs in bed. Dean hangs up the phone without waiting for Bobby’s reply.

“Hey, Sam. How are you feeling?” Dean asks.

Sam sits up in bed. His hair is a mess, sticking out everywhere. He needs a shower, but Sam’s freaked out about the shower ever since a few days ago when he tried showering on his own and slipped on soap he had dropped on the tile floor.

Sam didn’t see the soap, or the water from the shower, or anything else in the bathroom. He can’t see Dean sitting in front of him. Ever since that kid did whatever he did to Sam, Sam’s not been able to see anything.

Sam had x-rays. They found nothing wrong. No tumors, no brain injury, nothing that explains the blinding pain that comes and goes and the blindness. The doctors think maybe it’s all in Sam’s head and that the blindness will go away as suddenly as it came.

But Dean knows better. Knows the kid did something. He just doesn’t know what.

Seeing his brother so fucking helpless has been hell, but Dean knows it’s been a thousand times worse for Sam.

Sam, being Sam, of course won’t admit that. He uses the word ‘fine’ so many times that Dean wants to ban it from his vocabulary.

Touching Sam seems to help, seems to ground him, so Dean places his hand on Sam’s arm. “Are you in pain? Because I have pills—”

Sam shakes his head. “Was that Bobby on the phone?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies.

Sam doesn’t ask anything else. He knows if Bobby had news, Dean would have told him already.

“We can’t stay here forever, Dean,” Sam says.

“Not forever, but we aren’t going anywhere anytime soon,” Dean replies. “You hungry? I can make you a sandwich. I will even put tomatoes and green peppers on yours, even though that makes it a salad and not a real sandwich.”

Sam reaches out, his hand hovering nowhere near Dean’s. Dean grabs Sam’s hand anyway. Sam holds Dean’s hand tightly.

Every time Sam wakes up and is faced with never-ending darkness, he panics for a moment. Panics in the silent, tense way that Sam does. Dean would be throwing things, cursing, but not Sam. Sam just squeezes Dean’s hand until Dean’s fingers are numb, until the panic passes.

After a few moments, Sam’s grip on his hand relaxes.

“Headache?” Dean asks, kissing Sam’s forehead.

Sam shakes his head. This could mean his head isn't hurting or it is but he's not willing to tell Dean.

“I want to try to take a shower on my own again,” Sam says.

“After you eat something. And only if I’m in there with you,” Dean says.

Pervert,” Sam retorts. It’s a valiant attempt at pretending things are normal and Dean rewards Sam with a soft kiss.

“Damn right, I am,” Dean replies.

Everything takes so much time. Sam insists on doing as much as he can on his own, because he’s stubborn as fuck, even after he’s hurt himself more than once. Not just in the shower. Dean found him flat on his ass in the living room after he tripped over the loveseat and knocked over the small table that was in front of it. He had been trying to find the kitchen on his own while Dean had gone into town to buy supplies. He had cut himself on a knife when he had been digging in a drawer for a fork. That had been a deep enough cut to require two stitches.

Now there’s nothing in the living room at all. No furniture, Dean’s dragged it all outside. There’s nothing sharp in the kitchen, Dean keeps the knives in his car. There’s no bars of soap in the bathroom, Dean’s replaced all the soap with body wash, which hurts his soul, but he’s not going to risk Sam getting hurt any more than he already has. The ways he’s failed Sam already…

“All right. I’m going to walk to the kitchen, I’m going to fix myself a bowl of cereal and you aren’t going to help me,” Sam announces.

He shoves back the covers. Dean tries very hard not to be distracted by Sam’s unclothed upper body. He must be cold; his nipples are hard.

“Stop staring at my chest,” Sam says.

Dean’s eyes fly back to Sam’s face. His vacant eyes are looking somewhere to the left of Dean. “How did you—”

“Because I can feel your eyes practically staring a hole in my chest. Plus, I know you and how your twisted mind works.”

“You love my twisted mind.” Dean moves off the bed and stands to the side. He wants to help Sam get out of the bed, but Sam is in one of his Mr. Independence moods and Dean respects that. Not that he’s going to be far from Sam. He respects Sam’s need to try, but he’s going to keep an eye on him.

“I definitely do.” Sam climbs out of bed but keeps one hand on it as he tries to center himself. “I can feel you hovering, you know.”

“I just want to make sure you don’t bump into anything. You shattered a table already. If you bump too hard into one of the walls, this cabin might just fall on our heads.”

Sam snorts. “I did not smash the table.”

“It’s just bits and pieces now,” Dean teases. One of the legs did break, but it’s an easy fix. Or would be if Dean were inclined to take his eyes off Sam long enough to fix it. It’s outside with the rest of the living room furniture right now anyway.

Sam walks a few steps until he’s standing right in front of Dean and stops. “We need to talk about leaving the cabin.”

“What?” Dean asks. “Why? I like it here. It's cold outside, it's warm and cozy in here. Do you know how many people would love to spend Christmas in a cabin just like this one?”

“Dean, we can’t hide here forever. We have to face facts. I might stay be this way. I have to figure out how to cope with this, and so do you.”

“Bobby—”

Bobby hasn’t been able to find anything and he’s killing himself looking. If we could find that kid—but he’s probably a thousand miles away by now. We don’t know who or what he was, we don’t know if this is a curse or a spell or if he permanently blinded me. If this is to be my life, I need resources that we don’t have here.”

“This isn’t permanent, Sam.” Dean has to hug Sam. He has to hold him in his arms. He pulls Sam to him and Sam comes willingly. He wraps his arms around his brother, burrowing his head in Sam’s shoulders. “We’re going to find a way to fix this.”

Sam’s hand feels big and solid against Dean’s back. “I hope so. But if not, I’ll be just fine, Dean. A lot of people live full lives with low or no vision. I might not be able to hunt any longer, but there are other things I can do.”

A surge of red-hot anger sears through Dean. The fact that Sam’s so calm, so accepting, and he shouldn’t have to be. This is Dean’s fault. And he’s going to have to find a way to fucking fix this.

“Hey,” Sam says. “It’s okay. We don’t have to decide anything today.”

Dean takes a few deep steadying breaths. He realizes how tightly he’s been clutching Sam and relaxes his hold. “Let’s stay here until Christmas. It’s next week. After that, if we haven’t found a way to—we’ll do whatever you want. But I’ve been looking forward to spending Christmas here with just the two of us.” Dean lets his hand slip lower until his fingers are pressing inside of Sam’s pajama bottoms. “I have a very special gift for you that I can’t wait to give you.”

“Are you going to put a bow around this gift?” Sam asks. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to pull away from Dean. Maybe he needed this hug as much as Dean does.

“If I can find one big enough. It’s a pretty big gift.”

They haven’t had sex since the incident happened. For the first time since then, there is heat between them. Dean is aware that his cock is pressing into Sam’s thighs.

“Okay, Santa. But first, breakfast. And a shower.”

Sam slips out of Dean’s arms.

“Stay here and count to sixty,” Sam says.

“You know I like it when you order me around, but I don’t think—”

“Stay here. I’ll know if you follow me. Count to sixty, slowly. I can’t rely on you for everything all the time. I need to do this, Dean.”

“I don’t do everything for you,” Dean protests.

“Yeah, you do. And I love you for it. But if you move from this spot, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Like you can even find my—”

Dean puts his hand over his mouth. He can’t believe he was about to make a joke about Sam not being able to find see. He has to get his shit together. Seeing Sam like this has really thrown him off his game.

Sam just laughs though. He steps back into Dean’s space and then slaps Dean’s ass—hard. Dean swallows a very unmanly yelp. “I will always be able to find your ass,” Sam says. “Now stay.”

“Do I get a treat if I’m a very good boy and stay?” Dean asks. Because he just can’t help himself apparently.

“Absolutely,” Sam replies. “You can start counting after I walk out of the room.”

Dean watches Sam as he makes his way to the bedroom door. He moves so stiffly, his shoulders hunched like being smaller will help him avoid running into things. It hurts Dean’s heart to watch Sam. Of all the shit they’ve had to deal with, this is the worst. Sam is so freaking strong, so competent, he moves so quickly and gracefully for a man of his size. And now—he’s so hesitant. And he’s scared, although he’d never admit it to Dean or even to himself.

Sam reaches the doorway. He holds on to the doorframe for a few seconds.

“You can start counting now,” Sam says.

“One potato, two potato,” Dean says out loud. “Hey, your ass looks amazing in those pajamas by the way. “

“Shut up,” Sam replies, but even though Dean can’t see his face, he knows Sam is smiling.

Dean moves just a little, just so he can watch Sam navigate the empty living room. Sam’s walking too far left, but Dean bites back his warning. Sam’s hand touches the wall and he feels around it. Dean can tell he’s trying to orientate himself, trying to figure out where he is in relation to where the kitchen is.

“Sixteen potatoes, seventeen potatoes,” Dean says loud enough that he knows Sam can hear him.

Sam moves slowly, one hand on the wall, one hand in front of him. Dean silently steps from the bedroom into the living room.

Sam’s hand hits the kitchen door frame. There’s no door there, just an open frame. Sam steps into the kitchen. Dean follows him, being careful not to make a sound.

The kitchen is small. There’s a refrigerator, a sink, and a stove against one wall. On the other side are the cabinets. Two of the cabinets hold cans of vegetables and soup, peanut butter, staples. The other cabinet holds bowls, plates, and cups. The drawer underneath the cabinets holds utensils.

Sam opens the refrigerator, his eyes staring blankly in front of him. He reaches inside. Dean can’t see inside the refrigerator, but he knows Sam’s feeling everything inside, trying to find the milk. A few seconds later, Sam pulls out the milk. He turns around and walks toward the counter, hitting it with his foot before his hand finds it. He feels around until he finds a safe place to put the milk.

Everything takes Sam so long.

Sam feels in front of him until his hand presses against the cabinets. He opens the one right ahead of him, narrowly missing hitting his face with the cabinet door.

Dean leans against the wall and watches as Sam finds a bowl and puts it down by the milk. He feels for the milk again, like he’s afraid it’s disappeared in the darkness. He opens the next cabinet, searching for the cereal. Dean bought cereal with oats or brans or whatever for Sam, he bought something drenched with sugar for himself. That’s the box Sam finds first. Sam pulls it out.

“Is this my cereal or yours?” Sam asks.

Dean’s caught.

“I counted to sixty before I came,” Dean says.

“Liar,” Sam replies fondly.

“That one is mine. Thanks for getting it for me. Yours is next to it.”

Dean grabs another bowl. Sam might bitch, but he grabs spoons for them both too. Sam hands both boxes of cereal to Dean.

“You can pour. I’ll probably only make a mess.”

“A step at a time,” Dean replies. “You did great, Sammy.”

Sam sighs. “Everything is so damn hard.”

Dean leans over and brushes his lips against Sam’s. “I know.”

The day passes slowly. They eat breakfast and then Sam insists on finding his own way to the bathroom. “I can pee on my own, Dean.”

A few moments later, Dean hears the shower running. He stays right by the bathroom door as Sam showers. He checks his phone as he waits, but there is no message from Bobby. Fuck, what are they going to do if Sam’s sight doesn’t return? If Sam can’t hunt, Dean’s quitting too. To hell with the family business, his business is Sam. What will he do instead? What will Sam do?

“Fuck!”

Dean shoves his phone into his pocket and rushes into the bathroom. Sam’s got a hand over his lip. “I hit the showerhead with my face, I was trying to move it and…”

Sam’s standing in the middle of the bathroom, dripping water everywhere. Dean gently removes Sam’s hand. His lower lip is swollen and bleeding a bit, but the cut isn’t deep enough to need stitches. Sam had apparently been washing his hair, it still has shampoo in it.

“Your lip is going to swell, but don’t worry, in a day or two you will be as pretty as ever.”

“I can’t do this, Dean,” Sam says.

He sounds so lost, so hopeless and Dean wishes he could rip his heart out of his chest, it’s hurting so much right now.

“We will do this together,” Dean says. He grabs Sam’s hand, leading him to the shower. Sam stays where Dean puts him, which worries Dean more than anything. He’s not saying anything, he’s not moving. Dean adjusts the shower head so that the water is hitting Sam’s hair. He’s getting wet too, but he couldn’t care less about that. He never changed out of his sweats anyway.

He rinses Sam’s hair, turns off the water, and grabs a couple of towels. Sam is still standing in the middle of the shower, not moving. Dean dries Sam off as quickly as he can and takes off his sweats, using the other towel to dry himself. He leaves the mess of wet clothes and towels on the wet floor and grabs Sam’s hand.

“C’mon, Sam, let’s go lie down, okay? I don’t know about you, but I could use a bit of a rest.”

Sam follows him out of the bathroom. His hair is still dripping water, it’ll just have to drip dry. Dean leads Sam to the bed and Sam climbs in. Dean climbs in beside him. Sam is shivering, but Dean doesn’t think it’s because he’s cold. He wraps his arms around Sam, pulling him in close.

“I can’t do this, Dean. I thought I could but—I can’t. I can’t even take a fucking shower. How am I going to manage a lifetime of this? I know other people have. But maybe I’m just not strong enough.”

Shit. Fucking hell. Dean wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, pulling him as close as he can without one of them sitting on the other’s lap. “There is nothing, nothing, that you can’t do, Sam. So yeah, you’ve had a few missteps. I tripped over my fucking shoelaces the other day and I’ve got perfect vision; these things happen.”

“And how long did you realize your laces were untied and just didn’t take the time to tie them?” Sam asks.

“Not the point, Sam. The point is you can do this. You can do this until we find a way to fix it, and you can do this even if we never find a way to fix it. So, this is what’s going to happen. We’re going to sit here and snuggle. Maybe even grope each other a bit. And then, you’re going to get that fine ass out of bed and fix both of us a peanut butter sandwich while I lounge in bed. It’s about time you pulled your own weight around here.”

“Like you won’t be following me five seconds after I leave this room,” Sam replies.

“Maybe, but only so I can keep an eye on that ass of yours. Did I mention it’s a fine ass? Because it is.”

Slowly, Sam’s tense body is relaxing. Dean leans down and kisses Sam’s swollen bottom lip. Just another injury to add to the list of them that have happened under Dean’s watch. But he can’t have Sam feeling hopeless, so if that means risking Sam hurting himself again, he’ll have to take the risk.

Maybe he should take the doors off the cabinets though. And glue the shower head so it can’t be moved.

“Isn’t it weird, you had that dream I was hurt and that’s what happened. Maybe you can dream a way to restore my sight too.”

Dean had forgotten about the dream. He knows he wasn’t being clairvoyant though. He’s dreamt often of seeing Sam hurt, always because he hasn’t been fast enough, or paying enough attention. Ever since he let Sam break his arm, he’s had these dreams where he’s not doing his job and Sam gets hurt.

“If I do, I’ll be sure to let you know,” Dean replies.

“Dean, thank you.”

“For what?” Dean asks. “We haven’t even gotten to the fun groping yet.”

“For being here. I couldn’t have survived these last few weeks without you. And for—everything.”

Dean wants to say he loves Sam. He wants to say that he’ll figure out a way for Sam to never get hurt again. He wants to apologize for not being fast enough to stop that kid from hurting Sam.

Instead, he kisses Sam, and maybe Sam can figure out everything he couldn’t say by the desperate way Dean kisses him.

Sam

Two days before Christmas and Sam can’t handle being stuck in the cabin any longer. He knows it so well by now, he can walk through every room confidently. He can find whatever he needs in the kitchen. He’s learned to rely on his other senses, touch and smell mostly, to help him find his way around.

But being able to navigate a Sam-proofed (to use Dean’s words) cabin and the real world are two very different things. And they are no closer to figuring out how to restore Sam’s sight than they had when it happened.

At least he's not having those damn headaches so often, not that he's let Dean know the last few times he's had them. Dean has enough to deal with.

And he's stopped panicking every time he opens his eyes in the morning to a lightless world. Almost, anyway.

Sam feels useless. He figured out how to fix his phone so it reads to him, but it takes so irritatingly long for the clipped, precise voice to read even the shortest of articles. He hasn’t been able to research, he hasn’t been able to help Bobby scour the web for any unusual activity that might lead to the man that blinded him. Dean’s exhausted from taking care of Sam. Sam’s exhausted from trying to stay positive, after that one embarrassing breakdown he had in the shower.

Christmas is just a day Sam wants to get past. Celebrating it no longer holds the appeal it did when he was sitting in the bar.

Sam’s awake, lying in bed. Dean’s still asleep. When Dean wakes, there’s going to be an argument about Sam going into town with Dean, an argument Sam plans to win. Dean has mentioned they are low on food, and more importantly, they are out of beer and dangerously low on coffee. Sam wants to find out how it will feel, walking into a grocery store, shopping for things he can’t see. But mainly, he just wants to get out of this cabin before he goes stir-crazy.

It'll be the same darkness, whether he’s here or somewhere else. The same darkness that seems to want to swallow him whole, no matter where he is. If he’s going to get past the constant feeling of panic being so close he can touch it, of the fear of running into something he can’t see, then he’s going to have to leave this cabin and venture out into the real world.

It’s not like Dean’s going to let him fall.

Speaking of Dean…

Sam slowly shifts off of Dean’s arm, careful not to wake him. He pulls the covers back slowly, listening for any change in Dean’s breathing.

Dean’s naked as is Sam. They’ve just recently started having sex again. Sam had worried that sex, which had always been so fucking fantastic with Dean, would be less so now that he can’t see Dean. And it’s different, there’s no glossing over that. Dean is beautiful and he’s so expressive during sex. Sam misses seeing him, misses watching Dean’s nipples harden with the barest of touches, misses the way Dean’s stomach jerks when Sam sucks on his nipples, misses watching the heat in Dean’s eyes as he slowly pushes into Sam.

But there’s something about not having that, on having to rely on touch to know how he’s affecting Dean, having to listen for the hitch in Dean’s breathing when he’s turned on, to narrow his world down to the feel of Dean’s hands on his hips, to be able to fully concentrate on the way Dean’s cock pushes against his inner walls. Sam, who loves words beyond measure, has none to describe how it makes him feel. But he does know that he’s sorry he kept Dean at arm’s length for so long.

Sam lets his hand drift down Dean’s side, feels his muscular thighs. He scoots down as his hand explores. His fingers ghost over Dean’s cock, half-hard even in sleep.

Early on they agreed that if one of them wakes up horny, that they can get things started. Sam’s woken up more than once to fingers pressing into his hole while Dean’s mouth engulfs his cock.

It's beyond time Sam returned the favor. Sam holds the base of Dean’s cock with one hand and then bends down until his mouth is over Dean’s cock. He sucks just the tip, his tongue playing with Dean's slit, inhaling Dean’s scent, savoring the taste of him.

And then he swallows Dean all the way down.

“Fuck! Holy hell, Sam!”

Sam smiles as Dean jerks awake. Immediately Dean’s hand grips the back of Sam’s head, like he’s afraid Sam’s going to move away, but Sam has no intention to. Not when he's about to indulge in one of his favorite things. Dean might be better at giving blow jobs, but what Sam lacks in technique he makes up with enthusiasm.

Dean groans as Sam begins bobbing up and down on his cock. Dean's fingers are tangled in Sam’s hair. Sam swallows Dean down messily, too much spit, a lot of groaning from both of them. When Dean starts thrusting into Sam’s mouth with his hips, Sam stills and lets Dean take over. His head stings where Dean is pulling on it, his throat aches where Dean’s cock is pushing into it over and over again, and Sam feels so alive, so beautifully used.

Sam grabs his own cock, stroking it fast and rough as he hums around Dean’s cock. It only takes a few strokes and he’s coming, his groans muffed by Dean’s cock.

“Sammy!” is all the warning Sam gets before his mouth is flooded with come. He swallows every drop before letting Dean’s cock fall from his lips. Dean must be sitting up now because he pulls Sam into a kiss that has Sam’s head spinning.

“Well, good morning to me. I don’t know what I did to deserve that, but let’s just pretend I keep on doing it because fuck—what a way to wake up,” Dean says.

“Merry Christmas,” Sam replies. “I guess you must have been a very good boy this year.”

“Well, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, so Santa, I would love to sit on your lap and show you just how good of a boy I can be.”

Sam laughs. Every moment of every day he’s freaked about not being able to see—about the possibility this may be permanent. Except when he’s in Dean’s arms, then nothing matters. He’s safe, he’s whole, and if there was a way to live his life tangled up in Dean as they are now, he’d live it just this way.

But sadly, the real world beckons.

Now that his body is calming down from his orgasm, the need to use the bathroom becomes increasingly urgent.

“Dean, I gotta—”

“Go,” Dean says, with a playful slap to Sam’s ass. “I’ll see about breakfast.”

A few moments later, Sam joins Dean in the kitchen. He made it from the bathroom to the kitchen easily. At first, he had to count the steps to know when to make the turn into the kitchen, but now it comes naturally.

Dean guides him to the counter. He places a spoon in Sam’s hand. Sam knows the bowl must be near and feels around until he can find it.

It’s scary how quickly this has become his life.

Also, he might as well get this fight over with.

“I’m coming with you to town. I want to go to the store with you.”

“There’s no need. I’ll be there and back before you know I’m gone,” Dean replies.

“There is a need. I need to get out of this cabin. And I’m going with you. I’m not asking you; I’m telling you.” Sam is gripping the spoon so tightly that he’s hurting his hand. He releases the spoon into the bowl.

“Sam, you’re not ready for something like this. Why don’t we go for a walk after I get back? That’ll be fun and you could use the fresh air. Of course, you’ll have to navigate around all the furniture that was in here that I put out there, but that will be good practice.”

“I’m going with you,” Sam repeats.

Dean sighs.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Noted. I’m going with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t hide in here forever. Because if this is going to be my life, I have to learn how to deal with things like shopping and being around other people. Because I need to return to some version of normalcy.”

Dean snorts. “We never were normal.”

“Our version of normalcy,” Sam amends.

“Okay, fine. But if it gets to be too much, you have to tell me, Sam. No macho bullshit, just tell me you need to get out of there and we’ll go.”

“Sure, I’ll handle any feelings of panic just the way you would,” Sam responds.

“Touche.” Dean grabs his hand, yanks him into a kiss. “Okay, let’s get ready. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back here.”

Sam’s getting better at dressing himself. The buttons are the worst, he always seems to be skipping one and then having to unbutton and try again when his shirt comes out uneven. But he’s getting faster, and he’s dressed and standing at the door waiting for Dean before Dean finishes getting ready. Of course, Dean probably took a moment to primp in front of the mirror. Something Sam can’t do even if he wanted to. He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.

“If we’re going to do this, you’re going to have to let me guide you,” Dean says, putting a hand on Sam’s arm.

Sam nods. It’s not like he can just walk out into the unknown and hope for the best. He needs to see about getting a cane. And maybe a guide dog. A big one, with soft fur.

Sam lets Dean guide him to the car and help him settle into his seat. He listens as Dean walks around the car, hears the faint crunching sound Dean’s boots make on the cold ground, before the driver’s door opens and Dean settles inside.

The smell of the car, the way the air shifts as Dean starts the car, the click of a cassette being pushed in, all so familiar but somehow achingly different now that all Sam can see is blackness.

“Doing all right?” Dean asks.

Sam nods in response.

“Might want to stop gripping the door handle so hard then, there’s a chance you might rip it off or accidentally open the door.”

Sam had no idea he was. He forces his hand away from the door handle and places it awkwardly on his lap.

The car roars into motion, Sam’s body jerks as the car backs up on what must be rough ground.

The car heads down—a road, or a path, or a highway, Sam has no idea. He doesn’t know if the sun is out. It must be. He thinks he felt it on his skin on the way to the car, but now he’s not sure. He doesn’t know how close they are to a ditch if a car is coming up ahead. He’s spiraling into darkness.

Dean’s hand reaches out and grabs one of Sam’s. Their combined hands settle on Sam’s lap. Sam knows he should insist Dean put both hands on the wheel, but he selfishly holds on to Dean’s hand as they keep moving into nothingness.

To combat the feeling of being disorientated, Sam forces himself to concentrate on what he can. Over the sound of Metallica blaring from the tape player, he can hear the occasional sound of a car passing. He can tell when the road gets smoother and more cars pass them by. The sound of a horn honking makes his whole body jerk, but Dean’s hand on his helps him to settle back down. Nothing to worry about, Dean will make sure they get there safely.

Still, Sam’s relieved when Dean pulls into what Sam assumes is a parking lot and stops the car.

“How are you doing over there?” Dean asks.

“Peachy,” Sam replies.

Dean’s lips press against his. “I know how hard this is for you, I’m proud of you, Sammy.”

It’s ridiculous the way Dean’s words help settle Sam’s racing heart.

Sam waits as Dean gets out of the car and opens his car door. Dean’s hand grips Sam’s upper arm as they walk into the store.

There’s a lot of noise, so much noise after the quiet of the cabin, noise far more jarring than Metallica had been. Sam is very aware of how big he is, how much space he takes up, how many people and things he can unknowingly walk into. He’s almost afraid to move, probably wouldn’t move at all, but Dean’s walking and he’s gripping Sam’s arm and Sam finds himself walking with Dean.

Dean places Sam’s hand on something metal and cool to the touch. A shopping cart.

Dean’s hand is on the shopping cart too, the one that’s not holding on to Sam. Moving together is awkward as fuck, but at least Dean will make sure they don’t run into anything.

This is not a store Sam’s ever been to. He can’t visualize it. He has no idea where the aisles are. He hears chattering to his left which makes him think the registers are over that way, but he doesn’t know how many or what kind of line they have. He doesn’t know where the bread is, or if the fruit looks fresh, or anything.

He's as helpless as a small child would be, more so, because even a small child could grab something off the shelf. Sam doesn’t even know where the shelf is.

They are moving slowly. Sam can actually feel eyes on them, curious eyes. He can imagine Dean glaring at the people staring until they avert their eyes. One step, two steps, a slight turn. Dean’s putting something in the cart. Sam’s feet keep hitting the wheels of the shopping cart. He’s feeling so overwhelmed his thoughts are circling. The people staring. The feel of the cool metal. Dean’s fingers covering his.

And then he smells something that makes everything else stop.

Peppermint.

“Are you okay, Sam?” Dean asks.

Of course, there’s peppermint. It’s almost Christmas.

But Sam doesn’t move. He can’t move. He closes the eyes that can’t see and concentrates.

Not just peppermint. Wet earth. And incense.

“Sammy?”

“He’s here,” Sam whispers.

“Who?” Dean asks.

“The boy. From the bar. He’s here.”

“Sam, the kid isn’t here. If he was, I’d already have whipped his ass. He’s not here.”

He is. Sam knows it. It’s the exact same scent.

Sam lets go of the shopping cart, jerks out of Dean’s hold.

“Sam?”

He turns around. The scent is coming from behind him and it’s stronger, the kid is close.

He takes a few steps, Dean’s at his heels. His fingers brush against some cans that must be on a shelf, Dean pulls him away from the shelf.

“He’s just over there,” Sam says, pointing to the direction the scent is coming from.

“There’s nobody there but a couple of old women,” Dean whispers. “Stay here, I’ll look for the kid if you think he’s here.”

“No, he’s right there.” Sam pulls away from Dean, moving quickly down the aisle, letting the scent direct where his feet should go. Dean reaches him again just as Sam’s knee plows into something unforgiving.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. He can’t see anything. It’s his first time out since—”

“Maybe you should keep a closer eye on your brother,” the woman says.

Dean freezes beside Sam. Sam reaches out, but it’s a shopping cart in front of him, not a person.

“How did you know we’re brothers?” Dean asks. His voice is deadly.

“It’s him,” Sam says. “I don’t know how, but it’s him.”

The woman laughs. “Well, shit, I guess you caught me.”

The shopping cart slams into Sam, knocking him backwards. Dean grabs him right before Sam falls.

“I’m fine,” Sam says. “Go get him—her—whatever.”

A woman shouts ‘hey’ as either the woman or Dean brushes past her. Sam walks past the shopping cart, following the faint scent, not of the woman, but of Dean. He would know Dean’s scent anywhere. He almost knocks over something, or someone, but nobody tries to stop him as he walks toward what must be the exit.

The cool air hits him as he moves forward, he must have reached some automatic doors. He’s frantic to get to Dean. If that woman is the boy who blinded him, and Sam believes she is, then Dean’s in danger. There’s no telling what the woman will do to Dean.

A hand grabs him and yanks him through the door. Sam tries to pull away but realizes in that second that it’s Dean’s hand that has grabbed him.

Dean’s moving fast, Sam’s half stumbling and half walking as Dean practically pushes him along until the car door opens and Dean guides him to his seat. The scent of peppermint, mud, and incense is stronger in the car, stronger than it was in the bar, the old woman must be in the back seat although heaven knows how Dean got her there.

Dean climbs in and starts the car without a word. The woman doesn’t say anything as Dean drives a few blocks or so and pulls over to somewhere where they can be alone.

“Okay, you can talk now,” Dean says.

“As soon as you take these fucking silver handcuffs off my wrists. They burn like hell.”

It’s still the old woman’s voice, but there’s no doubt in Sam’s mind that it’s the kid from the bar talking.

Dean gets out of the car and opens the back door. Sam gets out of the car too. He keeps a hand on the car as he follows the sound of Dean’s voice, making his way behind the car and then to where Dean is.

“I’m not taking off shit. Talk.”

“Hey, Sam. How are you doing? Not being able to see must suck.”

There’s a thudding sound and the woman curses. “I’m not playing games here. I want to know what you are and what you did to Sam.” Dean’s snarling the words. If Sam wasn't so overwhelmed, he'd be turned the hell on just by Dean's voice.

“He’s a skinshifter,” Sam says.

“Well, you’re half right,” the woman replies. “I’m half-shifter, full witch. My name’s Dylan by the way. It’s an honor to meet the famous Winchesters, truly.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you are or what your name is. Whatever you did to Sam, fix it.”

“Sure, as soon as you can take these handcuffs off of me. Preferably while I still have skin on my wrists.”

“Those aren’t your wrists,” Dean replies.

“Semantics.” Dylan sighs. “This is my own damn fault I guess, I just had to return to the scene of the crime.”

“This isn’t the scene of the crime,” Sam says. “This isn’t where you blinded me.”

“No, you’re the scene of the crime, big guy. I did a location spell using some of your blood that splatted on my shirt. Kept the shirt as it was, figured the blood might come in handy someday. I just obtained this body, she's fine by the way, well, she's in a coma but I had nothing to do with that. I was walking out of the hospital when I heard that car of yours roaring down the street. Your car doesn’t exactly scream ‘inconspicuous’. Every supernatural being can hear it coming for miles if they know what they should be listening for.”

“Doesn’t explain why you are here, or why you blinded me,” Sam says.

“Look, I was hanging out in my hometown, at least my hometown for the time being, minding my own damn business, drinking a few beers and trying to coax the man sitting next to me into taking me home, when in walks the Winchesters. Of course, I knew you were hunting me—why else would you be there? And I had a very specific, very important spell I needed to perform that night. Skin shifting is hard for me, being my dad was a human, so every five years, on the day I was born, I have to do a spell. Otherwise, I’ll become trapped in the body I’m in.”

“We weren’t hunting you,” Dean says. “We had no idea supernatural scum was in that bar.”

“Oops, my bad. Well then, no harm no foul. If you just would remove—”

“I still don’t understand why you blinded me. You could have just slipped out of the bar. Instead, you made sure I saw you, and then you blinded me.”

“Because I did my research. I belong to a group that tracks the movements of the famous Winchesters. Tracks your behavior too. Wanna distract Sam? Send him in the direction of some poor creature with a lot of lore surrounding it. Witches work too, plus anything that involves searching through newspaper archives. Wanna distract Dean? A pack of werewolves, maybe some damsels in distress, or put Sam in danger. Wanna sideline both of you? Hurt Sam. Everyone knows Dean would never leave his hurt brother’s side. And, as it turns out, I was right. I mean, I got caught because I had to track you down and prove to myself I was right, but still, I was right.”

“Whatever you did, just fix it,” Dean snarls. “Or else, I’m going to start sticking this little silver knife I have into every part of your body until you do.”

“There’s a bag on him, it’s something he’s burned and kept the ashes of. He’ll have it close to his heart, probably. That’s the spell he was so desperate to perform. The scent wasn’t as strong in the bar; he must have had to renew it.” Sam figures it's like a hex bag, but holds a spell instead.

“Damn, aren’t you the smart one?” Dylan asks. “Hey, watch the goods. I’m a sweet little old lady, after all, you shouldn’t be treating—hey, give me that back.”

“Got it. What should I do with it?” Dean asks Sam.

“Burn it,” Sam replies.

“Hey, no, wait. There's something of my Mom’s in there, something I can't replace. Look, I’ll fix Sam. Easy, just, bring him closer.”

“If this is a trick—” Dean lets the rest of the threat just hang in the air.

Hands are on Sam, not Dean’s hands. There’s something electric in the air and pain jolts through Sam’s eye sockets. Dean holds him as Sam shakes from the pain.

It takes what feels like forever for the pain to ebb. Sam’s eyes are squeezed shut. His head is on Dean’s shoulder.

“Sam, are you okay?” Dean asks.

Sam lifts his head slowly. His eyes still ache but not as badly.

“Sam?”

Sam opens his eyes and slams them shut again. The sun is so bright.

The sun is so bright.

Sam forces them open again. Tears are leaking from his eyes; the sun is hurting them so much. But Sam doesn’t pay the sun or the tears any mind. Instead, he looks down at his brother.

His beautiful brother.

“Dean, I can see you.”
Dean whoops and yanks Sam into a kiss. Sam keeps his eyes open during the kiss, as does Dean. Dean’s eyes are still impossibly green, with cute little crinkles beside them. Sam can even see the freckles dotting Dean’s skin.

Sam can see.

“Wait, where’s Dylan?”

They both look around them. The little old woman is gone.

“Fuck,” Dean says. “He can’t have gotten far, not with those handcuffs on him.”

“You still have that bag you took from him?” Sam asks.

Dean holds it up.

“I’m not sure how it works, but that bag is what was allowing him to shift. He’s stuck in that shape. That should make it easy for another hunter to find him.”

“Another hunter?” Dean asks. “But you can see, and he hurt you. We need to—”

Sam kisses Dean. Dean stops talking and kisses Sam back.

“I want to go back to that cabin, and I want to celebrate Christmas with you. I think we’ve both earned a break from hunting. Bobby can find someone to track Dylan down. I want to spend Christmas staring at every inch of you. I don’t want to think about monsters, witches, spells, any of it. I just want to think about you—us.”

“Let me call Bobby and I’m all yours,” Dean replies.

Dean steps on his tiptoes and brushes his lips against Sam’s. “Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

Sam looks down at his brother and thinks that maybe he’ll spend the next two days counting every beautiful freckle on Dean’s beautiful body.

“Merry Christmas, Dean. Now call Bobby so we can get back to the cabin and get naked.”

Sam leans against the car as Dean calls Bobby, trying to adjust to being able to see again. He looks at his fingers, his shirt, the barren trees that line the empty parking lot. Everything is so beautiful. Everything is so vibrant, so shiny. But nothing shines as bright as Dean does.

Dean looks over at him and smiles. Sam falls impossibly more in love with his brother.

It is going to be the best Christmas ever.