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If you can't see with your eyes, sometimes you can see other ways.
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“It’s five days, Sam. We’ve taken longer breaks to heal up.”
“What if it’s not?” Sam whispered. “What if it’s permanent?”
“It’s not permanent. The doctor said a week and you’d be fine.”
“The doctor said probably.” Dean, of course, had taken that as a practical guarantee, while Sam had heard only the possibility of failure.
“Sam, you’ll be fine.” Sam’s eyes rewrapped, Dean gently straightened out his leg to look at his knee.
“What if I’m not?”
“Then we’ll stop!” Dean suddenly snapped.
Utter silence. Sam would have been staring at him if he could have.
He could almost feel Dean’s shoulders sag. “Then we’ll stop, all right?” he repeated softly.
“Dean…you need hunting. That’s all you ever wanted to do.” They’d just talked about this a few weeks before in Chicago, about how Sam wanted to move on but Dean didn’t…couldn’t. Ironic how swiftly the tables had turned.
“Yeah, well…maybe I need something else more,” Dean said gruffly. “Besides, you’re gonna be fine.”
It was bravado and desperate hope and not being able to face anything else. It was also the first thing in two days that gave Sam any hope.
“Dude,” Dean finally broke the silence, sounding unexpectedly whimsical, “you know how long it’s been since I cleaned your scraped knees?”
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He heard the slightest note of uncertainty in Dean’s voice, the not being sure how Sam would take the gesture. And there was a…sinking inside him at the thought they were doing more than just removing a watch-face and eating in and getting an electric shaver for him in order to compensate for his current state. This wasn’t coping, this was adjusting, and he didn’t want to adjust, didn’t want to think about needing to adjust. Just four more days, right?
Four more days in which he wouldn’t be so utterly bored and useless. Four days in which he could at least do something.
Sam had to clear his throat to talk. “You’re just sick of reading to me, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yeah, Sam,” and Dean’s voice was warm, “that’s the only reason I got it.”
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He could also hear beneath Dean’s patience the smothered frustration at their inactivity, the concern over Sam’s well-being, the fear for their future. Heard it all underneath, because it never came to the surface in more than an occasional pat on his back or offer to do a crossword puzzle with him.
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Dean shifted in his seat. “You know, we could still stop.”
And, apparently, that time was now. Sam set his fork down, gave his sibling his complete attention. Feeling his gut tighten with something other than unease. He knew what Dean was talking about, and how huge an offer it was. “Do you want to stop?” he asked.
“No.” Dean’s eyes met his for the first in a very long time, and Sam realized he’d missed this connection, this added layer, no matter how much he understood and got out of the other ways they communicated. “You know I don’t. But…it shouldn’t take having you go blind for us to consider it.”
Huge. For the first time in ever, Sam was being given the choice. He could have his family and his dreams. He gave that a moment to sink in, to wallow in it.
Then swallowed and gently set it aside.
“Not right now,” he said. “I need to find the thing that killed Jess, and Mom. But after that…yeah, maybe. If we can find something we both want to do.”
He glimpsed the start of surprised pleasure in Dean’s eyes, the tiny bend of the lips. Dean wasn’t used to being taken into account of anyone’s plans.
But Sam could see how he felt just fine.