SPN: "Affliction," Chapter 3, Part 2
Chapter 1: Anosmia
Chapter 2: Ageusia
Chapter 3: Anaphia, Part 1
He catches Dean on the phone that afternoon, a call Dean plainly doesn't want him eavesdropping on, given the way Dean quickly says, "Bye, Bobby," and hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket. It's not the last time, either; Dean spends more of his time that night in the hall outside their room than inside, and it's not because he's suddenly respecting Sam's need for alone time.
Sam knows something's up when Dean hands him the keys the next morning.
Dean keeps getting phone calls over the next few days--at least one an hour, if not more--and he plainly expected these calls, since he's letting Sam drive; if Dean were driving, he'd have to keep pulling over to jot down notes and numbers. Some of the calls are from Bobby, a couple from Cas, but from the way Dean talks--semi-respectfully, keeping the pop culture references to a minimum, name-dropping Bobby and Ellen and Rufus and Dad at every opportunity--most of them are from strangers. And the vibe he's putting off--
Sam's pretty sure it was the same one he gave off when he was trying to find a way to fix Dean after that electrocution, or in the last days before the deal came due. Desperation, stubbornness, denial, and a refusal to not hope, no matter how much smarter that would be.
Sam can't really blame him. They have no guarantee that this isn't going to kill him. For all they know, this is somebody's way of committing murder piecemeal, a way designed specifically to make him suffer.
This phase, at least, is fairly mild. The initial stabbing sensation (it wasn't properly pain, since he can't feel pain anymore) was a one-off; now, he can tell where the feeling is going to fade next because there's that pins-and-needles tingling beforehand--like when your foot or hand falls asleep and then wakes up, only in reverse. It's uneven, progressing in fits and starts. The first time he tries to map it with a washable marker, about a week after it starts, he winds up with a ragged seven-pointed star shape on his chest, one point practically in his armpit but another hardly off the sternum.
While it's weird to feel fabric on one patch of skin and not the next, it's not incapacitating. Yet. That won't hold, he knows. Already he's having problems. The patch on his back extends to his waist, to where the gun usually rides in his waistband, and he's sat down on the damn thing three times already because he's forgotten it's there. What's going to happen when this hits his arms and legs? Is this going to affect how he walks?
There's not a lot of information out there on life without touch. What little he can find is not reassuring.
And that's when the phone calls stop and Dean announces, "We're going to Florida."
Sam's avoided jobs in Florida ever since the Mystery Spot fiasco. Dean isn't as picky, since he's not stuck with too-vivid memories of watching his brother die over and over again, but for the most part, he's been good about Sam's job priorities (any other state, Canada, Mexico, Hell, then Florida). It helps that Sam hasn't argued about Dean's sudden refusal to consider anything within a hundred miles of Detroit.
Not today, though. There's a job in Florida and Dean's hell-bent on taking it, despite the five other jobs Sam finds, one of which is just the next town over.
Sam knows his brother too well to not suspect that something's up.
Not until they're there and neck-deep in a grave does Sam find out why Dean was so intent on crossing the continent for a salt'n'burn that any newbie could have handled. It didn't even require interviewing survivors, because Dean already knew exactly who and where the ghost was. The job literally consists of driving to the cemetery and digging up the body for torching.
They pry open the casket (modern hermetic caskets suck when it comes to their purposes) and they're face-to-ick with the poorly-embalmed, overly juicy corpse of Mr. Walter Walterschied, whose long-dead parents plainly hated him and who accidentally smothered himself when he fell out of bed. Now his spirit is terrorizing a nursing home. Sam looks down at the gloppy remains, hoping that they don't have to resort to the kerosene, and says, "So this guy is worth an eighteen-hour drive?"
Dean immediately looks guilty and nervous, and covers it by dousing the deceased in lighter fluid. "This guy? Not really."
Uh-huh. "Then why--"
"Because there's a doctor here who knows about hunters." Sam knows exactly what Dean's going to say next. "A neurologist."
Dean's damn lucky that Sam already tossed the shovel out of the grave.
***
The neurologist is a round dark man who sees them after everybody else in his office has left for the day. Turns out a hunter helped him out at some point, so he repays the favor by providing specialist-level treatment--something hunters almost never get, despite every last one of them getting enough blows to the head to really, honestly need a neurologist. It's also free of charge, provided the hunter's vouched for. Now all of Dean's calls make sense. Sam thought he was looking for curses, not actual doctors. Dean hates doctors.
Dean also insists on sitting in on the appointment, using the argument--well, to be honest, the logic is so non-existent that even with a lifetime of exposure to Dean's thought processes, Sam can't really follow it. It seems to have something to do with hunting partners needing to rely on each other, but there may very well be a little bit of I made the appointment and he didn't so I don't fucking care if he's the patient, I'm gonna be there mixed in.
That's the point where Sam realizes he's just along for the ride, HIPAA be damned.
The full medical history is all kinds of fun. Fantasies about being able to be honest with medical professionals are one thing; having to actually do it is another.
The scar on his back? Oh, somebody killed him once. Last time he had sex? It's been awhile. She was a demon inhabiting a brain-dead woman. She tricked him into freeing Lucifer. Reason for the tattoo? Anti-possession. Yes, very useful when having sex with a demon, like he's never heard that before.
And, of course, the big one: "Your brother indicated that you're in recovery. From what substance?"
Sam shoots Dean a glare. Dean glares right back, that implacable I'm in charge and you're gonna do what I say or I'm gonna make you glare that Sam's hated since he got old enough to recognize it. "Demon blood."
The neurologist's eyebrows shoot up so high that they threaten to abandon his head entirely.
After that, the actual exam is kinda anti-climactic. With no nurses in the office, the doc takes Sam's vitals himself--all perfectly normal, as Sam knew they would be. Since this is neurological, not a full physical, he doesn't have to strip; the doc just asks that he pull his shirt open, and probably wouldn't have done that if this whatever-it-is wasn't affecting the sensation in his skin. The doctor presses the stethoscope against Sam's chest, and makes a noise. "What?"
"You did say you're not feeling temperature, correct?"
It's clearly a rhetorical question, since they've already been through the shower story. "Right. Why?"
"You're the first person I've ever met who never flinched away from the stethoscope. Everybody says these things are too cold." Sam blinks. "Also, it's been in the fridge."
"You keep your stethoscope in the fridge?"
"Your brother did warn me of a few things."
Of course he did. Dean doesn't react to Sam's glare.
A few minutes of testing with a needle tell the doctor and Dean what Sam already knew: most of the skin on his torso has gone numb. The doc doesn't insist on Sam standing up to see if it's gotten below the waist and Sam's not about to enlighten him, especially not with Dean sitting in, but it has started to creep over his shoulders and halfway up his neck. "Interesting," the doctor murmurs, which gets him a murderous glare from Dean, and he quickly retreats to his desk.
"So, any ideas, doc?" Sam asks. "Since I'm so interesting and all."
"This is only the first step," the neurologist says, tapping at his computer. "Tomorrow, we do the tests."
"Tests?" Dean asks, in as close to a neutral tone as Dean Winchester can get.
"MRI, CT, EMG, nerve conduction. Maybe an EEG, I'm not sure. We can probably avoid the ENG, since you don't seem to be having issues with dizziness or vertigo."
"Doc, if I want alphabet soup, I'll go buy a can," Dean says irritably.
The doctor goes into the main office and comes back with several information sheets. "Here. These explain most of them. Show up at eight sharp. They'll have to fit you in around tomorrow's appointments. Paying customers get precedence, I'm afraid. Bring a book. You'll probably be here all day and waiting for most of it."
He's not kidding. Dean insists on dragging Sam out of bed at six, like a kid on Christmas morning. They sit outside in the car until somebody unlocks the doors, and then they sit in the waiting room--and then the MRI waiting room, then the CT waiting room. In between, lab techs take vial after vial of blood and Sam gets the anosmia and ageusia tests he should have gotten from that ENT months ago. It's well after noon when they find out he can't have the EMG until three, and because they want him asleep for the EEG, he can't have that until after the EMG. The nurses send them off to find lunch, with the stern admonition that Sam can't nap and shouldn't have caffeine. Because grown men nap so often. Especially grown men with overprotective older brothers.
Seriously, the only things that have saved the techs from dealing with Dean are the female nurses, because half of them seem to have fallen in love with Dean at first sight and Dean never turns down that kind of attention. Sam's pretty sure that Dean scores at least once while Sam's stuck in the MRI machine, trying not to compare the experience to being buried alive in the world's noisiest grave.
It's oddly reassuring. Dean is entirely capable of shutting out the entire world, including women, when he gets worried. If Dean's still sneaking out for romps in the linen closet, it means he hasn't reached full crazy yet.
It's nearly seven that evening when Sam's finally done with the EEG (Dean's worry temporarily alleviated by his merriment at the sight of Sam with electrode glue clumping his hair into spikes, and if those pictures make it to Bobby or Jo, Sam is going to murder his brother), at which point the staff surprises him with the news that he's having a barium swallow and endoscopy the next morning. Sam just stares at the tech, who continues to list procedures like Sam should have already known or suspected that they'd be doing these things, and it's not until Dean interrupts and threatens to drown the man in his own container of electrode glop that they both find out that the neurologist wants to evaluate the function of his tongue, mouth, and throat.
After an hour and a half getting the goop out of his hair (thank God his hands and scalp haven't gone dead yet, because asking Dean for help with this would be beyond humiliating), Sam starts researching those tests--these are GI tests, for fuck's sake, not things he'd thought to look up when his skin was giving out. Every account he can find indicates that barium tastes nasty, though, so hey, there's a silver lining.
Dean, of course, never one for sitting still, tries to convince him to go out, especially after the novelty of Sam's temporary hair disaster wears off. "A couple of those nurses were interested in you. Never know, Sammy, this could be your last chance. Before everything goes numb, I mean."
"Thanks, Dean, that makes me feel so much better." There are things he does not want to discuss with his brother. The sensitivity of the skin on his dick--or the lack thereof--is on the top-10 list. So is the fact that he's probably never going to have sex again. The sense of touch is kinda necessary for that.
"I just meant, what with the not feeling and all, eventually it's gonna--"
Sam resists the temptation to hit his head against the table (it won't hurt, but he could probably give himself a concussion), and makes his voice stay very calm when he says, "Moving out from the chest, remember?" Dean stares at him blankly, and Sam sighs and uses simpler language. "You're too late."
The look of sheer horror on Dean's face before he mumbles something and runs like hell is almost worth it.
***
The tests show nothing, of course. There is absolutely no physiological cause for what he's feeling--or, more accurately, not feeling. Everything seems to be in proper working order. He leaves with a triple diagnosis--idiopathic anosmia, ageusia, and anaphia (progressing).
"Idiotpathic?" Dean asks.
"Idiopathic," Sam corrects. Dean picks the worst moments to play dumb. "It means 'cause unknown.'"
"There's a medical term specifically for 'we have no fucking idea'?" Dean demands, and stomps off to the Impala, swearing.
Sam sighs and starts to apologize, but the doctor waves it off. "Take these," he says, holding out a box of drug samples. "These are meant for standard peripheral neuropathy patients," the neurologist warns, "and they probably won't help. But it's worth a try."
Sam accepts the box, feeling the cardboard scrape against his nails, and wonders how long it's going to be before he can't even feel this.
"There's also something in there I want you to start taking immediately," the doctor says, and taps at the largest container in the box. "Start taking it now, and it will have kicked in by the time you need it."
"Fluoxetine?" Sam reads off the lid. That sounds familiar, but he doesn't know why. "What's that?"
"You might know it by the brand name," the neurologist says. "Prozac."
"Prozac? I don't--"
"You are literally losing your senses," the man says, "and you are still human. Depression is going to be a perfectly normal reaction, and I think maybe one you and your brother can't afford. There's an insert with the possible side effects in the box."
Sam mutters a thanks--the doctor is doing the best he can, really--but he can just imagine what Dean's reaction to anti-depressants is going to be.
***
The box of drugs finds a new home on the doorstep of a free clinic somewhere in Indiana, all the little blister packs intact.
By then, everything's numb.
***
Despite the numbness, everything still works normally. And, like the thing with his pain receptors, it only affects the skin, so any internal sensations are still working fine. His body still recognizes when it's hungry or thirsty or needs the bathroom. So at least Sam's not adding incontinence to his ever-lengthening list of humiliations, like some people who don't have a sense of touch.
For all that he can't feel pain or heat or the damn air, every muscle still moves the way it's supposed to, no stiffness or hesitation or anything. He spends a lot of time on long drives just watching his fingers move, as quick and fluid as ever, and wondering at the sheer weirdness of seeing it without feeling it. At least, he does until Dean gripes, "Will you stop doing that? You look like some stoned hippie who thinks his fingernails are telling him the secret of life."
The problem is that all the actions he's learned over the years--walking, driving, writing, typing, feeding and dressing and bathing himself--are reliant on sensory cues from his skin. He can't feel the ground beneath his feet, so he's constantly stumbling, even on perfectly level surfaces. He can't feel the keyboard under his fingers--it's worse than trying to type with gloves on, because the last time he had to do that, he could at least feel the gloves. Don't get him started on the nightmare that's the touchpad. And that's just the laptop; he can manage to answer his phone, but only because the button is larger and slightly separated from the others. Dialing or texting is out of the question. So's driving; his reflexes are still good, but even though his muscles remember the precise distance between the Impala's gas and brake pedals, he can't tell how much pressure he's putting on them. Their one trial run nearly sends Dean through the windshield when Sam brakes too hard, and there's no way Dean's risking his baby again. Sam can hold a pen to write, but he has no sense of how much pressure he's putting on it and half the time the point tears through the paper, even when he switches to medium points. It takes forever for him to get dressed in the morning, and that's on a good day. Buttons are a nightmare. Zippers aren't much better.
Meanwhile, he's covered in bruises from hitting his elbows and knees and every inch in between on every hard surface he encounters, from the Impala to the shower fixtures. He's not only lost sensation, he's lost all sense of where his body is in relation to the rest of the world. Proprioception isn't just hard to spell, it's extremely difficult to explain to an older brother who just wants Sam to stop denting the car. There's nothing about this on the Internet, or in the paperwork the neurologist gave them. His best guess is that he's ahead of the science, that nobody has figured out how proprioception really works, and that losing touch means his brain isn't getting some important information. For all they know, feeling the pressure of air on your skin plays a role in figuring out where your limbs are.
Everything works, but he moves like an old man, fearful and apprehensive. He can't do anything unless he's watching himself do it, and watching carefully. He's so reliant on visual cues that if he closes his eyes to keep the shampoo out of them while he's showering, he loses all sense of balance and topples over.
Luckily, the first time that happens, he doesn't hit his head on any of the fixtures, because the last thing he needs is for Dean to find him concussed in the shower.
He starts ordering his own food again, biscuits and chicken nuggets and French fries, because finger food is way easier than trying to manage utensils and not as humiliating as asking Dean to cut up his food for him. Sure, he can't judge his grip strength, and a lot of those fries get smashed between fingers that can't tell they're applying too much force, but it's still way safer than utensils. His vision's still okay and his depth perception seems fine, but every time he tries to use a fork, he winds up stabbing himself in the face. He can't figure out why, but there's a lot of whys about this that he thinks they may never figure out.
At least Dean only laughed the once. In his defense, he thought Sam was playing a prank, because honestly, who stabs himself in the face with a fork?
Even brushing his hair is a hassle--a double-barreled one, as he can't feel the brush in his hand or the brush in his hair and he keeps carving bloody lines in his scalp. For the first time in years, he's seriously contemplating getting his hair cut as short as Dean's just because it'll require less care. He really only keeps it as long as he does out of some scrap of childhood rebellion anyway, one last "fuck you" to their quasi-military upbringing. But Dad's been dead for years and Sam's supposed to be an adult, so maybe it is time for a haircut.
The job? The job is out of the question when just getting yourself clean in the shower, then dry, then dressed is a major--and exhausting--accomplishment.
He can still read, sure, but he's been through all the books they picked up their last trip to Bobby's, and the other research materials are on the laptop or online, which brings him back to typing.
Anosmia and ageusia were a walk in the park compared to this. And Dean-- It's a miracle Dean's hovering hasn't gotten them both killed yet, since Dean keeps forgetting his own welfare in his quest for Sam's.
But the one time Sam suggests that he get on a bus for Sioux Falls, so that Dean stands a chance of getting something done, Dean shouts him down, so much that they get kicked out of the hotel.
***
Sam wakes up, thirsty. It's dark, the only light the glare from the blue-glowing clock that came with the room. That at least keeps him from panicking, thinking he's gone blind. At this point, after all, it's not a question of if, but when. He can't imagine that whoever's doing this would stop now.
He throws back the covers and gets up--and realizes he's actually only tangled himself up when he finds himself flat on his back on the mattress. He keeps forgetting to make sure he's completely uncovered before he tries to get up. A few weeks can't undo a lifetime's habits.
Dean's asleep for once, the nightmare dark soothed by the blue clock light, and Sam doesn't want to wake him up, not with sleep so precious these days. So he waits for his eyes to adjust, then sits up, squints at the vague whiteness that's tangled around his leg, and spends several exhausting minutes getting it untangled before he can swing his legs over the edge of the bed.
Okay. One obstacle down. Now he just has to get to the-- Hm. Cooler would be safer, sink would be less alcoholic. He'll try the sink. It's not that much farther away.
He uses the faint white glow of the bedsheets as a guide to get around the bed, but then he's on his own. It's a decent motel, the carpet not all that worn, so there's no tears or rips to trip him up. On the other hand, the fact that it's in better condition means his feet will get better grip on it, and if he doesn't compensate properly--
Sam stretches one arm toward the wall, so that when he does trip he'll catch himself that much quicker, and starts the slow, careful walk toward the sink.
Naturally, when he falls, it's to the other side.
He comes to in bright light, with Dean leaning over him, pressing a towel to Sam's head and shouting stuff that Sam's too scrambled to make out immediately. Something about being careful, he thinks.
But he was careful. Sam's head aches, that deep below-the-skin pain he still has, so there's no point in arguing, even though Dean's shouting just makes his head feel worse. Careful just doesn't get him that far these days.
Dean finally lets him up--but only to go as far as the bed, making Sam sit there while he fetches a glass of water. "No more dark rooms," he says sternly, and Sam chokes in an attempt to not strangle on water and irony. "You're going to leave a light on so you can see if you need to get up, you got me, Sammy?"
Leave the light on. The thing he's been trying to do for the past year without Dean noticing.
Sam would laugh, if it wouldn't make the inside of his head hurt.
***
Sam sets the alarm on his phone--well, he has Dean set it, damn tiny buttons--earlier now. He'd put the thing on vibrate, but he can't really feel it, even if it's vibrating in his hand, so he just picks the least-obnoxious ringtone and gives Dean his best apologetic face if it wakes him.
He really does hate to wake Dean, especially now that Dean's sleeping a little better, but the honest truth is, Dean can just roll over for another hour, and he'll still finish his morning routine and be ready before Sam is. It only takes Dean a few minutes to get dressed. Sam-- Well, on a good day, when he doesn't jab himself in the eye with his toothbrush or claw open his scalp with his hairbrush or do some other bizarre injury to himself, it takes him an hour. Injuries up that total considerably.
If the injury is bad enough that Dean has to help him bandage it...sheesh.
Sam almost has it down now, though. If he tends to most everything before he gets dressed, the spill damage is brought down to a manageable level; skin is easy to scrub, and it's not a big deal if the sweats he sleeps in have toothpaste stains. And since the inside of his mouth and throat haven't gone numb like everything else, he's at least not accidentally performing tonsillectomy by toothbrush. His ability to sense pain and temperature are gone there, but full numbness never has hit. It took him a while to realize why: this thing wants him alive. Losing all sensation in his tongue and throat means he won't be able to chew or swallow properly, maybe not even suck on a straw, and that way lies slow starvation.
He hasn't mentioned that to Dean, though. The last thing he wants is Dean's reassurance that putting in a feeding tube can't be that much more complicated than turning a Walkman into an EMF reader. Stitches are one thing. Surgery, on the other hand....
None of his sweats are presentable for public, not even by their loose standards, not after that disastrous attempt at eating Chinese for dinner yesterday, so this morning starts off with a fight with a pair of jeans. And then there's the struggle to get his fingers to work the buttons and zipper, and really, getting dressed should not be this fucking hard. He's had less exhausting fights with dead people.
How do people with real crippling diseases stand this? For years and years on end?
By the time Sam's finally dressed, Dean's been in and out of the bathroom, is fully dressed, and is ready, trying to hide his impatience at this delay in his breakfast. He's taken all the bags to the car already, even made a couple of phone calls. But there's still one more step in Sam's process, one of the hardest.
He has to get his shoes and socks on.
It shouldn't be so hard. He's been doing this all his life, after all, it's practically unconscious at this point.
Muscle memory only gets you so far when it relies on cues from the skin.
He sits down on the bed--carefully, because his ass is numb, and he's already fallen off the edge of the bed three times this stay, he's got more bruises just there than the Impala has guns--and forces numb fingers to start loosening the laces on his shoes. He can't just slip them on anymore, the way he normally does in a hurry, because he can't feel his feet going into them--or coming out of them, for that matter, which led to a fall as spectacular as anything he suffered during that whole rabbit foot debacle. Then he has to get the damn things on his feet, which is just way harder than it should be. He can see his toes wiggle, his ankle move, can even feel those muscles in a dull, distant way, but without functioning sensory nerves in the skin, the effectiveness is just not what it should be. And then there's the whole adventure of re-tying them....
He gets the laces loose enough that he can get his feet into the shoes and sets them aside. Now for the socks.
It doesn't matter that his fingers still work. The socks are old and worn and adhered to themselves with static cling. Fear that he'll tear the fabric makes him tentative, because he doesn't have that many left. For the last week, every time he's tried, he's managed to put at least one finger through the cloth. This may be his last pair of socks without holes.
"Sam." There are other hands there suddenly, taking the sock out of his hands, and before he knows what's happening, Dean is kneeling on the carpet in front of him. He shoves Sam's hands away, just like he used to when Sam was little and couldn't tie his shoes and Dad was impatient to hit the road, and silently slides the sock over Sam's bare foot. With the expertise of long experience, Dean puts the other sock on, gets Sam's feet into his shoes and ties the laces, double-checking that they're not so loose that Sam will step out of his shoes and not so tight that they'll cut off circulation to his toes.
The room goes blurry and his breath hitches. When he looks down, his hands have clenched on the edge of the bed, nails tearing into the worn bedspread. He thinks he's crying. He's not sure. If he is, he can't feel the wetness on his face or taste the salt on his lips, and if he tries to swipe at his eyes with his sleeve, he's just as likely to poke himself in the eye and do some damage.
He's a grown man, and he can't even dress himself.
He can't even fucking cry about it without hurting himself.
Through it all, Dean says nothing, doesn't even give Sam an accusing or impatient or pitying look, and when he's satisfied that Sam's shoes are on properly, he stands, dusts off his knees, and picks up Sam's jacket. "Come on. It's a long drive to get to Bobby's."
Sam can't look up, can't meet his brother's eyes. "But--Cas said--"
"Fuck what Cas said. Fuck the damn Horsemen and Lucifer and the Apocalypse. We're going to Bobby's and we're staying there until we figure this out."
"Dean--" He wants to argue, wants to point out that there are billions of other people on this planet who need them to focus on the real problem, on fixing this mess he started. They can't ignore the Apocalypse just because Sam's having trouble with his shoes.
But this is Dean, and if there's one thing Sam knows, it's how single-minded Dean gets when presented with a threat to Sam's welfare.
"Now put on your damn jacket and get in the car," Dean says, holding up the jacket for Sam, just like he did when Sam was little, and it takes everything he has not to break right there, to gather up what little he has left of his dignity and shrug into the jacket and follow Dean out to the car.
***
Dean drives crazy, even for Dean, and they reach Bobby's after dark. The back porch light is on and the gates are open, waiting for them. Bobby meets them at the door and gets out of the way quickly when he sees just how awkwardly Sam is moving. He's gotten a lot better with the wheelchair.
"You boys want something to eat?" Bobby asks.
Sam doesn't hear Dean's answer, because his next problem is staring him in the face.
Stairs. Sam hadn't even thought about the stairs. It's been forever since they took the trouble to set up in one of the spare rooms instead of the living room floor.
But there's no place for him to sleep down here. Bobby has to have the couch. Sleeping on the floor is going to put him in Bobby's way, and he can't get out of Bobby's way quickly, the way Dean can. That's assuming he doesn't somehow manage to do more damage to himself in the process, since he can barely walk over level ground without turning an ankle; he doesn't want to think what he could do to himself by trying to dodge a wheelchair. He's going to have to use one of the bedrooms upstairs.
"Sammy?" Dean sounds worried, and by the look on his face, he hadn't thought about the stairs either. "Can you get up there?" he asks. This time, his voice is calm, even. This is hunter-to-hunter, demanding an honest assessment of his abilities. No room for ego or shame or brotherly bravado.
"I--" Sam reminds himself that everything still works, he's just been avoiding steps because he keeps forgetting to watch his feet to make sure he clears the riser. "I think I can make it." He'll have the wall to lean against, and there's no reason to rush. As long as he can take his time, he should be fine.
Dean nods, and reaches around him to switch on the lights that illuminate the stairs and the upstairs hallway. "I'll be up in awhile." Sam doesn't need the half-guilty glance Dean shoots Bobby to understand. Dean wants him safely upstairs so that he and Bobby can discuss him.
And Sam is just too tired to argue.
"If you need help--" Dean begins.
"I'll yell." He forces a smile. "Go on, I can do this without being stared at. By either one of you."
There's a gruff chuckle from Bobby, who wheels back towards the kitchen. "You sure--"
"Dean, go." To emphasize his point, Sam grabs on to the railing and takes that first step, managing--to his own surprise--not to slam his toes into the riser. Two steps later, he stops, just to check. Dean's not standing there anymore, at least. He can't hear their voices. Maybe they moved out to the porch to make sure he couldn't hear them. Sam sighs and turns his attention back to the stairs.
Habit takes him to the room they used when they stayed summers here as kids. Back then, it had a set of rickety bunk beds that collapsed beneath them more than once (staying at Bobby's has always been an adventure), but somewhere along the line, Bobby managed to find a pair of twin beds--still a little cramped for Sam, but not as dangerous as the old bunk beds and way better than the floor. More importantly, except for a few stacks of books up against the walls, the room is practically empty, a beacon of sterility in Bobby's overcluttered library of a house. Nothing to trip him.
He automatically claims the one farthest from the door--Dean always takes the bed closest to the entrance--and lies down. Dean thinks he's going to do it. Dean honestly thinks he's going to say yes. He and Bobby are discussing how to stop him right now. What else would Dean want to discuss with Bobby without Sam overhearing? It can't be just his health, they've been talking that to death with Bobby and Cas and anybody who'd stand still long enough ever since this started. And if Bobby has come up with a breakthrough to fix it--well, Sam really needs to be part of that conversation. It's his body they're discussing here.
At some point, he dozes off, but he's awakened by cursing. Sam opens his eyes to the amusing sight of Dean hopping on one bare foot and swearing fit to blister paint. "Problems?" Sam asks mildly.
Dean glares at him, but limps towards the other bed. "Man's gotta learn to quit stacking books everyfuckingwhere," he mutters. "I think I broke my toe."
"On what?"
"A brick in a book cover, from the feel of it." Sam chuckles. "Yeah, sure, laugh it up. Just because you can't--" He freezes. "Shit, Sam, I'm sorry, I didn't--"
"Hey, at least I don't have to worry about the pain when I stub my toe," Sam says, forcing himself to make light of it, because there's really no choice, and besides, there's no point in Dean tearing himself up about a stupid slip of the tongue.
"But--"
"Dean. It's okay." It's laugh or cry some days, and right now, he's choosing to laugh. "Just go to bed before your toe finds a first edition of War and Peace."
Dean mutters something, but crawls into bed, gets himself settled, and reaches for the light.
Sam can see his fingers twitching. Bobby's house is safe ground, always has been--but this is the side of the house that faces away from the security lights of the salvage yard, so it's also dark. There's no light outside their window at all. This room has always been that way, but it's been years since they've slept up here.
"Don't," Sam says, and Dean freezes. There's a flash of terror in his eyes, terror that Sam's figured it out. "I need it, remember?"
Dean relaxes. As far as he knows, his secret is safe another day. "Sorry. Forgot." He pulls up the covers--an old quilt that Sam thinks he remembers from the first time they stayed here. "Night, Sammy."
"Night." Sam rolls onto his side, away from his brother, and looks at his hand where it rests on the mattress. The top cover on his bed is another old quilt, but the sheets look new. He wonders if they feel new. He can't tell. He can't even smell whether or not they're new. Does Bobby actually own anything new? Even the wheelchair looks used, and that lamp looks like it might have belonged to Bobby's grandparents.
But Dean will be able to sleep, as well as he ever does, anyway, and that's something.
Chapter 4
Chapter 2: Ageusia
Chapter 3: Anaphia, Part 1
He catches Dean on the phone that afternoon, a call Dean plainly doesn't want him eavesdropping on, given the way Dean quickly says, "Bye, Bobby," and hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket. It's not the last time, either; Dean spends more of his time that night in the hall outside their room than inside, and it's not because he's suddenly respecting Sam's need for alone time.
Sam knows something's up when Dean hands him the keys the next morning.
Dean keeps getting phone calls over the next few days--at least one an hour, if not more--and he plainly expected these calls, since he's letting Sam drive; if Dean were driving, he'd have to keep pulling over to jot down notes and numbers. Some of the calls are from Bobby, a couple from Cas, but from the way Dean talks--semi-respectfully, keeping the pop culture references to a minimum, name-dropping Bobby and Ellen and Rufus and Dad at every opportunity--most of them are from strangers. And the vibe he's putting off--
Sam's pretty sure it was the same one he gave off when he was trying to find a way to fix Dean after that electrocution, or in the last days before the deal came due. Desperation, stubbornness, denial, and a refusal to not hope, no matter how much smarter that would be.
Sam can't really blame him. They have no guarantee that this isn't going to kill him. For all they know, this is somebody's way of committing murder piecemeal, a way designed specifically to make him suffer.
This phase, at least, is fairly mild. The initial stabbing sensation (it wasn't properly pain, since he can't feel pain anymore) was a one-off; now, he can tell where the feeling is going to fade next because there's that pins-and-needles tingling beforehand--like when your foot or hand falls asleep and then wakes up, only in reverse. It's uneven, progressing in fits and starts. The first time he tries to map it with a washable marker, about a week after it starts, he winds up with a ragged seven-pointed star shape on his chest, one point practically in his armpit but another hardly off the sternum.
While it's weird to feel fabric on one patch of skin and not the next, it's not incapacitating. Yet. That won't hold, he knows. Already he's having problems. The patch on his back extends to his waist, to where the gun usually rides in his waistband, and he's sat down on the damn thing three times already because he's forgotten it's there. What's going to happen when this hits his arms and legs? Is this going to affect how he walks?
There's not a lot of information out there on life without touch. What little he can find is not reassuring.
And that's when the phone calls stop and Dean announces, "We're going to Florida."
Sam's avoided jobs in Florida ever since the Mystery Spot fiasco. Dean isn't as picky, since he's not stuck with too-vivid memories of watching his brother die over and over again, but for the most part, he's been good about Sam's job priorities (any other state, Canada, Mexico, Hell, then Florida). It helps that Sam hasn't argued about Dean's sudden refusal to consider anything within a hundred miles of Detroit.
Not today, though. There's a job in Florida and Dean's hell-bent on taking it, despite the five other jobs Sam finds, one of which is just the next town over.
Sam knows his brother too well to not suspect that something's up.
Not until they're there and neck-deep in a grave does Sam find out why Dean was so intent on crossing the continent for a salt'n'burn that any newbie could have handled. It didn't even require interviewing survivors, because Dean already knew exactly who and where the ghost was. The job literally consists of driving to the cemetery and digging up the body for torching.
They pry open the casket (modern hermetic caskets suck when it comes to their purposes) and they're face-to-ick with the poorly-embalmed, overly juicy corpse of Mr. Walter Walterschied, whose long-dead parents plainly hated him and who accidentally smothered himself when he fell out of bed. Now his spirit is terrorizing a nursing home. Sam looks down at the gloppy remains, hoping that they don't have to resort to the kerosene, and says, "So this guy is worth an eighteen-hour drive?"
Dean immediately looks guilty and nervous, and covers it by dousing the deceased in lighter fluid. "This guy? Not really."
Uh-huh. "Then why--"
"Because there's a doctor here who knows about hunters." Sam knows exactly what Dean's going to say next. "A neurologist."
Dean's damn lucky that Sam already tossed the shovel out of the grave.
***
The neurologist is a round dark man who sees them after everybody else in his office has left for the day. Turns out a hunter helped him out at some point, so he repays the favor by providing specialist-level treatment--something hunters almost never get, despite every last one of them getting enough blows to the head to really, honestly need a neurologist. It's also free of charge, provided the hunter's vouched for. Now all of Dean's calls make sense. Sam thought he was looking for curses, not actual doctors. Dean hates doctors.
Dean also insists on sitting in on the appointment, using the argument--well, to be honest, the logic is so non-existent that even with a lifetime of exposure to Dean's thought processes, Sam can't really follow it. It seems to have something to do with hunting partners needing to rely on each other, but there may very well be a little bit of I made the appointment and he didn't so I don't fucking care if he's the patient, I'm gonna be there mixed in.
That's the point where Sam realizes he's just along for the ride, HIPAA be damned.
The full medical history is all kinds of fun. Fantasies about being able to be honest with medical professionals are one thing; having to actually do it is another.
The scar on his back? Oh, somebody killed him once. Last time he had sex? It's been awhile. She was a demon inhabiting a brain-dead woman. She tricked him into freeing Lucifer. Reason for the tattoo? Anti-possession. Yes, very useful when having sex with a demon, like he's never heard that before.
And, of course, the big one: "Your brother indicated that you're in recovery. From what substance?"
Sam shoots Dean a glare. Dean glares right back, that implacable I'm in charge and you're gonna do what I say or I'm gonna make you glare that Sam's hated since he got old enough to recognize it. "Demon blood."
The neurologist's eyebrows shoot up so high that they threaten to abandon his head entirely.
After that, the actual exam is kinda anti-climactic. With no nurses in the office, the doc takes Sam's vitals himself--all perfectly normal, as Sam knew they would be. Since this is neurological, not a full physical, he doesn't have to strip; the doc just asks that he pull his shirt open, and probably wouldn't have done that if this whatever-it-is wasn't affecting the sensation in his skin. The doctor presses the stethoscope against Sam's chest, and makes a noise. "What?"
"You did say you're not feeling temperature, correct?"
It's clearly a rhetorical question, since they've already been through the shower story. "Right. Why?"
"You're the first person I've ever met who never flinched away from the stethoscope. Everybody says these things are too cold." Sam blinks. "Also, it's been in the fridge."
"You keep your stethoscope in the fridge?"
"Your brother did warn me of a few things."
Of course he did. Dean doesn't react to Sam's glare.
A few minutes of testing with a needle tell the doctor and Dean what Sam already knew: most of the skin on his torso has gone numb. The doc doesn't insist on Sam standing up to see if it's gotten below the waist and Sam's not about to enlighten him, especially not with Dean sitting in, but it has started to creep over his shoulders and halfway up his neck. "Interesting," the doctor murmurs, which gets him a murderous glare from Dean, and he quickly retreats to his desk.
"So, any ideas, doc?" Sam asks. "Since I'm so interesting and all."
"This is only the first step," the neurologist says, tapping at his computer. "Tomorrow, we do the tests."
"Tests?" Dean asks, in as close to a neutral tone as Dean Winchester can get.
"MRI, CT, EMG, nerve conduction. Maybe an EEG, I'm not sure. We can probably avoid the ENG, since you don't seem to be having issues with dizziness or vertigo."
"Doc, if I want alphabet soup, I'll go buy a can," Dean says irritably.
The doctor goes into the main office and comes back with several information sheets. "Here. These explain most of them. Show up at eight sharp. They'll have to fit you in around tomorrow's appointments. Paying customers get precedence, I'm afraid. Bring a book. You'll probably be here all day and waiting for most of it."
He's not kidding. Dean insists on dragging Sam out of bed at six, like a kid on Christmas morning. They sit outside in the car until somebody unlocks the doors, and then they sit in the waiting room--and then the MRI waiting room, then the CT waiting room. In between, lab techs take vial after vial of blood and Sam gets the anosmia and ageusia tests he should have gotten from that ENT months ago. It's well after noon when they find out he can't have the EMG until three, and because they want him asleep for the EEG, he can't have that until after the EMG. The nurses send them off to find lunch, with the stern admonition that Sam can't nap and shouldn't have caffeine. Because grown men nap so often. Especially grown men with overprotective older brothers.
Seriously, the only things that have saved the techs from dealing with Dean are the female nurses, because half of them seem to have fallen in love with Dean at first sight and Dean never turns down that kind of attention. Sam's pretty sure that Dean scores at least once while Sam's stuck in the MRI machine, trying not to compare the experience to being buried alive in the world's noisiest grave.
It's oddly reassuring. Dean is entirely capable of shutting out the entire world, including women, when he gets worried. If Dean's still sneaking out for romps in the linen closet, it means he hasn't reached full crazy yet.
It's nearly seven that evening when Sam's finally done with the EEG (Dean's worry temporarily alleviated by his merriment at the sight of Sam with electrode glue clumping his hair into spikes, and if those pictures make it to Bobby or Jo, Sam is going to murder his brother), at which point the staff surprises him with the news that he's having a barium swallow and endoscopy the next morning. Sam just stares at the tech, who continues to list procedures like Sam should have already known or suspected that they'd be doing these things, and it's not until Dean interrupts and threatens to drown the man in his own container of electrode glop that they both find out that the neurologist wants to evaluate the function of his tongue, mouth, and throat.
After an hour and a half getting the goop out of his hair (thank God his hands and scalp haven't gone dead yet, because asking Dean for help with this would be beyond humiliating), Sam starts researching those tests--these are GI tests, for fuck's sake, not things he'd thought to look up when his skin was giving out. Every account he can find indicates that barium tastes nasty, though, so hey, there's a silver lining.
Dean, of course, never one for sitting still, tries to convince him to go out, especially after the novelty of Sam's temporary hair disaster wears off. "A couple of those nurses were interested in you. Never know, Sammy, this could be your last chance. Before everything goes numb, I mean."
"Thanks, Dean, that makes me feel so much better." There are things he does not want to discuss with his brother. The sensitivity of the skin on his dick--or the lack thereof--is on the top-10 list. So is the fact that he's probably never going to have sex again. The sense of touch is kinda necessary for that.
"I just meant, what with the not feeling and all, eventually it's gonna--"
Sam resists the temptation to hit his head against the table (it won't hurt, but he could probably give himself a concussion), and makes his voice stay very calm when he says, "Moving out from the chest, remember?" Dean stares at him blankly, and Sam sighs and uses simpler language. "You're too late."
The look of sheer horror on Dean's face before he mumbles something and runs like hell is almost worth it.
***
The tests show nothing, of course. There is absolutely no physiological cause for what he's feeling--or, more accurately, not feeling. Everything seems to be in proper working order. He leaves with a triple diagnosis--idiopathic anosmia, ageusia, and anaphia (progressing).
"Idiotpathic?" Dean asks.
"Idiopathic," Sam corrects. Dean picks the worst moments to play dumb. "It means 'cause unknown.'"
"There's a medical term specifically for 'we have no fucking idea'?" Dean demands, and stomps off to the Impala, swearing.
Sam sighs and starts to apologize, but the doctor waves it off. "Take these," he says, holding out a box of drug samples. "These are meant for standard peripheral neuropathy patients," the neurologist warns, "and they probably won't help. But it's worth a try."
Sam accepts the box, feeling the cardboard scrape against his nails, and wonders how long it's going to be before he can't even feel this.
"There's also something in there I want you to start taking immediately," the doctor says, and taps at the largest container in the box. "Start taking it now, and it will have kicked in by the time you need it."
"Fluoxetine?" Sam reads off the lid. That sounds familiar, but he doesn't know why. "What's that?"
"You might know it by the brand name," the neurologist says. "Prozac."
"Prozac? I don't--"
"You are literally losing your senses," the man says, "and you are still human. Depression is going to be a perfectly normal reaction, and I think maybe one you and your brother can't afford. There's an insert with the possible side effects in the box."
Sam mutters a thanks--the doctor is doing the best he can, really--but he can just imagine what Dean's reaction to anti-depressants is going to be.
***
The box of drugs finds a new home on the doorstep of a free clinic somewhere in Indiana, all the little blister packs intact.
By then, everything's numb.
***
Despite the numbness, everything still works normally. And, like the thing with his pain receptors, it only affects the skin, so any internal sensations are still working fine. His body still recognizes when it's hungry or thirsty or needs the bathroom. So at least Sam's not adding incontinence to his ever-lengthening list of humiliations, like some people who don't have a sense of touch.
For all that he can't feel pain or heat or the damn air, every muscle still moves the way it's supposed to, no stiffness or hesitation or anything. He spends a lot of time on long drives just watching his fingers move, as quick and fluid as ever, and wondering at the sheer weirdness of seeing it without feeling it. At least, he does until Dean gripes, "Will you stop doing that? You look like some stoned hippie who thinks his fingernails are telling him the secret of life."
The problem is that all the actions he's learned over the years--walking, driving, writing, typing, feeding and dressing and bathing himself--are reliant on sensory cues from his skin. He can't feel the ground beneath his feet, so he's constantly stumbling, even on perfectly level surfaces. He can't feel the keyboard under his fingers--it's worse than trying to type with gloves on, because the last time he had to do that, he could at least feel the gloves. Don't get him started on the nightmare that's the touchpad. And that's just the laptop; he can manage to answer his phone, but only because the button is larger and slightly separated from the others. Dialing or texting is out of the question. So's driving; his reflexes are still good, but even though his muscles remember the precise distance between the Impala's gas and brake pedals, he can't tell how much pressure he's putting on them. Their one trial run nearly sends Dean through the windshield when Sam brakes too hard, and there's no way Dean's risking his baby again. Sam can hold a pen to write, but he has no sense of how much pressure he's putting on it and half the time the point tears through the paper, even when he switches to medium points. It takes forever for him to get dressed in the morning, and that's on a good day. Buttons are a nightmare. Zippers aren't much better.
Meanwhile, he's covered in bruises from hitting his elbows and knees and every inch in between on every hard surface he encounters, from the Impala to the shower fixtures. He's not only lost sensation, he's lost all sense of where his body is in relation to the rest of the world. Proprioception isn't just hard to spell, it's extremely difficult to explain to an older brother who just wants Sam to stop denting the car. There's nothing about this on the Internet, or in the paperwork the neurologist gave them. His best guess is that he's ahead of the science, that nobody has figured out how proprioception really works, and that losing touch means his brain isn't getting some important information. For all they know, feeling the pressure of air on your skin plays a role in figuring out where your limbs are.
Everything works, but he moves like an old man, fearful and apprehensive. He can't do anything unless he's watching himself do it, and watching carefully. He's so reliant on visual cues that if he closes his eyes to keep the shampoo out of them while he's showering, he loses all sense of balance and topples over.
Luckily, the first time that happens, he doesn't hit his head on any of the fixtures, because the last thing he needs is for Dean to find him concussed in the shower.
He starts ordering his own food again, biscuits and chicken nuggets and French fries, because finger food is way easier than trying to manage utensils and not as humiliating as asking Dean to cut up his food for him. Sure, he can't judge his grip strength, and a lot of those fries get smashed between fingers that can't tell they're applying too much force, but it's still way safer than utensils. His vision's still okay and his depth perception seems fine, but every time he tries to use a fork, he winds up stabbing himself in the face. He can't figure out why, but there's a lot of whys about this that he thinks they may never figure out.
At least Dean only laughed the once. In his defense, he thought Sam was playing a prank, because honestly, who stabs himself in the face with a fork?
Even brushing his hair is a hassle--a double-barreled one, as he can't feel the brush in his hand or the brush in his hair and he keeps carving bloody lines in his scalp. For the first time in years, he's seriously contemplating getting his hair cut as short as Dean's just because it'll require less care. He really only keeps it as long as he does out of some scrap of childhood rebellion anyway, one last "fuck you" to their quasi-military upbringing. But Dad's been dead for years and Sam's supposed to be an adult, so maybe it is time for a haircut.
The job? The job is out of the question when just getting yourself clean in the shower, then dry, then dressed is a major--and exhausting--accomplishment.
He can still read, sure, but he's been through all the books they picked up their last trip to Bobby's, and the other research materials are on the laptop or online, which brings him back to typing.
Anosmia and ageusia were a walk in the park compared to this. And Dean-- It's a miracle Dean's hovering hasn't gotten them both killed yet, since Dean keeps forgetting his own welfare in his quest for Sam's.
But the one time Sam suggests that he get on a bus for Sioux Falls, so that Dean stands a chance of getting something done, Dean shouts him down, so much that they get kicked out of the hotel.
***
Sam wakes up, thirsty. It's dark, the only light the glare from the blue-glowing clock that came with the room. That at least keeps him from panicking, thinking he's gone blind. At this point, after all, it's not a question of if, but when. He can't imagine that whoever's doing this would stop now.
He throws back the covers and gets up--and realizes he's actually only tangled himself up when he finds himself flat on his back on the mattress. He keeps forgetting to make sure he's completely uncovered before he tries to get up. A few weeks can't undo a lifetime's habits.
Dean's asleep for once, the nightmare dark soothed by the blue clock light, and Sam doesn't want to wake him up, not with sleep so precious these days. So he waits for his eyes to adjust, then sits up, squints at the vague whiteness that's tangled around his leg, and spends several exhausting minutes getting it untangled before he can swing his legs over the edge of the bed.
Okay. One obstacle down. Now he just has to get to the-- Hm. Cooler would be safer, sink would be less alcoholic. He'll try the sink. It's not that much farther away.
He uses the faint white glow of the bedsheets as a guide to get around the bed, but then he's on his own. It's a decent motel, the carpet not all that worn, so there's no tears or rips to trip him up. On the other hand, the fact that it's in better condition means his feet will get better grip on it, and if he doesn't compensate properly--
Sam stretches one arm toward the wall, so that when he does trip he'll catch himself that much quicker, and starts the slow, careful walk toward the sink.
Naturally, when he falls, it's to the other side.
He comes to in bright light, with Dean leaning over him, pressing a towel to Sam's head and shouting stuff that Sam's too scrambled to make out immediately. Something about being careful, he thinks.
But he was careful. Sam's head aches, that deep below-the-skin pain he still has, so there's no point in arguing, even though Dean's shouting just makes his head feel worse. Careful just doesn't get him that far these days.
Dean finally lets him up--but only to go as far as the bed, making Sam sit there while he fetches a glass of water. "No more dark rooms," he says sternly, and Sam chokes in an attempt to not strangle on water and irony. "You're going to leave a light on so you can see if you need to get up, you got me, Sammy?"
Leave the light on. The thing he's been trying to do for the past year without Dean noticing.
Sam would laugh, if it wouldn't make the inside of his head hurt.
***
Sam sets the alarm on his phone--well, he has Dean set it, damn tiny buttons--earlier now. He'd put the thing on vibrate, but he can't really feel it, even if it's vibrating in his hand, so he just picks the least-obnoxious ringtone and gives Dean his best apologetic face if it wakes him.
He really does hate to wake Dean, especially now that Dean's sleeping a little better, but the honest truth is, Dean can just roll over for another hour, and he'll still finish his morning routine and be ready before Sam is. It only takes Dean a few minutes to get dressed. Sam-- Well, on a good day, when he doesn't jab himself in the eye with his toothbrush or claw open his scalp with his hairbrush or do some other bizarre injury to himself, it takes him an hour. Injuries up that total considerably.
If the injury is bad enough that Dean has to help him bandage it...sheesh.
Sam almost has it down now, though. If he tends to most everything before he gets dressed, the spill damage is brought down to a manageable level; skin is easy to scrub, and it's not a big deal if the sweats he sleeps in have toothpaste stains. And since the inside of his mouth and throat haven't gone numb like everything else, he's at least not accidentally performing tonsillectomy by toothbrush. His ability to sense pain and temperature are gone there, but full numbness never has hit. It took him a while to realize why: this thing wants him alive. Losing all sensation in his tongue and throat means he won't be able to chew or swallow properly, maybe not even suck on a straw, and that way lies slow starvation.
He hasn't mentioned that to Dean, though. The last thing he wants is Dean's reassurance that putting in a feeding tube can't be that much more complicated than turning a Walkman into an EMF reader. Stitches are one thing. Surgery, on the other hand....
None of his sweats are presentable for public, not even by their loose standards, not after that disastrous attempt at eating Chinese for dinner yesterday, so this morning starts off with a fight with a pair of jeans. And then there's the struggle to get his fingers to work the buttons and zipper, and really, getting dressed should not be this fucking hard. He's had less exhausting fights with dead people.
How do people with real crippling diseases stand this? For years and years on end?
By the time Sam's finally dressed, Dean's been in and out of the bathroom, is fully dressed, and is ready, trying to hide his impatience at this delay in his breakfast. He's taken all the bags to the car already, even made a couple of phone calls. But there's still one more step in Sam's process, one of the hardest.
He has to get his shoes and socks on.
It shouldn't be so hard. He's been doing this all his life, after all, it's practically unconscious at this point.
Muscle memory only gets you so far when it relies on cues from the skin.
He sits down on the bed--carefully, because his ass is numb, and he's already fallen off the edge of the bed three times this stay, he's got more bruises just there than the Impala has guns--and forces numb fingers to start loosening the laces on his shoes. He can't just slip them on anymore, the way he normally does in a hurry, because he can't feel his feet going into them--or coming out of them, for that matter, which led to a fall as spectacular as anything he suffered during that whole rabbit foot debacle. Then he has to get the damn things on his feet, which is just way harder than it should be. He can see his toes wiggle, his ankle move, can even feel those muscles in a dull, distant way, but without functioning sensory nerves in the skin, the effectiveness is just not what it should be. And then there's the whole adventure of re-tying them....
He gets the laces loose enough that he can get his feet into the shoes and sets them aside. Now for the socks.
It doesn't matter that his fingers still work. The socks are old and worn and adhered to themselves with static cling. Fear that he'll tear the fabric makes him tentative, because he doesn't have that many left. For the last week, every time he's tried, he's managed to put at least one finger through the cloth. This may be his last pair of socks without holes.
"Sam." There are other hands there suddenly, taking the sock out of his hands, and before he knows what's happening, Dean is kneeling on the carpet in front of him. He shoves Sam's hands away, just like he used to when Sam was little and couldn't tie his shoes and Dad was impatient to hit the road, and silently slides the sock over Sam's bare foot. With the expertise of long experience, Dean puts the other sock on, gets Sam's feet into his shoes and ties the laces, double-checking that they're not so loose that Sam will step out of his shoes and not so tight that they'll cut off circulation to his toes.
The room goes blurry and his breath hitches. When he looks down, his hands have clenched on the edge of the bed, nails tearing into the worn bedspread. He thinks he's crying. He's not sure. If he is, he can't feel the wetness on his face or taste the salt on his lips, and if he tries to swipe at his eyes with his sleeve, he's just as likely to poke himself in the eye and do some damage.
He's a grown man, and he can't even dress himself.
He can't even fucking cry about it without hurting himself.
Through it all, Dean says nothing, doesn't even give Sam an accusing or impatient or pitying look, and when he's satisfied that Sam's shoes are on properly, he stands, dusts off his knees, and picks up Sam's jacket. "Come on. It's a long drive to get to Bobby's."
Sam can't look up, can't meet his brother's eyes. "But--Cas said--"
"Fuck what Cas said. Fuck the damn Horsemen and Lucifer and the Apocalypse. We're going to Bobby's and we're staying there until we figure this out."
"Dean--" He wants to argue, wants to point out that there are billions of other people on this planet who need them to focus on the real problem, on fixing this mess he started. They can't ignore the Apocalypse just because Sam's having trouble with his shoes.
But this is Dean, and if there's one thing Sam knows, it's how single-minded Dean gets when presented with a threat to Sam's welfare.
"Now put on your damn jacket and get in the car," Dean says, holding up the jacket for Sam, just like he did when Sam was little, and it takes everything he has not to break right there, to gather up what little he has left of his dignity and shrug into the jacket and follow Dean out to the car.
***
Dean drives crazy, even for Dean, and they reach Bobby's after dark. The back porch light is on and the gates are open, waiting for them. Bobby meets them at the door and gets out of the way quickly when he sees just how awkwardly Sam is moving. He's gotten a lot better with the wheelchair.
"You boys want something to eat?" Bobby asks.
Sam doesn't hear Dean's answer, because his next problem is staring him in the face.
Stairs. Sam hadn't even thought about the stairs. It's been forever since they took the trouble to set up in one of the spare rooms instead of the living room floor.
But there's no place for him to sleep down here. Bobby has to have the couch. Sleeping on the floor is going to put him in Bobby's way, and he can't get out of Bobby's way quickly, the way Dean can. That's assuming he doesn't somehow manage to do more damage to himself in the process, since he can barely walk over level ground without turning an ankle; he doesn't want to think what he could do to himself by trying to dodge a wheelchair. He's going to have to use one of the bedrooms upstairs.
"Sammy?" Dean sounds worried, and by the look on his face, he hadn't thought about the stairs either. "Can you get up there?" he asks. This time, his voice is calm, even. This is hunter-to-hunter, demanding an honest assessment of his abilities. No room for ego or shame or brotherly bravado.
"I--" Sam reminds himself that everything still works, he's just been avoiding steps because he keeps forgetting to watch his feet to make sure he clears the riser. "I think I can make it." He'll have the wall to lean against, and there's no reason to rush. As long as he can take his time, he should be fine.
Dean nods, and reaches around him to switch on the lights that illuminate the stairs and the upstairs hallway. "I'll be up in awhile." Sam doesn't need the half-guilty glance Dean shoots Bobby to understand. Dean wants him safely upstairs so that he and Bobby can discuss him.
And Sam is just too tired to argue.
"If you need help--" Dean begins.
"I'll yell." He forces a smile. "Go on, I can do this without being stared at. By either one of you."
There's a gruff chuckle from Bobby, who wheels back towards the kitchen. "You sure--"
"Dean, go." To emphasize his point, Sam grabs on to the railing and takes that first step, managing--to his own surprise--not to slam his toes into the riser. Two steps later, he stops, just to check. Dean's not standing there anymore, at least. He can't hear their voices. Maybe they moved out to the porch to make sure he couldn't hear them. Sam sighs and turns his attention back to the stairs.
Habit takes him to the room they used when they stayed summers here as kids. Back then, it had a set of rickety bunk beds that collapsed beneath them more than once (staying at Bobby's has always been an adventure), but somewhere along the line, Bobby managed to find a pair of twin beds--still a little cramped for Sam, but not as dangerous as the old bunk beds and way better than the floor. More importantly, except for a few stacks of books up against the walls, the room is practically empty, a beacon of sterility in Bobby's overcluttered library of a house. Nothing to trip him.
He automatically claims the one farthest from the door--Dean always takes the bed closest to the entrance--and lies down. Dean thinks he's going to do it. Dean honestly thinks he's going to say yes. He and Bobby are discussing how to stop him right now. What else would Dean want to discuss with Bobby without Sam overhearing? It can't be just his health, they've been talking that to death with Bobby and Cas and anybody who'd stand still long enough ever since this started. And if Bobby has come up with a breakthrough to fix it--well, Sam really needs to be part of that conversation. It's his body they're discussing here.
At some point, he dozes off, but he's awakened by cursing. Sam opens his eyes to the amusing sight of Dean hopping on one bare foot and swearing fit to blister paint. "Problems?" Sam asks mildly.
Dean glares at him, but limps towards the other bed. "Man's gotta learn to quit stacking books everyfuckingwhere," he mutters. "I think I broke my toe."
"On what?"
"A brick in a book cover, from the feel of it." Sam chuckles. "Yeah, sure, laugh it up. Just because you can't--" He freezes. "Shit, Sam, I'm sorry, I didn't--"
"Hey, at least I don't have to worry about the pain when I stub my toe," Sam says, forcing himself to make light of it, because there's really no choice, and besides, there's no point in Dean tearing himself up about a stupid slip of the tongue.
"But--"
"Dean. It's okay." It's laugh or cry some days, and right now, he's choosing to laugh. "Just go to bed before your toe finds a first edition of War and Peace."
Dean mutters something, but crawls into bed, gets himself settled, and reaches for the light.
Sam can see his fingers twitching. Bobby's house is safe ground, always has been--but this is the side of the house that faces away from the security lights of the salvage yard, so it's also dark. There's no light outside their window at all. This room has always been that way, but it's been years since they've slept up here.
"Don't," Sam says, and Dean freezes. There's a flash of terror in his eyes, terror that Sam's figured it out. "I need it, remember?"
Dean relaxes. As far as he knows, his secret is safe another day. "Sorry. Forgot." He pulls up the covers--an old quilt that Sam thinks he remembers from the first time they stayed here. "Night, Sammy."
"Night." Sam rolls onto his side, away from his brother, and looks at his hand where it rests on the mattress. The top cover on his bed is another old quilt, but the sheets look new. He wonders if they feel new. He can't tell. He can't even smell whether or not they're new. Does Bobby actually own anything new? Even the wheelchair looks used, and that lamp looks like it might have belonged to Bobby's grandparents.
But Dean will be able to sleep, as well as he ever does, anyway, and that's something.
Chapter 4