Heart Language

By EB

©2006

Second Chakra: Water

Dean is discharged from the hospital early on the third day. Watching him fumble his way into his shirt, Sam thinks they’re not much better off now than when they arrived. No one has any answers, at least none that suit. Dean’s doctors say his eyes are fine. His ears are fine. His brain is as close to fine as it ever has been.

There’s nothing wrong with Dean. Except he is profoundly blind and deaf, and Sam wonders just how in the hell they’re gonna make it now.

"Is this inside-out or anything?" Dean asks. It’s said with a smirk, but there’s an undercurrent there, uncertainty, anxiety, a whole lot of other emotions Dean would normally never allow to show. He can’t temper his tone any longer, can’t bluff his way through. He has no idea how much is bleeding through, and Sam hasn’t tried to tell him yet.

Instead he pats Dean’s shoulder a couple of times. They’re developing a kind of half-ass code. Finger-spelling is fine if there’s real information to be imparted, but much of the time all Dean really wants is reassurance. His clothes aren’t on backwards, his hair is all right, he doesn’t have sleep-boogers in his eyes or toilet paper stuck to his shoe. Reminders that he’s going the right direction, that he won’t bump into something or someone. Reminders that Sam’s right there.

So the pats mean "fine." They also mean "forward," and a few other things they’ve mutually agreed upon. A squeeze – to Dean’s hand, shoulder, wherever – means "stop," and also "no," and depending on the circumstances, "quiet," because Dean tends to trumpet things instead of saying them. Instead of getting softer, he’s gotten louder over the past few days, and Sam is starting to wonder if Dean is kind of forgetting what it’s like to hear.

Dean himself had said it last night. Blurting out, in the way he has begun to blurt such things, that he really missed music. "I mean, I can play this shit in my head, you know? But it’s not the same. It’s so quiet in here."

It hadn’t lasted, that moment of revelation, but now Sam thinks about what that means. If Dean’s letting these things actually show here and there, it has to be the tip of the iceberg. What’s it really like? He has no concept of it, can’t even begin to do more than haltingly imagine how Dean feels now.

"All righty." Dean’s favorite nurse, Shonda, bustles in, and Sam smiles at her. The night staff hasn’t been so great dealing with Dean’s handicaps, but the day nurses are pretty damn good, and Shonda’s the best of them. Perky, unfazed, and Dean no longer flinches when she touches him to inform him she’s speaking to him.

Today she’s carrying Dean’s discharge papers, and doesn’t fidget or glance at her watch while Sam gets Dean situated and positions his hand so that he can sign in the appropriate places. "Has the social worker been by?" Shonda asks.

Sam nods. "She told us about some classes and stuff. And she brought him that." He nods at the candy-striped cane leaning against the wall. Dean had so much trouble unfolding it that he now keeps it open, even though he hasn’t got a clue how to actually use it yet. Just holding it, the woman had told them, communicated the fact that Dean was deaf and blind. Although she’d elided it – deafblind.

Sam had expected an outburst at that. It hasn’t come yet. Maybe Dean’s waiting until they’re in their own space again. Who knows?

Three different nurses accompany them on the ride downstairs. It’s nice, and Sam feels a hot curl of anxiety, wondering how Dean will do – how HE will do – once they’re on their own. With people around, he can pretend they know what they’re doing. Alone, he hasn’t got a clue.

Shonda kisses Dean on the cheek, and grins when he points at his lips. "My husband would kill me," she says. But she goes on tiptoe again and presses her cheek to his so he can feel her smile, and Dean’s is pleased.

---

Something happens to Sammy once they’re in their motel room. Dean doesn’t know what it is, but the air feels different, the touch of Sam’s hand is way different.

"What’s going on?" Dean asks.

Sam draws a question mark in Dean’s palm, and Dean sighs.

"Look, I know this isn’t what you signed on for. Okay? We just gotta – figure things out, that’s all. Figure out who or what did this to me."

There is a really long pause. And then Sam obviously sighs, and starts to spell, U thnk its supernatural?

"Well, what else could it be? Somebody put a whammy on me. It’s nothing physical, so that’s gotta be it. Who’d we piss off?"

Sam’s finger doesn’t spell anything back, and Dean fumbles to touch his face. No smiles today. Sam’s features feel tight, motionless.

"What? Tell me!"

It takes a while. That’s one thing that Dean thinks, no matter how long he remains deaf and blind – and he sincerely hopes it isn’t more than about ten more minutes, although he’s starting to lose a little hope on that score – he’ll never ever get used to how long it takes to communicate. He might never have realized just how slow it is, until the social worker, Carol, showed up. Her finger-spelling was light and fast, and confident in a way Sam’s is not, and for a while Dean had felt as if he was almost – almost – having a real conversation.

And she’d mentioned signs, and the idea that there is an option out there that allows shorthand, no more laborious spelling-out, is kind of encouraging.

But right now, Sam is slow and deliberate, and Dean thinks again how very much touch communicates beyond words. Sam is careful because he wants to make sure – dead sure – Dean understands what he’s saying. If Dean could see, he knows what expression Sam would be wearing right now. The little wrinkle in his brow, mouth tight with determination. He can see it, like a photograph.

"Its calld functional vision and hearing loss. Theres no physiologicl cause."

Dean sits very still, even after Sam stops tracing letters. "That’s it? What, there’s no cause? Bullshit. There’s a cause. They just didn’t find it, because they didn’t know where to look." Dean smiles, puts his free hand over Sam’s. He’s getting the hang of talking without hearing. "We do, Sammy, don’t you get it? Now we can get to work."

Long and slow: "U cant work now. R u kidding?"

"Well, I can’t read the newspapers and shit, but I can BE there. Hell yeah."

"Ill do it."

"Obviously, but dude, I can help. I didn’t lose brain cells along with my senses, you know?"

Sam takes so long this time to reply, it’s pretty clear he feels badly. "Sry. Its complicatd."

"Duh. Come on, Sam."

And then fierce letters, drawn hard and fast, nearly as fast as Carol’s: "What if we gt separatd? I cant help u then. No Dean. Let me do this."

"We won’t get separated. Look, you have to let me be a part of this. It’s my EYES, dude! MY ears!"

Sam doesn’t spell anything at all. His hand loosens, then slips out of Dean’s grasp entirely.

"What, that pisses you off? It’s the truth, Sammy!" Dean tilts his head, trying to imagine where Sam is sitting exactly, trying to see him with his blind eyes.

But after a moment, he can’t quite remember where Sam was sitting. He doesn’t sense Sam any longer. Must still be in the room, didn’t have the little wave of hot outside air with the door opening. Bathroom? Why doesn’t he give a warning? Something?

"Sam, come on." Dean’s mouth is suddenly dry. "I’m not – an INVALID. We’ll be careful, okay? What?"

There’s nothing. And all of a sudden he knows the room is empty except for himself. There is no one here. He is alone. No idea how, Sammy maybe fucking BEAMED out, but Sam is GONE.

---

It’s instinct to be careful sitting down. Like Dean could still hear the creak of a chair. Sam sits slowly anyway, heart still thudding with anger and frustration.

So fucking STUPID. Not an invalid? What does Dean think he is, anyway? Superman? Christ, as if this weren’t hard enough without Dean being so – Dean-ish.

It’s anger that made him back away: If you won’t look at it rationally, I will force the issue. And for a few minutes it feels weirdly GOOD. Dean is just sitting on the bed, talking and then shutting up, because he IS alone. Sam’s way over here, there’s no movement, no nothing to let Dean know he’s around. It’s painfully easy to isolate Dean. Just walk away. Make no vibrations, don’t move the air – and there are no cues for Dean to interpret.

Then Dean’s face crumples, and he stands up. Hands splayed in front of him, knee edging along the side of the bed for direction. He moves so slowly, like an old man, and it hurts Sam’s heart to see that. Clashes with the righteous anger in his chest, mixes with frustration and a weird kind of satisfaction. I TOLD YOU SO. But you wouldn’t listen. Now let’s see how well you do. Mr. Self-Sufficiency, how will you handle this?

He hangs on to those feelings for a little while. Long enough for Dean to shuffle to the dresser, barely catch the lamp before it teeters over. To hear Dean’s fast, scared breathing.

Then Dean opens his mouth, and all Sam can do – will let himself do – is listen.

"You can do this. You can fucking do this, you loser. Suck it up. He’ll come back. Pissed him off, that’s all."

Sam feels gooseflesh popping out on his arms. It’s a funny, quiet voice, a mutter really, mumbled like a mantra.

"He’ll be back. He won’t leave me like this. It’s all cool. It’s doable." He uses the line of the dresser to guide himself left, until that’s gone and there’s an open space to the vanity beyond. He’s going to run into the luggage rack. Sam can see it, tenses in his chair, and Dean’s toe hits the rack and he stumbles, flails and staggers forward and catches himself on the sink. It’s not an easy landing. Sam winces and stands, taking a couple of steps. Enough of this.

"Where did he go?" Dean asks clearly. "Why did he go? I’m sorry, Sammy, please."

Sam forgets to breathe, because this is more than Dean mumbling to himself. This is more than Dean’s unconscious sounds: this is Dean’s inner monologue, and it’s not new. It’s old, it’s so very old, and Sam has to close his eyes for a second, wishes he’d go suddenly deaf, too, because hearing that inner voice so rough with fear and loss is like having his entire body rubbed raw with sandpaper, agony in every nerve. Dean clinging to the vanity with all his fears laid bare. It’s wrong, it’s – intimate – and Sam CAUSED this, caused so very much of it, and it can’t continue. No more lessons. No.

Dean flinches so wildly when Sam touches him that he reels a little to the left, comes up hard against the wall. Right hand clawing the air, finding Sam’s shirt and grasping, shaking like a leaf.

"I’m sorry," Sam groans, reaching up to clench his hands in Dean’s shaking shoulders. "That was fucked up, I’m so sorry, Dean."

"You left me alone," Dean whispers. His staring eyes are dry, and so filled with shock, with fear and pain that Sam feels it like a knife sliding cold and sharp into his belly. "You left me."

His own hands are shaking so badly he has trouble disengaging Dean’s grip, flattening his palm. Spelling, THIS IS WHY. OK?

"I don’t understand," Dean says wildly. "What?"

Why u cant do this with me. Do u understand?

Dean freezes in place. Then a whispered, "Bastard."

Sam nods fast, yanks Dean’s hand up to flatten against his cheek and nods more, fast.

"S-scared me."

"Truth. U r blind and def. U cant DO THIS."

Dean jerks away, misses the door jamb and takes a step into the bathroom before finding the wall with his hand. "That was fucking LOW, Sammy," he says, and there’s no anger in that tone, just hurt, shock. "Asshole. You’re an ASSHOLE."

Sam draws a deep breath and reaches out for Dean’s wrist, clings when Dean yanks against his hold. "Truth hurts," Sam spells out viciously. "Deal."

Dean’s bewildered blind eyes cross Sam’s face, wander over his right shoulder. "Something Dad would do," he whispers.

It’s Sam’s turn to flinch.

---

It doesn’t matter that right now he can see Sam had a point. Yeah, if they get separated, Dean is screwed. Never mind. The hurt’s so sharp it’s like something’s come untethered behind his sternum, something he can’t live without, reaching up and grasping his throat until he can barely swallow, and he can’t figure out how to make it stay put again.

And what really sucks is that he should be pissed, pissed as hell, but all he can grab onto is fear, and sadness.

When Sam grabs his hand again he wants to pull away. Fucker.

"It was low. I admit it. Out there it will only b worse!" The dot on the exclamation point digs hard into Dean’s palm.

Stop POUNDING on me, Dean thinks, and Sam’s finger prints, ONLY WAY U WILL LISTEN!

"I CAN’T LISTEN!" Dean cries. "I can’t HEAR YOU!"

Hell of it is, he can’t get away from Sam, there’s nowhere to go even if he could figure out how the hell to get there, and Sam’s printing is fast and deft. LET ME. Pls, Dean.

Dean leans against the hard surface to his right, thinks it’s either the bathroom door or the wall, but he can’t really tell right now. He hates the dark, savagely, hates the silence even more. So alone, so goddamn ALONE. "You’re such an asshole," he says.

And he hates how much of a relief it is when Sam drops his hand and grabs onto him instead. Hate this fucking demonstrative thing, don’t NEED it, but right now Sam’s strong body is the only thing keeping him sure he’s alive, here, that he fucking EXISTS, and Dean leans his face awkwardly against Sam’s shoulder, smells his shirt and his fucking too-long hair and closes his useless eyes.

---

What hurts is, Dean’s right. It was a low-down underhanded thing to do. A DAD thing to do. The kind of shit he pulled when they were kids, flinging them out into metaphorical deep water and yelling at them to swim.

He left Dean dog-paddling, to prove a point, and he sees the shittiness of it even as he thinks, And how much worse would it be out there chasing whatever did this to him? How much worse would it be if I didn’t do it now?

Dean is pulling away, face twisted with anger and hurt and fear, but even at arm’s length he keeps his fingers twisted into Sam’s shirt, keeps that connection. And seeing it hurts Sam’s heart.

He puts Dean’s hand on his face and says clearly, "I’m sorry."

"Prick. I don’t think even Dad would have done that."

"Yes, he would," Sam whispers. Sighs, and takes Dean’s reluctant hand again. Patiently spelling: Yes he would. 2 prove a pt. Sorry. I am sorry Dean.

"Screw sorry," Dean says. "If you go –"

He doesn’t continue. Doesn’t have to.

"U would b OK. But not going 2 happen."

Dean says nothing. Does nothing. Just stands there, hunched small against the bathroom wall, staring into space over Sam’s shoulder.

"Talk 2 me. What?"

Dean shakes his head slowly, and Sam sighs. "OK. Need 2 do research. U tired?"

"No."

But it’s a lie. Dean looks done in, like a man recovering from a critical surgery. He doesn’t object when Sam steers him by the elbow out of the bathroom, over to the bed.

By the time Sam has the laptop booted up – for what research, he doesn’t yet know, but it feels good to do SOMETHING – Dean is passed out on the bed, turned in Sam’s direction, one hand outstretched toward him as if some sort of invisible thread connects them, even this far.

Grimly Sam wonders if maybe it does, and turns to open his browser.