Supernatural, all audiences, future-fic.

The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.

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§...Do thou unto us according to all that is good in thy  sight; only deliver us, we pray thee, this day. § Judges 10:15

Dean washes dishes like he does everything; quickly, efficiently and kind of like he'd like to kill the plates and cups and spoons rather than clean them.

And Sam dries them the same way he does everything; carefully and thoroughly, fingers tracing over edges and grooves to make sure all the water is wiped away, that each piece is dry completely before he puts them away.

The house is spare but comfortable, built some sixty years ago on what had been church grounds, still hallowed, still consecrated. It won't keep everything out but it keeps the more common garden variety of ghosts, goblins and random spirits at bay. The furniture, like the dishes and appliances are all second hand but in good repair. Sam spent a solid month smoothing the edges of a trashed coffee table down to remarkably even curves. He'd used a hand lathe and the touch of his own fingertips. In the spring and summer, Mrs. Hanson next door brings over fresh flowers from her garden every few days, because Sam once remarked how much he liked the way they smelled.

Dean changed her oil for no charge without saying anything to Sam about it.

It hadn't been hard for Dean to find a job at Parson's Full Auto Repair. The town wasn't that big, news got around. Dean liked the work for the most part.

Sam had found a part time gig making recordings for books and CD's. He had his own little set up in what had been a sewing room or nursery in the house, fingers flying over pages and his voice rising and falling in a way that Dean found soothing. He'd pretty much gotten caught up on most of the bestsellers of the last decade listening to Sam reading.

They'd looked for weeks before Sam settled on this house. Dean had been skeptical. Too much yard, too many steps. Too close to town and too close to what had been a graveyard.

But Sam had been sure, had walked up confidently as he rarely was, fingers lingering on the stone railing that led up the half dozen steps to a broad porch. He'd adjusted the dark blue tinted glasses on his nose -- they made him look like a grunge band rocker, Dean told him.

"That's a lot of yard," Dean groused, following him and looking around, still not sure this was the right thing.

"It's not that bad."

"You're not the one who will have to mow it."

Sam only grinned at him. "You don't have to do this."

He meant it too. No hard feelings, no bad blood.  "You suck at guilt."

Sam only grinned again and knocked. "It's not forever," Sam assured him.

Six weeks later, the house was theirs, in his and Sam's names, all legal and tidy and irrevocable. Dean kept expecting the panic to set in; the idea of settling in one place, like, forever, no matter what Sam said.

It hadn't. A year now and Dean realized that it probably never would. For someone for whom the idea of normal once made break out in a cold sweat, Dean was finding it to be remarkably… unremarkable.

Which suited him just fine.

He'd gone out a couple of times, nothing serious, but enough to satisfy him. It kept the speculation on the tip of the tongue of the worst of the town's gossips, a fact that amused Sam to no end.

A year to the day and Sam appears in the bedroom door just before Dean settles in to sleep.  Dean has lost none of his alertness, even if his gun resides in his bedside drawer rather than under his pillow any longer.

"Sam? You all right?" he asks.

"Yeah. Dad will be here tomorrow," he says.

He manages to avoid panic but anger is something else. "Did he call?"

"Not exactly."

Sam has seen it then. "Well, then I guess you know how that's going to turn out."

Sam rests his head on the door frame. "You going to stay mad at him forever?"

Mad is putting it mildly. "Nope. Just until he's dead."

"Dean--"

"Drop it, Sam. You can't see me. I don’t see any reason why he should be able to," Dean says and rolls over.

He knows Sam remains in the doorway for a minute or so longer before making his way back to his office, fingers trailing along the wall to guide himself.

An hour later and Dean is still awake and finally gives up even trying to rest. He moves quietly, pausing outside the office door to listen to his brother's even breathing before pushing it open. Sam's asleep on the couch, an open book in his lap. Dean pulls the light blanket from the chair and spreads it over him, before making his way downstairs.

They don't keep a lot of booze in the house. A twelve pack in the fridge, but there's a bottle of Jack Daniels in the cabinet over the refrigerator. Dean's sparing with it; he doesn't want to get drunk; only to take the edge off, relax a little.

He's on his second when he hears Sam's feet on the stairs.

He pulls down another glass and pours.

"You do get the irony of this, right?" Sam asks him, and holds out his hand so Dean can put the glass in it. "How many years did you try to get Dad and I to come to an understanding, to forgive each other?"

"It's not the same," Dean says and picks up a  book Sam's left on the kitchen table, running his fingers over the raised bumps and patterns. If he closes his eyes and goes slowly, he can read the Braille almost as well as Sam can.

Sam doesn’t have his glasses on and Dean hasn’t turned the lights on but Sam's eyes gleam in moonlight reflected through the kitchen window, milky blue white. The glasses aren't for him or even for Sam -- they're for everyone else who stares and wonders and shakes their heads.

John bought Sam a pair two days after Sam lost his sight, his eyes still watery and swollen, three days before a doctor, an ophthalmologist, and a specialist said there was nothing they could do.

"It's not him you're really mad at," Sam says and sips at the whiskey.

"Yeah, well, punching out my blind brother is pretty lame," Dean says.

Sam chuckles at that and reaches out for one of the kitchen chairs. "He's gonna need your help on this one."

"No." Dean says. He doesn’t care what it is or who might get hurt. Not any longer.

"I'll be fine."

"It's done, Sam," Dean says and screws the top back on the bottle and finishes his own glass in one long swallow. "I'm going back to bed."

He almost makes it but Sam reaches out in the unerring way he has and grips Dean's arm just above the wrist as he passes. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to really.

"Did you call him?"

Sam shakes his head. "If you don't go with him, you'll have to forgive him that much sooner," Sam says into the darkness.

Dean reaches out and slips his fingers through Sam's hair, then bends down and presses his lips to the top of Sam's head. "I'll see you in the morning."

It's an hour before Sam finally comes upstairs. Dean listens to him as he makes his way down the hall again.

He doesn’t sleep. He's pretty sure Sam doesn't either.

"I was wrong. You do guilt really well," he whispers to himself and is up packing a bag before dawn breaks.

~end~

And Tomorrow I Will Let Thee Go

4/23/2006