Supernatural, all audiences, future-fic.
 

(4,267 words)

The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW and to Kripke. 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.

§And thou shalt grope at noonday, as the blind gropeth in darkness, and thou shalt not prosper in thy ways; and thou shalt be only oppressed and spoiled continually, and there shall be none to save.§ 

Deuteronomy 28:29

Ned from the garage called just after it happened. Sam almost ignored the call, so close to finishing a chapter, but it was rare that anyone called during the day; usually only ever either Dean or his father. John to talk to him, see how he was doing; Dean called because he planned to stop on the way home -- do they need anything, how did Sam feel about chicken for dinner, or Chinese, or pizza, which meant Dean had a rough day and didn't want to cook. 

The call came in mid-afternoon: too early for Dean; John usually called in the morning, both he and Sam early risers by nature. Dean was more of get-up-early-by-necessity kind of guy. 

So, Sam almost didn't answer it. Telemarketers and charity organizations called during business hours or during dinner.

There was no sense of prescience that made him pick up his cell, no sense that there was a pattern being broken. 

"Mr. Winchester? Sam? It's Ned, from Howards."

It didn't register at first. "Hi, Ned. What's up?"

"There's been an accident--"

Later Sam would swear he saw it then, as Ned spoke, as he told the tale in frantic, quick words, probably trying to be reassuring, but unable to tell a tale from end to beginning. He had to go in order.

"--so, Bill -- Mr. Howard, is on his way over to pick you up, take you to the hospital, okay? Mr. Winchester? Sam?"

He didn't see it. Ned's words hummed in his ear like a song he couldn't get rid of. Dean finishing up a job, crossing the bays with a clipboard. The driver didn't see him, backed up too fast, watching the service man motioning him over the bay. 

It was a twelve foot drop from deck to underbay. It was racks and wires and tools and metal step ladders. Sam didn't see it before but he could see it then, all shadows and sharp edges, open pit and slick sides. He knew exactly how Dean would twist, that he'd protect his head like their father taught him. He knew the sound of Dean's body hitting floors: wood, concrete, metal, stone -- he'd heard them all, echoes of meaty thumps and grunts of pain. 

"He was still talking when they loaded him up. Made Bill promise he'd come get you."

"I'll be on the porch." 

"Okay. He's on his way. EMT's say he was lucky."

Sam isn't sure luck had anything to do with it.

He folded up his phone and put it on his desk. Leaned forward and stopped, unable to remember where he left his cane. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair and the heavy book in his lap slid forward, hit the floor with a thump. He'd lost his place. 

He couldn't quite remember where the key to pause the recording software was on the keyboard and his fingers were numb and unable to read the Braille markers. 

He got up, using the desk to leverage himself out of his chair and nearly fell as he tripped over the book at his feet. He heard his cane clatter to the floor and he ended up on his hands and knees anyway, reaching for it, seeking it out with fingertips. It skittered away when he sought too hard and he finally gave up, got up, and made his way by feel, stopping at the doorway before he took a step. He had to count. He had to count his steps along the length of the hall, past his own bedroom, past the bath, past Dean's door. 

He went up and down the stairs several times a day, but the first step down felt too long of a drop, like the tread has fallen through and he gripped the railing with both hands, going down sideways, surprised when he hit bottom. 

It was a wonder he didn't kill himself trying to get downstairs. He got turned around at the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he needed his coat, if Dean took his. If it was cold outside or warm.

He opened the door to a chill, stumbled back to find his coat, but couldn't tell which of the wool ones was his. He lost count and had to start again: His were on the left, Dean's on the right, alphabetical in case he can't tell from feel: Corduroy, Fleece, Raincoat, Wool. In the spring Dean swapped them out for him, put up the lightweight cotton jacket, his nylon wind-breaker, pulled the wool lining out of his long raincoat.

His fingers didn't want to count, nor tell him which was which until they closed over the old leather one that Dean never wore any longer. The lining was torn, one shoulder seam starting to pull free. Dean had a new one, but refused to let this one go and hung his own coats one on top of the other and never swapped them out like he did Sam's. The old leather one was always hung in the middle. 

His wool coat should be next to it but he pulled the leather down instead, even though it had always been too short for him and too tight across the shoulder (and why the seam was ripping).

His keys were less of a problem, the only ones left in the bowl, his wallet the only one next to them. He didn't lock the door, not trusting himself to know which key by touch or number. Five steps from door to porch edge, but he took more than a dozen; small, tiny steps, arms out to catch the columns. The steps were right in front of the door, so he had to take two big steps left or right to come up to the side where the railing is.

He found the step-off and the column at the same time, ended up on his ass with one palm pressed to the stone base of the column, the other flat on the floor. There was a twinge in his knee and a jar to his spine and he sat. Waited.

He was waiting still when Bill arrived, pulling up to the curb. Sam knew it was him, but he stayed on the steps, waited for Bill to come get him. 

"Hiya, Sam," Bill said. "Sorry about all this, but he's a tough son of a bitch. Banged up-- Ned told you, right? Might have broken a leg, and still he bitched the whole time about not needing to go to the hospital."

"He would."

"You ready to go?" Bill asked and it took Sam a moment to realize Bill was waiting for him to stand up, to come down and meet him.

Five steps down, watch the bottom-- the sidewalk was uneven. He stumbled when he miscounted, felt Bill catch his arm, steady him. "Let's not have two of you busted up," Bill said. "You show up bruised and Dean's likely to kick my ass."

"Hard to do with a broken leg."

"Your brother would find a way," Bill said, and his voice was steady -- steadier than the ground Sam walked on, steadier than the earth tilting under his feet. "Curb now. Let me get the door -- got the roof?" Bill said, awkward but making sure Sam didn't stumble again, or whack his head as he felt his way into the passenger seat of Bill's truck. He kept up a litany as he drove, talkative like Bill usually wasn't. "Neither of you be worrying about this. Workman's comp'll cover it. I'll call 'em as soon as I know he's okay. Dave gave us his insurance information too -- just didn't see him and he's sorry like you wouldn't believe."

"It was an accident," Sam said when Bill went quiet. "Just an accident."

"It was. Dumb like most, but I swear, Sam, your brother's the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met. Half a foot either way -- well, damn. Didn't mean that. He's gonna be fine. You two aren't to worry if he's laid up a bit. You need something done -- stuff picked up. My Gloria's already fixing up some food to put up..."

"We'll be fine. Thank her for us…" Sam said, concentrating on Bill's babble. He'd lost track of where they were, the turns they'd made. He'd been to the county hospital before, thought he knew the way, but the drive, like the stairs, seemed too long. 

He should call his father and reached for his phone, only to realize he'd left it in his office. Couldn't remember the number because he spelled out "Dad", speed dialed it. 

Bill ran out of things to say, muttered occasionally as he drove.

Sam reached up to push his hair off his face. He'd forgotten his glasses too.

He hadn't seen this. Hadn't seen it soon enough to warn Dean. He should have been able to warn him. 

They took a sharp tight right, slowed considerably and finally parked. "Right at the door," Bill said and got out. Sam fumbled for the handle, found it and managed to get the door open and stood there, listening. "Ah, damn it," Bill muttered from some distance away. "Sorry, Sam. Come on now, got a curb, some grass, little slope. I shoulda parked closer, let you out and come back. I don't know how to--" 

Sam found his arm, hooked his own through it. "Just tell me if I need to step down or up," he said, trying to keep the impatience from his voice. Bill wasn't used to leading a blind man around.

Sam wasn't used to being this blind. 

The change in sound and temperature almost made him stumble again, with nothing under his feet: hollow-echo sounds off solid walls, a blast of warmth; the unmistakable scent of hospital cleaners, disinfectants, voices too numerous to identify, moving in and out of his range every time he turned his head. Bill lead him like someone unused to leading, turning to get his bearing, stepping forward without warning, apologizing, even as he found the reception desk.

"We done -- Paramedics brought a feller in here, Dean Winchester. This is his brother Sam."

"They'd have taken him to Emergency. Down that hall to your left. He's not in the system yet. They must still be checking him in."

"Thank you," Sam said and they moved again, Bill remembering half a second after he stepped away that Sam couldn't read his mind.

"Look, we'll get back there and I'm gonna find you someplace to sit while I find out where he is. May be doing some tests, but I'll find him and you stay put."

"That's fine, Bill." Sam concentrated on keeping up with Bill's quick steps; the man moved fast for all that he was a good deal shorter than Sam and a couple or three decades older. It got louder with voices, the clatter of machinery being wheeled across linoleum floors, announcements overhead, and the beep and hum of any number of monitors. 

"Here ya go, son," Bill said and guided Sam's hand to the arm of a chair. "You just sit tight. Looks like they've got quite a crowd here. Musta' been something big."

Sam didn't even want to know what it was.

It was almost too much: too much everything - sounds, smells, he was sure he could even detect changes in light, except that it was unlikely that the light was changing at all, just the too fast beat of his heart, the too shallow breaths he was taking. He had no sense of space or location. There was no wall at his back, just a reverse line of similar chairs, someone sitting behind him, next to him. He turned his head, and heard a small gasp of shock. He shifted his gaze forward again, not wanting the sight of him to cause more distress to people already as wrought up as he was. 

He'd tried to find Bill's voice among all the others, but couldn't, not sure which way he'd gone. There was a steadily beeping monitor somewhere to the left and behind him, dulled a bit when the screech of a curtain being drawn sounded, but still there. There was the familiar rumble and plunk of a soda machine, almost directly in front of him. Wall then. There was a wall across from him. Maybe chairs between him and it, but he dropped his chin and cocked his head, listening for the shifting of worried limbs on vinyl seats, for the murmur of voices and heard nothing except when people walked in front of him. 

"Excuse me," he said softly to the woman next him. She wore a perfume, a little heavy on the floral. "What's directly in front of us?"

"Uh…"

"Are there more chairs?"

"Uhm, no. Snack machines. A table with coffee…d…do you want some coffee? Something?"

"No. No thank you. Just trying to get my bearings."

"You waiting to see a doctor?"

"No. My brother's here. There was an accident."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Are you waiting? To see a doctor?"

"Oh, no. My son. Broke his arm. Skateboard," she said with a twist of annoyance and worry in her otherwise pleasant voice. "Told him to stay off that hill."

"Maybe now he will. Hallway to the left?"

"Wha--? Oh, yes, at the end of the coffee table. That's where the treatment rooms are. Well, there and behind us…"

"Like a T or like a cross?"

"Like a…uhm, if you go that way -- I mean…it's cross…nurse's station in the middle of all this. I could…do you need to go someplace -- bathroom's--"

"No. Thank you, no. I'm fine. I hope your son gets better quickly," Sam said standing up.

"Thank you, uh--"

Sam listened again, for feet on the floor, then took two steps forward, hand out. The third step brought his fingers  in contact with the slick front of the vending machine, so the halls were minimally a little over six feet. Probably eight to nine, wider where they'd need to move patients through.

Finger tips brushed over plastic, then glass, then metal, the smooth stainless steel of the coffee service table cool under his hand. A draft robbed the air of warmth then stopped again, accompanied by the sound of sliding doors. Emergency entrance to his right at the end of the hall. The monitor behind him faded a bit more.

Less movement, less sound along the corridor, muffled behind screens and curtains and treatment room doors. The wall was textured paper, the rubber bump guard an easy guide. 

Another monitor, this one irregular, with an ugly, underlying whine. Air currents shifted as people walked past him, and he kept his eyes down. Hydraulic doors, somewhere further ahead -- another wing of the hospital, possibly where the labs and operating rooms were. 

He listened for Bill, couldn't find his voice.

"No, look…you want to cast it, cast it. It's been broken before--"

"So your x-rays show. We can reinforce that bone, make it less likely to break again--"

"I'm not planning on falling in a bay again--"

The other sounds faded, Sam using Dean's voice to move forward, pause at a door. Move past. To his right, and no footsteps heralding collision. He found the bump guard again, traced it to the break.

"--six weeks…it's be twice that with just a cast."

"He really, really hates anesthesia," Sam said. 

"I'm sorry, wh--"

"Jesus, Sam…you tell him. Can we just get a freaking cast on this thing and let me get out of here?"

"I'm Sam Winchester, his brother. Doctor?" Sam held out his hand.

It took a moment before his hand was taken; a firm, brief shake. "Miller. Cal Miller. It's a clean break but pinning it would let it heal faster."

"He heals pretty quick. And honestly, anesthesia and Dean don't mix. But mostly, he doesn't want to stay."

Dr. Miller sighed. "All right, gentlemen. I'll put the call into the orthopedic tech. Might be awhile. We've gotten busy. As soon as your friend finishes the admittance papers, we'll get a cast on. I'll send someone in to finish cleaning those cuts. You were lucky, Mr. Winchester."

"Yeah, yeah… I'm feeling it," Dean grumbled with a sigh. Enough sound for Sam to hone in, unsurprised when his fingers closed over the cool metal side of the gurney.

"What's the damage?"

"Broken left leg, cuts and bruises and my shoulder hurts like hell, but I didn't break it. No concussion and how the hell did you find me?" Dean's voice had the tight sound to it that spoke of some pain, but nothing unbearable.

"You're not the quietest guy in the hospital. Where's Bill?" His hand moved up and onto the bed, across the sheet to Dean's face. Dean didn't flinch when Sam's fingers brushed over his cheek, up and along his forehead. There was sweat, maybe a little grit, but no tackiness that spoke of blood, no bandages, large or small, interrupting the smooth skin of Dean's face. He suffered Sam's examination with probably more grace than he had the doctor's. 

"Filling out paperwork so they can do more than just make sure I'm not dying. Which I'm not," Dean added. "It was stupid. I've survived worse." Dean's hand tugged on his sleeve, pulling Sam's hand away from his face. Enough was enough. "That's my coat."

"I was in a hurry."

"Yeah, sorry. Told them to tell you it was nothing."

"They tried.  Coming from you, not a line I was buying."

Dean sighed again, gripped the side railing to shift himself, and Sam found his arm there, giving Dean the leverage he couldn't get with his one leg unable to push. "I fucking hate hospitals."

"I know. Me too," Sam said and left his hand on Dean's shoulder, gentle rub and squeeze. 

"I can't believe you found me. Where's your cane?"

"Forgot it."

"Sam…"

"Dropped it. It's fine, Obviously, I'm here."

"Your palm's all scraped up."

He hadn't felt it. It stung a little now, grit in the small scrapes from trying to slow his fall against the porch column. "Misstep on the porch. Sink?"

Dean hesitated before speaking. "Directly behind you. Soap left, towels right."

Sam found both, let the water warm a bit, patted the scrapes dry. 

"Dean, I got you -- Sam? How the dickens--I thought you were going to stay put?" Bill said, a little indignant and harried. Sam smiled.

"Thought he might be causing trouble. You know how he is."

"Well, he is but--"

"Oh, you two are hilarious."

The nurse came in then, or an admissions clerk, with papers for Dean to sign, and Bill waited too, for awhile. 

"You don't have to stay," Dean said finally, slightly slurred. They'd given him something. "Be awhile."

"How you going to get home?"

"We can call," Sam offered. The nurse had given him the contents of Dean's pockets: wallet, keys, cellphone, still working. He'd broken his reading glasses though. 

"Those stairs of yours are going to be hard to manage."

"Sofa's pretty damn comfortable." Dean's voice was sleepy. "Not like I'm going to be taking a bath anytime soon."

"Be easier to get you back in Gloria's van than the truck," Bill said.

"You don't need to--"

"Hush it, both of you. Sam, you talk to me, tell me what you need done."

There wasn't much, and Bill was on the phone before they were done talking, getting his wife to run over and pull linens, she'd been going over anyway, casserole all ready. A fresh shirt for Dean, sweat pants. Dean fell asleep while they worked out the little things, only to wake up again when the orthopedic tech came in with his cart of gauze and plaster.

They moved Dean to a room after that and when Bill called, Sam told him they were staying overnight at least, over Dean's protests. The nurses moved gently around Sam, let him hold the rail as they moved Dean into the hallway and up two floors. Asked if he'd eaten an brought him a tray while Dean slept. He didn't really taste anything, which was good because he wasn't even sure what he was eating, except for the potatoes. It was a semi-private room but the second bed was empty, and Sam found the bathroom and the visitor's chair in the room with only a couple of knocked shins, pulling the latter close to the side of Dean's bed.

He might have slept a little -- his back told him yes, folded up over the foot of Dean's bed. It was quieter when he woke; dead of night no doubt, and he found Dean's hand where it lay over his chest as he slept, back pierced and taped with IV's.

A nurse came in and spoke softly to let Sam know she was there, but he'd heard her, soft rubber soles of her shoes making a pad-squeak-pad on the floor.  "What time is it?" Sam whispered.

"A little after three," she said and Dean stirred and mumbled while she pulled the IV bag down. "I'll get some more ice water. You need anything?"

"No, I'm good," Sam said, and waited for her to finish her other tasks, pushing the chair back so she could take Dean's pulse, dropping the rail so she could check his circulation above and below the cast that ran from foot to just above his knee. She left the rail down and Sam settled there after she was gone. 

Dean murmured unintelligibly and then settled and Sam put his head back down., one hand resting on the blankets, feeling the hard cast underneath. Dean's chest rose and fell under his other hand, steady and low.

It was a hand on his head that woke him again, wrong angle to be Dean's, big and broad but not heavy. "Me, kiddo. You been here all night?" His father's voice, pitched low.

"Yeah, since yesterday afternoon." Sam sat up, feeling the pull in his back, the stiffness everywhere else. 

"Bill called me. Late. I stopped by the house. I got coffee."

"Better have brought some for me." Dean's voice, still sleep-thick, "Although first…" He pulled himself up, and there was a rattle of plastic against the opposite rail. "A little privacy, dudes."

"Come on, Sammy," John said with a chuckle, and hooked a hand under Sam's elbow, guiding him up and around the bed, past the privacy curtain. Liquid hit plastic and Dean groaned. 

Sam smiled and took the coffee his father offered.

He was pretty sure the sun had come up.

+++++

It was easier with John there, although Sam didn't miscount steps or forget where the walls were. He could manage the coffee pot, and blind or not, he could stand like a rock when Dean needed to get up or down from the sofa, get the crutches under him. Dean grumbled and bitched and moaned about his limited mobility, about being bored.

John couldn't stay indefinitely but he took a week off, got them into a routine, made sure Dean could at least get to the bathroom and back again with minimal assistance. There was more food than even the three of them could eat, and Bill came by with papers for Dean to sign, for the worker's comp and disability. 

Sam finished his book reading and sent the recording off, and Ruth came over at least once a day to help with dishes or laundry or just keep Dean from driving Sam crazy, both of them cooped up in the house.

Well, Dean felt cooped up. Sam no longer felt like the house was bigger than he remembered, found his way around like he had before. Routinely beat Dean at chess but lost at checkers which Dean never, ever understood how it was at all possible.

They didn't want for anything -- between their father and Ruth and Bill and the guys at the shop, groceries came, and the occasional cake or pie.

Three weeks in and Dean sat back after a large serving of Ruth's excellent peach cobbler and burped. "That was the best. I'm going to marry her."

"You should ask her. It would make her day."

"I don't know how you do this."

"Do what?"

"I'm bored out of my skull, Sam. Inside day in and day out."

"Usually, I'm working."

"But you aren't right now and you…"

"I, what?"

"Not freaked at all. Which just proves what a freak you are. I mean seriously, Sam."

Sam found his plate and fork and empty coffee cup and carried them into the kitchen.

Behind him, Dean turned on the TV set and flipped channels.

It had taken Sam a while to figure it out -- why he'd seen nothing. Fatal accidents were all he ever saw. This one had not been. The flurry of the activity at the hospital had been worrisome, but no one had died. One banquet hall full of people with mild food poisoning, lots of sick people, but no deaths. Not related.

Dean had not been dying or about to die. 

It had been an accident; no more, no less.

"Is there coffee left?"

Sam felt for the pot, sloshed the still warm contents around. "Yeah. About a cup."

"What about cobbler?"

"You're gonna be sick."

"I have never, never barfed up good pie. Besides, she made it for me."

Sam found the dish and the plate, and the spoon, instinct and memory leading him where he needed to go. 

Dean centering him to where he was.

Accidents happened. He wouldn't lose his way again.

-end-

5/26/2008