Prompt: Something's up with Dean, and he isn't exactly willing to tell Sammy about it.

This was written for Greta, who's always giving me great hurt!Dean fic recs. I wanted to repay her in some way so I came up with this little thing. One of roque_classique's fics was my template for this one.

Reflecting back on it, Sam thinks it probably started with the headaches.

Growing up with Winchester as your moniker meant not showing weakness ever, unless your guts were hanging out of your stomach. No complaining, no crying. It's because of this code that Sam is extremely well-versed in Dean's subtle signs of pain. There's the "I just cracked a rib" gasp, the "Yeah, that's a concussion" grunt, the "Pretty sure my arm's not supposed to look like that" grimace, and so forth.

Right now, Dean's giving the "Jesus fuckin' Christ, this is a bitch of a headache" wince. They're flying down I-97, through Maryland, and Dean's hands are gripped tight around the Impala's steering wheel, pain lines visible around his eyes and lips pressed together tightly. The sky's cloudy, sun nowhere in sight, but Sam notices that Dean's leaning forward just a tiny bit, different from his usual driving position. Sam frowns. Something in the back corner of his mind nags at him and he knows something's off about Dean, more than just a headache.

He opens his mouth to voice his thoughts when Dean shoots him an annoyed glance. "The f'ck you starin' at?" he says, voice gruff, and Sam's concern morphs into annoyance as his brother chucks the map in his direction and barks at him to find the next exit.

About half a month later, they have a minor car accident.

Nothing serious, really. They'd been heading back from a routine salt-and-burn in Fairfield, Connecticut. Dean didn't seem to notice the merge coming up ahead until Sam yelled, at which point he jerked and drove the Impala onto the side of the road, where they bounced to a stop in the grass.

Sam almost starts to yell but Dean's expression is something Sam's never really seen before, something like a mix of fear and dawning realization and maybe something else, but Sam's not really sure. He changes gear mid-sentence, comforts instead of berates.

"Hey, man," he says, hand reaching out. He loses courage halfway and lets him hand drop on the dash instead of his brother's shoulder. "You just didn't see it, s'fine-"

"I know," Dean snaps. "I- you know what, fuck it-" He fumbles for a second and then tosses the keys to Sam. "Here."

Sam catches the keys on reflex but his mouth goes slack. "I- you- what?"

"I-" Dean swallows roughly, clearing his throat like he's preparing to say something he doesn't want to. "I'm tired of driving."

"You're what?" Sam asks, doesn't really register what the hell's happening because Dean not wanting to drive is like the equivalent of Dean not wanting pie.

"Said 'm fucking tired of driving," Dean says, mumbles really, rolling his neck. "Drive all the time," he says, and with that he gets up and comes around to the passenger side.

Sam sits there for about twenty seconds, until Dean smacks a hand against his shoulder. He shakes his head as he slides behind the wheel. Hell, whatever. Dean admitting anything is kind of a nice change in the order of their universe.

But as he starts up the car and looks over at Dean rubbing his forehead and clenching his eyes shut, he thinks for a moment that Dean didn't really admit anything.

A week after Dean's giving Sam the keys, they go to some run down thrift store to restock on shirts. They're in eastern Pennsylvania, and Sam's been driving ever since that night in Connecticut.

They scan through the racks, picking up t-shirts, when Dean picks up an orange shirt with turtles printed all over it, slings it over the small pile of tops in his arms. Sam snorts, going back through the racks. Dean looks intently at him, puzzled. "What?" he asks.

Sam gives him a look and shakes his head, about to give some smart-ass comment about marine life, but he stops short because the look Dean's giving him is pure confusion.

"I-"he swallows, looking at the shirt and then back at Dean. "The shirt, man, you serious?"

Dean looks down and his hand hovers above the revolting orange shirt. "This?"

"Nah, the other one with Franklin the turtle all over it."

"I-" Dean clears his throat, gives a poor semblance of a laugh. "'s for you. What, not your style?"

Sam wants to laugh, but it all feels off, feels like he's missing something. Then Dean decides to chuck a lacy thong at his face and he's too busy being indignant to care.

In Aurora, Minnesota, Dean gets mauled by a Wendigo. Sam finishes the creature off and tries not to panic as he drags his almost-whimpering brother into the Impala and back to their vividly yellow motel room.

The fluorescent lights overhead cast an unsettling starkness over everything, highlighting his brother's pale face and his blood soaked t-shirt, the scarlet contrasting oddly with the yellow of the walls. Sam swallows hard, wiping down Dean's wound, and can't really help himself, says again, "How did you miss that shot?" and yeah, it's kind of an asshole thing to say when his brother's right shoulder is pretty close to shredded but he really doesn't get it, can't wrap his mind around it. It's not like Dean's shot barely missed, it just flat out missed. Shot right over the thing's head and into the trees.

"I don't know," Dean says for the umpteenth time, and it's even weirder that Dean doesn't sound pissed. He doesn't even look defensive, which, if anything, freaks Sam out a little more, because Dean is just sitting there and looking a little bit scared, peering into Sam's face with wide dark green eyes.

"We'll work in more target practice, yeah?" Sam says, going for joking, but Dean just nods, closing his eyes and sighing a little as Sam starts stitching.

Normally, Sam would label this as an off-night but he's not stupid, knows something's off, has been off since Dean quit driving.

He just doesn't know what.

Dean breaks down when Sam breaks his arm in Michigan, open fracture to the ulna. He doesn't see it, but the hospital staff tells him.

"I dunno what happened," says Allison, his post-op nurse. She places his lunch across his lap, fluffing up his pillows. "He was just, like, sitting there quietly and we kept telling him you were gonna be fine. I dunno if he was listening, really…but then he started crying, like, a lot." She snapped her gum once, bit her lip. "Maybe he should, like, talk to someone? It seemed pretty… bad, Sam. Just thought I'd tell you."

"I- yeah, thank you," Sam says, doesn't know what the hell to think. Because Dean seemed okay when he'd seen him after he'd woken up. A little pale, maybe. And he wouldn't shut up over apologizing for missing yet another shot, which has been happening so much lately that Sam thinks yeah, maybe he should talk to someone about Dean because something is wrong. He can feel it. Not supernatural wrong, just wrong. And it's scaring him.

When Dean comes in a few minutes shy of the end of visitation hours, Sam mentions it.

"What's wrong, man?"

Dean starts, looks up from where he's been tracing circles onto the thigh of his jeans. "What?"

"I…you…there's something up, man. Something's wrong. Things are different, have been, I mean, since…" he squints, tries to think. "Since you gave up driving."

Dean's eyes do that weird thing they do whenever a conversation isn't headed the way he wants. "I've told you, I'm sick of-"

"Yeah, bullshit."

Dean looks like he's going for angry, but ends up looking frightened. "Morphine, dude, that shit always makes you loopy. I'll come back when you're sobered up."

Sam just sorts of stares at his retreating figure because fuck, even Dean's walk is different. His brother's always been full of grace (not that he'd ever say that because Dean would punch his lights out for labeling him with such a girly adjective) and he walks with purpose. But now, Dean exits slowly, one hand going out to brush against the doorframe, like he's not sure where he is.

It's weird.

When Sam's released a few days later, he walks through the lobby's automatic doors and takes a breath of air that doesn't smell like antiseptic, looks around for the Impala. That being said, it's kind of a shock when a cab pulls up in the roundabout and Dean climbs out.

"The hell?" Sam says, jaw slack but Dean only says "Get in," and there's something frightening in his eyes so Sam gets in. They don't talk, not during the ride to their motel, not as Sam lets Dean settle him onto one of the beds.

Dean goes to get a glass of water for Sam's pain meds and Sam watches him as if mesmerized because Dean carries the water like it's precious, and it's almost funny.

He walks slowly to Sam's bed and misjudges the distance to the side table and the glass shatters as it hits the floor and they both flinch.

"Chirst,"Dean says breathlessly, kneels down to clean up, but once he's crouched down he doesn't do anything, just kind of leans forward so that his forehead touches Sam's bed and makes this noise that Sam recognizes instantly, the noise that Dean made whenever he was trying not to cry. Sam feels panic rear up in the back of his throat.

"Dean," he says, hand hovering until it comes down on Dean's cheek. He brings Dean's face up and feels his chest tighten because Dean's eyes are wide and sparkling with tears. "Dean, man, you're scaring the fuck outta me right now, tell me what's wrong, what's-"

"I'm sorry," Dean forces out, raises a shaking hand and runs it over his face. "Fuck, I'm so sorry Sammy, I'm sorry, I-"

"For what?" Sam says, words riding a fake laugh out of his mouth. "For my arm? Dude, that wasn't your-"

"It was," Dean says, takes in a scary, shuddering breath. "It fucking was, I missed the shot, I don't even know why I'm still using a gun, I shouldn't be using a gun, coulda killed you a million times, Christ, why am I still using a gun, why do I even have a knife, oh my fuck-"

"What the hell are you saying?" Sam says, and he feels like he's choking or something because Dean never sounds like this.

And suddenly Sam doesn't want to hear it but Dean says, "I have this condition." He exhales sharply, covers his eyes with both hands. "This-this eye condition."

"'This eye condition?'" Sam repeats, and even as he says it, the last few months swing on a vine before his eyes and it's like an epiphany almost- Dean doesn't drive, Dean misses shots, Dean drops things, Dean's-

"Blind. 'M going blind, Sammy."

This is the first thing i've written in like a year haha, so please excuse the fact that the format is almost exactly the same as roque classique's :p. I'm open to hurt!dean prompts!