They don't tell Dean about the article. Not yet.

They tackle walking first.

Gabriel holds Dean's elbow while Dean shuffles cautiously across the room and into the hallway, cane in hand, dark sunglasses in place. They'd forgotten them back at the hospital and Castiel had been just this side of bitchy. When Dean stubs his toe for the fifth time on the same corner, he grunts in frustration and throws the cane down. The plastic thing bounces off the hard wood with a clatter and rolls just under the entertainment center.

"This is total bullshit. I feel like some goddamn cripple," he barks, yanking his elbow out of Gabriel's grasp. He stalks with surprising accuracy to the sofa and slumps down. He stares blankly at the wall just beside the TV, listening to Wheel of Fortune. He stays that way for nearly two hours because Gabriel's given up on being pleasant around the asshole that is an invalid Dean Winchester.

"You are a fucking cripple, okay? Get the hell over it, kid. There are people worse off than you," Alistair finally says from the kitchen, where he's fixing some sort of pasta.

Dean glares at him. It's not that it's a truly painful insult, he's used to Alistair's gruff commentary after years of working for him, but he's new to this. "Go fuck yourself with something sharp," comes the harsh, offended retort. Dean crosses his left ankle over his right knee and tries to school his features into less of a wounded animal. He hears a snort to his right that sounds suspiciously like Gabriel and promptly flips the individual the metaphorical bird. "You too, asshat."

"Love you, too, honey."

Yeah. It's Gabriel. The fucker.

Dean falls asleep on the sofa, slouched awkwardly on his side, pinning his brace clad arm beneath him. He's awoken by a gentle hand shaking him. Dean immediately jumps, lifting his free hand as a shield. When no blow, no unwanted touches come, he lowers the hand and opens his eyes, which closed out of instinct. Judging by the nearly imperceptible glow behind the milky white of his vision, he can guess it's pretty late. He yawns and tries to sit up but is interrupted by needlelike pains that shoot through his elbow and crackle through his left side. His gasp seems incredibly loud in the silence.

"Careful, Dean. You've been sleeping on it," a rough, gravelly voice assures. Dean turns his head towards Castiel and winces at the pain in his neck. "I'm not sure why they didn't move you. Come on, I'll help you back to the guest bedroom."

An arm asserts itself around his waist and his own arm, with much useless gasping of pain from Dean, and he's lifted from the sofa, leaning heavily on Castiel. He's breathing hard by the time they make it to the guest room. Dean's still incredibly weak from blood less, rest, and hunger; it's as if he'll never be able to eat enough to make up for all the meals he missed within three years.

Dean's fingers hold tight to Castiel's scrubs, using the other for support. He can feel the slight bulk beneath his hands and is struck, not for the first time, with a deep sadness that he can't see for himself. When he was little, his dad used to tell him 'we look with eyes, not hands. Stop touching shit, you don't have eyes on your fingertips'. But that's really all Dean has now—eyes on his fingertips.

That scares him a bit.

Castiel seems to sense the sudden tension because he pauses after carefully lowering Dean to the low-lying bed.

"Is something wrong?" asks Castiel. Dean's socks are pulled gently from his feet, each time with a gentle hand on his knee or his ankle. He finds the touch comforting, oddly enough.

Dean swallows. "You ever had a blind patient before? Y'know—have you talked with them about what it's like?" he asks. Castiel releases a soft sigh. There's a slight pause and Dean wonders if Castiel's left already, fed up with Dean's whining. He wouldn't blame him.

"May I sit?"

Dean shrugs. "Your house, man." The bed space beside Dean dips and there's more body heat to warm Dean's cold skin. It's chilly in the bedroom, which he prefers, but Castiel's warmth is nice nonetheless. A hand settles reassuringly atop his hands, which are limp in his lap. Dean jerks himself away. Castiel's hands are dangerously close to something Dean has been protecting for the past three years and a short time before that. The hand reasserts itself in a safe, conspicuous spot on his shoulder.

Dean releases a breath, the stale air wheezing past his lips in relief.

"I have had two other visually impaired patients. I can't give much detail as it violates my oath and their privacy, but I can tell you that they're faring well, right now. Both are surprisingly successful—"

"What do you mean 'surprisingly'?" Dean asks, blinking as he turns toward Castiel, following his voice. It's distinct, which he imagines is part of the reason he likes it so much. It's comforting, if not clinical.

Another sigh. "Typically, those who suffer from something as severe as visual impairment tend to have lesser success rates than those who have not. It's mostly psychological, the lack of success."

Looking incredulous, Dean's brows furrow. "That's…That's fucking ridiculous."

Castiel doesn't know if he should assume this is a negative reaction or otherwise. "I admit it's a bit unfair, yes. But—"

"No. No, fuck that. So it's just assumed that blind people aren't gonna succeed? Just because they're blind? I know plenty'a cripples that are successful as hell. 'fore my uncle Bobby died, he was in a wheelchair for months after this really bad junkyard accident. But he was still successful in his business and his marriage and he still could pull his weight. To think that—"

"Dean." Castiel's voice is hard and it forces Dean's mouth closed. It's then Dean realizes his eyes have been watering and his cheeks heating. He breathes heavily and stiffens his upper lip, blinking back the tears.

"What?"

"Stop twisting my words. You make it sound as if I've automatically thrown you in the metaphorical trashcan of the employed pyramid," he says with such conviction that Dean feels a little guilty. "Maybe I should have clarified—in my experience, there have been ups and downs, and the downs outweigh the ups where employed success is concerned."

Dean mulls the information over, then sighs, dropping his head into his hands. "Shit. What if I'm like the majority? What if I can't do shit because of—of this?" Dean emphasizes by removing the sun glasses and pointing at his milky eyes. Castiel's hand shifts and lifts, settling high atop Dean's back. His muscles bunch and coil out of habit.

Castiel's thumb rubs soothing circles through his t-shirt. "If you truly believe you no longer can function within the working world, then that is that. It's simply a matter of: are you willing to try?" Dean tucks his head to his chest and releases a puff of relief. He knows a few choice people who would laugh at his question or dismiss it.

Dean's silence must say something to Castiel. "You'll get there, Dean. I assure you," he says. Castiel pats his shoulder and stands with a grunt.

Dean reaches out blindly and his fingertips graze Castiel's wrist and his mouth opens, shuts, and then opens again. "Cas, I—do you gotta go right now?" he asks. Gabriel and Alistair are at work and he can't stand being alone in this fairly large apartment. With the echoing walls and cold hardwood floors and dangerous glass side tables. He's been Charlie horsed in the thigh far too many times. It stopped being funny after the fourth time in one day.

Dean takes his silence as a yes and releases his wrist.

Castiel stares down at fingers wrapped around his wrist, feels callouses that brush the soft, vulnerable skin of his inner wrist. And then he watches them leave, slither away as if they're a chastised animal, and fall to the bed sheets.

"Dean," Castiel says firmly. "You need to stop assuming things of people. I think no less of you because you are impaired. Do not assume I do."

Dean's empty gaze falls and his Adam's apple bobs repeatedly. Castiel sighs and sets a gentle hand atop Dean's shoulder, feeling the large muscle of his deltoid beneath his fingers. The muscle flexes in response. "In three days you will be cleared for slight exercise and physical therapy. As your assigned physician, it's my job to assure you do so correctly and efficiently."

Dean looks pained and Castiel chuckles softly. "However, I am willing to overlook said requirements and instead take a walk to Cup O'Bliss to greet your fellow employees."

The change in demeanor is almost instant and Castiel knows he's made the right decision.

On the fourth day, Dean brushes his teeth by himself.

"Dean-o. Get up, man, it's time for your meds."

"Wh-? No. Wha'th'fu-?" he slurs, burrowing beneath his blankets, covering his exposed chest and hiding from the chilly air of the room. He cracks an eye and sees it's still dark—early morning dark. The ungodly kind of early morning that makes Dean want to vomit by simply thinking of it. He's groggy as hell from sleeping nearly sixteen hours straight. His arm hurts and so does his leg—especially his leg. It occurs to him, amidst the large blanket of 'I Don't Give a Fuck', that he should take his meds for the pain.

But then again, he's in a blanket of 'I Don't Give a Fuck'.

"Hey, Princess, get the fuck up. I'm not dragging your whiny ass around the house again 'cause you didn't take your pills," Gabriel gripes at him. "Fine. You wanna be that way?" The bed sags beside him and suddenly there's a mountain of large, warm, Gabriel settled atop him and Dean can't breathe.

It's his fault, Dean thinks, that he never told Gabe about his fear of being unable to escape. Not exactly conversation you have over a cup of coffee and definitely not something that just comes up.

Dean squirms and his breathing quickens. He's lying on his stomach so his face is pressed into the pillow and he just manages to his head to the side before he suffocates. He can't find the breath to scream, to say anything, and he's wheezing, and wheezing and—

"Gabriel! Move, now!"

The weight is gone but Dean still gasps noisily into his pillow, eyes wet, his pillow smudged with red from where he's bitten through his lower lip in his terror. He sounds like an asthmatic with his breaths rattling loudly in his lungs.

"Cas, what—"

"Get out. Immediately. I'll speak with you later."

The door opens and shuts and Dean's breath is loud in the room. He's trembling; chest rising and falling rapidly in time with his pounding heartbeat. A large, warm hand settles atop his own bone-white knuckles; his fingers are twisted in the sheets in a desperate attempt to ground him. Solid objects are his anchors. They are real when Dean feels he isn't.

Castiel voice is soft as it washes over the dark room. "Dean? Are you alright?" There's a soft rustle and the sound of a drawer opening and closing. "I have a prescription rescue inhaler. It's yours. Do I have your consent to administer such medication to you?"

Through his wheezing and coughing, Dean manages a nod. Smooth plastic fits between his lips and he automatically breathes in as a helping hand presses down on the canister. The relief is so great; tears prick Dean's eyes and flow down a stubble coated jaw. He's waiting to shave it—he wants to do it on his own. Gentle fingers card through his hair and Dean cries a little harder. It builds until he's clutching the pillow beneath his head as his body shakes with ugly sobs and he works through the panic attack.

Castiel maintains the soft, comforting but distanced, contact.

When Dean finally quiets down, his blurred vision is the slightest bit lighter, with a back light of blues and blacks. He'd be fascinated if he didn't feel sick. Dean's stomach twists in knots, rolling and unrolling. He feels like he's going to hurl.

"What time is it?" he asks hoarsely.

"Five…eleven," Castiel replies. His voice isn't soft like he's just witnessed a distressed animal yank it's foot out of a bear trap; he sounds normal. Like it's a normal conversation they're having. Dean appreciates it much more than he can ever express.

"Shit," he mutters, wiping his eyes. "It's—I haven't had one'a those in forever. Fuck, I'm sorry."

The silence before Castiel speaks sets Dean's teeth against the bleeding, swollen skin of his lower lip. "Don't apologize, Dean. It's not something you can control, as of right now," the doctor assures Dean. Dean doesn't feel reassured. He sighs and sags into his pillow, exhausted, even though he's slept a considerable amount.

His voice is muffled by the cotton against his mouth. "They've never been that bad," he murmurs, guilt licking up his spine to mingle with the shame. He's a grown man kicking and screaming like a toddler. He hates it. Hates who he is, who he's been made into. Hates who made him into this broken, useless asshole of a guy. The tears threaten again and he sniffs with a softly muttered 'goddammit'. Castiel takes it in stride, his hand never faltering in its course through Dean's hair.

"Shh," he shushes softly, scratching lightly through dark blond strands. "This is what I'm here for. To help you with this. We can talk about it whenever you like. Not now, but whenever you'd like. But we have to talk about it some time. How are you feeling, right now?"

He sobs harder as Castiel's voice becomes softer and gentler.

"Scared a-as f-fuck-ck," he finally manages. And then he releases a deep sigh because fuck if his chest doesn't feel so cramped with that off it.

Gabriel avoids him after Castiel explains what happened. Dean sat in, in case anything got misconstrued or Gabriel needed further explanation. Gabriel was so quiet that at one point, Dean asked if he was still in the room. Gabriel had simply given him 'I'm so sorry, Dean-o' and a half-hearted pat on the shoulder.

He corners him in the hallway, able to recognize his gait at this point. He swings his crutches around and whacks the other in the shin with surprising accuracy. Gabriel curses and stumbles.

"Hey, asshole, where've you been?" Dean grunts, irritated.

"Look, Dean—"

"No, Gabe, you look. I get you're sorry and shit, but I kinda need you around right now. And hiding around like a pussy ain't gonna get you any brownie points."

Dean swears he can feel steam pour from his ears in the silence. He's so pissed at Gabriel. Alistair and Castiel can't be around enough to help Dean out, so Dean's left to himself a lot more than he'd like. He can barely make it to the bathroom without banging his knee or his crutch on something sharp or falling over. Goddammit, he needs Gabriel around.

Not just for physical support, either.

Dean feels his own expression crumbling, the anger melting away to exhaustion. He's so damn tired of doing things by himself. Even Dean can admit he doesn't have enough emotional strength to do this alone. He needs help and he's not too proud to admit that…this time around.

Warmth envelopes him and his crutches fall to the side as Dean clings to Gabriel with his good arm, relishing in the familiar embrace. "Missed you, man," he grunts into his neck. Gabriel just nods into his neck, hand rubbing soothing circles into his t-shirt.

Gabriel lets Dean hobble to the sofa on his own, resting his crutches against the wall. The TV rattles on and Dean sits back, content to sit here for hours.

"We are live at Foley Square Courthouse. Samuel Singer, renowned New York lawyer, is currently exiting the building."

Dean tenses, but doesn't move. His breath catches in his throat as he listens.

"—Mr. Singer, is it true you've been accused of domestic abuse?"

"Ah…no comment."

Sam's voice sends shivers and mixed signals up Dean's spine. Dean crosses his arms and squeezes his bicep hard, nails digging into soft skin. He misses that sound. The deep resonance of Sam's voice as he softly wishes him a good night. As he says 'I love you' over and over into the shell of his ear or the crook of his shoulder. As he wakes him up in the morning. He misses his lips against his cheek and his soft hair tucked beneath Dean's chin when they lie together on the sofa. God, he misses him.

The things he doesn't miss are obvious.

"Do you have any idea where your boyfriend might be now?"

"How in the hell does she have the clearance to ask those kinda questions?" Dean half-barks. Gabriel jumps at his outburst.

"Hell if I know. Police said no one would get into the story." Gabriel sounds as upset by the questions as Dean, who is chewing through his lip.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. "—goddammit." The tang of blood spots his tongue.

"—Mr. Singer, do you have any idea where—"

"No. Comment. Don, get them outta my way." Donovan's an old friend to Sam who occasionally serves as a bodyguard. Like that one case when the convict-turned-pastor because a child molester. He threatened to 'end' Sam, so they posted Don. Needless to say, those were the best months of Dean's life. Hard to beat the living shit out of your boyfriend when there's a much larger man in the living room flipping through Entertainment Weekly. Dean wonders if Don supports Sam or if he's just in it for the pay.

Dean wraps himself in the warm, soft afghan from the back of the sofa and maneuvers his head into Gabriel's lap. Coarse jeans brush his cheek and fingers weave softly through his wispy hair. It's growing back in patches. When the stitches are removed and Castiel gives the OK, they plan to buzz it.

"Want me to turn it off?" Gabriel asks softly.

Dean nods. "Put Spongebob or some shit on. Somethin' happy."

"Whatever you want, kid."

When they try walking without an aid, Dean cries.

He can't do this shit.