Marco Polo
Character(s): Dean Winchester
Author: Angel
Warning: None
Word Count: 1,035
“Marco!” Dean calls out to his daughter when she enters the room.
Immediately, the six-year-old’s face lights up. “Polo!” She calls back.
“Marco!”
“Polo!” Hands outstretched, the girl attempts to locate her father by following the sound of his voice.
“Marco!” Whenever she draws near to him, Dean moves to another part of the room.
“Polo!” She adjusts to his changes in position fairly easily.
“Marco!” Eventually, Dean stops moving and lets her come to him.
“Polo!” She moves forward, smiling broadly when she’s able to feel his jeans. “I found you!”
“Good job! Now, go find Sam.”
The six-year-old turns as if to go somewhere but doesn’t take a step. Instead, she stands silently for about three seconds before speaking.
“He’s not in here.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Am I right?”
“Yes. You’re getting too good at this.” Dean scoops up the girl and holds her so that she can wrap her legs around his middle. “It’s not much fun to mess with you anymore.”
The girl giggles and delicately trails her hands up his front until she finds his face, and then she rests her palms on his cheeks. Though her head is level with his, she doesn’t look him in the eye. She can’t look him in the eye. She was born blind, unable to see from day one, and has grown up learning to use her remaining senses to do the work of the one she lacks. The game of Marco Polo is something that the father/daughter duo plays quite often, partially because it’s fun, but also because it sharpens the blind girl’s sense of hearing.
It amazes Dean how well his daughter works without her sight, something that he’s been so dependent on his entire life. At only six years old, the girl’s mental map of the bunker is so complete that she’s comfortable enough to run through the halls as long as she keeps her fingertips on the wall. Even in new places, she’s proven to be able to cope so well that Dean hardly worries anymore. And her uncanny ability to know if someone’s not in the room – seemingly just by going on how the air feels – is almost scary.
“So did you come in here for a reason?” Dean asks.
“I was hearing for you.” She replies, moving her fingers to rest lightly on her father’s mouth so she can feel the way his lips move when he speaks.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“You came in here just to hear me?” Because the six-year-old can’t really ‘look’ for anything, Dean and Sam got into the habit of saying that she ‘hears’ for things, basing the substitution on the fact that her sense of hearing is vital to her.
“Well, I was kind of hoping you would read our story with me.”
“I knew you wanted something.” Dean teases. “Sure, I’ll read with you, but you have to do most of the reading.”
“Okay. I was gonna do that anyway.”
“Go get the book and meet me in my room.”
When Dean sets her down, the girl heads for the door, keeping her hands out in front of her until she reaches the wall. Dean follows her as far as the hallway before heading for his room, and she joins him in a minute, book in hand. She climbs up into the bed, hands the book to Dean, and then settles herself in his lap.
“What chapter were we on?” He asks.
“Three.” His daughter opens the book and searches for the right page.
The only thing that makes the six-year-old happier than being read to is being able to read by herself. It took some searching, but Dean found a few places that made Braille books, and Sam found a way to teach his niece how to read the language for the blind. The book the girl holds in her hands is the newest addition to a small collection of Braille books that Dean’s gotten for her over the years, and she’s been excited to read it since she got it. Between the rows of raised bumps are lines of typed words so that Dean can help her if she gets stuck on a word or take over if she wants a break. This is another aspect of his daughter at which he marvels. The way she can make sense of what to him are just bumps on a page astounds him. Truth be told, he’s a bit jealous.
Ten minutes in, Dean is the one reading. He’s leaned back against the headboard, and his six-year-old daughter has her head resting on his collarbone. One of her hands is over his mouth again, and with the other she’s playing lightly with the folds and buttons of his shirt. After a little while, Dean closes the book and sets it on the nightstand.
“You getting’ hungry?” He asks.
“A little bit. Daddy?”
“What?”
“Why was I born blind?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Something didn’t do what it was supposed to do before you were born, and that made your eyes not work. Why do you ask?”
She shrugs. “Sometimes I get upset because I want to see but I can’t.”
“Being blind doesn’t make you less special than anyone else. Matter of fact, there are a lot of things you can do that most people can’t.”
“Like what?”
“For starters, other than you, Sam is the only person I know who can read Braille, and he isn’t nearly as fluent as you are. Also, you know your way around the bunker better than Sam and I do, and you’re the best Marco Polo player I’ve ever met.” Dean kisses the fingers she’s still holding to his lips. “And baby girl, blind or not, I still love you. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, how about we get ourselves some food?”
The six-year-old sits up, excited. “Will you race me?!”
“Only if you let me have a head start.”
“Nope!” Quick as anything, she’s off the bed and practically tearing into the hallway.
Dean’s up in a split second and takes off after her, knowing she’ll beat him with a smile on her face.