Facta non Verba 1/2
Jan. 17th, 2013 06:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_lioraTitle: Facta non Verba 1/2
Wordcount: 8,122
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Dean/Sam
Summary: Dean is ten when Sam stops speaking, and the rest is up to him.
Dean is ten when Sam stops talking. Sam’s a good kid, always has been, and Dean’s usually proud of him but when he wakes his little brother for breakfast and Sam doesn’t answer which kind of cereal he wants Dean’s a little annoyed.
It’s too early for Sam to drag his feet or be a hindrance, too early for trouble, because Dean spent all of last night comforting Sam through some kind of nightmare. He’s tired, and dad’s not here to help, so Dean’s all on his own. He narrows his eyes and holds up the two almost empty cereal boxes.
“I said Lucky Charms or Cheerios Sammy. Speak up.” He wasn’t facing Sam the first time, but he is this time. He sees Sam’s lips move, sees his little brother’s face screw up tight and turn kind of red, and to Dean’s horror he realizes Sam’s throat is moving.
He can see the clenching, the tension, as Sam tries to make words come up from inside of him. After several minutes he manages a noise, but it’s not clear what it is. Could be frustration, or terror, or something else entirely but Dean’s feeling all of those things too so maybe that’s just him. He drops both boxes on the floor, not caring that the last of the Lucky Charms explodes outwards, crunching over the debris in socked feet before hitting his knees in front of Sam.
Sammy’s face is still screwed up tight, getting redder by the second as his little fingers move up and start clawing at his own throat. Dean grabs his hands first, holds them back easily and starts talking, because he has no idea what to do right now. “Sammy. Sammy stop. Breathe. Please don’t-oh god please breathe Sammy.”
It takes minutes of his talking, and then Sam’s not pulling his hands away anymore. His fingers are still tense though, and big hazel eyes meet Dean’s with panic still firmly entrenched in them. Dean wants to tell Sam it’s nothing to worry about, but he doesn’t think he can lie that well yet.
Instead he puts Sam’s little hands against his chest so Sam can feel his heartbeat and keeps his brother’s gaze. “I’m here for you Sam. I’m here. I’ll fix it.” When Sam was still a baby Dean figured out that laying his little head on his chest and letting Sam listen to his heartbeat was the best way to get him to sleep. It never surprised Dean, because for a long time the only way he could sleep was by touching Sam to feel him breathing.
Dean finds the list of emergency numbers on the nightstand beside the room’s only phone, and with Sam hovering behind him he scans down them and tries to remember who’s closest. He’d like to get Pastor Jim, because Sam’s always liked the man a lot, but Uncle Bobby is closer and time is more important than comfort. Dad’s not supposed to be back for another three days, and there’s no way to get a hold of him until he does.
Dean listens to the phone ring, taps his little foot impatiently on the floor and then the familiar gruff voice carries over the line. “Singer here.”
Dean closes his eyes for a second, and then there’s a tug on his sleeve, and he glances over to see Sam wide-eyed and pale, shaking like a leaf. He uses his free arm to pull Sam in and then croaks out, “Uncle Bobby?”
He hears a throat clear, imagines a lined hand pulling on a baseball cap, and then Bobby’s taking over and Dean’s so glad he starts crying a little. “Dean? That you boy? There’s trouble ain’t there. Where you boys at?”
Where are they at? Dean knew before Bobby asked, but at the moment his brain is too twisted between relief and fear. It’s hard to focus, but Dean bites his cheek so hard he tastes blood and then he can think clearly again. “Sterling, Colorado. At the Moonlight Motel off 6.”
He can picture the exit they took to get off the highway, can remember how the trees loomed over them as they pulled off into the parking lot. He hasn’t left the room in two days, but it’s all so very clear.
“I’ll be just a few hours. Keep the doors locked boy.” Bobby doesn’t ask what the trouble is. He’s gone in seconds and Dean’s left alone in the room with his little brother.
He drops the phone back on the cradle, turns fully to his brother and sees that Sammy is crying again, face red and screwed up as his mouth works silently. It has to be a curse, some kind of curse that Dean’s never heard of but Bobby will know. And if Uncle Bobby can’t figure it out dad will. Dad knows everything, and when he gets back dad’ll fix Sam up in moments. Dean just has to keep it together until then.
He wraps Sam in his arms, feels how much his little brother is shaking, and just croons noises at him and rocks him. Sam soaks his shirt, and then eventually falls asleep with his face pressed over Dean’s heart. When Sam’s asleep, Dean lets himself cry.
-----
Bobby’s been peering at Sam for an hour now, trying out different phrases and techniques, but nothing is coming up. He can see the exhaustion in his Uncle’s eyes, the despair that this is something he won't be able to fix. For the fourth time Dean tells him that the salt lines were intact, that nothing came in and they didn’t leave. That Sam just woke up this way.
Bobby finally gives in and they take Sam to a hospital. They’re there a long time, doctors coming in and out and Sam refusing to let go of Dean’s hand. Even when he was a bundle in a blanket Sam has never looked this frail or small, and something inside of Dean roars and screams for his little brother. Tells him that if he doesn’t fix Sam right now then he’s failing at everything that matters. He agrees, but he can’t see a way around it.
They have to sneak out of the hospital when the doctors say they can’t find anything physically wrong with Sammy. It’s code for them keeping Sam longer, that they think something is wrong with Sam’s head, and the only thing that holds Dean back from the doctor is Bobby’s hand on his shoulder.
There’s nothing wrong with Sammy’s head. Not a damn thing, and if that doctor hints one more time that someone’s hurting Sammy Dean’s not sure even Uncle Bobby could hold him back. They take the trip back to the motel slowly, Sam hanging onto Dean in the backseat as the lights whizz past. Dean’s not sure what to do now, because Bobby’s out of ideas and so is Dean. All that’s left is dad, and dad won’t be back soon. What if Sam needs something and he can’t tell Dean what it is?
Uncle Bobby stays with them, calling other hunters and trying to find out what could be going on while Dean takes care of Sam. With every day that passes his little brother tries less and less to speak, begins to simply sit sullenly with his head hung and his hands on his thighs. Dean can barely stand to see it. He tries everything he knows to make Sammy smile, but none of it works. He doesn’t even laugh when Dean rolls his eyes back up in his head and stretches out his mouth. Cartoons hold no joy, cereal means nothing, and the only thing Sam wants to do is sit still.
It’s the first time Sam has a nightmare that Dean realizes how serious the problem really is. Sam can make noises, grunts and whines, but there are no words coming. When Dean wakes up to an odd strangled noise he reaches automatically out to the other side of the bed and finds Sam, but he can’t seem to get him to calm down. It takes a minute to realize that usually Sammy whispers his nightmares to Dean, and then Dean tells him that they won’t happen. Assures him. Sammy can’t tell him now though, and Dean tries harder to calm his brother down then he ever has before.
Sam cries himself out again in Dean’s arms, little body going limp, and when he’s begun to breathe deeply Uncle Bobby’s voice is a light in the dark. “Dean, we’re gonna fix your brother. I promise.”
-----
Dad isn’t taking the news well. He stared into Sammy’s eyes for a long time, asked questions, and then started to tell Sam that it wasn’t a funny joke. That was when Uncle Bobby took his dad outside. Now they’re arguing, and Dean can hear them through the door of the motel room. He turns at some point to see Sam shaking, and then he wraps his arms around his baby brother and covers Sammy’s ears.
“You think this is a joke idjit? Look at the boy! Almost clawed his own damn throat out tryin’ ta speak and you wanna accuse him of playing a prank. I knew you weren’t the smartest man on the planet, but I never thought you were that damn dumb.”
Bobby’s voice is angry, but dad’s is even worse. The argument gets louder, until Bobby says something ugly to dad that Dean never thought he’d hear from his uncle, and then there’s the sound of a car door slamming and tires squealing.
When dad comes back in his face is lined and grim. He stares at Sam’s neck for a long time, both of them silent and serious, and then dad stands and turns to Dean. “I’ve gotta go out. I’ll be back in a few hours. Watch Sammy.”
When he’s gone Dean pulls Sam onto the bed and turns on the cartoons. His brother may not be laughing, or smiling, but Dean wants to give him as much comfort as he can. He holds Sammy and tries to stay awake until dad comes back, but darkness claims him long before that.
------
Dean’s fifteen and Sam’s eleven. His little brother hasn’t spoken in five years, has long since given up on trying as far as Dean can tell. Five years of trying counter-curses and miracle cures have given them no results. Dad still hunts, and Dean helps when he’s allowed, but Sam stays in the motel rooms. His brother has become a voracious reader. They move so much it’s hard to keep Sam in the special programs, so they’ve gone to a home schooling equivalent that works much better. Dean’s glad, because Sammy hated those programs. Hated being treated like he was flawed or broken, like a freak Sam wrote, and Dean hated it for him. Tore the paper Sam wrote the word on in his rage and then shook Sammy until his little brother stopped nodding his head to emphasize it.
He’s just gotten back to the motel after a two day hunt with dad, and Sam’s got a book Dean doesn’t recognize in his hands and a serious look on his face. When Dean grabs a beer from the mini-fridge and takes a seat beside his baby brother he glances over the pages. Pictures of hand gestures with words under them are spread across the pages, and he tilts the book up to see the little sticker on the spine. Sam has stolen this from some library.
“Did you sneak out Sammy? Hit a library and then come back while we were gone?”
Sam shakes his head emphatically, and Dean tries to think of the last time they were in a library as Sam writes out a response. It had to have been outside of Memphis. That poltergeist in the farmhouse, and they’d stopped at the small library to get Sam some Faulkner book his brother had been begging him for. Sam must have nicked it then. He takes the note from Sam and reads it, one eye on the page and one on Sam’s facial expression.
It’s American Sign Language. I thought if I learned it I could communicate without writing all the time.
Sam looks apprehensive, almost scared, and Dean realizes his brother thinks he’s going to make fun of him. More importantly, there’s only one person Sammy really communicates with, and if Dean thinks this is funny then Sam’s wasted all his time learning it. He has to glance upwards for a moment, bite his tongue, and wait for the burning in his eyes to dim.
“That’s a great idea Sammy. Why don’t you start teaching me.” If Sam hears the unshed tears in his voice he lets it go. Dean’s grateful, and to pay him back he doesn’t mention the glint in Sam’s eyes.
The lessons go better than he expected, but Dean finds that when it comes to learning for Sam he’s more than willing. He works harder than he ever did at history or math, applies the same focus to the gestures that he did when he was learning hustling or exorcism rites. Sam’s a patient teacher, and after a while Dean can keep up with his little brother. They can talk, and while it’s not Sam’s voice it’s good. Better than Dean ever thought it could be.
Sam never suggests it to dad, and Dean doesn’t bring it up out of deference to Sam’s feelings. It becomes their secret language, fingers flying along smoothly as they work out all the things Sammy has been hesitant or ashamed to write.
Dean learns that his little brother loves reading because he thinks the authors are as mute as he is. He learns that Sam wants to write himself one day, maybe a fictional account of their lives. Dean can’t help himself, it’s dark except for the slice of light coming from the bathroom door and dad’s asleep in the other bed so Dean signs his response to Sam. Who would be the hero?
He can see Sam’s face pull up, a look of disgust as if Dean’s question is beneath him, too stupid to even be considered. You jerk. Who else?
Dean smothers a laugh in his elbow, and then folds his thumb against his palm and jerks his hand away from his lips. Bitch.
Now it’s Sam covering his own smile.
-------
It takes a year of sneaking out to hustle the money Dean needs, but when he’s finished he can’t wait to put his plan into action. Dad has started to leave the Impala with them when he’s gone on hunts, in case Dean needs it to take Sam anywhere. He looks old enough at sixteen to drive it around, and Dean’s already got his fake license. He checks the local phone book for Radioshack listings, and finds one about twenty minutes away. Sam’s already settled down with a new Vonnegut novel, and Dean’s fairly certain he’ll be alright while he’s out.
It’s May 1st, and Dean needs to have this thing bought and hidden before Sam wakes up tomorrow or the whole damn plan is ruined. He expects to have some heavy geek as a salesman, someone who will talk down to him either because he’s younger or because he looks the way he does. He finds a lot of men do that, as if being handsome equates to being stupid. Dean doesn’t have to be modest anymore, he knows what he’s capable of now.
Instead the woman that greets him smiles brightly, touches him more than is absolutely necessary, and leads him around the section he wanted discussing pros and cons in a bright and cheerful voice. Dean gets Sammy’s present, and a date for the night. He takes her out as soon as her shift is over, uses his fake id to buy them both drinks with what money he has leftover, and then takes her back to her place. It’s not too far from the motel, but he calls the room to check in anyway.
They have a system for this, and when Sam answers he hits a button twice to let Dean know he’s fine. Dean waits for the sound of the tones before he speaks.
“Hey Sammy, something came up and I’m going to be a little late. You gonna be ok?” He can picture Sam’s face, knows that his little brother probably suspects the whole truth, but there’s no reason to spell it out if he doesn’t. There’s silence for a little bit and then the two tones come again. Sam understands. “Thanks man. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Stay inside and do your homework.
There’s a grunt, Sam’s way of mocking Dean’s solicitous nature, and then Sam hangs up. Dean turns back to the woman, Laura he’s pretty sure, and then smiles the way he knows is most effective. “Had to check on my little brother. Now how about that nightcap?”
Laura pours him a whiskey, the buttons of her shirt have been coming undone one by one as the night continues, and Dean’s pretty damn excited about the territory underneath the fourth one. She takes a sip of her drink and slides gracefully onto the couch beside him, one bare foot sliding up his thigh to his groin.
“That’s so sweet. He must not talk much for that to have been so short. My little sister talks constantly.” It’s obvious she barely cares about the conversation, but Dean’s willing to play along if that’s what she wants. They both know what this is. He takes the bare foot in hand and begins to rub it, watches the line of her neck when her head drops back in pleasure.
“Sammy doesn’t talk at all. Mute since he was six.” Dean rubs one strong thumb along the arch of her foot and hears her groan.
It’s going so well, he can imagine how it’s going to be pushing into her as soon as this small talk game is over, but her next words dampen his arousal in a way he never thought possible. “Oh I’m sorry. It must be hard living with someone who’s retarded.”
Her foot is on the floor in half a second, her cry of surprise mixed with one of disgust as her drink sloshes over her shirt. Dean puts his glass down and levels a gaze at her even as he’s gathering up his jacket. “Look bitch, Sammy’s smarter than any kid I ever met. Smarter than most adults too, and I’m including you in that.”
He hears her call out to him, accuse him of being an asshole, but he responds to her statement by slamming her door and heading for the Impala. He has to drive around for a bit, work the rage off before he sees Sam. He can’t repeat this to Sam, can’t explain the surge of anger or the aborted intimacy, because then he’d have to repeat the accusation that he knows Sam himself sometimes thinks. By the time his head is cool it’s after one in the morning, but Sam’s awake when he walks in.
Their eyes meet, and Sam raises one eyebrow and gestures fluidly. What happened?
And there it is, in seconds really, all of his anger is back again. It’s not fair that Sam thinks that about himself, not fair that the whole world thinks it really, because Sam’s so damn smart. So intuitive, and Dean tries to imagine how far ahead of the curve his baby brother would be if he could just speak. If nobody looked at him like he was special because of his lack of voice. People talk too goddamn much anyway. He shook his head and headed for the bathroom, growling out on his way there, “Nothing Sam. Go to sleep.”
He let the shower run until all the hot water was gone, beat off in the meantime to reduce some of the angry tension still locked inside of him. What did that fucking bitch know? She was the same as the school systems and the diner workers that looked at Sam with pity, as if he was less than something because he was silent. He wasn’t really, not totally silent, because he could communicate with Dean just fine. Did it all the time actually and fuck them if they thought they knew better. Fuck them for their condescension.
When he came back out Sam was still awake, and Dean stood in the bathroom doorway sharing a look with his little brother. The rule was that the bathroom light stayed on, so if Sam needed to talk to him then Dean could see the hand signs that entailed. Sam just weighed him for a long time before he bothered trying to get Dean to talk again. What happened? Was she married?
It’s Sam’s attempt at a joke, but Dean isn’t in a laughing mood. He shakes his head and clears his throat. “Go to sleep Sammy. Seriously. It’s no big deal.”
Sam’s eyes go wide for a second, and then Dean sees understanding rush in and take over. There’s sympathy, maybe a bit of pity, and then Sam’s hands are moving so fast Dean has to work to keep up.
You do not have to do that. Not for me. You deserve to be happy as much as I do, and I do not need you to give that up just because someone calls me-
It’s the meanest thing Dean has ever done to Sam since Sam lost his voice, but he turns off the bathroom light effectively silencing Sammy. Leaving his little brother in the dark. He hears the wordless cry of surprise. Maybe a bit of outrage there too, but Dean makes his way to the bed and pulls the covers up. Sam doesn’t make any other noise, doesn’t turn the light back on so he can finish his little speech. He just stays over on his side of the room, and Dean listens to his uneven breathing in the heavy silence and feels like the biggest jackass in the world.
The next day Dean plans on working extra hard at being the best brother he can, because it’s Sam’s birthday and he’s got that present out in the car. The one that started this whole fucking mess, but it’s good and Sammy’s gonna love it. Except Sam isn’t there when he wakes up. Sam’s not in the other bed, not in the bathroom, and not at the vending machine. When Dean sees that Sam’s duffel is gone he slams his way through the door and out to the Impala still wearing only his sleep shirt and sweatpants, and with no shoes on his feet.
He can barely catch his breath, can’t remember even the most rudimentary tracking lessons his father has given him over the years because in his head a cry has started. Sam’s gone. Sammy’s missing. He doesn’t have to wonder if Sam was taken, knows damn well what his baby brother has done. A part of him wants to blame Sammy, shout at him, because he knows better than this. Knows what’s out there, and how badly it wants to take the Winchesters away, find them vulnerable and alone. That’s what Sam is now after all, vulnerable and alone, and all his arguments against treating Sam like he’s special or handicapped are forgotten in the wake of all the things Sam can’t do without a voice.
In the two hours it takes him to find Sam Dean ages twenty years. He rides around the city with his head jerking back and forth, eyes traveling over every face desperately, and it’s a goddamn miracle that he doesn’t hit something with how little attention he’s paying to the road. When he finally rides past the park, empty in the middle of what is considered church time, he finds Sam sitting on a bench staring into a rapidly flowing little river.
He parks the car across two spaces without thinking, leaving it behind as his feet pound across the wet grass and carry him to Sam. When he gets even with the bench he finds Sam’s downturned face with his fingers and tilts it upwards so he can look fully into it. Someone has split Sam’s lip, and the blood has dried on his chin. There’s a petulant look to his little brother’s face that he doesn’t see often, the warning of oncoming adolescence Dean imagines, but underneath that is a world of pain and fear.
He has to close his eyes for a moment, take deep breaths, and try to get a hold on all the things running through his head. Finally he releases Sam’s chin, and then kneels in front of him and takes both of his hands. They’re long, large, promising that one day his little brother won’t be little, maybe will even outgrow Dean although the thought is kind of hideous. He presses his face against them and doesn’t miss that Sam’s knuckles are split and bruised, that it looks like Sammy gave better than he got. There’s the sound of birds, and in the distance church bells calling some congregation inside, but here between the two of them there is only silence.
“Sammy. Look at me ok?” Sam turns his face, mulishness fully settled in every line, and Dean bites the inside of his cheek to avoid saying the wrong thing. Three deep breaths and he’s ready to try again. “Sammy, I’m sorry ok? I wasn’t mad at you. I was never-Jesus kid could you just look at me?”
Sam finally looks over, eyes narrowed, and that’s when Dean sees the telltale sparkle there. Sam is trying not to cry, and Dean realizes that he hadn’t had any idea how bad he could feel. It’s Sam’s goddamn birthday, and Dean’s made him try to run away. Dean’s made him fucking cry.
“Sammy, please man, I’m sorry ok? I’m so fucking sorry. Don’t-please Sammy don’t do that.” But it’s too late, the dam has burst, and Sam is knuckling tears roughly out of his eyes as he tries to keep his chin stable.
So they’re in public, and Dean has rules about these sorts of things, but for once all of that falls aside as he grabs his little brother into his arms and squeezes him so tightly Sam groans in pain. He rocks the scrawny little body, muttering under his breath all the ways he’s a terrible brother and how very sorry he is. It’s not enough, never enough, because insulting Sam is one thing, but Dean silenced Sam’s one real form of communication out of spite.
After a while Sam quiets down, and Dean pulls back and catches the puffy hazel eyes. “Wanna go back now kiddo? I’ll make you breakfast.” Sam nods once, head dropping so hair can cover his eyes, and Dean tousles it the way that always makes Sam bat softly at his hands. It’s a testament to Sam’s mental state that he just lets Dean, that his head tilts slightly so that Dean’s hand is making more contact than it usually would.
The ride back is mostly soothing, Dean lets Sam pick the music and Sam chooses some easy listening station because the Beatles are playing. When they get back Dean tells Sam to wash up, laughs at the glare he receives, and then gestures towards the bathroom door commandingly. Sam obeys, and it gives Dean just enough time to sneak out to the car and pull his present from the trunk.
He follows dimly remembered instructions, opens the word processing program, and types one line in bold and big font. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY KEROUAC.”
When Sam comes out Dean’s already finished cleaning both of their breakfast bowls and pouring cereal, and he hears the high and surprised sound his brother lets out. He turns to see Sam staring at the laptop, eyes shining again but in a good way this time. He has just enough time to lower both bowls before Sam slams into him at full force, and then he’s getting the breath squeezed out of him.
When Sam pulls back the grin on his face is so broad it’s almost frightening, and the dimples are out in full force. Dean hasn’t seen them often in the last few years, and it’s so good to see them now he’d work a thousand more hours to buy Sam as many laptops as it took.
Sam’s hands fly. Thank you. Thank you. It is perfect. Dean nods, smiles, and then points to the cereal bowls.
“Eat breakfast first. Then you can play all you want.” He tousles Sam’s hair again, gets a grin in response, and then watches his baby brother choke on the cereal he’s swallowing instead of chewing while his big hazel eyes stare at the laptop. The look on his face is worth everything.
------
It’s four days after Sam’s birthday that the worst nightmare yet happens. Dean wakes to that hoarse screaming sound he hasn’t heard in a long time, and then he’s up and across the room before it can stop. He finds Sam buried under the covers and then a bony elbow clocks into his jaw and he falls backwards from the force of it. He takes a second to shake it off, get back up, and then he’s shaking Sam awake while calling his name.
Sam comes out of sleep with his mouth open, face red, and for one horrible moment Dean is back to that morning when Sam woke clawing his own throat trying to speak. Sam’s shaking too hard to form words, all he can do is let out that pained moan, and Dean’s horrified to realize Sam has wet the bed. That hasn’t happened since before he lost his voice, and Dean pulls his red-faced little brother from the bed and carries him into the bathroom.
He’s too afraid to leave Sam to do much about the bed, so he focuses on stripping Sam down and getting him washed. Fear has yet to give way to embarrassment, and despite the water being way past warm Sam shakes like a leaf the whole time. Dean didn’t realize his baby brother was made of bones and angles until this moment, and he promises himself silently that he’ll focus on making sure Sam eats more.
It’s a good distraction, one of many that he employs to not have to focus on the look on Sam’s face. The look that reawakens that little voice screaming at him that he is failing Sam in some untenable way. When Sam’s out of the shower he submits to having Dean dry his hair, helps half-heartedly with the rest of his body, and then slumps into Dean’s bed in clean sleep clothes. Dean grabs the sheets off the other bed and balls them up before putting them outside the door. If the maid gets them great, if she doesn’t then fuck them.
Sammy watches him the whole time, face expressionless now, and Dean finds he’s starting to miss the fear and panic. It would be easier if Sam wasn’t lying there impersonating a dead person. When the cleanup is done he slides into bed beside Sam and takes that bony jaw into one of his hands. It’s never ceased to amaze him how much of Sammy his hands can swallow, and while it’s less now than it was before, Sam still seems so fragile and small to him.
“What was it Sammy?” He tries to pitch his voice low and soft, comes off raspy instead. It’s the best he can do without howling.
Sam seems to consider it for a second, and then Dean sees the moment that he decides there’s nothing left to lose. It’s a terrible expression on Sam. You got tired of me being a burden. You left to go with dad. Nobody came back.
Dean doesn’t need more details, stops Sam’s hands and covers his face with them in the hopes that Sam will understand that it’s not like when he turned the lights out. He just needs a moment, because fuck how is he supposed to explain this to Sammy without losing his shit all over the place.
He speaks slowly, rubbing Sam’s hands with his thumbs while he keeps them against his lips. Maximum physical contact for maximum comfort maybe. “I will never leave you. You are not a fucking burden Sammy. Never have been and never will be. Who am I?”
He lets Sam’s hands go and raises a challenging eyebrow, waiting for Sam to figure it out. His brother, his brilliant little brother, doesn’t pick up on it very quickly. There’s finally an emotion there at least. Confusion instead of relief, but Dean has learned to take what he can get. Sam spells his name out slowly, a question instead of an answer, and Dean shakes his head because Sam has gotten it wrong.
He sits up a bit, makes a gesture like he’s grabbing the brim of a cap, and then brings both index fingers together. Sam taught him the common sign for brother, but Dean saw the less common one and the slight variation on it. Has always liked it better than the first one. The cap motion says boy, but the fingers together mean same, and that’s what he wants here. He makes the motion for same two more times before Sam grabs his hands and shakes his own head.
He points once to Dean swings one hand wildly around the other for whole, and then points to himself and puts his fists together, pulls them apart, broken.
“Stop that. Stop. You ain’t broken anymore than I am Sammy. We both got a lotta shit, I’ll give you that, but at the end of the day we got each other. You,” he points to Sam, “make me whole.” He signs it while he says it, adds emphasis as best he can.
Sam studies him for a long time, doesn’t sign anymore, and then with a straight face he does the motion for girl and same. Sister. Dean purses his lips for half a second and then punches Sam’s shoulder lightly.
“Yeah, well, you’re still the bitch.”
Sam doesn’t have any more of those nightmares for a long time.
-----
Sam’s sixteen the first time a girl hits on him. He’s spent the last four years working on his stories, but he refuses to let Dean read them. Which is ok, because honestly Dean has better things to do. At twenty he’s learned that if he doesn’t try at all women will basically flock to him. He balances caring for Sam with burning through every possible one night stand he comes across. He has the Impala full-time now, and he follows dad’s truck from city to city. Sam researches for them, finds hunts in every state, and Dean sees less of his little brother with each passing year.
They still talk, Dean still comes home to Sammy whenever he’s not otherwise distracted, but he’s got a life to live and Sam never seems to mind. It doesn’t hurt that Sam’s grown, seemingly overnight, and he’s already a few inches taller than Dean with no sign of stopping. His little brother isn’t little anymore, but he’s still a beanpole and when they spar Dean can still dominate him. But Sam doesn’t want to spar much anymore, gets a cagy look in his eyes when Dean suggests it.
He’d worry, really he would, but Sam knows that if he needs to say anything Dean will listen. So there they are in the diner, Sam’s graceful hands flying as he tells Dean about this experimental novel he read recently. When the girl starts to approach Dean prepares the usual speech, because she’s pretty but he’s out with Sammy right now.
She ignores Dean though, touches Sam’s shoulder and smiles brightly. Are you deaf?
Dean wants to grab her the minute she does it, say something cutting for her assumption, but Sam gives him a look before focusing on the girl. No. Mute. You?
Her smile wavers for half a second and then she responds, hands moving easily in the language that until now has been solely Dean and Sam’s. Deaf. Do you live around here?
Dean knows where this is going long before it gets there, knows the body language and opening lines. His little brother has accidentally reeled in a fish. He hesitates for just a second, and then pushes his way up and smiles at Sam. “I’ll be back in just a little while Sammy. Gonna run an errand or two.”
Sam shoots him a shocked look and then the girl is getting his attention again, and Dean slides out of the diner and away from the scene.
He watches the two of them from the laundromat across the street, absently folding socks as he catalogues each and every one of Sam’s smiles. It’s not hard, he knows all of them anyway, but it’s good seeing them again in such a rapid succession. It’s odd, this low pang in his gut that he can’t explain or understand, as he watches Sam talk to her.
Dean heads over slowly, ambling his way back across the street and sliding in beside Sam to look at the girl. He signs to her We have to go, and then gives her his most charming smile. She responds in kind, tells Sam how glad she was to meet him, and then she’s gone.
They drive back in silence, Sam staring out the window thoughtfully and Dean trying to keep his eyes on the road. There’s a strange train of thought in his head that he can’t seem to shake. When did Sam lose that little boy smell he once had? When did the scent of soap and innocence change to the musk and earth smell his brother has now?
It’s not like it’s the first time Dean is smelling it, but it’s the first time he’s actively noticing the change. Sam was once little Sammy, and now he’s someone else. They still talk at night, hands conveying hopes and dreams, but there’s a distance that Dean has begun to see, to really understand. He hates it. Still, Sam is his brother and if this is what he needs then Dean will make sure he has it. The kid is a teenager, and he needs space.
They start the hunt in earnest the next day, riding along one lone highway in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania until Sam taps his shoulder and points to the half-hidden trail entrance. The lore that goes along with the ten disappearances states that a young boy died out here, killed on some back trail, and that he leads female joggers into the marshy land beyond the beaten path until they’re lost.
The most recent victim was found after two weeks of searching, dead on arrival with one broken leg and a look of terror firmly fixed on her face, and signs of forced entry. Dean saved Sam the morgue trip, so this last detail isn’t one Sam knows. They go along one well-beaten path for a while until it splits two ways, one still dirt and rocks, the other overgrown weeds slowly erasing what was once a prominent trail. Dean studies the two, and before he can indicate his choice Sam tugs on his sleeve and points to the unused one, a familiar smirk firmly fixed on his face.
“What’s so damn funny Sammy?” He waits for the response, half his attention focused on Sam’s big hands and the other half on the trail they’re considering.
And I took the one less traveled by. Sam laughs low and husky, a broken sound Dean loves and hates that cuts in and out as the air travels through him.
“Frost. Great. Come on let’s get to it.” He’s not sure why he’s being curt with Sam. Maybe it has something to do with that low pang from this morning, or maybe it’s the new sense of unease he has about taking Sam out here. Dad is out tracking a werewolf three counties away, so he thought that Sam and Dean could handle a simple salt and burn with little trouble.
Their father has become more distant as the years pass. He and Dean butt heads sometimes as to what the best approach to Sam’s silence is, and it’s caused a tension Dean never imagined could be between them. Still, he doesn’t agree that Sam’s inability to talk doesn’t hinder his ability to hunt. There’s too much that could go wrong, too many situations where if Sam needed to get their attention he wouldn’t be able to. He can make sounds, but they’re never very loud and if Sam got hurt…
It’s doesn’t pay to think like that, so Dean moves forward, body in action and mind sliding into that place between training and intuition that always makes him so relaxed. The woods here are beautiful, rocky outcroppings interspersed with the green foliage. Dean wants to enjoy it but that sense of unease is growing with every step. Which is why he goes stock still in seconds, whole body whipcord tight when he hears the panting breath headed their way. The girl from the diner comes around the corner, and stops dead when she sees them standing there.
For a little while that’s how it stays, her big blue eyes taking them in as Dean and Sam stare back at her. Then Sam steps forward and signs to her. Hello again.
She raises an eyebrow, breath still coming harsh as her head tilts sideways, and then she smiles brightly. Hello. Are you deaf?
The unease flares brightly, and Dean reaches for Sam but his little brother is already moving forward with a smile just slightly less bright than before. No. I am mute. Do you remember me?
She gives him a funny look, glances once to Dean, and then rocks back on her heels. I am sorry. I must have forgotten. She looks distractedly at the wristwatch she’s wearing, an older analog one instead of digital. I have to go. Hope to see you again. She waves once, and then she’s gone like a shot heading deeper into the woods as the underbrush rubs against her bare legs and her ponytail bobs madly.
Dean watches her go and then turns to Sam, a smile he can’t explain turning his lips up. “Aw Sammy, we gotta talk about how to make a lasting impression.”
Sam gives him the finger and then begins to push through the overgrown greenery towards their intended target.
Four hours of trouncing through the woods turns out to be Dean’s limit, and he finally grabs Sam’s arm and pulls him back. “Sam this is bullshit. Let’s call it for the day and come back tomorrow ok?”
Sam frowned once, something troubling him enough to push it to lip biting territory, and then he shrugged and turned around. Dean followed him along the dimming path, and by the time they reached the Impala he had vivid visions of a plate of ribs and a reasonably comfortable bed.
------
They end up at the same diner the next day, Dean ordering a different greasy plate of meat, and Sam frowning at it even as Dean ordered his little brother’s grilled chicken. He waited until the waitress was gone to speak. “Jesus Sammy, at least try a cheeseburger or something. You look like a stick bug.”
Sam barely glanced at him when he responded. I do not want to be fat by thirty.
He watched Sam’s eyebrow raise, and then turned to see the girl standing beside him again. There was the same bright smile on her face as the day before. Are you deaf?
The humor is gone instantly, and the pale cast on Sam’s face shows he’s gotten the gist of this particular turn already. He answers anyway, as if he’s unable to do anything else. No. Mute. You?
Deaf. Do you live around here? There’s still that relaxed and questioning look on her face, and Dean slides over and makes room so she can face Sam. She takes the spot in the booth and then leans forward waiting for Sam’s answer.
No. My brother and I are passing through. Do you live here? He glances once to Dean, and Dean tries to figure out how they should handle this.
“Sammy, ask her what year it is or…I don’t know man. Anything. Maybe she’s an amnesiac.”
I just moved here. Beautiful place right?
The look Sam gives him is one of earnest desperation. Sam has no idea how to handle this, and Dean would love to help him but honestly he’s stumped too. Sam tries his damnedest though. Makes small talk, asks her about the year and the weather. She believes it’s 1995, and she’s earnest about everything. Bright, cheerful, friendly, and so dead she may as well be rattling chains and giving ominous warnings. In fact Dean would prefer that to what she’s actually doing.
I have to go. I am meeting someone on the trail today. Enjoy your lunch. Dean glances at his own watch and realizes that if they had stayed an extra three minutes the other day they would have known this part. They wait for her to leave and round the corner before Dean drops a twenty on the table and heads out after her.
There’s no script for this, ghosts have never acted this way before, and so the two of them sit in the car in silence as she heads into a building and comes back out a few moments later in the clothes she was wearing yesterday on the trail. Come to think of it she’s in the same outfit from the day before too, and Dean glances to Sam to see that his little brother is clenching and unclenching his hands rhythmically.
It must be hard, Sam’s first crush is a ghost, and Dean tries not to say it but it slips out anyway. “She’s the Casper to your Christina Ricci.”
Sam sits perfectly still for a full minute, the silence in the car spinning out as Dean’s half-smile becomes nothing but preparation for backlash. All he gets is a hand gesture suggesting he should head for the library.
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Date: 2013-01-18 04:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 05:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 02:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-18 02:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 06:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-19 12:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 04:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 04:31 pm (UTC)Also? Awesome icon!!
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Date: 2013-05-03 04:43 pm (UTC)Hey, is 'Polaris' on a pdf somewhere, since it's so long? I'd love to slap it into my Kindle; I'm a notoriously slow reader.
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Date: 2013-05-03 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-03 05:08 pm (UTC)