Archive of Our Own

“Dad!  Dad, don’t you let it kill me!”

Pain erupts again, so fierce he can’t think beyond it.  It fills every inch of his consciousness.  The razor-wire burn seems to come from beneath his skin, slicing and rending organs and muscles and tissues apart. 

Looking down, he watches as blood seeps, thick and sluggish, through his shirt.

He can hear Sam screaming and trying.  He wishes his brother would use those stupid powers of his.  Now would be the time, Sammy.

Another harsh twist and the searing builds, reaching deep into his chest, tearing up into his throat and making him choke on his own blood. 

Coughing, he can’t even find the energy to spit out what’s welling into his mouth.  Somehow he manages to speak around it, ‘Dad, please’ -- god, it hurts and it’s raw, sore, torn wide open -- except those cold yellow eyes keep staring back at him, smirking in triumph, his dad smirking at him, and Dean realizes it can hurt so much worse.  It’s like salt in the wounds; but the truth is they don’t need you…. clearly John’s favorite… more concern than he’s ever shown you. 

The agony overwhelms him, reaches back into the very center of his brain and pulls the plug.

When he wakes up, he’s on the floor and staring at the floorboards.  There’s a dark liquid pooling in the grooves, staining the wood an even dirtier brown.  Someone’s in front of him, blocking out the single light bulb, and Dean’s really thankful for that because everything hurts right now, even his eyes.

“—ean? Dean, hey.  Oh, God, you’ve lost a lot of blood…” 

Oh, it’s Sam.  Sam’s alive.  Which must mean Dean’s alive.  Would explain why breathing hurts so much.  Every shallow gasp is another fistful of broken glass down his throat, stripping him raw and leaving his insides squirming and trying to escape.  His skin feels too tight.

‘Where’s Dad?’ Dean manages to choke out.  He can feel the blood pooling over his tongue and down the side of his face.  His throat feels thick and wet, making it hard to breathe, but he doesn’t care; he needs to know.

Sam doesn’t answer.  He’s frowning, pout making his brow tighten, and the panicked concern in his eyes is telling Dean something is very wrong.  Oh, god, what if…

‘Where’s Dad!?’ He barely gets it out, blood soaking his windpipe and making his chest seize.  Fat splatters of blood fly across the floorboards as he turns his head to cough, or tries to anyway.  He can feel Sam’s hand on him, trying to remind him to breathe, oh God, Dean, please breathe.

He can see now, just beyond Sam’s knee, the prone figure of his father.  He needs to know.

‘Dad…  Dad.’  He tries single syllables, hoping it won’t hurt so much.  It doesn’t make a difference.

Sam's frown deepens, eyes ghosting over Dean.  “What?”

‘Dad.’

“Dad?  Dad’s right here.  He’s right here, Dean.”

The metaphorical weight lifts off Dean’s chest.  Dad’s alive.  He’s alive… but he’s lying still on the floor.

Dean tries to lift a hand, waving in their father’s direction.  ‘Go check on him,’ he actually manages to say without choking, but the blood’s still oozing -- he can feel it wet behind his ear. 

Sam’s not listening to him.  He’s still confused, staring at him in an effort to puzzle something out.  Dean sighs mentally; ‘go check on him’ should not be that hard to understand.

‘Dad,’ Dean rasps wetly, ‘Go check on him.’

“Dean…”

Summoning up what little strength he can, Dean points and growls, ‘Go check on Dad!’

It was a bad choice, he realizes too late as the blood in his mouth and throat force their way out with his breath, making him cough and sputter, chest feeling as if it’s trying to fold in on itself.  Oh god, he’s dying.  He knows it.  This is it; killed by that yellow-eyed son of a bitch.  At least he went down fighting. 

Sam hesitates, but when Dean manages to control his breathing and nod again toward their father, he walks away.  Every breath is ragged as Dean watches.  At the edges of his vision are strange colors, weirdly indescribable and yet so familiar, and everything seems a lot darker.  He has trouble focusing on things.  His brother is a long shape a few feet away from him and the floorboards are a mess of brown and black lines.  They swim as he tries to focus on them…..

“—oot me.  You shoot me!”  That’s Dad.  Why is he asking Sam that?  They’re all safe.  They need to leave, get away from here.  “You shoot me in the heart, son!”

A different kind of hurt crawls into Dean’s chest as Sam raises the colt, aiming for their father. 

“Do it now!” John yells, body tense where he’s lying.

‘Sam, don’t you do it.’  He tries to roll over, tries to move closer but he just can’t summon the strength to do it.  Lifting his head, Dean tries again.  His words are wet as he speaks, ‘Don’t you do it.’

If Sam hears him, he doesn’t react.  Dean curls in on himself as his chest seizes again, throat aching from abuse and the thick, wet coughs that rip at the already wounded tissue. 

Dad’s yelling, and Sam’s hesitating, and Dean’s begging.  ‘Sam, no.’ 

His brother doesn’t get the chance either way because the demon’s out, billowing up and out of their father as his yells himself hoarse.  

‘Thank you,’ Dean whispers, laying his head back against the tacky wood floor beneath him. ‘Thank you, Sam.  Thank you.’ 

Dean doesn’t remember much of anything at all when he comes to in the hospital bed.  He gasps and chokes on something lodged down his throat, and Christ, that fucking hurts. 

People surround him, and he becomes aware of the incessant beeping of a heart monitor and the formaldehyde lacing the air.  They’re pushing him down and he almost fights them, but it hurts so much to move and there’s something in his throat and it’s choking the life out of him – but they remove that quickly, air rushing into his lungs as he pulls his own breath. 

The people around him poke and prod, ask each other questions, shine bright lights in his eyes. 

He’s in a hospital.

He can remember now that the three of them had managed to make it out to the Impala before more demons came after them.  After that it gets kind of murky…  CCR and Sam’s voice and, and then they got hit.  He wants to ask where Sam is, where his father is because he needs to know like he needs to breathe – but he doesn’t know the aliases they’re using on their insurance.  So he keeps quiet, watching the nurses bustle about.   None of them are particularly attractive.

As the last nurse leaves, Sam walks into the room and Dean could cry, he’s so grateful.  Sam looks rough; his eye is puffy and bruised, cuts all over his face.  He took a serious beating.  The damage doesn’t hide the concern, though, and Sam’s eyes are wet before he even manages to say hi. 

‘Heya, Sammy—'

Except that’s not what comes out.  What comes out is a rasp of air and then choked-off breath when he realizes it.  He immediately looks to Sam, confused.

‘What’s going on?’

Again, a disconnect between what his mind intends for him to say and what is actually heard. 

Sam walks over to the hospital bed, twisting a jacket in his hands.  He looks guilty, biting at his lip in that little nervous way of his.

‘Sam?’

His brother takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and meets his gaze.  “Dean, you… you were really, really hurt back there.  We didn’t—the doctor said—“ Sam swallows tightly and looks away for a moment before continuing.  “There wasn’t much hope you’d wake up.  They… they stitched you up but your throat was...”

Sam pauses, obviously hoping Dean would fill in the blanks. 

So, what?  His voice was gone for a bit?  Big whoop – he’s dealt with much worse and Sam knew it.  There was more to this than Sam was letting on.  Dean wanted to crack a joke – what, did they have to take a lung? – but he can’t because he can’t fucking speak.

He waves his hand – the one that doesn’t have an IV stuck in it – impatiently egging Sam into continuing.

“Dean… you’re not going to be able to speak again.”

His insides go cold.  He almost smiles at Sam, ‘You’re joking, right?’

Another deep breath and Sam keeps going.  “The way your throat was… they had to do a lot of reconstruction and your vocal cords – well one of them was…”

Dean stops listening at that point, and Sam must be able to tell because his words trail off to nothing. 

There’s a loud buzzing in Dean’s ears as he stares blankly at the thin white sheets of his hospital bed.  He licks at his lip, sucks at it, and nods as an afterthought so that Sam knows he understands.  He sinks lower into the bed, wishing he could just meld straight into the pillow that his head is resting on.

He looks right at his brother and says, ‘Can you go?’

He almost loses it when he hears that soft whisper of breath that is now his voice.  Even he can’t discern the words from it.

Sam doesn’t look like he really understood what Dean was saying – he’s not a lip-reader – but Dean knows that Sam knows when to leave him alone, and his brother doesn’t let him down.  Sam nods slowly, lips trembling for just a second before he reins it in, and he turns to leave.

“Oh,” Sam mumbles, turning back and holding something out, “Uhm… thought you might…” He shrugs nonchalant, drops the fabric onto the bed, and leaves.

Dean runs his fingers over the worn fabric of Sam’s hoodie, almost managing to smile before he feels the grief wash over him. 

John dies the day after Dean wakes up. 

He had come by that morning to see Dean, to tell him he was proud of him (both of his boys), and that he was sorry for Dean’s current condition.  They were all thankful, though; Dean wasn’t ever supposed to have woken up at all.  His voice seemed like a fair enough sacrifice. 

At least, that’s what John said, and Sam half-heartedly agreed. 

There was talk of finding a spell or some voodoo priest to lay some mojo on him, in hopes of reversing the damage, but Dean knew better than to hope for such things and he was pretty sure his family knew better, too. 

John asked Sam to go get him some coffee, and then he left Dean with a secret.

Shortly thereafter, shouting and the shrill sound of a flat-line made Dean stumble out of his bed, meeting his panicked brother at the doorway.  Sam helped Dean to hobble down the hallway to the room where their father was lying in his bed, unresponsive.  At 10:41 in the morning, John Winchester was pronounced dead.

Dean drives them home.  He’s tired and he’s weak, slightly loopy from the pain meds, and he really shouldn’t be driving them, but he does anyway.  Sam’s in a worse state. 

They’re heading toward the nearest motel and even with the windows down, airing out the scent of death still lingering in the car, Dean can hear the stifled sobs from the passenger’s seat.  Sam’s beating himself up, it’s evident behind all those tears; the guilt, the anger, the helplessness.   He’s being uncharacteristically quiet, though, despite everything that’s happened.

Besides the few (one-sided) words they shared over the pyre, Sam has shared nothing of what he's feeling.  Dean would almost be thankful but it has him feeling off-kilter.  It leaves him wanting to shake his brother and insist that they talk about this – or, more to the point, that Sam talk about it because Dean never will.  Unless Sam says something, Dean will bury this.  Just like always.

When they pull up to the motel, Dean lets the Impala idle for a while so that Sam can compose himself and so that they can decide who’s getting the keys and who’s getting the bags.  Dean’s unsure of getting the key; he’s certain he must look like death, with shadows under his eyes, bruises everywhere, and a necklace of stitches to complement it all.  Just the same, he's not sure he has the strength enough to even carry one duffel inside. 

In the end, Sam does it all because Dean nods off in the driver’s seat while they’re debating. 

“Dean!”

He jerks awake and instantly regrets it when his body makes all its injuries known. 

Sam has opened the driver’s door and is looking down at him with concern, eyes still puffy and red.   “Hey, man.  You awake?”

Dean groans, or he would if he had some fucking vocal cords.  Instead, he makes this airy wet noise and curls his body out of the car.  Sam is there, arm under Dean’s to support him and help him into their room.  Thankfully, Sam managed to snag one only a few feet from where Dean had parked; he’s not sure he could have kept his feet under him much further.  The narcotics the doctor had given him earlier are leaving his system, pain blooming up out of the comfortable haze. 

The motel door closes behind them and Dean flops down onto the nearest mattress, head in his hands.  When Sam speaks, his voice is thick. 

“You should get some sleep.”

‘No shit.’

It’s so disconcerting, how he keeps expecting to hear the words amplified in his head.  He never noticed before the way his words would play in stereo when he speaks, but now that it’s gone, he can’t understand how he missed it.  Now, when he speaks, it’s a resounding emptiness.  There’s no echo between his throat and his ears.  It’s just air…. Raspy, soundless, useless air.

Sam looks like he’s about to say something.  Maybe he’ll start up with the care-and-share.  Dean is just bursting with anticipation. 

Instead of breaking open and crying on Dean’s shoulder, Sam just says he’s going to grab a shower and that Dean really ought to get under the covers and sleep; there are more pain killers in the first aid kit if he needs them.

Dean won’t admit the tiny ache of disappointment he feels over Sam’s nonchalance. 

He wakes up coughing.  It’s so bad that he’s forced up out of bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress and bending over against his knees.  Sharp lances of hurt rush up through his throat, angering the inflamed tissue and aggravating what’s trying to heal.

Anxious words precede Sam’s warm hands holding steady to Dean’s quaking shoulders.  Dim light filters into the room from the nightstand’s pitiful lamp.

He wheezes as he gasps for breath, each gulp feeling like fire in his chest.  The movements make the bruises around his ribs hurt anew and he starts to wonder if he’ll pop a stitch with how much his throat is working. 

Even as he coughs and moans through the pain, Dean is still silent.  He can feel his throat constrict in the usual habit of making noise, but in reality he knows that there isn’t anything being produced.  Besides the thick, wet sounds of phlegm and old blood working up through his throat, Dean isn’t making any noise.

It feels like an eternity before he can get his breathing under control again.  Sam is sitting next to him on the mattress, hands holding his shoulders in an almost painful grip, and Dean can’t tell if they’re both shaking or if Sam’s just that worried. 

“Jesus, Dean,” he whispers, warm breath moving over Dean’s bare shoulder.  

Dean makes a broken, hurt rasp and leans into his brother.  He doesn’t want to look weak, but now that the adrenaline of the moment is fading, the pain is reaching an unholy level of intolerance.

“Meds?”

Dean nods slowly.

“Okay.  Okay, hang on.”  Sam is breathless.  Was he really that upset?

Dean curls back into himself, trying not to swallow.  It’s like he had the world’s most foul case of strep coupled with a tonsillectomy then drowned in a healthy dose of whiskey.  To say his throat feels raw is a drastic understatement. 

Sam presses a cold glass of water and some pills into his hands with a soft word of encouragement, then he sits back down on the bed.  Dean can feel Sam’s hand make a halting movement, like he wants to reach out and hold onto Dean again but can't bring himself to do it.  Dean kind of wishes he would.

His throat tries to seize again when he knocks the pills back and he sputters a little before taking a more determined gulp and forcing the water down.  The coolness feels like a balm as he swallows, but it leaves everything newly sore in its wake. 

“You okay?” Sam whispers and then snorts, realizing what he asked.  Yeah.  Dean’s just dandy.

He doesn’t say that, though.  Instead, Dean just shakes his head and puts the glass on the small night stand between their beds.  He’s cold now and sore and tired.  The last 72 hours of his life have been one hellish experience after another.  All he wants is a nice, long, comfortable night of sleep; and given the state of their motel room, he’s not about to get his wish.

“Sorry,” says Sam.  “I know: stupid question.  I’m just… you know you can talk if you need to—“

‘Sam…’

“--I'll listen.  I mean, we can—“

‘Sam!’

“--get a notebook or something—“

Dean reaches out and grips his brother’s forearm tight enough to dig his nails in.  It makes Sam yelp, but it also stops him mid-speech.  A very cynical part of Dean whispers to him how pathetic it is that he can’t even interrupt his brother anymore; if it weren’t for some physical action, no one would ever know that Dean was even present.

Dean meets Sam’s gaze in the dim light of their room -- he ignores how wet Sam’s eyes look – and tries to psychically project every angry, heartfelt, desperate word into Sam’s head. 

The defiance of Sam's’ expression withers into something sad and lost, needful almost, as he stares back at Dean.  With a sigh he whispers, “Dean.  You’ve got to talk.  You know what the doctor said—ow!  Will you quit that?”  Sam yanks his arm away from Dean’s ever-tightening grip.

A small surge of vindictiveness moves through him when he sees the red marks on Sam’s forearm.  He can’t fucking speak, how else is he supposed to convey how he feels?   God, Sam always wants him to express himself, well here he is! Expressing!

“Aren't you upset?”

Dean sees red at that and, though he doesn’t hit Sam, it’s a damn near thing. 

He stands up, weary and wobbling on his feet but still vertical, and starts pacing.  His body aches from the movement, but he doesn’t care; he needs something to do with the anxious, writhing, agitated energy broiling beneath his skin. 

“At first I just thought you were tired.”  Jesus Christ, Sam’s apparently taken Dean’s sudden lack of speech and turned it into an excuse to monologue.  As if he doesn’t share his most intimate thoughts enough as it is, now Dean’s never going to hear the end of it.  “But you really aren't talking—“

Dean lunges at Sam, using all his weight and momentum to push him down against the mattress, fist twisting the fabric of his shirt’s collar.  ‘I can’t fucking speak, Sam!  What the hell do you want from me?  I. can’t. speak!’

Sam lies beneath him, hands spread up and out at his sides in supplication.  Dean has pressed himself right up close to Sam, close enough they’re sharing breath, and he can see the hesitation in Sam’s wide eyes.  Dean has officially freaked his brother out.  Great.

With a harsh shove, Dean pushes himself off Sam and onto his back against the mattress.  He just wants to sleep.  The narcotics are kicking in.

“I’m sorry,” says Sam as he sits up.

Dean sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. 

“I know you can’t.”

Wait, what?

Dean looks up and sees his brother watching him.  ‘You can hear me?’

Sam studies him for a moment, makes him repeat it, and then shakes his head.  “I can’t hear that.  You were shouting at me earlier, right?”  Dean nods.  “That I could hear. ” His mouth twists cynically.

‘Huh.’ 

“…You’ve got to talk about stuff, Dean.  Get it out.  And when you were shouting?  That…,” Sam makes a deprecating noise in the back of his throat, “I mean, I’m guessing it didn’t feel too great but it was good for you.”

The cynicism in his tone belies any silver lining, as far as Dean’s concerned.

Taking a deep breath, Dean shouts, ‘Thanks.’

Sam actually smiles at him.  “You’re welcome.”

Another deep breath.  ‘This is really… hard to… keep up, though.’  Dean could almost laugh at himself, if he weren’t so horrified.  Christ, he sounds like a damn retard.  A chill of fear slices through him at the realization of how pitiful he must seem now and how close to the truth it is.

“We’ll get you a notebook.”

Dean shoots him a glance from under his brow. 

“You got a better idea?”

It’s just the drugs making him sleepy that keeps Dean from giving an answer to such a silly question.

The thick scent of coffee brings Dean to consciousness the next morning.  As per usual, Sam is up and showered already – damn morning person.  Rolling over, Dean groans – sort of – and pushes himself up off the mattress, stumbling over to the coffee maker. 

“Huh-uh,” Sam says from behind the laptop’s monitor.  “Not hot liquids, remember?”

Dean physically deflates and he would totally have whined if he could.  He can see, just barely over the edge of the laptop, that his brother is smirked.  Yeah, he thinks it’s so damn funny that Dean can’t have his coffee, ha, ha.  It’s hilarious. 

Dean smacks him on the back of the head as he walks to the bathroom, angling for a much-needed shower.  He laughs silently when Sam shouts insults to the closed door.

The water is unexpectedly hot for a crappy motel room, and Dean breathes deep the steam that’s rising in the small, enclosed space.  It loosens things up and makes him cough a bit, but nothing nearly as severe as the night before.  It still hurts, though, and he makes a mental note to pop a pill to take the edge off once he’s done in the shower.

When he soaps up his hair, he’s shocked by a sharp sting along his neck – he had forgotten about the stitches.  His fingers trace over the spiny points that trace up from the right side of his collarbone to just blow the opposite ear.  Sam’s been so kind, not staring, but when Dean finishes up in the shower, he wipes the fog off the mirror and gives himself a solid once-over.

It’s not as gruesome-looking as he anticipated.  It’s not pretty, by any means, but it’s not horrible.  He trails his fingers over the plastic threads again, feeling the dull, bruised ache of them now.  The skin surrounding them is taught, and he can see the thick clotted line of the incision beneath the black lines of thread. 

He has a cut along his forehead that’s slowly healing into little more than a pink line of scar tissue, and there are still some bruises on his face – and plenty more on his body to match.  He notices some other deep cuts along his torso and arms, but nothing that warranted stitches like his throat.  There are still deep purple smudges on his chest from where the demon used his father’s hands to harm him. 

Dean stands back from the mirror and stares at the ugly line across his neck.   It dawns on him how much this will affect his future now.  How will people see him?  He’s never had trouble snagging himself a girl, but how will they react now?  Scars are always fun to talk about, tell heroic stories of their origins, but that’s just it: Dean wouldtalk about them.  He can't speak now.  How’s he supposed to even let a girl know he's interested? 

And what about Sam?  How were they supposed to hunt?  Dean can’t communicate with him, can’t yell a warning or share assumptions.  Dean can’t interview witnesses.  He is almost completely useless; all he has left is brute strength.  Well, go figure; his high school principals were right, after all: he did amount to nothing. 

So, what would Sam do now?  They didn’t have any way of tracking down that demon and Sam really didn’t have any reason to tag along with his newly-mute brother.  Would Sam go back to Stanford?  Try again for that picket fence?  What was there, exactly, that Sam had left here?  And what would Dean do if Sam took off; especially when their father’s dying words had been… 

There’s a heavy knock on the door and Sam calls his name.

‘Yeah!’ Dean responds before he thinks better of it.  Reaching out, he raps back on the door.

“Just making sure,” says Sam, voice pitched lower.  Dean has to wonder how much this has shaken Sam, and why.  It’s not like Sam’s the one with a ripped up throat. 

Dean knocks again, two quick raps.

A pause and then, even softer.  “Yeah.  Sorry.”  And he can hear Sam’s footsteps as he walks away.  It almost makes Dean feel guilty, like he was supposed to say something important and dropped the ball entirely, but he’s unsure what exactly that ball was. 

He shaves, brushes his teeth, and then walks out to grab some clothes.  After pulling on pants and a t-shirt, Dean flops on the edge of the mattress nearest his brother.  Sam is engrossed in his laptop again, and it takes a moment before Sam pulls his eyes away from the screen.  Finally making eye contact, he offers Dean a wan smile, but it’s more a question than a form of express.

Dean nods, I’m okay, Sam, stop worrying so much. 

Despite his trying to placate Sam and assure him that he’s okay, though, the truth is that Dean’s really not.  He’s trying to figure out what’s going to happen now.  The image of himself in front of the steamed up mirror in the bathroom has stuck with him, and with it, all the concerns of his future. 

“Dean?”  Sam’s voice is soft, almost a whisper.   

When he looks up, Dean knows he’s let too much show.  Sam’s expression darkens and his brow furrows anxiously.  There’s a split-second where Dean thinks to suck it all back in, force it down and forget about it, but Sam’s already seen it and Dean’s tired.  So tired.

If he had a voice, he would have whimpered.  But as it stands, he’s inaudible and all that comes from him is a choked gasp.  He can feel his eyes tighten, trying to hold back the emotion that’s bubbling up inside him.  He’s stronger than this, God damn it!

Sam stands up and walks to their duffels.  Dean’s confused for a moment, then he watches his brother fish the notepad and pen out of his jeans and they’re shoved into his hands.

“Talk to me.”

Dean is silent as Sam sits next to him on the mattress, brushing their shoulders together.  It’s a small comfort, the warmth of his brother at his side, but it’s a comfort nonetheless and Dean is so very, very thankful for it.  He leans over, nudging back in acknowledgement before flipping the cover of the notepad and putting the pen against the paper.

It takes him a moment to find the words, though.  There’s just so much on his mind, where should he begin?  Sam is surprisingly silent beside him, waiting patiently for Dean to ‘talk’.  With a deep breath, Dean decides to just jump right in – it’s not like he can beat around the bush with a fucking pen and paper.

I’m scared.

Sam nudges his shoulder and asks why.

Can’t talk.  Can’t hunt.  You’ll--.

He stops and scribbles out the last word.  He’s talking to Sam, not bearing his God damned soul.

Naturally, Sam pushes.  “I'll what?”

Dean glares at him for a moment, mentally weighing whether or not to tell him.  Once again, Dean puts pen to paper and says, Leave.

“What?  I’m not—Dean, why would you think that?”  Sam sounds genuinely surprised.  “And we can keep hunting.  I’ve been looking around online, there might be—“ He cuts himself off when Dean shakes his head and starts writing again.

Can’t TALK.  Can’t interview witnesses.  Can’t bounce ideas. Can’t warn you.

Sam makes non-committal noises with each reason Dean lists in his scrawling, rushed handwriting.  When Dean stops and glances worriedly at his brother, Sam shrugs and says, “So we figure something else out.  Dean, we’ll get through this.  We’ve dealt with lots worse.  No, really—“ Sam presses when Dean rolled his eyes, huffing in agitation.  “We have.  And honestly – fuck hunting!  I don’t care if we can’t do it anymore.  I’m just glad you’re alive!  I thought… Jesus, Dean, I thought….”

He doesn’t finish the thought, can’t finish it.  Dean could hear the emotion choking the words off. 

Leaning closer, pressing his mouth up against Sam’s ear, he says, ‘I’m still here, Sammy.  Ain’t going anywhere.’

Sam makes this noise – it’s choked off and wounded, almost a whine but too strong for that – and it digs into Dean’s chest, makes him ache with the need to fix it.  He reaches out and puts his hand on top of Sam’s wrist; it’s all he can think to do.  There’s not much he can say, and even if there was, he wouldn’t be able to say it all, not with how things are now.  So he shows Sam that he’s still there with the physical, tangible weight of his hand.  Sam sighs shakily and nods, face hidden beneath the curtain of his bangs. 

‘Need a damn haircut, Sammy.’ He shouts, aiming to be as loud as he can in the semi-quiet of their room.  It works; Sam laughs.

After a moment of quiet, contented with one another’s presence, Sam gets up to grab their first aid kit, then returns to his spot next to Dean on the bed.  He fishes out some gauze and topical antiseptic, then motions with his hand for Dean to pivot in his direction.  Dean sits pretty for his brother, almost wanting to argue that he can do this himself, but if he were honest, Dean enjoys the attention. 

Sam might have been the one to say how thankful he is that Dean’s still around, but the sentiment is thoroughly shared.  Dean doesn’t know what he would do if Sam just up and left now, not when they were just starting to be a family again – dad or no dad, they were still brothers, still blood. 

The topical stings and Dean can’t help but hiss at the first contact.  Sam mutters an apology, but his fingers slide easily from Dean’s collarbone all the way up the diagonal, leaving a trail of pain behind.  With clinical attentiveness, Sam lays the gauze out along the incision and uses the paper tape from the kit to secure it in place.  It’s awkward-feeling and itchy, but Dean thanks Sam nonetheless.

“Sure,” Sam says softly, putting things back where they belong.  Closing up the kit, he smiles to Dean and says, “So, let’s go get you that notebook!”

There’s not much opportunity to use the notebook at first, since they head to Bobby’s immediately after hitting up the convenience store.  With Dean driving, he can’t write anything down, and if Sam were driving, he wouldn’t be able to read what Dean wrote anyway.   So the little notepad sits in Dean’s back pocket, waiting for its chance to make itself useful.  In the meantime, Dean sings along to the radio while Sam snoozes in the passenger seat.

The doctor at the hospital had told them that Dean could possibly regain some use of his vocal cords again and develop a working voice.  The vocal cords are just a muscle and, like any other muscle, need to be worked.  If Dean continues to try to speak, working the tissue into strengthening, he may possibly be able to speak again.  Dean had been unimpressed, rolling his eyes in response, but Sam took it to heart.  He continued to try and hold conversations with Dean in an attempt to get Dean talking.  All it served to do was frustrate both of them – Dean became angry at his inability to respond comprehensibly, and Sam grew tired of Dean’s impatience.  But Dean could sing along to the radio, as loud as he can stand (which didn’t amount to much, decibel-wise), and make Sam happy with the knowledge that Dean was being proactive about the whole thing.

Even with the radio off and the windows rolled up, the soft purr of the engine is enough to drown out what little noise Dean’s shouting can produce.  Earlier, Sam had even tried scooting across the bench to press his ear right up to Dean’s mouth, and he still couldn’t make out the words – he could hear the rasp, but nothing intelligible.  They had never tried to fill the empty spaces in their conversations before.  If they ran out of stuff to talk about, then that was just fine; they would find something else to talk about later.  It’s different now, though, because suddenly it isn’t so much that they don’t have anything to talk about but that they don’t have the option of not talking about anything; Dean simply can’t talk. 

The whole situation does nothing for Dean’s optimism. 

When Sam wakes, he smiles at Dean and asks where they are.  It always makes Dean want to laugh, how Sam continues to try and hold conversations, never asking yes or no questions.  It’s as infuriating as it is endearing. 

Dean shoots him a sideways glance, arching a brow; really?

Shrugging sheepishly, Sam’s smile widens.  “Yeah, yeah.  I'll keep an eye out for road signs…. Jerk.”

‘Bitch.’  Even if he can’t be heard over the environment, he’s still going to say it.

As they enter a new town, Sam chimes in with, “I’m hungry.  Let’s grab lunch?”

Dean’s hungry, too, so he pulls over at the first diner they find.  It’s fairly empty – they must have missed the lunch crowd by about an hour – and the hostess seats them in a booth, complete with creaking plastic seats, letting them know the waitress will be right with them. 

A few moments for them to glance over the menus and then the middle-aged, bottle-blonde woman swaggers over, pen in hand.  She smiles sweetly at them, and when she speaks, Dean swears that no matter what part of the country, the waitresses of cheap places like this will always, always, be southern.

“What can I get y’all?” She drawls, leering at Dean immediately, her eyes tracing a slow trail over him.

He smiles back, more than happy to flirt.  Tilting his head up to her, he says, ‘Bacon double—‘ he stops then, watching the way her eyes shutter closed as they take in the bandage covering his throat, a soft flush of embarrassment crossing over her cheeks as she looks to Sam for help.

Dean sits back in his seat then, staring at the chipped Formica of the tabletop as Sam awkwardly gives her their orders… both of them.

The silence booms in the waitress’ wake, but Sam is stubborn.

“So, much further to Bobby’s?”

Dean glares at Sam, opening and closing his mouth in a sarcastic imitation of speech.

Sam levels his own petulant stare back and says, “The notebook?”

With a great sigh, Dean reaches into his back pocket and pulls the accursed object out and onto the table.  Uncapping the pen, he scribbles, 80 miles give or take.

“Oh, wow.  We should grab some pie for Bobby.”

Dean smirks, almost laughs.  Yeah, he’d probably like that.  Apple or pecan?

“I see him as more of a pecan man, myself.”

And so the conversation goes, words in the air and on paper; Dean even speaks sometimes, when he knows the words will be simple enough for Sam to read.  They talk for so long that Dean starts to forget that there’s anything wrong with him.  Growing up as they did, living in one another’s pockets, they almost don’t even have to speak to share thought.  Dean’s new condition isn’t as much of a hamper as he thought it would be.

When the waitress arrives with their food, she smiles pityingly to Dean as she lays his plate down, and it makes his skin crawl.  Any optimism he gained from holding a half-decent conversation with his brother slowly melts under that sympathetic gaze – as if she knows what he’s going through, as if she sees him as less of a person.  So he can’t speak; he’s not a fucking invalid!

“Y’all need anything else?”  She asks, discomfort obvious in her body language.  Dean tries not to throw his plate against the wall; the waitress is looking directly at Sam when she asks.  She won’t spare Dean so much as a glance.

His anger is forgotten, however, after she leaves and he sinks his teeth into his burger. 

Dean moans obscenely around a mouthful of bacon cheeseburger – or, at least, he goes through the motions of moaning.  There’s little more than a wet rumble that escapes his throat, and he’s not deaf to the snicker he hears from his brother.

He chucks a fry at Sam and grumbles, ‘Shut up.’

“I’m glad you’re talking more,” Sam says softly as he brushes the French fry away.  There’s a shy, momentary glance Dean's way before Sam ducks his head and hides beneath the curtain of his bangs.  Shrugging he adds, softer still, “Doctor did say it would help.”

Dean pauses, studying his brother.  Normally he would mock Sam, say something self-defeating and off-handed, brushing the gentle moment aside, but not this time.   As uncomfortable as he is talking about it, this is just how things are now and Dean’s got to learn to live with it.  The conversation earlier still feeds a flame of hope inside him.  They can do this.  They have dealt with worse.  And, most importantly, he’s glad that his brother still looks at him the same way.  The concern in his gaze is because he fears Dean isn’t coping constructively, not because he sees Dean any less than he did before.

‘Thanks,’ he says, having to nearly scream now.  He can tell he’s getting a little more audible now, though.  There’s a rushing whisper of the words playing back to him beneath the murmuring conversations surrounding them.

Sam’s watching him again, eyes narrowing slowly before he asks, “It hurt?”

Dean nods.   It’s not that the tissue is still raw or anything; that’s all healed up fine.  It’s the exercising of the cords, the way they’re stretching and being forced into working so much harder to compress within his throat. 

“Well,” Sam says, “don’t push it.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean mouths, ‘Yes, mom.’ 

He gets a fry in between his eyes.