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Sam can see voices.
It’s always been like this, even his earliest childhood memories have those bright explosions of color in them, fireworks in his mental images, color, brightness and size changing depending on who was speaking and how loud, or what mood they were in. Even then, Sam knew that it was strange, because when he tried describing it to Dean, his brother looked at him strangely, eyebrows furrowing as he said, “you can’t see voices, Sammy, that’s stupid.”
Sam had pouted, small, chubby arms crossing over his chest in defiance as he declared, “not true. I can!”
A discussion had started and John had had to interfere, telling Dean to stop upsetting his brother and explaining to Sam that Dean was right, one can only hear voices, not see them. But Sam knew the truth, knew he could see voices, but when he’d tried to talk with his kindergarten teacher, Miss Miller about it, she’d told him the same as John, and finally, Sam had given up, because he didn’t like the amusement in the adults’ eyes, or the brighter-colored band of irritation in their voice when he kept on insisting they were wrong. Frustrated, he’d let it go, deciding this was his secret, one that even Dean shouldn’t know about.
It was only later, when Sam had learned how to use the library and the internet properly, that he found out that he wasn’t some lonesome freak of nature. He’d had to work his way through several medical textbooks, every page filled with Latin words he couldn’t dare hope to pronounce correctly, until he found it; synesthesia, a phenomenon where stimulation of one sensory pathway leads to automatic experiences in a second sensory pathway.
A phenomenon that lets Sam see voices and smell words.
Sam thought about going back to the motel and show Dean the copy of the textbook page in triumph, show him, that yes, some people could indeed see voices, and there was nothing stupid about it, and he made it half of the way back before he decided that it would be just plain weird. He remembered that day, when he’d tried to tell Dean about it, the way he had looked at Sam, the muted colors of his voice that spoke of his disbelief. He remembered all the times Dean called him ‘freak’—jokingly, Sam could tell that from the brightness of the fireworks in his vision, from the way the looked like the sky on the fourth of July—and he couldn’t make himself think about them changing, turning darker, the rain of colorful spots slowing down like drops of molasses with disbelief and discomfort.
Sam slowed his steps and looked at the crumpled printout in his hand. He’d been too eager to put it away properly in his backpack when he’d run out of the library, but now he stopped and let the backpack slip from his shoulder, leaned down and folded the piece of paper before slipping it into a side compartment of the bag.
Maybe, one day there’d be the right time to talk about his synesthesia. He could perhaps, hint at it again, since he hadn’t mentioned it since he’d been five or so. It’s not like there was not enough time to get Dean used to the idea.
*
Dean’s voice is green like his eyes, and it’s one of Sam’s favorites. It’s a nice, fresh color when he’s joking, a deep emerald when he’s flirting, a dark, dark hunter green when he’s angry. There’s a streak of yellow to it when he’s sick or hurt or worried, and Sam hates that. He’s often seen it, mostly when they’re hunting, when Dean shouts “Sam!” at the top of his lungs and the word explodes in his vision, filling it up with its sickly color and he has to blink against it to not lose his focus. It’s also a color reserved for hospitals, when one of them is stretched out on the uncomfortable beds and Dean jokes weakly that it isn’t so bad, “no worries Sammy, soon we’ll all be up again and kick some monster ass.”
Sam would nod then, and try for a smile that he didn’t need to see to know that it looks more like a grimace.
There’s another shade to Dean’s voice that he doesn’t like. It’s a pale, washed-out green, the color of Dad’s old army t-shirts after years of use, and he’s only ever seen it when Dean says, “yessir” to John after he gave his oldest another dressing-down about something or other. It mostly happens when Sam messes up, but somehow it’s always Dean who gets turned into a scapegoat for Dad’s anger, and Sam can’t decide if the disappointment in Dean’s voice is his or John’s fault.
It’s the color of Dean’s voice when Sam leaves for Stanford.
*
Dad’s voice is gray, the sky on a rainy day. Sam doesn’t think that it’s always been like this, because there are sometimes glimpses of warm yellow, when Dad is drunk enough to mention mom, but they vanish as fast as they appeared, taken over by the black and dark charcoal of Dad’s pain and grief.
There’s barely any change to the color of his voice, only a darkening of it when he’s angry or irritated. It lacks the different shades Dean’s voice has to offer, the bright ones in particular. It’s dull and muted, and it sometimes hurts Sam to see it.
*
Jess’s voice, when he meets her, is violet. It’s fuchsia when she’s happy, her laugh a bright explosion that swirls all over Sam’s vision in a happy little dance. Magenta, when she’s angry, purple when she breathes his name into his neck at night in the darkness of their bedroom when he moves above her. It edges on a dark, muddy red when she sick or hurt, and in moments like that, Sam misses the deep violet twirling before his eyes.
When Sam opens his eyes to see her hanging above him on the ceiling, arms and legs in awkward angles, the fire spreading around her, there are no fireworks of her voice, only black drops trickling over his vision, slowly like molasses dripping from her lips with her last exhale.
*
When he meets Meg for the first time, her voice is always black, and looking back, he thinks that alone should’ve tipped him off and made the alarm bells ring in his head. But he’d written it off as the result of a bad history, because after all, he’d met her trying to hitch hike like she’s just run away from home, and her quirky charm and sass had him forget all about the color of her voice.
Later, when he’d met Azazel, and then Lilith, and all the other demons, had seen their voices like a river of black ooze across his vision, he understood.
*
The angels’ voices all look the same—a blue so bright it’s hard to look at, restless explosions that ricochet over his vision even when they’ve already stopped talking. It gives Sam a headache and sometimes, he has to press his eyes firmly shut and massage his temples when Cas speaks too much.
*
Sam’s own voice is red. It’s scarlet when he’s amused, a burgundy twirl when he’s flirting, the color of rust when he’s hurt or sick. Coral when he’s angry. Crimson when he says Jess’s name.
It’s the color of congealed blood, dark and repelling, after Dean went to hell and he started drinking demon blood.
All in all, it’s a fitting color, Sam has decided. It matches the blood on his hands.
*
Sam can always read Dean’s moods from the color of his voice, can do it with everyone’s, even when the person is a damn good actor, just like Dean. He knows when the witnesses are lying to them, when the police is suspicious.
Knows when Dean hides his anger and sadness under a layer of nonchalance or a weak joke.
*
There are some words Sam can smell. Mostly, they are names, or words he assumes strong feelings with. Take Dean for example—his name smells of apple pie and sun-heated leather. ‘Dad’ smells of gun oil and whiskey. ‘Stanford’ is old textbooks and coffee with a slightly disgusting side note of overly-greasy food. Jess’s name is flowery and sweet when he finally finds the strength to say it again. ‘Bobby’ is dusty books and spicy chili. ‘Demons’ is sulfur, ‘angels’ smells of ozone.
‘Family’ smells of alcohol, fresh blood, gasoline, dingy motel rooms and greasy diner food.
‘Disappointment’ smells of blood and rotting meat, and Sam avoids saying it as much as possible.
‘Mom’ smells of burned flesh and smoke, and Sam stopped saying it after the first time.
*
Sometimes his synesthesia is a gift and other times it’s a curse. It’s helpful when they have a case, because it’s far easier when you can tell which people are lying or hiding something. It’s also nice when you can see someone’s happiness as a bright explosion.
But it makes it also hard to ignore Dean’s moods, to ignore the way his voice has considerably darkened since he came back from Hell. It shows Sam the absence of brightness to Dean’s voice, tells him clearly how long it’s been since he saw him laugh last, without any trace of bitterness.
It forces him to look at himself, his own voice, how it’s changed since he was a boy—bright fire engine red to all the different shades of blood in its various states.
He’s just waiting for it to turn completely black.