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Sam’s hand reached out to still his arm just as Dean’s fingers closed around the solid object in the drawer. About three seconds sooner and he would have stopped him; but Dean was tired - distracted, annoyed, whatever - from the last two hours spent cataloging various Men of Letter memorabilia, and so he didn’t stop him.
“Dean wait it’s not -” Sam warns him, still too late for Dean to do anything about it, “- empty... Oh shit.”
Wrist deep in a musty chest of drawers, Dean can only sigh at his younger brother, “Little late for that Sammy. Got my mitts all over this thing, whatever it is. Just read the damn card and tell me my hand ain’t gonna fall off.”
Sam pulls the index card out of the slot on the inside of the drawer. Most of the drawers were still labeled with various Latin terms or MoL shorthand, so there was a chance he might be fine. Or alternatively they had to have something in the bunker that could act as a counter-curse to this... thing. The object in his hand was cool and smooth to the touch, possibly glass or stone, with almost no chips or dents along its surface. Running his fingers along the end, he finds there’s a hole at the far side and a leather string wrapped around it.
“Okay, okay. It's um... well not Latin I can tell you that.” Sam pulls the card out and squints over the centuries old handwriting. God why did those nerdy guys all have to get ganked before label makers were a thing?!
Dean rolls his eyes, patience growing thinner by the minute, “Come on dude, I don’t keep you around cause you look pretty. I got Cas for that.”
Sucking in a ragged gasp of air, Dean whips his head around to meet his brother’s wide hazel eyes. Sam’s lips twitch across his face, trying and failing to maintain any sort of composure. Shit shit shit, why the hell did he say that out loud? Okay, it was just a slip. If Sam asks you to clarify, just lie. You’ve been lying to him since you were six years old. This is a piece of cake compared to the Easter Bunny incident.
“Dean,” Sam blinks rapidly, the fucker looks Christmas morning happy and had Heidi Klum delivered all his presents in her 1998 Sports Illustrated swimsuit, “what... did you just say?”
Stammering, Dean grips the object in his hand even tighter, “I - I said Cas was pretty.”
Shit! He did it again... Not only did he not manage to lie, but he also shared something that only Charlie had ever heard come out of his mouth and in his defense, tequila may have been involved. Yes, Cas was pretty, it was not a fucking news flash. Just look at him! All that messy dark hair, and his piercing baby blues, plus those sexy chapped lips that Dean would love to see wrapped around his – OH MY GOD DON’T SAY THAT OUT LOUD!!!!!
“Sammy,” Dean swallows around the scream threatening to leap out of his mouth, “will you please tell me what the hell is in my hand right now? Because I think it’s giving me a goddamn brain aneurysm.”
Muffling some pretty annoying laughter with a cough, Sam shakily pulls the card back up and reads, “Okay so get this, its Ancient Sumerian, and from what I can translate it’s called the Crystal of Candor. It says, ‘he who holds the crystal has the power to speak their most... extraordinary truth’. Looks like it was used mainly as an interrogation device, it’s meant to be worn like a necklace. I think you can take it out, but...”
“Ah Jesus, do not give me a but right now Sammy!” Dean groans, pulling the crystal out into the dim light of Basement Storage C. It does have a cord like he thought, long enough to slip over the head and be worn at about sternum length. The stone itself is very plain, it’s almost completely clear. Barley as long as his palm, it's about twice as wide as a pencil. Something so small should not be causing him this many problems, but if there was a ‘but’ to be said by his genius of a brother, Dean knew he better shut up and listen to it.
“But... if it's removed before the spell can run its course,” Sam stops and squints over the translation, while Dean starts franticly praying this isn't the kind of curse where your junk falls off. Around Dean’s second ‘Our Father who art not in Heaven, Chuck be thy name’, Sam gulps comically and looks up at him, “Dean it says he who removes the crystal shall suffer their liar's tongue be turned to ash.”
Well, that's a fucking problem...
“How long Sam?”
Sam franticly runs his eyes back over the card, lips moving silently over the dead languages, “I um...”
“How fucking long Sam!” Dean yells, panic slicing through the air between them.
“Twelve hours,” Sam finally concedes, “and that’s probably hedging a bit. It says by the rise and fall of the sun. Better safe than sorry right?”
At Sam’s casual shrug, Dean feels his blood begin to simmer. He had no one to blame for this debacle but himself; he’d been running ragged for weeks now and he was fucking slipping. After rescuing Cas from the Empty, it seemed like there was a never-ending parade (starring the monster of the week) through the Midwest. He’s barely been sleeping, dropping off some nights with his boots still on. Only to rise maybe an hour or two later and do it all over again. Both Sam and Cas have pushed him to take a break, but he just couldn’t... if he did it meant it was over, it meant it was all for nothing...
“Hey man,” Sam interrupts the sharp drag of teeth clamped around his throat, “it’s going to be okay. So, you wear the necklace for the rest of the day. If you keep it on, you should be fine right? Just lay low, we can watch a movie or something.”
It was just a truth spell, not even that bad. Not like one of those crazy sex pollen things, yikes! Sam was right, all he had to do was chill out and it would all be over by tomorrow, he claps a free hand on his brother’s shoulder with a tentative smile, “Sure thing Sam. Ooh! I think I saw Lady Bird on HBO. You wanna make some popcorn?”
At that horrifying admission, Sam busts out laughing as Dean almost drops the crystal. With shaky hands, he loops the cord over his neck and tucks the stone under his shirt, so it rests against his chest. The stone is plenty warm now that it's been clasped in his hand for the last few minutes, but despite its small size it hangs heavy around him. Reminding him, if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, he could just end up spilling every secret he held on to for the last forty years.
“Oh my god!” Sam crows as they walk up the steps to the main level, “This... this is the best day ever!”
“I hate you so much right now.”
“Wait, Dean I just have one more question.” Sammy vibrates around the corner, bumping into the door frame as he walks backwards.
Now with his hands free, Dean squeezes both sides of his head. Maybe if he squishes his brain enough it will explode all over his stupid brother. With his eyes closed, he grits his teeth, “What Sammy?”
“I just want to know, what you think about my hair?”
Sonofabitch... this was the worst day ever.