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They don’t talk much when they are in the car, mostly because Dean doesn’t like to sign, watch Sam sign, and drive all at the same moment. They spend the time in the car relaxing, before and after a case. Zen out or something. Sam spends most of his time staring through the window or sleeping. Not much to do otherwise, since reading in the car usually makes him nauseous.
To keep himself entertained, Dean listens to music and makes it as loud as he wants. They are inching along the interstate away from Los Angeles in bumper to bumper traffic. He glances over at his little brother watching the city thin and turns the music up until his ears start to hurt. Sam doesn’t even flinch and Dean looks back at the congested road, frowning.
He usually succeeds in not mourning the loss of Sam’s hearing, but there are moments. Moments when Dean wishes Sam could…just could. Music, for example. Music is definitely on Dean’s list of top ten favorite things. He can’t imagine what it would be like to never know Brian Johnson’s voice. To never know how music can creep into your soul. Dean enjoys a good rock out on the Impala’s wheel during such moments, but Sam always gets this confused expression on his face, like he can’t figure out if Dean is spastically signing something to him or having a seizure. If only Sam knew. There are so many things out there that Dean can never express with his hands.
Dean looks over at Sam again. His eyes are closed now, head leaned back, and body sprawled across the leather. His hand is pressed into the empty seat between them, fingers spread. It takes Dean a moment to realize that Sam is feeling for the vibrations of the music through the leather.
Dean smacks Sam in the shoulder and Sam peers at him through his lashes.
“Dude,” Dean says. He wishes there was a sign for dude. “What are you doing?”
Sam shakes his head and asks him to say again by tapping the tips of his fingers into his left palm.
Glancing back to check on the road (the Hybrid in front of them is not even moving), Dean points at Sam’s hand on the seat and then motions, What?
Sam smirks, slow and lazy. You listening AC/DC again. I know.
“How do you know?” Dean asks.
Sam pats the bench they share. Recognize. Can feel.
Dean looks ahead again, blowing out a gust of air. Sam can recognize AC/DC from their vibrations?
Sam hands gesture again and Dean shakes his head. “What? Didn’t see.”
I like music Boston better, he signs, hands like a whirlwind. Dean remembers how hard it was for Dad to understand Sam when he got excited. But to Dean? It was like having his brother paint a world with his hands. It’s like reading a book without the words. Sam’s hands become the story, become anything he wants, much like a person changing their voice to imitate someone else. Sam’s hands become the old lady down the street, the flirtatious waitress last week, or the ghost they salted and burned a few hours ago. They bend and twist and glide through the air, implanting images and emotions right into Dean’s heart and mind.
Boston good. Sam leans away from the seat, dramatizing now. Sam always was a big signer and he nudges Dean closer to the wheel so that his back is off the bench. He makes the sign for music quickly, a rocking hand motion over the crook of his arm, and then places his large hand at the small of Dean’s back. Sam’s fingers crawl up Dean’s spine slowly. A spider walk of pressure, Sam’s knuckles bending and straightening before coming to a rest between Dean’s shoulder blades. He shivers and hopes Sam doesn’t notice. Then Sam pushes Dean back again, his other hand resting on Dean’s chest, right over his heart, and Dean hopes it isn’t beating too fast. Sam’s pats his chest then draws away, wrist bending and swaying in imitation of music. Music goes up my back and through my chest, Sam is saying.
Sam laughs, a clipped gasp, like its being ripped out of his chest. It makes Dean grin and then frown.
“You mean the vibrations, right?” Dean asks.
Sam gives him a look and his ‘no’ is terse and hard.
“But you…” Dean flounders.
I feel music, Dean. He stabs his finger at Dean’s chest, stressing. You first hear, then you feel. But I first feel, then hear.
Dean swallows and tears his eyes to the backend of the car in front of them. They sit in silence (always silence for Sammy) while Dean thinks that through. Is this a new thing for Sam or has he always felt this way?
“You didn’t know?” Dean starts a little to hear Sam’s real voice. Sam hates using it, because he knows it didn’t sound right. Half the time Dean can’t understand what Sam is saying when he speaks. It’s easier for them to just sign to each other.
That doesn’t mean Dean hates hearing it. No. Sam makes beautiful noises when he signs, though some people wouldn’t agree. When he’s telling a story or when he doesn’t care about something, he smacks his lips more. When he’s nervous and trying to get what he wants to say out as quickly as possible, he makes breathy little ‘duh’ and ‘dah’ sounds, hands stuttering. When he’s angry (at Dean), his lips thin, his breathing labored, so noises come out through his lips like grunts and hisses, while his hands fly around harder, faster, and shorter. When he’s sad, you can hear the tears in the back of his throat, a sound mixed between a sob and whine. Sam’s voice is deep and heartfelt and real. When he tries to speak, it’s too careful and controlled, like he is trying to mold himself into a small box. Sam is too big for any box society could put him in. Sam’s voice is a stunning thing to hear, his voice, not the cautious one, even if it is garbled sometimes.
Dean shakes his head in the negative. There is a pause and then Sam lets out another laugh, loud and more honk-like, and Dean chuckles just because he is surprised by it. He looks at Sam’s cheerful, tanned face.
I deaf, but you dumb.
Dean reaches over and punches his brother in the arm and Sam punches back, smiling. They lapse into their respective corners, grinning at each other, until Sam gets a hopeful expression on his face. His strong hands lift into the air.
We listen Boston now? he signs and Dean laughs.