Fic: Battle Cry (Supernatural) Chapter 8/10
This is chapter 8 of the fic Battle Cry. Materpost is here. Chapter 1 is here.
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 3747
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 8: The Hallmark Moments
It took two days before Sam felt well enough to move much further than the couch or his bed. His fever had broken that morning and he thought tomorrow he might finally get back to at least helping Bobby do some things around the house. Nothing too strenuous, he certainly wasn’t up to training yet, but he’d go crazy if he didn’t at least get up and moving for more than ten minutes at a time. Being sick was boring. And it meant he felt like a giant useless lump in the way of everyone else in the house.
At least John had stayed gone. Dean didn’t talk about where their father was, but Sam could make a couple of educated guesses. None of them inspired much confidence in the man, but he was glad John hadn’t seen him sick.
As the day wore on and the afternoon sun came streaming in through the windows, Sam was thoroughly sick of sitting, but he didn’t have much energy for anything else. He ought to go find Dean. Now that he was feeling marginally better, he could feel the tension between them building again. He knew he would have to have a conversation with his brother and soon. He honestly did not expect Dean to be the one to initiate it.
Dean walked over to the couch where Sam was actually managing to read more than a line or two at a time. His fever had meant he hadn’t had enough mental prowess to focus for very long and he had drifted so often, the book was really more a prop than any sort of entertainment. It was times like these that Sam wished Bobby would give in and get a TV. He usually didn’t think about it one way or another. He’d been stuck in so many places without electricity, lack of a television never really registered. But being stuck inside with nothing to do could be significantly less awful with the distraction of batman reruns.
Sam glanced up at his brother, who was standing there looking down at him, semi-awkward look on his face. If he hadn’t known Dean, he might have thought he was irritated. Or constipated. He was frowning slightly and his eyes had narrowed, but in a considering way, more brow than a tightening of his eyes.
Sam frowned and raised his eyebrow, silently waiting for Dean to speak. Dean huffed and flung himself down on the seat next to Sam, dropping Sam’s notebook into his lap.
“We need to talk,” Dean said.
Sam set his book aside on the arm of the couch, letting it rest face down to keep his place. He picked up the notebook and pulled out the pen clipped to the spiral. He looked at Dean, waiting for him to say whatever was on his mind, as he flipped to a clean sheet.
Dean was quiet at first, staring at his hands. Finally he said, “What did you mean the other day when you said you were done looking for rituals?”
It was Sam’s turn to hesitate. He didn’t want to provoke his brother. Dean was right, they had been searching high and low for him. If they were willing to do that, he should soldier on and let them try. They were doing it for him, after all. He was just so tired.
He mentally braced himself and wrote, Nothing. I was just tired and sick. Don’t worry about it.
Dean frowned, this one deeper and more disappointed. “Sammy,” he said, with just a hint of reproach. “I know you. You meant what you said. You always mean what you say. I just want to understand why.”
Sam huffed. Dean could be so infuriating. I don’t want you to be angry with me.
“I want to understand. I can’t promise I won’t get mad, ‘cause if you’re being an idiot I’m going to be, but I want to help you. You’ve got to tell me how to do that.”
Sam stared down at the paper in his lap. He had a lot to say. It was going to take a minute to write it all out. He put his pen on the page and began to write.
It’s just we’ve been trying and trying. If it was going to work, it would have been with that first ritual, the one actually meant to get my voice back from the creature.
Dean had leaned in to watch over Sam’s shoulder, crowding into his space. “You don’t know that Sam. There could be any number of things that could get it back.”
Sam glared up at him. He pulled the pad over to the couch arm and huddled over it so that Dean couldn’t read until he was done. One thing that had become extremely frustrating was how easy it was to overrule or ignore him. It was a far more laborious process to write things out and just because he did, didn’t mean that the person he was writing to had to read the whole thing. Too often he found himself either rushed or cut off completely. He knew Dean meant well, but if he was going to have this conversation, he was going to have his say.
Dean flopped back against the couch, feet stretched out across the floor with his hands clasped over his stomach. He leaned his head back to stare up at the ceiling and counted the bumps he could see in the paint.
After a grueling interval in which Dean lost count at least three times, Sam finally turned back around, laying the notebook in his lap. He knew that Dean would read from there and that he would be asking more questions. It was pointless to keep passing the notebook back and forth.
Once again, Dean leaned over to read. This time propping and arm on Sam’s shoulder, using him as a prop. Sam shrugged trying to dislodge him, but Dean ignored him.
I don’t know. But I also don’t know that there’s something out there either. I can’t keep living in limbo. It’s been two weeks of non-stop research and experiments. I’m tired of going through ridiculous scenarios that never do what they are supposed to. I ate a pickled badger heart for god’s sake.
I’m not asking you to give up hope, but I need here the words seemed to change, as though it was a different script altogether. They got bigger and darker.
I need time. I need to learn how to live with this. I kept trying to believe it was okay, no big deal, but it is a big deal. I can’t even answer a telephone. What am I supposed to do about hunting? There’s no way I could warn you of something coming or shout for help if I need it. Never mind the everyday things like asking directions or talking to you.
In a much tighter script at the very bottom, Sam had added, I can’t keep being disappointed.
“Sam, I…” Dean said when he finished reading. “I didn’t realize. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Sam rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest as he sank back into the cushions.
“Seriously man, I didn’t realize you’d been that stressed over it.”
Sam scribbled, Of course I’m stressed. I can’t make a sound. Do you realize how many things we’ve hunted that would love to get someone like me? And what about Dad. You think he’s going to hang around here forever? Or that he’ll take me like this? I sound like a freak.
Dean grabbed Sam’s chin and pulled him around to look eye to eye. His eyes were intense and he made Sam squirm with his tight grip. When Dean was sure they were on the same level, he said “This does not make you a freak,” forcefully through clenched teeth. “Do you understand?”
Sam nodded in Dean’s grasp. As soon as he did, Dean let go.
“And anyway, don’t be ridiculous. Dad would never leave you behind.” At Sam’s pointed look, Dean added. “I wouldn’t let him, even if he did try. You know that. We’re family. We stick together.”
You don’t have to.
“What?” Dean asked, easy smile returning. “Keep Dad in line? That’s practically my full time job.” Dean chuckled, but Sam couldn’t find the humor in the situation. Since when was it Dean’s job to look after everyone?
I mean stay with me. Sam explained. I know it hurts you.
Dean frowned. Sam could see him working out what he meant and looked away, not willing to see what Dean might think of that. If he wanted to leave, Sam would let him.
“Are you kidding me?”
Sam glanced back at Dean and saw something he didn’t expect. Dean was angry. Not the storming-out-of-the-house angry that he had been before, but angry nonetheless.
“I’m not leaving you,” Dean snarled. “I would never. Why would you even say that?”
Sam glanced at Dean from under his lashes. Carefully, slowly he replied, I just don’t like to be the reason you’re upset. I see it when you look at me. You think I’m broken and you need to fix me. Dad doesn’t even look at me anymore.
“Sam…” Dean didn’t know exactly what to say. He cleared his throat. “Of course it upsets me that you are hurt.” Sam shook his head. He wasn’t hurt, but Dean barreled on. “I don’t care what you call it. You’re my baby brother. I was supposed to protect you. I…” Dean swallowed. His aversion to having any kind of emotional exchange waring with his need to make Sam understand. “I failed and I’m sorry. I always thought I could keep you safe when we hunted.”
Sam laid a hand on his arm, letting it rest there. When he drew away, it was to write, Not your fault.
Dean shook his head. “Yeah, Sammy. It was. I got us to the wrong cave. I missed that first shot. Hell, I should have listened to you to start with.”
Neither of us knew. I missed that shot too, and I was wrong about the witch anyway. Stop blaming yourself. It’s not your fault. It just happened.
“But -”
Sam smacked him in the shoulder. NOT YOUR FAULT. Sam wrote it so hard that his pen almost tore through the paper.
“Sure Sammy,” Dean said. Sam could hear the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but knew it wouldn’t be that simple.
SAM
Dean grinned wickedly. “Whatever you say, Sammy-boy.”
Sam tried to tackle Dean, but he was far too weak to be very effective. Vengeance would have to wait for another day. Dean pinned him to his seat and flicked his nose, just to prove he could before moving back to his own seat.
Sam blinked, his eyes heavy in the silence that followed. He fought back a yawn.
Finally, after Sam was sure they were done, Dean said, “Are you sure about this? Maybe this thing Bobby found is worth a try.”
Sam reached for the pad that had fallen to the floor in the tussle. I’m sure. Just give me a chance to figure things out.
Dean looked entirely unconvinced. “Like what? Wouldn’t it be better to keep looking and solve this as quickly as we can?”
What do I do in the mean time? Even if there is a solution, it could take years to find. I need to be able to communicate now.
Dean didn’t have an answer to that.
Please?
That was the key. Dean’s resolve crumbled. His shoulders dropped a little, but he acquiesced. “Okay, Sam. We’ll see what we can do. But you have to take it easy for a day or two.”
Sam made a face. He had done nothing but take it easy for three days. “I’m not kidding,” Dean said. “You had a fever of 103. You need to rest.”
Fine, jerk. But you’ll help?
“Of course. What else would I do?”
Sam flung his arms around Dean, who patted his back. “Yeah, yeah. I’m awesome.”
Sam drew back and stuck his tongue out at Dean.
It was the lightest moment they’d had since they left Alpha, MI.
Sam yawned wide, suddenly aware that he’d been vertical at least three times longer than at any point in the last few days. Dean smirked. “Awe, is wittle Samantha tired?”
Despite his mocking, he stood up and pushed Sam down across the couch. “Better put you down for your nap then.” He made a production of flopping the blanket around, but it did eventually end up tucked around Sam nice and snug. Not that Sam really registered this fact. He had been more tired than he realized and was nearly asleep.
“Need a lullabye?”
Sam flipped Dean off, then snuggled down into the blanket. He heard Dean chuckle as he started to drowse.
It was dark when he woke. There was a light in in the kitchen where he could hear the muted voices of Bobby and Dean. Dean was laughing. Sam paused. He hadn't heard Dean actually laugh for months.
He stood as quietly as he could and made his way to the kitchen. He leaned on the wall in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and watched as Bobby threatened Dean with a spoon. Dean's grin was wicked and Sam knew he was probably better off not knowing what he had done.
"You better watch it boy,” Bobby was saying. “I can still whoop your ass. I'll do it too."
Dean’s grin widened. "Wanna try old man?"
Sam winced, fighting to not chuckle. He didn't see Bobby move but he heard the thwack of wood meeting flesh and Dean's yelp as he jumped back rubbing his arm.
"Now go see the table," Bobby said. "Good to see you up, Sam.” Sam grinned and went to help Dean.
Sam’s next little Hallmark moment was less fraught with emotional, macho tension. He had been ensconced in Bobby’s chair, working through his math book around Rumsfeld who had decided Sam needed a companion in his daunting task. Mostly, it just meant he had to hold his arm at an odd angle to write around the large dog head now lying across his notebook. Sam didn’t mind. Rumsfeld was good company and demanded very little in return. Sam was sure he could spare a moment for a belly rub between graphing equations.
He’d stolen his textbooks from his last school when he realized that he wouldn’t have a chance to take them back anyway. He didn’t really feel bad for it. He had decided, given that John was still AWOL, Dean had gone into training mode and refused to let Sam come join him for at least another two days, and Bobby was in the middle of reorganizing, which neither of the boys was invited to help with, he would at least try to stay caught up with his school work as best he could. He loathed being behind and trying to catch up around his father’s crazy schedule.
He thought he might be able to cajole a ride out of Dean later. He’d like to go into town to the library. While Bobby’s collection was impressive, it was heavily slanted towards things that went bump in the night and had little other information in it. Sam had found a stash of seventeenth century poetry once, tucked away in the corner under several large, heavy tomes, but he somehow doubted they would help in his current situation, nor could he see Bobby reacting well to him having found them. He wisely decided it best to pretend he had never seen a thing.
Sam was good at that. He could pretend he had never seen a lot of things. It was pretty much what got the Winchester’s through their lives.
He wanted to research ways to make this whole thing easier. There had to be something out there. He couldn’t have been the only person in the history of the world to have lost his voice. He knew there were manual languages, having learned the ASL alphabet at one of the early schools he attended. He’d been in third grade, he thought. He knew such a thing existed, but had no clue how to go about getting that information. He wanted to research what solutions other people had come up with.
Bobby had been busy upstairs. Every now and then Sam would hear the crash of a pile knocked over or the low irritated mutter of Bobby cussing under his breath. Invariably, Rumsfeld would jerk to attention and bark. Bobby would yell, “shut up ya daft dog,” or something to that effect. Apparently Rumsfeld had been banished from helping as well. Sam might have gone up, except Bobby had threatened that if either boy laid so much as a finger on one of his books until he got them organized again, they’d both be cleaning car parts for a month.
Sam had cleaned car parts before. It was a dirty, oily job that left him tired and bored. He did it on occasion to help Bobby out when he needed it, but for the most part it was a pointless task. Everyone involved knew that except for some pretty specific things, they generally didn’t need a thorough, fully detailed cleaning before they could be reused. They were just going to be a mess five minutes later anyway. And when Bobby set them the task, those parts had better be glistening.
It was the quiet that caught Sam’s attention. Bobby had been alternately muttering and stomping all morning. Sam glanced up the stairs when he realized that he hadn’t heard a sound in almost twenty minutes. Frowning, he set his book aside and was about to get up when Bobby clomped down the stairs.
Rumsfeld perked up and launched himself off the chair, nearly dislodging Sam’s work from his lap. As Sam scrambled to keep from dropping anything, Bobby marched right up to Sam, ignoring the dog’s attentions.
He stopped in front of the chair, hands on his hips and a book in one hand. Sam glanced at it, but the spine was facing away from him and Sam couldn’t read the title from what he could make out of the cover between Bobby’s fingers. Bobby looked down at Sam, studying him through narrowed eyes. Sam squirmed under the attention.
Finally Bobby spoke. “Dean said you want to postpone the search for a cure.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Of course Dean wouldn’t be able to let it go completely. Still, Sam nodded in a quick sharp motion, still not sure where this was going.
Bobby didn’t look mad, or sad, or disappointed. Only thoughtful.
“Care to tell me why?”
Sam scrunched up his face, suddenly irritated. He couldn’t tell Bobby anything, and even if he could, he didn’t understand what was happening. Was Bobby angry with him? Had he done something wrong? He’d barely moved all morning.
Bobby glanced back and snagged the notebook off the table behind him. He held it out towards Sam. It had the usual pen tucked into the spiral. Sam pulled it out and flipped to a mostly blank page. He glanced up at Bobby, then began to write.
I need to learn how to live with this. I told Dean, even if there’s a cure to find, it could take months, years even. I can’t just hide here for the rest of my life.
Bobby seemed to consider what Sam had written. “So this is about adapting?”
Sam nodded, still unsure what exactly Bobby was looking for.
“And it has nothing to do with the failed spells?”
Sam glanced down. Maybe a little.
“You can’t get anywhere if you don’t try.” Bobby still didn’t sound even mildly reproachful. He was matter-of-fact.
Sam shook his head. I know. But I
Sam hesitated. “What?” Bobby wanted to know. “You what?”
I feel like I’m just stringing along on hope. I don’t know how to, Here he scribbled through his writing. I just…I want to know that if I can’t be fixed, I can manage.
Bobby nodded. “Okay, then. This might help.”
Bobby dropped the book he had been carrying into Sam’s lap and turned to leave. As he walked towards the stairs, he called back, “And if I ever catch you saying you’re broken again, I’ll kick your ass.”
Sam mock saluted him behind his back, but smiled. He lifted the book, flipping it over to read the cover. It was a book on sign language. Since when did Bobby have books on sign language? He flipped the cover opened and started to read.
When Dean found him an hour later and asked what he was doing, Sam grinned at him and held up the book, waving it under Dean’s nose. Dean grabbed it, unable to tell what it was due to the close proximity and Sam’s shaking it. His shoulders slumped when he read the title, but he smiled for Sam’s sake. “This is great.”
Sam heard the edge to his voice and his smile dropped, uncertain. He furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side a little.
“No, it’s good.” Dean perked up a little. “We can call people dirty names and they’ll never know.” Dean snickered.
Sam mirrored his expression. He didn’t forget the frustrated defeat in Dean’s expression when he realized what Sam was doing, but like with Bobby’s poetry, he pretended he hadn’t seen anything. They spent the rest of the afternoon looking up useful words in the book. By the end, Dean seemed almost as enthusiastic as Sam.
That night after dinner and clean up, as Sam was about to head to bed he stopped beside where Bobby was sitting on his couch with a newspaper and hugged him. Bobby stiffened then a tentative smile started to show. Sam pulled back and, with a careful, precise movement, shared the one word he had specifically set out to learn today.
‘Thank you.’
Bobby cleared his throat and looked back at his paper, pretending he was not moved in the least. “Yeah. You’re welcome. Best get to bed.” He said it gruffly, but Sam grinned at him and they both knew Bobby was just as pleased as Sam.
As Sam lay in bed that night, he dared to hope for the first time that things might turn out okay.
<< Masterpost Chapter 9>>>
Title: Battle Cry
Fandom: Supernatural
Character(s): Sam, Dean, John Bobby
Pairing(s): Gen
Prompt: Loss of Voice
Chapter Word Count: 3747
Rating: PG-13 for some cussing and a wee bit of violence
Disclaimer: Not mine. If you recognize it, I had no hand in making it. I do not own any piece of the Supernatural awesomeness. It all belongs to Kripke et. al. I’m just borrowing for a minute.
Warnings: None
Summary: It’s supposed to be a witch. It’s supposed to be easy. Sam and Dean shouldn’t have to do more than help burn the body. But, when they are faced with an unknown monster, the consequences will be life altering for all the Winchesters. Will they be able to fix the problem, or will Sam have to learn to adapt to the newest challenge in his life?
Chapter 8: The Hallmark Moments
It took two days before Sam felt well enough to move much further than the couch or his bed. His fever had broken that morning and he thought tomorrow he might finally get back to at least helping Bobby do some things around the house. Nothing too strenuous, he certainly wasn’t up to training yet, but he’d go crazy if he didn’t at least get up and moving for more than ten minutes at a time. Being sick was boring. And it meant he felt like a giant useless lump in the way of everyone else in the house.
At least John had stayed gone. Dean didn’t talk about where their father was, but Sam could make a couple of educated guesses. None of them inspired much confidence in the man, but he was glad John hadn’t seen him sick.
As the day wore on and the afternoon sun came streaming in through the windows, Sam was thoroughly sick of sitting, but he didn’t have much energy for anything else. He ought to go find Dean. Now that he was feeling marginally better, he could feel the tension between them building again. He knew he would have to have a conversation with his brother and soon. He honestly did not expect Dean to be the one to initiate it.
Dean walked over to the couch where Sam was actually managing to read more than a line or two at a time. His fever had meant he hadn’t had enough mental prowess to focus for very long and he had drifted so often, the book was really more a prop than any sort of entertainment. It was times like these that Sam wished Bobby would give in and get a TV. He usually didn’t think about it one way or another. He’d been stuck in so many places without electricity, lack of a television never really registered. But being stuck inside with nothing to do could be significantly less awful with the distraction of batman reruns.
Sam glanced up at his brother, who was standing there looking down at him, semi-awkward look on his face. If he hadn’t known Dean, he might have thought he was irritated. Or constipated. He was frowning slightly and his eyes had narrowed, but in a considering way, more brow than a tightening of his eyes.
Sam frowned and raised his eyebrow, silently waiting for Dean to speak. Dean huffed and flung himself down on the seat next to Sam, dropping Sam’s notebook into his lap.
“We need to talk,” Dean said.
Sam set his book aside on the arm of the couch, letting it rest face down to keep his place. He picked up the notebook and pulled out the pen clipped to the spiral. He looked at Dean, waiting for him to say whatever was on his mind, as he flipped to a clean sheet.
Dean was quiet at first, staring at his hands. Finally he said, “What did you mean the other day when you said you were done looking for rituals?”
It was Sam’s turn to hesitate. He didn’t want to provoke his brother. Dean was right, they had been searching high and low for him. If they were willing to do that, he should soldier on and let them try. They were doing it for him, after all. He was just so tired.
He mentally braced himself and wrote, Nothing. I was just tired and sick. Don’t worry about it.
Dean frowned, this one deeper and more disappointed. “Sammy,” he said, with just a hint of reproach. “I know you. You meant what you said. You always mean what you say. I just want to understand why.”
Sam huffed. Dean could be so infuriating. I don’t want you to be angry with me.
“I want to understand. I can’t promise I won’t get mad, ‘cause if you’re being an idiot I’m going to be, but I want to help you. You’ve got to tell me how to do that.”
Sam stared down at the paper in his lap. He had a lot to say. It was going to take a minute to write it all out. He put his pen on the page and began to write.
It’s just we’ve been trying and trying. If it was going to work, it would have been with that first ritual, the one actually meant to get my voice back from the creature.
Dean had leaned in to watch over Sam’s shoulder, crowding into his space. “You don’t know that Sam. There could be any number of things that could get it back.”
Sam glared up at him. He pulled the pad over to the couch arm and huddled over it so that Dean couldn’t read until he was done. One thing that had become extremely frustrating was how easy it was to overrule or ignore him. It was a far more laborious process to write things out and just because he did, didn’t mean that the person he was writing to had to read the whole thing. Too often he found himself either rushed or cut off completely. He knew Dean meant well, but if he was going to have this conversation, he was going to have his say.
Dean flopped back against the couch, feet stretched out across the floor with his hands clasped over his stomach. He leaned his head back to stare up at the ceiling and counted the bumps he could see in the paint.
After a grueling interval in which Dean lost count at least three times, Sam finally turned back around, laying the notebook in his lap. He knew that Dean would read from there and that he would be asking more questions. It was pointless to keep passing the notebook back and forth.
Once again, Dean leaned over to read. This time propping and arm on Sam’s shoulder, using him as a prop. Sam shrugged trying to dislodge him, but Dean ignored him.
I don’t know. But I also don’t know that there’s something out there either. I can’t keep living in limbo. It’s been two weeks of non-stop research and experiments. I’m tired of going through ridiculous scenarios that never do what they are supposed to. I ate a pickled badger heart for god’s sake.
I’m not asking you to give up hope, but I need here the words seemed to change, as though it was a different script altogether. They got bigger and darker.
I need time. I need to learn how to live with this. I kept trying to believe it was okay, no big deal, but it is a big deal. I can’t even answer a telephone. What am I supposed to do about hunting? There’s no way I could warn you of something coming or shout for help if I need it. Never mind the everyday things like asking directions or talking to you.
In a much tighter script at the very bottom, Sam had added, I can’t keep being disappointed.
“Sam, I…” Dean said when he finished reading. “I didn’t realize. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Sam rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest as he sank back into the cushions.
“Seriously man, I didn’t realize you’d been that stressed over it.”
Sam scribbled, Of course I’m stressed. I can’t make a sound. Do you realize how many things we’ve hunted that would love to get someone like me? And what about Dad. You think he’s going to hang around here forever? Or that he’ll take me like this? I sound like a freak.
Dean grabbed Sam’s chin and pulled him around to look eye to eye. His eyes were intense and he made Sam squirm with his tight grip. When Dean was sure they were on the same level, he said “This does not make you a freak,” forcefully through clenched teeth. “Do you understand?”
Sam nodded in Dean’s grasp. As soon as he did, Dean let go.
“And anyway, don’t be ridiculous. Dad would never leave you behind.” At Sam’s pointed look, Dean added. “I wouldn’t let him, even if he did try. You know that. We’re family. We stick together.”
You don’t have to.
“What?” Dean asked, easy smile returning. “Keep Dad in line? That’s practically my full time job.” Dean chuckled, but Sam couldn’t find the humor in the situation. Since when was it Dean’s job to look after everyone?
I mean stay with me. Sam explained. I know it hurts you.
Dean frowned. Sam could see him working out what he meant and looked away, not willing to see what Dean might think of that. If he wanted to leave, Sam would let him.
“Are you kidding me?”
Sam glanced back at Dean and saw something he didn’t expect. Dean was angry. Not the storming-out-of-the-house angry that he had been before, but angry nonetheless.
“I’m not leaving you,” Dean snarled. “I would never. Why would you even say that?”
Sam glanced at Dean from under his lashes. Carefully, slowly he replied, I just don’t like to be the reason you’re upset. I see it when you look at me. You think I’m broken and you need to fix me. Dad doesn’t even look at me anymore.
“Sam…” Dean didn’t know exactly what to say. He cleared his throat. “Of course it upsets me that you are hurt.” Sam shook his head. He wasn’t hurt, but Dean barreled on. “I don’t care what you call it. You’re my baby brother. I was supposed to protect you. I…” Dean swallowed. His aversion to having any kind of emotional exchange waring with his need to make Sam understand. “I failed and I’m sorry. I always thought I could keep you safe when we hunted.”
Sam laid a hand on his arm, letting it rest there. When he drew away, it was to write, Not your fault.
Dean shook his head. “Yeah, Sammy. It was. I got us to the wrong cave. I missed that first shot. Hell, I should have listened to you to start with.”
Neither of us knew. I missed that shot too, and I was wrong about the witch anyway. Stop blaming yourself. It’s not your fault. It just happened.
“But -”
Sam smacked him in the shoulder. NOT YOUR FAULT. Sam wrote it so hard that his pen almost tore through the paper.
“Sure Sammy,” Dean said. Sam could hear the ghost of a laugh in his voice, but knew it wouldn’t be that simple.
SAM
Dean grinned wickedly. “Whatever you say, Sammy-boy.”
Sam tried to tackle Dean, but he was far too weak to be very effective. Vengeance would have to wait for another day. Dean pinned him to his seat and flicked his nose, just to prove he could before moving back to his own seat.
Sam blinked, his eyes heavy in the silence that followed. He fought back a yawn.
Finally, after Sam was sure they were done, Dean said, “Are you sure about this? Maybe this thing Bobby found is worth a try.”
Sam reached for the pad that had fallen to the floor in the tussle. I’m sure. Just give me a chance to figure things out.
Dean looked entirely unconvinced. “Like what? Wouldn’t it be better to keep looking and solve this as quickly as we can?”
What do I do in the mean time? Even if there is a solution, it could take years to find. I need to be able to communicate now.
Dean didn’t have an answer to that.
Please?
That was the key. Dean’s resolve crumbled. His shoulders dropped a little, but he acquiesced. “Okay, Sam. We’ll see what we can do. But you have to take it easy for a day or two.”
Sam made a face. He had done nothing but take it easy for three days. “I’m not kidding,” Dean said. “You had a fever of 103. You need to rest.”
Fine, jerk. But you’ll help?
“Of course. What else would I do?”
Sam flung his arms around Dean, who patted his back. “Yeah, yeah. I’m awesome.”
Sam drew back and stuck his tongue out at Dean.
It was the lightest moment they’d had since they left Alpha, MI.
Sam yawned wide, suddenly aware that he’d been vertical at least three times longer than at any point in the last few days. Dean smirked. “Awe, is wittle Samantha tired?”
Despite his mocking, he stood up and pushed Sam down across the couch. “Better put you down for your nap then.” He made a production of flopping the blanket around, but it did eventually end up tucked around Sam nice and snug. Not that Sam really registered this fact. He had been more tired than he realized and was nearly asleep.
“Need a lullabye?”
Sam flipped Dean off, then snuggled down into the blanket. He heard Dean chuckle as he started to drowse.
It was dark when he woke. There was a light in in the kitchen where he could hear the muted voices of Bobby and Dean. Dean was laughing. Sam paused. He hadn't heard Dean actually laugh for months.
He stood as quietly as he could and made his way to the kitchen. He leaned on the wall in the doorway, arms folded across his chest and watched as Bobby threatened Dean with a spoon. Dean's grin was wicked and Sam knew he was probably better off not knowing what he had done.
"You better watch it boy,” Bobby was saying. “I can still whoop your ass. I'll do it too."
Dean’s grin widened. "Wanna try old man?"
Sam winced, fighting to not chuckle. He didn't see Bobby move but he heard the thwack of wood meeting flesh and Dean's yelp as he jumped back rubbing his arm.
"Now go see the table," Bobby said. "Good to see you up, Sam.” Sam grinned and went to help Dean.
Sam’s next little Hallmark moment was less fraught with emotional, macho tension. He had been ensconced in Bobby’s chair, working through his math book around Rumsfeld who had decided Sam needed a companion in his daunting task. Mostly, it just meant he had to hold his arm at an odd angle to write around the large dog head now lying across his notebook. Sam didn’t mind. Rumsfeld was good company and demanded very little in return. Sam was sure he could spare a moment for a belly rub between graphing equations.
He’d stolen his textbooks from his last school when he realized that he wouldn’t have a chance to take them back anyway. He didn’t really feel bad for it. He had decided, given that John was still AWOL, Dean had gone into training mode and refused to let Sam come join him for at least another two days, and Bobby was in the middle of reorganizing, which neither of the boys was invited to help with, he would at least try to stay caught up with his school work as best he could. He loathed being behind and trying to catch up around his father’s crazy schedule.
He thought he might be able to cajole a ride out of Dean later. He’d like to go into town to the library. While Bobby’s collection was impressive, it was heavily slanted towards things that went bump in the night and had little other information in it. Sam had found a stash of seventeenth century poetry once, tucked away in the corner under several large, heavy tomes, but he somehow doubted they would help in his current situation, nor could he see Bobby reacting well to him having found them. He wisely decided it best to pretend he had never seen a thing.
Sam was good at that. He could pretend he had never seen a lot of things. It was pretty much what got the Winchester’s through their lives.
He wanted to research ways to make this whole thing easier. There had to be something out there. He couldn’t have been the only person in the history of the world to have lost his voice. He knew there were manual languages, having learned the ASL alphabet at one of the early schools he attended. He’d been in third grade, he thought. He knew such a thing existed, but had no clue how to go about getting that information. He wanted to research what solutions other people had come up with.
Bobby had been busy upstairs. Every now and then Sam would hear the crash of a pile knocked over or the low irritated mutter of Bobby cussing under his breath. Invariably, Rumsfeld would jerk to attention and bark. Bobby would yell, “shut up ya daft dog,” or something to that effect. Apparently Rumsfeld had been banished from helping as well. Sam might have gone up, except Bobby had threatened that if either boy laid so much as a finger on one of his books until he got them organized again, they’d both be cleaning car parts for a month.
Sam had cleaned car parts before. It was a dirty, oily job that left him tired and bored. He did it on occasion to help Bobby out when he needed it, but for the most part it was a pointless task. Everyone involved knew that except for some pretty specific things, they generally didn’t need a thorough, fully detailed cleaning before they could be reused. They were just going to be a mess five minutes later anyway. And when Bobby set them the task, those parts had better be glistening.
It was the quiet that caught Sam’s attention. Bobby had been alternately muttering and stomping all morning. Sam glanced up the stairs when he realized that he hadn’t heard a sound in almost twenty minutes. Frowning, he set his book aside and was about to get up when Bobby clomped down the stairs.
Rumsfeld perked up and launched himself off the chair, nearly dislodging Sam’s work from his lap. As Sam scrambled to keep from dropping anything, Bobby marched right up to Sam, ignoring the dog’s attentions.
He stopped in front of the chair, hands on his hips and a book in one hand. Sam glanced at it, but the spine was facing away from him and Sam couldn’t read the title from what he could make out of the cover between Bobby’s fingers. Bobby looked down at Sam, studying him through narrowed eyes. Sam squirmed under the attention.
Finally Bobby spoke. “Dean said you want to postpone the search for a cure.”
Sam rolled his eyes. Of course Dean wouldn’t be able to let it go completely. Still, Sam nodded in a quick sharp motion, still not sure where this was going.
Bobby didn’t look mad, or sad, or disappointed. Only thoughtful.
“Care to tell me why?”
Sam scrunched up his face, suddenly irritated. He couldn’t tell Bobby anything, and even if he could, he didn’t understand what was happening. Was Bobby angry with him? Had he done something wrong? He’d barely moved all morning.
Bobby glanced back and snagged the notebook off the table behind him. He held it out towards Sam. It had the usual pen tucked into the spiral. Sam pulled it out and flipped to a mostly blank page. He glanced up at Bobby, then began to write.
I need to learn how to live with this. I told Dean, even if there’s a cure to find, it could take months, years even. I can’t just hide here for the rest of my life.
Bobby seemed to consider what Sam had written. “So this is about adapting?”
Sam nodded, still unsure what exactly Bobby was looking for.
“And it has nothing to do with the failed spells?”
Sam glanced down. Maybe a little.
“You can’t get anywhere if you don’t try.” Bobby still didn’t sound even mildly reproachful. He was matter-of-fact.
Sam shook his head. I know. But I
Sam hesitated. “What?” Bobby wanted to know. “You what?”
I feel like I’m just stringing along on hope. I don’t know how to, Here he scribbled through his writing. I just…I want to know that if I can’t be fixed, I can manage.
Bobby nodded. “Okay, then. This might help.”
Bobby dropped the book he had been carrying into Sam’s lap and turned to leave. As he walked towards the stairs, he called back, “And if I ever catch you saying you’re broken again, I’ll kick your ass.”
Sam mock saluted him behind his back, but smiled. He lifted the book, flipping it over to read the cover. It was a book on sign language. Since when did Bobby have books on sign language? He flipped the cover opened and started to read.
When Dean found him an hour later and asked what he was doing, Sam grinned at him and held up the book, waving it under Dean’s nose. Dean grabbed it, unable to tell what it was due to the close proximity and Sam’s shaking it. His shoulders slumped when he read the title, but he smiled for Sam’s sake. “This is great.”
Sam heard the edge to his voice and his smile dropped, uncertain. He furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side a little.
“No, it’s good.” Dean perked up a little. “We can call people dirty names and they’ll never know.” Dean snickered.
Sam mirrored his expression. He didn’t forget the frustrated defeat in Dean’s expression when he realized what Sam was doing, but like with Bobby’s poetry, he pretended he hadn’t seen anything. They spent the rest of the afternoon looking up useful words in the book. By the end, Dean seemed almost as enthusiastic as Sam.
That night after dinner and clean up, as Sam was about to head to bed he stopped beside where Bobby was sitting on his couch with a newspaper and hugged him. Bobby stiffened then a tentative smile started to show. Sam pulled back and, with a careful, precise movement, shared the one word he had specifically set out to learn today.
‘Thank you.’
Bobby cleared his throat and looked back at his paper, pretending he was not moved in the least. “Yeah. You’re welcome. Best get to bed.” He said it gruffly, but Sam grinned at him and they both knew Bobby was just as pleased as Sam.
As Sam lay in bed that night, he dared to hope for the first time that things might turn out okay.
<< Masterpost Chapter 9>>>