Title: A Sign of Understanding
Author: Kams-Log, kams_log (AO3)
Rating: T+ for language and mild adult themes
Content: Witch curses, Mute!Dean, Destiel, Team Free Will, ASL (American Sign Language)
The television series Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me.
Dean's back slammed hard into the ground, body sliding down the alley way with more friction than Dean wanted to think about. When he finally ground to a halt, his eyes were blurred and the stars spun in circles over his head.
Under any other circumstances, he would have shook it off and struggled back to his feet, fingers itching for his gun to get back into the game and take out the bitch that hit him.
But instead his limbs were frozen, itch holding from his fingers and instead spreading throughout his throat and mouth. It burned, and Dean choked down a scream as he clutched at his throat. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even call for Sam or Cas standing just fifteen feet away.
Damn Rowena. Damn witches, on principle.
They'd been tracking Rowena for months now. They'd chased every lead and possible location every chance they got. Tonight was the first night they'd finally caught up to her, and it seemed like it was all for nothing.
He'd caught up to her in this very alley, Sam chasing her through the building while Cas waited at the other side. He'd almost had her, gun raised, threat ready on his lips, when Rowena locked eyes with him and snarled a curse at him. The last thing he'd seen of her was red smoke, body flying, then the stars overhead spinning faster than a rickety merry-go-round.
That didn't even count the rapid burning and constriction of his throat. God, he needed to breathe, he needed get his gun, or something-
He felt hands cupping his face before he saw Sam's worried eyes staring down at him, lips moving in formations Dean could barely hear or understand.
Then he saw blue eyes just over his brother's shoulder. His breath caught in his throat, chest fluttering in desperate attempt for air, but his eyes were stuck on Cas's.
"Dean?" Sam was shouting, Dean started to understand. "Dean! Say something. We lost Rowena. Are you okay?"
Dean's fingers scratched at his own neck, still forcing himself to expand his lungs and get the oxygen in.
"Dean!" Cas exclaimed, dropping down closer to touch his shoulder. Dean gasped and took in a startled breath, eyes finally beginning to focus and understand. He opened his mouth, ready to answer with a strained, "I'm fine," or, "get me up."
Instead, nothing escaped. Dean tried again, then once more. His eyes widened in horror. Sam's eyebrows raised.
"Dean?"
Cas frowned, eyebrows drawing together in concern. "Sam. I don't think he can speak." Dean closed his eyes and hit his head back against the concrete. Damnit.
...
The burning didn't lessen until early the next morning. It was enough time to figure out whatever Rowena did to him had muted him, indefinitely.
His breathing had eventually returned to normal. He found out very quickly that he could still drink, thank God, and eat. Whiskey burned, but it distracted him from the itch and the pain just beneath the skin, so he felt no guilt in draining half a bottle of the golden alcohol.
Sam researched the spell as best as he could, but Dean knew it was going to be a longshot. It wasn't just any witch they were dealing with. This was Rowena. She'd killed for far less, and why she would hit him with anything less than a violent end was beyond their understanding. She'd had the perfect opportunity. Why not finish him?
Instead, he was mute, and Sam and Cas were now busy researching a cure while Dean was stuck with finding an alternative way to speak.
So far the best he had was writing everything down and making crude gestures with his hands, usually just sticking with flipping the bird for when he was pissed and Sam was taking too long.
But after an entire day of researching, Cas was the one to find him in the kitchen. He felt Cas's hand on his shoulder before he turned to meet Cas's gaze. The ex-angel didn't have to say it before Dean understood.
"We might need to invest in sign language," Cas said, gentle, instead of hammering him with the rest of the truth.
They weren't finding anything. There was no telling how long Dean would be stuck like this.
Dean's face must have betrayed his frustration. Cas sighed, smile flickering as he squeezed Dean's arm in reassurance. Warmth flooded Dean's body from the contact.
"I'm sorry, Dean." His gaze was soft as he continued, "We'll find a way." Dean could only hope he was right.
...
Week one was, shockingly enough, the easiest to survive. Dean worked his way through memorizing the alphabet in sign language while Cas randomly rehearsed with him across the room. If he look up and locked gazes with the ex-angel at any time of the day, Cas would say and sign a letter. It was Dean's job to sign it back as quickly as possible.
It was the only real struggle he faced over the first week. They spent most of their time occupied with silent tasks. Sam continued to try and track Rowena, Cas researched a cure, and Dean studied sign language. It sucked.
The second week, things started to settle. But it only made Dean angry. The first day of the second week Sam asked an innocent question.
"Whatcha' guys want for breakfast?"
Dean hadn't even thought twice. The first week he'd never really needed to speak. He opened his mouth to answer, only to be met with a closed throat and tingling throughout his mouth.
Sam realized his mistake a half second too late, but it was of course, too late.
"I'm sorry-" Sam started, but Dean didn't care. He shoved his chair back and stood, opening the fridge and pulling out the eggs and cheese. He didn't let Sam follow him to the stove.
The message was clear. He'd be making breakfast. Everyone else could put up or shut up.
"I'll go check on some old contacts," Sam muttered as he left.
Cas stayed quietly in the background as Dean cracked the eggs into a skillet and turned on the stove.
"Can I help with anything?" Cas asked softly.
Dean sighed and pointed at Sam's basket of fruit on the counter. Cas understood and grabbed a knife. They worked together in silence. When Cas started humming, Dean finally began to feel his body relax.
When Cas passed him the pancake mix, the silent request obvious in his bitten lip and hopeful gaze, Dean beamed.
...
Week three.
Sam had slowly stopped talking to Dean any farther than updating him on hunt research and possible leads on Rowena. Otherwise, he seemed to refrain from asking Dean any direct questions that couldn't be answered with a small yes or no.
Sam was technically learning sign language with them, but Dean understood that it was a slower process for his younger brother. Sam was trying to track Rowena, trying to find a cure while the rest of them focused on their latest communication skills.
He'd learned enough, quickly, that he could read some of Dean and Cas's conversations. He even participated in a few of them. Nerd, Dean had signed to him once. It was the first time Sam had really laughed since Dean lost his voice.
But Dean hated it. He hated that his tongue was still. He hated that the only sounds he could make were grunts of anger and loud periods of sighing.
Cas talked to him often, though. He smiled, speaking with Dean in short sentences in sign language, sometimes talking to Dean for hours so Dean didn't have to suffer through the silence alone.
While Dean hated his own silence, he appreciated Cas for trying to alleviate it. He liked the sound of Cas's rumbling tone, the way his syllables seemed to fall together and crash together. His time in silence was made better when Cas was in it. He liked the constant humming of Dean's old favorite songs. He liked the useless chatter and rambling about bees and chemicals and lipstick. Anything that Cas could think of, it filled the silence.
But Dean couldn't fill the silence. All he had were his hands, and it hurt. He hated feeling useless. He hated feeling stuck.
It was late at night in the middle of the third week when Dean woke up, breathing hard, heart racing from the traces of an old nightmare.
He'd dreamed of his father, something he hadn't dreamed of in years. He'd remembered the months after his mom's death. He remembered Sammy's constant crying and dad's anger at everything. He remembered how he hadn't been able to say a word, and how it didn't help his dad feel any better.
Dean hadn't been able to help it back then. He'd seen the fire, felt the heat of it on his back as he carried his screaming brother out of the house, leaving his father and burning mother behind to the ashes.
He'd been traumatized, scared, and alone. He didn't know what to say. So he didn't. It hurt to try.
Now the circumstances weren't very different. Dean couldn't help the curse that had lodged itself in his throat. It hurt to try and speak. He was starting to realize that his words wouldn't help anything anyway.
What good were his words? His work had hardly changed. He could still research, still dedicate his time to the hunt. But what good would he be in the thick of it? He wouldn't be able to call for help if something went wrong. He wouldn't be able to tell Sam where to look if he spotted something first.
He was starting to doubt his helpfulness at all. The only thing he had was a handful of signs and a growing sense of bitterness and anger.
It didn't matter if he could sign short sentences with Cas. It didn't matter what progress he was making. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt this helpless before.
He didn't fall asleep again for another three hours, thoughts plagued by the silence he couldn't fill.
...
Week four.
He lived through his first hunt since becoming mute. It was like watching his nightmares unfold before his eyes.
They'd been hunting a shifter. It should have been an in-and-out operation. Instead, Dean had been separated from Sam and Cas in an abandoned hospital, presumably the shifter's hideaway. They had started going up the stairs, but there was a loose beam and Dean had snapped it with his weight. Sam and Cas hadn't fallen, but they agreed to meet up where the stairs merged with the main floor.
No problem. Except that Dean was in the basement. He should have figured a shifter would prefer the dank underground to an airy loft.
The smell hit him before the shifter did. The results weren't pretty, and Dean's body felt like several tons of lead by the time he shoved his silver dagger through the thing's heart.
It was around that time Sam and Cas managed to find him. Cas immediately moved to his side while Sam checked the shifter to make sure it was dead.
Now they were back at the bunker and Sam was doing an excellent job of not shouting, "I knew this was a bad idea!"
But that was okay. Dean knew they were all thinking it.
Cas patched him up while Sam showered. There was too much blood-most of it the shifter's-and Dean tried not to flinch too often when Cas wiped a cleaner a little too hard over his bruises and broken skin. His bloodied shirts and jacket sat in a basket in the corner of his room, ready to be thrown out or possibly saved. All Dean could really focus on was the fact that he was half naked and miserable while Cas attended to his injuries.
Yeah. He was mostly focused on the half naked part.
"Dean?" Cas asked softly, dabbing at the corners of a cut on his exposed back. Dean nodded his head to show he was listening.
"If it's any consolation, I think you did an excellent job today."
Dean huffed and rolled his eyes. Yeah. An excellent job. He'd gotten separated from them, something they agreed not to do days in advance. He'd also been beaten half to death and barely managed to take down the shifter, instead of just running and hoping to meet up with the others so they'd stand a better chance of a fight.
Cas pressed his palm to the center of Dean's back, effectively stilling him and silencing his train of thought. "Stop that," he muttered.
Dean didn't try to stop the smirk that came after. Cas's palm didn't move throughout his treatment, only shifting to hold Dean steady when he began stitching one of the larger wounds shut.
Dean closed his eyes throughout the process. He didn't realize he was humming until Cas stopped him with a whisper, "I hope you understand that your ability to speak doesn't define who you are."
Cas. Of course Cas would say something like that. Dean's eyes fluttered open as he turned to look at Cas over his shoulder. The ex-angel was tying off the last stitch, gaze focused intently on Dean's back. His hands were warm against his skin, distracting, but Dean focused hard on Cas's lips, the way they moved as he spoke.
Blue eyes finally snapped up to his, and Dean wondered if Castiel could hear his thoughts-hear the doubt filling his mind in every corner and cranny.
"Judging yourself by your ability to speak would be like me judging me ability to heal you in an instant."
That's not the same, Dean wanted to sign back, but he didn't know the words.
Cas sensed the frustration anyway. "My ability to heal was just a... bonus. It was good, and it's helpful. But it's not necessary to who I am as a being. I can still stitch your wounds Dean, and I can hunt alongside you and fight for what we believe in. I don't need to be able to touch you and heal you in order to do any of those things." Cas's hands fell away from his back, warmth falling away with it.
Dean didn't have to mourn the loss long before Cas's hand touched his own. "You can still speak Dean, just like I can still heal. It will take longer and neither of us like it. But we can do it, for now. You need to give yourself time Dean. Just like Sam and I. We're all learning how to work together again. Don't beat yourself for mistakes. They're necessary to learn."
Dean raised an eyebrow, but didn't pull his hands away. The touch of Cas's fingers were warm and grounding. He wasn't sure he had any words to share anyway.
"Do you think you made a mistake?" Cas asked softly.
Dean shrugged, looking down at their joined hands instead of replying.
Cas nodded and rubbed his thumb across Dean's knuckles. His skin tingled like sparks were dancing across his fingers.
"I don't believe you made a mistake, Dean," Cas stated, expression solemn and sincere. "No one could help what happened, and you stopped the shifter from hurting anyone else. What more could any of us ask for?"
Dean pulled one hand away and motioned, "My voice." He frowned, feeling petulant.
Cas chuckled and pulled Dean's hand back down.
"Voice or not," he replied softly, "I'm glad we still have you."
Dean huffed, but the smile on his face didn't waver. He let Cas squeeze his hands before he climbed off the bed to help find Dean a new shirt and sweatpants.
When he turned around again, Dean's hands were steady and confident. "Thank you, Cas."
Cas smiled and set the clothes in Dean's lap. He signed back, "You're welcome, Dean. Always."
He left the door a crack open, only stopping once to say, "Feel free to get me if you need anything, Dean."
There was something about the way that he said anything that made Dean pause. But his smile didn't waver.
He changed and climbed under the covers, thoughts whirling with Cas's words.
He still hated himself for not being able to speak, knowing that he should be able to. But maybe Cas had a point. He couldn't help it right now, much like he couldn't when he was a child.
It didn't mean he was anything less because he couldn't speak. It just meant he had to work differently now. It didn't have to change anything. Not unless he let it.
He stared at the cracked open door, thoughts still working.
Well. Maybe some things could change. He grabbed his pillow and climbed out of bed. He wandered down the hall until he came to Cas's door. Finding it a crack open, he smiled.
He stepped inside. Fortunately, he didn't need to sign his question in the darkness. Cas already knew.