I'm drawing a blank on how to introduce this thing. Just know it's already planned out and there might be a bit of bad language. I just don't really see Dean being a 'well, darn,' kinda guy.
Sam doesn't remember it personally, he had been too young, but he knows that after their mother's death, Dean had kind of closed himself off from the rest of the world. He was quiet, almost to the point of being mute. Their dad had never mentioned it, and Dean sure as hell never brought it up, but Sam knows that his brother had a tendency to hold everything in and deal with his problems by not talking about them. He had learned that much from reading his father's journal, the early entries focusing more on learning the truth and dealing with the aftermath of Mary's death, Dean's selective silence included.
There had been other clues for Sam to follow, slowly gathering enough of the pieces to form a solid image, letting him know that Dean's refusal to talk about his feelings had started long before the boy could even spell 'emotion'. Bobby would hint at it every now and then, an offhand mentioning of Dean's stubbornness or thoughts spoken aloud, something along the line of thinking that 'the idgit had freaking outgrown that shit'.
Sam doesn't remember how he learned it, but he knows for a fact that Dean went to counseling the first year or two he was in school. It was more a product of the teachers worrying about the poor boy's welfare in dealing with his mother's death than John's wishes, but Dean had spent the majority of Kindergarten and first grade visiting a grief counselor, complete with puppets and crayons.
Before Dean had learned to mask his sadness and hide any misconstrued weaknesses, he would deal with his emotions through anger, silently lashing out at those that tried to help him. Teachers and counselors alike would tell him, "Dean, use your words. Tell us what's wrong." They had encouraged John to do the same, telling him to remind his son to 'use his words.'
Sam can't help thinking that if those teachers had been around long enough, they would have regretted introducing Dean to that phrase. "Dean, use your words," they had said. And he did. Boy, did he, but probably not in the way they had intended. Instead of telling them why he was angry, or what was making him sad, Dean had gone a whole other route. He had discovered sarcasm and a twisted sense of humor.
The quiet, little boy with soulful green eyes had grown into a snarky, witty hell-on-wheels young man with a devil-may-care attitude. Dean learned to use his words to fight off criticism, using an ill-timed joke as a shield against prying, well-meaning eyes. Dean talked a lot, but in a way, he was still silent.
Sam remembers instances where Dean's mask would slip, and the anger would lash out again, his brother angrily storming around the motel room or brooding against the passenger door. When John would notice, if he noticed, he would yell at his son, telling him to 'use his words'.
Over the years, the phrase was used less and less in order to get Dean to talk, mostly because he had learned to deal with things better. Eventually, it got to the point that those three little words were said as a joke amongst the three Winchesters.
Once, John had stormed into the room, cussing a blue streak and slamming doors, Dean had waited for a break in the storm before telling his father, "Dad, use your words." At first, John had stood still, too stunned to continue his tirade before breaking out in a fit of laughter.
When Sam got older and started down the path of teenage angst, John and Dean would both jokingly say, "Now, Sammy. Use your words," usually resulting in an eye roll or an extended middle finger, depending on who said it.
It's been years since either brother has said it to the other. It had almost been forgotten, what with Sam's leaving for Stanford and everything that's happened since.
But now, in the shadow of the Hartfeld Memorial Psychiatric Hospital, Dean sitting against the opened trunk of the Impala, Sam thinks those teachers should have kept their mouths shut, or at least been more specific in telling Dean how to use his words.
Sam tosses the bloodied gauze on the ground and reaches into the trunk for a fresh one before pressing it against Dean's nose. "You know, we really should talk about your people skills."
Dean looks at him, and Sam can see the hint of sarcastic laughter in his brother's eyes despite the bruising and blood. "What do you mean?" Dean asks, raising his hand to take over holding the gauze, "I think I'm a ray of fuckin' sunshine."
Sam shakes his head, his mouth twisting in a derisive smile. "Yeah, tell that to Mr. Banner."
Dean rolls his eyes, removing the gauze to check and see if his nose is still bleeding. "The guy's a bit sensitive. Probably all those meds they got him on, doesn't mean I'm not a people person."
Sam scrunches his face in disgust as Dean reaches for another gauze before continuing to blow his nose in an attempt to clean out the rest of the blood. "That's true, but I think the fact that you were dumb enough to piss off a psych patient means you're not a people person." When Dean cocks an indignant brow, clearly insulted by his brother's assessment, Sam continues. "Dean, the guy slammed your face into the table."
Dean looks forward and studies the ground as he puts fresh gauze to his nose before finally nodding and shrugging his shoulders in defeat. Maybe he isn't a people person, he thinks as he works to remove his bloodstained tie. "So, while I was getting frisky with the Incredible Hulk, did you at least find out whether or not he's always been loony or are his people skills just a friendly parting favor from this week's Big Bad?"
"Didn't the guy make you kiss the table because you compared him to the Hulk?" Sam asks, wiping his hands clean the best he can on a dark t-shirt.
"If the shoe fits," Dean answers, standing so Sam can close the trunk. "Besides, the guy's last name is Banner and he's got serious anger issues. I'm pretty sure I'm not the first one to have said it."
"You're probably the first one to say he looks like him."
"Hey," Dean says, resting his arm on the roof of the car as he points at his brother. "I said the green gown made him favor the Hulk, big difference."
Sam smiles, gesturing to his nose, pointing out that Mr. Banner obviously hadn't seen the difference.
Dean rolls his eyes and jerks the driver's door open. "Shut up, and get in the car." He starts the engine, and turns down the radio, ignoring Sam's laughter.
"Okay," Sam begins, loosening his own tie before extending his arm across the back of the seat, "According to Banner's records, he's always had a history of aggressive behavior, the most recent causing him six months of court ordered anger management."
Dean whistles and turns his head. "What'd he do?"
"Threw a fax machine out the sixth story window of his office building." Sam reaches into the inside pocket of his suit's jacket, pulling out the small notebook containing the notes he had taken while talking to the nurse. "Though, he's never shown anything this violent before," Sam reads, referring to the incident that landed Banner in the psychiatric hospital.
"Well, something made our boy take a tire iron to the mailman's head," Dean points out as he taps his thumb against the steering wheel, his other hand coming up to test his swollen nose. "It definitely wasn't possession."
Sam nods his head in silent agreement, squinting his eyes as he looks out the window. "First, an alcoholic drinking himself into a coma, a marathoner running herself to death, a lying politician with a death wish, and now a guy with a history of anger issues beating a stranger's head in. I've never heard of a demon with an MO like this."
"Cursed object?" Dean suggests as he eases the car onto the highway, taking them out of town.
"Could be," Sam shrugs, biting the inside of his thumb. The politician had been what caught their attention. The failed assassination was all over the news, and it hadn't been difficult for Sam to search the Internet and find footage of the small town mayor making a fool of himself. At first, Sam hadn't thought the speech was real, the ridiculous lies and comments spewing from the man's mouth seemingly more appropriate for an SNL skit than a mayoral debate. But reading the headline for the Georgia Herald highlighting the Mayor's critical condition after an offended citizen showed his displeasure with a .45, Sam and Dean immediately thought to check it out.
Two days in the town, and the boys have realized that Mayor Dempsey isn't the only one acting out of character- or, really more in character. Several people have suddenly taken their obsessions or bad habits to the extreme, so much so that they've resulted in death or injury.
Sam jumps out of his silent reverie when Dean starts coughing, loudly clearing his throat before sniffling, wincing as the movement crinkles his bruised nose.
"You need a cough drop?" Sam asks, watching as his brother works to catch a breath in between coughs. When Dean nods his head, too busy coughing to answer, Sam turns and leans over the back seat, searching the floorboard for a bottle of water.
When all he finds is a half-empty bottle of root beer, he hurriedly opens it and hands it to his brother, ignoring the lack of a hiss when he twists the lid.
Dean graciously takes the drink, working to keep one eye on the road as he chugs the flat soda. "Dude, that tastes like ass," he finally manages to say once he's drained the bottle, his voice a little raspy from the harsh coughing.
"You good?" Sam asks, pretending as though Dean hadn't spoken as he searches through his backpack for the cough drops. He had bought them almost two weeks ago when Dean first started coughing. Apparently, the cough's only gotten worse. "Here."
Dean takes the cough drop, propping his wrists on the steering wheel as he removes the wrapper. He cringes a little when the lemon-honey flavor of the lozenge blends with the stale taste of the root beer. Once the cough drop works to soothe his irritated throat, Dean moves it in between his teeth so he can talk.
"Any idea what a politician, a school teacher, a truck driver, and a secretary would have in common?"
"Nope. And Dean, we don't even know if they're the only ones who've been affected. For all we know, there could be others out there who are just as messed up, only we haven't heard about it because no one got hurt."
"Well, then we keep looking until we find out." With nothing more to say, they fall into an easy silence, Dean working the cough drop in order to stop the relentless itching in the back of his throat.
-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-
"What happened to you?" Linda, the motel's manager seems to always be around, much to Sam and Dean's displeasure. The woman has to be pushing sixty, and with the ever-present cigarette pinched between her arthritic fingers and the viscous Chihuahua at her heels, Dean thinks she looks more like that cartoon granny he always sees on coffee mugs and calendars.
"Ran into a door," he deadpans, as he walks past her, careful not to get too close to the vibrating canine rat resting at the foot of her lawn chair.
"Need to learn to keep your eyes open, boy. Knowing you, you were probably trying to see down some floozy's shirt when ya did it."
Dean stops and stares at the woman, wishing like hell she didn't take her cigarette breaks outside. Deciding it best not to say anything, he turns and follows his laughing brother to their room, sending a well-aimed kick to Sam's shin as he fumbles with the key.
"What the hell does that mean? She doesn't even know me."
Sam pushes the door open, and grins. "Apparently, she does."
"Dude, this was the result of a psycho and a table, not a floozy and a door," Dean points out, rubbing his finger along the bridge of his nose.
"Would you like me to go correct her? Defend your honor? Ask her to apologize?" Sam asks, his voice dripping with false sincerity as he works to remove his tie.
Dean's glare only makes Sam laugh harder. "You're an asshole," Dean mutters removing his jacket and working on the buttons of his bloodied shirt.
Sam watches as Dean makes his way towards the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. "Yeah, I think it might be genetic," Sam yells, listening to the sound of the cheap motel's squeaking faucets and running water.
"All the more proof that you were adopted," Dean snaps back, his voice muffled by the bathroom door.
Sam rolls his eyes and opens his laptop, intent on figuring out how the victims are all connected. Clarksville, Georgia isn't a very large town. It's located off the Interstate, and mainly consists of one road lined with fast food chains, and a scattering of mom and pop shops, with an occasional buy-here-pay-here car dealership. Nothing fancy.
Their motel is one of several in town, the cheapest and the one least likely to ask a lot of questions—or so they had thought. Linda has proven to be a nuisance, constantly keeping tabs on the people coming and going within her motel.
Sam can hear Dean coughing in the shower, the hot steam most likely loosening up whatever congestion his brother's pretending not to have. Sam knows that there's at least two different cold medicines in Dean's duffle, each unopened and unused. It's not so much that Dean refuses to accept the fact that he's sick, it's that he refuses to accept the fact that being sick limits what he's capable of doing. Combine that with the fact that cold medicine has a history or knocking both of them flat on their asses, and Sam can kind of understand why Dean continues to act as though the medicine isn't even there.
Although Sam knows it's only a matter of time before one of two things happen. Either Dean continues to ignore the problem until it gets worse and can't be ignored, or something will come up and Dean will use his sickness as an excuse to get out of it. The same thing happened a few years back when they had to dumpster dive. Much to Sam's chagrin, Dean had chosen that moment to accept the fact that he was sick, and that it would probably be best if he took it easy.
Sam thrums his fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the slow connection to allow him access to the Internet. He sees the little hourglass turning in the corner, the little bar slowly turning blue, telling him that the page is loading. He leans his head back and runs his hands tiredly over his face. He hates not knowing what they're dealing with, the beginning stages of research are always the worst, mostly because there's too many possibilities.
It's times like this he wishes he could call Bobby.
He looks back at the screen, frustrated to see nothing but a blank screen. Standing to stretch his legs, he loosens the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up as he waits for the page to load. The sound of sirens approaching catches his attention.
Sam quickly steps towards the window, pulling aside the heavy curtain as his eyes search for the approaching vehicles. It isn't long before the sight of three police cruisers come into view, speeding past the motel and further down the road.
Sam turns when he hears the bathroom door pull open. Dean peeks his head out, his short hair plastered to his head, water dripping down his face as he looks to Sam expectantly. "What was that?" Dean asks, wiping the water from his eyes.
"Hopefully, our next lead," Sam answers, already reaching for his jacket.
TBC...