Translations

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Thanks so much for the awesome responses to Chapter 1!! I really wasn't sure if anyone would like this storyline. Let me tell you, it's a real struggle to find something original to pen because there are so many awesome plots being played out here at ffnet by so many wonderfully talented writers. Glad I could hit upon something new.

Again, if you're looking for a lesson in Latin, a masterpiece of grammatical correctness or subtitles, this is not the story for you. If you're into Dean talking in a dead language that the people he encounters just don't get, and really don't seem to appreciate, then please tag along for the ride.

Please keep in mind, everything Dean says is in Latin.

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Chapter 2: Cult Followings

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"You're….….Dean, well, ..you're speaking in Latin," Sam gently said, remorse telegraphed by the tilt of his head even as he reached out a hand toward his brother's right shoulder.

But Dean swatted the hand away in angry frustration, letting loose a protest …..in Latin. "Stop screwing around, Sam! I know what Latin sounds like!"

"I know you know the difference between English and Latin….usually," Sam responded, his tone soft, apologetic. "But Dean, it looks like you took a pretty bad blow to your head." Slowly he raised his hand to his brother's head, let his fingers skim across Dean's blood stained skin.

Though he knew Sam had barely even touched the wound, Dean couldn't help wincing at the contact, his head threatening to implode on his next breath. Sam's eyes flashed in sympathetic pain as he held up his blood covered fingers for Dean's inspection. 'Thanks for the visuals, Sammy,' Dean snidely thought but felt subconscious about speaking, about maybe confirming what Sam was saying, that he had gone all AM…all talk radio..in a dead language. 'More like the language of the dead. Just great, it's not bad enough I've been known to spend quality time with reapers, now I'm spewing Latin like some…some geekboy!'

Unwilling to break eye contact with his brother, Sam called over his shoulder to the other cast in the play unfolding in the Simmons' living room. "Was he unconscious at all?"

Jack Simmons voice was surprisingly concerned when he answered, "Yeah, when we found him he was unconscious. He didn't wake up when we carried him into the house, was out for …I don't know, half an hour or so. And then when he came to…he was like this, making no sense."

For all the effort Sam put into deconstructing his brother's walls, he was never really prepared when the façade fell, when the real Dean Winchester slipped out of the shadows. That specter made an appearance now, casting a crestfallen look upon his brother's pale features, sending a sharp piercing pain into Sam's gut. When Dean unleashed inventive Latin words twisted into curses, Sam knew that he didn't really need to know his brother's words, he knew the tone, the frustration, the railing against another handful of losing cards. Instantly he wanted to make things right for Dean, to ease his brother's pain, to wipe away the besieged expression in the green eyes.

"Alright, we'll figure this out, Dean," Sam reassured, raising his hands in a gesture of placation, praying that his own uncertainty was masked.

Pushing off of the cabinet, angry frustration giving him strength, Dean stood upright by his own willpower, though the room spun for a quick second before stilling. With eyes blazing, he heatedly threw the Latin words at Sam. "Don't treat me like I'm four, Sam!"

"I'm not, Dean! I'm treating you like you're barely keeping your feet under you, bleeding from who knows how many wounds and a little out of your head!" Recognizing that Dean was in no mood for any lies, Sam welded the truth, betting that Dean would find some relief at being handled the task of dealing with his little brother's unearthed fears.

"Nice," Dean snarled back, not liking Sam's choice of words, even if he couldn't dispute them. He abandoned his brave stance, because in all honesty it was exacting too much energy from him, energy that was wasted because Sam wasn't buying what he was selling this time, at all. Leaning back against the cabinet in defeat, Dean let his head rest on the glass window of the curio cabinet, wishing that his head would stop trying to kill him long enough for him to hear his own words, to know, contrary to what he was hearing himself say in his head, that he wasn't speaking English. Wishing also that Sam would wipe that pitying, worried look off of his face, would stop shifting on his feet, biting his lip, looking at him like he was broken and it was up to him to fix him.

"So he's not possessed?" the voice startled them both, made them remember that they were not alone. Simultaneously, their joint attention focused on a confused Frank Simmons.

Forcing himself to turn from Dean, Sam faced his audience. "Ah, no," he answered, clearing his throat, adopting his most calm, sincere, I'm-not-crazy expression. "I think he has a concussion and it must have jarred something and now he's talking in Latin." At the eldest Simmons still confused expression, Sam tacked on, "Because he knows Latin, well, like he knows English." Still his audience seemed unconvinced that holy water was not needed. "And he knows Latin because he studied to be an archeologist, you know like Indiana Jones," Sam explained, proud of his quick thinking, tossing a smile into the formula for good measure, certain that he would win them over with that weapon coupled with his movie tie in information.

But his audience was a hard sell and understanding was simply not creeping into any of the three Simmons men's eyes. "It's good to know Latin, I mean really know Latin if you're going to be an archoelogist…you know, and uncover artifacts with ….ah..Latin inscriptions on them."

When Brent spoke, his voice was a welcome intermission to Sam's stammering. "Wasn't Paul Walker an archeologist in TimeLine? You know, that movie about that time machine and that one guy, he got his ear cut off when…"

"Yeah," Sam interrupted with greedy relief, snapping his fingers and pointing to Brent like he was a winner in a contest. "Yeah, right, I forgot about that movie." And then he let silence fall, let the Simmons come to whatever conclusion they wanted to and turned again to his brother.

Dean's expression, peeking beyond his blood matted hair and blood stained face, was one of annoyance. "They don't know Indiana Jones?! Where are we? The Walton farm?!"

Sam couldn't fight the smirk that twisted up his lips. His brother's wit and Latin was something that probably never should have been mixed. Hearing Dean say things like "Do they not comprehend Indiana Jones? What place is this? The Walton's homestead?"… It was surreal, like visiting an alien world where Latin was the common language and Dean Winchester was the head geek.

Sam's smirk eased something in Dean, made this new wrench in his life more bearable. "You're loving this, aren't you?" he taunted, a lopsided smile on his lips, his finger pointing to Sam, not so much a gesture of accusation but of discovery. "Me looking like the freak of the week."

"Dean, you always look like the freak of the week," Sam countered, relieved that Dean's sense of humor was coming on line. Laughter was Dean's best weapon against hurt, against terror, against situations where he was decidedly out of control. 'Like right now.' Sam retained the smile on his lips but his heart clenched at his brother's vulnerability. When was Dean going to get a break in life? When were either of them?! "I think it's time to take our circus on the road, don't you think?" Sam quietly suggested, suddenly consciously aware of the Simmons family at his back, watching Dean's vulnerability like it was some tv show put on for their amusement, like Dean's pain was something they had a right to see.

"Aren't you going to make sure I'm not possessed, say Christo, at least?" Dean wisecracked, but Sam could see the true worry in his brother's eyes, the fear that he might be possessed, that he might harm Sam after they left their audience behind.

"Dean, you just said the name of God in Latin. I'm pretty sure possessed people don't have that privilege," Sam assured, pulling a smile on his face for his brother's benefit, shaking his head as if he was talking to someone mentally challenged.

"Well, excuse me for worrying that I might go all Meg on you! Forget I said anything," Dean grumbled back a hurt glint in his eyes.

"Dean…" Sam sighed gently, wishing he hadn't taken the flippant tone with a wounded Dean who wasn't quite up to their usual verbal sparring. He was about to close the distance he had let come between he and Dean when the all too familiar sound of a gun being cocked sounded behind him.

"Cantersville Police," announced a hard male voice. "Don't move a muscle."

Fear spiked through Sam, his eyes reflecting that emotion as he took in Dean's frozen stance, read the 'Now what?! Oh crap' expression on his brother's features as Dean looked behind him. When Dean's eyes fell back to him, Sam saw the angry disbelief and knew instinctively that he and Dean were thinking the same thoughts. 'Great, we managed to elude the Feds only to be brought in by some local yokels.'

But beyond the frustration, fear ensnared Dean's soul. Though Sam might be Bonnie to Dean's Clyde, he wasn't leveled with the charges Dean was, didn't face the death penalty. And though Dean Winchester wasn't afraid to die, to do so needlessly, foolishly, to earn nothing from that sacrifice was not something he wanted to contemplate.

Tensing, his heart pounding, Sam was poised to act, ready for any signal Dean might give him but his brother's green eyes were hard, defeated. When a second police officer walked by Sam and approached Dean, Sam knew why. The odds weren't in their favor, not with two guns trained on them.

"Put your hands on your head," the officer behind Sam ordered.

Brent's mother's came down the stairs to watch the results of her 911 call. Her tone carried an excited, hard edge when she spoke. "I knew something was off with them. Always talking about evil wolves and then they admitted that they killed Phil Marshal's hen. And then that one destroyed our shed," her farm work callused hand came up to point to Dean. "But when he started chanting…I knew…I knew…" she said, conviction in her tone, though it was clear that what she knew was still a mystery to her.

The officer that approached Dean, who was burly in a biker sort of way, growled, "We heard about whack jobs like you two. Cults killing livestock to offer as sacrifices, speaking in mumbo jumbo chants."

Sam's eyes bulged in surprise, and his mouth fell open 'A Cult?!' They thought they were cult members, were arresting them only because of that misconception. Sam watched as Dean's lips fought against a smirk but there was a humorous, hopeful look in Dean's eyes. They weren't Fed prisoners yet…not until their fingerprints were fed into the database.

"Turn around," the burly cop snarled to Dean. Before Dean could move, the cop's meaty hand clamped onto his shoulder, yanked him a step forward and spun him around. Dean found himself viciously body-slammed into the china cabinet, sending the china clanking together and extorting a whoosh of air from his lungs.

Helplessly watching Dean being roughly manhandled, Sam clenched his teeth together. But Dean's grunt of pain wasn't something Sam was equipped to let pass. "Easy! He's hurt!" Sam protested heatedly, taking one step forward, ready to do whatever it took to get his brother free of the cop's abuse.

When the muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his head, Sam froze mid-motion.

"You want to die, you just keep moving," the first cop hissed.

Believing the cop's threat, Sam soothed, "Alright, alright." Raising his hands to his head for the first time, Sam did not shift his focus from Dean and his assigned cop.

Sam's cop stepped closer to Sam, gripped the younger Winchester's shoulder with cruel strength. When he spoke over Sam's shoulder, Sam knew the cop's height was equal to his own 6"4' and there was hard brutal strength in the other man's every rippling muscle. "Marty, do you hear that? The chanting guy's hurt. Maybe you should do your paramedic routine," the cop taunted, pressing the gun barrel harder into Sam's head.

"Sure thing, Randy," Marty agreed, sending his partner a smile that Sam knew had nothing to do with kindness. Leaning close to Dean's ear as the hunter's cheek was pressed against the china cabinet, Marty growled, "Does it hurt here?" punctuating his inquiry with a punch to Dean's bloody side. He was rewarded with a cry of pain from the eldest Winchester.

Rage tightened Sam's every muscle at Dean's cry, at the way his brother's hands gripped onto the cabinet to keep himself upright, to channel the agony he was in. 'Let your anger be a weapon instead of a weakness,' Sam chanted his father's words in his head, over and over again because it was the only thing he could do, the only thing that lent any measure of consolation to him as he witnessed his brother's pain. Bidding his time, waiting for his opening, swearing that retribution would be had, just not now, not yet, it was all that kept his temper in check, well, that and the gun barrel at his head and the cop's nerve damaging grip on his shoulder.

Swallowing down the scream of pain that was still lodged in his throat, Dean flexed his stiff fingers, let the cabinet go, and miraculously kept his feet under him of his own accord. "You're not going to get the best medical volunteer award this year with that bedside manner. Maybe most lawsuits earned in the county," Dean taunted, forgetting that his insults were indecipherable to the cop at his side, to everyone but Sam.

'Ah, Dean, keep quiet,' Sam silently pleaded, dread raising as he saw Marty's face go white at the Latin words spilling from Dean, watched the man's eyes flicker to his partner's before settling back on Dean with fury born out of fear. Sam winced before the blow landed into Dean's kidney, before the groan escaped Dean, tensed as Dean morphed the groan into a taunting laugh. "Dean, stop talking," Sam ordered, his voice hard, desperate, worried, hoping that one of his emotions would get through to his thick headed brother.

Gripping the base of Dean's neck, Marty pressed Dean's cheek against the glass panel, putting a spider web crack through the panel. "You say one more chant and your momma won't have enough of you to scatter on a postage stamp," Marty hissed in Dean's ear, pushing Dean's face further into the cracking glass, standing so close that Dean could feel the man's rapidly beating heart against his back.

Wisecracking was second nature to Dean Winchester but protecting Sam was first and Sam was scared, he could hear it in his voice, could practically sense it pouring off his brother in waves. And it was a wake up call to realize Sam was scared for him. Swallowing down whatever retort he had, Dean resolved himself to take whatever the cops dished out in stoic silence because, apparently, his Latin was pushing all their buttons. Though he cockily swore that he could take whatever they dished out, Dean knew Sam wouldn't like that, wouldn't just stand idly by and watch him take a beating, deserved or no. Because, beyond the fear sensed in Sam, Dean felt the air spark with fury, with pent up energy, with his brother's outrage at the mistreatment Dean had already endured. And an angry Sam wasn't something to take lightly, to underestimate.

So when Marty pushed Dean's face further into the glass, when the spider-web crack caused shards of glass to embed in his cheek, when the cop's low voice taunted by his ear, "What, you got nothing more to say, wacko?" Dean remained silent, let the tension ease in his muscles, let Marty enjoy his temporary victory.

"Didn't think you did," Marty cockily said, lifting his meaty hand from Dean's neck, taking a step back from his beaten adversary. "Now put your hands on your head before I decide to bury you in old man's Simmons' tobacco crop," he ordered, a smug smile on his face as the suspected cult member linked his hands behind his head. He was reaching for his handcuffs when the elder Winchester went into convulsions and dropped to the ground, his body jerking as if it were connected to a live current.

"Dean!" Sam screamed, fear searing across his nerves, severing his worries about guns and arrests and even his own death as seizures wracked through his brother as he lay on the carpet of the Simmons living room. Pivoting with the speed of a Viper, Sam spun around, plowed the palm of his hand into his cop's nose even as his other hand latched onto the gun, easily pulling it from the now slack grip. Randy staggered under the blow, hands coming to his face, trying to stop the flow of blood from his nose, he never even had time to block Sam's uppercut to his jaw, was out before his body crashed onto the floor. Turning, Sam was about to drop to his knees beside his seizing brother but he stumbled instead as he watched a very in control Dean land a right cross to Marty's jaw as the cop bent down to check on his supposedly incapacitated prisoner. The blow sent Marty reeling toward Sam.

Gripping the lapels of Marty's shirt, Sam pulled the cop upright only to unleash a left hook into his gut followed by a right cross to the burly man's eye. Sam snagged onto the tilting figure, gripped the cop's jaw in his left hand, released it just as his right fist connected viciously with the man's cheekbone, watched in satisfaction as the man landed on the ground beside his coworker, out cold.

Turning around, Sam leaned over and slid his hand under Dean's elbow as his brother struggled to climb to his feet. Supporting some of Dean's weight, Sam pulled his brother upright, but didn't release his grip even after Dean was standing. Instead his fingers bit harder into Dean's flesh. "Dean, you almost gave me a freakin' heart attack!!" Sam snarled, fighting down the urge to shake his brother, to make him pay for searing incontrollable fear into him, fear that was still humming through him.

A cocky smile lit up Dean's pale face, "Convincing, wasn't it?"

"You're a jerk!" Sam accused but there was relief in his tone, an easing in the grip of his hand that was wrapped around his brother's arm. "Next time give me a warning, Dean!"

"That would spoil the whole thing, Sammy. It's all about surprise," Dean refuted but as he watched Sam's eyes darken, noticed his brother's jaw jump in frustrated anger, he sighed. "What did you want me to do? Wink at you?"

"Dean, you're speaking in a language no one here but me understands. You could have told me what you were about to do," Sam pointed out, his voice rising, feeling foolish that, he of all people, had fallen for one of his brother's juvenile cons.

"You told me to stop talking, Dude," Dean smugly returned, smiling, knowing that this time he had finally beaten Sam at his own game.

Sam opened his mouth, tilted his head and then shook his head, abandoning the idea of disputing something with Dean, especially a Dean spewing Latin. "Look, let's just get out of here before they wake up," he said, nodding his head toward the unconscious deputies, starting to pull Dean forward.

Side by side they began to head for the front door but they came up short at the sight of the Simmons family staring at them in slack jawed shock. "Ah…well, your hospitably sucked out loud.." Dean began but their reflexive flinches reminded him sharply that he wasn't speaking a language they understood or even liked.

Hoping to ease the fear he and his brother had instigated, Sam, releasing his hold on Dean, took a step toward Frank. When the members of the family seemed ready to retreat at his approach, Sam halted. "Alright, well, we'll be going now," he said, offering a small, quick smile before he followed Dean out of the living room.

Pushing open the Simmons' front door, Dean winced as the sunlight sent a piercing pain through his abused skull. Bending his head down in response to the pain, he raised his fingers to rub his temple. It was the only reason the shotgun blast didn't behead him but instead splintered the wood on the side of the house. Turning around, Dean tackled Sam to the Simmons' kitchen floor as a second blast ripped the front door from its hinges.

The breath slammed out of him, it took Sam a moment to move, to turn his head to see Dean sprawled out beside him, partially on top of him, their shoulders overlapping each other. Noting the grimace of pain contorting Dean's features as his brother started to push his hands under him to get up, Sam began to slide out from Dean's weight, knowing that every second counted, and that Dean wasn't in any condition to climb to his feet with any speed. The re-cocking of a shotgun had Sam's eyes swinging up to the figure towering over them in the doorway, both barrels of the shotgun sighted on him and his brother.

"I'm willing to bury you boys as easily as arrest you," the sheriff drawled, his finger resting on the shotgun's trigger with practiced ease. "You decide."

"Ok, Ok," Sam said in surrender, raising his left hand, his right still pinned under Dean. Relief and fear resonated through Sam when Dean moved his right hand out to the side, across Sam's chest in surrender as well. Sam turned his head to look at Dean. When Sam and Dean's eyes met, they conveyed the same sentiment. 'Ah crap.'

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading!

As for replying to reviews, due to my 'I'm writing and I can't shut up' problem lately, I'm hopelessly behind on responding to reviews for this story and my other one shots. Let me assure you that I value each and every compliment and encouragement you've all blessed me with even if I don't get a chance to personally drop you a thank you. I can be very insecure and nervous about posting my stories and every review eases the pit of nervous dread in my stomach that always says 'Boy, Cheryl, you really shouldn't have posted that…you should have kept it nice and safe on your laptop and been satisfied with that.' So thank you all for your support, for making me glad I risked a part of myself and went ahead and posted my stories regardless of what my gut was saying.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.