Curses Foiled Again
K Hanna Korossy

He noticed it shortly after Sam came back, after Dean's deal and the clock had started ticking.

"What the He-eck?" Sam said, sort of strangled, as they stared at the blot of ash that was all that remained of a human being.

Dean barely blinked, caught up in worry over what could turn a person into a greasy spot, and didn't comment.

A few days and one Nuckalevee later, there was an unfortunate incident with a magic fingers bed, and Sam's spluttered, "What the He— What did you do?" was the least of Dean's worries.

But two days later, when Sam discovered that Dean had gone out for drinks—and other things—with a busload of cheerleaders instead of doing the research he'd promised Sam, Sam's frustrated, "Da-ang it, Dean," was a welcome diversion.

"'Da-ang'?" His Carolina drawl was perfect. "Really, Sam? What's next, 'Dadgummit' 'What in tar-nation'? 'Those darn kids'?"

Sam glowered at him.

But mission accomplished, and if Dean was starting to get an inkling of what was going on, he didn't push it.

Not until later that week, when Sam's arm was nearly ripped off by a blood-hopped vamp, and Dean was gently probing the swollen joint to see how bad it was and if motel-room first-aid would be enough.

Sam's face shone with involuntary tears of pain—dislocations were a bitch—and he was cursing under his breath, so quiet that Dean almost missed it.

"Da—rn."

And, okay, enough was enough. "You can say it, Sam."

"Say—" Sam sucked in a shocked breath. "—what?" he exhaled more unsteadily.

It wasn't dislocated or torn, just badly wrenched. Dean quit his prodding and reached for the chemical cold pack. "Damn it. Hell. Damn it to Hell. It's not a big deal, man. Not like you're talking about—"

Me. He stopped short of saying it, but they both heard it.

Sam just gave him that raw look he'd been sporting since he found out about the deal, and that was the end of the conversation. The second-grade cuss words trickled off after that, but Sam still wasn't as liberal with his language as he had been before.

At the end of the year, Dean died, damned, and went to Hell.

When he returned, he had other things to worry about than what Sam was saying. Like what he was not saying. Or what he was drinking. Or what he was doing with that demon blood he was drinking.

But some part of Dean still noticed it, distantly because it was the least of their problems. The da-angs and Hell-os were back, Sam stumbling over the concepts just like he seemed to everything else he didn't think Dean could handle. The kid didn't appear to see the irony that he was all worried about upsetting Dean with a mindless exclamation even while he argued he could do whatever he wanted and Dean wasn't the boss of him.

Dean was just too freaking worried and weary to call him on it.

Then Lucifer was out of the cage, and soon Sam was in it, and Dean stopped caring about much of anything.

Sam's experience of Hell didn't seem to affect his language. Just like the absentminded "Hells" hadn't reminded Dean of his stint there, Sam didn't look like he made the connection when one of them let it slip.

Then again, first Sam had no soul, then he had the ultimate post-traumatized, tattered and battered soul, so he probably had more important things on his mind, too.

It was when one day Sam caught him putting a raw egg inside his little brother's boot—because someone had to remind them what was important—and his brother started with, "Oh my Go—" and ended lamely with "—osh, Dean!" that Dean broke into laughter. Because he got it, he did: God was being awfully quiet those days, and invoking Him just seemed stupid.

"Seriously, dude, why don't you just stick with bodily functions? F—"

"Shut up, man! And leave my boots alone."

Finally, things were getting back to normal.

The End