The day after the witch, some Real Housewives wannabe who'd somehow gotten her claws on a spellbook, cursed Dean, he and Sam were at Bobby's. On the couch, frustrated and pissed off, trying to explain what'd happened without sounding too much like they were offering up excuses for what Bobby called "Winchester dumbassery."

Or Sam was doing that, at least. Dean wasn't really a whole lot of help at the moment. Which Sam kept forgetting. He'd trail off, wait for Dean to pick up where he'd left off, then look at him with an embarrassed little flicker in his eyes and keep going on his own. Honestly, listening to Sam verbally stumble his way through their latest hunt might've been worse than the curse itself. Felt like watching somebody stub their toe every couple minutes and not being able to tell them to watch out for the end table.

"Lemme guess." Based on the way he was slung into one of his armchairs, Bobby wasn't too concerned. That got under Dean's skin, too. "He was running his mouth at her."

Sam didn't say anything, just sighed. And sat there. Waiting for Dean to hop in. Jesus, just how much of Sam's conversational weight did he usually carry? Eventually, Sam realized and, glancing at Dean, went, "He…uh, yeah, he called her a few names. Wouldn't let her get a word in edge-wise. She said something about…I don't know, how he needed to figure out how to listen, 'cause he might miss something important."

"Uh huh," Bobby replied dryly, then addressed Dean. "Only surprise here's that you didn't pick one of these up sooner, boy…I've seen this before. Common spell." He switched his attention to Sam. "Can't be broken. Killing the witch doesn't do a damn thing, ditto for burning her spellbook. Just gotta wait for it to wear off."

Dean put aside his irritation to share a You gotta be kidding me look with Sam.

"So…how long's that gonna take, exactly?"

"Depends." Bobby shrugged. "Week, maybe. Hopefully. If your witch was on the stronger side, you might be looking at two or three. And. This thing does come in the 'learn your lesson' variety, every once in a while, so if that's what she stuck you with…" He gave Dean a very deliberate look. "Then you're in a whole heap of trouble."

Dean glared, grinding his teeth.

"A week?" Sam parroted, incredulous. "Or longer? Are you serious?"

"Would've thought you'd be thrilled to get a break from Dean's voice, Sam." Not a bad assumption to make, Dean had to admit. "He sure enjoys the sound of it enough."

Sam eyed Dean, and Dean could practically see the gears turning under that chestnut mop of his. He'd been looking tired, stressed out, concerned. Like he usually did when Dean got whammied on a hunt. Now, though, all that eased up some, and a smirk flashed fast across his mouth. Dean would've missed it if he'd blinked.

"Yeah. Actually, now that I think about it…might be kinda nice."

Dean flipped him off. Sam and Bobby both were getting an earful in a week's time.

Hopefully, at least. But thinking about what it'd mean if a week passed and he still couldn't talk…what was the point in that unless it happened?

Dean'd been cursed before. So had Sam. There were a lot of cherries you popped, hunting, and having a witch throw a spell that stuck at you was one of them. The worst Dean had ever had was back in 2008, going after a coven in Massachusetts. He was still convinced they'd had razorblades or something seesawing back and forth in his stomach. Definitely hurt enough, definitely threw up enough blood. Good thing Sam and that backstabbing black-eyed skank nipped things in the bud before they got worse.

Otherwise, curses tended to be pretty tame, if annoying as hell. Having to do everything backwards, a traveling itch, all food tasting a little bit like pickles. An antibiotic-resistant case of gonorrhea, that'd been fun for Sam.

So Dean was used to it. Didn't mean this wasn't a giant pain in his ass.

His tongue was like some sort of giant, useless slug, hanging out in his mouth, his vocal cords alien meat deep down in his throat. He'd never been so aware of either of them before and it was driving him crazy. There was a barrier between them and his brain, the words got stuck rising through his chest and it was practically like he could feel them. A sharp-edged lump gathering behind his sternum, all the digs he wanted to take at Sam, comments he wanted to make on the music coming out of the stereo, bitching he wanted to do about the towns they were rolling through just growing and growing because there wasn't anywhere else for them to go. Dean kept thinking about the chestburster scene in Alien.

He could think just fine, so at least there was that. He could write, he could text, but both those took so goddamn long. Sam was bound and determined to teach him some basic ASL that he'd picked up in college or whatever, and Dean didn't see the point. This was only gonna last a week and he couldn't use signing after that, not even on cases because they had their own system for hunting, developed and passed down by Dad. Too bad that wouldn't work right now. Dean couldn't think of a reason to throw Sam You come at him from the front, I'll get him from behind in the car.

At least Sam seemed to be enjoying himself. Bitch.

He wore that stupid-ass pink and white shirt Dean hated, because he knew he couldn't comment on it without putting in more effort than it was worth. He styled his hair like a douchebag. And when he figured out Dean couldn't order for himself at restaurants, he went totally nuts with power and started getting him salads and turkey wraps and all kinds of bullshit.

So Dean looked something up on his phone. Sam wanted him learning ASL? Fine. Great. Dean locked eyes with Sam before he swiped at his chin.

Bitch, Dean signed. Bitch. Bitch bitch bitch bitch –

It took a second, but Sam got it, scowling fiercely. Made Dean wonder what kind of class he'd taken where they taught him this sign.

"Really?" he asked. "Super mature, Dean."

Bitch. So that was one useful one, at least.

They could've stayed at Bobby's 'til the magic wore itself out, but Dean didn't see the point. He was mute, not injured or sick, and he doubted Bobby wanted the two of them stomping around the scrapyard hurling ASL insults at each other all day. So they found a hunt, Southern California, other end of the country from Sioux Falls. It'd take a while to drive there, maybe long enough for the curse to wear off. And even if that wasn't the case, Dean didn't need to talk to do research or chop heads off, and Sam'd always been better at talking to witnesses and local law enforcement anyway.

Something was up with Sam on their third day of driving. Dean was blasting Black Sabbath, so he didn't notice it right away, but Sam was leaning against the window. His brow was furrowed up in the way it got when he was worried about something, so around ninety percent of the time, and he kept glancing over at Dean. It didn't go away after ten miles, so when the shoulder went to gravel instead of mud and weeds, Dean pulled over and took his phone out.

What are you doing? he texted Sam. Still faster than signing, especially since Sam had only shown him one of those words. You okay?

Sam already had his phone out, having figured out what he was doing, and looked at it when it buzzed. He licked his lips, looked at Dean.

"I'm…I'm fine."

Cmon dude. I want to know whats up with you

"It's just." Sam shook his head and turned away, elbow on the car door and fingers pressing into his forehead. "It's something stupid."

Dean doubted that, somehow. He thought about pushing for whatever stupid thing was eating Sam up, but that wasn't really his style, and it never seemed to work when he did try it. So he reached for the wheel again. But then Sam was talking, and Dean dropped his hands to his lap.

"I guess I just…never realized how much you talk," Sam began, slowly. "I know it's a lot. Obviously. Drives me completely crazy. It's way too quiet now, though. I-it probably sounds weird, but…" He trailed off. Like he didn't want to say out loud he missed Dean's yapping.

Ive been playing music, Dean pointed out.

"'S not the same."

Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head. But…thing was, he thought he got it. There was a kind of roaring silence inside your own head, sometimes. It felt like it could swallow your soul. Only the voice of another person could quiet it down, no matter what they were talking about.

He'd felt it every time he lost Sam, or even thought he had. A void in his brain, screaming loud enough to drown everything out with how quiet it was, the absence of the voice and million small body-noises he was most used to.

You do realize you could talk to yourself

"I guess." Sam was uncomfortable. "What would I even talk about, though?"

Nerd shit obviously. Seems like youre always getting excited about some boring ass history or science thing

Dean felt kinda bad about that as soon as he sent it, but Sam didn't look offended after reading it. More thoughtful.

It didn't look like he was going to say anything else, so Dean got them back on the road. A few miles later, Sam asked, "Have I ever told you about the Defenestration of Prague?"

Dean just stared at him, not entirely clear on what two of those three words meant.

"You'll like it, it's hilarious," Sam assured. "So, it happened in 1618. The more famous one, at least, it happened more than once. Which is just…totally awesome, think about that for a second." He grinned at Dean, who just kept staring. "What happened was – actually, there's a lotta background here, I oughta look some stuff up."

As he pulled out his phone, Dean realized that he was probably going to regret this.

Mythology. Harry Potter. Astronomy. History. Physics. Chemistry. Lore. How physically impossible certain monsters were. Elvis, Sarah McLachlan, Celine Dion, Vince Vincente. Star Trek. Grammar. Lord of the Rings. Serial killers. Friends and psychiatrists and how you could never be totally honest with any of them unless you felt like risking it all.

Sam'd really gotten into his stride by day four, in other words.

He was perfectly content to have a giant one-sided conversation with himself, Dean neither texting nor signing. Dean kept trying to drown him out with music and Sam kept turning it down or off so he could keep on yakking. Between the two of them, they damn near broke the tape deck during a full-on struggle on the side of a road in Wyoming, so Dean gave up and they compromised. Music low enough he could still hear Sam.

Dean kept on hoping, hard, Sam's voice would give out. No such luck. He'd known since Sam was a baby that the kid had a serious set of pipes on him, and it was just as annoying now as it'd been back then.

There was no way Dean'd ever talked nearly this much himself. Not even when he was excited about something. Was Sam really that allergic to silence? Maybe he ought to go back to one of those shrinks he'd lied to and work on that.

By the fifth day, much to Dean's horror, Sam's subject matter had gone full-on chick-flick. Dad. Their childhood. Shit like that. Good for him or whatever, tackling those issues, but did he really have to do it where Dean could hear him?

Maybe that was the whole point. He could never get Dean to talk about this stuff. (Because he didn't need to, it was in the past and it wasn't like it was stopping either of them from hunting or breathing or having healthy, normal sex. Maybe normal people had the luxury of processing trauma when they got bored, but not them.) So how he was going all-out because he basically had a captive audience who couldn't shut the conversation down.

Dean fantasized about jumping out of the car. Leaving Sam at a gas station. Just getting the fuck to where they were going so they had other stuff to focus on. Getting his voice back so he could make him shut up or at least talk over him. He'd finally broken down and started texting him, furiously, whenever he possibly could, and he'd looked up more signs, too, but Sam ignored it all. And music wasn't even an option anymore. The last time he'd turned it up, Sam looked like a puppy whose tail someone'd just stomped on, so Dean killed it himself and brought the onslaught back.

It was agony. The mass of things he wanted to say felt like it was the size of a beachball by now, like it'd outgrown him, like he was walking around with a backpack full of free weights crushing him into the ground by his shoulders and chest. It'd gotten to the point it was practically a biological function that wasn't working right. Like he needed to throw up but his stomach wouldn't get the message, so he was just stuck with the nausea, immobile, drooling, shaking with the need to purge but just stuck.

He tried as hard as he could to tune Sam out. It was total luck Dean heard it when Sam, voice gone oddly soft, said, "I guess…what drove me the craziest back then, y'know, when we were younger, is that I felt like…I couldn't say what I really thought. Not unless I wanted to fight with Dad for the next week. So, eventually, it was like I couldn't get the words out at all. Like my body was trying to protect me or something, it was a physical thing. And even when I broke past that, yeah, we'd fight, but then we'd just do whatever Dad wanted anyway, and – " He cut his eyes, turquoise-brown in the harsh light of a desert afternoon, at Dean. " – you'd take his side. Nobody listened to me, I was just about…choking on this need I had to be heard. And." He took a deep breath. "I think that's a big reason why I left."

Dean was speechless. Inside his head to match the outside, and the spiny words clogging his ribs stopped pulsing and growing for a second. Because all that sounded…well, it sounded pretty goddamn familiar.

They hadn't been making great time at all, with all the stops, but the case they were on their way to work wasn't one where lives were on the line. Yet, at least. Dean pulled off, took out his phone, and texted Sam.

I'm sorry, he told him, and it was easier to tap it out than it might've been to say it, he was pretty sure.

Sam looked at his phone, and Dean typed, Wish I could have helped. After a second, he deleted that, and went with Wish I helped you out more instead.

"You did help, though." Sam looked up. "All the time, Dean. In a lot of different ways. And…things're better, now. We listen to each other. Most of the time. Neither of us is…ever gonna have to leave again."

Dean coughed as he started the car up again, and forced himself not to tune Sam out anymore after that.

So he heard it loud and clear, early evening on the sixth day after he'd been cursed. When it happened.

Sam'd moved onto his college girlfriend by then. The one Dean met when he came to get him, the one Sam'd had his heart set on marrying, the one that yellow-eyed bastard Azazel gave the same treatment as their mom. It'd been years, but of course you never fully got over that kind of loss. There was a sliver of pain in Sam's voice as he talked casually about her. His profile was outlined by the chemical-harsh glow of a Western sunset whenever Dean looked over at him.

"She kept reminding me of somebody, but I never could figure it out until…jeez, years after…you know. Light hair, green eyes, she was on the taller side, super confident, had a dirty sense of humor." Sam's teeth flashed orange in a one-second smile. "I was dating you. Or as close to it as I could get out there. Which really makes sense, I mean, considering – "

Sam cut himself off all of a sudden, like he'd just barely realized what he was saying. Something he'd never meant to see the light of day, Dean imagined. Maybe he'd just gotten so used to talking over the past few days that it'd slipped out along with all the other crap he'd let loose.

It was like a bullet hitting a metal target inside Dean, this magnificent ringing of truth and realizing filling every square inch. Something he always knew in the back of his mind but never knew he knew.

He was also numb in his fingers and hot in his face, no idea what to do. He couldn't even look at Sam, who was totally quiet and stiff next to him, like he was afraid to move. Dean could feel the shock and regret and humiliation practically rolling off him.

Dean's hand, on the wheel, kept twitching towards his phone in the pocket of his jeans, but he had no idea what he'd say to Sam. Not to mention that he might've dumb, but he wasn't stupid. He couldn't text while he was driving Baby.

He thought about turning on some music. He couldn't bring himself to. So they were just rolling along in silence and Dean understood, all over again, why Sam couldn't stand it.

They were between towns and, because they were making such bad time, driving through the night seemed like the only option. Dean couldn't even imagine stopping right now. Making Sam talk to a front-desk clerk. Being alone in a room with him, because that was somehow more alone than they were together in the car.

He pressed the accelerator to the floor, nobody but them out on the highway, and Baby roared and jumped under and around them, eating up the asphalt between Nevada and California. The sun went down and the toxic light faded from the sky.

Sam didn't talk. Dean couldn't.

Something changed in Dean over the course of that night. He was exhausted, tension behind his eyes and muscles bound up in knots in his neck, back, shoulders, but…he also felt like, maybe, he might have his voice back. Like if he just tried, he could open his mouth and the words would fall out like baby birds, voice fragile.

He was afraid to find out if that was true or not, though. And he'd way rather hear what Sam had to say next.

Dean parked at a motel in Eagle Mountain, their destination, with the sun coming up over Joshua Tree National Park to the east. They sat in the car for a good five minutes, Dean hurting in his seat and practically nodding off over the wheel, before Sam spoke for the first time since yesterday afternoon.

"Been a week since you got hit." His voice was rusty. "Can you still not talk?"

Dean just looked at him, eyebrows raised. Sam sighed and climbed out of the car. By the time Dean joined him, that little blip of annoyance had faded and the shame was back. Sam looked at Dean, but didn't make eye contact, wouldn't no matter how hard Dean tried.

"I get if you don't…want a room with me," Sam said haltingly.

Whar are you talking abput? Dean's thumbs were stiff from gripping the wheel all night. Hard to text.

"W-what I said last night. Obviously." Sam dragged a hand back through his limp, sweaty hair.

About how you could kill somebody for some avocado?

"No, not that."

Guy you finally figured out was flirting with you in your chem lab?

"Not that, either – Dean, cut it out, you know exactly what I mean."

I really dont. When you saw that volleyball by the road and thought it was an armadillo?

It went on for a while. Finally, after about half an hour of just standing out in the parking lot at sunrise, Sam exploded. "When I accidentally said my girlfriend, who I loved, and was very attracted to, was a whole lot like my brother, and that that was a huge part of the reason that I liked her so much." He threw his hands up. "Because I'm in love with my brother! I've wanted you since middle school, Dean, are you fucking happy now?"

He was red-faced, almost shouting, breathing hard like he'd just come off one of those runs that he loved so much. Miracle nobody'd come out of the rooms or the office to see what was going on. Dean put his phone away, then took a few steps towards Sam. He stiffened, like he was expecting Dean to hit him, didn't move a muscle. Dean didn't like that.

Dean grabbed him by two handfuls, one of his dumb shirt and the other of his gross hair, and pulled him in hard. Their lips crashed together so hard that Dean's teeth ached, but he couldn't think of any other way to kiss his brother. Just because he couldn't talk didn't mean he couldn't use his mouth for other things. He hoped this was right, that it was okay.

Sam let him in, softened against him. He had morning breath, they both did. But Dean didn't mind the flavor, there was Sam underneath all that. He tasted like home. He tasted like words.

They only broke because they had to breathe. Sam looked sort of shell-shocked when Dean looked at him, which worried him some, but his gut was still telling him to go for it and it tended to be right. He pulled his phone out.

Room. He showed it to Sam.

Sam was off like a bullet. A bullet on shaky, lock-kneed legs. Dean popped their trunk, grabbed lube and condoms out of his duffel. He met Sam soon as he came back with a key, the two of them heading straight to the room. They were already fumbling at each other as Sam worked the door open, but then he pulled back, looking like it cost him years off his life to do it.

"Wait," he gasped, desperate, "wait. Dean, d'you…d'you want this?"

Dean wasn't sure where he'd picked it up. But it seemed natural to fold down his middle and ring finger, index, pinky, and thumb sticking out.

I love you, he signed, then swiped at his chin. Bitch.

"Jerk." Sam mumbled it into Dean's mouth, swollen and hot, as he pushed him through the doorway. It didn't take Dean long to figure out there was only one bed in the room, and maybe it shouldn't have been hot, the idea of Sam asking specifically for that. But something about it brought his dick up, pounding hard.

Dean kicked the door closed, maybe a little too hard, couldn't be bothered right now. He shoved Sam towards the bed, down onto the mattress, because he felt like getting sort of rough with him after all the obnoxious, nonstop chattering. Sam's hair was a feathered halo around his skull, eyes bright and cheeks flushed as he panted through spit-slick lips. He stared up at Dean, glowing soft in the gentle dawn-light filtering in through the room's curtains, and it practically looked like something out of a porno. A classy one, though. High-budget.

Looming over his younger brother, Dean all of a sudden wasn't sure what to do.

Sam helped him figure it out. "…Dean?" That shame was coming back, the shame he must've lived with for a decent chunk of his life, and Dean hated that almost as much as he'd hated him feeling like nobody listened to him when he was a kid.

Sam was going to talk Dean out of doing this. Or talk himself into thinking this wasn't right. The springs whined loudly as Dean put a knee on the bed, tugging his jeans and underwear down past his thighs. He was almost fully hard. It was the only thing he could think of to do, leaning forward, putting his free hand on the back of Sam's head, and bringing him in towards his length.

Sam leaned forward, eager. That had Dean dribbling precome, and then there was a tongue on his tip, in his slit, lapping it up. Soft, hot, wet. He tipped his head back with a silent groan, eyes fluttering closed and something clenching hard in his stomach. Hell. Maybe Sam had been with a guy before, Dean thought fuzzily to himself as Sam took his head into his mouth. It was all lips and moisture and just the barest hint of teeth.

Sam took him deep, most of Dean's length. Dean could feel him gagging and god, was that hot. Sam wrapped a big, callused hand around the rest of Dean, stroking and using his own spit for lube. Dean shuddered and, shit, did he ever wish he could moan right now. More than he'd wanted to talk at any point over the past week.

Sam sucked him, jerked him, fondled his balls with his other hand. Dean fisted his fingers in Sam's long hair, and Sam was making noises like he liked him pulling on it. Just when Dean thought he could see his climax coming up, though, Sam pulled back on everything, and his cock went cold.

Dean blinked dumbly down at Sam as the cresting faded in the pit of his stomach, not sure what was going on. Sam, panting and red-mouthed, stared up at him. Voice rough from having a dick down his throat, Sam told him, "I got an idea."

It took a lot of explaining and demonstration on Sam's part, a lot of frustration on Dean's. But it also came naturally, their bodies fitting together like someone had carved two from one. No bottoming from anybody, didn't even come up. Or, well, Sam kind of bottomed. He was on all fours, Dean behind and on top of him, their clothes in a jumbled pile on the floor, Dean fitted into the cleft of Sam's tight, shapely ass and along the underside of his cock and balls. There was a mess of lube and spit and sweat and precome between them.

It was awkward, and kind of gross, after the nearly twenty-four hours they'd spent crammed into the car and the week they'd just spent on the road, but at the same time, it felt right. Just like everything else between them, always, for their whole lives. Nothing else could fill the hole when the space next to one of them was empty.

Neither of them ever had to leave again, Sam'd said. Dean couldn't help feeling, as his hips caught against Sam's, as their cocks rubbed together and Sam groaned and ground back on him, the truth of that slamming home.

Sam came first. Dean knew he was getting there, could feel the slight trembling in his rock-hard thighs and the way his breathing sped up…could even feel the tightening in his balls, that was how close the two of them were. He sped up, stroking him through the orgasm with his own dick, and Sam came hard onto the dust cover underneath them with a yell.

Dean wasn't far behind after that. He squeezed his eyes shut with a grunt, and the rhythm he'd managed to put together fell apart as he finished. It was like a sledgehammer to his lower stomach. He didn't think he'd ever had one better as he covered Sam's junk in his come. And there was something else, too, a tightness in his throat, a releasing, and what felt almost like he was having an orgasm in his mouth. Something even came out of him.

"Sammy!"

His voice was weak, cut in and out, was even raspier than usual after not being used for almost a week. Dean's climax was so good he didn't even realize that he'd just talked.

Feeling like he was floating, the whole room filled with a rosy light, Dean pulled away from Sam. He had one hand on the small of his back, dampness and heat between their skin. It wasn't long before Sam laid down beside him.

They breathed into each other's shared spaces. Dean was pretty sure their hearts were beating in sync. He let his eyes fall closed, lashes tangling with Sam's slick hair, sore and satisfied. their fingers were laced together and their knees were slotted in next to each other.

They'd used to sleep like this a lot when they were kids, Dean remembered. Lay like this. He'd listened to all the small sounds Sam made, learned the rhythms of his living body, music better than Zeppelin. He'd listened, listened, listened and he should've never stopped.

"You talked." Sam whispered after a while, as Dean drowsed. "Dean. You said my name. Is it over?"

Dean unlatched their fingers and ran his hand over the edge of Sam's body, valleys and hills of ribs, muscles, hip and femur. Drying sweat gathered on his calluses.

"Pretty sure I've needed that for a long time," he rumbled, speaking from down in the middle of his chest, where a week's – a lifetime's worth of words had gathered and then scattered, flying off in all different directions like birds after a gunshot because he didn't need them anymore. When he held Sam's hand again, he was sure he knew exactly what he meant, and he didn't need to say a thing.