Warnings: implied/mentions of oral maiming (temporary), graphic injury description at one point, language

Your Silence

When Sam returned, he was different.

It wasn't any major personality alterations. He wasn't a completely changed person. In fact, he hadn't really changed at all, really, from the Sam that had walked away from him at that picnic table.

But the point was, yes, he was different, but not character-wise.

He just never talked anymore.

He nodded and he shook his head and he smiled and bitchfaced at different levels and he used hand gestures a lot more than he ever had.

But Dean hadn't heard his voice in the two days they've been back together.

The day they met back up in Ohio, after Dean had come back from seeing the wretched future, he had made one of his solemn speeches, and Sam hadn't said a word. Just patted his shoulder and smiled.

He asked him what he wanted for lunch and he just shook his head, or ordered soup or coffee or something else fluid for take-away that he never consumed in front of Dean. Sometimes Dean ordered take-out salad and sandwiches that he completely ignored anyway. He never joined him in diners anymore. Never fucking ate anything solid and it didn't seem like it bothered him at all.

He asked him about the hunt and Sam didn't do his usual summarization and explanation. He turned the laptop around to face him, handed him the research papers, shrugged when Dean pointedly looked at him and waited.

He asked him why he didn't talk these days, and he just shrugged, picking at his sleeves, looked kind of sad and it made Dean really fucking sad too. All squinched up corners of his mouth and soft-eyed and breaking his heart in a way he didn't think possible anymore, after everything that had happened in the past year.

Dean didn't really know what to do, so he left it alone and figured Sam would talk again in his own time, eventually break in whatever silent oath he had taken. He did wonder if it had anything to do with the big yes to being Satan's meat suit (remembering what he saw in the future still gave him shudders so maybe he understood why Sam was so afraid too). Seemed a bit extreme, but he thought Sam might do something like that if he felt like it was for the best. Obviously, this wasn't the way to go.

"You know there are alternatives, right?" he said one evening, after another one-sided verbal conversation. "You don't have forgo speech altogether to avoid saying yes to Lucifer."

Sam shrugged again, and to be honest, it was getting annoying as fuck. It seemed like that was his response to a lot of things these days.

Anyway, Dean could deal with Sam being mute. What did get him worried was the fact that he had literally not seen Sam eat a single grain of salt in the past four days.

"For fuck's sake, Sam. Eat something that would actually do your gigantic self any good. How have you not passed out yet?"

Sam shook his head, pushing away the chicken sandwich Dean was handing out to him. He took the container of broth and coffee in his hand, however, and walked out of the motel room. Dean considered following him, curiosity urging him to go and see what he did, why he never just fucking ate or drank anything in front of Dean.

He did. And Sam caught on to that. And Dean never got to know. And Sam ignored him for the next three hours.

…

Dean discovered how serious Sam's silent oath was, when a rugaru ambushed him from behind and he didn't warn him. Son of a bitch bit into his shoulder, and yeah, at the end of the day, Sam stabbed it in the heart with the demon-killing knife before it got too bad and all was good and he spent the whole car ride shooting him guilty looks, but that wasn't the point.

The point was that whatever fuckshit this was that Sam cooked up, it ran far too deep if he couldn't even break character for a second just to signal Dean to watch out, there's a man-eating monster coming to use you as a chew toy, and he needed to know what was going on for real before things got a lot worse. If they kept hunting like this, somebody was going to die, and most likely it would be Sam because he wouldn't be able to alert Dean that there was a ghost trying to choke the life out of him and he could use some help here. But it could be Dean too.

And so he snapped, as soon as they got inside their room.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sam? Is this how it's going to go on? I don't get it. Why are you being so pigheaded on this? How am I supposed to count on you when you won't even open your mouth long enough to tell me that I'm about to be eaten?"

Sam, to his credit, did look thoroughly ashamed and guilty. It didn't help Dean's anger at all though, so he turned away from him towards his duffel, digging through to find the first aid kit with one hand while the other grasped at his bleeding shoulder. It wouldn't need stitches. Just needed to be cleaned up, he thought.

…

Sam was wrapping a gauze around his shoulder.

"We can't keep going like this," Dean said quietly. Didn't care what came out of his mouth. Just wanted Sam to say something. "Either you get your head straight or we go back to parting our ways."

No word. No sound.

Dean was exhausted. The world was ending. His neck hurt because his brother refused to speak even to send out a warning to him. And he'd been going crazy the past five days dealing with Sam's nonverbal cues and wondering what changed him like this.

His eyes prickled.

"Why won't you just fucking say something?" he whispered. His voice wobbled dangerously, and he was staring right at Sam, whose gaze was rooted to his task a bit too much. His eyes were wandering all over the kid's face, his head bowed and Dean's tilted. God, he missed his voice, his stupid high-pitched bitching, his smart, rational explanations and arguments, his overly-concerned mother henning questions. Hell, he missed him talking about his goddamn feelings. Anything. He felt sick with how much he wanted him to talk again.

When the bandaging was done, Sam did this thing where he kind of just settled his head down between Dean's uninjured shoulder and neck, stared down at his hands in his lap. It made his heart too soft and it reminded him, not for the first time, that he was still the same little boy from twenty years ago that he had spent a lifetime taking care of, in many ways. It almost made him feel bad-

Dean shook his head, grabbed his shoulders and pulled him off. Little shit.

"Oh nonononono. You don't get to do things like that and make me feel like the bad guy. You're the one driving me crazy here with your pledge to silence-"

But Sam had this look on his face, just on the edge of scared and just on the edge of crumpling, and he was making that face he did when he was trying not to cry, where his jaw was clenched and his eyes were watery and he was frowning dolefully in a desperate attempt to hold back his tears, and he was clutching Dean's shirt tightly as if he thought he'd disappear if he let go.

In a way, maybe he did. There was a kind of resigned acceptance in his sunflower orbs, the expression of a man who had known all along that something wouldn't last, who was having his hopes, that he had already known were irrational and absurd but simply ignored that fact, crashing down.

"Sammy, come on," he said softly, wide-eyed under brows pinched with worry and helplessness. "What's going on, huh?"

He seemed like he wanted to tell, to let him know. His mouth opened a bit, then closed back up. Dean had the vague and awful feeling that he wasn't really trying to speak, but rather show him something.

"What?" he asked. Gripped the back of his neck and squeezed encouragingly.

Sam opened his mouth, and when he saw it, Dean felt himself jerk back, felt his heart rattle and his stomach lurch. Almost threw up, but he pushed his nausea down and tried to focus and he couldn't. He stared and stared and stared, wide-eyed and horrified and so fucking sick he couldn't think a clear thought. The world dulled down a bit and he wondered if it was some shitty, twisted dream he was having, one where his little brother could no longer speak because in place of a tongue in his mouth, there was nothing but a misshapen stump of leftover muscle, recklessly cut off.

...

Sam scrambled for the notepad and pen on the night table, hands quivering. Wrote some shit for a while, fingers scrawling and working frantically.

Dean, look, I can still hunt. I promise. Maybe we'll have to make some adjustments, but it could work. We don't have to separate or anything like that. I get after everything that's happened the past year, hunting's been the one reason I'm still here with you, and you might be thinking that because of this, that reason's gone because I know verbal communication is pretty important on hunts, but I can still be useful to you. I know I didn't do it right this time, but I'll do better from now on. Give me a chance to prove it, okay? Please.

And fucking hell, of course this kid wouldn't rest until he made him cry actual goddamn tears.

He looked up at Sam through a blurred vision, sniffed and blinked fast to clear it. He was staring back at him, his fox-slanted eyes big and somehow very childlike even at the age of twenty-seven, earnest and only just slightly hopeful and heartbreakingly, heartbreakingly fearful.

How could he even think that that was the only thing Dean gave a shit about? How could he think that he kept him around for any reason other than the fact that he was his baby brother? Even after everything, even then, how could he ever doubt him like that? How could he ever think otherwise?

To be fair, yes, he had said some words he shouldn't have ever said, but he was wrong. He wished Sammy knew that (but then Dean supposed he knew Sam). And yeah, only a few minutes ago, he threatened his departure because he was frustrated and worried and scared and he wanted to scare Sam too, but god, how could he think telling him about something like this was going to drive him away? How could he be so afraid of Dean's reaction that he thought hiding it was the best way to go?

"You really think I'm that much of an asshole?"

Sam's eyebrows furrowed, and he shook his head quickly, snatching the notepad again.

No. Nothing like that, Dean. You're a good person. The fact that you even called me back at all...nobody else would have tried as much as you have in your place. But I don't know. It's just- the things I've done. The mistakes I've made. How I've betrayed you. It was awful (which is an understatement), you know? It didn't make sense for you to keep me around for any other reason besides a symbiotic one. So I didn't want to take that risk. It's not that I didn't think you'd ever find out. Obviously, I knew you would. But I guess I thought I should take what I can get and, well, until then…

"Until I realize you're a useless liability to me and abandon you on the side of the road, is that it?"

Sam said nothing to that.

Dean's eyes stung again, and his heart throbbed, because Sam could be so fucking stupid and insecure sometimes and because once again. Once again, Sam had to go through crap he never should have had to.

He reached out and gripped Sam's biceps and tugged him into his arms, held him close and touched the back of his hair and buried his nose into his shoulder. Sam burrowed closer, and they stayed like that for quite a while.

And then Dean felt his finger tentatively touch his back, spell out words he followed the lines of in his mind.

Can I stay then?

Dean choked on a sob. "Fucking hell, Sammy. Of course you can. You think I'm going to let you go that easy?"

…

Dean pulled back, wiped a hand across his eyes. The sorrow was being replaced by something darker, more fiery, much stronger and more empowering. It was fury, a longing for vengeance, beginning to set in, growing towards white-hot rage.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, sounded pretty calm to his ears, surprisingly, considering he felt anything but.

Sam took the notepad back from Dean's hand and wrote, the tip of the pen scratching against paper. His hands were steady now, at least.

Hunters. Found out about everything and that I was Lucifer's vessel. Drugged me and threatened me with demon blood if I didn't - Dean's rage sizzled - tell them how the whole thing worked. I told them I just had to say yes to him. Knocked me out. I woke up in the hospital. You can guess what I discovered, and how bad it hurt. They put me on an oxygen tank for a couple of days. Made sure I didn't catch an infection. They gave me a gastrostomy tube which, if you don't know, is a tube inserted through the abdomen to directly deliver nutrients to your stomach. That's why you don't see me eat anything solid anymore.

After everything I've done… I kinda had it coming, you know? So I don't want you to go searching for them. I mean, maybe there are other means through which Lucifer can get my consent, but it does reduce the risk of me setting the world to ruin considerably.

Dean gritted his teeth, clenched his fingers hard around the notepad until it was rolling and folding. When that didn't satisfy the blazing ache in his chest, he hurled it down. "Don't you dare talk like that! You didn't deserve this in the least. This was not right or okay or for the best, and if you ever say anything like that again, I'm socking you. Now give me their names."

Sam sighed, and then shook his head.

"Sam," Dean warned.

He picked up the notebook again and wrote in his girlishly neat, cursive handwriting, sorry. I don't want you to do anything stupid and get yourself hurt.

"Somebody is getting hurt here, but it ain't me. Names."

And then he just...

Please just stay?

Dean knew he lost as soon as he looked up at him, at his dumb, hazel puppy-eyes. But of course, that was just for now. He was going to find those bastards and hurt them for what they did to Sam, but right now, Sammy was looking at him all doe-eyed and pleading and he needed him and Dean was going to stay for as long as he wanted if that was what made things better for Sam in any way at all.

So he grasped the back of his head, curled his fingers into his hair, laid his forehead to his forehead, face crumpling briefly at the thought of never hearing his baby brother's voice again before he closed his eyes and swallowed it all down. Pushed those thoughts away. Because he was going to find something, some way to fix this and undo what those bastards did.

...

Some weeks later, they run into a couple of hunters at a bar. By pure chance, they happen to be the same brand of fuckheads that maimed his little brother so horribly. Dean didn't know it was them until Sam was tugging at his sleeve and towards the door, kept trying to hide his face from the people behind him, kept subtly glancing their way with an apprehensive, alarmed look on his face, hazel eyes huge. It wasn't that Sam couldn't take them single-handedly (he totally could have if he was completely sober and not traumatized. He was a well-trained hunter and a six-foot-four gigantic, obviously he could), but the stupid kid still couldn't get it through his thick-head that he didn't deserve what happened to him.

He looked over to where Sam kept sneaking glances at. Saw one of the bastards notice, smirk and point at him.

And Dean understood.

Of course, later that night, all six of them were found on the edge of death in a backalley. Sam wasn't happy, but it wasn't like Dean gave a shit.

…

Dean woke up one night to him being shaken.

"Dean!"

Dean groaned. "What?"

"I can...I can talk," he said, sounded kind of breathless and shaky and like he was smiling, sounded kind of hoarse and strangled and on the verge of tears.

Sounded.

Sam sounded. That was Sam's voice.

Sam's voice was fucking back.

Dean snapped up from the bed. Sam fell back at the sudden movement, but he was grinning.

And then Dean was grinning too, laughing with relief and joy because fuck. Fuck. He loved Sam's voice. Fucking missed it so much the past month and a half. And he was so happy he felt like his body could burst. He reached out and gripped Sam's shirt and hauled him into his chest, still laughing, burying his face into the side of his neck. Found himself rocking them both side to side like they were kids again, reuniting after Dean went away on a long hunt.

"How, Sammy?" Dean whispered.

And Sam stilled.

A moment later, he untangled from Dean and sat back, all traces of his smile gone.

"Um...I think it was, ah...Lucifer…? I didn't really think he would...but I guess…" he trailed off.

Dean stopped. Didn't really know what to think of that, really. But he figured he could think on how to feel about this later. For now…

He grasped his little brother's chin, shaking his head, smiling. Put his forehead to his forehead and murmured, "God, it's so good to hear your voice, little brother."

Sam grinned softly, hand wrapped around his arm. "Thanks, Dean."

Author's Note: Yes, another 'The End' story, and another hunters-go-after-Sam, Dean-gets-pissed-af, Lucifer-fixes-everything story. I just love writing for this episode. It's so much angst, and you can kind of do your worst, but you can also just fix everything later on. I've been thinking about writing this fic for a while. I was in the mood for writing some angst and hurt/comfort, so I decided this was the right time for it. I hope you enjoyed it! I hope the ending isn't too rushed. I kind of didn't know how to finish it off, and this was the best I could think of at the time.