Work Text:
Sam is tapping furiously away on his laptop.
She just told me I talk to much, Dean scribbles miserably, passing over yet another Post-It.
Mentally, Sam adds an extra O to the word to. Out loud, he says, “Have some more cough drops. It's been over twenty-four hours; it'll go away.”
Dean brandishes an empty bag and scowls.
“Fine, whatever. I told you, man, quit bitching and try some herbal tea.”
This time, Dean actually gets up and throws on his jacket instead of sulking or trying to kick him. It's not until he comes back with half a dozen flower-print boxes of tea and a big bear-shaped bottle of honey that Sam realizes that this is something serious.
SHE DID SOMETHING, Dean bellows at him via Post-It the next day.
Seeing as tea and honey and cough drops aren't having any effect and haven't for the past three days, not since his clearly-completely-allergic-to-keeping-i
t-in-his-pants brother botched things up with that girl on the Idaho border, it could be demonic work. Typical process of elimination. Sam hesitantly passes him some rock salt once they've checked into a motel, but it only makes Dean retch and glare even more when he downs a mouthful. “Okay,” Sam declares slowly, “that still doesn't mean it's not a curse.”
You're way too thrilled about this not-talking thing, Dean scrawls accusingly.
Sam ignores that, but doesn't deny it. “She said, what, you talk too much? That's it?”
Said I needed time to learn to listen.
That's when Bobby calls and asks to speak to Dean. Sam awkwardly explains why he can't, and he knows Dean can envision the facepalming going down on Bobby's end just as vividly as he can.
“Golu Sanniya,” Bobby says. “Sri Lankan. Exorcism by dance. Look it up and practice your choreography. Unless your dumbass of a brother gets his act together on his own.”
A little Googling and a lot of eloquent facial expressions on Dean's part later, they have a lot more information and approximately no prospects. “Yep,” announces Sam. “Congratulations. You hooked up with someone who called in a favor with a muteness demon, only this kind doesn't give a crap how much salt or iron you touch. Just...shape up and you should recover.” The laptop clicks closed, but Dean's mouth stays open. “Seriously,” Sam emphasizes, “shape up.”
Because the only other option seems to entail performing a lengthy series of ritualistic dances. And since they don't have access to the girl herself or a Sinhalese dance troupe, Dean needs to learn his lesson fast. Whatever it is.