Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are the property of Eric Kripke. I am just borrowing them for fun.
This little piece fits with two of my other Supernatural stories, Never Show Weakness and No, I Don't Need Soup!, but you don't have to read those first.
I'm still new to the fandom, so if you see any continuity or other errors, or if you want to beta any future stories, please drop me a line. Thanks!
If he was honest with himself, it had started months ago, maybe even going back to the first time Cas was upbraided by his superiors for defying orders. But Dean hadn't wanted to look too closely. He loved his resurrected body - rejuvenated, strong, free from the scars of his former life. Every broken bone mended back to original specifications, no lingering pain in his knees, back, or hips from having been thrown against every hard surface known to man. With his confidence renewed and his appetite for women, burgers, and pie restored, Dean Winchester felt like a new man. Like he'd been reborn.
But now, as he sat at what passed for a table in this cheap, dingy motel room, Dean knew he had a problem. He stared at the tiny white line on his left pinky finger. He'd asked Sam to drive after vanquishing Leshii at the wax museum, a gesture that he hoped his brother took as conciliatory rather than the concession of defeat it actually was. His sigh was louder than he intended, and Sam turned to regard him.
"You all right?" The wrinkle between his brother's brows told Dean that Sam had been concerned for some time now.
Dean closed his eyes, mind warring between the ingrained desire to protect Sam versus the stark reality of his situation. If there's even a chance I could end up like that, I have to warn Sam. And soon. Dean settled for part of the truth. "I have a migraine." He ventured a look at his brother.
The worried expression didn't leave Sam's face. "Okay. What do you need?"
"Ice. Med kit."
There were times that Dean resented his little brother's three extra inches of height, but this wasn't one of them. Sam helped him over to the nearest bed - not the one by the door, he noted, but he'd save that argument for a different time - and his brother propped extra pillows behind his neck and head before turning off the reading lamp. "Sit tight, Dean. I'll be right back, okay?"
Dean closed his eyes, mind drifting into the pain. Searing, burning pain, the agony of having his skin flayed off inch by agonizing inch, everything blood red. And laced tightly through it all, Alastair's menacing laugh ...
Someone was shaking him awake. "Dean, it's okay. You're safe. I'm right here."
"S'mmy?"
His brother placed a cold washcloth on Dean's forehead. "You were having a nightmare." Sam tucked the bag of ice, wrapped in a hand towel, under his brother's neck. "I'm sorry I don't have anything stronger than this." He handed Dean four Advil and a cup of water before sitting on the bed beside him.
"Didn't need 'em before," Dean mumbled, thinking about his new body betraying him.
"Uh ... yeah. About that ..."
Dean peeked open one eye. In the dim light of the room, he could see his brother's face, contorted into an expression of misery. "Sam?"
His brother sighed. "I'm okay, Dean," he said, a sentence that immediately alerted him to the fact that something was very wrong.
Dean shifted on the bed so that he could look his brother in the eye. "What's the matter?"
Sam shrugged. A tight laugh fell from his lips. "What isn't?" He patted Dean's arm awkwardly. "It can wait until you're feeling better."
Dean stiffened involuntarily, Sam's words unintentionally stepping right into the problem he was trying so hard to ignore. His hopes that Sam hadn't noticed the flinch disappeared when his brother opened his mouth.
"Look, Dean, I'm not lying to you!" Sam paced around the room. "I just don't want to worry you when you're not feeling well."
What? Dean felt like he had missed an important part of this conversation. He threw some heat behind his tone. "Well, now I am worried, Sam. What in the hell are you talking about?"
His brother stopped pacing and sighed. "I'm having withdrawals."
Oh. Dean tried to focus on Sam, but his head hurt too much. "You told me you were better." The accusation he tried so hard to conceal slipped out anyway.
"I was! But ..." Sam's jaw muscles tensed. "Two hunters force-fed me demon blood when I was in Oklahoma." Dean gaped at him, so Sam quickly added, "They wanted me to go all turbo-charged on the demons to avenge their friends who got killed." Dean tried to keep his face neutral, but the disgust must have clearly shown, because Sam quickly added, "I tried to fight them off, Dean!" Sam started pacing again. He turned to face his brother, long arms outstretched. "And I spat it out! I'm not stupid. But ..."
"Some got in your bloodstream anyway." Dean blew out a breath, waiting uneasily for Sam's next words.
His brother's shoulders drooped. "Not much. Not enough to do anything physical, not really. But the psychological withdrawal ..." Sam folded his arms and hung his head. "All of that blood spatter from tonight..." He lifted slightly unfocused eyes to meet Dean's. "It reminded me of what I used to be." Sam bit his lip and dropped his voice. "I miss the way I used to feel."
Something uncomfortable twisted inside of Dean's gut. He blinked a few times, trying and failing to break the connection his mind had made. After a long pause, he admitted slowly, "I miss it, too."
"You? How can you possibly ..." Sam's eyes widened at the expression on Dean's face. He let out a startled swear. "You do know," his brother said, unable to mask the shock.
Dean ground his teeth. "It's all comin' back." He swallowed, hard. "Every stupid ache and pain I thought I'd left behind when I got lifted from the pit. I woke up this morning and found a scar on my pinky. I'd forgotten about that dog bite when I was three." He waved the afflicted digit in his brother's direction, although the room was too dimly lit for Sam to see it properly. He shook his head, then winced as it aggravated his headache. "I've got old scars popping up daily."
"And your headaches are back." Sam lifted the washcloth that had slid from Dean's forehead, twirled it around in the air a few times to cool it, and replaced it. His face was thoughtful. "Are your eyes bothering you too?"
Dean nodded. "I need you to drive until things settle down and then we can see about getting me some new contacts. I can't see worth shit anymore." At Sam's look of concern, Dean bit his lip and added, "That's why I wanted to do some easy stuff for awhile, not focus on Armageddon."
His brother sighed. "It was nice not to need glasses, wasn't it."
It wasn't phrased like a question, and Dean caught the undercurrent of his brother's words. "You too?"
Sam shrugged and looked at the floor. "I didn't need reading glasses when I was juiced up. Demon blood took away all of my physical imperfections. Even the painful memories ..." He sighed. "So much death. Jess, Mom, Dad, you. It couldn't eliminate my scars, but demon blood made me mentally and physically stronger. I didn't have to keep a stocked medical kit. It was like a magic super drug." Sam swallowed, hard. "I miss it, Dean. I was a better hunter when I was on demon blood. The other night, that spirit got the jump on me because I was too busy staring at the wax copy of Abraham Lincoln. I couldn't get my eyes to focus right. And my hearing's not as good as when I was dosed. I should have heard it coming sooner." He shook his head.
Dean gave his brother a weak smile. "But that's a good thing, Sammy. It means you're becoming more human."
"I guess." His brother fidgeted. "I just feel weak. Vulnerable. Scared." Sighing, Sam walked across the room as he spoke. When his brother didn't comment, Sam looked over at the man resting uneasily on the twin bed furthest from the motel room door. He was panting slightly and appeared pale. "Dean?"
The older Winchester didn't respond, so Sam crossed the room quickly to sit beside him. "Hey, Dean, I'm here. Just breathe through it, okay?"
"What if ... it doesn't stop?" Dean panted in a whisper, face contorted in pain, eyes clamped tightly shut.
Sam gently turned his brother on his side and began to lightly massage the tension from his shoulders and neck. "It will. The meds will kick in soon, Dean. You just need to try and relax."
It wasn't until later, when Dean had fallen into a fitful sleep, that Sam realized what his brother was really asking.
What if my physical deterioration doesn't stop, Sam? What if it ends with me in shreds from the hell hounds and returned to the pit?