Chapter Two: A Revelation
Sam came slowly back to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw a beam of light. It took his confused mind a minute to realize that it was the flashlight shining – through the haze of settling dust – on a hand a few inches in front of his face. He blinked owlishly, mesmerized by the blood that was trickling down the fingers, dripping steadily into a small pool on the floor. He wasn't sure how long he stared before he flexed his fingers and discovered that it was not his hand.
"Shit, Dean!" The panicked realization cleared the cobwebs from his head, and he struggled to push himself up and crawl to his brother's side. Fighting the dizziness that most likely meant concussion, he reached out with a shaky hand to check for Dean's pulse. He had to bite back a sob of relief when his brother stirred under his touch.
"Sammy," Dean choked out, rolling onto his side. His voice was rough – with dust or emotion – and the simple act of turning over seemed to be almost too much. "You okay?" he asked.
"Better than you," Sam answered, propping his back against the stairs as he struggled to adjust to sitting up.
"Yeah. That plan kinda sucked, huh?"
Sam snorted. "That wasn't a plan. We were improvising."
"Probably shouldn't do that anymore," Dean pointed out, and his wry tone, coupled with the idea that his brother could ever not improvise, had Sam laughing out loud.
His head felt a little clearer, and Sam reached for the flashlight, shining it on his brother's wounds. His scalp was bleeding in several places, but even in the limited light Sam could see that the cuts weren't deep. Moving the beam down, Sam sucked in a breath as he reached his brother's forearms, which were laced with deep cuts around shallower abrasions.
"Jesus, Dean, your arms! What happened in there?"
Dean sighed. "I'm not sure what it was, but it sure as hell didn't like silver. I got a little banged up on the way back out, then I shot it and it exploded." His sudden grin was surprising, but infectious, and Sam felt a familiar surge of love and exasperations. Dean continued, "It was a choice between my arms and my face. No contest."
Sam continued to smile as he shook his head. "You know you're crazy, right?"
Dean looked at him. "Runs in the family."
"Can you walk?" Sam asked. "We should get out of here and get you patched up."
Dean struggled shakily to his feet, leaning on the stairs. "I can walk, can you?" He extended a bloody hand and Sam, understanding his brother's need to take care of him, accepted the help, trying not to pull too hard as he climbed to his feet. He dragged their bag of weapons from the rubble and hoisted it gingerly onto his shoulder.
They supported each other up the stairs, and Sam laughed out loud at the situation. "God, we're a mess."
Dean looked at him as if he was crazy, and suddenly they were both laughing. Dean stopped as quickly as he'd started. "Shit. I left my jacket down there."
"It's probably buried anyway," Sam told him. For some reason this set them off again, and they were still laughing when Kevin met them at the front door.
Kevin Parks prided himself on being a calm and reasonable man, but he couldn't contain his shock when he saw the boys come through the door covered in dirt and blood and laughing like hyenas.
"Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed. "What happened to you?"
Sam sobered long enough to answer. "We took care of your problem, but the basement's going to need to be cleaned. We'll take that off the bill." He dissolved into laughter again, missed a step, and almost sent all three of them to the ground.
Kevin managed to steady them and reached for his cell phone. "Why don't you guys sit down and I'll call for help."
The brothers stopped laughing as if someone had thrown a switch, and Dean shook his head while Sam responded.
"No hospital. We're used to patching ourselves up," Sam explained. "It attracts less attention."
Kevin shook his head, "I don't think…"
"This is nothing," Dean said dismissively, standing up straight and taking his weight off his brother. Sam recognized the pain and effort involved, but Dean's mask was in place and Kevin was fooled completely.
"Let's go," Sam said, with a gentle tug on Dean's arm. He wanted to get moving before their strength gave out. "We'll give you a call tomorrow – see how things stand."
Kevin stepped aside, but watched their progress worriedly as they made their way toward the car. Shaking his head, he turned and walked into the house.
By the time they reached the Impala, Dean was sweating and Sam was staggering under his weight. He watched his older brother sink into the driver's seat and lay his head back, closing his eyes. His own vision had cleared, although his head was still pounding, and Sam nudged his brother's shoulder.
"Push over, I'll drive."
Dean grunted in agreement and eased himself out of the way. Sam eyed his brother's wounds, which had stopped bleeding freely, and decided to wait until they reached the hotel to patch them up.
It seemed like miles between the parking lot and their room, reminding Sam again of the perks associated with cheap, roadside motels. He was relieved that the desk clerk was busy and didn't notice their entrance. They made it up to the room without attracting attention, and Sam hung the Do-Not-Disturb sign before locking the door.
Dean managed to rouse himself and insisted on checking Sam's injuries first. Rolling his eyes, Sam submitted to the exam. He was scraped and bruised, but his only real injury was the tender lump forming on the back of his head. He hissed as Dean probed at it gently then pulled back to look in his eyes.
"Pupils are good," Dean murmured. "No nausea?" Sam shook his head, negative. "No concussion, then," Dean concluded. "I think you just got your bell rung."
Sam grinned at the expression and hoisted himself up from his seat on the edge of the bed. "Your turn. You want to shower first?"
Dean nodded. He handed his little brother two aspirin and a bottle of water before disappearing into the bathroom. Sam took the pills and lounged on the bed, letting the sound of the running water lull him into a state of relaxation. He was careful not to fall asleep, knowing that Dean would treat his own wounds if necessary rather than waking him up.
It was about twenty minutes before Dean emerged from the bathroom with a towel knotted around his waist. He was scowling as he pressed a washcloth to the side of his face.
"This better not leave a scar," he snarled, seating himself on the edge of the bed.
Sam forced his hand away and observed a three-inch cut down the side of his face near the hairline. He didn't think it was deep enough for stitched, and he moved Dean's hand back to cover it and stop the sluggish trickle of blood while he tended to the more serious wounds on his arms.
Both forearms bore a patchwork of cuts and scrapes, but Sam was pleased to see that they weren't as serious as he'd originally thought under the beam of the flashlight. Smearing antibiotic cream on them, he opted to wrap each arm in gauze rather than bandaging the cuts individually. He applied butterfly bandages to the gash on Dean's face, and stepped back to admire his work. Dean looked as bruised and battered as Sam felt, and his face was peppered with small cuts, but the major damage was taken care of. Knowing his brother would refuse a pain killer; Sam gave him aspirin instead and helped him get ready for bed.
"I'm going to grab a quick shower."
When Dean nodded, closing his eyes, Sam flicked the light off and closed the curtains before disappearing into the bathroom. His shower was quick – Dean had hogged the hot water as usual, and he could hear his bed calling to him. He smirked to himself. It was funny how a few hours of work could wipe them out as if they hadn't slept in days. After checking on his sleeping brother and glancing out at the Impala, Sam fell asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.
He woke up hungry. The clock between the beds told him that it was well past dinner time – almost 9:30pm. They had been out for almost ten hours. He flipped on the light on the nightstand, groaning at the stiffness that had taken over his body and the dull ache in the back of his head.
Dean didn't stir, his face toward Sam as if he was watching over him, even in sleep. Glancing over, Sam frowned suddenly, leaning in for a closer look. The wounds that had crisscrossed his brother's face were gone.
Holding his breath, Sam moved to the side of the bed. The butterfly bandages were still there, but the edges of the wound that had been visible around the bandages had been replaced by smooth, unmarred skin. His legs gave out, and Sam fell back, sitting down hard on the floor beside his own bed. Hearing the noise, Dean shifted, opening his eyes slowly.
"Christo," Sam choked out.
Dean met his eyes and sat up slowly. There was no flinch, just a confused, worried look that was so patently Dean that Sam was finally able to suck air back into his lungs.
"Dude, what's wrong?" Dean leaned toward him, running on hand through his sleep-rumpled hair, and again he was so Dean that Sam found his voice to answer.
"Your face," he began. He saw a flash of panic in his brother's eyes as Dean interrupted him, bringing his hands up to hover in front of his face, afraid to actually touch.
"What? Is it gross?"
There was an open desperation in his brother's voice that made Sam rush to answer. "No, it's healed."
Dean ran his hands hesitantly over his face, then jumped up and headed for the bathroom mirror. Sam followed and watched his brother pull off the butterfly bandages. The skin below was unmarked.
Looking at his brother in shock, Dean began unwrapping the gauze from one arm, willing his hand to be steady. As uninjured skin began to emerge, Sam forced himself forward and unwrapped the other arm, his own hands shaking.
"What happened to me?" Dean asked. His tone was curious but calm, but Sam could hear the underlying fear, could see it in the tense set of his brother's shoulders.
"We'll figure it out," he promised, trying to provide reassurance.
"Don't patronize me, Sammy," Dean warned. "How are you doing?"
Sam touched the back of his head gingerly. "No miracle cures for me," he joked. Hearing his own words, he froze.
"What?" Dean asked impatiently.
"Maybe that's what this is. Some kind of feedback effect from the faith healer, like extra power bouncing around inside you."
Dean frowned skeptically. "It was a reaper, Sam. Why would that leave any extra juice?"
Sam waved him off. "I don't know. Maybe he knew that we freed him, so he gave you something in return. Maybe it was accidental feedback when he dumped you for Sue Ann."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Or maybe I'm not me."
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him.
"We have no idea what that thing was this morning. Maybe it's possessing me and we just don't know it yet."
Sam shook his head. "No way. You're just as annoying as always." He felt a return of that initial pang of fear, but pushed it away. Somehow he could sense that Dean was still Dean, he just couldn't find the words to explain it to his brother.
"Sammy, I want you to test me. Everything – salt, silver, holy water, exorcism. If you find anything wrong, then I'll leave." Dean's voice cracked with emotion, and he waved Sam off when he tried to argue. "I'm not taking a chance that I could hurt you."
Realizing that this would be the best way to offer both of them peace of mind, Sam nodded and started rummaging through their bags. "Call for room service, would you? I'm starving and this is going to take a while."
It did take a while. More than a couple of hours had passed before Sam exhausted all the possibilities – or at least enough to satisfy Dean – and announced that his brother was still the royal pain in the ass that he'd always been.
Dean's emotions were clearly etched across his face, despite obvious efforts to suppress them, and Sam cast about quickly, trying to help him find an excuse to escape until he could regain control. "Hey, I think we should celebrate. Why don't you go down and see if the bar's open? You could check on the car too."
Dean nodded in gratitude, turning quickly toward the door.
"I'll hop on the laptop and see if I can find any answers," Sam called after him.
More than thirty minutes passed before Dean came back to the room, and Sam had to admit that he hadn't made much progress. He rolled his eyes as Dean produced a six-pack from a brown paper bag.
"Bar was closed, but I managed to talk the desk clerk out of this." He grinned. "Boy was she ever friendly." He seemed to be caught in the memory, but only a few seconds passed before he looked at Sam. "Find anything?"
Grimacing, Sam shook his head. "Nothing. I started with reapers and faith healers, but I couldn't find anything concrete. There's one reference to the body being more receptive to healing after a faith healer works their mojo, but the whole deal with the reaper makes that less likely." Sam sighed and pushed the laptop away.
Dean could obviously see his frustration, and cuffed him on the back of the head. "Relax, geek-boy. Let's have a beer, and I'll take over for a while. In the morning you can try Dad's contacts and see if any of them have any ideas." He dropped his hand from the back of Sam's head and let it rest briefly on his brother's shoulder. "We'll get it all figured out."
Sam nodded, toying with his beer as he let Dean's reassurance wash over him. He hadn't realized how dependent he was on his brother's quiet confidence until he'd almost lost it for good. The relief of having it back wasn't really as conscious thought – it was just instinct to look to Dean for answers and comfort; just as it was instinct for Dean to provide them as best he could.
Finishing his beer, Dean wiped his hands on his jeans and pulled the laptop over. For a moment, fear and uncertainty could be clearly read in his eyes but, by the time Sam looked up, they were replaced by determination and confidence as he shot a cocky grin at his little brother.
Sam's Journal
Looking back at those first few hours after we'd discovered Dean's new ability, I can't help but be ashamed by my reaction. Oh, I was pretty confident through the tests, and not at all surprised to discover that my brother was still my brother, but I couldn't see him as anything else at the time.
It took years for me to come to grips with my own short-sightedness. They say that a child may spend their entire life seeing their parent only as a parent – never as a real person with feelings and friends and a life beyond their child. That almost captures how I used to look at Dean. He was my brother, and his entire childhood – his identity – was looking after me. He continued this in his adulthood, despite my objections, because he knew that this was ultimately what was expected of him; by our father, and also by me.
As we struggled to understand what was happening to Dean, he cracked jokes, provided reassurances, and protected me from his own emotions. I let him. I shared my fears and speculation with him – Would this enhanced healing make his body burn out faster? What if it stopped working in the middle of a big fight? What if there were side effects?
Dean smiled and made up answers to all my questions. In my memories I can see the fear in his eyes, but back then I couldn't handle it, so I let it be invisible to me.
I have apologized profusely for this blindness in the past, and I will do so again when Dean comes to see me today. He'll just laugh at me and brush me off; tell me it was a long time ago and he doesn't even remember. But there will be gratitude in his eyes.
TBC