"Let me explain this again," Sam attempted slowly, his hand resting on the Bible he'd pulled from the bedside table drawer, "when God wants to punish people, He doesn't give them wings and superhuman strength. No, Dean, He makes sure they burn for eternity. Are you understanding this?"
Dean sighed, pacing back and forth in the room, glancing in the mirror each time he passed it and marveling at the new addition to his reflection. "How else can you explain it, Sam? A curse? A spell? Oh, I know, maybe I'm allergic to our soap!"
"Dean," Sammy moaned, "we've gotta take this seriously. There's something wrong with you."
"Yeah, I know," the elder man agreed, stopping to gaze into the mirror again, "I think I'm actually getting used to this."
Sam sighed, rolling his eyes as he reached a tentative hand out and drew it down one of the soft wings. Dean jumped, turning quickly and batting at his brother. "Dude, hands off the merchandise."
"Just thought I'd make sure they were real."
"Oh, yeah," Dean rolled his eyes, "because I would totally make this up, Sam."
The younger man hung his head, letting his fingers dance gently across the deep gashes in his wrist. His face scrunched in confusion. Only one wrist was marred by the marks the manacles had made, the other one was completely healed, as if the iron shackles had never been there. "Dean," he muttered slowly, "which hand did you grab when you pulled me out of the cell?"
"I think it was your right, why?"
Sam held up both of his hands, allowing his brother to inspect the deep red gashes on the left wrist and the clean skin on the right. "I think you healed me."
Silence fell in the old motel room as the brothers stared at each other. "I healed you?" Dean asked, fighting to keep a straight face.
"Probably," Sam said solemnly, "I mean, just look at my wrists. One's all marked up. The other's clean. It shouldn't be."
"So you just naturally assume that by grabbing your wrist back at that psycho hide-out I made the boo-boo go away?"
"It makes sense, Dean," Sam argued, getting off the bed and walking to his laptop, which sat on a near-by desk, "I mean, if you think about it. Look, there's a whole host of websites about angels out there, and a few of them list supposed abilities. I'll bet you anything that healing's one of them."
"And I bet it'll just say flight, which is obvious, of course," Dean shot back, sitting down on the bed.
"Well," Sam grinned triumphantly, "pay up. Flight, superhuman strength, healing. Do I need to go on?"
"Look, I told you already. This isn't some sort of God-send. It's a curse. I'm no angel."
"That much, I already knew, but how do you explain the way you ripped that cell door off?"
Dean shrugged. "Adrenalin rush."
"Explain my wrist."
"I can't."
Sighing, Sam shut the laptop and went to sit down beside his brother. "You can't, or you won't? Look," he held out his battered, bloody wrist, "try to do it again."
"What?"
"It really hurts, all right. Just try to fix it."
"You're kidding, right?"
"I believe in you."
Dean stood up and practically ran across the room. "You know, Samantha, sometimes I really wonder about you. I know you think you're a guy, but sometimes you act like a really ugly, emo, chick-flicky girl."
"And you're a guy with wings. We've both got our problems. Come on, Dean, you'll never know until you try."
"Exactly what I told my first girlfriend," Dean smirked, "and yours. Boy, was she good in the sack." He sat down across from his brother, on the room's other bed. "What do I do?"
"What you did last time," Sam shrugged.
Dean nodded and took his little brother's hand. He looked up into Sam's eyes. "I think we might just be able to make it to second base tonight, honey," he cooed.
Sammy scowled. "Just get on with it."
"Hey," Dean began, "if this works out, you want me to do your back, too? It looked pretty bad back there."
"Why, Dean," Sam grinned, "that's awfully nice of you."
"Anything to stop the bitching, Sammy, anything to stop the bitching."
Sam grinned, shaking his head as he looked back at his swollen wrist. A small gasp escaped his mouth as his brother's hands began to glow, radiating soft warmth. Dean pulled his hands back suddenly, gazing at them in amazement.
Sam stared at his own hands. "Told you so," he muttered, shocked.
"Lay down and roll over," Dean nodded, not looking up from his hands.
"You know," Sam smiled, doing as he was told, "I bit my tongue pretty hard while they were torturing me, too. It bled."
"Dude," Dean snorted, holding his hands over his brother's back, "no matter what, I'm not sticking my hands in your mouth."