He'd known it would happen. It was worming its way slowly into his system. Panic.
This curse was like nothing he and his brother had ever faced before, and that scared Sam a whole lot more than he let on. Some pretty messed up things had happened to them in the past, but nothing had ever changed physical appearances. And there was that healing thing. And the immortality.
He shuddered as he stepped out of the shower and caught sight of the blood splattered over the sink and mirror. There were a few droplets on the floor that had dried before he'd stepped into the shower and let the warm water run over him.
It was going to become a problem. Hell, it already was a problem.
Dean had been shot in the freakin' head. And he'd lived to tell about it. That, more than anything else, scared Sam.
The younger hunter made his way slowly from the bathroom, glancing at his brother's sleeping form as he yanked on a pair of pants and an old shirt. Dean was lying on his stomach, wings spread out over him like a blanket. A couple of white feathers lay on the floor by the bed.
Sam plopped down on his bed, picking at the dried blood that had settled onto the sheets. There would be questions about that if they couldn't get it out. They would have to make up some story about how one of them was prone to nose bleeds in the night. It was bound to work. It had worked before.
His eyes traveled back to the bedside table, where the Bible sat. He looked back at his brother, sound asleep and snoring, wings grazing the floor. Slowly, Sam reached out and ran a tentative hand over the nearest wing.
It was soft, too soft to be anything attached to his big brother's body. And it was warm, which didn't make any sense at all. His fingers caressed the feathers, moving up and down, as he thought. It was a joke, or a dream. Yeah, he was dreaming.
Dean moaned and stirred in bed, the wing twitching and flexing, causing Sam to pull his hand away. It was real. No joke. But there had to be an explanation, and it sure as hell couldn't have been the one his brother had given him.
Slowly, Sam stood up and backed toward the door, grabbing the room key off the table as he went. He needed answers, and, unless his memory was playing tricks on him, he knew where to get them.
The old church appeared to be abandoned, but that didn't stop Sam from testing the doors. They slid open easily enough and he walked in. The building was bigger inside than it had appeared to be out, and pews spread out on either side of the hunter. A carpeted aisle ran down the middle of the room, leading to an alter. Moonlight flooded through the stained glass windows, bathing the church in eerie colors.
A solitary figure sat in the pew nearest the alter, hunched over in prayer. Slowly, Sam made his way up to the person, hoping to find out who the local priest was. He slid into the pew besides the short, knobby old man, who looked up with mild interest at the added weight on the bench.
"Hello, there, sonny," the old man smiled warmly, "what brings you here at this late hour?"
Sam shrugged, deciding to rattle off the first logical story that came to mind. "I was looking for answers. Do you happen to know who the minister here is?"
The old man's smile widened. "That would be me, Father Emerson." He sat back in the pew. "What is it you have a question about, young man?"
"Oh, well, first off, my name's Sam. I was wondering what you know about angels."
The priest nodded. "Angels. Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. I believe that they are real and that they walk among us. Maybe they don't have wings or halos, but they are here. It's the nice young woman who helps me carry my groceries from the car into the house, or the stranger who gives his blood for the life of another, or the man who pulls his younger sibling out of a fire."
Sam's heart stopped. "What?"
"They're all angels, in a way, Sam. They help those in need, even though they don't have to. My neighbor could easily stay inside her house and let me risk injury walking over patches of ice in the winter with heavy bags in my arms, but she doesn't. If it weren't for blood drives, millions of people would be dead now. That brother could have run out of the burning house screaming, saving his own skin, but he didn't. It's that little bit of selflessness that shows through from time to time."
Sammy nodded, a little relieved. For a minute there he'd thought the old man was a mind-reader. "That's great, but I was kind of wondering about the wings-and-halos kind. Do you know anything about them?"
Father Emerson shrugged. "A bit. Is there anything in particular?"
"How would a person become a wings-and-halo angel? Is there any way besides dying?"
The priest looked truly perplexed by the question, and closed his eyes in concentration. "I can't think of any reference to that sort of thing happening in the Bible, in popular culture, anywhere. Why would you ask?"
"Curious," Sam shrugged, trying on a grin that felt fake, "do you have a theory? Could it be possible?"
"Sam," Emerson smiled, "with God, anything is possible. You just have to believe."
"What if you didn't believe? What if you denied the existence of good in the world, because you thought that evil wiped it all out? Would it still be possible?"
"Is there a point to all of this, sonny? Because you're confusing me a bit. Why would you want to know?"
Sam shook his head. "You wouldn't be believe me."
"I believe a lot of things, Sam. For example, I believe that there is a great evil force working out of this town, and I believe that you know about it. I believe that you are here to stop it. You should know that you're not alone here. There may be a great evil at work, but there is also a great good. Now, tell me why you want to know about angels."
Sam sighed. "My brother. He's…different than he used to be. He's never believed in God. Never believed in good. Only evil. Everything's evil, nothing can help. I got kidnapped, and I guess he yelled at the wrong person. He's not like he used to be, Father, and it's scaring me. He can do things now. But he still doesn't believe. Why would God give him wings if he's not going to change?"
The old man hung his head. "I think your brother's the one you should be asking."
Sammy shook his head. "He never talks to me. He thinks it's a curse."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course. He told me."
"Is it possible that he lied?"
Sam snorted. "Why would he lie about something like that?"
Emerson shrugged. "Sometimes people tell untruths to hide the way they feel because it would be seen as unacceptable. Tell me, Sam, is there any reason this 'curse' would be considered unacceptable?"
"I told him…" Sam began, but trailed off. "I kind of told him he was a freak. That if he got caught… I think I made it unacceptable."
The priest nodded. "Go make it right." A small, sly smile crossed his aged face, "after all, he's not the only freak in the family."
"Thanks," Sam grinned, standing up and shaking the old man's gnarled hand, "thanks a lot."