Chapter 1: Anosmia Chapter 2: Ageusia With it understood that Sam's medical issues take a back seat to the Apocalypse, they get back to work. They don't mention it, except when Dean (being Dean) tries to take advantage of Sam's anosmia to make him do more of the dirty work. Sam's spent too many days trying not to lose his lunch over a corpse to really argue. Besides, there are plenty of annoying, non-smelly tasks required by their lives, and he's still perfectly capable of reminding his brother just who got stuck rummaging through a fridge full of jars marked "stomach contents" at the morgue in Cheyenne when Dean tries to wriggle out of laundry duty.
Some weeks, those arguments, silly and childish as they are, are the closest that Sam gets to relaxing, the only time he feels really human. He wonders, sometimes, when they've gotten things settled (and Dean's finally doing the damn laundry, it's detergent, not cyanide, for fuck's sake), if Dean's doing it intentionally to distract him, rather than just out of big brother habit--if this is some bizarre way of taking care of him, as so much of Dean's life has been. Dean's not as easy to read as he used to be, so Sam can't be sure.
Food remains problematic, because while the rational part of his brain knows what's going on and is resigned to it, the less-evolved part doesn't understand where all the taste went. Then the cravings hit, his body screaming for anything that has some flavor, almost as bad as when he started detoxing from the demon blood. But it's just psychological, not physical; much as he might want to taste that steak, his body doesn't care if he actually does so long as it gets the protein, and it doesn't start shutting down on him.
The only thing he can do is try to re-train himself, feed his body what it wants and hope his brain eventually makes the connection, realizes that all those wonderful tastes are just memories now. Firm-textured foods are best, since they require chewing and that at least tells his subconscious that he actually is eating. Meat's good. So are a lot of fruits. Bread and pasta are iffy; a lot depends on the specific variety and how it's cooked.
Peeling an orange isn't quite worth the hassle when you don't get to taste it in the end, though, and by "hassle" he is not (necessarily) referring to Dean's lecture about orange peels in the Impala.
Meanwhile, the book they rescued from the vamp/werewolf alliance, as best Bobby can translate it, suggests that the Horsemen's rings are the key to defeating Lucifer, although it gives odds that are hellaciously slim. So they, along with Ellen and Jo, Rufus, and a couple of other hunters Bobby trusts not to take the Apocalypse out on Sam's ass, have been reduced to chasing rumors about Death, Famine, and Pestilence, filling the days between with whatever jobs they stumble across. There are prophecies, scattered here and there throughout history, but they're even less helpful than the overwrought metaphors of the King James version of Revelation. Not even Cas pretends to understand all of them.
The book isn't as specific as they need it to be. Nobody knows, not for sure, that there's not a certain order or ritual that Lucifer has to follow to wake the Horsemen. There's even the possibility that the Horsemen will rise of their own now that Lucifer's free, without any help or interference from him. Nobody knows, and that makes the job about ten times harder, because there's no telling if a job is a normal monster or some harbinger of a rising Horseman. Not when something as simple--and counterintuitive--as an increase in the local birth rate could indicate the presence of Death.
Finally, by sheer chance during an otherwise routine exorcism, Ellen and Jo pick up a rumor about Famine. Dean bullies them off the job with the justification that he's keeping them safe, that it's too dangerous for them to help trap a Horseman after what happened with War.
In a way, that's good, because when it turns out that the trap is for them, Ellen and Jo aren't there for Zachariah to use as hostages.
Damn angel's getting smart. He comes prepared for the angel-banishing sigils, but he hasn't figured Winchesters out yet, not completely, or he would have blocked the window that they have to jump through if they're going to have any chance of escaping. Dean doesn't quite stick the landing and twists his right ankle, nothing major, just enough that Sam has to drive back to the motel. They hadn't been planning on leaving just yet; there was a ritual they wanted to try with Famine's ring that might show them where Death or Pestilence was going to pop up, so all their gear is still there.
Sam's a little light-headed on the drive back, the world wavering at the edges of his vision, but he puts it down to adrenaline and half-quashed panic and focuses on driving. By the time they get into the room, Dean's only limping a little, and then the world spins and goes gray.
He wakes up to Dean slapping him and shouting "Sammy!"
He's lying on one of the beds. He wasn't here before. He's still light-headed and a little fuzzy. "What happened?"
"You passed out."
Dean's hands are bloody and his voice is worried, and together those are never good. "Why--" There's suddenly a knife in Dean's hand and the sound of fabric tearing, followed by cold air on Sam's leg.
"Dean!" He pushes himself up. Well, he tries. Dean plants a bloody hand in the center of his chest and shoves him back down. "What the--"
"You damn near cut your leg off is what." Finished ruining Sam's only remaining decent pair of jeans, Dean sets the knife aside and picks up the bottle of rubbing alcohol that lives in the first-aid kit. "I wasn't hurt that bad, Sam, why did you insist on driving like this?"
"Like what?"
He pushes himself up again, propping himself up on his elbows, ignoring Dean's outraged "Sammy!"
There's a deep gash in his calf, at least six inches long. He must have hit that window harder than he thought; worn as it was, the denim of his jeans should have offered some protection.
Dean's got half the towels piled up on either side of Sam's leg. "Your jeans were stuck to it. I think that slowed the bleeding down some, or you would've passed out on the road." Dean leans on Sam's ankle with one hand and pours the alcohol straight on with the other. "And if you got fucking blood all over my car, so help me--"
That trails off into the usual threats, like Sam's never had to scrub down the Impala before, so Sam just watches Dean clean the wound--and then he realizes what's wrong with this picture. Not feeling the initial injury might be chalked up to adrenaline, but now? He should be screaming. There's a reason Dean's holding his ankle down, it's so he doesn't get kicked. But Dean might as well be pouring water on the gash. No, water would sting too, just not as bad.
"Sam?" Dean asks, pressing a clean towel against the cut.
"I can't feel it," Sam says slowly, trying to work through this. "I mean, I can feel the towel and I felt the alcohol, but it doesn't hurt."
Dean stares at him for a minute. "I guess you're not going to argue when I say you've lost too much blood to take drugs, then." Sam only shakes his head. "This is going to need stitches. You want me--"
"Fix it now. This-- It could wear off."
Somehow, though, he knows it won't.
Dean puts in sixteen stitches--even and neat, the way his stitches always are. Sam sits there and watches in horrified fascination. He's had stitches before, he knows the routine, he knows how much it fucking hurts, and these don't. Not at all. He can feel the needle in his flesh, feel the thread sliding through, which is a thousand kinds of unnerving, but it doesn't hurt, and that makes no fucking sense.
Dean finishes with another splash of alcohol right onto the wound, and Sam doesn't feel that either, just the liquid running over his skin. "Can you stay put until it dries and I can bandage it?"
"Can we take that long?"
"Got plenty of blood here to draw some more angel-proofing," Dean says dryly, indicating the pile of bloody towels with a jerk of his head.
"Then I can manage." He just has to remember that he's injured, since there's no pain to warn him. He reaches out to touch his leg, just to verify for himself that he's not actually hallucinating. There are some minor cuts and scrapes on his hands. They don't hurt either. "You need--"
"I'm fine. The ankle was the worst of it, and it's just a little sore. I just need an Ace wrap and I'll lace my shoe tighter tomorrow." Dean dabs at the cuts on Sam's hands, pushes up his sleeve to check for others. "And you don't feel any of these?" Sam shakes his head. "Maybe--"
"What?"
"Nothing. Where'd you get this bruise?"
"What bruise? I don't--" The words die in his throat as he sees the bruise Dean's talking about, on the outer side of his forearm. It's huge, and was probably actually black at one point, but now it's faded to patchy red-purple with yellow undertones.
"You didn't feel that?" Dean presses his fingers into it. There's a little pain, but it's deep, almost against the bone.
"No," Sam admits. "Maybe in that last fight." That had been--um--the haunted house in Taos a week ago. Come to think of it, he'd recovered from that job pretty quickly. He'd been ready to go the next morning, whereas Dean had just groaned and thrown a pillow at him and choked down four Tylenol with his breakfast whiskey and made them stay another day. Sam had thought it was just because Dean had taken the brunt--ghosts just love throwing Dean into walls, just like supernatural entities have a thing for strangling Sam.
But he'd gotten slammed into a wall too, twice, and years of experience tell him that he should not have been so spry the next day. Fights like that always take at least three days for full recovery, if they're lucky and don't get calls telling them to get to Bobby's ASAP because somebody caught a rumor of a Horseman.
"Maybe," Dean says, completely unconvinced.
Bruises are mild, even a bruise as ugly as that one, but with the other weirdness affecting his senses, maybe Dean's right to be worried. After all, Sam just watched his own skin be sewn up without anesthetic and didn't even--
Skin.
It hits him, and the realization comes out in laughter. It's crazed, hysterical laughter, and it makes something deep in his gut hurt--maybe where he got punched, or pulled a muscle in that leap out the window--and all he can do is roll over onto his side and curl up and laugh harder, and he doesn't think anything is ever going to make him stop laughing, not after all this, because it's that or sink into pure despair and weep until he dies of dehydration.
"Sam?" Dean grabs his shoulders and gives him a rough shake. "Sammy! Snap out of it!"
Sam can't. He's trying, now, but he can't. No more than he can feel the pain of those stitches. Or the sting when Dean slaps him.
"We forgot," he finally wheezes.
Dean just stares at him, waiting for those last few giggles to work their way out. "What did we forget?" he asks finally. Gently, like Sam might break. He could be right.
"We were so worried about me going blind or deaf--" A last bubble of hysteria chokes off his explanation.
But Dean, always smarter than he lets on, puts it together anyway. "Son of a bitch," he says in disgust, and whirls around and punches the wall.
There are five senses.
***
Life without pain is one of those things that's much better imagined than experienced.
First off, he's not completely pain-free. He still has deep pain, in the bones and muscles. His legs still cramp up if he spends too long sitting in the car, and when, in a fit of depression over this entire mess, he goes on a drinking binge, he wakes up the next morning with a head that feels like it's ready to explode. It's only the pain receptors in his skin that have gone dead. Sure, it's a little bit of an advantage in a fight--except that ignoring a little pain now sometimes means much more pain later, and a good gut-punch or kick to the crotch can still take him down. Dean's never been much for letting him drive, but now he insists on double-checking to make sure Sam's not bleeding before he's allowed behind the wheel, and he's not even pretending that the concern is (entirely) for the car.
Second, Sam's never realized just how many little pains there are in his life. Paper cuts from the heavy stock of old books, from handling files and folders, from making copies. Minor burns from lighters and matches and too-hot coffee. Injuries from fights. The increasingly rare playful, between-brothers smack or punch.
There's a sudden dullness to life that he wasn't expecting at all. It's almost like he's relied on the pain to remind him that he's alive.
During downtime, before bed or while sitting in the Impala, he carefully examines his fingers and hands to make sure everything's healing right, that hangnails and knuckle-scrapes aren't breeding infection, that he hasn't accidentally split a nail to the base and not noticed. After fights, as soon as the opportunity arises, Dean insists on checking Sam over for fractures and bleeding. No more quick showers, either; that's his only real chance for a full-body inspection, just to be on the safe side, just in case something got by Dean's eagle eyes. At least Dean's not insisting on doing those himself. Sam has limits, even if Dean doesn't.
But as senses go, this is really not that much more annoying than the anosmia. Nobody wants pain, anyway, and it's not like he doesn't have Dean to tell him if he's bleeding. Or limping. Or bruised. Or breathing funny.
Somebody really needs to explain boundaries to his brother, but damned if it's going to be him.
***
A couple of days after he scrapes the stitches out of his leg, just when he thinks he's getting a grip on this whole living-without-pain thing, he comes out of the bathroom shirtless, because he thought there was a tee bundled in with his sweatpants and there wasn't, and he's greeted by a scandalized "Sammy!"
He frowns at Dean. "Dude, it's not like I came out here naked." They have rules. Not a lot and not very strict, not after a lifetime in each other's pockets, but they have rules, and he hasn't violated one of them. And he's not injured--he just finished his becoming-usual thorough inspection before he got into the shower. That gash on his leg is going to leave one ugly scar.
Dean doesn't answer the remark. "What happened?" he demands instead, his voice rough. "What the ever-loving fuck did you do?"
"Um. Bathed?"
Dean gives him that special quit being a smartass, that's my job look that he's perfected over the years, and says patiently, like Sam's four again, "You're burned."
It's such a weird thing to hear that all Sam can respond with is "I am not."
Dean grabs his arm--being very careful about where he puts his fingers--and drags him in front of the mirror. "Say that again."
There are raw-looking patches of red all down his chest and arms. "But--I don't--"
"I told you the water heater ran hot, Sam, why didn't-- Son of a bitch! Your back is a mess! You've got fucking blisters coming up!"
"But--" This doesn't make sense. Not that it doesn't hurt, that he expects, but the water hadn't been hot. The water hadn't even been warm. Sure, he'd heard Dean's warning, but he'd assumed Dean had just used up all the hot water, the way he always does when he gets the first shower, and he'd just been glad it wasn't icy. It's a hazard of living out of these crappy places; the only time they can both reliably get hot showers is when they're at Bobby's.
"You better check your legs," Dean adds.
"The water wasn't hot," Sam says, and he's not sure if it's stubbornness or just denial. "There wasn't any hot water left."
Dean gives the burns on Sam's chest a significant look, then turns on the hot water at the sink. Steam boils up almost immediately, fogging the mirror.
Steam. There had been steam. Why hadn't he noticed that? Steam and a lukewarm shower? That doesn't make any sense. He should have known something was wrong from that--
Dean, figuring he's made his point, twists the faucet to off. "Don't sit down," he orders when Sam starts for the bed. "Just-- Just strip and let's make sure you didn't blister anything important."
Anything imp--
Interesting. He can't feel pain, but he can feel the blood drain out of his face.
For once in his life, luck is with him. He hit a water temperature that only did damage with sustained, direct contact from the spray but otherwise cooled quickly enough to spare him serious scalds. Tonight, of all nights, he opted to not wash his hair, which spared him head and facial burns. Only his back is actually blistering; most of the rest of the burns are on his arms and legs and chest. The skin is angry red and already tight, like a bad sunburn. He picked up the habit of keeping his back in the spray a long time ago, after pulling a muscle at school and not being able to afford any other kind of therapy. That's why he's blistered on his back, but it's also what saved him from second-degree burns everywhere else.
Everywhere.
Half an hour later, Dean has soaked every spare towel and the top sheet from Sam's bed in cool water, wrapped Sam up in them, and put him to bed on his stomach, so he won't pop the still-forming blisters and open himself up to infection. There will be bandages and burn ointment tomorrow, unless by some miracle they can get Cas to show up and he can spare the mojo to heal him.
Sam's had scalds before, just not this extensive, and he knows that cool on burnt skin feels cold. All he feels, though, is wet. He doesn't even feel the heat that has to be radiating from the burns. "Bring me my laptop--"
"You're not feeling temperature now," Dean says flatly, "there's nothing to look up."
He's right. He's exactly right. Research is for when you don't know what's going on. The Internet couldn't explain why his ability to sense pain suddenly vanished; it's not going to have anything to say on losing his ability to sense temperature overnight, either. There are people who have this problem, but most of them were born with it. Getting stuck with it as an adult usually requires a massive neurological injury. Which he doesn't have. He hasn't even taken a solid hit to the head in weeks. There's nothing, absolutely nothing, that accounts for this. Not even in his freakish life.
First pain, and now temperature. Next....
Sam is suddenly keenly aware of the wet fabric clinging to his skin, the slightly-damp pillowcase under his cheek. This is what's going to go next. The ability to feel anything. All his skin is going to go dead.
If this is the universe's punishment for setting Lucifer free, it's a pretty good one.
***
Sam wakes up, which means he must have fallen asleep, even though he can't remember drifting off. It takes a minute for him to remember why he's on his stomach, another to remember why he's wrapped up like a mummy, and another to figure out why the sheets feel different on his back than they do beneath him. The mattress and bottom sheet are still damp beneath him; the top one and all the towels have dried out.
Somewhere in the room, out of Sam's sight, Dean is talking. "No, not that, Bobby, just-- Is there such a thing as a-- Shit, I don't even know what to call it. A sensory curse? Some kind of spell that would shut down his senses?" Long pause. Sam doesn't move, because if he does, Dean will end the call, and he clearly needs to feel like he can do something. "No, I am not drunk! Something is happening to Sam-- Cas can't even figure out what it is, let alone try to fix it, and Sam-- He can't smell, he can't taste anything, he-- Bobby, he came out of the shower tonight with second-degree burns because he couldn't tell the water was hot!" Another pause. "Yes, Bobby, I've forgotten everything I ever learned about first aid," Dean says acidly. Sam doesn't know how Bobby reacts, but he flinches. "Of fucking course I took care of it! It was just one spot, the rest was mild. Long as it doesn't get infected. In which case he won't feel it. God help us if his appendix decides to call it quits."
As long as the pain's deep, he'll feel it. The fever, now, that would be questionable. A systemic infection will have other signs, though.
But without being able to sense pain and temperature, will he be able to feel it before it's bad enough to kill him? He'll have to think on that. Dean might actually have stumbled across a legitimate worry.
Dean ends the call. Sam closes his eyes quickly, not wanting Dean to know he heard any of that. He hears water running in the sink, and then it's gently poured over him, a cup at a time. Dean, soaking the towels and sheets again, by hand, rather than waking him up to unwrap him. Then the sheet over his leg is lifted away. Fingers brush the healing gash--checking for infection, no doubt, or to make sure Sam didn't accidentally cut himself again taking the stitches out.
"Dammit, Sammy." The words are hardly more than a whisper. From anybody else, Sam would call them prayerful. "What the hell are we into now?"
***
There's only one thing worse than having Dean Winchester pissed off at you.
That's having Dean Winchester pissed off at you and hovering. Dean's one of those weird people who is perfectly capable of being infuriated to the point of murder while still trying to wrap the object of his anger in bubble wrap. Especially when it comes to Sam.
Sam's pretty sure the only other people who can manage that are actual mommies, but--like with using the word "nightlight"--he knows better than to say that out loud.
Even after Cas heals the blistering, Dean's reluctant to inflict a long car ride on Sam, apparently convinced that if he does, Sam will either keel over from a massive systemic infection, or somehow transmit said infection to the Impala. Between that and the steady diet of canned chicken soup (Sam double-checks, but according to the mirror, he did not turn into a four-year-old when he wasn't looking, and seriously, Dean, what part of texture do you not get?), when Bobby calls, Sam doesn't even wait to hear what the job is before he accepts it.
"You never struck me as the type to go gung-ho over zombies, Sam," Bobby says dryly, and Sam just blinks.
Even then, it takes the better part of an hour to persuade Dean that he can do this. He's pretty sure Dean only relents because Bobby actually asked--Bobby asks for help about as often as Dean does--and they owe him.
Dean spends the whole job reminding Sam to bundle up, occasionally trying to force gloves and a hat on Sam, and nearly getting his arm ripped off by a zombie because he's distracted by worrying about Sam's welfare.
Much as Sam hates to admit it, the worry's not entirely unreasonable. It's winter now, they're in the ass-end of Idaho, and Sam doesn't feel the cold. Even with his breath fogging the air and snow at near-blizzard conditions, his brain keeps insisting that the air is at that elusive perfect temperature, neither too hot nor too cold, the kind of day that dreams are made of. In the last chase, he splashes through an icy puddle and doesn't realize it until they're back at the hotel, when Dean notices him dripping and orders him out of his soaked socks just in time to head off frostbite.
The humiliation doesn't end when they've got all the twice-dead creatures salted and burned. (Zombie flambé: just another reason to be grateful for anosmia.) Now, every night, Dean insists on checking the water temperature before Sam gets into the shower, even if it means Sam's standing there in a towel, tapping his foot impatiently, for ten minutes until Dean's satisfied that the water is just right.
Dean has apparently mistaken Sam for Goldilocks. Sam would say that out loud, except that Dean would probably use it to justify a week's worth of jokes about how Sam needs a haircut.
Sam was just going to forgo hot water entirely--it's not like he can feel the cold water, and that way Dean can have the hot showers--but that's clearly not good enough for Dean's standards. Or Dean's afraid he'll freeze. Dean insists that they keep trading off, the way they always have. Sam tries locking him out, but the motels they stay in don't have locks that can withstand a Winchester, and it turns out that Dean is not about to let something as minor as a door stand in his way.
Every time Sam thinks he can't be humiliated more....
It doesn't help that Sam's a terrible patient. He knows he's a terrible patient. He always has been, as everybody from Dad to Jessica's mom has told him. But Dean's smothering irritates the ever-loving fuck out of him, and the number of times on the zombie job alone that Sam has to restrain himself from punching his brother is ridiculous. He's not some fucking damsel in distress, dammit. He's just--sick. Granted, it's a weird sick, but it's not like they've ever done anything normally.
But anything wrong with Sam, and Dean's childhood programming comes charging to the front--thanks ever so much, Dad--especially now that it's something that can actually cause problems. Not smelling or tasting were minor issues in lives like theirs. Not being able to feel pain and temperature?
That's dangerous.
Sam knows he's lucky Dean's not insisting on strip-searches after every fight, but damned if the interrogations aren't intrusive enough--do not get him started on the string of damaged bathroom doors that kills three of their precious scammed credit cards with damage surcharges--and it's not whining if it's entirely justified. He's a grown man, for fuck's sake. He took care of himself for four months while Dean was dead--and for three other months when Dean was dead that other time, that time that only he remembers. He knows how to check himself for wounds. It's nice that Dean cares, don't get him wrong, but Sam doesn't need to be bundled in bubble-wrap and spoon-fed.
Really, Dean, he can check his own legs.
***
Dean's after him all the time now, like he's some kind of delicate little flower that'll wilt in a strong breeze. Despite the dark cloud of the Apocalypse looming over them, it's almost like they're kids again, Dean in full-on Mommy-mode, nagging him to put on a jacket and tie his shoes and clean his plate. All they're missing is a drunk and/or injured father snoring on the couch. Dean even starts paying attention to what Sam's eating--real attention, not just poking fun--and he orders things he knows Sam's always liked, the healthy shit that Dean wouldn't normally order, even on behalf of somebody else, if you paid him in limitless pie and pristine Impala parts. God knows every time Sam requested anything before, Dean ordered the exact opposite just to be contrary.
This morning is probably not going to be any different.
Of course, before they even get into the diner, Sam, distracted by Dean's rant at the local so-called classic rock station, manages to jam his finger in the car door hard enough to break skin. By the time they get to the restaurant door, it's dripping blood enough that an exiting customer notices, so (after fending off Dean's attempts to "help") Sam goes to the diner's restroom to rinse the blood off and check for serious damage to his fingernail. That's just what he needs, losing another nail; the one that got ripped out by those pagan gods two Christmases ago still hasn't recovered all the way.
But the nail seems okay. The damage is almost all skin, nothing severe, so he slaps on a Band-Aid--he always carries a few these days--and heads out to the table.
The lady behind the cash register glares at him as he walks by. She's kind of surprising; this area's demographics skew heavily white, but she looks like a full-blooded Native American. This area is also fairly conservative, but she has bells tattooed on both cheeks and wears an inch-wide black choker with a stylized silver skull dead center. He's pretty sure that silver belt--more skulls, some snakes, and a few symbols that he feels like he should know--is hiding a knife, and her nails are painted a shiny red the color of dried blood. She looks like she belongs at a Goth-themed nightclub, not a random Midwestern diner.
"Nice dress code they have here," he says to Dean when he sits down.
Dean nearly chokes on a mouthful of coffee. "Dude, she's the owner." He says it fairly respectfully, so Sam guesses that Dean's already tried and been shot down. Possibly with the use of the knife. She doesn't look like the type who'd have any patience with flirting, especially of Dean's less-than-subtle style. Sam hates that he missed it.
Their food comes then. Dean, of course, has pancakes and more pork products than anybody should ever put on a single plate. Sam, though, has oatmeal and fruit and milk, of all the things. Fruit in a place like this has to be expensive, even if the owner gets a discount for scaring the shit out of the vendors. "Dean, I can't taste it."
"Yeah, but it's what you like."
"But--"
"For fuck's sake, Sammy, just eat, will you? If you can't taste it, it doesn't matter anyway, right?"
Sam sighs, and watches Dean eat while picking at his own breakfast. A few months ago, this would have been a perfect breakfast, assuming Dean didn't tease him over it, but now, texture is all he has left, and oatmeal doesn't have much. The fruit, not much more; oranges and grapefruits have a decent heft between the teeth, but this plate is mostly overripe melon, and melon just kind of squishes into goo under the least bit of pressure. It makes it that much harder to swallow the stuff. But he's not about to do anything that Dean might interpret as a rejection of the gesture. Not when he's trying so hard. Not when he's expecting Sam's resolve to snap.
And maybe he shouldn't let it anger him, but it does; Dean and Cas and maybe even Bobby are all expecting him to fail, and no matter how stoically he tries to take this, nothing he does can change their minds. Never mind that, even if it is Lucifer doing this, sooner or later it's going to occur to Dean to chat with Michael about it. What's going to stop him from saying yes if it means Sam's healed? It's not exactly without precedent.
Sam orders coffee and pours the rest of his milk into it, just because he's not seven anymore, and there's a sudden sharp sensation in his chest, right over the sternum, that lances through him all the way to his back. It's not pain, not exactly, but it's not not pain, either; it's deep enough that it could be, but it just feels...off. He rubs at the spot, wondering, then stops, and not just because Dean's looking at him funny. Something's not right. "I think the next stage is starting."
"Starting?" Dean asks. "Don't they usually just happen?"
Trying to not look like he's having a heart attack, Sam presses experimentally against the spot. Nothing. "There's a numb spot in the middle of my chest that wasn't there five minutes ago."
"No way it just, you know, fell asleep?"
Through great effort, Sam manages to not roll his eyes. "I think it would be really hard to make your sternum fall asleep."
"Good point." Dean considers. "You think it'll spread?"
"No. I know it will." He pokes a lopsided melon ball with his fork. "I can't reach, but I think there's a spot on my back, too."
Dean raises an eyebrow. "This sounds more abnormal than usual."
"It is." He's found that much in his research. Usually, when people start losing sensation, due to diabetes or whatever, it starts at the extremities, the peripheral nerves in the toes and fingers, and works in toward the spine. This isn't even anatomical; nerves radiate from the brain and spinal cord, so the spot on his back might make some sense, if it was starting in one nerve connected directly to the spine, but the one over his chest? Without any of the connecting skin going numb?
"Why would this one go gradually, anyway?"
Sam shrugs. "The skin is the largest organ in the human body. Maybe that has something to do with it."
"I dunno, man. Seems like it would be easier to zap everything at once."
"Easier, but it would take more power. If this thing is trying to stay under somebody's radar, maybe it would be too much power at once."
"Lucifer never struck me as the hiding type. Every time we turn around, he's in--" Dean stops, giving him a sideways look. "You don't think it's Lucifer, do you?"
"I don't know. It-- It doesn't feel like him, Dean. Why would he do all this to me to make me say yes when he'll just have to waste time fixing it all if I do?"
"But he can--" The owner slams the check onto their table without even pausing, hard enough to rattle the silverware. "Fucking Goths," Dean mutters.
"I think she'd scare most Goths," Sam says dryly, and she overhears and turns to glare at him, the most threatening thing he's seen in months (zombies and angels included), and Dean laughs.
Chapter 3: Anaphia, Part 2