SPN: "Affliction," Chapter 2
Chapter 1: Anosmia
After a few days, it's plain that his sense of smell isn't coming back, so Sam resigns himself to getting used to it, at least until things calm down enough that he can take the time to find a doctor. He figures out what foods to order to get the most taste via his taste buds and smothers the less-tasty stuff in salt or sugar as appropriate. He's not eating quite as healthy as he normally tries to, but reactions to salty and sweet are easier to fake than to bitter, sour, or umami. He only risks them if the food is supposed to be sour or bitter. Coffee, at least, isn't a problem. Dean would notice real quick if Sam quit chugging caffeine.
Dean hasn't said anything about Sam's sudden affection for the salt shaker, so he hasn't noticed. Or so Sam hopes.
Besides, there are distractions. Angels, demons, end of the world, Bobby in a depressive rut....
Not to mention, you'd think an impending apocalypse would drive the normal supernatural things--wait, is that an oxymoron?--underground. But no. It's not just demons and angels taking sides on this. All the monsters are, too, every last one trying to kiss up to the side they want to win.
Not that it makes much difference to their lives. Be they pro-Heaven or pro-Hell, the monsters all remain anti-Winchester.
That's the only explanation Sam can come up with for why a nest of vamps is time-sharing with a mated pair of werewolves in the middle of Vermont, anyway. It's not because vamps want blood and werewolves want hearts, so teaming up minimizes the body count and helps them stay undetected. They're guarding an old monastery's collection of rare volumes on the end times, one of which Bobby thinks may have some insight into getting Lucifer back into the Cage.
Naturally.
It takes the better part of a week to get the book extricated, and they're both so fatigued by the end that it's all Dean can do to find a motel without driving the Impala straight into a tree. He doesn't even take the time to eat before he collapses into bed. Sam's not far behind--he takes five minutes to call Bobby and to secure the damn book before he gets up close and personal with a pillow.
He's jerked out of tangled nightmares of Lucifer and fire and Jess when Dean smacks him on the feet as a wake-up call. It's something Sam particularly hates, even more than the AC/DC in his ear or ice down his neck. He's always hated it, and Dean knows it. "Dean!" he shouts, but Dean only stares him down.
Oh. One of those mornings.
Then he remembers. The only light outside had been red--not neon, just a sign with all the white panels burned out--and since those curtains probably date back to the Kennedy administration, they did nothing for keeping it out. Sam had been too exhausted to remember to "accidentally" leave a light on, so exhausted that for once he actually slept through Dean's nightmare awakenings. Which definitely happened, because there are two holes in the wall opposite Dean's bed that were not there when Sam conked out. There will be no brotherly teasing today, just Dean pissed at the world and everything in it and taking it out on the nearest convenient target.
That being Sam, of course.
"And get a move on," Dean growls, "I'm starving."
Because you didn't eat last night, Sam thinks, but doesn't say it. First, it'll only make Dean angrier, since Dean really does hate missing meals, even if it's because he's too tired to eat, and second-- Well, when it comes down to it, why shouldn't he be the target of his brother's anger? They wouldn't be in this mess at all if Sam hadn't set Lucifer free. Or if he'd saved Dean from Hell the way he'd promised, the way Dean always saved him. Or if he'd just killed Jake the way he should have.
It really isn't any wonder that Dean's a functional alcoholic. The only reason they're even in this together is because being in it apart has failed miserably. What was it Dean said? They keep each other human. For values of "human" that equal "totally miserable," anyway.
No, he shouldn't think that way. It's not Dean's fault. It's his. If he'd listened to Dean about Ruby in the first place, maybe they would have been able to avoid this entire mess. Maybe he would have even found the way to keep Dean out of Hell--then the first seal would never have been broken, and the last year or so would have never happened. The demons and angels can theorize all they want, and he'd never say this to Dean's face, but there is no way their father qualified as a righteous man. A good man, maybe, but from everything Sam's research says, that's not the same thing.
Sam goes through his morning routine automatically, still a little fuzzy-brained. He doesn't know how older hunters handle this, doesn't know how Dad handled it, the constant exhaustion and sleep deprivation and all the rest; he doesn't even qualify as late twenties yet and his body is already screaming I'm too old for this shit. When he gets to his teeth, he starts brushing, then stops abruptly, swearing under his breath. So distracted by guilt and fatigue and the promise of a shitty day that he didn't even remember the damn toothpaste. Who needs Lucifer when he's busy losing his mind just fine on his own?
He reaches for the tube and tries to twist it open one-handed--
Only to glance at his toothbrush and see froth and a smear of green gel.
He stares. No. No way. Dean bought half a case of this shit on clearance from a dollar store; it's powerful, industrial strength, if that can be said of toothpaste. It was cheap because nobody in their right mind wanted it. This stuff doesn't have a minty tingle, it fucking burns, and Sam's never been completely convinced it's not actually damaging their teeth--
And he didn't taste it. Not even the dulled, can't-smell-it taste he's been dealing with these last few weeks.
"Hey, Dean?" He holds out the toothpaste. "Does this taste all right to you?"
Dean just stares at him, the cranky morning glare intensifying. "You want me to taste the fucking toothpaste?"
"Humor me?"
"Jesus Christ, Sam, get a move on!"
Stung, Sam retreats and brushes his teeth. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with his tongue or teeth. He just can't taste the toothpaste. Maybe it's just mint--or whatever God-awful thing this stuff is supposed to taste like. Maybe his tongue just got tired of being damaged by it and gave up.
The nearest source of breakfast is a diner attached to their hotel, which is good, because it's pouring rain hard enough to scare Noah and anything more would probably require a swim. Their waitress is either not a morning person or--given the bright gold sunburst pin she wears below a nametag printed "Ami"--she really hates rain. She slams down two glasses of sunshine-yellow orange juice before either Sam or Dean can even ask for one, and he can practically see the words "thank you" bounce off her. It's just as well that Dean's not in a mood to flirt, because Sam doesn't think Ami would respond to it, and that would just make Dean more cranky.
Of course, he hadn't planned on asking for orange juice in the first place, but Ami brings coffee when he orders it, so he doesn't think anything much of it. Maybe she just got her tables confused. And it's a chance to test, to see if it is just the damned toothpaste or a bigger problem.
No such luck. The juice might as well be water.
Likewise, his breakfast might as well be Styrofoam and cardboard with a side of leather. He suspects that maybe Ami did something, but despite her less-than-sunny demeanor, she brings out exactly what they ordered, and Dean doesn't have any problems clearing his plate, doesn't say one thing about the food.
At least the caffeine still has an effect, clearing out the last of the morning sleepies. And he's not hungry--he actually feels a little full--so even if he can't taste it, his body is otherwise handling the food properly.
Sam's starting to think he might need to hold on to those little positives.
***
Their motel that night has the sink and mirror in the bathroom rather than out in the room itself. That's good, because Dean's mood improved once they spent some time on the road with the AC/DC blasting, and if he sees any of this, Sam will never hear the end of it. Pissed Dean may be, but he's still a big brother.
Sam uses his fingers to feel his throat and neck and behind his ears, looking for anything abnormal, lumps or swellings or spots of tenderness. Nothing. He leans closer to the mirror and sticks his tongue out. Right, left, up, down. He pulls his lips back with his fingers to get a better look at his gums, the bottom of his tongue, the insides of his cheeks. The undignified performance is totally not worth it, because he can't see anything for his own fingers, and he's reduced to using his fingers to feel around the floor of his mouth for anything that might be unusual, a growth or a wayward tooth or a cut or something.
He finally gives up, spits into the sink, and washes his hands--then, on a whim, leans closer and tries to see up his nose.
Yeah. Not his best idea, as he realizes when he slams nose-first into his own reflection. Idiots in the mirror may be closer than they appear.
"Everything okay in there?" Dean calls from the room, replying to the sudden stream of profanity.
"Fide!" Sam answers, holding his nose. It doesn't look broken and doesn't seem to be bleeding--not that he'd be able to smell or taste the blood anyway.
So. Nothing obviously wrong. His tongue still works fine. He can chew and swallow and talk without difficulty.
What. The. Hell?
***
The research word of the evening, which he tucks between tabs on archangels and the Four Horsemen while watching Dean pacing and drinking and swearing at Cas over the phone, is ageusia, and pure ageusia is almost unheard-of. Usually it's dysgeusia, things tasting funny. It does occur fairly often with anosmia, but that does absolutely nothing to explain Sam's situation. He has no way to determine if the anosmia actually caused the ageusia, if they're both caused by a third problem, or if they're totally unrelated, and with his life, any one of those is just as possible as the others. Even if he could risk a trip to an ER or a clinic, he'd just wind up referred to a specialist, and they don't have the money or time for that.
Plus, he'd have to explain this to Dean, and that is a conversation he's just not ready to have. Not yet. Not until he's sure this is something that needs attention. He's made it these past weeks without smelling anything, so how much harder can this be? This will probably be better for his blood pressure, anyway, considering how much salt he's been putting on his food.
He's just got to keep Dean from noticing. Dean's temper is getting better, but mention Lucifer or angels or Ilchester or, God help you, Detroit, and you can almost see the black cloud form over his head.
Sam still doesn't get the Detroit thing. They've never had a particularly memorable case there. They attended school there for two weeks when Sam was eleven, but it was so un-memorable that he can barely remember it, so he doesn't understand why Dean would explode over it. Maybe the next time Cas flits in, he can corner the angel and see if he knows. Whatever happened, it happened while he and Dean were separated, and he knows at one point Dean and Cas went chasing down Raphael. He thought they were in New England, but he could have misunderstood.
Of course, that's assuming Cas ever answers the phone, and given the increasingly creative ways Dean is stringing together four-letter words and spitting them into the angel's voice mail, that may not be happening anytime soon.
***
Sam's life has been so miserable for so long that he forgot that there are little pleasures, little things that make the misery bearable. The good days, when he and Dean can almost be the way they used to be, just brothers with an unusual vocation, are high on the list. The simple joy of getting a clean motel room with decent hot water, sheets without holes, and no mold in the corners. Food has always been hit-and-miss, mostly miss, but the sheer number of restaurants they hit means there's a fair number of decent ones.
But when everything tastes the same, tastes like nothing....
There are so few pleasures in his life these days that it hurts more than he expects to lose this one.
He has to eat. He knows that. He has to keep his strength up to resist Lucifer, to help Dean, to prevent the apocalyptic showdown that's otherwise in their future. It's just so damned hard.
Somewhere along the way, in the haze of demon blood, he lost all control over his appetite, all sense of hunger. Demon blood dulled things so badly that he's become wholly reliant on external cues. Ruby's visits always involved food. At the time, he thought she just had an unhealthy fixation on French fries. Now he realizes she was bringing the food intentionally, so that the smell would remind him to eat, so that he wouldn't accidentally starve himself. Now he understands why so many of their meetings were in diners.
Without being able to smell the food, he doesn't have that cue.
What he does have is an older brother who might be pissed off at the world in general and Sam in particular, but Dean never let Sam go hungry when they were kids, no matter what it took, and some things are apparently beyond the power of Hell to change. Dean's always been just this side of a walking appetite, anyway, so it's a little easier to remember: Just eat when Dean does. Even if it's only a snack.
And that's where the lack of taste comes in. Before, once he started eating, the taste of food would kick his hunger into gear, reinvigorating whatever mortal instincts the demon blood dulled. He doesn't even have that any more. The only thing he can really sense about the food is the texture, and no one, not even Dean, ever went on and on about how great food feels between his teeth.
There's no point in ordering separate dishes now, because it was never about eating healthy as much as it was about the fact that he just actually liked those foods, so he just lets Dean order. Dean's the one who can smell and taste the food, he should get to pick. Sam eats mechanically, stopping as soon as he's full, and never orders dessert, because the whole point of dessert is taste, not nourishment. He sticks with his coffee, because he needs the caffeine, but now he can take it black and order regular, cheap, "non-girly" coffee the way Dean's always nagged him to. Alcohol, sometimes, after a job, because even if he can't taste it, he can still benefit from the effects, but the lack of taste means he can drink the cheap stuff, the shit that even Dean avoids. Dean teases him for a week or so about Sam's new not-healthy living habits, but when Sam doesn't react, he lets it go. They have bigger fish to fry.
Funny how many metaphors are food-related.
***
The next time they've got a few hours free and they're in a town big enough for multiple dentist's offices, he tells Dean he's going to the local library, just to get some alone time, then does some Googling and sneaks off. Other than being scolded for not seeing a dentist in ten years (because he can't very well admit that he hasn't seen a dentist ever), he's told that there's nothing wrong. Not even on the x-rays that he insists they take. All his teeth are where they're supposed to be. Even his wisdom teeth are well-behaved and not impacted, and there's not so much as a suspicious shadow on any of the bones in his jaw or sinuses. The dentist clearly thinks he's a hypochondriac.
When he gets back to the motel, Sam realizes he may shortly be a dead hypochondriac.
Dean is sitting on one of the beds, waiting for him, and his expression is positively murderous. "Where have you been?" It's clear that he expects the answer to be sucking demon blood.
"I told you--"
"Town's only got one library and you weren't there."
Sam stares at him. "You were checking up on me?"
"No, Bobby couldn't get you, and he had something he thought would help and wanted you to get started on right away. But you. Weren't. There." Rage simmers in Dean's voice. "You lied to me, and you turned your phone off."
"Dean, I wasn't--"
"Dammit, Sam, we've been through this! And here you are sneaking around again--"
"I didn't sneak anywhere! I had something I needed to do, so I went--"
"Went where?" Dean roars. "Where did you need to go that you couldn't tell me?"
"To the dentist!" Sam shouts back. He is so fucking tired of this, of Dean always expecting the worst. Dean has every right to be pissed off at him, Sam's pissed off at himself most days, but this constant suspicion, like maybe Sam didn't learn his lesson by setting Lucifer on the world--
"If you don't want to tell me the truth, Sam, at least come up with better lies!"
"For the love of--" He digs into his bag and comes up with all the shit the receptionist had insisted he take--the receipt, the free toothbrush, samples of floss and toothpaste and mouthwash, the x-rays--and slams it all onto the bed beside Dean. "It's not a lie! I went to the fucking dentist! My phone was off because it's a medical office and it was that or be kicked out!"
Dean picks up the toothbrush, examines it. "Why?" he asks finally, eyes narrow. "You haven't been having tooth problems. Or is that what this new diet has been about? Because something hurts?"
Of course. Of fucking course Dean noticed and didn't say anything, just kept a silent tally somewhere in that overprotective head of his. One of these days, Sam's going to learn that Dean has a sixth sense when it comes to his health. He wouldn't have been able to keep the demon blood a secret half as long if Dean hadn't been so thrown off by Hell. Sam doesn't know if he should resent it, or be touched by it. "It wasn't a toothache," he replies.
"Why else would you go to a dentist?"
"Because I can't smell or taste anything," Sam confesses. "I haven't been able to for weeks."
Dean gives him one of those inscrutable big brother looks. "I know you've been off your feed, but I thought you were trying to save money or something. But not tasting?"
"Nothing. Not even that battery-acid toothpaste."
"It's not that bad," Dean says--but it's the big brother again, automatically defensive against anything the little brother says. "What did the dentist say?"
"They couldn't find anything." He's not sure if Dean believes him or not, he can't tell. "They said there was no reason for it that they could see."
"Mm-hm." Dean pulls the x-ray out of its sleeve, holds it over the lamp, and peers at it, like he knows what the hell he's looking at. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It didn't seem important."
Dean's head snaps up, his eyes glittering with rage. "Not important? Are you fucking kidding me? You've got things going wrong in your head again and it's not important?"
"With Lucifer and Michael trying to hunt us down and use us for the Apocalypse? Of course it didn't seem important! We've got other problems!"
"And did it occur to you that they could be the ones doing this?" Dean shoots back, and of course it did, it's the only answer that really makes any sense, but what's Sam supposed to do about it if it is? "I'm calling Cas."
"This isn't worth--"
"What if it's a brain tumor, Sam?" Dean snarls, and Sam blinks. He's known that was a possibility since he realized he wasn't smelling things, but it surprises him that Dean had put the pieces together that quickly. "Don't look at me like that," Dean adds, and there's hurt beneath the anger, hurt so old that Sam's not sure he's responsible for it. "I'm not stupid."
"I didn't say--" Sam begins, but Dean's already got his phone out and is dialing. "There wasn't anything on the x-ray!"
"Great, so it's not in the bones. What about the rest of your freaky head? Cas, we need you, there's something wrong with Sam--yeah, I know that, Cas, will you show up anyway?" He rattles off their location and ends the call, and as quick as that, there's three people in the room.
"Dean, I have told you, my powers are limited." Cas is still speaking into his cell phone.
"Got it the first forty times," Dean says. "Will you check him out anyway?"
Cas turns to Sam, still holding the cell phone to his ear. Dean heaves a frustrated sigh, reaches over, shuts it down, and stuffs it into Cas' coat pocket. "He does not appear to be injured," Cas announces gravely.
" 'He' is standing right here, thanks, Cas," Sam snaps. "Dean's overreacting--"
"Sam can't taste or smell anything, and he says it's been going on for weeks," Dean interrupts. "I know we've got that vessel thing going for us, but that doesn't mean we can't get normal human sick, right?"
"No," Castiel says slowly, "it does not." He gives Sam that head-tilted, diagnostic stare of his, the one that always makes Sam want to squirm and hide, because it's like Castiel is looking straight into his soul and for all he knows, even in his weakened condition, the angel is. "There's nothing wrong," he finally says.
"He can't taste anything," Dean argues, "that's a pretty major thing wrong!"
"I am not disputing that. But it is not a disease or an injury. It--" Castiel stops, searching for words. "I believe he is still sensing these things, but the signals are not reaching the parts of his brain that would interpret them."
"His wires are cut."
"That is a decent approximation."
Nerve damage would make sense--but that's a hellacious lot of nerve damage, and they're talking about nerves in the nose and tongue. Not a lot of distance from there to the brain. Anything that could do that to him should be-- Well, fatal. Or at the very least, have more serious effects.
"I cannot trace the exact disruption," Cas adds. "The nerves are physically there and fully intact. They should work."
"A curse, maybe?" Dean says, finally saying the words they've been avoiding. "We tangled with some witches on one of those last seals, and they weren't too happy when we started shooting up the place--"
"No. Curses leave residue. This is not human magic. Nor angelic or demonic. This is--more. And less."
Great. Riddles. Just what Sam needs.
"Can you fix it? I know you're cut off from Heaven and all that, but--"
Cas gives Sam another one of those diagnostic glares. "I cannot sense a problem to correct, and even if I could, I doubt I have the power now. Perhaps you should seek a human physician."
"I saw the dentist!"
"Not a dentist, a doctor," Dean corrects. "A real one."
"For this?" Sam asks incredulously. "Because I can't smell? That's not really an emergency."
"You can't taste either!"
"Who was just saying how happy he was that I was eating the cheaper stuff now?" Sam shoots back.
"I didn't say I was happy with it, I said I thought that was why you were doing it!"
"And anyway, I can still eat and I'm not malnourished. Isn't that the important part?"
"You're okay with this?"
"Well, I'm not thrilled with it, but--"
Dean's eyes narrow. "I got it. It's about your fucking guilt again. You let the Devil loose, so now you think it's no big deal if you can't smell or taste anything! Jesus Christ, Sam!"
"Dean--" Cas begins, but Dean's having none of that.
"They played you, Sam! They've been playing us, both of us, for forever!" Sam blinks, surprised by Dean's words. They make it sound almost like Dean doesn't think this whole mess is his fault. "You feel guilty, I get that, but just sitting around accepting it isn't going to fix anything!"
"Dean--"
"When you go blind and deaf, is that going to be something else you deserve? Because then you won't be able to help us stop this at all!"
"There's no reason to think--"
"It is logical, Sam," Cas says, interrupting the fight. "If these had happened together, it might have been an injury or a curse, but to happen separately, weeks apart, speaks of a greater problem. Perhaps even a progressive one."
It's something that hasn't even occurred to him, and the fact that Cas and Dean both went there, right out of the box--
Jesus. Bad enough he set the Devil free, bad enough he's lost two senses, but now he's so addled that basic logic is escaping him.
***
Dean drags him, almost literally, back to the dentist's office the next morning. That nets them an emergency ENT referral, although Sam's pretty sure the receptionist only makes the call out of sheer terror. "You didn't have to scare her," he says on the way back to the car. Even these days, it's not like Dean to scare the civilians when he could get the info through flirting.
"She was married and we're in a rush."
It takes Sam a minute to remember that the receptionist was, in fact, wearing a wedding band. "Half the waitresses you've slept with had wedding bands!" he protests.
Dean gives him an are you fucking stupid? glare, made all the more impressive by the fact that he's already pissed at the world. "Do you know how many waitresses wear fake wedding bands to scare off the assholes? Now figure out where the hell Merrimack Street is."
It turns out to not matter, anyway. The ENT doesn't believe him. Sam doesn't smoke, hasn't had head or neck radiation, and doesn't have a family history of any of the usual neurological suspects. "You're just overreacting to the anosmia," the ENT pronounces, without doing a single test.
Sam's pretty sure the doc doesn't believe him about the anosmia, either, since he doesn't bother testing him for it, but like Wiki said, it's a far more common condition and can be caused by a whole lot of very common things. He's told to take some B vitamins and stay away from any nasal medications. If Dean wasn't three seconds from exploding, that sentence might have ended with "and quit huffing." The ENT appears to have mistaken Dean's concern for part of an intervention.
Sam half wishes he could tell the doctor what he's really addicted to, but the psych hospitalization probably wouldn't be worth it.
Dean stalks out to the car growling a litany of four-letter words and zoological terms to describe the ENT's family tree. "I told you it wouldn't help," Sam says, when Dean takes a breath, probably to start in on the relationship between the guy's great-great-great-grandfather and a dodo. "Even if he could diagnose it, there's not a lot of treatments."
"We'd know!" Dean shouts, and a little old lady making her way across the parking lot with a walker and a bandaged nose recoils and nearly falls over. "We'd at least know it wasn't--" He bites that off, but Sam understands. They'd know, for certain, that this was a simple illness, not angelic blackmail or demon mischief or some other supernatural force wreaking its usual havoc on their lives.
"I can handle it, Dean," he says.
Dean glares at him over the roof of the car, like he wants to argue or say something sarcastic, maybe the way you handled me being dead? Instead, he just says, "Are you sure?"
"Like I said yesterday, I'm not thrilled with it, but in the grand scheme of things?" He forces a shrug. "We've got bigger things to worry about. This is minor, Dean. Really minor."
"And if it does get worse?"
"We'll do what we always do." Dean raises an eyebrow. "We'll figure it out when we get there."
Dean sighs. "I don't like it," he says finally, "but if you're sure--"
"I am." As sure as a guy can be when things in his head stop working, anyway.
"Then--" Dean stops, like he's considering his next words carefully. "Then I'll trust you, Sammy. Just-- If it gets worse, tell me, okay?"
I'll trust you, Sammy. Sam wants to grab on to those words, clutch them like a drowning man would floating debris. "I will," he says instead. "Promise."
Chapter 3, Part 1
After a few days, it's plain that his sense of smell isn't coming back, so Sam resigns himself to getting used to it, at least until things calm down enough that he can take the time to find a doctor. He figures out what foods to order to get the most taste via his taste buds and smothers the less-tasty stuff in salt or sugar as appropriate. He's not eating quite as healthy as he normally tries to, but reactions to salty and sweet are easier to fake than to bitter, sour, or umami. He only risks them if the food is supposed to be sour or bitter. Coffee, at least, isn't a problem. Dean would notice real quick if Sam quit chugging caffeine.
Dean hasn't said anything about Sam's sudden affection for the salt shaker, so he hasn't noticed. Or so Sam hopes.
Besides, there are distractions. Angels, demons, end of the world, Bobby in a depressive rut....
Not to mention, you'd think an impending apocalypse would drive the normal supernatural things--wait, is that an oxymoron?--underground. But no. It's not just demons and angels taking sides on this. All the monsters are, too, every last one trying to kiss up to the side they want to win.
Not that it makes much difference to their lives. Be they pro-Heaven or pro-Hell, the monsters all remain anti-Winchester.
That's the only explanation Sam can come up with for why a nest of vamps is time-sharing with a mated pair of werewolves in the middle of Vermont, anyway. It's not because vamps want blood and werewolves want hearts, so teaming up minimizes the body count and helps them stay undetected. They're guarding an old monastery's collection of rare volumes on the end times, one of which Bobby thinks may have some insight into getting Lucifer back into the Cage.
Naturally.
It takes the better part of a week to get the book extricated, and they're both so fatigued by the end that it's all Dean can do to find a motel without driving the Impala straight into a tree. He doesn't even take the time to eat before he collapses into bed. Sam's not far behind--he takes five minutes to call Bobby and to secure the damn book before he gets up close and personal with a pillow.
He's jerked out of tangled nightmares of Lucifer and fire and Jess when Dean smacks him on the feet as a wake-up call. It's something Sam particularly hates, even more than the AC/DC in his ear or ice down his neck. He's always hated it, and Dean knows it. "Dean!" he shouts, but Dean only stares him down.
Oh. One of those mornings.
Then he remembers. The only light outside had been red--not neon, just a sign with all the white panels burned out--and since those curtains probably date back to the Kennedy administration, they did nothing for keeping it out. Sam had been too exhausted to remember to "accidentally" leave a light on, so exhausted that for once he actually slept through Dean's nightmare awakenings. Which definitely happened, because there are two holes in the wall opposite Dean's bed that were not there when Sam conked out. There will be no brotherly teasing today, just Dean pissed at the world and everything in it and taking it out on the nearest convenient target.
That being Sam, of course.
"And get a move on," Dean growls, "I'm starving."
Because you didn't eat last night, Sam thinks, but doesn't say it. First, it'll only make Dean angrier, since Dean really does hate missing meals, even if it's because he's too tired to eat, and second-- Well, when it comes down to it, why shouldn't he be the target of his brother's anger? They wouldn't be in this mess at all if Sam hadn't set Lucifer free. Or if he'd saved Dean from Hell the way he'd promised, the way Dean always saved him. Or if he'd just killed Jake the way he should have.
It really isn't any wonder that Dean's a functional alcoholic. The only reason they're even in this together is because being in it apart has failed miserably. What was it Dean said? They keep each other human. For values of "human" that equal "totally miserable," anyway.
No, he shouldn't think that way. It's not Dean's fault. It's his. If he'd listened to Dean about Ruby in the first place, maybe they would have been able to avoid this entire mess. Maybe he would have even found the way to keep Dean out of Hell--then the first seal would never have been broken, and the last year or so would have never happened. The demons and angels can theorize all they want, and he'd never say this to Dean's face, but there is no way their father qualified as a righteous man. A good man, maybe, but from everything Sam's research says, that's not the same thing.
Sam goes through his morning routine automatically, still a little fuzzy-brained. He doesn't know how older hunters handle this, doesn't know how Dad handled it, the constant exhaustion and sleep deprivation and all the rest; he doesn't even qualify as late twenties yet and his body is already screaming I'm too old for this shit. When he gets to his teeth, he starts brushing, then stops abruptly, swearing under his breath. So distracted by guilt and fatigue and the promise of a shitty day that he didn't even remember the damn toothpaste. Who needs Lucifer when he's busy losing his mind just fine on his own?
He reaches for the tube and tries to twist it open one-handed--
Only to glance at his toothbrush and see froth and a smear of green gel.
He stares. No. No way. Dean bought half a case of this shit on clearance from a dollar store; it's powerful, industrial strength, if that can be said of toothpaste. It was cheap because nobody in their right mind wanted it. This stuff doesn't have a minty tingle, it fucking burns, and Sam's never been completely convinced it's not actually damaging their teeth--
And he didn't taste it. Not even the dulled, can't-smell-it taste he's been dealing with these last few weeks.
"Hey, Dean?" He holds out the toothpaste. "Does this taste all right to you?"
Dean just stares at him, the cranky morning glare intensifying. "You want me to taste the fucking toothpaste?"
"Humor me?"
"Jesus Christ, Sam, get a move on!"
Stung, Sam retreats and brushes his teeth. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with his tongue or teeth. He just can't taste the toothpaste. Maybe it's just mint--or whatever God-awful thing this stuff is supposed to taste like. Maybe his tongue just got tired of being damaged by it and gave up.
The nearest source of breakfast is a diner attached to their hotel, which is good, because it's pouring rain hard enough to scare Noah and anything more would probably require a swim. Their waitress is either not a morning person or--given the bright gold sunburst pin she wears below a nametag printed "Ami"--she really hates rain. She slams down two glasses of sunshine-yellow orange juice before either Sam or Dean can even ask for one, and he can practically see the words "thank you" bounce off her. It's just as well that Dean's not in a mood to flirt, because Sam doesn't think Ami would respond to it, and that would just make Dean more cranky.
Of course, he hadn't planned on asking for orange juice in the first place, but Ami brings coffee when he orders it, so he doesn't think anything much of it. Maybe she just got her tables confused. And it's a chance to test, to see if it is just the damned toothpaste or a bigger problem.
No such luck. The juice might as well be water.
Likewise, his breakfast might as well be Styrofoam and cardboard with a side of leather. He suspects that maybe Ami did something, but despite her less-than-sunny demeanor, she brings out exactly what they ordered, and Dean doesn't have any problems clearing his plate, doesn't say one thing about the food.
At least the caffeine still has an effect, clearing out the last of the morning sleepies. And he's not hungry--he actually feels a little full--so even if he can't taste it, his body is otherwise handling the food properly.
Sam's starting to think he might need to hold on to those little positives.
***
Their motel that night has the sink and mirror in the bathroom rather than out in the room itself. That's good, because Dean's mood improved once they spent some time on the road with the AC/DC blasting, and if he sees any of this, Sam will never hear the end of it. Pissed Dean may be, but he's still a big brother.
Sam uses his fingers to feel his throat and neck and behind his ears, looking for anything abnormal, lumps or swellings or spots of tenderness. Nothing. He leans closer to the mirror and sticks his tongue out. Right, left, up, down. He pulls his lips back with his fingers to get a better look at his gums, the bottom of his tongue, the insides of his cheeks. The undignified performance is totally not worth it, because he can't see anything for his own fingers, and he's reduced to using his fingers to feel around the floor of his mouth for anything that might be unusual, a growth or a wayward tooth or a cut or something.
He finally gives up, spits into the sink, and washes his hands--then, on a whim, leans closer and tries to see up his nose.
Yeah. Not his best idea, as he realizes when he slams nose-first into his own reflection. Idiots in the mirror may be closer than they appear.
"Everything okay in there?" Dean calls from the room, replying to the sudden stream of profanity.
"Fide!" Sam answers, holding his nose. It doesn't look broken and doesn't seem to be bleeding--not that he'd be able to smell or taste the blood anyway.
So. Nothing obviously wrong. His tongue still works fine. He can chew and swallow and talk without difficulty.
What. The. Hell?
***
The research word of the evening, which he tucks between tabs on archangels and the Four Horsemen while watching Dean pacing and drinking and swearing at Cas over the phone, is ageusia, and pure ageusia is almost unheard-of. Usually it's dysgeusia, things tasting funny. It does occur fairly often with anosmia, but that does absolutely nothing to explain Sam's situation. He has no way to determine if the anosmia actually caused the ageusia, if they're both caused by a third problem, or if they're totally unrelated, and with his life, any one of those is just as possible as the others. Even if he could risk a trip to an ER or a clinic, he'd just wind up referred to a specialist, and they don't have the money or time for that.
Plus, he'd have to explain this to Dean, and that is a conversation he's just not ready to have. Not yet. Not until he's sure this is something that needs attention. He's made it these past weeks without smelling anything, so how much harder can this be? This will probably be better for his blood pressure, anyway, considering how much salt he's been putting on his food.
He's just got to keep Dean from noticing. Dean's temper is getting better, but mention Lucifer or angels or Ilchester or, God help you, Detroit, and you can almost see the black cloud form over his head.
Sam still doesn't get the Detroit thing. They've never had a particularly memorable case there. They attended school there for two weeks when Sam was eleven, but it was so un-memorable that he can barely remember it, so he doesn't understand why Dean would explode over it. Maybe the next time Cas flits in, he can corner the angel and see if he knows. Whatever happened, it happened while he and Dean were separated, and he knows at one point Dean and Cas went chasing down Raphael. He thought they were in New England, but he could have misunderstood.
Of course, that's assuming Cas ever answers the phone, and given the increasingly creative ways Dean is stringing together four-letter words and spitting them into the angel's voice mail, that may not be happening anytime soon.
***
Sam's life has been so miserable for so long that he forgot that there are little pleasures, little things that make the misery bearable. The good days, when he and Dean can almost be the way they used to be, just brothers with an unusual vocation, are high on the list. The simple joy of getting a clean motel room with decent hot water, sheets without holes, and no mold in the corners. Food has always been hit-and-miss, mostly miss, but the sheer number of restaurants they hit means there's a fair number of decent ones.
But when everything tastes the same, tastes like nothing....
There are so few pleasures in his life these days that it hurts more than he expects to lose this one.
He has to eat. He knows that. He has to keep his strength up to resist Lucifer, to help Dean, to prevent the apocalyptic showdown that's otherwise in their future. It's just so damned hard.
Somewhere along the way, in the haze of demon blood, he lost all control over his appetite, all sense of hunger. Demon blood dulled things so badly that he's become wholly reliant on external cues. Ruby's visits always involved food. At the time, he thought she just had an unhealthy fixation on French fries. Now he realizes she was bringing the food intentionally, so that the smell would remind him to eat, so that he wouldn't accidentally starve himself. Now he understands why so many of their meetings were in diners.
Without being able to smell the food, he doesn't have that cue.
What he does have is an older brother who might be pissed off at the world in general and Sam in particular, but Dean never let Sam go hungry when they were kids, no matter what it took, and some things are apparently beyond the power of Hell to change. Dean's always been just this side of a walking appetite, anyway, so it's a little easier to remember: Just eat when Dean does. Even if it's only a snack.
And that's where the lack of taste comes in. Before, once he started eating, the taste of food would kick his hunger into gear, reinvigorating whatever mortal instincts the demon blood dulled. He doesn't even have that any more. The only thing he can really sense about the food is the texture, and no one, not even Dean, ever went on and on about how great food feels between his teeth.
There's no point in ordering separate dishes now, because it was never about eating healthy as much as it was about the fact that he just actually liked those foods, so he just lets Dean order. Dean's the one who can smell and taste the food, he should get to pick. Sam eats mechanically, stopping as soon as he's full, and never orders dessert, because the whole point of dessert is taste, not nourishment. He sticks with his coffee, because he needs the caffeine, but now he can take it black and order regular, cheap, "non-girly" coffee the way Dean's always nagged him to. Alcohol, sometimes, after a job, because even if he can't taste it, he can still benefit from the effects, but the lack of taste means he can drink the cheap stuff, the shit that even Dean avoids. Dean teases him for a week or so about Sam's new not-healthy living habits, but when Sam doesn't react, he lets it go. They have bigger fish to fry.
Funny how many metaphors are food-related.
***
The next time they've got a few hours free and they're in a town big enough for multiple dentist's offices, he tells Dean he's going to the local library, just to get some alone time, then does some Googling and sneaks off. Other than being scolded for not seeing a dentist in ten years (because he can't very well admit that he hasn't seen a dentist ever), he's told that there's nothing wrong. Not even on the x-rays that he insists they take. All his teeth are where they're supposed to be. Even his wisdom teeth are well-behaved and not impacted, and there's not so much as a suspicious shadow on any of the bones in his jaw or sinuses. The dentist clearly thinks he's a hypochondriac.
When he gets back to the motel, Sam realizes he may shortly be a dead hypochondriac.
Dean is sitting on one of the beds, waiting for him, and his expression is positively murderous. "Where have you been?" It's clear that he expects the answer to be sucking demon blood.
"I told you--"
"Town's only got one library and you weren't there."
Sam stares at him. "You were checking up on me?"
"No, Bobby couldn't get you, and he had something he thought would help and wanted you to get started on right away. But you. Weren't. There." Rage simmers in Dean's voice. "You lied to me, and you turned your phone off."
"Dean, I wasn't--"
"Dammit, Sam, we've been through this! And here you are sneaking around again--"
"I didn't sneak anywhere! I had something I needed to do, so I went--"
"Went where?" Dean roars. "Where did you need to go that you couldn't tell me?"
"To the dentist!" Sam shouts back. He is so fucking tired of this, of Dean always expecting the worst. Dean has every right to be pissed off at him, Sam's pissed off at himself most days, but this constant suspicion, like maybe Sam didn't learn his lesson by setting Lucifer on the world--
"If you don't want to tell me the truth, Sam, at least come up with better lies!"
"For the love of--" He digs into his bag and comes up with all the shit the receptionist had insisted he take--the receipt, the free toothbrush, samples of floss and toothpaste and mouthwash, the x-rays--and slams it all onto the bed beside Dean. "It's not a lie! I went to the fucking dentist! My phone was off because it's a medical office and it was that or be kicked out!"
Dean picks up the toothbrush, examines it. "Why?" he asks finally, eyes narrow. "You haven't been having tooth problems. Or is that what this new diet has been about? Because something hurts?"
Of course. Of fucking course Dean noticed and didn't say anything, just kept a silent tally somewhere in that overprotective head of his. One of these days, Sam's going to learn that Dean has a sixth sense when it comes to his health. He wouldn't have been able to keep the demon blood a secret half as long if Dean hadn't been so thrown off by Hell. Sam doesn't know if he should resent it, or be touched by it. "It wasn't a toothache," he replies.
"Why else would you go to a dentist?"
"Because I can't smell or taste anything," Sam confesses. "I haven't been able to for weeks."
Dean gives him one of those inscrutable big brother looks. "I know you've been off your feed, but I thought you were trying to save money or something. But not tasting?"
"Nothing. Not even that battery-acid toothpaste."
"It's not that bad," Dean says--but it's the big brother again, automatically defensive against anything the little brother says. "What did the dentist say?"
"They couldn't find anything." He's not sure if Dean believes him or not, he can't tell. "They said there was no reason for it that they could see."
"Mm-hm." Dean pulls the x-ray out of its sleeve, holds it over the lamp, and peers at it, like he knows what the hell he's looking at. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It didn't seem important."
Dean's head snaps up, his eyes glittering with rage. "Not important? Are you fucking kidding me? You've got things going wrong in your head again and it's not important?"
"With Lucifer and Michael trying to hunt us down and use us for the Apocalypse? Of course it didn't seem important! We've got other problems!"
"And did it occur to you that they could be the ones doing this?" Dean shoots back, and of course it did, it's the only answer that really makes any sense, but what's Sam supposed to do about it if it is? "I'm calling Cas."
"This isn't worth--"
"What if it's a brain tumor, Sam?" Dean snarls, and Sam blinks. He's known that was a possibility since he realized he wasn't smelling things, but it surprises him that Dean had put the pieces together that quickly. "Don't look at me like that," Dean adds, and there's hurt beneath the anger, hurt so old that Sam's not sure he's responsible for it. "I'm not stupid."
"I didn't say--" Sam begins, but Dean's already got his phone out and is dialing. "There wasn't anything on the x-ray!"
"Great, so it's not in the bones. What about the rest of your freaky head? Cas, we need you, there's something wrong with Sam--yeah, I know that, Cas, will you show up anyway?" He rattles off their location and ends the call, and as quick as that, there's three people in the room.
"Dean, I have told you, my powers are limited." Cas is still speaking into his cell phone.
"Got it the first forty times," Dean says. "Will you check him out anyway?"
Cas turns to Sam, still holding the cell phone to his ear. Dean heaves a frustrated sigh, reaches over, shuts it down, and stuffs it into Cas' coat pocket. "He does not appear to be injured," Cas announces gravely.
" 'He' is standing right here, thanks, Cas," Sam snaps. "Dean's overreacting--"
"Sam can't taste or smell anything, and he says it's been going on for weeks," Dean interrupts. "I know we've got that vessel thing going for us, but that doesn't mean we can't get normal human sick, right?"
"No," Castiel says slowly, "it does not." He gives Sam that head-tilted, diagnostic stare of his, the one that always makes Sam want to squirm and hide, because it's like Castiel is looking straight into his soul and for all he knows, even in his weakened condition, the angel is. "There's nothing wrong," he finally says.
"He can't taste anything," Dean argues, "that's a pretty major thing wrong!"
"I am not disputing that. But it is not a disease or an injury. It--" Castiel stops, searching for words. "I believe he is still sensing these things, but the signals are not reaching the parts of his brain that would interpret them."
"His wires are cut."
"That is a decent approximation."
Nerve damage would make sense--but that's a hellacious lot of nerve damage, and they're talking about nerves in the nose and tongue. Not a lot of distance from there to the brain. Anything that could do that to him should be-- Well, fatal. Or at the very least, have more serious effects.
"I cannot trace the exact disruption," Cas adds. "The nerves are physically there and fully intact. They should work."
"A curse, maybe?" Dean says, finally saying the words they've been avoiding. "We tangled with some witches on one of those last seals, and they weren't too happy when we started shooting up the place--"
"No. Curses leave residue. This is not human magic. Nor angelic or demonic. This is--more. And less."
Great. Riddles. Just what Sam needs.
"Can you fix it? I know you're cut off from Heaven and all that, but--"
Cas gives Sam another one of those diagnostic glares. "I cannot sense a problem to correct, and even if I could, I doubt I have the power now. Perhaps you should seek a human physician."
"I saw the dentist!"
"Not a dentist, a doctor," Dean corrects. "A real one."
"For this?" Sam asks incredulously. "Because I can't smell? That's not really an emergency."
"You can't taste either!"
"Who was just saying how happy he was that I was eating the cheaper stuff now?" Sam shoots back.
"I didn't say I was happy with it, I said I thought that was why you were doing it!"
"And anyway, I can still eat and I'm not malnourished. Isn't that the important part?"
"You're okay with this?"
"Well, I'm not thrilled with it, but--"
Dean's eyes narrow. "I got it. It's about your fucking guilt again. You let the Devil loose, so now you think it's no big deal if you can't smell or taste anything! Jesus Christ, Sam!"
"Dean--" Cas begins, but Dean's having none of that.
"They played you, Sam! They've been playing us, both of us, for forever!" Sam blinks, surprised by Dean's words. They make it sound almost like Dean doesn't think this whole mess is his fault. "You feel guilty, I get that, but just sitting around accepting it isn't going to fix anything!"
"Dean--"
"When you go blind and deaf, is that going to be something else you deserve? Because then you won't be able to help us stop this at all!"
"There's no reason to think--"
"It is logical, Sam," Cas says, interrupting the fight. "If these had happened together, it might have been an injury or a curse, but to happen separately, weeks apart, speaks of a greater problem. Perhaps even a progressive one."
It's something that hasn't even occurred to him, and the fact that Cas and Dean both went there, right out of the box--
Jesus. Bad enough he set the Devil free, bad enough he's lost two senses, but now he's so addled that basic logic is escaping him.
***
Dean drags him, almost literally, back to the dentist's office the next morning. That nets them an emergency ENT referral, although Sam's pretty sure the receptionist only makes the call out of sheer terror. "You didn't have to scare her," he says on the way back to the car. Even these days, it's not like Dean to scare the civilians when he could get the info through flirting.
"She was married and we're in a rush."
It takes Sam a minute to remember that the receptionist was, in fact, wearing a wedding band. "Half the waitresses you've slept with had wedding bands!" he protests.
Dean gives him an are you fucking stupid? glare, made all the more impressive by the fact that he's already pissed at the world. "Do you know how many waitresses wear fake wedding bands to scare off the assholes? Now figure out where the hell Merrimack Street is."
It turns out to not matter, anyway. The ENT doesn't believe him. Sam doesn't smoke, hasn't had head or neck radiation, and doesn't have a family history of any of the usual neurological suspects. "You're just overreacting to the anosmia," the ENT pronounces, without doing a single test.
Sam's pretty sure the doc doesn't believe him about the anosmia, either, since he doesn't bother testing him for it, but like Wiki said, it's a far more common condition and can be caused by a whole lot of very common things. He's told to take some B vitamins and stay away from any nasal medications. If Dean wasn't three seconds from exploding, that sentence might have ended with "and quit huffing." The ENT appears to have mistaken Dean's concern for part of an intervention.
Sam half wishes he could tell the doctor what he's really addicted to, but the psych hospitalization probably wouldn't be worth it.
Dean stalks out to the car growling a litany of four-letter words and zoological terms to describe the ENT's family tree. "I told you it wouldn't help," Sam says, when Dean takes a breath, probably to start in on the relationship between the guy's great-great-great-grandfather and a dodo. "Even if he could diagnose it, there's not a lot of treatments."
"We'd know!" Dean shouts, and a little old lady making her way across the parking lot with a walker and a bandaged nose recoils and nearly falls over. "We'd at least know it wasn't--" He bites that off, but Sam understands. They'd know, for certain, that this was a simple illness, not angelic blackmail or demon mischief or some other supernatural force wreaking its usual havoc on their lives.
"I can handle it, Dean," he says.
Dean glares at him over the roof of the car, like he wants to argue or say something sarcastic, maybe the way you handled me being dead? Instead, he just says, "Are you sure?"
"Like I said yesterday, I'm not thrilled with it, but in the grand scheme of things?" He forces a shrug. "We've got bigger things to worry about. This is minor, Dean. Really minor."
"And if it does get worse?"
"We'll do what we always do." Dean raises an eyebrow. "We'll figure it out when we get there."
Dean sighs. "I don't like it," he says finally, "but if you're sure--"
"I am." As sure as a guy can be when things in his head stop working, anyway.
"Then--" Dean stops, like he's considering his next words carefully. "Then I'll trust you, Sammy. Just-- If it gets worse, tell me, okay?"
I'll trust you, Sammy. Sam wants to grab on to those words, clutch them like a drowning man would floating debris. "I will," he says instead. "Promise."
Chapter 3, Part 1