Make Angels of Us All (3/3)
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CHAPTER 3
1998 - Harvelle's Roadhouse, Nebraska
Ellen is kind and Jo’s even kinder, and they both give Sam all the space he needs, which is a lot, most of the time. Though it’s getting to be less and less every day. Six months with the Harvelles has made Sam feel like a whole new person. He goes to school every day, helps make dinner most nights, and even helps out at the Roadhouse when it gets crowded or Ellen has to go run an errand. Jo helps too sometimes, though more often than not, she ends up spending most of the night playing the arcade hunting game in the corner. Nobody has ever beaten her high score.
Sam calls Dean once a week, and he always calls back. Sometimes it takes an hour or two, but he hasn’t let him down yet. Sam tells him about school, and Dean tells him stories about his day that-more often than not-are a complete lie. But they’re nice lies: about girls he took out on dates, or how he won the lottery and bought a houseboat. He gets Sam to crack a smile nearly every time.
For the most part, Sam keeps himself in check, wings hidden, no explosions, no fire, but also no sign of the angel. She’s been silent since he got here, even though he still feels like she’s there watching him. It’s a weird feeling, but the rest of his life is good enough now that he learns to ignore it.
There are a few bad nights though, with nightmares that have him waking slick with cold sweat, wings unfolding like a reflex. He’s loud enough one night to wake Jo up, but by the time she’s made it to his door, he’s got them tucked away again, and there’s no trace beyond the stray glowing feather on his shoulder. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything about it.
#
Sam makes it through the rest of the school year with solid grades. The next year’s better, and the one after that is his best yet. He goes into honor’s track in English, History and Math. And when they start filling out college applications, Ellen encourages him to apply for a scholarship.
“What major are you thinking of?” Jo asks, as she looks through the pile of Sam’s college applications.
“Not sure yet. I’m kind of thinking of pre-law.”
“Law school?” Jo’s nose wrinkles.
“Yeah. What’s wrong with law?”
“Nothing. If you want to be a lawyer.” She cracks a smile. “Actually, I think you’d be great at it. You’re a natural.”
“Why’d you say that?”
“You talked my mom into grinding her own coffee beans.”
Sam laughs.
“No, seriously,” she continues, “Better people than you have tried, and failed.”
“I mean, really it’s gonna be whatever school and whatever major gives the most financial aid. Don’t have much of a choice.”
“Well, I hope you get into pre-law.” Jo gets up with a yawn. “Now if you’ll excuse me, as exciting as this is, I need to get to bed.”
“Night, Jo.”
“Night, lawyer.”
#
The Roadhouse doesn’t see a lot of business in the colder months. There’s regulars that come by nearly every night, regardless of what time of year it is, but the folks who stop in for a late lunch or an early dinner on their way up route 81 dwindle as the year drags on. School’s out for winter break, and Ellen’s been having Sam help out, getting the kitchen and the bar ready for the holidays.
He’s spent the whole morning scrubbing the grooves of the bar, trying to get it extra-clean, and he’s just poured himself a glass of water when the door opens and a woman comes in bringing a gust of cold air with her. She scans the rooms and when her eyes land on Sam, she smiles warmly. “You open for lunch?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, grabbing a menu and a napkin of silverware. He sets them on the table. “Get you something to drink?”
“How’s the coffee?”
“Strong.” Sam says, which is the only honest answer he can give. Ellen likes it brewed her way, but at least the beans are freshly ground now.
“Lots of cream then, and sugar.” She glances at the closed menu and back up at Sam. “And I’ll have the special.”
“Oh we don’t really-“
“I know you don't have a special, I’m just messing with you, Sam.” She winks at him, her kind smile dampening the unease Sam thinks he should be feeling.
"How'd you know my name?"
She holds her hand out to shake his. "Missouri Moseley, I'm a psychic."
"Then...why'd you come here?" Sam can't help but ask. "The food's..."
Missouri laughs. "The food's gonna be fine. I just want something warm. Got a long drive left to my sister's place."
"The chili's actually really good," Sam says.
"And you've got some cooking in the back."
"Wow you really are good!"
She scoffs. "I can smell it from here."
"I'll go get you some."
"Don't forget my coffee."
Sam ladles a bowl of chili and brews a fresh pot of coffee. He brings out the cream and sugar, runs back to the kitchen and grabs the mug of coffee, sliding the pot in to collect the rest.
After he sets the mug and the bowl of chili down, Missouri gestures to the chair across from her. "I came here for the conversation, not the food."
"With me?" Sam asks.
She nods. "Sam. I'm from Lawrence. You don’t remember me, of course, you were just a baby last time I saw you. But I know all about what happened to your Dad, and your Mom.” Missouri pauses for a second. “She loves you boys so much. Like a force of nature.”
Sam looks at his hands, not sure what to say to that.
“I was worried about you two boys."
"Dean's with Dad."
"Yeah. But you got away." She dips her spoon in the chili and blows over it to cool it down. "Don't you dare feel guilty about that, now."
"I can't help it." Sam shrugs. "I feel like it's all my fault."
"Of course you do." Missouri says. "Because you have a gift. A powerful one."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "How'd you know about that?"
"Psychic." She takes another bite of chili, watching him. "I sensed some of what you did, two years back. That kind of thing doesn't happen often." She cocks her head to the side.
Sam nods, but his chest clenches with shame. "I've done awful things."
"You defended yourself, and your family. You're a scared kid with a power you don't know how to control."
"Can you help me control it?" Sam asks, quickly growing excited as the idea takes hold.
"Well, of course not," she sits back with a sigh and takes her mug in her hands. "I wouldn't even know where to start."
Sam's hope shrivels just as quickly. "I haven't done anything in years-since I've been here."
"You haven't had a need to. But Sam, you need to understand something. People are afraid of what they don't understand. Sometimes irrationally so. And what you can do..." she frowns, shakes her head, like she's clearing it. "People are going to want to use it. They'll come after you."
Sam swallows. "Then I'll stay hidden."
"Can't hide forever," Missouri smiles at him, sadly. "Just-be careful, that's all. And remember, it's what you do with your gifts that matters." She finishes her coffee and sets down her empty mug. "Check please."
"You don't already know how much the check is going to be?"
"Don’t be a smartass. What I do know is that I already gave you an invaluable tip."
"You did," he says, chuckling despite himself as he stands and starts clearing the table. "Be right back." He stacks everything on a tray, carries it to the kitchen and goes to grab his receipt pad and pen. But by the time he gets back out, Missouri is gone. All that's left behind on the table is a twenty dollar bill and her business card. On the back is one handwritten word: "Congratulations!"
Sam tucks the card in his pocket, just as the door flies open and Jo comes in holding an envelope. “Mail came!” she says, handing Sam a big envelope with his name on it. The return address says Stanford University Admissions.
#
“A full ride? No kidding,” Dean says.
“Yeah isn’t it awesome?” Sam is excited. He’s been looking through the course catalog every afternoon, planning what classes he wants to take, and in what order.
“Yeah, awesome.” Dean clears his throat. “You’re gonna do great, Sammy.”
There’s a pause then, and Sam’s learned it can only mean one of two things, he’s pretty sure he knows which of the two it is this time. “You can tell Dad.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dean sniffs. “I’m proud of you. We’re proud of you.”
Sam swallows and smiles at the phone, then remembers Dean can’t see him. “Thanks, I-I miss you.”
“Miss you too.”
That night, Sam dreams of flying and his wings are solid and real, and there’s no fire inside of him, only light.
#
2001 - Interstate 29
Ellen gives Sam a car, with her blessings. It’s held together with duct tape and sheer force of will, but it’s the first car Sam’s ever owned, and it’ll get him to California. But he’s been on the road for twelve hours and can’t keep his eyes open any longer.
He pulls into the parking lot of the first motel he sees, gets a room-two beds, standard. He only needs one, and it strikes him in that moment that he’s alone again. It’s not a bad feeling, though he misses Dean terribly. It’s a quiet sort of freedom.
Sam drops his bags on the bed nearest the door, strips out of his pants and shirt, brushes his teeth and settles in on the bed. His phone buzzes. There's a voicemail from Dean.
"Hey, Sammy, listen uh-Dad and I -"static cuts off his words throughout, “- off grid for a few days, and I just wanted to tell you...how proud I am of you. I’ll call you as soon as I can-have to-you safe-We’ll be fine. So don’t-” Static cuts him short again and when it fades and the sound kicks back in, Dean's voice is drowned out by something loud and deep. A sound Sam can’t quite place, but he’s heard it before. He knows he has.
The call ends and Sam stares at the phone for a full minute afterwards, trying to quell his panic. He tells himself Dean’s okay. They probably just had a crappy signal. Dad and Dean have always made it through.
"They wouldn’t have every time-" the angel whispers in his ear. "Without you."
Sam swallows down the bile creeping up his throat, and pulls the bedsheet up as he settles back against the pillow. Heart still racing, he shuts his eyes. He doesn’t know where Dean is. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t help him. Off grid means no communications. Dean will be switching to another burner phone now. Sam’s got five of his numbers, but this one won’t work anymore after tonight.
That noise at the end of the call keeps bubbling up in Sam's mind-a long-drawn out horn, like a groan. It’s a foghorn, that much he’s certain of, that particular sound, though, isn’t a common one. But he’s sure he’s heard it before. He meditates on it, pulling it closer like he’s examining it from all angles, until he hears it on an endless loop.
Sleep grabs hold of him and yanks him under, closer to that sound. He’s standing on a cliff, looking out at water-at a lake. Lake Superior. And then it clicks: it’s not a boat horn on the voicemail, it’s the lighthouse. Split Rock-Sam remembers going there on a field trip ages ago.
He hears Dean shouting and whips around. Dean is behind him, real as life, Dad stands beside him, and both of them have their guns drawn. There’s an honest-to-god tank across from them with the muzzle of its gun lowered to the ground.
A man comes out of the tank, jumps down to the ground and walks towards the both of them with his hands lifted in a truce.
Sam wakes to fire-his angel has him by the shoulders. She’s made wholly of flame and shouts, ”Help them!” He can almost see her face, and is struck by the familiarity of it, but only for a moment, before she changes her grip on him and forces his shoulders open. His skin splits wide and she pulls his wings out by force. But even then, she doesn’t let go-she grabs the ridges, and fire pours out of her and into him.
The heat pulses into the wings and Sam bites back a scream as they expand and grow wider. His neck, back and shoulder muscles tear as they struggle to accommodate the new weight. Tears stream from his eyes and the world around him starts to tunnel. His angel is nothing more than a featureless, colorless grey. The room itself is lost to the dark and the bed crumbles away from beneath him and he falls.
Then there’s wind, all around, the smell of water and smoke. Dean shouts “Dad!” just before Sam slams into the ground, landing hard on his shoulder. The wings didn't cushion his fall at all, they've vanished again, back to whatever pocket dimension they come from. But his back still feels torn open, it hurts deep enough that he sees stars when he pushes himself to standing.
It takes a second for the world to come back into focus. He’s outside, on sloping rocky ground. He can smell the lake nearby. But he can’t see much of anything. A heavy fog covers the cliff, blanketing everything around in a grey haze too thick to see through.
But Dean and Dad are close. Sam staggers forward towards where Dean’s voice came from, until he starts to see shapes-yards away and cloaked in fog but definitely there. He needs to see more, understand where they are, where the threat is, so he focuses, doesn’t even try to reach for his wings, but instead for the core of his power, that spot where that terrible heat is building again. He pulls it up into his mind, keeps his eyes open and stares at the fog, willing the heat inside him to burn brightly enough to let him see. Until he can.
Dean’s running towards Dad but he skitters to a halt when he sees Sam, mouth dropping in shock. “Sammy?”
“What’s going on?”
Dean cards his fingers through his hair. Chews on his lip. “These a-holes want to kill you.”
“What?” Sam’s heart lurches in his chest. It’s terrible enough that Dean and Dad are even in this mess, but Sam being the cause is more than he can bear.
“They were coming for you, so we-“
“Sam?” Dad says, heading towards them. He looks stricken. “No-no you can’t be here.”
“Good thinking, Winchester,” the man next to the tank says. “Turn the abomination over to us. We’ll take care of him.”
Dad turns to face him. “You’re not gonna lay a finger on him, Gordon.”
“True,” Gordon says, grinning, showing teeth. “I got something better. He lifts his hand, and the tank raises its gun, aiming it at Sam.
“No!” Dean shouts, shoving Sam out of the way.
Sam stumbles, but catches himself. “It’s okay Dean.” He raises both of his hands and walks towards the tank, towards Gordon. “It’s me you want, right? Let them go, and you can have me.”
Gordon cocks his head. “Why would I believe a single word you say, Serpent?”
“Because you know what I can do,” Sam says. He’s stalling, hoping Dean and Dad come up with a way out of this. The core of fire inside of him is churning, building in size, but he leaves it be, clinging to the hope that they can avoid bloodshed. He was heading for law school after all, maybe he can talk them down. “You really think you can kill me?” he says, hoping he sounds convincingly unthreatened.
“Yes,” Gordon says. “I really do.”
“Sam! What the hell are you doing, man?” Dean hisses.
Sam ignores Dean, keeping his eyes on Gordon. “And then what?”
“Then we stop the Apocalypse,” Gordon says, with such conviction it sends a chill down Sam’s spine.
But Sam’s read the Bible through a few times. Maybe he just has to use their vocabulary. “No weapon used against me shall prosper.”
That gets Gordon’s attention. “That a challenge?”
Sam smiles, as he feels the core of fire in him push against his insides. He lets his wings push through, opens them wide and wills Gordon to see.
Gordon’s brow furrows and his brows creep up, eyes glazing over. “There he is, in all his ugliness.”
”Hate to break it to you, Gordon,” Dean says, feigning a mocking tone. It would be more convincing if his voice wasn’t so quavering. “But you’re not any prettier.”
Sam glances over at Dean, pleads with him silently. Get out of here. Take Dad and go! But Dean doesn’t budge. And Sam realizes, with gut-wrenching certainty, the flaw in his plan.
“Tonight, we rid the world of evil. And if we die, so be it,” Gordon says, bringing his hands together in prayer. It’s a signal.
The tank cannon shifts, and Dad shouts a warning, throwing something-a grenade. Before Sam can fully process what’s happened, Dean is knocking him to the ground, rolling them both out of the way. The grenade goes off, and the tank shudders where it stands, but fires, the shot going wide.
“Stay down!” Dad shouts as he throws another. The tank rocks back, and its cannon is off center, aimed far to the right of them. Dad wasn’t planning on destroying it, just wanted to slow it down, long enough for them to get away.
Dean drags Sam up by the arm, and starts pulling them downhill, after Dad. Sam coughs into the smoke, forcing his tearing eyes open just in time to see another tank rolling up the hill towards them through the fog. It aims its cannon.
Sam’s moving before he has time to shout out a warning, but he's not fast enough. The shot goes off and strikes the rocky ground inches away from Dad’s feet. The force of the blast knocks Dad and Dean into the air, sailing in opposite directions. Sam grabs his brother in mid-air, forcing his wings down and around Dean. Another shot goes off and the shockwave sends them slamming down at the edge of the cliff.
There's a shout, and another much louder blast, then absolute silence.
Too full of adrenaline to lose consciousness, Sam pushes himself up to sitting, still holding Dean tight with his arms and scans their surroundings. But the sky has grown shrouded with mist again.
With effort, he concentrates, piercing the fog until he can see the extent of the damage. The first thing he sees on the grassy slope before him is a severed arm, fingers splayed and bloody. He recognizes the wristwatch. It's Dad’s arm-his shredded torso is a meter away, and his face is turned to Sam, eyes frozen open and empty.
“Oh, God, Dad,” Sam says, clutching at Dean- Dean. Sam looks down at his brother, releases his grip on him, rolls him gently onto the ground.
Sam’s heart sinks as he looks down at Dean, takes in the damage. He’d tried to shield him, but he wasn't fast enough-Dean got hit with shrapnel, there's bits of metal sticking out of his leg and the side of his body-his face is bruised and there's blood trickling from his mouth. "Dean!" Sam says in a panic, as he brings his hand down to his chest trying to find a heartbeat. But he’s trembling himself, and there’s too much blood, and-
“You shall know my wrath, for my wrath is the wrath of Heaven!” Gordon shouts from behind Sam, and he turns to see Gordon holding a rocket launcher, aimed right at his head.
That stifling fear fades from Sam, melts like a sugar cube in boiling water, burned off by pure incandescent rage.
The building pressure in his chest explodes outwards in a shockwave of force. It dissolves everything it touches, flaying Gordon of skin, muscle and fat; with nothing left to hold him together he falls apart, clattering into a haphazard pile of bone. The blast collides with the tanks and they shudder and heave as they lose cohesion, and fall apart in molten chunks.
There’s nothing left but Sam and Dean. The grass around them is scorched and all that’s left of their pursuers and their war-machines are smoldering puddles of metal, bone and oil.
In his arms, Dean takes in a gasping breath of air, and Sam’s mind stutters back into focus
“Dad?” Dean croaks, and his voice is in tatters.
“Dean?” Sam looks down at him, overwhelmed by relief that he’s alive. His breath is ragged and his heart is beating, but it's too damn slow.
Dean’s eyes focus on Sam for a beat and then flutter closed. Fresh blood dribbles out of his mouth and Sam’s heart starts to race once more.
Sam concentrates, trying to push his wings back into being, sending out a silent, desperate prayer to his angel to help him like she did before-to get them out of there and to a hospital.
But she's not here. And whatever power Sam might have had is gone. He's depleted-can't even get his wings to come out, not matter how hard he tries-and he tries until his back is nothing but a latticework of agony, until he nearly blacks out from the effort.
There's nobody to help them, and he's out of tricks. But far down, at the very bottom of the sloping hill, he can just make out the road, and three abandoned cars. As carefully as he can manage, he climbs to his feet, and carries Dean down.
#
Dean has never looked as small as he does in the hospital bed; the monitors, racks of fluids and tubes and the antiseptic room itself have diminutized him. There's a tube shoved down his throat, a stent in his hand, and Sam feels so goddamn powerless it's stifling.
A nurse raps her knuckles on the door behind him, pulling him out of his reverie. "Mr. Winchester, would you like to rest in the waiting area?"
Sam shakes his head.
"I'll bring you a chair," she says, with a gentle smile.
Sam sits vigil at Dean’s bedside for hours, watching the ventilator inflate and deflate. He tries in vain to call on his power, but comes up empty. Whether or not it would help Dean anyway is beyond him. He clasps his hands together and prays again and again, calling for his angel, for any angel, for God. But nobody answers. It feels like nobody is even listening.
It's only when he drifts asleep that he senses his angel nearby. She's barely there-a whisper and a trace of a touch so light it could've been the wind. But Sam latches onto it with quickly-rising fury, grabs her ephemeral form by the wrists and shouts. "He's dying! Help him!"
The angel dissipates in his grip and he's left clutching uselessly at the air.
A night-nurse pops her head in and scolds, "We're doing our best, sir. If you can't stay quiet, please go take a walk."
Sam brings his hands down, fists still clenched, and storms out. It's not her fault, it's not anyone's fault. They are trying their best. But it isn't enough, and it can't end like this. It just can't. He walks out of the hospital, heads for the "borrowed" car he brought Dean here in and drives.
#
2001 - Blue Earth, Minnesota
When Sam gets to the church, it's empty. He remembers that Pastor Jim sleeps lightly-he accidentally woke him trying to find the bathroom in the middle of the night when he stayed here years ago. He doesn't lighten his footsteps when he walks by the rectory, moves with purpose towards the doors of the church. He’s kept the key all these years, figuring he might need it someday, and that day has finally come. He goes inside, turns on the lights and heads for the confessional, ignoring the angels in the windows and the way Michael’s statue raises his sword as Sam walks past.
He waits for less than five minutes before the door opens again. Pastor Jim shuffles across the floor and heads for the confessional himself. Sam waits for him to close the door and open the panel between them. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three years since my last confession.”
There's a pause, and a slow, smiling exhale. “It’s good to hear your voice, my son.”
"Yours too."
"What troubles you?" He says, then thinks, but doesn't ask aloud, Do you believe you hurt someone again?
"I tried to save someone.” Sam cracks his knuckles, listening to the soft popping of the joints. "Dad's dead-“ he pauses as the weight of those words hit home. “-but I got Dean out. Only he's hurt. I don't think he's gonna make it."
"I'm-I'm so sorry to hear that. Is he in the hospital?"
"Yes. They're keeping him alive. But he's not getting better. I need him to be better."
"Of course you do. We'll pray for his recovery."
"No-" Sam clenches his fists again. "That's not enough." He has to fight to push his anger down. He's sick of having miracles come when he doesn't want them and hide when they're desperately needed. If there is a God then he's petty and cruel and if he lets Dean die then he can go to Hell as far as Sam's concerned. Pressure builds along with the anger inside of him, that core of heat growing in his gut, energy gathering in his back until the skin starts to split open with an audible tear. He breathes in and out, flexing the bones and pushes his wings out as slowly as he can. They're cramped inside the little confessional box, and they're so much larger than the last time he sat in here. The tops of them brush against the ceiling, the curving claws scraping into the aging wood. The right wing nudges at the door, nearly opening it. The feathers are a muted grey, but yellow-orange light is bleeding into them, he can feel it starting to spill out of him, soaking them with light. His anger's still growing, like the wings have given him space to hold more of it. It’s a slow but steady-boiling rage that's building, and seeking a target.
Pastor Jim is staring at him, furrowed brow, eyes in a squint. "Are you all right, my son?"
"No. I'm not." Sam breathes in and out through his nose. "There's something inside of me that I don't understand and can barely control, and there's somebody that's been watching me my entire life-I used to think she was an angel. But she can't be. Not if she won't lift a finger to help Dean."
"An angel?"
Sam nods. "Sometimes she helps me, sometimes she keeps me from using this-this power that I have. She's stopped me before. But I don’t think she can anymore." He rolls his shoulders, and his feathers fill with more light, the tips aflame. "I think...I think I'm stronger than she is now."
"No man is stronger than an angel," Pastor Jim says. There's a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. He wipes a hand across his lip.
The wings are glowing brighter and Sam can feel the heat inside of him grow to match, pushing against the inside of his eyes. "If I wanted to. If I really wanted to, I think I could be." The heat is unbearable now, pressure in need of release, and when he exhales, his breath comes out in plumes of smoke.
The pastor jerks away, and covers his cheek with his hand.
With a cold shock of guilt, Sam realizes what's happened and leaves the confessional in such a rush that he forgets to shove his wings back inside.
Pastor Jim stumbles out of the box after him and his cheek is blistered, sunburned in the crosshatched pattern of the confessional panel. He turns to look at Sam and freezes, eyes wide with shock. His legs give out and he collapses, falling to his knees. “Your-your wings. I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us,” Sam says bitterly. He can feel the skin by his temples rupture as the horns begin to force their way out.
“Are you a messenger?” he asks.
“Of God? No.” Sam takes a step towards Jim and the statue of Michael by the door quivers and falls, shattering on the tiles, reduced to nothing more than chunks of plaster. Another step and the stained glass above the chancel breaks, raining down in glittering multi-colored shards. Sam looks at the damage, and then turns back to the pastor. “You’re not the one I’m angry with. None of this is your fault.”
Jim nods, with relief and more than a little gratitude, and keels over on his side, sound asleep.
But the church continues to shake. Sam feels the force of it-palpable in the air all around him. He waits for it to fell him, to take him on directly. But it doesn’t. It moves, circling from one side of the church to the next until he understands that it’s outside, and trying to get in. It settles in front again, and as he walks towards them, the doors to the church blow wide open. Sam’s angel is outside, glorious and blinding against the night behind her.
Sam watches her, waits for her to come inside. To punish him for what he’s done, to finish what the church itself started. But Dean is dying, and Sam will find a way to heal him-he doesn’t much care who or what grows to hate him in the process.
The angel stays where she is, watching him.
“You can’t come inside, can you?” Sam asks.
She doesn’t react, but her light ripples, the doorway itself ripples. And finally the gears in Sam’s head click into place. The angel was never with him in this church. Not once, in all his life, in all the times he’s been here. “What kind of an angel can’t set foot inside a church?” he wonders out loud.
But of course she doesn’t answer. Her expression is as flawless and empty as always. And that just makes Sam angrier.
“Tell me who you are!” he says, stalking towards her. He grabs hold of her translucent, shimmering forearms and yanks her towards him. She doesn’t pull away, but can’t cross the threshold-she’s stuck there, held back by an invisible barrier.
Spreading his wings, Sam lets the swelling force inside of him out all at once in a burst of force aimed at the barrier, never letting go of his “angel”-and drags her in. The forcefield bows and breaks with a snap, and the counterforce throws them both inside.
Sam slams, head first, against the floor, feels his horns strike the wood-they're larger now, curving backwards, he notes, as he brushes his hair back out of his face. He climbs to his feet, using his wings as leverage. They’re drained of light but still there, still tangible-more-so than they’ve ever been. The angel stands before him, but she’s changing, expanding in size, wings spreading out into a fiery, burning mass. Her hair lifts up, becomes one with the flame until her whole being is limned by fire.
“Who are you?” Sam asks, determined to finally get an answer. He doesn’t know what’s happening-if the presence of the church is making her burn or if she’s always been made of fire and just can’t hide in here, but either way he knows the answer is close.
The fire fades all at once, snuffed out like a candle, and a woman stands before him-one he’s only seen in photographs, one that’s achingly familiar.
“Mom?” Sam asks, chest clenching around his heart.
She smiles at him and reaches a hand out to cup his cheek. She doesn’t feel any more solid than she did before; her touch could just as easily be a gust of wind, but Sam leans into it regardless, longing for it to be real.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Mom says.
There’s so much Sam wants to say-so much he wants to ask her, but they don’t have time for any of it. “Dean’s dying,” he says. “Please help me save him.”
She takes his hands, closes her eyes and the fire consumes her again-starting in her chest it bursts outwards and envelopes them both. She doesn’t attempt to mimic the form of an angel again, but she looks, Sam thinks, more divine than anything he’s seen and when she sends that fire streaming into him, he is not afraid.
#
Dean looks worse than he did when Sam left-so pale his skin is nearly translucent-and for a moment, Sam thinks he’s too late. That the ventilator still pumping in air is lying, keeping his corpse moving just enough to look alive. He freezes up, the idea of Dean being gone too much for him to handle after everything.
“Sam.” Mom’s got her hands on Dean, fingers stroking gently across his forehead, but her fingers sink through him. “I can’t do this by myself,” she says.
Legs shaking, Sam forces himself to Dean’s bedside. Mom reaches out a ghostly hand, and Sam takes it in his own, lets the energy course from him into her until he can feel the weight of her fingers.
She meets his eyes, with a sad smile. “We can do this together, but there’s a price.”
Sam nods. “Whatever it is, it’s worth it.”
Mom’s smile wavers, then widens as her eyes go glassy. “I’m so proud of both of you. And I love you so much.” She moves her free hand down to Dean’s chest and closes her eyes.
Sam mimics her movement, putting his hand above hers. He can feel Dean’s heartbeat through her hand-a weak fluttering pulse, and focuses on it, guided there by a certainty that’s not his own. Energy flows from him to Mom into Dean and the heart beat grows stronger-not by much, but enough that Sam focuses harder-pushing more power down into this brother until he feels drained, and then even more, but it’s still not enough. He can feel Dean’s heart stutter and slow again.
“No,” he thinks, panic building. But he feels a prickle of energy, just on the edge of his periphery. So, Sam fans his wings up and out, like solar sails-an incongruous image, but it works. He can feel the feathers soaking in energy from all around them, from the air, from the electricity in the hospital, and from outside, from the rising sun itself. From Mom and her endless sorrow and love.
The force gathering in his wings is made not of fire, but of life and light, and he pushes it down, imagining the torn flesh inside of Dean stitching itself back together.
One of the monitors begins to beep and Dean wakes with a gasp, choking on the tube in his throat. Sam helps him pull it out, and Dean stares up at him, dark bruises under his eyes and pale as anything, but alive. “Sam?” he asks.
“Yeah Dean, it’s me,” Sam says, grabbing his hand. A tear slips down his cheek.
“Mom?” Dean asks, turning towards her.
“Dean,” she says, her voice whisper-quiet. “I love you. Both of you. So much.” She lets out a gasp and staggers back. The mint-green hospital room wall behind her melts away, and behind her is sky blue, as bright as Heaven. She’s drawn backwards, even as she’s reaching for them, and the wall comes back into being as she fades away.
“Mom?” Dean asks again, straining to sit up.
“She’s gone,” Sam says, throat tight with pain. “She saved you.” He puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder until he turns to look at him again.
“Sammy,” Dean blinks up at him. “What happened? Did Dad-“
Sam shakes his head. “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
Dean nods, wipes a hand across his nose. “You gonna tell me what the hell those are?” Dean asks, pointing over Sam’s shoulder.
Sam cranes his neck just enough to see the long curving spikes jutting out of the crest, the iridescent feathers that shift from grey to gold.
A tray clatters to the floor outside and a nurse shouts. “Oh my god!” Sam turns in time to see another nurse run up beside her and cross herself.
“Sam?” Dean asks again.
Sam tries to contract the wings, to pull them back in, but though they fold down, they’ve got nowhere to go. They’ve grown too large and there’s nothing intangible about them anymore. So he throws his arms around Dean instead and says, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Dean’s stiff at first, but relaxes into Sam’s hold. He pulls back after a few moments, and looks him in the eyes. “Don’t you need to get to your school?”
“Yeah.” The truth of it is much more complicated. How’s he going to explain his wings?
“Want some company?” Dean asks.
Sam cracks a surprised smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d love that.”
“Then help me find my pants, and let’s get out of here.”
#
Dean Winchester has a guardian. He’s not an angel, though he loves just as fiercely; he’s not a devil, though his rage burns just as strong. He’s no longer human, but he’ll always be Dean’s brother.
CHAPTER 3
1998 - Harvelle's Roadhouse, Nebraska
Ellen is kind and Jo’s even kinder, and they both give Sam all the space he needs, which is a lot, most of the time. Though it’s getting to be less and less every day. Six months with the Harvelles has made Sam feel like a whole new person. He goes to school every day, helps make dinner most nights, and even helps out at the Roadhouse when it gets crowded or Ellen has to go run an errand. Jo helps too sometimes, though more often than not, she ends up spending most of the night playing the arcade hunting game in the corner. Nobody has ever beaten her high score.
Sam calls Dean once a week, and he always calls back. Sometimes it takes an hour or two, but he hasn’t let him down yet. Sam tells him about school, and Dean tells him stories about his day that-more often than not-are a complete lie. But they’re nice lies: about girls he took out on dates, or how he won the lottery and bought a houseboat. He gets Sam to crack a smile nearly every time.
For the most part, Sam keeps himself in check, wings hidden, no explosions, no fire, but also no sign of the angel. She’s been silent since he got here, even though he still feels like she’s there watching him. It’s a weird feeling, but the rest of his life is good enough now that he learns to ignore it.
There are a few bad nights though, with nightmares that have him waking slick with cold sweat, wings unfolding like a reflex. He’s loud enough one night to wake Jo up, but by the time she’s made it to his door, he’s got them tucked away again, and there’s no trace beyond the stray glowing feather on his shoulder. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything about it.
#
Sam makes it through the rest of the school year with solid grades. The next year’s better, and the one after that is his best yet. He goes into honor’s track in English, History and Math. And when they start filling out college applications, Ellen encourages him to apply for a scholarship.
“What major are you thinking of?” Jo asks, as she looks through the pile of Sam’s college applications.
“Not sure yet. I’m kind of thinking of pre-law.”
“Law school?” Jo’s nose wrinkles.
“Yeah. What’s wrong with law?”
“Nothing. If you want to be a lawyer.” She cracks a smile. “Actually, I think you’d be great at it. You’re a natural.”
“Why’d you say that?”
“You talked my mom into grinding her own coffee beans.”
Sam laughs.
“No, seriously,” she continues, “Better people than you have tried, and failed.”
“I mean, really it’s gonna be whatever school and whatever major gives the most financial aid. Don’t have much of a choice.”
“Well, I hope you get into pre-law.” Jo gets up with a yawn. “Now if you’ll excuse me, as exciting as this is, I need to get to bed.”
“Night, Jo.”
“Night, lawyer.”
#
The Roadhouse doesn’t see a lot of business in the colder months. There’s regulars that come by nearly every night, regardless of what time of year it is, but the folks who stop in for a late lunch or an early dinner on their way up route 81 dwindle as the year drags on. School’s out for winter break, and Ellen’s been having Sam help out, getting the kitchen and the bar ready for the holidays.
He’s spent the whole morning scrubbing the grooves of the bar, trying to get it extra-clean, and he’s just poured himself a glass of water when the door opens and a woman comes in bringing a gust of cold air with her. She scans the rooms and when her eyes land on Sam, she smiles warmly. “You open for lunch?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, grabbing a menu and a napkin of silverware. He sets them on the table. “Get you something to drink?”
“How’s the coffee?”
“Strong.” Sam says, which is the only honest answer he can give. Ellen likes it brewed her way, but at least the beans are freshly ground now.
“Lots of cream then, and sugar.” She glances at the closed menu and back up at Sam. “And I’ll have the special.”
“Oh we don’t really-“
“I know you don't have a special, I’m just messing with you, Sam.” She winks at him, her kind smile dampening the unease Sam thinks he should be feeling.
"How'd you know my name?"
She holds her hand out to shake his. "Missouri Moseley, I'm a psychic."
"Then...why'd you come here?" Sam can't help but ask. "The food's..."
Missouri laughs. "The food's gonna be fine. I just want something warm. Got a long drive left to my sister's place."
"The chili's actually really good," Sam says.
"And you've got some cooking in the back."
"Wow you really are good!"
She scoffs. "I can smell it from here."
"I'll go get you some."
"Don't forget my coffee."
Sam ladles a bowl of chili and brews a fresh pot of coffee. He brings out the cream and sugar, runs back to the kitchen and grabs the mug of coffee, sliding the pot in to collect the rest.
After he sets the mug and the bowl of chili down, Missouri gestures to the chair across from her. "I came here for the conversation, not the food."
"With me?" Sam asks.
She nods. "Sam. I'm from Lawrence. You don’t remember me, of course, you were just a baby last time I saw you. But I know all about what happened to your Dad, and your Mom.” Missouri pauses for a second. “She loves you boys so much. Like a force of nature.”
Sam looks at his hands, not sure what to say to that.
“I was worried about you two boys."
"Dean's with Dad."
"Yeah. But you got away." She dips her spoon in the chili and blows over it to cool it down. "Don't you dare feel guilty about that, now."
"I can't help it." Sam shrugs. "I feel like it's all my fault."
"Of course you do." Missouri says. "Because you have a gift. A powerful one."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "How'd you know about that?"
"Psychic." She takes another bite of chili, watching him. "I sensed some of what you did, two years back. That kind of thing doesn't happen often." She cocks her head to the side.
Sam nods, but his chest clenches with shame. "I've done awful things."
"You defended yourself, and your family. You're a scared kid with a power you don't know how to control."
"Can you help me control it?" Sam asks, quickly growing excited as the idea takes hold.
"Well, of course not," she sits back with a sigh and takes her mug in her hands. "I wouldn't even know where to start."
Sam's hope shrivels just as quickly. "I haven't done anything in years-since I've been here."
"You haven't had a need to. But Sam, you need to understand something. People are afraid of what they don't understand. Sometimes irrationally so. And what you can do..." she frowns, shakes her head, like she's clearing it. "People are going to want to use it. They'll come after you."
Sam swallows. "Then I'll stay hidden."
"Can't hide forever," Missouri smiles at him, sadly. "Just-be careful, that's all. And remember, it's what you do with your gifts that matters." She finishes her coffee and sets down her empty mug. "Check please."
"You don't already know how much the check is going to be?"
"Don’t be a smartass. What I do know is that I already gave you an invaluable tip."
"You did," he says, chuckling despite himself as he stands and starts clearing the table. "Be right back." He stacks everything on a tray, carries it to the kitchen and goes to grab his receipt pad and pen. But by the time he gets back out, Missouri is gone. All that's left behind on the table is a twenty dollar bill and her business card. On the back is one handwritten word: "Congratulations!"
Sam tucks the card in his pocket, just as the door flies open and Jo comes in holding an envelope. “Mail came!” she says, handing Sam a big envelope with his name on it. The return address says Stanford University Admissions.
#
“A full ride? No kidding,” Dean says.
“Yeah isn’t it awesome?” Sam is excited. He’s been looking through the course catalog every afternoon, planning what classes he wants to take, and in what order.
“Yeah, awesome.” Dean clears his throat. “You’re gonna do great, Sammy.”
There’s a pause then, and Sam’s learned it can only mean one of two things, he’s pretty sure he knows which of the two it is this time. “You can tell Dad.”
“Yeah, okay.” Dean sniffs. “I’m proud of you. We’re proud of you.”
Sam swallows and smiles at the phone, then remembers Dean can’t see him. “Thanks, I-I miss you.”
“Miss you too.”
That night, Sam dreams of flying and his wings are solid and real, and there’s no fire inside of him, only light.
#
2001 - Interstate 29
Ellen gives Sam a car, with her blessings. It’s held together with duct tape and sheer force of will, but it’s the first car Sam’s ever owned, and it’ll get him to California. But he’s been on the road for twelve hours and can’t keep his eyes open any longer.
He pulls into the parking lot of the first motel he sees, gets a room-two beds, standard. He only needs one, and it strikes him in that moment that he’s alone again. It’s not a bad feeling, though he misses Dean terribly. It’s a quiet sort of freedom.
Sam drops his bags on the bed nearest the door, strips out of his pants and shirt, brushes his teeth and settles in on the bed. His phone buzzes. There's a voicemail from Dean.
"Hey, Sammy, listen uh-Dad and I -"static cuts off his words throughout, “- off grid for a few days, and I just wanted to tell you...how proud I am of you. I’ll call you as soon as I can-have to-you safe-We’ll be fine. So don’t-” Static cuts him short again and when it fades and the sound kicks back in, Dean's voice is drowned out by something loud and deep. A sound Sam can’t quite place, but he’s heard it before. He knows he has.
The call ends and Sam stares at the phone for a full minute afterwards, trying to quell his panic. He tells himself Dean’s okay. They probably just had a crappy signal. Dad and Dean have always made it through.
"They wouldn’t have every time-" the angel whispers in his ear. "Without you."
Sam swallows down the bile creeping up his throat, and pulls the bedsheet up as he settles back against the pillow. Heart still racing, he shuts his eyes. He doesn’t know where Dean is. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t help him. Off grid means no communications. Dean will be switching to another burner phone now. Sam’s got five of his numbers, but this one won’t work anymore after tonight.
That noise at the end of the call keeps bubbling up in Sam's mind-a long-drawn out horn, like a groan. It’s a foghorn, that much he’s certain of, that particular sound, though, isn’t a common one. But he’s sure he’s heard it before. He meditates on it, pulling it closer like he’s examining it from all angles, until he hears it on an endless loop.
Sleep grabs hold of him and yanks him under, closer to that sound. He’s standing on a cliff, looking out at water-at a lake. Lake Superior. And then it clicks: it’s not a boat horn on the voicemail, it’s the lighthouse. Split Rock-Sam remembers going there on a field trip ages ago.
He hears Dean shouting and whips around. Dean is behind him, real as life, Dad stands beside him, and both of them have their guns drawn. There’s an honest-to-god tank across from them with the muzzle of its gun lowered to the ground.
A man comes out of the tank, jumps down to the ground and walks towards the both of them with his hands lifted in a truce.
Sam wakes to fire-his angel has him by the shoulders. She’s made wholly of flame and shouts, ”Help them!” He can almost see her face, and is struck by the familiarity of it, but only for a moment, before she changes her grip on him and forces his shoulders open. His skin splits wide and she pulls his wings out by force. But even then, she doesn’t let go-she grabs the ridges, and fire pours out of her and into him.
The heat pulses into the wings and Sam bites back a scream as they expand and grow wider. His neck, back and shoulder muscles tear as they struggle to accommodate the new weight. Tears stream from his eyes and the world around him starts to tunnel. His angel is nothing more than a featureless, colorless grey. The room itself is lost to the dark and the bed crumbles away from beneath him and he falls.
Then there’s wind, all around, the smell of water and smoke. Dean shouts “Dad!” just before Sam slams into the ground, landing hard on his shoulder. The wings didn't cushion his fall at all, they've vanished again, back to whatever pocket dimension they come from. But his back still feels torn open, it hurts deep enough that he sees stars when he pushes himself to standing.
It takes a second for the world to come back into focus. He’s outside, on sloping rocky ground. He can smell the lake nearby. But he can’t see much of anything. A heavy fog covers the cliff, blanketing everything around in a grey haze too thick to see through.
But Dean and Dad are close. Sam staggers forward towards where Dean’s voice came from, until he starts to see shapes-yards away and cloaked in fog but definitely there. He needs to see more, understand where they are, where the threat is, so he focuses, doesn’t even try to reach for his wings, but instead for the core of his power, that spot where that terrible heat is building again. He pulls it up into his mind, keeps his eyes open and stares at the fog, willing the heat inside him to burn brightly enough to let him see. Until he can.
Dean’s running towards Dad but he skitters to a halt when he sees Sam, mouth dropping in shock. “Sammy?”
“What’s going on?”
Dean cards his fingers through his hair. Chews on his lip. “These a-holes want to kill you.”
“What?” Sam’s heart lurches in his chest. It’s terrible enough that Dean and Dad are even in this mess, but Sam being the cause is more than he can bear.
“They were coming for you, so we-“
“Sam?” Dad says, heading towards them. He looks stricken. “No-no you can’t be here.”
“Good thinking, Winchester,” the man next to the tank says. “Turn the abomination over to us. We’ll take care of him.”
Dad turns to face him. “You’re not gonna lay a finger on him, Gordon.”
“True,” Gordon says, grinning, showing teeth. “I got something better. He lifts his hand, and the tank raises its gun, aiming it at Sam.
“No!” Dean shouts, shoving Sam out of the way.
Sam stumbles, but catches himself. “It’s okay Dean.” He raises both of his hands and walks towards the tank, towards Gordon. “It’s me you want, right? Let them go, and you can have me.”
Gordon cocks his head. “Why would I believe a single word you say, Serpent?”
“Because you know what I can do,” Sam says. He’s stalling, hoping Dean and Dad come up with a way out of this. The core of fire inside of him is churning, building in size, but he leaves it be, clinging to the hope that they can avoid bloodshed. He was heading for law school after all, maybe he can talk them down. “You really think you can kill me?” he says, hoping he sounds convincingly unthreatened.
“Yes,” Gordon says. “I really do.”
“Sam! What the hell are you doing, man?” Dean hisses.
Sam ignores Dean, keeping his eyes on Gordon. “And then what?”
“Then we stop the Apocalypse,” Gordon says, with such conviction it sends a chill down Sam’s spine.
But Sam’s read the Bible through a few times. Maybe he just has to use their vocabulary. “No weapon used against me shall prosper.”
That gets Gordon’s attention. “That a challenge?”
Sam smiles, as he feels the core of fire in him push against his insides. He lets his wings push through, opens them wide and wills Gordon to see.
Gordon’s brow furrows and his brows creep up, eyes glazing over. “There he is, in all his ugliness.”
”Hate to break it to you, Gordon,” Dean says, feigning a mocking tone. It would be more convincing if his voice wasn’t so quavering. “But you’re not any prettier.”
Sam glances over at Dean, pleads with him silently. Get out of here. Take Dad and go! But Dean doesn’t budge. And Sam realizes, with gut-wrenching certainty, the flaw in his plan.
“Tonight, we rid the world of evil. And if we die, so be it,” Gordon says, bringing his hands together in prayer. It’s a signal.
The tank cannon shifts, and Dad shouts a warning, throwing something-a grenade. Before Sam can fully process what’s happened, Dean is knocking him to the ground, rolling them both out of the way. The grenade goes off, and the tank shudders where it stands, but fires, the shot going wide.
“Stay down!” Dad shouts as he throws another. The tank rocks back, and its cannon is off center, aimed far to the right of them. Dad wasn’t planning on destroying it, just wanted to slow it down, long enough for them to get away.
Dean drags Sam up by the arm, and starts pulling them downhill, after Dad. Sam coughs into the smoke, forcing his tearing eyes open just in time to see another tank rolling up the hill towards them through the fog. It aims its cannon.
Sam’s moving before he has time to shout out a warning, but he's not fast enough. The shot goes off and strikes the rocky ground inches away from Dad’s feet. The force of the blast knocks Dad and Dean into the air, sailing in opposite directions. Sam grabs his brother in mid-air, forcing his wings down and around Dean. Another shot goes off and the shockwave sends them slamming down at the edge of the cliff.
There's a shout, and another much louder blast, then absolute silence.
Too full of adrenaline to lose consciousness, Sam pushes himself up to sitting, still holding Dean tight with his arms and scans their surroundings. But the sky has grown shrouded with mist again.
With effort, he concentrates, piercing the fog until he can see the extent of the damage. The first thing he sees on the grassy slope before him is a severed arm, fingers splayed and bloody. He recognizes the wristwatch. It's Dad’s arm-his shredded torso is a meter away, and his face is turned to Sam, eyes frozen open and empty.
“Oh, God, Dad,” Sam says, clutching at Dean- Dean. Sam looks down at his brother, releases his grip on him, rolls him gently onto the ground.
Sam’s heart sinks as he looks down at Dean, takes in the damage. He’d tried to shield him, but he wasn't fast enough-Dean got hit with shrapnel, there's bits of metal sticking out of his leg and the side of his body-his face is bruised and there's blood trickling from his mouth. "Dean!" Sam says in a panic, as he brings his hand down to his chest trying to find a heartbeat. But he’s trembling himself, and there’s too much blood, and-
“You shall know my wrath, for my wrath is the wrath of Heaven!” Gordon shouts from behind Sam, and he turns to see Gordon holding a rocket launcher, aimed right at his head.
That stifling fear fades from Sam, melts like a sugar cube in boiling water, burned off by pure incandescent rage.
The building pressure in his chest explodes outwards in a shockwave of force. It dissolves everything it touches, flaying Gordon of skin, muscle and fat; with nothing left to hold him together he falls apart, clattering into a haphazard pile of bone. The blast collides with the tanks and they shudder and heave as they lose cohesion, and fall apart in molten chunks.
There’s nothing left but Sam and Dean. The grass around them is scorched and all that’s left of their pursuers and their war-machines are smoldering puddles of metal, bone and oil.
In his arms, Dean takes in a gasping breath of air, and Sam’s mind stutters back into focus
“Dad?” Dean croaks, and his voice is in tatters.
“Dean?” Sam looks down at him, overwhelmed by relief that he’s alive. His breath is ragged and his heart is beating, but it's too damn slow.
Dean’s eyes focus on Sam for a beat and then flutter closed. Fresh blood dribbles out of his mouth and Sam’s heart starts to race once more.
Sam concentrates, trying to push his wings back into being, sending out a silent, desperate prayer to his angel to help him like she did before-to get them out of there and to a hospital.
But she's not here. And whatever power Sam might have had is gone. He's depleted-can't even get his wings to come out, not matter how hard he tries-and he tries until his back is nothing but a latticework of agony, until he nearly blacks out from the effort.
There's nobody to help them, and he's out of tricks. But far down, at the very bottom of the sloping hill, he can just make out the road, and three abandoned cars. As carefully as he can manage, he climbs to his feet, and carries Dean down.
#
Dean has never looked as small as he does in the hospital bed; the monitors, racks of fluids and tubes and the antiseptic room itself have diminutized him. There's a tube shoved down his throat, a stent in his hand, and Sam feels so goddamn powerless it's stifling.
A nurse raps her knuckles on the door behind him, pulling him out of his reverie. "Mr. Winchester, would you like to rest in the waiting area?"
Sam shakes his head.
"I'll bring you a chair," she says, with a gentle smile.
Sam sits vigil at Dean’s bedside for hours, watching the ventilator inflate and deflate. He tries in vain to call on his power, but comes up empty. Whether or not it would help Dean anyway is beyond him. He clasps his hands together and prays again and again, calling for his angel, for any angel, for God. But nobody answers. It feels like nobody is even listening.
It's only when he drifts asleep that he senses his angel nearby. She's barely there-a whisper and a trace of a touch so light it could've been the wind. But Sam latches onto it with quickly-rising fury, grabs her ephemeral form by the wrists and shouts. "He's dying! Help him!"
The angel dissipates in his grip and he's left clutching uselessly at the air.
A night-nurse pops her head in and scolds, "We're doing our best, sir. If you can't stay quiet, please go take a walk."
Sam brings his hands down, fists still clenched, and storms out. It's not her fault, it's not anyone's fault. They are trying their best. But it isn't enough, and it can't end like this. It just can't. He walks out of the hospital, heads for the "borrowed" car he brought Dean here in and drives.
#
2001 - Blue Earth, Minnesota
When Sam gets to the church, it's empty. He remembers that Pastor Jim sleeps lightly-he accidentally woke him trying to find the bathroom in the middle of the night when he stayed here years ago. He doesn't lighten his footsteps when he walks by the rectory, moves with purpose towards the doors of the church. He’s kept the key all these years, figuring he might need it someday, and that day has finally come. He goes inside, turns on the lights and heads for the confessional, ignoring the angels in the windows and the way Michael’s statue raises his sword as Sam walks past.
He waits for less than five minutes before the door opens again. Pastor Jim shuffles across the floor and heads for the confessional himself. Sam waits for him to close the door and open the panel between them. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three years since my last confession.”
There's a pause, and a slow, smiling exhale. “It’s good to hear your voice, my son.”
"Yours too."
"What troubles you?" He says, then thinks, but doesn't ask aloud, Do you believe you hurt someone again?
"I tried to save someone.” Sam cracks his knuckles, listening to the soft popping of the joints. "Dad's dead-“ he pauses as the weight of those words hit home. “-but I got Dean out. Only he's hurt. I don't think he's gonna make it."
"I'm-I'm so sorry to hear that. Is he in the hospital?"
"Yes. They're keeping him alive. But he's not getting better. I need him to be better."
"Of course you do. We'll pray for his recovery."
"No-" Sam clenches his fists again. "That's not enough." He has to fight to push his anger down. He's sick of having miracles come when he doesn't want them and hide when they're desperately needed. If there is a God then he's petty and cruel and if he lets Dean die then he can go to Hell as far as Sam's concerned. Pressure builds along with the anger inside of him, that core of heat growing in his gut, energy gathering in his back until the skin starts to split open with an audible tear. He breathes in and out, flexing the bones and pushes his wings out as slowly as he can. They're cramped inside the little confessional box, and they're so much larger than the last time he sat in here. The tops of them brush against the ceiling, the curving claws scraping into the aging wood. The right wing nudges at the door, nearly opening it. The feathers are a muted grey, but yellow-orange light is bleeding into them, he can feel it starting to spill out of him, soaking them with light. His anger's still growing, like the wings have given him space to hold more of it. It’s a slow but steady-boiling rage that's building, and seeking a target.
Pastor Jim is staring at him, furrowed brow, eyes in a squint. "Are you all right, my son?"
"No. I'm not." Sam breathes in and out through his nose. "There's something inside of me that I don't understand and can barely control, and there's somebody that's been watching me my entire life-I used to think she was an angel. But she can't be. Not if she won't lift a finger to help Dean."
"An angel?"
Sam nods. "Sometimes she helps me, sometimes she keeps me from using this-this power that I have. She's stopped me before. But I don’t think she can anymore." He rolls his shoulders, and his feathers fill with more light, the tips aflame. "I think...I think I'm stronger than she is now."
"No man is stronger than an angel," Pastor Jim says. There's a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. He wipes a hand across his lip.
The wings are glowing brighter and Sam can feel the heat inside of him grow to match, pushing against the inside of his eyes. "If I wanted to. If I really wanted to, I think I could be." The heat is unbearable now, pressure in need of release, and when he exhales, his breath comes out in plumes of smoke.
The pastor jerks away, and covers his cheek with his hand.
With a cold shock of guilt, Sam realizes what's happened and leaves the confessional in such a rush that he forgets to shove his wings back inside.
Pastor Jim stumbles out of the box after him and his cheek is blistered, sunburned in the crosshatched pattern of the confessional panel. He turns to look at Sam and freezes, eyes wide with shock. His legs give out and he collapses, falling to his knees. “Your-your wings. I don’t understand.”
“That makes two of us,” Sam says bitterly. He can feel the skin by his temples rupture as the horns begin to force their way out.
“Are you a messenger?” he asks.
“Of God? No.” Sam takes a step towards Jim and the statue of Michael by the door quivers and falls, shattering on the tiles, reduced to nothing more than chunks of plaster. Another step and the stained glass above the chancel breaks, raining down in glittering multi-colored shards. Sam looks at the damage, and then turns back to the pastor. “You’re not the one I’m angry with. None of this is your fault.”
Jim nods, with relief and more than a little gratitude, and keels over on his side, sound asleep.
But the church continues to shake. Sam feels the force of it-palpable in the air all around him. He waits for it to fell him, to take him on directly. But it doesn’t. It moves, circling from one side of the church to the next until he understands that it’s outside, and trying to get in. It settles in front again, and as he walks towards them, the doors to the church blow wide open. Sam’s angel is outside, glorious and blinding against the night behind her.
Sam watches her, waits for her to come inside. To punish him for what he’s done, to finish what the church itself started. But Dean is dying, and Sam will find a way to heal him-he doesn’t much care who or what grows to hate him in the process.
The angel stays where she is, watching him.
“You can’t come inside, can you?” Sam asks.
She doesn’t react, but her light ripples, the doorway itself ripples. And finally the gears in Sam’s head click into place. The angel was never with him in this church. Not once, in all his life, in all the times he’s been here. “What kind of an angel can’t set foot inside a church?” he wonders out loud.
But of course she doesn’t answer. Her expression is as flawless and empty as always. And that just makes Sam angrier.
“Tell me who you are!” he says, stalking towards her. He grabs hold of her translucent, shimmering forearms and yanks her towards him. She doesn’t pull away, but can’t cross the threshold-she’s stuck there, held back by an invisible barrier.
Spreading his wings, Sam lets the swelling force inside of him out all at once in a burst of force aimed at the barrier, never letting go of his “angel”-and drags her in. The forcefield bows and breaks with a snap, and the counterforce throws them both inside.
Sam slams, head first, against the floor, feels his horns strike the wood-they're larger now, curving backwards, he notes, as he brushes his hair back out of his face. He climbs to his feet, using his wings as leverage. They’re drained of light but still there, still tangible-more-so than they’ve ever been. The angel stands before him, but she’s changing, expanding in size, wings spreading out into a fiery, burning mass. Her hair lifts up, becomes one with the flame until her whole being is limned by fire.
“Who are you?” Sam asks, determined to finally get an answer. He doesn’t know what’s happening-if the presence of the church is making her burn or if she’s always been made of fire and just can’t hide in here, but either way he knows the answer is close.
The fire fades all at once, snuffed out like a candle, and a woman stands before him-one he’s only seen in photographs, one that’s achingly familiar.
“Mom?” Sam asks, chest clenching around his heart.
She smiles at him and reaches a hand out to cup his cheek. She doesn’t feel any more solid than she did before; her touch could just as easily be a gust of wind, but Sam leans into it regardless, longing for it to be real.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Mom says.
There’s so much Sam wants to say-so much he wants to ask her, but they don’t have time for any of it. “Dean’s dying,” he says. “Please help me save him.”
She takes his hands, closes her eyes and the fire consumes her again-starting in her chest it bursts outwards and envelopes them both. She doesn’t attempt to mimic the form of an angel again, but she looks, Sam thinks, more divine than anything he’s seen and when she sends that fire streaming into him, he is not afraid.
#
Dean looks worse than he did when Sam left-so pale his skin is nearly translucent-and for a moment, Sam thinks he’s too late. That the ventilator still pumping in air is lying, keeping his corpse moving just enough to look alive. He freezes up, the idea of Dean being gone too much for him to handle after everything.
“Sam.” Mom’s got her hands on Dean, fingers stroking gently across his forehead, but her fingers sink through him. “I can’t do this by myself,” she says.
Legs shaking, Sam forces himself to Dean’s bedside. Mom reaches out a ghostly hand, and Sam takes it in his own, lets the energy course from him into her until he can feel the weight of her fingers.
She meets his eyes, with a sad smile. “We can do this together, but there’s a price.”
Sam nods. “Whatever it is, it’s worth it.”
Mom’s smile wavers, then widens as her eyes go glassy. “I’m so proud of both of you. And I love you so much.” She moves her free hand down to Dean’s chest and closes her eyes.
Sam mimics her movement, putting his hand above hers. He can feel Dean’s heartbeat through her hand-a weak fluttering pulse, and focuses on it, guided there by a certainty that’s not his own. Energy flows from him to Mom into Dean and the heart beat grows stronger-not by much, but enough that Sam focuses harder-pushing more power down into this brother until he feels drained, and then even more, but it’s still not enough. He can feel Dean’s heart stutter and slow again.
“No,” he thinks, panic building. But he feels a prickle of energy, just on the edge of his periphery. So, Sam fans his wings up and out, like solar sails-an incongruous image, but it works. He can feel the feathers soaking in energy from all around them, from the air, from the electricity in the hospital, and from outside, from the rising sun itself. From Mom and her endless sorrow and love.
The force gathering in his wings is made not of fire, but of life and light, and he pushes it down, imagining the torn flesh inside of Dean stitching itself back together.
One of the monitors begins to beep and Dean wakes with a gasp, choking on the tube in his throat. Sam helps him pull it out, and Dean stares up at him, dark bruises under his eyes and pale as anything, but alive. “Sam?” he asks.
“Yeah Dean, it’s me,” Sam says, grabbing his hand. A tear slips down his cheek.
“Mom?” Dean asks, turning towards her.
“Dean,” she says, her voice whisper-quiet. “I love you. Both of you. So much.” She lets out a gasp and staggers back. The mint-green hospital room wall behind her melts away, and behind her is sky blue, as bright as Heaven. She’s drawn backwards, even as she’s reaching for them, and the wall comes back into being as she fades away.
“Mom?” Dean asks again, straining to sit up.
“She’s gone,” Sam says, throat tight with pain. “She saved you.” He puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder until he turns to look at him again.
“Sammy,” Dean blinks up at him. “What happened? Did Dad-“
Sam shakes his head. “He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
Dean nods, wipes a hand across his nose. “You gonna tell me what the hell those are?” Dean asks, pointing over Sam’s shoulder.
Sam cranes his neck just enough to see the long curving spikes jutting out of the crest, the iridescent feathers that shift from grey to gold.
A tray clatters to the floor outside and a nurse shouts. “Oh my god!” Sam turns in time to see another nurse run up beside her and cross herself.
“Sam?” Dean asks again.
Sam tries to contract the wings, to pull them back in, but though they fold down, they’ve got nowhere to go. They’ve grown too large and there’s nothing intangible about them anymore. So he throws his arms around Dean instead and says, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
Dean’s stiff at first, but relaxes into Sam’s hold. He pulls back after a few moments, and looks him in the eyes. “Don’t you need to get to your school?”
“Yeah.” The truth of it is much more complicated. How’s he going to explain his wings?
“Want some company?” Dean asks.
Sam cracks a surprised smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d love that.”
“Then help me find my pants, and let’s get out of here.”
#
Dean Winchester has a guardian. He’s not an angel, though he loves just as fiercely; he’s not a devil, though his rage burns just as strong. He’s no longer human, but he’ll always be Dean’s brother.