Sam finds it impossibly frustrating that of all of the people in his life at the moment, Castiel is the only one to look him in the eyes and stare at Sam instead of the scars. Castiel is also the only person in Sam’s life who apparently has no interest whatsoever in Sam, beyond the cursory link between Sam and Dean’s general wellbeing.
During the search for Anna’s grace, she shies away from Sam. Looks anywhere but directly at him until Dean snaps at her and Anna snaps back with just as much legitimacy and the two of them sulk and smoulder at each other. Sam is largely unsurprised when they sleep together. But Anael is a different creature and she stares right into Sam with the same intensity Castiel holds, though her view is perhaps angrier. That’s how Sam equates Castiel to the good little solider and Anael to the role of deserter, the child who left. While he’s sure no angel would appreciate the sentiment, Sam feels an affinity with her. Envy, too, as she had so many years of a normal life while even at his very best Sam had never been able to hide the reality from himself.
“You’re not afraid to look at me anymore,” he comments shortly after she has reclaimed her wings. He has a string of voicemails on his phone from Ruby, but he’s not interested in arguing with the demon about her blood and why he won’t drink it. He was looking to be alone, and it is only when Anael joins him that he realises that no, that’s never been what he has wanted.
Anael is beautiful, and ethereal, and her presence speaks of more years than Sam can comprehend. The two of them could not be more different by design.
“Bodies are impermanent,” Anael replies. “It’s the soul that is important.”
Sam looks out at the gravel of the parking lot, and doesn’t mind at all when Anael keeps staring at him. “And how does my soul look?”
Anael looks at him then, looks deep into him and Sam can feel the prickle of her presence under his skin, the burn of her in places that are broken. “You have not taken the paths that were expected of you,” she replies. Angels, Sam is learning, do not like answering questions.
“I don’t think I’m very good at following paths,” Sam admits. He strayed off the path his father had laid out for him, the path to law school that he had determined for himself. He’d even strayed from whatever path the yellow-eyed bastard had set him on, judging by the lack of psychic powers of late. “I think I’m better at screwing things up.”
Anael reaches out and wraps her hand around three of Sam’s fingers, as much of his hand that her own can embrace. She smiles at Sam (a ghost of her human smile, but confident and beautiful all the same) and Sam smiles back, making the scars on the right side of his face crinkle stiffly. “You are,” she replies. “But it’s not so bad.”
*
Time may heal a wound, but it does nothing to erase the scar left behind. Sam is never going to be free of the cruel lines of red on his face, of the stares and the pauses, the wrought iron fence keeping him locked away from the world. But Dean will never be free of his time in hell, of the sick need to sacrifice himself for others. The angels by their sides will never be free of their respective betrayals, of the decisions they have made and the plans they have disrupted. The world will never be free of the slow and steady creep, creep, creep of demons out of hell.
But Dean is looking him in the eyes, and shocked stares soften when Sam smiles. It’s not so bad, and - for this one thing at the very least - it’s getting better.
*
Sam finds it impossibly frustrating that of all of the people in his life at the moment, Castiel is the only one to look him in the eyes and stare at Sam instead of the scars. Castiel is also the only person in Sam’s life who apparently has no interest whatsoever in Sam, beyond the cursory link between Sam and Dean’s general wellbeing.
During the search for Anna’s grace, she shies away from Sam. Looks anywhere but directly at him until Dean snaps at her and Anna snaps back with just as much legitimacy and the two of them sulk and smoulder at each other. Sam is largely unsurprised when they sleep together. But Anael is a different creature and she stares right into Sam with the same intensity Castiel holds, though her view is perhaps angrier. That’s how Sam equates Castiel to the good little solider and Anael to the role of deserter, the child who left. While he’s sure no angel would appreciate the sentiment, Sam feels an affinity with her. Envy, too, as she had so many years of a normal life while even at his very best Sam had never been able to hide the reality from himself.
“You’re not afraid to look at me anymore,” he comments shortly after she has reclaimed her wings. He has a string of voicemails on his phone from Ruby, but he’s not interested in arguing with the demon about her blood and why he won’t drink it. He was looking to be alone, and it is only when Anael joins him that he realises that no, that’s never been what he has wanted.
Anael is beautiful, and ethereal, and her presence speaks of more years than Sam can comprehend. The two of them could not be more different by design.
“Bodies are impermanent,” Anael replies. “It’s the soul that is important.”
Sam looks out at the gravel of the parking lot, and doesn’t mind at all when Anael keeps staring at him. “And how does my soul look?”
Anael looks at him then, looks deep into him and Sam can feel the prickle of her presence under his skin, the burn of her in places that are broken. “You have not taken the paths that were expected of you,” she replies. Angels, Sam is learning, do not like answering questions.
“I don’t think I’m very good at following paths,” Sam admits. He strayed off the path his father had laid out for him, the path to law school that he had determined for himself. He’d even strayed from whatever path the yellow-eyed bastard had set him on, judging by the lack of psychic powers of late. “I think I’m better at screwing things up.”
Anael reaches out and wraps her hand around three of Sam’s fingers, as much of his hand that her own can embrace. She smiles at Sam (a ghost of her human smile, but confident and beautiful all the same) and Sam smiles back, making the scars on the right side of his face crinkle stiffly. “You are,” she replies. “But it’s not so bad.”
*
Time may heal a wound, but it does nothing to erase the scar left behind. Sam is never going to be free of the cruel lines of red on his face, of the stares and the pauses, the wrought iron fence keeping him locked away from the world. But Dean will never be free of his time in hell, of the sick need to sacrifice himself for others. The angels by their sides will never be free of their respective betrayals, of the decisions they have made and the plans they have disrupted. The world will never be free of the slow and steady creep, creep, creep of demons out of hell.
But Dean is looking him in the eyes, and shocked stares soften when Sam smiles. It’s not so bad, and - for this one thing at the very least - it’s getting better.
The end.
Reply
*dances* Thank you so much for filling this prompt!
Reply
You've broken my coherency with this phenomenal amazingness.
Reply
Leave a comment