There'll Be Peace When You Are Done, findingherown (2/2)
Title: There'll Be Peace When You Are Done
Recipient: findingherown
Rating: T (violence, mature themes)
Word Count: 11,281
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, implied past rape, suicide (discussed)
Author's Notes: In your prompt, you noted that what Dean did regarding Gadreel was "very bad [and] wrong". Exploring that, and what it means to Sam and to his and Dean's relationship, meant this fic took a few very dark turns. Hope you don't mind, and hope this is what you were looking for!
Summary: After kicking Gadreel out of his body, Sam can't stand to look his brother in the eyes anymore, but he can't stand the touch of angel Grace, either. Running from his problems has never worked before, but this time it ends with him crashed in a ditch - until Sam finds a family who needs his help as much as he needs theirs. But without Gadreel to heal him or Castiel to draw out the holy energy still trapped in his body, and with Abaddon and her demons still hungry for Winchester blood, Sam may not live long enough to help anyone...
Back to Part One
Time passed. Sam learned how to care for baby Kaylyn, changing diapers, making formula and baby food, putting her to bed and getting her up in the morning. Kaylyn latched onto him as if he’d always been a part of her life; Helen smiled sadly and said, “Ashley was clingy too, at that age.”
Sam didn’t just spend his time as a babysitter, though. He was a good enough handyman that he could take odd jobs around the neighborhood, tuning old heaters, fixing pipes frozen by the Atlantic winter, repairing broken walls and floors and ceilings. The work gave him a sense of legitimacy; he was “the Bennets’ handyman” rather than “the weird hitchhiker” to the people of Wareham. It meant people would be willing to vouch for him in court when the district attorney took Mike to trial, both for what he’d done to Ashley and for his assault and battery on both Tom and Sam. But Mike’s public defender was smart enough to recognize how unsympathetic his client was, and instead of a trial - which would have subjected Sam to the examination of the court and possibly the discovery that he was a supposedly-dead serial killer - convinced Mike to take a plea bargain that would put him behind bars until after Kaylyn had graduated college.
With Mike in jail, Helen and Tom were able to sleep a little easier, though Sam knew nothing would ever make up for their daughter’s death. Sam had guessed right that they saw him as a replacement for their daughter - they coddled him and doted on him nearly as much as they did to Kaylyn, and moreso whenever Sam was taking care of the baby. But after the plea bargain, they eased off a little, as if the finality of it had given them the closure they hadn’t found in Ashley’s funeral.
Dean didn’t try to contact Sam, and neither did Castiel. Sam didn’t know if it was because they didn’t want to - if they were glad he was gone, out of their hair, no longer a problem they had to deal with all the time - or if they simply hadn’t found him yet. Whatever the reason, he didn’t mind. He missed them, sure, but he still didn’t think he could stand the feel of Grace against his senses, didn’t think he could look Dean in the eye knowing that his brother would all too happily give Sam’s body to another angel if it meant Sam kept breathing. So he let himself be satisfied with the lack of contact, and carefully kept himself from worrying that something - Crowley, Abaddon, Metatron, the latest hunt - had killed them.
All things considered, it was a calm life, and a pleasant one. Kaylyn was growing rapidly, and Sam watched her take her first steps, taught her to use a spoon, felt his heart swell when she looked up at him and said, “Sammy!” in a delighted voice. Sam began to make real money as a handyman, his reputation growing over the months until the local Catholic parish hired him to restore their old heritage church. It had been so badly damaged by Hurricane Sandy that they’d had to stop using it, and for the last year and a half had been meeting in the elementary school’s cafeteria. But as difficult a project as it was, it was honest work, and Sam could lose himself for hours as he carefully restored damaged carvings and cleaned mud-caked stained glass windows.
It would have been a perfect life, in fact, except for the golden Trials energy that burned under Sam’s skin.
Whatever else Gadreel had done, he’d apparently lived up to his original bargain with Dean: he’d healed most of the damage done by that virulent energy, and kept it from hurting Sam more while he was there. But the energy wasn’t gone - it had just been suppressed. Without Gadreel, it began to eat away at Sam again, tearing up his insides and leaving him ever weaker.
He was able to hide it from the Bennets, at least - burying bloody tissues deep in the trash bins, finding excuses to play with Kaylyn on the floor or encouraging her to walk on her own instead of carrying her. But as March became April and spring brought green buds to the trees and bright flowers to neighborhood yards, Sam knew he only had a few months at most before his latest failure finally killed him.
* * *
He spotted the demons two days after Kaylyn’s first birthday. They wore bikers’ leathers and walked with the swagger of the self-assured, and Sam figured they belonged to Abaddon. He had no idea if she’d succeeded at taking over Hell yet, if Crowley was still putting up a fight. It didn’t matter, because their presence meant Abaddon had found him, and that meant he had one last chance to make things right.
Abaddon herself showed up three days later, waltzing into the partially-restored church building barely an hour after Sam had arrived to start the day’s work. She was alone - her demons must have told her about Sam’s weakened state. Just as well - Sam had planned on trapping one of her bullyboys, but he could work with her, too, and this way he didn’t have to take on several demons at once.
“Sam Winchester,” she purred. “All by your lonesome. I heard you and your brother had a falling-out.”
Sam shrugged. He stood at the side of the nave, under one of the stained glass windows lining the walls, a hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He’d been prying out a section of water-damaged wall, the work going slower than it should because he had to stop every few minutes to cough blood into a handkerchief, and the floor around him was littered with broken wood, plaster, and a handful of power tools. He didn’t answer.
Abaddon’s brow furrowed. “Cat got your tongue, Winchester?” she demanded, and paced a few steps further down the center aisle. “Or do you have some clever plan to take me down?”
“Not clever,” Sam said quietly, and swallowed a cough. “Just thorough.”
She stopped short as she came up against the edge of a devil’s trap. He watched her frown, watched her pace in a slow circle, feeling out the edges. Watched her as she looked around the little church with increasing worry, trying to spot where he’d drawn the trap. He gave her a minute to realize that there wasn’t anything to see, then said, “I’ve been restoring this place for over a month. I told them they really needed a construction company, but I’m all they could afford. So they didn’t mind if I was a little… unorthodox.”
She spun to face him, anger and - maybe, hopefully - fear in her eyes. “What did you do?!”
He showed teeth. “I built devil’s traps into every piece of this building I’ve touched. You’d have to tear it down board by board before you could escape.”
“You think I won’t?” Abaddon demanded, her voice low and dangerous.
“I think you won’t be able to,” he corrected her. He picked up the nail gun that lay at his feet, pointed it at her forehead (made his hand stop shaking from weakness), and pulled the trigger.
A bullet carved with a devil’s trap had held her before. Nails carved with devil’s traps worked just as well. Abaddon screamed as he shot nails into her hands and feet, her shoulders and stomach for good measure, but the church sat on nearly five acres of land, the rolling lawns to either side more than enough to keep anyone from hearing her. Even weakened by the Trials energy, it took him only a few minutes to tie her to one of the water-stained wooden chairs that made up the front row of pews, and a few minutes more to retrieve the little kit of syringes and medical supplies from where he’d stashed it with his tools.
The walls of the church’s confessional had been broken by the hurricane, but Sam sat in the chair anyway. He folded his hands and bowed his head. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
The words were hard to speak, but he forced them out anyway: I’m leaving Kaylyn alone again. She already lost her mother and she never had a real father, but I’m not going to be there to see her grow up.
I’m going to make Helen and Tom bury me. They buried their daughter already, and four months later they’re going to have to bury me.
I didn’t realize what Gadreel was doing until Crowley told me. It’s my fault he killed all those people. It’s my fault he killed Kevin.
I never apologized to Cas. What Gadreel did to me isn’t his fault, but I couldn’t tell him that, and he’ll blame himself for… for this.
I can’t forgive Dean for what he did. I know I should, I know forgiveness is a virtue, but…
(Kevin staring up from beneath his fingers, Kevin screaming)
I can’t.
He could feel the hot sting of tears down his cheeks when he’d finished, but he felt better. Clearheaded. He’d failed before, because Dean was his weakness, because anything Dean asked of him he’d do.
Would have done, before Dean betrayed him.
But now, he knew the truth. He was going to die whether he completed the Trials or not, and it was on him to make sure Dean couldn’t sacrifice anyone else in his effort to keep Sam alive. He took a deep breath, plunged a syringe into the vein in his arm, and drew the first dose of blood.
* * *
Abaddon screamed, insulted, threatened. He tuned her out.
Seven hours to go.
* * *
By hour five, Abaddon had fallen silent. He didn’t know if she was exhausted, or just biding her time.
Sam was so weak he could barely walk. But he drew more blood and plunged the needle into Abaddon’s arm once more.
* * *
He set the alarm on his phone to blare at top volume every ten minutes. He didn’t dare fall asleep. Golden energy thrummed under his skin, seeming to replace the blood he was losing to the cure. Abaddon watched him with sullen grey eyes.
“You’re going to die, Sam,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he answered. He sat slumped on the pew behind her, too exhausted to move.
“Dean’ll miss you.”
“He’ll get over it.”
She laughed. “He stopped you from doing this once already because he couldn’t bear to lose you. He sold his soul for you. You really think he’ll just let you go?”
“I’m not giving him the choice this time,” Sam said. His voice was rough. “I can’t trust him with it.”
“You’re right,” she agreed, and maybe he was just tired, but he thought he heard something more than contempt in her voice. Something almost… sad. “He won’t ever let you go.”
“In two hours, it won’t matter anymore.”
“...I’m sorry,” Abaddon said quietly.
It sounded genuine.
* * *
Hour eight. It was past time for Sam to have gone home, but it wasn’t unusual for him to stay a little late finishing whatever he was working on, and he didn’t think Helen and Tom would worry yet.
Abaddon sat quietly in her chair, her hair hanging over her face. The sun had begun to set, casting deep shadows through the church, but Sam thought he could see tears on her cheeks.
His hand shook so badly that he almost couldn’t draw the last vial of blood. The bend of his arm was ragged and bruised with needle marks, but the pain was nothing compared to the fire of the Trials energy burning through his bones. Breathing hurt. He didn’t have the strength to stand, so he dragged himself one-handed along the pew until he could reach Abaddon.
She didn’t protest when he sank the needle into her arm. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.
Abaddon lifted her head, grey eyes meeting his. “Sam…”
He shook his head. “When this is over… when you’re cured,” he said, his voice a bare rasp. “You know about the Men of Letters. Maybe… maybe you can help Dean get them started again.”
“Sam,” she said again, but then stopped and bowed her head. “I will.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
He could barely raise his hand to cover her mouth. Could barely muster the strength to speak the exorcism. Golden fire raged in his veins, behind his eyes, and he wondered distantly whether this was what Kevin had felt, in the moments before he died.
He felt Abaddon shudder under his hand, heard her sob. “God,” she murmured. “Oh, God…!”
He couldn’t open his eyes. Wasn’t even sure if he was upright anymore. But he knew he was at the finish line. That all he had to do was speak the Enochian spell, and it would all be over. Four syllables. Please, God, give me strength!
Drawing breath was a trial in itself. Forcing the air back out, forcing his mouth to form the words, almost impossible. But he heard them echo through the room as if spoken by someone else, echoing with power like thunder, like the sound of an immense door slamming closed:
CA NA OM DARR.
Golden power rushed out of him in a flood. Thunder boomed somewhere overhead and wind battered the walls of the little church. A woman’s voice cried out nearby, but Sam barely registered it.
He’d done it.
The Gates of Hell were sealed.
He could finally rest.
* * *
Sam had expected, with Hell sealed, that his soul would have nowhere to go when he died. Or maybe he’d go to Purgatory, since it wasn’t as if he was human (you’re a monster, Sam, a vampire). He didn’t expect to return to awareness to the sound of hospital monitors beeping, voices speaking urgently nearby, the sharp tang of disinfectant in his nostrils. He opened his eyes long enough to see Helen leaning over him, her face worried, her hand stroking his hair. Her eyes widened when she saw him looking up at her, and she said, “Sam?”
He tried to open his mouth to answer her, but even that effort was too much, and he spiraled away into darkness again.
* * *
-entire body is damaged. Like something burned him up from the inside out.
He said he’d been sick before. Is this - I mean, is he-?
I don’t know. I’ve… never seen anything like this.
Doctor, please, there has to be something you can do!
I’m sorry. All we can do is make him comfortable.
* * *
“C’mon, Sammy, c’mon, c’mon…!”
Dean’s voice.
Grace like sandpaper under his skin, burning through his body, and Sam bucked, spine arching, muscles straining against the pain and terror and desperation-
“Sammy!”
Dean’s voice, Dean’s hands on his shoulders, holding him down-
“Sam, please, stop fighting me! I’m trying to help you!”
Castiel’s voice. Castiel’s Grace.
They were dragging him back to life.
Again.
Sam slumped down against the hospital bed. He knew without asking that Cas had already fixed the worst of it, could already feel the burning under his skin easing, his breath coming more smoothly past the respirator. Fear and disgust and sick frustration roiled in his stomach, that once again an angel had control over his body - that once again Dean had given his body to an angel - that no one cared whether the touch of Grace made him want to scream.
Cas was still talking, probably to Dean: “The subatomic effects of the Trials are gone, at least. That must have been caused by the energy building up inside him, and once it was gone, his body returned to normal.”
“Normal,” Dean said, his voice bitter, “except the part where he’s dying.”
“He’ll live,” Castiel said. “He may have technically died after finishing the Trials and sealing Hell, but he got medical attention quickly enough afterward that they were able to resuscitate him.”
“Abaddon,” Dean said. “The cops let me hear the 911 call. He cured her, and I guess she felt bad enough about it that she used his phone to call an ambulance.”
“Well, she saved his life,” Castiel said. “Now it’s just a matter of repairing the damage he suffered from carrying around all that power for so long.”
“But you can do it, right, Cas?”
“I’m doing everything I can,” Castiel said softly. His hand, warm on Sam’s forehead, moved, smoothing Sam’s hair back. “Sam,” he said. “I know you’re awake.”
If a ventilator hadn’t been breathing for him, Sam would have sighed. As it was, he opened his eyes and did his best to glare at Castiel. The hospital room was dark and quiet; the clock on the wall said it was past midnight. It was just Sam, Dean, and Castiel in the room, though a knitted blanket that Sam recognized from the Bennets’ living room had been draped across his legs. The sight of it made his throat tighten, and he had to fight the urge to swallow against the breathing tube down his throat.
“Sam?” Dean said, and shoved into Sam’s line of sight. “Sammy!”
Sam met his brother’s eyes. Dean looked… ragged. Afraid. But also relieved, and he reached out to rest a hand against Sam’s jaw.
Sam turned his head away.
“Dammit, Sam,” Dean said. Sam had expected him to grab onto him, force Sam to look at him, but to his surprise, he didn’t. Dean’s voice, when he spoke again, sounded broken. “You’re still pissed at me.”
Sam didn’t move.
“Sammy,” Dean said, and then stopped and said to Cas, “Can we take that damn ventilator off? He can’t say anything like this.”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Castiel answered. “I did what I could, but he’s still fragile.”
“Dammit,” Dean muttered again.
Cas, Sam thought. Maybe this would be close enough to praying. You can hear me, can’t you?
There was a startled pause, then Castiel said, “Yes, I can.”
From the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean swing around to stare at Cas in confusion, but Sam ignored him. Sorry I ran off, he thought to Castiel.
“It’s all right,” Castiel said. “I think… I think I understand. And… I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize… how you felt. I won’t do it again.”
Sam stared at him for a second, shocked. He hadn’t expected Castiel to understand. Had thought, despite the Bennets’ reassurances that he had every right to be upset about what Dean and Gadreel had done, that Sam was the freak, the one who was wrong (because he always was, because Dean got to decide who and what was right, and the answer was never Sam). Castiel waited him out with the patience of someone who’d lived since the beginning of creation, and finally Sam nodded. He could feel tears at the corners of his eyes, of exhaustion and frustration and pain, but he kept his gaze firmly on the far wall and the tears didn’t fall.
Dean looked between Castiel and Sam in surprise. “Cas, you can hear him?”
“He’s… praying to me,” Castiel confirmed.
“Sam,” Dean said sharply, and leaned over to look at him. “Damn it, Sam, what the hell were you thinking? I told you finishing the Trials would kill you!”
They were killing me anyway, Sam thought, and Castiel repeated it out loud. They didn’t care if I ‘let it go’. If they were going to kill me whether or not I finished, then might as well finish.
“So, what, all of that was for nothing?” Dean demanded. “Crowley, Gadreel, Kevin-” His voice cracked and he broke off, turning away.
Sam huffed a bitter laugh past the ventilator. This is what happens, Dean. We keep throwing away everything - everyone - else for each other. It’s time to stop.
“Sammy-”
No, Sam thought, sharp enough that Castiel twitched. No, Dean.
“Why not?” Dean demanded. “You finished the Trials, you proved your point, Sam, now it’s time to come home.”
Clearly I didn’t, Sam said. Not if you think I’m ready to come back with you.
Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth and turned away, his shoulders tight with tension. When he turned back, his face was dark, angry. “Sam, you damn near killed yourself again. I can’t-I’m not going to-”
It’s not your choice, Sam interrupted. Castiel, translating, managed to convey some of his frustration in his voice.
“Why the hell not?” Dean all but snarled. “You keep choosing to die, Sam! I’m not gonna let you do that - I can’t.”
It’s not your choice, Sam said again, tiredly.
“Fine,” Dean snapped. “How long are you gonna keep up this little show, Sam? When are you gonna come home?”
Sam turned his head to meet his brother’s eyes. When you understand why I won’t, he said. Castiel repeated the words softly, giving them the weight Sam intended.
Dean stared back for a long minute, then huffed out a breath and turned away. “Fine,” he said again, and the sharpness of his voice didn’t quite hide the pain in it. “Bye, Sam. Come find me when you’re done playing house.” Without waiting for an answer, he stormed out of the room.
Sam looked up at Castiel. Take care of him, Cas?
“Always,” Castiel murmured. He smoothed the hair off Sam’s forehead again, then followed Dean out of the room, leaving Sam alone.
With no one to see him, he closed his eyes and let the tears fall.
* * *
Sam woke up the next morning to baby Kaylyn crawling on his legs and calling, “Sammy! Sammy!” He blinked his eyes open and tried to smile at her, though he didn’t think she could see it through the ventilator.
She didn’t seem to care, though. She settled herself on his stomach and held out her current favorite toy, a little plush bunny with a jangling bell around its neck that Sam had gotten her for Easter. “Bun,” she announced, and shook the bunny so the bell jingled. “Bun!”
Lifting an arm was almost more than Sam could manage, but he took the bunny from her and hopped it through the air, making Kaylyn squeal with delight. Past her, he could see Helen and Tom standing beside his hospital bed, relief on their faces.
“Sam,” Helen said, and reached past Kaylyn to squeeze Sam’s wrist. “I’m so glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
He shrugged a shoulder. Helen smiled wryly. “Dumb question, I guess. The doctor said you were… you almost died. He said it’s a miracle you’re alive right now.” Her smile turned watery, tears filling her eyes.
A miracle named Castiel, but Sam couldn’t exactly tell her that, even if he hadn’t had a ventilator tube down his throat. He just turned his hand over under hers and squeezed her fingers.
“We’re going to get you better,” Helen continued, and behind her, Tom nodded firmly. “We’ll get you better, and bring you home. You understand me?”
Sam nodded. He was already exhausted, his eyes drifting closed again despite Kaylyn pushing the bunny against his chest, but he was alive. He was alive, and he had a home to go to.
Maybe he’d be all right after all.
Recipient: findingherown
Rating: T (violence, mature themes)
Word Count: 11,281
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, implied past rape, suicide (discussed)
Author's Notes: In your prompt, you noted that what Dean did regarding Gadreel was "very bad [and] wrong". Exploring that, and what it means to Sam and to his and Dean's relationship, meant this fic took a few very dark turns. Hope you don't mind, and hope this is what you were looking for!
Summary: After kicking Gadreel out of his body, Sam can't stand to look his brother in the eyes anymore, but he can't stand the touch of angel Grace, either. Running from his problems has never worked before, but this time it ends with him crashed in a ditch - until Sam finds a family who needs his help as much as he needs theirs. But without Gadreel to heal him or Castiel to draw out the holy energy still trapped in his body, and with Abaddon and her demons still hungry for Winchester blood, Sam may not live long enough to help anyone...
Back to Part One
Time passed. Sam learned how to care for baby Kaylyn, changing diapers, making formula and baby food, putting her to bed and getting her up in the morning. Kaylyn latched onto him as if he’d always been a part of her life; Helen smiled sadly and said, “Ashley was clingy too, at that age.”
Sam didn’t just spend his time as a babysitter, though. He was a good enough handyman that he could take odd jobs around the neighborhood, tuning old heaters, fixing pipes frozen by the Atlantic winter, repairing broken walls and floors and ceilings. The work gave him a sense of legitimacy; he was “the Bennets’ handyman” rather than “the weird hitchhiker” to the people of Wareham. It meant people would be willing to vouch for him in court when the district attorney took Mike to trial, both for what he’d done to Ashley and for his assault and battery on both Tom and Sam. But Mike’s public defender was smart enough to recognize how unsympathetic his client was, and instead of a trial - which would have subjected Sam to the examination of the court and possibly the discovery that he was a supposedly-dead serial killer - convinced Mike to take a plea bargain that would put him behind bars until after Kaylyn had graduated college.
With Mike in jail, Helen and Tom were able to sleep a little easier, though Sam knew nothing would ever make up for their daughter’s death. Sam had guessed right that they saw him as a replacement for their daughter - they coddled him and doted on him nearly as much as they did to Kaylyn, and moreso whenever Sam was taking care of the baby. But after the plea bargain, they eased off a little, as if the finality of it had given them the closure they hadn’t found in Ashley’s funeral.
Dean didn’t try to contact Sam, and neither did Castiel. Sam didn’t know if it was because they didn’t want to - if they were glad he was gone, out of their hair, no longer a problem they had to deal with all the time - or if they simply hadn’t found him yet. Whatever the reason, he didn’t mind. He missed them, sure, but he still didn’t think he could stand the feel of Grace against his senses, didn’t think he could look Dean in the eye knowing that his brother would all too happily give Sam’s body to another angel if it meant Sam kept breathing. So he let himself be satisfied with the lack of contact, and carefully kept himself from worrying that something - Crowley, Abaddon, Metatron, the latest hunt - had killed them.
All things considered, it was a calm life, and a pleasant one. Kaylyn was growing rapidly, and Sam watched her take her first steps, taught her to use a spoon, felt his heart swell when she looked up at him and said, “Sammy!” in a delighted voice. Sam began to make real money as a handyman, his reputation growing over the months until the local Catholic parish hired him to restore their old heritage church. It had been so badly damaged by Hurricane Sandy that they’d had to stop using it, and for the last year and a half had been meeting in the elementary school’s cafeteria. But as difficult a project as it was, it was honest work, and Sam could lose himself for hours as he carefully restored damaged carvings and cleaned mud-caked stained glass windows.
It would have been a perfect life, in fact, except for the golden Trials energy that burned under Sam’s skin.
Whatever else Gadreel had done, he’d apparently lived up to his original bargain with Dean: he’d healed most of the damage done by that virulent energy, and kept it from hurting Sam more while he was there. But the energy wasn’t gone - it had just been suppressed. Without Gadreel, it began to eat away at Sam again, tearing up his insides and leaving him ever weaker.
He was able to hide it from the Bennets, at least - burying bloody tissues deep in the trash bins, finding excuses to play with Kaylyn on the floor or encouraging her to walk on her own instead of carrying her. But as March became April and spring brought green buds to the trees and bright flowers to neighborhood yards, Sam knew he only had a few months at most before his latest failure finally killed him.
* * *
He spotted the demons two days after Kaylyn’s first birthday. They wore bikers’ leathers and walked with the swagger of the self-assured, and Sam figured they belonged to Abaddon. He had no idea if she’d succeeded at taking over Hell yet, if Crowley was still putting up a fight. It didn’t matter, because their presence meant Abaddon had found him, and that meant he had one last chance to make things right.
Abaddon herself showed up three days later, waltzing into the partially-restored church building barely an hour after Sam had arrived to start the day’s work. She was alone - her demons must have told her about Sam’s weakened state. Just as well - Sam had planned on trapping one of her bullyboys, but he could work with her, too, and this way he didn’t have to take on several demons at once.
“Sam Winchester,” she purred. “All by your lonesome. I heard you and your brother had a falling-out.”
Sam shrugged. He stood at the side of the nave, under one of the stained glass windows lining the walls, a hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He’d been prying out a section of water-damaged wall, the work going slower than it should because he had to stop every few minutes to cough blood into a handkerchief, and the floor around him was littered with broken wood, plaster, and a handful of power tools. He didn’t answer.
Abaddon’s brow furrowed. “Cat got your tongue, Winchester?” she demanded, and paced a few steps further down the center aisle. “Or do you have some clever plan to take me down?”
“Not clever,” Sam said quietly, and swallowed a cough. “Just thorough.”
She stopped short as she came up against the edge of a devil’s trap. He watched her frown, watched her pace in a slow circle, feeling out the edges. Watched her as she looked around the little church with increasing worry, trying to spot where he’d drawn the trap. He gave her a minute to realize that there wasn’t anything to see, then said, “I’ve been restoring this place for over a month. I told them they really needed a construction company, but I’m all they could afford. So they didn’t mind if I was a little… unorthodox.”
She spun to face him, anger and - maybe, hopefully - fear in her eyes. “What did you do?!”
He showed teeth. “I built devil’s traps into every piece of this building I’ve touched. You’d have to tear it down board by board before you could escape.”
“You think I won’t?” Abaddon demanded, her voice low and dangerous.
“I think you won’t be able to,” he corrected her. He picked up the nail gun that lay at his feet, pointed it at her forehead (made his hand stop shaking from weakness), and pulled the trigger.
A bullet carved with a devil’s trap had held her before. Nails carved with devil’s traps worked just as well. Abaddon screamed as he shot nails into her hands and feet, her shoulders and stomach for good measure, but the church sat on nearly five acres of land, the rolling lawns to either side more than enough to keep anyone from hearing her. Even weakened by the Trials energy, it took him only a few minutes to tie her to one of the water-stained wooden chairs that made up the front row of pews, and a few minutes more to retrieve the little kit of syringes and medical supplies from where he’d stashed it with his tools.
The walls of the church’s confessional had been broken by the hurricane, but Sam sat in the chair anyway. He folded his hands and bowed his head. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
The words were hard to speak, but he forced them out anyway: I’m leaving Kaylyn alone again. She already lost her mother and she never had a real father, but I’m not going to be there to see her grow up.
I’m going to make Helen and Tom bury me. They buried their daughter already, and four months later they’re going to have to bury me.
I didn’t realize what Gadreel was doing until Crowley told me. It’s my fault he killed all those people. It’s my fault he killed Kevin.
I never apologized to Cas. What Gadreel did to me isn’t his fault, but I couldn’t tell him that, and he’ll blame himself for… for this.
I can’t forgive Dean for what he did. I know I should, I know forgiveness is a virtue, but…
(Kevin staring up from beneath his fingers, Kevin screaming)
I can’t.
He could feel the hot sting of tears down his cheeks when he’d finished, but he felt better. Clearheaded. He’d failed before, because Dean was his weakness, because anything Dean asked of him he’d do.
Would have done, before Dean betrayed him.
But now, he knew the truth. He was going to die whether he completed the Trials or not, and it was on him to make sure Dean couldn’t sacrifice anyone else in his effort to keep Sam alive. He took a deep breath, plunged a syringe into the vein in his arm, and drew the first dose of blood.
* * *
Abaddon screamed, insulted, threatened. He tuned her out.
Seven hours to go.
* * *
By hour five, Abaddon had fallen silent. He didn’t know if she was exhausted, or just biding her time.
Sam was so weak he could barely walk. But he drew more blood and plunged the needle into Abaddon’s arm once more.
* * *
He set the alarm on his phone to blare at top volume every ten minutes. He didn’t dare fall asleep. Golden energy thrummed under his skin, seeming to replace the blood he was losing to the cure. Abaddon watched him with sullen grey eyes.
“You’re going to die, Sam,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he answered. He sat slumped on the pew behind her, too exhausted to move.
“Dean’ll miss you.”
“He’ll get over it.”
She laughed. “He stopped you from doing this once already because he couldn’t bear to lose you. He sold his soul for you. You really think he’ll just let you go?”
“I’m not giving him the choice this time,” Sam said. His voice was rough. “I can’t trust him with it.”
“You’re right,” she agreed, and maybe he was just tired, but he thought he heard something more than contempt in her voice. Something almost… sad. “He won’t ever let you go.”
“In two hours, it won’t matter anymore.”
“...I’m sorry,” Abaddon said quietly.
It sounded genuine.
* * *
Hour eight. It was past time for Sam to have gone home, but it wasn’t unusual for him to stay a little late finishing whatever he was working on, and he didn’t think Helen and Tom would worry yet.
Abaddon sat quietly in her chair, her hair hanging over her face. The sun had begun to set, casting deep shadows through the church, but Sam thought he could see tears on her cheeks.
His hand shook so badly that he almost couldn’t draw the last vial of blood. The bend of his arm was ragged and bruised with needle marks, but the pain was nothing compared to the fire of the Trials energy burning through his bones. Breathing hurt. He didn’t have the strength to stand, so he dragged himself one-handed along the pew until he could reach Abaddon.
She didn’t protest when he sank the needle into her arm. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for.
Abaddon lifted her head, grey eyes meeting his. “Sam…”
He shook his head. “When this is over… when you’re cured,” he said, his voice a bare rasp. “You know about the Men of Letters. Maybe… maybe you can help Dean get them started again.”
“Sam,” she said again, but then stopped and bowed her head. “I will.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
He could barely raise his hand to cover her mouth. Could barely muster the strength to speak the exorcism. Golden fire raged in his veins, behind his eyes, and he wondered distantly whether this was what Kevin had felt, in the moments before he died.
He felt Abaddon shudder under his hand, heard her sob. “God,” she murmured. “Oh, God…!”
He couldn’t open his eyes. Wasn’t even sure if he was upright anymore. But he knew he was at the finish line. That all he had to do was speak the Enochian spell, and it would all be over. Four syllables. Please, God, give me strength!
Drawing breath was a trial in itself. Forcing the air back out, forcing his mouth to form the words, almost impossible. But he heard them echo through the room as if spoken by someone else, echoing with power like thunder, like the sound of an immense door slamming closed:
CA NA OM DARR.
Golden power rushed out of him in a flood. Thunder boomed somewhere overhead and wind battered the walls of the little church. A woman’s voice cried out nearby, but Sam barely registered it.
He’d done it.
The Gates of Hell were sealed.
He could finally rest.
* * *
Sam had expected, with Hell sealed, that his soul would have nowhere to go when he died. Or maybe he’d go to Purgatory, since it wasn’t as if he was human (you’re a monster, Sam, a vampire). He didn’t expect to return to awareness to the sound of hospital monitors beeping, voices speaking urgently nearby, the sharp tang of disinfectant in his nostrils. He opened his eyes long enough to see Helen leaning over him, her face worried, her hand stroking his hair. Her eyes widened when she saw him looking up at her, and she said, “Sam?”
He tried to open his mouth to answer her, but even that effort was too much, and he spiraled away into darkness again.
* * *
-entire body is damaged. Like something burned him up from the inside out.
He said he’d been sick before. Is this - I mean, is he-?
I don’t know. I’ve… never seen anything like this.
Doctor, please, there has to be something you can do!
I’m sorry. All we can do is make him comfortable.
* * *
“C’mon, Sammy, c’mon, c’mon…!”
Dean’s voice.
Grace like sandpaper under his skin, burning through his body, and Sam bucked, spine arching, muscles straining against the pain and terror and desperation-
“Sammy!”
Dean’s voice, Dean’s hands on his shoulders, holding him down-
“Sam, please, stop fighting me! I’m trying to help you!”
Castiel’s voice. Castiel’s Grace.
They were dragging him back to life.
Again.
Sam slumped down against the hospital bed. He knew without asking that Cas had already fixed the worst of it, could already feel the burning under his skin easing, his breath coming more smoothly past the respirator. Fear and disgust and sick frustration roiled in his stomach, that once again an angel had control over his body - that once again Dean had given his body to an angel - that no one cared whether the touch of Grace made him want to scream.
Cas was still talking, probably to Dean: “The subatomic effects of the Trials are gone, at least. That must have been caused by the energy building up inside him, and once it was gone, his body returned to normal.”
“Normal,” Dean said, his voice bitter, “except the part where he’s dying.”
“He’ll live,” Castiel said. “He may have technically died after finishing the Trials and sealing Hell, but he got medical attention quickly enough afterward that they were able to resuscitate him.”
“Abaddon,” Dean said. “The cops let me hear the 911 call. He cured her, and I guess she felt bad enough about it that she used his phone to call an ambulance.”
“Well, she saved his life,” Castiel said. “Now it’s just a matter of repairing the damage he suffered from carrying around all that power for so long.”
“But you can do it, right, Cas?”
“I’m doing everything I can,” Castiel said softly. His hand, warm on Sam’s forehead, moved, smoothing Sam’s hair back. “Sam,” he said. “I know you’re awake.”
If a ventilator hadn’t been breathing for him, Sam would have sighed. As it was, he opened his eyes and did his best to glare at Castiel. The hospital room was dark and quiet; the clock on the wall said it was past midnight. It was just Sam, Dean, and Castiel in the room, though a knitted blanket that Sam recognized from the Bennets’ living room had been draped across his legs. The sight of it made his throat tighten, and he had to fight the urge to swallow against the breathing tube down his throat.
“Sam?” Dean said, and shoved into Sam’s line of sight. “Sammy!”
Sam met his brother’s eyes. Dean looked… ragged. Afraid. But also relieved, and he reached out to rest a hand against Sam’s jaw.
Sam turned his head away.
“Dammit, Sam,” Dean said. Sam had expected him to grab onto him, force Sam to look at him, but to his surprise, he didn’t. Dean’s voice, when he spoke again, sounded broken. “You’re still pissed at me.”
Sam didn’t move.
“Sammy,” Dean said, and then stopped and said to Cas, “Can we take that damn ventilator off? He can’t say anything like this.”
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Castiel answered. “I did what I could, but he’s still fragile.”
“Dammit,” Dean muttered again.
Cas, Sam thought. Maybe this would be close enough to praying. You can hear me, can’t you?
There was a startled pause, then Castiel said, “Yes, I can.”
From the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean swing around to stare at Cas in confusion, but Sam ignored him. Sorry I ran off, he thought to Castiel.
“It’s all right,” Castiel said. “I think… I think I understand. And… I’m sorry, too. I didn’t realize… how you felt. I won’t do it again.”
Sam stared at him for a second, shocked. He hadn’t expected Castiel to understand. Had thought, despite the Bennets’ reassurances that he had every right to be upset about what Dean and Gadreel had done, that Sam was the freak, the one who was wrong (because he always was, because Dean got to decide who and what was right, and the answer was never Sam). Castiel waited him out with the patience of someone who’d lived since the beginning of creation, and finally Sam nodded. He could feel tears at the corners of his eyes, of exhaustion and frustration and pain, but he kept his gaze firmly on the far wall and the tears didn’t fall.
Dean looked between Castiel and Sam in surprise. “Cas, you can hear him?”
“He’s… praying to me,” Castiel confirmed.
“Sam,” Dean said sharply, and leaned over to look at him. “Damn it, Sam, what the hell were you thinking? I told you finishing the Trials would kill you!”
They were killing me anyway, Sam thought, and Castiel repeated it out loud. They didn’t care if I ‘let it go’. If they were going to kill me whether or not I finished, then might as well finish.
“So, what, all of that was for nothing?” Dean demanded. “Crowley, Gadreel, Kevin-” His voice cracked and he broke off, turning away.
Sam huffed a bitter laugh past the ventilator. This is what happens, Dean. We keep throwing away everything - everyone - else for each other. It’s time to stop.
“Sammy-”
No, Sam thought, sharp enough that Castiel twitched. No, Dean.
“Why not?” Dean demanded. “You finished the Trials, you proved your point, Sam, now it’s time to come home.”
Clearly I didn’t, Sam said. Not if you think I’m ready to come back with you.
Dean scrubbed a hand over his mouth and turned away, his shoulders tight with tension. When he turned back, his face was dark, angry. “Sam, you damn near killed yourself again. I can’t-I’m not going to-”
It’s not your choice, Sam interrupted. Castiel, translating, managed to convey some of his frustration in his voice.
“Why the hell not?” Dean all but snarled. “You keep choosing to die, Sam! I’m not gonna let you do that - I can’t.”
It’s not your choice, Sam said again, tiredly.
“Fine,” Dean snapped. “How long are you gonna keep up this little show, Sam? When are you gonna come home?”
Sam turned his head to meet his brother’s eyes. When you understand why I won’t, he said. Castiel repeated the words softly, giving them the weight Sam intended.
Dean stared back for a long minute, then huffed out a breath and turned away. “Fine,” he said again, and the sharpness of his voice didn’t quite hide the pain in it. “Bye, Sam. Come find me when you’re done playing house.” Without waiting for an answer, he stormed out of the room.
Sam looked up at Castiel. Take care of him, Cas?
“Always,” Castiel murmured. He smoothed the hair off Sam’s forehead again, then followed Dean out of the room, leaving Sam alone.
With no one to see him, he closed his eyes and let the tears fall.
* * *
Sam woke up the next morning to baby Kaylyn crawling on his legs and calling, “Sammy! Sammy!” He blinked his eyes open and tried to smile at her, though he didn’t think she could see it through the ventilator.
She didn’t seem to care, though. She settled herself on his stomach and held out her current favorite toy, a little plush bunny with a jangling bell around its neck that Sam had gotten her for Easter. “Bun,” she announced, and shook the bunny so the bell jingled. “Bun!”
Lifting an arm was almost more than Sam could manage, but he took the bunny from her and hopped it through the air, making Kaylyn squeal with delight. Past her, he could see Helen and Tom standing beside his hospital bed, relief on their faces.
“Sam,” Helen said, and reached past Kaylyn to squeeze Sam’s wrist. “I’m so glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
He shrugged a shoulder. Helen smiled wryly. “Dumb question, I guess. The doctor said you were… you almost died. He said it’s a miracle you’re alive right now.” Her smile turned watery, tears filling her eyes.
A miracle named Castiel, but Sam couldn’t exactly tell her that, even if he hadn’t had a ventilator tube down his throat. He just turned his hand over under hers and squeezed her fingers.
“We’re going to get you better,” Helen continued, and behind her, Tom nodded firmly. “We’ll get you better, and bring you home. You understand me?”
Sam nodded. He was already exhausted, his eyes drifting closed again despite Kaylyn pushing the bunny against his chest, but he was alive. He was alive, and he had a home to go to.
Maybe he’d be all right after all.