(no subject)
They'd gotten a slow start this morning -- or rather, Sam had -- so after the usual bitching and moaning, Dean had gone out to get them both coffee and something to eat.
He won't have much time before his brother comes back. Hopefully he won't need it.
Sam hunts around in his duffel bag and comes up with a white votive candle in a small glass holder, a silver rosary with jet beads, and a lighter. He lights the candle and sets it down on the cheap wooden table by the TV, then arranges the rosary in front of it.
It's been a long while since he's felt the need for rituals and trappings to accompany his own personal acts of prayer, but he hasn't forgotten how to use them.
When Pastor Jim Murphy turns away from the altar, he finds that he's not alone in the church.
"Sam? Is everything okay? Where's Dean?"
The six-year-old boy nods, then shrugs and points over his shoulder toward the church's vestibule.
"Looking at pictures of cars. He said it was okay if I came in here as long as I didn't bother you."
"You're not bothering me, son." Pastor Jim smiles at him. "It's all right."
"Okay." A beat. "What were you doing?"
"Praying."
Awkwardly, Sam lowers himself to the ground, kneeling before the makeshift altar. He clears his throat.
"Why?"
"It's how I talk to God." Pastor Jim comes over and takes a seat in the pew beside Sam. "I like to keep in touch."
"Does he talk back?"
"Sometimes. Maybe not the same way that you'd talk to Dean, or your dad would talk to you, but when He answers, you can always tell."
Sam thinks that over for a few seconds, frowning in concentration.
"Can I pray too?"
"Anyone can," Jim promises him. "He'll hear you. He's always listening. All you need to do is believe."
"Our Father, who art in heaven..."
But just like before, the words stick in his throat. Sam closes his eyes in despair.
When the black, smoky cloud oozes through the air vent behind him and into the motel room, he doesn't notice.
Not in time to do anything about it, anyway.
He won't have much time before his brother comes back. Hopefully he won't need it.
Sam hunts around in his duffel bag and comes up with a white votive candle in a small glass holder, a silver rosary with jet beads, and a lighter. He lights the candle and sets it down on the cheap wooden table by the TV, then arranges the rosary in front of it.
It's been a long while since he's felt the need for rituals and trappings to accompany his own personal acts of prayer, but he hasn't forgotten how to use them.
When Pastor Jim Murphy turns away from the altar, he finds that he's not alone in the church.
"Sam? Is everything okay? Where's Dean?"
The six-year-old boy nods, then shrugs and points over his shoulder toward the church's vestibule.
"Looking at pictures of cars. He said it was okay if I came in here as long as I didn't bother you."
"You're not bothering me, son." Pastor Jim smiles at him. "It's all right."
"Okay." A beat. "What were you doing?"
"Praying."
Awkwardly, Sam lowers himself to the ground, kneeling before the makeshift altar. He clears his throat.
"Why?"
"It's how I talk to God." Pastor Jim comes over and takes a seat in the pew beside Sam. "I like to keep in touch."
"Does he talk back?"
"Sometimes. Maybe not the same way that you'd talk to Dean, or your dad would talk to you, but when He answers, you can always tell."
Sam thinks that over for a few seconds, frowning in concentration.
"Can I pray too?"
"Anyone can," Jim promises him. "He'll hear you. He's always listening. All you need to do is believe."
"Our Father, who art in heaven..."
But just like before, the words stick in his throat. Sam closes his eyes in despair.
When the black, smoky cloud oozes through the air vent behind him and into the motel room, he doesn't notice.
Not in time to do anything about it, anyway.