Hell House (2/17)
Title: Hell House (2/17)
Author: narukyu
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel/Sam, Sam/Andy (one sided); Jake, Lily, Ansem, Ava, Azazel
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, adult language, death (OCs, minor character), gore (not much worse than 3x15), sex, AU (pre-season 1), high school fic (ish), slash, minor femmeslash.
Word Count: 60K-ish
Summary: A devotedly unreligious man sends his youngest son to a private religious school. If that wasn't suspicious enough, Sam can't get a hold of John or Dean, people are disappearing right and left, and, in the night, something whispers in the silence of the old chapel. Soon enough, Sam discovers that something terrible lingers behind the doors to the sacristy--something that sheds a light on the secret holy mission of the Soldiers of Christ as well what happened to his family so many years ago.
Sammy has finally started sleeping through the night, and now that Dean shares a bed with him, he’s out like a light as well. But me… I close my eyes and she’s there. It always starts the same, I’m seeing her as she was before that night, beautiful and happy and alive. And I’m not seeing it, I’m living it, it’s like I’m there… it’s so real, I know I can reach out and touch her. And so I do… I reach out… and suddenly I’m back to that night, to the blood and the fire and Mary, Mary is on the ceiling, and how did she get on the ceiling… she can’t be on the ceiling…
Here’s the weird part. When I wake up, sweating and panting… I swear there is something there. I can feel it, hovering over me, over my boys. It’s watching, it’s waiting, I think it’s even mocking me… You couldn’t stop this. You couldn’t keep her safe.
You can’t keep them safe.
John Winchester's journal, December 11, 1983.
-----
A horn blared loudly in his ear, bleating with the futile anger of frustrated drivers everywhere. He jerked awake, his hands shooting out right and forward. He was bracing against the door and glove compartment before he was even aware that he was conscious. Then, all around him, the car slowly pulled into a turn.
Once the car smoothed out of it, he sat up quickly, rubbing feeling back into his numb cheek as he ignored the fire from where his head hit the cold glass of the passenger side window. He made a face, preparing to complain about the hostile sleeping situation.
And then he looked-really looked.
Though he tried to be nonchalant about it, his heart was thudding madly in his chest as he mentally ran over the facts-quickly, logically, thoroughly, just how his dad had taught him.
He didn’t recognize the interior of the car. He didn’t recognize the place outside of the car. And, most importantly, he didn’t recognize the driver.
He had no weapons on him. His neck was achy and his mouth felt like he'd been munching on cotton. More worryingly, his mind was sluggish and slow, like he was still struggling to break through to full consciousness.
Outside, it was raining hard, so hard that it sounded like an avalanche of tiny rocks was hitting the roof of the car. The slick asphalt all around reflected red and green smears from the traffic lights. Windshield wipers worked furiously on fogged up glass in front of him, fighting a never ending, futile battle against the heavy rain.
Some kind of Christian talk was coming out of the radio, pitched low but sounding vaguely preachy, and the unknown driver nodded her head lightly to it every once in a while, as if agreeing. Her black hair just barely brushed her shoulders with this movement, skidding gently over the fabric of a cheap business suit.
Finally, he shivered, closing his eyes for a moment as he surrendered himself to the inevitable truth--this was so not where he was last. He rubbed the back of his hand over his lips. His head was pounding sullenly. He felt nauseous and sick and all too aware of his brother’s absence in the car.
Reacting to his low, shaky sigh, the driver suddenly noticed he was awake. She reached out to turn the radio off. “Samuel?” she asked gently. There was a high note of awkwardness in her voice, like she was hoping she wouldn’t have to talk to him. Her eyes were directed away from him and on the road.
Sam Winchester stared at her profile warily. She had dark hair and glasses. She wasn’t young, but she was young-ishMadison, he thought suddenly, staring at her again. Or Mason. Some name that starts with-
Sam shook his head. “No, why-”
“I told you this before, Samuel, remember?” Her voice was strained. “We’re going to Saint Mary’s. It’s a, a private school. For… people like you.”
That’s right, he thought after a moment. He rested his head against the window. He remembered that part too.
He was going away to school and he was leaving hunting behind. Sam smiled, content to leave that be for a moment, but the good feeling didn’t last long. Things didn’t add up, and Sam wasn’t consistently labeled a nerd in school for nothing. He was observant, damn it, and he'd probably be dead by now if he wasn't. To a hunter, life and death was decided on the strength of one's instincts, and Sam's were screaming about foul play.
But things just weren't clicking in his head. His overall level of grogginess wasn't helping at all. He felt like he was swimming underwater during a storm, straining to understand what was being said above water.
But one thing stuck out in his mind. He pulled his head away from the window, and looked at her again, this time under suspiciously lowered eyes. “Dad would never let me just… leave,” he said accusingly.
She didn’t seem like a terribly good persuader either--not that John could be persuaded. John Winchester pulled off more cons than most people had names for, and he was as stubborn as hell. Even a particularly well structured, persuasive argument failed to make a dent in what he felt was ‘right’ or ‘needed to be done’.
The woman’s eyes never left the road, but her fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Your Father thought it would be best.”
Sam stared at her for another few minutes, but doubt started to set in--doubt in himself. He looked out of window quickly, not really seeing anything anymore. He remembered John suddenly, vividly. He remembered their last words to each other and, like most words between them nowadays, they weren’t good.
Their last fight had been pretty bad and, worst of all, Sam hadn’t really seen it coming until it broke. He questioned too many orders, according to Dean, always asking why, why not. Sam bit his lip hard, suddenly worried.
Maybe… maybe John had thought the fight was bad too. Too bad to get over. Too bad to forgive Sam for. Confronted with the possibility that John would never, ever forgive him, Sam felt miserable and small, the bright note of school on the horizon dimming impossibly as a result.
The implausibility of the situation seemed to matter very little all of the sudden as Sam‘s thoughts ran wild. John was all pro-family, pro-keeping them together, pro-protecting Sam, but maybe he decided that Sam wasn’t worth it after all. Maybe he thought it was best to cut his losses and just stick with the good son before the bad one got them all killed.
“That’s so stupid,” he blustered suddenly. He turned to her, his temper rising. “Dad would never, ever do that!” Especially if it was something that meant sending Sam off to school.
Especially if it was something that Sam, in his heart of hearts, really wanted.
She spared a second to glance at him, needle-thin eyebrows bunching together. “Are you experiencing wrath, Samuel?”
“No, and it’s Sam,” he snapped scathingly. He thought suddenly of the readjusting he’d have to do all over again, and groaned. “I was doing just fine in public school.”
Fuming for a moment, Sam quickly directed his gaze out the window, trying to find stability in the smeared lights and drenched streets. Was it really so bad that he didn’t want to be a hunter? He didn’t want any of them to be a hunter, to be honest, but he was the only one he had control over.
That was why he and John fought so much. Sam knew what he wanted to do just as keenly as he knew what he didn’t want to do. He wanted to go to school. He wanted to be someone, do something. He wanted it, and he made no secret of it. Many of their fights centered on his preference of college over hunting.
So what was this? What the hell are you trying to play now, Dad? Sam scowled at his reflection. There was no way John Winchester had decided, out of the goodness of his heart, to let his youngest out of his sight.
“To justify sin is to extend sin,” the driver said unexpectedly.
Jerked out of his imaginings by her darkly worded comment, Sam stared at her, incredulous, before turning his gaze back to the window again. “You’ve gotta be kidding me...” he muttered to himself.
But the comment had done what his confusion had not-forced him to think about the present instead of the past.
Saint Mary’s. That had to be a religious school, right?
He bit his lip, looked over at her, and then said, in a more conciliatory tone, “I want to talk to my dad.”
The tense expression on the woman’s face smoothed out suddenly. “I’m sorry, but he said he was going on a trip. He’ll be out of contact for a few weeks.” She said it hurriedly, like she had practiced it in her head. She even managed to thrown in a forced smile. “We have his number. You can try to contact him later.”
Sam sank back in his seat, deflating. John had given her his number. That made it official, right? John handed out his phone numbers grudgingly and rarely, and he only gave them, his kids, his current number when he knew they weren’t going to be in his sight for a few days.
Why, Dad?
Maybe John was trying to make a point. Or maybe he was giving up on Sam. Sam kept coming back to that point, circling around it, gnawing on it, obsessing over it. Because he knew who John’s best son was, and it sure wasn’t Sam Winchester.
Sam bit his lip, twisting his seat belt in his hands. His miserable imaginings kept him silent all the way up to Saint Mary’s gates, and, by the time they did, his mouth tasted like copper.
-----
Saint Mary’s School was a collection of small buildings surrounding a chapel. All of it was enclosed by a huge, tall fence that wrapped protectively--jealously--around the property. The car parked just outside the fence, rolling nervously over rain drenched mud. They took the rest of the way by foot, let in the gates by a man who had a thick, white piece of gauze strapped over his eye.
Sam barely spared him more than a glance, nor did he scrutinize too closely the thin concrete paths they were supposed to walk on, or the statue they had just passed. No, he was too busy looking at the buildings themselves, warring between unavoidable excitement and instinctive dread, somewhat nerdy curiosity and a teenager’s need to express indifference.
It was a church. He loved churches! He suppressed his giddy smile, but not his wandering, eager eyes.
The chapel itself was a tall, white building, tapering off into the sky. Everything about it was thin and emaciated, from the windows to the doors to the scraggy little cross at the top. Paint peeled off the walls in thick sheets, exposing the wood underneath. But just under the church, he got a sense of how big it was-how expansive the inside must be. It was bigger than most hotels they stayed in--taller and with more open space.
But they didn’t go inside. As they passed the church in favor of the building on the left, Sam noticed that the back part of the chapel jutted out suddenly to the left, as if to accommodate another room. That too was large.
After nearly tripping, Sam focused his gaze forward, watching his sneakers squish over the flooded path in front of them, the pale hint of concrete under their feet nearly completely obscured by mud and wriggling worms. The rain had tapered off a bit, but everything-including Sam-was still cold and wet.
There were two buildings other than the chapel, he would learn later. The one they were going to-casually called the student building-that consisted of two stories of dorms and ground floor, which held the class rooms. The other building-usually called the staff building-consisted of laundry, storage spaces, and the eating area on the main floor. Students were restricted from the second and third floors of the other building, as those were the private quarters of the permanent staff.
As they walked up to the student building, they passed two older girls in heavy jackets and scarves. They had pink faces. The one with heavy eyeshadow met his gaze for a long while, then leaned over to whisper something to her friend, who giggled. His face blazing, Sam sped up behind the driver, now his guide, climbing up the stairs behind her.
Even though he hurried through, he did not fail to notice the worn locks that hung ominously off the building’s door. He could only wonder at their intended use.
A heavy set woman was waiting for them inside the hallway. She wore a full habit, her austere face framed by the hood over her head. He’d barely stepped in the threshold of the door before he asked, again, if he could call his dad, hoping that the older woman would have a better answer that his driver. Instead, all he seemed to do was set her off into lecture.
“Due to the sensitive and introspective nature of the education here, communication will be strictly controlled. If you wish to contact your family, you must first discuss the matter with us.”
“Do not try to work around this,” Sam’s driver said quietly. Her earlier nervousness seemed to flee once they entered the property lines, replaced by some sort of exhausted relief. “The rules are here for your safety.”
“Indeed.” The nun bobbed her head. They started walking down the hall toward the twin set of stairs at the back. “However, your compliance will not go unrewarded. Should you follow the rules, you will be allowed one monthly excursion to Ilchester, complete with allowance-but under supervision, of course.” Her mild expression suddenly turned stern as she looked at him. “If you misbehave during this trip, however, you will never obtain permission to leave this school again. No exceptions.”
They passed several closed doors. Noises rose from behind each one, rising and falling over silence. Sam glanced in an open one, noticing a group of round faced sullen children staring at a dour looking man.
“Later, Samuel.” His driver nudged him along. She touched his shoulder briefly, pulling away quickly like she'd burnt herself.
The nun continued to speak. “You will be expected to attend class regularly. You will have a morning class and an afternoon class and each will be two hours long.”
Sam perked up at the idea of class. “Oh, what classes are available?”
“Theology, theological literature, theological history, and theological theory,” the nun replied in a clipped tone, clearly not appreciating the question. Sam wilted. “After your morning class, you will be expected to attend mass. After mass, you may go to breakfast. Between breakfast and lunch, you will be assigned various chores around the school-and no, you may not choose what chores.”
The lady was giving him a stare, like his one, reasonable question was reason enough to expect a thousand stupid ones. Sam tried not to be too offended, realizing she was probably judging him based on his clothes. He wasn’t exactly wearing rags, but everyone else was wearing clean, well fitted uniforms--the guys in ties and slacks and the girls in ties and skirts.
He must have looked like a drowned rat to her.
“Lunch will be served at 12, and only at 12,” she said unexpectedly, breaking him out of his self-conscious thoughts. “After lunch, you will have your afternoon class. After class, you will be expected to, of course, do your homework, as well as any chores we may assign you. Most importantly, however, you are expected to go to the chapel for one hour for self-guided reflections of your sins. It does not matter when you go. It only matters that you do this once daily.” She glanced at him, her dark gray eyes narrow. “On that matter, do note that access to the chapel is severely restricted to students, as students regularly disrupt the work of our staff. You may do your reflection between the hours of two and six. If you are found in the chapel outside of those times, and without a decent excuse, you will be punished. All privileges will be revoked, immediately. Do I make myself clear?”
Sam nodded quickly, wanting to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. “Yes, ma’am. Uh, Sister. Is there anything else I need to know?”
They started heading up a flight of stairs to the next story. Sam was sandwiched between the driver and the nun and was instantly aware of the poor temperature control of the building. Although it was cold outside, it was pretty humid on the stairs. Sam started to feel a little dizzy, and gripped the railing harder to remain upright.
“You have much to learn,” the nun said flatly, long suffering. She sighed. “Students at Saint Mary’s are expected to conform themselves to a certain code of rules, Samuel. For instance, you will be expected to wear your uniform-and in the correct manner,” she said, darkly addressing the last bit to a girl bouncing past. She looked about Sam’s age-pretty and cheerful. Her smile immediately fell and, self-consciously, she tugged her skirt down, even though the cloth already hung below her knees.
The nun continued, sharply, saying, “The basic rules are as follows: no alcohol, no trespassing, no blasphemy, no trying to work around our restrictions, and absolutely no fornication.” She reached the top step, then turned around, looking down at him.
Sam froze on the fourth step to the top, realizing that the nun was staring at him intently like she expected him to fornicate right there in front of her. His hand tightened further on the railing until his fingers ached. He blushed.
Finally, she nodded, saying, “That will be all.” She turned and walked down the hallway, gesturing to the fifth door down. “This is your room. Keep in mind what I told you.” With that, the woman passed him, heading back for the stair case.
Sam let out a low, heavy sigh, watching as his driver opened his door. He followed her inside slowly, noticing a suitcase was already on the small single bed. He looked around quickly, but there wasn’t much to see-one bed, one desk, a small closet, and a whole lot of empty, gray wall. It looked like a prison cell.
“You are fortunate, Samuel. This place is a good place for you.” The woman turned away from him, unzipping the bag. “Free room and board, free education. We provide for all.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t let me pack anything?” ‘Of my own’ went unsaid. He recognized nothing she pulled out of the suitcases.
The woman froze for a moment before painting on a benign smile. “Saint Mary’s has a strict policy on outside items. We are a place of learning, not dillydallying.” Her expression, though purposefully polite, was pained. “Go. Make friends. There are a few other people in your age group here.”
She turned away, the gesture a dismissal. Sam hovered for a moment, then went back the way they came-down the hall of bedrooms, down the stairs, down the hall of classrooms. He slowed when he reached the ground floor, noticing that the walls echoed with the lectures of classes. A trained instinct in him, the desire not to interfere in anyone's education, made him walk softly and head quickly for a door to the outside.
Once he got outside, he found himself faced with two equally unappealing decisions: go to the church (his enthusiasm had been rather dampened by the nun) or head across campus to the other building (under a cover of renewed rain fall). Since he was pretty sure it wasn’t two o’clock yet, that left his options pretty limited.
Sam rubbed his hands together indecisively as the cold crept deep in his bones. He started to walk down the steps but stopped, noticing a new obstacle. Another boy, bundled up in three layers of clothes, sat on the rain slick bottom step, forcing reddened thin fingers to move fluidly over paper.
After hesitating a little longer, Sam went down the rest of the steps, edging around the guy carefully. He noted the notebook balanced on his thighs, the small knife and a pencil set by his hip.
The image on the paper grabbed his attention most strongly. It was a mess of graphite and lines, smudges of lead making up new details and obscuring others. A slumped, figure was bending backwards over the arm of another figure. Square figures with noses and mouths but no eyes crowded around it, as if looking on, chubby, circular hands clasped together at the chest.
“New here, aren’t you,” the boy said without preamble. His hand stilled over the paper, as if aware of Sam’s scrutiny.
Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just came today.”
“Yeah,” the boy said. He looked up, blue eyes narrowing. He had a pale, pointed face and thin lips. “I can tell.” After a moment of silent consideration, he pointed to himself. “1983.”
Sam frowned. “What?”
“Classes are organized by birth year,” he said flatly, like he thought Sam was stupid. “Everything’s organized by birth year, really.”
“Oh. I’m… 1983 too.”
The other kid nodded and went back to what he was doing. Several minutes passed without comment.
Feeling awkward, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, and then said, “So, how are the classes?”
“An exercise in patience and self-control,” the kid said casually. He picked up the sharpening knife in his right hand, grasp light on it like he was testing the weight. “You won’t see me in class much.”
Sam frowned. “Why not?”
The boy looked up, and then there was a flash of moment-an arm, a hand, a streak of gray.
More startled than in pain, Sam staggered back, holding a hand to his bleeding arm, his sleeve split all the way to the skin.
The boy smiled, lightly, mockingly. Sam’s blood tainted the end of his knife. “Because I’m a freak. And, guess what, new guy, so are you.”
A low growl rumbled up from behind them. “Ansem!” The source was a lanky black boy. He scaled the steps quickly, stopped just left of Sam’s shoulder. His anger was all for this Ansem. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Oh, look. If it isn’t Captain Goody Two Shoes,” the boy-Ansem-muttered. Even though his tone was one of affected boredom, he’d immediately shot to his feet when the guy came down the stairs, hastily backing up a few paces. He stood stiffly now, back unnaturally straight as if to defend against the new guy’s sheer height. “Just showing the new kid the pecking order.”
“Apologize. Now.” The tall boy hovered menacingly. “Or I’ll go to Father Thompson.”
There was murderous flare of hatred in Ansem's pale eyes. A second later, it was gone. “Sorry, or whatever.” Ansem tucked his notebook under his arm and walked off. “See you later, losers.”
The other guy watched Ansem retreat before turning to Sam. “1983?” he asked, eying Sam warily.
“Yeah. I mean, me too.” Then, sick of this style of introduction, Sam stuck out his unbloodied hand. “Sam Winchester.”
Now that Ansem was gone, the other boy’s eyes glinted with good humor. “Jake Talley.”
“Hiya, Jake.”
For a minute, they just grinned at each other. Sam couldn't help it-he felt an immediate affinity with the other guy despite the fact that he was pretty much a stranger. He could tell by Jake's smile that he felt the same way.
Then Jake’s eyes fell to Sam’s arm, and his smile fell with it.
“We can still report him,” he offered reluctantly.
“No, it’s fine.” Sam shrugged. “I don’t want to be known as the guy who gets into a fight on his first day of school.”
“Trust me, don’t worry about it,” the other boy said, waving his hand. “They aren’t ever going to kick you out.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Ansem’s retreating back. “Ansem pulls shit like this on a daily basis, and he’s been here as long as I have. Longer, I think.”
Sam frowned, curious. “How long have you been here?”
“Since I was eight,” Jake said distantly, his eyes riveted to Sam’s arm. “You sure you’re okay, man?”
Sam pulled his hand away from the wound. It was jagged and thin, slicing very shallowly across the back of his wrist. “It’s just a scratch.”
Just as he closed his mouth around the last syllable of that word, a voice boomed across the property.
It was a loud voice. Though it came from a distant place, it rose like thunder in the big, empty space, but fell on the air like the echoes of the dead, vibrating back and forth between the walls of the buildings.
Something in Sam instinctively froze at the righteous anger in the unknown man, but when he tried to brush it off, tried to ignore it, he turned his gaze to the other boy, who were cringing for the same reason.
“Rickety old Bailey,” Jake said in an undertone, shifting uncomfortably.
“Bailey?” Sam echoed in an equally quiet voice.
“The head priest,” he muttered. “You’ll recognize him the second he talks.” From their vantage point, they saw the church doors suddenly fling open, the form of a student quickly stumbling out. Jake winced. “Some idiot must’ve snuck in there. Poor guy.”
A man followed him out-tall, thin, old. He had a pair of thick glasses on his face that barely obscured the pallid tone of his skin. He wore a black cassock that swished around his legs as he stalked after the student. His voice rose impressively from that deceptively skinny body as he demanded that the student stop running.
Bewildered, Sam turned to Jake. “Since when do people get in trouble for willingly coming to church?”
Raising an eyebrow, Jake snorted at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure got a lot to learn.”
He was right.
-----
The very next day was Sam’s first day of class.
A dark haired, hyper active kid-Andy, he learned later-barged into his room about ten minutes after the morning church bells rang, talking a mile a minute about class and what he needed to do, shoving notebooks, a Bible, and extra socks on him before pushing him out the door. Sam looked longingly after the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, only to be shoved harder (“You don’t have time for that, new guy!”).
Sam was hurried down the stairs, directed to a room about three doors down. He’d thought he’d like it-having his room so close to the classrooms-but he immediately decided that he didn’t. The classrooms had the same unfortunate, musty smell as his room and were only about three times as wide.
He took a second to look around, ignoring how Andy sailed past him. A cross hung on the back wall just under a clock. Yellowing depictions of the Ten Commandments and various other biblical stories covered every inch of the wall not occupied by the windows or a chalkboard.
The chalkboard itself was a long, austere affair, abnormally clean where it hung on the wall next to him. An equally clean podium stood in front of that, and next to that podium was a low, wooden desk. Pages from an open book stirred under the force of the wind that came from a permanently rusted open window.
After ten minutes, Sam would truly appreciate the afterthought of socks, only regretting not grabbing an extra shirt or six. But for now, he was warm and only passingly noticed the rust before he turned his full attention to the students in front of him.
There were about fifteen people in the class, the sum of the student of two combined years-1982 and 1983. Apparently, it mattered where you sat, because any two years mixed about as well as oil and water. He’d made the mistake of sitting in the front by the 1982 kids, only to get dark looks and sneers when they realized he belonged to 1983.
Year segregation was the new clique, and, as usual, Sam was behind on the times.
He got the picture quickly, though. He moved to the back with the equally wary 1983 group, who warmed up a bit when they realized he was their age. He took the aisle seat of a long, fragile table occupied by Andy and a girl.
The girl, who had dark hair and a cherubic face, wasted no time introducing herself (“I’m Ava! Where’re you from?”), giving him a pen to borrow when he admitted to not having one.
Andy watched them quietly, waiting for a lull in their (mostly Ava’s) conversation before he leaned back in his seat and reached around the back of Ava’s seat. He introduced himself, gripping Sam’s hand in a handshake.
“Sorry, man. Class, you know…” And then he shrugged, smiling, and Sam, knowing what he was talking about, instantly forgave him. “Shoulda told you about that too.” He jerked his chin toward the other half of the class, who seemed to huddle in together to not-stare at Sam over their shoulders.
“It’s fine.” It seemed like Sam was going to have to say that a lot at this school. Who knew? Maybe after saying it for the hundredth time, he'd start believing it too.
“Year sits with year,” Andy continued, shrugging. “In everything. Our rooms are near each other’s too. I don’t know why. That‘s just the way they set us up, I guess.” At Sam‘s confused look, he clarified, saying, “The school.”
“Oh,” Sam said. An awkward pause ensued.
Everyone was watching him, he realized-Andy expectantly, Ava cheerfully, everyone else sneakily. Sam looked around, trying to find something to look at other than other students. He turned half-way in his chair, noticing that Ansem was there too, sitting at the table behind him, but his head was on the desk. Sam was fairly sure he was still sleeping.
The door opened near the front of the room, letting in more stragglers. The second person through the door was Jake, who looked distracted. Seeing Sam, he smiled, his expression brightening as he crossed over the floor in five easy steps.
Jake went for the aisle seat behind Sam, nudging his shoulder affably as he passed. "Hey, man. Forgot to tell you about class yesterday." He sat down next to Ansem, letting his Bible fall to the table with a loud crack. Ansem jerked awake, his eyes wild.
Sam had relaxed at the familiar face. "It's okay," he said easily, even managing a smile. "Andy told me."
“Good.” Expression sobering, Jake tapped the eraser end of his pencil to the cover of the book in front of him. "Just so you know, you gotta learn your way around the Bible to get by in this class."
"I know my way around the Bible," Sam protested. Unlike his family, he at least read it.
"He doesn't mean the feel-good bits like Genesis or Exodus, but the real Bible," Ansem said unexpectedly. His groggy expression slid into a smile, and his smile widened like a shark’s, toothy and mean. He propped his chin on his palm, eyeing Sam. "The really gnarly shit."
Before Sam could say anything, the door opened again, letting in a woman-a nun, really. She strode to the front of the room in a full habit, her head held high and a book tucked under her arm. She was pale and had a long, lined face, which was half-obscured by thick glasses.
“Sister Elizabeth,” Andy whispered under cover of a cough.
The sister-their teacher, apparently-ignored the desk for the podium, sharply setting her book down before she looked up at the class. "Open your Bibles to Revelation," she commanded. “Start where we left off yesterday.”
Ava leaned closer to Sam, helpfully showing him the right passage. She got a glare from the nun for her Good Samaritanism and wilted back into her chair.
“Ava,” Elizabeth prompted. She abandoned the podium and the book, her arms crossed behind her back. “Read, please.” She started walking down the aisle, eyes sweeping back and forth over bowed heads.
Next to Sam, Ava let out an almost inaudible sigh. Then she said, “‘Then the kings of the earth and the magnates and the generals and the rich and the powerful and everyone, slave or free, hid in the caves and among the rocks of the mountains, calling to the mountains and rocks, ‘Fall on us and hide us from the face of the one seated on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of their wrath has come and who is able to stand?’”
There was silence in the room-heavy and unbroken. Sam lifted his head, confused. He couldn’t figure out the point of this-parables, he understood. Not… this.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “What does this passage mean?” No one raised their hand. The nun nodded to herself, as if she expected it from them. “It speaks of Judgment Day. It speaks of the wrath of God, who knows of your wickedness. It speaks of people who thought themselves above God’s Law fleeing the reality of God’s wrath. It speaks of them begging for death because of their fear.”
The nun continued walked down the aisle, addressing all and none of them-that is, until she stood near Sam. She looked at him then, gaze never wavering. “You live in sin now and care little, but mark my words. God will have the final say.”
She said it like it was a threat. Sam held his breath until she walked away, then he settled against the back of his seat. What the hell?
A folded up piece of paper bounced on Sam’s desk from somewhere behind him. Palming it carefully, Sam unfolded it in his lap. Having fun yet? Sam looked up from the note, then over his shoulder. Jake made little whirling motions by his ear, then put his head back down on his arms.
Sam turned back to the front. This is it, he decided numbly. John’s master plan.
John wasn’t religious, and while he didn’t chase his boys away from religion entirely, he always treated Sam’s faith with a measure of distaste, like it was a fault that Sam needed to learn to work around or overcome. So it didn’t make sense that he’d send his youngest away to Bible Camp 101... unless he knew it was a super religious private school.
So religious that Sam, who always enjoyed logic and academics, would be turned off by it entirely. So unbelievably zealous that simple Sammy would generalize his one bad experience to religion in general.
Sam’s mouth tightened. Now that he thought about it, their last fight had been about religion too-specifically about something Pastor Jim had said to him about ghosts. John did not understand why Sam would take the pastor’s word over his. Sam did not understand why John pretended to be a better expert at spirituality than a pastor.
The last thing John Winchester liked was having his knowledge questioned, especially when it was by Sam.
Groaning quietly, Sam let his head hit the table. He wasn’t here because of a bad fight. He was here because that bad fight was still going on.
Hell hath no fury like John Winchester trying to make a point.
Sam lifted his head, miserably eying his Bible. How long was he going to have to stay here?
Chapter Two
Author: narukyu
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel/Sam, Sam/Andy (one sided); Jake, Lily, Ansem, Ava, Azazel
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, adult language, death (OCs, minor character), gore (not much worse than 3x15), sex, AU (pre-season 1), high school fic (ish), slash, minor femmeslash.
Word Count: 60K-ish
Summary: A devotedly unreligious man sends his youngest son to a private religious school. If that wasn't suspicious enough, Sam can't get a hold of John or Dean, people are disappearing right and left, and, in the night, something whispers in the silence of the old chapel. Soon enough, Sam discovers that something terrible lingers behind the doors to the sacristy--something that sheds a light on the secret holy mission of the Soldiers of Christ as well what happened to his family so many years ago.
Sammy has finally started sleeping through the night, and now that Dean shares a bed with him, he’s out like a light as well. But me… I close my eyes and she’s there. It always starts the same, I’m seeing her as she was before that night, beautiful and happy and alive. And I’m not seeing it, I’m living it, it’s like I’m there… it’s so real, I know I can reach out and touch her. And so I do… I reach out… and suddenly I’m back to that night, to the blood and the fire and Mary, Mary is on the ceiling, and how did she get on the ceiling… she can’t be on the ceiling…
Here’s the weird part. When I wake up, sweating and panting… I swear there is something there. I can feel it, hovering over me, over my boys. It’s watching, it’s waiting, I think it’s even mocking me… You couldn’t stop this. You couldn’t keep her safe.
You can’t keep them safe.
John Winchester's journal, December 11, 1983.
-----
A horn blared loudly in his ear, bleating with the futile anger of frustrated drivers everywhere. He jerked awake, his hands shooting out right and forward. He was bracing against the door and glove compartment before he was even aware that he was conscious. Then, all around him, the car slowly pulled into a turn.
Once the car smoothed out of it, he sat up quickly, rubbing feeling back into his numb cheek as he ignored the fire from where his head hit the cold glass of the passenger side window. He made a face, preparing to complain about the hostile sleeping situation.
And then he looked-really looked.
Though he tried to be nonchalant about it, his heart was thudding madly in his chest as he mentally ran over the facts-quickly, logically, thoroughly, just how his dad had taught him.
He didn’t recognize the interior of the car. He didn’t recognize the place outside of the car. And, most importantly, he didn’t recognize the driver.
He had no weapons on him. His neck was achy and his mouth felt like he'd been munching on cotton. More worryingly, his mind was sluggish and slow, like he was still struggling to break through to full consciousness.
Outside, it was raining hard, so hard that it sounded like an avalanche of tiny rocks was hitting the roof of the car. The slick asphalt all around reflected red and green smears from the traffic lights. Windshield wipers worked furiously on fogged up glass in front of him, fighting a never ending, futile battle against the heavy rain.
Some kind of Christian talk was coming out of the radio, pitched low but sounding vaguely preachy, and the unknown driver nodded her head lightly to it every once in a while, as if agreeing. Her black hair just barely brushed her shoulders with this movement, skidding gently over the fabric of a cheap business suit.
Finally, he shivered, closing his eyes for a moment as he surrendered himself to the inevitable truth--this was so not where he was last. He rubbed the back of his hand over his lips. His head was pounding sullenly. He felt nauseous and sick and all too aware of his brother’s absence in the car.
Reacting to his low, shaky sigh, the driver suddenly noticed he was awake. She reached out to turn the radio off. “Samuel?” she asked gently. There was a high note of awkwardness in her voice, like she was hoping she wouldn’t have to talk to him. Her eyes were directed away from him and on the road.
Sam Winchester stared at her profile warily. She had dark hair and glasses. She wasn’t young, but she was young-ishMadison, he thought suddenly, staring at her again. Or Mason. Some name that starts with-
Sam shook his head. “No, why-”
“I told you this before, Samuel, remember?” Her voice was strained. “We’re going to Saint Mary’s. It’s a, a private school. For… people like you.”
That’s right, he thought after a moment. He rested his head against the window. He remembered that part too.
He was going away to school and he was leaving hunting behind. Sam smiled, content to leave that be for a moment, but the good feeling didn’t last long. Things didn’t add up, and Sam wasn’t consistently labeled a nerd in school for nothing. He was observant, damn it, and he'd probably be dead by now if he wasn't. To a hunter, life and death was decided on the strength of one's instincts, and Sam's were screaming about foul play.
But things just weren't clicking in his head. His overall level of grogginess wasn't helping at all. He felt like he was swimming underwater during a storm, straining to understand what was being said above water.
But one thing stuck out in his mind. He pulled his head away from the window, and looked at her again, this time under suspiciously lowered eyes. “Dad would never let me just… leave,” he said accusingly.
She didn’t seem like a terribly good persuader either--not that John could be persuaded. John Winchester pulled off more cons than most people had names for, and he was as stubborn as hell. Even a particularly well structured, persuasive argument failed to make a dent in what he felt was ‘right’ or ‘needed to be done’.
The woman’s eyes never left the road, but her fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Your Father thought it would be best.”
Sam stared at her for another few minutes, but doubt started to set in--doubt in himself. He looked out of window quickly, not really seeing anything anymore. He remembered John suddenly, vividly. He remembered their last words to each other and, like most words between them nowadays, they weren’t good.
Their last fight had been pretty bad and, worst of all, Sam hadn’t really seen it coming until it broke. He questioned too many orders, according to Dean, always asking why, why not. Sam bit his lip hard, suddenly worried.
Maybe… maybe John had thought the fight was bad too. Too bad to get over. Too bad to forgive Sam for. Confronted with the possibility that John would never, ever forgive him, Sam felt miserable and small, the bright note of school on the horizon dimming impossibly as a result.
The implausibility of the situation seemed to matter very little all of the sudden as Sam‘s thoughts ran wild. John was all pro-family, pro-keeping them together, pro-protecting Sam, but maybe he decided that Sam wasn’t worth it after all. Maybe he thought it was best to cut his losses and just stick with the good son before the bad one got them all killed.
“That’s so stupid,” he blustered suddenly. He turned to her, his temper rising. “Dad would never, ever do that!” Especially if it was something that meant sending Sam off to school.
Especially if it was something that Sam, in his heart of hearts, really wanted.
She spared a second to glance at him, needle-thin eyebrows bunching together. “Are you experiencing wrath, Samuel?”
“No, and it’s Sam,” he snapped scathingly. He thought suddenly of the readjusting he’d have to do all over again, and groaned. “I was doing just fine in public school.”
Fuming for a moment, Sam quickly directed his gaze out the window, trying to find stability in the smeared lights and drenched streets. Was it really so bad that he didn’t want to be a hunter? He didn’t want any of them to be a hunter, to be honest, but he was the only one he had control over.
That was why he and John fought so much. Sam knew what he wanted to do just as keenly as he knew what he didn’t want to do. He wanted to go to school. He wanted to be someone, do something. He wanted it, and he made no secret of it. Many of their fights centered on his preference of college over hunting.
So what was this? What the hell are you trying to play now, Dad? Sam scowled at his reflection. There was no way John Winchester had decided, out of the goodness of his heart, to let his youngest out of his sight.
“To justify sin is to extend sin,” the driver said unexpectedly.
Jerked out of his imaginings by her darkly worded comment, Sam stared at her, incredulous, before turning his gaze back to the window again. “You’ve gotta be kidding me...” he muttered to himself.
But the comment had done what his confusion had not-forced him to think about the present instead of the past.
Saint Mary’s. That had to be a religious school, right?
He bit his lip, looked over at her, and then said, in a more conciliatory tone, “I want to talk to my dad.”
The tense expression on the woman’s face smoothed out suddenly. “I’m sorry, but he said he was going on a trip. He’ll be out of contact for a few weeks.” She said it hurriedly, like she had practiced it in her head. She even managed to thrown in a forced smile. “We have his number. You can try to contact him later.”
Sam sank back in his seat, deflating. John had given her his number. That made it official, right? John handed out his phone numbers grudgingly and rarely, and he only gave them, his kids, his current number when he knew they weren’t going to be in his sight for a few days.
Why, Dad?
Maybe John was trying to make a point. Or maybe he was giving up on Sam. Sam kept coming back to that point, circling around it, gnawing on it, obsessing over it. Because he knew who John’s best son was, and it sure wasn’t Sam Winchester.
Sam bit his lip, twisting his seat belt in his hands. His miserable imaginings kept him silent all the way up to Saint Mary’s gates, and, by the time they did, his mouth tasted like copper.
-----
Saint Mary’s School was a collection of small buildings surrounding a chapel. All of it was enclosed by a huge, tall fence that wrapped protectively--jealously--around the property. The car parked just outside the fence, rolling nervously over rain drenched mud. They took the rest of the way by foot, let in the gates by a man who had a thick, white piece of gauze strapped over his eye.
Sam barely spared him more than a glance, nor did he scrutinize too closely the thin concrete paths they were supposed to walk on, or the statue they had just passed. No, he was too busy looking at the buildings themselves, warring between unavoidable excitement and instinctive dread, somewhat nerdy curiosity and a teenager’s need to express indifference.
It was a church. He loved churches! He suppressed his giddy smile, but not his wandering, eager eyes.
The chapel itself was a tall, white building, tapering off into the sky. Everything about it was thin and emaciated, from the windows to the doors to the scraggy little cross at the top. Paint peeled off the walls in thick sheets, exposing the wood underneath. But just under the church, he got a sense of how big it was-how expansive the inside must be. It was bigger than most hotels they stayed in--taller and with more open space.
But they didn’t go inside. As they passed the church in favor of the building on the left, Sam noticed that the back part of the chapel jutted out suddenly to the left, as if to accommodate another room. That too was large.
After nearly tripping, Sam focused his gaze forward, watching his sneakers squish over the flooded path in front of them, the pale hint of concrete under their feet nearly completely obscured by mud and wriggling worms. The rain had tapered off a bit, but everything-including Sam-was still cold and wet.
There were two buildings other than the chapel, he would learn later. The one they were going to-casually called the student building-that consisted of two stories of dorms and ground floor, which held the class rooms. The other building-usually called the staff building-consisted of laundry, storage spaces, and the eating area on the main floor. Students were restricted from the second and third floors of the other building, as those were the private quarters of the permanent staff.
As they walked up to the student building, they passed two older girls in heavy jackets and scarves. They had pink faces. The one with heavy eyeshadow met his gaze for a long while, then leaned over to whisper something to her friend, who giggled. His face blazing, Sam sped up behind the driver, now his guide, climbing up the stairs behind her.
Even though he hurried through, he did not fail to notice the worn locks that hung ominously off the building’s door. He could only wonder at their intended use.
A heavy set woman was waiting for them inside the hallway. She wore a full habit, her austere face framed by the hood over her head. He’d barely stepped in the threshold of the door before he asked, again, if he could call his dad, hoping that the older woman would have a better answer that his driver. Instead, all he seemed to do was set her off into lecture.
“Due to the sensitive and introspective nature of the education here, communication will be strictly controlled. If you wish to contact your family, you must first discuss the matter with us.”
“Do not try to work around this,” Sam’s driver said quietly. Her earlier nervousness seemed to flee once they entered the property lines, replaced by some sort of exhausted relief. “The rules are here for your safety.”
“Indeed.” The nun bobbed her head. They started walking down the hall toward the twin set of stairs at the back. “However, your compliance will not go unrewarded. Should you follow the rules, you will be allowed one monthly excursion to Ilchester, complete with allowance-but under supervision, of course.” Her mild expression suddenly turned stern as she looked at him. “If you misbehave during this trip, however, you will never obtain permission to leave this school again. No exceptions.”
They passed several closed doors. Noises rose from behind each one, rising and falling over silence. Sam glanced in an open one, noticing a group of round faced sullen children staring at a dour looking man.
“Later, Samuel.” His driver nudged him along. She touched his shoulder briefly, pulling away quickly like she'd burnt herself.
The nun continued to speak. “You will be expected to attend class regularly. You will have a morning class and an afternoon class and each will be two hours long.”
Sam perked up at the idea of class. “Oh, what classes are available?”
“Theology, theological literature, theological history, and theological theory,” the nun replied in a clipped tone, clearly not appreciating the question. Sam wilted. “After your morning class, you will be expected to attend mass. After mass, you may go to breakfast. Between breakfast and lunch, you will be assigned various chores around the school-and no, you may not choose what chores.”
The lady was giving him a stare, like his one, reasonable question was reason enough to expect a thousand stupid ones. Sam tried not to be too offended, realizing she was probably judging him based on his clothes. He wasn’t exactly wearing rags, but everyone else was wearing clean, well fitted uniforms--the guys in ties and slacks and the girls in ties and skirts.
He must have looked like a drowned rat to her.
“Lunch will be served at 12, and only at 12,” she said unexpectedly, breaking him out of his self-conscious thoughts. “After lunch, you will have your afternoon class. After class, you will be expected to, of course, do your homework, as well as any chores we may assign you. Most importantly, however, you are expected to go to the chapel for one hour for self-guided reflections of your sins. It does not matter when you go. It only matters that you do this once daily.” She glanced at him, her dark gray eyes narrow. “On that matter, do note that access to the chapel is severely restricted to students, as students regularly disrupt the work of our staff. You may do your reflection between the hours of two and six. If you are found in the chapel outside of those times, and without a decent excuse, you will be punished. All privileges will be revoked, immediately. Do I make myself clear?”
Sam nodded quickly, wanting to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. “Yes, ma’am. Uh, Sister. Is there anything else I need to know?”
They started heading up a flight of stairs to the next story. Sam was sandwiched between the driver and the nun and was instantly aware of the poor temperature control of the building. Although it was cold outside, it was pretty humid on the stairs. Sam started to feel a little dizzy, and gripped the railing harder to remain upright.
“You have much to learn,” the nun said flatly, long suffering. She sighed. “Students at Saint Mary’s are expected to conform themselves to a certain code of rules, Samuel. For instance, you will be expected to wear your uniform-and in the correct manner,” she said, darkly addressing the last bit to a girl bouncing past. She looked about Sam’s age-pretty and cheerful. Her smile immediately fell and, self-consciously, she tugged her skirt down, even though the cloth already hung below her knees.
The nun continued, sharply, saying, “The basic rules are as follows: no alcohol, no trespassing, no blasphemy, no trying to work around our restrictions, and absolutely no fornication.” She reached the top step, then turned around, looking down at him.
Sam froze on the fourth step to the top, realizing that the nun was staring at him intently like she expected him to fornicate right there in front of her. His hand tightened further on the railing until his fingers ached. He blushed.
Finally, she nodded, saying, “That will be all.” She turned and walked down the hallway, gesturing to the fifth door down. “This is your room. Keep in mind what I told you.” With that, the woman passed him, heading back for the stair case.
Sam let out a low, heavy sigh, watching as his driver opened his door. He followed her inside slowly, noticing a suitcase was already on the small single bed. He looked around quickly, but there wasn’t much to see-one bed, one desk, a small closet, and a whole lot of empty, gray wall. It looked like a prison cell.
“You are fortunate, Samuel. This place is a good place for you.” The woman turned away from him, unzipping the bag. “Free room and board, free education. We provide for all.”
“Is that why you wouldn’t let me pack anything?” ‘Of my own’ went unsaid. He recognized nothing she pulled out of the suitcases.
The woman froze for a moment before painting on a benign smile. “Saint Mary’s has a strict policy on outside items. We are a place of learning, not dillydallying.” Her expression, though purposefully polite, was pained. “Go. Make friends. There are a few other people in your age group here.”
She turned away, the gesture a dismissal. Sam hovered for a moment, then went back the way they came-down the hall of bedrooms, down the stairs, down the hall of classrooms. He slowed when he reached the ground floor, noticing that the walls echoed with the lectures of classes. A trained instinct in him, the desire not to interfere in anyone's education, made him walk softly and head quickly for a door to the outside.
Once he got outside, he found himself faced with two equally unappealing decisions: go to the church (his enthusiasm had been rather dampened by the nun) or head across campus to the other building (under a cover of renewed rain fall). Since he was pretty sure it wasn’t two o’clock yet, that left his options pretty limited.
Sam rubbed his hands together indecisively as the cold crept deep in his bones. He started to walk down the steps but stopped, noticing a new obstacle. Another boy, bundled up in three layers of clothes, sat on the rain slick bottom step, forcing reddened thin fingers to move fluidly over paper.
After hesitating a little longer, Sam went down the rest of the steps, edging around the guy carefully. He noted the notebook balanced on his thighs, the small knife and a pencil set by his hip.
The image on the paper grabbed his attention most strongly. It was a mess of graphite and lines, smudges of lead making up new details and obscuring others. A slumped, figure was bending backwards over the arm of another figure. Square figures with noses and mouths but no eyes crowded around it, as if looking on, chubby, circular hands clasped together at the chest.
“New here, aren’t you,” the boy said without preamble. His hand stilled over the paper, as if aware of Sam’s scrutiny.
Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just came today.”
“Yeah,” the boy said. He looked up, blue eyes narrowing. He had a pale, pointed face and thin lips. “I can tell.” After a moment of silent consideration, he pointed to himself. “1983.”
Sam frowned. “What?”
“Classes are organized by birth year,” he said flatly, like he thought Sam was stupid. “Everything’s organized by birth year, really.”
“Oh. I’m… 1983 too.”
The other kid nodded and went back to what he was doing. Several minutes passed without comment.
Feeling awkward, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets, and then said, “So, how are the classes?”
“An exercise in patience and self-control,” the kid said casually. He picked up the sharpening knife in his right hand, grasp light on it like he was testing the weight. “You won’t see me in class much.”
Sam frowned. “Why not?”
The boy looked up, and then there was a flash of moment-an arm, a hand, a streak of gray.
More startled than in pain, Sam staggered back, holding a hand to his bleeding arm, his sleeve split all the way to the skin.
The boy smiled, lightly, mockingly. Sam’s blood tainted the end of his knife. “Because I’m a freak. And, guess what, new guy, so are you.”
A low growl rumbled up from behind them. “Ansem!” The source was a lanky black boy. He scaled the steps quickly, stopped just left of Sam’s shoulder. His anger was all for this Ansem. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Oh, look. If it isn’t Captain Goody Two Shoes,” the boy-Ansem-muttered. Even though his tone was one of affected boredom, he’d immediately shot to his feet when the guy came down the stairs, hastily backing up a few paces. He stood stiffly now, back unnaturally straight as if to defend against the new guy’s sheer height. “Just showing the new kid the pecking order.”
“Apologize. Now.” The tall boy hovered menacingly. “Or I’ll go to Father Thompson.”
There was murderous flare of hatred in Ansem's pale eyes. A second later, it was gone. “Sorry, or whatever.” Ansem tucked his notebook under his arm and walked off. “See you later, losers.”
The other guy watched Ansem retreat before turning to Sam. “1983?” he asked, eying Sam warily.
“Yeah. I mean, me too.” Then, sick of this style of introduction, Sam stuck out his unbloodied hand. “Sam Winchester.”
Now that Ansem was gone, the other boy’s eyes glinted with good humor. “Jake Talley.”
“Hiya, Jake.”
For a minute, they just grinned at each other. Sam couldn't help it-he felt an immediate affinity with the other guy despite the fact that he was pretty much a stranger. He could tell by Jake's smile that he felt the same way.
Then Jake’s eyes fell to Sam’s arm, and his smile fell with it.
“We can still report him,” he offered reluctantly.
“No, it’s fine.” Sam shrugged. “I don’t want to be known as the guy who gets into a fight on his first day of school.”
“Trust me, don’t worry about it,” the other boy said, waving his hand. “They aren’t ever going to kick you out.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Ansem’s retreating back. “Ansem pulls shit like this on a daily basis, and he’s been here as long as I have. Longer, I think.”
Sam frowned, curious. “How long have you been here?”
“Since I was eight,” Jake said distantly, his eyes riveted to Sam’s arm. “You sure you’re okay, man?”
Sam pulled his hand away from the wound. It was jagged and thin, slicing very shallowly across the back of his wrist. “It’s just a scratch.”
Just as he closed his mouth around the last syllable of that word, a voice boomed across the property.
It was a loud voice. Though it came from a distant place, it rose like thunder in the big, empty space, but fell on the air like the echoes of the dead, vibrating back and forth between the walls of the buildings.
Something in Sam instinctively froze at the righteous anger in the unknown man, but when he tried to brush it off, tried to ignore it, he turned his gaze to the other boy, who were cringing for the same reason.
“Rickety old Bailey,” Jake said in an undertone, shifting uncomfortably.
“Bailey?” Sam echoed in an equally quiet voice.
“The head priest,” he muttered. “You’ll recognize him the second he talks.” From their vantage point, they saw the church doors suddenly fling open, the form of a student quickly stumbling out. Jake winced. “Some idiot must’ve snuck in there. Poor guy.”
A man followed him out-tall, thin, old. He had a pair of thick glasses on his face that barely obscured the pallid tone of his skin. He wore a black cassock that swished around his legs as he stalked after the student. His voice rose impressively from that deceptively skinny body as he demanded that the student stop running.
Bewildered, Sam turned to Jake. “Since when do people get in trouble for willingly coming to church?”
Raising an eyebrow, Jake snorted at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure got a lot to learn.”
He was right.
-----
The very next day was Sam’s first day of class.
A dark haired, hyper active kid-Andy, he learned later-barged into his room about ten minutes after the morning church bells rang, talking a mile a minute about class and what he needed to do, shoving notebooks, a Bible, and extra socks on him before pushing him out the door. Sam looked longingly after the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, only to be shoved harder (“You don’t have time for that, new guy!”).
Sam was hurried down the stairs, directed to a room about three doors down. He’d thought he’d like it-having his room so close to the classrooms-but he immediately decided that he didn’t. The classrooms had the same unfortunate, musty smell as his room and were only about three times as wide.
He took a second to look around, ignoring how Andy sailed past him. A cross hung on the back wall just under a clock. Yellowing depictions of the Ten Commandments and various other biblical stories covered every inch of the wall not occupied by the windows or a chalkboard.
The chalkboard itself was a long, austere affair, abnormally clean where it hung on the wall next to him. An equally clean podium stood in front of that, and next to that podium was a low, wooden desk. Pages from an open book stirred under the force of the wind that came from a permanently rusted open window.
After ten minutes, Sam would truly appreciate the afterthought of socks, only regretting not grabbing an extra shirt or six. But for now, he was warm and only passingly noticed the rust before he turned his full attention to the students in front of him.
There were about fifteen people in the class, the sum of the student of two combined years-1982 and 1983. Apparently, it mattered where you sat, because any two years mixed about as well as oil and water. He’d made the mistake of sitting in the front by the 1982 kids, only to get dark looks and sneers when they realized he belonged to 1983.
Year segregation was the new clique, and, as usual, Sam was behind on the times.
He got the picture quickly, though. He moved to the back with the equally wary 1983 group, who warmed up a bit when they realized he was their age. He took the aisle seat of a long, fragile table occupied by Andy and a girl.
The girl, who had dark hair and a cherubic face, wasted no time introducing herself (“I’m Ava! Where’re you from?”), giving him a pen to borrow when he admitted to not having one.
Andy watched them quietly, waiting for a lull in their (mostly Ava’s) conversation before he leaned back in his seat and reached around the back of Ava’s seat. He introduced himself, gripping Sam’s hand in a handshake.
“Sorry, man. Class, you know…” And then he shrugged, smiling, and Sam, knowing what he was talking about, instantly forgave him. “Shoulda told you about that too.” He jerked his chin toward the other half of the class, who seemed to huddle in together to not-stare at Sam over their shoulders.
“It’s fine.” It seemed like Sam was going to have to say that a lot at this school. Who knew? Maybe after saying it for the hundredth time, he'd start believing it too.
“Year sits with year,” Andy continued, shrugging. “In everything. Our rooms are near each other’s too. I don’t know why. That‘s just the way they set us up, I guess.” At Sam‘s confused look, he clarified, saying, “The school.”
“Oh,” Sam said. An awkward pause ensued.
Everyone was watching him, he realized-Andy expectantly, Ava cheerfully, everyone else sneakily. Sam looked around, trying to find something to look at other than other students. He turned half-way in his chair, noticing that Ansem was there too, sitting at the table behind him, but his head was on the desk. Sam was fairly sure he was still sleeping.
The door opened near the front of the room, letting in more stragglers. The second person through the door was Jake, who looked distracted. Seeing Sam, he smiled, his expression brightening as he crossed over the floor in five easy steps.
Jake went for the aisle seat behind Sam, nudging his shoulder affably as he passed. "Hey, man. Forgot to tell you about class yesterday." He sat down next to Ansem, letting his Bible fall to the table with a loud crack. Ansem jerked awake, his eyes wild.
Sam had relaxed at the familiar face. "It's okay," he said easily, even managing a smile. "Andy told me."
“Good.” Expression sobering, Jake tapped the eraser end of his pencil to the cover of the book in front of him. "Just so you know, you gotta learn your way around the Bible to get by in this class."
"I know my way around the Bible," Sam protested. Unlike his family, he at least read it.
"He doesn't mean the feel-good bits like Genesis or Exodus, but the real Bible," Ansem said unexpectedly. His groggy expression slid into a smile, and his smile widened like a shark’s, toothy and mean. He propped his chin on his palm, eyeing Sam. "The really gnarly shit."
Before Sam could say anything, the door opened again, letting in a woman-a nun, really. She strode to the front of the room in a full habit, her head held high and a book tucked under her arm. She was pale and had a long, lined face, which was half-obscured by thick glasses.
“Sister Elizabeth,” Andy whispered under cover of a cough.
The sister-their teacher, apparently-ignored the desk for the podium, sharply setting her book down before she looked up at the class. "Open your Bibles to Revelation," she commanded. “Start where we left off yesterday.”
Ava leaned closer to Sam, helpfully showing him the right passage. She got a glare from the nun for her Good Samaritanism and wilted back into her chair.
“Ava,” Elizabeth prompted. She abandoned the podium and the book, her arms crossed behind her back. “Read, please.” She started walking down the aisle, eyes sweeping back and forth over bowed heads.
Next to Sam, Ava let out an almost inaudible sigh. Then she said, “‘Then the kings of the earth and the magnates and the generals and the rich and the powerful and everyone, slave or free, hid in the caves and among the rocks of the mountains, calling to the mountains and rocks, ‘Fall on us and hide us from the face of the one seated on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of their wrath has come and who is able to stand?’”
There was silence in the room-heavy and unbroken. Sam lifted his head, confused. He couldn’t figure out the point of this-parables, he understood. Not… this.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “What does this passage mean?” No one raised their hand. The nun nodded to herself, as if she expected it from them. “It speaks of Judgment Day. It speaks of the wrath of God, who knows of your wickedness. It speaks of people who thought themselves above God’s Law fleeing the reality of God’s wrath. It speaks of them begging for death because of their fear.”
The nun continued walked down the aisle, addressing all and none of them-that is, until she stood near Sam. She looked at him then, gaze never wavering. “You live in sin now and care little, but mark my words. God will have the final say.”
She said it like it was a threat. Sam held his breath until she walked away, then he settled against the back of his seat. What the hell?
A folded up piece of paper bounced on Sam’s desk from somewhere behind him. Palming it carefully, Sam unfolded it in his lap. Having fun yet? Sam looked up from the note, then over his shoulder. Jake made little whirling motions by his ear, then put his head back down on his arms.
Sam turned back to the front. This is it, he decided numbly. John’s master plan.
John wasn’t religious, and while he didn’t chase his boys away from religion entirely, he always treated Sam’s faith with a measure of distaste, like it was a fault that Sam needed to learn to work around or overcome. So it didn’t make sense that he’d send his youngest away to Bible Camp 101... unless he knew it was a super religious private school.
So religious that Sam, who always enjoyed logic and academics, would be turned off by it entirely. So unbelievably zealous that simple Sammy would generalize his one bad experience to religion in general.
Sam’s mouth tightened. Now that he thought about it, their last fight had been about religion too-specifically about something Pastor Jim had said to him about ghosts. John did not understand why Sam would take the pastor’s word over his. Sam did not understand why John pretended to be a better expert at spirituality than a pastor.
The last thing John Winchester liked was having his knowledge questioned, especially when it was by Sam.
Groaning quietly, Sam let his head hit the table. He wasn’t here because of a bad fight. He was here because that bad fight was still going on.
Hell hath no fury like John Winchester trying to make a point.
Sam lifted his head, miserably eying his Bible. How long was he going to have to stay here?
Chapter Two