Chapter Text
Souls. Real, living, trapped souls. They glowed at Sam Winchester, lined up on the shelf in glass jars, and he asked himself if he should just walk away.
No...
No, he could never do that.
The brightness sliced right through soft tissues of his eyes, forcing him to squint as he yanked the top off the first jar. Instinct guided him. Internal gratitude flooded his chest as if his own soul spiraled around his ribs and reminded him that he once existed as a hollow human shell. How easily his soul could have been harvested for Abaddon's attempt at building an army too. If he didn't release them, scores of empty human shells might never be filled again.
Spiraling, curling balls of light flitted through the air and disappeared through the first exits they found. Life flew through the decaying convent. Joy permeated each breath he inhaled as if he absorbed traces of gratitude from each soul. They were intelligent. They were individual lives.
Sam dragged a rough hand under his eye, concealing a stray tear as the last soul twisted enthusiastically through the air and disappeared. He couldn't imagine his own soul dancing freely that way. Dean once told him of the way Castiel described its likely condition, how Lucifer probably stripped it raw just for the hellish pleasure of it. Something began to hurt as he turned and shuffled toward the only remaining way out of the old convent.
Leaning on a crate, Sam stepped over debris but stopped so abruptly as light caught his eye that his shoes screeched on the floor. Faint, it edged his peripheral sight. He stepped over the possessed nun's body and followed the shimmering bluish-white glow into an anteroom no bigger than a walk-in closet. There he discovered two more jars stored separately from the bulk, stashed far behind useless rubble on a top shelf. As he cleared away crumbling boxes and crates covered in cobwebs, he noticed the souls themselves--they were a different color. Subtly so. White with liquid flames of blue and green.
Sam stacked the jars in one arm and took them into the open space, stepping over the nun's fresh corpse once again. His conscious nagged at him and refused to let him abandon those souls after letting the others go.
The first soul took off into the night without incident.
The second jar in the crook of his elbow left him with a lonely sensation. Watching souls fly free had been oddly joyful and beautiful, but it was over so fast. Admittedly, there wasn't much to be celebrated in his work and certainly no beauty like that. So as he opened the final jar, he told himself to savor the moment. Stow it away in his own soul to remember that he'd once witnessed something truly stunning in his world of ugliness.
Except nothing happened. Sam waited.
And then he waited some more.
The ball of light floated there in that jar, unmoving.
Brows knitted together in confusion, Sam peered into the jar and even sniffed at it as if the soul was canned food gone bad. He silently laughed at himself for that one. Then he pointed the jar toward the air vent where most of the other souls escaped, yet that timid little thing didn't make any moves toward freedom. It struck him as sluggish, in fact. A disconcerting thought settled over his brain like a shroud--what if the person was dead and the soul wasn't reaped? Metatron jacked everything up so bad in Heaven. What if newly dead people were blocked from reaching Heaven too?
Sam tipped the jar over his open palm. Slow, like the flow of honey, the soul rolled through the jar and dropped into his hand. Warm like a fleece blanket, yet neither gas nor liquid, it took Sam a moment to comprehend the power of holding someone's soul in his hand. The bluish-green flames licked his skin like hot vapor. If he stuck his finger through it, he suspected he would be burned.
Still, the soul remained in his palm, bigger than a baseball, and seemed content away from its body.
Leaving it alone in an abandoned, decaying convent didn't sit well in his gut and neither did knowing Abaddon would eventually farm it for a demon army. He carefully fed the soul back into the jar and capped the lid again for safe keeping. They didn't really have time to deal with one little lost soul in the midst of hunting for Abaddon and Metatron, but he couldn't just ignore it. Dean may have robbed him of choosing his own path, but no more. Sam intended to follow his conscience on that one.
"Cas? Hey." The angel picked up on the fourth ring. "You anywhere near the bunker? Okay. Meet me there tomorrow. I've got a soul here--Abaddon's been mining them. Yep." He slid into the car with the soul stashed inside of his jacket and hit the road back to Lebanon.
*****
Of course Sam found the bunker empty. He wandered room to room without even putting his bag down as if Dean would turn up with a smile and another strange, fantastic meal. But as Sam reached the bunker kitchen, he found it in the same disastrous condition it had been when he left. If his brother was still himself, he would never allow the kitchen to get into such a mess. Once, it had been his favorite place.
Sam shook himself and stalked back toward the bunker library. He couldn't fall into that pattern again. Obsessing about each other was the reason they ended up in that state in the first place. He reminded himself that Dean's inability to let him go justified letting an angel possess him. There. The anger rose. It didn't matter where Dean was. They were both grown men and they certainly didn't need to know what the other was doing twenty-four hours a day. Not giving a crap about what Sam wanted was how Dean ended up with that red, raised mark on his arm. The Mark of Cain was just another disaster waiting to happen.
Fresh anger nearly propelled Sam's arm into slamming his bag on one of the library tables until he felt the weight of a glass jar wrapped in his clothes. The soul hadn't done anything wrong and didn't deserve being smashed in an outburst against his brother. He huffed. Then a deeper breath filled him. It took everything he had those days just to hold himself together.
He only sat down and pulled the jar out of his bag when he was sure he could control his emotions. The soul floated, encased in glass like a jar of peaches. A stranger somewhere had no idea they were missing their essence. Years ago he knew he wasn't interested in eating or sleeping, and he really didn't feel anything toward other people, but he never guessed he lost his soul. The news came as a horrible shock--or it would have if he could have felt anything. He knew the situation needed a careful touch.
The glowing, bright ball rolled into his hand. He couldn't resist opening the jar and experiencing that sensation again. Tingling heat, yet nothing like a tangible object, filled his palms as he shaped his hands into a bowl. Staring at it too long and so close left blind spots over his vision but he found himself unable to look away long. How many people could say they held a human soul in their hands? If he tried hard enough, maybe he could imagine what kind of person this was. Did the soul feel him? Was it able to discern its surroundings? Or was it just a ball of liquid gas placed in a human body like jamming batteries into a television remote control?
"Hello, Sam."
He jumped. Castiel's low tone didn't come across as threatening but Sam had been horribly jumpy for weeks.
"Cas, hey," he stammered. "I'm glad you came."
The angel's eyes reflected the light of the soul in Sam's hands and he stared, confused and perhaps uncomfortable. "You shouldn't handle a soul that much, Sam." He came closer, though with some hesitation. "Why have you kept it? Oh, Sam. Put it back in the jar. Please." The please entreaty came like an afterthought but the punctuated syllables suggested Castiel knew a great deal that Sam did not. "What happened?"
"I let a bunch of souls go. There was a convent--it was abandoned--and I went to investigate murders. You know, our kind of thing." Sam carefully fed the soul back into the jar as he spoke. "Abaddon's been turning souls for her army. One of her demons was still there guarding these and I killed her. Then I found all these souls. All of 'em took off except this one. I couldn't just leave it there. I mean, this is a person somewhere, right?"
"Perhaps," Castiel said a bit ominously.
Sam observed the angel grab the jar and study its contents. "Look, I know you're up to your elbows with Metatron stuff but if you could give me a lead on identifying this soul, I'd really--"
"--This soul isn't human. Not completely," Castiel replied, cutting him off.
"W-what?" That was the last thing Sam expected.
Castiel interrogated him. "Were there other souls like this one? Didn't you notice it's a different color?"
"I ... uh ... There was one like this. I released it." His head tipped slightly and he couldn't seem to get his brain around that reaction.
"I see," muttered the angel.
"...Monster?"
Castiel shook his head.
"...Turning demon?"
Again, Castiel shook his head.
The situation quickly had Sam exasperated and he let out a heavy sigh. "Cas, you gotta help me out here. I don't have a soul species handbook. I called you because this is way above my pay grade."
"There's a spell," said Castiel, setting the jar on the table. "I can identify the soul, I think. I haven't done this spell before though."
"Great. What do we need?"
"Sam," he said without making any moves toward doing the spell. "If I do this for you, you must return the soul and come straight home. We're assuming the soul can be returned at all right now. There's a chance it may be lost. If you give the soul back to the body, don't linger. Get in and get out."
The tension in Castiel's voice surprised Sam. He nodded a bit dumbly but he blurted, "What's the big deal? It's not dangerous, right?"
Castiel hesitated. "It could be."
"Cas, what are you not telling--"
Suddenly the tether of attention from Castiel to Sam broke with the distant slamming door. The angel's eyes averted beyond Sam to the curving stairwell. There came Dean with that ratty old duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. In that moment, Sam knew he'd have to stand on his head or spontaneously combust to get Castiel's attention back. Yeah, there it was. Castiel left the table having picked up the scent like a bloodhound and approached Dean without a word. He sensed something wrong.
"Hey," Dean muttered to them both. His eye fell on the angel for a moment, but he avoided full eye contact. "What are you doing here, Cas? Got a lead on Megadouche?"
"No. Sam needed my help." Castiel strolled a slow path around Dean, sizing him up. "Dean--"
"--I'm gonna grab a shower."
Spinning on his heels, Dean attempted to keep it casual and make a hasty exit. Castiel didn't miss a beat as a hand snatched Dean by the wrist and yanked him backwards. He ripped the sleeve away, revealing the scar burned into the hunter's forearm. The room turned so thick that even Sam had trouble breathing as blue eyes stared helplessly into green.
"What have you done?" Castiel murmured.
"Look, it's no big deal. I got a hold on it," replied Dean rather nonchalantly. "This is the only way to ice Abaddon. I'm cool. I got it."
The angel shook his head as if unable to comprehend willingly taking on the Mark of Cain. "You don't know what you've done," he told Dean, letting go of his wrist. "Why didn't you come to me? We take on these problems together. What were you thinking?"
That set Dean off and his face hardened into something dark, something not quite himself. "I'm thinking of icing Abaddon and then Crowley! Somebody's gotta take control."
"Yeah, together never really meant together so much as it did Dean calling the shots," Sam interjected in a highly purposeful swipe at his brother. "Don't you know, Cas? He's a country unto himself. We're too emotional and too feeble to make choices for ourselves. Thank God we have Dean here to make more deals with demons without talking to us first."
"All right, that's enough!" barked Dean.
Sam had enough. Blood rushed through his body in a familiar warning sign that he was steadily losing control. Dealing with his brother at all anymore left him exhausted and frustrated, especially knowing--sensing it deep down--that Dean wasn't really himself anymore. He did it all without trusting Sam to be there or to help like a partner should. So he threw a hand up and retreated toward the stairs. No matter what they did, it was too late. Dean had that mark seared into his forearm and that left Castiel and Sam to deal with the fallout.
The upper level of the bunker welcomed Sam with the exact silence that he craved. So did the room where he slept. He never considered the place home like Dean did but at least it afforded him the refuge he needed.
He flopped across the bed and slung his arm over his face, realizing that he left before Castiel identified the soul. He left the soul in the library with them as well. With an irritated sigh, he considered going down to grab it before Dean did something else stupid, but he also knew when he wasn't needed. Castiel was probably down there kissing it and making it better. Maybe not literally, of course, but Sam wasn't blind. They'd been dancing around an affair for years whether either of them could admit it or not. Hell, maybe they already were together and he hadn't seen it yet. Whatever the case, he sure as hell wasn't going back down to the library.
Sam hitched a knee up, never quite fitting on any bed. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths as the blood thrumming past his ears slowed. The gym. Yes. He'd go to the gym in the morning and take his frustration out on the treadmill.
Blackness seeped in. A heavy blanket of nothing draped over his body. Quiet, isolated. A void of thought and feeling.
Sam slept.
*****
The younger Winchester brother's body jerked and threw him out of sleep so violently that it felt like a nightmare. He sat up on his elbow, scrubbing a hand down his face. At first he didn't even realize he's been asleep but the watch on his left wrist read 4:36 am. Well, he almost made it through a whole night.
Pushing himself upright on the bed, Sam yawned wide like a lion and arched the kinks out of his spine. There on the unused nightstand, he noticed a glow. The soul in a jar. A note leaned up against it. Grabbing the paper, he recognized Castiel's compact, meticulous handwriting.
Dear Sam,
This soul belongs to 26-year-old Amy Sullivan in St. Louis, Missouri. I cannot provide more detail than that. I was blocked. I do not believe she is conscious. Begin with hospitals. Be careful.
Sincerely,
Castiel
It felt strange looking at the glowing ball in the jar and having a name for it now. Her. The soul was a her. Sam pieced together little details like Sullivan being an Irish name. If she was unconscious somewhere in St. Louis, maybe returning her soul would restore her health.
Sam packed his duffle bag without a word. Taking the Impala would piss Dean off, so he decided to walk into town and rent a car. Without telling anyone, Sam left the bunker with the soul tucked in his arm. They wouldn't need him. They never did as long as they had each other. Still, he gave it like a half hour before Dean started calling him asking where he went and why he didn't tell anyone.