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he feels no control of his body
Sam stares down at his hands, tracing the veins with his eyes, the creases, the old scars from nicking himself with this blade or that. He looks at the bitten fingernails, and the pair of crooked knuckles from a break that never set quite right, and the little patch of discolored skin on the edge of the palm that he thinks came from a mild burn some years ago.
They're his hands. He knows that, logically. They're his hands, attached to his arms, then his shoulders, his body as a whole. They flex when he tells them to. They move with the rest of him when he walks forward, when he—does anything, everything. They are, quite literally, his.
But they are also, quite literally, someone else's.
All of him is someone else's. Hands, arms, chest, legs, feet, stomach, head. His heartbeat is a pulse that doesn't belong solely to him. He has a pair of eyes that share an owner and send signals up to his brain, a brain that only exists for another person to use. There's not a single part of him, not a single molecule, not a single atom, that belongs solely to him.
It's been years by now, since Lucifer. Since he hallucinated him, since he escaped the Cage, since he jumped in the Cage, since he said yes, since Lucifer told him it was always going to be him. Most days, Sam doesn't think about the archangel at all. Bad days happen, of course, but for the most part—he's done his best to put all of that behind him, is all. No need to make himself crazy over it all for the second time, right?
But lately...lately, it's—he just—he can't stop coming back to it. Can't stop coming back to what it meant to have an archangel inside of him, an archangel controlling his every breath, every blink. Can't stop coming back to the fact that being a Vessel, a container, for a powerful being was always his destiny. That he was created solely for the use of another. That since the dawn of time, every angel knew it was always going to end with the sons of John and Mary Winchester. That he was only ever a tool, not a person—not to the angels, not to the demons. Hell, sometimes it felt like not even to his dad.
And he can't stop returning to all of that, ruminating on things he's tried to shove so far behind himself. Because it's not far behind him anymore. Because he's only a few days free of once more having an angel inside of him.
Sam stares down at his hands, and sees them kill Kevin. He sees them punch Dean again and again in that cemetery. He sees them tie Jo up and stroke her face, all the more threatening for their gentleness. He sees them rip those demons apart bare-handed. He sees them react in defense of an angel that made all the rest fall. He sees them hold up a gun and shoot his brother.
What's that saying? That...that once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern. Yeah. Well.
Dean and Adam and John, the True and Potential Vessels of Michael. Still terrifying, yes, still violating, still rage-worthy, but—but righteous. The hero of the tale. That's who wanted Dean. That's who wanted Sam's father. But Sam? No, Sam bleeds darkness. And like calls to like.
Meg, Lucifer, Gadreel. Three beings with the farthest things from pure intentions. Three beings who used him like that was all he was good for. Meg wanted revenge on Dean, Lucifer wanted to fight his brother, Gadreel wanted to be seen as worthy again. Putting massive weight on Sam's heart, on his soul, a heaviness that would never wash away, because their hate and their beliefs were too absolute.
Their convictions versus his life? Not a competition at all.
Sam watches his fingers curl slowly inward into fists, and then relax back out, hands lying on the table in front of him. Terror sparks for a moment, and he tells himself, "No, that was you, you moved your hands, that was you, there's no one else in your head, it's just you, right now it's just you, it's just you—" until the words are a never-ending echo in his mind.
He keeps moving his hands, just to know he can. He's in control. He—he's in control. Right now, for now, he's in control. His body is his.
He hates how hollow the words sound. Even inside his own mind, he can't make them sound convincing.
Nothing feels real. He doesn't feel real. Does he even still exist, when there's not another being in his head? Does he just wait in limbo until someone can make use of him again? If—fuck, even if you ignore those three beings, those three occasions, it's not like they're the only ones who laid claim to him, are they?
"I said get back in the damn car."
"I'll be there in a minute, Champ! But I'm proud of you; knew you had it in you."
"Sam was supposed to be the grand pooh-bah and lead the big army."
"Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it."
Nausea churns in Sam's gut, and he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath to try to swallow down the feeling. His whole life. Every demon hiding behind a friendly face (Doug, Rachel, Brady, so many fucking more—), every hunting lesson, every school left in his rearview mirror, every single moment manipulated and curated in the service of others.
It's not his body. It's had a "Property Of" sign on it since the dawn of time, and the name written there isn't Sam Winchester. He's a house sitter at best. And no matter how much he thinks he moves past this shit, no matter how hard he works to move on, to not think of himself like that, to live his life now that John and Azazel and Lilith and Ruby and Meg are all dead, now that Lucifer's locked far away, he—
It happens again. And Sam...
How is he supposed to feel at home in his skin when so many others have already done that themselves? Lucifer once (more than once, really, but—) called him a whore in the Cage, and he wasn't even talking about sex. And with how dirty and used and out of sync with his own flesh he feels, Sam can't say for sure if that's an inaccurate description. Doesn't think it is.
"So many people have been up inside you, Sammy. I mean, really, it's—"
"No," Sam mutters to himself, squeezing his eyes shut even harder. "No. It's just you. Just you."
For now, his mind replies. Always just for now.
He wishes he could argue with that. But...but he really doesn't think he can.
his eyes look sharp and steady
into the empty parts of me
"I've got demon blood in me, Dean!" Sam shouts, breathing hard, barely keeping himself from shattering completely. He wants to scream, he wants to break things, he wants to curl up tightly and stop existing forever. He needs Dean to understand for once, he needs his brother, he needs his brother to understand. Sam is—Sam is dirty, tainted, infected, and he—he can't—
"This disease is pumping through my veins, and I can't ever rip it out or scrub it clean." Clean, clean, he will never be clean, he has never been clean, God all he wants to do is be clean— "I'm a whole new level of freak!" And I need to not be evil, I need to prove them all wrong, I can't do anything other than try to—to— "I'm just trying to take this—this curse...and make something good out of it! Because I have to."
Because I have to because I have to because I have to because I have to because I have to.
Dean will never know what that's like, will never truly understand, but Sam needs him to try, he needs his big brother to fucking try, needs someone in this fucking universe to understand where he's coming from, to understand the bone-deep violation he is brutally aware of every moment of every day. A demon decided he wanted a special leader for his army, and thus Sam's been tainted down to his core. Is that so much for Sam to ask? For just someone to understand what it means to be...impure, to be meant for darkness, and trying so hard to be good anyway?
He feels empty, hollow. He stares at the ground and wishes it could swallow him whole.
He hears Dean take a slow, deep breath, and then footsteps approaching him. Sam's shoulders tense, but he doesn't move away. He's ready for more accusations. Ready for Dean to say outright what he only implied a few minutes ago, that Sam is going dark, that Sam is incapable of telling right from wrong. He's already so close to shattering—Dean might as well deliver the final blow.
"You're right," Dean says, in that tone of his that is purposefully even and so clearly hiding a lot under the surface. "You're right, I don't know what you're going through. But come on, man, it's not like you've been making any attempt to let me in on it."
Sam's mouth twists. Dean's not wrong, but he's not right, either. Sam hasn't tried to let Dean in, not really, but any time Dean has learned something about what Sam's dealing with, he gets...angry, and looks at Sam like—like he's...It's just. It's not good. It's not something Sam ever thought he would get from Dean of all people.
Dad, yes. Other hunters, absolutely. But Dean?
"But that's not—" Dean cuts himself off with a little irritated noise, then exhales sharply through his nose. "Fuck, that's not the point."
"What is the point?" Sam mutters, lifting his gaze to look Dean in the eye. His brother's brow is furrowed, his expression serious, but not angry or cold like it was before. It makes Sam's next breath hitch.
"The point is," Dean says, then swipes a hand down his face. "The point is, that I—that you're my brother. And I don't think you're a freak, or an idiot, or any of that shit you said. This stuff...it scares me sometimes, Sammy, I can't say it doesn't." Dean's gaze becomes burning, firm, and Sam is struck by it, by the transformation in front of him. This is Dean. This is his brother. This is the man Sam would trust with more than his life. "But that doesn't mean there's a damn thing wrong with you, okay?"
Sam's eyes sting. He doesn't want to cry, but—but it feels like a losing battle, honestly. He didn't think...to hear Dean say that...
Dean sighs, eyes going sad in the way only Sam ever seems to make him. "C'm'ere, man," he says gruffly, and then he's yanking Sam forward, wrapping his arms around him and pounding him firmly on the back. One of his hands curls into Sam's shirt, holding on tight, and Sam does the same with a wet exhale, clutching at his brother. He buries his face in the curve of Dean's neck and lets his brother hold him like he used to when he was young, crying quietly into the safety of Dean's arms.
It doesn't fix anything. It doesn't change the fact that Sam has (steadily growing) power at his fingertips, has demon blood running through his veins, has a destiny that he doesn't even fully understand yet and seems to unfold more and more with every day that passes, and not in a good way. It doesn't change the fact that Azazel robbed him of a life lived solely for himself, robbed him of—of his humanity. It doesn't change the fact that he was supposed to lead the legions of Hell, or how he is still determined—and eager —to kill Lilith, no matter what it takes.
No, it doesn't change any of that. It doesn't even really fix the split that has formed between him and Dean since Dean got back from Hell.
But it soothes Sam nonetheless. It feels like cool water on a burning wound nonetheless. And, for as long as he can, Sam is going to soak it all in.
"I've got you," Dean says, voice rough in a way that tells Sam his brother's holding back tears of his own. Not that either of them will mention it. "I've got you, Sammy. Always have, huh? Always will."
Sam lets himself believe it. The alternative is too soul-crushing to bear.
always a well-dressed fraud
who wouldn't spare the rod
never for me
Sam should be dead.
This isn't the first time he's had that thought. His last few deaths—and, yeah, Sam can hear how insane that sentence is, thank you—have been kind of...boring, actually, because after the insane roller coaster that his life has been, it really has just become—routine. And those deaths had purposes to serve. They were expected, or, if not expected, then something easy to roll with.
This, though? This harkens back to the knife Jake twisted in his back (...literally). A death he didn't, in any way, see coming. A death that felt so obviously final as it was happening. A death that was painful and filled with fear. A death that had him looking Dean in the eye as Dean screamed his name, and he called Dean's in turn, and then just pain and darkness and blood and nothing.
He should be dead. They came to this world to rescue Mom and Jack, and hit a bit of bad luck, and he got taken down by some vampires. It's what happened, he knows it's real. And there are no demons around to make deals with Dean, nor would Dean be stupid enough to do that in the middle of a mission.
(Once they got back to their world, well, that's another story entirely. As much as he'd hope his brother would let things lie, he's a realist.)
Sam should be dead. Instead he's gasping awake in the cave that took his life, and the man who still haunts his nightmares to this day is smiling down at him.
"Hey, Sammy," the Devil says in a soft voice, leaning casually against the wall, and all Sam can say in response is "No," all he can fucking think is no, because—because no, because no, no, no. Lucifer cannot be here, Lucifer can't—he—Sam should be dead and Lucifer should be trapped back at the bunker and this—fuck, this was never supposed to happen, how the hell is this happening? Him and Lucifer, no, they're not supposed to be alone together, Dean promised him, Sam can't—
This can't be fucking happening. It just can't.
Sam doesn't know how to describe the disgust that wells inside of him at the realization that Lucifer brought him back to life. It vibrates in his veins, settles under his skin like ants. He wants to vomit. Lucifer, the being who tortured Sam for nearly two centuries, who made a home for himself inside Sam's body, who has claimed Sam as property and still to this day sees Sam as his—that's the one who brought him back to life.
Lucifer, that person, the one who did all of that and so much more, put his hands on Sam's soul and dragged it back into the living plane. He sent his grace through Sam's body and healed him. He stood above Sam's dead body and decided he wasn't done with his favorite chew toy yet. His True Vessel, MFEO. What a joke. What an utter shitshow. What a hateful series of manipulations that ended with Sam's pain, his despair, always Sam's agony—
"What do you want?" Sam yells, covering his fear with anger. Anger used to come so much easier, before the Cage. He had a fire in his belly, had a...a righteousness, as ridiculous as he knows that is, in the way he went about his convictions. He hasn't been able to access that kind of fire in a very long time. He really wishes he had it now—it would make facing Lucifer...not easy, never easy, not with this creature, but at least easier.
"I want what you already have—a relationship with my son," Lucifer says, laying out a red carpet of bullshit along with it, saying he's changed, like Sam of all people will buy that. Like Sam would ever in a million years help Lucifer get his conniving, psychopathic hands on a boy as filled with light as Jack is.
"I don’t feel like he’ll give me a chance unless I come bearing gifts," Lucifer drawls, and pokes Sam in the chest with a smile. Dread is sour in Sam's throat. His skin crawls from the touch. "Boop! That's you. You're my present."
Come bearing gifts.
You're my present.
Sam closes his eyes. He isn't surprised, to hear Lucifer talk to him this way, refer to him this way. It's just...been a long time since someone looked him in the eye and reduced him to nothing more than an object for someone else's use. A handy tool in the box of someone who believed themselves so very important, or simply like their word was law. He still...in his worst days, he still finds himself thinking about himself like that, when times get particularly bad, but it—but he hasn't had someone else say it to him in...fuck, in so long.
Even during Sam's visit to the Cage during the mess with Amara, Lucifer's silver tongue stayed far away from objectification. He shaped his entire argument around them being a team, that they would defeat the Darkness together, that Sam was crucial and not just a weapon. Because Lucifer knows him inside and out, knows how deeply Sam hates everything he was destined to be. Knows he hates being a possession of others. So he played the game.
Now, though? Now, there's no need. He has all the cards. He doesn't have to pretend he sees Sam as anything other than his. His to do with as he pleases.
It makes Sam feel sick with himself, for everything he is. For everything he's always been.
And, because there's no other option, because Lucifer will just take Jack if Sam doesn't comply, because Sam so desperately wants to see his brother and his mother and his kid again...There's no other option than to agree.
So Sam marches onward, leading the Devil to the camp of human survivors, trying to wrap his head around how, even with everything so very different, it still feels like history is repeating itself.
all that I've been taught
and every word I've got
is foreign to me
Sam likes staying with Pastor Jim.
It's so different from his 'normal' life, all the stuff that happens when he's with Dad and Dean. Being with Dad means training and hunting and marching orders. It means crappy motels and unhealthy diner food and a million different schools and people he shouldn't even bother to remember. It means a life on the road, no ties, no nothing, only the next job and the one after that.
But visiting Jim, spending time in Blue Earth, is so different in all the best ways. Jim is well-versed in the supernatural, but he doesn't hunt. He rarely gets involved at all, except to offer a hunter here or there advice, or a place to recuperate. He's a truly normal man, with a normal house and every day job. He goes shopping at a grocery store and mows his lawn and pays taxes.
It's a marvel, to Sam. It's a life he's never personally known but always longed for nonetheless. He follows at Jim's heels like a duckling, helping with chores around the house, aiding wherever he came, too well-trained and too polite to not be instinctively helpful. But it's different, here. There's no demand for him to act. There's no barked orders or a smack upside the head for not listening.
Jim asks. It's as simple as that. Jim asks.
Sam's never experienced that before. It's such a foreign concept, so odd that sometimes he doesn't even know what to do with it. Because it...it feels deeper, somehow, than just Sam's experience with John. There's a sensation inside his chest that he's never quite understood, a feeling like there was something wrong with him. And, more than that, a feeling like there was something...inescapable. 'Choice' was something he longed for, but never truly felt like an option.
He helps around the church, too, and Sam finds that he likes that best of all. But he can never stop himself from hesitating in the doorway, a nervousness rising inside of him like he doesn't know if he has the right to be in a place so pure, another thing he doesn't understand about himself but can't shake for the life of him.
Once he gets himself inside the church, though, it's so...wonderful. There's a peace to the hallowed halls that are unlike any other place Sam's been. He loves the way light shines multicolored through the stained-glass windows, and the velvet padding of the kneelers, and the majesty of the altar. Being inside the church, staring up at the beautiful painting of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, makes Sam feel both insignificant as an ant and important as the world itself.
He finds himself spending a lot of time in the church, even when his tasks are done. Once he's placed the leaflets and straightened the books, he finds himself sitting in the front row, hands folding together in his lap, eyes fixed on the altar before him. It makes his throat feel thick, his eyes wet. He never knows why, doesn't even know if it's bad or good. It's...confusing.
But still, he can't get enough of it.
Something Sam will never understand is why Dad and Dean are so—dismissive of the concept of Heaven and God. They acknowledge that demons and Hell are real; why couldn't the opposite be, too? If there's ultimate evil, why can't there be ultimate good?
Sam wants it to be real so desperately, and he never feels that need more than sitting in such a truly, holy place. The sensation fills him, that longing he can never get rid of no matter how hard he tries. It overwhelms everything else, makes everything out in the world feel insignificant, meaningless. Foreign and pointless, when weighed against the majesty of God.
It...He just...Sam knows how important what they do is. He does, really, he does. Hunting monsters, saving people, it's important. It's just something he feels he should've gotten a choice in.
Heh, there's that word again. Choice. A word for other people.
It's not like he even knows what he would choose, if he had a choice. He doesn't know what he'd want to be. Maybe he could stay here, learn to be a pastor.
Suddenly, Sam feels sick with himself. Do you think you could ever be worthy of being a Man of God? he thinks to himself, derisive and hateful. Do you think something so...unclean could ever deserve to speak on His behalf?
Sam wishes he knew why he felt this way about himself. He wishes he could be—settled, the way Dad and Dean are. He wishes he could find any measure of peace within himself, instead of a constant storm of conflicting emotions.
"I don't know if you're listening," Sam murmurs, tilting his head forward, feeling the red-green-blue-yellow light shine down around him, "but if you are...please show me what I'm supposed to do. Please, please just...please, if you can, please help me." He swallows thickly. His eyes feel wet. "And if—if you can't help me, then...Then just look after Dean, okay? Make sure he's okay."
It's all that truly matters to Sam, at the end of the day. Dean's safety. If Sam can't have choice, can't have freedom...at least he can have his brother at his side. He deserves that much, doesn't he? Has he earned that much?
He doesn't know, is the thing. Doesn't know if he deserves a thing at all.
A part of him, a part that is big enough to choke him some days, says no, no he doesn't.
It's really not a surprise.
when the land was godless and free
Sam was never a big drinker. He didn't like the sensation of drunkenness, didn't like the lack of control, the absent-mindedness. It dulled his senses, made his mind slow and his tongue loose. He talked too much, when he was drunk. Gave too much of himself away, for better or for worse.
Jess and Brady used to like Drunk Sam, because they said it was the only time they felt like they could truly know him. They were good enough to not take advantage, to not steal answers to questions that they constantly had about Sam, but that doesn't mean they wouldn't listen if he offered some secrets up. Inebriation really was when the pair of them learned the most about him, no matter how much Sam tried to give all of himself to Jess in their day to day.
Some lessons just ran too deep to be shakable. And keeping his history to himself? That was one of them.
He just never liked it, certainly not the way Dad did, and eventually Dean, too. Not that he didn't understand why they drank—the life they live is a truly hard one, and sometimes getting through it takes a little bit of help.
Or—or he should say, the life they lived. Because Dad's been dead almost two years now, and Dean—Dean—
Never before has Sam gotten it as strongly as he does now. He wants to be numb, wants to be so fucking far gone that he can't even remember his own name, let alone what's happening. What happened.
Dean is dead. His brother is dead. Dean is fucking dead. Sam tried, he tried so goddamn hard, and he failed. He couldn't save his brother. Dean died for him. Dean made a deal and brought Sam back to life and the thanks he gets is eternal damnation. How is that fair? How is that allowed?
His mom, his dad, his girlfriend, his brother—they're all dead, now. And the real fucking kicker is that they're all dead because of him. Mary walked in on the Yellow-Eyed Demon and Sam, John got taken by that same beast hunting Sam, Jess was killed to force Sam back into hunting, and Dean, God, that was seriously directly Sam's fault, wasn't it? All this death, traced right back to Sam. Like a fucking cancer on the universe.
So, Sam gets drunk. He gets wasted. He needs the world to become very far away, because if he has to be aware enough to focus on—on everything for much longer then he's going to do something Dean would consider stupid. It really, really doesn't feel stupid to Sam, not now. Not with Dean gone. In fact, it seems like the best goddamn option there is.
But he promised. Fuck, shit, fuck, he promised. He promised Dean.
So, drunkenness. Because at least drowning his sorrows will keep him from throwing himself off a bridge.
"Remember what I taught you," Sam slurs to himself, some of Dean's last words. He chokes out a laugh that sounds more like a sob, head tilting back to the sky far above him. He doesn't know where he is. He left the liquor store and downed a bottle of jack and just kept walking, until he ended up in this wooded area. He doesn't even remember what town he's in. He doesn't really fucking care.
"How is this fair?" Sam says, the words jumbling together, as he blinks up at the Heavens. "How could you let this happen? He was good. He was good. Why couldn't you take me instead? Everyone knows I'm running on borrowed time. Everyone knows I should be dead. Why would you take him?"
Sam doesn't think there's anyone listening, though. How can there be? How can God and His angels exist, if Dean has gone to Hell? How can the Almighty be real if truly good, heroic people like Dean can be sent down to damnation?
No, there's no one listening. There's no one up there. Because if there is, if there is, then Sam—
No. No, there can't be anyone. It would break him to know they were there, and simply—didn't care.
His shoulder blades itch, the sensation of eyes on him. He whirls around, stumbling at the sudden movement, stomach lurching. Thankfully, nothing comes up. There's no one there, either. No one else around.
And yet, the sensation of eyes on him lingers.
He must be more fucked up than he thought. "Fuck," he mutters to himself, and lets himself collapse, thudding hard down on his ass on the cold ground. He wraps his arms around his knees and burrows his face in them, not having it in him to care about the fact that he's crying now.
"Please," he whispers, to a universe that isn't listening, that has never been listening. "Please, he doesn't deserve this. He deserves so much better. Take me instead. Please, please..."
He repeats the word over and over again, rocking back and forth as if he was still a small child.
He wants a hug from Dean so badly right now that the longing feels like a physical ache.
It's cold, and it's dark, and Sam is alone, and the fact that this is his life now terrifies him down to the bone. He wants Dean. He wants his brother. He wants their lives to not be complete and utter shitshows for once.
But since when do Winchesters get what they want? Certainly not without a price.
Sam must fall asleep there like that, because he wakes up in the morning with limbs that shake from bone-deep cold, clothes that are damp from a light rain during the night, a body that aches from lying on hard ground.
He's also not alone anymore.
Sam flails helplessly as he's dragged roughly to his feet by inhuman strength, a grip on his arm that doesn't falter even as he stumbles, as his knees threaten to buckle underneath him.
"You look like shit," the person says as they drag him forward, a female voice that Sam thinks is familiar but he can't currently be bothered enough to try to recall. His head is pounding, every crunch of leaves under his heavy footsteps making the pain even worse. His stomach feels moments from rebelling. God, hangovers fucking suck.
"What do you want?" Sam asks, batting at the grip hauling him out of the woods. Despite the action, he doesn't really want the woman to let go; he's pretty sure he'd just crumple right down to the ground without her to hold him up. Though, he has to admit, he...doesn't actually care all that much about it. Who cares if he's on the ground? Maybe it's better to just let the elements take him. He doesn't know how long that would take, but he's happy to give it a go.
"You to get your shit together," is the woman's response. "And I can see I have my work cut out for me."
Sam can't help but laugh. Yeah, if this lady wants Sam put together, she sure as fuck has a long road ahead of her. Sam has zero interest in cleaning himself up. Hasn't she heard that Dean is fucking dead?
The woman sighs sharply in response to Sam's bitter bark of a laugh. She mutters something like, "Didn't sign up to hold his fucking hand." Sam has no idea who she's talking to, and frankly, he doesn't give a single shit. "Come on, Sam. You're better than this. Move."
"You're bossy," Sam says, and his mind fills in, 'and short', and suddenly he wants to curl up into a ball and sob.
He's acting so pathetic right now. He doesn't give a fuck about it.
Dean is dead and God is nonexistent at best and absent at worst, and in this moment it truly feels like not a single other thing matters. How can it?
But still, Sam lets himself be dragged back to civilization, and lets the woman—Ruby, he realizes at some point, and it really says a lot about how out of it is he that he doesn't even care that a demon is helping him clean up—shove him in a shower and force-feed him some food, lets her drag him back towards something vaguely resembling human.
Very vaguely. It is Sam, after all.
(Sam doesn't know that Ruby nearly didn't find him that night. That he made his way so deep into a forest as to be completely in uncharted wilderness, and collapsed in a cropping of trees that could most certainly not be called a clearing. There were no identifying marks, no signs of life, barely even a trail to follow. He could've died there and no one would've ever known about it.
Lucky for him—or maybe unlucky, depending on how you look at it—Ruby has a mission of her own, and there wasn't a chance in hell she was going to lose her Chosen One to grief for a man she was relieved was dead and gone anyway. And this entire experience definitely made sure she stuck a tracking spell on him for the possibility of it happening again. With as fucked in the head as Sam is right now, she wouldn't be surprised if it did.
And she and Sam still have work to do.)
but still my heart is heavy
with the hate of some other man's beliefs
Sam's entire life is defined by grief for a woman he's never even met.
He realizes that sometime around his tenth birthday. It's a hard concept to grasp, considering neither Dad nor Dean ever talk about Mary Winchester, and all the more powerful for it. Her name isn't spoken, her features never described, the things she did and the person she was never talked about. Sam wouldn't know a single thing about her if not for the one photo they still have, that Sam was somehow allowed to see.
And yet, even without a single word spoken of her, it is the memory of her that owns every facet of their lives. They wouldn't be here if not for John's grief, for the madness and desperation that set in after his wife's murder. A different kind of man—not better or worse, just different—would've been devastated by the event, but do his best to move on. Do his best to raise his children as his wife would've wanted.
But John Winchester was a soldier, a man lacking in a mission since returning from the war. He was soft, with Mary. He was soft and gentle. But then she was taken from him, and moving on was not an option for a man like this. His devastation turned to determination, to a drive with an ever-present undercurrent of hate. His life became centered solely around finding the thing that killed Mary and ending it in turn.
And so, the lives of his children became centered solely around it too.
There is no talking about it. The few, very rare occasions in which Sam has tried only ended with him getting yelled at by either his father or his brother, so ultimately not worth it. But when it hits him what their entire purpose in life is, what this hunting mission is really about, it floors him a little. Because Dad and Dean expect him to feel the same drive, the same all-consuming need, the same grief, without letting him know a single thing about the woman he's supposed to be grieving.
He grieves anyway. By himself, as he's finding is the Winchester Way. He grieves for what could have been, more than the woman Mary was herself. He doesn't know who that woman is, after all. But he grieves for the mom he could've had. For a white picket fence and a minivan and day care drop-off. He mourns for being sung to sleep with a gentle voice, and a hand stroking through his hair when he gets a booboo, and a sunshine smile directed his way when he does well in school.
He mourns for what-ifs. It's all he has. And he finds that this kind of mourning doesn't drive a need to hunt, the way the other kind does for Dad and Dean. This kind of mourning makes him want.
Because while his father and brother can't get back who they loved and lost, and Sam can't ever have a mom, he can have that normal, safe life she would've provided. He can get that for himself.
Maybe if they talked about her, if they let him know her, he'd feel more...connected, to his mother. He'd feel more like he deserved to mourn her, to be part of this family vengeance. But Mary Winchester is no more familiar to him than any woman he might pass on the street.
And yet, Dad expects him to care the same way he does. He won't tell Sam what Mary laughed like, or what her favorite color was, or how she responded when he proposed. He won't tell Sam a single damn thing. But he expects Sam to be filled with the same deep, painful love he feels.
How is that fair? How can they expect this, without giving anything in return? Sam wants to love Mary, wants to grieve for her, wants to miss her and feel overwhelmed by how badly he needs to find her killer. But Mary is as much a figment of his imagination as a real person. He has nothing to hold onto except for a fantasy of what life might've been with her in it.
It only makes him want to get out. Don't Mary's wishes count at all, to Dad and Dean? Sam...doesn't know what she would've wanted, actually. Was she the kind of person who would want herself avenged? Would she be proud of the way John took charge? Or would she be horrified? Would she grieve for the life they could've had, the same way Sam does?
Sam likes to think she would, solely because he wants someone on his side. He wants there to be another Winchester who understands what Sam is feeling. There's always a—line, with Dad and Dean on one side and Sam on the other. No matter how much he tries to bridge the gap...it will always be there.
Sam doesn't understand the feeling deep inside of him that tells him it will always be this way.
Years later, when he applies for Stanford and gets in, he tells himself that it's what Mary would've wanted for him. He tells himself that she was different from John, that she wanted different things, that she would've been proud of him for making this choice. This is the only thing he has of her, after all. All he knows about her, all he can picture when he tries to picture her. A normal life. A regular job, a house, a home. It's the only thing he's ever had of her.
To Dad and Dean, it's a betrayal to their wife and mother. It's abandoning her, refusing to avenge her. It's abandoning family and a disgrace to the memory of Mary Winchester.
Sam likes to think that shedding a life of hate and hunting and homelessness is honoring her, just in a different way.
But hey, what the hell does he know? Maybe he's just trying to make himself feel better about his choice. He never knew her. Maybe she would've considered this move a betrayal, too.
But when all he has is his imagination to try to understand a woman he's never met, he gets to pick the story to tell. And all he can do is hope it's the right one.
He's pretty sure it's the right one for himself, anyway.
screaming the name of a foreigner's god
the purest expression of grief
It's an odd thing, to pray to beings that in any other situation Sam would consider monsters. These are things they hunt, creatures that kill and get killed in turn. Kill a human, get taken down by a hunter. It's the way things work. It's the way things have always worked.
But Sam...doesn't really know what else to do, right now. His entire life he has been a believer, has had faith. He prayed to God and considered Heaven a real place and thought of the angels as actual beings that existed out there somewhere. He entire life, no matter how his family scoffed at him.
And he was proven right. It's all real. And, more than that, he gets to meet them. He gets to meet angels. It's almost too big for him to fully understand, fills his heart with too much joy to be fully comprehensible. There are angels and they know him and—
And they consider him an abomination.
And they hesitate to shake his hand.
And they talk about killing him as if they'd rather do that than be anywhere near his presence.
There is no way to describe the grief he feels, the soul-crushing despair. He genuinely cannot put it into words, it is simply too terrible. He has had faith, had trust. He has prayed, nearly daily. And they just—they think—they see him as—
He goes for a walk, and keeps walking. He finds himself on a low bridge, overlooking a stream bubbling beneath him. His chest is heaving with emotion, his eyes wet. His hands clench at the stone railing. He can't stop replaying all the moments in his head. All the things they said to him, all the things they did.
Is this the response his faith receives? Is this his reward? Dean has only ever turned up his nose at religion, always rolled his eyes at Sam's belief, and yet he's Chosen. He is the one they look to, the one they want to protect. He is irreverent and dismissive and hateful, and still they look at him like a beacon.
And Sam is a freak of nature. A mistake. And they treat him as such.
Did they laugh at him, all these years? Did they sneer when they heard his prayers? Stupid little abomination, thinking himself worthy. Thinking they gave a shit about his hopes and desires. Thinking himself anything more than a nuisance, the irritating tagalong to their Righteous Man. Did they hear his prayers and purposefully turn away?
He feels so foolish. He feels so...shameful.
Sam tilts his head back, looking up at the sky. It's peaceful here, this little place he's found. Birds chirp somewhere nearby. Water splashes against rocks, runs steadily. A light breeze ruffles his hair. This is a place that, in the past, he might've prayed. It's not the same as a church, but being surrounded by nature, by the majesty of God's creations, it always brought out that same holy feeling inside of him.
He doesn't feel the holiness of the place now. And yet he can't shake the desire to reach out to something bigger than himself. To hope that somewhere out there is a being who would hear him and give a shit.
Sam, to the world, is a monster. Maybe the only gods that would accept him would be the ones who are seen as monsters, too.
In his head, Sam cycles through the ones he knows, from religion to religion. There are so many, so many kinds, so many purposes and desires. He feels almost—silly, doing this. Undeserving, after everything he's done to their kind.
But still, when his mind settles on someone, he can't stop himself from praying anyway.
Anubis. Egyptian god of the afterlife, yes, but also god of lost souls and the helpless. Sam thinks he fits the category. He never realized just how lost he was, how discarded by a religion he put all his faith and heart into, but he...is. And he sure as fuck feels helpless right now.
His chest is tight, his throat thick. He closes his eyes and a tear slips down his cheek. There are too many emotions inside of him to be able to name any of them, all of them melding together to form one giant, gaping wound. It's a little like grief.
"I don't know if you can hear me, Anubis," Sam murmurs, thinking of everything he knows of Anubis, trying to direct his prayer that way and having no idea if it even works, if they hear prayers the same way Heaven does. "Or if you even care, considering my job. Maybe I'm not even doing this the right way." Another tear falls. Fuck, what if he's just screwing things up even more? "But I could—I could use some help.
"Whatever you can offer," he continues, voice growing hoarse. "Guidance, a sign that I'm not fully damned, a—a—maybe some...protection, for my brother." He pauses, and adds, "Maybe for me, if I matter at all. I don't—I don't know what to do. I feel so—" His breathing shudders. "I am so alone. I just don't want to be alone.
"I don't know if this is fair, me reaching out. Maybe you'll sneer at me too. It—I'd understand." He swallows. "But if you...if you do care, at all, despite everything—I could really use some help." He tilts his head back, blinking his eyes open. A bright blue sky greets him. "Please, I need help."
He stands there silently, heart pounding in his chest, and waits for...something.
He's not surprised when there's nothing. It's not an unfamiliar response, the complete lack of it.
Taking a minute to pull himself together, not wanting to return to the motel and to Dean a complete wreck, Sam eventually turns to leave. He walks down the bridge towards the road. When he reaches the end, where wood planks turn to stone, he stops short, staring.
Hanging off the end post of the bridge is a long, black cloth. It shimmers slightly in a way that doesn't feel—real, feels just slightly off. It rustles in the gentle breeze, and Sam sees there are other colors throughout it, subtle and glowing and...otherworldly.
It definitely wasn't there when Sam first crossed the bridge, he knows that for a fact. It's too out of place, too eye-catching, for him to have missed it.
In some of the myths Sam's read, Anubis was said to wear a sash around his neck, a supposed symbol of protection. It was supposed to take care of those under his purview.
Sam can do nothing but stand there and stare for a while, not daring to move as he tries to wrap his head around what's happening. Feeling like he might just collapse if he steps forward. His chest is tight again with a well of emotions, so very different from what he was feeling earlier. The gratitude is so intense it steals his breath away.
Slowly, Sam reaches out, running his fingers over the cloth. It's cool to the touch, despite the bright sun far above. The colors seem to dance under his fingers, almost like a trick of the light.
Sam picks it up. It's about a foot long, with fraying edges like it's aged. He holds it gently in his hands for a moment, fighting back the urge to cry, and then very carefully wraps it around his wrist and ties it off to make sure it stays.
It's like a balm against the raging storm inside his head.
Sam looks back across the bridge, listening to the water running and birds chirping, and whispers, "Thank you."