Work Text:
in nomine Patris
The Bible in Sam’s hand is worn with age, pages soft and off-white, the gold Holy Bible lettering cracked and peeling, and mid-day sun streams in through the stained-glass windows, pooling in little multi-colored squares upon the tiles. Lying and reading in the pews is his favorite thing to do when his dad drops him off at Pastor Jim’s church — he feels hidden between the wooden flats of the pews and small beneath the vaulted ceiling. Pastor Jim is fond of clasping his shoulder and telling him, Sam, God’s watching over you, words worn with the knowledge of a man of God. When he’s tucked in the church’s pews, Jim’s blessing feels like the truth, as if Sam is cradled in God’s hand, clasped between His fingers, as if God truly cares about the scared little boy that sits alone in dark motel rooms and prays for his family’s safety until a restless sleep takes him.
(Sometimes he prays to his mother, the Winchester Angel, the only way he can know the person who has defined his life, the only way to indulge in the motherly comfort Sam has never truly known.)
Sam cracks the Bible open to Daniel, reverently soaking up the passage that always lingers in the back of his mind, a floating ideal of a man and a reminder God’s benevolence, and lets himself get lost in the passage, his nearly empty duffel, a reminder of what he’ll inevitably return to, tucked out of sight underneath the bench.
My God has saved me, Daniel tells the King, and Sam tries to imagine Daniel’s fear as he stared down that den of lions. He wonders what Daniel thought as they escorted him to his death, if he was still praying then or already confident in his faith, certain God would not let a devout man die.
(Sam wonders if God would do the same for him.)
Quiet footsteps that still manage to echo in the cavernous room pull Sam from his reverie, but he keeps his head bowed, pretending to not notice when Pastor Jim stops at the end of the pew.
“Sam,” Pastor Jim calls softly. Sam likes that about Pastor Jim — he’s always soft with Sam. His words never wield the same harsh edges that Dad and Dean’s almost always do, and his gaze is always warm with the belief in some otherworldly hope. “Your father and brother are here.”
Reluctantly, Sam carefully shuts the Holy Book, ensuring no errant page will be folded, and gently slides it back into its wooden holder. He’s missed Dean with his body and soul, phantom pains from separation following him around, flaring whenever he looked up to tell his big brother something, only to find an empty space, or whenever he laid in his bed and didn’t hear anyone else’s slow breathing, but he doesn’t want to return to the sketchy motel rooms and the constant fear and the always angry father — he wants to just stay in this moment, with the stained glass and the quiet voices and the gracious Father.
With the speed of a dying man, Sam gets to his feet and snags his duffel, painfully aware of how little strain it puts on his shoulder.
Pastor Jim’s hands are deep in his pockets, and a little furrow is carved deep between his eyebrows as he watches Sam slip out of the pew. Sam looks up into Pastor Jim’s open face and tightens his grip on the duffel, his throat tightening with it.
“Thank you for letting me stay with you, sir,” he says, avoiding Pastor Jim’s eyes, keeping his own trained on the white collar, sharp among the layers of black cotton.
The corners of Pastor Jim’s eyes crinkle and he gives Sam a slight smile. “You’re always welcome here, Sam,” he replies. “Your devotion to God is very refreshing.” Heat rises in Sam’s cheeks and he ducks his head at the praise, but Pastor Jim spares him the awkwardness of fumbling for a reply, adding, “They’re waiting in the car outside — your dad didn’t want to come in, seems like he’s already going after another case.”
Sam isn’t surprised — his dad tended to view faith as pointless words thrown into an uncaring void, an attitude that Dean had unfortunately also embraced. Sam had learned to mouth any prayers to himself silently, to avoid any pointed questions of the why aren’t you working on exorcisms? nature.
He gives Pastor Jim a polite nod, anyways, keeping his face carefully blank, and a small wave, before making his way to the giant doors at the end of the hall. His palm has barely brushed the metal handle when Pastor Jim calls, “Sam.” He turns, and the pastor is bathed in the mid-day sun, blond hair forming a sort of halo, and something twists in Sam’s chest, a sick feeling rising within him — he looks so at place, with his neat black clothing, amidst the pristine white statues, like he was made to balance it all. “God loves you.”
Sam forces a smile, but the words feel dirty — heavy and clumsy and wrong. “I know.”
He pushes open the door, forcing back the tiny needles that prick his eyes, and he’s immediately hit with a wall of oppressive summer air. The Impala glitters at the end of the stone steps, black like Pastor Jim’s suit, but where those felt holy, this feels blasphemous, like inevitability tamping down God-given free will.
Sam trudges down the steps, not trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm, but he can’t help returning a muted version of his brother’s sun-bright grin through the open window.
“Heya, Sammy,” his brother says, still light with that post-hunt satisfaction that Dean craved.
“Dean,” is his monosyllabic reply, but it’s enough, content in its own type of holiness.
He doesn’t say anything to his dad as he slides in the backseat, and the moment Sam’s door is closed, they’re off, engine rumbling loudly beneath them.
Sam watches the church until it’s left behind a corner, and then he stares out the window, praying silently.
et Filii
Their dad has been gone for three weeks, they’ve been snowed in for two days, and Sam doesn’t think its possible to get any more bored. The two recent library checkouts, borrowed right before the storm, lie on the bed, and one is open in front of him as he struggles through a third read through. He’s wrapped in thin coat and his stomach aches dully, but even Dean, with all his reckless protectiveness, had said it was too dangerous to leave.
(When they’d run out of food that morning, Sam had opened his mouth to complain about John and his apparent inability to keep his kids fed, but Dean’s apology has been so fucking quiet, and his eyes had been creased with exhaustion and guilt, so Sam had just given him a small smile, instead, and handed him the remote for the TV.)
Dean’s got it clicked on to any station that’s still running amidst all the snow, which is mostly reruns of old cartoons or cheesy holiday movies. From his spot on the bed, Sam pretends not to notice how invested his brother gets in the convoluted plots, silently filing it away for future blackmail.
The words in front of him begin to blur, and he rolls onto his back, dropping his library book face down onto the bedspread by his head. He stifles a sigh and runs his tired hands down his face. The move seems too mature than that of a fourteen-year-old boy’s, but Sam grew up quick and has witnessed more death, been the cause of more death, than most people in a lifetime, acutely aware of how delicate the spiderweb is, and how it only takes a few rogue seconds for it all to fall apart.
The ceiling above him is splattered with discoloration from years of sketchy stayers, and the longer Sam stares at the patches, the worse he feels, like they’re mocking him, reminding him of the prospect of a normal ceiling, the prospect of a ceiling he could call his own, without the stains of countless unnamed shadows that he’ll only add to.
He flips back onto his stomach, ignoring how scratchy the bedspread is beneath his cheek and how the corner of the book digs into his forehead — the discomfort is grounding, it gives him a purpose. A glint of metal catches his eyes, and they drift over to the top drawer of the nightstand between the beds, where Sam remembers placing a knife within their first five minutes in the room weeks ago, next to the Bible. His eyes widen as he realizes: next to the Bible.
Even the worst motel rooms almost always had a Bible, a sort of sacred consistency, and Sam takes comfort in the stability, even if he never is given the opportunity to treasure them the way they deserve. Putting his knife next to one, putting the knife he used to kill next to the book used to save, had felt inherently wrong, but he’d steadied his shaking hand and done it anyways, thinking about what Dean would say if he got himself killed because he was too attached to a fucking book.
He glances over to Dean, who’s mostly hidden from view by the couch, except for the feet dangling off one side and the head resting on the other. His brother seems to still be deep into the whatever’s playing on the TV, so Sam eases himself up, slowly, so the rickety mattress doesn’t draw Dean’s attention. He slides open the drawer, keeping his eyes trained on his brother the whole time, and gently pulls out the Bible, the one book he’ll never get tired of rereading.
As soon as the book clears the wood, he flips onto his stomach, letting his back block Dean’s view of what he’s reading.
He starts at the beginning, and though the pages of the book are thin and cheap, and the leather on the front is obviously fake, the words are the same as they would be in Pastor Jim’s church or anywhere else, and age hasn’t got to them yet — they’re still a deep black — so Sam is content. He’s barely five pages in when the bed suddenly dips, and he startles, slamming the Bible shut, and twisting to glare at his brother.
Dean smirks at him from the end of the bed. “Whatcha readin’?”
Sam scowls back, covering the book with his chest, until he’s practically laying on it. “Nothin’.”
Dean snorts. “Great cover, Sammy. Y’know if you ever want Dad to take you on a real hunt, then you gotta learn how to lie better.”
He meets Deans eyes, tightening his jaw, annoyance flaring at the utter confidence Dean always seems to have in his future, and the words escape before he can really think them through. “Maybe I don’t want him to.”
Luckily, Dean doesn’t latch onto it, just lets it go as Sam being Sam and rolls his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
Sam just shrugs and looks away, trying not to show just how much he really does want to just never even talk about hunting again — he doesn’t want to start an argument about hunting with Dean, things are precarious enough as is.
Dean’s still looking at him though, mouth twisted in the way that means he’s just getting started and eyes narrowed in the only scrutiny that can always make Sam squirm. “What’re you readin’, Sammy?”
“Nothin’,” Sam repeats, trying to subtly shift the Bible further beneath his chest, away from his brother’s prying eyes and certain mockery, but Dean lunges forward. His eyes dance with the prospects of what Sam could possibly be hiding, and Sam yells out as Dean’s deft hands close around the Bible, clinging to it with his own.
Pulling with his four-year advantage, Dean easily twists the book away from Sam, whose face burns with a familiar mix of anticipation and embarrassment.
Grinning, Dean backs away from Sam’s half-hearted attempts to reclaim the book, dangling it in the space between the beds. When he flips over the book to read the cover, though, the wide smile immediately drops, taking all lightness in the air with it. The TV suddenly seems far too loud in the already deafening silence, and he’s acutely aware of the rumblings from the highway next to the motel. Sam watches a muscle in Dean’s jaw tick, like it’s fighting itself, like it’s a detonator counting down.
“Dean —” Sam tries, but his brother cuts him off.
“A Bible, Sam? Really?” Dean asks, his lips now twisted up into what’s supposed to be a smile, but it looks more like the fake ones Dean gives their dad, and Sam’s throat tightens.
“I was bored,” he protests, going for childish, but falling short into panicked. “It’s the only book in the room I haven’t read.”
Dean studies his face for a long moment, before shaking his head, and Sam hates the way he can’t read what the movement means. “Like I said,” Dean says, tossing the Bible back at him, and Sam manages to suppress a wince when it clips his ribs. He quickly snatches it up, clutching it to his chest like some sort of shield, “you’re a shit liar.”
“Fine,” Sam snaps, and the ache from the book spine digging into his fingers feels almost good, almost like a blessing from God, a reminder of where he is. “I was reading it ‘cause it’s interesting, okay? Now, can I go back to reading or are you gonna lecture me on,” he deepens his voice into a crude imitation of his dad’s, “believing in nothing but bullshit.”
Dean’s eyes tighten, and Sam can see a battle being waged in them. He tenses in anticipation of derision, but Dean surprises him by slowly sinking down onto the opposite bed, so their knees are only a few inches apart.
“That’s a horrible impression of Dad,” he says, and Sam shrugs, but lets his lips twitch and his grip on the book loosen, watching it fall open onto his lap, pages fluttering. Dean stares at it with barely concealed fascination, like he’s watching someone light a fire with wet wood, like he can’t quite comprehend what he’s looking at. His eyes drift up to Sam’s own, questions barely hidden in the green.
“What is it, Dean?” Sam prompts, and he can’t shake the defensiveness, but he tries to keep his face as open as possible.
“Nothin’,” Dean mumbles, glancing away, and to Sam’s continued surprise, he looks more timid than judgmental, in the way his leg bounces and his index finger taps on the mattress. Sam waits for a moment, silent, not wanting to interrupt his brother, sensing that the words are just making an order in Dean’s mind. Dean licks his lips once, then continues, “I just — I don’t get how you do it.”
Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, uncaring of the pages of the Bible crinkling in the face of ensuring his brother knows he has his full attention. “Do what?” He asks softly, tentatively, words giving Dean the space to step back and slide the window between them closed, if he’s not ready to share.
Dean runs a hand through his hair, and his jaw works in confliction, again. Then, he leans forward, mirroring Sam’s position. “I don’t know,” Dean says, “like how — how do you believe in it?”
Sam blinks in shock at the genuineness of Dean’s words. He’d asked Pastor Jim the same thing, once, and the pastor had smiled and said, you have to figure that out for yourself, son. He doubts Dean would appreciate that particular answer, though, so he furrows his brow, considering his reply. “It just —” he says, “it just feels natural, I guess. And, I don’t know, it’s nice to have something to fall back on, y’know? Believe in something more than yourself.”
“What,” Dean says, and his voice is deceptively light, but his eyes are cold, soft green narrowing, slipping through Sam’s fingers, “are we not enough for you?”
Annoyance flares in Sam’s gut — Dean just didn’t get it sometimes, didn’t understand why Sam needed something more, why he needed to have control over something, why he clung to dreams of picket fences and finally belonging. God is known for His forgiveness, for His deliberation, it didn’t seem so absurd to hope that He would do the extend the blessing to Sam.
“No, Dean, god, that’s not it,” he says, and it comes out harsher than expected, irritation still lacing the tone. He takes a deep breath and forces it to quiet back down to understanding before continuing, “This is a hard life, Dean, and believing in God makes it a little bit easier. It’s like — it’s like consistency — reasoning, y’know? We don’t get a lot of that.”
“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, and his voice is quiet, now, too, eyes warm and soft, revealing the rare side of Dean that he reserved only for Sam, who welcomes the affection that rises up at the sight. “But what if He doesn’t exist?”
Sam would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered that, but if he could believe in evil, he could believe in good, and he couldn’t deny himself the security that came from believing. “What if He does?”
His brother huffs a laugh, so Sam does, too, and the care for Sam that practically sews Dean together is obvious as he stares at Sam, who is sure his own messy seams are just as clear. Then, Dean stands, and ruffles Sam’s hair as he asks, “How’d you’d get so wise?”
Sam bats the hand away, glaring at his brother. “Not ‘cause of you, that’s for sure.”
Dean gasps in mock-hurt, and Sam grins at him, little-brother smug. “Go back to reading, bitch,” Dean shoots, heading towards the TV.
“Go back to watching your chick-flicks.”
Dean whirls back around, pointing an accusing finger at Sam, who stifles a laugh. “They’re all that’s on!”
Sam rolls his eyes, flicking back to his spot in the Bible. “Okay, Dean. Sure.”
“Okay, Dean,” Dean mocks, voice an octave higher, before dropping it back to its usual tone. “Shut the fuck up.”
His brother flops backwards onto the couch, and Sam hides his face in the holy book so Dean can’t see his grin.
Dean still doesn’t get it, not really, but that’s okay — Sam can pray enough for the both of them.
(And when they leave the motel behind three days later, he tries not to feel bad about slipping the Bible into his duffel. He thinks God will understand.)
et Spiritus Sancti
The Stanford bookstore is packed with students, teens and twenty-somethings spilling out the end of aisles, loud chatter pressing in on all sides.
Sam sidles through the “used” section of the textbooks, running his fingers along the spines with frayed edges and faded colors, the once firm edges soft against his skin. He glances down at the paper clutched in his hand, wrinkled with anxiety, and pulls a calculus textbook from the shelf, ignoring how the cover shifts to the side in a way it was definitely not designed to. The paychecks from the coffee shop in Colorado, back where his careful plan had all gone wrong, sit heavy in his pocket as he adds it to the two other textbooks he’s balancing on his left arm.
He heads towards the checkout counter, nudging and apologizing his way through the crowd, each accidental shoulder brush sending his own closer and closer to his ears. Sam stands out, he knows he does, amidst the wealthy Californian kids, with his ripped jeans and worn hunting boots and one of Dean’s old hoodies with holes in the cuffs that he’d hidden away the night — the night before.
(John had disowned him and turned back to the guns, and Sam had turned to Dean, pleading for understanding, for support. But Dean had shaken his head, once, sharp like a knife, and Sam’s eyes had burned, but he grabbed his duffel and shut the door behind him, refusing to look back.)
(The hoodie still smelled like Dean, and Sam clung to it, wrapped it around himself like a life-jacket in a sea of the unknown. He knows Dean loves him, but part of him wonders if Dean’s thinking of him in the same way, or if he’s partially glad to finally be rid of the obligation that is Sam Winchester, finally free of the freak little brother who asked too many questions and started too many fights and always seemed to hold them back.)
Sam blinks away the tears stinging his eyes and shoves his free hand into the pocket of the hoodie, wrapping a loose thread around his finger, weaving it tight enough to hurt.
Ducking into an aisle to avoid a clump of older students, all clad in thick Stanford sweaters, the type that Sam had dreamed of owning, he finds himself in the journal section of the bookstore, rows upon rows of multi-colored notebooks lining the shelves. A flash of leather catches his attention, and Sam stops, breath catching in his throat at the sight of a thick, brown-leather journal, one that’s nearly identical to his father’s prized possession that Sam had stolen and read all those years ago.
Numbly, he moves down the aisle towards it, eyes locked on the warm toned cover and thick clasp. He stops in front of it, briefly scanning it for any obvious imperfections, before quickly snatching it off the shelf and tucking it under his arm. It’s nearly as much as the textbooks, he’s sure, but he’s willing to spread out his meals in the next few days to make up for it.
The line for the check-out counter is absurdly long, and the wait is one that Dean would’ve lost his mind over, but Sam spends it in a haze, caught in memories of nights in dirty motel rooms and watching John diligently document their hunts with the dedicated attention Sam could never seem to get for himself.
With her long braids and low-necked top, the girl behind the checkout counter is the type that Dean would unashamedly flirt with, but Sam half-heartedly returns her smiles and quickly hands over the money, desperate to just get out.
He makes it back to his dorm room as fast as he can, face flushed and breaths coming in heavy pants from running nearly the whole way, and breathes an audible sigh of relief when the door swings open to reveal an empty room.
Sam sits on his bed, cross-legged, like he’s twelve in a motel room again, and leaves the plastic bag of textbooks on the ground, but puts the journal on the bed in front of him.
It seems to stare back at him, gazing soul-deep, but while John’s always felt accusing, this feels welcoming, like an invitation for reimagining, like all it wants is whatever Sam wants, no pressure or strings or expectations — it’s just Sam’s.
He cracks open the cover, relishing in the stiffness, taking in the rare experience of newness, and studies the blank pages spread out before him. There are so many options, so many possibilities, but as he stares at the cream paper all he can think of are the statues of Mother Mary in Pastor Jim’s church he used to pray to, namesake of his own mother, small pieces of purity in his life of witnessing evil.
Without moving his head, he blindly fumbles for his favorite pen, the one Dean had given him for his birthday, just a few weeks before everything fell apart, that he’d carefully placed on the desk separating the beds. He clicks it open, and, after brief contemplation and a deep breath, he begins to write.
He fills the notebook with worship instead of exorcisms, painstakingly transcribing and translating his favorite prayers until his hand aches and his fingers are smudged with black ink.
That night, he goes to church and quietly sings along to the hymns, whispers the long-memorized prayers, one hand wrapped around his notebook in his pocket, and it feels like maybe he can make it to tomorrow.
amen.
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?”
(“my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?")