Chapter Text
“It occurred to me that if I were a ghost, this ambiance is what I’d miss most: the ordinary day to day bustle the living. Ghosts long, I’m sure, for the stupidest, most unremarkable things.” Banana Yoshimoto
May 15, 2013
Unknown Church; Presumably Abandoned Lebanon, Kansas
Sam Winchester exhaled sharply a he intoned the spell,”Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, hanc an imam redintegra, lustra.” He threw the book to the ground, raising the demon blade from his side as he let out a pained, ragged breath.
Sam closed his eyes, pressing the blade against his shaking palm as he slid it across. To Sam, the burning sensations of the purifying mystical energy coursing through his veins were a blessing. At least he was feeling something. But of course, like any indentation of feeling that came to him on these rare occasions of recent events, it gradually turned into nothingness, and he was numb again.
Sam had brought this upon himself. He alone had destroyed any chance of a common friendship between his brother that came to every living creature so naturally. It had happened so long ago that he sometimes forgot why he'd done it. He’s tried to blame the rift on everything; Mary Winchester, Azazel, Ruby, even Lucifer himself, but it’s evident who it belongs to.
Sam’s hazel hues are red-rimmed and empty, almost as if he knows that he will in fact die. With a soft rasp of air, he closes his eyes and puts his bloodied hand forward, a pulsing angelic glow surrounding the gaping wound. He opened his eyes and stared at the demon before him, the two’s eyes meet for the briefest moment-an acknowledgment of some sort-the gates of Hell would soon slam shut.
Crowley resigned to his fate, could do nothing but simply stare back,”Sam….”
”Sammy, stop,” A voice bellowed from the doorway.
Startled, Sam turned to the owner his surprise clearly etched into his hollowed face. Then his teeth clenched as his gaze met that of his older brother and began to shake, the magic that pulsed through his entire body starting to buzz with a high. He crooked his head and gulped, and his blood thick and heady as a fine wine was ravaged by the sheer power.
”Easy there, okay,” Dean says softly, offering his hands in the air,”Just take it easy. We got a slight change of plan.”
Sam gulped again, and shook his head in confusion,”What? What’s going on,” His eyes widened and fear crept into his features,”Where’s Cas?”
Dean takes a breath, slowly lowering hands,”Metatron lied,” He pointed at Sam, his green eyes taking a hardened glare,”You finish this trial, you’re dead, Sam.”
The younger Winchester’s eyes went wildly around the room, before he gulped again,”So?”
Something flashed beneath the surface of the older Winchester’s hardened expression. Sam stumbled towards his brother, and with each step his muscles tightened and ached all the more. He kept swallowing, and his throat kept clenching, but no matter what he could not stop the warm feeling rising through his chest.
“Look at him! Look how close we are,” Sam points at himself accusingly as he barks,”Other people will die if I don’t finish this!”
Dean edges a soothing hand forward, trying to reason with his brother,”Think about it. Think about what we know, huh,” He keeps edging closer and closer to his brother as his says,”Pulling souls from hell, curing demons, Hell, ganking a hellhound! We have enough knowledge to turn the tide here. But I can’t do it without you.”
Sam let out a wild and bitter laugh, his lips trembling around the sound. The very air seems to shudder and a chill creeps down Dean's spine. Sam ceases his almost maniacal laughter and says,”You can barely do it with me. I mean, you think I screw up everything I try. You think I need a chaperone, remember?”
“Come on, man. That’s not what I meant—“
“No,” Sam’s voice is strained, and he looks close to tears,”It’s exactly what you meant. You want to know what I confessed in there… What my greatest sin was,” He smiled a cold, cruel smile,”It was how many times I let you down. I-I can’t do that again.”
“Sam—“
“What happens when you’ve decided I can’t be trusted again? I mean, who are you going to turn to next time instead of me? Another angel, another—“, His face contorted in the utmost disgust as he leaned his head forward,”Another vampire? Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch your brother just—“
“Hold on, hold on,” Dean growls, his own eyes starting to sheen with tears,”You seriously think that? Because none of it—None of it is true! Listen, man, I know we’ve had our disagreements, okay? Hell, I know I’ve said some junk that set you back on your heels,” His lip quivers,”But, e on. I killed Benny to save you. I’m willing to let this bastard and all the sons of bitches that killed mom walk because of you. Don’t you dare think that there is anything, past or present, that I would put in front of you! It has never been like that, ever!”
He continues, his voice starting to shake as he practically begs,”I need you to see that. I’m begging you.”
The latter stared helplessly into his older brother’s eyes, gentle tears cascading down his hallowed face,”I-I can’t stop, Dean, I can’t,” Sam says, a hectic light in his eyes as his hands clenched and unclenched into fists,”I have to finish this.”
Dean’s emerald hues widened as he pleaded,”No. No, no, please, Sammy, don’t do this,” His voice raises in a scream,”Don’t you dare, don’t you dare leave me like this, Sammy! Not after everything!”
Sam smiled softly, his tears starting to slow,”I’m sorry, Dean,” He pressed his bleeding palm against the king of hell’s cold, chapped lips,” Kah nuh ahm dahr.”
The pillar of light erupts with a volcanic force from the demon, pitching the two men forward in an unbearable wave of heat and rubble that cracks their skin, rattles their heart, and snatches their breath away. The world fades into blistering white.
The chaos freezes like a gasped breath held in waiting lungs. Scorching heat becomes crystal, a wall of snow that hangs in the air like fog. All Dean feels are pins and needles, and he's floating, listlessly drifting in an endless sea of static. It's like startling awake from one nightmare and into another. His body half-numb with a brain full of molasses, awareness sinks its teeth deep into him and drags him like a savage dog into the swirling confusion of semi-consciousness.
”Sam,” Dean moans, dragging himself forward,”Sammy! Sammy!”
”D’hn,” A voice moans weakly at his side.
Laughter burbles in Dean’s chest from a well of pure, sick relief and panic. From the very second it starts, it doesn't feel right. There's no humor or happiness in it, but it bangs its way out of his throat like gravel. The older Winchester laughs so deliriously his eyes overflow with tears once again.
“Sammy!” His body is still numb as he bolts upright with the grace of a poorly-strung marionette. His body screams at him in protest, making him stifle one of his own, his vision going dark around the edges.
He has to lay still, but he can't. He's wild-eyed and completely out of his senses, still half-blind and deaf from the blast. There's nothing to laugh about. Then he heard it. It hadn't been a scream of fear, it was more like a pain-stricken wail. It reverberated through the Church’s foundations, sending shockwaves like tangible anguish through the wooden structure, passing over them and down into the darkness of the bottom floors, dying into nothing. Sam.
Sam writhed on the floor, his arms flared with the mythical energy as he curled into a tight ball. His breaths came out in choking rasps as he inhaled and exhaled frantically. His heart beat uncontrollably fast, fluttering away like a frightened little bird in his chest. His tan skin seemed to nearly glow with heat as his body temperature climbed rapidly, yet his lips tinged with blue as of he were freezing.
“Sammy,” Dean roars, gripping his brother by the jacket as he pulled him forward. The other man’s feverish skin burns like hot iron around him, his grip on his arms grinding the bones together, but he held him closer nonetheless,”Sam, please, just hang on—Hey, keep your eyes open!”
Dean supporting all of Sam’s weight, the two of them stumble out into the pouring rain. Sam collapses against the impala, labored breathes coming out as wheezes as his eyes bulge. Dean falls beside him, pulling the latter to him as he crushes him close and wraps his arms around him because he couldn’t think of anything else to do, couldn’t possibly respond in any other way. One arm is ‘round his torso with the other going over his left shoulder to support his head.
He grabbed the back of Sam’s head, pulling his brother’s face closer to his own, his forehead to his, and Dean closed his eyes and gripped tight, and cries,”Cas! Castiel,” His brother’s body is slowly starting to still beneath him, so he starts to roar,”Where the hell are you?”
The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early sprong, freezing and paling his skin on contact. He pulls his brother in even closer, trying to shield him from the freezing downpour. He felt Sam swallow, felt the tell-tale bob of his Adam’s apple against the side of his throat. His heart is starting to still in his heaving chest, his frantic lungs expanding and deflating, desperate for air, but none can reach them.
“Dean, I-I’m sorry,” Sam chokes out, a dribble of blood leaving his mouth.
“Sam…” He felt the hot sting of tears. Dammit, not now. “Come on, man…don’t. Just…don’t. I can s-still...” His brother slouched in his arms, his head falling on his shoulder.
Dean’s hand rose up to grip the side of Sam’s neck, the long, elegant curve, thumb slotting into place in the hollow where his pulse was gone. Dead. He's dead. Sam was dead, eyes fixed and vacant. But, still he held his baby brother. He just closed his eyes and leaned against his brother’s still body, a single tear cascading down his cheek.
That’s when the angels began to fall.
August 3, 2013
Men of Letters Bunker
Lebanon, Kansas
Sam Winchester reverently rubbed his fingers along the silken mattress. He pressed his cheek to the cool, cotton pillows. The comforter was thick and irresistibly soft, like a billowing cloud. Yet, the dust that coated the entire bed wasn’t disturbed by his touch; it blanketed the entire room, not just the bed. It looked as if no one had even opened the door to step foot in the room for months. And that was a bleak fact.
All of the furniture was unmoved, not a single beam of light penetrated the darkness, and it was so, so cold. The permanent cold licked at his face and crept under his clothes, spreading across his skin like the lacy tide on a frigid winter beach. Strange, it’d been a while since he could recall a sensation like that—What did frigid water feel like against his skin, he can’t remember. There are many things he can’t remember; the taste of bitter, black coffee, the gentle touch of another living being, the feeling of sunlight on his skin as he ran—
Sam exited the room, making his way through the dark Men of Letters bunker, but as he walked, almost glided, through the hall the temperature seemed to drop. The comforting warmth the old heaters emitted seemed futile the further he went, an overwhelming cold eventually reaching the library. The youngest Winchester stared at one of the many tables occupant’s.
Dean Winchester was passed out on the surface of the table, a splash of vomit surrounding his pale face. Several beer bottles lined the table, all in a row like soldiers preparing for war. His breath is thick, and shaking as he inhales and exhales. A small picture is tucked under his slack fingers, a picture of a much younger Sam Winchester, his high school senior picture.
The memory, like many others was hard to recall, but he eventually remembered—Dean had felt bad that they couldn’t afford any of the senior commodities; pictures, banners, the whole shebang, so he’d worked long, grueling hours at a local diner to pay for them. Sam had hugged him and had allowed him to accompany him for his pictures, later thanking him by leaving in a stolen car after receiving a letter for Stanford University.
The steam that had risen from the coffee when Sam had first placed it on the table was quite gone. The top bore the tell tale signs of a skin forming. Still he stood there with his hands cusped around it, as if he liked the idea of drinking it but lacked the will power to lift it to her lips. He glanced down at the mug, thick, ceramic, cold to touch, and supposed it was his own touch which had stolen the heat, made it like tepid like old bathwater to drink. Tyler put the coffee down with tight pursed lips.
Castiel, looking oddly relaxed in a pair of sweats walks into the room, and sighs when he sees Dean. He walks over to his friend, and gently slaps his hand against his face in an attempt to wake him. Dean murmurs, before letting out a thick, loud cough as he sits up and wipes the boot from the corner of his mouth. He eyes the coffee and hold it up, mocking a toast to the former angel.
“Thanks for the brew,” The hunter downs it all in one gulp, before grimacing at the coldness,”Would it have killed you to heat it up?”
“I did not make any coffee, Dean,” Castiel replies timidly,”I just woke up.”
No one questioned the issue further. Sam watched his brother and his friend walk away, neither glancing at him, but both shiver at an unseen presence. It’s cold, God, it’s so cold; especially when you’re dead.