Chapter Text
“i forgive it all as it comes back to me”
- ethel cain.
the storm came without warning, thunder roared across the barren fields of the kansas plains, a guttural sound that seemed to rattle the earth’s bones. rain fell in sheets, blurring the boundary between the sky and the terrain, and the wind screamed like something feral, tearing through the trees. dean gripped the steering wheel of the impala tighter, jaw clenched as the car’s headlights sliced through the dark.
“hell of a storm,” dean muttered, it was to himself, but sometimes he thinks sam will respond.
before dean could say anything else, the storm responded. a crack of lightning split the sky, illuminating the wasteland just off the road. amidst the chaos, there was something.
someone?
the object tumbled with an eerie grace, tearing through the thick grey clouds. it appeared as a distant shimmer at first, yet as it came tumbling closer, it’s shape became clearer, a twisting chaotic mass spinning wildly. the air grew heavy, a low keening whistle swelling into a deafening roar. when it finally struck the earth, a thunderous explosion sent a shock wave rippling towards the impala, throwing up a plume of dust, debris and fire surrounding. what was left was a figure, stark against the gloom, crumpled in the mud like a disintegrated star.
dean slammed on the brakes, the impala skidding to a halt. by the time he reached the fallen, the storm had softened into a whisper, though the air still hummed with an unnatural charge. he laid on his side, motionless, his white clothes soaked and clinging to his frame. his brown hair plastered against his face, was streaked with mud and rain, yet somehow he still looked otherworldly. his limbs were delicate yet strong, like the marble statues dean had once seen in an old rundown cathedral. and his eyes, when they briefly fluttered open, were the most striking thing of all. dark green, like the depths of a forest, luminous even in the dim light.
“sammy?” dean breathed, his voice barely audible.
sam stirred then, a low, pained sound escaping his lips. he tried to sit up, but his arms trembled, giving out beneath him. dean caught his brother before he could collapse, his grip gentle but firm.
“dean?” his voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and broken. his emerald eyes searched deans face, wide with confusion and fear. unfamiliarity. panic laced his voice, and was evident in his eyes. deans jaw tightened, his hand moving to the back of his head in a gesture so tender it felt out of place amidst the wreckage. dean shifted uncomfortably, after his gaze lingered on the jagged scars that marred sams back. the sight turned his stomach.
sam murmured ineligible english, his voice breaking. he buried his face into his brothers shoulder, his body shaking with silent sobs. “i didn’t mean to.”
dean held him tighter, his own expression unreadable. “i know.”
dean helped him to the car, sams head lolled against deans shoulder, his green eyes flickering open once more. he caught dean’s gaze, and for a moment, he felt like sam could see right through him, past the layers of bravado and cynicism to something raw and unguarded.
the impala roared back to life and the storm finally broke, leaving the world drenched and still. the road stretched ahead, endless and uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, dean couldn’t shake the feeling that they were driving toward something dark, and that they had never encountered before.
they ended up in a motel, one that was the kind of place that seemed to have soaked in every sorrow that passed through it, cigarette burns on the carpet and wallpaper curling at the edges like it was trying to escape. a flickering neon sign buzzed outside the window, throwing blood-red light across the cracked plaster walls. dean watched sam from where he leaned against the far corner, arms crossed, a bottle of cheap whiskey dangling from his fingers. sam sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, his hair still damp from the rain.
sam looked like something torn from a half-remembered hymn: pale as a candle’s flame, his green eyes too vivid, too alive, for this dim and dying room. his scars peeked out from the loose, borrowed flannel he wore, stark against his fragile frame, like someone had carved wrath and judgment into his skin. the silence stretched too long. dean broke it first.
“what happened?”
sam turned his gaze to his brother, unblinking, like he was weighing his soul. and when he spoke, his voice was soft but steady, the kind of voice that could tell stories of miracles and plagues in the same breath.
“they cut me down,” he said. “i think. i dont remember much, but they told me i didn't belong in heaven” sams hands moved absently to the scars on his back, his fingers ghosting over the wounds like he was trying to make sense of them. sams words settled heavy in the room, like smoke that refused to dissipate. dean took a long pull from the whiskey, the burn doing little to quiet the unease clawing at his insides. “do you remember me? anything from before… you know?”
sams eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he didn’t seem like deans baby brother at all. he seemed something else entirely, something older, something carved from the same fire and brimstone as the world’s first sins. he shook his head.
“did they say anything else? when they cast you out? who was it?” dean berated him with questions.
his laugh was soft, humorless, the rattling of dry leaves. “i. don't. remember.”
he looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as though they didn’t quite belong to him. “do you know what it’s like to have no memories of tasting for the first time? or to feel hunger gnawing at you, like a beast that can never be sated? everything is unfamiliar. in heaven, i never needed . never wanted. now i feel it everywhere, in my chest, in my stomach, in my blood. it’s like being hollow, and nothing i put inside me fills it.” his voice faltered, and he shook his head, his hair falling in front of his face like it did when he was a kid. “i feel unclean here. like I’m rotting from the inside out.”
dean opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words died on his tongue. he knew what it was to carry guilt that gnawed at your bones, to feel like your very existence was a stain on the world around you. to be unclean, impure. outside, the wind howled like a dying thing, rattling the motel’s thin walls. the red glow of the sign pulsed a heartbeat, casting shadows that stretched and bent across the room. they were both being watched, not by something physical, but by the weight of their own sins, their own doubts, pressing in from the corners.
“whatever. i need a cheeseburger” dean muttered, leaving towards the impala, expecting sam to follow.
they found a diner down the road, one of those places stuck in time, with sticky vinyl booths and a jukebox that only played songs that sounded like heartbreak. a single ceiling fan creaked overhead, its blades spinning lazily, barely cutting through the heavy air. the smell of burnt coffee and sizzling grease clung to everything, a heady scent that sam wasn’t sure if he hated or loved, grasped his senses. it felt strange to be sitting at a table instead of kneeling before a throne, to have his hands resting on the surface instead of folded in prayer. he may not remember all of heaven, but the rituals were carved into his autonomy.
sam frowned, running his fingers over the smudged print. the words felt foreign, too grounded in this world. “can i have a… milkshake?” he asked, stumbling over the word like it was a secret he wasn’t meant to know.
dean chuckled, the sound low and warm to sam. “maybe start with the cheeseburger.”
he nodded, though the thought of eating felt strange. his body was still learning how to need again, how to want. hunger was foreign, an ache that sat heavy in his stomach, demanding to be satisfied. it frightened him, the way his flesh cried out for things he didn’t understand. in heaven, he had learned how to be whole. now, he felt like a jar with no lid, endlessly spilling over.
the waitress came over, her hair teased into a nest of curls and her lips painted a shade too red for the washed-out uniform she wore. she didn’t look twice at sams bright eyes or the scars hidden beneath the borrowed flannel, just scribbled down their order with the disinterest of someone who had seen far too much. the food came, and sam stared at the plate in front of him like it was an offering he didn’t know how to accept. the cheeseburger was glossy with grease, the bun slightly squashed, the fries scattered like golden relics across the plate.
“go on,” dean urged, slightly irritated. how hard was eating? “it’s not gonna bite you.”
the encouragement, if you could call it that, lead sam to picking it up carefully, his fingers brushing against the soft bread. the first bite was tentative, and his eyes widened as the salt and fat hit his tongue. it was overwhelming, too much, too fast, but he didn’t stop. he took another bite, then another, his hunger overriding his hesitance. it wasn’t just good. it was everything. fire and flesh, satisfaction. it was the first time he’d felt anything in a body that still didn’t feel like his. the burger was gone too quickly, the plate empty except for smears of ketchup and a few stray crumbs. he sat back, hands resting on his lap, and for a moment, he felt almost normal. almost human again.
his gaze drifted to the angel hanging on the wall behind the counter, its cheap wood darkened with age. it was small, unassuming, but it seemed to radiate judgment, as though it knew every thought he’d ever had, every question he’d ever dared to ask. he couldn’t look away.
“you alright?” dean asked, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking silverware.
sam swallowed hard, his throat tight. “do you think he’s watching?” he whispered, his eyes still fixed.
“who?”
“god,” he said, the word heavy, bitter. the table went quiet. dean shifted uncomfortably, his hands clenching on the table. he then broke the silence, laughing. rough and sarcastic “i hate to break it to you sammy, but god doesn’t give a crap about you. or me. or any of us”
the angel on the wall seemed to loom larger, its shadow stretching across the room like an open wound. sam closed his eyes, trying to shut it out, but the image lingered. he could feel it in his chest, the weight of its judgment, the promise of fire. the food churned in his stomach and in some ways, gave him an answer to his question. no one was watching him anymore, he was here alone and he’d die alone. again.
the drive back to the motel was quieter this time. the rain had finally stopped, leaving the damp shining under the glow of streetlights. the impala hummed softly, its engine the only sound in the stillness. sam sat in the backseat, staring out the window, his reflection ghosting over the endless black beyond. he could still taste the salt and grease of the burger on his lips, the memory of it strange and grounding, like he’d consumed more than just food. it felt like he’d taken a piece of this world into himself, something alive and flawed, and it sat heavy in his stomach, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
dean sat beside sam, silent and still as a monument, his presence both a comfort and a reminder. sam could feel the weight of his brothers gaze on him, but he didn’t meet it. he wasn’t ready to see the reflection of himself in deans eyes, the person he once was, the person dean had once known, or the broken thing he had become. dean adjusted the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking to sam.
“you good?” he asked,
“i’m fine,” he said softly.
the existentialism sat strangely with sam, a human concept he wasn’t sure he fully grasped yet. “it’s… hard,” he said finally, voice barely audible over the hum of the car. “feeling everything at once. again. i didn’t realize how much i was spared in heaven. the hunger, the pain, the doubt… it’s like drowning.”
dean didn’t say anything for a moment, just tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in a rhythm that matched the thrum of the tires on the wet road. when he spoke, his voice was softer than sam expected. “yeah, well. welcome to the club,” he paused “it gets easier,” he said. “not perfect, but easier. you just… you learn to live with it.”
he tilted his head, brow furrowing. “live with it,” he repeated. the words tasted foreign, like wine turned bitter. it seemed like such a small answer to the vastness of what he felt. the ache in his chest, the consuming hunger, the emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. he felt to ask dean what he meant, how he had learned to carry his own burdens without being crushed beneath them. yet shame stopped sam. the impala slowed as they pulled into the motel lot, dean killed the engine, and for a moment, neither of them moved, the silence heavy and thick as old smoke. dean sighed and pushed open his door, stepping out into the cool night air.
sam hesitated, his hand on the door handle. his reflection stared back at him in the window, fractured by the rainwater streaks still clinging to the glass. he didn’t recognize the person looking back at him. the hollow eyes, damp, tangled hair. the scars seemed to pulse with their own memory of pain. he was a ghost, lingering in a world that didn’t belong to him.
the room was quiet again as sam followed dean in, the air heavy with things unsaid. there was a faint tremor in his fingers. but then he remembered the taste, the way it had filled him, however briefly. he remembered the warmth of dean next to him, the soft understanding in his voice. it wasn’t enough to fix him. but for tonight, that would have to be enough.