Fate Comes on Dark Wings, Part 1
When it came to religion Sam Winchester was never really the fire-and-brimstone type. Still, working the case in Providence, something in him really seized onto the concept of an avenging angel. The idea that somewhere there was an angel watching over this little crime-ridden neighborhood, hunting the human monsters the way he and Dean hunted the supernatural ones--that they were not alone in this permanent war, that there really was something backing them up against all the evil in the world--well. It was not like he did not have faith, but it would have been wonderful to have proof, real proof, of Heaven, of some afterlife that was not Hell.
He should have felt relieved or happy or something, watching Father Reynolds deliver the Last Rites to Father Gregory, but the only emotion he could summon up was disappointment. Sure, the killings would stop. Sure, the victims deserved it. Sure, even the killers were at peace. Everything worked out okay, right? Right. Sam suppressed a sigh as Father Reynolds finished, a bright white light consuming the ghost.
Then he blinked and focused more intently on the light. The ghost was gone, but the light was only growing brighter. Something...something was not right.
A buzz filled the crypt, and Sam felt an odd pressure squeeze around him. The air itself felt heavy and gel-like. He reached for the priest, who was still staring at the light with something like awe. "Father, we probably should--"
There was a CRACK, and the light reached eye-searing proportions. Sam ducked away, pulling the priest with him, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the sound of massive wings flapping frantically, and the light blinked out.
Father Reynolds made a sound like a stifled gasp, and Sam opened his eyes. A naked man sprawled out on the ground, filthy with grime and blood. "Jesus Christ! Uh, sorry, Father." The two of them hurried to the man's side. He did not appear to be breathing. Sam felt along his wrist, then his neck for a pulse, but to no avail. "I think he's--"
The man gave out a sudden, rattling breath, and began breathing normally. Simultaneously, his pulse started up beneath Sam's hand, as if it had never stopped in the first place. Strange, that. Nearby, the priest got to his feet. "He needs to get to the hospital. And there's a first aid kit in my office--"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll stay with the guy." As Father Reynolds disappeared down the corridor, Sam rolled the man onto his back, frowning. Something was very wrong here. As he appraised the man's injuries, he found himself wishing he had brought a knife, or more holy water, or something else besides the now-used ingredients for the seance. After a long and varied career in hunting, he could not recall encountering or hearing about anything quite like what had just happened.
The man was tall but slight, with wild dark hair and a bruised, sickly look to him. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a nasty gash on his forehead, mixing with the dust that caked his body. There were terrible burns across his right arm and side, with numerous other smaller scrapes, wounds and burns across the rest of his body. Alien sigils carved into his flesh covered his chest and shoulders; a few were fresh enough to begin to heal over, but the rest had scarred long ago. A large handprint seared over the heart obscured the symbols. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.
Sam pulled his shirt off, ripped a strip from it and wrapped it around the head wound. The man stirred at the touch, made a soft noise of pain, and rolled onto his side, revealing more burns on his back. "Hey. Hey, listen, everything's going to be all right, okay? Father Reynolds is calling an ambulance. Just stay calm and stay still." He didn't expect the man to live much longer, but he wouldn't let him die alone.
"...maiboddy." The man clutched at his chest. "Needa healurr." His words slurred together.
"They're on their way." Brain-damaged, probably.
"Sgood." The man relaxed. After a moment he added, "Cunns'kreded grund. Thassgood. 'S f'kin awesome." He gave a tired grin and patted the floor. "Whurr're we? Iss nor'mer'ka?"
"Uh, what?"
The man slapped the ground in frustration. "Can' get this boddy t' wurk ri'. Th' ties...I needa healurr."
"Whoa, calm down!" Sam pressed a placating hand to the man's shoulder. "You'll hurt yourself if you move around too much. The ambu--the healers are coming."
"Whass takin' so lon', they kin fly. Port. Whatevurr." He was silent for a moment. "There'arnt any wardz, they kin port."
In most other situations Sam would write off the man's mumbling as the delusions of the dying. But something felt off about the man, something beyond the circumstances in which he appeared. "What happened to you?" he ventured.
"Bin in Phil'delphya lasttoo yearz. Rezzistince bsieged it, ver' big battle, demons deciddid t' torj th' place. Then th' portin' wardz broke, so I go' th' hell ou'."
"Demons?! You were fighting demons? ...Who were planning to burn down Philadelphia."
"Alreddy burntit, how you thing I got these." The man gestured at his burns. "Hellfurr. Evribuddies prolly dead bainow."
Okay, so the guy was insane, but he had definitely gotten caught up in something supernatural. Hell, maybe he'd snapped from the trauma. "Hey--I'm Sam Winchester. I hunt the things that--"
The man went rigid, then sat bolt upright, looking pissed. "Lissin, asshole--" He broke off as his eyes fixed upon Sam's face. The rage melted away to be replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror. And then the man screamed.
Sam's eardrums exploded immediately. All along the corridor, the windows shattered. The force of the shout threw him backwards, hard, and his head burst into agony as it cracked against the wall as he slid to the ground. Dizzy with pain, he tried to shield himself from the still-falling glass, with little success. The last thing Sam saw before he passed out was the man, staggering away as fast as he could as if Sam were the devil himself.
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He should have felt relieved or happy or something, watching Father Reynolds deliver the Last Rites to Father Gregory, but the only emotion he could summon up was disappointment. Sure, the killings would stop. Sure, the victims deserved it. Sure, even the killers were at peace. Everything worked out okay, right? Right. Sam suppressed a sigh as Father Reynolds finished, a bright white light consuming the ghost.
Then he blinked and focused more intently on the light. The ghost was gone, but the light was only growing brighter. Something...something was not right.
A buzz filled the crypt, and Sam felt an odd pressure squeeze around him. The air itself felt heavy and gel-like. He reached for the priest, who was still staring at the light with something like awe. "Father, we probably should--"
There was a CRACK, and the light reached eye-searing proportions. Sam ducked away, pulling the priest with him, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard the sound of massive wings flapping frantically, and the light blinked out.
Father Reynolds made a sound like a stifled gasp, and Sam opened his eyes. A naked man sprawled out on the ground, filthy with grime and blood. "Jesus Christ! Uh, sorry, Father." The two of them hurried to the man's side. He did not appear to be breathing. Sam felt along his wrist, then his neck for a pulse, but to no avail. "I think he's--"
The man gave out a sudden, rattling breath, and began breathing normally. Simultaneously, his pulse started up beneath Sam's hand, as if it had never stopped in the first place. Strange, that. Nearby, the priest got to his feet. "He needs to get to the hospital. And there's a first aid kit in my office--"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll stay with the guy." As Father Reynolds disappeared down the corridor, Sam rolled the man onto his back, frowning. Something was very wrong here. As he appraised the man's injuries, he found himself wishing he had brought a knife, or more holy water, or something else besides the now-used ingredients for the seance. After a long and varied career in hunting, he could not recall encountering or hearing about anything quite like what had just happened.
The man was tall but slight, with wild dark hair and a bruised, sickly look to him. Blood trickled down the side of his face from a nasty gash on his forehead, mixing with the dust that caked his body. There were terrible burns across his right arm and side, with numerous other smaller scrapes, wounds and burns across the rest of his body. Alien sigils carved into his flesh covered his chest and shoulders; a few were fresh enough to begin to heal over, but the rest had scarred long ago. A large handprint seared over the heart obscured the symbols. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.
Sam pulled his shirt off, ripped a strip from it and wrapped it around the head wound. The man stirred at the touch, made a soft noise of pain, and rolled onto his side, revealing more burns on his back. "Hey. Hey, listen, everything's going to be all right, okay? Father Reynolds is calling an ambulance. Just stay calm and stay still." He didn't expect the man to live much longer, but he wouldn't let him die alone.
"...maiboddy." The man clutched at his chest. "Needa healurr." His words slurred together.
"They're on their way." Brain-damaged, probably.
"Sgood." The man relaxed. After a moment he added, "Cunns'kreded grund. Thassgood. 'S f'kin awesome." He gave a tired grin and patted the floor. "Whurr're we? Iss nor'mer'ka?"
"Uh, what?"
The man slapped the ground in frustration. "Can' get this boddy t' wurk ri'. Th' ties...I needa healurr."
"Whoa, calm down!" Sam pressed a placating hand to the man's shoulder. "You'll hurt yourself if you move around too much. The ambu--the healers are coming."
"Whass takin' so lon', they kin fly. Port. Whatevurr." He was silent for a moment. "There'arnt any wardz, they kin port."
In most other situations Sam would write off the man's mumbling as the delusions of the dying. But something felt off about the man, something beyond the circumstances in which he appeared. "What happened to you?" he ventured.
"Bin in Phil'delphya lasttoo yearz. Rezzistince bsieged it, ver' big battle, demons deciddid t' torj th' place. Then th' portin' wardz broke, so I go' th' hell ou'."
"Demons?! You were fighting demons? ...Who were planning to burn down Philadelphia."
"Alreddy burntit, how you thing I got these." The man gestured at his burns. "Hellfurr. Evribuddies prolly dead bainow."
Okay, so the guy was insane, but he had definitely gotten caught up in something supernatural. Hell, maybe he'd snapped from the trauma. "Hey--I'm Sam Winchester. I hunt the things that--"
The man went rigid, then sat bolt upright, looking pissed. "Lissin, asshole--" He broke off as his eyes fixed upon Sam's face. The rage melted away to be replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated terror. And then the man screamed.
Sam's eardrums exploded immediately. All along the corridor, the windows shattered. The force of the shout threw him backwards, hard, and his head burst into agony as it cracked against the wall as he slid to the ground. Dizzy with pain, he tried to shield himself from the still-falling glass, with little success. The last thing Sam saw before he passed out was the man, staggering away as fast as he could as if Sam were the devil himself.
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