Nazareth
Title: Benedictio
Rating: R
Pairings: Wincest
Warnings: None (as of yet)
Word Count: 8,156 (so far)
Summary: After the failed Trials, Sam Winchester becomes the Modern Messiah. Though he revels in his newfound powers and eventual fame, Dean hates it. He knows how this is going to end and he will do anything to save his brother from that fate.
The words were written in a messy hand on an equally messy page of a journal that Sam had seen all his life. Sam couldn’t even remember when he’d first seen the journal, Dad’s journal. He was too delirious to really remember that or care. All he knew was that he had to do this. He had to finish this. If he didn’t, who knew what would happen, what else would transpire?. Demons walked the Earth, had done so for centuries, once he said these words, once he forced this last bit of his blood down Crowley’s throat, the final Trial would be complete and the Gates of Hell would be shut for all eternity.
With trembling fingers and an angry grimace set into his features, Sam held up the journal and said, struggling to sound strong instead of exhausted, “Exorsus amus te omnis imundus spiritus omnis in umarum tentegra ustra.” He’d spoken those words hundreds of times in various situations, but never had it ever been more important than it was now.
He replaced the journal with the knife he’d gotten from Ruby what felt like an eternity ago and dug the blade into his glittering palm, watching his blood pool in the center. He moved closer to Crowley, using his free hand to steady himself against the back of the chair the demon-no-more was sitting in. He was just about to press his palm against Crowley’s mouth, just about to finish the Trial save the world, finally do something right when the doors to the church burst open.
“Sammy, stop!”
Sam started and turned towards the still-swinging doors, seeing Dean standing in front of them, looking both desperate and angry. He was breathing heavily now, looking at his brother as though he were some sort of foreign object rather than the person who had raised him, cared for him, loved him, when no one else had. He was also the person who was the most disappointed in him and that was why he was doing this, finishing the Trials, so he could make up for all of the times in his life he’d let his brother down. And, besides, what was Dean doing here right now anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be with Castiel? Trying to shut the Gates of Heaven, while he shut the Gates of Hell?
“Easy there, okay?” Dean said, moving slowly towards him, his hands raised as though he were approaching a frightened wild animal instead of his brother. “Just take it easy, we’ve got a slight change of plan.”
Sam burst out, sounding incredulous. How could they be changing their plans now? He was almost finished! Couldn’t Dean see that? It was too late to do anything different. “What’s going on? Where’s Cas?” He’d suddenly realized the angel wasn’t there. His eyes flitted around the church as though he expected him to appear at any moment, but when no winged creature revealed themselves, he returned his gaze to his brother, the one constant in his life. The only one he could truly trust.
“Metatron lied,” Dean said, still speaking slowly and calmly. “You finish this Trial…you’re dead, Sam.”
Sam glanced around the church, took in the world, Dean, his glowing arms, the last things he would see, before he turned back to his brother, the look of confusion still blatant on his features as he said, completely serious, “So?”
-
The world swam slowly into focus. First the ceiling appeared, cracked and yellowed. Then when he turned his head, the wall and his dresser revealed themselves. Finally, Sam saw his lamp and his nightstand, dotted by books, a gun, and a watch that needed new batteries. He’d since gotten a new one, but Sam had always been a bit nostalgic and kept the old one just because he thought it was a good idea to have a spare.
The first thing Sam did once he’d regained consciousness was try to figure out how he’s lost it in the first place. He remembered getting up and getting dressed. He remembered driving to the church and speaking with the pastor, but after that, he had no memories. He rubbed his eyes and, instead of his soft palms, he felt coarse bandages. He pulled his hands away from his eyes and saw the ivory gauze covering his hands. He turned them over several times before, at last, he remembered.
The church.
The cross.
The ringing in his hand.
The sudden pain in his hands.
The knowledge of what was happening.
And then nothing. Then he’d blacked out.
Apparently, Dean had taken him back to the bunker after that and tucked him into bed. He was still wearing his clothes, so he knew that Dean had practically thrown him in here before he’d undoubtedly rushed out of his bedroom and into the library and began trying to find some indication as to what was going on. Sam knew. Sam had known from the moment he felt the pain in his palms and the smelt the flowery odor coming from the wounds. It was something he’d read up on in college when he took a religion class. But he didn’t dare to think it. If he did, if he thought about what this meant, what this could mean for him, then it could be taken away. He wasn’t going to think about it. Not until it was confirmed.
With a heavy sigh, Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed for the second time that day and pushed himself up too fast. The world lurched forwards and swam in circles and he staggered, hitting his nightstand and knocking the top books off of the stack. He heard a loud clatter, which he figured must be his gun falling to the ground as well. He moved so his back was pressed up against the wall near the nightstand. He tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to make the world stop spinning through deep breaths. Vaguely he remembered when he’d told Dean to calm himself down the same way. He let out a small laugh.
It works, which Dean would know if he ever tried it. But Dean wouldn’t. He was too proud for things like that, which was something that could potentially lead him to an early grave. Sam pushed himself away from the wall, slowly this time, and reminded himself that they’d both already died several times. If they hadn’t died yet, there was a good chance they weren’t dying any time soon.
Well, at least Dean wasn’t.
Sam walked slowly and tentatively out of his bedroom and into the library. He saw books scattered all across the table, all of them open on different pages. Some showed Jesus’ crucifixion, others spoke of holy rites of passage that were enacted through some churches centuries ago, others still showed the Gates of Hell and hellhounds guarding the entrance. Sam wasn’t sure what that had to do with what was happening to him, but maybe Dean was on to something and knew something he didn’t. Perhaps this had been spurned by the Trials. As far as either of them knew, the Trials had never been attempted before, so it was entirely possible. However, this also meant that there would be no record of it either.
Tearing his eyes away from the haphazardly placed books, Sam turned his gaze to Dean. His brother was so lost in his reading that he hadn’t even noticed Sam come in, something that Sam wasn’t used to, but was planning on taking full advantage of. As he moved closer to Dean, he noticed that he was thumbing intently through a dusty leather-bound volume with gold trimming and elaborate pictures on the inside. Sam squinted. The pictures appeared to be hand painted. There were only a handful of books left like that in the world. How had the Men of Letters acquired one?
He stared at the book over his brother’s shoulder, reading the few sentences he could as Dean continued flipping through the book, scanning each page before he deemed it useless and went on to the next one. Sam was secretly searching for something too, trying to read the words that his brother was flipping past, trying to find something that could relate to what was happening to him, wanting desperately to confirm it and, at the same time, scared to do so. It wasn’t until his eyes flitted over the words, “...first recorded stigmatized priest in Christian history…” that Sam’s eyes widened and he shouted, “Stop!”
Dean started and turned in his chair as he did so, almost falling out of it. If Sam hadn’t been so suddenly engrossed in the book, he might have laughed, but, as it stood, he hardly heard Dean say, “Jesus, Sammy, you scared the shit out of me!” The words on the page seemed to preside over everything at the moment.
He pulled the book out of Dean’s reach (“Hey! Sam! What the hell?”) and began to read the paragraph from the beginning.
St. Francis of Assisi is the first recorded stigmatized priest in Christian history. Two years before his death, he embarked on a journey to Mt. La Verna for a forty day fast. One morning, near the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, a six-winged angel allegedly appeared to Francis whilst he was praying. It is said that as the angel approached, Francis could see that the angel was crucified and was humbled by the sight, his heart filled with elation joined by pain and suffering. Once the angel left, Francis was purportedly left with wounds on his hands, feet, and side as if caused by the same lance that pierced Christ. The image of nails immediately appeared in his hands and feet and wound in his side often seeped blood. This later became known as ‘stigmata.’
Sam shut the book, much to Dean’s frustration (“You lost my spot!”) and set it back down on the table carefully, almost as though it were made of glass.
I didn’t see a crucified angel, though, Sam reasoned, so this couldn’t be that, could it?
But it was. And he knew it was. He just didn’t dare think the word, didn’t dare say it out loud. If he dared to believe or confirm even for a second that this was…what the book said and that he was being blessed in the same way this priest had been and then it turned out later that he’d just somehow impaled his palms on something that was on the floor and this wasn’t that at all, he would never be able to get over it. It sounded ridiculous, he knew, to be able to get over the death of his brother and turn himself into an awful hunting machine, intent only upon killing Lilith, but unable to get passed the fact he may not have been chosen for salvation after he’d been purified of the disease he put inside himself during that time. Though, after the way his life had gone, after he’d realized just how filthy and undeserving of happiness, of Heaven, of life that he was, he felt that, in a way, these feelings were understandable.
When Sam Winchester was only six months old, a yellow-eyed demon by the name of Azazel stole into his bedroom, cut his wrist and bled into Sam’s mouth, turning him from a full-blood human, to a half-demon. His mother walked in on Azazel while he was doing this. Shortly afterwards, his father heard her scream and ran upstairs to find her pinned to the ceiling. Once it was set aflame, John rushed Sam out of the room, handed him to Dean, and told him to run outside. Ever since, Sam’s life had never been what anyone could ever call normal, and though it wasn’t until he was in his twenties that he found out what had been done to him by that demon as a child, throughout his life, he never felt pure. This was only enforced when he learned later on, he was meant to be Lucifer’s vessel on Earth. Even after he threw Lucifer back into the pit and came back nearly two years later this time with his soul, he still felt he had to atone for all of the things he’d done without one. Never once in his life had Sam Winchester truly felt guilt free.
But if this was truly what that book said, then none of that would matter anymore. What the angels were saying would be true. He was saved. He was forgiven. And, finally, finally, he was clean again. He was pure.
“Sam? What the hell is going on?”
The voice belonged to Dean and he started Sam out of his thoughts. For the first time, Sam realized he was leaning over the books, his hands clutching the table so tightly his knuckles were white. He released the table and pulled back, staring at his hands, it took him a moment to also realize they were bleeding again and that was why his fingers had felt sticky when he pulled them away from the table and why Dean was suddenly grasping them, saying, half to himself, “I need to rewrap these.”
Sam let Dean lead him to the misplaced sink the Men of Letters had, for whatever reason, decided they would need in the library. He let him unwrap his palms, struggling to keep himself from wincing too much as he did so. He stared down at his hands as Dean cleaned them, watching his blood run pink down the drain. Once most of the blood was gone and his palms no longer seemed to be leaking, Dean led him back to the table and told him to stay put while he went and got the medical supplies. Sam did as he was told. He was half-worried anyway that if he moved, his palms would start bleeding again and he didn’t want to get his blood all over these books. When his brother returned, he wrapped his hands in ivory gauze, staring at his work, looking methodical. Dean was silent throughout the entire ordeal, all business, just as he was whenever Sam got hurt. But, if the book was right, then this was a different kind of hurt, something no amount of magic or supernatural intervention could cure.
When he finished, Dean held Sam’s hands carefully in his own, almost as though he were convinced Sam were made of glass and he was afraid he was going to break him. He looked into his eyes for a moment, begging him, without a word, to tell him what was going on, but, when Sam kept his mouth shut, Dean simply raised Sam’s hands to his lips and kissed the insides of his palms, a look of pain on his features as though he already knew how this would end.
An image of Judas doing the same thing to Jesus flashed through Sam’s mind.
But Judas betrayed him, a voice reminded him. Judas may have loved Jesus the most, but he betrayed him to the Roman soldiers and is the reason he was crucified.
Yes, Sam agreed, but Dean isn’t Judas. And this isn’t Biblical times.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean said softly, helping Sam to his feet. “You need to lay down for a bit.” He guided him to his room, helped him into some more comfortable clothes, and laid him down on the bed, pulling the blankets up around his chin like he did when they were children and Sam was sick or had gotten hurt on a hunt or was upset about how much Dad had yelled at him that day during training.
While, for the first time in a very long time, Sam thought about all of the times Dean had taken care of him when he was hurting in one way or another, the brother in question kissed his temple and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Sammy.” He pulled back and headed towards the door, wiping a hand down his face as he did so, something Sam knew was one of Dean’s nervous habits. The angels falling, Cas’s second disappearance, and now this thing with Sam? They were all getting to him. In truth, almost nothing got to Dean or if it did you couldn’t tell. Unless you were Sam Winchester. He supposed this was one of the advantages of having been around his brother the majority of his life. He always knew what was going on inside his head.
In lieu of wanting to see his brother’s expression, but also sheer curiosity, he asked, “Dean? The hunt? At the church? W-was it a hunt?”
Dean paused in the doorway for a moment, staring at Sam, almost as though he didn’t really know what he was talking about. Then it all seemed to come back to him and his eyes widened a fraction as he said, “Oh! Yeah, the church. Uh, yeah, it was nothing.” He gave a brief, forced smile and said, “Sleep tight, Sam,” before he flicked the light switch and closed the door carefully behind him, returning to his place among the books in the library.
-
It took Sam barely a minute to fall asleep once Dean had left. Suddenly, he was exhausted. Suddenly, his bed could not be more comfortable. Suddenly, he needed to sleep for a thousand years or more without disturbance. He let out a heavy sigh and relaxed into the thin mattress, the blankets curled around his body perfectly. He couldn’t remember having ever been more comfortable, except, perhaps when he was in Dean’s arms. But Dean wasn’t here right now. He was researching what Sam already knew and was hesitant to tell him.
You have to tell him eventually, the voice in the back of his head reasoned. If you don’t tell him soon, he’ll be angry with you because he’ll know you knew what was going on all along. He doesn’t like it when you keep things from him.
The voice was right, but Sam ignored it. He was tired. He needed sleep. He could deal with these things after his nap.
When Sam opened his eyes in dreamland, he was in a stark white room. Everything in it was white. The desk, the chairs, the walls, the lamps, the ferns, everything was the color of the clouds. Which was why it took Sam only a moment to figure out where he was.
“Heaven?” He asked, looking around, seeing a white bookshelf filled with white books. “Am I in Heaven?” Then a more important question popped into his mind. “Am I dead?”
There was no answer, not that he really expected one. For a long time, Sam stood in the white room, glancing around, trying to figure out if this was a dream, a vision, or what, when, at last, he heard a voice, but not the one he’d been expecting, come from the desk.
“Sam Winchester.”
He whirled around and saw an older looking man with a white beard and white hair longer than his. He was sitting behind the desk, but when he stood, he was wearing a white suit with matching shoes and carrying an equally white cane. He moved towards Sam with a smile on his face. “I haven’t seen you for a long, long time,” he said, still smiling. He glanced around and the room and added, “It is a little bright in here, isn’t it? Would you prefer this?”
The room changed suddenly into a Biggerson’s, a diner he and Dean went to whenever they got the chance.
“Or this?”
The scene around them changed again. This time into the library where he’d first met Jess at Stanford. He froze at the memory.
“Oh dear,” the man said, his brow creasing with worry. “I can see I’ve upset you. Never quite got over her, did you? How about we just sit and talk here?”
The room changed back to a Biggerson’s and the man gestured to a booth to Sam’s left and they both sat down. A woman came by and gave them menus, informing them that she was going to be their waitress for that evening. Sam took the menu, feeling very confused and searched through it. It was the same as every menu he’d ever seen at any Biggerson’s and when the waitress returned, he ordered a glass of water and some salad. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but, for some reason, it felt as though it would be rude to refuse food.
“Always been your favorite dish, hasn’t it, Sam?” The man said this as more of a statement than a question, a smile still locked on his features.
“Who are you?” Sam blurt out, unable to contain himself any longer. “I mean, clearly you’re an angel of some sort. You know where my favorite places are. You know what I like to eat.” He paused and licked his lips looking away, before he added more softly, “You know about Jessica.” He swallowed, looking away again, before he said a second time, “Who are you?”
The man smiled at Sam, folding his hands on the table.
“I am God.”
“You-you’re God?” Sam said, suddenly angry. “Well, great, if you’re God, then where the Hell have you been for the last…eight years? Where were you when my mom died? Or when Jessica died? Or when Dean was torn apart by hellhounds because he was just trying to save my life? Or when my dad turned Dean from a little kid into a hunter just because he couldn’t handle the fact his wife was dead? How about when I was drinking demon blood? Why didn’t you come and stop me then? Or what about the Apocalypse? Where were you when your sons were screwing the whole world over? Where have you been?!”
The man’s smile had vanished. He hadn’t interrupted Sam once during his tirade, but now that he was finished, he stared sadly at the tabletop and said, “Many people ask me why I let bad things happen in the world, Sam, and, the truth is, I have no control over you, as many people believe that I do. I only create you and give you to a pair of people who want a child. Unfortunately, that pair of people isn’t ready to have a child sometimes and may not ever be ready. Sometimes that pair of people gets hurt by other people and, as much as I want to stop it and save all of you from what my other children do, I cannot. I can only hope that things get better for you and you make the right choices. I can do my best to guide you in the direction I want you to go, give you small signs and gentle nudges, but that is all I can do. I gave you something I did not give to my angels and I’m sure you already know what that is. I believe your brother once called you, him, and Castiel Team Free Will, am I correct?”
Sam didn’t answer.
The man who claimed to be God sighed. “I’m not here to speak to you of what’s gone on in the past. I’m here to talk about your present and your future.”
Still, Sam said nothing. If this man were truly God, and it was looking more and more like he was, then why in the world would God want to talk about him? And even if he did, why wasn’t he reprimanding him for all of the things he’d done in the past?
“Ah, ah, ah, Sam,” God said. “Remember? I had no control over what you did. It was your choice, but, as I said, it’s all in the past now and no longer matters. Contrary to popular belief, I am a very forgiving person. All of that…Old Testament stuff? That was me in my…teenage angst days. That is what you call your…darker time of life nowadays, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve long since realized that I have no control over you and the last way I’m going to be able to control you while still having you love me, is through fear.” He smiled. “Anyway, do you want to know what is going on right now or don’t you?”
Again, Sam didn’t respond, but he figured he didn’t really have to. God knew what he was thinking and, yes, he did want to know what was going on, he was just still a bit bitter over everything and too proud to actually say it.
“Very well,” God said and he sat more forward in his side of the booth. “You were right. What you are experiencing is stigmata. I know you got the palm wounds a little quickly, but your others won’t come as fast. There will be a reddening on your skin where the wounds will appear and then one day, they’ll start bleeding. Not too badly at first, but it will get worse. I hope your brother has a lot of medical supplies. My thinking is that Dean isn’t going to want to take you to a hospital. Not that they would be able to help. As you know well, stigmata is not something that can be cured by human physicians and, even if there were any angels left in Heaven, none of them could cure you either.” God paused, staring intently at Sam, before he added, “Are you going to ask it?”
“Ask what?” Sam replied.
“The question that’s been rolling around in your mind since this happened,” God said. “The one every stigmatic has ever asked.”
“Wh-why me?” Sam asked. It sounded more like he was trying to confirm that this was indeed the question God was referring to.
God smiled. “Yes! That question! And my answer is this: you completed the Trials and you are now pure. I know you believe you are not completely rid of the filth that is the demon blood, but that is no longer true. If you were as unclean as you believe yourself to be, you would not be able to have the blessings of the stigmata, Sam. You’re a smart man. Surely, you know that.” He gave Sam a sympathetic smile. “Anyway, I would not have chosen anyone to become the second savior if Metatron had not first cast all of the rest of my children out of their own home. The only way to put them back again is to great someone the power’s my son, Jesus, had on Earth and…for them to guide them back to Heaven once the stigmata is complete.”
“You-you mean I’m going to die?” Sam asked, his voice hollow.
“I’m afraid so,” God replied, looking at the tabletop. “That is the only way this can work.”
“But...but what about Dean?” Sam asked. “What will he do?” As much as Sam sometimes believed Dean would be better off without him, when it truly came down to it, he knew that his brother really wouldn’t be alright. He’d lost his mother when he was four years old, he’d lost his father when he was twenty-seven, he’d lost countless friends. If Sam was gone, too, Dean would have no one. Well, he would have Cas, but Dean often complained about how Cas couldn’t truly understand his feelings because he was an angel and had been born with none.
“I cannot give you any promises that Dean will be alright,” God said carefully, “but I do swear that no matter how Dean dies, he will be granted a place next to you in Heaven. The both of you have done more for my Earth than any two people should have to.”
Sam didn’t say anything in response. He knew what God meant. If Dean were to kill himself after Sam died, after his stigmata killed him, after he took the angels back to Heaven, graces and all, he wouldn’t go to Hell. He would go to Heaven. Sam took a small breath and asked softly, “Does everyone who commits suicide go to Hell?”
“No,” God replied. “Not everyone. Only the ones who were…inherently bad.”
The waitress returned, setting both of their meals in front of them. She gave them both a winning smile and walked away. Sam watched her go, until God snapped him back to attention by saying, “Are you really going to think like that, Sam? In front of the Lord? And when you have your brother? I don’t think he’d be very happy with you, know you’ve slept with a girl when you seem to get so upset when he does the same.”
Sam blushed and smiled for the first time since he’d arrived in God’s presence. “You-you know about that?” he asked, smiling down at his salad. He pushed it around with his fork.
“Of course, I do,” God replied, a smile of his own on his lips. He’d ordered a hamburger. He picked it up and took a big bite, grinning in pleasure. “Ah, I can see why your brother orders this. Very tasty.”
God took a few more bites before he set down the burger and said, “When you get back, I think you should talk to Den about this. I know you won’t because you’re not going to like telling him the part about you dying, but that’s just my advice.”
Sam opened his mouth to explain why that wasn’t a good idea when suddenly he was in his room again. The lights were off. He pressed a button on his watch to check the time and saw nearly three hours had passed. It was close to five in the afternoon. He wondered if he should get up, have dinner with Dean, and do as God suggested and talk about what was going on. But, in the end, he decided that he was tired and wanted to sleep rather than discuss the inevitable with his brother. No matter what he told him, Dean would search for some way to stop this, he would try to figure out how to save him instead of realize that this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. In short, Dean would not understand.
He rolled over in bed and stared at the darkened wall, and just before he fell asleep once more, the full reality of it hit him.
He was no longer the boy with the demon blood, Lucifer’s vessel on Earth, or the Boy King of Hell. He was the Modern Messiah and, when he died, he was going to give all of the angels their graces and take all them all to Heaven.
( Galiliee)
(coming soon: Basilica)
Rating: R
Pairings: Wincest
Warnings: None (as of yet)
Word Count: 8,156 (so far)
Summary: After the failed Trials, Sam Winchester becomes the Modern Messiah. Though he revels in his newfound powers and eventual fame, Dean hates it. He knows how this is going to end and he will do anything to save his brother from that fate.
The words were written in a messy hand on an equally messy page of a journal that Sam had seen all his life. Sam couldn’t even remember when he’d first seen the journal, Dad’s journal. He was too delirious to really remember that or care. All he knew was that he had to do this. He had to finish this. If he didn’t, who knew what would happen, what else would transpire?. Demons walked the Earth, had done so for centuries, once he said these words, once he forced this last bit of his blood down Crowley’s throat, the final Trial would be complete and the Gates of Hell would be shut for all eternity.
With trembling fingers and an angry grimace set into his features, Sam held up the journal and said, struggling to sound strong instead of exhausted, “Exorsus amus te omnis imundus spiritus omnis in umarum tentegra ustra.” He’d spoken those words hundreds of times in various situations, but never had it ever been more important than it was now.
He replaced the journal with the knife he’d gotten from Ruby what felt like an eternity ago and dug the blade into his glittering palm, watching his blood pool in the center. He moved closer to Crowley, using his free hand to steady himself against the back of the chair the demon-no-more was sitting in. He was just about to press his palm against Crowley’s mouth, just about to finish the Trial save the world, finally do something right when the doors to the church burst open.
“Sammy, stop!”
Sam started and turned towards the still-swinging doors, seeing Dean standing in front of them, looking both desperate and angry. He was breathing heavily now, looking at his brother as though he were some sort of foreign object rather than the person who had raised him, cared for him, loved him, when no one else had. He was also the person who was the most disappointed in him and that was why he was doing this, finishing the Trials, so he could make up for all of the times in his life he’d let his brother down. And, besides, what was Dean doing here right now anyway? Wasn’t he supposed to be with Castiel? Trying to shut the Gates of Heaven, while he shut the Gates of Hell?
“Easy there, okay?” Dean said, moving slowly towards him, his hands raised as though he were approaching a frightened wild animal instead of his brother. “Just take it easy, we’ve got a slight change of plan.”
Sam burst out, sounding incredulous. How could they be changing their plans now? He was almost finished! Couldn’t Dean see that? It was too late to do anything different. “What’s going on? Where’s Cas?” He’d suddenly realized the angel wasn’t there. His eyes flitted around the church as though he expected him to appear at any moment, but when no winged creature revealed themselves, he returned his gaze to his brother, the one constant in his life. The only one he could truly trust.
“Metatron lied,” Dean said, still speaking slowly and calmly. “You finish this Trial…you’re dead, Sam.”
Sam glanced around the church, took in the world, Dean, his glowing arms, the last things he would see, before he turned back to his brother, the look of confusion still blatant on his features as he said, completely serious, “So?”
-
The world swam slowly into focus. First the ceiling appeared, cracked and yellowed. Then when he turned his head, the wall and his dresser revealed themselves. Finally, Sam saw his lamp and his nightstand, dotted by books, a gun, and a watch that needed new batteries. He’d since gotten a new one, but Sam had always been a bit nostalgic and kept the old one just because he thought it was a good idea to have a spare.
The first thing Sam did once he’d regained consciousness was try to figure out how he’s lost it in the first place. He remembered getting up and getting dressed. He remembered driving to the church and speaking with the pastor, but after that, he had no memories. He rubbed his eyes and, instead of his soft palms, he felt coarse bandages. He pulled his hands away from his eyes and saw the ivory gauze covering his hands. He turned them over several times before, at last, he remembered.
The church.
The cross.
The ringing in his hand.
The sudden pain in his hands.
The knowledge of what was happening.
And then nothing. Then he’d blacked out.
Apparently, Dean had taken him back to the bunker after that and tucked him into bed. He was still wearing his clothes, so he knew that Dean had practically thrown him in here before he’d undoubtedly rushed out of his bedroom and into the library and began trying to find some indication as to what was going on. Sam knew. Sam had known from the moment he felt the pain in his palms and the smelt the flowery odor coming from the wounds. It was something he’d read up on in college when he took a religion class. But he didn’t dare to think it. If he did, if he thought about what this meant, what this could mean for him, then it could be taken away. He wasn’t going to think about it. Not until it was confirmed.
With a heavy sigh, Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed for the second time that day and pushed himself up too fast. The world lurched forwards and swam in circles and he staggered, hitting his nightstand and knocking the top books off of the stack. He heard a loud clatter, which he figured must be his gun falling to the ground as well. He moved so his back was pressed up against the wall near the nightstand. He tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to make the world stop spinning through deep breaths. Vaguely he remembered when he’d told Dean to calm himself down the same way. He let out a small laugh.
It works, which Dean would know if he ever tried it. But Dean wouldn’t. He was too proud for things like that, which was something that could potentially lead him to an early grave. Sam pushed himself away from the wall, slowly this time, and reminded himself that they’d both already died several times. If they hadn’t died yet, there was a good chance they weren’t dying any time soon.
Well, at least Dean wasn’t.
Sam walked slowly and tentatively out of his bedroom and into the library. He saw books scattered all across the table, all of them open on different pages. Some showed Jesus’ crucifixion, others spoke of holy rites of passage that were enacted through some churches centuries ago, others still showed the Gates of Hell and hellhounds guarding the entrance. Sam wasn’t sure what that had to do with what was happening to him, but maybe Dean was on to something and knew something he didn’t. Perhaps this had been spurned by the Trials. As far as either of them knew, the Trials had never been attempted before, so it was entirely possible. However, this also meant that there would be no record of it either.
Tearing his eyes away from the haphazardly placed books, Sam turned his gaze to Dean. His brother was so lost in his reading that he hadn’t even noticed Sam come in, something that Sam wasn’t used to, but was planning on taking full advantage of. As he moved closer to Dean, he noticed that he was thumbing intently through a dusty leather-bound volume with gold trimming and elaborate pictures on the inside. Sam squinted. The pictures appeared to be hand painted. There were only a handful of books left like that in the world. How had the Men of Letters acquired one?
He stared at the book over his brother’s shoulder, reading the few sentences he could as Dean continued flipping through the book, scanning each page before he deemed it useless and went on to the next one. Sam was secretly searching for something too, trying to read the words that his brother was flipping past, trying to find something that could relate to what was happening to him, wanting desperately to confirm it and, at the same time, scared to do so. It wasn’t until his eyes flitted over the words, “...first recorded stigmatized priest in Christian history…” that Sam’s eyes widened and he shouted, “Stop!”
Dean started and turned in his chair as he did so, almost falling out of it. If Sam hadn’t been so suddenly engrossed in the book, he might have laughed, but, as it stood, he hardly heard Dean say, “Jesus, Sammy, you scared the shit out of me!” The words on the page seemed to preside over everything at the moment.
He pulled the book out of Dean’s reach (“Hey! Sam! What the hell?”) and began to read the paragraph from the beginning.
St. Francis of Assisi is the first recorded stigmatized priest in Christian history. Two years before his death, he embarked on a journey to Mt. La Verna for a forty day fast. One morning, near the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, a six-winged angel allegedly appeared to Francis whilst he was praying. It is said that as the angel approached, Francis could see that the angel was crucified and was humbled by the sight, his heart filled with elation joined by pain and suffering. Once the angel left, Francis was purportedly left with wounds on his hands, feet, and side as if caused by the same lance that pierced Christ. The image of nails immediately appeared in his hands and feet and wound in his side often seeped blood. This later became known as ‘stigmata.’
Sam shut the book, much to Dean’s frustration (“You lost my spot!”) and set it back down on the table carefully, almost as though it were made of glass.
I didn’t see a crucified angel, though, Sam reasoned, so this couldn’t be that, could it?
But it was. And he knew it was. He just didn’t dare think the word, didn’t dare say it out loud. If he dared to believe or confirm even for a second that this was…what the book said and that he was being blessed in the same way this priest had been and then it turned out later that he’d just somehow impaled his palms on something that was on the floor and this wasn’t that at all, he would never be able to get over it. It sounded ridiculous, he knew, to be able to get over the death of his brother and turn himself into an awful hunting machine, intent only upon killing Lilith, but unable to get passed the fact he may not have been chosen for salvation after he’d been purified of the disease he put inside himself during that time. Though, after the way his life had gone, after he’d realized just how filthy and undeserving of happiness, of Heaven, of life that he was, he felt that, in a way, these feelings were understandable.
When Sam Winchester was only six months old, a yellow-eyed demon by the name of Azazel stole into his bedroom, cut his wrist and bled into Sam’s mouth, turning him from a full-blood human, to a half-demon. His mother walked in on Azazel while he was doing this. Shortly afterwards, his father heard her scream and ran upstairs to find her pinned to the ceiling. Once it was set aflame, John rushed Sam out of the room, handed him to Dean, and told him to run outside. Ever since, Sam’s life had never been what anyone could ever call normal, and though it wasn’t until he was in his twenties that he found out what had been done to him by that demon as a child, throughout his life, he never felt pure. This was only enforced when he learned later on, he was meant to be Lucifer’s vessel on Earth. Even after he threw Lucifer back into the pit and came back nearly two years later this time with his soul, he still felt he had to atone for all of the things he’d done without one. Never once in his life had Sam Winchester truly felt guilt free.
But if this was truly what that book said, then none of that would matter anymore. What the angels were saying would be true. He was saved. He was forgiven. And, finally, finally, he was clean again. He was pure.
“Sam? What the hell is going on?”
The voice belonged to Dean and he started Sam out of his thoughts. For the first time, Sam realized he was leaning over the books, his hands clutching the table so tightly his knuckles were white. He released the table and pulled back, staring at his hands, it took him a moment to also realize they were bleeding again and that was why his fingers had felt sticky when he pulled them away from the table and why Dean was suddenly grasping them, saying, half to himself, “I need to rewrap these.”
Sam let Dean lead him to the misplaced sink the Men of Letters had, for whatever reason, decided they would need in the library. He let him unwrap his palms, struggling to keep himself from wincing too much as he did so. He stared down at his hands as Dean cleaned them, watching his blood run pink down the drain. Once most of the blood was gone and his palms no longer seemed to be leaking, Dean led him back to the table and told him to stay put while he went and got the medical supplies. Sam did as he was told. He was half-worried anyway that if he moved, his palms would start bleeding again and he didn’t want to get his blood all over these books. When his brother returned, he wrapped his hands in ivory gauze, staring at his work, looking methodical. Dean was silent throughout the entire ordeal, all business, just as he was whenever Sam got hurt. But, if the book was right, then this was a different kind of hurt, something no amount of magic or supernatural intervention could cure.
When he finished, Dean held Sam’s hands carefully in his own, almost as though he were convinced Sam were made of glass and he was afraid he was going to break him. He looked into his eyes for a moment, begging him, without a word, to tell him what was going on, but, when Sam kept his mouth shut, Dean simply raised Sam’s hands to his lips and kissed the insides of his palms, a look of pain on his features as though he already knew how this would end.
An image of Judas doing the same thing to Jesus flashed through Sam’s mind.
But Judas betrayed him, a voice reminded him. Judas may have loved Jesus the most, but he betrayed him to the Roman soldiers and is the reason he was crucified.
Yes, Sam agreed, but Dean isn’t Judas. And this isn’t Biblical times.
“Come on, Sammy,” Dean said softly, helping Sam to his feet. “You need to lay down for a bit.” He guided him to his room, helped him into some more comfortable clothes, and laid him down on the bed, pulling the blankets up around his chin like he did when they were children and Sam was sick or had gotten hurt on a hunt or was upset about how much Dad had yelled at him that day during training.
While, for the first time in a very long time, Sam thought about all of the times Dean had taken care of him when he was hurting in one way or another, the brother in question kissed his temple and whispered, “Sweet dreams, Sammy.” He pulled back and headed towards the door, wiping a hand down his face as he did so, something Sam knew was one of Dean’s nervous habits. The angels falling, Cas’s second disappearance, and now this thing with Sam? They were all getting to him. In truth, almost nothing got to Dean or if it did you couldn’t tell. Unless you were Sam Winchester. He supposed this was one of the advantages of having been around his brother the majority of his life. He always knew what was going on inside his head.
In lieu of wanting to see his brother’s expression, but also sheer curiosity, he asked, “Dean? The hunt? At the church? W-was it a hunt?”
Dean paused in the doorway for a moment, staring at Sam, almost as though he didn’t really know what he was talking about. Then it all seemed to come back to him and his eyes widened a fraction as he said, “Oh! Yeah, the church. Uh, yeah, it was nothing.” He gave a brief, forced smile and said, “Sleep tight, Sam,” before he flicked the light switch and closed the door carefully behind him, returning to his place among the books in the library.
-
It took Sam barely a minute to fall asleep once Dean had left. Suddenly, he was exhausted. Suddenly, his bed could not be more comfortable. Suddenly, he needed to sleep for a thousand years or more without disturbance. He let out a heavy sigh and relaxed into the thin mattress, the blankets curled around his body perfectly. He couldn’t remember having ever been more comfortable, except, perhaps when he was in Dean’s arms. But Dean wasn’t here right now. He was researching what Sam already knew and was hesitant to tell him.
You have to tell him eventually, the voice in the back of his head reasoned. If you don’t tell him soon, he’ll be angry with you because he’ll know you knew what was going on all along. He doesn’t like it when you keep things from him.
The voice was right, but Sam ignored it. He was tired. He needed sleep. He could deal with these things after his nap.
When Sam opened his eyes in dreamland, he was in a stark white room. Everything in it was white. The desk, the chairs, the walls, the lamps, the ferns, everything was the color of the clouds. Which was why it took Sam only a moment to figure out where he was.
“Heaven?” He asked, looking around, seeing a white bookshelf filled with white books. “Am I in Heaven?” Then a more important question popped into his mind. “Am I dead?”
There was no answer, not that he really expected one. For a long time, Sam stood in the white room, glancing around, trying to figure out if this was a dream, a vision, or what, when, at last, he heard a voice, but not the one he’d been expecting, come from the desk.
“Sam Winchester.”
He whirled around and saw an older looking man with a white beard and white hair longer than his. He was sitting behind the desk, but when he stood, he was wearing a white suit with matching shoes and carrying an equally white cane. He moved towards Sam with a smile on his face. “I haven’t seen you for a long, long time,” he said, still smiling. He glanced around and the room and added, “It is a little bright in here, isn’t it? Would you prefer this?”
The room changed suddenly into a Biggerson’s, a diner he and Dean went to whenever they got the chance.
“Or this?”
The scene around them changed again. This time into the library where he’d first met Jess at Stanford. He froze at the memory.
“Oh dear,” the man said, his brow creasing with worry. “I can see I’ve upset you. Never quite got over her, did you? How about we just sit and talk here?”
The room changed back to a Biggerson’s and the man gestured to a booth to Sam’s left and they both sat down. A woman came by and gave them menus, informing them that she was going to be their waitress for that evening. Sam took the menu, feeling very confused and searched through it. It was the same as every menu he’d ever seen at any Biggerson’s and when the waitress returned, he ordered a glass of water and some salad. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but, for some reason, it felt as though it would be rude to refuse food.
“Always been your favorite dish, hasn’t it, Sam?” The man said this as more of a statement than a question, a smile still locked on his features.
“Who are you?” Sam blurt out, unable to contain himself any longer. “I mean, clearly you’re an angel of some sort. You know where my favorite places are. You know what I like to eat.” He paused and licked his lips looking away, before he added more softly, “You know about Jessica.” He swallowed, looking away again, before he said a second time, “Who are you?”
The man smiled at Sam, folding his hands on the table.
“I am God.”
“You-you’re God?” Sam said, suddenly angry. “Well, great, if you’re God, then where the Hell have you been for the last…eight years? Where were you when my mom died? Or when Jessica died? Or when Dean was torn apart by hellhounds because he was just trying to save my life? Or when my dad turned Dean from a little kid into a hunter just because he couldn’t handle the fact his wife was dead? How about when I was drinking demon blood? Why didn’t you come and stop me then? Or what about the Apocalypse? Where were you when your sons were screwing the whole world over? Where have you been?!”
The man’s smile had vanished. He hadn’t interrupted Sam once during his tirade, but now that he was finished, he stared sadly at the tabletop and said, “Many people ask me why I let bad things happen in the world, Sam, and, the truth is, I have no control over you, as many people believe that I do. I only create you and give you to a pair of people who want a child. Unfortunately, that pair of people isn’t ready to have a child sometimes and may not ever be ready. Sometimes that pair of people gets hurt by other people and, as much as I want to stop it and save all of you from what my other children do, I cannot. I can only hope that things get better for you and you make the right choices. I can do my best to guide you in the direction I want you to go, give you small signs and gentle nudges, but that is all I can do. I gave you something I did not give to my angels and I’m sure you already know what that is. I believe your brother once called you, him, and Castiel Team Free Will, am I correct?”
Sam didn’t answer.
The man who claimed to be God sighed. “I’m not here to speak to you of what’s gone on in the past. I’m here to talk about your present and your future.”
Still, Sam said nothing. If this man were truly God, and it was looking more and more like he was, then why in the world would God want to talk about him? And even if he did, why wasn’t he reprimanding him for all of the things he’d done in the past?
“Ah, ah, ah, Sam,” God said. “Remember? I had no control over what you did. It was your choice, but, as I said, it’s all in the past now and no longer matters. Contrary to popular belief, I am a very forgiving person. All of that…Old Testament stuff? That was me in my…teenage angst days. That is what you call your…darker time of life nowadays, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ve long since realized that I have no control over you and the last way I’m going to be able to control you while still having you love me, is through fear.” He smiled. “Anyway, do you want to know what is going on right now or don’t you?”
Again, Sam didn’t respond, but he figured he didn’t really have to. God knew what he was thinking and, yes, he did want to know what was going on, he was just still a bit bitter over everything and too proud to actually say it.
“Very well,” God said and he sat more forward in his side of the booth. “You were right. What you are experiencing is stigmata. I know you got the palm wounds a little quickly, but your others won’t come as fast. There will be a reddening on your skin where the wounds will appear and then one day, they’ll start bleeding. Not too badly at first, but it will get worse. I hope your brother has a lot of medical supplies. My thinking is that Dean isn’t going to want to take you to a hospital. Not that they would be able to help. As you know well, stigmata is not something that can be cured by human physicians and, even if there were any angels left in Heaven, none of them could cure you either.” God paused, staring intently at Sam, before he added, “Are you going to ask it?”
“Ask what?” Sam replied.
“The question that’s been rolling around in your mind since this happened,” God said. “The one every stigmatic has ever asked.”
“Wh-why me?” Sam asked. It sounded more like he was trying to confirm that this was indeed the question God was referring to.
God smiled. “Yes! That question! And my answer is this: you completed the Trials and you are now pure. I know you believe you are not completely rid of the filth that is the demon blood, but that is no longer true. If you were as unclean as you believe yourself to be, you would not be able to have the blessings of the stigmata, Sam. You’re a smart man. Surely, you know that.” He gave Sam a sympathetic smile. “Anyway, I would not have chosen anyone to become the second savior if Metatron had not first cast all of the rest of my children out of their own home. The only way to put them back again is to great someone the power’s my son, Jesus, had on Earth and…for them to guide them back to Heaven once the stigmata is complete.”
“You-you mean I’m going to die?” Sam asked, his voice hollow.
“I’m afraid so,” God replied, looking at the tabletop. “That is the only way this can work.”
“But...but what about Dean?” Sam asked. “What will he do?” As much as Sam sometimes believed Dean would be better off without him, when it truly came down to it, he knew that his brother really wouldn’t be alright. He’d lost his mother when he was four years old, he’d lost his father when he was twenty-seven, he’d lost countless friends. If Sam was gone, too, Dean would have no one. Well, he would have Cas, but Dean often complained about how Cas couldn’t truly understand his feelings because he was an angel and had been born with none.
“I cannot give you any promises that Dean will be alright,” God said carefully, “but I do swear that no matter how Dean dies, he will be granted a place next to you in Heaven. The both of you have done more for my Earth than any two people should have to.”
Sam didn’t say anything in response. He knew what God meant. If Dean were to kill himself after Sam died, after his stigmata killed him, after he took the angels back to Heaven, graces and all, he wouldn’t go to Hell. He would go to Heaven. Sam took a small breath and asked softly, “Does everyone who commits suicide go to Hell?”
“No,” God replied. “Not everyone. Only the ones who were…inherently bad.”
The waitress returned, setting both of their meals in front of them. She gave them both a winning smile and walked away. Sam watched her go, until God snapped him back to attention by saying, “Are you really going to think like that, Sam? In front of the Lord? And when you have your brother? I don’t think he’d be very happy with you, know you’ve slept with a girl when you seem to get so upset when he does the same.”
Sam blushed and smiled for the first time since he’d arrived in God’s presence. “You-you know about that?” he asked, smiling down at his salad. He pushed it around with his fork.
“Of course, I do,” God replied, a smile of his own on his lips. He’d ordered a hamburger. He picked it up and took a big bite, grinning in pleasure. “Ah, I can see why your brother orders this. Very tasty.”
God took a few more bites before he set down the burger and said, “When you get back, I think you should talk to Den about this. I know you won’t because you’re not going to like telling him the part about you dying, but that’s just my advice.”
Sam opened his mouth to explain why that wasn’t a good idea when suddenly he was in his room again. The lights were off. He pressed a button on his watch to check the time and saw nearly three hours had passed. It was close to five in the afternoon. He wondered if he should get up, have dinner with Dean, and do as God suggested and talk about what was going on. But, in the end, he decided that he was tired and wanted to sleep rather than discuss the inevitable with his brother. No matter what he told him, Dean would search for some way to stop this, he would try to figure out how to save him instead of realize that this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. In short, Dean would not understand.
He rolled over in bed and stared at the darkened wall, and just before he fell asleep once more, the full reality of it hit him.
He was no longer the boy with the demon blood, Lucifer’s vessel on Earth, or the Boy King of Hell. He was the Modern Messiah and, when he died, he was going to give all of the angels their graces and take all them all to Heaven.
( Galiliee)
(coming soon: Basilica)