Seraphic Radiance
He imagined dean's halo would be bent, covered in the soot of other people's lies…
Now I'm looking up the Bible trying to find a loophole,
Yeah, I'm living for revival dying for a new soul,
Now there's no light to guide me on my,
Way home,
Now there's no time to shine my rusty halo
Secretly, I don't actually enjoy these walks, Sam thought with a certain amount of contempt, scowling at the pavement under his feet, and secretly this is actually for everybody else's sake. After all, what would they say if he suddenly decided the middle of their diner was the perfect place for a mental breakdown? Surely they would disapprove, so yes, taking this time off from everything—it was definitely for everybody else's sake. Because I'm selfless, the words flitting through his mind as he thoroughly ignored how his head's shadow grew a size or two.
Secrets, he thought. If there was any money in it he'd write a book—always wanted to, maybe the title could be How to Hide From Yourself. Or maybe he could just steal from that chick-flick, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, and even when he was being placed on his flaming pyre Sam would deny ever enjoying that movie, especially in Dean's presence. It wouldn't be a novel, though; whatever he would write would be completely nonfiction. A history book on all the wrongs he's ever done, all the times he's fibbed an answer to make somebody happy. Dean would call it a diary, the jackass.
Dean, and he was right back to where he started, thoughts falling into to their normal rhythm of anger at the smallest mention of his elder brother's name. Muttering nonsensical things, Sam kicked childishly at a stone, flicking his glance left and right before jogging across the street and meandering into the soccer field. He'd noticed the place earlier today and figured it would be nice to hide in; wide open so he could still watch his own back, but far enough away from their shitty-hotel-of-the-week that Dean wouldn't find him.
Sam had tried telling himself that he'd never expected the fight, and that it was an unfair argument that he'd never meant to start, but that was a lie too. He had known that suggesting he go back again and try to fix everything RoboSam had done wrong would cause uproar, especially after that whole seizure incident. How had Dean put it? 'It was like watching you dance with Sally that time in fifth grade, only that time you were actually trying, I think'. That had been a while ago though; Sam had laughed, even pretending he didn't see the red lines around his brother's eyes that belied his attempt at jokes. But Sam, being all soulful now, just had to go and try again. I'll never get why they still call me the smart one, and a self-deprecating sneer grew on his lips. The fact was that Sam had found this field just in case something like this would happen; in case, of course, they had a huge blow up in the middle of a worthless shanty trying to pass off burnt rubber as pancakes. Dean hadn't even ordered pie, and that alone spoke volumes about the place.
Ignoring the ache that had just settled in his head—probably an oncoming migraine, because that was exactly how this day was going—Sam propped his back up against an oak tree and closed his eyes against the midday sun, wondering how long Dean would need to cool down this time. Most likely he would be pissed for a considerable amount of time, a few hours at least, and if Sam really thought about it, which he had done, then Dean did have all the right in the world to be angry. After all, Sam had lied again—and that, 'again', was clearly the key word in that statement.
"You're not even one hundred percent from your last fainting spell, princess, and you wanna go back and try again? Didn't think you fell right last time? 'Cause let me tell ya, your acting career went out the door a long time ago, Sam."
"I'm fine."
Right, of course he was fine, because Sam had always thought that if he could get a perfect score on the eleventh grade pre-SATs then he could certainly rewrite the definition of 'fine.' Fine was the dull pulsating behind his eyes he got every time the sun was just a tad too bright, or perhaps that twitching his pinky did every so often that he'd tried to ignore, because most of the time when he ignored his problems they went away, as past record would surely show. Surely.
Of course he was fine; he was fine like an epileptic watching fireworks. Absolutely fine, and he had definitely not lied to Dean. Again.
As he thought about it more, Sam realized that earning back Dean's trust from this latest explosion would be quite the daunting task, and staying out of his brother's sight for extended periods of time probably wasn't helping matters at all. With a long-suffering sigh he heaved his body up, glaring in the general direction of the motel before trudging towards it, grumbling under his breath the whole way. The sun was setting by now; he didn't know how long he'd sat in that same spot, lost in memories that felt oddly nostalgic despite their freshness.
Sam arrived at the motel to find Dean waiting for him, sitting expectantly in front of the motel door with a beer held in both hands. The younger brother stopped for a minute to study his sibling, a contemplative look on his face. Dean's countenance, from the best Sam could tell at this distance, looked stretched with simmered anger, though a touch of big-brother-worry-lines also ran across his forehead. There was an abnormal cast to his shadow as the light formed a peculiar backdrop for his brother, and Sam couldn't help but wonder about Heaven.
Equating Dean with an angel was an anomalous notion even on the best of Sam's days, and yet there the thought was, flitting through his conscious and twirling around in a constantly morphing dance. The first image was actually humorous: Dean with white, feathery wings standing on clouds, adorned in a white dress. Kilt, Sam corrected on impulse, smirking at the possibility of his sibling's fit at the mere idea of Dean ever wearing a dress. The next picture was a little more tolerable, a brief one of Dean in a white suit—and he ignored the fact that Dean had said Lucifer had supposedly worn the same thing in that twisted future—standing next to Castiel, a smile on his face. And that was the thing, though, wasn't it? Because when Dean smiled Sam was sure he saw the hints of something celestial about him, even though the analytical side of his mind insisted it was just Sam putting his big brother, his hero, on that pedestal Dean would adamantly deny ever deserving.
If any part of the whole idea stuck with Sam, it was the circle that would have to be floating above Dean's head. His halo, and being Dean, Sam was sure it wouldn't be normal. He imagined Dean's halo would be bent, covered in the soot of other people's lies and the blood of prematurely lost innocence; he was also sure the light it emitted would be akin to radiance, purifying in the unforgiving manner of fire. That would certainly be fitting for Dean; hell, Sam figured fire could embody any true big brother, especially given the situations these two constantly found themselves in.
It's weird, Sam thought as he soundlessly walked toward Dean, I remember his best attributes at the worst of times. Then again, maybe it wasn't so weird; maybe that was God's plan on saving him, if the Big Man had ever intended to—yet those were thoughts for another day, and they were easily pushed away as he spotted the look of pure relief that crossed Dean's face for the briefest of moments as Sam sat down next to him. Wordlessly Sam pushed his shoulder against his brother's, the closest to an "I'm sorry" he'd be able to get out tonight. Dean slapped his shoulder once, a slight berate for being gone so long, before cupping the back of Sam's neck, "Forgotten."
And Sam did his best to ignore what he thought might be a lick of fire from Dean's palm.
Everyone's running from something
But we don't know when it's coming
So we keep running and running
Rusty Halo – The Script