Our Father, Who Art in Heaven
By O'MalleytheAlleyCat
He made sure it was quiet first. He needed the quiet to fill him, surround him, become a part of him. His mind was always screaming, and the noise was too much, so quiet was the first thing he found. Sometimes this was outside the motel room, silence around him, his ears able to throw away the crickets, the drunks and late night goers, the traffic. Quiet was a place.
Then, he needed space, just enough to kneel, just enough to be in supplication, just enough to clasp his hands and tilt his head down. It was easier when he was a teenager, Dean bleeding in the motel room, his father's hands guiding his brother to the safe embrace of sleep after stitching him up. Sam could slip into the back of the Impala, his brother's cries of pain ringing in his ears like the after effects of an explosion; the chilling thought of if this was the end of the road and the unbearable start of a tombstone garden made up of the Winchester names. He would kneel on the floorboards and clasp bloodied hands together, hands that were trembling so badly he could barely thread his fingers together. Tilting his head down was easy then, stopping the tears not so much.
The last thing he needed was a threadbare yet invaluable item, it cost him sweat and blood and tears and still, after suffering everything he wouldn't always find it. Often times he still didn't feel like he deserved to have the faith he fought for, it was such a difficult thing to earn.
Once he thought it was necessary to be worthy, but eventually he became too desperate. So unworthy he found his quiet, unworthy he knelt, unworthy he tilted his head down and unworthy he fought for faith.
He kept it short, afraid that if it was too long that anyone listening, if anyone was listening, would grow tired of Sam Winchester's pleas. When he was young, he prayed for safety, he just wanted to be safe, to not be so afraid for his family and for his brother and for himself. Fear embraced and surrounded him and he just needed it to be different. His prayer was answered by his father kicking him out, by his brother never talking to him, by attempting to survive on his own in a strange place. It was answered with a fragile, painful hope for a bright future.
Later, he prayed for the pain to fade, for everything to just not hurt so much that he could barely breathe and barely function, he prayed that his brother's strength would carry him on. His prayer was answered with his father's death, with his own death, with his brother's deal. It was answered with determination to change the future.
Then he prayed for Dean, to keep Dean, no matter the cost, no matter the fear and no matter the pain. His prayer was answered with Dean gone, dead, lost in Hell. It was answered with despair of a future alone.
Later he prayed for strength, because that was all he needed, strength to avenge and take back everything the pain and fear had stolen away. His prayer was answered by a distant brother, by being told he was an abomination, by falling in lust and addiction. It was answered with knowing that there was no future, not for him.
He stopped praying when he was sure he was a monster. He would still find a quiet place, he would still kneel, he would still tilt his head and he would still scramble about in attempts to find some faith. But he didn't pray, he just let the old worn actions pull him into hoping someone had once listened, even if they couldn't anymore.
So, body bruised, spirit more so, he stepped out of the motel room. Dean's charm was clasped in his hand, the small metal joinings poking out of the side of his fist. It was a cloudless night and the sky was swollen with stars. Sam walked with his head bent, moving past the Impala to a small stretch of dirt at the side of the parking lot where a few close but lone pine trees stood. He collapsed to his knees on the pine needle carpet, took in a deep breath smelling cigarette smoke and the stiff bracing scent of the naturally produced terpenes.
He clasped his hands, necklace held at the center. He bowed his head. Then he searched for some microscopic indication that Faith, battered and bruised little bird it was, still resided in him. Somehow, against all odds he found it, nested alongside its ever weary companion of Hope. They perched on one thing, the once impervious object that was symbolized by the little piece of bronze in his palms. He ran his forefinger up and down the back of his hand, from the knuckle to the start of his wrist, keeping his mouth from opening to spill out words.
Sam didn't pray, a monster didn't pray. But Hope let out a weak whistle, which though quiet was high and clear. Faith followed and Sam set his chin to his collar bone, chest contracting and expanding at the seemingly endless despair contended by what seemed such fragile things.
Someday, he almost whispered to God, he would find a way. He'd prove the imperviousness of the greatest object he'd ever shared. He had Hope that it would, Faith that it was. Tears streamed down his face.
Minutes passed and he unclasped his hands, lifted his head and stood up with knees cracking. He brushed the dirt from his pants and made his way back to the motel room. Stepping inside he was greeted with curt silence from his brother. Anger simmered there.
Laying down he felt the weight, temporarily lifted, retain its place upon his shoulders, borne only by the two weak things that fluttered in his chest.