The whistle of the wind was quiet outside, accentuated with the occasional rattle of the double doors from the force of the gusts and humming in tandem with the beating, heavy thrum of rain.

The soft flicker of candle flame was the only other sound. The soft flicker of candle flame, and the hollow, shaky breaths of a man choked with sorrow, wrought with fear, broken deep to his very soul.

He exhaled carefully, the air parting from his thinned, pursed lips in a faint cloud of fog. He watched it dissipate, distracting himself with another breath as he tried to steady the same—to fortify himself for his purpose here, lest his nerve fail and his throat constrict hopelessly into a knot of tears.

He'd managed a dozen breaths, each further from the last, before he bit his lip in scolding at the excuse for delay, for avoidance.

Still, his tongue didn't know the words to say, his mind refusing to entertain their formation.

His fists clenched pale in his fruitless struggle, though he only realized it once his nails had born gouges into his palms. He flexed his fingers and placed his hands flat on his knees, curling over further so as to minimize the space he wasted. His hair, damp from the rain, hung over his eyes, cold strands plastering his forehead. The water, as chilled as frost, dripped from his skin, beading almost like sweat across the pale man's face. Another shiver wracked his body, futile against the drenched clothes imprisoning it.

They were just words, and they'd been on his lips a thousand times before—they'd become so familiar that, at one point, they'd even left his tongue as a mere reflex, an automatic step in the sequence of the day. They surely meant nothing, then, when words were all they were. Even then, he didn't know how to say them, and he knew they must be wrong, but he said them anyway. Sometimes they helped, and sometimes he wasn't sure how far they reached.

Now, he still didn't know how to say them. And he didn't know if they'd help—though he wasn't sure help was even what he sought. And he didn't know how far they'd reach. Or which direction they'd go.

Another shudder tore through his body, and he twisted his head away. The wind battered hard against the doors, chastising his cowardice. He controlled a slow breath, a single, timidly long exhale, and then held it and forbade a single more. His next would bear the words he couldn't form, or his face would fade blue, and his body would slump to the ground until his unconscious brain demanded his lungs carry on his suffering.

"I'm sorry." The tears escaped his eyes as the words fought their way from his throat. His body sank lower, his head bowing inches from the floor. His voice thinned and weakened impossibly further, "God, I'm sorry."

He couldn't force another syllable—to do so would be akin to swinging wide the doors behind him, to irreparably invite in the torrent outside. But his burden wasn't lifted yet—five words, two an echo, weren't enough to free the weight. They weren't enough to satisfy the strain in his heart, his soul.

His face twisted with the effort, eyes sealed shut.

Perhaps it was for the words had proven reliable, or maybe it was because he had no others to offer that he repeated, "I'm sorry."

He wasn't certain how many times he'd managed to repeat it, nor how long it took to recover the strength to part his lips each time the words faded from them.

"Excuse me."

His words required thought and a demand of resolve. The two spoken behind him were free and easy, light, soft. Not careless, but perhaps delayed with only a heartbeat's consideration. They were jarring and unexpected and made him snap around in a flinch.

"I'm sorry," the man repeated the words that littered the air, but his might as well have been spoken in another language for all the weight they shared with the former. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He blinked to try to clear his eyes, wiping their corners with the side of his hands, as if that would undo the streaks of tears that had painted his face.

"Is it okay if I join you?"

He trained his eyes to focus on the man before him once he'd managed to restrain the itch of his muscles to flee. Short, portly, salt and pepper hair with a stubble beard to match. A few thin wrinkles easing their way onto his face. His button-up shirt was patterned with tiny pink flowers—ugly, innocent, carefree. A soft smile brightened his face, revealing a crooked tooth and gentle, compassion-filled eyes edged with crow's feet.

It took a moment for him to register he'd been asked a question. Before he'd even deduced what it was, he nodded in answer out of instinct.

"I'm Tom Brooks," he slowly lowered himself to the ground, close, but still allowing space—enough so they wouldn't accidentally brush against one another. "I'm one of the pastors here."

"Sam," he offered softly in reply—it was owed, given the extension of care, respect, the trust in the provision of his own name.

"A pleasure." Tom folded his legs, his head focused forward—perhaps to spare Sam's scarlet face and swollen eyes from scrutiny.

Sam couldn't help but tense at the nearness as he resisted the reflex in vain.

"I never liked the rain." The pastor didn't shift his gaze as he spoke, staring up at the large, simple wooden cross suspended on the wall ahead. As if taking offense, the heavy patter of rain seemed to intensify its assault on the glass windows. "Though maybe it's 'cause I used to live in Washington," he chuckled softly, then breathed a sigh, "There'd be days I almost forgot what the sun looked like. Or wondered if it was even still there, behind those dark clouds."

Sam's gaze flicked over the pastor, an apparent invitation to allow Tom to do the same. His gentle smile seemed sincere as he asked, "Do you need some dry clothes, Sam? We've got some old VBS T-shirts in some boxes in the office I've been meaning to get rid of."

The Winchester shook his head. He knew he should strip off his soaked flannel—its presence was now only detrimental to any hopes of warmth—but he wouldn't.

"You sure? I don't want you freezing on me." When Sam didn't change his mind, the pastor added, "Sorry about the temperature. Our heater's busted—again. We got a couple space heaters last year after it broke down, but we gave 'em away to families with heater problems of their own when ours was fixed." He glanced over Sam again, over his wet hair and shivering form. "At least let me get you a towel."

Again, Sam didn't respond. This time, however, his silence seemed permission enough for the pastor to stand and move to one of the single doors along the sides of the church walls. He disappeared inside, and the thought of vanishing into the cold torrent wavered through Sam's mind.

But his legs didn't move. Maybe he'd been kneeling so long they'd turned to stone.

Before he could coax his muscles to move, the pastor reappeared with a couple white towels rolled in his hands, and he extended them to Sam with another gracious smile.

Sam stretched out a hand to accept, but he winced as his mind seized against the thought of something so clean touching his skin, at the idea of contaminating one more pure thing with his filthy contact. The pastor's smile faltered for a second, and Sam swallowed the lump in his throat and wrapped his fingers around the towel, the gift of care extended that would be rude to refuse for the sake of a surely irrational, though deep-rooted, dread.

Gingerly, he unrolled the towel and tried to pretend the pastor wasn't watching him from the corner of his eyes while he draped the soft cotton over his head and worked the icy water from his hair. It made him realize how long it had gotten, how tangled and unkempt. He dragged the towel over his face, over the scraggly beard he'd inadvertently begun growing. He supposed it shouldn't have been a surprise, but he hadn't dared glance at his reflection in… he wasn't sure how long it'd been. That his brother hadn't commented—neither in the form of a playful tease nor a quiet check-in—perhaps should've been the greater shock. Or maybe he should've expected that too.

"Do you want something to eat?" Tom offered, still standing, looming, making Sam's hair stand on end.

He shook his head again, though he contemplated answering in the affirmative just for another chance to convince his legs they could leave. He knew why the pastor couldn't spare the question, though. Sam had lost what his brother seemed to think was half his weight, and with the way his drenched clothes clung to his body, there was no concealing it.

He tried not to look up at the pastor and instead focused on drying his hands—they were paler than snow and less steady than leaves in a hurricane. He dabbed at his wrists, but he was careful not to allow his sleeves to ride up, opting instead to pat down the flannel with the damp towel.

The pastor waited, then released a quiet, careful breath, "Would you like me to sit with you, or would you like some space?"

Sam didn't reply—he didn't know what to say. He didn't know the answer.

Another pause, then in a gentle voice, "I'll be in the office, just through that door there, if you need anything."

The man began to depart, and panic again seized Sam's mind. The words escaped his throat in a hoarse, hasty plea, "I don't know what to say."

Tom mirrored Sam's former silence for a moment, contemplating, before he knelt beside him once more.

"The nice thing about God is," the pastor settled beside him, offering a tender smile as he evidently deduced Sam's meaning, "You don't have to."

"I used to do this every day," Sam's voice barely rose above a whisper, but even the fragile sound exacted a heavy toll. He wasn't entirely certain what compelled his speech—perhaps his desperation and torment had overwhelmed him so hopelessly that he couldn't dare waive a chance at some semblance of resolution, however slight. Perhaps he just felt an explanation was owed to the kindness of this man, so the pastor wouldn't turn restlessly in his bed that night, wondering how he'd failed the cold, broken man in his church. He supposed it didn't truly matter why, for he'd already begun. "And then, things happened, and when my brother…" he tried to steady his quivering voice with a breath, "I didn't, anymore."

Tom tilted his head, "What changed?"

Sam's reply was a feeble, pained smile—a brittle defense to bar his face from succumbing to the raw terror and misery. When he was more than half certain he wouldn't collapse into tears from the mere sound of his own words, he hazarded dropping the mask and responded carefully, "I, uh…" his throat tightened in a threat, "I ended up in a… bad place." It felt like a cheap lie, so he revised, "A really, really bad place." A silent tear defied him, but he kept his head bowed, unmoving, so the pastor might not notice, "And I started praying again. Whenever I could. And sometimes he'd—" Sam cut himself off immediately, his body going still, freezing down to his lungs. His eyes glazed, and it felt as though his body had surrendered its heat as the cold sank abruptly to his bones.

After a few beats of silence, the pastor asked, "Who's he?"

He couldn't let the cold go deeper, he couldn't feel it, he couldn't start sliding backwards—not here, not now. If he did, he knew he was gone.

"It doesn't matter," Sam whispered the lie. He was out, and he was safe. It had to be true, because it played on a loop inside his skull for almost every minute of every day now—something his brother had engrained with no small effort. He resumed a shaky breath. If he plowed forward, if he didn't stop, maybe he'd survive it.

"I prayed. For it to end. For years, I prayed." For decades. For centuries. He couldn't be sure how long he begged. "And it didn't." It didn't end. It never ended and it never would. "I don't know when I stopped praying, then. But I did." A long, long time ago. Because it was futile? Because he wasn't sure if anyone heard or cared? Because it only earned him more suffering? Because he'd never, ever escape it, and it was pointless and only more painful to want to? "And then one day… I was out."

The pastor was quiet, patient. It might as well have been a prompt to proceed.

"And now…" Sam stared at his hands, which had retained their tremor, "I prayed for so long to get out, and now…"

The pause must have lasted too long, this time. "And now what?" The pastor asked gently.

"I don't know." Sam shook his head, "All I can think about is that place." Him. "And that… that I deserve it." His voice tightened with an edge of anger and swarm of pain. "That I didn't deserve to leave."

"Why do you think that?"

Sam couldn't shift his gaze, not a millimeter. "I've done things… bad things." He could almost taste Tom's skepticism in the icy air. Several more tears escaped in rivulets down his cheeks. "The things I did, the choices I made… thousands of people died because of me." His eyes flicked up on their own, hungry for the promised condemnation. But they were only met with confusion and compassion—a fancy word for pity.

But of course Tom wouldn't grasp the gravity of Sam's sins—he couldn't possibly know. Most likely, he thought Sam was merely psychotic. Maybe he thought Sam was some big decision-maker, who sold an addictive drug or approved an unsafe product. It surely never would've crossed Tom's mind that Sam was the vessel of Satan himself, the demon-blooded abomination built so the Devil could walk the Earth in flesh. That he'd freed Lucifer and launched the Apocalypse, and in the process sentenced so many innocents to die pointlessly.

"And you think that means you deserve to go back to this bad place?" The pastor replied in the same, soft, steady tone, apparently willing to entertain Sam's account despite his own assured doubt.

"I was there for a reason," Sam forced out, trying not to feel the ice on his cheeks. He wasn't sure he could make the pastor understand. Not even Dean could understand, not completely. Because he didn't know what had happened in the Cage. And Sam prayed beyond hope that he never would. His gaze would surely never fall the same way upon Sam again. He shook his head faintly, repeating, "I've done things."

Tom was silent, and Sam waited for his judgment, as if it might all finally click and Tom would see the monster before him. The rain carried on its relentless cadence outside—it already knew of Sam's sins; it knew what he was and where he should be.

"You've done things," Tom agreed, at least for the sake of it. "It sounds like you've got a lot on your shoulders, Sam."

Sam's jaw tightened as it worked over the words he couldn't say. A part of him wanted to confess his wretchedness, to carve out the things he'd done—the things he'd felt—in the blood of his soul, to lay them out and welcome righteous penance.

"In this bad place… did someone hurt you?" Tom asked softly, cautiously, like tiptoeing across paper-thin glass.

"It wasn't like that." Sam's words were quick and harsher than before. He could read the pastor's misunderstanding in the pity on his face. He didn't deserve pity, he deserved judgment and disgust and wrath.

"Okay," the pastor glanced over Sam, who kept his gaze trained down at his hands. "Because if someone was, I would tell you that's not your fault. And that I don't believe you deserve that."

"You don't know me," Sam whispered, his resolve thinning with his voice. The pastor's words echoed a familiar refrain, the ones he'd heard over and over upon his brother's and best friend's lips. The ones that battered against his skull but couldn't seem to needle beneath the centuries of his words, the words of the one who wouldn't lie, "You don't know what I…"

"You're right," Tom acquiesced again, after a long stretch of silence, "I don't know you. But I do know that everyone makes mistakes and does things they regret. But I believe in forgiveness. And I don't think you should go back to this place, Sam."

Sam didn't reply. It wasn't as simple as that, anyway. Still, he wanted to believe it.

"Would you mind if I pray for you?" The pastor tried to meet Sam's gaze this time—a task that took effort.

Sam paused, contemplating the proposition and its risks, then slowly shook his head in consent.

The pastor began to stretch a hand out toward Sam's shoulder as though he meant to clasp it whilst he bowed his head. Yet, when Sam instinctively pulled away from the contact, the pastor immediately withdrew and knitted his hands before him, his movements quick, almost sheepish, apologetic.

Tom inhaled through parsed lips, then began quietly, "Father, You know the burden that Sam carries. And You also know his heart, because nothing is hidden from Your sight." Sam couldn't help the tremor that raced through his body. "God, please grant Sam peace. Let him find Your forgiveness and allow him to rest in You. Please… let him accept Your peace." The pastor repeated softly, eyes still and closed. "Let Your will be done."

The pastor cleared his throat as he straightened, though Sam didn't move. His gaze was fixed upon his folded hands as thought it was glued there.

Peace. Sam didn't think he deserved such a treasure. In absence of returning to the place where fractions of his soul were forever smeared across the runed bars, it hardly seemed fair for him to even seek the mere hope of peace. But still… his heart flickered like the candle flame before him at the thought.

He closed his eyes. Peace. He'd thought he'd reached it, impossibly, in that toiling pit of hell. Long after he'd stopped praying for liberation. When he'd stopped wanting it. But maybe that was mere… acceptance. Perhaps he had found it, though—perhaps it was the silent stillness of nothing when his misshapen body surrendered to its wounds, awaiting his soul's accursed revival.

Peace. He wondered what it tasted like, how it would weave into the gouges of his soul. Was it warm, like fire on his flesh? He couldn't remember. He wondered if it was real or fantasy.

He stared upward, back toward the simple cross on the wall, then gritted his teeth. He didn't think he deserved it, despite his family's insistence otherwise, but… maybe that didn't matter, anymore. He'd gotten out. He was alive. Maybe that had to mean something.

His voice was quieter than a breath, softer than the formation of morning dew. "Amen."

"Do you have somewhere to stay tonight, Sam?" Tom asked gently, "You're more than welcome to stay with my family. We've got a spare bedroom. You'd have a warm meal, a hot shower."

Sam smiled weakly, then shook his head. The offer was sweet, but he wouldn't dare further take advantage of the man's ignorance even if he hadn't a place to stay. "My brother's waiting for me; I'm fine." Dean had almost certainly noticed Sam's absence by now, and his panic—though encased in choler—would surely ensue shortly after. It was unnecessary, but the reaction was probably earned, after everything. Sam should get back, spare Dean needless worry. "I should probably go."

Tom cast a careful glance over Sam, searching. Sam wondered whether Tom might be questioning if Dean was the he that had ruined Sam—questioning what exactly Sam would be returning to.

"Here," the pastor proffered a small white card from his pocket, "It has my number. If you ever need anything, or if you want to talk." He waved a hand to gesture around the building, "And I'll be around here too, of course. You're welcome to come and stay as long as you want."

"Thank you, Pastor." Sam nodded with a tight-lipped smile, slipping the card into his pocket. He pushed himself to his feet, his muscles protesting in rigid ache. His legs almost gave way to his collapse, but he managed to steady himself with a hand on the altar, straightening and waiting for blood to reach his frozen limbs before he began to start toward the double doors.

"Take care of yourself, Sam," Tom raised a hand in farewell, moving back towards his office with the occasional backwards glance to monitor Sam's departure.

Sam's only reply was a soft smile. The torrent outside raged on, indifferent to the cold exhaustion of those inside and callous to their quiet yearning for a mere glimpse of golden sunlight. But it didn't matter. He hadn't expected it to cease, though it had already waged war for hours. It would end. It might be minutes, it might be hours, it might be days—weeks, years. It would end. Because that's what storms did. It would end, and then, maybe, there would be peace. He measured a quiet inhale as he grasped the cold, metal handle, and he disappeared into the dark, icy rain.