sam's arrival [open]

[ginormotron]

The angels are falling. There’s a stinging wash over Sam’s eyes that makes him squint, and the light of their burning grace hurts to watch. It hurts even when he closes his eyes, something in him that’s still, whatever, resonating, and he can feel it somewhere deep under his diaphragm, like someone’s stuck their hand in and is tearing. The angels are falling, and it hurts. His skin feels too tight, hypersensitive with the fever he’s had for weeks, and the angels are falling, and Crowley’s chained up to a chair in that church half-cured, and they’ve failed. Sam’s failed, again.

The wet gravel is cold under his ass, and he can do nothing but huddle into Dean’s side and stare up at the sky, tears leaking hot from his eyes. He feels young and stupid, and he hates Dean for being right again, even as some part of him wishes that he could be eight years old again and cry into his brother’s shoulder and not feel like he doesn't deserve it. Somewhere nearby, the ground shakes with impact, and Sam convulses, and blacks out.

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