Angels Cry was originally going to be a one shot. Then, I just couldn't stop writing. So I decided three chapters. But three chapters wasn't enough. Six then. Now it has evolved a ten part story with a partner. In the future, I have more planned for our two lovers than you guys can even guess. Angels Cry can be considered cannon or fannon based on whether or not the series changes it. Thus far, I can easily make it so that it remains cannon.
Here's a more detailed summary: It has only been a short while since Dean's deal came due and Sam is not doing too well. Contrary to the months he spent without him after the trickster killed him early, he is in an endless loop of vodka and tears. In truth, he doesn't feel he has much of a purpose. But he never anticipated what fate had in store for him when an old friend stops in. This would send him on a journey which might not only bring back his heart but give him a reason to keep going.
You might be wondering a bit about the title. I actually changed it to make more sense recently. It is based on the song Angels Cry by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, who gave me inspiration for it to begin with. That song with bits and pieces of Broken by Lifehouse is perfect for this story. Speaking of music...nerd I am, I made playlists for every chapter. Here is this one's:
Take out the space. I purposefully put more songs than you need on there, so that if you don't like one, you can skip it and listen to the other.
Well it is hard to explain
but I'll try if you let me
The vodka burned down his throat, but did little to numb the pain.
Did it ever get any better? Knowing that someone literally died and went to Hell to save you? Would his blood ever come off his hands? Would he ever feel whole again? Or would this empty, hollow feeling just go on and on forever?
Sam could suddenly understand why…he...had been so torn up…after their father died. Watching him deteriorate back then had been hard enough, but knowing that Sam himself was now on a downward spiral worse than his only served to make things worse. For some reason, it was impossible to even think his name; every time Sam tried, he could feel this intense pain in his chest and could hardly think or even breathe.
He took another swig of vodka, taking in every last drop like it was oxygen. He motioned to the bartender to give him more. The bartender eyed him wearily, knowing Sam had already had more than his fill, but by the look on Sam's face, he knew it would not be wise to not comply. He quickly poured Sam some more and left the bottle within arm's length before going back to quietly polishing beer glasses in the corner of the room, his eyes flashing to Sam every so often. It was early for some one to be hitting the counter as much as Sam was. Though he had good reason… There was only one other person in the bar; a big, muscular man with black hair and a scar across his face, quietly nursing a cheap beer and keeping his eyes and thoughts to himself.
Sam knew he couldn't keep doing this. He'd need money soon and wasn't willing to raid his wallet or any of his other possessions. Everything that was his remained untouched in the back seat of the Impala, waiting for his return still. Sam couldn't bear to get rid of any of it. To do so would be to admit defeat, to admit he was really gone. That he was really dead and suffering in Hell forever…
A soft chime rang out behind him as the door opened and the sound of stilettos filled the nearly empty room. Sam didn't turn to gawk, though part of him half expected him to be sitting next to Sam, watching the woman-in-heel's every movement with lust in his eyes.
But Sam couldn't help but hear the bartender's gasp and he instantly knew she had to be a looker. He could almost hear from her footsteps that she was tall, almost six foot. He envisioned a bleach-blonde beach bunny with traces of dark brown roots in a mini skirt, pink heels, and tank top. It was just the kind of girl he would like and Sam could almost hear him getting up to go flirt and hook-up.
He glanced over at the bartender, who was no longer daring to look at him, his eyes on the girl. Sam would have laughed a little if he didn't feel so down. He felt his stomach do a little flip, asking for more vodka. He took a hefty sip, knowing he'd regret it in the morning.
The footsteps were getting closer, almost right behind him now and he could feel his muscles tense up. Although he knew it was unlikely she was here for him, who knew? With all his experiences in the last couple weeks, it wasn't entirely impossible that this girl, who ever it was, could be looking for trouble. And he was trouble, the very definition of the word
So he was totally ready for a fight when the footsteps stopped just behind him. He froze, vodka glass in his hand cracking with the force of his apprehension. His other hand griped his holy water canister, unscrewing the cap subtlety. His heart fluttered a little and he was ready to spin around and get a jump on whoever it was when a sweet yet familiar voice filled the room.
"Sam? Sam Winchester?" He couldn't believe this. He let his body loose, replaced the cap, and put on what he hoped was a friendlier expression to turn and face her. She was exactly how he last remembered her. The same smooth skin. The same shimmering, mildly wavy dark brown hair, hanging freely past her shoulders. The same simple, subtle touches of makeup. Her teeth were even the same shade of white. She had same gorgeous, expressive, big brown eyes complimented with gracefully arching eyebrows. Eyes which went first from being happy and excited to surprised and confused and then concerned and troublesome.
It took him a moment to realize the reasons behind her expression. He'd changed. A lot since she'd last seen him. He could almost see himself in her eyes. His long, unkempt hair hanging in greasy chunks on his head. The dirt and grime turning his face blotchy brown with a few tearstains cutting lines through it. The haunted look in his eyes, carrying massive, blackish bags. The lifeless way he looked at her, even when he was trying to keep from his expression from looking too hurt. He hadn't changed his clothes in forever and he must smell like cheap booze, blood, dirt and vomit. She took a half a step back in surprise before trying to put on a brave face.
"Sarah Blake? Wow…long time no see. You look great." He tried to put some feeling in his words; it was really great to see her. But he just couldn't do it. No matter how he tried, the most he could manage was to keep from sounding like he was on the verge of suicide. She opened her mouth to say something similar, but he cut her off. "You don't have to lie. I know. I've seen better days. Much better, in fact…So what brings you here?" He gave her a tortured half smile.
"I was with my father collecting a few new antiques for our auction. Went out to get lunch when I drove by this bar and I recognized the car. So why are you here? You working?"
He was glad she seemed not to want to press him for the reasons of his current appearance, but he tried to explain it anyway. "Ya," he lied. "I had to dig another one…" Well, that wasn't entirely a lie. He had had to dig one recently…
"So that's the reason for the whole…"
"Ya…" He answered. "Uncomfortably comfortable, remember?" He gave another tortured smile, finding it a bit easier this time. This was the first conversation he'd had that was this long since the last time he'd talked to Bobby, almost five days ago.
She tried to smile back, but was clearly having trouble. He realized she could see there was a greater reason for his appearance but still didn't press it. "I can't deny it. You do look like Hell…" He bit his lip as a twisted expression spread across his face, trying to bear the word used in normal context. It only lasted a moment, but didn't go unnoticed to Sarah. She gave him a slightly concerned glance, as if hoping he'd elaborate. When he remained silent, she changed the subject. That was another reason they got along as well as they did. She wasn't pushy and was very perceptive.
"Well, how bout you go get cleaned and sobered-up a little" here she eyed the vodka bottle. "and we can go out to dinner for old times sake. My treat." She offered
"How long do you have? I'm pretty damn drunk." As if to emphasize this, his last few words slurred so badly, he knew that they sounded like another language. He'd gotten used to alcohol being in his system almost constantly in the last week that usually he could control himself, but he was hammered worse than usual. She let out a laugh and gave him a beaming smile.
"Well, maybe lunch tomorrow, if you're that bad. You have my cell number still?" She asked.
"Probably not. I've lost so many phones this year, I think I've lost just about every contact I had." What he didn't tell her was that a high percentage of them were not only lost but also dead.
She took the seat next to him and took out a napkin and pen from her purse, writing her number down in an elegant script. Sam took a small sip from his cracked glass and she eyed him mischievously. As soon as she finished, she pried the glass from his hand and shoved the napkin in its place. "Here." She set the glass down out of his reach, but her efforts were in vain. Sam simply grabbed the bottle, taking a big, burning gulp.
She gave a deep sigh, realizing if she took that, Sam would raid the counter. Sam chortled a little, giving her the most whole smile he had in months. Since before the year deadline had fully smashed down on him and the day grew ever closer… She smiled right back at him. "So see you tomorrow then?" She asked, getting up.
"Don't go…" He said quietly. She looked at him, her eyes filled with a yearning question but she still didn't press it.
"Fine." She answered, sitting back down. "But if you want me to stay, you have to do something for me." She said, her tone serious but a playful gleam glowing in her eyes.
"Stop hogging the vodka." The bartender, as if on cue, placed a glass in front of her with a sheepish smile. Sam filled her glass to the brim and she drank the whole thing with the best of them. "So what's the story anyway? The ghostee win the fight?"
"Nah, the shovel did." Sarah laughed.
"Oh-ho is that why there's a big glob of dirt in your hair?" She teased.
"What? Where?" Sam said, reaching back to his head to try and find it.
"All over." She gave a wry grin.
He dramatically shook his head, sprinkling her and her drink with thick, wet earth. A few big pieces landed in her glass and she gave a disgusted look. "You are soooo lucky I didn't have any more left. But now I need a new glass, thank you very much." She reached out to the cracked one she'd taken from Sam. There was a little left, but she quickly downed it and smashed it down to the table with a satisfied "ahh."
"I've never seen such an educated girl drink so much hard liquor." He said after she finished her third glass.
"Well, you know, I have quite a few 'educated girl' friends who drink harder stuff than this."
"Really. I'd love to see it sometime."
"Maybe you will. Maybe I'll invite you sometime. I know at least one or two that would match Dean's type. Maybe I could hook him up."
The moment his names left her lips, two things happened. With the release of Dean's name, Sam suddenly could speak and think it clearly. It was no longer just he. The second was that Sam suddenly couldn't breathe. His head went spinning. His throat tightened and sobs raked his body. Sarah hadn't been looking directly at Sam when it started, but the moment she noticed his reaction, she froze. "Sam? Are you okay?"
Sam turned away from her, not wanting her to see him cry. He tried to get up; suddenly he couldn't get out fast enough. He needed fresh air to clear head and stumbled blindly forward, his tears thick and blinding in his eyes. His grip on the bottle lost purchase and it crashed to the floor, shattering into a million pieces. He kept moving, but it was slow going and his lethargic pace coupled with the feel of the room spinning drove him insane. When he tried to go faster, his feet finally betrayed him and he crashed to the floor; his face splitting open from a jagged piece of glass. He tried to get up but there was no way. Not with how many sleepless nights he'd had in a row.
"Sam!" Sarah shouted, by his side in a heartbeat. She rolled him over and he looked up at her, concern evident in her eyes. Sam wanted to turn away. He wanted to stop crying. But all he could do was lie there, hysterical like some silly girl watching a chick flick. He felt weak. He felt vulnerable.
He felt like he wasn't supposed to be here. He wasn't supposed to be in all of this pain. What had he done to deserve this? He had demon blood in him, not his fault. His mother had died before he even knew her, not his fault. His father had been stubborn enough not to just let Dean die. Again, not his fault. Jake had stabbed him and Dean had done as his father had done. Still not his fault. Why did he have to suffer this? Why did he keep loosing people? Why did he have to be some Ant-Christ-Savior? All he and Dean had ever done was try to save people. And what did they have to show for it? Dean was dead and in Hell and Sam was heading there.
Sarah cradled his head, murmuring to him as one would to a small child. She had a panicked look on her face and her expressive eyes were wide with concern. He wondered for a moment if she knew what had happened based on his reaction, though this thought was washed out with misery a second later.
"Oh Sam…I'm sorry…" She whispered softly, her hands running through his greasy hair. He wanted to tell her. He really did. But for some reason all he could do was lie there, motionless save for his tears. He knew he must be a real piece of work now. A fresh glaze of tears to spread the blood from a cut all over his face enough? Not only that, but he was sure by the shoots of pain in random spots of his body that the glass was likely lodged in other spots as well.
He was there for what seemed like ages but was truly mere minutes. He paid no heed to the rushing, frantic bartender or the gasps as a few on lookers slipped in to gawk. All he did was look into her eyes. He lie there, his sobs lightening ever so slightly as she stroked his hair and held him tightly.
They were still like that ten minutes later when the piercing sounds of sirens came into hearing distance. It figured someone had called 911. Probably the freaked-out bartender. He pushed himself out of Sarah's arms, noting for the first time the small crowd gathered around him. He tried to stand, but his legs started to give way before he could get a foot higher. Sarah caught him.
"You haven't told me everything and we both know it." She hissed in his ear. He tried to shrug her off, but she went on "Sam, you're exhausted. You can't just get up like that. Not with all that alcohol you have in your system. And you need to eat something. You've lost at least ten pounds. You aren't getting up any time soon. Not alone anyway." She said, her voice stern as if she was talking to a small child.
"M'okay. Really Sarah." She gave him a look.
"Sam, you've been on the floor, crying for ten minutes. And you weren't exactly yourself before then. There's something you're not telling me. So here's the deal. You want to leave so bad, fine. But if you do, you are going to tell me what happened. If you don't want to, you're just going have to go to the hospital." She left no room for compromise.
"No Sam. You just scared the crap out of me. I deserve an explanation." Sam sighed, biting his lip. He could hear the sirens getting ever closer. "Choose now Sam."
"Fine, fine. Just get me out of here." He half growled to her.
Without another word, she rose, extending a hand down to him. With a little work, he managed to struggle up and get his arm around her and she half supported half dragged him out the door. People watched the two and one dashed ahead and opened the door for him. Sarah gave him an appreciative nod before stepping over the threshold.
Unfortunately, Sam could see the ambulance and a couple squat cars now. Sam moaned and buried his head in her shoulder with a curse. She quickened her pace and before Sam knew it, he was in the passenger seat of the Impala just as the first emergency vehicle turned into the small lot. A burly man stepped out, eying the blood trail leading to the Impala and then Sarah and Sam. He made his way over to the black Chevy.
"Stay here. I have an idea." Sarah whispered rapidly. All Sam could manage was a weak nod. He wasn't going anywhere. Not even if he wanted to. What was he going to do? Drive off wasted and exhausted with a police officer walking toward said car he was driving? He was drunk, not stupid. Run away? Tried that already and last time, all he got was glass in his cheek.
So he settled for watching Sarah talk to the officer. He'd mostly missed most of the first part, his normally sharp ears under the influence. "…Can't really hold his liquor. He's been having a hard time recently and he's been getting really emotional. He ran off and it took me hours to find him. You know how they are…" He was amazed by how well she articulated, even with the vodka in her veins. She seemed almost compltely sober-sounding despite her liquor.
"And you're sure he'll be okay?" The officer asked, glancing into the Impala at Sam.
"Oh ya. Just a little rest and he'll be regretting this in no time." She smiled at him sweetly and he seemed ready to buy it, getting back it the cruiser and signaling to the others that it was all clear.
Sarah got into the driver's seat without making a big deal at all. She simply looked at him and said, "Keys?"
Sam let out a bitter laugh. "What was that?"
"What?" she replied causally.
"You know what. You made it sound like you haven't had so much as a sip of even a light fruit cooler all day. Much less three vodkas."
Sarah shrugged. "Guess I'm just used to it. I mean back when my mom…" She stopped then, obviously starting to see his trigger words when he flinched before she even got out the word died. "Keys?"
"Oh, right…" He muttered, digging in his pocket. He tossed her the keys and just could stop staring as she started up the engine and drove out of the lot.
"So what'd you tell him anyways?" He asked, trying to sound casual.
"That you were my geek brother who lost his favorite possession, that Ghostbusters movie with all the cast's signitures including that flubby little ghost thing, in a card game and had ran off like a little girl."
Sam couldn't help but laugh at that one. "But how did you explain the blood?"
"You're a dork. Clumsy kind of goes with the territory…" She gave him a warm smile. "But in all seriousness, Sam, you're going to need to tell me. But I think I'll let you sleep it off a bit first. You can stay with me as long as you need to."
"I thought your dad was with you." He looked over at her.
"Okay, you caught me. I don't live with my dad anymore. I haven't for about a year now…I live around here now. I also admit it was no coincidence I found you, Sam." She looked at him softly. "I got a phone call."
Sam felt the color drain from his face. "From who?"
"I don't really know. He didn't say who he was. But he said you needed me and told me where you were…"
Sam could feel a chill run down his spine. So now someone was keeping tabs on him? And how did they know about Sarah? He'd known her all of one week. He'd never even told Bobby about that. The only person who knew was…dead…
As if sensing the mood shift, Sarah flicked on the radio. Dead Or Alive stared blaring loud enough to wake up the whole county. Sam could feel his throat get tight again and tears fogged his vision. He should have taken that cassette out a long time ago. But, like the stuff in the back seat, he hadn't dared touch it. Sarah caught the looked and frantically tried to rip the tape out, not wanted him to break down again. She managed it in record time but the damage was already done. She quickly changed it to a slow-pace, unrecognizable song. Only unrecognizable because all Sam could hear was his brother and his own voices singing off key to that song, as they drove down the road in those last, fatal hours.
"I'm not helping, am I? You just can't get away from whatever's going on, can you?" Sam didn't answer.
The rest of the drive was a blur to him. He had no desire to sleep, but it was hard. He knew Sarah meant it to be and he cursed her for it. Between the soothing music, endless drone of the Impala, and the extreme lack of sleep he'd been having, he could scarcely help himself stay awake. When Sarah reached over and started to lightly massage his scalp, that was the final straw. With in a few minutes, Sam went to blink and his eyes never opened afterwards.