Hi guys! It's been a while!

I have plenty of half finished stories waiting for me, but after that awesome finale, I just had to write this. Lyrics are from 'the wall' by Kansas.


I'm woven in a fantasy

Can't believe the things I see

The path that I have chosen now has led me to a wall.

And with each passing day I feel a little more

like something dear was lost.

Rising up before me

Dark and silent barrier between…

The elderly priest looked up in surprise when the door of the small church creaked open. A young man walked in and carefully closed the door behind him. He was very tall and muscular, his shoulders hunched to hide some of his bulk.

The priest stood up. "Mass is over, son."

"I know," said the man hoarsely. "I just came to pray."

The priest looked at his face. It was young and handsome, but wise beyond it's years. The young man's eyes looked deeply sad and tired. The priest had seen that look before. In a veteran of some pointless war. A boy who had seem more than many an old man.

"Of course," said the priest. "Take all the time you need."

"Thank you father," the young man walked towards the front of the church and sat down in one of the pews.

The priest quietly moved around the familiar space, clearing up after mass. The young man barely moved. A few times, the priest caught him looking up at the painting if the final judgement, apparently lost in thought.

When the priest emerged from his office a few hours later, the young man was still sitting there. His head was bowed and his hands were resting loosely in his lap. He looked to be asleep, except for the slight shaking of his shoulders. The priest walked towards him and cleared his throat. "Son?"

There was no answer. The young man didn't move.

The priest kneeled down on the floor beside him and gently touched his shoulder. "Son, are you alright?"

"Yes, Father," he whispered hoarsely. There were traces of dried tears on his face.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" said the priest. "Maybe I can help."

"Have you seen evil?" whispered the young man. "True evil? I have."

The priest didn't say anything. He just stared at the young-but-old face, the tired eyes filled with grief..

"I felt it. And you know what?" He closed his eyes and hunched over a little more. "He wasn't evil at all. He was just hurt and angry. Like me." He raised his head a little, his eyes still closed. "I have done terrible things, Father," he whispered. "I deserved what I got. Why was I saved?"

The priest moved at little closer and squeezed the young man's shoulder. "What is your name son?"

"Sam." It was barely a whisper. A tear rolled down from under his dark eyelashes.

"Well, Sam. I don't know what happened to you, but I do know that there is no sin so bad that it cannot be forgiven. Anyone can be saved."

"Not me," Sam whispered.

He absentmindedly picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. A dark stain slowly seeped through the fabric.

"You're bleeding," said the priest.

He reached out to grab the young man's hand, but to his surprise Sam pulled away.

"It's nothing," he said softly. "I should go."

He straightened up and grew even paler than before. All colour drained from his face. The priest immediately put an arm around his shoulder. "Sam? Take it easy son. Just breathe for a second."

Sam drew a harsh breath, his eyes squeezed shut. The priest could feel him trembling a little. He stood up from his awkward position on the floor and sat down on the edge of the pew, pulling Sam a little closer. "Just take it easy," he whispered. Sam was trembling under his hands, shivering like he was cold to the bone.

"Do you think you can walk if I help you?"

Sam gripped the pew in front of him so tightly the priest feared the wood would splinter under his hands. "Only one way to find out," he whispered.

The priest pulled the young man's arm across his shoulders and helped him stand up. He could tell Sam was trying to take as much of his own weight as he could, but he was still heavy. The priest held him tightly as they slowly made their way through the church to the small office in the back. He could feel how thin the young man was under his many layers of clothes. He was running on fumes, weary to the bone.

The priest kicked the door to the office open with his foot and led Sam to the old sofa in the corner.

"Sit," he said sternly. "Don't move until I get back."

Sam leaned back on the creaky old sofa, the shadows under his eyes even more pronounced in the pale fluorescent light.

The priest ran to the small bathroom and returned as quickly as he could with a glass of water and a large first-aid kit. Sam was still on the sofa, his eyes closed. Blood was steadily seeping through his shirt, soaking his right sleeve from the elbow down.

The priest shook his shoulder.

"Stay awake, son. Drink this."

Sam unsteadily reached for the glass, his hand trembling uncontrollably. The priest gently supported his hand and helped him guide the glass to his mouth.

"Not too fast," he warned. "Easy does it."

The lack of response was really starting to worry him. When he was sure Sam had a tight hold o the glass, he clicked open the first-aid kit and grabbed a pair of scissors. With agile fingers, he cut through the sleeve of Sam's shirt and the blood-soaked bandages underneath.

What he saw made his hands freeze for a second. A rough and jagged cut ran all the way from Sam's wrist to his elbow. It looked like someone or something had tried to rip the skin clean off his bones.

It wasn't the torn skin that made him feel slightly nauseous. Nor the teeth marks in the crook of his elbow. It were the heavy and rough stitches holding the flesh together. If he didn't know any better he thought Sam had sewn himself back up.

"This looks bad," he said. "Maybe you should…"

"No," Sam said quietly. "I've had worse, trust me. It will be fine."

"A hospital might be a good idea, if only for a blood transfusion."


A long silence fell. The priest wrapped up the wound to the best of his abilities, but he knew the cut was probably the least of Sam's worries. His scars ran deeper than his skin. He could only wonder what had left a man so young so utterly without hope.

"Is there someone I can call for you?" he said. "Someone who can come and pick you up?"

Sam stared at the wall, a look of longing in his eyes. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "No, there is nobody." His voice broke on the last word.

"Then maybe you should stay here for a while."

He shook his head. "No. Thank you Father, but no."

"It's your choice of course, but I just don't think it you should be alone right now."

Sam smiled ruefully. "I've been alone for a long time, Father. And I intent to keep it that way."

The priest looked up at his face. "You can't mean that, son."

"Yes I do. For everybody's sake." Sam looked away. "I have done terrible things, Father. Especially to the people I love. They all think I'm dead and they are never going to find out that I'm not. No matter how much I want to, I can never go back to them."

"Like I said, there is no sin so bad that it cannot be forgiven," whispered the priest.

Sam shook his head, a stubborn expression on his face. "Not in my experience."

The priest fastened the bandage and stood up. This was an argument he wasn't going to win. Though he wanted to help the poor man, he knew it wasn't in his power to do anything. On his little sofa was a boy with a broken soul. It would take a lot more than some wise words to mend it.

"I'll get you some blankets," he said softly. "You should get some rest."

"Thank you, Father," Sam whispered.

When the priest returned to the office, the sofa was empty. The first-aid kit rested on the table, beside the empty glass. There was no sign Sam had ever been there. The priest would never see him again, but that haunted and empty look would stay with him for the rest of his life.

A few day later, many miles away, Dean Winchester's phone rang.