p r o p h e t i c | {open to mutuals}
“ Can you hear his singing like me ? “
He’s tired of it. He hates the covers of the eighties rock hits, hates the opera, hates the trashy pop songs. He’s starting to hate the sound of his voice, starting to hate how he can always, always hear a n g e l s o n g in the back of his head.
He’s communicating with you, Sam. Giving you messages, giving you signs, you should listen to him, the priest said. Winchester was too scared shitless to say it wasn’t just any angel singing to him, but one with icefire breath and fingers that raked scalding frostbite scars over Sam’s back. Listen to him. Let him in.
He’s overstayed his welcome. He’s been living in Winchester’s head too long. Whoever opened the conduit between Hell and Earth and left the door in his fucking brain deserved to hear Don’t Fear the Reaper over and over for twenty days in a row.
There are some days when he’s so tired. So exhausted. He can’t even open his eyes, and the simple act of breathing seems to take the same amount of effort as climbing a mountain, and he lets himself fall back. Those days are the ones where he watches, passive, a c a p t i v e in his own mind, watching an angel puppeteer his body and bend it to his hellish Divine Will. The first happened on his twelfth birthday, when it was just him and Dean and Sam’s body ended up reenacting shitty classic movie scenes all day. Since then, it’s been happening more. When Sam was fourteen and in a coma because he overdosed on vicodin to silence the music in his head, the angel hissed through his teeth, smiled with his lips, and watched with his eyes, and scared the shit out of poor Dean.
He won’t let today be another one of those days. He’s sitting up in bed, curled up, arms holding his knees to his chest. As long as he has control over his own body, that’s enough for him. That’s success.
The motel room is empty, but not silent. He’s singing. It’s Italian opera today, loud and proud and aggravating. Sam thinks he’s growing gray hairs.
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