Blood of the Lamb

Chapter 1: Sam can't sleep

Sam can't sleep. Dean is snoring, dead to the world and Sam can't even close his eyes for the feeling something needs doing. Urgently. For the life of him he doesn't know what. There's nothing abnormal in the room. He casts his eyes around it making double sure. It's familiar in its drab décor, pretty much like every other motel or motor lodge they'd ever laid their heads. He pulls himself up and swings his leg over the bed, thinking he might as well make use of this insomnia to get some work done. It's the old itch, bury yourself in saving people. It's a distraction but it's also so much more. It's a guilty soul crying for penance, a blind child working towards uncertain repentance.

He opens the dresser drawer, meaning to grab his laptop but there's something beside it pulling him up short. The standard issue motel bible. He slips his hands under it, cradling it like a baby's head and switches the bedside lamp on. He remembers all of those times in past motel rooms, when there was no TV and nothing else to do. Dean would read him Bible stories. Hell, he practically learned to read from these things. He knew how to spell "Messiah" before his own last name. This too was familiar but different. Tonight, somehow, it was different. Somehow it was meant for him. The itch was muted a little as he cracked it open, laying it out in cupped hands. It fell open to Psalms. His fingers flicked through until he found it, the one something beyond him seemed to be guiding him to. Psalms 51. In a low voice he began to read to himself.

1 Have mercy on me, O God,
according to your unfailing love;
according to your great compassion
blot out my transgressions.
2 Wash away all my iniquity
and cleanse me from my sin.

3 For I know my transgressions,
and my sin is always before me.
4 Against you, you only, have I sinned
and done what is evil in your sight;
so you are right in your verdict
and justified when you judge.
5 Surely I was sinful at birth,
sinful from the time my mother conceived me.

That hurt. His hands clenched and he could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. Why did moments like these always come in the night, when he was most alone? All he was doing was trying to sleep and he felt like someone has seized by the collar, by the throat. These age old, arcane words, written by some shepherd boy long ago, how did they know he'd never in his life been clean? He remembered every kill, every time he succumbed. He remembered Lucifer and he remembered hell. He could never really forget them.

6 Yet you desired faithfulness even in the womb;
you taught me wisdom in that secret place.

7 Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
8 Let me hear joy and gladness;
let the bones you have crushed rejoice.
9 Hide your face from my sins
and blot out all my iniquity.

10 Create in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
11 Do not cast me from your presence
or take your Holy Spirit from me.
12 Restore to me the joy of your salvation
and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

He was begging now, weeping his heart out to something unseen. They were someone else's words yet he knew, they were also his own. He didn't do poetry but he did do hurt. He did that really, really well.

13 Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
so that sinners will turn back to you.
14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God,
you who are God my Saviour,
and my tongue will sing of your righteousness.
15 Open my lips, Lord,
and my mouth will declare your praise.
16 You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;
you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings.
17 My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit;
a broken and contrite heart
you, God, will not despise.