Author's note
I am constantly flattered that anyone likes my scribbles. I am also very protective of said scribbles. Recently I've had to engage with Goodreads to have some of my works removed, after they were posted without my knowledge. I love when my stories are rec'd, linked to communities, used for rp, or listed on tumblr or LJ. Thank you to those who have done so, but if anyone wishes to share, copy, translate, or post my tales elsewhere, please ask me about it first.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters. No copyright infringement intended. Just playing in the sandbox.
Also I am not American, so apologies in advance for any honourables, colours, cheques, wardrobes, and sweet biscuits which escape editing.
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"Turn Around, bright eyes. Every now and then I fall apart." Bonnie Tyler: Total Eclipse of the Heart
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Sam wrapped his hand around a tall paper cup of hot coffee, the heat seeping though his skin, as airport announcements wafted above his head. A nerve hopped in his knee. He rapidly tapped his heel to dispel it.
Leaving his brother alone in the Men of Letters' bunker was a plan that did not sit well, like an ill-fitting coat. Worries needled Sam all though the long hours of his absence. However it would have been an even worse idea to deny Garth and Bess an ancient gryphon slaying stone knife. Garth had called Dean's phone for assistance, unaware of all that had gone down. It was Sam who answered. He had thought that Garth was out, but hunting always found a way to drag someone back in. Not that Garth sounded pissed; rather he was full of wonder that a mythical creature had been secreted inside a scrub hidden cave nearby their home. The werewolf couple had trapped the creature using a mixture of blind luck and hunter instincts after it attacked some pups who had playfully stumbled into its lair. Using the Men of Letters' cross index, Sam quickly identified their catch and discovered the society held such a weapon in one of its vast rooms of sealed boxes. Sam would never have denied the Fitzgerald's his aid, added to which was an imagining of Dean's apoplectic reaction if he ever discovered that he had left their friend hanging in the wind. The distance to Grantsburg made driving out of the question, and Garth needed the knife yesterday. A stone artifact placed in hold luggage would not set Homeland Security on Sam's ass, and flying meant Sam could go and return in one very long day.
A quick handover in arrivals, words of appreciation, a stiffly received Garth-hug, and a silent response to the presumption that Dean refused to board a plane, saw Sam turnabout for the next flight back to Lincoln.
Grabbing ten minutes in the food court to catch his breath and triple shot caffeinate, Sam was vibrating with urgency to get back to Lebanon. He had caught two hours of shut eye the night before, burning the midnight oil with research and rechecking everything before he had departed for his morning flight to Minneapolis St Paul.
The sky had darkened while Sam had been occupied by baggage collection and coffee. A chill wind coaxed him to button up his canvas jacket. Fumbling in his pocket for the Impala keys, Sam's hyper senses picked up a tall slouching hooded figure leaning against the pedestrian entry to the short term car park. His heart rate kicked up, alert and ready. Closing the distance, through the gloom, Sam could pick out dirt streaked denims and long hands holding a Dixie cup seeking change. A weird vague familiarity set Sam even further on edge. He slid his hand down his thigh seeking his knife, but every goddamned weapon was locked in the trunk. All he had was a packet of salt in his pocket and a bottle of holy water zipped inside his duffel. Plenty of times demons had hidden in meatsuits of indigent poor or the God Squad had used itinerant preachers to spy on humanity and the Winchesters. This dude did not bear any bible or cardboard sign declaring Sam's immortal soul to be in need of salvation. Nor did the slumped guy seem tensed to attack. All that meant bupkiss. Perhaps he was an innocent civilian but as Sam took each pace closer his wariness grew. Fingers twitching in preparation of hand to hand combat, the hunter squared his shoulders. He sucked a breath as the air seemed to crackle invisibly in the shortening space between them. The guy jerked as if the inexplicable static impacted him.
Sam startled as the stranger's heels slipped and slid, balance lost, long legs flaying out, butt hitting pavement.
A hoarse gasp, "Sam."
Not a challenge, not a snarl, but almost a plea, as the guy curled away from him.
Quick as, Sam dropped to his knees. If this was a ruse, he had nothing but his fist and a Latin exorcism at his disposal. Remaining on guard, the hunter tentatively placed his wide palm on the shoulder of the fallen man's filthy hoodie.
"How do you know me? Who are you?" He demanded with firm command, "Look at me."
Unfurling painstakingly slow, every inched movement communicating bodily pain, shame and reluctance, Gadreel twisted his body to gaze upward.
Sam snapped back his hand back, as if burned. He pulled up onto the balls of his feet. His breath hitched, eyes dilated, adrenaline hopped. It wasn't possible. Gadreel was dead, blown to pieces in an ultimate act of self sacrifice according to Castiel.
"You?" Sam panted his question.
A clatter of high heeled footfalls came in their direction from the terminal building. Rapid friendly conversation drifted their way.
"Please." Gadreel begged, not meeting Sam's eyes fully, head inclined to his knees.
"Is it you?" Sam double-blinked. Maybe this wasn't the angel but the other poor bastard who had the privilege of being Gadreel's go-to vessel.
"It is I." The angel muttered.
"Have you a weapon?"
Gadreel stared at him blankly.
"Do you have an angel blade?" Sam demanded urgently.
Pupils dilated with headshake was enough denial.
"Right." Sam extended a hand.
Gadreel took it gingerly with a grime marked paw. Sam used his free hand to heft the angel, or former angel, or fallen one, whatever. Gadreel bent double to retrieve his scattered hoard of coins and single dollar bills.
"Leave it." Sam snapped. The women's footfalls were loud and close. They had stopped speaking. Whether this was due to a natural pause in their chat, the sight of two tall giants rising from the sidewalk, or more nefarious reasons, Sam was not waiting to find out.
"Come on." He had to practically drag the angel towards the car, while battling against a state of disbelief that he was willingly bringing the asshat with him.
As Sam popped the trunk to the deposit the duffel he had used as hold luggage and to palm an angel blade, he addressed the shaking celestial being, who was bent double against the flank of the Chevy.
"Thought you were toast."
Gadreel raised his head and one brow.
"Took one for the team, Cas said. Angel dynamite?"
"I did."
"And?"
"I woke, naked, alone, in a garbage tip in Iowa."
Sam hummed. A visceral memory of Chuck removing a molar from his hair hit him in the chest. Raphael had blown chunks of Castiel all over the prophet and his home. Their friend had carved a banishing symbol to his chest, been liquefied by Leviathan, and Lucifer had used Sam's own fingers to snap him out of existence, yet each time Cas returned. Perhaps it was not so astounding that Gadreel should persist beyond his supposed final act.
"Why are you here?"
"I do not know, Sam. I was pulled in this direction."
For a moment, Sam thought he was being taken completely literally, regarding how he had tugged Gadreel from his begging post to the car.
"You still got your juice?" Sam sighed, shaking his head to bury any creepy questions about Gadreel being drawn towards him.
"Yes. My grace is intact."
"I suppose that is something. And the dude, is he still in there, living one of your holodeck fantasy worlds?" The question was asked with more bitterness than Sam intended.
"No. No, he, he didn't make it." Gadreel gulped and looked to the far chain-link fence.
Sam harrumphed. He slammed the trunk. His anger spiked for the poor schmuck who had lost his life as a casualty for the greater fight.
"Well, are you coming?" Sam barked.
Gadreel stared with comically wide eyes and a dropped jaw.
"You think I am going to leave a rogue angel loose at Lincoln Airport? Get the Hell into to car."
The angel scrambled round to the shotgun side. Sam winced as he caught sight of worn through trainers, maybe found in a garbage bag. As Gadreel adjusted his body into the seat, Sam became uncomfortably aware that his passenger needed a shower as a matter of urgency.
"Mojo present, but faulty?"
"Excuse me?" Gadreel was nonplussed by the question and the seatbelt catch.
Sam rolled his eyes as he leaned sideways to assist.
"Automated dry clean?"
"Oh?" Gadreel plucked at the neck of his chocolate brown tee. He sniffed rather dramatically, before inspecting his clothing as if only in that moment he became aware of his garments. "I smell appalling."
"You stink." Sam's lips twitched unbidden into a semi-smile.
A marginal glow to his right got Sam flicking his eyes from the car park exit. Gadreel was in similar attire but his clothes looked new. He was clean shaven. The normal Impala aromas were augmented by a familiar bonus of fresh woody sap and clean petrichor.
"Huh," Sam huffed, tongue rolling into his cheek.
Gadreel squinted at him, "Is this acceptable?"
"What? Sure, Man, it's good." Sam stayed silent until they reached the highway. "In the bunker, not the real one, y'know? The fake one when…"
"When I was in control." Gadreel stated baldly in a monotone voice.
"Then." Sam shifted uncomfortably. What was he doing with his fricking captor in the car? The angel who had healed him as promised, who had blown himself to pieces for their and Castiel's cause, who might want to jump into his bones right now to make himself at home again, to render Sam clueless and into a state where he felt he was losing his precious grip on reality once more.
"Sam?"
Gadreel's voice pulled him back. He had almost missed his turn off.
Expelling a long slow breath, Sam picked up where he had halted. "That scent… it surrounded me when… It was like the outdoors had come inside… it would tingle my senses," He huffed at his own susceptibility, "I freaking looked up ghost residues and paranormal clairalience crapola in the fake illusionary bunker library."
"I know. I remember."
"It was you? The scent of your grace?"
Gadreel nodded. "Grace in its pure form is beyond human comprehension, yet your minds will perceive it as light, substance, sound, and flavor."
"I get it." Sam shuddered, shaking out memories of ancient packed ice, solar winds, and lightning strike ozone choking the back of his throat. "Fresh pruned twigs, rain, and growing trees – better and surprising."
"I was the gatekeeper of The Garden." Gadreel's head dropped. He became fascinated by his upturned palms.
"I was there." Sam remarked.
"You were?"
"Part of upstairs' schemes to make us play our End of Days' roles. Expressway elevator ride courtesy of Zachariah. I have to say, Dude, The Garden wasn't all that impressive. Cleveland Botanical Gardens and not when they are in bloom."
Gadreel's shoulders shook. He issued a throaty laugh.
Sam threw him a disbelieving look, about to ask if he was seriously laughing. He shut his mouth when the angel spoke.
"Remember what I said about human perception?"
"Joshua said that too." Sam nodded.
"Joshua." Gadreel said in a hushed drawn out whisper. With a choked pained noise he asked, "He remains?"
"Well, he did before the civil war and the fall." Sam was about to speculate on the likelihood of Heaven's gardener surviving through chaos, but he saw a sad hope in Gadreel's eye, and could not do it.
"I had hope. In the early times, before it was extracted from me, that perhaps Joshua would…" Gadreel's voice dried up. He coughed. "My crime was deemed too heinous by all."
Sam's lips drew tight. He huffed with a shrug. "The forgiveness of Heaven, huh, doesn't work for heavenly beings."
"I gave him access, let him in…" Gadreel shook his head. "It is a very old story."
"The oldest." Sam quirked a grin. Meeting Gadreel's eye, he added ruefully, "I opened the final seal and I let him in…"
"No. Sam. You must not compare. You saved the world. You sacrificed…"
"And you didn't?" Sam found irrational anger flaring inside. "You should be atomic particles now. Don't think I have forgotten a moment of what happened, but just because you have done wrong, does not drown out the right."
"You have depth of soul."
Sam laughed. "I presume that was a compliment."
"You would be correct." Gadreel inclined his head.
Their strange conversation lapsed. Sam flicked on the radio, and away from classic rock, finding smooth inoffensive classical to break the silence. Gadreel twisted his body, finding groves that many years of Sam snoozes had impressed in the shotgun seat.
Turning South at Red Cloud, Sam was on the final stretch home. He stole a glance right, asking silently if he knew what he was doing in bringing the angel back to the bunker.