Gabriel looked up from his hidden place.
Angels, gold and flaming, like burning teardrop comets, streamed from the heavens.
His eyes stung, and reflected their Light. Their Grace—dissipating into the atmosphere.
He pulled his jacket tight about his shoulders. (It was identical to the one he wore at the hotel where Lucifer had attempted to kill him. Had seemingly succeeded.)
His TracFone rested heavily in the pocket of his jeans. The urge to slip it out and dial one of many false numbers made his fingers itch madly.
He sighed. But maybe it would be the wrong time to call them up.
But he longed to see those stupid, stupid boys.
He could feel them, nearby, if he tried hard enough. Could feel the beautiful, fragile pulse of Sam's Soul as it flickered and steadied... And if Gabriel wasn't certain Sam would be fine, he'd have flown to the Winchesters in a heartbeat.
But Sam would be okay.
So Gabriel withdrew into his motel room, feeling every burst of Grace torn from angel tugging through his brain, and he shut the door, and he lay down on the bed, and he stared at the ceiling.
And he wept, invisible in his sanctuary, but wishing for solace from Samuel Winchester.
He wept.