Well here it is, ladies and gents, my first ever SPN fanfic. It's set mid-s6, soon after Sam gets his soul back. Since Gabriel (and Dicky sp8) is my absolutely favorite, I decided to bring him back for another round. Reviews are love. :)
Warnings: Swearing, m/m, OC's
Disclaimer: The boys and their universe belong to Kripke; I'm just playing in his sandbox. All OC's are mine.
"Tell me something good (tell me, tell me, tell me). Tell me that you love me, yeah."
~Rufus and Chaka Khan
There are three things Sam Winchester's soul returns to him. The first is love-love so swollen and painful that he thinks he might snap in two upon seeing Dean's face. The second is empathy; people seem to be dimmer and deeper, and Sam can see himself in myriad pairs of eyes.
The third is Gabriel. The Archangel had been dead for a while, and Sam's grief was short and swept away by greater things. He can't seem to shake the feeling, however, that the sadness was still hidden somewhere inside of him, newer and heavier than he'd expected.
oOo
They're in Cottonwood Falls, Kansas, hunting something nasty. Children are vanishing with alarming regularity; most people assume it's a serial kidnapper, some say Slenderman. Dean rolled his eyes at this, so hard Sam thought they might come loose from their sockets.
After they close up the first round of interviews, Dean decides to hole up early. Knowing his older brother wants nothing more than to see him safe in the motel, Sam obliges. Their room smells like stale vanilla and Pall-Malls; the bed is uncomfortably short. The occupants of the room above them decide to watch ESPN at maximum volume well into the morning and the radiator whistles. Sam didn't sleep very well that night.
He wakes up early-gawddammit-to a menu spread across his face. It reeks of rich chocolate and sticky caramel and reads 'The Emma Chase Café' in blocky, faded letters across the front. Sam surprises himself by thinking of Gabriel, almost immediately.
Not the archangel really, or even the pagan god, but the smarmy little janitor with a lollipop tucked in his cheek.
A sigh escapes him, and he's suddenly wistful and highly tempted to go for breakfast. Dean's snoring in the bed next to him, sprawled facedown in a muddle of blankets and he almost looks peaceful-if Dean Winchester's ever looked peaceful. It'll just take a second, Sam rationalizes, swinging his legs out of bed.
It takes a lot more of that sort of thinking to get him going, but Sam ends up at the diner about twenty minutes later. Every other thing seems to be Dutch china and he's a little intimidated. He's never been much of a pancake person and the potent aroma of fresh-cooked bacon makes his eyes water.
oOo
Seeing Gabriel sitting at the back booth was like a slap in the face. Sam's first instinct is to find the Trickster before remembering that Gabriel is the Trickster and he died months ago. Or not died months ago, since he seems to be sitting alive and well at a shabby booth in The Emma.
Sam walks over as if in a trance, his mouth hanging slightly open. Gabriel looks up at him with innocent eyes, his face placid. He's eating a waffle slathered in strawberry jam, a melting swirl of whipped cream sitting untouched in the middle. There's no 'hey kiddo', no witty remark, no candy bar tucked half-eaten and unwrapped in the man's pocket and Sam begins to worry.
"There's nothing in there, you know."
There's a girl sitting on the bench opposite Gabriel, hands wrapped around a glass of orange juice. She's tiny, shorter even than the archangel, with skin the color of Hershey's Special Dark and eyes shaped like almonds. Sam's breath isn't being remotely cooperative, probably since his heart is lodged somewhere in his throat. He mouths at her, looming awkwardly above them.
"What?" he manages to say, rather unintelligently.
The girl shakes her head, and Sam realizes her hair is a hundred little braids, interwoven with shiny gold thread. "He's empty," she muses, observing Gabriel with a disarming, neutral expression. Her accent is thick, halfway between British and South African. Sam wonders if that one semester of Swahili he took way back when might actually be useful.
"Who are you?" he murmurs, hesitant to make a move. His body is leaning towards Gabriel anyway, hand brushing the edge of the table. The angel is gazing up at him as if he was a potted plant, his expression childlike and passionless.
The girl smiles, a wide slice of white in her dark face. "My name is Ala," she says, taking a small sip of her juice, "goddess of fertility. Nice to meet you, Sam Winchester."
Sam shudders, hoping Ala likes gossip and can't read minds.
oOo
Ten minutes later, he's sitting on the bench next to Gabriel, cutting into a Southwestern-style omelet. It's a far cry from his first instinct, which was to grab Gabriel and run like all hell. Ala laughed at his anguish, telling him that he needed a stake made from African Zebrawood soaked in palm wine to kill her; and unless he could get to Nigeria and back in the next five minutes, he might as well sit down and eat.
The arrival of Israfael, who's suited, starched, and obviously angelic, does not make Sam any less inclined to throw the archangel over his shoulder and jump out the window. At least Ala might know Gabriel as Loki; Sam likes to think he has no business with angels unless their name is Castiel.
But Ala insists, and Israfael is quiet and unobtrusive, so Sam sits down. He can't leave with Gabriel, and he can't leave without Gabriel, and the omelet is supposed to be fantastic. He orders a cup of black coffee to go with it, and tries not to be unnerved at the archangel's wondering stare.
"So this is his vessel?" Sam asks, after taking a long drink of his coffee. Ala blinks slowly, tapping a fingernail against her bottom lip. She lets Israfael answer this one; even though he looks like your average neatly-pressed soldier of heaven, he talks like he's straight out of Harlem. Sam's not sure how he feels about this.
"Yes and no," Israfael explains, his words hesitant and stiff. It's almost as if he dislikes the standard issue angel protocol as much as Sam does. "That's his body, yeah, but it's not an actual person. Messengers of the Father don't get human vessels; they have bodies specially made for them."
Sam swallows a bite of omelet, ignoring the fact that Gabriel is nibbling on his toast, before speaking again. "Then why is his body here? It should've died when he did."
It seems to be an unspoken rule at the table not to call Gabriel by name. Sam feels bad about it-hell, the man's right there, for God's sake. And yet this Gabriel, with his easy smile and shallow eyes, somehow manages to be both present and absent at the same time. Sam would be lying if he says he isn't disturbed.
" I'm sustaining it," Ala reveals, and her wide, rounded vowels stand out in sharp discord from the rest of the café. She looks proud of herself; Israfael looks slightly unnerved.
Gabriel is staring at his plate now, hands folded in his lap. Sam is eerily reminded of Castiel a few years back, so bright and shiny new he was borderline nonfunctional. "Why?" he asks again, trying not to stare.
"Because the body was given to us, reformed," Israfael's fiddling with the buttons on his suit jacket, his hair sticking up funny on one side, " For what reason, we have absolutely no idea: all we can be sure of is that this is a purposed event."
He throws a nervous glance at Sam when he says 'purposed event'-like Sam's whole life hasn't been a 'purposed event'. Holy shit, he's sick of these people.
Anther question is forming on his lips when Ala looks up, glancing at the clock across the room. She turns back to Sam grinning, fire in her eyes. It shakes him a little; he's not used to seeing that look on anyone but Gabriel-the Gabriel that is now sitting next to him acting like a drugged-out four-year-old.
"Time to go, Winchester," she purrs, "We'll keep in touch."
There's a ripple of wings and a small crackle, and all three of them are gone. The unusual smell left hanging in the air Sam will later identify as cooked yams. He sighs and reaches into his pocket as the seemingly unphased waitress leaves his check on the table. Instead of his wallet (he left that at home, he's pretty sure), he comes up with a torn-off piece of notebook paper stuffed with twenties.
There's an address on the paper-Sam notices just as he's about to throw it out. A single word is scrawled right under the neat lines in bold, loopy handwriting: Kali.
Sam arrives back at the hotel to find Dean barely awake, oozing out of his bed like Mississippi river sludge. "Where were you?" he mumbles, his words slurred with exhaustion. Sam shrugs, slipping the notebook paper into his laptop bag.
"Breakfast."
oOo
Sam still has the Casa Erotica DVD. He figures Castiel knows this when the angels shows up and spends half the time looking at Sam funny.
Of course, it may be because Sam asked him to find Kali. It's not like the angel hasn't suffered stranger requests, but Castiel is 'in the middle of a war'-no, really? Never woulda guessed-and Sam is supposed to be helping his brother capture and kill Slenderman (who is not, actually, a tulpa, as Sam first assumed).
But Sam is determined; all it takes is the words 'Gabriel' and 'alive' and there's a flash of darkness. The next thing he knows, he's standing in the middle of the Broadway lobby. Kali is right at his elbow, dressed in something purple and drapey.
"A minute," Sam whispers through clenched teeth, feeling awkward and underdressed among crowds of upper-crust theatre-goers. Kali smiles, small and close-lipped, grasping the sleeve of his jacket and steering him towards the doors.
They sequester themselves in the mouth of an alley. Even in tall, wobbly heels, her eyes are just level with Sam's chin; he can tell she resents having to look up at him. "You're here because of Gabriel, aren't you?" she murmurs-short and to the point.
Sam blinks.
"So you did bring him back?"
Kali shakes her head, pulling her wrap closer around her shoulders. She turns to look out at the street, lit up with an eternal sea of bleeding headlights and neon signs. A light wind sings through complicated-looking silver earrings as she answers.
"No. I didn't," she speaks just above a whisper, sounding almost regretful, "creation isn't really my thing."
Sam breaths in frigid air, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "But you know who did," he says, more to himself than to her. She has to know; Sam's no god, but he's pretty certain that blood is needed to remold a body. Kali has the only sample of Gabriel's blood Sam's aware of, and it's not at all probable that she up and lost it.
"Yes, I do."
She's looking him in the eye now, her face dark and shadowed. Sam waits; he knows better than to ask. Ater the barest number of seconds, she speaks again, her eyes burning ebony. "Lailah. She's in Seattle. Follow the music."
Brows furrowed in confusion, Sam is about to ask what the hell 'follow the music' means when there are fingers on the back of his neck and he's suddenly back in the motel, face-to-face with Dean.
His brother has his hands full of cheeseburger, his suit all kinds of undone. At the sight of Castiel, his eyes light up, something along the lines of a smile hovering around his mouth. "Cas?"
"Hello, Dean," Cas mutters, spinning on his heel, "goodbye, Dean."
He's gone in a quiet ruffle of feathers. Dean visibly slumps, taking a giant bite of his cheeseburger and shrugging his jacket back onto his shoulders. He refuses to meet Sam's eye as his brother closes the door behind him.
"It's a wraith," Dean mumbles, dropping down on his bed, "not Slenderman."
He sounds almost disappointed; whether it was the lack of Slenderman or Castiel that caused the disappointment, Sam didn't care to deal with at the moment.
oOo
The wraith is easy to find and almost as easy to kill. It was the school bus driver all along, condemned by bad driving and the odd lack of a rearview mirror. As soon as the hunt is finished, Dean drives them straight back to the motel, stoically disregarding any and every road sign he comes across. He's asleep as soon as he hits the bed, any questions regarding Cas's brief manifestation and Sam's frequent absences left unspoken.
Sleep does not take Sam so easily, so he prays. To whom, he's not quite sure, and most of the prayer is just a recap of the hunt and a whining session, but tiny bits of intercession keep slipping in: please Dean this, please Castiel that.
He's praying for Gabriel when he finally drifts off.
oOo
Sam wakes up the next morning to Chaka Khan. 'Tell Me Something Good' is blasting from the radio, the bass thrumming through the nightstand. Dean doesn't really go for the Soul Train era, so Sam's not surprised to see him only semi-conscious, palming at his eyes. "You okay?"
Dean growls something along the lines of 'screw off' before clambering off the bed. He's still wearing the clothes of last night and he looks awful: dark, sunken half-moons bruised under reddened eyes.
He's about to say something, probably in an attempt to wipe the concerned look off Sam's face. Instead, he vomits all over the floor. Sam sighs. "I'm taking that as a no."
oOo
Dean's sleeping, agitated and feverish. Sam's praying hard that it's not the flu; praying even harder that he won't have to give Dean an ice bath. He's halfway across the room, glass of water in hand, when the radio blurts something about Chaka Khan in Seattle that evening.
Kali's words ring in his head, and Sam remembers. He's not quite ready to address his overactive concern for the whole affair. Dean's sick and Sam shouldn't give a damn about Gabriel's soulless shell, but he does. He gives enough of a damn to set the water down, drop to his knees, and call for Castiel like his life depends on it.
oOo
Cas isn't happy about the proposition. He agrees to take Sam to Seattle for the concert, but is reluctant to stay with Dean.
"It's for Gabriel, Cas," Sam pleads; the nickname feels odd and awkward in his mouth, "please? All you have to do is watch him, make sure he gets enough water, and give him some Tylenol in about fifteen minutes, it's not that big of a deal."
The angel opens his mouth, and Sam knows he's going to talk about the war again-about how he can't afford to play babysitter, not even to somebody with his handprint burned into their shoulder.
All he manages to say is "heaven-" before Sam cuts him off, sharp and unforgiving.
"Heaven can wait. It'll only take me an hour or so, I won't be gone forever."
He's tempted to continue, (a little interaction with Dean won't kill you, the dude misses you something terrible for Christ's sake) but thinks better of it. Instead, he fixes Castiel with a hard stare and hopes he gets the message.
The angel sighs, his eyes so blue it's a little unnerving. After wasting several minutes of heaven's precious time, he reaches out and claps his hand on Sam's shoulder. There's a brief shudder, a burst of darkness, and then Sam is standing on a sidewalk, rain worming its way through his hair and under his collar. Castiel disappears almost instantly, leaving the 'thank you' he was offered echoing in empty air.
Shrugging this off, Sam takes a quick look around. The wide beige building that is Benaroya Hall is right across from him, surrounded by trees and lacquered in windows. It's his best bet, and Sam only has to wait a few seconds before the glowing white man prompts him to cross the street.
In this crowd, he realizes as he strolls up the outside stairway, he is the minority. Most everyone's skin is some shade of brown, and several people have given him funny looks. Swallowing, he pushes on, hoping that Lailah isn't Chaka Khan herself because then he's sort of screwed.
"Excuse me," a voice is behind him, a hand is on his arm. He turns around, trying not to look feral. It's a woman, tall and dark, and there's something in her eyes that makes Sam pause. She smiles at him patiently, waiting for his brain to make the connection. There's a quick burst in his synapse and Sam thinks Lailah.
"Hi," she says, calm and nonchalant, like she didn't just read his mind, "Kali told me you were coming. Now would you please escort me to my seat, or does Wayne Brady hafta slap a bitch?"
Sam's shocked. He lets Lailah take his arm and steer them inside, her copious bracelets jingling. The ushers seem to know her, offering up gracious smiles and winks, but pay him no attention.
"Wait, we're actually watching the show?" Sam hisses, after he's rediscovered his vocal chords. They're sitting in the very front row of the balcony, and Sam is bent almost double. Every time he tries to straighten up, the older lady behind him will snort and thwack him across the shoulder blades with her program.
Lailah laughs, wide-mouthed and ringing. "Of course we are, babe. It's not every day you get to see Chaka in concert. Last time for me was thirty-five years ago."
Sam shook his head. He wasn't even alive in 1975, and Lailah looks a couple years his junior. Damn supernatural genetics. "I don't have time," he whispers, much to the annoyance of the woman behind him, "I have important questions that need answers. Quick ones."
"Patience is a virtue," Lailah says, and some severity, reminiscently angelic, creeps into her tone, "good things come to those who wait."
Before he can express his outrage, Sam's shushed, by both the woman next to him and the she-devil behind him. The lights are dimming, and the heavy bass he heard earlier this morning shakes the whole building. Deep breaths, he thinks, slouching low in his seat.
He actually kind of enjoys the show, thanks to Nadia McCloud and their whirlwind month of dating back in '99. She was a flower child born a decade too late, living and breathing the Temptations and Eddie Kendrick. One Thursday afternoon, she covered Sam's arm in the lyrics to "Sweet Thing", written in ballpoint pen. He wore his jacket all day, but at least he remembered enough of the words to sing along with all of Benaroya Hall. For that, he could be thankful.
After a powerful rendition of "I'm Every Woman", Sam's very close to dragging Lailah out of the building and interrogating her. His plan must show in his face, or maybe in his brain, because the next thing he knows he's sitting on a couch in an expensive-looking apartment.
"You are one of the twitchiest humans I've ever met, congratulations," Lailah deadpans. She's lost the blazer she was wearing earlier and she's toed off her shoes, padding barefoot across a lush red rug. "Care for a drink?"
She has a bottle of white Zin in one hand and two fluted glasses in another. Sam shakes his head, looking up at her in surprise. "You're an angel?" he realizes, trying to reconcile her casual attitude with her heavenly origins. It was like meeting another Balthazar, except this one was shorter, darker, and less British.
Lailah shrugs. "Guilty as charged. I mean, I'm a bit of an anomaly, being the angel of conception, but trust me: I'm just as holy as the rest of them."
She finishes her explanation with a wave of her hand. All of a sudden, there's a plate of salt and lime wedges sitting at Sam's knees, a glass of tequila set in the middle. "Questions," Lailah reminds him, taking a seat in a leathery armchair directly opposite. Placing the extra flute on the table next to her, she pours herself a glass of wine.
Sam glances down at the tequila before fixing her with his most stubborn stare, hands balled up in his lap. "Did you resurrect Gabriel?"
"I remolded his body, yes."
She's looking back at him with equal intensity. Even though she's dressed down, she's growing more angelic by the second. Sam grits his teeth.
"Kali gave you the blood?"
Lailah sips her wine and Sam's suddenly reminded of Raphael, standing alone in a ring of holy fire amidst a raging storm. It feels almost like he's drowning in the darkness of the angel's eyes. "Yes, she did."
"But why?" Sam blurts out, too curious to hold his tongue, "correct me if I'm wrong, but angels aren't really buddy-buddy with pagan idols last time I checked. There's that whole thing about them being false gods and shit, I don't know if you remember-"
A heavy laugh interrupts him, but Lailah looks no less intimidating than she did seconds previous. "Pagan gods have to learn their tricks from somebody, they don't come preprogrammed. I've been growing bodies since aeterna nihilum, I'm the best. I learned from God, everyone else learned from me."
Sam pauses, mulling this over, and Lailah shifts her attention to her wine. A silence falls between them that he's is hesitant to break. But he has one last question, once he hopes the angel might have the answer to. "Why did you do it?"
The angel smiles, and Sam feels like she can see right through him, see all the tiny little gears and mechanisms of his brain and he shivers. She takes another swallow of her wine, letting the glass rest against her lips. When she finally speaks, the surface of the liquid ripples. "Because God told me to."
"You talk to God?" Sam asks, belatedly realizing he's back at the motel. Castiel looks up from where he's sitting, next to Dean's prone form. His eyes are wet and Sam feels oddly guilty. He also could've sworn the angel's hand was on his brother's forehead mere seconds ago. Or maybe he was seeing things.
oOo
He goes to visit Gabriel later that night. The address Ala left him is within walking distance and the night air is warm, warm enough for him to leave his jacket at home.
The house he finds is tiny and old, complete with front porch and porch swing. He strides down the concrete walk, avoiding the cracks out of habit. A few raps on the front door elicits a rustling from inside; soon after, he watches the doorknob twitch and turn.
Ala meets him, wearing jeans and a white t-shirt that says 'Yes, Lioness' on the front. Her braids are tied up in a knot on top of her head and she offers him a brief smile. "Come in."
Sam obliges, following the goddess up a rickety flight of stairs and into a low-lit bedroom. Ala is slow in turning on the lights, so Sam waits near the door. There's a figure lying on the bed he assumes is Gabriel, and the lack of movement creates a poisonous knot in the pit of his stomach.
"How did you like Lailah?" Ala asks, lighting a kerosene lamp that looks dangerously musty. Sam notices a tattoo on the back of her neck: the infinity symbol intertwined with the word 'ndu'. It's pale enough to be a scar, shining silver against her dark skin.
"She's…different," he admits, remembering sugar white teeth and fathomless eyes; he pauses before continuing, "she said she taught you how to do this."
He means Gabriel and Ala laughs, low and raspy. "She did," she says, "the world was a different place then."
She leaves Sam to ponder this cryptic comment as she flips on the last light, illuminating Gabriel in a soft golden glow. He looks like he's sleeping-eyes closed, mouth hanging open. His breathing is perfect, regulated to five second inhales and six second exhales. Sam doesn't know why he's counting.
"I'll leave you two alone then," Ala says. She's standing next to him and her head just reaches his elbow. Sam nods his thanks and she leaves, pattering down the staircase.
He's regretting this already, dragging his feet on the way to the bedside armchair. Gabriel's overly-steady breathing is beginning to freak him out and the chair releases a series of ominous creaks as he sits down.
The silence starts eating away at his brain after the first five minutes. Sam wonders if Ala could hear anything down there, and then realizes he doesn't care as another minute of inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale-etc-ad-nauseam creeps by.
"So, I know you're…you're not actually here, or anything," he begins, stuttering and hesitant, "but I'm going to talk to you anyway. I just… I need to get it out of my system."
And Sam talks, about everything and anything. It's rough getting started, but it only takes a few minutes for him to get on a roll. He tells Gabriel about Dean and Lisa (they should've worked out, I don't know why they didn't work out), about sharing his body with Lucifer (it was hell, Gabe-hell on earth), about Castiel's heavenly war (it's like he doesn't have time for us anymore), about winning (we did it. Us. All of us. Team Free Will).
Without thinking, he begins to talk about them. It's so stupid, asking Gabriel's comatose husk about their non-existent relationship, but Sam needs to ask someone. It almost bothers him that he doesn't understand. How does shameless flirting with a janitor turned into angrily sexual thoughts about a trickster, then grudging affection for an angel, then 'ok, I think I have legitimate feelings for you but whoops, you're dead now'?
It's all very confusing and a little unsettling, except the last bit. Sam has more than his fair share of experience with that phase.
oOo
A knock on the door jerks Sam awake. He's still rubbing at his eyes when Lailah walks in, flanked by two suited angels almost as tall as he is; her heels make tiny clicking noises on the hardwood floor. She's wearing a suit jacket over a flimsy t-shirt and tight animal print pants; apparently this is as professional as she gets.
"Hello, Sam," she murmurs, her eyes a calmer and warmer shade of brown. Sam struggles to get words out, but his mouth is thick and fuzzy with sleep. He notices that the angel's left arm is encased in what looks like a falconers glove made of heavy duty leather.
Lailah notices Sam's gaze and smiles wryly. "Oh, this," she sighs, drawing a finger up the side seam of the glove, "a gift from my father. Very heavy duty stuff."
She's looking at it with a mixture of fondness and determination, her fingers flexing slightly. Sam refuses to feel hopeful, but god, has he waited for something like this. There's a million questions running through his head, but he chooses one of the less critical ones as a distraction.
"Who are they?"
He means the angels, one tall and the blond, the other shorter and dark-skinned. They remain near the doorway, standing sturdy and upright like Secret Service agents. Lailah glances back at them, a smile flickering around her lips. "Paschar," she introduces, pointing to the fair-haired angel, "and Ramiel. Damage control."
Sam swallows. He's finding it increasingly hard to breath. There is something bright and electric crackling in the air and the anticipation is building, solid and resolute, in his chest. Lailah sees the excitement in his eyes and allows herself a tiny grin.
"Glad to see somebody's excited about this," she jokes, "especially since Mr. Patient here doesn't seem too enthused."
She's talking about Gabriel, who hasn't moved a muscle since they'd arrived. Looking down at him, limp and tiny, engulfed by the wide wooden bed, Sam is overcome with a last-minute bout of worry. What if this doesn't work? What if Gabriel is stuck in special angel heaven and all Sam is left with is this flimsy copy.
He struggles to shove these thoughts away as Lailah pushes past him, gently tugging the glove off of her hand. She's ready to lean over Gabriel, to place her hand on his chest, when she straightens up and turns around.
"Why?" she asks, a genuineness that reminds Sam of Castiel shining in her eyes "he killed your brother a hundred times-"
Sam corrects her without thinking. "A hundred and seventeen."
"Okay, a hundred and seventeen times. He trapped you in a sitcom; he punishes people for fun-why are you so eager for this to work?"
The quiet that follows Lailah's question is so taut the drop of a pin would shatter it into a million pieces. Sam takes a giant breath, trying to organize his thoughts into something speakable. He's considered this before; he knows what he's supposed to say.
"If I'd been in his place," he begins, his voice so soft it's hard to hear over Gabriel's deep breathing, "I'd have done the same thing. I would've killed Lucifer in front of him a thousand times if that was how I could convince him the apocalypse was not the right thing. I've killed more people than I can count on the fingers of everyone in this room-"
He shudders, swallows again, and then let's the real reason he cares about any of this come tumbling out of his mouth. "I've done my share of horrible things for decent reasons. I-I understand."
Each word is fluid and quick, but Sam is still out of breath after he finished. Lailah's nodding, her expression again unreadable. "Let him who has no sin throw the first stone," she whispers.
And then she takes off the glove.
There's light, so glorious and pure that Sam can't bear to look at it, flaming up the angel's arm. The air around the appendage is distorted, rippling like asphalt on a hot day, and sparks fly as she plunges her hand into Gabriel's chest.
The Archangel's back arches, his mouth open in a high-pitched, keening wail that fractures Sam's head into the most hellish migraine he's ever experienced. He's barely conscious of a huge, airy rush; the shadows of Paschar and Ramiel's wings rise up around the bed and everything turns hazy. He feels a pair of elbows press tight against his ears, two hands slap across his eyes, and the world is dulled for what seems like eternity.
When he's finally released, Ala dropping her arms from his head, the first thing he sees is Gabriel, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He looks like shit, almost as bad as Dean, but it's him. There's a fire, albeit a faint one, smoldering behind his eyes and his mouth quirks upwards at the awed expression on Sam's face.
"Hey, kiddo."
oOo
Somehow, all of them-minus Lailah, Paschar and Ramiel, who journey back to who-knows-where-manage to sleep in the motel that night. Ala's curled up in the armchair, snuggled under a ratty blanket Sam found in the closet. Lailah bids her farewell after tapping Dean on the forehead and pronouncing him imminently convalescent. Her hand shines like bronze-like Gabriel, it glows lightly and is hot to the touch-but she promises it'll wear off by morning.
Castiel is stretched out next to Dean, his eyes closed. He attempted to leave when the four of them returned, but Lailah put a swift end to that idea before she and her cohorts vanished in a flurry of invisible wings. The look she gave him spoke volumes: Heaven can wait one more day, little brother; give him one more day.
Sam and Gabriel are left with the last bed. Sam's spooning him, he realizes, his arm draped over the smaller man's body. Gabriel doesn't seem to mind, his pale hand placed over Sam's larger one.
"Remind me to take you out for ice cream tomorrow," the angel whispers, stroking the back of Sam's palm with his thumb. Sam yawns into his hair.
"How about pie," he murmurs, breathing in time with his brother's gentle snores, "Dean likes pie, it's the least we can do."
Gabriel chuckles, shifting so that his back is brushing Sam's torso. He smells like butterscotch and cream soda and Sam very much likes it. "We can certainly do that," he replies, his voice raw with fatigue. Angel's don't get sleepy, per se, but being resurrected is a tiresome business.
Sam, being human, is completely exhausted to the point of incoherence, mumbling a word of contentment into Gabriel's neck. The angel can't help grinning despite the stretch burning in his cheeks. "Sam?"
"Mmm?"
Gabriel yawns. "You kept the DVD."
Sam is silent for a moment before replying, his breath warm and welcome on Gabriel's shoulder. "Of course I did."
oOo
When they wake the next morning, Ala is gone. Castiel, however, is still sprawled next to Dean, his hand resting on the hunter's hip. Gabriel's face is smooshed into Sam's stomach, their legs tangled together, and Chaka Khan is playing on the radio again: tell me that you like it, yeah.
Notes: Yes, there is actually an Emma Chase Café in Cottonwood Falls, KS. I'm not sure if they serve waffles, but their hush puppies are phenomenal. 'Ndu' means life in Igbo, which is spoken in parts of Nigeria. Ala is the fertility goddess of the Igbo people and is often associated with yams. Laliah is the angel of conception/the night, and is said to guard spirits. Israfael is the angel of song. J