WARNINGS: Physical and psychological torture, graphic scenes of violence and torture, disturbing imagery, major character death (temporary). Please tread carefully and take care of yourself.

Spoilers for 13.18 - Bring 'em Home Alive


Written for a prompt by TheRiverScribe.

Summary: Asmodeus is pissed. He's lost Gabriel. Lost Lucifer and Castiel and Jack. In a last-ditch effort to regain control, he goes after his "brother's" failed experiment: Sam Winchester.

Sam, the one who was supposed to be the Boy-King of Hell. Who was fed Azazel's blood at 6 months of age. Who was groomed to become the vessel for Lucifer. Who DID house the archangel and then spend centuries in the cage.

Now, Asmodeus, last Prince of Hell, has been juicing on archangel grace. And he's in need of a replacement pet seeing as his last one was stolen so rudely. May as well try keeping this one on a leash of blood-lust.

Sam doesn't do well in Hell. The demon-grace blood reawakens Sam's old powers…and sparks some new ones. But can he keep himself sane long enough to gain control? Will anyone even notice he's gone? Gabriel was practically catatonic and Cas more worried about Dean and Jack than anything else when Sam was taken by demons on a grocery run.

And time…moves so much faster in Hell…


This thing was supposed to be a nice, short little one-shot. Hahahaha! I don't know how to write short things. Or nice things, apparently. Please heed the warnings. The first two chapters are very dark and very painful. Then we move into the healing.


Hold You Close

Chapter One


"I want to hold you close to me to kiss your face and share your dreams.
I want to wrap you with my love and show you just what I'm made of.
I'm holding out my hand to you."

- unknown

Six hundred sixty and six.

Six hundred sixty and six.

Six hundred sixty and six.

Six hundred sixty and six.

The door on the far side of the room creaked open slowly. The sound of rusted metal was an elongated moan, drawn out deliberately to cause the most emotional turmoil. It had been that way since he had been brought down here and locked in a cage that had once held an archangel. The door would creak open slowly and then Asmodeus would come in and there would be another lesson on why people shouldn't take things that don't belong to them.

It had been his feet first, to keep him from running. And then his fingers, to keep him from fighting. His lips, to keep him from speaking.

Of course, Sam thought as he watched Asmodeus walk in carrying a plate of food, the difference between archangels and humans was humans had to eat to survive. So it would be Asmodeus and not a friend, not an ally, who cut the wires from Sam's lips. And it would be Asmodeus who sewed them together again, as he had done every day since the day Sam first arrived.

"Here we are, Sammy."

Sam stared past the demon, his eyes focused on the door behind him, trying to ignore the way the light played on the knife in Asmodeus' hands. The demon wasn't careful when he cut the thread that bound his lips. Sometimes his hand slipped. Most times.

"An' what day are we at today? Come on now, speak up."

Sam's mind answered where his mouth could not.

Six hundred and sixty six.


The worst part of it was, Sam had thought he was gone. Asmodeus had broken into the bunker with his hoard of demons and attacked them while Dean and Ketch were in the alternate world trying to rescue Jack and their mom. His lackeys had distracted Sam and Cas while other grabbed Gabriel and then tried to disappear with them, only for the archangel to use the grace that Ketch had supplied them with (and he never thought he'd be thanking Chuck for that guy) to dispatch the demons holding him and then burn Asmodeus to ash in a pillar of fire. It had been so Biblical that for a moment… for a blissful moment, Sam thought that not only was Gabriel back, but he would join them, become part of their fight for real instead of an ally who snarked on the sidelines before dying in one of the most traumatizing moments of Sam's life. Nevermind Hell. Nevermind The Cage. For Sam, the truly devastating moments, the ones that haunted him in his dreams and the moments when he stops long enough for the thoughts to come, were the ones where people died trying to help them. Trying to save them.

Trying to save him .

He'd been disappointed, of course, when Gabriel had declined.

Okay, he'd been worse than disappointed. He'd been… heartbroken came to mind but the word made him cringe. He could just hear Dean calling him a girl for even thinking it but it was the only word he could think of, in any language he knew, the describe the feeling of Gabe just… leaving.

He could've stayed at the bunker. He didn't have to fight. He could've stayed with them.

He could've stayed with Sam.

Fingers digging into his scalp and yanking hard on his hair pulled Sam from his thoughts. The memory of Gabriel's scoffed explanations against the backdrop of a bunker filled with bodies was replaced with the cold metal of a prison cell and Asmodeus' grinning face.

"Time for your dinner, my boy."

Sam's lips tightened but he knew it wouldn't help. His mouth wasn't bound with thread. That had been for the benefit of Gabriel.

"A bit of a gift, I do believe, from his pagan buddies. App ar ently they didn't appreciate his little joke on being a god . Sold 'im to me with his mouth already sewn shut. Jus' like those stories told 'round the campfire about Loki the Liar."

"It's the Liesmith, you piece of shit," Sam had snapped back. "And Gabriel was right. That's a dumbass suit but at least it matches the person wearing it."

He'd known even before he said it that he shouldn't, that he should keep his mouth shut and his head down. But Sam had seen Gabriel. He had cut the threads from his mouth himself and despite Gabriel leaving, despite the way Dean had reacted and the way the rejection had hurt (not that Gabriel had been rejecting him, he hadn't even offered himself), he had so much anger at Asmodeus that he couldn't keep quiet. Not when he wanted to scream. Not when every inch of Sam inside and out wanted to rage at the demon, wanted to rip him to pieces, for daring to bring such a brilliant, bright force of nature as Gabriel down to the frightened, broken creature that had fled from him in the bunker.

Sam wanted to tear Asmodeus apart, but he couldn't.

"Come on now, Sammy, don't give me tha' look." Asmodeus shoved his head hard enough that Sam lost his balance and had to catch himself. He cried out as his weight was caught on fingers that had been broken so many times, he had long since lost count. Asmodeus had been experimenting, wanting to see how long it would take Sam to heal, and heal he had, but not well. Asmodeus was more than happy to break Sam's fingers, but he had no desire to set them so they healed clean.

There was a constant ache in his hands that never faded. The digits of his fingers were crooked, curled in a sick mockery of claws, the skin decorated with scars where whatever implement Asmodeus had used had struck, or where shattered bones had protruded from Sam's flesh.

He'd done what he could to straighten them, to put the bones back to rights, but he'd had nothing to brace them with. Asmodeus had wanted to see how Sam healed, yes, but he hadn't truly cared for his physical state beyond that he didn't lose his prize.

The plate that Asmodeus had been holding was set on the floor in front of him and Sam stared down at it to see what it was this time. He cringed as he saw the slices of oranges lying there in their own juice and he tried to back away on his knees even as he knew it was futile.

The heel of a boot against his spine shoved him forward and he nearly fell into the plate, barely catching his balance and unable to keep a whimper from slipping out.

"Eat, boy."

Sam adjusted his legs so he was balanced and leaned forward, wincing even before his tongue reached out to try and pick up one of the pieces of orange.

"You gonna just lick it, boy?" The boot pressed down on his spine again and Sam let out a whine. "Growin' princes need their nourishment so make sure you eat it all."

Sam felt the cold plate press against his nose, the wet juice from the oranges on his skin, but those sensations were overrun by the stabbing burn like needles in his lips as the citric juice from the oranges hit the open wounds on his mouth.

Asmodeus hadn't bound his lips with thread. As he'd said, it would take too much work to constantly cut the thread and sew it through each time he needed to feed Sam. Instead, a pair of pliers had pulled his lip out while a thin rod had been driven through his lips, four times on the top and four on the bottom. Metal ringlets had then been fastened, like thick loop earrings, through each wound, so that every time Asmodeus wanted to quiet him, he just lined up the rings and slid thin line of wire through them.

Sam didn't know what the rings were made from, but whatever they were, they kept his lips from healing. The wounds on his mouth never fully sealed, no matter that the rings were never removed, and so his lips hurt constantly. But the pain of an unhealed injury was nothing compared to the agony of salt ground into open wounds. Or lemon juice, or ginger, or whatever new ingredient Asmodeus had someone prepare that would hurt as he tried to eat it.

He'd tried not eating before. Tried just refusing, but Asmodeus wouldn't allow that. The demon was not above having Sam force-fed whatever he had chosen as a meal, and Sam much preferred to eat at least somewhat on his own terms, even if that did me on his knees, eating off the plate like a dog.

He couldn't keep quiet as he ate the slices of oranges, the juice running like acid over the holes in his lips, and his whimpers had Asmodeus tsking behind him. "So rude, Sammy, actin' like it's such a trial eatin' this food I brought down special just for you." Sam cringed as the demon circled around his, heels clicking loudly on the stone floor. "An' you know how much I hate it when you're rude." He kneeled down in front of Sam, his eyes dark and cruel. Sam resolutely didn't meet his gaze. "I said you needed to eat all of it, didn't I?" Sam glanced down at the plate, empty of orange slices, but still covered with citrus juice. "Clean your plate, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard and reluctantly began to lick the plate clean.


Six hundred sixty and six.

Six hundred sixty and six.

Six hundred sixty and six.

Six hundred sixty and six.

Sam stared straight ahead but his eyes weren't focused on anything. His mind repeated the number in his head of the days he had been down here, locked away in this cell. Six hundred and sixty-six days. He would have laughed at the irony of him reaching the Devil's number, Lucifer's number, if not for the fact that he didn't think there was enough positive emotion left in him for even the sensation of amusement.

Does Dean even know you're gone?

After Dean had come back from Hell, and after they had learned that time in Hell ran faster than it did on Earth, Sam had calculated.

In hindsight, he wished he hadn't.

For Sam, it had been four months that his brother was in Hell. But for Dean, it had been forty years . One hundred and twenty days for Sam, against fourteen thousand six hundred days for Dean. It wasn't even quantifiable. Sam hadn't even been thirty when his brother was taken to Hell. He couldn't even imagine forty years.

One day. One day on Earth equaled one hundred twenty-four days in Hell. Twenty-four hours to two thousand nine hundred and four hours. One hundred seventy-four thousand, two hundred and forty minutes was the length of a day in Hell.

What it came down to was that Sam had been in Hell for six hundred and sixty-six days, but he had only been missed from the bunker for a little over five days.

Long enough for Dean to notice? Sure. If Dean had noticed right away and hadn't been staggering around the bunker, drinking his fury at Sam away for giving Gabriel the last of the archangel grace. If that were the case… it was possible Dean had only just realized Sam was missing. Or he was thinking that his little brother was off somewhere sulking and not that he had been kidnapped while out on a damn grocery run.

In the end, what it meant was that Sam was in Hell. And the real hell was he didn't know if anyone knew, or suspected, or even cared.

Six hundred and sixty-six days.

Sam didn't think he had many more left in him to give.


Six hundred sixty and seven.

Six hundred sixty and seven.

Six hundred sixty and seven.

The wounds on the bottom of his feet had healed and Sam could have stood up without collapsing in agony. He could have walked. He could have run.

He heard the sound of the knife blade being pulled from its sheath. It glimmered bright like Asmodeus' smile.

Sam let himself fall away somewhere the pain couldn't reach him, his mind drifting off to a place where lush green trees touched the heavens with unrestrained branches and the wind was a whisper of hope in his ear.


Six hundred seventy and two.

Six hundred seventy and two.

Six hundred seventy and two.

"Come on now, Sammy-boy, you need to drink on up. It's tasty, in'nit?"

Sam tried to jerk his head away but gentle fingers turned his face back toward Asmodeus' arm. He could feel his own need like a feral thing within him, screaming in desire at the scent of demon blood. Worse still was that it didn't smell like the demon blood Sam remembered, that sick-sweet smell like rotting meat and antifreeze. He thought he could have made himself fight the need for that, too many negative memories wrapped up in the addiction that he'd fought but never completely defeated.

But Asmodeus' blood… there was still something too familiar about it, almost repulsive in its sweetness, but something else burned in it. The taste of fresh cut grass on his tongue and something clean and crisp, like ice cold water.

By the time he realized he'd curled his fingers around Asmodeus' arm, his lips were already coated in blood, his tongue lapping at the wound torn into the demon prince's arm. Sam whined miserably but couldn't make himself pull away, and Asmodeus' other hand ran through his hair, a touch so gentle that Sam couldn't bear to shake it off.

"That's a good boy."


Six hundred seventy and seven.

His wounds were healing at an exponential rate. Asmodeus had his left hand broken three times in one day.

He could no longer move two of his fingers.


Six hundred eighty and one.

The wounds on his feet healed minutes after he received them. Not even scar tissue was left behind. Neither were there callouses.

Sam didn't try to run.


Six hundred eighty and eight .

His head screamed with pain, every sound, every speck of light an agony. He thirsts for Asmodeus' blood every second he exists but the scent of it makes him want to scream and vomit and die.

He drinks until Asmodeus' lackeys have to haul him away bodily, their leader pale as death and swaying on his feet.

Sam hungers and hates himself.


Six hundred ninety and five.

His powers are back.

The bars of his cell rattle with the force of his rage and the ground beneath his feet trembles at a glare. Every item within the reach of his gaze can become a weapon in an instant.

They stopped feeding him when he killed a demon with an apple core.

Sam watched the bastard choke on his own blood and laughed until he passed out.


Six hundred and ninety and nine.

He doesn't think he's going to die.

He doesn't think they'll let him. Demons or angels or Asmodeus or his powers, they'll never let him die. But they're not going to let him live either.


Seven hundred.

Dean isn't coming.


He dreams of Dean.

Two Deans.

Dean the Hero and Dean the Liar.

He dreams of his brother screaming at him, calling him a traitor, calling him a murderer. He dreams of a brother who hates him for having mercy on an archangel, for giving up the only key they had to another Universe, where another piece of their broken family was dying because of Sam.

He dreams of a Dean who is frantic, who paces the bunker and runs his fingers through his hair in desperation. A Dean who calls out to him in his sleep and begs help from gods who won't listen and prays to an angel that doesn't have dark hair and deep blue eyes.

Sam hates the dreams of the second Dean, whose desperate cries of his name he longs to answer but can't, because that Dean isn't real. That Dean is a lie.

He clings to the dreams where his brother screams and there's a cold acknowledgement in green eyes that no, he isn't coming for Sam. He never even looked.

Sam dreams of a brother he loves and hates, of choices he understands and scoffs, and he wakes exhausted and aching in places that powers and demon blood and angel grace can't heal - places inside too broken to fix.

Sam dreams of his brother.

Until he dreams of someone else.


The place in his head where the trees stretch as high as the sky has become his home in the moments when sleep is far away. The bars of the cage around him are a dull, boring grey and his mind is more at ease here, among the trees and the sunlight, with birds chirping in the distance.

If he let himself think of it too hard, he would notice the lack of a breeze against his skin or the way the sun shines but is never warm. He can hear the birds but he cannot see them, just as he cannot feel the grass beneath his fingers. Of course he is aware of these things, he is not a fool, but they are unpleasant and so it much nicer to ignore them and merely enjoy the peace that he is granted.

He stares up at a sky that is endlessly blue in a world that is endlessly day and hums songs that have no meaning. He is sitting there, admiring the play of light through leaves dancing on a nonexistent breeze when they world… shifts.

Dark rooms and metal cabinets and cold walls.

He has fallen asleep again.

Sam looks around for Dean, expecting his older brother to start shouting at him at any moment, screaming cruel words that hurt because they are true. When Dead doesn't show up, Sam wonders if this is one of the other dreams. One of the dreams where Dean calls out for him or is looking for him. One of the lies he tries to sell himself but isn't foolish enough to buy.

He wanders the bunker aimlessly, keeping an eye out for his brother's illusory form, sighing over the cold familiarity of this place. His dream is very realistic, his memory better than he expected, but he doesn't let it break his stride as he walks down the hall toward the dream-version of his room.

He pushes open the door and is reminded that his bedroom held an archangel, however briefly. The walls his mind has dreamed up are still covered in Enochian, the symbols dark against the sandy colored walls, and Sam didn't think you could read in dreams. Except his dreams have never been normal, so perhaps he is the exception to the rule.

His eyes follow the words, reading the story that Castiel read to him, his eyes seeing the words as he has never been able to. He scoffs as his dream mind waxes on and on about pornstars and ignores the feeling in his stomach like jealousy or grief for things that can never be.

There is the sound of footsteps and part of Sam is relieved that he will face whichever Dean this dream has called up so he can awaken and go back to the trees and the sunlight, but when he turns, it is a pair of golden eyes that stare back at him. Sam's stomach drops to his toes even as his heart lurches up into his throat and his feet lock into place, forbidding him from stepping away even as his mind screams for him to retreat because this… this is uncalled for.

"Sam," Gabriel breathes, his eyes wide and burning. Not blue-white like Sam is used to but the bright gold of summer sunshine and something within Sam burns with it. The archangel steps closer and raises a hand but Sam flinches and pulls away.

He wouldn't be able to ignore Gabriel. Wouldn't be able to stand seeing the archangel's hand touching him but being unable to feel it. He hears the footsteps stop, hears the sharp inhalation of breath, the way this illusion of his mind exhales a breath that sounds like his name mixed with a prayer and his heart aches to reach out. Sam has long since stopped hoping for anything to come to him that he was permitted to keep, knows that everything that steps before him, gifted, comes with a price he is never able to pay. He would give almost anything - his last breath, his first - to be able to reach out and touch the archangel, but he knows it is a lie.

Things he loves and that wanting tone is always a lie. He has never deserved anything more.

"Sam, where are you?" Gabriel whispers, something frantic in his voice, and Sam looks up to see those burning eyes looking as desperate as they do warm. They remind him of his sun-bathed meadow and he thinks he could stare at them all day, but the world around him ripples and Gabriel's form wavers with a shout.

Sam wakes up on the floor of Asmodeus' cage for the first time in weeks. There is crusted blood around his mouth but his stomach churns with revulsion and hunger. He can feel his ribs pressing against his skin, grinding together, and he wonders why it's taking him so long to starve to death. Is it the blood?

He can feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest and his breaths come quick even as they catch little air for his lungs. He feels only half-present and wonders if he is dying, after all.

He thinks of praying for the first time in over two years. Thinks of begging for an archangel to carry his soul home.

He doesn't know if he even starts the prayer before his eyes fall closed and he is back in the bunker and Dean is screaming.


"Where are you?" Gabriel asks, as though he can't pick the answer right out of Sam's head. As though he's not a construct of a mind desperate for some escape from the hell he has been trapped in for too long. A figurative and literal hell.

"Sam. Tell me where you are."

But Sam only stares at Gabriel, watching the way his whiskey brown eyes seem to almost shine. He does not question why he is seeing Gabriel in his dreams. His subconscious has done a good job of hitting him in the face with his wrongs, and he has wronged the archangel. He all but demanded Gabriel join them. All but commanded the archangel become one of them and face off against the world-ending monster of the week.

Seven hundred and nineteen days in a hell with Asmodeus as his landlord has given Sam a new perspective on freedom. He would have thought he'd have learned after The Cage, but apparently he needed to be reminded of how it felt to have choice taken from him.

He'd tried to take away Gabriel's. Sam may as well have been attempted to put a collar around the archangel's neck.

He sees the way Gabriel's eyes widen, the way his mouth opens just slightly in surprise. It hurts that Sam's own mind seems to think he wouldn't have picked up on it that fast, but he supposed be could be an idiot at times.

"Sam," his mind's version of Gabriel chokes out, reaching for him.

Sam pulls away, unable to bear the thought of touching Gabriel and feeling nothing. Of being reminded that he's not really there.

"Tell me where you are, Sam!"

The world ripples away. Sam falls into it and lets it carry him where it will.


"Sam, please."

"He's not real, you know." The voice sounds like Asmodeus'. Sam flees from it with a cry that rips the dream apart.


"Sam."

"No matter how much you wish he was, he'll never be real."


"You're here forever, Sam. You're mine forever."


He opens his eyes to find he's back in his meadow, lying in the tall grass with the trees stretching high around him. There are clouds in the sky today, he notes with a distant awe, and he stares at them until tears blur his vision and he's forced to blink them away.

He isn't sure what it is that captures his attention, alerts him to another presence. He watches the sky for what might be eons stretched across an endless mind's worth of time before a shadow falls or a murmur sounds or something makes him tilt his head just enough that the archangel comes into view.

Bright golden eyes are studying the scene around them. There's a small smile on the archangel's face and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looks… happy. Healthy. Sam's heart lurches knowing this is nothing but an illusion. This is what Sam would want, given the choice. He can admit that to himself, here in this peaceful place where his mind is the only thing present. Gabriel happy and healthy and here with him is all that Sam could ever ask for.

Gabriel utters a soft sigh and his eyes turn toward Sam. They still glitter bright gold, but there is a line between them now, a look of confusion, as though Sam is a puzzle he can't quite work out.

The archangel's lips quirk up in a smile and he goes back to studying the world around them. There are birds singing from the trees and the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. Somewhere above him, he hears the archangel begin to hum softly, the sound blending with the ambient noise of the world around them. It is a peaceful way to exist here in this place that was real but wasn't, and Sam closes his eyes and just enjoys the time he has without pain.

He feels fingers carding through his hair, the long strands shifted here and there, and Sam keeps his eyes closed. He knows it is an illusion, like the rest of this world around him, but with his eyes closed he can almost imagine that Gabriel is really here. He can almost believe the archangel is humming soft notes as he plays with Sam's hair.

He wishes he could have this all the time. He wishes this could be his life.

Something soft and warm presses against his temple and then Gabriel's voice whispers in his ear, "Tell me how to find you, Sam-a-Lamb."

He feels the tears slide down from the corners of his eyes, the most real thing in this place, and his voice breaks when he answers. "He won't let me go."

"Who?"

Sam opens his eyes to meet Gabriel's gaze, sees pain and love in those whiskey gold eyes and wishes wishes wishes it was real.

"Asmodeus."


He doesn't know how long it's been. He's lost count of the days.

His throat is so dry he can't swallow and his pangs of hunger have long since faded into a silent feeling of emptiness. He thinks it must not be a good sign that even his thirst for demon blood has abandoned him, but he's having too much trouble focusing to really determine why.

That seems like a bad sign, too.


The world around him is dying. The trees that reached toward the sky with laden branches are now barren. Dry mounds of dead leaves litter the ground as cracked, black branches shatter across a grey sky. The grass is brown and wilted beneath him and the birds are silent. The birds are gone.

"Sam."

Gabriel is still here. The only thing in this world that still looks alive. He is healthy and whole and as fierce as the angels Sam used to believe in, when he was a child and still thought he was worth saving.
"Stay, Sam." Gabriel's voice is soft but there's a jagged edge to it, something sharp and broken that flickers in his eyes. "Stay with me."

He could barely move. The world was like a heavy weight spread across his body, keeping him from pulling himself to his feet, from leaving the rotting decay of this world behind.

He can only stare at the archangel, visible from where he lay. He was tall, unbroken, standing strong like he had that day he faced off against Lucifer, blade in hand. But there is more to him now. More to him here. His eyes burn bright like the sun that Sam hadn't seen in...

In...

How many days?

Enough , he thinks, and resists the urge to give into the laughter that lurks behind his teeth, hysterical and deadly.

"You're here forever, Sam." Asmodeus hissed in his ears, a memory of words spoken too many times to forget.

He'd lost count of the days long ago, but maybe it didn't matter.

Maybe forever had already come and gone.


Sleep and wakefulness blur together and he doesn't know whether he is in the cage or the meadow. Both are grey and lifeless and perhaps it doesn't matter where he is. His vision has faded to a smear of vague color, his sensations little more than cold and the thrum of his heartbeat against his ribs, too fast. Only his hearing seems unaffected, allowing him to hear every whisper spoken by this illusion of Gabriel that haunts him constantly. He is the only clear thing in Sam's failing vision, his skin glowing with power, his eyes burning like twin stars. He is the most beautiful thing Sam has ever imagined and he thinks, if Gabriel is the last thing he sees, he will go happily into whatever waits for him after this.

"Sam." Gabriel's eyes should be too bright to look at, full of starlight and grace, but Sam meets them without pain. They burn like whiskey poured over shards of glass, glittering with a power Sam can feel within him, like rampant butterflies in his soul.

He tries to focus on the fluttering of soft wings and not the way his chest aches like something is pressing down on it, pinning him to the floor.

Gabriel's presence is like the sunlight he misses more than a full breath and Sam almost cries when the archangel leans down next to him and he can feel warmth against his skin for the first time in what must be forever. The archangel's breath is warm and smells of fresh cut grass and Sam feels the tears slip from his eyes as his name is whispered like supplication.

"Sam, pray for me."

But why? Why does he need to pray for Gabriel? He's already here.

Take me home, Sam thinks, but he isn't sure where home is. He wishes Gabriel would lean down again so Sam could feel his warmth. He's just so cold.

"Pray for me, Sam, so I can find you."

"Blessed Saint Gabriel, Archangel," Same murmured through numb lips, "we beseech you to intercede for us at the throne of divine mercy: As you announced the mystery of the Incarnation to Mary, so through your prayers may we receive strength of faith and courage of spirit, and thus find favor with God and redemption through Christ Our Lord. May we sing the praise of God our Savior with the angels and saints in heaven forever-"

He feels the strength leave him with a suddenness that is startling, his lips fumbling the words of the prayer. He blinks his eyes to clear them and struggles as he tries to open them again, gravity weighing down hard on them.

He can feel his heartbeat thudding hard and deep in his chest and wonders if that's what is making his body tremble. He tries to lick his lips but his tongue is dry and only sticks to the cracked and bloody skin of his mouth, tries to finish the prayer but the words won't come. He is tired.

He hears the thunder of feathers, thousands of them, beat hard against the air, and he forces his eyes open. The world slides around him in a sick smear of grey shadows, but Sam cannot miss the flash of light that might have once been blinding but is now like watching the sun rise over a dark canyon, filling all of its crevices with holy light. He sees little more than outlines and the bright shine of what is unmistakably Gabriel's glowing golden eyes, and his wings.

His heart shudders in his chest and he blames it on the tears that roll down his cheeks at the sight. There are six of them, three pairs, each of them the same burnt honey gold as the archangel's eyes. They raise up behind him, stretching across a room they're much too large for and somehow moving beyond it, outside it, and within it all at once. The feathers shine like they're crystallized and yet he doesn't think he has ever seen anything so soft in all his life.

The strength in his neck fails him, his head dropping unexpectedly. Surprise makes him cry out but he has no strength even for that. His breath eases out of his lungs with a barely-there sound, little more than a sigh. He feels his lungs close up behind them like gates sliding shut.

Oh, he thinks suddenly, and is reminded of a blade in his spine and his body failing around him, sagging hard and useless in his brother's arms. He remembers, from a distance, the way his head had lolled then, his body lacking any strength to hold it up. Oh.

He can still feel his heart in his chest, each beat so hard it makes his spine ache, but it's so slow compared to the racing speed of only minutes prior.

Tachycardia, his mind supplies for him, even in a moment as useless as this, when the information will do nothing to help him.

Instead, his eyes follow the graceful fold of wings as three sets bend and curl over Gabriel's back like a cloak of down. The top pair is so long, the primary feathers drag on the ground, and Sam feels his lips curl up in a smile. He thinks, amused even as his vision darkens, that there is a short joke in there somewhere. He thinks he'd like to see the way Gabriel's wings move when he's affronted, how the feathers would splay like fingers and his shoulders shift to accommodate their weight. He'd like to see the way they move during every emotion, at every moment. He thinks-

Sam's heart gives a painful throb, cutting off his thoughts, and he feels it as a sound leaves his throat. It's as indecipherable as the sudden flap of those wings, feathers ruffled and rubbed wrong, before there is an archangel leaning over him.

He feels the hands that cup his cheeks, the way Gabriel's thumb traces over his skin, warm like sunshine.

"Sam," Gabriel whispers, desperate and pained.

It's the last thing Sam hears.