Sam is sitting on his bed in the motel room he and Dean got (well, the motel room that Dean requested, paid for, and dumped his brother in since Sam has been stumbling around in a numb stupor ever since they ran from the Elysian Fields Hotel, leaving Gabriel to face the devil alone). He's dimly aware that Dean has gone to put up security measures around the perimeter, and to make sure that no pesky Pagan gods are after them. He's also aware of the fact that he appears to be clutching a porno DVD, though he can't quite remember why. He drops it into his duffle bag and blinks a few times, shaking himself. Any second now, he knows, Lucifer will come tearing through the door to get him, to drag him away kicking and screaming.
There's a thud, and Sam bolts to his feet, reaching for his knife. He spins toward the sound, and is surprised to find no one there.
"Down here, kiddo."
His gaze drops to the hunched figure on the carpet that's pulling himself to his feet using the bedside desk, brushing dust from his army-green jacket and looking for all the world like he just tripped on the doormat instead of escaped Satan himself.
"Gabriel?" Sam's jaw drops. "But you were- you won? You killed Lucifer?"
"What? No, don't be stupid," the Archangel shakes his head and scoffs. "He got me good." He tugs aside his jacket with a wince, and the human sees a ragged stain darkening the fabric of his shirt. Gabriel staggers to the side, one leg buckling under him before he can regain control, and Sam drops the knife and catches him, setting him onto the bed.
"Jesus, hang on, lemme get the first aid kit-"
Gabriel laughs, and it's the first time since they faced each other in a dead professor's office that his laugh has sounded genuine. "Don't bother with that, Samsquatch. It won't do much for me- except give you an excuse to take off my shirt, which I guess is reason enough in and of itself..."
Sam rolls his eyes, because of course even bleeding all over himself the Trickster has to find a way to make him uncomfortable. "There has to be something I can do."
Gabriel pins him in place with that suddenly-intensely-serious golden stare, holding it a long moment before nodding once. "Yeah. There is." He pats the mattress next to him. "Get down here."
Sam sits, not without some hesitation, because this is Loki after all, the Trickster who trapped the Winchesters again and again, who killed Dean a hundred times over. The Trickster who is still just sitting there and looking up at him with the oldest eyes and the softest smile he has ever seen, who just looks so grateful it scares him.
Gabriel takes hold of Sam's shoulders and carefully presses him down onto the bed, manhandling him onto his side, and that should worry Sam but he can't seem to focus on anything beyond the way the Archangel's hands are shaking ever-so-slightly as he folds in on himself next to the hunter, pressing his forehead to Sam's chest.
"This is- this is gonna help?" Sam shifts slightly, unsure of whether to put his arm over the smaller man or not, because this is nice and warm and he kind of likes it but he doesn't want to make anything more of it than what it probably is- some sort of healing ritual, maybe using his energy or soul power to close up the wound.
"Yeah, kiddo, this'll help," Gabriel's voice is muffled.
They lie in silence for a few minutes, and Sam can't help but notice that the angel's breathing isn't growing any less ragged- if anything, it's getting worse. He lifts his head and angles it, sliding his hand down to part the fabric of the Trickster's jacket, and he feels it before he even sees it, his fingers damp with it. He feels the Archangel tense.
"Gabriel..." He says hoarsely. "Why aren't you- why aren't you healing?"
"Cause I can't," the injured man half-chuckles weakly. "Archangel blade, Sam. No recovering from that."
"But you-" Sam knows he's doing that 'lost puppy' voice that Dean hates but he can't help it. "But you said this would help!" He feels indignant, then foolish, then indignant again.
Gabriel looks up at him, that weird sad-happy look that the hunter's only seen on him and Castiel- must be an angel thing. "It is helping, Sam," he says softly, bringing a pale hand up to brush a hair from the Winchester's eyes. "It's helping a lot more than bleeding out on a cold floor while my brother watches would." His fingers hover over Sam's face, then settle on his chest, curling into the collar of his shirt.
"But..." It's all Sam can manage, cradling this Archangel- this dying Archangel- this man, this brilliant, ancient being that has been alive for longer than the Earth, for ages beyond calculation and seen things that would literally blow lesser creatures' minds, who threw all that experience, all that life away for two measly humans and a lowly little rebel angel. Who chose to spend his last moments in the arms of the man who's tried to kill him every time they've met. "But..."
"Shhh, Sammy." Gabriel buries his face in Sam's shoulder. "And you might wanna close your eyes; things are gonna get awful bright soon."
"But this isn't- this isn't fair. It's not right," the hunter protests helplessly.
"Mmm." The hand at the human's chest comes up and taps his nose. "That right there, Sam? That's all I want right now." He coughs, and warm drops hit Sam's neck. "Somebody that I... somebody that gives enough of a crap to do this. Which is probably... pretty pathetic, if you think... about it." His breath is more and more labored. "Of all the people alive in the world, I had to go... and fall for the one with maybe... the most reason to kill me."
"Don't," Sam whispers, finally giving in and wrapping his arms around Gabriel, pressing his nose into the angel's hair- it smells like lightning and cotton candy and copper. "Please don't."
"Trust me, I wouldn't if I had a choice," the Trickster chuckles again. "But trust me on this too- there are much worse ways out... than this one."
Sam can't take it anymore; he turns his head and kisses Gabriel before the whimper building in his throat can escape. Gabriel makes a genuinely shocked sound, then kisses back desperately, fiercely, and Sam tries to ignore the taste of blood and focus instead on how warm-soft and hot-sharp his mouth is, the way the smaller being's fingers catch at the back of his neck.
They part at last when Sam's lungs scream for air, and Gabriel leans in and brushes their noses together. "Thanks, Sam."
Then the hand behind the hunter's head comes around and covers his eyes, and Sam shakes his head frantically, trying to tell him that he doesn't care if his eyes burn out, but there's a blast of heat and bright from between Gabriel's tightly clasped fingers, and Sam gasps, sobs once, and then the fingers loosen and fall away. Sam doesn't need to open his eyes, doesn't need to see the expressionless face or the burnt shape of wings across the bedspread, doesn't need to hear the door open and Dean's surprised exclamations to know that he's lost something he didn't know he had, something he'll never have again.