He's absolutely certain Gadreel's cringing inside his skin, totally regretting this.

"Whoa, whoa, calm down, Cas!" Dean shouts, holding back the former angel.

"You son of a bitch!" Cas spits at Sam, either unaware or uncaring that Gadreel remains in the backseat. "All of this! All of it is your fault! The Apocalypse, demons, all of it! You ruined the universe!"

A ripple of guilt and anguish cascades within the angel, stealing Sam's breath at the intensity of it. It's a familiar feeling—too familiar. Old words rise unbidden in Sam's mind, nearly ancient accusations echoing his ears:

You're sorry you started Armageddon? This kind of thing don't get forgiven, boy.

Drinking demon blood? This is about as far away from strong as you can get. Try weak. Try desperate. Pathetic.

For a moment, red becomes all Sam can see, anger swallowing his mind whole. It's silly, because Gadreel's a powerful angel and doesn't need a defender, but Sam doesn't think it through. He feels hot with his misdirected anger that doesn't even make sense, his fists clenching. He's not sure whether he's mad on Gadreel's behalf or his own, or if he's just mad at the situation.

It takes him a moment to calm down enough to speak. His temper won't help anything. He needs logic.

"Cas, you realize you're shouting at the angel you resurrected you, right?" Sam asks, tone remarkably calm. "Maybe even the only one who would."

"If he hadn't been so weak, none of this would have ever happened!" he spits back, cerulean depths alight with rage.

Dean grabs Cas' arm, spinning him around to face him. "Cas, hey! You got to chill, man."

"Dean, he—!"

"What about me, Cas? I started the apocalypse!" Sam breaks in, voice trembling and swelling. "I let Lucifer out of his cage."

"It's not the same, Sam," Cas shoots back. "Ruby fooled you."

"Oh, sure, that makes it okay," Sam says, voice dry. "Just a run-of-the mill demon fooled me. It's not as if an archangel, with all its power, tried to trick me."

Cas' face falters for a bare moment. "It's not the same," he repeats, but doesn't sound quite as certain.

"The angels think you're a bad guy, too, Cas. They think you and Metatron are working together. Isn't there the slightest chance Gadreel has gotten the same rotten press?"

"No," he growls. "God Himself imprisoned Gadreel."

He closes his eyes, and sees a bar, closed up for the night, and a circle of angry hunters demanding penance: Why? You gonna hate me any less? Am I going to hate myself any less?

Sam's eyes fly open, and he takes a heaving breath. He can't stroll down memory lane, not now.

"Cas, you were God for a while. You let loose the oldest monsters of all, who went out and terrorized humanity."

Cas's face does falter this time, his expression going slack. "Sam, I—."

"I know," he says. "You didn't mean for it to happen. And you did time paying for your mistakes in Purgatory."

He hesitates, blue eyes glancing uncertainly between Dean and Sam. "Yes..."

"What about the angels falling? Do you think you should do penance for that?" Sam presses.

He feels Gadreel shift inside of him, uncomprehending of Sam's tone and purpose, confusion thrumming hot along his skin.

"I... yes." Cas' anger evaporates, and he hangs his head.

Even Dean side eyes Sam at this point, his jaw clenching, as though he's about to jump and defend Cas.

Sam takes a steadying breath and reaches out to clasp Castiel's shoulder. "Well, you don't deserve any more punishment. You've given enough."

Cas' head tilts upwards, the lines of his face creasing. He looks as confused as Gadreel feels within him.

"No mistake is worth eternal punishment," Sam tells him. "Being wrong is not the same as doing wrong. I mean, come on, Cas. You fought Raphael. You may have done the wrong things, but you did them for the right reasons. You never meant for it to turn out as awful as it did. "

Understanding flickers in Cas' eyes, and his expression softens minutely.

"Gadreel made a mistake. Lucifer fooled him for a single moment, and that one mistake has cost him since the beginning of time. Gadreel did not ruin the universe. Lucifer did."

Cas seems more uncertain than ever. "God himself commanded Gadreel thrown into Heaven's dungeon."

"And where is He? God hasn't been seen in a long time, while everything goes to hell around here," Sam counters. "I'm sorry, Cas, but God got it wrong. He split, and the archangels decided to throw away the key. It's unfair."

Gadreel shifts yet again, his Grace glowing warm and constant, and the restless murmur Sam's felt for weeks smoothes somewhat. Instead of retreating into a miniscule pinpoint of awareness, the angel unfolds and fills his body just a little more, as if realizing maybe he doesn't need to hide from Sam all the time.

Perhaps Gadreel has spent all his time since the dawn of humanity hiding; drawing himself into the smallest places, hoping he would be neither seen nor heard. Even though his prison was in Heaven, Sam still knows the angel experienced torture on par with Hell. It's akin to how Sam himself behaved in the Cage, vainly trying to hide from Lucifer's tortures, clawing at the unyielding walls as if he could become a part of them.

An distressed shudder trembles through him, like he's drowning in hellfire again. He survived Hell for far too long, and he doesn't want anyone else to live such torment, either. Whether an enemy, a friend, or an angel he only slightly knows, it's a torture too terrible to wish upon another.

Something uncertain tugs at him, summer-warm and curious all at once, and if Sam could lay eyes upon Gadreel, he has no idea what he might see. Coursing Grace in his muscles comfort with an unworldly touch, his frayed nerves unwinding like unspooled thread.

He frowns. Why does the angel care? Why does Gadreel bother with comfort?

"I understand torment," he says with a dispassionate tone, like he's talking about the fucking weather.

Cas draws Sam's attention away from Gadreel, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I will try," he says, his eyes narrowing to slits. "But Gadreel, should you harm Sam Winchester in any way, I will end you."

Hearing Dean's words in Cas' mouth throws Sam for a moment. Anyway, the message arrives loud and clear. "He hears you."

"He should show his face and tell me himself," Cas pushes, face flushed deep red, voice rough and furious again.

Sam levels Castiel with a withering gaze, even as Gadreel's Grace stirs, proceeding to request Sam for permission to take over. Just for a moment, he asks.

Sam's so stunned the angel even asked he forgets he's answering out loud. "Now you're asking? You're already in here."

"It is your body, Sam Winchester. I agreed to heal you, not use you as my personal vessel."

Huh. Wonders never cease.

"Sure, okay. Go talk to Cas."

The angel expands, blue-white Grace exploding behind Sam's eyes and blinding him for an instant. Gadreel swells to encompass every crack and crevice within Sam's body, light stretching full and hot, enveloping him. While the angel seems strangely well contained within his body, he doesn't quite fit into Sam's skin. It feels awkward and uncomfortable, like wearing clothes a few sizes too large.

Gadreel doesn't fully possess Sam, not really—he's filled with the angel's presence, but not bursting with it. It's not mind-numbing and terrible, not the way Lucifer filled him to the point of agony. Lucifer had been burning, frigid light, the archangel's presence spilling over like Sam's body was a too-full cup, threatening to rip open. His only other reference to angel possession had been Jimmy Novak's 'chained to a comet' sensation, which doesn't match, either.

He feels his back straighten, his posture shifting subtlety. His mouth moves and his voice works without his consent. The intonation, the accent, they don't belong to him.

"I understand, Castiel," Gadreel says with a calmness Sam knows he does not feel at all.

"You should not have concealed your true name from Dean," he adds, his voice harsh like fire.

"Indeed," Gadreel tells Cas, his expression stoic. "I was… concerned, in the beginning."

Castiel glares, but it doesn't have quite the bitter bite of his previous stares. He gives the angel a short, curt nod. "Do not conceal yourself in the future, and perhaps angels might find you more trustworthy."

Gadreel loudly thinks such action would constitute a death wish, but he does not argue. "I will submit to your wisdom on the matter, brother."

Cas' face softens a fraction more, as if he hadn't expected the answer. "Return control to Sam," he orders, in lieu of continuing.

The angel draws up within him all at once, the light and warmth retreating back into the tiny place within Sam where Gadreel hides. It's so quick, so automatic it leaves Sam reeling. He hadn't actually expected him to follow Cas' order so lightning quick.

When Sam had been in Hell, Lucifer had shattered him to pieces. He had come to follow Lucifer's commands with the same kind of automatic reaction: completely thoughtless, as fast as possible, lest his disobedience invoke a cruel torture.

Sam waves his arms, palms out. "I'm here, I'm back."

Cas' face relaxes, though he still regards Sam unpleasantly. "As I said, I will try. I cannot promise anything."

And Sam doesn't miss the flare of restless hope blooming in his chest, a tingle of emotion fluttering out through his fingertips.


Two weeks pass, and almost nothing changes. If Sam didn't know the thrumming warmth in his ribcage came from the angel, he wouldn't know he had a passenger at all. He's buried deeper than bedrock beneath sandy soil.

So much for the angel not hiding from him. Not that Sam's complaining, exactly.

He tries to calm his nerves about the whole affair, but it feels like trying to contain a wildfire with a single bucket of water and willpower alone. Two weeks later, and he's about as comfortable as he'd feel carrying a boulder on his back.

So he doesn't call to Gadreel, and Gadreel doesn't talk to him. It works… for a while.

He and Dean head out of town to take care of a vampire's nest near Kearney, and it's fairly routine—up until a descending blade glints in the moonlight, the last vampire burying a knife in Dean's chest. Sam lunges forward and beheads it, and drops to Dean's side. The blade cuts clean through his shoulder, jutting rudely out the opposite side. A greenish slime covers an exposed part of the blade near the hilt, and Sam thinks it smells like a poison they've encountered before. Leaving the blade in might kill him. Pulling it free probably means Dean will bleed out.

Sam does the only thing he can think to do: He screams for the angel's help. "Gadreel!"

He does not stir, and Sam clamps his eyes shut, rooting harshly within himself for the angel's presence. He finds a tendril of Grace and yanks hard, pulling at the heat and light at the heart of the angel.

This time, Gadreel's answer is near-instantaneous, unfurling and spreading out his Grace through Sam's limbs so fierce and quick it's like a firestorm blowing right over a firebreak. A rush of extreme confusion spreads as the angel peers out through Sam's eyes, but he quickly divines Sam hasn't called him here for a picnic.

"Help him, please," Sam begs. "You can heal him, right?"

"I require use of your body."

"Take it!" he shouts.

The angel surges forward, ill-fitting, but bright and whisper-smooth. Sam feels his back straighten, and he wants to twitch, but can't. Gadreel places Sam's hand, solid and steady, on Dean's chest, a flutter of Grace reaching out, assessing.

"Zeke?" he chokes. Blood lines his teeth, his lips dark with it.

"Do not fear," the angel answers. "I will heal you."

Concern twists though his Grace, prickling like bare skin against snow. One hand presses firm against Dean's shoulder, the other wrenches the vile blade free. He covers the wound, and Sam feels Grace swirling forwards, out of his palm, and into Dean, beating a gentle cadence to match his brother's heart.

It ends abrupt and sharp, energy drained like he's fought a battle with a wall—and lost. Gadreel sits back on his heels, regarding Dean silently, his head tilted. Dean groans, and sits up, kneading the absent wound.

"Nice timing, man."

Gadreel does not meet his eyes, instead taking in the scene with widened eyes, sincere astonishment fluttering in Sam's chest. "Vampires."

"Vamps," Dean agrees. "Dead vamps, now." He grunts, lumbering onto leaden feet. "Weren't you paying attention?"

Gadreel's lips twitch, the slightest of frowns. "No. I do not eavesdrop." He rises to his feet, impossibly lithe and graceful, stretching out to Sam's full height. "Dean, your brother is not well enough to be hunting."

Sam disagrees. He feels perfectly fine, thank you very much.

"I am certain you do," the angel tells him. "The presence of my Grace strengthens you. However, you are not, in fact, well."

"Hey, he told me he was good," Dean protested, mouth twisting.

"He feels well, yes," Gadreel says. "Do not allow this illusion to mislead either of you. I am currently all that holds him together." He regards the bodies on the ground a moment, curiosity flaring in his Grace for an instant. "Your hunt is over?"

Dean snorts, casting a long glance at the bodies on the ground. "We ganked all them bitches, so… yep."

"Then I bid you good night." And he drops back within Sam like a stone in water, folding up into his hiding place, leaving Sam momentarily stunned by the rapid departure.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute!" Sam calls out, only just catching the angel's attention.

"Yes, Sam?" The angel's voice echoes quietly between his ears, somewhat expectant, a thread of exhaustion coloring his Grace.

Actually, Sam's not certain what to say at all, or what he'd even been thinking, calling out to the angel. He's just spent the entire week studiously avoiding any conversation or interaction, as if he could hide himself away from the angel possessing his body.

"Thank you," Sam finally says, "for helping Dean."

A slight pulse of warmth expands from his chest, radiating out through his entire body. "You are welcome." The angel sinks back into his quiet spot, just beyond Sam's ability to easily reach.

As he and Dean clean vamp blood and gooey stuff from their blades, repacking their gear in the Impala, Sam replays the evening's events in his mind. Gadreel's confusion and alarm had been crisp and visceral, and so very real. He's struck all at once with the realization Gadreel has kept his word. He respects Sam's privacy. He doesn't even seem to peek out of Sam's eyes.

Sam wonders if it's lonely in there, wherever the angel hides.

They arrive back at the bunker two hours later, and Dean greets Cas with a clap on the back and a bright smile, which Cas returns. When it's Sam's turn, however, Cas drops his eyes and turns away, making swiftly for another room. A soft, barely there, "Hello, Sam," passes his lips.

Sam just sighs. Cas has to speak to him eventually, right?


Another week passes with no change. Dean won't let Sam go hunting, Cas still won't talk to Sam, and Gadreel has made no further appearances.

Sam thinks about the angel's absence too much, and it's like bracing himself for a destructive blow that never comes. The other shoe hasn't dropped. If he's completely honest with himself, he doesn't think it's going to. If Gadreel meant him harm, he's had ample opportunity to make a move already. Sam thinks he'd sense it, too, and so far, he's yet to feel anything personally threatening.

He wonders about where the angel goes when he hides. Wonders if his body feels like just another cage to the angel. Sam doesn't know much about Gadreel, but if he closes his eyes and just feels, he gets scraps, tiny hints which allow him to start painting an image—an ever-present current of restlessness; a cold well of sadness he can scarcely touch; a flutter of grief.

He's nervous, but now there's curiosity, too, spreading like a slow poison through his thoughts. Who is this angel riding around in his skin? This creature who shares his body but doesn't even fully manifest himself? Why does he feel restless?

Sam ponders these mysteries as Dean and Castiel argue with one another over the topic of pets. Sam blinks back to the present, and glances over his shoulder at Kevin, who hovers near the doorway. Sam exchanges an amused glance with the prophet, and when Dean moves to ask Sam for his opinion, it all goes wrong.

"I don't want his opinion," Cas snarls, far more vicious than strictly necessary, considering they're talking about kittens.

All movement in the room halts, the heat gone frosty and silent.

Sam sighs, exhaling through tight lips. "Cas, did I personally offend you, or something? You won't even speak to me anymore."

His eyes narrow. "It's not you, Sam. It's him."

Sam stares, flustered. "You're not getting Gadreel's opinion. Hell, he's buried so deep I couldn't get his opinion right now if I wanted it."

Cas stares, uncertain, blue eyes stormy with conflict.

"Look, cut him and me some slack, okay? He brought you back from the dead and saved Dean's life, and he's not even whispering in my ear." Sam shrugs. "So, stop taking it out on me, already."

Cas' chest heaves with a loud gust of air. His expression does not soften, but he nods, once.

"Besides," Sam says, "I don't care if you guys get a cat or not. It doesn't matter. You should both do what makes you happy."

Kevin, hitherto silent, adds, "I wouldn't mind a kitten."

Cas snaps his head back to Dean. "See? That's three of us."

"No way, Cas," Dean argues. "I'm allergic to cats!"

Sam can't hold back a smirk. "You could get a puppy."

"Or a guinea pig!" Kevin suggests.

"Will you both shut up?" Dean hisses, lacking any mirth whatsoever.

Kevin snorts, face splitting wide with a grin as he ducks out of the room. Sam shakes his head, and leaves the not-boyfriends to sort it out.

He strolls to the bunker's library, letting his body slide down into a chair. He's still smiling, an occasional chuckle working its way free. Imagine, seeking out Gadreel's opinion on a kitten…

It's too bad. Gadreel's reaction to an argument about small, fluffy animals probably would have been hilarious.

The thought draws Sam up short. He should probably try and draw Gadreel out more often, anyway. They'll never get to know one another otherwise. Besides, the angel can't enjoy the isolation and solitude he's imposed on himself.

The idea makes nerves go aflame, his stomach twisting in knots. What if the angel gets the wrong idea and starts taking over? What if he comes out all the time, violates Sam's privacy and autonomy, and ignores Sam's wishes?

But none of these things have happened. Gadreel has only ever done what Sam asks. And he's helped—Sam's still breathing, after all. Gadreel felt concern for Dean's sake when the vampire injured him, and he's offered comfort to Sam, even when Sam had been angry with the angel.

Sam massages his temples, thumbs pressing into tender flesh. He didn't sign up for this crap. But it's not fair to the angel, either, not really, and Sam's not going to pretend otherwise. He hides Gadreel away like he's a necessary evil instead of a living, thinking creature, only to arise when Sam or someone else needs something.

A 'necessary evil.' It's an apt description for how he's viewed the angel thus far. Though it remains true, in a way, Sam thinks maybe it doesn't have to stay that way. As long as the angel listens to Sam's direction and doesn't try and march away with his body, it should sort of work out, right?

He rests his elbows on the table, fingers steepled against his lips. He reaches within, all his scrutiny and focus tuned to the place he knows the angel hides away.

Grace flutters warmly underneath his skin, the angel emerging from murky, unknowable depths in a swift rush, expanding, stretching out, filling skin and bone.

"Is anything the matter?" he asks after a moment. "I sense no danger in our vicinity."

Sam's stomach does something decidedly unpleasant at the word 'our,' but he pushes the train of thought away. "I just wanted to talk."

Faint surprise flickers in his chest, though the angel's tone remains even. "Of what?"

"You, actually," Sam says. "I was thinking, you know, maybe you should come out more often. Like you are right now. Not in control, but… present, you know? You've got to be bored in there, right?"

Gadreel remains silent a long moment. "Thank you, but… I must decline. I have given you my word, and shall not intrude where I am unwelcome."

Sam frowns. "Well then, I'm inviting you. That makes you welcome. Come out every once in a while. Read a book with me. Enjoy dinner. Or whatever it is angels do."

The angel falls silent, and Sam detects the tiniest trace of want humming through his Grace, fleeting and dim. It makes Sam smile—Gadreel wants to say 'yes.'

"I promised you your solitude, Sam, and I shall not break my word." He pauses. "And if I am distracted from the task of healing you, I will spend longer within you than you want—longer than we both want."

Sam blinks, stunned, something caustic gripping at his chest and going right down his spine at the angel's declaration. The sensation stills after a moment, because it's not actually so surprising. Gadreel doesn't like the situation any more than Sam does. Given their scant few encounters, the angel probably even thinks Sam despises him.

"Do you not?" he asks, tone absent of inflection.

Sam inhales deeply, holding the breath. "I was mad, Gadreel, and I've been uncomfortable. But no, I don't hate you or anything." He breathes out slowly, the ticking of a nearby clock ticking loud amidst the silence. He remembers the fiery night he learned of Gadreel's presence, and all of the anger and fear. "I understand why you'd think that, though."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Sam realizes Gadreel probably doesn't like him all too much either. They've talked in earnest all of once, in Sam's library-shaped headspace. Sam had stared him down, demanding the angel give up his greatest regrets and misdeeds to a near-stranger. And Gadreel, despite the anxiety it caused him, had complied.

Only fleeting scraps of conversation had passed between them after the first night: explaining the situation to Cas, and begging for Gadreel's help to heal Dean. Sam had demanded both of these things, as well, prodding until the angel agreed.

"You are wrong," Gadreel says softly, a thread of gentle warmth weaving throughout his Grace. "I harbor no ill will towards you, Sam."

Sam smiles faintly. "Then hang around every once in a while. There's no reason we should stay strangers." He leans back in the seat, the wooden edges digging sharply into his back. "I want to know who this 'Gadreel' is that I'm carrying around inside of me."

After a long moment, he finally says, "As would I."

The answer confuses Sam, but he shakes it off. "So?"

"I shall consider it." And all at once, he retreats back within Sam.


For two entire weeks, the angel does not make so much as a peep. So much for consideration.

Sam sits cross-legged on his bed, MP3 player cycling through his playlist as he reads ancient lore on demons for anything to help them fight Abaddon. Ruby's blade doesn't work. Angel blades won't work. According to Cas, neither will an archangel blade nor a flat-out smiting. Death's scythe might work, if it lives up to its reputation, but they'll never get their hands on it.

Something has to work. Abaddon is powerful, but not absolute.

He closes his eyes as a beautiful violin sonata plays, and leans back against cold, solid brick. Sam hasn't heard this song in too long, and it provides a welcome respite from the research. The music feels bittersweet and tragic, yet delicate. It's one of his favorites.

He's so caught up in the crests and crescendos of the music he doesn't immediately realize the angel's attention has been roused. Grace hums with silent curiosity, and all at once, Sam notices him.

Gadreel freezes—there's no better word for it—sudden anxiety pulsing in Sam's bones, as if the angel feels he's overstepped. Neither of them move for a moment, until Gadreel moves to slink back into his hiding spot. Sam reaches out quickly, pulling gently at his Grace to halt his retreat. The angel stills, though his worry doesn't.

"The song is beautiful, isn't it?" Sam asks. "You should listen to it with me."

It takes a moment, but the tenseness coiled inside of him relaxes slowly, like sap. Sam smiles, and let his mind drift on the highs and lows of the violin's song, swept up in the emotion of the music. Too soon, the song ends, and Sam pauses the music player. The quiet feels fitting after such a gorgeous song.

His rhythmic breathing and the soft cadence of his heartbeat strain against the silence, the silken warmth of angelic Grace flowing smoothly through tired muscles.

Sam's considering playing the song again when Gadreel speaks. "Yes, it is… beautiful. I have not heard anything like it."

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, eyes sliding shut as the angel's gratitude, warm and peaceful, settles everywhere. "I like listening to the violin," Sam says. "Never learned to play, but… I was busy doing other things. Hunting. Getting ready for Law school. I never got the chance."

A low hum of curiosity pulses gently underneath Sam's skin. "What is a violin?"

Sam can't stop his face-splitting grin from tearing free. "There's one in the storeroom. I'll show you."


"I got this. You should kick your feet up and take it easy."

Sam glares. "Dean, it's been more than two months since the Trials. I feel great."

Dean's lips press together, eyes narrow. "Look, this ain't no vamp's nest. It's a demon problem."

"Which is why you should take me," Sam protests. "Dean, I haven't seen anything outside the front door in a month, since we took out an actual vamp's nest." He shakes his head, frustration burning in his skin. "I'm getting better. I can do this."

Sam steals a desperate glance at Cas, hoping for backup, but finds no sympathy in those stern, azure eyes.

Dean nods, all smartass and sarcasm. "And what does Zeke say?"

Dean's never quite gotten out of the habit of calling him Zeke. It's probably harder for him to make a nickname out of 'Gadreel' than 'Ezekiel,' but Sam doesn't doubt for a minute he'll eventually come up with something.

Sam shrugs. "Last I heard from him, he says it's a work in progress. But really, Dean, I'm fine for this hunt."

"You're only fine 'cause you've got an angelic pacemaker." Dean shakes his head. "No, you're sitting this one out."

"He's right," Cas says, finally joining the conversation. "If you overstrain yourself hunting, it will take Ga—him longer to heal you."

Sam stares at both of them, sullen. "I'm fine. Really."

Dean and Cas exchange a glance, and Dean raises his voice. "Yo, Zeke! Come out here for a second."

Sam just chuckles, shaking his head. "He's not here, man."

"Get his attention, then!"

He exhales, a sharp, harsh noise, and rolls his eyes. He clamps them shut and calls to the angel. Gadreel's response comes easy and swift, and he rises up to the surface with Sam.

"All right, Gadreel's listening," Sam tells them.

"Good," Dean grunts. "Now, is Sam in any shape to go ten rounds with a pack of demons?"

Gadreel's surprise—and after a moment, disapproval—flares powerful and hot in Sam's body, leaving his eyes stinging in its wake.

"I'm fine," Sam tells both Gadreel and Dean through clenched teeth. "Come on, I'm fine. I can do this."

Dean's eyes narrow, lips set in a thin line. "I want to hear it from Zeke."

Sam exhales, disappointment bitter in his mouth. He knows what the angel will say. He closes his eyes and lets go, pushing Gadreel to go and talk to his brother. The angel complies, Grace expanding hot and full in his skin.

His back straightens in the chair. "Absolutely not," Gadreel says in a voice that brooks no argument, woven through with concern. "Your brother is not well enough for hunts of any sort."

"That's what I thought. Thanks, Zeke," Dean says with a satisfied smirk "See, Sam? You're not going anywhere." He turns on his heels, sauntering away.

Sam tries to sigh, and can't. "Thanks a lot, man."

The angel remains impassive. "It is the truth. If you could see the state of your body as I do, you would—."

Something high-pitched and crinkling resonates all at once in Sam, interrupting Gadreel. The shrill blast makes Sam cringe down to his very core, and he thinks his eyes would water if they could.

"Chatter from the angels," Gadreel murmurs, by way of explanation to Sam. The reverberating shriek of it dials down to a bearable whistle.

Dean spins around. "What's happening on angel radio?"

Gadreel tilts his head, his eyes narrow. "Angel… radio?"

"Yes," Cas cuts in, finally looking at Gadreel for the first time. "The chatter we—." He halts, shaking his head, and for an instant, he looks stricken. "The chatter you hear of our brothers and sisters. Angel radio."

Gadreel nods slowly. "Curious. Angel radio, then."

The angel's eyes go distant again as he listens, the volume increasing. Sam doesn't hear words, but only the screech of nails on chalkboard, expanding until he thinks his own spine vibrates, ugly pulses skittering across his skin. He wants to cringe, to cover his ears, to claw at his skin and make the awful racket stop. Sam's never heard a noise so appalling in his life.

In the midst of the agony, Sam feels a burst of Gadreel's alarm. All at once, the dreadful noise ceases, and in its wake there's a sweep of summer-warm Grace. It soothes his burning eyes and aching ears, fills the pit in his chest, and smoothes the tension along his spine. In the space of three seconds, Gadreel methodically brushes away every trace of Sam's discomfort.

"I apologize, Sam. That will not happen again," he tells him. "I was not aware it would affect you so."

Sam thinks his body got confused somewhere between the piercing pain and its near-instant relief. A moment ago, he thought his ears might burst open and bleed, and he desperately needed to cringe, to claw, to scream with the anguish of it. Now, he's half-numb with Grace, floating, disembodied in his own skin. It's like being shot up with strong painkillers, except his brain seems to still work fine.

Sam's state doesn't escape the angel's attention. "I will return your body, now. You may relay the information to Dean and Castiel."

Sam frowns, or the mental equivalent of it, anyway. "No, you do it. It'll be faster."

Gadreel hesitates, worry tingling hot against Sam's skin, but he nods.

"Fighting has broken out between two factions of angels," he says, addressing the other men in the room. "One is under the leadership of an angel named Malachi, while the opposing faction follows the angel Bartholomew."

"Bartholomew…" Cas' voice trails off, and he shakes his head. "Why are they fighting?"

Gadreel squints his eyes, concentrating. Sam hears the sound of angel radio again, but now it's just faint, warbling static, and doesn't hurt at all.

"They do not speak of motivation," Gadreel says. "I will report back if I determine any news."

Dean nods. "Angel on angel violence, eh?"

Gadreel frowns. "It is troubling."

"They're lost," Cas says, his expression as pained as Gadreel's. "Looking for direction, and no one's there to give it."

Gadreel thinks to put his hand on Castiel's shoulder in comfort, but abandons the idea. Dean beats him to it, in any case.

"All right, yeah." He nods. "I'll call up Tracy and some other hunters. We'll gank these demon sons' of bitches and be back in time for dinner."

"And if they are among Abaddon's ranks?" Gadreel inquires.

Dean grins. "I'm an equal opportunity ganker."

Gadreel nods. "As you wish. Take care, Dean. I am sorry I cannot provide assistance."

"Just take care of my brother."

Sam would roll his eyes, if he could.

"I shall," the angel answers. Sincerity flows against Sam's skin, steady and pillow-soft. He glances up and meets Cas' eyes, and a pulse of discomfort coils low in Sam's belly.

"They are hunting for you, brother," Gadreel tells him. "You should not leave, either."

"What are they saying?" Dean breaks in.

Sam's fairly certain Gadreel's trying to impress the importance of the situation on them, if he judges by the intensity of the angel's stare. "They desire retribution against Castiel for assisting Metatron."

Cas exhales sharply. "I don't work for Metatron. That should be obvious."

"Nevertheless, you are safe from neither faction. The story they share amongst themselves blames you for the Fall. They claim you are yet Metatron's agent."

"They're wrong! Metatron tricked me and stole my Grace!" Cas blinks, and his entire face goes slack, as if something profound has just occurred to him. He turns a surprised, soft gaze on Gadreel. "That story about me… It isn't true."

Gadreel nods. "I believe you." And after a beat, "And I understand."

For perhaps the first time, the two angels exchange a non-hostile glance, and a low thrum of anxiety Sam hasn't even noticed until now softens.

"You should remain here, Castiel," Gadreel repeats. "You are hunted, which places all those here in danger should your location become known." He pauses. "The chatter among our brothers is so consumed with wrath I fear they would strike first before asking for your story."

Dean shakes his head. "Yeah, no. You're not leaving, Cas. You're gonna keep your ass out of sight, okay?"

Cas looks impossibly tired, impossibly human, like a soaked towel wrung out too many times and left to dry. "Yes. That seems wise."

Gadreel opens his mouth to speak, but Cas has already spun on his heels and made for the door. With a gnawing sense of regret, the angel watches him go, sorrow and disappointment throbbing ice-cold through his Grace.

"He's been different since becoming human," Sam offers quietly. "I think humanity is overwhelming to him."

Gadreel stares at the open doorway. "I am not often present in the world, and I have not lost my Grace. Yet I also find this world highly distressing. I cannot imagine the depth of his suffering."

Sam tries to send something kind and warm Gadreel's way, something he hopes feels somewhat comforting. "He'll come around. Don't worry."

Sam's body shifts—technically, it's Gadreel's right now—and Sam feels the angel reaching out, reacting to Sam's attempt at comfort with an almost fond sweep of Grace. Yet, worry spreads and flows through the angel, stone-heavy and suffocating.

"I wish to help him, but he cannot stand to share a room with me."

"Give him time. He'll see you both are in the same boat."

For an instant, Sam's back aches, deep, fiery stabs quivering down the center of his shoulder blades. It vanishes nearly as soon as he feels it.


A few nights later, he's trying to cajole Gadreel out to read a book with him. This time, the angel actively resists.

Sam knows he doesn't feel welcome, and nothing Sam says seems to convince him otherwise. The angel won't peek through his eyes when he's not invited, nor has he rifled through Sam's memories, nor does he snoop on Sam's emotions. It's not that Sam's not grateful for his privacy (he is), but he's just a bit flustered at his inability to convince Gadreel, too, if he's being honest.

No matter how sincere Sam feels about trying to get to know him, it won't amount to a thing if Gadreel doesn't want the same thing. He's at a loss for what else to do, though, and feels so crestfallen it surprises even himself.

It surprises Gadreel, too. He's just aware enough of Sam to taste the sharp edge of his discontent, and it's enough to draw him out.

"Why are you disappointed?" he asks in a truly curious tone.

Sam sighs. "You're here. We're stuck with each other right now. And you're hiding from me."

"Is that not what you wanted?" His voice rings clear, free of cynicism or spite. He's asking in all honesty.

Sam thinks on it for a moment, considering his answer carefully. He can't give Gadreel a white lie or an exaggeration—these things become pointless when possessed. "At first, yes," he admits, "but… it's not what I want now. If you paid attention to what I am feeling, you'd see that."

Confusion flutters in his chest. "Sam Winchester, I gave you my word I would not eavesdrop. That includes your emotions."

"Yes, and I believe you," Sam says. "Look, I just want you to hang out in the present with me sometimes, okay? Read a book, watch a movie, chit-chat. I mean, I know you've got to be feeling all alone in there."

"I do not enjoy the solitude," he admits after a long moment.

Sam holds his breath, feeling the stretch of too-tight muscles in his chest before exhaling harshly. "Then don't choose to be alone."

It's silent for nearly a full minute, but the span of time fills with indecisiveness, worry, want, curiosity, and guilt, all sweeping through Sam as strong as his own emotion might.

"You will enjoy less privacy. I cannot easily block your thoughts and emotions while present."

Sam smiles faintly, brushing away a surfacing flutter of self-consciousness. "I know. I'm asking anyway."

Another long moment passes, then the angel unfurls from his hiding place, stretching forward and expanding his Grace until he's inhabiting the body with Sam. He doesn't take control, but Sam can still feel the burning heat of the angel in his core, swirling through his veins and muscles and bones. It's no different than when Gadreel takes control to speak (all of the three times it's happened), yet this time it's a pleasant hum against his skin.

"You'll have less privacy, too, right?" he asks the angel. "Does that bother you?"

Gadreel doesn't take long to answer. "No, I do not mind. I think I shall find the company pleasing."


Sam's so tired he feels dead in his seat, eyes striving to stay open. Gadreel, however, seems no less interested in the book.

Sam's musing on the possibility of bed when the angel makes a soft request. "Might I keep reading?"

A low chuckle escapes Sam's lips. "I can't. I need to sleep."

"You can. I shall remain here and continue, should you find it agreeable."

Sam blinks slowly, because gravity wants to pull his eyelids shut against his will. He shifts in the stiff, uncushioned chair. "What do you mean? Like, I sleep, and you take over the body?"

"Indeed. You will rest, and not know the difference. I would ensure you sleep well."

For a split second, Sam wants to disagree, which might take more vigor than he currently has at his disposal. The thought of Gadreel strolling around in his body without Sam there to supervise feels disconcerting and alarming. But… It's not actually such an awful request. Maybe he just really wants to read. And after all, Sam is the one who talked the angel into coming around more often.

"You promise you won't leave the library? That you're just going to sit here and read?"

"You have my word."

"If anything comes up, you'll wake me up?"

"I shall."

He sighs, and finally nods. "All right. Just… don't leave, okay?"

Something warm pulses underneath his skin, soothing and drowsy. "I will not betray your trust."

He sets the book down on the table, and rubs his face with his hands. At some fuzzy point after that, he falls into a deep, dreamless slumber.

When he awakens, he feels clear and fresh with none of the typical early morning grogginess. Gadreel remains in the exact same seat, with seven fat, ancient books carefully stacked next to him.

As he peruses a dictionary of ancient Greek, Gadreel pauses, noticing Sam's alertness. The angel hums with contentment, swelling against the boundary of Sam's skin. It's perhaps the only time Sam can say he's seen the angel feeling somewhat cheerful.

"Good morning, Sam," he says, standing to replace the books in their correct locations. When he finishes, he lowers himself back into the seat. "As promised, I did not leave. I thank you for this. I have enjoyed it."

His Grace retreats, the bright heat dialing down to a faint warmth, and Sam again has control of his body. And he smiles.

This might turn out interesting.