He splashes chilled water onto burning skin, his hands raking over his face as though he could scrape away his feverish pallor. He inhales though his nose, water sluicing down his cheeks and dripping back into the sink.

Sam feels as though he's back in the midst of the Trials. His bones ache with exhaustion and his stomach roils violently. His fever runs high—though not so high as it had before the third trial, thankfully. This wave of weakness will pass in a few minutes, he knows, but it's torture while he endures it.

Sam feels kind of like he's dying. He's not entirely sure Gadreel isn't.

He lifts his eyes to take in his reflection, sallow and tired, complete with bloodshot eyes. The irony that he would come to fully understand what the angel does for him only when he can't quite keep up any longer tastes bitter in his mouth. Oh, Sam had known he'd die without the angel's influence, so his current state doesn't exactly surprise him, but it feels no less astonishing to realize he's been this sick all along.

It's not entirely blank in his head. Sam can feel him; feel the way his thin Grace courses unevenly, like water skimming over cobblestones. It's jagged and cold and quiet, and as time passes the silence wears on Sam.

Moments after Charlie left, he sifted through his mind for the comatose angel, finding him in their shared headspace. Gadreel lay huddled up and unconscious in their library, but no amount of prodding would awaken him. Shivering and dirty on the unwelcoming floor, Sam had gathered him into his arms and set him upon the long, feather-soft couch. He cleaned him up and found cushions and blankets for him to rest easier.

Sam sighs, and drops down on the edge of his bed, water still dripping from his face. He shuts his eyes, and with a thought takes himself to their shared library. Gadreel sleeps on, his chest rising and falling slowly.

Is he recovering, or dying? No one seems to know. Cas had told Sam Gadreel's presence here suggests optimistic things, but... but...

Why won't he just wake up already?

Sam sinks to his knees beside Gadreel, slow and careful, resting a tentative hand on his chest. The cadence of his heartbeat softly thumps against his skin. Sometimes Sam thinks the strangest things in this place, like do angels even have heartbeats? Do vessels continue to exhibit human-like reactions if an angel does not censor the body? Sam doesn't know any of these things. He thinks probably should by this point in the game.

Gadreel has become so weak, even beyond this episode of sickness. Sam doesn't know how he knows, just that he does, and he can feel it. He's cold to the touch, and if the damage from the Fall were not enough, he's expended most of his energy keeping Sam together. Healing Kevin and Charlie finally pushed him into this comatose state. Can an angel's Grace run completely dry? Would Gadreel die?

Somehow, the thought bothers Sam just as much as the knowledge he'd die too.

Sam moves backwards, settling into the armchair he's pulled over to Gadreel's side. The flickering light in the fireplace remains weak and faint, leaving a terrible chill in the room. He wraps up with an old afghan he found on the other side of the room—exactly like one he used to have in his college dorm—and begins to hum an old tune. With Gadreel gone quiet and still, he can't stand the silence in his head.

Somewhere between late nights spent explaining the Internet and mundane questions about how to make dishcloths, Sam went and accidentally made friends with the angel. But no big deal, right? The Winchesters can always use more allies, and anyway, Sam wanted to get to know Gadreel better. And so maybe they're friends now. Slightly overprotective friends, but friends. There's no way it's not going to feel a little messed up, right? They're sharing a body and all up in each other's thoughts. Vessel business aside…

Sam halts, his eyes settling on Gadreel's slackened, motionless face. Sam's still working it out with Dean, who should have known better, but honestly, Gadreel didn't. At this point, holding onto any grudge with the angel feels ridiculous. Gadreel saw someone near death and acted according to the only rules he knew. He knows better now, and if Gadreel wanted to be an ass, it would have happened already. He lays before Sam sick and maybe dying precisely because he has done nothing but help Sam and everyone around him.

Unlike every other angel he's ever met, Gadreel has remained resolute to leave as much space as possible between himself and Sam. He could learn so much if he rifled through Sam's mind the way most angels do. Instead, he has kept his word to Sam. Sam sees it now, even though he hadn't wanted to before. Gadreel has proven he doesn't lie. He has shown nothing but honor and courtesy to Sam, and now that the angel can't hear him anymore, Sam's desperate to tell him he's forgiven. And to thank him.

Gadreel reminds Sam of Cas years earlier, excepting the whole soldier thing. Sam's become accustomed to angels who moonlight as fierce warriors or bureaucrats, not… glorified gardeners. Sam can see Gadreel as a guardian, sure, but he can't detect a trace of a ruthless killer. Maybe he'd never even been a soldier.

Sam reaches forward and adjusts a blanket on Gadreel's couch. He wonders idly if his body has become just another prison to the angel, not to mention the way they stay locked up tight in the bunker all the time.

Something in the real world tugs at his attention, and Sam reluctantly leaves the library, casting one last glance at Gadreel before he goes. It's not like he's truly leaving him, but it always feels that way.

When he opens his eyes back in his bedroom, there's a fluffy kitten mewling in his lap, her big blue eyes staring up at Sam.

"I know, Mary," he coos, petting her soft fur. "I hope he comes back soon, too."

Her sweet nature and curious spirit have endeared her to all of the bunker's residents, with everyone taking turns spoiling her. Sam would never tell Dean, but he enjoys having the cat around even more than he'd expected, considering he usually prefers dogs. Cas looks adorable with the tiny creature. Dean tries his best to play along, but usually gets lost in a fit of sneezing. Dean had nothing to say when Cas named her 'Mary,' and just pulled the fallen angel into a tight embrace.

She hops his lap, and trots off towards the backroom. "Hey," Sam calls after her, "get back here you little furball." He rises slowly, his wave of nausea finally gone. He follows, shaking his head. "You know you're not supposed to mess with the plants. Cas will put you on dry food for a month this time if you break another flower pot."

When he rounds the corner, he's surprised to find Cas already there, tugging at sagging blossoms and withering stems. Mary predictably hops up on the counter, rubbing up against Cas where he leans over the table.

"Mary, I've told you. Do not play near my plants," Cas chides, voice gentle as he plucks her from the table and deposits her on the ground. His eyes wander to the doorway, and he offers a weak smile. "Sam. Hello."

"Hey," he offers, returning the tired smile. "How goes the gardening?"

He sighs, shaking his head. "Not well. I don't understand, Sam. I did everything Gadreel told me to."

Sam stares at once-bright petals, now dull and dry . "I'm sorry, Cas. I don't know anything about growing plants," Sam replies, shrugging apologetically. "I just like to eat them."

Cas nods, a hand rising to massage his temples. "Gadreel still has not awakened?"

Sam leans against the doorframe, shaking his head. "Cas, is something wrong with his Grace? Or is he just that hurt from the Fall and everything?"

"You are in a better position to answer that than I am." He turns to face Sam. "Without my own Grace, I can't tell for sure."

"If you had to guess?"

He crosses his arms, biting his lip. It's a new habit he's picked up since falling. "What do you feel, Sam? How does his Grace feel?"

Sam inhales, holding the breath for a stinging moment before forcing it out in a harsh puff. "Um. It feels… cold. Thin." He pauses a beat. "I mean, it's always been kind of thin, but not like this. It's never been cold. It's always felt warm."

His eyes narrow. "And you? Do you feel well?"

Sam brings a hand up to trail through his hair, fingers slipping though sweaty strands as he pushes it from his eyes. He nods. "I feel awful. Like I'm back in the Trials again. It comes and goes, but I'm so tired since he's gone under."

Cas nods. "As I suspected, then. He's using his Grace faster than it replenishes." His eyes darken, lips pressed in a thin line. "When he awakens, we must tell him to stop."

Sam's stomach lurches. "What if his Grace all runs out?" he asks.

"Normally, an angel would recover it over time from Heaven," he says, "or they would draw power from their vessel's soul. But now we're cut off from Heaven's power, and because of the sigils I carved on your ribs, your soul is beyond his reach. If he continues to drain himself to almost nothing without any other source of energy to fall back on, he'll die."

Sam tries not to shudder, and fails. This line of conversation does nothing to alleviate his worry. "Is it worse from healing Kevin? And Charlie?"

"While those incidents helped push him into a bad place, I don't think they're entirely to blame." Cas meets his eyes, the tired lines of his face creasing. "I can't know for sure, not without asking him, but I think he's expending too much Grace to heal you over himself."

Sam blinks, his mouth twisting. "Why would he do that? It doesn't even make sense."

Cas shakes his head. "If he thought you intended to expel him I believe he might… for your sake."

"That makes even less sense, Cas. Wouldn't he be in lousy shape if I kicked him out right now?"

Cas rubs the nape of his neck, his lips drawn in a tight line. "I'm not certain he would survive if you expelled him right now."

The idea causes his blood to run cold. "Yeah, well, not happening. Not right now."

"Sam, you're the first person Gadreel has been close to in a long time." Cas pauses, the bare hint of a smile twitching the corners of his lips. "I believe he likes you."

Sam opens his mouth to respond, but his throat goes dry. The idea that someone, anyone, could know him half as well as Gadreel must and yet still sacrifice his own well-being for Sam's sounds absurd.

Finally, he finds his voice. "Sure, I guess. He likes all of us."

"Tell me, Sam," Cas continues, "has Gadreel's Grace reached for you?"

He tilts his head, shrugging. "I don't know. What does that even mean? Isn't his Grace everywhere?"

"Not exactly," he answers. "Sometimes an angel's Grace and a human's soul can touch." He pauses, gazing at Sam thoughtfully. "It empowers both vessel and angel, and binds them together for a short time. It's an open way of coexisting with a vessel. Should Grace and soul touch so many times they begin to mingle, or should an intense desire for such unity occur, the bond between human and angel becomes permanent."

Sam blinks. "Permanent?"

"Don't worry," Cas responds, setting down his plant trimmers. "You both would have to consent to such a bond for it to be permanent. And as I said before, he cannot touch your soul. To touch, your soul would need to seek out his Grace of its own volition." He sets down his plant trimmers. "After Gadreel's long isolation, he may have unintentionally reached for you in his loneliness."

His brow knits together. "Wait, if it's not otherwise permanent, then wouldn't it help him if like… my soul just briefly touched his Grace, or whatever? Can I move my soul around those sigils, and like… help him?"

"It doesn't work that way," Cas tells him. "You can't move your soul around the way he can move his Grace. He has to reach for you first, and whether he reaches by accident or on purpose, you must respond and reach for the connection. In your case, the sigils are a very difficult stumbling block to overcome. Even you may not be able to get around them." He pauses a beat. "Regardless, there is a reason angels avoid this. It's a very intense and personal interaction."

He crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. "But Cas, there was this one time where my mind just kind of reached out and touched his Grace, and… well, it was just for a few seconds, but it was intense, like hovering in the middle of a thunderstorm. I didn't even really mean to do it." Sam halts, his throat going dry as he remembers what happened during everyone's jovial laughter with Charlie days earlier. "Well, twice. I guess… the second time I meant to." He glanced up. "But something definitely happened there."

Cas' lips part, his eyes widening a sliver. "That's… something different."

"Something bad?" Sam asks.

"No, but…" Cas pauses a beat, his eyebrows rising. "What you've just described, being able to initiate contact like that… It means he allows you control over his Grace. That's unusual."

"Unusual, why? How?"

"Coexisting with a conscious vessel is unusual enough. But allowing you access to his Grace is unheard of." Cas tilts his head thoughtfully. "He must trust you."

Sam has no idea why. "Trust me with what, exactly?"

"Everything. Though what that means, exactly, I don't know. I have no personal experience with it." He turns back to his plants, taking his trimmers in hand. "Grace is half of what we angels are. By giving you control over it, he's opened himself to you in ways I can't predict, or even imagine." He pauses, clipping at a sagging branch. The dark, spotted vine tumbles to the floor. "It's no small thing, Sam. Once granted, he can't revoke it until he takes another vessel."

The information leaves Sam stunned, his lips parted. "Why would he do that? Why would any angel do that?"

Cas shakes his head. "We don't." He glances over his shoulder at Sam. "You'd have to ask Gadreel why he's made an exception in your case. Perhaps it's penance for inhabiting your body in the first place. Perhaps it's an attempt to reassure you."

Sam remains silent a long moment, considering Cas' words. "I just don't understand why he'd do that."

A tiny hint of a smile grows on Cas' face. "As I said before, I think he likes you, Sam."

When a unbidden rush of heat rushes to Sam's face and darkens his cheeks, he's glad Cas has turned away.


"I'm going Dean, and that's final." Cas crosses his arms. "I can't stay here and hide forever."

Dean frowns. "Cas, are you sure? I mean, it's fifteen hours to Idaho. You're still catnip for angels, buddy."

"I'm warded," he retorts, "and Gadreel carved the same Enochian sigils into my ribs you and Sam have. I'm as hidden as I can possibly be."

Sam watches the display with some amusement. Dean and Cas argue all the time, but it always lacks heat, as though they argue merely for the sake of arguing.

"Fine," Dean finally relents. He spins on his heels to face Sam, eyes narrow. "And it's not a big case. Not a lot of manpower needed. So you—."

Sam holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, I got it. I'm not good, Gadreel's not good. It's better if we stay here." He shrugs. "I mean, it barely sounds like a case, anyway."

Kevin snorts. "They're just bailing on research."

Dean halts, his mouth opening and closing a few times. Finally, he gives Kevin a dopey grin and shrugs. "Okay, you got me. C'mon Cas, let's get ready."


"Oh. Hm. It's irreversible." The demon pushes the papers back towards them.

Sam's heart drops straight through his stomach. "What?"

"This spell can't be undone. The new world order? We're stuck with it."

Crowley looks faintly disgusted, while Kevin looks as horrified as Sam feels. Numb, he wraps up their supplies, takes the translations, and locks up the basement. Gadreel and Cas—especially Cas—will be devastated.

Sam goes straight for the library, intent on research. He digs into old books, ransacking the bunker's archives for any scrap he can find on Elamite, just in case the demon did lie. After a while, with exhaustion settling heavy upon him, Sam finds himself thinking about Crowley, the human Crowley. He wishes he had completed the trials and healed him once and for all. When it comes to the demon Crowley, however, the ruler of Hell, Sam just wants him dead.

With his search turning fruitless after many hours, he shuts an old, dusty tome with a loud clap. Reclining in the uncushioned, stiff wooden seat, he stretches full and deep. He needs a shower and sleep.

He shuffles down the hallway, pausing in his bedroom to strip his clothes off. Without much thought or circumstance, he steps into the adjoining bathroom and turns the knob on the shower, watching as steam begins to rise from the scalding spray of water.

He sighs with the pleasure of it, the hot water draining over his body, easing tension from tired muscles. Sam sneaks a quick peek at Gadreel again, who remains profoundly out of it, quietly resting in their library. Sam shrugs, and goes back to washing himself.

After discovering he had an angel riding around in his skin, Sam had quickly become more than slightly embarrassed about many day-to-day things. At first, of course, Gadreel had hidden from him, so it didn't create too much of a situation. However, with Sam coaxing the angel to come out and experience the world first hand, it had become more of a problem, especially when he needed to take a shower. Gadreel further compounded this himself by virtue of his own ignorance about human things, especially the concept of nudity.

Oh, it made perfect sense. Gadreel had never taken a vessel during the course of modern human history, and had once relayed to Sam how no one wore clothing in the Garden at all. Sam's cheeks had started burning—and he had no real explanation for why such an innocent line of conversation should embarrass him—and he stammered out an explanation along the lines of 'people have to wear clothes now.' Answering 'why' would lead to yet another topic Sam didn't want to discuss (he didn't actually have a decent answer, anyway), so he simply said 'that's just how it is.' Thankfully, the angel seemed to realize Sam didn't want to talk and dropped it.

One night, Sam had grouchily snapped at Gadreel when he'd gone to take a shower, which had the undesired effect of sending the angel deep inside again, tucked carefully in his hiding spot (it had taken an entire day to entice him back out). Sam made a point of explaining how he'd rather have his solitude during certain activities, such as showering and undressing. No snooping or peeking out of his eyes allowed.

Gadreel, of course, took this so literally he dropped off Sam's radar every single time he so much as stripped his shirt off. He'd had to explain going shirtless didn't count, but the angel didn't quite understand why one uncovered part of the body differed from any other.

Sam assumed he'd get over his bizarre sort of shyness, because Gadreel had probably already seen everything anyway, and at least for the moment it's his body, too. With the passing of time, however, Sam felt even more embarrassed around the angel, not less, and he didn't quite understand why. It's not as if Gadreel would have anything disagreeable to say. He'd view it as another daily human ritual. Still, Sam couldn't quite bring himself to share these moments just yet. Maybe in time.

Gadreel had come to understand the modern, intertwined concepts of nudity and sexuality to some degree, thanks to his exposure to Dean. He had a habit of watching TV with the others now, and one day Dean had flipped the channel to a Dr. Sexy MD marathon. While Sam wanted to intervene and warn the angel about the danger in taking lessons about life from Dr. Sexy, he left well enough alone. It wasn't so inaccurate, anyway. It was in the neighborhood of accurate.

In the end, it had resulted in a few stressful hours for Sam while Gadreel watched people make out in closets and do questionable things on hospital beds. Despite all the skin, the angel seemed to overlook all the racy bits and instead focused on the existential drama, to Sam's profound relief. Sorta.

Sam had felt his eyebrows knitting together as the angel considered the storyline. "How does Johnny Drake persist without turning into a vengeful spirit?" he asked Dean.

Dean was all too happy to fill him in. "Well, Johnny's a ghost, but he's tied to the sexy, neurotic heart surgeon over there. She loves him, so he sticks around. It's not very accurate, but you know, show logic."

Gadreel had attempted to ask questions about interspecies romances after that ("Is that doctor a vampire? Why does he bite her neck, then?"), but Dean eventually shushed him, and the angel never picked the line of questioning up again. Not that Sam knew how he would have handled it, anyway.

Furthermore, back in the real world, Sam didn't begin to know how to broach the topic of arousal or sex, so he just didn't talk about it at all. And he certainly wasn't going to get himself off with Gadreel along for the ride, who would watch him intently and question every sensation Sam felt. Telling the angel to get lost crossed his mind a few times, especially when he felt strong and healthy and horny, but doing so might require explaining exactly why Sam wanted such privacy. Sure, Gadreel would listen without argument, but Sam just didn't want to have the conversation to begin with.

Sam sighs under the cascading water, the troubles of the weeks adding up and exhausting him. He turns his head to the side, feeling a pleasant pop relieve undue pressure in his neck. Usually, Gadreel's Grace flows throughout his body, alleviating minor discomforts such as cramped muscles and uncooperative joints. It's definitely a perk of carrying around an angel, one he thinks he's gotten too accustomed to. Maybe even a bit spoiled, considering how freely the angel parts with it.

He drowsily finishes his shower. Stretching takes an inordinate amount of effort, his limbs gone stone-heavy and weak under the enervating spray. He's bleary-eyed and half-dozing, and it takes some concentration to finish cleaning himself. It takes even more energy to clamber out of the shower, his leaden legs heavy and uncoordinated. He stumbles back into his bedroom, collapsing upon the firm mattress. The cool air chills his skin, and he eventually summons the energy to maneuver himself under the blankets.

In the dark, his mind continues to drift and the truth kind of stings. Sam could never deserve the kind of devotion and loyalty from Gadreel he'd fantasized about. Sam lets everyone down, abandons people, and people end up abandoning him in the end. Anyway, he reasons there's no point in worrying. After all, Sam's not invested or anything, and Gadreel will leave soon enough.

Everyone always does, after all.


When Dean and Cas show back up with hunched shoulders and worried expressions, it's obvious the hunt turned up more than just a rogue angel.

"Talked to another hunter on the scene," Dean explains. "He says he saw a short, scruffy dude exorcise an angel from its vessel."

Sam's mouth drops open, and he blinks. "Exorcising an angel?"

"A Rit Zein," Cas fills in, as if Sam's supposed to know what it means.

"You'll have to translate, Cas. Gadreel's still out of it."

"It's an angel who—."

"Forget it right now," Dean cuts in. "The important part? Our scruffy dude was Metatron, and he exorcised a friggin' angel from its meatsuit."

Sam exchanges stares with the two of them. "How is that even possible?"

"Years ago, you interrupted Alistair as he attempted to exorcise me from my vessel," Cas explains. "There is an incantation, but only the archangels and Lucifer's highest ranking demons could use it." He shakes his head. "It takes immense power."

Sam takes a breath to ask how Metatron could use it, but remembers he's the Scribe of God. If he'd memorized how to cast all the angels from Heaven, it's no stretch to assume he'd know how to cast an angel out of its vessel, too.

"So, if exorcising a demon sends it back to Hell, then exorcising an angel sends it back to Heaven?"

Dean makes a noise of assent, nods his head. "Except Heaven's locked up tight right now."

"So what happens to them?"

Cas shakes his head, lips pressed in a grim line. "Forced to return but unable to do so, the spell might tear the angel from its Grace. I'm not certain, but I think it's killing the angels he uses it on. Remember the strange angel deaths Gadreel told us about from angel radio?"

Sam remembers quite well, nodding as he shifts his weight to the other foot. "But didn't Anna do something like that? She cut out her Grace and fell. And you, Cas… You don't have Grace anymore, but you didn't die, either."

"Neither Anna nor I were compelled by the power of an incantation to return to Heaven," Cas explains. "And I'm not entirely certain what would happen now if such an exorcism was turned on me. It might kill me, too."

Sam rubs the back of his neck absently, a frown creasing his lips. "What happens to the Grace?"

"It returns to the fabric of Creation to promote the growth of new life. Usually."

Dean's lips draw tight, his eyes wide and gaze severe. "But the hunter said he saw the dude putting it in a jar." He adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves. "Looks like our buddy Metatron might be powering up on stolen Grace."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Angels can do that?"

"Technically, yes," Cas explains, "though I don't believe he's absorbing it himself. Too much would burn him out, eventually. However, all alone in Heaven he has access to other forms of power. He only needs a large pool of Grace to draw from."

Sam shakes his head, brow furrowing. "As if dealing with Abaddon and Crowley aren't enough already…"

"When Gad wakes back up," Dean says, "you'd better tell him the bad news. Maybe he knows something."

Kevin's eyes flit between them, a bitter snort tearing loose. "I'll hit up the angel tablet."


Sam wanders into their shared headspace again where Gadreel rests, stone-still and quiet on the couch where Sam left him. The fire in the hearth burns brighter now, the room itself illuminated by faint lights on a chandelier suspended from the ceiling.

Sam just can't stay away. Gadreel feels as unavoidable as oxygen.

He stares down at the angel, observing the steady rhythm of his breathing. His hand itches to reach out and touch, so he does, placing the palm of his hand atop Gadreel's chest, closing his eyes as he feels the heartbeat underneath. Sam feels an odd compulsion to do this. It's far from the first time he's rested his hand on the angel's chest, as if beckoning some unknown energy to heal him.

His other hand comes to rest on Gadreel's forehead, where the skin feels clammy and warm. Sam drags his fingers across the angel's brow and down the side of his face, feeling sharp lines and slack muscles outlined on slick skin. His palm slides flush against his cheek where fevered heat seeps into his hand, and the ghost of a hot breath tickles his wrist. Some angels tend to run hot, but not all, so where does Gadreel stand? Sam had never asked. He shifts his hand to the other cheek, his eyes scrutinizing the angel as though he could divine all the answers he needs by sheer focus and willpower alone. At least he's warmer than before…

His lips are fever-chapped and pale, parted slightly as he rests. Sam stares for a moment, his hand rising from the angel's cheek and moving to hover over his mouth. Searing air puffs against his fingers, wet and burning like a balmy summer day, and Sam almost runs his thumb along Gadreel's bottom lip. It's chapped, after all, and Sam wants to know how bad it feels. Just so he can get chapstick or something.

The next humid breath breaks the spell, and Sam yanks his hand back. Okay, so yeah, he doesn't need to touch Gadreel's lips to know they're chapped.

He backs away, sinking into the adjacent armchair as he looks on in worry. As he watches Gadreel, he wonders for the millionth time if there's anything at all he can do to help. The sound of crackling wood from the fireplace drifts through the room, and Sam drapes the old afghan around his body again. The smell and sound of the flames hypnotize him, beckoning him to rest. He shuts his eyes for just a moment, and….

When he opens his eyes again, he's standing in the midst of a wild dream. Maybe. It seems too colorful, too lucid for a mere dream. He's standing alone in an empty room—a hospital room, he thinks, judging by the soft beeping of medical equipment.

He narrows his eyes, spinning around to take in all corners of the sterile environment. What's going on? How did he get here? He's never seen this room before and doesn't know this place.

He's considering various possibilities when the air shifts, a snap of electricity hissing in his ears. The door flies open with an awful creak, and Dean marches in, followed closely by Gadreel—or perhaps his former vessel. Neither pay Sam any heed as he watches the scene unfold.

"Here he is, Ezekiel," Dean says. "He needs help, man."

Ezekiel? But Gadreel hasn't gone by Ezekiel since—.

And all at once, Sam understands. He's not dreaming at all, but somehow he's glimpsing Gadreel's memories. How the hell can he see this?

The memory versions of Dean and Gadreel both move towards the bed, their faces twin mirrors of concern and worry. Sam spins around, and nearly jumps as he sees a version of himself lying in the now-occupied hospital bed, looking for all the world as if he'd tried to take on a giant animal barehanded—and lost. Well, the Trials had done a number on him, even before he'd gotten to the last one.

Gadreel rounds the bed, eyes soft and lips pressed in a thin line of concern, his gaze never wavering from Sam's figure on the bed. The angel moves with determination, reaching out to place a solid, gentle hand upon his chest. His eyes slide shut, brow furrowed in concentration. He seems weary, as though expending more energy than he has to spare.

"You still able to cure things?" Dean asks. "After the Fall?"

"Yes, I should be, but…" Gadreel trails off, out of breath, tongue darting out to wet wind-chapped lips. "He's so weak." His voice exudes worry and distress, a frown cooling the corners of his mouth.

Dean's phone rings, shrill and piercing. He waves an arm at the angel and steps out of the room, his voice fading in down the hallway as he leaves Gadreel and Sam alone. Sam just crosses his arms and watches the scene unfold before him, curious.

Gadreel does not move from his steady vigil, his hand remaining over Sam's heart. His other hand comes to rest easily on his forehead, and the angel's eyes slide shut. "Sam Winchester," he calls out, "Hear my voice and return to the world. Your brother awaits you."

The body doesn't stir in the least, and Gadreel sighs, his head shaking slowly. "I pray I have not arrived too late. I shall do whatever I can for you."

The angel's worry weighs heavily on Sam. It surprises him at first, though considering it's Gadreel's memory and not his own, he's not stunned he can feel what the angel felt, too.

All at once, a familiar tone, faint and shrill, sounds deep within his ears. Gadreel's head snaps up, his face frozen and eyes wide. He turns to the side, his lips parting. "No," he murmurs, "not now." He races to the window, staring out at something only he can see.

Sam's heard this story before. He's heard how Dean warded up the entire room as angels searched for vessels, while Gadreel remained locked inside to heal Sam. But right now, as the sharp cacophony of angel radio reverberates in the air, fear rules Gadreel's emotions and conflict sets in. The angel in front of him has literally just fallen and has not yet known freedom for an entire day, and he has no idea what to do.

This Gadreel feels lost, alone, and seethes with terror as the hostile angels approach. Gadreel glances between Sam's supine form and the window, his brow furrowing as he considers bolting from the scene. Sam can almost taste the angel's distress, his thoughts unfolding for Sam as they skitter quick and rapid though Gadreel's mind. He had no idea he'd come to aid Heaven's most wanted, and though he wants to help, he worries for his own well-being, too. He can't stand the thought of dying at the hands of another angel so soon after the only freedom he's known in millennia.

He trots back to Sam, still motionless on the bed, and closes his eyes, a heaving breath escaping him. He lays his hand on Sam's chest once again, solid and gentle, his expression softening, a rush of compassion coloring his thoughts. Gadreel's entire being roils in terror, but he remains steadfast.

"Do not fear," Gadreel says, "I will not leave you."

Sam tilts his head, smiling faintly. Gadreel had to know Sam couldn't hear him. Who was he reassuring, exactly? Or did Gadreel think speaking to Sam in this unconscious state would somehow comfort him?

He steps closer to the bed, watching as this first meeting of theirs unfolds. Gadreel came to possess Sam here, under duress himself, battling with his own injuries and reeling in abject terror at the situation. Sam can't tear his eyes from Gadreel's hand, where it rests so carefully upon his chest. It isn't the touch of someone who wants to harm another.

The shrill noise surges in intensity, and Gadreel again moves to the window.

The door swings open. "One of yours?" Dean shouts from behind him.

Gadreel turns. "Trying to secure a vessel. We need to move."

"No, no. If we move him, he dies."

"If we stay here, we could all die."

Dean spies the room frantically, grabbing a marker. He sets about drawing angel warding symbols on the walls. A reaction rips through the angel instantly, his Grace contorting in pain and thrumming unevenly. Unseen by Dean, Gadreel views the scene with dread. His shoulders hunch and he seems to shrink in his own skin. He glances at the door briefly, but shakes his head and stands firm.

A few minutes pass as Dean draws on the walls, and all the while Gadreel shifts uneasily. It makes perfect sense to Sam now, of course. It must have seemed like yet another cage, one the angel willingly allowed Dean to seal himself within.

"Long as these are up, no angels are coming in. No one's coming out." Dean turns to Gadreel. "You gonna be okay with these?"

Gadreel swallows thickly, but nods. "I'll manage," he says.

Everything grows dim even while the scene continues to unfold, their voices mixing together in a blurry haze as the room fades entirely from Sam's awareness. He fights to hold on to the memory, but it slips through his fingers like water.

A moment later, he opens his eyes to the library once more, curled up in the armchair with an itchy blanket draped around his shoulders. Gadreel still sleeps, resting on the couch adjacent. Sam takes a long, deep breath, feeling the sting of too much air in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly. He stands, slowly moving towards Gadreel.

He remembers what Cas told him before, of how Gadreel has given Sam access to his Grace. Somehow, he thinks he may have just utilized this access, even if he doesn't know how. Then again, Sam had just been thinking about his strange compulsion to touch Gadreel's chest. Perhaps he'd accidentally accessed the memory of Gadreel doing the exact same thing to him. Somehow.

The thought stirs an idea within him, and he glances between his hand and Gadreel's chest. Did it mean something more? A soft chuckle escapes Sam's lips, a warm smile creasing his lips. Of course. Gadreel's not awake, and can't direct his Grace where he needs it most. But Sam can.

He kneels beside the angel, his palm resting gently over his heart. Sam closes his eyes and focuses on the dim glow of the angel's Grace, swirling erratic and loose deep inside his bones.

"Gadreel," he whispers, "if you can hear me, come back. We're waiting for you."

Sam searches his mind, letting his awareness sink deep inside Gadreel's weakened Grace. He wraps his energy around the angel, pulling gently.

"I know you're there," Sam says. "Don't be afraid. I'm not going to leave you all alone. I promise." His fingertips rustle against the material of the angel's shirt.

Sam lets his mind remain in place, floating inside of chilled Grace, reaching for the angel in any way he can. A few minutes pass, then warmth—weak and uncertain—reaches back.

Beneath him, Gadreel breathes deeply. When Sam glances down, the angel stares up at him, eyes barely open, but awake.

"Sam," he croaks.

"Hey there," Sam says, smiling. "You heard me."

Gadreel's eyes slip shut, the corners of his mouth curving into a faint smile. "Call upon me, Sam Winchester," he says, "and I shall always answer."


AN: Sorry for the long wait since the last update. Don't fear, this story will be completed. I just can't make any promises about how often I'll update the chapters right now. (Also, the shower scene in this chapter is edited to meet both the rating of this story and FFN's guidelines. My AO3 account (to which you can find a link for in my profile) has the full thing, if you're interested in that sort of thing.)