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"When you were here before, couldn't look you in the eye." Creep, Radiohead.
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"Seriously, Sam? Seriously?" Dean exclaimed. "You found him begging at the airport?"
"Yes, Dean." Sam's jaw jutted stubbornly. He was holding onto his frayed patience while Dean parroted back salient points in the form of questions.
"And you thought it a bang up idea to bring him here?" Dean waved his arms about encompassing the bunker and the angel braced against an art deco pillar.
It was clearly not a rhetorical question. Dean's eyes piercingly waited for his little brother to answer. If their whole kit and caboodle situation wasn't so far down the toilet, Sam might have indulged the flicker which his brain supplied of a similar expression on ten-year-old Dean's freckled face as he demanded why Sam had eaten all their peanut butter. In this confrontational mood, the older Winchester did not have tolerance for wooly uncooked explanations.
"Obviously." Sam sighed, pushing away niggling doubts. His eyes tracked Dean's hand as it rubbed his Henley sleeve up and down over the Mark of Cain. Was Dean conscious he was making such motion?
"Why? Don't we have enough crap stacked high on our plates?" Dean glared.
Sam bit his tongue, tempted to fall into bickering where he'd say something he would regret, maybe about how some of that crap involved wondering if Dean lose patience and find an angle grinder to cut off his own arm, or disappear…
"I will leave." Gadreel volunteered, breaking the thick silence. He straightened up and took two paces towards the exit.
Sam slammed his arm out sideways to halt him. "No, you won't."
"He wants to go." Dean challenged. "Leave him go."
"Dean, he has nowhere to go."
"Well, I don't know," Dean jeered, "how about… Heaven?"
"I fear I would not be welcome by many."
"Do you?" Dean practically snarled. "Where have you been for the last whatever months?"
Gadreel tilted his head but did not immediately answer.
Dean continued, "You've been hiding, haven't you? Yellow belied skulking at the fringes of humanity?"
"Dean!" Sam blurted. Dean could be harsh at times, but that was an assumption.
"No, Sam. Your brother is not wrong." Gadreel took a deep breath, "It was prudent to exist where I would not attract attention. It was difficult to…"
Sam winced at the use of the term 'exist'.
Dean however laughed a cold bitter rattle. "Not so plain and simple when it's your ass, is it? Not such fun then, huh? Maybe you had better go, after all the bunker isn't a place of safety. You got Cas coming back any day, and a Knight of Hell. Not safe here, Buddy. And this time Castiel is not getting put out in the cold, you hear me?"
"I would be happy to see Castiel." Gadreel pushed back his shoulders adopting an even more angel-regimented pose.
"Would you? This time?" Dean snorted.
"Guys, what is this about?" Sam huffed. He felt like the aforementioned Castiel when he failed to get a popular culture reference, like his brother and Gadreel were speaking in some sort of angry code.
Gadreel answered, meeting Sam's eye. "When I was here the first time, Castiel came seeking refuge and a place of safety. It is to my shame and sorrow that I would not risk my, nor your, life. I used the excuse that Castiel's enemies might attack this location but in actuality I feared that he would know that I was not Ezekiel, perhaps recognize me, and it was too soon, my wounds were dreadful, your cellular burns only beginning to heal. I feared you would find out and expel me."
Sam screwed up his brow in recollection and swiveled to his brother, "You said Cas wanted to leave." He glanced back to Gadreel, "Are you two telling me that you both kicked him out?"
"It was you or him." Dean tried. "I was between a rock and a …"
"I can't believe it." Sam tugged at his hair, "Dean, you said he wanted to go. Oh my God."
"I know, but it was your life or his, Sammy."
"Neither of you could trust him? Did you ever think of telling him? Letting him in on the terrible secret of my…" Sam choked. "I am not having this conversation with either of you."
"I will go." Gadreel's head dropped despondently.
"Just…" Sam sighed long and his shoulders sagged. "Just go and wander the halls would you, Gadreel? And Dean go freaking eat some breakfast."
"What are you gonna do?" Dean's arms hung by his sides, unsure.
"I'm calling Cas." Sam threw as his parting shot and marched to his bedroom, strides of temper or frustration eating distance down the long halls. It was pointless being angry now about that had happened to him. Dean dying in his arms, struck through by Metatron, had erased an awful lot of wrongs. He had forgiven his brother. Hearing Gadreel's story and coming to terms with what happened, had brought him pretty much full way to forgiving the angel too. However when the wrong, the injustice, was perpetrated on another, Sam Winchester found it hard to forgive. Maybe it was how he had been raised, to hunt Azazel for vengeance, to fight on behalf of the victims of the supernatural, or maybe it was his internal moral compass, but hearing that Castiel had suffered because of Dean and Gadreel's plan left a bitter vile taste in Sam's mouth.
Looking into the black reflective surface of his TV, Sam brought Cas's contact details up. Of course, the universe proved as Anti-Winchester as normal, and Sam only got Castiel's fumbled growly request to leave a voicemail.
"Hey Cas. It's Sam. Don't freak out. Dean is... he is the same. We got no new leads." Sam gulped. "I found Gadreel. He's here at the bunker. Just, y'know, giving you the heads up before you come back, Man. You know you're welcome anytime, you don't need a reason… We'll see you soon… huh, text me... and take care of yourself."
A precisely timed triple knock sounded on his door.
For some reason, Sam shot looks to the four corners of his bedroom, checking if it was presentable to receive guests. He huffed an ironic self-mocking laugh. He was checking for the person who had lived in this room for months, in his body.
"Come in, Gadreel."
The door opened slowly. The angel appeared bearing one of the tall latte glasses they had purloined from various coffee shops. It was filled with milky coffee and chocolate goodness.
"I brought you a mocha. The way you prefer, with whipped cream from the aerosol mechanism."
"Coffee is always good."
Taking another step inside, Gadreel commented. "Some of the doors have been replaced."
Sam chuckled and swung his head sardonically. "About that… don't ask."
"I will not."
"You know what I like about you?" Sam smirked.
"No?"
"I know you won't pry, won't needle." He took the proffered whipped cream coffee concoction, noticing Dean's trademark 'forgive me' marshmallows. "Thank you."
"Did you reach Castiel?"
"No." Sam took a long slurp of cream, giving his top lip a cream-tache. He licked it clean as Gadreel watched in fascination. "Would you like a taste?"
"No, thank you. It is for you."
"Sit." Sam gestured at the sole chair which bore a couple pairs of jeans folded over the back. Gadreel's ungainly easing onto the seat pegged his alien nature, but it was an improvement on statuesque standing to attention. "Could you contact Cas, like on angel radio?"
Gadreel paused before answering, giving Sam time to savor his drink.
"It would be inadvisable. I was veracious about my reception from other angels. To broadcast my presence and location would not only attract those who hold me in enmity but also put you and Dean in peril. However, I trust your judgment, Sam. If you maintain that making contact with my brother is sine qua non then I am willing to attempt it."
"No, Man, we got phones." Sam smiled. "Cas will return my call or show up."
"I believe that by handing me your beverage, Dean has accepted your decision on my continued presence."
"Hole in one." Sam nodded. "For now."
"A stay of execution, then?"
"I guess." Placing his glass to the side, Sam looked at his DVD selection, then at the angel. "You want, I could check on Dean, then we could watch some TV?"
Gadreel nodded, his face changing from wary blankness to tentative pleasure.
"Any show you fancy?"
"Game of Thrones?"
Sam laughed. "Good choice. If Dean doesn't fancy a rewatch, we'll get all the snacks."
Sam found his brother in conciliatory mood, the end of his morning coffee going cold as he hunched over his laptop on the War Room table.
"Greenlease Library at Rockhurst University in Kansas City, Sam."
"Huh? You got a lead? On the Mark?"
"Wouldn't call it a lead. And Jeez, would you look at your face. It's adorable the way your eyes light up at the word Library, like some freaking Pavlovian response." Before Sam could retort to the fond slur, Dean flicked the screen with his fingernail. "They got a translation of that Aramaic text on biblical rivers."
Switching one hundred percent into hunt mode, Sam shelved his downtime plans. "Great. That's great. We can stop for gas in Lebanon. I'll tell Gadreel we are heading out. Should get this turned around in one day."
"Hold up." Dean closed the laptop lid. "You don't gotta come."
"Dean." Sam huffed.
"No. Listen. This taking what Meta-dick said literally, it's clutching at straws. And Hell, I know we gotta clutch at anything, but we're just clearing the minor league possibilities off the chessboard here."
Sam snickered at the stew of metaphors, "Dean, come on. Metatron is a devious mofo. I wouldn't put it past him to actually mean you had to swim in or cast the blade into some godforsaken millennia dry riverbed."
"And that's why we," Dean gave a concessionary nod, "Mostly you, have been immersed in Lethe, Styx, Nile, and ancient watery lore… but this isn't a two man job. If there's a clue I'll bring the transcript back here."
Sam glared at his big brother.
"Stop bitchfacing me. I know you hate stealing from libraries." Dean chuckled. "Hitting the road at Baby's wheel will do me good. Gotta make sure you didn't screw with her on your Hail Mary trip for Garth."
The younger Winchester felt his eye roll was totally justified.
"Stay and watch over, or amuse, your angel."
"He's not 'my' angel, Dean." Sam peeved. "We'll do it your way, but you find anything, any clue, you call me."
"I'll flip the bird to any 'Silence in the Library' signs, scouts honor."
"You were never a scout." Sam grumbled, but he conceded to his brother's need to go work, do, seek, after days of being cooped up in the bunker.
Making sure that Dean knew he could change his mind, Sam saw him off at the Impala with a good luck wish before heading back to Gadreel. The angel had waited patiently, yet was eager enough to hand Sam the boxset as soon as he was filled in on Dean's whereabouts.
When Thrones gave way to a National Lampoons marathon, Sam made popcorn. He threw two sachets in the microwave, figuring he'd eat it as an unhealthy brunch if his companion declined. Gadreel chewed the snacks so slowly, the hunter expected the shallow bowl to be pushed towards him with a comment about not needing sustenance. As the movie continued and Gadreel followed Sam's lead in dipping in for more salty buttery popped kernels, Sam noticed where he took a handful and tipped his head back to fill his mouth, the other took only one piece. The only strange reasoning he could parse was that an effort to consume was being made on his behalf. When the credits rolled, Sam was startled to realize that he had paid more attention to Gadreel's snack eating motivations than the old favorite on screen. Sam had also noticed that the first Lampoon comedy had gone down well with Gadreel's lips twitching and a few shared huffs of enjoyment. The angel seemed satisfied to roll with the outrageous acts of the Griswold family without picking holes or seeking the screenplay's philosophical reasoning. While Clark Griswold won his family a vacation in Europe, Sam disappeared to knock up a huge plate of cheese and salsa drenched nachos. He checked his phone but the sole text was a snarky, not funny, Dean message that he hadn't killed anyone at the library, the book was irrelevant, and he would drive back that evening. He would be late but did Sam want take out? The normality of the query made Sam gladly tap out a reply that he was good but they needed Doritos.
Sam brought a couple of beers with the platter of nachos. Gadreel chugged contentedly on a bottle from Sam's stash of Boulevard Pale Ale, commenting that he found the alcoholic beverage surprisingly acceptable.
Turned out, Gadreel had a sense of humor and a hearty laugh. A string of cheese spooling out to gossamer thinness connected a nacho between his fingers and Sam's hand. When the elastic thread snapped curling in delicate slow motion midair to dangle in spirals from Sam's thumb, the angel's vocal laughter sounded for the first time.
As the movie became more farcical, infectious mirth spread forth tickling Sam's funny bone and making the hunter grin wider each time Gadreel threw his head back to chortle. If he was human Sam would have presumed it was mild intoxication. The only conclusion he could rationally make was that as the hours had gone by, Gadreel had let down his guard and had relaxed in Sam's presence, and honestly Sam was tickled that he could entice such a thing to happen.
"How surreal is my life?" Sam wondered not for the first time, after he had back clapped his guest goodnight. Heading for the vast bunker bathroom, while Gadreel walked in the opposite direction, Sam huffed in amazement that he too had let his guard down. Sitting there laughing, being himself, taking a minor break, without pressure, had felt good. Knots that had been winding and binding Sam vice tight with tension slackened their hold.