Epilogue

-o0o-

You're the fire and the flood
And I'll always feel you in my blood

- Vance Joy, "Fire and Flood"

Sometimes he remembers that he was real.

A person. Someone who tasted food. Who felt rain on his skin. Who spent nights with people who cared for him by his side.

Then it's all washed away when the shadow falls. When the Darkness comes.

He ceases to exist in any capacity but his own mind. And even then, he's not sure; perhaps he's a figment of someone's imagination.

"It's the Cage," a voice tells him. It's strange among the shadows. It has too much Light. That's how he comes to think of it. Light. "It takes everything you are, everything you were, and scatters it. …I imagine it's far worse for a mortal soul," the Light tells him.

Sometimes he thinks the Light grows hands. Hands that reach for him. He feels them pluck at the frayed spaces where muscle and nerve used to be. Where only shadow is now. Feels them try to pull the shadows out. Or push them in?

That was common, when he first came to this place. But the Light has withdrawn lately. The hands have withdrawn. Leaving him alone in the dark.

Sometimes, he hears the Light murmuring. Other times, he hears it sob.

If there were days in this place, he would call this day-in, day-out. The same hope devouring Darkness.

Eventually, he starts to welcome it. The not remembering. Because when he does remember, the images burn through him like lightning. If he had bones, they would be ash.

One day or night, he's just come from beneath that white fire, when he, from out of nowhere, remembers a voice. Not the one that comes to him in the Darkness. One from before. Ageless. Echoing to the depths of his soul.

He hears it, ringing through his head.

Then he hears it. Saying his name in a language he thinks he shouldn't recognize, musical and fluid and strange. The flow of deep sea currents, the song of stars.

Darkness recedes, just enough for him to see the shape and form of the Light that's been with him this whole time, pale and wan like a worn strip of gauze, with luminous and dark shifting currents for eyes, a string of stars for a mouth. The Light blinks at him then turns toward the Darkness at the edge of the Cage.

Shadows split apart, ripped open by a shining blade of silver starlight and another form appears before him. Slightly smaller than the Light, but brighter, a thousand meteors burning up over a midnight desert, with eyes that are a sea-swell of blue phosphor and a mouth that is a slash of burning sunlight. Bright.

The Bright reaches hands toward him. Hands that curl around him, lift him, cradle him – and he remembers these concepts, though he has no body to cradle –in light, in warmth.

There is screaming. The Light lets out a shriek so loud and so unlike anything he's ever heard. It brings with it the memory of grief, of desolation. And if he could cry, he would. Instead he presses closer to the warmth of the Bright, feeling as if he could become a part of it. As if he should become a part of it. There's an ache deep inside him. A longing to be whole.

The Bright makes soothing hums. The shrieking slows, fades into a cry that is half wail, half moan. The Bright murmurs something else in the language of currents and stars. He thinks it may be a benediction. The Light cries something in return. He misses it as the Darkness lurches forward. He turns away and loses himself in the Bright.

-o0o-

Noon. South Dakota. The Singer Salvage Yard is quiet but for the sound of metal meeting metal, as Dean tinkers with the engine of the Impala. Cas lingers at his elbow, passing him tools when he asks for them. Occasionally, Dean glances up, looks into the distance at the figure of Adam moving among the rusted out husks of cars, as he's taken to doing every day about this time. He hasn't spoken since he woke up three days ago. Dean wonders if there's something broken inside him.

From the porch, Gabriel's dog, Fox, rests his head on his paws, watches the world disinterestedly.

Through the open window of the house, the sounds of the news switches over to a ball game and the familiar, soothing tones of the announcers. The wind stirs, spring scented and warm with the promise of summer.

The quiet day is broken by a sound like a muffled sonic boom mixed with the haunting freight train noise of a tornado, followed by the shatter and tinkle of glass onto the shingles as the upstairs, guest room window explodes.

-o0o-

He knows nothing. Until he knows everything at once. The world explodes around him a shower of sound before growing silent and blooming with other sensations: soft cloth under his fingers, rough cotton wrapped around his body, a breeze making the fine hairs along his arms stand up. He takes a great lungful of air. He remembers his name.

"Sammy?"

"De—" Sam tries to speak, but the breath catches in his throat, nearly chokes him. He feels hands on him, someone familiar, who smells like chocolate and thunderstorms. Whose presence next to him is warm, bright. Gabriel.

"Don't try to speak, kiddo."

Sam opens his eyes. For a moment, it's like staring into the sun. Figures swim in his vision. He catches a flash of molten gold and the curve of a mouth, nearly unfamiliar without its usual smirk. A shadow moves toward him, the face wavering like a reflection in water, but he recognizes the green eyes, the stern set to the mouth that Dean got whenever he was trying to hold it together.

"S'okay Sammy. We'll talk later."

"Sleep," Gabriel says. Warm fingers brush over Sam's forehead. "Sleep."

It's been so long since he slept, he's not sure he remembers what sleep is.

He closes his eyes and knows nothing more.

-o0o-

"He okay?" Dean asks.

"Were you?" Gabriel says, sinking down on the bed next to Sam. Gabriel arranges the pillow so he's propped against the headboard, frowns at the lack of support and snaps his fingers, conjuring up several more pillows and a couple of soft blankets that he drapes over himself and Sam. He leans back against them with a sigh, Sam a line of warmth along his side.

"So," Dean says, brow furrowed, as he watches Gabriel get comfortable. "Now, what?"

Gabriel shrugs. "He'll sleep for a while. Couldn't say how long. The Cage is draining. To put it mildly. And it wasn't meant for mortal souls. No real telling what kind of fallout we're gonna have on our hands."

Dean looks surprised. "You're staying?"

It's not an entirely unfair question. "Yeah," he says. "I'm staying." He must be too tired for sarcasm. "Besides, someone's gotta watch out for this one. You already have your own guardian angel, who's staying close. Very close," he finishes, looking at Cas standing behind Dean, close enough that he's either not been made familiar with the human concept of personal space or – more likely, Gabriel thinks – deems it unnecessary when it comes to Dean Winchester.

"Yeah. Well…" Dean looks at Sam, his expression part parent, all big brother.

"There's nothing you can do," Gabriel says. "Except be there when he wakes up. Which won't be for a while. So, why don't you get back to showing Cas your different tools and how to do a lube job—"

Dean sputters.

Cas shakes his head and, ah, his baby brother has been learning more and more about humans just in the last few days. He actually got that implication.

"—and I'll stay right here. I'll be here when Sam wakes up." Gabriel smirks as Cas grabs Dean by the elbow and pulls him from the room.

Bobby, lingering in the doorway, looks him over appraisingly. "Need anything?"

Gabriel glances at Sam. "Water. Crackers. Being dead's hell on the digestive system."

After Bobby leaves, Gabriel shifts, slides further down the bed, until his head's propped on the pillow. He leans close to Sam, draping one arm over his torso, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the thump of his heartbeat, and the beguiling thrum of his own grace deep inside, entangled so intricately with Sam's soul that there will be no removing it.

Not without causing Sam's death.

It calls to Gabriel, makes him want to be close, to seek out the missing part of himself.

He wasn't expecting this.

He wonders how Sam will be affected when he wakes.

But that and the fallout from the Cage is a worry for later.

He closes his eyes and lets the weariness wash over him, lets himself sink into this moment of respite. The warm breeze coming in from the window he'd broken on landing. The plushness of the pillows, the softness of the blankets against his skin. Sam's breath and warmth and heartbeat. His grace and the piece that's inside Sam humming in synchronicity.

Then Sam's hand reaches for him, even in unconsciousness, curling around his forearm and pulling him until they are fitted so close together, Gabriel's not sure where he ends and Sam begins. Gabriel releases a shuddering breath, leans his head against Sam's and lets himself fall into the dark, surrounded by the bright phosphor of Sam's dreaming mind.

It feels like home.