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When it happens, it happens suddenly, out of the blue, and it doesn't make much sense at the time. Then again, considering the parties involved, that's pretty par for the course.
Dean is driving. Sam is sitting in the passenger seat with his shaggy head cradled against the cool window. Occasionally he murmurs, things too soft and muffled to be understood. Dean keeps both hands on the steering wheel and hopes it doesn't rain – the clouds swirling in the sky are dark purple bruises from the fists of an absent God, and they either mean a hell of a lot of demons are coming or they're in for a storm that'll rattle the windows.
He's just contemplating whether he could go for some food or not when Sammy kind of…twitches. Not the way you move when you're dreaming, but the way you shiver when someone pokes you while you're still asleep. It's like someone just tickled him with a big invisible feather.
A quiet voice from the back seat says, "Do you have any Beatles? He sings along with the Beatles when he's asleep."
The radio sort of fizzles, like pouring water onto a fire, and the opening chords of 'Hey Jude' resonate through the car, the clarity of the sound far surpassing anything even Dean's baby could produce. Sure enough, after about thirty seconds, Sam starts humming, and thirty seconds after that he's singing along, muddled and with some of the lyrics wrong, but still. Dean glances in the rearview mirror and Gabriel's smile-crinkled eyes meet his.
Then he vanishes, but the Beatles play on, loud and clear.
~
Dean doesn't tell Sam about it. Not at first, anyways, because he figures Sammy has got enough to worry about, what with the whole 'being Satan's vessel' thing, and besides, Dean can handle it, if it needs handling, on his own.
Sam doesn't wake up until midway through 'It Won't Be Long,' and then he looks at the radio like it's some new and fantastic creature, liable to bite him if he gets too close.
"Dude," he says, "I didn't know you owned Beatles tapes. And you've been making me listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival all this time why?"
Dean shrugs, and the radio chooses that exact moment to fizzle again. John Lennon is immediately replaced with John Fogerty, and Dean swears he can hear laughter, somewhere in the back of his head. Sammy prods the radio's tuning knob, and it works exactly as it should.
"Huh," he says, and doesn't comment further, but Dean can see the troubled furrow between his brows. He keeps his eye out for a decent-looking diner and pulls into the parking lot when he finds one, ignoring Sam's protests that they should keep going. Then he all but forces Sam to eat the biggest slice of cherry pie Dean can afford. It's totally worth all the bitching when Sam accidentally drops cherry filling onto his shirt. When they leave it looks like he's murdered someone in cold blood, and people in the parking lot give them a wide berth.
Dean thinks it's hilarious. Sam, not so much. But Dean can still hear that faint laughter, sort of tinny and out of focus, so he doesn't feel too lonely in his mirth.
They check into a motel just down the street, because the pie was good and Dean would rather stay close to good food when he can. There have been too many times where he's been forced to dine on McDonald's simply because it was the closest thing to the place he was staying at, and he doesn't like fast food, doesn't like the way it makes him feel heavy and slow.
They dump all their stuff on the beds, on the floor, and Sam pulls out his laptop to check local obituaries, news reports, all the things that he's awesome at keeping track of and which Dean would claw his eyes out over. They're just passing through the town, but it pays to be vigilant, and if there's something going on they'll take care if it same as if they'd planned for it.
It's sometime around ten-thirty or eleven that Sam tenses, shoulders going taut as he hunches further over his laptop. A minute later Dean can hear the distant beat of wings, and Castiel pops into existence beside the bed, looking immaculate and emotionally constipated as always.
"I apologize," are the first words out of his mouth, and Dean can see the train coming, coming fast. He's too slow to head it off while he still can. "I erroneously believed that Gabriel would lose interest in you…"
"Cas," Dean says, too little too late. Sam's head pops up like a whack-a-gopher, his expression a mixture of bitchface and alarm.
"Gabriel?"
"…but apparently I was mistaken. I take full responsibility for this oversight, I should have realized that my brother would not be so easily deterred…"
"Cas!"
Sam holds up his hands. "Woah," he says. "Woah, woah. Hold on. What's this about Gabriel? As in, the dude we thought was a Trickster? The archangel?"
Castiel blinks; Dean honestly believes that the angel didn't even consider that Sam didn't know. And Sam is giving Dean a sour, puckered look. Disappointed, or angry, or both. Dean doesn't hunch his shoulders, but he considers it, for a second. Then he pulls himself up straight and braces himself for a fight.
All the emotional tension in the room sort of drains away when, with a loud and incongruous pop, a bright yellow rubber duck, the kind kids played with in the bath, appears in the middle of the room. Cas glances down. Sam glances down. Dean raises his eyes to the ceiling and wishes there was a God he could pray to that would actually grant his wish of 'please kill me now.'
Attached to the rubber duck is a note. When Sam leans over to pick it up the paper crinkles, sounding not at all like the bleached-white stuff you put in printers. This is something older, something from long ago, and the inked words are dark as pitch and still faintly wet. They smear across Sammy's skin when he moves his thumb the wrong way.
'Take a chill pill, Gigantor. I hear they're selling those lavender bath bombs you like so much at the Bath & Body Works.'
"Dude," Dean says, once he's successfully pried the note away from Sam. "What the hell is a bath bomb?"
"It does not sound safe," Castiel chimes in. Sam's expression says that he would rather be anywhere else, his cheeks flushed with small embarrassment, and okay, maybe Dean can get used to this. He's certainly done worse for himself in the past.
~
"You know," Sam says, "you could just knock. Like a normal person."
Dean shifts, forcing his head up in order to see who Sam is talking to. He should be alarmed that there's someone in the room with them, someone he didn't hear come in, but once he sees who it actually is he groans and lets his head fall back again.
"Ah, but we are not people," Gabriel says, pushing himself off the wall by the door and beginning to prowl the room like a restless cat. "You assume that angels are constrained by the same moral codes as humans. Poor form, Winchester, very poor indeed."
"You're not exactly an angel anymore, either," Dean points out, more to his pillow than to anyone in the room. He doesn't see Gabriel's expression go stormy, but he can hear Sam's soft intake of breath.
"I have not Fallen, nor do I intend to," Dean hears. Gabriel's voice is low and quiet – it doesn't sound angry, but it sure as hell doesn't sound normal, either. There's a resonance to it that Dean has heard in Cas before, mostly when he's frustrated or confused. He supposes it's a hint of angelic nature sneaking through the fragile human skin, and he's surprised that letting even that small amount slip isn't enough to shred the vocal chords of Gabriel's vessel like wet tissue paper.
Dean groans and rolls over. Absently touches his thigh, where a three-inch gash is slowly healing, sewed shut by Sam's weirdly dexterous fingers. Even going near it makes agony lance up Dean's leg, and he makes a small noise, something useless and pained, and he feels, more than sees or hears, both Sam and Gabriel turning and looking at him. A minute later there's a cupped hand at his mouth, holding a pile of small white pills, and Dean swallows it down and down and down, Sam's concerned expression doing more for his broken ribs and wounded thigh and cracked cheekbone than any amount of painkillers.
Gabriel is gone once they think to look up again, but there's a small bottle sitting on the table by the door, and Sam snorts sharp, short laughter when he picks it up to read the label.
Percocet, the label reads. 5-325 mg. Have fun, kids. ☺
Sam spends like fifteen minutes trying to explain to Dean why an archangel using a smiley face is the most hilarious thing ever, but at some point he starts using the term 'emoticon' instead of 'smiley,' and Dean figures that's his cue to pass out again.
~
Two weeks later they're checked into a hotel on the outskirts of Antigo, Wisconsin. The percocet is almost entirely gone and Dean has taken it upon himself to go and fetch takeout, ostensibly so that Sam can have some time to do research without distractions. Sam suspects that Dean just really wants some alone time, and Castiel has been making calf-eyes at him for the past couple of days, ever since he realized that Dean was actually, seriously hurt, so he's not about to begrudge them their little get-together. Dean likes to think that Sam is completely blind and unaware, but he's not, not really. Being unaware gets you killed when you're a hunter, and besides, he'd accidentally walked in on Dean and Tony Black when he was thirteen. Dean had been understandably preoccupied (from what Sam had heard, Tony Black had a mouth like a Hoover), and he hadn't noticed his little brother bolting out of the room like his ass had caught fire.
So, Dean can keep pretending, if he wants. Sam will just keep not saying anything, and nothing will change.
He opens his laptop to look up ogres (dad's journal had offered the sage advice 'don't go near them,' but that hadn't exactly been helpful) and is considering where to start looking when he gets this feeling. It's sort of like the feeling you get when someone's watching you, and it's sort of like those weird, random shivers that have nothing to do with cold or fear. It's the recognition of some kind of presence, and Sam turns, automatically, to greet Castiel.
Except it isn't Castiel. And, really, he should have expected that.
Their two shitty, twin-sized hotel beds have been replaced by a single, huge bed that looks like it could comfortably fit eight or nine people, or else maybe two particularly adventurous couples. The sheets are a dark sacrament wine-red, and they look, Jesus, so soft. The pillows are fluffed up like they've still got living geese in them, and the mattress itself looks…thick. If Sam's mouth could water over a good night's sleep, he's pretty sure it would be happening right now.
The only downside is the archangel lounging on top of the sheets, but Sam (perhaps deliriously) imagines that a fight to the death might be worth it if it meant he'd get the chance to bury himself in those pillows and sleep for a couple days.
"I never quite saw the point in your always choosing these awful motels," Gabriel says, and Sam blinks. His laptop, totally without his permission, appears to be downloading porn. He closes it, because he's pretty sure that hardcore transsexual threesome videos are on his list of 'things that require heavy amounts of alcohol to tolerate.' He briefly considers that Dean might want the links later, and Gabriel arches an eyebrow.
Shit, Sam thinks. Remembers. Angel mind-reading. Right.
"I knew I liked your brother for a reason," Gabriel says. There's a note of sly knowing in his voice, and Sam finds it both creepy and kind of fascinating.
But not fascinating in a creepy way. That's totally different.
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose – he doesn't get migraines, but headaches are pretty par for the course. Too much time spent in front of a computer screen combined with too little sleep tended to make for some pretty vicious hours of pain, and he's about to ask Gabriel to leave (politely, since he doesn't want to be smote or smitten or whatever the conjugation is), when there's a soft crackle and a bottle of water and some aspirin tablets appear next to his hand. The water is so cold that the bottle is fogging up, and when Sam looks at the label he sees that it's not just water, it's fucking Perrier.
Gabriel might be a douchebag, but he's got expensive tastes, apparently, and Sam's not going to complain if the archangel is going to share.
"You boys really ought to take a break," Gabriel says, his voice going from 'I'm a smug asshole' to 'I'm concerned about your well-being' in seconds. Sam cracks the top of the bottle and downs the aspirin, the carbonated water fizzing across his tongue. It tastes good. Really good. So good, in fact, that Sam immediately stops drinking and wonders if the water maybe has drugs in it. Special angel drugs.
"No, it doesn't," Gabriel says, and then rolls over as a girl wearing a thong bikini flickers into being beside the bed. She's long and tan and gorgeous; her breasts look as soft as the pillows do, and she smiles and tucks a strand of deep red hair behind her ear as she leans over and begins to give the archangel what looks like the best massage ever.
Sam would feel jealous, except the whole tan beach girl look doesn't do it for him the way it once did. He supposes he never really felt attracted to looks alone – there has to be some sort of intellectual challenge there, too. Some personality. Gabriel glances up at him from the bed, and Sam notices that his eyes are a dark, muddied green, as different from Castiel's spooky blues as night and day. He watches until the bikini girl starts rucking the archangel's shirt up, and Sam catches a flash of skin, weirdly human and fragile-looking, at which point he turns back to his computer and opens it, wary of the possibility that a raunchy transsexual orgy might leap out at him (he doesn't put it past Gabriel). There's nothing, though, not even a link in his internet history, so Sam contents himself with researching ogres while the whispering sound of skin-on-skin continues behind him, eventually accompanied by soft, definitely masculine groans.
It goes on for an hour. An hour. A solid fucking hour.
Not even Dean is this inconsiderate.
But when he turns around again to yell or threaten or something, there's nothing. Nada. Zip. Their twin beds are exactly where they were before Gabriel showed up. There is no sign of the bikini girl, or the archangel, for that matter. Sam can smell coconuts, very faintly, but that might just as well be coming from next door. Or his own imagination.
He looks back at his laptop and, sitting next to his hand, like it had always been there, is a book. He has to squint to read it, because the title is faded and, he's pretty sure, not English, but the words eventually resolve themselves into old, badly misspelled French.
'Being a Treatise on the Nature of Ogres, Giants, and Other Countryside Devils' is the title. Sam opens it (sneezing as dust billows from the pages) and, wonder of wonders, the actual text is in the same old French, but someone has written translations in the margins. In hot pink gel pen, no less.
"Thanks," he says to the empty room, unsure if he's actually being heard.
Predictably, he doesn't get an answer.
But they do kill the ogre.
~
They're stopped at a diner halfway between Antigo and Merril when everything goes to shit.
Castiel is with them – Sam doesn't know what he and Dean said to each other, but they don't argue as much anymore. Or, Dean doesn't argue as much, and Castiel continues to look and act like the world revolves around Dean's every word. Sam reminds himself that Castiel gave up his life for Dean, so it's probably pretty natural for them to fall in together.
He feels a bit left out of the 'I've got my own personal angel' club sometimes, but he's felt left out of a lot of things, and it's not like this has any bearing on what they're trying to do. Which, unfortunately, is still trying to kill Lucifer.
They're just leaving the diner when a flare of heat lightning illuminates the night sky. Sam looks up at the same time as Castiel, and only Dean seems unable to feel it – it's not unlike the sensation of standing too close to a live wire. Castiel is tense and, Christ, he looks scared. Sam hadn't known he could look scared.
"Dean," Castiel says slowly, "You must go."
Sam clenches his jaw. The feeling of electric power is getting stronger, and Dean's just standing there like an idiot while Castiel looks scared out of his fucking mind.
"What? Cas, what's wrong? It's just lightning, man, it's – "
"It's coming," Sam says; the words feel pulled from him, like if he'd tried to hold them back they would have torn through his throat anyways. Castiel gives him a look that he's never seen before (it seems to be a night of firsts). He thinks it might be gratitude.
"What's coming? Sammy, what's going on?"
Castiel, thank God, doesn't give Dean the chance to ask any more questions. With Sam's help they shove at Dean until he's sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, Castiel automatically climbing into the back seat.
Sam stands perfectly still, beneath the flash of lightning, the sudden oppressive sensation of raw power promising to smother him. He looks up, and the light in the sky is so bright it threatens to blind him.
"Sam," Dean says, and Sam has to tilt his head to listen, because all of a sudden his ears are filled with the rush of blood and the thick-sticky sound of beating wings. "Sammy, get in the car."
This must be how mice feel, hypnotized by a snake, Sam thinks.
He moves his feet, slow as molasses, towards the car.
The world explodes in heat and light.
~
Sam wakes, but not out of any particular enthusiasm for the act itself. Rather, he is forced from the comfortable darkness he has been cradled in for the past…he doesn't even know how long. Some indeterminate, indefinable time which has encouraged him to heal.
Heal from what? His groggy brain demands, and Sam opens his eyes.
The first thing he notices is that he's in a hospital, which has always been something they've tried to avoid. Hospitals ask for things like identification and insurance, and he and Dean have both got more than a passing knowledge of medicine and first aid. It's easier to just handle things by themselves.
The second thing he notices is that Castiel is in the next bed over, breathing shallowly, and Dean is sitting in the small aisle between them, looking like he wants to be holding someone's hand but he's unwilling to attempt it, out of fear that someone will catch him. He shifts restlessly, his attention focused on Castiel, and Sam can see worry at the corners of his eyes and in the grim set of his mouth, worry that, before, had only ever been directed at Sam. He feels a brief stab of jealousy, but it melts away as soon as Dean, alerted by a change in his breathing or some other small sound, turns to look at him, and Sam sees exactly how badly Dean has been dealing.
Sam tries to say that it's alright, that it's not Dean's fault (he's not even sure what 'it' is yet), but all that comes out is a weak croak. It's kinda funny, how fast Dean scrambles for the pitcher of water and the tiny paper cups that have been helpfully placed on a table to Castiel's right. He holds the flimsy rim to Sam's lips and tilts the cup at exactly the right angle for Sam to drink without choking himself. They have done this countless times.
"How you feeling, Sammy?"
Sam shrugs. His voice is still weak when he says "I've been better," and Dean looks like he's going to push for more when, with the most impeccable timing ever, Castiel's breathing turns harsh and his eyes snap open.
Sam wonders what the hell hit them, to put their very own personal angel in such obvious pain.
"Dean," Castiel says, the very first thing, but he's not looking around, he's staring, sightless, at something neither Sam nor Dean can see. He rests his head back as Dean rushes to Castiel's side, abandoning the remainder of Sam's water to the tender mercies of his shaky, unpredictable hands. Sam is careful to sip slowly, lest he spill water all down his front.
He realizes that he's wearing those weird hospital gowns, the ones without backs, and feels a flush of embarrassment rocket through him. Feels it even stronger when Dean starts murmuring and trying to quiet Castiel, like a finicky baby.
The angel's eyes lock onto Dean's face, and he visibly calms.
"I feared you were injured," Castiel says. His eyes are huge and luminous blue. Sam has always thought, secretly, that they were a bit creepy. Nothing should be that pure, but he guesses that's pretty usual for an angel.
Dean has a look on his face that Sam is well familiar with. Dean might think he's some sort of emotional fortress, but there have been a couple people who've got under his skin, and it looks like Castiel is joining their ranks. His brother's lips part, his pupils blown oddly wide. He leans forward a bit.
Sam makes an executive decision and 'accidentally' flings his half-full paper cup at the back of Dean's neck.
"Shit," Dean says, and glares. Sam starts picking at the I.V. protruding from the crook of his arm. Cock-block: successful.
~
They're not even halfway out of the room before a roving nurse stops them in their tracks. Dean is prepared to bluff (or, if necessary, flirt) his way out of the hospital; Sammy looks resigned, and Castiel still looks…out of it. The both of them are covered with second-degree burns, Sam all over his back and shoulders, Cas all across his chest, and Dean wants to get them both out as soon as possible. The quicker he can procure some witch hazel and calendula, the faster the burns will heal.
The nurse doesn't try to keep them in the room, though. Instead she squints at them, like she's staring through the sun – she looks almost confused.
"I'm supposed to tell you something," she says. Dean would wish that it were something as simple as 'you're really sexy,' but they've never had that kind of luck. "Your brother-in-law stopped by and told me to give you these."
Castiel raises his head at 'brother-in-law,' and Sam is wearing this expression that's sort of constipated and sort of amused at the same time. Dean takes the slip of paper that the nurse pulls out of the pocket of her scrubs. As soon as her task is done she blinks, then steps past them as if they aren't there and goes on her way.
The writing on the paper is so ornate and old-fashioned that Dean has to stare at it for a solid minute before Sam makes an impatient noise and the symbols resolve themselves into letters.
'Thought you boys could use some R&R'
Dean flips the paper over and reads the other side. It's a receipt for a hotel.
It's a receipt for the Ritz-Carlton.
Holy shit.
And the fact that at the bottom, under 'payment,' there's nothing but a very long string of zeroes makes him think he knows exactly who he's going to have to thank.
"Dean," Sam says, sounding vaguely worried, so Dean shoves the receipt at him and manhandles Cas down the hall. The angel is still mostly insensate, which worries Dean, but he figures that if anyone will know how to get him better, it'll be Castiel's big brother.
"Oh for fuck's sake," he hears from behind him, and then the crumple of paper. Dean wonders if Sam realizes he's engaged in the weirdest, most elaborate courtship dance outside of National Geographic, but he suspects not.
~
The hotel is in Michigan, only about three hours away, but every second seems like an eternity with Sam stretched out in the back seat, lying on his stomach because riding passenger irritates the burns on his shoulders and back. It's strange, riding next to Castiel instead of his little brother, but it's not a bad strange. Just interesting.
"It was the Gatekeeper," Castiel explains, and Dean levels him with a look. The first thing that pops into his head is the Ghostbusters movie, but somehow he doubts that's what Castiel means. Sam groans in the back seat, sounding supremely uncomfortable, and Dean shoves his foot down harder on the gas, nudging the Impala past seventy-five. Castiel, at least, doesn't seem to care how fast they're going. Or he doesn't notice. Dean has no idea how fast angels can fly, so maybe this is like, a leisurely cruise to him.
"Hadraniel," Castiel continues, "the Gatekeeper. He is charged with the task of turning the unrighteous and undeserving away from the Gates of Heaven."
Castiel purses his lips, looking decidedly unhappy. Dean casts a glance up at the sky, trying to remember what it was that he saw. It's as if whatever it was that came down from the clouds was too great and too powerful for his brain to comprehend, and now all he can really recall is that first flash of light, and then sounds: the strong beat of wings, the crack of something heavy and electric, Castiel yelling, Sam screaming. He can remember the smell of something burning, and, beneath it, a scent like ozone.
And then waking up in the hospital's waiting room, three hours later. But Sam and Cas don't need to know that he blacked out. Besides, he's got a pretty good idea of who hauled them away from the Gatekeeper, and at this point he's willing to take it in the spirit in which it's been offered.
He might regret it later, but life's never been easy.
They don't reach the hotel until almost eleven at night, and the woman who gives them their room keys is wearing the same distracted, squinty expression as the nurse who'd given them the message in the first place. Dean's kinda grateful, because it means he doesn't have to explain why Sam winces every time he so much as twitches, and she doesn't give Castiel a weird look for his intense, spooky expression. She just blinks and then acts like they don't exist.
Fine by him.
He hauls Cas up bodily, with Sam trailing behind, barely able to keep himself standing. He tries to help, a few times, but touching Castiel inevitably leads to him needing to be moved, and Sam has enough trouble with that as it is.
Dean complains bitterly about his need for more than two arms, and Sam smiles at him. He's glad his little brother notices his concern, even if Dean can't do anything about it.
The elevator takes them straight up to the Presidential suite that they've been promised, but instead of the usual lounge music the elevator speakers pipe in what sounds suspiciously like an all-banjo rendition Aerosmith's 'Love in an Elevator.' Dean appreciates the humor, but he's more interested in keeping Castiel still, and thinking of a way to patch Sam up in the least amount of time. They can't afford to stay injured or in pain for long these days.
Of course, if getting hurt wins them luxury hotels…
Dean has never been in a room quite like the Presidential suite. For one thing, it's not just a room – it's like a miniature house. There's a living room and a dining room, not to mention a grand freakin' piano and a wet bar. In the bathroom there's a tub that looks like it could fit five or six people, and a Jacuzzi with whirlpool jets.
And, sitting on a cart at the foot of the bed, several covered dishes that, upon examination, reveal themselves to be things like roast chicken, pasta, fresh salad. Castiel looks confused while Dean's mouth waters.
"Fuck," he says, because that's about the only word he can think of that encompasses the sheer magnitude of awesome that all of this is. Sam snorts, and then flinches when the sudden movement jostles his shoulders and back. He's looking at a door, just to the right of the bathroom, and Dean had assumed it was a closet or something, except when Sam goes to open it there aren't any shelves or hangers waiting for him. There's a whole other room, slightly less fancy than the suite itself, but it's got a queen-sized bed and enough space to walk around in.
Sam glances at Castiel, and then raises an eyebrow at Dean. Dean responds by lifting his hands, but almost drops his armful of angel in the process. Castiel gazes soulfully up at him, and seems incapable of standing on his own. At all.
Separate rooms. Right.
~
It takes a bit of doing, but once Sam stumbles upon the brilliant idea of making retching noises every time Castiel looks adoringly at his older brother, it's pretty easy to convince Dean that separate rooms are a luxury they can afford to have at this point. After all, they're being put up by an archangel - Sam sincerely doubts that they're anything but safe at this point.
The adjoining room is smaller, but he doesn't need all that much space when Dean has his own entire room. He can stretch his arms and legs out, and that's all that matters, and if he needs anything there's nothing stopping him from walking through the door and bothering Dean.
Besides, he heals better on his own.
Sam peels off his shirt, literally peels, because the burns on his shoulders and back have begun weeping this clear, sticky fluid, so each inch of fabric he pulls away is a little slice of agony. The shirt is ruined, but he can't bring himself to care, not when his back feels like it's on fire, and he can only feel grateful that nothing smells like it's infected, and when he turns himself toward the full mirror on the wall the burns look no redder than they should.
He thinks he should get himself into the shower, run some cool water and wash away all the sweat and whatever it is his burns are oozing, but the bed looks inviting, far more so than it has any right to look, and he's falling face-first into the pillows before he's even consciously made the decision.
He sleeps, but he has no idea for how long. When Sam wakes the windows are still dark, so it's not yet morning, but Dean has yet to come in and check on him. He thinks it can't have been that long.
And then he realizes why he woke up.
Hands. Hands on his back.
Not holding him down, and, surprisingly, not irritating his burns, the hands are wide, the fingers deft and free of calluses. The palms rub in easy, small circles across the wings of his shoulders, smoothing out knots of tension that Sam hadn't even been aware of. The fingers trip down the knobs of his spine, digging in a little at each dip, then fan out to touch his sides, less an attempt to soothe and more just…a touch.
Dean wouldn't know a good massage if it mugged him, Sam thinks, and at the same time he feels a gust of breath across his ear, cool and smelling sweetly of vanilla, mint.
"Wakey wakey, Sleeping Beauty."
Sam closes his eyes, because he knows this voice, and he can think of a lot of things that would be worse to wake up to, but that doesn't mean he's happy that Gabriel is lounging on top of him and giving him a massage.
Wait.
He lifts his head, eyes bleary but every other sense weirdly alert, telling him that Gabriel is warm and solid on top of him, but not overbearingly heavy, and that it's not just his breath that smells like a candy factory, but rather it's a scent that his whole being seems to be giving off – something like cookies, and hot chocolate, and peppermint. Smells that Sam thinks should remind him of being a kid, but instead only make him vaguely hungry.
"M'all burned," he mumbles into the pillow, and Gabriel seems to understand him well enough, but his hands don't move, and the pain from before doesn't return. There's only the rippling sensation of fingers working the kinks from his spine. Gabriel's voice, when he speaks again, is softer than Sam has ever heard it before, and full of some emotion that he doesn't think he can readily name. Which is funny, because of all the angels, Sam would think that Gabriel, who appears to have gotten the blunt end of the stick far too often, would be the one least likely to display his heart on his sleeve. If angels even had hearts.
"Not anymore," Gabriel murmurs, and spreads his palms across Sam's shoulders, tracing intricately patterned wings across his scapulae. They curl down over his hips, holding him firmly against the soft sheets as Gabriel bows his head, his hair falling down like a curtain. It's just as shaggy as Sam's, but where Sam can only ever pull off 'lost puppy,' the archangel manages 'salesman' with his usual aplomb. He would look sleazy if it weren't for the constant gleam of honest amusement in his expression.
"You boys need to be more careful," Sam hears, and then feels, not fingers, but something softer, pillow-soft, dragging across the width of his back.
Lips, he recognizes, distantly. His lips are touching my skin.
And yet he doesn't try to pull away.
Which is weird.
"I should be freaking out," he notes, and feels, more than hears, Gabriel laugh against his back. "Seriously. You killed my brother."
"Multiple times," Gabriel interjects, and Sam frowns.
"Exactly. But you're playing nurse now? I don't get it."
"Maybe it's not something that needs to be 'got,'" Gabriel says wryly. "Maybe it's as I am – changing, unpredictable."
"Sociopathic?"
"You wound me, Sam, truly."
Something warm, damp brushes against the nape of Sam's next – Gabriel's open mouth breathing him in. Sam can recall any number of legends and myths that talk about creatures that steal your soul by sucking out your breath while you sleep, but Gabriel is an archangel – if nothing else, he gets a vote of confidence for knowing when his brothers are acting like dicks, getting the hell out of Dodge while he still could.
"And also," he continues, "I might have given you a shot of morphine. You know, to ease the pain."
Oh. Suddenly, the weird, off-kilter sensory input his body is providing him with makes a lot more sense.
"You asshole," Sam slurs, and Gabriel nips the back of his neck, and then soothes the small hurt with his uncommonly soft lips. Sam shudders all over, can feel himself responding despite (or because of?) the drug's influence. If there even is a drug, and Gabriel isn't lying to him. And yet, somehow, it doesn't have that feel.
"I love you too, honey dumpling," Gabriel croons, and Sam resolves to kill him in the morning.
Or maybe the next.