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Sam can’t draw breath anymore. His chest doesn’t hold any even if there was air left for him - his mouth is open but the oxygen’s gone and the rest just doesn’t flow in, it doesn’t come out either. His nails claw into the burning earth as more pours over his legs, filling up the space he has left, and he closes his eyes and hates the tears he feels falling out, but it’s there and he can’t change it.
At the same time, while his whole being is shaking, he knows - knows - that it isn’t happening. Not this time, anyway. And when he feels the touch upon his arm he’s relieved, because he knows that it’s the only way out, the only way away from the crushing weight of six feet of coals flowing into the grave of his mind, and then, finally, he gasps and the freshness of a room full of oxygen greets him.
There’s no sunlight to get him out of the fear, no chirping birds in the morning, not even a window, but it doesn’t matter. His face is already buried to the older’s chest, nose full of Gadreel’s scent, of the warm dusty smell of his clothes with the fading memory from earlier when the leather jacket was still rubbing its own into the mix of polyester and cotton. The sounds he’s letting out are… he’s not sure if he’s laughing, gasping or sobbing, but it could well be all three at once - Gadreel’s fingertips turn his hair around, rub at his scalp, let the weight of the strands back down upon his sweaty neck and return to push it away again to repeat the motions. He’s breathing so evenly, so calmly, that Sam finds it easy to retune the rhythm of his own to match it: it never changes, never turns faster, and each breath is long and relaxed. The hunter’s heart still thunders inside its cage but he’s safe and he feels that way now, slowly but surely growing more confident that this moment won’t fade, that the dream he had is gone now, much like the ones that came before it. He hasn’t had a single one twice since he let Gadreel in his bedroom for the first time, partially because he had to and partially because he wanted to; now it doesn’t matter. It isn’t necessity anymore, it’s purely because this feels like what it should be. And maybe it’s the trauma talking, maybe it’s not Sam at all, but the man couldn’t care less as long as it feels so damn right, like for the first time he’s really found a home not within walls but in a scarred grace beating inside a scarred vessel. He’s content here. He’s safe here. He doubts he’s ever been better as he reaches up, body still trembling although less prominently than before, and kisses the older over his neck, the curve of his jaw and under his ear.
If it is the trauma talking, then there are two kinds; the one that chokes him with burning coals and the one that he has nightmares about losing. Maybe it’s not what he should lean into, and it definitely isn’t what he should love, but he does, and as Gadreel bends his head down to breathe onto his skin, arms securely around his waist and body both relaxed against Sam and shielding him from any danger at once, none of the ifs and maybes and morals and should-bes matter.
The fact that he’s here now does.
The fact that he’s still there when Sam falls asleep does.
The fact that he’s the thing the hunter wakes up to without fault every morning… that’s what matters.