Chapter Text
Sam woke up with his breath stuck in his throat. The images clung like cobwebs: Jack’s scream echoing through scorched trees, Mary reaching for him across a collapsing rift, her fingers just a second too slow. He sat up with a jerk, sweat slick across his skin despite the cold bunker air.
Mick stirred beside him, hair a ruffled mess from sleep. “Another one?”
Sam nodded, pushing his hands through his damp hair. “They were trapped. Jack was bleeding. I couldn’t–”
“Hey,” Mick interrupted softly, reaching for him under the sheets. “It was just a dream.”
Sam flinched, but leaned into the touch. “They’re not dreams, Mick. It’s what’s happening. Or what will happen. I don’t know. And we’re just here – waiting, planning, guessing.”
Mick pulled him in closer, pressing his forehead to Sam’s. “Then it’s time we stop guessing and start doing.” He brushed a thumb under Sam’s eye, brushing away sleep and fear in one movement. “You’re not alone in this.”
The silence between them stretched comfortably. Sam’s shoulders relaxed.
“You know,” Mick muttered dryly, “I had a dream too. I was cornered by a vampire wearing a tuxedo and wielding a cricket bat. I believe Freud would have had quite a field day.”
Sam huffed out a soft laugh, leaning his head on Mick’s shoulder. “Even your dreams are British.”
“Well, excuse me for bringing class to the apocalypse.”
Sam laughed. "Oh yeah, you're classy. This is why I love you this much."
Mick gently kissed Sam's lips. Then, looking in his hazel eyes, he asked: "So you wouldn't love me if not for my posh accent, huh?"
"I totally would. The accent is just a nice bonus," Sam smiled. "We should get back to sleep."
"Want me to cuddle you?" Mick asked his boyfriend.
"Yeah, darling," Sam tried saying with the British accent. "You know I do."
Later, in the war room, Sam and Mick worked side by side over ancient texts and sigils, their focus unshaken despite the grinding urgency. Mick, as always, brought a wry humor to the darkest moments.
“So,” Mick said, peering over a tome, “what exactly do we need to crack this rift? Some kind of holy doohickey? Magic fairy dust?”
Sam chuckled, despite the tension. “Archangel grace. It’s the key.”
“Right. Angel stuff. That figures. Always the angels mucking about.” Mick shook his head with a smile. “Do you think we could barter with one? Like, ‘Hey, mate, fancy a pint in exchange for some of that heavenly sparkle?’”
Sam grinned. “If only it were that easy. There are no archangels left. Except, well.. for Lucifer.”
"Bloody Hell," Mick said, quietly, the grin promptly dissapearing from his lips. If this was really true – then their situation was dire.
Dinner was a rare break. Mick cooked – something suspiciously resembling shepherd’s pie. The two of them ate by candlelight, the bunker’s cold walls softened by flickering flames.
Sam sipped on coffee, Mick – on tea. Both were teasing each other for being addicts.
“So,” Mick said between bites, “if we pull this off, what’s next? Saving the world and then what? Retirement? Sitting by a fire, sipping tea, and complaining about the weather?”
Sam shook his head, amused. “I’m not sure the world-ending business ever really ends. But… I’d like to have that. A quiet life. With you.”
Mick reached over and brushed a stray hair from Sam’s forehead. “Then we’ll have it. One day. Maybe.”
Sam gently leaned in, kissing Micks lips. With all the mess surrounding them, it felt nice – calm, steady and comfortable. Sam was head over heels for this man, ready to spend the rest of his life with him. And maybe they could pull that off, once it was all over.
The warmth between them and the gentle kisses filled the silence in the room.
It didn't last long.
Dean barged into the kitchen, brows furrowed, face serious. "Get your ass to the war room. Both of you. Now".
Coffee still in hand and dread bubbling in his stomach, Sam met Dean by the map table. Mick followed close behind, expression unreadable but alert.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked.
Dean looked tense. “Ketch is here. Says he’s got something we’ll want to see.”
“That’s… never a good sign,” Mick muttered. "Did he say what he was here for exactly?"
Before anyone could answer, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Ketch entered first, dragging something – or rather, someone – behind him.
Sam’s heart stopped.
Gabriel.
Or what remained of him.
His face was gaunt, lips sewn together crudely with thread, dried blood crusted down his neck. His clothes were torn, barely clinging to his frame. His eyes – wild and frantic – scanned the bunker. He looked like a trapped animal.
Sam dropped the mug he was holding. It shattered, coffee pooling at his feet.
“Jesus Christ,” muttered Dean.
Gabriel recoiled at the sound, whimpering. Yes, whimpering. An archangel.
Ketch raised a brow. “I found him in Asmodeus’s prison. Thought he’d be more useful here than being tortured for kicks.”
“You brought him here?” Dean said sharply.
“He’s the last archangel you’ve got,” Ketch said coolly. “I assumed you’d want him.”
Sam didn’t move. Couldn’t. Gabriel's chest rose in rapid, shallow breaths. His hands twitched at his sides like he was preparing to fly, even though his grace felt… off. Diminished. Contained, maybe.
Mick’s voice was quiet. “Good heavens... Is that really him?”
“Yeah,” Dean muttered. “It’s him.”
“He’s in no condition to help anyone,” Sam said, stepping forward. Slowly. Carefully.
“Gabriel, hey... Can you hear me?”
The archangel’s eyes locked onto Sam. Recognition flickered. Then vanished into more panic.
Dean, practical as ever, cut in. “We need his grace. It’s the last thing we’re missing. If he’s alive, we can–”
“Dean!” Sam cut him off. Gabriel whimpered again, backing into the wall, eyes wide with terror. “Don’t say that. Don’t even dare look at him like that.”
Dean blinked. “Like what?”
“Like he’s a resource. Not a person.”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “Sam, we’ve been killing ourselves to open that rift. Mom and Jack are out there. I’m just saying–”
“I know what you’re saying,” Sam growled. “Which is why I’m telling you to shut up for once.”
Gabriel whimpered louder, then gave a muffled, pained cry through the seams of his lips. Sam turned back to him, voice softening.
“Hey. Gabriel. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
He inched closer. Gabriel was trembling. Sam stopped just within arm’s reach, his voice no louder than a breath.
“You remember me, right? From Crawford Hall? From Mystery Spot? That hotel – Elysian Fields?”
Gabriel’s eyes locked with his again. A small, twitching nod.
“That’s right,” Sam murmured. “You’re not alone. I’ve got you.”
Behind him, Mick stood still.
He knew that voice. The one Sam used when he was trying to keep someone from falling apart. Soft, yet protective. The voice that sounded more like affection than anything else.
A flicker of something twisted in Mick's chest. Unease. Not jealousy, per se... but an uncertain 'something'.
Gabriel had eventually stopped shaking. He leaned slightly forward, exhausted. His knees buckled and he almost fell.
Sam caught him.
Gabriel collapsed right into his arms, giving up under the weight of torture he endured. Sam felt scars and gashes on Gabriel's back, and winced, as he caught the archangel's weakened body.
"I've got you, Gabriel."