Sinner's Angel
“... carry him.”
“You are not strong enough.”
“Screw you.”
Dean’s high-pitched fury laced with panic was the first thing to break through. Which was surprisingly comforting. It was the same tone of voice that had brought Sam back around when he fell out of a tree and knocked himself out for the first time. The last tone of voice he’d heard before the world went black at Cold Oak. Over the years he’d been knocked out more times than he could count, but one thing never changed. The warmth of Dean’s hand on his shoulder and the panic in his voice.
“Sam? Sammy?”
He opened his mouth to tell him to stop worrying and that he was fine, but no words actually made their way out. He was fine, wasn’t he? He had to be. He could hear, he could feel the steadily rising pain in his temples, his chest. He felt broken all over. The pain was faintly comforting too. Pain, he knew. He could do pain.
“... not here for him. They will seek you out first, and I cannot protect you both.”
That was an unfamiliar voice. Sam tried opening his eyes and the pain in his temples tripled. His nose clogged, his eyes watered. His forehead felt full of broken glass. He’d gotten hit in the back of the head with a steel pipe once and this was infinitely worse. He wanted the steel pipe back. Worse, he couldn’t remember how it happened. A hunt gone wrong?
Light hit his eyes and he finally managed a sound, more of a groan than anything else. He felt tears sliding down his temples from the pain and even that tiny bit of pressure was agony.
“Sammy? Hey, man, can you hear me?”
Sam wanted to smack him. If he could actually move he probably would have. Instead he blinked a few times, trying to get the moisture out of his eyes. Tried to lift his arm and managed only a faint twitch of fingers. What the fuck happened? Did he get crushed by a semi?
“We gotta get you out of here, ok?”
Dean was taking the blanket off, chucking it in the corner, then tucking the sheet around him.
“I know you can’t walk right now but I’ve got someone to carry you.”
Carry him? From where? To where? What the fuck was going on?
“You drop him and I’m gonna put this blade up your ass.”
“I will not drop him.”
“The parking garage. If I’m not there before you, just stay put and try and not get killed.”
The bed under him shook violently and Sam groaned again, feeling as if all of his bones shifted in a wrong direction.
“I am sorry, Sam, this will hurt,” the unfamiliar voice said.
Arms snuck under his knees and shoulders and lifted him up. He cried out, the effort ripping a fiery line down his throat. His fingers weakly scrambled for purchase against unfamiliar leather. How could he feel this much pain and still be alive?
“I am sorry,” the voice said again.
They were moving. He was being carried and they were moving and it was like being on board of a ship during the storm of the century. Sam was going to throw up.
His cheek was pressed against the man’s leather jacket but he could see the room moving around him, the splintered doorway as they stepped through. Out in the hallway the noise was deafening.
It was a hospital, Dean had brought him to a hospital. How badly was he hurt for Dean to actually bring him here? He could count, on the fingers of one hand, the times either one of them had needed to be hospitalized. The last memory he could readily recall involved him almost dying.
The floor shook under them again and his rescuer stumbled slightly. White and blue scrubs rushed past them. Nurses? Doctors? They were running, their panic obvious. They weren’t supposed to do that, were they? Weren’t they supposed to be the ones who stay calm in crisis situations? Screams echoed against the walls and he wanted to scream with them. The fluorescent ceiling lights exploded, one by one, showering them with sparks. A sharp sound of glass shattering overpowered it all.
The arms clenched him tighter and suddenly he was going down, the hallway spinning around him. For a brief second he saw a face, dark green eyes and freckles, then a shadow covered them both.
Time slowed down. Sam blinked, his brain trying to catch up to what his eyes were seeing. Millions of shards of glass suspended above them, seemingly held up by the air itself. There was a shivering shadow, one moment there, the next gone. It flickered, glittered, like a tv channel with too much static. Then suddenly, with no warning, it turned into a vast skeleton of black feathers.
Wings. The largest wings Sam had ever seen, larger than the shadow of Castiel’s wings had been. Twisted and so dark, they looked to be smudged with char. Covered in glass, the feathers that easily spanned Sam’s forearm quivered above him. The glass was hurting them, it was hurting him, whoever his rescuer was. Sam had heard his sharp intake of breath when the glass descended, felt his fingers dig into Sam’s ribs hard enough to make his eyes tear up again. But he couldn’t look away from them. He wanted to reach up and touch them, despite the pain. For a few moments everything around him faded into the background and he felt bright, childlike wonder. He thought of his mother, her soft voice and the delicate angel statues she’d loved so much. Despite the demon blood and Lucifer and all those months without a soul, he was being protected by an angel. An angel was looking out for him. Between the pain and the awe, the distrust he’d been harboring all those past months never surfaced. Here was a fairytale come to life, here was a balm to the wound Castiel’s had words left, all those years ago, when he called him the Boy with the Demon Blood. A wound that still burned, that no number of years would ever erase. Despite it, there was an angel, in the world, who believed Sam Winchester was worth saving.
Something warm struck his cheek and slid down to his neck.
His rescuer lifted his head, jaw clenched tight, breath labored. Their eyes met and Sam wanted to say something, anything at all, but his throat would not listen. He felt warm liquid drops splattering on the back of his hand, his forehead. Another one slid down the leather jacket in front of him, thick and red. He looked up at the wings again and saw the cobweb of red spreading. His stomach turned.
They were bleeding. The first pair of angel wings he’d seen and they were hurt protecting him. They were bleeding because of him.
“No,” he rasped softly.
The arms tightened around him, lifting him again, and the world tilted. His chest constricted. His vision spun, an entirely new variety of pain locking up his limbs. He knew he was going to lose consciousness only moments before he actually did, but it was just long enough to hope that it was all a bad dream.
--
The drive to the Bunker was long, Sam’s head cradled against his shoulder in the back seat the entire time, his faint breath warming a spot on Gadreel’s neck. Dean Winchester might not be a man of many words, but he seemed to dislike the silence. The music that continuously blared through the car speakers called up quite a few memories, all of them belonging to his vessel. Joshua had spent a good portion of his life working in seedy roadside bars, a never-ending soundtrack of electric guitars playing in the background. His only civilian skill had been pouring drinks. It had taken him a long time to realize that he’d been pouring too many down his own throat. Strings of unsuccessful detoxes followed, years of numbness and self-loathing and praying. In some ways they were a perfect match. Both failures, both willing to do anything to change their inevitable destiny.
Gadreel had not been completely sure that he was doing the right thing. When it came to Winchesters, many of his Brothers and Sisters could doubtlessly spend years debating what constituted right or wrong. A small part of him already disliked Dean Winchester, his single mindedness, his obvious propensity for violence. There was something about the man that was shrill and unsteady, a note vibrating too high for comfort, on the verge of shattering glass.
But Sam... Sam was still a mystery.
When his eyes had finally opened, back in the hospital room, Gadreel was surprised to find them so different from his brother’s. He had expected the same overly bright green, the monochrome of Eden’s perfection, sharp and unattainable. Instead he’d found all the colors of the earth. The deep greens of an unconquerable forest. The browns of fertile soil. The gold of sunlight after rain. He’d met the man’s gaze once, for a single heartbeat. The glass burning above him, thousands of fires lit across his wings. He expected to see pain and panic and fury, all those emotions that humans were so well versed in. But Sam Winchester’s gaze had been full of awe and wonder.
Gadreel had spent millions of years diving though depths of despair and regret, but for a single moment, in Sam Winchester’s eyes, he’d been a hero.
--
Lowering Sam on the bed and finally stepping away from him resulted in the strangest sense of loss. He had barely registered such things as heat or cold before, but he keenly felt the absence of Sam’s warmth. It made him wonder if this was simply another echo of the soul that huddled deep inside of him. It seemed unlikely that he would suddenly grow so attached to something that was unnatural to his kind in the first place.
“What?” Dean said, “Why are you staring at him? Is he ok?”
“He is as well as he can be, considering.”
“What does that mean? Considering what?”
“Considering most of his major organs are severely burned. I will continue what I started at the hospital. Then I must rest.”
“How long until he’s back to normal?”
“Days? Weeks? Even once he is completely healed, he will still be weak. It will take him a great deal of time to regain his strength.”
“Never mind that, I’ll get him back on his feet, you just fix him first.”
Gadreel just nodded. He hadn’t known Dean Winchester longer than a few hours and he already understood that the man did not tolerate betrayal, did not tolerate failure, and rarely allowed reason to interfere with his convictions. He found himself more and more surprised that Dean had resisted Michael’s call. They would have fit each other like puzzle pieces, the Supreme Commander of the Heavenly Hosts and the Righteous Man.
“Find me if he wakes up, alright?”
“I will.”
--
Sam blinked at the ceiling. His ceiling, his room. Bunker. Home.
It had all been a dream. The hospital, the screaming, the bleeding angel wings. It was definitely not even at the top ten of his most disturbing dreams, but it had struck a chord. One he had no intention of analyzing.
He tried to roll over and gasped, muscle cramps locking up his back and chest. Ok, so that part hadn’t been a dream, he really was hurt.
“Sam?”
He jerked away from the stranger next to his bed, automatically reaching for the gun under his pillow. A gun that wasn’t there. He tried to scoot further away and a sharp cramp cut across his stomach, raising bile to his throat.
“Sam? Do not be alarmed. I mean you no harm.”
Yeah, he’d heard that one before. Where was Dean? Was he hurt? How did this stranger even get into the bunker?
The bunker, where they’d left Kevin and the Angel Tablet completely unprotected.
A wave of panic threatened to overwhelm him.
“Please, you are not fully healed yet,” the stranger sounded genuinely upset.
“Let me summon Dean, he will explain everything, just-- please, do not move.”
Leather jacket and freckles and... green eyes?
No. Impossible.
“Wait,” Sam hissed, “I know you. From the hospital. You-- Who are you? Why are you here?”
The man had stopped moving the moment Sam told him to wait, but he still looked ready to run.
“My name is Gadreel. Your brother requested my help in healing you. I did not intend to be the first thing you saw when you woke up. I did not expect you to wake for some hours yet.”
“You-- you’re an angel?”
“I was. I am.”
“The wings... the wings I saw, those were real?”
His face twisted slightly into an expression Sam couldn’t read. He seemed even more eager to run than before.
“Yes. My wings. They are real. I need-- I promised Dean I would let him know as soon as you are awake. I need to find him.”
The man, angel, whatever the fuck he was, took off like his ass was on fire. And Sam was supposed to what? Lay there and wait for him to change his mind? Well screw that, Sam wanted a weapon handy no matter what the hell was happening out there.
He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. The room tilted with him and then just kept tilting until he had to close his eyes to make it stop. Nausea gripped him. He couldn’t feel any physical injuries, no pulling or tugging of stitches, no burning pain of torn tendons or sharp ache of broken bones. But he hurt. Everywhere. If the angel and Sam’s dreamlike memories were to be believed, then he really had been in a hospital. For how long? Why? His memories seemed fractured, bits and pieces floating around, refusing to connect.
First thing first. He had no angel blade stashed in his room; the one he had he’d always carried with him, and now it could be anywhere. But he did have a nice, old fashioned handgun in his sock drawer. That was maybe six feet away, a distance that suddenly resembled miles. He was trembling from the effort of sitting upright and he was supposed to stand? Walk?
He eyed the nightstand and cautiously gripped it with one hand. It should hold up. He’d been hurt worse than this in the past, he was pretty sure, and still managed to get around. So this should be nothing. A walk in the park.
He heaved himself up and his left knee actually locked on demand, attempting to keep him standing. The right one never even got that far. It just folded under him and he flailed for the dresser, hoping to grab it before he smacked his damn head against it and knowing he would overshoot by at least a foot.
He’d actually closed his eyes and tensed his body against the impact when a hand wrapped around him, pulling him up and back towards the bed.
“Dude, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Dean.” Sam latched on to him with both hands, relieved to see the look of familiar frustration even though it was directed at him.
“Of course it’s me, who the fuck would it be?”
“Prove it,” Sam said, trying to loosen his grip.
The bed seemed to be swaying slightly and he was pretty damn close to throwing up.
But he had to be sure first.
Dean rolled his eyes. Pulled out a knife and cut his hand. Grabbed a salt shell out of his pocket and cut it, then shook out the salt all over himself.
“Now you’re gonna have salt in your bed. And I don’t have any Holy Water on me. You got any stashed up here?”
“No-- maybe, I don’t know. Never mind, I’m sure it’s you.”
“Damn right, anyone else woulda let you smack your damn head into the dresser on principle. What the fuck were you doing?”
“My gun isn’t under the pillow. What happened? I wake up with a strange angel staring at me, I feel like crap and I don’t remember how I got here. Did you bring me to a hospital?”
“You don’t remember the Trials?”
That word was like a light switch. Suddenly there was a flood of memories: hellhound bleeding all over him, trip to Hell to rescue Bobby, the old church, curing a demon. Finally, there was some sort of a timeline, even if it was all patchy still, full of black holes he couldn’t fill.
“Yeah,” he said, “I do, it’s just-- it’s all messy and disconnected. Like there’s shit missing.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Uh... Crowley, blood, Abaddon... you. You stopped me from completing the last trial, then just-- pain. Meteor shower?”
“Angels. Metatron closed Heaven, ejected all the angels.”
“They-- they all fell?” Sam was horrified. “All the angels?”
“Except for the douchebag himself. I’m sure he took a nice slow ride down somehow.”
“But... how? Are they all-- they can’t be dead, you found one that can still heal.”
“Yeah, it’s more like he found me.”
“How?”
“All right, you know what? I’m not saying another fucking thing until you’re lying down. I know that face you’re making and if you barf on me, I swear to God--“
--
Dean had gone to get him some food and Sam was debating which books he should ask for, considering he would be trapped in the damn bed for at least a couple of days, when a soft knock echoed against his door.
“Come in,” he said, expecting Kevin.
Instead, he was surprised to see the angel from before, looking infinitely less anxious now. Come to think of it, that was the first time Sam had seen any angel look anxious, aside from Cas.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” he said.
Sam sat up straighter, pushing the pillows behind him.
“No, come in. It’s Gadreel, right?”
“Yes. I wish we could have met under more agreeable circumstances.”
“Yeah, you and me both. You wanna sit?”
The angel eyed the chair he’d been sitting in earlier and shifted his feet. So maybe the anxiety was gone, but there was a good deal of awkwardness there. Another thing Sam had learned not to expect from angels in general.
“Come on. You’re tall and craning my neck is making me nauseous. Is that gonna go away anytime soon? The nausea, I mean.”
“Uh... yes, I believe so.” Gadreel settled on the edge of the chair and clasped his hands tightly, tension radiating from his stiff posture. “Food and water should help.”
“Dean is on it. He told me what happened, in the hospital and afterwards. You saved my life.”
“Ah... yes, I suppose. You are very strong, Sam Winchester, I cannot take all the credit.”
“Strong or not, I was dying. Thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Gadreel said, but he seemed ready to run again.
Sam had a faint suspicion as to why the angel was so uncomfortable around him. Although he told himself he wouldn’t bring it up, this awkwardness was definitely not something he wanted to deal for the next few days.
“I know who you are,” he said bluntly. “And not the short version Cas gave Dean. I’ve read all there is on you and... the others Lucifer took under his wing.”
He regretted his blunt tone when Gadreel flinched.
“I don’t want you to think there are things you need to hide,” Sam hurried on, “or that your past would be held against you here. Especially not by me.”
Sam grinned weakly. “As it happens, I know a thing or two about dooming humankind.”
“You have been redeemed many times over,” Gadreel said softly, “and I have done nothing but spend millennia in prison. You do yourself a great disservice by comparing your deeds to mine.”
Before Sam could think of a response, Dean barged in with a tray balanced in one hand.
“Ok dude, I’ve got all the invalid food here, I’ve got soup and juice and even one of those gross jello cups--“
Gadreel stood up quickly and Dean stopped when he saw him, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Everything okay here?”
“Yeah,” Sam said quickly. “We never actually met except for the hospital fiasco and me freaking out earlier so,”
he turned to Gadreel, “I’d like to ask you some more questions later, if you’re not busy.”
Gadreel hesitated a moment then inclined his head,
“Of course. Anything you need.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, Dean put the tray down next to Sam and shook his head.
“He’s a creeper. But I didn’t really have a lot of choices.”
“He’s not so bad, he kind of reminds me of Cas. Remember what he was like before you ruined him?”
Dean sat at the edge of the bed and scoffed. “Ruined him? What, you liked him better with that tree-sized stick up his ass? I taught him how to loosen the fuck up. It was a community service.”
“You got him drunk and tried to get him to have sex with a hooker.”
“Huh.” Dean looked thoughtful. “I wonder if that’d work again.”
“Don’t you dare, you already ruined your angel. Leave mine alone.”
“Oh, no,” Dean said. “I don’t think so. He’s not a stray dog that needs a home, ok? I don’t want him here any longer than he needs to be. Once you’re patched up and he’s patched up, he’s getting his feathery ass back on the road.”
“He saved my life.”
“Yeah, so?”
“He saved my life, Dean. He didn’t have to. It would be nice to have another angel on our side, especially since you have no clue where Cas is.”
“Cas’ll find us, ok? We don’t need another angel.”
Sam sighed.
“Can you at least not be an ass to him?”
“Fine. Your soup is getting cold.”