consoul

Sam has just finished a hunt when he first sees the angel.

He's methodically stitching up a forearm wound at the sink, hardly feeling the needle pierce his skin. Pain doesn't merit any more attention than the exact amount it takes to resolve it and move on to the next hunt. The blood (mostly not his) drying on his skin can wait. So can his matted hair and the cell phone buzzing on the nightstand.

A strobe of colored light in his peripheral makes him blink in irritation. The piercing pain through his eye socket that follows makes him pause in his stitching with a grunt. A migraine?

The pain throbs with increasing intensity. It's like someone knocking on his temple, demanding entrance, or perhaps attention—

Someone has joined him in the mirror.

The pain evens out to a blanket of static noise. Through it, Sam makes eye contact with a partly visible man. Light obscures his edges, but what he can see is ragged and forlorn.

He's there for a moment, mouthing something through the mask of blood coating his face. He seems as startled as Sam before his form slides into something inhuman. Sam registers it as light pouring from his eyes first, and then the seams of his face, melting into a form with layers and layers of gyrating arcs around a flickering, fading shape that somehow, Sam knows, would inspire great fear and awe if he looked at it directly.

But he doesn't. It's there for a millisecond, dulled by the clarion bells screaming in his ears, before everything fractures apart. The pain vanishes in time with the shattering of the mirror.

Sam jerks back to avoid broken glass adding any extra work to the wounds he hasn't finished stitching yet. He inhales a tentative breath, holds it for three seconds, and lets it out when his head doesn't mutiny against him. Except for the mirror, there is no other evidence that anything happened.

The mirror. Sam tilts his head, his reflection scattering into a thousand broken pieces that move in time with him. It's fractured in a runic manner. Enochian.

He's just intrigued enough to carefully copy the pattern down on the motel's notepad. Only when he finishes cleaning up from the original hunt (leaving the mirror as is) does he sit down and research the runes. His task is made easier by the Enochian-related resources already saved to his laptop; resources from a different lifetime he doesn't remember living, but knows happened to him.

The runes don't spell out a message. Simply a name: Gabriel.

…

"What do you know about angels?"

The question slips out one night when he's sharing drinks with Samuel Campbell and some of the others. He's on the Kansas stretch of the oscillations he's taken to making through the Midwest; oscillations that take him farther and farther from Samuel.

Samuel is his namesake, but these people that he shares blood ties with are just that: people. Sam isn't even sure that, if he was capable of dedicating loyalties to anyone, that Samuel would be his first pick. Sam stays near because it's clear the same forces that pulled him up must've pulled Samuel down.

A hush falls over the group. Someone coughs. Samuel looks at him askance.

"As a concept? The same as anyone else here. From my experience up there? Even less," Samuel replies, jerking his head up with raised eyebrows toward the sky. "Eternity isn't visited by angels. From what I can remember, that is."

He takes a pointed sip of beer, clearly marking the end of the conversation. The others take the cue, conversation flowing back to an approximation of its previous shape and tone.

Fascinated by the oversized reaction to what he'd thought a reasonable question, Sam accepts the course of events. He ruminates over what he knows, taking the time to distance himself just a little more from the group by heading to the icebox for another beer.

Ever since what he's classified as the Mirror Incident, Sam has been seeing the angel out of the corner of his eye. He refuses to call him Gabriel. There's a chance (admittedly, a small one) that the angel could've sent the name "Gabriel" not as a calling card, but as a ploy to make him think he's being contacted by Gabriel.

Or it could be Gabriel I'm seeing.

The idea is hard to fathom; somehow harder than the convoluted alternatives he's pondered through on the road. Sam can't reconcile the pathetic creature trailing him in the backseats of the cars he hot-wires and the corners of the motel rooms he crashes in as Gabriel, Herald of God. Gabriel, according to the lore, is an almighty being. Gabriel cannot be haunting Sam like a ghost.

Beer acquired, Sam edges from the covered porch they've gathered on and into the yard. The remains of a bonfire, started practically to burn debris from a recent hunt, still smolders. Here and there, salt glints in the moonlight.

Sam edges the salt circle, leaning toward the fire. The angel's face has never been clear since the Mirror Incident. Still bloody, Sam sees either a snatch of an aquiline profile or the bottom curve of a short jaw. Hair, or an approximation, covers the rest. It's as if the angel is trying to hold together enough of a human appearance to keep from shattering more mirrors, but for whatever reason, can't.

So, what could weaken an angel?

Of course, this all presumed that the angel actually existed. The possibility that Sam likes least is that he's hallucinating—an affliction previous Sam was rumored to be up to his neck in by the time the Apocalypse kicked off.

And that's an even worse thought. Of what Sam couldn't remember, the Apocalypse and all its related events made him the most uneasy. There were important things there that second-hand retellings couldn't fully account for. Gaps remained. Gaps big enough to possibly account for a stray angel.

Something collapses inside the bonfire, sending up a spray of sparks that Sam follows with his eyes. A similar starburst of flickering pain starts at the base of his jaw, hot enough to taste.

Pain is the precursor to the angel's visits. At the apex of both pain and sparks, the angel appears, half-wreathed in flame.

Sam swallows, careful to appear normal to the group on the porch still within view, and leery of looking at the angel head on. Despite the salt circle and all the other protections strewn across the property, the angel stands before him, more solid than usual.

There is nothing usual about this, Sam thinks, taking a fortifying swig of beer as he dares to look into his eyes.

Through the hair and blood, they are strikingly human. In daylight, they'd be hazel; tonight, they burn gold. The light is borrowed filigree for a gaze that makes Sam flinch. The angel is staring into him, right into the hollow, metaphysical space that Sam knows once held his soul.

What have they done to you?

The voice is coming from the fire, not his mouth. The voice is the fire.

Sam puts out the fire with what's left of his beer without thinking. The angel disappears so smoothly, it's as if he was never there. He. He, the angel. He, whose identity can no longer behind denied. Not with that voice.

Sweat cools on the back of his neck. The screen door slams shut as Samuel ambles down with more beer in hand. Somehow, he's noticed nothing.

"Coulda let that go on a little longer," he muses, scuffing the edge of the kindling.

"Nah," Sam manages, snatching a beer with a nod. Besides the sweat, he knows that he appears normal. It's one of the many benefits of being soulless. "Figured I'd do it, since I'm the first one out."

"Gone so soon?"

Sam stares at a single, glowing ember. He carefully nudges dirt over it, then offers Samuel a careless shrug.

"There's always something to hunt."

…

Sam doesn't see Gabriel for about two weeks after the Bonfire incident. In that time, Sam reads everything saved to his laptop that's angel-related (there's more than he expected), recreates a timeline of every visitation Gabriel has made to him in between the Mirror Incident and Bonfire Incident, and most importantly, accepts that the angel is Gabriel.

What does Gabriel want?

The question hounds Sam in Gabriel's absence. He imagines it as a dog running circles around the empty track that housed his soul. That dog of a question is the first thing to breach that void, and it pisses him off how persistent it's being. What does Gabriel want?

Gabriel wants to speak with him. That much is evident, and is even acceptable, given his long-held role of messenger. But to what end? Simply to say what he said during the Bonfire Incident?

"What have they done to you?" Sam echoes to the motel wall he is staring placidly at. He stares at walls a lot in rooms like these when he is alone and doesn't feel like having sex or researching the next hunt yet.

This question sparks irritation. Nothing has been done to Sam. He likes himself as he is: he's a better hunter than the previous Sam ever was, and has far more kills to show for it. Having a soul weighed him down.

What have they done to you?

A passing car outside throws the shadows of the blinds against the wall. Sam watches them reel past, then continue to reel past for far longer than they should've. The car is long gone.

Sam blinks, and they darken and stretch. For a moment, the shadow of a skeletal wing engulfs the wall.

The overhead bulb flares in its casing and pops, casting the room into darkness. Sam is already reaching for his gun on the nightstand.

There's nothing to shoot at, moron.

Sam wheels around. Gabriel is more shadow than substance today, crouched in the corner of the room just past the now turned on TV, arms stretched over bent knees.

What would've been arms over knees, that is. Sam is only receiving impressions of a body, like a silhouette hastily painted in with a brush too big for the job. The effect is disconcerting when paired with inhumanly glowing eyes.

"I could still try," Sam says, aiming the barrel right between those damn eyes. Gabriel is leaking power from them, cutting through the blood like tear tracks.

And damage this glorious wallpaper?

Sam snorts. The wallpaper is a hideous green and purple damask so monstrous that he can't decide which decade is responsible for it.

"Why are you here? Are you even real?" he asks, seized again by the possibility that he's hallucinating like previous Sam did.

I'm real. Mostly. I'm not here, but I am real.

In the dark, the convoluted words somehow make sense. Gabriel is somewhere else, but throwing a projection at Sam repeatedly, in whatever shape he can manage.

"Why me?" Sam asks, lowering his gun slightly. "Don't tell me you need help from me."

Gabriel's eyes shut for a brief moment. The TV screen dims low before roaring back to staticky life.

You can't help me. You don't even remember me.

"We've met?"

Repeatedly.

Gabriel's disembodied tone turns wry. Off-kilter, Sam sits in his chair, happy that it allows him to take two steps back from the figure in the corner.

"I don't remember anything from previous Sam. His impressions of people and emotions anyway. I retain all practical knowledge and habits divorced from emotion."

Still got that know-it-all tone.

"I'll shoot you," Sam warns, his heart skipping a beat for some ludicrous reason. Why on earth is this creature bantering with him? Was previous Sam on bantering terms with him?

More productive to shoot at the sky.

Sam can hear Gabriel's wings, or what's left of them, rustling now. They creak like winter trees in a northern wind. Angels wings shouldn't sound so brittle. The sound sets his teeth on edge, colliding with the steadily increasing pain in his left eye.

"Why does it hurt every time you appear?"

Before he's even finished his question, Gabriel's wings are gone. Strangely, Sam misses the contrasting pattern they'd written over the wallpaper. Behind his eye, the pain ebbs a little.

My true form vaporizes humans. Even my weak approximations can be dangerous.

"Oh. Do you…not have a vessel?" Sam asks, recalling all the angel lore he'd read up on.

It's trapped.

"Where?"

Not important. Like I said, you can't help me.

Gabriel is withdrawing, taking the pain away in tandem. Sam leans forward, compelled despite all logic dictating that he should let the angel go.

"What the fuck could trap an archangel?" He asks, words tripping over themselves. "This makes no sense. What are you?"

The light flickers back on. Somewhere, an H VAC unit starts humming. Gabriel is gone.

Sam throws the chair into the bed, momentarily possessed by something white hot he recognizes as frustration. Who is he frustrated at? Gabriel, for being cryptic? His previous self, who he now knows possesses information he'd like to have? Himself, for not remembering?

Smoke tickles his nose. He approaches the spot where Gabriel had been, tracing the synthetic stench to letters burned into the carpet.

"Asshole," Sam mutters, scuffing the lingering heat out with his boot. There are only two words.

Muncie, IN.

…

Sam takes out a ghost on the way to Muncie. It makes him feel more in control of the situation. He's acutely aware that he's following the whim of an angel with too much ease.

But this is also the most interesting thing to happen in his short recollection of life, and he'll be damned if he veers back towards Samuel so soon. It hasn't escaped him that Samuel has his own secrets; secrets that involve Sam.

Muncie, Indiana isn't remarkable. Sam drove through half a dozen cities exactly like it on the way here, and as he cruises through cookie cutter, suburban streets, he struggles to understand why Gabriel sent him here.

Surely this isn't where he's trapped?

Sam dismisses the thought. Gabriel made it clear he wasn't interested in rescue. Whether he thought Sam wasn't capable of it (a bit insulting) or because he assumed Sam wouldn't (more likely; as of yet, Sam would've only rescued him for the challenge of it), Sam couldn't be sure. What he did know was that Gabriel had sent him here for some other reason.

Previous Sam must've been here at some point. Maybe with Dean on a hunt, or closer to the Apocalypse chain of events.

The sun is lowering into late afternoon when Sam finally finds it. The lot is mostly empty, holding only the remains of a concrete foundation and a few skeletal posts standing at odd angles.

Still, something makes Sam pull up to the curb. A feeling in the back of his throat—not pain, but different. Something that tastes old.

Grimacing, Sam shuts the car off and sits there for several long minutes. He hadn't driven all this way to fucking Muncie, Indiana to wimp out now.

"Get it together," he says to what he can see of himself in the rear view mirror, making sure his gun is tucked behind his flannel before getting out.

He can't tell what was here before. Some kind of hotel, maybe, by the size. It doesn't really matter. There are wings etched on the concrete; dark enough that the force it must've taken to scorch through floor and subfloor to reach this level must've been immense.

Sam crouches down, daunted by the scope of the wingspan. What angel died here?

The image shivers beneath his fingertips. Sam blinks, and the wings are gone.

He doesn't run back to the car—that would be humiliating. He does take a second glance back and runs his tongue over his molars, hackles raised.

Take a good look?

"Jesus Christ," Sam hisses, whirling around to glare at the form occupying his backseat.

He regrets it almost immediately. Gabriel is barely there, and what of him has appeared isn't particularly human. His body is practically see through, emphasizing the disembodied effect of his mostly formed head perched over the collar of a hunter-green jacket.

"Urgh. I almost preferred the other look," Sam says, turning back around and angling the rear view mirror to better see him.

He does so in time to catch a smirk. There is less blood today—no blood, in fact. Gabriel has cleaned up to an eerie degree.

Figures you'd be more keen on the form that could kill you.

"Go fuck yourself. That's weird," Sam says, referencing Gabriel's voice. His mouth is moving today with the words, but the voice is still projected directly in his head, echoing with the edge of a cathedral bell.

It's weird for me too, kiddo. You think I planned any of this?

"You planned that," Sam says, waving a hand to the lot outside. "Whatever that was. If you don't explain, I'm going to assume you're fucking with my head."

A shadow passes over Gabriel's forehead. Elysian Fields. There was only a slight chance you'd remember, but stranger things have happened with Winchesters.

Elysian Fields. A place previous Sam had been too, with Gabriel involved.

I confronted Lucifer—if it could be called a confrontation. It's hard to kill a brother. I faked it.

"You faked those wings?"

I can fake a lot of things. The illusion lasted long enough to convince everyone I was dead.

"And now you're not dead? You're…alive and trapped?"

In essence. My power is waning, but with what time I've got left, I decided I'd pester you.

The sun is setting. Sam's head hurts. He shifts in his seat, looking back out at the lot before he decides he'll look at Gabriel face on.

He'd chosen a strange vessel, with a high brow and thin face. The cock-sure expression made him look like a jerk. Posturing, even when trapped.

"Why me?"

Why not?

The needling response isn't enough to hide the emotion that passes across Gabriel's face. It reminds Sam of the layered tone to his words in the bonfire; the horror and confusion and wrath.

"Why. Me," Sam repeats, squinting through the headache. This is the longest Gabriel has stayed yet.

It's always been you, in some fashion. Ever since all those Tuesdays.

He's gone from the backseat before Sam can work out if he wants him to stay or just shut up if he's not going to give a straight answer.

Sam hurls one of his research notebooks into the spot he'd been. It makes him feel a little better as turns around and presses his forehead to the steering wheel.

He needs to go back to the drawing board. If Gabriel wouldn't tell him, he'd find somebody that would.

…

Without friends or a soul to sell at a crossroads, Sam is left to rely on his brain. Quickly, he realizes that there's only one source of information that can provide any insight: the Supernatural books.

Chuck Shurley disappeared sometime at the end of the Apocalypse. Whether it was because his role as the prophet of God was complete, or for some other reason, remains unclear. This is all the information Samuel can provide over the phone.

"Any reason why you're interested?" he asks, not even bother to cloak his keen interest.

"Not really. I'd just like to know in case anyone comes knocking."

"No one should. Heaven and Hell got bigger fish to fry now that we've all survived the end of the world."

Sam feels stupid setting up a whole P.O. box just so he can place the eBay order for a few used copies. Not even hunting blows off enough steam for him to feel neutral about the package's arrival. He high-tails it out of the UPS as soon as he has the goods, barely putting the car in park before he begins to read in the lot of a random diner. What insights did Chuck Shurley have?

Damned little, as it turned out. He liked to throw a lot of snide ribbing Sam's way. Annoyed, Sam skims until he finds his name and Gabriel's, and picks up the narrative from there.

Gabriel: trickster, Loki, archangel. Lover of pranks, cruel to the Winchester brothers in the name of destiny, and, for all his talk about turning his back on Heaven, good at his original role of messenger. Trapping Sam in a loop of Tuesdays would get anyone's point across.

Sam skips on through seal breaking and deaths and spilled blood. Elysian Fields is a throwaway half of a chapter in the last book. Gabriel valiantly sacrifices himself to buy the Winchesters time; end of story. He faked his death well to fool a prophet of God.

Out about $25 and perplexed, Sam stuffs the books into the bottom of one of his hunting bags and decides to find a motel for the night.

He should've meant nothing to Gabriel. Sam's soul—the aspect that Gabriel taunted and helped in strange measure—was in the Cage, fulfilling its destiny. Whatever past Gabriel shared with that version of Sam didn't belong to him, and he didn't want it.

Is that why he's haunting me? Out of some weird sense of guilt?

Sam doesn't feel guilt for his actions, and is especially glad for this, as he knows previous Sam was mired in the emotion. It boggles him that Gabriel might feel something akin to it. Angels were above such things, weren't they?

After Muncie and the mixed insights that the Supernatural books provide, he heads westward, ignoring Samuel's voicemails. He's determined that Gabriel is following a cyclical pattern based on strength levels. Muncie took a lot out of him, but given a few weeks, he'll recharge, or however it is angels recover strength under great duress.

Or maybe wherever he is, he's really stuck now, and won't be back.

The Sam before him was a loser, but he'd had a couple interesting connections. Gabriel, at least, broke up the steady stream of hunt, kill, rest. Sam didn't want to lose that just yet.

Somewhere in the shadow of the Rockies (he can't remember which state), after a particularly grueling hunt, Sam falls into bed wanting nothing but sleep. It's an infrequent feeling, but even he needs it occasionally. He never dreams, and it's always quiet in the black void.

He throws an arm over his eyes and evens out his breathing. Falling asleep shouldn't take long.

Remain soulless, and something might creep up on you.

"Hello to you too, fucker," Sam says mildly, not even bothering to change position. Something tells him there is little to see of Gabriel tonight.

I'm serious. That anti-possession tattoo is doing some heavy lifting.

Gabriel's voice curls around him. The sensation isn't as off-putting as Sam expects. There's a little throb behind his eye, easily pushed aside to make room for conversation.

"I don't want or need a soul. I can hunt forever like this."

What does forever mean to someone who can't even dream?

"Can you?"

I can show you.

Sam is falling asleep. He slips into the black void, lying there for a moment before it gives way to something warm and fresh-smelling. Grass; green and vibrant. Dark earth lines the roots of the tree cradling his upper body, holding everything in place.

"Where's my gun?"

"Always with the gun. Honestly, kiddo, you gotta breath a little."

Sam rolls onto his side to find Gabriel sitting next to him, cross-legged and fully human. He smirks, propping his chin in his hand. His eyes are hazel, twinkling with trickster mischief.

"Where are we?"

"A meticulously crafted illusion of my own making. An Eden, if you will," Gabriel says magnanimously, spreading his free arm over the expanse of land sprawling before them.

Sam takes it all in derisively. The sky is a perfect blue, the grass a perfect green, the trees perfectly formed. Everything curves gently towards a far-off horizon completely unpeopled.

"There are no bees or ants. Or birds."

"Attention to detail, hm? Why would you want them in a dream?"

"The details would make it realistic. This is a coloring book you've filled in for me. I'd rather the void," Sam says with finality, flopping back onto the grass.

Gabriel pauses to consider this before snapping his fingers. The scene fades into a professor's office, all bookshelves and cluttered horizontal surfaces. Through the windows, there's nothing: just pitch black, like the backdrop to a stage.

"Where's this?"

"I met Sam Winchester here. I was under a guise," Gabriel says, walking around to sit in the office chair. He leans back, folding his arms over his head. "Man, did I have fun toying with you boys."

Sam scowls, sitting up from the leather couch Gabriel's dream plunked him on. "Don't bother. I've read the Supernatural books. I don't feeling like taking a trip down your memory lane."

Gabriel's eyes flash. He's merciless in his response. "Too bad. We're going anyway."

Another finger snap. Now they're in doctor's coats, standing in a hospital hallway. Heat of the Moment is playing over the P.A system.

"No dice," Sam says dryly, raising a white-sleeved arm with a grimace. He's read the lines, but this isn't his lived experience.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers again. This time they are in a warehouse, with Gabriel trapped in a ring of fire and Sam watching him from the outside.

"Doesn't ring a bell," Sam lies. There is a memory, but not the one Gabriel would've wanted to prompt.

Ever since the Bonfire Incident, Sam hasn't been able to look at fires quite the same. Something about Gabriel's voice tied to the flames made him hear that question again and again and again.

What have they done to you?

Gabriel tilts his head, sensing his hesitation. He's hawk-like in his ability to read Sam. With a snap of his fingers, the flames rise up with a whoosh, obscuring his figure. Sam takes a few startled steps back, hand flying towards his waistband for a gun he doesn't have.

"Angels are made out of the same fire as stars," Gabriel says, his voice filling the room, suffocating in its timbre. "These days, I feel more like fire than anything else. Is this the warmth you've been seeking? Or are you scared?"

Sam drifts back toward Gabriel. Like this, it's easier to speak; to try to make sense of the madness.

"The other Sam had dreams of hellfire. I read about those. He would've been scared," he decides, drawing a line between the two of them. "But I survived past Sam's destiny. That makes me the stronger one."

He leaves another thought unsaid: I'm not scared of you. I just don't know what to make of you.

And, he thinks, that is perhaps that is the only thing he has in common with the other Sam Winchester besides a body: Gabriel, and all his contradictions keeping them hooked, like a thorn snagged on a sleeve.

"You are alive because of someone else's whims," Gabriel corrects, "Don't forget that. As soon as you do, you're dead."

It's a hard pill to swallow, but Sam has to concede (internally, anyway) that he has a point. Samuel was walking around, after all.

The warehouse fades away around them. They are in the void that once housed Sam's soul; the void where he closes his eyes and forgets the world. Gabriel takes up space as golden-white fire, all attempts at appearing human abandoned. Here though, it doesn't cause Sam pain, reminding him that this is all just a dream.

How's this for your first dream, kiddo?

"I don't know," Sam says, standing and drifting all at once. Sam's soul had taken up a lot of space in his body. "You're fading away."

I thought I'd have more time. Turns out the fucker that has me is stronger than I expected.

"And you still don't want to be freed?"

Nah. What for? I mucked up my own made-up role in the Apocalypse. I can't go back to being a Trickster, and I certainly can't go back to Heaven. There's no room for an archangel like me in the story.

Gabriel's tone is bitter and sorrowful. It's strange, hearing regret come from an angel.

So, no need to worry about me.

"I'm not worried," Sam huffs, and isn't. "Your decision is your own."

There's a brief pause before Gabriel laughs, enough to send the fire rippling.

Even soulless, you've got that strain of free will thinking. You're something else, Sam.

Gabriel approaches. One tendril of fire in the form of a hand drifts towards Sam, who holds still. There's little he can do to stop him, and he doesn't really want to. Curiosity over what it'd feel like to be touched by an angel triumphs.

Here. This will keep anything nasty from trying to move into your house. Your body's a temple, and all that jazz.

The touch to his forehead is gentle; so gentle that Sam closes his eyes out of some reflex held over by muscle memory the other Sam developed.

"What will happen when I wake up?"

Maybe I'll make it back a few times, in your dreams. No promises. It gets harder by the day to sneak out.

A burning warmth suffuses Sam's chest, hottest where his anti-possession tattoo lies. Gabriel's hand drifts to cup his jaw, then clasps the junction between his shoulder and neck.

Sayonara, kiddo. Don't miss me too much when I'm gone.

…

Sam lurches awake, breathing hard like he's run a marathon. The sheets are soaked with sweat, and there's a terrible itch in his chest that makes him claw his shirt off in his hasty stumble towards the bathroom.

"Oh," he says when he sees the cause.

Squinting against the jarring glare of the bathroom light, Sam can make out white-gold lines shimmering beneath his tattoo, slightly raised like they'd been burned in.

He pokes at one of the lines. Runic, likely Enochian. Gabriel's gift to him, already fading into his skin. A dream and a tattoo.

Sam's gaze drifts up from his chest to the mirror. Save for his wild-eyed face, it's empty.

"Asshole," he says, unsure who he's referring to. He hates how disconcerted he sounds. "Asshole, what the fuck—"

He punches out the mirror until shards spill into the sink and his knuckles weep blood. It makes him feel a little better. The pain is hot to take the edge off the cold sensation spreading behind his sternum.

Something that isn't blood drips from his face. Sam thinks it's sweat and wipes at his forehead with his busted hand, but it's not that. It's coming from his eyes.

"Oh," he says, using his hand to wipe under his eyes. Tears. Another reflex from a muscle memory previous Sam had learned. Did his hand hurt that badly?

What have they done to you?

"Oh," he says again, uselessly.

There's no one around to explain the tears, so Sam wipes them away, and carefully begins to patch himself up. Keeping his body together, no matter how much he brutalizes it, is within his knowledge.

He doesn't understand why Gabriel would help him stay soulless when he'd clearly been fond for the version of Sam with a soul, but he won't squander such a gift. Sam will hunt, and one day, he will find Gabriel, and shoot him for being stupid enough to think that he wasn't capable of saving him.

His face is doing something on its own. Sam looks into the mirror, and finds that he's smiling.

…

Gabriel appears three weeks after that. He's barely a shadow in his peripheral, but Sam knows by the migraine throb in his eye that he's there. Sam has counted three dreams, to his knowledge, and they've all been the same. He simply watches Gabriel as he burns, first as a great pillar of fire, then slowly, ever so slowly, dwindle down.

"I went back to Samuel's place and went through the rest of Sam's stuff," he says, nodding to the bag sticking out from beneath the base of the passenger seat. "I hadn't given it much thought when first gave me Sam's old laptop, but for someone who has no clue what put us back on this side of God's green earth, he sure has a lot of Sam's old stuff."

He takes the agitated flicker of Gabriel's shadow as a sign he's on the right track with Samuel.

"So someone did give it to him," Sam muses, shelving the thought. Later, there will be time to figure out Samuel's intentions. "Anyway, one of the things was Sam's iPod. I don't care for music, but it makes me look a little normal when I'm in disguise on a hunt. There's something on it I think you'll find interesting."

Sam scrolls through the list until he finds it. Heat of the Moment in all its 80s glory blare out, snatched away by the rush of wind through the rolled down windows.

"It's the only Asia song previous Sam saved. Do with that what you will," Sam shrugs flippantly.

He isn't sure why he wants to throw Gabriel the bone. Maybe he just wants to dispel the idea of anyone owing anyone anything in this weird dynamic they have.

Gabriel lingers until the song is done. He doesn't speak—likely can't, as he'd warned in the dream—but Sam somehow knows he likes it.

Outside, the sky is a perfect, autumnal blue. The fields have been harvested. Sam can smell the hay over the exhaust his dying trooper of a car produces. His vehicle is the only one on the road for miles and miles. It is as perfect a day as it gets in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska. He only notices it because of Gabriel.

"That first dream, in the field. It was decent," Sam concedes, "Objectively, that is. Don't let that go to your head."

There is an echo of a laugh; a rush of warmth like a fire lit in his bones. Sam is held, then let go. Gabriel is gone, and Sam knows that it was the last time.

…

Sam takes his time looking in mirrors. He doesn't expect to see Gabriel in them. He does, sometimes, think that he sees him in the flames of the pyres he makes on hunts. White and gold flames mixed into the orange crop up often enough for him to wonder.