Chapter Text
October, 2015
It was well past one and the bar was empty, but that was alright. Sam preferred it that way, really.
Drunkenly, he looked down into his empty glass, irritation scratching at the what little sobriety he was still clinging onto. If he was drunk enough to tell it was empty, then he wasn’t drunk enough yet.
Gabriel could just snap his fingers and it’d fill right back up.
He was only drunk enough when he didn’t think about Gabriel any longer—and for the most part, that meant passing out. So Sam supposed that was his goal.
He glared down at his glass and, almost mockingly, snapped his fingers.
He’d tell you to sober up.
Anger flared up in Sam, and he snapped his fingers again.
He’d tell you to answer one of the thousand fucking missed calls on your phone.
Sam gritted his teeth and snapped.
He’d tell you to get your shit together, get over yourself.
How was he supposed to, though? When he had never told him that he'd loved him too, until his body had been cold in Sam's arms? The ground had been too frozen to bury him in Detroit. He should have burned him, then, like a hunter. But he couldn't stand it. Couldn't bring himself to believe it might be some trick. Some half-death. Sam had buried him not far from Bobby's house. He had wanted to go to his house, then, collapse onto his knees and see if things with Dean could somehow be fine again.
Because Sam had saved the world after all. But not how he'd intended. Not on his own. He had never been stronger on his own. But he had still saved the world. In all of his fucked-up glory, had somehow made an archangel decide that saving him, and the world too, was worth it. But what could Dean say to take away everything that had happened?
And what would Gabriel say, to see Sam now?
He'd tell you he loves you.
His pain shifted again to anger, and that burned easily into fury—at himself, at everyone, at the whole fucking world—and he snapped and dropped his head into his hands, a choked sound escaping him. Golden eyes. Gone.
I love you, and it almost sounds like Gabriel's voice when Sam thinks it.
It took him a long time to pull himself back together, but he did, and at long last, finally looked up.
His glass was full, the whiskey seeming to shine golden even in the shit bar lighting.
And when he looked back down, gold gossamer threads wound up and down his fingers, muted and weak, but there. Pulsing weakly. Almost like a heartbeat.
Sam’s glass crashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces as he sprang onto his feet, but he didn’t notice, frantic hope swelling inside him.
It’s not over. He's not gone, not yet. It's not over.
Jo picks him up. She's driving him to Bobby's house, and she keeps looking at him like she isn't sure he's really here, or really him. Fair enough. He hasn't said a word since calling her, and now he's staring at his fingers, at the barely visible glow flowing through his veins.
I love you, he thinks, as intent as he can, almost grimacing from the effort. He tries, desperately, to picture Gabriel's face: before it was bloodless and still, when it was still smiling at him, when he was still carding fingers through Sam's hair, when Sam was overflowing with the feeling of loving him but still too afraid to voice it aloud.
There's nothing for a long moment, and then the gold shines brighter.