Chapter Text
The first thing Dean registered was the beeping. A sound he’d heard too many times in too many hospitals, sitting beside Sam, beside Bobby, beside Dad. He’d sworn he’d never be the one hooked up to all the wires and IVs. Yet here he was.
His throat was raw, his mouth dry. He tried to shift, but something tugged at his arm—an IV line—and the sharp pull of pain in his back dragged a excruciating groan out of him.
“Dean?”
Sam’s voice. Close.
Dean blinked, the sterile white ceiling swimming into focus, the fluorescent lights a little too bright. His brother’s face came into view, haggard, worried. Sam looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“You’re awake,” Sam breathed, relief breaking through his exhaustion.
Dean swallowed, his voice gravel when it came out. “Hospital? Really?”
“You died.” Sam said. He sat back, shoulders slumping.
The words hit Dean like a hammer. His body ached, but the anger that surged through him burned hotter than the pain. His chest rose and fell, sharp breaths rattling in his throat.
His eyes narrowed. “Sammy… tell me you didn’t.”
Sam frowned. “Didn’t what?”
Dean’s voice cracked into a growl, raw and hoarse but laced with fury. “A deal. Don’t tell me you went and did something stupid. I told you not to—”
“Dean!” Sam cut him off, firm but not unkind. His hands lifted, palms out like he could steady the storm rolling off his brother. “I didn’t. No deals. I swear.”
Dean’s jaw worked, muscles tight. He searched Sam’s face, desperate for any crack, any sign of a lie. “Then how the hell am I—” He gestured weakly to himself, the wires, the monitors.
Sam let out a long breath, trying to keep his voice level. “I got rid of the bodies. All of them. Cleaned it up. And then I called 911. That’s it.”
Dean fell back against the stiff pillow, eyes shutting as if the ceiling itself was too heavy to look at. His throat bobbed, his anger simmering but dulled now by confusion. “Jesus, Sammy,” Dean muttered, quieter this time, almost to himself. "I was supposed to die."
Sam didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, his huge frame hunched forward. “You weren’t supposed to die, Dean. Not like that. Not—” Sam’s throat worked. “Not stuck on a rusty nail in some half-broken barn. That’s not the way you go out. Not after everything.”
Dean let out a shaky breath, forcing his eyes open again. “…Thanks,” he muttered. it scraped his throat worse than the tube they’d probably shoved down it. Sam’s head snapped up, surprise flickering in his tired eyes.
Dean gave a weak shrug, wincing at the pull in his back. “Don’t get all misty-eyed on me. You saved my ass. Again. I get it.” He paused, licking at his cracked lips. “But, Sammy… I was ready.”
Sam’s brow knit, his jaw tight like he couldn’t decide whether to argue or to just sit there.
Dean huffed, the sound hollow. “I was ready to die. Been ready for a long time. Thought maybe… maybe that was it. My out.” His eyes dropped to the blanket over his chest, fingers twitching restlessly against the IV line. “Didn’t think I’d be waking up to hospital pudding and your ugly mug hovering over me.”
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was quiet but sharp, cutting through Dean’s half-hearted attempt at humor.
Dean finally met his brother’s eyes again. “I was ready,” he repeated, softer this time. “Doesn’t mean I don’t… appreciate you pulling me out. But I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do now.”
Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees again. “im sorry.”
Dean let out a low, tired sound that was half a laugh, half a groan. “Don’t,” he rasped, shaking his head just enough to make the IV line tug again. “Don’t you dare apologize. Not for saving me. You hear me, Sammy?”
Sam’s eyes flickered, wet and unsure.
Dean watched him a long beat, then shifted—pain lancing down his back as he moved—but he forced himself through it. He lifted one arm, hand shaky, palm open. “C’mere,” he muttered, voice soft but rough around the edges. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Sam blinked, startled. “Dean, you’re hurt, I don’t wanna—”
“Sam,” Dean cut in, low and firm. “Get over here. I’m not gonna break.”
That was all it took. Sam stood, hesitated only a second, then bent over the bed. Dean’s arm hooked around his neck, pulling him down, and Sam wrapped his arms around his brother’s shoulders as carefully as he could.
For a moment, neither of them said anything. Dean’s hand gripped the back of Sam’s shirt, knuckles white, like he was holding on to something solid after days of drifting. Sam buried his face against Dean’s hair, and his shoulders shook once—quick, barely there, but Dean felt it.
“Don’t apologize,” Dean mumbled again into Sam’s shoulder, the words muffled but sure. “You kept me here. Guess I needed that. So no more sorrys, got it?”
Sam gave a small, choked laugh against him. “Got it.”
Dean held on for a second longer before finally letting go, his arm falling back against the sheets.
The machines kept on with their steady rhythm, filling the silence that followed. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, jaw working, before his eyes flicked back to Sam.
“So,” Dean rasped, voice still rough as gravel, “when do I get outta here?”
Sam blinked, caught off guard. “Dean—”
“I’m serious.” Dean shifted, the motion making his face twist with pain, but his stubbornness didn’t waver. “Hospitals aren’t my scene. You know that. So when can I sign the papers, grab my boots, and get the hell out?”
Sam hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’ll… get the nurse,” he said, carefully avoiding Dean’s eyes.
Dean narrowed his gaze, suspicion sparking, but his body was too drained to push. “That’s not an answer, Sammy.”
Sam gave a quiet sigh. “Just hang tight, okay? You’ll need to hear this from the nurse.”
Sam slipped out before Dean could bite back. Dean let his head fall against the pillow, eyes fixed on the sterile tiles above him. The beeping at his bedside grated on his nerves. He flexed his fingers against the blanket, restless, itchy, too aware of the IV needle lodged under his skin.
When the door opened again, it wasn’t Sam—it was a nurse. A young woman in pale blue scrubs, clipboard tucked under one arm, her face soft but businesslike.
“Mr. Winchester,” she said quietly. “You’ve had quite the scare.”
Dean forced his best attempt at a smirk, though it cracked halfway. “Yeah, you could say that.”
She moved to the monitors, checked his vitals.
The nurse’s eyes flicked over the monitor, then down to the chart on her clipboard. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she hesitated before speaking. “You’ve got a long recovery ahead of you, Mr. Winchester. The object that went through your back—” she paused, glancing up, gauging his reaction—“it missed your spinal cord by millimeters. Honestly? You’re lucky to be alive.”
Dean snorted, though the sound turned into a painful cough. “Yeah, lucky’s not the word I’d use.”
She didn’t laugh. Just scribbled something down, then set the chart aside. “It’s going to take time. You won’t be able to walk long distances, not right away. Even after the wounds heal, your mobility may be… limited.”
The words landed like lead in Dean’s gut. He shifted on the stiff mattress, jaw tightening. “Limited,” he echoed, bitterness curling around the syllables. “What the hell does that mean? Crutches? Cane? What, I’m supposed to ride shotgun the rest of my life?”
The nurse’s tone stayed calm, professional. “It means your back needs time. A lot of it. You’ll need physical therapy, and even then—” She hesitated, softer now. “Even then, it might not be the same as before.”
Dean stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, mind refusing to process it. “…I—” he started, voice catching, then died in his throat. Nothing came out. a tight knot of fear and frustration lodged somewhere deep in his chest.
Dean turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he tried to shake off the creeping panic. He couldn’t move too much without pain lancing down his back, a reminder of exactly how close he’d come to—well, to not being here at all.
The beeping of the monitors filled the space between them, steady and unrelenting, a metronome marking a life he wasn’t sure he wanted anymore. He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, wishing he could spit out the words he didn’t have the strength to say.
“…Right,” he finally muttered, almost under his breath. “…Got it.”
The nurse gave him a small, understanding nod. “I know it’s a lot to take in. You don’t have to say anything right now. Just… take it slow.”
Dean didn’t respond. He just laid there, silent, staring at the ceiling tiles, letting the weight of it settle in. When she stepped back toward the door, he still didn’t speak. The door clicked softly behind her. And finally, finally, Dean let his breath come out in a long, shuddering exhale.
Dean’s shoulder ached when the door creaked open again. He didn’t bother looking up—he knew that familiar heavy-footed shuffle anywhere.
“Thought I’d check in,” Sam said, voice quieter this time, more careful, like he was tiptoeing around the storm that was Dean’s mood.
Dean lifted one brow, still staring at the ceiling. “Check in? Sammy… you just checked in. Then bailed.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably, running a hand through his hair. “I… I thought you should talk to the doctor alone first,” he said slowly, careful with every word. “You know… get the full rundown without me hovering. Thought it might help.”
Dean snorted, a humorless, sharp sound that made the IV-line tug painfully at his arm. “Oh, right. Me, alone. Talking to some stranger in a lab coat while I get the long list of ways my life just got… uh… derailed. Thanks, Sam.”
Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know it’s not exactly ideal… but you’ve got a lot coming at you right now. I just didn’t want to—”
“Don’t worry,” Dean cut him off, voice low. “I’ll survive the doc. Maybe. Probably.”
Sam exhaled, the tension in his broad shoulders relaxing slightly. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Just… promise me you’ll actually listen to what they have to say, okay?”
Dean turned his head, eyes glinting despite the pain. “…No promises. But I’ll try.”
Chapter Text
The bunker was quiet in a way that felt heavier than any kind of noise. Sam sat at the kitchen table, fingers tapping absently on the worn wood as he scrolled through case files on his laptop. The dim light overhead cast long shadows across the room, pooling in the corners where dust motes drifted lazily in the stagnant air.
The quiet was shattered by the sudden buzz of his phone. Sam glanced down at the incoming call from Jody.
He hesitated only a beat before answering. “Hey, Jody.”
“Sam.” Her voice carried that familiar mixture of steel and warmth, a tone that had gotten both him and Dean through more than one crisis. “How are you holding up?”
Sam leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been better.”
“I bet." Jody muttered.
Sam exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging. "Dean, he—" His voice wavered, caught between exhaustion and relief. “He woke up.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, then Jody’s voice burst through. “He—what? He’s awake? Sam, that’s—oh, thank God.”
A small, tired smile tugged at Sam’s lips. “Yeah. I—I didn’t think I’d hear his voice again, Jody. But he’s awake. Talking. Stubborn as hell, like always.”
Jody laughed, the sound wet at the edges like she might be blinking back tears. “That sounds like him.” Her voice softened. “How’s he taking it?”
Sam’s throat worked. He looked at the empty coffee mug in front of him, fingers tightening around it. “…Not great. He’s in pain. And the doctors don’t know how much he’ll recover. It’s… a lot.”
Jody was quiet for a long moment before speaking again, gentler this time. “And you? How are you holding up?”
Sam hesitated. He wanted to say he was fine, that he was managing. But the truth pressed heavy in his chest. “…I’m trying. I just—” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking in spite of himself. “I thought I lost him, Jody. I was ready to plan a funeral. And now he’s here, alive, and I don’t know if he even wants to be.”
Jody’s voice was firm, steady in the way only she could manage. “Listen to me, Sam Winchester. You don’t carry that weight alone. You hear me? You don’t have to. You’ve got me. You’ve got the girls, too. And Dean—Dean’s stubborn. He’s not going anywhere if he can help it.”
Jody’s voice was a tether in the silence. Sam nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Thanks, Jody.”
“its no problem, kid.” jody said thoughtfully. “ya think me and the girls can come ‘round, and visit?”
Sam swallowed, a little overwhelmed by the thought. The bunker, for all its space and history, had felt suffocatingly empty these past days. “Yeah,” Sam said after a pause. “I think that’d be good. Dean… he could use the company. Even if he won’t admit it.”
Jody chuckled softly. “He never admits it. But I’ll bring the girls. Claire’s been asking about him. i think she cares about him deep down."
Sam let out a small breath, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. Dean’ll grumble, but… it’ll mean a lot. Especially to Claire. He’s always looked out for her.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, Jody’s voice softer when she spoke again. “She’s been restless since she heard what happened. Tried to act like she didn’t care, but I caught her sharpening every blade in the house yesterday. That’s her way of worrying.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped Sam, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Sounds about right.”
Jody’s laugh came again, low and fond. "We’ll come by tomorrow, Sam."
Sam felt some of the tightness in his chest ease “…Tomorrow. Yeah. That sounds good.”
“Good,” Jody said firmly, like the decision was already carved in stone. Then her tone shifted, lighter, distracted. “Alright, I better go—girls are waiting on me to make dinner. And trust me, you don’t want them in the kitchen unsupervised. Last time, Alex nearly set the stove on fire.”
Sam huffed out a tired laugh, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, go take care of them. And Jody?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For… y’know. Everything.”
Her voice softened again, steady as always. “Anytime, Sam. You’re family. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
The line clicked dead, and the silence of the bunker returned.
Sam set his phone down and stared at it for a long moment, the faint glow fading into black. He pushed away from the table, the chair scraping softly against the floor, and made his way toward the war room. Sam dragged a hand through his hair and sat down at the edge of the table, elbows braced on his knees.
He thought about Dean—hooked up to wires and IVs, glaring at doctors, refusing to admit how badly he was hurting. The relief of seeing his brother alive hadn’t dulled the gnawing ache in his chest.
A flicker of wings stirred the air, sharp and electric, and Sam’s head jerked up. He hadn’t heard that sound in months.
“Relax, Sammy” came a voice, smooth and smug as ever. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be angel dust on the floor already.”
Sam stood, his heart catching in his throat. “Gabriel?”
The archangel leaned casually against the doorway, golden eyes glinting in the low light. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of a leather jacket, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Miss me?”
Sam’s mouth opened, then shut again. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to say no. All that came out was: “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Yeah, well. I am the Trickster, arent I?” Gabriel shrugged, his expression tilting between flippant and something heavier. “Point is—I’m here. And judging by the look on your face, I showed up just in time.”
Sam didn’t move, his body tense, eyes narrowing as if Gabriel might flicker out of existence if he blinked too long.
“You’re dead,” Sam repeated, his voice harder this time. “I watched Michael—”
“—stick a blade through me? Yeah, I remember. Not exactly my best day.” Gabriel’s smirk wavered for the briefest moment, but then he rolled his shoulders like it didn’t matter. “Point is, I got better.”
Sam’s hands clenched at his sides. “People don’t just get better from that. Not angels. Not even archangels.”
Gabriel tilted his head, eyes dancing with that familiar mix of mischief and secrets. “And yet…” He spread his arms, showing himself off like a prize on a game show. “Ta-da. Standing right here. You should be thanking me for bringing some sparkle back to your dreary bunker.”
Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word. He turned away, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor as he crossed back to the table. His hand closed around the half-empty bottle of whiskey, the glass cool and heavy in his palm.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow, watching him with that foxlike grin. “That’s it? No questions, no yelling, no dramatic Winchester speech about how I don’t belong here? Just—booze?”
Sam uncapped the bottle in one practiced twist and glanced at him flatly. “I’m going to my room.”
Gabriel blinked. “Your room.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, voice low. “Gonna drink, watch some Netflix, then sleep.”
Gabriel’s smirk faltered for the briefest flicker, surprise cutting through the mask. “That’s it? You finally get me back from the dead, and your big move is… binge-watching reruns with Jack Daniels?”
Sam didn’t answer. He just started walking, the whiskey swinging at his side, his long stride carrying him toward the hallway without a second look.
Gabriel’s voice followed him, lighter but edged with something Sam couldn’t quite place. “Wow, Sammy. Hell of a welcome party.”
Sam didn’t break stride. Didn’t even glance back. The bunker swallowed the sound of his footsteps as he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Gabriel alone in the war room, his smirk fading into something quieter.
Chapter Text
his skull, the kind that made every heartbeat feel like it was echoing behind his eyes. He pushed himself upright, groaning when the motion made the room spin. The bunker was still dark, the fluorescent lights humming faintly above, but the digital clock on his nightstand read just after seven.
Dragging a hand down his face, Sam swung his legs off the bed and forced himself to stand. His body felt heavy, sluggish. He then smelt something.
Food.
He froze, his stomach clenching at the smell.
For one sharp second, hope lit behind his ribs. Eileen. She had let herself into the bunker before. Maybe—maybe she’d come back. Maybe she’d heard about Dean, maybe she just wanted to check in.
Sam’s chest tightened, a half-formed smile tugging at his lips as he shoved his bare feet into the nearest pair of sneakers. He dragged himself out of the room, following the smell through the halls like a starving dog.
The bunker’s kitchen light was on, casting a low amber glow across the stone walls. Sam rounded the doorway, heart in his throat—
—and stopped dead.
It wasn’t Eileen.
It was Gabriel, barefoot, humming some off-key pop song while flipping something in a skillet. He was wearing a black button up, but only a few were actually buttoned, showing his collor bones and a V-line of his neck. His golden eyes flicked up, catching Sam in the doorway, and that familiar smirk slid back onto his face like it had never left.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Gabriel said, like they were old roommates and not—well, whatever the hell they actually were. He waved the spatula like a wand. “Coffee’s hot, bacon’s crispy, and I only burned half the toast. Aren’t you lucky?”
Sam stared at him, every muscle locking tight. His heart, that momentary spark of hope, sank like a stone.
Gabriel raised a brow, all smug amusement. “What? Were you expecting someone else?”
Sam blinked, unsure whether to laugh or throttle him. “Gabriel,” he said flatly, voice low, “what the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”
Gabriel flipped a pancake with a flourish, letting it land neatly on a plate as if performing magic tricks were just another casual morning ritual. “Cooking breakfast. Duh. What does it look like I’m doing?” He leaned against the counter, one elbow propped lazily, golden eyes gleaming with amusement. “I figured you could use a little… divine intervention before your big day.”
“My big day?” Sam echoed, stepping fully into the room, arms crossed.
“My big day?” Sam echoed, stepping fully into the room, arms crossed.
Gabriel hummed, flipping another pancake with effortless grace. “Yeah, your big day. The day you realize the world doesn’t end just because your idiot brother nearly keels over in a barn somewhere. And the day you accept that breakfast is mandatory, apparently.”
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t—look, you’re alive, I’m alive, everyone’s alive, and—why are you here, really? Not the breakfast part—I mean, why are you here in general. You hate me and dean, yet you seem to hang around us.. A lot.”
Gabriel leaned against the counter, arms crossed now, his smirk softening just a fraction. “Hate you? No. I… don’t exactly know what I feel about you two, Sam. Complicated, sure. But hate? Nah. That’s boring.”
Sam’s jaw tightened.
Gabriel let out a sigh. “Listen. Just accept the breakfast, man. And if you want me to leave, I'll leave.” He said, putting the pancake on the plate and shutting off the stove.
Sam hesitated, letting the silence stretch long enough for Gabriel to think he might actually leave. But curiosity—and maybe a little exasperation—won. “Fine,” he muttered, voice tight. “I’ll take the breakfast. Then I've got to go by the hospital.”
Gabriel slid the plate across the counter toward Sam with a flourish. “Bon appétit. And yes, I washed my hands, in case you’re worried.”
Sam gave a half-hearted nod, taking the plate anyway and muttered a quiet thanks. He picked at the breakfast, half listening to Gabriel humming behind him. He shoved a piece of bacon in his mouth with a sigh.
Sam was still chewing on a piece of bacon when his phone buzzed. The sound made him flinch slightly; his stomach had been tense all morning, and every ping felt like an alarm.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, squinting at the screen.
Eileen: Hey Sam. You doing, okay?
Sam’s thumb hovered over the screen for a long second before he typed back. Yeah, I'm okay, just eating breakfast. Then I'm going to the hospital. Dean woke up.
There was a pause before Eileen responded. Thats great Sam! Can you tell him I said hi? Maybe… come visit soon?
Sam’s chest tightened at the thought of Eileen coming by. He doesn't know why though.
Before he could respond, a soft clearing of a throat made him snap his head up.
“Texting someone?” Gabriel asked, voice light but teasing.
Sam’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Yeah… Eileen.” He hesitated. “…She asked about Dean.”
Gabriel’s smirk softened a fraction. “Ah. Her .”
Sam frowned, blinking down at his phone. Her? What does that mean.
“She your girlfriend?” Gabriel muttered, running his tongue over the inside of his teeth.
Sam froze, the phone still in his hand. He wasn’t sure why Gabriel’s tone had shifted so casual. “…I don’t know,” he admitted, voice low. “I mean… maybe? I’m not—” He stopped, frustrated with himself. “I’m not sure what I am to her. Or she to me.”
Gabriel’s golden eyes narrowed, just slightly. "I see."
Sam’s frown deepened as he scrolled through the messages one more time. He glanced down at his wrist out of habit. The bunker didn’t really have a “time” feeling, but the digital watch on his wrist glinted faintly in the kitchen light.
“…Crap,” he muttered, voice low.
Gabriel raised a brow, tilting his head. “Crap?”
Sam ran a hand over his face. “I… I need to get to the hospital. Promised dean id visit today."
Gabriel’s smirk softened, though the teasing glint in his eyes remained. “Ah. Responsibility calling. I see how it is.” He leaned casually against the counter, folding his arms.
Sam sat up, grabbing his plate before turning and putting it on the counter. “Alright, Gabriel… when you leave, lock up," he said, turning back around. "don't want anyone breaking..." he trailed off. Gabriel was gone. "in."
he sighed, walking back out of the kitchen and to the front stairwell. The bunker was still quiet, except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
Sams legs felt heavy, sluggish from the night’s restless sleep. He had been up all night watching a stupid sit com show, he honestly just randomly put it on. He already binged all his favorite shows, he needed something to watch. His eyes felt heavy. Of course they would, he only slept for like 4 hours. That used to be his usual sleep schedule, but after a while of living in the bunker, he finally got his sleep schedule in check.
Well let's hope last night didn't fuck it up.
Sam rubbed at his eyes again, letting out a long, tired sigh. He shuffled over to the coat rack by the door, fingers brushing over the worn leather jackets and hoodies that had seen better days. He pulled it free and slipped his arms into the sleeves.
“Right,” he muttered to himself, patting the pockets. One. Two. Three. He stopped on the inner pocket, fingers brushing something hard and metallic. The keys. He dug them out, letting them dangle from his hand, the little chain jingling softly. He fished through his other pockets quickly, just to make sure nothing else had gone missing—wallet, phone—both accounted for.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Impala-ready.
Taking a deep breath, he adjusted the jacket over his shoulders, sliding his hands into the pockets.