Uh... hi.

Here's the sequel of sorts that I promised to my other poem-inspired story, Nothing Gold Can Stay. I really recommend you read that first—that is, if gore and in-depth descriptions of self-mutilation don't bother you. If they do, or if you're a lazy little shit like myself and just want to read this, all you need to know is that Gabriel kinda cut off his own wings after he came to Earth.

Anyway, enjoy some hurt/comfort with a side dish of Sabriel. It's good for the soul.

When Sam asks about wings in that curious, half-innocent tone of his, Gabriel lies, shrugging and reminding him that, hello, archangel? My wings would fry your eyes from the inside-out.

The hunter looks momentarily disappointed, but continues onto things that Gabriel finds much more pleasing than the topic of wings.

Kissing, for example. And sex.

But of course, Sam being Sam, he goes to Castiel next. The little bastard spills all. Not about Gabriel's mutilation, of course—Gabriel hasn't told anybody about that, and isn't planning to. He'd be scorned and loathed even more than he already is.

"So," Sam says after an informative chat with the nerd angel. "What's with you and lying to me about your wings?"

Gabriel quirks an eyebrow. "Me? Lying? I would never, Sammy!"

"Gabriel," he says quietly, and the archangel gives up the act, trying to bore holes through the earth with his eyes.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he says finally, because he doesn't and Sam's his partner and should respect when he doesn't want to talk about things.

Instead of pressing, Sam simply looks at him a moment longer before shaking his head. "Okay."

And so the hunter leaves it alone—for a while.

Really, it's all Gabriel's fault. He's spread out starfish-style across their bed, light tingles running up and down his nonexistent wings. Stupid phantom limb syndrome, he thinks, trying in vain to stretch out even further. Groaning, he smacks his head against the soft mattress in frustration.

Sam walks in, smelling of chocolate bodywash and a towel wrapped around his waist. He raises an eyebrow at Gabriel's tantrum-esque flailing. "What's gotten into you?"

"M' wings," he grumbles in response, barely registering the words as they fall from his lips.

Sam's eyes light up. "What about them?"

The archangel moves to sit cross-legged on the bed. "Did I say my wings? Oh, sorry! I meant chicken wings. I'm craving chicken wings."

There's a derisive snort from Sam before he turns to grab a pair of jeans from the dresser. "Look, I get that you've got something against your wings, or maybe just angel wings in general, but you gotta talk about them someday. Why not now?"

Gabriel doesn't deign to encourage him by replying.

"Start by telling me what's bothering you about them right now," Sam suggests.

" . . . Cramps," Gabriel complains quietly after a few moments, not meeting Sam's eyes. "They'll go away."

"I could help," Sam offers. "Massage, maybe?"

"No."

The hunter looks disgruntled before climbing onto the bed and positioning himself behind Gabriel. The archangel moves to turn around, but Sam holds him in place. "Just let me try, okay?" And he sounds worried, which is three parts ridiculous and one part endearing because what in Daddy's name has Gabriel ever done to deserve Sam's worry?

He lets out a nearly pornographic moan when Sam's hands come up and begin to rub small circles into the base of his neck. Sam quickly reaches for the hem of Gabriel's shirt, pulling it off so he can gain better access. His partner's hands returning to their original mission, Gabriel can't help but hum in satisfaction as Sam works the knots out of his tense body.

—But then he can practically feel the idea pop into the hunter's head, and the large hands on his back move to the base of his shoulder blades—the exact place his wings would be, if he still had them—massaging up and down the sensitive bone.

"Oh," is all Gabriel can manage before he flops backward into Sam's lap. His vision's a little hazy, but he can make out the image of Sam laughing down at him as fingers thread themselves through his honey-coloured hair.

"I can't massage your back when you're lying on top of me," Sam reminds him, and that's all the motivation Gabriel needs to sit back up.

He practically melts under Sam's gentle squeezes, eyelids drooping shut as he revels in the feel of warm hands relieving the tension in his back. Life should always be like this, he thinks. There's nothing better than being massaged by a hot guy who just so happens to be in love with you.

The archangel is so lost in Sam's touch that he doesn't hear when his name's called.

"Gabriel?"

"Mm?"

There's a short pause. "This would probably feel a lot better if you had your wings out," Sam says hesitantly, and just like that the moment's over.

"No," he snaps, going rigid. He supposes he could show Sam a fake version of his wings and be done with it, but for some reason, the idea makes him feel sick.

Unfortunately for him, Sam is all out of patience. "Why?" He asks, equally as harsh. "I get it, wings are private and all, but if you're really that against it, why won't you at least tell me why? I thought we were supposed to trust each other, Gabriel."

"It doesn't matter why," Gabriel protests, turning around to face Sam. "It shouldn't matter why. I don't ask you to strip out in public; you don't ask me about my wings. Simple."

Sam's eyes trace the outline of the gaudy motel carpet before coming to meet Gabriel's once more, hardened around the edges. "Do you not trust me? Is that it?"

"I trust you more than anyone," even myself. The reply is instant.

"Then why don't you trust me with this?"

Suddenly, Gabriel's rage boils, all the old feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing bubbling to the surface. "Because the last time I trusted someone with my wings, they got cut off, okay? I'm a wingless angel and I've spent way too long trying to forget all about it, so I'd appreciate it if you'd stop bringing the topic up!"

His eyes widen fractionally as he realises what he's just confessed. Before Sam can make sense of anything Gabriel's just said, he's gone, vanished into thin air without a sound.

Gabriel doesn't return for three months after his outburst.

Cas questions Sam quietly, in that deep voice that oddly enough, has an undercurrent of worry running through it. When Sam shrugs him off, saying that the archangel just needed a break, Dean storms in, accusing and much less gentle than his boyfriend.

Sam doesn't say a word.

Then one day he walks into his room in one of the many rundown motels scattered around the country—Cas and Dean had insisted on getting their own room—and sitting in a plush armchair that seems more than a little out of place is Gabriel, a fairly ashamed expression schooling his features into a decidedly un-Gabriel look.

There's a stunned silence as Sam tries to find the words he's prepared for this moment, because God knows he's had long enough to come up with several different speeches. All that comes out in the end is a strangled, choked noise from the back of his throat.

Gabriel waits patiently for the angry words that seem inevitable. In truth, he had debated coming back at all, but the need for closure had won out in the end.

. . . Which is why he's so surprised when Sam strides forward and pulls him into what would be a suffocating hug if he were human.

"If you ever do that again, I swear I'll pour holy oil all over you," Sam mutters into Gabriel's hair. The archangel doesn't say a word, simply breathes in Sam's scent and rests his head against the freakishly tall human's chest.

They stand there for a while longer, until Gabriel forces himself to break the silence. "I'm sorry," he says sincerely.

"Don't. I was the one who wouldn't drop the topic when you obviously didn't want to talk about it." Sam replies, holding tighter.

"No, I was being stupid. I should've just told you, I should've trusted you," Gabriel objects.

Sam smiles and loosens his grip, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Then trust me now," he says casually.

The Adam's apple in Gabriel's throat bobs noticeably, his gaze hardening into one of resolute acceptance. "You . . . might want to close your eyes," he suggests quietly, feeling almost guilty when Sam's eyes immediately snap shut. Even after three months of silence, after Gabriel ran away yet again, the hunter still trusts him.

He concentrates on bringing his wings—or what's left of them—out from the pocket dimension he's kept them tucked in ever since that day in the woods, letting loose a short gasp when they finally appear, broken and bloodied as they day he'd torn them from his body. Sam takes this as a cue to open his eyes.

Gabriel doesn't hang his head, but meets Sam's stare with an almost defeated look, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.

Sam takes a step closer, gently pushing at Gabriel's shoulder. "Turn around," he says quietly.

Gabriel obeys, allowing Sam a full view of his mangled back, six battered stumps protruding from his shoulder blades. The few feathers that cling to them are doused in blood, their once brilliant gold stained a colour of red that reminds him of Lucifer.

There's a gentle hand making its way nearer to the ruined wings. "May I?" Sam asks, hand stilling a millimetre from the sparse feathers that remain. Gabriel makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, staring determinedly at the wall in front of him.

Soft, hesitant fingertips brush against what's left of his once magnificent wings and a shudder runs through Gabriel, his knees going weak. The fingers ruffle his plumage and he arches into the touch instinctively with a whimper. It's been so long, too long since anyone's done this for him. Sam makes sure to avoid the exposed areas, the circles of bare bone that look like they've gone through a shredder.

After a few more minutes of tender strokes, Sam's hand stills. "Gabe?" He says quietly.

". . . Yeah?"

He can hear the swallow Sam takes before he speaks. "What happened?"

"What always happens. I screwed up, got angry, cut them off." He blinks at the wall, his eyes tracing the cracks in the paint. "I didn't deserve them, anyway."

"Hey," Sam says, and there's something in his voice that sends a shiver down Gabriel's spine. "Don't say that."

Gabriel turns back around to face Sam. "They never looked right on me, kiddo," he says softly. "They were pure and I . . . wasn't. 'M still not."

"Fuck pure," Sam says harshly. "I'm not pure, hell, I had demon blood running through my veins when I was six months old."

"You were a kid," Gabriel returns. "You didn't have a choice. Every 'bad' decision you've made was already made for you, thousands and thousands of years ago by my heavyweight douchenozzles of brothers."

Sam shakes his head. "Know what? You were right earlier. There's a lot of things you don't deserve. Your shitty family, for one. And I should probably add those chocolate truffles to the list," he smiles.

Gabriel ignores him and focuses on remembering what his wings looked like back in Heaven, back when everything was normal and fighting was a thing that only happened in battle training. He visualises them in his mind, his eyelids falling shut as a fake pair of wings shimmers into view. They look to be made of liquid gold, showcasing every hue of yellow known to the human race. "That's what they used to look like," Gabriel says finally, turning his head to glance over his shoulder, mouth twisting into a scowl.

"You're wrong," Sam says after a moment, tearing his eyes away from the alluring wings. "They do suit you."

"Nah," he wrinkles his nose.

"Yeah, they do. They're beautiful and powerful and just a little bit show-offy."

The archangel swallows. "Even if they were, I don't have them anymore." The illusion falls away like a mist, leaving Gabriel's true wings—battered, ruined, ugly things they are—hanging limply from his back.

"I don't care," Sam says.

"I don't believe you," Gabriel responds.

Sam's lips quirk up at the corner, his eyes crinkling near the edges. "You should. Why would I care what your wings look like?"

"You've seemed to care a lot about them recently." Gabriel murmurs.

Sam shakes his head once more. "And it was stupid of me. I just . . . I'd never seen real, human-sized wings before, and when I heard that you had them, I was curious. I'm sorry."

When Gabriel opens his mouth to protest again, Sam grabs his arm. "Don't. Can we just agree to disagree for the moment? I missed you." He tugs Gabriel to the bed, crawling under the covers and gesturing for the archangel to follow. Gabriel rolls his shoulders back, the mangled remains of his wings vanishing, and climbs in beside Sam, only hesitating a moment before tucking his head into the crook of Sam's neck.

"You're a moron for putting up with me," Gabriel can't help but say.

"And you're a moron for thinking I'm a moron for putting up with you," Sam shoots back, throwing an arm over Gabriel's hip and tugging him closer so their bodies mould together.

"You're a moron for coming up with that comeback." Gabriel yawns. "Now shut up and go to sleep. Unlike you, I don't need to rest, but I'd really friggin' like to right now."

Sam snickers, but his body relaxes into the archangel's.

". . . Love you."

"Love you too, Gabe."

Look, it ended on a semi-hopeful note! It's a miracle, guys. You should be proud of me.

Reviews are greatly appreciated.