for sam;

[casaerotica13]

Eight years. Perhaps to most others, especially his kin, eight years was nothing. Luci suffered for so much longer after all. But suffering was suffering, and Gabe reasoned he couldn't beat himself up when Kentucky Fried Douchebag was doing that for free.

It was still eight years of his Grace, his essence, his very self, getting siphoned away for another's power. His coping mechanism had always been his mouth, so that was taken, too. And he prayed and prayed and prayed and no one ever answered. Everyone that would help believed him dead. Why would they answer? But one person knew better, and He never came. Why did Gabriel expect Him to? Why did Gabriel hope?

But someone did come for him. And he had no idea who the hell he was. Some hitman guy straight from a B-rated movie, seemed like. Ketch was his name and he liked to talk about the Winchesters. Sometimes Gabriel would suffer through trying to listen, other times he tuned the conversation out. It was all part of that whole suffering schtick anyway. Penance or whatever. That's probably why the Holy Deadbeat never answered. Sounded about right.

Being taken from his cell was more terrifying than staying in it. Being brought to a bunker and seeing Dean and Sam again was just a whole other level. He couldn't look up from the table and meet either of their eyes. Dean would... well, be Dean. But Sam... Those were the eyes he really couldn't bring himself to see right now. It had been eight years after all. Eight years of... everything.

This was all just a really messed up hallucination. A dream and a nightmare in equal parts. He just stared at the table and tried to be small.