Chapter Text
“Word on the street is you know you're way around a celestial stethoscope, brother mine,” Gabriel said, appearing on the shoddy formica table of the Winchesters latest shitty retro-chic motel room. To his delight, this particular one was done in varying shades of lime chiffon, with a headboard decorated in tacky freeze-dried sea urchins that died somewhere in the 1970's, along with the motel owners hopes and dreams. “So, what do you say? Bust out the magic-touch on me,broseph.”
Castiel frowned, and Dean sighed. “He's asking if he can turn his head and cough for you, Dr. Cas.”
Looking thoroughly more bewildered, Castiel's frown deepened. “I am not on the level of healing that Raphael fell from, but if you are unwell, it is likely I can sense it in your grace.”
“It's all I ask,” Gabriel replied breezily, with a snap of his wicked fingers. The sudden sight of Castiel in a long white coat was oddly fitting with his solemn expression, and Gabriel always liked the breeze hospital gowns offered, even if he hadn’t intended to be wearing one. “Give it to me straight, Doc. It's cancer, isn't it?” He said, with mock horror. He slapped on a horrible southern accent and covered his mouth with his hands, dramatically. “Oh Lordy, I'm too young to die!”
Burning him with an intensely disapproving look, Castiel pressed his palm to Gabriel's chest. Suddenly, he hissed, hand falling to his side as if Gabriel had burnt him.
Gabriel figured that wasn't a good sign.
“Not cancer then?” Gabriel asked, but the humor fell flat as Castiel stared at him, wide eyed with obvious worry. “Cas? Castiel? Seriously bro, you're freaking me out.”
“You're vessel,” Castiel said, staring at the Gabriel with grave eyes. “It's rotting.”
Gabriel blinked, blowing out a gusty breath as the enormity of the situation settled in on him. He looked up at the three faces before him, Winchesters and Castiel a like, each with their own expression of concerned intrigue. “Well, fuck.”
And then, very much like the girl Dean would later call him, he passed out.
When at last he woke, he was peering upward at three mismatched faces, each washed with there own level of curious worry. “Huh,” he said, blinking the lingering edges of blackness from his vision. “That was weird.”
“You passed out,” Dean announced, displaying in Gabriel's opinion, a lackluster deduction of the obvious. He might as well have announced that the sky was blue, or that Winchestes were like cockroaches - apocaproof. He'd yet to try the chop-off-the-head-live-ten-days thing, but it was on the list. “Freaking Angel, man. Angels don't pass out.”
“I didn't pass out,” he grumbled, rising to his feet. “My vessel did. I was conscious for your entire collective freak out. Your concern, it touches me deeply, it really does. It touches me so deeply it borders on inappropriate. I feel a little dirty. Violated, even. You should all be ashamed of yourse--”
“Gabriel, this is serious,” Castiel cut in, his tone low. “If your vessel diminishes much further, you will be forced---”
“To vacate the premises? Yeah, I get that, I do. Believe me bro, I'm not exactly homeward bound,” he interrupted, scratching the back of his neck. “No one wants to move back in with their parents at my age. I imagine I'd be moving back into the...basement.”
Sam continued to frown, deep lines etching across his forehead. “I don't get it. I mean, you built your vessel didn't you?”
“I cut the cloth straight out of the fabric of time, Sammy boy,” Gabriel breathed, closing his eyes. This was serious, whether he wished to admit it or not. Which he didn't, really, because serious was just not his business. “From the fabric of time, and space, and the very universe. From the dust, from the ash, from the---”
“Blood of a true vessel,” Castiel intoned, eying Gabriel as if he expected him to deny it. Which, in all honesty wouldn't have been unlike him but as he had come to Castiel for help he felt inclined to a modicum of honesty. Just a modicum though, he had his appearances to upkeep, and all that.
So he just shrugged and toyed with the hem of his accidental hospital gown. “Just a drop,” he confirmed. “From my first vessel. Without it, my grace would have rejected my home-cooked version like a bad kidney.”
“Then this problem is easily fixed,” Castiel said, relief coloring his otherwise dry voice. “Blood of the vessel will heal you.”
“Yeah,” he replied, drawing out the word and fidgeting suddenly. “Easy-peasey” Easy like licking one's own elbow, at any rate. It could probably be done, but it would take forever and there would be a lot of arm twisting, pain, and no one would really have any fun.
“So you find that dude's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great---”
“Dean,” Sam sighed, rolling his eyes. “Seriously. Grow up.”
“Bitch. Great grand kid,” Dean continued, and finished, giving Sam a dirty look. “Give em' a paper-cut and lick em. Bam. In and out, done.”
“Yep,” Gabriel agreed, popping the 'p'. He looked up at the ceiling, awkward and self-conscious as they stared upon him. The hospital gown wasn't really doing much to bolster his pride.“In and out. Just like that. Well, it would be that easy if we were talking about your sex life, Deano, but we're not.”
“Gabriel,” Castiel cut with sudden clarity “Where is your Vessel?”
“I don't know, alright!” He blurted abruptly, throwing up his hands. He ignored the way the ceiling cracked above him, and seriously hoped no one else noticed. It was just a little crack. Seriously, it could have totally been there before. That had been happening more and more lately. He sat on his hands quickly, and frowned.
Honestly, it wasn't like he'd bothered to tag the little beast. He hadn't expected this to happen. No one told him to get the one-hundred-thousand miles or one-hundred-thousand years warranty when he made his skin-puppet. He didn't know it would require maintenance, hell, it had never been done before. “Hadn't really thought I'd need to keep track.”
“Can't you just … I don't know, zone in on your vessel? Aren't you like... connected?” Dean asked, waving his hand as if it solved everything.
He huffed, leveling Dean with a glare. “They don't come micro-chipped Winchester; they're not poodles. Don't you think Michael would have taken you out for a test drive early on if he had your shit on low-jack? It doesn't work like that. Even without Castiel's logo seared into your insides, it isn't as simple as wanting to find your vessel. Firstly, I need a name.”
“Just a name?” Dean pushed, brow scrunched. “Seriously?”
“There's a lot of power in a name,” Sam said, considering. He had his thinking-face on which never boded well for any one. There was thinking, and then there was alarmingly over-thinking, and Sam seemed to make up for the rest of his families, landing him in the latter category. “Demons and Angels keep their real names hidden. Even God; no one knows his real,name. You can do a lot with a name. I mean, Dad hunted Azazel for years with no luck, but as soon as he knew his name.....”
“But it's written down somewhere, right?” Dean asked, turning to look at Gabriel. “They keep this shit on record? Cas could get them, maybe? You know, pop into the Angelic Department of Vital Records?”
“There is no reason for me to inquire as to where Gabriel's vessel is without rousing suspicion. Given his history, the name of his current vessel is most likely kept under watch, should anyone inquire,” Castiel explained, a small frown forming on his face. “It is possible I could request the help of one of my more trusted brothers to create a diversion while I ...investigate but---”
“As much as it pleases me to see you honestly considering celestial B and E, and it really really does, it wouldn't do much good,” Gabriel said with a huff. “I destroyed my book of Names.”
“Book of Names,” Sam repeated, bewildered. “Like a...you mean... Why would you even do that?”
Dean rolled his eyes and Gabriel smirked. Destruction of literature, celestial, proverbial, or otherwise, had never failed to make Sam twitch. Then again, he did so enjoy making Winchesters twitch.
“Don't you even get it?” He asked, snapping his fingers again. His words faltered on his tongue when he suddenly found himself wearing not his expected pair of jeans, but a fluffy yellow bathrobe. Hiding his surprise and alarm at the obvious glitch in his grace, he pressed on.
“Why do you think I wouldn't just go hop on in my vessel in the first place. I don't want that. I want my body to be my own; I want to own it. I don't want to constantly wonder if what I do to it could be considered a violation. And believe you me, what I do with this body is a whole lotta' violation. I want to be my own man.
I destroyed that book without a blink because I didn't want a friggin' list of warm bodies. I ain't saying there is anything wrong with finding a home in a truly devout man, Castiel, who was at peace with it” he added, for his brothers benefit. Gabriel knew that Jimmy was dead, and that Castiel felt it a failure on his part. “You did right by Jimmy, and now the skin you wear is your own. I'm just saying it wasn't my way. I would have never been able to escape in my destined vessel.”
“So instead you built one, and used the blood of your true vessel to seal the deal?” Dean watched him from the motel bed, propped up against the garish, sea-shell headboard.
“My first vessel. That probably has some sort of significance. The blood was just like dotting my i's and crossing my t's,” Gabriel conceded. “It was enough to get me in the door, but not enough to get me found so to speak. I destroyed the book so they could never find my vessel either; so he couldn't be used against me. Being near your vessel in incorporeal form is like being drugged. You want it, badly, and you can feel it. If enough damage was done to this form, and I was in close enough vicinity to my vessel? I'd couldn't stop myself from begging entrance. The Angels would use that against me. But as far as Heaven is concerned, I no longer have a destined vessel.”
“Well,” Sam said, leaning against the wood-paneled wall, his expression thoughtful. “If you took the blood to build your people-suit, it should still be there, right? Or is your vessel failing because your Grace finally burnt it out?”
Gabriel blinked, reeling a bit at the cute little Boy King. Perhaps that big over-thinking brain has a purpose. “That’s actually...huh. I hadn't thought of that, but yeah, that’s very likely what's happening. I've been in this skin for thousands of years, with just a drop of the blood of the body. Huh. Good job, Littlest Winchester. Have a cookie,” he snapped his fingers, and found himself holding not a cookie, but a cookbook. Not what he was going for....He blinked, and ignored it, while Sam set it on the table in obvious confusion.
“So it's gone?” Dean asked, pushing up against the headboard. “No blood of the body left or whatever?”
“No,” Castiel cut in. “Some would linger for him to hold this form.”
“So,” Dean said slowly, as if he expected them to catch on to his train of thought with one single word. “ Can't you link with that? I mean, can't you use that blood to find him? They're are rituals and shit that do that. Blood's just as powerful as a name.”
“I could look,” Castiel offered, turning to look at Gabriel.
“Anything to get your hands on me, eh ”he commented with a wicked grin. “Well, I hear Dad's turning a blind eye on incest these days, but I didn't realize it was contagious,” he laughed. The Winchesters spluttered, choking in tandem. He snickered, grinning, but it didn't reach his eyes as he steeled himself for the invasion. “Go easy on me, Cas. It's gonna be way in there, deep, deep, deep down. It's been years, and it wasn't much to begin with.”
“Then I suggest you relax,” Castiel said, sinking his hand into Gabriel's chest without any more hesitance then the first time. Gabriel seized as Castiel's grace probed at his every inch, leaving him with a decidedly naked and unpleasant feeling. He was bared to his brother, exposed in the most deepest of ways. Bit like being naked at Christmas dinner.
He hissed when at last Castiel extricated himself, flexing his hand as if he had a cramp.“It is not enough,” Castiel said thoughtfully. “As I expected, it is far to saturated by Gabriel's grace to be recognizable in any cognizant standard. It is no longer a separate entity. You've merged with your vessel like I did after Jimmy's death. It is truly your own, as much as Dean or Sam owns their skin.”
He looked inward, than, and could hardly recognize the blood of his vessel from the rest of his body. It was just a faint inward glow soaked in grace, that he would not have noticed had Castiel not made mention. It had not always been; when he was new, it had shone brightly beside his grace, a light all it's own. “My grace!” He said abruptly, jerking upright. “I can't use the blood in me to track him , but Cas can use the grace in the vessle.”
“That’s how it works?” Dean asked, frowning. “I don't know how I feel about carting around a bit Mikey with me. And seriously, no offense Sammy, but you've had enough demon in you. I'd hate to see what a bit of Lucifer could do.”
“No it does not work like that,” Castiel growled. “It is said that grace must be given as freely to the vessel as the vessel gives himself. It is not done lightly; Anael gave Joan of Arc one drop of grace to guide her. Barachal gave even less to Michelangelo, to paint the heavens in the Sistine Chapel.. Azazel gifted Death with so much grace, Reapers were born from the ash of man, to ease his burden. Gabriel, what did you do?”
“I didn't do it lightly, if that's what you're saying. He gave me freedom,] Castiel, without falling. And in return, I gave him a gift,” Gabriel bristled, blanching. “One mote of grace. I don't even know what it did; like I said, I didn't stick around to watch.”
“So, what? Gabriel granted some dudes wish way back in the day? Granted a miracle, something?” Dean put in, shaking his head.
Castiel huffed, pinning Dean with a look of disapproval. “We are not jinn, Dean. We do not grant wishes. Every bit of grace ever given has been given with intent. What Gabriel did...the repercussions can not be calculated. Wild grace, given without direction, will pick its path as it wishes.”
Sam made a discouraging noise, fingers tapping against the kitchenette counter. “You're talking about it like it's a living thing. Like it can think on it's own.”
“No,” Castiel amended. “It is not living, per se. But it will think. And it will think as Gabriel does. It will do as Gabriel would. It will act in place of Gabriel without any form of conscious or mediation.”
“A mini, mindless Gabriel wish-ball?” Dean asked, jerking upright on the mattress. “Oh fuck, that’s probably how we ended up with conjoined-twins or like...those freakishly tiny dogs.”
“It's nothing to laugh at, Dean,” Castiel admonished. “His grace was given free reign to do as it pleased, most likely only guided by the wishes of the vessel, and even more likely, passed down through the bloodline.”
“It could have laid dormant for years,” Gabriel murmured, in wonder. “There is no telling where it would have manifested, or when, rather. There's just no way to tell. It could have done anything.”
“You don't seem near as upset about this as Castiel does,” Sam noted, gesturing to the stoney-faced Castiel. “I mean, it's a bad thing, isn't it?”
“Maybe,” Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe not though. Maybe it gave some dude the strength to save a flaming bus full of orphans. Maybe someone used it to build Stonehenge or the Pyramids. Maybe it was used to create the Polio vaccine,” He argued. “It couldn't be used for anything bad. It's grace; it's decidedly celestial and meant to do the bidding of God himself. Whatever it did, it was a miracle.”
“A Gabriel-colored miracle,” Dean rebutted. “The Angel who isn't.”
“Not back then,” Castiel argued, for the sake of his brother. Gabriel grinned at him, unperturbed by the heated scowl he earned in return. Castiel only had seven expressions and most of them involved a scowl, so for all he knew that one was an expression of love. “Gabriel was and is, the messenger of God, the angel of Judgment. He carried the word of our Father without fault, even while being a pagan demi-god. His grace would not defy our Father's wishes. Although, Father has always been....lenient, with Gabriel.”
“Daddy's favorite,” Gabriel cooed. “Although, you're giving me a run for my money on the title Cassy.”
“Can you track your Grace?” Sam asked, cutting back to the heart of the subject. “I mean, can it be like...like Angel GPS?”
“I can't,” Gabriel considered. “But Cas can. That was one reason I destroyed the book. To protect my vessel from being used to find me. It isn't a stretch to say that I couldn't be used to find him. Castiel just has to tap into my grace with his and...push. It's the same way Angels can always find their brothers. We're wired to a...mainframe, I guess you can say. I've been off the grid for a long time, but a relative distance, whatever grace my vessel has floatin' around in him can be tracked.”
“I cannot verify that I have the...capacity to do that,” Castiel replied, a little rueful. “While Father saw fit to return me to my original state, and then some, I am no archangel.”
“I doubt you can't do it,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “Start small, work big. Hemisphere, continent, region, state. So what do you say, bro? Help a guy out?”
“I will help you Gabriel,” Castiel confirmed, his voice solemn and sure. Gabriel kind of wanted to tell him to lighten up, but it was just his way, and Gabriel wasn't interested in changing Cas. Cas, the way he was, had conquered fucking Heaven. He was fine as is, even if he was a little stiff. You'd think averting the apocalypse would loosen a guy up, but not Cas. Gabriel loved him for that.
“Now?” Dean asked. “You're going to do it now?”
“Now would be best,” Castiel replied. “Gabriel's current vessel will not last, especially under any kind of duress or strain. It would be prudent that we act as swiftly as possible.” He finished with a shrug, awkward and stiff but appropriately timed. The Winchesters must have been teaching him, Gabriel though.
“Alright bro, have at it.” He opened his arms wide and his fluffy robe fell open, a light breeze tickling across balls, and he grinned deeply at the Winchesters mutual squeak-groan-shout of alarm as they averted their eyes. “Oh good,idea. Keep your eyes closed kids, this could get messy. Wouldn't want to melt your brains out your ears or anything.”
“If you are ready,” Cas said, even as his own cool, fluid grace swarmed Gabriel's. Unlike before, where as Castiel had only looked at Gabriel's grace, this time he felt with his own. It was the embodiment of Cas, Gabriel thought, the perfect representative of that which was Castiel. Even as it wrapped around his own, it had waves, rough but steady, just like Cas. His grace even felt blue, a dark blue like the oceans or the night-sky or his own borrowed eyes. It was deep, with depths unknown and untouched, and Gabriel had always known that Castiel was capable of so much, but to feel it like this seemed like a privilege. Castiel was a credit to their Father, an Angel and Warrior, and Gabriel couldn't help but feel a little awed.
It had been a long time since he'd shared grace with his brethren. Too long, maybe, for him to feel like this.
Snapping back to himself, he found Castiel blinking down at him, his standard blank expression looking a little less blank and a little more smug and embarrassed. “You are a credit to our Father as well, Gabriel,” he said quietly, before turning to the Winchester.
“The Gabriel-vessel is on the northern hemisphere. I believe more specifically he is South of us.”
“Alright,” Gabriel said, grinning. “Lets go! The sooner I get this shit over with, the better.” Gabriel harangued. He snapped his fingers, focusing on jeans once again and was surprised to find himself in a suit. A freaking suit; this was not what he wanted. Which meant... Oh dear. “Uh Cas, you might want to wait---”
The explosion of light was blinding, sending all four occupants of room 9B of the Starfish Motel and Car-wash flying off their feet. Castiel was the first to make right himself, eyes wide.
“Dean...Sam” Castiel stood at the center of the room, eyeing the tangle of Winchester limbs. “Are you well?”
“Sammy?” Dean groaned, reaching out blindly to slap Sam on the chest. The answering groan seemed enough of an answer for the elder Winchester. “Yeah, we're good. What the flying fuck was that?”
“Gabriel's grace did not respond well to my manipulations,” Castiel informed him, eyes scanning the Winchesters for signs of injury. They looked no more bruised then usual, and he let it be. “It deflected me.”
“...it's protecting me,” Gabriel murmured, eyes narrowed in thought. “That’s why it's not working. It's on overdrive keeping me together, keeping me from burning out my vessel. It's protecting me. From everything, Angelic intrusions included.”
“But it was fine when Cas was all up in you,” Dean said, waving his hands at Gabriel's middle. “Why the hell didn't it go into panic room melt-down mode then?”
“Non-invasive,” Castiel cut in, frowning at Gabriel. “I was not attempting to do anything but ascertain information. Once I attempted to alter him, including relocation, it rebelled.”
“What do you mean your grace isn't working?” Sam asked, back tracking on a point no one else seemed to notice. “You've been snapping your fingers since you got here.”
Gabriel had the decency to at least look sheepish. “Well, I have grace. It's going to do something if I ask. It works.”
“Snap something up,” Dean had the audacity to order. “I dunno, chocolate. Snickers.”
“I believe your Angel already covered the 'we are not genies' thing, Deano,” Gabriel retorted, bristling as all eyes fell upon him. “It works. It just...quit looking at me like that, Cas. I'm fine.”
“Then please do as Dean asked,” Castiel replied calmly. “If it is as you say it is, there should be no problem.”
“M'not saying it's like anything,” Gabriel murmured. “It's just a little...random.” He closed his eyes and huffed, snapping his fingers and thinking Snickers.
What he got instead was Skittles. The bright red package crinkled in his hand. “See, it's not...it's not that off. I mean it's still candy. It's not like it gave me a fucking banana.” His grace wouldn't do that. It loved him.
“Huh,” Dean said, plucking the candy from his hand. “Hey, snap up some girls,” he suggested and Gabriel was just off-kilter enough to do it out of reflex.
“How about no,” Sam wrapped his hand around Gabriel's wrist. “The skittles were almost chocolate. I'd hate to see what almost constitutes as a girl.”
“Bitch,” Dean said, lips wet with fruity, skittle, rainbow drool. “I wanted to see what freaky circus shit he would have came up with.”
“Probably like a midget-hooker,” Sam conceded, giving a little grin. “You might want to cut it out on anything complicated Gabriel.”
Feeling slightly panicked and weirdly vulnerable, Gabriel smirked. “You ever had sex with a midget? Don't knock that shit till you try it, kiddo's. All the blow-jobs, none of the back pain.”
“Why do I get the feeling you've been the midget-hooker in this scenario?” Dean asked, around mouthful of sticky skittle-goo.
“You're imagining me having sex as a midget, Dean?” Gabriel grinned. “Wooh-boy, Sammy, you lucky dog. This one's into the kink.” Sam spluttered, cheeks brightening.
Castiel glared at him for a moment before pushing them back on topic. “As it would seem that zapping Gabriel to the location is out of the question, we need a new plan. I believe we will need to do this manually.: It was obvious to anyone with half an eyeball that Castiel wasn't making a suggestion.
“Manu-what? Oh no. No way Cas,” Dean said, catching on. “No! I'm not carting his ass across the freaking continent.”
“It would only be across the country,” Castiel argued. “You could hunt along the way.”
“You don't even know where you're headed,” Dean grumbled, but Gabriel could see the fight in him crumbling. “You're flying blind.”
“I can follow Gabriel's grace,” Castiel replied easily. “Already I know we should head south-east. As we grow closer, it will become more precise.”
“Cas,” Dean whined, but Sam, the little hero he couldn't help but be, was having none of it.
He turned his most pitiful face on Dean and sighed, shoulders dropping.
“I don't know, Dean. Think of all the things Gabriel's done for us. I mean...he did save me,” he finished looking downcast as his fingers fidgeted with the off-white rotary phone on the nightstand between the beds.
He looked entirely too dejected and Gabriel knew there was a reason he liked the kid. No one could play a Winchester like another Winchester. It was probably a good idea to always keep at least two around.
“I believe Gabriel has done much in way of earning this favor,” Castiel reminded Dean, jumping on the guilt-flavored band wagon. “It was with his efforts that we defeated Lucifer and sealed the gates. We would not be where we are now if it was not for him.” The remaining bricks of Deans will were blasted away with Castiel's final blow. “And your brother is not wrong, it was Gabriel who saved Sam.”
It was all true, and Gabriel was smug enough to enjoy hearing it. When at last he had joined there raggle-taggle band of free-will gypsies, he'd proven to be an insurmountable weapon against Armageddon. He'd lured his own misguided brother back to the pits with tales of his own rebellion, years of succulent indulgence and the life of a demigod.
Lucifer, as Gabriel predicted, to enthralled by his dark dreams, did not see what was there before him. While Gabriel might have left Heaven, he had never left his Father, and that was what separated him from his brother, from all of his brothers. He had lead his brother to the gates, and Sam had taken them down. While it hurt to see his brothers Second Fall, Gabriel knew that until Lucifer asked forgiveness, there would be no hope. He had even managed, at the last minute, to rip Sam free from Lucifer, as he descended to the pit.
And he had done those things for God, and Humanity and Free will. But mostly, he had done them for Cas, because he had asked and he believed Gabriel true enough to not fail them.
“Fine!” Dean acceded, eyes flickering to his brother, who was staring down at the ground. “Fine. Yes. Whatever. But seriously, you don't use your fucked up angel-button to whammy me for nothing,” he warned. “I don't want you to try and finger-snap me bald and I end up headless.”
He hadn't meant to laugh, but it had escaped anyway. “Oh get Rhonda Hurley's pretty pink panties out of your crack. I won't whammy you, Winchester. Double-dog, pinky-swear promise. ”
“Rhonda Hurley?” Sam looked up, turning to look at Dean. “Wasn't that the cute, chubby red headed chick we went to school with? In that town with the water spirits, back in like my freshman year? Yeah, I was like fifteen or something. Man, I remember you practically begged---”
“No, I don't remember that,” Dean cut him off. “I don't know what he's talking about. Shut up, Sam.”
“I'm pretty sure---”
“No, Sam,” Dean said a little more stiffly. “Shut up. Shut up ”
“So I'm traveling via Winchester,” Gabriel said, clapping his hands together. “Lovely. When do we leave?”
*
Driving in cars was not Gabriel's most ideal form of transportation. The Winchesters beloved Impala might have been in great shape, tended lovingly by Dean, but no matter how well maintained, cars built in the sixties were not made for luxury. He felt stifled, shoved into the back seat beside Castiel, who endured it with his usual stoic silence.
'Relax'
The whisper in his mind was easily recognizable as Castiel, not a sound, but a feeling. He bristled at the gentle command, and nearly replied before halting himself violently. He wasn't sure what opening his mind to Castiel would do; there were things in there he'd rather his brother not see. Castiel knew Gabriel had done things no Angle should be capable of, but seeing was different.
“It's not that easy,” he groused. “My wings itch.”
“What?” Sam said, inviting himself into the conversation as he spun in his seat. “You can feel them in this body? I thought they didn't actually have a corporeal form.”
“Oh they do,” Gabriel leaned back against the cool leather. He squirmed, the pressure of the seats easing the tension between his shoulder blades. “They just don't look like wings. They look like...”
“Ozone,” Castiel offered. “Atmosphere. Like capturing lightning in a bottle. Unlike most Angels, Gabriel cannot keep his on another plane of existence. His must be contained within him. While we were on the run, I was forced to do the same. It is an incredibly uncomfortable sensation.”
“Like that,” Gabriel agreed. “And my wings aren't average. I don't have two like Cas; he's a solider Angel. I have six hundred. And they are currently being shoved in a very small space. You think your legs feel cramped in a car, Sammy-boy, you have no idea.”
“Can...can you let them out, to like breath or whatever? Take a stretcher?” Dean asked, cutting off a neon orange Prius whose driver flipped him off through his rear-view mirror.
“Might as well shove a billboard up my ass that says 'GABRIEL IS HERE'” he replied with a snort. “Haven't let my bad boys out in a really long time. I'm pretty sure doing it now would send this sexy little human-suit through the shredder.” He hunched forward, elbows propped on his knees, rolling his shoulders awkwardly.
“Your grace will keep you intact,” Castiel assured him, pressing his grace-warmed palm between Gabriel's shoulder blades. The relief was instantaneous, and Gabriel couldn't help but feel small for needing it. He hadn't needed anything from anyone in a very long time. He resented it, and the only comfort he could find was that help from Castiel would come with few strings.
'But for how long?' Gabriel whispered silently though the spot where there grace met and tangled. The connection was fragile; whispering in his mind. Castiel did not push to see more. 'It's wearing thin.'
'We'll find him.” Castiels’ grace soothed Gabriel's frantic nerves like a rush of cool water. 'Sleep'. He had pressed his finger to Gabriel's forehead before he could even mutter a futile protest.
Gabriel had decided, rather quickly, that he did not enjoy dreaming. Oh sure, he enjoyed other people's dreams; they offered a plethora of subconscious delight to be messed with. However, paying witness to his own subconscious was hardly fun, especially as it seemed he had no control over his dream.
It was dark where ever he was, an alley perhaps, though the scenery seemed to change as dreams are wont to do; fluid as water, shifting and reflecting. He was smoke himself, he'd noticed, neither here nor there. He really did not feel it necessary to examine that even in his own dream he was but a wisp between realities. It said too much about him.
Something cold was creeping in on him, bringing with it a curtain of darkness that could not seen, only felt. His heart beat too fast, frigid puffs of air escaping his lips with every panicked breath. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones. He could feel it in his grace, tugging at the frayed, damaged edges. Something was really wrong.
This wasn't a dream.
This was a nightmare.
He felt breathless, his hand clutching at the soft skin of his throat where words would not form. It ached, his grace; everything ached. A flood of horror drowned him; abandonment, despair, lonesomeness; a vast sea of loneliness was all he felt, like every bad thing he'd ever known had found him all at once. It was a dream, he told himself as his wings fluttered inside him, growing hot in his chest. Just a dream. Just a dream. Humans did it all the time; nightly even.
The curtains of darkness did not recede, even as Gabriel begged himself to wake. From their black hoods, skeleton faces grew, hidden in the depths of shadow, unseen by even Gabriel. But he could feel their eyes upon him, gaping black holes that opened up into that Gabriel thought felt suspiciously like Purgatory.
The unseen gaze was locked on him, and he stumbled backwards, pain exploding in him as his back hit the ground. A pillow of dark feathers broke his fall as his wings escaped him, spreading out for miles in his dream world, shimmering the air with gold light. Gabriel gasped, pushing at the edges of his mind, struggling to wake as the Reaper-like shadow of ache turned to him, boney hand outstretched like a claw, inching it's way towards Gabriel's throat.
His wings hardened, tensing and fluttering as he scrambled back, as more came forth, more hollow shadows with outstretched hands, grabbing at him. 'Wake up', he begged himself. 'Wake up, wake up, wake the fuck up. Castiel, get me out of here! CASTIEL!'.
He watched in horror as they advanced, to caught in his own sea of despair to do anything for it, cowering against his endless wings as he was forced to recall a millennium of lonely torture.
And then, as Moses parted the red sea, something parted the shadows, a beam of brilliant shimmering light. It cut through the shadow Reapers with ease, slashing them to crumbling pieces. Gabriel couldn’t see him, the light-bringer, but he could feel the pulse of his life, his essence, as he took apart the other shadow Reapers.
What he could see left Gabriel gasping; his young hero wielded a familiar, curved blade of the purest white, made of metal as old as time, shining with the light of God himself.
The Messengers scythe. His scythe, given to him by God himself. Gabriel hadn’t seen it in ages. A Millennia, even.
It sliced through the shadowed Reapers with the ease it was meant to, and what ones had not met their end at the edge of the blade, scattered. For a moment, the man seemed to look down at him, green gaze cutting through the fluidity of the dream-veil, as if he could almost, almost see Gabriel. In response, Gabriel looked up, pressed out to the edges of the dream where the man stood, dark but tangible, all his finer details lost to the shadows....and then Gabriel woke.
****
“Merlin's hairy ball-sack, what the bloody fuck was that!?” Draco barked, from behind him.
“No time! Don't let them get away!” Harry bellowed, sinking his blade into the shadowy torso of the nearest Dementor. It let loose a scream that shook the ground as he ripped it back like a fishhook, tearing through it's wispy flesh.
Luna was already whispering her own spell, casting out tiny rays of silver, each one weaving to make a net of gleaming light. A single Dementor found himself snared in it, and Luna reeled the spell-net back sharply, slicing the Dementor to bits as each silver-strand cut through it's body. It fell to pieces on the ground, melting into bubbling, oozing puddles of tar.
“Left, Harry! Six o'clock, it's getting away!” Draco called out, his hand already reaching for the especially spelled firearm at his waist.
Harry followed Draco's shouted directions, reaching up as he ran to tear the scythe from the staff. Spinning himself, to gain the right amount of leverage, he threw the curved blade with long-learned skill, watching it spin in the darkness like a boomerang before catching the fleeing Dementor at the throat. It's hollowed head fell with a dull thunk, body crumpling and oozing beside it, as the blade swung back. He snatched it from the air, slipping it back in place with ease.
“How many left!?” He called out to Luna as he swung the scythe back again, slashing it thought he nearest Dementor who stumbled and screamed.
“One in sight, four fleeing!” Luna called back, and Harry watched as she snapped a single strand of silver-light like a whip the Dementor, slicing it in half vertically, from it's skull down. It's following screech was an ear-splitting, gut-wrenching terror, and Draco grinned with malicious glee as it fell to the ground.
“It's gotta be now! They won't stay down much longer!” Harry bellowed, tearing the silver and onyx ring off his finger. He tossed it into the air, watching it glint in the faint sun hiding behind the clouds before falling back, slamming against the ground hard enough o make it tremble. The ground quaked, pebbles bouncing along it's rocking surface as the ring began to glow, burning the Earth around it in ripples of charred black.
The bubbling black puddles of Dementor ooze hissed and sizzled as mushroom clouds of smoke blossomed up from the tar, only to be sucked down the Earths through the ring's circle, in a whirl of coal-colored smoke. When the last of the smoke had cleared, Harry crouched, watching as the ring gave one more violent quiver before losing its ominous glow. He slid the seemingly harmless ring back onto his finger and turned to his partners.
“Luna found the female,” Draco said, conversationally, tucking his gun into the holster at his waist. For someone who had grown up abhoring anything muggle, he had come to love his gun quite dearly. The bullets were of Luna's design, molded with of silver and infused with sunlight.
She'd finished the whole process off with blasting every bullet one with a cheering charm so strong it could make a weeping willow laugh. The combination had proved lethal too Dementors.
“Three got away. Want to chase?” Draco asked with an easy grin, flipping his pale hair from his face.
“They're long gone by now,” Harry said, something shiny in the near distance catching his Seekers eye. He found himself following the dull light, as golden dust settled on the ground, burning where it landed to a darkened ash. The scythe warmed in his palm, magic humming as it had since he'd found it.
Luna caught up to them, pointing a long finger at the burning golden flakes. “Have you any thoughts on the very pretty but also entirely impromptu light show, Harry? I found it rather distracting myself.”
“Haven't a bloody fucking clue.” Harry scratched the three-day stubble on his chin. “But whatever it was, it can't be good. Damned Dementors flocked right too it.”
“What if it's the Queen?” Draco replied, catching Harry's forearm. “What if...Come on, Potter. Don't give me that bloody look. We don't know a damned thing about Dementors. They might nest. It would explain why they travel in groups. Have you ever seen a lone Dementor?”
“No,” Harry admitted. “But whatever that was...it wasn't a Dementor, Queen or what-not, I could feel that much. What I'd really like to know is where the hell it went.” The ground was charred where the light had exploded into a tiny ball of gold, winking out without so much as a sound. Whatever it was, it’s magic would have to be very strong to cancel out the sound of air displacement.
“Perhaps the more pertinent question to ask,” Luna wondered aloud, eyes flickering a luminescent white, “is where it came from.”
Harry sighed, shoulders slumping. “Either way, we haven't the foggiest. Unless you Saw something?”
She gave him a small, apologetic smile. “I saw a pair of blue eyes that refused to blink,” she said with a shrug. “I believe it was rather out of context.”
“Could you see it?” Draco asked them both, frowning. “All I saw was light. Like a patronus”
“Yeah,” Harry said thought. “But it wasn't like a patronus at all. They went for it, hungry little fuckers.”
“Maybe it's some kind of Dementor bait,” Draco reasoned, rubbing at the dirt on his cuff. He'd come a long way since Hogwarts; he'd come so far he'd followed Harry to the states. His hair was long, hanging in unkempt waves past his shoulder, and he'd made it a point to pack on a few pounds of muscle after graduation. Innocent though he might have been at the end of the war, without his Malfoy Money, he hadn't had anything to hide behind but his own to fists.
He'd had his fair share of naysayers but he'd done well on his own, surviving, thriving post-war. It had been that much that had drawn Harry to him, that and his inherited knowledge (the same knowledge that had served the Order very well) of all things Dark.
Business partners, they called themselves, but when you spent most your day saving the others arse, it was only inevitable that a bond would be formed. Or forty-seven different life-debts, as Draco liked to say.
Luna's story had been much less exciting. She had showed up on Harry's door one morning and announced she'd be leaving with him. At the time, Harry hadn't even known he had anywhere to go.
“That would be all well and fine if we'd set bait,” Harry said after a fashion. His head ached; something about the light felt...well, he wasn't sure what it felt like, but it had felt like something. “In actuality, it's rather disturbing that bait might have been set exactly where we happened to be, if it was bait at all. We should pack up, head out.”
“You want to pack up before clearing out the rest of this lot?” Draco replied, surprised. He wasn't wrong to be shocked; Harry didn't like to leave strays. He felt Luna's eyes on him and forced back a shudder. He didn't like it when she Looked at him.
“They'll be gone by now,” Harry said again with a sigh, slinging the Scythe over his shoulder, and into it's holster. He scrubbed a hand over his face“Oh bloody buggering fuck,” he grumbled, as his hands caught on a hard protrusion jutting from his forehead. “Every fucking time.”
Draco shot him a look and shrugged. “I don't know how you don't notice horns sprouting out of your forehead,” he said reasonably, handing Harry a tergo-cloth. “Here, you're bleeding a bit. Lets get back to the motel and I'll see if I can blast them off yet again.”
“Don't act so bloody put upon by it,” Harry groused, focusing his mind on the motel. He appeared into the kitchenette just as Draco did, Luna close behind, their triple pops muffled by his Silencing Charm. “It isn't as if they're popping out of your bloody skull.”
“Even so,” Draco argue as he pushed Harry against the counter, eyes narrowed as he inspected the protrusions. They'd been a constant thorn in Harry's side, or rather horns in his head, but still. “It also isn't as if I can leave you to blast them off yourself. Might take your whole bloody head off.”
“One time,” Harry allowed himself to be manhandled with nothing more than an eye-roll. “One time, I signed an eyebrow and you'll never let me live it down, will you?.”
“By your own words, Potter, there is no margin for error,” Draco grinned, his teeth as white and perfect now as they were when he was nothing more than a poncy first year. For all that they lived hard, and fought harder, Draco remained perpetually pretty, the bastard. . “Alright, instead of burning them maybe this time Luna and I can try forcing them back in? I've been reading up on magical reactors; the dark magic might be overwhelmed by the light of both mine and Lovegoods”
Luna piped in with her vacant, dreamy voice. “The theory is called Magical Relevancy Displacement; magical fluctuation leveling powers when light or dark magic swells and dispels it's opposite. Very common among the Spellbined Nimblynobs,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper. “They have issues with premature evacuation. Rather embarrassing, that.”
“You know, once upon a time I might have laughed had you claimed your magic Light, Draco” Harry commented, deflecting any real answer to the suggestion and ignoring Luna entirely. It was just better that way; you indulge her, and next thing you know, it's three in the morning and your discussing the merits of Wrackspruts in modern education, sipping nettle wine while standing on the ceiling in ladies underpants.
Some lessons were just learned the hard way.
Draco gave him a look reminiscent of his school-boy sneer, drawing himself up tall and proud “I'll have you know I was magically re-hymenated,” he said with a mock drawl. “I'm pure as the driven snow.”
“And I regularly shit Quaffels,” Harry snorted.“Ugh, nevermind, that sounds painful. Hell, what you're suggesting sounds painful. If it hurts half as bad as shitting a quaffle, I'm going to punch you in the throat,” he threatened, as Draco covered the left horn with his palm.
“Shite!” He swore, snatching his hand back from Harry’s head. “Bloody sharp! Quit laughing, dammit.”
Harry just grinned, running his finger up the length of the right horn, the pad of this thumb pressing gently against the point. They were pointy; pointy and pointless. “Just blast them off, Draco.” It was the only thing that ever worked, though Draco never seemed to desist his endless attempts to find an alternative for Harry's particular affliction.
“No,” Draco replied petulantly. “I think Lovegood is onto something with this Magical Displacement Thingy. Brace yourself Potter, it sounds to good to be true, so it’s probably going to hurt.
Harry could feel the magic thrumming in Draco's palm as he pushed with it instead of his actual flesh. Luna laid her hand over the other one, her magic gentle and soothing. The horns shuddered burning the flesh around them in protest as Draco eased them back, forcing them into Harry's skull till he was sure his head would burst from pain alone. His fingers bit into Draco's forearm where he'd grabbed unintentionally, drawing crescent moon bruises to the surface.
“I bloody fucking hate you, Malfoy,” Harry growled, knees buckling. “Fuck!” Draco caught him easily, shoving a thigh between Harry's and propping him up. It could have been considered indecent were Harry not in blinding pain, as he was. “You fucking bastard! Is it working?”
“Yes, actually,” Luna murmured, her palm finally flat against Harry's forehead. “Little more than an inch to go, Harry.”
Harry grabbed Draco's wrist quickly. “Break. Lets...” he panted, eyes clenched in pain. “Lets take a break.”
“No,” Draco said gently, shaking Harry loose. “It will hurt worse if we wait, you know that. Better do it while your adrenalin is still kicking, so.... buck up, Potter, and bite down.”
Suddenly Harry found himself with a mouthful of sweaty leather glove, teeth biting down instinctively. The pain was the same, a penetrating burn that felt as if it was melting his skull while filling his head with a pressure so fierce he was sure he would explode. His legs gave out again, seating him fully on Draco's thigh as he grappled for something to hold on to, growling through the searing flame as it lanced through his skull.
“There,” Luna said, smoothing a thumb over where the second horn had sprouted. “Not a scar in sight this time.”
“I hate you,” Harry said succinctly, to Draco, as he thought it rather impossible to hate Luna for anything. Hating Luna was on the same level as punching hamsters as far as cruelty went in Harry's book.
His skin felt cold, but his core hot, and he knew he was trembling from the pain. Draco hauled him up to his feet dragging him past the tiny Formica table, and dropping him gracelessly into the motel bed.
“Drink this,” Draco said, shoving a violent yellow vial into his hand. Harry hated the potion; bottle sunshine that tasted like ass-pudding. “Come now, bottoms up. You should know a thing or two about that.”
“Resorting to gay jokes, Draco? I thought you were better than that.” Harry glared at the offending little vial, tipping it against his lips. It slithered down his throat like a worm, settling in his stomach with a hot splosh. He watched Draco and Luna knock their own back, shaking off the taste with a shudder.
“Disgusting.”” Harry slapped the vial onto the bedside table. It shattered and he huffed, repairing it with a snap of his fingers. “I really hate you, Malfoy.”
“Well it's that, or go through a little Dementor withdrawal,” Draco replied, giving him an arched look. “Half of what your feeling is the Dementor, so if you could keep your childhood-reminiscent professions of hate to a minimum, that would be lovely. You are such a whiner, Potter, really.”
“Says the boy who wore silk school robes.” Harry licked away the vile taste from his mouth, and scowled. He did feel better, and spared a moment to feel guilty for snapping at Draco. Then the moment passed, and he grinned. “You were a pompous little git.”
“And you were a mouthy little bugger,” Draco acceded, returning his grin. “It's probably for the best you ruthlessly slaughtered the possibility of our blossoming friendship when it was but a babe. We might have blown up Hogwarts with the things we could have gotten into. You would have been a terrible influence.”
“Yeah, me,” Harry snorted. “How many do you think we missed today?”
“Three,” Luna said, her expression slightly vacant as she recalled their hunt. She dropped onto the bed beside Harry, blonde hair spilling across his pillow. She snuggled in without so much as a blink, nudging Harry till she was close enough to steal his warmth. He allowed it, tossing an arm over her waist and burying his face into her mess of hair. It was really to bad he was gay, or he might have married her. “We killed their female.”
“We don't know that they only keep one,” Harry argued, blindly grabbing at their journal on the nightstand. “There simply isn't enough evidence to found that.”
“Come on, Potter,” Draco sighed. It was an argument they'd had, many times over, in fact, though Luna had always proven to remain indifferent. Much to Harry's chagrin, Hermione had sided with Draco. Ron had sided with Harry but not for any factual reasons; he sided with Harry to avoid siding with Malfoy.
“The females are always the most vicious of the lot, and from what I've gathered, they always lead. Those three we lost? They're going to go find another pack to join, one with a female.”
“Shit,” Harry said, snapping the journal shut. He rolled up off the bed with a grunt. “You're right. They'd lead us right to it. Bugger.” He looked up at Draco, who was giving him no less than his smuggest grin. Luna giggled from the beside him.
“So you admit I'm right, about the female thing?” Draco asked, waving his wand over the room to remove evidence of their being there. “Right?”
“No,” Harry said, already pushing open the door. “I will admit that their was only one female in this pack, and a female always leads. But that doesn't discount the possibility that there could be more than one female in a pack. Generally speaking, it's more prudent to have more females than males for breeding.”
“We've never seen it,” Draco huffed, his voice raising as he followed Harry outside into the empty parking lot. “Not once! It all leads to a Queen theory! One fertile mother, pumping these buggers out. Females lead, males follow. It makes sense.”
“It's just a theory,” Harry waved his hand half-haphazardly, and Draco fought his flinch. Harry wasn't exactly free with his magic, but there had been incidents. It wasn't so much as Harry, as it was Harry's magic, which had always served to be just as mischievous as it's owner.
Harry's complete mastery of wandless magic hadn't helped; without a wand, his magic acted more freely, on thought or emotion instead of command. Draco wasn't inclined to be on the end of one of Harry's inadvertent hexes or charms just because Harry was irritated with him. He was Draco bloody Malfoy, friendship or not, he irritated Harry quite a bit.
Without a wand visible, he had no way of knowing whether Harry would cast, accidentally or not. The last time that had happened, he'd had pink hair for three days. It might have been longer, except that Harry had grown tired of his whining, and simply spelled him bald. It hadn't been their best week.
Luna slapped Harry's hand in absentminded reprimand, and Draco let loose a sigh of relief.
“It's a solid theory,” he groused, dropping into the sidecar of Harry's motorbike. As far as bitch-seats went, the sidecar was preferable then the back of the bike, where Luna sat.
“It would be more solid if we found a nest,” Harry shrugged, eyes scanning the horizon as Luna slid onto the bike behind him, spelling herself to the seat with a sticking-charm. He pushed the purple Notice-Me-Not button on the bike, and turned to Luna. “What way did they head?”
Luna closed her eyes, opening to reveal the misty blue that came only with Vision. “South-East. They're heading for water.”
Harry nodded, nibbling his bottom lip. “The Twins were covering the South-East, last I checked. We might call them.”
“I'm sticking to the Queen theory,” Draco said, crossing his arms over his head in a huff.
“You would,” Harry said with a snicker, kicking the bike to life.
Draco shot him a quelling glare, huffing. “Like your one to talk.”
tbc