icarus_chained (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
icarus_chained) wrote2010-05-04 09:53 pm
icarus_chained) wrote2010-05-04 09:53 pm
Entry tags:
Arrangements-verse, Part XII
A little shorter again this time. Perhaps evilly. And I do realise I'm reusing a lot of titles, but they just seem to fit?
Title: Grace
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Good Omens, Supernatural
Continuity: Follows direct from Big Damn Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Castiel, Sam, Dean, Aziraphale. Crowley's there, but unconscious. I think Anansi snuck off again. Dean/Castiel, very much. Sam/Gabriel, very much. Aziraphale/Crowley, a smidgen. Possibly hints at Gabriel/Castiel, too.
Summary: Gabriel's wings, and Castiel's Grace
Wordcount: 4480
Warnings/Spoilers: Um. Angst. Possibly schmoop.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
In all the centuries he'd known the little bastard, never once had he seen Crowley cut loose like that. Never had he even seen the possibility. He hadn't seen. Never had there been even a hint of this kind of threat. Crowley was cowardly and amiable and prone to shitting himself even when he had you where he wanted you. All bluster and very little bite, though there was a ruthless streak in there when pushed. But the capability for wholesale destruction, psychic slaughter? Never. Not even a hint.
It worried him to have been so blind. It worried him that there might be more that he'd missed, more hidden depths to the first of Earth's demons.
It worried him that those depths should come to light in his defense, when nothing in six thousand years had pushed Crowley that far. It worried him, because he had done nothing to earn that. He had no idea why it happened, no idea what it meant for Crowley to do that for him, and no idea how to pay it back. No-one had ever acted in his defense before, not after the first War and all it had meant. He'd made a very deliberate effort never to need anyone to defend him. And now ... Now he had no idea what he was meant to do.
Luckily, or not, Aziraphale chose that minute to barge in and provide him with another set of things to worry about entirely. The Principality, of course, made a beeline straight for his demon, flapping angrily at Anansi to get out of the way, but the others, his eternally-curious little brother and the Winchesters ... they took one look, and came right for him, Sam and Castiel's expression morphing straight from confusion to concern as they came.
It was the wings. It had to be the wings. Though they weren't fully manifested (impossible, in the physical world, inside a building, there were simply too many of them), the joints and first foot or so of all six hundred were clearly visible behind him, drawing the attention of anyone in range with fucking eyes. The same way they'd drawn the demons. Instinctively, Gabriel felt them twitch around him, flutter helplessly, agony arching through the damaged bones and muscles of the front pair. The pair his brother had ...
Suddenly, he wanted to be worrying about Crowley again. He wanted to be worrying about anything other than the terrible, agonising vulnerability of his wings, and the three people moving steadily towards them. He wanted to worry about anything besides the look of worry and almost-pity that crossed Castiel's face as Gabriel squared his knees combatively, raised arms in instinctive defense. Worry about anything but the fact that despite that pity, despite hating it, he couldn't lower them again. The instinct was too ingrained, and the horror entirely too fresh, and any second now he was going to severely embarrass himself, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't help it.
"Gabriel!" Sam moved forwards hurriedly, coming in from the side, and Gabriel shifted on his knees to face him, his damaged wings fighting to pull back, to pull away. He yanked convulsively as Sam came within range, and something cracked sickeningly, a bright flare of agony across his senses that stole the world.
When he came back, Castiel was on his knees beside him, blue eyes boring straight into Gabriel's own, and his little brother had started talking before Gabriel even fully realised he was back, locking the archangel's focus on him.
"Gabriel, look at me," Castiel murmured, low and intense, a vibrant command. "Look at me. You must not move, Gabriel. You must not move your wings. You are hurt, brother. You must not move. Do you understand? You are safe, no-one will hurt you, but you cannot move. You must not move."
Gabriel blinked at him, senses still swimming. He caught the edge of movement behind Castiel, caught sight of a looming form and jerked back instinctively. Castiel caught hold of him, locked his hands around Gabriel's upper arms and held on tight. Through the shock of fear, Gabriel felt himself punch out at him, felt his arm make a feeble swipe at Castiel's stomach, all he could reach. His little brother didn't even flinch.
"Gabriel? Gabriel, don't, it's us! You're alright, you're fine ..."
Gabriel blinked again, shook himself, wrestled the fear back down, wrestled back the knowledge that he couldn't fight, he couldn't move, whatever Lucifer had done to him, he couldn't fight ... He wrestled it down, calmed himself ruthlessly, and looked up to the looming, frantic shadow that was Sam. With considerable effort, he forced his face to crease into a vaguely uneasy grin.
"Hey Sammy," he murmured, flinching slightly in Castiel's grasp. "Sorry about that. Some old instincts kicking in, you know how it is ..."
He looked back at Castiel, pleading silently, though for what he wasn't sure. Forgiveness, maybe. A way out, definitely. Something else. Castiel looked back impassively, eyebrows beetling in consideration, until Gabriel felt a distinct urge to tell his little brother not to look at him like that, like he was an insect on a slide. He resisted, but only because he was almost positive that Castiel a) wouldn't know what he was talking about, and b) wasn't aware that he was doing it in the first place. It was hardly Castiel's fault that the only person around to explain such niceties of human interaction to him had been Captain Oblivious, after all. He shouldn't take it out on the poor angel ...
Then Castiel said "I need to examine your wings, Gabriel", and there were suddenly a whole range of things he wanted to take out on the little bastard. It was all he could do not to punch him again, or scream in his face. Not that any of that would stop Castiel, or anyone, really, but this little brother in particular had this frightening tendency towards ruthless, immovable focus ...
Except it did stop him. Or something did. Something in Gabriel's face must have stopped him, because Castiel wasn't moving. Made no effort to move, not even an aborted gesture. Castiel simply held his arms firmly, but gently, and waited. Expectantly, calmly. Waited.
"Castiel ..."
"I'm sorry, Gabriel," came the response, gentle and calm. "I must. To free you, I must. But I will not touch unless you give me leave. I will not touch until you are ready." He stopped, tilting his head to study Gabriel, that fathomless look that even other angels had trouble matching, the quiet stare that watched everything with remote acceptance. Gabriel looked away, staring viciously at anything that presented itself that wasn't Castiel. He found himself looking straight into Sam's eyes, the bulky human -his human- kneeling beside Castiel and watching him worriedly. He found himself meeting the fear and compassion there. The hint of ... something else. Something deeper.
Gabriel sighed. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, trembling faintly. "Sure, why not? Not like I've got any dignity left to lose, is it?"
Sam frowned at him. "Gabriel ..." Soft, careful. Gabriel shook his head. He didn't want careful. He didn't want care. He didn't know what to do with it, and right here, right now, staked out on the floor with his wings spread open, he just wanted it to be over. He just wanted this entire thing to be over, so he could disappear, hide in the Himalayas somewhere, curl up in a ball until the sick feeling inside his chest went away.
Castiel let go of his arms, cautiously, and reached out to pull Gabriel's face back around, to look him in the eyes with that fierce, bewildered stare, to judge the seriousness of his agreement. To see if he meant it.
He did. Gabriel did. Whatever got him out of here, whatever freed him, whatever it took. He just wanted out. And Castiel had to see that, had to see the terror and helpless hate for where he found himself, but in a moment of sheer mercy, Castiel didn't mention any of it. He simply nodded silently, and bent his head to Gabriel's nearest wing, to the damaged arch at the center of Lucifer's trap. And where a second ago Gabriel could, and would, have smote him, now it was all he could do not to kiss Castiel ...
Thankfully, as Gabriel shuddered at the slight touches against his wing, Aziraphale appeared to distract him. The Principality nodded gently at him, cautious and sympathetic, but Gabriel ignored that in favour of studying the heavy, slumberous coils of the serpent around his neck.
"Is he alright?" he asked, quietly. Aziraphale blinked at him a bit, surprised by the question.
"He's fine," the Principality smiled, stroking Crowley's head gently. "Exhausted, and ... troubled, I think. But he will be fine." A deeper smile, a warm beam just for Gabriel. "Thanks to you." And Gabriel flushed, looking away. Because no. Other way around, really. And either way he wasn't up to acknowledging it.
"Is who alright?" And that was Dean, cutting in from behind Sam, staring with wary confusion at the nine or so feet of Crowley wrapped around Aziraphale. Sam and Castiel both blinked, looking up in confusion in almost eerie unison, and Gabriel realised with a start of unwilling humour that none of them, not one, had any idea what had happened. Who Crowley was. They had no idea.
So, purely in the interests of distracting himself, of course, he decided to enlighten them.
"Really, Deano," he grinned. "You'd think after spending two days at a guy's house and drinking all his alcohol, you'd at least recognise him. Tch! What must Crowley think of you!"
Dean stared at him. Then at the snake. "That's Crowley?" he sputtered, aghast. "But that's ... that's ..."
"The Serpent of Eden," Castiel muttered, staring at the serpent and the befuddled angel holding him, blue eyes going narrow and puzzled and sharp. And then ... then something that looked almost like recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by ... humour? Smugness? A certain degree of 'I know something you don't know, ha ha'? Something interesting, anyway.
"See something you like, little bro?" he asked airily, staring in fascination at Castiel's face, at the definite tug of amusement in one corner of that flat mouth, the sly calculation in blue eyes. Cas looked back at him, with a look in his eyes that any Trickster worth his salt would recognise in a heartbeat.
"Something ... useful, certainly," Castiel murmured, with a positively wicked gleam that promised nasty, nasty things for their resident demon. A gleam that softened into memory, gentle amusement, maybe even gratitude, and suddenly Gabriel was hooked. Whatever this was, this mystery, this game, he wanted to know. He wanted in.
Unfortunately, just as he was opening his mouth to say so, to ask some pointed questions ... Castiel's eyes focused back on his wing, sharpened, chilled, and in the seconds while fear gathered in Gabriel's gut ... his little brother drew his blade. And Gabriel forgot everything beyond the instant, instinctive fury, the terror and rage and ancient memory that boiled out of him.
Before anyone knew what was happening, Castiel was on his back with an aching jaw, and Gabriel was snarling incoherently, straining against the arm Sam had flung across his chest, fighting desperately with the spell that bound him to the earth, that tugged and tore at his wings. He could feel them looking at him, could hear them yelling, but he couldn't ... it didn't mean anything, didn't matter except that they might come again, might move again, and he needed to be free before that happened, he needed a blade, he needed ...
"... Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel, stop, stop please, please! Gabriel!"
He registered the voice, registered Sam's face beside his, registered the mouth that was almost on top of his own as Sam fought with him, but it didn't matter, it didn't matter, nothing mattered beyond the sight of the blade in his brother's hand ...
"No," he snarled. He wasn't sure in what language. "No. You can't take them! You can't take them, Raphael! I don't care, you can't, I don't care what it means ..."
The angel in front of him froze, going deathly pale. Silence boomed, and the others fell away, fell back from him, all but one, staring in shock, but his eyes were on the blade. Fixed on the blade. Until the hand that held it ... dropped, let it go. Slowly, cautiously, tucking it away. Removing the threat.
Only then did he remember who he was facing. Only then did he realise what he'd said.
Castiel stared at him, frozen and pale, propped up on one arm with Dean and Aziraphale holding him up. There was no expression on the lesser angel's face, none at all, and Gabriel shrank back unwillingly, pressing without thinking into Sam's chest, curling against his human. The human who still had an arm around his chest, whose face was tucked panting into Gabriel's shoulder, a shield, warm and bulky and there, and distantly Gabriel realised that Sam's hands had drifted into his wings trying to hold him, tucked under the joints at his waist in sheer necessity. Even more distantly, he realised he didn't mind, and wasn't sure why.
"I am not ..." Castiel said, very slowly, kneeling up once more. Dean hovered anxiously, glaring half-hearted at Gabriel, glancing worriedly at Sam, but most of his attention was on his angel, on the bruise hovering over Cas' cheek, on the blank, distant expression on the angel's face. Possibly with good reason. Castiel did not look ... well. "I am not Raphael, Gabriel. I am not Raphael."
Gabriel felt his face twist, felt the panic and shame. "I know," he rasped quickly, hurriedly. He'd heard ... he knew what that name meant to Castiel. "I know, Castiel. I'm ... I'm sorry ..."
Castiel shook his head, the blankness fading a little from his features, raising a hand in negation. His eyes tracked from Gabriel's face back to the wounded wing, back to the mess there, and something simultaneously softened and sharpened in his eyes.
"I was right, then," he whispered softly. "The wound is old. The sigil has simply been ... reactivated."
Gabriel blinked, shuddered, confusion and pain. "Yeah," he muttered, trying a queasy smile. "Pretty old, little bro. Long story. Long, bad story. But ... there's no ... there was no ..."
Castiel frowned at him, leaning forward, studying, assessing, and Gabriel felt like that insect on a slab again. Or would, except that there was still something soft in Castiel's face, something tired beneath the cold. Something compassionate in a distant, weary kind of way.
"There is a sigil torn into the flesh," the scholar-soldier murmured, thoughtfully. "Part of the scarring. It is what binds you now. But it was made then, when this wound was fresh. It may have been ... it is possible that it was hidden at the time, if the Grace was bleeding fresh, if the healer was rushed, but ..." He frowned, heavily, disapprovingly. "Raphael should have seen it. He should have removed it."
Gabriel winced expressively. "I was not ... ah. I was not ... Well." He gestured to the bruise rising on Castiel's features. "You can see. I wasn't really best inclined to let him. Sigil or no sigil, I couldn't ... I can't ... I don't want to lose ... my wings ..."
He stopped. He knew, then as now, that in the end he wouldn't really have a choice. Now even more than then. He hadn't been bound then. Raphael allowing him to keep the injured wings had only meant that he carried them broken, not that he was bound to one place, just waiting for the next round of demons. Then, it had been a choice between his wings and his comfort, and the winner was clear. Now ... now it was between the wings and his life. And the winner ... was nowhere near clear, for all that it should be. But whatever his concerns for his own sake, he had no right to pin them here simply because he thought 'amputation' was a ... was a ...
But Castiel was frowning at him again, tilting his head in that 'I hear what you're saying but I have to tell you it doesn't make sense' way of his. Gabriel blinked at him.
"I was not talking about removing your wings, Gabriel," Castiel said, very gently, still frowning. Most likely at a distant Raphael. "I was speaking of removing the sigil."
If it was possible to choke on hope, Gabriel would have. He shoved it back, as ruthlessly as he could, as hard as he could. He shoved it back. "How?" Because it involved a blade, obviously, a blade near his wings, and that might still mean ... "How?"
Castiel tilted his head, birdlike, curious and gentle. Wordless, he held out one of his own hands, palm up, and with a finger traced a sigil onto it. An old one, one of the oldest, complex, simple. Staggering. Not in what it was, but in what it meant. In what it would mean.
Aziraphale, leaning over Castiel's shoulder to study it, gasped faintly. "My dear!" he whispered, gripping Castiel's shoulder tight. "My dear, are you sure?" And Gabriel agreed. He agreed. He would have said so, but he was too busy staring in stupefied shock.
Castiel shrugged easily. "It is the simplest solution," he said blankly, like he hadn't just suggested what Gabriel knew he'd suggested. Like he hadn't just offered up what was left of his Grace on a platter ...
Aziraphale obviously had the same reservations, reaching out to lay one plump hand palm up over Castiel's, the offer unmistakable. "Then use mine, Castiel," the angel murmured gently. "I can better afford it than you ..."
Castiel's lip quirked in a faint smile. "Maybe," he said, gently. "But we can't." He looked up at the other angel, still smiling softly, eyes hard and coldly confident, and oddly gentle. "I can't heal even as I am now, and Gabriel will need healing regardless of whether this works or not. Crowley too. Not to mention that someone needs to be able to get us out of here. No." He shook his head, absurdly calm. "No. We can far more easily risk me than you, Aziraphale."
Dean took this moment to speak up, very obviously nervous at the direction this conversation was taking, and for just about the first time in his existence, Gabriel was actually hoping the idiot human could talk his little brother down. He was actually hoping that Dean fucking Winchester would be the voice of sanity. That's how ridiculous Castiel's suggestion was ...
"Cas, what's going on here?" Dean growled, frowning down at the angels' hands worriedly, like if he stared at them long enough he'd understand what they meant. Unlikely. "What are you talking about. Risk what?"
"Grace," Gabriel managed at last, swallowing hard. Castiel blinked at him. "He's talking ... that's a purification sigil. One of the oldest. It uses ... if carved into angelic flesh ... He wants to use his Grace to burn out the spell Lucifer has set in my wings. What's left of his Grace. Against an archangel's power. It will ... at best it will burn up anything he has left. At worst ..."
Dean stared. Aghast. Castiel blinked at the lot of them, as if wondering what their problem was. Castiel, who may have one of the most devious minds Gabriel had ever seen in an angel who wasn't him, but when it came to his goals, when it came to what he was willing to sacrifice for them ... Castiel was perhaps one of the simplest, most direct souls the archangel had ever encountered. As far as he was concerned, and Gabriel could see the thought, this really was the simplest, most effective way of getting what he thought they all wanted, and therefore the best thing to do. Even if it burned him out, left him an empty husk. Even then.
"No," someone rasped, and after a second Gabriel realised it was him. Another second, and he realised with a thrill of fear where his mouth was going with this, mostly independent of his mind, but he couldn't find it in himself to stop. To argue with himself. "No. Take ... take the wings. Easier, far easier. No-one has to get fried. Far easier ..." Sam, who he'd almost forgotten for a moment, made a strangled sound against his neck. Gabriel ached distantly, but if anyone actually thought this lunacy was a better option ...
Castiel smiled again, absurdly, ridiculously gentle, an angel defying the will of archangels, and shook his head. "I am not Raphael," he repeated, as if this explained everything, as if it wasn't the most ridiculous reason for doing anything that Gabriel had ever heard, and for a brief, incandescent second all he wanted to do was pound the heroic moron's head in, pound the notion right out of his skull.
Then Aziraphale tilted his head, turning his hand over Castiel's to curl his fingers through the other angel's, and there was something new in his face as he looked at Castiel, met his eyes. A searching, an evaluation. A weighing, nascent hope. Aziraphale tilted his head, and smiled softly at whatever he found.
"You're not afraid," he murmured happily, watching Castiel's face. "You're not afraid at all, are you?" Castiel shook his head, with a sly and secret smile.
"Yeah, well," Dean muttered angrily. "That's because he's a moron. A knuckle-headed moron who shouldn't be let out alone! You can't think ... you can't be seriously considering letting him do this, you can't ..." Gabriel made a vicious sound of agreement, but the pair of them ignored him. Ignored everyone.
"No," Aziraphale said softly, at last. "It because he has faith. It's because he believes."
Castiel smiled at him, deeply, richly satisfied, a little shy. He glanced back at Dean for a long moment, something soft and fierce and burning in his eyes, and Gabriel gasped as he realised it was Grace. It was love, but it was Grace too, fire, faith, the oldest, the deepest form. It was Grace.
"I have found something to believe in," Castiel said, very quietly, looking around. Not just at Dean. At Sam, at Aziraphale. At the unconscious Crowley. And at Gabriel. Even at him. "I have found something worth believing in. And I do not believe I can fail. Not this. Not now." He smiled again, grim, determined, defiant. Bare challenge, daring anyone to gainsay him. "I will not fail, so there is no need to consider another option. Even if there was one." Almost a growl, a command. Not just defying archangels. Ordering them. Ordering him.
And the horrible thing was, Gabriel wanted to be ordered around. Wanted it to be Castiel's choice, wanted to let his brother do this, and spare him the terror he'd lived with for thousands of years. He wanted this to be the right way, wanted to forget there ever was another one. Wanted to believe. That Castiel could do this, and not pay the price, that he could let his little brother make the sacrifice for him and not be ashamed. He wanted that. Even knowing how wrong it was. Even knowing how selfish. He wanted it so badly ...
"Gabriel," Castiel said, very gently, very carefully, reaching out around Sam to touch his cheek lightly, to lean down and press so gently against the trembling arc of his damaged wing. "Gabriel, trust me. Please, brother. Trust me."
And then Sam, silent Sam, who'd said nothing so far, lifted his head. Uncurled from around Gabriel, leaving only one arm to support him, and turned to look dead into Castiel's eyes, turned to study him. Sam, who hadn't trusted anyone, anyone at all, barely even his brother, in a long, long time. Sam, who nearly couldn't trust anymore. Sam looked at Castiel.
"Can you do this?" he asked, looking away guiltily at Dean's incredulous look, but refusing to lose Castiel's gaze, refusing to back down. "Cas. Can you do this?"
Castiel nodded, eyes so soft as he looked between Sam and Gabriel, bright and rich and hopeful. "I can," he said. Simple as that. Easiest damned thing in the world.
Sam looked away for a minute, chest heaving slightly, face twisted between guilt and hope and soft, immovable determination as he looked down at Gabriel, as his fingers curled tight around the base of one of the archangel's wing joints. As Gabriel shuddered helplessly and looked back. Sam looked at him, and then back at Castiel. And he nodded.
"Then do it," he whispered. Almost begged. "Please, Cas."
"Sam ..." Dean moaned, fists clenching helplessly, but he didn't disagree. He looked at Castiel, at the confident, faintly reproving expression on his angel's face, and he didn't disagree.
Gabriel stared at the lot of them. Every last one. Even the unconscious serpent wrapped around Aziraphale's neck. Even bloody Crowley, even the demon, because apparently even the fucking demon in this group was willing to put aside all common sense and restraint to help him. And Gabriel didn't know why. He didn't understand, not in the slightest. He didn't understand.
But it seemed it didn't matter whether he understood or not. Not to them. They seemed bound and determined to do this anyway, no matter what he thought or reason dictated.
Aziraphale turned Castiel to face him, turned the angel on his knees, and his expression was serene and happy and infinitely, desperately loving. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Castiel's forehead, a benediction, a promise. "Et benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper," he whispered quietly. Latin, not Enochian, but for the angel of Earth it seemed right. It seemed proper.
And though both the humans looked somewhat dubious about this course of action, they both whispered back, very quietly and slightly guiltily, "Amen."
Then Castiel picked up his blade, gently and carefully, and smiled at Gabriel for a little moment before pressing the point to his bared palm, and cutting home. The shape of the sigil, laid out with simultaneous care and abandon. Blood and Grace welled and spilled, bright and beautiful and terrible, and Gabriel's little brother leaned in, leaned close enough to kiss, and pressed his hand, his blood, his Grace, to the archangel's wound. There was a second of awe, of ecstasy, of the rich, divine feeling of connection, of family, that Gabriel had not known in too many years to count, too many to weep over, though he wanted to. For a second, he had that, knew it once again.
And then the world disappeared.
Contd: Rest
A/N: The prayer is the last part of the Urbi et Orbi blessing. It translates as "And may the blessing of the Almighty God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, descend on you and remain with you always." I know it's usually used in papal addresses, but it can be used to bless pilgrims, for example, and it seemed ... fitting? *shrugs helplessly*
Title: Grace
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Good Omens, Supernatural
Continuity: Follows direct from Big Damn Heroes
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Castiel, Sam, Dean, Aziraphale. Crowley's there, but unconscious. I think Anansi snuck off again. Dean/Castiel, very much. Sam/Gabriel, very much. Aziraphale/Crowley, a smidgen. Possibly hints at Gabriel/Castiel, too.
Summary: Gabriel's wings, and Castiel's Grace
Wordcount: 4480
Warnings/Spoilers: Um. Angst. Possibly schmoop.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Grace
Gabriel knelt shaking, and stared at the demon in numb shock, echoing Anansi's mildly terrified confusion. Riding on the rush of adrenalin, the shock and horror of knowing what had been about to happen, what they had been about to do, he stared at Crowley, at his rescuer, in something close to fear.In all the centuries he'd known the little bastard, never once had he seen Crowley cut loose like that. Never had he even seen the possibility. He hadn't seen. Never had there been even a hint of this kind of threat. Crowley was cowardly and amiable and prone to shitting himself even when he had you where he wanted you. All bluster and very little bite, though there was a ruthless streak in there when pushed. But the capability for wholesale destruction, psychic slaughter? Never. Not even a hint.
It worried him to have been so blind. It worried him that there might be more that he'd missed, more hidden depths to the first of Earth's demons.
It worried him that those depths should come to light in his defense, when nothing in six thousand years had pushed Crowley that far. It worried him, because he had done nothing to earn that. He had no idea why it happened, no idea what it meant for Crowley to do that for him, and no idea how to pay it back. No-one had ever acted in his defense before, not after the first War and all it had meant. He'd made a very deliberate effort never to need anyone to defend him. And now ... Now he had no idea what he was meant to do.
Luckily, or not, Aziraphale chose that minute to barge in and provide him with another set of things to worry about entirely. The Principality, of course, made a beeline straight for his demon, flapping angrily at Anansi to get out of the way, but the others, his eternally-curious little brother and the Winchesters ... they took one look, and came right for him, Sam and Castiel's expression morphing straight from confusion to concern as they came.
It was the wings. It had to be the wings. Though they weren't fully manifested (impossible, in the physical world, inside a building, there were simply too many of them), the joints and first foot or so of all six hundred were clearly visible behind him, drawing the attention of anyone in range with fucking eyes. The same way they'd drawn the demons. Instinctively, Gabriel felt them twitch around him, flutter helplessly, agony arching through the damaged bones and muscles of the front pair. The pair his brother had ...
Suddenly, he wanted to be worrying about Crowley again. He wanted to be worrying about anything other than the terrible, agonising vulnerability of his wings, and the three people moving steadily towards them. He wanted to worry about anything besides the look of worry and almost-pity that crossed Castiel's face as Gabriel squared his knees combatively, raised arms in instinctive defense. Worry about anything but the fact that despite that pity, despite hating it, he couldn't lower them again. The instinct was too ingrained, and the horror entirely too fresh, and any second now he was going to severely embarrass himself, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't help it.
"Gabriel!" Sam moved forwards hurriedly, coming in from the side, and Gabriel shifted on his knees to face him, his damaged wings fighting to pull back, to pull away. He yanked convulsively as Sam came within range, and something cracked sickeningly, a bright flare of agony across his senses that stole the world.
When he came back, Castiel was on his knees beside him, blue eyes boring straight into Gabriel's own, and his little brother had started talking before Gabriel even fully realised he was back, locking the archangel's focus on him.
"Gabriel, look at me," Castiel murmured, low and intense, a vibrant command. "Look at me. You must not move, Gabriel. You must not move your wings. You are hurt, brother. You must not move. Do you understand? You are safe, no-one will hurt you, but you cannot move. You must not move."
Gabriel blinked at him, senses still swimming. He caught the edge of movement behind Castiel, caught sight of a looming form and jerked back instinctively. Castiel caught hold of him, locked his hands around Gabriel's upper arms and held on tight. Through the shock of fear, Gabriel felt himself punch out at him, felt his arm make a feeble swipe at Castiel's stomach, all he could reach. His little brother didn't even flinch.
"Gabriel? Gabriel, don't, it's us! You're alright, you're fine ..."
Gabriel blinked again, shook himself, wrestled the fear back down, wrestled back the knowledge that he couldn't fight, he couldn't move, whatever Lucifer had done to him, he couldn't fight ... He wrestled it down, calmed himself ruthlessly, and looked up to the looming, frantic shadow that was Sam. With considerable effort, he forced his face to crease into a vaguely uneasy grin.
"Hey Sammy," he murmured, flinching slightly in Castiel's grasp. "Sorry about that. Some old instincts kicking in, you know how it is ..."
He looked back at Castiel, pleading silently, though for what he wasn't sure. Forgiveness, maybe. A way out, definitely. Something else. Castiel looked back impassively, eyebrows beetling in consideration, until Gabriel felt a distinct urge to tell his little brother not to look at him like that, like he was an insect on a slide. He resisted, but only because he was almost positive that Castiel a) wouldn't know what he was talking about, and b) wasn't aware that he was doing it in the first place. It was hardly Castiel's fault that the only person around to explain such niceties of human interaction to him had been Captain Oblivious, after all. He shouldn't take it out on the poor angel ...
Then Castiel said "I need to examine your wings, Gabriel", and there were suddenly a whole range of things he wanted to take out on the little bastard. It was all he could do not to punch him again, or scream in his face. Not that any of that would stop Castiel, or anyone, really, but this little brother in particular had this frightening tendency towards ruthless, immovable focus ...
Except it did stop him. Or something did. Something in Gabriel's face must have stopped him, because Castiel wasn't moving. Made no effort to move, not even an aborted gesture. Castiel simply held his arms firmly, but gently, and waited. Expectantly, calmly. Waited.
"Castiel ..."
"I'm sorry, Gabriel," came the response, gentle and calm. "I must. To free you, I must. But I will not touch unless you give me leave. I will not touch until you are ready." He stopped, tilting his head to study Gabriel, that fathomless look that even other angels had trouble matching, the quiet stare that watched everything with remote acceptance. Gabriel looked away, staring viciously at anything that presented itself that wasn't Castiel. He found himself looking straight into Sam's eyes, the bulky human -his human- kneeling beside Castiel and watching him worriedly. He found himself meeting the fear and compassion there. The hint of ... something else. Something deeper.
Gabriel sighed. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, trembling faintly. "Sure, why not? Not like I've got any dignity left to lose, is it?"
Sam frowned at him. "Gabriel ..." Soft, careful. Gabriel shook his head. He didn't want careful. He didn't want care. He didn't know what to do with it, and right here, right now, staked out on the floor with his wings spread open, he just wanted it to be over. He just wanted this entire thing to be over, so he could disappear, hide in the Himalayas somewhere, curl up in a ball until the sick feeling inside his chest went away.
Castiel let go of his arms, cautiously, and reached out to pull Gabriel's face back around, to look him in the eyes with that fierce, bewildered stare, to judge the seriousness of his agreement. To see if he meant it.
He did. Gabriel did. Whatever got him out of here, whatever freed him, whatever it took. He just wanted out. And Castiel had to see that, had to see the terror and helpless hate for where he found himself, but in a moment of sheer mercy, Castiel didn't mention any of it. He simply nodded silently, and bent his head to Gabriel's nearest wing, to the damaged arch at the center of Lucifer's trap. And where a second ago Gabriel could, and would, have smote him, now it was all he could do not to kiss Castiel ...
Thankfully, as Gabriel shuddered at the slight touches against his wing, Aziraphale appeared to distract him. The Principality nodded gently at him, cautious and sympathetic, but Gabriel ignored that in favour of studying the heavy, slumberous coils of the serpent around his neck.
"Is he alright?" he asked, quietly. Aziraphale blinked at him a bit, surprised by the question.
"He's fine," the Principality smiled, stroking Crowley's head gently. "Exhausted, and ... troubled, I think. But he will be fine." A deeper smile, a warm beam just for Gabriel. "Thanks to you." And Gabriel flushed, looking away. Because no. Other way around, really. And either way he wasn't up to acknowledging it.
"Is who alright?" And that was Dean, cutting in from behind Sam, staring with wary confusion at the nine or so feet of Crowley wrapped around Aziraphale. Sam and Castiel both blinked, looking up in confusion in almost eerie unison, and Gabriel realised with a start of unwilling humour that none of them, not one, had any idea what had happened. Who Crowley was. They had no idea.
So, purely in the interests of distracting himself, of course, he decided to enlighten them.
"Really, Deano," he grinned. "You'd think after spending two days at a guy's house and drinking all his alcohol, you'd at least recognise him. Tch! What must Crowley think of you!"
Dean stared at him. Then at the snake. "That's Crowley?" he sputtered, aghast. "But that's ... that's ..."
"The Serpent of Eden," Castiel muttered, staring at the serpent and the befuddled angel holding him, blue eyes going narrow and puzzled and sharp. And then ... then something that looked almost like recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by ... humour? Smugness? A certain degree of 'I know something you don't know, ha ha'? Something interesting, anyway.
"See something you like, little bro?" he asked airily, staring in fascination at Castiel's face, at the definite tug of amusement in one corner of that flat mouth, the sly calculation in blue eyes. Cas looked back at him, with a look in his eyes that any Trickster worth his salt would recognise in a heartbeat.
"Something ... useful, certainly," Castiel murmured, with a positively wicked gleam that promised nasty, nasty things for their resident demon. A gleam that softened into memory, gentle amusement, maybe even gratitude, and suddenly Gabriel was hooked. Whatever this was, this mystery, this game, he wanted to know. He wanted in.
Unfortunately, just as he was opening his mouth to say so, to ask some pointed questions ... Castiel's eyes focused back on his wing, sharpened, chilled, and in the seconds while fear gathered in Gabriel's gut ... his little brother drew his blade. And Gabriel forgot everything beyond the instant, instinctive fury, the terror and rage and ancient memory that boiled out of him.
Before anyone knew what was happening, Castiel was on his back with an aching jaw, and Gabriel was snarling incoherently, straining against the arm Sam had flung across his chest, fighting desperately with the spell that bound him to the earth, that tugged and tore at his wings. He could feel them looking at him, could hear them yelling, but he couldn't ... it didn't mean anything, didn't matter except that they might come again, might move again, and he needed to be free before that happened, he needed a blade, he needed ...
"... Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel, stop, stop please, please! Gabriel!"
He registered the voice, registered Sam's face beside his, registered the mouth that was almost on top of his own as Sam fought with him, but it didn't matter, it didn't matter, nothing mattered beyond the sight of the blade in his brother's hand ...
"No," he snarled. He wasn't sure in what language. "No. You can't take them! You can't take them, Raphael! I don't care, you can't, I don't care what it means ..."
The angel in front of him froze, going deathly pale. Silence boomed, and the others fell away, fell back from him, all but one, staring in shock, but his eyes were on the blade. Fixed on the blade. Until the hand that held it ... dropped, let it go. Slowly, cautiously, tucking it away. Removing the threat.
Only then did he remember who he was facing. Only then did he realise what he'd said.
Castiel stared at him, frozen and pale, propped up on one arm with Dean and Aziraphale holding him up. There was no expression on the lesser angel's face, none at all, and Gabriel shrank back unwillingly, pressing without thinking into Sam's chest, curling against his human. The human who still had an arm around his chest, whose face was tucked panting into Gabriel's shoulder, a shield, warm and bulky and there, and distantly Gabriel realised that Sam's hands had drifted into his wings trying to hold him, tucked under the joints at his waist in sheer necessity. Even more distantly, he realised he didn't mind, and wasn't sure why.
"I am not ..." Castiel said, very slowly, kneeling up once more. Dean hovered anxiously, glaring half-hearted at Gabriel, glancing worriedly at Sam, but most of his attention was on his angel, on the bruise hovering over Cas' cheek, on the blank, distant expression on the angel's face. Possibly with good reason. Castiel did not look ... well. "I am not Raphael, Gabriel. I am not Raphael."
Gabriel felt his face twist, felt the panic and shame. "I know," he rasped quickly, hurriedly. He'd heard ... he knew what that name meant to Castiel. "I know, Castiel. I'm ... I'm sorry ..."
Castiel shook his head, the blankness fading a little from his features, raising a hand in negation. His eyes tracked from Gabriel's face back to the wounded wing, back to the mess there, and something simultaneously softened and sharpened in his eyes.
"I was right, then," he whispered softly. "The wound is old. The sigil has simply been ... reactivated."
Gabriel blinked, shuddered, confusion and pain. "Yeah," he muttered, trying a queasy smile. "Pretty old, little bro. Long story. Long, bad story. But ... there's no ... there was no ..."
Castiel frowned at him, leaning forward, studying, assessing, and Gabriel felt like that insect on a slab again. Or would, except that there was still something soft in Castiel's face, something tired beneath the cold. Something compassionate in a distant, weary kind of way.
"There is a sigil torn into the flesh," the scholar-soldier murmured, thoughtfully. "Part of the scarring. It is what binds you now. But it was made then, when this wound was fresh. It may have been ... it is possible that it was hidden at the time, if the Grace was bleeding fresh, if the healer was rushed, but ..." He frowned, heavily, disapprovingly. "Raphael should have seen it. He should have removed it."
Gabriel winced expressively. "I was not ... ah. I was not ... Well." He gestured to the bruise rising on Castiel's features. "You can see. I wasn't really best inclined to let him. Sigil or no sigil, I couldn't ... I can't ... I don't want to lose ... my wings ..."
He stopped. He knew, then as now, that in the end he wouldn't really have a choice. Now even more than then. He hadn't been bound then. Raphael allowing him to keep the injured wings had only meant that he carried them broken, not that he was bound to one place, just waiting for the next round of demons. Then, it had been a choice between his wings and his comfort, and the winner was clear. Now ... now it was between the wings and his life. And the winner ... was nowhere near clear, for all that it should be. But whatever his concerns for his own sake, he had no right to pin them here simply because he thought 'amputation' was a ... was a ...
But Castiel was frowning at him again, tilting his head in that 'I hear what you're saying but I have to tell you it doesn't make sense' way of his. Gabriel blinked at him.
"I was not talking about removing your wings, Gabriel," Castiel said, very gently, still frowning. Most likely at a distant Raphael. "I was speaking of removing the sigil."
If it was possible to choke on hope, Gabriel would have. He shoved it back, as ruthlessly as he could, as hard as he could. He shoved it back. "How?" Because it involved a blade, obviously, a blade near his wings, and that might still mean ... "How?"
Castiel tilted his head, birdlike, curious and gentle. Wordless, he held out one of his own hands, palm up, and with a finger traced a sigil onto it. An old one, one of the oldest, complex, simple. Staggering. Not in what it was, but in what it meant. In what it would mean.
Aziraphale, leaning over Castiel's shoulder to study it, gasped faintly. "My dear!" he whispered, gripping Castiel's shoulder tight. "My dear, are you sure?" And Gabriel agreed. He agreed. He would have said so, but he was too busy staring in stupefied shock.
Castiel shrugged easily. "It is the simplest solution," he said blankly, like he hadn't just suggested what Gabriel knew he'd suggested. Like he hadn't just offered up what was left of his Grace on a platter ...
Aziraphale obviously had the same reservations, reaching out to lay one plump hand palm up over Castiel's, the offer unmistakable. "Then use mine, Castiel," the angel murmured gently. "I can better afford it than you ..."
Castiel's lip quirked in a faint smile. "Maybe," he said, gently. "But we can't." He looked up at the other angel, still smiling softly, eyes hard and coldly confident, and oddly gentle. "I can't heal even as I am now, and Gabriel will need healing regardless of whether this works or not. Crowley too. Not to mention that someone needs to be able to get us out of here. No." He shook his head, absurdly calm. "No. We can far more easily risk me than you, Aziraphale."
Dean took this moment to speak up, very obviously nervous at the direction this conversation was taking, and for just about the first time in his existence, Gabriel was actually hoping the idiot human could talk his little brother down. He was actually hoping that Dean fucking Winchester would be the voice of sanity. That's how ridiculous Castiel's suggestion was ...
"Cas, what's going on here?" Dean growled, frowning down at the angels' hands worriedly, like if he stared at them long enough he'd understand what they meant. Unlikely. "What are you talking about. Risk what?"
"Grace," Gabriel managed at last, swallowing hard. Castiel blinked at him. "He's talking ... that's a purification sigil. One of the oldest. It uses ... if carved into angelic flesh ... He wants to use his Grace to burn out the spell Lucifer has set in my wings. What's left of his Grace. Against an archangel's power. It will ... at best it will burn up anything he has left. At worst ..."
Dean stared. Aghast. Castiel blinked at the lot of them, as if wondering what their problem was. Castiel, who may have one of the most devious minds Gabriel had ever seen in an angel who wasn't him, but when it came to his goals, when it came to what he was willing to sacrifice for them ... Castiel was perhaps one of the simplest, most direct souls the archangel had ever encountered. As far as he was concerned, and Gabriel could see the thought, this really was the simplest, most effective way of getting what he thought they all wanted, and therefore the best thing to do. Even if it burned him out, left him an empty husk. Even then.
"No," someone rasped, and after a second Gabriel realised it was him. Another second, and he realised with a thrill of fear where his mouth was going with this, mostly independent of his mind, but he couldn't find it in himself to stop. To argue with himself. "No. Take ... take the wings. Easier, far easier. No-one has to get fried. Far easier ..." Sam, who he'd almost forgotten for a moment, made a strangled sound against his neck. Gabriel ached distantly, but if anyone actually thought this lunacy was a better option ...
Castiel smiled again, absurdly, ridiculously gentle, an angel defying the will of archangels, and shook his head. "I am not Raphael," he repeated, as if this explained everything, as if it wasn't the most ridiculous reason for doing anything that Gabriel had ever heard, and for a brief, incandescent second all he wanted to do was pound the heroic moron's head in, pound the notion right out of his skull.
Then Aziraphale tilted his head, turning his hand over Castiel's to curl his fingers through the other angel's, and there was something new in his face as he looked at Castiel, met his eyes. A searching, an evaluation. A weighing, nascent hope. Aziraphale tilted his head, and smiled softly at whatever he found.
"You're not afraid," he murmured happily, watching Castiel's face. "You're not afraid at all, are you?" Castiel shook his head, with a sly and secret smile.
"Yeah, well," Dean muttered angrily. "That's because he's a moron. A knuckle-headed moron who shouldn't be let out alone! You can't think ... you can't be seriously considering letting him do this, you can't ..." Gabriel made a vicious sound of agreement, but the pair of them ignored him. Ignored everyone.
"No," Aziraphale said softly, at last. "It because he has faith. It's because he believes."
Castiel smiled at him, deeply, richly satisfied, a little shy. He glanced back at Dean for a long moment, something soft and fierce and burning in his eyes, and Gabriel gasped as he realised it was Grace. It was love, but it was Grace too, fire, faith, the oldest, the deepest form. It was Grace.
"I have found something to believe in," Castiel said, very quietly, looking around. Not just at Dean. At Sam, at Aziraphale. At the unconscious Crowley. And at Gabriel. Even at him. "I have found something worth believing in. And I do not believe I can fail. Not this. Not now." He smiled again, grim, determined, defiant. Bare challenge, daring anyone to gainsay him. "I will not fail, so there is no need to consider another option. Even if there was one." Almost a growl, a command. Not just defying archangels. Ordering them. Ordering him.
And the horrible thing was, Gabriel wanted to be ordered around. Wanted it to be Castiel's choice, wanted to let his brother do this, and spare him the terror he'd lived with for thousands of years. He wanted this to be the right way, wanted to forget there ever was another one. Wanted to believe. That Castiel could do this, and not pay the price, that he could let his little brother make the sacrifice for him and not be ashamed. He wanted that. Even knowing how wrong it was. Even knowing how selfish. He wanted it so badly ...
"Gabriel," Castiel said, very gently, very carefully, reaching out around Sam to touch his cheek lightly, to lean down and press so gently against the trembling arc of his damaged wing. "Gabriel, trust me. Please, brother. Trust me."
And then Sam, silent Sam, who'd said nothing so far, lifted his head. Uncurled from around Gabriel, leaving only one arm to support him, and turned to look dead into Castiel's eyes, turned to study him. Sam, who hadn't trusted anyone, anyone at all, barely even his brother, in a long, long time. Sam, who nearly couldn't trust anymore. Sam looked at Castiel.
"Can you do this?" he asked, looking away guiltily at Dean's incredulous look, but refusing to lose Castiel's gaze, refusing to back down. "Cas. Can you do this?"
Castiel nodded, eyes so soft as he looked between Sam and Gabriel, bright and rich and hopeful. "I can," he said. Simple as that. Easiest damned thing in the world.
Sam looked away for a minute, chest heaving slightly, face twisted between guilt and hope and soft, immovable determination as he looked down at Gabriel, as his fingers curled tight around the base of one of the archangel's wing joints. As Gabriel shuddered helplessly and looked back. Sam looked at him, and then back at Castiel. And he nodded.
"Then do it," he whispered. Almost begged. "Please, Cas."
"Sam ..." Dean moaned, fists clenching helplessly, but he didn't disagree. He looked at Castiel, at the confident, faintly reproving expression on his angel's face, and he didn't disagree.
Gabriel stared at the lot of them. Every last one. Even the unconscious serpent wrapped around Aziraphale's neck. Even bloody Crowley, even the demon, because apparently even the fucking demon in this group was willing to put aside all common sense and restraint to help him. And Gabriel didn't know why. He didn't understand, not in the slightest. He didn't understand.
But it seemed it didn't matter whether he understood or not. Not to them. They seemed bound and determined to do this anyway, no matter what he thought or reason dictated.
Aziraphale turned Castiel to face him, turned the angel on his knees, and his expression was serene and happy and infinitely, desperately loving. He leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Castiel's forehead, a benediction, a promise. "Et benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper," he whispered quietly. Latin, not Enochian, but for the angel of Earth it seemed right. It seemed proper.
And though both the humans looked somewhat dubious about this course of action, they both whispered back, very quietly and slightly guiltily, "Amen."
Then Castiel picked up his blade, gently and carefully, and smiled at Gabriel for a little moment before pressing the point to his bared palm, and cutting home. The shape of the sigil, laid out with simultaneous care and abandon. Blood and Grace welled and spilled, bright and beautiful and terrible, and Gabriel's little brother leaned in, leaned close enough to kiss, and pressed his hand, his blood, his Grace, to the archangel's wound. There was a second of awe, of ecstasy, of the rich, divine feeling of connection, of family, that Gabriel had not known in too many years to count, too many to weep over, though he wanted to. For a second, he had that, knew it once again.
And then the world disappeared.
Contd: Rest
A/N: The prayer is the last part of the Urbi et Orbi blessing. It translates as "And may the blessing of the Almighty God, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, descend on you and remain with you always." I know it's usually used in papal addresses, but it can be used to bless pilgrims, for example, and it seemed ... fitting? *shrugs helplessly*