The Second Garden
Chapter One: Wrath or Compassion
He misses the Garden, the simplicity of it all. The world that he has fallen into is loud, abrasive and violent. The wild nature that began in the Garden has been stamped down and trampled over by cities, buildings and harsh lights. He can barely see the stars in the sky. The sounds of life that used to fill his ears in the Garden are now drowned out with what the humans call civilization.
Gadreel misses Eden. He can see remnants of the living, breathing masterpiece in fleeting moments but they disappear far too quickly. It depresses him, being faced with just how far reaching his mistake has been. That is why when Sam Winchester ejected him back to his original vessel, he continues in the job his vessel had chosen. He secludes himself in a dark bar that reeks of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke. It is the furtherest thing from Eden he can find and he uses it as a less restrictive prison.
It's closing time, almost four in the morning. He's going through the mundane tasks of cleaning the bar when a piece of paper slides in front of him and his stomach drops. It has been weeks since Metatron has visited him. Weeks of human routine and learning how to live in this world gone mad. He had hoped Metatron was done with him since he was no longer inside of Sam. The disappointment at being wrong is overwhelming.
"What is this?" he asks, despite knowing what it is already.
"Another name on your hit list." Metatron leans on the bar. "It took me a while to track down the rumor and confirm it. But I did."
Gadreel wonders if Metatron went through the hassle of confirming a rumor, why didn't he take care of it himself? Disgusted with himself and feeling sick to his core, he picks up the piece of paper and opens it.
"Addison Weaver." He stares at the name: Addison. It sounds very nonthreatening, pleasant even. "What has she done?"
Metatron scoffs. "Does it matter?"
Gadreel wants to tell him yes, it does matter. If he is to take her life, he deserves to know what crime she has committed. And why it is greater than his own. But he doesn't know how to ask the question without being insubordinate so he keeps his silence and continues to wipe down the bar. To his surprise, Metatron sighs in annoyance.
"Fine, if you're going to pout about it. One of the rogue Rit Zein came up with the genius idea to make a human into an angel anchor here on earth."
"An angel anchor?"
Metatron rolls his eyes. "Yes, Gadreel, an anchor. Since Heaven is closed, so is the recharging station for angels who were killed in their vessels. There's no place for them to go until this anchor was created. Now, any angel who dies here on earth becomes tethered to this…human," he spits out the word as if it's an oath.
"But isn't this a good thing? A place for our fallen brethren to go and continue to live?" Perhaps Abner is one such angel that is now tethered here on earth. He has a chance for forgiveness once more.
"Think about that though. Hundreds of angels that die here, that become stuck to this nothing of a human, anxious to return to Heaven." He shakes his head in dismay. "It's an army waiting to power up and attack us." He shrugs half-heartedly. "That is if the human is even capable to withstanding that many angels tied to her."
Perhaps they should attack us, he thinks to himself. What good are they really doing? He was forced into killing his own brothers to gain a place in Heaven. How is his reputation supposed to be restored by a bloodbath? Two angels, a prophet and now an anchor. What is next?
"You do realize how important it is to find this girl and kill her? Our entire plan of rebuilding Heaven rests on her ceasing to exist."
He nods silently, his mouth too dry to answer.
"Good." Metatron raps sharply on the bar. "She's in Denver, Colorado. I'll be back in a few days to see how it went."
Gadreel nods once more and Metatron disappears from view. He finishes up drying the glasses and wiping down the kitchen area behind the bar before climbing up the back stairs of the establishment to the small apartment above the establishment. The sun is barely over the horizon, staining his living space with hues of pinks and purples. Cars are starting to increase in their number as businesses are opening. The sounds are deafening but the windows are already shut.
He pulls out the slip of paper again and stares at the name once more. Addison, the Hebrew meaning of the name is "earth." The irony is not lost on him.
And he suddenly misses the Garden even more.
All Addison Weaver wants is to go back to being invisible. But she was the hometown hero, Denver's miracle woman. Her face has been splashed across the local news reports and papers. Everyone greets her with hugs, smiles and tears. She hasn't paid for a meal or even a cup of coffee in two weeks. Who knew all it took to be a celebrity was to wake up from a coma?
She stumbles through the dark cemetery, glancing her shin off of a headstone. If her mouth wasn't full of whiskey, she would have cursed. But the fact of the matter is very simple: she's drunk, hurting and MIA from her own welcome home party. Someone with half a brain will find her eventually but hopefully not before she accomplishes her to do list.
The moon is full, making it almost as bright as day. But Addy doesn't need any light to find her family's gravestones. She has walked the path to the trio of markers every day since she was released from the hospital. Tonight, even in a drunken stupor, she's able to easily find her way to the burial plots. She takes her time at each one, raising the half empty whiskey bottle to each headstone.
"Robert Jonathan Weaver. The best husband a wife could ask for. The best father two trouble making twins could ever have. When you said we could do anything, by God, you meant it."
She wipes her arm across her face, wiping away the tears until she see her mother's name.
"Cynthia Lynn Weaver. The kind of wife and mother that makes Martha Stewart look like a hack. Funny, pretty and with an indefinite amount of patience." She has to take another swipe across her face. "I never went a day without knowing I was loved."
She stands in front the last marker and can't bring herself to say anything. Words catch in her throat and tangle in her chest. She can barely read the name etched into the stone but she knows it as well as she knows her own.
Micah Robert Weaver. He had been with her from the very beginning. They were co-conspirators and partners in crime. They knew what the other was thinking and were unstoppable when they put their minds to it. She raises the whiskey bottle to his tombstone and is only able to utter two words.
"My twin."
She finishes off the bottle and sets it down on her brother's grave before taking a step back so she can see all three markers. Her family is all gone and it is just too much to bear alone. And she isn't going to be alone any more. Taking a deep breath, she is surprised to find the tears have stopped. Her drunken stupor lifts and for the first time since she has woken up in the hospital, she can breathe.
Putting her hand into her coat pocket, she pulls out the revolver that she has hidden there. She looks at it sitting heavy in her hand, the moon gleaming off of the barrel. It was her father's gun, the one he always kept in the bedside table in case someone broke in during the night. He was prepared for that kind of threat but not the one that eventually took him, his wife and son. There was no preparing for what happened that night with a drunk driver on a suspended license.
"Miss Weaver?"
Addy turns, expecting to see Matt Johnson, her ex-fiancé who married her best friend, coming to drag her home. But it's not Matt who's standing there. It's a complete stranger, tall and built like a football player. She has no time for someone wishing to offer their sympathies and congratulations on her surviving something she had no business surviving.
"Go away, please."
"You are Addison Weaver then."
She swings around and waves the gun. "Mister, when a girl says go away, she means it."
The fool actually takes a step towards her and suddenly she's sober and clear minded. She aims the gun level to his chest, hands steady and aim accurate. He pauses and holds up his hands.
"I do not want-" and he stops mid-sentence, as if he's struggling for the words to finish his thought.
"You don't what?"
"I do not want to hurt you."
"Well, that's good but I'm about to hurt you if you don't back up." He finally takes a few steps away from her and she lowers the gun slightly. "Who are you?"
Again, he looks like he's struggling with words and Addy has enough. "You know what, I don't really care. Just get lost buddy. In fact, there's a big party happening at O'Malley's Bar, about ten minutes down the road. Go, have fun."
She turns her back to him and goes back over to her brother's grave. She thinks the stranger has left when he speaks again, softly and in an oddly clipped fashion.
"The celebration is for you, is it not? A celebration of your survival of a car accident and your recovering from a three year coma."
"You a reporter?"
"No."
"Then you've just come to stare at the town freak?"
He shakes his head. "You are not a freak."
Addy squints, trying to take in the details of this strange man. He didn't have a car or else she would have heard it, which means he walked into the cemetery. He isn't dressed for the cold Colorado night in a leather jacket, sweatshirt hoodie and t-shirt. His face was broad, square and had way too many expressions for her to even attempt at deciphering in her mental state.
"Alright, look, strange guy, I'm out here having some bonding time with my family and would like to be left in peace. So please, go away."
"I don't...I don't want to leave you here."
She sits down on the top of gravestone. "Why not?"
"Because you're going to harm yourself."
"I carry this for protection from creepy guys that like to stalk me in graveyards."
"Not tonight you didn't. You carried it here so you can use it yourself."
Addy's cheek twitches and her eyes burn with tears again. "How did you know that?"
Before he can answer, another person appears next to her seemingly out of thin air. It startles her so badly, she jumps up and drops the gun. She stumbles, the backs of her knees catch a headstone and she topples backwards over it. She flails for something to stop her fall and catches the tip of a trench coat but it's not enough to stop her. Her head connects to the marble base on the grave marker and everything goes black.