Hello there, dear reader. Story's down below, I've just got a couple of things to say before then.
First, I refuse to conform to the disclaimer tradition. This is a fanfiction website, and it says nowhere in the rules that you've got to. Also if I owned Supernatural, or possibly any other work of equal influence, I would be a lot richer. And I'm not. So. Yeah. I will mention, however, there are elements in my story from Saint-Exupéry's The Little Prince, and I certainly don't own that.
It has not been reviewed/proofread/edited by anyone other than myself.
The snake is voiced by Travis Bickle.
Here it goes! Weeee!
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Three Hundred Seconds
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"You in others – this is your soul. This is what you are. This is what your consciousness has breathed and lived on and enjoyed throughout your life – your soul, your immortality, your life in others. And what now? You have always been in others and you will remain in others. And what does it matter to you if later on that is called your memory? This will be you – the you that enters the future and becomes a part of it." – Boris Pasternak (Doctor Zhivago)
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S – Wayfarer
The bus terminal spilled its light onto the darkened street outside. It stood on its own right outside of the downtown core. A man entered while others were rushing out, seemingly eager to observe the sky. Seeing him approach, the man behind the counter whose nametag read Hamilton put his paper down.
"Oh, hey, Frank. What can I do for you?" Hamilton asked, surprised to see him there. He had been a regular at Frank's bar for a while now, but they didn't know each other very well outside of there. He was a good bartender, efficient, amicable, discreet. Hamilton was always a little disappointed when he wasn't on shift.
"I'm not sure," Frank enunciated slowly. "What can you do for me?"
"Well, um, do you, d'you wanna buy a bus ticket? I mean, I guess that's what you would be here for."
"What is a bus ticket?"
Hamilton blinked twice. "Frank, what kind of prank is this?" he asked as politely as he could. It had to be a prank, but Frank wasn't usually the joking kind.
"This is not a prank" he replied, dead serious. "Now I would like to know what a bus ticket is."
"Um… It's – a pass, a pass, yeah, that lets you onto a bus, which is like a long car, no, van, that, um, takes you places, but, like, further than a municipal bus would."
Frank nodded, apparently satisfied of the reply. "I would like to acquire one of those," he said.
"Well, um, you need to buy it?"
"Of course," Frank said. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and with two fingers handed Hamilton a credit card. "This rectangular piece of plastic should help with the transaction."
"Man, are you high?" Hamilton chuckled awkwardly. He was a bit scared, now. Drugs were the only explanation. But Frank didn't look high – constipated, at most. He did stand straighter than usual.
"I am not sure what the connection is, but we are currently 183.74 meters above the sea level. It is more elevated than the Death Valley in California, but not as much as some mountains can be. I would like to purchase one of those bus tickets promptly."
"Okay, Frank." Hamilton had given up. "Where to?"
"Wherever the first bus leaving is going."
Hamilton knew he ought to put Frank on one of those taxis outside and give the driver at least the bar's address – in this state, Frank probably didn't remember his. But Hamilton wasn't really his friend, and he couldn't justify doing so. Frank was a responsible, straight-forward man. He would snap out of it a few states over at the most, and then he'd come back home. Ian might worry and Jenny might be irate, but Frank would come back home.
Still, Hamilton watched over the other man until he boarded the bus. Then, in the sleepy terminal, reassured everything would be fine, he turned his attention over to one of the few TVs playing CNN on a loop. The latest news were of an unpredicted meteor shower. Experts came on one after the other, explaining in elaborate scientific terms they had no idea what was happening.
Hamilton thought of his daughter Maddie, 13, who did like to look at the stars with her telescope. She never really got the chance, because of the light pollution and all, but the meteors would be bright enough for her.
She'd be overjoyed, he thought, smiling. She wouldn't sleep of the night.
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I – Nahash
The angel named Gadreel stood in front of the Gates quite proudly as he had been handed a new task and it was his greatest one to date. He had been told it was the most important one an angel had ever been given. The Garden of Eden! Those allowed inside, far and few between, all spoke highly of its beauty, and of the humans Father had created. Gadreel's role was to make sure that no one other than those entered, and he reveled in the weighty job. The sake of humanity rested on his shoulders – his alone.
"It has come to my attention that you are an obedient and loyal angel, Gadreel," Father had told him from behind a folding screen. They were the only ones in the room; God didn't need guards. "The angels in your garrison say you are kind, loving; and would gladly put their life in your hands. What do you think of this?"
"I only do what I am told, Father," Gadreel had replied, his forehead tightly pressed to the cold floor. He could not believe he'd been called to see his father to receive such praise. Few angels had had the honour of seeing Him, and so many who hadn't were worthier of it than he.
"I trust their judgment, and decided to trust you fully. I am appointing you, Gadreel, to guard the doors of the Garden of Eden, where my newest creation is kept. In simple terms, your mission is to protect those who will not, and cannot, protect themselves – the humans. It is an important task, dear child, and one you cannot fail. Are you apt to take this appointment?"
"Of course, Father." Gadreel had trouble masking his enthusiasm. Angels had not been designed for emotion; a sickening joy intoxicated him as he went and took up his post.
But if Gadreel was overjoyed with his promotion, not all felt the same. Angels he was previously close to shunned him – Zachariah in particular, for whom nothing mattered but his own advancement. Either way, it's not like he was allowed company down there, and it was beginning to weigh on him. Back with the others, Gadreel had kept mostly to himself, only doing what he was told, but always with their chatter in the background. He missed it, he missed knowing he was part of a group and he found he didn't like the Gates as much as he thought.
At first, the guard saluted everyone who went by cheerfully. Soon, however, he realized not many did go by, and time wore on – without him, it seemed. He was caged by the sound of seconds trickling by, a leaky tap's maddening drops only he could hear.
Gadreel liked to observe the skies above his head. He appreciated their depth, their objectivity, and their simple beauty. He got lost in the white dwarves, the supernovas, hundreds of thousands of faraway galaxies, black holes and infinities. He could hear the stars, all of them, five hundred million jingle bells ringing in his ears. He wished he could visit them, all those different worlds, but he was stuck here, in this place, this awful desert where sand filled his nose and his mouth, where there was nothing but rocks. The stars were company, but at the same time made him feel insignificant. They reminded him of Father's magnificence.
Always, he shook himself, straightened and kept his sword-length angel blade planted firmly on the ground between his slightly parted feet. He looked the part. He had to, being God's most trusted.
One day, a snake wove itself on the parched ground in front of Gadreel, zigzagging left and right. Gadreel, although his gaze was not supposed to stray, couldn't help looking down; something about the reptile's smallness caught his attention. It was one of those thin yellow snakes, no thicker than a finger, whose venom could end a life in just thirty seconds. Of course, as Gadreel was an angel, simple venom would not kill him. He was still tempted to stab it with his sword.
"Halt! Who goes there?" Gadreel asked. He'd been instructed to say this when unidentified guests approached. The snake rose from the ground about a foot, while the rest of his tail curled on the ground. Gadreel was too tall to see him properly.
"Woah, slow the speech, sentinel. I'm just a snake, I'm nobody important, no need to be all pompous with me." The snake moved its head from side to side, as if it were cocking it. Gadreel tightened at the familiar speech. "I was just told Eden was a great sight, like, ten places to see before you die. Wanna let me in?"
Gadreel furrowed his metaphorical brow. The strange request befuddled him. "I'm not allowed to do so," he said after a while. "Please come back with the proper form."
"Alright," the snake sighed. "Can I stay here for a while, then? I promise I won't bother. I don't have anywhere to go either, you know."
Gadreel felt slightly uncomfortable. He hadn't been told anything about letting unknown entities sit by him. It could very well constitute a danger for the Garden. He also pitied the snake. Ten places to see before you die? It didn't seem like the kind of list that took into account each traveler's preferences. Thus, obviously, the snake was also utterly, completely alone and desperately sought an escape from monotony.
"You can stay," Gadreel allowed. He guessed it wouldn't please his superiors very much, but it wasn't like they'd ever know. Silence stretched out, and again, he felt milliseconds creep across his immaterial body. "So, you travel?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure. I'm just a snake, you know. I squirm and crawl all around this world, and I can't ever get a pause. I've seen mountains and pits, rivers and oceans, I've seen every shape of cloud there is. I've lived, sentinel, and I'm tired of it. Somehow, I also managed not to see any of the ten sights named on the list." It got a chuckle out of Gadreel. It was a strange sensation; he never had laughed before. He realized the snake had wound itself around his ankles. He did not attempt to disturb it; instead, he adjusted himself to its weight. Gadreel shifted a little his sword in his multidimensional hands. Had he forgotten what company meant?
The snake spoke; Gadreel listened.
"You're too serious," it told him at some point, tight and snug around the guard's midriff. "Just relax once in a while. Seriously, it's bad for your health. You're guarding gates to some garden, what's the big deal?"
"What –? Do you not understand just how important this job is? I hold one of the most important posts in Heaven, and I cannot relax because I cannot fail this task. Eden hosts my Father's most prized creation! Even conversing with you endangers my mandate."
"Okay, okay, sentinel, I get it. I was just joking, that's all. Seriously, though, if Eden's that great, shouldn't you get to know what's inside?" The snake's head was against Gadreel's shoulder – it had moved onto his arm. Again, Gadreel was uneasy. He could foresee where the conversation was headed and he did not like it.
"It is not my place to wonder," he protested feebly.
"Come on, sentinel, really?"
"This is why they put me here. If told to keep a box, I will not peek inside. Who knows what could come out of it?"
"I disagree, you know. They leave you here, all alone, not even sharing shifts with anyone, and you can't have a look around? They're using you, sentinel." Gadreel remained silent. The snake's words resonated in him, voicing all he'd felt silently for such a long time. He was very tired.
"I cannot go inside," he finally spoke. "My instructions make clear that I am not allowed."
"Screw the instructions!" the snake shouted. "If you don't want to go, then just let me in. I'll look around and tell you what I see. I'm small and I'm slithery, no one will notice me. I've been good to you up until now, sentinel, and nobody will know I've been in." The snake was wrapped entirely around Gadreel's body, its head level with Gadreel's – a boa constrictor swallowing a wild beast. The sword had fallen to the ground.
Oratory is a powerful thing. The right words can convince anyone of doing, or thinking, anything. A great discourse can change opinions even without being understood. Why use force when words accomplish the task just as easily, with even less bloodshed?
Gadreel hesitated a long time. In the end, though, it came down to this: either he lost the only friend he ever had, or kept it and was maybe dismissed if someone found out – but no one would, right?
"I'll let you in," the guard said. "Just for five minutes."
"Just for five minutes," the snake repeated. It slid back down to the ground. "I don't need anything more, really. You're making my death happy, man."
Gadreel nodded once, and opened the Gates. He bent down and picked up his sword; he parted his feet at the length he'd been instructed; he placed himself in his statue-like position, the blade digging a little into the earth; and he counted down.
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II – Zeke
A thing especially amazing about angels is their efficiency. Do try to have one on hand in times of crisis. Their objective view of others and situations are particularly useful when the time comes to take decisions quickly. This was greatly taken advantage of following what would become known as the Fall of Man.
The angels, the higher-ups, they needed to think fast. Their subordinates were getting worried, scared even: evil had penetrated Eden. Lucifer had struck close; humanity had been corrupted; Heaven was no longer safe. God himself was fuming. The seraphs had to avoid the mounting panic's spread, and to do so they needed a scape-goat, someone to take all the blame. It was easy to convince the general population that Gadreel was the only one responsible, apart from the snake who'd vanished. There would be a trial, but the outcome was already determined. It came and went fast; there was little evidence to amass and angels were outstandingly efficacious in finding it. Witnesses sprang up when needed and physical evidence was easily uncovered, fabricated if required. The event, although highly publicized, was a private affair. Few angels were allowed to attend it, there was no jury. Gadreel didn't even have to attend his trial, as the black-robed judges were so competent and unbiased a Habeas Corpus wasn't necessary.
The contrast was striking. In a matter of seconds, Gadreel had turned from a loyal companion, a trusted friend, to the outcast whose name, when they dared pronounce it, was nothing short of a swear. Yet, inside of him, Gadreel remained the same joyful sentry guarding Eden.
The cell his siblings locked Gadreel in was a tad too small for his comfort, although sometimes it was so large he could get lost in it. He shrank against the wall. He would come to know the place with the years, every rock would be like a friend under his fingertips. The wardens were told to hurt him, and they did without a question. They made him pay for the Garden, for having the weakness of needing company. Angels do what they're dictated, not what they yearn for. The slightest mistake is to be punished severely – make an example of those who stray. Gadreel wasn't "God's most trusted" anymore.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to," he yelled from the bottom of the cell. "I shouldn't have wanted more, I should've been content with what I had – I was tricked, oh, Father, anyone! Listen, please! I do not deserve this fate, I swear I will repay this error! I beseech you, I am so sorry..."
A snort came from the dimly lit hallway. It was the sort of place you'd expect to be bursting with light so bright it burned the eyes of the prisoners, since Heaven was supposed to be pure; but the prison was a dark hole, tucked away, forgotten. Gadreel looked through the bars he was clutching. An angel was coming toward him in a slow stroll, steady and menacing. He knew how to make an impression.
"You always say the same thing, at the beginning, don't you? Always, 'oh please forgive me, daddy, please!'" His voice was mocking. "Like it changes anything. You don't understand it's useless. We don't care. You're here 'cause you made a mistake, we're here 'cause it's fun. If there's one thing you need to learn, you flap-eared knave, is that you're the lowliest of us all – you managed to fail the only task you were ever handed!" A blade flashed in his hands. It was not as grand as the one Gadreel once possessed, but it was just as effective. He would learn with time to name the ruthless face, the twisted grin: Thaddeus. Variations of the words he'd spoken were all Gadreel would hear from his mouth until the second Fall.
It lasted millennia, the wait for a freedom he might never have again. The worst, though, was that the guards truly believed Gadreel had meant to let the snake in. They thought he had planned it, that he had accepted the job on purpose to help Lucifer subvert humanity. It drove Gadreel out of his mind. He drafted pointless apologies and explanations for any angel who'd deign listen, in the hope he'd be out of that place.
They hit him, beat him around. They dumped boiling holy oil on his head. They carved patterns into his grace with a white-hot angel blade, Enochian symbols meaning you are not worthy of mercy. Imagine Edgar Allan Poe's The Pit and The Pendulum, stretched over hundreds of thousands of years…! They wanted to imprint into his mind that he was worthless, that what he'd done was wrong (as if he didn't know!). They wanted to mold him into a lifeless thing, a blank slate, something they could dispose of. They wanted him to break, to admit that he had never been good, never had potential.
After a few thousand years, some punk named Abner came in. His crimes weren't as vile as Gadreel's; he'd left his post (but with lesser consequences), insulted his superiors and other things of the same vein that landed him in this (literally) God-forsaken place.
"What'd you do?" he asked Gadreel.
"I let the snake into the Garden," Gadreel replied.
"Oh, you're that guy."
In normal conditions, Gadreel wouldn't have befriended someone like Abner, but he was simply glad not to be alone anymore. He taught the new kid the ways of the place – more to chase away the boredom than because he truly cared. Abner told jokes and news of everyone else until they weren't news anymore. Time wore on like a slow, homogeneous river. Gadreel saw Abner break under the torture, his grace a shadow of what it was before. The flaming, vivacious look he once had had been replaced by wisdom and an acceptance of the greater world. Gadreel vowed he'd never cave in like his friend had.
Thaddeus might have taken a too-perverse pleasure in his job, but there were other wardens who didn't enjoy it as much. Ezekiel was one of them. Gadreel saw the unknown figure advance with little anticipation, being used to it, but Ezekiel radiated kindness and benevolence as he stood in front of the cell. "They sent me here," he told the prisoner, "to torture you. I will not do so, however. I believe this is the right place for you, as your mistake was sinful – but that is what it was, a mistake. We can learn from them, and Father taught us to forgive those who wronged us. Do not fear me, brother, I will not hurt you."
Gadreel sighed, not bothering to get up. "I'd rather you do, if you say such things. How can you forgive if you keep me here? I was tricked, what happened in the Garden was not my doing even if it is partly my fault – you contradict yourself, speaking of redemption and imprisonment at the same time. I soiled my father's creation, but I understand what I have done. I could stand ostracism, but this violence is wearing me out."
Someone else might have mentioned that Gadreel might not have, in fact, understood what the wardens had communicated, but Ezekiel only pondered. "I begin to think," he said as he sat beside Gadreel, "that our single-mindedness weakens us. We lack nuances, profoundness. I never talked of redemption, only forgiveness, but I see how you could confuse the two. Yes, interesting. You do understand what you have done; you do not believe this is the right place for you because if you were out, then you could prove your worth." Ezekiel sighed. "How wonderful it would be if Heaven could see this! You could show yourself useful in so many different ways, Gadreel, if you believed it could mean your absolution. Alas, I am not nearly powerful enough to make much of a difference. I apologize, brother."
"Please, don't," Gadreel forbid. "These are the most beautiful words I heard in years."
If Ezekiel could understand, then others could, and one day he might be given a second chance.
Some time later, he heard from his prison connections that Ezekiel had been transferred to another section – some desk job or another. Gadreel half-hoped Zeke would come back one day, flanked by soldiers, demanding that his new protégé be released. The fantasy never played out, of course. When Dean would pray to him all those years later, Gadreel would remember the good and honorable Ezekiel. Through taking his name he hoped he could be at least a little like the well-meaning angel he'd only met once, and that one day he would be remembered and loved for healing Sam Winchester.
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III – Frank
Gadreel's first vessel on Earth had been named Frank Dustin – Frank, after his father's brother who had died at the age of ten in an unfortunate hockey accident. A flying puck hitting a temple at a hundred miles per hour never can do anyone much good. The second Frank was born on a cold rainy Monday afternoon to Mr. and Mrs. Dustin, proud American taxpayers who didn't have much of a personality.
When he was five, his parents had taken him to the Smithsonian Air and Space museum on a family trip. Frank loved the large imposing planes, the fact that they could fly. He'd always liked the sky, and when he was a toddler, he danced and clapped every time a plane passed overhead. It was fascinating to think that regular men and women had been able to make such beautiful things.
He got his first plane model kit then, the Wright Flyer. He built it with his father. They were determined, but it ended up a mess anyway. The next one was a little better. As he grew up, Frank learnt about motors, aerodynamics, air pressure, and mechanics. At first it was just a hobby, but with time he came to consider planes as a career path. They came to him naturally.
At the age of sixteen, Frank was no longer afraid of high school. He had a bunch of friends, but most of the time kept to himself, either reading or reflecting. He didn't mind being alone; it gave more space to his thoughts. That is, until he began to think that a guy he knew, Giacomo Marconi, was kind of good-looking.
They were in the same Math class, he was good at sports, and also really cool. Frank didn't know much more than that, not having been interested in him before he realized the most beautiful things puberty was doing to Jake.
Now – may as well say it now – objectively, he was a piece of shit. Of his Italian origins, he only retained the name, the looks and the deep-seated Catholic faith – which he mostly used as an excuse to be a dick to other people. Apart from that, he was one of those people who used others as means of distraction and social preferment. He was also the one who'd set fire to old Marlow's shed. Some troubled guy his age whom no one liked called Art Barton ended up getting blamed for it, although nothing was ever proved either way.
What saved Giacomo were his incredible good looks, the charm he gave off and his people skills. It was also what attracted Frank. He knew only the cool, laid-back persona Jake projected in class, the jokes he could crack. And, like countless other girls in his school, he had the most unfortunate crush on the soulless Marconi.
They got closer through the school year, with the usual dreary story for which getting into would be useless. It seemed that Jake liked Frank as a friend. They ate lunch at the same table, and quite often he would put an arm around his friend's shoulder, but always in a joking manner. Every time, Frank's heart skipped a beat.
He was aware he wasn't supposed to find boys cute, but all arguments lost their weight faced with Jake Marconi. As far as Frank could imagine, he was the "most perfect" specimen of humanity – and it wasn't just the looks. If Frank had anybody to talk to about him and they'd asked him why, his reply would surely have to do with the first time Jake went to his house (and also the fact that Mr. Marconi was a commercial airline pilot).
Frank's room was 10 feet long and 10 feet wide. He had one window with actual curtains. The walls were painted olive green. It was everything but a regular bedroom, though. The posters on the wall were not of popular singers, or bands, but accurate representations of planes throughout the ages. A few models hung from the ceiling. A bookcase hosted the rest, as well as some books (school-required novels, mostly). The other boy took in the decoration without a word. He knew about Frank's passion, but it was always impressive to see the collection fully for the first time.
"Woah, Dustin, you made all those?" he asked after a while.
"Yeah… Most of 'em, anyway."
"That's a lot of planes."
"I can tell you about them if you want. No, honestly, they're kind of imposing like that, but they've all got really cool backstories. So this one, that's Concorde, okay," he said, pointing to a slender steely thing. "No article. It's a supersonic plane, one of the only two ever produced, that can cross the Atlantic in three hours and a half – it has a cruising speed of 1,354 mph.
"So that's – that's the Spirit of St. Louis. You've heard of it, right? Exactly the opposite of Concorde – Charles Lindbergh made the first non-stop solo flight between New York and Paris with it, in 1927. The plane just had one engine, and, um, one seat. It took him thirty-three hours. You know, I've seen that plane for real. I was just a kid, at the Air and Space museum in D. C. It's beautiful.
"This one's a Fokker, yeah, Dr.1 triplane, like the one the Red Baron flew during World War One. His actual name was Manfred von Richthofen, and he had, like, 80 confirmed victories. They shot him down in 1918. He was probably the best wartime pilot of that time."
"What's that one?" Jake asked, pointing to another model airplane. Frank put down the bright red triplane and looked up to the one he indicated.
"That's Amelia Earhart's Electra. She's my favorite mystery of all time, you've heard of her. She was the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic, and she was trying to circumnavigate – that means go around the globe – when she disappeared over the Pacific. And then –"
Jake kept his gaze clear, devoid of any mockery. He listened intently, truly fascinated. His friend's vivacity was communicative. Frank hoped, during his presentation, that if Jake could accept this, then maybe he could accept him. Unconsciously, he placed his trust in the very slippery hands of Giacomo Marconi, and kept on talking with a renewed vigour.
The school year ended; Frank's only plans were to spend it with his friends – and Jake, of course. Some of them worked, but Frank didn't, and he spent his mornings either working on his planes, sleeping, or reading library books. In the afternoons, he sometimes went to the local diner with them, where he hid behind the week's book – Dickens' Great Expectations, Macbeth, Robert Cormier crime novels – and watched the others joke around, hit on girls and laugh. He was grateful to be part of their group.
Then, after glancing at Jake, he'd always dip back into his novel. How would Giacomo feel if he knew the thoughts his friend had for him? No, Frank couldn't tell him. He didn't want conflict. He didn't want to disappoint his parents, the old man up there or the other Frank Dustin whose life he was living for him.
But then, he was tired of pretending.
At first, the friendship had been great, but Frank had reached an impasse. The secret hurt, now. He wanted more. He wanted what his father forbid and condemned, at night around the dinner table. He wanted Jake Marconi, with his pretty face, his desultory rants, and everything else he could offer.
Walking back home with him after dark and listening to him rave about the girl he was seeing (there was a new one every week), Millie, the sickness resurfaced. 'Cause, you know, Maud was so great with her hair, her cute nose and her impressive record collection. She didn't talk much either, and she had a nice laugh. It occurred to Frank that maybe Jake liked her as much as he liked Jake, and he respected it most of the time. It didn't seem to be the case, however. Jake didn't look like he cared much about them.
It took all the courage Frank had for him to fling his book to the ground, interrupt Jake and, barely taking a breath, tell him how he felt. It was freeing at first. For the first time, Frank was completely himself in Jake's company. Yet, even as he spoke, he had the feeling something wasn't quite right.
On July 16th, 1999, John F. Kennedy, Jr., departed from the New Jersey Essex County Airport on his Piper Saratoga in direction of Martha's Vineyard, transporting his wife and her sister. They planned on leaving in the afternoon, but took off instead at 8:39 PM, after the sunset. (The sister had been delayed.) The trio never made it to the island. See, Kennedy was maybe not an inexperienced pilot, but there was a slight haze that night, and he didn't pay enough attention to his flight instruments when the night sky blended in with its reflection and the horizon disappeared. He had not realized in time he was flying upside down.
Kennedy was still alive, that fateful night, probably busy being his father's son. Still, it was how Frank would describe his error, later on: he hadn't seen in time he was flying upside down - crash.
When he was done speaking, there was a wait and a cold, hard smile on Marconi's reptilian lips. "Sorry, man. I'm not interested," he said. Nothing changed. They left it at that.
Something about Jake's cool reaction unsettled Frank, though. He wanted to believe they were such good friends Jake would take it well, but it seemed too easy. He should have been more disturbed than that. Mostly, Frank was disappointed that the single bravest act of his life had fallen so flat.
Frank, very maturely, thought it wasn't that bad, and so prepared to move on. He picked up Night Flight from its spot on the sidewalk and went his way.
.
Giacomo spread the story slowly, stealthily. He knew just the right way to twist it: in his version, Frank had spoken of planes in a sexually explicit manner and felt him up – although in cruder terms. He told Maud this while she had her arms wrapped around him, sitting on the couch in her basement. He shivered, and tears were streaming out of his eyes. "I didn't want him to," he sobbed. "Please don't tell." As he'd planned, no later than three days later, Tracy Mackle was whispered the tale and sworn to secrecy.
And, well, everybody knows Tracy Mackle couldn't keep her mouth shut if it was duct-taped.
By the start of the new school year, Frank Dustin's reputation had been massacred. The worst was, the lies were so obvious, it was maddening. They all knew the inoffensive Dustin, that he wouldn't do something like this, yet they chose to believe the guy with the sleek cheekbones. Few were sympathetic; most of the students, without particular consultation, began ignoring him.
Ostracism was just as bad as outright violence. With no place to sit, the scorned boy began spending his lunch hour reading in the library.
One thing lead to another and the story reached Mr. Dustin's ears. He was furious. By then, some of the truth had leaked out; Frank's father had no problem believing it. He and his son began fighting almost daily, every one of their shouting matches ending with Frank locked in his room and Mr. Dustin convinced he'd eventually get his child back to normal.
In what he considered a selfless act, he refused to take any radical actions for the time being, not before evidence proved Frank was unfixable. There might have been a chance the boy would change his ways. In his heart, Mr. Dustin had always hoped he'd have the career, the family and the life his uncle never had and his late mother had wished for him. How could Frank not see his father wanted the best for him, a long fruitful life at the end of which he ended up in Heaven?
Mr. Dustin was given the proof in an unrelated chain of events that ended with him walking into his son locking lips with Art Barton, who'd just come back to the very strict boarding school to which his parents had sent him, about a year later.
Frank found himself short of a place to stay that night – or any other night. In fact, his whole life had been swept from under his feet and stuffed into a backpack he'd slung across his shoulder. When he'd hear on the radio some years later that John F. Kennedy, Jr., had died in a plane crash, he'd be eating soggy cereal and he'd know exactly what flying upside down felt like.
.
One night the winter his life had begun falling apart, half a year maybe before he caved into the temptation of Art Barton's lips, Frank walked aimlessly through his neighbourhood's streets. He avoided coming back home too early, because of his father. It was just dinnertime, but already dark, when he went through the park. A thin blanket of snow covered the path; it wouldn't melt before long. Passing a couple of kids from his school coming from the opposite direction, Frank, not wanting any trouble, huddled to the side.
"Hey, Dustin!" one of them shouted. Frank turned his head slightly, surprised they'd call out to him. He should have been more cautious. A snowball zoomed toward him, hitting his temple at full speed. A piece of igneous rock served as the center. Frank's knees buckled and he fell, bringing his hand to the side of his head.
"That was for you, faggot!" the other guy yelled. They scuttled away with greasy chuckles. Frank stayed kneeling for a few minutes as the damp snow soaked his pants. Cold seeped through his coat. The park had lost its familiarity. He thought he might be bleeding.
Frank hoisted himself up, disoriented, and teetered out of the park the way he'd come. He wasn't quite sure he should be walking, but he just wanted to get away and work through his humiliation alone.
A part of him had hoped things would go back to normal after a while, but Dustin now had to accept they had irreparably shifted. Along the way, he stopped and looked up at the moon. It was silver and waning and faraway. They watched each other in silence. Frank spoke first, asking the eternal questions. "Why are you ignoring us, down here? Where are you when we suffer? Do you find this entertaining!?" He stood there for five minutes, awaiting a reply that would never come. It was his last prayer.
That night, Frank Dustin stopped believing in God. He went back home and had dinner with his father, vowing that as soon as he was in college he would never come back to this town – he'd have left right then but he needed to graduate from high school first. But as it has been said, he would end up kissing Art Barton, and his plans would foil. Two decades later, the atheist would be possessed by the angel that caused all his pain, and eventually die.
This is the story of Frank Dustin.
.
IV – Winchester
Gadreel stepped into the pool of Sam's consciousness as cautiously as he could. He treaded lightly, careful not to make a lasting imprint, as he was simply an unwelcome guest in Sam's head, an unrightful squatter.
The type of possession Gadreel was attempting was dangerous, more so as it was only his second one. He knew the theory of a soul, but only the theory. They are so much more than a simple globe of light. At birth, they are one of the purest things in Creation, soiled only by their ancestor's gift, original sin. They are a person's whole life, personality, memories and emotions all condensed in a bright bubble of energy, every one of them different, fragile but powerful. They were united, tangled, twisted together, weaved into one, a single mind and body for the two of them. Gadreel had just deceived the man into letting him in and it took a while to adjust to being the background man.
The pond was large and deep enough to be called a swamp. Thirty years before, a beaver colony had built a dam on an offshoot of the river and the area had been flooded. They'd gone, since then, but the trees had turned anyway from strong and green to grey and dead. They sprouted out of the water, straight as an arrow, their fallen-off branches' stubs protruding at regular intervals. The setting sun reflected on the clouded water, painting it yellow. Gadreel stood on the edge of the forest, ankle-deep into the mud. The day was of an ungodly humidity.
The man who'd called, Dean Winchester, was there, a gun in his hands. He looked younger, maybe eighteen. Used to the wait, he controlled his breathing despite his nervousness. He needed to be brave for Sam, who stood close beside, also armed. They were waiting for something, crouched in the tall grass, the stagnant water up to their knees. Gadreel felt himself drawn into the tableau. His own breath shortened, and he made a move to hide behind a tree even though he knew that he could not affect or be affected by this memory.
A drumming sound began in the depths of the forest, heavy footsteps drawing closer and closer. The beast burst through the trees. Dean jerked a protective arm in front of Sam and lowered his head. It stood on two hind legs and was the size of a larger man, but its head continued in a tall tower about 5 feet tall. There were no eyes or nose or any face for that matter – just long, loose chestnut hair, all over its body. It groaned and the earth rumbled with the vibrations. Unseeing, it went straight to the supposedly hidden boys. It was getting too close.
Sam's eyes widened, but he wouldn't let himself look scared. Thinking fast, he stepped away from Dean and took a shot at the monster's knee. It wheeled around, and an older man finally disentangled himself from the forest and shot a wooden arrow into the hirsute creature's heart. It stumbled forward into the silt and, with a last cry, lay completely in the water.
"Nice one, son," the older man said. Sam looked part proud, part terrified, while Dean was more shocked.
Gadreel stayed for a while, until the sun completely set. In the wilderness, the night was as hard to waddle through as black mud. He saw the family pass by again, this time chasing a werewolf, and then the two boys looking for a wendigo. An owl hooted, a coyote called; Gadreel thought it was time to leave. When he turned away, he found himself in a room, a living room, which was full of books on the occult. That's what he saw first, all the knowledge he'd missed out on during his time in prison. There was a desk, too, a heavy and well-used desk; a red, worn-out sofa; sigils that in theory should have been keeping him at bay. A man stood beside him. He wore a plaid shirt and a trucker cap; he was some years past middle age. The moonlight – as it was night there too – shaped his face as gruff but wise and well-meaning. The man was dead now, Gadreel realized. The scene was too polished for it to be otherwise.
"Hello," Gadreel spoke. He didn't expect an answer and received none. The man sighed and walked over to the desk, picked up a book. Gadreel glanced out the window. He saw them. There were trashed automobiles stacked up in the front yard, and a long black car gleaming apart from them. Sam and Dean, grown men now, were sitting against it while drinking lukewarm beer. They were far enough out of town the stars could form constellations. Gadreel watched, fascinated and not quite ashamed.
He'd heard of the Winchesters, in prison, when they said that the Apocalypse was upon them. Everyone sort of forgot him then, being too busy trying to accomplish destiny. It was twisted, since he'd indirectly brought it on, but he thanked them for it. It had given him his first respite in ages. The little he could have done was reply to Dean's prayer. Oh, he lied – he lied to get in their good graces, but it was to repay a debt, achieve some kind of redemption, clear his conscience, so that he could move on – as if it were possible.
For a while he stayed there. Sam had spent a lot of time there in his youth, it seemed. He read many of the heavy mythology tomes the cap-wearing man possessed, as well as a large portion of the novels. Gadreel spent a lot of time sitting on the red couch, watching people pass through. He saw Castiel a few times. The first, he'd been taken aback. The three men – Sam, Dean, and Bobby, he was called – handled the Rise of the Witnesses beautifully.
Then that went away, too, and he was in another library. This one was larger. The shelves were made of steel. Gadreel walked through the rows, looking for a book he couldn't find. He walked on and came to a clearing in which long tables where students could work had been set up (he'd concluded it was some kind of school library). Sam sat at one of them with two others, a jumpy boy and a golden-haired girl. She had a hand clasped on her mouth to keep herself from laughing too hard. Sam looked at her peculiarly. "Guys, we need to study," the other one whispered. His face was obscured. They hunched over the books open on the table, unconcerned. The girl's eyes strayed above Sam's head and met Gadreel's.
The angel panicked a little, seeing she was trying to place him. When she tried to get up, he turned and walked fast. He went through an emergency exit door and ended up in an alley, where another creature was fighting the boys for its survival. He'd appeared to have knocked out Dean and begun struggling with Sam, who was tiring out. When the end seemed unavoidable, the monster inches away from Sam, Dean rose to his feet and stabbed him with a flashing blade in the back. The body fell and the men looked at each other.
"Thanks," Gadreel heard Sam say.
The angel followed another version of the brothers into a hotel. The room had dusty pink wallpapered walls, beds with crimson covers and a 70s TV. It showed some cartoons that a four-year-old watched while an older sibling looked over him. Neither of them dared speak. A thick line of salt rested against the door and along the windowsill. Their father had left a few minutes earlier, leaving behind a few emergency phone numbers and basic means of defense. This could have been titled: The Portrait of Sam and Dean Winchester as Children, an Incomplete One.
Gadreel was in Sam's head – everything Sam knew, he knew. And he knew that everything Dean did, he did out of love. It didn't matter if the initiative was questionable, love was the glorious thing that kept them going forward and that Gadreel had seen in Dean's eyes at the hospital.
Love, yes, in its many forms. A wizened old man, an absent father, a brother – Gadreel had never been anyone's brother. He'd had siblings, of course, but none of them ever stood by his side unconditionally, none had ever loved him for who he was, not the way humans do. Cellmates were people he'd survived with, not friends. If any of them found him now, they wouldn't hesitate to sell him out. Most of the jailed angels weren't people you wanted to associate with anyway.
The more he saw their bond, their brotherhood, the more he wished to be a part of it. Gadreel would heal Sam and be accepted into their group. He didn't dream, but his dull, disorderly thoughts shaped themselves into a vague hope that drove him forward. He couldn't imagine that it wouldn't work. He wasn't creative enough for that.
He opened a door. Sam, a slightly younger Sam, sat on a steel-framed single bed in an old hotel room. It was night. Sam's gaze was dark, dithered. Dean hovered above him, concerned, and Sam clung onto him as if his life did depend on it. Gadreel stumbled back, dimly horrified, as he watched Sam tell his brother that, if it came down to it, he had to kill him. He'd never seen him like this before. He was used to the hunts the banter, but not…this.
"Who the hell are you?" he heard behind him. The beautiful girl with the golden hair was there again. She wore a t-shirt and jeans, and looked furious despite being about as expressive as a character in an Aki Kaurismäki film.
"I'm sorry?" Gadreel said. She'd surprised him.
"I asked you who you are."
"I could ask you the same. How can you see me?"
She glanced at the two men. Dean was putting Sam to bed like when they were children. "Well, I've got seniority here. You go first."
Gadreel closed some of the distance between them. The young woman tensed. "I'm an angel of the Lord," he said in a half-lie. It didn't faze her.
"An angel? You're not like the other one, I hope. When he left, everything was a mess." She must have meant Lucifer.
"I'm not, I swear. Sam Winchester, whose soul we are currently in, hurt it badly while trying to close the gates of Hell. I am here to heal him, if you will let me."
Dean left the room and softly closed the door behind him. Sam's chest rose and fell rhythmically in his sleep. He looked oversized compared to the tiny bed he was sleeping in, Gadreel observed. He sat on the other twin bed, beside the girl who could see him. She'd accepted him, it seemed. There was still a respectable gap between the two of them.
"I'm a memory," she explained. "I'm also the groundskeeper here, sort of. Sam and I were in love, once, but then I died. My actual soul is in Heaven, don't worry. I've been here a long time, and I just… learned how it works. I think it's because I'm the reason why he came back into this, the hunting. I needed something to do, right, and since you're a trespasser, I ought to throw you out. You did say you were heal to heal him, though."
Gadreel turned to her, determined. "I did," he said. "I can help."
"You need to go deeper, then."
"To the core."
"Yes. And this, the memories, they're only going to get worse."
Gadreel shrugged. He didn't have any choice, really.
.
She guided him, and Gadreel saw. The scenes had lost the previous ones' glossy finish, the pastel quality the good old times often had. Those were merged together, covered in mist and blood and pain, dyed in red, purple, black and blue – like the Hell scenes from that Event Horizon film.
Sam argued with his father countless times about the smallest misunderstandings, then did the same with Dean. In a town abandoned for being too haunted, he did his best to help the others trapped there and understand what had happened, only to be murdered. Soulless, he killed and tormented for almost nothing. He had to witness his girlfriend burning on the ceiling, and everyone he loved after die as well. Sam was just as unaware of what it took to be forgiven, for all the pain to stop.
Gadreel and Beatrice, as he'd nicknamed her (they'd been allowed to read Dante in prison), remained objective bystanders, unable to alter the horrors in front of them. Gadreel wished it wasn't the case and that he could heal everything as he promised he would. But someone's life isn't something that can be corrected with just a snap of the fingers.
When they landed in a Kansas cemetery on a bright summer day, the feeling heightened to the point where Gadreel almost turned back and fled. They stood on the edge of a pit. Abysmal cracks veined the ground around it – leftovers from the Trials and before. He could feel the soul throb. The core wasn't some large and vigorous tree, an oak, a sequoia, a baobab even; but a small flower. More specifically, it was a scrawny dying rose which had just four thorns to protect itself from the world.
"Jump in there," she instructed. "It's the deepest point. You'll know everything, then." Gadreel tried to glance down, couldn't see anything. He knew one thing for sure: it had no bottom.
"Have you ever jumped yourself?" he asked Beatrice.
"She stared down. "I haven't, no. I don't think I can." Gadreel reflected for a while.
He didn't think he could, either. No one but Sam would be able to. It wasn't a matter of courage; simply, they weren't meant to. Gadreel knew what it was, anyway. The true cost of Sam's redemption – despair, torment, paralyzing loneliness. In the end, the three of them – the angel Gadreel, Frank Dustin, Sam Winchester – weren't much different. They all reeked of the same shame and weakness. Then, for Sam, there had been the murder of Amy Pond, Brady and his demonic matchmaking, learning of Castiel's work with Crowley, Ruby. In a way, he couldn't get out of the prison of violence and hunting he'd created himself.
All this, all what Gadreel had seen, he'd been the cause of it. This was the humanity he'd corrupted, and because of him they all suffered, the Winchesters even more. He had to help, repair his faults. He could sew those cracks shut, take care of that rose, make Sam better. They would forever be grateful and he would be redeemed.
It was a peaceful life. The keeper came and sat near Gadreel once in a while, watching him nurse the withering rose back to healthy. To ease his work, he'd put on a floppy-brimmed hat and rubber boots. The actual healing was done with the water he put in his watering can – he replenished it in the well inside of him.
"You've done this before, haven't you?" the golden-haired girl asked as she ate a nectarine.
"Not me," he replied. "But I knew someone." Gadreel remembered being a newborn angel and watching Joshua tend on Father's Garden, up in Heaven. The gardener's movements looked effortless; it had fascinated him. Joshua had always been very nice.
With the few tools he'd scavenged and the sweat on his brow, Gadreel managed to make the area look presentable. He had once thought that if guarding Eden had involved actual gardening, he'd have been better at it. Concentrating on the task, he could still see he had some kind of green thumb.
There, he planted a pear tree, cherry trees, magnolias, a peony bush; he sowed seeds for a vegetable patch with cucumber, tomatoes, carrots and potatoes; he began growing the oaks and sequoias he'd looked for. They had yet to grow out, but once they did, Sam would be strong and healthy. He'd be firmly rooted and ready to take flight.
In the afternoons of Sam's soul, Gadreel like to snooze, settled cosily against the weak trunk of an orange tree. It was when he would do most of his self-healing, his floppy-brimmed hat covering his face and his eyes. Thus, if Dean knocked, he would be ready to answer.
.
V – x (not malcom)
There had been a ringing in Frank's ears that lasted a little over half a day. Otherwise, he didn't remember much of those twelve hours. He'd woken up in a hospital bed, a one-way ticket from the town he was living in crumpled in his pocket.
He couldn't remember buying it.
Frank made his way back home thinking of what he could say as an excuse. Jenny, the co-owner, was kind of pissed when he came back, rightfully so, but had to let it slide when Frank told her about some aunt of his… After, all, he didn't have a shift that night. She just raised her eyebrows and made him promise never to do that again. His absence had worried her, although she wouldn't admit it.
Frank wasn't a teenager anymore – he was in his late thirties, actually. He had begun tending bar in college as a part-time job and hadn't stopped since then. Now, Frank was the other owner of a bar. It used to be a dive, but they'd stepped it up. The food was better, the clientele more frequentable, local indie bands played live once a week, and the Wednesday open mike night somehow filled the place. He liked it. The patrons were fun and it paid the bills.
After he found himself homeless as a teen, his mother's sister and her husband luckily took him in. His aunt had already begun drifting apart from the Dustins, mainly because of a difference in ideology. Afterwards, they had no more contact. Frank finished high school a year late where they lived, in New York. He went to college, burying himself in student loans, but not in aeronautics – after his disownment, Frank had lost his interest in aircrafts for a while. He met Ian some years afterwards, bought off Joe's Point with Jenny and the rest was history.
Nothing had come out of Frank's childhood dream of working in airplanes – college-aged, he'd called it growing up. But he'd lived more, since that time, and the adult Frank found that the best way to relax after a tough night at work was to crack open a beer and sit down with an episode or two of Air Emergency. Frank's life was good. The bar was doing well, he had everything he needed, and Ian was dropping subtle hints about marriage.
But after the half-day he couldn't remember, a sense of loneliness overcame Frank Dustin. Jenny trusted him less. Ian acted like a real mother hen, fretting even when he ran down to the store to get milk. Hamilton's account of his erratic behaviour that night worried Frank. He tried not to think about it, but soon came to doubt himself. His doctor said everything was fine, but surely, black-outs couldn't mean anything good for his mental health.
Some time later, the short man started visiting. He always ordered those fruity, complicated drinks Frank secretly hated mixing. He liked bartending, of course, but not the fruity drinks. Everything but them.
What was weird about the short man was that he mostly just stared at Frank, sipping on the fruity drinks. Then, one night, this semi-attractive tall, long-haired man came in and sat beside the short man. The tall man puzzled Frank, because he felt like he'd seen him before – not only seen but met, known – although he couldn't remember when or where. The tall man stared, too, but Frank never felt threatened. The bartender thought about that day that still remained empty in his memories and dismissed it.
A few nights later, Frank got tired of mixing the short man's fruity drinks. Awaiting some answers, he walked over to him, placed his hands on the counter and asked, "Are you waiting for anyone?"
The ringing came back and Frank Dustin was no more.
.
A while after I gave up Castiel to recuperate Gadreel, he entered my library after knocking. Sometimes he joined me and we spoke of our plans and next moves. It was a fine library. I spent a lot of my time there. I had ordered my books alphabetically in my bookcase, as well as by theme and subject. (The very idea of shelving mysteries beside science-fiction is simply repulsive to me.) I had also changed the beaten-up trade paperbacks I initially purchased into lush leather-bound editions printed on vellum – the real way books should be enjoyed. It was a nice little library. They have become rare these days – it's hard, now, to find one with proper sitting.
Gadreel was there to update me on our current situation. I sat at my typewriter, clanking away freely, drowning the room in its melodious cacophony. It was the only sound that could be heard then; the record I'd put on had ended some time before. Reflecting, I lifted my hands from the keyboard. "Tell me, Gadreel, how many angels have you convinced to join our ranks?" asked I.
He stopped his pacing. His Frank Dustin stance was cool and detached. "A hundred and eighty-three angels have now switched over to our side, Metatron. It is not much, but the ratio is favorable compared to those who had to die, and we can still work on converting more." Pride hesitated under his passivity. "They will understand this way is the only one."
"Nice work, Gadreel. It is a good start, I daresay. Thanks to you, we will go far." I gave him a side-way smile and glanced back down at my page as if I desired to go back to writing. My acolyte turned as if to leave, but I had something else in mind. I pushed my antique leather swivel chair back. "You know what? Maybe it isn't much, but I think it's worth it to celebrate." He gave me his signature doubtful look, but I knew he would like it.
Like all great writers, I know how to appreciate alcohol, and I just so happened to have a nice bottle of mousseux in the room (whiskey is fine but not as much a celebratory drink). I poured each of us a glass. Gadreel knew about wine from Abner who'd been around at the same time as Jesus and considered everything the man had done a big deal, but it was the first time he tried it. Unable to appreciate the fine bouquet, he could only taste a strange cocktail of atoms. The carbon dioxide bubbled nicely on his tongue.
It felt like bonding anyway. We clinked our glasses like humans do. "Cheers," I said. We were content then; we thought we were winning. I sat in my chair as I sipped the contents of my glass, and Gadreel scanned the bookshelves. I thought maybe he would decide to educate himself with something other than Dante – it would have been nice. I was planning out loud what we'd do next (keeping to myself, of course, the suicide bombers) when I heard the tell-tale sound of glass shattering. My acolyte had dropped his drink without realizing it.
"Gadreel!" I exclaimed. It seemed to shake him. He finally glanced away from my books and apologized, faintly disconcerted. The nice moment ended then, and I cleaned up the carpet. It was a nice carpet. I liked it a lot.
Overall, it did not frighten me. Why should it? Gadreel was entirely under my control. It had taken me a lot of time and efforts to make him trust me so entirely – but oratory is a powerful thing. With the right words, I managed to succeed. There was this way I had of talking that made Gadreel believe everything would be alright as long as he did what I expected of him. Then, he'd repay his debt and everything would fall back into order.
I saw the same hunger in the rogue angel's eyes that Ezekiel had, that desire of proving his worth. Never acknowledging that he might be achieving redemption was what kept him close. He followed me because he wanted to be regarded as awe-inspiring, because if he re-established Heaven with me it would be so. Removing all this pain was worth slaughtering his brethren.
I showed him the world as I saw it, as it is: a place where humans, providers of stories are above all. In a sense, Gadreel was like Pierre Bezukhov, haunting his flaming Moscow, lost and hungering for a cause to defend – I gave him one. I made him believe that like Raskolnikov, a bit of love and faith could save him and atone his sins. Show, don't tell, the advice goes; I used it wisely. In the end, the Winchesters proved by themselves playing house with two madmen wouldn't accomplish anything in terms of his atonement. After all, it was only after Dean demonstrated how little he really cared about the poser Ezekiel that Kevin was killed. They were too small to clear his name.
Gadreel was great as a second-in-command. Loyal, serious and reliable, he was dimwitted enough not to overshadow his superior. I never did consider betrayal a true possibility, merely a development I soon discarded.
.
The glass hit the rug with a crash. The pale liquid spilled and seeped into the fibers. Shards of glass pointed up, dangerously sharp. Gadreel's heart did not drum in his ears and adrenaline was not pumping through his veins, yet his fingers had failed him. Frank Dustin's fingers, that had also once been Sam Winchester's. His eyes that weren't really remained fixated on the one book of which the importance he could not fully measure.
Angels do not doubt.
Yet it came in a flash, cutting through his spine.
There had been what he had truthfully said to Dean, that he was one of those who still believed in Castiel – Castiel, the one whose name was whispered through the cell block in the hope he would come and save them all! Castiel, that over-achieving cousin at family dinner parties to whom comparison only achieves self-consciousness! Castiel, who always ends up forgiven and loved, no matter how grave his errors! His graceless self was an insult, a shadow of the great rebel he once had been. Oh, how Gadreel had wished he could be like him, so that he could know for sure what the right thing was and be accepted so.
Of course, the right thing was re-establishing Heaven, since it was what the Winchesters also sought to do, and my side would seem like the one to join. My words had pried him away, or so he thought, from a destructive error. But then, but then, as the glass hit the floor and the wine spilled, Gadreel thought that maybe History was repeating itself, that a snake was slowly weaving itself around his ankles and soon enough the boa constrictor would swallow the wild beast all over again.
"Gadreel!" I exclaimed. The flash was over. He unglued his eyes from the spines and apologized, a bit dazed. Angels do not doubt.
Their opinions do change, however, for a reason that still evades and irks me. He left me alone and defenseless to go fiddle with the Winchesters and their pocket angel. The library became colder, slightly unfamiliar, after his betrayal. I wondered. Had I really counted on his impartial advice, his constant presence at my side, his too-angelic confusion as to what constitutes popular culture? The feeling took me by surprise – I could not be missing the angel that had let the snake into the Garden of Eden, could I? It then occurred to me, very dimly, that maybe Gadreel had become more than words on a page, or a footnote in the Epic I was redacting. We were a good team, and we did have some good times.
The idea shocked me so much I had to use my desk as a support. I laughed it away and carried on as always, and now I am simply glad he is dead, as it is partly his fault I'm locked in this (literally) God-forsaken place.
.
VI – Absolve
There was so much blood on his hands Gadreel didn't know if he could ever wash it off. Remembrance was the first step to true atonement, but he didn't even know if he could begin to list all those he'd killed, or simply harmed. The nameless angels that wouldn't join him, Abner, Thaddeus, Kevin, the whole of humanity… Victims of these hands, these murderous, sinful hands. Gadreel had caused so much pain and ache because of his own selfish decisions, and it was now time to pay.
It was his fault, all of it – the corruption of man, demons, Hell, God leaving, the archangels, the Apocalypse. If he hadn't been so weak, none of it would have happened. He'd ruined the Universe, because he couldn't bear the loneliness and had to let the serpent in.
Everyone who heard his name – Gadreel – remembered his errors, that single mistake that seemed to define him. It remained synonymous with Eden and what had become known as the Fall of Man. He'd done his best but forgiveness hadn't come. He would always be "that guy". It had been foolish to hope to erase the connection, to invent a new definition for his dictionary entry.
The truth was, Gadreel had sat in his hole for thousands of years, thinking of nobody, no cause, other than his own. And see how it turned out – all of his attempts at redemption failed miserably, ending in bloodbaths and more wrongs to right. Everything he touched turned to gray ash in a poor man's imitation of King Midas's story. Gadreel had forgotten that in the end, the only thing that matters is the mission, protecting those who would not, and cannot, protect themselves: the humans.
The humans who lived in dirt and slums, and the others who put them there, from their large estates stuffed with riches. The humans who fell ill and died, soiled by their own excrements. The jealous, thieving, violent humans who preached from sacred texts and cursed at the same time. The humans that countless evils used to achieve their aims; the humans that used countless evils to achieve theirs. The hateful humans who beat and killed because they didn't like someone's face, their gender, their religion, the color of their skin, their opinions or their sexual orientation. The humans behind wars, genocides, the lowliest of murders and the lies they spread. The humanity Gadreel had corrupted.
When he was locked back into his old cell, millennia of taunts and insults flooded him. The walls closed in until the lungs he'd borrowed failed to properly accomplish their task. Gadreel thought he'd left the place for good, when the skies had shaken and they had fallen, yet here he was again. He could never escape. Let them win.
His fingers trembled when he tore open his shirt and picked up a rock, but inside he was at peace. Gadreel resolved that he could not let his fears, his self-absorption, prevent him from seeing his mission through, not anymore. If he did this, perhaps he wouldn't be the one who let the serpent in the Garden, but one of the many who gave Heaven a second chance.
There was no hesitating
"Run, sister," Gadreel told Hannah before shutting his eyes and diving the block of limestone into his chest.
.
He'd anticipated an explosion of light followed by nothingness, but Gadreel found himself standing in a desert. The sand, the beautiful glistening sand, stretched out to infinity in soft dunes; he could feel it under his toes. Above him was a dark blue fabric pinned to the horizon, into which were embroidered tiny flecks of silver and gold. The land might have been empty, but Gadreel was not alone. A sixteen-year-old Frank Dustin stood beside him. His face lacked emotion, but his eyes were full of a deep understanding. He clutched in his hand the wood and fabric model of the Wright Flyer he'd built with his father.
The angel turned around. A crashed plane – a Lockheed P-38 Lightning – stood out as the only disturbance in the even landscape. It seemed to take its fate with dignity. Apart from the plane's silent resignation, the desert's only guests were Frank and Gadreel. The first looked up at the second.
"Hello," he said.
"Hello," Gadreel replied. His throat clenched; he wasn't quite sure what he could say to his first vessel's younger self. Why were they here anyway? Were they not supposed to die? "Listen, I'm sorry," he began before trailing off, as he didn't quite know how to continue. He found the words; his voice asserted itself. "You did not deserve the life you had, nor what I made of it. I let the serpent into the Garden, I am the reason why you, your ancestors and all humanity suffered for such a long time and at such great lengths. There are no words to describe what I have done.
"I only had one job, to protect your kind, and I failed it." Gadreel sank to his knees. He was unable to stop the words spewing from his mouth. They'd been burning his tongue for so long, since his time in prison, they felt like truth. "I failed it, and such ugliness came out of it – how could I ever believe I could ever be forgiven, let alone redeemed? I never thought I would say this, but the prison guards, those who tortured and abused me, were right – I am not worthy of mercy." Gadreel felt the scars reopen and light pour out of them. If angels could cry he would have been sobbing, but he could only clutch Frank's free hand.
"I am sorry, dear child. This simple word cannot express all the regrets I have, please understand. Can I even apologize if I know I can never be forgiven?" Gadreel asked, pleading. He awaited an answer and the desert held its breath.
"I can't speak for everybody, Gadreel," the boy replied as his gaze strayed, "but I'm not angry at you. Maybe you think I didn't deserve this end, but I didn't take advantage of my life either. Heck, I think I even hoped for it, in a way."
"How? How can you say you hoped for this? You had so much, you were loved, you…"
"You don't have to be alone to be lonely," Frank shrugged.
"Just like that? You can't possibly let it go so easily!"
"No, not just like that, it's not that," he said, exasperated. "I mean, it was so long ago anyway, the Garden, does it still even matter?"
It shocked Gadreel. For him, it was a no-brainer. "Yes, yes, it does! The question is not there! If you pack the History of Earth into twenty-four hours, humans have only been here for barely over a minute! Time does not count in these matters!"
"It was five minutes, though, wasn't it?" asked a voice from behind the broken angel. Beatrice a flowery sundress and a blinding smile. She walked over the sand as if it were water. "Three hundred seconds – that's all it took the snake to convince Eve to eat the Forbidden fruit. And once that happened, your disgrace began."
She sat beside Gadreel and covered his wound with her soft hand. Her death-cold fingers soothed the burn; the warm breath of her humanity raised goose bumps on the nape of his neck. "You think the incident in Eden gave us pain, suffering, illness, the seven sins – it did, you're right. You also think it was the end of us, but it wasn't. Remember, the fruit came from the Tree of knowledge of good and evil, didn't it? Consider this, Gadreel: you gave us everything pleasant and beautiful in this world as well."
Poems with expert meter and snappy rhymes, novels that make their readers cry and laugh alternatively, the unexpected plot twist at the end of a film. A painter undressing nature with the finest brushstrokes, and masses observing the artwork in a museum a hundred years later. Songs around a campfire, when the forest is quiet and the euphonious voices bear into the night; a children's choir, an orchestra. Mouth-watering food displayed on a table, a family laughing, children running playfully. A first love burgeoning under the fleeting smell of cherry blossoms. Unrequested help from neighbors, friends or family in difficult times. A person drawing their last breath in a bed, surrounded by the people they love; a young couple counting their first-born child's toes, and crying in amazement. Saving people, hunting things, and expecting nothing in return.
In the Garden beyond the wall, the woman bit down on the fruit and changed. She would never be the same again. She had been given the tools to shape her own future. The woman might now be aware of her defenselessness, her vulnerability, and her flesh; but she had never felt such exaltation as she did then. The rays of the sun caressed her face, and this time she could feel it, and every time afterwards it would be different. It had not made her a goddess nor a beast; it was neither a Fall nor an Ascension. There would be good, there would be bad, and nothing could be done about it.
The grains of sand in the endless desert were memories, every wonderful memory there ever was. Gadreel filled his fists with them and wailed quietly, without restraint, under the yellow moon. Around him, silver drops fell from the sky. The purifying rain washed over his skin as if the firmament above was crying for him – Saint Lawrence's tears, they were.
I loved humanity, and I freed it. He'd said those words hoping to die and hadn't known how right he'd been.
The golden-haired girl helped up Gadreel. When he had regained his footing, he took Frank's hand. The stars vanished as they fell from the indigo vault with hearty, laughing jingles. He understood, now, and it was time to bid them goodbye.
Farewell, he thought, to all those I have known and who died by my fault. I wish I knew who all of you are. I remember you two, Abner and Kevin, and Thaddeus. Wherever you are – be as harsh as you want toward me. I probably do deserve it.
Farewell, Castiel. I wish I had known you better, for you could have taught me so much. I think I admire you, at least a little. I thought you should know.
Farewell, Sam Winchester – I will miss your good heart and the kind words you managed to find for me. I apologize for the way I treated you. That lady friend of yours was a great person, and I am sorry that she passed. Do realize you are worth more than you think.
Dean Winchester, I wish you the best, even if our relationship was tumultuous. Please find peace – you deserve a rest. One cannot be so rageful all the time.
And dear Metatron, I don't think I mind your using me – I am too weak to be mad, now. We were a good team and we did have some good times. Be assured that Castiel will defeat you sooner or later.
As for you, serpent, I have already wished every plague upon you. I am not so angry at you anymore. I understand now that you had your reasons as much as I had mine.
Gadreel advanced forward, every step surer than the last. A crumbled world was rebuilding itself inside of him, with a new beauty and unshakable foundations. All the things he had done were still his fault, his disobedience and the evils it had brought on, but now he saw how futile it had been to spend his few free days looking for redemption when it had been right there all along, with those who would take care of it, the humans.
None of the angels could ever be bigger than that.
He turned to see "Beatrice" beaming and Frank waving. For them, he added: goodbye to you two, who helped me so.
The only remaining star shone above him, and Gadreel knew it was his. He felt himself fade into the blue and blend in with his reflection. Farewell, to all those I have named and all those whose name I have forgotten. Oh, yes.
This is where angels go when they die.
.
Inside the jail, Castiel turned to Hannah and said, "Do you believe him, now?"
.
The End
.
Thank you so much for making it here! I worked hard on this. I have a lot of things to say about it, so I'm only going to say these:
- This was a pain in the neck to write. Couldn't have made it without Trouble Will Find Me by The National, or The Killers' Hot Fuss. Thanks to them.
- The beaver swamp creature is a kukeri as photographed by Charles Fréger.
- Frank Dustin. He was born around 1975-1978 (based on Tahmoh Penikett's birth year), I have no idea where. At the beginning he was two paragraphs long and he ended up being the longest part.
- Pierre Bezukhov is a character from War and Peace by Tolstoy; Raskolnikov comes from Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky. Neither of them are ardently looking for redemption but I thought they fit nicely in the text. Elements from both books can be found in Absolve. I would say that neither Tolstoy nor Dostoyevsky would quite approve of what is going down in Absolve. Not many would. I mean, I basically full-on apologia'd the fictional angel who let the metaphorical snake into the hypothetical Garden of Eden.
Oh shoot. I'd better go into hiding now, if I don't want to get excommunicated. I need to make cobbler anyway before the peach season ends. And finish Doctor Zhivago.