A/N: This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. There is a more detailed note about it on my profile, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.

This story is set in the fall, and centers around an encounter between Sam and Uriel, who isn't pleased with how close this "abomination" has been growing to Castiel.

Special note: In terms of 'verse chronology, this story is actually set after "Looking for Love in Las Vegas;" though originally a standalone story, "Las Vegas" has now been edited so that it fits into the Other Guardian 'verse. Also, I apologize for posting so late; this story is meant to be set in early October, not November.

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Darkness Rising

Uriel had no patience for playing errand boy. But the will of God was absolute, and for all that patience was counted among the virtues, Heaven had never had much either.

With the shock of breath in flaring nostrils, Uriel's eyes snapped open to reveal the motel parking lot where his vessel had landed, the afternoon light heavy on the backs of the silent cars. The reek of exhaust and extinguished cigarettes burned in his body's feeble lungs, and Uriel sneered, already disgusted with his newest tenure in the shell of a human cockroach. The lot was silent, the anonymous motel rooms marked off along the walkway with interchangeable cairns of cigarette butts and crushed beer cans, not a soul, to borrow the clumsy human phrase, in sight. But walls and doors were nothing before angels, and Uriel could hear the rhythm of every heartbeat hidden inside those rooms without even listening. He turned his head slowly to regard number eleven, and then smiled to himself, stretching his formidable wings to their full spread.

Castiel had commanded him to leave the Winchesters alone until Heaven told him otherwise. And Uriel had done as he was tasked, though the reprimand had seethed within him, more rancorous every time he remembered it. But it was Heaven directing him now, not his superior—and much as he despised slipping into human skin for nothing more than a courtesy call, he couldn't deny that there was something eminently satisfying about disobeying Castiel. No—not disobeying. Overruling.

There was only one heart beating in the Winchesters' motel room, which suited Uriel. It was so much more enjoyable to deal with Sam alone.

Though months had passed and the Winchesters had relocated some distance significant only to ants, this motel room was just as filthy as the last one Uriel remembered: the disorder of clothes and bedding and greasy wrappers smeared with saliva, but none of these as disgusting as the film of decay humans left wherever they went—sweat and dry flakes of skin and fallen strands of hair, the dead parts of themselves sloughing off on everything they touched. Was there any other creature Death spent so much time dismantling, one cell at a time? Uriel recoiled from the room and from himself, his eternal grace seething in his own ever-dying skin. To think that Heaven, that God, that Castiel expected him to revere these creatures, bloody and rotting from the moment they burst from the womb.

His agitation rippled through his wings and sent a flicker of wind out across the room, ruffling the curtains and the pages of the books spread across the small table over which Sam Winchester was leaning, his back to the angel, imprinting his saliva onto the surface of a pen. He looked up at the sudden current of air, and then whirled to face the room, smiling as he turned.

"Cas—!" The syllable died on his lips as he met Uriel's hard stare.

That infernal nickname. It took all of Uriel's restraint not to grind the teeth in his mouth to dust and atoms every time he heard the other angel—his superior, his battle commander, the soldier Heaven had chosen to fight his way through Hell to rescue one mewling human soul—addressed with such irreverence. As if Castiel were not already a bastardization of the tones by which Heaven called him, the mud apes had taken it a step farther—a name never meant for human lips, chopped up into bite-sized pieces to suit their maladroit little tongues so they could spit and slobber all over it. And to know that Castiel tolerated it, encouraged it, to the point that this ill-bred atrocity in front of him would spin around with a smile on his face, as if he had a right to that profane chunk of sound…the aftertaste it left in his mouth made Uriel wonder if bile would have a better flavor.

At least Sam had stopped smiling.

"So sorry to disappoint," Uriel said, not bothering to keep the condescension out of his voice. Zachariah had commanded him to deliver a message; he hadn't said anything about being civil.

Sam opened his mouth again, and Uriel clenched his hand and stole the breath out of his lungs before the boy could soil his name, too. Sam choked and clawed at his throat—more than was really warranted for the few seconds before Uriel released him again, leaving Sam coughing and leaning heavily against the edge of the table. Uriel enjoyed the flash of fear through those wide hazel eyes, but it was gone all too quickly, replaced by something he'd never seen on the younger Winchester's face before: indignation, and the shadow of anger, as if he felt he had some right to object to how he was treated by God's soldiers. Sam gripped the back of the unsteady chair, rubbing his other hand across his throat.

"What do you want?" he ground out. Uriel took a step toward him and was pleased to see a little of the fear slip back into his expression, though the indignation remained.

"Let me assure you, Sam—it isn't about what I want. If it were, I would keep myself far away from the reek of your deformed little patchwork soul."

Sam's eyes flickered down for a moment, but he held his ground, only squaring his shoulders as Uriel's next stride brought them toe to toe. "So why do you keep showing up?" he challenged. Uriel felt the muscles of his face contort into a frown.

Something had changed in Sam Winchester. Somehow, in the months Castiel had kept Uriel away, this abhorrent little accident had lost his reverence for angels. Sam looked wary, but far from impressed—but it was more than that, because now that he was looking closely Uriel could see the shadow of Castiel's grace enveloping Sam, cloaking his skin in a holy sheen. He could hardly have been more saturated with it if Castiel had abandoned his own vessel and crawled into Sam. The realization simmered under Uriel's skin, his twitching wings making the curtains tremble. This was what Castiel had wrought with his foul indulgence—a half-man, half-monster with the same arrogance as his Hell-bound brother who'd been given a free pass. This was what humans became, when they were allowed to consort with angels. Uriel had never been so ashamed of his wings.

The angel tipped his head to the side, his eyes boring into Sam's as he wrestled with the urge to simply erase this blasphemous thing. He kept his voice low, but even so it was enough to whip the curtains into a shudder. "I am very tired of taking attitude from you over-evolved little primates. Your species may have developed a backbone 6 million years ago, but rest assured, I can still remember when you and every one of your defective forefathers came down to one gray fish wriggling up out of the sea, and it would not cost me a thought to step back onto that shore and crush that fish, like I considered doing the first time. You and your brother and every other frail pocket of skin and bone you call human exists for no other reason than because Heaven wishes it. You would do well to remember that, when talking to angels." Uriel knew he was in hazardous territory, treading too close to anger; he moved backward half a step, centering himself in his vessel once more. "And really, Sam—it's rude to be so ungrateful when someone's doing you a favor. Heaven sent me to inform you and your brother that there has been demonic activity in this city, a few meaningless little souls going missing here and there. Something you might want to look into before your scrap-metal tumbleweed wanders onto the interstate again."

Uriel was not certain what reaction he expected. But it was not a long moment of silence and then a soft huff of air, the unmistakable sound of Sam scoffing at him as he raked his fingers back through the revolting strands of his dark brown hair.

"You know, my brother's right. You really are a dick." Sam met his stare without flinching, those close-set orangutan eyes staring back into Uriel's as he shook his head. "We came here tracking the demons. So the next time you think about doing us a favor, just don't, okay? We don't want your help."

"You may regret that," Uriel told him, and felt the gravel in the parking lot quiver as he fought to restrain his annoyance. "Heaven does not dispatch its angels lightly."

"Yeah, well…" Sam took a step back, bumping into the table, and then turned as if to slip by him, one hand waving him off as he finished, "I'm sure if it was really important, they'd send Cas instead."

Afterward, Uriel could not decide whether it was that castrated name that snapped his composure, or whether it was the sight of Sam's back as this pariah at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell turned from him, as if Uriel were someone who could simply be walked away from. A torrent of rage seared through his being, like lightning when God's voice was a thunderclap and the whole world was a storm, and the next second he had seized Sam Winchester's forearm with one hand and squeezed with but a tenth of his might, that force alone enough to crush this construct of flesh and brittle bone. Sam cried out and crumpled to his knees, his face twisted in agony as he shrank from the angel—but Uriel did not release him, towering over this irritant at last as his true voice touched his tongue and set the windows rattling in their frames.

"You arrogant little pissant. Humanity is nothing before me, and you are so much less—a filthy half-breed crawling in human skin, destined for the rack and the flames. But for time, you are already burning." Sam's cries grew suddenly sharper, and Uriel felt something shift under his hand, one of those frail bones fracturing within his grip. It was an intensely satisfying crunch. Uriel held his position for another moment, relishing the intoxication of finally seeing him bend—then his grace burst through his hand and into Sam, white-hot with wrath, eradicating every remnant of Castiel's grace on his unworthy skin. Sam shuddered and collapsed toward the floor, his form sagging against Uriel's tight hold. "Remember who you're talking to," the angel murmured. Then he released Sam's arm and the young man crashed to the floor, and everything was silent once again except for Sam's heavy, desperate breaths, his eyes flickering open and closed as he clutched his arm to his chest.

Uriel could see at once that he had gone too far. The break was minor—far from the first spiral fracture Sam Winchester had ever been given—but where he had gripped the arm, he had left a much more impressive mark: a raised burn that glistened on Sam's skin, the shape of his hand imprinted in boiling red where his grace had burned too hot. Uriel clicked his tongue, annoyed. It was so difficult to discipline these infirm beings without leaving scars.

The moment Castiel returned to the Winchesters, he would know exactly what had happened, and he would read the residue of that grace as easily as if Uriel had seared his name into that dirty flesh instead of his fingerprints. Uriel spared a passing thought for his superior's disapproval, but the damage was done—there was no sense crying over broken bones. Sam struggled to roll onto his side, and Uriel felt vindicated to see fear in those hazel eyes again as he stared up at the angel, his own impotent hand pressed over the angry burn. Uriel shook out his fingers, enjoying the way the motion made Sam flinch.

"Well. I think I said what I came to say. If there's nothing else…"

Sam swallowed hard, everything about his expression telling Uriel he had stripped him raw. "Aren't you going to…threaten me not to tell anyone about this?"

Uriel considered. But one glance at Sam was enough to tell that he had put the repulsive creature back in his place—Sam was wounded and small at the feet of the angels again, just as he should be. Every last scrap of insolence had been purged from him, along with Castiel's grace, which he never should have touched.

"I don't have to threaten you, Sam," Uriel replied, his lips curling at the corners. "You aren't going to say anything. You never do." Then he unfurled his wings and vanished from that revolting plane, the last breath of human stench evaporating with his lungs.

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Part one of four. Thanks for reading.