AN: Written for DAY 7 Pop Culture Day, wherein we were supposed to use a pop culture reference. I threw in a couple of light ones.
Wrong Place, Right Time
It was possibly the worst situation they'd been in (opening Lucifer's cage notwithstanding).
They'd been tracking Pestilence, or trying to, when they'd gotten wind of demons in a nearby town. Exhausted, sleepless and sniping at each other a little too often, it seemed the perfect opportunity to let off a little steam.
And that thinking had led them here, to the outskirts of Bum Fuck Egypt, to an abandoned factory warehouse where they'd found not just demons, but a nest of them lying in wait.
Smoke, black and writhing, filled the air outside the warehouse, pressed against the windows, turned afternoon to midnight. Ruby's knife was lost somewhere in the gloom of the building. And he and Dean were plastered against opposite walls as more demons than Sam could comfortably count (without beginning a series of begging platitudes in his head, addressing a God he was becoming more sure either wasn't listening or had long ago stopped giving a damn) filled the room. They were coming out of the damned walls.
Sam's ribs creaked beneath the invisible weight on his chest. The demon in front of him—riding a young woman with a pretty, heart shaped face—smiled, lips pulling back over too-white teeth, and clenched the fingers of her right hand into a fist.
Blood rushed in Sam's ears, black ate the edges of his vision until he could barely make out Dean, who was struggling against his own invisible bonds and trying and failing to avoid the piece of rebar a demon shoved into his thigh.
Dean's howl was faint in Sam's ears, overpowered by the thundering beat of Sam's own heart. Licking his lips, Sam tried to speak, tried to get out the first words of an exorcism; all that came up was a spray of blood and bile.
He was pretty sure he was going to die. Oh and then wouldn't Lucifer be pissed? Guess these demons hadn't gotten the memo.
He didn't have time to ponder how absurd it was that one of his final thoughts was how a word from the Devil might save his life.
As the room around him faded, Sam felt a rumble, like a train passing by; the wall he was against shook with it. A wind rose, howled through the warehouse, whipping at Sam's clothes and hair. The bulbs overhead burst one by one, showering demon and human alike in glass shards, the scent of ozone.
Then everything went quiet, as though someone had pressed the mute button. And Sam could breathe again and Dean's howls had softened to gasps; they were still pressed into the metal wall—feet dangling inches above the floor—but it was an improvement.
Outside black smoke still writhed; but inside the warehouse, the demons seemed rooted to the spot, frozen in place. Save for their eyes, which blinked, Sam thought, rather nervously. Most of them stared toward the center of the room where a not-man, dressed in nondescript jeans and a green jacket over a black button-down, stood.
"Honey!" The vicious-smile in the not-man's voice was one Sam recognized, having been on the receiving end of it more than once. Though the last few times—and Sam still hadn't been quite sure what he'd been thinking—had been less I-have-a-lesson-to-teach-you-vicious and more I'm-going-to-make-you-scream-my-name-vicious. "I'm home."
"How?" Sam gasped, and no, that's not a catch in his voice.
"Hm?"
"How are you not dead?"
Gabriel raised one shoulder. "Because I'm so very pretty."
Across the room, Dean looked dubious. Sam, certain he'd heard that line somewhere, said, "What?"
"I'm just too pretty for pop to let me die, Sammy." And Gabriel winked and raised his hands. "Okay! Anyone who isn't from another plane of existence—that means you, boys—might want to close their eyes for this." Gabriel paused, head cocked. "For the rest of you, closed eyes won't matter. So you may as well enjoy the light show."
"Dean!" Sam called, but Dean had already screwed his eyes shut and Sam followed suit. A familiar snap and the room lit up like a nuclear bomb dropped in Vegas on a New Year's Eve, like stars going nova. There was a sound like bacon sizzling, the crash of breaking windows, the smell of grace-charred flesh and then two heavy thwumps as Sam and Dean hit the floor.
Sam let his legs fold, sliding down the wall to sit. Dean, with the rebar in his thigh, had no choice; his descent was far less graceful.
The demons were so much ash, the smoke outside cleared; clear afternoon light flooded the warehouse, backlit the formerly dead archangel.
Sam stared.
Gabriel stared back. "So this is what happens to you knuckleheads with no angels around to guide your asses?"
End