Author's Note

This story takes place at the start of Season 4 (Spoilers). Dean is fresh out of hell, Sam is drowning his sorrows in Ruby and the Apocalypse is in full swing. Cas it neither here nor there with regards to loyalty to the boys and, as far as the Winchesters are concerned, all other Angels are just dicks with wings. Rebekah, a fellow hunter, is in the process of trying to track these two down despite not being aware of that fact and an Angel by the name of Anna is in the process of wiping every scumbag and slime ball of the face of the Earth. Welcome to the Apocalypse – population swiftly decreasing.

Fic follows the storyline of Supernatural from 4.1 onwards, with a few added extras of course. Destiel, rated M for consistent language, scenes of a sexual nature and graphic violence throughout. Disclaimer, characters are not mine.

The names Sabriel and Lirael are taken from a series of books written by Garth Nix.

Each Chapter will come with a recommended mini-playlist.

Gabrielle Aplin – My Salvation

The Foals - Cassius

Muse- Supermassive Black Hole

Prologue

"So you're telling me that that duckling in a trench coat did all this?"

A sense of unease unfurled in Dean's abdomen, his gut clenching and unclenching. He felt sick, felt the bile rise from his stomach, burn the back of his throat. The heat of Pontiac, Illinois was all too familiar, a memory that wasn't set far enough in his past for the hunter's liking. He didn't like it one bit, the whole place felt unnatural. They were laid bare and vulnerable to the sun, the weight of which was bearing down on their backs like wave after wave of discomfort, Sam stripping himself of layers like an onion, Bobby removing his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow. But Dean had returned prepared, plaid tied around his waist, bottle of water the only solace he could find in what was an over baked world. Despite this however he was still writhing in his discomfort, shirt sticking to his skin, darkening the fabric at his back, neck and arms. He hated that place, hated it with a passion he didn't know he had.

"What d'you think Bobby – I did this?"

"No need to get snippy Princess-"

"Yeah Dean – we're just saying-"

Dean snapped, "No Sam – I'm just saying. What else could possibly have the juice to level a place like this?"

Sam scuffed his boot in the dirt, dust and debris rising around his ankles in a tan cloud. It was a lot bleaker than he remembered, the loss of tree cover leaving the earth open to dehydration, the long grasses that stroked their knees bent and broken from lack of water, thirst rotting their roots and leaving their stems cracking and crumbling beneath the tread of their boots. Dean shrugged off their bemused disbelief, an understanding that left him feeling all the more exhausted. He knew the whole situation was fucked – if he'd been told the same thing he'd have called the person a schizo and told them to get their head checked. But all he could feel was the heat of a hand against his arm as he was dragged through the earth beneath his feet, the piercing screech of a thing far greater than anything they'd ever come against before penetrating his ears and turning his brain to mulch. And they were all very, very small in what was a big wide world, a world that seemed even bigger and wider spread open as it was, trees falling around their feet as though the earth itself was bowing down to his return. It was an eerie welcome back, not one he'd hoped to receive.

"So – Angels."

"Who knew," Sam scoffed, running a hand through his damp hair.

"Dicks with wings," the eldest brother muttered, turning his back on the scene.

His hand inadvertently reached for his shoulder, fingers gently brushing the raised, highly sensitive skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. He felt branded –as though he didn't belong to himself, violated in a way he he'd never experienced before. Sure, he'd met plenty of sons of bitches in the past who'd carved into his flesh, left scars, left breaks in bones that had taken months to heal. But this – this was something else entirely. He'd never asked for that, never gone searching for it, never deserved it. And that fucking duckling had laid a claim on him he couldn't simply wipe away, as if he was someone else's property. Dean spat into the sand at his boots, tried to rid the taste of steel from his mouth, the agitation that bubbled in his gut like a disease. They didn't understand, none of them did.

But his baby glinted on his horizon, the only thing that had remained the same since his departure despite Sam douching her up with his techno shit. The sun licked at her curves hungrily, heating her black shell until she was too hot to touch. But he did anyway, ran his fingers along her body, imagining her purr, already longing for the sound of her engine in his ears to rid him of the ringing that had never quite gone away. It was fine during the day, the sound of Metallica and Bon Jovi drowning it out until he could kid himself it was never there – that it had never happened. But night would always come back round and Dean would find himself sitting up alone, Sam snuffling quietly in his sleep, Bobby snoring on the sofa, and he'd find himself drowning in it, wincing against it, his only solace coming whenever he'd sink himself into whatever alcohol Bobby had stashed away not far enough out of reach.

"Fucking Angels," he muttered, sliding into the driver's seat of the Impala, back already sticking to her heated leather.

He allowed himself to become immersed in the music, the iPod jack his brother had inserted in her long ripped out and binned, the steady thrum of the bass rippling through his body as it hummed through hers. Dean could see them in his periphery, Sam pacing the area back and forth with the old man, fingertips brushing splintered wood, the two hunters picking apart the place like they would any scene of a job. But this one was entirely different than anything they'd ever worked before, each of them being entirely too aware of the fact, Sam even remaining silent the entire journey instead of filling it with his mindless factual chatter. And it was different for a various number of reasons, things Dean had listed and ticked off one by one as he'd given the area a once over upon their arrival, not needing to pace the place like the other's did, the sight having been burnt into the back of his mind – the first thing he'd seen when he'd been reborn. It was different because there was nothing to gank, no ghost or werewolf or blood-sucking fucker to track down and kill. It was different because they were working with the cause of the scene and not against the thing that had floored an entire forest. It was different because there was no job to be had, nothing to work out save the mystery of his existence. And, last but not least, it was different because his grave lay no more than fifteen feet away from where he sat, a semi-permanent cross-shaped marker that discerned the scene of his death and, if that wasn't confusing enough, the scene of his rebirth.

Dean closed his eyes and rested his head against the steering wheel of his baby, her music delving into the very pits of his mind's eye, numbing him to a point where he didn't think he'd be able to stand again. He didn't hear Sam slide into the passenger seat nor the sound of an engine revving behind him, Bobby pulling his truck out from behind his black beauty and back out onto the road, both hunters content with letting the 'boy be' as the old veteran had put it so eloquently. And Dean was more than happy to be left alone, comforted by his brother's presence but not bothered by it, the younger Winchester hunkering down in his seat against the blinding heat, tearing layers from his body until his sat bare chested in the light of the sun, hair slicked back damp against his head, happy to join his brother in his numb semi-conscious state, window open, breeze ruffling his hair at its roots. They stayed like that for a long while, both brothers drifting in and out of sleep in a warm haze that teetered on the edge of sun stroke.

But it still managed to cut through even the deepest of lyrics, and Dean continued to squirm beneath his skin as the piercing sound of the Angel hummed in his ears, long after Cas had left his side.

Fucking Angels.