Gabriel felt it the second his brothers and sisters Fell. Felt Heaven close up and felt them crash to earth. Heard their screams—
Until his larger pair of wings forced themselves into reality and burst into flame, drowning out all sensations.
They burned away with the stench of ozone, singed hair, and petrichor. Gabe dropped to the chill concrete floor of his hideaway, screaming and clawing at his back. And then it stopped. He pulled in a ragged breath. Splayed his fingers over the floor, and pressed his forehead against it. He drew in several shallow gasps, and whimpered, and slumped to his side. He could feel his lower wings—a significantly smaller manifestation of his Grace—in a more physical way than he ever remembered. He heard their whisper, and reached behind him, and felt them at his lower back, poking out from his now-shredded t-shirt. He pulled and his fingers dragged a clump of bedraggled feathers. More came away in his hands as he twisted and prodded at the wings.
"What the fuck is going on..." Gabriel closed his eyes and pressed bloodied palms to his face. The secondary wings hurt, and drooped limp against the ground. He focused hard on reaching out his awareness, past his wings and past his own thoughts, trying to contact someone for help—maybe Castiel, though they had not necessarily parted on good terms.
Nothing.
Emptiness.
He expanded his consciousness and met with more of the same.
Radio silence.
"Oh, God..." Gabriel opened his eyes. They glistened in the dark. His voice escaped tiny and weak and hoarse. "No."
The smaller wings smoldered and sparked. Didn't begin to flame as the first had, but rather started up a slow burn like the embers of a campfire, glowing red from inside and sending off little bright snaps of heat that died out against the cement.
Gabriel spent the next hour muffling his shouts in his sleeve, writhing on the concrete floor, clawing at it, as the final portions of his Grace and Being withered and smoked away.
He passed out eventually, with torn nails and bleeding fingers and tears streaking his face.
He woke sprawled on his stomach. Dried blood clung to his fingertips and palms. Salt tracks lined his cheeks. He sat, wincing, and ash sluiced from his back. He was sore, and tired, and dehydrated. He shucked out of his jacket—ruined now—and portions crumbled away into black dust at his fingertips. He'd either need to patch it or buy a new one. He threw it aside. With a heavy shuddering inhale he reached behind himself and slid one hand up under his shirt. They met with smooth scars. His breath stalled in his chest. He tore his shirt off—it, too, sustained damage, but not as much as his jacket—and twisted around to look at himself. He could make out the top of a shiny patch of skin. He swore.
Gabriel lurched upright, unsteady on his feet, and stumbled to the bathroom, flicking on the lights before turning his back to the mirror and looking over his shoulder. Big slashes of raised skin trailed down his back from the top of his shoulder blades to just below, and then again lower down on his back—one for each wing to make a total of four scars. He closed his eyes and raised his face to the bathroom light, bright and harsh and flickering. He sighed, and turned to look himself in the eye.
"I look like shit."
He groaned and turned on the faucet with a wrench of the knob. He twisted so he could shove his face into the cold stream of water, drank some, and finally pulled back with a gasp when he found he needed air. He swore. Clenched the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white. Jammed a hand into his pocket to pull the packet of cigarettes he'd taken to carrying out of his pocket, and slid one into his hand. He held it to his mouth and snapped his finger and nothing happened.
"Oh, fuck me." Gabriel rummaged around in his pocket, hoping to find a lighter. Nothing, of course. He clenched the cigarette between his teeth, trying not to think of his sudden lack of powers, and stormed back into the main room, checking everywhere he could think of for a match or something. No luck. He took a deep, steadying breath in the middle of the room, and finally headed for the stairs. He stomped his way up and banged the door open, flooding the basement briefly with bright, yellowish light. He paused in the hallway, then shouted, "Do any of you losers have a light?!"
Something upstairs thudded, and one of the many young adults living in the house-turned-apartments nearly fell down the stairs with a lighter in hand. She shook her tangled orange hair—she always reminded him of Leeloo, from The Fifth Element, a bit—out of her eyes with a grin and tossed the lighter at him. "Here ya go!"
He smiled at her. "Thanks... uh...?" He raised an eyebrow.
"Ariadne." She bit her lip, smiled dropping. "Um..." She crossed her arms. "Are you alright, dude?"
Gabriel's jaw tightened, and he looked down at his bloodied hands and bare chest. He swore under his breath. "I'm not on meth, I swear." He gave her a grimace and wink. "I uh... knocked over my bookshelf. Metal edges. You know how it goes." He held the lighter up—cheap green plastic—and flicked at the wheel until it snapped to life, and lit his cigarette. He tossed her lighter back, smiled tightly, waved, and disappeared back into his basement room. The smoke made him cough for the first time in the years he'd been smoking, and he frowned.
He sat on his bed smoking until the cigarette crumbled to practically nothing between his fingers, and spent a long time periodically snapping his fingers and hoping for something—anything. In the end he only managed to shatter his light bulb, plunging his room into darkness but for the narrow slit of light through the small rectangular window by the ceiling.
He grumbled to himself, and decided he'd go to bed.
The first time he'd used his bed for sleep that'd probably prove to be necessary—sure he'd slept before but that was usually just for fun, to relax, and usually he stayed up constantly watching TV and amusing himself. The bed got used for sleep maybe once a month or two, and a little more often for a different brand of "sleeping." It was strange to lay back in his underwear knowing that he'd probably actually be completely dead to the world for the next four to twelve hours.
It took him three hours to fall asleep. He kept remembering things—He didn't own a toothbrush. Or food other than several large bags of candy. He would almost fall asleep, then jerk awake with the feeling of falling, and stare up at the ceiling breathing heavily. Or his arm would fall asleep. Or he'd suddenly need to pee and boy figuring out how to pee in the middle of the night with an ache in his back was not what he called a fun time.
...
He woke in the morning to the sunrise, feeling even worse. His eyes were gummy and the scars felt tight and uncomfortable and his lips were stuck together and his ear felt hot where he'd pressed it against his pillow and his neck ached and so did his hip. His arm tingled. He let out a moan and opened his mouth with some level of difficulty. He ran his tongue over his lips and tasted blood.
He also really had to pee again. But he was super thirsty. It made no sense to him.
He drank from the faucet, used the toilet, showered—and finding the perfect temperature was an adventure he failed miserably at—and wished desperately for the ability to dry and dress himself with a snap. He almost got stuck in his t-shirt, and tripped pulling on his jeans. He pinched himself on his zipper as well. Upon going for his shoes, he realized he had no idea how to tie them.
He groaned. "Gotta be fucking kidding me." He pressed his face into his hands with a sigh. His hair dripped water down his neck and gave him goosebumps, which was a weirdly pleasant yet awful sensation. "I can't tie my own shoes. I feel like a child." His stomach growled at him, and he grimaced at the empty sensation. He gnawed at his cracked lip, and rummaged through his disorganized belongings until he came up with a candy bar, hoping it would tide him over until he could get to a café or a McDonald's or something.
The taste of chocolate hit him as more vibrant and sweet than usual. Not unpleasant, but different. He ate his candy slowly, after finding a pair of loafers that required no laces, and made sure to grab the keys he'd never needed until then, before making his way out of the house. He bumped into Ariadne and her girlfriend on the way out, and shot her a polite smile. The expression tugged on the cut in his lip and he licked at it absently with a small grimace. She grinned at him.
The air outside smelled of car exhaust and cat piss and freshly mown grass. Gabe wrinkled his nose, and began to walk toward his favorite place to eat—the diner five blocks away. Once settled comfortably on a cracked vinyl stool, he grinned at the waiter. His lip bled. The waiter handed him the menu with a concerned look.
"Gabe—you okay?" His mouth—very cute and pink—quirked. "No offense, but you look like shit."
Gabriel snorted. "Rough night." He cleared his throat, subtly checking the man's nametag and feeling guilty he'd forgotten his name. "Soooo... Andre... What do you recommend today?" Gabriel plastered on his most charming, flirtatious smile.
Andre raised his (perfect) eyebrows, and tapped his jaw with a soft hum. "Well, I just made some juice, so... The apple carrot juice and a potato scramble sound good?" He slid the menu away from Gabriel. Gabe made a show of thinking before he shrugged and said,
"Hell, why not. Sounds good to me."
Andre smiled.
(It was a nice smile, but Gabriel didn't feel as drawn to it as he had the month before.)
Gabe ate his breakfast rather faster than he would have like and nearly choked on his juice, but enjoyed it nonetheless. He felt warm and sated and much less irritable than when he'd woken up. Andre asked if he was free and Gabriel blanched. He really didn't feel nearly as confident without his powers.
"I uh... I'm..." Gabriel shrugged. "...busy?"
Andre's face fell and Gabriel bit his lip.
"Sorry." Gabriel shrugged, apologetic, and left. He hit himself with the door on the way out and swore. Walking down the street, keeping a wary eye on any cars that seemed to move too fast, he ran his hand through his hair and realized that if he had become human he'd need to start getting it cut. His hand moved to his jaw and the stubble forming. He'd also need to learn how to shave. And wouldn't that be fun. He couldn't ask some twenty year old guy to teach him how to shave, but he doubted he'd do well on his own. But... the internet existed for a reason. Porn and tutorials.
He stopped at the storem on his way home and bought razors and a toothbrush and toothpaste and some basic food supplies and some more clothes, and was relieved to see he still had enough cash in his wallet to last him a while. When he got home, he set about figuring out how to shave and did relatively alright but for a few nicks.
Learning to use the washer and dryer was another story entirely.
By the end of the night he was exhausted. Aching and unhappy and hungry. He missed his dog—who knew what had happened to the poor thing when he'd "died." He sincerely hoped she'd been found by a tenant or the manager in his old building.
He fell asleep a little quicker that night.
...
Gabriel sat in the yard smoking, distanced from the little cluster of a few other tenants who spoke raucously and lewdly. He rubbed his face, letting the smoke distract him from the weight of his cell phone in his hand. Eventually, though, he had to look at it. He ground the cigarette out against the damp dirt and slid his phone open. It glowed at him. Three phone numbers, which he'd obtained illegally and never had the need to use. Dean Winchester, Castiel, and Sam Winchester. Listed as "Ken," "Baby Bro," and "Bigfoot." He hit call and held the phone to his ear.
He got Sam's answering machine. "Dammit." He really did not fancy calling Dean Winchester and trying to explain to him that he'd been in hiding for the past four or so years, and that he'd lost all his powers and needed some hunter-style help. He tried Cas. His answering machine was more amusing but no less frustrating. Finally, Dean.
"Who's calling and how the hell do you have this number?" Dean's voice came out of the speakers too loud and scratchy and tired. Gabriel closed his eyes and turned his face into the light drizzle.
"Hey, Deano!" He affected his most cheerful, sarcastic tone. "In a bit of a bind! D'you think you could help a bro out?"
Silence.
Then.
"What the fuck!" Something clattered on the other end of the phone. Gabriel thought he heard the younger Winchester's voice but perhaps not. Finally Dean managed, "You died!"
Gabriel groaned. "Jesus Christ, Winchester." He threw himself down to lay on the grass and immediately regretted it as a pang went up his back. He sat back up, and drew his knees to his chest. "I posed as Loki for millennia. You think I can't fake my own death more than once?" He scoffed. "Anyway, seriously." He dropped the light tone. "I burst into flame and lost my powers two nights ago. Felt all of my siblings Fall. You know anything about that, maybe?"
Dean swore softly. His voice softened. Not in a considerate way, just in an unhappy way. "Metatron."
"What?" Gabriel's spine stiffened. "What did that yellow-bellied rat do?"
He received more static. Some rustling and an awkward cough. "I'm not really sure." Long pause. "Cas won't talk."
"Won't... talk? Won't talk about Falling, or won't talk at all?" Gabriel frowned.
Dean cleared his throat. "Listen man, I gotta go check on Sam. Can you just..." He grumbled.
"I'm in Salem, Oregon." Gabriel coughed into his elbow, throat scratchy from smoke and a restless night. He scratched at his chin. "Can you, maybe, find the time to help me out. You kind of owe me." He toed at the damp grass.
Dean snorted in disbelief. "Owe you for what? Torturing Sammy?"
"I risked my life for your sorry asses, gave you information on the Horsemen, and then had to go into hiding because if I so much as sneezed I had the chance of being found and killed for real. Not to mention, every angel seems to have Fallen, and I have a feeling it's somehow your fault." Gabriel picked at the hem of his shirt. "So you can go screw yourself, Winchester. Pick me up in three days." He slid his phone shut before Dean could say a word, and shoved it into his back pocket. Pressed his forehead against his knees with a groan. He pulled another cigarette from his pocket—new jacket, almost identical to the old one—but didn't light it. Just sat with it hanging from his mouth. It'd do him well to cut back on smoking now that he had the propensity for addiction, anyhow. Didn't want to get lung cancer right after becoming human. He played with his lighter—shiny, new and cheap—for a while, with the damp seeping through the seat of his pants, until he finally decided to go inside just after the sunset.
...
"Wow, you look like a real winner. Thanks for forgetting to give me your address, by the way."
Gabriel looked up from the front steps, his single suitcase beside him, and blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth. He smirked. "What, tracking someone by their phone number too hard for you?" He stood and cracked his back. "Singer too busy to do it for ya?"
Dean stiffened. He looked Gabe over with a cold glare and tight lips. "Bobby died over a year ago. Douche." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "So what, do you live with a bunch of hobos?"
Gabriel laughed. He flicked a little clump of ashes to the ground, and raised an eyebrow. "Now Dean. These college students—" He gestured to the ever-present group of four young adults smoking pot in the driveway. "—may look homeless, but their parents are abso-fucking-lutely loaded." He grinned broad. "One time some kid's closeted dad handed me a wad of cash because I was cute or something." He grabbed his suitcase. "Used it to pay my rent."
"You pay rent?" Dean scoffed, and turned back toward his car. "Color me surprised."
Gabriel kicked a pebble at him. "Can it, Ken Doll." He threw his suitcase through the lowered back window of the Impala and wrenched the front passenger door open.
"Hey, hey, hey! Stop." Dean glared at Gabriel. Gabe frowned. Dean rolled his eyes. "Lose the cigarette. No one smokes in my Baby." He raised his eyebrows and waved his arm emphatically to indicate throwing something.
Gabe grumbled, but he threw his cigarette into the street, with a puff of smoke from between his lips, and slid into the car. "Prude."
Dean laughed. "Shut up."
The car purred when he started it, and Gabriel realized how much he'd missed indulging in fine cars and expensive champagne and conjured strippers—not that he hadn't indulged in the past few years. He'd had to cut back a lot though. Never bothered to buy a car, let alone a nice one. Stuck to whiskey and beer. One-night stands after a night at the bar. The Impala brought back memories of how it felt to sit in a golden Ferrari with a beautiful woman beside him feeding him gilded chocolate profiteroles, with the radio blasting Queen and the road stretching out before him.
Now all he had was a crushed pack of cigarettes and a hitched ride in the oily interior of a 1967 Chevy Impala with demon blood stains in the back and the ever-present stench of salt and leather. He rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes and sighed.
Unsurprisingly, Dean sped.
Surprisingly, this made Gabriel's gut twist unpleasantly.
Dean made fun of him the second he mentioned it, so Gabriel kept his mouth shut for most of the car ride, unless it was to take a jab at Dean's taste in music. Dean returned his silence other than the occasional muttered insult in response.
Gabriel discovered that he liked to watch the scenery roll by.
They stopped in southeast Idaho so Gabriel could pee, and buy a bottle of soda, and so Dean could stretch his legs. The weather had gone foul, and lightning flickered in the distance. Gabriel turned his face into the breeze, standing on the sidewalk. A small dog yipped from its leash, where its owner walked it through the grass. He half-smiled and chewed on his unlit cigarette.
"Hey. So, you Fell. You're gonna need protection from possession." Dean shrugged awkwardly at him. Sort of grinned, and tugged on the collar of his jacket so it lay straighter. Gabriel wondered what had happened to his old leather jacket but didn't bother to ask—probably got stolen or torn to shreds or doused in blood.
Gabriel snorted. "Yeah?" He shook his head. "You know, I actually got one of those a long time ago."
"What? Why?" Dean frowned.
Gabriel smirked. He plucked his cigarette from his mouth and hurled it as far as he could. It landed in some scraggly yellow bushes. "Because I could." He hunched his shoulders into the growing wind and wiggled his eyebrows, hands slipping into his jacket pockets. "Because why the hell not?"
"Show me." Dean stared him down.
Gabe laughed. "No can do, Deano." He grinned wide and unhappy and mischievous. Before Dean protested, he raised his hand and said, "I'd have to take off my pants, and as much as I love walking around in my birthday suit, I'm pretty sure public nudity is generally frowned upon. Even in rest stops in Idaho."
Dean spluttered, and Gabriel snickered.
They drove without stopping the rest of the way to Lebanon, Kansas.