Anymore, when he hits the town, Gabriel feels absolutely nothing — and it's been like this since Sam went to Detroit without him and didn't bother coming out to tell this plan to the archangel who, against all reason, had stuck his neck out to help the little bitch. Since Lucifer got his vessel wrapped up with a bow, nothing much has changed — the strippers gyrate the same way that they used to, and the scotch goes down with the same familiar burn; the world, largely, seems to have missed the memo about Judgment Day, but party or no party, Gabriel's heart just isn't in it; it takes him longer and longer to get drunk, and it doesn't ever feel right by him, and even once he's tipsy, the girls don't make his body react at all — Everything from the chocolate to the thumping bass to the way a pink lace thong cleaves to a shapely ass reminds him of that well-aimed jab from the lover Gabriel can't get out of his head — You're not responsible for me, Gabriel!, he hears Sam's voice shouting in his head, no matter what he does to try and forget. When he closes his eyes (when the state of things gets to be so grotesque that even he can't bear to look at it), Gabriel sees the blood — bright red, flaunting itself without doing anything — around Sam's lips, feels the unholy surge radiating off him — and, worse still, he hears the anger in Sam's voice. The heat, the rage and hatred that Lucifer needed: Stop telling me what to fucking do! You just… show up out of nowhere once Dean ditches me for good, and you know where all of your ideas got us? They only took us from bad to worse!
And, worst of all, Gabriel hears the animalistic growl — the one so different from the broken, tender, cracking voice that, with its face's puppy-dog eyes, had looked up at him and begged for someone to talk to, professed how much it hated being alone — and he still hears the crackling, self-destructive snap: I think that you should go.
So, Gabriel doesn't go out anymore — hey, it's not like the strippers miss him; they've got plenty of saps and lesbians to con out of their singles, and the liquor Gabriel wills into being is better than any other stuff he's found — well, except Kali's special brew, but one of the first bits of news he heard after Detroit was that Lucifer tracked her down in Calcutta and impaled her on a stake, almost like some present to his vessel. As Gabriel washes up in his apartment's sink — he could magic himself clean, but his hands just itch for something to do and mischief feels superfluous, considering — as he splashes the water on his face and rubs at nonexistent dirt, he can practically hear his older brother's voice making the offer: Gabriel's heart is in the right place, Sam, but he could never understand you the way that I do — we're made for each other, destined to be together — and how can you just believe everything he told you? …Of course he told you about his fling with Kali, he probably didn't want you to catch anything — but he's a trickster, in his heart… pure and simple, that's why he ran away to those Norse monsters. …How about we go and send him a message, Sam? Together.
It'd be just like that son of a bitch to get to Sam like that — but it's another voice and the sticky scent of cigarettes, and sweat, and booze, and pot, and naked girls with broken homes and shattered ambitions that rouses Gabriel from trying to scrub the skin from his hands: "What are you doing here?" Even before he turns to see Castiel, slumped against the doorframe as though he can't stand on his own, Gabriel knows his little brother's voice. Contact's been sparse since he revealed himself to Castiel and Dean, but that husky grunt has a distinctive timbre. "I mean it, Gabriel," Castiel insists, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I am meant to be keeping tabs on you… and it is very difficult when you aren't in any of your usual haunts."
Gabriel wrinkles his nose, looking his brother up and down — something feels off about the nerd angel, the good brother, the one who stuck around by Dad and everybody, even when they mistreated him and tried to make him go back on their version of the Straight And Narrow. The only place Castiel is now is off the reservation; he's filthy, wearing jeans and a jacket instead of that trench-coat he used to like so much, and Gabriel can smell the sex reeking off him like he's just emerged from a Las Vegas brothel. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," Gabriel quips, his voice dark as he turns back to his wash-up, to giving his hands some preoccupation; he douses himself again, and then another time, and lets the cool water run down his skin — "Or was it the Hell-hound that got to you, bro?"
"Nothing got to me," Castiel says with a shrug — and there's the brother Gabriel's come to know since the Winchesters split up, the one who's just adorably oblivious to everything… "Your hands are going to lose their skin if you keep washing them like that." …except for all the things you didn't want him to notice. The archangel only rolls his eyes and focuses on what he's set himself to doing; his little brother's shown up uninvited anyway, so he has no call to be fucking hospitable. "Come on, Gabriel," Castiel insists with a sigh, after they've had a moment of silence, only punctuated by the sounds of the rag on Gabriel's face and of the water running down the pipe. "Sit with me a while. …You look awful."
"Kiddo, you must be some kind of fucking genius," Gabriel snaps, more than he intends to — but the fact of the matter is that they've long since passed the time for inanities, and restating the obvious until somebody upchucks dinner — or a belly-full of Black Jack and Dean Winchester's cum, and Castiel's case probably is. Nobody has time for shit like that, not when any day might be the one when they all wake up to the headline in big bold type on every newspaper, Internet newsfeed, and self-appointed blog for truth and justice the whole world over: ENTIRE EARTH DESTROYED; AMERICA BLAMES EVERYBODY ELSE. "Besides, you taken a look in the mirror lately? I might look like shit, but I'm pretty sure you look like week-old, heat-roasted puke."
Castiel says nothing until he has his hand around Gabriel's wrist; the other goes to turn the faucet off, and once it has, Castiel drags him out into the rest of the apartment, and over to the sofa — without a word, Castiel sits him down and goes to rummage through the liquor cabinet. He comes back with two glasses and the Johnnie Walker Blue, and over drinks (and some pills of Dad only knows what kind of quality, and the Virgin Bitch only knows what kind of side-effects; Castiel offers them, but Gabriel refuses, leaving his little brother to all the mind-altering shenanigans he wants), he explains the situation — "The other angels are talking about leaving. Zachariah's been to Chitaqua a few times, trying to get me to go with them… I think they're serious, Gabriel. They won't leave yet, not while there's still any kind of hope — and there is. Dean and Bobby have been putting calls out, getting everyone they can to come and join us… We're taking on refugees and we're training them. Militarizing. …We can fight Lucifer."
"And let me guess," Gabriel huffs: "The Michael Sword wants his pet angel looking out for me so I'll be convinced to come and join the glorious Children's Crusade, am I right? …You know, I've always been curious: does he just get off on taking blows to his self-esteem and that's why he wanted to bone someone who could over-power him like you can?"
"Dean and I…" Castiel starts, pausing and dragging his hand down his face, gripping on the bridge of his nose tight enough that he winces. "We have not been… boning for at least a week now—"
"Don't lie to me, little brother; it doesn't suit you."
Castiel shrugs and finishes his drink; all too quickly, he pours another one and knocks it back with unexpected precision — whoever taught Castiel how to drink sure did a damn good job of it. "I'm not lying," he says, "it's just… Ever since Sam said 'yes' in Detroit, it's been one big, long downward spiral for him — first, he had to be drunk so we could do it, then he had to always be in charge of everything because Chitaqua had some snags that weren't going according to his plan, then it was just like… one finger, two fingers, three fingers, cock — slam, slam, slam into my prostate even though I'm telling him to do it slower because it hurts, and I mean… why the Hell would I want to sleep with him if he's going to be that way about it? …I've been sleeping in Chuck's spare bed."
Gabriel sighs and tops off his own glass. "So why did you drop in for a little visit? You could keep tabs on me easier without telling me you're doing so."
"Because I wanted to," escaped Castiel's lips in a whisper, followed directly by the thud of Castiel moving to sit in Gabriel's lap, straddling his hips with bony legs — he's not as heavy as Gabriel thinks he ought to be, but hey, if Castiel wants to let himself get more human while the world's ending, it's not like Gabriel will stop him. His little brother's lips collide with his own like a meteor hitting ground — hard, and fast, and Castiel jerks Gabriel up by his collar before the archangel can fully process that he's being kissed as though Castiel's survival depends on this closeness, this contact — he's wolf-hungry and brick-to-the-head-subtle in his advances, biting Gabriel's lower lip and plumbing Gabriel's mouth with his tongue. The stubble on his upper lip scratches without chafing, an his hands adventure down to coax off the archangel's t-shirt; clearly not intending to let this nudity go unreciprocated, Castiel shirks his jacket and the blue shirt underneath it that, Gabriel realizes only now, right as it hits the floor, is the same shade as his eyes.
They're dark, his eyes, when he looks down at Gabriel again — they're the color of a summer thunderstorm, and his voice rumbles with desire as he says, "This world needs saving — and you can help us — we need you, Gabriel… I need you."
In a low growl, Gabriel demands, "Convince me."
Castiel doesn't even pause long enough to question this, just grinds into Gabriel's hips — his skin, when their chests rub into each other, is warm and scarred — Gabriel runs his fingers down the pink marks that mar Castiel's otherwise perfect skin, and through the touch, he knows their different stories — here's a bullet hole, and here's a knife-wound, and here's a banishing sigil that he carved for Dean's sake, and that of his brother, Adam — underneath Gabriel's caress, he shudders and his forehead falls onto Gabriel's shoulder. He drops a hand to the front of Gabriel's jeans and paws at the button, the zipper — Gabriel could snap his fingers and be done with this preamble, but the throaty, whining noises Castiel makes every time he fails are ear-candy — finally, Castiel peels the jeans open and off, bunching them and the underwear around Gabriel's knees. His legs clench on Gabriel's hip and his fingers take hold of Gabriel's cock — "Nuh uh, brother," Gabriel warns, smacking the back of Castiel's hand. "Convince me nicer."
As he feels Castiel's mouth take on his cock — wet and warm, with lips that are both delicate and firm, whose chapping feels just right on Gabriel's skin — the archangel feels the lie he's spinning bubble up in his belly. Castiel licks and bites with practiced precision, getting everything just right and trying so hard… but, after tonight, Gabriel's not staying here. This isn't like his little brother — Castiel's not supposed to take his length and girth on like this, bobbing up and down, tightening his lips, dragging his teeth up the underside, and doing all of it without complaint or pause to ask why — it's not how things are meant to be, and as Gabriel's breath hitches in his throat, as he comes in Castiel's mouth, Gabriel knows there's nothing to be fought for left on Earth.
Maybe he'll go check out Pandora.