Disclaimer: Not real, not mine, not making money from this.
A/N: "The Three Gibbet Crossroads" is taken from The Pillowman by Martin McDonagh. The beginning is an appropriation for Charlie.
Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.
- "Lay your sleeping head, my love" by W.H. Auden
In Heaven there was a prison. Not a nasty, dirty, cold prison, with bad food and equally distasteful bunkmates, nor yet a factory of radicalised bigotry, hate and poorly distilled prison hooch: it was a penitentiary decreed by God, and that meant peace, quiet and the necessary time and occasion for reflection and reconciliation.
Here, the angels of Heaven deemed disobedient were kept until they learnt to be sorry for their various offences. Pardon had already been given at the very first instance of wrongdoing. What was truly important was to punish iniquity, to pluck out any sign of dissent by the root, and to, hopefully, in its place, plant the seeds of obeisance and nurture them into fruition.
Gadreel sat in the corner of his cell, marking not time but the passage of eternity. The smooth grey stone that he rested against had grown from irksome to reassuring. Why condemn what little you have left with anger and discontent? Better for a monstrosity like himself to be kept away, hidden, for the greater good of all. What he did, what he set in motion is unforgiveable. A scream from the cell at his left disturbs this morning's placidity. Pleas, to stop, stop, please.
In Heaven there is a prison. (And in Hell there is a cage.)
Sammy. Wake up, Sammy-
Sam blinks. Dried blood fringes the edges of his eyes, falling down like snow as he cracks them open.
SAM!
Waking up begins with placing oneself in the here and now. Here, in the Cage, and now, well, that's harder to pin down, now he cannot place, because it is a one long stretched out now, a present that has neither beginning nor end, an infinite string of One-Days-At-A-Time. He should know.
Ready for what I have in store today, Sammy boy?
The gate of the cell to his right flies open, and (what he imagines to be) a mangled mess is thrown onto the cold floor before the same gate is swung shut. The guard strides resolutely past him and stops, retracing his steps to the front of his own cell. Thaddeus is his name, although Gadreel believes it has been wrongly given. He looks away but can feel Thaddeus's sly calculation, seven parts pain and none of the pleasure set deep into his shoulders, the beginnings of a smirk already starting to bloom on that smug face. He wants to hit him, but knows better.
Eternity seems to be on his side, however, for Thaddeus, knowing that he can bide his time, passes him over for the present and sets his sights on the other inmate next to him. Again the cold clang of metal, again those impersonal, unerring footsteps making their way to the far corner. A whimper.
He knows how it always goes. There will be two sets of footfalls in this little dance, one assured, the other petrified. The first will cross the cell, aiming just slightly left of the crouching figure, a deliberate error more to instil fear than to dispense suffering. The second will drag itself away, painfully, with no sense of direction apart from the avoidance of pain. The blasts of light will follow, as with those thunderous footsteps, by turns missing their mark and inciting careless laughter from the perpetrator and hitting their mark and drawing from their quarry a scream or a cry. Gadreel cocks his head and listens intently. There is no longer a distinct second set of footfalls. Maimed, perhaps, he thinks, on all fours. Still, the assault persists, blasts of light so piercing that even Gadreel, protected by the stone wall between them, has to turn his eyes away.
One final blast and a crack makes its way down the wall in a jagged line, fracturing this drab stone that threatens to hold and yet promises to shatter, finally deciding on some kind of compromise in the shape of a ragged opening between the cells about the size of a hand and no more. For a moment Gadreel stares at the hole, not quite sure what to do about it. He waits for Thaddeus to discover it but the guard has already gone; apparently it is of no import that he can now commune with whoever, or whatever, this other cell holds.
He gets up from his corner and peers in. He can hear a moan, followed by a dry, hacking cough which echoes to the ceiling that hangs above them all. It takes a little while for his eyes to adjust to the light, but for the first time in a long, long time, Gadreel can see the face of another angel.
The sun beats down. He's in an enclosure with iron bars. There's a word for it. Cage, no, not quite, gaol, maybe, perhaps, no, wait- gibbet.
There's a certain pleasure in the certainty of a word.
Really now, Sam, really?
Shut up.
He's thirsty. He thinks he's been left here to die. Well, that couldn't be too far from the truth. What truth, eh Sam, huh, what's truth? The one thing he had set his heart on was not to forget the reason he was here, in the Cage, spooling out the rest of his life at the whims of the devil: he was the one who let him out in the first place. And the sentence he now serves is not sacrifice but mere comeuppance, nothing more. Nothing wise or brave or worthy of mention, just to, you know, balance the books, even off the scales, that TARE button on the science lab equipment, flashing. Ha-ha-ha now there's a funny one. He will not let himself forget that everything, and by that he does mean everything, which happens here is but details in the fabric woven by the Father of Lies. He will keep his memory of Dean pristine as, as-
The sky darkens, and the sun sweeps its way swiftly past the horizon. In two seconds we have gone from midday to twilight. Indigo with a shot of carmine. Beautiful, isn't it? I am quite the artist.
Sam stands. It is dark, but he can make out two other cages (gibbets) before him, one on each side of the crossroads. In the left gibbet lies a pile of dust and bone, but the right gibbet has had its lock smashed and hangs ajar, its inmate long gone. Sam is glad. At least he got out. Always so altruistic, aren't we, Sammy? You know, there ought to be some nuns around here. Know a place where I can get some? The highwayman walks down towards him as he speaks, his face in shadow, but there's something, something about the length of his stride and the set of his shoulders that reminds Sam of- Ah what would I do without a little, and here he snaps his fingers, light?
John Winchester.
What do you think your sin is, Sam? Worse than rape, he nods at the pile of bones, maybe even blacker than murder? He shakes his head disapprovingly, pacing back and forth in front of the cage. Sam looks away. Treason? Perhaps. You did run off to Stanford when we needed you most, remember? Dean, he smirks, ah, Dean was broken, when you took off. And you turned your back not just on your family, but on your entire species, drinking those meat-suits dry without thinking twice. Oh come on, now, Sam, won't you humour me with an answer? Or shall we return to the most wholesome activity of flaying? His father smiles.
Sam swallows.
I'm not altruistic, he says. I'm not the selfless one.
Ah, John raises his eyebrows, so this is where this is going.
Carefully, Gadreel reaches through the opening in the wall and places his hand on the angel's forehead. He closes his eyes and wills the wounds to knit themselves back together, and when all is mended he draws his hand back and marvels at the angel's youth, his unabashed beauty. How anyone could bear to scar something so delicate in the name of duty is beyond him.
The angel stirs. He squints, frowning at this latest addition to the wall. Gadreel considers backing away at the exact moment the angel begins to rise but fails miserably, slumping back onto the ground, and he cannot help but be drawn closer and closer, the closest he can get to this distraction, which glows with the most ethereal effulgence and yet is but a child, peering at this curious face before him, partly visible but mostly hidden behind stone, trying his best to sharpen the muddled features before him into focus.
Very slowly, Gadreel smiles, although he fears the result is more grimace than friendly grin. It isn't his fault; he hasn't had practice for two and a half millennia. He rearranges his face, tries again.
"Hello, little brother."
Hello, Sam. Hello.
Sam breathes. His wrists are chained to the top of the rack and his ankles fastened to the bottommost roller. He's frightened. It's all he can do to just keep breathing, in, out, in-
His ankle snaps.
He chokes down a cry. Eyes screwed shut, cheek against rough wood. Breathe, he extorts himself, in, out, in-
I thought you said you weren't selfless. And yet here you are, not talking but preferring to do a little marionette sequence instead. Why can't we talk about family? That thing dearest to your heart, if I do recall rightly.
Running in the rain, water everywhere, hair in his eyes, and suddenly having a familiar leather jacket snag his attention. Then hiding behind a pillar, watching his big brother snog some girl two years his senior. Stop, stop.
Funny, huh, all he could think about back then was fucking that girl. And all you-
Shut up.
Just so you know, I prefer to finish with all the joints on the left before moving on to the other side. What lovely hips you have, Sammy. He flinches. Should we get them, I don't know, reconfigured?
Don't think, Sam concentrates, don't think. Just breathe. It will all be over-
Oh but this will never be over. This, waving his hand above the rack, well, maybe, when I get tired of it, which, I assure you, now digging a claw into his collarbone, is happening pretty soon. Besides, our little tête-à-tête has just gotten a bit more interesting.
But back to business. Do you not know that what I love most are things of beauty? There is nothing more exquisite, and here he gives the handle a full turn, drawing from it a satisfying crack, I'm sorry what was I just saying?, oh yes, nothing more exquisite than a flawlessly dislocated shoulder, that is ripped (and another turn) and distended from its socket.
Sam screams.
"Is he gone?"
"Yes."
The angel closes his eyes briefly and opens them again. His visage has none of the awful majesty of lions and eagles, yet Gadreel is speechless, for a little while.
"You were badly hurt," he finally offers, for want of things to say.
The angel laughs, the sound of white water rapids breaking over stones polished smooth by centuries of standing still but all Gadreel can think of is: that wasn't funny in the least, why is he laughing? He begins to feel a strange nervousness, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck followed closely by a slight flutter in his chest, here, here. He looks away.
"Please don't go. You healed me. And I," and here he laughs again, and shakes his head, "I do not even know your name."
"Do you not?" asks Gadreel, before turning back to meet his eyes. He thinks of names and namesakes, reputations lost with no hope of redemption.
"Then you may call me Dismas."
My poor boy.
Mary Winchester peels Sam's matted locks away from his forehead (the last time he wore his hair like this was-) and tucks them behind his ear. Sam pulls away as best as he can and moans with the effort. There are no words for how he feels.
Why do you turn your face from me, my son?
You're not-
So?, she shrugs, you should make the most of what we've got.
Just-, just go away.
Even when I can do this?
She dances her fingers over his shattered forearm and fuses the shards of bones back together. Sam draws a sharp breath and shivers. He wants to cry.
Or this? She rests her palm on the burn on his chest and little blue flames flit and flicker across his torso like a dozen fairies, and Sam's back arches as he yells out some strangled sound he didn't know he was capable of making. For a moment he sees those dancing lights at the back of that chapel they had visited once as children, basking in the glow of hundreds of candles, each lit with a prayer for a soul someone knew. Dean scoffing at how he had cradled one gingerly in his chubby hands but relenting and taking it from him and placing it on the topmost tier that he wasn't tall enough to reach. Once.
He looks down at his body and it is whole once more.
Now, isn't this all better?
They are in a room and he is on a bed tucked under the covers. There are little cherubs tessellating the wall. Overhead, a carousel makes slow revolutions, suspended upside-down. In place of horses there are ceramic dogs, undulating up and down as they chase each other's tails, round and round they go, always just that little bit short of catching up with the next dog in front of them. The air is eerily cool. He sits up and sees a rectangle of smooth wooden bars running along the edge of the bed and realises he's in a crib. He flexes his fingers and runs them over the bars, marvelling at the certainty of it, wood and air, wood and air.
It is in these moments that Sam is most afraid, waiting in the silence for the next instance of pain.
His mother bends over the crib and he is forced back into a supine position again, gazing up at her.
I never got to see you grow up, Sammy. Never got to cut those crusts off your PB&Js. Isn't that what you always wanted? Some semblance of normality? For the person who cleans your scraped knee not to be the same one that put those scrapes there in the first place? All babies deserve a family, but all you got was a pale imitation of daddy and mummy by a boy four years older than you who probably didn't know any better. And to discover, later, that it was all because of you, they all had to suffer because of you, my special child. This isn't real. You're not my mother. If this isn't real, why do you still harbour the same guilt that you feel towards her topside? I don't- Don't lie to me, Sam. It is unbecoming. Not when I have never lied to you. She tightens her grip on his face, and his teeth cut into the insides of his mouth. You do know that I would still be alive, making Dean the most awesome sandwich every day if it weren't for you. Say it, Sammy, say you do.
Sam chokes.
But, like I said, I'm here to make it all better. I believe in fate, Sammy, I do, but I prefer to unveil truths more terrifying than destiny unshunnable, glaring at you from twenty, thirty years down the road from the stupid crib's eye view you're being subjected to as a pissing, shitting infant. It was I who signed away your life all those years ago before it had even begun by giving you up to Azazel. Selfishly. So that I could have a white picket fence of my own. Looks like this whole making-deals-with-the-devil business must really run in the family, hmm?
And this, she shrugs, this is just the natural conclusion. She carves a line just left of her sternum with one talon and blood gurgles forth. Mary Winchester holds Sam's head to her chest just as any mother nursing her child would and presses his mouth over her breast. He struggles and thrashes, arms flailing uselessly as he coughs and spits, but her grip is firm and the blood fills his mouth and runs down his gullet and he can do nothing but swallow mutely, the excess dribbling down his chin as Mary tuts on and on about what a messy child he is.
"What was your transgression, Abner?"
"I left my post at the edge of the thermosphere to shift a beam of light reflected off the surface of the moon about two degrees to the east."
Gadreel is caught between amazement and consternation.
"You abandoned your duties to-"
"Well, there was an argument between two boys at Yosemite Falls, where one disputed the existence of moonbows."
"You are telling the truth."
"Of course. What else did they want me to do? Stay there making auroras all the time?"
"That was most unwise of you."
"And who is anyone to say that? To decree what is wise and what isn't, to dispense senseless orders and then equally senseless punishments when those orders are not followed?"
"There is a reason we have rules, that we do what we must, so that Evil is kept out."
"Did you know that the humans have invented some sort of confection that, if not eaten quickly, melts into a puddle of cream and sugar?"
"Abner. No, I did not."
"Then you must forgive my hastiness, for I have seen it. Give me your hand."
Gadreel does so. Abner traces the scars on his palms.
"What great wrong had you committed that warranted these lines?"
Sam is running. He doesn't know where or why or from what he is running; the only thing he knows for sure is the certainty of torment that awaits him if he gets caught. And so he runs, treading on dead leaves and tripping over rocks and the occasional tree root, picking himself back up, his elbows skinned and bloody. He no longer bothers to put up his arms to shield his face from the sharp branches that whip across and tear at his cheeks as he stumbles his way through the forest.
He falls for the third time and can rise no more. With his ear pressed to the ground he can tease out a set of light, wary footfalls in the distance. A tracker's gait.
Let him come, he thinks, let them come.
The footsteps grow louder and louder until a familiar pair of boots make their way into his line of sight. Rough hands on his shoulders pull him upright.
Dean?
It's me. It's me, Sammy.
He rises so quickly his vision blurs. A sudden wave of nausea washes over him as he flings his hands out and staggers backwards, falling again.
No. No. Stay back. Get away from me!
Sammy, it's me, Dean pleads. He pulls up his shirt to reveal a white scar, no longer than an inch and just slightly above the hip where years ago he had suffered a deep cut while trying to get his brother out from under a car turned turtle. And for a moment Sam's there again, pinned under the metal chassis, too frightened to cry. It's me. We're gonna get you out.
What- How- You, you need to get out of here, Dean, before he comes back!
I know, I know.
You- He- He always comes back.
I know, Dean says, voice breaking as he moves closer and closer, crouching down on his knees and slowly taking his brother by his hands and then his arms and finally smoothing those tears away from Sammy's eyes, and Sam can't move anymore; he slumps forward and allows his face to be gathered up into Dean's warm hands.
What shall I say? That even as torture twists our bodies into impossible shapes it entwines our hearts with another. That it was not Abner who screamed but Gadreel as the former had his sinews ripped apart and braided with all the wrong muscles, his frame splintered across the stone floor. That Gadreel had pounded the wall with his fists until his hands were worn to the bone as he begged and begged for Thaddeus to stop, something he had never let himself stoop to for thousands upon thousands of years in that dungeon. That he had finally broken for that broken body beside him, and that it had made Thaddeus laugh.
Or shall we talk of that night when Gadreel sang, as gracefully as he could muster, a lullaby in their shared ancient tongue, of spectral lights and morning stars and a mother's warm bosom, what is it like to have a mother, Abner vaguely wondered, as he drifted between bone-chilling pain and Gadreel's low murmurs, as Gadreel paused and thought what is it like to be a child?
Or perhaps of the many little intimacies that passed between them, leaving no dent on the hours but what they allowed.
Or of time. Of time and time and time again.
His brother has risked his life and saved him yet again. Sam stumbles on, buoyed by hopes he had never even dared to let himself entertain, shuffling his feet as he half-walks, half-runs with one arm around Dean's sturdy shoulders and the other limp by his side. Together they navigate through miles and miles of forest with the unforgiving midday sun glowering overhead, until Sam raises a hand and says he can go no further. Dean turns to stare at him and smiles.
I've been waiting for this for a long, long time, he says, before making a fist and knocking Sam out cold.
When Sam comes to he is hanging upside down from a tree by his ankles in a clearing, his arms tied behind him. Dean is in the far corner, leaning against the trunk of a great oak, whittling away at a bit of wood with his pocket knife. He sees that Sam is conscious and walks towards him, twirling the blade between his fingers.
Dean, he stammers, what are you doing?
What I've been wanting to do for a while. He squats and tilts his head so that their faces are level and draws the blade down Sam's face, joining the dots from chin to dimple to cheekbone. You're the reason we were all here, Sam, you, me, Dad, all taking turns to rot in this shithole. I thought I was being noble, trading in my soul just to haul your lame ass back to earth, and guess what, I regretted it the very moment those hellhounds dragged me into the pit. You can't mean- What? Of course I mean it. You think Jess loved you when she burst into flames while being pinned to the ceiling? I'm pretty sure she cursed the day Brady ever introduced you to her! And she would have been right to do it. And let's not even get started on the whole demon blood business, you screwing that demon chick while I was gone and choosing her over me when you walked out that door.
You think the score is even just because you saved the world? You only managed to do it at my expense. It's because of you I can't have a normal life. It's because of you I feel guilty for trying so damned hard to pretend that me and Lisa and Ben are no less of a family. And why was I the one who had to wake up in the middle of the night reaching for that fucking gun under my fucking pillow? Who always had to look out for Sammy? You're not- The same Dean who cleaned your snotty nose? Yeah, that's me. I'm the one whom Dad completely looked past in his eagerness to protect you. I'm the one who jumped off that shed in that stupid cape before getting you to do the same. I am your brother, all of him you will ever know from now on, anyway. And all that I said earlier is the truth.
You disgust me. And I am glad to be finally rid of you. He gives the rope around Sam's ankles one last tug and saunters off.
The world spins. The man whose familiar back recedes into the distance and the boy who had held him to his chest and rocked him to sleep when they were children, before they became men and were taught the boundaries of their own bodies, are one and the same.
Dean, he sobs, Dean.
But Dean never turns back.
Zir noco iad Gadreel.
Abner was having his back to the wall with his legs freshly healed splayed out in front of him when suddenly the phrase spilled unbidden from his lips. It's just as well, he could never have borne telling the truth to his face.
Zir noco iad Gadreel, he says again, as if that were a crime in itself, a sin of being, a slate never to be wiped clean.
He remembers that day like no other. His usual post by the Gates. Lucifer with his barbed words. Is a Guard of our Garden not worthy of making a simple decision that involves letting in an Archangel to admire his Father's handiwork? Or do I need to go to someone with a little more authority? His wounded pride, now clearly hubris, that had led to his downfall.
"But you did not make Evil. You had no knowledge of his plans."
"I had my orders."
"And those were to stand guard over the Garden, not to disobey an Archangel whom everyone had trusted."
"Gadreel," says Abner, and on his tongue it's almost as if those syllables are re-made, a tender blessing instead of a curse. "We were all deceived. You most of all."
He wants so badly to believe him, but it is nigh impossible to undo centuries of self-loathing. "Even if all you say is true, of what use is it? Outside, all that is whispered of my name is the scathing legend of how I let the Serpent in. I spend my days rotting in this hole, and there is neither hope for recourse nor-"
The sky rumbles.
"What is it?" Abner asks, his curiosity getting the better of him as he staggers up on unsteady legs to peer out of the cell's only window.
Hundreds of lights punctuate the darkened sky. They shimmer and dance and for a moment Gadreel thinks, someone has forgotten to put the stars to sleep tonight, when all of a sudden, terrified shrill cries echo and amplify through the heavens and the lights begin to plummet down to earth. The angels, he realises, the angels are falling.
"What do we do? There is something that must be done. Our brothers and sisters-"
"This is it," Abner says slowly, as the irreversibility of this event dawns upon him. "This is our chance to begin anew. You can prove yourself worthy again, Gadreel, as can I."
"But Heaven is our home."
"And what has this home become?" he spreads his arms out, as crack lines begin to form on the cell floor, a tree spreading its branches far and wide. But of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die. "It is nothing but a prison where we instruct with pain and-" here he breaks off, giving one last parting look at the walls crumbling down around them before continuing, "On Earth, our fates can be rewoven by our own hands. Promise me we will meet again."
Gadreel opens his mouth to speak but already the ground has opened beneath their feet and there is nothing but air. As he dives down to earth he shakes his head. Abner doesn't know how wrong he is. There is only error, and payment, and brief windows of light in between.
The morning light shines through the gaps in his fingers as he holds them up against the sun. His palms are bleeding. When he brings them down in front of him he can see the deep gashes, blood making its way down his wrists, a hint of pale, white bone. His fat knuckles make dimples when he turns them over. Ten smiling faces staring back at him, ten white horses on a red hill, first they champ, then they stamp, then they stand- An old man in a suit with a gold-topped cane that flickers briefly in the light. There is light.
"Hello, Sam."
He cranes his neck and his eyes narrow with the effort, but still he can't quite make out the old man's face. "Who are you?"
"I can get you out, Sam," he continues, "but you must follow me of own accord."
Out where? Sam wonders, and it must have been aloud because the very, very old man says, "Out of the Cage," and when that doesn't seem to register with the little boy, he adds, "Back home."
And Sam catches fleeting glimpses of an older boy sitting by a bed, swapping out the warm rag on his younger brother's forehead with a cold, wet one, and nervously glancing at the clock to check if it's time for the next dose of acetaminophen. That's a drug, Sam thinks, to bring- Only it cannot belong to him, this memory, the same way those lines of worry etched into that beloved face cannot possibly be for him, he thinks, because he is not worthy. If you like homework so much, here, at which a thick, dusty tome of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table pilots a perfect parabola towards him, stencilled lettering winking mischievously as it bounces across the bed, you can have mine. The young child looks up, unblinking. Still the old man nods patiently and extends a wrinkled, knobbly hand.
"Shall we go?"
O what to me the little room
That was brimmed up with prayer and rest;
He bade me out into the gloom,
And my breast lies upon his breast.
O what to me my mother's care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.
O hiding hair and dewy eyes,
I am no more with life and death,
My heart upon his warm heart lies,
My breath is mixed into his breath.
- "The Heart of the Woman" by W.B. Yeats