Gabriel liked the rain. He liked the cool rush of it; just on the right side of being comfortable. He liked how it felt so clean, so pure. When Gabriel was in the rain, he swore he could almost feel Heaven again. He often imagined that the rolling thunder and sharp cracks of illuminating lightning was the Heavenly choir—their song reaching a fervor pitch. But the rain would always stop, the sun would always shine again, and he would again feel exposed, feel like he didn't belong.
Gabriel would sit in the rain when everything he had done caught up to him.
He was sitting in the rain today.
He had come face to face with the almost legendary Winchesters in the flesh—and they had proceeded to stab him and leave him for dead. He understood, he really did—for all his lies and tricks, he wanted to stab himself some days, too.
Today was one of those days.
He missed Heaven. Leaving his home, his family, had left a gaping wound in his very /essence/ that hadn't yet begun to heal. On earth he had managed to find ways to firmly suppress the overwhelming emptiness—copious amounts of alcohol and women and everything anti-angel.
Half the time, he had /himself/ convinced he was nothing but a Trickster, a pagan god with a little extra juice than the rest of them.
But really—he couldn't kid himself. With Armageddon just around the corner—he could feel it in his bones—his sense of celestial purpose was affecting him, the poignant /need/ to do something, anything, consumed his thoughts. He knew he needed to finally come out of hiding, let his brothers and sisters know that he wasn't dead. He knew he needed to pick a side.
He loved Lucifer. Lucifer had raised him; Lucifer had been everything the fledgling Gabriel had wanted to be. Strong and pure and /beautiful/. And then he had fallen and fucked everything up. He had torn Heaven in half, forcing young Gabriel to watch his home fall apart, his beloved bothers murder each other.
He knew if Lucifer was pulled from the Cage, that would all happen again. He couldn't watch his family murder each other in cold blood. He /couldn't/. Seeing it a second time would kill him.
The soft rustle of feathers was lost in the sound of the pounding rain as the golden-eyed angel fled, not even the rain being able to wash away his memories, his sin, his pain.
Golden sun peeked from behind the lightening clouds, their tears for the broken archangel coming to a halt. The rays of light illuminated a single feather on the ground—long and bent and gold.
Gabriel had made his choice.
