Falling Stars
It was a cold night. Wind whipped snow and ice crystals over the frozen lake; the wood of the dock creaking along with the towering pines. Snow piled up in drifts against the log walls of the cabin, rustling against the windowpanes and burying the garden. Only the frostbitten stalks of Teasel and the barren branches of the Apple tree showed above the hills and dunes of white.
The firepit was empty of charcoal and the porch seat was tarped, as was the boat, which had long since been hauled ashore. But the cabin was far from abandoned. Holly was strung along the porch and there was still a wreath on the door, though Christmas had passed. Warm, golden light streamed from the windows and smoke puffed from the chimney.
Inside, Inias and Samandriel sat on the bearskin by the hearth, drinking the last of the eggnog and polishing off their last buttertarts. Inias was singing an old lullaby that the older members of his garrison had once sung to the young. Samandriel was lying with his head in Inias' lap.
They'd been in the cabin for seven months now. They'd become a part of the local community, albeit a slightly mysterious part that bred rumours. Especially from those who'd seen Samandriel's garden. They'd made friends, taken part in festivals. When autumn rolled around, they'd taken the excess produce from their garden down to the grocer, who was intrigued as to how Samandriel managed to grow certain vegetables and fruit in so harsh a climate. As usual, he just shrugged and put it down to a green thumb.
Green thumb, indeed.
They'd gone wild at Christmas—Samandriel's idea. They'd strung lights on the trees around their property. Even the sad, frozen little Apple tree. Each one had gotten its own angel, though no one could quite figure out how the two men had got the decorations so high. There'd been more lights on the cabin, and tinsel and ornaments on a few select spruces. There were bird-seed decorations hanging from the porch and mistletoe in every doorframe, which Inias took full advantage of.
Indoors, they'd brought in a lovely little tree, which Samandriel promised to reattach to its stump afterwards. They dressed the tree and the entire main floor in baubles and tinsel and every manner of decoration that struck Samandriel's fancy.
Then there was the baking. They'd both taken to the many traditional sweets of the holiday and had consumed more than was strictly necessary. And when it came time for turkey dinner—stuffing, gravy, brussel sprouts, carrots, mashed potatoes and all—they'd let their vessels float back into full awareness, for which they received enthusiastic thanks.
It had been a shame to pack all of it away come New Year's, but there would be other years. And there would be other holidays, too.
Now, in January, everything seemed slow and quiet and fallow. The cold had become brutal at night and they'd stopped sitting outside, sick of healing frostbitten noses and fingers and ears. They spent most of their time by the hearth. It had rarely crossed their mind to wonder what the Winchesters were up to. Inias was still cold on the subject of Castiel, and Samandriel had decided it was best not to discuss their brother. The closest they'd come to anything to do with hunters was when they'd woken up to find a Wendigo in the cabin. Inias made certain the creature regretted its choice of hunting grounds before it died.
Everything had been quiet after that. No demons, no angels, no monsters, and no Winchesters. It was to a point where they'd stopped expecting anything.
Looking up at Inias, lost in the honey timbre of his voice as he sung, Samandriel almost didn't register the bright flash of light outside the window. But when it happened again, he frowned and turned his head.
"Did you see that?"
Inias stopped mid-verse and turned to the window. "What?" He watched for a moment, seeing nothing but snowflakes blasting along the glass. He opened his mouth to ask what his mate had seen, only to catch the third bright flash.
They both scrambled to their feet and headed for the back door. They weren't due for any meteor showers and there weren't any normal phenomenon that could explain the flash. Samandriel was second out the door and he gasped as he looked up.
The sky was streaming with lights. Thousands of falling stars lit up the night from horizon to horizon. But they didn't streak across the sky at the blistering pace of meteors and space debris. They fell in slow motion and straight down. And they were burning.
A cluster of three was close enough for Samandriel to see properly and his breath caught in his chest. They weren't meteors. They were angels. And they were falling.
Really falling.
"What's happening?" Samandriel breathed, transfixed. He watched as the orange-yellow streaks of light descended, gaining speed as they neared the ground.
"I don't know," Inias whispered in reply as the nearby cluster roared in and slammed through the ice of the lake, sending up geysers of cold water. They'd hit hard, and Samandriel winced. They'd also come sailing straight through Inias' wards, which made Samandriel worry, not for himself, but for them. There were only a few reasons why the wards would have let them pass... none of them pleasant, considering.
"Stay here," Inias ordered, gently pushing Samandriel toward the door. "I'll go fetch them."
With the sky still lit up like some sort of Christmas display, Inias took off, soaring over the frozen lake toward where their siblings had fallen. Samandriel almost went inside, but a blinding flash directly overhead drew his attention. Another sibling plummeted down somewhere amongst the trees. A crash and the sound of shattering pine echoed over the forest.
Close. Close enough that Samandriel could hear the splinters of wood falling. He bit his lip and glanced over toward the lake. He knew Inias would be exasperated, but he couldn't just ignore a sibling in distress.
"Hang in there, I'm coming," he muttered, trotting across the garden and darting into the trees.