Favourites, reviews, etc, are greatly appreciated.
The Messenger watches through a dream-haze that tints their vision a thousand colours and shades at once, a mist so disorienting that they can scarcely make out the ruined world below. World-time passes unsteadily, sometimes faster than the Messenger can track, other times slower than the brown by-product of sugarcane when it's been refined into sugar.
They try to keep their gaze centred on him, the Righteous Man's brother; the Abomination; Azazel's Prodigy; whatever one wishes to call him—but it's difficult when the Messenger's mind is unstable and prone to wandering off into the void.
There's a shrill cry from what seems like the Messenger's left—because there is no space here, wherever here may be, and the inhabitants of here are squished together as tightly as possible and spread out farther than the universe all at once, seeing as here doesn't really exist, and neither does there, but they're getting off-topic again, their mind tangling itself into knots as it always does, as it usually does, as it will do forevermore because the Messenger isn't really here or there or anywhere at all, really, and they wonder if they actually exist, because it doesn't quite feel like it, but then again, how can they have thought and not exist?
It would boggle their mind—that is, if they have a mind at all.
Back to the cry, though—the one from the Messenger's left that might as well be their right, their above and below all at once because there is no direction here, and they wonder if direction is real, or if it's something the living created—stop it stop it stop i think straight think straight get your mind back on track—the cry. The cry sounds somewhat masculine, they doubt gender exists here, wherever here is, the cry that comes from the direction that is left-ish, the one that pleads for mercy—mer · cy; mərsē; noun; compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm; a word that once meant something to the Messenger—it asks for mercy, for forgiveness, for release from its pain—
—The Messenger wonders if death is like this for all beings; confusing yet with a heightened sense of clarity—
—Castiel.
The Messenger doesn't know how they know this, or why this word, this name sounds so familiar, but it feels significant in a place where nothing is ever noteworthy or significant, so it must be important somehow.
They swivel their attention from the Righteous Man's brother to this new subject, this Castiel, watching attentively as they—because they are not a he, not quite; there's something strange and otherworldly about them—begs and pleads for deliverance, as they petition a Father and a Brother and a Sister for help.
Anael and Rachael and Ithuriel and Balthazar and Uriel and Zachariah and Bartholomew and Michael and Raphael and Gabriel and Father and anyone, please, just help me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so, sorry they murmur, the sound resonating in the Messenger's consciousness over and over again like a drumbeat, this sound feeling oddly familiar in the vaguest of ways.
The Messenger blinks—or what passes for blinking in this place—and the moment is over, overlapping the next like stacked paper. They shift unwillingly to the next pocket of time, one wherein the Righteous Man's brother is alone, kneeled beside a nondescript bed, his hands clasped together tightly in a position that seems intimately familiar to the Messenger.
I don't know if you can hear me, a voice says into the very centre of the Messenger's mind, and for some reason they feel the inexplicable urge to cry back, to reassure this child that yes, I am listening.
This is probably a dumb idea, the voice says, doubtful. But whatever. I'm out of options. God, Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, fuck, anyone, I need help. My head's clear now, but I—a stutter—I'm not sure how long that's gonna last. I can feel myself slipping every day, and it's getting harder and harder to turn Lucifer down. God, if you can still hear prayers, or if you even care a little about what happens to this universe, please, I'm begging you, help me. Even if you don't want to interfere yourself, send someone. Please.
I can't do this on my own anymore. Not since Dean, and then Gabriel—
The Messenger tunes out suddenly, their mind going fuzzy like a radio stuck between stations as the word Gabriel rings in his ears—or whatever ears might exist in this plane, seeing as it's not quite a plane of existence but more one of thought, of sound and frequencies and—
Think straight think straight think straight focus this is important focus focu s.
Gabriel. That means something. That means something to the Messenger, specifically, he can feel it in his grace, or soul, or something, and when did he start thinking of himself as a he? Gabriel, his mind repeats. Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel. That means something to him, or it's supposed to. It stirs a feeling inside of him, a feeling of mixed feelings, of hatred and loneliness and anger and endless, infinite sorrow, but also of joy and a wicked kind of happiness, a thread of love and memories of a boy with long brown hair and hazel eyes.
His senses dull and intensify rapidly, crescendoing and ebbing and overwhelming him with stimulant, entire lifetimes flashing before his consciousness in a single second, the world spinning and turning and standing still so quickly he think it might burst and he remembers now, he remembers everything and everyone and how he wishes he didn't, how selfishly he wishes he could forget about it all; but there's something going on, something's about to happen, something big, something important, the world is swirling away and something's going on, something—
He blinks open his eyes to shriveled, dead plants and prickly stems of withered roses.
I can't do it, is the first thing hears, but it's not his own thought. I'm sorry.
"Sam!" Gabriel yells, despite knowing the hunter is nowhere near him. Hurriedly, he tries to pinpoint Sam's location, his actions frantic and careless.
Detroit, something within him cries.
He spreads his wings—and oh, do they ache after not being used for Daddy knows how long—and flies faster than he ever has before, knowing that the milliseconds won't make a difference.
He lands in a ruined city—they're all ruined now, he supposes—and whips around, searching desperately for Sam among the rubble, praying to a Father he hasn't had faith in for a long time that he isn't too late, he can't be too late, he can't, not when his life's just begun, it's not fair, it's not fair, Sam, where are you?
"Gabriel?"
The archangel almost jumps for joy. Instead, he turns on his heel in the direction of the voice and springs forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Sam's shoulders, irrationally afraid that he'll melt away like one of Gabriel's own illusions should he let go. "Sam," he practically moans. "Jeez, kiddo, don't scare me like that again." Niagara Falls pales in comparison to the relief that cascades throughout Gabriel's body, the tension flowing away like water down a stream.
"Sorry," Sam wheezes out, wincing at Gabriel's literally bone-crushing grip. "Ow."
Gabriel finally—reluctantly—loosens his hold with a guilty grin. "Oops. I'm just glad to see you, y'know, as not-Lucifer."
Sam laughs, the sound the sweetest music to Gabriel's ears. "Yeah. That would be kinda awkward."
"Mhm. It would make this really awkward, too," Gabriel hums, threading his fingers through Sam's hair and pulling him down for a what he plans on being a long, sensual kiss, preferably ending in several rounds of hot n' steamy sex.
Only ... Gabriel freezes the moment Sam's lips meet his, because something's not right. Something is inexplicably off, wrong, in every meaning of the word. His hands tremble as they fall from their place in Sam's hair, his mind a continuous stream of nos and pleases and whys as he stares, horrified, into eyes that are not Sam's, not anymore.
"Hello, little brother," Lucifer says though Sam's mouth, his eyes glinting with something undeniably predatory. "Long time, no see."
A Note (Or Seventeen) On Pronouns
Angels in Supernatural canon are genderless, yet they often refer to one another as Brother, Sister, etc. I've come up with a little headcanon that, in their true forms/purest forms, angels often refer to themselves with gender-neutral pronouns. Once they have taken a vessel, however, most switch pronouns to agree with those of their vessel (hence why Gabriel, Castiel, and Lucifer are referred to with masculine pronouns).
But what of Raphael, you ask? They have used both male and female vessels in canon!
In my headcanon, the first vessel an angel takes is the one that 'determines their gender' (quotations, of course, are necessary because the angels can (and often do, in my mind) switch genders. Whether that gender is the same as the vessel doesn't really matter, although it is simpler to keep track if the vessel and angel have the same gender).
So, first, Gabriel thinks of himself without a defining gender, as in this universe, he's obviously a bit lost. Pronouns are a silly thing to be picky about when you're a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, and he's certainly got more important things to focus on (or try and fail to focus on, if we're being honest).
Until Gabriel begins to remember himself, he thinks of angels as 'they', simply because angels are born (created?) genderless. This is why Castiel is referred to as 'not quite a he'. However, once the puzzle pieces click together and Gabriel re-boards the train of Making Sense, everything falls back into place; hence the introduction of the pronoun 'he' to replace 'they'.
I'm always open for discussion on really anything about this fic you'd like to talk about. Shoot me a PM! I don't bite, I promise (unless you're into that, in which case, I'm gonna need you to tell me your safe word).