Work is incredibly busy, but I was able to get this done on time! Huzzah. Hopefully I'll manage that for the next updates, too- there are lots of departmental meetings and academies and out-of-state congresses and the two publication databases I'm managing and I'm taking on another department's database next week and frankly I'm not sure how I found time to write, never mind sleep. ANYWAY. I really hope this is enjoyable for you, and thanks so much for reading! Please feel welcome to say hi, or ask questions, or point out typos.
I'm going to go get a manicure and go play Magic, because I've decided it's spoil-myself Saturday. Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll run into that navy blue '67 Impala Super Sport 427 with racing stripes that someone around town owns. That or the '66 Chevelle Malibu.
Getting under the hoods of those beauties would make my week...
.***.
.***.
It's a walking flashback to his forty years in Hell as it steps almost daintily over the mangled steel of the doors, spilling tar and squirming, white worms in its wake.
He remembers the old ones; honestly, it's hard not to after forty years of their undivided attentions. He remembers nightmare-fuel visages, horrorshow mashups of everything disturbing the world had to offer, from gore and filth to wicked edges and gleaming, pitiless steel; he remembers the way there was always just enough vestigial humanity— hands, lips, tits, junk, the shape of the body, the way they moved— that he could never forget that they were not monsters but the end-state of human beings, of people.
He remembers the old ones, and the demon that stands atop the sundered garage doors, perfect chin raised as the rest of its body roils with billions of maggots and weeps foul ichor, is impossible to mistake for anything but.
"Dean," it says, fever-bright crimson lips curling into a smile below the bloody-edged void that sits where the upper half of its head should be. "How lovely to see you."
"Abaddon," Dean growls in return as a clot of grubs falls away from the demon's torso with a nauseating splat, exposing black cloth and a familiar print. "Loving the new look. Didn't know 'covered in maggots' was in vogue." He readjusts his grip on the Super Soaker but doesn't move to fire, fully prepared to banter as long as the demon wants if it'll buy him time. Hannah, her own blade at the ready, seems to be following his cues.
Abaddon laughs. "Oh, that's interesting," it purrs. "I didn't know you could see past the costume." It gestures down its body with a sumptuous wave of one taloned hand. Wriggling grubs splatter to the floor in a puddle of black ichor with the motion. "Do you like? They do say to dress to your strengths."
Dean wants to make some witty retort, draw out the usual stupid villain chatter more, but some deeper part of his subconscious reacts automatically when there's a strange shift in the air. Whirling in place, Dean's raised angel blade crashes against Metatron's. "What the fuck," Dean gasps as he ripostes on autopilot; Metatron lets out an equally startled curse. For all that his vessel's a dumpy little dude, Metatron is no slouch with a blade, and Dean has no time to dwell on the hows or whys of his apparent Spidey senses when it takes everything he has to predict and respond to the scribe's feints and seeking jabs. He can hear Hannah engaging Abaddon somewhere behind him, unleashed Grace lighting the room up like a tiny sun.
Sickly blue-grey loops of Grace leap from Metatron's back and flex; Metatron's vessel vanishes, but the Grace leaves a trail behind that Dean follows to Hannah. He reaches her just in time to intercept a second attempt at a sneak attack by the scribe, but his inelegant (if effective) lunge leaves him as Abaddon's primary target, not the angel.
"You're awfully sharp today, Twinkle Toes," Abaddon coos, circling Dean and flexing wickedly sharp, crimson talons that drip with the tar that seeps down its arms. Dean grunts at the impact of a vicious telekinetic blow, staggering sideways and only just avoiding a whistling swipe of those claws. It parries his attempt at a counterattack with a blasé flip of a wrist. "Did your prophet teach you some new tricks? I'll have to get in on that before I tear his little heart out."
Dean doesn't respond, just raises the Super Soaker to intercept another claw swipe. Abaddon shrieks when its claws split the reservoir tank and splatter holy water everywhere; for a moment, the maggots and tar covering its hand and arm are burned away, exposing damp, sagging grey flesh riddled with pits and open sores. Dean's able to press the advantage for a moment and even scores a hit on the exposed arm, but a second on-target blow merely sinks sickeningly into a renewed layer of squirming grubs and ooze. Abaddon trades blocks and attacks for only a few seconds more before lashing out with another telekinetic blast, this one double the strength of the last.
For the second time that day, Dean sails through the air and hits the ground hard. Concrete is nowhere near as forgiving as dirt, though, and Dean gasps as something in his left arm crunches unpleasantly. The Super Soaker clatters away in pieces, useless.
Through swimming vision, Dean sees Abaddon turn and make its way toward the inner garage door; heaving himself to his feet, he lurches after it with a roar. Wriggling white bodies fly out in a spray as Dean's blade slides uselessly through the squirming mass.
"I don't know why you persist in this when you know you stand no chance," Abaddon says as it turns to regard a panting Dean. "Whatever you've done, it's an improvement, but I can't honestly say you've been anything remotely resembling a challenge."
An invisible hand slams down on both of Dean's shoulders, knocking him to his knees before the demon. He bares his teeth up at the blackened abscess in reality and spits. "You'll have to kill me to stop me, bitch," he snarls, struggling against an unseeable iron grip. Someone just fuckin help me out here, he gasps out mentally, throwing the prayer out as widely as he knows how. Somewhere else in the garage, Metatron swears and Hannah lets out some sort of shout in Enochian, drowning out the sounds of blades clashing.
Abaddon runs one slick, grub-covered hand over Dean's cheek; visceral nausea rips through him as everything in his being rejects the slimy, squirming touch and sulfurous stench. "It's almost a shame," it muses while one sharp claw-tip traces the lines Dean knows are still there on his face. "This is such an interesting little experiment you have going, and I'm so curious to know just how far you'll take it." It bends down until Dean can feel the foetid, rot-warm air that flows from the void of its face. "You're right, of course," it says, and Dean screams as the force holding him motionless tightens, cracking ribs and completing the break in his left arm. "You'd give up your own humanity to keep your little family breathing, wouldn't you?" The grip tightens again; Dean's vision begins to go black at the edges. "Your soul, the world and everything in it, even your own brother's free will— why, Dean, I'm frankly impressed." Abaddon runs its hand through his hair; grips tight and yanks his head back. He's almost grateful that he can't feel anything over the pain in his ribs and arm, because he can see the maggots and sludge as they drip down his face, past his eyes. "Still. It's better that I nip this one in—"
The air in the garage twists again, and a new light, savagely blue-white, explodes into being. Abaddon wails, its hand and psychic grip falling away, and Dean crumples to the floor. He smiles as familiar booted feet plant themselves in front of his face. "Fuck off," Sammy booms, the very air vibrating with the force of his voice.
Dean lifts his head just enough to look up at his baby brother, celestial warrior turned up to eleven with a corona of twisting, spiraling currents and sheets of Grace. Six huge, looping currents roar out of and into his back in flowing wings of flame, spread wide and high, and Dean's never been so damn proud. "Sammy," he manages to get out. "Lookin' good, dude."
Sam doesn't turn his gaze to Dean, but one of those coils of light reaches out, warmth shooting through Dean's ribs and arm in a wave of relief. He sags, practically melting into the floor. "Stay there, Dean. We've got this."
Dean smiles, closing his eyes as Sammy vaults up into the air, shining blade raised.
.***.
It huddled deep within the inner curls of the Messenger's Grace, shivering and unresponsive, and all the Messenger could do was hold it close, all eighteen wings furled tight about its small, shuddering form.
How it was still alive, the Messenger did not know; when ey and the Largest had finally come upon the Lightbringer and eir victim, it had been so tiny and broken that it had been barely recognizable as something living, never mind a Malakh. It had reached for em, though, reached with broken wings and shattered coils even as the Lightbringer tore into it again, its whole being one feeble, desperate cry for salvation, and the Messenger still had difficulty recalling more than a few violent fragments of the events between seeing that dreadful plea and escaping from the fight with the tiny Malakh hidden safely away in the heart of eir own Grace.
It huddled, the Messenger curled around it, and the Lightbringer, held fast by the Largest, held emself with cold pride. This response is unmerited, ey said. I have done nothing more than take action against a potential threat to the Host, and yet you assault and restrain me like I am the dangerous one?
You corrupted one Malakh and allowed it to destroy another, Lightbringer, replied the Largest.
You shattered the Second Smallest, and then you shattered half of the small Malakhim born of that sundering, added the Messenger. There are thousands of them now! Why would you do such a thing?
The Lightbringer's brilliant helices and fronts roiled with exasperation. I needed a catalyst, ey said to the Largest as if speaking to one of the least intelligent of the little Malakhim, and I needed a source of power for the binding. That ey said to the Messenger. The sacrifice of one Malakh was unfortunate, but all of the new Malakhim survived. I admit they are small and simple, but none of the structures were lost, and the released energy was channelled into eliminating the single greatest threat to our continued survival. Throughout it all, that was my purpose— ensuring that the Host survived.
If that was your goal, I fail to see what savaging it after binding it into the shape of so small a Malakh was meant to achieve, the Messenger retorted.
The reminder of the tiny, battered thing sheltered in the Messenger's Grace was all it took to send a violent flare through the Lightbringer's form. It was justice! ey roared, thrashing in the Largest's grip. We were dwarfed by it, we were vulnerable, and what did it do? Ignored us, allowed us to die, left us to drift cold and terrified in a sunless void! There was no reason for that, not unless it meant for us to suffer, and now I have taught it what—
It was as if the Universe developed a grip, immobilizing all three Malakhim where they hovered.
ENOUGH, came a voice that blasted away all other sounds.
The Universe shivered, and the shape of an all-too-familiar Malakh wove into being from its fabric.
BE SILENT, said the thing that looked exactly like the lost Second Smallest, still in that thundering voice, and there was no other option but to be silent. BE STILL, the thing that was not a Malakh ordered, and suddenly the thought of disobedience was unbearable.
At least, it became unbearable for three of them.
In the dead quiet that fell in the wake of those orders, the sound of the tiny, savaged Malakh's agonized keening seemed loud as a scream. It was not visible to any of the others, not with the Messenger's wings furled so closely about it, but the Messenger could see and feel all too clearly that its shuddering continued unabated.
As if drawn by gravity, the not-Malakh's attention fell on the tight, golden knot of the Messenger's wings.
Discipline collapsed as the Second Smallest began to approach and a horrible parade of possibilities played out in the Messenger's mind. Some part of em understood that it was irrational to assume the worst, but ey had just witnessed the results of eir own sibling, bright and beautiful, committing act after act of stunning, senseless violence. Even if the not-Malakh was what ey thought it was, ey could no longer trust that it would look tolerantly upon a violation of its orders.
Don't, ey pleaded, and shied away from the thing that looked so like eir lost sibling, for what was one more transgression at this point? Ey is wounded beyond coherence; please, forgive em, or punish me in eir stead, but please— this was not justice, this is not—
The not-Malakh extended a single, vast wing— far greater than the Messenger remembered— and curved it about the Messenger with exquisite gentleness. Understanding and an unassailable calm flooded through em, and the soft whimpers of the tiny Malakh faded away with the shudders that wracked its tiny form.
Opening eir wings, the Messenger— Gabriel— looked inward with awe. The tiny Malakh curled quiescent in eir Grace, slumbering under pristine wings that seemed as if they had been cut from the starry heart of the Universe itself. The blue-white glow of eir core glimmered like starlight, unbroken and exquisitely intricate, and the sound of eir currents had all the depth and intensity of the Largest's rich thrum.
Messenger, came the One's voice. Through the medium of Its Emissary, the sound bloomed within Gabriel's mind as the purest notes, the most exquisite thunder. Ey suspected that, were ey to be exposed to that Voice in its unadulterated form, ey would not survive to recount it. Gabriel, my merciful child, my voice. Pride that was not eir own flooded Gabriel's being, filling em with exquisite warmth. There is work to be done. Will you do it?
Gabriel gazed up at the Emissary, baffled. It had been a very, very long time since the birth of the Malakhim, but their natures were written into their very beings— they existed to fulfill the tasks set forth by the One. Why, then, was ey being offered a choice? Could ey refuse? More importantly, was it safe? The One evidently regarded eir disobedience to protect the tiny Malakh with approval, but would It be so generous if ey refused this new work?
Where would that leave the Host, if Gabriel refused?
Where would it leave the little, starry-winged Malakh?
Ey did not know what ey was being asked to do or whether ey would be capable of fulfilling the One's orders, but there was really no other option. Drawing emself up, trying to look as brave and ready as ey wished ey felt, Gabriel signaled eir assent. I will do it.
Good, boomed the One through Its Emissary, and vast wings drew Gabriel inward.
.***.
Miniature wings twitched and fluttered with startlement as a slimy, grey thing emerged from the waters and made its lurching way through the muddy shallows.
Gabriel chuckled as eir little charge scuttled away from the flopping animal, only to slowly edge back up to it, coils and fronts plainly arranged in total (if wary) fascination. The dance would continue indefinitely, as it had with so many other creatures and things— Gabriel's little one was as curious as ey was skittish, and Gabriel sometimes felt guilty for how much entertainment ey derived from watching eir little charge scrabble for distance from waves, shadows, bubbles, windblown debris, and now this slow, lumbering fish.
Ey was willing to take that joy where ey could find it, though. When the One had poured Itself into Gabriel's mind, while It had worked Namings and Revelation through em, Gabriel had caught glimpses of strange, terrible things. Ey saw twisted beings of shadow, like the warped Malakh but smaller, and a place of agony, at the heart of which lay a cage. Ey saw vicious creatures, amorphous and rapacious, devouring the nascent Universe until the creation of the Malakhim disrupted their feast long enough that they could be purged and locked away Elsewhere. Ey saw creatures walking on two limbs and draped in the woven fibers of plants. Ey saw eir little charge wearing one of those creatures in much the same way that the creatures wore the woven fibers; saw the way the green-eyed one watched. Ey saw constructs of gleaming metal rolling on flat, paved paths or rising on pillars of shaped flame for the stars.
Gabriel still wasn't sure if all of what ey had seen would come to pass (or if it had really happened, in the case of the world-eaters), but it was enough to make em want to savor the peace the Host was enjoying— who knew if it would last?
The sound of wings much larger than eir charge's drew Gabriel from eir thoughts, but ey quickly relaxed at the sight of twin, sandy-hued spans.Gabriel! Balthazar called, folding eir wings with a snappy flourish. Have I got a story for you, Messenger.
The last and smallest of the Malakhim born from the second Sundering, Balthazar was also the last of those to be Named while the One still spoke through Gabriel. For all eir diminutive size, ey was bold and cheeky— Gabriel would not soon forget the casual swagger with which ey had greeted the One's Naming touch. Assigned to the ranks of the Ishim, who were the smallest and most nimble of the Host, Balthazar exemplified the quick wit and creativity that the rank demanded. To Raphael the Healer ey was little more than a troublemaker, but Gabriel liked the little Ish, not the least because ey was so kind a friend to eir charge.
Oh? It went without saying that a smug Balthazar meant something amusing had happened. Moreover, ey and Gabriel shared both their sense of justice and their sense of humor— no doubt there was a deservedly aggrieved Malakh somewhere in the Haven. Gabriel loved very little more than deservedly aggrieved Malakhim, especially when there was a good chance the Malakh in question was Zachariah.
Zachariah threw me out of lessons again, Balthazar replied, confirming Gabriel's suspicions. Balthazar did so adore the combined reward of a hassled Zachariah and ejection from the teaching circles all of the youngest Malakhim were being forced to attend.
Were any other Malakhim present, Gabriel might have made an effort to seem superficially disappointed, but in the presence of only eir little one and the Ish, ey made no attempt hide eir amusement. Ey had always found the teaching circles a waste of time, but once the Emissary's appearance had seemed to confirm the weird religion that had developed around the One, there had been no dissuading the smaller Malakhim (or Raphael, for that matter). Disrupting them was a wonderful pastime. You took my advice, didn't you? ey chuckled. Let me guess. Ey took it poorly.
In lieu of an answer, Balthazar's curls, fronts, and wings puffed up with mock outrage. What! Such impudence! ey spluttered in a cascade of histrionic, whining twists. How dare you! I am important. I am aSeraph and I know everything and you are just an Ish! Raphael will hear of this!
Gabriel cackled. Ey could very easily imagine the oily, pompous Seraph reacting in such a way. Seraphim were the taskmasters and overseers of the ranks of smaller Malakhim, and while most of them were merely boring, Zachariah seemed to take as much pleasure in having others to boss around as ey took in sucking up to Gabriel, Raphael, Michael the Largest, and Samael the Lightbringer. How ey had inherited such an unpleasant nature from Gabriel's lost sibling was anyone's guess; the Lost One had been quiet and humble, not at all like the blustering, smallest remnant from the first Sundering. As such, Gabriel shamelessly relished every opportunity to directly or remotely goad the arrogant Seraph into embarrassing emself.
Better yet were the chances to do so where ey could witness the resulting fit of wounded self-importance, or be privy to a first-hand account of the event. Ey's moved on to Raphael, now, has ey?
Michael was 'busy', Balthazar sniggered.
Gabriel had to laugh at that. If Michael's complaints to Samael and Gabriel about Zachariah's frequent 'reports' were anything to judge by, the largest Malakh had probably reached the end of eir patience and reserved one low-priority task or another for just such a purpose. Clever ruses aside, however, Michael was still Michael, and Gabriel didn't doubt that eir presentation of the excuse was painfully obvious.
Down by the fish, Gabriel's little charge's wings opened with a surprised snap! as a particularly ungainly flop brought it almost within touching distance. The motion caught Balthazar's attention, and the sandy-winged Ish sidled over to get a look at the source of the startlement.
Eugh, said Balthazar after a moment of watching. 'Love all creatures great and small' is all well and good, but that is ugly. What is it?
A fish, Gabriel replied temperately, ignoring the commentary that a certain seraph would undoubtedly find blasphemous. It was not beautiful to look upon— that was fact. Ey seriously doubted that the One particularly cared what the Malakhim thought, so long as they did their duty by protecting the creatures.
Starry wings flexed thoughtfully as Gabriel's charge gazed down at the fish, up at Balthazar, over at Gabriel, and then back to the fish again. Well, it's an ugly fish, Balthazar persisted, and one of those little, dark wings raised up, up—
A gentle, too-familiar touch against Gabriel's mind was all it took.
Don't step on that fish, Castiel, ey said, and the little wing furled itself away as tiny Castiel looked up at Gabriel curiously. It took all of eir effort to maintain an image of relaxed calm and amusement in the face of the Revelation ey had just been dealt. Big plans for that fish.
Sadly, ey watched Castiel and Balthazar go back to watching the fish's awkward progress. It would improve, Gabriel knew now. It would walk on four legs, and multiply, and the gift of thought would slowly bloom within its line. Soon it would walk on two, and then there would be metal constructs, and two-leg creatures draped in woven fibers, and some would have green eyes.
There would be Malakhim wearing those creatures the way the One wore the Emissary- more importantly, eir Castiel would be there, blue-eyed and caught up in a strange world.
Without knowing why or how they had come to meet, though, Gabriel could only hope that the green-eyed one would be good to little Castiel.
