a/n: for ray. inspiration from /closed doors/ by 'keep my issues drawn'.
They have always been close, even when they were not human. He can remember the look on Shamsiel's face, breahtakingly ecstatic, as they rose from the nothing of the universe, two of the first angels to take their place in the ranks of Heaven as watchers and guardians - Grigori. Even then, they had been paired, blood-brothers by His divine providence; he remembers the rustling of thousands of wings, the spiritual bliss of His embrace, the rapture on his partner's features as Shamsiel said "Daniel," voice like a gentle roar, and he responded in kind with a sudden, longing "Shamsiel." They had held each other, then, along with their brethren, marveled in the glory of sentience and sensation, and Shamsiel's face was brighter than the sun. Younger by the merest second, yet they could have been timeless in that place, safely ensconced in the workings of His power, observers and caretakers of the new plane called "Earth" by their God, content in the security of each other. Heaven then had been a softer, newer realm, not quite as bitter as it would later degenerate into, not so filled with seraphs and cherubs tearing each other apart for a chance at the empty throne. He had held Shamsiel, his junior, marveled over him, whispered, "I love you."
"Oh my God," Sam croaks from beside him, face soot-stained and mouth agape, pointing at the clouds. "Dean, Jesus Christ, that's-"
Dean looks up, peering into the gray clouds, and suddenly, he sees bright orange flashes, flares of crackling fire amidst the night sky tearing across the blackness like a knife. Out of the atmosphere comes the most unearthly sound he's ever heard, a fucking orchestra of inhuman screaming that sounds like a broken glass soprano, and he stares more intently and sees what he's looking for. Human shapes, clad in red and gold, streaking from the heavens, their wings trailing away behind them, feathers crumbling into dark ash as they peel away from their backs.
"Angels are falling," he says, terrified. "Angels are falling."
Sam's got this look like he might cry, and that terrifies Dean more because - no, he promised that it would never happen, not while he's here - and he reaches out and grasps Sam's hand. His brother turns to him, shaking all over, a miniature earthquake, and Dean's heart could break right there. All of this feels familiar, not just childhood-familiar but more intrinsic and ancient, a needful, old gesture dredged up now in their greatest time of anguish. Dean rubs the space between Sam's knuckles, smiles and tries not to let the fear show.
"Don't you worry," he tells Sam, "it'll be fine."
His brother's trying so hard to believe, he really is, but suddenly it's not enough and Sam, although he's taller, is clinging to Dean for dear life, as though anything else short of this might just leave him as vulnerable as a leaf in a hurricane. Sam needs meaning; Dean tries to provide it.
"I swear to God, Sam," he blurts out, voice shaky and not at all sure, "that we'll get through this, if it's the last thing I ever do. You hear me?"
Sam's sobbing openly, muttering a halfhearted "Yeah" through the tears. Dean holds him, looks back up at the angels, and feels the most profound sense of sympathy; he remembers, in that moment, and murmurs, "God help us now" in a tiny, trembling whimper as the skies blaze and Heaven topples.