Sincere apologies for my absence, real life has been hectic, and my muse took an unscheduled vacation.
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"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got till it's gone.."
Joni Mitchell - Big Yellow Taxi
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"This is a freaking ghost town," Sam huffed.
Dust kicked up around their heels. Behind them a broken old gate banged in the wind.
"It's cool, right Sammy?" Dean beamed, almost bouncing as he walked, "like when we travelled back to gank that phoenix?"
"Yeah, right Dean," Sam gazed wide eyed at the burst of enthusiasm his brother seemed to summon out of the blue. He shook his head in a combination of rue and wonder.
For Sam the eerie deserted street of ramshackle buildings was too reminiscent of Cold Oak. He repressed a shudder, thankful that Dean's brain had not followed the same route. The older Winchester had enough heaped on his plate.
"Yeah," Dean continued, gesturing with his trigger finger, "Bang Bang I shot him down. Bang Bang. He hit the ground."
"Come on, Nancy Sinatra. Let's do this." Sam gave a single chuckle at Dean's antics.
Dean harrumphed, "Gotta go with the good times."
"You wore a blanket." Sam reminded.
"And you… and you stepped in horseshit."
"I would prefer if your trip down memory lane took a different direction," Castiel winced behind them, "that time was not pleasant for me."
Dean managed to look chastened while still taking in a horseshoe decorated saloon sign with awed wide eyes, "Yeah, uh-huh, sorry Cas, we won't mention when you were running around with Crowley behind our backs, if you don't mention when I was."
"Dean!" Sam chastened with the best bitch-face he could manage. "Focus."
Some things just were not for joking about, but he never could guess where Dean would draw his version of that line.
Gadreel moved ahead of Castiel. He tightened his eyes, peering towards a house at the end of the stretch. He lifted his arm and pointed.
"Someone's gearing up to enter the Philadelphia Flower Show." Dean commented.
Sam eye-rolled, wondering if Dean had made up that event. As they approached, his own lips parted, "Wow."
A two storey colonial style home was mostly hidden behind layers and tiers of plants. A kaleidoscope of colors and shapes dazzled the eye. European bluebells mixed it with Japanese Orchids, Australian fire bushes, verdant native succulents, tiny star shaped yellow irises, and tall Egyptian bulrushes. Spring tulips and August dahlias bloomed under fruit laden apple trees.
"It is covered in angel warding." Gadreel's gaze spanned left to right and up to down, roving over the Enochian which was invisible to the human eye.
"Some of these sigils are ancient," Castiel was unable to keep how impressed he was from bleeding into his voice.
"Nothin' excluding hunters?" Dean checked.
"Or Legacies?" Sam added.
"Or Knights of Hell?" Dean mumbled, gaining another Sam glare.
"Or vessels?" Sam popped in his own awkward subject.
Gadreel paused to consider their multiple questions, while Castiel moved stealthily to check the warding on the rear of the building.
Dean looked impatient but Sam stilled his brother with a raised palm. He was willing to give Gadreel time to process the meaning of Ithuriel's warding.
"Same pattern repeating." Castiel called as he returned.
"You will be able to enter." Gadreel concluded. "However Ithuriel almost certainly knows that we are here."
"Super." Dean deadpanned.
"And," the angel continued, pointing to the left upper storey window, "this sigil is Old Enochian for 'foresight'."
"He will have been alerted to our plans." Castiel curled his lip.
"How alerted?" Sam probed for details, "Like he got an advance copy aka Chuck's writings, or did something ping in his inbox like 'hello you're being sought out by someone or something vague'?"
Both their angels looked stumped.
"We don't know." Castiel spoke.
"This is ancient magic." Gadreel repeated with sadness. "I apologize, Sam. It reaches beyond the expanse of my knowledge."
Sam gripped Gadreel's jacket sleeve, grasping into denim with forceful meaning, "You did good. We know now that the douche is probably expecting us."
"Plan B." Dean nodded.
"I don't like it." Sam huffed. Icy cold slid down his spine. Was he being watched? Did it matter? He pulled his shoulders back. "Things rarely go well when they know we are coming."
"If he knows we are coming he shoulda baked a cake." Dean whistled.
"Should we make a tactical retreat?" Gadreel suggested. "Reformulate our approach?"
Sam shook his head. "Plan C, maybe?"
"Or a mash up?" Dean seemed unfazed. He hitched his duffel with the two amphora of holy oil over his shoulder, causing the clay jugs to clatter together. "We got a doozy of a plan in the makings, and plenty of contingencies covered, and y'know, he just might open up the door and ask us how he can help. I am charming, y'know?"
"Did you dust your cheerios with happy powder this morning?" Sam looked in disbelief. He was beginning to be concerned that Dean was faking it, that this was some sort of false cheer to camouflage a spike in how the Mark of Cain was impacting him. Alternatively the Mark could be messing with Dean's emotional balance, which was a pretty daunting prospect as they prepared for the upcoming confrontation.
"Nah," Dean shrugged his free shoulder, "I figure this dick will help us or he won't. He'll have intel or he won't. End of the day, I still got the infernal tat on my arm. What's the point in going all in, if you got no cards in your hand?"
"That is the most pessimistic optimistic thing I've ever…" Sam's voice trailed away. He took a breath. "I guess we're going in."
"Sam." Gadreel cocked his head.
Sam followed a few paces to the right. It was a semblance of privacy. Dean was not hard of hearing, and Castiel, as he had reminded them in the past, was an angel.
"I know my words do not hold as much weight due to my reputation for cowardice." The angel began.
"Stop," Sam winced. He couldn't listen to such an opinion, and he simply did not believe that about the taller angel. It was fact that Gadreel had chosen to hide in the past; from other angels, inside Sam… but it was also true that he had displayed great bravery and determination. Sam pushed as much sincerity as he could into his voice, hoping to be believed. "Don't, just, don't begin that way. Tell me your thoughts. I'm listening."
Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Gadreel sucked his lips thin and bit down. "I fear a trap."
"We expect a trap." Sam responded, careful and even. Perhaps Gadreel merely needed reassurance. "The plan's got legs and branches. Plan A goes skew-ways, we got a line of dominos lined up to deal. We get inside that door, Dean or me, we're gonna find a way to damage one of those visible blood sigils, just like you and Cas explained."
Gadreel still didn't look happy.
"Look, Man, I know Dean is on the loop-di-loop today, but he's got a point, you'd be surprised how many creatures, monsters, angels, like the sound of their own voice. Gifted a receptive, or captive, audience, they wanna tell their tale. We get Ithuriel talking, and he spills the goods, we mightn't need the Cas'n'Gadreel cavalry."
"I hope so." Gadreel nodded, "It would be best if Castiel and I can respect his request for exile and not cross his threshold. But Sam, do not hesitate. Use your holy oil. Do not flinch in setting it alight, as he will be fast, faster than you can imagine. We will be there as soon as we can enter. Stay safe, Sam."
Sam appreciated his concern, his care, and his support more than he could say. Here mid-action, with his brother and Castiel at their sides, preparing to face a potentially formidable foe, he wished he had the time and the words to explain how much Gadreel having his back meant to him. He wished he hadn't rushed so much back in Lebanon, that he had taken Gadreel aside and explored their nascent attraction, maybe shown with touch and affection how much he wanted this new relationship in his life. But there wasn't time. All he could do was run a hand through Gadreel's short hair. He cupped the side of his neck, pulling him closer, almost knocking their foreheads together and whispered into the angel's barely parted lips, "Thank you."
"Get a fricking room." Dean snorted. "Come on, Samantha, time's a running."
Castiel cleared his throat, "You stay safe too, Dean."
"You know me, Cas." Dean winked.
"Too well," Castiel half-smiled, "Stay safe."
"Right, yeah, you too, Cas." Dean's cheeks flushed.
They were hopeless, blushing and smiling just for each other, but never doing more. Sam watched a small satisfied smile break on Castiel's face. With a quick wish for his brother or Cas to finally make a move, Sam tipped Cas's arm.
"If you're waiting for the right time, or a peaceful time, or for Dean or you to be ready," he whispered quickly into the angel's ear, "Don't. Gadreel has shown me, there's never a 'right' time, there's only now."
Leaving a speechless Cas behind, Sam strode to join Dean at the gate to the unnatural blooming garden. Over his shoulder he threw a quick quirked lip smile of okey dokie-ness, that he didn't really feel, towards Gadreel. He couldn't fool his angel. Gadreel's brows tightened but he gave a firm nod to show he had seen.
Dean jerked his head towards the house, asking if Sam was ready. Beady eyed for every nuance of Dean's behavior, Sam caught a chink in his brother's false bravado. Before he reached for the garden gate catch, the older Winchester scrubbed his hand over his lower face. It was a tell. Dean was more concerned and more invested in this than he had let be known.
"Let's do this." Dean growled, rounding his shoulders and pushing the silent gate open.
In front of them the house door swung open. The agency of the action remained unseen. If ice slid down his back before, now Sam broke out in unpleasant gooseflesh. There was power in this place.
Taking point, he stepped over the threshold, as Dean bellowed out a 'Hello'.
The very moment that both Winchesters set foot inside, the scene changed from a typical suburban foyer to a Versailles style opulent hall with white walls and large gilt framed mirrors.
"Freaking angel fashion, did they all stop looking at décor in the seventeenth century?" Dean looked distinctly unimpressed. "'s just like the Green Room, Sam."
"I designed that room." An offended voice preceded a large eared unremarkable man with flat greasy chocolate brown hair. Ithuriel's vessel was young, maybe mid-twenties. His visage belied his true age, which could cause a disconnect in hunters inexperienced in dealing with the angelic. Sam wondered if sneaky ones hiding their power, like this dude or Metatron, deliberately chose such inoffensive meatsuits. It didn't fool him.
Ithuriel continued to glare at Dean.
"Way'd it go, Dean." Sam hissed, peeved at getting off on the wrong foot with their target.
"I kinda liked the Green Room," Dean backtracked. "It had a certain something, until the door vanished."
Ithuriel's lips twitched. He contorted his voice into a mocking snarl. "Dean and Samuel Winchester, to what to I owe the pleasure? Why have you disturbed my peace?"
Sam let the smallest expulsion of held breath. His guard stayed up 110%, but they had not immediately had to fight, or been blown to atoms.
Dean spread his hands palm open in a gesture of truce. Ever so slightly, his right pinkie finger extended too far, pointing near the floor beyond Sam's leg. Straining his pupils to look only with his eyes, Sam noticed behind the gilt embellished leg of a display table, their target sigil decorated the otherwise pristine looking wall. Predictably Winchester Luck meant it was placed at an inconvenient level for subtly scratching through while the angel wasn't looking.
"We aren't here for a fight." Sam prepared to attempt diplomacy.
"Despite my wards indicating that two angels approached with you, and both remain outside?" The ancient one interjected with bite.
Sam swallowed. It was time to take a risk. He met the angel's glare. "Cards on the table?"
Ithuriel nodded with narrowed eyes. Dean looked wary.
"My brother bears the Mark of Cain." Sam puffed. "We hope you have knowledge of how we can, what we have to do to, remove it?"
With a harsh bark of laughter complete with puffing snort, "Remove the Mark of Cain? Do you take me for a fool?"
Sam blinked at the angel's disbelief of his openness.
"You come in here bearing holy oil and angel blades! Who are you working for? Did the new regime send you as bounty hunters to return with the errant rogue?"
"No. We came to ask…" Dean tried through gritted teeth. Closed fists showed his temper on the rise.
"You will hand over your weapons," Ithuriel demanded, a glow of power lighting the back of his eyes, "and face the consequences of coming here."
A cast of Dean's pupils towards Sam was the only indication of Plan F (aka we're fucked, go for it Sammy). Sam stooped to slide his angel blade across the ground. Dean flung his before taking the strap of his bag off his shoulder. A victorious smile tilted Ithuriel's lips, but Dean didn't simply hand over their holy oil. He threw the bag at their opponent, who instinctively reached to catch them.
Sam dived, full body length, stretching his hand and Ruby's knife to stab through the blood sigil.
Dean attempted a rounding body kick at Ithuriel but was flung through the air, sliding across the marble floor and into a leg of the ornate central table.
The sigil glowed. Then the light from it dissipated.
Castiel and Gadreel burst through a door, which appeared simultaneously with their entry, from the rear of the long room. Both seemed nonplussed for an instant by the 'green room' interior of the suburban home. It was enough for their elder foe to gather his wits.
"Trespassers." Ithuriel bellowed in accusation.
Light shot from his hands hitting both Castiel and Gadreel smack bang in the middle of their chests. It did not seem to harm them, as fellow angels, although Castiel winced at the impact. Rather it caused both to stumbled back slightly following the trajectory of the shots. With a few words of power in Enochian, circles of holy oil blazed around their feet.
They had expected Ithuriel to be wily. A trainer of garrisons was bound to have tricks up his sleeve, but things had gone south fast. Sam closed his eyes for a beat, racking his brain for an out.
"Castiel," Ithuriel prowled closer to his target, ignoring or forgetting the human threat. "At my mercy, full of stolen grace that bubbles and contorts in its unnatural cage. Does it make you sick? In here?"
Ithuriel flicked off the middle button of Castiel's shirt with the tip of his angel blade, before drawing blood from a shallow wound.
"Don't." Dean growled.
"I will do what I want." The angel crowed. "There is no one to stop me, no Father, no archangels, no rule. Castiel saw to that."
Castiel looked pained. "Brother, we came in peace."
"Sneaking in the back door." Ithuriel scoffed, "With back up."
He turned his attention on Gadreel.
"Who did you rope into your schemes, Castiel? Or has Hannah sent you a warrior in your mission to round up all who want nothing more to do with Heaven?" He crossed the short space between his prisoners. "I listen to the celestial wavelengths. I am not ignorant of developments. And look at what she sent you, huh, he's sweating, Castiel. Did you get an untested rookie?"
Sam held his breath.
Gadreel straightened his spine, meeting Ithuriel's eyes.
The elder angel sucked his breath in recognition.
With a cry of "Traitor," in the blink of an eye, he drew his blade back and stabbed forward.
Hampered by the containing fire, Gadreel could only dance sideways and grab for the blade. It sliced his arm and through his side, horrific brightness escaping his body.
As Gadreel slumped to the floor, Dean grabbed one of their blades from the table and, moving like lightning, jumped Ithuriel. An animalistic, almost fearfully demonic, growl broke from his throat as he ran Ithuriel completely through. Another blaze of terrible grace light signaled the end of one of the oldest angels.
Sam experienced Ithuriel's end as if it happened on screen, on a dusty movie reel from the Men of Letters store. As the dead angel's illusion of grandeur crumbled into the dust around them, Sam stepped into a reality of fetid air, grime, mould, cobwebs, decay, and Gadreel mortally wounded, braced at an unnatural angle against a paint flaked doorway.
"Sorry, Sam, we'll never know what he knew," Dean huffed, poking his boot into Ithuriel's ribs.
Sam couldn't hear him. Later there would be time for regret about another dead end. Now, Gadreel lay slumped over, pale and unmoving, light continuing to leak from his side between his splayed fingers…
… and Sam couldn't bear it.
He had lost so many people, too many people, family, friends, those he loved, and he couldn't. He wouldn't do it again.
"Cas," His voice scraped across his dry parched throat. "Can you?"
Dean had freed Castiel from his circle and he had scuffed out the fire around Gadreel too.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel's eyes were dark and wide with sympathy. "This grace, it strains to heal my small wound. I do not have enough reserves. I am sorry, Brother, there is nothing I can do."
Gadreel made a faint headshake. "No regrets, Castiel."
He gazed up at Sam, who crouched to be nearer, balls of his feet on the persistent curved marked scar of oil burn. "Sam, I wish…"
"No." Sam refused to hear. He grasped the hand not covering the awful wound. Disregarding cold slick blood and fluids from Gadreel's arm injury, Sam squeezed and gripped on tight. "No goodbyes. Not losing you. Not losing Dean. No-one gets left behind."
"My grace is thinning." Gadreel stated. "It will not be long. I had a brief second chance."
"No." Sam repeated, anger blazing inside smothering sparking sorrow. "I won't allow it."
He wanted to press his full body unto Gadreel, use his whole being as a dam to stop light seeping from his weakening body.
"It is pointless. I am lost."
"No." Sam growled again. "Goddamn it. There must be some way."
"My grace is almost gone." With a closed mouth smile Gadreel simply beseeched, "Sam, do not mourn."
"You don't give up." Sam shot back. "I mean it, Gadreel. Don't you give up. You fight this. There must be something. It can't be fatal. If we get you back to the bunker, you could recuperate, slowly, might take time."
"Sam." Castiel put his hand on Sam's sleeve. "He had lost a lot of grace, and blood."
Casting his eyes down, Sam could see blood pooling from beneath Gadreel's hip. Grimy snarls of black dirt swam on the surface of spreading red.
"Dean, get the first aid kit. We'll bind it." Sam barked the order at his brother, who blinked, slow to move. Sam perceived it as an eternity before the force of his glare impacted Dean enough to get him going for their supplies.
"Thank you, Sam, but stemming my physical wound will not replenish my grace." Gadreel licked his lips. He tugged weakly on Sam's hand, "Will you sit with me?"
"While you die?" Sam practically howled. His chest tightened vice-like. His inner child bawled that he never got to keep a friend. His adult brain point blank refused to consider that conclusion. He raced through scenarios, possibilities, down dead end alleys and back again. Tossing his head toward Castiel, he pleaded, "Is there nothing we can do?"
With sucked in lips, Castiel shook his head ruefully. "If I possessed my own grace, I could donate a measure, enough to allow healing to begin. If you still had a little of his grace in you, Sam, but we don't."
Searching his mind in desperation for anything they could do to save Gadreel, anyone they could call on in time to heal him. He blurted out, "Cas, is there someone you could call?"
"If they came, they would not aid me." Gadreel expressed in resignation, his pariah status biting into Sam's core. A rattle developed in his breathing. He stretched his neck as if trying to relieve his pain. With a note of unwelcome acceptance, he pleaded brokenly, "Be my Rit Zin."
Not knowing if Gadreel meant for Castiel or for Sam to put him out of his misery, the hunter would not listen. He hushed the fallen angel by pressing their closed lips tight together. Pulling back, Sam rested his finger against Gadreel's dry lips, unwilling to let him repeat his plea.
"No freaking way." Sam denied. "You left grace in me. Latch on to what's left. Use it."
Gadreel looked at him with sad eyes. "Not enough."
Sam wheeled on Cas. He sucked a breath, daring to snatch onto a slither of hope. "There might be. Remember, you couldn't extract every particle of Gadreel's grace? Remember, it was too dangerous. There must be a little. What do we do?"
"Sam. Virtually nothing remains." Castiel tired to reason.
"Nothing what?" Dean asked, dropping beside Sam with their emergency medical kit.
"Gadreel needs a grace boost. Only hope. Could be a piece still in me." Sam surmised in rapid shot words.
"I don't like the sound of that," Dean bristled. "How does he get it? Take you over?"
Gadreel gulped. "No. Not effective, and it is too late to change vessels."
Sam pinned Castiel, staring with the full force of his urgency, "Tell me."
"You are human. I am not sure it will work, but you must access the grace in your soul and pull at it. Pass it to Gadreel. There are Enochian words that will assist but you have to use your willpower and effort to succeed. Gadreel will make it so he is open to receive and absorb the grace." Castiel pursed his lips, "We have a chance. A very slim one. You know how to access internal power. You will have to reconnect to that ability, Sam."
"What?" Dean squawked.
Sam nodded gravely. He understood. Finding celestial grace hiding in his soul sounded a lot more difficult than tapping into the exhilarating power of demon blood, but if the practicalities were the same, then it was possible. One final glance at dimming light emerging from between Gadreel's fingers and a pinkish bloodied fleck on his lips was enough to seal the deal.
"Hit me, Cas. What do I do?"
"Sam," Dean warned. "What's this gonna do to you?"
"Nothing, Dean." Sam glossed over any fears he also held, "And if it does, we'll deal with it, but this is Gadreel's only chance. And I am not losing him. Do you hear me?"
"And damn the consequences?" Dean returned, but there was a faint conciliatory slant of understanding to his posture.
"I gotta try," Sam gulped. He tasted ashes and dust. Hopelessness showed its face, but Sam turned his back on it. "I havta try…. If I don't try…"
Dean swallowed hard. He looked at Cas, who locked eyes with him. With a sparse nod, Castiel communicated that the effort, though likely futile, was not perilous for Sam.
"I get it." Dean gave as a terse blessing.
"Will you?" Sam licked his lips, beseeching Gadreel with his gaze. "Gadreel, my friend, my… Will you let me try this?"
Almost as if it was his final parting gift, Gadreel returned liquid gaze, profound and filled with affection. "Yes, Sam."
"Let go of Gadreel's hand." Castiel directed.
With reluctance, Sam obeyed, painful as it was to withdraw his touch.
"Kneel in front of him, so you are level. It may work better if you close your eyes. Focus, Sam. Focus. Use your determination, your drive to save Gadreel, and find the grace deep inside."
Darkness, his own heavy deep nasal breathing, lazaring in on his centre, sharpening all his desperation and need to save Dean, save Gadreel, not to lose anyone, the love he wanted, the future he needed, the conviction that there was something still there, some angelic power deep deep inside.
He dug deeper, tugging and drawing on a part of his being that he had not attempted to touch in years. Buried in the depths of his soul was grace, power that could heal Gadreel. He trembled. He inhaled hard, body demanding oxygen. A trickle of blood fell from his nose. His brother shouted something at him. Grabbing hold of the celestial remnant inside, Sam ripped at it.
Multitudes of wings beat in his eardrums. He soared and dived. Six wings unfurled from his spine and he was taller, taller than seven feet, eight, taller than the buildings of the abandoned settlement, wider than the desert. Bright dazzling power sang through his veins. It strained to spill from his body and whiteout the world, but Sam kept hold on it with might and will.
From a distance, intoned words of power in Castiel's voice penetrated his mind. With massive effort, Sam played back the Enochian in his own voice.
Feeling the grace rise, he shot open his eyes. If he'd pictured anything, it was light leaving his mouth like an angel or demon de-possessing a vessel, put unknown to his conscious mind, Sam had raised two joined fingers and pressed them to Gadreel's temple. A continuous flow of light, steady and powerful, moved from Sam, binding, healing, and remaking Gadreel anew. The angel's face appeared to glow from within. Energy wrapped around him like fast moving vines, holding him up before merging into his body. Sam saw his vicious wound close up and heal. He sighed in relief, shoulders sagging as all taut tension left his body.
When it was done, Sam felt whole, at peace, relieved and awed. Gadreel, looking equally stunned, hefted his healed body forward to catch Sam in a grateful, amazed and loving hug. He pressed a kiss behind Sam's ear, whispering devoted gratitude.
Sam quipped, "I gotcha."
"You did." Gadreel promised, "You do."
"Thought y'said there wasn't enough." Dean puffed above them, "'Cause that was about as opposite as hellfire and holy water."
"Unexpected," Castiel commented with understatement.
"Y'freaking glowed, Sammy," Dean whistled.
"It wasn't mine." Gadreel muttered into Sam's skin.
"You said what?" Dean jumped.
"Grace was Lucifer's." Sam mumbled back, not letting go of Gadreel for one moment, holding him there, healed and whole. Whether through blessedness or devilry, the most salient and amazing result was Gadreel, safe, alive, not on the precipice of death, and in Sam's arms.
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