AN: I jumped into the SPN fandom sometime in 2012. This fic was written on and off since starting in 2013 (in between life things like grad school and cross country moves) and was finalized in 2017. This fic was posted on AO3 over the winter of 2017-2018. This was Beta'd by my lovely and long-time friend and and remaining mistakes are on me.

Chapter One

Will I ever see you again
Will there be no one above me to put my faith in?

– "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood," Neko Case

-o0o-

In the moment before Lucifer kills him, turning Gabriel's own blade against him and driving it through his sternum, Gabriel's reaction is split between the two opposite and complementary personalities that make up his being.

The first, the Trickster, sneers in the back of his psyche, chortling softly. I fucking told you so. The words twist in his head as Lucifer twists the blade in his gut, his grace. What did you think would happen, getting involved with Winchesters?

The second personality, the archangel, he has gone without heeding for centuries. It's hard and soft, dark and bright all at once. It is the seed of who he once was. And it narrates his life as it flashes fast before his eyes.

From the moment he first blinked awake and aware and beheld the vastness of celestial space and the bright and swirling forms of his older brothers, to stealing away from Heaven before Michael could enlist him in casting Lucifer out. From the creation of Earth, and that first strange fish that would evolve into the creatures he'd come to have a soft spot for in his long life on their world, to following Lucifer around the edges of Heaven—even after Lucifer had begun to shrink away, to become the consummate antagonistic teenager—soaking up his brother's knowledge like a sponge, playing games and practicing tricks….

Gabriel laughs at himself then, even as he looks into his brother's eyes and sees no apology for what his brother has done, what he will do.

Had he really thought this trick would work on Lucifer?

And maybe that's what hurts the most.

Despite the fights that had left Heaven roiling like a monsoon. Despite the words spat like venom. Despite the war, despite Lucifer being thrown out of home. Despite Gabriel not forgiving Lucifer, he had never renounced him. Had never turned his back.

Some part of Gabriel had still loved his brother.

Some tender, delicate piece of himself that he'd hidden away, buried under thousands of years of living as a god. Buried under sex, food, drugs, and all the hedonistic trappings he could get his hands on. Tucked away inside harmless pranks and judgment and bloody retribution that was his by right, even as he twisted it into something his Father had never intended.

That infinitesimal part of him hadn't really thought Lucifer would do this.

So when the blade slides into him, when the pain comes and with it the sensation of falling, of hurtling toward a vast and strange unknown, Gabriel stares into Lucifer's determined eyes. He listens to Lucifer's roughened voice—You learned all your tricks from me, little brother—and in that moment, he realizes the brother he once knew no longer exists.

-o0o-

They're a few miles from the hotel, Dean driving like the Devil is literally on his heels (though Sam's fairly sure, even if he doesn't quite know why, that Lucifer's dismissed thought of catching them this evening), with Kali silent in the backseat, when Sam suddenly stiffens. Long legs bracing against the floorboard, body pulling taut, his hands scramble, find the edges of the seat bottom and the oh-shit handle reflexively. His eyes roll up in his head. He sees the blur of the highway, the lights of the dashboard and beyond it all, the room they've just run from, two figures standing toe-to-toe.

Dean glances at him, probably wondering if his brother is having a seizure. He's sure Dean's about to pull onto the side of the road, when the full-body spasm releases him and Sam sinks into his seat, breathing hard, one hand coming to his chest, over his heart.

"Sam? The fuck was that?"

Sam doesn't answer. He glances over his shoulder, finds Kali watching him. She stares, eyes intense, before shaking her head, mouth thinning. If Sam didn't know better, he might think that was grief on her face. In the blink of an eye she vanishes from the backseat.

"I hate when they do that," Dean says, scowling at the rear-view before glancing Sam's way again. "You gonna live?"

"Yeah." Sam breathes in, breathes out. "Yeah." He rubs at his chest. His heart is just now slowing, blood quieting in his veins.

"You wanna tell me what the hell that was?"

Not really, Sam thinks. He watches the dark strip of the highway unfurl in front of them, the Impala's headlights cutting through the low blanket of fog that's rolling across the wet asphalt. After a moment, he breaks the quiet. "Gabriel's dead."

"How do you know that?"

And there it is. There's the question Sam can't answer. Or doesn't want to. After all, how do you tell your brother you think you might share some kind of mind link with the Devil?

It began not long after his and Dean's short-lived separation came to an end. After Lucifer had appeared in his dreams, dressed in the form of his long-dead girlfriend. Maybe that was when Lucifer had done…whatever he must have done. Used his angelic mojo to pry open a bit of Sam's mind—whatever he could get to beyond the wards Castiel had carved into his ribs—and left behind a piece of himself, a filament that linked them together.

At first, Sam hadn't noticed that slight shift of his emotions. Feeling suddenly sad or, for a flicker of a moment, incalculably happy. He blamed it on the Apocalypse, the upheaval of his life.

Until the night he nearly went off the rails at the man who knocked into him at the Gas-N-Sip. He'd been feeling strangely annoyed, and not able to pinpoint why, all day. When the man had bumped into him from behind, sending the coffee Sam had been holding cascading across the floor, Sam had clenched his fists and bit down on his tongue to keep the inexplicable rage in check.

He'd never felt like that before.

No.

The only time he'd felt like that was the night he'd killed Lilith, the night he'd gone, as Chuck had put it, "full Vader."

Then Lucifer had shown up in his dreams again, for no reason that Sam could see—other than to taunt him—and Sam had put two and two together. Lucifer's smug and smiling face as he spoke of plans coming to fruition, and the warmth of pleasure, of satisfaction uncurling in Sam's belly.

His already erratic sleep patterns became more so after that. But not sleeping didn't quell the sudden or strange flickers of emotion. It didn't stop the images in his head.

"Sam? You awake?"

"Yeah. I—I don't know how I know, Dean." I felt it, he amends silently, I saw it. When Lucifer slid the blade into Gabriel, Sam felt as if his own hand were delivering the death blow, as if it were his eyes Gabriel met in shock and surprise and pain. Felt as if it were his own heart lurching as he watched his brother die, mouth flooded with the sour tang of grief, of old promises broken, of words never said.

"Maybe it has something to do with that?" Dean nods his head toward Sam's lap and the Casa Erotica DVD that had wedged itself between his thighs during his...episode.

"Maybe. Think there's something on it?"

"Gabriel wanted me to guard it with my life, so…"

"Yeah. Our luck, he's just really into porn."

"We'll check it out, first stop."

Dean gives the Impala more gas, flicks on the radio. Sam's grateful to let the conversation drop. His head hurts. Something in his chest feels hot and raw and he heaves a sigh, closes his eyes, leans his face against the cool, rain-slicked window and tries to ignore the world for a while.

-o0o-

It's dark where Sam is. Darkness so thick, it's like something touching his face. He reaches up, fingers grasping clumsily at his forehead, his brows, his lashes. He brushes away blackness like a veil, reveals dim light and recently familiar rooms turned strange, bleak and abstract like an Escher painting, by his dreaming mind.

Lucifer stands in profile, his silhouette starkly outlined by the weak light from the window behind him. (Was there a window in that room? Sam can't remember.) His head is bowed, his eyes are closed, his arms hang loose at his sides.

For a moment Sam thinks he's asleep, but then he catches the subtle movement of Lucifer's lips. A meditation or maybe a prayer.

"Prayers," Lucifer says, his voice full of gravel and glass, "are like raindrops in the ocean." He opens his eyes and doesn't look at Sam. He looks into the shadows that stir like smoke around his feet. "I used to pray, Sam. All the time. It was expected, demanded. Even when my Father had Michael cast me from our home, I prayed. For centuries. For millennia. Down in the Cage. I wore myself raw with it. I don't pray anymore, Sam."

Lucifer takes a step back, then another, disturbing the shadow-smoke. The light from the window grows stronger.

"This," Lucifer says, "is all prayer gets you."

Darkness recedes like a tide, reveals Gabriel's crumpled form. His eyes are closed, spit and blood stain his lips sticky red; for a moment all Sam can think of is strawberry syrup. The center of his chest is a nightmare of blood and bone. An angel blade wouldn't cause damage like this, Sam knows. It must be Lucifer's affectation. But still, he can't look away from the wound, the wet gobbets of flesh, the splintered rib cage, the shining, dark curve of the heart beneath.

Lucifer says his name, repeats it like a mantra. He's whispering promises, assuring Sam this doesn't have to continue, that delaying the inevitable only makes things worse.

Sam closes his eyes, refuses to look at the angel, even when he feels fingers beneath his chin, a warm presence moving far too close.

A sudden air-horn blast of sound interrupts those whispers and Sam jolts as if struck, body tumbling forward, toward the shadows, toward Lucifer. Sam opens his eyes.

He wakes to Dean swearing under his breath, something about "assholes with broken signals," as he pulls the Impala back into the lane, tires bumping over the rumble strip, and pushes it back up to interstate speeds.

Music pours softly from the radio. Dean had actually turned the volume down as Sam had fallen asleep. And the music itself is out of the ordinary, rolling acoustic guitar and a woman's ageless, timeless voice singing.

The song brings to mind a folk tale Sam had come across in college, in his comparative mythologies elective. It was the closest he'd gotten to hunting in those four years.

He can't remember the details. Remembers only the trickery. The fox assuring the wolf that the fox controlled the tides of the ocean. Telling the wolf, it would be just fine for him to walk into the stormy surf and collect a fish. Of course, the tale ended with the naive wolf washed up on the shore, wet and stiff and a perfect meal for the hungry fox.

Put too much trust in something, too much faith, and it turns around and devours you.

Sam shakes his head, clears the sleep from his throat. "What's with the music?"

Dean jumps in his seat at Sam's voice, mutters something about scanning for relevant news stories, as he reaches for the dial, switches it to a local rock station. Sam recognizes the call letters. They're in Illinois. He's been asleep for a few hours.

Through the Impala's windows, he watches fields, wet and muddy with the exorbitant rainfall of the last few nights, roll past. Grass sways electric green beneath a sky that stretches too far and too achingly grey toward the horizon.

An hour down the road, they pull into a truck stop just outside Davenport. Dean heads inside, grabs extra-large coffees as Sam pulls out his laptop, considers the DVD Gabriel had slapped into Dean's hands before making his last stand. A busty blonde stares out at him from the garish gold-on-red cover, tits pushed up impressively behind an unbuttoned business blazer, bubblegum pink lips parted invitingly.

Sam shakes his head, snorting laughter at the ridiculousness of the cover or of what he's about to try, he isn't sure. He closes his eyes, reaches out with his mind—a variation on the push theme he'd had going when exorcising demons—looking for...what, exactly? Some magical SOS: "I'm trapped in a porno, send help?" Or maybe that cool, electric tingle of power, sharp and sweet like the air before a storm, that he's come to associate with Gabriel.

All of the angels—at least all of the ones Sam had met—had their..."flavors." Cas is warm sunlight, wind and sweet melon; Lucifer, the heat of high summer, scorched grasses and something else, indecipherable. Sam hadn't known what he was sensing until after meeting the other two angels, until Gabriel had trapped them in television hell and Sam had felt that power play over his skin, caught the scent of storms and realized what it was he was sensing, but not before he'd been turned into a car. And that was an experience he'd rather push to the back of his mind.

"Still with me?" Dean says, holding a Styrofoam cup under Sam's nose.

"Yeah. I was just—yeah." Sam takes the cup, hits play on the laptop as Dean gives him that "well, here we go" look that he's been wearing more and more often lately.

On screen, the music swells and the video starts off pretty much like any other porn Sam has seen. He lets his fingers hover over the stop button until the music shifts, the mood changing and Gabriel, all gallows humor and a horrible fake mustache, makes his appearance.

Despite all of the weirdness over the course of his life, if someone had told Sam that one day, he'd be standing in the parking lot of a truck stop, his brother next to him, the Apocalypse looming on the horizon, watching a porno featuring an archangel, Sam would have doused them with holy water, put silver to their skin and then checked them into the nearest mental hospital.

But at the moment, all he can do is glance from the video to Dean's face as they absorb what Gabriel tells them. The keys to Lucifer's Cage, re-imprisoning the Devil, stopping the Apocalypse. It's too good to be true.

"And if that sounds too good to be true," Gabriel says, "wellll, that's 'cause it is. You gotta get the rings from the Horsemen, open the Cage, trick my bro back into it, and avoid Michael and the God Squad. Can't say I envy you boys." He looks contemplative for a moment, eyes darting to the side. "'Cept for that still breathing part, I have to admit. Dean..."

Dean straightens, eyes narrowing.

"You were right. I was afraid to stand up to my brother. But not anymore. So this is me, standing up." He winks at the camera. "And this is me, lying down." The angel falls to the bed, the blonde woman pouncing on top of him, pulling his shirt tails from his pants, revealing a soft belly, the faintest dusting of gold hair.

The sound of a zipper pulling down is loud over the swelling music and Dean flicks the DVD off, startling Sam.

Dean shoots him an odd look. "You want, I can leave you and the laptop alone?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "You think this is doable? Putting the Devil back in the box?"

"We already got two rings, right?" Dean says. "Shouldn't be impossible to get the last two." He picks up the laptop, heads for the driver's seat "Let's get back to Bobby's. We can hash it out there."

Sam follows him into the car, thinking about Horsemen and rings, about iron bars.

He remembers Lucifer in his dream, the way he held himself, the soft assurance with which he spoke.

They might get the rings. Sam has no trouble imagining that; they've pulled off some pretty good minor miracles over the years. But getting Lucifer back in the Cage? Sam's pretty sure asking nicely isn't going to cut it.

But Dean's looking a little more alive as he pulls the Impala onto the interstate. His eyes are bright and he's got the radio turned way up.

So Sam doesn't mention it.