Chapter 3

-o0o-

'Cause every time you close your eyes
You know they're right behind you and you wonder
If you'll ever live again

"Stay Awake," Dishwalla

They get to Bobby's late, despite a near non-stop drive. The sulfur yellow porch light is a beacon, guiding the Impala into the yard. It leaves the night beyond even darker. Sam's shoulder blades itch as he gets out of the car and peers into the blackness, past the hulking shapes of ruined cars, half expecting to find Lucifer watching him.

Inside the house, the lights burn bright, the scent of coffee lingers on the air, buttressed by the sharp tang of whiskey. Bobby's in the library-cum-living room, hunched over his desk, nearly nose to page with a book that looks like it would've been old when God was young.

"Don't think osmosis works on books, Bobby," says Dean. Bobby jumps—there seems to be a lot of that going around, thinks Sam—and glares at Dean. "Find anything?"

"Biblical lore's pretty unhelpful. The Horsemen will come, they'll do what they're named for. Best I can figure, we're looking for trail markers. For Pestilence...people dropping down sick an—"

"For Death, people dropping dead? People die every damned day, Bobby, it's not a neon sign."

The look on Bobby's face is unimpressed.

Sam sighs. "Dean."

"Yeah…." Dean paces, covers the library with a few long strides, picks up a book and flops down on the couch, legs straight out in front of him. "So, sickness, plagues. Anything popping up on the news?"

"Not so much as an STD flare up on a Naval base," Bobby says, flicking the TV on, volume turned low, before going back to his books.

Sam fishes out his laptop, sets up at the kitchen table to pour through online newspapers for signs of minor epidemics.

And Dean...Dean alternates between staring at the book he picked up and staring through the window. Sam counts the minutes before his brother drops the book on Bobby's desk, mutters something about needing a beer and leaves.

As the rumble of the Impala's engine fades, Bobby looks up. "Still no word from Cas?" It's the elephant no one wants to point out.

"It's been over a week," Sam says. Bobby, mouth grim, presses his nose back into his book.

Two hours later, Sam closes the laptop, eyes grainy and muscles aching, his mind none the wiser about where Pestilence might be. Bobby'd passed out on the bed in the library an hour ago. It's nearing two in the morning and Dean's not back yet, so Sam hauls himself up to the guest bedroom and falls into bed. The mattress is cool and creaky and there's a spring that's hard to avoid, but it's familiar. He and Dean shared this bed as kids, fought over it as adults. He buries his face in the pillow, breathing in the scent of cool, stale linen and lets sleep claim him before he can even begin to worry about where his dreams will take him.

He's back in the hotel. The smell of blood is strong in the air; he's smelled enough of it in his lifetime to recognize it easily. It's thick and heady and clings to the back of his tongue.

Barefoot, and wondering idly how he lost his shoes, why he was in the middle of a blood-scented room in only his soft sleep pants and t-shirt, he walks down the hall, toward the conference room. The hallway is longer than he remembers and the walls bow inward and outward in strange angles, like something out of Lovecraft. He tries not to look too closely at them.

He skirts around a body on the floor; it's barely recognizable. He wonders who this was as he catches sight of the long blond hair stained red by blood. He sees the flash of a brown eye, the curve of a familiar mouth. A mouth he sees whenever he looks at Dean's face. Their mother's mouth.

John is a little further down, hanging out of the wall like a piece of strange art, head turned almost upside down on his neck. One of his eyes lies on his cheek, held onto his face by a strand of ropy tendon. The iris gleams sulfur yellow in the meagre light.

At the end of the hall, beneath the twisted frame of the conference room door, Sam stops abruptly. Something in him shifts and he feels…less like he's in a dream, more like he's himself. Rooted in his skin. The odor of blood lies thick on the back of his tongue, sharp and metallic and much, much too strong of a taste.

And beneath the odor of death, the smell of citrus and lily-of-the-valley, sharp and sweet and achingly familiar. He'd bought that perfume for Jess's birthday, that last year. He breathes deep, catches the scent in his lungs, chokes as it carries with it the thickness of ash, the heat of flame.

He steps into the room and sees a crumpled form with blond curls clinging to half her face, stuck to the burns that dribble across her skin like melted wax. The mouth he kissed more times than he can count turns up in a wry smile. Her dark eyes roll to look up at him. "This doesn't have to continue, Sam."

Sam stumbles back.

Jess rises to her feet, moves toward him, her breath sweet against his face, her hand on his shoulder. And this feels too familiar, too reminiscent of a hotel in Kansas City, with a too big queen bed, a too empty room.

"No."

"Sam." The tone is admonishing. And then Jess's face shifts, broadens, hair shortening, eyes turning pale. "All you have to do," Lucifer begins, and Sam thinks this is really becoming repetitive, "is say yes."

Lucifer raises his hand, cups Sam's face. The gesture is too warm, too intimate. For the briefest, craziest moment, Sam is overwhelmed with the urge to lean into that contact, press his face to the cool skin, close his eyes. He could rest.

"Just that. And it all stops. No more pain. No more loss." In the room just behind Lucifer, Gabriel, looking very much alive, has slipped in close, his angel blade at the ready. Lucifer spins and turns the blade on his brother. Sam knows he's seeing what happened after he and Dean had fled the Elysian Fields. He's seeing one more life lost on his watch, one more life lost on account of his actions.

Lucifer drives the blade into Gabriel's chest. There's no white light in this recreation, only the angel slumping against his brother, eyes closed, mouth slack. Looking over his shoulder, Lucifer says, somber, understanding, "Just one word, Sam. And there will be no more blood on your hands."

"Sam." The voice doesn't belong to Lucifer. It's resonant and strange and comes from everywhere and nowhere, seeping through the shadows of the room.

Sam looks to Lucifer, whose eyes flare in surprise when the body slumped against him jolts upright, jerking like a puppet whose strings have been pulled, the slack face animating.

Gabriel's eyes narrow, his thin mouth pulling tight as he looks down at the blade buried in his chest, at his brother's hand still wrapped loosely around the hilt. "Liked it so much, you got the home video on repeat, brother?" He pulls himself back and there's a wet sucking noise as the blade slides out him. Sam thinks maybe his dreams are too realistic when it comes to sound quality.

When Lucifer speaks, his voice is so soft, so muted by wonder, that Sam can barely hear him. "Gabriel."

-o0o-

Being dead takes its toll.

Even on an archangel.

Even on an archangel who's only been dead but a few moments in the timeless span of the universe.

Gabriel hurts. The edges of his grace rub raw inside the not quite human form he wears, a form that has fit him wonderfully for over a thousand years. Right now, it's as if he's been jammed back into a place not meant for him. Square peg, round hole, all that. He flexes inside the vessel, spreading, filling the dark crevices of the body, filling it as well as he ever did.

It's not a problem with the fit.

Which means it's in his head, this feeling of being too big, too much. He remembers it. Felt it years ago when he first folded down and crammed himself into Loki's hand-crafted body, demoting himself from Archangel, Herald, the End, to trickster god. He'd built a wall between himself and the Host, with just the right amount of cracks to let him keep an ear out to what they were getting up to, all while keeping himself hidden.

He can feel them now, his siblings, though Isis had repaired his wall with an almost exact replica, save for widening a few cracks. Her not so subtle suggestion as to what he should do. But the sounds of the Host are muffled and far away and when he concentrates too much on them it hurts, like poking a finger into a sucking wound. He doesn't have the energy to deal with that decision. Not yet.

He pushes himself off what's left of the table he's been leaning against for longer than he'd like to admit. It's time to blow this cesspit.

Stretching his wings tentatively, he takes to the air, slipping in between space and time, gets too caught up in the feel of flying and almost face-plants on the couch in his living room. He stays draped over the arm of the sofa for a moment before heaving himself up and across the room, shedding clothing as he goes. His shirt peels away with a wet tearing sound, tacky from the dried blood, and he makes a note to set the thing on fire when he has more control over his faculties.

Inside the bathroom, he avoids the too large mirror hanging over the sink, heading straight for his shower, the opulence of which is certainly not lost on him in this moment. He points the multiple shower heads at his body and turns the spray on hot. Hotter than any human would be able to stand it. Hotter than conventional non angelic-magic-enhanced water heaters would be able to get it. (The human occupants of this building had quickly learned not to overestimate how far they'd need to turn their faucet handles.)

He's not above moaning as the water beats down on him, driving into sore muscles, heating his blood, his death-chilled skin. Blood washes down the drain, red then pink and then the water runs clear and Gabriel leans back against the steam warmed tile and takes stock of his body. Because it is his, as much as it ever could be, with its slightly bowed legs and long feet. The hip bones jut out and the smooth curve of belly speaks of the excess pleasures the demi-god who wore it before often indulged in, lightly muscled, yes, but there's no six pack here….but no need for exercise, either. Gabriel's human body is a form frozen in time and shape. Which is why he eventually took to decorating it.

The captive bead on the foreskin ring glitters like a jewel drop as he washes himself. His fingers swirl over the band of black ink on his left bicep—a mix of Enochian and old Norse spellwork that help keep him off Heaven's radar—trace the slim, blue-black and gold feather on the smooth flesh of his inner left forearm.

He washes his face, his torso, fingers dropping to his sternum, beneath the apex of his ribs. He feels his chest expand, lungs filling with unneeded air, the flesh holding in his breath, smooth and unmarred. He almost wishes Isis had left something of the wound. A discoloration, a delicate indent, a scar, something. Some memento for having been murdered by his brother.

Shaking his head, he sheds water like a dog, then turns off the tap. There will be no long lingering under the endless hot water. Not today.

Out of the shower, he moves to his bedroom, drying off with a thick, soft towel as he goes, letting it fall to the floor as he collapses face first onto his bed. It feels too large, too empty and, for a moment, he considers snapping up a playmate or two. A beautiful, softly curved woman he could bury his face against. A pretty man with broad shoulders and strong fingers who could work the kinks out of his back. But he dismisses the idea with a weary sigh. Instead, he rolls along the bed, taking the plush quilt with him until he's cocooned in softness and warmth. Playmates would take energy he needs to heal.

He closes his eyes, feels the weight of the blanket around him, the firmness of the mattress. The air of the room is cool, stirred by the soft breath of the air conditioner. Combined, the creature comforts bring the bewitching sensation of drowsiness. Angels don't need to sleep. Not in the same way humans do, with that complete loss of consciousness. Though he had enjoyed that on occasion—mostly when he'd found himself worn out and tangled together with a partner (or two) who was just as worn out—he still finds mortal sleep disturbing. But angels do need to recharge their batteries. Especially after traumatic events.

He gives himself over to the state. His eyes close, his breath deepens, his body stills. To an onlooker, he would be fast asleep. But he'll know, if someone should enter his home (if they manage to pass his wards, first) and would be up and moving before they realized he was awake. But he's the only one here. His wards are in place. They'll alert him. So he lets that awareness shift to the back of his consciousness and then he does something he hasn't done in years.

Every angel has a bevy of souls under their watch. Souls to guide, to assist in times of great need, to save in the face of tragedy. Some angels are more hands-on than others, leading their charges with signs as blunt as traffic signals, clear messages whispered in dreams, splashed across mortal brains like neon "Eat at Joe's" signs. Others are more cryptic, preferring to provide messages through everyday things: a familiar scent, a favorite song, the coffee grounds in the bottom of a mug. And some of those, Gabriel was proud to say, had a streak of humor which led to the occasional religious symbolism on a piece of toast or in the glaze on a cinnamon bun. Still, others prefer nothing more than to watch the show, the experiment that is humanity. Gabriel has always walked a line between cryptic and blunt, when he chose to intervene at all. (Sometimes people just had to learn through their own mistakes.)

Regardless of their intervention style, every angel had the ability to tune in on their charges. Gabriel hasn't done that for centuries. But it's a little like a human riding a bike. Or, he supposes, more like a human learning to walk. It's ingrained in the very nature of the Host.

All the previous times he had found the Winchesters, it had been more a matter of letting them come to him. All he'd needed to do was make a frat boy dance with an alien, imbue a Mystery Spot with an actual mystery, or put out a painfully obvious APB and then sit back and watch the two come a-running.

But with him being….somewhat incapacitated and Cas's little mojo on their ribs (which Gabriel commends him for, Cas always was one who thought ahead), he can't simply pinpoint their location or draw them to his. But he can make contact by relying on something even a thousand plus years playing a trickster god couldn't get rid of. That immutable connection to his charges that's imprinted on his very grace at the moment of their births.

Finding a human mind is not unlike swimming through the sea at night, your path lit only by the gleam of moonlight on a wave, the shimmer of stars, as you try to find one particular phosphorous flicker in the deep. He's not sure how long it takes him, drifting among the human minds. It might be minutes or hours before he finds the one he's looking for. It seems the younger Winchester finally decided to get some rest and Gabriel slips inside his dreaming mind with ease, finds himself rather disconcertingly back in the last position he wants to be in. There's the problem with stumbling through mortal minds. You never knew when you were going to end up with the mental copy of your body skewered like shish kebab.

Though he does enjoy the look on Lucifer's face when he realizes the facsimile of Gabriel on the end of his blade is, in fact, the real thing. Well, more or less. The look on Sam's face he enjoys….less. And damn his puppy dog eyes anyway, Gabriel thinks. That's what led to this whole mess in the first place.

Something twisted inside Gabriel when Sam Winchester—standing over a pool of blood from a man he thought his surrogate father, dead by Sam's own hand—says "Please." Not says. Breathes it out like a prayer, a benediction. A cry for absolution. Please bring his brother back.

That twists something in him hasn't been tweaked in centuries. No… Decades. Not since that ephemeral moment Gabriel had felt the world shudder as Lucifer's vessel—Sam Winchester—came into being. As that bright soul was entrusted into his care, beguiling him to go so far as to visit the child's nursery. He'd watched as Mary Winchester put her newborn down to sleep and then stole close to the crib when she'd left, leaning low over the edge, and finding a pair of warm, hazel eyes staring at him.

It always comes back to those eyes.

Gabriel takes a breath and repeats what he's afraid is going to become a refrain when dealing with Sam Winchester, "You're breaking my heart, kid."

Lucifer makes a noise, part surprise, part fury, part sob. Or maybe that's just Gabriel's mind playing tricks on him. He doesn't look at his brother. He's staring at Sam. "Put the doe eyes away. And put away any thought you have to say 'yes' to my brother. It's not going to end here, you get me?"

Sam nods, hesitantly at first, then with a renewed surety and Gabriel feels something loosen inside him. Then the dream lurches around him as something tugs at his grace. He would stay longer, maybe run his brother out of Sam's mind—Sam may be Lucifer's vessel but he is Gabriel's to watch over—only that tug is insistent, pulling him back to consciousness. So he commands Sam to wake and puts as much angelic authority behind it as he can muster before he lets himself snap back into his body.

His skin is vibrating as he opens his eyes, stares up at the mural of the sky that stretches across his ceiling, the dusk bleeding into night, bleeding into dawn. His head is muzzy, he still aches in places he didn't know existed and the itch of his wards going haywire is near to driving him insane. But he feels more like himself. Enough so that he doesn't even bother with snapping up clothes as he moves from the plushness of his bed to see what the racket is all about.

-o0o-

Now, wake up.

Gabriel's voice echoes through Sam's head, sonorous and powerful like the tolling of an ancient church bell. There's no gasp for breath, no jerking into an upright position. Sam merely opens his eyes, staring at the old water stain on Bobby's ceiling. It looks like the continent of Oceania.

The air around him is early-morning cool. Voices filter up from downstairs, along with the smell of coffee, rich and dark and beguiling him to get out of bed. But he's reluctant to move. As if he'll disturb the sudden shift in his reality.

The dream had felt real, toward the end. Real like Lucifer walking in Jess's skin in the motel, months ago. He recognized the feel of the angel. The magnetic pull, the strange lucidity that came with his presence.

But what about Gabriel? Could he be alive? Or was he just a stand-in for Sam's subconscious guilt? Or worse, a creation of Lucifer's meant to trick him? Sam had only ever had Lucifer dreamwalk in his head. He had no baseline for other angels. Asking Dean is out. Any mention of Cas right now made his brother tight-lipped. They haven't heard a peep since Van Nuys. For all they know, Cas was obliterated when he whammied the other angels out of the way.

Another casualty Sam can add to the ever growing list.

He sighs, pushes himself out of the bed.

In the kitchen, there's coffee, and a bag of savory smelling takeout that Sam pokes through, finding hash browns and a sausage biscuit, still warm. Sam wonders if Dean slept at all last night.

He carries his breakfast into the library, snagging Bobby's desk chair out of the corner and setting up on the edge of the old desk, nudging books and papers aside. Bobby gives him a look that promises a painful death if anything gets spilled on the books, before turning his attention back to the television, flicking through the channels aimlessly before he gives up and goes back to the book spread open in his lap. It's a collection of crossword puzzles.

It's never a good sign when Bobby abandons research for crosswords.

Dean tromps through the room, toweling grease off his hands, heading for the kitchen. He returns after a moment, grease free and carrying the apple pie that was in the bottom of the takeout bag. He settles on the edge of Bobby's bed, waving off a warning about getting apple crumbs in the sheets.

Bobby scribbles something for 37-down. Sam flips through the pages of his book, the same passages he'd read last night, giving him nothing new. Dean takes a bite of his pie, watches the oozing filling as if it might hold the answers to the secrets of the universe.

The air is heavy with their silence, tense with the weight of their helplessness, sour and sharp with the combined need to be doing something more than sitting on their asses.

Dean's head turns sharply back to the television. "Turn that up."

Bobby cranks the volume. The news plays a story out of Nevada. A placid looking anchor in black tie and grey jacket reads details about a sudden surge in flu cases.

Sam pauses with his coffee cup at his lips. Dean sets his pie on the edge of Bobby's desk; it's mostly untouched (and if that isn't a sure sign of the encroaching apocalypse, Sam doesn't know what is).

Grabbing his jacket, Dean says "let's hit the road," and is out the door before Sam or Bobby can say anything.

The two men share a look, one that's been passed between them innumerable times before, and Sam shrugs, wads up the greasy papers from his breakfast. "We'll call you from Nevada."