Named {PART SIX}

[mclachland]

The door closes firmly behind him, a clear sign that tells Dean he's really not welcome back at 117 Stepford Street, no matter how much Andy wants him there.

Castiel stands at the very edge of the top step, balancing easily on the arches of his shoes, and surveys the street, gaze straying to where a group of girls, too old to be called children and too young to be called teenagers, walk back, giggling and gesturing wildly with their hands. Dean watches them as they pass and feels his lip curl at all the make-up they have caked on. What parent would let their kid out looking like that?

"You liked Moloch's son," Castiel says, head turning slowly so he can follow a mother pushing a baby carriage on the other side of the street. "You were completely at ease with him."

It doesn't sound like an accusation, but Dean chooses to take it as one. "So? He's a cool, little dude. It's not his fault that --"

"I was not insulting him, or you." Castiel turns his head to look at him, the sunlight forcing all the color out of his irises, leaving them almost crystalline. "It… I was glad to see it. It made me…"

Castiel closes his mouth, like he's not sure how to get the rest of the sentence out, like he doesn't have the experience needed to describe the feeling accurately, which Dean knows is a crock.

He helps him out anyway. "Surprised? Angry?"

"Happy," Castiel decides on, lips quirking slightly. "I sometimes forget you aren't just a soldier. That you are also a brother and a friend, and --"

Dean's heart starts pounding like fuck, because there are a million ways to finish that, and he really wants to know just what else Castiel sometimes forgets about him. But Castiel just gives him that enigmatic almost-smile and deftly changes the subject. Asshole.

"Moloch knew nothing about Lucifer's whereabouts," Castiel says, and for some reason doesn't sound too broken up about it. It makes Dean a bit angry; this is why they ventured into Stepfordville, and now they've got nothing? Fucking wonderful. There's one day gone already.

"Oh, friggin' great. That means we have to go clubbing now," he groans. ""So what the fuck were you doing in there? Baking cookies?"

"No. Moloch did not have the appropriate cookware for that." Castiel says it with a straight face, too.

Dean snorts, unable to stifle a smile at the image that brings up, of Castiel in a frilly apron holding a platter of freshly-baked double chocolate chunk cookies bloated and still steaming from the oven. "Dude, anytime you want to get the appropriate cookware for that, go ahead."

A critical eye is cast on him, dragging up and down his body, and Dean suppresses a shiver. Then Castiel goes and crushes all his dreams. "Your eating habits are unhealthy enough without me adding to them."

Dean stares. "Did you just call me fat?"

"No."

He opens his mouth to protest, because if Castiel's going to comment on Dean's diet then he totally gets to say something about the amount of product that goes into Castiel's hair, when his phone vibrates against his hip. He gives Castiel a 'we'll continue this later' look, because they so will, and pulls his phone from his pocket, grateful that it survived all of Andy's knee-jabbing. There's a missed text from Sam. He flips open the phone, scans the message, and immediately presses 1 on the speed dial. Sam picks up on the first ring.

"What do you mean, 'we've got a problem'? I've told you before, Sam: never fry bacon when you're naked."

Sam huffs over the line, the sound blasting like the love child of a gust of wind and TV snow in his ear. Good thing you already ate all the bacon, you dick.

Someone's feisty this morning. "So, problem?"

Well, Zachariah showed up about twenty minutes ago.

"And you're just letting me know now?!" Dean tightens his hold on the phone until he feels the rounded edges of it biting into his palm. "Dude, you're supposed to be the smart one! Are you okay? What's going on?"

Castiel looks at him, all stony eyes and immediate action. There's no doubt in Dean's mind that Castiel's angelic super hearing is catching the entire conversation. The very mention of Zachariah's name causes his shoulders to stiffen, muscles all locking up beneath the trench coat.

Well, that's just it, Sam says, confusion coloring his words. He hasn't zapped inside yet. He's been prowling around the porch and the back, looking for a way in. He was pounding on the door a few minutes ago, trying to get one of us to open it.

"It's the wards," Castiel tells Dean, reaching out and placing an urgent hand on Dean's arm. The touch is unexpectedly hot, and because it's him, his mind totally wonders what that hand would feel like trailing up naked skin.

"Cas says it's the wards that are keeping him out," Dean says, shifting away from Castiel's hand, because there are impressionable children around and he might do something impressionable. "Looks like Raguel's doing what he's supposed to."

"I did say that the wards would not allow you to come to harm."

"Cork it."

I didn't say anything!

"Not you," he snaps, then turns to Castiel, who's waiting for some kind of order. "What the hell is Zachariah doing? I thought he was on Heaven's side."

Castiel shakes his head, a completely human gesture. "I don't know."

Theoretically, Zachariah's supposed to be one of the good guys, in that he works for Heaven and Heaven's supposed to be Good Guy HQ. In reality, he's one of those characters in movies where no one really knows what his motives are; he says he works for the good guys, but goes and does stupid shit like torture and abduction and Green Rooms and cheerfully telling Dean that Heaven totally wants Lucifer out of his box and all his hard work to stop that from happening was just… playtime.

Now that Heaven's plan has changed and the Metatron's running things, he has no idea where Zachariah stands. He'd like to think that after all that bullshit about "Heaven this" and "Heaven that" and "Heaven knows what's best for you," Zachariah'd knock off the Torment the Winchesters thing.

"Don't let him in."

Oh, right, because I was gonna open the door and offer him a cold drink, Sam snarls.

There's some kind of commotion in the background, but it's too muffled for Dean to make out. He can hear Bobby's 'I will pump your ugly mug full of lead if you don't get the fuck off my property', though.

Sorry. Zachariah's banging on the door again. He's saying something about you being in danger and that I need to come with him so he can take me to you.

"Does his rickety van have FREE CANDY painted on the side, too?"

I don't know what this is, Dean, but he's flipping out.

A warm hand drops onto his arm again and Dean turns to look at Castiel, who holds his hand out for the phone. "Dude, I'm talking."

"I must speak to Sam," is all Castiel says before he snatches the phone out of Dean's hand and brings it delicately to his ear, holding it awkwardly. Dean doesn't tell him the proper way to use it, because he stole it while he'd been in the middle of conversation. Fucking angels think they can do whatever they want. "Sam? We shall return very shortly with help. Do not go outside, and do not provoke him."

Castiel snaps the phone shut and keeps it in his grasp, even when his hand drops to his side.

Dean watches as Castiel's eyes slide shut, the dark lashes fanned out over porcelain cheeks, and that might be the gayest thing he's ever thought. "I know you're not fluent in common courtesy, but this is the part where you give me my phone back."

Castiel doesn't hand the phone over, or even acknowledge Dean's presence. His eyes remain closed, lids twitching and brows furrowed in concentration. Dean glances over his shoulder to make sure no one on the street is watching the two strange men standing on the top step of a house that isn't theirs.

Dean feels like a total idiot, which only seems to happen when he hangs around Castiel.

"Cas --"

"Dean," Castiel says without opening his eyes. "Please stop talking."

Wow, all right. Touchy bastard.

Frowning, Dean itches the back of his neck and hopes that Castiel's sudden meditation session on Moloch's front step will be a fucking quick one; he has a feeling that Sam is going to do something stupid, like invite Zachariah in for tea and crumpets. He wouldn't put it past him; Sam's always been the one with the penchant for bad decisions and trusting people he shouldn't. Man, he's lucky that no one ever approached Sam and asked him for help finding their lost puppy. Kid would've been gone in a flash.

Castiel's lashes part, baring electric blue, and he opens Dean's phone and dials with his normal, creepy focus.

"So, what was that all about?" Dean asks, unable to keep the sarcasm from twisting the innocuous question into something ugly.

Castiel doesn't seem to hear it in Dean's tone. "I was locating Gabriel."

The day just suddenly got even shittier. "Why? Can't you just call him up on Heaven's hotline?"

"If I were to contact him through Heaven's... open channels, the entire Host would be privy to the conversation. I want to verify Zachariah's whereabouts." Castiel brings the phone to his ear and waits through three rings before someone picks up on the other line. "Hello, brother."

Dean's never seen Castiel actually call someone on a phone before, and it's not as hilarious as it ought to be. Castiel isn't juggling it with all of the grace of a three-year old, or shouting into the receiver. He's doing it like he's always done it, like Jimmy Novak's muscle memory is still sticking with him.

A confused frown mars Castiel's pretty features, and Dean automatically tenses. Who knows what that bastard's saying. Probably something along the lines of 'So, I talked it over with the big boss and he wants you to kill Dean. See you at Christmas!'

"Gabriel, must I? You know that it is I -- No, I understand completely, but perhaps if you could choose another method of verification?" Castiel actually looks hopeful, but his shoulders slump and he brings the phone away from his face, staring at it with the air of a man resigned to his own execution.

A muscle in Dean's jaw spasms. "Dude, what is it?"

Castiel shakes his head and brings the phone back to his ear. Then, with all the gravity one can imbue a sentence, he says, "It is hard out here for a pimp."

What.

"That's your password?!"

Castiel turns his back to him so he can concentrate on the phone call. "You're welcome, Gabriel." He doesn't sound very welcoming. "Gabriel, Zachariah is on Earth and has been trying to get into the Winchester's safe haven. Are you aware of this? Was this allowed -- No, he cannot. I placed wards on the house that bear Raguel's name." Castiel's tone softens, pleased, proud. "Thank you, brother."

Dean huffs and toes at a small piece of loose cement that glares up at him from the grout between the bricks, kicking it down the stairs with a sharp movement and watching it bounce down until it disappears into the grass.

"Cas, hurry this the fuck up," he snarls, restless with the need to get back to Bobby's and kick that smug dick off the premises. "We've got places to go."

Castiel glares at him from over his shoulder, blue eyes narrowed and sharper than ice, but he places the desire to have a conversation with his older brother behind the need to help Sam. Any other time, Dean would have totally been all for Castiel talking to a member of his family (even if it had to be Gabriel); Castiel's gone too long without. But right now? Not a good time.

Whatever Gabriel says on the other line drags Castiel back into the conversation, and he nods, as if Gabriel can see him. "Then we shall meet you there. Thank you, Gabriel."

Castiel lowers the phone and hands it back to Dean, who shuts it with a sharp snap.

"So? We going?"

"Yes," Castiel says, lifting his chin and baring his pale cheeks to the warmth of the sun, running his eyes through with gold. "Zachariah is supposed to be working with his own garrison in Heaven, preparing to storm the Fourth Circle of Hell. He disappeared early this morning and could not be found."

Sounds like Ugly's turned colors on them. It doesn't surprise Dean in the least; there was always something dark and twisted about Zachariah, how easily he wore his vessel and that fucking smirk. And Sam and Bobby are trapped inside with that bastard running around. Deans needs to be there, five minutes ago. "Cas."

Two fingers lift in a familiar answer, and Dean closes his eyes, leaning forward to meet them, giving Castiel this small gesture of trust to do whatever he wants with it. But the caress of the mojo fingers never comes. Dean opens his eyes, and his stomach flutters at Castiel's close proximity. It's a wonder that Paul from across the street hasn't called the cops on them yet.

"Cas?" He asks, breathless. He sounds like a two-dollar whore.

Something clicks into place the second Castiel's gaze meets his, and Castiel nods. "We're going." His fingers brush over Dean's forehead, and --

When he opens his eyes, he's standing in Bobby's front yard amid dust and a couple piles of scrap metal. Bobby's house lies about thirty feet away, tall against a cloudless sky, firm against the douchebag in the suit who's currently banging on the front door, like he forgot his brick of cocaine inside and really needs a fix. The very sight of Zachariah on the porch makes Dean’s gut tighten; there's something off about it. Zachariah's never so primal, so out of control.

"Cas," Dean hisses quietly, so as to not draw Zachariah's attention from the door, but Castiel holds up a hand to cut him off.

"You will stay low," Castiel orders softly, eyes boring a hole into the back of Zachariah's suit jacket. "There is nothing you will be able to do should he instigate a fight."

He reaches out and grips Castiel's arm tightly, and Castiel stares down at Dean's hand in surprise. "Cas, staying low's not my style. I'm not letting you do this alone."

"Stubborn," Castiel growls, the word smoke over gravel. He glares up at Dean through his lashes. Fire sweeps through him at that look, burning up everything in its path. Dean's dick twitches in interest, forcing him to take a step back and swallow the reaction down to simmer in his belly. So not the time. Forgetting this morning's little fluke might be harder than he'd thought.

"You wouldn't want me any other way," he says lightly, glancing back at the house. Zachariah's standing at the window now and playing a really creepy peeping Tom. "What if I managed to get inside and get a weapon?"

Castiel takes a step closer, making up for the one Dean took back. "To do what?"

"Help?" He shrugs; he has no idea how this is going to go down. The only way to know will be to just let it happen. "Cas, if you can distract him long enough to let me in the house, I can grab something that could help."

"Dean --"

"Either that, or I'm just gonna charge him right now."

The blue eyes locked with his narrow in what looks like a mix of anger, resignation, and fondness. Dean takes a baby step forward, so close to Castiel that the tips of his boots press against the scuffed toes of Jimmy’s black dress shoes, so close he can taste the Himalayas on Castiel’s not-quiet breath.

"Cas --"

Castiel leans forward, and for one terrifying-exciting-undeserving moment Dean thinks Castiel is going to kiss him. But his lips go to Dean's ear and his gaze focuses on Zachariah from over Dean's shoulder.

He chokes down disappointment. Not the time.

"I will distract Zachariah long enough for Sam to open the door and let you inside," Castiel breathes, the tips of his shoes nudging even harder against Dean's. "Long enough until Gabriel comes."

Dean snorts and reluctantly steps away from Castiel, turning to watch Zachariah give up his assault on the front door and windows and stalk around to try his luck at the back of the house. "And where the fuck is dear, old Gabe?"

Castiel ignores him, eyes back on the house. "Be ready, Dean. I'll bring you to the door."

Except pounding on the door and shouting for Sam is going to take too long, and Zachariah'd be on him like shit on Velcro. Dean reaches into his pocket for his phone; if he texts Sam and tells him to be ready to open the door, then this might actually work.

He doesn't expect the Mack truck that slams into him, sending him backwards through the air, the wind shrieking as it rushes over the backs of his ears and shoulders. It hits him again, right in the chest this time, and something definitely snaps inside of him as it takes him by the throat and hurls him into the ground. The metallic taste of blood is heavy on his tongue, even heavier than the weight of Zachariah on top of him. He thrashes against Zachariah's hold on his throat, but it doesn't do anything except fill his throat and mouth with blood, so much of it, until he's choking on it.

Ow.

A wet gasp makes it past his lips, coloring them red, and he manages to crack his eyes open so he can take one last look at Zachariah's ugly mug and his --

Black eyes. His black demon eyes.

Then Zachariah's gone, the weight ripped away from him, and the sudden lack of douche on his trachea and chest allows him to roll onto his side and throw up. Through the haze of pain, he catches sight of the trench coat's tails as Castiel grapples with Zachariah.

"Dean!" Castiel forces past what must be gritted teeth, his name long and drawn out. It's so guttural that Dean's own destroyed throat aches in sympathy.

He'd love to answer, but he's busy with his punctured lung and crushed windpipe.

Stomach giving another heave and staining the dirt red, Dean shudders to his knees, and wow, that's painful. He coughs wetly, more blood welling up in his throat, and can't get any air in; he collapses back to the ground. If he dies like this, in a pool of his own blood and vomit, he's going to be pissed.

"Wow! Good morning," someone above him snarks, and Dean's never been so grateful to hear that voice. "I make a quick stop at Starbucks and you go and get yourself killed. How have you even lived this long? I bet you poke your fingers into rat traps, too."

"Oh, by all means, take your time. Whenever's convenient for you. No rush," Dean snaps, except it actually sounds like he's gargling syrup. The muscles in his back protest the strain as he locks up and throws up. A wave of dizziness crashes over him, too much blood on the ground and too little in his body. Dark clouds start rolling in at the corners of his eyes, and oh, Jesus, he's knock-knock-knocking on Heaven's door, and Gabriel's just standing there. Dean gurgles a plea.

Gabriel bends down, a hand cupped over his ear. "Sorry, champ, I missed that. Run it by me one more time?"

He's too exhausted and hurt to even think a simple 'fuck you' at him, so Dean just settles for resting his head on the ground -- most likely in whatever he just threw up -- and hopes it comes across as 'die in a fire, you twisted fuck.'

"Is that any way to treat your rescuer?" Gabriel sounds so far away, but Dean can just make out his sneakers as Gabriel crouches by his head. "Look at him. He's fighting pretty hard for you, slick. I've never seen an angel defend a human so vehemently."

It's too hard to hear Gabriel now, let alone process whatever stupid shit he's saying.

"Oh, fine." A hand clamps onto his arm and rolls him onto his back, Dean too half-conscious to fight it, then presses down onto his chest. He thinks he's screaming, but the next moment it's gone and the world is thrust back into crystal clarity.

Groaning, Dean pushes himself up and finds that same hand held out for him to take. He slaps it away and gets to his feet all by himself, ignoring Gabriel's eye roll.

"You're welcome," Gabriel sneers, wiping his hand on his cargo pants.

Dean's too busy watching Castiel lose his footing and fall before Zachariah, who pushes him down the rest of the way until Castiel's cheek is pressed into the dirt. He starts forward, intent on breaking some serious boneage on Zachariah's fat fucking face, but Gabriel stops him by throwing an arm up against his newly-healed chest, blocking him.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?!" He shouts, feeling coiled and barely-suppressed power in the arm keeping him from joining the melee. Gabriel could break him with barely a thought, but he really doesn't give a shit. "He needs you!"

Gabriel squints, frowning as Castiel manages to throw a hand up against Zachariah's forehead. Dean thinks he can see Castiel's mouth move, but he's not entirely sure. It looks like Castiel's trying to perform one of his Demon B-Gone specials, but nothing's happening.

"His eyes," Dean starts, but the arm drops as Gabriel strides forward.

It's so mind-boggling to think just what's contained in that small form, what unimaginable strength and power lurk beneath that annoying smile and those beady eyes. He doesn't know thing one about Gabriel's vessel -- who he was, what he did, when he was taken -- but that body knows how to hide an archangel. It's not hiding Gabriel anymore. Dean can't believe he thought Gabriel was just a Trickster.

Shadows race over the scorched earth, sweeping outward, the air crackling with the promise of a lightning show as Gabriel unveils his wings, seven points of electricity that snap and pop like fireworks. Dean runs forward to catch up, but makes it only a few feet before Gabriel pulls Zachariah off of Castiel and shoves his hand through Zachariah's throat.

Zachariah gurgles, but Gabriel ignores it and slams the palm of his hand onto that bald forehead for good measure. Dean can hear every word, every Latin, Greek, and what must be Enochian word that drips from Gabriel's pouty mouth. Castiel gets to his feet and takes a few steps back as Zachariah's vessel starts to convulse in Gabriel's grasp, the sallow skin shivering under the force of an archangel.

Dean's too far away to see exactly what's going on, but he can see the light growing in Zachariah's eyes and mouth. And fuck, he knows what that means. He needs to hit the dirt, fast.

When the light reaches its zenith, there's no explosion. Zachariah slumps against Gabriel, knees crumpling under him and dropping his hulking mass to the ground. Gabriel, little thing that he is, stands tall against his brother's weight, even when Zachariah sinks to lie motionless on top of Gabriel's sneakers.

Grunting, Dean gets to his feet and walks as fast as he can to where Castiel is absently rubbing his throat, staring down at the body that once housed an angel of God.

"Cas?" He asks, reaching out and laying a careful hand on Castiel's shoulder. It tenses beneath his palm, then relaxes, and Castiel turns to him with endlessly sad eyes. Zachariah was a Grade-A dick, but he was still Castiel's brother. It's a fact that gets buried under so much other shit; Castiel has millions of siblings. He must feel each of their deaths as much as Dean would feel losing Sam. And, shit, that's how many brothers and sisters now?

"I am fine," Castiel says, because that's just what Castiel says. "I'm sorry I could not help you. Are you hurt?"

He exhales and shakes his head, knees turning to jelly. It was another close call. Too close. "Nah, Gabriel came and played Captain Planet."

Castiel looks confused at the reference, but Gabriel smirks and waves it off. "It was nothing, kiddo."

"So, what the fuck just happened?" He toes Zachariah's dead body, much to the obvious dismay of Castiel, and he backs off at the devastated glance sent his way before it's walled back up with ice. "His eyes -- They were like a demon's eyes."

Gabriel crouches down next to Zachariah and shoves his hand into the suit jacket for a second before withdrawing it. His fingers are covered in a substance that looks a lot like oil, or black blood. It shines iridescent in the sunlight. "Seems like our dear brother made him an offer he couldn't refuse. I'm not surprised it ended like this for him. I loved Zach, but he was one twisted S.O.B."

Dean snorts, pale green walls flashing in his head. "You ain't kidding."

Castiel says nothing, just stares down at Zachariah, at the sunken flesh, the pristine suit, like it was a personal betrayal. It was, in a way. Zachariah had been Castiel's superior, and Castiel had placed a shit ton of trust in Zachariah. Even when blood had been spilled in the Green Room and Castiel had zapped the bastard out of there, it was probably the hardest thing Castiel ever had to do.

"Hey," Dean mutters, knocking his shoulder against Castiel's. "You gonna be okay?"

It's better than asking 'how do you feel?' His brother was just put down right before his eyes; of course he's not okay. Dean hates it when people ask that question, especially on the news. 'Your mother was just found dead in her apartment; how do you feel?' or 'Your eight-year old daughter was raped by a child molester; how do you feel?'

"I will be, yes." Castiel bows his head for his fallen brother.

Awkwardly, Dean shifts his weight to his other leg and trades glances with Gabriel, who follows Castiel's lead and tips his chin down.

"I'm sorry," Dean murmurs, unsure of what else to say, how many more times he's going to say it before this whole thing is through. It must be the right thing to say, because Castiel lifts his head and fixes Dean with a soft gaze.

"Thank you for saying it."

Gabriel's outright beaming. "Aren't you two just darling?"

"Fuck off," Dean snaps, but his heart isn't in it. His heart is still getting used to beating regularly again, and his throat aches. Sleeping tonight ought to be a party.

He catches Castiel's eye and jerks his head in the direction of the house, not waiting for an answer before he starts forward. Shoes scuff the dirt behind him, and Dean knows that he won't be entering the house alone.

The front door looks untouched, despite Zachariah's constant barrage against it, and Dean pounds on it twice. "Sam? Bobby? Open up; it's all clear."

"How do we know this isn't Zachariah playing some sort of trick?" Comes Sam's voice, muffled through the door.

Dean stares at the old wood incredulously. If Dad were still around, he'd kick down the door and punch Sam in the mouth. "What -- Don't tell me you missed everything just now! Weren't you watching through the window?"

"… We made sandwiches."

They're all going to die. Dean's going to need Sam at some point in time and Sam's stomach is going to rumble and that'll be the end of the game.

"Sammy, open the door or I swear to God I'll tell everyone about how you wanted to wear skirts when you were eight!"

The hinges practically snap under the force of the door as it swings wide open, and Sam pulls Dean inside with a flustered, "Christ, Dean!"

Castiel and Gabriel stand just beyond the threshold, two immovable objects waiting for an embossed invitation. Dean beckons them in, but their feet don't even twitch.

"Uh, whenever you want," Dean says slowly, and Gabriel waves a dismissive hand.

"Zach couldn't get in; what makes you think we're any different?"

Castiel tilts his head to the side, birdlike and somehow very small. "You have Raguel's name on those walls. We cannot enter unless we are physically invited."

"Like vampires?" Sam inquires brightly.

Gabriel snorts. "Hardly."

"Just invite 'em in, already!" Bobby shouts from somewhere in the house. "You're gonna let in a draft!"

"It's seventy-five degrees out!" Dean shouts back, but extends a hand to Castiel anyway. Gabriel reaches for it and Dean ducks him, waggling his fingers for Castiel to take. "Dude, come on in."

Castiel's hand, calloused from the past year yet somehow still soft from Jimmy Novak's life of a normal family man, lifts and drifts into Dean's. It's an intimate touch, too intimate for the world to see; Dean yanks Castiel inside as quickly as he can, then releases those long fingers and curls his own into a fist at his side.

"Ahem," Gabriel hocks, and Dean smirks at him.

"Sorry, champ, I missed that. Run it by me one more time?"

Instead of taking offense to having his own words thrown back at him, Gabriel looks seriously amused. The way he did when he killed Dean a bajillion times. "Cute. Now let me in; my feet hurt."

Sam frowns at him, seriously not amused. "You're not gonna try anything stupid, are you? Like, I don't know, kill us? Or play any kind of trick?"

Gabriel's the picture of innocence. "Moi? Never! Even if I wanted to, you're protected by Raguel, which is fucking fantastic, because he's been gone for decades. So, no, no killing. Unless you want me to. I'm sure if I get your permission --"

"Yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and say no to that," Sam says, rolling his eyes.

Dean turns to Castiel and is about to tell him all about Gabriel's little Winchester-killing game, hoping for some sympathy, but the wide-eyed look of shock on Castiel freezes the words to his tongue. It's the same expression he wore when he came to them at St. Mary's, disheveled and unable to handle all of the very human emotions that were ripping through him, the loss of Jesus Christ too much to bear. It's the look he was wearing not five minutes ago, standing over the body of Zachariah, another dead loved one. Fuck, how much is Castiel going to lose? The war hasn't even started.

"Cas?" Dean prompts, but Castiel doesn't hear him, just stares at Gabriel from behind the invisible barrier keeping his brother out.

"Raguel cannot be gone!" Castiel says loudly, inflection rising on the last word and turning it into a shout. "Raguel is an archangel, the closest to God of any in Heaven."

Gabriel shakes his head, all traces of good humor gone, and his gaze is as deep and solemn as Castiel's ever was. "Sorry, little bro, but Raguel's been gone for a long time."

"How? When?"

"Dunno. Not long after Christ came back to Heaven," Gabriel says with a shrug. "Barachiel was promoted to fill his spot."

Castiel's shoulders tense. "But… Why? Did he -- did he Fall?"

"Nope."

Castiel's shoulders drop in relief.

"One day, he just up and left. No fanfare, just… one second he was there, the next he was gone. Most of Heaven doesn't know; the Seven usually keep out of everyone else's -- actually, that's a lie. We don't have to tell you. It's nothing personal; it's just that we're better than you."

Okay, yeah, and that's enough of that. Dean's about to slam the door right in his face, gets his hand on the square edge and is about to swing it shut as hard as he can when Castiel places a calm hand over his wrist, stopping him. He glares at Castiel, but Castiel's not paying any attention to him, as usual. All that cold focus is on Gabriel, who stares back with bored eyes, like he couldn't give a shit if they didn't let him in at all, but Dean thinks he sees something dark lurking in those eyes. He has a feeling that if Castiel rejects Gabriel now, it's going to be final.

Castiel visibly squares his shoulders and tilts his chin up proudly. He holds out a hand.

"Won't you come in, Gabriel?"

Next

Comments

[laura-trekkie.livejournal.com]

Well, I can't say I'm sad to see the back of Zachariah, but I am sad for Cas losing another brother, and then following that up with the news about Raguel :(.

Laura.

[cotymundi.livejournal.com]

I'm just falling in love with Gabriel, he's just so kickass but clever! It just seems so right with his personality that he would go for a small vessel, hiding his light under a bushel. Obviously Dean & Sam are now safe because Gabe wouldn't piss off Castiel (we hope), but understandable that Dean won't give him an inch; makes for lots of laughs, though! Sometimes it's difficult to remember that the angels see eachother differently from the meatsuit they're wearing; I imagined Zach without the ugly fat bastard he's wearing and thought, ok, I suppose they could be upset about his demise. I'm not!

[quenderra.livejournal.com]

Gabriel can sooo be a prick, sometimes. A rather likable prick, but a prick all the same. I am glad to see another dose of him in this story, especially since you portray him so well.

[destielfan06.livejournal.com]

This Is Just too much<3
I've Always hated That Zac Beats up on dean and Cass can't do anything about it.
Gabe is just Such A Douche But i like him.

[rubyrose804.livejournal.com]

Your Gabriel is so perfect.

And your characterization of Castiel is one of the best I've seen too.

And I also love your Sam through Dean's eyes. Perfect.

Actually, ALL of your characterization is just perfect and I really can't get over it.

Marry me? : P xx