Sinner's Angel
The morning found Gadreel meditating in a small storage room, the only place where he could be sure not to disturb anyone. His strength was returning in small increments and he was grateful for a few hours of peace and silence where he could, in essence, heal himself. Even so, he could hear the Prophet on the far side of the bunker, his shuffling feet and the tune he was humming, followed by a clink of glass and gurgle of the coffee maker. In the deep hours of the night, both Winchesters slept, more or less peacefully. The Prophet, however, only slept an hour or less at a time before he returned to work, and even those short naps seemed unintentional and restless. The rustle of pages and the soft scratch of a pencil had been surprisingly comforting, helping Gadreel’s concentration instead of breaking it.
He’d spent the evening wandering the bunker, memorizing the locations of all the devil’s traps and the runes carved into the walls and floorboards. He’d had his doubts when Dean Winchester had called it a safe place, but it would seem that his assessment was correct. The bunker was not only impenetrable, but its design ensured that an intruder would be at a disadvantage every step of the way. Throughout his wanderings he’d found his way back to Sam’s door many times, because ‘later’ was such an uncertain term, so incomprehensibly human, that Gadreel could not begin to guess what it meant. Each time he found Sam and Kevin deep in discussion behind the closed door, a discussion that seemed focused on deciphering the Angel Tablet. In the end, Sam had gone to sleep and Gadreel had deduced that ‘later’ must have meant ‘the next day.’
In a few hours, when the sun was fully in the sky, he would attempt to visit Sam again. The thought filled him with anxious anticipation. So far, the man had proven to be utterly unpredictable. He’d woken a day too early, his responses, memory, coordination, everything in a much better condition than should have been humanly possible. Only Gadreel knew how weak his heart was, how much of his lung function was below normal.
He had to admit that he’d had certain expectations. Passion and intellect and cunning, attributes Lucifer’s vessel could not do without. He should have expected the man to be a warrior too, with a warrior’s strength and resilience, yet he hadn’t. But most of all, he’d been surprised by Sam’s understanding. He was not accustomed to kindness, and he certainly had not expected it to come from a man who had lost so much, who had given up so many things dear to his heart in an endless battle between good and evil.
There was much Gadreel did not know about human nature, but he was already convinced that Sam Winchester was extraordinary. There was an odd and unexplainable yearning, deep below his borrowed ribcage, to see Sam Winchester fully recovered, tall and indestructible. To see the warrior within him free of wounds.
Once he recognized Dean Winchester’s footsteps across the bunker hall, he let himself sink deeper and tune out the noises around him. Sam now had his brother to watch over his sleep. Gadreel could relax and drift for a while, free of worry.
Hours went by, undisturbed.
When Dean Winchester’s call came, Gadreel felt his panic like a sharp blade, cutting across the space between them. In the background and almost overpowered by Dean’s frantic tone echoed Sam’s painful gasping, a failing struggle to take in a full breath. He attempted to materialize at the source and nothing happened. Now feeling faint panic of his own, he attempted it again and again until he realized that the Bunker’s defenses prevented it. He had wasted valuable time trying to do something he should have known would not work. Rushing to the source on foot, he broke the storage room door, bent the railing and knocked Sam’s door off its hinges.
He found the man on the bed, his hair plastered to his head, the sheets wrapped around him sopping wet and dripping on the floor.
“He got in a shower,” Dean said, fury warring with fear in his voice, “all on his own, without saying anything.”
--
“Tell me about your vessel.”
The physical exertion and the healing would have exhausted any other human being. It had exhausted Gadreel to the point where he’d settled in a chair next to the bed without a complaint. Sam looked worn out and pale, yet his eyes were clear and inquisitive, if anything, sharper than they had been the day before. He should be sleeping. Resting. It would help him recover and gain strength faster, but no amount of his brother’s pestering would change his mind. Gadreel decided not to make a similar attempt. At least Sam had agreed to eat, which explained the crash of pots and pans coming from the kitchen, where Dean Winchester still fought fury heavily laced with relief.
“What would you like to know?”
Sam shifted carefully so he was lying on his side, head propped up by two damp pillows. His hair was still wet from the shower but the edges had started to dry and they curled softly around his jaw.
“Why did he agree? To become your vessel, I mean.”
“He had been contemplating suicide instead.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was unhappy. He prayed for a cure for his condition, but none came. Then he prayed for some sort of release without having to commit suicide, which in his mind and in the eyes of Heaven would be considered the ultimate sin.”
“So he just let you in instead of killing himself? What happens when we reopen the gates of Heaven and you go home?”
“I had promised to take his soul with me. It will be difficult but not impossible. I intend to keep my promise.”
“What condition did he have? Cancer?”
“No. It was not physical affliction. At least, not at first.”
“Oh,” Sam said, forehead wrinkled in thought. “So he’s... is he still in there?”
“Yes. He has a small assortment of happy memories and seems to prefer reliving them.”
“What happens if he decides he doesn’t want you anymore and doesn’t want to die?”
“I don’t believe that is likely to happen.”
“Why not?”
“He has abandoned the flesh and bone to the furthest extent possible for a simple human being. If I were to leave without his soul, he would stay buried deep, unable to find his way back.”
“Like being in a coma?”
“I am not familiar with all the meanings of that word.”
Sam shut his eyes for a moment.
“Never mind. What if... suppose he somehow found his way back? And wanted you gone? Then what?”
Gadreel tilted his head in confusion.
“I do not understand. He should not be affected. The possession does not damage the vessel, at least not possession by one such as me.”
“You would just leave?”
“I can not possess a vessel that does not want to be possessed. Nor would I want to.”
The answers were obvious yet Sam looked relieved, as if he’d not been certain of them beforehand. Strange, coming from one who had experienced being possessed by Lucifer. Sam, of all people, should know that without consent, there can be no possession.
“You wings are hurt,” Sam said.
“They will heal.”
“They were bleeding, in the hospital. I saw the glass cutting into them.”
“I was tired and weak and I could not control them as well as I would wish. I am sorry if this caused you any discomfort.”
Sam sat up carefully. His arm shook where it fought to keep him upright.
“Can I see them?”
“I do not understand.”
“You wings. Could I see them again? Or is that-- I’m sorry, is that a wrong thing to ask? Will it hurt them? Showing them to me?”
“No, I-- no, it will not hurt them but-- if you want to see angel wings, perhaps Castiel’s would be a better choice? Mine have been marked. After the trial. They are not an accurate representation. You will be disappointed.”
“Try me,” Sam said, his lip curving slightly. “I don’t get disappointed easily.”
“Very well.”
It did take a certain amount of concentration, made much harder by Sam’s expectant expression. However, it was almost a relief to unfold them fully, to make them as present in this plane as Gadreel himself was. They hurt. From the moment he fell, his wings had become a constant and unrelenting ache he could not ignore. He had been ashamed of them before, black as they were, a stamp of his guilt that could not be hidden. That shame seemed so vain and laughable now, compared to the painful mess they had become.
The soft awe on Sam Winchester’s face surprised and distressed him. It was the second time he faced something so unlikely, something that should never, in any way, be connected with him. He was no better equipped to deal with Sam’s unexplainable awe now than he had been the first time. He focused on the ground instead, not sure if he could hold the man’s eyes once he met them. The light of his grace created strange patterns and he studied these silently, avoiding the shadow of the skeleton bones and twisted feathers. With his gaze locked on the space between his worn sneakers, he did not notice Sam reach out one trembling hand, but he felt the gentle touch against the torn wing. He shuddered in shock, the warmth of it traveling through his spine, coiling somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.
Sam was already pulling back quickly.
“I’m sorry, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to, I just-- “
“You did not hurt me Sam,” Gadreel said, “it is not as easy as that, to cause them harm.”
“But at the hospital-- the blood--“
“They were not bleeding. I had forced them to take physical shape and in that physical shape they were hurt. You perceived them as bleeding because this would be a natural physical reaction on your plane of existence.”
Sam frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
Gadreel opened his mouth to try and explain it again when he noticed a distinct lack of noise from the kitchen.
“I believe your brother is on his way back.”
He folded the wings back up, cringing slightly at the insistent burn between his shoulder blades. Once they were gone from the view and the glow of his grace dissipated, the room seemed darker than before. It was odd, with all the technology humans were capable of, that they preferred such soft and ineffectual lights.
Faint disappointment flashed across Sam’s face quickly, only to be replaced by a small frown.
“Will they heal? On their own? Is there something we could do to help?”
“They will heal on their own. It will take time, much like your own recovery. You should rest, and not attempt another... shower for a few days at least.”
He heard Dean’s steps on the stairs and stood up.
“Dean is bringing you food. I should let you eat in peace.”
“Wait, I’m... I’m gonna be stuck here for a while just-- doing nothing, so would you mind coming back? When you’re not busy. I have some more questions and... Kevin needs help with the Angel Tablet.”
“I can not read the Angel Tablet, Sam.”
“Right, I know that, but he’s got some of it translated and it’s not like any language we’ve seen before, I was hoping you could take a look and see if it’s familiar? Anything would be a big help right now.”
“Of course,” Gadreel said, “Call for me when you require assistance and I will come.”
“Thank you.” Sam smiled.
--
The translation turned out to be a form of cuneiform, an Akkadian adaption of the Sumerian script. Gadreel could not understand why both men were so unreasonably excited by such a useless piece of knowledge. Humans had very short memories and the script dated back to 2000 B.C. It was unlikely that a person capable of translating the tablet even existed.
Sam explained the ‘any news is good news’ concept which Gadreel also did not understand, but it made the man smile and Gadreel had already decided that he very much liked Sam’s smiles. Seemingly invigorated by the new information, Kevin left to research any known translators of the script. Sam asked Gadreel to stay and help him sort out any manuscripts that may have instructions on killing a Knight of Hell. Gadreel obliged gladly and they continued research at a slower pace, often drifting into bizarre and unrelated subjects. Gadreel found himself very much surprised that Sam had a keen interest in history. It inevitably led to the source of Gadreel’s limited knowledge, the numerous books he had read during his imprisonment, a kindness provided in utmost secrecy by one of his Sisters. He’d had very little interest in the written word until the years of solitude and silence began to press on him. Books had been a welcome escape from his cage, a rare escape, but more valuable than he could ever place into words. He owed Hannah a debt for dozens of dusty tomes, most of them dry and yellowed from age. Stories of nations rising and falling, the earth changing, man advancing. The little he gathered about human nature, he’d gathered from those books. He’d thought himself well versed until he attempted to communicate and realized how incomplete his knowledge actually was. Yet Sam was infinitely patient, always willing to explain that which Gadreel did not understand and equally prepared to forgive his missteps.
Through all their discussions of history, how much of the Bible was accurate and how much was just human fancy, Sam never asked him what had actually happened. He never asked about Lucifer, about Gadreel’s failure or his punishment. He found himself alternating between gratitude for the man’s obvious kindness and frustration that many subjects they could have discussed were simply avoided, just because they skirted so close to Gadreel’s mistakes.
When the research brought them to Cain, for the third time, Gadreel decided to put a stop to the endless circling.
“I believe Cain might be the answer. He was, in essence, the first Knight of Hell. He created all the others.”
Sam glanced at him quickly, face half-hidden behind his hair.
He was sitting on the bed, legs crossed, a multitude of pillows propping up his back. He looked comfortable in a way Dean Winchester never did. Comfortable with himself and his surroundings. His white tee shirt was nearly threadbare from repeated washings and the flannel pajama pants had long lost their original colors. His bare feet were tucked under him now; earlier on, they had been swathed into a small blanket.
Gadreel could not imagine Dean dressed in anything less than three layers he always seemed to wear. He could not imagine him sprawled so loosely on any surface, not even the bed on which he slept. What was it that made one brother so comfortable in his skin while the other wore every stitch like it was armor?
“Are you saying Cain is still alive?”
“No. Not alive in the way you are alive. But a demon, still somewhere in the world, certainly. Someone who created the Knights of Hell should know how to kill them.”
Sam shifted and unfolded his legs, the movement bringing him closer to the edge of the bed and closer to Gadreel.
“Can he be summoned?”
“I doubt it. And I would not recommend it. I do not think there is a Devil’s Trap in the world strong enough to contain him.”
“Then how?”
“I believe your brother still has the King of Hell in the trunk of his car.”
“Crowley? You think Crowley could find him?”
“Yes. More importantly, if anyone were capable of persuading Cain to share any information, another demon would have the best chance of succeeding.”
Sam studied him silently for a few moments, then shook his head.
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t think that would work. We’d have to let Crowley go. As soon as those handcuffs were off, he’d crawl into a hole and we’d never find him again. Or worse, he’d convince Cain to kill us all.”
“Then send me with him. I am certainly a match for the King of Hell, even at half strength.”
Sam looked away, his fingers brushing one of the pages.
“And Cain? Are you a match for Cain?”
“No one is a match for Cain. Perhaps an Archangel would be, but I can only think of two who could face him and live.”
“Then no. I won’t risk you.”
As curious as the statement was, Gadreel thought he understood. As a weapon, he would be wasted against Cain. Still, it was frustrating to not be of any use, other than pointing out an ancient form of a dead language.
“You meant Lucifer and Michael, right?”
Sam was looking at him again, his gaze cautious.
“The two Archangels that would be capable of beating Cain.”
“Yes. Both would be... strong enough. Out of the two, I would place my bets on Lucifer.”
Only after the words were spoken did Gadreel consider that maybe Sam was avoiding the subject not to spare Gadreel, but to spare himself. Who knew what sort of memories the man had of the Cage, of being trapped with Lucifer for years, suffering unbelievable torment. Did he hurt Sam by mere mention of Lucifer’s name?
“You must have loved him very much,” Sam said softly.
The shock of that simple sentence rendered him speechless.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said quickly, his face turning a faint shade of red. “I wasn’t thinking-- I’m-- What about the Angel Tablet? Do you think Crowley could read it? He had no trouble reading the demon tablet.”
“I did love him,” Gadreel said.
“He was the brightest star in the sky, the most beautiful of God’s creations. I loved him better than my Father. I betrayed the world for him.”
Sam bit his lip and looked away again. His hands aimlessly shuffled the manuscripts, his face now fully hidden from the view.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Me too,” Gadreel added uselessly, wishing he hadn’t spoken at all.
--
The King of Hell refused to cooperate. Dragging him from the trunk of the car and to the Bunker basement had been a frustrating and an unpleasant experience. Gadreel could not understand why the humans could not smell the bitter stench of sulfur and death that the thing exuded but he was glad to chain it to the floor and walk away. Dean stayed behind. He seemed sure that he could extract whatever information the King of Hell had at his disposal. Gadreel had offered to help and had been firmly rebuffed.
He could not say that he was disappointed.
He had intended to return to Sam’s room afterwards and offer whatever other assistance the man might need. Instead, he found himself back in the small storage room. Once the door was closed, he could see nothing but shadows. And in the shadows, he found the memories resurfacing.
He had read books, in Heaven’s prison, books written by men attempting to describe the Garden of Eden. There were paintings, all over the world, attempting to depict the perfection of it. Gadreel had hoped to one day study them, to determine if human memory stretched far enough where he could recognize at least a small part of the beauty he once knew. It had been a fountain of life and color, soothing songs of birds and rushing of the rivers. Fields so green they would hurt one’s eyes with their brilliance. Air sweet with the scents of flowers and ripe fruit, lush grass and rich earth. And there had been peace, unlike any other Gadreel had ever felt. It had been a place created to comfort, to soothe, to embrace those who walked within. A gift for all of humankind, created by his Father, so exquisite that nothing would ever compare.
It should not have mattered that the trap had already been set, that the first two humans who walked the Garden were perhaps destined to fail, sooner or later. Gadreel would have never questioned the placement of the Tree of Knowledge, would have never thought to wonder why his Father would leave it within reach, then demand that it not be touched. He might have been entrusted with guarding the Garden but he’d been young still, as young as his kind can be. He had been young and Lucifer had been beautiful.
Lucifer had questioned everything. Had doubted everything. He’d pointed out flaws in Father’s Creation that Gadreel would have never seen on his own. But more importantly, he’d asked Gadreel questions, he’d listened to him. Before Lucifer, Gadreel did not posses a sense of self that was separate from his Brothers and Sisters. Once he had, nothing was ever the same. Lucifer had opened his eyes, in the same way Eve’s eyes had opened once she ate of the Tree. And then his Brother had abandoned him.
He had spent centuries wishing he had never listened, wishing he had been stronger or different, and hating that flaw in himself which had yearned for Lucifer to see him, to truly see him as something worthy. But only now, in the dark confinement of a dusty room, a place that resembled the only home other than Eden he’d ever known, he found himself angry. Angry at his Father for being all knowing and still allowing Lucifer to destroy something so beautiful. Angry at Lucifer for his ability to inspire such love in others and yet being utterly incapable of returning it.
After his judgment, Father had retired to some unknown place, essentially washing his hands of the entire mess he himself had created. Lucifer, despite being cast down and trapped, had immediately began plotting his eventual rising. And Gadreel... was forgotten. By everyone. Even Hannah’s kindness had only lasted a few centuries. He had paid for his crimes and Lucifer’s crimes and his Father’s failures, and he was the only one still paying. Still tortured by something that the entirety of human kind had nearly forgotten.
Was this justice? This shame he would always feel, no matter how many centuries he existed? This inability to look Sam Winchester in the eye because he would always be tainted? Was there even such a thing as redemption for him?
He sunk to his knees and closed his eyes. Not to pray; he’d stopped praying a long time ago because Father had stopped listening. But the anger he felt was not something he wished to keep. If he was to return to Sam, he would have to let it go. He would have to find some peace in himself. Of all those who had judged him, who still judged him, Sam Winchester had been the only one to show him kindness. He would never return that kindness with anything less.