Chapter Text
“Seriously? You’re going to leave me with her ?” Gabriel’s disdain is palpable, overflowing from his features and spiraling out into the space surrounding him.
You try not to take it personally. You’d hate feeling leashed too, if you were an ancient being whose entire existence consisted of being top of the food chain, and you imagine it especially hits a nerve given how he’s spent the last seven years.
“If you didn’t want a chaperone, then maybe you should have stayed put for the five minutes we told you to, instead of inviting a bunch of your old friends over for tea and almost getting us all killed!” Dean insists.
“How was I supposed to know they were on Loki’s side?” Gabriel demands.
You can see the way betrayal sparks bright behind gold, another heavy blow to an ego that, by all accounts, should be shredded beyond recognition. Maybe it is, but even you have difficulty discerning when he insists on being such an ass about everything .
"Because all gods are a bunch of backstabbing assholes?" Dean guesses. He’s just as sardonic and pissy as the archangel is these days, so much so, you can’t stand being in the same room with them.
"They're not gods," Gabriel says flatly. "They're maenads."
"I don’t really care what they are," Dean retorts, gesturing to dismembered corpses strewn along the floor. "Demi-God, god, trickster, whatever . The name changes, the song stays the same. You can't trust any of them!"
If eye rolling were an Olympic event, the archangel would take home the gold. He folds his arms over his chest, his entire upper body getting into the movement. His head drops back and the look on his face suggests even Heaven can’t help him as his weight shifts between feet.
You can't blame him. The entire situation screams power move by Dean. As much as you don’t agree with it, you’re not really in a position to either challenge or refuse him, and you suspect the current predicament is as much a means to keep you in line as it is Gabriel.
"Look," Sam steps into the fray, trying to be the voice of reason in this whole mess. "We need you, and, like it or not, you need us."
Short, sweet, to the point, and more importantly, accurate .
"And if there are more of these things out there," he looks down at the bodies at his feet. "Then it sounds like you could use someone to help watch your back."
Gabriel's glare swings toward him, skepticism bubbling through the surface of his anger.
“And I don’t know what you’re complaining about, because she’s the one that dropped those things, not us,” Sam adds, a touch of attitude broaching his tone to drive his point home.
While you appreciate the reminder, it’s not as if the archangel wasn’t there, moving perfectly in tandem with you. Somehow, you make a great team, despite how roughly things go when there isn’t a common enemy you want to murder instead of each other.
As Gabriel’s scathing stare slides in your direction, you feel another layer of your patience peel away. You’re not thrilled with the situation anymore than he is, but then again, when has he ever been thrilled to see you?
That’s not entirely true. There was a time he was playful and cheeky, where he used to call you endearing nicknames that drove Dean insane. Even if they weren’t really for your benefit, it had been nice to pretend someone might want to call you those things.
Now, he calls you the littlest Winchester , despite the fact you are not related to the infamous brothers, and he treats you no differently than if you were one of them, which most days means you catch a whole lot of flak for things you’ve never done.
You recognize it’s a defense mechanism. He’s been through so much between his family, Loki, and Asmodeus, though it’s hard to remember that when you’re dragged into the latest pissing match, and he acts like the whole thing is your idea.
“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly my idea of a good time either,” you mutter, your irritation getting the better of you.
You miss the way something shifts in his features, eating away at the hardness around the edge of gold as you glance back to the brothers and add, “And if I’m delegated to playing nursemaid to that one,” you jam your thumb toward the surly archangel, “Then you two are on cleanup duty.”
Dean makes a face, looking down at the collection of limbs on the floor. Surprisingly, he doesn't argue. "Sam, get some trash bags from the trunk. The industrial ones."
As if he has to specify you need the body-sized ones.
“And my bag please,” you ask.
Sam nods, slipping out the door without another word.
There’s an extra tension in the room whenever it’s just the three of you. You used to be the one to manage it, the one who could smooth things over whenever the two of them locked horns, but now you’re just as at odds with them as they are with each other.
It doesn’t feel right. None of it does. The bitterness. The constant fighting. Only you don’t know what to do about it anymore.
"C'mon, grumbles, let's get your mess cleaned up,” Dean orders, toeing what might be part of an arm with the edge of his boot.
Gabriel is not pleased to be on the receiving end of a nickname, face pulling into a sardonic smile that borders on murder. Before he can zing anything back in the hunter’s direction, the door swings back open and Sam walks in, supplies (which wisely includes a tarp and some heavy duty rubber gloves) in hand.
"Notice I said you two ." You gesture between the brothers, murmuring a thanks to Sam as he hands you your bag.
"What do you plan to do? Supervise?" Dean’s in rare form, and there’s a thinly veiled accusation simmering beneath green that you can’t touch right now.
“You think those claw marks are going to stitch themselves?” You question, gesturing toward the Gabriell’s shredded leg. From the amount of blood and nearly black stain on his pants, you’re certain he’s only alive because he can’t technically die from bleeding out.
You reach into your satchel and pull out your modified first aid kit. It has the basic supplies, the biggest difference being the amount of gauze and bandaging included (for those archangel sized wounds) and some herbal components that stimulate grace regeneration.
You move a chair next to the dresser in front of what might be the only clean section of carpet left.
"Drop the jeans,” you order, patting the back of the chair with invitation as you begin to lay out what you’ll need.
There's a brief moment where the Gabriel you knew flits to the surface. "Here? In front of everyone? Kinky ."
You almost smile. Almost . Because one light moment isn't even close to being a bandaid on your relationship. No matter how much you'd like it to be.
Especially when he follows it up with another blow.
"But I think I'll pass on being the guinea pig to your Dr. Doolittle and take care of myself, thanks." He holds out his hand expectantly, and it takes a concerted effort not to smack him upside the head with the supplies.
You settle for shoving them directly at his chest.
“Well if nobody needs me, I need some air.”
“They need you,” Dean gestures to the body’s on the floor. “Us, right here?” He swings his finger between himself and Sam. “We need you,” he says pointedly as you pass right by him. “Hey!”
Your instincts flare as he moves toward you, and there’s a visceral jolt through your chest that prepares you to react. Sam intervenes before you get the chance, tall frame stepping between you as he puts a hand on his brother’s chest.
“ Dean .”
You don’t care what look is burning into your back right now. You’ve spent the last two days trapped in a car with a volatile version of Dean who reminds you of something you spend most of your time desperately trying to forget ever existed.
“Let her go.”
Dean doesn’t fight him, and the slam of the door is your final contribution to the conversation before you take off across the parking lot.
***
You should have kept walking. Doubled back to the highway. Hitched a ride in any direction, so long as it was away from there. Away from him .
Gabriel’s camped out on the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed. Instead of watching TV or playing on his phone like any normal being would, he’s bouncing a baseball against the wall with a persistent ker-thunk .
It’s the same motion over and over: off the thin carpet, against the same dingy spot parallel to the dresser, pausing just long enough to make you wonder if he’s finally done, before starting all over again.
Good god it’s annoying. How did you ever put up with him?
Only you know how.
Before, he was smooth. He knew how to lay on the charm and flatter his way into good graces. He used to be like Cas; beneath that outer surface lay something soft and warm, though instead of a rough veneer, it was the guise of detached hedonism.
But now he’s all pointed barbs and caustic sarcasm, and it rubs you so raw that you have little patience left to weather the truly obnoxious moments anymore.
“Drama queen, much?” You finally snap. You’re young, but the reference isn’t lost on you, and as much as he wants to act like he’s imprisoned, he has far more ways to escape this hole in the wall than you ever will.
Ker-thunk . “Better than being a lap dog.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, and this remark hits harder than you expect. You’re not certain if it’s the connotation or the sheer acidity behind it, but he’s never this mean-spirited with you.
You breath in.
Ker-thunk.
Then out.
Ker-thunk.
And in.
Ker-thunk .
Reminding yourself - ker-thunk - of all - ker-thunk - the horrible things - ker-thunk - he’s been through - ker-thunk - and how they - ker-thunk - change a person - ker-thunk.
Ker-thunk.
Ker-thunk.
Ker-
You grip the edges of your lorebook so hard you’re convinced you’re fingerprints are going to sear straight into the leather binding.
“Just because you’ve been dealt a shitty hand doesn’t give you the right to be a dick to the rest of us.”
Not exactly where you’d hoped to land, but between him and Dean, the well you maintain to stay diplomatic in these situations has run so dry it’s going to take some biblical sized relationship repairs raining down on you to fill that sucker back up.
Silence falls and you’re given a moment of reprieve.
Literally, one .
“ I’m the dick in this situation?” His head whips around so fast it reminds you of the movie The Exorcist. “Tell me, which one of us is on a leash right now, and which one is holding it?”
Right. Because it’s your fault he goes into situations half-cocked, low on energy, without any backup, nearly gets himself killed, and pisses off the only allies he may have left.
“Door’s open, don’t let it hit your ass on the way out.”
There’s a window in the bathroom you’re happy to shove him out of as well, but you decide to keep that suggestion to yourself in an attempt to keep things marginally civil.
You get up from your chair and toss your book aside, in need of another way to decompress. Despite the fact it’s not even noon, you head toward the mini-fridge, which is stock full of your maladaptive coping mechanism of choice.
The moment Gabriel sees you pull out a beer, he lets out a scornful snort. "Have another one, Winchester ."
His insult hits a target dead center, though it’s not the one he’s aiming for. Instead of slamming your integrity or moral turpitude, or whatever the shit he thinks he’s poking at, you feel cut off at the knees.
You’re not a Winchester, and it’s not that you want to be one so much as know you never can that makes this a particularly sore spot for you.
The reminder is draining, because it’s always there, hanging over your head, and you’re as sick of it as being caught in a game of Tug of War between two equally stubborn individuals.
“Can we do something other than argue for once?” Exasperation softens the sharpness in your tone as you sit on the edge of the dresser.
You hold the beer in your hands, focusing on the cold against your palms and the dampness that forms against the warmth of your skin.
He considers your question, absent-mindedly tossing the ball up in his hand. “We could always play a game.”
For a moment, he almost looks like himself again, mischief sparking, shaking off the varnish within gold. His lips twitch as if attempting to smile, but they're heavy, immobile, and another indication of just how much has changed.
Part of you wants to humor him for the sake of keeping this tenuous break, but the rest of you is pretty god damn tired of being someone else’s punching bag.
“I have a novel idea,” you begin, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your legs.
He deflates, dour demeanor returning. “Oh, this should be good…”
You regret saying anything, but as with most things in your life, it’s too late to go back. You run your thumb along the condensation of the bottle, tongue darting out across your lips as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next.
“Why don’t we do something productive like, I dunno, talk about the group of deities out for your blood?” You’re careful not to sound too concerned. Doing so gets you batted at faster than a feral cat who’s cornered.
“Yeah. Real fun topic to be revisiting.”
It’s still the least combative response you’ve received recently, and it gives you some hope you might be able to reason with him.
“Gabriel, if I’m going to be sitting next to someone with a giant target on their back, I’d like to know what it is my enemy might be firing so I can do something about it.”
That, and you’d really like to avoid becoming a smear on the wall.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, there’s nothing coming but a whole lotta blanks.”
You’re not sure what rankles you more: the insincere and wholly mocking term of endearment he throws at you that used to mean something, or how dismissive he is of the danger you’re both in.
“Why won’t you let anyone help you?”
In the few moments he isn’t forcing you to see a spectrum of red that exists only in his presence, there are startling shades of deep blue that squeeze around your heart because you already know why.
Some part of that must show, his mood worsening exponentially. "Maybe because I don’t need anyone’s help? Especially yours."
And back to square one you go.
"You are the most frustrating man I've ever met," you mutter, slamming the top of your beer down on the edge of the dresser and popping the cap off. You bring the bottle to your lips and the bulk of the drink bypasses your tastebuds, pouring straight down your throat.
“Seems unlikely, given your Winchester worshipping status, but you’re no walk in the park either, toots.”
You glare at him, wondering just how much trouble you’ll be in with said Winchesters if you decide to paint a banishing sigil on the other side of the bathroom door and blast the archangel’s insufferable ass into the next state.
As if sensing the brewing mutiny, both your phones buzz, Dean’s contact flashing across both screens.
Meet me at this address. Important.
Thank God, or the gods, or whatever was out there for small favors. You need something to do other than go another ten rounds with each other.
“C’mon," you tell him, hopping back to your feet without a second thought.
“Really?”
Here it comes .
You down the rest of your drink as he readies his next jab.
“What's up between you and the lumberjack?”
You’d ask which one, but the question is so ridiculous you can’t do anything except blink. “Excuse me?”
Is he implying… what the hell is he implying?
“Every time he says jump you ask how high without a second thought, but here you are, all up on my lamp post about not knowing what you’re walking into.”
There are differences between him and Dean. Big ones. Ones he should be able to grasp, but you don’t trust him to, and if there’s anything you’ve learned with either of them it’s that sometimes it’s just easier to deal with things on your own.
"There's nothing going on."
Your quick dismissal only has the archangel's stare narrowing.
"Does he have something on you?"
“Jesus christ, Gabriel, can we argue about this in the car?” You’d prefer not to argue at all, but getting him out the door is now your number one priority, and you have a feeling this is going to be worse than the time Dean left you with that toddler from Hell. Literally, a demon hiding in a three year old’s body that knew how to push every one of your buttons so you’d overlook the fact it couldn’t cross the line of salt in the doorway, rather than wouldn’t .
“I’m being serious,” he says grabbing you by the arm as you try to pass. The contact startles you, as does the admission that follows. “I know I've been kind of an douche lately --”
“Kind of?”
He ignores your knee-jerk response. “The point is, you can talk to me."
That might be the funniest thing he’s said all day.
You snort. "Good one."
“I’m serious.” He pins you beneath a sober stare, one noticeably lacking a scathing edge.
You’re not certain what to do with that.
“He doesn’t have anything on me, alright?” You sigh. “Now can we please go?”
He eyes you even more intently before his features abruptly harden again. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with him.”
You decide not to justify that with a response. Not a verbal one anyway. You hope the middle finger you raise in his direction as you try to head to the door is a clear enough indication of where you stand on the matter.
As usual, the idiot-savant in him has already made up his mind on the matter.
“Oh for shit’s sake, you are .” He grabs you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, and you’re too busy trying not to scream to notice the myriad of emotions that flash through his gaze. “Seriously? Since when did you become deaf, blind, and dumb?”
He's so far from the truth it should be laughable. Except it isn’t, because it’s him, and you’re over this conversation.
“Since when did it become any of your business who the fuck I’m interested in?” You yank out of his grip, shoving him out of your space. “Don't act like you care about me or anything other than playing Uma Thurman in your little Kill Bill revenge fantasy."
Gabriel freezes, surprised by the sudden burst of hostility from you.
"Now you can either get in the car, stay here, or fuck off to Fiji for all I care, but I am leaving," you snarl before storming out of the room.
You didn't sign up for this. He and Dean can sort it out between themselves if they're going to insist on being self-centered pricks the entire time. You just want to wake up one morning and feel like you’re worth something again, something no one else seems inclined to let you do.
Before you even make it to the vehicle, Gabriel’s there, waiting for you in the passenger seat. You’re relieved and annoyed. You need a break, but despite that, you know this is far, far better than facing an irate Dean.
Mostly. It really depends on how much trouble either of your mouths can get into.
The answer is potentially plenty once you plug the address into your phone’s GPS and realize you have a forty-five minute drive into the middle of nowhere ahead of you.
You take a deep breath, managing not to wrench open the car door. There are far worse things you’ve endured. How bad could one car ride turn out?