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You don’t know why they remind you of him. If there’s any plant Gabriel’s been tied to, it’s lilies, but that’s not what caught your eye when you went looking for something in honor of the archangel.
“Yellow succulents?” Sam’s the only one to say a word as you add them to the arrangement in the middle of the underground garden devoted mostly to spell ingredients. He makes a face as if impressed. “Fitting.”
They are. They’re hardy little suckers that can endure conditions in which most living things would shrivel up and die. Perhaps its that resilience that made you go with them. Perhaps it’s the fact the warm color reminds you of how he was before Asmodeus got his hands on him. The same you saw start to bloom again in the last few days leading up to his sacrifice.
Now, he’s just another spot in an ever growing memorial as you try to keep his, and so many others’, memories alive.
A little morbid , don’t you think? The thought slides across your consciousness, unbidden.
You mentally bat at it, sending it back from where it came as you reassure yourself that there’s nothing wrong with a tribute for someone who saved the lives of everyone living under this roof.
***
It irritates you, the way no one remembers. You remind yourself they didn’t know him, not really, but it eats away at you the more times they pass your display without so much as a glance. You’re not certain anyone’s even noticed there is a memorial, let alone a central spot for him in it.
Ingrates .
The word echoes beneath your breath, drawing Dean’s attention from where he’s clipping a few sprigs of lavender.
“Did you say something?” The dent between his brows suggests he’s heard what you said, and you don’t blame him for the odd look he shoots your way. Who under the age of sixty even uses that word?
“Nobody cares,” you tell him, carefully adjusting some of the stones surrounding the plants. “It’s like none of them remember what it cost to get them here.”
Dean pauses what he’s doing, staring down at the soft purple in his hand. He takes a moment to consider his words. You’re not sure if it’s a call for appreciation or concern, because he’s usually not this thoughtful when it comes to your conversations.
You can practically hear Gabriel’s voice in your ear. Don’t look the gift of an active-brain-cell-using Winchester in the mouth.
You almost smile, until Dean speaks, and an inexplicable absence wells up within you.
“They remember,” your friend assures. “Maybe not every minute of every day, but they know it wasn’t just Sam and I who got them here.”
It helps in that it softens the brunt of your anger, but you're not certain you prefer the sadness that pools in its wake.
***
You miss him. His presence. The way it could fill the room with life in a way that your mind still can’t grasp. It was something you could only understand through your senses, and without him, they lay dull and dormant, as if he was the reason they were ever alive in the first place.
You try to keep a box around it, try to bury it so deep even you don’t know it exists. Except there’s only so much you can pack away before the container swells too much and bursts.
It floods you with an ache that resonates keenly with your loneliness. The sentiment itself isn’t new, but the amount of it is, and you’re beginning to realize the death of your friend was simply the frosting to a cake that has been crumbling for years.
There’s a heady layer of surprise that winds through it, one that makes you wish you had taken Rowena up on her offer to temporarily hollow you out so that you’d feel nothing, at the risk of feeling everything once the spell had worn off.
You let out a small growl of frustration, drawing both Sam and Dean’s gazes from across the table.
“Don’t,” you warn, eyes riveted to the lorebook in your hand. “Not a damn word. Got it?”
Dean exchanges a look with his brother and it takes them a moment of silent debate to figure out which one of them, if either, you’re even talking to.
“Uh, sure thing, kid,” Dean finally says, but you don't notice, too busy desperately trying to cram your emotions so far beneath the surface you won’t be able to find them for at least another century.
***
Sam Winchester is many things. A good friend usually being at the top of that list, which is why you mistook his offer for a movie night alone as nothing more than a friendly distraction. The arm around your shoulder? Nothing more than simple comfort. He knows how much touch grounds you, how just feeling someone’s body next to yours and drag you back out of the rabbit holes you tumble down.
Except this isn’t one you can just be plucked out of, and the tongue in your ear does not belong to someone who’s just concerned.
At first you melt against him. It’s the first non-friendly contact you’ve had in ages, and a whole new perspective emerges as those large hands of his start taking possession over you.
Something else quickly stirs beneath your body’s natural and wholly starved reaction, causing you to jolt straight up on the couch.
“Oh god,” your eyes are wide, panic blossoming through your system. “Gabriel!”
“Gabriel?” Sam echoes, his eyes narrowing intently on you.
Shit . Definitely not the time to be shouting other people’s names, let alone his .
Sam stares at you, and it’s clear by the silence that follows he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “Y/n, Gabriel’s dead.”
You scrub a hand over your face. Just say something that will make him drop it.
“I loved him,” you blurt out completely to your horror.
Your mouth drops open, and there's a tense moment neither of you know what to say.
Awk-ward.
Your cheeks hit nuclear fusion levels in record time, embarrassment quickly merging with your anger and spiking to unprecedented levels.
“God damnit, f--” you suck in a breath, cutting yourself off. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s ok,” Sam assures, his hand rubbing soothingly along your spine. “I know he meant a lot to you. I just - I guess I didn’t know how much.”
You drop your face into your hands, lips a paling, tight seal against your teeth as you use every ounce of self-restraint not to scream.
“No wonder you’ve been…” He trails off, and you’re too busy fighting against the riptide of fury coursing through you to read between the lines. “If you need time, I can wait.”
“How chivalrous .” It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and you almost don’t recognize the voice that comes out of your mouth, though it’s undeniably yours.
“Excuse me?” From his tone, it might have been kinder -- and less confusing -- if you had simply slapped him or run off.
The night’s still young an oh-so-helpful voice in the back of your head tells you.
“I’m sorry.” You bolt off the couch before you can say or do anything else that will make a complete idiot of yourself.
Back in the solitude of your room, you spend the rest of the night hoping some freak wormhole will open up and swallow you into another dimension.
It doesn’t.
***
It’s been a good hunt. Casualties are at a minimum, and the case itself is challenging enough to leave a thrill in your veins, but not so much that you’re wrecked and ready to sleep for a week.
You hit up the closest place that serves alcohol, which happens to be a dive bar in the center of town. It’s just you and Dean, for once. You’re not certain if Sam’s backed off after your strange encounter, or if Dean’s sensed the tension and tried to intervene by giving you both some space.
The concept is clearly reserved for his brother, however.
He's practically been on top of you this entire time, which is irritating on several levels these days. You wish he'd just grow a pair and tell you what's on his mind. Instead, he insists on hovering, and the longer you’re around him, the more you feel like crawling out of your skin.
You hit your tipping point once you’re someplace past tipsy when you’re attempt to get some air results in him practically escorting you to through the back exit like you were some prisoner. He’s got his hand on your back the entire time, and for some inexplicable reason, you’re suddenly wading through every memory you can, trying to sort out if he’s ever been this handsy with you before.
The answer is not usually , but then again, it’s rarely ever just you and him.
You know what they say. When the cat's away...
You know exactly where that train of thought is headed, and it’s nowhere good.
“Come off it,” you mutter, trying to manually shift the gears of your brain in a different direction.
You feel Dean’s hand stiffen through your jacket. “What?”
Nice one.
You bite back your internal irritation, channeling it toward Dean who’s giving you a nice, long side-eye.
“Whatever’s on your mind, just spit it out.”
You expect him to brush it off, to play the tough guy, maybe scoff before finally admitting he’s worried about you. The reaction itself doesn’t matter, because by the end of it, he’ll have forgotten you said anything strange and you’ll both be back on normal ground.
Except he doesn’t do any of that. The moment you call him out he freezes, reminding you of a cornered animal with the way his entire body goes rigid, as if he's unsure what this situation calls for.
It does not bode well for your theory that sometimes, a Winchester gets emotional on you and things just get weird for a night or two.
You don’t hear what Dean says beyond your name. You don’t need to. It’s all there in the sudden heated, green glow that has your mouth going dry. There’s nothing but the feel of brick at your back, and a silent chorus of not again that’s almost as frantic as your rapidly rising pulse.
By the time his lips even make it near yours, you’re on the verge of having an anxiety attack.
He tastes like whiskey and warmth, a note of loneliness running beneath it all. You can’t get past the contrast of soft and hard within his kiss, the way his hands fist at the sides your shirt, waiting for your permission to proceed any further, and there’s a heady moment where the world begins to ink around the edges in a way that should make you question it.
The moment it returns in a dizzying rush, everything’s changed. Your hands are in his hair, your tongue exploring his with as much ardor as his mouth remains locked with yours.
You pull back so fast you nearly knock yourself out against the wall. “Did you just kiss him back?!”
Dean blinks, stare hazy and so very, very confused. “What?”
Don’t ruin this.
“Oh my god, you did ,” you gasp.
Dean’s eyes become startlingly clear as he gives you a long, measured look. “I thought you said that witch didn’t catch you with any hexes?”
“I - she didn’t, but…”
He sighs, hand wiping across his mouth as if trying to wipe the crazy off before he catches it. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
He steps away, scratching at the back of his head. “Maybe we should just call it a night.”
“Yeah, that ,” you eagerly agree, shoving off the wall and practically running back to the Impala.
This is why we can’t have nice things. The snark floats across your mind in wholly unhelpful ways.
“Don't. Even ," you hiss without regard to whether or not you’ve actually made it out of earshot.
Dean thankfully takes his time catching up and doesn’t say a word when he climbs into the car beside you. You don’t question the direction he’s driving, just grateful to be moving. You’re too caught up in your inner dialogue, and it isn’t until you’re at the city limits that you realize you’ve been headed in the opposite direction of the motel this entire time.
“Where are we going?”
You glance over, noting the way he refuses to take his eyes off the road.
“Sam's right. Something's wrong with you.”
The indignance that winds through your surprise grabs hold of your mouth before you can stop it.
“So what? Your plan was to try and bone my brains out in hope they went back in the right way?”
You're not like this. Your anger doesn't normally drip with sarcasm and bitterness that sours your tongue. But it is you saying these things, increasingly so over the last several weeks, and it’s a wonder your friends haven’t called you on it before now.
Dean licks his lips, the way he does when he’s not certain about the fight he’s about to pick.
You have a feeling you know what’s coming, and you brace yourself for the inevitable.
“I know about your feelings for him.”
Oh for shit’s sake.
You inhale. Deeply. Because out of all the conclusions he or Sam could come to, it really is this one.
It’s a wonder they haven’t ended the world well before now.
“Gabriel,” he continues, as if there’s any other divine asshole you could have randomly professed your love for.
Noted.
You pinch the bridge of your nose. Hard.
You remind yourself Dean means well. You can see the worry seeping through the hard lines in his features. He only wants to help.
Apparently by sticking his tongue in your mouth.
You turn away from him, fingers pressing into the side of your temple.
Pretty sure that one’s actually on you .
“It’s ok if you did,” he tells you. “I’m not trying to rush you.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean.” You manage to soften your tone, keeping it neutral. You’re not actually pissed at him .
Dr. Dean’s miracle cure…
You push even harder into the side of your head, willing the comments to stop.
“Maybe not,” Dean concedes. “But I know you, and something definitely isn’t right.”
… think it can only be taken orally?
You want to laugh, cry, and scream all at the same time, and you clench your jaw down painfully tight. Maybe, just maybe, if you’re lucky you’ll find a way to break it and remove the possibility of saying anything ever again.
There’s a very large part of you that isn’t impressed with that course of action.
The ride back to Kansas is long, with nothing but the occasional roar of the engine to fill the the car.
You wish it could be as silent inside your head for once.
***
You can’t keep doing this.
Sam and Dean are worried. Really worried. They’ve taken you off active hunting, relegating you to the bunker. You’re not allowed to wield anything other than a lorebook and a spatula, and it’s driving you as insane as they think you are.
You need to tell them, before they resort to locking you in your room, or worse , trying to exorcise you in the dungeon.
That’s a little dramatic, even for them the part of you that’s currently more rational chimes in.
So is putting you on lockdown for talking to yourself.
To be fair, you do sound a feather short of a wand.
You groan, all but ready to commit yourself. You knew that Harry Potter marathon had been a terrible idea, and for the last three days it’s been nonstop puns and references.
Then again, it’s certainly better than that entire month of dad jokes.
“It’s not just being stuck here,” you insist to your empty room, and it’s more than having your closest friends question your mental state. There are things you miss just as much as the actual reason you seem like you’re unravelling, so much so you might really be losing touch with reality.
Quit being so dramatic. That’s my job.
For once, you can’t argue.
You roll off your mattress, moving toward the large bureau across the room. It’s early, at least it is for you, but without much else to do, bed might not be such a bad thing. You open your drawers, searching for one of Sam or Dean’s old T-shirts you’d commandeered, when you feel a prickle of hesitation run down your spine.
Is it really so terrible having me in here?
Your eyes glance up to the mirror in front of you, a little taken aback.
You thought Gabriel would know the answer by now.
Some days the answer is a hell freaking yes , but others, like now, when the alternative makes your chest tighten and your lungs turn to stone, you can see past your need for space and privacy.
“Nah,” you tell him, smiling briefly at your reflection before returning to your task. “You’re not so bad. I just, y’know, miss having time to myself.”
Soon, sweetheart, that familiar timbre rumbles soothingly through the back of your mind. As soon as Ro figures out how to rebuild my vessel, I’ll be out of your hair. Or out from beneath it, as the case may be.
The thought lessens the tangled snarl of frustration stuck somewhere between your chest and stomach, and there’s a mutual sense of relief as your shared tension begins to unwind.
You know, it’s no picnic on my end, either.
“Yeah. Must be a real travesty being alive with someone who doesn’t mind sharing,” you drawl.
Apparently, possession didn’t have to be an all or nothing relationship, but angels and demons often went that route because it was the easiest.
Given how crazy you seem and feel, you can see why
I’m beginning to think look but don’t touch mode isn’t much better he laments.
Is he for real?
Six months. Six angel damned months of nothing, save those two wrecks of a night with Sam and Dean. You had no idea how dependent you’d become on using physical pleasure to let off steam until your extra passenger hopped on board.
Dear God did you just need to put something between your legs. A hand. Fingers. Something battery operated. Sam. Dean. Any of the above. All of it.
Easy there, ya hot tamale. Just because I don’t have eyes, doesn’t mean I can’t make imagery out of all the brain cells firing in this noodle of yours.
“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, doing your best to clear your mind before you both end up in any more situations that break the awkward scale.
You finally find something to sleep in, and muscle memory has you undoing the front of your pants without even thinking. Before they’ve hit the floor, Gabriel’s faded into the background, giving you privacy to change.
By the time he reemerges, you’ve already buried yourself beneath the sheets, well on your way to falling asleep.
You know, there’s just one thing I’m looking forward to more than being back in my own vessel.
“I’ll bite,” you murmur, sensing there’s a punchline coming. “What’s that?”
Getting to see the look on Thing One and Two’s faces when they find out I got inside you before either of them.
You’re not sure if it’s really that amusing, or if some of Gabriel’s sentiments are trickling into yours, but your laugh is one of the few genuine sounds of mirth to make an appearance since you’ve been placed under house arrest.
“You and me both, feathers,” you snicker, settling further into your pillow.
I also can’t wait to see the look on their faces when I thank you properly.
The thought skitters across your awareness, but you’re no longer awake enough to receive it. You just know that something’s there.
“Hmmm?”
Nothing, sweetheart. Gabriel’s presence fills you completely, wrapping you snugly from head to toe better than any blanket ever could. Get some rest.
It’s hard not to with him there. You’ve never felt so safe and warm as you do when he’s there, and as a drift away, you almost don’t want to think about what it will be like when it comes time for him to leave.