Pulse

Chapter 1

     Dean pulled the fire alarm to the warehouse on his way out, leaving the shamed archangel to be soaked along with the flames that bound him. Gabriel fled to his sanctuary between worlds, 'TV Land', as those two mutton heads called it, to collect himself and try to process what had just happened. Centuries of adaptability, of switching roles so often he forgets himself, have yielded precious few who could ruffle his feathers, and all it takes are these two disfunctional, emotionally constipated screwups to get under his skin? He ran an agitated hand through honeyed hair, distractedly noticing it's dampness and dismissing the sensation. They'd shaken him, and for the first time in a long time Gabriel was forced to remember who he was and what he has been lately. Blowing out a shaky breath, flicking droplets of water off his slightly parted lips, he reflected on his past.
        An Archangel, then running, a Pagan God, then running, a Trickster, and now, again, he's going to run. Never standing for anything, never rocking the boat, never involved. He has always been afraid, deeply, of action, but until this moment he'd never let himself know what he was becoming, what he is now.                              
      A coward. 

     "No," a broken whisper, heard by no one, said in a place no one could reach. Gabriel let out another breath, punctuated with a sob wrenched from deep in his chest, from his soul, if he'd owned one. What was he to do? He could never hurt his family, nor stand up to them, no matter what was at stake. He couldn't even stand them hurting each other, he was useless, and always had been.
      The Messenger of God began to weep. Gabriel sobbed with abandon, his tears melding with the water on his cheeks, dripping down to meet an already soaked shirt. He wept for himself in shame, he wept for his brothers in regret, and he wept for his father in want. Now that the wayward son was finally ready to return to his father, the father had abandoned him with no guidance, and no assistance. He had just wanted it to be over, he was so tired. But now that his eyes had been forced open to see what 'over' was, he doesn't know what he wants. But not this, never this. His brothers killing each other, his father gone, the world ending in fire. He couldn't stand it.
      And this time, for once in his life, he wouldn't. His eyes began to dry as his resolution solidified. For once in his life he would take a stand. Gabriel began to feel the remnants of a holy passion he had not felt since The Fall. Nobody was going to die, not if he had anything to do about it. And this time, he would. His whiskey eyes clouded over with thought, and a ghost of the telltale smirk he always wore graced his face. Calmly, he sat down in the nothingness, and began to plan.

* * *

      "Well that was waste of time." Dean complained as he plodded through the rusted threshold of another shady motel. Home sweet home. Sam grunted, slamming the door and locking it for good measure before going to the whirring, outdated mini-fridge to fetch himself and his brother a beer. He tossed the cheap beverage onto the musty, threadbare bedcover that might once have been white where his brother currently occupied, face down and blindly feeling for the drink. Once Dean found it he dragged himself into a sitting position facing Sam, who had sat down on the bed parallel to him, and opened his beer with a satisfying snick. Both taking a long draft, an uneasy but not unexpected tension settled familiarly into the space between the two. A pause.
       "What're we gonna do now Dean? That was our last shot, and a long one," he pushed his unruly hair back from his face as he looked doggedly at Dean, deep down still having hope that his big brother could help him, could make it better. But it was a childish hope, one that wouldn't be entertained. Dean took another swig.
       "I don't know Sammy, but we'll figure something out, we have to." It was an empty promise, they both knew it. Stewing, despondent in their grief, they did their best to believe it, to push away the unimaginable.
     A faint wash of chocolate and brown sugar laced itself through the dankness of molding wallpaper and stale air, out of place. The brother's eyes snapped to each other, immediately assuming the worst from the foreign scent. Dean's hand slowly creeped under the stained pillow, gripping the bowie knife that lay beneath, while Sam's gaze quickly swept the room, checking salt lines and symbols for anything out of place. Sam's eyes stopped and widened directly behind his older brother to observe the still dripping archangel leaning casually against their room door with an expression that can only be described as intense as Gabriel stared at the two men. Dean followed Sam's look immediately, standing up in a defensive position in front of his baby brother, who was not far behind him, brandishing the knife in the direction of the unknown threat.
        "Hey Deano, Samsquach."