In You I Taste God

When he crawls from the Pit, breathing in clean, fresh air for the first time in decades, Dean wonders what it was that called him. It seems so long ago that it started, but it was unmistakably a call, something compelling, something other. Something that he could not ignore the longer the call went on. He had had the feeling of being watched, of soft feathers against his skin and in Hell, that was the most incongruous thing imaginable. He had brushed it off as a fever dream from playing too long on the Eighth Level, but as time went by, the call grew more insistent.

So here he is, walking -- tired and thirsty, dirty and sweaty -- and wanting nothing more than an ice-cold beer and a bed. A warm body with him in that bed wouldn't go astray either, but hey. Demon fresh out of Hell? He wasn't going to push his luck. At least, not yet. And he certainly wasn't going to look up his brother. Sam doesn't need all the extra crap that having Dean back in his life as a demon would bring. Dean feels a pang of something - regret, perhaps, or sadness -- but he's too stubborn to change his mind once he's made a decision.

He breaks into an abandoned farmhouse, not really caring that the inhabitants have long since moved on or that in the barn, cows are complaining about needing to be milked. Their grumbling is actually a comforting noise to one who's so used to the screams of agony lulling them to sleep. To hear nature is altogether new and... pleasant.

Dean sleeps fully clothed, covered in dust, ash, sweat, grime, curled up on the first bed he finds, not caring that he could be discovered. He's a demon after all, he's stronger than humans are and he's got nothing really to worry about. Oh sure, there's an Apocalypse going on after all, but hey, the talk in Hell is that they're winning, so it's not really going to bother him overly much.

He's asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He's been in Hell over a hundred years now; seventy of those spent honing the techniques of one who is Alastair's protégé. He's done things that once upon a time he would have killed himself for doing. He's grown accustomed to it, grown to enjoy it. As the demon within grew, Dean slowly became reconciled to it. He wasn't human anymore, not entirely. He was on his way to becoming one of Hell's finest creations, and then....

Dean.

In his sleep, Dean shifts, frowning. That voice, he knows that voice. He's never heard it clearly before but he knows immediately that this is the voice of the one that called to him in Hell, compelled him to drag himself out of the Pit. In his sleep, he reaches out, wanting to hear more and dreading that he won't. The voice is gentle, compassionate, understanding. It's low toned, smooth as dark honey, British accented. It's warm and almost tender. It's everything Dean's forgotten existed.

He wants to hear it again.

Soon.

He frowns in his sleep, his lips forming the word 'no' -- no, now; no, don't go; no, please don't leave me.

I never have. Never will.

Dean sleeps better than he has since he was a child.

When he wakes, there's a compulsion to go East. There's no real reason not to, so he hotwires a dusty Buick he finds in the farm's shed and drives.

The roads are empty, towns deserted. Every so often, Dean sees plumes of smoke in the distance and is reminded again that this is Earth in the early stages of the Apocalypse. The Apocalypse he started when he stepped off the rack and picked up the knife.

It hasn't bothered him for seventy years. He'd been proud of that before, when Alastair told him, but now... Now he feels remorse and something like guilt.

There's a faint touch on his mind as that thought burns through him. A brush of feathers against the back of his neck and the sense of understanding; a caress that gives Dean hope.

"Who are you?" he asks of the silence around him, but there's no reply.

That night, Dean sleeps curled up in the front seat of the Buick and he dreams. Not dreams of Hell and torture, but dreams of pure white light, warm hands that hold him with affection, not with hate.

He wakes with tears on his cheeks. Forcing himself not to think about it, he drives.

It's two days before Dean sees the source of his strange visitations, his sleeping and waking visions. When he does see the source, it takes him a good five minutes to think of something to say and then the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, "Holy fuck!"

Dean comes upon another abandoned town, streets deserted, cars left idling and with doors open. He parks the Buick, gets out and starts wandering around aimlessly. The silence is beginning to get to him now, so used to constant noise as he is. It seems unreal, and he begins to wonder if he's not actually still in Hell after all.

"Nope," says a voice from behind him, and Dean yelps and turns, heart pounding in his chest.

"Not in Hell anymore."

Dean just stares. His eyes flicker from black to green to black again. Standing there in full armour is an angel. His wings are unfurled, black and grey feathers rustling in the breeze. His sword is sheathed at his hip and he's grinning.

He's beautiful.

Dean licks his lips, terror suddenly filling him. This creature could destroy him with a thought and here he is, standing facing his imminent death. Never mind that he's never seen anything so awe-inspiring as this, so beautiful, so Holy. Never mind that he wants to touch, wants to hear that voice again, feel those feathers against his skin. This is an angel of God and all angels slaughter demons.

Don't they?

"No," says the angel calmly, "we don't. That's a myth. Killin' when it's needed, aye, but not for shits and giggles. Well. Except for me, but then that's what I was made for."

Dean stares, taking a step backwards. He knows who this is now -- the killing for fun remark tells him everything he needs to know and he's terrified. "Y-you're the Archangel. Gabriel."

"Yep." Gabriel grins then, bright and shining and Dean falters, unable to tear himself away, unable to run. "I see my reputation precedes me."

"It was you," Dean says accusingly, putting on a brave front although he's sure the Archangel can see through him as easily as he can see through glass. "You called me out of Hell."

Gabriel regards him calmly, and Dean has the uncomfortable sensation of being studied by a bird of prey that could tear him apart.

"Smart boy," Gabriel purrs, and Dean bites his lower lip hard. That voice does things to him, things he hasn't thought about for a very long time, that he certainly hasn't indulged in because in Hell, his appetites changed.

Not that much apparently as his body is reacting to Gabriel with enthusiasm and Dean can't deny the appeal. The Archangel's vessel is gorgeous -- tall, blond, muscular, and with the most penetrating ice-blue eyes he's ever seen. Those eyes see everything, cut through the layers of Dean's armour to what lies beneath. Dean feels naked, raw beneath that gaze, and he trembles.

"W-what do you want with me?" Damnit, could he sound any more pathetic? He's a demon for fuck's sake, not a fifteen-year old girl about to have her first kiss.

"Brave new world, Dean," Gabriel replies. "What's up is down, what's down is up. Apocalypses do that. Your destiny ain't downstairs. It hasn't been fixed, considering what you did to end up down there. That's sacrifice outta love an' that's a good thing. That's somethin' to be rewarded, not punished. So, I called, and... here we are."

"What if I hadn't answered?"

Gabriel laughs, the sound of it carefree and joyous and Dean feels his heart lurch in his chest. "We wouldn't be havin' this conversation. Everything's your own free choice, Dean. Everything."

Perhaps it's the knowledge that it's his doing that's brought about the Apocalypse or the fact that the Archangel is really fucking gorgeous or that it's been so long and he needs, but Dean is moving, right into the Archangel's space, gazing at him with black eyes. "You're hard to resist."

Gabriel grins cheekily. "It's been said, aye."

Dean smirks, reaches up to touch that blond hair, wondering why he isn't running, why he isnŐt burning, why he seems to be okay with this. But none of that matters as fuelled by sudden bravery, he curls his hand around the back of Gabriel's neck and tugs his face down to kiss him.

It's like coming home.

Gabriel tastes of freedom. His lips are warm and soft, and the scent of him is honey and spices and dusty, sun-warmed sand. There's the scent of rain on feathers, of storms and the lingering hint of ozone, of oiled leather and polished Celestial steel. Dean presses closer, moaning softly as he feels the leather and steel of armour against him, panting as strong arms and wings wrap around him.

This, he dimly realises as Gabriel deepens the kiss, is where he's supposed to be. This is where his destiny lies. He doesn't question it, doesn't need to. It feels too right, like a key finally sliding into its lock. Dean's home, and although he knows it's going to take a while to become adjusted to this, to trading a prison of pain and darkness for a prison of light and love, he's okay with it.

More than okay.

"Gabriel," Dean whispers as the Archangel breaks the kiss. "Whatever you want... my answer's yes."

And Gabriel smiles at him, nuzzles affectionately and nods. "I'm glad, baby."

Dean lies pressed against Gabriel, head resting on his Archangel's shoulder. Fingers idly trace over various old scars from the many battles Gabriel has fought and he hums softly. Gabriel's arms and wings are around him, and although the world around them teeters on the edge of ultimate destruction or ultimate salvation, Dean feels at peace.

"It's been six months," he remarks. "And I'm yours, Gabe. You've Marked me, Saved me. But... I need to know. Why me?"

Gabriel chuckles softly and rolls over to face him. His smile is fond as he looks at Dean, and Dean shyly smiles back. It never fails to amaze Dean that here he is, beloved of an Archangel and not just any Archangel, but God's second created, the Archangel of War, the General to Archangel Michael's Field Marshall.

"Because, baby," Gabriel's smile broadens, "you answered me. It was meant to be."

"I don't get it." Dean's brow is furrowed as he tries to parse the meaning out of Gabriel's simple statement.

"We've been watchin' your family for centuries," Gabriel explains, "and we know about the Winchesters, about what happened to you when you gave up your soul for Sam's life. We know about what you did downstairs, and we know that even there you clung to that tiny piece of your humanity by thinking about Sam and hoping he was safe. You never truly Fell, Dean, not completely. An' over the years you were down there, I watched you. Oh sure, it was curiosity at first, but the more I watched, the more I liked what I saw. So, I called to you and...." he shrugs, "you came."

Dean looks at him with wide eyes. "You're freakin' amazing, Gabriel."

"Yeah, I'm pretty awesome." Gabriel laughs as Dean sticks his tongue out. "But that's what did it. I watched, I liked what I saw, I wanted, I called, you came. An' here we are."

Dean nods thoughtfully. "Yeah." He's silent for a moment before he murmurs, "Don't leave me, Gabriel."

"Never, heart of mine," Gabriel replies and Dean kisses him fiercely, saying with his hands, his lips, his body what he can't say with words. I love you, I need you, don't let me go, I can't do this without you.

He shivers as there's a light touch on his mind and as Gabriel's voice slides through his brain, soft and tender. Never, dear heart. You're my demon an' I'm your Archangel.

Dean kisses Gabriel again and gives himself wholly over to his Archangel for good or for ill. Forever.