#angel!john

[ibreathebooks-42]

“See, now, this is why you shouldn’t go around murdering people,” he says. “You never know when an angel’ll show up to push you off a building."

Capital H-i-m

[kijiboop]

Send Me an Angel - Prologue

Read it on AO3.

“Castiel.”

“Uriel. What is it?”

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

“Dean Winchester is important, Uriel. He must be rescued.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“...”

“The elevation of a human…”

“It isn’t an elevation, Uriel. Humans are superior to angels. You know that.”

“But they’re so fragile. And to give a human, with their free will and rebellious streak, the power of an angel?”

“I have my orders, Uriel.”

“...of course, Castiel.”

John Winchester drowsed on the couch, one arm behind his head and the other hanging off the side of the worn couch. He awoke suddenly when a body hit his belly at full-force, a three-year-old Sam crowing in delight. “Daddy, Daddy! Wake up!”

Coughing, John held his son and tickled him, growling happily until Sam tumbled away to run after his brother up the stairs. Up the stairs to the house that had never burned. In which Mary had never died. And their lives were the way they could have been.

Happy.

A knock on the door drew his attention and John frowned. This wasn’t how things were usually. He knew the difference between reality and dream world. He knew this wasn’t real. But it was real enough to feel like home and he had been willing to suspend his curiosity. The knocking? That was new. He stood up from the couch and went to the door. “Hello?”

Two men stood outside. Something about them was strange, as if their faces weren’t their own and he couldn’t look at them directly without feeling like he was falling sideways between worlds. “John Winchester,” one of them said in a voice that made John’s ears throb. “You are required.”

“And what does that mean?” he asked, backing away from the door.

“I am sorry,” the second man said in the same kind of voice that throbbed with power and a kind of majesty he had never experienced before. “No soul should be taken from Heaven this way. But you are unique. And the Host has need of you.”

A sinking feeling spread through John’s chest as he continued to back up. “No. You can’t do this to me. I earned this. This is where I belong.”

“It is and you have,” agreed the second man. “But a little more is still required.”

“Dean Winchester must be saved.”

John stared at the first man, feeling his eyes scorching from the extended contact. “What?”

“Dean Winchester must be saved. Will you help us?”

With a little twitch of his shoulders, John looked up the stairs of his house to where Dean and Sam as children peered down at him curiously. Finally, he looked back. “Yes. For my boys, anything.”

The men smiled sadly and the first one reached out to touch two fingers to the center of his forehead.

The pain was intense. Incredible. Beyond anything he had experienced in Hell or on Earth. His bones lit up with agony while his mind was bombarded with information, things he would need to know, refinements of what he already knew. John could feel himself changing and knew that nothing would ever be the same.

There was no going back now.

***

His true form.

He still stood 6’2”. He was still long-limbed. His hair was still dark; his beard more grey than he remembered. He felt older.

Older than the world.

John turned to face the angels. “Castiel,” he said. He tried to say it quietly, but it still boomed like thunder. “Uriel.” They nodded to him. They were huge in ways he was not, monstrous and beautiful. He was acutely aware that, while he shared their power and station now, he would always be different and part of him would always be human.

That much was comforting.

“John,” Castiel said in that same booming voice. At least it didn’t hurt now. “Dean Winchester must be saved.”

“You said that part,” John snapped, feeling irritated. Uriel gave an impression of smothered amusement that made John smile. “Where is he? Is there a plan?”

“Dean is in Hell.”

The information rocked John and he closed his eyes against the pain of this knowledge. He opened his mouth to let out a string of cusses that had started with “goddamnit” in his head, but found that he was unable to speak. He looked at Uriel and pursed his lips. “I can’t swear?”

“Just not that one,” Uriel confirmed. “He may not be around much, but He does still hear it and it does still bother Him.”

“So I can tell someone to fuck themselves with a rusty dildo, but I can’t take the Father’s name in vain.”

“It encourages a flexible mind.”

John shook his head with a small smile. He liked Uriel already. “Fine. What is my son doing in Hell?”

“He made a deal,” Castiel replied.

“What in the far fucking regions of the devil’s own asshole could have been so important for him to make a fucking deal like that?” John shouted. Uriel looked impressed.

“Sam.” Castiel’s voice was surprisingly quiet, for an angel the size of the Chrysler building.

John staggered and leaned backwards, closing his eyes. “Dean sold his soul to save Sam.”

“From Azazel,” confirmed Castiel.

“Bullshit,” snapped John suddenly. “I saw them kill Azazel. I was there. Sam was fine when I left and Azazel was dead as a fucking doornail. What aren’t you telling me?”

“When you saw them,” Castiel said, one hand extended in a placating gesture, “the deal had already been made. Sam had died and been brought back by Dean’s sacrifice.”

“I sold myself to that yellow-eyed bastard to save Dean. Dean sold himself to save Sam. Who did Sam sell himself to to get me back?” John gave a weak smile.

“Sam has not sold himself,” admitted Castiel and John winced, feeling a raw pain in his chest. He might not be entirely human anymore, but he did still feel. “Though someone has.”

Surprised, John blinked and tilted his head. “What?”

“Someone has been sacrificed on your behalf.” Uriel and Castiel exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Though not to a demon as you and Dean were.”

“You’re talking in riddles.”

“We’re angels. It’s what we do,” Uriel chuckled.

“But to each other?” John asked with a weak smile. “Who? Who would have sacrificed themselves for me? It doesn’t make sense.”

“She is no one important,” Castiel replied with a wave of his hand. “She prayed to be used and her prayers were answered.”

Suddenly angry, John stormed toward the angel. In that one angry movement, he grew their intervening heights until he could stare Castiel in his faces while John’s own hazel eyes burned a steady, glowing blue-white. “She gave herself for me. She’s important. Who is she?”

Uriel made a sound that to a human would have been a clearing of the throat. “Her name is Agnessa Louise Bradley. She surrendered her soul as the catalyst for your transformation. Essentially, she is part of you now.”

John stopped to just stare at them in confusion, then stepped back, allowing himself to shrink back to a more normal size, then looking inward. Agnessa?

Yes? The voice that answered was immediate, a gentle whisper in the back of his mind and John closed his eyes.

“Why would you do this?” John sighed aloud. “I don't even know you.”

I wanted my death to mean something, the voice replied. I prayed to be useful. And I was useful.

“You could have been more useful alive,” John said.

I was already dead. Her voice was soft and sad.

“Agnessa was killed at the hands of her tormentors,” Castiel supplied. “She died a martyr’s death. This was her reward.”

“To be trapped in my head for eternity?” John shot back. “Bullshit.”

“Actually, her continued consciousness was unforeseen,” mused Castiel.

“By you,” Uriel snorted and Castiel shot him a quelling look.

“This is extraneous,” Castiel said sternly. “Dean Winchester is our mission. He must be saved from the pit.”

John examined the inside of his mind, finding the quiet presence of Agnessa there, tucked into a corner out of the way. Will you be okay?

I am dead, John. But useful. I am happy.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the angels. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

@lissachan504 @the-giraffe @nettle-rain @ladylorelitany @5sos1dsex @rizflo-blog @vizhi0n@chey0201 @ouraniablossoms @tsukistefhon @lionessx @cemmia @deanwinchester-af@mypapawinchester @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash @ashesashleyweallfalldown @strangersangel9@may85 @rapsity @squirreledelman @crzcorgi @poemwriter98 @paintedsteel15

[photonromance]

Another little bit of that Guardian Angel ‘verse. Also, sorry for the weird format, I fixed it!

Sometimes John can’t sleep. It’s more than the mattress or the pillows or Harold soft little snores (Those are more adorable than anything). He’s restless, wary in all things, and it’s hard to relax when his sensitive ears can still hear traffic on the street.

He takes to watching videos on the smartphone Harold got for him. Mostly cats and dogs and the occasional hedgehog. Sometimes he’ll see or hear something during the day and spend the evening researching it. He learns about the history of spice trade and the meanings of a few slang words that came up during the last week.

He’s still up around two in the morning when Harold rolls over to peer up at him. “What are you learning about now?” he asks softly, yawning.

 “Miles Davis.” John murmurs, leaning down to kiss his forehead, “He was a trumpet player.”

Harold nods, nuzzling back into the pillow. “Very influental to 20th- aaah- jazz. He’s very good.”

“Would having sex help me sleep?”

Harold squints up at John, confused. “Did you just ask me if sex helps sleep?” 

John sets his phone aside and lies down, facing Harold very seriously. “I asked if having sex would help me sleep. I heard some women joking and one of the ladies said her boyfriend fell asleep after sex.” Harold turns his face to the pillow and sighs.

“Well?”

“It does help some people relax,” Harold explains quietly, his words getting clearer as he wakes up, “Some people can even fall straight asleep soon after reaching climax. Whether it works for you or not, being what you are, John, I can’t say.”

“Can we try?”

Harold goes pink in the face. “You have a very strange way of asking a man to bed, Mister Reese.”

John feels his face get hot and he’s not sure why for a moment. “I’m sorry if that was too direct,” He mumbles when he manages to unstick his tongue.

Harold’s smile is gentle and John feels the worry in his chest loosen an inch. Thick fingers work between his own and Harold holds his hand lightly. “I wouldn’t have you any other way, John.”

[photonromance]

John was his Angel, he was accustomed to lingering over Harold until he slept and then keeping watch from the sitting room or a chair in the corner while he dreamed. Human, he could not do the same. When he tried the first time he woke up slumped in the chair with a crick in his neck. Harold chided him the next morning, rubbing his neck for him and pouring his first cup of coffee. "I need to watch over you." John insists as Harold begins to prepare breakfast. "You need to sleep." Harold reminds him, "If you're human, you need to sleep, that's the way we operate." It takes a few weeks to get comfortable with the idea. Lying down in loose clothing specifically to fall into a semi-paralzed coma for a few hours was disquieting. Harold helps. He helps John pick out the kind of mattress he likes most and makes sure he has plenty of pillows wherever they are. But it's still... off, somehow. "I don't like that I can't watch over you." He explains tentatively one afternoon. He's monitering a Number and talking to Finch over the comms. It's easier like that, talking to Harold without those intense blue eyes watching him like he can see through John. "If it's so upsetting, perhaps you should sleep with me." Harold says softly after a short break in the conversation. John considers the offer as the Number leaves their apartment and he moves to follow. Number sorted, John returns to the Library to check on Harold. It's purely habit by now but he's reminded of Harold's offer when the man turns pink on seeing him. "I wasn't sure if I should wait for you." He mumbles, tucking a few papers into place and avoiding John's eyes. "I would like to sleep with you." John says abruptly, tilting his head when Harold goes scarlet. "Did I misspeak?" Harold clears his throat delicately before speaking. "The phrase 'sleeping with' someone can mean platonic sleeping, such as I proposed, lying down to together to sleep or a more... physical arrangement." "Sex?" Harold makes a funny little noise and John smiles. "I'm aware of the concept, Harold. Humans are kind of obsessed." Harold looks away pointedly and John realizes what he's not saying. John takes a few steps closer and tips his chin up with a fingertip. Harold is sweet when he's blushing, John decides and leans down to kiss him, just a brush of lips. It's a good look on him. "I would not be opposed to sex either." John tells him quietly, nuzzling into his cheek. "But we'll get there in our own time. For now, I just want to make sure you're safe."

[willietheplaidjacket]

John stood at the window, looking up towards the sky. Standing in the reflected light from the street below, Sherlock drank in the sight of his bare torso, compact and well-muscled, gleaming as if it had been oiled. And standing as he was, barefoot in just his jeans, the younger man thought that all he really needed was his wings and he would be the epitome of an angel.

A small smile crossed the angel’s face, and as if reading the other’s mind the strong, blue wings stretched out from his shoulders.

Commission for johnsarmylady based on her fic The Devil On Trial

[photonromance]

It was mentioned to me in a comment that Saint Michael the Archangel was a strong choice for Angel!John Reese. In response I penned quite a long response I felt might fit here as a bit of an explanation. (Both of my self in a way and of my choice of Michael.) 

I was raised Catholic and Michael was our patron saint. When I came to the decision to leave the faith, at the ripe age of twelve, I took a lot of superstition and Saint Michael with me. Salt and sage and magic eggs and saluting the archangel on passing. '

There was something about John Reese that spoke to this protective spirit I had called on in dark of night for years. He was everything I had seen as Michael in those times, this tall figure, almost more darkness than light. A warrior before he was an angel, Michael carried a sword and cast down his own brother to save humanity. I remember him like that.

A defender, protector of this hapless world that knew nothing of him. That's John, the real John I know and love so dearly. He will take up his blade when we are most in need of him and lay it down only when the war is won.

[photonromance]

Harold sleeps just fine. He continues to do so, the Angel perching in various bedrooms in various safe houses and keeping watch over him. What exactly about him keeps the nightmares at bay, Harold can't quite say. He isn't terribly imposing. Always so soft spoken and careful to never exert any tendril of his strength that might harm Harold. But perhaps that is exactly why Harold feels... dare he admit to it... safe, when the Angel is around. More Numbers are surviving, escaping certain death, and Harold has never been so happy.

And then the Angel is gone.

For three weeks, the Angel is gone. Numbers come and Harold struggles to keep up, struggles to survive. He hadn't realized how much he depended on the Angel until he had no one to call. And how could he call? The Angel didn't have a phone. Didn't live anywhere Harold could reach him. What was left?

Prayer?

Harold put it firmly out of his mind the third day. By the third week, he was considering it much more strongly. A number down, though barely (There was no one Harold could have check on them but the police and that took more time than the Angel ever did.) and he was putting on his coat.

The church, the little church where the Angel had come to kill him, was empty, just a half dozen candles flickering at the altar.

Kneeling was painful, very nearly too much, but he did it anyway. Looking up at the altar, dimly lit and shadowed, Harold found himself at a loss. What was he supposed to say?

'God, I'm not sure if I believe you're there, but if you are please send back my Angel. I need him.'

Was he to ask this of the being that had apparently decided he was to be killed? But what was there left? Crushed, Harold covers his face with his hands and focuses on trying to breathe. He had done this without the Angel before. Surely he could do it again.

"But I can't." Harold says softly, breath catching on a sob, "I can't do this without him."

Harold stays until his eyes are dry and his breathing is back under control. It isn't much, but if he intends to carry on he'll need to be in control again. Righting his coat, he leaves, heart much heavier than when he arrived.

On the steps outside, he accosted by a man in a ragged coat. "Pardon me." Harold excuses himself, stepping out of the way as best he can.

"Finch."

He stops dead. "Angel?"

[photonromance]

The Angel becomes something of a fixture in Harold's life. He shows up when Numbers come and vanishes when the cases are finished. But sometimes... Sometimes The Angel doesn't leave right after. Sometimes he perches on the back of a sagging couch and watches Harold read across the room. Sometimes, like today, he asks Harold to read to him. He pinches his mouth up small. "Aren't you supposed to be all knowing?" He asks, all sharpness and irritation. They were too late today. The Angel kicked down the door and launched himself back and away to pin Harold under his weight. He wasn't fast enough. Harold still got a snapshot view of a familiy of four slaughtered on their sitting room floor. The father's brains painted across the ceiling where he had finished with himself. Harold didn't vomit, didn't cry. He looked up at the Angel trying to protect him from the sight and found his insides empty. "I will notify the police." He said, his voice hollow to his own ears. The authorities informed, Harold made it three blocks before his knees gave out and he collapsed to the sidewalk. He hadn't eaten in hours, nothing in his belly to sick up, but his body gave it go. The Angel held his shoulders and helped him stagger to a cab. He hadn't spoken since then, just plucked a book from the shelf as he passed and curled up on his favorite little reading chair. The Angel had taken his perch shortly after, watching him. Now the Angel cocked his head and looked at him, confused. "You have not seen so much death before, have you?" He asks. Harold shuts his book and clambers up. "It's late for a new number," He says instead of answering, "I'm going home. You get some rest." Halfway to the door, there is a familiar rustling sound and a hand settles over his eyes. The Angel's hand is under his glasses and his free hand holds Harold by the waist. "I can make you forget." He says softly, not seductive in the least, "I can take the memory from you if it pains you so much." "No." Harold chokes out, "No, don't." "Not without your permission." The Angel agrees. "If you wipe away every time I make a mistake, I risk repeating it with no idea of the concequences." The Angel is still holding him and Harold can't help but enjoy the warmth a little. It's been so long since anyone held him so close. It's... nice. "May I let you sleep?" "What-" Harold tries to turn, look at the Angel, but he's held firm, the hand on his waist tightening. "I know you aren't sleeping. Not well. Often not at all. Tonight is going to be especially hard for you. I think you plan to work when you reach your safehouse. You don't even intend to try." It's true, all of it. But that doesn't make it any easier to hear. "I try." He croaks, his throat tight, "But what if a number comes and I'm asleep? Or they find me? And even if I sleep, the- The nightmares- It's not worth the risk." "I'll watch over you." The Angel says softly. He rests his temple on the top of Harold's head. "I don't need to sleep. You do. What if there is another Number tomorrow? I'll need you in top form." "You'll wake me if- if anything-" "No nightmares." The Angel promises, "Just tonight. After tonight, if you sleep well, I'll stay. Keep watch over you. Wake you if the dreams become too much." "And if I don't sleep?" Harold challenges. It's too easy to just agree. Just go along and he needs something to push against. "If you don't sleep well tonight I won't bother you about it any longer." Something like a smile is pressed into Harold's hair. Surely not. Surely this stone eyed Angel does not smile. "Fine." Harold agrees and the Angel allows him to slip out of his hands, "One uncomfortable night will be worth it if you'll leave me be." He tries to sound harrassed, bothered. Instead Harold is relieved. A night of dreamless sleep is more than he could dare ask for any more.