He never had dreams before, never these sounds and shapes and sighs, never. Never slept, never felt the need to, a perfect automaton who rested by gazing out upon the world in silence, taking in its beauty, rested by action and by contemplation. But never truly part of the world, not when he was needed in Heaven. A silent observer of the material realm, his battle was with the spiritual, ethereal and removed, and he did not linger with the humans that he had been sworn to protect. A shepherd remains with his flock, eats with them and remains with them, but he was no shepherd. He was a warrior of the light, removed and watchful, the aloof, shining prince of Heaven, battle-beaten armor and swift sword. He did not do anything as humans did.
His vessel seemed to strain to contain him at times, at once fitting and then chafing, like a suit too small for him. Broken, torn and tattered wings folded agonizedly, bursting to break free of this thing, this body that was dying around him, every cell, breath by breath, organs and blood and bone, disgustingly organic, terrifyingly confining. The body insisted it needed to eat a great deal although it required no nourishment, the pressure of containing him ramping up metabolism, heart rate. The body insisted that it was attracted to human females, desires running through its mind that repulsed and confused him. The body wished to rest despite the fact that the angel would sustain him, wanting to lie down, to close his eyes. He had refused his vessel for several weeks before the pain in his own form, in the parts of him hidden, gave him a wish of a distraction.Â
He had slept for the first time, and it had been like a death, and he had dreamed. Dreams of the boy that he had had as vessel, rabbit-scared, dreams of the man as well, mixed confusedly with images of a life he had not lived. Sweat, love, a woman beneath him, the thought of a child, a memory of a black car, working with tireless hands. Above all, he dreamed the ancestral dream, memories that were not his, running naked before the pack in a snow-drenched forest, stumbling and falling as the howls drifted, eager panting, tongues redder than blood and shining eyes in the darkness surrounding him. He dreamed of what it was to be a small pink thing in an unforgiving world, run down by strength and sinew and cunning, terror beating in his ears, dreamed of what it was to slip in the snow, and have the snarling mouths close——
He would wake, dry-eyed but gasping, and feel himself rush back, like rising to the surface after drowning in cold water. His vessel would be sweating heavily, his heart hammering, and he would shudder, remembering that sensation of falling, the darkness closing in around him, how close it had been to the Cage. Madness, falling, isolation, fighting, screaming, feathers torn and rent and bleeding, bodies colliding, fists, Grace flaring, crash, exhaustion, agony, crying out, silence, silence that was worse, any pain would be better than that silence. He would shiver alone in the safe place that he had found, and he would slowly remember what it was that he was, the truth of the power that coursed through his veins, and he would be less afraid.Â
It had been evening when first heard the screaming, his brief rest broken, shattered like so much cheap glass, his vessel shocking to alertness. A prayer, cut off to another angel, a feeling of broken elation, weariness, pain. A deep, instinctive draw pulled him there, although for what, he could not say. Perhaps it was residual possessiveness that these demons beholden to his fallen sister would see fit to extinguish his vessel, cooperative or no. Perhaps it was the simple knowledge that there was a point of certainty, that strange connection that bound wielder and sword, completing both.Â
He arrived in an instant, landing with an exhale of pain, feet light, a deep rustle announcing his presence, still green eyes scanning the scene, hearing the intakes of breath, sensing the fear. He moved smoothly, a tiger among sheep, curiously graceful, curiously halted, as he got to work. A bright, brilliant light escaped his hand as he grabbed the demon’s shoulder, watching without emotion as the vessel began to smoke and char, black smoke streaming violently from her mouth, the body shuddering, shivering and curling in upon itself like an insect. He casually let go of the smoking corpse, not even bothering to look at it, curious gaze fixed on Dean. He could sense the other demons attempting to flee the room, and extended his Grace, the doors instantly slamming shut.Â
“Close your eyes,” he murmured to Dean, and his voice was soft and low.
He wasn't sure why it stopped, but it stopped. The sharp white pain that had been keeping him bleeding and crying out and taking his life away stopped and he was so angry that it had he looked around in his daze to try and figure out why that was.
He stared at the angel with fear welling inside of him, watching the demon be destroyed while he coughed blood onto his lips and practically gawked at the mighty angel. The angel that had done so much to get him as his vessel, the angel that had stolen Adam from his dubious consent and left him trapped down deep.
And now this fucker was wearing his father's young face and looking at him like an animal in a zoo or a painting of some kind. He sneered and wanted to say something clever or something that would get him struck but blood kept him from speaking.
He collapsed again, staring up at nothing, his breath shallow. He heard the command and knew he had to even though he didn't want to. Surviving meant going on with this and he was so unsure if he could death looked so pretty again. And it hadn't since he'd been condemned to Hell.
