A/N: Hi all! Okay, just a couple of things before I begin, I just want to say that this is first and foremost a Sabriel story but, as many do, this fic will have Destiel undertones, haha. Also, as often happens (annoyingly) with me, I have had two ideas for Sabriel/Destiel fics simultaneously and therefore, I will be writing another one quite soon probably after this one. Okay then, as always reviewers would be angels and I hope you enjoy the story :D x
Castiel's steely gaze met Gabriel's as the younger Angel lingered at the warehouse door, turning once to look back over his cold shoulder at his older brother, encircled in the holy flames of an Angel trap like a dog in a cage, probably having shown the irksome Winchester boys how to pour the Jerusalem oil himself. The stare he gave Gabriel was stern, protective, a warning. But it was something else too; there was love there, buried underneath the chipped ice of Castiel's irises. Ancient love, old enough and deep enough that Gabriel could be sure it would never fade. They were family, brothers, their bond was as unbreakable as Sam and Dean's. He gave Castiel a mournful parting wink, letting the cascading water of the sprinkler pour down his face like mocking tears.
Later, Gabriel dried himself off with the help of a few eager young ladies, all too willing to shed the fluffy towels which preserved their modesty to give him comfort before he wearily snapped his fingers and they disappeared in puffs of smoke. As he ruffled the towel over his face and hair he had a chance to think over the events of the day properly.
Typically, for a millennia-old Archangel, one day was as inconsequential as a speck of dust floating across one's peripheral vision. Usually, there was nothing much that could be drastically altered in a mere 24 hours. Today however seemed to be a rare exception.
And wasn't it always when it came to the Chucklehead brothers? Gabriel mused as he took a sip of 1947 Merlot and stared out at the churning ocean.
Somehow, yet again those idiots had managed to twist his fun little game, and once more he had been forced to retreat here, to his secluded beach house in Hawaii (a place he had secured for himself decades ago, when deeds were easier to forge and accounts easier to hack), confronted with the same damn feelings he kept trying to bury under tom-foolery that, if you squinted, could actually be cold-blooded murder.
Michael and Lucifer. Those Bitches. So self-involved. It was always like that, even before the dramatic flinging Lucy out of Heaven fiasco. Sure, they could preach anyone's ears off about how much they adored each other, and what they would do for one another, but it was Gabriel that would have to listen to the bickering, the constant tantrums thrown between them because they were made up of conflicting ideals. Daddy himself created them eons apart on the compatibility front. Gabriel sometimes wondered if God had intended for the inevitable fallout in the beginning.
The Archangel sighed. There was so much Gabriel had purposefully not been thinking about. He had been carefully avoiding the whole apocalypse-thing for a long time, and so far it had worked out nicely. In hindsight, it was probably his own fault, getting the Winchesters involved in his little tricks. He just couldn't resist when it came to those two.
Gabriel leaned against the railing of his balcony that looked out onto the stormy sea. His wineglass twirled in his fingers as he stared out, lips pursed in deep thought. Suddenly, his brow creased and he hurled the glass away from him, sending it flying over the edge with unnatural speed, the force of an Archangel's throw sending it hurtling into the crashing waves, red droplets flying out around it like gleaming scarlet bullets.
He couldn't believe he'd almost fallen for it again. Those boys, Gabriel thought, chuckling, what is it about them that makes you want to re-evaluate your life for them? It must be the brooding expressions. The soulful gazes. Gabriel laugh grew louder, the noise swallowed by the furious sea and he tipped his head back, fingers clutching the railing in front of him for balance. Really, it must have gotten to Castiel too, because that poor sucker has it BAD. Particularly for Dean.
Gabriel grinned, and cocked his head to the side, letting the truth of that last thought wash over him. He ran through Dean and Castiel's behaviour over the past day whenever they were in close proximity, and found himself smiling more broadly. Not bothering to stifle his huff of amusement, he remembered how the first thing Dean had demanded of Gabriel when they had him bound was that he bring back his stoic, rebellious little brother.
Oh this is too perfect, Gabriel thought, a shaky idea beginning to form in his mind, it appears I may need to play Cupid! One of my favourite games.
Gabriel's grin turned darker, and his shoulders tensed as he glared out at the storm raging below. It was time to get a little payback – granted it was only with one Winchester, but that was better than none, and it would serve Castiel right too for daring to look upon him as if he were better for picking a side in this pointless war. He hadn't earned himself a Trickster status by sitting around brooding in holiday mansions over the state of his troublesome family. No, he was going to have a little fun with Dean and Castiel; maybe somewhere along the way they'd learn to stop trying to mess with Archangels.
Gabriel rubbed his palms together so theatrically it was a shame about the lack of audience, and promptly vanished.
"-just another stupid feathery dickwad with a little too much juice-"
Dean's rant about Gabriel cut off abruptly, his mouth hanging open as he realised Sam was no longer beside him in the Impala, or even anywhere to be seen, and he was instead in the centre of a large crowd of gyrating scantily-clad bodies, all of whom seemed to be male.
"Uh…" Dean uttered eloquently, eyes wide with confusion as he was jostled about by the men surrounding him, noticing the distinct sound of Madonna pumping loudly out from a speaker somewhere in the corner of this unfamiliar room. "Sam?!" Dean cried out, half-knowing that it was futile; 'Like A Virgin' was being played at a decibel Dean had never wanted to hear it.
He opted for using his eyes instead of his vocal chords, and began whirling around wildly, much to the encouragement of several leather-clad young boys who began to attempt to copy his moves. He tried in vain to peer through the gaps in the frantically dancing bodies, but he couldn't make out a lot past the neon signs and ridiculously 80's-style lasers that indicated this was obviously some kind of club. Though how he'd got here was anybody's guess.
Dean gave up squinting through the near non-existent space between the waists of two toned, stubbly men as they ground up against each other, and turned around only to smack straight into the tanned, bare chest of a very large, very muscled man probably around his age, though it was difficult to tell with the amount of eyeliner he was wearing. Trying to ignore the fact one side of his face was now coated in this guy's sweat, along with what felt and smelled like baby oil, Dean jerked back instinctively and began his profuse apology, only to trail off when he looked up at the guy's smirking expression and hooded eyes. He was looking at Dean the way a vulture sizes up its prey.
"Where'd you think you're going, sexy boy?" The man breathed, crowding in close and trailing his fingers lightly over Dean's torso, his husky voice somehow carrying over the loud twang of Madonna's deep, meaningful lyrics.
"Uh…" Dean tried not to be too obvious about desperately searching for an escape route, but his heart was pounding furiously in his chest.
Dean knew he shouldn't be afraid, and he'd deny any accusations that he was if you asked him, but here, in this unknown place, defenceless and without backup, Dean couldn't help feeling a little exposed. He gulped, suddenly very aware of how trapped he was in this mass of people, with this enormous guy looking like he wanted to eat him, or fuck him, or both.
Suddenly, a hand slammed down on Dean's left shoulder, and an unexpected jolt coursed through his body, making him gasp. He turned quickly, ready to face another predator, only to find himself face-to-face with Cas, who was staring at him with a worried, yet determined expression. In that moment, Dean couldn't have been happier to see the Angel. Trying not to be too obvious about it, he nodded to Castiel in a silent affirmation of his wellbeing, and shifted a little behind him before glancing back up at the huge semi-naked man looming over them.
"Like a virgin! Touched for the very first time!"
Madonna's lyrics provided the perfect staccato beat for Dean's heart as he watched the dude size up Castiel, who had finally turned to look up at the stranger. Dean couldn't see Cas's face from where he was positioned, but he guessed from the burly guy's reaction that it had to be pretty impressive.
He wasn't exactly thrilled about it, but Dean was aware that Cas could get a little… possessive. It was usually annoying as hell; and explaining the handprint scar to chicks was always a little awkward, but right now Dean could have kissed him for his predictability. The smirk slipped off of the guy's face, his brow creasing as he drank in the scene before him, Cas's hand still firmly gripping Dean's shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft pink scar tissue he had left there after dragging him out of the pit. Dean could only imagine the sharp set of Castiel's features; he knew the Angel could look pretty friggin' scary if he wanted to. The guy looked annoyed for a moment longer, and then turned to dive back into the crowd, searching for a new victim.
When Cas turned back to face Dean, his face was neutral, as though nothing had happened at all. Dean smirked at him, eyes darting helplessly to his lips for a half-second before inclining his head in a vague 'let's-get-outta-here' direction and steeling himself for the imminent forehead tap that would fling the world out from underneath him.