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Gabriel sometimes will sit out on the deck alone at night. He’s as mysterious as ever whenever he does this, so Sam tries to give him his space, but he does worry.
Gabriel holds up his two-toned wing a little higher than the other one, the wing that Sam repaired the day Gabriel crashed into his Sam’s ship. He holds it up, and the moonlight glints off the seam between the platinum and the bronze, sparkling, even its imperfection.
But Sam’s not sure Gabriel knows that.
“You know,” Sam tells him as he walks up, and Gabriel recoils a bit, his wings folding just a touch, closer to his shoulders. “I always thought the wings on the archangels were kind of boring. Now, those, those are the real beauties.”
Gabriel’s grin is rueful. “You’re just saying that because you’re the one who repaired them.” The smile softens out a bit as Sam sits down cross-legged next to Gabriel. “Thank you for that, by the way.”
“You can stop thanking me, you know.” Sam tells him. “I’m just lucky enough that you decided not to rat me out to the authorities. With you on board, I’m pretty much set.”
Gabriel nods, and it’s a small motion, one that Sam probably would have missed if he hadn’t payed attention. The former officer touches Sam’s hand gingerly, and Sam twines their fingers together slowly.
And with enough care and precision as a surgeon or a soldier, he lets out his wings again, higher than before.
He sits alone with his wrists bleeding, rubbing against the harsh iron of the shackles. His bones are visible, underneath torn flesh and tattered sinews, but he can’t feel it. It’s not his body, anyways.
There are burns smattering his face from where holy water has been thrown at him, and he can feel an odd, foreign sort of light coursing through him, something that shouldn’t be there. He doesn’t like it.
But Crowley is not scared.
Scared is not something the King of Hell feels. Scared is something that teenage girls feel at horror movies. Scared is the emotion you attribute to adrenaline rushing through your veins, forcing you to run faster, to exist longer. Scared is what you feel when a gun is pointed in your face and an eternity of darkness is set out before you.
Crowley is not scared.
He stretches out his legs, the left one broken and mangled, twisted beyond recognition, and his shoes scrape against the trapped ground beneath him. He can smell blood clinging to his skin and his hair, the socket where his right eye once was.
He scowls, but he is not scared.
Crowley knows, maybe in a few minutes, maybe in a few hours, the Winchester brothers will return, and they will continue to strip him of everything that makes him Crowley. Every ounce of evil in his body, every last drop of cruelty and malignancy, will be squeezed out of him until he is left dry.
Scared is not something Crowley feels. Scared is something that little children feel when they got to sleep at night. Scared is what people feel when they look to the future.
Crowley’s future is bright, and it makes him nauseous.
Crowley is not scared. Crowley is terrified.
authocracy: PUPPET U KNOW WHAT I WANT GURL. (?STEAMPUNK!)SABRIEL AU(?) WITH THOSE FUCKING WINGS OKAY
i had to those wings are my pride and joy omg
One of the first things they try involves one of Dean’s black ties.
Before he went to Purgatory, Dean was nowhere even close to pure.
(sassafrasscas wanted some riding, so have more team purgatory!verse with cas/benny riding. i’m working up to some actual threesome stuff i promise //finger guns runs into the sunset)
When winter rolls around, it starts snowing. The cold starts seeping into the wide crevices of their creaky old place, and they have to break out some heavier blankets to sleep under. Dean goes out and buys a space heater and it’s pretty much an unspoken rule that Benny makes the coffee in the morning, because he’s pretty damn good at making coffee, for someone who doesn’t drink it.
#but for real though #dean winchester as campfire tale #dean winchester as legend #there’s a human in purgatory #he’s the most beautiful and terrifying thing you’ll ever see #and if you ever see him you should run #dean’s own humanity is a beacon #more like a siren song #the monsters are fascinated and venture closer than they should #and are dashed against his rocks #YOU SHALL LOVE HIM AND DESPAIR
There are brief moments in Purgatory when the monsters aren’t ripping each other apart limb from limb. They’re doomed to that fate for the rest of eternity, so it’s not like they’re losing any daylight, right?
When they finally settle down, sometimes in the dark of night, or when there are clouds rumbling overhead, they tell stories. The ones about God and the angels are getting old, and if anybody hears another horror story about Crowley, they’re probably going to vomit.
But then came along the tale of Dean Winchester.
“Who the hell is Dean Winchester?” one of the newer vampires asks. She looks at the Leviathan sitting to her left. “Am I supposed to know him or something?”
There’s a werewolf across the ring that shakes his head. “No, but be glad you don’t know him.” His smile is toothy, almost like a warning. “You know Dean Winchester, you die.”
See, the thing about Dean Winchester is that he defied everything we know to be true in Purgatory. He overstepped the boundary and brought an angel with him, of all things. He was the first, though not the last, human soul in Purgatory, and he burned with the brightness of a humanity we’ve all forgotten.
The girl scoffs. “And who would give a shit about something as stupid as that?”
“We all give a shit about that.” the Leviathan growls, allowing the werewolf to continue.
There were many a monster that tried to kill him, to snuff out that bright light as if it was too harsh for such a dark world, but some of us came upon him and were paralyzed. Like the eyes of Medusa, he turned us to stone — he was beautiful. He was everything we wanted to be, and everything we want to have.
Monsters fell in love with Dean Winchester. He was like a loud, harsh song in the depths of a crushing silence. He was agony. Dean Winchester was doom.
We all wanted him anyway.
“We fought for him.” the werewolf continues, leaning forward with zeal. “We killed each other for him, we wanted him in our claws. Some of us wanted his throat, others his heart, his mind, his sanity. Some of us just wanted him. To be with him. To be washed with that hot, white light.”
The vampire seems a bit more intrigued now. She’s stopped commenting, and now she’s leaning forward, listening intently.
The thing is, Dean Winchester will never love you. He’s been through Hell and Heaven, met demons and angels, fought alongside the great destroyer Death, has Enochian and Greek and Latin etched into his bones. You’ll never be good enough for Dean Winchester. You’ll love him, and you’ll die because of it.
“Why would we all fall for something we can’t have?” the vampire mumbles. “If none of us could have him, why bother?”
“I never said none of us could have him.” the werewolf corrects quickly. “That’s not true at all. We could have him. Or, at least, one of us did have him.”
The monsters sit around a dying fire, and the next day, the werewolf will rip out the vampire’s heart, only to be ripped apart by the Leviathan. But for now, they continue their great tale of Dean Winchester, and his untouchable, unattainable glory. And they tell of the rugged Southern man Dean fell in love with, and who he left Purgatory behind with.
The second time Dean pulls Benny out of Purgatory, the first thing he says is, “Don’t you ever fuck with me like that again.” He promptly smashes his mouth against Benny’s in a way that the vampire’s pretty sure he hasn’t experienced since he was a teenager, which was a long goddamn time ago, but he rolls with it. It’s Dean, so he rolls with it.
(YEEEEEESSSSSS)
The thing about the Winchester Body Shop for Automatons is that it’s been open for generations and generations, easily accessible to both the aristocratic and the plebeian, serving scores upon scores of people with rusty chefs or leaky butlers for a fair price. Dean, however, isn’t particularly prepared for an automaton to be left on his doorstep, alone and broken and sparking from his left optic socket. There are deep metal gouges in his back, and he insists his model name is CASTIEL, so Dean decides to call him Cas, and even then, he has a feeling Cas will be staying for a while.
