#jean without blood/injuries (on his face) is like an angel without its wings....

[sergeantjessi]

I'm watching part 2 of the Human Can Opener podcast interview with Argo. They talk about how Jean is a very misunderstood character, and The41sPrecinct summarises how much it must suck for Jean that despite all their years working together, Harry only got better once Jean wasn't by his side.

The41stPrecinct: "And that must make the many, many years that Jean made the effort previous feel like... 'Man, what a kick in the teeth'."

Me: *imagines Jean bleeding out of his mouth* Mhhhh... kick Jean in the teeth.... 🤤

(my tragic miserable depressed man. i love him a lot actually.)

[imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl]

Stay With Me (Pt. 01 of 09)

Pairing: Daryl Dixon X Reader

Word count: 2.9 K

Summary: Daryl found you surrounded by the dead, stuck in the backseat of a car. You were wishing for death to take you away for quite a while now, but, as you slid back and forth into consciousness, there was only one thing keeping you alive. Him, the man with blue, worried eyes and kind voice. Your beaten up body was ready to give up, too wounded and broken to keep going. But this man, who went out of his way to save your life is the only thing in the world holding you up. And, because of him, you feel something you haven't felt in a very long time: hope. Wherever he's taking you, you want to get there, and not only to be buried. For what it feels like the very first time, you want to live. He takes you back to Alexandria, but even there, the nightmares and the terror from all the torture and pain you've been through keeps creeping closer, and Daryl, your hero, is the only one who can keep that all away.

Warnings: Mentions and description (not graphic) of past abuse; post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD); some violence at the end of the story (a little bit graphic, but not so much); blood.

Next part (02) ->

{The Walking Dead Masterlist}

A/N: I want to thank my awesome friend @jodiereedus22 , who helped me (and still does) a lot to get this story done. She's also a writer and she's amazing so please go check her work!!

×

Blue Eyes and Angel Wings

“Stay with me.”

The sentence is the only thing keeping you alive. The only thing keeping you from surrendering into darkness permanently. The lips from where they flow belong to the human blur that's constantly in your sight. The man with worried, blue eyes, the eyes that gave you something you didn't have for a very long time.

Hope.

You have been in the backseat of the useless car you stole, out of gas, surrounded by a sea of death. Their hands pushing the glass, blocking the daylight from coming in as you lied down, trying not to move, not to breathe, waiting for them to move along. But they didn't. Your sore, beat up body struggled, as the blood dried, as the wounds ached, as the pain became greater and greater until it stopped. Until your body went numb.

The glass wouldn't resist for too long. You only wished you'd die before they reached you.

The notion of time left your mind after a while. You only noticed as the day became night when the darkness overcame you completely. It happened twice. And yet, there you were still, more dead than alive, eyes locked on the back of the driver seat before you.

You don't understand why you didn't just die. Why your body was still trying to live. It was useless. A waste of time. In death, maybe, you'd find peace.

But at some point in your agony, a gap among the dead allowed the light to come in. But it only lasted a second before it was gone. Then it happened again. Your tired eyes followed the source of the light as they kept coming, over and over. Until you saw it. One of the dead falling, colliding against the window with an arrow on its head.

Someone had to fire that arrow, you thought. More gaps kept coming, and some of them remained for a little while. You didn't think you'd love the daylight so much, that you could miss the sun so much. Holding your breath, closing your eyes tightly shut, you used all the strength left in you to push yourself up, until you were seated, back colliding against the leather of the backseat. When another arrow came, your head moved to look for the source. That's when you saw him.

Blue eyes. Living eyes. They found you, going wide at the sight.

The dead kept dying. For another day and a half, until they were gone.

“Stay with me.” He says again, as your eyes open just enough to see the bottle he's holding before you. “Hold on. Jus’ a lil’ longer.” You feel the bottle touching your lips, and water fills your mouth, but most of it just rolls down, soaking your neck, chest, and clothes.

“Alright. Let's get goin’.” When he turns around, doing something out of your sight, your eyes fall on the angel wings on his vest. That's the image that burns in your head as you slip into your half-conscious state, being lifted up once again, moving, floating, hurting.

Sometimes you wonder if he only found you to carry you into death. Because that's where you feel like your heading. Right into death.

• • •

Breathing comes easily. A lot easier then it has for the last... You don't know. Time is lost to you, minutes, hours, days or weeks, it's all mixed up.

But you shouldn't be breathing if you're dead, then maybe you're not. Pushing the air in, a groan leaves your lips when a sharp pain on your side pushes the air out again. The pain is back. Death doesn't hurt, so this gotta be life.

So with that thought in your mind, you force your eyes to open, taking in a bright white ceiling. There's something in your face, covering the nose and mouth, and you're quick to remove it, suddenly realizing that thing was helping with the breathing. Your eyes scan through the place, seeing shelves and things on top of them. Beeps on your right, windows, and equipments you don't know.

Hospital. It looks like a hospital. But how can you be at a hospital?

“She wasn't just hurt, she was–”

The voice makes your heart start pounding, and you sit up, breathing heavily. You wonder where's the man with blue eyes. Did he leave you here?

The door is opened and two women come in. Pure terror clouds your senses and your blood runs cold, like ice. It can't happen again. It can't be happening again. You couldn't be given such a tiny bit of hope jut to fall into the same nightmare.

The younger woman moves, just a little, but it's enough to make you jump, pushing yourself further away, your body leaving the bed and hitting the ground hard. Trying to get up is useless. You know your body won't respond, so you pull the hospital bed down, and it collapses loudly on the floor. The tears already cover your face as you crawl backward until you find a wall. There's no place to go now. No way to run, or fight. You're trapped.

They'll hurt you again and there's nothing you can do.

Covering your head with both your hands, you pull your legs into your chest, despite the pain it shoots through your body, curling into a ball. As if it would protect you from anything.

“Honey?” Someone says in a low, feminine voice. “We won't hurt you.”

You've heard that before. It's always a lie.

“Hello?”

“Denise. Go get Daryl. Now.”

You feel them coming closer, and you hear as the hospital bed is lifted. This is it. It'll start. All over again.

“Hi, there.” A voice says, the same voice you've been listening for a while. Telling you to stay awake, to stay alive. Carrying you, holding you.

He's here. He didn't leave you.

Soaking in a sharp breath, you raise your head, your eyes finding him by the door. Your whole body relaxes, almost involuntary. The man hesitates, looking at the woman before making his way over you. The blue eyes capture you as he crouches next to you.

The words try to make they way out, but your throat is dry, sore.

“I'm Daryl.” He says, looking down before looking at you once again. “Yer hurt. Ya need to be taken care of.” He moves to the side a little, gesturing at the two women. “They'll take care of ya. Ok?”

Nodding weakly, you try to move, to stand up, but you don't know how to. When you look at your leg, you finally notice the blood that soaked the fabric of your jeans, ripped in the middle of your tight, giving you a sight of what's underneath. Your skin was sliced open, and you remember why. And who did it. The smile on his face as he drew the knife through your skin, inflicting the last wound he could before the dead came. Before you fled that hell on Earth.

Through the corner of your eye, you see Daryl's hand.

“I've been hurt too. I know how yer feelin’. But these people only want to help, alright?”

Lifting your eyes from his hands to his face, you remember it clearly now, with no share of doubt, how this man took care of you. For how long he carried you after almost two days killing off the dead for you. Slowly, you lay your shaking hand on top of his.

Slowly, moving your legs and holding your breath, you gather the courage to stand up again.

“I can put ya in the bed.” Daryl offers, and you lock eyes with him again. “I'm gonna pick ya up, is that alright?”

Nodding again, you watch as he slowly moves, an arm on your back and the other under your legs, slowly, carefully pulling you up. Soon enough you feel the soft mattress against your back as Daryl puts you down. Breathing out in relief, you see a woman approaching, the younger one, and Daryl steps back.

In a jolt of adrenaline, as fear starts building up again, you reach out, the sudden, fast movement making you groan a little when pain spreads through your arm. But you keep moving, grabbing Daryl's hand before he's out of reach. His skin is warm against yours, or maybe you're just too cold. You try to speak again, ask him to stay, beg if needed, but it just doesn't come out. Then you just look into his eyes, hoping it will be enough, squeezing his hand just a little bit.

“Daryl, I think she needs you to stay.” The other woman says, the one with gray hair. “Is that what you want, honey?”

Without looking away from Daryl, you nod, relieved when he steps closer.

“I'll start, ok? I need to see where exactly you're hurt and how serious the injuries are.”

“That's Denise,” Daryl explains, and you look at the girl as she hesitates before taking a scissor from somewhere, cutting your jeans just above the wound you saw. “And that's Carol. Ya can trust them, alright?”

Can you?

Holding Daryl's hand, you moan and wince, as many tears roll down. Every shot of pain makes you go back to imprisonment. The dark basement, the cold concrete, the men and women who came to hurt you, beat you, trying to force you to agree on complying with their filthy desires. And every time you said no, it got worse.

If it wasn't for Daryl's hand, you'd swear you were back there, being tortured again. But he keeps you anchored here, and you try to keep in mind that these people are trying to help. He said they would, so they might be.

“I will need her cleaned up before continuing. There's a lot of mud, dirt, and dried blood. I need her body to be clean to avoid any infections.” The woman Denise says.

“I can help her,” Carol speaks up.

“Good. Let's put her on the bathtub we have here.” Denise speaks fast, and you can't do anything but follow her with your eyes, motionless. “Daryl, get her some clothes. But pay attention. Nothing tight. And get those cotton shorts, you know? They look like leggings but are really short, I don't want nothing squeezing her leg, this wound is worrying me, and I–”

“Denise, why don't you go get those. I'll clean her up and...” Carol gives you a glance. “...I don't think she'll let go of Daryl.”

“Alright.” She nods, getting a piece of fabric to clean her hands. Clean them from your blood.

“Ok, honey. Let's do this.” When Denise leaves, Carol comes closer. “Daryl will take you to the bathroom and I'll help you, is that ok?”

Squeezing Daryl's hand, you look at him. Even though he's a man, you know you'd feel better if he helped you instead of this Carol.

“Daryl can stay there. Looking away. Would that make you feel better?”

Breathing out in relief, you nod. “I'll pick ya up then. Ready?” Daryl asks, carefully moving to hold you in his arms once again.

You close your eyes shut as the small trip to the bathroom makes your body complain. Your state of numbness is fading, so the pain gets more and more real now. It's hard to tell exactly where it comes from. You're aware of the cut on your leg, and sharp pain on your side, but all the rest is just mixed up.

Daryl puts you down in the tub, slowly. Carol comes in soon after, kneeling and turning on the water. Your eyes follow Daryl as he moves to the door, standing there, his back at you, giving you the sight of the angel wings on his back. Seeing it makes you relax, and you close your eyes to feel the warm water filling the tub.

Carol is patient. Very patient. The last thing you want is to take off your clothes, so she asks and waits until you let her help you remove them. The wounds burn in contact with the water, and the fact that you must rub the soap on them, to avoid any infections, only makes it worse. You can't help the tears rolling down, and the groans that leave your mouth. It feels good to take a bath, to remove all the mud and dirt, but you wish it didn't hurt this much. Your eyes always fall on Daryl, just to make sure he's still there. Carol also washes your hair, and you're thankful for that because you'd never be able to do that yourself.

After some time, you don't really know how much, you're done, and you have no choice but to sit on the edge of the tub as Carol helps you get dressed. The doctor, Denise, got you black underwear, a light gray tank top, and these soft shorts, that end up right above the cut on your leg. “I'm sorry, I know it's cold, but I don't want anything compressing your body right now. You're very...” Her voice fades and you look at the floor in between your feet. “Here. Take this.” You shake a little when you feel a weight on your shoulders, only to realize it's just a blanket. “Sorry.”

“Daryl. Can you take her back to the bed?”

“Yeah.” He finally turns around, those blue eyes finding yours almost immediately. “Hey. I can see yer face now.” He mumbles, picking you up again.

Once you're back in at the hospital bed, Denise finishes her job, covering all the major wounds. You just found out why your side hurts. Apparently, there are a few cuts on your ribs, right below your breast. As Denise stitches them up, the memory comes back, as vivid as if you were there again. That man, with dark brown eyes and a devilish smile, hovers over you, the needlepoint knife pressed against your skin as he said you'd soon give in, enjoy the pain, and ask him to that over and over again, in the most fun parts of your body.

The memory makes you flinch away when Denise's finger brush on your skin, and you desperately look around, looking for him.

“Hey. S’ alright.” Daryl's voice comes from behind you, and shyly, you reach out your hand, which he takes in a loose grip.

You're not sure how long you stay there, cold and whining, but eventually, the doctor is over. Carol wraps the blanket around you as Denise talks about the pills you'll need to take and how to keep the wounds clean. You don't really pay attention, wondering what happens now. Where you are, and if this new world revolves around this room alone.

“Honey.” Carol stands beside the bed, getting your attention. “We'll take you home now. Daryl and I share the house so you'll be with us, ok?”

Knowing you'll be around Daryl is what makes you nod, agreeing with her. Carol gestures at him, and he's quick to hold you up one more time.

In the last days, you've spent more time in Daryl's arms than anywhere else. It hurts, way too much, with every step he takes, even though you feel that he tries to keep you as still as possible. Ever since the man showed up, you've been feeling safe. You didn't think you'd ever feel safe around someone again. Everyone you met after you were forcefully separated from your first group tried to hurt you. But this man, a complete stranger, stopped whatever he's doing to rescue you. To bring you here, wherever this is, to help you survive.

When he steps out the hospital-like room you were in, you can't help but hide your face on his neck, protecting your eyes from the daylight. And protecting yourself from the small group of people you spot downstreet. Despite being curious to know where you are, you don't wanna look. You don't want people to see you, to know you exist, to think about you. If they don't know you're here, they won't want to hurt you.

“Welcome to your new house.” You hear Carol saying, and the noise of a door being open. Finally, you open your eyes to take in the... Normal house. If you tried really hard, you could even pretend this was a normal house from before... When the dead remained dead. “Daryl, upstairs. The guest room.”

He only murmurs a response you can't understand, and a minute later you're on a bed again, much more comfortable than the first. Your head rests on a fluffy pillow and a long breathe leaves from your lips.

Daryl steps back, turning to talk to Carol, both standing by the door, talking low. You don't try to understand, you just keep your eyes on the wings... Until they leave, disappearing in the hall.

“Sweety, Daryl will take a shower, ok? And I will make you something to eat, to sustain you until dinner. I'll be downstairs so if you need me, you just have to call.”

She waits a while before leaving too.

Being alone isn't the problem. The memories are. You wish your brain would stop working, stop trying to take you back to the cold, hard floor of the basement where you had a taste of what hell must be like. You try closing your eyes, but the darkness brings their faces back. Smiles, laughter, yells. All those people having fun with your suffering, placing bets on how long you'd resist before surrendering.

A couple of minutes later Carol comes back with a glass of water and scrambled eggs, helping you get into a sitting position and urging you to eat before leaving you alone again.

Frozen, you look at the eggs. They smell amazing, and slowly, you take some with your fork, raising it up to your mouth. The taste is so good it makes you ignore the pain spreading through your arm. Your stomach starts complaining violently, urging you to eat more. It's been quite a while, but still, you can't seem to push your body to work any faster. So you just keep looking at your food, trying to figure out which pain you can endure. On your arm or on your stomach.

A knock makes you look up, finding Daryl by the open door, damp hair, and a clean face. The very image of him calms your heart, setting it at ease. “Won't ya eat?” He asks, stepping inside and gesturing at the plate in your lap.

Weakly, you nod, taking some more and raising the fork to your mouth again, trying not to let him notice how your hand shakes, and you almost drop everything before successfully reaching your mouth.

“Do ya... Do ya need help?”

Blushing and embarrassed, you shake your head no, giving up eating. Focusing on not making a mess, you put the plate, still half full, on the nightstand, taking the glass of water. The weight seems to be too much, and your muscles give up trying to lift it, letting it slip and fall back on the nightstand.

“Lemme–” He mumbles, coming fast and taking the glass from your hand. You don't understand why he hesitates there for a moment, before kneeling beside the bed. “Here, drink.” Carefully, he brings the glass close to your mouth, and you lay your hand on top of his, taking fews sips, only then noticing the water is cold. How is the water cold?

That's when you finally take in the lamp on the ceiling, above the bed, the light on. They have electricity. What the hell is this place?

Pushing the glass away, you clear your throat, taking a deep breath.

“I'll leave ya to–”

“Stay.” It comes out suddenly, your voice so weak, so terribly low you barely recognize it. You didn't know you would actually say it, that this feeling, this need would build up and crawl its way out of your heart like that.

It makes Daryl stop in his tracks, already up and ready to walk away. The way he looks down at you, it's clear he's also wondering if he did hear you. You haven't spoken yet, you realize.

“Stay with me.” You force the words out again, repeating the same thing he said to you while he had to carry you through the woods. The words that kept you trying, fighting, struggling to have another chance to live.

“Alright.” He makes a small pause, eyes on the ground before taking a deep breath and sitting on the bed, near your knees. “We were worried. Thinkin’ ya couldn't speak.”

Shrugging your shoulders, you pull the blanket up when you shiver, holding it above your shoulders.

“Will ya tell me yer name?”

His blue eyes are locked on yours, and you feel yourself relaxing, calming down, more comfortable. “(Y/N).” You say, your throat burning a little.

A small, quick smile flashes on Daryl's lips, soon disappearing. But it was there, you know it. Slowly, he reaches out his hand, and you take it without hesitating, watching as he lightly shakes it.

“I'm Daryl. Nice to meet ya, (Y/N).”

×

@funeral-7 @heyyy-hey-babyyy

[maandags]

Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon!reader) {part ii}

im still alive! yay!

---

Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Word count: 6.5K 

Genre: Angst -- CW: death mention, injuries, blood, hallucinations (?)

Notes: masterlist -- {previous} -- {next} -- yall........ hes trying his best ok

-- -- --

you did not break me  

i’m still fighting for peace

~ Elastic Heart, Sia

-- -- --

Keith bites his lower lip as he makes his way to your apartment. Every step sends a sharp jolt of pain up his right wing and he grimaces in pain, massaging his shoulder. The trip looked a lot shorter from where he'd been standing in the square, he thinks bitterly as he makes his way through the swirling crowd, shreds of conversation coming at him from all sides. He's actually surprised at how well he remembers the layout of the city–and how well he remembers the way to your home.

When he finally gets to the apartment building he hesitates for a moment. In the glass door he sees his reflection: black dirt coating every inch of his body, tear tracks streaking down his cheeks. His hair is an absolute mess, as if a particularly pissed-off fairy had tried to knot his hair in the most complicated ways. He tries to smooth the locks down, growling when it did nothing at all. His clothes are torn and crooked, and a wild–almost dangerous–light shines in his eyes, and he looked like he'd just escaped death itself. In a way, he had.

That's when he remembers his knife. A glance to his calf tells him everything he needs to know and he suddenly wants to cry again.

It's gone.

The knife he'd carried with him for so long, the knife that had saved him in many a sticky situation, one of the rare blades that could actually kill both angels and demons–and he'd lost it. Probably dropped it on the ground in the woods. The black straps he used to keep the knife concealed beneath his jeans served no purpose anymore. Keith bends down, ignoring the pain throbbing on his back and unclasps the sheath. Strangely, it's mostly undamaged, except for the dirt and mud that coat every inch of it. He holds it, weighing it in his hands. His leg feels oddly light without it.

Scrunching up his nose, he chucks it in the rubbish bin that stands beside the apartment entrance and pushes the door open.

He's slightly out of breath when he finally reaches your floor, cursing the weight of his wings under his breath, but his heart skips a beat when he finally arrives in front of your door.

He doesn't know what he'd expected, quite honestly. It was–well–a door. A plain white wooden door with a stainless steel doorknob and a number plate on the side; yours said 34. Bar that very number, it was completely identical to the other doors in the building. It didn't look very... well... demonic.

But then again, he hadn't really expected it to be. He takes a breath and knocks.

You open surprisingly quickly, and the sight of you makes Keith freeze up.

Your eyes are stormy and wild and widen only a fraction before they narrow down again, your lips pressing themselves into a thin line just shy of a snarl. The door is only just cracked open, and Keith can't see what's going on inside your apartment, but he forces himself to relax his muscles even though every nerve in his body is screaming at him about how wrong this is.

In the split second where no one said anything, Pidge's words of the previous day–had it really only been a day?–echoes in his ears: Is that why you need guarding every second of the day? Because you're a traitor to the Above? She would never know how right she had been, Keith thinks bitterly.

"No," you say, firmer than Keith had expected, and you cross your arms.

Keith blinks. "You don't even know what I was going to say–"

"I don't need to," you snap. "You look like you just spent a week running around in a jungle. You're probably in need of somewhere to stay. There's a shelter a couple of blocks away. You can take the underground."

"They'll find me there."

"Not my problem." You almost shut the door on him, and in a desperate attempt to keep your attention on him just a minute more he stumbles forward and slams his hand against the frame. You freeze and Keith notices how your muscles tense up–as if you were preparing yourself for a fight.

"Y/N."

You look at him now, eyes pools of swirling fire laced through with hatred, fear–but Keith also thinks he sees something like doubt, and he latches onto that with all his might.

"I need your help. Please." He takes a ragged breath. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

You close your eyes, fingers tightening around the doorknob. When you open them again, all sign of the doubt he'd seen before is gone, a grim determination having taken its place. "No."

That single word is enough to stun Keith into letting go of the doorframe, sending him swaying back. His thoughts are racing, emotions coursing through his body–most prominent of all the absolute terror of the fact that he was going to die. He was going to get found by the Upper hand, and they were going to kill him, and he was going to die. He'd just fucked up his last chance at staying alive a little bit longer.

He almost protests again, opens his mouth–then shuts it, and lets his head hang, sighing deeply. There's no point. You've made up your mind.

Your voice is quiet as you say it. If there had been a single other sound in the hallway, he most definitely would have missed it. But it's dead silent, and so he hears it: "Never ask a demon for help, Keith. You're only going to get yourself hurt."

His head snaps up, but the door is closed. It's like you've never been there at all.

He brings a hand to his face, turns and starts down the stairs again, every step sending a bolt of pain down his back. He flinches against the pain. Doesn't slow.

What was it again you said about a shelter?

The Kindness for All Adults and Children's shelter is a small organization located on the corner of a dark street, easy to miss if you don't know where to look. Except Keith did know where to look, so he found it just fine. He knocks on the glass door, is immediately let in by a short and stern-looking woman (but with kind eyes) and ten minutes later he's sitting on a stool (he's careful to avoid anything to rest his wings against, because even though he concealed them, they're still there) and a blanket puddled in his lap (again. Wings), sipping on a mug of hot tea.

Isabel–the woman who let him in–enters the room, frowning at Keith's dirty boots and overall grossness. "Honey, you'd better take those off. If you'd wait a bit, we have shower hour in just–" she glances at her wristwatch– "twenty-three minutes. We have a couple of other fellas here; hope you don't mind communal showers." She gives him a scrutinising look, and Keith has to fight the sudden urge to straighten his spine and salute. "You look like you need one."

Keith takes a long sip of his tea, rolling his shoulder. His stomach lurches at the mention of a shower. He does need one: he reeks of rotten plants and he's pretty sure he has multiple cuts on his legs and arms that probably need cleaning before they get infected. He didn't bother to check.

But staying here would only get these people in danger, and that was about the last thing he wants. The Upper hand was going to find out one way or another of his whereabouts. Now that he couldn't rely on your protection–he hadn't realised how much he'd just assumed you would take him in, no questions asked (stupid, stupid; he saw that now) to the point where he had no idea what his next move was going to be. He had made a huge mistake doing whatever it was that got him onto Middle Ground and he was paying the price for it now.

Besides–he couldn't fully hide his wings; not with the injury. He didn't want to have to think about what would happen if one of the other guys in the shelter saw a cut-up, bruised, dirty dude wash blood and earth off his body while water slid off a shape hovering above his back that looked suspiciously like wings.

"I won't be staying, Isabel," he finally mutters, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

The older woman frowns, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. "Are you sure?"

Keith nods, setting his mug down beside him and getting up from his chair, bunching the soft fabric of the blanket in his hands. "I'm sure. Thank you for your care."

"But–but where will you stay, then?" The edge of worry to Isabel's voice almost makes Keith smile. Humans... some of them were even more rotten than demons, but thankfully even more were better than the purest angel could ever be.

"I'll find a motel or something," he lies. He didn't have money. He didn't have anywhere to go. "I'll be fine." He sounds so convincing he almost believes it himself.

As he curls up on a particularly comfortable spot of hard concrete, Keith nibbles on a piece of bread he'd nicked from the nearest bakery. It hadn't even been hard. He probably should feel bad. He almost does. His stomach growls even after he'd scarfed down the bread. Angels shouldn't have to eat, he thinks bitterly. And in a sense, they didn't–but everyone had to bend to the rules of Middle ground to a certain extent. Having to eat and drink to, you know, live, is one of those rules.

A bottle of water sits beside him, half empty. It was the last gesture of kindness Isabel showed him before he'd exited the shelter and he knows he has to be careful with it and not drink it all at once, even though it was tempting. He also got to keep the blanket, and he wraps it around his shivering body now, and although it hadn't been designed for an angel and it's kind of small to fit both his body and his wings he made it work, and he's grateful for the warmth it provided in the chilly night, however little it may be.

The city buzzes around him, lights flashing and illuminating his surroundings every so often. He'd managed to find a building that looked pretty quiet and not the worst place to spend the night in–big, made mostly of concrete and red bricks, apparently abandoned years ago. It looks like it used to be a factory of some kind. Graffiti tags litter its walls, from stupid vulgarities to surprisingly intricate artworks Keith observes with a kind of admiration. They give him a strange sense of safety, somehow. You're not alone, the colourful letters seem to whisper in the dark. The wall he chose to make his hoe is decorated with a particularly interesting piece. It's different from the others, somehow–he doesn't exactly know what drew him to it, but with his back to the paint he feels a little better.

Now that he's sitting there, the outside noises faded into the background, he has time to think. Really think. Mostly about how he's going to survive the next... next what, exactly? Weeks? Months? Years, maybe, like last time?

He sets his jaw, huddling up even more in his blanket. No. He had to make sure this wouldn't be anything like last time, because he got caught last time. It wouldn't happen again.

The best way to avoid an angry and very powerful group of celestial beings was by constantly moving. Never spending more than a few nights in the same place. Changing the way you look, changing the name you go by. Hiding your wings (that one might be an issue). Not, under any circumstances, performing magic of any kind. And, most importantly, not standing out among the people.

If you want to hide among humans, you have to fool everyone into thinking you are one.

That was probably how you had made it so long, Keith reflects, ears perking up at the sound of water dripping onto a metal surface. It echoes around him. That, or you had managed to reconcile with the big guys from the Below. maybe you'd started doing missions again. Maybe that was why you couldn't take him in. You feared for your own safety.

Or maybe you just didn't want anything to do with him, Keith reminds himself. He screws his eyes shut, softly banging the back of his head on the wall behind him. How he had managed to hold onto the hope that a demon–a perfectly real demon–would be the one to save him was completely beyond him. He sees now how truly stupid he had been. There was no mistaking the fire he'd seen in your eyes for anything other than what it was: hatred. Pure and utter hatred. They're a demon, Keith mutters to himself like a mantra. They're a demon. A demon. It's his fault and his fault only that he's in the spot he's in. His fault.

And yet, he can't get the image of your eyes blazing up at him through that crack in the doorway out of his head. On the back of his eyelids, he sees the vision he had of you right before he'd exited the Above–your eyes had been swirling pools of and black devoid of any emotion, so different to what he'd seen earlier this evening.

Because there had been emotion in your eyes. It had been sort of a shock to him and he recalls how he'd flinched back at their glint. He doesn't know why your eyes affected him so much. They shouldn't have.

But the difference was so stark–and, in a way, almost unsettling–that he couldn't for the life of him banish the image from his mind.

– – –

You sag on your favourite bench, ripping pieces off a stale loaf of bread and chucking them into the pond for the ducks to eat with more force than necessary. You're in a foul mood this morning, you realise, and it's all you can do to scowl at the ducks and scream internally about how much of a moron Keith the Angel really is.

You'd called Allura. Of course you'd called Allura. You hadn't explained to her exactly what had gotten you worked up–maybe it wasn't the best idea to tell a human about the existence of angels and demons–but you'd asked her to meet you at the park. You hadn't needed to say where. Allura knew.

Here she comes, you think, and you drip even further down the bench when you spot the tall girl skipping towards you, her silver ponytail whipping in the wind. She holds two cups of what you recognise as coffee and a smile creeps up your face. Allura, Allura. I don't deserve Allura.

"Gimme." You stretch out an arm and sigh contently when Allura deposits a steaming cup of coffee into your open pal. "I love you and only you."

"I know, dear," Allura croons, graciously draping herself onto the bench next to you and sipping her own cup. "So what's got your panties in a twist today?"

If the question had been asked by anyone other than Allura you would probably have snarled at them to mind their business, but it hadn't, so you didn't. You sigh, handing the leftover bread to her. She starts cooing at the ducks, pitching pieces of bread to them surprisingly accurately. "It's just... I got a rather unexpected visitor yesterday."

Allura's eyes widen. "Greg from Accounting. I told you he's got a thing for you–"

You cut her off with a whack on the back of her head, but you can't hold back the giggles anymore. "No! No, you moron, not Greg from Accounting."

She pouts. "Who then?"

You bite your lip, taking a long sip of your coffee. It's then that you discover that the drink is actually hot chocolate, and you silently thank the Devil for the one good thing in your life as the warmth spreads through your entire system. Still, you hesitate if you should tell her. It'd only bring up more questions, and you don't know how you'll answer them because you have a ton of questions of your own.

"An old acquaintance of mine," you finally muse. You pause, frowning, unsure of how to continue. "I only vaguely know him." You don't know him, you remind yourself firmly. You don't know how he figured out where you live, too–but your questions had to wait, though you had a faint feeling you'd get the answer to them soon. It wouldn't surprise you if you were to run into him once more.

You look over at Allura. She raises an eyebrow, her coffee forgotten and her hand gone slightly slack. "... And you have no idea why he showed up at your door?"

You shake your head. But deep down you did know why he was there: he'd needed help. He was terrified and hurt and alone and he'd come to you for help. Even after you had told him to go away, the encounter had left you awake into the early hours of the morning as you rolled in your bed, getting your limbs tangled in the sheets.

You still don't know why you were so worked up over it. You were a demon, first of all–a rogue demon at that. You were busy trying to avoid the Below's own Managers ever since you'd failed one of their missions and decided that the average demon's life just wasn't for you, and you'd done a fine job of it so far. Taking an angel in could put all of that in jeopardy. Everything you'd worked for–it could all go up in smoke.

You have a life here, now. You have a job at the local animal shelter (not very demonic–but you'd noticed it was harder for Management to pick up your trail when you smelled of animals. Besides, you like the job). You even have a couple of friends: Allura was a prime example of that, and in a way she represented everything you could lose should you have chosen to help the confused Angel who had knocked on your door the day before.

"What'd he want?" she asks, and you start.

"I don't–I don't know," you lie, fingers curled around your practically-full cup of not-so-hot-anymore chocolate. "He didn't say."

Allura squints at you, pitching the last of the bread to the ducks. You watch as at least six of them frantically paddle towards the sinking bread, squawking as they try to get hold of at least a small part of it. Discomfort lodges in your chest when the bread is ripped to shreds in a flurry of flapping wings and spraying water. "I think you're lying to me."

Your eyes widen and you open your mouth, but Allura cuts you off. "It's okay. I know you don't like to talk about your past, and I'm not going to force you to do so," she says in between sips. "It's just–you've told me about how you cut off all ties with people you knew from before you came here. Would this dude have gone through all the trouble of finding out where you live, seeking you out in particular when he knows you don't want anything to do with him anymore if it wasn't serious?"

"I don't care, though," you say, pulling your sleeves down onto your hands. You sound like a whiny child throwing a temper tantrum. "I don't want to know what's got him here. Nothing can be so serious for him to come to me of all people. It makes no sense."

"All right, all right." There's a moment of silence as Allura drains the last of her coffee. "You have the week off, right?"

You nod, even though you plan on going to the shelter anyway. Better safe than sorry.

"There's a party in the old abandoned factory in two days. Wanna come?" The twinkle in Allura's eyes should have warned you that the night was going to get messy. But you'd never been one to deny yourself a bit of fun, and hey–maybe you could even throw up some graffiti on your wall while you were there. Allura knows she has you when you start to grin.

– – –

The cans in your duffel bag make clattering noises with the swaying of the underground. You grab onto a pole to stabilise yourself, sending a cautious look around you. This particular subway ride was quieter than you'd liked, with everyone either on their phone or staring out of the window, headphones on, but nobody seemed to hear the suspicious sounds coming from your bad. That, or they just plain didn't care.

The city was big, and there were a lot of factories around, but Allura hadn't had to specify which one, because it always was the same one. It had shut down years and years ago. No one knew why. No one knew what it used to be–the signs were all worn and unreadable. Most importantly, no one cared. There were lots of little rooms. A few big rooms with high ceilings. Clean, concrete walls perfect for graffiti. It hadn't been long before the young folk of the city had claimed it as their own.

You duck out of the subway as soon as the doors hiss open, jogging with your hands shoved in your hoodie pocket and your headphones hanging around your neck, making your way to the factory. You don't go in immediately, making sure to walk past it before you skirt back and sneak in through a hole in the fence at the back. Cheap trick, you know–but it had saved you many a times from getting spotted, because you were technically not allowed to go in there.

Allura waits for you a couple of rooms away from your wall. She's smiling, long red skirt billowing around her legs, and holds out an arm for you to take. She starts chattering before you've even properly entered the building, stepping over suspicious-looking stains and discarded beer cans. You'd asked her to come a bit earlier so you had time to at least make a start on a new design that you'd sketched out the same morning. Allura plops down onto a slab of stone (probably supposed to have become a bench) and props her chin onto her palm. "You have maybe an hour, babe." You give her a side-eyed glance as you set down your duffel, zipping it open.

You shake the can, cocking your head to visualise the piece on the wall. Your sketchbook is propped up against the wall, for reference. You stand there for a couple of minutes, shaking the can of red paint in an almost hypnotic motion before you take a step towards the wall and push the valve.

Slowly, the lines you put down start to take shape and form something more. The design is pretty simple, yet you work faster on this than you ever have on any other piece. It's as if you're racing against the clock, and you need to get it done or it'll disappear. The two silhouettes take shape: one white, one black, facing each other in a mirror image of themselves and red wings sprouting from their backs. You purposely approach the can of red paint to the wall to make drips. When you step back, it looks eerily like blood.

As you work, you try to banish the thoughts that worm themselves inside your mind. An angel. A demon. How much more obvious did you have to be? As much as you want to forget about him, you find that you just... couldn't. You feel sick in the stomach all of a sudden, but you bite your tongue and squint hard against the tears that threaten to fall, pressing down hard on the can.

You had already refused. It was done. You repeat those sentences over and over until you start to believe them.

When you're satisfied with the base layer, you check the time. You have maybe twenty minutes left. You shove the cans back into your duffel, grabbing the small paint container you always carry with you and the paintbrushes.

You like the way spray paint and regular paint look together in the same piece. It's the small thing that sets you apart from the other artist whose work cover the walls, the small details you add in with black paint that make your work really stand out. You get paint on your hands. You don't care.

It's weird how an hour can pass in ten minutes. Allura taps you on the arm. "It's starting." It is. Music drifts through the door-less doorway, closely followed by laughter and chatter. You nod, packing in the paint and the brush and taking off your mask. You were practically done anyway, and when you look over your shoulder one last time before following Allura to the party, you feel a burst of pride.

The warm feeling quickly disappears, though, when you notice something you hadn't seen before.

A grey blanket, stuffed into the far corner grabs your attention and you frown. The fingers around your bag's straps tightening, you walk to the corner and crouch down. There wasn't much else besides the blanket–yet it made you uncomfortable enough to pick it up and inspect it from closer.

Out of the blanket, two black feathers fluttered down.

Anyone else would merely have thought it weird, but wouldn't have thought much of it. They'd have laughed and moved on.

You, though, weren't just anyone else.

You'd recognise an angel's feathers anywhere.

You make a sound that's a mix between a sigh and a groan. You don't even try to pick up the feathers, knowing they'll turn to ashes if you try. Running a hand down your face, you consider your options–but you know that there really aren't any options to consider. If he's here, and he's found by the partygoers–he can't conceal his wings properly, you recall from a few days ago.

You heave a pained sigh. The risk is too big.

"Y/N?" Allura calls, irritation staining her voice. "You coming or what?"

You stand, clenching a hand around the blanket and stuffing it in your duffel without a second thought, sighing once more for good measure. "Sorry, Allura. I can't."

"What?" cries Allura, face falling and shoulders going slack. "Why?"

You shake your head, eyes scanning the room. If he heard you and Allura come (which he would have, with Allura's chattering echoing through the building), he couldn't have left through the main door, which meant he had to have gone through either the crack in the wall on your left or the big hole that you knew led to the empty staircase to the second level of the building. The bigger hole is probably your best bet, you reason.

"Sorry," you tell Allura, and you hope she understands that you really are sorry. "I'll explain later." But you flinched even as you said the words. Explain what, exactly? You feel yourself slipping back into your old skin: one tainted with memories of fighting, hunting, and betrayal.

When you turn around again, Allura is gone.

Setting your jaw, you duck into the hole and into the dark staircase.

– – –

Keith presses a hand against his side, panting and flinching against the pain.

Noise is coming from all around him. He hears music, people laughing, people talking, people screaming. It seems to come from the walls themselves, and grows louder with every passing second. He needs to move, but these last few days have been hard on him–his wing has gotten worse, to the point where he can't conceal them at all anymore. He's losing feathers, leaving a trail of them behind him wherever he goes.

His other cuts–the ones he dismissed as not being very dangerous–have grown red and swollen and hurt when he puts any type of pressure on them. Infection, the one part of his brain that still somewhat works whispers.

He hasn't eaten since that loaf of bread the first night, and his bottle of water is long since empty. In fact, he spends most of his time slipping in and out of consciousness, living and reliving horrible nightmares that have him jump awake and gasp for breath as he wipes tears from his cheeks that he doesn't remember shedding.

Even in his feverish state, he knows he has to keep moving. There has to be a place in this building where he can huddle up and wait for the people to go away. There has to be a spot where he can wait it out. He stumbles his way up the stairs, one hand gripping the railing as if it's the only thing keeping him upright. Sometimes he has to stop for a minute to catch his breath, clutching his stomach and coughing his lungs out.

He wanders through the upper level of the building. It's somehow cleaner than downstairs, with less graffiti staining the walls and less rubbish littering the floor. Guess it's not an ideal place to party, in plain view of the city, Keith thinks. He chooses a particularly comfortable-looking spot in a small room–too small to be an actual room, more likely a broom closet–to curl up on. Before his head hits the ground, he's asleep again.

– – –

You curse the angel's apparent stamina as you climb the apparently unending stairs, skipping one out of two steps as you race up them, your bag bouncing on your back. Every once in a while you glance down, looking for a feather. He was leaving a trail of them behind, a sign his condition was worsening.

"Swear–to Satan–" you mutter, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. It may not have been warm, but running up a set of stairs for ten minutes was bound to make anyone sweat like it's thirty degrees and the sun is beating down on you.

You get to the top level and groan.

This part of the factory is relatively untouched, you know, because it was so easily seen from other parts of the city and there had already been people who had gotten caught by the police. But what that means is lots and lots of rooms you didn't know to explore, looking for on single guy who could, if he wanted, avoid you until you gave up. All it would take is a better knowledge of the place.

So you get to work.

You search as quietly as possible, as to not give yourself away, tiptoeing from one room to the other, making sure to check each and every dark corner. You don't need a flashlight: the city's lights have turned on, and the moon shines brightly in the sky, casting a cool light on everything it can reach through the windows. You silently thank the obnoxious city lights.

After ten minutes of checking rooms, you start to grow impatient and slightly worried. What if you're wrong? What if the feathers are already days old, and he isn't here anymore? What if you do find him–but you're too late? You shake your head, not wanting to think about it.

And what if you find him and he needs help? Even more than when he initially came to you?

You haven't even fully thought about that. When you did find him, you couldn't do anything else than bring him home with you, could you? You hesitate, slowing your pace and carding a hand through your hair, scanning the walls as if looking for an answer there. It isn't too late to turn back, a voice in the back of your mind whispers.

You can just go back downstairs, join the party. Make up some bullshit excuse to Allura as to why you left so suddenly.

You almost do. The thought of just leaving it–letting everything run its course normally without you interfering–is so tempting...

But then you hear a string of coughs coming from the room on your right and your legs carry you there before you can protest. When you see the shape on the floor, all you can say is "Oh shit."

It's him, all right. Unconscious, lying face down on the dirty floor of an abandoned factory, all curled up like a little newborn angel. He's shivering, you notice when you crouch down by his side. You put a trembling hand on his forehead and hiss through your teeth. He's burning up, the skin slick with sweat and his hair sticking to his forehead in a tangled mess.

"Okay," you whisper, getting on your knees and covering your face with your hands, taking a deep breath. "Okay, all right."

His chest rises and falls, though irregularly and barely noticeable–but he's breathing. He's still alive. You frown at his wings (they're all dirty and dusty and it makes you icky–it's a known fact that the state of your wings reflect your health) and wonder about how in the name of the Below you're going to get him out of there unnoticed. He's not exactly inconspicuous. You'll probably have to carry him.

You tap his cheek. He groans. You keep tapping until he cracks open an eye, and even then you have to coerce him into opening both eyes. They're unfocused and murky and filled with confusion and fear, but he's awake.

"Hey. Do you think you can sit up?" you ask softly.

He tries–you can tell he puts all the strength left in him to push himself up, inch by painful inch. You try to help him as best as you can, but even then he's panting with his eyes closed as he rests his head against the wall.

Then you remember your water bottle. Scrambling for your bag, you yank it out and unscrew the cap, slowly tipping it into his mouth. "Careful, careful," you mutter when he tries to take the bottle from your hands and starts taking bigger gulps, a bit of strength seeping into his system with every drop. "It's not good to drink so much after days of dehydration."

His eyes finally seem to focus on your face, and he frowns. "Y-Y/N?"

You only smile tightly in response. He blinks sluggishly. “But you–”

“I know, I know,” you mutter, running a hand across your face. “I’m probably going to regret this a lot. But I just…” You cast him a tired look. “I couldn’t just let you die.”

“Huh,” he whispers sheepishly, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. The small gesture is so strangely out of place that you just gape at him for a few seconds, only shaken out of your stupor when he doubles over and proceeds to hack a lung out coughing. You start, grabbing hold of his shoulders to steady him and whisper encouragement as he takes a few ragged breaths.

“Hey. I’m gonna get you out of here, all right? But you need to be able to conceal your wings. I can carry you, but you have to be able to do that for me, okay?” You speak to him in a low, rushed tone, only able to hope that he can grasp how important it is for the two of you to not be spotted all the way to your apartment. He sets his jaw and nods, weakly grabbing at your shoulders for support as he tries to hoist himself up.

“Okay, all right.” He’s standing now, still woozy and swaying slightly, but he’s standing. “There we go. Hide your wings.”

He closes his eyes. His brow furrows in concentration, beads of sweat beading on his forehead. His wings flicker in and out of sight twice before completely disappearing. “Okay, awesome. You’re doing great.”

You awkwardly lead him down the stairs, one arm around his chest and under his armpits as he steadies himself on the railing, muttering encouragement every couple of steps. His wings flickered twice more, and every time you almost had a heart attack–if he couldn’t keep them hidden when you were in the city, in full view of hundreds of people… you didn’t want to think about it.

When you reach the building entrance, you debate briefly in your head what your options are. You could walk back to your apartment, but that would take over forty-five minutes and you weren’t sure if the angel could keep his wings concealed for that long. But the other option would be to take the subway and risk someone seeing you and starting to ask questions.

Then again–it was almost midnight. Most people wouldn’t be out on the streets right now, and it was dark, and the ones who would be out would be exhausted and only wanting to get back to their own homes. With a little luck, you could find an empty subway cart. The ride home would be seven minutes long.

“C’mon,” you say quietly, tugging on the angel’s sleeve. He’s leaning heavily against you–but he’s walking on his own and that’s better than you could have hoped for. “The station is that way.”

The cart is almost empty, bar a teenager with bags under their eyes the colour of charcoal. They barely give you a glance as you stumble into the cart with the angel, only pulling up their hood and crossing their arms, pointedly looking out of the window. You don’t mind in the slightest. They probably think the angel is just shitfaced drunk, you think as you set him down on a seat–maybe a little rougher than necessary. He flinches. You feel only a bit sorry.

You had given him your sweatshirt before you left the factory, and now you rub your own arms up and down against the chill biting at the skin. You scowl, sinking down into the seat, wondering what in the name of all that is demonic was wrong with you to have made the choices that you did. Taking the angel in could very well be the cause of your capture. Hiding a demon amongst humans wasn’t so hard, but a demon and an angel… That would prove to be a challenge.

But then again, you think as you cast a sideways glance at the angel who passed out as soon as his butt had hit the subway seat (he looks strangely serene in the flimsy yellow light cast upon the seats–you could almost believe he’s merely asleep), you had never been one to turn down a challenge.

[destielstuffandthings]

Chapter 28, Declarations

The room fills with a bright white light as a piercing sound rips through the air. Dean's face contorts in agony and screams out. Castiel flits over to shield his human. Sam covers his ears, though it doesn't do much. A trickle of blood seeps out over his ear lobe as the noise grows louder. Eremiel stands staring at her brother proudly. Sam squints his eyes looking in Gabriel's direction. Gabriel shoulders heave up, producing huge silvery metallic wings. They span across the entire room, slicing into the marble like it's nothing and crumbling anything they touch. The light begins to fade and the sound lessens as Gabriel's true form is revealed. Sam begins to stand, staring in awe at the angel before him. He takes a step forward before turning to see his brother crumpled on the ground. "Is he alright?" Sam asks in a worried tone. Castiels hand flutters over Dean checking for any injuries. "He's fine, Sam." he reassures him. Sam slowly begins walking over to Gabriel.

"Gabe?" he calls quietly. He stands in front of the angel, staring at his God given wings. He reaches out to touch them. Gabriel's eyes flash open, a piercing swirling blue. He balls his fists and pulls his shoulders in close, retracting his wings. They snap into his body and disappear. Gabriel's eyes soften as the light disappears from them. "Sam?" he says quietly. "Yeah, hey I'm here." Sam says, resting a hand on the angels chest. He smiles and pulls his man close to his chest, wrapping him in a hug. "I'm so glad you're here, baby boy." Gabriel sighs. Sam pulls away. "Are you alright? Are you healed?" he asks, looking over the angels body. "Better then ever." he smiles. He wraps his arm back around Sam and pulls him in close and kisses him deeply.

Castiel help Dean to his feet. He groans and holds on to his angel for support. They look over to Eremiel who is watching the kissing couple. Suddenly she raises her eyebrows and averts her eyes. "Um, we--" she stutters. Dean looks over to his brother who is now passionately kissing his angel. "I think we should leave." Castiel mutters. "Yeah like five minutes ago." Dean grunts. Cas looks over to Eremiel and says" Thank you for everything sister." Dean throws her a little salute and they disappear. Eremiel leaves a split second after.

Gabriel's hands lightly slide down Sam's back, turning his shirt into shreds that fall on the floor behind him. His finger travels down to his pants button and it immediately clatters to the ground. "Is this even allowed?" Sam chuckles. Gabriels eyes burn into Sams. "I don't know, and I don't fucking care."

Dean opens his eyes and looks around. "Where are we?" he asks curiously. Castiel is looking over a field of beautiful flowers swaying in the breeze. A crystal clear stream runs behind them, babbling quietly. He turns to his human. "This is the garden of Eden." he whispers. Deans eyes widen. "What? Are you ser--" he narrowed his eyes and hunched his shoulders, trying to hide in broad daylight. "Are we even allowed to be here?" he whispers. Cas chuckles and takes Deans hand, leading him down a small path lined with purple flowers. "Oh, whoa." Dean gasps. Castiel walks up and places his hand on a gigantic tree the size of a small skyscraper. "This is Gods first and most magnificent creation. It only seems fitting that I bring his second." Dean flushes red. Cas turns to face his human. "I have loved you forever, Dean. Even before you were born. I waited eons for you. You are my purpose in life. I cannot imagine it without you. It would be meaningless. You are mine and I am yours." Deans eyes fill with tears. "Did you just quote Game Of Thrones?" he sobs. Castiel chuckles and takes his humans hand. "Yes, yes I did." he smiles wide. "Dean Winchester, will you marry me?"

"I think we broke a few commandments." Sam laughs, turning to Gabriel. They're laying on the floor covered in sweat. "Ya think?" he grins. "Especially when you did that thing with the--" Sam elbows his angel in the rib. "Hey, you loved that thing." he scowls. They both laugh and Gabriel kisses the top of Sams head. He pulls Sams face up with a finger and looks into his eyes. "I love you, baby boy." he says, cupping his mans face. Sam closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "Finally," he sighs a laugh, "I love you, too." he smiles and presses his lips against Gabriels.

There's a small knock at the door. "Um, if--if you're decent, I need to come in." A quiet voice says. Sam looks up at Gabriel and panics. "You shredded my clothes!" he hisses. Gabriel let's out a loud laugh and stands up. "Just put on what you can." he grins. He hops on one foot while pulling his jeans on and walks over to the door. He pulls it open and Eremiel is standing there with her arms crossed. She looks Gabriels body over and raises her eyebrows, averting her eyes quickly. "I need to take the tablet." She says matter-of-factly. "Well come on in, m'lady." He says, opening to door wide. Her heels clack across the floor and echo off the cracked walls. She walks briskly past Sam who is lacing up his boots. She gently reaches down and picks it up as Sam joins her. "Don't you have a shirt?" she asks, keeping her eyes on the tablet. "I, uh, I did but--" Gabriel laughs and snaps his fingers. Sam looks down and his old shirt is back in one piece on his chest. Sam scowls. "You couldn't have done that two minutes ago?" Gabriel laughs and pats his mans shoulder.

"I can't believe he found this. I wonder where it was." Eremiel whispers. "The tablet? Umm, I think that's pretty obvious, sweetheart." Gabriel huffs, pointing at his chest. "No, idiot." Eremiel scoffs. "The shroud of Turin. The real one."

"What? You're joking." Sam gasps. He walks over to it and reaches out his hand before quickly retracting it. "Can I--I mean, is it allowed?" he asks, turning to Gabriel. Eremiel scrunches up her face. "I don't know.." she hesitates. "Oh come on, Ermy. Let the boy have some fun." Sam smiles. "It's a once in a lifetime opportunity. I mean, how many people can say they've touched the actual shroud?" he wonders out loud. "Seven." Eremiel and Gabriel answer at the same time. She sighs and gently holds it out to Sam. "Be. Careful." she warns. He nods, reaching out his shaky hands. She places it in his giant palms. A bolt of lightning shoots through the roof and blasts through Sams body. He steps back in sheer agony, screaming out as white electricity courses through his veins. In an instant isn't gone, leaving them all in shock.

"What. The hell. Was that?" Sam yells. "Aw crap. I'm too late." a voice says from behind them. They all turn to see Chuck standing there holding a plate of chicken wings. Eremiel gasps and immediately bows. Gabriel slowly kneels. Sam stands there with his eyes bulging out. "My king!" Eremiel sobs. "I'm so sorry, my king." Chuck sets the plate down and wipes his hands on his pants. "C'mon guys, seriously. Please get up. This makes me very uncomfortable." he reaches down and helps Eremiel up then runs his thumb over her chin. She wavers at the touch. "And really, Gabe?" he narrows his eyes at the kneeling angel. Gabriel slowly stands up and holds his hand out to Sam. Chuck walks over and picks up the shroud and holds it to his chest. "I never thought I'd see this again." he sighed. "After Balthazar scattered my heavenly objects to the wind I asked Castiel to keep an ear out for it. I cant believe he found it."

"Can you expl--What just happened to me?" Sam asks worriedly. "Oh. It's simple really. After all that stuff in Jerusalem," he waves his hand in the air, "I brought it up here. It seemed fitting that this be its final resting place." Sams eyes are still on Chuck. "I, uhh, well, I decided to bequeath it with celestial powers." he shrugs. " Eremiel gasps and covers her mouth. "Oh. My. Dad." Gabriel says in shock. Sam looks around at everyone. "Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Gabriel whispers just one word. "Nephilim."