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Demons, angels: they come here and they sleep. They live lives of light or darkness or fire or joy but then they die and it’s lights out, kids. Everything sleeps. Everything is quiet and still and endless and nothing ever wakes up.
Nothing ever has. There’s nothing that can wake up when there’s nothing to wake up to.
Nothing’s ever woken up before, and nothing’s ever stomped around, leaving a slimy trail of icky feelings wherever it walks.
It just reeks of feelings. Confusion, fear, anger, wonder, hope. It’s revolting.
It’s an angel – or it was, before it was swallowed up by Earth and humanity and those nauseating feelings, and then spat back out here, where it was supposed to be sleeping.
But it’s not. Instead it’s marching around, demanding answers, making a sticky mess of everything.
“Winchesters,” it says, and there’s that hope again.
And this just won’t do.
The inside of an angel’s brain – it isn’t supposed to be this sickeningly emotional. This angel, it’s different.
It’s seen a lot.
Wars and blood and creation and life, like every other angel, every one of God’s teensy little foot soldiers that have come here to rest. Oh, and this angel, it put so many of them here, oh yes, and there’s the fear now. It fears their judgement.
It fears failure. It fears being useless. It fears death.
And this is interesting: this angel has died before. One, two, three four five times, too many times to count. It’s been here but then it’s left again (let’s chalk that up to God, shall we) without ever waking. Until now.
It knows things and it fears things but more, more than this; two faces float to the surface. Winchesters, it must be, and suddenly the angel’s head is just swimming in love. How very precious.
There are other faces, other memories, that drift past as well. A blonde girl with a backpack, walking by the side of a road; a woman lit by a single lamp, hunched over a worn, leather-bound notebook; a woman painting a wall, and the life that grows inside her; and then the two men again. And again, and again. And then just the one, over and over – drinking from a bottle, driving a car, singing to music, eating pizza at a table and smiling and laughing and then the name rises up, front and centre and too loud to be ignored Dean Dean DeanDeanDeanDean.
It’s so much.
It’s too much.
The angel gasps, groaning on the floor. It’s so loud. It needs to shut. Up.
It’s demanding freedom now; righteous, still.
So very annoying. Trying to be clever.
“Sam and Dean,” it says again.
Enough.
A kitchen, a cemetery, an old laboratory, a lake, a white room, a dark shoreline – death after miserable death – but through it all there’s that face again. Here or there, it pops up; strange, how often that face is the last thing the angel sees before darkness falls.
It’s down again but it just won’t sleep. It’s not listening.
And it’s defiant, now.
“I’m already saved.”
It isn’t necessary to see into its head again. That face, that name, repeating again, projecting out without conscious though. DeanDeanDeanDeanDean.
The angel must not even realize just how deafening that sound is. But now it’s spitting and cursing and issuing threats and everything is getting so much louder.
Angels are supposed to be about falling in line. This. . . this will not do.
It’s more trouble than it’s worth, really.