Work Text:
There's something dreadful about Castiel's wings—it's the first thing Gabriel thinks when his brother crawls out from the depths of the earth.
"Black" is a loose term to describe the all-encompassing abyss that lies in each tuft—lenses to Tartarus and kaleidoscopes of writhing matter. Each row of feathers ruffles with every turn of his brother's raven head, casting an amalgamation of shadow and light onto the ground. Their width is average, only about half of the male body of the child, but the length appears to be more than usual.
The boy's wide eyes follow the pale lines etched into the trees around him (the Awakening is different for everyone—Gabriel awoke a millennia ago in a valley of luscious berries that were ripe for the taking).
"Where am I?"
The voice is unexpectedly rugged for a fledgeling, and Gabriel pushes a brewing sorrow to the back of his mind (he's seen many angels borne of different hues: commanding grey, vivacious blue, his own tricky golden-brown—but never black. And if he knows his brothers in any sense, this child may only live to see bars of reinforced steel).
Gabriel half-smiles, eyes flashing, lips puckered, and wings opened kindly.
"This is Earth, little one."
The newborn scrunches his eyes together, almost as if he knows something is amiss (smart child; once upon a time, Gabriel welcomed his siblings to "Heaven", but it's been long enough that his old home leaves an odd taste on his tongue).
"Who are you?" Haunting wings stretch to reinforce that they are indeed abnormally long.
This time Gabriel smiles for real (curiosity is refreshing at best and deadly at worst, but it's rare a newborn asks wholehearted questions, so he savors the moment).
"They call me the Welcomer," Gabriel flaunts his title with pride.
The little angel cocks his head, eyes shifting between greys and greens (angels tend to settle on an eye color a few days after their Awakening. It's always shade that reflects the core of the soul).
"And...What am I doing here?"
Gabriel shrugs his shoulders, radiant shimmers blossoming on the ground from his feathers. He preens under the fascinated eyes of the fledgling.
"We're about to find out," he says beckoning the angel.
Those curious eyes follow him through the confines of the ominous forest, latching onto the bouncing wisps of light adorning each jagged branch. The colors of the ghostly leaves flicker between an array of pastels and almost-whites.
"Don't touch," Gabriel advises, brushing the child's reaching hand away with one of his wings. "Many get lost in the beauty of it all. Some don't ever make it out."
Gabriel steadies his thoughts, deliberately forgetting the hundreds of his brothers who never even make it to the gates—those holy souls who choose to lavish in a fabricated reality.
The angel studies him for a moment, and only his wings shiver. He nods, and Gabriel continues to walk, relieved that he hasn’t failed with this anomaly of an angel.
Minutes pass—maybe hours, and the two reach a familiar silver gate (to Gabriel, at least) swaddled in thin strands of ivy. This part is always the same.
Gabriel places a hand on the child’s bony shoulder, "Time to go into the real world, little one—enter the light, all that jazz."
(Gabriel knows the question is coming; he doesn't know why they always ask, but history has never not repeated this bit).
Big blue pools wash over Gabriel as the fledgeling asks with a holy reverence, "Who am I?"
Gabriel is ready. He hardly hesitates with this one.
"Castiel."
And then the world blooms in white, devouring all except the feathers on the fledgling's back.