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He saunters up to the counter and plops down on a stool. Orders a glass of Bailey’s with a wink and a leer. The bartender, a muscled woman in her mid-thirties, looks completely unimpressed with him. He shrugs a little, utterly unapologetic. Eh, what can he say. Old habits die hard.
Gabriel takes a second to marvel, again, at the fact that he’s actually taking up his responsibilities after all those years spent running around as a pagan god. But somebody has to fix the mess that warring angelic factions made amongst the Host, and since Gabriel now ranks highest in Heaven, it’s up to him.
The millennia-long sabbatical is gonna be a complete bitch to shake off, he just knows it.
But back to the matter at hand.
He idly waits for his drink to arrive, then spins on his stool to face the man next to him. “So, Dean-o! How’s it hanging?”
Dean doesn’t even bother to look at him. “Should’ve known that you’d be alive.”
Gabriel smirks and bats his eyelashes. “Nice to know that you’re still thinking of little ol’ me. Take care that you don’t let Castiel hear of it, yeah? It might make him go all green.”
Not even a flicker of a reaction. Gabriel has to admit that he’s a little disappointed. Dean used to be so much fun to bait. But he’s obviously still a self-righteous prick, because the next thing he says is “So you faked your death back at that hotel and decided to sit out the Apocalypse after all.”
“Fuck you,” says Gabriel casually, and bites down hard on the sudden urge to punch Dean in the face. “I did my share. My stare-down with Lucy actually did end with me dead, you know. My brother doesn’t do things by halves.”
It’s one of the few things that he doesn’t think he’ll ever fully understand, despite his eons of existence and experience. Lucifer actually killed him. Lucifer, his big brother.
He blinks away the thought. Personal melodrama can come later. “But enough about me! Tonight’s all about you, hotshot!”
“You staging an intervention?” Dean gestures with the shot of whiskey in his hand before downing it and carefully lining up the glass with the other ones sitting on the counter. There are six of them, all in a row. He waves at the bartender and orders another shot.
Gabriel flaps a hand airily. “Please. As if I have the patience for that.” He digs around his pocket, pulling out a bag of Tropical Fruit-flavored Skittles that weren’t there a second ago. “No. I’m just here to make sure you don’t go berserk because you’re all black-eyed now.”
Dean stiffens a little and finally meets Gabriel’s eyes. He looks tired. And so fucking angry. All that rage is just simmering beneath the exhaustion in that defiant green gaze.
“I’m not gonna go around killing people for fun and games,” says Dean roughly, grabbing and downing the shot of whiskey as soon as the bartender sets it in front of him.
“Not yet you’re not.” Gabriel pops some of the little candies into this mouth. Mmm, pineapple passion fruit. “But give it time and you won’t be able to resist. Cain ran away, you know. He didn’t want to be a mindless slaughterer, either. He was supposed to be a weapon, but then Hell ran out of places to aim him at.”
“No one’s giving me any orders. Not Crowley, not anyone.”
Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “Chillax and take a Skittle.” He extends the little bag and shakes it under Dean’s nose. “No? Fine then. You’re missing out on all these great mixed flavors.” He tucks the bag back into his pocket.
“Look,” he continues. “You’re a demon with the Mark of Cain and that makes you a Knight of Hell. Which means that the King of Hell can yank your ass over to him any time he wants. You can’t fight it,” he adds when Dean visibly bristles. “It’s in your blood. Literally.”
“Cain wasn’t at Crowley’s every beck and call.”
“Cain isn’t the hottest new black-eyed boy toy dangling itself in front of Crowley’s face. He also had millennia of experience with dealing with the Mark.” Gabriel leans forward a little. “I can see the bloodlust building in you, Dean. Right now, you’re holding out from going on a killing spree through sheer stubbornness alone. And you and I both know from experience that not even Dean Winchester has the willpower to hold out forever.”
There’s the sudden sound of glass shattering. Dean’s hand is clenched into a fist, forcing the broken shards of the shot glass deeper into his palm. There’s an abrupt lull in the conversations nearby as heads swivel around at the noise. The bartender shoots the two of them an extremely dirty look.
Dean is breathing hard, teeth bared, blood dripping down his hand and onto the counter. His eyes are fixed on the grains in the wood and dark with rage.
But not demon-black, notes Gabriel with interest. Huh.
He throws down two hundred-dollar bills, mouths “Sorry, sweetheart,” at the bartender, then lifts a hand and snaps his fingers. The bar melts away and is replaced by an empty parking lot. Gabriel quirks an eyebrow at the furious look on Dean’s face and steps back. “Not bad,” he comments, looking him up and down. Not bad at all.
“Was that some sort of fucking test?” spits Dean.
“Sure, if you want to call it that.” And Dad help him, Gabriel might actually be a little impressed by Winchester the Elder here.
“What the fuck were you thinking? Someone could’ve gotten hurt, I could’ve—”
“You could’ve done nothing,” Gabriel’s tone is suddenly cold, and he lets some of his immense grace bleed into his voice. “You might’ve forgotten, with me being dead for a few years, but I am an archangel. I can obliterate you with just a thought. And I would have, if you had actually dared to make a move.”
Dean shuts his mouth with an audible click, but he doesn’t flinch and his glare doesn’t waver an inch.
Still all defiance and bravado, even in the face of oblivion. Fucking Winchesters. Gabriel suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. How they managed to stay alive for so long is a complete mystery to him.
Well. For your given definition of alive.
“What the hell do you want, Gabriel?”
“Nothing,” says Gabriel, and he deliberately lets the tension leach out of his shoulders, smarmy grin firmly back in place. “Just wanted to make sure you haven’t gone completely batshit, like I said. And you’re not, so congratulations, I don’t have to kill you yet. Oh!” He holds up a finger and raises his eyebrows, as if he suddenly just remembered something. “There’s also a message for you from the little bro.”
Dean clenches his jaw at Gabriel’s nonchalant jab, but then he visibly braces himself. “What did Cas say?”
“He wants you home with him and Sasquatch. Cursed or not.’”
Dean freezes. "Seriously?"
Gabriel shrugs. "Exact words, Dean-o."
Surprise flickers across his face, then there’s a flash of what might be misery before he closes his eyes for a moment. Gabriel watches every minute shift in expression closely, fascinated despite himself. Castiel’s words obviously mean more to Dean than a simple plea to return to his family, but even if that isn’t the case, Gabriel would’ve wanted to see his response.
It’s an interest he developed when he first took on his duties as Dad’s mouthpiece. Sprouting warnings of doom and gloom was fun and all, but what Gabriel liked best was seeing how people reacted to his words, because that was when the Messenger got an inkling of what the messages he delivered really meant to their intended audience. Ages later, Gabriel still finds himself drawn to these reactions.
It’s like a puzzle, the messages and involuntary response they trigger. Almost like an inside joke of sorts, and he gets to peek at how it all works.
Dean looks away and blinks a few times. Clears his throat. “Tell Cas that I—”
“Oh, no,” interrupts Gabriel loudly, “I am not gonna play angel telephone. You got words for Castiel, you say it to his face. I’m only here because I owe him for kicking Metatron’s ass for me.” It had not been pleasant to miraculously come back from the dead, only to wake up in some dusty corner in Heaven, bound in chains covered with Enochian sigils and trapped in a ring of holy fire. Oh, he owes Cas big.
“I can’t just go back,” mutters Dean, frustration clear on his face.
“Then send him a postcard from Vegas or bad poetry or something. Whatever you youngsters use to communicate these days. Or don’t. None of my business.” Gabriel smirks and unfurls his wings, unseen. “But if I were you, I’d get in touch soon.” Hopefully before baby bro loses his patience, because Gabriel does not want to deal with the inevitable mess that comes with Castiel tearing through the continent after a Winchester who gets high off of gory deaths.
Dean gives a snort of derision. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing, Dean-o. Absolutely nothing at all. But your epic angst-offs sure as hell are entertaining to watch.” He snaps his fingers lets his wings pull him through the physical plane, taking satisfaction in the expression of indignant outrage on Dean’s face as Gabriel vanishes from the parking lot.
Hah. The finger snap might be a little over the top, but the disappearing trick is a classic.
Gabriel doesn’t like being the Sheriff in Heaven. Stomping around and huffing bossily was always more of Michael’s thing, anyway. Aaaaand he’s going to stop thinking about Michael right. About. Now.
…In any case, he’s not going to abandon his family again, not after what happened last time.
So it’s back to organizing the Host into something resembling order, then. Maybe that’s why Dad brought him back now, of all times. To play angelic housekeeper. Never let it be said that the Father can’t be a vindictive asshole.
In the meantime, he’ll try to keep an eye on the errant Knight of Hell for his baby brother. It’s the least Gabriel could do.