There were twelve faceless figures in silver and gold, standing on the hills around them. Always dancing, always out of reach, always lulling you to sleep as you watched.
They weren’t real. Or rather, they weren’t real creatures. Not a blip on the monster radar.
That didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous.
Dean cast suspicious eyes over the velvet, somnolent landscape, and wondered whether all those dead angels were here somewhere, fading away. Balthazar, and Raphael, and all those other consciousnesses whose memories would be fading but not yet faded: who would know them, and be drawn to them.
Words were costly; and so Gabriel said only that he didn’t know.
Castiel didn’t know how to say no to Dean, and so he explained, very flatly, that nobody had ever known what happens to angels when they die.
Dean cleared his throat, and looked pointedly at Gabriel.
Gabriel felt the irritable urge to growl like an animal. But he was more than an animal, more than Dean’s pet. Gabriel was greater than Dean could conceive of, and yet Dean looked at him like he got it. Like all Gabriel’s masks were nothing.
He scoffed, instead.
“You wanna know how long it’s been since I was only an angel, kid? Hell of a lot longer than since those vamps were only human. Empires have risen and nose-dived, and so have gods. There’s nothing pure about me.”
Purgatory sang on, sweet and soporific. And it danced.