Failure

Part 8 of my angstalicious series Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels, in which I assume that Gabriel is alive.

I haven't posted on here in some time; my attention has been limited to other websites and that isn't fair. Here you go.

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For once, Gabriel was useful. Being alive for as long as he had, he was familiar - at least to some degree - with almost every human language ever spoken, written, or signed.

This meant that otherwise indecipherable texts sitting deep within the bookshelves of the Men of Letters bunker could actually offer some helpful information. Spells, mostly - spells that even Rowena didn't recognize.

Gabriel was glad he could give back to the Winchester brothers, whose hospitality had been ridiculous. It was nice being able to stay with them, and as tempted as he was to ditch so that they wouldn't have to keep addressing his "post-traumatic stress," he was trying to accept that it seemed they wanted to. Sam was stubborn whenever the subject arose, and frankly, Gabriel thought that perhaps he was more likely to incur Sam's anger or disapproval by insisting that Sam was wrong. After all, Sam seemed far less exasperated when something made Gabriel flinch or freeze - or worse - than when Gabriel said, "I don't want you to put up with me anymore."

But how far was too far? What could Gabriel ask for, and what was more than they could handle? Crossing a boundary and being thrown out was a lot worse than just leaving on his own, without the ache of rejection.

Lately, the bunker had begun to feel small and tight. Although most of the refugees from the other side of the rift had left - gone back through the portal to try and resurrect what good had once colored their world - it felt oddly more crowded when it was just Gabriel, Sam, Dean, and often Castiel. There were days when the quiet lighting and plain decor made Gabriel feel as if he was back in Hell. It was silly, he knew - but he found he couldn't always escape the chill in his spine.

Gabriel didn't think he was the only one who felt a little claustrophobic. Cases became stressful; quarters became close. There were days even Dean and Castiel didn't get along.

"Why don't you three go out once in a while?" Gabriel asked Dean in the library while Gabriel was translating and Dean was simultaneously shoveling pizza into his mouth and poring over a cloth-bound booklet. The book was so old and frail its pages were flaking all over the desk. "One of you is gonna have a stroke trying not to bite the other's head off."

"What makes you say that?" Dean demanded through a mouthful of pepperoni.

"Uh, well, the last thing I heard you say before you slammed your door last night was 'the next time you leave the fridge open I'll take your goddamn hippie salad and replace every grain of quinoa with wendigo meat,' so ... just hazarding a guess but you seem a little on edge."

"Hey, my brother's the one on edge. Can't even remember to keep the food cold. I'm telling you, something's wrong with that kid." Dean took an aggressive bite. "He's lucky I'm such a patient guy."

Gabriel blinked. "Yeah. Yes. Okay. Well, I know that I could stand to get out for a couple hours. Was thinking I'd head on over to that shady diner a couple miles away."

Dean frowned. "What shady diner?"

Gabriel sputtered. "Seriously, Dean? You know every greasy spoon in all of Middle America and can't be bothered to step foot in the only one you could get to without have to stop to fill up on gas?"