PROLOGUE:
❝ angel's advocate ❞

𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

It was late, nearly dusk, and the sky hung low over a sleepy town dotted against darkening clouds. There was nothing special about the place; it looked like just about every other little rural community wedged into the dregs of Missouri. Small mom and pop shops in need of a fresh coat of paint, a library, a church, and past all of that, miles and miles of farmland. You could drive by too fast and never even know you missed it.

A few people milled about on the streets and in their lawns, cleaning up after a day's work or heading home to an expectant family, but it was becoming quieter and quieter. Many homes were already dark, windows aglow with the light of early night television. At the edge of the town was a park. It had trees and benches and a century-old playground that appeared to be full of tetanus, but more importantly, the park bordered a large lake. At this hour, the waters were calm and as smooth as glass, with the exception of a gentle breeze that ruffled the surface or the occasional goose or duck that floated by. A brilliant sunset glinted off the horizon. The sky was a tapestry of color, a deep crimson that gave way to oranges and golds as the sun dipped lower. The fading light cast a glow over the landscape, illuminating the silhouettes of trees and casting long, dramatic shadows across the grassy shore. Gathering storm clouds in the distance threatened to choke the last remnants of the day. The air grew heavy with the scent of impending rain, and a distant rumble of thunder echoed ominously. Yet, amidst the encroaching darkness, there lingered a solitary figure on the edge of the lake's boat dock. It was a man.
He appeared older, fifty-something with tired, deep set eyes and a perpetual scowl. A circlet of silvered hair hung just above his ears, otherwise he was almost completely bald. A thin patch at the top was all that was left. He had a few wrinkles here and there and bags beneath his eyes large enough to carry groceries, but he hadn't seemed to have earned that weathered look that so many men his age seemed to get. He stood at the edge of the boat dock, staring out into the water with his hands thrust into the pockets of his suit. Everything about him was perfect; his shoes, his freshly-pressed pants, even his tie, which was flawlessly straight and tucked neatly into his blazer. He remained impeccably still, almost like an immaculately dressed statue.

Then, at last, came the flurry of feathers. The man tensed. He stood up straighter as slow, leisured footsteps came up length of the boardwalk. Heeled shoes, judging by the rhythmic click-clack of a solid material against the wooden planks of the jetty. The man did not turn, instead seemed to wait for whoever it was to join him at the end of the dock. And the person did. A much younger woman, possibly in her mid to late twenties, came to a halt and stood silently beside him. She wore a long woolen coat and a matching cloche cap pulled low over her eyes, as if to hide her face. There was a breeze off the water, but was warm evening, so her attire was questionable. However, she didn't show any signs of discomfort or perspiration. She raised a hand to adjust her cap and pushed it far enough back that her face was discernible. Pale, freckled skin, high cheekbones, and an upturned nose; blonde hair peeked out from beneath the hat and a pair of stormy gray eyes studied the water with indifference. Unimpressed, her expression said. Nothing special. Neither person said anything for the longest time, but finally, a word. A name.

"Azrael."

"Zachariah."

Zachariah, the balding man, finally turned to his companion, taking in her appearance with smirk curling his lip. The woman, Azrael, returned his gaze with disdain, as if he were something she found stuck to the bottom of her shoe. She raised a brow.

"Something to say, Zachariah?" She asked.

She spoke with a voice as smooth as silk, but there underneath laid something sharp and cold, like ice. It was enough to put a chill the air. The bald man shook his head, chuckling.

"No, no. Of course not," he said, though the smirk remained. "Just surprised, is all. It's a...different look, even for you."

Azrael laughed, cool and humorless. She eyed his full figure and thinning hair with reproach. "Speak for yourself, dear friend. Attorney or CEO?"

Azrael readjusted her cap again and it was then apparent the state of her face. A large bruise swelled just beneath her eye, red, purple, and black, blooming across her skin like an ugly flower. Her bottom lip was also busted and several areas of her face were crusted with blood. Imperceptibly, Zachariah's smile faltered. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and carried on as before.

"Does it matter?" He replied with a snort. "He was an moron with two ex-wives and a gambling problem, just begging to be saved by an "Angel of the Lord". Not my first pick, but I won't need him for long."

Azrael laughed again, dryly. "I suppose not."

A beat passed and the pair lapsed into silence. Thunder rolled again overhead, this time closer. The air was thick and sticky, suggesting the storm wasn't too far off. Azrael cracked her neck.

"I take it everything is going according to plan?"

"Yes. Almost too well," Zachariah commented. He smiled again, smugly. "The Winchesters are predictable creatures. We dangle a bone in front of their faces and they're bound to chase it. The last seal will be broken before we know it."

Azrael nodded. She, too, smiled.
"Good. Once the stone is cast, there's no turning back.

Zachariah paused, looking troubled. Azrael must have sensed this delay as she turned towards him again with her mangled face.

"You hesitate, brother. Why?"

Her voice alone, albeit young in her vessel, was enough to make him flinch, but her bruised complexion was frightening. Zachariah cleared his throat and adjusted his already perfect tie, once again. If he had a handkerchief, he would have been no doubt dabbing at his face.

"There is some concern among the other angels, myself included...about the compliance of Dean Winchester," he said. "We worry he won't agree."

"What choice will he have?" Azrael sneered, haughtily. "A broken man is a compliant one."

"So you believe it will work?"

"It must. If Michael is to return, he requires a vessel. If he does not receive what he needs, then we are all damned. Figuratively and literally speaking." Azrael's jaw clenched and relaxed, and she exhaled a large breath. A reassuring smile overtook her features. It was unnerving, if anything. "Have a little faith, Zachariah. You are an angel after all."

Her words offended him, but he couldn't imagine telling her that. "Of course I have faith, Azrael."

"Good," She replied "Then you are to see to it that Dean Winchester is where he needed and ready to comply. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Azrael."

"Good."

The pair turned back to watch the last of the golden light be swallowed by the horizon. Lightning flickered across the lake where the sun had been and a few droplets of misty rain fell onto their faces. Azrael sighed a melancholic sigh, closing her eyes against the drizzle.

"I always did love the rain," she said. For a moment her voice held no sharpness and she sounded like the girl whose body she was using. Optimistic. Tender. But just as quickly as it had come, it was gone. She straightened, rolling her shoulders back and finally turning away from the darkened lake.

"I must be going. A thousand things to be done and so little time."

Zachariah turned away with her and they walked back down the dock. There were street lights on now and they bathed the park in an eerie, yellow haze. Azrael's face looked even more chilling in the new light.

"Of course," the man responded. He seemed to hesitate before he spoke next. "Oh, and uh, Azrael..."

"Yes?"

Zachariah raised a hand to his face and traced a finger along the space under his eyes. Confused, Azrael mimicked his actions touched the same place with her own fingertips. She ran her fingers over the bruise and then she laughed as if he had just told her there was mud on her face.

"I'd almost forgotten. Thank you, Zachariah," she said.

No sooner had the words left her mouth did a cold glow begin to form behind her eyes, accompanied by a high-pitched whine, similar to a dog whistle. A brilliant silvery-blue poured forth from her skin, blinding to the average person, but Zachariah simply looked away if he had accidentally entered on her changing her clothes. When the light faded away, Azrael looked very much the same, but the bruise and other wounds had disappeared. She looked at her hands and touched her face, satisfied.

"Much better, don't you think?" She smiled at Zachariah, batting her eyelashes like a school girl. He grimaced.

Azrael frowned, then rolled her eyes. "You know, you're not very fun to be around. You're so uptight," she commented. She walked a few paces away, before turning back to him. "You should consider taking a vacation when this all blows over. It would do you some good, brother."

"I'll try to keep that in mind."

Azrael smiled in a sardonic, insincere way and fixed her cap lower over her face. Her blue eyes were just barely visible, but they seemed to glint in the glow of the streetlights. "I expect great things from you, Zachariah. Don't disappoint me."

Her words were all but drowned out in a crack of thunder. A torrent of rain poured down over the pair of them and in a flash of lightning, Azrael disappeared; Zachariah was left in the middle of the park, drenched and alone. He waited, partially expecting her to reappear with that wicked grin of hers, but thankfully, she didn't. He let out a relieved sigh and began to loosen his tie. Despite the storm, he walked a few steps back towards the dock and watched the rain meet the surface of the water and send ripples across the lake. In simpler times, he would have enjoyed the view. He found no comfort now, only unease.

"This family is screwy," he said, to no one in particular. He raised his face to the heavens and searched the sky, as if expecting to see a face appear among the storm clouds. "Nothing? Too good for us, huh, pops? Too busy enjoying your vacation?" The only response was the ambience of the storm. Defeated, Zachariah shook his head and waved a hand dismissively. He took one last look at the lake, before tucking his head against the rain and curving a new path along the shore.

"Remember who we're fighting for, old man," he grumbled to himself. "But hey, what do I know? I'm just a lowly angel following orders from the big man upstairs."

With a wry smirk, Zachariah trudged on, his footsteps echoing against the relentless rain. With a resigned sigh, he straightened his jacket, the fabric sodden with water. "Waste of a perfectly good suit," he muttered, before disappearing into the tempest with the sound of fluttering wings, leaving only the sound of the wind and thunder in his wake.