InsaneJournal

Who: Samandriel & John Constantine
What: Samandriel proves once and for all that just because he often chooses creation over war doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have the capacity to stand up for himself.
When: Tuesday 8-27, late evening
Where: On a street
Rating: Medium, non-explicit violence, bigots
Status: Complete



In the end, Samandriel supposed that it shouldn’t have been surprising. His mother had him so full up with frustration and awful things to say about a son she barely saw and never raised that it only took one word from some idiot thugs to make him snap. One word and a wad of spit aimed at the side of his face.

There were five of them, and perhaps anyone else of Samandriel’s build would have lost the fight. Samandriel, however, was a warrior of heaven. He’d been trained by the archangels Michael and Raphael themselves, and archangels were absolute, precise, and wrathful creatures. Even without a weapon to hand, Samandriel was more than those petty humans ever could hope to be with their sad little knives.

It was most unfortunate for the one that had the gun. His wrist was broken in five places even before he’d fully drawn it.

Samandriel was many, many things. A spineless bitch boy was not one of them. Who the hell cared if he liked taking it up the ass anyway? What business of theirs was it what he chose to do with his body and who he did it with? It was his damn body.

Perhaps, reflecting on it now, while his elbow made contact with the back of someone’s head, it was the implication in their slurs and vitriol that he wasn’t allowed to make his own choices. It was shameful, narrow-minded, pitiful thinking. Nothing happened to Samandriel’s body that he didn’t want to happen to it. That included these oafs laying a hand on him.

When it was done and the dust had settled, an angel of the lord stood before them, and though none of them could see his wings, there was all the fury of heaven in his blue eyes.

They were all conscious, all staring, and Samandriel thought the only fitting way to end this was the way it had started. So he spat at their leader and walked away. Not a one of them dared get up to follow.

It wasn't even completely dark out yet -- the California sun was setting beautifully on the horizon, and all the lines of the buildings had gone that perfect yellow-orange. It looked best on brick. John Constantine wasn't much for poetry, but he nearly liked that this was chaotic in its own way. One of these things don't belong.

The fight he'd just witnessed was probably the thing; the tiny, slender boy that couldn't have been more than eighteen, that had just showed five hefty adults the meaning of minding their own bloody business. John had only stepped outside the bar for a fag when it'd started -- originally observing and waiting in the shadows for a chance to help out if need be. He wasn't much of a scrapper, but he was much better when it was dirty fighting. And even if the odds were still low, two against five seemed better than one. One tiny boy.

And then he hadn't bloody had to help at all -- just watch with sick, nearly pleased fascination that turned past impressed and into slightly shocked at the sight of -- well. Wings?

He felt strangely okay with that. Like it was just a normal thing, even though he was well aware it wasn't. Well aware no one else saw what he did.

When the fight finished with perfect symmetry, John actually lit his smoke and then stepped away from the wall. "Fuck, mate. That was brilliant." Eloquently stated, Mr. Constantine.

“Violence shouldn’t be brilliant,” Samandriel said, smiling quietly as he passed the man. “But sometimes it is necessary.” He did feel better, and he doubted that a single one of those men was going to report the incident or even consider pressing charges. He knew what he looked like. He’d been informed all his life what he looked like. Adorable and tiny. In need of protection.

Not anymore. Not for a long while. There was a difference between choosing to turn the other cheek and to pick one’s battles and just rolling over and taking it. Samandriel had always been aware of it. It seemed somehow core to what he’d always been: Good.

“Thank you for not interfering.” The last thing he needed was some stranger thinking that he couldn’t help himself. He’d been watching the whole time, of course. Samandriel was aware of him, but being aware of him was a peripheral thing. Just like how now he could hear them muttering and trying to collect themselves. One of them had picked up the gun. That was a bad choice. He hoped the others talked him out of that or Samandriel would just have to teach them a lesson about losing with honor and the teachings of the man whose crucifix symbol they’d had inked into their arms.

Idly, almost as if he were bored, John stepped past the men, kicking the gun away from anyone's reach. It skittered across the cement making the kind of noise that only metal on stone could. It wasn't because he thought the boy needed that help, just because it ended the scene nicely, he thought.

He stuck a hand in his pocket and moved to stroll further onto the street, sort of waiting for the kid to fall in step next to him. "Didn't need to interfere. But I thought I might at the beginning. Good to know the underdog doesn't always need a hand." He paused, looking over at him and then offering a hand in greeting. "John Constantine. Nice wings."

Samandriel took the hand, falling into step easily. “You can see them?” he asked. How unexpected. Most people couldn’t. Well, aside from Castiel and Lucifer, but they were other angels. It made sense.

“Oh, uh. Samandriel.”

Obviously he could see them, or else he probably wouldn't have said anything, would he have? John just rose his eyebrows and ashed his cigarette in response. It was probably clear that John was no angel, he wasn't much of anything yet beside a Scouse in a trench coat. It didn't seem to bother him.

"Pleased t'meet you. Mouthful of a name, you got there."

“I suppose, but it suits me.” Samandriel was nothing if not honest about that. His name was long. People would simply have to deal with it. Only Lucifer got away with calling him Sam, and that was because he allowed it.

John got it. He was more on people about pronunciation, but hey, it was similar, wasn't it?

"No shit, you could back it up if someone didn't agree. Anyway, brilliant moves. Buy you a pint? Or do angels not drink?" Of course he was an angel, even John could tell that with no previous knowledge at all on the subject.

“I suppose a coke would be okay,” Samandriel allowed simply. He wouldn’t take the beer, not only because he didn’t particularly want to, but because drinking at all seemed to be a privilege he only enjoyed with Lucifer and Abigail. He’d rather keep it that way. “Thank you.” For the drink, not the compliment on his fighting. He still didn’t like it.

Like it or not, he did it damn well. John shrugged in vague agreement and took another drag off his smoke as they walked. There was a little bar and grill around the corner that supplied soda and beer as well as outdoor seating. John loved outdoor seating with passion unbridled.

"Seems to be an outbreak of celestial beings lately," he said, almost cheerfully, as if that was just how things were. Oh, it's a bit warm today, stay out of direct sunlight. By the way, have you met all them angels?
“I hadn’t particularly noticed?” Samandriel said, sitting when the host led them to an outdoor table, fortunately mostly away from other people. “Perhaps so.” There were only two others that he was aware of. It seemed like a reasonable number.

"Well, I suppose not a huge amount," John amended, flicking his cigarette into the street just so he could light a fresh one. "Just -- you know. The eye contact-y bloke, Cas. One other I think, but he owns a bookshop and doesn't tend t'get out much. Are you alright?" Perhaps the Samandriel's adrenaline had run out and he wasn't feeling well? John knew that feeling well.

“Castiel is my brother,” Samandriel said fondly. “And I’m fine, mostly. I do have to get to work soon, though. Sorry, if I seem distracted, Mr. Constantine. It’s nothing to do with you.” He smiled like the sun was just coming out. Perhaps that would be enough.

"Is he?" There wasn't much resemblance, beyond blue eyes. Not even the same shade though. John shouldn't have had to known that, except it was a little hard to avoid knowing exactly what color Castiel's eyes were. "I was there when he got married. Dean's a mate. Anyway." he waved a dismissive hand. "Just John. I didn't mean to keep you. Just seemed like maybe you needed a friendly word or some shite after that scene."

Soda and beer was ordered and John threw some messy cash on the table just so they could get up and leave whenever they pleased once the drinks arrived.

“I appreciate it,” Samandriel said, trying very hard not to think about Dean or Castiel in that moment. There was still too much rolling around in him and the edges of heaven’s rage didn’t need to turn into teenage lust.

“On all counts. I suppose maybe I ought not have done that, but...but perhaps they’ll think twice before talking shit again.” Or spitting at people. Really, if Samandriel were honest with himself, it was the spit that had thrown him over the edge. “I’m not really a violent person by nature, and I know I don’t exactly look like I can handle myself but…” He looked up at John and shrugged.

"Seemed more a community service, from the looks of the lot," John offered, pleased when their ordered drinks came. "Nothing wrong with showing people their place when it's needed. Not like you went looking for violence." That he was aware of. John shrugged too.

“No, but I could have simply let it be,” Samandriel said. “It did feel rather good, though.” That came with a rather secretive smile for John.

John returned the smile with a lopsided sort of grin and nodded as if they'd just decided something very important. Hey, sometimes the too-thin wiry guys had to stick together on these sorts of things.

He liked the near silent confidence this kid had, if he had to be honest. "Don't let me keep you, if you've got work to be at, though."

Samandriel took a hearty drink of his soda when it came, because it seemed really rude not to since John had gone through all the trouble. “I appreciate it, thanks, John.” And with that, Samandriel simply set down his glass and left. He’d grown to really like traveling that way. Much more efficient.