Gabriel woke up.

That was the first sign that something was completely and utterly off—he wasn't supposed to wake up. Angels didn't just wake up when they—oh. Gabriel had died.

He remembered dying. It wasn't one of the most pleasant things he had experienced—he could remember the cold bite of his own angel blade, the warmth of Lucifer's hands, the absolute searing agony as his grace was shredded apart; his energy, his essence being blown into non-existence.

You don't just wake up from that.

He wasn't in Heaven; he knew that, at the very least. It wasn't beautiful, or bright. It was rather dim, actually, and smelled of alcohol and dust. He sat up and fell back immediately, clapping a hand to his head. Okay, wow. He was woozy. He had never, ever felt woozy, or nauseous, or lightheaded—or anything else he was feeling right now. He felt cold. And the wooden floor under his back was uncomfortably hard and there was something digging into the back of his leg that was painful.

With more effort than it should have taken, he focused his eyes. There were flurries of dust motes dancing in the air, illuminated by sunlight seeping in through the cracked walls. He sat again, slower this time, and looked around.

Gabriel was in a run-down shack. That, at least, was obvious—it didn't look like anyone had been here for years. There were footsteps, though, breaking an even pattern in the dust covering the floor. They obviously weren't his, so he realized that he probably wasn't here alone.

What was going on?

He coughed awkwardly and called out. "Uh… Anyone else, you know, here?" There was a clang of something dropping, tripping, awkward footfalls, and a ragged face appeared aroung the corner of a doorframe.

"Oh! You're awake! That's good, that's really good—great, actually—" The man was wringing his hands was he stepped into the room. "What can you remember? What's your name? Do you, uh, do you remember dying?" The strange man was anxious, nervous, and Gabriel recognized him.

"Aren't you Chuck Shurley? One of the prophets?" It was ingrained into every angel—the archangels especially—the names of every past, present, and future prophet in any possible timeline. It was a lot of names—but Gabriel remembered Chuck because Chuck had originally been assigned as his. That was eons ago, before Gabriel had fled heaven after Lucifer's fall, but still. He would recognize his prophets anywhere. "What am I doing here? What happened?" Gabriel had managed to clamber onto his feet, his damn migraine worsening from the strain of it.

Chuck gave an edgy jolt when he saw Gabriel's hand move to his temple. "Oh. Oh." He repeated, with significantly more guilt. "Let me go… Grab you an Advil or something." Mumbling something about overlooking the obvious, the prophet fled the room.

Gabriel located a worn-out couch pressed against the wall and he stumbled over to it. His head seriously hurt. He didn't know what was happening—why he was alive, why he was shaking it up with a prophet of God—but he was going to get some answers out of the man when he came back.