sunday_reveries: See this saga through and do the things you asked of me...
sunday_reveries : Because any man weak enough to hide his eyes while his neighbors are punished for the way they love deserves a vengeful god.
--Karen Finneyfrock
When asked to trace the apocalypse to its source, Gabriel would refuse to draw elaborate lines through the years to stop at a house in Lawrence, Kansas, and would, instead, just stick a pin in a shithole tourist trap in the bowels of Florida some two years before the fact, because that? That was where the trouble started. Maybe Daddy had sworn up and down it would end with Sam and Dean when he flipped the switch and said, “Let there be Kansas-born fuck-ups,” but there was some hope for those two in the early days.
Once upon a time, Gabriel thought destiny was a crock. He’d taken his Grace out back and put it out of its misery like it was a dying dog and then replaced it with a Trickster’s skin. It still burned steadily though- as peppered with metaphorical buckshot as it was, it didn’t go down so easily. He felt the turn of the tides, the motions, the pulls, the twists in the fabric of reality that knit together to form the road he’d wished he’d never laid eyes on. When Dean sold his soul, he tried to halt construction on that path before it ever began.
So he was screwing up Daddy’s big myth arc- wouldn’t be the first time. Gabriel had been waylaid in Persia before and gotten punished for it and now he had a laundry list of sins racked up against him- this was freedom and he liked it. And like hell if he was going to sit on his ass and watch two idiots break the world. The plan had been unorthodox and maybe even cruel, but when put in perspective, he wasn’t sorry and never would be.
Sam Winchester spent a maddening amount of days watching his brother die again and again and couldn’t stop it. Once upon a time, Gabriel had been in that little son of a bitch’s shoes. He saw his brothers- hundreds of them- dying in horrific ways and he cried and screamed and begged his Father to stop the fighting. No one answered. When Sam begged him to bring Dean back that final time, he almost snapped. Why should I? No one would ever do it for me. He did it anyway. He thought maybe he’d learn, that maybe something would stick.
It didn’t. And the world didn’t end with a bang or a whimper, but the sound of an archangel furiously punching a hole in a wall as Lucifer’s rising lit up the world like the fucking Fourth of July.
And his callous attitude about Sam’s plight didn’t paint him a sympathetic figure, but he didn’t want sympathy. He wouldn’t answer to Sam’s anger or Dean’s frustration at how broken his brother was after the incident. He wouldn’t answer to anything. He paid for that lesson with the blood on Sam’s hands that the kid didn’t even know he was accessorizing with- well, it was mixed with all the other fucking blood, so no wonder it got looked over. If Sam ever got his head out of his own ass, he’d realize that Gabriel had lived a worse fate than Mystery Spot- in his version? No one came back.
And that reality was never more painful than the night an all-out battle royale broke out between six angels in a parking garage. Five of the six died- Gabriel knew this, because the ashen patterns of their wings were spread out across the cement, remaining long after the police had come for the bodies of their expired vessels and hauled them away. He’d stood there in the middle, trying to paint names to the imprints, but the last remnants of their Graces had faded and he was left wondering which brothers to mourn and add to the list of those already gone.
And they called him a monster for what he did. And the worst of it was, even if they knew, it wouldn’t change a thing. Love hath no fury like a broken-hearted brother, and two could play at that game.
So destiny proved it wasn’t to be fucked with- fine. When next Gabriel interfered, he’d point those two sorry self-centered sons of bitches right to where they were supposed to go.
Maybe then he’d finally see it end.
--Karen Finneyfrock
When asked to trace the apocalypse to its source, Gabriel would refuse to draw elaborate lines through the years to stop at a house in Lawrence, Kansas, and would, instead, just stick a pin in a shithole tourist trap in the bowels of Florida some two years before the fact, because that? That was where the trouble started. Maybe Daddy had sworn up and down it would end with Sam and Dean when he flipped the switch and said, “Let there be Kansas-born fuck-ups,” but there was some hope for those two in the early days.
Once upon a time, Gabriel thought destiny was a crock. He’d taken his Grace out back and put it out of its misery like it was a dying dog and then replaced it with a Trickster’s skin. It still burned steadily though- as peppered with metaphorical buckshot as it was, it didn’t go down so easily. He felt the turn of the tides, the motions, the pulls, the twists in the fabric of reality that knit together to form the road he’d wished he’d never laid eyes on. When Dean sold his soul, he tried to halt construction on that path before it ever began.
So he was screwing up Daddy’s big myth arc- wouldn’t be the first time. Gabriel had been waylaid in Persia before and gotten punished for it and now he had a laundry list of sins racked up against him- this was freedom and he liked it. And like hell if he was going to sit on his ass and watch two idiots break the world. The plan had been unorthodox and maybe even cruel, but when put in perspective, he wasn’t sorry and never would be.
Sam Winchester spent a maddening amount of days watching his brother die again and again and couldn’t stop it. Once upon a time, Gabriel had been in that little son of a bitch’s shoes. He saw his brothers- hundreds of them- dying in horrific ways and he cried and screamed and begged his Father to stop the fighting. No one answered. When Sam begged him to bring Dean back that final time, he almost snapped. Why should I? No one would ever do it for me. He did it anyway. He thought maybe he’d learn, that maybe something would stick.
It didn’t. And the world didn’t end with a bang or a whimper, but the sound of an archangel furiously punching a hole in a wall as Lucifer’s rising lit up the world like the fucking Fourth of July.
And his callous attitude about Sam’s plight didn’t paint him a sympathetic figure, but he didn’t want sympathy. He wouldn’t answer to Sam’s anger or Dean’s frustration at how broken his brother was after the incident. He wouldn’t answer to anything. He paid for that lesson with the blood on Sam’s hands that the kid didn’t even know he was accessorizing with- well, it was mixed with all the other fucking blood, so no wonder it got looked over. If Sam ever got his head out of his own ass, he’d realize that Gabriel had lived a worse fate than Mystery Spot- in his version? No one came back.
And that reality was never more painful than the night an all-out battle royale broke out between six angels in a parking garage. Five of the six died- Gabriel knew this, because the ashen patterns of their wings were spread out across the cement, remaining long after the police had come for the bodies of their expired vessels and hauled them away. He’d stood there in the middle, trying to paint names to the imprints, but the last remnants of their Graces had faded and he was left wondering which brothers to mourn and add to the list of those already gone.
And they called him a monster for what he did. And the worst of it was, even if they knew, it wouldn’t change a thing. Love hath no fury like a broken-hearted brother, and two could play at that game.
So destiny proved it wasn’t to be fucked with- fine. When next Gabriel interfered, he’d point those two sorry self-centered sons of bitches right to where they were supposed to go.
Maybe then he’d finally see it end.