SPN FIC - Though No Fault of His Own
From this year's Summergen, from robinasnyder's prompt: Depowered Lucifer or Gabriel, or really any angel (not Cas) depowered and having to deal with that heartache. I don't think a heartbroken Gabriel occurs to many of us, but I loved the idea, and happily, my muse cooperated!
CHARACTERS: Gabriel, OMC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.23
LENGTH: 1500 words
The morning after The Great Fall, Gabriel (who's once again in his own private Witness Protection Program) ponders what his life has become, and what lies ahead.
THROUGH NO FAULT OF HIS OWN
By Carol Davis
"Jerry. Hey, Jerry."
He would really rather not turn around. Not today. Not after what's happened. But it's a small thing to offer, isn't it - sharing a little bit of conversation with someone who's been nothing less than friendly and generous, this past couple of years?
So Gabriel turns. Pieces together something he hopes looks like a pleasant, companionable smile.
Apparently, it doesn't look like that at all.
"Jerry," Tom says. "You okay, son?"
He's been a long, long way from okay for a full twelve hours now - since late last night, when a commotion outside dragged him to the window, then out onto the lawn, where he had an uninterrupted view of what the media has been calling An unprecedented - and completely unexpected - meteor shower.
There were no meteors involved, of course. What was falling was his brethren.
Angels.
Thousands of them.
No: all of them.
Having never been human, he's never been physically sick. Has never felt frail or fragile, able to be broken. But he's sick now, feverish and chilled at the same time, and the body he wears in order to present a human face to the world feels like a delicate thing, made of eggshells and crystal, something that could be shattered by a touch, or a scream. He's human now; has been for something like twelve hours, since the moment those streaks of fire began to appear in the sky.
He is Jerry, now, he supposes. It's as good an identity as any.
Moving gingerly, he sinks into one of the big wing chairs in front of the fireplace. Almost of their own accord, his hands grasp each other, fingers knotting together as though he intends to pray, which isn't the slightest bit true, not now, not after last night. A moment later Tom takes the chair opposite Gabriel's and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his weathered, stubbled face a portrait of concern. "You need something?" he asks quietly. "Something I can do? Call somebody for you?"
His brothers and sisters, Gabriel thinks. One of them has done something beyond imagining. That's the only possible explanation - unless, of course, Elvis has returned to the building and has decided to clean house. Decided to toss out the trash.
Reflexively he glances up. Sees nothing up above him but the knotty-pine ceiling.
"Jerry?" Tom says.
It's just as well that humanity saw nothing last night but streaks of fire. What they'd make of thousands of angels falling from the sky is beyond imagining. There are a few souls who glimpsed something other than meteors (saw the combustion of wings, maybe, or a face), and they've wasted no time in posting their thoughts and conclusions on the Internet, but by and large, what happened last night has fallen into humanity's giant basket of Well, that was cool, but let's get back to business. The important stuff. How Kim Kardashian is going to lose the baby weight. Whether it's possible to build a force field along the Mexican border.
Why Zuckerberg keeps dicking around with Facebook.
Almost silently, Tom slips back out of his chair, disappears for a minute and returns with a glass of water that he presses into Gabriel's hands. His expression says You go on and drink that, so Gabriel does, both surprised and grateful for the way it makes him feel minutely better. Are these bodies that finely-tuned, he wonders, that something as simple as a drink of water makes a difference?
He felt the change, late last night. Couldn't help but feel it; it was so abrupt, so cataclysmic, that it landed him on his ass, then spread-eagled on his back out on the lawn. Now, he can't find words to describe what the loss of his grace felt like. What it felt like to lose everything.
"My family," he whispers, his trembling hands curled around the nearly-empty glass.
Tom tilts his head, ready to listen.
"They've -"
It's possible to repair things, he supposes, if what happened was caused by one or more of his brethren, and not by God. If Dad's come back, however, and has decided that his brood is beyond salvation, then the doors might well be closed for good. He's not well-known for changing his mind, after all. He'll take a good long time to make a decision, but once it's made, it's…
Well.
Set in stone. Sometimes literally.
"You've got a home here, no matter what's happened," Tom says with a pensive glance around the room. Looking to see if they'll be interrupted, Gabriel supposes. "I know how it goes with families. Sometimes you just have to walk away, put it all behind you. Might not be what you'd choose, in a perfect world, but then, this world's never been anywhere near perfect, has it?"
Hasn't it? Gabe wonders.
Dad created it, after all. Six days' worth of paint and spackle, a breath of life here, a magical rib there… The end result is pretty remarkable.
It's not home, though.
No matter how breathtaking or wondrous or mind-boggling it might be, it's not home.
At least, it's not his home.
He walked away from there a good long while ago. Turned his back on Heaven and all of its backstabbing and double-dealing, all of its gossip and machinations, mind-probing and clique-forming, and went into his own little WITSEC, free to do what he chose, to come and go as he pleased, without worrying about who was on whose team, or who was as likely to kill you as look at you. And it's gone well, hasn't it? This past couple of hundred years?
This century or two of hoping things would eventually, at some point, be cleaned up Upstairs?
"Be careful what you wish for," he murmurs.
After the glass has been safely set aside, he levers himself up from the chair, aware of a startling number of creaks and twinges and aches in his now all-too-human form, and pads across the room to the wall of windows that looks northward toward the mountains. It's warm enough now that there's snow only on the uppermost peaks; everything else is green and brown, a thousand different shades of each. People pay a fortune to stay here, to have the chance to admire this view, but he can have it for nothing. It's part of his "compensation package," a perk of being a regular act in the resort's tiny nightclub: The Classic Songs and Comedy Stylings of Jerry Lee Elwis. He makes people laugh, amuses and entertains them six nights a week. He doesn't torment them any longer, even if they deserve it, because that would attract attention - and that wouldn't do, because he's supposed to be dead.
Might as well be, he thinks.
And he would be, if he hadn't sent one of his doppelgangers in to confront Lucifer, that night at the Elysian Fields Hotel.
Funny to think that the Lord of Hell isn't any brighter than the Winchesters.
He stands there for a long while, looking out at grass and trees, at the sharp upward slope of the mountains. Tom doesn't disturb him, though he doesn't leave the room; he flutters around out of Gabriel's line of sight, cleaning and tidying, careful to make no sound that might be disturbing to someone with an unspecified family problem.
Careful to do nothing that might upset his friend.
"They ever tell you you can't go home again?" Gabe asks after a while, mostly over his shoulder. "Anybody ever tell you that?"
"No," Tom says, trailing a dustcloth from one hand. "Can't say they did. More like… it just stopped being home, at some point."
"So you don't care."
"Didn't say that. I keep it up here." And Tom taps his temple with the first two fingers of his right hand. "You adapt. Make do. Build something new." Then he goes back to his tidying, humming a little bit under his breath. After a few bars Gabe recognizes it as one of the songs that's a regular part of his act. My Blue Heaven.
Twelve hours ago, he was omnipotent. He was a frigging Archangel, for crying out loud, one of the mightiest of Heaven's children. Stuck in hiding, yes, but still powerful. Still cunning. Canny enough that no one - not Lucifer, not Naomi, not the Winchesters, no one - has come looking for him. There are no whispers that he might still be alive. No one cares.
No one believes.
And yet, he was swept up in that great celestial housecleaning.
Left with nothing.
Except for this. This place. These people, who laugh at his jokes.
With the flats of his fingers he wipes away the tears no one has seen him cry, furtively dries his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and turns again to face his friend.
"Screw 'em," he says. "They want to wreck it all? Screw 'em. That's what I say."
"There you go," Tom replies.
* * * * *
(The original Summergen entry is here.)
CHARACTERS: Gabriel, OMC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: 8.23
LENGTH: 1500 words
The morning after The Great Fall, Gabriel (who's once again in his own private Witness Protection Program) ponders what his life has become, and what lies ahead.
THROUGH NO FAULT OF HIS OWN
By Carol Davis
"Jerry. Hey, Jerry."
He would really rather not turn around. Not today. Not after what's happened. But it's a small thing to offer, isn't it - sharing a little bit of conversation with someone who's been nothing less than friendly and generous, this past couple of years?
So Gabriel turns. Pieces together something he hopes looks like a pleasant, companionable smile.
Apparently, it doesn't look like that at all.
"Jerry," Tom says. "You okay, son?"
He's been a long, long way from okay for a full twelve hours now - since late last night, when a commotion outside dragged him to the window, then out onto the lawn, where he had an uninterrupted view of what the media has been calling An unprecedented - and completely unexpected - meteor shower.
There were no meteors involved, of course. What was falling was his brethren.
Angels.
Thousands of them.
No: all of them.
Having never been human, he's never been physically sick. Has never felt frail or fragile, able to be broken. But he's sick now, feverish and chilled at the same time, and the body he wears in order to present a human face to the world feels like a delicate thing, made of eggshells and crystal, something that could be shattered by a touch, or a scream. He's human now; has been for something like twelve hours, since the moment those streaks of fire began to appear in the sky.
He is Jerry, now, he supposes. It's as good an identity as any.
Moving gingerly, he sinks into one of the big wing chairs in front of the fireplace. Almost of their own accord, his hands grasp each other, fingers knotting together as though he intends to pray, which isn't the slightest bit true, not now, not after last night. A moment later Tom takes the chair opposite Gabriel's and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his weathered, stubbled face a portrait of concern. "You need something?" he asks quietly. "Something I can do? Call somebody for you?"
His brothers and sisters, Gabriel thinks. One of them has done something beyond imagining. That's the only possible explanation - unless, of course, Elvis has returned to the building and has decided to clean house. Decided to toss out the trash.
Reflexively he glances up. Sees nothing up above him but the knotty-pine ceiling.
"Jerry?" Tom says.
It's just as well that humanity saw nothing last night but streaks of fire. What they'd make of thousands of angels falling from the sky is beyond imagining. There are a few souls who glimpsed something other than meteors (saw the combustion of wings, maybe, or a face), and they've wasted no time in posting their thoughts and conclusions on the Internet, but by and large, what happened last night has fallen into humanity's giant basket of Well, that was cool, but let's get back to business. The important stuff. How Kim Kardashian is going to lose the baby weight. Whether it's possible to build a force field along the Mexican border.
Why Zuckerberg keeps dicking around with Facebook.
Almost silently, Tom slips back out of his chair, disappears for a minute and returns with a glass of water that he presses into Gabriel's hands. His expression says You go on and drink that, so Gabriel does, both surprised and grateful for the way it makes him feel minutely better. Are these bodies that finely-tuned, he wonders, that something as simple as a drink of water makes a difference?
He felt the change, late last night. Couldn't help but feel it; it was so abrupt, so cataclysmic, that it landed him on his ass, then spread-eagled on his back out on the lawn. Now, he can't find words to describe what the loss of his grace felt like. What it felt like to lose everything.
"My family," he whispers, his trembling hands curled around the nearly-empty glass.
Tom tilts his head, ready to listen.
"They've -"
It's possible to repair things, he supposes, if what happened was caused by one or more of his brethren, and not by God. If Dad's come back, however, and has decided that his brood is beyond salvation, then the doors might well be closed for good. He's not well-known for changing his mind, after all. He'll take a good long time to make a decision, but once it's made, it's…
Well.
Set in stone. Sometimes literally.
"You've got a home here, no matter what's happened," Tom says with a pensive glance around the room. Looking to see if they'll be interrupted, Gabriel supposes. "I know how it goes with families. Sometimes you just have to walk away, put it all behind you. Might not be what you'd choose, in a perfect world, but then, this world's never been anywhere near perfect, has it?"
Hasn't it? Gabe wonders.
Dad created it, after all. Six days' worth of paint and spackle, a breath of life here, a magical rib there… The end result is pretty remarkable.
It's not home, though.
No matter how breathtaking or wondrous or mind-boggling it might be, it's not home.
At least, it's not his home.
He walked away from there a good long while ago. Turned his back on Heaven and all of its backstabbing and double-dealing, all of its gossip and machinations, mind-probing and clique-forming, and went into his own little WITSEC, free to do what he chose, to come and go as he pleased, without worrying about who was on whose team, or who was as likely to kill you as look at you. And it's gone well, hasn't it? This past couple of hundred years?
This century or two of hoping things would eventually, at some point, be cleaned up Upstairs?
"Be careful what you wish for," he murmurs.
After the glass has been safely set aside, he levers himself up from the chair, aware of a startling number of creaks and twinges and aches in his now all-too-human form, and pads across the room to the wall of windows that looks northward toward the mountains. It's warm enough now that there's snow only on the uppermost peaks; everything else is green and brown, a thousand different shades of each. People pay a fortune to stay here, to have the chance to admire this view, but he can have it for nothing. It's part of his "compensation package," a perk of being a regular act in the resort's tiny nightclub: The Classic Songs and Comedy Stylings of Jerry Lee Elwis. He makes people laugh, amuses and entertains them six nights a week. He doesn't torment them any longer, even if they deserve it, because that would attract attention - and that wouldn't do, because he's supposed to be dead.
Might as well be, he thinks.
And he would be, if he hadn't sent one of his doppelgangers in to confront Lucifer, that night at the Elysian Fields Hotel.
Funny to think that the Lord of Hell isn't any brighter than the Winchesters.
He stands there for a long while, looking out at grass and trees, at the sharp upward slope of the mountains. Tom doesn't disturb him, though he doesn't leave the room; he flutters around out of Gabriel's line of sight, cleaning and tidying, careful to make no sound that might be disturbing to someone with an unspecified family problem.
Careful to do nothing that might upset his friend.
"They ever tell you you can't go home again?" Gabe asks after a while, mostly over his shoulder. "Anybody ever tell you that?"
"No," Tom says, trailing a dustcloth from one hand. "Can't say they did. More like… it just stopped being home, at some point."
"So you don't care."
"Didn't say that. I keep it up here." And Tom taps his temple with the first two fingers of his right hand. "You adapt. Make do. Build something new." Then he goes back to his tidying, humming a little bit under his breath. After a few bars Gabe recognizes it as one of the songs that's a regular part of his act. My Blue Heaven.
Twelve hours ago, he was omnipotent. He was a frigging Archangel, for crying out loud, one of the mightiest of Heaven's children. Stuck in hiding, yes, but still powerful. Still cunning. Canny enough that no one - not Lucifer, not Naomi, not the Winchesters, no one - has come looking for him. There are no whispers that he might still be alive. No one cares.
No one believes.
And yet, he was swept up in that great celestial housecleaning.
Left with nothing.
Except for this. This place. These people, who laugh at his jokes.
With the flats of his fingers he wipes away the tears no one has seen him cry, furtively dries his hands on the thighs of his jeans, and turns again to face his friend.
"Screw 'em," he says. "They want to wreck it all? Screw 'em. That's what I say."
"There you go," Tom replies.
* * * * *
(The original Summergen entry is here.)