fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiic. ♥♥
Pfft. More comment_fic. YOU GUYS LOVE ME REALLY. ♥♥
These've been written over a few days and are only now being collated into one post, so bear with me. Also, will someone please get Sam/Gabriel out of my head? Please? vengefuldemon69 isn't helping, what with her crazy Gabriel talk and all... *flaily* :D ILU really, bb. :D
ANYWAY.
Title: in the patterned skin of animals; sam/gabriel
Prompt: Supernatural; Sam/Gabriel; As a Trickster, Gabriel must go through rituals to maintain his powers. He tries to hide this from Sam, to no avail
It's not that he minds all this shit. (The bloodletting and the holly and the faun squirming in his grasp with wide, startled eyes - not scared, just startled, because the delicate thing is just a dumb animal, after all.) He doesn't. It's a ritual, and if he wants to stay off whatever holy radar is trying its hardest to pick him up, then he has to finish the ritual when the moon demands it.
(He doesn't know why it has to be the freaking moon. It's always the freaking moon. You'd think these pagans would be more inventive in their idolatry.)
Gabriel doesn't mind - but he knows how it looks. Sitting in a circle of his own blood, naked (of course), with holly wreathed around his chest and the body of a sweet, innocent little faun draped across his knees... Well, it's not the most Christian of pictures, and his relationship with the Winchester boys is tenuous at most.
So he carries out the blood-drenched ritual, and he washes himself off afterwards (with soap and water, because some things are more satisfying the human way), but he slips away to do it, when he must.
Castiel knows. Castiel knows everything, though, and he'd never understand, because he's far too pure and far too wrapped up in the sanctity of Dad's love. Good for Castiel.
Gabriel doesn't care whether Dean knows. Dean doesn't trust him - probably never will. Good for Dean.
Gabriel cares whether Sam knows.
(He kneels, bloody and bare-skinned, and he hears the door open and the startled voices, but he doesn't look up, because that's admittance - and because he's selfish and self-centred and because he's the Trickster-archangel and he doesn't want to. And time passes. And Sam looks at him differently, and Sam doesn't throw him the echoes of smiles, like he used to.)
Gabriel cares whether Sam knows.
Title: the perils of the archangel lifestyle; sam/gabriel
Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Gabriel, your wounds are mine
Sam lies, twisted, pooled in his own blood.
Crimson drips from his head and from his skin - when they tortured him, they drove spikes through his palms and through his feet, and now he's glorifying in his own bastardised stigmata, and that has to be irony. One ankle faces the wrong way (broken), and the other flops uselessly, Achilles tendon sliced through (with the flick of a shard of glass). He opens his eyes, and he feels dizzy (concussion, brain damage, lack of food, lack of water) - so he keeps them closed.
This is what hunters do when one of their own starts the Apocalypse and drinks the blood of demons. This is what happens.
(And Sam knows that it's ironic that the only thing keeping Castiel and Dean from snapping to his side in an instant is the etching on his ribs. Good intentions, and all that - and in this case, the phrase "the road to hell" is less metaphoric than most.)
It doesn't help that he's had Lucifer in his ear--the invisible angel on his shoulder, because hunters who don't know about angels don't protect against them--whispering to him to say yes, to say yes and end this, to say yes and rip them to shreds. (That just makes him say no all the harder.)
The air fuzzes around him, but his eyes are closed.
And then there is Gabriel, kneeling beside him, and Sam's blood doesn't even touch the archangel's scabby jeans. "Stigmata," Gabriel comments, and touches his fingertips to Sam's eyelids. "Going for irony, were they? Original."
Sam can see again. He opens his eyes, and the hunters are gone - not that he's complaining. The air is unbearably cold against exposed flesh, and he wishes for clothes (and a warm bed, and a mother to hold him tight and sing him lullabies).
Gabriel brushes a touch to his ankle, and it cracks back into place. Pain flickers up (against the other pain that was already there and has been there for hours and hours and hours), and Sam keens. Gabriel shushes him. Sam would resent that, if he could.
"Oh, Jesus," Gabriel says, and there's surprising tenderness in his touch as he links his fingers through Sam's, palm to palm. "Strange guy. Pious like you wouldn't believe."
"You're an angel," Sam points out, through the pain, and his mouth tastes like blood.
Gabriel's lips quirk. "Archangel," he points out. "Different rules apply."
"No piety?"
Gabriel shrugs. "Less for the fallen, anyhow."
Sam wants to make a comment about how Gabriel's hardly fallen, just maybe a little astray, but he can't, because warmth floods through his palms, and that's sufficiently distracting that his lips part, just faintly. He's not going to complain if Gabriel keeps healing him like that.
"How?" he manages, eventually, when Gabriel skims down to crouch beside his legs, magic hands aloof, for now. "How did you find me?"
There's something dark in Gabriel's eyes, but his lips are still dragged up into a smirk. "The perils of being an archangel," he answers dryly. "Team Free Will or not, when a charge of mine is screaming quite as much as you like to do, it's difficult not to hear."
Sam blinks, and that same warmth suffuses through his feet. (He flexes his toes.) "Charge?" he asks, hazily.
"You didn't hear that," comes Gabriel's voice, from around his calves.
Sam's okay with that.
He promptly passes out, but when he wakes up, blankets tucked up around his chest and Dean hovering like a panicked mother hen (albeit a chicken that's taken to carrying a loaded shotgun and a flask of Jack), he's okay with that, too.
Title: constant, like the beat of twin hearts; eleven/tardis
Prompt: Doctor Who, Eleven/TARDIS, he feels like she has healed some of his wounds
It not that he doesn't appreciate Amy. He does, because she's Scottish and fries things for him, and anyone whose hair is quite that shade of ginger gets an automatic yes from him, because eleven selves and still not ginger just isn't fair.
It's not that he doesn’t appreciate her.
She's just not the best when it comes to knitting bone and calming frantic mind and changing things so it's a fresher start than most (by putting the swimming pool in the library so now he can surf 'n' browse, which he likes), because he needs that. Needs the FORGET button. And maybe the old girl can't provide quite that, but she's good at selective memory.
The Doctor doesn't love her, his TARDIS, his home. He doesn't love her, because how can you love something that you don't know how to be without? That's not love. That just is (and that's something Amy, bless her, could never be).
(Amy does hug better, though.)
Title: when the trumpet sounds; sam/gabriel
Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Gabriel, the day after tomorrow
The day after tomorrow, the world ends. (About two in the morning, most likely, and he knows why: the Winchester and their rituals and their slaughter of the horsemen and their unleashing of heaven.)
Gabriel knows this. It hasn't been prophesied; Dad hasn't popped upstairs for a quick tete-a-tete with his golden boy. Gabriel just knows. (And by the ruckus in heaven and the miracles turning up all over the place it's a good bet the other angels just know it, too.
Gabriel doesn't eat chocolate (stuff his face with M&Ms and Hershey's and those wonderful little truffles made in a little boutique in the south of England). He doesn't fuck (although he walks past plenty of beautiful people he could just snap into his bed). He doesn't drink (go to a liquor store, and drink the liquor store, like brother Cas).
The day after tomorrow, the world ends.
Gabriel takes a breath, and then he's leaning against the doorframe in Sam Winchester's motel room, watching muscles ripple across the man's back as he dresses, still damp from the shower. (There's a towel in Sam's hand and it drips onto the floor. Drip drip. Drip drip. It resounds in Gabriel's ears, because the world is ending and this is it.)
"So," he says. "Big day tomorrow."
Sam doesn't even tense - just keeps dressing. Undershirt and shirt. "What do you want, Gabriel?" he asks, and it's like the archangel's name is an accusation.
And that ruffles Gabriel's feathers (so to speak) - because he hates that he's come to this; that it's the end of the world and a mere mortal dares to speak to him with such insouciance; that he doesn't want to just snap his fingers and be elsewhere; that he just wants Sam to look at him. (When did he get so needy?)
In a flicker of a heartbeat, he's there, hand fisted in Sam's shirt and face inches away from the hunter's closed-off expression. "Don't speak to me like that," he says, flat and harsh, and he wishes he could be the Trickster once more, because that was easy.
Sam's hand closes around his, warm and strong. "Like you said," he says, softly. "Big day tomorrow. So what do you want."
And Gabriel's hand tightens, ripping cotton-poly, and he feels his wings flex, like they haven't in years - and he says, tight and low and angelic, "I want to go down fighting."
Sam's gaze flickers. "That can be arranged," he says, and the air between them is charged with expectation and anticipation and want (but there's not time, and Gabriel's left it too late to do anything but lead the charge alongside this man and his brother).
Title: headgames; jim (& bones)
Prompt: NuTrek (AOS), any, There's an organization within Starfleet that's conscripting human telepaths for the Fleet - and one of the crew of the Enterprise is one of its members (AU)
Everyone knows about Project Omicron.
It's an urban legend - a cabal buried deep in Starfleet, conscripting telepaths for the 'fleet: taking telepathic races and telepathic humans and forcing them to comply, and making them thoroughly cowed, and utterly loyal. And then, they say, if there are those in high positions (in the 'fleet or in the Federation) who they want to be telepathic, to be one of them, of course they simply make them so. The Eugenics Wars might've made genetic manipulation a little bit illegal, but (if the stories are true) that's never stopped Project Omicron, or its high-powered connections.
Bones chokes down a mouthful of the moonshine Jim's managed to charm off some unsuspecting Andorian in a masterfully-bluffed poker game. "Bullshit," he says, and wheezes.
Jim glances at him over the rim of his glass, and sips a little more sparingly. "Why'd you say that?" he asks, and lets the liquor burn on his tongue.
Bones' gaze could wither concrete. "For one thing," he says, and his voice is only slightly slurred, "Starfleet can't keep goddamn secrets. Remember that thing with the Cardassians? All over campus. And then SanFran. And then... Y'know." He gestures. (Jim wonders if he should've let Bones drink four glasses of this stuff on an empty stomach. But, then again, it is his daughter's birthday.) "Everywhere." He swallows, and reaches for the moonshine bottle. "If Project Fucking Omicron existed, we'd know already."
Jim shrugs, and accepts it. (He doesn't pause to think that they do know about it, just couched in the setting of an urban myth. He's not exactly sober, either.)
It's only later, when he's captain, when he loves the Enterprise and she's more a part of him than his own heart - it's then, when he receives a coded communique from an untraceable Starfleet location, and he steps off the faceless shuttle into a sterile medical chamber, with a blank-faced woman gazing at him blandly - it's only then that Jim remembers Project Omicron, and the rumours, and the myths, and his mouth goes dry.
(Needle in the temples. Busy, buzzing lights. Termites in his brain.)
He doesn't seem to have much of a choice. The faceless woman is pretty fucking strong.
Title: heaven, in fur form
Prompt: Supernatural, Winchesters + Castiel and Gabriel, the angels are turned into animals
"Um. Dean."
Dean does not look impressed. "Sam," he says, and there's a warning in his voice: don't go there.
Sam goes there. "Why is, um, Gabriel sitting in your lap?"
"Apparently," Dean says, through gritted teeth, "he likes it."
Kitten-Gabriel (with his icy white fur with yellow patches) licks a paw, and there's something insufferably smug and, well, Gabrielish about the flick of that pink tongue. The kitten's unnaturally blue eyes pass once over Sam, as if to say, So?
Sam frowns. "Where's Cas?" he says.
Dean tries to shoo Gabriel off his lap. Gabriel meows petulantly and digs his claws into Dean's denimed thigh. Dean subsides, with a mutter under his breath that's definitely non-PG rated. Gabriel continues washing himself. "Under the bed," he grinds out.
Sam takes a step back, and, sure enough, there's a pair of wide brown kitten-eyes staring up at him from between Dean's feet. "Huh," he says, and Cas pads out from under the bed (and Sam momentarily envisions the black kitten in a brown trenchcoat, but then figures the animal rights people would have something to say about that) and rubs up against Sam's ankle.
Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks at Sam.
"Hey," Dean says, "just be grateful he isn't pissing on you."
Sam pulls a face. "Don't have kids," he says, and picks Cas up and gives him an absent scratch behind the ears.
Cas purrs.
"Oh, this is just too freaky for words," Dean growls.
Gabriel meows sharply, and digs his claws in again.
Dean's yelp is underscored by Sam's chuckling.
It's awesome. My eczema is now being TREATED. So hopefully it'll fuck off soon and I'll get to wear skirts&shorts this summer. :D
(I love comment_fic. Especially that Trek one. Oh, secrets and lies and Jim, with your not-innocence.)
Anyhow. :D
♥
These've been written over a few days and are only now being collated into one post, so bear with me. Also, will someone please get Sam/Gabriel out of my head? Please? vengefuldemon69 isn't helping, what with her crazy Gabriel talk and all... *flaily* :D ILU really, bb. :D
ANYWAY.
Title: in the patterned skin of animals; sam/gabriel
Prompt: Supernatural; Sam/Gabriel; As a Trickster, Gabriel must go through rituals to maintain his powers. He tries to hide this from Sam, to no avail
It's not that he minds all this shit. (The bloodletting and the holly and the faun squirming in his grasp with wide, startled eyes - not scared, just startled, because the delicate thing is just a dumb animal, after all.) He doesn't. It's a ritual, and if he wants to stay off whatever holy radar is trying its hardest to pick him up, then he has to finish the ritual when the moon demands it.
(He doesn't know why it has to be the freaking moon. It's always the freaking moon. You'd think these pagans would be more inventive in their idolatry.)
Gabriel doesn't mind - but he knows how it looks. Sitting in a circle of his own blood, naked (of course), with holly wreathed around his chest and the body of a sweet, innocent little faun draped across his knees... Well, it's not the most Christian of pictures, and his relationship with the Winchester boys is tenuous at most.
So he carries out the blood-drenched ritual, and he washes himself off afterwards (with soap and water, because some things are more satisfying the human way), but he slips away to do it, when he must.
Castiel knows. Castiel knows everything, though, and he'd never understand, because he's far too pure and far too wrapped up in the sanctity of Dad's love. Good for Castiel.
Gabriel doesn't care whether Dean knows. Dean doesn't trust him - probably never will. Good for Dean.
Gabriel cares whether Sam knows.
(He kneels, bloody and bare-skinned, and he hears the door open and the startled voices, but he doesn't look up, because that's admittance - and because he's selfish and self-centred and because he's the Trickster-archangel and he doesn't want to. And time passes. And Sam looks at him differently, and Sam doesn't throw him the echoes of smiles, like he used to.)
Gabriel cares whether Sam knows.
Title: the perils of the archangel lifestyle; sam/gabriel
Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Gabriel, your wounds are mine
Sam lies, twisted, pooled in his own blood.
Crimson drips from his head and from his skin - when they tortured him, they drove spikes through his palms and through his feet, and now he's glorifying in his own bastardised stigmata, and that has to be irony. One ankle faces the wrong way (broken), and the other flops uselessly, Achilles tendon sliced through (with the flick of a shard of glass). He opens his eyes, and he feels dizzy (concussion, brain damage, lack of food, lack of water) - so he keeps them closed.
This is what hunters do when one of their own starts the Apocalypse and drinks the blood of demons. This is what happens.
(And Sam knows that it's ironic that the only thing keeping Castiel and Dean from snapping to his side in an instant is the etching on his ribs. Good intentions, and all that - and in this case, the phrase "the road to hell" is less metaphoric than most.)
It doesn't help that he's had Lucifer in his ear--the invisible angel on his shoulder, because hunters who don't know about angels don't protect against them--whispering to him to say yes, to say yes and end this, to say yes and rip them to shreds. (That just makes him say no all the harder.)
The air fuzzes around him, but his eyes are closed.
And then there is Gabriel, kneeling beside him, and Sam's blood doesn't even touch the archangel's scabby jeans. "Stigmata," Gabriel comments, and touches his fingertips to Sam's eyelids. "Going for irony, were they? Original."
Sam can see again. He opens his eyes, and the hunters are gone - not that he's complaining. The air is unbearably cold against exposed flesh, and he wishes for clothes (and a warm bed, and a mother to hold him tight and sing him lullabies).
Gabriel brushes a touch to his ankle, and it cracks back into place. Pain flickers up (against the other pain that was already there and has been there for hours and hours and hours), and Sam keens. Gabriel shushes him. Sam would resent that, if he could.
"Oh, Jesus," Gabriel says, and there's surprising tenderness in his touch as he links his fingers through Sam's, palm to palm. "Strange guy. Pious like you wouldn't believe."
"You're an angel," Sam points out, through the pain, and his mouth tastes like blood.
Gabriel's lips quirk. "Archangel," he points out. "Different rules apply."
"No piety?"
Gabriel shrugs. "Less for the fallen, anyhow."
Sam wants to make a comment about how Gabriel's hardly fallen, just maybe a little astray, but he can't, because warmth floods through his palms, and that's sufficiently distracting that his lips part, just faintly. He's not going to complain if Gabriel keeps healing him like that.
"How?" he manages, eventually, when Gabriel skims down to crouch beside his legs, magic hands aloof, for now. "How did you find me?"
There's something dark in Gabriel's eyes, but his lips are still dragged up into a smirk. "The perils of being an archangel," he answers dryly. "Team Free Will or not, when a charge of mine is screaming quite as much as you like to do, it's difficult not to hear."
Sam blinks, and that same warmth suffuses through his feet. (He flexes his toes.) "Charge?" he asks, hazily.
"You didn't hear that," comes Gabriel's voice, from around his calves.
Sam's okay with that.
He promptly passes out, but when he wakes up, blankets tucked up around his chest and Dean hovering like a panicked mother hen (albeit a chicken that's taken to carrying a loaded shotgun and a flask of Jack), he's okay with that, too.
Title: constant, like the beat of twin hearts; eleven/tardis
Prompt: Doctor Who, Eleven/TARDIS, he feels like she has healed some of his wounds
It not that he doesn't appreciate Amy. He does, because she's Scottish and fries things for him, and anyone whose hair is quite that shade of ginger gets an automatic yes from him, because eleven selves and still not ginger just isn't fair.
It's not that he doesn’t appreciate her.
She's just not the best when it comes to knitting bone and calming frantic mind and changing things so it's a fresher start than most (by putting the swimming pool in the library so now he can surf 'n' browse, which he likes), because he needs that. Needs the FORGET button. And maybe the old girl can't provide quite that, but she's good at selective memory.
The Doctor doesn't love her, his TARDIS, his home. He doesn't love her, because how can you love something that you don't know how to be without? That's not love. That just is (and that's something Amy, bless her, could never be).
(Amy does hug better, though.)
Title: when the trumpet sounds; sam/gabriel
Prompt: Supernatural, Sam/Gabriel, the day after tomorrow
The day after tomorrow, the world ends. (About two in the morning, most likely, and he knows why: the Winchester and their rituals and their slaughter of the horsemen and their unleashing of heaven.)
Gabriel knows this. It hasn't been prophesied; Dad hasn't popped upstairs for a quick tete-a-tete with his golden boy. Gabriel just knows. (And by the ruckus in heaven and the miracles turning up all over the place it's a good bet the other angels just know it, too.
Gabriel doesn't eat chocolate (stuff his face with M&Ms and Hershey's and those wonderful little truffles made in a little boutique in the south of England). He doesn't fuck (although he walks past plenty of beautiful people he could just snap into his bed). He doesn't drink (go to a liquor store, and drink the liquor store, like brother Cas).
The day after tomorrow, the world ends.
Gabriel takes a breath, and then he's leaning against the doorframe in Sam Winchester's motel room, watching muscles ripple across the man's back as he dresses, still damp from the shower. (There's a towel in Sam's hand and it drips onto the floor. Drip drip. Drip drip. It resounds in Gabriel's ears, because the world is ending and this is it.)
"So," he says. "Big day tomorrow."
Sam doesn't even tense - just keeps dressing. Undershirt and shirt. "What do you want, Gabriel?" he asks, and it's like the archangel's name is an accusation.
And that ruffles Gabriel's feathers (so to speak) - because he hates that he's come to this; that it's the end of the world and a mere mortal dares to speak to him with such insouciance; that he doesn't want to just snap his fingers and be elsewhere; that he just wants Sam to look at him. (When did he get so needy?)
In a flicker of a heartbeat, he's there, hand fisted in Sam's shirt and face inches away from the hunter's closed-off expression. "Don't speak to me like that," he says, flat and harsh, and he wishes he could be the Trickster once more, because that was easy.
Sam's hand closes around his, warm and strong. "Like you said," he says, softly. "Big day tomorrow. So what do you want."
And Gabriel's hand tightens, ripping cotton-poly, and he feels his wings flex, like they haven't in years - and he says, tight and low and angelic, "I want to go down fighting."
Sam's gaze flickers. "That can be arranged," he says, and the air between them is charged with expectation and anticipation and want (but there's not time, and Gabriel's left it too late to do anything but lead the charge alongside this man and his brother).
Title: headgames; jim (& bones)
Prompt: NuTrek (AOS), any, There's an organization within Starfleet that's conscripting human telepaths for the Fleet - and one of the crew of the Enterprise is one of its members (AU)
Everyone knows about Project Omicron.
It's an urban legend - a cabal buried deep in Starfleet, conscripting telepaths for the 'fleet: taking telepathic races and telepathic humans and forcing them to comply, and making them thoroughly cowed, and utterly loyal. And then, they say, if there are those in high positions (in the 'fleet or in the Federation) who they want to be telepathic, to be one of them, of course they simply make them so. The Eugenics Wars might've made genetic manipulation a little bit illegal, but (if the stories are true) that's never stopped Project Omicron, or its high-powered connections.
Bones chokes down a mouthful of the moonshine Jim's managed to charm off some unsuspecting Andorian in a masterfully-bluffed poker game. "Bullshit," he says, and wheezes.
Jim glances at him over the rim of his glass, and sips a little more sparingly. "Why'd you say that?" he asks, and lets the liquor burn on his tongue.
Bones' gaze could wither concrete. "For one thing," he says, and his voice is only slightly slurred, "Starfleet can't keep goddamn secrets. Remember that thing with the Cardassians? All over campus. And then SanFran. And then... Y'know." He gestures. (Jim wonders if he should've let Bones drink four glasses of this stuff on an empty stomach. But, then again, it is his daughter's birthday.) "Everywhere." He swallows, and reaches for the moonshine bottle. "If Project Fucking Omicron existed, we'd know already."
Jim shrugs, and accepts it. (He doesn't pause to think that they do know about it, just couched in the setting of an urban myth. He's not exactly sober, either.)
It's only later, when he's captain, when he loves the Enterprise and she's more a part of him than his own heart - it's then, when he receives a coded communique from an untraceable Starfleet location, and he steps off the faceless shuttle into a sterile medical chamber, with a blank-faced woman gazing at him blandly - it's only then that Jim remembers Project Omicron, and the rumours, and the myths, and his mouth goes dry.
(Needle in the temples. Busy, buzzing lights. Termites in his brain.)
He doesn't seem to have much of a choice. The faceless woman is pretty fucking strong.
Title: heaven, in fur form
Prompt: Supernatural, Winchesters + Castiel and Gabriel, the angels are turned into animals
"Um. Dean."
Dean does not look impressed. "Sam," he says, and there's a warning in his voice: don't go there.
Sam goes there. "Why is, um, Gabriel sitting in your lap?"
"Apparently," Dean says, through gritted teeth, "he likes it."
Kitten-Gabriel (with his icy white fur with yellow patches) licks a paw, and there's something insufferably smug and, well, Gabrielish about the flick of that pink tongue. The kitten's unnaturally blue eyes pass once over Sam, as if to say, So?
Sam frowns. "Where's Cas?" he says.
Dean tries to shoo Gabriel off his lap. Gabriel meows petulantly and digs his claws into Dean's denimed thigh. Dean subsides, with a mutter under his breath that's definitely non-PG rated. Gabriel continues washing himself. "Under the bed," he grinds out.
Sam takes a step back, and, sure enough, there's a pair of wide brown kitten-eyes staring up at him from between Dean's feet. "Huh," he says, and Cas pads out from under the bed (and Sam momentarily envisions the black kitten in a brown trenchcoat, but then figures the animal rights people would have something to say about that) and rubs up against Sam's ankle.
Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks at Sam.
"Hey," Dean says, "just be grateful he isn't pissing on you."
Sam pulls a face. "Don't have kids," he says, and picks Cas up and gives him an absent scratch behind the ears.
Cas purrs.
"Oh, this is just too freaky for words," Dean growls.
Gabriel meows sharply, and digs his claws in again.
Dean's yelp is underscored by Sam's chuckling.
It's awesome. My eczema is now being TREATED. So hopefully it'll fuck off soon and I'll get to wear skirts&shorts this summer. :D
(I love comment_fic. Especially that Trek one. Oh, secrets and lies and Jim, with your not-innocence.)
Anyhow. :D
♥