"metempsychosis and the migration of the soul"
Title: metempsychosis and the migration of the soul
Fandom: Supernatural.
Characters: Gabriel/the Trickster, Sam Winchester
Word Count: ~750
Rating: PG
Summary: Gabriel becomes the Trickster becomes Gabriel again. Perhaps.
Warnings: pass (bad puns?)
Notes: Something of a Gabriel character study, because that angel’s background is such a goldmine - also, blame vengefuldemon69. :D
metempsychosis and the migration of the soul
It’s just after Jesus bites the dust on the cross at Calvary (with less muscle-mass than most Catholic imagery seems to make out) that Gabriel falls. Because that’s when the arguments begin anew, and when the legions of hell start seeping out onto Dad’s green earth with blood on the brain - and Gabriel can’t take the fury and the sadness he sees in Michael’s eyes every time the bright one turns away from the costume jewel that is Earth.
And, of course, Gabriel’s own powerlessness-how he can do nothing, because he’s brave and bold and strong, but not enough to turn to his brother and just say, “No.”-just pushes him down that particular slippery rabbit-hole.
Gabriel falls.
Or more slips a little, because he’s not an angel anymore (arch or otherwise), but he’s still far from human, and, besides, the fallen can do nothing but live-
And Gabriel can create. And Gabriel does create. (He takes clay and offal and the heat of a dying sun and presses them together around himself until they form life. Or, they breath his life, and clay and offal and starstuff become his bones.)
He’s not an angel. He’s not Gabriel anymore.
This new thing doesn’t name himself, though. He’s not that arrogant.
(“Gabriel,” Michael once said, with exasperation creasing his shining forehead, “when are you going to grow up?” But what brother Mike in his perfection never understood was that Gabriel’s tricks and games-leaving big brother’s sword out in the rain and watching fire lick at the hilt in rainbow iridescence; lifting that pissy office-boy Zachariah’s specially-grown ultra-organic coffee beans and replacing them with ones from a rundown Walmart-are Gabriel being grown up. He’s not heaven’s perfect little soldier. He’s not Daddy’s favourite. He’s just trying to make his mark against the backdrop of angelic perfection.)
It’s only once Gabriel changes, becomes something other, that he begins to crave destruction along with his fun.
He plays games. Pranks. Gives people their just desserts to pass the time, and the pagan richness of blood on his hands and sugar on his tongue hides him from his squabbling family. (Not that they care, anymore.) And that’s how he becomes known - they call him Loki and Coyote and Trickster, and those are names that are consumed by other half-powerful beings who trot along in his wake, using his reputation to forge their own, until only ‘Trickster’ is left.
He becomes the Trickster.
(Gabriel faded long ago.)
§§§
Sometimes, on occasion, the Trickster feels the pull of something that might be heaven, deep in his long-buried grace, and his subconscious wonders if they know that he’s here, and know what he’s doing. If they care. (He doubts they do. He was one brother of the countless Host, and that rarely contributes towards being wanted. Or towards any sense of individuality.)
The warm press of flesh on flesh, dipping and touching and smoothing, doesn’t lose its allure, purely because the Trickster suppresses the part of him that whispers, It’s no substitute for Dad’s love. To hide from his brothers and himself, he chooses not to be himself, and he forgets. The bleakness of his mindscape is chased away by the rush of sugar through starstuff veins. Hey, he’s not complaining.
Sex and sucrose and rocky road.
§§§
Sam Winchester looks at him with broken glass in his eyes, and says, “So which one are you? Grumpy, Sneezy, or Douchey?” (And the Trickster remembers months and months watching the boy tear his world to shreds, and never laughing, no matter what he said, because some flicker of righteousness flared up in his chest, burned.)
And he doesn’t think.
“Gabriel, okay?” he says, and the word is thick and honey-sweet on his tongue. (It’s not his name. It’s just a word.) “They call me Gabriel.”
And that’s not even true. They call him so many things: Trickster and betrayer and you-son-of-a-bitch. But no one’s called him Gabriel, of all things, in two thousand years.
He’s not Gabriel. He can’t be. He’s not the archangel, not anymore, not after everything: he’s not brave and strong and horribly, horribly beautiful. That’s not him. He’s a pagan thing, up to his throat in blood and chocolate, and Dad’s forgiveness is everlasting, yeah, but only for his creations.
He’s not.
(But he feels his wings stretch against their bindings, stretch and flex and yearn, and he wonders if maybe, if he tried, if he put his back to the door and pushed - if maybe he could be Gabriel again.)
finis
Oh, Gabriel. (Guys, I cannot wait for this week's episode.) ♥
Fandom: Supernatural.
Characters: Gabriel/the Trickster, Sam Winchester
Word Count: ~750
Rating: PG
Summary: Gabriel becomes the Trickster becomes Gabriel again. Perhaps.
Warnings: pass (bad puns?)
Notes: Something of a Gabriel character study, because that angel’s background is such a goldmine - also, blame vengefuldemon69. :D
metempsychosis and the migration of the soul
It’s just after Jesus bites the dust on the cross at Calvary (with less muscle-mass than most Catholic imagery seems to make out) that Gabriel falls. Because that’s when the arguments begin anew, and when the legions of hell start seeping out onto Dad’s green earth with blood on the brain - and Gabriel can’t take the fury and the sadness he sees in Michael’s eyes every time the bright one turns away from the costume jewel that is Earth.
And, of course, Gabriel’s own powerlessness-how he can do nothing, because he’s brave and bold and strong, but not enough to turn to his brother and just say, “No.”-just pushes him down that particular slippery rabbit-hole.
Gabriel falls.
Or more slips a little, because he’s not an angel anymore (arch or otherwise), but he’s still far from human, and, besides, the fallen can do nothing but live-
And Gabriel can create. And Gabriel does create. (He takes clay and offal and the heat of a dying sun and presses them together around himself until they form life. Or, they breath his life, and clay and offal and starstuff become his bones.)
He’s not an angel. He’s not Gabriel anymore.
This new thing doesn’t name himself, though. He’s not that arrogant.
(“Gabriel,” Michael once said, with exasperation creasing his shining forehead, “when are you going to grow up?” But what brother Mike in his perfection never understood was that Gabriel’s tricks and games-leaving big brother’s sword out in the rain and watching fire lick at the hilt in rainbow iridescence; lifting that pissy office-boy Zachariah’s specially-grown ultra-organic coffee beans and replacing them with ones from a rundown Walmart-are Gabriel being grown up. He’s not heaven’s perfect little soldier. He’s not Daddy’s favourite. He’s just trying to make his mark against the backdrop of angelic perfection.)
It’s only once Gabriel changes, becomes something other, that he begins to crave destruction along with his fun.
He plays games. Pranks. Gives people their just desserts to pass the time, and the pagan richness of blood on his hands and sugar on his tongue hides him from his squabbling family. (Not that they care, anymore.) And that’s how he becomes known - they call him Loki and Coyote and Trickster, and those are names that are consumed by other half-powerful beings who trot along in his wake, using his reputation to forge their own, until only ‘Trickster’ is left.
He becomes the Trickster.
(Gabriel faded long ago.)
§§§
Sometimes, on occasion, the Trickster feels the pull of something that might be heaven, deep in his long-buried grace, and his subconscious wonders if they know that he’s here, and know what he’s doing. If they care. (He doubts they do. He was one brother of the countless Host, and that rarely contributes towards being wanted. Or towards any sense of individuality.)
The warm press of flesh on flesh, dipping and touching and smoothing, doesn’t lose its allure, purely because the Trickster suppresses the part of him that whispers, It’s no substitute for Dad’s love. To hide from his brothers and himself, he chooses not to be himself, and he forgets. The bleakness of his mindscape is chased away by the rush of sugar through starstuff veins. Hey, he’s not complaining.
Sex and sucrose and rocky road.
§§§
Sam Winchester looks at him with broken glass in his eyes, and says, “So which one are you? Grumpy, Sneezy, or Douchey?” (And the Trickster remembers months and months watching the boy tear his world to shreds, and never laughing, no matter what he said, because some flicker of righteousness flared up in his chest, burned.)
And he doesn’t think.
“Gabriel, okay?” he says, and the word is thick and honey-sweet on his tongue. (It’s not his name. It’s just a word.) “They call me Gabriel.”
And that’s not even true. They call him so many things: Trickster and betrayer and you-son-of-a-bitch. But no one’s called him Gabriel, of all things, in two thousand years.
He’s not Gabriel. He can’t be. He’s not the archangel, not anymore, not after everything: he’s not brave and strong and horribly, horribly beautiful. That’s not him. He’s a pagan thing, up to his throat in blood and chocolate, and Dad’s forgiveness is everlasting, yeah, but only for his creations.
He’s not.
(But he feels his wings stretch against their bindings, stretch and flex and yearn, and he wonders if maybe, if he tried, if he put his back to the door and pushed - if maybe he could be Gabriel again.)
finis
Oh, Gabriel. (Guys, I cannot wait for this week's episode.) ♥