pairing: gabriel x reader
genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs)
wc: 6.6k
rating: sfw
warnings: none really. unless you count reader's lore drop ig
notes: a surprise to both of us that I'm back so soon HAHA it hasn't even been 12 months since the last one!! imagine that
You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. Itâs something youâre destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point youâd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes youâre suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason youâd been brought here in the first place? Maybe⊠Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.
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Itâs been a week since you washed his hair, and every time you have caught sight of the glossy curls atop Gabrielâs head since, you have been filled with an immense sense of satisfaction. Youâre proud of the job you did, but mostly youâre proud of the fact he let you do it.
If someone had told you when you returned to the bunker almost a month ago that the Gabriel you saw then would allow you to help him with his hair, and spend time in the vicinity of others willingly, youâd have told them they were dreaming. Itâs pretty astounding the difference between the shaken archangel that had arrived that very day, and the one you glimpse skulking about the bunker now, following the scent of bickering, trouble, and caramel sweets in the air.
Admittedly, he still isnât speaking all that much âa great shock to anyone who knew him previously, and is fully aware of how hard it was to shut him up back thenâ but youâve noted some observable progress in that regard, even if some of the incidents that come to mind have been poorly timed and resulted in a bulging blood vessel on Deanâs forehead. Youâre probably not the best person to consult on that though, considering youâre very familiar with that blood vessel and have made it appear on numerous occasions yourself. Youâve considered naming it more than once, but havenât ever been able to settle on a name that seemed suitable enough.
Back to the topic at hand, Gabriel has made more progress than you expected for this timeframe and how traumatised he had been. Part of that you can probably attribute to the fact he isnât human, which you seem to forget more than youâd like to admit while he is wandering around low on grace, and therefore heals at a different rate than a human might, even mentally and emotionally. Whatever it is that is responsible for the accelerated recovery, youâre thankful even if you find yourself a bit wary at the same time. The last thing you want is for him to be skipping through the steps and not processing things as much as he should, but with so many variables in the mix it is hard to tell whatâs normal in order to compare him against it. Therefore, you have resolved to just go off of what you can observe, and adjust accordingly. Adaptability is one of your strong suits, after all!
Whatâs kind of embarrassing about it all though, is just how often your thoughts are straying to him these days. It was more understandable earlier when he was in a rougher state, but now that he seems to have stabilised somewhat you might have expected him to take up less residence in your mind. Yet there he is, living rent free and haunting your inner monologue.
Unfortunately you cannot escape the wayward thoughts reaching in his direction, even now as you are out and about on the streets of the closest âcityâ to the bunker, actively looking for a cafe that doesnât smell of burnt beans. The quality of coffee, it seems, is something you took for granted all that time ago. You didnât realise there would be such a difference in taste, let alone overall quality, on the other side of the world. The shock to your system shortly after you were first zapped here back then was a cruel one, and youâve yet to recover.
Genuinely, if you think about it too much youâll be too sad to drink coffee for a week. You wish the addiction to caffeine was one you developed after your random relocation, because then you wouldnât be grieving the taste that youâve yet to find replicated perfectly here.
You digress, the point was that even while on the hunt for coffee that wonât make you unreasonably sad, you canât help but spare a thought for the archangel back in the bunker. Like, what is he doing now? Is he still perched in the library behind a bookshelf, listening to Sam and Dean fight about their diets like he was when you left? Has anything happened that may have stalled his progress? Is he getting along with his nephew? Jack had expressed to you quietly the other night that he wished to grow closer with his uncle. You hope he has been able to make some progress on that front.
âExcuse me.â
You jump, lurching out of the way as an older lady with a heavy scowl and an even heavier bag comes marching by you at the speed of light, leaving in her wake only the trailing smell of lavender, soap, andâŠ. protein powder? You watch her nearly take out another pedestrian down the street, flabbergasted; you hadnât even heard her coming, which is an achievement considering the chunky-heeled clompers that she was stomping across the pavement in. Youâd stopped to peer into the window of a shop and then failed to resume your trek after becoming lost in your thoughts, it seems. That lady looks like sheâs on a mission, though, and you find yourself thanking the stars she had the mind to announce herself before the imminent collision bowled you over. You swore as she left you could see the muscles bulging beneath her coat.
âSorry!â you call, incredibly belated. The wind seems to swallow your apology, but itâs probably for the best because the idea of catching her attention once more makes you shudder.
Maybe you will choose a different town to do your shopping, next time.
Shaking your head, you turn back to the window. It is an op-shop, or rather a thrift store as theyâre better known here. At first glance the pricing isnât too offensive (you find yourself getting unreasonably upset when you enter a store that gets their stock for free and decides to charge twenty dollars for a glass bowl) and this intrigues you. Before you can think better of it, and most definitely having been lured in by the red set of boots in the window, you make your way inside. Itâs cooler in there, and surprisingly not too populated. Though, you suppose, it is a weekday, and you have no idea how much foot traffic this place might get normally. Instead of looking the gift horse in the mouth, you decide to continue on and investigate what is on offer.
A part of you is scared you will look at the boots in the window and the price will enrage you, so you decide to leave them for last and have a good gander while youâre here. Itâs neatly arranged, the store, and it seems to be organised in a fashion that makes decent sense to you. You decide to start on the left, where all the knick-knacks, bric-a-brac and other goodies are, and then meander your way through to the other side gradually.
The shelves along the wall donât house anything that jumps out at you, but the mindful task of scanning and examining each one keeps your thoughts from straying in the direction of the bunker, at least. There are a few interesting glass pieces, many tools and utensils for which you cannot conceive their intended use, and a surprising amount of small jugs shaped like different human heads. The store apparently had inherited someoneâs extensive collection of oddities recently.
It makes you wish that your lifestyle wasnât so⊠nomadic. You, like anyone else, are burdened with the incredible urge to collect trinkets. Sadly, youâve never really indulged it simply because of the effort and inability to cart around anything you buy with you.
As youâre nearing the end of the breakables, as you like to think of them, something catches your eye before you can continue on to the clothing area. A bright flash of orange, yellow and teal, something you couldnât have ignored after noticing if youâd tried. Curious, you give it your attention and examine the item.
Itâs a funny looking giraffe statue that reaches your shoulder in height, not at all meant to be realistic in its depiction and embellished with textured patterns that swirl over the body and neck in black, raised paint. The second you realise what it is, you regret it. Youâd know that stupid giraffe anywhere, because your mother had been obsessed with collecting them when you were younger. You never understood her fixation with them as a child, and even now as an adult you are struggling to fathom what about them she happened to find so appealing. Perhaps the colours? The patterns? Theyâre definitely bright, quite quirky, somehow paradoxically aligning with your motherâs personality while being in complete incongruence with it.
She probably still has them in that same spot in the dining room corner, cartoonish eyes peering relentlessly over the table where you ate your meals, did your homework, and got endlessly scolded as a child.
Immediately you try and quash the thought, attempting to force it from your mind before it can do any damage, but you react a little too late. Your heart cinches painfully in your chest, and for a second you struggle to breathe. You blink a few times, trying to tell yourself there was just something in your eye and there isnât at all a sudden burn behind them.
What a stupid reaction. You donât even miss her.
Youâre not even being dishonest when you think that. In a lot of ways, your motherâs presence in your life tormented you. She raised you in this lifestyle with no chance to exit at any point, and being her firstborn there is no hurdle or hoop she failed to place in front of you. Your siblings learned by example what to do and what not to do, but thatâs because you were the one being made an example of. She was relentless, and withholding, and there isnât a single thing you regret about walking away from her the second you became an adult. Itâs not like she reached out to you, either. You only found out her feelings on the matter when the hunting circles you used to interact with started to turn you away, looking down their noses at you and muttering about your ingratitude.
By that point, her sentiments rolled off you like water from a duckâs back. What did hurt, however, was when you reached out to your younger brothers and they answered your hand with vitriol and scorn.
Unfortunately, there was a difference in treatment in your home that was never in your favour.
Blinking once more, you shake your head and try and lock your gaze onto something, anything to distract you from your thoughts. The racks and racks of clothes in front of you answer your unspoken prayer, and you move through them, desperately looking for something interesting enough to hold your attention. Corset, bright pink vest, sequins upon sequins decorating a floor-length skirt with a slit in the sideâ these are all pretty unusual considering the town youâre in, but ultimately even while looking at them you struggling to keep your thoughts in line.
God, you hate that stupid giraffe. You wish you knew where they were sold from, so you can write a strongly worded email to the owner.
As you walk down the aisles, the pressure in your chest lessens and you feel a bit less like youâre about to weep unprompted. What replaces the sensation in your chest, however, is an odd kind of hollowness. As though a distant kind of sadness has taken up residence on the backburner and is now providing a score for everything you do.
The op-shop doesnât particularly offer you anything further, and the only moment of temptation you experienced was when you found a 2XL baby tee that said âdaddyâs little angelâ with a halo (and a pair of horns?) and wings underneath, and you thought about how funny it could be to give it to one of the bonafide winged soldiers currently in the bunker. Ultimately, you decide against it though. It would have been in poor taste considering the entire population of the bunker is stricken with daddy issuesâ well, most of the population; youâre unsure where Mary stands on that matter, and the absence of a father figure in your life wasnât anything that ever truly gave you any grief. You were too busy handling all the trauma your mother loaded you up with.
You have to forcefully change the topic of your thoughts to stop them going down the rabbit hole, and decide itâs time to leave this cursed store.
(You catch sight of the price tag on those red boots on the way out, and immediately have to beat back the urge to shake someone by the shoulders.)
Half an hour later finds you irritable, experiencing minor caffeine withdrawals, and somewhat listless. Youâve plonked your behind down on a bench in front of a small shopping mall. Thereâs a small, sad excuse for a department store in there, and eventually you will have to go in for some new underwear and toiletries, because you have made an unfortunate habit of leaving hotels and motels in a rush in recent months and unwittingly leaving behind those valuable possessions when you do so. Youâd think it would teach you to pack up your things sooner, but apparently not. Thatâs a habit youâre going to start when youâre back on the road, youâve decided.
When the breeze shifts and the sky begins to spit on you with light rain, your mood worsens and you haul yourself off the bench to finally go inside. It baffles you how quickly this day went from relatively okay, to actively circling the drain. Unfortunately, it only seems to get worse from here. Inside the building is bright, densely populated, and much more overstimulating than you think any store should be.
With single-minded determination, you make a beeline to the section you need and grab the toiletries on the list, before wandering at a hasty pace over to the underwear. You grab a pack of simple bamboo-cotton boyshorts, and falter as your eyes catch a pack on clearance. Three of the four-pack are a very nice sleek material with lace trim, in light and neutral colours. You suspect the reason itâs on clearance lies in the fourth pair though, which is also trimmed in thin lace but also white with poorly rendered gummy bears in varying bold, flaming bright colours smattered across it. Upon further inspection, the back of that last pair says âZESTYâ in bold, blocky font, and the only way it could have been funnier is if they had bedazzled it.
The set you found is exactly in your size, and you canât see where they came from, so you decide to take it as a sign from the heavens and take it with you to the counter along with your other set. Maybe finding it and remembering it exists will help uplift your mood later.
Youâre walking like youâre now the one on a mission, reminding yourself to an uncomfortable degree of that old lady from earlier, and truthfully you are because you feel as though the lights in this store are about to trigger a migraine or something. Despite this, you come skidding to a halt as you catch sight of a rack of mens clothing.
Theyâre simple, linen-looking button-ups in neutral colours, but they appear to be on special. The reason the sight had stopped you in your tracks is because the one that is facing the aisle actually reminds you of a cleaner, less destroyed version of what Gabriel is currently sporting.
⊠Which also happens to be filthy and unreasonably ratty, and next on your list for fixing in the Archangel Recovery Project.
You step closer, extending a hand to feel the fabric. Youâre unsure whether he will experience it the same way you do, what with differing senses and all that, but while he is low on grace he is closer to human than ever, and you consider that something soft and gentle on the skin would be of great comfort to you if you were to be attempting recovery after such a difficult experience. The shirt is not as stiff as you feared, merely having the appearance of rougher linen but sporting much softer fibres than anticipated. A cotton blend, most likely. You inspect further, finding it to be oversized and of decent length. The price is appealing, and you decide on a whim to throw two over your arm. When you allow your gaze to wonder a bit before proceeding to the registers, you are delighted to find a matching set of pants, completing the loungewear set. You inspect the fabric and style once more before chucking them over your arm. On another whim, you grab a pair of brown fluffy socks from a nearby rack and take them with you, recalling a certain archangelâs barefoot pacing around the bunker. Canât hurt to have them, just in case.
When you exit the store a few minutes later, wallet lighter than anticipated, you make quick work of returning to your car. Right now you want nothing more than to be back in your room, free to dissociate as you please, and you dedicate all your effort to making that happen as soon as possible.
-------
When you are finally at the point of carefully climbing down the bunkerâs front stairwell an ungodly amount of time later, your mood has truly reached record lows. Between unreasonable traffic, an inconceivable amount of red lights, the air-conditioning in your shitbox car almost throwing in the towel, and the fact you are still without caffeine now approximately twelve hours after waking â the only possible solution you can conceive for how to remedy the way you feel right now is a fat nap and absolutely zero human interaction until that nap has been achieved.
Unfortunately, despite your efforts to sneak inside unnoticed, your prayers go unanswered for what has to be the twentieth time today since spotting that stupid giraffe. As you move past the kitchen, your name is called out with such resonance that not only does it make you jump, but you have no chance of pretending you couldnât hear it.
âThere you are, twinkletoes! Was wondering where you got off too. Just about nearly sent out a search party for ya.â
Youâre glad Dean seems to be in a good mood, but you desperately wish he wasnât choosing to engage you now of all times while youâre in one of your rare spells of the morbs.
You turn, attempting to make the smile on your face as natural as possible. âDidnât Sam tell you? I went to check out the new topless bar a few towns over. Such a shame, I thought you just didnât want to go. They had a midday happy hour and everything.â
Sam, who also happens to be in the kitchen fixing something to eat, freezes like a deer in headlights so completely that you almost believe your own lie. When he says nothing in defence of himself, likely too baffled to know how to respond to your blatant lie, Dean turns to him, head swinging as though on a hinge and eyes filled to the brim with disbelief and accusation.
âNo way,â he says to you, though he doesnât turn away from his brother. âSammy wouldnât do that to me. Thereâs no way he would stab me in the back like that. My own brother. He wouldnât do that.â
Your arms begin to ache from the position you are holding your bags in, and you shift on your feet to try and alleviate some of the strain. You can hardly muster up anywhere near your usual amount of glee at yet another successful bait-and-stir operation. It just comes naturally to you at this point, truly.
Sam sends you a look that confuses you, as though youâd outed him on a secret he was trying to keep, and lifts his hands in surrender. âOkay, look. I found a flyer and I was honestly going to tell you about it, but I was already in town andââ
No way. Thereâs no way there is actually a new topless bar that opened somewhere ânearbyââ you were totally full of shit when you said that. You even came home with bags in your hands, youâve clearly been shopping! You can only blink, confounded, as Dean slaps his sandwich down onto his plate with an appalled yell.
âSam!â
This is actually a blessing in disguise and the perfect time for you to exit. Huffing a laugh, you quickly flee the scene and continue your trek down the halls. On the way you pass a figure lingering in a doorway, and nearly jump out of your skin when you register it as Gabriel. Not wanting to subject the poor angel to your even poorer mood, you offer him a somewhat strained smile and continue bolting down the hallway to your room.
Only when you are safely in your room with the metal door shut securely behind you, do you stop feeling the sensation of eyes boring into you. You must have been a sight, if the archangelâs curious gaze followed you the whole way down the hall. The thought disconcerts you, somewhat, that he might have noticed youâre not exactly at a hundred percent right now.
To distract yourself, you begin putting away your purchases, toiletries and underwear first. You reach for the remaining items a short time later, folding up the mens clothes neatly and leaving the socks on top. For a moment, you simply stand there, looking at the pile. Should you write a note?
The idea flusters you slightly, purely for the fact that it would mean putting your name to the deed, but before you can spiral too far you recall the fact you have free will and donât actually have to sign your name on it at all. Appeased by the notion of remaining somewhat anonymous (to avoid Sam and Deanâs nosiness, if nothing else), you reach for a sticky note from your desk and begin attempting to pen a neat note. Itâs a struggle, mostly because you havenât handwritten much in a while, and you go through a few pages before youâre satisfied with the quality.
âNot to be touched by any Winchesters.
Sorry Jack, that includes you.
If I see anyone above 5â8â wearing this, Iâm
going to personally haunt them while living
and then beyond.
Thanks.â
⊠Simply by process of elimination theyâre going to know itâs from you, but if you donât sign your name then you at the very least have plausible deniability.
You leave the note atop the pile of clothes, electing to give it to him one way or another later in the day. For now, with the immediate tasks complete, you are free to flop onto the bed face-down and scream into the pillow.
You do just that.
It doesnât make you feel any better.
------
Atop the roof of the bunker, the air is cool and refreshing, and best of all, itâs quiet.
If you focus your ears you can hear the occasional car or truck on a distant road before it fades out of range. Sometimes you think you can hear the sound of a faraway passenger plane. Mostly, you can hear the crickets, the cicadas, or whatever damn bug it is that makes that noise this time of year. You donât care to know the details of what insects call this stretch of land home. When they get too loud, you try and focus on the sound of rustling leaves and branches dancing in the breeze. This has mixed results, and truly just depends on how busy your brain is at the time of practice.
Currently, itâs somewhat successful. Focusing on the star-speckled sky above is probably more responsible for the current peaceful moment youâve managed to achieve though.
The brothers know that you come up here sometimes, but you donât do it often enough that they would think to seek you out here. Just in case, though, youâd waited until a reasonable âbed-timeâ and then snuck your way up here. You just needed some time and space to yourself. You think this will pass if only you can get a moment to breathe and process.
That stupid giraffe really caught you off-guard today.
Not for the reasons someone might expect. Youâve had a lot of time to grieve your lost family relationships, especially considering youâre unable to leave the continent. Youâve had many nights like this, with different thoughts filling the space between moments spent watching the sky. There is only so much in this life that you control, and the thoughts, actions, and desires of other people arenât any of them. Youâve long since accepted that, and it has afforded you a modicum of peace.
However, tonights proverbial can of worms is of a different kind. Put simply, you suspect you have fallen victim to a particularly potent wave of homesickness.
You miss a number of things on the day-to-day of it all, but rarely do you allow yourself to sit with it. To let it well up and overflow. The fact youâd been taken by surprise today probably didnât help. The reminder of your childhood home, a place that truthfully had more painful memories than good ones, seems to have sent you into an introspective tailspin.
You rub your eyes with a sigh before allowing your arm to flop back down onto the cement of the roof. Currently you are laying in a loosely spread eagle position, limbs slack, having abandoned your previous curled up position when your butt became numb. Itâs fine, this one is better for stargazing anyway. Youâve been out here for about an hour at this point though, and are in the process of resigning yourself to the fact you will have to head back in soon.
Youâre just warming up to it, when the decision is unceremoniously made for you by the heavens opening up once more to begin dispensing rain on your approximate location.
âYouâre fucking kidding me,â you mutter, closing your eyes and allowing the rain to begin pattering across your face for the few moments it takes you to reign in your sudden irritation. What on earth is with today? Youâre just about at your witâs end.
Annoyed and now right back where you started mood-wise, you rise from your position and trudge over to the bunker entrance. Youâre grumbling to yourself the whole way inside, so distracted by your pitiful luck today and all of the above that when you finally notice the figure lurking by the entrance, you jump about a foot in the air and yelp in fright.
âHoly fuck!â you sputter, feeling your heart skip several beats in your chest. You remembered to keep your voice to an alarmed whisper, but Gabriel flinches and holds up his hands slightly anyway, almost in apology. His brows scrunch together slightly as he surveys your form where it is leaning haggardly against the railing, no doubt a sight to see. âShit, sorry Gabriel. I can confirm I was not expecting to see anyone when I came in.â
He tilts his head slightly, funnily enough reminding you of a bird, and waits for you to catch your breath. His patient stance and neutral features catch your attention, and then it is your turn to tilt your head in question.
âWere you waiting for me?â
Itâs almost imperceptible, the jolt that travels through his vessel. The archangel averts his eyes suddenly and shrugs, nonchalant. You almost expect him to start inspecting his nails to bolster the act. You snort, straightening from your hunched position and allowing yourself the brief stretch you didnât get upstairs due to the rain. You donât blame him for not wanting to leave the safety of the bunker.
âApologies for making you wait,â you say, smiling when he still refuses to meet your gaze. âDid you need something, though?â
At that, his warm eyes return to you for the briefest moment. Then, they flit away, deeper into the bunker in the direction of the⊠kitchen? Then, back to you. Then again, in the direction of the kitchen. You blink, considering for a moment. Surely he didnât notice your lack of evening meal?
âI had something to eat,â you say, somewhat defensively. At the angelâs responding slightly arched brow, you huff. âIt might have been a while ago, but still.â
Itâs not like his face changes much, moreso the aura of a frown that seems to emanate from him at your words. It makes you smile despite yourself.
âIf one were to ask, I could probably go for something extra. Even though I ate.â You promptly ignore the soft noise your stomach makes. Gabriel delivers a deadpan look in your direction. âFine, Iâm going.â
You donât need to check if heâs following you as you move to the kitchen (which is thankfully devoid of Winchesters at this hour) because, as per usual, you can almost feel it as he trails after you. Heâs like a ghost in the halls by this point. Heâs had enough time to practice stealth, even without his usual preternatural angelic grace and mobility.
With an audience of one, you begin the task of putting something together. Now that youâre in here, you find yourself craving meat and decide to pull out the leftover Chinese food from previous night. If this cashew chicken doesnât hit the spot, youâre truly going to spiral.
Neither of you speak, which is more uncharacteristic for yourself than him as of late. He simply perches on one of the stools in the kitchen and observes, like a teacher watching a child do a chore they got caught avoiding previously.
Youâre impatient with taking the container out of the microwave when the timer goes off, well and truly back on speaking terms with your hunger signals by this point, and end up burning your index finger a little trying to pull it out. Cursing, you begrudgingly grab an oven mitt and use it to extract your dinner. The entire motion is performed with probably more attitude than necessary, but by this point after the day youâve had you canât be bothered to check it anymore.
With your meal deposited on the metal bench, you proceed to run your finger under the tap while grumbling about stupid cheap plastic that inevitably ends up in the ocean.
When you turn back after turning off the tap and catch Gabriels inquiring look, you flick the water off your hand and return to the bench, sniffing. âFear not, loyal customer. âTis but a scratch.â
He leans back, bringing his leg up to hug it more comfortably while bracing his foot on the seat, and sends a somewhat dubious glance your way but otherwise doesnât question it when you reach for utensils with your burnt finger.
Perhaps the angel was on to something by enforcing your mealtime, because after a few bites you already feel some of the dayâs evil beginning to leave your body.
âI wonât say you were right,â you announce after a few minutes of silence spent stuffing your face. âBut the suggestion you made seems to have had some merit to it.â
Gabriel huffs, a single dark brow raised, and shakes his head slightly before turning his gaze to survey the kitchen. He doesnât need to speak, because you can vividly imagine him saying âI told you soâ.
With his attention elsewhere, you return to your meal, resting your hip against the bench. The speed with which you devour the rest of the food borders on shameful, but you actually feel a lot better and therefore decide not to dwell on it much. You throw the container in the trash, glad to be rid of it, and wash your utensils straight away because otherwise Jack will give you a disappointed look.
Youâve just turned the tap off and welcomed the silence that follows when a low, rasping tone breaks it.
âYou alright?â
Your lips purse, expression caught in surprise. You turn to the angel, and his gaze has regained its weight and is drilling into you like it tends to do sometimes.
Briefly, you ponder whether to brush it off and tell a fib, but immediately scrap the idea not long after it forms. The way he is sitting there, simply looking at you with a neutral, unguarded expression, would have made the lie seize in your throat anyway.
âHmm, good catch,â you say, mustering a playful smile. âIâve definitely been better.â
He continues sitting quietly, patiently waiting for you to elaborate. You sigh, leaning back against the bench and crossing your arms loosely as you deliberate over how to word what has got you down today.
âI miss my home,â you say, having settled on simplicity. âI havenât been back since⊠well, probably about seven years or so at this point, if I think about it.â
You donât like thinking about it, let alone putting a number to the time thatâs passed since you were last home.
The angel blinks at you, honey-hued eyes appearing to hold the expected question: Why havenât you gone back?
You speak as though he actually voiced the question, figuring he was probably wondering it anyway. âI canât go back. I mean, like, physically. Iâve tried. I always end up zapped back in some random place the same way I woke up here one day in 2010. No method, magic or mundane, has managed to get me out of thisâŠâ you close your eyes and breathe deeply, summoning a serene smile onto your face. â⊠wonderful country.â
When you open your eyes again, there is a somewhat perplexed scrunch to the archangelâs brow, a sentiment you agree with. You offer him a shrug, attempting to appear less bothered by it than you really are.
âIâve kind of accepted it at this point. Iâll probably never know why, or how, and one day I might even simply wake up back home out of nowhere. But until thenâŠ. I sometimes miss it.â
Gabriel swallows, and a few moments pass before he manages to utter, âYour family?â
You grin. âDonât you know a broken family is a requirement for entry into this place?â
He huffs, a little tickled, but clearly still expects a serious answer from you, and so you let out a breath and turn your focus elsewhereâ it lingers on the ratty cloth of his shirt he is fiddling with in between his fingers before you tear your eyes away for your own sanity.
âNo, I donât particularly miss them,â you say, and for the most part youâre being honest. You suppose you just miss what you could have had with them. âIâm not on good terms with my mother for⊠reasons. And my younger brothers didnât think very highly of me after I left. Oh, I guess thereâs also my step-dadâheâs kind of an ass and I donât really count him as family though, so thereâs no love lost there. Kind of forget he exists most of the time, if Iâm being honest.â
Gabriel blinks, and understanding seems to swim in the depths of his gaze. You shrug, words continuing to tumble out of your mouth and fill the silence despite your best efforts to hold them back. âI guess itâs not really anything big I miss. Normally just the little things. Like coffeeâGod, I would kill for a decent coffee that tastes anything like what the baristas make back home. Chocolate, too. It tastes different here, if you believe it. No one ever believes me when I say Hersheyâs tastes like vomit to me, but I take my confectionery very seriously and I would never lie about that.â
You place your hand on your chest to emphasise your honour, and continue to talk the poor angelâs ears off. You canât seem to stop yourself now that youâve started. âAlso, the access to guns here has nearly gotten me killed a few times because I forget the laws arenât anywhere near as strict as back home. That was a culture shock, for sure. That, and the food and drink portion sizes at fast food restaurants. Oh, and I am so sick of having to convert the metric system into feet and inches, and celsius into fahrenheit.â
You decide to take a break there for now, already feeling a lot better. There is a somewhat amused curve to Gabrielâs eyes, but you get the sense he isnât laughing at you, but rather the manner of your delivery. After a few beats of silence where he waits to see if you have anything more youâd like to get off your chest, you offer him a sly smile.
âHave you considered abandoning your double life as a trickster and taking up therapeutic practices? Surprisingly, youâre a natural.â
Gabriel flat-out rolls his eyes, and you almost guffaw at the shock of the sight.
âI jest,â you say, trying and failing desperately to quash your grin. âBut I do feel a lot better. Thank you for that. And for noticing, I guess. What gave me away?â
His eyebrows raise infinitesimally, as though he canât believe you have to ask, and you respond with a huff. âOn second though, donât answer that. I have enough haters in this bunker.â
He snorts so softly you almost miss it, and you decide not to bring too much attention to it lest he never do it again. Youâre saved from further pondering by the greedy, yearning rumble of your stomach. You pat it idly, considering your options for a moment before turning to face Gabriel again.
âWant some ice-cream? Dean ate all the dairy stuff but I know where Sam stashes his guilt-free tubs.â
Asking was merely a courtesy; you already knew the answer before you pushed off and retrieved said dessert from the freezer. As expected, when you return Gabriel is sitting with a spoon already in his hand, posture eager.
Youâre not sure where he got that spoon from when the utensils draw is a good distance away, but you donât care enough to examine it further. You flick off the lid and place the tub between the two of you, diving in without any further foreplay.
Itâs a miracle there was any remaining by the time you were done.
-----
Later, after you had retired to your room with a full belly and a lighter heart, you stumble upon the waiting pile of clothes youâd gotten for the archangel youâd just dined with.
âAh,â you say simply. Without further ado, you grab the pile and a handful of chocolate eclairs from the bag next to your bed, and make your way down the halls as quietly as possible. You canât believe you nearly forgot to give these to him.
The pile is places silently in front of his door, with the note and a few wrapped sweets sitting neatly atop the fabric. Then, just as sneakily as youâd attempted to get there, you return to your room.
The last thought you have before passing out is whether he will like the fabric and wear it after all.
just letting y'all know the planets aligned once more and I have updated!!! but it's midnight and I have a headache, so I will be formatting it here later.
until then, please accept my humble offering of the link to the latest chapter on ao3.<3
When God created the angels, he gave them purpose, order, rank- and one quiet curse.
A soulmate.
No angel spoke of it. Most didnât even understand what it meant. Love was a human thing, messy and loud, built of sweat and longing and heartache. Angels were meant to be obedient. Unshakable. Above such things.
So when Castiel learned about soulmates from whispers in Heavenâs archives, he assumed like every other angel that if God had been foolish enough to bind them to someone, that someone would surely be another celestial. Someone logical. Someone that made sense.
He did not expect you.
He didnât know it the first time you met.
Or the second.
Or the third.
You had only just been introduced, standing awkwardly behind Sam and Dean in Bobbyâs cluttered kitchen, away from casual touches, safe behind a steaming mug of coffee. You werenât one for physical contact, especially not with strangers. And Castiel, stiff and solemn in that battered trench coat, shook nobodyâs hand.
Your eyes lingered on him, though. Wide and curious, enough to make his grace hitch with something unfamiliar.
But no touch meant no revelation. And neither of you reached out.
It happened much later. On a hunt.
A hunt that should have been simple.
The woods were already dark when you lost sight of the Winchesters. Fog curled through the trees like living breath. Something moved behind you a shadow, fast and wrong and before you could turn, the ground slid out from beneath your feet. A ravine, hidden by brush. You felt your body pitch forward, a rush of terror flooding your veins
And then a hand closed around your wrist.
Firm and burning. Grace, ancient and impossible, wrapped around you like a second heartbeat.
Castiel.
He materialised out of nowhere, trench coat whipping with the force of his arrival. His grip tightened, pulling you toward him, bracing you against his chest before your feet found solid ground again. The moment your skin met his, a shock tore through him.
Not pain.
Not revelation.
Something deeper. Something he had no words for. Like every star he had ever seen collapsing inward, folding into a single brilliant point.
You.
It hit him at once ancient knowledge blooming within his grace, blooming in his ribs, blooming in places he didnât know he had.
His soulmate. You were his soulmate.
He didnât breathe. Angels didnât need to. But in that moment, he forgot the difference between breath and being alive. You, however, felt only warmth. A flutter in your stomach. A confusing spark that left you staring up at him, heart hammering, wondering why your knees felt weak and why his hand around yours felt like it belonged there.
âCastiel?â you whispered, breathless. His fingers tightened reflexively, as if letting go would defy the universe. His expression changed, softened, blue eyes widening with something like wonder, like awe, like fear and hope tangled together. He didnât explain. He didnât think. He didnât ask permission.
In a sweep of wings you couldnât see but felt in your bones, the forest vanished.
You landed in the motel room.
The air was warm. Lamps flickered. The Winchesters were nowhere in sight. Castiel stood before you like a statue carved from stormlight, shoulders tense, eyes bright and burning with meaning you couldnât decipher.
Your breath shivered in your chest. âCas⊠what just- why did you-?â His hand lifted. Trembling. Not with fear, but with something overwhelming.
âWhen an angel touches their soulmateâ he said quietly, voice low and reverent, âthey know.â
Your heart lurched. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as though afraid of frightening you though he was the one shaking. His grace felt like electricity in the air, stirred by proximity, by you.
âI did not expectâŠâ He paused. Swallowed. âI never believed my soulmate would be human.â
Your pulse spiked, too loud, too fragile. âMe?â
âYou.â He said it without hesitation, as though the word itself anchored him. âIt is⊠overwhelming.â
You let out a breath you hadnât realised youâd been holding. Because youâd always felt drawn to him, his quiet presence, the solemn curiosity in his eyes, the way he watched you like you mattered. Youâd crushed on him silently, hopelessly. Angels didnât fall in love. Not with humans.
But his hand was still holding yours. And he was looking at you like you were something holy. You stepped closer. His eyes widened just slightly, but he didnât move away. If anything, he leaned in subtly, imperceptibly to anyone else, but unmistakable to you.
âIâve alwaysâŠâ Your voice caught. âIâve always wanted to be close to you.â His breath trembled, even if he technically didnât need one. âThen come closerâ he murmured.
You did.
And when your foreheads touched soft, tentative his grace thrummed through the room like a hushed celestial hymn, warm and tender, wrapping around you as though it had always been waiting.
You felt safe.
Castiel closed his eyes, exhaling a shuddering sigh that brushed your lips.
âI am yoursâ he whispered. âAs I was always meant to be.â And when you whispered his name in return, the sound lit something vast and eternal inside him something God never intended angels to discover, yet gave them anyway.
pairing: gabriel x reader
genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs)
wc: 5k
rating: sfw
warnings: none really
notes: now this one i actually wrote and posted this year. cross your fingers and toes that I get medicated again this year guys!!
You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. Itâs something youâre destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point youâd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes youâre suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason youâd been brought here in the first place? Maybe⊠Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.
prev. || next
âIf you let me wash your hair, I will give you, in exchange, a painting painstakingly crafted by my own hand. Thatâs not to say theyâre of a decent enough grade to be sold or have any real trade value, or even that theyâre any good, butââ You cut yourself off with a grimace, sensing impending word vomit. â⊠Please let me wash your hair.â
The moments of silence that fill the room after you finish speaking, though few, are enough to allow the heat youâve been fighting to flush across your face. Youâre not blushing, youâre not embarrassed-- youâre just going to manifest a face without any redness real quick. You donât even realise youâve closed your eyes until you dare to open them again, gaze quickly falling upon the archangel who has the future trajectory of your sanity currently resting in his hands.
He seems to be⊠considering. You hold your breath.
Youâre expecting a tilt of his head, the slightest nod, orâhell, you almost expect him to blink his answer in Morse code at this point. What you arenât expecting, however, is the voice that enters the air, raspy and rough from time spent without use.
âAlright. Deal.â
----
You think your heart stops in your chest for a second.
It takes a moment for it to sink in, that for the first time since heâs been here you actually heard the archangel speak. But when it does, you have no chance of fighting the stupid grin that spreads across your face.
âNot gonna lie,â you admit, trying not to focus too much on the fact he spoke lest he shut down again. âDidnât think that would work.â
Gabriel seems somewhat amused by that, if the glimmer that shifts through his eyes is anything to go by. He offers you a shrug that makes you huff out a laugh.
âWell,â you begin, shifting in the doorway. You suppose thereâs no need to block it off anymore. âWould you⊠like to come choose?â
Gabriel blinks, dark brows raising ever so slightly, and it occurs to you that you never specified whether you were exchanging a previously completed painting or taking a request. You hope he doesnât mind, and the moments he takes where he seems to consider make you oddly nervous. Itâs fine if he wants a new one, but it might take a while and youâre worried that he will want the painting before letting you tackle his hair.
Wordlessly, Gabriel unfolds his limbs and stands from the bed, and relief floods through you. Excellent. You already have all the things you need, so youâre going to waste no time and drag him into the bathroom or the infirmary the second he chooses a painting.
The looming promise of victory is so sweet you hardly have time to recall your earlier shyness until youâre leading Gabriel up to the door of your room, upon which point you promptly halt. Wincing, you turn back to him and drop your voice into a plea disguised as a conspiratorial whisper.
âPlease donât tell them I have this hobby,â you request quietly, surprised when his gaze tracks you without trembling. You also werenât expecting him to have followed behind you so closely either, and the proximity takes you slightly aback. âI donât care if Sam knows really, but I havenât considered how to respond when Dean decides to make fun of me for it and I may end up strangling him.â
The archangel simply looks at you for a beat, before one of his hands lifts slowly and moves in a zipping motion across his lips. You bite your own, trying not to snort, and turn back to your door. Time to rip the bandaid off, you suppose. Though, you could swear that Gabriel actually looks somewhat⊠well, not quite excited, but he definitely doesnât seem bored.
You enter your room, thanking the stars youâd had the presence of mind to clean it the other day, and move towards your closet. The hairs at the back of your neck tickle, and you feel the weight of his eyes on you with every step you take. Your movements slow as you open the doors and turn your gaze down to the canvases stacked neatly against each other, embarrassment beginning to creep upon you once more. Youâd like to think you donât care what he thinks, but apparently to a degree you do because you have to force your limbs to move and grab the completed paintings from where youâd separated them earlier.
What if he sees them and thinks theyâre not good enough to trade? You can probably pull something out of your ass and argue that art is subjective and beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but youâll definitely be offended. In your opinion, theyâre not too bad. If you were to sell them, theyâd definitely be worthâŠ. at least fifty dollars.
You eye Gabriel from over your shoulder, and catch him pretending to look around your room like you couldnât just feel his eyes drilling holes into you in curiosity. You clear your throat, feeling the need to add a disclaimer before you bring the paintings out.
âThese are⊠not that good. Please adjust your expectations.â You clear your throat again, tapping your foot and attempting to mentally banish all the embarrassment in your body right now. âHowever! You cannot go back on the deal just because they might be crappier than anticipated. I will attempt to wash your hair via spray bottle from across the room if I have to.â
His eyes had flown back to you the first time you cleared your throat, and now by the time youâve finished speaking there is an unmistakeable amused glint in the deep honey depths of them. His lips twitch and he appears to be suppressing their movement, which has to be somewhat painful considering the stitch wounds have hardly begun the process of healing. He wipes the expression of mirth off his face, schooling everything but his eyes, and solemnly lifts a hand to place it over his chest.
Okay, heâs funny. Youâre being serious though, so you turn away before he can see you smile.
You bring out the paintings, taking a second to gauge his face before presenting them one by one on your made bed. There are four of them, three canvasses around the same size of 40cmx60cm, and one 20cmx20cm square canvas on board. Gabriels eyes fly to them eagerly, and he actually approaches even closer to get a better look. None of the four are particular favourites of yours, if youâre being honest. Theyâre the only ones you would deem âcompleteâ, though.
He begins inspecting the one furthest to his left, one of the bigger canvases. Theyâre all done in acrylic, and you remember how annoying this one was because it was hot and the paints kept drying before you could blend them more. Itâs one of the few times youâve attempted a landscape, and in your opinion you managed to get it pretty accurate. It was a pretty scene just outside one of the more rural places you stopped by on a hunt, and its palette is a collection of autumn warmth and the cool greys of distant mountains.
He takes his time surveying it before moving his gaze to the second one. This one is another landscape, but actually from a place you remember fondly from before you were brought here. You find yourself wishing often to see it again, and even though the image youâve achieved is a somewhat accurate recreation of a picture you took years ago, it still feels like a far enough cry from the real thing that you donât find yourself too attached to it. The colours you mixed are nice, though. Deep vibrant greens, some blues and brightly coloured foliage. The reflections on the water gave you a hard time when you were attempting them, but they came out alright in the end. You would have been up shitâs creek without a reference picture, though.
Your eyes move to the third image before Gabrielâs do. Itâs of a cat, and not at all your best work. You recall being too sad while painting your old pet to really care much for accuracy. Big Tubs, as youâd fondly the kitten who demonstrated incredible appetite, is captured on the canvas in a truly stupid pose that has left the end product bordering on abstract. Youâre still unsure how he managed to stretch that way, but have always chalked it down to the pale orange coat he was born with and seemed to wear with pride. As far as ginger cats go though, he wasnât all that crazy. Just had a bit of attitude on the occasion you were more than two minutes late with his dinner, thatâs all.
He also really loved smelling peoplesâ shoes, but thatâs neither here nor there.
The fourth canvas, the square one, is a âportraitâ you did of some girl sitting in the park that youâd seen one day. She was in the distance then, and is hardly identifiable amongst the brushstrokes now as a result, but youâd ended up painting her because she was wearing the most vibrant outfit and had bright cyan hair. In the morning light and against the backdrop of a clear sky and autumn leaves, as youâd seen her, it made for a very pretty picture. Again, though, itâs probably not your best work.
Any paintings youâre truly proud of are probably still at your old home, collecting dust for the foreseeable future.
You bite your lip to tamp down the brief wash of sadness that tried to surge over you at the reminder, and also the unbearable urge to apologise to the Archangel viewing your creations for their lacking quality.
âThese are the only ones I have completed,â you find yourself saying instead, after he has looked at all of the paintings and taken them in. His honey eyes flick up at you when you speak, and follow the motion of your hand as you jerk your thumb back at the still open closet. âNone of those are done, just in varying states of mess.â
Gabrielâs head tilts, and it takes you a second to recognise that his gaze has locked on something in the closet. You figure he is simply sating his curiosity, but when his eyes remain cemented a few beats later you recall with a certain amount of dread what youâve got in there that was right behind all these completed canvases.
His eyes break away for a moment to look at you, before he is returning them to the painting you are dreading any inquiries about.
âReally not worth a look,â you say, tacking on a half-hearted laugh as you feel your face grow warm. âIn factâ oh, waitââ
But itâs too late. Your attempts to throw him off the scent are unsuccessful, and you allow your eyes to close in brief resignation as the angel moves over to the closet for a closer look.
Truly, your stupidity knows no bounds. You should have tucked that painting away first thing, knowing exactly who was going to be coming in here. You only have yourself to blame for the embarrassment youâre about to endure.
There is a brief sound of wooden items knocking against each other, and you force yourself to open your eyes and face the music. All you can see is his back and the grimy locks at the back of his head for a moment as he reaches in, before treading backwards with his prize in hand.
Gabrielâs eyes are bright as he turns, flicking them from the canvas in his hand to your face. Does he want an explanation? You canât give it, because you will burst into humiliated flames if you do.
âUm, that oneâŠâ You make a noise in your throat. âJust some half-baked thing I tried to pull off while drunk one time. As you can see, I was not very successful.â
Gabriel squints at you ever so slightly, one eyebrow raising a bit, and you huff. How did he manage to fit so much attitude into one micro-expression? Perhaps he can teach you. Youâre sure that look is one that would get under Deanâs skin with ease.
Unfortunately for him, you wonât be elaborating, nor will you be providing a more truthful explanation.
You reach for the painting suddenly, and he moves it away from you. You stare at him, mouth agape. Excuse him?
He didnât even look away from it when he moved, reminding you of how youâd first seen him, with his preternatural grace and speed. Which is kind of ironic, considering that first time youâd met him was what had inspired the unfinished painting in his hands.
Well, drunk-you had considered it finished (you werenât lying about the inebriation part), but your sober self is all too aware of the many flaws it has. The canvas is covered in swatches of gold, orange, and blue. In some parts there is a bit of a multi-colour gradient going on, like the rainbows you often see in lens flare. The brushstrokes are all pretty haphazard, and you recall slapping paint across the canvas based on vibes more than anything else. At the time, drunk-you had been convinced you reached a flow-state and created your magnum opus.
Sober-you had endured a rude awakening when she saw it the next morning, expecting a masterpiece. You havenât touched it since, but you donât display it. Itâs much⊠sloppier than your usual finished products. Itâs easier just to call it unfinished.
To your credit, the image is not at all similar to how Gabriel looksâ or rather, how his vessel looks. What you were actually trying to recreate is the phantom image that burned across your eyelids the first time you saw him, but that disappeared immediately the second you blinked. Youâre sure it was a trick of the light and your brain going to town with it, but it had lit the fire of inspiration under your ass like nothing before. Youâd been unable to stop thinking about it until the next time you were alone and near your paints, several drinks in.
The whole thing was an attempt to play with light and refractions, because that is the closest way you can describe the image you swore you saw. Regrettably, despite how youâd felt about it while drunk, the final product doesnât even resemble a human figure let alone the crazy outline of light youâd recalled.
However, Gabriel canât seem to stop looking at it. Maybe itâs the colours? Theyâre definitely a lot more vibrant and boldly employed than the others on the bed. There is truly no way he would be able to tell it was a painting even remotely inspired by him. Probably. Suddenly paranoid about any ability he might have to read thoughts, you banish them from your head. Life would be so much easier if you didnât have to think.
âItâs beautiful,â Gabriel says, surprising you so badly with his low rasp that you just about jump from the fright. He is tracing over brushstrokes with a finger, following each line with his eyes and appearing quite engaged. It has actually been a while since youâve seen him this grounded. It makes you happy enough to forget about the embarrassment currently running amok inside you momentarily.
â...Thank you,â you manage to say, reaching over to wipe a hand gently over the surface of the canvas. He allows it, seeming to sense youâre not trying to make another grab for it. Itâs too late now, anyway. Heâs already had a good gander. âSorry itâs dusty. Itâs been sitting in there for around a year.â
His shoulder lifts briefly, as though to tell you he doesnât particularly mind. After a while longer of drinking in the image that truthfully is haunting your every thought right now, seemingly oblivious to your suffering, he nods.
âThis will do,â he says, patting the frame softly. He turns his face to you, and you struggle to discern the expression on his face. Itâs not one you can say youâve seen on it before. âA deal is a deal.â
Despite your excitement at the prospect of finally getting your hands into his hair, you canât help but voice your thoughts. âAre you sure? The others are a lot more complete. That one is, well⊠like that.â
The vague gesture of your hand and lack of confidence in the painting does nothing to deter him, and he simply nods, before turning on his heel and starting towards the door. He isnât doing his usual slink right now, you notice distantly, but he is definitely doing the same shuffle youâve seen him do once before. Oddly enough, you are reminded briefly of a waddling penguin.
You decide to banish that image and follow after him, trying to think of literally anything else all the way back to his room.
-----------
When you eventually make it into the bathroom closest to your two rooms, having dropped by his room and watched him carefully display the painting on his dresser already, Gabriel halts in the doorway and raises an eyebrow at you after glimpsing inside.
You know why. A sheepish grin crosses your face as you move over to the sink, where there is a chair with its back to the basin, and a box of essentials just for this occasion on a stool beside it.
âI wonât apologise for being prepared,â you say simply. You extend your hand towards the basin with a flourish. âPlease, after you.â
Perhaps the old Gabriel you knew might have rolled his eyes or had something to say about that, but the archangel currently in front of you simply shakes his head slightly before crossing the threshold and moving towards the chair.
âWelcome to my salon,â you say, beginning to prattle on as you wait for him to seat himself before draping a towel over his shoulders and pinching it together with a massive bulldog clip youâd found in the study. âUnfortunately I donât offer refunds, and we donât have a complaints department. But I do have an eighty-percent satisfaction rate amongst my clients, so you have nothing to fear dear customer!â
He tilts his head back, greasy curls flopping into the basin, and gives you a look that clearly directs the question written all over his face.
âMy cat,â you offer in explanation, beginning to unpack the box of goods. âCanât say he was a big fan of the washing segment.â
Gabriel blinks, before his gaze is turned elsewhere. Itâs fine though, youâre pretty sure you caught the phantom smirk that tried to twitch his lips up in response to your words.
You comment further about your catâs ire with spa day, before pausing as you pulled out a shampoo bottle and a sudden thought occurs to you.
âDo I need to worry about any allergies or sensitivities your vessel might have?â you ask. Gabriel seems to think about it for a moment before shaking his head minutely. You let out a sigh of relief. âOkay, good, because I got this shampoo and conditioner that smell super nice, and didnât think to plan for any alternatives.â
He says nothing, but his eyebrows twitch as he allows his eyes to slip closed. You bring a folded towel to the edge of the basin under his neck for comfort, and guide his head back with gentle prompting until he is in the best position for the job. After checking he is comfortable, you turn on the taps so warm water begins streaming out, and begin the process of rinsing his tawny curls of who-knows-how-many years of dried blood, grime and general muck.
The water swirling down the drain immediately turns thick, murky brown, a reddish hue washing through it every so often.
âHoly shit,â you utter before you can manage to stop yourself. âGabriel, your head is going to feel like five kilos lighter after this, I swear.â
He makes a soft, almost indiscernible noise in response, and you note upon your next glance the tense way he seems to be holding his shoulders. His hands are gripping the mottled fabric of his âshirtâ (and you say that loosely, because truthfully youâre not entirely sure what is holding the fabric together at this rate) tightly, knuckles white.
After a beat and one accidental knock of your hand against the faucet that resulted in a curse, you begin to hum softly so there isnât quite such an oppressive silence while you work.
You should have brought in a speaker or something. That really would have made the salon experience.
âLet me know if the water is too cold or too hot, please.â
The words are followed by a small jug of water being tipped over the rest of his scalp, your aim careful so it doesnât splash all over his face. Gabriel tenses up a bit more, ever so slightly, until you dispense shampoo onto your hand and begin to scrub it gently into the roots of his hair.
The second your nails drag slightly against his scalp, the tension washes out of him in one go and he relaxes completely in the chair.
The reaction is a little funny, but if you pause to laugh you will forget your place in the tune youâre humming, so you dutifully power on. The world has known no greater sacrifice than yours, truly.
Even before the shampoo, the water wasnât quite running clear yet. Now, youâre having to dispense even more into your hand than anticipated to combat the grease and grime that seems to be endlessly eating it up. The suds quickly turn from white to brown and ochre, and you do your best to be thorough without making it painful or uncomfortable for the angel in your chair.
âI got told once that itâs best practice to shampoo twice, to ensure your hair is clean,â you mutter aloud, fully aware youâre mostly talking to yourself at this point. âI think we might actually have to go thrice for you, though.â
A glance down at the archangel reveals features that are completely slack and free of tension, his lips slightly parted and eyes securely closed so that long, dark lashes brush his cheeks. His hands have also relaxed in their grip of his clothes, you note. You take it as a sign youâre doing something right.
Contrary to your estimate of three shampoos, you actually end up doing four. Though while the first three focused on the roots, you did the last one to ensure the entire length of his hair is free of grime. You are rewarded by a lovely shine on the wet strands once rinsing off the suds, and you end up making a happy noise at the sight. Truly, this is so satisfying. Youâre so glad you offered that trade, even if it resulted in you being unbearably embarrassed.
Before you move on to conditioning, you decide to massage the remaining shampoo against his scalp a little longer. It seems to relax him, for one, but youâre also taking the opportunity to gently feel across his scalp for any hidden injuries while you do so. The amount of red that has washed out of his hair until now truthfully concerns you a bit, so you want to be sure there isnât a random cut or laceration in there that is responsible.
Your investigation reveals nothing but a clean scalp, however, and you fight a sigh of relief as you reduce the flow of water and reach for the conditioner. If he were any other human being, youâd probably have to use a hair mask to try and restore any damage done to the strands, but miraculously under all the layers of dirt, oil and grot, his hair is pretty healthy still. Even while wet, the locks are attempting to curl at the ends, keeping their original curl pattern.
You resume humming, some random pop song this time, as you work the conditioner through the ends and mid-lengths of his hair. Grabbing a comb, you use it to brush the conditioner more thoroughly through the hair, and ensure no knots. You want to let it sit for a bit before washing it out, and your eyes flit to the archangels serene face while you ponder what to do in the time until then.
Coming to a decision, you reach into your box of goodies and retrieve a washcloth. You run it under the water, before squeezing out the excess water.
âIâm going to wipe your face clean, Gabriel,â you advise, giving him some notice before something wet is touching his face. He doesnât say anything, but the slight twitch of his finger lets you know heâs heard you. âThank you for your understanding, customer.â
Gently, you use the cloth to wipe off the bits of dirt, blood and grime on his face that you werenât able to get while removing his stitches previously. It is incredibly satisfying to see his skin come up clear in the wake of each soft swipe of the cloth. It doesnât take long for the handsome features you recall to be fully revealed once more, free of any soiling or dirt.
âNice,â you say once done, appreciating the results of your work. âRight, Iâll rinse the conditioner out now.â
Your angelic client is silent and undisturbed while you follow through on your words, rinsing his strands thoroughly. They looked clean before, but now they feel silky soft as you run your fingers through. Perhaps you should throw in the towel on your hunting career and begin pursuing your true calling in hairdressing. Surely talent with a knife and machete would translate well into handling other sharp objects, like scissors.
Youâre done with this part of the process, and so turn off the faucet completely. Using gentle hands, you squeeze out the remaining water from his hair before reaching for a towel and using that to get the rest of it. When itâs nothing more than damp, you place a gentle, guiding hand on Gabrielâs shoulder and instruct him to sit up.
Surprisingly, he does so immediately, if a bit sluggishly. You had half expected him to have fallen asleep, the way he was in the chair just now. You hardly even catch a glimpse of his face before he is turning it away, but you swear there is a glisten to his eyes that wasnât there before. You avert your gaze to give him privacy and hope desperately you have not hurt or upset him.
Truthfully though, heâd most definitely have fled the room by now if you truly had.
You idly squeeze the ends of his hair with the towel before dropping it into the basin to grab the hair oil youâd prepared in addition to the standard steps. You pump some into your palm before rubbing both hands together, and then putting it through the ends and mid-lengths of his hair. The smell of argan oil tickles your senses pleasantly, another note you canât quite put a name to entwining with it to create a very satisfying scent.
âThoughts on a hair dryer for drying this hair, dear client?â you ask, playing with the ends for something to do while you await Gabriels response.
It takes him a second, and he doesnât turn to face you, but eventually dips his head in a soft nod.
You tap your fingers gently on his shoulder in acknoweldgement, before grabbing the device in question and setting up accordingly. To his credit he doesnât even flinch when it turns on, and sit stock still while you work to dry his hair, though without the tension riddling his body like it was before.
It doesnât take you long at all to finish drying his hair, and the end result has you surprisingly stunned. Light and bouncy, and now incredibly shiny, his hair truly feels like silk as you run your fingers through the curls to assess their dryness one last time.
âI impress even myself,â you say, gaze transfixed on the mesmerising gleam of the strands in the bathroom lights. âDear customer, you are all done. No need for tips, your satisfaction is enough.â
Gabriel turns his head, giving you an unreadable look over his shoulder, before rising slowly in a manner that it takes you a second to recognise as hesitance. He shifts to face the mirror, tense, but upon seeing his reflection, he releases the tension in his limbs. His honey hued eyes whip over every part of his appearance, a hand lifting to sift through the strands atop his head. He appears somewhat shocked, if anything.
âI know, right?â You beam at him in the reflection. âProbably feels way better, too. You have no idea the amount of stuff I washed off that pretty head of yours.â
He huffs, meeting your gaze in the mirror. For a second, he doesnât say anything, and his brows draw together in yet another expression youâre unable to decipher.
â⊠Thank you,â he rasps, blinking rapidly. The line of his shoulders softens, and you find yourself squashing down a sudden wave of emotion. Stupid, overactive empathy!
âNo, thank you,â you say, placing a hand to your chest. Itâs partially a jest to offset some of the weight behind his words, but also youâre sincerely thankful he let you do this for him. âI would say I am simply happy to help, but truthfully it was bothering me. Like, a lot. So, no need to thank me. I did this out of selfish reasons.â
His face softens, and he lets out another huff. He seems like he is contemplating speaking once more, but something catches his attention before he can form the words. You follow his gaze, letting out a sheepish laugh at the sight of the water splashed absolutely everywhere on the floor around the basin. Your shirt also happens to be drenched. The sink was a lot shallower than anticipated, and the water flow a lot stronger. Itâs truly an achievement that you managed to avoid getting any of the splash-back on him.
âYou wouldnât happen to be feeling generous enough to help little olâ me clean this up, would you?â
please feed me validation, it truly works wonders <3
pairing: gabriel x reader
genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs)
wc: 5.2k
rating: sfw
warnings: none really
notes: i actually wrote and posted this on ao3 last year and forgot to upload here. whoopsies!
You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. Itâs something youâre destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point youâd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes youâre suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason youâd been brought here in the first place? Maybe⊠Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.
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âCastiel,â you warn, âIf you play that card right now, Iâm going to remember it for the rest of my life. I like you, but this is something I cannot forgive.âÂ
The angel in question pauses, baby-blues sliding in your direction with a squint, as though wondering how you knew what he was going to play. Normally you shouldnât, but Castiel still hasnât quite gotten the hang of hiding his hand from opponents on both sides. You do feel a little bit like youâre stealing candy from a baby, but heâs about to hit you with a +2 card that you currently canât counter, so youâre a little less forgiving than usual. No one ever tells you how difficult it is to be winning at Uno.Â
âSore loser,â Dean mutters under his breath. He tries to hide his comment when you spin your glare on him by taking a big, long swig of beer. You donât want to hear jack-shit from the man who refused to play because he gets too into it every time.Â
âBetter than being a sore winner,â you retort, struggling to keep your attention on both Dean and Castiel. Youâre not saying Dean is right, but you will definitely feel some kind of way if Castiel plays that card, considering you only have one left in your hand. This game has been going on for what feels like ten years, with each of you taking turns almost winning but being thwarted at the last second. Youâre ready for it to end, but preferably with you in first place.Â
Castiel adjusts in his seat, capturing your attention, and sighs in a way that fills you with dread.Â
âNo,â you plead, resignation already bleeding into your tone.Â
âIâm sorry,â he says, gravelly timbre somehow apologetic and yet lacking remorse at the same time. His eyes settle on your face, lips pressing together in a loose twist. âBut you told me before, there was no... reneging... allowed. Also, you hit me with a âplus fourâ earlier, so really... compared to that, I feel this is a lesser crime.âÂ
âNo, Cas, waitâ NO!âÂ
The card is placed, and your fate sealed â  for the next few minutes anyway. You slide down in your seat with a noise that settles somewhere between a groan and a sob, slapping the card in your hand against your face in an attempt to hide your misery. Jack reaches a consoling hand out to pat your shoulder, but you donât miss him dutifully picking up your two cards from the pile in the centre of the table and helpfully delivering them in front of you with the other one. Heâs so endearing about it, you canât even be mad.Â
The angel who just cock-blocked your victory looks almost pleased with himself, and with a sigh you straighten in your seat and pick up the two cards, adding them to your hand while Jack has his turn. Castiel has finally gotten the hang of the game and seems to be enjoying it to a degree, so you suppose you can forgive him this once. It could have been worse, anyway; he could have added that plus two onto a pre-existing stack of them.Â
Dean is snickering into his beer over in the corner, and you shoot daggers his way in between watching people play their cards. This was meant to be a chill, relaxing night, free of stress and strain. You should have bullied Dean into playing so you had someone to take these frustrations out on-- Sam is seated across from you and hence currently impervious to any harm played by your hand.Â
You need to annoy at least one Winchester per day to maintain your sanity (and your streak), but they havenât made it easy for you today.Â
The two of them had only just come back earlier in the day from what had to have been the quickest salt-and-burn youâve ever witnessed them execute, and youâve hardly had any time to really push them to the brink. Though, to be fair, most of your time has been spent coercing Jack to the âdark sideâ (read: introducing him to the simple pleasures of how to rustle the feathers of Sam and Dean Winchester), and keeping an eye on Gabriel. Which, wellâŠÂ
Gabriel has spent most of his time tucked away in his current safe haven, that being the room he was provided upon arriving. Youâre unsure if the scribbles are still on the walls, but have been putting off finding out if only because youâre not sure how to feel about it if they are. Youâve just been peeking at him quickly when he is in there, and making sure he is alright the times he does venture out. An unidentifiable cocktail of emotions stirs in your stomach at the thought of the archangel.Â
Gabrielâs progress, if you can call it that, has been... minimal. While it seems like he is taking small steps forward in some areas, often it feels as though the steps taken back in others completely neutralises any success achieved. As youâve quickly realised, the more people are in the bunker, the more chances there are for loud noises and surprises.  There have been a few unfortunate happenstances that seem to have spooked your resident trickster into a prolonged period of caution.Â
Youâre still doing your best to extend your hand, so to speak.Â
Every night, you leave a sweet little treat in front of his door. Each morning, on your way towards the kitchens, you get to witness what funky little origami he has made out of the wrappers in return. Itâs a nice little exchange, but you appreciate it most for the reassurance it offers that he hasnât regressed.Â
The times that he braves the world outside of his room, you attempt to offer comfort by being in the general proximity while still affording him more than enough of his own space. As far as you can tell, youâre pretty successful â Gabriel doesnât seem any more worked up or shaken when youâre around. Actually, once or twice you could have sworn he relaxed a fraction.Â
You feel as though that could just be wishful thinking on your part, though.Â
Youâre torn from your reflection by Castiel once again committing a personal sleight against you, and reversing the direction of play before you can place your second last card and declare âUnoâ. Your mouth drops open, stunned into silence that he would do that to you so soon after the last one. For some reason, you thought his general amiability and kindness would translate into the gameâ otherwise you wouldnât have sat next to him. You will need to deeply reconsider your seating plans for the next round.Â
Your face must be a sight, because Dean is cackling â  the sound makes Castiel seem reassured that heâd made the right play, if not ever-so-slightly pleased with himself. Youâre going to write him out of your will.  Dean tooâyouâll need to add him back in before you can write him out again, though.Â
âHow am I not meant to take this personally?â you ask, smacking your two cards face down onto the table. âCastiel, I thought we were friends.âÂ
The seraph in question snortsâ snorts!â and taps his fingers thoughtfully against the back of his own cards. He only has two left, you notice, as he turns his eyes to you once more.Â
âItâs not personal,â he says simply, the corner of his lips twitching. âBut I thought it would be better if the person following me didnât know what cards I had.âÂ
Your mouth drops open again, this time in indignance. Sam snickers as he places a card onto the pile, âOh, he caught you cheating.âÂ
Jackâs massive, dewy blue eyes swing your way â and you panic at the wide-eyed look of betrayal in them. Heâs aghast as he speaks, âYou cheated?âÂ
âIt is not cheating if I wasnât trying to look!â Your finger whips up in Castielâs direction. âHe was basically flashing them at me! It was like he wanted me to see!âÂ
Castiel raises an eyebrow at you, amused. âObviously that would be a stupid move and a terrible strategy considering this isnât a team-based game.âÂ
âYou should have averted your gaze,â Sam says, shaking his head at you. Heâs grinning, real chuffed. Of course heâd be an opportunistic bastard and jump on this train right now. âShameful. Is this the kind of thing you want to be role-modelling to Jack?âÂ
You sputter, straightening in your chair. Theyâve got you by the balls right now, truly. You decide to try a different avenue of defence.  âI will not apologise for having eyes!âÂ
Something shifts in the air, then. Something that tickles through the fine hairs along the skin of your neck and spine like a cool, thin breeze, that is immediately followed by a peculiar warmth that spreads over the expanse of your back. Ah, it seems your other, more reclusive housemate has wondered out for a taste of the discord.Â
You catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, a vague Gabriel-shaped silhouette settling in a recliner in the corner of the room, by the entrance. No one else seems to have picked up on his presence, though that might be for the best. You think itâs good when he gets some âsocial timeâ, so to speak, and you donât want him to get spooked and retreat again.Â
Back to the topic at hand, you should probably just let it go and stay chill. Keep it calm for the easily-spooked angel in the corner. You are more than capable of being the bigger person here.Â
Jack turns in his seat to face you more, lips pursing. As he does so, you witness Sam taking a surreptitious peek at the hand that is unwittingly revealed to him by the movement. Your eyes shoot wide, but Jack says your name before you can highlight the double standards at play right now.Â
âIf you peek at my cards, Iâm going to have to take drastic measures.â Jack turns back after giving you a smile, apparently satisfied that youâll play with an honest heart now, and once more Sam snags a look at his hand. Indignance rises in you like a king tide. Sam catches your eyes and smirks.Â
âAre you kidding?!â The squawk erupts from you before you can tamp it down, unable to hold it in despite your earlier resolution to keep cool. Your finger is now pointed at Sam with a speed that you can only attrib ute to muscle memory. âThatâs unfair, he just--! I need to calm down.âÂ
The abrupt turn of your speech and mood makes Dean sputter into a cackle in the corner of the room, and his brother isnât much better where he sits, shaking, across from you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. âEverything is fine. This is just a game. Iâm an adult.âÂ
The two players with celestial heritage share a look of confusion, though Castiel seems to at least be aware of what occurred. He waits a few seconds before voicing his observations, though, the moments filled with Samuelâs almost-silent chortles.  Â
âThere is more than one Judas among us, it seems,â Castiel says sombrely, in response to the question on Jackâs face, while tilting his head down. His eyes flit pointedly to Sam, and Jackâs head whips around at the speed of light with an accusatory gasp, his cards shielded away.Â
âSam!âÂ
Samâs a few beers in by this point in the evening, and hence now unable to control his borderline giggling.Â
As the bickering continues, you tune back in to your senses and the odd sensation that you feel across your back now that the resident archangel is in the room also.Â
Something odd is going on with you these days, and it is taking all of your willpower to keep it under the proverbial rug in your noggin, and away from the critical eye of your overthinking tendencies. Some days, about 30% of your brain power is dedicated to that mental broom, always sweeping, always keeping it out of sight. You understand this makes you sound a little crazy, and youâre not about to object. Itâs hard work, having as many loose screws as you do. It would probably be easier if it was all of them instead of just a reasonable few; you suppose you wouldnât have anything to lose if all of your screws were shaking about the confines of your skull already.Â
You digress â the elephant in your brain, so to speak, is simple. Or, well, you are currently willing it to be.Â
You suspect youâve suddenly gained the ability to tell when Gabriel is nearby.Â
At first, you thought you were going crazy. You would notice feeling a little different, a shift in sensation in your muscles. Then when you would look, lo and behold Heavenâs most mischievous archangel would be somewhere in the vicinity. This, you could explain away, though. You just so happened to turn your head the second heâd enter a room a few times. Nothing unusual there.Â
It kind of evolved from there though. It progressed to a the feeling you get when someone is looking at you, except a little bit different. You can only describe it as an acute awareness, like youâve got sensors on the back of your head that are specifically tuned to candy-snacking Archangels. If Gabriel were to leave the room while your back was turned and your eyes were on a clock, youâd be able to tell someone when he left down to the second.Â
⊠It is getting harder and harder not to feel like a creep.Â
Back at the table, the card game hasnât progressed further, and so while you wait for Jack to finish scolding a snickering Sam, you decide to turn your head slightly and catch a peek.Â
You nearly suffer a heart attack, because a certain pair of honey-hued eyes are already looking your way. Trying desperately to act normal and play it off, you offer Gabriel a small, conspiratorial smile, before turning back to the table.Â
Ultimately, Castiel wins Uno. By that point youâve been edged by victory so many times that you no longer want it that badly, and it doesnât pain you too greatly to let the angel win. Jack is beaming, pleased his dad got the hang of the game and came out on top. Sam has begun bickering with his brother about something petty. All in all, there is still a fair amount of chaos going on, and you feel pleased with yourself that the bunker is so lively right now.Â
The archangel in the corner lingers amongst the inhabitants a little longer than usual. You canât help but feel optimistic.Â
------Â
You like to think that youâre a nice chill person. Not many things bother you, or manage to ruffle your feathers. Youâre a strong believer in leaving well enough alone and not sticking your nose into other peopleâs business if you can help it (Winchesters not included, obviously; you need a hit of dopamine from somewhere after all).Â
The state of Gabrielâs hair, however, has truly begun testing your limits.Â
Youâre torn, really. You want to leave him be as much as possible, let him take steps on his own terms, but looking at the way the caramel-hued locks have begun to clump and matte even more than they already were, a far cry from the silky looking curls they used to be, has begun to make your skin crawl a little bit. Perhaps you can blame overactive empathy, because you can imagine all too well how gross he must be feeling in general (assuming he has the presence of mind these days to be bothered by it. Or maybe itâs just your brain deciding to be a little more neurotic than usual.Â
Either way, something has got to give, and you have your fingers and toes crossed that it will be Gabrielâs hair, in a washbasin, with shampoo and conditioner and, if youâre feeling particularly generous, maybe even some hair oil. With the state itâs in currently, it could do with some pampering to be honest.Â
You know that the archangel can technically fix it with a snap of his fingers if he so wishes, perhaps once he gets some of his âangel mojoâ back, but still. He (and also, you) still have to deal with it in the meantime.Â
Your first attempt to broach the subject sends Gabriel scuttling awayâthough to be fair, youâre blaming Sam and his great big stompers for that one. Your second attempt takes the form of a soft suggestion voiced from the other side of Gabrielâs door, at the much safer and quieter hour of midnight.Â
You donât get a response in the moment, but the next morning the wrappers from yesterdayâs daily sweets you delivered to him have been shaped into a small frowning face. You feel as though if he has the energy and presence of mind to be cheeky with his rubbish, then perhaps you just need to wait and wheedle him down a little bit by bit.Â
Two days later, youâre realising you might have approached this the wrong way, because now youâre pretty sure that Gabriel just finds your thwarted attempts funny. You fear it has turned into a game for him.  Admittedly, youâre not used to being on this end of the stick.Â
Honestly, youâre beginning to feel as though youâre attempting to herd a cat.Â
âIâll wear him down,â you swear aloud, watching Gabriel slink through the kitchen and back into the halls like a ghost whose unfinished business is all untried candy in the realm. âI can feel myself getting closer. SoonâŠ. Soon I will know peace.âÂ
Mary raises an eyebrow at you, but her son isnât anywhere as shy about asking for clarity. Dean shoves a spoon of apple pie into his mouth and proceeds to talk around itâpresumably because itâs one of the few things he knows grinds on your nerves.Â
âWhat the fuck are you talking about?â he manages to ask in between chews.Â
Mary doesnât even spare him a glance for languageâyou think sheâs given up these days.Â
âGabriel.â Your fingers tap across the metal bench top in a rapid beat. âIâm trying to get him to wash his hairâor rather, trying to get him to let me wash his hair.âÂ
Dean snorts. âHow noble of you. Itâs so sweet of you to do that simply out of the goodness of your heart, with no ulterior motives or anything. Remind me to nominate you for sainthood.âÂ
âI, too, have my limits as a human being, Dean.â You sigh, like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. You decide to file his sleight away for later, and respond without sass. âThe grimeâŠ. Itâs getting to me. He canât be completely comfortable like that.âÂ
Mary hums, seeming to agree with you. She, too, has a plate of pie, but she has apparently decided to savour it, rather than devour it at the speed of light. You have to appreciate that, when the alternative is right there in front of you with pastry crumbs clinging to his five oâclock shadow.Â
âI think it would definitely help him feel even a little bit better,â she voices, twirling her fork in though. An amused gleam enters her gaze as it falls back upon you. âThough, it seems as though itâs not the easiest task in practice.âÂ
âItâd be easier if I could get him alone to talk to him without one of your sons spooking him by stomping down the halls with their big-ass feet,â you grumble, letting out a huff. Dean releases an offended noise, but you canât take him seriously when he has to spend a few extra seconds chewing his latest mouthful before he can retort defensively.Â
âMy feet are a normal size, thank you. Any bigfoot activity in the bunker is not on me.âÂ
Youâre tempted to be a bastard and make the hand yapping motion just to rile him up, but decide against it when you assess you donât have the will to follow-up on the resulting argument. Heâs safe⊠for now.Â
âAnyway, like I was sayingâŠâ Ignoring Dean ends up being funnier anywayâyou settle all your attention on Mary. âI can feel Iâm wearing him down. One of these days, Iâll get him to agree.âÂ
âI think youâll just have to offer him something equally or more valuable than the entertainment of having your attempts thwarted,â Mary says simply, and something clicks for you.Â
âOh Mary, I love you and your huge wrinkly brain!â You push away from the bench, grinning. A renewed energy thrums through your limbs. âEnjoy your pie!âÂ
And then youâre dashing out of the kitchen yourself, making a beeline straight for your room.Â
You have figured out how to persuade the grubby archangel into letting you wash his hair.Â
As a being familiar with Earthly pleasures as he is, you should have considered by now that the best way to get what you want (which also benefits him, by the way, and is not an inherently selfish desire despite what Dean says), is to offer a trade. Youâre filled with excitement at the sudden glimpse of victory on the horizon. Upon entering your room, you fling yourself on the bed, grinning all the while.Â
The only thing you need to figure out is what exactly will be valuable enough to him that he will be persuaded to let you have at his hair in exchange.Â
Candy and sweets are off the tableâyou know that he enjoys them, but youâve already been giving them to him for free out of the goodness of your heart, so theyâre not exactly much of a bargaining chip or a limited resource, especially considering your own sweet tooth.Â
(Also he could technically get his hands on whatever treat he wanted in a split second anyway, and youâre just a girl. You need to aim for something that is a little more manageable, considering your mortal limitations.)Â
This has you really thinking, sprawled on your bed like a discarded crash test dummy while all four of your brain cells are firing. Having half a plan is fine, but youâre kind of fucked if you donât have anything to offer Gabriel considering the whole concept hinges on having some sort of leverage to exchange. Itâs been a while since youâve had to brainstorm this hard.Â
A promise to bully Dean? No, youâd do that for free, if for nothing else but the sheer joy of it. It just so happens that itâs a hobby and passion you share with Gabriel. A home-cooked meal? You consider that one for a moment before ultimately trashing the idea; you can cook but youâre not confident enough in your skills to offer up a dish to one of Godâs most beloved angels. Also, besides sweets youâre not sure if he even eats any other human foods. Itâs not like he needs it to survive.Â
The more you consider your options, the more you feel your excitement from earlier fading. Realistically, you donât actually have much to offer him. Your lifestyle doesnât lend itself to having many possessions, and youâre a Jack of few trades, rather than all. Youâre rapidly running out of ideas on what exactly you can trade for the simple, yet so far unattainable pleasure of washing his hair until it shines.Â
When desperation has you in its clutches roughly five minutes later, youâre quick to pick up your phone. Reception is dogshit in the bunker, but thankfully youâre able to access wifi through some bizarre setup Sam established not long after they settled here. Youâre not one to look a gift horse in the mouth if you can help it (not much a fan of horses at all, if youâre being honest), and so force the thoughts on how exactly he managed it from your mind as you access the internet.Â
There is no better source than the Archangel Gabriel himself on his preferences, but his unspoken vow of silence means you have to resort to less honourable methods of research. Google is not particularly kind, and you find yourself getting frustrated at some of the artificially gathered tidbits before you dive into the pages themselves. Theyâre all kind of generic, and end up saying the same thing in not so many words, so you end up seeking out Duck Duck Go to see if it can turn up anything that is actually worthwhile. Let it be known that youâre resourceful, if nothing else.Â
You have better luck with that search engine, thankfully. You transition through about five different positions on your bed while you read, and by the time you finish an hour and a half later you sit up and can feel how insane your hair and clothes look currently. Itâs like your entire body went through a dry cycle in a shitty vented machine. It doesnât matter, thoughâthe excitement from earlier has returned, and the taste of victory is at the tip of your tongue.Â
What youâve landed on is a bit of a long shot, and even as you resolve yourself to commit to it, you have to fight away doubts.  What other options do you have? The promise of petty psychological warfare and tormenting the two brothers that are currently offering you sanctuary? Even you arenât that unhinged. Besides, the last website you scoured was pretty promising, and as much as your brain might be having doubts, your gut is saying that itâs well worth a shot.Â
You stand abruptly, fighting dizziness at the sudden shift in orientation before you overcome it and move towards your closet. You yank the doors open, peering inside with a critical eye. The bargaining chips in question sit leaning against the wall in the right corner, unassuming and, if youâre being honest, untouched for the last few years. A few of them are unfinished, but more than enough are in a satisfactory state of completion that you can proceed with a degree of confidence. Mortification attempts to creep up your spine at the thought of what youâre going to do, but you bat it away and force yourself to abandon any shame.Â
Youâre pretty sure even Sam and Dean donât know you have this hobby, but the idea that your creations are doomed to sit untouched and unacknowledged in your closet for the rest of time is a little sad, if youâre being honest. Realistically, offering one as a sacrifice is a better option than leaving them to rot. Perhaps Gabriel will appreciate it to a degree, like that website indicated. You can only hope-- it might be embarrassing for you, otherwise.Â
You spend more time than youâd like to admit perusing through the options, and deciding which ones you wanted to include on offer. By the time youâre done, itâs close to midnight again, and you decide to ride the wave of motivation while you have it and depart into the dim hallways of the bunker to make your way to Gabrielâs room.Â
The door is slightly ajar, you notice once youâre within sight, and it fills you with optimism as youâve come to interpret it as an invitation of sorts. You stride up to it, ensuring youâre making just enough noise to alert the occupant of your approach without alarming him, and gently push the door open upon arrival.Â
âGabriel!â you say, before you lose your nerve. You brace a hand against the doorframe and widen your stance, subconsciously ensuring he canât flee but also not encroaching upon his space. The archangel is seated upon his bed, knees drawn to his chest and gaze turned to his (thankfully) bare walls, but upon hearing your voice he turns his gaze to survey you silently.Â
You gulp, steeling yourself. âI have two offers for you, Gabriel. Firstââ You reach into your pocket and withdraw a Kinder Bueno Bar, holding it up so he can register it before you gently toss it onto the bed before him. You swear you see his eyebrow raise ever so slightly. âA chocolate for five minutes of your time.âÂ
His face doesnât change much, but you swear his vibe shifts and he seems appeased. His eyes flit down to the chocolate bar on his bed for a mere moment before he reaches out with a hand and retrieves it, returning his attention to you right after. It seems he has accepted your first trade. You beam at him.Â
âThanks,â you say, before remembering the next part of your plan and swallowing roughly. You contemplate how to proceed for a second before deciding to just speak plainly. âOkay, secondlyâIâm gonna be blunt Gabriel, I canât possibly conceive how you can be comfortable with your hair in that state, and I want to wash it. Badly.âÂ
Of course, he doesnât say anything, but youâre quick to whip a finger up, almost defensively. âHaving said that, I am willing to offer a trade for it, if you are amenable.âÂ
Itâs almost imperceptible, the change in his aura, but youâre so tuned into him these days that you notice it easily. He perks up, spine straightening ever so slightly and the most subtle twinkle entering his gaze. The hair in question drops in an oily curl across his forehead as he tilts his head softly in question, and you have half a mind to suspect he did it on purpose.Â
Youâre too busy fighting embarrassment to pay it too much mind, though. You can feel heat creeping up your neck and beginning to encroach upon your cheeks, and you hope desperately that itâs not obvious to the angel in front of you how oddly vulnerable youâre about to be.Â
âI heard through the grapevine,â you begin, ignoring the split second where your voice shakes for a bit at the start. âThat youâre one to appreciate, uhâŠÂ  creative endeavours, so to speak. IâŠâÂ
He blinks at you, and you clear your throat. You desperately want to avert your eyes around the room, but he is holding them captive across the space between you and you canât look away from his honeyed gaze.Â
âIf you let me wash your hair, I will give you, in exchange, a painting painstakingly crafted by my own hand. Thatâs not to say theyâre of a decent enough grade to be sold or have any real trade value, or even that theyâre any good, butââ You cut yourself off with a grimace, sensing impending word vomit. â⊠Please let me wash your hair.âÂ
The moments of silence that fill the room after you finish speaking, though few, are enough to allow the heat youâve been fighting to flush across your face. Youâre not blushing, youâre not embarrassed-- youâre just going to manifest a face without any redness real quick. You donât even realise youâve closed your eyes until you dare to open them again, gaze quickly falling upon the archangel who has the future trajectory of your sanity currently resting in his hands.Â
He seems to beâŠÂ considering. You hold your breath.Â
Youâre expecting a tilt of his head, the slightest nod, orâhell, you almost expect him to blink his answer in Morse code at this point. What you arenât expecting, however, is the voice that enters the air, raspy and rough from time spent without use.Â
âAlright. Deal.âÂ
You think your heart stops in your chest for a second.Â
let me know what you think! or dont? inquiring minds would love to know tho. thanks for reading anyhow <3
pairing: gabriel x reader
genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs)
wc: 3k
rating: sfw
warnings: none really
You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. Itâs something youâre destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point youâd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes youâre suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason youâd been brought here in the first place? MaybeâŠ
Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.
prev. || next
âAlright, Jack, Iâm going to show you something really important, something you canât tell anyone about. Not even Dean. Alright?â
The blonde before you hastily nods, eyes wide as he gives you his whole attention. Itâs almost childlike, the way he puts everything he has into every activity he doesâeven nodding to show you heâs listening to what youâre saying.
You know that he is being truthful, and that if you ask him he wonât tell a soul, but for effect you keep your eyes trapping his own, just for a few moments longer. When youâve âdeemedâ him trustworthy enough, you let your expression drop into a smile and you smack your hand affectionately against his bicep.
âGreat! I knew I could trust you. To be honest, you can maybe tell the others, but definitely not Dean. If Dean finds outâŠâ you make a solemn face. âThis whole operation will go down in flames. Got it?â
âYes, I understand.â Jack says, fidgeting on the spotâheâs curious about what youâre going to show him, you can tell from the way every so often his eyes will flit about, searching the room behind you for something that might give away what youâre talking about. He gives you a bright grin, as though to show that he is ready.
âExcellent,â you say, clasping your hands together. âFollow me.â
You turn and begin moving over to the corner of the room, knowing without even having to check that Jack is following youâlike a little duckling, if memory serves you right. Youâve only known him a few days but you know for sure that if anything happened to him you would be killing everyone in this bunker and then yourself. Rosa Diaz has it right.
âAlright, pass me that chair.â As soon as you come to a stop in the corner of the room, you instruct the young Nephilim following you. Without question, he does as you say and retrieves the chair sitting against the wall by a shelf loaded with obscure occult âweaponsâ. The armory is always something that amazes and confuses you with its contents.
The chair drags with a light squeak across concrete floor as you position it where you need it, wasting no time in hiking a leg up and climbing onto the seat. You know what youâre doing, but Jack doesnât and your sudden movement must startle him a little because you feel him grip your legs by your knees and exclaim loudly.
âAh, y/n! Be careful!â
You look down at him, unable to help the trickle of fondness that curls into your smile.
âThanks for spotting me, Jackâdonât worry though, Iâm a professional. I do this often.â You lean down to pat his hand and after giving you a slightly concerned look, he slowly releases his supporting grip.
âItâs up here,â you continue, before he gets too distracted. Your hands reach for the grate of the vent that sits high on the wall, almost touching the corner and the ceiling. Itâs only around medium size, big enough for you to fit most body parts in but definitely not your body as a whole. Itâs only really tacked in, the screws barely securing the metal to the wall. It takes almost no effort to remove it and pass it down to Jack to hold.
âBehold, sweet boy,â you say with a certain air of grandeur and flair, âMy personal stash of sweets and goodies.â
Whatever was left of Jackâs concerned look from earlier is quickly wiped clean off his face to make room for the excitement that rises at your words. His brows unfurrow, shooting high as he attempts to peer into the vent.
âYou have a stash of sweets?â He asks, almost in awe. âHow did you build it so quickly? Havenât you only been here a little over a week?â
âIâve had this here for years,â you say, pretending that your words donât make you cringe a little. Some of the stuff in there⊠might be a little out-of-date. âSay, you ever tried a kinder surprise? Or a Bueno bar? Or Tim Tams?â
Jack shakes his head, still clutching the grate in his hands. âAre they very good?â
âVery good?!â you echo, letting out a noise that even to your ears sounds a little crazy. âDude, theyâre amazing. Delicious. Fantastic. Theyâll change your life.â
With each word that escapes your mouth, you sell Jack a little more on the idea. Heâs almost vibrating on the spot by the time youâre done, hands fidgeting as he bounces on the balls of his feet every few seconds. âDo you have some, y/n? May⊠may I try some?â
âOf course, Jackâ mi casa es su casa. Except, this is more of a top-secret stash than a house. Gimme a sec, Iâll fish some out for you.â
You turn then, careful not to wobble the chair, and go on your tippy-toes to reach your arm into the vent, the other bracing you against the wall. A part of you was worried after hearing Samâs account of what happened to his own stash of sweets, but to your complete and utter relief there is still a hefty pile sitting half a foot back from the opening of the vent. You dig around a bit, searching for an egg shape or even a bar. The chocolates you mentioned to him should be safe, since youâd only added them somewhat recently. No risk of poisoning the half-angel today!
âDamn it, where are those stupid eggs,â you mutter to yourself as you search the pile, almost grasping something you think might be what youâre looking for only for it to slip away from your fingertips. You let out a huff, but freeze a moment later in delight as you grab a handful of something familiar. Your arm retracts before you can lose it again in your pile.
âAlright, here we aâwoAH JESUS! Oh my god!â
As youâd turned around, expecting to see Jack standing in anticipation by the side of the chair, your eyes caught on something that most definitely wasnât there before. In the split-second it takes for you to recognise the figure leaning against the shelf of weapons, you get so badly startled that before you know it your balance is compromised and youâre teetering on the verge of falling off the chair.
ây/n!â Jack exclaims in worry, lurching forward to grab your legs and stabilise you again. âAre you okay?â
âG-Gabriel,â you manage to choke out around the heart that leapt into your throat from the fright of nearly falling, looking over the nephilimâs shoulder. âHello, didnâtâdidnât see you there. Holy shit.â
His face is somewhat blank, but if you look closer you swear you can see a hint of amusement cross his features. He is still in the rags and still somewhat dirty, since he wonât let anyone come near him and he still hasnât got enough juice to clean himself. It makes something in your chest twinge but you refuse to give it the mental screentime it demands.
âOh, Uncle Gabriel,â Jack turns and greets, pleasantly surprised to see his uncle out and about. Nowhere near as surprised as you, however, who honestly didnât think Gabriel would be leaving his room for a few weeks at least. âI am glad to see you are well enough to walk about. What brings you here?â
As expected, Gabriel says nothingâhis eyes do, however, betray him when they flit in a squirrely manner from Jack to the overflowing handful of chocolates you have in your hand.
âYou came for the sweets?â you query, brows drawing together in confusion. âBut how did youââ
You stop yourself mid-sentence, realisation washing over you. âAh⊠the vents. You probably heard us.â
Not a word, but the archangel does shrug slightly, gaze flitting away, and you know you must be correct. Jack turns his head back to you, expression confused but mixed in with something elseâdoes he want you to do something? You catch on quickly to the imploring glint in his eyes.
âHere, thereâs more than enoughâJack, take one of each and then pass the rest to Gabriel. And if either of you hear Dean, tell me or else this hiding spot will be compromised. If Dean finds out I have a stash of chocolate, itâs game over.â
Jack, as he had done before, nods seriously and carefully takes the handful of chocolates from you. He picks out one of each and places it on the chair by your feet, before tentatively passing the rest to Gabriel.
You hadnât been sure whether he was actually going to take the sweets or not, but to your surprise he does. With hands that shake ever so slightly, he moves the wrapped goodies from his nephewâs hands to his own, offering the briefest smile to the two of you. And then he is bringing his hands to his chest and turning, making his exit from the room at a pace that is somewhere between hasty and cautious. By the time of your next blink, he is gone and youâre left reeling at the experience.
âIâm not going crazy, right?â you turn your gaze down to Jack, continuing when he meets your eyes. âGabriel was just here?â
âHe was,â Jack confirms, simultaneously relieving and confusing you. âHe wanted some sweets, I think.â
âHuh,â you say, because you canât think of anything else. After a moment, you blink yourself out of your thoughts and return to the original reason youâd brought the young man here.
âAnyway, go ahead and try those! Tell me which one you like most, and Iâll get more out for you.â
Jack doesnât need to be told twice; heâs diving for the sweets heâd stored on the chair and tearing into the first one he can get his hands on before youâre even finished talking. Within split-seconds he has it in his mouth and heâs giving you a wide-eyed look.
ây/n, this is so good!â
He is definitely not wrong. Smiling, you reach up and attempt to retrieve more of the one in his hand to restock him.
âI know right?! Just wait until you try the other ones.â
x   x
Youâd thought it earlier, but it becomes more apparent now that just as youâd figured, something had changed in Gabriel the other day.
Now, donât get it wrongâhe is still quiet and refuses to speak most of the time, and most of his day is spent within the confines of his room, but lately⊠heâs begun to sneak out a bit more.
Well, sneak maybe has a little bit of a negative connotation. Heâs allowed to be out of his room, of course. Itâs just that heâs so quiet and quick that sneaking is the only fitting term you can think of for the way he slinks silently through the bunker.
The idle thought crossed your mind at some point that maybe he just wants to be a part of it all, even for a brief moment, and even if it just means he hovers on the outskirts of the room instead of actually joining in.
Sometimes youâll come out in the morning and find him curled on one of the plush chairs in the library, hidden behind one of the bookshelves. Other times he might wander into a room when the occupants are in the middle of something, whether that be researching, playing a game, watching something, or even arguing. Actually, he probably shows up most often for the latter. Stirring the pot was his specialty back when, and it seems a pot ready to bubble over is something he is naturally drawn back to as he starts to feel a little more like himself.
Most of the times you've spotted him at the periphery of the room, it's been bickering that has, admittedly, more often than not started at your hands. Itâs not your fault! For two brotherâs who have literally survived several almost-apocalypses, the Winchesters are awfully easy to tease. Sometimes you give Jack or Mary a few proverbial pokes, but you donât really have the heart to follow through for very long. The guilt you feel when you rile up Sam and Dean is minimal, but when you start to stir up anyone else in the bunker you feel guilty after about five seconds of it.
Todayâs victim is, as often happens to be the case, Dean. Sometimes you seek him out if youâre in a particularly bastardous mood, but today he happened to walk in front of your crosshairs of his own accord. Wrong place, wrong time.
âIâm just saying,â you struggle to keep a straight face as you speak. You can see the red beginning to colour the tips of Deanâs ears and know that youâre getting to him, as much as he is trying not to let it show. âThe bacon that you used for that burger⊠I think it was the one that was out of date.â
âNo way,â Dean denies immediately. âI checked the dates, this was from the good packet.â
âWhere was it?â you ask him, raising a brow and crossing your arms. He stills for a moment as he attempts to recall which portion of the fridge the bacon was residing in.
âLeft side, towards the front.â He finally informs you, looking proud of himself. You lean back in your chair, wincing at him.
âDude⊠that was the out-of-date one.â You shake your head, giving him a sympathetic look. âIâm sorry to tell you, but youâre gonna be super sick later.â
Now, the thing about this argument is that there was no out-of-date bacon that he could have used. You threw it out the other day. But, he doesnât know that. And if you can convince him that the burger he is more than halfway through was made with funky meat, then you bet his reaction is gonna be really funny.
Dean throws an accusing finger in your direction, scowling. His ears tinge a little more red. âStop gaslighting me, twinkletoes! I know which bacon I used!â
âYeah,â you say, gesturing vaguely. âThe out-of-date one.â
Dean doesnât believe you, of course, but you do catch him giving the burger in his hold a cursory glance. He huffs a breath out of his nose.
âIf itâs out of date, then why does it still taste so good?â Dean says, with all the gusto of someone whoâd just said something worthy of a mic drop. His free hand even moves to his hip, and one of his brows raises at you while his lips purse.
You shrug, resting your legs on the corner of the table and crossing one over the other. The corner stabs into you when you slip slightly and prompts a readjustment. âI donât know, man. You eat a lot of shit so it could just be that youâre accustomed to funky-tasting food.â
For a moment he appears like he wants to refute what you said, but he seems to think better of it as he, presumably, recalls the meals heâd had as of late. His lips are still pursed as he stares at you for a second with narrowed eyes, the cogs visibly turning in his head.
âYou know what,â he begins, sounding a little testy. You pause for a moment, though, as you detect something else in his tone. âWhy donât we bet on it if youâre so sure? Loser has to do the otherâs chores for a week.â
âDeal,â you say immediately, without even entertaining the possibility of losing. You presume that heâs just going to judge this on whether or not he gets food poisoning later (which you can easily interfere with; there are a number of things in the bunker that are good for upsetting a stomach), and arenât too worried. That changes in the next second when you see him turn and make his way to the bin where the bacon packaging no doubt resides. You scramble into a sitting position, dread already creeping into your bones as you realise youâre about to be found out. Damn it, you already hate the chores you have when youâre here, you donât want to do Deanâs as well!
You make a face as he finally reaches the bin, reaching in to procure the packaging from the top.
âHAH, see! Best byââ
You blink as he halts suddenly in his reading, the red fading from his ears and making way for a green hue to wash over his face.
âOh. Oh god.â He says, much softer than his earlier proclamation. He drops the packaging back in the bin, and the remains of his burger follow suit in the next heartbeat. He straightens, but doesnât meet your eyes.
One of his hands comes to place over his stomach, his features twisting. âIâll⊠be right back.â
And then he is using his long legs to his advantage and striding out of the room faster than you can comment. Youâre left there reeling, alone in the kitchen.
âWhat the fuck,â you whisper to yourself, confused beyond belief. By all means, he should have read a date that was still safe. Unless you threw out the wrong bacon. But youâd been sure to check which you were throwing out when you did it, so thereâs no wayâ
Your frantic inner monologue is cut off by the soft sound of shuffling on the outskirts of the room. You turn to investigate, and to your surprise catch sight of Gabriel quietly slinking to the door from the corner of the kitchen. He pauses like he feels the weight of your gaze on him, and turns to face you just slightly.
Youâre too surprised to even say anything in greeting, and that proves to be the case especially in the next moment when the archangel offers you a brief wink and then turns back the way he is facing, disappearing from the kitchen and leaving you truly alone this time.
It takes a second for the dots to connect in your head, but when they do you canât help the surprised laugh that leaps from you.
Gabriel had just saved your ass from doing extra chores for a week.
Youâd have to slip him some of your stash as a thanks.
pairing: gabriel x reader
genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs)
wc: 3.7k
rating: sfw
warnings: none really
You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. Itâs something youâre destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point youâd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes youâre suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason youâd been brought here in the first place? MaybeâŠ
Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.
prev. || next
âWell, whatever it says, weâre gonna have to wait until Cas and Dean get back before we can decipher it.â
You huff, sparing a glance to the angel huddled in the corner, resting his head against the drawers beside his bed. Itâs been a few days since youâd first come back and you wish you could say youâve had all sorts of good progress with Gabriel, but the truth is that you havenât. He has receded so far into himself that a part of you is actually worried the archangel you knew is gone completely.
âIâm a bit worried,â you admit quietly to Sam after a moment. He turns his gaze to you and you hold it. âHeâs⊠heâs worse than I thought.â
And, put bluntly, youâd thought he was bad.
Sam doesnât say anything, merely releases your gaze and turns to survey the room once more; the walls are plastered in a scrambled mess of what you can only guess is enochian. Youâre not sure when Gabriel had the chance to do it, but you know that earlier youâd visited him to offer him a portion of his grace back and heâd refused, so youâd left and when you returned some time later the walls were like this.
âDid Dean say when they were going to be getting back?â you ask, wringing your hands.
âHe didnât respond to my text, so I can only assume heâs driving.â Sam huffed a laugh. âCas forgot to charge his phone again so I canât reach him either.â
You purse your lips, trying not to smile. Of course, it is the little things that Castiel forgets. Like that wireless technology needs charging, that Beyonce is too well known to be used as a cover name, and those straws that donât always come with fast food drinks.
Youâre about to speak when the faint sound of metal hitting metal echoes through the bunker, heavy footsteps on steel stairs following suit.
âWell, I guess that saves us asking,â you say, patting Sam on the arm as you move past. The two of you depart Gabrielâs room, sparing him one last concerned glance before you close the door behind you.
âIâm home! And I brought food!â
Yeah, thatâs definitely Dean. You just hope Castiel came in with him so he can see his brother and read the scribble on the walls.
x   x
 The scribble, as Castiel informed you, is a thrilling account of Gabrielâs Story, so to speak. What happened to him after his so-called âdeathâ, and you tuned out for a fair amount of it (mostly during the detailed recount of time spent with porn-stars in Monte Carlo) but heard the important bits, like how he was traded in to Asmodeus and what the Prince of Hell then proceeded to do to him for the years following.
It saddened you, despite it being largely something you already suspected if not knew.
After listening to Castiel read the enochian on the walls, youâd had to leave. Uncharacteristic of you, and Dean had given you an odd look as you passed him in the hallway, but you couldnât spend another minute in there. You felt bile rising to the back of your throat.
You really donât have an explanation for why youâre reacting so strongly, so viscerally, to everything that has to do with Gabriel. Like youâd affirmed earlier, you only really met and interacted with him a handful of times! You arenât close with him, havenât known him extensivelyâ
So why do you have this gaping pit of loss and grief in your stomach, like youâve lost a limb?
It doesnât make sense, and youâre not sure if you can make it make sense, honestly. Youâd like to be able to put it on the backburner too, but every time you try it just creeps its way back to the forefront of your mind. In a bid to distract yourself, you hole yourself up in your room for the rest of the day, marathoning whatever dumb show is on TV. If youâre lucky, the entertainment channel might have old reruns of Neighbours. That never fails to make you laugh with its exaggerated soapy drama.
To your disappointment, the only thing playing in a marathon fashion is Family Guy, and with a sigh you bundle up in your covers and resign yourself to the afternoon. Well, if you wanted to numb your brain then this result isnât so bad after all.
You spend the rest of the afternoon in your room, and pass out at some indiscernible hour. When you wake next, itâs a ridiculously early hour of the next morning and the TV is still running. You have a cramp in your neck from your odd sleeping position, and you rub it with a scowl as you emerge from the blankets and turn off the TV. You slept way too long, and thereâs no way you can get back to sleep now.
Begrudgingly, you slip from your bed and into a standing position, relishing in the stretch you feel as you lengthen your tight, tense limbs. The floor is cold against your feet but youâre too lazy to search for the slippers that came with your room and instead just go on your way. Destination: kitchen.
You feel like a ghost, wandering the silent halls of the bunker. Dean is most definitely passed out by this point, and Sam⊠well heâs probably asleep, but you wouldnât bet on it. That psychopath could also be out jogging. Youâre so zoned out that you donât even realise youâve reached the kitchen until you stub your toe on the doorframe.
âFUCK!â you curse, managing to restrain yourself from howling like a lunatic just barely, at the last second. You double over, heaving in a big breath. Of course it had to be the little toeâ
ây/n? Are you alright?â
The low, gravelly tone that brushes your ears is familiar and always welcome. You stick your thumb up so Castiel doesnât worry while you grasp your bearings. When you find your voice, you follow up the gesture with a squeaky, âFine! Peachy.â
âI would remind you that I can tell when you are lying, but I donât think you aimed to be very believable.â
You straighten, throwing Castiel a bright smile despite the pain still throbbing in your foot. You should have looked for the slippersâthis is your hubris catching you slipping.
âSorry Cas, I shouldnât be sarcastic. Iâm fine, but I think one of these days Iâm gonna break my toe for real on that stupid doorframe.â
Unfortunately, this isnât your first run-in with the doorway. If anyone asked, you would tell them that the design of the hallway is atrocious and that door is not where itâs meant to be. Well, itâs not where you expect it to be every time you come to the kitchen, and is clearly an obvious design flaw.
The angel lets out a soft noise of understanding, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. âPerhaps. You donât seem to have very good luck with doorframes.â
âNope, I definitely do not,â you respond, shaking your foot out before moving over to the fridge and checking to see if Dean bought strawberries. A noise of delight escapes you as you find what youâre looking for, several punnets stacked in the back corner. Ah, and they say old dogs canât learn new tricksâDean is a very good learner with the proper motivation!
(Pavlov would be proud of you.)
Castiel has a smile on his face as he watches you remove one of the punnets, hopping up onto the bench facing him and flicking the plastic open. He approaches, movements fluid and calm, and for a few moments you sit in comfortable silence. He is the first to break it.
ây/n⊠are you alright?â At his repeated question you give him a confused look, and he hurries to elaborate. âI mean⊠with everything. With Gabriel. I noticed how you left, yesterday.â
Ah. Well, you knew that you hadnât been subtle, but you hadnât been sure whether anyone was going to question you on it. You munch on a berry as you think, gaze flicking to the side. You wouldnât dream of telling Sam or Dean about the odd sensations youâd been feeling, despite the fact they knew how youâd reacted to the news of Gabrielâs death, but Castiel⊠you felt comfortable confiding this in him.
âWell⊠yes, and no.â You drop the top of the strawberry into the lid of the punnet and reach for another. âTo be honest, I donât really understand what is going on with me. Itâs like⊠super overactive empathy. It just hurts, to see him that way. And it makes me sad, knowing what he went through. Painfully so.â
Castiel nods, light eyes on you as he listens attentively and with care. You chew through another two berries before continuing. âHearing it straight from himâwell, as straight from him as it could be, I supposeâit just got to be a bit much for me. I had to leave. It just⊠made me feel a bit sick, is all.â
The look on the angelâs face is pensive, and itâs as though you can see his mind whirring a mile a minute behind the sky of his eyes. âI see,â he murmurs, gaze flicking to the side as he thinks. âWell, you are a very kind soul, so I am not surprised by your empathy. Though, if it is affecting you so stronglyâŠâ
He pauses, eyes finding your own again. âIf you feel ill again, come find me. Iâll help as much as I can.â
You smile at him, every moment as sincere as youâve ever been. âThanks, Cas. I really appreciate it.â
x   x
Sam must have done or said something to Gabriel while you were locked up in your room, because there seemed to be a sudden change in his progress.
For the better, you think. Well, you hope.
He was a little less withdrawn, a little less manic and fidgety. He still doesnât really speak, and doesnât react well to loud noises or sudden movements, but Sam told you he had spoken last night.
To correct him about calling the Monte Carlo porn-stars âhookersâ, of course. Youâd wanted to slam your head into the tile wall when youâd heard that.
The day passed quickly after your encounter with Castiel, and you spent it cleaning and polishing your weaponsâyou donât want to go down as that one stupid hunter whose greatest folly was improper upkeep of her arsenal. Only when youâd polished your machete to a gleaming shine did you admit that it was likely time for a break. You thought it had only been a few hours, so when you wandered out and found that it was actually almost dinner time, youâd been pretty surprised.
Sam had run into you in the hallway and filled you in, and afterwards had insisted on accompanying you to the kitchen. It seems you spend a lot of your time there, now you think about it.
The large, industrial-feeling space is where you find yourself now, making a lazy stir-fry from pre-packaged vegetables and beef. Youâd tasked Sam with cooking the rice since heâd insisted on lingering for conversation, and since you trust that heâs more capable than his brother you donât bother checking on his progress.
âCastiel was worried when he first saw Gabriel, but after seeing the writing heâs happy because it means the Gabriel we know is still in there, somewhere.â Sam updates you from your side, sniffing and peering into the wok before you in mild interest. âThat smells good. You sharing?â
âMaybe,â you answer him, giving him a sly look. âDepends⊠you got any of that guilt-free ice cream hiding in the freezer?â
Sam peers around to make sure his brother isnât listening before nodding, âBack corner, behind the frozen berries. We got a deal?â
âPleasure doing business with you, young Winchester,â you answer with a shake of his hand, putting on an accent for his benefit. He snorts, moving away to grab two bowlsâgood timing, you have to note, since the stir-fry is almost done. âKind of sad you still have to hide it from Dean, though.â
âAre you kidding? He has a nose like a bloodhound for sweets,â Sam says, coming back with porcelain in tow. âDid I ever tell you about the time he found an industrial-size bag of Hersheyâs kisses I bought? I hid it in the vents in the dustiest corner of the library, and he still found it. That was meant to last me months and he tore through it in a week.â
You blink, mildly impressed. You knew he had a sweet tooth but you didnât know it was that bad. âDude, get your brother some therapy.â
Sam snorts, muttering something about how it would be easier to herd cats and juggle at the same time. Youâre distracted for the moment by an errant thought that filters across your mind at the mention of chocolates.
Gabriel, in his time spent as a trickster, developed quite the soft spot for them⊠could it�
You stir the food before you once more before taking the wok off the heat, moving it to the wooden chopping board on the bench; Sam takes initiative and turns off the stove behind you, something youâre thankful for.
Youâll have to test your theory after dinner.
x   x
The chocolates and candies youâd left for Gabriel after youâd had your dinner are, to your delight, gone the next time you see him.
Youâd placed them on a tray for him outside the room and knocked, letting him know you had left him something. Of course, after that no matter how much you wished to stay you forced yourself to be on your merry way so he could retrieve them in peace. The rest of the night had been spent arguing with Dean about the proper name a werewolf-vampire hybrid should be calledânot because you have an important opinion on the matter, of course, but because Dean gets very fired up about the subject and itâs very funny to behold.
Back to the point, when youâd returned on your trip past Gabrielâs room this morning (on your way to the kitchen, as anyone would expect), the tray had been placed neatly to the side with the wrappers twisted into the shape of a big, shiny bow. Kind of impressive, especially since you have no idea how he got them to stay stuck together like that.
It made you happy, though, that heâd eaten them. Angels donât need to eat, of course, but heâd seemed to develop a taste for them ever since adopting the mask of Loki so you thought it might help make him feel a little more like himself.
You try not to think about it too much because it actually makes you a bit embarrassedâ why are you so invested? You donât quite want to know.
Currently, youâre settled in the library with your legs crossed and a tome on celestial beings in your lap. By your side is a plate of celery and a jar of peanut butter, and Dean, who is seated at the oak table with Castiel across from him, is giving you periodic looks of disgust and twisted curiosity. Heâd started off attempting to read up on some monsterâyou suspected it was Werepires, after last nightâs argumentâwhile Sam popped off to the store for groceries, since Mary and Jack were meant to be returning tonight. The keyword to note here is attempting; each crunch of celery between your teeth yanks his gaze from the book to you and you can tell its wearing on him. Castiel says nothing, having discovered candy crush on his phone earlier, and merely glances between the two of you every now and then with a faint look of amusement.
âAlright,â He finally breaks after your third stick of celery, giving it a look like it personally offends him. âHow can you eat that? Just use a spoon if you like peanut butter so much.â
âWhat the fuck, ew,â you comment, chomping loudly before dipping the stick into the jar for another coating. âI hate peanut butter.â
âYouâre sitting there practically eating it out of the jar!â
âI get cravings sometimes, Dean!â you throw back, somewhat defensively. âItâs like when people eat vegemiteâno one likes it, but you get cravings for it, you know?â
âWhatâew, no, I donât know!â Deanâs face has now crumpled into a complete look of disgust at the mention of that particular spread, and he shudders as he regards you. âEvery time you leave I almost forget what a freak you are, and then you come back and Iâm reminded all over again.â
The way he says it has no bite whatsoever, and you flash him a grin. You donât realise Castiel has even been paying attention until he speaks, the humour lacing his deadpan tone the only give-away that heâs teasing.
âThat wasnât very nice, Dean. You eat some weird things for a human yourselfâlike that greasy, fried dessert from the stall in the food festival we drove through.â
Dean at first looks like he wants to argue, but at Castielâs example a flush of green instead washes over his features. âUgh, god that was gross. Donât ever let me buy before I try at a food market again, Cas.â
Castiel snorts softly, turning back to his phone, âYou have my word.â
Dean seems to have forgotten he was shaming you for your celery topping, his attention now directed back to the book before him. His face is still kind of pale and you assume he is now adequately distracted enough for you to continue eating in peace. After consuming the rest of the celery in your hold, you go to turn back to your own book. It isnât meant to be, though, because in the next second the familiar sound of the heavy metal bunker door creaking open splits the air and Samâs bright voice follows after.
âWeâre back! We brought fried chicken.â
You slam the lid back on the peanut butter, putting it on the plate with the celery and launching to your feet in record time, the book unfortunate collateral. Itâs like youâre possessed as you zoom into the kitchen, stomach alive and stirring at the mention of chicken despite the fact youâd already been eating.
Upon entry to the kitchen, youâre faced with two new people you have yet to be introduced toâconsidering youâre familiar with most of Sam and Deanâs other contacts by this point in your friendship, you presume that these two must be Jack and Mary, the Nephilim and the Winchester brotherâs resurrected mother, respectively.
âHello!â you greet, darting forward to help Sam with the food. He gives you a look that tells you he knows exactly why youâd come to help and gives you the bag full of groceries instead of the one with chicken, just to spite you. Your face falls into a pout but your voice is still cheery as you continue, âIâm y/n, I hunt with Dean off and on.â
Both of their faces light in recognition, and you realise that your reputation has preceded you. Exactly which reputation depends on which brother mentioned youâyou imagine Dean would have had some very interesting comments to add.
âHello,â the woman, Mary, speaks, and youâre taken aback by how soft-spoken she seems in contrast with the badass aura and get-up sheâs got going on. Youâre a little surprised to see her, considering sheâs the same age as you presume she would have been when Sam was a baby. âIâm Mary, Iâm sure youâve heard about me. Itâs a pleasure to meet you, and⊠thank you for looking after my boys over the years.â
You beam a grin and it must come across as a very shit-eating one because you hear Dean groan from the next room over as he ambles to join the crowd in the kitchen.
âDonât encourage her,â he says gruffly as he enters the kitchen, hugging his mother and ruffling Jackâs hair before following his nose to the bag with the chicken in it. âSheâll never let it go.â
âIâm Jack!â Your attention is torn from the previous interaction and redirected to the youthful blonde man next to Mary, grinning at you brightly. âIâve heard so much about youâitâs nice to finally meet you!â
âOh, youâve heard about me?â you canât help yourself from asking, and you hear Deanâs groan echo behind you. âAll good things, I hope.â
Itâs a little unfair of you to be fishing in the Jack pond for little tidbits you can use to bully Dean later, considering heâs literally barely a year old and doesnât really know better to keep his mouth shut, but it is what it is. The question left you out of habit more than anything.
âOh, definitely,â Jack answers, going to help Mary the second he sees her struggle with a bag from the corner of his eyes, âWell, mostly. Deanââ
âOkay, thatâs enough!â Dean interrupted loudly and pointedly, not-so-subtly holding his finger to his mouth to tell Jack to shut it. âDinner time! Everyone into the library, we have a lot to catch up on.â
Begrudgingly you let it go and follow his directions. He has a point; there is definitely a lot of informing to be done, especially regarding the archangel in the room down the hall.
You take a seat and wait for your meal to be served. The night passes quickly from that point on, the brothers cracking out some beer and Dean snickering when you turn your nose up at it (bad experience, better not to remember it). You get to know Mary Winchester and Jack Kline a little better, and now with all of your heads put together you hope you can come up with a solution to the issues around Gabriel and his recovery.
Well, that and youâre going to see if you can get some good material out of Mary to tease the brothers with. When in Rome, after all!
pairing: gabriel x reader
genre: soulmate au, canon divergent around s13, hurt/comfort, humour, future smut (probs)
wc: 3.7k
rating: sfw
warnings:Â same as before, wounded gabriel & removal of those stitches
notes: the fire under my ass burns as strong as ever, hallelujah
You knew there was a reason some divine power brought you to the Winchesters all those years ago, but to this day you still have no idea what that reason is. Itâs something youâre destined to find out soon though, especially when you return to the bunker after months away and find not only a new face, but one that belongs to someone who up until that point youâd thought was dead. What does his return have to do with the changes youâre suddenly experiencing in yourself? Will you finally find out the reason youâd been brought here in the first place? MaybeâŠ
Chuck works in mysterious ways after all.
prev. || next
Much to your regret, your plans the next morning to continue being a nuisance to Dean are thrown in the bin at his decision to leave early and meet Castiel somewhere a state over for a case that the angel had found. Something about vamps in a mine or something, youâre a bit hazy on the details. Youâd only half-listened when Sam filled you in upon your arrival in the kitchen, a good hour after Dean had already departed the bunker.
While you would like to say Dean is completely to blame, the truth is that once you passed out last night you slept like a log and didnât wake up until mid-morning today, which classifies as a sleep-in of sorts for you. You love sleep, but your body is wired to wake up not long after sunrise, unfortunately. Itâs that hunter lifestyle you love to hate.
Sam had huffed a laugh at your face when you found out youâd missed Dean, but otherwise had kept to himself with his healthy breakfast as you went about making yourself a coffee. You tend to be a bit nauseous in the mornings, so a coffee will be enough for you for a few hours. Itâs likely your stomach wonât roar in hunger until a bit after midday, as it is wont to do.
âHow is your arm?â
Samâs question breaks you out of the dissociative state youâd slipped into as you sip your coffee, grip on the mug tightening in reflex. It takes a few blinks before your eyes focus back on him, a small smile on your lips.
âMuch better, thank you doctor,â you answer, before mumbling into your coffee as you take another sip. âDespite apparent attempts at making it otherwiseâŠâ
Sam snorts, not even bothering to comment on that. âIâm glad. Did you have anything planned for the day?â
A contemplative hum escapes you, your gaze wandering to the ceiling. âNo, not really. I kind of went hard for a while there, one case after the other, so Iâm due for a break. Not much of a fan of burnout.â
Your eyes move back down, meeting his own. âIâm probably going to just hang back, for a bit. Recuperate. I mean, I didnât get any injury besides my arm, but Iâm just⊠tired, I suppose. Didnât get much sleep the past few weeks.â
âOf course you didnât hurt anything but your arm,â Sam rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his smoothieâyouâre not a fan of the green tinge it has, but if he likes it then you suppose it must be alright, at least. âYou and your stupid good luck. Dean is still mad about last time, you know. When he got splattered in monster guts that just missed you by a centimetre.â
The memory yanks a giggle out of you before you can stop it, almost spilling your coffee as a result of the abrupt movement. âOh, that was good. I wish I had a picture so I could scrapbook it.â
Sam laughs around a mouthful of food, swallowing it down before he continues. âDean would kill you.â
âI know, but it would be worth it.â You place your cup down, deciding it a better course of action than continuing to hold it and risking spillage. âAlso, I know you think my luck is really good all the time, but itâs kind of just good occasionally. All other times, it sucks.â
âIt kicks in when you hunt, though, so I suppose thatâs all that matters,â Sam muses, flicking through an article on his phone somewhat distractedly. He hums to himself before turning the screen off and angling his body to you properly, meeting your questioning gaze.
âIâm⊠Iâm gonna need your help,â he says, appearing somewhat sheepish. âWith Gabriel.â
You try not to let your sharp intake of breath show, but from the look that flickers through Samâs eyes you figure he catches it anyway. Your teeth worry your bottom lip for a moment before you can muster a proper response. âAlright. What are you thinking of doing?â
Sam adjusts once more, pushing his plate away, cutlery stacked on top; itâs only now that you realise heâs finished the meal and the only thing left to consume is his smoothie.
âWell, Iâm not⊠entirely sure yet.â
You huff a laugh, attempting to regain a sense of normalcy. It isnât that youâd forgotten about the battered archangel hiding in a room a few doors down from yours, but itâs moreso that youâd made it a point not to think about it so early in the morning, lest your mood be ruined for the entire day. Thinking of Gabriel⊠it kind of hurt. Youâre not sure youâre ready to sit down and analyse exactly why youâre having such visceral reactions yet.
âI donât think we can really plan much, here,â he says, features softening with empathy. It reminds you that when it comes to Hell and being tortured, the youngest Winchester isnât as unfamiliar as you might hope. A pang of something hits against the confines of your chest at his tone and the passing look in his eyes; as always, thereâs the useless feeling, the wish you could take away all the bad memories and experiences and make it all better. You know you canât, nothing can, but you hate seeing your friends in any modicum of pain.
You suppose that includes Gabriel, if the sensations whirling within you at the thought of him are anything to go by.
âWeâll just have to take it as it comes,â you say, taking your mug into your hold and downing the rest of the drink in one go. âAlright! Iâm gonna shower and then⊠I guess we go see him.â
x  x
 Unlike the Gabriel you were once so familiar with, this Gabriel is decidedly not fond of visitors.
Sam had gone and prepared some things while youâd showered and dressed, and by the time you reappear outside your room you hear shuffling from the direction of the library. Curious, you make your way down the hall, peeking your head in and blinking in only minor surprise at the sight of Sam, his shoulders heavy.
âWhatâs up, Sam-o-saurus?â
Sam looks up and gives you the closest approximation to a bitch face that youâve ever received from him, clearly not fond of the new nickname that came to you on the spot like a divine enlightenment. He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe, though, which is probably for the best considering your mission for the day. It would do none of you any good if he went near Gabriel while all riled up.
âGabriel is, uh,â he clears his throat, placing down a sterile steel tray in the shape of a bean and small surgical scissors, along with a scalpel. Your gaze strays to the side and sees that it was the first aid box heâd been ransacking as you arrived. âNot very open to visitation from me right now. I think I might be a bit⊠bit big. He doesnât really even see me when he looks at me, so I donât think he realises who I am.â
You wince, trying not to dwell on the information longer than needed to file it away for later consideration. âOh. Sorry, Sam. You want me to go see if I can bring him out?â
âPlease,â the tall man says, gesturing to the tools on the glossy oak table. âI figured we could start by getting rid of those stitches over his mouth, if nothing else. I donât think he has enough grace right now to stop infection so we should try and reduce the risk.â
His words sadden you, but you know the truth they hold. Your limbs feel a bit heavy as you push away from the doorway.
âAlright. Iâll be right back.â
Gabrielâs allocated room isnât all that far from the library, and the note on the door sticks out like a sore thumb so you donât have to worry much about getting lost on the way (ignoring that at this point you know most parts of the bunker like the back of your hand). Once outside his room, something gives you pause though.
Are you ready to see him in that state again? Or is it that a small, tiny part of you fears he wonât recognise you, either?
Ridiculous of you, really. You take a moment to admonish yourself for the thought. If you take a second to factor in the difference in time spent in hell, even without considering all the time he was missing, Gabriel had to have been trapped and tortured for over a century at the very least. Centuries and years might mean nothing to a celestial being who has been alive for millennia, but over a century of fear and torture is a lot even for someone with such impressive mileage.
You shake your head, attempting to clear your thoughts and emotions so you donât enter his room with an overwhelming aura. Okay, showtime.
A soft knock echoes as your knuckles meet the wood, a moment passing before you speak, attempting to keep your voice as soft and nonthreatening as possible.
âGabriel? Itâs y/n, Iâm going to come in now.â
You allow another moment to pass before you ease the door open, blinking in surprise as your eyes are greeted by lightâit seems the archangel has every bulb in the vicinity burning its brightest. Understandable, since you presume he wasnât exactly kept in well-lit conditions.
For a second, you think heâs not in the room. You donât see him anywhere, and youâre about a split-second away from turning and calling Sam when you catch a glimpse of something shifting in the corner, behind the bulky side of a wooden dresser. You think for a second that youâve forgotten how to breathe, chest painfully tight, as you realise that the small form huddled and curled in the corner is, in fact, the archangel Gabriel.
âHey, Gabriel,â you say softly, keeping the door open so he has a route of escape and moving over as slowly and cautiously as you can. âIâm just gonna come over and sit in front of you, alright?â
You figure that even if heâs not entirely listening to everything youâre saying, itâs better to announce what youâre doing before you do it, for his benefit.
Something painful ricochets off the inside of your chest as you grow close enough to see him around the dresser and youâre confronted with his beaten, bloody and battered figure once more. His gaze is anywhere but you, and the way he presses himself into the corner is like heâs trying to make himself as small as possible. It takes all of your willpower to squash down the unexpected sob that catches low in your throat. What is wrong with you?! You need to get a grip.
âOh, Gabriel,â you find yourself saying before you can stop. âIâm so sorryâŠâ
The closer you get to him, the lower you try to make yourself in his peripheral. It wouldnât do any good to startle him by appearing big and threatening. It makes you frown when you remember just who it is that you have to think this way about. Itâs sad, you think. The Gabriel youâd known was prideful, glaringly bright and loud in his presence, both as a trickster and an angel, and that heâd been reduced to⊠well, to this? It made your chest feel heavy.
Slowly and as quietly as possible, you ease down onto your knees in front of him, doing your best not to rush anything. Itâs hardâyouâre a hunter, used to moving with speed and a sense of urgency. So to take your time and really be in the moment for each of your actions is definitely an odd change from the usual autopilot your brain resides in.
He doesnât acknowledge your presence once youâre still in front of him, not really. You had expected as much though, and as much as he seems unresponsive you do see the occasional flick of his eyes in your direction before they dart away, like he couldnât believe heâd dared to look at someone instead of the floor.
For a few minutes, you simply let him adjust to your presence, your company. Ever so slowly, you see the tiniest bits of tension ease from his shoulders, his eyes no longer darting around like a frantic squirrel. You take the opportunity to take in the wounds and sores littering his body, doing your best not to get too upset by what you see. Dirt and grime coats him in layers, and you mentally note that your next goal with him would be to get him in a damn bath.
It canât be comfortable, sitting in all that grimeâŠ
âFor the sake of transparency,â you begin when he seems like he will be open enough to listening. âIâll tell you why Iâm here. This is your space right now, and I donât want to intrude on it unless I really need to.â
He doesnât meet your gaze, but you sense you have his attention. âGiven that right now youâre low on⊠strength, and not healing as you usually do, we need to take care of some of the worse wounds you have. If we donât, itâs a risk of infection, and we donât know how well you would fight that off in this stateâŠâ
You clear your throat, attempting to keep yourself on track. âSo, if youâre able, weâd really like you to come out just for a moment, so we can fix up some of your sores. I promise that you can come right back in here afterwards, and that unless we have something really important weâll leave you alone. Sound good?â
He doesnât nod, doesnât really move, but the way his eyes move to yours and hold your gaze for a bare second longer than you expect, you gather heâs not entirely against it. You offer him a smile, oddly proud of him. Youâd seen firsthand how hard it can be to get out of these mindsets, even just for a moment. Effort is hard and that heâs making it means everything.
âPerfect,â you say, shifting in your spot so you can stand more easily. âAlright, I can help you up, if youâd like, or you can stand on your own if you want. What do yââ
Your hands had already begun to outstretch as you spoke, and youâre taken by surprise when before you even finish speaking his hand is whipping up to grab your wrist in a sort of monkey grip. Youâre left blinking as you help him up, moving on autopilot. You expect him to release you as soon as heâs standing, but it adds to your surprise as he wobbles in place and retains his grip, if anything shuffling a little closer.
âOkay,â you say, angling your body and adjusting your grip so that itâs loose and as nonthreatening as possible. âLetâs go. Thank you for cooperating.â
Of course, thereâs no response and heâs silent the whole way to the library. You remember that Sam is in there only as you approach the threshold, but unlike what you feared, Gabriel doesnât seem to react too poorly to him like he apparently had earlier. Risking a glance his way reveals that actually, amongst the frayed and almost manic energy, he seems oddly⊠grounded, just for the moment.
Well, this is certainly going better than youâd anticipated.
x
âI went to bully Dean this morning, but he woke up before me and left before I could get to him.â
Youâre in the process of cleaning the wounds around Gabrielâs mouth and removing the ugly stitches that have been sewn into his lips. As something to distract him as much as you from what youâre doing, youâve begun chatting idly to the archangel, unbothered by the lack of response. Sam sits a metre or so away, researching for Dean who had apparently called earlier when you were coercing Gabriel out of his room.
Still Gabriel doesnât hold your gaze, eyes averted as he leans forward in the chair for you to reach his mouth, but you can tell from the way his eyes occasionally flick to you as you speak that he is listening, somewhat. Itâs enough of a win that youâre willing to take it.
He winces each time your alcohol swab goes over the entry point of a stitch, but doesnât flinch away too badly. Youâre pretty proud of him for that, actually, because it must hurt like a bitch.
âYou got him yesterday, though,â Sam pipes in from the side, amused as he recalls your arrival. âBarely an hour after you got here and he was quitting and heading to bed.â
âItâs hard being so naturally talented,â you say, placing the swab down and reaching for the small scissors and tweezers. âIâm an absolute delight, and Dean should appreciate that!â
âHas anyone ever believed you when you told them that?â Sam asks, presumably referring to the âdelightâ bit.
âWhy wouldnât they, Samuel?â you ask, giving the massive man a light spritz of stink-eye. âDo you have something to say to me?â
âNothing you donât already know,â he snorts in response, turning a page in the tome he currently has in his lap.
You bite your lip to hide your amused smile, turning back to Gabriel. You place your hand softly on his cheek to let him know that youâre about to go back in for the stitches, before raising the other tool and bringing it to the first of the thick threads woven through his flesh. Wincing, you try and snip it as delicately as possible. Now seems like a better time than any for more distractions.
âIf you think Iâm bad, you should be glad you never met my grandfather,â you inform the youngest Winchester, successfully severing the first stitch and beginning the icky job of pulling it out. Gabriel makes a muffled noise of pain but remains still, and you pat his hand softly in support. âHe could stir the shit out of anyone, man. Like, Iâm not even kidding. The bastard gene I got from him was actually watered down by the time it got to me, so count your lucky stars.â
Sam makes a noise of contemplation, like he really is taking the time to thank whatever powers that beâ those apparently being Chuck, as youâve heardâ that youâre not more like your grandfather. Honestly, youâre not kiddingâthey really should be grateful. You loved your grandpa but youâd never met anyone so quick to stir whatever pot may present itself before them. An opportunist with bastardous tendencies, one might describe him.
In the silence that follows, you jump to another topic for the sake of distraction once moreâyouâre about to move onto another stitch.
âSo, now that your mother is here, are you guys actually eating like normal human beings?â you ask, tongue pressed between your lips in concentration as you try to snip the thread as painlessly as possible by manoeuvring the small scissors. âLike, balanced meals with vegetables and shit?â
You hear Sam pause in the motion of turning a page, a scoff turning into a laugh as it climbs his throat. âWhatâhomecooked meals? Our mom? Dude, sheâs worse than Dean in the kitchen, and I really didnât think that was possible.â
You pause your ministrations to face the tall man, squinting. âWhat? No way. No way is she worse than Deanââ
âWeâve had to replace the fire alarms twice already,â Sam says, meeting your gaze with a look that is full of both fondness and exasperation. He lets out a laugh at your flabbergasted face. âDude, I wouldnât believe it either if I hadnât seen it for myself. Youâll see, whenever she gets back with Jack. She canât cook but it doesnât really stop her trying.â
âAnother terrible chef joins the ranks,â you proclaim dramatically, pulling the stitch you were working on out and going in on the next one. âOh, to be able to cook. I suppose this Jack kid is our last hope.â
âHeâs not even a year old, y/n,â Sam says, deadpan. âI wouldnât count on it. Also, you can cook, youâre just lazy.â
You shrug, making a face; he has you there. âI will neither confirm nor deny these allegations.â
Once more, you feel Sam roll his eyes behind youâhe should get that checked if heâs rolling them so heavily you can feel it yourself. Theyâre not even eyes that are in your own skull, man.
You proceed to pull shit out of your ass as you take Gabrielâs mouth stitches out, the metal tin to the side soon filled with scraps of thick thread covered in dried blood and muck. The exit wounds where the thread had been have begun to well with blood, the wounds agitated by the removal of the stitches, and you bring a new cotton pad back with alcohol to clean them up. Gabriel hisses at the contact, and you rush out apologies under your breath as you finish up. Youâd forgotten to warn him, and itâs only something small but you still feel bad.
âAlright, thatâs done,â you announce, mostly to yourself. You look over him, deciding which wound to treat next, when your attention is drawn to the way he seems to be shaking a little on the spot. Heâs not as grounded as he was earlier when he sat down with you, and even though you have much more work to do you can tell intrinsically that this is the most he can take right now. Dressing his other wounds would have to wait until tomorrow.
You turn to find Sam already giving the archangel a scrutinising look, apparently arriving at the same conclusion you had. He gives you a nod and you let out a soft breath, turning back to Gabriel and offering your hands should he need them.
âOkay, I think thatâs enough for today. Letâs get you back to the room.â
You can only hope tomorrow will offer the same amount of progress as today.
Summary: Why are you the only person that can see Jackâs wings?
Pairing: Jack Kline x Reader
Word count: 6k (i didnât mean for it to happen but here we are)
Warnings: self doubt from both jack and reader, jack being a total sweetheart as always bc thatâs totally a warning
A/N: soulmate AU with Jacky boy bc he has wings too and dangit he deserves the ever so lovely cliche âsoulmates can see an angelâs wingsâ trope. Hopefully this can satisfy yâallâs needs for fluffy Jack content, even if I did make it a bit too long. I got excited.
Taking Jack in after everything was strange to say the least. The boy was always exceedingly kind to you and consistently tried his best to make everyone around him happy, yet opinions on him were quite divided in the bunker for quite a while. While you and Sam both held strong to the idea that he was inherently good despite his parentage, Dean couldnât seem to shake his grudge against him. Every time the poor kid tried to do something for the team, Dean would always be prepared with a snarky remark.
Another thing about Jackâs presence in the bunker that had your mind twisted in confusion was the large pair of wings behind his back. You had never really seen an angelâs wings before, and from what you knew of angel lore, no one but other angels really could see them. Cas has tried to explain it to you one night as you sat side by side in the library of the bunker, but he tended to use references to sciences that humans had no grasp of yet, making the whole thing a bit pointless, really. Needless to say, it was a pretty big shock when you took in the sight of the young nephilimâs wings. Was this because he was a nephilim? Do nephilims usually have their wings out and visible? You wanted nothing more than to come forward to the boys with all of your questions, but something about it felt⊠wrong. Surely if it was polite to ask about an angelâs wings, then they would have mentioned them already. Perhaps it was even dangerous to ask, seeing as Dean had no intentions of remaining civil with the boy, and he, too, remained silent on the matter. Besides, they were the ones that knew more about nephilims. Maybe it was best to just follow their lead.
Words: 5,103
Gabriel x Reader
Warnings: none!
A/N: This is part of a series! Read Part 1 first!
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The first door standing open down the long hallway was obviously your bedroom, and Gabriel wasnât shy about stepping inside. At first, he simply stood in the center and glanced around eagerly, bouncing a little on his feet as he surveyed the space.
Cas followed him in much more tentatively, but curious as to what his purpose was.
âThis is it, huh?â He strolled over to the small desk in one corner and picked up an open notebook and some loose papers, studying them closely. Apparently, nothing there really held his interest because he abandoned them quickly and started sliding open desk drawers.
âThis isâI think this is what humans would call an âinvasion of privacy,ââ Cas said.
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