A Masterlist of all my fics for @spnarchangelweek this year (2025). A lot of AUs and a a lot of fics I've been putting off writing. But here they all are in one neat spot.
I Saw The Angel In The Marble And Carved Until I Set Him Free (2000 words)
Sam gets a call from Gabriel followed by a harsh reminder that their ally(?) isn't entirely human.
Written for the prompt Gabriel | Body.
Not Human, Not Alien, But A Secret Third Thing (Wrong?) (3100 words)
Michael is the Captain of a Starship. Michael never falters, never caves to stress, never lets his fear show. Michael's emotions are kicking and screaming for a way out that he can't give them.
Written for the prompt Michael | Wound
I Too Would Fall From Grace For The Privilege of Creation (2600 words)
Lucifer wants to make something new, something that'll do good. Sam wants to help. Turns out their idea of 'do good' and Starfleet's idea of 'a bioweapon' lines up a little too closely.
Written for the prompt Lucifer | Creation
Father's Light (2200 words)
Raphael's purpose has always been to heal. It was her way to serve her Father and the humans he created. Raphael felt their pain, listened for their cries and she helped them. But Raphael never saw the beauty in creation.
Written for the prompt Raphael | Halo
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Sam always thought that if he somehow found himself in some kind of co-parenting situation, his would be the freakier side of his kid's family. But, co-parenting with Satan, and trying to stay involved in his son's life when his son is growing a little less human and a lot less normal by the day is a bit harder than expected.
And Jack hasn't even officially exited preschool yet.
Call my portion of Archangel Week John 19:30, because This Bitch Is Finished!
For the last day of @spnarchangelweek, with the Family prompt. This is a short, bittersweet follow-up to this AU, where the archangels are depowered and Gabriel takes them to his apartment from tall tales.
The heat gently seeping from her palm barely makes up for the searing disgust she feels as she watches the liquid slosh, red and steamy, around the ceramic bowl. It is rather smooth, marred only by the occasional herb flake bubbling up to the surface and the cream slowly melting into the preparation, lightening its surroundings into a warm orange.
“It’s soup, Raphie. Not a nuclear bomb.”
She scowls. “The very thought of ingesting this disgusts me.”
Gabriel makes a sound not unlike a stifled snort. His own hands curl around a sweeter beverage, poured from a tin into a cup of steaming milk.
“Trust me, Chuckles. It’ll do you good.”
She sends him a disbelieving glare.
A whine comes from underneath her, high-pitched and pleading. A furry head looks back at her, tilted at an angle – its black eyes shine with uncanny intelligence. Its tail thumps against the red-and-yellow carpet.
“Your dog is…”
“If the next word you say isn’t on the line of perfect, adorable or freakin’ fabulous, I’m making you eat a second helping.”
Raphael says nothing.
Her legs ache, dull spasms travelling through frayed nerves. Despite Gabriel’s assurances that the apartment wasn’t far, the walk was arduous even without carrying two inanimate human bodies between them. Gabriel held Lucifer like something breakable and explosive – the tips of his fingers curling where they touched his limbs. Raphael’s own hands were tight against Michael. He was frighteningly easy to carry. His blue lips hung loose, steaming out sighs that froze in the city air. There must have been people around, but she could only focus on the weight in her arms and Gabriel’s shivering form. Occasionally he would brush her elbow, gently guiding her to Father knew where.
Father-knew-where turned out to be up a small metal staircase, in a brick-layered building that looked three weeks away from tumbling down. Two overhead lights buzzed to life above them – one of them died on their struggling way up. With a click of jingling keys Gabriel had shoulder-pushed the door open and wrestled his body inside. Lucifer’s arm dislodged from where it had nestled across its chest and swung down, bumping against his brother’s legs. She had stood in the entrance, carrying that strangely fragile burden; had watched her younger brother deposit Lucifer on an emerald velvet couch. His fingers lingered a second – seemed to stray towards the pockmarks on his neck.
Then he stepped back, put his hands on his hips, and heaved a heavy, unending sigh, a weary breath of air that settled in every corner of the room. His eyes closed.
She doesn’t know how much time passed; her standing frozen on the threshold, like a spirit. Untethered. Gabriel just breathing, the centrepiece in his eclectic collection of furniture.
“Home sweet home,” he said.
Raphael bit her lip. Hard.
Her grip on Michael tightened.
Gabriel’s gaze fell back on him, and he sighed again. “Better put him somewhere else for now. I’m not dealing with either of them ‘til I’ve had two cups of cocoa in me.”
Michael’s breaths are inaudible from her seat in the kitchen. She can’t hear him live, can’t be sure he still exists, that he’s not inside a Cage, trapped inside a hungry void. The only source of reassurance is Lucifer’s form on the couch, barely visible from her seat at the kitchen table. If he is here, then so is Michael. His chest rises, and Raphael imagines iridescent wings folded tight around his form. He isn’t relaxed, the way Michael was in her arms, limp and unresponsive; his muscles tense with each breath in, his shoulders hunched under the woollen blanket Gabriel had thrown over him. Sometimes noise escapes his throat, small and tight and smothered out by sleep.
Gabriel catches her glance. His lips purse, and he rests his head on his right hand, watching the couch with a careful melancholy. “D’you think he’ll wake up any time soon?” he asks, and she shakes her head. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t think she’s ever known anything.
“How’re you holding up?” he says.
She doesn’t respond. The dog – Fen, Gabriel has called it – trails over to its master’s side, evidently tired of Raphael’s lack of response. Her brother absently scratches behind its ears, and it lets out a contented sigh.
“All this time.” Her voice comes out unbidden – she hadn’t meant to talk. It worries her, how impulsive this body feels.
Still, she continues, staring at the soup. “All this time. You’ve been here?”
“Well,” Gabriel says, “Mesopotamia, for a while. Then Rome. And then I hung out in Norway for a few centuries.”
Fen has started to lick Gabriel’s fingers – Raphael’s lip curls, but her brother doesn’t seem to mind.
“Became a god for a bit. Hung out with the pagans. Got in trouble. Been doing my own thing ever since.” He glanced at the sleeping body. “Until these two bozos crashed the party.”
Raphael stiffened. “And then what? You threw yourself at Lucifer’s mercy?”
“I prefer: heroically threw a wrench in everyone’s plans, and saved the day while looking extremely dashing in the process.”
Her fingers itch for lightning. Instead, they curl into fists that don’t even crack the porcelain bowl.
Why hadn’t he called? Why hide away for millennia, washed away with lesser gods?
Does she matter so little to anyone in her family, that they would rather go anywhere than stay in Heaven?
Gabriel is watching her, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Like he’s expecting – something. A laugh, perhaps, or a smite.
But she shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she says, and her fingers stop shaking. “None of it matters.”
Gabriel looks away. “Right,” he answers, swallowing. It looks familiar, she thinks. The way his shoulders hunch. Keeping the peace.
They sit, heavy silence wrapped tight around them as the last of the day seeps into golden-red light.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Becky Rosen is doing great nowadays. She's in therapy, for a few things, and she's actually using her creative writing degree to work for a small publishing company instead of Starbucks. Sure, her love life definitely had some wild stories with the whole 'Samgirl'd so hard she magically roofied him,' or 'had a not-really-romantic-dating-thing with the author who turns out to be the architect of all creation.'
So, funny story about that last part, actually. God needs a replacement for both the pin that keeps all of creation unraveling, and a step-parent for his children.
She's totally up for the job.
Oh god I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wrote this. I'm sorry I did this.
Fandom/Ships/Characters: SPN - Sabriel: Sam Winchester/Gabriel, Sam Winchester, Gabriel, Dean Winchester
Warnings and Tags: rage, established hidden relationship, holy fire, mild imagined gore, murderous thoughts, changing channels, it's gonna be a bad break up
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 520
Summary: Gabriel wasn't one to be angry, but every few eons he surprised himself with just how much he could still feel.
Written for @31-daysofhorror for the prompt: Rage and the @spnarchangelweek ship prompt: Choice
Author Notes: Heyyy look who's still writing Gabriel! I just can't quit him. A very big thank you to @walkingaline and @straw-bees for spit balling ideas with me in the pond. Somehow this one turned into an archangel week prompt too, and I am not complaining. The Sabriel fuels the rage, and I enjoy it very much.
I appreciate every like, comment, and reblog! 🧡
💀 🧡 Happy Haunting 🧡 💀
Read, With Holy Fire Between Us, Rated Explicit, in full below or on my Ao3.
*note, this story (and all of my others) on Ao3 is locked for registered Ao3 user
With Holy Fire Between Us
It wasn't the first time he'd been stuck inside a circle of fire. However, it was the first time in a long time it was the right kind of fire.
Somewhere in his mind…it was funny, that God had made them trappable. That something holy and purifying was alone what could trap them. Had He always known that they would need to be contained? That they would need to be held back from smashing all his irritating little toys.
Gabriel's sneer grew, fire flickering like the anger at his grace. His mind was once again on Lucifer, on the brother he had loved and lost, and his eyes instinctively flickered to Sam.
The brunette had the gall to look pitying, to look remorseful.
Gabriel glared at him.
He had chosen to do this. It had been his idea.
Gabriel wanted to smite him. To flay that perfect body that he had tasted every itch of and watch it burn, certain that his brothers would just bring him back anyway.
His eyes narrowed and he smiled.
Then, he'd get to do it again.
Sam swallowed as if he could feel the heat of his gaze, as if he knew that Gabriel was imagining all the different ways he could make him pay for this.
The archangel's eyes didn't leave him. Wondering how the giant of a man would look without his skin, would look if he pulled his insides outside. If he gouged out those puppy dog eyes that had the audacity to look, sorry.
Gabriel's trapped grace roared, hissing and curling with rage and hatred. His fists clenched before they loosened, eyes flickering back to the flames between them. He had been the dumb one, getting so close to the tempting soul that shone so much like the Morningstar.
He stared into the flames between them. What was the point of banishing his brother if this would always happen, if these two would always bring it back to him? His eyes rolled back to that captivating soul, hands clenching again at the idea of being forced to face him again. Wondering if the next time he looked upon Sam Winchester, he would see Lucifer glaring at him from behind those hazel eyes.
His jaw ticked from side to side, tongue swirling behind sealed lips as he kept himself in the middle of the flaming circle.
They could have made it bigger.
He could feel the heat on the tips of his true form, tucking himself deeper into his vessel as he glared at the raging fire that fueled his grace. It wasn't often he felt anger, but this… standing here, trapped by two knuckleheaded hunters who thought themselves special, it had him full of rage. Stuck in one place by one who he had chosen to linger near, had graced with his presence, his touch, his wisdom, who had then chosen to trap him. His tongue swirled within his mouth, raging and contained grace moving with it as his vessel shifted. Unlike his younger brethren, he could make choices too.
I Too Would Fall From Grace For The Privilege of Creation
Lucifer wants to make something new, something that'll do good. Sam wants to help. Turns out their idea of 'do good' and Starfleet's idea of 'a bioweapon' lines up a little too closely.
🐝 READ IT ON AO3 🐝
Good lord you guys wanted more of this au. Thank you so much to everyone that commented. I know this isn't exactly a continuation of the first one, but I thought you all deserved an explanation as to why Luci wasn't in the first one.
Written for @spnarchangelweek for the prompt Lucifer | Creation. Thanks to the mods for putting this show together, this was fun 🤩
I made this a couple years ago but I don't think I shared it ouside of the server... so it's now on archive.org for @spnarchangelweek
PDF files that compile specific articles and interviews from various Supernatural Magazine (SPN Magazine) issues- the archangels- angels- de
This is a pdf that compiles every SPN Magazine article/interview I could find about the archangels from Supernatural! There are other pdfs as well (about demons, angels, John & Mary, Castiel, etc...). Enjoy the 78 pages of archangel lore!
“Castiel,” says Raphael, in an unforgiving voice, “you are free to sit at any other table.”
The club is dim and full of noise, a piano and brass—a cornet, Castiel needs a second to note, because he hasn’t had much cause to pay attention to human music in the past few centuries. Perhaps he will take up the hobby.
The live music is too vibrant in its swells and dips; nowhere in it is he allowed the safe muffling barrier of a radio’s faulty transmission. Perhaps not.
“I have demands to make of you,” Castiel says, not budging from his seat. He feels gazes linger on him from the other patrons, little stabbing pinpricks of attention, though he can’t think of why. He is either over- or under-dressed, and this is something humans take very seriously. Unthinkingly, he straightens his tie. It falls crooked, in the other direction. Raphael puts their borrowed hand around their glass. It’s empty.
“Do you.” It rankles Castiel—their unimpressed tone of voice, the glare they level at him, the million ways they do not yield when his choice has been given their Father’s favor. Raphael lost before this war began; God only saved one son on the eve of the Apocalypse.
“You will give up your control of Heaven. You will let go of the angels who follow your commands. You will…” Castiel launches into the speech, but Raphael’s eyes drift away from him and to the stage. The music crawls onto Castiel’s back, and he tries to shake it off. Raphael’s finger circles the rim of their empty glass in time with the crooning horn. “Are you listening to me?”
“No,” Raphael says. “Say something that concerns me.”
“I don’t want to fight you, brother.” Raphael tips their head back and sighs like smoke expelled from the lungs.
“Good,” they say. “Leave.”
“But for the sake of Heaven-”
“Gabriel was out here for so long, wasn’t he?” Raphael says. “I don’t know how he did it. There’s so much to grieve.”
The idea of Gabriel grieving is not one Castiel can give weight to. Not the Gabriel he had met, in the end. He’s not sure what Gabriel has to do with anything.
“Call off the war,” Castiel orders. Raphael looks at him the way a planet looks at a comet, the way a mountain looks at the rain, the way a man looks at a spider.
“What war?” they say, irritated.
Castiel snaps. “The one our siblings are dying for. They fight me in your name.” Raphael blinks.
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” they say. “You are the champion of free will.”
“And you-”
“Have lost all three of my brothers in the course of a single year. I’m tired. I won’t be going home.” The dim lights provide a sanctuary for their grief, hiding in the depths of their eyes and the lines of their face, as deeply woven beneath the skin as their own grace. Raphael shuts their eyes, and the music shoves past Castiel to reach them. “I thought I’d mourned them already, but this is what the rest of existence will be like. You took my peace from me, Castiel. I will never forget that.” They lift the empty glass to their lips. It doesn’t seem to surprise them to find nothing in it. They set it down after a few long seconds.
“So you won’t surrender.” Castiel hears the important part of what they’re saying.
“Someone should have taught you that freedom is more than a series of rebellions,” Raphael says, “but I’m the wrong creature to do so. Not that you ever listened to me, Castiel.”
“You were wrong about everything.”
“I was wrong that God is dead. He’s made that very clear.” Raphael gives no further quarter. “Fly away, Castiel. Make your war. Your siblings believe it is their freed choice to kill you; you should respect that.”
“I don’t want this,” Castiel says, leaning close.
“You’re a good liar,” Raphael says, leaning closer. “You get that from our Father.”
The lights flicker. The piano player, younger, pauses and looks up. The cornet player, as old as his instrument, wouldn’t stop for less than their absentee creator Himself, and even then, he would wait until the end of the song. Raphael tilts their head, and the light fades into a warm dark wave of blues and purples once more.
“When this is over,” Castiel tells his enemy, “then there will be peace.”
“Do you plan to kill me?” It’s a simple question. It has a simple answer.
“If you make it necessary.”
Raphael eyes him. They touch their empty glass again. The music slows.
“I haven’t been alive for a very long time,” Raphael says, “and there is no one left to mourn me.” To Castiel, that sounds like permission. They will not give in to his will. The war will continue. Heaven will bleed until he wins, and he will win.
Raphael doesn’t watch him leave. They look upon the stage, and for a brief moment, the cornet player meets their eyes. They don’t know that they entertain angels here tonight, but he understands the lamentation that Raphael would sing if they could and he plays. It is the most holy thing Raphael has let themself inspire in centuries.
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