#but he held onto it for so long bc he was vengeful and wanted to use his power

[modkatisbacc]

For funny haha reasons I’d like to think when Morro first appeared to Euphrasia to give her the power I think he tried to scare her and is ALSO having his own Sensei:/Master arc, but he’s being even more awkward than Lloyd is.

[404fmdhaon]

creative claims verification — 살만해 

summary: it’s okay to live, and gyu works on a song for the course of many years since it changes / fluctuates based on his current state. emo era for gyu warnings: rough translations / shit writing. wc: 1807 (not including lyrics)

he forgets when it starts, but it becomes a repetition of his days — the same earbuds glued to his ears, tapping his feet against the back of the seat inside a van. knight’s schedule’s doesn’t cease, nor slow down. it just ramps up faster and quicker, and suddenly he realizes he’s six feet underneath the vast ocean drowning without anything to say to the world.

(not that anyone’s listening, nobody cares).

solace comes in xxx tentacion, the same beat parsed and spaced out drowning out the hours — he picks up x’s beats whenever the first scandal crawls from the cracks. an underage drinking scandal, and gyujeong smiles. the kind of joker laugh painting itself morbid when nostalgia inside of 2008 slams him straight on. it’s the feeling of life on edge when nobody cared and eyes weren’t constantly on the horizon waiting for another slip off where the crash of his misery would be fodder for thought.

tentacion gets him, nobody else does.

and that’s where inspiration draws itself when he’s now inside of the studio, no windows. just the keyboard in front of him and the blank screen — it’s black, and logic has never looked more tempting to throw out than now. ableton? but loyal ties dig deeper when he keeps back to what he’s known all along, logic.

the first iteration goes when he’s setting up the beginning inside the base snares and the gentle beats of the baseline — he tosses it out, sounds too much like x. he’s not a mockery nor a cheap knock off of anyone else when he’s called himself haon all along. (he tells himself, he’ll go back to the drums later).

because soul deep, his heart lies in the sounds of the pianos. put on full reverb, the settling strung along to sound off. electric keys, and it hits the first chord — presses down on the makeshift pedal so the notes soak into the silence like an ominous knowing. it strikes him center, dead in the clear — realizes finally, what he wanted all along was merely a slow moving bpm. the haze of songs floating, balancing in the background and what he craves is his own voice to be heard.

his life has never been summarized by his voice. not when he was a rich boy coaxing himself in roughening the edges out into an underground rap, and not now when his life becomes a crude mockery of who he sees himself as a person. his voice gets muffled by the calls of bc entertainment, shoving their sweaty palms full of money in front of his mouth — suffocation comes in a new form: it’s not being heard. gyujeong’s never heard when his voice gets trapped and force-fed the words to rap, and subjugated to shit when he becomes bait for public speculation. 

odd, uncanny. it’s the way the song paints itself as something bruised and blue. the way his own mirror reflection looked better, carved out to public consumption — yet, when his eyes rove, they see him beaten. pulverized to nothing. his body holds no more pride, and the poise he’s held onto on his shoulders all this time beaten to a bloody pulp. 

it’s the way his knees feel sore, scrubbed raw. folding himself over begging for a second saving grace when all he asks for is a morsel of chance — they deny him. they always do. and it’s the quiver in his knees that refuse to bow down any further, relegating him to something sub-human. 

his fingers feel like they’re trembling, when he starts recording. when the different filters don’t capture the essence of someone longing, yet too far gone to ruminate in past doubt. there’s a deep rooted melancholy in the song when he fixes the pitches of the echoes he wants hollowed out in the background. 

when he plays, it feels more like an ode played in an emptied church — gyujeong laughs, thinks he’s channeling more kanye than any other of tentacion he’s listen to. yet, it’s the piece of his own soul severed and pasted onto the track. it encloses him, keeps him close where he’s praying to an empty thought, for mercy never to be served. 

there’s no point in lost prayers, set aside to an empty void above. he’s given it up, uses music to stitch away the gaping wound — but even that has limitations. 

it’s the end of the night, he calls it early. a beat half-finished, he calls it his diary.

—

late at night morning calls for music shows all feel the same. the sound of the 2:30 am alarm call seizing him away (in hindsight, he hasn’t slept). 

he swings through the early mornings in easy steps. first, brushes his teeth. washes his face, eyelids heavy — he slips past the door with nothing more than a hoodie oversized (the one he fell asleep in), a beanie pressed, glasses askew and the bag thrown over his shoulder.

when he reaches the music studio, it’s the same waiting game. the room inundated with domino-effect yawns, his own included. the reference of the smack of his gum, popped when he knows sleep won’t be good to him for what he can manage. more so, he stamps his own time when he pulls out a notebook, pen. taps once more to the silence inside the room.

his phone lights on, and it’s three-thirty am — a drunken text or a sasaeng, he can’t figure it out yet.

yet, when the message lights up it’s clear it digs into his psyche: “야 살만해?” (is it worth living?) 

he scribbles it onto his paper, wonders what living’s like when he’s a puppet on strings, no longer giving way to the high thrill of his heart underground. it’s obvious by now, the whispers he’s heard behind the scenes in passing — the points and stares pegging him to the title of ‘bad’. hears every thing, lets it slide past with a wave of ambivalence.

but i heard a lot of ya’ll shit

he writes it in english. petty in the way he knows they won’t take it past face-value, so he backtracks. lets himself keep to what he knows when he wants to speak volumes to a crowd of ears that hear.

i’m gonna speak in korean now i’ll speak informally my honesty i don’t get what listening to my albums mean respect? look at the shit you ‘hyungs’ are doing albums that flopped and now you guys are going on tv to live, fans fight — you think it’s a hip hop diss

pathetic. desperate. pitiful — it’s all the same when he sees them all as the green-eyed monsters, hungry and starved using petty jabs to dig under his skin. respect? respect doesn’t come when he’s told by old ghosts of his past of how esteemed he is, parading the pretty boy on tv. a sell-out they call him, and he’ll be the first to call it right back.

narcissism is a bitch, fucking stupid when you swallow self-love whole in an attempt to save yourself. passive aggressiveness and gyujeong laughs — they can fuck the ground he walks on for all he cares. pretending to sulk in the pits of praise and people constantly showering in complements (he throws them the middle finger, hopes they all drown).

he relays the question back onto him — how’s it to live like that? 

and his response, incredulous. his pen digging deep into the paper backed by his knees — it moves when the reason is clear cut and they ask for a sole purpose of nothing. the air inside the pedestal he’s put on means nothing — not clear cut, not the idealizations of what they bitch about. it’s suffocating, narrows him into the bird-eye view of scrutiny. but morbid irony hits, and the second the voice sprawls out, he tells him the cold bite truth — they’ll get it when they’re dead.

is it worth living there? i’m just asking it’s the same but.. is the air not cloudy there? do people not wear masks there? is it suffocating up there? i’m just asking it must be different... but we’re the same you’ll get it when you die

he manages to scribble down the rest of the words before the call of the manager pulls him into hair and makeup — it doesn’t feel like lyrics, nor catharsis. more so, an escape when it feels like nobody’s around, nobody’s listening. it’s the reservations he holds, voicing the words he hates to say out loud. it breaks him apart more to see how they fill the blank piece of paper — a tease when he knows it’ll never be the words echoed to the public.

—

time passes quicker when knight’s at high demand — the group mates already thrown into solo endeavors and he rests. ruins himself inside bc’s basement where nothing more than the studio becomes his cemetery rather than the steeple to house hope. it’s the ashes buried of lost causes deep in the ground.

it’s rough the way he starts rapping into the mic. the texture of his voice that conflicts with the softness of the beat — he raps against the boundaries of what he couldn’t say, instead of staying afloat letting the echoes take over. he thinks maybe, this becomes the start to something until the cigarette balances between his lips and the playback of what he’s record him strikes his palms on the table and a fling of ashes into the empty coke can.

he takes it slower.

lets his voice glide in the chorus, singing instead of rapping. there’s tinges of melancholy that seep past each word, the way he clings on to the concept of ‘living at this level’ — perspective, he tells them it’s the same. grass is bigger on the other side when he’s stripped onto his own like wounded prey. suffocation has never felt more taxing, even further when his cries become nothing more than the empty cries of the privilege. 

by the time the second chorus comes around, he lets himself feel. lets the pitted anger collecting in the pit of his stomach come around by the time animosity festers inside his voice. yet, lost in translation. it doesn’t come across as angry or vengeful, no. it culminates into pity. hyungs tainted old, yet they become the mentality of people years younger. youthful ignorance, they’re nothing more than the starved for attention, begging the masses to eat them up. he figures, they’ll never understand. too naive, too farfetched in their insecurities they hide behind in when they’re guised in anonymity. 

then this becomes his swan song — no longer worried about what they think. he severs them from himself in the middle fingers up in the air. tethered by their own shackles for too long, he tosses his attention somewhere else and this becomes a farewell to his own ties.

loyalties don’t exist in this game. not when he’s picked apart himself and laid his own dignity to be trampled on — never a doormat, he plays the silent games of ticks on a clock. waits a beat for it to hit as he sits ten feet above, staring down. looking down, pity settling in the cracks of what they’ve formed below his feet. 

good bye and fuck you. 

(he doesn’t need them, has he even ever?)

[unityghost]

Morning Glory

Part 25 (yikes, wow, homegirl needs a social life) of the Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels series.

Based on one of the most intriguing prompts I've ever received:

Gabe's always torn between wanting to be hurt and wanting to be looked after, so if (somehow) he ended up being caught by a djinn what would he see? and how would he react once someone (read Sam lol) woke him up? like, would he be guilty for dreaming of going on hunts with the Winchesters and feeling like family or freaked out BC he'd just seen Sam attack him with the archangel blade? - Type40Treklock (Fanfiction.net)

It took me too long to get to this. Tumblr followers ... you have been patient with me. Thank you and I'm sorry for the wait!

                                         Morning Glory                                                   

Is everything okay?

You’re not hurt, are you?

I’m not the only one who’s worried. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll come and shake you out of whatever hangover is keeping you from texting back.

“Gabriel,” Castiel interrupted, “I doubt that they’ve gone four days without contact just because of a drunken stupor.”

Gabriel looked up from his phone. “Oh yeah? You’d put it past Dean to take a long-ass Epicurean detour?”

“No, I wouldn’t. But we should at least have heard from Sam. Don’t you agree?”

Gabriel sighed. “Yeah. I do.”

“In any case,” Castiel went on, “You’re right that there’s nothing in your recent exchanges with Sam to shed any light on their predicament.”

“Hey, hey, there might not even be a predicament. This radio silence could be chalked up to anything.”

“Yes.” Cas looked somber. “That’s exactly why we’re here. Speaking of which, I don’t mind flying you back home if you feel ambivalent about this.”

“Cas, please. I already told you eight hundred times that I don’t want you looking into this by yourself.”

“You know that I’m perfectly capable of self-preservation.”

“All right, I get it: I’m not. Don’t try to butter me up with subtext, Castiel.” Besides their voices, the only sounds were the twin notes of a chickadee hiding in the brambles that flanked a nearby playground. The air was heavy and warm, and the sky threatened rain. “Now listen: are you really going to spend your energy on how high I’ll flip my lid if I find Sam hurt, and not stop to consider how I’d react to you getting caught off guard just because you didn’t come with backup?”

Cas grew uneasy. “It isn’t that I don’t understand, Gabriel; I just ...” But he didn’t continue.

“I’m going to take the east wing,” Gabriel told him. “You take the west. Let’s scope the place out for those negligent blockheads instead of wasting time.”

A weird case out in some abandoned hospital, Sam had told Gabriel. But pretty routine, it looks like. Doubt it’ll take more than a couple of days.

Cas had had the good sense to trace the brothers’ cell phones. Locating the signal meant two things: one, the phones were turned on and Sam and Dean could have been answering if they wanted to; and two, Cas and Gabriel didn’t have to spend too much time figuring out exactly which drowsy pocket of suburban Idaho hosted the ruins of an orphaned hospital.

Cas and Gabriel strode to the doors together, but Castiel pulled Gabriel back before either could go inside. “Wait.”

“What?” Castiel appeared vaguely uncomfortable. “I … I have my grace.”

“Mazel tov.”

“And you have ... you have ...”

“Not yet clawed my way back to the surface of the pitiful noodle-pond that used to be raw, untethered cosmic power? What, really, are you sure? Because I hadn’t noticed.” He shook Castiel off. “Cut it out. I wouldn’t have followed you if I thought I couldn’t handle my part in the game.”

That was not entirely true, Gabriel acknowledged privately. He wasn’t useful so much as he was expendable: if he could buy them any kind of time, the extent to which he was able to protect himself wouldn’t matter. What was important was that they find Sam and Dean and, if either of the brothers were injured or trapped, ensure their safety.

The doors were not locked, and probably hadn’t been for a long time – partly because the empty building was ideal for anyone who didn’t want to be noticed by police, and partly because crime rates in this town were impressively low.

The lobby offered an unsettling mixture of scents: there was the damp, rotted wood of the front desk; there was rainwater that had leaked through cracks and crevices; they could smell moldy blankets and a warm undernote of something that might have been human decay.

“Let’s split up,” said Gabriel, just as Castiel said, “Let’s stick together.”

“What did I say about east and west?” Gabriel reminded him. “That’s what this is for.” He held up his phone. “I’ll text you to let you know where I am. You do the same. Or, if things get out of hand, call me and use code phrase ‘Bengal cat.’”

“I really think –”

But Gabriel ignored him to follow the metal wall plaque that directed him to the east wing of the hospital.

What he found was disconcerting: several of the beds were stripped, but some displayed carefully folded sheets that had flushed to the color of jaundice. There were rooms full of cots lined up side by side, and others whose beds had been turned over or shoved into corners. A few of the wards, and one stairwell, had old bloodstains on the floor.

A vengeful spirit, we think, Sam had said. Possibly more than one.

Gabriel bent down to peer beneath each bed. He knew that neither Sam nor Dean could lie there undetected, but perhaps he would find clues, something to guide him to their exact whereabouts or to suggest that they were in trouble.

Truthfully, Gabriel hoped he would find nothing. He was not searching for a body, and had no desire to muddy that conviction with anything that would look at home in an evidence bag.

Any luck? Castiel texted.

I found a mouse, Gabriel wrote back.

A mouse?

Neither of them; I checked. It wasn’t wearing plaid.

Half an hour later, Gabriel got in touch again: I can’t find anything. Gonna check the basement.

The message didn’t send. So he tried a second time, and once more it failed to go through.

Gabriel didn’t have much faith in his relationship with modern technology, because there was plenty he had missed during his time in Hell, and he hadn’t taken much time to acquaint himself with the multiplicity of devices that had flooded the world he thought he would never see again. It wasn’t a priority; there was so much else to learn, so much else to figure out.

With reluctance, Gabriel tried communicating with Castiel telepathically. If Cas felt anything, there was nothing to show for it, and Gabriel did not want to exhaust what little grace he might be able to access in case of an emergency. His grace had lately been fluid, unpredictable, and messy; he could rarely anticipate how much he might have at his disposal at any given time.

He could only assume that the message would send sooner or later, that perhaps it was moving slowly because of signal problems.

Not until Gabriel was in the basement did he realize exactly what was in the basement.

He squared his shoulders and reminded himself that of course they had to check the morgue; it made sense. The morgue was like any other section of the hospital, a room that might contain the living as well as the dead – and, perhaps, the not-quite-living and the maybe-dead.

But Gabriel hesitated. There could be no denying the stench of human putrefaction at this point. This was the first time since his arrival that he realized Cas might have been right to worry about him.

So he detached himself and pretended that he was watching another individual press his palms to either of the cold metal doors.

That was when somebody seized him from behind.

“No!” Gabriel screamed, and tried to throw his captor off. Its grip was hard and tight and unforgiving; this grip was confident and hungry, and Gabriel knew what that meant.

For a moment, he wondered how he could have ever confused the cautious warmth of Sam’s hands with the hands of a monster: this kind of touch, this kind of brutality, was fully recognizable as evil.

He tried to kick the thing’s legs and bite its hand. He felt a palm pressed to his mouth and this time not only smelled but tasted the meaty odor of decay.

He screamed into its hand until there was the tang of blood in his throat. He reached inside of himself for his grace, desperate for power that simply wasn’t there.

“Sleep,” the thing whispered into his ear, and Gabriel grew sick with panic. His nightmares were here, alive and real and ugly, and there was no one to help guide him back to a sense of security.

Gabriel could not remember ever wanting Sam as badly as he did in that moment.

The hand on his mouth was so strong he couldn’t breathe. Somewhere in his mind he knew that he didn’t need to breathe in order to survive, but the terror didn’t abate.

He was still screaming, still sobbing, when he opened his eyes and saw that he was lying in bed in an unfamiliar room illuminated by sunshine.

The smell of death was gone, replaced with the cool scent of cleaners and laundry detergents. The carpet was spotlessly white, and in the corner stood a table with a half-empty bottle of wine and four glasses that still had crimson dregs at the bottom.

He choked on his own tears and stole as many quick, ragged breaths as he could.

The door clicked open and he scrambled away, slipping off of the other side of the mattress.

“Gabriel!”

It was a voice he knew, and the arms that lifted him back onto the bed were not the arms of a brute.

Gabriel was shaking and moaning. He knew how helpless and pathetic he sounded, but he also had heard himself make those sounds before.

“You’re all right,” Sam murmured. “Just a bad dream, okay? Just a bad dream. You’re all right.”

“Where am I?” Gabriel rasped. “What happened?”

“Ssh, it’s like I said - I think you just had a nightmare. Sorry, I thought a nap would help you feel better. You wore yourself out setting all this up for us, I think.”

“What are you - ” Gabriel blinked rapidly, shivering and whimpering as he tried not only to form a question but to figure out whether it was even safe to ask. “Set what up? I didn’t - I don’t - ” His eyes flicked over the room, and he knew then what he wanted to say - A non-smoking suite, I see, spic-and-span as Aunt Doris’s pearls - but couldn’t get it out.

Sam seemed at something of a loss. All he could offer was a hand on Gabriel’s arm, trying to steady him.

“Two minutes ago,” Gabriel managed, “I - I was - ” There was the possibility that he had finally broken, had finally lost his mind really and completely; and the thought made him feel dizzy.

But there was a second possibility that slowed his blood to an icy crawl. “Sam?”

“What is it, Gabe?”

“Does Asmodeus have anything to do with this?”

Sam’s voice was gentle. “Hey, no, of course not. He won’t hurt you again, bud."

“He can mess with me; he can screw around with my memory, my perception - ”

“Yes. He used to be able to do that.” Sam gripped Gabriel’s shoulder. “But not anymore. You’re safe, Gabe, I promise.”

“Where am I? Am I still in Idaho?”

“Idaho?” Sam used his sleeve to help wipe Gabriel’s face, and Gabriel didn’t try to resist. “With this many beaches and kangaroos?”

Gabriel shut his eyes. “Jesus O’Malley, we’re in Australia.”

“Yeah. You brought us here, remember? Set up this hotel for us. Everyone else is down at the pool right now. Jack got to hold a koala this morning. You did a lot for us, and I think maybe you’re just exhausted.”

Gabriel shivered. “Sam, did you ever have so much trouble telling them apart? Dreams and - and what’s really happening?”

Sam considered. “I don’t think so.”

“Not even with Lucifer?” Gabriel was desperate for Sam to be right; he longed for confirmation that he really had just tired himself to the point of oblivion. Or perhaps Sam was lying to him and pretending that Gabriel had achieved something of which he had not been capable for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Sam frowned. “With who?”

“You know who. With my skeezewaffle of a brother.”

Sam looked puzzled. “Who, Jack’s dad? I met him twice at most.”

Gabriel simply stared.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.

“Um. I just … I feel like an idiot.”

“Don’t feel - ”

“This should have been obvious right away.” Gabriel felt his shoulders relax slightly: he was in no danger from Asmodeus, or from his own insanity.

Before Sam could press him, there was a vigorous rapping at the door.

Gabriel swept the heels of his hands over his eyes in a final attempt to dry them. “Is that Africa by Toto?”

Sam sighed and went to open the door.

“Catch!” cried Dean, throwing a towel across the room to land on Gabriel’s head.

Gabriel tore it off. “This is wet, you maniac! I don’t need your cooties.”

“It ain’t my fault if your reflexes are molasses.” Dean was clad only in neon-orange swim trunks. “I figured a whiff of chlorine might wake you up.”

“You’re gross, Dean,” said Sam.

Castiel and Jack stood behind Dean, dressed more modestly with t-shirts over their swim trunks.

“Jack,” Gabriel croaked. He felt a strangely potent sense of relief at the sight of his nephew.

But Cas spoke first. “Are you feeling refreshed? If you’re up to it, we can go out for dinner.”

Gabriel didn’t reply. Instead, he did what he would have done in any situation: he looked at Sam, hoping he would have answers.

“We’ll order in,” Sam said. “It’ll be fun to try some of the local cuisine, don’t you think, Gabriel?”

“I … I guess.”

“Poor guy’s still recovering from last night,” Dean interrupted. “Doesn’t even have his voice back from the karaoke.” He nudged Gabriel, who tensed at the contact. “Don’t worry, I got the best of your performance on video.”

“Really?” exclaimed Jack. “I want to see.”

Dean glanced at Gabriel. “I don’t know if I’d sanction a G rating on that one.”

“Well,” Castiel chimed in, “We had a good night too.”

Jack’s face brightened. “Yeah, Sam and Cas and I had pizza and ice cream and watched the latest Steve Irwin special.”

“Lucky bastard and all his academy awards,” said Dean. “I hear he’s got his own theme park now.”

Jack peered more closely at Gabriel. “Uncle Gabe - have you been crying?”

“No,” said Gabriel.

But Jack looked disturbed. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

“Really? I mean, uh - I’m fine. I’m okay. I think I might be allergic to Vegemite.”

Jack took a moment to evaluate, then stepped forward and hugged him.

Gabriel froze.

“I love you,” said Jack. “You’re the best.”

It took Gabriel several seconds to remember that he was supposed to hug back. The embrace lingered until he pulled away, before the smell of chlorine and the dampness of Jack’s hair on his cheek could become any more real.

Dean spoke up. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I could use a shower.” He waltzed into the bathroom and shut the door. Then there came the hiss of running water.

Sam groaned. “You can kick him out and make him use the bathroom you set up for him.”

“I think he likes your custom shampoo,” Jack told Gabriel.

“So I suppose after we’ve all freshened up,” said Cas, “We can decide what to do. Or rather, Gabriel, you can decide whether you have any energy to go out. Trust me, no one will feel neglected if you’d prefer to keep things on the quieter side this evening. Oh, and Sam - ” Cas laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “If you aren’t feeling up to anything - ”

“Don’t worry about me, Cas.” Sam smiled. “ I’m fine.”

“I know, but … the last hunt was a lot. You were in pain. So if you’re still feeling the effects, we can lie low tonight. I can make sure that - ”

“Relax. I’m good. It’s like Dean said at breakfast, you’ve done enough for us. All right? No need to keep trying to take care of everyone.”

Gabriel’s gaze flitted back and forth between the two of them. “What hunt are we talking about?”

Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve hardly thought about it since you healed me up. Cas is overreacting. Which I appreciate, but I’m really okay.”

Cas nodded. “All right.” He slid his hand from Sam’s shoulder. “In that case, why don’t Jack and I go back to our room and settle down for a while? I have no reason to suspect that Jack is anything but satisfied with the shampoo in our bathroom.”

Jack smiled at Gabriel, and Gabriel snapped his eyes away.

“So,” Sam began once Jack and Cas had exited the room, “You okay?”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper.

“No you’re not,” Sam insisted. “I haven’t seen you like this in a long time.”

“I’m … I’m feeling fine, Sam. It’s like you said: just a really awful dream.”

“Do you want me in here with you? I don’t mind sticking around for however long you need me for.”

“I don’t. Obviously I’ve got your brother to keep me company.”

Sam’s eyes flitted to the bathroom door. “He means well, I guess. I think he needed some time off.”

“Well, that’s what I’m here for. Me, my supercharged celestial batteries, and a non-stop flight to the land down under.”

Sam smiled. “I’ll come back to check on you in a little bit, okay? And if Dean gives you any trouble just throw him to the dingoes.”

“Mm. You know I will.”

Gabriel watched Sam exit the room, studiously ignoring the surge of grief at the back of his throat.

He gave himself no time to dwell on what would happen next.

The first place he checked was the bedside drawer. There, he found a copy of the King James Bible that contained what were more than likely Gabriel’s emendations: “Don’t be afraid, Mary,” said the angel, “For you are in favor with Daddy-o. Congratulations, it’s a boy, and you shall call him either Jesus or Scott - I forget which one.”

He moved to the closet, which turned out to be full of clothing better suited for a wedding or seventies-themed disco party than a relaxing weekend away. Which, Gabriel reflected, made sense if he and Dean had decided to take advantage of traits that, in another life, might have led to something like companionship.

When an examination of the closet yielded no results, Gabriel moved to the table and bent over the duffel bag on the chair. When he unzipped it he found swimwear, perhaps his own. There were trunks, a pair of goggles, some flippers.

Sitting on top of the aquatic regalia sat a rectangular box: slim, unassuming, and discreetly coffin-like.

Feeling triumphant, Gabriel lifted the lid.

Then he heard the bathroom door open behind him.

“Don’t,” said Dean.

Gabriel straightened up but didn’t turn around. “It’s not real.”

“It kind of is, man.” The shower was still running. Gabriel could feel the steam coming from the bathroom, as lifelike as anything else he had encountered thus far. “Look, nobody’s trying to force philosophy into what should just be a nice little family getaway, but - ”

“Don’t use that word,” Gabriel snapped.

“What word?”

“Shut up; you know what word. And I agree that we should keep superfluous proselytizing to a minimum.”

“If you do this,” Dean told him, “You’re making it real.”

Gabriel sighed, then turned to face him. Dean had a towel around his waist.

“You know what, sensei?” Gabriel said. “Get back in the shower and don’t watch if it bothers you so much.”

“Once you see how easy it is, Gabe - ”

“It isn’t easy. It’s practical. Listen, pal, I’ve been around long enough to remember how to pop this lock. Getting out of here will be a breeze no matter what shortcuts I gotta take.”

Dean shook his head. “What reason to you have to leave?”

“You know perfectly well what reasons I have.”

“You’re worried about Sammy, right?” There was an odd melancholy in Dean’s face - an expression halfway between resignation and desperation that Gabriel had never seen on him in real life. “Now’s as good a time as any to worry about your own happiness, Gabriel.” Gabriel tensed, annoyed by the warmth of his full name. “You’re allowed to stick around for you if that’s what you want.”

Gabriel swallowed. “It’s not what I want.”

“Really? Just because you know Sam would miss you?”

Gabriel traced his fingers over the flat of the blade as though toying with a Rubik’s cube. “I miss him, too.”

“He’s right here, Gabe.”

“It’s not the same and you know it.”

“And what’s he going to say when he finds out about this? You have any idea what kind of pain this would cause him? To know what you did to get out? To know how damn easy it was to get your hands on the archangel blade in your deepest fantasies?”

Gabriel closed his eyes. “Who says he has to find out?”

And he raised the knife.

Gabriel remembered very little of what happened after it was done. Somebody lifted him, possibly even tried to carry him - until he fought with such ferocity that the newcomer let go, and Gabriel staggered forward with some assistance.

Somewhere amid the confusion and exhaustion, he registered that there was no odor of death on the arms that guided him. The voice in his ear, saying things like, “Try not to fall over” and “It’s just me,” was soft and familiar.

The next thing of which Gabriel was entirely conscious was waking up in his own bedroom, rolling onto his side, and seeing nobody.

Not real, he thought, but then remembered that it probably was. He had done what needed to be done in order to extract himself from that venomous amusement park with all its perfect temptations.

He pushed off the blankets. Someone had made sure to leave the bedside light on. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn on his trip to the hospital. Gabriel felt himself relax slightly: nobody had stripped him down.

When he tried to sit up, he hissed in pain. Peeling back his shirt, Gabriel saw that there were bandages on his abdomen, moistened with blood. Of course - there would not be enough grace for him to heal any injuries sustained during unconsciousness. He hoped it was Sam who had tended to the wound.

That was when Gabriel remembered that Sam could be anywhere, that he might have imagined his presence in the hospital earlier. Panicked, Gabriel forced himself to his feet and ignored the dizziness that came with the sudden movement.

He heard hurried footsteps, and the door slammed open.

“Sit down!” Sam cried, hurrying over to him. “Come on, don’t try to get up - not yet.”

He guided Gabriel back down.

“I’m fine,” said Gabriel. “Just made the fatal mistake of trying to stand up before all my senses had a chance to rehabilitate themselves. Did your spidey senses tingle?”

“No, I - I just heard you moving around.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, willing the vertigo away. “Hey. Potato brains. You told me you were facing down a vengeful spirit.”

“Yeah, we were.” Sam tucked the blankets more securely around Gabriel’s shoulders. “The djinn was the one to kill the guy.”

“Well, didn’t you two just hit the jackpot.”

“You shouldn’t have tried chasing after us, Gabriel.”

“Wasn’t my idea.” Gabriel opened his eyes and focused on Sam’s face. “I didn’t want Cas going solo.”

Sam sighed, looking worried and relieved all at once. He seemed to be waiting for Gabriel to speak.

Finally, Gabriel did. “Look, I’m sorry. I wish I’d been able to defend myself. At the very least to put up a good fight. If my grace levels were anywhere near where they should be, that thing wouldn’t have gotten within two feet of me, let alone into my head.”

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize.”

“How long was I down there, Sam?”

“Not long, I’m pretty sure. We heard you screaming.” Gabriel blinked. “Then you were down there with me? I was on your trail?” Please tell me I did something right.

Sam nodded. “By then, we’d caught on that we might be looking for more than just a pissed-off spirit. Guess you were in the right place at the wrong time, huh?” He forced a smile. “Thanks, but why didn’t you at least wait for backup?”

���Didn’t want to lose time. Cas was half-convinced we were on the prowl for a pair of Winchester-shaped corpses. Sam … in what universe did you think it was okay to ignore us for that long?”

Sam shrugged. “Couple of teenagers stole our phones. And wallets.”

“How hunterly of you to allow adolescent fugitives to make off with your valuables. Why didn’t you at least pray to me or Cas? I mean - I don’t know that I would’ve heard you, my grace being as floppy as it is, but he would have.”

Sam offered another weak smile. “We didn’t think about that, Gabriel. We weren’t in any serious trouble. Why would we ask for help when we didn’t need it?” He peered more closely at Gabriel, whose expression must have betrayed something of which Gabriel was unaware, because Sam added, “Hey, it’s okay; I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be that freaked out. We got everything back in the end, when we - ” He hesitated for a second before concluding. “When we found the kids in the morgue.”

“In the … ah. I see. The rendezvous spot for illicit recreation.”

“Just enough to mortify their God-fearing parents, probably.”

“I’m sure Dad was plenty concerned with their antics. What about Castiel; is he all right? Did he get out?”

“He’s fine. Cas wasn’t hurt.”

“All right. Good to know I’m the only one who can’t look out for myself.”

Sam caught the bitterness in Gabriel’s voice. “Stop.”

“No, actually - ” Gabriel pushed himself up a little straighter. “Don't you want to know what kind of utopic frenzy that bastard cooked up for me?”

Sam was quiet. Then he replied, “Honestly, I kind of do.”

“Good. Because in the interest of science, I want to get it on the record that I can tell you the whole thing without breaking down. As a reward I’ll let myself take home that this didn’t all happen just because I’m brittler than fried seaweed.”

Sam looked pained. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I understand.”

“No, no, let me see - so I have it on the books - how far I can push myself before sacrificing my dignity to an inflamed maw of shitty memories. First, can I get Sigmund Freudchester’s opinion on something?”

“I … yeah, sure. What?”

“What does it say to you that the djinn made things so that I’d still been held prisoner by Asmodeus?”

Horror passed over Sam’s face. “You were with him? In Hell?”

“No, no, yuck, not with him; it had still happened to me, though, and you were the good egg who kept wasting fuel on the little engine that couldn’t. What’s your take on that? What do you think?”

Sam’s face had gone pale. “I don’t know, Gabriel.”

“Really? Well, I think I do.” There was something manic in Gabriel now, something he couldn’t control. He was, perhaps, a little angry, a little frantic, although he could not have said why. “It just confirms for me that if I had the opportunity to unwrite this script, to change what happened to me, to make it so that I had never been his favorite toy - ”

“You wouldn’t.” Sam looked horrified, but did not sound surprised.

“Exactly,” Gabriel told him. “Because I wasn’t meant to be treated any differently. Getting out of Hell was just a maggot turning into a fly. No real upgrade. And if I didn’t have the courage to actually wish that I was back where I was supposed to be, then I at least had the common decency to take some of what I deserved.”

“Gabriel, please don’t - ”

“I only knew for sure it was just tripe when you came out and said you’d never faced Lucifer. No - wait - you called him ‘Jack’s dad.’ As if you’d signed the adoption papers, bada-bing, bada-boom, the kid’s ours. And Jack - he was so damn innocent, nary a shit to give, just some happy little kid who made it clear how hardcore he loved his uncle. Because Uncle Gabe had the power of freaking kangaroos on hand, and - ”

“Stop.” Sam held up a hand. He seemed to have recovered a little. “You know what the djinn does, don’t you? You’re supposed to - to think that its world is better. You’re supposed to not want to get out.” He paused. “Um …”

“Go ahead,” Gabriel pressed. “You know how I got out.”

Sam looked at him. “Well, I’m glad you did.”

Unconsciously, Gabriel touched his stomach. The wound there was from where the monster had stolen blood. “Let’s just get this out of the way. I know you’re probably angry as Hell about it.”

That seemed to take Sam by surprise. “No! Well - I mean - if you still think about that sometimes; if you … if you can’t help …”

“It’s fine, Sam; I get it. Be pissed.”

“I’m not pissed. I … I mean … do you want me to be mad?”

“I don’t want anything from you, Sam; you do you.”

“Listen, I get that some days are better than others, and that sometimes you’re just not going to … you know …” Sam gave a frustrated sigh. “I’m just trying to say that I know you can’t control what goes through your head. It’s not your fault, that’s all. But I wish you could shake off this idea that you deserved what you got. And that you somehow have to - I don’t know - to make something up to us.”

“Sam,” Gabriel pleaded, “Jack got to hold a koala.”

Sam just laid a hand on his arm, waiting, perhaps, for Gabriel to say more.

“You have every right to be angry,” Gabriel said finally. “You know - you can be upset about the archangel blade. Because you do everything in your power to make me care about myself, and all I do is fight back.”

“Gabriel …” Sam kept his hand in place as he thought about how to respond. “I’m not mad. Really. I’m not. You used it to live. You could have been happy there, but you decided to come back. How could I be angry about that?”

Gabriel tensed. “Uh. I was more thinking along the lines of how easy it was to get to it. It was sitting there in a duffel bag, right where I could grab it in an emergency. You know, you never know when you might need to - to slice open a cantaloupe or …” He trailed off, then cleared his throat and tried again. “It’s the freedom of having the choice. You get that, right? Sort of?”

Sam nodded. “And you made a choice. Look at that.”

Gabriel shivered.

“You cold?” Sam asked.

“No,” Gabriel told him, “Just a wreck. Make a note in the spreadsheet for further evaluation later. This is proving to be an interesting experiment, wouldn’t you say?” He took a deep breath. “I can’t give you what you gave me, Sam. A home. Good memories. A feeling of safety. Somewhere to be afraid without getting hurt in the end. I can’t give that to you or Dean or Cas or Jack.”

“We don’t need those things from you.”

“You need them from someone, Sam, and I owe you at least that much.”

“You need to be - oh, hey - ” Sam withdrew his hand and used the blankets to help dry Gabriel’s face.

“Add it to the log,” Gabriel whispered. “I failed the experiment.”

“It’s okay to be upset. You know that. Crying is probably good for you.”

“You know what else is good for you? Bikram yoga. But it sucks and you look like a clown doing it.” Gabriel shuddered again. “You know - his hands, they felt like - they reminded me of - ”

“Whose hands? The djinn’s?”

“Yes.”

“What about them?”

“They felt like his. And I just - right then, when I felt him - ” Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear trickle over his temple and into his ear. “Sorry - when I felt him, I thought of you. Not because it felt like how it feels when you’re with me, or when you touch me. Because it felt so different.”

“I could lie down with you, if you want.”

Gabriel didn’t answer, and kept his eyes closed. He felt Sam, who had learned to read Gabriel’s silence, recline next to him.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me about?” Sam asked.

Gabriel curled in on himself and cried.

He felt Sam pull him close. “You’re tired, Gabriel. You need some rest. Try and sleep, yeah?”

Gabriel didn’t respond.

“Sleep,” Sam repeated.

It sounded so different coming from him.

[lansizhuis]

*lurks from your posts* I see someone stans Jiang Cheng here as well helloooooo Can you give some thoughts about him and his relationship with Wei WuXian? Also if you happen to know any fics about them (shippy-wise, brotherly, anything with them), can you recommend some? Thank you!

HELLO!!!!! i got your ask when you sent it days ago but i needed some time to calm down over my feelings for my boys so i’m only answering it now lol

*coughs* WHY DO I LOVE JIANG CHENG???

- his interactions with wwx (the teasing, the brotherhood, the dog story when they were kids — “Although, because of this, he held hostility toward Wei WuXian for a long time, after the two grew familiar, they had begun to cause mischief together. Whenever he ran into dogs, Jiang Cheng would always chase them away, then have a good laugh at Wei WuXian, who jumped onto a tree.”)- he really does care for wwx (his reaction when he found out from lxc that the whippings on wwx would take days to heal, when he carried him, when he tried defending him against his mom despite being scared of her, when he saw what happened to him with the branding iron, his worry when wwx couldn’t swim away, THE WHOLE CONVERSATION WHEN WWX GOT BACK***, how he wanted to help wwx when his mother whipped him, clinging to his mother’s leg when he thought she was gonna cut off wwx hand, when they met again after he “restored” his golden core and wwx has finally started controlling corpses, when he defended him against lwj when they thought lwj wanted wwx punished)- “The two knew how to continue each other’s words ever since they were young. Now, one sentence after another, the argument flowed seamlessly…” shows how close they really are (let’s not talk about the context for this bc that one HURTS)- ***the second time he met w/ wwx in a new body (“From the beginning of his memory until now, Jin Ling had never seen such a look on Jiang Cheng’s face before…Although his face had always been clouded, marked with arrogance and satire, it seemed as if every corner of it had come alive. It was difficult to determine whether it was vengeful wrath, fathomless hatred, or raving ecstasy.”) MAN HE HAS BEEN WAITING and i feel like it’s a confusing mixture of hate (why did he kill shijie) and hurt (where did everything go wrong between them) and a very big bulk of relief (wwx is alive, ALIVE and maybe—maybe they can fix things)- OUR BOY KNEW IT WAS DEF WWX y’all perhaps even from the start and WWX knew this as well (“…he exclaimed in his heart that Jiang Cheng really knew the best way to deal with him.” + “…in front of someone who knew him so thoroughly, it’d be impossible to argue. This was an obstacle harder to overcome than Zidian.”) and he even controlled zidian’s force so it wouldn’t really truly incapacitate wwx- The first person WWX became truthful to upon his return was JC even going as far as to somehow admit who he truly was. His first legit conversation was with him im ahdhkslahdkala (‘Jiang Cheng pulled a curt smile on his face, “… Don’t you have anything to say to me?”’ ‘With a sincere tone, Wei WuXian replied: “I don’t know what to say to you.”’)- BUT ofc since our resident chaotic bi is a runner up for miscommunications this conversation went downhill pretty fast. OK BUT IMAGINE IF THE CONVERSATION WENT BETTER AND WWX ACTUALLY EXPLAINED SOME STUFF - and istg it’s not that im rolling on an ocean of my tears here but jiang cheng fucking kept chenqing (wwx’s flute) for the past 13 years and just in case you guys wanna suffer, just think about these two boys who were brothers that became two men unsure of where exactly things went awry bet them- in short, jiang cheng shouting at wei wuxian = jiang cheng caring for wwx in the past (maybe even a bit of that in their present??? nope dont mind me im just crying in the corner here about my boys)

ps to the anon who sent me the headcanon of jc letting zidian recognize wwx as another master without anyone else knowing I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I THINK AND SCREECH ABOUT THAT EVERY NOW AND THEN

FOR THE FIC REC, im so sorry for failing you but i don’t know of anything ahshfdlalajdh IF ANYONE KNOWS ANY, PLEASE DO SEND THEM IN ❤️

tl;dr JIANG CHENG: *aggressively cares*

[bisexualgendryas]

pre-7.06 ficlet bc i can

arya&sansa plotting&talking. non-canon WF scene. 

Sansa sits on the bed and wraps her cloak tighter.

“And you’re sure he doesn’t know you saw him?”

Arya sighs.

“He knows I watched. He doesn’t know I saw.”

“That…makes less sense than half the things you’ve already told me.”

Arya decides against prodding that line of thought. She’d barely been back for a fortnight. They’d argued enough.

“Why did he want this letter? Why did you even write this letter? It’s clearly a lie. Even you must have known that.”

Sansa laughs at that.

“Because it’s a lie, Arya. Because he was there, with the council, when Cersei sat me down and fed me that lie. Talked about ‘how could she let her son marry a traitor’s daughter’ and all that.”

“And you wanted to please her grace, so you wrote to Robb. Sad.”

Even Arya can’t deny her voice sounds cruel. Sansa sends her a stern look. If Arya had held onto any less sanity, she’d think she was talking to their mother.

“In short, yes. But it all…well. I wrote him, and he knew. He knew Father wouldn’t do that, and he called the banners, and it all began.”

“No,” Arya says sharply. Sansa makes a point of looking her in the eye. “This…this started long before the war of five kings began, just as it continues now that it’s over. The kings are gone, and it’s the war of queens.”

“Not all the kings are gone.”

“No. Not all of them. And Daenerys had certainly better hope Jon comes back to us.”

“Oh. Or you’ll kill her?”

“Or I’ll kill her.”

Sansa no longer seems frightened of such a declaration, and her voice is tainted with something between amusement and pride.

“And the dragons?”

“The dragons can fuck off.”

“I doubt they would.”

Arya shrugs. It probably confirms to Sansa that Arya didn’t really think through a plan of killing the dragon queen. She hoped she wouldn’t have to, but she’d stand by what she said if she had to.

Sansa takes a breath so deep it startles her, and then grins, a vengeful sort of grin, like the one she usually has on during their late-night discussions of slimy Littlefucker.

“And now, I know why Cersei didn’t believe me when I promised I’d be a lovely queen.”

“Oh?”

Sansa pushes herself up off the bed, coming towards Arya with her grin still on her face.

“Grand Maester Pycelle wondered as to what treasons I could hatch. I promised I’d be a good wife to Joffrey, a queen…just like her. I wouldn’t hatch…anything.”

Arya smirks along with her, turning her head to watch as Sansa slides past her and pours herself a glass of wine from a small pitcher sat on her desk.

“Many murders, years of abuse, and an entire sept later, and now I know why she seemed wary of me.”

“You must have learned a lot from her.”

Sansa sips her wine.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”