#gravegotten

For the angsty prompts: https://jynxeddraca.tumblr.com/post/819489847841554432 Bit of background for anyone not in the know since this is very different from what I've been posting. I dug deep for my old muses Gabriel and Agmundr from my Supernatural RP days back when I ran the blog Celestial Trickster. I haven’t pulled them out for a long time (something like 12 years) and while they have not been forgotten, my memory has definitely lapsed on the details of the show some lol. This is set way back in whatever season it was where Heaven was having its civil war, I promise nothing to the accuracy of any timeline, and I am pointedly ignoring the canon about how Gabriel became Loki. Also I made one tiny tweak to the opening line. You did say to fuck you up <3.

“I can't do this anymore, but I don’t know how to stop-,” Gabriel cut himself off, jaw clenching tight enough for teeth to ache and crack – only to be instantly healed again.

Agmundr turned his awareness to the archangel possessing him and studied carefully. A thousand and some-odd years they had been together. A millennia of witnessing the trickster’s flavor of justice. Centuries of shared laughter, of shared anger, of shared heartbreak, and the soul-crushing grief that was never intentionally shared – but Agmundr would have had to been blind in more ways than one to not have noticed that seeping through the mental barriers between them.

Not that it would have mattered even if those barriers had kept him ignorant of this trickster’s grief before now. Walking through the aftermath of yet another one of his siblings’ battles, the crunch of scorched grass punctuating every footstep, his grief was written plainly in the until-now silent tears that almost burned their way down their shared face. Gabriel hadn’t killed these angels, but they were still his family – and he hadn’t lifted a finger to stop it.

Gabriel let out a humorless noise, the dark mood of the sound rippling through his grace like a dark shadow through water. “I don’t think I even can stop them.”

Agmundr knew he had left because of the fighting, because of the killing – some of which, he suspected, that Gabriel himself had committed. Such was the way of war, Agmundr knew that all to well even before he had met Gabriel. However, he also was aware that there was no leader in his angel’s heaven. No one there to advocate for peace.

“Go home, Gabriel.”

“You’re not funny.”

Huffing in the mental space carved out for him, Agmundr pressed on. “You are an archangel, one of their older brothers, they will listen to you surely?”

Shaking their head, Gabriel lifted their eyes to the blood-red sunrise that was just high enough to sting corneas. “When have they ever?”

“Try.”

“It won’t help, and Raphael will kill us.”

“There must be a way.”

“Oh there is, is there?”

The grace inside their body suddenly churned explosively as though Hafgufa was hunting through it. For the first time in a long time, Gabriel turned himself inward and glared directly at the soul he shared a body with. By virtue of being his true vessel, Agmundr could only just withstand the bone-searing heat and head-splitting ringing that came with having an archangel’s ire directed at him.

“Then tell me oh wise human, what way do you see?”

Agmundr scowled, his own irritation sending out tiny ripples in comparison across the scorching sea of archangel he was forced to live in. “If you really see no way to stop them from killing each other and can no longer stand the sight of their corpses, then why don’t you end both of our miseries?”

It was a low blow and he knew it. But so was Gabriel’s intimidation.

He deflated. The roiling, blinding, charring grace-form that filled Agmundr’s vision dulled and cooled. Soon, there was a weight on his soul like someone resting their head on his shoulder. This wasn’t what was expected. Gabriel didn’t back down like that from a single, hot-headed comment.

“Don’t talk like that.” The angelic whisper echoed hollowly around him. “Please…”

They were both so tired. One stretched too far past his natural lifespan, while the other hid away in liminal spaces and muffled his very essence to avoid detection from enemies – from family – that would sooner kill them than look at him. Both of them unable to truly return home or move forward in any meaningful way. And yet…

And yet things couldn’t end.

Not like that.

“We should bury them, at the very least.” Agmundr said softly.

New Orleans. A beautiful patch of earth that Cain frequents lately due to a self-given mission of wiping out a certain clan of vampires. Today, in between all the strategy forging, he decided to walk down its streets just for the sake of taking in its sights. He's been here before, years ago. When relapse into the curse he no longer bears now led him here to chase down some targets. But amongst numerous people filling the sidewalks, although it's not too crowded, he slows down upon sensing a different presence. Death, but not.

The strangeness knits his brows together until his gaze lands on a young lady, thin and tall, carrying an air he's been too familiar with for centuries. Does he stare? He wouldn't know. It's with the ringing of a nearby shop's door bell that a pang rips through his chest; shrill like an accusation the noise echos in his head. Memories flash back. Cain saw her before. That same bell sounded when he...

His face blanks, guilt weighs in his stomach with a suddenness that almost makes him to fall onto his knees. Because that woman, for all he can tell, was never a target and yet— Of course he resists the pull. His mind waging war against itself on whether to approach her or not. Does she see him? Does she recognize her murderer?

"you're not even slick." | @gravegotten

"I don't need to be slick." Teeth snapped the dental floss gifted by the house, and Bern worked on knotting the improvised stitches. "Worst case, I get a twelve hour reanimation nap and a free trip to Maine. Everyone wins."

It wasn't a coincidence that the alarming insurgence of if I die, I die, came on the heels of a terminal diagnosis for their battered angel. Castiel's borrowed grace was burning out, and he was burning out with it. So, his guardian's missions had gotten more and more risky. More dangerous. There was no secret what the tiny glowing blue bottles that lined the inside of their coat were for—it was medicine for the Seraph. To keep him going a little longer. Problem was, you couldn't buy it at Walgreens, it had to be taken from a vessel. Bern had spent weeks tracking down angels, and using their warped syringes to siphon bits of grace. Not all of it, never all of it, but enough.

Their last quarry had put up a hell of a fight, and Bern was lucky to have escaped alive.

Mox squints. Picks at a cuticle. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

"...Yeah, okay. Smash. Once. Then we'll see from there. I don't know about all of this." Smart of one very mortal gangster to have some doubts. The doubts won't win. Hs dick will.

Steve looks like he just got told he won the lottery.

"Wait, me? She asked for ME?" He shakes his head no, then stops, shakes it yes. "Uh. Okay. Sure! She looks like one of those freaky goth chicks. Am I going to die in a basement?"

a begrudged sigh escaped the small boy's frame, eyes adjusting to the dark space. cautious hands extended outward, searching for the limits of this confined area. it wasn't very big. were he of taller stature, this would feel like a tomb.

this was his fault really. a stretching of abilities that were clearly out of reach. perhaps this served as a facsimile to training a muscle. perhaps next time would be more...successful. one could only hope. that would be a thought held for later. the current issue of confinement needed to be addressed.

finding what seemed to be the thinnest part of this unknown structure, he began to knock. were this a foreseeable outcome, this trip would have been taken during the day. his only hope was that this was a well travelled part of the city. if not, then he might be here a while.

o8﹕ sender  shows  up  at  receiver’s  home  late  at  night . | @gravegotten

Bobby was still up. Slept less and less every year, even more so after taking a bullet to the dome. It grazed him, sure, but deep enough that he'd spent a hell of a stint in the hospital. Recovered fine physically, but he'd left those sterile walls to find his world turned inside out. Dean trapped in Purgatory, Bern dead. Sam offered his apologies and RAN. Bobby loved that boy, but he was still livid that he LIED. Purgatory coughed up Dean a year later, and coughed up Bern a year after that. Not dead, but trapped, because Sam didn't want anyone in his shrinking family to crack open that wretched doorway again.

The hunter's head snapped toward the entrance, a hand reaching for a shotgun until he saw the familiar tall and red-haired silhouette of Lucy. His heart jumped into his throat for a second, because someone walking in with a glaring absence at their side usually meant one thing. Problem is, Bern can't die. And the look on her face didn't spell grief. Bobby heaved a hell of a sigh, scrubbed a hand down his face, and gestured toward the stash of liquor on the opposite wall. "... Can't promise I got anything to your liking, but help yourself. You actually travel, or did you just pull that magic door shit?"

Much like Lucy's home, Bobby's was a mirror. Once a gorgeous farmhouse, most of the fixtures original. What hints of wallpaper one could see had once been cheerful and feminine, a loving compromise with his wife, painstakingly put up to make her happy. Clearing a space to observe it now would reveal the print faded and dulled. Like her memory. In her absence, obsessive paranoia had closed in, like a fog descending into a low-lying town. Shelves that had once held trinkets were stuffed with books of lore. Every flat service was drafted and ready to fight the silent war that followed her death. Knowledge, guns, knives. The armoire that once contained recipe books and photographs was now an apothecary of spell components and their descriptions. Bit by bit, the house had become Karen's bones. An exposed rib cage filled with everything Bobby could have used to save her.

The bell rings seven o’clock. At this time, desk jockies have begun clogging the city’s arteries. The morning news is winding down with a feel-good story of a girl scout. This woman has dog tail curls of Ariel hair and barely fills the narrow space between the pews. Past the window, brightened with baby powder sprays of vitamin D, is a cemetery.

He looms at the lectern.

Lucy - Smash in the beginning and smash now, but she'd have more fun and be more respectful in present day, with the caveat that Lucy would be side-eyed by every single person they know for it. This wouldn't stop her. (The middle period is a smash also but they were both too busy dying and experiencing The Horrors)

Sam - Smash, obviously. There's no way it wouldn't be a good time, and Sam falls into the necessary 'smart and knowledgeable about ancient being-related consequences' buckets so she wouldn't even feel weird about it. She does have Sam draw up a prenup as a bit and Sam probably gets a monthly allowance out of it, even though they only hookup the once. (Second option - incredibly funny fwb potential where they keep rescheduling their hookups and never once actually have sex)