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I'm having a very jittery, fragmentary few days, and my minds keeps throwing up random fragments that don't mean all that much. *shrugs*
Title: Centre
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Castiel
Continuity: Set in some reasonably distant, probably AU Heaven where things have settled down a little
Summary: The centre holds
Wordcount: 890
Warning: Meandery (which I do not believe is a word, but there you go)
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Centre
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, Castiel
Continuity: Set in some reasonably distant, probably AU Heaven where things have settled down a little
Summary: The centre holds
Wordcount: 890
Warning: Meandery (which I do not believe is a word, but there you go)
Disclaimer: Not mine
Centre
We are not what we were, and yet we are not other things. We are simply ... faded.
"Did you ever lose faith, then?" he asks Castiel one day. Not sure why, not quite convinced he should, because that's over now. That's done, and what can be salvaged of what went before has been salvaged, and what can't ... has been put away, in that awkward, protruding corner of their minds, never quite gone, never quite let come to the fore. Never spoken, never asked. Except now. Because he's Gabriel, and his brain-to-mouth filter was never as good as it could be.
Though better than some, he thinks, remembering the speaker who sundered them. Better than some.
Castiel looks at him. All blue eyes and quiet, intense grace. Like his nature, that grace. Hard and deep and like a buzz against your senses, for nothing more than the sheer presence of it, the sheer weight. Castiel does not drown in the past. Castiel does not hope for the future. Castiel is, was, ever shall be, in this moment, this present, this plan. Castiel is a pivot on which a world turns, on which heavens fall and hells rise and earths make their stand. Castiel is, in some pure, untouched way, that which so many of them have lost. Castiel is.
"Yes," Castiel says. Yes, he answers, to a question not meant to be asked, and it's calm, how he says it. Matter-of-fact, as always. A simple admission of horror, and Gabriel feels it silver his gut, feels it creep cold across his heart. Did you ever lose faith? Yes. Yes. So terrible, yes. Castiel, on whom they are founded, in this new and terrible era. Castiel, the fulcrum on which they turn. Castiel, who fought through the ending of three worlds, and never faltered. Or so they tell themselves. Where all we failed, he never faltered. He can't, or we all will.
And yet, he had. Castiel had. And Gabriel ... doesn't know quite what to do with that. Doesn't know quite why he asked, except maybe that life on earth, life as a god, as a Trickster, had pointed him softly to the lie. Had warned him gently against fragile certainty. Had prodded him, so very carefully, to know the truth. Because he can handle it. Of all the angels in this new and fragile Heaven, he can know that lie, and not crumble. Gabriel's long used to uncertainty, and the center that does not, that never holds. He knows. He does know.
"Got it back, bro?" he asks, light as feathers, sly as a magician hiding his hand. He's more god than archangel now, but that's alright. This brother won't care.
Castiel looks at him. Little brother, raised once, twice. And thrice, save the third was his own doing. Not destruction, but the soft, internal dying that Gabriel can see still shadowing his eyes, can see still shadowing all of them in this new, bright, broken heaven. Castiel raised himself beyond that fading, or he would not still be here. He would not be looking at Gabriel with those harsh, vivid eyes, with that harsh, vivid grace, the pivot on which they turn. Got it back, he asks, but he already knows. He has to know, or it all falls. Again, it falls. But he does. He does know. He does ... believe.
"Yes," Castiel says softly, with just the sliver of a smile, faint and smug, oddly gentle. Yes, he says, because Castiel knows. Castiel sees. This little brother, not so little now, who always saw so much more than most. This little brother, who alone of all had the courage to act on what he saw. Yes, he says, and Gabriel smiles. Waves a careless hand, what-do-I-care, and smiles when his brother lets him have the little lie, and takes away the bigger one.
"Let me know if it goes missing again, will you?" he asks. Offers. "I'll help you find it again. You know, before it gets too battered, or anything."
Castiel tilts his head, birdlike and sly, and grins. Just a little, in a curl of his grace, in a sly twitching of his mouth. He grins, and reaches out, that grace, so vivid, so heavy against Gabriel's own, so very present, so very there. "And you," he says, soft and certain, a promise. "I'll find yours, Gabriel, should you lose it. I will."
"I know," Gabriel answers, with a quiet, furtive touch, of hands, of grace. Of lips. He does. He does know. "I ... believe," he says, and for the first time in such a long time, it's true. It's really true. He believes. He has faith. In this, in them, in this tentative, uncertain thing. He believes.
Because he knows now where the lies are. He knows now where the faults lie.
And he knows, he can always know, where the centre is. What the centre is. And how the centre can hold, has held, ever shall hold, against the ending of the world itself. With some help maybe, but that's not so hard to find as it used to be. The centre holds. He can know that. He can believe that. The centre holds.
"It's a good day," he says, with a silly smile, his hand snug in his brother's. "Don't you think?"
"Yes," Castiel says, and this time, it's not quite so heavy. "Yes."
We are not what we were, and yet we are not other things. We are simply ... faded.
"Did you ever lose faith, then?" he asks Castiel one day. Not sure why, not quite convinced he should, because that's over now. That's done, and what can be salvaged of what went before has been salvaged, and what can't ... has been put away, in that awkward, protruding corner of their minds, never quite gone, never quite let come to the fore. Never spoken, never asked. Except now. Because he's Gabriel, and his brain-to-mouth filter was never as good as it could be.
Though better than some, he thinks, remembering the speaker who sundered them. Better than some.
Castiel looks at him. All blue eyes and quiet, intense grace. Like his nature, that grace. Hard and deep and like a buzz against your senses, for nothing more than the sheer presence of it, the sheer weight. Castiel does not drown in the past. Castiel does not hope for the future. Castiel is, was, ever shall be, in this moment, this present, this plan. Castiel is a pivot on which a world turns, on which heavens fall and hells rise and earths make their stand. Castiel is, in some pure, untouched way, that which so many of them have lost. Castiel is.
"Yes," Castiel says. Yes, he answers, to a question not meant to be asked, and it's calm, how he says it. Matter-of-fact, as always. A simple admission of horror, and Gabriel feels it silver his gut, feels it creep cold across his heart. Did you ever lose faith? Yes. Yes. So terrible, yes. Castiel, on whom they are founded, in this new and terrible era. Castiel, the fulcrum on which they turn. Castiel, who fought through the ending of three worlds, and never faltered. Or so they tell themselves. Where all we failed, he never faltered. He can't, or we all will.
And yet, he had. Castiel had. And Gabriel ... doesn't know quite what to do with that. Doesn't know quite why he asked, except maybe that life on earth, life as a god, as a Trickster, had pointed him softly to the lie. Had warned him gently against fragile certainty. Had prodded him, so very carefully, to know the truth. Because he can handle it. Of all the angels in this new and fragile Heaven, he can know that lie, and not crumble. Gabriel's long used to uncertainty, and the center that does not, that never holds. He knows. He does know.
"Got it back, bro?" he asks, light as feathers, sly as a magician hiding his hand. He's more god than archangel now, but that's alright. This brother won't care.
Castiel looks at him. Little brother, raised once, twice. And thrice, save the third was his own doing. Not destruction, but the soft, internal dying that Gabriel can see still shadowing his eyes, can see still shadowing all of them in this new, bright, broken heaven. Castiel raised himself beyond that fading, or he would not still be here. He would not be looking at Gabriel with those harsh, vivid eyes, with that harsh, vivid grace, the pivot on which they turn. Got it back, he asks, but he already knows. He has to know, or it all falls. Again, it falls. But he does. He does know. He does ... believe.
"Yes," Castiel says softly, with just the sliver of a smile, faint and smug, oddly gentle. Yes, he says, because Castiel knows. Castiel sees. This little brother, not so little now, who always saw so much more than most. This little brother, who alone of all had the courage to act on what he saw. Yes, he says, and Gabriel smiles. Waves a careless hand, what-do-I-care, and smiles when his brother lets him have the little lie, and takes away the bigger one.
"Let me know if it goes missing again, will you?" he asks. Offers. "I'll help you find it again. You know, before it gets too battered, or anything."
Castiel tilts his head, birdlike and sly, and grins. Just a little, in a curl of his grace, in a sly twitching of his mouth. He grins, and reaches out, that grace, so vivid, so heavy against Gabriel's own, so very present, so very there. "And you," he says, soft and certain, a promise. "I'll find yours, Gabriel, should you lose it. I will."
"I know," Gabriel answers, with a quiet, furtive touch, of hands, of grace. Of lips. He does. He does know. "I ... believe," he says, and for the first time in such a long time, it's true. It's really true. He believes. He has faith. In this, in them, in this tentative, uncertain thing. He believes.
Because he knows now where the lies are. He knows now where the faults lie.
And he knows, he can always know, where the centre is. What the centre is. And how the centre can hold, has held, ever shall hold, against the ending of the world itself. With some help maybe, but that's not so hard to find as it used to be. The centre holds. He can know that. He can believe that. The centre holds.
"It's a good day," he says, with a silly smile, his hand snug in his brother's. "Don't you think?"
"Yes," Castiel says, and this time, it's not quite so heavy. "Yes."
