I was feeling bad about not writing a lot recently when I realized that @smergrl3495 and I have pretty much been trading ficlets over chat so I’m going to post a few of them to make myself feel better
this appears almost exactly as I had written it in chat, with a few minor additions and better grammar lol
Summary: Jesse takes care of Gabe during a panic attack.
fucking hell I just thought about Gabe having a panic attack
fuck ok just
Gabe’s having a hell of a week, he’s got too much fucking shit to do and he’s been awake too fucking long and he needs to sit down and eat a fucking vegetable like holy christand he’s got it, he’s got it under control, he can do this he’s just gotta keep doing it, just gotta keep going, one foot infront of the other, buckle down, pull up by your bootstraps kinda work. He does it all the damn time, he’s got this.
So he’s got his list of shit to do, he’s going through it in his mind, the steps to getting everything done, if things just go exactly right he can go to sleep at an reasonable hour that night even if he’s gotta get up at an unreasonable hour the next morning to start this shit all over again and he runs into a minor hiccup, some little thing which requires his immediate attention. No problem. Adjust the list. He’s got this he can do this. He fantasizes about the sleep he’s going to have.
He buckles down after that, nose the the grindstone, he’s got this he can do it. He gets a call from an angry diplomat, a call Jack was supposed to field, not him, and deals with it as judiciously as he can, as quickly as he can.
“We thought you died!” roars Sam, and his hands shake where they’re pinning Gabriel to the wall of the bunker, a forearm across his throat and palm on his chest. “We saw your corpse, saw the wings- we thought you were dead!”
Several emotions grace Gabriel’s face in quick succession - shock, confusion, a brief flicker of fear that morphs into something like guilt and is gone in a heartbeat. “Can’t take the trick out of trickster, kiddo,” he says, a bright grin pasted onto his face, but it’s hollow, the amusement behind it fake.
“We thought you died,” repeated Sam, and his arms fall, slowly, no longer pressing bruises into Gabriel’s slightly-closer-to-human skin. The anger fades from his face, replaced by the exhaustion that has graven lines into it over the past year or two, ages him beyond his years and left his eyes hollow, red-rimmed. His hand catches on Gabriel’s shoulder, squeezes briefly as if he’s checking the archangel in front of him is still real.
And then it falls, drops to his side with the other - and Sam’s dropping, too.
His knees hit the floor with a crack that makes Gabriel wince, makes Dean start forward from where he’s been watching. He stops only at Castiel’s fingers on the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him backwards. This is not Dean’s fight; he will have his chance to air his grievances later, as Castiel had done earlier.