k so i have approx 4 hours until this coffee wears off & i can go to sleep. that sounds like just enough time to fall in love, internally wrestle with some existential conflict regarding that love, break my own heart, and fall out of love again. who is keen?
A/N: I know this is short, I apologize. I just liked how it ended as a chapter. I’m still writing right now though! Chapter 21 will be up soon! Sorry for the lack of updates on literally everything. I’ve had to deal with some health issues.
If I forgot to tag you, please message me! I’ve been absent for a while.
*GABRIEL’S POINT OF
“You have a lot of explaining to do.” said Dean, turning
from Ranger to me.
Shit. I can’t explain. This damn prophecy keeps me from
doing just that.
I turned back to Ranger, placing my hand to her forehead,
checking the damages. I closed my eyes, allowing my grace to speed up the
“There’s something you need to understand,” I said, turning
serious. I turned facing Sam and Dean, their expressions turning cold as they
saw my expression.
“You three are a part of something big, something bigger
than Lucifer, something bigger than angels, something bigger than the God damn apocalypse.”
“But-.” I raised my hand, cutting Sam off.
“Dean Winchester, the brave warrior. The older brother; the
one ready to be the protector. Dean Winchester, Michael’s true vessel. Sam
Winchester, the noble knight. The brother ready to sacrifice himself for
anything, ready to sacrifice himself for anyone. Sam Winchester, the true
vessel of the fallen angel Lucifer. Have you ever thought, have you ever
wondered, what Ranger’s role in all of this is?” I asked.
Dean raised his hand to his forehead, rubbing it in
“No,” said Dean, “no, I can’t say I have.”
“Ranger Winchester is one of the single most important
things in all of creation. But you need to understand, it’s a prophecy for say.
I can’t tell much.”
“What can you tell us?” asked Sam, taking a seat in a spare
“Ranger can’t get killed, she can be injured, she can be
tortured quite severely, but she can’t be killed.” Dean’s eyes widened.
“Be careful now, though, because I never even told her that.”
I said, laughing a bit.
“What else?” asked Bobby.
“She can see angel’s wings, she can see a true demon’s form
under the vessel.”
“What about before, when she started calling out your name,
and you just appeared?” asked Sam.
“We can communicate, telepathically if you will. She can do
it with any angel she’s made a connection with.” I said. I made sure to keep
the imaginary friend part of it out. The damn prophecy.
“That includes me.” said Castiel. Sam and Dean turned to the
angel, the shock and surprise clearly evident on their faces.
“What Ranger is, I didn’t realize until a bit while after
meeting her. You two already are aware of her visions.” said Castiel. The
“With the person she may be connected to-.”
“Castiel.” I said firmly, cutting him off. I looked at Sam
“It’s a prophecy. Ranger needs to find out the answer
herself. We’re not allowed to tell more, we’ve already told too much.” I said.
I turned back to Ranger, noticing her begin to stir.
“Gabriel?” asked Ranger, voice rough from being knocked out.
“How you doing, sweet cheeks?”
She lifted her hand up, rubbing her head.
“Remind me to listen to you next time, alright?” I laughed,
snapping my fingers. A light shined around her, healing her outside wounds now.
“You got it.” I turned back to Sam, Dean, Cas, and Bobby.
“She’ll be fine. I gotta scat. Any place you want me to send
you, Ranger?” I asked. She shook her head.
“Anytime, anywhere.”I said with a wink. I was gone.
Author’s Note: Just a little drabble because Valentine’s Day is nearing. Enjoy!
“What are we watching?” You asked, waltzing into the living room with a carton of ice cream and a spoon dangling from your mouth. Your roommate patted the empty spot on the couch next to her and pointed to the television. “The S.A.G Awards?” You asked dully.
“I just want to see if Stranger Things wins any awards,” she replied. “If not, we can turn it and find something to watch on Netflix.”
“Sounds fair.” You replied, with a mouthful of ice cream.
Moments later, your jaw went slack when you heard the announcer start talking about their next guest. You could see your roommate looking at you from your peripherals, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of the screen.
“I’m here with Sebastian Stan who picked up a nomination tonight for last year’s Captain America: Civil War. How are you doing tonight, Sebastian?”
“We can turn it, if you want.” Your roommate mentioned, picking up the remote from the couch and pointing it at the t.v.
“No,” you replied. “It’s okay.”
Sebastian- or Seb, as you used to call him- gave the interviewer generic answers. He was doing good, he was happy to be there, he was excited about the nomination, and talked about his upcoming projects. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander. He looked great. Older. More mature than the boy you met nearly ten years ago when you were an intern on a movie set.
It was your first production job, and his first major role.
You shook your head, trying not to think about the time when the two of you dated briefly. After all, it had been a long time since then, and he had definitely moved on. Even if it took you a little longer, you were- for the most part- over it.
“With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, we have to ask, have you ever been in love?” The interviewer asked with a smile.
“Oh this ought to be good.” You muttered with another bite of ice cream, trying to hide your bitterness. Your roommate snickered beside you. “I mean, he’s dated how many girls in Hollywood?”
Sebastian just smiled, “there was one,” he said. “She was an intern on the set of The Covenant, it was a long time ago. We had a falling out, went our separate ways, it happens.”
Your eyes nearly popped out of your head at his words. You were almost certain there were no other interns that he was involved with, and that meant that he had to be talking about you.
“The one who got away, huh?” The woman asked, Seb shrugged. “Any chance you might see her again?”
“You never know,” he replied. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that you never know who you might meet or run into. It’s crazy.”
“That it is. Well thank you for your time, Sebastian, and good luck tonight.”
He looked into the camera and gave a small wink before moving along to the next interviewer. Your heart was beating so rapidly that you couldn’t think straight, and wondered if what you had just heard was real.
“Did that just-” you stopped mid-sentence, to look at your roommate who shared the same surprised look on her face.
“Yeah,” she replied.
“He was talking about-” You began again, but trailed off.
“I think so,” she answered once more. “You have to call him.”
“I am not calling him.”
“Text him then.”
“No!” You exclaimed, standing up off of the couch and making your way to the freezer to put your ice cream away. “He probably doesn’t even have the same number.”
You turned around to see your roommate with your phone and smirk on her lips. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to find out.” She replied as she handed the phone out to you. Before you could take it back, she pulled it back quickly and looked at the screen. “Oh my gosh, he’s replying.”
You grabbed the phone quickly before she could read the next message, which would probably be ‘who’s this’ or ‘wrong number’. But when the message popped up on the screen, your heart nearly jumped out of your chest.
Yuuri looks up from where he’s sorting out his laundry, a sock in one hand and a shirt in another. He puts the sock to one side and begins folding the shirt, Victor’s shirt that he keeps forgetting to give back. “Oh, that? I got that keyboard a long time ago—before I went to Detroit, even.”
Victor tilts his head from where he sits on the bed, feet stretched out before him. Blinks and looks at Yuuri. “Do you still play?”
“Play for me?”
Smiling, Yuuri sets aside one of Victor’s scarves and stands. “Any requests?”
“Your song,” the Russian says decisively after a heartbeat of thinking. “Yuri on Ice.”
“Hmm. I never learned it,” Japan’s top figure skater admits. He shakes his head and pulls out the keyboard from where it sits propped against his closet. “But I can try.”
“You can do that?” Victor asks. The words, You’re that good at playing? go unsaid.
Yuuri shrugs, plugs the keyboard into the wall and turns the machine on. “Sure,” he answers, fingers running over scales like water pouring from a fountain. The sound is crisp and clear, and Victor finds himself pleasantly surprised. He wonders why.
“I’ve skated to this song so many times it’s practically engraved in my head,” the brunet continues, moving into arpeggios and rhythmic exercises. The keyboard moves slightly as Yuuri presses into the keys, the device pushing into the yielding mattress. “Just give me a second to warm up.”
As Yuuri’s fingers drift over the keys, Victor swings his feet back and forth. “How did you start playing?”
Yuuri’s fingers don’t stop, unheeding of or perhaps disregarding the conversation. Yuuri turns to look at the older man and hums. “I saw a video of someone playing the piano and decided to learn.”
“Did you take lessons?”
“For a time, yes.”
“How old were you when you started?”
Yuuri huffs a laugh from his nose and tests out various chords. “Is this an interrogation now?”
“Well, I never knew you could play. Is it so wrong to want to learn more about your boyfriend?”
“Mm.” Yuuri pauses, looking down at his hands. “I started when I was relatively young. Six, I think?”
“That is young.”
“Well, I stopped being so serious about it when I began taking ballet lessons. And then skating took up most of my time after that.”
“But you still play?”
“I still play.”
Yuuri begins then, starting with the sixteenth note triplets, and Victor closes his mouth and just listens. It’s lovely—reminds him of when he first listened to it, half asleep and with Yuuri excitedly leaning over his lap. Reminds him of his former student, of his lover before they became lovers.
“You’re very good at this.”
Closing his eyes and letting himself visualize the music inside his head, Yuuri leans back and feels his lips quirk into a half-smile. “I’m not the type to let a skill atrophy without practice.”
“That’s not you, no,” Victor agrees.
And they both listen, then, to the music pouring out of the cheap keyboard roused from its sleep. He times his breathing to the swelling of the melody, to the rise and fall of the notes, to the cadence of the moment. Victor leans against Yuuri’s shoulder and Yuuri leans back, the two of them content to relive their memories through the passage of sound.
It’s a peaceful moment filled with peaceful feelings. Victor tells himself to ask Yuuri to play more music for him from now on.