Creation. Gabriel awakens in the deep, dark nothing as God begins his great experiment.
Summary:Gabriel at the time of creation, watching as God works. Characters/Pairings: Gabriel, God, Michael, Lucifer, Castiel Word Count: 4,161 Song:Roll Away Your Stone- Mumford & Sons A/N:For Gabriel Reverse Bang 2022, I was paired up with @foofsterroonie and their gorgeous art linked above. @gabrielbigbang. Big huge thanks to @haus-seeblick for the beta! Enjoy!
Before Time
Darkness. Endless. Terrifyingly vast. Yet calm, warm and welcoming. As were all the other angels born amidst the great dark nothing, so too was Gabriel. He knew he was Gabriel, for God had spoken the name and he awoke.
That name, that infinite breath of life filled his lungs, his mind, his soul, and with it came power.
“Unto you I bequeath a gift. Observe, and you will learn.”
Amidst the darkness, a great mass formed so large, Gabriel trembled in fear, clinging to his brothers and sisters as they clung to him. Though he could not see it, that great, terrifying sphere coalesced into Earth, named so by God. Despite the lightless void, Gabriel felt its presence, the great celestial body God had created. His spirit moved upon the face of the waters, the unshaped body. And then He spoke to them.
“Rest now, my children. Soon, we will begin anew.”
And Gabriel rested, dreaming of the wonders he might create for his Father.
The First Day
“Let there be light.”
On the first day, Gabriel awoke to blinding illumination as God, with immeasurable pain, created light. Parted from the darkness, light revealed the terrifyingly tremendous rock. Unshaped chaos reigned supreme on its surface, and Gabriel marveled at the sight, the churning dirt and roiling waters finally witnessed.
“Observe, and you will learn.”
Gabriel did as ordered, eager to please Him. A thousand years and none passed as God, through his grief, shaped the light, its rays and colors and truth. Light balanced the darkness, two halves of a whole. Gabriel continued to watch as his Father worked tirelessly. Flawlessly. Intentionally. And with great anguish, for he imprisoned his closest kin, his sister, to expose the verisimilitude of existence.
Across the endless darkness, God revealed all with his light. All knowledge, all existence, all awareness. The same frightening chaos reigned supreme across the universe, its reach as infinite as the void itself. And though Gabriel trembled in awe beside his brothers and sisters, he watched as they did. Together, they learned, inspired by their Father. By his vast power and infinite knowledge.
When God saw their terror, He spoke with a great sadness. “Fear not, my children. I shape the heavens and its light for you. Observe and you will learn.”
Shape. Mold. Perfect. In His image. Such a powerful display. Gabriel hoped one day to emulate that wisdom, that flawless manifestation of imagination. He hoped to please his Father, hoped to prove himself worthy of His gift. Until that day, he would keep a studious eye on all the work that God would perform.
Gabriel observed, terrified, saddened, yet hopeful, and saw that it was good.
That evening and morning were the first day.
“Rest now, my children. Tomorrow, we will begin anew.”
The Second Day
“Let there be a firmament.”
Water parted from water as Gabriel observed, side by side with his brothers and sisters. They had gathered in their cloisters, their domains over which God had granted them power. And they watched, craned their bodies to that which God named Heaven. A great glimmering white diffused the space, completely void of the darkness in the universe. Nothing but golden light streamed between the cumulus amalgamation.
“Our home. For we all keep over the Earth.”
He began to understand, then. New knowledge, new power filled him with greater comprehension. Responsibility. Gabriel accepted that weight with humble shoulders and reverent hands. Anything to please his Father, to satisfy His vision.
“What will you create, brother?”
Michael’s question had caught him unaware.
“I… do not yet know,” Gabriel replied.
“That is not unreasonable.”
Gabriel opened his mouth to continue, only to hesitate when Lucifer neared. He said nothing, however, and so, Gabriel finished his thought. “I would like to see more of what He will do before I make any attempt at replicating his perfection.”
“Wise,” Lucifer said, and Gabriel startled. “I, too, will continue to observe. For God is all-knowing and his leadership is ours to abide by.” He turned to Michael then and asked, “What of you, brother? Your thoughts have always impressed me, much like our Father.”
Michael smiled as he said, “I have something in mind,” but let on no more and returned his attention to the heavens above. “Marvelous. I thought that would be our home,” he said as he pointed to the earth. “But to be guardians over it… He is truly magnificent, is He not?”
Lucifer nodded as he agreed. “Indeed.”
Though he said nothing, Gabriel agreed as he gazed upon the firmament. So filled with joy, surrounded by it, he couldn’t help but grin, giddy with anticipation. Again, he observed, inspired, and saw that it was good.
That evening and morning were the second day.
Satisfied, God spoke to them, loving as ever. “Rest now, my children. Tomorrow, we will begin anew.”
The Third Day
“Let the waters under the heaven be gathered unto one place.”
Water boiled, churned into great gray masses. Converged, those bodies crashed upon one another and raged in endless storms.
“Let the dry land appear.”
From the roiling abyss, great rocks emerged, reaching for the sky. Swathes of green plains and rolling hills, rivers and lakes and ponds spread across the rock. Sands and pale dirt stretched between. Together, God shaped the land befit for climes he would soon create.
“Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit.”
Plants sprouted in vast reaches across the land, fruit and grain and seed. Trees towered high as the rocks, reaching and growing ever taller.
“Impressive,” Michael said.
Again, Gabriel had not noticed his brother’s approach. “Observing?”
“As always,” Michael sighed. “I believe I am ready, but He has insisted that I continue studying first.”
“I cannot imagine that studying a little longer would cause you any harm,” Gabriel said.
“You are most likely correct.” Michael regarded him at a severe angle from the corner of his eye. “When will you begin?”
Gabriel scowled at that, bristling. Why, he was unsure, but the question rankled him nonetheless. “When He says I am ready.”
“I am beginning to get the feeling he might not ever inform us of such an event.” Lucifer had slipped up beside him and spoken right in his ear, much to Gabriel’s chagrin.
“You do not trust Him.”
Stoic, unreadable, Lucifer observed the earth. “I do. That you would question my faith speaks truth to my behavior as of late. I am sorry, my brothers. I do not mean to sow discord.”
And then he was gone. Michael turned to leave as well, but Gabriel placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you follow him?”
“Do you not?”
Gabriel considered the earth again. “I follow Him. Only Him.”
Michael smiled. “That is as it should be. Stay. I will return.”
And then he was alone but for God and the earth.
Gabriel observed, marveled at the now calm globe, that orb of land and sea and sky, and saw that it was good.
That evening and morning were the third day.
When He spoke to the angels, Michael and Lucifer were nowhere to be seen. “Rest now, my children. Tomorrow, we will begin anew.”
The Fourth Day
“Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven.”
In the deepest dark of night, light bloomed. Pinpricks dotted the velvety black sky, and Gabriel watched with his brothers and sisters. Deliberately, God poked holes through the void, and through them streamed Heaven’s light.
“To divide the day from the night. Let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years.”
Perforated, the once empty dark streamed with tiny dots of light. Awed by His genius, Gabriel gazed upon the lights, those that God deemed stars, and his heart soared.
“Let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the Earth.”
A great white orb coalesced in the dark near the break between water and firmament. Pockmarked, it shined its pale light, just bright enough to cast an eerie glow upon the Earth. And then it sank into the water, and the sky brightened in the east, black to blue to purple, then blossoming with fire. More terrifying than Earth, the tremendous inferno rose from the water, utter chaos contained in a sphere. And God named them moon and sun.
“Ingenious,” Lucifer commented. “Now we can literally count the days in which we do nothing.”
“You would do well to bite your tongue, brother,” Michael retorted. “Watch and learn as He instructed, as Gabriel and I obey.”
“That is all we have ever done,” Lucifer sighed as he leaped away on golden wings.
“What do you believe is troubling him?” Gabriel asked.
Michael said nothing, only shook his head as he returned his attention to God and His work.
Gabriel, too, observed. Despite his trepidation, despite Lucifer’s worrisome words, his heart filled with hope. Boundless, like the endless black beyond the sun. He observed the shaped globe and saw that it was good.
That evening and morning were the fourth day.
God smiled upon them and said, “Rest now, my children. Tomorrow, we will begin anew.”
The Fifth Day
“Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life.”
The deepest depths of the ocean filled, brimming with life. Whales and fish and all manner of sea creatures took shape.
“And the fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven.”
Overhead, feathery wings parted the clouds, beating back the wind. Beaks and talons and keen eyes canvassed the land and seas below.
And for the first time in thousands of years, Gabriel felt compelled.
Unto you I bequeath a gift…
Create. The desire to create, to please his Father and build in his image, spurred Gabriel into action. He slipped away from his family, unseen and unheard, to focus on his task.
Sea and sky permeated his thoughts, his imagination. Try as he might, God’s impressive work dictated his subconscious, invaded his entire existence. Sea and sky. Flight through water. Slick feathers, oiled for swiftness, for… swimming.
Penguin, for Gabriel deemed it such. His own creation. The first of many.
By the time he returned to his family, his imagination was teeming with more creations.
“What have you done, Gabriel?”
So enthralled by his gift, Gabriel had not noticed Lucifer parting from the throng of angels. “What do you mean?”
“What is that? That… fish… bird. The fishbird,” Lucifer stammered.
“I call it a penguin. He is quite adorable, no?”
Lucifer opened his mouth to speak, but before he uttered another syllable, Michael manifested beside him, seeming to peel from the firmament and take shape from nothing. He glared his righteous glare down upon Gabriel and asked, “When were you given permission to create, brother?”
“I…” Gabriel began, but the lie would not come, would not pass his throat, his lips. “I have not. I began on my own.”
Lucifer’s eyes nearly popped out of his thick skull, but Michael remained still as stone. Together, they obeyed, each for the last time. And when Gabriel looked upon God’s work, he saw that it was good.
That evening and morning were the fifth day.
And God looked upon his children, spirit stoic and unmoved. “Rest now, my children. Tomorrow, we will begin anew.”
Begin anew, indeed, thought Gabriel.
The Sixth Day
“Let the earth bring forth the living creature, cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth.”
Of course, God could see everything. Gabriel had anticipated as much. Hoped, even. But the penguin had garnered him no approval, no praise. Not that he had sought it out. God had, however, granted all His children the gift of creation. For what reason? To craft.
“Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.”
Our likeness.
Creation. Man, in our image, Gabriel thought. So he created. Methodically. Meticulously. Curiously. God was all-knowing. But Gabriel knew only that which God had imparted on him. Only that which he had observed. In all those days, those centuries-long, millennium-reaching days, not once had Gabriel witnessed a sense of humor. God had granted him that knowledge, the wonder of mirth, merriment, and mischief. And yet, Gabriel had not observed such from Him. Nor his brothers and sisters. In fact, he had not heard a note of laughter his entire existence.
Not until the day he himself had created the penguin.
Our likeness.
Ironic, he thought. God had created flightless angels, called them Man, and bestowed upon them the earth and all His creations as their domain. He had also ordered the angels to observe and create in His image.
So Gabriel created with great intent, purpose. Not to mock, but to emulate.
That oughta get His attention.
The emu took several hundred years to perfect. That pointed face and the beady eyes, fluffy pointless feathers. And those legs. Running. That’s what they were for. Gabriel saw his creation and it was good. But not good enough. Not for Him.
So he started anew, just as God did. A good, long examination of the emu suggested room for improvement. Too large, disproportionate. Start smaller, even. Shorter legs, smaller body. Quaint, really. Adorable, even. And Gabriel created the kiwi, petite in every way. He saw his creation and it was good. But not good enough. Not for Him.
Again, he started anew, approaching his next creation from the opposite perspective. Huge, stretch the legs, the body, the neck. Pushed to his limits, Gabriel’s imagination reached as far as he could. Aggressive, powerful, and deceiving, the ostrich manifested from his mind. Gabriel saw his creation and it was good. But not good enough. Not for Him.
While consistent, Gabriel lamented his theme. God’s creation of flightless angels, those he called Man, were beautiful. Gabriel had come to the conclusion that, despite his Father’s all-knowing perfection, He was not without his flaws. Vanity. Pride. Worst of all, wrath.
Man. Bow down to His creation, and they will love you, God had said. And so they did. All the angels had bowed down to Man. Well… not quite all. Most of them. In His infinite wrath, God cast down his favored son—the Morningstar—and his small coterie of angels loyal to him. They had forsaken their Father and so He damned them for all eternity, burning in a pit of lightless fire. Bound in eternal darkness, Lucifer and his brothers abandoned their post, twisted into great, evil things. And thus, the war for the earth began.
But Gabriel paid it no mind. He had one purpose, one that God had given him so many millennia ago. Create.
So he started anew, focused on aesthetic over function. Small, but unlike the emu or kiwi, he envisioned large, webbed feet, fit for swimming. But unlike the penguin, these flightless fowls would float on the water, wade through shallow ponds and only dive for the smallest of creatures, for plants. A plethora of ducks, each with their own name, populated the earth. Gabriel saw his creation and it was good. But not good enough. Not for him.
Once more, he started anew. A little of God’s wrath found him in those days. And he created an angry creature, one filled with God’s wrath and powerful enough to threaten Man. Another variation on the emu, but with plumage to match the fury in its dark little heart. The cassowary, Gabriel deemed, would emulate the rage with which God had wrought on his favorite son. He saw his creation and it was good. But not good enough. Not for Him.
Fine. If He was too busy babysitting Man, that was just fine. No theme, no intent, no emulation would work. Fuck observations. He had wasted his time, as far as Gabriel was concerned. Might as well throw caution to the wind. Something had to stick.
For the last time, he started anew, his final bid for approval. A little bit of this, a dash of that, a hint of them, and maybe a pinch of whatever that was over there. Mammal, bird, reptile, he threw whatever would stick to the wall at that final attempt. He exhausted his every molecule on that absolute anomaly of a creation, and by the end of the day, that day that lasted a thousand years and none, he called it platypus. Gabriel saw his creation and it was good.
Too good.
“Gabriel.”
So focused on his work, Gabriel had not noticed God watching him.
“What have you created this time, my son?”
He cradled the awkward creature in his arms, so full of fear.
“Show it to me.”
An order. Not a request. Gabriel’s hands shook as he turned to Him, clutching the platypus to his chest.
“Oh.”
The scrutiny with which God examined his creation filled Gabriel with dread. Strange, that sensation. The shaking hands and weak knees. Though he had experienced fear in his earliest days of existence, it had only been for his own life. But there under God’s measuring glare, Gabriel cradled another life in his arms. One he had created. He feared for it. No terror greater than that existed, as far as Gabriel was concerned.
“Gabriel, I am sorry,” God began. “You were doing so well. Until now.”
Hate. God had imparted the knowledge of hate on him. Why, he would never know. But Gabriel hated himself. Hated his desperate need for approval. Hated his obsessive behavior. Most of all, he hated Him. For he finally knew what God wanted.
“You must unmake it. It is… incongruent.”
“That was the point,” Gabriel retorted.
Too stoic. Too stone-faced. Then again, Gabriel expected no less from Him. “You must unmake it.”
“I can’t.”
“Cannot? Or will not?” He paused, and Gabriel squirmed beneath his glare. “You are completely capable, my son. You choose not to. I am giving you an order and you, like your insolent brother, are choosing not to obey. Should I cast you out like I did him?”
“No, sir,” Gabriel said. “I… I will do as you have commanded.”
When He nodded, a great weight lifted from Gabriel’s shoulders. His hands no longer trembled and his knees no longer quivered. “Good. Once you have finished your task, report to Michael.”
A void carved out a space in his heart, a space where a great power once lived. “What? What did you—”
“Unmake this abomination and report to Michael on Earth.” As He spoke, a surge of power, of righteous rage, filled the void. Fear fled at the sight, replaced by that divine fury. “You are a soldier, now, my son. A lieutenant. Michael has a great need for a mind like yours. Go to him and assist him in the war.”
Gabriel swallowed hard, tongue thick and dry in his mouth. “Y-yes, sir.”
“But take care of that first.” He pointed at the platypus. “I never want to see it again.”
Gabriel looked at the innocent creature in his arms and tears filled his eyes as it looked back at him. “Yes, sir.”
God left him alone then, and Gabriel wept. Unmake. Undo. So callous, and yet, not harsh enough. He wanted him to kill an innocent creature. He wanted him to become the wrathful, spiteful being that He was. An archangel. No more creations. No more imagination. He shuddered at the thought of violence, of vengeance. He hoped Michael would understand his apprehension. Maybe he would allow Gabriel to work for him in other ways. The last thing he wanted to do was fight.
He stared at the platypus, so calm, so serene in his arms. And it looked back at him. Again. So full of life. Of Gabriel’s love. How could anyone disapprove of such an innocent creature?
God had finally seen his creation, but it was not good.
That evening and morning were the sixth day.
“I won’t hurt you.”
The Seventh Day
Time dragged on Earth. Ages passed in the blink of an eye. By the time God had finished his work, Gabriel had made a name for himself, a general amongst generals. With each victory, Michael entrusted him with greater tasks, greater responsibility. And Gabriel did as ordered, dedicated to the cause. He believed in the mission. For the most part. Hunt down evil, defend the innocent. Humans had done nothing to deserve Lucifer’s wrath. It wasn’t their fault God favored them over any other creation.
God. If anyone was to blame, it was Him.
Rest, He had said on the seventh. As He had allowed the angels to rest, so too He rested. But it seemed God was intent on resting for eternity. Hide nor hair had been seen of the great spirit, their Father, not in a thousand years. Not that Gabriel cared. To be honest, he appreciated the independence. The autonomy. After so long on his own, working for Michael, he had grown accustomed to conducting himself how he saw fit. Especially as he worked.
And he had leaned into that work well enough. Michael regularly put him behind enemy lines, infiltrating military units, tricking high ranking officials into trust. But his latest mission had long since gone awry. Lucifer was in the wind and Azazel had covered their tracks well. Well enough that Gabriel required relief. With all leads exhausted, he needed a fresh start.
Great glaciers towered over him where he sat on a riverbank. Below that massive mountain of ice, he admired the power, the raw force of nature bearing down on the lands ahead. Though it moved at its own miniscule pace, that glacier would galvanize the world. The treeline would continue to recede each decade, each century. And the icy mountain itself would bow to the land through which it cleaved. Crystal blue would fade to slate gray, then give way to green pine and grasslands.
If they won.
Coursing river froth churned at the banks, and Gabriel listened. Birds sang their myriad songs, and the winds rustled through young leaves on stout branches. Musty stink wafted to his nose on that breeze, the unmistakable stench of a brown bear. The thick forest bed shifted nearby, and Gabriel spotted the camouflaged doe and fawn, their stag, a sentinel standing watching for the prowling wolf. And near the river’s edge he spotted a family of ducks, his ducks, those ridiculously flightless things he had created so long ago. Little ducklings waddled along behind their mother and over the bank to paddle across the river.
And then there was Man. The nomads foraged and hunted as they trekked across the tundra. Inspired, Gabriel took wing to search as they did. Each leap spanned a continent, from swathes of desert to great oceans, from tropical canopies to lands of packed ice. He visited the penguin, the cassowary. Then the ostrich, the emu, the kiwi.
A final leap brought him to a shallow creek, its dulcet babble quieting his confusion. Why there? Why that tiny, little river? He pushed the questions side and, for the first time in so many thousands of years, he observed. Intense heat scorched the land, but copious trees lined the riverbank. He knelt to the water and cupped his hand. The surface broke with a ripple that reached out, reverberated against the opposite bank. He followed the concentric circles as they returned to him. And then he saw her. No, not Plato, not his first. But one of her descendants. With her own family as they swam to their home in the tree roots, their little river weirwood.
Precisely webbed feet navigated the water as their duckbills skimmed the surface. Then they scurried through the portal and into their dam, chased by their mother. And as quick as it had started, it was over. The platypus and her family were home.
A buffeting of wings ruffled his hair, and Gabriel knew it was time. As he stood, he said, “Come to collect me, Castiel?”
Castiel placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gabriel. We need you.”
He nodded. “I’ll be along in a minute.”
Castiel followed his stare to the dam and squinted. The mother platypus emerged from the dam and swam to a nearby tree. “What is that?”
“Nothing,” Gabriel stated.
“Why are you watching it?”
Gabriel shrugged. “Because I…” He paused and thought for a moment. “Never mind. Go, brother. I’ll follow you.”
Another flap of dark wings carried Castiel away. Strange, that one. But a good solider. Always did his job and did it well. He would accomplish great things if he kept that path.
Gabriel grinned a crooked grin and laughed, shaking his head. He turned on his heel, refreshed, reinvigorated. A small part of him wished he could still create. Revisiting his favorite had renewed old sensibilities. Unfortunately, it was time to get back to work. After all, Michael would be wondering where he was after a century away. He had even sent Castiel looking. But as he leaped, gilded wings taking flight, vindication filled his heart.
“Worth it.”
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