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Title: Redemption Songs
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The archangel Gabriel played jazz in a small bar off Bourbon Street.
Author's Notes: I wrote this ages ago, hoping to make it part of something longer, but now I'm using it as part of my GenPrompt Bingo table using the prompt 'The Company of Strangers' as my Wild Card.
“No one has ever done anything so bad they cannot be forgiven – they can’t change.” – Lindsey, Supernatural 5x03
The archangel Gabriel played jazz in a small bar off Bourbon Street. He went every Sunday – religiously, ha – to listen to the old men talk in their soft, drawling voices, and to play the trumpet. It was a form of prayer in a way: jazz could be anything. He’d usually start with a cover of something famous, but as the music filled him it would change, and it would become something more angelic; something that a heavenly choir could really sing to.
There were no heavenly choirs in the bar. There was Jake, the barman, who’d laughed at him the first time – a scrawny white guy thinking he could play jazz in N’Orleans; there was Old Joe, who had wrinkles in his face like the Grand Canyon and who never failed to tell Gabriel that he had “a God-given talent, boy”. There were the young’uns – who were all in their seventies – Willie, Bill, and Young Joe, and there was Gabriel, who could remember the stars being born.
He’d been honest for the first time in centuries there, and told them his real name. None of them realised the truth. Why would they? They thought he was a talented kid from one of the big houses across Pontchartrain, and they tapped their toes and smiled and wept as he played for them. They had no reason to think that he was anything more than he seemed, even when he stopped the bar from drowning (too badly) in Katrina.
“Miracle there weren’t more damage,” Jake had said, and had poured him a Kahlua without asking if he wanted anything else. He never did.
The truth was, Gabriel loved New Orleans. He loved the beaded girls at Mardi Gras, and the curls of the wrought iron balconies of the French Quarter; he loved the taste of crawfish and bourbon; he loved the music that pulsed through the city like it was blood. It was the perfect place for someone who wasn’t human to come out and play, because no one would bat an eyelid. It was dark and violent and full of shadows, and for a few hours every week Gabriel would let his grace rise with his music and scrub some of those shadows away.
He had a God-given gift, after all.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The archangel Gabriel played jazz in a small bar off Bourbon Street.
Author's Notes: I wrote this ages ago, hoping to make it part of something longer, but now I'm using it as part of my GenPrompt Bingo table using the prompt 'The Company of Strangers' as my Wild Card.
“No one has ever done anything so bad they cannot be forgiven – they can’t change.” – Lindsey, Supernatural 5x03
The archangel Gabriel played jazz in a small bar off Bourbon Street. He went every Sunday – religiously, ha – to listen to the old men talk in their soft, drawling voices, and to play the trumpet. It was a form of prayer in a way: jazz could be anything. He’d usually start with a cover of something famous, but as the music filled him it would change, and it would become something more angelic; something that a heavenly choir could really sing to.
There were no heavenly choirs in the bar. There was Jake, the barman, who’d laughed at him the first time – a scrawny white guy thinking he could play jazz in N’Orleans; there was Old Joe, who had wrinkles in his face like the Grand Canyon and who never failed to tell Gabriel that he had “a God-given talent, boy”. There were the young’uns – who were all in their seventies – Willie, Bill, and Young Joe, and there was Gabriel, who could remember the stars being born.
He’d been honest for the first time in centuries there, and told them his real name. None of them realised the truth. Why would they? They thought he was a talented kid from one of the big houses across Pontchartrain, and they tapped their toes and smiled and wept as he played for them. They had no reason to think that he was anything more than he seemed, even when he stopped the bar from drowning (too badly) in Katrina.
“Miracle there weren’t more damage,” Jake had said, and had poured him a Kahlua without asking if he wanted anything else. He never did.
The truth was, Gabriel loved New Orleans. He loved the beaded girls at Mardi Gras, and the curls of the wrought iron balconies of the French Quarter; he loved the taste of crawfish and bourbon; he loved the music that pulsed through the city like it was blood. It was the perfect place for someone who wasn’t human to come out and play, because no one would bat an eyelid. It was dark and violent and full of shadows, and for a few hours every week Gabriel would let his grace rise with his music and scrub some of those shadows away.
He had a God-given gift, after all.
