Sorry for taking so long to post an update. P.S. this story is now on AO3.

His head feels like it's about to explode, voices and words and images, emotions, filling every brim and pushing out on his skull, not this bone skull of the vessel, his actual skull-okay, let's stop there. His brain's a lot tougher than that. Hell, if an orgy with Romans and their gladiators didn't fray a few ends, this sure couldn't.

Or could it?

The trickster broke away from his family millions of years ago. Millions. Not hundreds of years, millions. Humans hadn't even evolved from their dimwitted (they were actually a fun gang to party with) ancestors. He knew he didn't want to be a part of whatever-that-was going to be. A hundred and twenty five percent sure. The other angels were still following their Daddy's footsteps, helping along all the organisms to their right fates. He was in charge of the reptiles.

Dinosaurs. Fucking awesome, right? He didn't stop at one or two, that'd be idiotic, no, he created a whole array of gigantic reptilian creatures.

Turned out humans, Dad's little trophies, could never even get to their time with those boogers around. No mammals could actually. Dinosaurs had to be killed, not as amazingly he had wanted. No, they said. Fire and destruction bad for the atmosphere. Our humans have to live, silly.

So flooding. Drowned every last of those bastards. He is still upset about that honestly.

They could've gone out with a bang, but they didn't.

Where is he going with all of this? Right, angels following God, but even then there were hints at rebellion, hatred of humans, blah, blah, blah. The trickster never felt like he fit in, boo hoo, and he became a Pagan god. Had a lot of fun. Still has a ton of fun.

And then those damn words had to find him. "Gabriel." Gabriel. He hasn't been called that in millennium.

It happens again, and again. Some…some kid talking to him. The second time his name is said, he's already in the motel room. Sam Winchester, thirteen years old, at Haughton High School currently, one older brother, one younger brother he doesn't know about on the way, and a father-where is John? Ah, there, Minnesota.

Why is Sam so upset? He hasn't called on his Grace in a while, besides calling up food and nice silk sheets for his favorite romps, oh shit, he left that mind blowlingly hot girl back at his 'house'. He should go back to her, damn could she make some gorgeous little noises, and yet here he is, starring into Sam Winchester's soul.

He's a good kid. Doesn't fit right in with his family, can't conform to be a soldier. Gabriel knows that feeling a little too well. He hasn't quiet felt the dark spot on his bright soul; however, yeah, he's not familiar with demon blood coursing through his blood. Plus, he's pretty damn sure none of his brothers have marked him with a huge yellow sign that screams, "Don't touch! Do not touch! I repeat, if you touch and fuck up the future for all of humanity, you will be killed. Mutilated. Mauled."

Eh, what can the trickster say? He's a bit of a fuck up (a major one, really) and he doesn't like to be told what to do.

So he touches.

Thaaaaaat came out wrong.

He does what he does best, he snaps his fingers and voila, there's the answer to all Sammy's problems right by his ear.

Chocolate.

Can't go wrong with chocolate and nougat. And caramel. Yum. Sam seems to like it. There. One good deed and act of rebellion for this century. The trickster stretches his wings and flies back to the girl with no name.

Thing is, the 'prayers' don't stop.

He can't help it, he looks deeper into Sam's life and learns that the kiddo has prayed to just about all his brothers and has given up on everyone he knows. So, the ex-angel (by rank only, he'd never give up his mojo) can't come out and tell Sam about the colossal flag on his back because the angels have some huge mumbo jumbo plan. He damn sure can't tell Sam about that dark splotch on his soul.

The kid is very organized. Every other day, five o'clock on the spot, Sam calls him up. He tells him about his day, just about everything under the sun and heaven, and asks an ass ton of questions. Maybe the trickster cannot answer verbally, but he can write them down.

What? Wasn't like it took a lot of effort.

Sam's favorite seems to be:

"Why candy?"

Uh, duh. It's the best thing. Ever.

"Why don't the other angels answer me?"

They're douches. Nope, scratch that. Mega douches. If you aren't in their charge, you're not gunna get answered. Hey, Monday babies rule!

(Well, that's not technically a lie, is it?)

"Dean left. Juvie. I…just, is he coming back?"

Kiddo, you should be worrying about how you're going to get rid of that man.

"Is something wrong with me?"

Yes. You read awful books. Pick up something better. Like some freaking mythology. That's fun stuff. Or porn, teenagers like that, don't they?

Sam's going to love it. A long, multiple page handwritten list of all the answers to all that crazy kid's questions. He even made it organized! Like Sam does. And in cursive, just like how the kid writes all his homework. The trickster is going to hold out, though of course he will put out, always does. Shit. Again, that came out wrong.

Short and sweet: The trickster holds onto the pages until its Sam's fourteenth birthday.