#angel!reader

The absence of your Grace felt different at night. During the day, it was easier to ignore.

There were distractions in the daylight. Research spread across the war room table. Sam reading quietly beside you in the library while he mindlessly tapped his foot. Dean dragging you out on pointless drives around the various Kansas roads just because the sunset looked good from behind the windshield of the Impala. Grocery stores and gas stations and diners and all the tiny, wonderfully mundane things that filled a human life.

But at night? At night, the world became quiet enough for you to feel the echo of what was missing. 

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, staring at the flickering bulb above the dinner table while the rest of the bunker slept around you. Once, you would’ve been able to hear Heaven. Hear the choirs of your siblings. Feel their presence and know that they were near. Could feel the vastness humming just beyond existence. But now, there was only silence. Human silence. Heavy and finite.

The first few weeks after Seraphiel’s death and your celestial tampering to have Heaven lose your name, had been terrifying. You kept expecting someone to realize what you had done and come for you. Kept waiting for the universe to correct itself. Kept waiting for Heaven to come dragging you back into the shape you were supposed to occupy. Sam had called it anxiety. The constant fear that a heavenly army was doing to descend from the sky and enact righteous punishment for your actions.

You pressed your hand to your sternum and turned your eye inwards, towards the place where the faintest trace of your Grace remained. A fading ember buried beneath layers of humanity. Sometimes it flickered when you were emotional enough. Sometimes when you grew frustrated with the mechanics of human inventions. Sometimes when Dean kissed you like he was trying to memorize your existence.

But it wasn’t enough to be anything. Not enough to take back your celestial mantle. You couldn’t heal. Couldn’t do miracles. Couldn’t smite. The stars no longer spoke to you. You missed your wings. The thought hit you hard enough that your breath caught. For one weak moment, the remaining fragment of your Grace stirred in response to the ache, and light shimmered faintly behind you. You turned to look.

For the briefest second, you caught sight of your winged shadow cast against the far wall. Translucent. Flickering. Broken at the edges like smoke. Your throat went tight. Despite everything, it was still you. You remembered what it felt like to fly. Not the mechanics of it but the freedom. The feeling of stretching across creation itself. You remembered what it felt like to exist without hunger or exhaustion or fear. Remembered what it felt like to carry eternity inside your ribs. The memories should’ve comforted you. Instead, grief rolled through you so abruptly that you nearly doubled over from it. You weren’t sure if the noise that escaped you was a laugh or a sob.

“Feathers?” Dean’s voice came rough with sleep behind you. You turned fully to look at him and found him standing in the doorway in sweatpants and an old Led Zeppelin shirt, hair sticking up in every direction. He looked ridiculous and human. And yours. His expression softened the second he saw your face. “Oh, Feathers…” You looked away from him and sniffled.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Yeah, well, kinda hard not to notice when you vanish from bed at two in the morning.”

You glanced over your shoulder again, and the whisper wings behind you was gone. Dean walked towards you, stopping just in front of you. His eyes drifted to where your shadow rested against the wall, and he understood in a heartbeat. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t need to. Instead, he wrapped a hand around the back of your neck and pulled you into him, pressing his forehead to yours, the way someone might check for a fever or proof of life. His other hand settled at your hip, grounding you. You didn’t realize how tightly you were holding yourself until that moment when something in your chest finally loosened.

“I gave up eternity,” you said after a moment. You swallowed hard, searching for the words that would fit the feeling between your ribs. “There are days I still feel it,” you admitted. “The absence. Sometimes I think there’s a part of me that will always ache for what I was.” Dean was quiet for a moment. Then,

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably.” You looked at him, only partially startled by the honesty. There was no easy reassurance waiting for you. No insistence that humanity erased the loss. Dean understood loss too well to lie about it, and his brand of bluntness was oddly refreshing. “You lost a whole universe, Feathers.” The nickname made warmth bloom in your chest, bittersweet in all the right kind of ways. “You don’t have to pretend that it doesn't hurt.”

It did.

But knowing the truth of it didn’t make it hurt any less. You wished it did. You leaned into him, your forehead still pressed against his, and let yourself breathe. The silence between you wasn’t empty. It was the kind of quiet that only existed when someone was willing to stand in the middle of the kitchen with you and not say a word. Dean’s thumb traced a slow, absent arc against the back of your neck.

“Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice,” you whispered, a confession. Dean pulled back slightly, studying your face. His hand remained on your neck, warm and steady.

“You didn’t make a choice,” he said after a moment. You blinked at him, confused. “You weren’t really given much of an option. They sent you down here thinking you’d come running back to Heaven once you saw how bad us mud monkeys are.” His hand slid from your neck to your shoulder, and he squeezed you gently. “But you stayed anyway. Even when it hurt. Even when you realized what you would have to lose.” His voice softened. “That’s not a choice. That’s who you are.”

The words settled into you differently than you thought they would. They weren’t a comfort, exactly. But they rang true regardless. You looked down at your hands, turning them over in the dim light of the kitchen. Human hands. Capable of breaking and healing and holding.

“I think that I was always going to end up here,” you said. Dean squeezed your shoulder again, a silent encouragement. “Even before Seraphiel sent me here. Even when I was an angel.” You closed your eyes, feeling the truth of your words settle into your bones. “I was always going to love humans. The capacity was always there.” Dean cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized was there or had fallen. His touch was gentle and reverent.

“I think you were always more human than you gave yourself credit for,” Dean said, his voice low and rough. He stroked your cheek. “Maybe you were always supposed to become… this.” You leaned into his touch, letting the warmth of his palm sink into you.

“This…” you repeated. “This human who still doesn’t understand social cues?” Dean’s lips quirked up into the half-smile you had come to adore.

“Yes, this human. The one who makes coffee just to smell it. The one who thinks bad movies are an art form. The one who keeps eating my cereal and putting the empty box back.” You let out a soft laugh, the sound surprising you with its lightness.

“It seems rude to just throw it away without telling you.” Dean’s smile widened.

“It’s rude when I grab the box and find out it’s already empty.” The tone in his voice was light. He paused, studying your face. “You doing okay, though?”

You considered his question, taking an extra second to really think about it. In that moment, with only the faint ashes of Grace left inside you, you realized that the ache would probably never leave. There were always going to be nights where you missed your wings so fiercely that it hollowed you out. You were always going to have moments where you caught yourself instinctively reaching for power that no longer existed. You were doomed to grieve the angel you used to be for the rest of your human life.

But humans lived beside grief every day. They loved beside it. Laughed beside it. Chose each other beside it. And maybe that was the whole point. Humans weren’t meant to erase pain or outrun loss. But it was a matter of deciding that something was worth hurting for.

“Yes,” you said. “Thought I’m not sure I understand why. Nothing has changed.”

“Sometimes just saying it out loud helps.” He shrugged, thumb still tracing patterns along your jaw. “Getting it out of your head and into the air where someone else can help you carry it.” You nodded, understanding slowly dawning. That was what set humans apart from angels. Not the pain or the loss, but the fact that you could share it. The fact that you weren’t expected to carry everything all by yourself.

“Humanity is much more complex than Heaven gives you credit for.” Dean’s smile grew warmer, and he pulled you into a hug. You went easily, resting your forehead against his chest and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“It’s definitely different from divinity. But different isn’t always worse,” he murmured against your hair.

“No,” you agreed.” Just unfamiliar.” You stood like that for a while, wrapped in each other in the quiet kitchen. The loss of your wings and Grace and celestial nature didn’t disappear, but in Dean’s arms, it felt less like an ending.

“Come back to bed,” he whispered, his breath warm. “You’re shivering.” You hadn’t noticed the chill until he mentioned it. You nodded against his chest, pressing closer to him for a moment before pulling away.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” you said again, though the apology didn’t feel necessary.

Dean’s hand found yours, fingers lacing together as he led you back towards your shared room. The hallway stretched before you, your bare feet padding against the cold concrete floor. The hallways always felt like they were longer at night, the shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. Dean’s hand was warm around yours, his thumb tracing small circles against the back of your hand as you walked.

“Hey,” he said softly as you reached your bedroom door. “You good?” You looked up at him, studying the way the light caught the planes of his face. The stubble along his jaw. The gentle concern in his eyes. After everything, he still asked. Still cared enough to check in.

“I’m okay now,” you said. Then added, “I think I am.”

Dean’s mouth quirked up at one corner. He reached past you to push the door open, and you followed him inside. The bedroom was dark except for the light shining in from the hallway that spilled across the rumpled sheets of his bed. Your bed. Your shared space. The place where you had learned to be human in the most intimate ways.

“You know,” Dean said, his voice low as he closed the door behind you, “I don’t think I ever asked you before.” You turned to face him in the darkness, confused.

“Didn’t ask me what?”

“I never asked if you were sure that you wanted to stay.” He moved closer, his hand finding your hip. “You never actually said it out loud.” You knit your brows together and tilted your head slightly.

“I thought it was obvious.”

“I mean… yeah, you’re here, but you know what they say about assuming.”

“What do they say about that?”

“You make an ass out of– you know what, never mind. I’d just like to hear you say it.” The gravity settled around you both like a blanket. You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath your fingertips.

“I want to stay,” you said, deliberate and certain. “With you. With Sam. In this bunker. In this human body.” You smiled up at him even though he likely couldn’t see you. “I want to wake up in the morning and burn toast. I want to argue about which movie to watch. I want to learn how to change a lightbulb.” Your voice went soft as you cradled his face in both of your hands. “I want to stay with you, Dean Winchester.”

He pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you with a fierceness that made your breath catch and dragged you down onto the messy bed with him. You yelped in surprise, and he quieted you with a kiss that found your nose before the second one met your lips.

“Just checking.” Another kiss. “I just needed to hear it.”

You leaned into his touch, feeling the calluses on his palms against your sides. The physicality of everything grounded you. The warmth of his hands. The scent of him that had become so familiar. The steady rhythm of his breathing that matched yours.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m staying.”

He rolled so you were laying on top of him in the dark, your legs tangling with his as you found your balance against his chest. His hands moved up your back, tracing the ridges of your spine through the sleep shirt.

“You’re not alone in this.” You nuzzled your nose against his. The grief that had gripped you moments ago in the kitchen softened, replaced by something more tender. Something that felt akin to belonging.

“I know,” you whispered. “I think it’s still going to hurt sometimes.”

“Good,” Dean said. “Pain doesn’t make you weak, Feathers. It just proves that your heart is real.”

You hummed softly, kissing him in the darkness. Dean answered immediately, one hand sliding into your hair while the other settled against the curve of your waist. The kiss lingered, unhurried and familiar. There was no urgency to it. No desperation. Just certainty in an existence that was full of ambiguity. You pressed closer to him until there wasn’t space for anything else between you. The steady beat of your hearts pressed to each others’ chests. Human. Finite.

Real.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as he rolled onto his side, guiding you with him. The mattress dipped beneath your combined weight, sheets tangling with your legs as the world narrowed to warmth and soft breathing and the feeling of being held. The ache in your chest was still there. It probably always would be. You’d miss your wings. You’d miss the stars. You’d miss the impossible vastness of what you had once been. But as Dean’s hand slid up your back, the grief no longer felt like an open wound. It felt like it was just another piece in the grand shape that was you.

His thumb brushed across your cheek. You kissed him again. And again. Each kiss seemed to pull you further and further away from the memory of heaven and deeper into the life you had chosen for yourself. Tomorrow would bring research and hunts and coffee and arguments and all the small pieces that made up a life. But tonight, there was only this. Dean’s arms around you. The warmth of shared breaths. The promise of morning. You let yourself sink into it. And when his lips found yours again, the rest of the world faded away.

You had been made of light, once. Of starlight and song and holy fire. 

But now, you were made of so much more.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Like my stuff? Buy me a Ko-fi 💜☕

Ashes of Grace series Taglist: @sepho @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reginaphalangelobster @kellyls04 @lilylilyyyyyy

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!

Heaven always felt a little more quiet around Seraphiel. Not silent, exactly. Heaven thrummed with hymns and distant choirs and the steady vibration of creation itself, but where other angels burned bright and sharp, Seraphiel carried a sort of stillness that seemed to swallow sound whole. You stood before them with your hands neatly clasped behind your back, wings tucked close in perfect discipline. The light around Seraphiel was soft when they approached you. Their usual blinding brilliance was muted. It was the kind that angels used in quiet places. When they weren’t looking to be overheard.

“You’ve been asking questions again,” they said gently. You turned to look at them but made no effort to deny it.

“I didn’t realize that observation was forbidden,” you replied. Seraphiel smiled at you. It was fond. Almost indulgent.

“It isn’t. But comparisons can be dangerous.”

“How so?”

“They can lead to dissatisfaction, especially to those who mistake curiosity for something else.”

“I’m not dissatisfied,” you said quickly. “I just don’t understand why human free will is celebrated when ours is treated like a flaw.” Seraphiel’s expression didn’t change, but something tightened behind their eyes

“Humans were designed to choose,” they explained. “Angels were designed to know.”

“But we do choose,” you insisted. “We choose loyalty. We choose obedience. We choose not to fall.” Their smile softened as though you had said something terribly naïve but endearing. Your hold on your own hand tightened.

“And that is why it matters when an angel begins to wonder what choice would look like without consequence.”

“I only wondered why their mistakes are called growth and ours are called betrayal.” Seraphiel stepped closer to you. They extended one of their wings, wrapping it behind you as they stood before you. They reached out, brushing their fingers against your cheek.

“Little observer,” they began, “you’ve always been different. More attentive. More… open to ideas.” You brightened at their words.

“You’ve noticed.”

“Of course I did. It’s why I wished to speak with you myself.” Hope flickered within you as you looked up at them. You relaxed slightly, unclasping your hands and letting them fall to your sides.

“Then you understand that I have no intention of rebelling. I just want to know.”

“Knowing can change you,” they said with a slow and thoughtful exhale. “And not always in ways you can undo.”

“I’m not afraid of change.” You gave them a reassuring shake of your head. 

“I know. That’s what worries me.” You frowned at the tone in their voice. Something felt off.

“You sound like you think I’ve done something wrong.”

“No,” Seraphiel said immediately. Too quickly, perhaps. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” They leaned down and cupped your face with both of their hands. “You’re simply standing too close to a truth you aren’t ready to carry.”

“What truth?” Seraphiel let go of you and stepped away, their wings sweeping past you as they moved. You turned to watch them.

“Others listen when you ask questions. They lean in close to hear your thoughts on humanity. They stop their singing in order to better hear what you have to say. Are you aware of that?” You shook your head.

“I am not responsible for the actions of others.”

“No, you are not,” they agreed easily. “A strong foundation is important for anything, angels especially. We are built on order. Others believe that it would take an army to dismantle our structure. But Heaven is more fragile than it likes to admit.”

“I don’t understand. I am merely one of many other Observers. I don’t have the influence to do something like that,” you insisted.

“You hold more power over Heaven than you realize.” Their voice wasn’t unkind, but there was a certain tension laced through it, weighing it down.

“Then what would you have me do?”

“You will go where we cannot. You will live. You will learn. And when the moment comes, you must remember what you are.”

“You’re going to have me forget?”

“Your Grace would anchor you too firmly,” they explained, voice softening. “You would not be able to experience humanity as they do.”

“But will I be safe without it?”

“My child, I would never send you somewhere unsafe.” You paused, taking everything in. They were sending you to Earth? Without your Grace or your memories to let you experience the very thing you questioned and were curious about? That was– 

“But I don’t have a vessel to walk among them,” you said, frowning. Seraphiel lifted a hand, and the space beside them rippled open like curtains being pushed aside. You stared as an image formed within the light. A woman. Human. Curled up in a cramped bathroom. She was lying in a puddle of her own vomit. Her eyes were open but unseeing, an empty bottle just beyond her fingertips. “She’s dying,” you murmured.

“Yes.” Seraphiel’s voice held no trace of concern as they spoke. “She is ready to rest, and you will be a mercy.” Your attention on the woman sharpened. She looked… tired. Tear tracks stained her cheeks. Something uncomfortable twisted in your chest. You had only possessed a vessel one other time. Not many Observer assignments required you to go down to Earth. But something about this seemed… off.

“How long do you intend for me to remain?” you asked, Grace flickering unevenly within you. Seraphiel’s expression gentled with something that bordered on pity.

“Long enough for you to understand. And come to your senses about humanity.” 

“And if I don’t?”

“You will.” 

Seraphiel’s words were resolute, and they thrummed within your very being. Even though you knew it was an impossibility, Heaven felt colder. You looked back at the human woman. The one who was to be your vessel for an unspecified amount of time. There was something suspicious about the way that this had all been arranged before you’d even arrived.

You took a step back before you could stop yourself. Seraphiel watched you carefully. Patiently. Like the way one might observe an animal approaching the edge of a snare. Understanding crashed into you, threatening to drown you. Your Grace flared hot with sudden panic, wings extending behind you. Not that you had anywhere to go.

“You’re banishing me.”

“No,” Seraphiel said smoothly. “I am giving you the opportunity to rise above this indecency.”

Everything around you was too much. Too bright. Too open. Your thoughts raced. Every conversation you’d had. Every assignment you’d taken. Every subtle correction whenever you questioned too much. It all culminated into this. Your gaze snapped to the entrance to the chamber. And for the first time in your existence, you thought about running. 

Seraphiel saw it instantly. They raised a hand, and the entire chamber around you trembled. “You will go to Earth, and you will learn the folly of mankind’s free will,” they said, voice carrying the weight of a command that crashed down all around you. “If there were any other way, know that I would take it instead.”

Fear hit you for the first time in your existence. Not fear of Earth or experiencing humanity. But of Seraphiel. Of the fact that you never truly had a say in any of this. You turned to run just as light exploded across the chamber walls. Your Grace surged violently, just once, before chains ensnared it, coiling around it like an endless snake. Your wings were compressed until they ached. The force around you tightened, and you could feel Heaven begin to slip away.

“No–!”

You reached for them, and your first human breath caught as you witnessed a hand – your own hand – extend in front of you. The sensation of falling overtook you just as the lock around your Grace clicked shut. Your celestial name echoed across the Heavens. The world went dark.

The church screamed around you, walls trembling as your Grace pulsed beneath your skin. Too much and not enough all at once. You could feel the instability of it. Most of you was still locked behind the chains they had put in place. Seraphiel was an ocean while you were a cracked cup trying desperately not to overflow. You couldn’t outlast them. They moved, and you barely managed to bring your blade up in time. Angelic metal shrieked against angelic metal as Seraphiel struck hard enough to unmake any being lesser than you. Instead, you met them head on. Your boots scraped over the broken pews beneath you, and sparks burst between your weapons.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Seraphiel hissed. You shoved them back with a strained cry, kicking off with one foot and letting your wings carry you sideways just as a burst of Grace detonated where your head had been mere moments before. The impact blasted stone chunks from the wall that had been behind you. Fragments of it rained down, and Seraphiel didn’t hesitate before they were on you again.

You skidded slightly over the shattered stained glass on the floor, and your human instincts took over before your angelic ones did. You ducked another swipe of their blade and stumbled backwards. Too slow. Seraphiel’s free hand caught you across the ribs, and the hit felt like getting hit by a semi-truck. Your breath left you in a violent burst.

You hit the ground hard enough to crater the splintered wood beneath you, broken pew legs snapping under the impact. Seraphiel didn’t let up. They descended on you in a blur of brilliant light and wings, their blade driving down towards your throat. You caught it with your own, the force of it shoving your arms trembling towards your chest.

“You are exhausting yourself,” they said, voice low and almost sorrowful. “Why cling so desperately to something so temporary?” Your elbows buckled another inch, and desperation surged through you as your death drew close.

“Because I’m one of them now.” Seraphiel’s expression deepened, frustration worming its way across their features.

“It hurts you.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “But the pain is worth all the good things.” Your Grace surged in response to your conviction. Light flashed beneath your skin like lightning trapped in veins not suited to contain it. The chains around your Grace tightened somewhere deep inside you, and agony ripped through your chest as you pulled on it. Seraphiel’s blade twisted. Your arms gave out completely. Steel slammed towards your throat. You threw your hand up on instinct.

A chunk of your power broke free from its restraints, and a blast tore through the church in a screaming wave of light. Seraphiel was hurled backwards through three rows of pews before crashing against the altar. It cracked under the impact, the sound deep and sacrilege. You gasped, pushing yourself to your knees then up to your feet.

It was too much. too fast. Your Grace bled from your fingertips in uneven flickers, dripping like liquid at first before dissipating like smoke mid-fall. Your vessel screamed in protest as you forced yourself to your feet, every nerve ending on fire. You were beginning to understand it now. This vessel had worked just fine for you so long as your Grace was locked away, but now you had the issue of compatibility. You could feel your vessel’s cells making and unmaking themselves dozens of times in the space of a second.

Across the sanctuary, Seraphiel rose from the wreckage, unharmed. They didn’t even appear winded. The realization hollowed your stomach. They stepped over the broken remains of a pew with dreadful calm. Their Grace filled the church until it became difficult to breathe around it.

“You cannot keep this up,” they warned, stalking towards you with deliberate steps. Your blade shook in your hands, and Seraphiel raised an eyebrow and they saw it. “Oh, little one,” they murmured. Not mocking. Worse. Fond. “You were never built for war. That was never your purpose.”

Something ugly twisted in your chest. Maybe once, that tone would’ve worked. Once, you would’ve folded beneath it. You would’ve mistaken their control for care. Their obedience for love. But then Sam gave you the permission to be uncertain. Dean taught you how to do things without purpose. You had learned how laughter sounded when it echoed down the bunker halls. You had learned about choice. And now you could see their manipulation for what it was.

Seraphiel moved again, but this time, you moved first. Your wings carried you upwards just before Seraphiel obliterated the floor where you had just been standing. The force of it cracked straight through the foundation beneath the church. Wood and stone flew up from the impact site before collapsing downwards. You dove through the falling debris, and your blade met theirs midair. The clash rang like a bell.

Grace detonated between you both in shockwaves, rippling out and shaking the whole building. A beam overhead cracked, and your attention snapped to where Sam stood, still frozen by Seraphiel’s working of Grace. You kicked off of Seraphiel and were by Sam’s side in an instant. You pressed your hand to his shoulder and let your Grace sink into him, digging into the binding the same way Sam had once explained how he tackled cases. Not through brute force but by finding the right thread and pulling on it. It unraveled beneath your intention, and Sam gasped sharply as his world unfroze.

“What–” His gaze landed on you immediately. You were sure you looked awful. You could feel it in the way your existence leaked through your vessel’s skin.

“Listen to me,” you began. But he cut you off.

“No. Whatever you’re about to say, we’re not leaving you here.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t get that choice right now.” You grabbed his arm and blindly reached for the space that felt deliberately obstructed from your sight. Sam pressed his lips together in a thin, frustrated line and shook his head even as he guided your hand. Confident that you had a hold on both of them, you focused on where the Impala sat outside of the church. Your feet had just barely touched the ground before you turned back.

“Feathers,” Sam said. You paused, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Come back, okay?” You nodded before spreading your wings and meeting Seraphiel head on.

Seraphiel fought like inevitability. No wasted movements. No hesitation. There was nothing frantic about them. Every strike carried overwhelming force behind it, the kind born from millennia of certainty. You met them blow for blow, but you gave ground every time they struck. Seraphiel pressed harder, elegant and merciless. They fought the way stars moved. Predictable only because perfection always followed rules. Every attack flowed seamlessly into the next.

And that was their problem.

Humans survived by adapting.

You ducked late instead of early. You swung before you were properly balanced. You stepped into a strike before you were fully prepared to catch it. Seraphiel’s blade struck yours just as they expected, but instead of pushing back as you had before, you let your arm go slack. The sudden lack of balance threw them off for half a heartbeat. Just long enough for you to slam your body into them shoulder-first. The collision surprised them more than it hurt, but the surprise was all that you needed.

They staggered half a step, and you took advantage of it to grab a fistful of their robes and pull them towards you, driving your forehead into their face. The crack echoed through the church. Seraphiel recoiled in genuine shock, one hand flying instinctively to their nose, though there was no blood to find. Angels didn’t fight like that. Not with desperation. Not with the kind of violence that came from creatures who knew they could die.

“You–” They sounded almost offended. You kicked their legs out from under them before they could recover. It wasn’t graceful or dignified. But it was effective. They caught themself instantly, but you were already moving, not into a better spot to fight. Not where they expected. Not where a celestial warrior should’ve moved. Hunters survived by making the other thing uncomfortable enough to make mistakes.

And Seraphiel had never needed to learn how to recover from mistakes.

Their blade curved towards your ribs in another immaculate arc. You didn’t dodge. In fact, you let it cut into you, pain ripping hot across your side as you stepped into their reach rather than away from it. Too close for comfort. You slammed the hilt of your blade into their wrist. Their fingers spasmed. It wasn’t enough to disarm them, but it broke their rhythm.

Seraphiel’s power flooded the sanctuary like a cathedral hymn while yours came in bursts. Heartbeat pulses. Sudden surges tied to fear and fury. It was unstable. It was human. Seraphiel could see it. Every strike cost you. Every burst of power tore something loose inside you. Your vessel was beginning to break apart.

“You are unraveling,” they said, driving you backwards. “Your Grace is disordered. Corrupted by emotion. You will burn your vessel out.” A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. Breathless and a little hysterical.

“Yeah,” you gasped, “then I guess I’ll burn.”

“You will cease to exist.”

“I know.”

Seraphiel’s expression darkened with something more than frustration. Something that you thought might’ve looked like fear. You pressed your advantage, driving forward despite the pain in your side. Seraphiel’s blade had cut into your very being, and no amount of Grace could fix it immediately.

Seraphiel’s strikes grew faster. Sharper. You had irritated them. Their movements became increasingly devastating in their efficiency, each attack aimed to end the fight immediately. Stone exploded where their Grace touched. Entire chunks of the sanctuary disintegrated from near-misses. And the angrier they became, the more predictable they grew. And perfection had patterns where humanity did not.

You took another graze across your shoulder and attempted to drive your blade through them, but Seraphiel seemed to see what you had in mind. They struck you across the face hard enough to send you sprawling again. Your blade nearly slipped from your fingers as your vision doubled. You landed among the broken stone and rubble, and you forced yourself upright again, unsure if the wet feeling along your side was blood or Grace or some strange combination of them both.

Seraphiel approached slowly. Almost pleading.

“You would put yourself through all of this for them?” They made a vague gesture at your fracturing vessel. You looked up at them, one hand braced on your knee, blade still clutched like a lifeline, and the other steadying you on the floor.

You thought of the bunker kitchen. Of Dean handing you a warm mug of coffee. Of explaining the strange syntax of proto-Sumerian to Sam in the library. You thought of the way the land passed outside of the Impala windows on a drive. Of the times you, Sam, and Dean sat around the table eating a shared meal. Of the way Dean looked at you. Of the way he called you Feathers like the name meant something significant. You smiled up at them. Seraphiel had stopped less than a couple feet away from you.

“Yes.” You lunged up at them, driving your blade through Seraphiel’s heart. “I’d do this a thousand times for them.”

Light erupted from the wound in a catastrophic burst. Seraphiel gasped, their angel blade slipping from their grasp and clattering to the ground. Their vessel went rigid, mouth opening in a silent scream as Grace poured from their eyes and mouth and wound like liquid starlight. You watched, transfixed, as Seraphiel’s true form unraveled from within their vessel. Your vessel’s eyes burned, searing themselves from the inside out, but you couldn’t bring yourself to turn away.

Then all at once, the light died.

Seraphiel’s body slumped, and you went down with them. Your hands and knees hit the stone and the floor cracked beneath you, a deep groan splitting through the ruined sanctuary. Your angel blade rang against the rubble and went still.

Your Grace had come loose from your vessel. It moved through you in the wrong directions, pressing outward against the inside of your vessel like something trying to get out. It leaked through your wounds. Each surge burned. Each lull was worse. Your vision strobed. The air tasted like copper and ozone and something older than either. You couldn’t tell if you were still bleeding. You couldn’t tell much of anything. Your arms were shaking. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat felt too loud inside your vessel. You swayed where you knelt.

Something inside you gave way. The chains, the ones Seraphiel had wrapped around your Grace before casting you down, were breaking. They didn’t shatter so much as they unraveled link by link. Each celestial restraint dissolved into drifting motes of pale light that floated weightlessly in the cavern of your soul. They rose slowly like dust caught in sunlight before dissipating. But there was nothing beneath them. You had already pulled your Grace free from them for the fight.

The church groaned around you, and you looked up sluggishly, only barely able to make out a massive crack in the ceiling overhead. With all the destruction wrought by a celestial fight, you were a little surprised the structure hadn’t come down sooner. But it was collapsing now, beams cracking and crashing down around you. And somewhere outside, Dean and Sam were waiting. You reached for your Grace instinctively.

But there wasn’t enough left.

The truth of everything struck with terrible clarity. You had burned through almost everything just to stay alive, and now the last of it was guttering out like a candle at the end of its wick. Angels burned out when their Grace was exhausted. You had seen it happen only once before. But you never thought you would feel it from the inside. Your vision blurred as exhaustion rolled through you in crushing waves. The floor pressed cold through your palms, though you couldn’t feel your hands.

Your thoughts went to Dean. The way his fingers tapped on the steering wheel in time with the music. The way the light caught his eyes when he smiled. The weight of his hand on the small of your back. The way his hand felt in yours.

You thought of all the human things you’d learned. Messy things. Small things. You wanted them. God, you wanted all of them. You didn’t want Heaven. You didn’t want purpose or eternity or the cold mathematics of the divine. You wanted the Impala. You wanted bad diner coffee and Sam correcting your idioms and Dean’s laugh, low and surprised, like joy still caught him off guard sometimes. You wanted every ordinary, exhausting, breakable human day you hadn’t lived yet.

So you prayed. Not upwards. Not to anything that had never answered. You prayed the way humans prayed in their final moments. Desperately. Without dignity. With everything you had. You begged. Not for the sky to save you. Not for redemption or for another chance at taking back your angelic mantle. But you begged for a chance to stay on Earth. Begged for Heaven to let you lay your wings down and keep learning the cost of every day. You begged for the mercy to continue the existence you had come to love. It was raw and graceless but entirely your own.

“Please,” you whispered, the words tearing out of you, “let me stay.”

The motes of Seraphiel’s Grace still drifted through you, faint as ash. You seized them, pulling them into yourself like a drowning thing frantically grabbing for rope. They burned like the first breath of existence, but still you reached for more. It wasn’t nearly enough to restore what you’d expended. But it was enough for one thing.

You let the Grace ignite within you, cloaking you in borrowed fire and light. Divinity returned to you, moving through you like an answer. Your wings unfurled one last time. Your prayer echoed back to you across the cosmos. You could hear your own broken voice begging. And with it, a second prayer. Addressed directly to you.

Come back to me, Feathers.

Humans prayed. Angels answered.

And you were overdue for a miracle.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Like my stuff? Buy me a Ko-fi 💜☕

Ashes of Grace series Taglist: @sepho @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reginaphalangelobster @kellyls04 @lilylilyyyyyy

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!

The mission church was far less impressive than you had built up in your head on the long drive. It stood in weathered disrepair at the top of a plateau that overlooked a small town that had seen better days. The wooden sign that had once boasted the church’s name hung crooked on rusted chains, the letters faded beyond recognition. Weeds and dried grass had reclaimed most of the walkway, and the stained-glass windows had been shattered long ago, leaving a jagged maw of empty space that stared out at the barren landscape. All in all, the place looked more like a forgotten tomb rather than a place of worship.

“Charming,” Dean muttered, opening the car door and kicking a loose stone aside. “Looks like no one’s been here in decades.” Sam shut his door, his boots crunching over the gravel as he surveyed the scene. You stepped out of the car, the wind immediately cutting through your jacket. The desolation of the place settled into your bones, and your Grace hummed faintly in response. There was a sense of abandonment that clung to every weathered beam and cracked window frame.

“You sure this is the place?” you asked, voice carrying across the empty lot.

“According to the records we found, yes,” Sam replied. He stepped closer to the structure. “The archdiocese transferred ownership to a small order in the 1970s, but they abandoned it after a few years. Said there was something wrong with the place.”

“Ghost story or actual ghost?” Dean asked, rolling his shoulders.

“Both, probably,” Sam replied, looking up at the broken windows. “Most of these old mission churches were built on Native American burial grounds. The church tended to ignore that little detail.”

You approached the front doors, noting the chains that had been broken long ago. This place had probably been trespassed countless times. The door hung on a single hinge and creaked as you pushed it open. A wave of musty air washed over you, reeking of dust and decay.

The interior of the church was the same as the outside. Pews lay toppled and splintered, their wood bleached gray by decades of sun streaming through the broken windows. The altar was somehow still intact, though the cloth that had once covered it was long gone. You wouldn’t have been surprised if vandals had carved into it, leaving initials or graffiti of sorts all over it. The crucifix behind it hung crooked, Jesus’s face weathered to a smooth featureless oval. His feet had been broken off.

“Not exactly welcoming,” Sam said, stepping beside you and pulling a flashlight out from his jacket. The light beam swept across the entrance area. “No obvious signs of activity. No footprints in the dust.” You moved deeper into the building, senses on high alert to every shift in the air, every creak in the floorboards beneath your feet. There was a strange tugging sensation pulling you in, and you paused at the first step of the raised stage.

The silence was wrong here. Not its presence or the distinct absence of sound – that was expected. But the quality of it felt strange. It was as if the entire church was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The air was thick with anticipation, and it bled into you with each passing breath. 

“Seraphiel’s here,” you said, keeping your voice low so as not to break the stillness too abruptly. Dean moved to your side, gun already drawn.

“Don’t see them,” Dean muttered, looking around. “Wanna tell ‘em to quit hiding?”

The church answered with silence.

Then, everything stopped.

It wasn’t gradual. Not like the world slowed to a crawl before pausing. It stopped so abruptly that your breath caught in your lungs. The wind outside vanished. The dust motes hanging in the shafts of sunlight peeking in through broken windows froze in place like flecks trapped in amber. Even the weak creaking of the old church beams went completely still.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath beside you. Then never exhaled. Your head snapped towards him. His body had gone entirely still, every muscle locked in place mid-sweep of the church. His fingers still clutched the grip of his gun, lips still parted as though he were mid-sentence.

“Dean?” you whispered. No response. You turned to see Sam standing a couple steps away with his flashlight raised, the beam frozen across the ruined altar. “Sam?” You grabbed Dean’s arm, and dread raced up your spin when he didn’t react. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you moved to him, waving a hand in front of his face. Nothing.

Panic surged within you, and you grabbed for the knife at your hip. It wouldn’t do you much good against an angel, but it still made you feel better to have it in hand. You held it in front of you, blade brandished. Your Grace thrummed restlessly in its space. Dean flickered in your peripheral vision, edges of him threatening to blur.

There was the soft sound of wings cutting through the air. A figure stood in front of the altar where only dust and shadow had been a moment before. You instinctively placed yourself between Sam and Dean and the figure, arms extended on either side of you.

Seraphiel didn’t look the way you remembered. There was familiarity there, buried beneath the strange wrongness of time and distance. They stood beside the ruined altar, looking weary in a way that humans never did. Their vessel was weathered, draped in dark robes that looked priest-like at first glance. Silver threaded through their hair, and their face was angular in a strangely beautiful way.

But their eyes– You would’ve recognized those eyes anywhere. They held galaxies.

They held your gaze with the same quiet fondness that a parent might look upon their kid with. You swallowed hard, a sense of veneration filling your chest. There was a compulsion to bend your knee and revere them. You fought it.

“You shield them,” Seraphiel observed. Their tone was gentle and soft, but there was an edge tucked just beneath it that demanded respect. You lifted your chin.

“Release them.” You planted yourself more firmly in front of the brothers. “They don’t have anything to do with this.”

“And yet you have brought them along regardless.” Seraphiel’s gaze drifted past you, settling on the Winchesters. There was nothing in their expression. No anger. No hatred. If anything, there may have been a hint of curiosity. “You need not worry about them. I merely wished to speak with you without interruption.”

“Couldn’t you have just asked?”

“Would they have allowed that?” A faint smile touched Seraphiel’s mouth. You didn’t answer. Because, no, Dean wouldn’t have. The silence stretched between the two of you, thick and suffocating. You were acutely aware of the ruined church around you. The broken Christ behind the altar. The dust. The rot. The emptiness. A mission church abandoned by its people. You slowly lowered your arms when Seraphiel didn’t move.

“I came here for answers,” you said at last.

“I know.” Seraphiel’s voice echoed strangely through the church. It wasn’t louder than it should’ve been, but it was somehow… fuller. Like the building itself carried each word. “You have been searching for quite some time now. I’ve seen your confusion. I’ve watched your struggles.” Their gaze softened. “I can assure you that it was never abandonment.”

Hope flickered in your chest, but half a moment later, caution tempered it.

“Then, why?” you asked. “Why take my Grace? Why make me forget? Why not simply give me orders as you always had previously?”

“Because you needed to learn what it meant to be human without the bias of your celestial nature.” Seraphiel’s expression shifted, a shadow passing over their features. “You needed to understand humanity’s capacity for choice without the filter of your Grace.”

“Free will,” you clarified. The word hung in the air between you. Seraphiel nodded once, and relief loosened the knot that had been forming in your chest. “Then what was my mission?” You took a careful step forward, lowering the blade in your hand. “I heard there were rumors of a fall.”

“Yes.”

“So… Heaven believed that another angel might defect?” You took a careful step forward, lowering the blade in your hand. Seraphiel was quiet, regarding you for a long moment before responding.”

“There was… concern.” The word sounded clinical in their mouth. Detached. As though they were speaking of strange weather patterns rather than a cosmic catastrophe.

“And I was sent to…” Your voice faltered, brow furrowing. “To observe? To understand early signs of free will?”

“Mm… in part.” Seraphiel’s tone was neutral. They turned and glanced at the altar, sweeping their hand across the top of it as though they were brushing dust aside. Unease wormed its way through you. Their answer was… vague. Was it simply because you were communicating in the imprecise language of humans? Perhaps Seraphiel simply wasn’t used to speaking in human tongues.

“Could you elaborate?”

They stepped away from the altar, robes whispering against the wooden floor of the church. In their wake, though, the dust remained untouched, leaving no trace that anyone or anything had been through here.

“You, little observer, have always viewed humanity differently than the others.” They drew closer to you, standing at least a head above you. “You lingered among them. You listened to their prayers long after your duties were complete. You admired their resilience.” Seraphiel lifted a hand and brushed their fingers along your cheek. You looked up at them, exhaling softly and instinctively leaning into their touch. “You loved them.”

“They are our Father’s creation. We were meant to love all of His work.”

“You are correct. And that is precisely why you were sent.” Your throat went tight. Seraphiel’s hand fell away, and they moved past you, circling the frozen form of Dean with quiet curiosity. Their fingers hovered just above his shoulder without touching, as if studying a fascinating specimen. You watched them, fighting every urge to reach out and grab their wrist and pull them away from Dean. “Heaven remembers Lucifer,” they continued. “It remembers what admiration for humanity became.” Your Grace shifted beneath your ribs, something unsettling pressing at the back of your mind.

“No.” You shook your head. “Lucifer hated humanity. He envied it. He wanted to ruin it so that Father would love them less.”

“And yet,” Seraphiel began, “it began with curiosity.” Their hand dropped to their side and they turned back to you, stepping closer again. “It began with questions. With fascination. With the desire to understand humanity rather than merely shepherd it. This was the lesson, little observer.” You tilted your head slightly.

“I don’t understand.”

“You were sent to learn,” they finally said, their tone warm and patient. “To walk among humanity without the certainty of Heaven cushioning your judgement. To experience their choices firsthand.” Something was off. On the surface, this entire conversation sounded... cordial. Straightforward. But there was a sense of danger laced in the undercurrent of it. You couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

“And... I did,” you said. A faint smile touched Seraphiel’s lips.

“Yes. You did.” Something about the way they said it unsettled you. The knot in your stomach tightened. “You witnessed humanity’s cruelty. Its selfishness. Its violence. You experienced betrayal and fear. You suffered because of human choices.”

Memories flickered through your mind in sharp flashes. The harpy’s talons gouging into your shoulder. The way the blood felt between your fingers. The sharp ache in your ribs from your encounter with demons.

“You were meant to understand the burden of free will,” Seraphiel continued quietly. Something sparked within you.

“No,” you countered. “I learned that humans suffer because they have choice. But I also learned they love because of it. They sacrifice because of it. They choose to put themselves through pain because there are good things that make it worth it.” Your mind pulled up the memories of the quiet moments with Sam in the library. Of grilled cheese sandwiches and pie. Of the way Dean looked at you. “Free will isn’t a burden. It’s what makes humanity human.”

The church fell silent. Seraphiel’s expression wavered slightly, a flicker of annoyance coloring their features.

“But angels are not human. Heaven cannot function under the weight of choice.” Seraphiel folded their hands behind their back, circling you with deliberate steps as they spoke. “You’ve witnessed firsthand the instability of free will. It is chaos. It is contradictions. Humanity destroys itself with alarming consistency.” Their gaze sharpened. “And yet you still admire it?”

“Yes. Because without the contradictions, humanity would not be the creation Father loves so much.”

Seraphiel heaved a heavy sigh, though you knew from experience that it wasn’t necessary for them in their vessel.

“That...” they said solemnly, “is what I feared.” Seraphiel walked away from you, hands still clasped behind their back. “The rumors of another fall did not emerge from thin air. Doubt began spreading through Heaven long before your descent.” They stopped at the altar again before turning back to look at you. “You used to speak of humanity with reverence. You questioned why angels were denied choice while humans wielded it so freely. You wondered whether obedience held meaning if it could never be refused.

“You were beloved.” There was no warmth in the compliment. “Others listened when you spoke. They trusted your judgement. They admired your compassion. And you inspired others to ask questions angels were never meant to consider.”

“No.” You shook your head. “You– you’re saying it like I was leading some kind of rebellion.”

“You would have.”

The words slid between your ribs like a blade. Your knife slid from your fingers, clattering to the ground as you stared wide-eyed at Seraphiel.

“You did not intend harm. And that is precisely what made you dangerous,” they continued. 

“No,” you repeated, your voice faltering. “I didn’t–”

“You inspired curiosity in others. You made obedience sound optional.”

“But that’s not what I–”

“It is where your path was leading.” The edge beneath their voice sharpened. “You were already beginning to love humanity more than Heaven.”

“That’s not true,” you argued. Their gaze flicked to Dean, and you instinctively moved to place yourself between them and Dean. Seraphiel raised an eyebrow. Their expression softened with something pitying. You understood. Seraphiel saw it happen.

“You see now,” they murmured. “Even stripped of your Grace, you still choose them.” A pause. “You still choose humanity.”

The realization crested over you. Slow. Horrible. This had all been a test.

“I wasn’t sent to stop a fall.”

Seraphiel shook their head.

“You were going to cause it.”

The words hollowed you out. They shattered every notion you had about yourself. The word no hovered at the back of your throat, but you couldn’t force it out. Because somewhere deep beneath the panic that rose in your chest, more memories had already begun clawing their way back to the surface. 

Angels gathered too closely around you after assignments had ended. The way they lingered around you as you asked questions and offered answers you could only speculate about. Some of them looked thoughtful afterwards. Hopeful, even. You remembered asking things that had seemed harmless at first. Why create being capable of thought if thought itself was forbidden? Why give humanity freedom but deny it to Heaven? Why was obedience considered holy if it had never been tested?

Your Grace twisted painfully inside of you. Seraphiel watched with mournful patience.

“You see now. You were never malicious, though. And that is why I grieved for you.”

“You locked me away because I asked questions?” Your throat went tight, fingers curling into fists.

“Because others listened to what you had to say.”

“I didn’t want a rebellion.”

“No,” Seraphiel agreed. “You wanted understanding. But understanding leads to choice.” They tilted their head. “And choice is the first fracture.” You shook your head again, this time more insistent.

“No. You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“I’ve lived among them. I’ve seen the bad that humanity is capable of. But many still choose kindness. They choose each other and connection and love. Dean– Sam–”

“Are precisely the problem.” The sharpness in Seraphiel’s voice cut through yours. You flinched. Their gaze drifted past you towards Dean again. Towards the frozen shape of him standing motionless in time. “You attached yourself to them. You defended them. Protected them. Loved them.”

“Love is not a sin.”

“Your love is the death of obedience.”

The air in the church seemed to pulse as your Grace stirred violently beneath your ribs, reacting instinctively to the rising tension. Dean’s presence flickered in and out of your awareness. Seraphiel noticed, lifting their chin and looking down at you. Their expression was almost affectionate. It was worse than anger.

“You are suffering now,” they said. “You feel torn because part of you already understands the truth. Heaven cannot survive beings who prioritize personal desire over divine order.” They took a single, slow step towards you. “Look at what humanity has done to you.”

“Humanity has taught me how to choose.”

“Yes,” Seraphiel said sadly. “And now you would choose them over your own brethren.”

You opened your mouth to argue. Nothing came out. Because Dean was still behind you. Because even if Seraphiel demanded it... if they asked you to walk away from him... You already knew you wouldn’t do it. Something ugly flashed across Seraphiel’s face at your silence. Not anger. Disappointment. “Oh, little observer.” Their tone was condescending now. “I tried so very hard to spare you this.”

Cold dread slid down your spine.

“Spare me what?”

“The burden of becoming another Lucifer.” Your breath caught in your throat. “You think a fall begins with hatred.” Seraphiel’s voice echoed through the church, fuller now than it had been moments before. Heavier with the burden of what needed to be done. “But they begin with affection. With sympathy. With the belief that one knows better than Heaven itself.”

“I am not Lucifer.”

“No. You are worse.” The words hit harder than they should’ve. Because Seraphiel believed them with every fiber of their being. “You inspire. Lucifer ruled through pride and fear. But you... You make disobedience feel like a mercy.” Their vessel creaked as their Grace bled into the room. The shards of the stained glass on the floor trembled. 

“No,” you said again, more desperate as you took a step back. Your stomach dropped. “Please, Seraphiel, listen to me. I don’t want to see Heaven fall. I don’t want any of it. The rumors of a fall have already ceased in my absence. Isn’t that enough?”

“You cannot exist as you are now,” Seraphiel said. “Not safely.” Another step back. Seraphiel didn’t move. “This is why your Grace was sealed away. Why your memories were taken. I prayed humanity would wound you enough to correct your flaws.”

“You wanted me to suffer.”

“I wanted you to understand and come back to your senses.”

“And if I had?” 

“Then you would have returned willingly,” Seraphiel said with a sad smile. You reached behind you, your hand finding Dean’s frozen form, defiance burning within your chest. There were still questions you didn’t have answers to.

“Why Dean? I understand you taking my Grace and my memories. But what was the purpose of veiling Dean from others?”

“You’ve seen what he did to Castiel. I could not risk his influence extending to others. The fractures that formed through your questions would have grown worse were he allowed to speak with others.” Seraphiel’s voice bore down on you. “The Winchesters have a way of twisting angels from their purpose. I foresaw it happening to you. Long before you showed signs of falling.”

“Then what now? He remains invisible to Heaven for the rest of eternity?”

“Yes. And Heaven will remain intact. He is human and can be forgiven.” Seraphiel’s voice went soft with regret. “You, however, cannot be redeemed. And I must perform the mercy I should’ve granted you long ago.” 

Your pulse stuttered as terror punched cleaning through your thoughts. The church groaned around you. The air pressure changed in an instant. You barely had time to gasp before Seraphiel lifted one hand. Their Grace exploded outwards, the force slamming into you like a freight train.

Pain detonated through you as Seraphiel’s Grace hurled you sideways. Your shoulder caught the edge of a pew with a crack that split both wood and bone. The momentum carried you through the next bench and the next, each impact a new register of pain. Splinters raked across your arms and cheeks like broken teeth until the back of your skull found stone and the world dissolved into a high, colorless whine.

It came back all at once. The cold stone beneath your cheek. The warm copper flooding your mouth. Above you, a hole in the vaulted ceiling framed a jagged piece of the pale sky, and the edges of it pulsed with each heartbeat. You rolled onto your palms, crying out when your left shoulder shrieked in protest and refused to bear any of your weight. You slipped and barely caught yourself with your good arm. Your hand pressed into something wet. You looked down. A dark smear across the stone.

Across the nave, Seraphiel had not moved from the altar steps, their vessel completely still, their Grace a pressure in the room like the moment before lightning struck. They watched. They waited. To see if you would force their hand. To see whether you would stay down.

You didn’t.

You dragged yourself to your knees, fragments of splintered pews biting into your shins. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. It came away bloody.

“You were made of light and divinity and holiness yet you stand in rubble and pretend to be dust.” The voice didn’t come from Seraphiel’s mouth so much as from the walls themselves. From the trembling rafters. From somewhere behind your own eyes. “You do not deserve the name our Father bestowed upon you.”

You looked at Dean, frozen mid-breath and oblivious to the world around him. You memorized the line of his jaw, the particular way his weight settled into his left hip, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes. You held onto all of it, etching it into your mind. Then, you closed your eyes and reached inwards, past the pain and into the place where your Grace had rekindled itself into something hot and insistent.

It answered immediately, and Dean vanished from your awareness. Your Grace flooded through you, rushing through your limbs like water finding every crack. The iron taste in your mouth dissolved. The splintered wood fell away from your skin as the wounds were unmade. Your shoulder was whole. You felt your wings press against the inside of the air, and you let them unfurl behind you. Light gathered at the edges of your vision. Your blade was already in your hand.

“I don’t need it,” you said, and your voice carried the resonance of something far older than the building around you, “because my lover calls me Feathers.”

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

Like my stuff? Buy me a Ko-fi 💜☕

Ashes of Grace series Taglist: @sepho @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reginaphalangelobster @kellyls04 @lilylilyyyyyy

Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!