#scripture .

                    nearby,    the church bells toil loudly,     proclaiming his arrival.    the earth smells of a summer storm,    and a flock of disillusioned sparrows leaving barren the branches only foreshadows the looming of heavy downpours.    where he had stood,    the ground still trembles    —    now,    amidst the empty town square,    lounged atop a worn,    wooden bench,    michael merely looks on.    he knows,    instinctively,    that she is lingering there,    before her voice cuts through the air,

@petrovafired​​​ / katherine says :     you look like the world hasn’t been kind to you.

     ‘ just keep walking, potter. ‘ it’s a bit of a surprise when she slips up beside him, hooking their elbows together as she proceeds to steer him to the left. ‘ so---dinosaurs. what do you know about them? ‘

              ❝    you are not from here,    ❞       the archangel begins,     borrowed gaze straining with the shifting static outlines,   momentarily unable to sharpen the figure.   eyes squint to catch any traces of permanent physicality,    before head tilts in wary curiosity as he looks to them,    voice a gentle coax,    ❝  or from anywhere   ...   how come ?  ❞  

it is a retrograde of sorts that causes him to halt,    a momentary regression,    this enormity of their encounter.    it is a kind of mutual haunting.    where he stands,    covert wings heavy with an inkling,    he is merely statuesque.    michael looks straight ahead,    as if beyond her,    eyes unfocused in thought.

@undawn​​​​ says :  you are familiar and strange at the same time.

despair is a broken church,    the remnants of something sacred that has died and has rotted there,    or an evil that has taken root in the empty crevices,    or rotten roots.    a house of worship without faith is just a house.    what is an angel without reverence,    then?   humans have pondered over such concepts for centuries  —  the meaning,    the purpose,    the grand scheme of existence  —  and michael had thought them endearing at the time,    in a sentimental sort of sense;    a shepherd overlooking his sheep,    aimlessly grazing at their pasture;    these days,    he feels as lost as them  —  the earth and the heavens,    all together,    the disillusioned prisoners in the allegory of the cave.

@tobeblamed​​​​​​ said  —  twice is coincidence.    three times is enemy action.

❝    are we keeping score,    dean?    ❞    the archangel remarks,    the sharp edges of the veiled words of warning softened by slight bemusement.    if nothing else,    he has always found the winchesters’ audacity amusing.

            ❝    your crusade against my father is hopeless as is;  you cannot afford to make any more enemies in your current predicament  —    ❞     the simple act of being here,    leaning against the wooden edge of the table,    at the center of the bunker,    in essence,    is an act of betrayal against his ideals,    and his faith,    and his Lord.    but he’s here nonetheless,    eyes tinged with holy light boring into the figure of the hunter,        ❝    —  so cease the hostilities.    ❞

@ofpsalms​​​​​ said  —  killing gets easier with practice,   in mechanics and technique.   having killed never does.

a man sits amidst the rows of vacant pews  —   only he is not a man,    but an angel,    and there is no vacancy,    for the kingdom of heaven sits behind,    all around,    everywhere,    in tandem.      (  it’s a fine line,    he considers,    observing the woman,    between hunters and their hunt.  )     they are a strange kind of in-between creature,    not at home with man,    nor monster.    intimately aware of what lurks beyond the light,    where they were never meant to go.    they’re human,    they commit their little human acts,    and communicate in their usual ways,    with their jokes,    and gestures,    and expressions,    but if he were to glance beneath rib and bone,    in the garden of flesh,    from the blood-soil of which the soul blossoms,   they are fundamentally sick  —  the pathogenesis of the dark is this  —  the blood of the monsters slain staining their hands,   their hearts.

          ❝    no,    i don’t suppose it does.    ❞    he agrees out of courtesy,    words tinged with something sad,    something shaped like pity.    its ultimately hollow,   an attempt at consolation that does not come to him naturally,    a compassion he must will for her.    in truth,    michael doesn’t suppose anything,    because he doesn’t understand,    not in any way that matters.    there is no place in an angel for guilt,    or grief;    no more than there is within a statue,    or a mountain.    he leans on his cane as he stands,    the brass topper gleaming with the might of heaven,    crossing the distance between them,    overlooked by the throne of st. peter.    the sound reverberates off the walls of the basilica.    accompanying his stride,    a breeze chimes with the sweep of unseen feathers.    a flurried moment,    then hush settles.    the night settles.  

❝    the fight for justice has never been an easy one,    nicolette.    ❞      god grew man like a flower  —  the archangel’s head cants as though in thought  —  and no flower can thrive where darkness dwells.     ❝    at times,    necessity may outweigh your ideals;    but careful you do not betray your principles and lose your way.    ❞    

these bones of hers ablaze  —  these tendons of disguise  —  the flesh that divulges a bundle of broken images  — -  a burning field,   or rather a burnt landscape,   stones stained with the ashes of its aftermath.    there’s something burning below the blood and bone of this woman.    a bright outline.    perhaps its something much like the grace thumping wildly beyond his own flesh confines.    something that does not belong here.    flame to flame,    their eyes meet.    this tucked away bar at the end of a lost street is devoid of life,    near empty as the clock draws closer to the witching hour,    and it seems as though even his demons in their right minds have scattered to their wretched holes.    leaning against the dark,   ragged counter,   he cants his head to the side,    marginally,    overcome with the tendrils of this thought that push at his peripheral.    a curious gaze falls on the figure draped in mystery as she speaks.    he squints,   and the grin that spills over his features is like blood from a wound.