Hello, hello~ Welcome to my corner of the internet! I'm Avery! I've got starry-eyes for both Sam and Dean Winchester (because why choose?), and you'll find me moonlighting as a writer every now and again! I've got a soft spot for romance and happy endings, but what's all that without some heartache? My inbox is always open – come talk lore, love, or your latest hyperfixation! This is a safe space!
--- Avery 💜💜💜
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Supernatural Music Studies: cliche by mgk x Dean Winchester
@ambiguous-avery okay so I LOVE this song sm!!! That's why I decided to start with this, but I will be doing the others soon!!
I looked at this from a Dean x GN!Reader point of view, I hope you like it and I'd love to hear your thoughts about it too!
Tell me, would you wait for me? Baby, I'm a rolling stone - Dean's a rolling stone, he goes from town to town, plus he'd so listen to Paint It Black, among others
I got a lotta right in me - Okay none of them think they have right in them but let's pretend they do
But I don't wanna say this wrong. Tell me, would you stay with me? Maybe we could make this home - Dean doesn't wanna mess things up with the person he finally finds and he's desperate for the apple pie life
You should run away with me, even if you're better off alone - Dean thinking he's selfish for wanting a relationship with somebody, thinking you'd be better without him, but he doesn't care because all he wants is you
I like that you like me, I kissed your lips, you got good taste. I like that you like me, I could close my eyes and draw your face - You cannot tell me this isn't Dean when he's in love. I think especially because he's not great with words, he won't write a poem or tell you every little thing that makes him love you, but this is the way he'd love
If you take this chance - He thinks loving him is 'taking a chance' because of who he is and what he does. He doesn't think you would be secure with him
I'll give you oxygen to breathe me in but I'll say sorry in advance - He thinks you need something to love him, like it's too hard for anyone to love him naturally, they need help, something to keep them alive when he's being...him. He'd apologize for everything, he'd apologize for you loving him, that's how messed up the poor thing is
My head's a mess, it's like that every day and I'll try my best - Pretty much Dean in a nutshell
It sounds cliché - Dean is a sucker for a good cliche. Once he finally finds you, his person, he'd use all the cliches in the book. He used to think they were stupid, but now, suddenly they all make sense
Your name is in neon light in the sky when darkness surrounds us - To Dean, you're the only thing that can bring him out of the darkness. All the guilt, the nightmares, the self hatred, you're what lights his way out
Let's leave this town, get married, go to Vegas and create nostalgia - Fully believe that at some point, Dean would joke about getting hitched at a 24 hour chapel off the boulevard when you're driving through Nevada. But it's not a joke. He plays it off as one when you laugh, he says it like a joke, but if you said yes he'd be renting a tux before you could change your mind
Tell me, will you save this dance? - If you did say yes, he'd ask you to dance at your 'reception'. It's the rooftop of a casino, no music, but he'd twirl you around like there was an orchestra behind you
I feel my knees get weak beneath me - This is how he always feels, but on your wedding day? God, seeing you walk down the aisle, all dressed up, he'd wonder what the hell he did right in life to have someone as jaw droppingly fantastic as you
I know this night might be our last - With the wedding theme, last night being single. On a general theme, so so so many apocalypses it's hard to keep count atp
Whew so sorry it took me forever and a day to get around to this!
I love this so much, and it's absolutely Dean-coded. I think there there is a fair amount of good in Dean alongside all the bad. Like obviously, if this man were real, I'd run the opposite direction so fast. But his heart's in the right place.
I'll give you oxygen to breathe me in but I'll say sorry in advance - He thinks you need something to love him, like it's too hard for anyone to love him naturally, they need help, something to keep them alive when he's being...him.
This is so Dean, but I also feel like he wouldn't outright apologize (because we see that Dean struggles with apologies) but he would absolutely apologize in his actions 💜💜💜
Tags: MDNI, 18+, smut, mutual pining, sex pollen, Dean getting a BJ. That's it.
A/N: You might have seen this over on ao3 already, thought it's time for it to find it's way here.
There's just nothing else I can think about while listening to this song. It's just Dean getting sucked off. Heavenly.
Life is a mystery
Everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like home
"Jesus!" You drop the plate you're drying as the man in the tan trenchcoat suddenly appears in front of you.
He looks down, frowns at the pieces of broken porcelain on the floor, before he looks back up at you.
"No, it's me. Castiel."
You stare at him for a second, then sigh.
"I— yes, Cas, I know. How are things?"
The angel nods, the usual stern look on his face.
"I must apologize, but I don't have the time for idle small talk. Is Dean here?"
You raise your eyebrows.
"Still such a charmer," you mumble before replying to his question. "I haven't seen Dean in months. Is he... is he okay?"
Ah, Dean. Dean, Dean. You're a grown woman, but somehow, Dean always makes you a little nervous, even if he's only mentioned. In a good way. In all the good ways, if you're being honest. You're friends, when he's in town you get a drink. He has this way of saying your name that's just a little different from how everybody else says it, it's not wrong or anything, just peculiar. It makes you feel fuzzy.
Sometimes you talk over the phone, he sends you the occasional gif of a happy dog. You reply with a joke about him being just like a puppy, and that's basically it.
He never knew you've been carrying a torch for him for years, and there's no reason for him to ever know. What you have, your friendship, is good, and you're not going to ruin it by confessing to him like a little school girl.
Castiel scratches his chin.
"We're not sure actually. We were on a case and Dean got hit by a spell. He seemed fine at first, but then he suddenly just took off," Castiel sighs.
He opens the door to the cabinet where you keep your pots and pans, checking for Dean, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a man his size would not fit into such a small space.
"Cas, Dean's not here, and he's not hiding in my laundry basket either."
Castiel looks over to the door that leads to your basement.
"Did you check?"
You roll your eyes, then go get a broom and the dustpan.
"Why do you even think he would come to me?" You try to sound casual, not that it's very necessary with the way inflections go over the angel's head anyway.
"The spell will compel Dean to do things,” he says in his gravelly voice. "Certain... carnal things. And Sam has the theory that it could only be reversed by someone who..."
Castiel is interrupted by his phone buzzing. He fishes it out of his pocket, looks at the screen. Turns it around by 180°, twice. Then he looks back up at you and simply says, "I have to go."
You barely have time to process, and then he's gone, as sudden as he came.
You stand there, dumbfounded. You look around, knowing you're not going to find Castiel, you know how angels travel. You shake your head, and then you start sweeping up the shards on the floor and decide to move on with your day.
When you call my name
It's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees
I want to take you there
In the midnight hour
I can feel your power
Just like a prayer
You know I'll take you there
You stretch, cookie crumbles falling from your blanket. You look at your empty glass of wine, then at the clock. 11:17pm. As Netflix asks if you're still watching you grimace, reach for the remote and hit yes, then pause.
Yes, you are still watching, even if your thoughts keep drifting off to the strange visit Cas paid you this afternoon. And to Dean. You wonder what kind of trouble he's gotten himself into this time. If it's another stab wound, or maybe something actually serious. And you wonder why Castiel would come looking for him here, of all places.
You glance at your phone, fingers itching to text Dean, to find out what's going on. But you've decided to try not to meddle too much in all things Winchester. They'll be alright. They always are. Or never. Depending on who you ask.
You slide off the sofa to get yourself another glass of wine in the kitchen. As you shuffle over to the counter, where, in great foresight, you left the bottle of Pinot Noir, your eyes wander to the kitchen window. You squint as you pour your glass, and then, refill in hand, wander over to have a closer look at the car you spotted across the street. A car that you know all too well, with its sleek black paint job and angry looking radiator grill.
You leave the house in your slippers, wrapping the thin jacket you're wearing around your body against the night's chill. Dean just gives you a side eye as you rap at the window.
"You know, if you want to be a stalker you should probably get a less conspicuous car."
He rolls down the window. Just a little bit. As if he wasn't sure he should be talking to you.
"Uh, hey," he slowly says, still not fully turning to you. You raise your eyebrows at his strange behavior, then just go for the handle and open his door. And Dean? Dean's confused, seems stunned, like he doesn't know what he's supposed to do, which is very unlike him.
"Come on, what are you waiting for? I'm freezing my ass off out here," you say, as you try to hook him with a charming little smile. It works.
I hear your voice
It's like an angel sighing
I have no choice
I hear your voice
Feels like flying
I close my eyes
Oh God, I think I'm falling
Out of the sky
I close my eyes
Heaven, help me
You almost have to push him inside. You're not sure why, but Dean's behaving like a goddamn mule. Even more than he usually does. When he's finally standing in your living room he looks around, scratches the back of his neck.
You've never seen him like this, so awkward, like he doesn't belong even though he's crashed at your place on multiple occasions and not even once had a problem walking around in his birthday suit when coming out of the shower.
You leave him standing there for a moment to go fetch him something to drink from the kitchen. Maybe a little bit of booze will loosen him up.
"Whiskey or beer?" You ask, glancing back at him weirdly planted next to your high table.
"Oh it's a whiskey kind of day," he sighs. Then, finally he moves, just a little, but it's progress. You pour him a glass of Jack, neat, as you know he prefers it, pick up your own glass of Pinot that's still waiting for you in front of the kitchen window and get back to the living room.
You manage to sit Dean down on your couch, shove the drink into his hand and sit close next to him. He flinches a little when your knee touches his thigh, but relaxes immediately as he takes a long sip from his glass. You've got a feeling he's faking it a little, though.
The small talk goes slow, you tell him about the wraith you ganked last week and the spirit that haunted the sauna of an uppity golf club upstate, but Dean refuses to tell you what he was hunting just before he appeared in your street. He doesn't even budge when you confront him about Cas showing up, looking for him.
But, ultimately, he seems to be getting a little more relaxed with every sip of whiskey. His torso slowly sinks into the cushions, he starts actually replying to your monologue. A cheeky smile appears on his lips now and then, and, somehow, his hand keeps brushing against different parts of your body.
Steadily, you're getting your old groove back, the friendly bantering that's an integral part of your relationship. Something's different though, you can't exactly put your finger on it, but the way Dean's looking at you, it's just... a little more intense than usual. One could almost mistake his look for the one he gives those girls, those who wiggle their tits at him, bite their lips when he makes a suggestive remark.
You know something's really up when his hand rests on your thigh, way higher than you'd normally let anyone touch without buying you dinner first. But it's Dean, so you let him. You're both still laughing at a story about a series of grave desecrations in Illinois that he just told, and you're tipsy, and he's flashing his pearly whites at you, and the fine lines on the corners of his intensely green eyes make him look so handsome, and you feel his hand on your thigh gripping you tight, and the other arm sneaking around your side, up your back, pulling you in.
And then he's on top of you, hot lips crashing into yours as he presses you into the sofa. You almost spill the rest of your wine as you lose your balance, swept up in Dean's fiery embrace, but somehow manage to keep the glass straight as he eats up your face.
He groans, and he's all over you, big, strong, virile. He smells like heaven. It's just like you've always imagined. Intense. Passionate. His tongue on yours is hot, wet, demanding. He tastes like raw, unfiltered pleasure. Unlike anyone you've ever tasted before. You're not sure how long the kiss lasts, but you're violently yanked back to reality when he suddenly pulls back.
You're lying there, on your back, eyes wide and blinking up at him. You still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips, and all you want to do is pull him back in for more. But you don't get the chance, because the second Dean realizes what he just did he pushes himself back up and stumbles away from you. He's so quick on his feet that you barely have time to register the shame written across his face.
He mumbles an apology as he reaches for his jacket, already on his way out.
Dean's quick. But so are you.
When you call my name
It's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees
I want to take you there
In the midnight hour
I can feel your power
Just like a prayer
You know I'll take you there
Your hand grabs his wrist firmly. You both know that if he wanted, he could easily pull himself free. But he doesn't.
"Dean!" You just stare at him, holding on to him. Skin on skin hot, tingly. You search his handsome, freckled face, with the dreamy eyes and the plush lips, puffy from feasting on you.
He opens his mouth, evidently trying to find words that seem to be eluding him. He tilts his head, eyes pleading for you to let him go.
But you're not gonna let him get away with this one.
"What's going on, Dean?"
You continue holding his gaze as seconds tick by like hours, and then he cracks. Exhales, his shoulders sink a little. He's shy when he starts talking.
"That case we were on… there was this witch who was messing with a bunch of people in her neighborhood, creating all sorts of confusion, and we got her, but…" his voice trails off, he looks down at his feet.
"She hit me with a spell, and we weren't sure what it was at first, but now it's making me… want to do… things," he mumbles, and the blush creeping up his face doesn't stop at his cheeks. You furrow your brows, think back to what Cas said earlier this afternoon. About the carnal things Dean would want to do. You clear your throat.
"What, you mean like," and you desperately hope you sound as casual as someone who's not just getting the best news they've ever gotten, "is this some kind of fuck or die situation? Where you'll need to stick your dick into every viable female you come across?"
Dean almost looks a little offended at your words.
"What? No," and the little change in timbre at his words tells you that he's about to relativize his no. It's one of the things you've learned about Dean in all the time you spent together.
"I don't… I don't want to fuck every viable female. I just…" He swallows. So do you. It takes him ages to get the next sentence out.
"I don't know what's going to happen if I… well, if I don't. But Rowena says that I'll need to, uh, be with someone that I, well, like."
His eyes are still glued to the floor. Your mouth drops open as you process. You're not gonna pretend you don't know that Dean's not talking about liking someone as in "I'll send them a Christmas card."
"Are you saying you're here because…" You try to find the right words, words that are not going to make him wince again. And you're trying to be cool. Not to jump to conclusions. Even though it's hard. Very hard.
"You came to me because you need to be with someone you have feelings for?"
Dean nods, shakes his head, inhales and tries to turn around on you again.
"I'm sorry. This is stupid. I shouldn't have come here," he mumbles as he tries to get away from you, half-heartedly.
You yank him back, making him stumble. And you take the opportunity of his head being just a little easier to reach and firmly press your lips against his. Dean catches himself, you break the kiss as he straightens up.
He looks at you. You've seen him happy, angry, distressed. Relaxed and in pain. But you've never seen him like this. This look on his face, a mix of fear and hope, is new to you. It tells you he needs you. He wants you.
You pull yourself close to him.
"I'll help you."
Like a child
You whisper softly to me
You're in control
Just like a child
Now I'm dancing
It's like a dream
No end and no beginning
You're here with me
It's like a dream
Let the choir sing
Dean's breathing is heavy.
His eyebrows twitch, the slightest confusion written across his beautiful face. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. He waits for you to speak. To be sure he's really not misinterpreting anything.
"What do you need?"
He nervously shifts from one foot to another. He bites his lip, runs his hand over his face, and you're not entirely sure if he's oblivious to what that makes you feel or if he's starting to put on a show. In any case it looks more than sinful.
"You… you want to help me?"
You nod.
This is it. The moment that will change everything. Forever. For better or worse. The tension between the two of you is thick, and you know Dean can sense it, too. Somehow, it feels like you're both frozen in time, unsure of what is going to happen next.
"We shouldn't, like, have sex, right?"
You tilt your head at his question. It melts your heart how shy he is, Dean freaking Winchester, looking at you like a deer in headlights.
"Tell me what you need."
Your voice is barely above a whisper. You're a confident woman. Sexually and otherwise. But the way this man is standing in front of you, the pleading look in his eyes, it takes you to a whole new level. Dean, who you know to be stoic, strong, self sufficient, suddenly putting his cards on the table like this. Needing you. Because you're what he wants.
"Maybe you could..." He looks at you, carefully watching your reaction, then nods down. Then you finally let go of his wrist, and you get down on your knees.
Dean's looking down at your form, kneeling in front of him. Unbelieving. You watch him closely as your hands wander to the button on his jeans, nimble fingers opening it, unzipping the fly. Then your gaze wanders down, because as nice as Dean's face is to look at, what you're about to uncover might be even better.
You start prying his jeans down, and while it's still clothed, the erection underneath is everything you want and more. Straining against the scarlet fabric of his briefs. Throbbing.
You want to take it slow, commit this moment to your memory, every single second of it, but you can't. You're hungry. So, so hungry. It's like you're acting on pure instinct now. You hook your finger into his waistband, and you pull his boxers down. And again, you feel like you're frozen in time, like this is a still of a movie you're watching, an out-of-body experience.
You watch yourself tying up your hair. You're on your knees, Dean Winchester standing in front of you, jeans bunched around his ankles. And right in front of your face, so close you only have to stick out your tongue to touch it, his cock. It makes your mouth water, just from looking at it. You run a hand down his hip, let it rest on his thigh. And then you do it. Stick out your tongue. Dean twitches as it lands on his tip, the short moment making him groan.
You let the tip of your tongue wander over his slit. Dean drops his head back as a low groan falls from his lips, his hand shoots out to steady himself on the doorframe. You close your eyes, relishing his taste on your tongue, savoring every inch of skin.
You lick a long, wet stripe along the lower side of his cock with your tongue flattened, then another with the tip, following the meander of a vein slightly to the left.
When Dean groans again, you decide to stop playing, even if you're having the time of your life, and suck his head into your mouth.
You glance up, see the relief washing over his handsome face as you finally envelop him. His hips buck against you, but you can feel him trying to still himself, trying not to force himself onto you. When you take him in deep, your nails digging into the skin of his thigh, his head shoots forward. He stares down at you, unbelieving, big eyes dark with lust as he balls the hand on the doorframe into a fist.
Quiet curses escape him as you bob your head back and forth, increasing the intensity you're pleasuring him with. When his hand finds your hair, fingers raking over your scalp, you're the one who moans, the sound of it muffled by his length in your mouth. He fists your hair, but it's such a tender gesture it just makes you want to give him more. Dean's not guiding you. He just wants to be close to you.
You're not sure for how long you keep going like this. You don't mind. It's the best way you can imagine spending a chilly night like this.
When his hands both wander to your jaw, cupping your face, he tilts your head up as far as it goes without making you drop his dick out of your mouth. You force your eyes open, blink up at him, so close to unraveling under your touch. He gently holds you, brushes his thumb over your cheek as you concentrate on your breathing, taking him in deep again.
You're full of him. Your mind, your body, all of you. He is everything that matters, his pleasure the only thing that counts. The noises he's making, the little sighs, the deep groans, they have your heart beating out of your chest. You close your eyes again, concentrate on how he feels on your tongue, sucking, licking.
You keep a steady rhythm, tuning out the entire world around you, and when you feel the slightest change in pressure of his fingertips on the back of your neck, you know he's there.
You suck him in one more time and he meets you, thrusting into you, holding your head in place as he finally spills himself into you, his face twisted in bliss. Still shuddering, his thumb ghosting over your cheek, he says your name. That way, like he does. Dropping it from his lips like a prayer, worship, and absolution, all at the same time.
When you call my name
It's like a little prayer
I'm down on my knees
I want to take you there
In the midnight hour
I can feel your power
Just like a prayer
You know I'll take you there
Yum yum yum! I’d happily get on my knees for this man 💜💜💜 I don’t remember if I’ve read this over on ao3 or not but amazing as per usual from you, lovely~
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Apologies, folks! I know I said I was gonna have this up before the weekend was over but then I ended up rewriting this thing like three times before I settled on it. It's so hard to bring everything to a close in a satisfying way. It's so crazy to me to think that I've finished another series. I've spent 20 weeks on this thing (technically longer when you account for planning and yapping about it before I started writing). I managed to stick to my weekly uploads despite everything. And you, my lovely readers, my love to you all. All your comments and kudos and you guys coming back week after week? I couldn't ask for anything more! 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
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!
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, fluff, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
Each part will have its own list of tags included in it
Read on Ao3
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16
Part 17
Part 18
Part 19
Epilogue
---
Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!
Moodboard for the series made by the lovely @wvffles
Hiya!! Just wanted to pop in and ask if you saw the Supernatural Music Studies posts I did for a few of the songs you sent me? Zero pressure to read them or respond to them ofc! I just wanted to see if it was something you were still interested in bc I was thinking of doing another tonight since it's been a while but I didn't wanna pile them up on you if you did like any of them - sorry if I'm bothering you or anything, just thought I'd ask!!
Hiya, lovely!
My sincerest apologies! The last few weeks have been a bit hectic for me, between work, regular life, working on my series (which I just finished, woo!), and all sorts of just general stuff getting in the way of the important things (reading fics lmao). BUT I haven't forgotten about them! They're in my drafts for reblogs! I have a four day weekend this weekend and intend on using it to catch up ON SO MUCH STUFF! 💜💜💜 I also still have that one Cas request I had sent you that's been sitting in my reblog drafts too...
No need to apologize! You certainly aren't bothering me at all! I love reading all my mutuals' stuff, and I just haven't been great about keeping up with it all! I'm suffering from the success of having such amazing, talented friends~ 💜💜
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Apologies, folks! I know I said I was gonna have this up before the weekend was over but then I ended up rewriting this thing like three times before I settled on it. It's so hard to bring everything to a close in a satisfying way. It's so crazy to me to think that I've finished another series. I've spent 20 weeks on this thing (technically longer when you account for planning and yapping about it before I started writing). I managed to stick to my weekly uploads despite everything. And you, my lovely readers, my love to you all. All your comments and kudos and you guys coming back week after week? I couldn't ask for anything more! 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
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!
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Apologies, folks! I know I said I was gonna have this up before the weekend was over but then I ended up rewriting this thing like three times before I settled on it. It's so hard to bring everything to a close in a satisfying way. It's so crazy to me to think that I've finished another series. I've spent 20 weeks on this thing (technically longer when you account for planning and yapping about it before I started writing). I managed to stick to my weekly uploads despite everything. And you, my lovely readers, my love to you all. All your comments and kudos and you guys coming back week after week? I couldn't ask for anything more! 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
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.
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Ashes of Grace series Taglist: @sepho @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reginaphalangelobster @kellyls04 @lilylilyyyyyy
Drop a comment, ask away, or add yourself to my taglist!
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Apologies, folks! I know I said I was gonna have this up before the weekend was over but then I ended up rewriting this thing like three times before I settled on it. It's so hard to bring everything to a close in a satisfying way. It's so crazy to me to think that I've finished another series. I've spent 20 weeks on this thing (technically longer when you account for planning and yapping about it before I started writing). I managed to stick to my weekly uploads despite everything. And you, my lovely readers, my love to you all. All your comments and kudos and you guys coming back week after week? I couldn't ask for anything more! 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
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!
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
TW specific to this chapter: Self-harm/su*cide attempt mentioned (not actively shown on screen, only aftermath is shown), brief mention of vomit, su*cidal theme briefly touched on, implied overdose
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Alright, folks. Final chapter. For my past series, I’ve uploaded the epilogue at the same time as the final chapter, but I am a little less prepared. So for now, here’s the final chapter. The epilogue will be uploaded before the end of the weekend, so please be patient with me :) I have thought about this ending for months and months, and it is absolutely wild to me that we are finally here. Thank you to absolutely everyone for coming on this journey with me. Y’all are amazing 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
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 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, thought 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.
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Ashes of Grace series Taglist: @sepho @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reginaphalangelobster @kellyls04 @lilylilyyyyyy
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Thank you so, so much~! 💜💜💜 My epilogue is taking a little longer than I anticipated because I've rewritten it like two times already. Promise it'll be out soon! 💜💜💜 Appreciate you reading as always, lovely~
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
TW specific to this chapter: Self-harm/su*cide attempt mentioned (not actively shown on screen, only aftermath is shown), brief mention of vomit, su*cidal theme briefly touched on, implied overdose
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: Alright, folks. Final chapter. For my past series, I’ve uploaded the epilogue at the same time as the final chapter, but I am a little less prepared. So for now, here’s the final chapter. The epilogue will be uploaded before the end of the weekend, so please be patient with me :) I have thought about this ending for months and months, and it is absolutely wild to me that we are finally here. Thank you to absolutely everyone for coming on this journey with me. Y’all are amazing 💜💜💜
Ashes of Grace Masterlist
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 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, thought 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.
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Ashes of Grace series Taglist: @sepho @bitchykittenconnoisseur @reginaphalangelobster @kellyls04 @lilylilyyyyyy
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Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, fluff, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
Each part will have its own list of tags included in it
***Updates every Thursday PST***
Read on Ao3
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16
Part 17
Part 18
Part 19
Epilogue
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Moodboard for the series made by the lovely @wvffles
kiss your screen every time you see a typo or grammatical error in my fics because it means it's home grown and not some ai bullshit and im dead serious about this
I still have to catch up on the final chapters but in the meantime, I humbly offer you this “moodboard” for ashes of grace 💜💜 :) such an amazing series lovely 🫂🫶🏽
OMG, this is INSANE to me! Thank you so much!! The fact that you put something together for something of mine? 🫣🫣🫣 I'm so incredibly flattered and honored! You're amazing, lovely! 💜💜💜 Hope you enjoy what I've got in store for them!
(Also may your pillow always be cool on both sides 🙏🙏)
Summary: It’s 2014. Mister Marathon’s starting to slip a little, but he’s not ready to give up the spotlight just yet. What better way to stay in the public’s eye than to try and orbit Centerfold’s gravity and call it a strategy?
Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, male masturbation, drug use, Mister Marathon only thinks with his dick, enemies-to-?, canon-typical depravity, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
A/N: My disappointment in how they used JarPad’s cameo in The Boys is absolutely immeasurable. So how do I cope with it? By creating an entire backstory and character to pair with him so that I can write his character better. Am I devoting all this time and energy into a side character solely because he’s played by JarPad? Yes. Am I ashamed? Absolutely the fuck not. Gimme my speedster boy. I’ll make him plenty pathetic by the end of this. Also, yeah, this is gonna be a multi-parter. But I don’t have any idea how many parts or when I’ll upload more pieces of this.
The studio was already humming by the time he stepped onto the set, all warm lights and overworked assistants scrambling around with lint rollers and clipboards like the world would end if a single wrinkle made it into frame. Standard Vought production. He could appreciate it. At least there was decent scenery. One of the assistants – an intern, from how young she looked – kept glancing his way, and he wondered if he could sneak a quickie in before the photoshoot started. Wouldn’t need any oil if he worked up a real sweat.
He spotted you the second you walked in. It was impossible not to.
Every head in the room tilted towards you in some subtle, little way, like gravity actually bent around you. For all he knew, it did. Fitting name with a fitting power. Centerfold. You moved like you already knew everyone was looking and couldn’t be bothered enough to acknowledge it. No rush. No nervous energy. No overeager smile like most people got around him. Interesting.
Mister Marathon straightened a little where he was standing center stage, smoothing a hand down the front of his mesh tank. The assistant beside him was still talking, – lighting adjustments or something – but he didn’t hear her anymore. His attention locked onto you as you crossed the studio floor.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Vought knew what they were doing with you. He’d seen plenty of your spreads before. All of them were prime fap material. He’d know. They could probably put you in a burlap sack, and he’d get a chub at the very least. But the outfit they had on you? Fucking criminal. It was the kind of thing that made men fall to their knees and women reconsider their life choices. He was already picturing it on the dressing room floor. He whistled, quickly adjusting himself in the track pants that left very little to the imagination. Especially now.
“Centerfold!” he called, spreading his arms wide with an easy grin. “Big fan.” Your eyes landed on him, flicked down to his dick, then back up to his face.
“Of yourself?” A few crew members laughed under their breath. He grinned wider. There it was. Attitude. All for show, of course. Nobody talked to him like that, unless they wanted his attention. He knew the game. Sharp tongue, cold exterior, the whole too good for you act. Usually, it lasted right up until he had them bent over and was railing them into next week.
“Of you,” he corrected, stepping towards you and offering his hand. “Queen Maeve’s threatening to slash your tires if you beat her in another popularity poll. Figured I’d finally get to see what the hype’s about.” Your gaze dropped to his hand. Didn’t take it.
“Mm,” you hummed. “Disappointed yet?”
You brushed past him. It almost made him laugh. Not because it bothered him – though it caught him off guard – but because it was a bold move. Cocky. Like you thought you could ice him out and he’d lose interest. If anything, it made you hotter. He pivoted, following after you.
“You always this friendly on set, or am I just getting special treatment?”
“Special?” You glanced back over your shoulder. “You’re not a Make-A-Wish kid.”
Mister Marathon popped his neck. Cute. The thing about banter, about chemistry, was that if someone didn’t want to engage, they didn’t. They shut it down. Walked away. Kept things polite and cold. You kept answering him. Kept turning back. Kept giving him ammunition to keep the conversation going.
“Oh, wow,” he said with a low whistle. “So the rumors are true..”
“Hm?” You paused, glancing at your phone.
“You’re a fucking bitch.” He let his eyes drag down your body while he said it, deliberate and unapologetic. Women liked that look. Straightened up a little. Pushed their tits out. Played offended while secretly liking the attention. You scowled at him, and his cock twitched as he imagined painting those lips white. “Guess that’s one way to stay relevant when you’re not in The Seven,” he added.
Your response? Nothing. No defensive reaction. No irritation. No wounded ego. In fact, you smiled. Slow. Almost pitying as you turned to face him fully.
“Oh sweetheart,” you drawled. “Every star collapses under enough pressure.” Something sharp flickered behind his ribs. Not anger, exactly. More like a challenge. He stepped closer, his polished grin sharpening.
“Pressure just makes stars like me shine brighter.”
“That supposed to impress me?”
“No. Just means I don’t have to try as hard.”
“And yet,” you gestured vaguely at him, “here you are. Trying.”
The intern he’d been eyeing earlier snickered across the way, and he cleared his throat, adjusting his shirt. He exhaled through his nose, smile tightening before me smoothed it back into place. His voice dropped an octave as he crowded you more.
“You know, most people would kill to be in your position.”
“Most people,” you echoed.
“Yeah.” He flashed you an easy smirk. “Paired with me? National campaign? That kind of exposure doesn’t come around often.”
“I’ve had better offers.”
He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Jesus, you were relentless. But honestly? It was kinda doing it for him.
“You mean sucking off execs?” he asked. “Didn’t realize that was the better career move these days.”
“Well,” you said, picking at your fingernails, “it’s more action than you’re seeing.” That got an actual laugh out of him. It wasn’t funny (okay, it kinda was), but you said it like you genuinely expected it to hit him. Like you thought that he’d be rattled by it.
“I could leave if I wanted. I don’t have to stand here taking this shit from you.”
“No, you don’t,” you agreed. “But you want to.” You laughed at him, and there it was again, that tiny little sting right under his skin. Damn, you knew exactly where to aim, and you weren’t pulling any punches. Before he could answer, the photographer clapped loudly from behind the camera.
“Alright! Positions! Let’s get some push and pull energy going on here!” You and him were already three steps ahead. You moved towards your mark without another glance at him. He watched the sway of your hips as you walked away, shamelessly staring at your ass and wondering how many handprints he could fit on it.
“Try to keep up,” he muttered as he stepped in behind you.
“Don’t need to. You can’t outrun gravity.”
“Perfect! Hold that!” The photographer practically lit up behind the camera, the shutter snapping in quick succession. Mister Marathon slid a hand to your waist, fingers running along the thin fabric of your outfit. He didn’t miss the way your gaze flicked down for a brief second.
“Careful,” you murmured. “Grip any tighter and people might think you’re compensating.” He flexed his hand against your side, blunted nail digging in.
“Oh, I am,” he shot back. “Compensating for someone who thinks brooding is a personality.” You shifted against him, not away but closer, aligning yourself perfectly with him for the camera. The way your body fit against his sent another pulse of heat straight to his cock. No doubt you could feel it pressed against your thigh. For all the attitude and snapping and little hooks you kept trying to sink into him, you were still leaning into him. Still touching him. Still playing the game.
“Centerfold, chin down – yes, perfect. Marathon, lean in a little more. Pretend you’re telling her a secret.” He did as instructed, his lips ghosting along the shell of your ear.
“I give it ten years before you’re a dry, crusty has-been that no one remembers.”
“That’s ten more years than you’ve got,” you whispered back, voice honey-warm. “People are already saying you’re slowing down, big boy.” His hold on you tightened before he could stop it. “People’ll still be getting off to my photos long after your limp dick stops working. How’s that for being remembered?”
His expression almost slipped. Almost. Not because of the insult – there was absolutely nothing limp about his dick – but because holy fuck, you could flirt. Sure, he’d snuck some real sassy ones into Vought Tower before, but goddamn, college girls couldn’t hold a candle to the kind of heat that was building between the two of you.
“Getting off to photos? How fucking vanilla. You think you’re real special, don’t you?” He took the opportunity to slip his hand lower to where your hip curved into your ass. You batted his hand away, purposefully moving it as your chest brushed against his when you turned to face him fully.
“Haven’t you read the papers? I am special.” You leaned in close, fingers sliding along the back of his neck and tangling in his hair. For a split second, he thought you might kiss him. “And I don’t need you to stay relevant.” The photographer made a strangled noise somewhere behind the camera, but Mister Marathon barely heard it. He was already lost in how fucking awesome the sex after this was going to be.
The dressing room was the quiet reprieve you needed. Away from the flashing lights. Away from the photographer’s incessant demands. And most importantly, away from him. You slumped into the chair in front of the vanity, kicking off your heels and grabbing one of the make up removal wipes. The makeup artist had done her job well. You looked flawless in the photos, all smoky eyes and pouty lips, but at the end of the day, it was always a mask you couldn’t wait to remove. The door opened without a knock, and you scowled, already knowing who it was without looking.
“You make a habit of walking into people’s private spaces, Marathon?” you asked, beginning the process of removing your makeup.
“Just yours,” he replied, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Figured we should talk. Away from all the cameras.” You glanced at him in the mirror, finding him leaning against the door and looking far too comfortable in your space. His eyes met yours in the mirror. He had ditched the smile meant for the papers, but his ego was still fully intact and encroaching on your limited space. You frowned.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said. “We got the shots. They’ll be great. Vought will be thrilled. End of story.”
“Y’know,” he said like he was continuing a conversation you never agreed to have, “for someone who ‘doesn’t need this,’ you really leaned into it out there.”
“It’s called acting.”
“Is it?” He perched himself on the edge of your vanity table, watching you with eyes that reminded you of a rat’s. “Because it felt pretty damn real to me.”
“Maybe that’s because your ego can’t handle rejection,” you said, dabbing at your eyeliner with careful precision. He laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all day, and the sound grated against your already-frayed nerves.
“Maybe,” he said in a tone that suggested he didn’t think that was the case at all. “Or maybe I’m ready to see what happens when we finally stop pretending.” You paused, the makeup wipe hovering halfway to your face.
“Pretending what?”
“That we don’t want this.” He gestured between you both. “The tension’s good for the cameras, yeah, but it’s better in private.” His voice dropped to a register that might’ve been seductive if it wasn’t so obviously rehearsed. You arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow.
“That’s your move? Really?”
“I don’t need a move.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. “I’m just giving you permission to openly admire.”
A beat passed between you. Then, you laughed. Not a mean one, exactly, though it certainly wasn’t kind. It wasn’t as sharp as a mocking laugh, though. But you had to admit that you were amused.
“Oh, that’s got to be so embarrassing for you.” His expression tightened, but he pushed through it, leaning back and rolling his shoulders like he was settling in.
“I’m serious. You don’t get that kind of chemistry if there’s nothing there.” You set the makeup wipe down and finally gave him your full attention.
“Chemistry?” you echoed. “No, that’s gravitational pull. You can’t resist it, but I don’t notice that it’s there.”
“God, you are–” He cut himself off and scrubbed a hand over his jaw, fingers running through his beard. “Look, are we gonna fuck already or are you one of those ‘dinner first’ kind of people?” You just stared at him.
“Where do you get it?” you asked. His brow furrowed in confusion, clearly not expecting that sort of response.
“What?”
“Where do you get the fucking audacity to think that after all of that out there,” you motioned in the direction of the set, “that I would want to have sex with you?” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a beat.
“I think you’re just playing hard to get,” he said with a smirk that you were severely tempted to slap right off of his face. “And I’ve got the stamina to wait you out.” He winked.
“Stamina?” You scoffed. “From what I’ve heard, you’re all flash and no follow-through.” Your eyes narrowed to slits, the last remnants of your professional facade crumbling away. “Get out,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “Now.” Mister Marathon didn’t move. Instead, he had the gall to sigh and shake his head, that goddamn smirk unshaken.
“Fine, you want follow-through?” He held up his hands like he was surrendering as he pushed away from your vanity counter and drew closer. “Let’s do dinner first.” He seemed entirely unfazed by your demand, moving on with whatever rehearsed script he had like this was the next natural step. “There’s a place downtown – impossible to get into unless you’ve got a name – but–”
“No.” The word was immediate. Your tone was flat with zero hesitation behind it. He stopped short.
“…No?” he repeated, like maybe he had misheard you.
“No,” you confirmed, staring him down. “I’m not interested.” He huffed a laugh, but it wasn’t the same, confident one from before. There was uncertainty laced through it.
“C’mon,” he said, his tone faltering. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“This,” he gestured vaguely at you. “The whole ice queen thing. It worked for the shoot, but you don’t have to keep it up off-camera.” You met his beady little eyes, and this time, there was absolutely nothing performative in your expression.
“No,” you said again. “You’re fucking dense. That wasn’t a bit. None of this is.”
That landed. Really landed. You could see it in the way his perfectly polished mask shattered. Mister Marathon didn’t have a comeback or a pivot. Just the realization that he had been reading from an entirely different script than you.
“You’re serious,” he said at last.
“I usually am.” He studied you, really studied you this time like he was trying to recalibrate everything he thought he knew about the situation. You watched his throat work around a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly.
“Christ, make some actual use of your power and lighten the fuck up,” he spat back finally. “Your pictures put out more than you.” There was a rush of air beside you, and in an instant, he was gone from your vanity, the door to your dressing room left wide open in his wake. You righted your chair with a sigh, collapsing back into it and returning to your methodical removal of your makeup.
It didn’t fully hit him until ten minutes after he was back in his apartment at Vought Tower. At first, he did what he always did. Scoffed. Rolled his shoulders. Ran a hand through his hair like he was shaking it off.
“Whatever,” he muttered to the empty room, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water off the kitchen counter. “Her loss.” He had said that line a hundred times. A thousand, even. Usually, it worked. Usually, he could turn around, find some other warm cunt to sink his dick into, and fuck it out of his system. But the second he even tried to think about some other pretty little thing wrapping her lips around him, his brain replayed it.
No.
Flat. Easy. Worse than that, though, was what it wasn’t. You weren’t angry or disgusted even. You gave him absolutely nothing. The lint on your sleeve got more of a rise out of you than he did. And it fucking grated.
The bottle remained unopened in his hands as he paced the length of his living room, the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. His reflection caught in the glass as he passed by, and he stopped, examining himself. The same face that had graced billboards and magazine covers for the past three years stared back at him. Still handsome. Still powerful. Still worth millions.
And yet you had looked at him like he was nothing.
And that’s what stung.
People didn’t look at him like that. They looked at him like he was someone. Like he was a surefire thing. Like all they had to do was wait for him to notice them. But you didn’t wait. You didn’t care. That flipped something ugly and electric in his chest. He hurled the sparkling water across the room, the glass bottle shattering against the wall. It fizzed as it slid down, dripping onto his collection of Playboy magazines and soaking into the pages like the world’s saddest fucking money shot.
He showered. Changed into something with his branding on it. Checked his phone. He had three missed messages. Two from PR and one from someone named Kinleigh, whoever the fuck that was. Normally, he’d answer. Normally he’d want to. But now, he swiped all of them away. “Fuck,” he hissed, tossing his phone onto the couch beside him. It bounced once before landing face down.
Several volumes of Vought Monthly were scattered across the coffee table in front of him, the most recent issues that featured him on the front page. No slowing down: Mister Marathon’s road so far. Carry On, Marathon: The speedster who never backs down. Marathon, Interrupted: One of the Seven injured during heroic rescue! He snatched one of them up and flipped through it without thinking.
And there you were.
Centerfold.
Exactly where your namesake said you would be.
“Of-fucking-course.” He let out a short humorless laugh and rolled his eyes as he reached up to turn the page. His hand hesitated. You looked like the perfect sex icon. You always did. The lighting sculpted you just right, shadows deepening right at the junction of your thighs. Your expression was balanced on that razor-thin edge between inviting and untouchable, though your ‘fuck me’ eyes were enough to make people think they had a chance. It was the kind of image that was manufactured to make people think they were getting something without actually giving them anything real. He’d seen photos of you hundreds of times before.
But this was different.
Now, he had seen you off the page. And suddenly, the version of you in the magazine felt incomplete. His thumb dragged across the glossy image, mentally cursing as he caught sight of your name printed in the lower corner. Centerfold: Get caught in her orbit. God-fucking-dammit. The camera hadn’t caught the way your mouth looked when you talked down to him. It hadn’t been a bit. Then why had it made him so fucking hard? He tossed the magazine aside, thought twice about it, then grabbed it out of the air before it could hit the ground and crease the pages. He heaved a sigh, dragging his hand down his face.
He was too keyed up. Restless. Wired. His thoughts were a whirlwind that even he was struggling to keep up with. Comebacks that would’ve been nice to have a few hours earlier. Better lines. Sharper ones. Ones that would’ve landed and cut into you. Ones that might’ve gotten you to look at him with something. Anger. Disgust. Spite. Hell, he’d thought he would’ve at least gotten a hate-fuck out of you. Anything more than just sheer indifference.
“Jesus Christ, shut up,” he grumbled. He pushed himself off the couch abruptly, like he could physically outrun the noise in his head. It didn’t work. It never did. His thoughts kept pace, darting ahead of him before looping back. Picking apart every second in the damn dressing room, every look you’d given him, every lack of a reaction. He paced around his apartment. Once. Twice. A third time. Too fast. He was a caged animal.
This was fucking stupid.
He moved without thinking, crossing the room in half a breath and yanking open the drawer where the answer to his problem sat. A small baggie. Familiar. Reliable. He shook it between his fingers. It was lighter than he remembered it, but that didn’t matter. It was still enough to do the trick. He nodded to himself, feeling the anticipation of relief building behind his ribs. The one that promised to smooth everything out and wrap him in that warm, numb nothing that had gotten him through plenty of times before. Calm settled over him as he cut himself a line, practiced precision of card on glass. He bent. Rolled bill. Sharp inhale.
Bitter. Chemical. Fucking finally.
The noise in his head didn’t stop. Rather it just... dropped out. Like someone had yanked the cord on a speaker mid-song. The constant chatter, the looping what-ifs, the sharp edges of it all – gone, just like that. He sniffed and breathed a sigh of relief. His shoulders loosened. The tension in him unwound in a rush, like a coiled spring finally just giving up. The world felt smoother. Manageable again. He dragged a hand through his hair, beginning his pacing once more, but this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was easy and controlled.
He was Mister Marathon again.
The thing about being the fastest man alive was that nothing could keep up with him, not even drugs. But they did give him just a few blessed minutes where his thoughts finally moved at the same speed as the rest of the world. Some armchair therapist online had said something about stimulants and some mental illness interacting differently or shit. He didn’t care about the why or the how. Only that it fucking worked.
His gaze flicked to the coffee table, eyes darting from one image to another. And this time, it didn’t sting. He scoffed, a hint of that polished arrogance sliding back into place. What the hell had he been thinking? He was one of The Seven. Thousands of people wanted him. Wanted to be him. There was no reason to be so hung up on one stuck up bitch.
Better. This was better.
He moved back to the couch and dropped down onto it, stretching his arms along the back and spreading his legs like he owned the world. His foot started bouncing again, but it felt good this time. Energizing. Like he was plugged back in. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushions, reveling in the peace of feeling in control. Hell, maybe he’d even text that Keyleigh girl back. He was fairly confident that she was the one who had sucked him off right after he fucked her ass. God, he loved college freshmen.
He straightened up and reached for his phone. Your photos taunted him in his peripheral vision, and before he knew it, his eyes had been dragged back to the centerfold spreads on the table. It was just a glance. Just a–
Mister Marathon shifted, rolling his neck and trying to shake it off. He pulled his confidence closer to himself, trying to wrap it around his shoulders like a comfortable blanket. It didn’t stay. It slid off. His foot bounced faster. The silence didn’t feel clean anymore. It felt thin. Like the quiet that came before something terrible happened. His stomach twisted, that brief, artificial calm fracturing all at once as the noise came rushing back in, louder than before. Like it had been building up and waiting just outside the door.
He groaned as his thoughts raced again, this time with more teeth. Every second replayed in high definition. Every missed opportunity. Every look. Every word you hadn’t said. The silence couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds. Probably less.
The realization dawned on him slowly. This wasn’t complicated. None of this was about you. It was just... residual energy. Leftover adrenaline. The kind of thing that stuck under his skin when he didn’t burn it off properly. He knew how this all worked. He’d dealt with it plenty of times before. Bad nights. Bad press. Bad fucking moods that wouldn’t let go.
And there was an easy fix to all of it.
He looked at the glossy spreads of you. Frozen in perfect lighting. Perfectly posed. Perfectly manageable. That was his problem. He had been giving you way too much power and sway. You were fucking nothing next to him. None of this meant anything. The only reason this bothered him was because you’d fucking blue balled him. He just needed to get it out of his system, and he’d be right as rain again.
He picked up one of the issues that had you leaning seductively over the edge of a pool, tits pushed up and cleavage on full display. His gaze dragged over it, slower this time, as he finally let go of his thoughts. They bolted back to you, and it took very little convincing to get them to circle around the memory of your hands at the nape of his neck. Of the way your chest felt pressed against his. It took even less coaxing to get his cock on board.
He leaned back against the cushions, the magazine in his hand feeling less like a source of frustration and more like the tool it was meant to be. His hand slid into his pants, fingers wrapping around himself and stroking a few times, eyes fixed on your image. The curve of your hip. The arch of your back. The way your lips were parted just slightly as if you were waiting for something he could give you. In his mind, you were on your knees, looking up at him with that same defiant expression, but now with something else mixed in. Want. Need. A hunger that he could satisfy.
“That’s more like it,” he muttered, his grip tightening as his thumb traced the swollen head of his cock. He groaned, low and throaty, as he let his imagination run away with his fantasy. “Something you wanna say?”
“I was wrong,” you said, pouting up at him. “I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that. I didn’t– I didn’t realize.”
“Didn’t realize what?” he prompted in the emptiness of his apartment. He pushed his pants down just enough to free himself and positioned the magazine so you looked up at him from between his legs. He dragged the head of his cock against the page, smearing pre-cum across your lips.
“How amazing you are. How much I…” you faltered for a second but pushed through it. “How much I want you.”
He should’ve grabbed a bottle of baby oil from his room before starting, but he couldn’t be bothered now. He paused just long enough to spit in his hand to ease the drag of his palm against his length. His lips curled into a smirk.
“Took you long enough,” he said, his tone bored.
“I’m sorry.” You leaned closer to him, and he could feel your breath ghost against his cock. “I should’ve said yes.” Your chest heaved, eyes fixated on him. Begging him to let you have a taste. His gaze raked over you, like he was trying to decide if you were even worth the effort anymore. Like you were the one who needed to impress him now.
“Yeah, you should’ve.”
His hand moved faster, the fantasy burning through his veins, better than anything he snorted earlier. He rolled his fingers over the head of his cock with every upstroke, groaning at the mental image of you looking at him like you were finally seeing him for who he was. The Mister Marathon. The one who could have anyone he wanted, but he deigned to spare you an ounce of his attention.
“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll do anything.” You wet your lips in anticipation, waiting for his command. “Please, I need you.”
There was a beat. A long one.
He let it stretch, watching the way you waited for him. The way you hovered there, caught between confidence and uncertainty. That was the best part of the whole moment. The reversal. The control. He leaned forward just enough to make it seem like he might just close the distance. To give you the permission to beg for forgiveness by choking him down.
Then, he grinned, all teeth and spite.
“Nah, not interested.”
He came, hard, all over the glossy image of your face, eyes screwed shut as he held onto the mental image of your shocked expression. The rush hit him like a freight train, better than any high he’d ever chased before. Better than coke. Hell, better than the fucking orgasm itself. The feeling of power that surged through him as he imagined rejecting you – watching your face crumple with disbelief – was intoxicating.
He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t known that it was even possible. This was a fucking high he needed more of. He slumped back against the couch cushions, watching his release drip down the page, obscuring your face like some sort of symbolic victory.
“Holy shit,” he muttered, catching his breath. The feeling stayed, lingering longer than the drugs could ever hope to last. It was a different high than he was used to. Better. More potent.
He stared up at the ceiling, a slow grin spreading across his face. God, if he could get that just from his imagination, he couldn’t even fathom what it would be like in person. Hell, he could probably ride that high till he fucking died. The idea coiled in his gut like a snake, and for the first time since the photoshoot, he felt a semblance of himself return. He sat up, wiping his hand on his pants. This was a game he could play. And he was going to fucking win.
He reached for his phone. Not to text you – he didn’t have your number. Not yet, at least. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he opened up his messages with his PR team, ignoring whatever they had sent him. He typed his message, fast and decisive. He already had everything he needed to make this work. He just needed to play it right.
Set me up with Centerfold again. Another photoshoot. An interview. I don’t care. Make it happen. Make it public.
He tossed his phone aside again, leaning back with a quiet exhale. There was that feeling in his chest again, sitting just behind his ribs. Restless. Charged. “Not interested,” he muttered, echoing you. His grin widened, just a fraction, his cock still half-hard in his lap. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
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Tagging some people I think would enjoy this because I don't have a Mister Marathon Taglist or anything but I know y'all like The Boys and/or JarPad: @tinysnacklefan @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @jollyhunter @bettystonewell @wvffles @beakaleak32 @voodoochildthings @spectralgalaxygauntlet @mellowyellowdaydream @supernotnatural2005 @kblognar @zepskies @mythandmemories @aniresrene @bohemianblasphemy
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I don't think anyone could have written Mr. Marathon any better. If youre craving a little bit more than what you got from his cameo in the boys, well your in luck, this is for you!
Not sure why it's a new trend among fic readers to assume if the fic has not been posted within the week it's inappropriate to comment on it, like the fic has to be hot out of the oven to give feedback for.
I got a comment on a fic that is less than a year old and it was mostly an apology for being a comment on an "old fic" and how late they were in commenting.
Just comment on the fic. Doesn't matter how old it is.
Summary: Cast down from Heaven with your Grace locked away and your memories fractured, you wake up alone and very much human – until you cross paths with the Winchesters. As the three of you search for answers that Heaven doesn’t seem to want to give, you’re forced to navigate the world without your divinity and face the fact that some truths may have been buried to protect you. Or others.
Tags/Warnings: Mystery, Canon-divergent, strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, angel learning human shenanigans, fluff, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men
Each part will have its own list of tags included in it
***Updates every Thursday PST***
Read on Ao3
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16
Part 17
Part 18
Part 19
Epilogue
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