I'm sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth, but you can call me "sorry" or "H".
On this blog, I share my writing, my recs for other fics as well as my thoughts on all things fandom (mostly Supernatural)!
Most of what I share on this blog is adult content, so please use your own discretion before reading/interacting.
✲ MY WRITING MASTERLISTS ✲
Here you can find all of my fics! On a list! A masterlist!
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Take a look at my latest updates!
SERIES
↬ I wish I'd known you in your wilder days
Dean x female reader, age gap, post-series. Masterlist. Finished.
ONE SHOTS
↬ Hand in unloveable hand
Soldier Boy x supe!reader. Takes place in the 60's. Hate sex. Read here.
↬ All dogs go to heaven
Dean x reader in heaven, post-series fix-it. Read here.
↬ Blood Sugar Sex Magik
Sam x witch!reader with blood kink smut. Takes place in season 14. Read here.
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✲ ASKS & REQUESTS ✲
Asks are open! Come chat to me, share some thoughts, ask me questions or just blab away. ❤️ I do not take requests, as I cannot guarantee that I will fulfill them (read why here), but feel free to share your ideas. I've written fics from shared ideas before, so you never know!
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Hi folks! Asking for a me - if I were to upload two chapters a week of my logass polyship (Sam x reader x Dean) fic Sun bleached flies, which days would you prefer for new chappies?
weekday more like weakday
Tuesday + Thursday
Tuesday + Friday
Tuesday + Saturday
Remaining time: 13 hours 2 minutes
Love youse! Hope you're all doing lots of gay shit and crime during pride month!❤️
Long time lurker, long time send all your FICS to my friends-er (making up new words). I loveeeee love love your work. You scratch so many itches in my brain, so thank you <3
Just saw your posts about your older dean FICS, & then your new idea of an older dean fic with a young greenhorn hunter ... Love the "kids these days" line. ANYWHO. I wanted to poke your brain about older Sam & someone younger... Like a significant gap? Ten years or something. Because... Well ... I love bunker Sam (just Sam in general). But he's so serious & I love all the ethical dilemmas & moral questions that he has about hunting, good & evil n such, they're so beautiful to me. But I just ... Feel like, maybe perhaps, he would have similar ethical concerns if he was crushing on someone younger? Or someone younger was crushing on him... Thinking stuff like he's waayyyyy to old for them, & they're just cute & a little flirty & stares at him all the time lmao. & He's doing side eyes like 👀👀👀 uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Then blushing about it lol. HAHA. Idk. I just need to know what you would think he would be like? & If he'd come around to it, or the guilt would be all consuming. (Because who is Sam Winchester if not guilty about EVERYTHING) :)
Okie... That is all. I hope you have a wonderful day or evening !
I CANNOT START ANOTHER WIP I CANNOT START ANOTHER WIP I CANNOT START ANOTHER WIP I CANNOT - WHY IS MY IDEAS DOC OPEN NOOOOOOOOOO!!1!
Hello my dear 😄 first of all I really appreciate you taking the time and making the effort of sending your beautiful thoughts and ideas my way. I cannot tell you what it means that have people have lovely ideas, and then think of me. It's such a gorgeous feeling.
Okay, I never really thought about Sam in an age gap situation (except maybe the other way around, but that's a story for another day, ehehe). Maybe it's cause I genuinely think he would suffer in silence and nothing would ever happen. 😄 Cause that's so very Sam.
I know in this fandom we often talk about Dean being the self-sacrificing one, and he is, in a way, but let's not forget Sam "I guess I really understand this is my life now and I love it" LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE Winchester. So you did make me see the appeal of this now, I think.
He'd hold out for so long and then something emotionally taxing or intense happens, and they have one night of passion and he's just like "nope gotta go self-flagellate for a couple of years". Yeah. Yeah. I like that. And fully agree on the guilt, too. Yeah. That would destroy the poor guy (grinning like a maniac while I type this).
Anyhooo, maybe I'll write something about this. Who's to say (but probably). 😄 Thank you so much for your thoughts, my dear! ❤️
Hey so ummmmmmmmm rebloggging this because I need it on my blog because like ummmm... This was ME
Ur mention of an age gap rufus fic rlly did make me go Primal and bang my fists against my chest and hang from the ceiling screaming like a baboon and then I remembered... IVE DONE THIS ABOUT AN (potential) AGE GAP FIC BEFORE. ON UR ACCOUNT!!!
Any recommendations for other writers who write age gap dean i finished your masterlist and I am obsessed with your fics especially your age gap series it's scrumptious but I'm currently experiencing withdrawal symptoms and don't know where to look for more fics😔🙏🙏
Hello my lovely, thank you so, so much! ❤️ I assume you're talking about I wish I'd known you in your wilder days - I miss these two idiots so much, and I can't wait until I have the time to spend some time with them again!
I unfortunately do not have any recs for age gap stuff since - dramatic pause - it's something I usually really, really don't like to read. 😄 A lot of things that I enjoy writing, I don't enjoy reading (probably because when I'm writing it I have control and when I read I don't... actually, there's so many examples of this, it's kinda crazy).
Annnyyyhooo, the only fic I can think of is Spare the rod, spoil the child by @cujja, which I just checked and it's not even explicitly age gap. 😄 It does have a power dynamic though, and it reads very age gap-y - warning for some darker themes, but if that's something you're okay with, I highly recommend it, it's amazing.
Other than that, this is the call for anyone else to recommend Dean x reader age gap fics! Hear thee, hear thee! I hope we can find some good recs for you (and maybe for me?).
Fucking hell H.. I just found out about your account and only read one fic (the one with Soldier Boy and bitchy supe with electric powers) and god damn was this amazing. Can’t wait to get to reading more fics because your writing and world building is amazing!!! ❤️❤️
Aww, my sweetheart, thank you so much! ❤️ I'm always excited to find a new reader, welcome to the fam, and can't wait to share more stuuuuuff with you! 🥰
Okay thanks a lot for your service and providing us with a masterpiece like I wish I'd known you in your wilder days(tbh thanks in general for the amazing Dean Winchester masterlist) and thanks for the recommendation I will check it out now hun🥰🥰 xoxo
My absolute pleasure ❤️ I hope the other ask draws some more recs, it's definitely a trope that I need to explore a bit more!
(and you are so welcome, thank YOU for reading and sharing your enjoyment of it, truly the best thing in the world 🥰)
Any recommendations for other writers who write age gap dean i finished your masterlist and I am obsessed with your fics especially your age gap series it's scrumptious but I'm currently experiencing withdrawal symptoms and don't know where to look for more fics😔🙏🙏
Hello my lovely, thank you so, so much! ❤️ I assume you're talking about I wish I'd known you in your wilder days - I miss these two idiots so much, and I can't wait until I have the time to spend some time with them again!
I unfortunately do not have any recs for age gap stuff since - dramatic pause - it's something I usually really, really don't like to read. 😄 A lot of things that I enjoy writing, I don't enjoy reading (probably because when I'm writing it I have control and when I read I don't... actually, there's so many examples of this, it's kinda crazy).
Annnyyyhooo, the only fic I can think of is Spare the rod, spoil the child by @cujja, which I just checked and it's not even explicitly age gap. 😄 It does have a power dynamic though, and it reads very age gap-y - warning for some darker themes, but if that's something you're okay with, I highly recommend it, it's amazing.
Other than that, this is the call for anyone else to recommend Dean x reader age gap fics! Hear thee, hear thee! I hope we can find some good recs for you (and maybe for me?).
Supernatural rewatch is going swimmingly, and "Bedtime stories" is an insane episode, I am chewing off my own fingers right now.
From the shouting match at the beginning and Sam telling Dean "you're not dad" to Dean's "could you be any more gay?" to the girl who's been in a coma since she was 8 but is still perfectly fuckable as an adult (THANK GOD) to Sam's ass crack on full display in the final scene.
truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.
SUMMARY Soldier Boy and you are America's most famous couple - little does the public know that it's all an act. However, when your pretend lover embarrasses you on live TV, you make sure you make him pay... and get yours in the process.
CWs Smut. Hate sex (rough sex, a little bit of anal fingering, non-negotiated choking, electrostimulation). Super powered sex (super strength, electrokinsesis). Period/SB-typical homophobia & misogyny. Just all around not a healthy relatioship. 1960's (roughly). Lots of mentions of Rock Hudson (rip, king). Mixed POV.
5.8k words
AN Title is from the Mountain Goats' "No children".
The Boys masterlist
“And it was so good to see you step in during those riots last week,” the interviewer says, hair immacutely parted, nodding along as the studio crowd claps approvingly. Soldier Boy raises his hand, so humble.
“Mikey, I’ve said it before,” he says, “protecting the American public isn’t just my job, it’s… it’s what I live for.” More applause. “Against domestic threats and more… foreign ones.” More applause, a whistle. Yeah!, someone calls.
“And we are all so grateful,” the interviewer says, looks at his note cards, not because he needs to but because this is how he moves on to the next topic. When he raises his head again, there’s a coquette little smile on his lips.
“Speaking of domestic,” he continues, throwing a look at the camera that tells the audience they’re in for a fun time. “How are things at home?” Murmuring from the crowd - they’re held on the precipice, eating it up. Yes, this they want to know. Yes, this they want to see.
Soldier Boy chuckles, perfectly charming. Turns his body a little more toward the camera. Broad shoulders. Thick hair, but not too thick. Handsome face. Probably a big dick.
“Oh, whatever could you be talking about?” he asks with a little wag of his chin, and that gives the audience leave, they chuckle, slap their knees, oh, get a load of this guy!, lapping it up, their tongues hanging out their mouths.
“Why, America’s sweetheart, of course,” the interviewer answers, shoots a look at the audience, right? That’s what we want to know!, and they nod, slap their knees some more. “The Vixen.”
Oh’s and Ah’s from them now. Yes, the Vixen. They’re all imagining her. Women want to be her, men want to fuck her. Marilyn Who? one headline read. Blasphemous, but they’re licking their fingers.
“Oh, my girl?” Soldier Boy asks, but he’s joking along with the audience, teasing them, stringing them along. Has them curling their toes like they’re getting it real good. “Oh, my girl’s doing just fine.” The interviewer laughs.
“Gave you a patriotic welcome home, did she?” he asks, and the crowd loses it, yes, yes, did she? Did she!?
And Soldier Boy leans back, relaxed, grinning. They can practically see her there, kneeling between his legs. Good, patriotic gal. A real keeper.
“Pal,” he says, “I had her singing the national anthem.”
Laughter from the crowd.
“You goddamn motherfucker!”
The glass explodes where it hits the wall just left of and above Ben’s head. He barely reacts, feels some of the shards rain down on his shoulder, but then just raises his own glass, scotch, takes a sip. Sucks on his teeth when he lowers it again.
“You done?” he asks, watching you pace up and down on the other side of the room. You’re clearly not, and he knows that - in fact, you’re only just revving up. He looks at your legs, visible, not visible, visible, under the long silk robe you’re wearing, the fabric fluttering with every step, and if you weren’t being such a humongous bitch right now he’d sure find some appreciation for them.
Actually, scratch that. They’re nice sticks. Even with the bitchiness.
“One thing I fucking asked for,” you say, and he grimaces at the shrillness of your voice. He rolls his shoulders, takes another sip. “One thing, and that was to make me not look like a fucking sex object in front of those people.”
You turn for another round, naked toes sinking into the orange rug that you personally selected for the apartment. Ben hates it. In fact, he says he hates all the colors of your apartment. Hates the music you listen to, because this guy is still caught in the fucking 30’s, hasn’t realized that a few decades have passed. Old dirty man with an old dirty mind.
“And you do this, this… bullshit!” you yell, now reaching for the newspaper lying on the low glass table, the one that puts your embarrassment on paper. The one that shows a grinning Soldier Boy, and the least subtle article on two super heroes fucking that you have ever had the displeasure of reading.
You drop it again, reach for the pack of cigarettes lying next to the ashtray. It’s filled to the brim, because you’ve been goddamn chain smoking since last night, when the interview aired. Sat here, Martini in your hand, joint rolled and ready, watching your super star boyfriend give his first interview since the two of you have made your relationship public. Some fucking relationship it is.
You sat there, legs crossed, buzzing and excited, horned the fuck up because America’s biggest talk show was going to cover you - your existence, your life. And what the fuck came out of it? Another couple million men thinking about you only in the context of shoving their dick inside one of your holes.
You wish you had another glass to throw.
Ben isn’t as worried. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but he does it for your sake, because maybe you can learn a lesson from him.
“They all wanna fuck you anyway,” he says, voice booming but not threatening, because he’s not quite there yet. “That’s how they remember you. But now, you’re on the front page, and yesterday you weren’t. So rein it the fuck in.”
You drop your lighter on the table with a loud clatter, take a sharp drag, blow out the smoke. Point the cigarette at him, perfectly manicured fingers shaking.
“Is that why you’re so famous?” you say, your voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “Cause they all wanna stick it in your ass?”
And this is the first time he bothers to make a point today. Lowers his chin. Glares at you.
“Careful,” he says.
It’s a tone that usually gets a room of influential men to shut the fuck up and do whatever he wants. The thought that he could take their heads and make them pop like a melon dropped from a second floor window has something to do with that. But he likes to think it’s because they respect him too. If any of them want to fuck him, that’s none of his business, and they better not fucking let him know cause it won’t be melons being dropped from the second floor then.
He leans forward with a sigh appropriate for someone his age. Puts the glass down, reaches for the joint you never touched, cause you needed something stronger to calm you down yesterday evening. Kept calling his agent, called Vought, called them all, over and over, screamed at assistants to fucking get this limp dick motherfucker on the phone! He lights the joint, flame close to his face for a moment. He could probably use you to light it - you’re steaming enough.
“I don’t know why the fuck you keep insisting on embarassing me,” you hiss, take another drag, some of the ash of the cigarette dropping down on the carpet below. You don’t even look at it. Six months ago you were giving handjobs to help with the rent and sharing a one bedroom apartment with three other girls. Now, you’re the second most famous supe in the country. Sure got to your head quickly, Ben thinks. He tosses the lighter back onto the table. Clattering, again.
“You’re doing a fine job at that yourself,” he replies, leans back, gets comfortable, sinks deeper into the cushions, legs spread, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Everyone wanted to meet you at the afterparty. Hudson asked about you. Had to tell him you were at home with the monthlies.” He takes another drag, looks up at you through the smoke.
You’ve stopped moving and shouting, so there’s that. But something about the way you’re standing, cigarette burning down between your fingers, face slack, the only movement the rising and falling of your chest - well, something about it is like the calm before the storm.
“You told Rock fucking Hudson,” you say, voice eerily calm, “that I was on the fucking rag?”
You lean forward, and, naively, Ben thinks for a second it’s to put out the cigarette. What happens instead is that you grab the ashtray and fling it at him too.
You miss, and that’s probably a good thing, because if you didn’t, he might have ripped your head off. As it stands, it scatters to the ground, ash going everywhere, staining the carpet even more, just another bill to send to Vought to pay for you.
It’s enough to catapult Ben off the sofa though. He drags the joint from between his lips.
“Calm the fuck down!” he bellows but you just throw up your hands, turn, walk a few steps from him, then put your head in one hand, groan.
“What am I doing?” you mutter to yourself. “What the fuck am I doing? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Soldier Boy drops his head back, sighs. He rounds the table, walks over to you.
“Come on,” he says, joint between his fingers. “Take a hit, calm down.” Your shoulders are rising and falling, and he sure as shit hopes you’re not crying. He doesn’t do well with crying women. Pisses him off. He stops just behind you.
“Hey!” he says, cause you better fucking look at him when he’s talking to you. He’s got about two minutes of patience left in him. He only came over here cause the Legend told him he better get his ass in gear, set this right. He had a sweet little piece of ass lined up too, and now here he is, with you in fucking hysterics. He was hoping to at least get a blowjob out of this - if you ask him, you should be nothing but grateful. Sure, his rating has skyrocketed even more since the two of you have gone public - something about a single man at his age makes people uncomfortable. But still. You shouldn’t forget who you owe this new lifestyle to.
You turn around, arms crossed in front of your chest, the robe moved to the side a little, revealing the top of your breasts. Ben rests his eyes there before dragging them away, up to your face. Streaks of mascara on your cheeks from your tears. He’s not fooled though. He knows enough about this business not to trust them. He holds the joint out to you, like a goddamn peace pipe. Maybe he can still turn this around. It would make the Legend and the Vought board happy, plus, who knows - maybe he can still get it wet after all. He wouldn’t mind.
“You’re making this into a bigger thing than it is,” he says, lowering his head a little in a way that usually gets everyone to forgive him. That or the threat of violence. Both work. “You think you can be America’s sweetheart and not have everyone wanna bend you over? Not how it works, doll. Take the win. Don’t get tied up in your big feelings about it.”
And he thinks he sees it, reasonability on your face, and could it be? Could he have actually managed to calm you down? He extends the joint again to seal the deal.
The slap isn’t painful, but it is surprising. It hurts your hand more than it does his cheek, probably, and who knows, maybe your hand will actually fall off because you just struck God.
His head doesn’t snap to the side, but he does blink, a surprised expression on his face, sending a nasty, electric thrill through you. He’s looking past you, then his eyes wander to your face. You raise your chin, lips trembling, but he doesn’t miss the little twitch at the corners of your mouth.
“Fuck you,” you say, but you’re not doing a good job now at seeming actually pissed. You know it, know the way you’re clenching your cunt isn’t from anger. Or not just from anger.
“You’re into this,” Soldier Boy says, eyes narrowing. “You like being pissed off. Gets you all drippy, doesn’t it?” Your chest rises and falls and when his gaze drops there, he can see your hardened nipples through the silk fabric of your robe.
“Fuck you,” you repeat through clenched teeth, not giving him an inch, but that’s alright.
He’s about to give you ten.
He reaches his free hand out, but you slap it away. Not that you actually could, but he lets you. He puts the joint between his lips, reaches out with that hand instead and you slap it away too, take a step back. You look up at him through your lashes, something animalistic yet calculated in your gaze. You take another step back, and this time he follows, feels himself growing hard in the tight confines of his suit. He’s wearing it cause you’ve complimented him on it, said you liked the way he looks in it. Well, you’re gonna get it now. He’ll fuck you in that suit, and you will enjoy it.
He sees you’re going to bolt a second before you do, and while his every honed instinct tells him to reach out, grab you, make sure you can’t move away from him, he suppresses it. Because he knows exactly what you need.
You start running, naked feet on carpet, robe flying, and he gives you a headstart the length of the blink of an eye. Then he’s after you.
The joint drops onto the carpet where he stood just a second ago. It singes the orange, then burns out.
You make it to the other side of the living room, close to the open kitchen you never use - said cooking is for housewives and poor people, and you’re neither now. You’re rounding the couch - some designer thing you yapped on about, while he barely listened - that faces the fireplace when he reaches you, shoves you so you need to get your hands out, catch yourself on the back of it. He’s crowding against you a second later.
His hands shoot to his waist, one press of his fingers and his belt drops to the floor, unzips his pants in record time. Practice, and you’re just pushing yourself up to stand, so the moment he’s done he pushes you down again with his left hand, fingers splayed, his other hand grabbing his dick and stroking it.
“I know what you need, sweetheart,” he grunts as he feels you struggle against his hold, whole body tensing. “You need some dick for that frustration, don’t you? All pent up, huh?”
He pivots his hips forward, fucks into his fist. Times each word with a thrust.
“Just a – nice – thorough – dicki—”
“Jesus!” you interrupt him, turn your head. He can only see the side of your face, but your lids are low, lips parted. “Stop talking and put it in already.”
Ben snarls, moves his hand to drag away the thin robe. It reveals your peach of an ass, no underwear so he knows this is what you were secretly hoping for all along, and he grabs your hip, pulls you back. Presses the head of his dick against your pussy hole - which is warm and needy, pulsing wet. Doesn’t push in, just rubs along you. He can feel you twitch.
“I decide when you get fucked,” he says, breath coming faster, and he sees you close your eyes, eyebrows pulling together. You push your ass back, trying to find him, his head grazing your entrance and slipping in about half an inch before he pulls back and you whine. “Shh, shh. You need it bad, don’t you?”
He hasn’t gotten you to say it yet. Hasn’t gotten you to say you want him, or need him. He likes hearing it, and he’s hoping he’ll crack you yet - your stubbornness has got him wondering why he ever agreed to this goddamn charade. He knows there’s something here that works. He just can’t figure out what.
He drives the thought away by sliding his dick into you. Slow, torturously slow, but he sees your hand fist the fabric of the couch where you’re holding on to it, sees the arch of your back. Vought’s to thank for that, the thick meat that can keep going and going, though he’d never admit it. He feels the tight, wanting squeeze of you, and suddenly he doesn’t give a shit.
You make a cracked little sound and before he’s fully seated in you, he rams that last inch home. You moan and he grabs the robe, collects the fabric in his fist, pulling tight, keeping you in place. Then he pulls back before thrusting back into you.
“This got you all wound up?” he asks, pulling out and setting a deep, punchy rhythm. It makes you drop your head forward, arch your back further so the impact sends little ripples of flesh through the meat of your ass cheeks. He grins at that. “Did you sit here yesterday, hoping to get yourself off to watching me on TV? Didn’t do the trick, did it?”
You make a general pleasurable sound, but don’t answer him, and that is threatening to really get a rise out of him. He knows you’re liking this, knows you enjoy it, but he can’t quite get the upper hand. Or hasn’t yet.
The reason is he talks too much. He could fuck like a god if he bothered to, but nothing pulls you back from the edge of a mind-breaking orgasm like that self-important drivel. Chasing you for those few steps got your heart pumping, not because of the distance but because you know he could rip you apart if he wanted, and Vought would pay for the dry cleaning with a smile and a thank you. But you’ve yet to actually see any of that danger he likes to pretend he carries.
Maybe today you’ll finally tickle it out of him.
Because he’s right. You did sit in front of that TV yesterday, pleasantly buzzed, ready to rub yourself raw. Ended up only screaming yourself raw, and not for any of the good reasons. Now he’s here, and you have made one decision: if you’re gonna play America’s number one sex kitten, then you’re at least gonna get something out of it. And if money, fame and a good dicking down is what that something is, you’re okay with that.
He keeps thrusting into you, but there’s little poetry to it. That’s okay though. You have a few tricks up your own sleeve.
One of your hands wander off the back of the couch to between your legs. Gently runs over your front and stomach, fingertips teasing yourself, and when you get to your pussy, you give your clit a little zap.
“Woah!” he says, another half thrust before he stills.
“Don’t fucking stop now, you imbecile,” you pant. “Keep going!”
He doesn’t for a second. He knows your powers - conducting electricity, as well as creating it to a certain voltage. Not a glamorous power by any means, and it’s become secondary to your celebrity persona. The Vixen - even Soldier Boy can’t resist-or her! was all that gave any hint as to your powers for your first photoshoot with your new lover. Him smirking down at you while you looked at the camera, arm wrapped around his, one eyebrow raised, a knowing grin and a short skirt. No one ever asked about it. That’s okay. It’ll have its moment to shine today.
Soldier Boy moves, just a little, careful, and it would be laughable if it wasn’t so annoying. You push back against him, making him sink deeper into you again, and then he finally grabs your hips, starts fucking you again, gingerly, until–
“Do it again,” he grunts. “That tickled my balls.”
Even though your back is turned to him, you bite down on your lower lip to hide your grin. Twinkle your fingers an inch or so over your clit, and just as you feel him confidently pick up his pace again, you zap yourself - and him - again in the process.
One of his hands shoots to your shoulder immediately, fingers pressing into your skin.
“Oh, fuck!” he grunts, pushes you hard against him with an obscene slap and the moan that escapes you is genuine and real. “Fucking hell, where’ve you been hiding this?”
Instead of answering, you do it again. A high moan cracks from your throat - the way it travels through your nerves all over your body, into the meat of your thighs, up to your ass, the slight fizzle of it that dances around your nipples. Soldier Boy panting behind you. But it’s you that’s surprised when one of his hands comes down on your ass with a slap.
“Fucker,” you press out, and he squeezes the cheek in response. You feel his hand inching inside. Another zap, and he grunts loudly, that nice deep voice that you loved listening to on the radio. You know what he sees, know what he’s thinking, and not just from his thumb suddenly pressing against the tight muscle of your asshole.
You have. That one time you were really short on rent, and your landlord offered you a deal. You thought of Rock Hudson the entire time.
Funny how life sometimes comes full circle.
You look over your shoulder, barely able to look Soldier Boy in the eyes. Bite your lip again and let it slip out between your teeth slowly.
“No,” you breathe, in that voice you use for whenever you talk to an interviewer or want to get out of a speeding ticket. “Don’t put it in there, please, it’s too big.”
And it’s so fucking over the top, and it’s so fake, and he could fall for it, just like all the others have. Instead he grins, snorts, then slaps your ass again, before pressing his thumb against you harder. You moan loudly as he sinks in, your ass cheek now fully within his grasp.
“You’re funny,” he says. “Never fucked someone who’s funny.”
And fuck you he does.
He goes harder now, but it’s not just that. It’s like he means it. You’re not connecting as people or falling in love or any of that bullshit, but it feels a little bit more like you’re on the same team.
You zap him again, your fingers now actually touching your clit, rubbing it quickly, and maybe it’s his finger serving as an earthwire, but he groans loudly, movement stuttering for a moment. Another zap, and it pushes you over the edge.
You come, entire body tensed, teeth pressed together. Not caring about pretty or sweet or feminine for once, but just about the fireworks going off behind your eyelids and between your legs. You know it sets off a low sizzle all over your body, and Soldier Boy must feel it, because he keeps fucking you, faster, ass cheek squeezed to the point of pain, and then suddenly he gets loud, really loud, as his thrusts become shallow.
“Fucking little–” he starts, but doesn’t finish what he’s saying - too busy pulling out, stroking himself as he sucks in air through his teeth and finishes on your ass. You’d laugh at that if weren’t shivering at it.
He pulls his finger from you, using the hand to steady himself on your hip instead. Pants, probably fucking basking over you, his dick resting heavy between your ass cheeks.
“You better not have come on my fucking robe,” you mutter. He groans.
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” he presses out, and there it is. That flame you thought he’d maybe fuck out of you. But it’s rekindling in your stomach.
You reach your hand back, since you can’t turn with him still over you. Press your palm flat against his stomach and then you gather everything you can come up with for one single surge and send it into him.
He does something like a yelp, twitches back. It creates enough room for you to turn around, face him. You can feel a devilish grin spread on your face as his come drips down your ass and onto the carpet.
“Done already, soldier?” you ask, voice . He’s already bobbing into hardness again and you can’t help but lick your lips at that.
“Doll,” he says, raising his chin. “Somebody oughta fuck that sass out of you.” You bare your teeth.
“Try me, motherfucker,” you snarl.
He grabs for you, or you grab for him - you’re not totally sure.
All you know is that he drags you down, and you go tumbling with him. You manage to roll on top of him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He could probably drag you under him and fuck you dead without even breaking a sweat, but he lets you sit there on top of him. You press your hands against his chestplate, your robe having fallen open, his eyes on your tits.
You push up on your knees, reach between you two. Ben watches you, a hunger in his chest he usually knows to be satisfied by enough drink or pussy or a really bloody fight. But right then, right now, he’s starving. Insatiable. He’s not the type for introspection, and he sure as shit isn’t about to start when he watches himself disappear inside you again.
“Did Rock Hudson really ask about me?” you say, looking down at him. Soldier Boy grabs for your ass, presses you down against him, pussy swallowing up the rest of his pulsing dick and you hiss while grinding down at the same time.
“He did,” he replies, unable to hide the grin on his face. “Pretty sure he got a stiffy at the thought of me coming back here and dipping my dick in that red.”
You drop your head back, moan, and then finally begin rolling your hips, riding him. He’s fully hard again, balls plump and full and he breathes through his nose at the scorching heat between your legs, the incomparable vibrations of the electricity running through your skin that he can feel all the way into his skull, like biting down on a broken tooth, but the tooth is in his dick, and there’s something pleasurable about it.
You ride him fast and hard, like he’s a price race horse. He reaches his hands up, finds your tits, squeezes, fondles in a way that does nothing for you but everything for him. You grind on him in a way that has him stuttering a curse. He must be hitting you at the right angle, because he can see your eyelids flutter, unfettered noises leaving you.
“Yeah,” he pants, “fucking come on it.”
When you do, you arch your back again, sounds filling out the room, face a mask of pleasure and pain, but it’s the way your clenching on his dick is paired with the tremors of electric shocks you send out of you and into him that are what get him squeezing your tits harder, huffing like a drowning man through gritted teeth. He’s never felt anything like it.
“Keep going,” he presses out. “Keep fucking going with that little cu–”
Your hand finds his face, fingers briefly disoriented and searching until they press down on his mouth.
“Shut up,” you half moan, half chant. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Fucking bitch, Soldier Boy thinks. Fucking ungrateful little bitch.
His hands go up without him even meaning to, find your throat. One hand snakes over the back, one over the front and then he’s squeezing. He knows how to apply pressure, how to kill someone and how to make someone just think they’re being killed. But he’s never been a man for finesse. He’s always been a wrecking ball.
You feel the pressure, and you know this could go horribly wrong. Know that the strongest man on earth is pressing down on your windpipe. You’ve wondered before if he has to actively stop himself from constantly breaking things, destroying everything and everyone.
With the way your brain is quickly fogging up at the lack of oxygen, you don’t care though. Neither does Ben. Killing you wouldn’t be great publicity, but Vought would find a way to sweep it under the rug. Not that he wants that. Not that the way you’re squeezing around his dick, heavy waves of electricity tickling him everywhere isn’t the best fucking time he’s had in a long while. He thrusts up, hard, and he feels you twitch.
He keeps thrusting, his own teeth gritted. He knows he has to be careful or he’ll be fucking a corpse in a second, but he’s about to nut again and he knows this is gonna be a big one, so he’s not gonna stop now.
Your body convulses. Death throes, they call it. He squeezes harder, and now you’re twitching and he keeps fucking up into your sopping wet cunt. If he wasn’t going cross-eyed in that very second, he’d see a vein pulsing on your forehead. He’d hear you wheeze. He’d see your eyes roll up til there’s only white. When he feels his balls pull up where he’s squeezed into you, he lets go of your throat.
You can’t cry out, but you make some indescribable sound as you come too, and it’s the ceiling lamp that explodes first. It goes low, then bright, then bursts, just as Soldier Boy blows inside of you, and there’s a floor lamp nearby that follows immediately after. The TV at the other end of the room turns on, and so does the radio, both screeching like they’re coming too.
And Soldier Boy can feel it. Shit, he feels like he can see it. The electricity rolls out of you, into him. He doesn’t hurt a lot, barely ever. Can’t remember the last time, but the way you shoot into his every cell has him busting so hard he can feel his ears pop. It keeps going, his hips still pumping, spurting, and he nearly screams.
He’s never felt like this, and he’s just about done it all.
It seems to last forever, and yet it’s over within seconds. You’re still rolling your hips, milk him for everything he’s got but then you collapse forward, against his chest. You don’t need to be held or some shit like that, but, Christ on a cracker, if you aren’t happy he’s there will all that brawn to make it feel like the fall back to earth isn’t quite as far.
The room is quiet, now, only filled with the panting of both of you. You don’t know it yet, but there is an outline now beneath you of your two bodies where you singed the carpet. It’s fine. Vought will pay for it.
You finally press yourself up, more drop than climb off him, legs shaky. You let Soldier Boy drop out of you, and a lot of him comes with it, runs down your thighs and down into the carpet too. Your ass meets the ground and you reach your hand out, low table nearby, pack of Luckys there and a fat, golden lighter. You take one out of the pack, eyes still mostly closed, hands shaking, and stick it between your lips. You roll your head before lighting it.
“Now that,” you say, voice rough and cracked, and the makeup department will have to work overtime to cover the bruises that will soon bloom on your throat, you just know it, will be dabbing at it with concealer and concerned eyes, but no one will say shit. Meanwhile Soldier Boy can’t help but feel a little proud at that, that he’s fucked that sassy, nagging voice right out of you. “That’s how I would fuck Rock Hudons if I ever got the chance.”
Soldier Boy scoffs, then holds his hand out for the cigarette. You pass it to him and he sits up, scoots back against the couch. Takes a long drag.
Both of you are quiet. He passes the cigarette back to you, and you move how you’re sitting, wince at your sore cunt.
“For what it’s worth,” Soldier Boy finally says, and you look at him with dead eyes. “Pretty sure Rock Hudson is a fucking fairy. So you’re not exactly missing out.” He takes the cigarette back, wishes it was something stronger. When he notices you’re looking at him, he turns his head.
You’re frowning. He opens his mouth, is going to tell you that he’s pretty sure the guy tried to come on to him, suck his dick or something, but then he sees the tears glistening in your eyes. He sighs. He really thought he’d fucked them out of you.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” you ask, sniffle. He holds his breath for a second, then shakes his head.
“I don’t,” he says. “I just kinda don’t give a shit about you.” You turn your head away, nod slowly.
“Okay,” you say.
It’s not how you imagined it. You thought on the other end of it would be happiness, love. You thought that dumb, deep feeling inside of you would go away if only everyone just loved you.
“Then why do you treat me like that?” you ask, but the fight has left your voice. Ben sniffs. He oughta slap you green and blue for how you keep talking back at him, but he just sighs. Flicks some ash onto the carpet.
“None of us get what we deserve,” he says.
Aaw, goes the audience. We really thought they’d make it. We thought love was on the other end of this.
You look at the camera, shake your head.
“Not love,” you say, and then a cheeky little smile forms on your lips. “But something way, way better.”
He takes your hand as the two of you step onto the red carpet. The bulbs blind you, and you throw yourself against his chest, smile brightly, throw one arm up, so excited to be here. He wraps his arm around you, smiles, isn’t she such a catch?
You’re wearing a silver dress, the decollete shaped in the form of a lightning bolt. No one will get why, or ask what it means. Instead they’ll ask you what Soldier Boy is like in private. They’ll ask you what drink you serve him when he gets home. They’ll ask him if he’s planning on popping the question. They’ll ask you if you’ve thought of baby names already. They ask things, and ask, and ask, and you answer and wink and smile and giggle, and he answers and chuckles and winks and pats your side like you’re both in on the joke.
Among the photographers and interviewers there’s fans, actual fans. One girl faints when she sees him. Another girl jumps up and down when she sees you, tears streaming down her face. She goes home to a basement apartment and a violent husband. But she thinks maybe one day she can be like you.
He takes your hand. They cheer, they clap, they scream. They love you.
Isn’t that all you ever wanted?
Thank you for reading! ♡
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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.
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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