“My name is Castiel. I was once an angel of the Lord. I once had wings. I watched them burn.”
Denial: Wistful glances over shoulders, into mirrors, trying to catch a glimpse of wings or what remain of them (they’re still there, I just can’t see them right now); waking up in the middle of the night with a faraway ache and tears fixed to cheeks (the nightmare will end soon); timidly raising two fingers to worried foreheads (hunters always were stronger than the average man); laying hands on the wounded and dying with arrant concentration and apologizing in a cracked voice when the attempts at convalescing fails (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I tried); closing eyes and trying to walk off the top step of the stairs to see if something but the ground will stop the fall (stop tripping); remembering perdition, Israel, and the great divide between the divine and the sinful (I am an angel of the Lord),
Anger: Slamming fists into pillows after walls began to hurt and bruise (this should be your blood on my hands, I’ll kill you for what you’ve made me); slinging blasphemous words into what seem like endless nights (goddamnitsonofabitch, how dare You take this from me, after everything I’ve done and tried to do for You); leaning against doorframes with a piercing stare and refusing to yield or understand (these lives are short and senseless, so fragile, so ready to break); digging growing fingernails into delicate skin (there is relief in the pain, clemency, even); a sense of self-loathing so tangible it hovers in the air (useless, wingless, Graceless, empty, hollow, human); grating out replies and shying sharply away from imploring hands, snapping the neck of the voice of reason (you dare tell me we can fix this? you understand nothing);
Bargaining: Kneeling before a wooden statue of the Lamb in the hazy light of a Sunday morning, face upturned and palms pressed together, uttering a pleading orison of contrition (please, Father, take me back and I will never stray again); golden light that filters through the stained window striping geometric slats of muted reds and greens and purples (grant me my wings, bestow me your Grace, lift me up to Your right hand and I will do all that you ask of me); warming in the swath of illumination whose aura is too much like a lost halo, a halo that is feared to never be restored (I will be your soldier, your messenger, your shepherd, your son);
Depression: Broken and flightless, a baby bird shaken from its nest by a terrible storm (all I had left, and nothing without); long nights spent huddled against cold tile, hands fisted into unkempt brown hair, weeping through the guilt and the shame (how could I had been so blind, I damned myself and the rest of them); lapsing into silence and solitude, two things where control is still retained (no words, no light, no solace, please just leave me to the demons); bitter nights spent contemplating mortality and the end of it all, questioning why-matter, how-matter, no-matter (an unavailing life where the only certainty is death);
Acceptance: Waking before dawn to greet the sun and better understand the color of the sky (a blue that has no name, caught between periwinkle and cerulean); sipping tea and indulging in books with words that move and staunch the seeping hurt (it seems there are so many ways to fall, and yet so many ways to get back up again); allowing surreptitious touches that tenderly reassure and returning them with quiet curiosity (if I cannot worship a god, I can at least worship you); walking alone through bird-busy woods, tenderly placing hands on bark and stone and remembering creation (infinite energy and beauty, no longer truly created or destroyed); glancing into mirrors only to readjust collars and bowties (this striped pattern seems to be preferable); humming quietly and sitting with the bees, wanting their honey instead of their wings (creatures of immutable patterns, fearing neither death nor life, and constantly constructing);
“From a ring of ashes I arose. I breathed new air. I sensed new things. My name is Castiel.”
- Cas in
Dean teaching Cas how toCas learning to shoot a gun.
Dean teaching Cas how toCas learning to flirt.
- Cas eating pie.
Dean teaching Cas how toCas learning to drive.
- Cas being EXCELLENT at pool - no really, because he can analyse the angles of shots and stuff, and completely clears the table on his first try while Dean looks on dumbfounded and then proceeds to use Cas as his secret weapon for all pool hustling from then on.
- And while we’re on that topic - Cas being EXCELLENT at poker, because he has the perfect poker face and I bet he can card count and everything.
- Cas exploring and translating ancient texts and magic in the Batcave.
- Cas being an expert at spellcasting.
- Cas teaching Dean how to fight with a sword.
- Cas teaching the boys Enochian.
And some tragic stuff too:
- Cas feeling depressed and useless at first.
- Cas, perhaps, comtemplating suicide and Dean having to talk him down.
- Cas being grumpy and complaining about human weaknesses.
- Cas having nightmares
and Dean comforting him after them.
- Other angels blaming Cas for their fall and trying to kill him.
- (though the flip side should also be true - other angels THANKING CAS because falling has been the best thing to ever happen to them).
- Cas crying.
- Cas bleeding.
- Cas crying.
I’ll add as time goes on…
And thank them for sharing it with us? This is the Supernatural fan art they drew that is getting a LOT of extremely unnecessary hate from certain fans, and since they have anon enabled I’m sure their inbox is being filled with some really awful stuff and threats right about now.
So I’d like to drown out any potential hate messages they’ll receive with a little love. Can we do that? Here!
LET ME JUST SAY
IF YOU DON’T ALREADY THINK THIS WOMAN IS AN AMAZONIAN PRINCESS
YOU ARE DOING IT TOO WRONG FOR WORDS.
ahhhhh fuck please
NO ONE WOULD MAKE ME HAPPIER