I really wasn’t supposed to spend three days on this.

I really like the theory that Naomi is actually one of the Fates; I picked Lachesis because she’s the one who measures the length of a soul’s life, and is said to choose a person’s destiny after a thread is measured. That’s why her lowered right hand is made of sewing, crocheting, and leatherworking tools. The gold threads she’s manipulating are the puppet-strings of heaven. The albatross head is a reference to the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, and the shadows on the human face are in the shape of a spade in reference to the Queen of Spades in French tarot. 

There’s an omega sign in her ribcage to indicate she’s sort of the last resort of heaven; the upside down cross is St. Peter’s Cross, to show her reluctance to claim true divinity. Her raised left hand is decked out in surgical tools that she uses as a physician of angels, in Castiel’s “recovery” in particular. Her wings are a shattered mirror as a reflection of Heaven’s poor condition and also her own enigmatic duplicity.

TL;DR: I just have a lot of Naomi feels okay


(print: x)

He doesn’t talk about it–what would he say?

“Morning, Cas, how are you?” “Oh, y'know, my metaphysical being is pressing several hundred tons worth of weight down on my shoulders and my wings are calcifying and I’m going out of my mind with pain, the usual." 

Even fantasizing it, he can see the other person’s eyes glaze over as they heave an impatient sigh. No one wants to hear him complain about how his worm-eaten marble heart is too heavy for him to carry without his Grace, how his mortal vessel’s body wasn’t meant to bear it without those big beautiful powerful wings and that mighty steel ribcage. They’re gone now, of course, wings becoming brittle and shattering to pieces at the slightest touch; the bars of his chest snapped, popped clean off, one by one, clattering in the trail of debris his decaying angelic body left behind him, until all that was left was that horrible stone monolith. 

Well. That’s not entirely true. He still has one pair of wings left, the ones he had shown to Dean through thunder and the flash of lightning, but they’re too occupied holding up that big, terrible, cracked, crumbling heart of his. The hollow flightless bones are petrified, another set of fossils imprinted into the hunk of marble. His mobility is shot. Now he’s just waiting around for the nerves to finally die so he can ignore the fact he ever had wings at all.

But nobody wants to hear about that. They’d rather he talk about the universal unconscious, about connecting the spiritual and the carnal in lavish orgies. The "fun parts” version of being a fallen angel.

He’s tempted to take a buzz saw to between his shoulders.