a glory of angels

ratcity  asked:

prompt: an Angel falls to earth and they land in bumfuck America and the first place they go is a diner, bloodstained and singed, to have a shitty cup of coffee

five conversations between a waitress named maria and an angel, recently fallen

1. Maria hadn’t said anything when the woman came in, blood in her teeth and a purpling bruise on her cheekbone. She’d been dressed too warmly for the mild spring, a puffy overcoat that hid her arms, her whole body, all the way down to her knees. But Maria hadn’t said anything, not when the woman ducked into the diner’s bathroom, coming back with everything washed away but the dirt under her nails, not when when she wanted the table by the window, and a cup of coffee, just coffee. (Cream and sugar? Maria had asked, but the question seemed to confuse her.) Maria hadn’t said a word as the woman sat there, coffee untouched for hours, until it was almost closing.

She was still staring fixedly out the dark window, as though the coming and going of the truckers at the gas station next door were some code in need of deciphering.

Maria cleared her throat, making the woman startle. “We’re about to close the kitchen, did you want a fresh cup?”

“A fresh–oh. No, I don’t–don’t like the way it tastes.”

“Did you want to order something else?”

“No, no, it’s just–people are always ordering coffee. I thought it must taste…not like this.”

Maria was startled into laughing, and was gratified to see a tentative smile cross the strange woman’s face. “That might just be Jenny’s day-old roast. You probably ought to try Starbucks or something before handing down the final verdict,” Maria told her, smiling.

The woman had kind eyes. “I will.”

Maria looked at her for a second, then set the coffee pot down on the table. She slid into the booth across from her, and folded her hands together. “Look, it’s none of my business, but–if you’re in some trouble, I got a friend who works in Family Services, I’d be happy to call her for you.”

There was a flash of panic across the stranger’s face. “No, I–I don’t have any family,” she said carefully, looking at some point over Maria’s shoulder.

“Whoever gave you those bruises–”

“I fell.”

Maria’s heart ached. “Look…”

The woman frowned, her dark eyes searching Maria’s face as though trying to read the thoughts behind it. “No, I really did fall,” she insisted.

“Okay. Okay, just–I’m putting it out there. You should know there are options, you don’t have to stay.  Look,  I’ve got to get the dishwasher running, so…don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll walk out with you.”

When Maria came back to the table, the untouched coffee was still there. Underneath was a twenty dollar bill, the edges very slightly singed.

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say you’re an angel cast down from heaven.

(not a fallen angel, who chose to abandon their post and ally themselves with lucifer, or a corrupted human soul, which is a different animal altogether, but an angel who was called before the tribunal and found guilty. Dishonorable discharge. And maybe you wished you’d jumped, instead of being pushed, but the sentence is handed down anyway)

…and then you’re just human. Sort of. Because the thing is, they can’t turn an angel into a human–you aren’t water, humanity isn’t wine. The best they can do is strip you of your wings and spirit and teeth and surety, and reassemble you smaller, blind, with poison in your joints. They best they can do is make you into a uncertain fleshy thing, hollow on the inside where a soul should go. Neither human nor angel and they were being merciful, you see. Better a thing than unmade.

but your body is new, fresh out of the box, and it doesn’t know how to be in the world any more than you do. You find yourself vomiting up food because your stomach doesn’t understand what digestion is; you wear sweaters in mid-July because your blood stubbornly refuses to go above room temperature. You have shadows like bruises beneath your eyes.

you smell wrong. When you pass, animals cower as before a storm.

(some nights, you dream–you were allowed to keep your memories, in stunning technicolor detail, but some of the parts that don’t fit in the human brain have gone blurry around the edges, metaphorical and soft-focus. You can’t remember the certain bits of string theory you need to get home, for example, or what ultraviolet looked like. When someone says, wings, you think of feathers and updrafts and that’s not right, it’s not right, but you can’t remember why)

you spent that first day in a church, trying to plead with your father to reverse the ruling. You have never known such profound silence as greeted you there, and it shakes you to your (new, runny) marrow. it will be a year before you dare to shout into the abyss again.

(no wonder humanity spent so much time looking up, looking out, looking at each other. How lonely, to be shut up all alone in your skull)

but you live in the world because there is no other choice. (that is very human too, you learn.) You tend the garden of an old woman, who makes you soup from a can and dry sandwiches, and rubs your back when you vomit them up again. She lets you wear her sweaters, smelling of lanolin and mothballs, and you are cold together, old together. You tell her, I used to be an angel, and she pats your hand.

how are you with hostas? she asks.

(it did not occur to you to lie to her. that was very angelic of you.)

You saw Sodom leveled to ash and salted earth, and she was there during the Harlem Riots of ‘64, which, she assures you, looked much the same. what’s the secret of life? she asks once, humor dancing in her dark eyes.

I don’t know, you tell her, honest in this too. I only just started mine.

listen up: “hark the herald angel sing/ glory to the newborn king” and “i know when that hotling bling/ that can only mean one thing” have the same number of syllables

merry christmas

kitmarlowes  asked:

10 things michael loves about his brothers?

I. Lucifer was grown from the seed of a photon, nested in the heart of a nebula. When he was no bigger than a white dwarf, God took Michael to see him. He let Michael hold Lucifer—just by the wing-tips, for Lucifer was still only boiling dust and hydrogen gas. But he was already so bright, so hot, atoms trying to fly in a hundred directions at once. ‘Michael,’ the Father had said, ‘this is your brother. You will have many brothers after him, and you will love them all, but not as you love this one, for he was first.’

In his more uncharitable moments, Michael thinks it may have been the cruelest thing his Father has asked of him.

II. The younger angels don’t remember a time before the War. They’ve never seen the Garden as it once was—green and full, angels wandering beneath the boughs barefoot, laughing. Once, when Michael is inspecting the eastern garrison, he tells one of the footsoldiers to re-make his bed, it looks like an ox got into the tabernacle.

Sir, I don’t—what is that?

What’s what, soldier?

The tabernacle.

Michael stares. Then, he exhales shakily, lowering himself to sit on the footsoldier’s cot. Well, he says, trying to find the words. (Words were always Gabriel’s gift, and Michael hasn’t seen him since Gabriel’s company departed for earth.) Before the beginning, there was us. And then…then there was everything else.

By the time he finishes, the whole garrison sits at his feet, listening. They are very young, and Michael loves them enough for his heart to break.

III. Haniel learns how to play “You Are My Sunshine” on a harmonica he borrowed from a baptist preacher in the 20th century. The sound is sorrowful, winding through the trenches.

IV. Michael is wounded, a gash running from his breastbone to his hip. He screams at the pain of it, shouting orders and obscenities as his men carry him back to the field hospital. Raphael is there, and at the sight of Michael he goes white, folding his hands together to keep them from shaking.

Michael slips out of consciousness at some point, but he remembers Raphael leaning over him whispering, Don’t die, please don’t die, you’re all I have left, please—

V. Zophiel still laughs every time she opens her wings.

VI. There is going to be a war, Michael had told Sandalphon, after Lucifer brought sin into the Garden. There is going to be a war, and none of us are prepared for what it will unleash upon Heaven. We were not made to be weapons.

Sandalphon had looked at him for a long moment. Thy will be done, brother, he said finally, and smiled.

VII. Michael had chosen Leliel as his batman for no other reason than she could make him laugh. She could make him laugh, and still, after all the blood and mud she had washed from his skin, after all the bodies they had watched carried past, there was light in her eyes.

VIII. They used to sing together. All the choirs of angels in one perfect fourth, shaking distant planets on the chorus. Michael missed that.

It had been one of the only times he was truly happy.

IX. Once, he comes upon a drinking party—a handful of lesser angels tucked away in a back corner of the trench, drinking foul wine they probably fermented in a galea. They are slightly drunk and stumble too late to their feet as he approaches, not quite managing to stay upright or stop snickering, nudging one another.

Soldiers, Michael greets them calmly. I trust you are having a pleasant evening?

One of them—Eremiel, or Nuriel, Michael can’t remember the youngling’s name—snaps out something (generously) resembling a salute and says, A very pleasant evening, big brother!

He immediately turns bright red, and stammers, Sir, I meant sir, I really meant sir, I swear it, big brother—

Eremiel or Nuriel looks like he would very much like to die, right now, and so Michael steps forward, and kisses his little brother’s forehead. Thank you, he breathes. Even if you know not why.

He leaves them there, to their laughter and terrible wine, feeling light enough that his wings just might carry him.

X. The End of Days comes and goes. Michael sits beneath the tree of knowledge and watches his brothers walk through the Garden, barefoot, laughing.

Somewhere in the Garden he can hear Lucifer, singing in perfect fourths.

anonymous asked:

what happens when an angel falls in love with a human? what does it look like?

there’s this girl.


you remember the daughters of men who enticed your brothers to fall, in those early days of mankind. They had been beautiful—women of salt and rain, of little vanity and no hesitation. The daughters of men were born with horizons in their eyes and hearts that sang; they wove the priestly garment without needle, learned Sarai’s laughter. (and the fruit of the tree was pleasing to the eye…)

your brothers had forsaken everything for them, in the end.

and you had pitied them.


she will be fourteen, all coltish limbs and half-tamed hair, when she kisses you—a swift, daring thing, her lips pressed to your lion’s maw. (she had asked you to kneel, down and down again, and she had gone up onto her toes, and somewhere between the rising and the falling…)

she leaves behind a faint slick of strawberry lipbalm and something older, sweeter, like crushed apples.

oh, child, you breathe.

I wanted to know, she says, and there is defiance in the set of her shoulders. okay? I wanted to know.

she grabs her backpack from where she left it on the concrete and takes flight, her sneakers hitting the pavement like an afterthought of wings.

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Signs as Rent Songs

Aries: Light My Candle
Taurus: Goodbye Love
Gemini: I’ll Cover You
Cancer: Take Me Or Leave Me
Leo: One Song Glory
Virgo: Over The Moon
Libra: Today 4 U
Scorpio: Out Tonight
Sagittarius: Seasons Of Love
Capricorn: Tango Maureen
Aquarius: Rent
Pisces: La Vie Boheme

so I know I’ve been talking about Heaven as like, trenches and astronomical bodies and physical space, but that’s just because I haven’t figured out a good way to write about a heaven so removed from humanity’s experience of the world that language fails.

because my favorite thing is a heaven that isn’t a physical space, isn’t a thing the way the world is a thing, populated with beings that are also not things, so nothing occupies space and nothing occupies time they’re just math and vacuum except not because those are things and you see why I’m having problems with this.

but then you get this great idea of humanity showing up for that eternal life they were promised, and humanity is just so fucking used to three-dimensional space and experiences of time that they warp the non-universe around them and it’s all a great experiment in subjective idealism

because an angel isn’t a thing but when humanity is faced with an angel, it expects a thing and so angels are suddenly things and heaven is suddenly a place, and it’s all very confusing if you’re accustomed to existing simultaneously in twenty-six dimensions and none at all.

(humanity gives heaven weather.)

(weather. in heaven.)


so humanity goes around retooling heaven in their image of earth’s image, making things from not-things and calling it good, leaving the angels to scramble helplessly after them. (heaven was operating off newtonian mechanics for centuries, it was a nightmare. every time the angels wanted to go faster than the speed of light they had to deliberately avoid thinking about maxwell’s equations or end up slamming into a paradox.)

and anytime an angel tries to complain, god laughs.

fucking creators, man.

rent [movie] summarized
  • seasons of love: ooooh THATS what this song is from !
  • rent: apparently these ppl don't understand paying rent is part of fucking life? but okay?
  • you'll see: boi u beTrAyed Usss now we gotta pay rent, which is part of life but we don't wanna do it !1!1!
  • one song glory: Rodger just can't write one fucking song and it's pathetic
  • light my candle: k r they really talking about candles ??
  • today 4 u: angel is perfection and she is too good for this world you can't argue with me on this she's adorable and this song is adorable fight me
  • tango maureen: so joanne + mark are just like incapable of understanding maureen is an independent bisexual woman so their bitch ass complains
  • life support: u can do dis bby u got aids but u ok bby I believe in u
  • out tonight: freaking hoe anthem this is the sOng to HOE TO stRip To ThiSss
  • another day: rodger has fuckin baggage and he's fucking rude tbh
  • will i: awe bby
  • santa fe: deadbeats can dream, can't we?
  • i'll cover you: collins and angel are too good for this movie they are literally perfect they don't deserve this
  • over the moon: whAt theE aCtUAl FuCK??????111111!!!!!!
  • la vie boheme: lIt
  • i should tell you: we both got issues but let's coMbINe our issues and date cause that's just sO healthy !!
  • la vie boheme b: lIt pt.2
  • seasons of love b: it's abt to go downhill kids
  • take me or leave me: apparently strong women who are naturally flirtatious and also bisexual NEED TO be like??? super careful and always cater to their overprotective lover???? but that's none of MY business :))
  • without you: idk man this is just depressing cause mimi is messed up and rodger isn't emotionally there enough to help her.
  • i'll cover you [reprise]: anGel ANd COllINs dId nOooT deSerVe ThIs !1!!/!- THESE Sfucking IDIOTS are out Living LIDE and being fucKin duMbassEs and aNGel, toO pure fOr tHis World, dIes iM fucKing dOne tHis is FuckEd UPPP
  • halloween: this is p sad i mean he's realizing things and it's almost been a year wow ??
  • goodbye love: i don't even know it's like they all hate themselves and everyone else they are all so fucked up I'm
  • what you own: this song is such a waste of time like rodger goes to santa fe then comes back all in one song it was such a waste I don't understand
  • finale a: mimi is dying whoops
  • your eyes: i finally did a thing but ur dying lol whOOps
  • finale b: aw jk I'm here for now but I'm lowkey abt to die ahaA we good fam we good
  • love heals: this whole fuckin musical is messed up but it's amazing bye

It was with a warm hand on Castiel’s shoulder that Chuck watched his son die for the first time. Watched as the archangel shredded Cas under the weight and pull of angelic power. It was messy. It was callous.

Chuck wiped his blood-covered hands on his jeans, feeling the way the slick met rough—what was left of his son smeared on the denim.

Dean had come and gone and Chuck was left, sitting in the red-painted house, knowing that somewhere, his firstborn son was breaking free. Going to end the world.

Chuck sighed, grabbing a bottle of liquor from the counter and taking a deep swig. He could still see the glow in Castiel’s eyes. Not from grace, but from something perhaps more pure. Like a memory of the light once used to create the earth and all the creatures that inhabited it. The light that Chuck had given his creations straight from his own fingertips.

Cas, you beautiful idiot, he had thought as the room shook and he watched his son hold his ground, his last breaths rooted in a pearl of hope for the Earth. Hope placed in the small hands of two forgettable hunters fighting against the rising powers of hell.

The brave sacrifice of the brown-haired, blue eyed angel who died to save the world would likely never be told, but still, Chuck couldn’t help but think that it was the stuff that stories were made of.

It was quiet now, in the kitchen with the reminder of Cas, the man who’d ripped up the pages of destiny and spat in the face of fate. The man who’d scoured the earth in search for God with nothing but a second-hand pendant and a desire to protect.

Chuck closed his eyes, tightly. A desire to protect, he thought, his mind drifting back to the sense of wonder he’d felt when he’d first created his angels.

He sat down and poured a little drink on the floor in tribute before squeezing the bottle between his knees. And he tried not to remember that he had the power to protect, too. To protect the world from the impending apocalypse. To protect Castiel.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. It was a promise he’d made a long time ago when, in an effort to “save,” he’d purged the earth with water. What surprised him, however, was how men continued to preach in his name, building philosophies and stamping them with heaven’s seal without care to God’s sanctions.

“Maybe my children make better Gods than me,” Chuck considered, finding himself again drawn to the two young brothers that, even now, were facing Michael and Lucifer when even their own God couldn’t.Dean and Sam were better men than their father, Chuck thought, and Cas was a better man than me.

Chuck stared at the way the room wore bits of Cas and wondered at the feelings of sentiment he felt. True, Chuck knew all of his angels, but he couldn’t find it in himself to understand why he felt the world was smaller now in the space since he’d watched Castiel die. After all, it was simply the natural order of things. He created angels like shooting stars: fiery, fierce and beautiful. And, like the meteoroids plowing through the sky, Cas had come too close to the earth, burning up inside the atmosphere.

Once, Chuck had commanded the angels to love the humans. The angels had become volatile, hardened creatures, made for duty with no one to serve. Statues of rigid perfection.

Chuck looked down at his own hands, letting his mind wander through the intricate designs of the human vessel he’d created for himself. Human flesh was so different than the fierce ether of an angel. He’d created them with the heads of beasts and great spanning wings. They were formidable, truly, they were. And yet, Chuck knew, even then, when he’d first birthed them, that humans were his most beautiful creation. They were breakable, small, and beautifully flawed. And, he’d known then, too, that he’d created mankind to save them all. To save the angels. To save himself.

It was his own last beacon of hope, that perhaps they could all become something more than the patterns of war and violence that had emanated from him and poured into his creations.

Chuck smiled as he looked at the Supernatural books, knowing he had found it. His broken children who had become more than their God, willing to die for the sake of the planet.

They had transcended him. He always knew they would. But, what had surprised him was the angel in the dirty trench coat and blue eyes, falling away from heaven’s glory for one man. One human. An angel that had such faith in and love for humanity that he’d given up everything.

Chuck bowed his head to his chest. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t get involved. And yet, he could still hear Castiel’s prayers in the back of his head—months of the angel’s voice crying for an absent God to step in and save his children.

And Chuck knew what he had to do. Though it wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things—a small gesture, really. But significant nonetheless.

Slowly, he leaned down to the floor, touching a spot of red with his finger. He watched as the bits of Cas responded, finding their way back to the whole. It was a fascinating process, to see the parts of Cas’s vessel come together, gathering, binding, creating arms, legs, a face. Until, suddenly, he was staring at the calm features of Cas’s body, laying down with his eyes closed, as if he could be asleep.

Then, with a breath, Chuck pulled light from the skies, infusing grace and soul and power to recreate Castiel’s true form, creating a sacred space inside the simple kitchen of Chuck’s home. It felt wrong, in a way, to bring so much of his God self back to the place where he had gone to leave it all behind. And yet, it also felt right. To put something back together again after such a long time of watching things fall apart.

And, finally, it was done as he gingerly placed Castiel back inside the man laying on the ground. He watched as the vessel’s chest hitched with the first breath of life, and smiled when he looked at the body he’d created just for Cas. For the angel who wanted so badly to love humans. In a way, now he could be one. He thought Cas would like that he’d made him look like Jimmy. That maybe he’d find it easier if he could look in the mirror and see the man whose face had first chosen to be so autonomous and free from heaven.

Cas’s eyes were still closed, and Chuck knew he couldn’t let him wake up here. He couldn’t face his son. Not now. Still, he was surprised to find himself kneeling on the floor of the kitchen, running his hands through the soft parts of Castiel’s hair, his thoughts, surprisingly far away from the ending of the rest of the world. Instead, he placed a kiss on top of Cas’s head, sending him to a beautiful forest, by a stream to wake up.

And then the kitchen was empty again, the clock on the wall ticking loudly, and the stain from the spilled alcohol shining on the floor.

Chuck contemplated what he’d done. Wondered at his own need to break every rule that had bound him for centuries and heal one lowly angel when he’d let hundreds of others die.

But, he thought he already knew the answer. Where Chuck had made humans in a deliberate effort at salvation, one lowly angel had been a surprise. A miracle. And, as Chuck sat back in his chair, he smiled as he admitted it to himself: it turned out that maybe it wasn’t just the humans that were there to save. It turned out that maybe, just maybe, a forgettable, self-sacrificing angel with blue eyes and too much heart could be the one to redeem them all.

Imperfect Celestial (Castiel x Reader)

Plot: Cas doesn’t understand why the reader feels so insecure. Why should she? To him, she’s the most beautiful thing in the Universe.

Pairing: Castiel x Reader

Warning: Selfhate, Cas being a sweetheart, almost smut (Winchesters be cockblocking), lots and lots of fluff, angst

(In this fic, all the crap with April and Meg didn’t happen but I still hardcore ship Megstiel. I apologize because this is crappy.

Also look how pretty he is in the gif!)

Originally posted by thearronaut

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