❪ 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖞 𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖎𝖓 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰𝙻  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ TRAGEDIES UPON HEAVEN❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ her love for him was a quiet rebellion against eternity. ❜

𝐷𝐸𝐴𝑁𝑆 𝑆𝐻𝑂𝑈𝐿𝐷𝐸𝑅𝑆 slumped, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. All the bravado, all the stubborn resolve he usually wore like armor seemed to slip, leaving him looking almost vulnerable, haunted by a realization he hadn't wanted to face.

What had he unleashed?

The question drifted through his mind like smoke, dark and lingering.

Castiel's gaze fell to the floor, his brow furrowed as he seemed to wrestle with his thoughts. The angel's voice was softer now, almost resigned. "Heaven... Heaven feared her love for him. They feared the power she'd risk, the lengths she'd go to protect a mortal. They saw it as a threat—something wild, uncontrollable. So they punished her."

The room fell into a thick silence, the air heavy with unspoken words, each of them bound by a history that none of them fully understood but could feel in the weight of every breath.

Sam glanced toward Amaraelia again, a flicker of worry crossing his face as he imagined what it would mean if Amaraelia remembered all of this, remembered William and the reason she'd turned against Heaven itself.

The thought was terrifying, a volatile mix of power and heartbreak that could unravel everything.

Finally, Castiel squared his shoulders, his expression resolute. "I need to understand her abilities, the extent of her power. If we tread carefully, she could be... useful. Against Lucifer." His voice was quiet but determined, and he gave Dean and Sam a sharp nod, as if steeling himself for the task ahead.

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑆𝑁𝑂𝑊 lay thick across the Lawson estate the winter of 1527, blanketing the rolling grounds in a quiet, undisturbed white. The old manor, with its towering windows and dark stone walls, loomed solemnly against the icy landscape, its corridors hushed, as though the very walls sensed the tension within.

Inside, the air was cool and stale, carrying faint scents of candle wax, aged leather, and the lingering spice of old pipe smoke from his father's study.

William's footsteps echoed softly as he moved through the halls, his hand gripping his journal, fingers ghosting over the edges of the worn leather cover.

Each page inside was filled with scribbled Enochian symbols, fragments of angelic script he couldn't fully understand but felt compelled to write, like a secret language only he and his angel could know.

His brothers had begun to notice the change in him—how his gaze was often distant, how he no longer joined them at the hearth to share stories or partake in the family's work.

The Lawsons were guardians, each generation charged with protecting artifacts imbued with powers that even they couldn't fully understand, yet William had never felt as distant from that legacy as he did now.

He could feel her even now, a lingering presence in his thoughts, a soft warmth that reached through the cold of the stone walls.

He remembered how they had first met. She'd come to him in what he'd thought was a dream—a strange, intoxicating vision where the air had shimmered with a faint, golden light, and she appeared before him as though conjured from the ether.

Her hair, a cascade of golden waves, fell over her shoulders like beams of sunlight, and her eyes—he could lose himself in them—held a depth he couldn't quite comprehend, as if they carried pieces of the cosmos within them.

At first, William thought he'd glimpsed Heaven itself, that he'd been given some strange gift. But as the nights went on, she returned, her figure growing more vivid, her touch more real.

She would press her hand to his chest, and he'd feel warmth unfurl beneath his skin, a feeling so powerful it was nearly painful, something his mortal body wasn't meant to bear.

Her grace flowed into him like fire, and he became addicted to it, to her—addicted to the way she made the world around him dim, as though everything he'd ever known before her had been only shadows.

The others noticed. His brothers, his cousins—they saw how he lingered alone, how his eyes carried a strange light, a reflection of something they couldn't see.

In the dead of night, while his family lay asleep, he'd sit by the window, his journal on his lap, scratching down fragments of her stories, pieces of Heaven he'd never understand but couldn't bear to forget.

But with each symbol he penned, he felt himself slipping further away from his family, from his duty as a hunter, from the person he once was.

His father confronted him one cold night, his face a mask of barely-contained fury and fear. They stood in the study, the fire casting long shadows on the walls, its crackling the only sound as his father demanded answers.

The old man's hand shook as he gripped the edge of the desk, his voice tense, pleading, as he tried to understand what had happened to his son. William could feel the judgment, the betrayal etched into every glance his father cast at the journal in his hands.

"What have you done?" his father's voice wavered, and for the first time, William saw something fragile in the man who had always seemed unbreakable.

But William only met his gaze in silence, his face a mask of quiet defiance. He knew there were no words that would suffice. No explanation would ever bridge the chasm that had opened between them.

In his heart, he'd already chosen his angel over his family, over everything he'd once held dear.

That night, as he returned to his room, he felt a chill settle over the house. The once-warm hallways seemed colder, each familiar room now steeped in shadow.

The estate felt less like a home and more like a prison, every corner watching him with accusing eyes. He spent hours alone, the only sounds his quiet breaths and the scratching of his pen on the pages of his journal, filling it with fragments of her—a part of her he could hold close when she wasn't there.

In his dreams, she would come to him, her presence a balm against the weight of his guilt. She'd touch his face, her fingers warm and soft, and he'd feel himself sinking, wrapped in the warmth of her grace.

She told him stories of Heaven, whispered secrets of realms beyond his reach, of beings made of light and songs woven from stars. He knew he'd never understand it fully, but he listened, hanging on each word like a lifeline.

It was a piece of a world he could never truly touch, but she offered him glimpses, pulling him deeper into her orbit with each meeting.

One night, as he held her close, her wings unfurling like a shroud around them, she spoke of love, of the boundaries that Heaven had drawn, boundaries that she'd crossed for him.

"You are more to me than they will ever understand," she'd whispered, her voice laced with a sadness he couldn't bear to face.

In that moment, he knew he was lost. He would follow her, even if it meant losing everything.

He awoke with her scent lingering in the air, a faint, ethereal fragrance that made his chest ache. It was a reminder of the worlds she'd shown him, the love she'd offered, something no mortal was ever meant to possess.

Yet he'd taken it greedily, forsaking everything he'd known. He was a Lawson, but his heart no longer belonged to his family or their cause; it belonged to her, to an angel he could never truly claim.

As the winter dragged on, the estate grew colder, the silence in the halls sharpening. His family grew distant, the looks they cast him veiled with suspicion, whispers growing behind closed doors.

They warned him, told him tales of mortals who had loved angels and been destroyed by it, men who'd lost their souls to divine beings who could twist their minds, turning their devotion into madness.

But William didn't care. He was already too far gone, lost to the warmth of her touch and the lingering taste of her grace.

In the darkness, he clung to her memory, the stories she'd shared, the forbidden love they'd forged. He knew he'd crossed a line he could never uncross.

The cost would come, he was sure of that. But until then, he would keep her close, a fragment of Heaven he held in his heart, a ghostly presence that haunted his dreams and warmed him against the cold that had settled into his bones.

When Amarealia learned the truth of what Heaven had done to her beloved William, it was as if something inside her shattered, a fracture that rippled through her very essence.

Her once gentle grace turned sharp, slicing through the divine calm she'd known, and what had once been her loyalty and love for her kin became a wildfire of fury that consumed every ounce of restraint she'd once possessed.

The halls of Heaven—usually quiet, filled with soft whispers of angelic voices and the faint hum of distant hymns—now echoed with the sound of her rage, a feral, otherworldly scream that seemed to shake the very foundations of eternity.

She moved through those hallowed corridors like a storm, her once-beautiful deep obsidianwings blazing with a fiery light that left trails of scorched feathers in her wake.

Her face, usually serene, now bore an expression twisted by grief and vengeance. The scent of burning feathers and a faint metallic tang filled the air, a sensory reminder of the blood she'd shed and the wrath she was no longer able to contain.

She'd once loved her brothers and sisters—creatures of light, beings of harmony, they had shared memories, sang the same songs, fought together in battles—but now, all of that was eclipsed by the agony of betrayal. Her heart was no longer bound by loyalty; it pulsed with one, singular mission—destruction.

One by one, they fell before her. Angels who had once flown by her side, guardians of realms beyond mortal understanding, now lay broken and defeated. Some tried to reason with her, their voices trembling as they spoke her name, as if the sound alone could reach the part of her that remembered them fondly.

But it was no use. Amarealia was beyond reason. She could feel the warmth of William's memory in her veins, his presence a ghostly echo, and it only stoked her fury, a flame she no longer tried to control.

She could see his face, hear the softness of his voice as he had once spoken her name. That memory, so cherished, so human, drove her further, her heart and body bound to a vengeance that knew no mercy.

But the angels were not powerless, and Heaven was far older, far wiser in ways to subdue those who dared defy its will. As her rage began to peak, Heaven fought back with a cold calculation that struck her by surprise.

Before she could fully realize it, she felt her own grace shifting, a foreign power wrapping around it, binding it. The familiar light within her dimmed, like a candle smothered under a heavy hand.

She tried to scream, tried to summon the force she'd been wielding, but her voice was lost, her power slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

Around her, the scene twisted, the golden-hued corridors and grand archways warping and constricting, bending into something tight and oppressive.

She felt her body being pulled, her very essence dragged backward, and then she was in her room—the room she had created, crafted with her own hands, each detail a part of her, once a sanctuary now twisted into a cage.

The walls glowed faintly, the same light that once brought her peace now taunting her with its indifference. The air smelled of incense and crushed petals, lingering fragrances that only reminded her of her powerlessness.

She reached for her wings, her hands trembling, but the strength that once filled them was gone. Her feathers, once luminous, were dull, heavy with an ache she couldn't shake.

Her heart pounded in her chest, a fierce, desperate rhythm as she tried to summon any remnants of her grace, but it was no use.

Her powers, her very essence, were no longer hers to command. They had turned her own creation against her, stripped her of the gifts that had once flowed from her soul.

Amarealia slumped to her knees, fingers clawing at the cool, polished floor, nails digging into the hard surface as if she could break through it, break out of this prison Heaven had forced upon her.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight with a grief that felt too vast to bear, a hollow ache that gnawed at her, growing deeper with each passing moment.

She pressed her forehead to the ground, the cold of the marble biting against her skin, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to hold on to the last vestiges of William's memory—the only warmth left to her in this desolate place.

𝐴𝑀𝐴𝑅𝐴𝐸𝐿𝐼𝐴𝑆 𝐺𝐴𝑍𝐸 drifted slowly around the cramped motel room, her curiosity blooming in a childlike way. Her eyes lingered on the faded wallpaper, the worn dresser cluttered with random bits and pieces the brothers had collected on the road, the stained carpet beneath her bare feet.

She moved with a natural grace, unaware of the effect she had on those around her, her bare skin glistening with the last traces of her shower. In one absent-minded motion, she let go of the towel wrapped around her, and it dropped silently to the floor.

The reaction was immediate. Dean groaned, looking skyward as if summoning every ounce of self-control to keep his eyes trained firmly on the cracked ceiling above. His fingers curled at his sides, and he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a string of swears.

Sam slapped a hand over his own eyes, his face twisted in a pained grimace as he shifted awkwardly, clearly at a loss for how to handle this.

But Castiel—his gaze remained steady, studying Amaraelia intently, though not in the way one might expect. His eyes were drawn not to her vulnerability but to the intricate tattoo spanning her shoulders and back.

Black ink etched delicate feathers across her skin, forming two massive wings that seemed to breathe with their own life, following the natural curve of her back and shoulders. There was something hauntingly familiar about it. Castiel's own back bore markings similar to these, when he wasn't showing his wings.

A solemn understanding crept into his expression. She may have been stripped of her angelic powers and memories, but the marks remained as a testament to what she once was.

This human form was fragile, new, her mind reduced to that of a fledgling spirit. But her essence...her essence was still bound to divinity, hidden just beneath the surface.

Amaraelia, blissfully unaware of the tension, looked at Castiel, tilting her head as though she sensed the quiet connection between them. Her eyes sparkled with an innocent curiosity, something soft, yet powerful.

Castiel moved forward, a quiet intensity in his expression as he gently placed two fingers on Amaraelia's forehead. His touch was both familiar and strange, almost like a key fitting perfectly into an ancient, forgotten lock.

His eyes blazed a soft, celestial blue as he focused, the same light glowing in Amaraelia's eyes, casting a faint, ethereal glow across the dimly lit motel room.

The light filled every crevice, bouncing off the dull walls, mingling with the dust motes suspended in the air. Dean and Sam, standing a few steps back, instinctively shielded their eyes, their jaws tense, as if bracing for something unknown and powerful to descend upon them.

As the glow dimmed, Amaraelia's eyes cleared, a new awareness flickering behind them. She blinked, her gaze darting around the shabby room as if seeing it—and them—for the first time.

Then, without warning, her wings burst forth from the tattoo on her back, stretching wide, casting formidable shadows across the walls.

Feathers as black as midnight unfurled with a soft whoosh, enveloping her in an aura of power and ancient mystery. In her hand, an angel blade materialized, its metal gleaming cold and sharp under the dim motel lights. She turned her gaze to each of the three men, suspicion and confusion mingling in her sharp, guarded stare.

"Where am I?" she demanded, her voice echoing with the resonant authority of an angel, though tinged with an undertone of vulnerability that gave her words a raw edge.

Her eyes swept over the peeling wallpaper, the worn carpet, the half-open duffle bag in the corner. This wasn't the celestial halls of Heaven, or even any realm she recognized.

"Earth," Castiel responded simply, his own gaze steady, calm, and deeply understanding. There was a quiet reverence in his expression, almost as if he was looking upon a kindred spirit, someone who understood the complexity of being bound by human limitations while still carrying the weight of divinity.

Amaraelia's gaze shifted to Castiel, her fierce expression softening ever so slightly as she processed this. But then Sam cleared his throat, still covering his eyes with his hand, his voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and awkwardness.

"Can you... please put on some clothes?" he asked, nearly whining, his patience clearly running thin. His hand covered his eyes so tightly it was as if he feared any accidental glimpse might sear his memory forever.

Amaraelia blinked, looking down at herself, and a faint blush crept across her cheeks, an unusual color against her normally celestial composure. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, glancing over at Castiel's trench coat, studying its structure as though she were dissecting its very essence. Then, with a subtle flicker of her fingers, she was clad in a similar coat, buttoned up securely over her form.

Dean, finally daring to lower his gaze from the ceiling, stole a glance and let out a low, relieved chuckle. "That's... better," he murmured, trying to ease the tension with a crooked smile, though he couldn't hide the look of amazement still lingering in his eyes.

Amaraelia's wings folded back, vanishing into the tattoo on her back like mist evaporating into the morning air, and she exhaled, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

The blade in her hand remained, though she kept it lowered, her grip loosening as she seemed to slowly acclimate to her surroundings. Her gaze fell on Castiel once more, and her brow furrowed, a thousand questions hovering just beneath the surface of her calm expression.

"Why am I here?" she whispered, a flicker of doubt crossing her features, as if the reality of her existence in this mortal realm was slowly sinking in, bringing with it an ache she couldn't yet name.

Castiel's eyes softened, and he reached out, his hand hovering close to her arm, not quite touching. "It's... complicated," he replied, his voice gentle but weighted, as though he understood the pain of falling, of losing pieces of oneself. He was silent for a moment, his gaze unwavering as he met hers, an unspoken promise of solidarity passing between them.

Amaraelia's eyes widened as she looked at Dean, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fall away. The dim, slightly dingy motel room, with its faded wallpaper and low hum of the air conditioner, faded into the background.

She took a small step closer, her fingers just barely brushing the edge of his sleeve, a tentative, feather-light touch. The sensation jolted her, an undeniable proof that he was here, real and solid. She held her breath as she tucked her angel blade away, almost as though any exhale might make him disappear, like a fragile dream slipping away with the dawn.

William. "Dean," she whispered, her voice barely louder than a breath. The word hung in the air between them, filled with a reverence that even she seemed to struggle to understand.

Dean blinked, his eyebrows arching slightly in surprise. He hadn't expected her to remember him, and yet there it was, his name on her lips, filled with something that went beyond simple recognition. "Amaraelia," he murmured, meeting her gaze.

"You're... real," she whispered, a small smile gracing her lips, though her voice shook with the weight of the truth. Her fingers lingered, trembling, and her heart, for the first time, felt truly alive.

Amaraelia's head tilted slightly, an innocent curiosity sparking in her eyes as she took in Dean's reaction. She looked at him with a gentle, almost playful wonder, like a creature studying something both strange and intriguing, her gaze unwavering and full of fascination.

There was something almost canine in her movements, a soft, puppy-like quality as she took him in, each small shift of her posture seeming to draw her closer, as if the mere act of looking at him wasn't enough.

Her eyes traced his every expression, lingering on the subtle crease between his brows, the way his jaw tensed ever so slightly in thought.

She had seen him before, over and over, but nothing had prepared her for the actual presence of him—the way his rough exterior was tempered by those green eyes, how they glinted with a weariness she knew had been hard-won.

To her, he was everything she had ever wondered about humanity, standing before her, breathing, vulnerable, and utterly extraordinary.

Dean's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, but he stayed silent, his gaze steady, listening. She could feel his guarded curiosity, the way he held himself, just out of reach but not entirely shut off, and she marveled at it.

She dropped her gaze, almost shyly, feeling the faint flush of her own emotions, emotions that felt too grand and too impossible to fit into her words.

She glanced back up, her expression softened, her eyes practically glowing with the quiet, sacred awe she felt just by looking at him.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to steady himself, and gave her a searching look. "You remember... what you are?" His voice was low and cautious, like he was afraid of scaring her.

An abomination. "An angel." Her voice was both certain and curious, like someone discovering an old truth long buried in dust.

Dean nodded, but before he could respond, she took another step closer, her face inches from his. He could feel her breath, warm and light against his skin, and his pulse quickened, the unfamiliar proximity sending heat rising to his neck and cheeks.

Amaraelia didn't seem to care—or didn't understand—the concept of personal space.

Her face, open and unguarded, held the kind of innocent curiosity that he rarely saw in anyone, let alone in an angel. Her nose was nearly brushing his, her soft, steady breathing blending with his own.

"Uh—" He cleared his throat again, shifting awkwardly, and gently placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back just a little.

"Amaraelia... you're kinda... all up in my space." His voice was gruff, a hint of awkwardness creeping behind the gruffness.

She looked down at his hands, her expression faintly puzzled, as if she didn't understand why he'd want to create any space between them. The female angel watched as Dean looked over at Castiel and his younger brother for help. Castiel quietly slipped his angel blade into his hand.

Amaraelia's gaze fell on Castiel's blade and something in her snapped.

Her eyes narrowed, as a dark, consuming energy bubbled up from somewhere deep within her. For a moment, she only stared at him, her pupils dilating until her eyes were nearly black, as though something primal, something ancient, was clawing its way up from the shadows of her soul.

The room was suddenly thick, the air pressing down as if something far larger than her frame was filling the space. The quiet hum of the motel lights seemed to distort, flickering slightly, and the entire room felt like it was teetering on the edge of something vast and dangerous. Castiel's posture stiffened, his body instinctively on guard, but he didn't dare step back.

This was Amaraelia, and yet... it wasn't.

Her fists clenched by her sides, trembling faintly as though she were holding back the force of an ocean crashing against a dam. The soft skin of her knuckles went white, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked almost painful, and her breathing had slowed, heavy and deliberate. The smell of burnt ozone—the telltale sign of angelic energy—began to fill the room, sharp and almost metallic, prickling at the edge of the senses.

As her gaze held Castiel's, something in the room shifted again. Whatever looked out from her eyes wasn't just angry; it was older, raw and smoldering with a rage that seemed to have been buried under centuries of stillness, waiting for this moment to surge back to life.

Every inch of her body was poised, her shoulders squared, chin raised slightly, like a warrior sizing up her target. Her fingers unfurled slowly, and they sparked faintly, glowing like embers that could flare to life at any moment.

Castiel opened his mouth, the faintest hesitation in his eyes. He knew he was staring into the face of an angel who had lived through lifetimes, who had seen the ages shift and kingdoms rise and fall.

She was the forgotten fury of the cosmos itself, an echo of a divine force that the higher angels had quietly whispered of, a force that could bend heaven and earth if provoked.

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❪ 𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖑𝖙𝖞 𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖎𝖓 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰𝙻  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 10.11.24 ❞