a/n: wow it's been forever since i've upoloaded something. so, here, enjoy some cas in the snow.
disclaimer: i don't own supernatural oops.
/ se-ren-i-ty /
(n.) without worry, stress, or disturbance
The world is blanketed in white. Little bits of heaven fall gracefully from the darkened sky, dancing through the near-nonexistent breeze until they land effortlessly upon rises of snow. The evergreens strewn around the park are almost entirely obscured now, as is the children's play set off in the distance. A hush has fallen upon the earth. At this time of night, when God's children are tucked away, safe in their homes, it is all remarkably serene.
The angel blinks. His fluttering lashes seem to echo through the unmoving clearing where he lays. The snow laden ground remains undisturbed – still so pure and untainted. But by the time the sun rises and the birds begin their waking songs, he knows God's creations will descend upon the earth once again.
Nevertheless, he lets himself bask in this mere, insignificant moment of tranquility.
He doesn't notice the cold, the frosty chill of ice beneath his back, and the snowflakes are just gentle enough that he scarcely feels them against his skin. He thinks he might even be able to fall asleep in such a passive place. That is, if he wasn't a creature of immense proportions and was actually capable of such mundane behavior.
He leans back again and his heavily lidded eyes fall upon the dark shadows that appear outstretched on either side of him. His hands gingerly reach toward them, threading his fingers through the familiar, course feathers. The angel notices, with a tilt of his head, how greatly his wings contrast alongside the brilliant white of the snow. Their dark hue completely obscures the crystalline flakes falling from the heavens – they shroud any light cast upon them in their oblivion. Suddenly his wings shift, their feathers ruffling, and as soon as they'd come, they are gone again, leaving nothing but a slight depression in the valley of snow.
The angel exhales, a puff of frozen air escaping his chapped lips, before it dissipates in the wind. It would seem his fleeting moment of peace has already come and gone – much too quickly for his liking. He's on his feet in a matter of seconds, hunching his shoulders and tucking his hands deep into the pockets of the oversized trench coat he's grown so strangely fond of. When he begins his trek, effortlessly smooth through the drifting snow, he leaves the first of many sets of footprints in his wake.
The angel glances up at the darkened sky one last time in a sort of parting gesture, watching in awe as the snowflakes float through the air. They stick in his hair and he has to blink them out of his eyes, but he doesn't mind, not really. He smiles.
And then he is gone, whisked away in a rustling of feathers and a flurry of wind. The only evidence of the angel's presence being the footprints, crisp and clean, moving away from the imprint of his wings spreading across the whole of the, once again, motionless clearing.
fin.