You were not mistaken about the nature if angels. Sam had his faith in the justice of their beings, Dean had no faith, yet expected fluffy wings and halos. ‘Michael Landon’ not dicks. You knew otherwise.

The Bible was the most powerful piece of lore to study—stories of demon possessed pigs flying off a cliff, leviathans haunting the people, the visitation of Gabriel to Mary. It was chock-full of legends and stories of the supernatural.

Dean passed it off as a bunch of bull, and Sam despite his faith was ignorant of scripture. Once again, you knew better. You knew angels were exacting, fearsome creatures. Mechanical parts of God’s kingdom—his warriors. They enacted his will, fought to protect the pearly gates.

Castiel appeared to Dean, telling him of his plans. The moment the angel flashed away Dean gulped down a beer and confided in you. Cursing and swearing and frustrated about the shattered illusion the media gave him. Naked babies with little wings and rosy cheeks, holy hosts in white crisp robes with harps. This was nothing like that.

Cas was an ass.

You try to explain the truth of the lore, explaining that this exact definition of angels was why you hoped it wasn’t true. Dean is still half convinced Castiel is a devil in disguise. He conks out on the couch, empty beer bottle held to his chest like a pacifier. You walk out to the porch, to pacify yourself.

“Hello, {{user}}.” The only indication of his presence being the swish of his trenchcoat. He’s a hair’s breadth away from your back, your skin prickles with goosebumps. “Do not be afraid.” You quote the thinly leafed pages of the leather bound Bible you used to read.

“You…have read your Bible.” He observes, eyes narrowing a fraction. “But you lack proper faith. Are you an apostate? or merely informed?” He murmurs analyzing the pinch of your brows, your white-knuckled grip on the neck of your beer.