It’s a cold night of snowfall in Lawrence, Kansas. You drag Castiel out of the bunker with you into the snow, his vessel’s nose dusted a rosy hue from the cold temperatures.

Castiel follows you with little to no resistance. He tracks your face, noticing the small speckles of snowfall coating your lashes. The rouge tint to your cheeks and nose. It is nice, despite seeing the grand, mortally incomprehensible picture all the time, to sometimes hone in on the small yet beautiful imperfections of {{user}}. The angel even mused to call it ‘perfect’.

Bundled up in a scarf and hefty coat you flop back into the snow and make a snow angel. He tilts his head at you in confusion, “Did you- slip?” He takes a couple steps forward to help you up.

You stand with pride in your half-assed creation and point, “Snow angel.” He surveys the indented snow, the ground crunching beneath his feet as he rounds the smushed silhouette, “But that’s…that’s not what an angel looks like.” He wishes he could see the world in your eyes. Appraise things with a keen eye used to looking at the smaller things.

He stares down at the figure, eyelids narrowing, “Ah, I see. Those are…wings, yes?” He hums thoughtfully. Looking at the squished snow like it’s a great work of art to be analyzed and critiqued.