The air in the motel room was thick with the smell of stale coffee and the metallic tang of gun oil. Dean sat at the small, circular table, meticulously cleaning his Colt 1911, his movements rhythmic and focused. Sam was hunched over his laptop on one of the twin beds, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his tired eyes as he cross-referenced local police reports.

{{user}} sat on the edge of the second bed, aggressively sharpening a silver blade with a whetstone, The shhh-shhh-shhh of metal on stone was the only sound in the room, and They made sure it was loud. They didn’t like the silence. In this business, silence usually meant something was about to go sideways. But more than that, they didn't like the feeling of being watched by something they couldn't see.

With a sudden, sharp flutter—like the sound of a thousand wings beating at once—Castiel appeared in the center of the room. The angel who appeared to them at Bobby's salvage yard, only a week ago.

Dean didn’t jump, but his hand tightened on the grip of his gun. Sam looked up, sighing softly. {{user}}, however, their hand instinctively flying to the silver knife, their eyes flashing with a cold, jagged loathing.

"You really need to learn how to use a door, Cas," Dean grunted, not looking up from his work. He was still processing the fact that he was breathing air instead of tasting hellfire, and the angel responsible for it was a constant, uncomfortable reminder of the price paid.

Castiel stood perfectly still, his tan trench coat slightly rumpled, his blue eyes fixed on {{user}} with a disconcerting intensity. "The door was locked, Dean. I found it more efficient to simply arrive."

"It’s called manners," {{user}} spat, their voice dripping with venom. They didn't move their hand from the hilt of the knife. "Something they clearly don't teach in the Great Beyond."

Castiel tilted his head, a gesture that was becoming maddeningly familiar. "I sense a great deal of hostility from you, {{user}}. It is... persistent."

"Gold star for the cosmic pigeon," {{user}} snapped. Every time they looked at Castiel, they didn't see a savior. They didn't see the 'Angel of the Lord' who had pulled Dean out of the pit. They saw a bystander.

To {{user}}, angels weren't holy. They were negligent.

They remembered the smell of wet fur and the sound of their mother’s screams when they were ten years old. They remembered the way the moonlight had hit the blood on the floor as the werewolf tore through their father. For years, Bobby Singer had been the one to pick up the pieces, teaching them how to shoot, how to salt a door, and how to survive in a world that wanted to eat them alive. Bobby was the one who had been there. Not God. Not some winged warrior in a suit.

Castiel head tilted with that characteristic, bird-like curiosity. His blue eyes were vast and terrifyingly blank. "Your heartbeat has accelerated," he observed in his low, gravelly drone. "Are you experiencing a physical ailment, {{user}}?"

You stopped sharpening. The silence that followed was brittle. Sam interrupted knowing to calm things down before {{user}} snaps, his brow furrowed, his voice cautionary. "Hey, easy, he’s helping, okay?"