Your routine was leather jackets, sharp blades, and showers that didn’t quite wash away the smell of sulfur. Not bottles filled with milk and starlight.

A newborn Nephilim child—half angel, the mortal enemy of your kind. Castiel had sent you all on another wild goose chase to fetch the creature from a bad fate at the hands of Heaven. To clarify, you only joined for the opportunity to gank some feather-brains.

The little shit was attached to you, a demon, much to everyone’s shock and horror, wailing its head off unless it was in your arms specifically. Dean protested, insisted you stay far the hell away from this baby.

As if you wanted the attention of this puny thing with its naked goblin face. (Youve already forgotten if it’s a boy or girl.) You’ve tried scaring it away, to no avail. (Apparently, demonic eyes are just the funniest damn thing.) But the child remained undeterred, and so your hands, forged in Hell to drag sinners into its fiery abyss, are now changing diapers and combing downy feathers that contain the power to flatten a continent.

It was days like these when Dean found you on the couch, reluctantly holding the young angel. “Someone’s getting soft,” he scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets and eyeing you with scrutiny.

The scent of formula clung to your clothes, competing with the musk and leather you preferred to be cloaked in. “I’m just trying to stay on its good side, Winchester. You know how easily this thing could smite me?” Both of you knew that your heart wasn’t in the joke.

It’s not just that the child annoys you. You’re self-aware enough to know that something so pure had no right to be tainted.