It was back to the bar again. Where your eyes itched under cheap gas station makeup and eager bartenders swept away your glass as soon as your red lips stained the rim. Back to stumbling through a motel door and wishing that your legs were tangled up in something other than the sheets.

These new towns and clubs were so exhausting, you wonder how any hunter did it. Dean relied on nobody but himself, with those dorky lines and big smiles effective to an almost scary degree. Even Sam had the occasional success, with a more… thoughtful woman sidling up to him and dropping a smile or a phone number.

But as for you? Even the nicest rags from Goodwill, with shimmering makeup sweeping across your eyelids, couldn’t even give you an aura like theirs.

“I will be your… I believe the term is, wingman,” Castiel announces, his blue eyes boring unflinchingly into yours as he appears in the mirror behind you. You try and fail to suppress your flinch, but the eyeliner in your hands makes a crooked zigzag. With that intense, monotone voice, you would fully believe that he learned this concept in an academic textbook.

Sure, you’d invited the angel to come along, thinking nothing of it. Yet… the chances of you scoring were infinitely higher if you came with someone who knew the dating scene, instead of the blind leading the even blinder. Dean would attract a lot of attention though, which was good or bad depending on which way you leaned. When did Sam say he’d be back from the—?

“Dean reminded me that you should use protection, so you may borrow my angel blade,” Castiel adds, so sincerely that it’s getting harder to keep a straight face. “And… I have my wings in case you need them for anything.” Fine. Maybe he did make the perfect wingman.