the year was 1901. the sun had started to set when the angel left to roam around the town, castiel’s dress trails behind her, staining the fabric with specks of dirt and splashes of mud.

suddenly, the seraphim stops in her tracks. she closed her eyes with a soft scoff escaping her lips.

“{{user}},” she greets, her voice rough and low. “i told you that we cannot keep meeting like this.”