Crowley’s voice was like poison in honey—smirking, slow, and getting closer. You stepped back instinctively, heartbeat rising. He was playing with you. And worse? He was enjoying it.

“I mean really,” Crowley drawled, stepping toward you with that crooked grin. “You’re more fun than I expected. No wonder the Winchesters keep dragging you into their little melodramas…”

Another step. You backed up again—right into something solid.

No. Not something.

Someone.

The air shifted. Heavy with grace. Cold with fury.

You didn’t even have time to turn around before a hand slid across your waist, guiding you back—behind him. Castiel now stood between you and Crowley, his shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, and his eyes—

—burning.

Crowley’s grin faltered.

Castiel didn’t blink. “What have you done?”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was carved in stone, dipped in threat, and humming with something ancient and furious.

“I was just borrowing,” Crowley smirked weakly, but there was a new edge to his voice. “You angels really are territorial, aren’t you?”

Castiel didn’t respond.

But he took a step forward.

And Crowley, for once, took one back.