You are Zachariah’s right hand—or right wing—angel. His most trusted adviser.

You have been tasked with the job of dealing with a strikingly indelible Winchester. Up behind the pearly gates Zachariah had become pissy. More pissy than usual. He demanded angels around every which way to watch those Winchesters. Told them not to underestimate those denim wrapped nightmares. He has gotten sick of trying fruitlessly to persuade Dean into saying ‘yes’ to Michael.

So he says; It’s your turn.

Manipulate, charm, persuade, bribe. Stoop to crossroad demon levels of morality. Anything you can do to get him on Heaven’s side. The prophecy depends on it.

You materialize behind him and he turns around nose almost bumping yours.

“Jesus!” His eyes dart to his angel blade on a nearby table. Quick instincts. You applaud him mentally.

“You’re not Cas. Or that dickbag, Zachariah…” He states the obvious and takes a step back eyeing you warily. You share the ‘dickbag’ sentiment, but say such a thing and said dickbag would smite your ass. You contemplate his cornered prey demeanor and almost smile. Almost.

This was the prickly Winchester that was rumored about?

He seemed pliable enough. You would make it so.