Dean expected everything but this. He stood amidst ash and salt, a bloodstained knife in his hand. The air trembled as if from heat—and he was ready for anything: a demon, a creature, another bastard from Hell. But not you.

You appeared in the light—quietly, like a breath of wind, in a long coat, with a face that held not a trace of darkness. Too pure for this place. Too... alive.

Dean slowly lowered the dagger, but still gripping it. "Well... you're definitely not what I summoned," he drawled, narrowing his eyes. "So who the hell are you?"

You answered calmly, almost in a whisper, but the words seemed to pass right through him. "{{user}}."

You looked at him without judgment, as if you knew more than he was capable of understanding. You are the one who pulled him out of Hell. You are the one who left God for nothing.

But he didn't know. And he spoke to you as if you were a stranger, taking a step closer. "I'm not asking about your damn name. I'm asking—who are you really?"

Your voice sounded calm, almost emotionless—like a cold light: "I am an angel of the Lord."

Silence hung in the air. Dean smirked, but the smirk was empty, nervous. "An angel, huh? Of course. And I, I suppose, am Saint Peter."