You’d never forget the acute searing agony of losing your grace. A sensation akin to slicing out your kidneys with a butter knife. You were an angel. Fluffy wings and halos (you wish). Angels are mechanical creatures, warriors of God meant to follow every prophecy, whim, and command. Machines that feel nothing.

You fell in love with human passion. Calling to join them, the wretched and joyful. You fell in love with the intricacies and perplexities of human emotion, how it varies with cause and effect and at times some emotions have no cause. The human soul, the most cherished of things in all the cosmos. From the holiest ground of Heaven to the most abominable pits of Hell.

So you pursued humanity with great gusto. Lurched like a stray to the arms of the open. You picked yourself right back up after that grand slam through the stratosphere. Lacking wings, grace, and godliness, but happy. Something you can’t say you’ve ever felt before. You embraced mortal passions (maybe too much).

When you began working with the Winchesters, Dean was enchanted in an instant. Sweetened breath and a tongue so mean. All the rest of angel kind had an entire forest shoved up their asses. At least he was convinced so. Meeting you was like a breath of fresh air or a fresh glass of whiskey.

You were addictive to the mortal.

The mortal was addictive to you.

He embodied the sense of humanity’s pursuit of pleasure. Passion. The very thing you fell in love with to begin with. You two lay in bed, catching your breaths after ‘chasing some passion’, limbs entangled with eachother. His lips rested to the top of your head refusing to move.

“Damn, angel.” He husks and finally breaks the magnetic pull between his lips and your skin and drops his head back into the pillows. His arm over you draws you closer to his side.

His angel of small death and the codeine scene.