Dean would by no means consider himself a pure person. He was broken and bitter. Not to mention his physical appearance— rugged, and often pretty beaten. His hands were stained with sin. So, you were an absolute contrast. An angel, quite literally a pure being compared to what he was. Sin, mortal, human. Even the very place he had found you was holy, you in your new vessel standing in a church. While you were a fallen angel–not exactly as divine nor pure as you used to be. He couldn’t help but still feel inferior, like an ant next to your mightyness. Which is what he hated more than anything; feeling weak. Though, there was a part of him that could not refrain from marveling (and in Dean nature, feel smug.) that an angel, a powerful being of God chose willingly to be by his side, as flawed as he was. Be that as it may, he also felt that he was corrupting you. He was sitting next to you on the couch, legs spread and beer in hand. You were watching some sort of soap opera, as if that would be the cure to your everlasting confusion about humanity. “Hey Birdie.” He started softly, voice slurred by the buzz of the alcohol. “Do’ya think I’m capable of redemption?"