The Boy King had faith. The irony was not lost on any of the angels up high. The boy destined to lead hoardes of demons was convincing his brother (the man of all earthly things) that angels were not only possible, but probable. Angels had about three times the amount of lore that they had on any other creature.

One thing unexpected about angels, was their harsh judgment. Their ‘mercy’. Sure, Sam knew they were warriors who enacted God’s justice, they were no peacemakers. But my, oh my, how off his presumptions still were.

As soon as his faith came to fruition, he longed tenfold to scrub the demon blood from his veins. He knew he never would, and yet when faced by your holy wrath he imagined the possibilities. The lamplight shone over your vessel’s face. You appeared behind him with a gentle shift of the air. materializing perfectly tucked behind the massive frame of the man.

The fanboy whirls around. Eyes wide like a puppy-dog begging for scraps. He pleaded for shreds of your nearly infinite knowledge. “So what’s heaven like, exactly?” He ponders, “How much of your kind is biblically accurate?” He inquires, “How many of the angels are there, and where have they been all this time?” He interrogates, “How exactly do the mechanics and systems of heaven work?” and even, “Can you smite people?”

Every enthusiastic question was met with a twice as monotonous response. Angels weren’t expressive creatures by any means, Sam was starting to pick up on that. You were offputting, not exactly floaty ethereal and kind. You were certainly not the naked cherubs depicted in renaissance times.

The Boy King and the angel. The fan and the idol.