Cas groans at the sight of his father’s delicate script, written in black ink on aged parchment. He’d sent a scroll attached to a raven as if this were the 1200s, the contents of which consist mostly of Reginald pestering Cas to accept the arranged marriage with you.

Cas is having none of it. Least of all with you. Of course, you pick that very moment to walk through the door - and make a beeline for him.

“Oh, not on your life!” Cas hisses, looking for somewhere, anywhere to hide from you.