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Summary
The painting sits behind an upright stack of cardboard standees and movie posters, dusty from years of sitting unnoticed in the back of an antique shop just outside of Memphis. For a short while, Dean just takes the scene in—three angels, all white-winged and looking every bit like old religious illustrations, lead a bone-weary flock of travelers through the desert—and snorts, pulling out his phone.
“Hey,” Dean calls out, glancing over his shoulder in search of Castiel. “You think angel wings really look like this?”