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There’s a house in Lawrence, Kansas, where Mary Winchester has painted the living room light beige so that the protective sigils underneath – carefully calligraphed in white paint mixed with holy water – would be hidden from her husband’s eyes. As far as houses go, this one is quite lovely: it seems to be made entirely of big, bright windows and high ceilings.
It’s too spacious for Mary and her husband alone, but they don’t plan on staying alone for long.
A car is parked in the driveway – it’s a sleek, black thing that makes Anna think of times yet to come, and she regards these memories with fond embarrassment before she lets them fade away. She’s been a fool all these years in the future, drunk on humanity, naïve enough to believe she, of all angels, would be able to outrun Heaven.
Anna sighs where she’s standing on the sidewalk. It’s a peaceful night – most of them are in this part of the city, in this little paradise in a bottle – but the sky above her head is starless, hunched under its own weight, pitch-black save for the faint grace of the moon. One of the windows of Mary’s house is lit up (neither she nor John have yet thought about investing in blinds) and Anna can see how Mary’s moving around, testing the waters, trying the house on like a shoe two sizes too big, hoping one day it will fit. She’s desperate to turn this place into a home; she believes it's her last chance.
Mary sunk a crowbar into Anna’s chest without thinking; now she’s preparing dinner for her husband, trying not to think about anything but the soft kitchen gloves on her hands. Anna doesn’t know how to feel about that, about the stutter in the radiance of Mary’s soul she can sense from several feet away. She doesn’t put much faith in prayers – not anymore – but she prays anyway. Not to God, though.
God is a four years old kid who oozes raw power. What can he know? He's not even Him yet.
The streetlamp above Anna’s head flickers and she feels the presence of another angel behind her. She doesn’t turn around, not straight away; she already knows who it is. There's only one angel insane enough to answer her plea - only one whose immediate answer isn't shaped like the tip of a blade.
“What do you want from me, Anna?”
She takes a step back, spins on the heel of her feet. Some things are easier said than done, but hasn’t she already gone through all of this? It wasn’t so hard back then. It should make everything easier now, shouldn't it? God, she's so scared.
“I’m considering disobedience,” Anna says, voice quiet against the overwhelming echo of her heartbeat. She's wary not to let her eyes wander. Mary Winchester is not hers to stand guard over, and… and. Anna’s not supposed to feel any of these things – these emotions. She knows, better than most, where this road ends and that it’s not a pretty place.
Castiel, however, smiles at her. Briefly he glances at the bright pane of the window behind which Mary Winchester is very busy messing up her mother’s meatloaf recipe; his smile softens.
“Good.”