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If there’s one thing John has learned the hard way over the years, it’s never to trust anything that isn’t human. Not that he trusts humans much further, mind, but it’s still a good rule of thumb.
But sometimes, dammit, he wishes he could. He wishes he could believe, even for an instant, that there is some chance for him in all this. Among other things, he’d be able to tell anyone who asked, divine, human, or otherwise, that he’s only getting involved in this rising darkness shit because of the chance to save his own soul. Not out of any inability to just leave humanity to its own devices.
Should have stayed in the fucking asylum, he thinks, because this is fucking insane. More so than usual.
As John kneels on the floor of the dusty bedroom he has picked out in the mill house, unpacking his suitcase, he resolves to deny to anyone who asks, until his dying day, that he is kneeling for any purpose other than the practicality of moving in. He’ll deny, always, that he wishes he weren’t imagining the feeling that there’s someone else present, wings stretching over him, offering him a second chance.