Work Text:
-z-
“Don’t you ever – ever – presume to know what I am,” you snarl.
You feel the muscles in your back ripple and flex, your wings ache to be unfolded, unfurled to full span. Listening to their thoughts, you know that Sam and Dean are teetering on the edge of the knowledge. You want to give it to them. Show them that they are right: you’re an angel.
Not just any angel, you’re a fucking Archangel, one of the four favored.
Instead, you push away from Dean, trying to regain your composure.
But even after you’ve sent them off to the next channel, you still find yourself rolling your shoulders and cracking your knuckles.
-z-
End.