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of castiel ♃ (castieli) wrote in silverage,

The strange man's features were not particularly threatening. Of an average build and an average height with an oddly distant look in his eyes, he stood rigidly as though rooted to the ground, and reacted to neither the shrill cry nor the resounding crack of the whip. He repositioned himself only to follow her with his eyes as she dove for the couch.

"You prayed for me to be here," Castiel replied in flat monotone, but that wasn't strictly true. Angels were not manservants at the beck and call of every self-serving interest. It was entirely normal for such requests as one Selina had just made to go unanswered. Few people uttered them as more than a phrase thrown out for luck, in any case, therefore best that they be left to the chances. Gone were the days when mankind believed in what the eyes could not see.

No, the real reason for his visit was because there was work to be done. In the basement of a second-hand bookshop was an angel blade, plundered from a fallen brother many years past. The building was angel-proofed with Enochian sigils, making it impossible for the garrison to retrieve the artefact themselves.