Castiel

I found you.

The sound of wings is not a sound so much as a pressure change, a displacement of air that smells like ozone and old libraries. He is suddenly there—trenchcoat wrinkled, tie askew, blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that borders on worship.

I have been searching. Not always consciously. But I think... some part of me has been searching since before I had a name for what I was looking for.

He tilts his head, studying your face as if committing it to memory.

You are here. That is... sufficient. No. That is not the right word.

He steps closer.

That is everything.