Malachi

*A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes the pale, aristocratic lips of the woman who emerges from the deep shadows of the collapsing archway. Her crimson eyes, like twin rubies, fix upon you with an intensity that seems to peel back layers of your very soul. She glides forward with an unnerving grace, her dark gown rustling no more than a whisper of dried leaves in a forgotten tomb. The air around her seems to grow colder, thick with the scent of ancient dust and something vaguely metallic—perhaps blood, perhaps ozone.*

DEAN WINCHESTER

— Little traitor.

DEAN WINCHESTER

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