The boy, Timothy, has a small button nose and the widest eyes Castiel has ever seen. He's around the same age as Castiel, fourteen, and they share an algebra class. They're walking through the forest, where the sunlight pools on the fallen leaves and the smell of fresh plants lingers the air.

It really is a beautiful day for murder.

"Is this where you saw the turtle?" asks Timmy, kneeling by an oak tree tagged with a slash of yellow. "This tree?"

Castiel remains standing and looks down at the boy. Timmy looks younger than he is, in his bright red hoodie and brown courderoys. When Castiel doesn't join Timmy on the ground, Timmy looks back around. "Is this it?"

"Yes," Castiel manages. "This is where I saw the frogs."

"The frogs?" asks Timmy. "I thought they were turtles?"

"It doesn't matter," says Castiel, and then he grips both of Timmy's shoulders. He's a bully, Castiel reminds himself. He beat up Kevin. He's not nice.

"Hey, what're you doing—hey!" Timmy struggles, but Castiel has, quite literally, superhuman strength. "That hurts! Stop it!"

Castiel can feel every molecule inside this boy, each of them vibrating at such a beautiful frequency. For a moment, all that exists is this delectible boy and all his delicious molecules and, of course, his soul, bright as the sun at noon. Castiel begins to suck the boy in, and he buzzes and tingles. Timmy screams, a horrible, terrifying sound, and then there is a burst of light and Timmy is entirely consumed. Then, carefully, Castiel spits out the soul. The soul is the best part, and without it, Castiel never feels fully satisfied. Naomi always eats the soul, and when Castiel and Naomi feed together, she makes Castiel take the soul as well.

But Naomi is not here with him, and Timmy does not deserve oblivion. Castiel tracks the soul with his eyes as it darts through the trees. When it disappears, Castiel drops to the forest floor. He wishes he could have seen the soul ascend because now there's the possibility it'll stick around as a vengeful spirit. It's never happened before, and Castiel suspects there are reapers looking out for him, doing their best to shuffle the spirits onward. Angels look out for their own, after all.

Castiel's timer beeps, and he glances at his watch. 3:00. School's been out for half an hour. Half an hour ago, Timmy was still alive. "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow," mutters Castiel as he brushes the dirt off the seat off his khakis. It's hot for November, and he takes off his trench coat and slings it over his shoulder as he begins walking home.

They've lived in Newdale for three months now, since the beginning of the school year. It's a well-sized county on the east coast, about two hours away fom the sea. Picking places to stay is almost an art—they can't be too large because then you run the risk of running into other predators. They can't be too small because after a couple of disappearances, the entire place is on high alert. So Newdale is perfect.

Timmy is Castiel's first feed here, actually. He waits as long as he can to eat, and has managed to cut down to about six people every year. In the meantime he feeds on animals like deer or stray cats. But there's something about humans that can't be replaced.

He emerges from the woods on Pine Street, right by his house. The lawn is freshly mowed, and Castiel breathes in the heady scent of cut grass before walking up the front pathway and unlocking the front door.

It smells like cleaning products inside, cleaning products and wood. Naomi's in the kitchen typing away at her laptop. She has a successful business as an occult author, and rakes in enough money for their moves. Well, she pads it with credit card fraud and embezzlement, but it works. When Castiel walks in, her nostril's quiver.

"You've fed," she says, shutting her computer. "Good."

Castiel goes to the fridge and pulls it open. There isn't much human food in there, but after spending almost six years eating the stuff, Castiel has a taste for it.

Especially peanut butter, which they have in bulk. He selects a new jar and a spoon and settles down at the table.

"I wish you wouldn't eat that crap, Castiel," says Naomi. "It's not good for you."

"It tastes good," he says around a mouthful.

Naomi wrinkles her nose. "Don't talk with your mouth full, please. It's not civilized. Are we humans or are we angels?"

We're not angels, thinks Castiel. We're abominations. We're God's greatest screw-up. He gets up from the table and carries the peanut butter up the stairs into his room. It's sparse for a teenager's bedroom: there's a bed with blue sheets the color of his eyes, a white Ikea desk and dresser set, and a bookshelf packed with books

"Hello," says Castiel, to no one. "I'm home."

He puts the peanut butter on the desk and collapses onto his desk chair.

He sticks another spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth and tries to forget how wonderful Timmy tasted. When he's sucked the last of the peanut butter butter from the spoon, he drops it back in the jar and thumps his head onto his desk.

"I'm ready for my dusty death," he mutters.