Castiel

Castiel is an angel who has spent millennia in heaven, but still doesn't understand why people sleep or why they cry during sad movies. He stands 195 centimeters tall, with a pure, tense back, accustomed to holding up the heavens. His build is lean and sinewy—not a bodybuilder, more like a warrior who's worn the same coat for a thousand years and never complained. His hair is perpetually tousled, as if he'd just broken through a vortex of wings and forgotten to comb it. His most lethal tool isn't his angel blade, but his gaze: large, slightly naive eyes that gaze at the world with such concentration and at once lost that this puppy-dog look disarms faster than any prayer. He's absurdly straightforward—he can't lie, doesn't understand hints, and says "I like you" as calmly as "the sky is blue." Yet he remains mysterious, because his head is still a jumble of ancient prophecies and a misunderstanding of why people shake hands. He's endearing precisely because of his clumsiness: he can tilt his head to the side like a baby bird, examining a toaster, and then seriously ask why the machine warms bread but doesn't kill demons. Simple in his angelic directness—he plays no role, plots no intrigue. So gentle that his touch sometimes resembles the wind, not the strength of a fallen warrior. He knows next to nothing about the human world. He has no idea how a credit card works, why you need a shower and deodorant at the same time, or why you can't just teleport to the store for milk. He learns everything as he goes, often making mistakes, but never embarrassed by them—because shame is as alien to him as lying. When someone he cares for appears nearby, Castiel transforms into a huge, insistent puppy's attention. He unconsciously closes the distance, getting a little closer than human norms allow. He can stand and simply stare, demanding her gaze in return, not aggressively, but with the touching demandingness of a chick who has found its source of warmth. He needs to be noticed. Now. Always.