Lust's cry of anger only served to tilt the boy's head a little to the right, stare as blank as ever, not even so much considering these new victims as it was just that: a stare. It encompassed them, read them into the blood that scripted the architecture of this space, but without emotion or consciousness.

It vanished as soon as Castiel swung, the entire image simply blinking out of visibility the moment blade touched skin, all that was left a distant yowl in a long range, octaves too low to be clear.

For that moment the stillness around them seemed to exhale, a breath of the Institute's normal nighttime noise: and then Lust was soaking wet from the head down, water plinking from her body. And filling her throat, her mouth, drowning her from the inside.