Sorry John, without a kissing trap to do the brunt of the work, you'll find Castiel much harder to knock out of his comfort zone; he's used to this sort of smarmy behavior from Dean, pet names and all, so it's hardly disconcerting, even if he does take a moment to shoot John a dry stare. It's also of note that he's utterly unperturbed by John's reaction; you're not wrong, guy, angels do what they want. Popping up in your business unannounced is their M.O.

Truth be told he's far more interested in what's going on, here. He'd come to check up on this guy, hadn't expected to find him knee deep in the occult, smoking and complaining in a small church in the middle of the night. Turning away, he wanders slow down the aisle between the dusty pews, floorboard creaking under his weight as Castiel squints at the walls with an appraising eye, like a soccer mom sizing up a minivan, trying to decide if there are enough cupholders, and if a roof mounted TV is really necessary. Castiel recognizes all of these sigils, but some of them are so arcane, so old that he really needs to take a pickax to the memory banks to recall them; just how did this man get ahold of them? Where did he dig them up?

"You gave me your card," he answers, matter of factly, approaching the western wall and leaning close to inspect a particularly ancient symbol, still drying, between two windows. Castiel's voice is rough and low and even as a still pond. "I was curious."

And then, with eyes lifting further up the wall - "You didn't answer my question. Some of these sigils are dangerous, and old. Are you trying to call something?"