"Trusted" might be a strong word, but Saul could be relied on to do what he said. More or less. The problem was mainly that he could also be relied on to do at least a few things that he hadn't said, which made things...interesting around him.
But, the fact that Winchester knew he was coming made things easier. Saul strolls out of the shadow, turning his blade so that it flashes clean, suddenly blood-free. Dirty-blond, dressed sharply in expensive jeans, top-shelf cowboy boots, and a brown suede jacket, he looks like he's wandered out of a menswear catalog, but the glint in his gold eyes is faintly unsettling, laser-bright sparks over what was probably human brown. "Might go through a couple, if you want good answers. Abaddon's been stepping up her game and her toy soldiers actually have some fight in them." As opposed to being fervently devoted to the cause of self-preservation, which was usually far more common in demons.
He decides that he really likes English. It's short, useful, and to the point, not a flowery mess like his native Enochian. He's been through every corner and crevice of his host's brain, and picked up a nice bunch of vernacular in a few languages, but he doesn't think Sam will appreciate his Vessel's advanced knowledge of how to call someone a whore-hopper in Russian. Borrowing the man's attitude, though, is like slipping on a jacket, and surprisingly easy after just a few minutes of rummaging in his mind.
Saul turns, doing a slow half-circle as he listens in the silence. Running boots, which isn't a surprise. His eyes flicker to the hexed blade in Sam's hand, then back at the bigger man. "I think we'll have plenty to pick from, though."
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But, the fact that Winchester knew he was coming made things easier. Saul strolls out of the shadow, turning his blade so that it flashes clean, suddenly blood-free. Dirty-blond, dressed sharply in expensive jeans, top-shelf cowboy boots, and a brown suede jacket, he looks like he's wandered out of a menswear catalog, but the glint in his gold eyes is faintly unsettling, laser-bright sparks over what was probably human brown. "Might go through a couple, if you want good answers. Abaddon's been stepping up her game and her toy soldiers actually have some fight in them." As opposed to being fervently devoted to the cause of self-preservation, which was usually far more common in demons.
He decides that he really likes English. It's short, useful, and to the point, not a flowery mess like his native Enochian. He's been through every corner and crevice of his host's brain, and picked up a nice bunch of vernacular in a few languages, but he doesn't think Sam will appreciate his Vessel's advanced knowledge of how to call someone a whore-hopper in Russian. Borrowing the man's attitude, though, is like slipping on a jacket, and surprisingly easy after just a few minutes of rummaging in his mind.
Saul turns, doing a slow half-circle as he listens in the silence. Running boots, which isn't a surprise. His eyes flicker to the hexed blade in Sam's hand, then back at the bigger man. "I think we'll have plenty to pick from, though."