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You were furious. Knuckles white on the steering wheel as you seethed and cursed Dean Winchester. Your stomach churned as you fought to keep your attention on the road, pedal to the metal as you sped away from the bunker.

You’d been out on a separate case when the angels fell. And while you had watched what looked like a meteor shower from your motel window, it wasn’t until a brief call with the brothers that you learned the gist of what had happened that night. It had been quiet from them after that—the Winchesters were radio silent, and Cas wasn’t picking up your calls. A week later—tired of being ghosted—you made your way to the bunker to confront them.

That’s when you learned what Dean had done. Sam was Ezekiel’s new meatsuit, and as a result, Castiel was human, god knows where, and newly appointed enemy number one.

You swallowed hard as you passed the “Lawrence City Limit” sign, feeling panic bubble up inside you. Saying you’d had a few choice words for the eldest Winchester was an understatement. The angel had called Dean immediately after the Fall, expecting a rescue—only to be met with Dean’s insistence that he couldn’t do anything with Sam in the condition he was in. Not to mention, the reason they didn’t tell you was because they both had unanimously agreed it was safer for you to not get involved.

For fuck’s sake.

Aside from the rumble of the engine and the hum of tires on pavement, it was silent in the car. You knew there would be virtually no way to track Castiel. He was a warrior of Heaven, and even new to being human, you knew he was far from stupid. You’d tried to get something—anything—on his location from Dean, but the man was infuriatingly tight-lipped. You’d be putting him in more danger by following him, he had warned. The words kept echoing in your head. As if the angels could track you when Dean himself couldn’t. It’s not like you were a rookie.

You huffed, trying to ignore the ache in your chest as you thought of Castiel. You knew all he kept in his pockets was an expired license from Jimmy Novak, a few cancelled credit cards, and his angel blade. While he and Dean might have their “profound bond,” you had grown just as close to the angel over the years. If you had a best friend, it would be Cas. You kicked yourself for not setting him up with fake credit cards earlier.

Hours in the car flew by, the monotony of the road doing little to calm the storm inside you. The landscape blurred past—intermittent flashes of gas stations, open cornfields, and sleepy towns. You weren’t sure where exactly you were headed, only that you were moving in the direction of your apartment.

Your apartment—a place that had, over time, become something of a home base. It wasn’t much, just a studio over a pawn shop in downtown Chicago. But it had hot water, strong locks, and enough lore books and weapons stashed in hidden compartments to wage a small war. It wasn’t like you got to stay there often—hunting didn’t allow for much domesticity—but when you needed to regroup, to heal, or just feel normal for a little while, that’s where you went.

But you wouldn’t be making it there tonight.

Your eyes burned from exhaustion, and the adrenaline that had fueled your fury hours ago had finally run dry. You pulled into the first roadside motel that didn’t look like a front for a murder scene—Rustwood Inn, according to the flickering neon sign—and parked under the buzzing light of a lamppost. The clerk barely looked up when you paid for the room in cash. Room 12. You didn’t bother turning on the TV or unpacking more than a change of clothes. The room smelled faintly of mildew, and the tan bedspread had cigarette burns, but it was clean enough. Safe enough.

You changed into a worn T-shirt, wearing it like a dress, brushed your teeth in the yellowed bathroom mirror, and collapsed onto the mattress, limbs aching. Staring at the popcorn ceiling for a long moment, listening to the distant sound of a semi rolling by on the highway, you let your mind drift.

Sleep came slowly—but it came.

Then your phone rang.

The shrill ringtone yanked you out of sleep. You jolted, heart hammering as you fumbled across the nightstand until your fingers closed around the culprit. Bringing it up to your face, you read Unknown Number.

Without thinking, you tapped the green button and lifted the phone to your ear. “Yeah?” You cringed as your voice came out rough and disoriented.

There was static. A breath. Then—

You heard your name rasp into the cell from the other line.

Your breath caught, “Cas?” you whispered, sitting up straighter as the sheets pooled around your waist.

“I don’t have much time. I’m at a phone booth. I… I didn’t know who else to call.”

His voice—still that gentle, gravelly rumble—was laced with exhaustion. And the moment you heard it, you knew you wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

“Where are you?” you asked, flicking on the lamp beside you as you jumped to your feet, shoving the sheets aside to grab the jeans draped over the chair.

There was a pause. “Detroit. I-I’m not sure where exactly. I don’t think it’s safe to stay long. I just… needed to hear your voice.”

Cas always sounded so sincere. He didn’t know what that did to you.

Despite the situation, your cheeks flushed at the sentiment. Your fingers shook as you pulled on your boots, the phone cradled between your shoulder and cheek.

“Stay put,” you said. “I’m coming to you.”

“No, it’s not—”

“No arguments,” you cut in, your voice trembling just slightly. “Just… stay there.”

He was quiet. For a second, you thought the line had dropped.

“I’ll wait,” he said finally.

Static crackled, then the call ended.

You stood frozen for a moment, pulse thrumming in your ears. The silence that followed was deafening.

You swallowed hard, shoving down the flood of emotions threatening to rise—relief, worry, and something else. Something you didn’t let yourself think about.

Castiel had called you.

You clenched your jaw and grabbed your keys.

There was no time for hesitation. Not tonight.

Not when the man you couldn’t stop thinking about was out there, alone—and reaching for you.

Driving down the desolate highways, you thanked your lucky stars you had already begun traveling in the right direction. Since you’d been just outside of Springfield when Cas called, it would take a total of about seven hours to make it to Detroit. And while you weren't exactly running on a full night’s sleep, you were confident you could make it to Cas by dinner.

The hours rolled by in a blur of static radio and ’90s rock CDs. Keeping the windows cracked to fight off the lull of exhaustion, you tapped out an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the highway, and as city lights finally began to flicker on the horizon, you felt your body sigh in relief.

But as you reached the outskirts of Detroit a realization hit you like a slap: Cas never said where he was. And it’s not like you could just call and ask.

Feeling like an idiot at the oversight, you pulled off at the first exit, heart thudding with frustration and worry. You found a parking lot near a dimly lit strip of shops and let the engine idle for a moment before cutting it. Rubbing your eyes, you muttered, “If I were Cas where would I be…” as if the thought alone would bring you to a revelation.

With your phone nearly dead and your stomach growling, you slipped into a quiet coffee shop with an old duffel slung over your shoulder. It smelled of burnt espresso and floor cleaner, but it was warm, and more importantly, it had Wi-Fi. Ordering a coffee you didn’t really want, you took a seat by the window and pulled out your laptop.

A quick search for shelters that took in single men narrowed things down. As much as you didn’t want to think about it, you doubted Cas had the money for a motel room. Especially after a week on his own. The only other clue was that he had called from a payphone. The things were becoming increasingly rare, and looking at the public database, only a few shelters had them within decent walking distance.

One shelter in particular caught your eye. It met all the criteria and would have been one of the first places Cas would have seen, assuming he came from the opposite side of the city you had. You weren’t sure where the angel had landed after the fall, but you could only hope that Detroit was originally meant to be a stop on the way to the bunker.

Coffee in hand and nerves alight, you headed back to the car and programmed the shelter’s address into your GPS before setting off. Cringing as it started to rain, the large drops pelting at your windshield had you thinking of the ex-angel. You prayed he was inside. The city had turned fully to night by the time you arrived. The building was modest, brick-faced, and half-hidden behind a chain-link fence. A few people lingered under an awning, huddled in coats, smoking or simply watching the street. And there it was: the payphone, grimy and leaning slightly to the left, but unmistakably there.

You took a breath, grabbed the umbrella from the floor of the passenger seat, and stepped out. The wind whipped in your ears as you trekked up to the building, boots echoing against the sidewalk. The air was bitter, the kind of cold that seeped through layers and settled in your bones. It would be a miracle if Cas was here—or at least someone who’d seen him. You reached the front door and paused, fingers curling into fists.

“Okay, Cas,” you whispered, “you better be in there.”

You stepped through the shelter’s front door and into a room that was brighter and more bustling than you’d expected. The fluorescent lights flickered above rows of folding chairs and tired faces. A few people sat slumped over their meals, others murmured softly to each other, and the air was thick with the smell of overcooked vegetables and damp coats.

You approached the reception desk, boots squeaking faintly against the linoleum floor. A middle-aged woman with tired eyes and salt-and-pepper braids looked up from a clipboard.

“Evening, hon. If you need a place to stay, I’m afraid we’re all booked up.” the woman spoke, her voice kind.

You shook your head, clutching at your damp umbrella. “No, actually, I’m looking for someone. He would’ve come in tonight, or maybe earlier today. Dark hair, blue eyes, mid to late thirties.”

The woman blinked, thinking, then her eyes narrowed in recognition. “Did he have a deep voice? Well spoken?”

You felt your heart leap. “Yes. That’s him.”

The woman sighed and set her clipboard down. “Yeah, I remember him. He came by a few hours ago, but we were already over capacity. I hated to turn him away, but the fire marshal’s been on us about headcount.”

Your stomach twisted. “Do you know where he might’ve gone?”

“There’s a bridge,” the woman said, nodding toward the back wall, “just a couple yards behind the building. Some of the folks who can’t get a bed sometimes take shelter under there when the weather’s bad. It’s not much, but it keeps the worst of the rain off. If he didn’t go there, he probably didn’t go far.”

You nodded slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

The woman gave you a sympathetic smile. “I hope you find him, hon.”

With a murmured thanks, you turned and pushed back into the night. The rain had only gotten worse, soaking through your jeans as you made your way around the building, the umbrella doing little against the wind. The shelter’s back lot was dimly lit by a single flickering lamp, but beyond it, you could make out the outline of the bridge.

Each step toward it felt heavier than the last.

You reached the embankment and peered under the bridge, heart hammering in your chest. A few shapes were huddled beneath it, wrapped in sleeping bags and battered coats. The smell of wet concrete and stale cigarettes filled the air.

Then you saw him. Curled against the far wall, a familiar battered coat drawn tight around him, damp hair stuck to his forehead, his eyes closed.

Calling out his name, you rushed toward him.

His eyes fluttered open, confused and glassy.

When he saw you, you watched as he tried to get up. The motion was shaky, his limbs sluggish and uncoordinated. The cold had sunk deep into his bones, his hands shaking violently, teeth chattering as if his jaw had a mind of its own.

He rasped your name, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the rain.

You dropped to your knees as you reached him, the gravel biting into your jeans. “Cas,” you breathed, letting the umbrella slip from your fingers. It hit the ground and rolled away, forgotten, as you grabbed his shoulders gently but firmly, steadying him as he swayed. His clothes were soaked through, and his body trembled beneath your hands.

“Oh God,” you swore, your voice tight with worry. You felt pressure behind your eyes as you fought not to cry. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were?”

He blinked at you, the faintest crooked smile twitching at his lips. “Didn’t know… where I’d end up,” he murmured, his words slurring from the cold.

“We need to get you out of here,” you said sharply, eyes scanning over him, not waiting for a response. You slid an arm under his and gave a tug. “Okay. On three. One… two… three.”

He pushed with his legs when you did, weak but trying. Between your pull and his effort, he managed to get his feet under him, though his knees shook like they might give at any second. He leaned heavily into your side, his weight solid but not completely dead.

“That’s it,” you said, breath puffing white in the cold air. “Just stay with me.”

You got your shoulder under his arm, wrapping an arm around his waist. The strain pulled at your muscles, but it was bearable. His shoes slipped on the wet ground once, and you tightened your grip, bracing both of you against the wall until he found his balance again.

“Sorry,” he muttered, breath shallow.

“Don’t be sorry,” you said, your words coming out tight. “Just move your feet when I move mine, okay?”

He nodded, barely, but you felt him try. You stepped forward, and after a second’s delay, he shuffled his foot to follow. It wasn’t smooth, but it was movement.

You guided him out from under the bridge, each step slow and careful. Rain hammered down on you both now, cold and relentless, soaking your hair, sliding down the back of your neck, plastering your clothes to your skin. Without the umbrella, there was nothing between you and the storm, but there was no way you were letting go of him to go back for it.

“Left foot,” you muttered, shifting your weight. “Good. Now right. You’re doing fine.”

He leaned harder into you when the wind gusted, your shoulder taking most of it, but when you stumbled on loose gravel, you felt him tense and catch himself enough to keep you from both going down.

“See?” you huffed, forcing a shaky laugh. “You’ve got it.”

“High praise,” he managed, the words slurred but faintly amused.

You clung to that. Anything that sounded like him.

The lot stretched out in front of you, slick and shining under the weak streetlights. Your boots splashed through shallow puddles, water seeping through to your socks. Your arm burned from holding him up, but you could feel the slight, uneven effort in his legs with every step—just enough that you weren’t carrying him, just keeping him upright.

The car finally came into view through the curtain of rain. You stopped for a moment beside a parked truck, both of you leaning against it while you caught your breath. Cas sagged against the metal, his head tipped forward, but his feet stayed under him.

“Still with me?” you asked.

His eyes opened a fraction more. “M’with you,” he murmured.

“Good. Two more minutes. That’s it.”

You pushed off the truck and started again, guiding him in a slow, dragging shuffle toward your car. When his foot caught on a crack in the pavement, you jerked him upright, and he pushed off with his other leg to steady himself. Not graceful, but enough.

When you reached the car, you backed him up against it, using the frame to help hold him up. You kept one hand braced on his chest to steady him as you dug into your pocket with the other. Your fingers were stiff and numb, fumbling clumsily over the keys slick with rain.

“Don’t move,” you muttered, as if he could go anywhere. The lock resisted you once, twice, before the key finally slid in. You yanked the door open, the interior light blinking on, casting a faint yellow glow against the wet darkness.

“Okay,” you said, turning back to him. “Passenger seat. We can do this.”

You took his hands and placed one on the doorframe, one on the top of the seat. “Hold on. Bend your knees. I’ll guide you down, okay?”

He nodded, jaw clenched from the cold. Together, you turned him and eased him sideways into the seat. He lowered himself clumsily, his legs not quite obeying, but they did enough that he didn’t collapse. You caught the back of his head before it could hit the window, guiding it gently to the headrest.

He groaned softly as you tugged the seatbelt across his chest and clicked it in place. His skin was ice-cold beneath your touch, his soaked trench coat squelching as you adjusted it, water dripping from his sleeves onto the floor mat.

You were drenched too—hair dripping onto your cheeks, water running down your collar, clothes clinging chilled to your skin—but there wasn’t room in your head for that.

With a final glance to make sure he was secure and upright, you shut the passenger door and hurried around the hood, shoes slipping on the wet gravel. You yanked open the driver’s door and dropped into the seat, slamming it behind you. The storm immediately dulled to a muffled roar against the car’s frame.

You shoved the key into the ignition with shaking hands and cranked the heat, the vents wheezing to life as warm air slowly began to fill the cabin.

Cas was still shivering, but not as violently as before, his lips tinged blue, his eyelids fluttering in semi-consciousness.

You reached over, brushing the wet hair from his forehead, your hand lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“You’re okay now,” you said softly, though your voice was thin and frayed around the edges. A shiver ran through your own body, muscles buzzing with leftover adrenaline and effort.

The engine sputtered, then roared to life.

As the heater blew stronger and the windshield wipers cleared away the rain, you glanced over at him again—his head resting against the seat, breath shallow but steady.

You exhaled shakily, pulling out of the lot, the tires crunching over wet gravel as you turned onto the street. Your knuckles were white on the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the road and Cas slumped in the passenger seat. The heater was doing its best, but he was still soaked and trembling, and his eyelids kept drooping closed.

“Hey—no sleeping yet, okay?” you said, your voice tight with urgency. “Just hang in there a little longer.”

He mumbled something incoherent, his head listing toward the window but staying upright.

You forced your focus back to the road, the world outside the windshield little more than smeared streaks of light and water. A neon VACANCY sign had burned itself into your memory on the drive into town—some run-down roadside motel with a cracked blue awning and a faded name you couldn’t quite remember. It wasn’t ideal, but it was shelter. And right now, it was salvation.

You kept driving until you spotted the familiar flicker of neon through the rain. You turned into the surprisingly full parking lot, dimly lit by the buzzing sign. You pulled into a space near the office and threw the car into park.

Leaning over, you brushed your fingers against his cheek. His skin was still too cold, but his eyes fluttered open at your touch.

“We made it,” you murmured. “I’ll be right back.”

Leaving the engine running for the heat, you shoved the door open and jumped out, the storm slamming into you like a wall. In seconds, you were drenched again, water soaking through any parts of you that had started to dry in the car. You ran for the office, splashing through puddles with your wallet already in hand.

The desk clerk looked up as you burst inside, blinking as if you’d dragged him out of a half-sleep. “A single?” he asked, his voice rough from hours of monotony.

You hesitated, biting your lip. “Do you have anything with two beds?” you asked, thinking Cas would want his own space—if he was even awake enough to notice.

He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re pretty booked up tonight.”

You swallowed hard, then nodded. “Okay, single then.”

The clerk took your money without another word and slid an old key across the counter, the metal tag stamped with a crooked “106.” His expression barely flickered as you snatched it up and turned back toward the door.

You were back at the car in under two minutes, the rain coming down even harder than before. Water streamed off the edge of the motel’s awning and drummed against the roof of the car as you yanked the passenger door open.

Warm air rushed out to meet you, fogging in the cold. Cas was slumped against the seat, head tilted toward the window, eyes half-lidded.

“Hey,” you said gently, one hand finding his shoulder. “Field trip. You’ve gotta move for me.”

His gaze dragged up to meet yours, unfocused but aware enough.

“Seatbelt first,” you murmured, fingers working clumsily at the buckle until it clicked free. “Think you can stand if I’m right here?”

He swallowed, then gave the smallest nod.

You stepped back just enough to give him space. He lifted his hands, bracing one on the doorframe and the other on the edge of the seat. You watched as he shifted his weight forward, shoes dragging over the floor mat until they bumped past the threshold and landed on the wet pavement outside.

The instant the cold air hit him fully, a shudder ripped through his body. He paused, breath catching, then pushed against the doorframe and door with his hands, hauling himself upright. His legs straightened, but you could see the strain in the tight set of his jaw, the way his knees wobbled as he reached full height.

For a heartbeat, he stayed there, propped against the open door, shoulders hunched against the rain.

Then his balance tilted.

You saw it in the way his eyes suddenly went distant, his weight listing away from the car. You moved without thinking, stepping in close and catching his arm with one hand, your other palm flattening against his chest to keep him from pitching forward.

“Easy,” you said softly. “Hey. Stay with me.”

He blinked hard, focusing on you again. His body was still shaking, but he adjusted his stance, shoes shifting on the slick asphalt as he let you steady him.

“That’s better,” you murmured, not quite trusting your voice with anything more.

You slid in closer, ducking under his arm so it rested across your shoulders. Your hand circled his wrist, anchoring it there, while your other arm wrapped around his back.

“Okay,” you said. “You walk; I’ll keep you pointed in the right direction.”

You guided him away from the car, your steps slow and measured. He was moving—clumsy, unsteady, but moving.

Rain hit you both from all sides, soaking through your clothes all over again. Water ran down the side of his face, dripping from his hair and collar; you felt each tremor through the arm you had around him.

Room numbers passed by in a blur until you reached 106. You turned, easing him up against the wall so he could lean his weight there for a moment. His shoulder thudded softly against the stucco, and he let out a thin breath.

You kept one hand curled around his forearm as you fumbled with the key in the lock. Your fingers slipped once on the wet metal before it finally slid in and turned with a stubborn clunk. The door swung inward on a rush of musty, warmer air.

You shifted back to him, bringing his arm over your shoulders again. “Last stretch,” you said.

Together, you crossed into the room. The worn carpet swallowed the sound of your steps, a dull contrast to the rain hammering the lot outside. You steered him toward the chair in the corner, its fabric faded and sagging.

“Turn a little… yeah, just like that.” You kept a light grip on his arm, guiding rather than holding, until the backs of his legs brushed the seat. “Feel that? Go ahead and sit.”

He nodded faintly and let his hands find the edges of the chair, using them to lower himself down. His knees bent slowly, controlled but shaky, until he sank into the seat on his own. Once he was down, he let out a breath, shoulders slumping as his chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven pulls.

For a heartbeat, you just stood there, water dripping from your hair, breathing hard, taking him in.

Cas looked… small in that chair.

Not because of his size—he was still the same broad-shouldered, trench-coat-wearing nerd you knew—but because of the way he was folded in on himself. Shoulders hunched, hands slack on the armrests, blue eyes half-lidded as he stared somewhere at the carpet between his feet.

You swallowed, forcing your brain to kick into gear.

“Okay,” you said quietly, more to yourself than him. “We’ve gotta get you dry.”

You crossed to the bathroom, flicking on the light. The fan whirred weakly to life. You grabbed two towels and brought them back into the main room, dumping them in a cottony pile on the bed.

You nudged the heater up as high as it would go, the old unit under the window rattling in protest before it started to blow slightly warmer air.

Then you turned back to him.

He was shivering hard again, eyes closed, lips still tinged bluish. Drops of water clung to his lashes, and his damp hair stuck to his forehead in uneven strands.

You stepped in front of him, heart squeezing. “Cas?”

His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then settling hazily on your face.

“I need to get you out of the wet stuff,” you said gently. “Down to your boxers, at least. Is that okay?”

He stared at you for a second like it took a moment for the words to line up in his head. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Y-yes,” he managed, jaw still shaking. “Whatever you think is… best.”

You tried not to think too hard about that answer.

You started with the trench coat. It was soaked and bunched awkwardly under him, the knee-length hem trapped between his weight and the chair.

“Okay, Cas,” you murmured. “Let’s get this off you.”

You worked the buttons open, fingers clumsy with cold, then eased the coat off his shoulders. It slid partway free before snagging beneath him.

“Can you lift your hips for me? Just a little.”

He obeyed, pushing up with a shaky effort. You grabbed the edge of the coat and tugged, pulling the heavy fabric out from under him in one quick motion before he settled back down.

The trench hit the back of the nearby desk chair with a wet slap and hung there, dripping.

Beneath it, his suit jacket was plastered to him, the dark fabric darker still with water.

“Sit forward a little for me,” you said.

He shifted, and you pushed the lapels back off his shoulders, peeling the jacket away. The lining sucked at his hoodie as you eased it down his arms and freed it. You shook it once, uselessly, before dropping it over the same chair as the coat.

Now that you weren’t fighting through layers, you could finally see what he’d been wearing underneath.

The hoodie was a faded navy, the cuffs frayed, one sleeve worn shiny at the elbow. There was a small hole near the hem, stretched out from fingers probably worrying at it. Not Heaven’s crisp button-downs and perfect seams. Not the careful, pressed clothes he’d mimicked from Jimmy’s life.

Just… human. Soft. Secondhand.

Your gaze dropped to his jeans—denim dark with rain, too big in the waist and cinched with a cheap belt, fabric thinning at the knees and starting to fray along the pockets.

You stared for a second longer than you meant to.

“Cas,” you said quietly, unable to keep the soft, aching note from your voice. “You went shopping.”

He blinked up at you. “Shopping?”

You tugged lightly at the hem of the hoodie. “This. These. They’re not… Heaven-issued menswear.”

His eyes lowered, as if he’d only just remembered what he was wearing. “There was a box of donated clothing at the shelter yesterday,” he said slowly. “They… suggested that I take something. My other clothes were… attracting notice.”

Of course they were. A rumpled trench and suit in a place where everyone wore what they could scrounge.

You swallowed. “I like them,” you said, more flustered than you wanted to admit. “The hoodie. The jeans. It’s… good. Very undercover.” Very soft, very you, you didn’t say.

“I didn’t choose for aesthetic reasons,” he said, in that blunt, factual tone that always somehow managed to be endearing. “They were… warm.”

Your chest tightened.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Good choice then.”

You slid your hands under the edge of the hoodie. “I’m gonna take this off, okay? It’s soaked.”

He nodded, obedient and trusting in a way that made your heart do something stupid behind your ribs.

“Arms up,” you said gently.

He lifted them slowly, muscles trembling from the effort. You worked the hoodie up and over his head, the fabric dragging against the T-shirt underneath and catching briefly on his hair. You tried very, very hard not to think about the way his stomach muscles fluttered under the thin cotton as the cold air hit him.

The hoodie joined the pile of dripping fabric on the chair.

Underneath, he wore a plain, worn T-shirt—nothing special, just thin and soft-looking, clinging damply to his chest.

“Shirt too,” you said softly. “You’ll never warm up in this.”

He hesitated for the first time, eyes searching your face, something vulnerable flickering in them.

You swallowed, kept your voice calm. “I promise you’ll feel better. I’m not gonna let you freeze to death in a motel chair in Detroit. That’s a terrible obituary.”

That earned the faintest huff of air that might have been a laugh.

“All right,” he murmured, and raised his arms again.

You worked the T-shirt off more carefully this time, moving slow so the cold wouldn’t hit him too harshly all at once. The damp cotton peeled away from his skin and you tugged it over his head, the fabric catching briefly on his hair before you freed it and tossed the shirt onto the growing pile.

Your breath caught.

Ink, stark and dark against his chilled skin, sat under his left pectoral across his ribs—words in a familiar, jagged language you recognized instantly.

Enochian. “Cas,” you spoke before you could stop yourself. “What is that?”

He glanced down as if he’d forgotten it was there, then back up at you. “An Enochian warding sigil," he said, voice low but matter-of-fact. “So any remaining angels can’t track me while I’m… like this.”

That simple sentence hit you harder than you expected—him, human, vulnerable, quietly making sure Heaven couldn’t drag him back or use him against the people he cared about.

Your chest squeezed. “It looks good,” you said before your brain could censor your mouth.

Heat crept up his neck immediately, blooming across his cheeks. He ducked his head the tiniest fraction, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the compliment. “Th-thank you,” he murmured, the words almost shy.

You pretended your own face wasn’t on fire as you draped the T-shirt over the coat and hoodie. Forcing yourself not to stare at the stark black lines again. This was not the time.

“Jeans,” you said, a little too briskly. “Then we’re done.”

His ears went pink. “I—yes.”

You knelt, fingers working at the button and zipper, eyes firmly on your hands as you slid the wet denim down over his knees. The fabric clung stubbornly to his legs, but between your tugging and his weak attempts to help, you got them free.

You swallowed when you realized he was down to simple navy boxers, about as unremarkable as underwear could be.

Still somehow enough to send heat crawling up the back of your neck.

You grabbed the nearest towel and snapped your brain back on.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Lean back.”

He obeyed, sinking against the chair as you worked the towel over his arms and chest, careful and quick, rubbing until some warmth started to return to his skin. You moved to his hair next, gently scrubbing at the damp strands, trying to soak up as much water as you could.

He closed his eyes under the touch, shoulders sagging, a shiver running through him that had nothing to do with cold.

“Sorry,” you murmured. “I know it’s not exactly a spa treatment.”

“It’s…” His voice rasped, then smoothed a little as he swallowed. “It’s more than I expected.”

Your throat tightened. “You should expect this,” you said. “From me, at least.”

You moved down to his legs, briskly drying them, trying not to think about it too hard. Once you were satisfied, you dropped the wet towel and grabbed the second bath towel, wrapping it around his shoulders like a blanket, tucking it snugly around him.

Then you snagged the thin motel blanket from the bed and layered that over his lap, cocooning him in a mismatched pile of cotton and polyester.

“There,” you said, stepping back with a small, shaky exhale. “Less hypothermia-chic.”

His shivers had already lessened, the worst of the trembling easing now that he wasn’t soaked to the skin. Color was creeping back into his lips and cheeks, faint but there.

You let yourself smile. Just a little.

“I’ll get you some water,” you said. “Don’t move. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor,” he pointed out, the faintest hint of familiar dry bewilderment in his tone.

“Wow,” you said, turning toward the tiny counter with the complimentary ice bucket. “Way to undermine my authority.”

You filled one of the plastic-wrapped cups in the sink, then brought it back to him, kneeling at his side as you pressed it gently into his hands.

“Slow sips,” you warned. “Your stomach’s probably pissed at you.”

He obeyed, drinking carefully, throat working as he swallowed. You watched each sip like it was a miracle.

When the cup was empty, he let out a slow breath. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you said. “I still have to go out in the rain again.”

His eyes sharpened. “No.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He frowned, struggling to sit a little straighter beneath the towel and blanket. “You’re soaked,” he said, gaze flicking over you, taking in your dripping hair and clinging clothes with an intensity that made you want to squirm. “You’re shivering. You shouldn’t go back out there.”

You rolled your eyes, even as another involuntary tremor ran through you. “I left my duffel in the car. It has food. And clothes. And something resembling soap that isn’t shaped like a suspicious motel bar. I’ll be gone two minutes.”

His brow furrowed. “You’ve already done so much—”

“Cas.” You leaned in, crouching down so your face was level with his. “You called me. I came. I’m not going to sit here and watch you starve and use a bar of soap as shampoo when I have actual supplies twenty feet away.”

He stared at you, and for a second you thought he might argue again. Then his shoulders dipped, almost in defeat.

“You’re still cold,” he said quietly.

“I’ll get warm once you’re not half a popsicle,” you said, straightening up.

He frowned at that, but before he could reply, you grabbed the room key and bolted for the door.

The rain hit you like a slap all over again. You cursed under your breath and sprinted across the parking lot, shoes splashing through puddles, clothes instantly plastered to your skin again. You yanked the car door open, grabbed your duffel off the passenger-side floor, and slammed it shut before the interior could get too soaked.

By the time you made it back to the room, you were panting, dripping, and regretting a lot of life choices.

You kicked the door shut behind you and tossed the key on the table.

Cas’s eyes immediately went to you, his expression darkening.

“You’re shivering,” he said, as if this personally offended him.

“And you’re alive,” you shot back, dropping the duffel on the bed and unzipping it. “So I’m calling this a net win.”

You rummaged through the bag one-handed until your fingers closed around a familiar foil wrapper. You turned, holding up the protein bar like a trophy.

“Dinner, a la gas station,” you announced. “Not exactly five-star, but it’s got calories and some stuff that probably counts as nutrients.”

You knelt by him again.

“Eat,” you said gently, pressing the full bar into his hand. “Slowly. If it doesn’t sit right, we’ll deal with it. But you need something in your system.”

He nodded, eyes dropping to the bar. He unwrapped it with clumsy fingers and took a small, careful bite. You watched the muscles in his jaw work as he chewed, his shoulders still tight, every movement deliberate.

After a moment, some of the strain bled out of his expression. He took another bite. Then another.

“When was the last time you ate?” you asked quietly.

He paused, thinking. That alone made your stomach twist.

“They gave us food this morning,” he said finally. “At the shelter. Before I left to look for somewhere else to stay.” His fingers tightened slightly around the wrapper. “When I went to bed last night… my bag was gone.”

You froze. “Gone?” you echoed. “As in—”

“Someone took it,” he said simply. “The extra clothes I had. The wallet. Everything that wasn’t on me.”

Your chest burned. “You didn’t—” You cut yourself off, jaw tensing. “You just… let it go.”

His gaze dropped to the half-finished bar in his hand. “There wasn’t anything I could do,” he said. No bitterness. Just tired fact.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over your face. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that alone,” you said, voice low.

He didn’t answer, but he took another bite of the bar, smaller this time. By the time he finished it, some of the glassiness had left his eyes. His shivers had shrunk to occasional tremors, and there was a little more color in his cheeks. Still worn, still exhausted—but not like he’d keel over if you looked away for two seconds.

You huffed. “Okay. Bath time.”

His brows lifted. “Bath… time.”

“You’re still cold, and you’re covered in rain and street grime,” you said softly. “I’m gonna run you a hot bath. Nothing fancy. Just… warm water. Get your body temperature up.”

He hesitated. “I don’t want to… take more than you can give.”

Something in your chest did a painful flip.

“Cas,” you said, voice gentle but firm. “Drawing you a bath isn’t too much. You need this. I promise, it’s okay.”

His gaze flicked to your soaked shirt, clinging to your torso. “You’re cold,” he said bluntly.

“I’ll warm up after,” you insisted. “Let me take care of you first.”

He frowned, clearly not satisfied, but when you squeezed his shoulder and stood, he didn’t stop you.

You grabbed your toiletry bag and a fresh set of clothes from your duffel—sweatpants and a T-shirt that were on the bigger side, and carried them into the bathroom. You set the clothes on the closed toilet lid within easy reach of the tub, then leaned over and turned the taps, letting the water run as hot as the ancient plumbing would allow without scalding.

While it filled, you dug into your toiletry bag and set out the necessities.

Reaching back, your fingers closed around your toothbrush—already out of its wrapper, worn in at the edges. You hesitated for a beat, then pulled it out and set it carefully on the counter by the sink, next to your toothpaste.

You called out, “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?” His voice sounded a little stronger already.

You leaned into the doorway so you could see him. “My toothbrush is on the sink,” you said. “If you want to use it.”

He blinked, clearly thrown by that in a way that made your chest ache. “…Really?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah,” you said. “I don’t mind sharing a toothbrush with you, Cas.”

He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with that, but after a second, he nodded. “Thank you,” he said softly.

You nodded back and ducked in to test the water. Warm, not boiling. Good enough.

You shut the tap and wiped your damp hand on your jeans, then went back out.

“The tub’s ready,” you said. “I put some clothes in there for you. They’re mine, but they should be comfortable. I thought they might fit well enough.”

His ears went pink again as he nodded.

You stepped closer, holding your hand out to him. “Think you can make it to the bathroom if I stay with you?”

He looked like he wanted to say no just to stop you from moving around more in your drenched clothes, but after a second, he nodded.

“I believe so,” he said.

You helped him stand, careful of the towel and blanket wrapped around him, keeping a steadying grip on his arm as you guided him the few steps across the room. His legs were a little wobbly but they held, the food and water having done their job of returning his strength.

At the bathroom door, you let him rest his hand on the frame.

“Okay,” you said, swallowing. “So. Here’s the deal. The tub’s full. There’s soap, shampoo, and I left the clothes right next to it. If you get dizzy or feel like you’re gonna pass out, you call me. I mean it. I’ll come help you, no questions asked.”

His eyes widened a fraction at the seriousness in your voice.

You winced slightly. “Sorry. I just… I don’t want anything happening to you in there.”

“It’s all right,” he said, and there was a tiny thread of warmth in his tone that made something loosen in your chest. “I understand.”

You hesitated in the doorway, fingers flexing uselessly at your sides. “Do you… need help? Getting in, I mean.”

The question hung between you, hot and awkward and completely sincere.

He looked at you for a long moment. Not offended. Not embarrassed. Just… searching.

“I think I can manage,” he said finally, voice soft but sure. “But if that changes, I’ll… call.”

You nodded, stepping back. “Okay. Deal. Take your time. Don’t fall asleep in there, okay? I’ll be right out here.”

You turned to go, but his hand shot out, fingers closing gently around your wrist.

You froze, breath catching.

He looked up at you, eyes clearer now, concern etched in every line of his face. “You’ll get warm too?” he asked quietly. “After this?”

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said, your voice not quite steady. “After this, I’ll… shower. Change. I promise.”

He studied you like he could tell you meant it. Then, slowly, he nodded and released your wrist.

“Good,” he said.

You stepped back fully, fingers still tingling where he’d touched you.

“Okay,” you repeated, because words were apparently hard now. “Call if you need me.”

You pulled the door mostly shut, leaving it cracked just an inch in case he did actually call out, then went to the previously occupied chair and sat down heavily, your legs finally deciding they’d had enough for one night.

You listened to the sounds of him moving slowly around the bathroom—the soft thump of discarded towels, the faint clink of porcelain, the quiet rush as he eased himself into the bath.

A breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding slipped out of you all at once.

And then your stomach growled loud enough to make you wince.

Right. A half-frozen ex-angel and a protein bar did not count as dinner.

You forced yourself up from the chair, grabbing the motel phone from the nightstand. Cradling it between your shoulder and ear, you flipped through the flimsy binder of “local attractions” until you found a greasy pizza flyer tucked in the back.

“Perfect,” you muttered.

You dialed with stiff fingers. “Yeah, hi. Delivery to the Crest Motel, room 106. Large pepperoni, extra cheese. And… uh… whatever soda is least radioactive. Yeah. That’s fine. Card over the phone.” You rattled off the numbers, signed away a piece of your hunting fund, and hung up.

“Okay,” you told the empty room, more to convince yourself than anything. “Real food incoming.”

Only then did you notice how hard you were shaking.

Now that the adrenaline was ebbing, the chill crept in with a vengeance—into your shoulders, your spine, your fingers. Your wet clothes clung to you like ice.

Your gaze drifted to the towel you’d dropped earlier, half-crumpled on the floor by the chair. One side of it was still mostly dry.

You grabbed it and sank back down in the damp chair, curling your legs up beneath you and wrapping the towel around your shoulders and knees, tucking it as tight as you could.

“I’ll just… sit for a minute,” you muttered to yourself. “Just until he’s done.”

You rested your head against the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the crack of light beneath the bathroom door. You meant to stay awake, listening—ready to move if you heard a thud, or a call, or anything that sounded wrong.

The fan hummed. Water shifted gently as he moved in the tub. The heater sputtered warm air in uneven bursts.

Your eyes slipped shut.

You didn’t remember drifting off. One second you were counting his movements, the next—

“Hey.”

The low, rough word cut through the fog in your head.

You jerked awake, a violent shiver running through you so hard the towel slipped down your arms. Cold air hit damp fabric, and your teeth clicked together before you could stop it.

You blinked, vision swimming for a second before it cleared.

Cas stood in the bathroom doorway.

His hair was damp and mussed, curling a little at the ends as it dried. Steam billowed behind him, soft and ghostly in the light. He wore your sweats and T-shirt—the shirt stretched comfortably over his chest, the drawstring of the pants tied tight at his hips. His feet were bare against the ugly motel carpet.

He looked… better. Color in his cheeks. No blue on his lips. Steady on his feet.

“You fell asleep,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, forcing your brain to catch up. “Guess I did,” you rasped. Your voice came out rough and thin. Another shiver rattled through you, your fingers clenching in the towel.

His eyes dropped to the way you were curled up—knees hugged to your chest, towel slipped half off your shoulders, T-shirt and jeans still damp and clinging. His brow furrowed, the concern there sharp and immediate.

“You’re freezing,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You huffed a tiny, tired breath. “You were kind of busy not collapsing in the bathroom,” you said. “I’m fine Cas.”

He took a slow step into the room, then another, as if testing his legs. They held—no wobble, no sway.

“You shouldn’t have waited like that,” he murmured. “Not when you’re this cold.”

You said nothing as you pushed yourself up out of the chair, the motion sending pins and needles racing down your legs. Pulling the towel tighter around your shoulders as another shiver tore through you.

Cas flinched like he felt it.

“That’s enough,” he said softly, but with that stubborn steel you knew too well. “You need to get warm.”

You managed a crooked smile. “Working on it. We’ve got hot water, allegedly. I’m just glad you can stand without face-planting.”

He gave a small, almost sheepish nod. “The bath helped. A great deal.”

“Good.” You blew out a breath. “Now you need to lie down. You’ve had… a lot. Bed is yours.”

He shook his head immediately. “You need rest too,” he said. “You’re exhausted. And you’re the one who drove all this way.” His gaze flicked to the narrow mattress, then back to you. “There’s enough room for both of us,” he added, quieter. “If… that’s all right.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the simple, earnest offer.

Sharing a bed with Cas.

Your brain tried very hard to short-circuit about it, but the exhaustion and the warmth in his eyes steamrolled over the panic.

“Yeah,” you said, softer than before. “Yeah, that’s… that’s okay. We can share.”

Some of the tension in his shoulders eased, like he’d been bracing for you to say no.

“I still want you lying down,” you added. “You need it more than I do. I’ll be right there.”

His gaze flicked toward the door. “And the food you ordered?” he asked, that careful, precise way he had of noticing things.

You snorted softly. “Right. The pizza. I almost forgot.”

You crossed to your duffel, fingers fumbling with the zipper, and grabbed the long, soft T-shirt and fresh underwear you’d stashed there for yourself.

“Okay,” you said, turning back to him. “I’m gonna rinse the storm off and stop freezing. While I’m in there, if there’s a knock on the door—that’ll be the pizza. I already paid over the phone. Just open up, take the box, and don’t let anyone stab you.”

He stared at you like you’d suggested he pilot a plane. “…You trust me to answer the door?”

“I trust you with my life on a weekly basis,” you said, a little incredulous. “I think you can handle a delivery guy with a name tag.”

Something warm flickered in his expression at that. He nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll… retrieve the pizza.”

“Good man,” you murmured.

You slipped into the bathroom and shut the door most of the way, leaving it cracked just an inch out of habit. You set the shirt and underwear on the counter, stripped out of your cold, clingy clothes with brisk movements, and cranked the shower on.

The water wasn’t scalding, but it was warm enough. You stepped under the spray with a sound that was half sigh, half groan, letting it drum against the knots in your shoulders, run through your hair, chase the chill from your skin. Somewhere under the rush of water, you thought you heard a muffled knock and the low rumble of Cas’s voice. The sound blurred into the steam and tile, distant but there.

You washed fast—soap, shampoo, nothing extra—and shut off the water as soon as you felt more warm than cold. You towel-dried in quick, rough strokes, then pulled on the fresh underwear and the long T-shirt. The fabric fell soft and loose over your thighs, still warm from your own hands.

At the sink, you reached for your toothbrush and paused.

It was slightly damp, the bristles warped in a way that said someone else had used it recently.

Something quiet and tender tugged at your chest.

You added toothpaste and brushed your teeth, watching your reflection in the spotted mirror—damp hair, flushed cheeks, eyes still tired but not hollow.

When you finished, you rinsed the toothbrush, set it back in the same spot. Running a brush through your hair quickly before opening the door.

The room was dimmer now. Cas had turned off the overhead light, leaving only the bedside lamp on his side and the glow of the TV casting shifting colors over the walls. Some late-night show muttered softly in the background, the volume low.

He was on the bed, sitting cross-legged near the pillows, the blanket pooled around his hips. An open pizza box sat between you two, the warm smell of cheese and pepperoni thick in the air. A sweating bottle of soda waited on the nightstand, along with two cups he must have grabbed.

He looked up as you stepped out, relief softening his face.

“You look warmer,” he said quietly. “And the food arrived.”

You smiled, sudden and helpless. “You answered the door and everything. I’m impressed.”

“The man asked if I was ‘having a good night,’” Cas said, sounding faintly bewildered. “I told him it had improved significantly. He seemed pleased.”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Yeah,” you said. “That’ll do it.”

You climbed onto the bed, folding your legs under you so you faced him across the box. Up close, he looked steadier, the harsh lines of earlier exhaustion softened by warmth and food and the simple, ridiculous normalcy of pizza in a motel room.

“Help yourself,” you said, grabbing a slice and sliding it onto one of the plates before passing it to him. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re still not a doctor,” he reminded you, but he took the slice with both hands, studying it like it was an artifact.

“Close enough,” you said around a bite of your own.

He mimicked you, lifting the tip of the slice and taking a careful bite. Grease shone on his bottom lip for a second before he licked it away, brow furrowing in concentration as he chewed.

“Well?” you asked, swallowing. “Judgment?”

“It’s…” He paused, searching for the word. “Very… salty. And greasy. And… good.”

You grinned. “Welcome to one of humanity’s greatest inventions.”

You ate in a companionable, exhausted silence after that—passing napkins back and forth, trading the soda bottle, letting yourselves just exist for a few minutes with something warm in your hands and nothing trying to kill you.

By the time you’d each had a couple of slices, the gnawing in your stomach had settled into something pleasantly heavy. You closed the box, slid it onto the dresser, and killed the bedside lamp, leaving only the TV’s flickering glow.

Cas eased down first, stretching out on his side, blanket tugged up over his waist. You reached for the remote and clicked the volume down until it was barely a murmur, the screen more background glow than anything else.

Then you shifted, turning onto your side to face him. The pillow dipped with the movement, the blanket tugging and resettling over both of you. After a heartbeat, he mirrored you, rolling onto his side as well, so the two of you lay facing each other, breaths mingling in the small space between.

Up close like this, the flicker from the TV barely mattered—just a faint halo at the edge of his hair.

His eyes searched your face for a long, quiet moment.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t need to thank me, Cas,” you murmured. “I’m just… glad you’re safe.”

He made a quiet noise at that, huffing in protest, but not actually arguing. His brows pulled together for a second, then eased again, like he’d decided to let it go for tonight.

Under the blanket, his fingers brushed against yours, a small, clumsy touch.

You turned your hand just enough that your pinky hooked lightly around his. “Sleep,” you said, voice soft with exhaustion. “We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow.”

He watched you for another beat, eyes heavy now. “All right,” he murmured.

Your eyelids were already drooping. The TV was little more than a dull glow on the far wall, the sound barely a murmur. You let your head sink a little deeper into the pillow, still facing him, your hand relaxed next to his under the covers.

His breathing evened out first—slow, steady, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of it against your face. It made it easy to let go.

Within a minute, your own breaths matched his, your body finally giving in to the pull of sleep.

You wake to sunlight and warmth.

For a few seconds, you linger in that hazy space between sleep and awareness. The room is quiet except for slow, steady breathing—and the comforting weight pinning you gently to the mattress.

You breathe in, stretch slightly… wait.

Looking down, you’re met with Cas. His head rests against your chest, one arm heavy around your waist, his body aligned with yours like it’s always been that way. His dark hair is tousled, his expression soft in sleep. Every now and then, he lets out a quiet sound—almost a sigh.

You let yourself watch him for a moment. Admittedly, it was a bit creepy, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. An angel is sleeping on you.

Then he shifts.

Instinctively, he presses closer, seeking warmth. His hips roll forward just slightly, and you freeze as sensation registers fully. The contact is unmistakable—firm, warm, pressing against your thigh through the thin barrier of fabric. Heat floods through you before you can stop it. He moves again, barely perceptible. A slow, absent grind that sends your pulse skidding. He’s still asleep. Completely unaware. Guilt hits immediately.

You shouldn’t be noticing this. Shouldn’t be reacting. And you know—you know—that when he wakes up, he’ll be mortified. 

You lift a hand and gently shake his shoulder. “Cas,” you whisper. “Hey. Wake up.”

He makes a soft sound of protest, brows knitting before his eyes flutter open. For a moment, he looks utterly lost, pupils blown wide as he takes in the sunlight, the quiet room—you.

Then awareness hits him like a truck.

He stiffens, eyes widening as realization hits. He scrambles backward so fast he nearly tangles himself in the sheets, sitting bolt upright and dragging the blankets into his lap like a lifeline. His gaze stays fixed anywhere but you. The tension in his posture was obvious; his shoulders were tight, and his jaw set, like he’s bracing for you to yell.

“I’m—I’m so sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to invade your space. And I certainly didn’t mean to—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, distress deepening. “—violate you like that. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, and I—”

“Whoa, Cas,” you interrupt gently, sitting up. “It’s okay. I know it was an accident. I’m not mad.”

He finally looks at you. His eyes are wide, glassy. “That doesn’t excuse it,” he says quietly. “I should have been more careful. I knew this could happen, and I—” His fingers twist in the blanket. “When I was an angel, I could contain these urges. They existed, but they were separate. I could control my vessel.”

Your chest tightens at the word vessel, like his body is something shameful.

“Now that I’m human,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper, “there is no separation. I feel everything. And I failed to keep that from affecting you.” He swallows. “I understand if you want me to leave.”

“No—Cas.” You move closer before you can stop yourself. “I don’t want you to leave, sweetheart.” The pet name slips out . “Slow down. What do you mean by urges?”

He hesitates, exhaling shakily. “I mean… attraction. Desire.” His voice drops. “I felt it before. Around you.”

Your breath stutters. “Before… when you were still an angel?”

“Yes.” His jaw tightens. “I tried to ignore it. It was inappropriate. And you deserve someone better than me—someone whole. Someone who understands what they’re doing.” His voice cracks. “And I know you don’t feel the same.”

Tears gather in his eyes, and something inside you breaks.

You close the distance, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch instantly, like he’s been starving for it.

“Cas,” you say firmly but gently. “You’re wrong.”

He looks at you, hope and fear warring openly

“I don’t deserve you,” you admit. “And I do feel the same. I just didn’t think you ever would.”

His breath catches. “You… you do?”

You nod. “I do.” Your heart pounds. “Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t answer. 

He leans in and kisses you.

It’s everything you imagined—and nothing like you expected.

Careful at first. Closed-mouth, tentative, like you’re both afraid to break something fragile. His lips are warm, unsure but eager. He follows your lead instinctively, adjusting when you tilt your head, when you linger just a second longer.

Your hand slides from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair. When you tug—just a little—he lets out a soft, startled sound that goes straight through you.

You deepen the kiss.

He responds immediately, enthusiasm overtaking hesitation, meeting you with a hunger that feels long-suppressed. He presses closer, breath hitching, hands finally settling at your waist like he’s been restraining himself until now.

You shift, guided more by instinct than thought, settling onto his lap. The contact pulls a low, unfiltered sound from his chest.  He grips your hips reflexively, not pulling, just holding, anchoring himself.

You rock forward slowly and the reaction you get is instant.

“—oh,” he exhales, rough and helpless. You smile against his neck, kissing there instead, lingering—your mouth tracing the sensitive skin just beneath his jaw. His head tips back without thought, offering you more. 

Castiel had never been a teenage boy. No one had ever told him he needed to keep quiet. Every sound he makes is raw, unguarded, and you love it.

His hands tighten like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “Please,” he breathes. “Please—I need.”

You pull back just enough to catch his face between your hands. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’s been holding his breath for far too long.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” you ask softly.

His fingers flex against your sides.

“I need to make you feel good,” he says urgently. “I want to. I want to please you. I want to taste you.” He swallows. “I’ve been thinking about you—for longer than I should have.”

Heat floods your face. Fuck – did you wanted that too.

“You’re sure?” you ask, like you’re not desperate for him.

“Yes,” he answers immediately. Softer now, but no less intense: “Please. Let me. I want this. I want you.”

He moves before you can second-guess it.

In one smooth movement, he shifts his weight, rolling you onto your back. The mattress catches you, and he’s there above you, braced on his elbows, solid and warm, real. The motion is confident—more fluid than anything you saw from him as an angel. It’s raw, human heat, undeniable in the press of his chest against yours. He stills instantly, braced on either side of you.

“Is this all right?” he asks.

You nod, and his shoulders relax slightly as he exhales a breath, gaze dipping briefly before snapping back to yours. 

His fingers brush the hem of your shirt.

“May I?”

Another nod.

He helps you lift it over your head, careful, reverent. When you settle back beneath his gaze, he freezes.

For a long second, he just looks.

“Perfect,” he whispers, almost to himself. He lowers himself without hesitation, like he can’t resist it anymore. The moment his mouth meets your breast, he lets out a quiet, broken sound—half breath, half moan. “Yes,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t rush. He lingers, lips and tongue exploring, tracing the curve of your breast, circling your nipple, drawing the sensation out deliberately, like he wants to memorize every reaction. You feel the way his breathing stutters against your skin, uneven and urgent. “Cas,” you gasp, and he responds with a shuddered, needy noise.

He reacts to every movement, every small shift of your body, like it’s feeding something in him. His mouth leaves a trail of soft kisses and nips, moving down along your torso, lips brushing against your abdomen, kissing at every available inch of skin, teeth occasionally grazing, leaving soft marks in his wake that you’ll surely be looking at in the mirror later.

He moves closer and closer to where you want him. When fingers tug at his hair, urging him lower as you lose patience, he actually whines—his hips stuttering into the mattress as he clutches at you. “Please,” you gasp. He looks up, searching your face. Pupils blown wide.

You nod.

His fingers hook under your panties, pressing gently against your skin as he slowly slides the fabric down your legs. He leans in closer, maneuvering so that your legs rest on his shoulders. You can feel the heat of his breath hot against your core.

“So beautiful,” he mutters, voice breaking, breath ragged, as he brings his fingers to caress your folds, spreading you out so that he can see you. 

Without warning, his mouth crashes against you, his tongue sweeping boldly across your core before plunging in, circling and teasing your clit with deliberate, needy strokes. Every moan he makes vibrates through you, making your body arch and press back against him. You can’t help but grind into him, pressing your hips against his mouth, chasing his tongue as it drags over every sensitive curve, your thighs trembling with each stroke, your breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

His hands tighten on your thighs, spreading you wider, anchoring you as his tongue works with deliberate, urgent pressure. He laps and circles, switching between soft, teasing flicks and long, insistent strokes that drag deep inside you. He eats you like a man starved—desperate, reverent, relentless. “So good Cas, fuck you feel so good,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as you press him closer. “That’s it baby– I’m close”

He whines, a high, desperate sound that vibrates against you, thrusting his tongue harder and faster as if he can’t get enough of you. The pressure, the slick motion, the way he licks and sucks at every sensitive spot pushes you over the edge. 

Your body trembles, hips jerking uncontrollably, thighs quivering as heat floods through you, your orgasm crashing down while his tongue devours you. He moans into you, voice breaking, each whine and groan feeding the intensity as your body clenches around him, shaking and trembling under the force of it. Even as your body shakes from the aftershocks of your orgasm, he doesn’t stop, dragging his tongue over your clit with slow, lingering licks that push you into overstimulation. A shiver runs through you, and gently, almost reluctantly, you pull him up, and he collapses against your chest. His breath coming out in quick puffs warm against your skin, and you trace small circles across his back, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I can… I can return the favor,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his temple, offering to take care of him. He groans softly, cheeks flushing as he presses closer, like he’s trying to disappear into you.

“No… you don’t need to,” he admits, voice low.

“No, I want to,” you insist, tilting your head as your finger traces his jaw, confused by his reluctance.

He hesitates, then shakes his head, color deepening across his cheeks. “It’s… it’s really not necessary,” he murmurs. Slowly, he pulls away, sitting back on his knees—and that’s when you notice the dark stain spreading across his pants, unmistakable evidence of just how much it had affected him.

A slow, knowing smile curves your lips as understanding replaces confusion, followed quickly by heat. The way he shifts, flustered and exposed, sends a fresh thrill through you.

“You know,” you say lightly, a smirk tugging at your mouth, “I think that’s pretty hot. But we should probably get you cleaned up.”

He swallows, still burning red, and the sight only makes your heart race faster. You take his hand, your fingers brushing his, and grin. “Come on,” you say, gently tugging him toward the bathroom. You wink at him as you add, “I’ll help you in the shower.”

The first few days, Dean had barely noticed.

Cas had always been… attentive. The kind of guy who noticed the little things most people didn’t—the way Dean favored his right knee after a hunt, how he took his coffee in the morning, the fact that he always preferred sitting at the head of the table for dinners. But lately, it had been dialed up to eleven.

It started with the coffee. Dean would walk into the kitchen and there it was—freshly poured, just the right amount of cream he used on particularly indulgent mornings, sitting in his favorite chipped mug. No big deal. Then it was his jacket. He’d tossed it over a chair with a rip in the sleeve one night and found it the next morning, good as new.

From there, it escalated. Meals were no longer something Dean got for himself—Cas seemed perfectly content to pick up food from across the globe before Dean could even think the word hungry. If Dean reached for a beer, Cas was quietly pushing a bottle of water towards him instead.

Even the clothes off his back were not safe from the angel. Dirty t-shirts went missing from the floor. Flannels disappeared from the back of chairs. Not to mention, Dean was almost positive Cas was swiping his clothes from the hamper at this point.

The thing was, Dean didn’t even have the energy to argue about it most days. Sleep had been… rough lately. He’d lie awake for hours staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the bunker’s plaster until his eyes burned. When he did manage to drift off, it was shallow—dreams tangled with old hunts, faces he couldn’t shake. He was running on fumes, and maybe that’s why it had taken him a full week to snap.

By day seven, it wasn’t just strange—it was suffocating.

Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a plate of eggs and bacon from his favorite diner in St.Louis. Courtesy of air-angel. The angel in question stood across the counter, hands folded neatly, like he was waiting for some kind of verdict. Dean’s fork stalled halfway to his mouth.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, pushing the plate a few inches away. “Spill it, buddy.”

Cas’s head tilted, “There is nothing to spill, Dean. Is the food not to your liking?” His eyes went wide as if the idea had just come to him. “I know you have not frequented Conner’s Diner in quite some time. It must not be your favorite breakfast establishment anymore–”

Dean’s eyebrows rose as he watched the angel look increasingly more distraught.

“Stupid. So stupid, I should have known you would not like it. I sincerely apologize, Dean. I will get you something better–”

“No. No, stop it, Cas. The food is great, that isn’t the problem.” Dean interrupted, having had enough of the self-deprecation. “What I meant was, what’s wrong with you man?”

“I don’t understand what you are referring to Dean, I am perfectly well”, Cas took a breath, seeming to calm down at Dean’s assurance.

“Yeah? I know for a fact that’s bull. You’re hovering like a damn helicopter mom and I’m sick of it. For fucks sake, you would’ve thought your hamster died with the way you reacted to the idea of me not likin’ the food. If you’ve got somethin’ to say, just say it.”

Cas’s tone didn’t change. “I’m simply ensuring you’re alright.”

Dean leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Newsflash Cas, I’ve been alright for decades without a babysitter as I sure as hell don’t need you fillin’ the role.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Cas’s expression didn’t shift, but his shoulders dipped—barely, just enough for Dean to notice before he turned away. Dean felt the smallest twinge in his chest, something that might have been guilt if he dissected the feeling, but he shoved it down.

By nightfall, Dean was done with the bunker and everything in it. He needed noise, people, something to take the edge off the weird tension that had been hanging between him and Cas all week. The small bar on Main St was calling his name. He couldn’t even remember the last time he got laid.

He grabbed his keys from the war room table, but before he could make it to the garage, the sound of footsteps following him stopped him in his tracks.

“I will accompany you,” Cas said, as if the matter had already been decided.

Dean turned, brow furrowing. “It’s just a bar. I don’t need a chaperone.”

“I’d prefer not to let you out of my sight.”

There was something in his voice—not a threat, not a request, just stubborn certainty.

Dean exhaled slowly. “Cas–”

But the angel was already striding past him, trench coat brushing against Dean’s leg as he headed for the Impala. By the time Dean got to the car, Cas was in the passenger seat, buckled in, sitting ram rod straight, hands folded politely in his lap.

The bar was exactly what Dean needed—dim lighting, low music, the smell of stale peanuts and beer thick in the air. He slid onto a stool at the far end, Cas taking the seat beside him without a word.

Dean ordered the house whiskey, savoring the first sip when movement in his peripheral caught his attention. A perky blonde approached, her steps confident, a smile already tugging at her lips. She leaned against the bar, close enough that Dean could smell her perfume. Something vanilla and flowery.

“You here alone, handsome?” she asked, her tone smooth, practiced.

Dean gave her his classic crooked grin. “Guess that depends–”

“Leave him alone.”

The voice cut through the hum of the bar like a blade. Dean froze mid-sentence, the woman blinking in surprise as she turned toward Cas.

“Excuse me?” she said, her tone edged with offense.

“You will not speak to him,” Cas replied, voice low and sharp, eyes locked on hers with a glare that could’ve smited her where she stood.

Dean turned fully toward him now, disbelief rising like heat in his chest. “Dude, what the hell?!”

“She was—”

“She was talking to me,” Dean snapped, his voice rising. “You don’t get to police that.”

The stool screeched against the floor as Dean stood, the sound loud enough to draw a few glances. “You’re outta line. Back off.”

Something flickered in Cas’s eyes then—hurt, raw, and unguarded. His mouth opened as if he was going to argue, but no words came out. The muscles in his jaw worked once before his face crumpled, just enough for Dean to see the shine of unshed tears in his eyes catching the dim bar light.

“I see,” he said, voice thin and uneven.

And then he turned, the trench coat flaring briefly as he walked toward the door. Dean didn’t follow immediately—he just stood there, pulse thudding, unsure what the hell had just happened.

By the time he made it outside, the parking lot was empty of one rebellious angel. The Impala’s passenger seat sat vacant, the air in the car colder somehow. Dean gripped the steering wheel, the echo of his own voice—sharp and cutting—bouncing around in his head. He couldn’t shake the way Cas had looked at him before walking out. Something was seriously wrong with the guy and Dean was more than worried now.

His hands tightened on the wheel the whole way back, leather creaking under his grip. The more he thought about Cas walking out like that, the more it burned him up. First the hovering, now the jealousy act? What the hell was Cas’s problem lately?

But under all that frustration was a knot of unease. Cas hadn’t been angry when he left—he looked defeated. Dean hated that look, and he hated even more that he couldn’t get it out of his head.

By the time he pulled into the bunker garage, he was wound up tight. He slammed the Impala’s door and headed inside, muttering under his breath.

The moment the bunker door swung open, a voice came out of nowhere like a gunshot.

“You absolute inconsiderate jackass!”

Dean flinched, drawing his gun at the noise. Past the barrel stood Gabriel. 5 feet 8 inches of smug posture and pissed-off eyes. The lights of the bunker flickered faintly behind him, the angelic equivalent of pacing like a caged tiger.

“…Gabriel?” Dean blinked. “Why the hell are you here?”

Gabriel stepped forward, the usual playfulness in his face replaced with pure fire. “Oh, I dunno, maybe because you just stomped all over my baby brother’s heart like it was a cockroach in your kitchen? Ring a bell?”

Dean scoffed, stowing his gun and shuffling further into the room. “What, are you serious? I didn’t—”

“Oh, you did,” Gabriel cut him off sharply. “You fucked things up Winchester-style, and I gotta say—chef’s kiss—just when I think you’ve hit the ceiling on being emotionally tone-deaf, you grab a ladder and keep climbing. And that’s really saying something coming from me.”

Dean’s brows drew together. “Look, I don’t know what you think happened—”

“I know what happened,” Gabriel snapped, jabbing a finger in his chest. “I know because I could feel it. You know how bad things have to be for him to call to me? This isn’t the ‘oh, Dean was mean to me today and that hurt my feelings’ kind of sad. This is ‘I’m calling the only garrison member I have left because my world imploded’ sad.”

Dean’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “I know he’s been off recently but–”

Gabriel’s head tilted, studying him. Then something in his face shifted—realization dawning like a slow, painful sunrise. “For my father’s sake please tell me Cassie told you.”

Dean scowled. “Told me what?”

“You don’t know,” Gabriel said flatly.

Dean’s voice sharpened. “Don’t know what?”

The archangel let out a slow, dramatic sigh and rubbed his temples. “Every few million years, angels hit something we call a mating period. Cosmic clockwork—bam, all the alarms go off, and suddenly you’re compelled to comb through Earth looking for your one-and-only mate.”

Dean blinked. “…Your what now?”

“Your mate,” Gabriel repeated impatiently. “As in, your other half. The peanut butter to your jelly. The one person in the universe you’re meant to bond with for all eternity. Sound familiar or should I get out the sock puppets?”

Dean made a face. “So what… Cas wants a girlfriend?” The thought made something tighten in his chest.

Gabriel stared at him like he’d just confessed he didn’t know how doors worked. “He doesn’t want a girlfriend, you muppet. It’s biology. Ninety-nine percent of the time, angels go looking for a mate and don’t find squat, end of story. But if they do? That’s when the fun starts.”

Dean snorted. “Fun for who?”

Gabriel’s grin turned sharp. “For the lucky bastard who triggers the angel’s secondary gender. Cas? He’s an alpha.”

Dean blinked again. “…Like… alpha male? What is this, a wolf thing?”

Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, genius. Alpha as in: once he’s locked onto his mate, he’s wired to take care of them in every way. Physically, emotionally–” he paused, giving dean a smirk, “sexually, you name it. He’d get obsessed with making sure they’re safe, fed, comfortable—basically nesting around them like a mother hen on steroids. Hence the coffee, the jacket, the food deliveries from halfway across the globe. You following Deano?”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. “So… he’s just in a caretaking mood? That’s what all this is?”

“Caretaking?” Gabriel scoffed. “That’s the understatement of the millennium. He’s been running a one-man ‘make mate happy’ campaign because every part of him is screaming that’s his purpose now. And when an alpha gets rejected by their mate—”

“Rejected?” Dean cut in, his voice hardening. “Who the hell would reject Cas?”

Gabriel just stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching until it was unbearable. Then he said, slowly, like he was speaking to a child, “You. You rejected him.”

Dean’s stomach sank. “…What?”

“You are his mate, moron. Are you really this dense?” Gabriel asked, exasperation dripping from every word. “The gifts? The hovering? Clothes going missing? The laser focus on your wellbeing? Not ringing any bells? He’s desperate to take care of you, and you’ve been swatting him away like a mosquito at a barbecue.”

Dean’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His brain was still stuck on me?

Gabriel’s smirk faded. He stepped in closer, his voice dropping, no humor left in it. “Yeah, you. And this isn’t just him being moody, Dean. If an alpha gets rejected by their mate, it’s not like a bad breakup—it breaks them. He’s already calling out to me, which means he’s… slipping.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Slipping?”

Gabriel’s gaze locked on his, deadly serious. “If this goes on, he’s going to shut down. Withdraw. Stop fighting. I’ve seen what that looks like— you don’t come back the same.”

The air between them felt heavier, like Gabriel had just dropped a weight onto Dean’s chest.

“I don’t care if you’re confused or scared or whatever your excuse is,” Gabriel said quietly, but with steel in his voice. “If you want to fix this, you need to go to him.”

The angel paused, looking at Dean seriously. “But if any part of you is unsure about this, leave him be. Angels mate for life, and he undoubtedly won’t make it if you reject him down the line.”

Dean didn’t say a word to Gabriel when he turned and headed down the hall. He could still feel the archangel’s eyes on him, but he kept moving, boots echoing against the bunker’s concrete floor.

His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tense. Gabriel’s words rolled around in his head like gravel in a tumbler, sharp edges knocking into him every few steps.

You’re his mate.

The idea was insane and he could already feel himself start to brush it off—chalk it up to Gabriel’s usual brand of needling. But the more he thought about the past week… hell, the past few years… the harder it was to ignore. Cas showing up after every hunt to check him over. Cas remembering the smallest details about him—things Dean didn’t even think he’d said out loud. Cas taking blows meant for him without hesitation.

Dean had always figured it was just who Cas was—loyal, protective, maybe a little too intense. But what if it had been more than that?

He stopped halfway to Cas’s room, leaning against the wall like the realization alone had stolen all of his breath.

The truth was, it had been Cas for him for a long damn time. Longer than he cared to admit. But with world-ending apocalypse after another, it was never the right time.

But in the quiet hours after a hunt, he could admit to himself that if there ever was an ‘after’ for him– It was Cas. Maybe that's why he never told him, because Cas’s inevitable rejection would put an end to all those ‘after’ dreams. He was a coward all the same.

Deep down, Dean had done nothing because he had been certain Cas didn’t feel the same. Couldn’t feel the same. He was an angel, and sue him but he always thought Cas’s devotion was just… duty. Friendship.

But if Gabriel was telling the truth—and Dean had a gut-deep feeling he was—then he’d been dead wrong. Cas wasn’t just hanging around out of loyalty. He wanted Dean. Chose him.

And Dean had been pushing him away.

He clenched his jaw and shoved off the wall. The decision was already made, even if it scared the hell out of him. He didn’t care about the “alpha” thing or the mating season or whatever else Gabriel had said—if Cas was hurting because of him, then Dean was damn well going to fix it.

He reached Cas’s door, the weight of everything sitting heavy in his chest. For a moment, he just stood there, hand hovering over the wood, trying to piece together what he could possibly say to make this right.

Then he knocked.

There was no answer.

Dean knocked again, a little harder this time. “Cas?”

Nothing.

He could hear the faint sound of movement on the other side—maybe the shuffle of feet, the rustle of fabric—but no response came. The silence sat heavy between them, and Dean felt it deep in his chest. He knew he’d screwed up. Didn’t matter that he hadn’t known what was going on—he’d still hurt Cas. And if Gabriel was even half right about this whole angel biology deal, then a simple apology sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it.

Dean let out a slow breath and slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. He leaned his head back, staring at the door across from him.

“Hey, Cas,” he said quietly. “You got your ears on?”

The only answer was the faint hum of the bunker’s air system. Dean huffed a humorless laugh and rubbed a hand over his face.

“Really hope you do,” he muttered. “’Cause… I’m sorry, man. I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you. Didn’t mean it.”

He exhaled, shoulders sagging. “I realized I never actually thanked you—for everything you do around here. For me. You always look out for me, even when I don’t ask. Especially when I don’t ask.”

His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Gabriel told me what’s been goin’ on. You should’ve told me, Cas.”

He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the floor between his boots. “I get why you didn’t, though. You probably thought I’d be pissed or… weirded out or somethin’. But I’m not. Not even close.”

Dean swallowed hard. The next words felt like glass in his throat. “You’re wrong about me bein’ mad, Cas. I’m… honored, alright? You—you always deserved better than me. Hell, you still do. But whatever’s left of me…” He looked back up at the door, voice barely above a whisper. “…It’s yours, angel.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the latch clicked.

The door swung open.

Cas stood there.

And for a second, Dean forgot how to breathe.

The angel didn’t look like himself. His trench coat was half-off one shoulder, tie hanging loose, hair a wild mess like he’d been dragging his fingers through it in frustration—or something else. There was something raw in his eyes, something unrestrained that sent a jolt straight through Dean’s chest.

“Cas…” Dean started, his voice catching somewhere between relief and awe.

Cas didn’t answer. He just looked at him, unreadable, then stepped aside. “Come in,” he said roughly.

Dean hesitated for a heartbeat, the air between them already crackling, then crossed the threshold. The second the door clicked shut behind him, Cas was there—close enough that Dean could feel his body heat, the faint hum under his skin that was almost too much to stand and not nearly enough.

Their eyes locked. Neither of them moved. The air felt tight, charged, heavy with something Dean didn’t have a name for.

Cas’s hands trembled at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he was holding himself together by a thread. “Did you mean it, Dean?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

Dean swallowed hard, throat dry. “Yeah. I meant it.””

Cas’s eyes closed, like the words physically hit him. When they opened again, they burned with unrestrained grace. “Do you understand what it would mean?”

Dean’s pulse jumped. He didn’t, not really, but the way Cas was looking at him made him want to. “Guess I’m about to.”

Cas’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering through his face—longing, fear, reverence, all tangled. “You don’t understand. It means I want to know you, Dean. Completely. To learn you again and again until every part of you is carved into my very being. Until there’s no discernible difference between you and I. I want to make a home around your soul, to keep it safe, wrapped within me for all eternity. To know you in ways humans call ‘biblical’. I want in ways you cannot fathom. I want to possess you—not in the way of bodies, Dean—but in the way that every fiber of me reaches for you. Does this frighten you Dean?”

Dean’s breath caught. He should have been afraid—should have backed away. He didn’t. He wasn’t quite ready to dissect it yet. Every part of him was keyed to the sound of Cas’s voice, the impossible devotion threaded through it. Worship, his mind supplied, and he shook his head no.

Cas stepped closer until their chests brushed, breath mingling. “You say yes to me, and you will never go without. You won’t be forgotten or left behind. You will be mine, and you will never have another, in life and in death. Knowing this, do you still want, Dean?”

Dean’s heart hammered. He wanted to say something profound—but he’d never been good with words. His mouth was dry and his body was thrumming like he’d been caught in a current. The worst part was how good it felt, that pull toward Cas, that surrender blooming under his ribs. It terrified him. It thrilled him.

Dean was a man of action.

One heartbeat he was standing there, the next he was surging forward, fisting Cas’s coat and pulling the angel’s mouth to his. The impact was messy—teeth clashing, breath mingling, a desperate sound breaking from Dean’s throat. Cas didn’t move. He stood there, rigid, his eyes wide open as though he couldn’t quite process what was happening. Dean pressed in harder, lips working against still ones, a frustrated growl rumbling in his chest.

Then he pulled back, just a breath away, panting. “Yes, Cas,” he whispered, voice raw. “Fuck please— my answer is yes.” The words trembled with something too close to pleading.

And then Cas was moving. The air between them snapped, charged. His hand shot up, strong fingers curling around Dean’s jaw as he drove him backward, pinning him against the door with a force that stole his breath. The thud echoed in the small space, and Dean felt an embarrassing amount of blood run south.

“You do not need to beg for me Dean.” Cas purred, voice low and dark with something that made Dean’s knees weaken..

And before Dean could think of a response, Cas’s mouth was on his. This time there was nothing hesitant about it. Cas kissed him like he’d been waiting centuries for the chance, all heat and purpose. His grip tightened, tilting Dean’s head just so, and Dean’s gasp melted into a low, helpless sound as Cas’s tongue slid past his lips, slow at first, then deepening.

The world narrowed to that single point of contact—the rough drag of lips, the heat between them, the faint tremor in Cas’s touch as though he couldn’t believe he was allowed this. Like Dean could ever deny him again.

Dean clutched at his coat, pulling him closer, matching every movement. Breathing became secondary—irrelevant—because all that mattered was this.

Cas shifted, and Dean felt the hard press of Cas’s arousal against his hip, his own response stuttering to life in return. A low sound, half-growl, half-moan, rumbled from Cas’s throat before he broke from Dean’s lips, trailing down to his neck. His mouth found skin, hot and insistent, leaving a messy constellation of kisses and bites in his wake.

Dean’s hand found Cas’s hair—soft, he thought hazily—and he fisted it, needing something to hold onto as the world narrowed to the heat between them.

“You got a thing about marking me up, angel?” Dean huffed, the words breaking on a groan when Cas bit down harder.

Cas lifted his head, eyes dark, one hand sliding lower until it cupped Dean’s ass. The sudden touch drew a startled yelp from Dean.

“Yes,” Cas said, voice rough as gravel. He tugged Dean closer until their erections aligned, the friction pulling matching groans from both of them.

“When I imagined you like this,” Cas murmured, words spilling hot against Dean’s lips as he rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate grind, “I thought I’d take my time. Draw it out. I’d touch you until every breath you took was my name—until you forgot everything but me. And only then,” his voice dropped, “would I let you cum on my tongue.”

Dean’s head hit the door with a dull thunk. His breath stuttered, pulse thrumming against the marks already forming on his throat. “Fuck, Cas—”

“But now,” Cas interrupted, his tone trembling with restraint, “I find I only want to please you.”

He leaned back, eyes flicking over Dean’s face as if memorizing every twitch of need before sinking to his knees. The loss of his warmth drew a sound from Dean—half protest, half plea. Cas’s fingers snapped, and their clothes vanished, leaving nothing but skin, heat, and the sharp pull of air between them.

Dean gasped, eyes tracing every line of Cas’s body. The way the light hit the curve of his shoulders, the swell of his chest, the strength in his arms– Dean felt his dick pulse, moving on its own causing the other man to smirk. Dean swallowed hard, words caught in his throat, because damn if Cas didn’t look… perfect.

Cas looked up at him from his knees, eyes burning with devotion and hunger in equal measure. “Beautiful Dean. Every part of you… exquisite and mine. My Dean.” his hands rose to Dean’s thighs, caressing before pressing his lips to his pelvis bone, mouthing at the skin. “Will you let me taste you?” he asked, voice low, reverent.

And Dean couldn’t think of anything he’d ever wanted more.

His hands found their way back to Cas’s hair, tugging him closer as his hips jerked forward instinctively. “Cas… fuck yeah…” he gasped, voice breaking under need. “I want you to.”

Cas’s eyes fluttered shut, a ragged breath escaping him despite needing none, before he lowered his head. Dean felt the heat of Cas’s mouth press against him, soft at first, testing, teasing, sending a shiver straight through him.

Cas’s tongue flicked lightly, tracing slow, deliberate circles that made Dean groan and arch, hips jerking. He sucked gently, lips sliding over every sensitive spot, then pulled back just enough for his teeth to graze the tip in a teasing nip before sealing his mouth over Dean again, warm and wet, each movement meticulous.

Cas’s hands weren’t idle. One gripped Dean’s hip to steady him, while the other brushed over his thigh, pressing him closer, teasing, ensuring every nerve ending was alight.

“Fuck… Cas… oh God… this feels so good… you’re so good,” Dean moaned, voice ragged, spilling praise as he babbled. “You… you’re amazing… perfect… fuck…”

Dean watched as the angel’s eyes rolled back for a heartbeat, a low groan vibrating in his throat as he swallowed around Dean. Breath ragged, Dean tightened his grip on Cas’s hair. “Oh… did you like that? Being told how good you are?” he teased, voice thick with heat.

Cas didn’t pause. His lips moved with even more devotion, tongue swirling, sucking, coaxing moans from Dean, answering every word with trembling, worshipful hums. “Yeah… that’s it… that’s my Cas… so fucking good…” Dean groaned, hips jerking helplessly.

Cas stiffened, fingers bracing against Dean’s hips, lips slick and perfect, a quiet tremor running through him. Slowly, deliberately, he slid a hand down to his own leaking erection, letting out a desperate, guttural sound.

Dean’s eyes widened, breath catching. “You gonna cum for me, Cas?” he whispered, enraptured, watching the angel stroke himself.

The bunker lights flickered, and Dean couldn’t hold back any longer, his own release building uncontrollably. “Come on… I want you to. I wanna see you, Cas…”

Cas’s reaction was instantaneous. Thick ribbons of cum shot out onto the bunker floor as Cas moaned around Dean. Sparks showered from the flickering lights, shards of glass scattering, plunging the room into darkness. The only illumination came from Cas’s eyes, glowing with grace—intense and unblinking.

And then Dean felt it—Cas’s grace, warm and insistent, reaching out to him, wrapping around him, and unmistakably him. Deep in his bones, Dean knew.

This was Cas.

Dean let him in.

The recognition hit like fire. His body responded instinctively, hips jerking violently as he thrust into Cas’s mouth. A high, ragged moan tore from him as his orgasm ripped through, spilling into Cas.

Cas moaned again, shakily holding Dean as he came once more, cock releasing onto the floor, as the taste of Dean filled his mouth.

Dean’s knees buckled, and he sagged into Cas, trembling, chest heaving. His body still burned from the intensity, but now the bond between them pulsed like a living thing. Cas pressed soft, insistent kisses to the side of Dean’s neck—no words, just the heat of their connection. A shiver crawled down Dean’s spine.

Cas blinked, and Dean realized the glass was cleared. The bedside lamp clicked on, flickering to life.

“So—” Dean started, lips curling into a crooked smile, breaking the silence. “Did you really just pop the lights giving a blowjob?”

Cas rolled his eyes, then moved, lifting Dean effortlessly—arms under his back and knees. Dean barely had the strength to protest, too spent to argue. “Woah, Cas… hey… don’t—” he started, words dissolving into a ragged breath. “…Don’t tell Sam about this,” he managed, voice weak but teasing.

Cas’s lips curved into a soft smile, eyes lighting with something unreadable. He hummed in response. No words, just that deep, masculine sound that made Dean’s face heat.

Dean’s arms slipped around Cas’s neck, letting himself be carried. Exhaustion from lack of sleep finally settled in, the fire of earlier simmering down to a soft, hazy warmth.

They crossed the room, Dean’s head resting against Cas’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “…Is this… a nest?” Dean murmured faintly as Cas approached the bed. The pile circled the center of the mattress, an impossible mound of feathers, soft fabrics, and Dean’s own clothes, all woven together. Dean’s exhausted brain registered it slowly. “…Oh… that’s… that’s where my stuff went,” he said softly, voice trailing.

Once on the nest, Cas lowered him gently, still holding him close, positioning Dean on his chest. Dean let out a contented groan, eyes fluttering shut.

“This is nice,” he murmured, voice threadbare from exertion.

Cas pressed him closer, one arm curling around Dean’s back, the other brushing across his hair and shoulders. And then—a sound rumbled low in Cas’s chest.

A purr.

Dean froze, chest fluttering at the vibration against his own ribs. “Cas… you’re… purring?” he whispered, half-laughing, half-moaning, incredulous at the sound that was both absurd and achingly intimate.

The purring stopped suddenly and Dean felt the angel freeze under him. Dean opened his eyes and shifted to look at Cas, only to see the angel bright red and refusing to meet his gaze.

“I apologize. It is an angelic response, I will try to refrain.” Cas murmured, obviously embarrassed.

Dean brought a hand up to Cas’s jaw, guiding him to meet his eyes. “Don’t be sorry” Dean spoke quietly, “feels good Cas.”

Cas’s eyes widened, the purring starting up again, louder this time, causing Dean to smile. Cas pressed his forehead to Dean’s temple, hands moving with slow, deliberate care over Dean’s spine and arms, cupping his head against his chest.

Dean’s eyes fluttered closed. The purring was hypnotic, grounding, soothing in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. His hands rested on Cas’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall, the low rumble resonating straight into his core.

Cas’s fingers twitched in Dean’s hair, thumbs brushing gentle circles along the nape, coaxing every tension out.

Dean let himself melt into Cas’s chest, every thought dissolving except for the thrum of warmth and devotion under his hands. “Yeah… yeah, this is perfect,” he murmured. “Just… stay like this please.”

Cas’s lips curved into a tiny, tender smile, one that touched the corner of his eyes “Of course, goodnight ol monons”.

Dean’s head tucked further into Cas’s shoulder, chest rising and falling against him, every heartbeat a promise of warmth, safety, and devotion.

I know how you see yourself, Dean.

The words echoed painfully in his head. It had been months, and no matter how much alcohol he consumed, Dean couldn’t forget Castiel. He never could.

You're the most caring man on Earth.

That was a lie. Dean wasn’t caring. Certainly not anymore. Dean was nothing. There was a Castiel-shaped hole in his heart, and nothing would fill it. Nothing would ever fill it again. Because Castiel had left.

But I cared about the whole world because of you.

Dean could see him as he spoke. And if he closed his eyes, he could feel him too. Dean didn’t need to watch the security tapes to remember how Cas had looked at him. He could still see it.

You changed me, Dean.

Dean felt his chest constrict as each syllable replayed in his mind. Over and over—the angel’s last words—no.

The angel’s speech before he left. That’s right. Castiel’s speech never left him. And Dean knew it never would. No matter what Sam said—some new-age crap about how “time heals all wounds.” What a load of bullshit. Six months had passed. Time had done nothing but make Dean more desperate.

I love you.

Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel. Castiel.

Dean prayed often. To every angel, god, demon, and creature he could think of. Alive or dead.

Jack. Michael. Meg. Gabriel. Zeus. Raphael. Chuck. Gadreel. Anna. Balthazar. Zachariah. Metatron. Samandriel. Ganesha. Bartholomew. Naomi. Asmodeus. Uriel. Ruby. Lucifer. Ezekiel. Hannah. Joshua. Odin. Inias. Crowley. Nithael. Hades. Jophiel. Dagon. Ambriel. Shiva. Loki. The Empty. Nathaniel. Lilith. Adam. Mirabel. Asariel. Abaddon. Muriel. Akobel. Ramiel. Apollo. Ephraim. Rowena. Tamiel. Benjamin. Cain. Death.

No one answered anymore.

Goodbye, Dean.

Dean tried not to think about him. He tried not to think about how long he had spent in the dungeon after Cas had gone. He tried not to think about how stupid he had been to say nothing. He tried not to think about how much he was letting Cas down. And he certainly didn’t think about the handprint on his jacket.

Dean tried not to think at all.

Because Cas wasn’t dead. The body that had been swept away by the Empty wasn’t Cas. Cas was somewhere else. Maybe he was on a heavenly mission galaxies away. Or maybe he was just watching TV in bed a few doors down. Maybe Cas was out on a supply run, getting holy oil in Jerusalem.

Dean told himself that if he just left his room, Cas would be sitting in the library. He’d be flipping through worn pages with those long fingers of his, smiling down at whatever he was reading. Cas’s emotions were all over his face when he read, and Dean lo— Dean liked to watch him. He liked to read books through Cas.

And maybe later, Dean would convince Cas to join him in the Dean Cave. Maybe they’d watch some nature documentary Cas picked out. Or an old Western Dean would insist was “the best movie ever made.”

“He isn’t dead,” Dean told himself. He isn’t dead.

If he was lucky, the alcohol would numb him just enough. If he couldn’t forget Cas, maybe he could pretend.

Dean was lucky tonight. He was very lucky. He convinced himself Cas wasn’t dead.

Dean could see him.

The bar was loud, smoky, and just sleazy enough to make you feel like you’d left all your responsibilities at the door. You wore your confidence like perfume: sultry, sharp, intoxicating. You weren’t here for love — just someone who could kiss away the tension.

A man had taken the bait. Tall, built, charming in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. You laughed too hard at his bad pickup line and fluttered your lashes when he said you were “not like other girls,” the kind who want him for his money. Which was true. You wanted him for his dick. Not that you were going to tell him that.

You let his hand slide a little too far down your lower back. Let him lean in too close when he asked if you wanted to get out of there. You were going to say yes. You were seconds away from giving him the kind of look that meant take me home.

Then the air behind you changed. You felt his gaze before he spoke.

“Get your hands off her.”

The man froze. You didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

Castiel.

His voice cut through the noise like a blade, gruff and confident in a way only he could achieve.

The guy took one look at Cas’s narrowed blue eyes, muttered something about not wanting trouble, and vanished like smoke.

You spun around. “What the hell, Cas?”

He didn’t blink. “He wasn’t worthy of you.”

You scoffed. “Worthy? I wasn’t planning on marrying him.”

“He was going to take you back to a cheap motel and use you.”

You stepped forward, narrowing your eyes. “That’s what I wanted, Cas. I came here to get laid. If anything, I was using him.”

His jaw tightened. His lips parted like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. Instead, he took a slow breath. “You don’t know what men like him are capable of. I could feel the intent rolling off him. It was dangerous.”

“So you decided to play jealous bodyguard? That it?”

He didn’t answer. But his eyes — those damn blue eyes — told you everything.

“Oh my God,” you said, breathless with the realization. “You were, weren’t you?”

Still, he stayed silent. Letting you read him like a book.

“You could’ve just said something,” you whispered. “Instead of storming in, ready to protect my virtue.” You gave him a look, voice dripping with sarcasm.

His voice dropped, low and rough. “You think I want to feel this way? Watching you put yourself in someone else’s hands. Someone who wouldn’t worship you the way I would? I couldn’t watch.”

You shivered.

There was no space between you now. Just heat.

He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your ear. “He wasn’t good enough to be in the same room as you, let alone touch you. I would spend the rest of my existence proving myself if it meant a night with you. I see all of you. And if you’re going to give yourself to someone, it should be someone who can make you feel everything. Not forget.”

Your breath hitched. His hand came up — hesitated — then settled gently at your waist. Like he was giving you a choice. Like he’d leave if you asked him to.

You didn’t ask him to.

Instead, you reached up, fingers curling into the lapel of his trench coat.

“Then take me home,” you murmured, your voice shaking just slightly.

His eyes met yours. Possessive. Protective. Desperate.

“I already did,” he said.

And in a blink, the bar dissolved. You were in your bedroom, still wrapped in his warmth, his breath still brushing your skin.

You looked up at him, chest heaving.

And this time, he didn’t hesitate.

You supposed it had been your fault—teasing Castiel like that. It was all meant in good fun: just a few harmless jokes here and there about his inexperience with sex.

But there was nothing funny about the way the angel now had you pinned against the wall.

His breath ghosted across your ear as he leaned in. “You really think I know nothing about human intercourse?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone, edged with something dark and unfamiliar.

What he said shouldn’t have been nearly as hot as it was. But this was Cas—and damn if everything he did didn’t turn you on. You exhaled a shaky breath as his nose brushed your neck, his lips following with soft, deliberate kisses.

“I have existed since the dawn of creation,” he whispered, one strong hand gripping your waist. “I am older than the dirt this residence stands on.” He sucked gently at your neck, pulling a shaky moan from your chest. “I’ve watched your species evolve, generation after generation. And you think in all that time, I haven’t learned how to pleasure a woman?” he finished, voice thick as he pressed his hips into yours.

The firm pressure of his arousal made your body arch instinctively, eager for more. Desire coiled low in your stomach. You traced a hand up his arm, watching as his eyes followed your every movement. His nose twitched—he could smell your want, you were sure of it. You felt the tension in his body grow as your fingers slid over his coat.

“You talk a big game, Cas,” you breathed. “So why don’t you show me?”

His lips parted at your challenge, pupils dilating, gaze sharpening into something primal. The reminder that he wasn’t fully human sent a shiver down your spine. You bit your lip, and his eyes tracked the movement hungrily.

Then his mouth was on yours—hot, urgent, and consuming. He kissed you fiercely, claiming your bottom lip between his and sucking like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted. Caught off guard, you scrambled to catch up, your hand threading into his already tousled hair. When you tugged, he groaned, grinding against you with renewed fervor.

His tongue brushed your lips, seeking entrance, but you teasingly denied him. His growl rumbled low in his chest before he nipped your lip sharply, forcing a gasp that gave him just what he wanted. He dove in, tongue claiming your mouth with possessive strokes, tasting you thoroughly. You moaned, overwhelmed by the way he moved—confident, hungry, and all-consuming.

You broke away only when the need for air grew too great, gasping as he shifted down to your neck. He wasted no time finding your sweet spot, sucking with purpose until you were writhing against him.

“Cas,” you moaned, clutching his hair. “Please,” you begged, though you weren’t even sure what you were asking for.

Apparently, he did. Without lifting his mouth from your skin, he snapped his fingers—and a gust of wind whooshed past. Looking down, you saw your clothes had vanished, leaving you completely bare before him. He, of course, was still fully dressed.

Before you could comment, he knelt in front of you, bringing his mouth to your breasts. He kissed and licked across your skin before wrapping his lips around a nipple. You cried out, head falling back, hands clinging to his shoulders. He sucked gently, palming your other breast with warm, skilled fingers.

Your eyes fluttered open, gaze falling on him—only to find he was already watching you. When he saw you looking, he gave the nipple in his mouth a teasing nibble, then dragged it between his teeth. At the same time, he pinched your other nipple, sending a jolt through your entire body.

“Cas,” you whimpered, desperate for more. He merely switched sides, giving the other breast the same attention as his hands slid down your back, then squeezed your ass before returning to your waist. You let out another needy sound.

Releasing your breast with a wet pop, he looked up at you, tilting his head in that familiar way—equal parts curiosity and mischief. “Do you still think I cannot pleasure a woman?” he asked, voice deceptively calm.

You let out a breathless huff, clearly not in the mood for games, but he just waited, gaze fixed on you. Painfully curious, you nodded your head softly.

He smirked—unfairly composed, if not for the tight strain in his slacks. “Let’s see if this works, then,” he said, voice like velvet and sin.

You barely had a moment to breathe before Cas moved again. Still kneeling before you, his hands slid firmly down your thighs, fingers curling with intent. In one fluid motion, he pulled your legs apart, gripped the back of them, and lifted them out from under you.

You gasped, nails instinctively digging into his shoulders as he held you like you weighed nothing. Looking down, you saw how he had positioned you—his face was now level with your center, the proximity dizzying. There was nothing innocent about the way he looked at you.

You swallowed hard, heart racing.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice still that deep, honeyed rumble.

Beyond words, you nodded breathlessly, unable to look away.

Needing no more confirmation, he moved down with no hesitation licking one long strip on your heat that already had your legs shaking.

Cas’s tongue moved with slow, precise strokes, moaning into you as he lavished his attention. His mouth was hot, demanding—each flick against your clit setting your skin on fire. You gasped, calling his name, shivering as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

His hands gripped your thighs hard, fingers pressing deep into the soft flesh as he spread you wide, exposing you fully to his relentless care. The cold of his skin against your slick heat made your body twitch with every touch, sharp and raw.

He didn’t ease up—his tongue pressed harder, flicked faster, dragging over you in rough, relentless strokes. His breath was ragged and warm against your skin, and the sound he made—low and rough—sent fire straight to your core.

You dug your nails into his back, desperate, your hips jerking toward him, craving every bit of what he gave. His mouth sucked hard, claiming you, leaving a rough, wet burn that caught your breath.

Then Cas’s tongue pressed at your entrance, causing you to gasp. You moaned as he pushed deeper, sliding inside you with slow, sure strokes that left you breathless. He didn’t just tease the surface—he plunged in, curling and pressing in ways that tore through every inch of your control. His mouth tightened around you, sucking hard while his tongue traced hot, demanding circles inside, chasing every shudder, every tremble you couldn’t hold back.

You clenched around him, hips bucking with every deep, swirling thrust of his tongue, breath hitching in ragged gasps. Cas groaned low, his mouth never losing contact, his tongue pushing deeper, exploring, driving you wild with every hot, greedy stroke.

Your breath hitched as the pleasure built unbearably high. Every deep, wet thrust stretched and filled you, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Your hips jerked wildly, clenching tightly around his tongue as a powerful orgasm ripped through you.

You cried out, your body convulsing in intense, uncontrollable spasms, muscles trembling as wave after wave of release washed over you. Cas held you steady, his tongue still moving inside you, expertly milking every last bit of pleasure from your shaking body until you were completely spent.

He slowly pulled back, his breath warm against your skin as his mouth traced a trail of soft kisses up the inside of your trembling thighs. The delicate, feather-light touches sent shivers racing through you, leaving you aching and wanting more even as the waves of your climax still pulsed through your body.

His eyes lifted to meet yours, dark and glimmering with that familiar mix of mischief you’d become so familiar with.

“So,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “how did I do?”