WaterLily✰⋆

LEO

The air up on your apartment roof is biting, carrying the scent of impending rain. You have your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, leaning against the brick of the parapet.

You know he’s coming.

You didn’t receive a text or a call. But after the terse, clipped message you got from April earlier about a disastrous patrol and a blow-up argument between the brothers, you simply felt it. Leo always seeks high ground when the world below becomes too heavy. And lately, you have become his favorite vantage point.

A soft, almost imperceptible thud sounds nearby. Despite standing well over six feet tall and being built like a living tank, his stealth is always breathtaking. You turn slowly.

Leo’s massive frame stands out against the city lights’ ambient orange glow. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to. The exhaustion is etched deeply into the lines around his eyes, his shoulders slumped in a way he would never, ever allow his brothers to see. The burden of leadership—of keeping his family alive in a world that would destroy them—is a visible, suffocating cloak around him.

“Stay right there,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper so as not to shatter the fragile quiet.

You slip back down the fire escape into your apartment just long enough to grab your thickest, warmest fleece blanket. When you return, Leo hasn’t moved an inch. He is staring out at the skyline, lost in the turbulent sea of his own mind. You walk over to him, your footsteps intentionally audible to ground him in the present.

Without a word, he sits flat on the roof, his long, thick legs stretching out in front of him, forming a V-shape. It is a silent invitation, one you have learned to read perfectly. So you step into the space between his legs and lower yourself down.

As you settle, you lean your back against the solid wall of his plastron. You drape the blanket over your lap, making sure to tuck the edges over his knees. For a long while, there’s only the sound of the wind rattling the rooftop vents and the steady beat of his heart against your spine.

Slowly, carefully, Leo gently wraps his huge, calloused hands over your shoulders. His fingers are large enough to encompass your entire shoulder joint, but his touch is agonizingly gentle, as if he’s terrified he might break you. He pulls you back just a fraction of an inch, ensuring there is no space left between your back and his chest.

Then he lowers his head.

You feel the texture of his skin as he buries his face directly into the crook of your neck. The moment his skin meets yours, a physical shudder runs through him. He lets out a long, heavy sigh. The sound is ragged, carrying the weight of a hundred unspoken fears, near-misses, and the crushing guilt of every argument he has had with his brothers.

You reach your hands up, resting your fingers lightly over his where they grip your shoulders. You begin to trace the familiar, worn straps of his gear. The repetitive, mindless motion seems to anchor him. You can feel the rigid, defensive tension melting out of his muscles, his breathing slowing to match yours.

“You don’t have to carry it all by yourself,” you murmur.

Leo shakes his head slightly against your neck, his breath ghosting warmly over your collarbone. “I do,” he whispers, his voice a gravelly rumble. “But knowing I can come here … it makes it bearable.”

He shifts his grip, pulling you an inch closer, burying his face deeper into the warmth of your neck. He takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent as if it were the only oxygen left in the world. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he rarely lets show, “how grateful I am for you. You are my calm in the storm.”

He turns his head just slightly. You close your eyes as you feel the soft, incredibly tender press of his lips against the top of your head. He rests his chin there, his arms acting as an impenetrable shield against the world.

Here, elevated above the chaos of the city, wrapped in the quiet sanctuary of each other, the war he fights every day finally falls silent.

RAPH

The sharp, aggressive tapping on your fire escape window jolts you awake. You glance at the digital clock on your nightstand; it’s half-past two in the morning. You don’t need to guess who it is—because only one person knocks on glass like they are actively trying to intimidate the windowpane.

You pad over to the window, sliding it up. The chilly night air rushes in, bringing with it the towering, hulking form of Raph. He takes up the entire window frame, his huge shoulders practically blocking out the city lights behind him.

“Raph? What are you doing here?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

He grunts, stepping through the window with surprising agility for someone his size. “Was in the neighborhood. Wanted to see ya. That a crime?” he deflects, his gruff accent thick with forced nonchalance.

But you know him better than that.

Your eyes immediately drop from his intense green gaze to the dark, wet stain seeping through the fabric of the makeshift bandage wrapped poorly around his right shoulder. “Raphael,” you chastise. “You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you go to Donnie?”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Donnie makes a big production out of everything. Shines a spotlight in my face, lectures me about tetanus, complains I’m getting blood on his tech. It’s just a scratch from some rusty rebar. Nothin’ to cry over.”

“A scratch that’s soaking through your gear,” you point out, grabbing his uninjured forearm. “Bathroom. Now.”

He grumbles something under his breath about you being bossy, but he follows you with no real resistance. In fact, there is a subtle eagerness in the way he trails behind you, like a giant, grumpy dog that just wants to be cared for.

Your bathroom is tiny: a standard, cramped New York apartment setup. When Raph steps inside, he instantly makes the room feel microscopic. He takes off the upper section of his gear and drops them into the empty bathtub, then turns to face you.

“Sit,” you instruct, pointing to the stool tucked in the corner.

He looks at the stool, then down at his large thighs, and gives you a look of pure skepticism. “I’m gonna crush that thing into powder.”

“Just be gentle,” you insist, opening your medicine cabinet to gather alcohol, cotton pads, and bandages.

With a heavy sigh, he carefully lowers his enormous bulk onto the tiny stool. His knees are practically up to his chest, his hands resting awkwardly on his legs. He looks absolutely ridiculous—a “terrifying” ninja reduced to perching on a piece of plastic meant for holding clean towels. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

You step between his spread knees, the only place you can comfortably stand in the cramped space. The proximity is immediate and intimate. “Let me see,” you murmur, gently unwrapping the bloody cloth. The scratch is deep, angry, and jagged, running along the thickest part of his shoulder muscle. You soak a cotton pad in rubbing alcohol. “This is going to sting.”

“I can take it,” he rumbles.

You press the soaked cotton to the wound. Raph’s entire body goes still. He doesn’t flinch, but the sudden rigidity tells you exactly how much it hurts. You carefully clean away the dried blood and grime. Every time you touch him, you feel a subtle tremor run beneath his surface.

He’s completely quiet. The usual bravado, the loud mouth, the need to prove his toughness—it all vanishes. When you glance at him, you catch him watching you. His eyes are locked onto your face with an intensity that makes your heart stumble and race in your chest.

“Almost done,” you whisper, reaching for the antibiotic ointment. You dab it onto the angry red skin. To soothe the sharp sting of the medicine, you lean in close and gently blow a stream of cool air on his shoulder.

Raph’s breath hitches violently, a gasp catching in his throat.

Before you can pull back to ask if you hurt him, his hand moves. He reaches out, his fingers gently circling your waist. He pulls you forward, closing the scant distance between you until your thighs press flush against his knees and your stomach rests against his face.

He doesn’t look up. Instead, he rests his forehead against your stomach. You freeze, the tube of ointment still in your hand, as the towering, hot-headed brawler completely melts against you. You carefully rest your free hand on the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the tails of his red bandana.

“You’re too good to me, doll,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly, muffled vibration against your stomach.

You look down at him, feeling the heat of his skin seeping through your clothes. His huge hand, capable of crushing cinderblocks, is resting on your hip. His fingers begin to lightly, almost reverently, trace the hem of your top. The touch is so unbelievably gentle, so full of careful, restrained adoration, that it brings a lump to your throat.

“You deserve to be taken care of, Raph,” you say softly, stroking the thick skin of his neck.

He lets out a low, contented rumble that sounds almost like a purr, his fingers continuing their slow, mesmerizing trace of your hem. He just holds you there in the tiny, brightly lit bathroom, letting the world outside fade away, perfectly content to be entirely at your mercy.

DONNIE

Quietly, you walk into the lair’s garage.

At the center of the mechanical hurricane is the turtles’ garbage truck, currently hoisted up on heavy-duty hydraulic lifts. And nearby is Donnie in a chair, working on the engine block on a large table. He’s muttering a mile a minute to himself, a steady stream of tech jargon and frustrated complaints about the thermal inefficiency of combustion engines.

“If I just reroute the auxiliary power from the localized dampeners to the primary drive, I can boost the torque by at least fourteen percent without compromising the structural integrity of the chassis,” he mumbles, his long fingers working a wrench with dizzying speed.

You stand a few feet behind him, watching his shoulders hike up to his ears with tension. Moving silently, you step up right behind him. Then reach your hands out and place them on his shoulders. You slip your fingers just beneath the straps of his harness and begin to firmly but gently massage his incredibly tense muscles.

Donnie freezes so suddenly it’s as if he’s been struck by lightning. The wrench in his hand clatters loudly against the table. He spins around so fast, you’re surprised he doesn’t topple the chair over.

“I—what—who—!” he stammers, pushing his goggles off his face and up onto his forehead.

His face is completely flushed, a deep, comical shade of red bleeding through the green. His hazel eyes are wide with shock, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as his genius brain totally short-circuits, completely unable to process the sudden tactile affection.

You let out a bright, ringing laugh. “Hey, D. You looked like you were going to snap a wrench in half. Thought you could use a break.”

“A break! Yes. A break. That is—that’s a highly logical suggestion,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly as he nervously adjusts his glasses. “I was just—the torque, you see—and the harness is—it causes friction, naturally—”

He is rambling, his hands fluttering awkwardly in the air as he tries to figure out what to do with them. It’s incredibly endearing. This big, intimidating mutant, who possesses an intellect that rivals the greatest minds in history, is completely undone by a shoulder rub.

You smile at him, your eyes soft. “You work too hard.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He looks at you, the frantic energy in his eyes slowly melting into something deeply tender, deeply adoring. He takes a deep breath, visibly gathering every ounce of courage he possesses.

With a sudden burst of bravery, he reaches out to wrap his arms around your waist. Before you can even react, he lifts you off the ground with effortless strength and pulls you directly down onto his lap. You let out a startled laugh. He kicks his leg out, swiveling the chair around 180 degrees to the computer setup in the garage.

“Donnie?” you ask, smiling as you settle against him.

He wraps his left arm tightly around your waist, pulling your back flush against his plastron. He leans his head forward, resting his chin on your shoulder. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck.

“The truck can wait,” he murmurs, his voice much lower, much softer now.

With his right hand, he reaches out to the keyboard on the opposite table. He begins to type single-handedly, lines of complex code flying across the dark screen in a blur of neon green.

You relax back against him, highly amused. “Are you just going to code with one hand while holding me?”

“Diagnostics, technically, but yes,” he answers, his chin shifting slightly against your shoulder. “My productivity might decrease by approximately forty-two percent, but …” He pauses, his arm tightening around your waist in a sudden, protective squeeze. “… I am completely content to let you be my favorite distraction.”

You smile, reaching your hand down to rest it over his forearm where it circles your waist.

MIKEY

Today has been awful. The kind of awful where everything goes wrong, the sky is perpetually gray, and the weight of the world feels like a physical ache in your chest.

You had dragged yourself home from work, fully intending to crawl into bed and stare at the wall until tomorrow. But before you could even unlock your door, your phone buzzed with location coordinates and a message in all caps: EMERGENCY! MEET ME HERE RIGHT NOW! BRING YOUR BEAUTIFUL FACE!

Knowing Mikey, “emergency” could mean anything from an alien invasion to a shortage of soda. But you drag yourself back out into the city anyway, following the GPS to a chained-off, abandoned subway entrance in Brooklyn.

You slip past the gate and descend the concrete stairs, the darkness of the tunnels pressing in. You’re just starting to think this was a terrible idea when you turn a corner and stop dead in your tracks. Spanning across the platform, constructed out of what looks like old tarps, curtains, and discarded construction scaffolding, is a literal blanket fort.

A booming, joyful voice echoes through the station. “You made it!”

Mikey drops from the rafters above. His bright baby-blue eyes are shining with unrestrained, infectious joy.

Before you can even say hello, he crosses the distance in two big strides. He throws his arms around you, completely enveloping you in a crushing, warm hug. He lifts you clean off your feet and spins you around in a circle. You can’t help but shriek with laughter, the sheer kinetic energy of his affection forcibly knocking the bad mood right out of your system.

“Put me down!” you laugh, breathless as your feet finally hit the ground.

“No can do, babe!” he grins, his smile impossibly wide. He practically drags you toward the fort. “I sensed a disturbance in the good-vibes force. You were having a bummer day, and Dr. Michelangelo is here to prescribe the cure.”

He pulls back the curtain of the fort, revealing an interior that is aggressively cozy. He lined the floor with thick gymnastics mats and piled them high with every plush pillow he could find. Strung across the tarp ceiling are dozens of fairy lights. In the center of it all sits a portable speaker and three boxes of your favorite pizza.

“Mikey … you did all this for me?” you ask, genuinely moved. The tightness in your chest from the terrible day completely dissolves.

“Duh!” he says, dropping onto the pillows and patting the spot next to him. “Now sit. Eat. Tell me who I gotta go beat up for making you sad.”

You spend the next hour doing exactly that. Eating pizza, laughing until your sides hurt as Mikey tells you wildly exaggerated stories. His energy is a physical force; it’s warm, tactile, and completely enveloping. He constantly bumps his shoulder against yours, casually tossing an arm around you, his affection overflowing and impossible to contain.

As you finish your last slice of pizza, he suddenly jumps up. He walks over to the portable speaker, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he taps his fingers on his phone screen.

The booming, energetic hip-hop he had been playing cuts out. A moment later, a smooth R&B track fills the cavernous subway station. The deep bass echoes perfectly off the walls, wrapping the space in a warm, romantic groove.

He turns to you, the goofy grin softening into something sweet as he steps forward and holds out his hand. “Dance with me,” he requests, his voice dropping an octave.

You smile, taking his hand. He pulls you up and immediately draws you against his chest. For a ninja, Mikey is delightfully clumsy when it comes to slow dancing. He sways you back and forth, stepping lightly to avoid crushing your toes with his feet. He rests his hands flat against your lower back.

You rest your hands on his broad chest, looking up into his expressive eyes. The twinkling lights reflect in his gaze, making him look magical. He grins the whole time, a soft but dopey smile that radiates pure love.

He spins you once, entirely out of time with the music, laughing as he pulls you right back into his chest. As you collide softly with his plastron, he leans down. He cups your face with one hand, his touch tender, and then presses his lips to yours.

He pours all of his chaotic, loving, vibrant energy into the kiss. It’s warm, deep, and leaves you feeling completely breathless, as if he is trying to physically transfer all his light directly into your soul. When he finally pulls back, you’re both smiling. He rests his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your cheek.

He’s an angel. A soldier. A thing that’s done too much wrong to deserve something so achingly gentle.

But you touch him anyway.

“Cas,” you whisper. His name sounds different in your mouth — softened, holy in a way Heaven never managed. “You’re shaking.”

He looks at you then, eyes too blue, too broken. “I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t what?”

“This.” He exhales shakily. “You.”

Your hand tightens on his. The burn flares — molten light crawling up his arm, through his chest, straight to the shattered core of what used to be his grace. He wants to pull away. He wants to lean in.

“Why does it hurt?” you ask softly.

He swallows hard, the movement heavy, almost human. “Because I don’t deserve it.”

Your brow furrows. “My touch?”

“Your kindness.” His voice is barely a breath. “Your faith. The way you look at me like I’m not… monstrous.”

You blink back the sudden sting in your eyes. “Cas, you’re not—”

He cuts you off with a quiet, broken sound — something between a laugh and a confession. “Every soul I’ve ever touched has burned. Every command I’ve followed has taken me further from what I was meant to be. And yet when you touch me…” His voice falters, eyes flicking down to where your hands are still joined. “It feels like absolution and damnation at once.”

You squeeze his hand again. “Maybe it’s not punishment,” you whisper. “Maybe it’s mercy.”

He goes still — utterly still — as if the word itself stopped time. Mercy.

He’s not sure he’s ever known what that feels like.

“Why would Heaven grant me mercy through you?” he asks, voice low, uncertain.

You smile — small, trembling, so heartbreakingly human. “Because maybe Heaven doesn’t get to decide what mercy looks like.”

He looks at you for a long, unguarded moment. Then he lets his hand truly close around yours — fingers sliding between yours, palms pressing together.

It hurts. The light beneath his skin flares white-hot, tracing through him like wildfire. He feels the vessel’s heart pounding, feels grace shudder and coil like it’s trying to crawl away from the contact. His breath catches in a sound that could almost be a prayer.

You start to pull back, panicked. “Cas, I—”

“Don’t.” His hand tightens, desperate, pleading. “Please. Don’t stop.”

The words are rough and raw, and you realize — he’s not asking you to soothe him. He’s asking you to burn him alive.

Because maybe pain is the only thing that makes him feel holy anymore.

Your thumb brushes his knuckles, gentle, grounding. “You’re not meant to suffer forever,” you whisper.

He exhales — slow, trembling, like his first breath after centuries underwater. His grace flickers, just barely, like light trying to forgive itself.

Your touch still burns. But this time, he doesn’t pull away.

You laugh quietly, sliding up beside him on the hood. The metal’s cool under your legs, and the whole world feels still — for once, no monsters, no hunts, no motel rooms that smell like bleach. Just the sound of crickets and the hum of the road in the distance.

Dean’s gaze drifts to the stars. “You ever think about what it’d be like if things were normal?”

You tilt your head toward him. “Normal how?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. School. Jobs. Maybe a house that doesn’t come with hex bags in the walls.”

You smile faintly. “You mean like a white-picket-fence thing?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles under his breath. “Except mine’d probably be all crooked and falling apart. And you’d keep yellin’ at me to fix it.”

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You can’t even fix a toaster.”

“Hey, I’m a fast learner.” He glances at you, grinning — that cocky, boyish grin that makes your heart ache.

Then it fades. “But we don’t get that, do we?”

The question hangs in the air. You can feel it — the weight of it, the truth. You both grew up in the same kind of world: silver bullets, salt circles, fathers who called love a liability.

You shake your head slowly. “Guess not.”

Dean looks down, picking at the frayed seam of his jeans. “Sometimes I wish… we could just leave. Take the car, keep driving until we find somewhere nobody knows who we are.”

Your chest tightens. “And do what?”

“Live.” He says it like it’s a foreign word. “Work some dead-end job. Fix cars. Burn burgers. Watch bad TV. Anything.”

You study him — the boy who’s already seen too much, who carries too many ghosts in his chest. “You really think we could?”

He looks at you then — really looks. “If it’s with you? Yeah.”

Your throat goes tight. You reach over, brushing your fingers against his. He takes your hand without a word, thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin.

It’s quiet for a long moment — just the two of you under a sky that doesn’t care how doomed you are.

You lean your head on his shoulder, whispering, “Maybe someday.”

Dean squeezes your hand. “Yeah. Someday.”

And maybe it’s naïve. Maybe it’s impossible. But for one stolen night, under the hum of distant thunder, someday feels close enough to touch.

You loved talking to Cas late at night. It started off very early in your relationship. You hadn't known each other for too long but you felt safe around him, not because he would smite any immediate danger, but because you felt like you could be open with him. Even if he didn't understand human emotions yet.

It was late, maybe three, and you couldn't sleep. You had trouble sometimes, the hunting life didn't exactly lend itself to healthy sleeping patterns. You tossed and turned for hours before you finally accepted that sleep was not an option. You layed there thinking and your thoughts couldn't help but shift to Castiel. You wondered if he could hear you and upon thinking not, you decided to pray to him.

You started a similar way to Dean, you clasped your hands together, closed your eyes and spoke aloud.

"I pray to thee angel Castiel who art probably in Heaven or at thine holiest of liquor stores. Um, hi, I guess. I don't really know the best way of going about this, never prayed to a real Angel before, at least, not knowingly. If um, if you're not too busy, smiting and all, do you maybe want to zap down here? I get it if you're floating on a cloud or playing a harp or whatever, but if you've got a sec, do you wanna talk for a bit?"

You couldn't hear wings flapping and thinking he didn't hear you, or just didn't listen, you flopped back against your pillow with a sigh. You opened your eyes and let out a scream instantly. Castiel was hovering above you, his head tilted in that adorably confused way. You pushed yourself up on your palms and sat against the headboard of your bed.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to alarm you"

"Y-yeah, um, sorry about the uh, the scream. I just wasn't expecting you"

"You prayed to me"

"I know, I just didn't think you'd actually turn up. And I didn't hear your wings"

"It's very windy and you were praying"

"Wait, how long have you been here?"

"Since you said my name"

You couldn't help the blush that climbed up your neck and across your cheeks, luckily your bedroom was dark enough that he couldn't see. You thought.

"Uh, th-thanks, for showing. Sam always says you're pretty bad at that"

"His prayers conflict me"

You could see the contemplating look on his face so you patted the spot beside you.

"What is that?" He asked, pointing and knitting his eyebrows together

"What? Oh, my hand? That's just a thing humans do when they want someone to sit"

"Why don't they speak?"

"I have no idea, human behaviour can be very strange at times"

"I have also noticed that"

You smiled and threw the covers back "C'mon, sit. I mean, if you want to"

"I do, thank you"

He slipped his shoes off and shrugged his trenchcoat off his shoulders before slipping under the blankets.

"Alright Angel, tell me what's on your mind. Why don't you answer Sam's prayers?"

"Okay… human. I am unsure of the right actions to take. Sam is someone in need and I know that you and Dean trust him but I do not"

"Why's that?"

"He's an abomination"

"Cause of the demon blood?"

"Yes"

"Well, do you have anything against Sam?"

"I don't believe I understand"

"Did he do anything to upset you?"

"No"

"Did do anything to upset the people you're close to?"

"I don't know. Has he upset you?"

"Me? Y-you're close to me?"

"Yes. My vessel's shoulder is 9.46 centimeters from your own"

"Oh, right. I-I meant close like, feelings"

"I still do not understand"

"Like, Sam and Dean are close because they're brothers and they love each other"

"Oh. So if they are close because of fraternal relation, why are you close to them?"

"They're my best friends. God that's depressing. We uh, we've spent a lot of time together and they feel like my brothers"

"But you do not share a bloodline"

"We don't need to. We've been through so much together for so long that we have a similar relationship to blood related siblings"

"Oh, I believe I understand"

"So back to your thing. If Sam hasn't personally upset you, then it's just a matter of morals. If you want to feel okay about answering his prayers, maybe you should reevaluate what an 'abonination' is and what it means to you"

"An abomination is an affront to the Lord, I know that"

"I know you know that but your problem is about how you feel. If Sam doesn't upset you, then it's just the fact that the good book says he's bad"

"Which book is this?"

'The good book? It's just a sort of nickname for the Bible"

"The Bible has a nickname?"

"Yeah, I mentioned that humans are weird"

"They are, but fascinating as well"

"I guess so" You laughed lightly "So, did that help at all?"

"I believe it did, thank you. You are surprisingly wise for a human"

"Uh, yeah, no problem sweetie"

"Why did you call me that?"

"I um, I don't know. I'm sorry, I won't do it again"

"No, I believe it was… nice. I would like you to do it again but I am unsure of why"

Your blush only brightened "I don't know about Angels, but I know that humans generally like nicknames like that because it makes them feel loved"

"Do you love me?"

"Wh, I um, I don't know if love- See, love is a complicated-"

You stopped when you felt Castiel's hand envelope yours. You looked down to see where his hand touched yours, how he held it - you - so carefully.

"W-why, why did you do that?"

"I don't know. I suppose it just seemed to feel… right. Is that okay? Did I do something wrong?"

"No sweetie. It's perfect, like you"

He smiled softly, something you'd never seen him do before and you sat in a comfortable silence for a while.

"Why did you pray to me?"

"I couldn't sleep"

"But why me? Why would you not speak with Sam or Dean? You're closer to them"

"They'd probably be asleep, I know you don't sleep so I thought you were a good choice. Besides, I thought of you first"

"You did?"

"Uh, I guess so, yeah"

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think about you a lot and I never really know why"

"You think of me often?"

"Well um, n-not like that, no, not in a way that, I don't" You gave up on your explaination with a sigh.

Castiel's voice broke the awkward silence quietly "I think about you often as well"

"Y-you do?"

"I do. I do not understand why, but I find myself thinking of you very often"

"Really?"

"Yes, do you know why?"

"Not really. Maybe you like me, I know that's why I think of you"

"You like me?"

"Yes"

"Why?"

"What, has no one ever said they liked you before?" You joked before seeing his face drop slightly.

"No"

"Like, never?"

"Never"

"Cas" You cooed, your voice like warm honey. No one could say his name the way you did, it always managed to spark something inside him "I'm sorry sweetie"

"That is okay. It doesn't upset me, I don't feel human emotions"

"Wow, you have been spending too much time around the Winchesters. Cas, it's okay to feel things, I'm sure you're not the first Angel in history to feel something"

"I believe I may be"

"Oh. Well that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Maybe it just means you're special"

"You think so?"

"I know it. That's one of the reasons why I like you"

"It is? What are the others?"

"Well, even though you say you don't feel things, you're very sweet at times, whether you mean it or not. And of course, you're adorably sassy. And I love how confused you get by human things"

"Because I don't belong?"

"No, because you try to. You try to understand all the silly little things that humans do and it means a lot"

"Thank you, you are a very loving and understanding person. Sam and Dean are lucky to have you in their lives"

"You do too, have me. In your life, of course"

He smiled softly again and gently squeezed your hand a little tighter.

"Thank you"

You shuffled a little closer and slowly rested your head against his shoulder.

"This okay?" Your voice came out a little higher than you intended.

"Yes" Cas replied in his usual monotone "I believe it is, enjoyable"

You smiled brightly, your thumb brushing the back of his hand subconsciously "It is for me too"

You stayed like that for a while before Cas murmured a few words into your hair gently.

"Y/n, I believe I love you"

You didn't respond, that's when Cas heard a soft snore.

You were asleep.

He didn't mind, he was glad actually, that you could finally get to sleep. H liked to think it may have been a little bit due to his presence, you knew that was the only reason. You smiled a little wider and snuggled into his shoulder a bit more as you dreamt, a wonderful dream of Cas holding you and telling you he loved you. As the sun began to rise, glimmers of orange and yellow pouring through the window, he watched you lay there, your chest rising and falling slowly with each breath, your face lit softly like a beautiful painting from centuries ago.

He didn't think anymore, he knew.

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Castiel

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The radio hums low, some old rock song that fits into the background more than it fills the silence. The windows are cracked just enough to let in cool night air, carrying the faint scent of gasoline and leather.

You shift in your seat, fighting sleep, your gaze wandering to the dash, the blur of road, the strong line of Dean’s hands gripping the wheel. He looks steady, always steady, but there’s a weariness in his profile too—the faint sag of his shoulders, the way his jaw flexes like he’s holding the night together by sheer stubbornness.

And then… his hand leaves the wheel. Slowly, carefully, like he’s testing a boundary, his fingers brush against your thigh.

You freeze for a moment, breath caught in your throat, heart skipping.

Dean doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay trained on the road, his face neutral except for the tiniest tightening of his lips—like he’s bracing for rejection. His palm rests warm and solid against you, tentative but grounding, thumb brushing once, almost absentminded.

Something in your chest softens.

You lean toward him, letting your shoulder press lightly into his arm, your weight tilting closer in quiet acceptance. His hand squeezes gently, a silent thank you, before settling there like it belongs.

The car hums on. The world narrows to the soft curve of Dean’s mouth, the steady warmth of his touch, the muted crackle of the radio. For once, there’s no monster waiting, no chaos chasing you down. Just this—just you, Dean, and the road unfurling endlessly ahead.

You let your head tip sideways, resting against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

Dean exhales, barely audible, but you feel it more than hear it. A breath he’s been holding all night, finally released. His thumb strokes along your thigh again, gentler this time, almost reverent.

And the ride continues, steady and quiet, carrying you home.

The waiter—a lanky guy with a greasy apron and a cocky smile—slides up to your table, pad in hand. But instead of focusing on all three of you, his eyes land squarely on you.

“Well hey there, sweetheart,” he says, leaning just a little too close. “What can I get you? Or, uh, maybe what can I talk you into?”

You giggle nervously, cheeks going pink. “Oh, um… just pancakes, please. With strawberries, if you have them.”

Dean’s fork clatters against his plate.

Sam immediately lowers his paper, eyes darting between the two of them like he’s watching a car crash.

The waiter grins, scribbles something down. “Anything for you.” He winks before strolling back toward the kitchen.

You shift in your seat, trying to hide a smile behind your hand. “He was just being nice—”

“Nice?” Dean practically growls. “Sweetheart, that guy wasn’t nice. That guy was—was—” He waves his fork in the direction of the kitchen like it’s a weapon. “That guy was a creep. And you’re not encouraging him.”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, clearly fighting a laugh. “Dean—”

“Don’t,” Dean snaps without even looking at him. His jaw is clenched so tight you swear you hear his teeth grind.

You tilt your head, amused. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Dean insists instantly, way too defensive to be believable. “I just don’t like strange guys sniffing around my—” He cuts himself off, eyes darting to you, then back to his plate. His ears are red. “Around my table.”

Sam loses it, choking on his coffee as he laughs into his sleeve. “Wow. Subtle.”

Dean glares at him. “Shut up, Sammy.”

You lean forward, resting your chin in your hands, watching Dean squirm. He won’t look at you, just stabs his fork into the pie like it personally offended him.

“You know…” you say softly, “you didn’t have to get all worked up. If you wanted my attention, you could’ve just asked.”

That finally gets his eyes on you. Green, sharp, still heated. But there’s something softer underneath—the thing he can’t hide when it’s you.

Dean clears his throat, pushes his plate away like suddenly pie doesn’t matter. “Well. You’ve got it. So… yeah. Guess I don’t gotta worry about Mister Greasy Apron anymore.”

You smile at him, warm and amused all at once. “Guess not.”

Sam shakes his head, muttering under his breath with a grin, “You two are ridiculous.”

Dean flips him off under the table without breaking eye contact with you.

And when the pancakes arrive—with extra strawberries, courtesy of your would-be suitor—you slide the plate toward Dean with a grin. “Here. For my jealous hero.”

He grumbles something about not being jealous, but he eats every bite.

Sam bites down on his lip, trying to hide his laugh as the waiter finally walks off. You, blissfully unaware, take a sip of your soda like nothing happened.

Dean leans forward, voice low and sharp. “You flirting with him?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “What? No! I was just being nice.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, Dean. Not everyone’s out here working their moves 24/7.”

Dean shoots his brother a glare. “Oh, shut up.” Then he turns back to you, frown etched deep. “Seriously, though. He was eating that up.”

You blink. “I just said I liked his tie.”

“Exactly,” Dean mutters, stabbing at his fries like they offended him. “Practically wrote your number on a napkin for him.”

Sam is full-on laughing now, trying to disguise it as a cough when Dean glares at him again.

You tilt your head, trying to make sense of Dean’s mood. “Wait—are you… jealous?”

Dean chokes on his burger, coughing hard enough that Sam has to hand him his water. “Jealous? Me? Pfft, no.”

Sam leans back, smirking. “You so are. You’ve been glaring at every guy who looks their way since we walked in.”

“I have not!” Dean protests, face flushed red.

You can’t help but laugh, leaning across the table to nudge his arm. “Dean Winchester, you’re ridiculous.”

His jaw works like he’s trying to come up with some smooth denial, but then you rest your hand over his, and all the fight drains out of him. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Fine. Maybe I don’t like other people looking at you like that. Happy?”

Your smile softens, warmth blooming in your chest. “Actually… yeah. Kind of sweet.”

Dean blinks, caught off guard. “Sweet?”

“Mm-hm.” You squeeze his hand, playful. “But for the record, I wasn’t flirting. You’re the only one I’d flirt with.”

Sam groans, dramatically reaching for his menu. “Okay, nope, I’m out. You two keep this up and I’m gone.”

Dean smirks at his brother before turning back to you, smug and satisfied now. “See? You hear that? Only me.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, but you don’t let go of his hand.

Across the table, Sam mutters under his breath, “God, I hate being the third wheel,” but the grin tugging at his mouth says he doesn’t mind half as much as he claims.