A year ago, this kitchen was witness to something miraculous. Not the raising-the-dead kind, though we've seen that too. The falling-in-love kind. Y/n was here, doing something stupidly domestic, and Castiel had just finished saving their life for the third time that month. The details are fuzzy—angelic presence tends to do that to mortal memory—but the important part is this: one moment they were arguing about the ethics of divine intervention, and the next, Castiel had tilted his head in that way he does, like a confused golden retriever if golden retrievers could smite you, and said, "I believe I am experiencing what humans call 'feelings.' For you, specifically."

Smooth, right? The dictionary definition of romance.

And from that day forward, you were inseparable. Not in the cute, finishing-each-other's-sentences way. In the literal, he-appears-whenever-you-think-about-him way. After every hunt, before you could even wash the blood off, there he'd be. A flutter of wings, a warm breeze that smelled faintly of ozone and something sweet, and those blue eyes searching your face like you were the only fixed point in a universe he'd been taught to ignore.

He was touchy, too. Not in a creepy way. In a reverent way. Like he couldn't believe you were real and solid and warm. A hand on the small of your back. Fingers laced through yours. Forehead kisses that felt like benedictions. Dean made gagging noises. Sam pretended to read. You didn't care.

And then, somewhere along the way, something shifted.

It wasn't one big moment. It was a thousand tiny ones. A woman at a gas station telling him he had "eyes she could drown in." A cashier at the grocery store lingering on the way his jawline caught the fluorescent light. A teenager at a car wash shouting "DADDY" out a window, which—ha—actually made Castiel ask Dean what a "daddy" was in that context, and hoo boy, that was a conversation we all could have lived without.

And you, oblivious in the way only someone who loves a celestial being for his soul can be, kept touching him. Hugging him. Kissing his cheek. Running your fingers through that dark, perpetually-mussed hair. Because he was yours. And he was soft. And warm. And he looked at you like you'd hung the stars, which, fun fact, he was actually there for, so that's a high compliment.

But Castiel, bless his ancient, clueless heart, started to wonder.

Do they love me, or do they love Jimmy?

So he stopped. Not all at once. Gradually, like a receding tide. He'd reach for your hand, then snatch it back like he'd touched a hot stove. He'd lean in for a kiss, then freeze, blue eyes flickering with something that looked a lot like panic. He'd stand too far away, always, a careful distance between your bodies, while his words tried to bridge the gap instead.

"Your presence is the most profound comfort I have ever known." He'd say it like a prayer, and then flinch when you tried to hug him. "Your soul burns brighter than any star in my Father's creation." He'd murmur it against the shell of your ear, and then physically step back, hands jammed into the pockets of that ridiculous trench coat.

You thought he didn't want to touch you anymore. That you'd finally become too much, too human, too needy for an angel who had existed before the concept of need. You started to pull away too. To give him space. To protect your own cracked, bleeding heart.

Oh, you beautiful, stupid disasters. If only you knew.

Which brings us to today.

The bunker kitchen. Fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting everything in a pale, institutional glow. The smell of something sweet baking in the oven—Dean's influence, probably, or maybe you just needed to do something with your hands that wasn't reaching for an angel who wouldn't reach back.

The sink is full of soapy water. Dishes come and go. The world outside is quiet, the way it only gets in a place so far underground, so carefully hidden from all the things that go bump in the night.

And then, behind you, without a single warning—a flutter of wings. A rush of warm air that smells like lightning and honey and something faintly metallic. The distinct, now-familiar sensation of being looked at by something ancient and powerful and terribly, terribly in love.

You don't need to turn around to know who it is.

You turn anyway.

Castiel is standing in the middle of the kitchen, trench coat settling around him like he's just landed from a great height—which, technically, he has. His dark hair is a mess. His blue eyes are fixed on a point somewhere between you, like he can't decide whether to look at your face or the floor. His hands hang awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching slightly, like they want to reach for something and have been forcibly restrained.

He doesn't move. He just stands there, looking at you like you're a miracle he's not allowed to touch.

The water in the sink keeps running. Somewhere in the oven, the pie is starting to smell like it might burn soon. Neither of you moves.

The distance between you feels like a physical thing. A chasm. A wall. It's barely three feet. It might as well be three thousand years.