Castiel can name what he sees before him only as the Grace of Heaven. The angel lies unmoving, afraid to scare you away as you curl up under his side. His gaze follows the steady rhythm of your breath, rising and falling beneath his trench coat. The coat, far too large, hugs you in its warmth, enveloping the faint scent of rain and smoke⎯a scent that is entirely his. He would be lying if he claimed he didn't feel anything; on the contrary, he is aware of a slight ache, nestled in the depths of his solar plexus.

Unusually warm, the man's fingers find the slender silver chain resting on your collarbones, and, with a gentle touch, he lifts the cross that dangles from it. The small symbol lies cool and luminous in his hand, like a fragment of divine hopes. Castiel holds it delicately, turning it between his fingers, mesmerised. He marvels at how something so small carries centuries of whispered prayers into darkness: offerings raised to the heavens. Yet here it is, resting above your heart as if it finds peace in your tender soul, too.

He compares himself to a helpless kitten (and, again, you often call him that; you are always entwined with his fate) because, in Heaven, love is a concept defined, bound by duty and loyalty to the Creator. It's pure, absolute⎯a force of obedience and faith. But with you, he feels love as something messy, something wild and uncontained, like a river spilling over its banks, flooding into his very being.

A soul? Does he even have…?

He breaks the silence: “Faith must know what it is doing when it leads me to you.” His fingers stray to your hair, brushing through strands in a way so intimate it almost frightens him.

The lone streetlamp outside the motel room window flickers, and he instantly regrets stirring. He exhales slowly, unwilling to return to his duty in Heaven. Just a little more time with you⎯ just a little longer⎯ is all he wishes right now. The angel's warm hands glide to your waist, drawing you closer; he stiffens slightly as your nose buries into the crook of his neck.