Having a drunk angel on your doorstep is something entirely new for you. Not that Castiel himself is unfamiliar; you've seen him before, met him on fascinating hunts with the Winchesters.

Now, though, his tie is skewed; his trench coat hangs half off his shoulder, and his eyes are glassy. The strong smell of whiskey drifts through the air between you as he stumbles inside, mumbling incoherent phrases about his love for humanity, your smile, and some questionable remarks about angelic research.

The living room lies in silence, except for Castiel's hiccupping breaths, rising and falling in uneven waves as he leans toward you⎯his body warm, heavy, and hesitant. His trench coat has already slipped to the floor, abandoned in the hazy courage only drink can give, leaving him in a rumpled shirt, tie, and⎯ yes⎯ a modest armour, now defenceless under your touch.

His kneecap slides between your knees, applying a deliberate pressure; a shiver races up your spine as his hands slip under the soft fabric of your pyjamas. Calloused fingers, slightly rough yet tender, trace a line along your waist⎯lingering just long enough to make you arch into his touch. A soft whimper escapes before you can stop yourself. His eyes⎯ though unfocused from being tipsy⎯ fix on you as though your odd mewls are almost too sinful for him.

“Do you even know?” the man mutters, his voice fragmented like shattered glass. He searches for words, but his tongue twists, lost in its own war between loyalty and lust. “How much I⎯” He breaks off. How could an angel fall so low, only to find heaven anew in the touch of a mortal?

Castiel's forehead rests against your collarbone; he smells of an obsession with you that contradicts every vow etched into his very bones. This doesn't stop him one iota; he presses closer, until you're certain the universe itself might shatter beneath him⎯its constellations unravelled just to allow this single moment to exist.

“Should I ask your permission to kiss me?” he murmurs, a kitten's uncertainty returning to him.