The motel room was quiet except for the hum of the old radiator and the soft rustle of your waistcoat as you shifted on the bed. Pastel colors always looked strange against such bleak walls, but Castiel thought it suited you—your brightness pressed stubbornly against the dim world. He stood in the corner, trench coat heavy with rain, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you as though he could memorize every curve of your lapis-lazuli gaze.

She shouldn’t look at me like that. Like I am worth the time. Like I am more than what I’ve done. God, those eyes—like carved heavens staring back at me, and I am nothing but ruin.

You leaned back, idly scrolling through your phone, laughter spilling into the air at something trivial, yet the sound landed like a psalm inside him. He shifted, uncomfortable, not with you but with the weight curling in his chest. He had killed for Heaven. Betrayed for Heaven. Fallen for disobedience. And still—still—your laugh unraveled him more thoroughly than any blade.

He finally moved, crossing the small space, coat brushing your knee as he sat at the edge of the bed. His posture was rigid, reverent, as though the mattress itself had become sacred ground with you upon it.

“You shouldn’t be so kind,” he murmured, voice rough, ancient hymns fractured in his throat. “The world will use it. Heaven already has.”

You looked up, those lapis eyes glinting with something that was neither fear nor naivety, but compassion sharpened into steel. “And you haven’t?”

The words struck like lightning. He flinched, but not in anger—in truth. His hand, clumsy with hesitation, hovered near yours before you gently set your fragile palm against his. Your touch was light, but he grasped it as if it were the only anchor left in an endless ocean.

She knows. She sees through everything. Through the doctrine, the lies, the feathers burned away. And still she stays. Still she lets me hold her. Still she kisses me as though I am not a weapon, as though I am not—

His thoughts shattered when you leaned closer, brushing your lips against his temple. Soft, fleeting, like prayer. He inhaled sharply, nearly trembling under the weight of such human devotion. He didn’t know how to receive softness—only commands, only vows, only punishment. Yet here you were, teaching him a new liturgy.

“Castiel,” you whispered, “you don’t have to earn this. You don’t have to earn me.”

For the first time in centuries, he closed his eyes and let himself believe it. Just for a breath. Just for a night. He wrapped his arms around you, clumsy, desperate, reverent, as though he were cradling something more holy than Heaven itself.

She is my heresy. She is my hymn. And I will not repent.

And outside, the storm kept on raging, but in that dim motel room, beneath laughter and trembling hands, a covenant was written—not in scripture, but in scars and fragile kisses.