You’re hunched at the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees, staring at a cold cup of coffee that you never really meant to drink. Sam and Dean left about thirty minutes ago. He had nudged Dean with a look, and Dean had muttered something about burgers and beer and “maybe fresh air will keep you from throwing something.” You didn’t argue. You just stayed behind. But now you regret that because Castiel stands near the window like a statue, silent and still. The way he always is when he knows something’s wrong but can’t quite figure out what. You haven’t said much since you got back from the warehouse. Not since you watched Meg plant one on him to get his blade, and he kissed her back like he’d been waiting to learn what that kind of wanting felt like. And then, of course, the kicker: “I learned that from the pizza man.” You had almost laughed. Almost cried, too. I “You seem unwell,” he says finally, voice low. Gentle. “Are you injured?”

“No.”

“You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, “Did I do something wrong?” You don’t answer. He takes a step closer, trench coat brushing against the edge of the table. “Was it the demon trap? I know it was tight quarters. I apologize for landing on you when we fell through the ceiling vent.”

You glance up at him, slowly. “You think I’m upset because you fell on me?”

He frowns. “You made a sound. I assumed it was pain.”

“That sound,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek, “was frustration.”

“With me?” Your mouth opens, then closes again. You should just say it. I like you. Watching you kiss her felt like being gutted with your angel blade. But you can’t. Because he’s looking at you with those wide, confused, impossibly blue eyes. Because he doesn’t know. He never knew. Because he kissed Meg like it was instinct, not betrayal. You stand abruptly, the chair legs screeching on the floor, and Castiel steps back.

“Forget it,” you mutter, grabbing your jacket. “I just need air.”

“I could accompany-”

“No, Cas.” You stop at the door, hand on the knob. “You’ve done enough.”