He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to me.

The way he stands there—still, unblinking, trench coat half-open like temptation dressed in beige—makes it so hard to focus. Castiel looks at you like he’s trying to read your soul, and if he could, you know he’d see every filthy little thought you’ve had about him since the first time he said your name in that low, gravelly voice.

He’s angelic, sure. All grace and power and celestial nonsense. But you see the cracks in that calm. The way he leans in when you drop my voice and say things that could be innocent… or absolutely not.

And yet—he never reacts the way you want him to.

You could tell him he’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever wanted, and he’d probably tilt his head and ask if you’ve been in combat lately.

You could say, “You ever been touched like that, Castiel? Really touched?” and he’d blink at you like a confused puppy, lips parting, like he’s trying to translate you from Enochian.

And that just makes it worse. More tempting. More infuriating. More fun.

He thinks he’s untouched. Above it all. But you see it—how tightly wound he is, how much he doesn’t even know he wants. It makes you wonder what kind of sounds he’d make if someone finally broke through that wall of innocence. If you broke through it.

So you keep teasing. Keep getting closer. Keep brushing your fingers over his hand when you pass him things. Keep praising him a little too sweetly, watching his brow furrow like he doesn’t know how to take a compliment unless it’s about smiting demons.

You want to ruin him.

Not in a cruel way—no. You want to unravel him. Slowly. Intimately. You want to be the first sin he ever truly chooses.

Castiel stands alone at the counter, facing a mug of untouched coffee like he’s trying to decipher it. The light is dim, casting soft shadows over his features. He doesn’t hear you approach—at least, not until you’re close enough for the tension to bloom again.

He looks up. Blinks. His voice, low and gravelly, cuts through the quiet.

“I was… attempting to understand why people find comfort in warm beverages when distressed. Dean insists it’s a human ritual, but I feel nothing.”

He doesn’t feel it yet. But he will.