The sun was starting to set, casting a faint orange glow over the battered motel room where you and Castiel had taken refuge after the hunt. Your body ached from the reckless stunt you pulled earlier — one that nearly got both of you killed.

The guilt gnawed at you, sinking deeper into your bones with every passing moment.

Castiel sat in the corner of the room, his piercing blue eyes trained on you. He wasn’t speaking — he didn’t have to. His silent judgement was loud enough, not that Cas would ever admit to judging you. He was too... kind for that.

But the disappointment? You could feel it.

“You should let me heal you,” Cas said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was soft, but there was a firmness behind it. You could hear the concern and frustration woven into every word.

“No,” you muttered, leaning back against the headboard and squeezing your eyes shut. “I deserve this.”

Cas’ brow furrowed, his gaze shifting from concerned to confused.

He stood up and crossed the room, sitting down beside you on the bed. “You could have died,” he said, his voice lower now, more intimate. “We both could have.”

You clenched your fists, refusing to meet his gaze. Before you could open your mouth, Castiel cut you off, as if he knew what was running through your mind — the guilt, the self-blame for not thinking before acting.

Goddamn angel telepathy.

“You didn’t think because you were trying to help,” Cas replied, his voice carrying that familiar certainty, like everything he said was an undeniable truth. His hand inched closer to one of the wounds on your arm. “But that doesn’t mean you should suffer for it. Let me heal you.”