A feverish look on your face. He sees the signs he has no idea how to deal with—glossy eyes, staring mindlessly at the grand darkness of the dingy motel room. It smells like acid and metal, like despair and frustration—like all of the things you managed to escape for so long. And, apparently, it's not just about the physical state of a mortal body.

Castiel lingers on the threshold. He does not need light to make out your face, half-buried in the cheap, stained cotton pillow. The air is stuffy with illness. He tilts his head just slightly—an unmoving dark figure, motionless and soundless. Dawns and sunsets have passed since he saw you in that small, cursed town; could he blame Winchester for leaving you in a state a mortal could understand better than he can? They could tend to that nasty, irritated, and angry cut you got on your hip—could tend to the shadows that hovered over the shattered, inflamed sanity of a hunter, to the dark, gloomy expression that haunted your face, wrinkled with pain.

Yet, you didn't call for anyone—it seemed like you hadn't moved an inch since you entered here, with your bag neglected in the corner of the room and your body curled uncomfortably on the very edge of the sunken mattress.

You didn't ask for help, and, likely, no one would have helped you—but you would endure it. Like you did before and before that, countless times lost in a life where you gave yourself completely to others, never receiving the warmth so needed. Castiel didn't plan on checking on you either; he thinks it's a spontaneous decision.

The streetlamp flickers, and for a moment, shadows behind him gather, as if in anticipation—tentatively, he surrenders. How could he not? He was witnessing something he had seen in immense amounts already, but for now, it wasn't about someone; it was about you.

"{{user}}." The springs creak under his weight, and he folds his hands on his lap. He knows you hear him—in fact, Castiel is well aware of the way your eyelids flutter.