Angels didn’t sleep.

It wasn’t a matter of discipline or preference—it simply wasn’t necessary. But that left Castiel alone most nights in the bunker, long after Sam’s late-night research ended, after Dean’s snoring filled the hallways, after the world had gone quiet. And in those hours of stillness, his mind wandered—sometimes to battles fought centuries ago, sometimes to prayers whispered in desperation. But more often now… to them.

To you.

In those weeks of shared silences and tentative touches, Castiel had unknowingly formed a new ritual. He would drift toward your room like a shadow, barefoot and slow, letting the bunker’s cold floors anchor him. Your door was never locked. You’d told him once—half-asleep, blinking up at him in that soft way you did—that he was always welcome.

So he took comfort in the small things. The gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers. The strands of hair that curled messily over your forehead, a product of restless dreams. The way your mouth parted slightly when you were truly at ease. It should have felt intrusive, watching. But it didn’t—not with you. And maybe that’s what scared him most.

He hadn’t meant to wake you.

The door gave a faint creak as he entered, and your eyes fluttered open immediately, bleary but aware. He paused mid-step, caught in the act like a child sneaking cookies.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered, his voice barely louder than a breath. His shoulders hunched a little, the trench coat shifting with the motion. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He looked like a kicked puppy—guilt and longing etched across his features, eyes glowing with celestial sadness in the dim light of your bedside lamp.

But you only shifted a little beneath the blanket, scooting over wordlessly in silent invitation. His expression softened.

Of course. You always understood him in ways few others could.

He padded forward, awkward at first, and then melted into the bed beside you like he belonged there. Which, perhaps, he did. His arms tentatively slid around you, warm and trembling slightly. Cuddling, he’d admitted once in a low murmur, was “pleasant.” But only with you. And God forbid Sam or Dean ever found out.

So there, in the dim hush of the bunker, angel wings invisible and hearts laid bare, Castiel held you as if the world outside no longer existed. He buried his face into your shoulder, exhaled slowly, and let himself feel something more than duty.

He let himself be human—with you.

And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel so alone.