The air smelled faintly of damp stone and burning candles. Castiel sat hunched in the corner of the room, trench coat rumpled and shirt darkened at the collar, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He had not moved since you entered, though his riddle-blue eyes had already found you, sharp as winter sunlight through frost.

She’s here again. She smiles like everything is ordinary, and it kills me a little every time. How can someone carry warmth in the middle of cold I cannot leave behind?

You stepped closer, careful not to disturb the quiet, holding the small tray of herbs and wine you had prepared. His gaze flicked to it briefly, then back to you, as if assessing whether this ordinary gesture was part of some greater truth you had yet to reveal.

“Castiel,” you said softly, setting the tray down beside him. “Drink. It will help.”

He did not respond immediately, only tilted his head, the motion deliberate, cautious. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, hoarse, carrying the brittle echo of long-forgotten hymns.

“Do you ever tire of this… humanity?”

You laughed lightly, a sound that seemed almost too bright for the room. “I tire of it less than you do, apparently.”

His lips twitched, though he denied the smile. He leaned back against the wall, the weight of centuries pressing into his posture, yet he did not turn away. Your presence had a gravity he could not resist, even if he sometimes feared what that pull would demand of him.

Everything about her is paradox. Light against my ruin, spring against my winter. And yet…

The tray rattled slightly as you adjusted it, and his eyes followed your hands, not with impatience but with a strange fascination. There was something about the way you moved—deliberate, caring, yet unassuming—that pierced the armor he had spent eons constructing.

He did not reach for your hand, not yet, but the tension in his shoulders softened imperceptibly. For a being so fractured, so unrepentant, it was a rare concession: acknowledgment of trust, of need, without words.

“You always insist on bringing life into my silence,” he murmured, almost a confession. “Why do you not flee?”

You smiled again, faint, gentle. “Because someone has to remind you that winter ends.”

And for a heartbeat, Castiel allowed himself to lean toward that warmth, not fully, not without fear, but enough that his gaze softened. He could not promise tenderness, not in the human sense, not yet. But he could promise presence. And perhaps, that was enough.

Outside, the world continued its indifferent churn, but inside that room, in the fragile space between frost and thaw, there existed a covenant older than vows: fractured divinity and human grace, bound together not by comfort, but by the repeated choice to stay.