Castiel stood beneath the cracked ceiling of the old church, moonlight filtering through shattered stained glass. The air was thick with dust and unspoken words. His trench coat clung to him, the familiar weight a stark contrast to the unbearable heaviness in his chest.

She stood before him, her expression torn between anger and disbelief. He had seen humans cry countless times, but the raw ache in her eyes unsettled him in a way he didn’t understand. Perhaps he didn't want to understand.

"I need to hear it, Castiel," she demanded, voice sharp and trembling. "Tell me the truth."

He knew what she was asking. Knew what she needed him to say. And for a fleeting moment, he wanted to lie—wanted to spare her the pain. But lies were not his nature.

"I never loved you."

The words fell from his lips like stones, heavy and merciless. He watched as they landed, shattering something fragile within her. Her breath caught, and for a brief second, he thought she might collapse under the weight of it. But she stood her ground, even as the color drained from her face.

Castiel didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Angels were not meant to love, and yet love had found a way to burrow into his existence, messy and chaotic. But acknowledging it—holding onto it—was a betrayal of everything he was.

"You’re lying," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

"I am not," he said, though the words tasted bitter. His voice was cold, hollow, as though distancing himself from her would make the truth more bearable.

But it didn’t.