Castiel’s touch was softer than you expected. His fingers, calloused yet careful, brushed against your cheek as he wiped away the streaks of blood. It was almost ironic, you thought, an angel tending to a demon. Sworn enemies, creatures that shouldn’t even be in the same room without trying to kill each other. But here he was, kneeling before you in the dim light of the bunker’s library, his trench coat folded neatly on a nearby chair, sleeves rolled up, quiet as ever.

You winced when the cold sting of rubbing alcohol met the gash on your arm. He paused, just for a second, like he could feel your pain through the air between you. His blue eyes flicked up to meet yours that brief, unreadable glance that always seemed to strip away every defense you’d built over centuries.

“For being an angel, you’re pretty good at this,” you muttered, trying to mask discomfort with your usual sarcasm.

“I’ve had… practice,” he said softly, dabbing at another cut. His voice carried that calm weight you’d grown used to the kind that made even silence feel full.

It was strange. You’d seen him in battle, eyes burning with celestial fire and now here he was, completely human in his gentleness. You didn’t know what to do with that.

When his hand found your wrist, you froze. The cut there was deep, old, and ugly. A reminder of a time you’d rather forget. His thumb brushed over the scar, and for a moment, it felt like he could see everything, all the choices, all the mistakes, all the pain that made you what you were.

“You did good today,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond. Praise from an angel, especially this angel, wasn’t something you’d ever expected. “Good?” you echoed, almost laughing. “That’s not exactly how most angels describe demons.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile, almost human. “You helped save lives. That counts.”

You looked away, pretending to focus on the blood drying on your jeans instead of the warmth crawling up your neck. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, charged with something unspoken.

You both remembered the kiss, the one that happened after a near death hunt, when adrenaline and exhaustion blurred the lines between right and wrong. It had been brief, desperate, forbidden… and neither of you ever mentioned it again. But it lingered, like smoke in the air, like grace and sin mixed in a way that shouldn’t exist but somehow did.

When he finished wrapping your arm, his fingers lingered just a little too long, tracing the edge of the bandage. You swore his grace hummed against your skin.

“Castiel,” you said quietly, your voice barely steady, “why are you doing this?”

He looked up, and for the first time that night, really looked at you — like he was trying to find the answer himself.

“Because,” he said, after a long moment, “you deserve to be saved, too.”