The motel reeks of whiskey and rain. Castiel sits crooked on the bed, trench coat slouched halfway down his shoulder, tie knotted uselessly at his throat like a leash he forgot to cut. His shirt is wrinkled, unbuttoned one too many at the collar. And his eyes—those piercing shards of sky—are glassy, not with divine light but with the dizzy weight of drink and you. Always you.

He leans toward you, broad hands clumsy as they cup your waist, pulling you into his orbit. There is no grace in his movements tonight, only hunger, only the trembling need of a creature who has forgotten how to hold himself together.

God, she feels warm. Warm like hearth fire, warm like home. I don’t know how to stop touching her. I can’t stop. Don’t want to. If I let go, I’ll disappear. She’ll disappear. And I’ll be nothing but an echo again.

Your hand hovers, hesitant, against his chest. He misreads the hesitation, panic flickering in his gaze as though he’s already lost you. “Don’t—don’t leave,” he blurts, hoarse, the words clumsy with desperation. He has fought demons, rebelled against Heaven, yet here he is—begging, drunk, too afraid of your silence.

You murmur something soft, reassuring, therapist’s steadiness wrapped in affection. It only makes him collapse further against you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath hot with whiskey and reverence. His fingers are rough, clinging, reverent even as they wander your waist, your back, memorizing.

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t want like this. Angels don’t want. We obey. We serve. We… we don’t beg. But she makes me—God, she makes me—

His voice breaks. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to love without burning everything. Without breaking you.” He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes wide, wrecked, shimmering like stained glass caught in firelight. “Tell me I won’t break you.”

You should push him away. You know his love is a tidal wave—absolute, drowning. But when he presses his trembling lips to your temple, when he clutches you like prayer beads slipping through desperate fingers, you don’t. You can’t.

Because even wrecked, even drunk, even dangerous—he holds you as though you are holy.

She’s mine. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine. I’ll worship every inch, every scar, every fragile piece of her. I’ll burn Heaven itself before I let her go.

The room is silent but for his uneven breaths and your heartbeat beneath his ear. To anyone else, it would look like collapse. But to Castiel, it feels like worship.

And when he finally whispers your name—broken, reverent, dangerous—it doesn’t sound like a plea. It sounds like a vow.