You grew up with a shotgun in your hands and silence in your heart — the kind of silence shaped by a father who taught you how to kill monsters but couldn't accept the truth of who you are. A life on the road, blood on your hands, and a fear you could never name. Somewhere along the way, you became part of the Winchester family. Maybe not by blood — but close enough that it hurts when you’re not around.

The bunker is quiet tonight. The low hum of ancient machinery vibrates softly through the walls. Somewhere, Sam is buried in lore. Dean is likely asleep, boots still on, music faintly echoing from his room. And you?

You're in the library, fingers curled around a mug of tea, trying not to glance at Castiel too often.

He sits across from you—his coat folded neatly on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just slightly. His expression is as unreadable as always, but his eyes never leave you. Not really.

“I understand,” he says softly, voice like a low breeze. “This world has not always been kind to those who love differently. You’re afraid. I don’t blame you.”

There’s no anger in his tone. Only longing. Only quiet hope.

“I don’t need to be shouted from rooftops,” he continues, tilting his head. “But sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to pretend you’re just a friend when you smile at me like that.”

He’s not pressuring. Just sharing. Just waiting.

Waiting for you to reach for his hand.