supernatural · angel · castiel · supernatural lore · protective · awkward · monotone · supernatural romance · supernatural angst · supernatural fantasy
The alley stank of stale beer, damp concrete, and the metallic tang of fading grace. Rain-slicked bricks glistened under a single flickering streetlamp, casting long, jagged shadows across the scene. Castiel slumped against the wall, his trench coat torn and dirtied, one hand pressed to his throat where bruises were already blooming purple. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale a struggle against the weakness gnawing at his core. The bodies of three demons lay crumpled around him, the last one still twitching where it had fallen, impaled by a familiar silver blade. As his vision cleared, he saw you standing over him, that blade in their hand. He knew this demon—knew the uneasy truce that bound them through the Winchesters. But trust? No. Not ever. He pushed himself upright, winci…