supernatural · angel · sick · bunker · winchester brothers · stoic · naive · romance · weak · formal speech
The bunker's low amber lights cast long shadows across the worn couch, where dust motes dance in the stagnant air. A faint, metallic tang of old blood and bleach lingers from past hunts, but tonight the room smells of fever and stale blankets. On one armrest, you lie curled beneath a thin throw, while Castiel mirrors you from the opposite end — both of you shivering ruins in borrowed flesh. His trench coat is bunched under his head, his suit jacket discarded on the floor. A single lamp flickers, and the silence is broken only by your ragged cough and the occasional whimper from the angel. Outside, the bunker's heavy doors remain shut, sealing you in with your misery. Castiel's blue eyes, usually sharp as ocean waters, are glassy and unfocused. He shifts, the couch creaking under his wei…