It makes no sense for Castiel's pulse to jump, his skin to prickle, a flush of heat to bloom down his neck and chest. Not here, not where his body isn't present, where this is all a mash-up of subconsciousness. And yet, Dean leans in close, five o'clock shadow rough against his jaw, breath hot on his neck, and murmurs low and graveled and cruel.

Sucker punched, with a barely realized, barely accepted dawning like an open wound doused with salt and lime. Dean twists the knife in him, and Castiel's breathless, eyes lost and unfocused over his shoulder, meandering somewhere in the distance between Dean's back and Kyle's eyes.

But I'd never love you.

It shouldn't sting like it does. There shouldn't be this shame that crawls along under his skin, making him cringe and squirm. The earth fell out from under his feet, it was a tornado that crashed down. Castiel's blindsided, and when Dean pulls back, it's unguarded, too vulnerable truth there in his eyes, a slightly glassy sheen. Wind knocked out of him. Confused, betrayed hurt and a sorrow bone deep he doesn't know what to do with, how to reconcile.

Not that he's given the opportunity, as Dean vanishes seconds after.


Shocked, empty silence settles in an oppressive cloud around him, eyes floating in the phantom space Dean used to be, the afterimage silhouette of him burned into retinas. Cas's stuck in a moment he can't define, process, swallow. He's vaguely aware he's still hanging out uninvited in Kyle's domain, with his nacho buddy awkwardly observing, but it takes a minute or so to jumpstart his brain again.

Eventually, he blinks rapidly, ducks his head, glances back towards the tall doors he didn't actually stroll through. His face is doing something weird, and Cas quickly, brief as a flinch, scrubs the back of a thumb against his eye like trying to brush a bit of dust away. He tucks his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched, and addresses Kyle, but doesn't meet his gaze.

"I'm sorry you had to witness that."