[ if she wanted to, cas would take the punch and never blame her for it. dragging her into this, forcing his trauma onto her already strained mind, was unforgivable. castiel's always the first to call himself deserving of retribution for his too many mistakes. for a being so convinced he's never had a real emotion or soul in all his existence, he sure flies on the whims of his heart more than is good for himself or anyone around him.

but the curl of her fingers around his, affection inviting him back into her good graces, is comfort he doesn't feel he deserves. the sharp ache in him dulls with her compassion, pools a cooling, healing grace into the gushing, pried open wounds at his core. he's every inch the drowning man pulling his savior into the rip current with him, and jo's gracious enough to go along with him.

castiel's a bull in a china shop, unconscious of his size, his power, the delicate, porcelain, priceless things he tramples over, entirely and hopelessly out of his element. his being is clumsy and expansive, multidimensional, eons of life on a distance, detached level abruptly yanked down into a prison of heat and pulsing blood, color and life exploding behind his eyes and through the heart he never knew he had. he's as much a slave to emotion as any newborn, toddler or teenager, lost and out of control.

if he's ever going to find space to exist alongside jo without stampeding over, a herd of wild horses crushing her underfoot, he needs to find an anchor between them. a tether that binds them, tugs them in at soft fingertips slipping against the soft sides of his, locking into a tight weave, his thumb stroking against the back of her palm. they may be lost to the thrashing, hurricane winds of it all, but they can braid themselves together within the chaos.

he's been more honest with her in the last handful of moments than he has with any single soul in billions of years, since the earth was volcanos and layers of churning lava. the interior of him reflects that state, his rapidly decaying body somewhere on another plane, on the outside, but what's here is just as chaotic and off kilter. cas doesn't know whether to push jo away for her own good, or selfishly drag her in close like a life raft. ]

Dean's too kind for those words. [ the real dean, the compassionate, loving, empathetic soul he's marveled at since uncovering him in hell, would never say those things to someone he sees as a brother, even with unrequited love waved like a neon sign in his face. it isn't in his nature. and yet, it can still be true to the emotions he harbors beneath that familial affection. it can still be a universal truth that he can pity him, but never love him. ] That doesn't make them untrue.

[ not since the beautiful room and dean challenging him about what's real, about what's worth saving. people, families, dean told him, but the thing he remembers most vividly is the fierce, electric, live wire spark in the green of his eyes, the burn of his soul as it flared around him like something holy, some ever-burning beacon at the end of the universe. ]

It doesn't matter. Even if it is true, it... [ it is true, the more he tries to deny it, the more it becomes clear as a spear sunken into his chest, ] It isn't important.

[ it's nothing he didn't already know, on some level. dean loves him, sure, as a brother, as family, and that's lightyears beyond anything cas could ever hope to ask for. an angel, an alien from another plane, to be accepted into a human family, invited into a home, afforded the dearest and fondest friend he's ever had. he couldn't ask for more. ]

What you have, Jo. [ he murmurs softly, dipping to find her eyes, knowing it's an unspoken line they've yet to cross. ] That is real.