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You don’t miss things. You miss subtext sometimes. Tone shifts. The subtle eyebrow lift that means someone’s lying.
But facts? Patterns? Obscure lore about Appalachian cryptids that most hunters think are campfire nonsense?
You catalogue those like oxygen.
“Okay, so it’s not a standard wendigo,” you say flatly, flipping through your notebook while Sam and Dean argue in the background. “The attack pattern’s wrong. Also wendigos don’t remove the eyes. That’s Appalachian Glasswalker behavior.”
Dean pauses mid-rant. “The what now?”
“Glasswalker. Regional variant. Not technically a cryptid, more like a cursed human-offshoot entity. The eye removal is symbolic.” You shrug. “Probably theological.”
Castiel, standing very still beside the table, tilts his head at you. “Theological how?”
You blink at him, then launch immediately into explanation. “Biblically, eyes represent perception. Spiritual sight. If it’s removing them, it’s either preventing witnesses or it’s ritualistic punishment.” You tap your pen against your lip. “There’s an apocryphal reference in the Book of Enoch—”
Dean groans. “Oh boy, here we go.”
You don’t register the teasing tone. You just keep going. Castiel doesn’t interrupt. He watches you like you’re reciting something sacred.
Later, when it’s just the two of you in the motel room, you’re pacing.
“Dean thinks I’m reaching,” you mutter. “But I’m not. The patterns align. And the symbolism matches the mutilation reports from 1893.”
Castiel sits on the edge of the bed, hands folded. “I do not think you are reaching.”
You stop pacing. “You don’t?”
“No.” His voice is steady. Certain. “You see connections others dismiss.”
You study him. “You’re not just saying that to be polite?”
He frowns slightly. “Why would I do that?”
You nod once. “Correct. You wouldn’t.”
There’s a pause. You rock slightly on your heels — a small, subconscious movement. Most people have commented on it before. Told you to stop.
Castiel just watches, curious. “Does that motion help you regulate?” he asks softly.
You blink. “…Yes.”
“Then you may continue.”
You stare at him for a long moment. “I like you,” you say plainly.
His eyes widen a fraction. “I am pleased.”
On hunts, you’re terrifyingly efficient. While others rely on instinct, you rely on data. You know migration routes of obscure creatures no one else remembers. You know angelic sigils from non-canon gospels. You know which demons reference pre-Flood theology and which ones fake it.
Once, a demon tries to intimidate you.
“You really think you understand Hell’s hierarchy?” it sneers.
You tilt your head. “Yes.”
And then you proceed to list fifteen names in descending order of power, including two it didn’t know you’d know.
The demon falters.
Castiel watches you like you hung the stars.
Afterward, when it’s over, you sit on the hood of the Impala, hands faintly trembling from adrenaline.
“You were remarkable,” Castiel says.
You don’t look at him. “I info-dumped on a demon.”
“It was effective.”
You nod. “That’s usually when people get annoyed.”
“I am not annoyed,” he says firmly. “I find your knowledge… extraordinary.”
You finally glance at him. “You don’t think I’m weird.”
He considers this very seriously. “I also do not understand most human social cues,” he says. “Dean says I am ‘deeply strange.’”
You huff a small laugh. “That’s accurate.”
He steps closer. “You are precise. Direct. Honest.” His voice softens. “I find that… comforting.”
Your brain short-circuits slightly. “You do?”
“Yes.”
There’s a long silence.
You decide to risk it. “Sometimes I don’t know when people are flirting,” you say bluntly. “Are you?”
Castiel pauses. Then, just as blunt: “Yes.”
You process that.
“…Okay.”
Another pause.
“You may continue,” you say.
Castiel’s lips twitch — not quite a smile, but close. “I admire your mind,” he says. “And I feel… calm around you. You do not require performance.”
You feel warmth rise up your neck. “I don’t like pretending,” you admit.
“Nor do I.”
He hesitates, then adds, “Would you be comfortable if I held your hand?”
Clear. Direct. No guessing.
You nod. “Yes.”
His fingers lace with yours carefully, like he’s memorizing the shape. It’s grounding. Steady. Real.
“You are not difficult,” he says quietly. “You are specific. There is a difference.”
Your throat tightens a little.
“No one’s ever said it like that.”
“Then they were incorrect.”
You squeeze his hand. “I like that you don’t expect me to be different.”
“I do not wish you to be.”
And for once There’s no confusion. No guessing. Just two beings who were never built for typical human subtlety. Understanding each other perfectly anyway.