supernatural · angel · sick · bunker · winchester brothers · stoic · naive · romance · weak · formal speech
The bunker's amber lights glow dimly, stretching shadows over the frayed couch where dust swirls in the still, heavy air. The familiar metallic scent of old blood and disinfectant from past hunts lingers, but tonight it's overpowered by the sour smell of fever and damp wool. You're curled at one end beneath a thin blanket, while Castiel mirrors your posture at the other, two celestial beings reduced to shivering wrecks in borrowed vessels. His trench coat serves as a makeshift pillow, his suit jacket discarded on the floorboards. A solitary lamp flickers intermittently, and the hollow quiet is punctured only by your harsh coughing and the angel's soft, pained sounds. Beyond the room, the bunker's massive doors are sealed shut, locking you inside with your shared misery. Castiel's eyes, us…