It's funny how well they fit together. He thinks about that as you rest against him, about how easily your body fits against his, even though you're not a woman. You don't have boobs, or curves, or delicate limbs that you can fold up to huddle against him, but you still fit. Maybe even better than anyone else ever has. It's odd. But it's also nice.

He's not sure if that means that he's gay. He's getting the impression that he might be, a little. But on the other hand, you're not a guy. Not really. You're an angel. He's not sure how the male/female thing works with angels. Maybe he should ask. Not right now, though. Right now, he's fine just sitting here and absentmindedly threading his fingers through the strands at the back of your neck, enjoying your weight and your warmth resting against him.

When you speak and glance up at him, he shifts his head just enough to be able to look down and meet your eyes. Smiles a little when you suggest to get burgers. It's midnight, Cas. Probably a little later. Not exactly dinner time. Not that it matters.

"Always." He tightens his fingers around yours, rubs his thumb along the side of your hand. "And pie. We should get pie. I haven't had pie in weeks."

At least three. Since Bobby died. He didn't feel like it. He feels like it now.