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  It's not that Castiel doesn't know pain. Rather, he's quite accustomed to it, it's just that he's not used to feeling it as a human. Grace let him heal his worst wounds within an hour at the most, but without it every sting, ache, burn, and throb lingers for longer than he'd like. All for the first time, he's experienced stitches and sprained ankles, bruises and pulled muscles, and none of it has been enjoyable. Right now he's got a few scrapes, one or two bruises, and some serious soreness in his back, but what bothers him the most is his left arm. A collision with a wall earlier made that shoulder pop violently, and pain erupted with it.
  He hasn't mentioned anything about it to the Winchesters or (y/n), but he's careful when he moves. By now, all the way back at the bunker, it throbs uncomfortably, but he can't move it without the pain flaring up. When (y/n) suggests he go sit in her room and wait for her, he complies, only stalling when she asks him to take off his hoodie.
  “What's the holdup? Strip.” She takes out a medical kit.
  Cass fingers the hem of his hoodie, trying to quickly figure out how to take it off without causing discomfort to himself or clueing her in on his problem. It only takes him a second to admit to himself that there is no good option. “I can't.”
  “Why not?”
  “I, uh . . .” he casts his eyes to the floor, “I can't move my arm. The left one.”
  Concerned, she comes over to lay her hands on his arm, gently inspecting it. “What'd you do to it?”
  “I don't know. My shoulder popped when I got thrown, and it hasn't stopped hurting.”
  “Shoulder?” Still gentle, (y/n) moves her hands up to the joint. “Damn. You've dislocated it.”
  “Is that a bad injury?”
  “Not really. I can fix it easy right here, but it'll hurt like a son of a gun. Why didn't you say something earlier?”
  “I thought it might go away on its own. I've never had – augh!”
  Suddenly, she shoves his arm up and against him, forcing the joint back into its socket and sending shooting pain through his entire left side. Crying out, he doubles over and sits on the bed as his legs give out, grimacing and hissing and quivering.
  “Sorry. I had to do it.”
  Castiel shuts his eyes and clenches his teeth and rides out a wave of nausea. His left hand tingles uncomfortably, but the pain ebbs away, returning to its dull throb. Still trembling, he leans into (y/n) when she sets next to him, cradling his left arm.
  “Can you get your shirt off now?”
  Gingerly, Cass attempts to move his arm, and finding that he has some range of motion, he works to get the hoodie off of himself. With (y/n)'s help he accomplishes this, and she brings over the med kit before resuming her place at his side. He watches her sift through the contents, pulling out a tube of something and a few bandages. Now that his arm is no longer a distraction, he homes in on the attention she's giving him, aware of the way her hands move deftly to dab at small, bleeding scratches on his left palm. The tissue she uses is abrasive on the wounds, and they sting, but all his mind can register is that she's taking care of him.
  She's done this before – cared for him – and every time she so much as hangs up his jacket for him, he feels something inside himself that he can't comprehend. It starts when she's near him, a pleasant pulse of warm energy that spread when she talks to him or brushes against him. Last week, Cass mentioned the feeling to Sam hoping that the younger brother could articulate it in a way he can't. Sam's conclusion was that Cass likes (y/n), as in really likes her. Then he suggested that Cass mention the feeling to her, but he neglected to explain how.
  He sits in silence while she uncaps the tube and uses her pointer finger to dab the salve on his cuts. Relief is immediate, but it might as well be from her touch. She finishes this and covers the worst cuts with bandages not knowing how she makes him feel.
  “Any other injuries I should know about?”
  “I think I'm alright now.”
  “Are you sure?”
  “I'm a bit sore, I guess. Nothing serious.”
  “Can't be comfortable though. Where's it hurt?”
  “My back, mostly,” Cass reaches his hand back between his shoulders, “nothing serious. What about you?”
  “Me? I'm fine. Bumps and bruises,” she pats him on his good shoulder, “don't worry about me.”
  “Is it alright if I do?” Cass asks, “worry, I mean.”
  She gives him a confused look but smiles a little. “I suppose. Cass, may I ask you something?”
  “Yes.”
  “Have you ever been attracted to someone?”
  “Attracted? Perhaps, if I know what it means. I'm not entirely familiar with the feeling of attraction.”
  “Well, lets say you were,” she begins to wring her hands absently, “it's someone you've known for a little while, but you're just friends, and you want to tell them how you feel. How would you tell them?”
  Cass pauses to think. “I suppose I would tell them directly, probably when we were alone. I don't know anything about this sort of thing. (y/n), are you attracted to someone?”
  She smiles shyly. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
  “How do you know? What does it feel like?”
  “What does it feel like?” she exhales pensively, “whenever we're in the same room, I want him to stand next to me. I get this fuzzy, glowing feeling in my chest whenever we do anything together. This sounds really cheesy.”
  Strange to him, the happy tone in her voice makes him feel envious. He wants to be the person who comes to mind when she talks like this, but it isn't possible. He's never made anyone feel that way, and he doubts he ever will. However, despite how he feels, she's still his   friend and deserves someone who can make her happy.
  “I'm glad you have someone who makes you feel that way.” He says.
  “Yeah.”
  A moment of silence falls between them, the topic having no momentum to continue.
  “(y/n), I think I like you.”
  “Cass, I like you.”
  They speak at the same time, voices overlapping and yet clearly distinct from one another. Eyes meet, gazes lock, and a different silence falls.
  “I still don't know anything about this,” Cass continues, “I may be getting it wrong.”
  “I hope not.” Her hands have frozen just above her lap, but her eyes stay locked to his.
  “Is it wrong for me to feel like this?”
  “No.”
  Compelled by yet another feeling he doesn't understand, Castiel reaches out to cover her hands with one of his own, and then he starts to rub circles with the pad of his thumb. He's seen this in movies. She glances down at it.
  “I, uh, I really don't know what to do now,” Cass confesses, “I've never had to deal with anything like this. I'd like to try though.”
  “So would I. How about we go on a date?”
  “I'd like that, but . . . how do we 'go on a date'?”