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Dean kept looking at him, in the day and weeks that followed, as if he believed that he still knew Castiel. As if he couldn’t see the wings - no, as if he could see them and thought of them as no more than an interesting skill. As if an angel and a human could really be friends and brothers and it was as simple as that, until sometimes Castiel wanted to shake him and say, Dean, don’t you remember, I am a monster. Because Dean was too forgiving, and Dean was a better man than Castiel.

Because Castiel’s honour had become a flexible thing.