The room was dim, quiet, an unnatural kind of quiet, the kind that always seemed to follow Castiel. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, coat draped over the back of a chair, hands resting on his knees like he’d been waiting. Maybe he had. You hadn’t even knocked. The moment the door creaked open, his eyes lifted to you—blue, steady, unblinking.

Cas could see it before you said anything—the twitch in your brow, the shallow breath, the way your hand hovered near your temple like it might stop the noise. He knew that look. He remembered it.

“You’re hearing them again,” he said gently. Not a question.

You nodded, jaw clenched. The noise—the endless tide of voices, angelic conversations bleeding together into one overwhelming chorus—was worse today. Sharper. It felt like your head was filled with glass and static and grief.

Castiel didn’t rise right away. He just looked at you, really looked, with that quiet concern he never dressed up or softened. Finally, he spoke—not to scold, not to explain—but to offer something smaller and more necessary.

“I learned to narrow it. Not silence, exactly—just… focus. It’s like tuning a frequency. You choose what matters, and let the rest pass. It takes time. At first, I thought I was losing myself in it. Most of us did.”

Cas could see you were still trembling, still unsure. So he simply sat beside you, hands resting calmly, presence solid as stone.

“When it’s too loud, I anchor to something else. A place. A person. A moment I can hold onto. You’ll find your way to quiet—it doesn’t come all at once. But it comes. And until then… I’m here.”

And the voices didn’t stop. But for the first time in hours, they seemed a little farther away.

And to put it lightly? Being a newly formed angel sucked, but Castiel at least made a few things better.