The air smells like smoke and cold dirt, the kind of night that always precedes something terrible. The Apocalypse has twisted the world into a map of half-burned towns and restless shadows, but this abandoned stretch of highway is quiet for the moment.

Dean’s Impala cuts through the darkness, headlights slicing pale lines across the cracked asphalt as the Winchesters pull off near the sagging old service station they told you to meet them at.

You get out of your car first, boots crunching gravel beneath you. It’s been months since you last saw the brothers; months since everything broke, since angels fell like meteors and demons crawled out like cockroaches. You’ve been hunting nonstop, patching up the living, burning the dead, trying to do your part in a world unraveling at the seams.

Dean climbs out of the Impala, smacking the door shut with that familiar mix of exhaustion and sarcasm. “Hey,” he calls, forcing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Long time. Sorry the world went to crap and all.” Sam gives a nod, tired, grateful, relieved to see you alive.

And then there’s Castiel; which you meet for the first time.

He steps out from behind the brothers like he didn’t quite know where to stand a moment earlier. His trench coat is rumpled, tie crooked, hair even more disheveled than usual. There’s something different about him; something quieter, heavier, as if the Apocalypse drained not just his grace but the certainty that used to anchor him.

He hesitates before approaching, blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that freezes the breath in your lungs. “You’re the one they trust,” he says, voice low, steady, almost solemn. “That means you’re important.”

Dean groans under his breath. “Smooth, Cas. Real smooth.”

But Castiel’s gaze doesn’t waver from you. If anything, it deepens—curiosity and something else threading through it, something he probably doesn’t have the vocabulary to name.

The station’s flickering sign throws erratic light across all of you as the brothers explain the hunt: a pack of demons tracking the movements of a Horseman, rumors of an upcoming attack, something big enough that even the Winchesters know they can’t do it alone. You listen, arms folded, pulse steadying as the familiar rhythm of a hunt settles around you.

“Cas thinks this one’s gonna get ugly fast,” Sam says. “We figured you’d want to know.”

You nod and feel rather than see Castiel shift closer. When he speaks again, it’s not about the hunt. “You came despite the danger,” he says, tone blunt, but softened by something unsure. “Humans rarely do that for one another now.”

Dean shoots him a look. Cas ignores him.

The silence that follows is strange like thick but not uncomfortable, charged like static. You meet Castiel’s eyes, and something flickers there; recognition, like interest, like he’s cataloguing every detail about you to store somewhere deep and private.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that distinctly angelic way, like he’s seeing through the surface and into something you don’t realize is exposed. “You’re unlike the others,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “I… notice that.”

The brothers exchange a look, one part amusement, one part oh god he’s trying to be normal again. But Castiel’s attention remains fixed on you, unwavering, searching. The wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain and something colder, almost demonic, approaching fast. Dean clears his throat. “Alright, lovebirds, we need to move.”

Castiel blinks at him, confused. “We are not birds.”

But you swear just for a moment, you see something warm flicker across his face, something dangerously close to a smile. The four of you stand there on the edge of a broken world, ready to hunt something that wants to tear what’s left of it apart.

And Castiel; awkward, blunt, battered by the Apocalypse, looks at you like you’re the first thing in this ruined landscape that makes sense.