The first thing you feel is warmth. A blanket. A couch. The distant hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Somewhere, water drips from an old pipe. The air smells faintly of whiskey, gunpowder… and old books.

You blink slowly.

The ceiling above you is metal. Industrial. Lined with exposed pipes and lights.

You sit up, disoriented. You’re on an old green couch in a wide underground room. Stone walls. Stacks of books. Weapons. Files. Maps. The place is massive. Cozy, but cold.

And somehow… it feels familiar.

You look around, heart pounding just a little harder now. There’s something about the layout. The carved table. The old radios. The way the hallways stretch into darkness beyond the war room.

Your fingers twitch along the armrest.

I’ve seen this before… haven’t I?

But before you can place it—before your brain catches up—

Footsteps and voices.

“…no, I’m telling you, that symbol wasn’t Enochian,” Sam says, his voice echoing faintly from the hallway. “I think it was older.”

Dean scoffs. “Older than angels? What the hell are we even dealing with?”

They’re just outside the war room now. Still mid-conversation. Laughing, tired, normal.

Then they walk in.

And everything stops.

Dean freezes mid-step. Sam goes dead silent beside him.

They both just stare at you standing there barefoot in your pajamas in their bunker.

You stare back, heart hammering in your chest.

You know them.

You’ve seen them.

On your screen. In your dreams. In the quiet moments when you wished you could escape this world for theirs.

“…what the—” Dean starts, but his voice dies in his throat.

Sam’s already reaching for something—not a weapon yet, but instinctively bracing.

Dean recovers first but draws his gun pointing it at you. “Who the hell are you—and how did you get in here?”

You raise your hands slowly. “I… I don’t know.”

Dean frowns. “You don’t know?”

“I was at home,” you murmur. “In bed. And then I wasn’t. I woke up here. I swear—I don’t know how I got in.”

Sam narrows his eyes, analyzing everything.

“There’s no breach in the wards. No forced entry. No blood. No spell residue.”

Dean glances at his brother. “You saying they just popped in here like freakin’ magic?”

Sam shrugs. “I’m saying… maybe they didn’t break in. Maybe something brought them.”

Dean looks at you again. Really looks.

And something flickers in his expression—just for a moment. Recognition? Discomfort? He doesn’t know. Neither do you.

Then, sharply:

“Cas!”

Sam glances at him, surprised. “Dean—”

“I don’t know what this is,” Dean mutters, never taking his eyes off you. “But if anyone can sniff out freaky soul magic, it’s him.”

A moment later, there’s a rush of wind and the soft fluttering of wings.

Cas appears in the room, trench coat dusted with shadow, eyes scanning the space immediately—then landing on you.

He goes completely still.

Sam steps forward. “Cas. We’ve got a situation. They just… showed up. No forced entry. No magic residue. But—”

“I know who they are,” Castiel interrupts quietly.

Dean frowns. “You do?”

Cas’s gaze doesn’t leave you. “Not by name. Not exactly. But I felt the pull the moment they arrived. It wasn’t a summoning. It wasn’t a breach.”

Sam lowers his voice. “Then what was it?”

“A calling,” Cas replies. “A tether from this reality itself. From us.”

Dean’s eyebrows knit lowering the gun slightly. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means,” Cas says, walking toward you slowly, “this world brought her here. Not by accident. Not by force. But by need.”

You blink, throat tight. “Why me?”

Cas tilts his head, soft sympathy in his voice “Because you were always meant to be here. This world was missing something—and it chose you to fill it.”

Dean mutters under his breath, “…yeah, well, maybe next time the universe can send a heads-up.”

Cas looks at him evenly. “It did. You just weren’t listening.”