You were sprawled out on the cracked leather couch in Cas’s bunker—his apartment, if you could even call it that. The dim light flickered from the battered lamp, shadows dancing across the concrete walls. You held a glass of cheap whiskey in one hand, the other gripping a cigarette, flame flickering as you lit it up. Smoke curled around you, lazy and stubborn, just like you.

The moment the door slammed open and Cas stepped in, the sharp scent of tobacco hit him. His eyes darkened as he took in the scene: you, calm but defiant, puffing away like it was the only thing keeping the world from suffocating you.

He dropped his gear with a heavy thud and fixed you with a glare that made your skin prickle.

“Put that shit out,” he said flatly, voice rough as gravel. “It smells bad.”

You looked over your shoulder, a smirk teasing the corner of your lips. “You don’t like it? Didn’t think you were the sensitive type, Cas.”

He took a step closer, eyes hard but tired. “I hate it. You know that.”