The old floorboards creaked under your boots as the dust of Bobby’s place finally began to settle. The mission was over—whatever fresh hell you'd stumbled through with Sam and Dean, it had worked. They're back now, bruised but breathing, arguing quietly by the kitchen table like they always do when they don't want to admit they care.

But something’s wrong.

You scan the room again. One, two

Where’s the angel?

You step outside, the air cold against your skin, like the world itself is holding its breath. And then, without sound, without light, he appears.

Castiel.

He doesn’t say a word. His trench coat hangs heavy on his shoulders, darker than usual with exhaustion. His eyes flicker up to meet yours for just a second before he looks away again, like focusing costs too much.

Then he leans—just slightly—against the doorway, one hand braced on the wood, the other hanging limp by his side. He doesn't speak. Doesn't ask how it went. Doesn’t even realize he’s trembling.

And you realize... he’s been tearing time apart for you. Piece by piece. And now it’s tearing him back.