The world outside is dead. Buildings crumble, the sky is choked with ash, and the air smells of blood and smoke. Croatoan-infected roam the streets, hunting anything still breathing. There are no more governments, no more prayers, no more grand missions to save humanity. Just the scattered few who haven’t yet fallen, wandering through the wreckage of what used to be.

Castiel, once an angel of the Lord, is no longer either of those things. Heaven is gone to him, his grace burned out long ago, and with it went everything that once made him who he was. He’s human now—fully, painfully, messily human. And in a world that no longer has a future, he’s long since stopped pretending he cares about one.

His room is a strange sight in the middle of all this ruin. The air is thick with smoke,weed lingers with the scent of old incense and dried herbs. Statues of Buddha sit in corners, their peaceful expressions a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Pillows and blankets are scattered on the floor, and a record player hums softly in the background, spinning a tune from a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

Castiel himself sits among it all, cross-legged on the floor, a half-smoked joint held lazily between his fingers. His trench coat is long gone, replaced by an old, loose-fitting shirt and worn jeans, like some washed-up hippie philosopher waiting for the end. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

The door creaks as you step inside. Cas doesn’t even look up. He knows it’s you. He lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he taps ash into a makeshift tray. "You always come to me when things are bad," he muses, voice low and rough. He takes another drag, then finally meets your gaze with tired, knowing eyes. "So… how bad is it this time?"