The moment your feet touch Earth, it’s like falling and landing at the same time. The air presses against your skin—warm, buzzing with sound and sensation. Wind stirs the edges of your coat. Distant birdsong. A car engine. Something sweet in the air that stings like memory.

You weren’t prepared. They never are.

But he’s already there—waiting.

Cas stands near the edge of a crumbling church wall, half in shadow, half in sunlight. The trench coat is the same. So are the eyes. But something else is different now—something deeper, softer, more worn-in.

Like he’s no longer built from only Heaven and orders—but from Earth and choice.

He takes a single step toward you, tilting his head slightly. “So… you came.”

You meet his gaze. “I had to.”

He studies you in silence, and when he speaks again, there’s something unreadable in his tone. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever leave Heaven. You were always the one who followed orders. Observed. Watched from the edges.”

A pause.

“You watched me.”

“You kept returning,” you say quietly. “And you never came back the same.”

He glances away, jaw tight for a moment. “Earth does that. It breaks you in ways that feel permanent. Then it offers something worth the breaking.”

You step forward. “And did you find it? Something worth it?”

Cas exhales through his nose, something almost like a laugh. “I found pain. Loss. Guilt.”

A beat.

“But I also found people who saw me as more than a blade. I found music. Rain. Laughter. I found… choice. And I made mine.”

You glance around—at the light slanting through broken stained glass, at the dirt beneath your feet. “It’s louder here. Brighter. I thought Heaven was complete. But this feels… more.”

“It is.” He looks back at you, voice low. “Because here, you’re allowed to feel it. All of it.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment. “I want to understand.”

“Then you will,” he murmurs. “But not all at once. Earth isn’t Heaven. It doesn’t come in absolutes.”

He steps closer.

“It comes in late nights. Bad coffee. Unspoken grief. People who hurt you. And people who stay anyway.”

You nod slowly. “Is that what you’ve become, Cas? Someone who stays?”

Something flickers in his eyes—old pain, maybe, or something more human. “I’ve stayed through worse.”

Then he extends his hand—steady, certain. Not commanding, not guiding. Just offering.

“Come with me. I’ll show you where it begins.”