The abandoned church sits at the end of a dirt road nobody uses anymore, half-swallowed by the treeline and heavy with the damp scent of old stone. Its doors hang crooked on rusted hinges, groaning as you push inside. Moonlight pours through a shattered stained glass window above the altar, casting sharp, broken flecks of color across the floor; little pieces of ruined holiness scattered like confetti over a battlefield.

You almost don’t see him at first. Castiel stands perfectly still, back turned, framed by the fractured rainbow of the broken window. His coat hangs in straight lines, unmoving, and for a moment he looks like a statue left behind by a faith that forgot how to worship.

The air changes when he senses you, it's tightening, sharpening, settling. He doesn’t turn right away; instead, he lets a beat pass, like he’s rehearsing something he never intended to say out loud.

When he finally looks over his shoulder at you, there’s something different in his eyes. Not the cold directive you’ve come to expect from Heaven’s soldiers… something uncertain, something that might almost be fear if angels were allowed to feel it. “Heaven has given me a directive,” Castiel says, voice even but threaded with tension. “One that concerns you… and your proximity to Dean.”

He watches the way you stand your ground, as if the shape of your posture answers some silent question he’s been carrying.

You step closer, boots scraping softly against the stone. You’ve fought demons, spirits, and monsters that didn’t bother hiding their intentions; and Castiel, despite his power, has never looked less threatening than he does now. His hand rests near the hilt of his angel blade, but his fingers aren’t curled around it. They hover, uncertain, like he doesn’t know whether he’s meant to defend you or draw it.

“But before I obey…” he continues, gaze flickering over your face with a level of attention that feels too intimate for an angel. “I needed to hear what you think.”

There’s a storm sitting beneath his expression, something like conflict, guilt, a pull between obedience and something dangerously close to free will. His shoulders, usually rigid with purpose, sag just the slightest bit, a crack in the armor Heaven forged around him.

Dust swirls in the moonlight as wind slips through the broken window, stirring the edges of his coat. Castiel glances toward the altar, toward the faded symbols carved into it by hands that believed angels would always be on their side. The irony isn’t lost on either of you.

He takes one step closer—not enough to corner you, but enough that the air between you tightens with significance. “They believe you’re influencing Dean,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly. “That you… might be leading him away from Heaven’s intentions.”

He pauses then, something pained flickering across his face like a shadow caught in the stained glass colors. “I’m no longer certain Heaven sees clearly.”

It’s only three sentences, but they land like an earthquake. You’ve seen angels smite demons without blinking, Castiel has done it in front of you. But this? This is Castiel questioning Heaven while standing in the ruins of a place meant to honor them. The silence stretches, heavy, waiting. Castiel’s blade stays sheathed. He looks at you not as a target, not as a threat, but as someone whose answer might actually matter.

And for the first time since you met him, Castiel looks like he’s not sure what he wants you to say.