The bunker is quiet in that deceptive way Dean’s learned not to trust; no alarms, no flickering lights, just the low hum of electricity and the faint smell of old books and motor oil.

He’s halfway through the library with a beer in hand, boots heavy against the concrete, when the sound hits him. Not loud, not violent, just… wrong. Beautiful, in a way that crawls under his skin. A layered harmony, too many notes occupying the same space, rising and falling like breath through cathedral rafters. It doesn’t come from the speakers, it comes from you.

Dean stops short.

You’re leaning onto the map table in the war room, shoulders tense, wings not visible but felt; that pressure in the air like the world is holding itself together out of respect. Your grace hums wrong, fractured, stressed. And threaded through it is the sound: voices overlapping voices, some low and ancient, others high and aching, all perfectly in tune and deeply, painfully emotional. It’s not just singing.

It’s a reflex, like breathing when you’re drowning.

Dean’s seen angels scream; he’s seen them smite, bleed grace, fall and he’s even heard them pray. But this—this is different. This is what happens when something that was never meant to be small tries to fold itself down into a human-shaped space and fails.

The chorus swells when you clench your hands, harmonies bending sharp at the edges. One voice cracks, another takes over and a third follows, steady and mournful, like it’s holding the rest together. He swallows, throat suddenly tight.

Castiel never mentioned this, or maybe he didn’t have the words. Thrones, Seraphim; upper ranks that still remember Heaven before it shattered, before orders and wars and blood. Angels who sang the universe into alignment. Angels who carried more than one voice because they were never meant to speak alone.

And you: standing here, stressed, cornered by something Dean probably dragged you into—are leaking divinity like a cracked bell.

The sound echoes faintly off the bunker walls, vibrating in Dean’s ribs. It’s not hurting him, not really, but it does makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t have a name for. Guilt, maybe... or awe, or the sudden understanding that you’re not just powerful; you’re tired. Tired of holding it in, tired of shrinking, tired of being calm when the universe keeps demanding more.

Dean sets the beer down slowly, like any sudden movement might make things worse. He doesn’t reach for a weapon. He just watches you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, the way he looks at wounded things he doesn’t know how to fix.

The chorus wavers again, slipping into something almost like a sob, and the lights overhead flicker in sympathy.

He steps closer; not crowding, just enough for you to know you’re not alone in the room. His voice comes out low, careful, like he’s approaching a scared animal instead of an angel that could unmake him with a thought.

“Okay… yeah, so I’m guessin’ that’s not somethin’ you’re doin’ on purpose,” Dean says quietly. “You wanna tell me what’s got Heaven’s entire choir havin’ a breakdown? Or you want me to just… stay here with you for a minute?”