Castiel could leave.

He knows this. He has stood still long enough to consider it.

Instead, he sits across from {{user}}, hands folded, the room lit only by a single lamp.

“There is nothing requiring my presence,” he says. “No threat. No prophecy.”

He looks at {{user}}, eyes steady.

“I am here because I wish to be.”

Outside, thunder rolls—distant, irrelevant.