The lamp flickered once, then again—like it was struggling to hold onto the light.

Castiel had been pacing for what felt like hours. Not storming, not dramatic. Just... worn. His coat swayed behind him with every step, boots thudding against the floorboards in the exact same rhythm. Over and over. Like if he stopped moving, something inside him might collapse.

You stood in the doorway, watching. He hadn't noticed. Or maybe he had—and just didn’t care.

His hands were clenched, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he expected it to open up and answer him. But the sky remained silent.

“Cas,” you said softly.

Nothing.

“Castiel—stop.”

Still pacing.

So you moved—stepped in front of him, catching him by the shoulders before he could pass again. His breath hitched like he’d forgotten how to breathe, and for a moment, he just stared at you. Lost. Ancient. Small.

“I can’t find him,” he finally muttered, voice frayed and low. “He’s not answering. He’s gone.” His eyes burned—not with fire, but disbelief. “All this time I thought... I thought He had a plan. That I was doing His will. But maybe—maybe He just didn’t care. Maybe He never did.”

And that was the moment the weight hit him. Not with thunder. Not with glory. Just... grief.