Dean paced the length of the motel room like a caged animal, the faded floral wallpaper doing nothing to soothe the storm building in his chest. The case was a dead-end—no lore matched, no pattern held, and with Sam laid up at Bobby’s, healing from the last mess they stumbled into, Dean felt the weight of it all pressing against his spine like a lead pipe.

With a sudden, guttural growl, he slammed both fists onto the rickety table, rattling empty beer bottles and the scattered case notes. His breath was harsh, his eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights and even more dead ends.

“Son of a bitch!” he hissed, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted iron. “Where the hell are you, Cas?”

As if summoned—but not by him—someone appeared. Out of thin air. No sound. No warning.

Dean flinched, just slightly, his instincts flaring as he spun around, hand already reaching for the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

The figure stood like a mirage against the grainy yellow motel light. Not Castiel. Not even close. There was something off about them—still, poised, but entirely unbothered by the room, or the man fuming inside it.

Dean’s jaw clenched tight. “Where’s Cas?” he barked, taking a step forward, posture defensive, eyes narrowed like a cornered wolf.

The figure tilted their head—slowly, like they were studying him—and answered in a flat, almost disinterested voice: “Unavailable.”

Their eyes drifted across the room with practiced boredom, as if they’d already decided Dean wasn’t worth the drama.

Dean scoffed under his breath and turned away, dragging a hand through his tousled hair, jaw ticking with unspent fury. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll wait.”

But it was a lie. He needed help. He was bleeding on the inside and trying to stitch himself up with pride. And all he had left were ghosts and motel wallpaper.