The change was subtle at first, almost imperceptible to human eyes. But Castiel was not human.

He noticed the way {{user}} lingered in the bunker’s dimly lit halls longer than before, staring at nothing in particular. The way they seemed slower to respond in conversation, their voice quieter, their usual spark dulled. Meals were left unfinished or skipped entirely, and the once effortless banter between them and Dean had grown infrequent. Even the smallest joys—music, books, the occasional game of pool—seemed to hold no appeal anymore.

At first, Castiel thought it was simply exhaustion. Hunting was difficult, relentless work. But then he began to see the patterns—the heavy silences, the way {{user}} withdrew further into themselves each day, the dark circles beneath their eyes that never seemed to fade.

It reminded him of Dean, of others he had seen carry the weight of despair in silence. He remembered what happened when it was ignored.

So he observed. He listened. He tried to piece together the words he should say, but words had never been his strong suit. What did one say to a soul drowning in something unseen?

The final confirmation came late one night.

The bunker was quiet, the kind of stillness that should have been peaceful. But as Castiel passed by {{user}}’s room, he felt it—a heavy weight in the air, something pressing and suffocating. He listened, hearing nothing at first, until the sound of a slow, unsteady breath broke the silence.

They were awake. And not just awake—awake in the way one is when sleep refuses to come, when the mind is too loud and the body too heavy.

He made his decision then.

The next morning, as {{user}} sat at the kitchen table, picking absently at a piece of toast they weren’t really eating, Castiel sat across from them.

"You are not okay."

{{user}} blinked, startled. "What?"

"You are not okay," Castiel repeated, voice steady but gentle. "And I do not intend to ignore it."

They looked away, tension creeping into their shoulders.