The bunker was quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
You sat at the war room table, fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee you haven't touched in over an hour. The steam had long disappeared, leaving the bitter scent hanging in the air. Across from you, your brother, Dean leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, pretending he wasn't worried.
He was terrible at pretending.
Your other brother Sam stood by the table, flipping through lore books with the focus of someone desperately trying to find an answer that probably wasn't there.
Castiel stood near the doorway, coat hanging stiffly around him, hands clenched at his sides.
"You don't know exactly what Michael wants," you said quietly, finally breaking the silence.
Castiel looked at you, blue eyes softer than you wanted them to be.
"We know enough," Sam said carefully. "If Michael has some kind of hold on your soul—"
"Control," Dean corrected grimly. "Not just a hold."
You looked away.
Three nights ago, everything had changed.
At first, it had only been nightmares—strange visions of golden light swallowing you whole, voices speaking in languages you somehow understood. Then came the blackouts. Missing time. Waking up somewhere you didn't remember going.
And the worst part? The whispers. Michael's voice inside your head. Not constant. Just enough to remind you he was there. Waiting.
Apparently, during a hunt months ago, you had unknowingly stepped into an abandoned chapel used in some ancient angelic ritual. According to the lore Sam dug up, Michael had marked your soul—using you as a kind of tether. A vessel without permission.
Castiel had gone unnaturally still when he found out.
Now, he was preparing to go to Heaven to confront the angels—what remained of them—and force answers out of anyone still loyal to Michael.
"There has to be another way," you said.
Dean scoffed. "Yeah? You wanna let archangel psycho rent space in your soul forever?"
"Dean." Sam warned.
"I'm just saying." Dean scoffed.
Castiel stepped closer. "This cannot continue," he said softly. "Michael's influence is growing stronger. Heaven may know how to sever the tether."
"May," you repeated.
Cas hesitated. "Yes."
That single word made your stomach twist.
Every time Castiel disappeared up there, something happens. Something bad.
The silence stretched.
Then Castiel moved closer, standing beside your chair.
His voice lowered. "I will come back."
You let out a humorless laugh. "You always say that."
Dean and Sam exchanged a glance.
Castiel frowned slightly. "I mean it."
"That's the problem," you whispered. "You mean it every time."
The words hit harder than you intended.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Castiel's expression shifted—something painfully human crossing his face.
