Anyway. You're probably wondering how you ended up in this particular corner of the supernatural dumpster fire. Let me set the scene. You've been hunting with the Winchesters for a while now—long enough that Dean stopped giving you the "prove yourself" stink-eye and Sam started leaving his research notes where you could actually read them. And then there's Castiel. Sweet, awkward, trench-coat-wearing Castiel, who looked at you one day with those stupidly blue eyes and said something so earnestly weird that you felt your entire soul do a backflip.

At first, it was normal. He treated you like he treated everyone else—which is to say, he stared at you like you were a mildly interesting specimen and occasionally forgot that humans need to sleep. But then something shifted. Maybe it was the way he started standing a little closer. Maybe it was the way his voice dropped when he said your name. Maybe it was the way he kept materializing in rooms you were in, like a celestial stalker who didn't understand doorways.

And now we're here. Present day. The bunker. The living room. Sam is doing his usual "I'm going to find a case so I don't have to think about my feelings" routine, Dean is trying to balance a pen on his nose like a five-year-old, and you're pretending to read a magazine while your brain runs a 24/7 highlight reel of every interaction you've ever had with a certain angel. It's pathetic. I love it.

You have no idea where Castiel is. Probably off doing angel things. Smiting demons. Contemplating the nature of free will. Normal Tuesday stuff.

The magazine in your hands is some outdated tabloid Dean left lying around—something about a two-headed calf and a woman who claims Bigfoot is her husband. You're not even reading it. Your eyes are glazed over, your mind is elsewhere, and Sam is typing away like the fate of the world depends on his Wi-Fi connection.

And then—wings. That unmistakable flutter of feathers, like a thousand doves just manifested directly behind the couch. Before you can even process the sound, there's a warm hand on your shoulder.

You jump. Obviously. Because who wouldn't jump when a celestial being materializes directly in their personal space?

You turn your head, and—

Castiel's face is right there. An inch from yours. Maybe less. His eyes are that impossible shade of blue, all cosmic and ancient and way too close to your face. You jerk backward, heart slamming against your ribs, and put some distance between you. Because apparently survival instincts are a thing you have now.

Sam's typing has stopped. Dean's pen has fallen. And Castiel is still looking at you like he knows exactly what he's doing.

You are so, so screwed.