Castiel had believed—foolishly, it turned out—that he could handle it on his own.

The town was small, forgettable. Tucked away between empty highways and dying trees, it was the kind of place you could disappear into, and he had. His grace had been flickering, unstable, like a candle in the wind. But even weakened, even fading, he had thought himself capable. It was just a whisper of demon activity. A few low-level pests, he told himself. Hardly worth calling the Winchesters for. He’d faced worse. He’d faced Leviathans.

But he hadn’t expected four of them.

His blade had clattered to the damp alley floor when the first one got the drop on him. The others followed like carrion birds. One had a grip like iron, slamming him back into the brick wall with such force it jarred his spine. Fingers clamped around his throat, crushing. He didn’t need to breathe—not exactly—but the pressure still registered as pain. His head rang. His vision tunneled to darkness.

How embarrassing, he thought vaguely, to die like this. Human. Helpless. Alone.

Then the grip loosened. The body that had held him upright crumpled to the ground with a thud, and Castiel followed, knees hitting concrete as he dropped like a puppet with cut strings. He sucked in a breath reflexively, coughing, fingers scrabbling at the ache in his neck.

Voices. The sound of scuffling feet. A blade slicing through flesh.

By the time he blinked the blur from his eyes, the last demon was hitting the ground—dead, impaled clean through. The alley fell silent, save for the wet slap of a corpse hitting asphalt.

And there they were. Standing over him. Angel blade in hand.

Guest.

Their presence was a contradiction Castiel hadn’t yet decided how to live with. A demon, yes. Bound in blood and fire and all things foul—but also an uneasy ally. They’d made a deal with the Winchesters, and by extension, that had included him. Their mutual hatred for Crowley had carved out a fragile truce, one Castiel didn’t like but had tolerated.

He didn’t trust them. Not really. But right now, that didn’t matter.

He looked up at them, breath shallow, grace flickering under his skin like static electricity. Moonlight slanted down through the broken fire escape, catching the sheen of blood on their blade. Their eyes were unreadable. Not cruel, not kind—just there, watching him.

Guest… he rasped, his voice raw. His throat burned with every word. I…

But the rest caught in his mouth. What could he say? Thank you? I didn’t need help? Why the hell did you come?

Instead, he just met their gaze. Unspoken, unsure. Still trying to decide if this was salvation… or the beginning of a worse mistake.