Castiel had watched as Dean slipped further into despair, caving in on himself while everything fell apart. Dean hadn't seen him, the cold look on his face, or how much Castiel hadn't cared. Bobby's house had been empty save for Dean's hoarse cries into the night. No Bobby. No Sam.

Wrath had a devastating way of destroying everything it touched.

The death of Bobby and Sam had thrown Dean into a world of pain and self-punishment, assuaged momentarily by booze and intensified when the dull embrace of inebriation faded away. Castiel had felt Dean rip apart from the inside out, soul bleeding and crumbling, leaving him a shell of what he once was. And it had brought Castiel satisfaction. He should have felt sorrow, compassion. But he hadn't. Castiel had swelled with an endless, chaotic energy and it had suffocated whatever feelings he once had for Dean. This new God had not been a loving one, but an angry, merciless one.

Dean had cursed his name, had damned this new God to Hell, and Castiel's smug smile had reflected his indulgence. Castiel had remembered what it felt like to be betrayed, had felt its dull sting in the part of him that was still the naive angel. The angel that had been still in love with a pathetic man. Those feelings of abandonment had translated well into the wrath he had brandished like a vengeful sword, cutting and destroying everything in his path. Because of one man, the new God had left the world in ruins. Because of one man, Castiel had become his shadow self, darkly mirroring what his compassionate Father had been. Instead of love, Castiel had embraced hate, and punishment substituted forgiveness. And everyone had suffered. Everyone. Especially Dean.

Anger had a way of blowing itself out. Regret, the ability to rip asunder.

When his rage had eventually played itself out, the feeling that had been left behind was an empty one, expanding deep and wide into the part of him that could still feel. That part of him had surged with sorrow and regret, and the new God couldn't help but feel its hollow echo. And when Dean had taken his own life, the angel part of Castiel rebelled against the stoicism that had imprisoned him. Once freed, he couldn't keep the walls from crumbling. The tidal wave of loss and despair had washed over him, inundated and destroyed him.

"I have never met a God with a wrath quite like yours. And to think it was all because of one man."

Castiel didn't need to look over his shoulder to know he wasn't alone, could sense Death's presence before he had spoken a word. Castiel didn't want to feel anymore. He didn't want to continue in a time and place where Dean didn't. The very fibers of his being screamed, begging him to reconsider, and began to curl away from this powerful entity. Standing behind him, the skeletal visage stared at Castiel with black, emotionless eyes that carried the weight of finality itself. Every single one of his many souls writhed in agony, burning at the delicate edges in anticipation.

Everything had its ending.

"Why did you call—"

"Reap me." Castiel said gravely.

And silence was absolute.

"Already? But we've done so much together, you and I. The destruction you laid on this world was… simply remarkable. And so early in your reign. It would be terrible to see that talent go to waste."

Castiel turned a cold glare at the gaunt figure, heavily punctuating every word. "Reap. Me."

"Do you know how difficult it is to find a new Go—"

"Please. Just…" Castiel trailed off.

Death said nothing and stared at him, perhaps silently acknowledging the defeat in Castiel's face and the surrender in the way his shoulders hung. He didn't need to look to know that Death had drawn his sickle, an ancient weapon that had possibly reaped many versions of God before his. He could feel the end, how near it was, and how much he seemed to welcome it.

"Dean… please forgive me.."

Castiel closed his eyes and pictured the smile on Dean's face, the sparkle in his stunning green eyes and how the sun always favored the light dusting of freckles over his face. Nothing could be more painful than knowing he had destroyed everything he loved about Dean. How the humor in his eyes had died, the revelation that Castiel hadn't seen that smile in… years. Not even the pain of Death's sickle, the way it sliced into skin and sent thousands of souls into nuclear meltdown, could amount to the anguish he had felt when he lost Dean.

There was a blinding, white light—