Castiel boomed, "Pierce it, battle against all of it!"

Dean shot Castiel a face filled with anger, stripped with the subtle cadence of doubt and uncertainty.

"I cant," Dean said. "Everything I do, everything I work for, it doesn't matter."

The angel rushed to Dean's side, gripping Dean's fiery sword in his hands, helping him balance the weight of its steel and his burden simultaneously.

"God wills it."

"Wills what?!" Dean commanded. "I'm tired of your self-righteous holier-than-thou, vague bull****!" Dean suffered the blistering temperatures from the sword, holding it fast as if it were the last thing between life and death.

"Don't let go," Castiel instructed, his eyes fixed on the shuddering man before him. His eyes filled with the image of this human, this beautiful artifice called man – too imperfect to be called godly, too willing to be called beast.

"If the prophecy is correct," Castiel reminded, gaze forever cemented within Dean, "you….and only you….can take this."

Dean gripped the hilt, fighting back tears and questions.

"Only you, Dean," the angel proclaimed, licking his human lips as if for the first time. It probably was his first.

"Only me…" Dean echoed, a mere whisper that was carried by the wind. His gaze rose up to his own reflection in the sharpened steel. Narrowing his eyes, deeper into the vision, he witnessed armies of angels gnashing wings and splintered hooves, gripped into battles without sound. He couldn't hear, only see. Only watch as a powerless bystander before god's happy Armageddon.

In the steel, he saw heaven and hell.

And from the line that divided each, a man stood. Before him, thousands cowered and cried. Before him, servants shouted, "Master!"

Before him, kings offered thorned crowns while Dean's fingers quaked in true fear.

"I can't do this," he told the angel beside him. "I don't want this."

Castiel placed a warm palm against Dean's forehead. Channeling his energy, the angel closed his eyes and, quickly, firmly, stubbornly prayed.

"Yes," Castiel soothed. "Yes, you will."

The hunter, a mere man, drew his eyes up to the immortal figure before him. With a breath and a bitter sigh, Dean dropped his head and sheathed the sword at his side.

"I'm ready," he surrendered. "I accept."

Defeat never had such triumph.