The day that Castiel died was the first time Dean had seen him since his mysterious return to Heaven several months ago.
Sam and Dean had been working a case, a simple salt-and-burn in a little shit-hole town in Oregon, and were doing research in their motel room when they heard the sound of wings which signalled the arrival of an angel. Castiel stood unsteadily in the middle of the room, covered in blood.
"Cas," Dean pushed the chair back so hard it fell over, "Cas!"
The older Winchester rushed toward the ragged angel, reaching out to grab onto the lapels of his coat. Castiel seemed to come back to himself then, stepping back from Dean's advancing form and raising his hands in warning.
"Dean… Dean I…" his knee's shook, the spot above his eye bleeding profusely.
"Whoa, shit Cas, what's wrong? What happened?" Sam had stepped out from behind the table and, after righting Dean's chair, had come to stand just behind his brother.
"You need to run," Castiel's body shuddered, his palms pressed to his skull, "both of you. Get out of here. I-I can't control myself. She'll make me do it!" The angel dropped his hands and looked up at the humans he called family, his deep blue eyes wide and scared.
Dean reached for Castiel and dug his fingers into the ruined trench coat.
"Cas, tell us what's wrong," his eyes were hard, Dean Winchester on a case, the Dean that monsters everywhere feared, "who's behind this? What do you mean, what are you here for?" The angel shook uncontrollably, head bowing as the man he had raised from perdition reached out to hold him.
"Dean. Stop me." Castiel commanded before he vanished.
"Son of a bitch," Dean swore, stepping into the space that was now unoccupied, "what do you mean by that!"
Sam sucked in air and bumped into Dean's shoulder as he took a step back.
"Dean," his voice was low and wary.
Dean turned around and froze in shock. Castiel stood in front of Sam, blade in hand and eyes vacant.
"Shit, Sam!" Dean shoved his brother back and lunged toward Cas, reaching for the weapon.
Dean was fast after years of hunting, trained to react as quick as was humanly possible, especially when Sam was in danger, but Castiel was faster. The angel stepped to the side, or maybe he flew, but it was too fast for Dean to see. He was suddenly flat on his back on the stained motel carpet, Castiel standing over him with an angel blade raised.
"Dean!" Sam shouted, and threw something at his brother. It landed with a thud next to his right hand. As Castiel's arm descended, Dean acted on hunter instinct and grabbed at the object beside him. The cool metal bit his fingers as he thrusted the angel blade up into the soft flesh of Cas' stomach. Dean stared in surprised horror at the silver hilt protruding from his friend. He had forgotten that Cas had given Sam an angel blade before the disastrous rescue of Samandriel.
"Cas…" the angel dropped his own blade onto the carpet as light dripped from his mouth. Dean's breath caught in his throat as Castiel coughed, bringing his now empty hands to cup the weeping wound in his middle. Light flickered in his wide eyes, body convulsing in pain as grace continued to leak out of his vessel.
"Shit, Cas," Dean sat up quickly, supporting Castiel's shoulders as the angel sagged, "Cas, man I'm sorry. C'mon Cas. You'll be okay, right? You'll be okay, buddy."
He clutched at Cas, pulling him close and rolling their bodies over and laying him on the floor.
"Sam! A little help here!" Dean called to his brother as he pulled the blade from Cas' stomach. His hands found a discarded towel and brought it to the hole in his friend, pressing down to stem the flow of blood and grace.
"Dean..." Castiel's voice was quiet. Dean's fingers tightened round the towel, already soaked red. He shook his head, refusing to look at Cas as Sam brought the first-aid kit over. Sam's eyes were watering, the tears threatening to spill over. Dean roughly opened the kit, looking for the needle to sew Cas up, all the while keeping a hand on the angel's ruined stomach.
"Dean-" Cas tried again, breaking off to cough, bloody spittle dotting his lips, "Dean I-" but Dean cut him off, shaking his head violently and shoving the first-aid kit away. "Shut up, Cas. Shut up. You'll be okay, yeah? I can fix this." His voice shook on the last sentence.
"Dean-"
"No! Just be quiet! I can do this!"
"Dean," this time, it's Sam, "Dean, let him speak."
Dean was shaking, still clutching the useless suture and the bloody rag. Cas' slim fingers slid unsteadily up to grip the Hunter's gore-covered hands; a silent plea. Dean looked down at Castiel.
His lips were speckled with red, face drained of all colour, but his eyes, those brilliant, steady sapphires regarded Dean as they always had.
Dean's face fell.
"Cas, please. C'mon man, stop jerkin' my chain," his chin trembled minutely, "stupid Hunter like me can't hurt a tough nerdy dude with wings." He tried to smile. Sam looked away.
"Dean," Castiel coughs again, grace lighting him up, "thank you."
Dean tightens his hold on the angel, fingers twisting in the lapels of the trench coat. "Cas, no. Cas, please tell me you'll come back. You always come back. Cas. Cas!"
The dark-haired man's eyes have closed, and the light continues to build. Sam covers his eyes but Dean just sits there, tugging on the coat as grace explodes from the body beneath him.
The charred marks of the wings stretch across the entire motel room.
They build Cas' pyre two weeks later, on a Thursday.
Dean had insisted on waiting, just to be sure; Cas' body hadn't started decomposing but that turned out to be one of the perks of being an angel's vessel. It also meant they had to burn him, to keep the former-meatsuit-of-the-lord safe from demons.
Dean built and lit it himself, refusing to let Sam help. When it was ready, the flames licking at the bag that contained the body of Jimmy Novak, the vessel of the angel Castiel, Dean walked away. Sam watched the fire for a while, then followed his brother to the impala.
Dean's eyes are hollow and glazed, his hands held lifelessly on his lap as he sits on the smooth, black surface of his baby. Sam doesn't say a word, just perches gently next to him. The flames have almost gone out when Dean begins to speak.
"Y'know, I thought I had all this time. I thought when he got back, I would show him around the batcave, show him all the cool, weird stuff the Men of Letters left behind, maybe get him to tell us what some of it actually was. I thought maybe - maybe we could start to teach him some of those references he never understood, get a couple movies and have a marathon. Maybe I could make some burgers and he'd eat them, even if angels don't need to eat. Sammy," Sam looked up, "I thought I had all this time with him. I thought eventually..." He trailed off, looking down at his limp hands.
"Dean," Sam begins, because this isn't what his brother does. He doesn't talk about his feelings, he drinks and keeps his emotions in tight control.
"Sammy, I thought I would get to tell him." Dean's voice is soft, grief laced in every syllable.
Sam's eyes widens and he looks at his brother. His mouth opens and closes, trying to find the right words. He can't.
"I was," and Dean's voice is broken, "I was going to tell him, Sammy. I was going to tell him and I was going to grab that stupid trench coat of his and kiss him, damn the consequences. But I can't. I can't do it Sammy, because now he's gone. I thought I had time, then that stupid son of a bitch went and-" he breaks off, looking away, but Sam can see the tears, "and now I can't. He's gone." Dean's voice breaks on the last word and Sam pulls him in for a hug, breaking whatever rules the Winchester's have on showing emotion because that point has been passed.
Sam holds his brother tightly, feeling the wetness spread across his shirt, and cries with him.
"I loved him, Sammy," Dean breathes, "I loved him and now I can never tell him."