Dean was not the only one who had been to Hell; a fact, Castiel believed, entirely lost on Dean as he attempted to shoulder the burden of what he had endured there, the guilt and grief of the acts he had committed, alone. But Castiel had also spent four months battling in Hell, fighting the army of demons stationed to protect possession of the man they intended to break the first seal and set in motion the chain of events which would free Lucifer and bring on the Apocalypse.
He, too, had seen unspeakable things. He, too, had done unspeakable things. Yet every memory he had of the battle waged for Dean's soul could not compare to what he had encountered the moment he finally broke through the last guard and found Dean huddled on the ground, a bloodied knife beside him. Dean had looked up, wary but unafraid. The hand, which had automatically reached for the blade beside him upon Castiel's appearance in the room, had dropped as Dean realized that the new presence in his chamber was not a demon nor another victim intended for his blade. Dean had not moved any further, had not said a single word, had simply stared at Castiel, his soul laid bare. And even in his wretched state, Castiel had seen, shining more brightly than any other, the beauty within his charge. A beauty unlike any other he had ever seen before. A beauty he would never forget, no matter what might transpire between them.