It's that moment, where holding the body of your lover, cold and dead there, breaks you.
The moment where there is no warm breath suddenly brushing past blue lips, no flicker of cold sapphire eyes burning cooler and brighter than the heart of a flame.
The moment where you come to realize that in that ringing silence of being so alone, you realize that they can't come back.
That they won't ever speak a word to you, never reach for you, never meet your eye with laughter lingering there, ever again.
Their hand is stone in your grip, your tears the only life to touch their pale skin.
Dean Winchester has felt that eternal moment many times in his life. The crushing time where the clocks stop and the birds hush and the trees stop swaying and your only companion is the screaming, startling, silence of death.
He has come to terms with the maze of longing and hope and defeat and utter terrible lonely sadness that jumps in skittering ways up down into his heart and sits there.
But kneeling in the reeds, the body of his angel dragged ashore onto his lap, he is shocked.
Dean never gave thought to the death of his almighty angel of the Lord, Castiel. Never let his mind meander down into depression knowing that, like a curse, he would lose this love too.
He wants to brush the silt of Castiel's wet hair out, clear the specks of green weed out from the folds of his clothes, and wipe the dots of mud from the blue arch of his cheekbones.
He wants to fold into that body and stay there, shake through the howling of his tears running fast down his face.
He wants to look into those bright eyes, taste that sweet taste of his lips, feel those warm hands in his. Dean wants to trade breaths, wants to feel a heartbeat drum in time with his.
He wants all the things he won't ever be allowed to have.
Dean wants Castiel back.