Dean awoke with a jolt. It was just then dawn but he felt as if he'd been asleep for days. He knew now that it was time; the darkening sky, the eerie silence, the longer nights. He rolled out of bed and brushed his hand through the shortly cropped black hair. Sam was asleep in the room on the other side of the house, and Dean could hear him snoring.
"Today's the day."
Castiel was dead. This thought was the only one rushing through Dean's mind as he turned the shower on. Stripping down to nothing, he allowed the water to surround him in steam. It was the day Castiel was to be buried. No real service was to be performed, just a private, lonely grave behind the hideout. No flowers were to be given, only a tombstone reading "Our Human Angel" placed above a mound of soil. Dean could barely believe it; the events of the past month flashed before his eyes over and over. Sam and him finding Castiel, the overwhelming sadness blanketing them, putting Kevin's translations on hold, staring at an empty phone book... No one to call to ask advice. Darker days had never come.
Dean dried off, glancing at his reflection in the mirror. Normally he had great pride for his personal appearance, but today he looked sullen, starved, and most of all tired. It was going to be a long day. After Dean had dressed, the silence overcame him. Sam was still asleep and the sun was just barely over the skyline. The morning ritual around the hideout had always been the same: coffee, shower, breakfast, research, pray to Castiel, hope that he would return soon. But as he stared at the empty drawing room, the want to pray to Castiel had dissolved. Who would be listening? Other angels... bent on finding and killing the Winchesters? Not today.
Dean retreated to the file room. He began to rummage through the endless papers, looking, hoping he would find something to take his mind away from the memory of Castiel... lying dead in the grass, his coat ripped hundreds of times, the familiar face of their angel burnt beyond recognition. The files brought Dean no solace. No inkling of hope for the future, no promise that loved ones would not die. Staring down at a floor plan of the hideout, a desperate thought crossed Dean's mind: He had no more loved ones, except for Sam. All of his family (makeshift or otherwise) was dead. None remained but his brother. With this, Dean straightened his shirt, pushed the boxes of files back on their shelves and went to wake Sam. He needed to move, feel his limbs alive... for at this moment Dean Winchester may has well have been dead.