One syllable.
One broken word.
One name.
One heart-wrenching sound that couldn't be described as human. It's an animal's wail - something primal, instinctive.
It's not like it had never been said before; it had never been said like this before.
It's wet and sharp and cold.
So. Very. Cold.
The cold steel. The cold blue. The cold gaze.
The stare used to be cold – it hadn't been for awhile.
It's dead now. A cold, dead stare.
"CAS!"
One syllable. One broken word.
He's holding him in his arms. He's gone limp, nothing like the stoic soldier he once was. They once were.
"Dean? Dean, please," He's speaking softly, as if to a wounded animal, "Dean, he's gone. I'm sorry. Dean, you have to let go."
He clings tighter.
"No. No, you – you don't – don't understand. He's – he was – was my..."
There, on his arm, where another mark – a mark of unfathomable evil – used to reside is a new mark.
A torn wing.
"Soulmate."