The black in Dean's eyes diminishes until only the pupils remain dark. He looks around him, lowering the First Blade and trying to catch his breath. He wonders what he's doing. How did he get here? He wipes a bloody hand off on his shirt absent-mindedly as the sound of slow clapping comes from behind him. Dean spins around, blade poised to slice.

"Woah, easy there, tiger," Crowley says calmly, hands raised and palms facing Dean. "Just came back to extend my thanks for ridding me of this lot."

Crowley lowers his arms, gesturing to the room behind Dean with a broad sweep of his right arm as he does so. Dean frowns and looks over his shoulder at the four demons that lay in bloody pieces on the floor of the run-down café. He grimaces as he recalls the bloodlust and enjoyment he got from slicing them to bits. From hearing their screams.

"Well," Crowley exhales, drawing Dean's attention back to him, "I have many King of Hell duties to attend to. I'll be in touch."

Crowley disappears before Dean's eyes and Dean is left in the room with the stomach-turning smell of blood mixed with sulfur, the sound of blood dripping off the First Blade, and the screaming of a single thought in his head: How did he let himself get here?

Castiel drives through the night, cutting off all communication with other angels, allowing himself to truly feel the loss of Dean. He cries out and slams his palms against the wheel of his crappy car, remembering how Dean would poke fun at the vehicle. He wipes his eyes roughly with the back of his hand and shrugs off his trench coat as the heater in the car makes it too warm. The loss of so much grace is not only killing him, it is making him more human. As the sun peeks over the horizon line, Castiel's car skids to a stop in front of the bunker. He knocks on the door loudly and repetitively. He needs to know if Metatron was lying. Metatron had to be lying. Dean can't be—

Sam opens the door and he's a mess. His hair is disheveled, his eyes are bloodshot and swollen and he reeks of whiskey. Not just any whiskey, but Dean's favorite whiskey.

– Dead.

Castiel murmurs, "No." And Sam's lower lips quivers before the younger Winchester sets his jaw and nods once. Sam catches Castiel as the angel topples forward, legs giving out beneath him as though the bones had been turned to noodles. Castiel allows Sam to assist him in walking and the Winchester practically drags Cas to a chair in the bunker's study. Castiel slumps in the chair, face a white sheet of shock. "I'm so sorry, Sam." He apologizes. "I should have destroyed the tablet faster. I should have looked for it harder. I am sorry, Sam."

Sam pats Castiel's shoulder before squeezing it, he shakes his head. "'s not your fault, Cas. It was Metatron…"

Castiel blinks away the tears pooling in his eyes. He takes a shaky breath before quietly inquiring, "Can I see him?"

"What?" Sam asks, leaning down to hear Castiel.

"Can… I need to see him, Sam." Castiel says a tad louder, keeping his eyes on where his hands rest in his lap.

"Yeah, uh, sure, Cas," Sam says in a small voice. He lets his hand fall from Castiel's shoulder.

Sam steps back and watches with concern as Castiel wobbles to his feet. Castiel feels nauseous as he follows Sam down the hallway. Towards Dean's room. Castiel messes with the hem of his suit jacket, missing the safety of his trench coat that still lies in the passenger seat of his car. They come to a stop a foot from Dean's doorway and Castiel sees Sam steeling himself for this. He lets his gaze flit to the ground, feeling for Sam's loss of a brother, friend, and childhood hero. Then, Sam's boots scuffle forwards only for the younger man to whisper, "What the hell?"

"What?" Castiel asks, voice tight with concern.

The angel joins Sam into peering into the bedroom and… it's empty. The bed is vacant save for a couple smears of blood in the middle. The smell of sulfur wafts into Castiel's nose at the same time Sam hisses, "Crowley."