Dean's legs shake, tremble dangerously, threatening to buckle and drop him to the hard earth beneath him. Sam fell. Dean saw it, witnessed the blood spray from his mouth and he wishes it had been him. Prays now to reverse time so he can step in front of his baby brother to take the blade instead.
Cause this is worse than being stabbed straight through. How he feels right now, the raw scrape of his lungs shrinking behind his ribs, the mental picture of Sammy dying replaying over and over in his head. It's so much fucking worse.
And suddenly all his energy, adrenaline, or whatever the fuck has been keeping him standing, vanishes and he collapses. But his face doesn't splash in the bloody puddles on the ground. Two arms encircle his chest and turn him around so his face is shielded from the rest of the battlefield.
Dean knows who's holding him and for once he doesn't fight him. Doesn't curse the angel for treating him like a chick. Because Dean can't seem to stop himself from seeing Sam staring directly at him as he falls, the hilt of a sword sticking out from his chest.
"Cas, please," he begs, digging his fingers into the remains of the angel's t-shirt. "please just bring him back."
"I can't," Castiel whispers.
Dean gives in to the way his chest decides to heave as the tears fall unwelcomed down his cheeks. He shakes and Castiel tightens his hold.
"Then kill me,"
Dean feels the angel press his mouth the top of his head, kissing him so damn gently that it almost burns.
"I won't," he finally says.
And Dean swears he feels Castiel tremble, just a little.