Dean could feel the blood on his hands. He could smell the stench of putrifying flesh.
The things he had done… The darkness hung over his heart, festering boils on his soul.
There was SO MUCH blood. He was covered in it, drenched, drowning. The sticky red ichor pervaded everything. His clothes, his body, his skin, his mind, his soul- all stained in every imaginable hue of crimson.
Through his bloodied, red vision, Dean could see a graceful creature, a being of love and light.
The angel at his side, had seen and felt the foulness of Dean's soul, yet he still stood with him- faith and admiration unwavering.
The angel knew what this mortal had endured, what he still endured, yet he wasn't offering forgiveness but acceptance- something so much more valuable. Castiel knew Dean would never accept forgiveness, until he forgave himself, so he would endure.