It had caught him off guard. Castiel had hardly realized his tongue was moving again, angrily, spitefully—mocking Dean for his insolence before he had even summoned up the passion to say anything. With fingers that had been ready to snuff out Dean's life with a snap, he lowered his hand and noticed that the brothers had summoned Death. Probably to kill him. But he could feel the souls bubbling inside of him, burning at his core and feeding him an infinite well of power. He faced down Death with the knowledge of invincibility. Maybe he couldn't find his Father—the one who continued to abandon him in the worst of times. But Death was nearly as old. Castiel thought he might try to kill Death. It would be fun, wouldn't it?
Some part of his stomach still churned at the idea. His grace compelled it to stop, but unlike the cool atmosphere of the outside world, he couldn't control himself.
"Look, call him what you want. Just kill him now!"
Dean's voice. Dean's fear. It would be fun to kill Dean too, wouldn't it? To rip off little strings of flesh from around his neck, until warm, succulent blood was pooled around his chest, and he was practically coughing his life essence into the air.
No.
A snap of his fingers—but it wasn't to kill anyone, just to remove the binding spell on Death that the Winchesters had placed on him. Dean was still standing in front of him. Their eyes would have been locked, had he not just cast aside an important bargaining chip of theirs. He tried to focus on Dean's face, even while it was contorted with confusion and worry, rather than the voices that made him want to squeeze out the three human lives in the room. Maybe even the husband and wife watching—they looked pretty tasty, too.
Dean was backing away, now. Both he and Death could have killed him at any time now, for the mere reason of being pissed off at the moment. Though for some reason, between the two of them, Dean seemed to have a lot more trouble looking Cas' way. He'd refused to call him by his nickname for a while now. And he'd just been doing everything in his power to kill Castiel, of course. None of them were his friends anymore. There was something in Dean's eyes that suggested he didn't think he was looking at the same person anymore. He didn't—they didn't—understand, despite how much he'd tried to reason with them. Reason with Dean mostly, but he wanted to pretend that Dean was no more important than a flea stationed in the expansive outback of Virginia.
It was hard.
But now was as good a chance as ever—one snap, and he would be extinguished.
Castiel dared not even talk. One word, and something might slip out that he would have never intended for.
He wanted to kill Dean.
He still just wanted to make them understand.
"I had a tingle I'd be reaping someone very, very soon," Death murmured, sounding curious at what was about to happen.
Panicking, Castiel unfurled his wings and whisked himself someplace where Dean wasn't.
They were bubbling to the surface again.
