For a moment's pause, he thought he was dead. In all his eons of being a celestial being—a being of light—he's never been in such obscurity. This was what he imagined it was like inside the vessel of a blind man, prevailing darkness. Like the blind man that he had saved when he had Leviathan thrashing inside him. For some reason, he couldn't remember anything prior to that moment when he was saved. It was like the monsters were deliberately conserving that moment for him, a moment—and the only moment, he imagined of bliss—that he had experienced at the time. But yes, he had fleetingly seen—if you could call it seeing—through the eyes of that man before liberating his soul. He'd seen it all, from the rise and fall of David and Goliath to the Wright brothers sailing through the sky like it was water. Oh how proud they had been to soar thirty feet off of the ground.

But darkness, that was something he had circumvented at all costs. What was that called in humanity—fear?

But this darkness was the worst of all. He wasn't fearful of the darkness itself this time, but instead of the darkness that lied within another soul significant in history: Dean Winchester.

He may have had little grace remaining in his frail vessel—God, he could only imagine what Jimmy must feel about all of this—but he still had enough to see what Dean was becoming. It was consuming all of him, literally. From head to toe, his aura was glowing in vibrant hues of red and black. The more red that consumed him, the more that his special abilities—the ones given when one was "knighted", as Dean had called it—were detracting his humanity.

As for him, well, he hadn't been meddled with yet—yet, that was the key word. The chains around his arms were agonizing. He figured Sam had felt the same way.

Sam—oh God, Sam, where the hell are you?

"Cas…" came a faint voice from the left of him—was it left? What was direction, really? Had he even heard Sam's voice in the darkness or was it just another figment of his imagination tantalizing him? He was so tired.

It wasn't until the lights went up that he saw—sight, oh sweet sight—Sam, partially politically correct. Yes, he was to the left of him, but instead of bound to a chair by circulation-cutting metal, he was hunched over the corner of the room, curled body facing the doorway. His eyes were either sweating profusely, or he was crying. He'd never seen the Sam cry. For him to cry, something bad must have happened, something really bad.

He wasn't facing him. Sam, he wanted to say but his throat was dryer than sandpaper, Sam, listen to me, what happened? My damn eyes aren't functioning properly. Are you okay? Are you injured?

Wait—metal walls…the lingering odor of metallic… it could only mean one thing:

They were in Hell.

"It's the third one… third one…" Sam's voice was small, but reverberated off of the walls nonetheless. When Cas finally managed some form of words, enough that Sam was tangible, Sam finally craned his head to the angel in the chair. Yes, Sam, follow my voice. Don't fade away on me, not yet.

"S—Sam, what is it? Third what?" he choked. Sam narrowed his eyes at Cas, as if he had said something completely blasphemous.

"Dean—I saw him—b—but it wasn't him—"

Dean? He was on full-alert now. His vision was still hazy, but he could still see the younger Winchester. He was shaking, a lot. "Sam, use your words…please. Where's Dean?"

"Not Dean!" Sam cried, throwing out his arms. They were knotted with purplish bruises. "It—it wasn't Dean, it was someone—something else—it attacked me. They sent the third one in, but it was different—it gave me these…"

Sam said no more for a long moment. "Who's they?!" Cas demanded. He hadn't meant to sound so harsh. He was just so tired.

Then he understood. Another figure stepped into the room, boots wallowing on the cold tile. It was discreet for such a long time that it was deafening to his virgin ears. It was even worse when the thing roared so loud, he could have sworn by the grace of God that the chair beneath him shook, propelling him at least a half an inch off of the ground. It was even less comforting hearing the voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Dean Winchester is in the house!" Dean or whatever he was (still unwritten) was coming toward the two of them. His gallant smile was really starting to wear on Cas. He bent down to Sam's level, head pressed close enough to his face to kiss him. "Is everyone enjoying the show so far?"

Then, the first miraculous thing happened. Sam's crying ceased, even if just for a few seconds, to curse at the leering demon. "Go to hell."

Dean remained the same close proximity to Sam's face and roared his loudest laugh yet. That was completely intentional; intention being to shatter Sam's eardrums. Cas even cringed.

"Oh Sammy, I'm already there… and so are you."

Sam's eyes widened in horror; Cas knew that Sam didn't take to Hell as Dean had. When he raised Dean, he saw that he was comfortable with what he had done, torturing innocent souls—which came as a shocker at the time—but Sam? When Cas raised Sam, he was as damaged as a bird without its wing and as frail as without its feathers. His soul was scratched, clawed, beaten, prodded, poked at, and he hadn't once given into the same temptation that was offered to him. But it debilitated him in his time down under, and eventually, some of the splinters that he found were self-inflicted.

But Dean, Dean always found some comfort in the dark for one reason or another; it was something he cared not to venture after years of knowing the man. So it was no wonder why he adapted so well to being a demon, as much as it pained him to say. He hunted evil entities for over a decade. He presumed that that had something to do with it; an unearthly thing on earth that he could relate to on some personal level. Demons were battered, broken, much like the man he raised.

But that was the thing, Dean wasn't broken, never was. He just always thought he was. He tried to save him, multiple times. He'd even heard a voice in his head: Dean Winchester is saved. Maybe physically because he was alive, but as he saw the man before him now, he could certainly say that that was nothing but a lie.

But that didn't mean he would give up trying, never.

"There's a plan B, but I don't think you'll like it too much…"

Sam was leaning against one of the four library pillars that bordered the enclosed area. He had his arms folded flatly over his broad chest. "Try me."

"There's a chance that—under the circumstance that I have him under my authority—I can…" Cas trailed off, eyes transitioning to the patterned tile.

"What?"

Cas sighed softly. "I can instill some of my grace inside him with a sigil. I can't guarantee that you'll have your brother back. By bare minimum, it'll restore his sentiments..."

"Well that's better than nothing, right?" Sam said, hope rising.

Cas shook his head and forced his eyes not to avert Sam's gaze. "Not always," he said miserably, "I wouldn't know for sure, it hasn't been done in the history of Heaven."

"Which means—?"

"I can't guarantee your brother will accept the grace or… survive."

"How much do you have left?" Sam asked quietly. He knew the answer.

Cas's mouth cowered, "Enough to sustain myself…but not enough to survive the spell."

"We'll find another way," Sam said finally, running a weary hand over his face, "just give me time—"

Cas inched forward. "Sam—"

"No, Cas, I'm not losing you over something that may or may not work!" Sam pushed. His eyes were brighter than he last remembered.

Cas dared a few inches closer until he was almost nose-to-nose with him. He started the first sentence passively, and then moved into forceful aggression. "Sam, I love you, I really do. But don't think I'm going to spend my last days arguing over how I should use them. I'm going to do this, with or without your approval because that's your brother and my best friend out there." He strapped his tears to the lids of his eyes. "If I'm going to die, it'll be by the hand that saved me from myself."

Sam nodded, and forced everything he had into looking at Cas. But he never said okay. "How are you going to take him down?"

"Hey, asshole," Cas shot, "why am I not lying on the floor? Why don't you beat me too?"

Dean shifted his attention to the attesting angel and raised an eyebrow. Lifting himself from Sam, he sauntered over to Cas with brimming amusement. "Oh angel, don't worry, you'll have your share. I have something real special cooking for you."

"What in the bloody hell is going on?!" a voice detached bellowed. They all knew exactly who it was before the figure stepped into the room.

"Don't worry, Crowley," Dean hissed, "I have it all under control."

"'Under control'?" Crowley reiterated quietly, throwing his head between Sam, Cas, then finally resting on Dean. "I leave you alone for one minute, and you bring home these flannel-fetish nightmares?!" He crossed his arms furiously. "I can't believe this… I just can't believe that you are stupid enough to do this. I mean, you are stupid, yes, but not so much that you completely disrespect me and my kingdom after I took you under my wing out of complete pity for—"

Dean twisted his hand. A loud snap to Crowley's neck and his small body fell to the floor. Dean shot his head back to his captives.

"Anyone else care to speak their mind?"

Sam did, apparently. "Who—who are they?" he said, raising a weak finger to the entrance. Outside stood a dozen figures, heads all simultaneously parted in confusion at the dead King lying on the ground.

Dean turned around. "Oh them, they're nothing… well, not yet." Another greasy smile. "Not until I train them."

"Train?" Cas said.

"That's right; I have an army now, angel. You probably know what it feels like to have a cult following, one that will do absolutely anything for you."

"You wouldn't—" Cas stopped himself short. He had to remind himself that this was demon Dean. He knew the consequences of questioning his authority—any authority for that matter. Disobeying Naomi came with a price, a price to kill. He could still recall with acute vividness the thousands of bodies he slayed with Dean's face etched on them. Naomi was proud. That is until it came to reality, and he couldn't kill the real one. Just like now.

"You catch on quick, angel," he said, bending down to congratulate him with an innocuous—or what he hoped was innocuous—tap to his chin. "Now, less talking; let's skip to the real fun, shall we?"

Before Dean could exemplify the word fun, Sam was running—partly staggering with the new apertures across his body—past Dean to the horde of demons. He grappled for Ruby's knife in his bloodied coat pocket. The demons weren't as friendly as they looked moments ago when they were unsheathing their own knives and lunging at the Winchester. Sam fought back relentlessly, for as beaten as he was.

Two heads in, he turned around and yelled, "Cas, now!"

Cas relinquished from the bound, and pounced on Dean like a lion, as Dean had hours earlier in his bedroom. Dean writhed underneath him, yelling and biting. He straddled him in place, trying hard to ignore the fact of who he was doing it to.

"Who are you?"…. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition…"

He saw Sam out of the corner of his eye, head plummeting in despondency, if even for a second, before another demon latched onto him. Cas tried his best to push away the thought that Sam wouldn't get to bid him a proper farewell. He unsheathed his own weapon: his hand, carved in his blood, the sigil that would ultimately determine the fate of both men.

"I should have never broken your wall Sam; I'm here to make it right."

Cas plunged his hand over Dean's mouth and sited the incantation. Dean's hands were clawing at the lapels of his trenchcoat and mouthing something elusive; he tried hard to ignore that too. His knees buckled further into the spell. His eyes flashed a bright red, then blue. He bled the colors from bright beams of tears spilling disgracefully from his sockets. Cas turned away. He couldn't bear to look. A projection of Enochian filled the unattended room, and then it was all over—including Castiel.

"Cas, you child, why didn't you listen to me?"

Sam was crouched in the opposite corner of the room, eyes and ears sealed shut. When the earsplitting language had ceased completely, he glanced around and saw every demon he was fighting lying dead in the same fashion as two other familiar faces: Cas and Dean's. Castiel's body was slumped over Dean's; his own knees buckled inward, head buried in the crook of the other man's neck. They were both stiff.

He reached for Castiel first, nudging him harshly on his side. It caused Cas's body to do nothing more than collapse beside Dean on his back. He saw his face, saw how pale it had become. There was no need checking his pulse. He was gone.

There was no stopping them now. Cruelly, tears came cascading down his face. Yes, he knew the cost of the spell, but that hadn't meant he was prepared to see his friend's lifeless body flash before his eyes. He would never be ready for it.

He stared at him for a long while, each tear shoddier than the first. He averted his fixation on the angel to his brother's body. His mouth was wide open, face stained from the cosmic bursts of explosion tumbling down them moments ago. That's how Sam's face felt—charred by a thousand pieces of exploding sun.

He buried his face in his hands.

This really was the end.