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He looked so peaceful, lying there.
Castiel didn’t expect to still be here. When he had followed Dean’s final order, he had fully expected to die in a blaze of glory. Or at least in a spark of bravery. Whatever. But he had suddenly found himself on the other side of that final battle with nothing to show for it but a broken hand and a few flesh wounds.
He was alive.
And for a few minutes, he let himself believe that maybe Dean was still alive too.
He found the body in the garden. Lucifer was gone, as was the Dean from the past. Castiel was alone.
For a while Castiel just stared. It had been years since Dean had worn such a vulnerable expression. Castiel had gotten used to seeing nothing on Dean’s face but intense stares, angry snarls, and painful grimaces. Even when he slept, Dean’s brow had always been furrowed and his lips always turned down. But now all the lines were smoothed out and Dean looked almost the way he sometimes used to look way back when Castiel had first fallen in love with him.
He looked so peaceful.
But Castiel was not at peace.
He reached out with his good hand. He only intended to brush some dirt from Dean’s cheek, but instead of drawing back afterwards, his hand just rested there. His fingers parted Dean’s hair, and his palm rested heavily on his face. For a moment, Castiel almost thought he could feel the tingle of a long-forgotten power coursing between their bodies. He concentrated on it, trying to force it to the fore. He tried to feel the same surge of energy that he used to take for granted whenever he laid his hands on Dean and healed his wounds.
When nothing happened, Castiel just pressed harder as if physical strength could make up for his complete lack of divinity. He called out in his mind to God or whoever might be listening. He begged for the power to perform this one last miracle. He didn’t care what the cost would be. He would gladly accept any punishment, even death, as long as Dean would open his eyes.
Dean’s eyes remained closed, his head lolling loosely on his shoulders. Castiel withdrew his hand.
He looked up for the first time in what might have been minutes or hours, and he saw the world. He saw Camp Chitaqua, or what was left of it. He saw the Croatoan infection spreading surely across the globe, snuffing out the last pockets of resistance. He even saw the angels up above, shaking their heads as they turned their backs once and for all on the whole ugly mess.
Then he looked back down again, and saw that his hand held a pistol. The safety was off. His finger was on the trigger.
He looked up at the world.
He looked back down at the gun.
And he found that he couldn’t make up his mind.