“I am sorry!” he whispered. “I did not mean to call You improperly! I did not mean to test You!”
The words barely left his mouth before something inside him gave way completely.
Dean folded in on himself like a structure that had been holding too much weight for too long. The rosary slipped from his hand and scattered across the floor. His shoulders shook once, twice, and then the restraint he had clung to for months broke open.
“I tried,” he choked. “I did everything right.”
His voice rose, cracked, dissolved.
“I prayed. I guided them. I told them to trust, to endure, to believe that there is purpose in suffering, that none of this is without meaning, and he is still dying.”
The last word tore out of him.
Dean dropped to his knees fully now, no hesitation left, and surged forward as if pulled by gravity itself. His hands caught in the rough fabric of the angel’s coat, gripping tight, desperate, grounding. He pressed his face against Castiel’s chest, breath hot and uneven, tears soaking into unfamiliar cloth.
“Please,” he whispered again and again, the word losing shape, becoming something raw and instinctive. “Please, please, please.”
The chapel seemed to shrink around them. The candles dimmed, their light paling as though something greater had taken precedence.
Castiel did not move away.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, looking down at the man clinging to him. His expression remained distant, as if observing a phenomenon rather than participating in it.
Then, slowly, he lifted his hand.
It hovered above Dean’s head, fingers slightly curled. Slowly, it lowered, resting against the crown of Dean’s head.
The touch was cool.
Dean gasped at it, a sharp intake of breath that stuttered through his chest. His grip tightened instinctively. Castiel’s fingers spread slightly in Dean’s hair.
At first, the gesture was gentle. A steady pressure, grounding, allowing Dean’s sobs to spill out. His body leaned into it without thinking, seeking it.
“I cannot carry this,” Dean whispered into the coat. “I cannot bury him. I cannot stand before them and tell them it is God’s will.”
His voice broke again, softer now, worn thin.
“I do not know how to believe if You take him.”
Castiel’s gaze did not waver.
His hand remained where it was, but the pressure shifted.
Gradually, the touch grew firmer.
Castiel’s fingers pressed more firmly into Dean’s hair, keeping him there, bent forward, face buried against his chest. The wings behind him shifted, closing in further, casting deeper shadows around them.
“You are very loud,” Castiel said softly.
The words were not unkind. They were not comforting either.
Dean swallowed hard, his hands still clutching the coat, knuckles pale. “I am sorry,” he murmured again, though the apology felt misplaced even as he spoke it.
Castiel tilted his head, studying the top of Dean’s bowed form. His hand remained steady, unyielding now.
“You call,” he said. “And you expect an answer shaped like mercy.”
Dean’s breath hitched.
“That is what I was taught,” he said quietly. “That is what I have taught.”
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