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Dean sinks the floor, staring at, but not really seeing the boy's crumpled body.
“Kevin?”
He can—oh god—he can smell the burning, scorched flesh, and his stomach turns. Acid rises in Dean's throat, but he chokes it down and forces himself to his feet. Numbly, he goes to Kevin's side, kneels, and picks up the yellow slip of paper Ezekiel—no, someone else, something else, some other dick—placed there. Kevin Tran. Kevin Tran, the boy prophet. Kevin Tran, who was in advanced placement. Dean almost smiles. Kevin Tran, who got screwed every time he trusted you. The thought hits him like a punch in the gut.
Dean is shaking, the slip of paper crushed in his hand. Sam. He hears the cold, distant voice of the angel speaking through his brother, “Sam is gone.” No. No. It's his fault. It's all his fault, again. Over and over. Tumbling, like the unstoppable boulder, always rolling to the bottom of the slope again. Dean wonders why he thought he had it under control this time, wonders why he bothers fooling himself anymore. Sam was getting better. Was he? But now he's gone. Again. Dean is hollow. A pit opens in his stomach, swallowing him in. He has nothing. Again. Nothing, except—Cas. The name is a beacon in his mind.
Cas! Castiel! I need you! Dean forgets that Cas can't hear him, then curses himself. But the prayer has lit a fire in him. Dean walks to Kevin's room and tears the white sheet from his bed. He lays it out on the floor next to the body of the prophet. Dean lifts Kevin onto the sheet. His body is lighter than Dean expected—too light, worked too hard, emaciated. Dean swallows, pushing down that acid guilt once more. He wraps the body, as he has done for so many hunters, so many people that he will never stop owing everything to. Then he carries Kevin through the bunker to the garage, and lays the boy across the backseat of the Impala. Dean gets into the car, and drives.
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A few states over, Castiel puts his hand to his ear, even though he knows what he hears is not truly sound. He is torn, laid-low, with a strange gracing flowing through him. A soldier whom all the odds are against, but at least he is a soldier. He squares his shoulders, turns his eyes to the sky. For the first time in a long time, Cas has found a fragile faith in the faint sound of Dean Winchester praying his name.