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Exactly forty-three minutes after Dean dies, Castiel’s phone rings.
“It’s Dean,” Sam gasps out immediately, and he’s breathy, like he’s been crying, and Cas feels his face tighten and his throat constrict.
“I know,” Cas grates, mouth dry. He cuts Sam off before the younger Winchester— the remaining Winchester, the only Winchester, now, and if that doesn’t knock the wind right out of Cas’s chest— has a chance to finish. “I know,” he repeats. “Dean is dead. Metatron told me.”
Now that it’s out there Castiel is heavier than he’s ever been in his existence: heavier than when he was under the weight of thousands of souls, heavier than when he was under Naiomi’s influence, so heavy he can hardly even stand, and Cas wobbles on his feet a bit, swaying like he just found a liquor store and drank it.
Sam gives a short “oh,” and it’s not nearly as broken as it should be. “I talked with Crowley,” he confesses, and before Cas can think of a retort Sam’s speaking again. “Dean’s back, and Crowley said— Cas, I think you should…”
The rest is white noise to Castiel as the words hit him like ice water, Dean’s back, and he dredges up the miniscule remains of his stolen grace and rockets himself to the bunker, appearing beside Sam almost an instant later.
“We will talk about the deal in a moment, Sam,” the angel chastises, but his gaze is firmly on Dean’s bedroom door, and he extends what tiny bit of grace he has left toward Dean once again, like Castiel has done a hundred times to assure himself his charge was still in one piece. Cas reaches out and expects Dean, his Dean, all gun metal and whiskey and leather. The angel calms down just thinking about it, about Dean being alive, Dean Dean Dean—
But Castiel’s grace touches something wrong. Very wrong. It’s cold and slippery but it’s familiar in a way that makes Castiel’s gut clench, because these two sensations should never be paired together, not after Heaven and Hell themselves warred to prevent this, not after Castiel gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition, not after all the fighting and resurrections and—
The door opens and Dean strolls out of the room, eyes black as pitch. It’s wrong like nothing else has ever been, wrong like sulfur and blood, and the demon cocks his head and opens his arms in a facsimile of a welcoming gesture.
“Sammy, Cas,” demon Dean says to them, a wide grin splitting his face, and Castiel’s eyes go round.
There’s silence for a moment.
"Dean," Cas chokes, "you- you’re… What have you done?"
And as everything falls apart, Castiel feels the last glimmer of hope leave his body.