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As soon as Castiel crosses the bunker’s doorstep he can feel it: the presence of a demon. Crowley.
He’s ready to rush past Sam, who hasn’t even glanced up from his glass of Whiskey, and towards the older Winchester’s bedroom when he becomes aware of a second demonic aura. But this one, this one feels horribly familiar.
"Sam," Castiel bites out and once more makes his way towards the bedroom. He knows his tone is enough to make his friend follow.
As he throws open the door to Dean’s sleeping quarters he can hear Sam draw in a breath right behind him. The king of hell is lounging on the bed that held Dean’s body mere minutes ago and the hunter is standing in front of him, staring down at his hands as if he has never seen them before, seemingly strong and healthy and alive.
But it isn’t Dean’s hands that Cas sees, clenching and unclenching as if to test their strength; it isn’t his cheeks, once again rosy with blood flowing through them; it isn’t his chest, miraculously unmarred from any wounds or scars. The only thing Cas has eyes for is his soul.
Dean Winchester’s soul, the soul of the righteous man, the soul of the man Castiel loves more than anything, is tainted black like the cloudy night sky, not a speck of light shining through.
The angel that has fallen for a man and has given up everything for him so many times, can only watch as his one love first smirks at Sam, then at Castiel himself, throwing him a leering wink, and quips: “See you later, sweetheart,” before disappearing with a snap of his fingers.
The last Castiel sees of him is black.