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The rain fell as Castiel, pinned beneath the weight of a man straddling him, felt the cold, sharp tip of a dagger pressed against the delicate skin of his throat. The man's grip on the knife tightened, his knuckles white with strain, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Castiel's grip on the blade being the only thing stopping it from plunging into him and killing him.
“Why?!” Dean’s voice. His Dean, breaking into harsh sobs, hissed. “Why did it have to be you?”
He didn’t have an answer.
If he could do it all over again…he didn’t think he would make a different choice.
“I’m sorry,” Castiel whispered slowly easing his hand on the knife.
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- Part 4 of Creatures of folklore
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