Death looked at Castiel. "You're not saving the world. You're digging graves for all humanity—and you're doing it very efficiently."
All color drained from Castiel's face.
He stared at where the images had been, his lips trembling. He wanted to say something, but no sound came out.
Those scenes had been too real—so real that he could smell the stench of mucus, hear the screams of the infected, and feel the agony of his body being torn apart in the instant of the explosion.
"The Castiel we know," Dean said as he walked over and fixed his eyes on Castiel's, "would stand against all of Heaven to save a girl he didn't even know; would willingly become a fallen angel to protect Sam; would stay in this human world he didn't understand at all to save me, learning how to use a microwave, how to watch TV, how to... be a friend."
Dean stopped two meters in front of him.
"That Castiel would never think of himself as a god, because he's seen gods—real gods and things that claimed to be gods. He knows they aren't good examples. He makes mistakes, gets lost, doesn't know what to do sometimes, but he would never... casually decide who lived and who died."
Sam walked over as well and stood beside Dean.
The wound in his left palm was still bleeding, but he ignored it and simply looked at Castiel. "You saved me more than once. When Lucifer was torturing me, when I was about to give up, you were the one who pulled me back. Now it's our turn to pull you back."
Castiel looked at them.
He looked at the determination in Dean's eyes and the trust in Sam's. Even though Sam had just been hurt by him, there was still