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"Cas," Dean muttered, clutching his angel's head in the crook of his arm. "Cas, buddy. Please-" he choked up on his own tears, lowering his head and placing in on top of Castiel's bloodied matted black hair. He took in a deep breath, letting himself take in the scent of Cas. Dean's breathing hitched suddenly.
Of all the smells he had noticed here; blood, and death, and fear and mold and terror, none of them seemed to have affected his angel. He was still as he always had been. A faint hint of honey, and sawdust, and something that smelled like the feeling when you look at a clear blue sky. "Cas," he whispered down at the other man, trench coat covered in his own blood, brilliant blue eyes closed now, forever.
"-Cas, what have you done to yourself."
Neither one of them moved for a long while after that. Shouts and the occasional bullet flew by them, but Cas certainly didn't seem to care, and Dean's eyes slid closed slowly, his face falling forward onto Castiel's bloody shirt.
The angel of Thursday took his final breath while Dean Winchester lay his head on top of him. Tears mingled with dirt as they made their way down his face, landing slowly in the mud beneath them. He pulled his friend's body closer to him, trying to coax him back acing the living, searching for a heartbeat that he knew he would never find.
"Damnit, Cas," he cursed, just as the sky opened up and began to pour, as if it were crying for them, too.
✧･:* ･✧
Tuesday, the fifteenth of November, was the day that Castiel died. It was also the day Dean Winchester's life lost all meaning.
It wasn't immediate. It wasn't something that either of them could have ever predicted. It wasn't fair.
But what has ever been fair in a Winchester's life?