Everything

castiel-left-his-mark-on-me:

Sam Winchester knows his brother. He knows what he’s thinking—what he’s dwelling on, what’s tearing him up inside.

“What about Cas?”

“Are you sure you want to do this, Dean? It’s Cas.”

“Maybe he can come back …”

Sam asks the questions and goes over all the possibilities because he knows that Dean won’t say a word of it out loud.

Dean will stay quiet … at least, he will when someone’s looking.

But that was the main focus in this episode, wasn’t it? What happened when Sam—when we weren’t looking, made all the difference in the world. At the start, the plot went on and left us asking questions. “Why are you leaving the cabin? Where’s Cas’s body? Did you just leave him out there?”

I was genuinely worried that that is what they were implying went Dean and Sam left in the impala—but then, the next scene comes and we see Castiel’s body, inside—covered with a sheet.

High off the ground.

Respected.

Missed.

It was not shown, yet—it happened.

Dean carried Castiel into that house and laid him out on the table. He went and found a clean white sheet to cover him with.

The chair by Castiel’s head was pulled out—where Dean had most likely sat and cried, and tried to will his best friend to open his eyes.

But they didn’t open.

Castiel didn’t move.

So Dean got quiet again.

He got quiet and dismissive and spiraled, just like Sam thought he would.

But then, Dean prayed—as soon as he was alone and had the chance to scream and shout and explode the way he wanted to, he did. And he prayed to God to bring back all that he lost. “Everything” he said he lost everything, and that list began with Castiel.

Every time what had happened the night before was remembered, the first name on Dean’s lips was “Cas.”

And when Sam was busy leading Jack into the room to say goodbye to the mother he never truly knew—Dean was back beside that table, hoping that when he pulled away  the sheet, it would be someone else underneath it. But it wasn’t—it was still Castiel, and that other angel’s words suddenly rushed back into his head. “He’s dead—really dead.”

And the silence is all Dean has now, so he covers Cas’s face once more and looks around—noticing the yellow curtains … yellow, the color of a fallen soldier and, that seems fitting. If any of this is to seem right at all, then maybe it’s that. So he tries to switch to autopilot—bind the body so it can be burned; but as he lifts that weight and begins to wrap the cloth around it, it’s suddenly all too familiar in his hands.

He has felt that weight too many times—in too many ways.

There is no denying what that weight means to him, and with its absence, it’ll weigh heavier on him with every breath he breathes.

So he stops.

Dean stops and looks back up the lines that he has looked up so many times before—times that we also have never seen, because now we know: there is so much that we don’t know.

There is so much we haven’t heard, haven’t felt, haven’t experienced … but Dean has.

He has experienced everything—and everything, well … everything is lying dead on a table in front of him.