Dean hates hospitals. He's always hated hospitals. They mean pain and lying and bedside conversations that make you feel uncomfortable. But waking up after having Alastair nearly beat the ever living shit out of you, waking up and finding an Angel sitting by your bed, eyes squinting slightly against the harsh fluorescent lights, was enough to calm the raging inside Dean's head, if only just for a second.
It was all too much, everything, the apocalypse, Uriel killing the angels, Alastair managing to get out of the devil's trap that Castiel himself had set, Sammy doing god knows what to Alastair and now, on top of it all, Dean himself was the bringer of the apocalypse. Dean started it all, just by picking up a razor blade.
There was nothing and no one that could make that better.
But maybe, just maybe he was wrong. Because Castiel leans forward and snakes his hand into Dean's. His hand is rough, calloused fingertips rub over his knuckles almost absent-mindedly and Dean has to work hard to suppress a shiver.
“We haven't got the wrong man, Dean.” He says and Dean never gets tired of hearing that voice, deep and raspy. “We have the right one. You are strong enough.” Dean wants to rub the tear from his face but doesn't want to disengage his hand from Castiel's so he just looks at him and blinks a couple of time, blinking a few more tears down his face. Castiel stares back at him, his fingers still rubbing along Dean's knuckles. His free hand reaches out and he runs his thumb across Dean's cheekbone, whilst Dean stares into those blue eyes, wondering, not for the first time, how eyes can be so goddam blue.
“We have the right one.” Castiel reiterates his point and Dean can only nod. Because even though he's still unsure, well, still sure they have the wrong man, that he can't stop this, can't stop Sammy from turning dark side, can't stop the world from burning, Castiel believes in him.
And maybe that's enough.