There's blood everywhere, and Dean doesn't know how to stop it.
He's been screaming for a medic for what feels like hours, his voice going hoarse and throat burning in the cold of winter, and his fingers and toes feel frozen. But that doesn't matter, because right now, Cas is cradled in his lap, bleeding to Death.
It's not so bad, Cas, it really isn't. We'll have you out of here before you know it, and hey, maybe they'll ship you home, you'll get a purple heart.
He screams for a medic again, but it's washed out by the sound of mortars exploding in the distance. Castiel coughs and Dean leans over him, sheltering him from whatever might come their way; ally, enemy, it doesn't even matter anymore. Cas is dying, and he wants to keep him safe for as long as he can.
The snow around them is red, soaked down to the ground with Cas' blood, and he coughs again, it bubbles from his mouth, sliding down his cheeks, and Dean lifts his hand to wipe it away, only managing to smear it across the pale skin.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, pressing closer to Cas, who hasn't said a word since he hit the ground. Only his eyes dart back and forth across Dean's face, watching him, and Dean can only guess that he's trying to memorize his face, his freckles, the scars from injuries long ago.
"Dean," Cas croaks, eyes closing briefly before opening up again, and Dean can see the life almost draining from them, the electric blue that they used to be fading into something less.
"Hey, hey, it's gonna be okay, just-"
"Doesn't hurt so bad anymore," a flash of teeth stained in blood, and Dean can't help the smile that breaks across his face, but it's short-lived, because his best friend is still dying in his arms.
Dean's hand rests on Cas' cheek, wiping tears away with his thumb, but only managing to smear more blood across his skin, but Cas closes his eyes, still smiling, and coughs once more before his body goes limp in Dean's arms.
One last cry for a medic, but no one comes, and Dean's left alone in the frigid air of Bastogne.