That does it. That gets his attention. That simple plea loosens his fingers, blade falling to the floor, no, the ground.

"Dean," he croaks out, hand flying to his mouth as his stomach rolls. If it weren't for that sword, that sword he'd been so angry over, Dean would be dead. He would be far beyond Castiel's reach and all because of what he is.

He takes a few steps back, breathing hard through his nose as he tries not to be sick.