The night before Death, it's raining. Ellen is warm with alcohol and adrenaline, her gut churning with some combination of both, and when Castiel pauses at the corner of the yard, she sees that he is nervous, too - sees it in his face, the crook of his mouth, the way his brows draw together.

"Hey," she says. She doesn't know why it's so important to her, suddenly, that Castiel be reassured, except that he is an angel and angels should be certain; angels should know. Her hand closes wet around his bicep, the fabric of his trenchcoat damp beneath her fingers, and the shudder that runs through him is the opposite of sure. A shudder of innocence, of confusion, of fear, of want. He lifts his face, and there is rain on his parted mouth, and she thinks, unblemished.

Nobody should die like that, and Ellen knows that they are all going to die.

"Cas," she says, leans in. He doesn't stop her, doesn't close his mouth, and when she brushes her lips against his, she feels his hand make a fist in the front of her shirt, a sound rising up in his throat. Please. I can't. Please.

His mouth is loose against hers, unknowing, but he needs this, she can tell that now. When she presses in, the inside of his mouth is hot and smooth, like silk, like a slide into eternity.