The crimson and fire orange were a shock against the grey sky, Dean noted as he stood in silence staring out the window. The glass had fogged up around the edges from where the frost had formed on the outside. Dean’s hot breath made slow puffs of condensation appear in tiny, foggy bursts. Clearly, October did not realize that winter had not yet arrived.
The only other noise that Dean was truly aware of were the sounds of the labored breathing coming from the bed. Dean glanced over his shoulder at the lump beneath the blankets. Castiel was still asleep and Dean was content to let him rest, since he hardly ever slept these days. Each breath that Castiel drew in sounded painful, as if his lungs were breaking and falling apart inside of his chest. Dean stared at the form that he knew was Castiel, the angel that was no longer an angel; instead now, he was a remnant of his former self.
Castiel was now a drug addict who had to have a fix to keep himself going.
Catiel, no longer the angel of the Lord was dying.