(SPOILER WARNING SEASON 13!)

Dean's POV

'Damn it, Chuck... bring him back... he didn't deserve it! I really don't want to do this, i can't burn him... he was a good damn hunter, and a even better friend, and now i have to give him a hunter's funeral? Cas, damn it, come back to us, come back to me. Chuck, Amara, you can't do this!' I look at him, almost ready to cry. I can't believe I have to burn my best friend, no, he's more than that. More than a friend. I can't handle this, i just can't do it!
(TRIGGER WARNING! If you want more, play the song above)
3rd Person POV
Dean put the cover back over Cas, looking away. His eyes led over to the kitchen around him, then to the knife set. He knew that Sam and Jack were upstairs with Kelly, so for now he was alone. Alone. Completely alone. Dean could do what he wanted, only for a short while. How long? He didn't know, and frankly didn't care all that much. Dean slowly walked over to the sink, testing to see if the water was working as he turned the nob things, and thankfully, it was. Water rushed out slowly, but it was enough. He turned it off carefully. Dean looked around one last time before staring at his dead best friend. Dean thought he felt a tear roll down his cheek, maybe, maybe not. He pulled out his pocket knife, turning back to the sink. He closed his eyes tightly, imagining what he would be doing in Hell if Cas hadn't saved him, then put his hand over the sink, palm up. Dean took his pocket knife, sliding it gently across his skin. Yes, it was enough to cut his skin, but not deep enough to make him bleed, yet. He opened his eyes, moving the knife closer to his elbow, then making a deeper cut line. He winced as he cut deep into his skin. Drops of blood fell into the sink. He never should of made that deal, never should of went to Sam to look for dad. That was his mistake. Going to Sam in 2005, it was his biggest mistake ever, the one that started it all. Dean, without realizing, had cut deeper. More blood fell into the sink, maybe a bit to much. Dean dropped the knife, grabbed a handkerchief and wound it around his arm. He tied a not, then cleaned away the blood that was beginning to stain the sink and his pocket knife. He felt empty, he felt lonely, he felt afraid. 'Damn you, Chuck...' Dean's breathing was shallow, but that didn't matter. He pulled down his sleeve, then continued with his original task.