Dean was dead.
This is what you told yourself as you stared into green eyes. The thing you were straddling wasn't him.
Dean would want you to do this.
Your hands squeezed tighter around Dean's hand, fisted around the handle of the first blade, pointed at his chest.
Dean asked you to do this.
He had asked all of you: Sam, Cas, Crowley, and you. If he came out of that fight as something else, you had to put him down. That was the deal.
You'd been preparing yourself for this for hours. Longer than that, really. Months. You knew all along that it would come to this.
You told yourself that it was for the best that it was you who was doing this. Cas could never bring himself to, and Sam would never have been able to deal with it, and Crowley didn't deserve it.
It had to be someone who truly loved him.
That didn't mean that it was easy. You were crying, and you shut your eyes tight and turned your head so you didn't have to look at him as you choked on a sob. Maybe you weren't capable...
"You can do this, baby," he said.
He'd told you that a million times before, in a million difficult situations. You knew he was taunting you, but it didn't matter. Those five words were always enough.
You can do this, baby.
Your hands slammed down, forcing the knife through your husband's chest.
