Castiel's fingers are five points of fire pushed past tender flesh and bone into the tempest beneath, shoved deeper by the words poured into the air around them. It feels like bow strings snapping beneath Dean's skin, flood waters pushing him over and under and back to the surface again, the claws dug deep inside of him wrenching as they're yanked up like weeds.

With the anchors branded into Dean's flesh gone, there's nothing left to stop the thing inside him being gathered up piece by unholy piece, and it tears at as much of Dean as it's able as it goes. It's agony, but the pain is far away now, a black speck on a distant shore as Dean's body begins to fail him, consciousness slipping into waters that carry him away further still. He can hear them, voices he loves so well, can feel their hands, but he can't reach back, can't do a thing to stop the demon intent on pulling him out in its wake.

Dragged out clawing and screaming, the demon gathers its remaining strength into a fist and squeezes hard, feels the last feeble twitch of Dean's heart go still before it lets go. It's going to hell, but everyone in this chapel is going with it, one way or another. Satisfied, it lets itself be tugged from Dean's chest and out his throat, past slack slips and screaming into the underworld below.