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It took Dean a month to find the book. He had been cleaning out the hall closet, packing everything into boxes to give to a charity because most of it he wouldn't need and he couldn't justify keeping it around any longer. When Sam came over he would take one look at the small apartment and give Dean a look that was somewhere between pity and frustration and Dean was tired of it. And the worst part was Sam wouldn't even ask how he was, because then Dean could have given him the answer that had become routine. But no, Sam kept his stupid mouth shut and just gave Dean a look that made him want to suffocate before he brought up his latest court case or how Jess was doing.
The wrapping was plain, probably some paper bag Cas had cut up to recycle – he was always doing things like that; bringing cloth bags to the grocery and using old milk cartons as to make that nasty lemonade that Dean could drink all day at the garage when it got hot. Dean had been thirsty for a while. But the packaging itself was nondescript, completely blank except for a single name scrawled in Cas' elegant handwriting. 'Dean.'
He almost didn't open it, setting it aside for a week before his foot knocked it off the coffee table and spilled the leftover milk from his cereal on top of it and then he had no choice. In between curses and trying to find anything to absorb the liquid before it ruined whatever was hidden under the brown paper, he made a decision. A potent ache in his chest arose at the sight of the book. He recognized it as the book Castiel had carried around for months, refusing to let Dean touch while insisting that it was nothing important. At that moment, Sam knocked at the door and he set the book down on the table to answer the door.
Another month passed before he remembered the book. All the unnecessary items had long been shipped off, packed up by him and then handed over to Sam who disposed of them in whatever way he so desired as long as Dean never has to see them again. The book was sitting on the coffee table still, covered by magazines and newspapers that he never bothered making an effort to clean. Cas would organize each by date, stacking them neatly in the cabinet on the side of the television and sigh indulgently when they were all back out the next morning when Dean had to find some article or other.
The book was a lump, and Dean was drunk again. He'd past the point of pleasant buzz and even burned through happy drunk straight to anger. Anger had been his dad's thing in drinking; coming home in a raging temper and taking it out on whatever junk car he was currently fixing up at the time until the alcohol wore off and he was passed out in the garage until Dean woke him up and helped him move into the house to sleep off the hangover. Dean was a relatively happy drunk, sometimes bordering on pensive but generally after a few beers he could be counted on to be smiling and sociable.
For some reason, the sight of the book was enough to set him off, even buried as it was. Cas'd had no right leaving something like that for Dean to find, especially without an explanation. He grabbed it off the table, stumbling into the bedroom with the bed they'd picked out together, lying on at least half a dozen before settling on that one. Dean could remember the stiff, methodical way Cas had tried each bed out, approaching it as he would any problem with a list of attributes and a clear goal in mind. He had laughed when Dean flopped down, wiggling around and trying to get comfortable, hands flying until they wound up pulling Cas close and kissing him before pulling away and asking to see something else.
When he woke up in the morning his head was pounding and he wasn't sure if it was because of the alcohol or the fact that sometime during the night the book had lodged under his head, the corner digging in to his cheek and leaving a mark when he looked in the mirror. The book was open on his bed and he recognized Cas' handwriting filling page after page, line after line. Once he started reading he found he couldn't put it down.
He knew this story. It was theirs. From their first meeting at the garage Dean worked at when Cas had come in with his hair sticking up at all angles and his trench coat wrinkled and a smudge of dirt on his face insisting that someone needed to look at his car right now because he was late and he really needed the job. Of course, the book left out some of the details but Dean didn't need them because they were all locked tight in his head.
It moved on to their first date which Dean hadn't even known was a date. He thought it was just a 'thank you for driving me to my job interview because my car is a piece of crap and needed two days in the shop to order all the parts' and a celebration for getting said job. It outlined briefly the heartache at finding out his dad died and Dean didn't realize that Cas had stayed with him the whole night, slipping out in the morning before Dean woke. He read about their weekend in New York, courtesy of Castiel's fancy new research position wanting to show him off. Their one year anniversary was in there if a little hazy on the details since they'd both gotten so drunk the exact reason they woke up with a dog in the house was unclear and made no clearer when the owner came to collect him the next day with a hearty thank you and the promise to return the favor.
His hands started shaking when he reached the last chapter. Up to now the titles and his own memories gave him a clear picture of what was going to happen. At the top of the page Cas had simply written 'The Future' and Dean didn't know if he wanted to read it. He closed the book, keeping his index finger wedged on the page so he didn't lose it, and got up. A cup of coffee in hand, he reopened the book and started reading.
The start was familiar, and Castiel described the restaurant down to a t. Dean would remember it forever. The conversation in the book isn't detailed, and most of it is wrong but that was okay because Dean didn't want to remember what was actually said. He liked the simplicity of it and if he could go back he would use the book as the script. The ending was still a mystery and when he turned the last page he was surprised at how blurry it was.
It took him a moment to realize the cause of the blur was his own tears because he couldn't remember ever crying. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and continued reading. His eyes scanned ahead, down to the last line and his entire body froze; heart stopped beating, mouth stopped breathing, even the nervous shake of his hands had stopped. He read and reread the words over and over and still they refused to sink in.
What actually happened at the restaurant was vastly different. There had been no cheerful banter over appetizers or sharing of entree's. Instead, Cas' phone had rung right after they sat down and he had been forced to rush out to meet Anna who was crying and screaming on the phone, threatening to kill herself. Dean had sighed, accepting that this was one problem he couldn't help Cas with and promising to see him at home later. Anna lived close to their apartment so Dean dropped Cas off and went home to watch a movie alone and wait.
And wait and wait. Because even as the clock went towards midnight he hadn't heard from Cas. There was no answer to the texts and all calls went straight to voicemail. He was just about to go to bed when there was a knock on the door. 'Hit and run' the police officer said. Dean rushed to the hospital in time to see them wheel Cas back to surgery.
He slammed the book shut with surprising force and he shoved it away from him as if that could erase the memory of what those words had said and all the promises they carried. The keys to the Impala were in his hand before he could reconsider and he was in the car and driving. His hands moved on his own accord, taking him down roads he had avoided for weeks even while his dreams followed them every night.
The hospital always smelled the same. It had worked its way in his nose when he was four and his mom died and when he was sixteen and Sammy had to get his appendix out. The smell had clung with him for weeks after his dad spent two weeks for his heart attack. The noxious mix of disinfectant and some unidentified musk made him gag.
The room was exactly the same from the impersonal white of the walls to the plastic covered chair sitting in the corner in a shade of green that would make Cas cringe if he could see it. He didn't see any of that, though, eyes drawn to the centerpiece of the room like it was a magnet. In some ways it was.
His brain had swelled during surgery, and when they tried to take him off the pain killers and ventilators his body hadn't responded. Dean knew the prognosis backwards and forwards, knew that after the first three months the doctors started to lose hope in a change of state and after six months they pressured him to think about cutting off support. That was when he stopped visiting, when he found excuses to stay at work longer and go out drinking on weekends.
Finally, after almost a year, he began to accept that nothing was going to change and then came the book and everything changed. It was clutched in his hand when he moved across the room, dragging the ugly chair forward so he could sit on it. He didn't let go of it when he used his free hand to touch Cas' face, kept smooth by the nurses and with no hint of the shadow of stubble that was there normally. He looked for all the world like he was sleeping, except for the tube running down his throat that was keeping him alive.
Dean wanted to be mad at someone, he wanted to yell and hit things and get rid of all the pain he was feeling but looking at Cas' face, he couldn't summon anything but love. It shouldn't be that strong, not after so much time, but it was. He'd gone on dates but all he wanted to do was talk to Cas, hold Cas, tell him he loved him just one more time.
"I would've said yes," he whispered, voice hoarse and cracking but he didn't care because if Cas could hear him it would get the message across. He pressed a kiss to Cas' forehead, smoothing his hair back absently before standing up. "Just so you know – I would have said yes."
On the way out he texted Anna, Castiel's next-of-kin and the one who had control over all decisions of his care. It had been Dean who convinced her to keeping Cas alive that long and it was only her guilt that let him. The text he sent was short, two words – it's time – but she would know what they meant. He opened the book again when he was sitting in the car, looking up at the windows and trying to figure out which one Cas was in. It fell open to the last page and his eyes found the words that didn't want to register before, now stark and all-consuming as if the rest of the words were fading out of existence. "Will you marry me?"