Dying doesn't frighten Dean Winchester. Given the number of times he's actually died, perhaps this isn't surprising. Hello! Been there, done that. There's pain – sometimes a lot of pain – and then there's crap to deal with. Huh. That pretty much sums up his life, doesn't it? Pain and crap. A whole shit-load of both, day in and day out, year after year after year... and, well, fuck it. Just fuck it.
Dean faces the most recent manifestation of his death, looks it straight in the eye, and laughs.
"Bring it on," he says.
Having a soul sucked. This would be so much easier to deal with if he didn't have a soul.
Dean... what the hell happened? Why won't you wake up?
Sam's only answer was the too quiet beep of a monitor, the faint hiss of an oxygen tank.
Coma, the doctors said. But, why? They couldn't say. There was no physical trauma to the body. No bleeding into the brain, no swelling or congestion of damaged tissue. Dean was simply unconscious. Had been for – Sam glanced at his watch – close to six hours now, and there was no logical cause. Sam had found him lying on a motel bed, barely breathing, his pulse the merest flutter. It took two tries for Sam to fumble his phone open to dial 911. "Ten minutes later," the paramedics informed him," and you would have been too late." As it was, it was touch and go in the ambulance as they madly careened towards the nearest hospital. Dean's heart had stopped twice. Sam quickly lost count of the number of times his own had felt as if it had stopped since then. If he hadn't gone straight back to their room after interviewing witnesses... If he had detoured to the library for that book he really wanted... If... If...
Dean was stable now, they told him. They'd administered tests – would run more in the morning. They had done everything humanly possible. It was in God's hands now.
Sam leaned forward in the uncomfortable hospital chair and, mindful of the IV tubing, took his brother's unresponsive hand in his own. "Cas," he whispered frantically. "Cas, I need you – Dean needs you. Please, Cas... please..."
"Sam."
Sam's breath stuttered in his chest with hope and relief. Carefully releasing Dean's hand, he brushed his arm across suddenly wet eyes, before turning to face to the angel. "Cas..."
But Castiel was already in motion, his right hand gently cupping Dean's cheek, his left coming surely to rest on Dean's chest, concerned blue eyes narrowing in concentration.
Freaky angel mojo, the memory of Dean's voice sounded in Sam's head. He choked back a laugh that was equally a sob.
Castiel's eyes closed as he probed deeper into Dean's mind. Where are you, Dean? Come to me. Follow my voice.
There was no response.
A frown creased the angel's forehead, and he allowed a little of his true voice to creep into his plea. "Dean," he intoned. In the distance there was a crack of thunder, the floor shook slightly and the smell of ozone filled the room. "Dean," Castiel repeated more forcefully. Lights flickered overhead; in the hallway, a light bulb exploded and an alarm began to clamour. Sam clasped his hands to his ears, grimacing in pain.
Still, Dean did not reply. Not an eyelid twitched.
"Cas?" Sam ventured.
"I cannot reach him, Sam." Bewilderment coloured the angel's words as he released Dean from his touch. "He is there. I can feel him. His soul is bright. Undamaged. But he isn't responding."
"Isn't or can't?" Sam queried.
Castiel tilted his head, considering. "He doesn't want to respond," he said finally. "He is... lost. Lost in his dreams. Their hold on him is stronger than anything his current life offers. He feels safe. Complete. Why should he seek reality when everything he wants and needs is already there?"
"What would cause that?" Sam sighed. "He's not the type to hide from whatever life throws at him."
"No, he is not. I suspect he encountered something... some entity... and managed to antagonize it in his own inimitable way. In any case, his mind is confused now... and it is easier to give in than to fight his way out of the dreams."
"A genie?" Sam posed. "A witch?"
"I do not believe so. This feels older... more powerful."
"So what do we do?" Sam fought the urge to simply grab his brother's shoulders and try to shake him awake. "How do we help him?'
"I will keep trying to reach him. Perhaps, I can slip into one of his dreams and convince him to return to us. At the very least, perhaps I can find out who is responsible. Armed with that knowledge, we stand a better chance of rescuing Dean."
"And what do I do? Sit here and twiddle my thumbs?"
"I suggest you get some rest. Go back to the motel."
"No. I'm not leaving him. I'm not leaving either of you. If you're in his head... well, you need someone to watch over you."
Castiel's head tilted to one side. "I never thought of you as the guardian angel type, Sam."
Sam blushed. "I could say the same about you. Always had you pegged as the smiting kind. But look at you now... look at us now."
"Indeed." There was definitely fond amusement in the admission. "Very well," Castiel agreed. "Your assistance, and your company, are most welcome. I will shield my presence from all but your sight. There should be no interference."
"But if there is, I'll handle it," Sam promised, settling himself back down in the chair, both to keep guard and get out of the angel's way.
Castiel nodded before returning his hands to Dean's heart and head. And then he simply closed his eyes...
Teeth brushed, Batman pyjamas retrieved from the dirty laundry basket – because Spiderman is waaaay lame! – Dean was finally ready for bed.
"You remember, don't you, honey?" Mary asked, smoothing a hand though her son's soft, tousled hair, trying to get that darned stubborn cowlick to lay flat. Not that it ever would.
Dean nodded earnestly, and brought his hands together: palm to palm, each finger carefully aligned with its mate and pointing towards the ceiling, thumbs also together, but tilted towards his chin. "Like this," he crowed triumphantly.
"That's right, Dean. Just like that. You make an angel wing to carry your prayer to heaven."
"And then I wish for candy?" Dean teased, green eyes sparkling with mischief.
Mary shook her head disapprovingly, but there was answering laughter in her eyes. "Dean..." she drawled. "Come on, baby. Stop monkeying around."
Dean grinned unrepentantly, but quietly knelt beside the bed, closing his eyes and bowing his head over his still clasped hands. "Now I lay me down to sleep," he recited confidently, "I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die– If I should die– Mommy... I don't like this part. I don't want to die."
"Oh, darling," Mary dropped to her knees beside her son and wrapped him tightly in her arms. "It doesn't mean you're going to die, it means that God will protect you. He'll keep you safe."
"I still don't want to say it."
"Okay," Mary said. "Okay. What if we change the words?"
"You can change the words? God won't care?"
"Darling, a prayer can be anything you want it to be. God will hear. God will understand."
Dean looked at his hands, a small frown creasing his forehead as thoughts churned through his mind. "If I'm making an angel wing, then I want to talk 'bout angels."
"I think that's a lovely idea," Mary smiled. "What if you change the part you don't like to 'May angels watch me through the night, and keep me in their blessed sight'?"
"I like that," Dean beamed, wriggling from her embrace and turning his attention back to his bedtime prayer. "May angels watch me through the night, and keep me in their blessed sight. God bless Mommy, and Daddy, and my little brother, Sammy... And please, God," he dared a quick peek through his fingers at his mother, "May I please have pie for breakfast? Or pancakes. Or–"
"Into bed with you, mister."
"Amen," Dean whooped, and vigorously bounced into bed.
Long after he was tucked in, long after his mother's goodnight kiss, long after the quiet murmur of his family settling down had finally faded, leaving him alone in the night, Dean kept his hands clasped together, playing with shadow puppets in the streetlight that peeked though a crack in his curtains, the silvery glow spilling softly across his bed and up the wall. Various shapes appeared: bunnies and birds, malformed people, scary monsters, funny spiders... but always, always, he returned to the angel wing. Eventually, he discovered that if you opened your hand just so, the wings unfurled and fluttered, filling the entire bedroom wall. He fell asleep with a smile curving his lips, the ghostly rustle of feathers a half-heard lullaby.
There were pancakes for breakfast. Stacks and stacks of them. Dean surreptitiously piled a third one on his plate while his mother was busy with the baby. Sammy was fussy this morning. Fussy, drooly and very obviously in need of a diaper change. Dean wrinkled his nose and reached for the maple syrup. Inevitably, his mother caught him in the act of dumping half the bottle on his meal, but not before a goodly portion of the sticky, golden liquid dribbled over the edge of his plate and onto the tablecloth.
"John," she sighed.
"Hmmm?" The newspaper rustled and his father's eyes appeared over the top edge of The Kansas City Star.
"Can you keep an eye on Dean while I deal with Sam?"
John's glance swept to Dean, who had happily abandoned his fork and was enthusiastically using his fingers to fold a pancake in half.
"Sure thing," John said. "Hey, sport, whatcha doing?"
"Making a sandwich," Dean replied, the 'duh' obvious in his tone.
"That's not how you eat pancakes," John said firmly.
"Why?"
"Because... because it's messy. And all the syrup runs off."
"Oh." Dean looked down at his lap. Oops, his father was right. Dutifully, he picked up his fork and dropped a napkin over the worst of the mess on his overalls.
"Tell you what," John said, reaching across the table to cut his son's pancakes into bite-sized pieces, "Finish breakfast, then we'll get you cleaned up and I'll take you to the park. Maybe your Mom can get Sam to sleep and have a few minutes to herself."
"Or maybe they can come too? Sammy likes the park."
"Maybe," John smiled, ruffled Dean's hair, and blew his wife a kiss.
In Dean's humble opinion the park was the bestest place in the world, hands down. The slides were scary, but not too scary. Swings were plentiful, and he didn't have to wait forever to take his turn. There were ducks to feed and treasures to be found. Why, only last week he'd discovered a dollar bill fluttering at the base of an ancient oak, trapped between its bark and a wire fence. A whole dollar! His mom had let him spend it however he wanted at the candy store.
Which is why, today, he's strayed off a bit from his family. Just for a few moments, while his mom and dad are talking to the Hendersons and admiring their new baby. He can still see them and, if they bothered to look over, they could see him too. So he hasn't really 'wandered off', as he is expressly forbidden to do. He's just... exploring. Just a little. After all, there could be more money waiting for him under that old tree... and they always pass by the candy store on their way home...
"Hello, Dean."
The man is tall, with slightly messy dark hair and eyes as blue and open as the sky. He's dressed kind of funny. It's much too warm for an overcoat ... and it isn't Sunday, so why is he wearing a suit and tie?
"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," Dean mumbled, backing away.
"That is wise," the man agreed, also backing away until his legs bumped up against a park bench and he gracefully seated himself upon it. "I, however, am not a stranger."
"Are you one of my daddy's friends?" Dean asked curiously, scuffing the toe of a well-worn sneaker in the dirt.
"No, Dean. I am your friend. My name is Castiel." Those bright blue eyes focused on Dean, as if attempting to peer into his soul. "Do you remember me?"
"Cas-tell? Cas-tail?"
"You may call me Cas."
"That's easier," Dean nodded, and cautiously took a step closer. "I don't remember you."
"Think, Dean." Castiel said, urgency tingeing his voice and making Dean scuttle backwards again. "You know who I am. You know what I am."
"W-what are you?"
"I am an angel of the Lord. I have come to take you home."
"Mommy!" Dean screamed and fled, pursued by the sound of flapping wings and a sudden breeze that lifted his hair and spun leaves and litter in a circle around his pounding feet.
But when he turned, safe in his mother's arms, babbling about angels and not wanting to go to Heaven, there was no one there. The man – the angel – was gone.
"That did not go well at all."
Startled from a half doze, Sam almost fell off his tilted chair, only catching his balance at the last moment. "Huh?" he said, unhelpfully. "What happened, Cas? Is Dean okay?"
"He is fine. He is – he was – a remarkably happy little boy. I am sorry he lost that."
"You saw him? You spoke to him?"
"Yes. Unfortunately, I frightened him away. He is only four. He did not understand."
"He's dreaming that he is four? He's with Mom and Dad... and me?"
"Yes. You are a typical family unit. I reached too far back in time. I must try again. Find a more recent memory..."
Dean frowned and turned the key in the ignition for a second time. "Come on, baby," he murmured. "You can do it."
This time the engine purred to life.
"Yes!" Dean pumped his fist in the air, and fondly patted the steering wheel. "I knew you wouldn't let me down."
Carefully, he set the car in motion, the soothing sound of wheels on the highway wafting through the open window as the Impala picked up speed. Zeppelin's Night Flight blared from the radio, the wind in his face blew the stink of a successful salt and burn from his clothes and hair. Life was good. Damned good. In fact, it probably didn't get any better than this.
Maybe he'd stop for some takeout food before looking for a motel. Or maybe he'd just find a place to park and sleep in the car. It wouldn't be the first time. After all, his cash had to last until he hooked back up with Dad and Sam...
"Tell me I'm the type of man to fight the fight that I'll require," he sang along, the words whipping from his lips and sailing down the road behind him. "Come on, meet me in the morning, meet me in the middle of the night. The morning light is comin', don't it make you wanna go and feel alright."
"Dean."
"Holy fucking Jesus!" Dean exclaimed, miraculously bringing the car back under control before it could jump a ditch and wrap itself around a telephone pole. He slammed on the brakes, leaving a hot trail of rubber on the pavement as he pulled over to the side of the road.
The stranger who had suddenly appeared in the passenger's seat found a gun pressed up tight against his throat.
"Who the fuck are you?" Dean snarled. "And what the fuck are you doing in my car?"
Calm, eerily blue eyes regarded him. "My name is Castiel. I am–"
"–an angel of the Lord." Dean said slowly. "I remember you. You scared the shit out of me when I was four. You make a habit of doing that, Mr. Angel of the Lord? 'Cause I gotta tell you, that gets old fast."
"It is not my intent to frighten you, Dean. I apologize for my precipitous arrival, but it is difficult to manipulate both time and velocity and materialize in a specific dream at an opportune moment."
"Dude, what drugs are you on?" Dean snorted. "We're both awake here, in case you hadn't noticed."
No, Dean. We are not. This is a dream – your dream. You are lying unconscious in a hospital bed. Sam and I–"
The click of the trigger being cocked was as sharp as a banshee's scream on a quiet night. "How the hell do you know my brother?"
Castiel remained disturbingly indifferent to the threat. "He is my friend. You are my friend. Dean, we are trying to help you. I need to know what attacked you. Let me–"
"Whoa! Whoa, buddy. Keep your mitts to yourself."
"I merely need to touch you. That will allow me to see what happened."
"I said no touching," Dean snapped, smacking his gun against the angel's wrist with a strength that should have cracked bone. Castiel didn't so much as flinch. Instead, he calmly clasped the barrel of the gun and wrenched it from Dean's hand. Absentmindedly, he tossed it to the backseat.
Dean's hand flailed for the door handle and he tumbled from the car. "Keep away from me!" he cried. "I'll kill you, I swear I'll kill you."
"No, you won't," Castiel said, suddenly simply there, right up in Dean's personal space and drawing closer.
Dean cast a disbelieving look at the empty car.
"You can't," the angel continued. His hand fell to Dean's left shoulder and Dean began to scream...
"Code blue. Code blue."
Castiel blinked back to awareness.
Sam was on his feet, chair knocked to the floor, his mouth opening and shutting, though no actual words managed to escape. The monitor above Dean's bed had flat-lined. A sudden influx of medical personnel briskly ushered Sam from the room before he could protest.
Invisible, Castiel stood and watched as they swiftly stripped Dean of his shirt, as a cold jelly was smeared across his chest, as the paddles approached and...
"Clear!"
Dean's body arched up from the bed, the angel's hand still pressed against his shoulder. It... tickled... Castiel decided. Unpleasantly so, but not enough to make him set Dean free.
"Again!"
"Clear!"
A second time, Dean's body spasmed. This time, the angel was prepared. He channeled the excess energy, merging it with his own grace, gentling arrhythmia into a familiar, steady heartbeat. The monitor piped excitedly, settled...
"I think we have him," a doctor murmured.
For too long, Sam was denied news of his brother's fate. It was an eternity spent pacing, cursing, praying. Mindlessly, he thumbed through ancient magazines, not seeing what was written on their pages; mechanically, he drank cup after cup of tepid coffee which left a bitter taste behind, a foulness to match the bile that rose in his throat at the thought that this might be it. Dean might die... He was dying... He was dead...
"Sam." A hand fell on his shoulder, halting him in his useless trek back and forth across the floor.
"Dean is stable," Castiel's deep voice murmured. "They will allow you back in the room in a few minutes, perhaps an hour. Do not fear, for I am with him."
And, as suddenly as he had appeared, the angel was gone.
Sam dropped to the nearest chair and didn't bother trying to hide the tears that rolled down his face.
"It was my fault," Castiel confessed when the last of the medical staff had cleared from the room and Sam was finally permitted to resume his place by his brother's side. "He was terrified. His body reacted... It was my fault."
"It's okay, Cas. Just... just be more careful. I don't want to lose him."
"Neither do I," Castiel whispered.
Sam had to turn away from the naked emotion which turned Castiel's blue eyes navy with despair. He fussed with the bed sheets instead, smoothing wrinkles from already smooth cloth, and twitching the blankets up higher on Dean's chest.
"Did you find out what happened to him?"
"Yes. It was one of the Oneiroi. Morpheus himself, perhaps, though I believe it is more likely to have been Phantasos, based on the deceiving complexity of Dean's dreams."
"How the fuck – sorry, Cas – did Dean manage to piss off a Greek god?"
"I do not know. I was not given the opportunity to find out. But I know he was cursed. And I know how to break the spell."
"How?" Sam asked eagerly.
"I must convince him to awaken. Only he can make the decision to return. He can be coaxed, he can be threatened... but he must decide. And he must do so quickly. Without the boon of modern medicine, he would already be dead – as countless others have died before him in the past. But this period of grace will not last forever. He will die, Sam. Unless he wakes, he has at best a day left to live."
"God, Cas..."
"I will do my best, Sam. I will try."
Castiel turned and placed a hand on either side of Dean's face. And then he leaned over until his forehead came to rest against Dean's. "Dean," he said quietly. "Dean..."
"Cas..."
The angel turned to find Dean reclining on a motel bed, a half empty beer bottle in his hand, a soft and welcoming smile on his face.
"Dean. You know who I am?"
"Castiel, angel of the Lord."
"You know why I am here? I have come to take you back."
"Back to what, exactly? Back to a brother who'd be better off without me? Back to a life where I'm lonely? Where I have to deny myself happiness because I don't deserve it. Where I can't simply reach out and–" Dean took a hearty swig of beer, swiped his hand across his mouth and stood with a sigh. "It doesn't matter. I'm not coming back with you. I've been thinking... I'm not just reliving memories here. Meeting you in the park when I was four, having you pop into my car when I was twenty... those things never happened. They were new events. This isn't just a stagnant pool of old dreams, Cas. I can create new ones. And they're real. As real as anything that's ever happened in my life."
"No," Castiel shook his head. "It's not real, Dean. It's all an elaborate illusion. You're being lured into a death trap."
"And I don't care!" Dean exclaimed, slamming the beer bottle to the nightstand before taking several angry strides forward. "Don't you get it, Cas? I don't care. I like it here. I have my own brand of mojo... Alastair has no power over me here. If I say so, my time in Hell never happened. If I don't like one dream, I can just move on to the next. Or I can find a dream that makes me happy, and stay there the rest of my life." Dean waved his hand, and the room reshaped itself around them.
They were in a cozy kitchen, the smell of baking cookies filling the air. Mary was humming to herself as she peeked in the oven. Seated at the table behind her, young Dean was teaching toddler Sam how to use a cookie cutter. Both boys had smudges of flour on their faces and they were laughing...
A second wave of Dean's hand, and they were on a roller coaster, the wind whipping through their hair, voices screaming all around them as the car lurched around a curve, flew though a loop, climbed up to a crest and plummeted down... down... down...
A third wave, and they stood in the penthouse suite of a swanky hotel. Champagne chilled in a silver ice bucket; a trolley loaded with various delicacies stood next to a small table set for two. The bed was turned down invitingly, deep blue satin sheets promising sensuous delights...
"It would appear you have set the stage for one of your seduction scenes, Dean," Castiel noted dryly. "If you are trying to make me feel uncomfortable so I will give up and leave, it's not going to work. Tiffany or Chastity – or whatever the young lady's name might happen to be – will have to wait. What I have to say is too important. Your life is in danger, and I–"
"I've been waiting for you."
Stunned silence filled the room.
"For me?" Castiel repeated numbly. "You are... what is the expression? Tugging on my pants?"
"Pulling your leg."
"Ah, pulling my leg. You are pulling my leg, Dean. You could have anyone. Any of the 'hot chicks' you've mooned over in the past: waitresses, models, actresses, a harem of scantily clad women from those magazines you buy... and you instead choose me? If this is a joke, I don't get it. Why me?"
"Why you?" Dean drew closer and closer still, until they stood so near to one another that he could feel Castiel's breath softly brushing his cheek. "Because... because... they don't mean a thing to me. You do. You've seen the best and the worst of me... and you're still here. I trust you more than I trust myself. I– I–"
Dean's face flushed a violent shade of red, but his green eyes blazed with determination and he squarely met Castiel's unblinking stare.
"Even here, I can't say it," Dean whispered. "But you know, Cas. You have to know."
"I know," Castiel whispered back. "I know, Dean. I love you, too."
Even with their eyes closed, they have that eye-fuck thing going for them, Sam thought, as precious minutes crawled by and still his brother and the angel remained frozen in their respective positions: Dean laid out flat on his back, looking for all the world like Sleeping Beauty; Castiel bent over him like Prince Charming coming to the rescue, poised to deliver true love's kiss.
Sam snorted at the thought. Yeah, like that could ever happen. Still... there's no denying that they've forged a special bond, one that goes far beyond the whole you-yanked-me-out-of-hell gratitude thing that anyone would feel.
Dean isn't the type to let just anyone in his life, but he's sure welcomed Cas. That angel is family now – as much so as me or Bobby. Not that Dean would ever admit it. And Cas? The poor guy obviously doesn't have two clues to rub together. But anyone with eyes can see it. Look at them. They're even breathing in sync, for heaven's sake. How weird is that?
"Uh, Cas..." Dean mumbled, restlessly shuffling his feet as long seconds passed and they simply continued standing there, eyes locked and bodies unmoving. "It's kinda customary to kiss after a declaration of love."
"My apologies, Dean. I am new at this. I was not certain it was deemed appropriate."
"I would say that it is very appropriate."
"Oh... In that case..." Castiel tilted his head up slightly, nervously wetting his lips before pursing them and slowly leaning further into Dean's personal space.
Dean's eyes fluttered shut in anticipation, his arms reaching out to draw Castiel closer, melding their bodies firmly together, feeling the jack-hammering sensation in his chest echoed by the angel's heart.
And then Castiel finally closed the scant few inches that separated them. His lips touched lightly at the corner of Dean's mouth and pressed there sweetly, chastely, before shyly backing away.
Dean opened his eyes to find Castiel staring at him, eyes wide and pupils blown. The angel was actually trembling in his arms.
"You really are new at this." Dean smiled, leaning forward and letting his lips gently tease their way across Castiel's surprisingly soft mouth and unsurprisingly rough-stubbled cheek. He ghosted a trail of kisses up and down the angel's neck, pausing at a leaping pulse to suck pale flesh into a rosy glow. "Relax," he murmured. "This may be your first time, but it's not like it's your first kiss. Remember that skank, Meg? Remember all you learned from watching the Pizza Man..."
"Kissing Meg was an error in judgement. It meant nothing to me. This means so much more – it means everything. And I don't know what to do! You are not Meg..."
"No," Dean agreed. "I'm not." His mouth hovered a hair's breadth away. "But I like pizza," he whispered, and licked a broad swath across Castiel's parted lips, his tongue dipping in to steal a little taste of heaven.
"Oh... oh..." Castiel whimpered, and surged forward to seal their lips together in a feral kiss that curled Dean's toes and completely fried his brain. Castiel's warm fingers slid up to cradle the back of Dean's head and he twisted them around to push Dean up against a wall, deepening the kiss, their tongues dancing in a give and take as old as time. Both man and angel moaned...
Things progressed nicely from that point. Before Castiel quite knew how it happened, he was spread out on the bed: his trench coat and jacket balled up and tossed to the floor, his few remaining clothes in total disarray. Dean's hands were in constant motion, his kisses burning paths across each inch of skin his hands revealed as he removed the final traces of clothing from them both. The angel panted helplessly, arching into every touch, wordlessly begging for more.
It was everything Dean had ever imagined and more. Castiel's perpetually bed-head styled hair stuck out in even wilder directions as his head tossed back and forth upon the pillow; his hands, which had been tightly knotted in the sheets, as if not quite daring to touch the human in return, suddenly reached out to Dean, caressing every bit of bare flesh that they could reach.
"Tell me what you want..." Dean urged.
"You," Castiel gasped. "This. More. Please, Dean... I want– I need–"
"Shhh, shhh," Dean soothed, "It's all right, sweetheart. I've got you. Let yourself go."
And with an ear splitting wail of "Dean!" Castiel did exactly that, leaving Dean no choice but to follow, the words "I love you" now tripping off his tongue without thought or hesitation. And it wasn't the least bit scary... because Castiel was there to catch him when he fell.
"This is the dream," Dean whispered, his lips moving in drowsy, contented circles against his angel's neck. "This is the dream I want to live in forever. Here. With you. Like this."
"Dean..." Castiel sighed, hating to ruin the moment, but honour bound to do so. "As pleasurable as this is, it isn't real. We are not really here. I am dreamwalking... you are unconscious, cursed by a spell."
"It is real!" Dean protested. "It's as real as we want it to be. Don't you want this, Cas? This is the only place and time it can ever be real. If I go back... If I go back, I lose you. You're an angel. In what possible reality can an angel belong to me?"
"You know I want to be with you always," Castiel insisted. "I think I have from the very first moment I laid eyes on you. But... at what cost, Dean? Is it worth your life?"
"Cas..."
"If you do not awaken soon, you will die."
"I can think of worse ways to go." Dean quipped.
"You are the most infuriatingly stubborn person it has ever been my misfortune to meet," Castiel growled.
"But you love me anyway."
"Yes. I do." Castiel drew a deep, shuddering breath and captured Dean's face between his hands. "Which is why I will not argue the point with you anymore. You win, Dean. We will stay inside your dream."
"We?" Dean's eyebrow rose at the sudden capitulation. He'd won... Why didn't it feel like a victory? Why didn't he like the sound of this?
"Dean... did you really think that I would just let you go?" Castiel shook his head disapprovingly. "Don't you know by now I never could. Not before we became lovers... and certainly not after. I will stay with you in your dream. No matter the consequences."
"Consequences?"
"There are always consequences, my beloved."
"Cas... What consequences? Cas?"
"Cas!" Sam cried. But no matter how hard he stared, no matter how hard he wished it, the angel simply was no longer there. In less than the space between two heartbeats he was gone, vanished as if he'd never existed. The monitors droned their dreary song. Dean's chest rose and fell, the motion artificially enhanced.
Sam was on his own. And he didn't have a clue as to what he should do next.
"I am with you," Castiel said. "Heart and mind and body, I am yours. My grace is tied to your soul. We are one... forever... for however long forever lasts. Is that not what you wanted?"
"Yes. No. Cas..."
"Ruth 1:16-17."
"Huh?" Dean said blankly.
" 'Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge...' "
"No, Cas! You can't–"
" 'Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.' "
"Cas, you stupid, crazy, dick angel! What have you done?"
"I have made my choice," Castiel calmly replied. "As you made yours."
How many hours left, Sam wondered. Or are we down to minutes, seconds...
Cas, we need a miracle here... Please, Cas... pleasepleaseplease...
Somewhere far away an annoying beeeeeeeeep noise was sounding. Dean felt a strange tingling sensation in his chest. An awkward heaviness... an aching void... a sharp knife's twist...
"Ow," he said. "Ow ow ow."
"Forever ends," Castiel said sadly, tenderly holding Dean's quaking hand between the angel wing his own two clasped hands made. "Now we lay us down to sleep," he whispered. "I pray the Lord our soul to keep. If we should die before we wake..."
"No," Dean shook his head in anguish. "You can't stay here. This dream will kill you – you have to leave!"
"Is my life worth more than yours?"
"Yes! Get out of my mind, Cas! Get out! Get out now!"
"No. I love you, Dean."
"No!" Dean screamed. "No no no no!"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
"Dean? Dean!"
Dean's eyes shot open. He would have bolted upright, but something was holding him down. Tubes and wires. A heavy arm pressed across his chest. Alastair... The knife... the knife!
"No!" He tried to scrabble away, but the hands that held him were much too strong. Gagging, he ripped the oxygen mask from his face, tore sensors and tubing away, uncaring of the pain it caused him.
"Dean..." A wide, open palm slapped his face. "Dean!" A second slap struck his other cheek.
"Sam?" Dean forced wild eyes to focus on his brother's equally panicked face.. "Sam... Sammy."
"It's okay, Dean. It's okay. I've got you. You're safe. It's over."
Over...
Forever ends...
No!
"Cas?" Dean cried brokenly. "What happened to Cas? I have to find him, Sam! Cas? Cas, where are you?"
With a familiar rustle of wings, the angel appeared. "Hello, Dean," he said, his face as austere and serene as ever, looking for all the world as if nothing extraordinary had happened recently and all was exactly as it should be.
Business as usual, Dean, an evil little voice niggled in Dean's brain. Welcome back to your crap-tacular life.
"You feathery bastard!" Dean roared, wrenching out of Sam's restraining grasp and flinging himself towards the angel. "You tricked me! You– Mmmmph!"
Castiel's lips silenced the furious tirade in a most effective manner. His arms were warm and wrapped around Dean so tightly he could scarcely breathe.
"Mmmmph?" Dean repeated wonderingly. "Mmmmmm..."
"In this reality," Castiel murmured in the brief pauses for breath as they traded hungry kisses. "In this reality... and every other... I am yours. Good things do happen, Dean."
And, this time, Dean believed him.