Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural in any way.

I want to stay

The sun had gone down a while ago, leaving the wood forest surrounding the clearing in faint, dusk light that was just enough to see by. One by one the nocturnal animals woke up in their hiding places in the leaves, in their tunnels burrowed deep and on their branches swinging in the wind.

Dean Winchester stumbled out of the trees and limped forward slowly. The animals didn't pay him any attention while they went about their business, while he flinched at every sound they made, warily scouring his surroundings for impending danger.

A soft breeze of wind rustled through the leaves and gently ruffled Dean's hair, cooling his overly hot face.

It had been the soft babbling of a brook that'd led Dean to the clearing. When he first noticed it, he'd barely heard the sound over the ringing in his ears caused by the explosions, and then he hadn't been sure whether he didn't only wish it to be there because his mouth was so dry.

In the near-darkness and his dazed condition he managed to only realise he'd actually found water when he was already standing in the stream up to his ankles. The water quickly soaked through his army boots and his socks and he hastily stepped back.

Dean collapsed next to the stream and greedily began sipping water out of his cupped hands. Then he splashed water into his face and began rubbing his hands together in the gently tugging drift, willing the blood on them to come off.

He wasn't even sure anymore whether it was his blood or someone else's. Neither did he care.

The water took the red splashes away, but it did nothing to make the images disappear that flashed behind Dean's lids whenever he closed his eyes.

He tried the radio again – still only static.

"Just my luck then", Dean grunted and crammed the radio into his backpack.

Craning his neck painfully, Dean squinted at the graze on his shoulder. It'd stopped bleeding. He carefully tried to lift his arm and it budged. He smiled in grim satisfaction: Should those sons of bitches attack him now, he wouldn't go down without a fight. He could still lift the heavy rifle he carried with him to his shoulder and fire should need be.

The gaping wound on his thigh was another matter, though. Dean shifted around to get a better look at his leg in the fading light and gritted his teeth against the pain as he carefully probed the bandage wrapped around his thigh. He hadn't taken much time to apply the tourniquet in his haste to get away from that place, and his carelessness showed now. There was new blood seeping through the bandages wetting the torn fabric of his trousers.

Maybe, he realised now, he shouldn't have moved at all. He should've waited for Sam or someone else to come and rescue him instead of forcing his way through the thickly clumped thicket and groups of trees – but he had had to leave that place behind. Otherwise he would've gone crazy.

"Awesome", he hissed tiredly, trying to decide whether he could reapply the tourniquet without bleeding to death before he was finished. He needed to get back to Sam, back to HQ, and decided to make this his priority. In an attempt to focus and gather enough courage to undo the bandage – which might very well be the last thing he'd ever do –, Dean closed his eyes for a moment.

Dean opens his eyes and jerks violently when he glimpses at something moving out of the corner of his eye. He frantically starts groping around for the discarded rifle with shaking fingers. His fingertips meet with the cool, reassuring surface of the weapon and the next moment he has it up, ready to aim and fire. Dean awkwardly shifts his weight to get a better look at the approaching figure and barely manages to stifle a groan when he tries to support his weight with the wounded leg, but – dammit! – he won't go down without a fight.

Dean squints to get better aim – then stills abruptly. The straight posture of the silhouette approaching is familiar, so much so in fact that the tension seeps out of Dean's system without him really noticing. The rifle falls to the ground with a soft thump.

A gust of wind blows against Dean's back and continues on to meet the man coming towards him from the edge of the wood. It blows the unbuttoned trench coat the man is wearing wide open, making the tie flap against a shirt so white it appears to be glowing in the light coming from the stars and the moon above. For a moment Dean's attention is directed toward the sky – something is weird about the constellation above – but then his stare is drawn back to the apparition nearing at a steady, almost leisurely pace.

The man's hands hang open and loosely by his side, and he keeps his head held high. His raven hair stands up in unruly spikes.

He looks the same as he ever has.

It's impossible. He can't be here for a number of reasons – the very first of which is Dean's own damn foolishness.

Dean feels a lump forming in his throat and swallows hard. He rubs his eyes and blinks, but the man is still there, now standing at the other end of the stream looking at the night sky with his head slightly tilted. Dean feels a familiar ache clawing at his heart, making it pound against his ribcage. It's enough that he forgets about the pain in his leg and shoulder for a moment, and he stares ahead at this unexpected apparition in disbelief.

He looks so... real. Solid.

Usually when Dean dreams about him, his face is blurred, out of focus, or something in his posture, in the way he frowns or smiles or laughs is wrong. But this version of him, Dean notices with a cold shudder running down his spine, is perfect. It's even breathing. In, out. In and out again. Chest rising and falling as the man stands in the moonlight and tilts his head in thought, looking so familiar all Dean wants is to get up, limp through the cold water, pull him close and never let go of him anymore, no matter what.

The fact that this is a thing he can never, ever do again, no matter how much he wants it, claws at Dean's heart ferociously.

Dean covers his face with his hands and counts to ten, wishing the man to disappear. He needs to get back to Sam as soon as possible, not sort out how to get rid of yet another echo.

Dean had hoped those were over. It's been months since he's last seen him.

When he takes his hands away, the man is still there. This time Dean has him down perfectly: The trench coat has a few burn marks on it and is ripped in places. More than one button is missing, one hanging loosely by a few threads. On one side there's a large tear in the coat through which the fabric of his suit jacket is showing. The white shirt is crinkled in places and there's a stain on it that may or may not be blood. Mud cakes his shoes where he's walked over the muddy ground leading to the stream.

When Dean finally finds his voice his eyes burn. He breathes the angel's name. The whisper comes out like a sob: "Cas...?"

The phantom of a man turns his head and looks at Dean, who marvels at the fact that he's forgotten how blue Cas' eyes are, even in this pale light, and what kind of feeling a single look out of this pair of eyes is able to stir up in him. Now that he sees him, Dean realises that there are many small details of Cas' face he's managed to forget these past few months – how could he ever do that?

Dean feels like he's been punched in the stomach with force, and that's before the apparition smiles at him, causing little wrinkles to show up around his eyes and mouth. The smile – though rueful and sad – completely takes Dean's breath away.

For a long while that feels like eternity to Dean, they only look at each other, and Dean wonders if this version of Castiel will lash out at him for what he's done like all the others did. He deserves it, no doubt. It has been his fault after all.

"I'm so sorry", Dean finally blurts out, feeling the need to voice what he's feeling before he's too weak to get it off his chest. He swallows against the lump in his throat, "I'm so sorry I wasn't there that day..."

Dean looks down at the bandages covering his legs on which his hands lay clenched together tightly. They are stained with new blood and swim in and out of focus. A sombre part of Dean's brain tells him that he's missed his chance to change them without bleeding out.

A bitter smile forms on Dean's lips – so he's not going to get back to Sam. Not this time. Without really meaning to he gives in to the pull he's been fighting these past few minutes and slowly lets himself sink back. It's not much of a choice anymore anyway.

The moment Dean's head hits the ground, which is wet and uncomfortable, Castiel crosses the stream and hurries to Dean's side, kneeling down by his side. He reaches for the bandaged leg, then draws his hands back again and lets them fall down by his sides uselessly. A groan of frustration escapes the angel. Dean watches Cas bite his lip, something he's never seen him do before. A pained expression crosses over Castiel's face as he draws his brows together tightly.

Meanwhile Dean drinks in every little detail of Cas' face and body. If these are his last moments, there could be worse ways to spent them than looking at Castiel, even if that means looking only and no touching, even though they're so close together that all Dean would have to do is reach out to make their hands meet.

"Are you good?", Dean manages to say with his dry, chapped lips. "On the other side, I mean?"

Castiel stops to helplessly examine Dean's leg without touching it and turns his head to look at the other man's face and another sad smile tugs at his mouth. He looks heart-broken, but Dean can't help but think he's looking beautiful.

Dean wishes he could reach up and touch Cas' face to comfort him like he's done a million times before. It used to be so easy to turn the angel's frowns into smiles.

Dean's eyes wander and he looks up at the sky, wondering if there have ever been so many stars up there, or when the crescent moon has come up. He certainly didn't notice it doing so.

Crickets chirp nearby, and the stream bubbles calmly. The air smells of fresh water and grass and Dean feels tired and worn out.

"This isn't how I expected things to end", Dean groans. His syllables meld into each other, and though his voice is barely louder than a whisper now it still rasps painfully in his throat.

"This... everything", he continues and turns his head to look at Cas' face again. "It's all been so pointless, all things considered."

Dean closes his eyes and presses his palms across them, trying to suppress the memories crowding back up at his words. It doesn't work.

The attack on their camp had been as quick and unexpected as it had been merciless. Most of his men hadn't survived the first assaulting wave. They died within a minute. Those who weren't killed but couldn't run anymore were dispatched of despite their pleas for help.

Dean remembers the heat on his face from the fires, the smell of blood and ashes lingering, the yells and screams for help and – in stark contrast – the calm voices of the angels finishing them off. The sound of guns firing repeatedly, tearing through the air, still echoes in his ears.

Dean vividly recalls the sudden, sharp pain in his leg when he got hit and the terrible silence that followed the attack, only broken by his ragged breathing.

Dean remembers the feeling of utter, desolate hopelessness.

They had killed them all, his whole hand-picked team; his most trusted inner circle. The men who had been with him through the rebellion, who had supported Dean's and Sam's vision of a new and brighter future for mankind, free from the shackles the angels had fastened on them over the millenia.

They had killed his friends for his rebellion – but they had left him alive on purpose.

Dean figures this might be a new kind of torture the angels were trying on him.

Thank god Sam and Bobby had stayed behind.

"Everything we've worked to protect has gone up in flames regardless. How are we supposed to come back from that? How can we ever make things right again?"

In the silence that follows Dean's words, he becomes very aware that the pain in his leg has turned into a somewhat distant, regular throb that should probably alarm him, but really doesn't.

"Guess that's not going to be my problem anymore", Dean mutters and takes his palms away from his eyes. He keeps them closed though, afraid that he might be too out of it to hallucinate about Cas, too weak to conjure up echoes.

"Still", he sighs, "should've been me that day, not you. Never you."

"Dean."

Dean jerks violently. He stares at Castiel with his eyes wide in disbelief. His heart skips a beat and he tries to figure out if his failing senses play a cruel trick on him.

Averting his gaze because he can't look the angel in the eyes without feeling nauseous with guilt, Dean searches for something, anything to say. The familiar sound of Castiel's voice brings back so many memories, so many feelings Dean had hoped buried for ever. He's missed this voice so much.

"You shouldn't have joined our side, Cas. If you'd stayed with your family, none of this would've happened, you'd never gotten hurt. This was never your fight, and I... I... I should've protected you!"

The words come out with a sob Dean has been holding back for months, a sob that's made it hard for him to talk, to get up in the morning, to move, to make plans; a grief so intense he had trouble breathing.

"Dean. Look at me."

Castiel's voice is even, but Dean knows him well enough to sense the emotion hidden behind his calm voice. He obeys and turns his head.

"None of this was your fault. None of it. The choice always was mine and mine alone. If you hadn't been the one to start all of this, it might as well have been me some day in the future. You have to stop blaming yourself for something that you had no control over. To join you and your brother was my decision, and I never regretted choosing you. Not even with my dying breath did I regret that choice. I would do it all again, all of it, if that meant I got to spend another day with you."

Another sob escapes Dean's mouth closely followed by more and hot tears run down his cold face. Dean knows that Castiel is dead and gone, that the angel will never again come to him at night, that he'll never get to feel the soft pressure of Castiel's lips on his again – it's too much for Dean to bear.

"I'm so sorry", Dean says finally, and he means it with every fibre of his rapidly fading being.

Castiel's answer is simple, something he's said many times before when he was still alive, and for some reason this sentence is enough to take away much of Dean's guilt. As simple as that, Castiel takes away most of Dean's hurt and replaces it with something else.

Castiel's answer is this: "I love you."

They reach out for each other simultaneously. Their fingers meet. Castiel's are warm, dry and reassuring where Dean's are shaking, cold and dark and sticky with blood. They hold onto each other, clutching each other's hands until some warmth has returned to Dean's numb fingers, not letting go of each other while the stream gently flows on and the moon slowly but steadily changes position on the sky above.

Finally Castiel squeezes Dean's hand in his and asks: "How much does it hurt?"

"Don't really feel anything anymore. Just tired, that's all. Cas – we miss you. We need you. You should be there with Sammy now – I'm sure you'd find a point somewhere in this mess. Something neither of us can see. Maybe you'd even come up with an idea how to stop all of this... You would've seen sense in all this. In all those people dying."

Castiel shakes his head: "Our father wanted us to protect and serve humankind, not enslave it or obliterate it. This war is a result of my brothers' misguided attempts to pursue their own false desires. They have brought this on themselves by condemning all that was good and righteous. We have done many things during this war that I regret deeply, some of them things we can never atone for... But I still believe that it is necessary. Your friends didn't die in vain, Dean, they died for something they believed in. Just like I did."

Cas sighs and looks down at their hands joined together: "But you are few in numbers, and the human strongholds are scattered all over earth, making it hard for you to work together successfully, while the angels are commanded by generals who are studied in the art of war."

While Castiel hesitates, Dean asks: "You don't think it'll end then? Not ever? Not until we're all dead?"

Castiel lets go of Dean's hands and bends lower to cup Dean's cheeks instead. Mere inches separate the mens' faces.

"Listen to me, Dean. This is important: While many of my brothers have lost their way and stopped questioning the orders given by those who let themselves guide only by their own foul desires, there are still those of us who hope. Those who believe in the old ways. Those who remember father's instructions. Their numbers grow every day, and if you manage hold on a little longer, they will eventually join you. Together you will have the strength you need to end this war."

"How do you know this? How do I know I'm not only imagining this? How can I ever believe any of this is real?"

Dean's doubts are back, making his stomach sink with trepidation. If he blinks, will the angel be gone? If he turns his head for a moment, will Castiel just disappear again and leave Dean to die all alone on this clearing, cruelly taking away the hope that has developed in his chest?

Castiel smiles and the tips of his thumbs brush against Dean's cheek, softly at first and then with increasing pressure: "Here – on the other side, as you yourself have put it – I know things. I watch over you, Dean, and over Sam, just like I always have, and I need you to believe me: There is still hope for angels and humans alike. Don't give up that hope. Not ever."

Dean closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of Cas' hands on his face: "But I'm so tired, Cas. So tired of it all. I don't want to keep doing this. Don't want to fight any more, I want to stay here, with you..."

Cas' clear blue eyes fill with tears, and he grabs Dean's hands once more. His usually calm voice goes up in pitch and starts to quiver slightly: "I know. I promise you will see me again. I promise. You will come back here – just not now. I can't keep you here any longer, Dean. I've got work to do for you. Important work."

Even Dean's lips have gone numb and he knows he'll slur is words together but starts talking anyway: "Cas, I..."

The rest of his sentence becomes unintelligible in a bad coughing fit.

"You don't have to tell me. I know; and there's no more time. They're coming, so I have to sent you back now. This is going to hurt."

Castiel lets go of Dean's hands and turns to Dean's bandaged thigh.

Castiel reaches out for the tourniquet and suddenly the pain is back: Intense, hot, searing-white all consuming pain and even as Dean jerks up against the sensation with a yell, the stream, the clearing, the stars and crescent moon in the sky disappear as he starts to black out. The last image fading away is Cas' face – not fast enough, though, for Dean not to see the tears running down the angel's face.

Dean regained consciousness slowly. He opened his eyes and was blinded by a bright light shining into his face, so he pressed his eyes closed again and tried to remember what'd happened.

There'd been a fight with the angels. He'd been hit and on his way back to Sam, he must've lost consciousness... Or something like this. How did he get here?

"I've found him! He's over here!"

"Is he alive?"

Dean felt someone touching his neck and face, leaning so close he could smell whiskey and engine oil. The smell was familiar and comforting, and since the light wasn't shining in his face anymore Dean dared to crack open his eyes again.

"Sure looks dead", Bobby said, relief written plainly on his face as he smiled down at Dean, who weakly smiled back up, "but isn't. That idjits tough."

"Thank god", Sam said and knelt down by Dean's side, searching his backpack for the first aid kit, "Where're you hit?"

"Shoulder", Dean rasped, "leg. Leg's worse."

Sam moved the torch to have a look at Dean's leg and frowned: "There's nothing there", he said, and Dean used his elbows to prop himself up and have a look at his thigh, too. The bandage had become loose, and there was blood on it still – but the wound on his upper leg had indeed vanished. Sam raised an eyebrow while Dean laid back to let him have a go at the graze on his shoulder. That one was still there.

Dean closed his eyes and gritted his teeth against the pain Sam caused by patching up his shoulder. It reminded him of how Cas had reached out for his leg and – Cas. Cas had really been there. He must've been – how else had the wound on his leg disappeared? Castiel had sent him back to earth from wherever he and Dean had been to talk, and he'd healed the probably fatal wound.

He had saved Dean, and he'd saved him for a reason.

"Sam", he suddenly said out loud and opened his eyes again.

"Yeah?"

"Could you give me a moment, please?"

"Dean, we should really..."

"A moment, Sam. That's all I ask."

Sam frowned again, then nodded okay. "Call me when you're ready."

Dean waited until his brother and Bobby were out of earshot.

"Cas, buddy, you there?", he said under his breath.

There was no answer.

The throb in Dean's chest returned. He swallowed hard.

"I wasn't finished talking to you", he said, "if you've got your ears on over there – you'd better! – I love you too, you stupid, dumb idiot, more than I could ever put into words. And I miss you, more than you could ever guess. I don't know how to do this... Without you. But if that's what you want me to do – to talk to your brothers, to wait for that group to join us, then that's what I'll do. I'll end this stupid war because otherwise you'll have died for nothing. Can't have that now, can we?" Tears were back in Dean's eyes, running down his cheeks.

Still there was no answer, and Dean, with a sinking feeling, realised that this, next to the stream under heaven's stars, had probably been the last time he was going to spent with Castiel for a long, long time.

He took a deep breath to try and calm down before he called for Sam. His brother returned, bringing Bobby back with him.

"You'll have to explain all this later", Bobby said and warily searched the surrounding forest for any signs of angels, "that should be one interesting story. I'd rather be back at HQ to hear it though than out here in the open."

But Dean wasn't listening to him – because at that very moment, he felt something he'd been convinced he'd never feel again while being alive: A soft, warm, familiar brushing of lips against his chapped ones, light as a feather, but long and persistent enough for him to be convinced he wasn't imagining things.

Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and when he breathed in again, the heavy weight on his chest was gone and breathing once more was easy.

The kiss was an unspoken promise that Castiel was still with him. He was still there, through it all, even if Dean couldn't see him anymore. The angel would be waiting for Dean so that once his job on earth was done and he was ready to leave, he could join the angel in heaven.

It was a silent vow that Cas was there, on the other side, watching over them, watching over Dean... just like he always had.