His face is lined from the passing of the years, the marks of months and days a map of all the many paths he's travelled. Here, a deep groove where frowns creased his brow; there, brackets and crow's feet from free and easy smiles. That there were more smiles than frowns is evidence of a life well lived... until the reason for those smiles was gone.
His gaze travels, as it does every morning, to the framed picture on the bedside table: the two of them casually leaning against the Impala, arms wrapped around each other, laughing into the camera. They look impossibly young and are obviously head over heels in love. The future stretches wide before them, filled with endless possibilities.
He scrutinizes each and every minute detail of the photo, remembering the touch of his lover's lips, the taste of his skin, the way their bodies used to fit and meld together so perfectly. He remembers the sweet, sharp flare of passion that always sparked between them whenever their eyes met and held.
"Good morning, Mr. Winchester," Nurse Timmons says, interrupting his fond reverie. "And how are we today?"
He doesn't answer. He rarely does.
None of the brightness of the young woman's smile fades. Her grip is gentle but firm as she helps him rise and carefully guides his unsteady steps into the tiny bathroom adjacent to his chamber. Considerately, she grants him his privacy, though he can hear the starched fabric of her uniform rustling against the closed door as she stands there, patiently waiting to escort him back to bed.
The man in the mirror never ceases to amaze him. The thin, grey hair. The sunken eyes, their former brilliance faded to a lustreless hue. The stooped shoulders. The skeletal frame. The palsied shaking as he reaches out to touch the cold glass, tracing a finger down a cheek that used to be full and curved, a perfect fit for a strong and capable hand.
"Mr. Winchester?" He startles at the light tap on the door "Are you okay in there?"
It takes two tries to get his vocal chords to cooperate. "Yes," he rasps. "I'm fine."
She sighs, but moves away. He listens, but her footsteps go no farther than the bed. That damnable bed. His living coffin. How he hates it. He hates this place. He hates what he has become. Helpless. Useless. An old man waiting to die. Alone.
The flushing of the toilet masks the sound of a strangled sob. His face is dry and impassive as he shuffles back into the room. All four walls are painted a sickly shade of green. Generic art prints are scattered here and there: a frolicking puppy, a field of flowers, a bowl of fruit, a beach, although they are nowhere near the sea. He snorts, amused despite himself. The nursing home's floor is scuffed white tile instead of cheap beige carpeting, but the atmosphere is the same. It reeks of disinfectant and despair. It is every motel room he ever visited. Somehow, it is fitting that he has ended up in a shabby, impersonal place like this. Not in the cozy home they built together... but here. Back where it all began.
He half expects to see Sam lounging on the second bed, pounding away on his laptop, grinning at him around a mouthful of salad, long hair flopping in his eyes.
But the other bed is empty, Sam lost to a nasty bout of pneumonia ten – no, twelve – years ago. He is currently between roommates, though he expects that situation won't last long. This place has an ever revolving door. One patient dies, another moves in.
He wonders when his bed will be the next one to be temporarily vacant.
The thought doesn't scare him the way it should.
Some days, as a special treat, if the weather is warm and his frail health permits, Nurse Timmons helps him into a wheelchair and rolls him out into the garden. It's pleasant there. He likes the smell of the flowers and fresh-cut grass. He can lose himself for hours in the deep blue of the sky. He doesn't like the bees, though. They remind him of dark days and darker deeds. He does his best to drown out their incessant hum with a tuneless whistle of his own but, sometimes, tears spill down his cheeks and he begs to be taken back inside.
Other days, he doesn't bother to get out of bed. The little TV set mounted in a corner of his room keeps him company, blathering on about this and that as he alternates between dozing and staring out his small bedroom window. Sometimes his ears perk up and he thinks: they're talking about a hunt! Sometimes then, propelled by a restless sense of urgency and aided by a walker, his feet carry him out to the common room and he searches frantically for a weapon, any kind of a weapon. Ignoring curious gazes and the boardgames spread out upon the tables, he stuffs the pockets of his bathrobe with salt shakers and bottled water. He blesses the water in the sanctity of his room, drinking some and holding the rest in reserve. He lays down lines of salt on windowsills and in doorways, and he sleeps with one eye open and a silver-plated butter knife hidden under his pillow.
Nurse Timmons quietly returns the knife and emptied shakers to the dining area and recycles the bottles. She brings him a cup of chamomile tea and reads aloud until his head starts to nod down to his breast. Before she tiptoes from the room, she helps him settle more comfortably in the bed and pulls the covers up to his stubbled chin to ward off any errant breeze. She prays as she turns off the light that he is safe in a dream of happier yesterdays.
He doesn't know what wakes him. A ghostly caress of a hand turns into the brush of a sheet, the familiar rumble of the Impala becomes a grumble of distant thunder. The lover's hand is more than three years in the grave. The car and the house they shared sold to pay for his upkeep in these, his 'golden years.' Golden his ass. He aches down to the bone. He hurts in a way no physical injury ever came close to hurting.
And it's entirely his own fault.
He'd had a choice: walk away from love.
He almost did.
Almost...
Closing his eyes, he can picture that day as clearly as if he were still living in the moment.
It was goodbye. They both knew it was. The Leviathans were finally exterminated. The angels were being called back to Heaven, no exceptions to the rule. No exceptions... unless you weren't an angel any longer.
Dean and Castiel stared at each other, a narrow motel bed and Castiel's shy, hesitant offer the only barrier between them.
"If you like... if you like, I could stay."
"I can't ask you to do that," Dean whispered.
"You're not asking me, Dean. I would prefer to remain here... with you. The question is... do you want me?"
"To stay?"
"Dean... don't be dense. You know what I am asking. Do you want me? The way that I want you. The way I've wanted you from the start, from the moment I first laid eyes on The Righteous Man."
Clearly, it was now or never. Speak, or forever hold your peace.
"Yes," Dean said in a small, weak voice. "I do. You know I do."
The angel closed his eyes, a small smile playing upon his face.
"Cas?"
Castiel slowly opened his eyes. "Then it is done," he whispered. "I am yours... and you are mine."
Dean's eyes widened as the full implication of the words struck him. His. His angel was really his.
In too much of a rush to walk around the bed, Dean hastily crawled across the mattress and teetered at its edge, reaching out to draw Castiel into a warm embrace, sure in the knowledge that if he tumbled, Castiel would be there to catch him. Just as he always had been: in Hell, on Earth, in Purgatory.
"I love you, I love you, I love you," Castiel murmured. "I'll never leave you. I promise, Dean. I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Cas," Dean's fingers laced in his hair, guiding him until their lips met in a searing kiss. A first kiss. A hell of a first kiss. Hopefully, the first of many. "I'll take however many days we're given. One... one thousand..."
"All of my days," Castiel said, reckless with the wonder of being irrevocably human. "We've wasted too much time. I've fallen for you in every possible sense of the word. You are my forever now."
Forever lasted precisely 15,721 days. In the 43rd year of their intertwined lives, a pulmonary embolism sent forever crashing to its knees, defeated, and a brutal, new kind of forever took its place: the life – the non-life – he presently endures.
Hot tears leak onto the pillow as a lonely hand reaches up towards a Heaven he hasn't believed in for many years. But, this time... this time, he thinks he hears a voice call out his name, and hope spears its way through his wildly beating heart.
The sun is bright in the morning sky. Lingering drops of rain are scattered in the grass like handfuls of carelessly tossed diamonds. Back at the reception desk, a radio softly plays Carry on my Wayward Son. Nurse Timmons's steps are light as she walks down the hallway. "Good morning, Mr. Winchester," she chirps. "And how are we today?"
He doesn't answer. He never will.
"Oh!" A hand flutters to her lips. She knows before she reaches out to take his pulse that she is too late. His eyes are open, his flesh cool to her touch. Her favourite patient's habitual frown is smoothed away, the corners of his mouth turned up in a serene smile.
For some reason, the tears that fall unheeded down her cheeks speak more of joy than they do grief.
"Are you ready?" a deep, familiar voice sounded in his ear. Gentle lips pressed to his brow before drifting down to tenderly kiss away the tears leaking from beneath tightly closed lids.
"Yes," he murmured. "I've been ready for a long, long time."
"I'm sorry it took me so long to find you."
"You found me. That's all that matters."
"Then open your eyes, sweetheart. The wait is over. It's time for me to take you home."
Castiel Winchester opened his eyes and smiled. "Hello, Dean," he said.