He looked so close like this. Eyes closed, hair rumpled, hands curled around the edge of the blanket and the faint rise and fall of his body under it. Sleep made Cas look more human - more vulnerable - than ever.

Except that he wasn't sleeping.

They'd brought him back from the battle bloody and broken, in the back seat of the Impala, slumped and gasping in Dean's arms. Sam had driven like a bat out of Hell while Dean uttered a silent litany of Come on Cas, come on, Cas, don't close your eyes, his fingers gripping the angel's tie. Cas had closed his eyes, though. While Dean had carried him over the threshold, they'd fluttered closed and stayed that way.

Dean had laid him down on the bed, watching the slow - too slow - pulse of Cas' throat. After a frozen moment, he'd started to dress Cas' wounds, unbuttoning Cas' shirt, wiping the blood away. The mechanical motions had taken on a tender note he wasn't used to and couldn't deal with. There was no quick quip Cas would hear, no way to say, 'you'll live, quit whining'. Because Cas wasn't saying anything. And he certainly wasn't sleeping, because angels didn't sleep -

Jesus.

He'd barely even thought about it, when he was carrying Cas, when he was lifting his unconscious body up to put a fresh shirt on him - one of Dean's, if it mattered - or when he'd folded the trenchcoat up on the pillow next to Cas. Not even when he'd unlaced Cas' shoelaces, still muttering Come on, just, just - and finally fell silent. He hadn't thought about how close they were, how they were closer than they'd ever been and it was all wrong because Cas was bleeding, red on his white shirt.

But now that he'd collapsed by Cas' bed, into a hideous pink velvet armchair, no doubt dragged from a garage sale, it hit him. He wasn't more than an arm's length away, mechanically watching Cas' pulse, and Cas looked closer than ever, so vulnerable; it would be the easiest thing in the world to reach out and touch him. But Dean didn't, and the inches between had never felt further.

Sam was away on a simple salt and burn. They'd argued before he went, and Dean's side of the argument hadn't made much sense. It had swung from You can't go alone to We can't leave Cas to I need another beer. Sam had left telling him it wasn't a two man job anyway and one of them should stay with Cas. Dean had opened his mouth, not sure what he was about to say, before Sam had cut him off with, "It should be you. That stays, I mean."

It should be you. There was something about that phrase, that quelled all arguments about protecting Sam, about the family business. Something that shut him up good.

It'd been three days since Cas had closed his eyes. Two days since Sam left - his brief phone call led Dean go believe that he was systematically burning the cemetery - and Cas still hadn't woken up.

Dean never left the chair for more than five minutes at a time. He slept there, using, more often than he'd admit, Cas' trenchcoat as a blanket. There was a bottle of whiskey by the leg of the chair, but it was unopened. Had been for days. That must be some sort of a record. If Cas woke up, if he needed help, he couldn't be drunk. And he couldn't be so deep asleep that if Cas called out, he wouldn't hear. Those were the only facts that stopped himself from drinking himself into a stupor, drinking the thought What if he doesn't wake up? into total oblivion. As it was, he just shoved it to the back of his mind.

It was late afternoon, and cloudy outside. Dean closed his eyes against the gray light diffusing the room, and reached out a shaking hand. Lips forming Come on almost against his will as he took hold of Cas' hand. Cas finger twitched, just the slightest thing, but it made Dean's heart skip a beat, hope soaring through him like a falling flame. Dean let out a breath and laced their fingers together, squeezing once. Waiting for Cas to return the touch.

"Hunt went good. See? Not a scratch. I'm gonna grab a beer and veg out," Sam said at the door. 'Veg out' was Sam-speak for read a 900 page book on monster-lore. Dean nodded, glad his brother hadn't tried to pry him out of his chair. "Try talking to him," Sam said softly. By the time Dean looked around, Sam was gone from the doorway.

He was silent for a moment. Then, his voice cracked like he hadn't used it for months as he tried out, "Cas."

More silence. He couldn't believe he'd been in this stuffy room, in this stupid fugly chair, with this silence rolling all around him for days straight. He cleared his throat, not sure if he could bear to speak again and not have Cas' gravelly voice reply.

"So," he started again. Stopped. "Don't you dare die on me." His left hand was holding Cas', but on his right hand, his nails were driving into his palm, threatening to draw blood. He laughed, startled that the words had come out so easily. "Look at me," he said, quiet now the laughter had gone. "Yeah. OK." And he looked away, unable to say any more.

He started to read to Cas the day after that. It was easier than talking. He read any book not about monsters that he could get his hands on. He raided Sam's box of books, which had been slowly expanding since they moved into the bunker. He even read the poetry anthology when he was sure Sam was out. He read badly, stumbling and doing awful accents for the different characters, changing the words when he didn't know how to pronounce them. He read until his voice was hoarse and it was dark outside.

He read books he'd never heard of before, books he'd slept on in highschool, but mostly, it was anything he thought Cas might like. He was reading The Little Prince and kept tripping up on the same passage. He read it through and through again when he noticed tears pricking at the back of his eyelids. He closed the book gently and pretended he didn't know why his cheeks were wet.

Sam started leaving food outside the door. The door was never closed, just stuck at the half open position. Still, Sam kept his distance. He offered to watch Cas a few times, but other than that and the mysteriously appearing food (and coffee) all was quiet. The protests Dean had expected at him sitting by Cas all day didn't come.

The trouble started when Dean had read through every book readily available and they towered in a lopsided heap beside him, a monument to the two weeks Cas had been asleep. His wounds healed, slowly, but he never opened his eyes. Dean held his hand for hours, hoping for another flicker of movement, a sign, anything.

"We're all out of books," Dean said. Then, "This'd be a lot easier if you'd just wake up, you know." He waited. The door upstairs slammed and the Impala's engine started up. Baby felt more like Sam's car these days than his. He sighed. Alone in this giant bunker with a Cas whose breathing was still too shallow. "Screw you," he said suddenly. "Screw you for throwing yourself in front of every damn bus you could. Y'know, if you hadn't stuck your neck out for me in the first place, you wouldn't be here. I mean, come on. Rebelling. Cracking open Purgatory. Staying there. Taking on Sam's hallucinations. Trusting Metatron. Trying to fight an angel war. Saying..." he took a breath to steady himself. "Saying yes to Lucifer. I know I said it was the right thing - but I..." He ran a hand over his mouth. "I wish you hadn't."

Silence. He squeezed Cas' hand, probably too tightly. "There, I said it, you bastard." He swallowed. "Not to mention jumping in front of me when I had it covered. That's what got you into this mess in the first place, y'know." He dropped Cas' hand. "Goddamnit," he said, and reached for the bottle of whiskey.

His respite ended shortly after. It was like Sam knew he'd been drinking and oh, look, here came the intervention. "Dean." His brother sat down gingerly on the edge of the table across the bed. Dean wondered numbly if it might crack. It looked flimsy. "It's been three weeks." Funny how that last week had slipped down the sink drain of selfloathing and scotch. "Here's the thing. Cas only has a fraction of his original grace. And who knows what Lucifer did to him while he was possessed. It could just be taking him longer to... Recharge his batteries than normal." Dean nodded dumbly. "Dean..." Sam trailed off. "There's another possibility."

"Don't say it." If you say it, it might come true. As long as no one says it, it's alright.

"I have to." The taller man steadied himself. "You know he might not wake up. And you need to be ready for that." With that, Sam took his leave, clasping the empty whisky bottle in his hand as he went.

"I'll make you a deal," Dean offered with a lopsided attempt at a smile. He knelt at the foot of Cas' bed, watching for any sign of movement or consciousness. "You know that I lied. And I know that you know. So, if you'll just wake up, I'll tell you the truth. No workarounds. No snide jokes. I promise. Just..." he reached out, hands clenching in the bottom of the blanket. "Just..." Fingers twisting in the cotton, he sniffed. Looked up at where the light fell on the ceiling. Bars from the window streaming onto white. He thought briefly how Cas was meant to be a creature of light, with wings and grace. He said, "OK. OK.

"Castiel, who art fuck knows where, listen to me. I lied. And we both knew it, and pretended not to. Put on a party face for the end of the world, eh? Anyway," He paused, biting his lip. Some small part of him thought maybe if he laid it all on the line, Cas might really wake up. Like a fairytale. "You are so much more than a brother to me. Something different. Something that scares me and confuses me and goddamnit Cas, where are you?" he ground out. "I need you."

Cas didn't wake up. Dean dragged the armchair outside, onto the concrete, and set it on fire. Not only was it ugly and pink and ancient, he felt helpless sitting in it. Watching Cas slip farther under. He felt far away. So he tossed his lighter down, and watched the flames spring up. It smelled awful when it burnt. Sam would complain. Say how comfortable it had been or something. Dean blinked smoke away as he watched it crumple into ash.

He walked back inside.

Realized without the chair, there was nowhere to sit. He surveyed the room for a moment, and then the pull to close the inches between them became too strong. He sat down on the edge of the bed ever so slowly, the mattress dipping under his weight. He lifted up the blanket and, ensuring the door was shut, rolled under it. His knees brushed against Cas' - they were about as far apart as two grown men in a twin bed could be while still, somehow, touching. This was alright, he told himself. It felt... Good. He held Cas' hand in his, to warm it. Of course. It was better this way, because this way, when. Cas woke up, he wouldn't have to look around for Dean. Cas would just know he was there.

Sam pushed a note under the door. It said, "There's a garden outside we never found. Overgrown. Mostly for growing spell ingredients. Take a walk there. Just 15 minutes. Please."

Dean sighed, and crumpled the note between his fingers. He glanced back at Cas.

With a heavy heart, he grabbed his jacket and walked outside. Sam was begging and he hadn't asked for anything from Dean since the start of all of this. Still, something pounded at the base of his throat as he thought of Cas waking up alone. Or... Or worse. He stopped in his tracks in the dark hallway. What if - fucking hell - if Cas took his last breath and he was alone? Dying like a wounded soldier far from home?

He stood there, frozen between Please and What if he's not there when I get back?

Footsteps sounded behind him. A large hand clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll watch him." Dean closed his eyes. That didn't cut it, somehow. Not to mention he was positive Sam had planned to meet him on the way out.

"I -"

"There'll be bees in the garden soon. Spring coming and everything," Sam said offhandedly, before walking away.

That was what did it. Dean walked outside, tears working their way down his cheeks, to the garden. It wasn't anything much. But Cas, Cas he knew would love it. Would sit in this nondescript sprawl of green and rotting wood and watch the bees come. And so Dean stood there stiffly, smelling fresh air for the first time in weeks, for fifteen minutes and no longer, all the while unable to escape the thoughts of If and Maybe that lurked under every leaf and shadow. He vowed never to come back here, until Cas woke up.

It was a dark gray morning, as though the sun had chosen not to rise, and rain pounded down outside. It almost drowned out the small, domestic noises Dean had gotten accustomed to early in the day. His own swallowing. Cas breathing. The small crumplings of sheets and the ticking of the clock in the corner. Sam had left more books outside the room, he knew, but Dean felt as though he were holding his breath for something. He ran his thumb along Cas' knuckles, mapping the bony landscape. He thought how, by now, he probably knew the back of Cas' hand better than the angel did himself. The humor of that, he reflected, would be lost on Cas.

"I miss you," he said, scarcely realizing he'd spoken. He blinked. Cas remained still, like a rumpled soldier carved out of marble. "Fuck," he said as a tear slid down his nose. He hadn't cried for months and now, this? This day, like any other, was when he chose to lose it?

He shook his head, as if to get rid of the tears, but they were soon replaced. "I really need you," he whispered, "To open your eyes." He felt everything slipping away from him as he said it, his forehead coming to rest on Cas' shoulder. He was begging, holding up his last piece of faith and crying to the wind, Take me. And this was the last time he'd be able to ask that, to dare to hope for his prayers to be answered. He took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes. If Cas stayed still, he'd have to walk away. Find some way to quell the ache inside, the sneaking feeling that if he had waited longer, if he had somehow had more to give, then -

An electric shock went through his whole body, starting at his fingers. Followed by a single squeeze of his hand.

And he didn't dare look up or raise his shining wet face from the dark of Cas' t-shirt shoulder, not until he heard it.

"Hello, Dean."

"My grace is a fraction of what it was. It took me a long time to recover from my injuries - I entered a near catatonic state healing myself. I don't think I would've had enough energy to wake up again, it was like I was in limbo." Explanations like these drifted from Cas' lips while Dean stared up at him, awestruck. He was really awake. "I mentioned our profound bond once to you. When I rescued you in hell, I branded you. And your soul. Unintentionally," Cas said, frowning. "But there's an enormous amount of power in that bond. You triggered it, and woke me. I think this is similar to the parable about Snow White-" Cas said slowly, the edges of a smile tugging his lips up gently.

"You heard me," Dean said slowly. "Reading to you. Talking," he added.

"Every word," Cas said, staring at him steadily.

Dean nodded jaggedly, trying not to notice how his torso was almost on top of Cas' and he'd been quite clearly crying on his friend's shoulder. "How?" he asked suddenly. "How did I trigger it?"

Cas' eyes - Christ, they were so deep, their glimmers like sparks in the ocean blue, he'd almost forgotten they looked like this - flickered with something sad. "Pain," he said. "Freely given." And Dean thought of begging, praying, offering everything he had one last time. That fit the bill, he supposed.

"I liked that chair," Cas said. It was the day after, Cas still in bed, Dean sitting on the edge of the mattress, carding his hands through the angel's black hair. Cas was healed, but still weak.

"You were unconscious. You didn't see it." Dean answered, taken aback.

"I know." Cas answered. "But you sat in it and read to me, and I wish you hadn't burnt it."

Dean considered telling him that if the chair wasn't charcoal right now, Cas would still be in a coma. Instead, he said, "I'll build you another one." How hard could it be?

Cas nodded against Dean's hand. "When you're finished making the chair, we'll talk."

The next day, Cas asked to go out to the garden. Dean blinked. He'd never told Cas about the garden.

"Sam told me," Cas said, not quite meeting Dean's gaze. Dean wondered what words had passed between Cadillac and his brother in the fifteen minutes he'd been absent. After surveying Cas for any signs of relapse, Dean handed him the trenchcoat and slung an arm under Cas' shoulders to support him. This time when they walked over the threshold, Cas was firmly awake. Shaky and clinging onto Dean, but alive.

Dean worked on the chair outside. It took a long time, because he didn't know really how to make a chair. Cas had asked that it be green, without ever explaining why. He just glanced where the charcoal heap had been on the ground, and smiled like he had his own private joke. Cas worked alongside him in the garden, taming the roses that tangled their own righteous path across the garden, watering the clumps of rosemary and the young apple tree. It took Cas a long time to get back to full strength, and sometimes, at the end of the day, Dean would carry him in and lay him down on the bed, panting and weak but smiling.

By the time the chair was finished, one thing had led to another - as they are wont to do - and they slept tangled together like the roses in the garden. Instead of knees barely brushing, now it was arms locked around torsos and lips idly resting over the marks they'd made the night before. Dean slept curled around Cas.

When the chair was finished and had been installed in what had become Cas' room, Cas was ready to talk. He sat down in his chair experimentally, laid his hand on the armrest, and nodded his approval. Dean took a deep breath and stared down at his shoes, which did not prepare him for what came next.

Cas leaned forward, and took Dean's hand in his. "Look at me. I need you."

Dean looked at him, green eyes wide and startled.

Cas nodded once, a smile threatening to break loose. "I will throw myself in front of every bullet meant for you I can and I will not apologize. And I will always do my best to come back to you. But, I have a chair now. I think that means I'm here to stay." Dean let out a low laugh. "Come on," Cas said, voice on the verge of breaking from emotion, "Come on," he said, pulling Dean to his feet for a long kiss, lips and bodies pressed together until the inches between had vanished.