Fanart by "bamf-castiel" on tumblr. Short fic inspired by it and Keaton Henson's song "You".
"And if you must die, sweetheart, die knowing your life was my life's best part."
The light is gone.
The sky is starless, the lake without any reflection.
His knees are damp and his jeans stick to his skin.
The body spread out next to him isn't moving.
It won't move anymore.
He knows it, but hope is an incurable disease.
He pronounces his name. His voice seems foreign to him.
Weak, flickering, like the flame of a candle about to go out.
No reaction.
So he looks up, prays. Until the tears roll down his cheeks, frozen by the nocturnal breeze.
And the universe seems too great, his existence too insignificant in front of the silence that answers him.
All that love wasted.
His breath catches in his throat, his fists close.
"Son of a bitch, bring him back to me !"
His scream tears the darkness and surprises the crickets which are silent for a moment.
But this time God doesn't grant him his wish.
The man lies down beside the body, on the side, in order to continue to look at him. Pine needles prick him through his clothes.
And his lips find a will of their own.
"I'm sorry, I- I couldn't do it. I would do anything to go back in time... I should have- We had so many occasions..."
He remembers these and each of them leaves a deep gash in his heart that will no longer beat for anyone. Of all the tortures he has endured in his life, it is the most painful.
"Please, don't leave me ... I need you."
Even now he cannot. He hates himself.
His interlocutor is still motionless.
So the man falls apart for good, lets his never expressed feelings pour out of him, followed by despair and guilt.
After a minute, an hour, or a day, his jolts become scarce and eventually cease.
His vision blurry, he gets up and wipes his nose with his sleeve. Walks to his car, comes back with a shovel. Begins digging in one of the golden rectangles scattered through the windows of the lighted house behind him.
During all his work, he feels and thinks nothing and is grateful for it. The void is saving.
He drops the tool that falls with a thump.
The moment to say goodbye has arrived.
He gently raises the body in his arms before resting it right away.
He can't.
Something has yet to be done.
He removes the trenchcoat from his precious load and slips it in, inch by inch, eyes closed, teeth clenched.
His smell overwhelms him and he must plant his fingers into the ground to refocus.
Blood. Ash. Him.
When his nausea subsides, he carries the already lukewarm body and places it in the bottom of the tomb.
Nothing tempts him more than to lie down too, to wait for the end huddled against him.
He's so tired.
But he knows it would be useless. Their path will never cross again, neither in this world nor in another.
He gets out of the hole and still hesitates for a few seconds, his shovel full of dirt hanging in the air. The back of the trenchcoat undulates like a flag.
One last time, he looks at the pale face of his brother, his best friend, his so much more.
Then the earth covers it.
When the sun illuminates the valley, a cross made of irregular branches sits at the top of the mound.
On one of them, an anonymous inscription carved with a pocket knife.
"I love you"