Silent

by Milosowner

Dean is a veteran of war submitted to a mental institution, tormented by the death of his brother. It's not until a new roommate is introduced that Dean can remember how to love again.

Crazy can mean so many things. Adjective, noun, verb. An adventure, a ride, a person, a way of doing something. Here, of course, only one of these can exist. It is stamped on our papers, burned into our skin. My name has faded, joined the bleak grayness of the walls around us. We lay on dirty sheets, the shells of men hollowed by war. Gone are our memories, our lives, the complicated web of events shaping us as men, replaced simply with diagnosis and numbers. Screams and cries for some person or other create the ambience of war, complete with hollow gasping of despair, the stench of hopelessness and failure. I've watched so many die, and I cannot wait for my turn to come, for those doors to open, and for me to be free.

It's been 2 months since my last entry. I'm getting better, I suppose, or at least I no longer feel the need to write cryptic entries in my blood. It's not that my mind is any healthier, I simply realized no one was listening. I was one of the many wheeled into a hospital, stewing in a pool of my own blood and screaming for my mother. The move from war hospital to mental came about when I began to display all the usual suspects, pale gums, trembling, hallucinations, and a fascination with the name "Rudy". I know no one named Rudy. Signed, sealed and delivered, with freshly inked PTSD all over my documents, I was pushed into my jail cell of a room, wherein I have been festering for an indefinite amount of time. I've heard us being called "dangerous," "insane," "scary." Insane? Yes. Dangerous and scary? If you find seniors the same way. All we do is sleep, complain, and shit. I'm not much of a talker, as I have found I communicate far better through writing, and it's not like my silence is anything unusual. Shit your pants a couple of times, and it's a-ok. The only downside is that my lack of communication is retaliated, it has been many months since I've exchanged anything more than gestures with the glassy and fragile maids. Loneliness, of course, is my exact sentence, but any man's man knows that as long as he has his masculinity and rippling biceps, human companionship should be unnecessary. At times, even my one-sided conversations with this stack of paper get old. Lonely is one way to put it. Lost is another.

Death here is a constant presence, like a siren, it can appeal to your innermost desires. Freedom, revenge, a key to a door you never knew existed. Whether by one's own hand or the increasingly rare hands of God, it walks amongst us, severing weak souls from damaged vessels. My roommate, a guy named Wilson or Woodson or something ended up slitting his throat using a smuggled pair of scissors from the art room. As he bled out, he used his last strength to paint his blood into a huge cross for him to lay on. The staff did not bother to move me out of my room as they carted out the body and mopped up the congealed, crimson crucifix stained on the cement. They must have figured it wasn't worth the extra effort, as I probably couldn't understand what had happened anyway. Fuck them. I was aware of every second. I listened through every minute of it last night; finger painting his own grave. No, I was not upset. Instead, I felt annoyed. He knew he was gonna die, he should have just gone straight for the throat, ended it all. The only act of leaving my mark would be to make sure to leave as big of a stain as possible; create a huge hassle for the staff. Why waste energy on some bullshit salvation stuff when you can do so many other things with those last minutes of awareness?

The sound of rusty metal on concrete marks the beginning of a new era. He has dark hair that juxtaposes bright eyes, alive with unfamiliar awareness. They left him there in the middle of the room, carrying:

1 gray toothbrush

2 a gray set of spare clothes

3 a gray water bottle

4 a gray pair of extra shoes, infused with more gray (only for special occasions)

He looked like a badly made cartoon character. Everything on him was one size too big, especially his head, which seemed to defy physics simply in its ability to stand up. I thought about warning him not to step on the shadowy blood cross, but as usual, no words graced me with their presence. He stepped right where his head had been. I shivered. His eyes rested on me, and I rolled over to face away from him. He is wandering about, making snide comments about the decor. I want to offer a cigarette, but the words catch in my throat like a hunk of unchewed food. Instead, I draw a picture of a cigarette, show it to him.

That was the first time in a long time I've felt the need to communicate. Here, you just shake or nod or drool in the direction of what you want. I was born without words. The day I slid out of my mom I did not cry, yet took in strong, healthy breaths. The doctor told my parents I was simply born dumb, and that I would grow out of it. Nope. The first thing I ever read was my own name, which my mother wrote on a piece of paper, the DEAN scratched in blurred ink. She pointed back and forth between me and the paper. I mirrored her action.

"Yes. That is you, baby."

And here I am at 21, relying on a pen and paper to identify myself. My new roommate is sitting on the bed across from me, puffing on the cigarette like someone new to the habit. He asked what my name was, so I wrote Dean on a sheet of blank paper, as I had done so many times ago. He frowned. I had a moment of fear that he couldn't read, that we were really screwed, before he said, "Do you not talk for a reason?'

Shrugging is a beautiful thing in situations like these. I shrugged.

"Can't or won't?"

Can't

He nods empathetically.

"Life is a sack of shit."

I laughed quietly.

You read a lot of books and hear stories of people finally finding "the ray of light" in the "endless darkness of life," and I remember loving to make bitter fun of the very idea. Go buy yourself a flashlight. Don't get mixed up in this dependence nonsense. Lots of times you hear people screaming, empty promises in exchange for another chance to see some mother or a girlfriend again. Save your breath. Again, no is listening, and even if they where, it's honestly too pitiful to give any pity. It's like seeing a homeless person with no legs who is blind and deaf. You feel that any charity is not worthy of the level of pain they must feel, so you simply skip over it to save yourself the pain.

After my brother died, I promised myself that never again would I allow myself to be attached. And I haven't. My mom died right before I went to war. I skipped the funeral and had a picnic. I have watched people be cut in half, blown to pieces, fall to the ground missing half their head, get their eyes gouged out, etc, so yeah, you could say my defenses are pretty solid. I barely flinched when my roommate, who had a wife 8 months pregnant, took a shot to the stomach that released a steaming pile of what looked like gooey play-doh (I never paid attention in Biology) on the ground. He died in a puddle of the lunch he had eaten earlier, split from his slit stomach.

Cas is different, though. Sometimes you have to make exceptions. He hates this place about as much as I do, and we are both out for revenge. We overturn bedpans, throw food, steal clothes, all while hobbling around on war-torn legs. We have both started palming medication, and I feel better than I ever had; more alert, focused.

Probably the best out of the deal is the fact that he is teaching me how to talk again. He over enunciates simple words, allowing me to then copy, releasing frightening moans from the back of my throat in the tune of words. He told me that I'm getting better, less and less Satan-esque everyday.

Every once in awhile, you get the opportunity to be interviewed by a bored-looking therapist to see if you have "healed emotionally" enough to kill anyone. Most of the people he gets are immobile, unresponsive man-slugs who drool as he asks them how they think they are progressing. I used to try during those tests, until I realized he couldn't read. It was quite the predicament. I tried to tell him, but the problem with this method obviously presents itself, and the volunteers can't be bothered. Eventually, I just wrote the word "shithead" on the papers I took, and, just as when I had actually tried, got "unresponsive" stamped on my paper. Anyway, Cas was at one of these, and I was laying in bed, bored as hell. So, I did what any man with a roommate would do when he was bored. I looked through his stuff. I found the usual suspects, dog tag, little scraps of random paper. I opened the bottom drawer, and there it was. My diary stood out amongst the lint and dust like an apple in a cornfield. I picked it up, holding it as if I was a mother holding a long-lost child (although I was unaware that it had been gone until the present moment). He had not defiled it, not ruined any of the pages, which lead me to realize the far worse problem. He had read it. I put the book back in my drawer gently, then turned and punched the wall, forgetting they were made out of concrete, not plasterboard. Bleeding and crying, I sat down on the floor, rocking myself. I felt so defiled. That book had been everything, and now he knew all of it. My brother, my sickness, everything. I rolled on the floor until I found a coffin like area under an unidentified bed. I was considering staying there for the rest of my life when I saw something. A raised floorboard.

Jackpot I thought, army-crawling to it. I could feel the scabs on my knuckles open again, but this was far more important than that. The board slid out with a grinding sign, and daylight illuminated the contents of the cache.

Art. Good art. Very good art. There were a multitude of works, all initialed with the letter C. So these were made by him then. Ok. Ok. Ok. We can do this. I picked up the art that I thought must have taken the most time, a cityscape during the sunset, aflame with golden colors. I sat down on my bed and waited.

Cas came back a little while later, laughing about something or other that had happened. I wasn't listening. I stood up.

"You read my book," the deep, devil voice came in handy.

He turned white as he recognized the thing in my hands, the look on my face.

"Dea-"

I pinched my thumb and forefinger on both hands on opposite sides of the paper and began to pull. The hiss of ripping paper satisfied me in a way I can't explain. Cas cried out and tried to jump on me but he simply collapsed and watched, tears curtaining his eyes, as I tore the drawing beyond recognition. Finally done, I allowed the golden confetti to fall around him, like leaves falling from a tree. Murmuring a chuckle, I knelt beside him and began to stuff the fragments in my mouth.

"Pl- Please stop, Dean."

I stopped. And here I was, kneeling above this crying soldier ripping apart and stuffing my mouth with his hopes and dreams. I was an asshole with a mouthful of soggy paper. I stumbled back and sat on my bed, spitting out the paper. I looked up.

"Cas… I am… I uh…"

He was curled in fetal position, facing away from me.

"Your book was really good," he turned to look at me, his face filled with hate and sadness.

I could offer no response, and he rolled back over.

"You are a really good writer."

What could I do? He had trapped me, waited for me to dig myself into a deep hole and then eat my shovel. I paced over to him, awkwardly patting his shoulder.

"Look, I'm really sorry. I was mad, and, well, I guess I need my medication after all."

I laughed hollowly, a gesture not returned. He sat up slowly, looking at me the way a trapped deer would look at a hunter. I hated that look, and for a moment, I was convinced that I would kill him simply to make that look go away. But then I did something else. I hugged him. I folded him in my arms and pressed him face into my shoulder. At first his hands stayed limp at his sides, but then they hesitantly layer on my shoulders, and later, squeezed around me. We sat there for who knows how long, until I drew away. Perhaps we dwindled a bit too long, perhaps we turned our faces too close together as we pulled away, I don't know. But I know something happened in that moment. A switch flipped.

I was laying on my bed, catching up on my journaling, when I heard a small voice.

"Since you ate my art, you have to do me a favor."

I felt myself brighten a little. A chance for redemption is exactly what I needed.

"Yes?" I asked, unable to hide my enthusiasm.

"Write a book about me."

The request was so simple, plain, it sounded rehearsed. Slowly, I took a deep breath.

"About… you?"

"Sort of… well, more about this. I think you should write a book about this place, and you, and me, I don't know, maybe it'll do some good for someone. To help remember, you know?"

I did know. I just didn't say anything. My mouth still tasted like paint.

"Well, I guess I got nothing better to do. One request for you though."

I could feel his excitement like a dizzying wall of energy.

"Yes?"

"You have to make some art for me to use."

I think he hit the roof.

"Yes! Of course! Definitely! I'll start right now!"

I listened to him shuffling around his bed, the sound of pencil on paper after a while, he spoke again.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I forgive you."

I smiled so hard I almost cried.

"Thank you."

I took my medication consistently from then on.

Probably the strangest part of being in a mental institution is the bath time. You are helped out by a tired and decrepit old woman who undresses you in the most intimate yet completely unsexual way you can imagine. They then lay you into a grey bathtub and rinse your thin and weak body, and you can't feel inadequate or embarrassed, because the nurses are in pretty much the same state.

Of course, this could be a homosexual Christmas, in a small room filled with young and naked men, but showing any arousal at all means your are gonna gt pumped full of drugs, the nurses feeling you are "too aware" to be safe.

Basically I just stare at the opposite wall, looking out the window into the gray sky.

But this time, Cas was next to me. And I suck at self-control.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as the woman delved the sponge into the water, slowly passing it over and between his thighs.

I have never been as jealous of a sponge as much as I was in that moment.

I felt my heart pick up as the nurse stood him up to start drying him off.

There was a moment where his sleek body was bathed in the harsh light of morning, sleek and dripping. He looked like a beautiful statue. Like an angel. Then he turned and caught my eye, and my testicles ducked back into my body. His face was calm and sweet, but his eyes read "murder." I looked away, scared, feeling my bowels turn to water. I watched as he left the room, knowing he would be waiting when I got back.

Fuck

Fuck

Son of a bitch

When I got back, Cas was sitting on his bed, arms crossed over his chest.

"You were watching me."

It wasnt a question.

I nodded.

He sighed, an exasperated affection on his face saved only for mental patients and puppies who pee on the floor.

His gray socks that were one size too big slapped the floor as he padded over to where I was laying on the bed.

He pinned my arms against my sides, and lifted me up gracefully. I made a sort of nervous sigh.

Cas hugged me against him, barring any type of escape by wrapping his arms behind my back. I tried in vain to get his arms between them, pry them apart, but some part of me held back, was enjoying this. I could feel the source of my excitement pressing into Cas, was sure Cas could as well. Warm tightness gripped my stomach, knotting all of the muscles in my lower body. Dim awareness felt one arm exit the defenses, but I had given up escaping, instead resigned himself to whatever was going to happen here. The arm snaked across my side, wrenched it's way in between us. I could feel Cas shift his pelvis back to leave a little room between our hips.

It's like he was gonna-

Hahngggggg

The ugly sound that escaped my lips was halfway between a sigh and a gasp. Cas had wrapped his hand around my dick, hard calluses pressed into the soft skin. He had expertly swiped his thumb over the tip, which was spitting out preparatory fluid, expecting my own right hand. His hand slid over the slick skin, twisting slightly at the top, just like I loved. I went weak at the knees and buried my head into the crook of Cas's neck, panting and groaning. Cas was business-like about the whole thing. He quietly brought me over the edge, not commenting on the startling amount of semen most often associated with 40-year-old virgins on their first time. He waited a minute for me to stop trembling, then loosened his grip gently, lowering me onto the bed. He calmly padded back over to his bed, wiping thousands of unborn children onto his pants. He sat down, looking at me, a sort of smug grin on his face.

"Better?"

I nodded, looking like a bobble-head in an earthquake.

"I'm not gay," he said, crossing those strong arms of his over his chest and leaning back in the bed, "you just needed that. It was bugging me."

I wanted to assure him, that of course jerking off another guy was nothing but heterosexual, a friendly favor, but I couldn't. I wanted to say that I was straight, but also thought that even if I could, the words "I love you, you are perfect" etc would have slipped out instead.

How ironic.

I cannot tell a lie.

Or the truth for that matter.

So I just stayed silent.

I slept next to my brother that night.

Well, not really.

In reality, the charred and ashy figure of my brother was deep in the ground, probably being eaten by worms or gophers or my own guilt.

That's right.

I've seen enough sappy movies to know that when someone says they don't feel guilty, they are extremely guilty. I'm not afraid to admit that I killed my brother.

I turned to look at him. His ghostly form was surrounded by the gray mist I had come to know so well. As usual, he did not speak. He just looked on.

My dad used to try and beat the faggot out of me. He treated it like a tumor that can be rid of, as long as you slice it off and all that is affected by it. What he didn't know is that it wasn't one part of me that was gay. I was gay from toes to hairline. 100% homo. My brother, of course, was the picture of heterosexuality. He had all kinds of pictures hidden just enough so that our dad could find it and know. He used to hide similar ones in my room to coax my dad to believe, but it was no use. What my dad didn't know was that I am a little straight. Theres a little hetero wedged between my teeth or between my toes or something. I liked looking at the pictures of girls, could get off to them, but I like guys way more, and knew for sure when I found an unmarked tape in the attic. I pushed into the old VCR, and the picture that flashed on the screen changed the course of my life forever. Two men were sitting on a well-made bed, it was beautifully lit, the ocean was in the background, and their faces were smashed together.

You heard me.

I turned it off, too scared to continue.

But my pants were suddenly too tight, and warm shivers were passing down my spine.

It was a couple of weeks before I gained the courage to continue. I waited until the house was empty and I was alone, as usual, and discovered my homosexuality.

I won't go into detail about the video itself, its was pretty run of the mill gay porn, but for me it was a turning point. I pressed play and boom i was gay.

The first thing I noticed was how expressive they were. Their faces told everything they were feeling. The second thing were the sounds. The low moans, gasping, panting each others names, everything seemed to be what I was missing my whole life. I came practically just from watching. God the way they were touching each other made my stomach knot. It was so gentle, so loving, so unlike the straight porn in my brothers room. I needed someone to touch me like that, gently brush my face and kiss me, sliding their hands through my hair. Sure I saw the other things, and it was hot too, but the perfect combinations of faces and sounds when they both climaxed together made me feel like I was being lit on fire. I probably watched that video a thousand times, memorizing each expression, tracing the way their muscles tensed with my eyes. Time and time again I tried to finish when they did, as if it was me being pinned down by the delicious weight, but I never made it past the part when the man on the bottom bit his lips and cried out, letting out a breath of air that sounded exactly like my name.

Deannnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

The day my dad found the video was one of the worst of my life. I suppose he loved me, in his own convoluted way. Every blow represented his concern for me, sure it hurt now, but not nearly as much as it would had he not been my dad. He was convinced he could beat that part out of me, leaving, hopefully, a perfect, younger version of my brother. He left me on my bedroom floor, sobbing and covered in blood. His words echoed down the hall.

"You are worth nothing, boy."

He didn't mean it. He was just mad.

My brother ran into the room a few minutes later, saw the tape in my hand, and shook his head. He sat down and pulled me into his arms, hugged me against his chest.

"He's wrong Dean. You are gonna be a hero someday."

I looked up at him, tears in my eyes.

"I'm gay Sammy."

He nodded, eyes looking sad.

"i know Dean, but don't worry. God only said that laying with a man is sin. As long as you don't do that and marry a woman, he will forgive you. Plus, its not like you actually want to do that right?"

I did. I wanted it so badly. And he knew that. And for a moment, I saw how disgusted he was with me.

"Promise me you won't Dean. Promise me you will never do it with a guy."

I sniffled and nodded.

"Good."

He hugged me tightly.

I loved him.

I think it was about midnight when Cas woke me up. I was sound asleep, and then I just wasn't, roused by a strong amount of weight and something pressing into my back. I had two realizations at once.

1. The weight was Cas

2. He was hard. Very hard.

The only question was what the hell was I supposed to do now. Cas answered for me. He flipped me over so I was facing him, hovering his face just above mine. I didn't want this, but my body was screaming for it.

"We can't," I didn't say, as once again my anatomy let me down, "I made a promise-"

He smashed his lips against mine. All traces of resistance disappeared, replaced by a cold fire shooting through my veins. The kiss was anything but romantic. It was slimy and wet and uncoordinated and super hot. He began to grind his hips against mine as he kissed me, making my legs and pretty much entire lower body turn to jelly. I shivered and gasped, drinking the frantic breaths Cas gasped into my mouth. It was just like the video, and suddenly, I was going to cum, right there, in my pants, like a teenager.

"Cas, I'm gonna-"

He flipped off me again, surprising both me and my dick, both of whom were expecting to be eased through an orgasm, just like before.

But Cas just looked at my and smirked.

"We haven't even gotten your clothes off yet. And I have a lot planned."

I shuddered, and he laughed. I sat up, watching as he took his shirt off. He wasn't terribly muscular, but none of us where. In fact, for an emaciated mental patient, he actually looked pretty good. He looked at me looking at him, smiling lovingly.

"You can touch."

He took my hands, placing them on his chest. They went to work. I began to trace every muscle, every bump, every imperfection, every scar. Eventually, my hands set a course for southern territory, drifting in and out of his waistband. I looked up, saw the need in his eyes, and made up my mind. I stroked him the same way I like, alternating long and short, lingering at the tip. I looked up once i felt more comfortable, and his face was…. God I can't even describe it. He was biting his lip, his eyes dilated to the point in which his pupils were islands, the irises glinting just at the edges, the crystal sea. I couldn't contain myself. I kissed him. This kiss was less needy, more slow, passionate. He broke away and buried his face in my neck, kissing and biting my flushed skin. I kissed his hair, smelled the musky sweat, having a sudden primal desire to eat his hair. His hands suddenly grabbed my arm, still distractedly pumping, stopping me cold. I pulled away, and could see by his expression that I had almost done it, almost brought him over. He had to sit there a moment, concentrating, regaining his composure. Once he had, he looked back at me with a hungry grin.

"Top or bottom?"

I gestured an upward motion, saying I was topping. I might as well not throw myself in completely.

He raised his eyebrows.

"Do you know what you are doing?"

I nodded, an exasperated look on my face.

Of course I knew (nothing) about what I was gonna do.

He shrugged, handed me a small bottle, and lay back, moving a pillow under his hips.

Oh my god.

I knew nothing.

I took a deep breath, squirted the oddly formal fluid on my finger, uttered a silent prayer, and pushed forward.

I don't know how long we sat there like that.

"Dean."

I opened one eye.

"It isn't a doorbell," he noticed my confused expression and explained, "you are just pushing on it. You have to actually go in at some point."

I looked down, and of course he was right. Keeping my eyes open this time, I pushed in.

I felt him hiss and tighten around me.

"Ow! Jesus Dean."

I tried to pull my finger back out, but he cried again.

"Dean! You are going way too freaking fast!"

And then, for whatever reason, I began to cry. Knuckle deep inside a mental patient, I began to sob. He sat up, eased my finger out, and hugged me.

"Shhhh. It's alright. It's alright."

I stopped soon, nodding. He kissed me tenderly, and then smiled.

"You have no idea what you are doing, do you?"

I shook my head. He very gently lowered me down in his place. I fought for a second, but his hand wrapped around my dick, stroking me back to hardness, as he whispered into my ear.

"Shhhhh. It's ok. It's alright. I can take care of you."

I calmed down and relaxed on the pillow. The hungry grin returned. He straightened me up, pulled my shirt off, laid me back down, and pulled off my pants and underwear, then did the same to his own. He kissed my chest, my lips, my neck, my nipples. He traced his tongue down my abdomen, getting closer and closer. I wanted it so freaking bad. But instead, he passed it, moving to my balls, suckling them gently, kissing and licking. He then kissed my inner thighs, and lifted my knees so they were balanced on his shoulders. As he lubed his fingers, his persistent tongue moved to my quivering entrance, began to kiss and lick. For a moment, I saw stars. Then I felt it. He had slipped his finger in. My back arched, my muscles tightened, tried to push him back out. His other hand stroked my legs, my chest, the tip of my throbbing erection. It was so loving, just like the video, and I felt myself lower back onto the pillow. He went farther in. It wasn't pleasant, but it was good, and I was enjoying it, until he hit my prostate. I felt like electricity had been pumped through my body, and I had to bite back a scream. I came back to earth slowly, and heard laughter.

"I think I found your prostate."

I nodded weakly.

He gave me a second, then began to pump his finger gently, lightly brushing my prostate to keep the same from happening. It happened this way for awhile, and I was starting to wonder if anal fingering was a religion, and how exactly I signed up, when he pulled out. That part kind of sucked.

But the next part didn't. He lubed up himself, repositioned my legs further down his back so he could move forward, angle himself. I looked up at him. His eyes asked if I was ready. My eyes answered yes. He leaned down, kissed me, and pushed in. Angels sang. The heavens opened. The room was filled with godly light. Well no. The room was still cement. The only singing was that guy down the hall that sang "over the Rainbow" endlessly, and the dim bulbs gave the room an eerie glow. But my world lit up. I watched his face change, become one of heated fire, passion. I was barely aware of his thighs touching mine before the slow grind began. That's the best way to explain it. He stayed deep in me, pulling out about halfway, pushing back in again. There was no mercy on my prostate, he hit it every time, and had his weight not been pinning me down, I probably would have gone through the ceiling every time. His other hand began to stroke me in time with his thrusts, and it began to be hard not to scream out everything i was feeling. Instead I grabbed handfuls of the sheets, dug my fingers into his back, cradled his face. He looked like he was having a similar experience. Our desperate moans hit a rhythm, our breathing intertwined. And then I was coming.

I only managed to cry out his name as warning before I went sailing over the edge, hot fluid hitting my chest. I could feel his hands trying to bring me through gently, but the bearing down of my muscles had done him in. I felt fluid fill me, watched his face contort, sweaty and glowing in the dim light. He let out a strangled version of my name, and collapsed on my chest.

It was a moment before I cleared my throat, reminding him of something.

"Oh yeah," he said shakily, and pulled out.

My throat made the most unattractive, disgusting sound I'd ever heard. It sounded like I was gargling mashed potatoes.

For those of you that don't know, having something pulled out of you, especially after the fact, feels like you have just shit everywhere.

I even had to check to make sure I hadn't.

Cas was laughing shakily the whole time. He got up, grabbed paper towels, and sat down next to where I was still laying. He cleaned me off gently and tenderly, kissing my chest once it was done. I watched. And I knew.

I was in love.

He threw it away and came back, handing me my clothes. We both dressed slowly, and I layed back down.

I did not expect what happened next.

Instead of padding back to his bed, he lay next to me, wrapping me in his arms, nuzzling my neck.

"Maybe I am a little gay," he said, "but just for you."

I turned to look at him. His eyes were loving, sincere.

I could see my brother standing behind him, disappointed.

And for once, I didn't care. I just shooed him away. I kissed Cas gently, whispered the shape "I love you," into his lips.

And he whispered it back. He understood.

We fell asleep like that, uncomfortable, too hot, muscles cramping, but totally in love.

Of course the nurses had seen us like that, curled up against each other, dead asleep. They must have put two and two together, seeing the paper towels and disheveled blankets, but they did not comment. I suppose you let sleeping fags lie.

The past week has been great. I can talk freely with Cas, unlike the other nurses, in it seems a language all our own. He has been working on his art for me, I have been catching up on my journaling. I think I'm done with this thing soon. I finally have someone to talk to.

In fact, I think this will be my final entry. It's been great diary, but I believe I have made a friend.

Next time I talk to a stack of paper will be when I am writing the story.

Our story.

Me and Cas.

Dean pushed himself off the bed, putting the book in the drawer.

He smiled, a little sad to see the thing go, but happy he no longer needed the crutch.

Suddenly, arms wrapped around his waist.

"I finished the art."

"Oh?" Dean said, his voice strong and confident.

"Yeah! Come see it!"

Dean sighed and followed. He couldn't help but feel possessive over him, wanting to wrap his arms around him and protect him from the world forever. But he knew he couldn't. He had learned how fragile life was in war, knew that no one could protect anyone, not even themselves. No matter how religious, lucky, unlucky, straight, gay, strong, weak, Death came to everyone. All were equal in his eyes. Dean knew that the best he could do was hang on tight, hang on to every moment, and love him as much as he could.

Cas picked up the small canvas that had been smuggled in for him and turned it to face him.

Cas was hugging Dean to him in the picture, a protector of him, while shielding him from an ominous cloud of swirling gray colors with enormous wings that shone silver and white, the feathering looked so real Dean swore he could feel the softness as he ran his fingers over the paper.

"Cas… this is… amazing."

Cas smiled shyly.

Dean pointed to the wings.

"What are the wings for?"

Cas blushed.

"I'm your guardian angel. See? I'm protecting you."

Dean could not fight the smile. He set the art down on the bed and gathered up Cas in his arms.

"My little angel," he whispered in his ear, as the two began to sway back and forth.

They stayed that way for awhile, slowly moving to music that did not exist.

The two laid in bed, comforted by the feeling of their body heat passing between them. Dean's soft breathing created a steady beat, intermingling with that of the lover that lay beside him. Cas mumbled absently in his ear, but Dean was not really listening, instead following the delicate lines of cracks on the ceiling that had, not long ago, drove him crazy.

"You finally get it now, don't you?'

Dean propped up on his elbow in order to look into his eyes. Confusion knitted his brows together.

"Get what?" He was asking merely out of politeness at this point, much more intently focused on tracing his hand down the moonlight curves of Cas's atrophied back.

"Everything," Cas smiled and looked up at the ceiling, granting Dean the opening to follow his hands with his eyes, "the war, your parents, everything. I can feel it on you, like, you were tethered by this anchor at the bottom of the ocean, and you just remembered the knife in your pocket. All you have to do now is cut the rope."

Dean had froze, and was now staring right into those clear blue eyes that did not orbit back to his.

"Wh- why?"

Cas interrupted him with a gentle, unurgent kiss.

"It's not your fault. Deep down, you know they want you to cut that rope, to bob back to the surface, breathe in the air and feel the sun on your face. You can do it now, I know it, you can finally forgive yourself for it. For everything that happened. You didn't miss, he didn't want to be caught. He doesnt hate you, you just didn't hear him say he wasn't. It's not your fault he's dead!"

Dean was off the bed, but had only become aware of it when his back slammed into the rough concrete behind him, patterning his back with pebbles.

"What are you talking about? Who forgives me?! WHO IS DEAD CAS? WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT HAVE I DONE? WHAT DID I DO?"

His eyes were clouding over, his head hurt like hell. There was no where left to run in his brain, and the flood burst from behind his looming walls.

He looked up and saw. Cas was looking at him. Softly smiling. His face retained a soft glow from the flames engulfing his legs. Dean stood up, fell, and began to scream. No sound left him. His words were gone. He managed to get his knees under him and propel himself to the door and bring his fists down on the unforgiving steel. The sweet smell of burning skin filled the room, threatened to drown him. Dean could not turn back, could not face what was happening behind him.

WHAT DID YOU DO his brain screamed forward, knowing exactly what he had done. He had

(it's not your fault)

not been fast enough

(he forgives you)

had let him

(he never stopped loving you)

die.

The world around him shifted. Wooden walls suddenly closed around Dean, and the floor wass suddenly a stained and torn carpet that is slick to the touch. Cas ran alongside, no longer the dying man on the bed, but the body of a young man who always said Dean was to be a hero. Dean felt hands on his back that shoved him forward. He stumbled, and young, clumsy legs can no longer keep him upright. He screamed a name that is lost in the wood that cried out as it began to release its burden. The young man ran towards him, and Dean held out his hand, trying to catch his, and the inch of empty air between their hands seemed miles long. Dean was quiet as the figure of his brother was swallowed by the mouth of the floor, the broken beams of wood looking like crooked and ghostly teeth that laugh as they consumed the one part of Dean's heart that had kept the blood running through his veins his whole life. The hole opened into a yellow and orange flower that bloomed as it engulfed the greying figure, swallowing his screams in its howling call.

(get yourself together)

He turned and looked at Cas. The flames surrounded him, but were no longer hurting him, taking him. Instead, they fell around him like a veil. When he moved to part the curtains of fire, there was no heat to them. Just the light and the comforting crackle of burning.

C was dying. He could see it immediately. His body seemed to lose it's color right before him, the bright blush of life blood spilling from him in a crimson rush. Yet he was not bleeding. Nor was he burning. He was fading if such a word exists for this situation. Dean wrapped his arms around the small body, pulled it close to him, protecting him from the inevitable.

"I love you," Dean said, and his words came strong again, his voice clear and sure. Cas turned his still vivid eyes to him, placed a cool hand on his face.

"I love you too." And then, softer still, "don't forget me ok?"

Dean was alone for only a few moments before nurses swept into his room, and tide of somber faces and wrinkled uniforms. He tried to tell them, tried to explain, but again they deserted him. Cas had taken them with him. They swarmed him, pushing him into the bed opposite from the deathbed. He was pinned and mollified eventually using a large dose of anesthesia, but not before, tear streaked and panicking, the young man injured three nurses, pointing frantically at the bed opposite him and releasing a thin bile of watery vomit into the thin satin of the uniforms. They took no notice. After all, there had been no one sleeping in that bed for almost 3 months. Dean never had a roommate. But no one was surprised. After all, he was crazy.

Dean's older brother Sam had been the most prominent figure of love in his life. He had died when an old factory, which he had been hoping to renovate and recreate into business, caught fire unexpectedly as he and his brother explored it's interior. The floor collapsed, and he had pushed his brother out of harm's way, knowing he would not receive the same. A bystander would recall Dean not missing Sam's hand, but Sam refusing to grab it, knowing it would only pull them both down. A bystander would also know that the last words out of Sam's mouth were "Dean" and "I love you." He was not mad at him. He loved his little brother to the very end of it all.

Dean knew none of this. He would firmly believe that he had missed Sam's hand, that it had been his fault he died, that Sam was mad at him for it.

None of this would manifest heavily until the war, when it ate away at his sanity until medics had to cart him away, silently screaming and holding a self-inflicted bullet wound in his leg. Because he was mute, Dean figured there was no way to communicate any of this to anyone. So he didnt.

He stayed silent.

"Tell me, Dean, have you ever had an imaginary friend?"

The boy was still for a moment, then nodded. His skinny arms hung limp at his sides, and the dark circles under his somber green eyes did not match the tone of the room, where smiling suns watched the two's every move.

The man, observing the title "Doctor Thorson, or just Ed if my patients prefer," jotted a quick note on his large legal pad. He then bent, taking out a leather bound book. He laid it on the desk, and Dean leaned forward, taking it in his hands, flipping through the pages he knew all too well. A ghost of a smile turned up his lips.

"I take it you know this book."

Instead of writing his response on the provided pad as usual, he flipped to a clean sheet in the book.

It's my diary.

Ed leaned into his chair.

"I take it that the reason you let me read this was regarding Cas, yes?"

Another nod.

"Well first, I'm sure you are dying to know the reason I asked about an imaginary friend first," he closed his eyes briefly, folding his hands, "these are often associated with children seeking companionship. These are often some of the first relationships formed in a child's life. They are consulted when a child feels alone or angry or hurt or upset, offering advice or comfort in the way no one else can, because, of course, it is not actually the person or animal talking, its is the child themselves, saying exactly what they need to hear and helping to come to terms with big changes. The same thing can occur later in life, and is known as 'Delusional Disorder.' Now, I figure that you have come to terms with the fact that you never had a roommate after Winston took his life, correct?"

A pause, a nod.

"Cas was a side effect of your PTSD, a method created by your brain to communicate with you in the only way it knew how. He was companionship, and, as I understand, a lover as well."

Dean's head snapped up, fear in his eyes. He had forgotten those sections in his diary.

Ed laughed and waved his hands.

"I do this job to fix problems, not create them. What is said in this room stays."

There was a moment of tense silence before ? finally nodded again, feeling a soreness in his neck from this repeated gesture.

"Just as in childhood, there comes a time when you no longer need this friendship, where all that is to be said, has been, this figure simply fades, its purpose served. And, as it happened for you, he passed away."

There was no nod this time, but that was almost more assuring of how true it was than the nod itself.

"Would you be willing to discuss what he said to you?"

Dean did not answer, but instead began to write. Ed could see tears leaking from his eyes, staining the page, but he did not pause long enough to wipe them away until he had finished, passing the book back to him.

He told me everything I needed to hear, just like you said. He showed me that the stupid things I thought for so long were my fault were just that, stupid things. He loved me, told me I was going to be ok, that he wouldn't leave me. He forgave me of everything I had stupidly clung to for so long, told me that no matter what, he still loved me. It seems stupid, but that's all I ever really needed.

Somewhere far off, a buzzer rang. Dean stood, awkwardly brushing at his tears. He turned, expecting to see his therapist stand up to see him off, but he remained in his chair, lost in thought.

"You are a very good writer, you know."

Dean paused at the door, leaning on the frame.

I do know he did not say, and instead smiled politely and slipped out the door.

His dim apartment was cold, but this was no surprise, and he kept his coat on, hoping to retain some heat. He stood in the middle of the floor only for a moment before collapsing, balling up the grey material of the carpet in his burned his cheeks, carved their grief into his skin. Cas was dead. That had been hard enough to accept. But the fact that he never existed at all made his heart ache. It would be easier if he had died, if there had been a body in that bed, for at least there would have been some concrete thing to tie his pain to. Nothing more than a dream. A fairytale in which his knight in shining armor had been a veteran in a straightjacket. Dean wanted to die right there. Wanted to slip away, just like Cas, except Cas wasn't really dead, was he? Dean lay there for a good chunk of an hour before finally getting up, retrieving a large wooden box from a shelf. It was the only item in this place that hadn't been given to him, the only thing he had truly bought. On the front of it, in simple handwriting, read "Don't Forget." Dean opened the box. He emptied its contents. The picture of him and his brother. The toothbrush he had stolen from the asylum. The bullet that had lodged its way into his leg. A cigarette. And last but not least, an old typewriter and a stack of paper, the top sheet reading "The House with the White Picket Fence." Dean very carefully put all of the it back in the box, now adding the small, leather book he had "accidentally" brought home with him. He turned to the typewriter.

I promised, after all. One book, coming right up.

The comforting clack of keys filled the room. And, once again, Dean was no longer alone.