The clank of a metal flask against the floor is near-deafening in the sudden silence.
"Cas?" Dean breathes out in disbelief, watching the drops of holy water hang off the eyelashes over the man's blue eyes, glimmering on his chapped lips, dripping onto his tie off his chin. "Cas," he says louder, ignoring the crack in his voice, "is it really you?"
Dean's dreamed about this very moment every night since he kneeled beside Cas's lifeless body. Every time the circumstances ever so different; in accidental encounters and in dramatic reveals, in a blink of an eye or in slow motion. Every cliché scenario, never plausible enough to be real.
And now he's got this—so simple, so fitting. Cas swooping in the last moment and saving the day, just like he was never gone.
"It's really me," Cas replies, wiping the water off with the sleeve of his trenchcoat. A trace of annoyance lingers in the crease on his brow.
Sure, splashing him with holy water was pretty useless, what with a dozen things worse than demons that could have been playing a trick on Dean. But it was the least he could do, faced with his long-dead best friend.
"We have to leave this place," Cas hurries, grasping Dean's shoulder to try and shake him out of his semi-trance. "There's more of them coming."
"How?" Dean doesn't move an inch. Every fiber of his being tells him this cannot be true, it's impossible, Cas is dead. Angel-blade-through-the-grace, scorched-wings-on-the-ground-dead. Yet each fiber tells him that it is true. It's Cas. He's here. What's he to believe? "I saw you die! We buried you, I—" He swallows. It's not the time to relive it all again: every painful second after Lucifer's blade pierced Cas's chest, every dumb risk Dean took for a chance to bring Cas back, failed. "How?" he repeats.
Cas shakes his head. "I'll tell you everything, later. We need to go now!"
Dean draws in a breath. "Okay." He nods.
But before Cas can turn away, take a step, Dean shoots forward, grabs a handful of Cas's coat, just to pull him in. His arms Dean wraps tightly around Cas's shoulders, one palm sinking into Cas's hair. He pushes his nose into the white collar of his shirt to take him all in: his smell, his heat, the solidity of him.
He's here. Cas is here. Alive.
Cas's arms close around Dean's middle, pressing their bodies closer.
He's alive and, all the evil sons of bitches be damned, Dean's not letting go of him.
"Thought I'd never see you," Dean says against his neck. "How could you do that, you dumbass? How could you just die and— What if—if you didn't come b—" Dean's dreamed about this moment so many times he should have better words prepared for him. A welcome speech that starts with a joke and doesn't end in choked-out sounds. "Was so afraid, Cas."
"Dean," Cas murmurs in his gravelly timbre, "you know me." Though Dean fights it, Cas pulls away, just enough to look into his eyes. "I always come when you call."
"Thought you wouldn't," Dean whispers, like an afterthought that keeps echoing in his head. He lets Cas let go of him and breaks away.
"I did," Cas assures him, no longer attentive of him. They're coming. Cas yanks at Dean's sleeve. "But we need to go, now, Dean!"
"Kay, let's go."
Dean takes the briefest moment to snatch his flask from the floor, as Cas starts for the door. He's only a few steps behind, nearly catching up.
"Hurry, Dean!" Cas waves at him with one hand, the other holding onto the doorframe.
Dean never lets his eyes off Cas. He's almost there, not much further now, if he doesn't stop—
Bright light bursts out from Cas's chest.
"No!" A yell rips out of Dean's throat. "Cas!"
He's trying to reach him but it's too far. And it's too late. He doesn't even need to see the blade; the bluish light of a dying grace Dean knows all too well. He's dreamed of it every night. Of Cas's limp body falling to the ground, dead. The shadows of his wings burned into the ground.
Dean jolts awake into the darkness of his bedroom. His lungs racing to pump the air, heart thumping like a jackhammer. There is no light, there is no blade. And there's no Cas. Not here, not anywhere. Dean doesn't need to check each room in the bunker to make sure. He doesn't need to knock the door of Cas's bedroom and get silence for an answer. Cas's body's still rotting in the grave Dean put him in. Back when he still had hope, still had spells left to try, bargains left to make. When he still had time left to pass by the time Cas should be back. Because Cas always comes back. Always.
But not this time. Because, maybe, Dean's run out of miracles.
With his palm, Dean wipes off the tears that welled in his eyes. There's less and less of them each night. He sinks his head back into the pillow, lets his eyelids fall. He's dreamed about Cas's return every night since his death. In so many different ways, each plausible enough to make his heart ache when he wakes up.
All impossible enough to keep closing his eyes.