The blade, when it slides into Cas's chest, makes a snipping, scissor like sound. Until it sinks to the hilt and hits his chest and the sound changes abruptly to the thud of a dead tree when you knock on it. And the knife is all Dean can see, sliver, looming, gleaming. And when Cas falls, when he crumples, his arms splay in a gruesome parody of wings.
Dean is too slow to catch him. Somehow, that seems like the worst thing. That Cas hits that hard floor alone and in pain with no one to cradle his head and smile through their tears. Dean almost drops his own knife, but no, gotta live, have to survive, who'll save Cas if I die? so he keeps it in his hand, and lunges, and the demon flickers and falls just like Castiel did, folding to the concrete floor, the grey soaking up the mingled blood greedily.
Dean falls to his knees. Another thud against the unforgiving floor, but he doesn't register the pain, why would he? The pain shooting up his legs is half a blessing, because if doesn't hurt, not really, because nothing compared to this could ever hurt. And this is huge and cosmic and impossible because Cas, Cas, is dead, he is lying on this dirty floor, blood on his shirt, blue eyes open and softly glazed, the colour the dead, white-blue of laundry detergent.
Something behind the inverted V of Dean's ribs tugs and twists and wrenches until he is on the floor, and there is blood under his hands, angel blood, demon blood, what the fuck does it matter, but the concrete is cool under his cheek and his fingers brush the hem of Cas's coat.
Cas is still warm. It takes a long time for a body to cool off, so Dean, if Dean was the sort to pretend, could imagine that Castiel was still sleeping. Except for the bloody hole in his chest.
There weren't wings scorched into the ground, he realizes, head clearing slowly. There is still Grace shining out of Castiel. Grace that was ice and the burning of stars and worlds. Maybe, maybe, he thinks desperately. Maybe the blade wasn't deep enough. Maybe Cas was strong enough. So he struggle up, fingers numb and clumsy to press his shirt down over the wound, trying to press the Grace back in. But then, fucking idiot, he's not losing blood, he's losing Grace, the light keeps gleaming, pressing around the fabric like mid-morning light around the edge of a curtain.
It brushes Dean's fingers, turning them white and colourless and erasing the dirt and blood on them, and Dean can feel it. Not on his fingers, no, not on his skin. He feels it skimming the edges of his soul, deep in that hollow space in your chest where it seems like emotions sit, where pain and fear and sadness are born. But this doesn't hurt. And he's not afraid. And hell, Cas is maybe alive, this is the happiest he's been in a long time. The light, the Grace, feels like Cas, like that unexpected smile he sometimes breaks into, once in a blue moon, teeth white and eyes gleaming. Like the flap of that damn trench coat that makes everything seem a little better when Dean sees it. Like the smell of heady, heavy fiery earth that surrounds Cas.
It is Cas, and Dean comes back to himself shaking and gasping yet somehow more whole than he'd ever been before. But that light keeps shining, keeps slipping away.
Dean doesn't know what to do, and an involuntary sob wrenches its way out of his throat, ripping and tearing as it goes, and Cas stirs. He moves, and that slight motion is the best thing Dean's ever seen, the most beautiful sight, better than watching the stars on the hood of the Impala, better than a smile from a beautiful woman, just better than anything.
"Cas?" he asks, and his voice is quivery and rough, but he doesn't give a damn, cause Cas, is if not healthy, is at least alive. Well. Mostly.
Dean slips his hands under Cas's neck and the back of his head, lifting him gently to support him. The angel coughs weakly, and his Grace dims.
"Hey now, s'ok. I got you, Cas. Just breath, you're ok"
And Dean doesn't know what the hell he's saying, just knows that he's blathering and Cas's china-blue-too-wide-too-staring eyes are starting to flutter and blink, and that Cas's hand has crept up to grip the front of Dean's jacket. Castiel seems to have just enough strength to hold fabric, so the weight of his arm starts to pull Dean down slightly and they're kissing.
At first Dean is stiff and frozen, cause what the hell, man, Cas was dead and now he's not and he's kissing me and oh god I'm not kissing back, cause I'm not gay for Cas, but wait a sec, he just died, I can kiss him, it'll be fine and now I am kissing back and this is fucking fantastic.
It's clumsy and new, and at first their lips just fall all over each other's faces cause they're alive and in their lives, that's a miracle in itself. This feels like a new miracle that they survived and they fought and they died to get to this point, to kissing each other, something that had suddenly become very, very important.
Eventually, they calm down enough and stop happy-sobbing out words to actually kiss, and Dean hasn't kissed a boy in a very long time, but it's ok, cause it's Cas. Cas is possessive in his kissing, like he wants to claim every inch of him, to brand it on him so everyone knows.
Their mouths slid together, the wet heat of their tongues tangling, and Cas's wound is forgotten until he pulls back with a whimper, hands falling to his chest.
"Ah, shit I'm sorry, what do I do?" Dean pressed his hands on top of Cas's, but it didn't stop the light.
Cas's heart and breath is too slow, and Dean realizes that even though the angel doesn't actually need his heart to beat or his lungs to breath, they're slowing down anyways, just like a person, and that is so incredibly human, that the space in Dean's chest fills with a few more feelings.
"What do I do?" he whispers.
"You- I- ahh- I need- I need you"
"Anything, what do you want?"
"I have to- aaah- heal myself. Not strong enough. Soul- soul power"
Dean understands in a flash, and lifts Cas's hand to press it against his own heart, and flattens his own palm against Cas's. Heart to heart, you gotta live, Cas, don't you leave me, damnit.
"Ok" he breathed, waiting for pain, "ok"
And Cas's fingers slide into his chest and it is pain and heat and horror, but it's also beauty and righteousness, and it doesn't seem like a contradiction, no, it seems like two halves of a whole, two sides of the same coin, and Dean is burning.
The pain curls through him, burning and numbing and slicing, and he screams, he thinks he screams, but he doesn't know anything, cause there's light and heat and it's all too much.
The pain and light starts to settle into coherence, into memories, and Dean relaxes. Blood and salt and loud music. Hot tires and black eyes and blue. Fireworks and spray paint, iron blades and endless stretches of roads, shimmering hot and flat.
Dean opens his eyes.
Cas is still on his back, his shirt still bloodstained, but that awful gash that was leaking out Grace had closed, leaving no mark that it had ever existed, except for the tear in his shirt and the shakiness in his hands.
"Oh jesus" Dean gasps, falling back so he lies beside Cas. They're pressed together from ankle to hip, and Dean's acutely aware of the slightly-more-than human heat beside him. He's going to pretend it never happened, laugh it off with beers and shrugs and with an explanation of panic, but then he feels long fingers wrap around his own and thinks, 'screw it, I'm going to kiss Cas, repercussions be damned'
And so he does. And he doesn't stop for a long, long time.
A.N. Wow, I cried writing this. Even though Cas doesn't actually die, it was still emotional as hell. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it, please, please, please review. They are absolutely treasured. Thank you for reading!