It may not be decorated with strings of fairy lights, it may not have enough wood for a fire to last longer than a day, but he stayed there anyway. There were no presents, not even a tree, just a bottle of brandy and a carton of eggnog that would surely spoil if not consumed within the hour. Dean tongued at the walls of his cheeks to rid himself of the sharp taste that accompanied getting drunk, the chair he sat on creaking under his inability to sit still. The windows were frosted over, no chance of looking out to see a muted wasteland of white trees, white rocks, white everything. He didn't mind. The only thing he didn't want to look at, really, was himself.
Sam left him, Sam was always leaving him. They'd bicker, it'd turn to words no one meant to say even though they were both thinking it, and it would escalate into taking action. Dean wished his brother would just punch him square in the jaw instead of hitchhiking somewhere he found more bearable, the physical ache he could take. It didn't matter the time or the day that he left, and he was likely to be having a more enjoyable Christmas than Dean was. Who spends Christmas alone? Even crazy women with ten cats feel more at ease on this holiday than Dean did. And so it goes.
The wendigo he was hunting was deep in its own cave somewhere, the trail to it growing colder with each inch of fallen snow. That thing was probably having a better Christmas than Dean, too. At least it had something to eat. There were better things to think of on any day than cannibalism though, so he resumed his quest to get to the bottom of the bottle before the hour was over; it was a black-out kind of night.
Each candle he'd lit was scented differently than the last, and maybe he could feel even a little more festive if he moved towards the red one that had been labeled with 'apple pie'. In the other corner of the house it smelled like sugar cookies, and by the door it was a lot like vanilla. Surprisingly it didn't bother him as he got up and curled up on the faux fur rug a few feet from the flames that licked at the corners of the fireplace, the scent of apples trailing after him. It was almost serene, not hearing the traffic of the city or the other patrons of whatever motel he was staying at, instead his ears just filling with the snap and crackle of logs dissolving into ash.
It could have stayed that way if all the candles didn't flicker and a pair of shoes didn't start clopping on the wooden panels. Dean didn't need to stir to know who it was, though he did anyway, out of habit and curiosity. "I thought angels didn't give two damns about Christmas," he said. The trenchcoat wavered along with a swaying body, until Castiel dropped like a ton of bricks, his hands catching splinters on the floor. Dean crawled hastily to the angel's side, panic striken because angels didn't fall. Not if they didn't have a good reason.
"Cas? Cas, you okay?" Dean rubbed misshapen circles into the abnormally wet fabric of the coat, hoping to pacify and lessen the tremors while Castiel sounded like he was hacking up a mouthful of blood. There was no liquid pouring from his mouth, just a pair of lips set into a frown and downcast eyes. "Talk to me, buddy."
"Ambushed," Castiel choked out. Dean was aware that Castiel wasn't exactly the most likeable angel in the garrison at this point in time. His exploits mostly consisted of rebelling and trapping archangels, things Dean was certain those tight-asses upstairs were keen to look down upon.
"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked, easing Castiel up to sit on his haunches. The angel winced when his hands were detached from the floor, and Dean made sure he saw to that first, his nose crinkling when he saw how many had burrowed into the surface of Castiel's soft palms. "Tell me you're going to hang in there."
"No."
One by one the flakes of aged wood were removed, leaving mildly sensitive little holes dotting Castiel's palms. They wrapped themselves in a contented silence, Dean not asking the context of the ambush and Castiel not wondering out loud where Sam had gone. The "no" from the angel had a little finality behind it, and it rang like church bells in the hollows of Dean's ears; he picked at the coat lapels and gathered up the courage to ask something, anything. "Your coat's pretty wet."
"A great observation," Castiel replied impassively. He migrated closer to the fire, his back turned to the flames after he shrugged off his trenchcoat.
"Hey, I'm just saying. Couldn't you, I don't know, dry clean it with your mojo?" Dean asked. After getting up to get the brandy without the eggnog, Dean sat cross-legged in front of Castiel and poured the two of them small glasses of the liquor, knowing well that it was helpful in heating oneself up. But if Castiel could feel cold and heat, wet and dryness, something had to be up. At least, that's what Dean thought, he was under the assumption that angels couldn't feel much physically as well as emotionally.
"There is no 'mojo' to be had."
Upon further inspection Castiel appeared pallid, frail without the protection of his tan armour. The incandesence behind them casted shadows with each of their movements, slender fingers dark as they wrapped around the glass of brandy and brought it up to lips that were losing their colour. Vessel dying with nothing to cling to, Castiel played it off nonchalantly, commenting on the bitterness of the alcohol and wetting his lips as he drank it.
"You got something to tell me, Cas? This isn't like you," Dean commented.
"What am I like, Dean?" Castiels eyes fell to Dean's hands, orange in the light. "Am I a warrior, am I brave? Am I a rebel? Am I falling, or am I 'losing it'?"
"Whoa, Cas, one step at a time. You don't need to tell me about the fight, just tell me why you're here, and maybe I can help you." Dean poured the two of them another shot to nurse instead of knock back, and they hissed simultaneously at the sour heat in their throats. There obviously wasn't much to extract out of the angel, but the hunter wouldn't give up that easily. If your friends were hurt, you'd do anything to help them, save them. His friend had come to him to hide from family, steal away with tattered wings and borrowed grace; who was he to deny that?
"My grace," Castiel said in between sips. "It's going to fade before the morning light."
"So you're going to fall, then. Look, I know you don't want to be human-"
"The body is already dead, Dean." Castiel popped open the blazer of his frumpy suit and showed the stained dress shirt, blood no longer leaking out but still caking the skin beneath the clothing. Dean's stomach dropped while his heart leaped into his throat; he couldn't save everyone, but he had to try.
"It's your last night on Earth all over again, I guess," Dean said uneasily. The embers of the fire began snuffing out, the candles becoming brighter than the last tails of flame. They had succeeded in getting to the bottom of the bottle, so what else was left? The eggnog was barely visible across the room, so Dean lumbered that way and retrieved it just to have some reason not to confront the inevitable. Only Castiel wanted to drink it though, and the angel smacked his lips at the unexpected stickiness of the liquid.
"I'm sorry I ruined your Christmas," sighed Castiel. "If I could have done it any other day, I would've."
"No, dude, it's fine. It's all okay. Any other day, maybe you wouldn't have gotten yourself into this mess, yeah?" Dean tipped his empty glass in Castiel's direction. "Not like I was having a memorable Christmas, anyway. Doubt I'll forget this one."
Castiel reached forward and grabbed Dean's wrist. "I've failed you."
"What?" Dean raised an eyebrow and shook off the white knuckled grasp that was getting weaker and weaker. "Maybe you've fucked up every now and then, but you didn't fail me, Cas. I don't even know what you're on about. You're just saying this because- you're just saying this."
"There are things I never did that I wanted to do, Dean."
Despite the strange topic of choice, Dean carried on with the conversation, hardly missing a beat. "What are they? Come on, Cas, you've got to want to live, man. Keep talking to me, talk about the things angels dream about. You wanted things, keep going." Where there was a will, there was a way. Did angels dream? Dean wasn't sure, but it was something. It was conversation. It was the difference between life or death.
"I never met my Father," Castiel began listing.
"You should've. You deserved it more than any other angel."
"I never restored Heaven to its former glory."
"Eh, Heaven's overrated, Cas. You win some, you lose some."
"I never told Sam how important he was to the world, how good of a person he truly was."
"Trust me, he knows. He doesn't need you bloatin' up his ego."
Castiel dipped his head and slumped his shoulders, a momentary lapse of consciousness sweeping him out of the cabin and sending him somewhere bright. Where did angels go when they died? Anywhere, any time? Did they have a Heaven, or a limbo; did they cease to be? Dean reached out and cradled Castiel's jaw in his palm, bringing the exhausted angel back to the present with the simplest of touches. It was hard to express the softness and yearning to help his friend when the hourglass was depleted of sand, yet Dean still smoothed his hang against the stubble of the angel's chin and prompted him to shake his head.
"Cas."
"And I never gave you what you deserved."
Dean retracted his hand, letting Castiel's head fall without the safety of his weight, and blinked. Delirium, that must have been a near-death thing, had to be. For some reason, Dean couldn't wrap his head around simple phrases, sheepish glances, and the whole of the concept of death. There was no angel blade in his possession, yet it felt like he had personally sunk the knife square into Castiel's back, his heart, carved his ribs with a death sentence. "I don't deserve anything, not from you. Hey, buddy, look alive. You gave a lot."
"It's not enough," Castiel sighed. "Your soul, it burns with a fervor for more. It's never enough, and it's like peering into the heart of a black hole."
Dean puffed out a shallow breath, the corners of his lips forming little dimples born out of frustration. "Real poetic. You're on last leg and limb, and you're calling my insides a black hole?"
"I'm calling it my event horizon, and time is slowing down. Dean, it's cold." Castiel shuddered and instinctively curled his hands around his own arms, teeth chattering loudly. The cabin trembled around them while the candles oozed wax from their perches atop shelves and cabinets, and the lingering aroma of vanilla breezed by. Christmas was becoming a tainted shell of itself with each breath from the angel, one that could have been his last had it not been for the one to come after that. It was like teetering on the edge of a cliff, no catcher in the rye to save them.
"I wish circumstances had been different. I wish I had been a human, never this," Castiel mumbled.
"Why didn't you fall?" Dean asked, scooting closer and assisting in the rubbing of Castiel's damp sleeves. They both flinched at the intimacy of the feeling, especially once the suit jacket had been discarded and the stained dress shirt remained, half tucked into his pants. A beacon of white marked where the cut was the deepest, and Dean slipped down to cup a hand over the wound.
"If I fell, how could I be sure that I would find you?" Castiel bit down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood when Dean unbuttoned the shirt and slipped a hand into to feel the gash, to believe that this was really happening. The blood was dry around the outer area of it, but it was too deep for the blood to be staunched near the core, where the glow bled out. "There were risks I couldn't take."
"So time travel! Go back, fall and meet up with me. Grow up with me, Cas. You're already a permanent fixture in our lives, don't ruin this."
"Dean, I can't. Time can't be rewritten, there would be para-"
"The way you're talking, aren't I worth the paradoxes?" Dean's fingers scaled up Castiel's ribcage, tips brushing up and outlining the scar of a banishing sigil. "If my soul says it's not enough, then I guess we're not doing something right."
Castiel lurched forward and nearly forced Dean to catch him, and it seemed like some kind of sick symmetry. You always caught me, saved my ass and backed my plans, and here I am holding you while you bleed all over my jeans. I can catch you, but I can't save you? "This is bullshit," Dean growled. As Castiel's head found its niche in the crook of Dean's neck, Dean wasn't thinking about how this could be construed by anyone who could be watching; they were alone and they were growing farther apart, caught in a flurry of snow and fear. He thought of how he wanted his nerd angel back, backwards tie and airquotes and all. "You can't leave me, not here. Not on Christmas. Why did you come here?"
Castiel sniffled into Dean's neck. He felt the pulse inside of the hunter's throat and the cracking in each syllable he spoke, the perfect veneer he'd laid over his heart dissolving. "It is my last night on earth. I would spend them all with you, if each day were my last."
Dean kissed into the unkempt mess that Castiel called his hair, poor Jimmy Novak's hair, and let the tears scorch the corners of his eyes. "Don't say that," he whispered, voice low to ensure that he could keep an even tone. "Don't, Cas. Don't."
"Take me outside. Please, let me see the snow," Castiel said, shivering. Dean didn't think it would be wise to move him, blood lost and the grace spilling out, fading into a dim but persistent radiance. It was a trying task to wrap Castiel back up in his outfit, though at least everything was dry; never a soul who wanted to die wet and feeling sorry for himself. Dean let Castiel swing an arm over his shoulder and the both of them hobbled out into the bitter snowy forest.
The wendigo was long forgotten by this point as Dean watched the shoeprints they made become hidden by the drifting snow. The snowflakes seemed to fall slowly and on any other day, this might have looked like a scene from the sugary-sweetest of dreams, instead a blinding nightmare. Castiel lead them a few yards from the eastern-most wall of the cabin, eyes watching the royal blue sky deepen in hue, then stopped them. Their shoes crunched with each minute movement as Castiel brought himself before Dean and tugged at his jacket.
"I just wanted to say-"
"Stop trying to give me a speech," Dean snapped, effectively cutting the angel off. "People are supposed to have memorable last words, not goodbyes that you'll forget because they were too damn long." He watched as Castiel's hands turned a diluted shade of bright pink around the knuckles, and he paid close attention as the angel reached up with lips parted. Dean braced himself like one would wait for a blow, but all that hit was the faint press of Castiel's lips reaching his forehead.
"For teaching me of free will," Castiel said, his breath fogging Dean's vision. The angel paused, then kissed Dean's freckled cheek. "For your amulet when I asked of it." He imparted another kiss to the other cheek. "For letting me raise you from Perdition." Castiel ghosted his lips over Dean's and closed his eyes, their icy skin entwining at every exposed place. There was no desperation in his kiss, just a resignation for the 'what could have been's, the taboos that were never crossed. Dean snagged his teeth on Castiel's bottom lip when he tried to pull away and brought him back, the fear of losing what body heat was left looming over them.
Not quite the event horizon, but still a point of no return, Castiel let himself gravitate closer with his body and slotted his hand over Dean's left shoulder, let Dean card a hand through his hair all covered in fresh wetness. They breathed in snowflakes and drank in as many kisses that time allowed, saccharine and tasting of eggnog, the countdown almost forgotten in the midst of their moment. Castiel broke off first and stumbled backwards, smiling when he felt as if he had no right to feel happiness, almost laughing when there was no laughter left in him. How human, to cling with such tenacity. "And so I don't die without you knowing that you are loved."
Dean felt like if there was any time to cry, maybe now would be the time, but the cold had gotten to his eyes, freezing any chance of tears. "Cas."
"Close your eyes," Castiel instructed. In perfection formation, he fell backwards, his trenchcoat fanning out beneath him, almost like a mock snow angel position. Just as his eyes grew unnaturally bright with light flooding out of his mouth, Dean clamped his own shut and clenched his fists down at his side. It was noiseless, hopefully painless. It happened so quickly, could it have been real? Would Dean wake up now? The world was too vibrant when he opened his eyes, the sky too blue and the snow too white. But he could not trick himself.
In the snow was the burnt imprint of two wings and the ashen feathers mingled with the constantly raining snowflakes. In the middle laid Castiel, eyes shut and mouth closed; perhaps it was sleeping. Angels do not sleep, and if they did, Dean knew now that it was dreamless. Dean prayed harder than he had ever before, asked the absent father above if Castiel would get the grandest Heaven imaginable, a place fit for the king that he was. In a blur his knees buckled and laid him down beside the body already covered in a thin layer of frost, and he held a shred of the familiar trenchcoat.
"Wait for me," he begged. Of all the things Castiel could give him, this is what Dean knew that he deserved.