"Dean. Dean, listen to me."
Dean groaned and flung an arm over his eyes to shield them from the light.
"Dean. Dean." Castiel's voice was urgent. He grabbed Dean's wrist and tugged his arm away from his face.
"Ow! What the hell, Cas?" Dean sat up in bed, yanking his arm out of Castiel's grasp. Garish, blood-red roses bloomed on the wallpaper, each as big as his head. They provided the only color in the motel room. The furnishings, the draperies over the window, the bedding tangled around him, even the carpet on the floor, everything was white.
"What the hell?" he repeated. Who put down white carpet, much less white carpet in a cheap motel? Dean tried to remember the details of the case he and Sam had been working on. What city was this, anyway? And where was Sam? His mind felt sluggish, his memories cloudy.
"Dean. You have to focus."
"This is Kansas City, right? Damn." He sat up, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. "The heat in this dump must be broken. It's cold," he complained. His body felt numb.
Castiel grabbed him by the shoulders. His face loomed in, blue eyes intense, the tip of his nose almost touching Dean's.
"Damn it, Dean. Listen to me. You're dying. And yes, in answer to your query, this is Kansas City," he added solemnly.
That caught Dean's attention. That so-serious tone, so familiar, and yet, he realized, he hadn't heard it in years. Not since Cas had gone mortal. He pushed Castiel back and looked him over, taking in the rumpled suit, tie askew as usual, and all covered by the angel's trademark khaki trench coat. Typical… Except, again, Dean hadn't seen Castiel dressed like this in years.
"Wait," he pleaded, remembering what Cas had just said. His brain was still struggling to catch up. "This is Kansas City? That means—"
"Lucifer," Castiel supplied. "We came here to kill him. Or, I should say, you came here to kill him. The rest of us were just a diversion."
"Sam?" Dean croaked, his voice breaking. He gripped Castiel's shoulder, the memory coming back to him in fragments of shape and color. The Colt. The garden in the courtyard of the Jackson County Sanitarium. Blood-red roses. Sam, dressed all in white.
Castiel shook his head sharply. "Focus, Dean. You didn't succeed in killing Lucifer. The Colt didn't affect him. He killed you! Or he will have, if you don't let me help you."
The roses on the wallpaper blurred, shrank, resolved into a living rose bush laden with blood-red blooms. Dean could see them, above and to the left of where he lay on the ground. There was an unpleasant sensation of pressure, making it difficult to breath: Sam's size thirteen white loafer resting on his neck.
Dean blinked, bringing Castiel's face back into focus. He was sitting beside him now on the sagging double bed. Dean wondered vaguely when he'd shifted position.
"If I'm dead, you're sure as hell dead, too." He remembered the diversion with a pang of guilt and regret. He'd knowingly sent his friends into an ambush. "We're dead, Cas. I'm sorry."
"We will be, if you don't concentrate," the angel huffed. "Let me help you, Dean. Let me save you. Say yes."
"Say yes to what? You? You going all Michael on me now? ...I'm so cold," Dean whined, hating the weak, petulant tone of his voice, but unable to stop himself. Childlike, he leaned into Cas, seeking warmth. Dean rested his head on the angel's shoulder.
"You're in shock." Castiel jostled him upright, merciless. "Damn it, Dean, say yes. My earthly body has been destroyed. I need you to be my vessel. I can heal you, if you let me in, but there isn't much time."
"You're crazy. Or I'm dreaming. Or something," Dean slurred. His head had slumped back onto Castiel's shoulder. Clumsily, he reached for Castiel's tie and gave it a weak tug, delirious now and amused by the strip of blue fabric. "You're mortal now, Cas Couldn't heal me if you tried." Dean wheezed out a laugh. "You got no mojo."
"This isn't funny. Let me try," Castiel growled, desperate. "Dean! Say yes!"
"Yeah, yeah, okay, Cas. Whatever you say."
