Castiel woke up, the flat empty. He stood and walked to the closet to dress. For a moment, he stared at the clothes, wondering if getting dressed was even worth it. He had been to see a doctor about his illness, and he knew he didn't have much time left. It was a stupid idea to have moved into Dean's flat; he would be able to see Castiel deteriorate more and more every day, and it wasn't what Dean needed. Luckily, Cas had gotten a lot of writing done, and he was almost halfway through what he thought would be an excellent book.
It was the process of dying he wrote about, and no matter how many times Dean begged to read some of it, he always shook his head. "Not until I'm finished," Castiel would say, smiling sadly. This continued, day in and day out. Dean would ask,and Castiel would provide the same answer as always. What Dean didn't understand was that Castiel would never be finished with his writing. Especially not with what little time he did have left. A month, if he was lucky.
"Good evening, Cas," Dean said, swooping in behind the man and kissing his jumped, looking back to find Dean laughing.
"Dean, that was not funny! I found it quite terrifying."
"You're rather adorable when you're upset. And you also become Mr. Novak, not Cas."
"Nothing wrong with a proper way of speaking." Castiel frowned. He gathered his papers and tucked them into the brown portfolio Dean had given him as a housewarming gift.
"Can I-?"
"Not until I'm finished, Dean. You know that."
"Worth a shot, I suppose."
Castiel grinned at him. "I promise you'll get to read it in time." Sooner than you think, too.
"Good. I know you're an excellent writer, and I can't wait to see it." Dean kissed Castiel softly, pulling away slightly and smiling. "The Moulin Rouge tonight?" he asked, turning around.
"I… suppose." Truthfully, Castiel had no desire to leave the flat. He barely had the energy to get out of bed anymore. But Dean couldn't know. He couldn't know that anything was wrong. Not until it was too late for him to do anything about it.
"All right. We'll leave in ten minutes, then. Get changed." Dean grinned and sauntered off to the bedroom, Castiel following suit.
"Would you mind…?" Castiel asked behind him, gesturing to his suit, which was hanging primly next to Dean's.
"Of course. Here you are, Monsieur Novak. The finest suit for you to wear to the Moulin Rouge tonight."
"Thank you, Dean."
"Would you like anything to drink?" Dean asked, getting up from his and Cas' table.
"Just a glass of wine, thank you. I need to keep my wits about me tonight." He could feel his chest tightening, and Castiel took a deep breath, willing himself to stay well until he got home that night. Then he could let it out. Not here, where people were watching, seeing every move. If he was ill, it would attract attention that he didn't need. He was perfectly content to be left alone, though he had made friends in his short time in Paris.
After a moment, Castiel realized his efforts, though valiant, were in vain, and he pulled his handkerchief out, coughing violently. He pulled it away from his mouth, praying for it only to be dotted with blood. He sighed in relief as he saw nothing, but his relief was short-lived as he continued to cough. As he pulled the handkerchief away this time, he saw it was soaked in his own blood, and his eyes grew wide in panic. "No," he whispered before slumping sideways, the world going black around him.
Dean made his way back to the table, laughing as he heard jokes in passing, his mood soaring. He stopped short when he saw Castiel slumped against the back of the seat, his eyes closed. "Castiel?" he asked quietly, knowing that if he were alert, Castiel wouldn't have heard him. "Castiel!" Dean shouted, running over to him, the wine carelessly falling from his hand. "Castiel, please, wake up. Cas. Cas!"
He looked around helplessly, lost for words. "Help," he choked out, taking a shaky breath. "SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!"