She kissed his temple. He kept his eyes closed, though awake, hoping she'd fall back into her silent slumber.

"We never talk."

He muttered an apology, eyes open now, staring through the window into the boring, foggy world outside. The clouds huddled together and hid in the distant sky, gone to another universe.

"We're talking now."

"We used to tell each other things. Secrets. You're my best friend." She pecked his cheek. "Do you still want to marry me?"

He sat up and a shiver traveled the length of his spine, a result of the cold and the question, his obvious "no" in the the silence. She pressed her chin into his shoulder and he tensed, uncomfortable and awkward, thinking of Cas and Cas only.

"Do you still love me?"

"Yes," he whispered, afraid of disturbing the house.

"Ben, too?"

"Yes," with more certainty; more confidence.

She left him sitting on the edge of the bed, the weight of his head straining his neck and giving him terrified ideas. One minute, two minute, five minutes later she returned with a mug of crappy coffee, oblivious to the many other delicious blends.

I'll give her some of Cas', he thought. She'll like that.

The heat radiating from the ceramic felt relaxing on the back of his neck, the warmth embracing the cold of her lazed hand. She took a sip and the temperature infused his blood, connecting them to the awful truth sleeping in their bed.

She knows, he thought, arms trembling.

"I love you," she stated, "but sometimes I think there's something else."

"I'm going to be late for work." He swallowed to rid himself of the lump in his throat. The winter was getting colder. The snow was too white.

"I miss you," she added. He already left the room.

Castiel tried not to think about his last day with her. He tried not to think of the beautiful way she said her words, like she was condescending and intending to question your intelligence. He especially tried not to think of the day she bleached her hair, stripping it of its beautiful brunette coloring. The way she pranced out of the bathroom asking, "Do you like it?" and he laughed, lying in the bed. I do, he said. She crawled on top of him and kissed his nose and he touched the side of her face with his index finger.

No. He especially tried not to think of that day.

Instead, he fixed a bowl of nothing and enjoyed a cup of coffee.

Upon noticing the sorrel droplets on his cuff, he recalled the dried bloodstains on his trench coat. He entered the bathroom, searched through the drawers, and pulled out gauze pads and his razor.

He did not using harming himself as a form of vanity, thinking if the pain was controlled then the uncontrolled kind would not be noticeable. The only aspect of him that was unnoticeable to the outside world were the thin vertical lines dancing upon his left forearm, where only two people in the world knew they played. The rational part of his brain concluded the bloodied rusty razor blade roaming around his arm was, in fact, not him coping, while the dreamy part of his brain concluded the razor was symbolic, dizzy droplets of blood a metaphor for taking control.

He didn't like to think about what she would say if she knew about his harming or what she'd say if she knew about Dean Winchester, so he didn't.

He put the blade back, deciding more stains could be too much of a hassle.

"Fucking Christ, Lisa, when were you going to tell me?"

"I'm telling you right now!"

He slammed the mug against the table and winced as the splintered ceramic cut through is palm. "You're telling me as I'm about to leave for work? You're telling me you want to move to – to North Carolina?" He visualized the map of the United States. It's close to Georgia, he thought. Cas would be happy. He turned his head, licking his top lip and kept the thought of being over eight-hundred miles away from Castiel in the rubbish bin of his mind.

She rushed to the bathroom and returned with gauze, tape, and a scowl.

"You don't need to be cursing," she chastised, attempting to bandage his hand. He withdrew harshly, retracing his hand with disdain. She grabbed his wrist and pulled his arm forward, muttering, "Knock it off, Dean."

"Did you even think of me?"

Her neck stiffened. "You? What do you mean did I think of you? Of course I did!"

"What, and how I'm going to have to quit and find a new job? What about Ben? Having to go to a new school -"

"Don't you dare try to tell me how to raise my son."

"I know what it's like, Lisa," he shouted, pulling his arm away once more. "My dad – he took us all over the fucking country, dropping us off with people he barely knew."

"You don't think I know that? I've talked to his counselors and I've talked to the counselors in North Carolina. It's getting worked out, Dean, my god." She brought her hand to her mouth and massaged the side of her neck with the other. "I'm thinking of all of us. As a family."

"Then why didn't you ask me?"

She lowered her voice and through gritted teeth exclaimed, "It's my house, Dean Winchester."

He grabbed his car keys with his good hand and shoved past her, feeling anger and anxiety. "You're right. I'm late for work. Christ Almighty." Leaving the house, he slid on a patch of ice on the front doorstep and prayed to the God he didn't believe in she didn't notice. He crossed the street to his truck and wondered how in hell he'd tell Cas.

"Dean?"

"Can I come in?"

He propped the door open and asked, lying a hand on his lower back, "What's going on?"

Dean flipped a chair around and took a seat, resting his arms on the spine. He noticed the empty bowl on the table and tentatively changed the subject. "Are you eating?"

He rocked on his heels. "Not today."

"Cas, baby, you've gotta eat," he breathlessly pleaded. "If I take you out?"

He shook his head, avoiding Dean's watered-down eyes. "What did you need to tell me?" He was without his coat and his blue Gildan crew neck t-shirt and gray sweats caught Dean's attention.

"You're still in your pajamas?"

"Well – I changed back into them." He felt self-conscious and crossed his arms. "What?"

"I … shit, I don't know how to tell you this." He stood, leg catching on the edge of the chair, both tumbling toward the door. "Fucking hell, is everything going wrong today?"

"Dean -" he reached out and grabbed his forearm, pulling him away from the stool and closer to him. He caught sight of the gauze, then the blood trickling onto his floor. "Oh my – oh my god, are you okay? Is your hand okay?" He gripped his wrist and turned it, palm facing upwards, and led him to the bathroom. "What happened, Dean?"

"I cut myself. No big deal."

"Yes, big deal, you're bleeding everywhere." He opened the cabinets and pulled out a gauze pad. "Who gave you the shoddy clean up job?"

"Lisa."

Castiel dropped the supplies. He apologized, reaching down and collecting them, sweat beading his forehead. He stood and kept professional, acting now as an impassive friend rather than a concerned lover. He pressed the gauze to the wound and swathed his hand, ignoring Dean's touch and the way he pressed his thumb into his knuckles. "You … will not bleed to death, but that goes without saying. Your hand will heal." He bit his bottom lip. "Your clothes, on the other hand ..."

"You want me to take them off?" He raised his eyebrows.

"D – Dean."

"Take a shower?"

Castiel sighed and pressed his hand into Dean's chest. "I'm not in the mood … dear." He pecked his nose and hooked his index finger into the other's belt loops. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"I needed to talk to you first."

"What is it?" He let go of Dean and headed into the kitchen, grabbing the bowl along the way and tossing it into the kitchen sink. His shoulders and spine tensed. "What is … so important that you absolutely had to skip work?" He closed his eyes when Dean's arms wrapped around his waist.

"I am so sorry," he whispered, kissing his ear. He bit at his earlobe and hinted, "I can call in sick." He kissed Castiel's jaw and pulled back, lips making a soft, wet popping sound. "We can do whatever, babe." His right hand dropped to Castiel's hipbone and he pressed into his pelvis.

Castiel's breath shuddered as he groaned, "Don't say a thing if it's going to be you're leaving me." His words hitched in his throat and he croaked, "Don't you dare leave me, Dean Winchester."

"I won't leave you."

Cas pushed away from the counter and Dean pull away, palming stray hairs off Castiel's forehead. "You're beautiful."

"Dean." He dropped his gaze to the sea foam on the tile. "Don't."

Dean disrupted the tide pool by taking a step closer and lowering his head to meet Castiel's. "I fucking love you, Cas. You believe me?"

He didn't reply.

"Hey." He used his index finger to raise Castiel's chin. "You don't believe me?"

Castiel did not like confrontation, especially when the question raised into being was that of Dean's devotion and adoration. He pressed his palm against Dean's pectorals, searching for his heartbeat. "How am I supposed to?"

"I don't know, baby."

"Neither do I."

"I love you, Cas."

"I love you, Dean."

He brought Castiel's arm to his lips. "These are beautiful because they're part of you, you know?" He kissed his wrist. "The best part of you." He kissed his forearm and moved closer to kiss his neck and clavicles. "My favorite part of you." He pushed Cas as far as he could go, placing his knee between his legs, cupping his hands over Castiel's, which gripped the counter top. "Let's fuck." He strategically placed his crotch over the other's and began rocking. "Let's do it, Cas."

"Okay," he moaned, straining to straighten his back. "In here. We'll do it in here."

The dishes clattered noisily as they moved, frantically at first, pulling their clothes off, pacing themselves next. Dean slathered saliva over his growing erection and slurred "Ready?" in lazed speech. Cas nodded, already panting, and Dean took the slow head jerks as a sign of approval.

Castiel's eyes glazed as he let the overwhelming feeling of elation infiltrate his body. His thoughts swirled like alcohol in a wine glass, shifting in quick revolutions from oh my god to let him do it to, finally, my – Dean – Winchester. His nervous system came alive with bits of coral and jellyfish, fresh from the surf, while his brain flashed anxiously as it dealt with the torment of baby lobsters, snipping freely at his sensors. A bit farther, though, was where his appreciation flowed abundantly. These were the three things he held in his thoughts and the subtle differences between them; fuck, sex, love. This page, he speculated, would be chicken scratch because, even in the faraway lands he put himself during sex, he could hear his groans and feel his grasps, the touch of granite beneath his fingertips, Dean's hands over his timid hands. The dishes clattered and his teeth chattered and the fishes squirmed under his toes and he felt the sensation of drowning on air. A day with Dean did not disappoint but, even as he neared climaxing, he was nervous about the things he had to disclose, because he did not want to have to go through life without his beloved Winchester.

He stuttered his name and the aquatic life scattered. He felt Dean's pelvic muscles convulsing and the pressure of him ejaculating. He pressed his nose into his neck and kissed him, pausing every few moments to take a breath. Dean cupped his face and kissed him back, sloppy and wet, pulling out and rubbing their chests together in an embrace.

"I believe you," Cas hiccuped, the tiring effects of the orgasm making his legs buckle. White spots speckled his vision, sensors burning up in his brain, stomach aching from the actions.

"Let's get cleaned up," he suggested, speaking into his hair. "Get you dressed? Again?"

"Okay."

"You're good," he promised, allowing one more kiss. "You're great." One more.

They collected their clothes and left them on the floor as they stepped into the shower. The steam temporarily cleansed them of their problems. Dean held onto Castiel and Castiel sucked on his neck. They got out when the water got too cold to stand, for the weather outside held promises of eternal frost.

On the way home from work, Dean listened to the radio. He sang along with the songs he knew, humming the parts that were lost to him, and changing the station when the songs were not at all familiar. He focused on the roads, scouting for patches of black ice and preoccupied drivers.

At a gas station, he let the truck idle while the gas tank filled. The music pounded in his ears, reciting the lyrics, drumming the steering wheel.

Got no time for spreadin' roots / The time has come to be gone / And to our health we drank a thousand times / it's time to Ramble On

The pump stopped at one hundred seventy-six dollars and thirty-eight cents. He hopped out of the cab to take the nozzle out and caught sight of the flashing text.

CARD UNREAD, SLIDE AGAIN

He pulled out his debit card and it got stuck in the slot, adding hilarity to his already blissful day. He cursed at the machine and pounded on it with his fists, hoping the card would be spit back out. After a few hard punches, the card popped out.

THANK YOU

He placed his card back into his wallet and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He got in his truck, put it in gear, and took off, the song having faded into something new, mumbled lyrics piercing his eardrums.

He parked on the road, opposite the house, and entered with caution.

"Lisa?" He took off his jacket as he walked towards the closet and put it on a hanger. He shut the door and listened more carefully. "Honey, are you here?"

"Where else would I be?"

He moved into living room and sat next to her on the couch. His hand throbbed, the cut encircled by a heavy bruise. He pattered her knee and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Just getting our things in order." She smiled.

"This morning -"

"No, Dean." She sighed, shifting her weight to face him. "Neither of us were wrong. I shouldn't have been so cold about it and I shouldn't have been pissed for you taking it personally – because it is personal. This is our life and I can't be doing these things without consulting you first. I'm not making any major decisions without collaborating with you."

Dean gave a quick nod, raising an eyebrow. "Alright."

She stuttered a nervous laugh, looking down at her knees. Her hair shielded her anxious glances as she asked, "So, then?" Her voice wavered. The papers in her hands were illegible.

"North Carolina, huh?"

"North Carolina."

He bit his lip to hide its quiver. He stood and pushed her hair out of her face. "So it is."

She took his hands into hers and, with soft gentility, whispered, "Thank you."

He walked away, sore behind his eyes and struggling for breath. He went into the bedroom and locked the door, sliding down, wondering if this is what cardiac arrest felt like. His diaphragm ached, the left and right crus tensed with anxiety. A plethora of parted pins pricked his Splenius cervicis, strained Sternocleidomastoid pulling his head in an arched angle. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed Castiel's number.

Cas' sleepy voice rattled his shattered heart, splinters slicing his ribcage. "Baby?"

"Hey." Dean's voice cracked. "What are you up to?"

"I was asleep." The mattress creaked and with his concern came clarity. "What's wrong?"

"Can -" he cleared his throat "- I come … can I come over, Cas?"

"Of course, Dean. You have no reason to ask. You are always welcome."

Dean nodded, voice low and dry. "Okay. Can we meet at the coffee shop?"

The mattress creaked again. He could hear Castiel fumbling with the lamp, knocking the clock over in the process with a loud crash. "Oh, dear. I'll see you in a few, okay?"

"Okay."

Dean crept down the stairs, stealing his keys from the dish. "Hey, Lise?"

"What?"

"I'm heading out for the night."

"Stay safe," she replied, clacking away at her keyboard.

Dean shut the door behind him with care, watching the patch of ice that snagged him before. The jet black sky mocked the cosmic hole in his ventricles, providing him visuals of how life without Cas would play out. He got in his truck and didn't bother letting it warm up before pulling out into the street.

At the coffee shop, his tapped his foot anxiously, jittery from the caffeinated coffee and absent Castiel. He looked out the fogged glass windows, unable to identify anything in the lost, outside world, and chalked his lateness up to having to walk and nothing more.

After eleven minutes, Castiel entered with a layer of snow covering his disheveled hair. After spotting his love, he took a seat opposite him, and held his hands. "I apologize for being late. There is road construction on the east end, and I -"

Dean leaned forward and kissed him, careless of the confused customers. He kissed him once more, lips hovering over the other's, and murmured, "You came."

"Of – of course I came, Dean," he stuttered, a blush embellishing his already red cheeks. "What's gotten into you?"

Dean sat down, readjusting his spine over the back of the chair. "It's happening, Cas. She's fucking around with realtors and schools."

"Dean -"

"It's happening," he repeated, emphasizing the last word through gritted teeth. "There's nothing I can do."

Cas caressed his hand and tugged the keys from under his palm. "Do you want me to drive?" He took Dean's hand and kissed each knuckle, standing and leading him to the entrance. Cas lifted himself into the cab and started the truck, turning the headlights on and switching the air conditioning to defrost. He let the cab heat up before switching the gear to drive and heading onto the street.

"When did you learn to drive?"

"I got my license during our – break."

"Is that what you call it? A break?"

"What do you call it, Dean?"

Dean gazed out the window, counting the streetlights that guided them to their destination. "A semicolon," he finally said, Castiel's profile his muse. "It was longer than a pause, but shorter than an end."

Castiel smiled, turning into the apartments. "You're so philosophical, Dean Winchester." He parked, turning the lights off and turning to his groom. "Don't you ever get lonely in your literature?"

They got out of the truck, slamming the doors behind them, and entered the building. They made out in the elevator, all the while ignoring their impending doom.

Often on winter nights, they would listen to the snow's ballads of loneliness, heartache, and purity. Some nights, Dean would put his lips to Castiel's clavicle and listen instead to the steady breathing and increased heart rate of his loved one. The symphony of phonetic coldness was mute in the bedroom, where it was sensually warm beneath the covers. They kissed in secrecy, loved publicly, and dared the weather to cause more scars. In the middle of these cool winter months, Cas was his warm summer sun, enticing the flowers to bloom despite knowing the chilled air would freeze them.

"It's late," Castiel noted.

"Who gives a shit?"

"No one, I'd suppose."

The mattress squawked unattractively as they adjusted themselves, moving to fit closer. Cas' eyes were red and bruised from crying and Dean's lips were cracked from comforting. He looked down at the sorrowful man and asked, "Where do you keep your razor?"

Castiel closed his eyes and shook his head. When the leaves turned from green to gold, and with the exit of lust and the return of loneliness, he would take an antidepressant and spiral into oblivion in the center of an infinity. When the swirling became too much and he got a headache, he would take an Ibuprofen as well, longing for days lacking sadness and aching for days saturated in apathy. When he didn't want to feel anything, he would tempt himself with the full bottle of promising prescription pills and conclude, in his own private personal Heaven, the trees would never lose their leaves. He finally got him back and did not have to rely on his medicine to make him not unhappy. He did not want to entertain the idea of being alone.

"Babe?"

"I'm not ready."

"I didn't think you were."

"Can you spend the night?"

"Yeah," he breathed, pressing his lips to Castiel's forehead. "Yeah."

The last of the leaves melted away as the trees produced fresh ones. Dean was not terrified of what the weather was going to do to him; he was terrified of what it already had.

Dean defended his actions by sending his love through a vicious course of profanities and apathies. The outside foliage, a singe rose for every person he lost, a single Rose for the important one, shuddered beneath the rubble of the desolate garden. His beloved had lost his tulips and his daffodils because they were pruned to get the house sold. Lisa did not care if the flowers did not bloom or if the coffee was not quality. He wanted to spend the night with his baby. He averted his gaze from the window and thought, instead, of the crappy coffee.

The clocks mimicked his heart rate and the clouds mocked his intelligence. He would not recover from this one.

Dean's heart bled because he no longer did, manufacturing promises already broken and selling them, keeping the secret of their uselessness. If he had the option to run, he would have done so long ago, leaving everything he hated about himself behind. It was constantly cold in the house; it was no longer a home. It was never a home. He was never taught traditional values. He was taught hatred and lies and alcohol. With Ben's aid, he moved the last of the boxes from the garage to the truck. He had one last stop to make before they left.

At the apartment complex, he wished he brought his guitar. On the elevator ride up, he wished he brought his courage.

Castiel examined himself in the mirror, accepting his fate as a damaged suicidal man with survivor's guilt. He was screwed up with his scarred arms and scarred mind; he couldn't even kill himself the right way because the apartment walls are thin and the other residents can hear everything that goes on. So, in and out of the hospital to renew his antidepressant prescription, he decided that perhaps killing himself socially was the best route to take. Sometimes, in his heart, he did not want to live, but he couldn't imagine Dean finding his body, the way he found Meg's.

The door clicked open, but he bothered not greeting the visitor, because the hello would quickly mutate to goodbye, and he could not do that to himself. He noticed how much he had aged these last few months. He noticed how much he had thinned out, shoulders and neck gaunt.

"Babe?"

Castiel tilted his head a fraction and called, "I'm in here, Dean." He ignored the other as he leaned against the door frame. He used the knuckle of his index finger to wipe his eyes, last night's lack of sleep apparent. "I never kept track of the days until I met you, Dean." He shrugged, his head and his heart overweight with thoughts of their underweight relationship. "It was a long time ago."

"It was."

He turned to his love and swallowed a sob before asking, "How did I ever convince you to come with me?"

"How did I ever convince you to love me?"

Cas smiled and wrung his hands. "It was serendipity that we found each other. A happy accident." He bit his lip and dropped his head, looking for old bloodstains and water damage. "I wanted to say something – long and sentimental, but we both know there is nothing to be said. Everything that can be has been vocalized. We … shared too much, Dean, and there is not a thing that can be said to serve as comfort, and it's all ruined." He shut his eyes, warm tears falling onto his flustered cheeks. "Can you see all the time we wasted? I can't go on without you, and it's not good, Dean. It's not – it's not romantic or honorable or endearing. Don't try to tell me that I can, because I can't. I am incapable of doing so and you're going to go away and be okay. I'll be a mistake, an eraser mark, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it."

Dean covered his mouth with his hand and glanced at the walls, processing his thoughts and filing into the proper cabinet. As his words were computed, he grew angry. "We aren't ruined, Cas, and this sure as hell isn't a fucking waste. God! How can you say everything we've gone through was for nothing? Look at everything I've given up for you! Look at – t what you've given up for me." He took Castiel's hand, fingers spliced. "Please, baby, don't say it was a waste of time. Don't say that to me."

"What am I to do?" He kissed Dean's jugular, sinking into the stagnant slough of sorrow.

"We wait," he whispered, kissing the top of his head. He blinked back through their timeline, a bent wiry sort of thing, and listened through their greatest hits. "The first time we met, huh? Remember, on the bus? I went back to your house, and we talked about Lisa. You told me marriage is an agreement between two parties. Do you remember what our vows were?"

"No more blood."

"I promised to keep you alive, Cas, and I'll be damned if I break that promise now."

They kissed one last time. He walked Dean to his truck, standing a foot apart in the elevator, desensitizing themselves to the distance. He remembered everything from their sleepy conversations and held fast to the belief they are made of stardust. He would miss Dean's freckles, speckling his face like skin stars, a galaxy written across the bridge of his nose, spilling onto his cheeks. His days were darkened, the hues of his approaching life a shade darker.