After Sam and Garth left, Dean didn't really know what to do with himself. He drank another two bottles of beer, and mused on the fact that he hadn't requested more than one scant six pack from Garth's kind offer of groceries. He wandered the house, his feet taking him round, scuffing the carpets, meeting with furniture. Dean himself didn't take much notice, just sipping his beer as he went around, uncaring. But eventually his feet took him back upstairs, back into the doorway of the room that his friend's shell inhabited.
Dean sighed, looking down at his feet as if they were to blame for taking him here. "There's nothing I can do." He told them, and they almost twitched, feigning a shrug.
Looking back up to his friend, he saw that he had, once again, not moved a bit. He was as stock still as ever, bed sheets unmussed except where Dean had bothered them earlier. His chest rose and fell slowly, the same pace as ever, and Dean let his feet take him over. He put his fingers on the pulse point under his chin. Still there.
Whenever Dean did this, the man's chin would tilt up, moved forwards by the sight pressure of Dean's touch. Each time he did it, he squashed down the hope, the instinct to believe that Castiel's eyes would open, would look up at him. He had to let it be enough that the pulse was still there, still gently ticking away, pumping blood through the stolen body.
He let go of the pulse point, and the chin dropped again. Dean took another sip of his beer, knocking the liquid to the halfway point in the bottle, and looked away to the door, body itching to leave but feet not yet agreeing. He stayed in the same spot, towering over the sleeping man. He held that for a few seconds, before sighing, sitting down on the chair he had slept on the night before.
From this vantage, he realised he could see out of the window, could see the blue sky, the trees. There was a branch right outside the window, not thick, not strong; it couldn't carry a man's weight, but it had something Dean hadn't seen in a while. A small, white flower was blooming from the brown, barely more than a bud, but still, definitely there.
"Think spring's coming." He told the man, peering out. He looked back at Cas, his listless face, and noticed with a small smile that the sunlight from the window was just shy of reaching his face, but would, in time.
Dean was sick of the winter. While Sam and he were the peak of physical fitness and didn't much let a bit of a chill bother them, it still sucked to hunt in the cold. Especially this far North. Spring was better, even if it had barely begun.
He wondered if Cas would like Spring. The guy could probably wax poetical about some religious ritual, the birth of life, or something.
"But that's nothing compared to the first ice cream." He spoke aloud, voice echoing in the quiet room. There was no reply, except the slow creep of sunlight. It had started on his earlobe, soft hairs glistening in the light.
He doubted Cas had ever eaten ice cream before.
Dean wondered how Sam and Garth were getting on, and he felt the gloom descend again, as briefly lifted as it had been by the prospect of the spring. Sam was out there, putting his life on the line instead of Dean. And he knew that it would keep happening until Dean told him to stop.
"We'll have to get you a nurse." Dean mused out loud. "A hot one. Wonder if Obama Care covers that?"
No response. The light drew closer, having engulfed Cas's ear, and beginning on his shoulder, throwing shadows in the creases of the hospital pyjama's e was still in.
"Cos, I gotta stow this." Dean continued, talking to the shoulder. "I can't let Sammy go out and hunt instead of me. That's not how him and me work. And I know you get that." Dean paused watching as the light slowly crept over, not beginning to catch on the stubble of Cas's jaw.
"I can't just sit around here, waiting for you to wake up." His throat caught on that, no small spark of guilt landing with the words. He knew he shouldn't blame Cas for this. The angel did this for him.
"They keep saying I can't do anything, man;" he choked, pausing to steady his voice. "That waking up... it's up to you.
"Cos, I've tried everything, Cas; every damn thing. And you still won't wake up." He stopped again, looking out of the window. The flower was swaying now, caught in a cold winter breeze trying to tug it from its lifeline. He brought his gaze back to Cas. The sun was toying with the corner of his mouth, casting a shadow that almost looked like a half smirk. It didn't suit him, and reminded Dean uncomfortably of one of the smiles his face had shown, just before he walked into that lake.
"Why aren't you?" He asked, and once again got no response. "The world ain't that bad. You've saved it enough times, it's about time you wake up and get to see it."
Dean was dimly aware that he wouldn't be able to say this to anyone who could actually hear. But with his best friend lying lifeless on the bed in front of him, the words could be spoken.
"There's way more than what you've seen. Pie, Cas; pie." He laughed slightly at himself. "And sex. Sometimes both at once." He smiled to himself, his chin dropping in. He wiped a palm across his mouth to continue. "Snow. You haven't seen snow." Shaking his head, he corrected himself. "I mean, I'm sure you've seen snow, but I bet you haven't played in it." He emphasised as the light continued to crawl, tugging at a nostril, pulling at the corner of his left eye. "Snow angels!" Dean exclaimed suddenly. "I am making you make a snow angel."
Dean laughed and as the light continued to crawl across it fell across his eyebrow, highlighting an old crease in the sun, casting a shadow along it, and forming an echo of an expression so familiar that Dean laughed harder. A frown, slightly on the side of confused.
"Come on, Cas; that was funny." He grinned, but sobered up slightly, looking down and shaking his head. He began to self-consciously run his hand up and down his left arm, fingers catching on material of his t-shirt with each stroke, and his fingers began to play with it, plucking at the fabric. After half a minute, he noticed what he was doing and looked at it, pulling the material up further, peering at the shoulder, remembering what used to be there.
"It healed up a while ago. The handprint. I think it was after the whole apocalypse showdown." He stroked the flesh, tracing where he remembered the edges being. "Man, I hated that thing. Made for real awkward conversations when I was with the ladies. But, I dunno... now I kinda miss it." He looked up and forced a smile at the man, who didn't offer a response. When he'd had it, it'd felt like a brand, singling him out, a great big "over here" marker. Or even worse, like he'd been claimed. Like it was Cas's tramp-stamp plastered on his shoulder. But now that it was gone, he understood it; it wasn't a claim, it was a promise. It was a sign that someone cared for Dean the way he'd been caring for Sam his whole damn life.
"I'm sorry." He sighed, leaning forwards and taking Cas's right hand, looking at it. Experimentally he leaned further forwards and tugged on the limb, bringing the palm to meet the flesh of his shoulder. It was awkward, the other man's body unresponsive to him, but he held it there, using his free hand to clamp it down, curling the fingers around the flesh. For a second he felt a flash of familiarity, of déjà vu, of a memory he could never quite remember, and frankly, he didn't want to.
He took the hand away and looked down at it, toying it between both of his. The skin felt so frail, and he knew if it were to be cut, it would bleed, not heal as it used to. Moving it slightly, the light caught the thumb, and Dean saw the faint line of the paper cut a few days ago. Still not quite healed, Cas's first real, human glimpse at a mortal wound.
"Sorry." He repeated, laughter in his voice gone. He soothed his fingertips over the mark, looking it over. "Being human isn't that great." He admitted. "You know that. I get that it's a major demotion. Give yourself another fifty years, if you're lucky, and you're gone. Why bother?" Dean looked back at the sleeping face, seeing that the light had clawed further over, his nose casting a long shadow across his right cheek. "But there's so much..." He trailed off.
"I know I can do it all without you. I've done it before. I can carry on just Sam and me, and if I have to..." He stopped, clearing his throat slightly, stopping that thought track. "But, Cas; I don't want to. Don't make me.
"I'm sorry, I really am. I've been a complete dick since you came back, and that's not okay. I know that. You're..." He swallowed, trying to get the words out. "You're family. You're pretty much the best friend I've ever had, and I'm probably yours, and that freakin' sucks. Because if I'm your best, no wonder you don't wanna wake up." Dean squeezed on the hand, not daring to look at his face not looking up. He couldn't. "But if you wake up, I'm gonna try, Cas; I'm gonna be there for you. I'll be better.
"So, I'm begging you,"
He finally looked away from the hand back to Cas's face, now completely bathed in the sunlight.
"Please wake up."
Cas remained still.
Too still.
Dean's eyes dropped to Cas's chest. It wasn't moving any more.
Cas wasn't breathing.
I'm looking forward to the reviews for this one. Yes, that is a hint.
