A/N: Here it is! The final chapter in this short fic. I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. Oh but if I did...

The rocking sensation is what Castiel awoke to. It was gentle, lulling; threatening to drag him back to sleep the moment he escaped from it. He forced his eyes open, noticing how heavy they were, as if he were under the influence of some medication.

Everything was unnervingly quiet.

He struggled into a sitting position, the world spinning and blurring about him the second he did so. Rubbing his eyes, he looked down with clear vision to see his leg wrapped up in thick bandages with faint bloodstains near where his kneecap was.

He placed his hands on the white blankets, finding them crisp and clean. He was in a hospital bed.

With a slight shock, he realized he was on a vessel home, in a room filled entirely with wounded soldiers. Looking around, he saw Andrew with his head patched heavily, but no other familiar faces as far as that side went.

Scanning the left side of the room, he saw Greg, who was sitting up and looking at him excitedly. His right leg was nothing but a wrapped stump, cut off several inches above the knee.

Castiel wondered if it had been the land mine that took it, or if it was something else, something that he missed after losing consciousness.

He waited for Greg to say something, only to notice that he already was; his lips moving rapidly with his excited words.

Words that Castiel couldn't hear.

He dug in his ear with a finger, wrinkling his nose as felt a bit dried blood encrusting his earlobe. His ears seemed to be clean beyond that, but there was no sound reaching him, as if the world had simply been switched to mute.

Greg's smile slid off his face as he began to process what was wrong. Castiel watched as his mouth stretched wider, as if he were calling for someone. Greg began trying to speak to him again, this time slower, but Castiel had never tried reading lips before, and he certainly wasn't going to figure out how that swiftly.

He thought he understood a select few words: buddy, okay, sorry.

He was sorry, too.

A nurse rushed over to Greg, who began making wild gestures towards Castiel, his eyes filled with concern. She turned and spoke slowly to him, as if that would make it easier for him to understand, like his hearing would improve if she was just a bit patient with her sentences.

"I can't hear you," he said, aggravated.

He had no idea how his tone sounded, but he knew he felt angry and he didn't want to be gawked at, and it probably was conveyed in his tone.

The nurse stepped back, her eyes sympathetic.

She retrieved a few doctors, and after a good thirty minutes, they declared him deaf in both ears due to close contact when a land mine was activated. They showed him the papers, so he wouldn't have to waste his time reading their lips.

On the voyage home, he received more attention from the nurses than a majority of the stable ones, causing him to receive some rather resentful looks. It was ironic that he didn't even enjoy female attention. Not anymore, of course.

For the first few days, he focused solely on learning sign language and tricks to reading lips, just to keep distracted. But at night, he couldn't help but to break down and curl up in agony. He ignored the flaming protests his leg gave; he just felt safer curled up, as if he were on the defensive. No one could hurt him.

He ached for Dean, sometimes so badly he thought his heart was surely being shredded in his chest and no one had been made aware. The agony became so great at moments that he wished that the land mine had taken him, too. During the day, however, he tried his best to keep an impassive face, to appear as if he wasn't falling apart. He needed to be strong.

After they explained to him, by writing on a clipboard, that they would be home in just two more days, he was given a pad of paper and a pencil, to practice getting his thoughts down quickly so that he could follow along in conversations, if his sign language happened to be lost among the chatter.

He was rather sensitive about speaking, so when he finally was able to talk to Greg, he did so with the paper.

Chuck?

He scribbled on the paper and held it up.

Greg shook his head, his rather pudgy face sagging with sorrow in a way that reminded him of a sad hound dog.

'Landmine,' his lips explained.

He didn't want to ask about any of the others.

'What happened to Andrew?' he scribbled under Chuck's name, holding it up again.

Greg squinted, trying to make the words out before he slowly mouthed, 'Shrapnel. Brain. He's messed up.'

'How?' Castiel scribbled.

'Thinks he's still on the beach. Won't let us say any different.'

It was the longest sentence Castiel had been able to lip-read yet, but he wasn't proud. In fact, he wished he had misunderstood by some chance, because the truth was insufferably sad.

He turned to stare at Andrew, who was lying flat on his back, hands folded at his chest like he was already dead and waiting to be buried. His black hair had been singed close to his face.

Castiel lifted his hand to trace his own burns. The papers they left him said that, though he had been in such close proximity, his burns should heal without much scarring. He didn't much care, to be honest. He had much worse scars, ones that he felt more than other people saw.

He turned back to Greg, who appeared to be waiting for something.

"What?" he asked aloud, then clamped his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to talk. Talking had become a chore, honestly. He was also concerned that his voice sounded silly, though no one would ever admit it to him.

'What will you do now?' Greg asked, apparently for the second time.

Castiel turned his eyes to his hands, fiddling with his dog tags that had been placed at his bedside.

'I don't know,' he wrote after setting them aside. 'I really don't,' he added.

Greg let him be after that.

When they arrived at the port, with families waiting for many, the doctor came back and told Castiel in a normal pace of speech that he needed to walk with a cane for a bit, but his leg should heal up. A bullet shattering bones had certainly been the least of their worries during the war. He didn't stick around to watch how they were going to get Andrew out to his family.

Castiel saw them as he walked down the ramp. He recognized them from the pictures Andrew had always boasted. A plump mother with kind eyes, a father with a good natured smile, a little sister that clutched a ragdoll to her chest.

A girlfriend with thick, long hair and a shy expression.

They were going to be married, he had said, before June 6th happened.

A lot of good things had come out of the soldiers' time together, before Operation Overlord. Nothing good had happened since.

Charlie was gone, as well as Dean and Chuck. Greg would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Andrew never really made it home, if Castiel were being honest with himself.

Even still, their brothers were fighting. The good while they had taken to get home only meant that they were distancing themselves from being able to help, to maybe prevent a few more deaths, a few more heartsick families and friends. But now, they were useless; they might as well have been left alone to fight.

Not that they would do much good, but what was the point of them living as half a person?

As Castiel emerged into the blinding sunlight, he saw the crowd waving flags, as if the moment were one of victory, of joy. Did they not know how many soldiers left physical and emotional parts of themselves on that God-forsaken beach? Was this really a happy occasion?

He knew they were cheering, though he couldn't hear it, which only made him feel worse. They probably would never know, what had happened to place the soldiers here.

As he entered the crowd, he didn't expect anyone to make a move for him, specifically. His family had never made time for him, besides Gabriel, so he was surprised to discover someone had come for him.

Michael slid through the crowd towards him, his eyes cautious, but pleased and gleaming with hope.

Castiel noticed that his hair, once kept with every hair cut at the exact same length, and grown rather long. He kept it in a low pony's tail at the nape of his neck.

Normally when Castiel saw people with this hair style, they appeared unkempt and generally gross. Michael, however, had the same golden complexion and burning blue eyes that had always earned him attention, and the pony tail only seemed to prove that Michael could pull of anything he wanted.

'What does father think about that?' Castiel thought.

He greeted his brother with a hug, a full bear hug in which they clung to each other tightly and Castiel dropped his duffel. He had promised the doctors he would walk with the cane, but the second they were out of sight he had stuffed it in the bag. Hopefully it had broken.

"You look well," Michael said.

Castiel smiled, and said out loud, for the first time, "I'm deaf." It wasn't awkward, or weird for him to say it. It was simply what he was. He could just as easily announce that he was gay. It was best Michael knew these things right away, anyhow.

Michael's expression shifted several times, from shock, grief, brief anger, and finally resting on a tired expression that was the worst yet, as if had simply begun to give up.

"You aren't the worst off, out of the Novak brothers," Michael said, speaking a bit slower now that he knew.

Gabriel's name seemed to hang between them, as well as his memory. Gabriel had been the prankster, the joker. The schools had been angry with him often for disrupting class with his antics, but they also had loved him because everyone was charmed by Gabriel, even stern, uptight Kali.

Michael said something else, but these words Castiel had hoped his had gotten wrong.

"Repeat that," he demanded.

"Raphael. Mental institution," Michael said, even slower.

The words hit Castiel hard. Out of all his brothers, Raphael had been the most rebellious. Sure, Gabriel had been unwilling at first to be a part of the army, but he loved their father and he knew what he needed to do. Raphael had always been resentful and angry. He had wanted power and that had always worried the other brothers. They had all secretly thought that war could work it out of him, but apparently that wasn't the case.

They walked to the train station, sharing no words. Castiel left Michael to the sounds of the world, and became upset when he remembered he would always have silence, whether he wanted it or not.

As they settled on a train back home, Castiel pulled out the pad of paper. He had to know, and he had to tell Michael about the last part of him that changed.

What exactly happened to Raphael?

Michael frowned, but took the pencil and paper and wrote in his neat, compressed handwriting;

Apparently, something in him has snapped. He turned his gun on his unit after his sergeant ordered a cease fire. The only reason they didn't shoot him as because he was out of ammo and no one was harmed. They pitied him.

Castiel sighed, unsure of how else to express any emotion towards the situation without breaking down into tears. What had become of them? One son dead, another gone mad, and the third deaf.

There was just Michael, still sitting straight and tall, for the world had not torn him down. Not yet. Maybe it never would. Michael always had it easy, had it better than any of them. Dad gave him more attention, more encouragement. When the first threats of war began to emerge, Michael was already enlisted, because that was what Dad expected of him and that's what he wanted.

Their father had left for war himself, and last Michael checked he was somewhere in Europe. The only reason Michael was home was because of a health complication he refused to speak of.

Though he had been bitter before, Castiel didn't feel any resentment towards his brother now. He just felt tremendously tired, as if he had just run for a long, long time and had just managed to catch his breath.

Would Michael be all he had, now? He supposed so, and he certainly owed the last person left to him in the world some ounce of truth, before he had to begin lying again, about why he didn't want to date women, or get married, about why he just wanted to be alone.

'I fell in love while I was away,' he wrote, sliding the paper over.

Michael read it a few times over before meeting his little brother's eyes with a somber, but a vaguely proud expression, as if he had been waiting for Castiel to say something.

Did he understand? That he had fallen in love with a guy? He took his pencil up again and scribbled underneath,

Dean Winchester.

Michael nodded, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. Seeing Dean's name brought the ache back, so he place the paper face down and sighed softly. Or at least, he thought it was softly.

In a moment of sheer exhaustion, he let his head fall on his brother's shoulder, where he promptly fell asleep.

It wasn't until Michael shook him awoke a few miles from home that he realized he did not have Dean's necklace, that it was not around his neck where his memory said he had placed it.

That he had failed Dean.

A full month had passed, with Castiel healing physically, but not even a little mentally, and Michael job hunting for the both of them, unsuccessfully.

For a long while, Castiel did not feel like moving around. His leg became stiff and locked, leaving him all but useless. When it rained, his bone ached sharply, giving him more excuses to sit around and be alone with his thoughts, which became a bad thing ultimately.

He spent his time working out conversations in sign language, writing letters that Raphael would be unable to read, and praying to Gabriel. He briefly spoke to Kali at the local market.

She had lost Gabriel's child near the end of her pregnancy, she had said, but had remarried and was trying again.

Castiel wished her well, and then left without another word. She hadn't even realized he was deaf; his lip reading had become so good. He was rather proud, but the thought of Kali moving on from Gabriel felt painfully absolute.

Gabriel would have told Kali to move on, if he could, because Gabriel always wanted her to as happy as she could be. Though she would never admit it, Castiel's blessing was exactly what she had been waiting for. She was too proud to tell anyone about the nights where she would go outside and quietly cry until she was emptied of all her tears.

She would go on.

Castiel knew she would be more and more okay after each day's passing. These things took time, after all. He knew that better than anyone.

Michael struggled with sign language, the only thing he wasn't good at, though it had been relatively simple for Castiel to learn. Michael did understand that Castiel was sensitive about speaking though, and he knew he must want to be able to have a silent conversation, so he struggled on, rather liking the challenge. One had never been presented to him, after all.

They had always loved each other, but they had never been like this before; so relaxed and actually enjoying their time together.

Following these kinds of thoughts usually led to thinking about how close Dean and Sam must have been, which in turn triggered uncontrollable guilt.

How could he lose the necklace, his last link to Dean? There was nothing of them anymore, nothing left to say that he existed and cared for Castiel. There might be proof, at his old home. Maybe his name mentioned in a letter, anything. This was what tempted him to go immediately, to tell Sam who he was.

After all, if a monument to their fight was ever going up, Dean Winchester would be listed, but not Castiel. People would never look at Dean's name and know that he had been Castiel's only miracle. Maybe he was ungrateful, for counting his living as a curse, but his life was not one to envy.

Exactly two months and five days had passed since the ship docked and Michael had been there for him. Castiel woke up crying, for no real reason he could remember. It might have been a dream, or a nightmare, or maybe just a subconscious thought that had been shadowing him, but he knew he needed to see Sam right away.

His clock read 4:12 a.m., but Michael would understand, surely.

Not bothering to walk quietly, because hell, he was waking him up anyway. He hurried to Michael's room and shook him awake.

"Michael? I need something from you. Will you look up someone for me?"

His brother squeezed his eyes shut, lips moving rapidly in what Castiel would only guess to be cursing, but Michael became clearer as he asked, "What? Who?"

This part clearly being for him to hear, he told him Sam's name and the other random facts Dean had told him about where he lived, though they were inexplicit.

Michael rolled his eyes and sat up, his hair wild and knotted in the back.

"Now?" he asked.

Castiel nodded once, determined. How could he have put this off for so long? Out of guilt? Sam needed to know that his brother cared for him, that he not only left his dog tags for Sam to hold on to? Whatever had changed that night had changed big, as if he were waking up from a long lull of numbness.

He started walking, to Michael's annoyance, right after he received the address. He needed to take a train, but all in all Dean's house was not such a great distance from his own. Had they ever passed each other on the street, maybe? Brushed by each other at the store?

Castiel's mind said absolutely not, because Castiel would remember Dean Winchester, at any point. Though, you never really know.

He tracked down the house without much difficulty and stood at the door, trying to gather words that were appropriate to say, a proper apology for losing the necklace.

The house was no mansion, but it was small in a charming way, with a compact porch and well-kept lawn.

It was a decent time to wake up at this point, so maybe Sam, or his father, wouldn't be all that mad. He knocked twice, then withdrew timidly. What did he even begin with? I enjoyed kissing your brother? The thought made him snicker briefly before making him unhappy.

The pain Dean's death inflicted on his life only seemed to sharpen with time, becoming more and more raw every day he went realizing Dean Winchester would never exist again. He would never hold Castiel, or kiss him, or say that he loved him.

He was gone.

Castiel's eyes began to tear up, something they seemed to be doing very often since the invasion, when the door was flung open by a teenager with long brown hair and earnest eyes.

Castiel had learned to read people since he had become deaf. One's whole personality could be expressed merely in the face; a tilt of the eyes, a twitch of the nose, or the sincerity in the set of their lips.

This was undoubtedly Sam.

Kind, curious eyes. A welcoming smile before even knowing who the visitor was, and a relaxed set of broad shoulders. This told him that Sam was trusting and friendly and very much like Dean. Or at least, the Dean that Castiel had known. Dean had been different around the other soldiers, like he was being forced to prove how manly he was since he was busy kissing a guy on his time off.

"Can I help you?" Sam asked.

Castiel nodded, gesturing to the inside of the house.

"Yeah, come in," Sam said, stepping back to allow Castiel in. The inside of the house was neatly cluttered, with old books, a regal clock, and old furniture with patches. He tried to imagine Dean sleeping on the couch, or reading a book.

The thoughts were painful to picture, so he turned his attention to Sam.

"I fought alongside your brother. During the invasion."

Sam's eyes widened for a moment, before settling into a wrinkled up tilt as he smiled warmly.

"I'm sorry you had to deal with him. He can be pretty annoying sometimes."

Castiel blinked, stunned that Sam was taking everything so well. Perhaps that was the type of person he was, able to move on quickly. Or maybe Castiel's lip reading was off.

He was prepared to say more, to explain what he had done, when Sam turned to look behind him as if he heard someone. A light flicked on in the hallway, then turned out again as if whoever else was hear had changed their minds.

Abruptly, Castiel realized he might be interrupting something. What if Sam had a girl here and Castiel was interfering with their time together?

"I'm sorry," he said, deciding to just plunge into his explanation without any mental rehearsal. "I was with your brother until the end."

Sam beamed, picking up a cup of coffee and sipping it before saying, "He is probably grateful."

He looked over his shoulder again, annoyed. His lips began to move as if he were yelling at someone, then the hallway light flicked on again.

And Dean Winchester stomped into the room.

When Dean saw Castiel standing in his living room, he froze, like an animal that had been sighted and was prepared to bolt. He didn't, however.

Instead, he took a timid step forward then another, until they were very close. His hands shook as he raised them to touch the sides of Castiel's face.

"Cas?"

His name formed on his lips, and that was all it took.

Castiel flung himself at Dean, bringing their lips together with no consideration to Sam, who was left with a front row seat of the show on the couch.

Dean was laughing, he could tell by the wide smile, mouth half parted, and the way his shoulders bounced up and down.

Dean kissed his forehead, where a few jagged scars still remained puckered after a period of long healing, his nose, his neck. Anything he could reach that was appropriate for his brother to see.

"Castiel," he said again.

"I thought you were dead," Castiel said, emotion thick in his throat.

"I thought you were," Dean replied. After that, he began chattering, lips still turned up in utter delight. Trying to decipher what he was saying was nearly impossible; Castiel had to hold up a hand to tell him to stop.

"Dean, I can't hear you. I'm..well…deaf."

Dean's smile faded for a brief instant before he sat down, signifying that he should sit as well.

Sam left for a moment, returning with paper and a pen for Dean to write with. After several agonizingly long seconds, Dean handed the paper to Castiel, along with the pen.

A few nurses were able to move in after a while. They got to me before they had to retreat. Stupid Germans don't know when to stop firing. Most were only teenagers, was what the nurses told me. They said I shouldn't be alive, I shouldn't have made it, but after Chuck dragged you away, I thought I heard you get shot. I decided to suck it up and try to help you, so I staunched the bleeding the best I could and the nurses came about thirty minutes later. I got really lucky, Cas.

Castiel read it twice, smiling at his name and the childish appearance of Dean's handwriting.

He pointed to himself, tilting his head.

Dean nodded and took the paper back, beginning to write again.

Sam yawned, scratching his arm. This didn't seem to be an enormous occasion to him, but Castiel was already fond of him, he admitted. Dean wouldn't care so much for him if he wasn't a good kid.

Dean handed the paper back after another few minutes.

Chuck was screaming that you got shot and then I heard them trying to get you to safety, so I guessed that you were going to make it. That's when I decided to try living, for once. But a few hours after the nurses brought me in, they returned my necklace, and it had blood on it. What was I supposed to think?

Castiel looked up in disbelief, only to see Dean withdrawing the necklace from underneath his shirt, pinching the string together so that Castiel had a clear view of the pendant swinging on it.

Castiel smiled, so wide that it almost hurt, but it was hard not to. Here was everything he thought he had lost, returned to him. Maybe the future would be beautiful, from here on out.

The years flew by graciously when they were together. Sam knew, and Michael knew, that they were together, and that was the way it would always be. After thinking that they had lost each other, it was hard to let one leave the other's sight without a slight pang of fear, or the slightest bit of worry.

Dean had said that they wouldn't work out in the real world, before General Eisenhower had made the decision to move out.

Now, he seemed to spend every second trying to prove that they could. They carried out equally, as Castiel had always known they could.

They remained in the town, where they were less likely to be judged by people who had grown up with them. Dean walked by Charlie's house often, to visit with his family and to see his little brother, who was all but rabid to join the army for revenge.

"The fighting is over, little guy," Dean had told him once. Castiel had become a master lip reader, perfect for eavesdropping.

"Revenge isn't going to fix anything. You just have to keep moving on."

"You are becoming wise in your older years," Castiel told him after he left.

Dean laughed, shoving him playfully before grabbing his tie and drawing him back for a kiss, right in the middle of the street. This couldn't be the man who was ashamed of them before, had said they wouldn't ever really work.

"I love you," Dean said while their lips still touched, so Castiel would not only know that he said it, but he could feel it, too.

Castiel wanted so badly to hear Dean say these things, to hear him laughing, not just know because of his facial expression.

But he could never be ungrateful for Dean. Not after two agonizing months of thinking him gone.

Maybe they would face more challenges in the future, more opposition to the relationship they held. But they could never part with one another. In three days they fell in love, and on the fourth day they believed that they lost each other. With all the time of thinking and hurting in between, how could they tear themselves away from the remedy that they had found here, in one another's arms?

Their moments were tranquil, and low in excitement, but after all that had happened, quiet was just the way they liked it, thank you.

Even when Dean woke up in the middle of the night screaming because of a nightmare, they regretted nothing. When Castiel could not hear the wondrous new tune on the radio that sat in their living room, he regretted nothing. They had served, had given their part for their country. How dare anyone judge them for wanting this one little thing, this one bit of solace they had?

So more and more years went by, and as Sam graduated from college, Dean and Castiel secured him an apartment, taking the old Winchester home as their own. Their dad was gone, off to another town. He had decided to hit the road and see the world.

At first, Dean had wondered if it was because he had brought Castiel into the picture, but before he left, his dad hugged him and apologized. He didn't wait to see if Dean had any sympathy for him; he was there, and then he was gone.

They found regularity in their lives, of being together. It was all they knew how to do anymore. Even when Castiel limped, or Dean had his rough nights of thinking he was back on the sand, dying, they were able to be okay again.

Until they lay their hearts side by side in the earth, with markers to announce them as soldiers, they had this: kisses stolen during the day, fireworks on summer nights, Sam's children who begged for stories about the war as they got older, but never got their wishes, and a garden, for Castiel insisted.

They grew any plant that had ever caught Castiel's eye, had ever struck him as beautiful. He told Dean there needed to be more beauty in the world, so people wouldn't give up.

In the garden was an array of flowers that didn't correlate with one another, but Castiel insisted they plant sunflowers, roses, buttercups, peonies, lilies, and countless more.

"They won't grow," Dean told him in sign language. He had picked up on it far better than Michael had, to Michael's annoyance.

Maybe they would grow, maybe they wouldn't. If war, and the supposed death of Dean, had taught Castiel anything, it was that you never knew what would happen, what could come flying around the corner and change your life forever. All in an instant.

Or maybe three days.

"Time will tell," Castiel signed back.