The laptop is getting a little too warm on his legs, and Dean shifts around in bed before pulling up the next file. It's called The End.

"Sounds promising," Dean mutters to himself, and hits search.

THE END "I'll just—" There was a click as Dean disconnected, and Castiel glanced at the cell phone in his hand. He sighed, lowering it, before finishing the sentence, despite the fact that Dean was no longer listening. "—wait here then." He was restless, and if he didn't think Dean would end up mad with him, he would have ignored his request to wait a few hours. The very fact that he allowed Dean's opinion of him to dictate his actions should have been unsettling, to say the least, and Castiel wondered how he had managed to get to this point. Castiel had been alive for more time than he could reasonably quantify, and he had never before allowed anything to sway him. Now, this man who he had known for a single year was influencing him without even trying. He should have been scared by that. He wasn't. Hours ticked by, and with every passing moment, the desire to stretch out his wings and fly toward Dean became stronger. As he stood by the roadside, watching the occasional truck roar by, it occurred to him that lately, toward Dean was the only way he flew. He smiled.

Dean takes a deep breath and reads the scene three times, trying to convince himself that it doesn't mean anything. Castiel smiles all the time, he tells himself.

It's bullshit, of course, and he knows it.

With his heart racing, Dean searches for the next scene in the same book.

THE END Even on the balcony, the air was heady with incense. The smell of sandalwood and cinnamon lifted, weaving out through the doorway and warming Dean from within. He ran his fingers through the beaded curtain before pulling it aside. Leaning through, Dean saw Castiel, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the wide, open plan cabin. Sitting around him, four women watched with rapt attention as he spoke, and Dean caught the tail end of his speech as he stepped fully inside. "...it's surprisingly physical." Dean raised his brow, wondering what Castiel could possibly have been talking about that would end in that particular string of words, when Castiel noticed him in the doorway. He glanced up with a smile, something like smugness in his expression as he turned back to the women. "Um, excuse me, ladies. I think I need to confer with our—" Castiel looked back at Dean with a wink. "—fearless leader for a minute. Why not go get washed up for the orgy." If the word orgy falling so casually from Castiel's lips almost broke Dean's brain, it was lucky for him that he was so preoccupied that he didn't notice a number of other things in the room that would likely send him into a state of near-catatonia. There was the leather jacket hanging on the rack by the door that was decidedly too big for Castiel yet the perfect size for him. The shoes, his size, too, by the bed. The general clutter of his own things scattered around the cabin that was not just the home of future Castiel, but him, too. Dean noticed none of them; too focused on the idea of such things as Castiel and orgies existing in the same universe. The group of women rose slowly, sauntering one by one out through the beaded curtain, a couple of them giving Dean forlorn and profoundly disappointed glances as they went. "You're all so beautiful," Castiel said, watching them leave, sparing a quick glance at Dean as if he wanted to gage his response. Dean just stared at him, rendered mute by the bizarre situation, and Castiel rose from the rug. As he stood, he let out a low noise, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. His loose-fitting yoga pants and pale blue shirt moved in soft waves while he stretched his arms, arching his back as he walked, catlike, toward the king size bed at the back of the room. Dean finally found his words. "What are you, a hippie?" Castiel, his back still turned, sighed wearily, as if tired of the topic. "I thought you'd gotten over trying to label me." Dean's eyes darted around the room, eyes still not registering all the evidence that pointed to an unquestionably different relationship with the man before him in the future, and shook his head. "Cas, we've gotta talk." Castiel turned, then, and staggered away from him a little, suddenly thrown. "Whoa," he said, raking his eyes over Dean, "strange." "What?" "You. Are not you. Not now you, anyway." "No!" Dean shook his head, then nodded, "Uh, yes. Exactly." "What year are you from?" "2009." Narrowing his eyes, Castiel looked hard at him. "Who did this to you? Was it Zachariah?" "Yes." Castiel raised one finger to rub at his chin, scratching the stubble. "Interesting," he mused. Incredulous, Dean raised his brow. "Oh, yeah, it's friggin' fascinating. Now why don't you strap on your angel wings and fly me back to my page on the calendar." Castiel's face split into a bitter smile, and he turned away, laughing. Dean felt his stomach drop. "I wish I could, just, uh... strap on my wings. But uh, I'm sorry. No dice." He laughed again. "What are you, stoned?" The laughter stopped, abruptly, and Dean got the distinct feeling that this was a sore topic as Castiel looked back at him to reply. "Generally, yeah." His voice was pained, tight, and Dean stared at him. "What happened to you?" "Life," he said, and with that one word, Dean knew that whatever had happened in this future, Castiel was broken. He wanted to grab hold of his shoulders and shake the old Castiel loose; the sight of him like this made Dean ache. Castiel, ached, too. Because the version of Dean in front of him was still a good man, still had hope, still had the ability to care. He missed this man, and the guilt that he felt for failing to keep him around, keep him happy, grew within his chest like a cancer.

At this point, Dean doesn't just want a drink. He wants to get drunk. Horribly, horribly, imbibed-the-entire-liquor-store drunk.

Because apparently, according to Chuck, he lived with Castiel in 2014.

He lived with Castiel in a single room cabin. A single room cabin with one big bed.

Dean blinks, staring at the screen. A lump is forming in his throat.

He never wrote the exact words, but it is clear that his future self and Castiel were a couple. Terrible, miserable, destructive and bitter, but definitely a couple.

It occurs to him now that with that smug expression, Castiel had been trying to bait him into an argument about all the women. He'd spent the night with Risa, after all.

He feels sick.

Masochist that he is, he keeps reading.

THE END One moment, Zachariah was advancing on him, a vein bulging out in his forehead as he shouted, and the next, Dean was standing on the side of the road. He turned to see Castiel, bathed in the cool blue glow of the streetlight overhead. "That was pretty nice timing, Cas." "We had an appointment," Castiel said, as if it were obvious, and in that moment, Dean could have kissed him. Leaning forward, he put a hand on Castiel's shoulder, squeezing firm. "Don't ever change," he said. Castiel smiled at that, and it was nothing like it was in the future that Dean would not let happen. This smile was fond and halcyon, and it spread warmth through Dean's chest just to see. He didn't know it yet, of course, but that night by the roadside, with the scent of nearby forest and petrichor rising from the rain-damp earth beneath their feet, something in him shifted to make a permanent space for Castiel.

He is shaking.

Seeing his own life on the page, seeing his own feelings and thoughts laid out so bare; it's overwhelming.

He can't read any more. It's too much. It's almost half past six in the morning, and his eyes are stinging.

Dean deletes every file, closes the laptop and climbs out of bed. He takes it back to the library, putting it back where he found it, and heads into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

Chuck never wrote it in so many words, but it was clear that at some point, Castiel felt the same as he does. Or maybe it's only true in that alternate version of the future that Zachariah sent him into.

Dean shakes his head, pressing the bridge of his nose between two fingers and breathing deeply.

He'll text Charlie. She'll help, he thinks. Give him the overview of the rest of the books, tell him if he's crazy for thinking... for thinking...

"God, what am I thinking?" he says to himself, leaning on the counter while the kettle boils.

Even if Castiel does think of him that way, he's missing.

Then again, he thinks, maybe if this was all out in the open, it would make him stay when he comes back.

Once the coffee is done, he walks back to his room and grabs his phone.

Hey Charlie
What did you mean|

The cursor blinks, and he stares at it, unsure how to continue.

Hey Charlie.
When you said Cas
was dreamy|

He shakes his head, and deletes it.

Hey Charlie.
Me and Cas.
You read the books.
Am I crazy?

He stares at it for a few minutes, and, deciding it it vague enough to get away with in case he chickens out when she replies, he hits send.