Title: "Pain in the Head"
Pairing: Castiel/Dean (Established)
TV Show: Supernatural
Word Count: ~11,000
Rating: T
A/N: Oh look, it's another month. I don't plan on updating just once a month, but that seems like the routine, doesn't it?
Sorry.
Anyway, truth be told, I kind of procrastinated this part. You'll understand. And I'm afraid I'll probably procrastinate the next part, but I think with enough going for me right now, I'm pretty sure I'll start writing next week.
To those that actually guessed my little trick correctly (you'll know): good job. I was afraid someone wouldn't get it, although I gave you clues. Come on now. Also, hey, the lyrics don't really match the story in this part, but I had to do a bit of a switcheroo at the last minute because the other lyrics I had planned would work REALLY well for the next part, so.
And I know this part's short (can you really tell? Probably not), but hey, I got a lot done in this part.
Now it's just a matter of getting enough juice to get through the next part. Oof.
Enjoy part 3!
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
I won't let you fly,
I won't say goodbye,
I won't let you slip away from me.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Dean thought everything would be better when Sam was home.
He realized he was wrong a moment too late.
x x x
They had a routine.
Get up around 5 in the morning, make sure Cas was still breathing. He always was, but Dean always wanted to make sure. The machine next to him had to be kept plugged in at all times of the day, and even if the noise was familiar now, it was still a blaring reminder of the sickness creeping through the house. Dean would have to check his temperature—some days, it would be a quick check of his forehead. Other time, a thermometer; Cas preferred the hand to forehead method. "That stick tastes very bitter."
(Dean's rebuttal always seemed to be along the lines of "Well, it's either in your mouth or where the sun doesn't shine." Cas would reply: "But the sun does not shine in my mouth, either." Dean found that ample opportunity to stick the thermometer in his mouth.)
If his temperature was high, make a cold washcloth to rest on his head to wipe the sweat away. If it was okay, then he could go take a shower. Most days, it was okay. The days where it was high, though, he didn't mind helping his partner. "Cas, it's going to feel cold," he'd whisper in the sleepless morning. The sun was barely showing outside the window every time the washcloth hit his face; Cas just leaned into the touch with his eyes closed. And when Cas would open those eyes, a shimmering blink of hope would shine. It'd disappear when his eyelids closed so he could rest, but a small "thank you, Dean" would echo on the silent walls.
The shower was always fantastic. It was when Dean could be alone for ten to fifteen minutes, leaving him to think for himself. And, those hot pellets of water always felt so great on his tense muscles, the steam making him perfectly drowsy. Sure, he could probably wake up better with cold water, but the hot water was there to use. Most of the time, however, the thoughts led to Cas's medicine, Cas's appointments, Cas's sustenance, Cas, Cas, Cas. He could only remember one incident when he thought about himself, and Cas was groaning in the next room in agony. Dean figured it was his fault, but they both knew it was the chemotherapy.
After the shower, he'd get ready to go to the garage. He hated leaving Cas alone—well, not alone. Sam was there around the house, sleeping in the living room ("There's no way I'm sleeping in the same room as you two." "It's not like we're doing it, Sam. Jesus, the dude's sick." "I'm very tired."), but he felt obligated to stay with Cas at all hours of the day, just to make sure he was okay. He also hated the looks at the garage—they all said pity. But he'd open the closet every day, searching for some shirt. And when he was happy with the shirt (he'd like to think Cas would approve), slip on a pair of pants, then turn around.
Cas would always be sleeping. He was always so exhausted. "These pills are not very helpful if I cannot keep my eyes open," Cas said one morning over breakfast (him and Dean sometimes had breakfast in bed, because it was hard to walk after chemotherapy sessions, especially the day after). Dean chewed on his food.
"Well," some crumbs spilling out, "maybe all this rest is killing off whatever's killing you." It was the last time Cas said anything about the pills (except when he needed them when the alarms went off, along with the aspirins he sometimes wanted because of the headaches).
Dean would glance at one of the clocks in the room. It was usually always near 5:45 AM, which meant he had about an hour to himself—whether it was to himself, personally, or to Cas. Most of the time, he'd sit by Cas's side until Sam would announce that he made breakfast. During those times with Cas, Dean blanked out. He couldn't be able to tell you what he did, exactly. Maybe he prayed to someone; maybe he was wishing on a dark star out in the universe for something to change; maybe he was wondering how Cas would take his pills sleeping most of the day. After chemotherapy sessions, the mornings after, he knew he would hold Cas's hand because of the groaning he'd make. Those days were the worst. Those days meant Dean would not get any sleep.
If he didn't stay by his side after getting dressed for work, he'd wander out in the living room and see an empty room. Sam usually liked to go on walks near the lake for a few minutes, just to watch the sunrise. Dean didn't blame him. It was relaxing in their world, something they never had before. Maybe some days he'd find that all to be boring, but it beat the hell out of facing Death on some of the hunts in the past. Dean would take the time to clean up whatever was laying around in the place—dirty dishes would go in the sink, leftover food in the trash, blankets over the couch, pillows thrown on the couch. After that, Sam would always come back.
And for that hour, life was good. His brother would always smile, tell him "Good morning, Sunshine," because Dean was never a morning person in the first place. Dean would most likely tell him to shut up—or he'd tell his younger sibling he wouldn't get any breakfast if and when Dean would cook, which always made Sam laugh. They wouldn't talk about much when they were eating. Some days, Sam would discuss details of his latest "hunt" to find another hunter for Bobby.
"It was different, to say the least. I didn't have to worry about it being a shapeshifter or something," he said to Dean. "Just a boring, regular human."
After breakfast, Sam would start doing the load of dishes from the night before and the breakfast they had. Dean would scramble to find his Baby's keys (they're always on the table next to the door, but who the hell remembers that when they're going to work?) and to try and put on his shoes at the same time. Some days, Dean would fall over trying to do too many things at once, which would prompt Sam to laugh in his older brother's face about one day wanting to become a ballerina. A few grumbles here and there would set things right in the household.
Before Dean would leave, he'd give some excuse to go back into his bedroom ("I left my wallet in there," when his wallet would be on the dining table, or "I should get another pair of socks, in case I get grease on them" when he knew he never had once gotten grease on his socks). He just wanted a minute to make sure Cas was okay, because if he wasn't, Dean would call into the garage in a heartbeat. He almost had once, to break the routine, but Sam encouraged him to go to work. "I'll be here, Dean. If anything happens, you know I'll call."
He never did.
After a minute of checking on Cas, Dean would tell him that he'd be back in the night, just in time for supper. Sometimes, Cas would respond with a grunt or a groan, but nothing more than that. Dean wanted him to rest, and rest he would get. So before he was out the door, the same speech was applied to Sam all the time: "Make sure he eats something around 11, he always had a meal at the hospital at that time. His pills should be taken directly after the meal. If he tells you he doesn't want to go outside, push his ass out the door. Make sure he gets to sit outside at least for an hour, I don't want him sleeping all day. And so help me God, Sam, if anything happens—" which was usually the cue for Sam to reply with:
"Alright, alright, I got it. Go to work."
He'd go to work, work on cars, hear about the different stories from the men around, and have people ask him all the time how Cas was. "How's he doin' there, Dean?" "Is he okay?" "How many sessions has he gone to now?" "Is he going to be alright?" "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with him?" Dean never answered them, since Bobby was always there to tell them to knock it off before he knocked some heads in. And Bobby? Well, he came and went in the routine. Sometimes, he'd be there for support for Dean (especially after another round of chemotherapy), and other times he'd be a no-show. Which was fine for him; he'd rather work on cars than talk about his feelings.
During the day, especially when he could get a little snack around the garage, he'd text Cas. Nothing long, maybe just a "how are you feeling" or "hey there, old blue eyes", just to tease him. On occasion, Cas would reply with simple texts: "better than yesterday" was the standard reply, followed by a "I hope you are well", which always prompted Dean to want to punch the guy for worrying about him again. "I don't understand that still, Dean" would be for when Dean teased him about old blue eyes, which gave him a smile. He'd understand it someday. Other times, there would be no replies. It'd be unanswered, left alone, and Dean always worried if something happened to him while he was sleeping. Sam always came around to save the day: "Stop texting him, he needs sleep."
Then he'd be on his way home. It was just down the road some ways, straight shot out. He'd always get home in ten to fifteen minutes, and the same thing was always there to welcome him. Instead of having Cas sit outside during the day (like he always told Sam), Cas would be sitting on the swinging chair on the porch, rocking back and forth to the wind that blew through. Dean was always eager to get out and hear the "Welcome home, Dean" come from the man. "It's good to be home," he'd always reply, sitting down next to his partner on the chair. And there they would sit, watching the sunset—as romantic as that sounded, Cas usually had his eyes closed while Dean told him about his day. As much as Cas wanted to keep his eyes open, he was still very exhausted. Sam would always venture outside to tell them dinner was ready, but most of the time he just left the two of them alone.
Sometimes, Cas would surprise Dean. He instead would tell him a story. "Sam and I took a walk today," he'd say. Dean would crack a joke about how they were not about to get themselves into a ménage à trois, and Cas would shake his head from side to side. "I am not expecting that to happen. All we did was walk around the lake," and Dean would slightly chuckle at the comment. It was the little things in the routine he enjoyed.
After a while, when it was getting darker, they'd venture inside to eat. Dean would help Cas up from the chair and have his arm wrapped around the other's for support. At times, he struggled. Little baby steps was all Dean asked for, but Cas was a fighter, and wanted to prove that he was strong. It didn't work when he and Dean were falling, especially when the ground was not the place Dean wanted to be after a long day at the garage. But they'd manage to get inside, sit down, eat with Sam, and enjoy a meal.
Well, most days.
There were a few days when the meal would be left to sit because Dean would get frustrated at Cas, or Cas would get frustrated at Dean. Or, Sam would spark the frustration and make everyone so damn frustrated that it gave everyone a headache. But Dean didn't like to add those into the routine. They were just nuances.
After the meal came a shower for Cas. Cas always told Dean: "I can do this myself, you know." But Dean would shake his head and give a little eyebrow wiggle. "Yeah, but it's more fun when you have company, you know." It always turned into a shower for the two of them, with Sam in the living room trying to drown out any noises he would hear (they kept it to a minimum, of course, if and when the noises would occur). After the shower came more pills for Cas ("How do they expect me to eat when my stomach is full of medication?"), which always seemed to either make him lethargic, or he'd become stubborn. Most of the time, it was lethargic, but Dean wouldn't complain about the stubbornness part. It would mean that the three of them would spend time in the living room, watching some TV show.
If he was lethargic, Dean would put him to bed. He would tell you he did not give him a bedtime story (much to Sam's teasing), but he'd sit on the bed with Cas, watching him fall asleep. He'd make sure he'd go to sleep, at least—it helped when he held him (much to Cas saying it didn't). Some days, he'd fall asleep with Cas. But that was rare.
Most of the time, he'd go out to the living room and stay up with Sam, drinking. Most of the time, Sam would ask how Cas was doing, something Dean was avoiding. Most of the time, Dean would answer the questions. Most of the time, Dean would tell Sam to stop asking about it and to just watch the damn TV show on the screen. Most of the time, Sam would tell him that it's a serious problem, that he can't just ignore it. And, most of the time, Dean would shrug the problem away; he just wanted to bond with his brother, was that so much to ask for someone?
Finally, around 11 PM, Dean would get to bed. He'd take a long, lasting look at Cas, making sure he was still asleep, making sure the IV bag was still there, the machine still beeping, and he'd set his own alarm to get up in the morning. He'd lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, remembering so many memories he'd want to leave behind, but he'd turn his head to Cas to make sure he was still there. His back was always to him (one night Cas was turned to Dean, which made Dean worry because the wires were getting tangled up in his arms and body) and Dean would always trickle his fingertips along his back, to make sure he was still there. He always was. It'd never wake him up, but it was the thought of making him move just a hair that counted in his book.
And at 11:30 PM, Dean would fall asleep.
Rinse and repeat, he thought.
x x x
Castiel's routine was simple—simple enough to list:
Sleep, sleep, wake up, take pills, eat, fight with Sam about going outside, sleep, sleep, wake up, eat more, pills, sit outside, Dean, supper, shower (with Dean), pills, sleep.
Sometimes, it had variety:
Sleep, sleep, wake up, take pills, eat, walk around the lake with Sam and talk to him, go home, sleep, sleep, wake up, take pills, sleep, wake up, sit outside, Dean, supper, shower (with Dean), pills, TV, sleep.
Other times, it was terrible:
Pain, pain, pain, pills, eat, pain, pain, pills, sleep, wake up to pain, pain, support from Sam, eat, pain, sit outside, Dean, supper, fight, sleep.
Nothing interesting happened when Cas was home. Usually, he took comfort in the bed. While he felt terrible that he was practically a "sitting duck" (he was not a duck, he told Sam, but Sam just laughed), there was nothing he could do about it. The tumor in his head made the room spin on occasion, and when he would stand up, things would suddenly turn into two of the same thing, or his legs would turn into jelly. So he took comfort in staying in bed. It wasn't as though he had nothing to do, more or less. Dean always made sure a book was on his nightstand, in case he wanted to read (which he did, of course; when he would be done with the book, Sam would always return from town with three new ones, ones he either had read before but long ago, or ones he'd never read at all). Sam would give him the newspaper to do these puzzles inside (the crossword was his favorite), and he'd take the time to do them while thinking.
Some of those thoughts turned into actions, which made Sam panic because he didn't want to make Dean panic (which was probably the worst thing, because Cas remembered one incident when Cas had hit his head on the headboard, and Dean did a thorough scan of whether his head was cracked open—needless to say, Cas made sure he was far from the headboard). They weren't dangerous; Cas just wanted to walk around. He could do that most days, make sure his legs were still working, and keeping the strength in them, at least. Sam always came into the room whenever Cas was getting up, though, and told him that he'd help him get stronger—which prompted a walk around the lake every now and again.
Sam, Cas thought. He was a very hard worker, and he felt sorry for the younger sibling—for both siblings, really. They hadn't asked for something like that, for cancer, and yet, here was Castiel, once an angel of the Lord, sitting in a bed with cancer in his head. Sam never complained, though. "It's better than hunting demons," he'd remark, which was true in every sense. Sam was smart. Dean? Well: "Cas, I do it because I want to, alright?" It didn't make him feel any better.
So his (and Sam's, judging for the fact that Sam sat around the house and watched TV, or went out to the town to get food) routine was okay.
x x x
Cas was at the hospital. It was nothing serious. He was there for his last chemotherapy round. As much as Cas wanted to get better, he really dreaded the hospital because of the rounds of chemotherapy in his body. He'd enter the hospital feeling better than normal, leave feeling a little rundown, but nothing serious—then he'd get home feeling the worst he'd ever felt from the sessions. He'd sit inside the bathroom most of the time feeling very nauseous, too weak to get up from the floor sometimes. The little ripples of the water teasing him every time he breathed, which made it hard to keep something in his stomach without burning his esophagus.
When he wasn't in the bathroom, it was either Sam or Dean forcing him to do something, which was never the best thing to do. Granted, the doctors told him: "You will be very irritated and moody at times. It's normal." So Sam should have known not to bother him when he wanted to sleep, or Dean should have known that he did not need to eat when all he would do was vomit over the meal once it hits hi nostrils. And, yes, the doctors told them that he should eat "whenever possible", but the medicine was not helping anything to keep it inside his body the moment it entered.
The nights were the worst on those days. He always felt terrible about Dean losing sleep at all hours of the night (one session was on a Friday, so Dean told him it wasn't a huge deal because he could sleep the weekend away), especially over something as trivial as a tumor. But Cas could not help the pain spreading from one side of his head to the other, feeling as though there was a crack down the middle of his skull and ripping both sides apart. He also could not help it when he had to scream out whenever the pain became blinding. Dean's comfort and support did not help during those hours, and neither did the help Sam tried to give with cold washcloths and cold water with aspirin. He was thankful for their help, but not even the rocking back and forth in Dean's arms could help him get over the pain those days.
As much as that sounded serious, it really was not. Cas had been through worse.
Dean, however, thought it was the most serious thing Cas could do during the day. Sam usually took him to the hospital ("Dean, as serious as it is, you need to work. You need to pay for the bills somehow", which Dean replied with: "But it's Cas, Sam! I can't just let him sit there by himself!" Sam instantly reassured him that Cas would not be alone; Dean reluctantly obliged) and both the Winchesters had to deal with the results of the medicine. From the small groans throughout the day to the scrambling to breathe at night, Dean knew it was not something he could shrug away, as though it meant nothing to them at all. It changed their lives; it was enough.
Dean closed his eyes. He was ready for it all to be over with, and even that was an understatement. He wanted his normal routine back, where all Cas and him would do was whatever they wanted, really. And to have Sam back? It was as though a dream was coming true, to have his whole family right there by his side; God wanted nothing to do with granted dreams. Dean listened to the different screams from nights with chemotherapy, from the days after, and he opened his eyes.
It was probably the most nerve-wracking experience he could ever have, especially if it meant that Cas was finally going to be done with chemotherapy. Dean never thought the day would come when the doctors finally told him about the last three cycles. As excited as he was, the doctors warned him: "It does not mean he is out of the woods, necessarily. After the tests, we should give you a definite prognosis on the cancer and its status on his body." Dean shrugged the comment away. It meant Cas was getting healthier. It meant something.
The emergency doors flew open. Both of them looked to see a familiar face in the doorway. "Come right this way, Castiel," said Sid, who was holding the clipboard. "I was not expecting to see you here, though, Dean. Have the day off?"
Dean shrugged. "You can say that."
(In all honesty, he called Bobby a few minutes before leaving for the hospital, which he was none too happy about. "Boy I'm already short two others. What could you be doin' right now?" And when Dean told him, there was just a sigh. "Alright, but you better get here when I need ya," which Dean accepted.)
Dean had never been where Cas usually had to go; Cas knew it all too well. It was up three floors (the music never changed), which the elevator stopped every floor up, and ding! To the left was oncology, some other office, and the desk where people were scrambling. To the right was where Cas went, to the room that said "TREATMENT" in big bold letters. Cas never held onto anything for support, especially when he was already getting stronger by the days, but with Dean there, he was a bit nervous. "What if this last round does nothing?" he whispered.
Dean took hold of his hand. It sufficed.
"Don't be nervous, Castiel," was heard as Sid pushed the door open; there was no one inside. Dean raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
"No other patients comin' in today, doc?"
Sid smiled. "Later, we do have some scheduled appointments. But, for now, you get the pleasure of having your own room." It sounded odd to Dean. He figured it would be a little packed, considering how many patients there were in Oncology when they were in the ward. Cas paid no attention to the loneliness in the room. It wasn't any better with patients inside anyhow.
Sophia kept her back turned to the two in hand, playing with the monitors and needles, the machine whizzing through time and space to enter Cas's system. Dean was a bit nervous; he squeezed the hand. Cas turned his head. "You seem more nervous than I am," came out of Cas's mouth.
Dean shrugged. "Excited, maybe."
Sophia turned around. A small smile was on her face, but Cas tilted his head. It showed one of sorrow and lament. He let go (well, Dean let go, seeing as how Sophia needed his arm for the treatment) and sat down in the rather large chair that always seemed to be deemed his from the start. She looked down, the smile still on her face. "Oh, Castiel, I'll miss you, you know," she cried.
Cas gave a small nod for thanks. "You will be delighted when I am not in your presence," he replied back. Then, something strange occurred, something he had not experienced since his time in Heaven, and even so it was odd in the clouds. She brushed his hair away from his blue eyes, uncovering his forehead, but he could only feel two fingers. Two, when she was using her entire hand. It was a very old trick, one the angels knew—he just eyed her.
She sighed. "Yes, but I grew very fond of you," she whispered in return.
Dean watched the needles soon stab into his arms, a small twitch from the prick and pain he endured. Dean leaned toward his partner. "You okay?"
Cas nodded. "I am fine, Dean," and he believed him.
The machines whirred next to them, and Dean watched as color and life went through Cas the moment it began. It was as though his skin breathed and enjoyed healthiness for the first time in all of its existence. Cas closed his eyes in contentment, feeling immensely better with the medicine starting to pump through his veins. They both knew it would not last, but the idea of having and seeing a healthy, vibrant Cas made Dean tremendously relieved, and Cas felt reborn again.
They both thanked God in their silent prayers for the entire hour, even with the doctors telling them their chances were slim with test results.
They were content.
x x x
Dean held him as tight as he could, wrapping his arms around Cas's body. He could see the clock on the nightstand read 2:47 A.M. He would have to be at work in mere hours, and there was no point in sleeping, not when Cas was biting on his lip, bleeding into the sheets and shirt Dean happened to wear to bed (which was bloodied in the first place). He could feel the small trembles Cas was having while feeling the pain in his head; he could hear the soft cries of "help" and "stop" come from the small body in his arms, the shaking, dying man that felt helpless; he could say all the comforting things Cas would want to hear, but it did nothing but make things worse.
Sam came and went through the night, offering aspirin and cold washcloths to Cas whenever he could. Dean thanked him for Cas, knowing the angel would appreciate the help he was given if he was able to talk without groaning in pain. At times, it would stop altogether, and Dean would continue to hold his lover in his arms, even if Cas was telling him he was "fine, I'm fine" but the heavy breathing was still there. The small trembles still came and went. It would not stop.
Not until a few days later, when Cas could finally sleep the pain away with medicine.
Then—and only then could Dean ask God for another favor, another miracle to come their way. Anything, he thought—even the simplest thing like having Cas stay up for more than 5 hours would be enough.
He just wanted what was necessary.
x x x
It worked.
x x x
A miracle was performed and no one questioned it, just how they planned. Dean noticed how much stronger and healthier Cas looked. It had only been a few weeks, but he looked so much better. Relief washed over him.
x x x
It was liberating to take out the IV bags, the moment the hospital called about his results. "It looks like you're getting healthy enough, Castiel. It's very good news. You still need to take your medicine every day, but it seems the chemotherapy has worked."
Dean was anxious to get the needle out of his arm. "I don't want to rip up your vein, you know," he said to Cas. Cas just stared at the needle.
"I doubt you are capable of tearing the vein, Dean," he replied.
Dean shrugged. "Well, with the Winchester luck, you never know what could possibly happen."
Cas was relieved to see his vein still intact.
x x x
Sam was finally able to leave without worrying if anything could happen to Cas. Dean was practically pushing him out of the house, too. "Go and do whatever you do, Sammy. Cas has the fort on lockdown."
"Yeah, because we both know you'd screw it up if it were up to you," Sam retorted. Cas made a non-committed noise from the dining table, cleaning up the breakfast scraps left. Dean lightly punched his brother in the arm.
"Shut up, you know damn well I'd be the best housekeeper."
"Yeah, yeah," said Sam, who was still being pushed out by Dean. He didn't want to look back at the little scene between the two.
"Do you want me to pick us up anything after work?" Dean asked him. Cas shook his head.
"We seem to be fine with food," and Dean nodded.
"Well, alright then. I'll see you tonight, alright?" Cas gave a small nod.
"As always."
Sam figured it was the closest they'd ever get to expressing any kind of feelings in front of his own brother, so he felt liberated to tease Dean on his way to town.
It gained him a bruise on his arm.
x x x
"Let's go out, Cas."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Uh, well—"
"I have heard there is some kind of pie festival 20 miles west of here."
"Well—"
"And you are not very subtle about surprises when you leave the flyers around the house."
"You sort of ruin surprises most of the time, Cas."
"I would love to partake in this festival. It has been a while since we have gone out."
"Really?"
"Is that what you had in mind?"
"Well, yeah, but I didn't think you'd want to go. I could always bring Sam."
"I beg to differ. You must have other plans for us, Dean, or you would have gone with Sam in the first place."
"You know, you always know what's on my mind."
"I have always known."
x x x
It was the first time in months that Cas took care of the lawn outside. Cas liked being outside, as much as possible. He didn't do much around the lawn, just planting seeds for their small garden (Dean obliged to have it, even though he didn't want to look like a housewife taking care of it; "You would not be taking care of such plants. I would not ask you to," replied Cas) and trimming the trees. The cool air was satisfactory, and he could finally tend to the little things that mattered to the world.
Dean watched him from the kitchen window above the sink, with Sam next to him. "He seems to be enjoying himself," Sam remarked. "Maybe he's having a love affair with nature."
Dean smirked. "Those trees don't know how to treat him at night. You should know."
The remark earned Dean a face full of dish soap and water.
x x x
Crash!
Dean turned around on the couch to see Cas standing by the sink. A shattered plate was on the ground, along with bits of food. Dean groaned. "You okay?" He worried about Cas bleeding. Perhaps he cut himself accidentally (he did that sometimes, the weirdo). Cas kept his back to Dean as much as he could.
He stared down at his hand. His other hand grabbed it, rubbing his palm; he side-stepped as Dean moved closer. "Of course," he replied. Cas's eyes drifted down to his hands for a brief moment before he felt Dean next to him, grabbing the towel from off the countertop.
He swore it was shaking.
x x x
It was another day, another dinner. It was ribs with potatoes, something Cas always came to like. Sam sat down next to him. "You know, Dean, the food will get cold if you spend so much time putting them on the plate." Dean set the plates down, not without nudging the edge of the plate into Sam's head.
"Shut up, at least you're getting fed," he replied, sitting down with his food in front of him. Cas stared down at the food. He could feel his stomach grumbling, could hear the pains in the pit of the stomach, but he just stared. He swallowed. He was hungry, but he was not rushing to eat. Why? Cas glanced up at the two brothers, who were bantering back and forth about each other (which would cause Sam to stare down his older brother while Dean had a smug look on his face when he poked his food with the fork) then back to his food.
His hand slid over the fork. "You gonna just stare at the food or actually eat it?" mumbled Dean next to him, whose face was full of barbeque sauce already. Sam cautiously eyed the former angel. The fork was light in his hand at previous dinners, but why was it suddenly a tiny bit heavier? Cas tightened his grip as hard as he could around the fork; his strength was weaker.
He just smirked and stabbed the food with the fork. "I was merely wondering where to start," Cas lied. Dean just nodded, saying something along the lines of: "He knows good food when he sees it, Sammy. He's never done that before with your food." Cas felt the food on the tip of his tongue, the meat crunching between his teeth, the fork slipping out of his mouth. It was delicious, yes, but the moment he took in the food, the moment it started travelling down his throat, he felt the urge to throw it back up.
He stabbed his food again, and again, and again, until there was nothing left of his plate. "Oh, man, I don't think I can move," Sam leaned back in his chair, hands on his stomach. Both the Winchester brothers had two servings of food, while Cas only had one. Dean was practically licking the sauce off his fork before rising from the table. Cas merely threw the fork on the plate. He was full, of course, but he feared it would all come out once he moved.
Dean looked down at his partner. "Want to help me with the dishes?" he asked. Cas's blue eyes met with Dean's green—a glint in his eyes. Cas always knew Dean wanted to spend more time with him because of the lost time from hospital visits, but it usually never happened, especially with the garage to tend to during the day.
Cas nodded. "I will help you, Dean. I must first use the restroom."
Dean took the plate from the table as Cas rose. "Cas, we've been through this. It's called the bathroom."
Yes, that's right, he thought. He remembered now.
Cas quickly nodded. "Of course. Excuse me," he hurriedly said, turned away from Dean, who was beginning to worry about something. Baby steps, Cas thought, that's all he had to do. He just needed to get to the bathroom. Dean would not follow him, or hover over him—there were dishes that needed to be cleaned (which, as soon as Cas turned into the bedroom, he could hear the faint AC/DC songs emit from the radio in the kitchen). Cas closed the door.
In a matter of minutes, pieces of his ribs floated in the water beneath him.
His head rested against his arm, which prompted him to close his eyes.
He would have asked why, but he knew. Cas opened his eyes; fresh water pooled.
Dean heard the second song finish, allowing the DJ to talk more about tour information about some old band getting back together. He placed the dirty cup in the sink again, looking back toward the bedroom. "He's been in there for a long time," he remarked.
Sam came out from the extra room with some book (it must have been one of Cas's, since he liked to collect them) in his hands, looking down the hallway. "He's just doing his business, Dean, just like the rest of us."
Dean threw the towel down on the counter. "He's never in there that long." Sam stood out of the way as Dean walked back to the bedroom, opening the door slowly. It was silent. He remembered the last time—he remembered it all. Dean felt a fit of panic in his chest, something that sparked him to go back to the beginning when it all began. He took in a deep breath, then started to walk toward the closed bathroom door.
Cas reached up to the handle and heard the rush of the water spiral downward. He watched as his dinner disappeared, just like that.
Then, a small knock at the door. "Hey, Cas?" Cas quickly rose to his feet, his eyes casting upon the big mirror over the sink. He looked like he had somehow ran for a few minutes, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead. The bottoms of his eyes were pink. He couldn't dry his hair in time when he would open the door to Dean's face, but he grabbed the small towel on the counter to wipe the evidence away. And when he'd look back at his reflection, it was as though nothing was wrong.
Perfect.
"You okay in there?" asked Dean, who had his ear pressed against the door. He was not expecting the door to suddenly whip open; he stumbled into the bathroom with Cas.
"I am fine, Dean," he said, looking at the worry in Dean's eyes disappearing instantaneously. "I must have eaten too much. I apologize."
Dean placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it's no big deal. I was just worried you fell in or something," which Cas tilted his head.
"That is quite impossible," and Dean chuckled, shaking his head all the while. He wrapped his arm around Cas's shoulders, still looking at the man.
"Never change." And they began to walk back to the kitchen.
Cas felt like a disappointment with every step he took. He was glad he could lean against Dean.
Otherwise, he was sure he would fall.
x x x
"Dean."
They locked eyes.
"What is it, Cas?"
He forgot.
He wanted to tell something important to Dean, he was sure of it. The moment he stepped foot inside their house, however, he somehow forgot. He shrugged it off and pulled out something from the bag.
"We have more summer sausage."
It wasn't the only time when that had happened. Cas would be talking to Bobby on the phone, which Bobby told Cas to tell Dean: "He doesn't have to come in tomorrow. I'm gonna give the boys a day off." And Cas knew his orders.
As soon as he went outside to see Dean leaning over the engine of Baby, he forgot why he was outside in the first place. Dean just smiled. "You come out to finally learn how to take care of her?" Cas shook his head.
"You deserve proper company instead of talking to an inanimate object."
The next day, Dean asked him about it. "Why didn't you tell me about having a day off, Cas? I could have slept in!"
Cas placed a plate in the cupboard. "My apologies. It must have slipped my mind."
Dean didn't put two and two together for the other times. He just knew Cas had a lot "slipping his mind."
x x x
He should have known.
x x x
Dean was going out with the other guys from the garage. Every once in a while, he'd go out to the bars with them, play darts, shoot some pool, and have some fun. And every once in a while, in some rare occurrence, Cas would be invited. He'd never turn down the invitation, and Dean knew that night would be no exception. "Hey, some of the guys are at the bar down the road. Want to tag along?"
Cas nodded. He replied with a "of course" and rose from the couch. He would have moved, but he was seeing double. The room was spinning, he was sure he was swaying, and he felt suddenly lightheaded from sitting on the couch for so long—yes, that had to be the reason. Dean stood near him, with Sam leaning forward. "You okay?" Sam asked. He held out a palm to Cas, because he looked as though he was going to fall backwards.
Cas had an inkling that Sam was putting the puzzle together. Dean, too. But it was probably his mind playing tricks on him. Again, he nodded. "Yes. I just stood up too fast," he lied. Dean just eyed him.
"Alright, well, we're leaving in about ten minutes, so get movin'," he ordered. Cas obliged. A few steps down the hall, step into the room, and close the door—privacy. He was tired, and weak, and he could feel the itchy feeling in the back of his head. He knew he should not go out, but Dean would interrogate him on why he would not go out, and he did not want to spark suspicion.
(Meanwhile, Dean ignored the problem while Sam expressed concern. "Dean, he's not looking too good. He hasn't been for the last couple weeks now." Dean knew it was true. He could see the little things happening again, but he refused to believe it.
"He's fine, Sam." Sam looked over the couch and followed Dean as he moved toward the door.
"Come on, Dean, don't tell me—"
"I said he's fine." Sam huffed.
"You know I'm right." And that was it.)
Cas pulled a button-down over his shoulders, his arms slipping through the sleeves, and looked at the plaid pattern. He was feeling nauseous just looking at the pattern spinning in the mirror. His fingers started shaking as he felt the button rest on his thumb. It was taking him nearly five minutes just to put on a shirt, when it would normally take him just a minute.
No, he had to fight it. He was a soldier. He experienced worse.
He straightened his posture. As much as he felt the need to go into the bathroom and empty his stomach, he would fight for Dean. It was all for him. He did not deserve to deal with such misery.
Dean, on the other hand, knew something was wrong. From the frequent bathroom trips to sleeping later and later in the day ("I had a long night," which Dean knew was a lie), there was something wrong. Perhaps Cas was just coming down with an illness, something that could be fixed with over-the-counter medicine. Then he'd be back on his feet again in no time. Still, Dean worried, he hated listening to the strained silence in their bedroom as Cas prepared for the night.
Usually, he just knew what was going on behind closed doors, especially when Cas would be getting ready (the guy liked talking through outfits, saying "Dean would like this here" or "He is wearing this color already"). But there was nothing. Just slight, heavy breathing on both sides.
He knocked on the door.
Cas turned his head.
"You all ready in there? It's not like we're going somewhere extravagant," Dean sarcastically said. His remarks usually prompted a "I know, Dean" from him, but there was nothing.
Cas started to walk.
It felt like flying.
He had to fight.
Fight, Castiel.
Dean heard Cas grip the doorknob, but he didn't turn it right away. He was holding onto it, as though he were struggling. Dean felt such pain in his chest, biting his lips to not think about it, and he wished the door would open.
Cas felt the cold metal in his hands. Turn the knob, he thought. He could see his hand spinning, but his strength was gone.
He couldn't open the door.
Dean reached out to the doorknob. "I'm—I'm gonna come in, alright?" he questioned through the door. No reply.
Cas had his mouth open to reply, but no words came.
He was terrified.
He let go of the doorknob.
Dean turned the knob, slowly and carefully. He knew Cas was behind the door, knew he needed to step back (which he did), and he cautiously looked inside. It was the same bedroom as before. The bed sheets were still on the bed like they looked in the morning; Cas's old clothes were on the floor, either resting near the table or the dresser; Dean could smell a faint scent of a fragrance Cas liked to wear ("It reminds me of Heaven"). He pushed the door open more.
Cas saw Dean's face. He saw the worry.
He couldn't tell you what else happened.
Dean could, though.
Cas was the only thing different in the whole room. While he looked good in the clothes he wore (he always did, but Dean wouldn't confess that), he didn't look healthy. He was far from healthy. He was pale, very pale, and his arms looked like they were shaking, and his eyes looked so spacey, and he was having a hard time keeping them open, and—"Cas?"
Cas took a step forward, but his knees buckled as soon as his foot made a connection with the hard floor. Dean caught him. "Cas!" He started falling with the extra weight against his chest—he felt dead. Dean shook his head. He rested on the floor, Cas in his arms, against his chest, breathing. He was breathing. Dean knew he was breathing. He always checked. But he was right: he was shaking. "Cas, don't you do this—Cas!"
Dean tightened his hold on his partner. Stop, he kept thinking: stop, please stop this. Sam knelt down beside the two, phone against his ear, talking to the dispatcher, but Dean didn't notice him. "Sam! Sam, call 911!" he kept saying, still repeating the other bit along with it: "Cas!"
Faint sirens were in the distance.
And the angels cried.
x x x
"Dean, you should sit down."
Dean didn't.
"They'll be back once all the tests are complete, so pacing about won't help."
Dean thought it was helping himself; he was lying.
"Dean."
A new voice; he wasn't listening anymore. All he heard was the tick-tock of the clock; all he felt was the shaking again.
He shook his head. "This ain't right, Sammy." They all believed it, too. It wasn't right; it was far from right. It was the most wrong that could happen in their small family they had left. Even Bobby sitting next to Sam was nodding his head. But all Sam could do was sit there and agree.
"I know."
Then, he felt the fits of anger coming back, something he hadn't felt since Cas was first admitted into the hospital in the first place. "I mean, he was fine! They even said it themselves!" Dean rubbed his forehead with his hand, feeling the panicked sweat falling. He just wanted to know the results of the test. He wanted to be in that room with the MRI machine, with the x-rays, the blood tests, everything. But he was tired, so tired of it all. And things were goings so right—"And now—"
Dean sat down, defeated. Bobby rested a hand on his shoulder for support.
"We know, son."
x x x
Dean never left when he was allowed to stay by Cas's bedside.
When he was given the okay to see him after the tests were done ("You may go and see him now") Dean vowed to stay until he had answers. He vowed that Cas would not be left alone.
Cas sighed every time he woke to see Dean still there. "You can go to work, Dean. I am okay here," he would eventually say—it always came out staggered and stuttered, which broke Dean's spirit. Dean just held onto his hand and silently prayed whenever he was given the chance to talk to Cas.
"I'm not taking any chances, Cas. I'll be here." And he never gave up that promise.
Even when he and Cas were in a sudden argument about his condition.
"And you were sick for how long?"
"It has been quite a while."
"Why didn't you tell any of us, Cas? We could have stopped this!"
"Dean—"
"Hell, you could be better than you were before and we could have known that you were cancer-free once and for all!"
"Dean—"
"Just—Just why didn't you tell me?"
"I wanted you happy."
So on that night, Dean looked down at the pale, sickened, unhealthy Cas on the bed and listened to the slow beats of his heart. He still kept the clammy hand in his own—he needed a reminder that he was still there, that he was still alive and not a dead weight to the world. He let his forehead rest on top of their hands on the bed, and while he still could not rid of the shaking feeling that sent chills down his spine, Dean closed his eyes with Cas.
"I promise it'll be okay. Just—I promise."
x x x
The doctors outside heard the prayer.
They flew away until the very next day.
x x x
"May we have a word with you, Dean?" A group of doctors were collected at the door. Dean turned his head to watch their faces still; their seriousness broke apart the light-hearted conversation he was having with Cas, which was not much, if they were both going to tell the truth.
Dean just wanted Cas's pudding, and while Cas was more than willing to give it away, Dean cast an odd glance to his partner. "I can't understand how you never acquired a taste for this stuff. I mean, it tastes like Heaven," which prompted Cas to lower his eyebrows in confusion.
He opened his mouth; Dean was used to the staggering. He gave Cas all the time he needed to speak (it gave him more time to eat the small thing of pudding, though). "H—Heaven—"
Dean let out a small chuckle, then shook his head. The spoon's handle stuck out of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah," he managed to say, then took out the spoon. Cas watched it be twirled in the air while Dean spoke. "I bet it tastes like rainbows and sunshine all the time."
Cas shook his head. "I—It actu—ally tastes l—like nothing."
Dean just stared into the blue pools (which were turning very dull, much to his disliking). The spoon stopped twirling in his hands. Then, a small smirk landed on Cas's face, and his small cough sounded like a fit of laughter. "Really? Cracking jokes?" He watched Cas shrug, and he put the spoon back in the pudding. Dean smiled. "I can't believe you sometimes, Cas." A low hum was emitted from the man on the bed, the smile still there on his face. Dean picked up the spoon again and tasted what he thought was Heaven inside. Cas just smiled.
Dean rose from his chair. "Is everything alright?" Cas watched Dean tense; he himself felt sick to his stomach.
Some doctors—some he'd never even seen before—already made their way outside of the room. Sid side-stepped, showing Dean the door; Dean just stared at the seriousness on the doctor's face. "It'll only be a moment," and the words hung in the air, dangling over the two bodies that were sharing an intimate moment that felt like years ago. Dean turned his head.
"I'll—I'll be back, alright? Just outside that door," and Cas nodded. Dean grew very attached to Cas the moment he started getting sick again, and even though he knew it was a terrible thing to happen, it still made him feel welcomed inside. So he watched as Dean followed Sid out the door, watching as the door closed behind the man he fell from Heaven for, and watched as the doctors stood by and awaited orders. Even if he couldn't hear, he knew.
Dean took a quick glance at the sick man on the bed before turning his attention to the handful of doctors at his whim. He felt nervous, anxious, and it didn't help that the doctors were waving a folder full of what appeared to be news in front of his face. "So, what's goin' on? Is he goin' into surgery? I mean, he's not healthy enough to go home, but after that, he can be discharged," Most of the doctors in the back shifted uncomfortably, which made Dean hesitant to ask why they would do such a thing. Instead, he focused on Sid, the one with all the folders in his hands.
One of the doctors—he didn't care to ask for a name—spoke out in the back. "That is up to you to decide," he stated, and Dean felt all the confusion wash over him.
"What are you talking about? He's not healthy to go home, is he?" They just stared at him. Dean felt uneasy, but continued. "If he's healthy enough to go home, he's goin' home," quickly said Dean, the harshness in his voice grumbling toward the professional men. Sid shook his head.
"What he means is," he started, "Cas can either be here or at your home comfortably."
Dean shifted from one leg to another, his arms crossing. "Well, obviously his home, but—"
"His test results came back," said another doctor he couldn't remember. Dean straightened his posture.
"Yeah?" Dean was both eager to know the results of the tests, and dreading the news at the same time. He could play out each scenario that he drew up in his head at that exact moment still, but he watched as Sid pulled out x-rays, MRI results, blood work—the whole shebang.
Sid just stared with his eyes, straight into Dean's soul, as though he were looking for him inside. Dean looked down at the folder. "What's it say?" His voice weakened. There was a reason for their hesitation, and he could see the slight tremor in Sid's hand. A small bite pierced through a bit of skin inside Dean's mouth.
All Sid did was hold out the x-ray, and it was of Cas's head. Right on the bottom, right where it all began—right—"It's a tumor." Dean turned his head away from the image, eyes shut. It hurt. It was back, and it was infecting him again. Dean heard Sid pull the image away, placing it back into the folder where it once rested. And when he opened his eyes to look at the doctors, there was a white paper on top.
Dean wanted to scream and rip the hospital apart brick by brick, but it would get them nowhere. It would lead down a road that would not save Cas. So he stared right at Sid. "You have to get it out of him," he whispered, pleading, begging for a life to be saved. "Cut him open—you said that surgery would get rid of the tumor, to help him—"
A doctor in the back cut him off. "It would."
Dean stopped. It felt like the whole world was stopping on a dime. "Then do it."
Sid looked down at the paper on his folder. "We can't."
"You can't? Or you won't?" Dean retorted back, feeling the anger rise from his feet into the rest of his body. It was better than breaking down.
But the reply was hushed, barely even mumbled. Some could say it never existed because it was so quiet, that who's to say he even said it in the first place? But it happened, and Sid whispered: "Can't." Dean hung his head and closed his eyes, hearing more come from Sid. "We would take the tumor out through surgery, but…" a flutter of paper in the air was heard in his ears.
Dean choked out: "Why?"
Sid sighed. "It's spread. His white blood cell count, it—" Dean stopped listening. "It's spread"—Jesus, it was in his stomach, or in his blood, or somewhere in his body, he thought. He turned his head to the man on the bed, looking at the blue eyes staring right back. The once healthy, strong, stable, constant angel reduced to nothing but a dying human. It wasn't right—it wasn't fair. "—we suggest you spend as much time as you can with him."
Dean felt his heart wretch in every possible way he could imagine—and in ways he never thought could happen. He bit his upper lip. "How long?" He could feel the tears in his eyes, pooling on the rims and wanting for a sweet release, but as he watched Cas close his eyes to sleep, so did he. What could a fallen angel dream of? Dean wanted to know; Dean wanted to believe this was all a dream anyway.
Sid closed his folder. "It's—It's hard to say, but—"
"Just—" Dean turned to the doctor, eyes fluttering open. And Sid could see the pleas in his eyes, asking with sincerity in his heart. "Just tell me."
Sid hung his head. "He doesn't have much time left." Dean opened his mouth to let out a sigh, and his eyes cast to the ceiling. Light, he thought—not much left of it. "I would give him two months at most."
And just like that, it was over.
"Jesus Christ," he cried.
All the years he thought they had, he thought Cas had left on Earth—
"Jesus," he strained.
Gone.
Just like that, they had lost the battle.
x x x
"D—Dean."
"D-Don't worry, Cas. We'll—we'll get you home."
x x x
"Dean, I'm sorry, I—"
"Just—just don't, Sam."
"Dean, wait—"
x x x
"Bobby—"
"Shh, it'll—you'll get through this. You always do, son."
x x x
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Cas opened his eyes. "Oh, you're awake," a familiar voice next to him quietly stressed. It was the nurse—Sophia. Something he did remember. He slightly moved his head to watch her write numbers and notes down on the clipboard, glancing up at the screens surrounding him, and he saw his arm full of the needles again. IV, some more medicine, more medicine—there were new bandages, holes he'd never had in his arm before. "You had some new tests done on you, some blood work mostly," she mumbled.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she turned to face him. "I'm sorry, Castiel, but we must do some more tests. Can you lift your arm for me?" He did so, but it took much too long to lift it. It felt as though his whole body was numb and—he couldn't find the correct word, but something close to it was gone. She gave a fake smile. "Good," she wrote something down. He wished he could see her notes; she was always scribbling. She placed the pen on the board, then held out her hand. "Grip my hand, Castiel," and he let his palm rest on her fingers.
He tried.
But as hard as he could, he found himself limply hanging in the air by her fingers. She felt much too warm to the touch—he was not cold. He felt her start to pull away from his hand, so he tried as hard as he could to keep his arm in the air. It flopped onto the bed. She took the pen back in the empty hand and sighed. "It's okay," she said, "it's been a long day." He could feel the medicine in his veins, the liquid pumping from the needles in his arms, and he didn't want to close his eyes.
He could feel it start to kick in; he knew what it'd lead to. And her face practically said: "Rest now, Castiel. You have worked hard enough." And he knew where he had seen that face before. He saw it everywhere but nowhere at the same time. He opened his mouth the moment she turned her back.
Her clicking of the footsteps echoed in the silence as she moved closer and closer to the door.
The words were not coming out of his mouth.
He closed his eyes in frustration, teeth clenched. Then, finally, a hushed sound: "S—" And he gasped in surprise. It was as though he were saying his first words. The clicking of her heels stopped. He opened his eyes to see her head turned away, her back still to him. She expected a name.
He expressed difference. "S—Sister…"
Beep. Beep. Beep.
She could feel his eyes on her, the blue piercings of Heaven reaching out to touch her grace. And she turned around, her eyes staring right into the former angel's soul. It expressed agony, guilt, suffering, torment, and everything in the middle—but he was not afraid. She gave a weak smile, then walked back to his bedside. She saw the human in him, the utter flaw all angels wished not to have—or prayed never to have. It was hard, most days, she thought.
Sophia stood over him, watching him get weaker and weaker by the second. Have faith, she thought, and her hand graced his. She knew he could not grip her hand, but she gave him a comforting squeeze of her own. "Dear brother, you should not have known."
He shook his head. "Y—You…" He weakly lifted his hand and held out two fingers. She frowned.
"There is always a downfall to us, isn't there?" She placed the clipboard on the tray next to his monitor. "Shh," she ordered, her hand pushing through the hair he still had. "Just rest, Castiel. You will wake again."
He still had questions about his brothers and sisters around him, but he knew the answers.
So he closed his eyes.
x x x
Dean found out, about the angels.
It was only because Dean knew something was on Cas's mind.
"Cas? What's wrong?"
Cas didn't want to say, but he couldn't stop.
"T—Th—ey—they."
"They?"
A swallow, followed by more talking:
"A—Angels…" and then he was gasping for air.
All Dean could see was red.
And, oh, how he wanted to make them cry for mercy on their souls.
"You can save him! Heal him!"
Sid stood with his back against the wall, the balled fists in his white coat.
"We are under orders—"
"Bullshit."
The grip tightened. The other doctors—angels—around stood in silence.
"You soulless sons of bitches."
Dean pushed away from the doctor—angel—in disgust. Sid took a step forward. "Dean Winchester, you must understand—"
"No, you need to understand what you're doing is wrong. He's dying in there! And you care more about a guy that hasn't shown His face when we all needed him!"
"Everything must pass."
"Screw you."
x x x
The Impala's passenger door closed. Sam thanked the doctors, for everything, for Dean, who was staring at the sick—dying—man inside the car. His eyes were already closed. "If you need anything—" Dean swiftly turned around.
"Just leave us alone."
x x x
Cas was sleeping in their bed, and Dean found an ample opportunity to stand by the lake while he did sleep. The sparkling, cool waters rippled against the gentle breeze from the north; the sun was just resting against the lake; warm colors spread across the sky now, with the faint stars glittering above. It was beautiful, and all Dean could think of was how Cas would say what a fine creation God had made. God had nothing to do with it, Dean thought. God was cruel and unusual and a cold-hearted son of a—
He heard footsteps on the dock come to a halt next to him. "Dean," his younger brother whispered. Dean let his head fall back to the waters, back to where Cas remarked on how lovely and alive the place had been from the start.
Dean felt the pain in his heart again. "Sam, I—I don't know," a hand rested on his shoulder. His voice was breaking. How much time would it take to heal after—after—Dean shook his head. "I—I want to know what I did wrong."
Sam turned his head. "What do you mean? You didn't do anything wrong. It's not your fault that Cas got stuck with—"
Dean cut him off. "Then why does everything good in my life—why are we stuck to suffer so much, Sammy?" The breeze picked up. "Why does he still believe in God when He's done nothing for us this whole time but make us suffer?"
Sam never had an answer—he never expected such a question. A strained, long silence fell between the two brothers, and all they could both do was watch the sun start to disappear from their world, the one constant light shining. The lake still shimmered and the stars still glowed, but it wasn't all the time, of course. Sam looked at his brother, watching him break in front of his very eyes, and he could do nothing. As much as he tried, Sam knew Dean, and he knew the front would not withstand for very much longer. "What am I gonna do, Sam?" The younger brother sighed. It was heavy, taking its toll on both their lives.
Sam shrugged. "With whatever time he's got left, you make the most of it." Dean closed his eyes. "You let him live his life."
Dean had to bite his lip to distract from his heart aching at the news. "He doesn't have much time left." He brought his hands to his face and let himself hide from the darkening sunlight. The universe did not need to see his fall. "We don't deserve this, Sam."
The strong hand on his shoulder squeezed.
"I know."