Pain in the Head

by TalentedLoser

It started out slow. "Since when do angels have headaches?" "Since they become human." Established Dean/Cas. Sort of AU. PG-13. Complete.

4. Part 4

Title: "Pain in the Head"
Pairing: Castiel/Dean (Established)
TV Show: Supernatural
Word Count: ~20,000
Rating: T+ (Euphemisms in this chapter toward sex; no sex scenes)

A/N: You guys thought I'd take another month to update this. Pish posh, I knew what was going to happen this chapter. It was easy to write this out-well, easier said than done.

Also to those that have said this story is the best story they've read: you are drunk.

Two things you need to know:

1) This chapter is super long-SUPER long. It's 20,000 words. I should have split it up into two parts, but I didn't. So you're stuck with something extremely long, and I apologize, but I had to get a lot done. It would have been close to 30,000 had I not cut out some bits. So you're lucky.

2) I cried when writing this part. There were some spots where I had to stop and pause so I could let it out-writing sucks. Also, I've had this part in my head since I started the story, but the ending was something new. I didn't have it perfect until I ripped my own heart out. So prepare yourselves-it's emotional. Although, what do I know, I will probably be the only one to cry.

Enjoy!

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Can you hear Heaven cry?
Tears of an Angel.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Cas coughed; he could taste the copper in his mouth. He licked his lips as fast as he could to hide it, but Dean wiped his mouth from the speck of blood that escaped.

It had begun.

x x x

They used to have a routine. Dean used to have a reason to get up in the morning, had some hope still left in his hopeless ridden world. He'd still get up at 5 A.M. once his alarm went off, and he'd do his best to turn it off as quick as possible. But instead of checking the temperature of his angel, he'd merely turned his head to see the angel sleeping on their bed, sick, dying, dreaming of Heaven once more. How many moments would he have with someone sleeping by his side? How many more times would he be able to get up in the morning and see someone close to him still there?

He never knew how long he'd be lying there, just staring at the sleeping form, but Sam would always come into his room to get him up for work at the garage, despite Bobby telling him to stay home. "Boy, you need to be with him every step of the way." Dean denied there was anything wrong with working. He wouldn't be able to tell you what he thought when staring at Cas and the machines still hooked up to him, plastered against his side, but he relished in the image he saw, no matter if it was unhealthy or not. At least someone was there. At least—

Dean would stand under the shower, unable to move for a very long time. Again, he couldn't be able to tell you how long he'd be in there. Time was important, but Dean found the hope draining away. After all their years of hard work, of fighting, of hunting, of saving lives, he thought he could finally have their happy ending—alas, the Winchester luck was fresh out. He would close his eyes under the hot water and felt the droplets burn his back, imagining his old memories, when life was not always so bad. At least it was tolerable.

Breakfast was a blur, especially when he did not want to listen to Sam worry about his own brother. "Dean, you need to eat something," and Dean would say that a piece of toast was enough. "He's going to worry you're getting sick. You really should let his last memories be good ones."

"I'm doing my best, Sam," he said. More words would be said—he couldn't tell you what, because he'd always be scared of Cas coming down the hallway to ask what was wrong—and anger would rise from the pit of his stomach. Sam had no idea how he felt, what he was going through. Sure, he was his brother, and would always be his brother. But this was Cas.

Dean always remembered the door slamming when he left for work.

Hours would drain by at the garage. He noticed the stares the moment he entered the shop. And they would not leave until he left for the day, either by him leaving on his own accord, or at the end of a workday. Bobby would be there to keep everyone away during the time (Dean didn't mind the condolences, but he would get angry when they mentioned him as if he were already dead; "He's not dead," he would say), and at the same time keep him in check. Dean would keep his mask on, keep his emotions behind the veil—all he wanted to do was work on cars. It kept his mind off of everything, and he could fix them. He could fix the broken.

One thing did not change in his routine: his time with Cas, especially after work. He'd drive down that dirt road to their house, see the smoke billowing from the chimney (he always wondered what Sam could be cooking for them, which it usually ended up being burgers or steak), and see a pale, skinny form on their swing. Dean noticed the cancer killing him; he couldn't deny that. He could see how Cas was getting thinner and thinner every day—not by much, but Dean remembered him at least with some meat on his bones—and could see the dark circles forming under his eyes. But no matter what, those blue eyes still sparkled with joy when Dean stepped foot on their home.

And Cas might have struggled with the greeting, but Dean always let him say it without interruption. "…W—Welcome home, D—Dean." And he'd smile. He couldn't be able to tell you what else went on throughout the night, when Cas went to bed, or what supper was like most night, or how him and Sam would somehow meet in the middle about his feelings and get something out, at least acknowledging what was happening. But, Dean could tell you how rich the wind usually felt when swinging with Cas on their porch, either watching the setting sun, the rain fall, or the sparkling stars above. And his response was always the same:

"It's good to be home."

x x x

Cas had a new routine, just like the rest of them. He remembered his old routine—he could hardly forget how many pills he had to take and how much work it took to get healthy (only to be stripped from him like his wings). His new routine was simple:

Sleep, sleep, wake up, pain pills, lunch, sleep, wake up, Sam, pain pills, Dean, sleep.

Cas hated the pain pills, but at the same time, he dreaded waking up in constant pain. He hurt all over—in his stomach, his sides, his bones, his head—and he wanted it to stop. He wanted some form of a pill that would take it all away; he sometimes wished he still had some Grace left in order to get himself better. The bed was comfortable enough to get his mind off the pain some days, and sleep was of the essence when the pain started to subside, so he could not really complain about much.

He wished he could go out to his garden to work on the vegetables, or out to trim the trees, or even take a walk around the lake, though. Lying in the same room for hours during the day became very dull and boring, but it was not like he could go out running whenever he wanted to. He was grateful that he could make it to the bathroom still, but even then it was a hassle. He wished to do many things, but his time with Sam was most of the exercise he had throughout the entire day.

Speaking of Sam, Cas recalled his routine. After having months of freedom in order to go out to the nearest town, Cas knew how trapped the younger Winchester was. He couldn't really leave the house anymore, in fear that Cas would croak at any given time (and Dean would never forgive his brother if that ever happened; Cas could see it happening when he dreamed).

When Sam came into the room, many things happened. Sometimes, Sam would come in and sit with the angel on the bed, reading a book. That usually meant Cas could sleep without being bothered by much. Other times, which was most of the time, Sam would talk to him about anything. It was nice to have interaction with others. He was good company, Sam, and they usually discussed what was going on in the news, or what Bobby was up to (mostly Sam talked; Cas liked to listen). Other days, when Sam could actually get information on Dean's health and well-being, Cas would listen to that: "He's coping," Sam would say. It meant Dean was not okay, but he would not let the others know.

Cas never slept during that time. He was thankful that someone would still talk to him about whatever they felt, especially the young Winchester. Being trapped in a house with a dying man was not Cas's ideal situation for the brother. Sam didn't seem to mind, and Cas knew he was just spending time with the angel before he died, but it was the thought that counted. And he couldn't necessarily complain.

Sam was still the one to help him out onto the porch. "D—Dean w—would…would li—ke this st—still." And Sam would tell you that he felt guilty in his heart when the fallen angel would say something like that. He was supposed to be trying to fight cancer, even if he had been told that the fight was over. He was supposed to worry about himself, not about how Dean would feel. But Cas would loop his arm inside of Sam's and take small steps toward the outside world, and Sam did not want to stop him.

It was a long walk most of the time. It was only maybe 40 feet out the door, but it took a lot out of the man. He would always feel so exhausted after the journey, and it was a sweet relief to sit down on the wooden bench. While the bags next to him were always tangled up in him and still needed by his side, he felt at peace on the porch. Sam would say: "I'm gonna start getting supper ready. Just—Just call if you need anything. I'll just be inside." And Cas would nod. He never called; he was fine.

Time would blow by for the boys there. Cas would just think it'd be minutes, but sometimes it would be an hour until Dean would come home, that black Impala driving down the dirt road back home. Cas didn't mind; he liked watching the slight change of colors happen around their home, or watching the ducks near the lake swim about on the rippling waves, or listen to the rain fall whenever it came through the town. It was—refreshing, he thought. It was better than their bedroom.

And then Dean would be home. Dean would look so worn out and so distraught, and Cas knew how much the sickness was affecting him along with his own self. But Cas was always there to see the smile on his face when he would welcome him home. The rough, familiar voice would come back into his ears, and the righteous man would be sitting next to him, either his arm wrapped around the sick man, or his hand inside the others. "It's good to be home."

And for the first time of the day, Cas would agree that it was always good to be home. Most of the time, they just sat there, with Cas listening to Dean's story at the shop that day, or Dean asking how Cas felt, which meant long pauses. When Cas would say how he was, Dean, on rare occasions, would let himself break in front of Cas and kiss the top of his head with his eyes closed, but Cas could only count a handful of times that happened. Other days they sat in silence, enjoying the others company. They didn't mind. Time was theirs.

x x x

"Dean, where are you going?"

"Out."

"You have to go to work!"

"Screw that, Sam, he needs to get better—"

"Dean—"

"No, Sam, he's not dying. He's—I'll be back."

"Dean!"

x x x

Dean hated the doctor's office. Screw that, he hated doctors. He looked around the lobby—little kids held tissues up to their noses, parents rubbed their backs for comfort, older adults stared down at the floor or their shaking hands as they patiently waited for a nurse to call their name. It was always the same in every doctor's visit, too, with sick people sitting in uncomfortable chairs while the nurses behind the desk either talked about their day, gossiped about some stupid trifle in the workplace, or talked about patients with one another. His leg bounced up and down as he stared at the clock ahead of him; 9:07 A.M.

He purposely made an appointment with the doctor. No, he was not sick. No, he was not there to get medicine for Sam. He was there for Cas. And he would be paying the doctor a long-awaited visit. It had been nearly a week since Cas was told he was dying—since Dean felt yet another friend, close one, loved one being taken from him—and Dean couldn't just sit around the house any longer. Cas would still be asleep by the time he'd get home around 11, and he would make sure he would be home when Cas would wake up. It was nearly the weekend anyway; it wouldn't hurt to surprise the guy, Dean thought.

The door opened. "Dean Winchester?" The young nurse—she looked young, maybe early 20s—glanced up from the manila folder and scanned the room. Finally, he thought, as he rose from his chair. She gave a small smile; he held open the door for her. "Right this way," she said, turning her back. He knew the routine.

"Please get on the scale."

"Tell me, have I gained anything?"

"Back against the wall."

"I haven't heard that in a while." (Which, by the way, was true: it had been nearly a month since he heard that whispered in his ear when Sam was out. Well, either it was said, or it was done. It was mostly done.)

"Let's take your temperature."

"I hope that's for the mouth."

"Blood pressure seems fine."

"No troubles in that department."

And then he'd get the question: "Alright, so what's the problem today?" Dean could see the nurse skeptical about his visit there, wondering why on Earth the guy was there in the first place, and he pointed down to his leg.

"Yeah, I got some kind of infection growing, and I wanted to know what Dr. Barman thought about it," which wasn't a total lie. Dean had cut his leg pretty bad at the garage in the beginning of the week (Cas frowned when he saw the bloody jeans, and Dean assured him he was fine), but it was healing just fine. Luckily, the nurse did not extensively look into the wound too much (who needed bandages when you had alcohol and towels at your disposal?) and wrote something in her file.

"How'd you manage to do that?" she asked. He shrugged.

"I work in a garage, so I must have cut it on the bumper of an old car," again, true. It was an old Firebird that came into the garage, and one of the bumper's corners was jutted out. Long story short, it tore open Dean's leg enough to make it start bleeding. The good news was he was let home early; the bad news was his jeans were ruined.

She frowned. "Have you had a tetanus shot?"

"Yes."

She closed the file. "Well, then I'll see that he comes in here as soon as possible," and she rose from her blue chair, looking slightly down at Dean sitting on the bed in the room. "You just sit tight." He gave her a small salute, understanding it perfectly, and he heard the door close. He rolled down his pant leg and knew what was going to happen in the visit. He knew how Barman would be surprised that Dean was there, how friendly he would try to be—but Dean was not a fool, not anymore. Cas was not an idiot.

"Barman. H—he…is an an—angel." Dean didn't have to put two and two together; he knew he had to pay a small visit to his favorite doctor since childhood the next morning, despite Sam whining about the possibilities that could come out of it. Dean didn't care. He needed to see the doctor.

Suddenly, Dean could hear the doorknob turn behind him. He just hoped—hope, what a joke—Barman was one of those angels that had mercy if things got out of hand. Dean didn't mind dying again. He knew the dance with death enough. Dean turned around and saw the smiling face of his old friend. "Dean! Long time no see," said the jolly doctor, who closed the door with his back with the file in his hands. Dean did his best to sell a smile.

"Hey, Dr. Barman," he said to him. The doctor walked over to the blue chair, sitting down with a big sigh of relief coming out of him. Dean stared at him with a fire burning in his heart, knowing full well what the man in front of him did, and he wished he could have an angel sword handy ("Dean, those have…disappeared…for m—months now…" Cas told him; "…Why d—do you ask?" And Dean told him no reason whatsoever).

"Ah," the doctor tried to relax in the chair. "Feels good to just sit down without having to deal with some bratty kid, ya know?" Dean shrugged.

"I hear ya," he said, trying to make the conversation as light-hearted as possible. Unfortunately, it didn't help him.

The doctor spun his chair to face Dean, leaning back. "So how have you been? How was that friend of yours—what was his name…" the doctor trailed off.

Dean blinked; he really wished he had an angel sword. "Cas," he said, "his name is Cas."

"Right! Castiel, the angel of Thursday—he must have been named after the famous angel, of course," the doctor remarked, a smile still on his face. Dean shrugged again; he could see the lie in his eyes. Dr. Barman placed his hands in his lap. "Did the headaches go away?" How the urge to kill the man—angel—right then and there was almost becoming overwhelming for Dean, but all he did was lean forward, a small chuckle released into the air.

He couldn't believe it. He stared right at the doctor across from him, with the intent of getting the truth out. "You tell me." The doctor stilled, staring at the man on the bed with pale brown eyes and a confused look on his face.

"I'm sorry?" Dean didn't budge.

"Don't pull that, not on me. I know about the angels, so drop the act." Dr. Barman tensed up immediately. And the first thing out of his mouth?

"Who told you?"

Dean thought he could taste the bile in his mouth. For all the years he knew the man, for all the doctor visits he had with him—and all he could worry about was who told him about his angelic being. Dr. Barman sighed. "It doesn't matter, really," and Dean shook his head.

"You son of a bitch," he pushed off the bed, standing over the doctor—angel, he'd never get used to that—with his fists balled. "You knew, didn't you?" Dr. Barman stayed in his chair, staring up at Dean with no confusion or anger in those brown eyes.

"Yes," replied the doctor, a soft voice falling on the muted ears around. Dean gave another chuckle, this one of complete malice and disgust at the entire thing, and he turned away from the man in the chair. At that time, the doctor rose. "There was nothing I could do, Dean, I—" Dean spun around with anger in his eyes, looking for a way to kill the bastard there and then.

"Bullshit," he replied back. Dr. Barman stood his ground, staring at the man wanting to unleash fury and wrath onto his body. They both knew what stage this was—but Dean would deny it. A calm breeze of air circulated in the room, and only Dr. Barman moved his eyes to see what caused it.

"He is right though, Dean," a deep voice entering the air. Dean's head turned to see Sid standing at the doorway, blocking the only means out.

"Go to Hell," Dean replied. "Cas is dying, by your hands," he turned to look at the other doctor, making sure they understood what they had both done. "He's busted his ass for this planet for years, and you're going to kill him? For what?"

Sid leaned against the door. "God commands for him to come Home." Home, Dean thought. No, home was on Earth. Home was not in Heaven, home—home meant being with family. Cas did not like his family in Heaven; he liked his family on Earth. "We do what is told."

Dean gave a grunt. "No, you do what is wrong. This is wrong." Dean saw the fire in Sid's eyes, how offended the angel was getting for talking about God in such a manner. He knew that look—he saw it from Raphael, he saw it from Cas. "Fix him. I don't care if I have to give up my life, you give him life. Don't take it from him."

"And what?" Dean turned back to Dr. Barman. "Send a message to other angels that it is okay to rebel? That they, too, can turn their back on God without any punishment?" Dr. Barman took a step toward Dean, who was not intimidated (although perhaps a bit frightened at what the angel could do to him if he really wanted to). "Castiel has done enough work, whether it was screwing up or not." Dean wanted to interrupt, to say how much of a lie that was, but Dr. Barman leaned forward and whispered: "It is time for him to be rewarded with his own Paradise."

Dean snarled. "And what kind of Paradise is that?"

Sid sighed. "He will be at peace in Heaven. That is a good enough reward." Dr. Barman leaned away from him, the threat of God still in his whole body. Dean lowered his gaze to the doctor's shoulder, wanting nothing more than to reach out and touch faith, grab it by the shoulders, and get them to fix him.

But Dean couldn't do anything to save Cas. The will of God was too much for the righteous man. "So I'm just supposed to watch him die? Is that it?"

Both doctors bowed their heads, with Dr. Barman the least sympathetic of the two. Sid was the one to speak on their behalf—perhaps for all the angels. "We are sorry it has come to this." Dean closed his eyes for a brief moment. He didn't think seeing his angel die before him was going to be on his list of things to do in life, that was for sure. He reached down on the bed for the jacket bundled up near the edge and turned to Sid.

"Yeah," he started walking toward the door, which Sid moved out of the way. Dean made eye contact with the doctor, scanning him up and down. "I'm sorry I ever had faith in you in the first place." The door flew open by some grace of God, and it slammed with the same force.

x x x

"S—Sam?" Sam put down the book he was reading—the title nor the story didn't matter—and looked toward the bed next to him. Cas's head was turned to him, his blue eyes so bright compared to the pale skin he had. He moved his chair closer to the edge and leaned toward the angel, making sure he had his full attention.

"Hey, Cas. How're you feeling?" It was a stupid question—smooth Sam, he thought. Sam let his hand brush against Cas's forehead, feeling for his temperature. He was burning up. Sam didn't know what to do, so he just stared at the angel moving his mouth, trying to talk. His jaw would bounce up and down, and his tongue would try to get his throat to make some kind of sound. He learned how to be patient with Cas, just like Dean had ("If he opens his mouth, just let him take his time. He gets annoyed if you don't.").

Cas felt Sam's hand move away from his head. "I—I am…okay." And he was. He woke up because he felt like it, which was a bit odd, considering how he usually woke to having pain all along his body. He was sure the pain would strike at some point in the near future (it did, almost about five minutes after he thought about what kind of miracle he had for waking up with no pain whatsoever).

Sam nodded, a small smile gracing his face. Cas felt better knowing that he was happy for being just okay. "That's good, very good. Is—Is the pain bothering you? Do you want some of your medication now?" They had to administer a set amount of drugs to Cas whenever he felt like he was going to explode from the pain. Most of the time, it didn't work as much as they wanted, and he'd be stuck groaning and moaning from the pains in his stomach and chest for the majority of the day.

Cas shook his head from side to side—he really was okay for the time being, and he saw no reason to have the drugs in his system. Besides, they made him really drowsy. "Did you want me to open up a window? You're burning up pretty bad, and the Fall breeze is pretty nice right now," Sam said, looking outside at the lake. Yes, Cas thought. It was Fall. He wished he could see the trees outside change colors, but he was still pretty weak to do that alone. He'd wait for when he could sit outside to wait for Dean, just so they could both admire the colors changing around them.

"I— would…like that," Cas rasped to the man next to him. Sam immediately rose from the pine chair, most likely from the dining set in the kitchen, since the other chair in the room was much larger, and reached toward the window next to them. As soon as it opened, Cas could feel the cool air make its way into the room, trickling down his arms and into the sheets he laid under. He brought them closer to his neck, but it felt nice. Sam looked back to him, making sure it was okay at the amount it was open. Cas nodded in approval; Sam sat back down.

They sat in a moment of silence, unable to think of things to say. Cas mostly had his eyes closed, relishing in the fact that he could really relax in his bed. Perhaps he could say he was floating on a cloud, although clouds were fluffier and more of an idea when you wanted to rest on them anyhow. He heard a small noise next to him, so he opened his eyes to see Sam staring at him, trying to form some kind of thought on his mind. Cas tried to read him, but he wasn't like Dean. He was more mysterious.

Sam spoke anyway. "I know you wonder and worry about Dean," he whispered. He hardly heard him, but Cas knew. He really did worry about him. He barely said a word about Cas dying (and when he did, he nearly flipped the table over at dinner: "Quit talking about it like he's already dead! Jesus, he's right here!"), but it was as though it was eating him alive. "He's—He's stubborn, you know that. He's dealing with it on his own, which means drinking and not talking about it because that's too much of a chick flick." That remark earned Sam a small smile from Cas. "All I'm saying is—when he's ready to talk about it, he'll talk. He'll come around, Cas, I promise."

Sam's eyes softened at the last comment about Dean opening up, and Cas wondered if the same thought was going through his mind: when Dean will be ready, it might be on his death bed. But, Cas nodded, feeling the pillow underneath him move with his head. "I—I—know." He noticed how relaxed the younger sibling became at the sound of those words hitting his ears, and Sam just blinked and nodded, looking down at the bed on which he lied. Cas, knowing the conversation should have ended there for the two of them, pressed even further, perhaps stepping their boundaries a bit. "Sam—" he called out.

Sam lifted his head, looking into the blue eyes that reached out for him. He didn't say a word; he let the angel form his thoughts into a coherent enough sentence. "I—have died—before. But—as a—a human, what is it—it like?" As the sentence ended, Cas began to cough for air, dying to breathe in and breathe out, and Sam's expression fell. He felt sorry for the guy, he really did—after all he had done for humans and God, he was being broken down into something like that. It was a shame.

"You sure you don't want a notepad?" They discussed something like that before, him and Cas. Cas was having difficulty talking in general to whomever he was talking to, and Sam offered him a notebook so he could write it instead of speak. Cas refused it—as stubborn as Dean, Sam thought at the time. Cas gave him a glare through the small coughing fit; there was his answer, always the same. Sam gave a pitied chuckle, shaking his head. "I'll never understand you," he whispered. Cas gasped for air, closing his eyes. Sam figured the angel would bother him about his experience with death, which he didn't remember all that much, but he remembered the moments before passing over.

He waited until the angel opened his eyes again before giving him his full attention once more. "Well, you know I've been mortally wounded before, stabbed and shot," and Cas nodded, allowing him to continue, "so my experiences will probably differ from yours. But, for me, it—it was pretty painful." Cas's hard stare did not falter. He was not afraid. Sam's stare, however, slipped up, and he let his eyes cast to the bed. "Those brief moments when you're still alive, you feel everything at once, whether it's painful or numbness. For me, when I was stabbed and shot, I felt pain everywhere. It shot throughout my whole entire body. You just want it to be over, because there's some part of you that doesn't want to feel that anymore." Cas closed his eyes; Sam looked at his hands.

"And then there's the person you're with, you know? For me, it was Dean. I'm sure it'll be the same for you. I'm sure he'll be on the bed with you, despite him being strong-willed and macho like the man he is." Sam didn't look up to see the smile on Cas's face. "But you hear whoever's with you. You hear everything they say, and you want to say so much, but you want it all to end at the same time, you know? You're stuck between life and death at that moment, and you feel them holding you, telling you you'll be okay, but you know you won't. And that last breath—for me, it felt like an eternity, but it must have been only seconds. You hang on for that last moment on Earth, and you think you'll be shot right into the afterlife, but you get the pleasure of hearing someone's last words to you, feeling them hold you tight. And then the pain goes away, and you fade away. I won't be much help about the afterlife, seeing as how I don't remember, but…" Sam lets his eyes drift up and sees Cas lying there, a peaceful expression on his face—steady breathing, too.

He was fast asleep. Sam let his mouth shut, his eyes burn, and he grunted a small content noise. "But, I'm sure you'll get your wings back, Cas. You deserve them." There was no reply, just the cool breeze tickling at Sam's neck.

x x x

He didn't know how long it would be before nothing would actually be in his stomach anymore, but Cas kept vomiting. Dean sat on the bathtub's rim rubbing his back as more and more chunks of whatever it was kept spewing from his throat. Sam was at the sink soaking washcloths in hot water, in case it made him feel any better (which it did, and he was very thankful). Cas stared down at the murky water under him, with clear gunk spiraling around the rim of the bowl, and brown (plus red) chunks riding the waves as he breathed.

He felt a rush of heat hit the back of his neck while he leaned against the bowl for support, breathing in the bile that had left his body. "Thanks, Sammy," said Dean behind him. He felt those rough hands move the washcloth around, perhaps to get more of the washcloth on his body in the first place, and Cas closed his eyes. It felt wonderful—well, not the vomiting, nor did his stomach and body feel any better, but it was a bit relaxing.

"Yeah, no problem," Sam whispered, backing away from the angel on the floor. Cas opened his eyes once more, his stomach churning. "I'm, uh, I'll be getting supper ready, alright?" Dean must have nodded, because Cas could see the youngest brother make eye contact with his older sibling before turning away. Breathe in, breathe out—he'd get through that. Cas slightly turned his head to the man still in the bathroom, still sitting near him on the rim of the bathtub, still staring at the junk in the bowl.

He looked up at what he could to see Dean's face, and all he could see was the worry in his eyes, the smile on his face, and the sadness in his soul. "How's your stomach feelin'?" Dean asked, as Cas gave a weak shrug.

He opened his mouth, feeling as though more would come out, but pushed past the nausea to talk to him. "It…" Breathe in, breathe out. Dean leaned forward more to rub his back again—how it felt wonderful, though. It gave him comfort. "It…hurts…" he gasped for air, finding it more and more difficult to talk as the days progressed. He didn't know what day he was on toward his death—he figured having a calendar marking down to his own death was a bit morbid. Dean would probably not like the idea in their bedroom, either.

Cas turned back to the water underneath him and heard Dean speak. "I know," he whispered. Yes, he knew, but didn't understand what kind of pain Cas was in most of the time. His whole body ached when it moved; his arms could barely hold anything on their own some days; his legs felt on fire and jelly at the same time; his stomach always hurt; his back strained; his neck was always stiff; his head pounded at all hours of the day. Cas closed his eyes.

"I—I—" Cas clutched the top of the seat, holding onto something to ease through the pain. Dean kept rubbing his back, his fingers slightly grabbing at his shirt whenever it bunched. "Dean, I—" and Cas wanted to say so much, wanted to tell Dean what was really on his mind, what they were all avoiding to practically talk about, but his stomach said otherwise, and he was back to adding more to the pot. He couldn't see, but Dean closed his eyes at the pained sounds he was giving (his throat was on fire now) and the coughing fit soon after. The grip on his shirt tightened, but he still rubbed a certain spot on his back.

"Shh," Dean shushed, trying to get him through it. "It's—just relax, Cas." Cas knew what he was going to say: it's okay. And it wasn't okay, it would not be okay. He was dying. That was the truth. But Cas couldn't say that.

Instead, he just let his stomach talk for him.

x x x

Bobby thought it was a terrible idea, but he still kept going into the garage to work. He couldn't help it; if he was at home, it would just be one downer after another. He couldn't live with the pain and suffering inside his own home, and he couldn't imagine Sam doing any better (along with Cas, but there was nothing). He was hopeless; he was out of options. So Dean took it upon himself to go into the garage whenever his mind clouded with thoughts that brought the world down.

The guys at the garage also thought it was a bad idea. "Hey, what are you doing here?" It was another day, just another day. That's all it was. Dean had stayed up almost the entire night with Cas, hearing him groan next to him while grabbing at the bed sheets, the pain getting worse and worse. He'd never seen Cas cry, and to see the tears in his eyes when the pain medication still wasn't working broke both of them ("I'm here, Cas. I'm right here.").

Dean shrugged. "Someone's gotta take care of my Baby," he said. He was sure she needed some work done, anything he could find, really. Bobby kept him away from customers that came and went to get something done on their own cars ("You need to worry about other things, boy"), so he decided to just work on his own little pride and joy. The guys looked really skeptical at his answer, but he carried the tools in his hands to the Impala outside and looked at her shine in the sun. She was beautiful, he had to admit.

He set the tools down on the ground, rag in hand, and started wiping the dirt off the wheels. She needed to be okay, she needed to look okay, you know? She couldn't have dirt contaminating her—it had to get cleaned. When he stared at his reflection in the rims, he just smiled to himself, looking at the slight work he had done. It was clean. It had nothing wrong with it, of course. She was in good health. He rose from the ground and looked at the body of the car. Not a dent on her, just a few scratches, but nothing a good wipe down couldn't fix. She'd be brand new. She wasn't going to rust on him now, not yet. So he took the rag and inspected the outside, looking for any scratches he would see, and when he saw one, he'd start wiping it away. Just like that, the infection was gone. Just like that, he could see her shine again.

He made his way to the front of the car. Oh, the hood. She was a beauty under the hood. So complicated, but once you got to know her, she was as simple as can be, and she was easy to take care of, for obvious reasons. You just needed to know how to treat her. He popped it open and lifted the hood over his head. There she was, the heart of the matter, and boy, she was looking great. He looked around the whole—something caught his eye. He leaned forward and noticed something stuck to his engine. Nothing a good scrub couldn't fix, he thought. Nothing was going to contaminate his Baby, not on his watch.

So he brought the rag down on the engine and pushed as hard as he could against the gunk. He could feel it stick to him when pressing down, so when he brought it away from the engine, he could see the glob retreat from it. He had no idea what it necessarily was—probably some kind of residue—but he closed the rag up and looked back down at the engine. There was still some left; he went at it again. Scrub, scrub, scrub—no matter how much he tried to get it off, there was no use. It was stuck there, wiping all along the engine, spreading. It was spreading like wildfire. It couldn't be stopped. But he kept scrubbing—there had to be a way to get it off, there had to be some way, there was no way he would let it spread like that, just get off, get off, come on…

He held onto the front of the car as he continued to scrub away at the goo on his Baby. He wasn't going to give up on her, not yet, just come on, you can get off of her, you're still my pride and joy—his eyes started to water. And when he started to slow down, slowly but surely coming to a halt with the rag coming to a rest, he closed his eyes. No, it wasn't fair. He worked so hard, just give him one thing, that's all he asked for. When he opened his eyes, the gunk was still there, never going away. It was stuck there. He closed his eyes again; there was a time when it wasn't there at all.

He took in a deep breath. He didn't have time for that. So when his eyes opened again, he was determined. He didn't go after the gunk again, but he leaned away from his Baby. No matter what was wrong with her, she was still beautiful. She was still his at the end of the day, and he didn't hate her in any way.

Dean felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, snapping him out of his thoughts. He threw the rag down on the bits inside the hood and dug into his pocket, pulling out the small thing. Two messages—when did the first one come in? No matter, he opened them anyway. The first one: "It is a nice day out. I hope you are home soon." Dean clicked the arrow up to bring up the second message: "Dean he's not looking too good today. You should get home."

He pushed the end button to close the messages, but he could still see the words staring back at him. He slammed the hood shut. His pride and joy could wait another day to be pristine and whole again.

x x x

He was having trouble walking by the second week. Dean contemplated of getting him a wheelchair; "Not yet," Cas whispered to him one night.

It would not be needed until the week after.

x x x

The water rushed into the sink. The white dishes crusted in certain spots floated to the top of the pool, the murky water hiding under the soapy suds. Dean reached into the water and felt the burn of the hot water cling to his skin; Sam held the semi-dry towel in his hands, waiting for some kind of dish to come his way. The younger sibling noticed how greased up Dean looked from the day at the garage, the tired bags under his eyes, the worry in his eyes—and yet he still tried so hard to look at least light-hearted, no matter how serious the situation was. Sam remembered the conversation with Cas—it was only natural to let out what was on his mind.

He looked back down to the sink. "Hey, Dean," Dean looked over at his brother as the sponge hit the dish.

"Yeah, Sam?" He handed the dish over to him, the water dripping into the other side of the sink as the soap slid off the ceramic surface. Sam brought the towel to the dish, watching the fabric soak up the water as he rubbed against the smooth dish.

"I was thinking, you know, maybe—maybe you should talk to Cas," he said to his older brother. He felt the other tense up, going back into the shell he knew and grew to be comfortable with for years.

"About what?" Sam moved the dish to the counter.

"I think we both know—"

"Sam," Dean interrupted him. There was an annoyance in his voice. Sam saw him grab another dish in the corner of his eye, but all he could do was throw the towel down.

Sam tried to catch Dean's eyes as he leaned against the sink with his hip, but Dean just kept his eyes down. "Dean you can't just ignore this. He needs you, you know. He worries about you all the time, and he shouldn't. You know it, I know it, hell, Bobby probably knows it." Nothing. Sam huffed. "You have to—"

"Have to what?" Green eyes tore away from the soap-soaked dish and stared up at his brother; Sam could see the swirl of emotions running in them. Anger, worry, fear—they were all there. "Tell him how I feel about him dying? Tell him that it's going to be okay when we both know that's just a bunch of crap?"

Sam was at a loss. How was he supposed to approach this with him? "No, everyone said to act like he's going to live, to give him life, well, so be it. I'm not going to talk to him about death." He went back to the dish in his hand.

Sam frowned. "I already have." Dean stopped scrubbing. "He asked me what death was like, Dean. He's—I don't know, maybe he's just as scared as you are."

He started scrubbing again. Sam watched as the wall was being built again; no, he couldn't just hide his feelings, no. "Just talk to him?"

"Drop it, Sam," Dean quickly replied, pushing the dish in his direction. The plate was left in the air for a while, Sam just staring at his older brother. They couldn't be brought to look at each other. So Sam yielded and grabbed the plate from him.

"It won't go away, you know," he whispered as he turned back to the sink once more. Sam grabbed the towel underneath him, reaching up to scrub whatever was left on the dish. Suddenly, he felt a splash of water against his skin; Dean had thrown the sponge into the water. He wanted to say something, but as he looked over, he saw Dean walking toward the door outside.

"I know that," Dean hoarsely replied, pushing whatever was in his way somewhere else. "Just leave me alone," he snapped the door open and shut, stepping outside into the dark night. Sam just stared at the door for quite some time before something else caught his eye. And when he looked, he was met with another tired face, blue eyes staring at the back of another, a hand holding both the wall and the IV bag wheeled next to him.

He sighed.

x x x

It was dark, too dark to see. He tried looking around, but no luck. He wished he could see—then a blast of white light left the shadows far behind. It was just one long path toward that bright light. He cautioned its use there, but it felt familiar. It felt warm. It felt whole. He wondered of its existence, perhaps his entire life, but he could trust this light. There was something about it—he started to walk toward it. The closer he got, the more the light shined the shadows away, the more he wanted to hold the light as close as he could to his body. He wanted to reach out—

Cas? The righteous man; he turned around and felt the light dimming in the distance against his back. He felt torn, but another familiar tugging brought him back into the dark; the light disappeared.

He opened his eyes; someone was rubbing his back to wake him up. Cas blinked a few times, trying to get used to the dark around the bedroom, then he turned to the person on the bed with him.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Dean."

"Yeah, hey. You were having trouble breathing over there."

He nodded. Dean moved closer to him. "Bad dream?" Arms wrapped themselves around him; closure. There was a brief moment where their foreheads touched. Cas shrugged.

"A…light…" Dean's eyes slightly widened, and Cas felt Dean's grip tighten. He said something wrong.

"Cas, don't," Cas watched as his partner closed his eyes, a pained expression across his face. There was so much that could have been said from just that one look; he looked so vulnerable. Cas felt Dean's hands raise to his shoulders, his arms still wrapped around him. "Don't go toward that light."

Cas blinked. "W—Why…?"

Dean's eyes shot open; anger. "Just don't, okay?"

As much as he wanted to go toward that light, he could only nod. It was not the right time to talk about it anyway; they fell asleep soon after.

x x x

It was a Saturday, Dean remembered. He was off of work for the day (and possibly for the rest of the week, as Bobby did not want to see him around the garage for a long time), and he was sitting on the couch. There was nothing on TV. So he clicked it off with the remote and looked around. It was so quiet, so peaceful, too. It worried him, so he rose from the couch to go to the bedroom to check on Cas. He didn't need to, seeing as how Sam was there, but he needed to make sure. The walk down the hallway strained for a long time, each step feeling heavy as he made it closer and closer to the two men in his life. What would he see? Cas dying? Sam giving him some kind of last rites? He wouldn't put it past him.

Dean looked inside the small crack in the doorway and peeked in. He saw Cas lying on their bed, head turned toward Sam, who was trying to figure something out, from the look of it. Dean just watched and listened. "What is it, Cas?" And Cas brought his arm up from the bed, holding out his left palm. His right hand formed a sort of pointed position, and he practically stabbed his hand. Sam's eyebrows furrowed as Cas moved his right hand across his palm. Dean looked down at the ground, contemplating what he meant, and when he brought his gaze up again, he was right. Sam held a notepad out for Cas, along with a pen.

"Here," the younger sibling spoke. Dean feared it was going to happen eventually; Cas was having more and more of a struggle talking. It would take him longer to say three words, and sometimes he'd find himself forgetting what he was saying in the first place. Dean watched as Cas grabbed the notepad and pen, then started scribbling. One stroke after another, the black ink must have been reaching the paper, because Cas was not stopping. Sam tilted his head to see what the man on the bed was writing. When the strokes stopped, Sam frowned. "'I'm sorry'?" Dean blinked; Sam asked their question. "For what?"

Cas scribbled again; Sam read it aloud. "'For everything.'" Dean bowed his head—he knew what was happening. He put both hands on either side of the doorframe and closed his eyes. He heard the notepad being put down on his lap, the beeping steady. He could imagine Sam's face, his whole body relaxing, the sullen expression overcoming his entire being. All the while, Cas would be staring at him with those blue eyes, pale as a ghost, waiting for an answer.

"You're forgiven" was quietly within those four walls, and Dean bit down on his lip. He didn't look into that room, but he could tell you what happened: Sam rested his hand on top of Cas's hand, Cas took in a deep breath as if the weight of the world was lifted, and old blue eyes disappeared from the world.

The machine slightly sped up.

x x x

Cas hardly fought when he had to be put in a wheelchair whenever he wanted to go somewhere.

Dean hated the wheelchair, especially when Cas waited for him on the porch if he went somewhere. But the crinkled up sign always said the same thing:

'Welcome home, Dean.'

x x x

Dean had learned to be patient with Cas when he was writing, even when his hand kept twitching when he was writing.

"You sure you want to do this, Cas?"

Scribble.

The notepad faced Dean. 'Yes.'

His blue eyes never lied.

x x x

Knock, knock, knock.

Bobby opened the door to his home. "Boys?" He had not been expecting their presence at his home, and to see Cas outside was a bit rare, especially with how pale and sullen he looked just by sitting in that old wheelchair (Bobby didn't hesitate when giving it to Dean). Dean stood behind him, hands on the handles, doing his best to look and stay strong. He looked as though he would crack at any moment, and Bobby had told him to talk to the dying man about his health and death soon approaching ("Boy, you need to talk to him right now. It ain't gonna get any better, you know." "I know, which is why you need to drop it.").

"Hey, Bobby," Dean spoke, which Bobby would have guess would happen anyhow, seeing as how Cas's notepad rested on his shaking lap, and Cas hardly saying a word at the time. "Mind if we join you? This won't take long," the old hunter could see the plea in the angel's old eyes, the bright blue oceans staring at him as though it meant all the world.

Even if the plea was not there, he wouldn't have said no. He stepped aside so the two could go inside his home—he figured the guys out in the yard would ask questions later. Closing the door, he turned to face them. "So what can I do for ya?" Dean looked down, noticing the twitches getting more and more violent as the pain wracked through his body, then back up at Bobby.

"Cas here wants to talk to ya," Bobby stared at Dean for a good moment, understanding full well that it was serious. Dean looked back down to the man in the chair; Bobby's eyes followed. Cas dipped his head down (his shoulders bobbed every once in a while, and he could hardly keep his head down straight without having it tilted) and he watched as the angel grabbed the notepad in his lap, fumbling to get it turned around. He was getting frustrated. Dean brought one of his hands from the handles to one of Cas's shoulders. "Hey," he hushed, "Bobby's not goin' anywhere," and Bobby heard him take a deep breath, rasped, then released the air.

Soon enough, the notepad was turned around. The same message was on there, the same one for Sam. And Bobby read it, and asked the same question; Dean thought about smirking at the similarity, but instead watched for Bobby's reaction for the next page. He knew it could go down two different routes: either he'd be okay with the apology, or he'd be angry because of the Hell they all went through because of him. Bobby read the last page when it was finally shown to the world, and Dean kept his eyes on the old hunter standing there.

It was dead silent for a brief moment, as if the world stopped altogether. Bobby just stood there, thinking of ways to get it all out for the angel; Cas looked up at the hunter, hoping for some kind of forgiveness, whether it was for one thing or for everything; Dean hoped. Finally, Bobby stepped forward, hands out of his pockets, and he knelt down to meet Cas's eyes. "Boy, you caused a lot of trouble for a lot of people," he whispered. Cas nodded, and Dean didn't know whether it was because of a twitch or if he understood; Bobby continued. "But you also helped a lot of people along the way. I don't know where we'd be without ya, Cas. So whatever you think you did to me where you have to apologize, you're forgiven. Hell, we should be apologizin' to you for all the crap we put you through."

Dean felt the angel tense up in the chair, unable to really grasp on what had just happened. Bobby looked up at him, then back to Cas. The machine on the side of the chair started beeping faster and faster, and they both started hearing him have trouble breathing. With all his might, he started crushing the notepad in his hands; Dean moved from behind the chair to in front of it in an instant, Bobby moving away from the two. He just stood over them and watched. Dean placed both hands on either side of his face, staring into the blue eyes.

"Hey, hey, Cas," He still had trouble breathing. "Just a deep breath in, do as I do, Cas," And Bobby watched as Dean took a deep breath in, sucking in as much air as possible, then letting it all out. Cas tried, failed a few times, but eventually got the hang of it. "That's it." The machine started to slow down, Cas's eyes started to close, and Dean tried to match his breathing, tried to make sure he was okay. The notepad fell back on his lap, shaking with the legs that twitched. Dean, knowing that Cas would be okay, let his hands fall away from his face and turned to face Bobby.

"Hey, thanks, Bobby. It means a lot to him."

Bobby nodded, worried that his forgiveness almost killed a man. Dean's green eyes sparkled. He didn't even have to think twice. "Don't mention it."

x x x

Cas stopped breathing one night for almost a minute. Sam gave him CPR (Dean had to watch from a distance after he yelled "Sam!").

The next morning, Dean came home with a ventilator.

x x x

Near the end of the month, Cas didn't have enough strength to go outside to sit and wait for Dean. He didn't hear the sigh of relief come from Dean when he rushed to the bedside.

Instead, he dreamt of the light.

It was growing brighter and brighter as he stepped closer and closer. It hurt to walk—it hurt to even breathe. But the closer he got, the more it went away. Little by little, he could feel his body slowly coming back to life, as though the light was healing him. He wanted to run as fast as he could toward the light, to get himself back together again, but as he walked, he started to remember. The shadows started losing its dark colors on the invisible walls, and the light was getting so warm. He knew he had to keep walking—but one shadow stood beside him, and it was almost as though it was talking to him.

He stopped and turned toward the shadow, opening his mouth. What is it that you want? It was the first time he spoke in weeks, and he was almost surprised to even hear his voice come out in the first place. The shadow stopped moving with him, tilting its head and obviously staring back at him. Its white eyes blinked, turning green. Cas felt the light disappearing again, and when he turned his head to look at it leave, it was gone.

Cas woke up to the sound of the machine next to him beeping. He was alone. He looked at the clock on the table and noticed how close it was to them having dinner (he barely ate anymore, what with his stomach disliking anything that entered his body). He could smell the aroma in the air, hear the faint sizzling on the stove. He was sure Dean was cooking, seeing as how Sam usually baked in the oven instead of using the stovetop. As much as Cas wanted to walk out to the kitchen and join them, he felt the pain in his legs and chest weigh him down. He was fine in bed.

He glanced at the books on the table. He was sure he read them, but he couldn't remember what they were about. He could barely read the authors' names, much less the titles on the spines. Cas hugged the sheets against his body and closed his eyes. He wondered how many more times he would wake up to any sound whatsoever before meeting his maker.

x x x

Another day, he thought, as he closed the door of the Impala. It had been nearly a month since Cas was out of the hospital, and they all knew they were heading toward the final days. They just didn't know when it was going to be. He looked up at the porch. Dean was used to not seeing Cas on the porch, but with the door to his house open? "Sam?" He called out; no response. He looked around the outside of his home, glancing over by the lake and over by the trees that lined the lake—nothing. They never had the door open. Dean placed the bag of groceries down on the step and eased his way into his own house.

Who was after them? Who knew they lived there? He looked in the kitchen first, along with the living room; no one was there. Nothing was out of order, either. He peeked his head into another empty room near the kitchen, then peered down the hallway. Of course, the one door that had been open was their bedroom. Naturally, he thought.

He could still hear the beeping of the machine from Cas. So he wasn't dead, that was a good sign. Still, something was in their house, and he would not rest until the little bastard was out and gone. So step by step he walked down the hallway, passing the little tables lined up on the wall. When he got to the door, he let his head slowly peek around the corner of the doorframe, scanning the room all the while. He saw Cas still in the bed, his eyes open, looking up; another being was right next to him, looking down. He did not hesitate.

"Get away from him, you—" the person turned around. Dean stopped in his tracks—which was probably a good thing, seeing as how he had no weapon to save Cas in the first place. Cas weakly turned his head toward his partner, trying to rasp out his name, but Dean paid no attention to him. Instead, his eyes stayed on the thing in the room. "What are you doing here?" It sighed, looking back down at the angel on the bed.

"I should not be here," the feminine voice said to them both. Cas turned back to the person above him, blinking at the statement made. Dean walked over to the bed, on the opposite side of them.

"You're damn right you shouldn't be here, so leave," the woman did not cast her eyes over to Dean. He stood there, glancing back and forth between the other two in the room, unable to grasp what was actually going on.

"Castiel, angels in Heaven look up to the spirit you possess. You—" Dean scoffed.

"Cut the crap and just leave us be. He doesn't want you near him after what you did to him. So unless you're here to heal him—"

"I'm not. But," she bent down and looked into Cas's eyes. "I am here to give you more time." Before Dean could protest about what she meant, or push her away, she brought two fingers up to his forehead. Cas closed his eyes and breathed in; Dean watched as a small bright light travelled from her fingers to his head, and saw Cas grip the sheets in obvious pain. He climbed onto the bed the moment her touch left, and he watched as the angel relaxed.

"What the hell did you do?" Dean asked, not looking up at her.

"I gave you time, Dean Winchester, something you have worried about for weeks now," Dean watched the angel below him flutter his eyes open, the blue somehow brighter than before. The girl stood there, and Cas looked around.

"Cas?" Cas made eye contact with him for only a moment before he started coughing again, pulling the ventilator away from his mouth. Dean wanted to put the stupid thing back over his mouth again, but Cas shook his head. And he understood as he watched the angel breathe again. It was like he was breathing in fresh air again.

Cas pushed himself off the mattress and leaned on his arms—it was weird. He felt healthy. He felt as though the last months weren't real, as if it were a test. The pain was still there, but it was at a minimum. He could breathe. He could think. He could do a lot of things that he couldn't in weeks prior. He let his head tilt to the woman in the room. "Sophia," he whispered—his first word. He saw Dean's eyes widen, and he was tensing. Sophia sighed.

"You are not completely healed, Castiel. I cannot allow you to live, nor can God, but you deserve more time. Angels in Heaven find you brave, little warrior of God. They will see this decision fit for you," she confessed. Dean blinked, letting the words sink in—more time. They had more time. He looked up at the angel above them as Cas looked down at his body, seeing the color somewhat coming back.

"How much time?" Dean whispered. Sophia turned her head.

"On the second Monday, before the sun rises, an angel will return," Dean bit down on his lip, nodding at the remark.

"So a week and a half," he replied. She nodded. How much time did they have before all of that? A day? Two? Was Cas on his dying breath when he got home? He didn't want to think about it. He wasn't even sure if he was prepared for a week and a half again, much less a day or two. Dean watched as Sophia leaned toward him, her hand grazing his cheek—she was warm.

"Dean Winchester, Heaven's Righteous Man," she decreed. "Do not waste any time worrying of the precious time you have gained. Spend it wisely with dear Castiel before you cannot." Dean closed his eyes, turning away from her. Her warmth left—he was sure it went to Cas next, but he couldn't bring himself to look at them, or her for that matter. Damn angels seeing into his soul. "Castiel," she whispered, "We shall meet again. Not like this, but rather in the Eternal Glory of our Lord." Then she started chanting in some other language, which Dean assumed to be Enochian, and he heard a committal grunt from Castiel next to him.

When he opened his eyes, he noticed the two crying. As weird as it was to see the angel crying, he was shocked at Cas opening up with his emotions like that. Dean just stared as the water pooled in his eyes, wanting to fall down his face. And he wanted to reach and wipe the wetness already on his eyelids, but Cas grabbed his hand, the strength back in his hand. It felt—fantastic. Dean's heart swelled, as though he wanted to cry at the emotional turmoil that was happening at that moment. Castiel gave a small nod to Sophia, who smiled, and then the wind blew.

She was gone before he could thank her.

x x x

The first thing Cas did was take a shower—alone, much to Dean's discretion ("Don't tell me you wouldn't want to take a shower with me, Cas!").

It felt right.

x x x

Dean sat with Cas at the dinner table, with Cas gobbling down as much food as he could—and he was so thankful. Dean cooked him burgers and hot dogs and steaks, and he was still eating. Sam just stared at him by the sink, wondering how in the world the small man who used to be frail as ever was suddenly just eating. Of course, Dean told Sam what had happened, and Sam still had the same mindset as before ("He's still dying, Dean. This doesn't mean anything's changed."). But Dean didn't mind; watching Cas eat was sort of entertaining.

Sam chuckled. "Don't you think you should slow down before you get sick?" It earned him two glares from the table; he threw his hands up in defense. "Alright, alright. So," he pushed off from the sink and pulled the other chair from the table, sitting down next to both of them. "Any idea what you guys are going to do together?"

Sam knew Dean wanted to spend as much time as possible with Cas, alone, and Sam was not going to ruin it for them. Especially when the younger sibling told him that he'd find it more comfortable living at Bobby's for the week to week and a half, unless Dean needed them. "Dude, you need to spend all the time you can with him. I'm not going to get between you two." Dean thanked him, and told Sam that if he spoke about their little moment together, he'd seriously beat the snot out of him. Sam understood, smirking at his older brother getting a bit excited at being with Cas.

Dean shrugged. "That's all up to Cas over here. Whatever he wants to do, we'll do. Right?" Cas nodded; Dean smiled. "That's the plan. He just needs to come up with stuff."

Cas swallowed the bit of hotdog in his mouth before speaking. "Well," Dean would never get over the deep voice back in his life. He thought it was gone forever when the notepad was being used. Cas reached into his jeans pocket, and both the brothers watched him take out a small yellow piece of paper before handing it to Dean.

Dean started to unfolding the piece of paper, confused. When he opened it, it was a list of activities. "Cas, when were you going to tell me about this?"

Cas bowed his head. "I figured you would want to do other things besides wheel a dying man around," he said. Dean shook his head, almost letting out a laugh.

"Cas, you idiot," he replied, refolding the piece of paper. Cas let his eyes travel back to Dean's green ones, and he saw the piece of paper being held in the air. "You and me, we're going to have fun, alright?"

Cas bit down on the hotdog and nodded. As much as it pained them, they smiled.

x x x

"Seriously? You want to do this first?" Dean sat down next to him. Cas felt a little tired, probably from the grace slowly dissipating from his body, but he nodded.

"Yes. I remember when we were first on a dock. You were fishing, and it seemed—pleasant," he said, holding a fishing rod in his hands. Dean held one as well, casting a line out to the water. They both had their legs swinging off the end of the dock (well, Dean did at first, moving the water around them both; Cas just let his feet soak first before joining Dean from watching him). The sun had barely risen for the day, and there were some clouds overhead, but it was a nice, cool morning, especially for the Fall.

Dean looked over at him. "Well, yeah. Fishing's peaceful, Cas. No monsters to attack you but some stupid fish that thinks he's getting a free meal."

"I do not think the fish is stupid," Cas replied, turning to Dean. Dean rose an eyebrow in wonder. "It is merely trying to survive."

"Yeah, well," Dean turned back to the glittering lake ahead of them. "So am I." He brought his line back in before casting it out again, letting the bobber sit on the waves ahead. Cas chuckled.

They sat there for almost the entire day, fishing for the "stupid fish" in the lake—Dean was right, he thought; fishing was peaceful.

Well, until Dean finally caught a fish. Then it was rather loud. "Yeah! See, Cas? They're stupid."

Cas didn't call Dean stupid for accidentally dropping the fish back in the lake. He merely chuckled and watched Dean's annoyance turn into a smile.

x x x

Dean hated putting up tents. They were annoying, they never looked right, and they were weak whenever a wind blew through the forest. He knew they shouldn't have stayed on the dock for so long, but no, Cas just wanted to stay there for an extra hour or two, fishing or not ("I like it here," he said, leaning against Dean when he closed his eyes; Dean agreed). Cas dropped some of the wood around near their tent, watching as Dean was close to kicking the tent straight to Hell. "Dean," Cas said, and the hunter turned to him.

"Seriously, who made tents?" he said, kicking the metal poles away from them. Cas watched as the poles scattered away, rolling toward the nearby trees in the forest. It was the second item on his list of things to do—he had heard that camping was fun, and he wanted to try it before "kicking the bucket", as Dean had said once before. He was unsure why he'd be kicking a bucket, but if it made sense to him, it must mean something. Cas heard Dean huff in a fit of anger before turning to him. "Did you get the firewood?"

Cas pointed down to the ground, Dean's eyes following. Of course, the green eyes sparkled in the dim light still around. He let out a couple of laughs. "Ah, yes, let there be fire," Dean said, making his way over to the wood. Cas didn't understand how he would light the wood with matches, some kind of fluid, and paper, but sure enough, the fire came. Dean laid on the forest floor and blew into the fire, and Cas watched as the smolders spread. In minutes, it would be tall—and it was pretty warm around. Dean smiled at his creation, proud of himself. He turned around to Cas just standing in amazement at the entire thing.

"How did you do that?" Cas asked.

Dean moved back from the fire, sitting on the ground. "Life's biggest mystery, Cas," he said, before waving him down to the ground with him. "Now, come on. This fire won't last all night."

Cas looked at Dean, then the ground, then back to the fire. It was a mystery, yes—he'd rather contemplate the mystery with Dean. He moved over to the sitting man and sat down himself, their knees brushing against each other as they watched the fire rise toward the sky. Dean had his palms behind him, leaning back on the weight that held him. Cas just sat there. It reminded—Cas looked over at the man sitting next to him. Green eyes glowed, just like the one in his dream. "Dean," he whispered. Dean turned his head.

"Yeah?" A flash of worry in his eyes—Cas softened his expression. He did not want to worry him.

Cas let his eyes flicker back to the fire. "This reminds me of my dreams," he remarked, and he saw Dean lean forward again.

"You mean the ones with the light," he said. Cas nodded. He was afraid Dean would yell at him, but instead said: "Let's not mention that—the light—when we're doing this, alright? It's your last days, Cas. You gotta enjoy them." As much as Cas worried about the light, Dean was right. It scared Dean half to death, that light, and Cas had a feeling it was Heaven pulling him toward them, but he wasn't exactly sure. He watched Dean turn away from Cas, and heard a bag crinkling. Cas leaned forward to peek around the huge frame hiding something.

"What are you doing?" Cas asked. Dean spun around, holding two bags in his hands with a box of graham crackers.

"We're going to have some s'mores, Cas," a grin on his face. Cas tilted his head; Dean became worried, but for a different reason. "Don't tell me you've never had one before."

Cas shook his head. Dean sort of rolled his eyes toward the fire. "Yeah, okay, you're definitely having one."

They spent the next ten minutes explaining how to make a s'more ("Dean, the stick will catch on fire." "Trust me, Cas, it won't"), and they shared a laugh or two in the mix ("Cas, you don't try to fry the graham cracker!").

Cas found it delicious, as much as it looked disgusting. Dean stopped him after he ate five of them in a row. "Slow down there, tiger—don't want you getting diabetes or something."

"It cannot be any worse than cancer."

"Shut up."

x x x

"Now, Cas, ease on the gas pedal. Don't hurt her," Dean said as he sat in the passenger seat. Cas thought it was a bad idea to even let him behind the wheel, seeing as how his vision was starting to decline, and his hands were a little weaker—and Dean hated when others drove his Baby—but it was only Saturday. They had almost 8 days left.

Cas looked down at the pedals by his feet. "Which one is which again?"

"The skinny one is the gas pedal," Dean reminded him, even though Cas was just told which one it was. Cas nodded, pressing down on the black skinny thing. The car jerked forward. He quickly switched to the other pedal; it jerked forward again. Both men flew toward the dashboard together when it did. "Jesus, Cas, I said ease on it!"

"I did," he replied.

"You don't slam on the gas or the brake! Just, slowly push down on it," Dean moved his hand in the air down, as if giving Cas a demonstration on how it was supposed to happen. Cas just stared at him. He looked back to the pedals. "You need to look out the windshield too, you know. You can't just stare at the pedals as you drive."

"But we are only on the dirt road," Cas motioned to what was outside. It was true. They were on their dirt road learning how to drive—Dean didn't trust him any farther than their home.

"Yeah, there's a reason for that," Cas glanced between the pedal under his foot and the windshield, and when he gently—Dean sighed in relief when he did—pushed down on the pedal, he looked out the windshield. They were moving—they were moving! Cas gripped the steering wheel with all his might, worried that the shaking was caused by him. Dean smiled. "That's it, Cas!" Cas widened his eyes when they hit a slight bump in the road, and he quickly brought his foot to the brake. Again, they jerked forward, but Dean didn't mind.

"I did okay?" Cas asked, turning to the man next to him.

Dean just smiled. "You're a natural."

x x x

For the first time in days, Cas vomited. They lounged on the couch and watched movies together. "I do not mind adding things on the list, Dean," Cas said.

Dean's arm just tightened around his body.

x x x

Another night brought them to the middle of a field nearby. The pain in his body was getting worse, but lying on the cold ground kept his head okay for a while. Dean had his arm underneath him, and they both stared up at the stars around. They twinkled, sparkled, glimmered, and Cas stared in wonder at the creation before them. Cas thought 'stargazing' would mean just getting a telescope from somewhere, but Dean pulled him away from the house and told him it was a surprise. Yes, a surprise almost in the middle of the night—Cas wondered if Dean was okay ("Oh, don't worry about me, Cas, everything's awesome").

Dean turned his head to look at Cas. The blue eyes flittered back and forth at the sky above, trying to gather all the stars in his vision somehow. Even with the extra given by the angels, it still wasn't easier. They had a week. Dean wondered if Cas would remember any of it when he passed, or if God would wipe his memory clean. He wondered how many more days they had left before Cas couldn't do anything at all, how many more memories there could be before he'd be gone. How many more days did he have to remember everything about Cas, just like that?

Cas nudged Dean's side without looking at him. "One is falling," he said. Dean looked up to the sky and saw one of the stars shooting across the sky. He wanted to correct Cas, but he left it alone. Cas turned to Dean, who turned back to Cas. "I do believe you make a wish when that happens," he whispered. Dean leaned forward and let his forehead rest on Cas's, their noses brushing. They both closed their eyes.

Cas wished for Dean to be okay.

Dean wished for Cas to remember.

x x x

Cas was too exhausted to go out. Dean stayed in bed with him—they found energy calling out each other's names.

x x x

He was starting to lose his voice again, but he was still able to walk. Dean started to cross out the item on the list—"walk around the lake." Dean felt Cas loop his arm around his, trying to find the strength to walk, and Dean just gave a forced smile. It was harder the second time around, seeing Cas greatly deteriorate before his eyes. He thought the time would be a blessing, but it was torture. All the groans and moans (not caused by Dean) and the thrashing (again—) for some kind of way to get rid of the pain did not make it better. It was Hell.

Step, step, step, then they were starting their journey around the water. Sure, he thought about other things he could have been doing—but it was Cas. Everything was trumped when his card came into play. As much as the fallen angel struggled to breathe and walk, he managed to walk alongside Dean, both admiring the cool breeze coming off the lake and the changing colors around them. Dean looked down at the frail man again, seeing the color leaving him each and every day. "You know, Cas…" he drifted off as Old Blue Eyes—he'd never get tired of that nickname—looked up at him. So many words were spinning in his head, so many things he could have said.

Cas brought his free hand up to his cheek, Dean leaning into his warm palm. Cas knew everything he wanted to say—damn angels seeing into souls—and Dean saw the response in the blue ones that shined next to him. A kiss to the forehead, closed eyes relishing in the moment, eyes locked when he pulled away, and they continued their walk around the lake. They never parted, they never let go, they barely talked—they just walked.

And that was okay.

x x x

Cas needed the wheelchair. He could still talk—barely—but his legs were giving out too fast. He sat outside under the clouded sky with Dean standing behind him, leaning on the handles of the chair. They both watched as the water from the hose sprayed the little garden by the steps, along with the tree near the porch. "Just a small day at home" said the note. Cas moved the hose around the garden, trying to get every inch—although his hand would twitch some ways and he'd drag it back to where it was before.

Dean looked at the small vegetables standing there, along with a few flowers peeking out from the ground. "We should have some of this for dinner," he said to Cas.

Cas hummed. "Yes," he replied, agreeing. Cas let his head tilt back, their faces close to one another. "You—You…" Dean saw Cas close his eyes, breathing in again, then opening them. Dean learned to be patient—he was fine. "You will…take care…of this for me?" Cas remembered—well, he remembered what he could about anything those days—how Dean did not want any part of the garden. He "wouldn't be caught dead" trying to do something that would bring down his masculinity (even though Cas always caught him staring at the garden with wonder).

Dean smiled, then brought his lips down to kiss the tip of Cas's nose. The water suddenly shut off. He pulled away, and his eyes flicked to the vegetables dripping from the water. "I think you missed a spot," he whispered, and Cas shook his head, pressing the nozzle of the hose once more.

He promised to take care of the garden.

x x x

As much as Dean put up a strong front, whenever he was alone, he couldn't help but pray to God it was all just a dream. He would close his eyes and drift back to the past, when Cas was well, when he would come back from the garage to see Cas cooking for him, or when they were in bed together, or when they spent time in the nearest time just grocery shopping.

So when he opened his eyes, he was back in reality, back to his watering eyes burning.

x x x

Dean stared at the calendar on the fridge. Monday was circled—it was Friday. "On the second Monday, before the sun rises, an angel will return." He stirred the ingredients for their dinner—"a dinner with Dean" was on the list, and Dean would give him that—before turning away from the fridge. Enough of that, he thought. He heard the meat on the stove sizzle, the grease popping in the air, and he placed the bowl of sauce on the countertop before moving it around. Some stir fry with some steak and chicken mixed in was good enough for the two of them.

He just had to make sure it wouldn't get on his clothing. Cas wrote to him: "You don't have to dress up for this." But Dean refused such a thing.

"When am I gonna have another chance like this, Cas?"

So it was decided that they'd at least look decent instead of in ripped jeans and a dirty shirt. Dean was wearing some dressier slacks—which meant dark jeans without any holes—along with a plain t-shirt under one of his button-up shirts. Sure, it wasn't a suit, but he looked decent. Dean turned the dial on the stove down, realizing the food was almost done, and brought the soy sauce from the counter to the food on the stove. He watched the liquid mix with the rice and steak inside, and he thought again. For all he knew, it was Cas's last dinner. For all he knew, it would be the last time they'd have a meal together.

It broke his heart.

He put the bowl on the countertop again, picked up his wooden spoon, then stirred again. It smelled really good. Click. He turned the stove off before taking the pan off the top. The two plates on the countertop were suddenly full of steak, chicken, and rice—one plate had more than the other, for very obvious reasons—and Dean marveled at the creation. He placed the leftovers inside the pan back on the stove, on a different burner, and he looked back at the meal. That was it, he thought. The last meal. Dean closed his eyes and breathed in—it wasn't the time to break down, not then.

He grabbed the plates and moved around the home. As much as he wanted the dinner at the table, he knew Cas wouldn't make it that far. So dinner in bed didn't seem too bad. He turned around and let the door hit his back; he backed into the room. "Hope you're ready for some dinner here, Cas," he said, turning his head to the man on the bed sitting against the headboard. As pale and frail as he looked, he was still able to smile. The notepad rested on his lap.

Dean smirked when he saw Cas in one of his t-shirts—another plain one, but it was green, one of his favorites—and saw a small candle on the table next to him. "Where'd you find the candle?" Dean asked as he climbed on the bed alongside Cas. Cas's head dipped down as he started to write. Sure, his writing looked like a kindergartner wrote it, but it was still legible. Cas let the notepad sit there as Dean read it. "I didn't think we had any around the house." Cas shrugged. When did the angel find time to look for it in the first place?

Cas moved the notepad in between them, in case he needed to talk, and Dean moved the smaller plate onto the others' lap. Cas just stared at the food. "You don't have to eat it all, and I'm sure you won't, but…" Cas grabbed the fork on the plate—Dean didn't know how much strength he had left—and brought a piece of steak to his mouth. Open, close, chew, swallow—Cas hummed in content. His right hand was scribbling something on the paper.

Dean looked down. "Delicious, huh?" He smiled. "Of course it is. I made it, you know," Cas gave him a small glare, watching Dean eat a chunk of food. Cas didn't want to look away. He wanted to remember Dean, wanted to take in everything he still could about Dean. He was still such a puzzle to Cas, still the man that didn't think he deserved to be saved, but Cas knew he needed to be by him. Even when he slept, the dreams he had brought him back to Dean—and that was enough.

Cas scribbled something on the notepad again; Dean looked down as he chewed his food. He noticed the hand stop and place the pen on the bed. "'Thank you,'" Dean read. The hand grabbed the fork again, bringing yet another piece of food to his mouth. Dean moved closer to Cas, their sides touching one another as they lied on the bed together, eating their dinner together. Cas, of course, did not eat all of his food (Dean did), but he ate and cherished as much as possible. It would be the last time he would eat something Dean made; it would be the last thing he could enjoy that was made by Dean.

The only thing left to cherish was Dean himself, and his voice was music to his ears. "You're welcome, Cas."

x x x

It was Saturday—Cas was back to where he was a week and some odd days ago. He barely could make it out of bed, he was sweating, his body ached, and his breathing was getting worse and worse. He was put back on the ventilator in the middle of the night, when Dean had to help him through a coughing fit. Of course, Dean saw the blood on the sheets, and Cas closed his eyes before he could get his full reaction. All he felt was a pair of lips on his forehead and the warmth leaving as he went to get a warm washcloth.

He had faced Death before. He knew where he was going to end. He knew God was waiting for him—but he was still so afraid. He wished he could be home, on Earth, with Dean and Sam and Bobby. He did not want to be torn away from them. He did not want to get his wings. Castiel, God's most loyal soldier, wanting to stay on Earth. He wouldn't have thought the day would have come years ago, before Dean, before everything that had happened in his life. And yet there he was, staring at the ceiling above him, wishing God wouldn't take him away.

He closed his eyes. Dean, Cas thought.

He drifted into a listless sleep.

x x x

Brrrrrrrring.

Brrrrrrrring.

Click.

"Singer residence."

"Bobby."

"Dean?"

"I—I—you need to come over."

x x x

The first to enter was Bobby. Sam stayed out in the hall by the door, staring down the long hallway to Dean, who didn't even look back once. When they had arrived at the home, Dean looked lost. "He—He's back there," every once in a while, his eyes reaching their eyes, and they wanted to sympathize with him. They wanted to say a lot, but Dean motioned them to the back bedroom, leaning against the sink as they walked away from him. His back never left Sam's sight, not once.

Bobby sat down in the massive chair set up by the bed. He wondered how many nights Dean sat there, watching Cas sleep (it was over four times, mostly when Cas started coughing and having troubles breathing; he knew he wouldn't die, not until Monday, but he had to make sure he wouldn't miss saying—). He looked up at the machine beeping overhead—it was steady and relaxed. He couldn't tell you what the numbers meant, but there was still a heartbeat to be had. That's all that mattered, he thought.

Cas looked miserable. His lips were very chapped and pale; his skin was ghostly white; the dark circles under his eyes seemed to be as black as coal; his arms weren't as strong as they used to be, but bony and fragile; the ventilator over his mouth, plus his chest heaving up and down, showed just how much he was holding on. Over the incessant beeping, Bobby could hear the rasps and gasps he was making for the air he was breathing. And when he coughed? It was a horrible sound—it wheezed, gasped, and choked for air. It didn't help that some fluids came with it, mostly blood (he didn't even want to remark on how much there was next to his head on the pillow and sheet).

Cas opened his eyes, tilting his head to the man sitting next to him. His eyes were dimmer than before—they looked clouded. He understood. Still, Bobby caught him by surprise. "Hey there, Cas," he said to him. Cas continued to stare at him; he looked—confused. "It's me, Bobby," he rested his hand on top of the dying man's, feeling the bones poke out from the skin. Cas didn't squeeze back, but Bobby watched his eyes flutter about, as if searching for something.

Bobby…Bobby…Bobby Singer, hunter, close to the two boys.

Cas slowly blinked, understanding who it was finally. His head was pounding after searching for the memory, but it was there, somewhere. Bobby nodded, knowing Cas was there with him, knowing that somehow, no matter how hard it was, he remembered. "Yeah, it's me. I'm never good with this kind of stuff, but," he paused, hearing the deep breathing Cas was doing again. Bobby wanted to know what was going through his head (Do not say goodbye, I want to stay, let me stay…). Bobby squeezed his hand and sort of shook it, his stern look staring back to Cas. "You were good to us, son. You did enough, more than enough. You…" Bobby took in a deep breath, just like Cas. Then he sighed. "You be good up there. I don't wanna see no Angel civil wars down here, alright?"

Cas closed his eyes in acknowledgment. The beeping on the machine stayed the same, even as the hand disappeared from him, even as Bobby stood to leave, even as Cas felt a pain in his heart.

x x x

"Dean."

"Bobby, I—"

"It's alright. You did what you could for him."

"…Yeah."

x x x

He stood outside the door, wondering when to go inside. Bobby had left some time ago—could have been up to an hour, he didn't know—and he was left to go inside. Sam took one last look down the hallway to Dean, who still had his back to the younger sibling, then back to the door. And when he opened the door, his heart sank. Cas already looked dead, and he already looked like he should have been dead hours ago. Yet there he was, lying on his back, his legs still moving around to get rid of the pain. He imagined the dosage on the pain medication was at its maximum, but he probably wanted more. He closed the door.

Sam walked around the bed. That was it. At that moment—he didn't think they'd get to that moment, what with all the times he sat by Cas during the days and just read a book, or watched him sleep, or made sure he was still breathing. But there they were, the moment they had been leading up to, the moment where Sam dreaded, the moment Cas asked what it would feel like from the time he knew his fate.

Sam sat down in the chair. Many moments in the chair, and in other chairs, with Cas lying on the bed while he just sat. It wasn't like there was much to do around town where he found it to be troubling, or that him taking care of his friend was too much of a burden. He was glad he had those moments with him; he was glad he spent some time with him, no matter if the man slept most of the day away. He chuckled to himself as he thought about the time he spoke to Cas when he was asleep (it was nothing important, but he didn't think he would do such a thing in his life). Cas opened his eyes again and stared.

Again, the confused look in his eyes was back—who was he? He seemed familiar. Sam gave a small, sad smile. "Hey, it's me, Sam," he said, remembering Bobby's words about saying his name to the angel. They knew he was forgetting things in his past; they didn't expect it to be people, too. Cas's eyes flickered around again, scanning every part of his face, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Sam…Sam…Sam…Sam Winchester, hunter, the boy with the demon blood, Dean's brother.

He blinked. Sam sighed in relief. "Didn't think you'd remember me," he said leaning forward, legs drawn apart, hands hanging in the air. He bowed his head, staring at the hardwood floor (Dean was sure to have a fit to see how worn down it was—it wasn't important). He didn't know if Cas would be okay with him holding his hand or anything, so he brought his own hands together, rubbing his thumbs, trying to find something to say. He didn't catch the glint in Cas's eyes, wondering why someone would not try their hardest not to remember Sam Winchester—after all, he deserved to be remembered. Sam looked back up.

"I—God, how do you talk to someone on their death bed? We never got this pleasure with our other friends, you know?" And Cas knew. There were many that had been lost—he did not know their names, but he knew. He saw the solace in the boy. "I just…it's gonna be weird without you around, and I know—" He stopped himself. No, don't talk about Dean. Dean would talk to him. "But I know you're going to Heaven, so there's some comfort for all of us here." Cas blinked; Sam continued. "I don't think I'll ever understand the angels and why they had to do this to you, Cas, and I find it so—I don't even know what to call it—blasphemous? But, Heaven. I told you you'd go there," he whispered, catching another part of confusion from Cas. "You were asleep when I told you you'd get your wings again in no time. You wouldn't remember that." Cas nodded; of course not, he thought.

"You know, it's funny," he gave a small smile, "When I first met you, it was—man, it was so great to have met you, Cas. Even if we had our troubles throughout, even if we weren't always on the same page, you…you were family. You are family, I should say. You've always been a part of this family—this screwed up, bogus family. Honestly, I don't know why you chose to stick around for as long as you did, but…" Sam started to choke up, so he bowed his head to hide the emotions. He wasn't ashamed to cry around him, but he thought he could do his best to not break down in front of someone dying. When he looked back up, Cas was still staring at him, a sad expression fallen on his face. "But I'm really glad you did, Cas. I loved you like a brother, and I have all the respect in the world for you. You fought long and hard—you deserve to rest."

The beeping on the machine sped up a little, his heart beating against his chest. Sam glanced up to watch the machine rattle off new numbers, then back down to Cas. The tears were still in his eyes, but he grabbed onto the frail hand on the bed, squeezing tight. "Hey, hey, Cas, breathe, it's okay. Don't worry about us—" Sam saw the expression: but it is my job to watch and protect you, Cas thought. Sam gave him a content smile. "We'll be okay."

Cas believed him.

x x x

Sam caught Dean by the sink once more, looking out to the dark night that encompassed the area. Bobby had gone home—Dean told him to go. He had done enough. Sam did not rest his hand on Dean's back for comfort, nor did he move to do anything to the older sibling. He just stood there, hip against the countertop, eyes looking down at him. His brother looked—he didn't know how to explain it. He'd seen it before when he—Sam—was dying, but that was worse. It was like looking at a child losing something precious. Sam quietly asked:

"Do you want me to stay here for the night?"

Dean closed his eyes. Sam saw the small, tiny glimpse of his wall breaking down, with Dean's lips trembling at the thought, even though it was already torn down the moment they arrived earlier in the day. Sam watched his brother bow his head toward the sink, holding onto the sides of the countertop around him for support.

Dean nodded.

Sam stayed.

x x x

Dean didn't want to go inside. He wasn't ready.

x x x

Cas turned on his side; the other side of the bed was empty.

He closed his eyes.

x x x

The light beckoned him. Come, Castiel, it would say. Come join us in the Eternal Sunshine our Lord in Heaven has given us this precious day. Join us in our Lord's everlasting Love and come witness yet another day He has created for those on Earth and for those above in His Paradise. He stood on the darkened path, feeling the tugs from the light push him closer and closer, and how he wanted to take another step, then another, then feel the warmth engulf him as the pain dissipated from his entire being. But his head turned to the invisible wall around him, the light still shining, the warmth never leaving, and he saw the green-eyed shadow standing by his side, holding his hand. Not a word was spoken—he was stuck in the middle.

x x x

Dean held his hand once he climbed into the bed.

He'd wake up. He'd have to wake up.

He'd open those eyes.

He'd open them.

Please.

x x x

Hours passed.

It turned into Monday.

Dean closed his eyes. Don't do this, he thought.

x x x

Beep. Beep. Beep.

x x x

Cas opened his eyes. It was getting harder and harder to open them. He thought he was engulfed by the darkness, but it was only his eyes still trying to adjust to whatever light was still left in the room. He knew it was sometime at night, perhaps early morning—yes, he thought, it was Monday morning. It had to be, because his green-eyed shadow was lying next to him, relief washing over his face, tears stuck in his eyes. "Cas, hey," it said to him. It, he thought.

Dean.

Cas blinked. He knew. He would never forget such a bond, such a face that puzzled him beyond words. He could barely make anything out anymore—it wasn't just the darkness around that clouded his vision—but he could see into the soul. He didn't have to know how broken Dean was, how painful it was for the man next to him, silently holding onto a sliver of hope that it was all just a dream, that none of it was real. But they were done dreaming—God had no place for dreams anymore, not in their house. Dreams melded into reality, and reality pushed the dreams aside.

Dean leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Cas's, thanking God or whoever was watching for bringing him back. He closed his eyes. "I thought you left, you son of a bitch," he faltered. His voice was breaking slightly, and Cas could hear the chokes cough out from Dean, his staggering breath falling from his lips.

It would have been a sin to leave so soon.

Cas kept his eyes open; it would be the last time he'd see the righteous man in the light. It'd be the last time together. He wanted to remember everything—he wanted to bring something with him. Dean kept his eyes closed; he could feel the tears add up in his eyes, and he wanted nothing more than to keep them away, especially in front of Cas. He knew the stupid angel would get worried.

"I—Cas, I don't—" Dean didn't know what to say. It all led up to that moment, and he had the entire day to bring his thoughts together for something at least coherent, but he sucked at it. He couldn't think of anything. He had so much that could be said, and there he was, all on the line, and he couldn't think of a damn thing. He bit down on his lip. His eyes squeezed. It was getting harder and harder to accept it at all.

Cas slipped his hand away from Dean's, bringing it up to his face. The water near his eyes collected on Cas's thumb as he wiped it away, his hand heavily resting on the sort of smooth side (Dean didn't shave). Dean moved his head into the palm on his face; Cas comforting him was not helping. Dean was supposed to comfort the dying, not the other way around. It would be the last time he'd feel the palm against his face. He'd never feel the warmth rest against his cheek again. His head turned toward the palm, his hand hurriedly reaching for Cas's hand against his cheek, and his lips kissed the dry skin trying to comfort him. He breathed in.

He felt Cas's hand squeeze back, but nothing strong compared to Dean's grip on him. Dean moved away from the hand, his forehead back against Cas's. "God damn it," he whispered, his spirit breaking right in front of Cas. Their hands went back between the two bodies, resting on the mattress with them, holding on for dear life. Dean finally opened his eyes, met with the clouded blue ones he had to become familiar with as of late. It was the last time—the last time—

"Cas, I—I'm gonna miss you, you know?" A slight nod against his forehead; Cas knew. "I mean—" Dean chuckled—chuckled!—as he felt the tears spring from his eyes. "it's not every day you get to sleep with an angel of the Lord." Cas glared; Dean smirked. It wasn't a joke, he knew that. But—he squeezed Cas's hand again, making sure he was still there, even if those clouded blue eyes were staring back at him. "It's funny," he whispered, "I always—always thought you'd die fighting." Cas shrugged as best he could; Dean closed his eyes. "I don't know—I don't know if God's gonna wipe your memory when you get up there, if you'll forget me, but—Cas—"

Green eyes met with blue ones. Both said so much in a fraction of a second.

"—You'll always be here, right here. You became a part of this family the moment you saved me from Hell, and—you've always been there for me, best friend, enemy, partner, lover, whatever. Just because you're dying doesn't mean—doesn't mean—" Dean closed his eyes, choking out a small gasp of air. Cas moved closer.

Do not cry.

Dean opened his eyes again, swallowing down whatever was in his mouth. He tried putting up that emotional mask, but it was too much. Cas took in a deep breath and opened his mouth. "D—D—" He started to cough. Dean began to panic; no, not like that.

He brought his hands to Cas's face, watching as the fallen angel's eyes squeezed shut in pain. "Hey," Dean started shushing, rubbing his thumbs against Cas's cheekbones. "Don't—Don't try to talk, okay? Just listen," Once the coughing fit ceased, Cas opened his eyes. Dean tried to smile. "I'm glad—glad that we—" Dean bit down on his lip again, trying to fight back more tears falling. It didn't work. "We made a good team, you know?" Cas nodded against his forehead once more.

The best that existed in all my years alive.

Dean continued to rub his cheeks, feeling the damp water collect on his own palms. "You—You were good to me," he whispered gently. He felt Cas's head lean into one of his palms. "Too good, and I—I hope I was good to you." Another nod. Dean nodded, too. "Good, good," he kept repeating, closing his eyes every once in a while. He didn't know how much longer he had. Cas felt his legs start to explode with pain. "I—I—I—" Dean opened his eyes, looking back to the other. He couldn't even say three simple words. But Cas understood completely.

As do I.

Dean felt Cas's hand raise from the bed again, but this time to his mouth. He tore away the ventilator that covered his lips, tearing apart the only life support he really had, minus the pain medication that wasn't necessarily working at that moment. And when it was gone, Dean lowered his lips against Cas's chapped ones, tears still streaming down his face. They both closed their eyes, unable to find themselves breathing at the same event in time, and they clung to one another for as long as they could. It would be the last time Dean could taste the closest thing to Heaven; it would be the last time Cas could taste the closest thing to righteousness.

When Dean pulled away, their eyes both opening, he could feel Cas twitching next to him. Dean kept eye contact, no matter how painful it was to see the pain in his eyes. "You're—you're in pain, aren't you?" And Cas nodded. No matter if he shook his head, Dean knew he'd be lying. The hunter closed his eyes. This is it, he thought. He didn't care what time it was, didn't care if the sun would be close to rising. Time stopped for him the moment he entered that room, and he didn't know if hours passed or if it had only been minutes—none of that matter. Beep. Beep. Dean opened his eyes once more, looking at the angel gasp for air. "Hang on, Cas, let me—" One of his hands left Cas's face, reaching over the frail body under him. The machine turned off.

It was finally silent in their world, something they were not used to. Dean was wholly afraid. Cas found some quiet solitude, finally. Dean repositioned himself next to Cas, his eyes wide open; Cas's eyes were starting to fall. "Cas, I need you—I need you to listen to me, okay? Do as I say." A small nod; they would get through it. Dean stared into Old Blue Eyes—he'd never forget that name—and nodded back. "Now, listen to me, I want you to close your eyes. I'll close mine with you, just—just don't open them. Whatever you do, don't open them." Dean's eyes started to flutter close.

Cas closed his own, looking back at the darkness behind his blue eyes. Dean's hands were still there. Cas let one of his arms drape over Dean's hips, holding onto his shirt and back for dear life. His voice returned. "I promise, everything will be okay."

I trust you.

x x x

Silence.

x x x

"You remember—you remember the light, Cas?"

Yes.

"I—I want you to bring it back."

Okay.

x x x

The light returned. Its warmth tugged at his soul once more, the beams of light reaching out toward his sick, dying body. The green-eyed shadow next to him looked down at him, turning him toward it. The shadow placed his hands on each shoulder, and Cas kept his pale blue eyes on the man. It started to move its mouth.

"Cas, I—I know I told you—told you to stay far, far away from it."

The light grew stronger. The dark corridor became an almost bright white casting the shadows away. The shapes that were created were disappearing in his wake, and all he did was watch as the bright green eyes stared back at him. Come, Castiel, the light beckoned. No, he thought; he had to hear out the green-eyed shadow. He trusted him.

"I need you—" Dean opened his eyes; Cas's eyes were closed. He could feel the weak breathing still come from his lips. "I need you to start walking toward it." Cas started to relax in his grip. His face started to become less tense, his breathing still there.

But I'm scared.

"I'll—I'm right here, Cas. I'm not going anywhere."

x x x

Stay with me, Cas thought, the green-eyed shadow turning toward the light. Cas turned with him. The shadow took a step, and Cas felt him being dragged toward the bright being ahead. He took another step, then another, then he was walking on his own. His strength was coming back; he was becoming whole. His legs didn't hurt anymore; his arms felt fantastic; his head stopped pounding. He was able to breathe. Cas continued to walk.

"Keep walking, Cas, don't you stop, don't—just go." Dean wrapped his arms around Cas's body. He felt Cas's grip start to decline. He let his chin rest on top of Cas's head, holding onto him even more. "Go toward the light."

He wasn't going to stop. He couldn't look back, not then. Cas felt the light grow stronger and stronger, voices of his past welcoming him with each step he took. Soon, he forgot about the green-eyed shadow next to him—he never felt the shadow let go of his hand. He never thought about looking back—all he wanted was for the light to welcome him back. He wanted to feel it wrap its presence around his body and tell him he was okay. And he was.

"You'll be okay, Cas. You'll—You'll—" Dean turned his head down, kissing the top of Cas's head.

Cas stopped right before the light blinded him. Finally, he thought, it was all over. He turned around to see what he left behind, and saw only a mere shadow standing right behind him, those green eyes glimmering.

"Don't—go," Dean whispered into his hair. He closed his eyes. "Cas, go toward the light."

Cas tilted his head. The green-eyed shadow nodded. Cas brought his hand to one of his eyes; he was crying. He looked down at the water stick to his finger, and he knew. He took one last longing look to the shadow. They stood there, no worry with how much time passed, and Cas felt the light start to engulf him.

x x x

Goodbye, Dean, Cas said to the shadow.

Goodbye, Cas, was the last thing he heard before the light warmed him complete.

x x x

Dean felt Cas's fingers unfurl from his shirt, felt the twitching stop. He couldn't feel the angel's breath still hammer on his chest.

He opened his eyes.

He pulled away from Cas, staring down at his face. It was peaceful. "Cas?" He called out.

No response.

"Cas?" His eyes filled with tears, his heart—he could feel his lips tremble again.

No response.

He brought a hand to his lips; no breath.

He gently let his lips fall on Cas's forehead once more, before he brought him into his arms once more. He felt his arms shake as he held onto the body for dear life.

He didn't want to let go.

He couldn't.

He—

"Cas."

x x x

Time of death: 5:41 A.M.

Time of sunrise: 5:49 A.M.