Angels don't breathe. Maybe they just don't breathe on the right schedule. Or just not the way Dean needs them to. And he needs to inhale. He needs a sharp breath of shock as the dark ceases. Every single one of his senses snap in at once and make him shiver at the sudden exposure. Only he doesn't shiver. The skin on his face and forearms crawls with the sticky, damp air, but it doesn't give him goosebumps. And he's fairly certain the air is cold, but it's not something he's able to fully determine. It could be scorching, for all he knows. With the air comes the smell and the noise and the light. The light is blinding; it feels like staring at the snow, even though the snow in this case is flaking paint on a wall in a dim room. He can't avert his eyes, he can't blink; he can't shut them to go back to the comfort of the deep, blue darkness he used to have. Still, his eyes, overexposed, can recognize every detail within his view, every scratch on the wall covered in mold. The mold smells and so does dust and the spider-webs, too, and he doesn't know how he knows, but he knows it's them. He smells as well, of cheap soap mostly, and the hard chair under his butt smells of wood and it squeaks, loudly and piercingly, and he can't un-hear it, just like he can't stop hearing the clock on his left wrist ticking like a shotgun, or the stubborn, sweet chirps of crickets outside the window. The noises whisper to him in unknown languages he can understand; the roof speaks of holes, the wind speaks of dead winter. The heartbeat speaks of the time running out with each bang of the sweep hand. Even the tastelessness on his tongue seems to have a taste.

In a way, this state of experiencing is old; he's been there. He was once a vampire, a long time ago: he saw brighter, heard louder, smelled blood from two blocks away. The similarity laid in the sharpness of the senses, the difference in the two hundred percent focus and stillness. There is no violence in it: the blood pumping in his own veins doesn't scream dinner, the hunger doesn't tunnel his vision towards the red liquid, attempting to shut down all processes that aren't aimed at obtaining a snack. There is no pain: the impulses bombarding his senses with almost atomic power, grotesquely exaggerated, should cause damage to his every nerve, yet he feels as if he could stare at the sun if Cas wished to and he wouldn't hurt at all. There is no anxiety, no pounding in his head, no confusion. On the contrary: his body and mind seem to be stuck in perfect contentment. Temporarily at least.

He is aware; perfectly aware of every string of light, of every molecule which his senses can perceive on a level incomparably higher than his own, dull, human senses. He's not a human, not anymore, he realizes. Even if his essence, tucked into a far corner, is still a soul, not a grace, his body is angelic. The blood that flows through his veins has celestial properties, his brain processes information at warp eight, his bones are more durable than diamonds, his muscles are hard as rocks.

The only flaw is that he cannot use them, not a single one, they're not his to control. He's less than a passive receiver; he's a puppet. But it's not a hand up his ass or the strings that control him. These are his own muscles that do. Every tension, he feels, every shift of a bone against the joint, the weight of his forearm as it rises off his lap and the lap starts lacking that weight. His fingers cause friction in the air as they curl in, relaxed. His chest lifts and falls steadily, pumping new scents through his nose. The angels do breathe after all.

Not long till he finds out that the eyes are the worst part. He can tell Cas made it easy for him, staring absolutely still at one point until he could adjust to the new perception. But then his eyeballs move, ever so slightly, and it's like the whole world shakes.

"You'll get used to it, Dean." He feels his own lips move, his throat vibrate and the words come out spoken with his own voice, but he's not the one who said them.

The world jumps again, and it reminds him of the videos taken by those cameras attached to the helmet and pointed at one's face. With every move of the head, it's everything else that shifts but the said head.

I hope so, he's trying to answer, but his lips won't move. Shit.

"I can hear you just fine," his voice speaks again and it kind of begins to freak him out. "It's just like it was before."

Yeah but before I wasn't… he thinks aloud. Well, I just wasn't. And now…

He ponders in what should be the quiet that there must be a difference between what's quiet and what's aloud, and if Cas doesn't answer, this must be it. He's starting to get a grip on it, but still, his voice speaking words that aren't his is disturbing. So is hearing Cas speaking with his voice. He's not even sure if it's Cas anymore, it doesn't feel like him and that feeling defies any factual knowledge he possesses. Cas is just a strange entity hidden inside his muscles that is neither Dean nor Cas and it doesn't have Cas's qualities – there is not a single thing in him that is blue. Everything is wrong, because Cas has green eyes and plaid shirt and freckles. And even if Dean can't see these things like he can't see Cas, Cas still has wrong voice with the wrong tone and timbre.

"I understand, Dean." The way Dean's name sounds in his own – now Cas's – lips is so perplexing Dean wishes the angel would stop saying it altogether. A painful thought forms in his head, that if Cas were to utter a Hello, Dean now, he couldn't possibly sound more like a stranger. "I told you this way would only make it harder for you."

And I wish you had stopped me, he thinks and he prays it's the quiet way. He was scared and confused when he said let me see, the remnants of that feeling still linger in his memory. It felt like waking up dazed from a nightmare, only the other way around. First there was a paradise of bed, then sudden flood of memories, he couldn't stop. By the time he spiraled down, he'd been in the light for too long to remember what the darkness was, not knowing who he is. All there was, was the angel's shout that felt like the whole wrath of Heaven had fallen on him. He was swimming in black, tarry panic, with one thought of I fucked up and all he wanted was to find a way to make it right. And maybe put an illusion of a safe distance between himself and Cas, at which he utterly failed, all because he feared Cas's anger would digest him. Now Cas doesn't seem angry at all, but Dean doesn't ask. A part of him wants to apologize for that invasion on Cas's memories, although now that he sobered from the darkness, he knows it was not intended at all. In fact, he'd rather not know that Cas once watched him rake leaves and didn't even come to say hi. The contradicting emotions whirling inside him at the moment weren't that helpful either. Dean would rather forget.

The other part of him wants to apologize too, but for something else: namely for forevers. Those that Dean's rushed decision deprived them both of. He remembers them all and of course now he knows they weren't forevers, but they surely felt like it. If he were to fit them all into a time measure known to man, they would spill out and submerge him. Even thinking about them hurt, for they were too many lifetimes spent in a dream.

Suck it, DiCaprio.

There was a thing about the movie, though, that he could now sympathize with: surreal as they were, all the infinities of the inside seemed way more real and probable than what he got in exchange.

"Who's DiCaprio?" Cas's question startles Dean, because apparently he's not that good with the silent and the loud yet. Still, the angel taking the opportunity to show off his complete ignorance of pop-culture, as always, spills something warm across Dean's heart. It reminds him how much more there is to Cas than the trench coat and the blue.

He's an actor, he answers, mindlessly willing the corners of his lips to smile – to no avail. He played in this one movie about lucid dreams… It's good, I'll show it to you.

"You won't, Dean," Cas reminds him, but Dean doesn't need a reminder, this one thing he never forgets. He just wrote a different ending to the story, and he still, after all that's happened – especially after all that's happened – is not letting him go.

I will, Cas, he thinks, determined. We'll watch it together, I'll make… I'll teach you how to make popcorn.

"Dean," it starts again, the pleading. But Dean is relentless.

No, see, Cas, I thought it through. I said it once, do you think I didn't mean it?

"No, you didn't," Cas answers decidedly. "I can't keep you like this forever. I wouldn't want to. You've got your life."

But I want you to. I want you to stay, man, he feels the quiet-loud filter wear off completely, I should have said it before all this, but after what we did? What we are? How do you expect me to let you go?

The images keep flowing through his head, his own this time: their little house, their huge bed. The emotions are his own too, although he's sure Cas's are the same, it keeps replaying, their bodies, joined together, their mouths, hungry for each other, fingers searching, loving…

Dean.

Dean's mind goes quiet. It's not his voice this time, it's Cas's, and it's in his head, more persistent than any spoken word could be. It isn't that scary this time, it's begging, maybe warning. Oh God, Dean thinks with the realization, Cas is hurting. Every word, every plea Dean drives through Cas like knives. Maybe it's not at all harder to be the one that gets left behind when the other leaves. If he remembered, he'd know what it's like to be leaving, he was once the one who had to go and leave behind people he loved and things he enjoyed. He too had someone who refused to let him go, who kept telling him there is a choice.

"You have no other choice, Dean," Cas adds out loud, as if he was reading his mind.

After that, they both keep to their silent modes. Dean thinks of Cas's palm sealing his mouth. Don't you say that to me, the angel begged and Dean just didn't get it. There's a whole world Cas needs to leave behind. Dean, too. Maybe he'll be stationed on Earth again, like he used to be, Dean wonders if that's good enough. He wonders if Cas would sometimes station over cheap motels and sometimes see him walking out of the Impala, with a bag of guns on his arm. Just another day in the office – another town, another hunt, until he's too old to hold a knife. Or maybe a blue-eyed girl – or a guy, he considers – picked up at a bar, hanging at his shoulder. They'd follow him to the room for a quick, comfort fuck and goodbye before the morning. All that has been enough for Dean for all his life. Would Cas still watch him then?

There's a part of Dean that wants to blame Cas, to blame him for giving up too easily. For saying 'no' when Dean keeps saying 'yes', when he offers him his whole body and his whole life. But that way, Dean would have to blame himself too, for the time wasted and he's not eager to start building his new ballast on what they could have had.

Instead, he chooses to blame Raphael. The bastard took it all away, murdered, slaughtered, devoured. While they were accusing each other for all the things that they have or have not done when Dean yelled at Cas for trying to fight not necessarily the good fight, but as fair as could be in the circumstances given, he was blinded. There were no sides there, no right or wrong, just the common enemy: pompous, power-hungry son of a bitch who tried to make the big bad out of Cas, even in Dean's eyes. From the moment that fucking hole closed on Stull Cemetery, it was always him: all the bad deals, all the alphas and damned Crowley – it was never Cas's fault.

Raphael needs to die. And he will.

Dean attempts to take a deep breath to ease his boiling blood. He ends up forcing Cas to do it for him and it kind of helps. So does the knowledge that the fucker will be dead at dawn. As well as the fact that the deep darkness means they still have some time.

Why is it still dark? Dean notices, as his anger begins to wear off.

Their eyes flick towards the window. There is a street lamp shining weakly and Dean realizes that this is the sole source of the light in the room that appears to him so bright. Behind it there's a piece of the sky, ink black, but on that tiny slice visible through the shattered window, there are more stars than he could normally see from horizon to horizon, condensed on the limited space. The sight is mesmerizing, soothing. Suddenly, Dean finds himself in the need to squash down the jealousy for Cas's limitless perception of the worlds.

"It's barely past midnight," the angel answers dryly.

Wow, after all this ti– stops mid-sentence, because time is not exactly a concept he can rely on. Wait. How long has it been for you?

"It's been three days since I possessed you."

Three days… Sure, Dean was aware the time inside was wacky, but he expected a month at least. This is good, though, he thinks, every time he allowed himself to forget about things like Sam, the Mother and the whole rest of the world, the world didn't even have time to start missing him. But this isn't what he wanted to know.

No, I mean since we… he trails off. Sex has never, ever been a topic that would make him feel awkward. On some days it was a thing as normal, even as necessary, as breathing. But lately, breathing has not exactly been a normal thing, so how can he categorize what they did? Was it still real if it only happened in his head? No bodies, no reality – no act. But Cas was there too and it felt more real than anything ever has. Maybe because there were no bodies, no animalistic drive; just the pure desire to feel Cas, to savor Cas, to be one with him in more than just a sexual, in more than just a possessive sense. He did not just want Cas: he needed Cas to have him whole, his whole life, his whole world. It wasn't something a quick round of jacking off in a shower could dissolve.

Inside the black hole and the galaxy of his locked up mind, it felt like the longing has lasted since the dawn of time and forever. Now that Dean has sobered up, he thinks simply that maybe it felt real, because he told Cas he loved him and it was the strongest he's ever felt being this vulnerable.

"Oh, um, about half an hour," the angel answers and a shocked oh escapes Dean's thoughts.

No way, he mumbles.

They've been living on two separate timelines: Dean had all the time in the world and vast gulfs between short moments; Cas has been forced to tread the fast lane towards his earthly death, only stalling the inevitable in the refuge of Dean, and when they synchronized, Dean wonders, did Cas slow down or did Dean run faster? The latter, more likely, because they can never have good things.

But they're both on time now, heading steadily for the end in the pace of the very same heartbeat.

They become tall suddenly but gradually; with a surge of tension in their legs and the movement of their back, they stand up from the chair, accompanied by its tired whine. They turn around and just when Dean thought he was used to the earthquakes in his eyes, he finds out he is not. But he will be.

They turn around and their eyes inspect every corner, every wall, like Cas is expecting something to jump out from behind the grayish layer of dead paint. There's a table by the window where they sat, the room is bigger than it appeared and outside, in the semblance of a hallway, there are stairs leading somewhere to the darkness of the first floor.

Cas, what are you doing? Cas has had time to check the place out, but this – this stops looking like a checkout, more of a presentation. Wait, I…

Cas takes his time, giving another once over to the shards of glass glimmering on the floor – they must have once sat inside the hollowed windows framed by what used to be white curtains, before the storm came and smashed them all. Now the glass covers the floor, mingling with the wooden splinters on the thick blanket of dust, and there in the middle of it, the ground is charred in a circle.

I know this place, Dean realizes, confused as to why they're in Maine, in this particular house. The old building hasn't changed at all since the last time they were here over two years earlier. But then, abandoned houses rarely do, unless they collapse. Why are we here?

"For the ritual I need a place that Raphael has strongly marked with his presence," Cas explains.

It makes sense, Dean thinks, blowing out the windows on their heads, not to mention the power in the entire East Coast, that must have left a big-ass mark. It surely did leave some mark on him, because, boy, was he pissing his pants standing in front of the furious archangel who was raising storms from inside the ring of Holy Fire. There haven't been many instances in Dean's life when he was legitimately scared, but that was one of them.

Still, funnily enough, Raphael's visit wasn't the part of their trip to Waterville, Maine that glowed in Dean's memory the brightest. There was a lot of scary shit on Dean's way, especially since the kickstart of the Apocalypse, but there weren't many occasions for him and Cas to hang out and just be two good buddies. Cas has always been either on the wrong side of the fence, fighting, or gone. But then, that one night outside of the brothel, where Dean had nearly had to drag the terrified angel by force – not that he had that much strength to do so, but it surely took a lot of convincing – that was when Dean for the first time thought: "Hey, I really want this guy to stick around." And not because he was a powerful ally, because he was a friend. After that it was all downhill, though maybe a bit bumpy, but each day Dean found himself hoping Cas would pop in – to help with their unholy mission or to grab a beer – it didn't matter.

And now they're here again: same place, same fucking archangel to catch. Only this time the stakes are much higher. This time there won't be just fire and lightning and broken glass. This time there will be blood. And Dean just hopes it's not theirs.

So what now, you wanna sit here quietly? Dean mocks the echo of past Cas jokingly and is answered by a chuckle.

"What else would you like to do?" the angel asks more seriously. "We still have about five hours until sunrise."

Dean is grateful that neither of them went with the last night on earth line, although he knows it's persistently rumbling on the backs of both of their minds.

We should, uh, I guess we should go see Sam and Bobby, Dean remembers. They should know it's today, in case…

"You're not gonna die, Dean," the angel cuts in, firmly. "I won't let that happen."

I know, Cas, I know, Dean mutters. It's not like Cas plans to die and in their situation it's either neither or both. If they die, they die together. How romantic, Dean thinks sarcastically. With both our lives at stake, we're making it easy for the bastard, aren't we.

"But I mean it, Dean," Cas says decidedly. "Keeping you alive is my priority."

The surprising statement throws Dean off balance. That's some diametrical change of directive about which he for sure has not been consulted.

Killing Raphael is our priority, Dean corrects him, accentuating every word, because apparently Cas needs a reminder. He's known all along this is bigger than him, still he signed up, aware that the chances are he's a dead man when this is over. But he's no stranger to sacrifice. And Raphael needs to die. No distraction here, alright, Cas?

"No distraction," Cas agrees, but then he stubbornly adds a promise of: "but you will make it out alive."

Well shit, Cas. Dean starts to lose his patience. This kind of thinking might prove dangerous on the battlefield and he knows Cas knows it, but his judgment might be temporarily clouded. As long as the son of a bitch is dead, I'm happy. And yeah, sure I don't want us dead, but you don't pull the "you're my priority" crap on me. Not now, he pleads.

"I'm not stupid, Dean," Cas assures him, their voice suddenly taking on a tired tone. "I know I can't let anything stop me from killing Raphael."

Good. But I'm kinda getting mixed signals here, Dean thinks at him, confused, demanding answers.

"I know," Cas mutters.

There's a strange heaviness to their breathing, as if their chest wore a burden that Dean doesn't feel. They cross the room to slump down on the chair again, their back slouches, head falls down to rest in their hands. Everything goes black when Cas closes their eyes.

What's wrong, Cas?

Cas takes a longer while to answer, and when he does, his speech is slow and drowned with remorse.

"You are the last person I wanted to drag into this," he says, eventually, but Dean can't say he's shocked. "It's too dangerous."

Cas, I read the terms and conditions.

"That's not what I'm talking about. You are always so ready to die, Dean," Cas shakes their head. "But have you thought that maybe I am not ready to let you die?"

Dean sucks in breath, metaphorically.

"I put at risk everything I have, Dean," Cas continues, "and by that I don't mean my life, I mean yours. If you think that… Dean, the thought of getting you killed… It's more than I can handle. I'd call it all off if I could, just to keep you safe. Whether I'm dead or alive, you must live."

At dead or alive is where Dean loses it. Since they both lately seem to want things the other finds improbable, he'll fight him on this one, just as hard as Cas fought him. He knows there's his fault somewhere in it too, because they're just two self-sacrificing jackasses, but fuck if Cas isn't being plain fucking selfish here.

You stupid son of a bitch, he growls, voice echoing in their head. You're gonna whine about my life? Well, screw you! Because you know what? When I die, you know exactly where I'll be. Right there, upstairs, waiting for you to stop by. Where will you be? he asks bitterly. You can't exactly give me twenty of angel heaven. So you can cut your crap and for once think what here is really at stake.

He wonders if the anger boiling in his stomach burns Cas too, but it apparently does not, because Cas still doesn't get it and he still says:

"It doesn't matter."

Infuriated howl fills Dean's mind, blinding him, and hopefully Cas too, and he thinks that if he had any control of his body, he'd smash the walls with his fists and that fucking table and the damned, squeaking chair.

God! he shouts. You dumb fucker! You're lucky I can't grab you by your fucking shirt and throw you against the wall. He sees the image vividly storming through his thoughts, Cas with his old face staring at him from two inches away, shocked at Dean's reaction. I'd kiss your fucking stupidity off your face. Would you fucking understand then? Would you? That I fucking love you? he confesses, emphasizing every word. So just fucking get over it and don't let yourself get killed!

"Dean."

He realizes they're heaving, knuckles white squeezing the edge of the table, old wood cracking under the pressure.

I love you too, Cas gasps vehemently straight into his brain, the force breaks the dam between him and Dean. I always have. Always.

When the scenes come flowing in, Dean knows it isn't his doing this time. They go from burning white to mild, stoic implosions; they're smiles and choices; mostly choices, and the crushing feeling of doubt, gradually fading, like the emotions, with each picture, as they go back in time, until they're licked by the flames, dumbfounded by the bright glow of the soul that winces from the touch. Always, resounds again and they're in the last one of the forevers without and inch of air between their bodies.

Upstairs, Dean demands and when Cas doesn't comply, he repeats harder. Upstairs.

What happens next cannot be compared to the usual suckiness of teleportation when the carpet gets pulled out from under him without a warning. It's more of an elevation, as the muscles of their back tense where the wings begin. He feels every millisecond of the flight, perfectly controlled slide between the whirling molecules as they cross the walls and the ceiling, before landing with a rustle of feathers on the first floor bedroom where Dean napped during their first stay there.

How do you– Cas begins, no longer bothering to open his mouth, but Dean cuts him off.

Bed, he commands.

He can sense confusion slowly spreading in Cas, but he floods it out with the warm candlelight flickering on their palms, Cas's fingers trailing patterns of the freckles on Dean's skin, moans filling in blanks for the angel. And as he begins to understand, a quiet gasp of his own breaks the dead silence of the house.

As soon as they hit the bed, with one thought Cas wills the blanket of dust away, rendering the old bedsheets pristine.

How? He asks, this time eager to follow any given instructions.

Cas, it's my body, right there, Dean purrs, and I'm right here.

He waits impatiently as Cas stumbles on the buttons to peel off layers of their clothes, exposing their chest to the cool air.

I'm all yours, Cas, Dean tempts, now show me yours, let me feel what you feel. Like I showed you mine.

The angel starts off damn shyly, without Dean to lead his movements, but the man is there all the time, giving him whispered encouragement of good, that's good, Cas, keep going. Gentle strokes soon turn into heavy-weight exploration: every inch of the body, every line of a muscle, hypersensitive tips of their fingers serving them for eyes that are now closed. It's not even half as bizarre as it could appear, not some fucked up version of masturbation. These are Cas's hands that caress Dean's body, these are Dean's hands that caress Cas. And they want each other hungrily, desperately.

"Can you feel it?" Cas mumbles aloud to make sure of what he must already know, and fuck does Dean feel…

I feel everything, Cas.

He feels everything, and more. His skin perceiving tenfold, like embroidered with an ocean of new nerve endings like the night sky was embroidered with new stars, and each of them focused on one purpose only: pleasure. His pleasure. And Cas's pleasure. Shivers crawling down the spine, from there Dean feels the fingers on the back of his neck, the other hand teasing his nipple.

The only thing that's missing is the mouth, the hot, soothing mouth with teasing teeth and the nimble, wet tongue to lick him, suck hickeys into his skin, slide down the trail on his belly. All they've got is one set of hands to make it all good. It's all in the hands, fingers slick with his spit, then slick with his pre-come, when Dean's desperate pleas of fuck my dick, fuck it, fuck it finally gets fulfilled.

Dean, you'll tell me if I do something wrong? Cas checks, grabbing his cock with one hand, using the other to push the pants and boxers down.

Sure thing, Cas, Dean gasps, wishing for the slightest bit of control, to rush the angel, because the angel takes it so infuriatingly slow, no worries, just, keep, fucking, touching me.

With the eyes closed Dean can let himself forget again, and so he forgets the old fucking room that reeks of dust and the bed with creaky springs. He replaces the images with Cas's golden skin, the sounds with Cas's pants, the scents with the scent of Cas. He sees the fire-licked figure arching over him, muscles of his chest and abdomen tense and hot, sweaty skin inviting, begging for a touch and Dean's hand reaches up, sliding down that torso while his eyes search for the blue eyes. The fantasy feels real, with the weight of the other body pressing his, then Cas's mouth follows where his hand was to take his dick in its wet, warm embrace, then Dean fucks and fucks his throat.

So good.

It's so good, Cas.

Now fuck me, Cas.

He feels a finger slip into him, his hands hold on to Cas, the Cas who does it so, so good, the Cas that is real and tangible. The Cas that makes sweet little noises, as another finger joins, stretching Dean up, preparing for what is never to come. Still Cas fucks him with his fingers, while Dean fucks his throat and it feels so good when Cas hits the right spot, time after time, drawing groans from his mouth, groans that echo in the burning air till they explode into a whimper as Dean comes.

The splatter of come on his stomach makes the whole world quiet but for Dean's heavy panting and Cas's panting, which are one again. They lie next to the empty air, Cas's hand – his hand lazily caressing his cock, muscles loosening but for the heart that doesn't want to slow its beating. Their eyes open and the old room again reeks of dust, only the bed doesn't creak, because they don't move. They are alone together again.

It's almost time, isn't it?

He feels their head nodding in confirmation before they rise up on their elbows. With a slide of palm across their chest, the whole stickiness is gone from their stomach, which, Dean thinks, is very handy.

It's four forty eight, Cas thinks in response, without even glancing at the watch sitting on their wrist. The sun will rise at five fifty seven.

Oh shit, Dean growls, the sudden realization that it's almost time, just a bit over an hour away, hits him like a punch in the stomach, fully stirring him up from the post-lovemaking drowsiness.

They've been lying there, just breathing, for what felt like minutes, but must have been hours, after all. Dean really hates the way the time flows here. They've been talking about old things, easy things. Dean told Cas stories from the hunts from before the angel came to his life. Cas spoke of ancient stories that the Bible dared not mention. Most of all they've talked about love, which couldn't get more chick-flick, but Dean didn't care, because there were certain things that Cas just had to know.

There was an unwritten contact saying: we're not talking about the messed up situation we're in. But then Dean broke it, because contracts never did him any good.

I won't lose you, Cas, he muttered, just to hear his name in a tone of "we've talked about this," because they had, many times, but back then Dean's mind hadn't been as clear as it is now. I will let you go, but only if you promise to come back. You could pop in once in a while, right? You could jump in and we'd have some fun. Weekend visits, like a friend, huh? Cas?

Yes, Cas answered after a beat, letting a tingly sensation of joyful relief resonate through Dean. I'll be coming back for as long as you want me.

For the first time since that one night in January so, so long ago, Dean wasn't afraid of what was to come. After that they didn't have to try to fit all the words from all those years wasted into what little they had left of the night anymore, yet still they tried. They still wanted to say it all before they were out of time that was running unrelentingly towards the end.

And now they've run out of it.

Let's get going, Dean decides and feels Cas, just as reluctant to leave the bed as him, pull them up, eyes scanning the floor in search of clothes. They lie haphazardly just as Cas left them; he picks them up. You've everything ready, right? For the ritual?

All the ingredients are here, Cas confirms as he shakes the tight jeans on, having at once switched to the entirely professional mode, while Dean is having a hard time letting go. Do you still want to see Sam?

Yeah, okay, let's see Sam, he answers devoid of enthusiasm. Hopefully seeing his brother will give him a healthy slap in the face and bring him back to the awful reality. He hasn't seen Sam for so long.

Alright, the angel answers and luckily Dean chooses to take it for "brace yourself," because as soon as the jacket lands on their shoulders, they take off.

The wee jump to the bedroom was barely a foretaste to what the actual cutting through the atmosphere is. It's all speed that must be faster than light and turns everything into a blur, even for the angel's eyes, yet Cas manages to control the flight, perfectly focused on the destination. Fifteen hundred miles from Maine to Sioux Falls takes him a single flap of wings, and halfway through, Dean remembers he's afraid of flying. But before he can contemplate over whether angels crash like the planes do, it's all over.

They hit the ground right in front of Bobby's house and Dean needs a long moment to gather himself up. Were it not for the fact that Cas holds his body upright, he'd fall, shaking from the overload of sensations.

I can't get inside, Cas announces, the house is angel-proofed.

Good, Dean utters, finally, when he's managed to put his thoughts back together. Start throwing pebbles at the window.

He feels his own head tilt to the side with confusion and can barely hold back a laugh.

Any better ideas? he asks.

We could just call him, Cas answers simply, pulling Dean's cellphone out of the jacket pocket. With a phone.

Oh, that'll work too, Dean gasps, eyes following his fingers, as they pick the right number.

There's a beeping signal at the end of the line and it goes on for a long moment before it's replaced by a sleepy yet alert voice, that sounds completely foreign through the phonelines.

"Hello?"

"Sam, it's me, Castiel."

A faint light appears in one of the windows upstairs.

"What's wrong?" the man asks automatically.

"I'm outside the house," Cas says, and before he can add anything else, Sam throws him a quick: "I'm right there," and ends the call.

It takes less than a minute until the front door opens and Sam appears in it, fully dressed. Must have slept that way, Dean thinks; he knows he does. Although he's not sure if it's Sam's custom too. It feels good to see his face, finally have some sharp details to fill in the obscure, blurry contours that were left inside his mind, washed out by the passing of time. It might have been only three days for Sam, but it was still millennia for Dean, millennia without seeing that face. Entire lifetimes without even remembering his existence. But now there's a whole human being standing before him, flesh and bone, all concern and perfect hair, and Dean should feel relieved, knowing that kid he needs to take care of is real. And all grown up too.

"What's going on?" The hunter closes the door behind him and steps up closer, examining them carefully. "Are you both still in there?"

His voice is a worried melody, so soft for someone so big, who doesn't own a soul. But he does own a soul, Dean recalls feebly, unsure why soullessness was the first thing that came to his mind. The kid's eyes are full of soul, as they stare right into theirs, as if trying to find the essence of Dean hiding in the depths of their pupils.

Their own eyes take in the whole of Sam, his gigantic form, taller than theirs, as if Cas thought Dean needs to remember. He probably does, because the boy feels too much like a stranger for someone who used to bind Dean together. Dean thinks at some point the memories of the made up time will start to fade, like good dreams do in the morning, leaving you exposed to the cruelty of the waking world. And when they fade, they'll make room for the oldest memories to come back and drag him down like they never left. Then he'd remember everything that he now only knows in theory: he's always gotta look out for Sammy. Also that he loves Sam like a treasure, and knows better than his own palm. But mostly that he's gotta look out for Sammy. He'll remember it clearly like a child remembers a lullaby their mother sang, he'll know perfectly all of the words.

But for now he's glad it's Cas who does the talking.

"Yes, we are," Cas answers, and he adds from himself: "Dean says hi."

Dean doesn't remember saying hi, but he'll roll with it, since there isn't much he can do anyway. Sam shifts awkwardly.

"Um, tell him I said hi back," he says. "How is he?"

From what little Dean does remember, Sam's the one in their family who's got the questionable honor of being a walking encyclopedia of possession, therefore he should know exactly how the thing works. It's rather unlikely that Satan was a nice enough fella to shut him off. In fact, if he had, the world would have ended undoubtedly. No matter how strong the will to fight, there is no way out from down below. But then Dean assumes Cas must have explained to him what he'd done. Was it because Sam worried Dean wouldn't handle it the hard way?

Sam confirms his suspicion as soon as Cas finishes clarifying the situation.

"Oh, how's he– how are you taking it, Dean?"

He wishes he could roll his eyes, or raise his eyebrows at least, but all he can do is murmur a grumpy I'm not complaining for Cas to repeat.

Before Sam can add anything, the front door opens again and out comes Bobby. He turns out to be an older man with a cranky expression and a hat on his head. Bobby's like a father to me, Dean thinks to himself, because that's the whole theory he remembers about the man, and he needs to hold on to it. He needs to fetch those floating pieces of information as dry as the biographic entries get, and cling to them like to a lifebuoy in this sea of new faces that should be familiar but got buried under tones of Cas.

"Did you find the archangel, boys?" the man starts without a hello.

"Not yet," Cas answers, then proceeds to fill them in on the news of the ritual.

"You're taking me with you," Sam decides on spot.

No, we're not, Dean objects automatically, maybe a bit too rapidly, but it doesn't matter, because the angel doesn't send the message forward. What the hell, Cas? Tell him he's not going!

Why not? Cas asks him, ignoring the two man observing their silent conversation.

Because I said so, Dean says right away, hoping he sounds more like an older brother than a bratty child.

But why? the angel demands the answer and Dean goes quiet. Because he doesn't want him there, is the first, obvious answer, which doesn't feel right and causes a weird twist somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach. It's not that there is anything wrong with the boy. It's a perfectly okay boy and Dean'll probably like him as soon as he gets to know him; ideally – remember him. But he doesn't for now and it's not the best time for making new friends. Still, Dean's aware that the first and obvious answer should be different; the line goes: watch out for Sammy – Sammy might get hurt if he goes with them. This sounds like a perfectly valid excuse, and one that sounds like something Dean would say, so that's what he tells Cas.

He can't get hurt during the ritual. Cas wipes Dean's smugness off. Besides he should know where we're going.

Yeah, but, his mind starts frantically looking for another excuse before he realizes that the attack is the best defense. Why are you so eager to take him? You've an ulterior motive, huh?

To Dean's surprise Cas replies him with a huff of chuckle that spills out through their throat before the angel can catch it. To his relief it's not a nervous "I plan to sacrifice the boy in the ritual" kind of chuckle. More of a "you're being fucking silly" in fact, which is comforting.

Still Cas defies Dean, their head nods in confirmation to Sam's request.

"You can go, Sam," he says despite Dean writhing inside in protest. "Are you going too, Bobby?"

For a beat the man's eyes watch their face vigilantly, but then he shakes his head.

"Nah, doesn't sound like you'll need me there," he decides. "But if you do, you know where to find me."

The angel nods their head again, but before he reaches their index and middle fingers to Sam's forehead, Bobby speaks up again.

"Just boys, don't get yourself killed," he says seriously, and then on a supposedly lighter, but in fact only depressing note, he adds: "The whole world counts on you, you know."

No pressure, huh? Dean thinks grimly at Cas, who's at the verge of saying something dumb like "I don't think the world is aware of what is about to happen," but then he changes his mind and goes for simple:

"Getting killed is not a part of the plan."

As soon as their fingers touch Sam's forehead, they're rushing across America again just to land in Waterville the next moment.

"So what is this ritual?" Sam asks, freezing his ass off on the squeaky chair, while Cas unpacks his – as it turns out, Dean's – duffel bag. They're inside the old house, but it doesn't change a thing, since Raphael smashed all of the windows. Dean is glad the temperature doesn't affect his angel'd body.

"It's quite simple, actually. Only finding the ingredients was difficult," Cas explains, holding up a light violet flower with paper thin petals. "Like this plant, extinct since the Jurassic era."

Whoah, dude! Dean thinks at him with excitement which then quickly turns into resentment, as he realizes: you took us back in time to visit fucking dinosaurs and you didn't tell me?

To that Cas giggles, actually fucking giggles, which attracts Sam's curiosity.

"What?"

"No, Dean," Cas speaks aloud to answer both questions at the same time, "I did not go visit fucking dinosaurs without you. My friend Rachel did."

Now Sam laughs too, because Dean's apparently really hilarious. He'd rather have Cas keep their conversations between the two of them. That's what this little Vulcan mind meld of theirs is for, after all.

Oh, good, he comments, exasperated. 'Cause I'd be pissed if I missed Jurassic Park live show, you know.

"I wouldn't let you miss it, Dean," Cas assures him, out loud again, which begins to annoy Dean. He's not used to sharing Cas. There is Dean and Cas, there's always been Dean and Cas, and even if before that there was Sam and Dean, the boy is still a stranger, an intruder half-listening in on their conversations. He doesn't really want to feel this way. He knows, he really does, that once he loved the boy with all that he was. He also knows it'll come back, it must come back eventually. But it's not now, not today.

"We've nineteen minutes until the sunrise," Sam mutters, peeking at his watch.

Their hands keep working on preparing the ritual, cutting up some ancient grasses, pouring in blood-like liquids, scribbling weird symbols that for sure aren't Enochian.

Can you shut up for a moment? Dean asks, while their eyes slide across the table, checking if everything's on it's place.

I'm not saying anything, puzzled Cas replies immediately, willing the chalk dust off their fingers.

I mean, can you not say anything loud?

Cas doesn't answer, but Dean decides to try anyway,

You did have an ulterior motive, didn't you? Dragging Sam here?

Cas sighs heavily.

Yes, I did, he admits and his answer is exactly what Dean expected. I heard you – sort of – what you were thinking, what you felt towards your brother and Bobby. You believe they're strangers to you.

Well, yeah. A surge of shame whirls in Dean's stomach. Do you have any idea how long I haven't seen them? It's still not a reason to throw a high school reunion; not now.

Dean, you haven't seen them for four days.

It's getting boring, the contrasting of his with theirs. They've already established they're incomparable, Dean also established that his was the true one, because it was his truth and that was the only truth that mattered to him. So when he says it's not been four days, then it's not been four days, for fuck's sake. But he doesn't feel like arguing, not now when it's this late.

It surely didn't feel like it, he just mutters.

I know. The tone of Cas's thoughts is soft and warm. Understanding. Cas does understand him. Even if his angelic memory probably reaches the creation of the universe itself and has never lacked any details, let alone things of such importance. But Cas also knows that Dean's only human and his memory should have never been burdened with a load it couldn't handle. But you can't just push them away like that. They're your family.

I know, Cas! It's not like… It's not like I'm not trying, okay? I remember, Dean tries to explain. I remember the fire, I remember dad telling me to take care of Sam, I remember demon blood and Lucifer and driving around with the American Psycho. It just feels like I'm reading some, some entry in frigging Wikipedia, about someone else's life, like it didn't happen to me. But Cas, I'll get there.

Yes, you will, Cas confirms, and Dean thinks that it's good to have a solid confirmation that he hasn't lost those things forever. At the same time it means losing something else, something that makes him what he is now, everything that seems the most vital to him as he is and it's not comforting at all. But perhaps I shouldn't have shut you off in the first place, I had no idea…

If Cas for a second thought that this would make it better, he is damn wrong. But again, what matters for Cas and what matters for Sam and Bobby and apparently the whole fucking world is that Dean remains – or comes back to – being the same miserable, selfishly selfless himself he's been his whole life. What matters for Dean is that he's lived so long and he's remade himself into a person that allows himself to love his best friend Cas, but also into a person that has no emotional remembrance of the bad things that had shaped him into what he used to be. They were evil things, horrible things. They were monsters with monstrous faces and a monster with a face of his father, and one with a face of fire. They were things that have given him purpose his whole life, but also dug into him, kept taking some pieces of him and replacing them until he became ninety percent of crap. When these things come back to rob him of his water wings of lightness and stuff drilled obedience and guilt like rocks into his pockets, he'll drown.

It's only thanks to Cas that he's lightweight. And Cas doesn't get to decide whether the lightness is right.

What the hell are you talking about? he interrupts him, betrayed. What you've given me, Cas, what you've given us… Don't you dare take that all away from us and call it wrong. There's only one thing that's wrong here and it's the fact that you're fucking leaving me among people who won't understand.

Dean, Cas says like his name still carries all the things Cas can't express.

It's just too many things, Dean's glad he's got no control over his tear ducts, he leaves the whole tearing part up to the angel. I'm not only losing you, I'm losing everything. And that when he realizes: maybe you're right Cas. Maybe you shouldn't have shut me off. Maybe I shouldn't have fallen in love with you.

Cas sucks in a sharp breath and for a moment closes his eyes, before he answers:

Maybe neither should I.

It stings. It stings more than it should. Probably because they know it's true. Probably because there isn't anything they can do about it anyway. They were in a check, that is about to turn into a mate.

They don't say another word. As a confirmation that the conversation's over, Cas turns to Sam, who's sat behind them all the time, most likely aware that they've had an important talk that should not be disturbed. Poor guy wrapped his winter jacket tightly around his body and he is still slightly shaking.

"Everything is ready," Cas announces to the younger man.

"Good." Sam glances at his watch again and gets up from the chair. "We've only got three minutes left."

"It'll all go quite quickly once I begin," the angel explains, while Sam examines the small altar prepared on the table. "I and Dean will depart immediately after learning Raphael's location, not to lose the element of surprise."

"Um, so he'll know you've located him?"

"There is a possibility that he'll be able to sense it and try to flee, but I'm quite sure he's still too weak to escape before we get there."

"Alright, I'm ready."

What? What the hell? Cas, tell him he's… Dean protests again, afraid Cas won't listen like he didn't earlier, but luckily this time the angel is on his side. Apparently Battle Royale is not exactly a good theme for a high school reunion.

"You're not going, Sam," he says firmly.

"Why not?"

"Because it's dangerous, obviously. There's nothing you can do to help me there. Taking you there was never an option."

"Oh, I guess you're right." To Dean's relief Sam agrees. "I just hope it's not on the Moon."

"If the fight was to take place on the Moon it at least wouldn't threaten with many casualties." The sourness in his voice indicates he's still reminiscing all the damage and deaths his previous duel with the crazy archangel caused. Dean kind of forgot about that too. "But this time it shouldn't last long, and Sam," his voice is flat, "if we're not back soon, if we lose… There'll be no use of you even trying to get there and look for us."

They take a long look into Sam's eyes to make sure the boy understands. As Sam nods, his face takes on a pained and lost expression, making him appear much younger than he really is. Right there the gigantic man transformed into a boy, a kid that needed his older brother to come back alive. Dean wishes Cas would turn away.

And then Cas does turn away, to stare through the window at the lightening eastern horizon.

"Sunrise."

If a few days from now Sam finds himself in a situation where he's forced to dismiss Castiel's last words to him and go looking for his brother's body, just to have something to burn or bury, luckily he won't have to leave the atmosphere. In fact he won't even have to leave the continent, although the passport will be necessary. But that'll be only if they lose and most of the time Dean is quite convinced they won't lose. For the rest of the time he thinks: I'll die in fucking Canada. But if so far he hasn't used up his entire limit of worrying about his own life, it is high time to place the bets.

It's not the first time that day Dean's glad he's not affected by the temperature, otherwise he'd probably die from freezing his balls off before they got to killing Raphael. The archangel himself is nowhere to be seen when they land on a thick layer of snow. It's still before dawn there, the world is frozen and dark and quiet. They're all alone.

Are you sure it's here? Now that Dean's staring at snow it doesn't seem so blinding, the eyes don't ache from the brightness like the frosty down doesn't reflect light. Open, frozen ground surrounded by mountain tops is not Dean's idea of a hide, but to a weakened, wounded archangel it probably doesn't make a difference, as long as he's away from the only person who can defeat him. Which he is no more.

Don't you feel it, Dean? Cas's confused tone resounds with anxious anticipation. It's coming.

Feel what? He doesn't feel anything peculiar, but then everything in the way he perceives is still peculiar to him so whatever he should be sensing, he may be as well confusing it with the whole rest of sharpness.

Spidey senses.

Cas gives him two heartbeats more to find it inside him, but whether it's supposed to be tingling or itching or scratching, it's not there and it doesn't matter. What matters is that Cas knows and he knows the way. They move. They step swiftly and so lightly their feet float on the snow.

Raphael knows they're here as well. They don't get far, the archangel meets them halfway. If Dean's angelic vision seemed fucked up before, seeing a real life angel takes the cake. After becoming a pile of salt, Raphael took on another vessel, female vessel, stepping firmly, barring their way. But it's not the vessel that takes Dean's figurative breath away, it's the way the angel is pouring out of it, the radioactive pure white filling the veins, shining through the skin like it's translucent, light leaking out her eyes, like the limited human body cannot contain it whole, though it's just an illusion. On the back, on both sides of the spine the skin cracks, the celestial intent spills out through the cracks to form two grotesquely gigantic shapes in the air, so bright, Dean understands why he was only ever allowed to see the shadows of Cas's wings.

Only there is something terribly wrong with those wings, they don't spread as high and as wide as they should. One of them is twisted in several different directions, the other one is thinned like its feathers have been ripped out together with the muscles. Both of them seem sick and hollowed. And it's not just the wings, now Dean notices the moving bubbles of the liquid light in the veins washed out and thin like water. None of these things seem to take away the angel's impressiveness, like half-deadly wound would do to a human, but they all sure seem like a hella good sign for them.

Not until now did Dean think if Cas's wings are as dismantled and broken. Or as brilliant.

"Congratulations, Castiel," the archangel speaks and his voice seems to echo through the mountainsides. "You've found me."

"Raphael," Cas gives him a courtesy of a greeting. "You hid well, I have to admit."

"I see you're playing with Michael's toy. He won't be too happy about it when he finds out. You know how he is."

"He won't have a chance to find out."

"You are so convinced you can kill me."

"I think I already proved myself to you once."

"And where is the power of the Heavenly Weapons now? You've used all of it up, brother."

"I don't need it anymore to defeat you," Cas replies with utter self-confidence and force so great that Raphael seems to have become smaller and Dean wonders if their eyes glow fiercely or if Cas's wings bristle like a furious cat's fur.

The archangel's chest rises slowly then falls and he takes a step towards them, before he switches the subject.

"You see, Castiel, you once said that the Apocalypse does not have to be fought. I thought about it when I stayed here alone for those few days. My conclusion was that it does. But perhaps we could postpone it," he offers. "Since it's all about those two rabid dogs of yours, we could wait a few generations. Then start again. It wouldn't be ideal, but that's a compromise we could work out."

So what, they'll go for our grandchildren? No thanks. Dean holds back a bitter chuckle. He's been quiet this whole time not to distract Cas, now he had to speak up before Cas starts to believe this bullshit. Cas, he's bluffing.

I know, Dean, the angel assures him, then aloud he repeats Dean's words: "You're bluffing."

"No," the archangel answers bluntly.

"Why would you change your mind now?"

If Cas hasn't noticed it before, the look the archangel sends him, having let the mask fall down, the fatigue poured all over his face says it all: he's tired and he's hurt beyond what several days of rest could fix. Cas may not be stronger than him, but their chances are way too even for the archangel's liking. He used to be Heaven's most terrifying weapon, now he is an equal match for a rebel.

"So you are just a power-hungry, cowardly bully after all," Cas sums up, spitting each word out like venom.

Dean expects the attack to come right then – never piss off bully archangels – but Raphael keeps standing still with a patient smirk.

"Do we have a deal?" he asks, ignoring the insult.

"No."

"No? What if I throw something more in?" he negotiates further. His fear of imminent death makes Dean quite optimistic about their chances of surviving this. "How about a vessel for you? You could stay here with your pets, that's what you want, isn't it?"

Everything stops. The idea is like a punch through the air-pipes, blowing all of Dean's emotions and all of his thoughts into the oblivion. All, except for this one: Cas will stay. Cas can stay, rings persistently in his mind, within seconds becomes an obsession. Cas must stay.

"I could put Jimmy back together, you like him, right?" Raphael keeps taunting. "Or maybe a pretty girl? So you could get homey with your favorite here. Wouldn't you like that?"

If Cas can stay then screw the Apocalypse, with Cas they can end it again. But then he remembers the Apocalypse and his marbles start clicking back into places. He's fucking lost it and he must have begged Cas to stay, because Cas hides heartbreak behind the anger when he thinks his name.

"I'm not making any deals with you, Raphael," he says aloud. "The Apocalypse is not happening; not now, not ever."

His words fall with a force that could rearrange the mountains around them, giving Dean chills. Were they pointed at him, he'd be pissing his pants, but the archangel withholds their stare and shakes his head with resignation.

"Alright, Castiel. So you really want to fight?" His hand rises. "Let's fight."

Before they can even move, they're flying three hundred feet back hit by an invisible wave of power, a blow that would most likely kill a man. As they crash, Dean can feel their bones rattle, but being made of diamonds, they don't break. Their muscles ache with their every fiber, but they don't turn into a pulp. He wonders how Cas'll fight through that pain, but he gathers them up quickly with a swoop of his wings, before the opponent can come near them.

Tell me you can do that too.

This is good. Stepping up towards Raphael, Cas wills his angel blade into existence in his palm just in time to block the attack. He won't do it again soon. He's too weak.

The speed of the fight would turn them both and the entire world into a blur were Dean's eyes still completely human. Thanks to Cas he can see everything like it's in slow motion. Hit after a hit, hands and legs in motion, wings taking them high above the white ground, just so one of them, in turns, can gravitate towards it like a comet and smash it. The thundering of their falls, brings avalanches down in the distance.

With every punch and every plunge their power drains like fucking HP during the boss fight and they can only hope boss's batteries are draining too with each liquid feather torn out of his wings. There is blood spilling out of their vessels and shiny pecks of grace sparking in the air and dying out and after some time all Dean can think of is agony.

Dean and Cas are the one who breaks the rocks again, this time their face hits a steep side of a mountain, Dean is sure they don't have a face anymore. His own sobs of pain he cannot hold back drown in Cas's tortured whimpers as he attempts to get back on their feet. They've lost, Dean knows it. Cas knows it, too. He has to. But Cas doesn't give up.

"So you really thought you can defeat me, you vermin." The archangel is right behind them, limping, broken, just as good as dead as they are. But he's still the one standing up with the blade hovering over them. "I shall destroy you, like I should have long ago."

The archangel's hand rises to inflict the final blow, immense pain shoots through the whole length of their spine as they turn around, and spills into a pool in the stomach. The blade plunges into the flesh, piercing muscles, piercing heart, until its top peeks out on the other side. The radiance of the grace flashes like a sun right before their eyes, only it's Raphael's grace that is burning and Raphael's heart that is bleeding. It's his wide wings that set on fire as his body drops to the ground and they leave nothing but the charred ashes on the molten snow.

They won.

Even if it feels like they lost with their nerves and cells begging for death, they are alive and Raphael is dead. They did it, they defeated him.

We won! Dean bellows victoriously, forcing the nagging disbelieve to shush down. They stare at the archangel's dead vessel, at the wings - the ultimate proof of their triumph. Cas, we won!

We won, Cas confirms, exhausted, letting their body slump back on the snow. A feeblest wave of warmth rushes through their body, starting to heal them right away.

The heatwave travels solely to their stomach, ignoring aching skull and bones and lungs. Drop by drop it collects in their pit, forming a puddle, turning into a sea on the left from their navel. Sudden dread fills Dean: it feels as if the whole of Cas tried to pump into that one spot, attempting to fix. Although Cas closed their eyes, forbidding them to wander down there, Dean recognizes the high-pitched cry of leaking grace.

Shit, he thinks. All his happiness flees at once. Shit, shit, shit.

Maybe death will come soothe their bones, after all.

We'll heal, right, Cas? Right?

The angel doesn't answer, busy gathering every last scoop of his power left. Among many wounds there are a few that reach beyond the flesh and right into the essence of the angel and pour out in the form of blue-ish rays and a high tone, but they are just scratches and none of them is this severe. The blade dug deep down to the very spine, just a push from piercing all the way through, tearing apart vital organs, letting a flood of blood out. Technically, without aid, they should be dead within minutes, angel or not.

We'll be fine, Cas. This time it's not a question, it's a lie. The "it's not even that bad" sort of lie. They won't be fine.

Maybe if there were hands that would pressure the wound and take them to the hospital, some angel ICU, they would live. Maybe if they weren't in the fucking Nowhere, Canada, they would live. But they're lying all alone in cold mountains, having only Cas's grace to fight the death off. Dean can feel it crippling nearer with every heartbeat.

S'okay, Cas, he promises him. It's okay, we won.

The only fix that comes pressing on the wound is a band aid out of Cas's grace and it cannot stop the bleeding, it flows out with the red liquid instead, only speeding up the sand in the hourglass counting down their time.

It's alright, Cas, you can stop, Dean whispers, trying to push Cas's warm grace away, not to let more spill out, not yet. Stop, Cas, please.

But Cas doesn't stop; he can't, he's made a promise. Had he not, Dean knows, he'd still be trying to save him. In the end, Dean can do nothing but let him.

The last time Dean died, he didn't feel a thing. He didn't even hear the shots, he just woke up on his Axis Mundi. Before that, when he died for the first time, he had a whole year of getting used to the thought and he never succeeded. Now he doesn't have the comfort of thinking about himself. There is Cas and there are minutes that separate him from oblivion, and Dean from Heaven without Cas.

It won't be that bad you know, he coos. Though Cas-less, at least he already knows his Heaven. Dean'll go with the belief in a better place for angels, because he knows what non-existence feels like and he can't think of Cas being just that without a pathway to eternities. Maybe where you're going you'll have forevers too? Huh? Maybe you'll have me and the open sky and the road. I know I'll have the road, in my Heaven, you know? I'll have our endless, endless road and Baby and I'll have you. I'll have you kissing me by the Impala, that first time, and the thousandth time too, he keeps rambling through the ache as if it could push the most painful thought away. The awareness that he'll never see Cas again is eating up his insides more than any wound or gangrene ever could. He's lost him before, but it has never felt this final. There is no coming back this time, no miraculous resurrection, they both can feel it in their shared set of bones. I wish I had more of our house, but I'll have the love in our bed, I'll have you. Cas, maybe you'll have me.

This time it's forever.

"Shut up," Cas murmurs, his face pressed to Dean's in faint candlelight. He's holding Dean in tight embrace, his right hand resting between their stomachs, healing.

"It's okay, Cas," Dean goes on, savoring the heat of Cas's body pressed against his for the last time. "I love you, Cas. Castiel. God, I love you so much." There are tears streaming down his face and he knows Cas is crying too. "You know, I hated you, when you first came, in that barn. You saved me and I hated you. You've loved me all along, right, Cas?"

"Yes, I have Dean. I've always loved you," Cas sobs into his jaw, then he searches for his lips to feel their sweet taste. "I will have this, wherever I'll go. I'll have your forevers. I will," he swears. "I'll have your scent and your eyes and your laughter. I'll have that time you told me not to change and when I made you laugh so hard you bent in half. And every word of your prayers and when you told me I do have a choice. You saved me too, Dean," his voice cracks, he inhales slowly and lets the broken air out. He collects the remnants of his composure back before he adds: "But you're not gonna die."

Dean feels the heat in his stomach become hot then scorching like his blood is boiling and he seeks Cas's lips to drown his scream in them, the angel's devastated face is wet from tears.

"It's okay, Cas, it really is," he whispers again into those lips. He cradles Cas's face in both of his palms, tilts head back to stare into blue, to memorize Cas's face whole as if he didn't have every detail of it carved into his heart. "Losing you hurts more than dying anyway."

"I'm so sorry, Dean." His lips quiver. "I'm so sorry I have to do this."

His guts catch in living fire and Cas keeps getting colder. He kisses Dean again and again, breathing I love yous. When he's only as warm as the room, Dean feels him slipping through his fingers and he's trying to hold onto him closer, but he's thinner and thinner.

"I'm sorry," he presses his lips to Dean's one last time, then his hand reaches to cover his eyes.

"No, Cas!" Dean chokes out as his fingers lock on air. He opens his eyes to see Cas disappear outside the ring of candlelight, Dean's arm stretches to catch him, grab him by his tie, but he's already too late. "No! Cas! Cas!" Dean keeps screaming his name louder and louder and reaches outside the bed but then Cas just isn't there anymore and Dean gets off the bed to run after him, but he never made up the rest of the house, the rest of the room. Outside of the bed there is nothing and Dean starts falling down and down into dark with Cas's name on his lips.

"No!" he shouts as he hits the ground and the light startles him. He's not in their house nor on the mountain. Must be the Axis Mundi, leading through Bobby's house. So it's over, he bites back a sob. He's hoping that Cas, wherever he is, has found a photocopy of him, like he longs to find his photocopy of Cas.

He tries to jump off the sofa where he woke up under a ton of blankets, but when he moves, surges of pain attack from every inch of his body, his bones protest and so do his muscles, his face feels like a bloody pulp. He doesn't remember pain in Heaven, pain always equaled Hell. But this wasn't Hell either. He looks down at his naked torso. It's all black and blue and red all over, but there is no hole in his abdomen.

The realization comes with the rushed, heavy steps from the kitchen and then Sam and Bobby barge in to the room.

"You're safe, Castiel." Sam gets to his bed first. The sound of the name stabs Dean in the stomach just like Raphael's blade did.

"I- It's me, Dean," he mutters, his throat is parched. Where is Cas?

"Oh God, Dean," in Sam's voice glee beats the surprise. "So you did it, you killed Raphael?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah." He's having hard time concentrating on Sam's annoying question, when the only thing pounding in his skull is Cas. "We won, he's dead. Where... Why am I here?"

"You popped up in the yard about an hour ago, been sleeping 'til now," Bobby explains, handing him a glass of water, for which Dean's incredibly grateful, even if swallowing hurts like hell.

"So Cas has left already?" Sam makes sure, without considering the question and Dean thinks that yeah, yes, Cas left.

"Yes," he answers quickly, "he left." He must have left, Dean saw him leaving, didn't he? He left the bed and left his healed body to cure himself back in Heaven. Must be easier to heal at home. Maybe he's got an angel doctor performing a gracefusion on him and then a sexy angel nurse will cater to him. How else would Dean be alive? The vessel dies when the angel dies.

And Dean is alive.

Duffel bag full of weapons lands in the corner with a heavy thud as the squeaky door shut behind Dean. He could really use a beer, he thinks, although he's already drowned a bottle of whiskey with Bobby. He glances at his palm still quite automatically, but without much hope. It has never worked here yet, and he wouldn't bet it ever will.

"Great hunt, really, amazing," he scoffs, like he's the only one who's angry about Rufus's death. At least angry enough. Even though he barely knew the man. Sam and Bobby seem just tired and resigned.

"Dean," comes Sam's warning, his head points in the direction of the living room, where the old man disappeared just a few seconds earlier.

"What?" His arms spread wide as he steps closer to his brother. "See, losing friends and family is not my idea of the so-called family business. And as I recall, we tend to do that a lot. Now Rufus? Gwen?" He pulls up his fingers counting them up, but then his voice breaks a little when he adds: "Cas?"

Sam's pissed expression promptly switches into one of compassion, but Dean can see he's still annoyed at his behavior.

"You said Cas isn't dead."

A tight knot ties in his stomach, forcing him to turn away from the other man not to show the pain twisting his face and clenching his jaw.

"Well," he begins slowly, raising his shoulders, "do you see him here?"

With that he leaves and hastily moves upstairs. He's fucking thankful he called dibs on the room converted into a bedroom, he doesn't have to bump into the other two locators more often then he'd like to. Sam didn't necessarily mind at first, by now he and the old man probably started arranging an intervention for him.

Watch out for Sammy. Bobby's like a father to me, he repeats to himself. The memories don't come back as quickly as he expected, so these two things and many, many others he has to remind himself of manually. He thought, by now, at least some of the time spent inside his head would wear off, making space for the old baggage, but it's not happening. He's probably the only one to blame for it, anyway. Yet he can't make himself feel bad about it. He'd choose the memories from his world over this one any time. And so he did.

"Hiya, Cas," he calls out, hanging his jacket on the back of a chair, his fingers grasp the wood as he leans over it with his eyes closed. "Come on, man, it's been three months and not a sign of life from you. I'm starting to feel like a dumped girlfriend here: first you jumped my bones then you don't even call?" he tries to joke, but his voice catches in his throat. He needs to swallow heavily, before resuming the prayer. "Anyway, I hope you've healed by now. That wound was nasty. And the rest?" he thinks about his knee that still aches dully when he walks for too long, of his spine that gives him hell more often than not, or the nose that he suspects to have moved a speck to the right. Of course it could have been much worse, so he doesn't complain. At least after a heavy dose of painkillers he doesn't. "But you know all that. I miss you, buddy. I think it's high time for that weekend visit, don't you think? Don't even ask, just come, I'm saying yes. Just– Cas, just come."

On the good days, Dean opens his eyes and looks around the room, waiting for the angel to pop up, like he used to do, even if he knows he can only come in a form of bright light from above or white noise. On the bad days, he's convinced he's talking to himself. Today is the bad day.

"See ya, Cas," he finishes, but after a beat he adds: "Love you."

He doesn't bother taking a shower, although he should. There's still dirt on his hands and under his fingernails from digging the grave. But instead he just takes off his shoes and jeans and crawls under the covers. He lies flat on his back and stares at the ceiling for a couple of minutes to calm himself down. Then he closes his eyes.

He would go for a cliché of darkness greeting him like a good friend, but it's a different kind of darkness, not a friendly one; just a regular, ordinary darkness. There is nothing blue in it. Not yet. He's getting better at it, now he just needs a few minutes to ease the tension from all of his muscles. He loves the feeling of letting go of his body, when it's like his limbs turn off one by one and then fall off, completely out of his control like they used to be. Soon his torso too, and his head get anesthetized and for a second he doesn't exist. Then, like a switch, his brain changes waves and he can begin to lighten the darkness up.

He starts with his anchor, her gleaming, black paint, her smooth shape, then he goes through the whole routine, his palms on the wheel and the roar of her engine. It's not as easy as it used to be when he would start up in the void, but he's getting there. At least now he's aware of what he's doing, so he can skip the entire "I'm nothing" phase.

He likes to begin on the road, this way it feels like he's coming back home, and home is always in the same, old forest; white walls and the red roof breaking the monotony of the green and brown landscape. They've got fucking flowers in the garden, he's not the one who takes care of them, he only sometimes makes up some colorful, exotic plants for fun.

"You've been drinking," he hears Cas's voice in the living room, he's turned away from him, with his legs on the coffee table, eyes fixed to the screen. The living room is the second best place in the house, right after the bedroom. The third is the kitchen: it has the pies that don't ever make him flabby.

He didn't used to make real people, because they weren't real and neither is Cas. He's made of bones and flesh of Jimmy Novak's. Dean dresses him up nicely and stuffs words into his throat, then sits back and pretends Cas is not a puppet. There is a lot of bitterness in the concept of switched places.

"It's not exactly easy out there, you know?" he mutters, nuzzling Cas's neck.

He won't tell him about all troubles of the other world, they don't do that here. He is here to forget, to start forgetting again what he was supposed to remember. It's cheating, but he doesn't give a fuck as long as he can come back here and push the damn burden away.

"I'm giving you five years and you won't even remember what you were drinking about."

"Alright then, make me forget." He kisses Cas with his eyes closed.

There's always a certain dose of anxiety accompanying his first glimpse at Cas's face, because he'll have to look at that face and kiss that face for the rest of the limited infinity – until he wakes up. And there is always something wrong with Cas. Sometimes it's one eye green, sometimes swollen lips or a sliced throat, constantly bleeding, turning the dream into a half-nightmare. Dean believes it's a punishment for choosing the wrong thing, but maybe his soul has rotten after all, maybe he's a coward. Maybe he's a cheat who cheats on Sam and on Bobby. He cheats on Cas and perhaps that's why he won't come. Or maybe Cas is just dead.

Dean opens his eyes to glance at his copy of Cas and barely holds back the scream of terror. Cas's eyes stare ahead dead and empty, looking at him, but piercing right through him, like he's not there. Like Cas is not in there. He needs a few deep breaths to calm down – for the first time he's doubting if he's gonna make it. He wishes he could reach out and close his eyes with his palm like he did to the original set of those dead eyes. He wishes he could stab them out – two gaping holes seem more bearable than this. But then Cas's dead eyes squint at him, puzzled. His copy of Cas never knows these things, he never can know them, because if he did, the curtain could fall. And so Dean has to pretend everything's fine and hide his dread or his disgust and unease.

Still, he chooses this. Every night, closing his eyes, Dean chooses this. And maybe he is all the bad things for choosing wrong and he deserves the punishment of Cas broken or twisted. He probably does. He'd still choose small infinities in here and the eternities in his memory any day, with the fucked up, low quality photocopy of Cas over the Schrödinger's Cas he's left without out there and the baggage of guilt in exchange.

"Bedroom," he murmurs, grabbing Cas's hand.

For as long as he can't have the real blue fill him up with sweet laugh, he chooses this.

All his life – all his infinities too – he's spent, he's wasted on the roads, on the missions that didn't matter and on people who weighted him down, and too late – so, so late – he realized: he could choose home instead.

And so he does.