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Cas is sitting sprawled against a wall, half slumped over.
Dean runs over. “Cas!”
Cas’s eyes flutter open, and he looks at Dean. The light in his eyes is fading, and Dean knows he is dying. 911 cannot help him. No one can help this angel. He grips Cas’s head with both hands, his fingers clenching into the short, soft dark hair. “Cas!” It’s an anguished growl.
Cas’s eyes flutter, and then close. He is still alive, but barely.
Dean presses his forehead to the angel’s. “Stay with me.”
Cas’s eyes flutter open again, and he stares at Dean with a tired, faintly bemused expression in his eyes. His mouth moves, as if he’d like to say something, but can’t.
Dean’s hopes lift. “Cas?”
Cas’s eyes close, and he slowly goes very still.
“Cas! No.” Dean grabs him by the coat and hauls him sideways, so Cas is lying flat on his back.
“No, Cas,” Dean mutters. “You’re not leaving me now, damn it.”
A quick check proves there is no pulse. Cas is not breathing, either.
His fingers find the right place on Cas’s sternum to begin compressions...if CPR will even work on an angel. Hands interlocked together, one on top of the other, he punches down hard with the heels of his hands into Cas’s chest. One, two, three, four, five...and on to thirty.
Cas lies silent and still. Dean stares down at him, at that familiar, beloved face. “Cas.” The word sounds broken in the silence. “Come on, Cas.”
He puts a hand under Cas’s neck, to raise his chin and provide a clear airway. Cas’s mouth falls open a little, and Dean pinches the angel’s nose and seals his lips against his. He blows two hard breaths into Cas’s lungs.
He returns to the chest compressions.
Dean doesn’t know how many minutes pass. Or how many times he repeats CPR. But Cas does not respond.
He lies so quiet. So still.
“No.” Tears fill Dean’s eyes. “No. Cas!”
Cas is dead. Death has taken him.
“No!” Unwilling to face this truth, Dean performs thirty more chest compressions. But they are not working. He knows this. Next is the mouth-to-mouth. That is not working, either. He knows this, but does it anyway.
Cas does not respond.
Kneeling, Dean hovers over Cas, his face inches from the angel’s; his lips inches from the angel’s.
It’s too late. Cas is dead. Dean’s tears fall onto Cas’s face, and Dean can’t bear it. He can’t bear that Cas is gone.
“Cas, no.” The words are strangled.
It doesn’t seem possible. The angel’s lips are still warm. Dean knows this, from the CPR. He’s felt them.
He wants to feel them again, one last time. Desire for one last contact with Cas overwhelms Dean, and his conscious mind says he’s continuing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when he leans forward. But when his lips touch Cas’s warm, soft mouth, Dean’s lips linger, absorbing the feel and the texture, and then all of the emotions roiling inside him pour out in a soft kiss to Cas. It is a kiss from his heart to the heart of his angel. It is tender and sweet, and Dean is not even thinking. He is just feeling, with his heart, and with his soul, both of which want to curl up and die right here with Cas.
Dean doesn’t want to pull back, but knows he must. At last, reluctantly, he lifts his head. “Cas,” he whispers, and with the back of his hand, smears away his tears.
Cas draws a choking, wheezing breath.
Dean’s eyes widen and he sits back on his heels.
Cas’s eyes slit open, and he smiles. “That was nice.”
Dean’s heart slams with joy, with shock...and with a host of other emotions he can’t name. Cas is alive, but how? And he knows Dean kissed him. “Cas.” He swallows hard as pure bliss soars in his soul. “You...” He grins. Softly, he says, “It’s called CPR.” For good measure, he tacks on, “Not a kiss.”
Cas’s peaceful smile widens a bit more. “I love you, too, Dean.”