Archive of Our Own

Dean wakes up in their bed under a thick white comforter. He turns to the side and sees Castiel lying on his side, face peaceful and free of worry in sleep. The morning sun filters through the snow-encrusted windows and illuminates Castiel from the back, creating a glow that seems almost divine. Dean brings a hand out from under the pillow and traces his thumb along Castiel’s jaw, grazing the rough five o’clock shadow. Castiel snuggles deeper into the blanket.

“Hey, Cas. It’s time to wake up. Remember – our plans for the day?”

Castiel responds by pulling the blanket over his face and scooting closer to Dean. He lets out a deep sound, a bit of a growl, a bit of a whine. Dean smiles and braces himself for what he is about to do – he whips the blanket off both of them, not without regret at the loss of heat, but with immense pleasure as Castiel groans.

“Dean,” he finally opens his eyes and glares, but Dean can only look on transfixed. Those deep blue eyes which he saw just last night, not more than eight hours ago, yet he feels like he has never truly seen them, never truly allowed himself to drown in them.

“Dean?” Castiel repeats as he gives Dean a light nudge. Dean snaps out of it and takes a second to compose himself. He pulls Castiel into a hug, taking the opportunity to warm himself.

“Erm – so, yea, we’re supposed to head to the lake today?” he props himself up and rubs Castiel’s arm. “We should start our day early.” Castiel stretches his arm to Dean's other side to grab the blanket and yanks the blanket back over himself in a graceful arc. He tucks himself in as it flutters over him and closes his eyes again.

“Since you ruined my sleep by subjecting me to the desolation of Minnesotan winter in the morning, you can go get started cooking,” Castiel grumbles.

Dean rolls his eyes and climbs out of bed as he mumbles something about how he cooks every day anyway. He grabs the bathrobe which was hastily thrown over the chair in the corner of the room last night heads to the kitchen. He takes a moment to appreciate the apartment as he steps out – it is a cosy nook situated in downtown Minneapolis. Dean and Castiel got married last year after dating for a decade, but not before they could agree on whose family name to pick and it was only settled after a compromise of Winchester-Novak (they agreed it flows off the tongue better than Novak-Winchester). Castiel snagged a tenured position at the University of Minnesota as an Associate Professor of Philosophy and that is how they ended up here. Dean was glad for the change of scenery from Kansas and was able to find a job as the director of growth at an accounting firm.

He quickly whips up some pancake batter – Castiel loves pancakes – and turns on the coffee machine while he waits for the pancakes to cook. Dean looks out of the window and sees a landscape transformed from the previous night by a blizzard. The plan to go ice fishing at one of the lakes out in St Paul should be fine. Soon enough, the smell of coffee draws Castiel into the kitchen and Dean feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist as he drizzles some maple syrup over the pancakes.

“Good morning,” Castiel rumbles as he buries his face in Dean’s neck. Dean puts the syrup down and turns in the embrace to return a hug. The hug ends up being a little too long, a little too tight. Castiel pulls back from it.

“Are you okay? You seem a little out of it today, even back in bed earlier.”

“What? No. I’m fine, Cas,” he turns back to the plates and finishes it up with some strawberries. “Could you bring these to the table? I’ll get the coffee.”

Castiel gives Dean a look as he reaches for the plates but to Dean’s relief, remains silent. He leaves the kitchen and Dean takes a second to recompose himself. For the life of him, he cannot figure out why what he is doing now – breakfast – seems as much a routine as it is a brand new experience for him. He knew by memory (whose?) in which cabinet the flour was kept, where to find the sugar, and how to work the damned weighing scale which required a slight whack to function.

The weighing scale probably just needs new batteries, he thinks; and that causes him to recoil, because he does not know how he knows this, but he does.

He gives Castiel’s coffee a final stir and brings the two cups out of the kitchen. He goes through the doorway to see Castiel sliding into his chair in a hurry.

“Were you spying on me?” Dean asks as he settles beside Castiel.

“No, I just came back from the washroom.”

“I would have heard a flush,” Dean says as he picks up the mug to take a sip.

“I was washing my hands,” Castiel sighs as he picks up the cutlery to start on the pancakes. Dean eyes him and takes an even louder sip.

“Okay, fine. I was standing by the doorway, but only because, as I said, you look out of it today," Castiel concedes, but not before turning back to Dean. “You literally stood by the mugs for a full ten seconds before doing anything with them, Dean. If you aren’t feeling well, we could just stay in.”

“Cas, I said I’m fine. Just have some stuff on my mind. If anything, ice fishing should help clear it out, so we’re going.”

Castiel shrugs and takes a bite of the pancakes. He lets out a low moan and closes his eyes. Dean kicks his feet while he begins on his own plate. Castiel kicks back.

“It’s delicious. As always.”

Castiel looks at Dean with sincere eyes and reaches a hand over to grasp Dean’s free hand. Dean looks down at it.

“I love you.”

Three words; and a wave of unreality crashes over Dean as he allows himself to drown in Castiel’s gaze. Dean knows Castiel loves him and that he loves Castiel back, but he cannot shake off the feeling that those three words are so utterly foreign in his mouth, they may as well be Enochi – wait, what? What obscure language is Enochian how do I know that how do I even know the word and his gaze refocuses to see Castiel still looking at him, worry starting to outline his features.

“I love you too, Cas,” Dean says as he wills a smile onto his face. There, not so hard, was it? The words were spoken with practised ease which comes only with years of casual use. Everything is fine and he just needs to get out to clear his head. “We should get on with breakfast, wouldn’t want to set off too late. We barely get any time to ourselves nowadays with work.”

Castiel gives Dean’s hand a squeeze and returns to his meal without a word. They continue to eat in silence. It is a comfortable silence, again something which comes with years of being in each other’s company, but silence nonetheless. Dean thanks the heavens for the temporary reprieve as he tries to convince himself of the reality around him and brings his mug to his lips. Bitter. Lukewarm. Real.

“Can we use those minutes for a quick one before leaving, then?” Cas says as if making a statement about the weather while mopping up the remaining maple syrup with the last of his pancakes. Dean sputters into his coffee.

Wet. Messy. Real. He grins.

“Hell, yeah.”

*

They sit atop the frozen lake on their little stools with fishing poles in hand. Granted, it is a cold day, but the wind is weak and the sun is strong, making it a rather pleasant experience.

“Pike is supposed to be pretty abundant here in Lake Phalen,” says Dean. “Maybe you’ll get lucky – beginner’s luck, you know?”

Castiel hums, whether in agreement or annoyance (or both), Dean isn’t sure. He looks across the expanse of the lake which is littered with other people fishing.

“You’re lucky it’s warm enough for me to not be complaining about the cold. As much as I enjoy my job, the prolonged winters here aren’t exactly to my liking,” Castiel says. Dean smirks at that. Castiel is indeed a champion grumbler, and if not for the cloudless sky offering some warmth to their skin and the Thermos of hot coffee beside Castiel, Dean would not be hearing the end of this field trip of theirs.

“We haven’t done this before, Cas; thought it’d be nice to try something new rather than nesting the winter away like we did last year in Lawrence. Not that Lawrence had any ice fishing opportunities, anyway.”

“Mmm, I suppose. That said, I can’t even remember what we did last year. Do you? We really must have been indoors the entire time.”

“Well, we…” Dean falters. What did they do? Netflix? Literally nothing? Hiking? Yes, hiking sounds good.

“… we went out on some hikes, remember? Castle Rock, the Elk River. Heck, we even tried to complete the Flint Hills Trail. You don’t remember that?”

Castiel gives him a look and his expression reshuffles to one of faint recollection.

“Ah, yes. The Elk River was particularly beautiful,” smiles Castiel. “I remember the white waters at the rapids and some of the wooden bridges. It was almost like we stepped into a forest out of a fairytale.”

“Heh, yea, fairies. Perfect for us,” Dean chuckles. A silence falls between them again as they wait patiently for a snag. This goes on for another hour or so, punctuated only by the occasional conversation between the two of them.

“Isn’t it strange, Dean? That people would catch fishes for their entertainment, even if they are to be returned to the waters?” questions Castiel.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Imagine being tempted with something you naturally crave,” says Castiel. “But the moment you reach for it, you’re immediately punished for it by being pulled into the Great Beyond. You may survive, you may not, but the point is if you return, you will never be the same again. You will be scarred. And all for what? Isn’t that just cruel?”

Castiel sticks the pole into the holder and reaches for his Thermos. Dean stares.

“Are you high?”

“My point still stands, Dean,” Castiel says as he brings the steaming cup up to his lips.

“So, what, you’re saying I’m being cruel?” Dean starts. “You’re saying that I’m intentionally causing misery on the fishes here?”

Castiel shrugs.

“And here I thought – we could have one day out, just one day, without you getting into some hissy fit over how I live my life,” Dean says through gritted teeth. He reels the line in and drops the fishing pole with a clatter. “This was supposed to be fun, Cas. Just chillin’. And you want to make it into some attack on me just because I happen to like fishing?”

“Dean, you’re overreacting,” Castiel responds with a frown as he sets his cup down. “I don’t mean that – ”

“Of course you mean that!” Dean bursts out. “Of course you’re likening yourself to a fish!”

Silence settles again, this time uncomfortable and stilted, far colder than their surroundings. Castiel gives in, gets up from his stool, and crouches on the ice before Dean. He places one hand on Dean’s knee, the other wrapping his blue scarf tighter around his neck.

“Dean. I don’t think I was comparing myself to a fish. Why would you say that?”

“Because – ”

Because you wanted me and you were punished for it because even if I find you things will never be the same again so why bother because I love you and I hate you for leaving because I don’t want to remember all of this because I want to forget because

Dean chooses his next words with caution too.

“– fuck you, that’s why.”

Dean stares hard at Castiel and Castiel opens his mouth as if to say something, but he closes them again. He slides his hand off Dean’s knee, stands up with a sigh, and moves back to fold his stool up. He drains the last of the coffee, now cold, and caps the Thermos.

“The wind is picking up. We should probably go before it gets too cold.”

“Cas, shit – I’m sor – ”

“Let’s just go, Dean.”

Dean watches Castiel pack up their belongings at his side of the fishing hole and feels his stomach sink. He sits there, alternating between feelings of guilt and confusion, at what he was trying to forget, that which triggered such a strong response from him so deep down in him that the outburst of unspoken emotion scared him so.

“Dean?”

Dean focuses his eyes back on Castiel.

“You were gone again, Dean. We should get back so you can rest. I’ll drive.”

Dean nods and gets up to pack the rest of the items. They trudge back to the parking lot as the wind picks up and quickly sheltered in the car with Dean riding shotgun. Castiel was just about to back out of the lot when Dean speaks.

“Cas?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry for shouting.”

Castiel shifts the car back to the parking gear and turns to Dean. He narrows his eyes.

“Figure it out, Dean. I can’t help you if you want to be cagey about it.”

Ouch, Dean thinks. He turns his eyes away from Castiel and stares out of the windscreen. The drive back won’t take long – the lake is only about thirty minutes out of downtown, but he figures he could use a nap. Dean fakes sleeping all the way back to the apartment building with nary a word exchanged between them in the car. When Castiel finally parks the car in the apartment garage, he goes over to Dean’s side and gently shakes him awake. They return to the apartment together, but as soon as Castiel makes sure that Dean is in bed, he retreats to his office.

*

It is only an hour later, while Castiel works away in his office doing his professor stuff while Dean lazes away in bed when the doorbell rings. Dean decides to get up and gives a perfunctory I’ll get it as he passes by Castiel’s door – when Castiel is in his office, he may as well be in a separate universe. Dean approaches the door and swings it open. Dean’s brother stands in their doorway, hands tucked into his puffy jacket.

“Sam?”

“Hey, Dean. How are you?”

“Wha – why are you here?”

“Can’t I check up on my brother?” Sam chuckles. He pushes his way through the door and makes his way to the living room.

“Uh – I’m fine. All good,” Dean says as he closes the door and turns back to Sam. “Wait. You mean you came all the way from California just to check up on me? And how are you finding the time to do that? Wouldn’t the partners at your firm kill you?”

Dean sees a brief moment of panic flash over Sam’s face before it quickly rearranges to one of neutrality. Sam clears his throat and shrugs his jacket off.

“Just thought it’d be nice to surprise you. We’ve had a bit of a lull in our caseload recently and I finally found some free time, so why not?”

“You were complaining to me over the phone just a week ago about an upcoming trial and all the submissions you have to prepare,” Dean says as he edges to the sofa where Sam is sitting. Unease pools in his gut. “Also, where’s Jess? I know she’d kill you if you came to meet me without bringing her along.”

Dean watches Sam’s jaw set, lips pursing, though he is not sure why. Perhaps Sam had an argument with Jess? In any case, it is not something for him to probe into at this juncture.

“Just part of the surprise, Dean. If Jess was coming, you know she wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself,” Sam swallows and forces a smile. Dean presses on.

“I texted you yesterday that Cas and I will be out ice fishing today. You’d know we wouldn’t be home now because we came back early only due to –”, Dean breaks off and clears his throat. “Due to the wind picking up and we haven't dressed appropriately. So, back to the point: how are you here?”

“Wait – did you say Cas?”

“Yes, why?”

“I – never mind. Anyway, I already told you, Dean. Just dropping by. Besides, why are you treating me like I’m not welcome here?” Sam shrugs his jacket off. Dean pauses at this and considers Sam’s question. He could not, for the life of him, explain why he feels uneasy, but he just knows that this is wrong. Sam takes Dean’s silence for acceptance and sinks back into the sofa.

“Tell me about the last time we met, Sam,” says Dean. Sam straightens up.

“What? Why?” he replies, a little too fast for Dean’s liking. Dean’s pulse quickens, his breath shallows.

“Come on, Sammy. Where were we the last time we met?”

“I’m not sure why you’re asking – ”

“Just answer me, damn it,” Dean demands with his voice raised. He takes a threatening step towards Sam.

“Erm, we went to a diner?” Sam ventures. He starts to move off the sofa and he rises slowly.

“Who are you?”

This is Sammy this is not Sammy who is this he is an intruder he is on the wrong side of the ice he is in danger he is going to ruin everything he needs to

“I don’t care if you’re Sam or not. Get out of my house,” Dean says. He feels unnerved, as if the walls of his apartment are going to collapse, like a box with its corners cut away, like the destruction of a room in a studio set, as if this was all just a show and he is a mere character, living out actions with a constructed backstory. “Get out of here, Sam – get out – ”

“Dean, you have to relax,” Sam moves towards Dean as he sees his brother starting to pace backwards, his eyes darting around but not focusing on anything in particular. “Dean, listen to me, this isn’t rea – ”

“Get away from me!” Dean cries. “Get out of this house!”

At that moment, both brothers hear the creak of a door. Castiel steps out of his office, head tilted, face puzzled.

“Sam? Dean? What’s the commotion?”

“Cas, that’s not Sam,” Dean turns to Castiel with wide eyes, begging him to see from his point of view that this man in front of him is not his brother, not a lawyer who works in a law firm in California. That this being is an outsider, an intruder from beyond. Because the real Sam is at home now, poring over his files for his next hearing, but definitely not here in this house.

“Cas?” Sam’s eyes light up. “Cas! Of course, I’m Sam! You need to get Dean to calm down, I have no idea why he is being like that.”

“Please, Cas.”

Realisation dawns upon Castiel’s face and he breaks his gaze with Dean to turn to Sam.

“Sam,” Castiel says. “I need you to leave, please.”

“Oh, come on. You’re believing Dean when he’s being all weird?” Sam raises his voice. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I came by for a visit and Dean just – ”

“Sam. You have to go,” Castiel interrupts. “I know you aren’t here for what you claim to be here for.”

That stops Sam in his tracks, and Castiel could almost see the cogs turning in Sam’s head as he figures out his next move. Sam’s face turns to one of despair and he gives Castiel one of his looks, the one which says “please, Cas, you have to help me out here”. Seeing no response but cold impassivity, he turns to Dean and takes a deep breath before speaking as fast as he could.

“Dean you are in a djinn dream nothing here is real and – ”

Castiel lunges forward and grabs Sam by his arm. Dean barely sees the movement and is taken aback by the speed of Castiel. He blinks, hears a flutter of wings, and he is alone in the room.

What the fuck?

He stands shocked for about ten seconds, blinks again and Castiel reappears, and he swears he hears the faint whoosh. Sam is nowhere to be seen.

“Wha – where did Sam go? Where did you go?”

“I brought him somewhere safe, but far away from here,” Castiel says. He moves towards Dean, but Dean moves away.

“You brought him somewhere? How?”

“I flew.”

“You – ” Dean chokes. He feels unreal, light, and he reaches for the nearest surface to cling to; something solid and real. He finds a wall to lean on and feels the paper-thin veils he has put up to protect himself getting torn down by the claws of reality. Dark, oppressive truth bears down, straining the walls of this elaborate set, and they collapse. The set is undone. Dean’s legs buckle below him and he slumps down the wall until he is on the ground. He brings his knees up and sinks his face into them, breathing in and letting out a shuddering sob as he becomes vaguely aware of Castiel moving with hesitation and kneeling down beside him.

“Dean?”

*

“Hey, smurf! I know you’re in there!”

Dean paces down the corridor of the factory which was abandoned decades ago. The building stood with gaping holes and tarnished walls; a towering monument to the coal industry which went bust in the Midwest decades ago.

This corridor, however, remains unbroken and undisturbed from the elements. Bits of rubble crunch beneath Dean’s boots as he makes his way towards the door a few yards away with a stick of rebar in his hand. Why he is clutching the rebar, Dean is not sure. He isn’t planning to use it anyway, but he figures old habits die hard.

It is, however, time to put an end to old habits. Generally speaking.

“Do I really need to drag myself down there?” Dean smacks the rebar on a column of metal scaffolding and a clang reverberates down the narrow corridor. “I’m giving myself willingly!”

He takes a few more steps forward as the door inches closer, and he hears a creak. He stops.

The metal door groans open and from the darkness, a brunette dressed in a grey tank top and overwashed jeans steps out. Blue tattoos streak up her arms and around her face. She crosses her arms and stands her ground. This reminds Dean of a bouncer at some shady club and he almost lets out a bark of laughter. The djinn clenches her hands and takes half a step back as she realises who this man is.

“To what do I owe this honour, Dean Winchester?” the djinn asks. “Have I been causing too much trouble?”

“Well, yes. That’s how I was able to track you down. You can’t hide forever, you know?”

Her eyes remain trained on Dean as he takes another step towards her. She is as familiar with the layout of this factory as the lines on her skin and quickly calculates her chances of getting out of this situation alive. Monsters don’t plan for the Winchesters, not usually. It is, after all, a big country. Rumours and stories may spread, but the truth is whoever the Winchester brothers have killed constitute only a small portion of the entire monster population. Of course, this doesn’t consider the wider picture of hunters culling monsters at an alarming rate – but the Winchesters aren’t like the others.

For one thing, they got rid of God. Yes, word of that spread somehow. Her eyes dart around, searching for a way out.

“No need to look for an escape route, hon. I’m not gonna kill you,” Dean quips. Her eyes return to Dean and she waits for him to explain.

“I want you to put me in one of those sweet dreams of yours.”

She remains as Dean takes his final few steps and end up right in front of her.

“Wh – what?”

“Touch me. Take me. I’ll be one of your blood bags.”

Dean tosses aside the rebar and it clatters onto the ground. She stands still, perplexed by what was happening. Why would the Dean Winchester give himself up? Surely, there must be some sort of ulterior motive.

“And why would I do that? What sort of sick plan are you concocting with your brother to get rid of me? Of my kind?” she scoffs. She takes another step backwards, hoping to God – wait, there isn’t anyone to hope to now – to get out of this alive. In tandem, he takes another step forward.

“Because I can’t go on.”

She looks at his eyes, his pleading eyes filled with sorrow and pain, and she understands. This is not the first time she has encountered someone coming to her, begging to be lulled into the final sleep of their lives, begging to see their beloved again. If she survives this encounter, she is sure it won’t be her last too.

“You do know that you will lose everything and – ”

“I already have,” Dean interrupts.

“What about your brother?”

“He doesn’t know where I am.”

She pauses for a moment in hesitation. “Are you sure about this?”

“If you’re gonna play therapist with me, I will bash your head in with that rebar.”

She mulls over this, then beckons Dean through the door, into the darkness.

“Come in.”

He steps through and a soft blue glow starts to emanate from her. Her tattoos illuminate and slither across her skin and her brown eyes glow blue. She raises a hand and touches Dean.

*

It takes a while before Castiel could get Dean up onto the sofa. He goes to the kitchen to make some tea – hopefully calming enough – for Dean, and returns to Dean on the sofa, hands rubbing his face.

“You knew, Cas. You were aware all along, weren’t you?”

Castiel realises the act is up. He sighs. This could have only lasted that long.

“Yes, Dean. I was.”

“How – how are you even aware? How are you using your angel mojo?” Dean asks as Castiel passes the steaming cup of tea to him. Dean sets the cup onto the table without taking a sip and stares at it, hard. Castiel settles beside him and tries to draw Dean’s gaze to him.

“I think – you have known me as an angel for almost the entire time we were together, so your subconscious probably constructed me as an angel. Not that this was necessarily made aware to you, of course, since that would have very easily broken the dream you were,” he pauses to correct himself.

“Are having."

“Okay. Fine. But you actually using your powers to whisk Sam away? Is that part of my subconscious as well?”

Dean continues to stand at the cup of tea as steam rises from its surface and disappears into the air. Castiel continues to look at Dean, even if Dean refuses to.

“I’m not sure, Dean; but I think – you’d remember, of course, the handprint you found on your shoulder when you were brought out of hell?”

Dean is surprised to find the corners of his lips curling up at this. How could I forget, he thinks.

“When I was raised out of perdition, in your own words,” Dean says. “I remember that, Cas. ‘Course I do.”

“I think that might have… left some part of my grace in you. And that drop of grace was probably enough to power any angelic abilities I choose to use here, having the full knowledge of myself being an angel from how your mind built me.”

Dean finally brings his eyes up to meet Castiel’s. It lingers for just a second, and Dean flicks his eyes back to the cup. It is a cold day, and the steam starts to fade.

“I know this is strange for you, Dean; but it is strange for me as well,” Castiel explains, hoping to make sense of it, not just for Dean, but for himself as well. “I have memories of my life before meeting you: childhood, high school; yet – for some reason I’ve always known that I am an angel, though not necessarily understanding how.”

Dean returns his gaze.

“And Dean, it all comes back to you. It has always been you. For some reason, it’s as if life did not begin until I’ve met you, despite feeling like I have lived a million lifetimes all the same.”

“Do you mean here, or out there?”

“Both,” Castiel says as he shifts closer to Dean. He places a hand upon Dean’s thigh and motions to the cup. Dean reaches for it and gives it a light slurp before bringing it down and staring at the final swirls of steam. Dean’s grip on it remains tight.

“You need to wake up, Dean.”

Castiel feels Dean tense up as he sets the cup down. Dean buries his face in his hands and gives it a vigorous rub. When he looks up again, there are tears in his eyes.

“Why should I?” Dean whispers. It is barely a question, more a statement and declaration of the desolation he will have to face if he chooses not to rebuild the set, to step back into what is real, even if this feels real.

“Because – ”

“Don’t you want us to be together?” Dean interrupts. “Don’t you want this?”

This time, it is Castiel who tenses up instead, and Dean turns in his place to face Castiel. He looks at Castiel, but Castiel turns away and lets out a huff. Dean leans forward to attempt to draw his eyes back. He does so with ease but recoils when he sees the intensity in Castiel's glare.

“Of course I do,” Castiel says through gritted teeth. “You cannot possibly understand how much I want this.”

Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Castiel silences him with a finger to his lip.

“You heard it, Dean. You heard it all from me, how much I want something I can’t have, and,” Castiel breaks off as he lets out a sigh in exasperation. “This. This. What I – we have now, is beyond my wildest dreams. You. I love you, Dean, and I can only thank the stars I created that I am here to say it.”

Dean feels white-hot needles prickling at his eyes, tears pooling and threatening to spill over. He closes his eyes and allows them to do so just as Castiel reaches out and grabs Dean’s arms. It is steadying; real. He opens his eyes, only to see Castiel looking at him with a strange mixture of emotions: grief, melancholy, joy, peace. Dean forces himself to speak, if only to break the silence and because he knows Castiel is expecting something, and this time, Dean has to provide.

“But… what about all this,” Dean gestures around their living room. The couch they are seated on, fake leather worn in over the years; the fluffy rug he curls his toes into, bought by Castiel the first time he moved in with Dean; the salmon pink wall in front of them, painted not that long ago and painted only on one side of the room, something settled upon after an unnecessarily heated fight; the photo of them on their wedding day in matching tuxedos, frozen in laughter over a joke long forgotten, encased in a wooden frame handmade by Dean. All of it as real as the ethereal morning mist right before the break of dawn.

“All this – it isn’t real, Cas. How can you be so… accepting?”

“It is as real as it will get for me, Dean. But it isn’t for you, and you need to stop this,” Castiel’s hands finally slide down Dean’s arms and they settle on Dean’s lap. He brings Dean’s hands into his with care, as if handling an exquisite marble piece, and brushes Dean’s hand with his thumbs absent-mindedly.

Dean chokes at this as if he just got punched in the gut. This is all Castiel has: to be someone apportioned in Dean’s mind, both existing as a self yet inexplicably reliant on Dean simply for existence.

“I don’t understand. How are you encouraging me? The last time I was in a djinn dream, everyone was asking me to stay and I had to stab myself to end it,” Dean says and takes a deep breath. That memory only brings back even more faces of the people he has lost. He instead focuses on Castiel’s thumbs brushing his hands. “How are you encouraging this, if it means your end, Cas?”

“My time has already ended, but yours hasn’t,” Castiel deadpans. Oh, it’s the time of the year when it gets a little chilly, Dean. It’s time to take the cookies out of the oven, Dean. It’s almost time for the show and we’re running late, Dean. My time has already ended, Dean.

“But that means I will lose you. Again,” says Dean, his voice small, eyes downcast. Castiel lets go of Dean's hands and raise his to cup Dean's face. He gently raises Dean's face.

“You have me, Dean. You always had, and you always will. My grace will be with you.”

Dean crumbles.

Castiel pulls him into a hug as he lets out a sob which racks his entire body, raising goosebumps and making his face flush red-hot. He pushes his face, tears now streaming in earnest down his face, into Castiel’s shoulder. He clings on, not wanting to let go, and he remembers:

You asked what about all this is real. We are.

Dean pulls back and sees that Castiel is crying too. He brings one of his hands up to wipe the tears off of his beloved’s face and musters a watery smile.

“One last night, Cas?”

Castiel nods.

*

It is dark in the room. If this was summer, there would have been the sound of crickets chirping outside, but not tonight. On this winter night, there is only silence, punctuated only by the breathing of two men.

Dean lies in Castiel’s embrace – one which feels familiar when Dean knows that it shouldn’t. It has been a few hours since the sky has gone dark and they have retreated into their bed, and it was a few hours well spent with cuddling, sex, and hushed whispers.

“Dean,” Castiel’s low voice rumbles against Dean’s back. “It’s time.”

“No.”

Castiel sighs and a puff of warm air brushes over the back of Dean’s neck which only serves to reinforce Dean’s wish to stay. “Dean, we’ve talked about this,” Castiel says.

“I know. Just give us a while more, please?”

Dean feels some movement beside him and suddenly feels a rush of cold air against his back when Castiel twists out of bed. He jerks his head around to take a look and sees Castiel making his way to Dean’s side. Castiel brings himself down in front of Dean by the side of the bed, positioned as if in prayer. Dean sees Castiel’s face, half-illuminated by the moonlight coming in through the windows, and Castiel reaches forward to leave a peck on Dean’s forehead.

“This could keep going on for many more whiles,” Castiel says as he backs away without looking away from Dean. “And before you know it, you are dead.”

Dean flinches at the words; they are blunt and hard-hitting, but nonetheless true. He closes his eyes and swallows, then he opens them again.

“I know.”

Castiel’s face hardens and he gives Dean’s face a gentle tap. He reaches to the bedstand, takes the angel blade laying on it, and presses it onto Dean’s chest. The action is done with care to ensure Castiel does not end up killing Dean. After all, to wake up, Dean has to do this himself. Dean looks down at the blade and recalls the last time he had to kill himself in a djinn dream to wake up – 13 years ago, even before Castiel came into his life. He does not fear this act for he knows that he will not feel the blade going through his chest, ending this life of his. But that does not mean the act will be painless.

He looks back up and sees Castiel: blue eyes, dark messy hair, faint stubble. Dean takes the moment to imprint Castiel’s face in his mind’s eye, lest this is the last time he ever sees him again. He rises and sits on his bed with the angel blade in his lap, reaching out with both hands to cup Castiel’s face and trace his thumbs over his features. And then, it occurs to him.

He will wake up in a world without Castiel, but it will only be so until he rescues him from the Empty. The decision to do this becomes slightly easier.

“I love you so much, Cas,” Dean says and Castiel gives a shy smile. Dean notices the little crinkle which appears on Castiel’s nose when he smiles. He catalogues that in his mind as well.

“I love you too, Dean.”

Dean moves to grip Castiel’s hands and his eyes light up with urgency. “I will find you, Cas. I – I will get you back.”

“I don’t know if you can do that,” Castiel grimaces. Dean moves to the floor, one hand still gripping Castiel’s hand, the other holding the angel blade.

“I will try,” Dean says as he settles beside Castiel. “Or die trying.”

“You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”

“No, Cas. Because nothing for us has ever been easy," Dean proclaims. "This is my final fight when I'm back out there. I’ll be fighting to get to you because you deserve better. I deserve better.”

“Dean,” utters Castiel with a shake of his head, and that single syllable is tinged with despair, with admiration, with fear, with anticipation.

“We deserve better, Cas,” and Dean pulls Castiel into a bone-crushing hug. He feels the salt of tears start to sting his eyes as he breathes in Castiel’s scent greedily. He tries to remember Castiel’s warmth, to memorise the outline of Castiel’s torso pressed against his, and he feels the beginning of an inhale as Castiel speaks into his ear.

“If you are willing to try,” Castiel whispers. “Maybe I’ll see you on the other side.”

Dean tears himself from the hug and wipes his tears away before reaching for the angel blade on the floor beside them. He brings it up, blade pointed to his chest and notices that he is shaking. He takes a few calming breaths and looks to Castiel who has placed his hands on Dean’s knees.

“For what it’s worth, Dean,” Castiel says with a comforting smile. “I’ve enjoyed our time here.”

Dean feels his lips curve up just a fraction. “Me too, Cas.” They pause for a few seconds, the blade hanging in the air, poised for Dean to make his move.

“One last question, Cas,” Dean says and Castiel tilts his head. “Were you likening yourself to a fish earlier?”

Castiel grimaces and nods gravely. “I was hoping that would get the point across to you.”

“It did.”

This would be a strange sight if there was anyone else material in this world to witness this scene. But Castiel knows that he has won; that in the next few seconds, Dean Winchester will be saved, yet again. He feels the glow of triumph for even in death, he can, for the final time, do something for the one he loved; the one he loves; and with the faintest glimmer of hope, perhaps the one he will love.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“No, Cas,” Dean says with the slightest grin. “See you later.”

Dean closes his eyes and conjures the image of Castiel in the inky darkness before him. He takes a final steadying breath.

With a hunter’s practised precision, the blade plunges.

*

Dean wakes up in darkness and for a brief moment, panic wells up in him. He then realises that he is on his bed (he would recognise his memory foam mattress anywhere) and that this is his room in the Bunker. He reaches over to the bedstand and switches the lamp on. The room fills with light and he sees his brother by the side of his bed, seated on the floor and head collapsed on Dean’s mattress.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice rasps with disuse. He nudges Sam’s head with his knee. “Hey, Sam.”

Sam jerks up with a start and realisation crawls into his eyes as he looks to Dean. He shuffles on the floor over to Dean and pulls him into a hug.

“Dean! You’re awake!” he cries. Dean returns the hug with enthusiasm, happy to be with his brother again.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam asks as he returns Dean to his pillow.

“Could be better,” Dean groans. He is thirsty. “But I’m alive, so that’s good. Is there water?”

Sam reaches for the pitcher on the bedstand – a miracle Dean did not knock that over in the dark – and pours a glass of water for Dean to hand it to him. Dean sits up and gulps it down while Sam looks on and he senses a question from Sam. Dean figures he knows what the question is. He swallows the last of the water with a satisfied sigh.

“Spit it out, Sammy.”

“Dean. When I came to – visit? You? With the dream root. You weren’t yourself.”

Dean chuckles. “Right. And Cas had to bring you away.”

“Yeah, about that,” Sam squints at the memory. “Angel flight while you’re aware isn’t pleasant, in a dream or not. But, the thing is – Cas told me he would help you out of the dream, so I’m guessing… he did?”

Dean smiles, bittersweet, and nods.

“Cas helped, just as he always has,” says Dean. He looks to Sam. “But this time, we will help him, Sammy.”

Sam looks back, puzzled. Dean straightens himself up in his bed and clears his throat. He pours himself another glass of water and drains it. Sam notices energy in Dean's eyes – something he has not seen in a while.

“We’re going to get Cas from the Empty,” Dean declares. And just like that, the plan is put out there. Sam stares at Dean, incredulous, and Dean smirks. He knows he needs to rest, and he shall for now. For now, he will live as Castiel asked him to – to reconnect with the people around him and to live with hope. Because now, he has hope. Soon, the planning will begin.

“We’re going to raise Cas from perdition.”

-𝄞-

Music when Soft Voices Die by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.