Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean is sleeping.

Castiel opens the door gingerly, relief filling his heart with an asphyxiating burst. His lover finding rest in sleep means that his pains are under control, at last. It was always an issue when they were in hospital, but here, in a palliative care facility, Dean receives every possible pain reliever he needs.

To Castiel, it is the least Dean needs. It is a weak payment for the agonies he had gone through during the last three months anyhow.

These days, Dean sleeps more than he is awake, so Castiel doesn’t expect his husband to stir. He simply sneaks in and pads to Dean’s bed, taking his place by Dean’s bedside. In this light, a meager late afternoon shine with the sun already setting, Dean looks so beautiful. He has a slight tint of red in his blond-brown hair, and the sun paints it beautifully golden red, emphasizing his long eyelashes.

Dean’s body is emaciated, quickly eaten out inside by the ruthless disease, so Castiel concentrates on the sides of Dean he is able to still recognize, still able to attach with his memories.

In there, Dean is the most beautiful man he has ever seen.

—

The first thing Castiel saw at the man who came to greet him in the bar was his unbelievably long eyelashes, adorning the green eyes that looked at him jokingly. Castiel had just received the first ever hook up attempt in a bar and didn’t know how to react. He wasn’t used to being hit on – he wasn’t actually a hottie, or even son-in-law from any mother’s dreams, even less so after him coming out of the closet a couple of years ago that seemed to hinder his possibilities on the market. Not that Castiel was super interested of being on the market, or… Ehhh, nevermind.

The beautiful stranger didn’t seem to get baffled by Castiel’s uncertainty.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he said, leaning onto the counter with such a swagger and self-confidency that Castiel felt even more out of himself.

"One mimosa, please," Castiel asked politely. "Without alcohol."

If his words took the stranger by surprise, he didn’t show it. "As you wish," he said, casually, and walked to the bar tender. "Good evening," he said to the man with a Guns ‘N roses tee shirt and purple mohawk hair. "One mimosa, no alcohol, and one Johnny Walker Double Black with ice."

Castiel blinked, more than assured that the guy would definitely take to his heels as soon as he saw the ridiculous nature of this encounter of two completely opposite forms of life.

—

Dean sleeps without a sound, only frowning slightly every now and then with a silent moan. That’s when Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand softly, whispering soothing words, and to that, Dean calms down.

Dean is so cold nowadays. Castiel realizes he has three blankets on him, the third emerged meanwhile Castiel took a brief visit to a nearby post office to pick up a transmission he never remembered ordering in the first place. That’s how the days are now — Castiel barely remembers anything not related to Dean, he would forget his own name for sure if Dean wasn’t calling him by it every brief, precious time he’s able to gather his strength enough to wake up and speak.

Dean’s nurse, Cassie, visits briefly, stocking Dean’s mini refrigerator with drinks he enjoys, and they exchange a couple of tentative words — Cassie asks how Dean’s doing and tells about the hour Castiel was away, Castiel thanks her and asks about Dean’s hydration.

Dean’s doctor has started to gingerly propose minimizing the hydration intake Dean has, to ease his passing, but so far, Castiel hasn’t felt ready for it.

"Dean may drink as much as he wants by mouth," the doctor explains to him gently. "And if he asks for a drink, you can assist him. It’s simply that we won’t hydrate him intravenously anymore, lengthening his life articially."

"I can’t do that decision yet," Castiel rasps. "I’m sorry."

The doctor smiles empathetically. "Take your time," he says. "Dean has trusted you to make the decisions for him when he can’t anymore. We take your word as his."

Hearing that should calm Castiel down, increase his feeling of safety. Somehow, hearing that makes him feel lightheaded and nauseous instead.

—

"I’m that kind of guy who wants to do his own decisions," Dean said as they walked along the beach boulevard in the warm, bright summer sun. "I think it’s unfair to leave those things to someone you love."

"So that’s why you have signed all those organ and tissue donation testaments?" Castiel asked, sipping at his ice tea though a straw. "I think that’s a brave thing to do. Selfless, in a way."

Dean nodded and shrugged, turning his face towards the sun. "More like practical," he said. "I mean, it’s my body that’s going to end up in dust anyway, in a form or another. It’s only less to bury for my family when the time comes."

Castiel tilted his head, curious. "Why are you thinking things like that anyway?" He asked. "You are barely thirty, an epitome of health, and the most handsome man on Earth."

Dean smirked. "I think your last point hardly affects my life expectancy," he joked. "Where did that come from?"

Castiel laughed at that. Softly, seductively, taking his arm around Dean’s naked waist. Right here, the world felt wide open around them.

"I have absolutely no idea," he whispered, snatching Dean towards a dressing room they were just passing and making Dean whoop deliciously.

—

Castiel puts away the book he’s been reading for fifteen minutes, his eyes landing on Dean’s slumbering form. Cassie has recommended the book to him. According to the nurse, Castiel should have something else to do but waiting. It can take hours, she said, even days.

“It” is the word Castiel has hoped for her to use. It’s an euphemism, someone would call it cowardice. “Death” feels too big of a word, too crushing to think beforehand. Castiel doesn’t want to crash while Dean is here. He wants to stay calm and collected, be ready whenever Dean will need him, be ready to soothe him or hug him or ask for more painkillers for him, whatever will be needed.

But the mere idea of Dean having passed away, all gone without the possibility of them never meeting again, never laughing together again, never hugging or kissing, is a thought that deep freezes Castiel, making him unable to function.

So, for now, there's no letter D existing in Castiel’s inner vocabulary.

Dean’s chest shudders under the blankets as he draws in a difficult gulp of air. The tumor has metastasized into Dean’s lungs, the doctor has said. Yesterday, when Dean could still sit by himself, Castiel bathed him and saw his chest bending inwards. It was the opposite of Dean’s abdomen which was bulging and bloated although it was the same cancer affecting the both. That is the cruel thing the tumor does to Dean’s body, sculpting it in whole new ways that are not beautiful but agonizing — for Dean tangibly, for Castiel metaphorically but similarly horrible.

Castiel takes Dean’s hand once again, letting his eyes follow Dean’s arm upward. There are no signs of Dean’s tumor in there, and those are the details of Dean’s body he wants to learn by heart to remember them forever.

—

After the boulevard walk, Dean invited Castiel to his home for dinner next Saturday when they both had a day free. In the end, he called Castiel after noon and asked him if he had some plans for the day, and they started with lunch and another walk together. It became clear that there was much more to do as well.

They were basking in after-sex bliss, snuggling with each other and whispering the sweetest words into each others’ ear, when Dean looked down, covered his abdomen with his hand and frowned.

"What is it?" Castiel lifted himself to his elbow and looked at his lover.

"I should start my sit-ups routine again," Dean said, sighing and relaxing back against the mattress. "I'm feeling so bloated. I must look disgusting."

"Oh no, you're not." Castiel smiled gently, tickling Dean's navel. "I love your little tummy. It's perfect."

Dean snarled, mockingly attacking Castiel and starting a wrestling match Castiel won by tickling, this time Dean’s inner thigh. It was one of Dean’s soft spots, and Castiel was quickly learning all of them by heart. They hadn’t known each other for too long, but everything between them had felt so natural from the very start. So, they hadn’t wasted time in getting warmly acquainted with every single part of each others’ bodies.

"Unfair," Dean growled, attacking Castiel’s neck instead, making Castiel gasp and curl around himself. "There you go!"

Afterwards, when they laid on the bed, tightly spooned together, Castiel stopped to look at Dean’s veins.

"What?" Dean asked, relaxing his warm and sweaty body behind Castiel, still a bit breathless.

"Your veins," Castiel said, stroking his fingers along the bulging, blue trails travelling along Deans inner arm.

Dean flinched with a giggle, and Castiel drew up. "You are ticklish from here as well?" He asked, all innocent. "This is an information I can use in my advance."

"Dare you!" Dean yelped, but he couldn’t resist his opponent’s sudden attack, aiming at where he was most vulnerable.

"Don’t worry," Castiel murmured, diving in, ready to drown his lover with pillows and kisses. "I’ll make you forget everything you’ve thought since this morning."

—

Castiel has just taken the new pitcher of fresh water to the table when Dean frowns and shifts, a soft moan escaping his lips. Castiel leans closer, cupping Dean’s sharp jaw gently.

"Dean?" He whispers. "It's me, Cas. It's alright."

Dean's face smoothens, and his lips turn into a tiny smile before he starts to flutter his eyes open.

"No hurry, love," Castiel murmurs, stroking Dean’s forehead and cheeks with a cool cloth that is resting on Dean’s bedside table. "Just take your time."

Dean’s bony chest shudders, his breathing growing stronger, and then his eyes are open, smiling to Castiel with all the warmth there is to muster. Castiel is suddenly speechless, his chest filling with the mix of emotions he feels for the man.

"Dean, love," he soothes, cupping Dean’s cheek with gentle hand. "It’s alright. Shhh."

Dean’s eyes go around in his sockets, and he struggles to return his gaze back. "C…. chhhh…. Cas," he wheezes. "Cas…"

"It’s alright," Castiel says, proceeding to card his fingers through Dean’s hair. "I’m here. I’m here, love. I’m not going away."

They share a moment of connection, a precious gift from above. Dean licks his dry lips, and Castiel helps him drink, tapping his lips gently with a wetted cloth. Dean arches his neck towards the moisture, taking the few drops in so hungrily that it makes Castiel almost cry. But it’s not time to cry now. It will be later, but not now, when Dean is still here, with him.

So, wen Dean’s eyes are roaming elsewhere, Castiel clenches his jaws, swallowing his tears. And when Dean is able to look straight at him again, he smiles at him softly, crouching to press a light kiss on Dean’s cheekbone.

"I love you so much, Dean," he whispers when Dean falls back asleep with a deep, rattling sigh.

—

Dean’s breathing was even, relaxed in his sleep. Castiel stayed awake by him — it was already too much o’clock, especially considering that it would be a work day tomorrow, but Castiel simply couldn't sleep. His whole body was still tingling where Dean’s fingers had run over him, dipped in and stretched him. His lips were still tasting Dean, his skin was still drying up with the mix of the sweat of them both.

He realized that he hadn't loved anyone like he loved Dean right now.

After a while, Dean started to wake up slowly, blinking his eyes and stretching his form languidly, like a cat beast on a savannah under the sun. Castiel smiled at the sight, unable to hold himself back as he crouched forward to kiss Dean’s pale stomach.

Dean was all unawares, pliant and soft, so by all accounts he definitely shouldn’t have reacted like he did. He should have smiled or giggled, maybe yelp a bit, but certainly not moan in pain like he did. Like in a serious pain, not like in some quick and passing twinge of discomfort.

Castiel froze and drew up, and his serious eyes met Dean’s pained ones in one, confused and frightful moment.

"Did I hurt you by kissing you?"

—

After the drink Dean struggles to stay awake. He does that so often now, heartbreakingly eager to communicate, to defy his weakened body’s urge to pull him under.

"Cas…"

Dean’s voice is almost nonexistent but his eyes are vehement, and Castiel leans closer, taking his hand. It is cold and bony, trembling weakly. It is crashing reality of where they are now.

"I’m here, Dean," Castiel says softly, rubbing his finger over prominent knuckles, a feather-light touch not to hurt Dean. "What do you need?"

Dean is clearly fumbling for words when he stops and wheezes, a sudden, strong gasp of air squeezing his eyes shut and making him arch. A moment of total freeze, then a jolt of activity shots through Castiel, and he crouches forward to take Dean against his chest and hold him up.

Dean’s breath keeps wheezing, and he whimpers softly. Castiel tilts his head to press a kiss on Dean’s forehead. He feels so intimately every inch of skin, every sweat drop, every sharpened edge of Dean’s body through the thin hospital gown.

Nasal cannula, Castiel’s brain shouts at him. Cassie has shown him the equipment just yesterday when they first noticed Dean struggling to breathe. Castiel’s hands shake like crazy when he reaches for the equipment hanging in a rack on the wall, his desperation peaking with each passing moment. Dean's desperate gulps of air deepen, and Castiel takes the sweaty head with his palm, hugging it against him.

"Help!" he cries, hoping that there's someone close enough to hear. "Please, help!"

A nurse — no, a doctor, the young guy who Castiel has seen in the hall but never met in person before — comes in in a blur of movement, his questions like a rapid gunfire. Castiel lets him take over, take Dean from his numbing arms, lay him down to the bed, whir the bedhead up, take the cannulas and put them on with one, efficient movement.

Castiel watches in a numb, detached silence how the doctor stands crouched over Dean, talking to him soothingly and listening to his lungs with his stethoscope. A dizzying relief comes like a tide, and he closes his eyes with a sigh. He’s feeling tired. So, so tired.

—

The phone call was unexpected. Unknown numbers rarely called Castiel. He had an unlisted number and an advertising ban, so all kinds of sock sellers rarely found his number.

"Castiel Winchester," he said on the phone while continuing to spread mayonnaise on his lunch sandwich. He was a bit on a clock, having called some offices to ask about renewing his and Dean’s passports. Just in case — he had been planning on surprising Dean with a little holiday trip, and they were not living too far from borders. Castiel hummed at himself. It would be such a blast to take Dean somewhere out of US — Dean had told him he had never visited any other countries but Mexico.

"It’s Benny Lafitte from CarCare," the gravely voice said, and Castiel drew up. Why was Benny calling from Dean’s work? Why was he calling to Castiel? Where was Dean?

"I'm just taking Dean to the ER," the voice kept on, and Castiel had to sit down. The air around him seemed suddenly too hot. "We're minutes away from General."

Half an hour later — the longest half an hour in Castiel’s life so far — Castiel rushed into an ER, a place crowded with people who coughed, cried, hugged each other, paced around, held each others hands, talked silently or less silently to each other. Every now and then, there was a “bling”, the number in a monitor on the wall changed and after a moment someone clad in scrubs peeked their head out from the door, calling perkily a number or a name.

Dean sat hunched low in a chair, his working mate, Benny's, arm perched over his shoulder. Dean had a quilt over his trembling shoulders, and he held a kidney bowl on his knees.

"Dean!" Castiel ran to him, knelt in front of him. Dean lifted his face, exhausted and grey, covered with sweat. His mouth twitched. The son of a bitch tried to smile even in a situation like this.

"What’s happening?" Castiel asked, and luckily it was Benny who realized to take the initiative.

"We were working together on a car for a client, when he fell ill," Benny explained softly, his concerned eyes not leaving Dean, who crouched even deeper to gag into the bowl, his throat letting out sounds of discomfort. Castiel reached his hand to touch Dean’s arm, hoping to offer even the slightest of support to his lover.

"He lost all of his breakfast and lunch in one go, and the vomiting simply didn’t stop," Benny kept on. "Boss gave me time off to take him here at once."

"Thank you," Castiel said softly, concentrating on rubbing Dean’s arm. A soothing movement, up and down.

Dean kept on with his gagging, the urge suddenly turning violent and making Dean double up on his chair. Castiel took the trembling kidney bowl from Dean’s hands in a last possible second, holding it steady when Dean expelled whatever there were in his stomach left.

When he, slowly and still trembling, pushed himself back up, Castiel’s heart stopped.

Dean’s lips were bloody.

—

Dean’s struggling so much it’s painful to see, but he’s adamant to get to the wheelchair by himself. His having his own clothes here in the home, and his flannel pajamas Castiel bought him only short couple weeks ago are already bagging on him. His wrists are thin and almost meatless, and Castiel feels every knuckle of bone and skin when he holds Dean’s hand.

"Easy," he hums as Dean struggles to get his breathing under control after a strain of getting up. "We’re not in a hurry."

Those words he seems to repeat endlessly, but still it seems that Dean is in a hurry. Still, in the middle of his hardships and pain and tiredness, it’s a thing for him to getting things done or moving from place to place as quick as possible.

Dean’s temper is the same as it ever was, no matter of his body that is almost eaten out by his sickness.

—

"Sometimes, I'm a bit afraid of your temper," Castiel said, watching Dean’s finger trailing along his pubic hair.

Dean turned to look at him. His innocent, baffled expression, eyes big, brows flying on his hairline, was one of Castiel's favorites.

"Mmmhmmm?" Dean hummed, moving his head to rest on Castiel's chest.

"Yes," Castiel said. "It's… raw, somehow. Powerful. Explosive."

"Oookay." For a moment, Dean’s chuckle was a bit uncertain. "Is it good or bad?"

"It's…" Castiel stopped to think for a while. "It's challenging."

Apparently, Dean took that as a positive or neutral at least, relaxing his body against the mattress.

"You should meet my brother, Sam," he said with a grin. "Now, he has Eileen and a kid so he has calmed down some, but when he was younger, he was so bad. My dad was the same so there were quite a lot of butting heads."

The laugh following that was a little strained, making Castiel ponder if there was something in that childhood memory that served to give it a bitter undertone. But Dean was soon over it, back in his usual, relaxed self.

"Still, if I haven’t read you all wrong," he said with a glint in his eyes, "there might be this one place where you don't mind my temper at all?"

Dean growled, mockingly threatening, and lunged towards Castiel, making him laugh with his antics as he covered him with his gorgeous, hungry body, drowning him with teasing, little kisses.

Yeah, Castiel didn’t mind.

—

"It's a mass inside my abdominal wall. It's cancerous."

Castiel remembers Dean's words so clearly, his voice stating and colorless. He remembers Dean's nightly walks to the bathroom and back, never telling Castiel what was wrong, chasing his worry away with his tiny kisses along his body. Only if Castiel would have really stopped Dean, really demanded honesty from him. 

But, in the end, would it have changed a thing? Castiel thinks, trailing his hand over Dean's chest, soothing the cool bedding over Dean's thin form. They were so happy, so blissfully happy. They had what they had ever wanted, what they both felt like they had been searching for all of their lives. 

Castiel stops his hand beside Dean's, his eyes fixing on his own wedding band around his left ring finger. Dean's fingers are too thin now, he's keeping his own around his neck in a golden chain. 

A whisper of the perfect times.

—

Their wedding was an intimate, emotional occasion. No more people than their closest families — Sam with his newly wedded wife, Eileen, and their second baby secretly present under Eileen's heart, Castiel’s parents and sister — at the ceremony in their living room, the place they loved and felt the safest in.

Dean was wearing a dark blue tuxedo, the shade of it complimenting his green eyes perfectly, its cutting hugging him in all the perfect places. A night before, Dean had been turning in front of the mirror, lamenting about the bloating again. But now, he seemed radiant, his megawatt smile not disappearing the whole day. He’s my husband, Castiel thought, his heart bursting with emotions. My beautiful, sweet, absolutely perfect husband.

They were dancing, just the two of them, to Ed Sheeran’s Perfect. It was so ridiculous and cheesy, it had started as a joke between them. But what could you do if that’s a song that simply felt like it was commissioned for them?

When the music stopped, Dean didn’t let Castiel go. They stayed like that for a blink of an eye that felt like eternity, their eyes drowning to each others’ and their hands resting on each others’ hips.

"I’m the luckiest man on this Earth, Dean Winchester," Castiel whispered, voicing the only thought going around in his mind.

—

"There, there, Dean," Cassie soothes softly, tucking Dean in and stroking the sweaty hair out of Dean's brow with gentle fingers. "Now I'm done. No more of that, Dean. No more."

Her voice is soft and kind, seemingly unbaffled by the raw pain she has to testify in her patient day in and day out. Castiel's hands twitch, and he starts to stand, sitting right back down. He is crying inside to touch Dean, to make Dean’s pain go away, but he knows he has to stay put. They're already doing things against protocol, and he doesn’t want to disturb the good nurse more than he already does.

She's doing her work, Castiel thinks. But still, he has the admiration for the nurse who remains so professional yet empathetic and somehow emotionally close. It's not one or two times when Castiel has wondered how someone can thrive in a line of work like this. Seeing nothing but pain, decay and, eventually, death.

Castiel dodges the D-word, turning his eyes back to Dean. He's still moaning, long, dragging strings of anxiety and pain. Castiel once asked what’s the point in this, shouldn't palliative care mean easing the patient’s discomfort, and Cassie talked to him about difficult decisions, lines in the water. How, on the other hand, the patient should be escorted towards the end of their life as gently and painlessly as possible, and simultaneously, there are some things that can’t be simply left without doing. Forgetting the certain basic procedures would be neglect, and that would mean mocking the dying, not honoring their last moments on the Earth.

Castiel understands. He’s not a stupid man. Still, when Cassie is ready to leave, he jumps up instantly, ready to conquer back the chair he guards like a pitbull.

Seeing Dean's restless shifting calm down, him leaning onto Castiel’s hand, his furrowed brow relaxing slightly in hearing Castiel’s voice, is the greatest feeling Castiel could imagine.

—

They went by feet to the hospital where Dean's treatments were to begin. 

"It's so beautiful day," Dean insisted. "I'm feeling good, Castiel. Honestly."

Castiel had his doubts about that, but he didn't voice them. Instead, he followed his husband out of the door and towards a park. It was a detour, but he didn't say a thing about that either. 

"We should take walks together more often," Dean said, turning his face towards the sun. "Do you catch the scent? Is it winter? I think it is."

To please him, Castiel laughed a bit. It was strained, but he decided to try. "It's 17th of August, silly," he said, warmly. "September is weeks away."

"Still," Dean said, adamant, like it really mattered. "Sniff it, Cas. Deep and concentrated. Can't you smell just a hint of it?"

Castiel sighed, exaggeratedly loud. Dean wants to play today, he thought. So, let's play. We never know what is waiting for us in the hospital. 

"I'll tell you what I can smell," he quipped, spreading his arms and charging towards Dean, making him escape with a cheerful laugh. 

—

Sam’s face sports worry lines in all new places around his face. He stands at the door, his height as imposing as ever but his being shrunk like in some invisible force weighing him down. He’s changing feet, his knuckles white as he squeezes his cabin sized luggage. His hair is tousled, his clothes crumbled in a way that speaks of hurrying out from an airplane after hours long flight, without even thinking to stop and look at the mirror.

"Eileen says hello," Sam says, no, croaks. "We fought, Hell how we fought. But, it seems, there's no doctor in the whole of Ireland who would let a lady 29 weeks with twins to fly overseas. Not even to say goodbye to her dying brother-in-law."

Castiel swallows at the D-word, and suddenly he’s deep in a hug of younger Winchester. Sam has ever been a hugger, Castiel knows but he has apparently forgotten. He taps Sam’s back awkwardly, and Sam retreats and sniffs his nose, looking at Castiel investigatively.

"How're you holding up, Cas?" He asks, the empathy in his voice too painful to receive.

"I am," Castiel says, avoiding. "I'm holding up for Dean. That's the meaning of my days now."

Sam nods, understanding, and they walk together to Dean’s room. Dean’s laying eyes closed, but he's not sleeping, Castiel knows. The only way Dean can sleep these days is with medication. Dean breathes loudly, through his mouth, and Castiel takes notice that Dean’s lips are chapped again. Another sign of his body slowly dehydrating, withering away.

Castiel lets Sam sit on the chair, kneeling on the other side of Dean's bed, palming Dean’s cheek, his touch feather-light.

"Dean? Love?" He whispers, and Dean frowns and murmurs softly. "Would you want to wake up? Sam's here."

That works like magic, opening Dean’s eyes in a blink. Castiel smiles at Dean, squeezes his hand and retreats to the hall.

He doesn’t want to lose a second by his husband's side, but Sam is an exception to the rule.

He sits down on a chair in a hall, pondering briefly how it might feel to take that kind of journey, to say forever goodbye to someone you're lived with your whole life, grown into adulthood with.

And then he sighs, pondering why it isn’t possible for him to turn off his brain. Just for a second even.

—

"Hey, tell me if you feel too bad," Castiel said softly, trying to fluff the pillows behind Dean's back on the couch. "I think we really can order a taxi with a stretcher if you feel too tired to sit up." 

Dean frowned, shifting a little to try and make himself comfortable in his half-sitting, half-laying position. "I'm not dead yet, Cas," he rasped. "I can sit."

So far Castiel could persuade Dean that when the taxi pulled into the yard, they both settled to sit on the backseat, Dean leaning against Castiel's chest. Castiel curled his arm around Dean's too thin form. That was a change that had happened in so short time, just a matter of weeks. It had been a cruel, devastating goodbye to earlier, muscular form of a man they both had known. Yet, inside, Dean was still Dean. 

"Are you good here?" Castiel asked, softly, letting his lips brush against Dean's hair. The soft tuft of what was left of it. 

Dean's answer was a soft, already tired hum, a weak puff of air against Castiel's neck. Castiel swallowed, a cold hand gripping his chest as he played in his mind the words he never would have wanted to say. Words that were too final. 

"We're ready to go," he said to the driver, who nodded and started the engine. 

—

That night, only hours after Sam's leaving, Dean develops a high fever. Castiel calls for a doctor, but they are taking care of someone else, so he and Dean needs to wait. Cassie brings cool water and cloths which Castiel wipes over Dean's skin when he shifts or the pearls of sweat threaten to roll down into his eyes.

It is past midnight when the doctor comes in, takes stock of Dean's demeanor and his vitals and checks his hydration intake. Dean stays still, only breathing a bit shallower when the doctor feels around his body. Castiel holds his hand, running his fingers over Dean's prominent knuckles.

"Soon you'll be able to lay to rest," the doctor says to Dean, gently, turning to look at Castiel. "We need to discuss his hydration soon. Dean's will was that his passing won't be too prolonged."

Castiel nods, swallowing thickly. He remembers Dean's words from some days ago. So, so short days ago.

"I'm ready," Dean rasped. "I'm ready to meet mom and dad, Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Ash... and Mhh-Miracle."

His smile was a sweet, lopsided Dean smile, and Castiel couldn't not smile back although his chest felt shrinking.

"I love you, Dean," he whispers.

He knows they won't be going home together ever again.

—

Dean dies restfully. He, tangibly, sleeps away — in his last night on this Earth, he doesn’t wake up anymore. When he takes his last breath, long and sighing, like he was relieved to finally let go of his battle, he holds onto Castiel’s hand.

Cassie visits last time a little past 1.30, asking if Dean and Castiel need anything. Castiel asks for one more blanket and socks for Dean — he feels like Dean’s hands are cold — and he tucks Dean in and puts on his socks gingerly, reverently, like dressing up a newborn.

Dean’s doctor comes in at 3.30. He has his stethoscope around his neck, but he doesn’t take it to listen to Dean’s lungs. Instead, after stopping for a moment to look at Dean, he takes Dean’s wrist like it is made of porcelain. Then he puts Dean’s hand back under the blankets and crouches down to touch Dean’s shoulder, holding it gently, in a somehow fatherly manner.

He looks at Castiel with a sad smile, and Castiel knows what it means and nods. Take your time. There's no hurry now.

At 3.48, 27th of December, Dean Winchester takes his last breath, leaving the room hauntingly silent. 

~~~~~~~~~~

EPILOGUE

It's one of those crispy, sunny autumn afternoons when Castiel loves to visit the graveyard.

He does it every season, doing his best to ensure that there’s always fresh flowers or a candle burning by Dean’s grave, but these days, there's something special.

At first visits, his chest hurts so bad that he was certain he couldn't get out of there with his own two feet. He would curl beside the headstone, struggling to breathe, seeing Dean standing beside the grave with a smile and reaching his hand for Castiel to take. Come, he would say. Come with me.

And Castiel imagines, time and time again, how he would take the hand quicker than a blink of an eye, and how they would leave together.

Every time, Castiel stirs up in the graveyard. Dean hasn’t come, and Castiel’s still there. And he has to get up, turn his back at the beloved grave and walk away, live his life.

And he has a life. He never believed it, but tiny step by tiny step, he finds life again. Seasons come and go, and he finds love, he spends anniversaries with them. He even fosters a kid and a bunch of cats with them. He hugs them, and he laughs with them.

But when he visits the graveyard, the beloved grave, there's no-one but him.

And there, looking at the copper letters that, years flying by, turn into a beautiful green, he has the peace and freedom, finally, to cry.