A Winter's Tale (Destiel Fanfiction)

(6) A Winter's Tale

Dean had been feeling pretty much like shit for about eight hours straight now, ever since he'd first opened the book. And it had only gotten worse with each page he read. But the last line was the worst. He read it again:

Sorry for everything. Always your friend.

—and Dean shoved the book aside, took Cas's hand in both of his, and put his head right down on the bed, his forehead pressed to the back of Cas's hand.

Dean felt tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and didn't care. It didn't matter anyway. Too little, too late.

He stayed there for a few moments; it seemed impossible to lift his head, or to open his eyes and face the world, or do anything at all, really. So Dean stayed where he was, face down against the bedspread, pressing Cas's hand to his forehead.

A memory came to mind of the times Cas had touched Dean's head before — not like this, not with his limp hand pressed to Dean's head while Cas himself lay motionless in a hospital bed, but simply Cas touching Dean on his own, on purpose. Many times, actually, Cas had done that. Always a light touch; usually on the side of Dean's face, to heal him. Or sometimes he'd done that extra-delicate touch with two fingers touched gently to Dean's forehead, maybe to give Dean some kind of vision.

Or a hand resting on Dean's shoulder, sometimes, to fly him away.

Dean found himself pushing his face down a bit into the bedspread, pushing his forehead down a little more firmly against the back of Cas's hand, and realized he was hoping (illogically) that Cas's hand would move. That the hand would lift, of Cas's own volition; lift, and turn, and rest on Dean's hair with that soft touch once again; that Cas would somehow ease Dean's pain as he had so often in the past. Or maybe he'd give Dean a vision, like old times; a vision of... something. Anything. Even if it was just a vision of Cas being furious at him. I'll take it, thought Dean. If he's angry, I'll take it. I'll take anything.

But Cas's hand was limp and still.

Always your friend, Cas had written.

"I don't deserve that, Cas," Dean muttered, finally raising his head. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked over at Cas's bruised face. "I don't deserve your friendship— didn't you ever notice that?"

Click-psshhh.

Dean drew a slow, deep breath. There was one last thing he could try. He closed his eyes again, clutching Cas's hand tight once more.

"Cas. Castiel. Castiel, I'm praying to you, can you hear me? I know you couldn't hear me before, back when you first, um, lost your grace, but we were a thousand miles apart then. I was wondering, maybe you can still hear me a little bit if I'm right close to you?"

It was definitely a long shot, but it seemed worth a try. Cas had mentioned once, in his journal, that he seemed to "feel something" when Dean had gotten close, back when Dean had visited Idaho. Maybe they still had some kind of faint connection?

"Castiel?" Dean repeated. "You got your ears on? Can you hear me? Castiel, you gotta wake up. Christmas is three days away, dude. You gotta give me a chance to give you a real Christmas. Wake up. Start breathing. Open your eyes."

He waited.

Click-psshhh.

Dean had to resist a sudden urge to punch the breathing machine.

******

"Hey," said Sam, nudging the doorway curtain aside. Dean's back was to the door and he jumped, dropping Cas's hand and dragging a sleeve quickly over his eyes. Sam diplomatically turned his back and spent an unnecessarily long moment hanging up his coat on a hook on the wall.