one.

two.

three.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

sixteen.

seventeen.

eighteen.

It was supposed to be gentle, kind, loving.

twenty-four.

twenty-five.

twenty-six.

No one was supposed to be in pain. No one was supposed to curse, to yell, to cry.

twenty-eight.

twenty-nine.

thirty.

This was not how Dean Winchester and Castiel were supposed to end.

chin lift.

nose pinch.

breathe.

.

.

.

ninety-four.

.

.

.

He had hesitated on the first compression, and now he worries that might have been it: the sole reason why the man by his knees won't wake up. It's their lives after all; a misstep, a miscalculation, a misinterpretation…they're human errors for most people. For them – for Sam, for their father, for Bobby, for him – they're fatal. But he had hesitated earlier because there were so many wrong things about that action alone.

Dean isn't supposed to be the one doing this; he isn't even supposed to try. There's a rule for these types of things, that for certain people with certain degrees of injuries, you shouldn't even bother hoping they'd come back, and you mustn't even pray.

one.

two.

three.

He's not even sure how long it's been since he's seen the light in Castiel's eyes – the same kind of empyrean glow he thinks (tells himself, remembers, dreams) he saw down in Hell before he was raised from perdition. Castiel's skin: gray as purgatory, lips: cold as the air of a vengeful spirit, and if Dean's any closer to quoting Snow White, he's going to gank the son of a bitch who made him believe for a whole second that a simple touch on the lips was enough.

His fingers pinch the bridge of the former angel's nose. He doesn't seem to notice that the blood – Castiel's blood – has stained his fingers, red, black and grim. In fact, Dean doesn't notice anything at all.

He doesn't register the fact that the rain has stopped, how even the ghosts have stopped haunting the woods for that night, leaving just the two in what should have been a time of peace and intimacy, but is really a product of Dean's worst nightmares. The only sound that could be heard was his own breathing.

Not even Castiel's.

ten.

eleven.

twelve.

Dean thinks he should have said something earlier, that after years of miscommunication and a heavy load of crap. That he'd learn by now. He counts thirty compressions and blows another two breaths into Castiel's mouth.

A voice in his head tells him that this type of contact, the connection between their lips, should have happened years earlier. At Bobby's. After the brothel. In the impala. Any one of the motel parking lots. In Purgatory. At the bunker. At home. But it didn't, and now Dean has his lips on Castiel's, cold, cracked and only parted because he's forcing them open.

They don't respond to Dean.

His weight shifts, and the force is a little bit stronger, if only to make up for the lack of energy. Their hunt had left him exhausted and he's only running on adrenaline now, if anything. With tensed muscles, Dean begins to feel the ache slapping him across his shoulders. The cuts along his arms and torso are burning, and the lump in his throat swallows guilt and fear like a black hole. It's trying to cut off his circulation; his arms feel numb. It's trying to cut off his airway; he feels panicked.

Thirty compressions, two breaths, repeat.

He counts in his head the number of times the palm of his hands dig into Castiel's chest, and begs on each count—

twenty-two.

twenty-three.

twenty-four.

— that he's wearing his heart on the sleeve of his arms, because then maybe Castiel's heart would hear his (erratic, uneven, falling apart) and respond.

And it was then that Dean relied on everything around him, which he has never liked doing. Relying on someone usually meant betrayal. It meant baiting someone, dangling them in the line of fire. It meant death. But here he was, relying on Fate who already had a strong dislike for Castiel and on God who was never really there. He relied on science to let his actions be enough. He relied on his prayers to Castiel, Angel of Thursday, who long ago had his wings plucked and was sent to bathe in humanity and its corruption.

But that has never stopped Dean from praying to Cas, and so his thoughts linger on faithful promises…

seven.

eight.

nine.

…And he hears something – feels something – from deep inside Castiel's chest.

Dean's face lights up, and the load in his body instantly dissipates. The forceful lump in his throat falls a little; the thumps in his chest quicken. His palm, firmly pressed along the creased and muddied dress shirt, lifts hesitantly.

"C-Cas?"

The man show no sign of consciousness.

"Hey man, can you hear me?..."

Concerned, Dean runs his hand back onto his chest, the pads of his fingertips seeking for the reverberating beat. When nothing answers, the hunter feels his face heat up in apprehension.

"...Cas?"

But even with his quivering voice and heart on his sleeves, Castiel does not respond.

nineteen.

twenty.

twenty-one.

Dean continues with his compressions, the fact that the false-beat earlier was Castiel's ribs cracking doesn't falter him. Rather, he's become more determined, eager to make up for that momentary lapse. His face remains twisted in its hardened, forlorn expression.

He doesn't waste time, blowing into Castiel's mouth and checking for signs of heartbeats. He pushes his palms into the man's chest, knowing they're too far away from Sam and the impala, even farther from the towns and their hospitals. He does it until he's become mechanical, wired to repeat the same motions again and again the way a baker knows his measurements or a doctor knows his ailments.

He's exhausted and eventually his eyes droop so low, he has to bite the inside of his cheeks until they bleed in order to wake himself up. But when Dean's arms give out, landing him face first onto Castiel's chest, the cheap taxman's cotton of the dress shirt soaks up the tears Dean didn't know he had been shedding.

He immediately pushes himself up, fear overriding his systems. He needed to see Cas' smile again. He needed to hear Cas' voice again. He needed Cas.

With what little ounce of energy he has left and positions his arms over Castiel's chest again.

He falters.

His own heartbeat is loud, almost too loud, and his breathing is beyond control. Dean recognizes his own panic, but even so, he can't escape from staring at Castiel's face. It has the same look as when he's asleep in the backseat of the impala: peaceful, but now with a canvas of gruesome colours: blue and grey and dead. Dean's head was beginning to hurt with how heavy his heart was crying.

Slowly and hesitantly, he presses his lips together, tastes the dry salt and the blood. His tongue is dry while his face is wet. His hands are still stitched together on top of Castiel's chest, pressing lightly as he can because it seems as if he can't do anything else but.

twenty-two.

twenty-three.

twenty-four.

Dean continues to study Castiel. His breathing has changed, letting go of slow and steady breaths as he memorizes every contour, every angle and brow line that's shaped Castiel. He remembers their first year and almost every year after, how he couldn't understand why Cas bothered to watch him sleep at night, and now, Dean himself is watching.

He looks at the sleeping man with no heartbeats to wake him up.

Finally, Dean unknots his hands, cards his fingers through Castiel's hair before covering his mouth, pressing hard on his face to prevent the onslaught of tears from falling (to prevent his shattered soul from leaving his body).

And all he could think about was how this was so fucking unfair. After the apocalypse, after the demons and the deals and the angels, there shouldn't be any more of this. Dean had promised that there would be no more dying until they were at least sixty when they started to feel it in their bones. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't let Sam and Castiel feel pain again.

He wonders if Cas knew that.

That somewhere down the jagged line that was supposed to represent their lives, Dean had truly cared for him, desired him, loved him to the point where he was willing to go back to Hell if that meant Castiel could stay in Heaven and away from all the pain and misery the Winchesters had ever slam dunked through his flickering halo.

He wonders if Cas, in all of his naivety of human life but omniscient in every other way, knew that fact. That far too simple fact that Dean, with all of his soul –singed or not, polluted and scarred or not, in makeshift pieces of torn fragments or not – had truly loved him.

And if he doesn't actually know – if for some fucking, unlawful reason Castiel had never known that, then Dean would just do what he's always done when he needed him: he would look up at the skies, at a random star he thinks Castiel, Angel of the Lord, might be sitting on, and he'd pray.

And Dean would tell him then.

"I love you."

twenty-four.

twenty-five.

twenty-six.

Dean finally gets a hold of Sam, and it's only after he makes sure that his brother's okay that he tells Sam what's happened, except that no, he doesn't say it. He barely struggles through Castiel's name before his brother understands. Sam has managed to finish the hunt and would be on his way to help Dean with the body.

As he waits, he shuts his eyes tight so that he couldn't see anything but vivid memories of an angel smiling at him like he truly is as righteous as Heaven claimed him to be. Castiel, that trenchcoat wearing weirdo who wormed his way through everyone's personal space until one day, Dean was just more than fine with it, who sucked at insulting others until one day, Dean found himself calling a demon an assbutt, who selflessly stood in harms way until one day – today – he couldn't any longer.

His hands remained hovered over the spot that he had been pressing on for the past hour. There are miniscule nudges, counting the seconds passing by.

twenty-seven.

twenty-eight.

twenty-nine.

He thinks about making another deal, starts plotting ways to get away from Sam for the next few weeks. Castiel would never forgive him, would beg his ex-brothers and sisters to go to Hell for Dean Winchester, but they wouldn't and Castiel would still be alive and that's really all that matters.

Dean makes up dialogue in his head, figures out what Castiel would say to him once he comes back, and he keeps picturing him alive and well until his shoulders start shaking uncontrollably again.

"Jesus, Cas…" He mutters, "you've turned me into a blubbering mess."

Dean can feel the rims of his eyes stinging, refusing to make a sound until the noises coming from his throat turn ugly. He can barely see straight, but still focuses his view onto Castiel. And then, with one clenched fist, he pounds it to the center of the dead man's chest.

thirty.

With two hands intertwined again, Dean repositions himself above the body. His face, aggressive and determined, focuses hard on the wet and bloody shirt. He digs his palms.

thirty-one.

thirty-two.

thirty-three.

"Wake up!"

thirty-eight.

thirty-nine.

forty.

Dean swallows the lump of denial. He thinks about everything Castiel has ever done for them, for him, how he would never have given up. He thinks about how stubborn everyone including himself, is and how they're either dead or alive now because of it.

fifty-six.

fifty-seven.

fifty-eight.

He keeps praying. To the angel. To the hunter. To the human. To the dead man. Dean doesn't stop praying.

sixty-nine.

seventy.

seventy-one.

"Wake up you son of a bitch!"

seventy-six

seventy-seven.

seventy-eight.

"Cas…"

eighty-four.

eighty-five.

eighty-six.

"Come back."

ninety-two.

ninety-three.

ninety-four.

.

.

.

"Dean."

His arms go limp. His body freezes. His breaths hold. Dean's entire body stops functioning except for his thoughts, which are hectic, and his heartbeats, which yearn to grab hold of the pulses beneath his fingertips that weren't there a second ago.

Dean motions his head towards Castiel's face reluctantly, concerned that he's gone insane, that he's hearing voices and imagining things that only have existed in his prayers. But then he sees it; he sees the glow in the bright blue eyes as if they had been replaced by angelic grace, staring back at him like they always have.

He presses his lips together and releases the grip he has on the material of Castiel's shirt. He could feel the surge of emotions welling up in the corner of his eyes, doesn't even care that he looks like a high school girl in a chick flick right now, flushed and so utterly disorganized. He couldn't even conjure any words.

Instead, Dean cups Castiel's peaching face, thumb grazing over his blood stained skin, wiping the tear away from Cas' cheeks…

...but the tears keep coming.

And coming.

And coming.

They're all coming from Dean. And they won't stop.

He cries, letting the shivers torment his body, and finds enough strength to grip onto Castiel's hand tightly. Dean lets go of his worries and nightmares, and even when he wants to, he can't seem to push away the heavy gasps that escape him. Not until he feels Castiel squeezing his hand.

When he's raw and still trembling, Dean manages an apology, but Castiel attempts at a motion similar to a head shake in disagreement. The former angel makes a raspy noise that Dean can't comprehend, and the hunter manages to wipe his tears away if only to save Castiel's cheeks from drowning in his emotions again. Dean stares at Castiel intently, searching for the rest of the former angel's voice within his eyes.

"I…" Castiel's voice cracks again, and he gulps while trying to talk.

Dean shakes his head. "Cas, it's fine. You don't have to say anything. It's okay... You're okay."

But Castiel continues to try. "I he-heard you...Dean."

"What?"

"I...heard y-your prayers."

Dean looks at him, bewildered, thinking about the past two hours, but no matter how willing, his heart still clenches at the memory.

"You heard?"

Castiel makes a strangled, uncomfortable nod and Dean guiltily remembers the fact that he'd crushed the man's ribs earlier. And then he remembers: I love you. He levels his eyes to gaze back at Castiel again, letting out a breath of realization when he asks:

"Everything?"

Castiel dips his head in a small, weak nod.

"Then you know I... " Dean pauses, and then he thinks about how he should have said this earlier. At Bobby's. After the brothel. In the impala. Any one of the motel parking lots. In Purgatory. At the bunker. At home. And he nods, if only to himself.

"I love you."

Castiel must have known, because there's not a hint of shock anywhere, but rather, bliss. Like he's glad to be there to hear it this time, and Dean can't help but grin and cherish the look on his face.

"I prayed for you, Cas."

"I know, Dean," he responds, voice still raspy.

Dean knows that he heard everything, but he couldn't stop talking, stating obvious truths, because he knows that for a moment in time, he had thought he was never going to be able to talk to Castiel again. And so, until Sam comes back to help him bring Castiel to the hospital, Dean talks.

"I think I broke your ribs, man."

"I think so too."

"I swore at you for dying."

"I know."

"I begged for you to come back."

Castiel, Angel of the Lord and of Thursday, hunter and human in training, the one man Dean Winchester is in love with, smiles.

"I came back."

A/N: This plot is several years old and has literally seen four different fandoms throughout my entire fanfic writing career before I finally settled with Supernatural. I never finished the other ones because I didn't like how they sounded, so compared to all other versions I've written, I'm quite happy with this one.

Also, despite being a science student with a First Aid and CPR certificate, I kinda doubt how realistic the whole process was...I mean, scientifically, Cas probably wouldn't have made it. Ah well, it's called Supernatural for a reason.

Please review! :)