He blinks. He's three minutes out from the hospital. But that doesn't matter anymore.

"I'm sorry." She sounds like she means it, even though she's only met Dean half a week ago, and Cas himself less than that.

Cas opens his mouth, the polite sayings of humans jumping to his tongue. It'd taken so long for Dean and Sam to beat them into him that now they're second nature—please, thank you, you're welcome, we're sorry for your loss. The 'thank you' gets stuck on his tongue though, and he's blinking rapidly. It's discontenting, the way the road is going in and out of focus.

"Thank you," he forces out, voice breaking in a way he's never heard it before.

"His things will be in the room," she continues in that soft voice that sounds nothing like Dean talking to children on cases, but reminds him of it all the same, "please feel free to come in and see him."

Cas nods, and then remembers he's on the phone. Dean would have laughed at him for the misstep.

"Yes, I will."

"Room 154," she says, as if he hadn't memorized it the moment they'd walked into it.

She's still on the line, like she's expecting a response.

"154," Cas says back.

The click of the line is something deafening, leaving the car in more silence than it'd been in before Cas had picked up the phone. Cas had never felt the need to fill up the car with sound like Dean, or let it slowly swell with softer cords and chatter like Sam. It sounds too quiet now, too cut off from the rest of the world, as if Cas is not a part of everything beyond the four doors.

Cas puts the phone away.

He has to pull over, just a street over from the hospital. He keeps the blinker on and the car running, reveling in the sound of the motor where everything else is strangely quiet. He doesn't take his hands off the wheel; he doesn't move at all. He wants to, he wants to so badly it almost hurts—the muscles in his legs and arms straining against nothing as they try and fail to move.

But all that is overshadowed by the tearing pain in the center of his chest, a more physical ache than all the rest. It's a twisting, churning, ripping, pulling feeling that hurts. Hurts more than anything Cas has ever experienced before.

Tears are gathering in his eyes, eyes that already feel puffy and red, and his lower lip is trembling, much like the child Dean always used to insist he was. He feels no more than a child now; searching blindly for the blanket that will protect him from the world or a teddy bear so he will never be without a friend. He finds neither and feels all the more childlike due to his hopeless need.

Cas's body betrays him (or saves him). He sniffs once, loudly, and that is enough to make his stiff hands move and gets his leg to co-operate. He's pulling back into traffic and going the one street more that he needs.

The parking lot is almost full—so dismally full that Cas almost cries out then and there; so many loved ones hurting or hurt, being thrust into life or being torn from it.

A car starts to pull out and Cas waits for their spot. The mini-van goes torturously slow, but as it pulls further out, Cas can tell why. In the passenger's arms is a small bundle. The woman just had a child. She cradles the new life so sweetly in her arms. The driver cannot stop his large smile. Cas cannot stop the flood of happiness that does nothing to combat his pain. Even after being removed from the tier of angels long ago, God's new creations light something much like ever-loving grace within him.

And then they're gone and Cas is left in the darkening parking lot. He realizes the car is too large for the spot. He drives on.

He finally finds a place at the back of the lot and slides the car home. He takes the key out and listens to the car let out a sigh as it settles. The door is noisy opening, louder than Cas remembers it. The hospital looks so far away from where he is; a mixture of annoyance and fear rips through him before his mind takes charge and tells him there's no reason to race, not anymore.

Cas walks through the lot, as he does, lights flicker on. Cas almost laughs, too reminiscent of his first encounter with a Winchester to not be funny, but the glowing letters of emergency stop him. This is an emergency, but there's nothing human medicine can do about it.

The doors slide open automatically. The woman at the desk gives him a cheery smile. She was the same one on duty when he'd first arrived, what seems so long ago. There must be something that gives him away (perhaps his entire face, wet and red. Or his entire being, hurt and bleeding, but with no wound to stitch up), because her cheery smile becomes more consoling, and she gestures to the right side of the hall for him to go down. Cas knows already, but he nods in acknowledgement and continues on his way.

Every room looks the same in hospitals. Even when the interior is different, the impossible combination of sterility and disease mix into something pungent that stays in the air like a dense fog. When room 154 comes up, it's almost a surprise, so alike the others and yet meaning so much more to one simple fallen angel.

Cas walks in and he sees him on the bed—still. So still. He was never this still before. Even when he rested, he was always in a state of motion, twitching or turning in bed. Cas's throat closes up in a way that's so much like choking but without any chance of unconsciousness. It wasn't supposed to end like this. It wasn't supposed to end, but it certainly wasn't supposed to end like this.

Cas lets his hand fall to Dean's cheek, feeling the still warm skin underneath even as his vision of it clouds over and the world became a blur. A subtle rasp of stubble, the lines etched in from years the body had never gone through, those bright green eyes closed for the last time.

Dean looks ridiculous in hospital scrubs.

That's it. That's the thought that has Cas's lips fighting to quirk up even as his frown deepens and the first drops leave his eyes. He'd never told him that. How ridiculous he looked in the flimsy faux-clothes. Hadn't found the time in between tests and worries and 'options'. He should have. Dean truly looked ridiculous. He should have known it. Cas should have told him.

The nurse came in. Cas doesn't remember her name. He should, Dean and Sam have chastised him over it countless times, saying he's always too detached.

("You're one of us now," Dean had said, "might as well start remembering the human element."

But he wasn't, was he? Not really.)

"He went peacefully," she says, consoling.

But it wasn't consoling at all. Dean wasn't meant to go peacefully. He wasn't meant to spend the last week of his life in a hospital bed attempting to recover from a stroke and failing. He was supposed to die in battle against one of the monsters he'd spent his whole life fighting. He was supposed to go out bloody and bruised and still fighting. Not like this. Not in his sleep, one breath to the next. He certainly shouldn't have had to do it alone.

Cas nods.

"He overheard that you were coming back," she continues and Cas's head shoots up, "I think he wanted to save you the pain."

For having known him only a week, the nurse is very astute. That was Dean's way, attempting to stop people's pain. In this case though, there is nothing that will stop Cas's.

"What's your name?" Cas asks, not taking his eyes off Dean's face, one finger still obsessively tracing the lines of his face, lines he'd memorized a lifetime ago.

"Claire," she answers, more startled than anything.

"Claire…" Cas looks at her. She's mid to late thirties. Fresh face though, making her look younger, blue eyes that hold a special kind of light and blond hair pulled back in a bun. Her scrubs have little angels on them.

"I had a daughter named Claire once," that's the first time he's ever claimed Claire as his own, even if it's a false one. He has no idea why he does it.

Claire smiles sadly.

She leaves him there (the sick never sleep, nor do their caretakers), and Cas falls into the chair behind him, hand moving from Dean's face to his hand. A had that, for the first time, does not grip back.

He has to go soon, has to go back to Sam. Dean would understand. But it still hurts to even think of letting go, even as Dean's hand goes colder and colder.

Cas wipes his face with the ratty sleeve of his trench coat (another thing both Winchester boys chastised him on, but one Cas himself never attempted to change) and stands. He squeezes Dean's hand one more time, leans over to place a chaste kiss on his forehead, not able to bear the thought of kissing his lips and having no response, and walks to the door.

Claire is there, a pea coat over her scrubs.

"I'll drive you home."

Cas wants to decline, tell her there's no need, but what comes out instead is, "I'm not going home."

She shrugs in that effortless way humans do that Cas has never been able to grasp, and grabs his arm, leading him out of the hospital. Cas wants to say he doesn't look over his shoulder, doesn't do everything in his power to try and drag Dean back to him in that moment his eyes touch Dean Winchester's body for the last time before it would be engulfed in flames, but that would be a lie.

They're in the parking lot, and Claire is letting him lead, letting him walk back to the car. The sight of its shine under the street lamp is more welcoming than Cas could have imagined.

"A '96 Impala," Claire comments softly, "that's a great car."

Cas nods, unable to speak. Claire takes the keys from his inert hand and unlocks the doors. Cas finds himself in the passenger seat before he really thinks of it. He was never meant to drive this car, the Winchesters were. But now a new soul is pressing on the gas and checking behind as she pulls the car out. Cas wants to be outraged on Dean's behalf, but he cannot muster it.

"Where to?" Claire asks, driving the Impala as though she's done it all her life.

Cas gives directions, stilted and halted as they are, but Claire makes no comments on the watery quality of his voice or the pauses that cause them to miss more than one turn. She just quietly drives them to their destination.

When they pull into another parking lot, too much like the last, she doesn't look at him expectantly when he doesn't jump from the car. She turns the car off, lets the car settle much like Cas had done earlier, and gets out of the Impala. She stands next to it, waiting with no expectation or haste.

Cas finds the passenger door opening to be as loud as the driver's door. The sound of it shutting is even worse. Claire offers her hand. Cas takes it; it's warm.

They walk to the building, another with florescent letters and staff that are always cheery. Cas doesn't stop at the desk, and the man behind the counter doesn't do more than smile politely. Cas has been here enough times that the staff all know him.

When they get to room 42b, Cas hesitates outside the door. Claire gives his hand a small squeeze and Cas is startled to find their hands still linked. He's startled more to realize how hard he's gripping her hand. It must hurt.

Cas lets her hand go and opens the door, stepping inside and leaving the door open for Claire, if she wishes.

"Cas!"

Cas wants to smile, but he can't.

"You should be asleep, Sam." He walks over to the chair next to Sam's bed, sitting on the edge.

Sam ignores the remark, "Dean?" he looks behind Cas, but there's only Claire, who shuts the door softly behind herself.

"Dean's going to get some food."

"No burgers," Sam shakes his head exaggeratedly, "'s bad for you. Salad."

"I'm sure he'll remember your salad, Sam. He's never forgotten before."

Sam's eyes go out of focus for a moment, drifting to the window on the other side of the room. Claire steps forward, next to where Cas is sitting. They're all silent.

Sam's eyes make their way around again.

"Cas!"

Cas manages a smile, "hi Sam."

"I love you, Cas," Sam smiles widely.

Cas chokes on his tears, "I love you too, Sam."

Sam's face goes concerned, "no crying," he says sternly, one large (warm) hand encompassing Cas's shaking shoulder.

"Okay, Sam."

"Dean loves you too." Sam says, as though that makes it better.

"I know."

Sam's eyes lose focus. His hand falls off Cas's shoulder. Cas wipes his face off with the sleeve of his coat again.

Sam turns back around, "Claire!"

Cas is through half a nod before he freezes. His head swivels around and up, looking at the nurse's face before jumping to her name tag. Claire Novak, it states in large black block letters. There's a half ripped smiley face sticker just above the 'v'. Cas's eyes shoot back to Claire's face. She's giving him that sad smile again.

"I'm not your dad," he says, and that's not what he wanted to say (he doesn't know what he wants to say) but that's what comes out. But in that moment he wants to be, he wants to give this young woman back her father, her life, almost as much as he wants Dean back.

"I know, Castiel," she says soothingly, "and that's okay."

"Cas!"

Cas's head twirls around again, looking into eyes that haven't changed a bit surrounded by a face that has aged almost thirty years, like a human's should.

"I love you, Cas."

"I-I," Cas starts, but his vision's going blurry again and there are soft hands on his shoulders, rubbing small circles, "I lov—" he tries again, but he can't get the words out through his sobs. He doesn't think he'll ever be out of tears.

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