Hope you enjoy the last part of this. I had no idea this was where it was going...I just thought it would be porn.

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Dean and Castiel cat nap peacefully for an hour, wake and slide seamlessly into making love, for that's what it is. Castiel can feel the focus, the bound up emotion in Dean, like a heart wrapped in barbed wire – painfully tender. For his part, Castiel offers himself up like a balm for every wound, like a warm bed after decades of torture. Castiel feeds on the intense emotion, the passion rolling off of the other man, offering up everything, all he has in return – the compassion, the love, that no one else has ever wanted, and of which he has saved an unlimited supply.

Afterwards Castiel lies quietly underneath him, hand stroking Dean's tarnished gold hair where the other man's head lies on his chest. Sweat cools on their bodies, Dean's back aches and Castiel is sore physically and at the heart of him, thanks to what Dean has told him.

He can see Dean, younger, smaller, his scars still red rather that silvery – walking into his brother's room holding a steaming cup. Sam, who Castiel cannot imagine, and for whom his subconscious substitutes a five year old sexual assault case he'd tended a few months ago, is sitting on the bottom bed of a bunk – red and blue spaceship sheets, a stuffed bear with a pair of red shoes on, hanging mobile of stars under the box spring of the top bunk – the stray thought that 'Daddy always hits his head on it' makes Castiel cringe even as he holds the sleeping man.

Dean, who presented the drugged milk to his brother, waited...waited.

Watched Sam yawn and doze, lowered him to the bed.

Took the pillow, blue with mars and a space dog printed on the faded cotton. (A set Castiel's best friend had owned at school) puts the pillow over his brother's sleeping face – small features innocently contracted in sleep, breath soft and snuffly.

Snuffed out.

Dean holds his breath as he does it.

In his own dark bedroom, Castiel holds the other man close, vows that Dean will never be alone that way again.

From here they go forwards together.

Dean dreams of his Father, of the glowing cherry of his cigarette end, coming towards the pale flesh between his legs, burning before it even touches. Begging him to stop, please – that he doesn't know what he did but he'll do better he promises Dad please...

Then Sammy crying, curled around his stuffed dinosaur and asking Dean to please, please make Dad stop hurting him – please?

Somehow it's the right time, doesn't know how he chose it but –now, it has to be NOW. He has to save Sam, stop Dad...and Mom.

Knife from under his pillow, goes into his parent's room. His dad still sleeping though it's morning. Working the night shift.

Then there's blood all over his hands.

Fingers slippery on the gun he can't remember going for, his mother in the kitchen doing the dishes in her white nightgown.

"Dean you should get ready for school."

Because it's morning and his bagged lunch is ready on the counter.

The sound of the shot bounces off of the walls, red floods the basin, soaks the white cloth as his mother falls.

Sammy isn't fully up yet, won't be, he doesn't have to be at school till an hour after Dean leaves.

Dean washes his hands in the bathroom. Heats milk, tests, adds cold so Sam's mouth doesn't burn.

The microwave glass is drizzled pinkish.

Pops the tablets, five, from the silver pack. Crushes, sprinkles.

It's so quiet.

Takes the milk in, tells Sam it's ok, they have the day off.

"Why?"

"Mom and Dad are taking us out."

"Where?"

"Somewhere good,...I promise."

Asks him if Dad is going to touch him, small voice pleading.

"No Sammy, he won't."

Then small arms hugging him, Dean hugs back, breathes in toffee and crayon wax.

Sam sleeps.

Then sleeps always.

Dean goes into the kitchen, looks at the bag lunch, the morning light at the window, mail unopened on the table. Blood trails from his parents room to the kitchen.

Sam's room is clean.

There's a pack of cigarettes on the kitchen counter. He can almost smell the tobacco.

Only then does Dean go down on his knees.

He vomits acid and spittle until there's nothing left.

Dean starts, twitching in his sleep like a beaten dog. Castiel's hands on him are soft and confident the hands of a doctor, of a man who has never hit, burnt, slapped, punched, choked...he's cared for kids like Sam – he would have known what to do, for Sam.

Dean holds on to him, the warm silk of him. Castiel murmurs softly, kisses him, and the phantom blood, toffee and smoke scent drifts away. He can smell Castiel's cigarettes, a different brand – his skin, his whiskey, their sex.

In one shuddery moment he's back in the present.

"I don't want you to die." Castiel whispers.

"I deserve it." Dean murmurs, still able to hear Sam's kittenish cries through the wall while he watched the TV unseeing, waiting for his mother to get home, knowing it wouldn't stop when she did. A fresh burn on his thigh. Blood in Sam's underwear. Two sides of the same blank door to the bedroom - lust and disgust.

"You deserve everything...but not that." Castiel kisses the bite mark on Dean's skin. "I want you to be safe...not locked up in a cell, waiting to die."

Dean sits up, hunches in on himself.

"I've been waiting to die since I was six." He says blankly.

"Well I'm here now." Castiel wraps his arms around Dean.

Dean has waited for those words, wanted his mother, as he lay on his bed – six years old and bleeding from twenty three whip marks on his back. He'd wanted her to come into the room, take him away from his suddenly unsafe father – tell him it was ok, she was there now.

Now Castiel wants to take care of him.

"We could go somewhere." Castiel whispers.

"There's nowhere they won't find us." Dean tells him. "We could run, and they would catch us – I'd be executed, and they'd put you in a cell for life."

"I don't want you to be on that table, alone, when they pump you full of poison and watch from behind the glass." Castiel buries his face in the nape of Dean's neck. "You deserve more – you're too good a man to die like that."

Dean has never been told that before.

They're silent for a long time, trapped like rats in their situation, they have only now – immediate and desperate as a knife edge.

"Can I do it here?" Dean asks.

Castiel goes still.

"I don't want to be alone...can you be here...while I..." Dean touches him gently. "I was so gentle with Sam...and I...I want that to be how I go."

Castiel looks at him, wondering how his job had unspooled into this, the desperate love he feels for a man he barely knows.

"Can I show you something?" he asks Dean.

The larger man nods, Castiel gets off of the bed, naked, he walks across the room and opens a box on his dresser. He brings it back to Dean, inside are two orange prescription bottles and a folded piece of paper.

"What is this?" Dean asks, but he knows, and his throat sticks.

Castiel looks at the pills, sleeping tablets and a powerful painkiller.

"I have Huntingtons." He says, looking up and catching Dean in the eye, the familiar despair with himself overwhelming him. "It's...genetic, it causes...uh...personality disorders, loss of muscle control and memory loss, dementia..." He clenches his pale fingers nervously. "It presented...really early, in me. By the time I'm forty...I'll be a wreck." He licks his dry lips. "My family is Catholic, they don't know that I'm gay...and when I get so bad that I can't..." His voice catches and he frowns. "That I can't...remember who I am – they won't let me die – they'll keep me alive."

"You were going to kill yourself." Dean looks mortally upset.

"I didn't want to...fade, like that. All alone." He picks up the bottle. "I've had them...for months, just waiting. I thought – when something good next happens, I'll do it. A good day, successful surgery...cute guy asks for my number, and I'll come home and do it. End on a high note." He touches Dean's face. "You're the first high note in years."

"Suicide..." Dean looks fearful and desperate, on the edge of some terrible abyss. "It means you'll go to hell."

"I think maybe He'll understand." Castiel feels a tear roll down his face. "Besides...I already broke His law by falling for you."

They make love again, slowly, sensuously, tears falling and salting them both. Then they shower in soap that smells like thyme and figs.

Together they heat the milk on the stove. Castiel shows Dean how to add nutmeg to ease the way into sleep, a children's drink. They add whisky and maple syrup to hide the bitter taste of the pills.

Dean changes the sheets on the bed, writes his own note to accompany Castiel's:

Mom, Dad – I'm sorry but I had to do this, at least this way I can remember what I'm leaving behind. I'm sorry you will find me like this, but this is how I wanted to spend my last night alive – I cannot afford to think about how I will seem in death.

I will love you, always.

Castiel.

I've said my goodbyes, now you can stop looking for me and look for the kids like my brother – the ones who need help. The one's who need someone to be there for them, now.

Naked, wrapped only in a clean white sheet, they drink their steaming cups dry.

Dean lies down, holds Castiel in the circle of his arms, washed and clean and warm. Castiel holds him in return, breathing nutmeg scented breath onto his skin. In each touch a silent declaration of love, though they say it aloud, as their eyes close.

When they sleep, they sleep together.