„We will die tommorrow, won't we."

It isn't a question. Cas doesn't ask questions anymore, because he always knows what Dean will answer. Dean's not sure if he likes it. It makes him almost think Cas is still an angel, all knowing, all mighty; immortal.

He doesn't say anything. He watches the rain pour, the drops racing on the dark window. It hasn't rained in weeks. The air is heavy and it seems like they're running out of oxygen.

Cas gets up, takes a cigarette, puts it to Dean's lips and lights it. Dean doesn't really want to, but he inhales and then breathes out through his nose. He coughs. Cas shakes his head. "Pansy." He makes himself a joint. Dean shakes his head, "Don't."

Cas raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Don't get high tonight."

Castiel laughs. "Yes, sir," he answers mockingly, and smokes the joint slowly, not taking his eyes off Dean. He watches him with a frown on his face, and Cas knows he wants him to believe he's angry, but his pupils are dilated and he is fooling no one. Cas blows out the smoke in Dean's face and Dean breathes it in but then coughs it out immediately. Cas smiles and kisses him, and Dean smells of the pot and sweat and oh, it's such a sweet scent.

He leaves the joint on the floor and soon the whole room is filled with thick smoke and all of the noises are melting together, Cas can't tell apart Dean's moans from raindrops falling on the roof and he doesn't really mind.

Somewhere between midnight and four the joint sets fire to their sheets and Cas just opens the window and lets the rain do the job. They can't fall asleep, so they stay up and watch the ceiling, smoke pots and are silent, mostly.

"Do you think they know?" Cas asks.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs as he studies Cas' fingers. Cas twists his ring finger around Dean's. "We're pretty."

"Tell me about hell."

Dean pulls away. "You've been there yourself. Are you so fucking high you don't remember?"

Cas grabs his shoulder and digs his fingernails into it. "No, I remember."

Dean watches him as he gets off the bed and turns on the radio. There is nothing but squeaking, the wire has been down for years. It's somehow calming. "Do you think angels go to hell?" Dean asks, because the idea suddenly popped in his head, and he never really thinks before talking.

Cas turns around, all sweaty and stinking and filthy and beautiful. He walks to Dean, gets back on the bed and slaps him.

"I sure fucking hope so you son of a bitch."

Then he cries a bit, and Dean holds him.

He realizes Cas will die. He's spent so much time worrying about himself and the pit (he's a selfish jerk, after all) that he never thought of what will happen to Cas.

The air is cleaner now. No more hiding in smoke.

The morning comes, slowly, the soft light creeping in the corridors, getting closer and closer with every minute. Cas can't stop crying, breathing in sharp short gasps, like he's drowning.

Now is something around midnight, it's still dark, the sun hasn't risen yet. It's probably before (time is fluid and Dean tries to take it in his hands but he fails – his mind apparently doesn't have any clock on its' own – but it doesn't really matter because he's here, and here is where Cas is, they're both here; it's the perfect point in time so why should it matter what hour it is?). Cas is lying on his back, eyes shut, smoke coming out of his mouth. Dean could swear Cas has wings right now.

He whispers, "Are we dead yet?"

Cas smiles. The air is so heavy right now, it's making time flow slower and slower, as it has to push itself through the thick molecules. It's taking Cas forever to answer.

"No."