Author's Note: Well, this is it. Sorry it took so long, it took a while for me to decide how to end it. But I'm pretty happy with it. This has been really fun, thanks a lot for all the reviews and follows, it's been great motivation! I hope you like it. Okay sorry go ahead bye.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes,

And in fresh numbers all your graces,

The age to come would say, 'This poet lies,

Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

- Shakespeare, Sonnet XVII

I went to Las Vegas last week. I got drunk. Very, very drunk, and I'm not really sure what else happened. All I know is I woke up next to a naked woman and I feel very guilty. The days are cold, I am turning blue.

Dean has not called me. It's been six weeks. This means one of two things: either he doesn't remember, or he does and regrets it. Whatever he's feeling, it's not in my favour.

I miss the days when I knew my purpose exactly, and I knew I could do it. If I needed help it was given to me immediately. I was never uncertain, never doubted anything. I was never alone, and always did what I was designed to do. But I was never designed to love, and in some ways, it scares me.

But it's time to put my past behind me and simply devote myself to loving (and avoiding) Dean until I am dead. My love for him will survive until the end of my time, and my time will survive until the end of his.

I let my search consume me, I give in to my thoughts. I am hollow. Oh, how I wish I were hollow.

On the day that Dean finally does call me, I am sitting alone by a small river in Africa. I am surrounded by healthy children. Every few minutes one of them runs up to me and thanks me for blessing him, and every time they do I feel a little closer to redemption, a little closer to God. A child hands me a small stone in the shape of an anatomically incorrect heart.

I hear Dean's voice in my head.

"Cas," he says. "Cas, come on. It's... come on, man. Don't make me beg here."

I wait for a few minutes. I try and work out what I want to say, and what I should keep from saying.

"Goddamnit," Dean continues, "Cas, this is pretty freakin' hard for me too."

I slip the stone into my left inside pocket and try not to think about metaphors. I take a deep breath and look out across the river. The sun shines brightly, making the river glow. The children all look so happy with their beautiful crops and mended organs. If only it were that simple to make Dean happy. Brace yourself, Castiel.

I am with Dean. He's in a shabby hotel room in South Carolina. He is wearing a green plaid shirt, a grey t-shirt, jeans, and brown boots. His hair is as usual. He is as usual. I am in love with his usual.

I watch him for a few moments, hidden to him. His hands are still in prayer, though he knows this is unnecessary. He is looking up at the ceiling, his face despaired. "Please, Cas," he says. "I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry for, Dean," I say as I show myself.

His eyes widen as he sees me, and he composes his features, stunts his pain. "I just meant... cos it's been so long."

I look around the room. "Oh. Well, I've been busy too. It's alright."

He sees through my facade of nonchalance and simply nods in return. But to be honest, I never thought he would call at all. I assume from watching him that it is all too easy to forget that which you do not wish to remember.

Dean, Dean, Dean.

He tries to match my gaze, and I let him. In this light, his eyes appear darker, more like the sea than the grass. I think about how this matches his mood at the current situation: uncertain, consuming, possibly dangerous.

Dean drops his eyes. He shifts a little on his feet until he is suitably defensive.

"I remember."

This cannot make me happy because he does not sound happy.

"Dean," I say, reaching out to him. He allows me to place my hand on his shoulder. "Dean."

I really have nothing else to say.

"Dean."

"Stop it."

He is uncertain. I yearn to read his thoughts. The pain at the back of my mind, in which I store everything I wish to say and do to him, is tearing me apart. I would be clawing desperately at my head if Dean weren't here.

"Cas, I remember you." He is close to tears. His voice is shaking. "Nothing else, only you." He means within the context of the dream, of course. Of course. "To be honest... it scares me, Cas."

"I don't understand why."

"Everyone I love dies, Cas. Everyone." He begins to cry. "Sam, Bobby, Dad, Jo, Ellen, even you a couple times. And I don't want to put you in harm's way anymore than I already am. And I don't want to go through the pain of losing you again. Ever again."

"Dean, your recognition of my love for you doesn't mean I'm any more likely to die. It just means I'd be happier in my last moments if I were to."

He doesn't look very surprised at the use of the word "love". Then I realise he used it too, just a moment ago.

He loves me.

He loves me.

Father, forgive me, I am so very in love with Dean.

Of course he doesn't want to love me in return. Of course he's afraid. He is allowed to be selfish every once in a decade; I cannot imagine all of the pain and loss inside of him already. If he were to let himself love me completely, he would have to live with the threat of losing me. No, that's not right.

He cannot let himself love me completely whilst living with the threat of losing me.

I drop my hand from his shoulder. At our closest point, we are 13 inches apart. Dean is still crying silently.

"Dean, I need you."

"Stop it. Stop saying that."

I cannot help it. I take half of a step forward, lift my left arm and then my right, put both of my hands on his shoulders, and gently pull him towards me. His head rests on my shoulder, in the crook of my neck, as I wrap my arms around him. His hands twitch unsteadily for a moment before coming to rest lightly on my waist.

"For God's sake," he sighs, tightening his grip on me a fraction, pulling me in only slightly. I simply hold him tighter because he doesn't want to admit that he wants me to, and I don't stop because when it comes down to it, all Dean needs is someone to love him consumingly, at all times, at all costs.

I think I finally understand him, how he wishes with all of his soul to simply stop feeling, to be hollow and emotionless, because tragedies keep happening to him, and it keeps hurting, and he might be okay, but he's never fine. He wants to reach out to others, but denies himself, hoping that if he is alone for long enough, he might grow used to it.

"There is nothing you could do," I tell him, "that would make me stop being in love with all of you." I feel him press his face further into my neck. I feel the wetness of his eyes. I think he's trying to wipe them on me. "Dean –"

But he holds me properly now, arms around my back, every part of us connected. I can feel his heartbeat, slow and strong and steady. I laugh a little and return the embrace with matching passion, a selfish grin spreading across my face.

I feel Dean take a deep breath, his chest pressing against mine. Then he says that he loves me without using words, when he leans back a little and presses his lips against mine, zero inches apart, and I am no longer falling, I am steady, I am constant, I could fly, I could fly but I don't want to, I want to stay here forever, but I can do both at once, as long as he comes with me.

It's much more real than last time, because it is real. It is honest and raw and so vivid and I can feel it being branded into my brain even as it is happening. My arms are around Dean and his hands return to my waist. One of them comes up and threads through my hair, tangling in it, then smoothes it down so gently that it brings me close to tears. I can't think, but I can, but I'm not sure about anything anymore, but I can feel the certainty of Dean against me, but I don't think that love is the right word because losing him would be like losing a limb or my memory because he is my everything, but I don't know but it doesn't matter because his arms are around me and his mouth is on mine and he is my drug, my slow and seeping poison, but I cannot even see into the future when he will destroy me because everything is right now and I am nothing and he is everything and we are everything and all that exists is the points where our bodies connect and I cannot, I cannot, Dean, Dean, Dean.

It is quieter than I had expected, with no erotic moans or shouted names. We simply stand and love and everything else just falls into place.

"Dean?" I whisper.

"Yeah."

"Are you still afraid?"

He chuckles softly, the air too still for anything but gentle conversation. "No."

"What changed your mind?" I ask, smiling as I imagine what he might answer. I confuse my fingers with his as we lie patiently on the bed. Sam is back and asleep. I hid myself from him as Dean suggested he get an early night, and Sam agreed.

"Would it be too tacky if I said you?" He turns his head to watch me, close enough that I can see his is looking into my left eye.

"But I was here before. Can you be more specific?"

He kisses me lightly, still nervous. I feel a small chill run through him, and subsequently me. "There."

"Tacky," I guess. It seems to be correct, as he nods and mockingly apologises.

I am happy.

Am I happy?

Dean lets out a small, content hum under his breath as he turns into me, letting his head rest next to mine and his arm drape over my body. His eyes close. I bury my face in his hair, smelling his scent of dirt and sweat and (old) solitude.

Yes. I am happy.

"I am in love with you, Dean Winchester," I whisper, too quiet for human ears.

He snorts. "Knew it," he answers, one foot in a dream.

I shove him a little. "Stop arguing."

"Bite me, Cas."

We continue like that for a while. He goes hunting with Sam, bickers and fights and represses, until night comes, and Sam falls asleep, and I appear, and he smiles every time.

I don't mind that he doesn't want Sam to know. I understand that it is hard to "come out". But he says to me, "It's not men. It's just you."

One night, Dean calls me, and Sam is still there. He doesn't even seem surprised to see me. He doesn't ask me any questions. He simply says, "Hey, Cas," and catches me up on the case. Dean comes up next to me and takes my hand while Sam is talking; Sam doesn't even blink. I've always respected their relationship. It truly is astonishing what they will do for each other.

Sam then bids us goodnight and leaves. Dean turns to me and tells me that Sam booked a separate room so we could be alone. He does that every night from then on.

As we again lie on the bed (it's become a sort of tradition), I turn into Dean and he tells me he loves me. It's the first time he's properly said it, not just "the people I love" or "I can't tell him about our love"; a real, proper "I love you."

"Dean," I say, and he hits me. "Dean, I don't believe love really covers it anymore."

He nods. "Fair point." And I smile because he is my everything.

My everything. Mine.