I don't own Supernatural. I only own the concept of this fanfic (which i expanded into an ORIGINAL short story).

I made a short story out of the concept of this fanfic (complete with original characters and stuff), and i included it in my high school thesis (an anthology). So in honor of the concept, I revised this fanfic in the writing style of the short story (called "Two Is Better than One"), replaced the original characters with our favorite Supernatural pair (which SHOULD become canon, BTW), and BOOM. This fanfic was born.

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Hello, Dean

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The sunlight is streaming through the curtains just as I wake up, its bright rays washing the pale walls of the room in a golden shower. The bed is warm and when I breathe in, it smells of Dean. My Dean.

A small groan sounds from beside me. And the blankets shift to reveal a tangled bush of blond hair. Eyes as green as fresh leaves in the spring blink open, and I am immediately lost in their depths.

"Good morning, Dean."

I would have gladly spent the entirety of the morning gazing into his emerald orbs. But he stretches and his eyes close in bliss when he hears his joints pop. He is getting old; a fact that he would deny and a fact that I would tease him mercilessly about.

I notice that he is wearing a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. A small silver wing attached to a length of string is wrapped around his neck in a makeshift necklace: the gift I gave him for our first wedding anniversary. I have one too, the other half. He has never taken it off, and I know that he wouldn't be any time soon. I smile at the thought.

Dean stands up with a small, contented smile on his face as he walks to the nearest window and opens it. I rise as well. I walk over to the open window and take a deep breath, enjoying the smell of spring. I hear shuffling behind me, and I turn around; Dean is folding the blankets we used. He then fluffs the pillows before setting them down and walking to the bathroom to freshen up.

I do not follow him. Instead, I lie back down on the bed again and just smile. I know I must look stupid right now, smiling at the ceiling like I was crazy or something. But I cannot find it in myself to care. I live in a two-story house in a cozy neighborhood with my husband of six years. And despite the hate that has gone my way for falling in love with, and marrying, a man, I managed to find peace within the tempest of hate.

And Lord knows how much I needed it... how much I needed him.

The door to the bathroom opens and Dean, without sparing a glance my way, walks straight to the door leading to the hallway.

The smile on my face fades. Did I do something wrong?

Dean heads straight to the kitchen and starts up the stove and the coffee maker.

"Dean…?" I ask hesitantly. My husband stiffens, and he turns around to look at me. His green eyes meet mine and for a brief moment, I am flooded with sadness and pain and grief—but just as quickly, it is gone as he smiles and shakes his head, turning his back to me again. I wonder if I am imagining it.

He pulls out eggs and bacon from the refrigerator before grabbing pans and a spatula. He puts them all beside the stove along with some burger patties, although there are no buns.

I recognize the dish Dean is making and I feel a smile grow on my face, chasing away the lingering confusion from what just happened. Eggs and bacon is my favorite combination of breakfast foods to start the day with, and Dean prefers eating burger patties without the buns. Sometimes we would spend breakfast playfully bantering about eating burger patties with burger buns, the way it is meant to be.

But then again, who am I to argue about following the status quo?

But today, I do not feel hungry—something I find odd because at breakfast, I am usually the "hungry monster that devours everything on the table," as Dean so fondly calls me.

"Our favorite," I say. I lick my lips. Dean's smile widens and he chuckles.

After the coffee machine beeps and breakfast is done cooking, Dean moves to the dining table. He settles down and clasps his hands together, his eyes closing as he bows his head in prayer. I sit beside him. I watch the man pray, a habit he has come to pick up only after marrying me.

"Amen."

My train of thought halts when the word registers, and I feel guilty for not joining him. But my guilty thoughts flee when I see Dean's ravenous appetite. I laugh.

Must've forgotten to eat last night again,I think fondly to myself. With Dean being a coach to the local baseball team and me being a schoolteacher, times like these, eating breakfast in companionable silence, are becoming hard to come by. We tend to overwork into the early hours of the morning, and only by the prompting of our significant other (I still blush when Dean calls me that, but I do not ask him to stop) do we think of retiring to the dining room or the bed.

Dean finishes and starts washing up. I raise my eyebrows and begin to tiptoe away, hoping I would be excused from helping him wash even though it is my turn to do so. I manage to escape to the bedroom, and I sigh in relief before giggling.

I am too old for this, not to mention that I am a man. And men do not giggle.

At least that is what my father once said, but I have stopped listening to him ever since he kicked me out of the house.

"You're not my son." He had said to me just before slamming the door in my face.

But Dean was there. Dean was always there.

I lie on the bed once more, and I listen to the leaves dancing in the breeze and the occasional snippet of Dean's humming coming from below me. I close my eyes and drift.

When I open my eyes, I catch Dean briefly entering the bathroom and then exiting again, holding a toothbrush to his mouth with one hand while using the other to text on his phone. He enters the bathroom again, and the sound of the sink turning on and water flowing fills the bedroom before being cut off. Dean exits the bathroom and the bedroom and grabs his keys. I follow him, eyebrows raised.

We get into Dean's car, an old 1967 Chevy Impala that looks as good as the day Dean inherited it from his father. I remember Dean driving to school in that old thing so many years ago. It brings a smile to my face when I remember my pen accidentally scraping the driver's side door. It did not leave a mark, but Dean had been furious.

I blush as I remember how I reacted to his rage with my own indignant rant. We eventually had to be thrown into the Principal's office and, consequently, detention. It was there that we bonded. We had not loved each other then. We were strangers, acquaintances at the least… but as I look at Dean's face now, after six years of being married to him, I cannot help but trace a finger down his cheek before kissing it.

He closes his eyes and sighs.

Dean turns up the volume, and I watch him hum along to Petzold's "Minuet in G Major". As we drive on that long stretch of road lined by the quaint and cozy suburbia, I cannot help but be mesmerized by the little things that Dean had come to love from the first time we met; before, Dean liked good old, classic rock and basketball.

And me? I was your typical high school nerd. I had friends—I had lots of friends—but I preferred sitting in a quiet room alone with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate on rainy days to parties and sex.

But ever since we met, we had grown to like what the other loved. He had come to like the classical music that I prefer over his rock music while I grew to appreciate Kansas and Metallica and AC/DC and all of the bands Dean prefers. My passion for books never wavered, but I began to develop a hobby for gardening and cooking as a result of my relationship with Dean, with Dean being subjected to taste-testing my cooking during the first days of our marriage.

I chuckle at that train of thought.

We eventually stop in front of a florist's shop, and my eyes widen in understanding. Dean must want more flowers for my—our garden that is at the back of our house. I had started it around the second year of our marriage, during the summer.

I did not plan for it—just a spur-of-the-moment thought. But then it became a hobby, a release for my emotions or some psychological crap that I do not care for.

I follow Dean out of the car, and into the store. I can hear him humming to the last song that had been playing on the car stereo. I have forgotten the name.

We browse past numerous sections within the shop, and I am lost in the multi-colored blossoms strategically arranged in shelves and racks. We eventually pass by a row of tulips on display, and Dean stops so suddenly I almost bump into him. Dean backtracks and his gaze rests on the blue forget-me-nots arranged to our right.

I raise an eyebrow when I hear Dean mutter something under his breath, almost wistfully, but I cannot hear him. I am confused. He plucks a flower and moves to the counter beside the shop's entrance.

I am tempted to follow him, but something tells me that this is something he would want to do in secret. I spy him talking to the woman at the cashier in hushed voices, and I fight down the urge to spin him around and drag him out of the store altogether.

I am not surprised at this possessive streak of mine; Dean is quite the catch. With his emerald-green eyes, chiseled jaw dusted with a five o' clock shadow, and his toned physique borne out of years of physical training— he is the closest thing to a male model in this neighborhood.

I shake my head and turn away, diverting my attention to a bouquet of roses to my left. I smile as I breathe in the scent of the blossoms. I count slowly to twenty before turning around, expecting Dean to be waiting for me at the end of the aisle with a smile on his face just like on the day of our wedding.

I mentally cringe; no wonder Dean calls me a sap sometimes.

But when I do look at him, he is not smiling. He is holding a bouquet of forget-me-nots littered with a variety of other nameless flowers. I vaguely register his use of complementary colors, but when I see his face, that train of thought ceases; he is looking at me. But instead of a smile, his face is the picture of heartbreak.

The smile dies on my face.

"Dean...?" I ask again. I hear that my voice is small, but I cannot bring myself to care. I am running towards him, weaving my way through the small crowd of people milling about. When I am in front of him, I look up at him (he is a few inches taller than me, another fact we tease each other about).

He looks down at the bouquet of flowers in his hand, and his lips twitch in a half-hearted attempt of smiling. I lay my hands on his, and I see that his hands are trembling.

"I love you." I whisper to him. And just like that, the trembling stops. I do not smile; instead, I wrap my arms around him and I bury my head against the crook of his neck. He does not react; instead, he sighs and turns around. I am left standing in the middle of the store as he walks out the door and back to the car.

I feel empty as I follow him and get into the car after him.

I expect Dean to drive us back to the house, but instead, we drive deeper into the town. Past the fog of depression that had covered my mind, I am confused. There is no more music playing from the stereo to chase away the tension, and I feel something heavy settle in my stomach.

We eventually arrive in front of the local church, a simple building painted in white with blue accents. A single, looming spire where the Cross is erected points towards the sky.

We park in front of the church's modest facade. It is spring break for the school today. I assume that that explains the lack of children running about the streets. The mall is on the other side of the town along with the other local businesses. The children were probably there, and if not, they were probably at the playground two blocks away from the church. The church itself was empty, save for the nuns who run the convent there.

I was not expecting this. The depression I had been feeling from the flower shop was gone, and I feel confused, more so than ever before. Dean steps out of the car, bouquet of flowers in hand.

I half-expect him to walk inside the building and leave the flowers as an offering to Mother Mary or some saint for a hundred causes (but I cannot, for the life of me, remember their names—another fact Dean teases me about. Just because I am a Christian does not mean that I memorize the millions of saints watching over us from Heaven).

But when he rounds the corner instead of going through the entrance, the sinking feeling in my gut intensifies, and I feel cold all of a sudden.

No.

He opens the wrought, iron gates of the cemetery behind the church and steps inside. A small breeze whistles through the bars, and I see the spring sun become covered by the dreary clouds, the remnants of a winter long gone. Dean sighs and takes up a tune that I realize to be Kansas' "Carry On, Wayward Son":

"Carry on, my wayward son

For there'll be peace when you are done.

Lay your weary head to rest.

Don't you cry no more."

Dean hums this to himself as he walks to the edge of the cemetery, where a simple stone cross is standing. It looks plain compared to the ornate designs of the other headstones there, decorated with smiling cherubs and winged guardian angels watching over their lifeless charges.

But from where we are coming from, I can see that the sunlight is glinting on something shiny and metallic laced around the cross. It is a necklace. I notice it the same time Dean does, and I hear him sniffle. I look at him and see the first tear rolling down his cheek.

A small silver wing is wrapped around a length of string to form a makeshift amulet. I finger the same necklace as I watch Dean stand before the cross.

I can see that Dean's hands are trembling again, the flowers quivering in his grip. He lays them down and arranges them on the ground, the occasional tear dropping onto the flowers' petals or leaves. I suddenly find myself sitting on the cross; my butt perched on one of the cross's arms. Normally, I would have been surprised, if not frightened.

But as clarity dawns on me, I cannot find it in myself to care. I would have done anything to help my husband, to make myself known to him.

But I am dead.

So I watch.

Dean finishes arranging the flowers, and they are a beautiful contrast against the brown of the earth. Dean takes a step back, admiring his handiwork with a sad smile. The tears are streaming down his face in earnest now, his green eyes shattered and broken.

I choke back a sob as Dean goes to the amulet, takes it in his hand, and kisses it.

"Hey, Cas." Dean finally says. His deep voice is thick with emotion.

Cas. Castiel. That is my name.

I walk up to the man once more and I lay a hand around his shoulders. I see now that my fingers do not actually touch him; instead, my hand evaporates against the cloth of his shirt. I am nothing more than a ghost now—an echo of the past that cannot touch God's divine creations any more than man cannot touch the wind.

I feel a small breeze issue out of nowhere and ruffle Dean's hair. It is I.

"Hello, Dean." I say. My voice is a broken husk, and it is only then that I notice that my cheeks are wet and vision has gone blurry.

"I miss you so much, Cas." Dean whispers. "Even though you've been gone for almost two years, it's like you're still here… with me."

His eyes are red now. I try to envelop Dean in a more solid hug, but I go through the man completely; I am nothing but the breeze, at most, to him. I hold back a yell of frustration.

"I miss you too, Dean. So much…" I reply, and the words feel stuck in my throat. I feel my heart break in my chest, and I wonder if I have to keep watching this—this moment where I am with Dean every step of the way only for me to realize again and again that I am dead and I cannot help, I can't do anything. I'm worthless, pitiful—

"I'm doing fine." Dean's voice snaps me out of my internal rant of self-deprecation and my gaze focuses on him. Only him. "I'm sure you would be proud of me. The garden behind the house is blooming with the tulips we planted the day we started it."

I hear him chuckle, and it sounds so broken that I try once again to hug him. But my body goes through the kneeling man once more, and this time, I do let out a yell of frustration.

Because I am dead, and Dean is alive.

So I watch.

"Sam is doing well with Jessica. They got married a year ago and—" this time, a sob breaks through his words, and Dean holds his face in his hands as he tries to get his voice together to finish his sentence. "They're expecting a baby girl."

I smile and laugh at the news, but the tears continue to stream down my face. Sam, Dean's younger brother, finally got the guts to ask Jessica Moore out.

Jessica was the girl-next-door: blonde, pretty, and smart with a big heart to boot. She had been a close friend of mine in high school while Dean was the popular kid, and Sam was the popular kid's brother.

Sam and Jessica had always been in an odd relationship, dancing around each other; it was already obvious to even the most emotionally-constipated of our class that they liked each other, but no one was willing to give them the right shove, Dean and I included.

And now to hear that he has already graduated and was about to start a family...

"I know I said I never wanted kids, Cas, and I know that you said you were content with it just being the two of us. I know I am. But I can't help wondering what it would've been like if we did get a kid, raised it up as one of our own… someone to carry on our legacy once we're both gone."

Once we're both gone...

Despite the tears, a smile breaks out on my face. He believes that I am still with him.

And it is there, in the silence of the graveyard with only the wind as my witness, that I swear to always be with him; now and forever.

"I promise." I whisper to him. My words are lost to him, of course. But to hear myself say it gives me patience. It gives me strength.

I stare at Dean for a while, drinking in the sight of him standing over a grave, my grave. I hold back a bout of laughter, something highly inappropriate for such a moment. Instead, I bite my lip and smile as I move to stand in front of him. I notice that my feet do not touch the blossoms. Instead, they pass through them.

I kneel over the bouquet and kiss Dean's forehead. Beneath my lips, I feel him shiver. I make a move to stand up, but Dean's words make me stop:

"I love you, Cas. Save a little piece of Heaven for me, will you?"

And I smile at him just as the sunlight breaks through the silver clouds, engulfing the world in its golden shower.

"I will," I promise.

Read and Review! I hope you like this version better than the original one. ;)