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Holding On and Letting Go

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When the first of their kisses

feels a touch too hot 

on his lips 

Dean ignores it.

Stubbornly, 

he reaches out to Cas 

again and again.

No matter how blazing 

his touch might feel.

He hides the burns.

He has no more excuses 

when he moans 

in pain. 

 

When Cas withdraws from his neck, 

there is a burn shaped like a kiss.

Of course, 

Cas heals him immediately, 

but something between them cracks 

that night.

The more careful, 

and distant 

Cas becomes, 

the more Dean craves 

his touch. 

 

He lies. 

The pain doesn't bother him.

After some time 

it honestly doesn't, 

it's just part of Cas now 

and he loves Cas.

He tells him 

feverish and shaky

He loves him 

chanted as a mantra. 

 

He screams. 

Even through the fabric of his shirt, 

Cas leaves a burned handprint on his shoulder 

while healing their night away.

No matter how much he begs 

there is no more touch.

They talk, 

watch movies,

listen to old tunes.

 

Cas stays nights in the armchair 

near Dean's bed. 

The human can't sleep otherwise.

He wakes 

in scorching agony

lungs on fire

seeing through the tears of pain

as Cas backs out of the room.

There is terror on his face.

Dean wishes he could stop 

insisting he'd stay.

The truth is,

he can't live without his angel.

Soon,

he cannot live with him either.

 

As if Cas turned into a sun, 

a ball of blazing fire,

they can't be in the same room.

Dean can last five minutes. 

Maybe. 

Just looking from the other side, 

of the longest hallway, 

of the bunker,

his fingertips start smoking, 

almost on fire, 

when he reaches out to Cas.

This is the first 

he sees his angel cry.

This is the last 

he sees him close.

Cas disappears 

Dean can't find him.

He tries 

seeking answers.

 

Family. 

Magic. 

Hell. 

Heaven. 

Billie interrupts the summoning spell

shaking her head no.

Her arm is heavy 

and 

strangely cold 

on Dean's shoulder.

 

He tries to find him through the heat.

Sometimes 

he feels familiar flame gripping his lungs

it's always gone 

faster than he can actually see 

Cas.

He prays.

He's still looking,

but...

He prays, 

and it’s

less and less

Of his begging 

for at least a sign

and

more and more 

just as if he’s talking to Cas,

imagining him near. 

 

Two months later 

he gets a letter.

He knows the scratchy 

scrolling 

script on it, 

always looping up. 

Always the optimist.

The paper turns to ashes 

the moment he touches it.

Dean cries 

silently, 

sifting through the gray soot for hours. 

He hopes 

there might be at least 

one 

word 

remaining.

A letter.

A comma. 

Anything. 

Any piece of his lost love 

that he can keep.

That he can touch again.

 

He is sure 

he sees him 

one day.

Far, 

far above him, 

on a bridge, 

walking purposefully, 

trench coat billowing 

after him in the morning breeze.

He can almost 

see 

the blue of his eyes.

He takes a step closer

And crumbles 

with the anguished cry.

 

The doctor 

eventually tells him 

that his eyes are 

gone.

Burned away.

They aren't sure how,

but, 

there are options....

Dean waves the doctor off silently.

Turns away. 

Covers himself with a blanket. 

Message is received.

 

This is the last time, 

he prays.

This is the first time,

he says goodbye.