snow white au
He lays in the woods in a long, glass coffin.
Dean hadn't been looking. He hadn't known what to expect, he hadn't- there hadn't been anything. There'd been a boy in the castle once, a while ago. Dark hair like the night. Skin like light on the new snow. Lips flushed red like blood. Eyes blue, so very blue, like bright gems set in his honest face. His weary, sad, dear face.
He lays there now, dead and cold.
There is no color in his cheeks. No color in his lips. There is no breath to fog the lid of the coffin, just a total stillness. Pale gladioli wreath about him, interspersed with chrysanthemums and apple blooms. Green shoots through in spurts of grass, like the earth has risen up to support the glass.
"I'll wait for you," Dean had said. "You are so- so lovely."
"My looks will fade," Castiel had answered.
"I'll wait for you," Dean had replied. "You are so wise."
"My wisdom will falter," had been the answer. Castiel had been in the garden, feeding songbirds. One had flitted upon his fingertip. So gentle.
"I'll wait for you," he said. "You are kind."
"I am angry sometimes," Castiel said. "My kindness is inconstant. I hate, sometimes. I hate this prison, I hate my name, I hate my face, I hate my body, I hate my father, I hate my stepmother." He had moved, the bird flying away. He looked down, at the grass. So scared.
"Do you hate me?" Dean had asked.
And Castiel had looked up at him and shook his head. "No," he'd answered. "No, you I could never hate. I love you."
"I'll wait for you," Dean had answered, kneeling beside Castiel. "I love you, too."
Castiel had reached out, run his hand over his hair and kissed the top of his head.
He'd left that night. Gone to who knows where. To be hurt, to be threatened, and to finally die in these woods.
Dean had waited for him this long, and if it meant waiting for him for the rest of his living life, he would.
Dean touches the surface of the glass, cool under his hands.
Castiel's face is smooth, his brow unfurrowed. He looks peaceful, here. Restive.
Dean carefully lifts the case of the coffin. Touches Castiel's face softly (so cold) and leans forward. A last kiss before Dean leaves these woods forever and finds somewhere where he can give up the throne, the royal life. Somewhere where he can be quiet and anonymous. Where he can mourn in peace.
Castiel's lips are cool under his own. There is no scent of his breath when Dean kisses him. No motion. No movement. He's not there, not anymore.
Dean pulls away from the kiss and suddenly there is a great change. Some kind of color comes back to him, something Dean could not explain if he tried. Some sort of hue of liveliness.
And then he inhales, long and sweet and slow.
And then he blinks awake, bright blue eyes fringed by dark, dark lashes.
And then he looks down, where Dean has fallen to his knees in hope, in prayer, and he smiles, so sweetly. So kindly. So dearly. So gently.
"You waited," he says softly.
"I'd wait forever for you, angel," Dean replies.
