Play My Song (Destiel Fan fiction)

(5/5) Play My Song

THIRTY YEARS LATER

Dean wandered into the living room of his home, sitting down painfully on the couch. Years of hunting had finally paid its toll on his aging body, arthritis settling in his hips, knees; anywhere the painful inflammation could reach. He settled into the cushions, staring at the coffee table in front of him blankly.

There sat the memory books, well worn from daily use. Daily use, fingerprints rubbed into the paper, yellowed pages cradling each photo sitting in their slots. Dean diligently made sure, each and every day that those photos were well taken care of, that not one picture was out of place.

Those pictures were Dean's life, ever since Castiel's death thirty years prior. The day his lover had died, Dean cloistered himself into a solitary life; barely leaving his home other than to work. His only friends became the whiskey bottle, the photo albums and his brother, who stopped by nearly every day to check on the grieving man.

Sam had expressed worry for Dean's sake. Knowing how badly he was suffering from the loss bolstered his concern, especially considering his hermit-like behavior ever since.

Now, it just seemed like a monotony of daily sorrow, Dean never fully getting over the death. Sam's visits became less frequent, but he still called daily to check up on him. Those instances seemed to comfort Dean somewhat, but always within moments of these mental reprieves, he'd slip back into his bouts of depression.

Just as he had now. Dean leaned over and grabbed the photo albums, flipping open the first page. There right underneath the photo of their home, was a picture of Cas, eyes bright, a brilliant smile flashed across his happy face, and around his shoulders was Dean's own arm, cuddling up to him. Dean sniffed slightly, running his fingertips reverently over the image before flipping slowly through the pages, soaking up each and every image.

"Cas... dammit, Cas I miss you so much..." he whispered, his age-worn voice cracking slightly in mourning. He took a quaking breath before continuing on in his ritual of daily reflection.

After awhile, Dean felt his eyes grow heavy with weariness, and he leaned back into the cushions of the couch, the book spread open in his lap. He'd doze for just a few moments, he told himself, closing his eyes. He breathed slowly, feeling himself slipping further into slumber.

As he drifted off, he felt gentle hands run down the side of his face, fingertips brushing his jaw. Dean groaned slightly, shifting. "Cas..." he muttered, settling further. It was so strange. This was the most relaxed he had felt in years.

Suddenly, Dean heard a slight chuckle and his eyes opened. But instead of seeing the blank, white ceiling above him as he always did, a familiar pair of blue eyes smiled down at him. Dean's eyes widened slightly. Cas was sitting on his lap, looking not a day older than he did when he had passed on; he wore only a pair of white trousers, his upper body exposed. But instead of the sickly, yellowed Cas Dean last remembered, he was beautiful, healthy, and very much happy.

Cas beamed back at the shocked older version of his lover, leaning in to press a kiss to the slack lips.

"I'm dreaming..." Dean gasped, reaching up. His hands hovered over his lover's shoulders, as if he touched him his hands would go right through him.

Cas chuckled, reaching up. He grabbed Dean's hands and placed them on his own waist, letting the elderly man feel him for the first time in thirty years. "If you want it to be a dream, then yes... you are."

Dean smiled, leaning up slightly. "Then it's a good dream... Cas I missed you. You have no idea..."

Cas silenced him, pressing a finger to his chapped lips. "I know everything you went through... I've watched over you since then. But... but now I had to come see you. I just couldn't bear it anymore. Dean... I'm so sorry I abandoned you." He added quietly, leaning forward to press his forehead to Dean's.