mr. perfect

xviii) hyperventilation, silence?

Cas finished his painting in art class today. It was actually, the first one that he did of Dean and himself. He drew angel wings on himself, because Dean has asked him to do so very politely. Cas was going to show Dean the finished copy, after all Dean's requests while he was brainstorming. It was a bit abstract. 

But Cas thought that it was the abstraction that actually showed the reality in the way they had met. 

He lugged it back to his dorm, and barely made it through the elevators. He knocked on the door. Once, twice, then three times.

No answer. Cas sighed, he was probably sleeping. Cas leant the painting against the door frame and got his keys out, twisted the door, and opened it. He started to push the painting inside the room, but it was too heavy. 

His hands automatically slipped when he saw what was in front of him.... and the painting crashed down, toppled over the lamp, and the lamp hole tore a gaping hole in between the painting of Dean and Cas' hands locked together. But Cas didn't even notice. He ran right over his painting to get to Dean. 

His lips were blue and there was blood, blood, so much blood. Blood all over his face that had came from his throat, and coated his hands, and his eyes were closed so softly, so peacefully. Cas couldn't breathe; all the wind he had ever had in his chest decompressed, and his hands started to shake. 

That was not something you'd ever forget.

The face he had that was so pale and lifeless, collasped onto half of the bed, with a phone in one hand. Dean had been calling Cas but the message never rang through. 

"Dean," Cas whispered. 

Silence, complete, utter silence. 

"Dean," he said louder. He brushed a hand over Deans. "DEAN." A loud inhale. "DEAN, ANSWER ME--"

Tears started to form at the edge of Cas' eyes, and he started to tremble. "Dean please, what happened," he cried. 

He made his way through his tears and grabbed his phone and dialed 911 as fast as his shaking hands could. Cas started to hyperventilate. 

He couldn't stop staring at Dean's body, that pale skin, the blood--oh God, the blood. 

His tears were salty and his breath shook. Cas cried, but he didn't look away. He should've, he really should've. Something in him broke, tore open so much that he was practically convinced himself that he was the one who was dying. 

911 arrived at his dorm and college students crowded around fifteen minutes later. Cas was curled up in a ball in the corner bawling his eyes out, his body racking, phelgm in his throat. He was so cold, he had his knees up to his chest and tears blurred his vision. Everything moved so slow. Doctors and police crowded around the body, and Cas looked over to the painting. 

It was.... ripped down the middle. And the book laying beside the bed had been finished. Dean must've just finished the book. 

Cas was naucious. He threw up on the floor, and a police officer tried to help him up. 

They took Dean away on a shiny metal gurney.