#userjeb

Dean dies peacefully in his sleep. Cas carries him onwards.

"Well shit," Dean says, looking at his body. "Guess I finally kicked the bucket."

He's lying in his favourite spot on the couch with the blanket Jack knit draped over his legs. He's still holding the remote as the westen he wanted to watch plays on the TV. He vaguely remembers growing tired as the commercials droned on before the movie began. He doesn't remember shutting his eyes.

He looks old.

Well, he's been looking old for a while now but there's something about seeing the peace on your own face after passing in your sleep that really makes it sink in.

Old. He laughs, shaky, as he looks at himself. He's old and grey and wrinkly and dead.

It doesn't sound so horrible anymore: death and dying. Maybe it's because he died on his own couch in his own home, the soft green fabric faded and worn out from years of domesticity. He's not bleeding out on a suspicious looking one in a motel or a moth-eaten one from a safe house.

No, Dean passed away on his own couch instead of staring down the end of a barrel. Instead of his throat clamped between a monster's jaws, instead of being thrown across the room or out a window. There was no danger, no threat. No fear gripping his heart before it happened. A peaceful exit. A quiet passage.

He feels Cas before he sees him, the air rippling before the flap of wings signal his presence.

"Hello Dean."

He relaxes at the voice and turns to face his husband. "Hey sweetheart."

Cas smiles at him, a little sad, but full of love. There's a kind of aura to Cas now, a shimmer to the air around him that Dean's never seen before. Side effects of being in the veil, he supposes—seeing more of Cas' trueform.

"I died," Dean says and gestures to his body.