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Dean finds him a hundred years later. He finds the feather, black like spilt oil on tarmac. It flames blue when Dean touches it. A beckon calling to him through the thick under growth. Bells jingle in the distance as bone wind chimes clack together.
The hut is nothing special. It's ramshackle and made from mug and twigs. Large wooden beams support the weight of a balcony from the slated roof. The walkway is lined with crocodile remains and a cat with only three legs. She watched him curiously from her boneyard perch, his feet dragging through the drying mud. Ferns grow under his feet and vines twist protectively around the bones, flowering into delicate white petals.
A white skeleton of a newborn hangs from the porch. Inhuman teeth hang from slim sliver chains. Pale bones stark against waxy green growing through the small rib cage. The skeleton is old, older than Dean and blessed by a priest long since dead. The forearm crumbles as Dean's shoulder brushes past.
The door is ajar. Waiting and expecting. He always knows. He said once it was something in the water. It tasted different, sweeter somehow but metallic too. Soft sounds of music from half a century ago plays from the only socket in the house. The door sings on its hinges as Dean steps forward.
He waits for him. Hair dark still but the southern sun slowly bleaching strands to a shaggy brown. His smile is soft, warm and welcoming. Dean compares it to hot chocolate on a cold rainy Friday and feet tucked under thighs.
He a pale blue toga drapes over his muscled frame. Crystals hang from twine around his neck. His fingers are charcoaled, darker than the night slowly setting over them. The pale fabric falls slowly from his shoulders, inch after inch of holiness being unveiled before him.
Dean steps forward, falling to his knees with a soft thud. He is still as slim as ever, hips sharp and tanned skin vast. Dean's lips ache to touch him again.
Black finger tips touch him with a gentleness he hasn't felt in years. The touch is everything that was missing. Dean sighs, pressing into the warmth. He rests his head on runners thighs. His lips grazing the two freckles resting there like a secret.
The hands guide him onto the chair. The space is limited and even if they had a thousand miles between them gravity pulls them together like magnets through glass and brick and Earth. He rests his head on a shoulder. Fingers tangling in twine, crystals and teeth bumping together.
The music has stopped and the sounds of wind drops out. He hears the steady beat of a heart which shouldn't be beating.
'Cas.' And he breathes for the first time in a century.