Chapter Text
Dean had never planned on being happy.
It’s not that he planned on being unhappy specifically, but reaching personal contentment wasn't exactly something he had ever visualized fitting on the roster. He’d stopped treating happiness like a given long ago.
If John Winchester taught him anything, it was that happiness was a temporary vice. A vixen that seduced you until you were at your most vulnerable, and then it left you gutted and bleeding out on cold concrete.
That’s not to say he wasn't happy- he loved his moments of happiness, movie nights in the bunker and screaming along to Zeppelin songs until his throat was hoarse and Sam looked at him with an endearing irritation in his eyes.
It’s just that there were so many other moments in between the smiles and roadside dinners. That’s how they lived, the Winchesters, how they always had. It’s bags of salt stored in the back seat, bloodstains on every tee shirt, blades tucked under pillowcases.
There had been years of that mindset, constant upheaval and panic and the exhaustion. Dean knew that feeling, knew it to his core, felt it in his bones.
There’s a particular brand of tired that comes with fighting eldritch horrors and demonic entities for nearly forty goddamn years. It’s an ache that settles into your lungs and makes you wake up in the middle of the night reaching for a blade, ready to combat what's not there.
But just being happy, having that be the defining trait of one’s existence, that was a strange and foreign concept to him.
So naturally, Heaven was very strange, at first.
An adjustment, Bobby had called it. One minute, Dean was bleeding out with rebar entangled within his ribs, and the next he was standing on a dusty road in an Undisclosed American Somewhere, a place that managed to tie together all the pieces of his old life- the bunker, the roadhouse, Bobby’s safehouse, motels that he didn't know he remembered until he stepped foot in the lobby.
“Your only job now,” Bobby told him, “Is to be content. Do all the shit you’ve ever wanted to try.” He elbowed the bowlegged hunter. “I’ve picked up fencing.” Dean scoffed. “Fencing? But that’s so-” He wrinkled his forehead, eyebrows drawing closer together. “Niche?” Bobby interrupted. “I know. That’s the point. You can do anything here, Dean. Whatever makes you happy.”
That seemed nice, at first. The pain was gone- the constant ache behind his right knee and the weight in his spine were gone. His scars were gone too, he discovered later.
It felt strange, being reborn like this. It was his body, he knew that, but without the tattoos and the bruises and the wrinkles. It felt like someone went over him with a magic eraser, taking away his past and present in a single movement.
Sometimes, he missed the scars. He still felt weird buttoning up a shirt and not seeing the anti possession symbol on his chest.
Heaven was fascinating- you could only interact with people you’d known before. Like he could meet up with Ellen and Jo for tea, but no matter how far he traveled he’d never get to meet anyone really cool, like Joan of Arc or John Lennon. They were somewhere else, in some other brand of heaven. Probably a brand of heaven that included actual cities, not just sprawling wilderness.
Dean spent days, years, hours, however time worked up here, driving along the most pristine slices of America. Dean knew it wasn't really America. American-inspired, for sure. There was a postcard quality to everything here. Everything felt like a snapshot. It felt nostalgic, no matter where he went, somehow, despite the landscapes being new and invented and perfect. Sometimes, he’d pull over the impala at a particularly beautiful overlook and gaze out at the sky or watch the bees as they flew low over meadows of flowers. Wish you were here.
He got to see Charlie again, real Charlie, not other-world-Charlie, and damn had Dean missed her. She was as bubbly and geeky as always, joyously showing Dean the newest LARP set up that involved magical weapons and pegasuses, because this was Heaven, why shouldn't there be winged horses?
She wasn't bitter or angry at Dean, or anyone else for that matter, which shocked him at first. “There’s no point crying over spilled milk,” she said, waving her hand nonchalantly after Dean tried to aologize profusely for her violent murder, “Now- wanna throw axes?” Dean did.
And it really was nice. Heaven was clearly curated almost perfectly. Dean could go between the bunker to a gentle wooden cabin tucked away in the woods, put there just for him. There was a beautiful kitchen with wide windows and a porch that overlooked a creek. The bed was soft and the wooden floors creaked in an impossibly familiar way. It did feel like home, like a home Dean never knew of, never would have exactly imagined, but fit just right. It was good. It really was.
He’d even gotten up the courage to wander down to John and Mary’s place. He stood just beyond the porch, debating, for what felt like hours, the back of his neck clamming up and his stomach churning. He didn't go in.
And so he’d go home and lie in that soft bed with the navy sheets as the sun set. Dean would watch the golden rays light up the sky until they faded into a brilliant orange, and he’d try not to think about what he was doing wrong.
Everyone else here seemed so goddamn content. Everyone was happy, smiling, delighted with their eternal paradise.
He couldn’t figure out why he felt so, well off. Maybe it was that he’d been damned to hell before, that heaven couldn’t quite accept a tarnished soul. Maybe it was because Sam wasn't here yet, but Dean knew that wasn't it either. Knowing Sammy was alive was a comforting thought he held close late at night when shit hit the fan and sleep was impossible.
Maybe it was because Ca-. No.
Bobby said it took a minute to adapt, to get used to the new life. To get those hunter’s impulses driven out of his system. He was paranoid, he knew that, his fight or flight triggered by shadows on the wall. But for some fucking reason he felt like he was holding his breath and he just needed to exhale . There was something tight under his skin, something pulling at his intestines and crawling up his throat. It was suffocating and always there.
It was his thirteenth sunset since arriving in Heaven.
He’d stopped trying to measure by minutes or hours. Time here was just daylight and darkness.
But now, after that thirteenth sunset, he was sitting upright in bed, sheets sticking to his sweaty legs, back to the wall. He closed his eyes.
“Castiel,” he whispered, his chapped lips barely opening to let the name slip out.
“Cas, uh. I hope you can hear me.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and opened his eyes, tilting his head to gaze at the ceiling. “I’m sure you can. I know you can. Uh. This is my,” he paused, trying to remember. His brain felt fuzzy. “Eighth?”
Time really was getting blurry up here. Bobby was right.
Sometimes, it flitted by so quickly he couldn't believe it, other times he felt like he was fighting his way through weighted air. “Eighth” He said it with certainty this time, “time praying to you since I got here.”
He resisted the urge to clear his throat again. He settled for a pause instead. “I miss you. I’m sorry.”
And now he had no choice but to take a pause because his throat was thick with emotion. “I’m so fucking sorry, Cas. I- I wish you hadn't done that. Sacrificed yourself, I mean. You can be a really stupid for a celestial.” He let out a breathy chuckle, eyes stinging just slightly.
“It’s just. You- you never gave me a chance to say anything back. I wish you had. Cas you-” He was crying now. The tears ran warm down his face, and he snuffled hurriedly, trying to keep his composure. He had to do that. “Anyways. I fucking miss you, man. I uh. I hope we can talk soon. I-” He sighed. “I have some things to say.”
A silence filled the room. It was deafening. “I uh. I know you probably don't wanna talk to me. It’s why you haven't. Responded. Yet.” The silence expanded. Dean felt sweaty.
“And I get it. That’s your right. I uh, I wouldn't wanna talk to me either.” He sniffed awkwardly. “Anyways I’m sure you are busy with angel business. Off with capital-G God. Tell Jack I love ‘im for me, will you? I hope he’s doing alright. It can't be easy.”
He sighed again, his breath tumbling out of him too quickly.
“Now I’m ramblin’ and wasting your time. Sorry. Again. Uh.” He paused again, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I really am. Really fucking sorry. Talk to you later.”
He sat there for a moment, tangled in his sheets, tee shirt sticking to his side uncomfortably. “Oh shit, right. Uh, over n’ out, signing off, amen, all that.”
He wanted to hit himself, the anxiety and the fucking desperation was so disgustingly obvious in his voice. He closed his eyes again, resting the back of his head against the cool wall. He tried to imagine a shift in the air, the familiar sound of angel’s wings, the flap of a trenchcoat.
He looked across the room, eyes opening warily, staring at the wooden paneled walls. For a moment, he was hopeful. Maybe this time would be different.
The room stayed dead quiet.
He fell asleep there, with his back against the wall, eventually.
_____________
He awoke to the smell of bacon. For a moment, a grin stretched across his face. Sammy finally broke, he thought. He was making bacon instead of settling for that ridiculous bran cereal.
But then Dean remembered slanted ceiling beams and particle-crowded light streaming through wooden slat walls and Sammy’s face and blood on his second favorite jacket and something wedged right next to his spine and pain so much pain and he threw off the sheets, hurdling down the stairs, already thinking about what he could use as a weapon because who the fuck was in his house-
Dean almost threw himself into the kitchen, heart hammering, ready to grab the paring knife that he knew he’d left on the nearest counter when he was greeted by a smiling face.
Mary Winchester was standing in his kitchen, frying up bacon like there wasn't a problem in the world. “You're up!” She cried happily. “Hope we didn't spook you, sweetie.” She smiled again, tilted her head at Dean as her blond hair glowed in the sunlight.
She was here, she was alive. She was so- so intact . She looked more put together, physically and emotionally, then Dean had ever seen her.
His head felt sluggish. “W-” he scrunched up his forehead. “We?” He was wide awake now, he’d always been a light sleeper, but his brain was still trying to catch up with the world around him because there was Mom and she was cooking and smiling and-
“What?” came another voice from the left. Dean swiveled fast. He knew that voice. The graying man walked into the kitchen from the patio, shutting the door with his back foot. “Thought she’d leave me at home?”
John Winchester smiled too, the corners of his eyes folding in a way Dean had never seen before. “Come on,” he laughed, his voice deep and resounding and familiar, “She’s stuck with me forever.”
The main crossed the living room and elbowed Dean slightly, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. “Besides, we both know she can’t cook without me.”
Mary gasped from the stove, offended. “Can too!” She protested, tossing the spatula down with joyful mock-anger.
John grinned, stepping over to her, wrapping her in his army jacket-clad arms. “The burning bacon suggests otherwise.”
Mary slipped out from under his arms fluidly, scraping the bacon off the griddle at lightning speed. She found Dean's eyes again, and smiled. “Ahhh, Dean and I both like it a little crispier, anyways. Ain’t that right, hon?”
Dean realized he had not moved this entire time, his hand still hovering numbly over the paring knife. His shoulders were tense, almost up to his ears, he knew that he knew they could see his discomfort, they could see the shock in his eyes, his face, he wasn't hiding it he had to hide it. He moved his arm from the knife quickly and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Ha. You got me, Mom.”
He shifted awkwardly. “I uh-”
“Come on!” John- Dad- interrupted, moving back towards the patio door. “Breakfast is waiting.”
Mary hurried towards the door, the platter of bacon in hand. “You coming?” she asked Dean, but she wasn't really asking and Dean knew it. He smiled weakly. “Yeah.”
She walked out the door, John holding it wide open for her, sunlight streaming around the couple.
Dean moved his hand to smooth out his shirt. “Yeah.”
He went to the door.
________
Breakfast was an elaborate affair. Dean had never seen anything like it, not during the four years of his life before Mom died the first time, not during the 14 years when he followed his father after, and certainly not during the years hunting with Sam.
Part of him felt self conscious- he was sitting there in a smelly stained white tee shirt and navy sweatpants, his hair stuck to his forehead and nails bit to shreds. His Mom looked perfect- white v neck top and casual jeans with curled blonde hair. She’d painted her nails, he noticed. He never remembered her doing that before. John wore what he’d always worn, a big canvas coat and flannel with heavy boots, his dark hair slicked back. It was commanding, put together.
Dean was a mess. He ran a hand over his stubble self-consciously as his foot started tapping out of anxious habit. This was good, he told himself. This was nice.
There was any breakfast food he could ask for- scrambled eggs, egg mcmuffins, bacon, and french toast dominated one side of the table, the other piled high with pancakes and syrup and a small bowl of cut strawberries. Dean smiled a little as he sat down. It was diner food, he realized, all his favorites from the road, but homemade.
He took a quick bite of sausage. He couldn't explain how, but he knew he’d had this exact sausage before. There was something there, some happy memory, some brand of nostalgia. He closed his eyes, trying to place it exactly. He thought he remembered Vegas and blue eyes, but he was interrupted by John chuckling.
“Your mother’s become quite the cook, eh?” The elder Winchester joked, mistaking Dean’s closed eyes for bliss. “She’s been intent on learning since we got here. Can't rely on microwave dinners forever.”
Dean didn't laugh. He ate a bite of scrambled egg instead, ignoring the part of his brain that wanted to explore whatever memories were attached to the flavor.
Everything here was like that- like a broken mirror or a spider web, entangled together and all connected to something else in no discernible pattern.
A silence had fallen over the table, only broken by the clinking of John’s fork on his plate. Mom wasnt eating, and Dean was starting to dully wonder why when she spoke up.
“What a view!” She said enthusiastically. Dean nodded, mouth full. She was right, it was a beautiful view.
None of the landscapes here were exactly places on real earth, more like an amalgamation of the general Great American Outdoors. Dean imagined the view he got was most like the Rockies. The porch was perched on the slide of a sloping forest. At the bottom, a small creek carved its way through a sweet valley, and above it all stood the shapes of massive mountains, peaks lined with just the right amount of snow.
It was quiet again. Mary seemed nervous.
“So, uh.” She smiled again, warmly. “Vampires, huh?”
It took Dean one too-long moment to realize what she was talking about. “Oh! Oh. Yeah.”
John sucked his teeth. “Nasty fuckers. It wasn't that uh-” he tapped his fork on his plate loudly, clearly trying to capture a memory, the sound a reminder to those around him to not dare interrupt, “Ben. Benny! It wasn't him, right?”
Dean scoffed. “No. Not Benny.” He licked his upper lip anxiously. Dad had never approved of Benny, even before he became a vamp. It was a long running source of tension. Dean was usually careful not to bring him up around his father. “It was these weird clown vampires. Ohio. They were taking kids.”
John nodded silently. “Mm. Honorable way to go.” He said. “Like you wanted, right?”
Dean felt his brow furrow before he could remind himself not to react. “What?”
He wanted to smack himself again. Fucking hell- how many times did he have to learn not to be angry, not to be emotional, around his father. That was a basic fucking rule-
“I mean,” John started up again, “That’s what you used to say. You wanted a hero's death.”
Dean blinked. “I-”
‘Better then how I went out, anyways. Goddamn deals. Never take the deal.” John was already moving on, grumbling as he reached for the syrup.
“It’s-” Dean tried to shake himself of the thought of a hero’s death as words formed unprepared on his lips- “It’s good to see you both again. I wasn't sure that was ever gonna happen.”
Mary smiled. “Of course, you’d see us again, silly.” Her smile was wide. Her teeth were whiter than Dean remembered. Heaven must do that. Amplify your happiness.
“Come on,” John said, laughing in that strange baritone again, “Did’ya think you’d never see us again? What? You thought I was hellbound or something?” He laughed again at the very notion.
Dean smiled weakly. “I don’t know, it’s just. I missed you both.”
John leaned back in his chair, smile slipping from his face. “Yeah. Missed us so much that you haven't been able to muster up the energy to visit once in two weeks.”
Mary slapped his thigh, as if she was a scolding housewife from a 60’s sitcom, as if he had made a mischievous joke, as if he had fondly called out Dean for something silly and sweet and goofy. It felt off. Sickly sweet. Unreal. Dean still felt half-asleep. His brain wasnt responding right.
Dean’s stomach turned. “I, uh.”
The silence was back.
“I wanted to make sure I had the right words to say to you.”
His heart was catching up with the situation and beating, fast. He knew he was an adult, in size 10 boots and with graying hair, but some part of him still felt like a scared 11 year old, face already slightly downturned, waiting for the punch or the words. His shoulders were tense again, he was ready for the table to be thrown, for John to relentlessly mock his excuse, because even he knew it was weak.
Dean felt a shift from where John was sitting. He briefly debated slipping the steak knife from the table into his hand. He decided against it- he wasn't gonna stab his father and resisting usually made it worse- and he was bracing for impact and he felt the blood pumping in his veins and-
“I get it.”
Dean looked back up. His father hadn't moved, he was still leaning back in his chair, his feet up on the table. He was relaxed, not threatening.
Dean’s shoulders stayed tense. He’d been tricked before.
“No, really.” John said quickly.
“It took me a whole month before I went over to Bobby’s. I was afraid of what he had left to say to me.” He picked at his teeth for a moment before running his hand over his beard. “It’s strange,” he said softly, “Seeing all these people again. People I thought were lost, people I forced myself to stop thinking about.”
Dean was in a state of mild shock again.
“It’s tricky getting used to it all. I had a lot of explaining to do, to a lot of people, when I first got here.” He reached for Mary’s hand. “We had a lot of talking to do. A lot of things to say.”
The man smiled. “It gets better.”
Dean smiled too, his heart rate starting to go back to a normal human rate.
He was still angry, he knew that. Rightfully so. How fucking dare his father sit there and talk about ownership and apologies without giving him one.
Dean was owed a goddamn apology- he knew that more than he’d known anything. For leaving him with Sammy at age 10 in a motel room armed with a shotgun and two cans of spaghettios for four goddamn weeks, and still getting angry at Dean for having stolen food. For that time John grabbed Dean by the arm and shoved him to a wall for looking at a man funny. For that time when John took him on his first ever hunt and let him get snagged by a banshee to “put the fear of god into him.
Part of him wanted to scream in his father’s face, curse him out and throw shit. Part of him wanted to tell him in graphic detail exactly how much explaining he had to do. He wanted to lean forward, look into his father’s eyes, and tell him exactly how he shaped who Dean was as a dysfunctional wreck of a human being.
But not today, he decided.
Today he was gonna take the cards as they were played and eat bacon with his dead parents in a dimension he didn't fully believe existed until he actually got here. He was here for eternity. He could wait.
__________________
Breakfast was long over and John and Mary had climbed back into a restored Thunderbird (she purrs like a lioness , John had assured Dean with a slap on the back) and left behind a small cloud of dust. Dean had stood there for a moment, watching the dust particles hover in the sunlight.
Eventually he got into baby and drove over to Bobby’s. He was already on the porch, cooler by his side and a stained baseball cap pulled low over his face.
Dean still smiled every time he saw him. He knew it would take a multitude of heavenly sunsets to ever stop being a little surprised when he pulled up to that porch and saw the man sitting there, alive and happy.
“I heard you had breakfast with the folks this morning!” Bobby shouted down at Dean as he walked up the front steps.
Dean bounded up the last stair with extra gusto. Bobby passed him a cold beer as Dean settled down in a chair next to the older hunter. “Well?” Bobby asked.
“Well what?” Dean took a swig. The beer was cold and tasted like the feeling of a good ending to a long day.
“How’d it go?” Bobby asked.
“You mean did Dad and I get into a screaming match?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, yes.” Bobby took a longer overly dramatic drink. Dean wasn't looking at him but he knew his eyes were probably rolling.
“No. We didn't. It was nice, actually. They seem.” Dean paused for a second, trying to pick the word. “At peace.”
Bobby chuckled. “Never thought you’d see the day, did’ya?”
Dean laughed. “No, no I gotta admit I did not.” He took another swig. “I still can't believe this suits them.”
“All this?”
Dean wiped under his lip and gestured widely around the porch. “You know, all this. Heaven. Eternal domestic bliss. I’d have thought Dad would get bored.”
Bobby leaned back. “You bored, Dean?”
Dean paused. “I mean. Not exactly. It’s just.” He sighed. “I used to dream about escaping the life. You know, lying down the guns and the blades and retiring. Hang up the coat and all that.”
He chewed on his inner lip. “But this? It doesn't feel. Right.”
Bobby made his little “hmmph” noise. Dean took that as a sign to continue talking.
“Like? It’s wonderful here. Everything is pretty perfect.” He chuckled lightly, rasing up his beer as proof, “I mean, how the fuck can this actually taste like-” he checked the label- “tranquility, good labor, and sunshine? Like the fuck does that even mean?
He took another sip. “And that’s exactly what it tastes like! It’s fantastic and makes no sense. But there's.” He paused again. “There's something missing.”
Bobby shook his head. “You brothers. So codependent.”
Dean slapped his upper arm. “Hey! We’re not co-de-fucking-pendent.”
“You absolutely are. You think Sammy’s doing well on earth right now? You think you leaving him like that was okay?” He lifted his hat, looking Dean dead in the eyes. Something in his stomach shifted. “Nah. You brothers need each other. You’ll feel better when he gets here. That’s what this is.”
Dean shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t- I don’t think that’s it Bobby.”
Bobby looked at him all deadpan again before shaking his head and finishing his beer.
“No, really. I don’t. I want Sam to be happy on Earth, more than anything. That’s- that’s all I wanted. For a long time.” He gazed off the porch blankly as he realized the harsh truth of that statement.
He had lived for his brother’s safety, for years. It was always about protecting Sammy. That’s why he stayed a loyal guardian in motel rooms, clutching shotgun shells and praying for gas stations without anti-theft cameras. Shit, he’d sold his soul for his brother.
“Exactly.” Bobby interrupted. “You miss him. It’s natural.” He elbowed Dean. “It was the same way with me and my family. I missed you. I feel more complete now that you're here.” He chuckled lightly again. “Don’t get me wrong, you died way too young and way too stupid but. I’m glad you're here.”
Dean looked at the ground again. “It’s just. Sometimes I almost miss the life. Maybe that’s what this is. I had so much to fight against for so long, and now I just get to drive around in my car all day, and that’s it. That’s all I’m supposed to do.”
Bobby was silent next to him.
“Do you- did you ever miss it? Hunting, I mean?”
Bobby smiled. “Sure. But I know this place,” he slapped the chair he was sitting on, “All of it, this new heaven and the entire set up, is because of you boys. That gives me pride. I did what I set out to do. Now I get to rest.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “That sounds mighty like a Kansas song.”
“Shut up. I’m not bullshitting, Dean. A break will do you good. Sam will get here soon. Just hold on.”
Dean bit the inside of his lip again. He discovered that no matter how hard he bit, it wouldn't bleed.
“Find a hobby. I told you about fencing, right?”
Dean nodded distantly. “Yeah. A hobby.”
He scrunched up his forehead. “Hey uh, do you know if Benny ended up here?”
Bobby looked confused. “He’s a vamp, Dean. They go to purgatory. You know that.”
Dean nodded. It’s what he expected. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just. You said Cas helped. Before. That just seemed like the type of thing he’d have wanted to sort out.”
Bobby nodded. “As far as I’m aware, he’s not here. You should ask around. Ash would know.”
Dean hesitated before answering. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”
_____
That evening, Dean went on a long drive. Midway through what he imagined to be heaven’s version of the Sierras, he pulled over and clambered out of baby. Bird song danced in the air, accompanied by the gentle sound of branches in the wind.
The sun was starting to slink down under the mountain ridges, golden rays fighting for visibility through the tips of red firs and whitebark pines.
He trekked up the ridge of a rocky cliffside for a while, until he came to a massive overlook. One side of the rock was sheet, straight down for hundreds of feet. Below his boots, a waterfall erupted from the cliff, water tracing the rock face all the way down till the bottom where it fed a massive lake. Dean dully wondered what would happen if he fell.
He sat on the cliff face, gazing off into the sunset. A gentle breeze filtered through his hair. He closed his eyes.
He kept hoping if he tried really hard he could sense Castiel’s touch here. Bobby said he helped. So Dean kept looking for his marks.
He knew the angel well enough to know his affinity for certain beautiful things.
He loved meadows, Dean remembered that. He always thought the way that each of these unique wildflowers managed to coexist and thrive together was fascinating and endearing. He loved how the bumblebees crashed into the stalks over flowers. He loved watching butterflies flap by slowly.
He loved family-run inns. He’d harass Dean for hours about the ethics of staying at a Motel 6 when there was a lovely BNB right there, how it was a small local business, and Dean would pretend to resist and half-heartedly protest until he’d pull into the BNB’s little parking lot instead. And Cas would smile, the flaps of his trench coat all messed up and sticking the wrong ways and Sammy would grumble about how Dean never stopped at the BNBs he wanted.
He remembered Cas’s love for mountain overlooks. Again and again on long haul trips to rural destinations, Cas would lean over from the backseat and ask to pull over and look out at the mountains and the trees and the light. Dean would watch the sunset reflect in Cas’s eyes, the golden glow enveloping the angel.
He’d look content in those moments. Sometimes, Dean imagined that the sunlight would erase anything that was wrong, the years, the bruises, the fear, the dirt, all of it, just for a few blissful minutes.
So here Dean sat, the most perfect overlook he could find.
He put his hand down on the stone, fingers splayed out as wide as they could get, and he closed his eyes, reaching, searching, fucking praying that somewhere here he would feel the angel’s presence, feel his eyes, feel his influence. It had to be somewhere. If Cas helped, Dean would find exactly where he was responsible for and he’d let the energy wash over him, claim him, seep into his bones.
Dean felt tears welling up behind his eyelids. There was no feeling here. There was no gentle touch, no aura of love, no smell of pine and nutmeg. Cas hadn't done this. Cas hadn't been here.
Dean opened his eyes and let the tears fall silently. He pulled his hand into a fist, letting the little nubs of his fingernails dig into his palm.
He hung his head back, face turned up towards the sky. “Cas,” he started, voice at a low whisper. His brain felt fuzzy again. Fuck it, he pulled himself up to his feet, standing up right, arms up and face looking directly at the sky.
“Castiel!” He shouted, voice strong and loud and desperate and angry. “Where the FUCK are you?” He spun around wildly, almost tripping over his own feet as they dragged across the rockface. “Huh? You told me-” He wasn't crying silently anymore, this was a loud hiccuping sob now- “You fuckin’ told me you’d always come when I called.”
There was this heat in his chest now, a heat moving through his whole being, his lungs, his throat, his gut.
He turned back around, fully facing the setting sun, entire body lit up in the golden-orange light. “Well, I’m fucking calling!” He screamed, the sound tearing through his vocal chords.
“CAS!” The waterfall felt like it was growing louder.
There was nothing there. He knew it to his very core, somehow.
Cas wasn't coming.
Dean stopped spinning. He was only about eight inches from the side of the cliff now. He paused for a moment. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
He thought about jumping for a moment, just for the hell of it. Why not?
It was Heaven. It’s not like he could die. Or feel physical pain.
Part of him wanted to do it, just out of sheer curiosity.
Instead he slumped over, and let the grief wash over him.
He was gone. Castiel was gone. He wasn't in this place, for some reason or another, and he was gone.
Dean was surrounded by nearly everyone he’d ever lost and still felt entirely fucking alone.
There was something wrong, something rotten inside him.
He was in Heaven, the Heaven, and he still wasn't content. How fucking selfish could you be, he wondered, to be in eternal paradise and still not be at peace, still not feel at rest.
The last beams of sunlight were pulled under the horizon. Sunset ws over. The sky was stained dark tones of orange and magenta.
And so he did what he always did- he dried his tears, got up, walked back over to baby, pushed a cassette player into the deck, and started the long drive home. Come on Eileen started blasting as he pulled out of park.
He didn't remember adding that one to the mix. A lot of Heaven worked like that- things happened because you wanted them to, not because you set them up to happen. If you fall asleep dreaming of banana bread, you’ll wake up to a loaf on the counter. If you were fixing up a car and needed a wrench you’d forgotten on the other side of the garage, it would suddenly appear right next to your hand.
Come on Eileen was an unusual song to add to the list of “things Dean didn't know he was thinking about”, a registry heaven seemed to be constantly compiling. The upbeat opening bars still brought a small smile to his face as he took a wide turn along the scenic mountainside.
He used to torment Sammy by chasing him around the bunker with this song when he first started seeing Eileen. Claire had taught him about bluetooth speakers, and he had a joy of a time rigging them up all across the bunker. For a whole week, the song would play any time Sammy entered a room. It drove him batshit. Eileen taught Dean how to sign some of the lyrics so she could cash in on the fun too.
She was good like that, Eileen. Happy to joke around, as long as it put a smile on Sam’s face.
Poor old Johnnie Ray
Dean remembered when she died the first time. It really fucked Sam up, even though he didn't want to admit it.
Sounded sad upon the radio
Dean always knew Sam trying on the macho persona meant things were bad. He knew Sam practiced ASL night at night for weeks after she kicked it. He wondered if Sammy knew he knew.
Moved a million hearts in mono
When she came back, Sammy was happier than Dean had ever seen him. It was pretty remarkable. He looked like a golden retriever, all things considered.
Our mothers cried
His entire face was lit up, and he had this face-splitting grin for weeks.
Sang along, who’d blame them?
The music was picking up. Dean’s foot tapped along.
Now I must say more than ever
He hoped they were together now. Sam and Eileen. He knew Sammy had been waiting to see her after Jack brought her back. He spent a lot of time being worried about Dean, right after it all ended. Dean pretended not to notice.
Come on Eileen
Eileen and Sam deserved a life together. One without-
And the upbeat music seemed to strain, McDerrple’s voice stretched out and waived until Dean smelled sulfur. The entire tape deck was smoldering, smoke pouring out of the cassette player.
“Fuck!” Dean swore, looking down and trying to pull the tape out. The tips of his fingers burned as they came in contact with the deck. Static was beginning to fill the impala.
Reigned to what- what- fate is- sunken
He pulled his hand back from the red-hot tape, shaking his hand to try and cool his finger tips, when the very ground below the impala started to shift. It looked like a map loading incorrectly in a video game, like something was pushing through the earth and the asphalt of the road was curving around the shape, coating it like rubber.
These things they are- are- aren't- real
Reflexes took over and he pulled baby into reverse, the fastest he’d ever managed to do it, and he hauled ass back down the road, tossing his burnt hand over the passenger seat to see what was coming up behind him. He could feel the blisters developing on his fingertips already.
And then the music stopped entirely, static gone too.
There was now a massive shape in the road, about three stories tall and filling the entire road. It wasn't really a definable shape. It almost looked like part of a massive hand had tried to reach upwards from underground.
Dean’s heart was pounding.
The melted tape shot out violently from the tape deck. Dean numbly raised his hand.
It looked perfectly fine, skin smooth and bitten nails fully regrown. There was no ugly red blisters, no puffy skin, nothing swollen or the tiniest bit out of place.
He reached out for the eject tape button. As soon as he touched the dash, a new tape instantly appeared in the slot, already playing.
Come on Eileen, you mean everything
Dean let out a long shaky breath, and ran a hand through his hair. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck.
The shape bending the road seemed to deflate slowly.
It was a glitch, he thought slowly.
Like in a video game.
The road flattened out entirely. Dean took a moment to shake out his wrists.
He pressed gently on the gas as the next song started playing. Heat of the moment . He smiled. This one he knew was on the tape from his own physical work. He passed over the now flattened asphalt cautiously.
It was as if nothing happened. The bird song resumed.
Nothing else went wrong on the drive home.
It was pristine again. Postcard-like. Dean wasn't sure why he couldn't get that comparison out of his head.
Maybe it was because everything here was still partially built from memory. It’s how the food could taste how it did- everything connected back to his life on Earth. The people he met, the places he saw, the beer he drank, it was all a messy web right back to forty one years of living-breathing-earth-dwelling Dean Winchester.
It wasn't until he’d pulled up to the cabin, stars twinkling in the navy twilight sky, that it occurred to him.
Maybe, he wondered dully, that’s why he felt so shitty here. He’d lived a long goddamn life, and forty of those years had been spent, well. The opposite of here.
He’d read about it years ago, back when he still had the imprint of Cas’s hand on his arm. Marked souls wouldn't be permitted into heaven. If you had even a whiff of hell about you, you’d be kicked right out, left on the curb in front of the golden gates, the whole 9 yards. Back when they first infiltrated Heaven, all those years ago, Dean had so worried he’d set off some alarm.
He thought the idea was kind of funny now. But maybe part of it still rang true. No, he wasn't barred from entry but maybe, just maybe, he was marked enough to warrant some issues.Like the glitching he’d seen earlier. Maybe Heaven was broken. Just for him.
He closed the cabin door behind him as he thought about it.
That, he decided, was some self-pitying narcissistic horseshit.
No. Heaven was new. Bobby said so. There’s always glitches in new programs. Little errors.
And yes, some part of him scratched at his brain whispering the problem is you the problem is you you are the problem you slipped through a mistake in the code you’re here by mistake or just because Cas is too fucking blind to see what you are and what you are is a black hole, a fucking vortex consuming everything that’s good all around you-
Dean threw a plate. The scratching part of his brain was quiet again.
He sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He cleaned up the shattered pieces with ease. A dustpan appeared by his hand as soon as he bent down to pick up the china shards. It was weird, not worrying about the sharp pieces digging into his hands. He scooped them up numbly.
He didn't even remember picking up the plate. It just. Appeared. He wanted his brain to shut up, wanted to make a noise louder than his head, and there it was, a white polished plate, right between his fingers.
He scoffed. Eternal paradise. What a concept.
He fell asleep quickly that night. He dreamt of Miracle and Eileen and Sam. It was beautiful.
_____________________
Dean woke up to music.
It was soft, at first. Guitar strings and subtle bass.
For starts
Dean sat straight up. He didn't know this song. He hadn't put it on any tape, any playlist. He didn't even have speakers set up here yet.
What a waste to say the heart could feel apart
Dean wandered cautiously down the stairs. He doubted this was his father.
Or feel complete, Baby
This was blues. It was gentle and beautiful. This was not made for John Winchester’s hands.
Why would you make out of words a cage for your own bird?
Wait. Maybe Dean did recognize this. He burst into the kitchen.
When it sings so sweet
The kitchen was empty, as was the adjacent dining table. Through the windows, Dean could tell there was no one on the porch either. There was just a small radio, old fashioned, sitting on the table.
The screaming, heaving, fuckery of the world?
Shit, Dean did know this. Claire and Kaia used to play this song all the time.
Why would you offer a name to the same old tired pain?
The song felt like Castiel, Dean decided. He debated searching the rest of the house for intruders, grabbing the paring knife from the counter and following every hunter’s instinct that he possessed.
When all things come from nothing, and honey if nothing’s gained
Instead, he stood stock still in the kitchen, listening.
My heart is thrilled by the still of your hand
It’s how I know now that you understand
Dean leaned against the staircase.
There's no plan
There's no race to the sun
Dean’s eyes widened slightly as the lyrics sunk in. He wasn't sure if he was legally allowed to listen to this in Heaven.
The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun
There’s no plan, there's no kingdom to come
I’ll be your man-----------
And just like the other day with Come on Eileen, the song began to stretch and lengthen. It felt like it was being pulled apart and patched together again with static crowding the gaps between song and void. For a second, it was quiet.
And then, those opening notes played again.
For Starts-
The entire section of the song played through again, and it fell apart at exactly the same place, before looping again. By the third time, Dean got wise and willed a notepad and pencil into his hands. He scribbled down the lyrics in his chicken-scratch handwriting.
Just moments after he had all the words down, the radio began to smolder, smoke pouring out of the panel in the back. The song stopped midline.
And not two seconds later, the entire radio disappeared. Gone.
Dean sat down at the dining room table in minor shock.
It was a glitch again, he realized. It had to be.
But this was- this was strange. This was specific. The last glitch, that could have just been a map loading problem, if that's even how Heaven worked. But this? This was lyrics, on repeat, that played exactly until Dean didn't need them anymore. This felt purposeful.
He smiled a little. This was a mission. A job. A mystery to solve.
And if Dean could do anything, it was a hunt.
_________________________