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A drive. That's all he needs. He just needs a minute to process, to sort through the tangled web of feelings knotted behind his sternum.
He turns over the engine and Baby purrs to life, a comforting thrum that drowns out his soft exhale. He just needs to drive. Things will make sense after he clears his head; things will stop feeling just left of perfect. This is heaven. He wouldn't trust it if it weren't Jack at the helm, but it is. Jack and Cas.
One breath in. One breath out. He's not sure he needs to breathe in heaven, but it's at least something he can focus on. The rise and fall of his chest and the road flying underneath him. Everything is fine. This is the Good Place. He just needs to drive.
So he drives.
And drives.
And drives.
There's a flutter in his awareness that time here doesn't flow in the normal, consecutive way he's used to, but all that means to him in the moment is that he's going to see Sam soon. He doesn't need to think about what it means for anyone else, or about Sam having to rebuild a family from scratch, or his dad's reproachful look for not going to see them before he took off. Learned it from the best, he thinks, and pushes the thought away as he turns the radio on.
Later, he won't be able to say what he listened to, or how many miles he drove, or what he thought about for the majority of the drive. It won't really matter anyway.
He pulls onto a bridge at some point, stops Baby there and gets out of the car. The wind is warm and welcoming, carrying the scent of foliage and the water below. Dean soaks up the atmosphere, lets it sink into him, and tries to feel the peace he knows he's supposed to be feeling. It's been a second, a lifetime, maybe an eternity, before he senses someone behind him. His face breaks into a smile, because how could it not?
"Hey, Sammy."
Footsteps approach until they're right behind him and when he turns, he's promptly engulfed in a bear hug. Happiness bubbles up into laughter and when Sam laughs back, it's with the tail end of a sob.
"It's really you. Not a memory."
Sam had always been quick on the uptake. "The one and only."
"Missed you," Sam says, finally letting him go, and Dean tries not to choke up thinking about how long it's been since he left his little brother in that dusty barn.
"Yeah," he agrees, even though it's been no time at all up here. It dawns on him suddenly that Sam doesn't look a day older than the day Dean died. He's scared to ask the question, but he forces it out anyway. "How long has it been?"
"Forty years, give or take."
Dean breathes a sigh of relief. Sam lived. If nothing else, Sam lived. "You gotta tell me about it."
"You gotta tell me about heaven," Sam counters. "If you're here, really here, does that mean..?"
"Everyone else is, yeah. Even–" He pauses and clears his throat. "Even Cas."
Sam's face lights up and he has to look away from it, from that bright grin and the swarm of questions Sam always has that he can never answer, so he turns toward Baby. "We should head back," he hears himself saying, ignoring how heavy his limbs feel when he climbs into the car.
Sam slides into the passenger seat and Dean watches the quiet moment of old grief and nostalgia paint itself across his brother's features. He can't think about it, can't think about the haunting of his absence. He wishes Sam hadn't had to deal with it for so long.
The moment passes though, and Sam launches into his life story without further prompting, inundating him with so much information he's sure he's going to forget most of it when the conversation is done. But it's better listening to him than—
"So? You gonna tell me how Cas is back?"
"Uh, not really sure. Jack, I assume. They've been renovating heaven. It's an open floor plan now. Everyone shares." He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the subject and uncomfortable with why he's uncomfortable. Weakly, he tries to bring them back to Sam. "Were you happy? After…"
Now Sam fidgets, looking out the window and watching the trees pass them by. "Not for a long time. But I got there, I think. Happier than I thought I'd be."
"See, told you you could do it without me."
Sam turns back to him now and he flicks his eyes over to be met with the same sad puppy eyes he'd been weak to his whole life. No matter how much time passes — how much more life Sam lives compared to him — that'll always be his baby brother. "But I didn't want to," Sam says softly.
He tightens and re-loosens his grip on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry, Sammy." The rusty tang of failure fills his mouth, familiar and unwelcome.
"Don't blame yourself, Dean."
Dean glances at him sharply.
"And don't give me that look. I know you. I wanted you to live, of course I did, but not just because you're my brother and I wanted you around. I wanted you to live for you. It was never your job to live for me , Dean. You don't have to feel guilty about that. Ever."
"Yeah, well, I made it my job."
With a sigh, Sam lets it go. "Alright, fine, but we'll come back to this later," he threatens. "What have you been up to anyway? What do you… do up here?"
Dean falters. There's no way of weaseling out of this one. "Uh, no clue. Haven't done anything yet. Had a beer with Bobby. Went for a drive."
He can feel Sam's eyes boring into his face and keeps his eyes fixed on the road.
"Dean."
"Yup."
"Dean it's been forty years! Are you telling me you drove for that long!? What about everyone else that's not Bobby? You've been up here this long and haven't even said hi?" Sam pauses and the silence stretches in a way that tells Dean he's having some epiphany. "You haven't seen Cas. That's why you kept changing the subject. Dean."
He sounds so plaintive by the end, something creeping into his voice that sounds a little like pity. Dean clenches his jaw. "I was planning on it. Can we not argue when you just got here?"
"I'm not–" Sam sighs. "I'm not trying to argue, Dean, I was just a little blindsided. And worried." There's more he wants to say, something Dean probably won't like by the way he's clearly working up to it. "You never… You never told me the details about Cas. I didn't want to pressure you about it before and then, then you were gone. Something tells me this has at least a little do with it with you avoiding everyone."
As a knee-jerk reaction, Dean wants to deny it. He wants to pretend everything is totally, completely normal. But it's not. He's dead. Castiel gave his life for Dean's, and he wasted it. And it doesn't matter that Cas is back, because he's still dead. All the fighting, all the battles to wring free will from God's hands just to die in some dingy barn on a piece of rebar. That's all free will got him, in the end. And if Cas was alive, if Jack brought Cas back…
He wonders if he'd have thought to pray to Cas, would he have been saved? Or did Jack's hands off approach to things not even make exceptions for family? Not that Dean could blame him for letting Dean die, anyway, with how he acted. And part of him, some part of him knows that was Chuck's influence, but it doesn't make it right. It doesn't mean he's absolved of those sins. He doesn't belong here, isn't worthy of this new place Cas and Jack have crafted.
"Dean?"
He blinks. "Hm?"
"You got a little lost in your head there."
It takes him a minute to remember what they were talking about. Right. Cas dying. His favorite subject. He's tempted to shelve the discussion, but what was the point? Sam had an eternity to ask him about it, and if Dean didn't talk, he'd just go to Cas. "He had a deal with the Empty. His life for Jack's when he felt a moment of true happiness."
"Fuck."
"I know." He takes a deep breath, surprised at how much a non-beating heart can ache. "He, uh, he said he didn't know what his true happiness would be until that moment. He was going to fucking die and he was happy, Sam. And his face–" It takes him a second to push through the memory, the look on Castiel's face burned into his mind's eye. "He said happiness was just in the being, in the saying it. That he learned to love the whole world because of me."
"That's–" Sam looses a shaky breath. "That's a lot."
"I got him killed. Billie wanted me. And he sacrificed himself to save me."
"That's not your fault either. Cas is a big boy, he made his own decisions. If you had seen some way out, a way to sacrifice yourself to protect someone you cared about, you'd have taken it too. You have taken it."
"Don't make me feel any better."
For the first time, Sam's voice betrays all the years he's lived, a heavy weight on his words. "Never does."
The silence settles over them and just when Dean thinks about turning the radio up, Sam makes a follow up.
"What did you say?"
"Didn't say anything, dude."
Sam snorts. "No, to Cas. What did you say to Cas?"
"It's kind of a blur," he lies. "Told him not to do it. Wasn't much time for anything else."
"Well, I hope you get to say it now."
He doesn't know how to respond to that, how to say any of the things that are still roiling around inside of him, so he says nothing.
And it doesn't matter that Dean feels cut open and seen through, doesn't even register to Sam, because the next thing he says is, "Oh my god, is there a quicker way back? I cannot sit in this car for forty years straight."
Some of the weight lifts and, despite himself, despite not remembering the last time he had, Dean laughs. "Shut up, I told you time doesn't work the same way here."
"Whatever you say. I love you, man, but I won't forgive you if I have to spend my first four decades in heaven in a car."
"Bitch."
"Jerk."
+
Regardless of the apparently ample time Dean had to think about who he'd be seeing in heaven, it trips him up entirely when there is a small entourage of familiar faces waiting for them at Harvelle's. He is passed from person to person, and when he catches Sam's eye, they share a tearful moment of silence before they're dragged into the next hug, the next conversation, the next set of sometimes uncomfortable questions. And Dean smiles all the way through it and for a while, for a while, he forgets he ever had anyone to mourn over at all.
He's so caught up in the love and mirth and warmth that it takes him a while to realize his parents aren't there, and he's not sure how he feels about that. When he casually asks Bobby about it, he's met with a softening of the features and a hand on his shoulder.
"Maybe they're just waitin' for you to go to them." Bobby eyes him carefully. "You don't have to till you're ready. You don't have to at all, if you don't want. If it makes you feel any better, he's not the same up here. I know that don't fix things that already happened, but maybe it'll make it a little easier of a burden to carry. But I think someone wants to talk to you now."
He pivots, following Bobby's line of sight, and spots Jack standing with Sam on the opposite side of the roadhouse. For a frozen second, they just look at each other, and then Dean is across the room and pulling him into a metaphorically life-crushing hug. Jack sinks into it, boneless and content to soak up the affection. How the fuck is this God, Dean thinks. He's practically a child.
When he lets go, Jack smiles up at him happily. "Hello."
"Hey, kid." He shifts his weight and Sam intuitively ruffles Jack's hair and walks off to give them time to talk. "I wanted to tell you something, something I should have said the first opportunity I got."
"I know, Dean. I heard your prayers." Jack's smile turns understanding and Dean feels like he could tear a world apart to keep this boy safe. A wave of disgust hits when he remembers how willing he'd been to do the exact opposite.
"I'm sorry," he says anyway, because Jack deserves to hear it face to face. "I wish I could take back those things I did and said."
Jack shakes his head slightly. "I already forgave you, Dean."
"I don't–" Don't deserve it. Jack seems to understand, smile soft around the edges. Dean chokes the words down. "Of course you're family, Jack. I know it's too little too late, but…"
"It's not." Jack hugs him again, and Dean doesn't care that he's holding the most powerful being in the universe, that's his kid. He squeezes back.
"You must be proud," Ellen says from nearby, and Jack pulls away.
"I am," he says at the same time as Jack, making her chuckle.
Dean huffs good naturedly, but feels something soft unfurl in the center of his heart.
After a quick once over of the group in the roadhouse, Ellen hums quizzically. "Figured Castiel would be here."
The simple sentence nearly knocks the breath out of him.
"He's around," Jack answers.
He can't help the way those words sting, can't help but think maybe Cas didn't want to come see him. "I'm gonna go get some air."
Ellen's expression turns a shade apologetic, but he barely registers it as he forces his feet outside. The sun is starting to set, casting everything in a reddish hue, and he's distantly surprised by it somehow. Time flow in heaven makes him feel off balance.
Without deciding on a direction, he starts walking, trying to shake the building hurt and anger even death couldn't kill. It flows under his skin, pools in his fists. He's only aware of how dark it's gotten and the way his legs have carried him to a house when a bright light cuts through the darkness in front of him. The front door is open, and Dean can't make out any features of the figure silhouetted there, but he'd know Castiel's outline with his eyes closed.
"Cas."
He almost doesn't recognize that the broken sound has come from his own mouth.
Cas walks down the porch steps and toward him, unhurried, stopping a few feet away. "Hello, Dean."
Somehow, miraculously, Dean can see him well enough to make out the expression on his face, and isn't sure whether to curse or thank whatever holy magic is allowing for that. His eyes are soft and sorrowful and compassionate and what feels like a billion other things Dean can't begin to decipher in the moment. He wants nothing more than to pull Castiel into the longest hug in existence, but the little and persistent voice of doubt stops him. "You weren't with the welcome party."
It's hardly fair to hold it against Cas, he knows that. He knows that.
"I thought it would be better to let you catch up with everyone."
The sound of Castiel's voice almost makes his knees buckle, almost makes him fall to the ground in prayer, but he stays upright. "And you didn't think I wanted you there too?"
Castiel weighs his words carefully. "I believed that here would be a more… prudent place to... deal with your emotions."
He tries not to sound defensive when he answers. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You just died, Dean."
Dean bristles. "Yeah, we all did. So what?"
"It wasn't fair. I know that. I wish you could have gotten the life you deserved. And I know you're probably… upset. And that's okay. You're allowed to be."
His fists clench and unclench, the knot of feelings so tight they feel fit to snap. "I was always going to die on a hunt," he says gruffly. "Made peace with that years ago."
Cas just stares at him with those stupid, despairing, knowing eyes, and Dean wants to look away, but he's half afraid Cas will disappear if he does. Whatever Cas was expecting out of him though, a breakdown, a blowout, he's not going to get it. Dean is fine.
The moments tick by, sluggish and intractable. He wonders if it's been another forty years.
"I know you're probably angry at me too."
The statement throws him. "Why would I be angry at you?"
"For leaving you." Cas says it so simply, so plain, and Dean feels the truth of it cut to his core. Dean prayed harder than he ever had after Cas was taken, and Cas never came.
"Did you hear me?" he finds himself asking. "Praying."
"Yes," Cas says, closing his eyes for a long second, like it hurts too much to think about. "I'm sorry I didn't go back. I'm sorry I let you down again."
There's not one ounce of Dean that doesn't believe him, but it doesn't help. He voice raises slightly. "You always come when I call. You said that. But where were you? Why is it you always seem to leave when I need you the most?"
"I was...helping fix heaven. I didn't expect you to be here so soon." He gives dean a loaded look, like that's something they'll be revisiting in the future, and Dean feels himself recoil a little.
"Maybe if you–" He doesn't finish, but the immediate guilt in Castiel's expression is a slap to the face. Regret courses through him. It's just fucking like him to make a mess of things even in heaven. Good fucking going, Dean, why not go yell at Sam for good measure. "Cas–"
"Maybe if I were there," Cas finishes for him.
"No. No, that wasn't on you, okay? I'm just–" He shakes his head. "I didn't ask for you to sacrifice yourself for me. I never wanted that."
"I know."
"And saying what you did. I could barely understand any of it, you know, because I couldn't fucking think because my best friend — my best friend — was telling me he was going to die."
"I know."
"And I'm sorry, okay? I didn't– if I had known, if I had more time to think , hell, I don't know–" He takes a breath, feels hot and sick and bare boned.
"I know, Dean. None of it was your fault." Cas tilts his head slightly. "Is that what you think?"
Dean rubs a hand over his face. "You were supposed to be there. We all were. Everything I did to stop Chuck, every ugly damned thing, and it didn't matter."
Castiel takes a step closer, and another. "It mattered. Look around. All of this was possible because of you. You could never see the full picture. Every bad decision, every mistake you make, every person you can't save, you hold onto them and you carry that weight around with you everywhere. But you've done so much good , Dean. You are good."
Cas is close now, and Dean wants to reach out, to touch, to feel the man solid beneath his fingers again, but he can't, even now, and he hates himself a little for it. Claire told him once that angels could feel longing, and he wonders if Cas can feel it now, rolling off him in waves.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything to break the tension, but then Castiel closes the gap between them himself, and Dean's arms rise to hold him automatically. And god. It's not like any of the many hugs he'd gotten at Harvelle's, nothing even like hugs they'd shared in the past. No, it's something else altogether. They mold together, Dean clinging so tightly they could be one person. He clutches the fabric of the all too familiar trench coat like a lifeline, like he's daring the universe to try ripping them apart again.
Castiel, on the other hand, is holding him gently, palms spread warmly across his back, but he can feel it everywhere, through the whole of him. Good vibrations , his mind supplies.
"I'm not glass. You're not gonna break me, man."
"I don't think you're fragile, Dean. I-" he doesn't finish, and Dean — reluctantly and with great force of will — pulls away.
"What?"
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."
Before he can think better of it, a poor joke is tumbling out of his mouth. "Can't be any more uncomfortable than a metal spike to the back."
Castiel's eyes narrow.
"Yeah, I get it. Point still stands."
Cas sighs, his expression a recognizable mix of exasperation and fondness. "I don't think you're fragile," he repeats. "I just think you deserve to be held with care."
Dean's brain skips like a warped record. He's never known quite how to respond to some of the things Cas has said to him over the years, but he can't even find a good punchline for this one. He makes a vague noise and looks toward the house. "Well, if you're done treating me like fine china, feel like giving me a tour?" He gestures to what he can only assume is Castiel's place here. The door is still open and he squints through the brightness futilely.
"Oh. Yes." Cas turns, leaving Dean to follow him. "When a soul comes to heaven, a home is made for them, usually a replica of wherever they felt most at home on earth."
Dean climbs the steps, trying to peer around Cas as impatience gets the better of him. "Fancy."
"If that home is with someone else, heaven accommodates for that as well." Cas steps aside as they enter, giving him the chance to take it in. "This is the parlor. Through there is the dining, kitchen, and living areas."
Dean snorts at the idea of a living room for dead people as he begins his slow perusal of the house. There's a vintage record player next to a comfortable looking sofa and he casually leafs through the vinyls, giving a satisfied hum at the choice of artists before wandering through an open doorway and into what seems to be a breakfast area, two chairs facing a sliding door where he can spot a grill out back.
"Nice place," he says, heading to the kitchen. It's a good size, he notes internally, feeling pleased about it, even though it's not even his, and did he even need to cook in heaven? He's idly pondering if there's grocery stores to go to or if things just pop up into existence when you want them when he notices an apron hanging on a hook that says kiss the cowboy. He chuckles at it.
"So, uh, suppose you know where my place is?" He backtracks into the living room as he asks. He wouldn't be far from Cas and Sam, if he had to guess. There's photos up on the wall of this room, Cas and Sam and Dean and Jack mostly, but interspersed with others. Dean's surprised to even find a picture of Bobby with him and Sam when they were still kids. It dawns on him, after he's done studying the photos, that he never got an answer to his question. "Cas?"
Castiel is peering through a door speculatively. "This is new."
"What is?" Dean joins him, looking over his shoulder at what looks to be a game room. "Oh hey, a ping pong table! Always wanted one of those."
He steps past Castiel as he sees a guitar hanging from the wall, new and shiny and begging to be worn in. From there his eyes are drawn to a nearby shelf, various items displayed along it. It pulls him up short when he sees the little figurine of Dr. Sexy that Sam got him a few birthdays ago as a joke. There'd be no reason for Cas to have it. His heart rate ticks up as his eyes trail over the rest of the items, most of which are his.
He resists the urge to clear his throat, keeping his back to Cas. "What did you say was new, exactly?"
"This room."
"Ah." The silence grows, and Dean thinks Cas is waiting for him to say something. Instead, he beelines it past the angel and back the way he came, heading up the staircase. He opens up the first door he sees on the second floor and is met with a bathroom. His robe is hanging by the shower. The next door opens to reveal a storage closet that looks innocuous enough, except it seems to be mostly filled with his childhood paraphernalia — scooby doo vhs tapes, board games, the few positive things he associates with childhood that he'd thought were gone forever.
He moves to the end of the hallway and hesitates for a second before opening the door. If he had any doubts left, this would be enough to dispel them. The room is very clearly Castiel's — and his. His favorite jacket is draped over the back of a chair. There's two cowboy hats next to the door. The mixtape he'd made for Cas is on the dresser, next to a book with enochian on the cover. Beside the bed is the angel his mother had put in his nursery.
"Alright," he croaks to the empty air, his throat feeling suspiciously dry for someone that doesn't need to drink anymore.
His home is with Castiel. He knows that, has known that for a long time. It's not shocking, not really, but he still feels like some cosmic trick is being played on him. Surely heaven wouldn't just move someone into a place where they're not wanted. It would have to be mutual. Which means…
The soft shutting of the doors he left open echoes behind him and he turns around to find Cas staring at him from the hall with something that looks damned close to hope. But Dean has had a lifetime's worth of stomping out hope, so he needs to hear it out loud.
"This is...your place."
"Yes."
"And mine?"
Cas smiles softly, eyebrows twitching up in a 'what can you do' kind of way. "So it seems."
There's a twist of anxiety in his stomach, followed by the familiar quesy feeling that comes when he lets himself think things like— It's not as bad as it used to be though, not by a long shot, and if there was ever a time to get the fuck over himself, it would be now. "I don't wanna read this wrong."
"I think that would be quite a feat."
In spite of his nerves, Dean feels his lips curl into a matching smile. "Yeah, well, don't lose faith in me now."
Castiel's eyes crinkle, sending a rush of affection straight through his heart. "Never."
"So when you said … love. You meant the human kind of love? There wasn't some angelic mistranslation?"
"I meant… I love the way you laugh when a joke surprises you, and the way you smile at your younger brother, and the way your voice softens to comfort a child. I love the way you tap your fingers on the steering wheel when you're listening to music and the way your face lights up when you get a good slice of pie." Dean swallows harshly, but Cas keeps talking, approaching him slowly. "I love your fondness for old movies and how your hair sticks up when you've just rolled out of bed. I love that you never stop caring, even when you try to, and that you think orange is the worst color in the rainbow, and that you have a batman sleeping mask. I love everything that makes you you."
Dean tries to grasp onto any coherent thought, but his brain is having a hell of a time making any. It doesn't help that Castiel is so close to him now. "Uh, I can't–" His eyes dip down to Cas' mouth and his face feels hot when he forces them back up. "I'm not as good at doing this as you."
"You don't need to do anything," Cas says, and Dean almost jumps at the opportunity to lock all the unarticulated feelings back up somewhere deep inside him.
"I do. I need to." He takes a breath, tries to be as brave as Cas always is. "I need to, because if I don't say it now, I might never. And it fucking killed me when I thought I'd never have the chance to talk to you again. You're my best friend, Cas, but you're– you're more than that. I know I don't always act like it, but you're the best thing that happened to me. And I need you to know that– that I love you too."
Castiel's eyes shimmer, a mix of unshed tears and adoration clear enough to make Dean question how he ever thought angels couldn't feel like humans do. Cas reaches out — always, always Cas — and pulls Dean through the last unwelcome inches remaining between them.
Dean knows kissing, knows every way to be physically intimate with another body, but the way Castiel's mouth fits against his dizzies him. Something bright and loud and intangible whirrs between them, around them, and he feels weak for it. He's never felt yearning quite so strong as this moment, and he doesn't know what to do with it, where to put it, because he can't get any closer. He deepens the kiss, and Castiel makes a sound somewhere at the center of pleasure and contentment. It's too much. It's not enough. He slides a hand into Cas' hair and Cas rubs a thumb over his cheek and he thinks he could pass an eternity like this.
It takes Cas three tries to pull away without letting Dean drag him back in. He doesn't go far, just enough to speak, just enough that their noses still bump. "I love you, Dean Winchester."
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, giving himself a second to drink the words in, turn them over in his head like it's brand new information. "Me too," he manages, and it feels inadequate, but he has time to work on that. They have all the time in the universe now.
"I'd be very happy if you would join me in bed," Castiel says bluntly, and Dean laughs lightly.
"For sleeping or, uh–" He lets his fingers sweep under the hem of Cas' shirt, gratified at the goosebumps he feels rise there. "–other nocturnal activities?"
Castiel walks them backward into the room, shutting the door behind them without touching it, and Dean is self aware enough to realize how much it turns him on to see Castiel using his powers. "Yes."
Dean's legs hit the edge of the bed and Cas crowds against him, heedless, until he falls back onto the mattress. Cas leans down to kiss him again, and Dean groans when he's met with a handful of clothes.
"I've never hated this trench coat until now."
"I think we can fix that."
Dean grins. Yeah, he thinks they can.