Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Billie's scythe screeches as she drags it across the bunker walls.

Dean takes another ragged breath, his rib cage folding like a deck of cards. Billie’s reaching. Her claws digging and prodding at his soul.

Like souls on a rack.Like a monster's teeth at his neck.

Like the ever-watchful eyes of angels barring down on him when he's oh so human and oh so dead.

"I got you," Cas says, arm coming up beside him. It’s the only reason Dean stays upright. His knees wobble and the pain sends his vision swimming. He’s floating in a mix of pain and panic, the warmth from Cas the only thing keeping him grounded. A Dean reorients himself from the pain, groaning.

They round the corner in the hallway, but Billie and her scythe lurk just behind them.

Who would have thought death could be such a pest?

Metal grinds behind him. Cas flinches. Impending dread sits low in Dean’s gut.

The end of the line. Dean always thought it would be sooner. But now that it's here? Now that it's closing in on him, he wants more time.

They deserved more.

Selfish of Dean to think that. His feet ache. His back aches. His breath rattles when he takes it and all together it feels a bit like he went toe to toe with a semi truck.

Castiel tugs him further into the bunker. Dean shuffles along feet barely moving on their own.

"Come on, Dean. You can't escape me," Billie says and there's a mock pity in her voice that has Dean raging, "Don't you think it's finally time?"

Dean doesn’t want to die. How fucked he realizes that after ten years just when its ten years too late.

Castiel pulls him down the corridor and into one of the many storage units. Dean's whole body twitches. Even from this distance he can feel the claws threatening to gouge pieces of his soul from whatever projection or extension of Billie that's reaching out to him.

Dean coughs, lungs burning and aching, panting as he’s pushed further.

Castiel reaches behind him and pulls something out. His knife. He cuts his palm and hurriedly scrawls a ward on the door.

The fist clenching his lungs tightly disperses. Dean breathes in a lungful of air.

"Did it work?"

A loud thump. The room shakes but the door holds steady. Castiel nods.

The knock gets more insistent. More sinister as Billie coos out threats.

Dean's seen a nature documentary or two in his time living in the bunker with a bunch of nerds. He’s been the hunter and the hunted. This is the part where some overly invested narrator rambles about the final stand of some gazelle.

The shadow of Cas's wings are exposed somehow. And they're damaged, with gaps where feathers should be but they're mantled and raised over Dean shielding him and Dean can't help but remember every bird of prey he’s ever seen. How they all fall short of the sheer glory of the angel in front of him.

"She said that wound was killing her. Maybe we can wait her out," Castiel said.

He doesn't sound convinced but there's a lift of hope in his voice that's so Cas and Dean wants to save him.

He needs to be realistic. "Yeah, and if we can't?"

Castiel used to tell Dean he has no faith. Dean wonders if he dragged Cas down with him.

A grim expression falls on Cas’s face. "Then we fight,” he says simply.

Without his impending demise hanging quite as heavily down on him, Dean can do nothing but pace back and forth; the last twenty fours playing in his head like the worst trip in his life.

"We'll lose. I just led us into another trap, all because I couldn't hurt Chuck. Because I was angry and because I just needed something to kill, and because that's all I know how to do."

"Dean..." Cas says, but they're both out of rousing speeches.

Dean loved westerns. Loved final stands and brave rangers that went out in a blaze of glory.

Dean hates this.

Wishes he could rend Chuck piece by piece until he was nothing but a distant memory. A torn page in a notebook forgotten and discarded.

"It was Chuck all along. We shouldn't have left Sam and Jack. We should be there with them right now," Dean says, choking, "Everybody's gonna die, Cas. Everybody. I can't stop it. She's gonna get through that door."

"I know," Cas says and his eyes have heartbreak and sorrow and all the things that angels should never experience.

Why does he destroy everything he touches?

"And she's gonna kill you, and then she's gonna kill me," Dean says.

The silence stretches between them and so does the void that Dean wants desperately to close. His body doesn’t give him the choice; he simply falls even further into Cas’s space to the point where calling him upright is a technicality and less by any power of his own.

Dean gets to watch what happens next. A fly on the fall between two entities pissing contest.

Castiel tells him about the deal with the empty. Billie is just a distant nightmare when it finally slots into place what Cas is suggesting.

The Empty.

The moment freezes a silent scream trapped in Dean’s throat. He wants to curl up in the corner and blot out the rest of the world. Wants to beg Cas to keep his words locked away. To spare Dean at least that pain.

"What are you talking about, man?" He croaks out instead.

"I know. I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies see you. You're destructive, and you're angry, and you're broken. You're "daddy's blunt instrument." And you think that hate and anger, that's... That's what drives you, that's who you are," Cas says and his voice is soft and the look in his eyes is searching and Dean can't...

"Cas stop," Dean says but either Cas can't hear or he ignores his plea.

Cas faces him completely and Dean tries to drink him in because he remembers what it's like for people to say I love you in all but words and then leave.

Everyone always leaves.

"It's not. And everyone who knows you sees it. Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love. You raised your little brother for love. You fought for this whole world for love. That is who you are. You're the most caring man on Earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know," Cas's voice cracks on that last word.

Dean can feel the truth of the words in his very soul. It breaks past the fear of Billie's threats, past the clock ticking slowly down on Cas's time, past even the danger he knows Sam's in because for a single moment Dean knows for sure now.

He loves me. He sees me in a way I can never see myself.Dean would like to suspend this moment on the cusp of danger, where love and fear and hate are boiled down so simply.

To preserve it forever in resin like those bugs that Sam forced him to look at in the Nature's Museum all those years ago.

This moment, it’s all they’ll have. "You know, ever since we met, ever since I pulled you out of Hell... Knowing you has changed me. Because you cared, I cared. I cared about you. I cared about Sam, I cared about Jack... I cared about the whole world because of you," Cas cries a single tear rolls down his cheek, Dean wishes he could preserve his own dignity tear tracks are already rolling down a ache in his throat preventing any words from leaving, "You changed me, Dean. I love you."

Dean’s throat is a desert. The words parsing his lips dry and empty. They’re all he manages to grasp. Frozen in the men of letter’s basement, drinking in the last glimpses of Cas like a man dying of thirst.

"Why does this sound like a goodbye?"

"Because it is," Cas says and there's a wretched gurgling noise from Dean's throat, his last attempt at a protest.

"Don't do this, Cas."

Don't leave. I love you too.

Dean's a coward and he can't bring himself to say it.

There's a wet noise behind them. The sound of a crack as the door bursts. Billie's shadow erupts around them.

Black goo seeps through the crack, eating everything in sight, inching, slithering towards Billie and Cas.

The dam bursts, and Cas reaches out. His hand is warm on Dean's shoulder. The old scar tingles and burns in vindication.

"Goodbye, Dean."

"What?" Dean chokes out, but it's not soon enough. Dean's too late. Castiel shoves him aside. He hits the floor beneath the portal.

Billie's swallowed whole face painted in rage and accusation.

The Empty wraps around Cas tendrils thick and reality bending. It never should have been here. Your fault. Your fault.

In the moments after, Dean is deaf and blind and bitter.

Cas is lost.

"I love you."

Dean's smashed to pieces. Dashed to the ground. He feels like an engine with its pistons broken, nothing but a machine backfiring and burning on the inside out.

There's a weight pressing down on his chest. Maybe there's a different angel standing over him stealing the air from his lungs cracking the rib cage that Castiel had so carefully scrawled across all those years ago.

Dean grasps his own chest, tries to cry out but is met only with the brief brush of air moving past his lips before he heaves and buries his head in his knees.

He doesn't know how long it takes to pick himself up off the floor.

He clenches tightly to the bloodied handprint on his shoulder, head tucked down into his knees. His skin burns under the contact, teeny prickles of pain like needles. Like the evidence of Cas is tattooed into his skin.

He digs his nails in deeper as his brain fogs over. He's already lost time. Valuable time, if he's not already too late. Dean wants it to be worse. Dean wants it to be over.

His pistol sits heavy in its holster.

Dean doesn't think he'd mind eating the bullet and fulfilling exactly what Chuck wanted them to do. Of the Winchester brother's he was always the one bound for death.

He shoulda bit the bullet a long, long time ago.

An oversight.

It's tempting. Too tempting after how far they've come.

But there's no they anymore is there?

Dean's been here before.

Right at a crossroads.

Before he had the world to worry about.

But all that's a moot point, ain't it?

He's looked death in the eye too many times to be afraid of it.

Chuck already has them where he wants them. Already has a proverbial gun pointed to his head.

It should be Dean's decision. When it ends.

That night a decade ago. That his dad left him. Sam had walked right through that door just a couple months prior.

The gaping wound in his thigh that bled and bled. He remembers the way his hands shook when he finally got the will to use a needle and thread to stitch himself back together.

Scars.

It had left a scar. If his dad woulda done it, maybe the needle would have been steadier.

The world hadn't needed one more Winchester then, and it didn't need one now.

Not when he was such a failure.

It should be his decision. Something in his life deserved to be his. Fitting it'd be his death, right?

Dean contemplates exactly how it'd be to have to cool metal pressed so close to his skin.

The thought isn't as scary as it should be.

A buzzing noise from across the room breaks Dean out of his stupor. He jerks the gun away.

When had it traveled closer to his temple?

The phone on the ground buzzes more insistently. He crawls over to it, rough cold granite waking him up. Reminding him he’s flesh and bones and blood. His chest aches. The corners of his eyes still burned furiously.

His phone went flying sometime when Cas- yeah that. He doesn’t know exactly if he was the one who did it or someone else but he sends out a fair number of expletives to cover his bases. The caller ID reads SAM in accusatory letters.

The pit in Dean's stomach settles. A heavy weight in his gut that feels like a hook dragging him down.

Dean Winchester isn't allowed to quit.

Dean reaches over gingerly and answers the phone.

The world is empty.

Dean and Sam and Jack wander through the wasteland. Abandoned car's headlights are still blinking. Playgrounds left bare. Strollers left to sit on sidewalks. Half-eaten meals on empty plates surrounded by empty chairs.

Empty. Empty.

Chapter Text

Dean keeps driving, trying to ignore how Sam's hands shake. Or the way Jack's shoulder's hunch in defeat.

The sun hangs heavy in the air, sinking slowly past the horizon.

Jack's head lifts abruptly, "There," he says, pointing to the side of the road. To a small church with the lights still glowing faintly. Dean and Sam share a look. Sam shrugs hands open placatingly.

Dean doesn't know if he wants to interpret it has what's the point? Or what's the harm? Dean pulls the Impala off the shoulder of the road.

"You sure about this, Jack? Whatever you're picking up on is there?"

Jack squints at the building, shifting uncomfortably with both Dean's and Sam's gaze locked on him "It feels like there's some in there or at the very least nearby. But guys, I don't know what I'd be walking into."

"We," Sam interjects, "We wouldn't send you in alone." Jack gives a small smile. It fights to reach his eyes.

"Well, don't keep whoever it is waiting," Dean says, cocking the shotgun at his side and kicking the door open.

Sam doesn't protest the needless destruction of holy objects. Maybe he did finally kick the believer habit he always had.

The thought snakes through his head insidiously. The church is a basic one. Though well kept. The mantle piece is three massive stained glass pieces. Jesus and an angel with a sword. A demon or angel cast down. Dean can’t tell. Hasn’t been able to in a long time.

The anger at them wells up so quickly in Dean that he almost doesn't see him standing off to the corner, wearing Adam's body and looking small.

"So... you survived." He looks surprised if Dean's reading of the minute shift in his expression is to be trusted, he moves suddenly, making his way to the pulpit. Old worn out wood, ancient looking. Then again the church itself is in more disarray than Dean’s used to seeing this far north. He’s used to the churches of the south, Square bodied buildings shoved knee deep in the swamp half hidden by the forest like the earth was ashamed of them

"Michael," Sam says curtly.

Michael turns his attention sharply to Sam and Dean moves on instinct to put himself in front of him. Michael tilts his head in confusion and it sends a pang through Dean's chest.

“You spent decades seeing me as nothing more than a puppet. Raised to. Take it from me, you don’t just shake that off,” Dean said.

Michael turns away, glassy eyed and despondent, "When the rapture first began, I took refuge here. It is St. Michael's, you may have noticed." Dean hadn’t. Mostly because he could given less of a fuck; he still has enough sanity left not to say such a obvious thing outloud.

"So you're hiding from Daddy, dearest?" Dean snarls. Sam shoots him a look of contempt.

"I'm sure he's aware I took your side against him. I've avoided using any powers that might attract his attention," Michael shrugs, "I wonder what it is about you Dean. That makes angels and devils alike let you clip their wings." Dean smiled, but it was an ugly thing all bared teeth and razor wire.

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion, but mercifully his next sentence had nothing to do with that line of questioning, " And Adam?"

The crack in Michael's armor shows by the clench of his jaw, " Gone. I'm sorry to say. Exterminated by my father, like everyone else." Michael hangs his head and if Dean thought the bastard was capable of it, he'd think he was crying.

"Poor bastard never caught a break." It's all the mourning Dean has time for. Adam's loss is a grain of sand on the beach washing in and out of Dean's life with just as much relevance.

Family. Dean was stupid to think it ever meant anything. All it ever meant was the people who were going to leave.

"How did the three of you manage?" Michael's fingers drum absently on the pulpit seat, "You shine like him," Michael mutters to Jack who turns away as if someone rebuked him.

Jack shifts uncomfortably. Fathers. A sore spot for every Winchester.

"Apparently, your old man has a sense of humor. He thought it would be hilarious to watch the three of us on an empty planet," Dean says the bite in his voice dropped alongside the shotgun. He's clinging to the frayed edges of a worn out jacket.

He lost Cas.

Lost the world.

Now Sammy is the only thing keeping him going. Sam coughs awkwardly gesturing toward the open bible on the pew, "What, are you, uh... doing some reading?"

Michael looks, dare Dean say, bashful?

"I never spent much time on Earth. I was... curious about the perception of God and Heaven."

"And?"

Michael shook his head, "Amazingly, the believers loved him. They have for thousands of years. I guess my efforts were more effective than I'd hoped."

"Your efforts?" Sam somehow musters enough energy to be intrigued.

"When God left Heaven, I was certain of his return. So I made sure all the angels and prophets burnished his image on Earth. The all-knowing, all-seeing, all-caring God," Michael's shoulders slump.

" Daddy's boy," Dean says, but he doesn't quite manage the virtriole necessary to make it sting.

Jack's eager to break the silence or he's oblivious, "And now? After seeing what Chuck's done?"

"You ignored us," Sam said reproachfully. Michael stared at the open page for a beat longer than normal. He stands up and slams the bible shut. The pew it's on crumbles. "That was then. This is now. Tell me what you need me to do."

Sam brings the whiskey out and two glasses. The container thuds on the table like a gavel. Dean wishes that he were in a court hall at this point. Wishes that some poor unaware agent had arrested him and got him on death row a long, long time ago.

You're supposed to shoot a rabid dog.

It's the humane thing to do, after all.

There's no one alive to do it.Dean ignores the itch toward his own gun and settles in the chair.

Sam sits down heavily. And Dean can only meet his eyes for a couple of seconds.

Deep and sorrowful and defeated. Dean wonders if he looks the same way. If Sam looks at him and sees the utter hopelessness on his face.

He hasn't broached the topic of Eileen. Barely got the words out to say that Cas was gone.

Sam pours their glasses and doesn't wait to down his first one. The ice rattles in the cup, time slipping as the clock ticks.

Dean doesn't know how long they sit there. Dean can’t shake the chill of the basement. Cas's words echoed in his head over and over.

I love you.

Loving Dean Winchester will get you killed. The glass creaks with the force that he's holding it with. The ice clinks against the glass and all Dean can hear ringing in his ears is the banging of Billie's scythe. There's cotton in his ears. Something is holding him under water. His lungs ache. His heart beat stutters and his vision blurs.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

Sam shifts and Dean focuses only long enough to see that it's his shoulders shaking as he hunches over himself. He should reach up. Give a complimentary pat on the shoulder. Say some nice words. Dean's all full of heroic speeches. But whatever had fooled the kid into thinking a GED and a give'em hell attitude could get them through, this was wrong. There was no Team Free Will without Cas. Maybe there was no will at all. The phone buzzes, the sound so unexpected that Dean flinches before rushing to it. His hand waivers in front of it. On the caller ID that reads Cas.

His hands shake when he snatches it from the table. He clenches it tight, glimpsing Sam's hopeful expression before he swipes it open. "Dean. I'm outside. Open the door." Dean doesn't reply. The phone drops out of his hand and clatters to the ground. He's taking the bunker steps two by two. His heart beat still pounding in his chest. His hand hesitates when he reaches the doorknob. Too good to be true. But man, did the Winchester's deserve a win.

He swings the door open.

Unsure of what to expect.

Castiel right as rain. Hair tousled like all those years ago and an endearing half smile on his face. A whisper that he should have had more faith. Dean would get on his knees and pray if that's what Castiel asked for. Just to have him... Dean isn't sure what he wouldn't do.

He's greeted by crop colored hair and blue eyes.

Nick?

A smile that's all Devil. Guess it is the little details after all. "Wazzup?"

Dean slams the door shut. A throaty whine escaping as he fights the tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. A brief shift in the air and Lucifer is standing in front of him. "Wow way to treat a pal," he says, arms coming up to exaggerate the hurt clenching his chest. He smiles at Dean and it reminds him of Alistair. Alistair and the knife and the same words all over again.

You could end all this pain with just one word, Dean-o. He misses so many people but on days like this he misses him most of all. Dean doubts it'll be that easy this time.

"No, you're not our "pal." Sam bares his teeth.

" Okay, be honest with me, please. Would you have let me in if I said it was really me?"

"You're dead. Uh... yeah, not so much."

" Um, after Pop nutted out and murdered pretty much everyone in the world, the Empty booted me with orders to find the missing God Book and use it on Chuck. Uh, normally, I'm not very good at following orders, as you guys know, but, uh, you do not want to mess with the Empty, man. Total "B," especially after Jack blew up all over her, and she killed Death," Lucifer chuckles, "I mean, guys, never a dull moment. But that's the past. What's up?! We're a team again, guys." He spreads his hands out wide in a jazz hands gesture.

Dean scoffed, " Oh, that is not happening."

"Mm. Yeah. Alright, team. I don't want to bring ants to your picnic, but that ain't gonna cut it. Okay, think about it. If the Empty pulled me off the bench, it's 'cause the Winchester charm ain't enough, right? And I did anticipate a little bit of pushback, so I did bring a token of good faith. Voilà." Lucifer snaps his fingers, and Dean doesn't miss Sam's flinch then but before he can actually make an ill advised move to intercede, a woman bound and gagged appears.

Sam's eyes flick back and forth excessively. "Who is she?"

"Oh, this is Betty. Betty... Betty, say hi."

The woman jerks against the restraints and gives a muffled but aggressive mumble. Lucifer puts a possessive hand on her shoulder, "No, no, no. Say hi to the boys."

Her eyes have a deep-seated old kind of hatred. Immortals hold grudges for lifetimes. Dean's stared into plenty of them before. Hers still manages to rattle him. "Just getting it straight. Oh, did I mention Betty is a reaper? I'm doing a fly-by, right? Okay. I'll say that again. Betty is a reaper."

Sam steps forward, "Yes, we heard you. So what?"

"Watch."

Lucifer's angel blade glints in the light of the bunker before it plunges into Betty's abdomen.

Dean watches the light die from her eyes and scoffs, "Wow! Really?! Great." His hand flexes, reaching retroactively for a drink.

"Oh, no, this is... This is the first reaper to check out since Billie, right? So... wait for it. Wait for it." She rises to her feet on shaky legs, eyes burning with hatred. Dean walks over and reaches for the gag. Cause really he shouldn't get on Death's bad side again.... yeah that's not a good road to go down at all is it?

He doesn't see when she rears back and he's hit with blinding pain across his head. Dean winces, gathers his bearings to stand upright again.

"Wow," Lucifer comments.

"So, do you have it?"

Sam and Dean shoot each other equally quizzical looks, "The book. Hand over the book. Wow. Slower than they look."

Lucifer shrugs, which Dean is vaguely offended by. They had outsmarted all of Heaven after all. On more than one occasion, even. A scythe appears in Betty's hand and that's when it finally clicks. Death.

Dean can feel the moment it resounds at his acknowledgement. The pain of his lip is momentarily forgotten in favor of the downright weird feeling in his gut. The pull and tug of something more. Betty's eyes go wide when they meet his, but before Dean can comment, Sam's leading them toward the basement where they've stashed the book.

She doesn't get the chance to walk in. Michael appears out of thin air, long coat dangling in the wind, eyes burning bright and hand outstretching to rest on Betty's head before she burns. Lucifer squeaks, rushing back and Dean would think it funny that the Devil basically just got jump scared in his house if it wasn't for the fact that Michael is turning all that holy fury on them. Dean puts himself in front of Sam's hands, clenching tightly together, teeth grinding as he meets his tormentor straight on.

"So you really are still kissing Daddy's boots?" Lucifer said, that same devil may care smile on his face. Well actually, he's gesturing something to Sam's gaze inclined up and toward the exit.

"I have faith," Michael says, but he's not quite stone anymore, and maybe Adam's the one who cracked that first bit, because he doesn't look insurmountable and assured, "And now it's time to deal with you."

Dean barely stops himself from flinching. Lucifer on the other hand does shoulders hunching in on themselves in a way that is so reminiscent of a little brother cowering from a dressing down that Dean feels a pang of sympathy for him.

Sam seems to get it at the same time that Dean does. He gives a nod as Lucifer moves to intercept Michael reaches out and tugs Sam away.

"This is your last chance, Lucifer," Michael said, "Surrender. Now turn your back on the Winchesters and Father will look down on you favorably."

Lucifer was an asshole. A coward. A bonafide dick full stop. But little brothers never enjoyed being told they were wrong.

"Oh Mikey, I had a long time to sit with the knowledge that Daddy never loved us," Lucifer drums his fingers on the doorway, expression wistful.

"I don't expect something like you to understand righteous devotion." Lucifer raised his fingers up, a very, very familiar motion and that's when Dean hall's ass out of there grabbing Sam and leaving them behind.

"Dean what are you-"

An explosion rocks the ground, sends both of them stumbling. Deep beneath the ground there’s a rumble and Dean can feel the earth shift. A high pitched ringing resounds through the air. His brain is gonna turn to goo smashed on the ground like melons. He clasps his hands around his head. Reaching out to Sam to try and shield him from the invisible force crashing down around them. He doesn't know how successful he is.

His vision swims. Sam's mouth moves in a scream or a plea Dean can't tell and then he's very quickly meeting the ground.

He reaches out, gripping blindly and trying to haul Sam closer to himself. And then something in his ear cracks and someone screams and he's engulfed in a world of black.

He comes to with a throbbing in his head, a dry tongue and mouth, and a feeling that resembles the night ten years ago when John had just left him and he stepped into a sketchy underground rave and didn't watch his drink.

He groans and opens his eyes and closes them just as quickly. The small overhead light seemingly turned into strobe lights.

He opens them once again hoping that just maybe something out there strong enough to step to mister G-O-D would interfere so that he didn't have to wake up to Lucifer standing over him.

No dice.

It's still Nick's face. Peeling and gray and weirdly nonliving looking. "Hiya partner," the Devil says, wearing Cas's hat and Dean's up so quickly ripping the cowboy hat from his head and baring his teeth in a way that woulda had Benny whistling and Cas rolling his eyes and Sam facepalming. Right, Sam. “Don’t touch that,” Dean says, breath ragged and hunched over in pain and in anger.

Lucifer protests, making a snide fake hurt comment.

"Sammy?" He scrambles looking around, catching sight of him not too far away. Dean sits up enough to crawl over to him, reaching out and taking a pulse.

His heart beats drums steadily beneath Dean's fingers and Dean sighs in relief. Finally, fixes his eyes on Lucifer, poorly attempting to fight down the anger rising up inside him.

"What in the hell was that?" He sharply pokes at Lucifer's chest one moment away from shoving him.

Lucifer raises his hands in surrender, "Calm down Buddy," that decidedly did not calm him down whatsoever, "Michael wasn't going to let the two of you just walk. Someone had to do something and since Death was well," he flapped his arms around searching for the correct, "Dead. I was the only one with enough juice to do anything."

Dean's eyes narrowed, "And how is that. This another game for you Lucifer?"

"Hey I'm sticking my neck out here on behalf of you mud monkey's and you-"

"You've never cared before," Dean says.

Maybe it's ill-advised to step up to an archangel like this with nothing to protect him. But Dean's at a point where he wouldn't mind going toe to toe with the big G-O-D. One whiny upstart in the form of a nuke wasn't going to stop him.

"I've never walked the earth before," Lucifer said quietly, "at Dean's incredulous look he threw his hands up in frustration, "The first time around I can admit I was a bit of a hotshot okay? Had all the world ending ambitions I get it, but I've been telling Dad to fuck off for the last couple thousand years. And he wants to kill the world so I wouldn't mind stopping him now. Besides, could you imagine if me and Michael were on the same side?"

"Say I believe you-"

"Don't really have a choice," Lucifer says, sing-song.

"What could you even do now that all the reapers are gone and Death is dead?"

Lucifer's eyes darken, "I haven't figured that out yet."

The idea sparks inside Dean like gasoline and water, "If you need a reaper, then we should make one."

Realization glinted in Lucifer's eyes at that, a smirk settling into place. Dean is saved from the rest of the conversation by Sam who shoots awake and stumbles onto his feet blindly reaching for a gone.

"Slow down speed racer," Dean said, "You're not in any danger," he shot a warning look at Lucifer. Lucifer stays back for his own good. Dean has the urge to deck him anyway because the look on Sam's face when he sees him is immediate panic. Dean inserts himself between them.

"The book," Sam says, reaching out to grasp Dean's sleeve.

Dean took the moment to haul him up on his legs. He wobbled a bit, clearly shaken.

"Still in the safe room," Lucifer said smirking, "Courtesy of me of course. Won't be holding my breath for any thanks though."

"You don't even have to hold your breath," Sam said with a huff. The fight seemed to go out of him then his shoulders dropping, "Michael really betrayed us."

"What did you think would happen," Lucifer said eyes burning cold, "Your angel was annoying but he was special. We weren't made to change. Why do you think Dad hated him so badly?"

Why do you think Dad hated me so badly? Is left unsaid.

"Yeah, and look where that got him," Dean said. Something flashed in Lucifer's eyes then anger or understanding he didn't know. "It's cause you humans are-"

"Who kicked your ass and sent you whimpering like a b-"

"Okay, stop," Sam said, "Just both of you. Stop. I.. there's no hope of fighting him off if we're at each other's throats. That's what he wants, remember? He wants us to kill each other."

"Sammy-"

Sam shook his head, "Just give me some space." He picks himself off completely and hunched over, the set of his shoulders rising up to brush his ears in stress.

"You," Dean says, "Don't break anything. And don't touch my car." Dean stalks off.

It's hours past midnight, closing in on 3am when Lucifer walks into the bunker library.

"What are you doing here?" Dean asks, but there's none of the usual bite. Maybe he just can't summon it without the turmoil roiling in his gut and the knowledge of exactly what needs to be done. His foot taps on the ground in beat with For Whom the Bell Tolls.

"Come on now Dean-o, I know you aren't the smartest Winchester, but surely you weren't making googly eyes at me so soon after Cassie darlings passing-"

Dean was up out of the chair fast enough to cause the Devil to stumble. He wrapped his hands around the lapels of his coat, "You never knew him. So you keep his name out of your mouth." Dean said, the anger and grief threatening to choke him.

Lucifer gulped, raising his hands in surrender. The smirk fell off his face as easy as wiping dirt off of a new tire, "Yeah, maybe it's a bit too soon for that one," he said.

Dean let go in surprise. That's probably as close as he'd ever get to seeing the Devil apologize. Dean kicked one of the bookcases at that satisfied when the wood cracked under the blow.

"So you're adjusting well," Lucifer said, clapping his hands back together, "But I'm afraid you know World's Worst Dad isn't going to let us all hunker down and have sleepovers here."

"Let'em come," Dean said, bringing the whiskey glass to his lips and chugging.

Lucifer nods, "Oh yeah, solid plan. Sit back and wait for the end of the world."

Dean snarled, "You're just upset it isn't you who gets to end it. That we're all just toys in your dad's play pen and he's bored. You're just mad that daddy never loved you." Lucifer's nostrils flared. The air around Dean became oppressive. It was hard to breathe. Hard to think even. Like a ton of bricks had slammed into his body. Dean expected to be killed then. Lucifer sure looked mad enough. It wasn't like Dean was worried about dying at this point either. A little death was nothing compared to an empty world resting on his shoulders.

Dean had fought and lost.

Dean had failed.

Dean Winchester was ready to do the one thing that no Winchester should ever willingly do.

Give up.

Lucifer's fists uncurled. The air became breathable again. The large wings cast over the room disappeared shadows blending once again into the natural shadows on the floor. Lucifer met Dean's eyes and Dean saw the first glimpse of humanity in them.

Tired and lost.

"After what you did to Nick, to all of us, I don't see why you care," Dean said.

"I understand Dean-o. I am the original tempter, after all. I came to Nick as his wife. Who did I come to you as?"

Dean blinked, looking away from Lucifer to focus on the truly fascinating groove on the table.

Lucifer snapped his fingers, conjuring a glass, "Pour me some whiskey?"Dean obliged.

"The Devil and a Hunter sat across from one another. Both had found their prey, "Lucifer said sing-song.

Dean rolled his eyes, "You didn't come here just to chat and whine."

"No," Lucifer said, "I never thought you'd go for a loophole like this, but it's pretty genius. Tots like dad to miss the minor details too."

Dean sighed, "I'm not gonna make Sam do it. And we've run out of all the plays in the book." Dean's stomach curled a pit quickly forming in his gut.

Lucifer hummed low in his throat, bringing the glass to his lips and throwing the whiskey back. Idly he looked down in his glass, “You know I always liked the God that Failed Better. Has a nicer ring to it.”Dean blinked surprised at the reference.

Lucifer's glass clanked on the wood, he clapped both his hands together, "So Dean, let's see about making you a Reaper."

They're sequestered off in a deeper area of the library when Sam finds them. He blinks rubs red-rimmed eyes as he looks between the two of them. "And neither of you killed anyone or blew anything up?"

"Well, there's not a lot of anyone's left to kill to be fair," Lucifer said, "Plus you're being stereotypical and stuff." He crossed his arms childishly over his chest. Sam raised a brow at Dean who sighed and itched to grab a bit of liquid courage. Kinda needed a clear head for the next part though.

"We found a way to beat G-O-D but there's some drawbacks," Dean said thinly.

Dean watched Sam fold into himself and prepare himself for more that he'd have to give up. Dean wasn't going to let something like that happen. "We need a reaper right?"

"And there just so happens to be a total lack of them," Lucifer said.

"So we make another one. Kill it and-"

"We have the new Death."

Sam looked absolutely baffled, "How is that a solution when we don't-," his eyes narrowed, "Lucifer."

"Yeah, I may know a way to make a reaper. And since this might be the only chance, I have to finally take Dean-o here out and get some much needed catharsis. Why not?"

'Dean, that's not something I can ask you to do. It’s not something that you should have tried to hide from me," Sam said, accusatory.

"It's our last play," Dean said, mouth thinly drawn, “And I didn’t really want to break the news. Call me a coward.

Sam's eyes have that watery quality that Dean chalks up to sudden bouts of allergies, "How then?"

It's a testament to how bad everything is that Sam doesn't push him on it. Doesn't even try to dissuade him. Dean can only hope it's enough. That he'll finally be enough.

He tries to start immediately but Sam refuses, face drawn in tight with worry and it seems like maybe he's grieving what Dean's about to lose more than he is.

Lucifer interjects, “Well there’s this ritual…”

vDean is, to put it likely, tired. It's the kind of tiredness that sleep won't fix.

So he sits in the dining room nursing a glass of whiskey and watching the big clock in the kitchen while the rest of the house sleeps, or at least pretends to. A floorboard creaks, and Dean tenses eyes flicking to Jack who most definitely did that on purpose to alert him. A smile threatens to tug at the corner of his lips until he remembers who taught Jack how to do that. "Dean?" Jack's voice is small and unobtrusive and his eyes are wide and doe-like. He looks like he's ready for a thrashing. A gut wrenching kernel of unease roils.

"Yeah kiddo?"

"What aren't you and Sam telling me?" Dean's shoulders hunched forward, curving up toward his ears.

"You don't really want to know," Dean says.

"Don't you think we're past that? After what happened to Cas?"

There's a charge in the air. The spark of something powerful and ancient angered. Dean feels it hum in the air and bares his teeth in an animal display.

If he had another glass in him or a little less self control he woulda blown like a gasket. As is, he shoves the anger that's accompanied him since hell- since Alistair-all the way down.

Privately, in the back of his mind, he thinks that Alistair was no miracle worker. No creator, demons rarely ever were. Everything that Dean became is always what he was going to be.

Jack takes a step back, wariness in his eyes. Dean feels no better than John.

"I miss him too, kid," Dean says, voice breaking, unable to bring himself to say his name, "I just don't want you to have to deal with it. But we have a plan. A last ditch one at least."

"That is?"

"Make a reaper. Kill the reaper. Death takes Chuck out," Dean dropped his gaze from Jack's unable to meet his eyes, "I'm going to do it."

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder hesitant but open, "You are a hero, Dean Winchester. That won't change."

"Not really a good idea," Dean said, voice choked.

"Cas believed in you. And so will I," Jack said, easy as nothing.

What did Dean ever do to deserve that? When all he does is get the people he loves killed? "You shouldn't," Dean says but Jack just smiles at him and he looks older and wiser and inhuman in a way that Dean can't remember except the first time he looked at Cas.

Family is not just blood. You grit your teeth and you smile, through it or you give up.

Dean doesn’t know why all the ghosts in the back of his mind are talking tonight. Dean smiles, "Whatever you say kid. I got your back." The night becomes a gentler kind of quiet.

"Hope you enjoy bloodletting!" Lucifer looks a little too excited for the prospect himself to comfort Dean.

Yeah, anxiety hums like a storm under his skin, a faint buzz that makes it impossible to stay still. Lucifer and Sam are crouched over the circle, a symbol that Dean is sure must mean something, itches at the back of his brain exactly when he's used it though, talking in low hushed tones. Even so Dean can tell Lucifer's mocking Sam by the tight clamp of Sam's jaw.

"Laid out on stone to bleed to death isn't really my idea of a good time," Dean said, shrugging casually. Jack's not here, thankfully. Dean doesn't know how many people he could perform being all right with before he imploded like Amara. He waits. When it feels like his bones will buzz out of his skin Sam calls out to him.

"It's ready," he says.

"Hey you're acting like it's a funeral pyre," Dean says, punching Sam's shoulder lightly.

Sam sniffs looking for all the world like a kid before tugging him into a bigfoot like hug and squeezing

Dean grabs onto him equally as tight.

“Hey man, no chick flick moments," Dean says gaze traveling over to a Lucifer that's been oddly silent. Dean can't really begrudge Sam though. Not for the unusual display of affection or for the tears Dean can feel soaking into his shirt. Dean can't really make it better but he squeezes him tighter and tries to calm the nerves slowly building up.

"Chop chop Winchesters. Did you forget the whole killing god part of the agenda for the day? Or are you both just that dense?"

Sam reluctantly lets him go. And Dean sees the same pain in his eyes he's always felt watching Sam leave somewhere he won't go. "This is the end," Dean says, "For better or worse, this is it."

Not his most moving speech.

"Don't make me say goodbye," Sam says, "Come back, Dean. Or there'll be hell to pay." There's a bit of a devil in him, like there is with both of them then. A coldness that Sam managed in the worst times back when demon blood flowed through his veins. Dean doesn't question that as long as it was possible, Sam would find a way to bring him back.

"You can do it without me," Dean says that age old insecurity rearing up.

"I don't want to," Sam said, tone broaching no argument.

Dean would rather Sam do the next part. Lucifer looks eager to spill his blood. To make sure he stays dead. Dean hasn't forgotten what Gabriel did to Sam after all. This all could be some kind of trick. It's just that he's willing to risk it.

"Wait outside Sam," Dean says.

"Dean-"

"It ain't something you need to see again," Dean said, "Please?"

"Don't worry, Sam, I'm just going to kill him. None of the other things I promised in the cage," Lucifer said, laugh lines stretching across Nick's face.

Dean snarled, "Shut the hell up you discount Freddy Kruger," he turned back to Sam, "Please?"

"Call me when he's awake," Sam said and turned and out of the room. Dean took in a shaky breath climbing up towards the altar. Laying down in supplication.

"This will only hurt a little bit," Lucifer said before the flash of an angel blade and the quick but deadly incisions to his wrist. Dark blood comically started flowing and if Dean had been still standing he woulda fallen by the sheer force of nausea flowing through him.

He hears a chanting mumbling rhythm of someone else in the distance. A blurred face. Blonde hair. Static. A TV without its antennas. The misfire of an untuned engine. A sweep of darkness over his sight. He's standing on a throne. It ordinates in a way sleek black rock with sharp pointy edges a soft hum emanating from the rock.

Celebration.

Hesitation.

Although when he squints, he sees the bleach white, gaping emptiness of Billie's sterile library.

A choice. A choice long since predicted, but yours nonetheless. We never take anyone unwilling.

Dean knows about deals. Has been on the business end of one. Knows that the best deals are the ones you get to write and have a weasel like Crowley go over.

It's too late for that now. Crowley's long dead. And so is he. The voices are hanging at the edge of his vision, at once angry and amused and also respectful.

"Choice is just another way for you cosmic entities to say 'screw you' I'm not that much of an idiot," Dean says defensively.

You misunderstand progenitor.

One of the voices says.

You made a deal with yourself to taste humanity. To see if the maker was right. It's your choice. If humanity is worth the cost of your own.

The kinder one whispers.

Even the ancient ones get weary of their stories. Progenitor. We are only here to pluck mortality from your soul if you desire.

It will all cease. But everything is destined to end eventually.

Another voice chimes in. Eager.

Was it worth it? We've waited oh so long for Death's gambit to finally come to play.

Dean understands then, in a way only beings meant to last forever do, that Death was always him and he was always Death. He just needs to make the choice to slip the ring on for the final time.

Dean looks at the ring weighing heavy in his palm. He takes a deep breath, an unnecessary one. His life unravels.

Sam as a baby, an angry teenager with a deadbeat dad, a groom to be, and then a widow.

Sam with demon blood, dripping, dripping. A monster in the making.

Sam, his baby brother. Smart as hell where it counted with a short temper and horrible taste in music. His brother who had the world on his shoulders and still managed to smile.

Castiel, brilliant and beautiful, towering over him, marble encased flesh.

Castiel gives him a small smile and says that he doesn't want to just be a weapon.

Castiel's dying eyes burned out of his sockets. Body limp and cold.

Castiel smirking down on him, calling himself a god.

There's others too.

Ghosts that haunt the back of his mind every waking moment.

Dean's always had a big heart. It's mostly proved to be a big target.

Claire glaring up at him in defiance, so strong, so angry, and so forgiving when she smiles at Castiel.

Bobby, his father in everything but name, crass and loud but understanding and smart.

Taking in a Winchester was always his greatest mistake. It ended with a bullet in his head after all.

Jody, sweet Jody, caught in Crowley's web but pushing back against hell, against losing her family and somehow through it all remaining kind and loving.

Crowley, the demon that loved Dean Winchester, the unloveable. Crowley, who loved him as a demon and a human. Who was cruel and a killer but gave his life for the greater good either way. Yeah, that one feels oddly incomplete to Dean. Dean's seen himself in monster’s reflections before. Yeah, Crowley and him were always the same monster weren't they? It’s what happens when you have to fight for love.

The people he's let die. The people he killed by his own hands. They all brush up against his soul, accusing, screaming, forgiving, angry, and loving in equal measure.

Oh, what it's like to lose and be lost.

Dean Winchester slips the ring on once more-this time with no intention of taking it off. Death is forty-one going on forty-two, feeling every year in the creak of his bones and ache of his body.

From the crack of his father's hand on his cheek.

From the first time Sam leaves. His father leaving swiftly behind footsteps he never could fill. The harsh hands and claws of every monster who's looked at him like meat and thought they had the right to him.

Death is endless and eventuality, as old as God and as young as a fruit fly.

Death is a little boy whose mother went up in flames and a father who he could never please.

Death is Life's dance partner, forever out of step, forever out of time. Always too early or too late.

Death is a man who could never fill his dad's aged leather jacket but a man too unordinary to wear a suit well.

Death went to hell and back but fears asking an angel to dance.

Death is everywhere. Death is a man born in a nowhere state and nowhere town under the watchful eyes of Heaven. Death will grow to take Hell's mark and an angel's love in hand.

Death likes tacos and hamburgers and freshly baked pie.

Death takes and takes and takes. He's always hungry for more and always empty just the same.

Death is Dean Winchester.

Possibilities and chances, all half-baked versions of their lives,reeking of Chuck's drafts.

Dean Winchester is defeated by a piece of rebar on some two bit hunt chasing after mime vampires. Benny would have laughed at that.

The familiar chords of Heat of the Moment. Sam's eyes blown wide in fear. His gaze lingers on Dean's chest where the rebar was meant to take him out. Yeah, figures, the trickster never knew how to make a real joke. Mean spirited bag of dicks.

This one tastes like ash and blood. It's soaking through concrete, through Dean's nice leather jacket. This Dean makes a wheezing noise that Death knows marks the end. Sam's lying next to him, a peaceful look on his face. His chest is moving up and down but slowly; the last gentle breeze before winter really hits.

"Are you ready Dean?" Death remembers a younger voice, hand in his, asking that as they crossed a street a smile on his face as he looked up to him adoringly.

"Yes," the Dean on the ground says, blood inching across the concrete like a ghoul's possessive hand. It feels like an admittance of defeat. Perhaps it is.

Sam hunched over books with a younger green-eyed man. That same man in a barstool smiling up at an aging Winchester's face. Age takes them in that one. Simple and long the years take their pound of flesh.

The scene shifts to a lake house. The calla lilies gently blow in the wind as he sees a figure standing under a tree.

He peers closer, and it's clear that the figure is Cas. He stands frozen like a headstone of an angel with two graves looming in front of him. His face is twisted in sorrow as he reads the graves.

Sam Winchester. Dean Winchester.

Castiel's head raises up, eyes going wide with recognition.

"Dean?"

Death leaves that one quickly.

Castiel's wing marks burnt into the earth. Sam dead beside him. The smell of fire as their bodies burn. The clink of keys as he hands them off to some faceless man as he boards a motorcycle.

Dean turns away from all these maybes, all the could have beens.

"It was. And it is," Death says.

He slips the ring on.

Death grips a steady hand onto his scythe. The weight grounds him tells him that THIS- what he's become is real. He swears he can hear the scythe answer back an affirmative buzzing with excitement.

Dean Winchester is Death, and he has a world to save.

Sam watches him warily staring searching for something.

Dean tilts his head, vision swaying. Dean stays still, transfixed by the flicker of his brother's soul. It's damaged with dark stains polluting the blue, twists and sparks of yellow surrounding its core. Dean can feel the turmoil of emotions.

Fear.

Uncertainty.

Grief.

His brother has a bleeding heart.

The bright spark at the core of him gives Dean the courage to speak.

"Sammy?"

"Dean," he says, taking a shaky step forward. He hesitates before tears prick in the corner of his eyes and he's rushing toward him. Death knows exactly how and when he could snuff that flame out. If he digs a little deeper, he'll know the day he dies. The day the world will lose his brother and-

Dean's shaken out of it by warm hands and a firm hug.

"You're still you," Sam's voice is meek. He sounds like that kid he knew all those years ago. The one that he taught to hold a gun when he learned that monsters lurked under the bed.

Dean's arms snake around him and he lets himself cling to the mortality in his arms. That last shred of connection he has to humanity. He can hear Sam's heartbeat. Not like when he was a vampire. There's no thirst behind it. No animal drive to hurt.

It's just an awareness of life.

Of the life he doesn't have any longer.

"You're cold," Sam said, breaking apart. A cough interrupts him from having to answer.

"Wozah, what an upgrade. From mud money to Death itself," Lucifer said, he shifts minutely and Dean can see the flicker of his wings blindingly bright and obtrusive, curling in on themselves, for all his posturing Lucifer is scared. Dean could snuff out his light then and there. Dean reaches out long tendrils sliding past invisible barriers to the naked human eye to taunt the archangel, who grits his teeth and growls every bit the kicked dog. Face shoved into shit. Dean grins and Sam backs away just a bit from the both of them. Trepidation on his face.

"It's me Sammy," Dean says,self consciously, "Just a little upgraded is all."

He holds up the scythe, which sings its greetings at Sam with the same enthusiasm Dean imagines an excited puppy might.

"It's good to see you man," Sam said, looking uncertain, "Dean, I'm sorry. I'm not scared it's just-" "You feel like him. The big D E A T H that is. Weird. Not even Billie-"

"Billie wasn't me," Dean says, "But I think the first Death. The Death we met... I think a part of me was always him."

They can’t afford to panic. It’s sitting under the surface. Dean’s new senses make him feel at once like he’s drowning and also like he’s only ever treaded water his whole life. The haunting notes of Alistar's laughs and condemnations gnawing at the back of his mind. A knock at the door startles all three of them. Whoever’s behind that door is brighter than Lucifer.

Jack's opening the door before any of them can protest or bring him in but he comes bearing a coffee mug.

"Dean!" He said with childlike glee, "I brought you coffee. Castiel always said you liked it after a long nap," the kid almost hop skips over to him, barely controlling himself as he holds the cup out. Before he freezes and tilts his head in confusion, “Dean?”

“Still me kid,” Dean chokes out.

“He’s just a little more juiced up,” Sam says with a shaky smile.

Jack nods considering, something flashing in his eyes that Dean can’t place, “You still like coffee?”

"Well," Dean says, "I've never been known to turn down a cup of joe."

Jack beams.

Death plans.

It doesn't help that Dean can't feel the rest of the world around him. The world is so quiet after Chuck took everything away.

They're not dead though.

Dean checked himself, and he can feel life trying to be. The energy that it takes to keep life absent is slowly weakening Chuck. Even if he can't see it.

The long game.

That's all their lives have been in the end. Dean can't think too long on that deal all those centuries ago. What feels like just yesterday and tomorrow at the same time. Hell is burning and cold in his rearview, yet he can still feel Alistair's talons digging into his skin, a gentle prelude to their dance. As they traveled down and down. Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to forget. His brow pinches in the effort to block out hell’s memories.

Hell’s touch on a fresh vessel barely having taken its first breath.

"Get yourself together," a tight grip on his shoulder the stench of Lucifer's breath. His presence is like Michael's- oppressive and wretched and it reminds him of hooks and people reduced to meat. Reduced and reduced until there was nothing but marrow and ligaments and your heart was bleeding out on the ground.

And-

"Get away from him," Jack says. It snaps Dean out of the sinking hole he's about to fall into. Jack wretches Lucifer's hands off him. His eyes are nuclear, bright and glowing.

Dean swallows the cotton that's soaked all the moisture from his mouth, "It's fine."

Lucifer lets out a sharp laugh, "It's not. He’s got Death’s mantle. He'll get lost in it. Take himself and our only chance out with it." Dean clenched his teeth, the now familiar hum of the scythe turning into a rumble like the harolding of an earthquake.

"Is that true Dean?" Sam asked, eyes pinched tightly.

"It's a lot. Takes a guy a while to adjust," Dean says, sending a glaring at Lucifer, "I'm fine."

Sam nodded, although he didn't look particularly convinced.

Lucifer scoffs, "I'm gonna vomit. All over the interior, preferably."

"Do that and I'll fry your wings on the grill," Dean snapped. It's only when they step into the garage that Dean becomes aware of the change in Baby.

She's the same sleek body, but she seems sharper, more deadly, a smoky exterior hovering over her rolling and twisting. Dean feels her reach out toward him. A vague, near sentient, excitement and joy.

Dean tastes copper on his tongue, smells gasoline and iron sharp in the air.

He feels tires tear into the curve.

Long, long highways.

An open road and a new coat of wax.

The joy of being at home. Somewhere warm to lay your head down.

She's a colder thing now too.

The way that Death's Cadalic. His Cadalic- he guesses- because maybe Baby became more human along with him- once was.

I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him.

Who would have thought Johnny Cash would get it half right. Dean runs his hand along the side of Baby, noting the way the metal sings under his hand. It's carried plenty of corpses over the years.

His own included.

Dean is scared to reach where the power sits in his core. To reach there and see what the future holds for the souls that are going to board.

Baby is a familiar, cold reassurance.

His hands shake on the doorknob. A hand clamps down on his shoulder and he fights the urge to rip it away.

Face whipping toward Sam's concerned face, "Jeez man, maybe warn a guy before you sneak up on the primordial personification of Death."

His face scrunches up into the residential bitchface, "Listen I know-"

Dean raises his hands up, "Nope I said no chick flick moments Sam. Really it's not that hard-" Sam reaches into his pocket and brings out a necklace with a familiar jade piece hanging off it.

"Is that-"

"I never did throw it away. Just," Sam shrugged, looking insecure in a way that made all of Dean's big brother instincts rear their ugly head, "Never knew when it was a good time to give it back to you. And after Chuck," his expression soured, "But Chuck's ruined so much for both of us. I didn't want him to ruin this."

Dean reached out to grab it gently, raising it back to rest across his neckline, "Chuck can go choke on cockroach."

That startles a laugh out of him.

"Here's to hoping we live long enough to see it," Sam said lightly patting him on the shoulder before sliding into the passenger seat.

The bunker was his first home. The first home that he could count on to come back to. It feels now, standing like this with the devil in the backseat and his son crammed there, his brother riding shotgun to fight God, like a sick joke.

Dean doesn't think he'll ever come back here. Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

His eyes linger. The last time he had the luxury of missing a place it was swallowed by fire.

It doesn't feel like a dead place. He senses that it'll hold its own joys in the future.

The corner of his lips raise and Baby’s stereo sings a melody of old.

An ancient hymn of backroads and crooked highways.

Dean climbs into Baby. Turns the engine and let it roar.

Jack can sense Chuck.

Dean can't figure out why he can't.

But as long as Jack's willing to be on their God radar, there's not much that Dean can complain about. They end up pulling into a pretty lakeside view of Hastings Minnesota.

Sam throws the ingredients of the spell into the pot only for Chuck to appear randomly smirk wide across his face.

"Sam and Dean. Hello boys," he says mockingly, "And Lucifer," his nose turns up at that, "My first disappointment."

Chuck is bright.

The insufferable feeling of spotlights shining at his face. Hot and oppressive and hateful in a way that inmate things aren't.

It's a dumb kinda consciousness, though, petty and spiteful and all consuming. Dean holds back a flinch and Death winces and both of them together and as one feels the smiting urge that rivaled a pre-fallen angel.

"Where's Michael?" Dean resists snapping into full on reaping god mode until the spell sets in.

Chuck well, chuckled, looking sheepish, "The thing is it was kinda late in the game for him. He sided with the Winchesters and well... that never gets anyone very far. I would know. I made it so."

Something flickers on Lucifer's space and Dean sees the pain written all over it.

Old wounds.

War torn.

The slight of a younger brother defending the other. He never makes it. He turns to ash with a snap of Chuck's fingers.

Maybe the worst of Lucifer was always from God. Chuck’s attention bores into Dean.

"And you two. You know, eternal suffering sounds good on paper, but as a viewing experience, it's just kind of... eh. So we're done. I'm canceling your show."

Sam shrugs years-hell- maybe decades of hurt turning into a grin that's more teeth then humor, "Alright. Well... one for the road." Then he rears back and slams his fist into Chuck's face.

His face moves with the blow snapping back with a sharp crack. He stumbles seemingly shocked.

He laughs, "Cute." Dean's knees drop out from under him, agony shooting up into his spine. Sam’s crumbled on the ground next to him.

" Eh, what the heck. I can get my hands dirty," the pain dissolves only for a blow to rock Dean back for his vision to cloud and the sound of a fist beating flesh- beating Sam- swing into focus.

Dean let's it happen.

"Come on, guys. Just stay down."

They get back up.

It's the last taste of mortality he's going to get. And call him fucked up but the familiar sound of a snapped bone is something he'll miss.

The pain is a distant thing when he stands up, reaching out and grabbing Chuck's fist mid swing. When Chuck's smile drops, Dean can see the realization.

"Always did only see what you wanted, Chuck," Dean says with the same disdain he’s reserved for vegans and imports.

Sam stands and Dean's power brushes over him and mourns that he can't take the hurt away.

Jack does it for him.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief when the bruises recede and the blood dissipates like it was never there

.

"This... This... This is why you're my favorite. You know, for the first time, I have no idea what happens next. Is this where you kill me? I mean, I could never think of an ending where I lose. But this, after everything that I've done to you... to die at the hands of Sam Winchester... Of Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer... It's kind of glorious," Chuck said a warm smile on his face as he stared up at Dean and Sam.

"Sorry Chuck," Dean said, eyes a dark void. A peek into the abyss that awaited everyone. Death was not kind. Death was not grand.

You were, and then you were not. No rhyme or reason. No meaning to Death, only life could bring that.

"Wait, What?"

Sam's brows were drawn up tightly, sadness or pity or frustration written clear in the lines of his face. Dean reached deep into the void that existed around him and drew forth the scythe.

Chuck's eyes widened in recognition, "No, no, NO. This- this wasn't allowed. Death is dead and there are no more reapers to-"

Dean let out a sharp, bitter laugh. It's an older voice, one Dean hardly recognizes with the echoes of the pit and the great abyss he calls sister.

He leaned in closer to Chuck, gratified that he could hear and feel his pulse jump in fear, "I knew one day I'd have to reap you. That I'd be the one to close the lights on the universe and shut them off for good. But I'll give it to you, you were crafty. A parasite on the natural order. I needed a new perspective. Dean Winchester? Well, you were always going on about love. It's sad, Chuck, that you'll never know how to love anyone but yourself."

"Please," Chuck said.

Death shook his head, "Good night, Chuck. Here's your curtain call." He raises the scythe and brings it down. Reaping what is owed. Chuck’s voice continues to beg. A small distant cry and he scatters to ash. Death can feel the individual parts that made such a wretched being tear asunder at the base level until there was nothing left.

And Death rode into town. And took the King and his men. And they never sang a word ever again.

Death and Dean turn to his brother and smiles. Sam, the abomination, the one destined to destroy the world, smiles.

This is the last time he'll save the world, and he's glad for it.

Jack and Sam throw each other worried glances as Dean whistles and heads back over to his car.

Baby wept from joy, from sorrow, and from hate. The impala's power could be felt from far away, but it became nearly overbearing as Sam climbed into the passenger seat.

The aura around them shifted, and it was victory and it was loss, and Sam wondered if he was getting a piece of Dean's own mind. Dean's shoulders were still brushing his ears. His hands shook subtly. Sam didn't dare to break the uncomfortable silence that had descended upon them. He didn't even know what to say.

The absence of Cas, of the only other person who could have reached across the aisle to help his brother, stung.

Maybe that's why celebrating felt pointless. Not that there's many people left to enjoy it with. They pass by the Hasting’s entrance sign. They get out of the car.

"Alright, kid, you really think you can pull this off?"

Jack nods, "He doesn't have any power over us anymore. Over anything."

"Way to go," Dean says tightly, his grip on the scythe tightening.

"Dean?"

He waves him off, "So many people. It's a lot. And the reapers," he reaches over and grips his shirt tightly, "I can feel each sacrifice as if it's happening right now. It hurts."

A single tear falls over Dean's face and Sam feels trapped between running over and trying to help and looking away. It's Jack who moves to reassure him. To set a hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear.

"So... does this mean you're the new... I mean, what do we call you?"

Dean grimaces and yeah, maybe it's time for Sam to abort this particular line of questioning because Death or not he's still Dean and Sam's still Jack's father.

"Hey, what happened to Amara when Chuck..."

"She's with me. We're in harmony."

"You gonna come back with us to the bunker?"

"We can't go back to the bunker," Dean said, his voice rough like sandpaper.

Jack looks at him and shakes his head, "In a way, I’m already there," he says gently.

"He's the big G-O-D and I'm," Dean does his best not to choke on it, "Death."

It feels like the world is falling out beneath his feet. Like he's dying. Like time is slipping from his fingertips.

"People don't need to pray to me or to sacrifice to me. They just need to know that I'm already a part of them and to trust in that. I won't be hands on. Chuck put himself in the story. That was his mistake. But I learned from you and my mother and Castiel that... when people have to be their best... they can be. And that's what to believe in. That's gotta mean something."

Dean nods, refusing to meet his eyes, "The natural order."

Jack smiles softly, "Yes."

Dean ponders silently, and Sam knows better than to interrupt when Dean's got a plan cooking. "Not yet though," he said, "We got just a bit more chaos to sow."

"Are we even sure it's going to work," Sam says, face unreadable but soul flickering with uncertainty. It feels like an invasion of privacy for Dean to even scratch the surface.

He wonders if this is what all the angels felt like. If this is what Cas felt like.

"There is no one else that could," Jack said, "It's not my place to bring anyone back. It never should've happened in the first place." Dean squints at him. If Cas were here, he'd know what to say to make the kid feel better. As is, well, Dean was never good at pep talks.

"I'll be fine," Dean says.

"Dean, the risk is-"

"I'm Death," Dean says, "You're the one fighting out of your weight class."

"Last I checked, that's all I've ever done," Sam said, glaring down at him. A dude dies and becomes Death and his little brother is still taller than him. Some things aren't fair.

"You don't have to anymore Sam," Dean said, "Besides, this is my fuck up. Cas woulda never sacrificed himself if I had figured out how to stop Billie."

Sam threw his hands up in frustration, "That's your problem, Dean. You're always acting like everything revolves around you. Like it's your fault and your responsibility to save everyone. And you just can't."

The air and ground around them shakes and Dean trembles with the knowledge that he can't just have outbursts of anger because he could kill. It would be natural. A small part of him whispers. For death to kill. He takes a careful step back.

"I killed him," Dean said, "It might as well have been me."

Sam's anger dissipates quickly, his soul sparking off beat.

"Only one of you can go anyway," Jack says, "Someone has to stay. And I... I have to go."

Dean knows that to be true. God was never meant to walk the earth. Hell, Death really wasn't ever meant to either. Not that Dean thinks taking a primordial dirtnap is really in the cards for either of them.

"You'll come back," Sam says, panic on his face.

Jack smiles softly, but it's sad and worldly in a way it never should be, "I'll be here. I'll always be by your side."

"There's lots of people with lots of questions," Sam said and Dean remembers a younger version of his brother. The one that prayed to angels and thought God was righteous.

Maybe Dean without Death's ring would agree with Sam.

Dean and Sam weren't special. They loved and lost the way everyone else had.

Little sacrifices until hope was nothing more than a rope. What had Cas said?

Free will is a rope. And God wants you to hang yourself with it.

Yeah, Dean's plenty bitter about the so-called angels that were watching over him.

He clings to the scythe tighter.

He takes a deep breath. Forces himself to relax as Jack carries on, "They'll find their answers on their own. I love you Sam Winchester," his voice was light and full of that affection, "But the natural order has to be maintained. His gaze flickered over to Dean. Just this once, I'll turn a blind eye. But afterwards..."

"I'll have to leave," Dean said resolutely. The knot of ice sitting in his gut tightened.

Sacrifices.

Becoming Death required sacrifice.

Reapers sacrificed themselves to exist.

Jack nods solemnly, "Death doesn't walk with mortals, Dean."

"Since when-"

"It's how it has to be, Sam. I knew the risk when I became this."

"It's not fair," he said, a flower wilting with the glare of the sun.

No one has anything reassuring to say.

Good luck," Jack says, fading away to a mirage. Dean knows for a fact that Jack is still here. He can feel him. That disparate hum of awareness. Sam looks privately devastated. And yeah, that's probably how he would feel. If he lost both Cas and Sam.... Well that's what started them down this road to begin with.

"It won't be forever," Dean says and the words taste like ash.

Sam shakes his head, "Cas first, the rest of this later."

Dean nods. Always could trust a Winchester to compartmentalize.

The spell itself is not something Dean can make sense of. At least with no earthly knowledge he's obtained. He corrects Sam's pronunciation and the both of them startle.

"How did you-"

"Beats me," Dean says sheepishly, hand brushing against the nape of his neck in a nervous tick.

“Right,” Sam says, giving him that same look he used to give him when John had decided that one of his kids deserved to be normal for a little longer than the other. Dean doesn’t call him out on it, mostly because Sam is like a dog with a bone when it comes to information.

He mixes the ingredients. Much of which called for blood. Dean’s not going to focus on the fact that it was more than a human should reasonably have been able to give. Sammy shouldn’t be able to stand right now. But surely Lucifer’s would be tainted?

Better not to ask. Especially since he knows that Sam’s soul is fine. As fine as it’s been since they beat God that is. The blood sloshes uncomfortably in the cauldron and Dean yearns to crack a joke about Sam becoming a witch but he can’t summon the levity.

Nothing. It's hollow, like the last bit of a tree before it collapses. Dean's visage flickers with uncertainty. The Empty screams and buzzes just below the surface. There's something ancient and old and dead. A world that will never be again. The Empty isn't so much empty as it is when a final breath swallows an idea. The sea of regrets for what never was and will never be but could have been. There's a whole ecosystem here. Texture and dimension in nothing.

You'll leave a part of yourself topside when you go to the empty, Dean. Even if you use it to get Castiel. You'll lose, even if you kill me.

It wasn't so much a threat as a forgone conclusion. You could only travel through different planes of existence for so long as nothing but human before you left things behind you shouldn't.

Privately, Dean thinks he left a bit of himself in hell the first time around. Ripped a part of himself out in Heaven. Had a piece bitten off in purgatory.

That's just the principle of living, ain't it?

They all left their mark on Dean; for better or worse Dean left his mark on them too. The only sound that follows Dean is the steady padding of his feet.

The silence is deafening, maddening. There’s parts of it out of his reach and he feels like a mouse in a crevice, some giant cat lurking right at the edge. Up, and down, all sideways and zig zagged. He shakes himself out of his own thoughts. There's no room for them, not when he already feels stretched thin and fragile. He hears them then. When his mind is quiet enough to listen. Whispers, faint carrying on nothing. The whistle of bones in the air. There's foliage now. Or what passes for it. Fingers sticking up from the ground or low masses of energy? Grace?

Either way, he can feel the walls weep. Regret and sorrow and pain and suffering. Hell flickers a low fire. Heaven in all its might cold and dead and false. It's a steady beat following the deep pools of water, adjacent things faces and voices appearing in the actual ripples warding him off beckoning him closer.

Doesn't he want this to just end?

The low murmur builds as Death- as Dean- and why is it all starting to get mixed up in his head?- it carries a malice to it. Enough to make Dean flinch because the voice gets clearer, more distinct and it sounds like a man's voice.

No, it sounds like John's voice. "So this is what you've become," he says. The rhythmic tapping of his boots is like the ticking of a bomb.

"No daddy dearest, this is what he always was," drawled a low voice with a cruel edge and out of the dark like a snake emerged Dean's worst nightmare, "Isn't that right Dean?"

"Alistair," Dean croaked.

"Hello pet," Alistair says, "I see you failed your little guardian angel? Stripped him of his feathers, eh? Did you cut his wings off yourself or did you make him do it?"

"It's the way he is. What happens when he doesn't have someone to lead him," John said gruffly, "It was always my job to keep him in line." Dean hunches in on himself. Trying to hide from prying eyes. If only. Alistair's beady eyes beat down on him from above. Dean can feel the rack's hooks on his flesh. Knows that he's pinned beneath both of them like a butterfly. Or a cockroach, something ugly and hated.

"I regret dying for him," John says in that no nonsense tone that Dean cowers from, "Ended up a demon anyway, didn't you son? Or something worse?"

Dean had closed his eyes tightly while the onslaught continued.

"Oh John, he makes such a fine demon though, don't you think? Makes the flesh sing," he leans closer; the putrid smell of sulfur and rotting flesh fills Dean’s nose.

Alistair licks his lips, and the wet sound makes Dean cringe. Dean takes in the cruel glint of his 'fathers' eyes as strong as the hooks pierced into his flesh. He won’t find any mercy there. John looks like someone who’s seen too many reruns of jeopardy rather than his son get tortured. A laugh like the chortle of a hyena. Closes his eyes tight and lets the darkness consume him.

Pain.

Pain and fire and cold. His skin bared to the darkness Alistair’s knife skirting lovingly with the faux gentleness of a lover across its surface.

Worse is how John regards him, eyes fiery judgements that only Cas has ever been able to-

Cas.

A dam breaks. Castiel who raised him from hell. Castiel died in the water and came back. Castiel- Dean’s first miracle. Castiel who likes bees and hates voicemail. Castiel who put Dean before heaven and hell and everything in between. Which means... Alistair looms, body sliding over his tormented skin.

His smile makes Dean want to open himself up and climb into his body and sew himself inside. The problem, of course, is that the pain is impossible. Alistair cut his eyes out, sliced limbs, made him eat his tongue and intestines. Alistair drawls something low in his ear and Dean laughs. The laugh causes blood to gurgle up, so it comes out choked and weak but it gains in volume as he throws his head back and lets it rock his body.

"What's so funny, pet?" Dean bares his teeth and remembers when Castiel annoyed a primordial deity so much they brought him back to life.

"You're dead, Alistair," his gaze coldly rests on John, "And so are you. And none of this," he braced himself, refusing to think of the chains around his body as anything but plastic even as the weight of the metal dug into his skin, "Is real."

He tugs. The metal screeches, digs fiercely into his skin and then- snaps. Dean breathes heavily holding up both arms free of the manacles. Alistair's expression had dropped into something emotionless and empty. Dean watches warily as the figures dissolve into wisps of smoke. Meg steps out of the darkness. Wicked smile on her face.

"Meg," Dean says.

"Try again Ken doll," she says.

Phantom pain radiates through his limbs. Dean’s limbs remain unscarred. Unnatural.

Things should have consequences. Pain should too. But they're past that now, aren't they? Meg's tapping her foot impatiently. "The Empty," Dean says, "Very Stone Temple Pilots of you."

She sneers, "You can't hide behind your pop culture references anymore, Dean Winchester," she stepped closer, step stuttering when she notices.

Her eyes widened,"So that's how you did it," she says, "Death." She's considering him closely now, eyes shining with an emptiness darker than any demon's eyes. He fights to remain seeing just her visage. Past that he knows something cold and dark exists and he has to surpass a shiver.

"I want Cas," he said, drawing his shoulders up and trying to shake off the fear from Alistair and his own father's cold eyes.

"Oh I'm sure you do," she said, "But what makes you think I'll just hand the angel cake over to ya?"

"I'll find him either way," Dean said, shrugging. Her eyes narrowed, "You always did think you could make the world dance to your tune, Winchester. That was always your problem. Entitlement."

Dean gave a shaky laugh, "You've really lost the plot lady. I'm the one that's gonna restore everything to how it's supposed to be. That's what you want isn't it," Dean tilts his head not quite mustering a flirty smile, "You're tired, sweetheart. Let me help you rest."

Who would have thought one day he'd be flirting with a primordial entity in order to free an angel from his own version of hell. Meg goes silent. Still in a way that only the supernatural can be. Dean knows with certainty that whatever the Empty is it's something that's not in his domain. There's no way to reap her. To make whatever it is die completely. The Empty is as much a part of the fabric of the universe as he is now.

There's a connection between them and he wonders if this is what Amara and Chuck felt with each other. It makes him sick enough to think that he chooses to ignore the small crisis in favor of something productive.

"I swore it already, so did Jack. Once I leave here. I'm done. No more disturbing you. No more unsightly resurrections. No more Hail Mary's. Not from us," Dean can feel the power of that vow quivering in the air around them, vows by primordial beings apparently are not that different then pinky promises, "But I'll raise all hell if you keep him from me. Maybe even literally."

Meg's expression darkens, head tilting thoughtfully, "Nothing lasts forever. This is your song and dance Winchester. History rhymes."

Dean's hands tighten on the scythe and he leans closer his height towering over her, "He'll never be here again."

"Find him and you can have him," she said, eyes flicking behind his back to something he can't see or sense, "The angel is annoying, anyway,” she smiles cruelly. “He weeps, you know. Even in his sleep.." Before Dean can reply, she's nothing more than a sweep of dark mist.

"Well shit, I'm back where I started," he said. The light startles him. It flies by his head no bigger than a firefly by a lakeside. Its lights winks conspiratorially at him.

"Well, this is some strange shit." He follows right in step with it.

The light acts like it is hopped up on club soda.

Zinging in front of Dean and back brushing against his face- his eyelids, his nose, even stopping to settle on his lips almost bashfully. Yeah, Dean's personifying glorified tiki posts now. Definitely no cause for concern there. When it starts flying close and stinging him, he stomps his feet and yells, frustration of the last couple hours building, "Hey! What the hell is your problem!"

The light flickers in a repeatable pattern. At first Dean thinks maybe it's morse or something but no the light is merely flickering on and off like a little kid with a switch, "I don't like that a glorified light stick is my only guide," Dean says derisively before freezing when he hears the hum of voices. He tenses expecting it to be Alistair and John.

"I may be related to you, Dean," the John from his nightmares had said, "But you're his child," and Alistair had smiled, woefully pleased.

It's a woman's voice angry and accusing and as Dean steps closer he flinches as Amy's face is revealed her child standing off to the side of her. His eyes were accusing and bright in the dim lighting of their living room.

"Amy?" Dean asks voice oddly choked.

"Oh how quaint you remember me then, Dean? Remember when you killed a mother for loving her son? Jealous I could be what your mother wasn't, weren't you?"

Dean rankles stepping forward, scythe clenched tightly in his hands, "I killed you once, I can kill you again."

The son turns to dust falling at Amy's feet. She doesn't flinch, but her eyes glow that unsightly yellow.

"You gonna go all Palpatine on me? You really want to try that again?"

Dean knows he can take her, is the thing. She's weak. She's far from the worst that Dean's dealt with. Dean was worse than her though. Dean had destroyed the world over and over for his family.

Tortured.

Killed.

And that's not even touching the surface of what he's done in hell.

"You weren't afraid of me," Amy said, a bit of that characteristic gentleness in the set of her brows.

"Well, no lady, not like you were Satan. Trust me, you wouldn't want to meet that guy," Dean said, still watching warily.

"Yourself. That's what scares you, because you're the real monster aren't you Dean? Always making the wrong call. You know how I know," she steps closer, leaning into his space, her breath hot on his skin, "You carry that guilt around you. You don't die cause you're waiting to be put down like a rabid dog. You want someone to do you the favor," she laughs coldly, "So that's the real scoop. Are you going to die after bringing your angel back? Gonna start the cycle over again? Will you break the fabric of the universe to call a spent soul back to the earthly plane and then return to dust? Or will you live?" Dean is left speechless and unmoving. It's been a long time. Dean understands that killing isn't always the right answer.

Maybe there wasn't a right answer.

When should he have stopped?

When should he have looked at himself in the mirror and realized that you could only fight something for so long before you became a distorted version of it?

Amy's claws brush against his skin just harsh enough for it to be painful. Dean's grip on the scythe tightens and he looks into Amy's eyes and finally sees a woman who did what she had to do. He doesn't see any regret, only barely concealed violence.

More innocent than a Winchester.

But what did that do to save her?

"I'm not human anymore, Amy Pond, I'll be around for a long time," his voice softened, "You deserved another chance. I'm sorry, for what that's worth. But what's dead should stay dead," Dean grabs the scythe and slices it clean through her.

Amy doesn't look peaceful when she goes, but there's none of that desperate pleading in her eyes. She goes easy. She wasn't real but maybe one day Dean'll be able to deliver that apology to her face. Panic grips him tight for a moment because the light is gone. At some point he had lost track of it, but it zings from above, breaking the illusion of a ceiling as it floats in front of his face.

"You should warn a guy next time," Dean said with no heat in his words. The lights blinks rapidly and zips off. Dean chases after it with a yell. The doubt over what exactly the light's intentions are shoved to the side. The thing is the Empty isn't empty. Dean can feel the distorted grace of angels, the agony they're in. Peace in suffering. The demons rage but the rage is a quiet, silent one.

Lonely.

Dean is careful not to touch any of them. None of the flowers that bloom into thorns. The mushrooms that smell like ozone and blood. The light doesn't linger past them either. Dean hopes it's an actual guide and not something leading him further away from Cas.

Faith.

Sure, Dean can muster enough for the both of them this time.

He stops when a familiar red pulses in the darkness.

It's the first sign of actual life even if it holds the same poison all demon's souls seem to.

It's familiar too. Dean's already walking off the path to seek it out before he can second guess himself. The light flickers worryingly. Dean reaches out and touches the vine where the red has grown in a kaleidoscope.

The Abyss warps.

Red and red.

Torture and pain and the misery of hell. And then bizarrely himself.

Staring down at him?

All Dean's features look harsher in the bizarrely distorted red. Cleaner and more animal, but undeniably beautiful.

Dean Winchester completes me. A smile on his face and it reaches his eyes through the oily black. One shot in one hand and a downward glance at who must be Crowley.

And yeah, Dean can see how someone so lively and animalistic would appeal to a demon. The Dean looking down on him abruptly stops smiling.

"So you're here then," Demon Dean says, "And you got a fancy upgrade."

Dean flinches. It shouldn't be possible. "It looks like this isn't anywhere," Dean says coolly. The demon version of him chuckles, "You shouldn't hate me so much, you know.

"

Dean scoffs, "You're everything I never wanted to be."

Demon Dean tilted his head considering, "You think you coulda survived without me? I'm the reason you managed to stay sane for this long. The part of you you wanted to leave in hell. Alistair was wrong, you know. You didn't leave anything in hell, Winchester. I've been here all along. The real question is what are you gonna do with it?"

The demon smirked with all the boyishness of a version of Dean he vaguely remembers being. Dean shouldn't want this. And he knows for a fact Death shouldn't want this either. Jack helped him get here because he loved Cas and wanted to make an exception for the people who saved the world.

Crowley... Well Crowley saved the world in a selfish kinda way, but privately Dean always knew that he was just one or two steps away from Crowley. That without his family, as twisted and heartbreaking as it was to stick by them some days, he would have been a demon.

Crowley in the end, did save them all. Dean couldn't give him a funeral pyre. No one to truly understand all the complicated feelings surrounding his existence. Crowley had been freer than all of them and a greater prisoner. Dean reached out to pull on the vine housing Crowley's soul. He’s struck with hesitancy.

What if he only had enough juice to bring one person back?

If you want it bad enough, you can make the world bend around you, Winchester. That was always your problem.

Dean tucks the soul none too gently into his pocket decidedly not thinking about a different soul he carried under his arm years and years ago. He couldn't save everyone. The spark flickered furiously, flitting round and round Dean's head stinging him in retaliation for disappearing.

"Alright, Alright. I'm sorry!" The light flickers rapidly. Joy radiates off it as it hovers over the mound buried in the mud. "This is it then, you think?" It buzzes in answer, knocking against his head. It would be quiet. It would be peaceful if Dean followed that tired blue gaze back into oblivion.

Cas wouldn't let anything hurt him.

He sees it then.

An eternal sleep wrapped in Cas's wings and at peace. Living in a mild hue of warmth. Better off for it. Easy. So easy to just...

The sting on his arm snaps in out of it. He blinks groggily out of the dream. The light blinks condescendingly. "Yeah, yeah, maybe don't fall asleep on the job," Dean says. There's a hollowness in his chest at the loss of the peace he won’t ever feel.

He’s speechless when he sees Castiel for the first time. A creature with six wings wrapped tightly against this body. Thousands of eyes closed, dotting them. Three massive heads looming in the dark, Awe inspiring horror.

That's what Castiel was.

Cas's grace hums in the air a buzzing noise like a thousand cicadas waking up. Dean isn't scared to approach him. Castiel couldn't even hurt him when he was under Heaven's control. But if Cas chooses to leave with him and hates what Dean's become?

Will Cas still love Dean after he failed to save him the first time around? Will he look at him and see a monster? That nice dream feels impossible to grasp now. Cas deserves for Dean to shove his bullshit aside. He's gonna try anyway. So he reaches out and grasps the wings gently, rocking it softly until a weary eye opens up.

"Cas," Dean says, "Why don't you say we blow this joint? Bonnie and Clyde style. Without the dying part."

Cas's eyes open wider in disbelief and a voice booms even if Dean gets the sense that he's talking quietly.

"Dean?" Dean hopes that uncertainty is not because of how he's changed. "It's you?"

Dean pictures him in his vessel, the confused lift of his brow. He smiles, "Yes Buddy. Now come on."

The ground shakes as Cas rises up and if he was anyone else it would make Dean nervous something so large and unfathomable. "Wow you weren't lying back then."

"No Dean I am roughly the size of-"

"You know size doesn't matter Cas," Dean says. And wow, he's feeling bold today isn't he? Maybe he should confront primordial entities more often.

Cas freezes like a very large very nuclear deer in the headlights, "Dean was that a-"

"No time got to get moving," Dean says, turning around and walking back through the darkness, "Sam is holding the portal open."

"But I don't understand," Cas says. He looks lost enough that Dean pauses.

"Saving you from the jaws of death is all," Dean smirks, "Although now..." He gestures to himself.

"You're Death," Cas says in awe, "You're beautiful." Dean's face doesn't flush red. Not at all.

"Would love to see where the rest of this convo goes, but we don't have the time."

Cas nods, "Then lead the way, Dean."

Dean's surprised that Cas goes easily. Confused when the empty seems staved off for a time. "Dean the Empty's awake," Cas says resigned, breaking the fragile peace that had fallen. The portal is a blinking light in the distance. So close.

Dean’s chest grows tight with the implications. Cas looks over their shoulder resolved in a familiar way that Dean hates. "Go first, I'll hold the Empty-"

"Nope," Dean says, seizing Cas's coat tightly.

"Dean-"

Dean grabs Cas tight and shoves him bodily through the opening. Dean makes the mistake of turning back and seeing the rising tide of darkness jetting closer to them roiling and withering. He throws a sardonic smirk its way, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat then, closes his eyes and leans back into the portal. His stomach turns, and it's only Death's own power keeping him from hurling his guts all over the floor.

Sam wrestles the both of them into a hug so tight it constricts Dean's ribs and makes it harder to breathe. He slugs him on his shoulder. Dean bites down the cry of pain. You know, because he'd rather have his innards strung up on a post than admit his baby brother had a good right hook.

"Jeez Sammy, be careful of the merchandise."

"Don't do that again or I'll find a way to kill you and bring you back again."

"I don't know about that one. Kinda hard to bring Death back to life." The stillness that drops over the both of them makes Dean instantly regret bringing that little bit of information up.

Castiel shoots him an exasperated look.

"You don't seem all that happy to be back Cas," Dean says, trying to go for casual, but even he can feel the tension in his body.

Cas gives a curt shake of his head, "I wasn't supposed to be back, Dean. I never wanted you to lose your humanity because of me. I would rather be dead."

The anger rises in Dean so abruptly that he clenches his fists and stops it from sailing into the air. How dare he. As is Dean holds himself perfectly still and unsurprised when the air around them shivers, as if the world itself is responding to his emotions. It probably is. Now that he thinks of it. "Let's get one thing straight," Dean says, "I chose this. It wasn't just for you. There were only so many choices."

"There's always a choice, Dean. You taught me that," Cas said and Sam's expression ping pongs between the two of them somewhere between fascinated and alarmed.

"And this one was mine." Both of them fell silent after that. Tears prick at Dean's eyes and fine he wasn't necessarily expecting a hero's welcome but he did want Cas to be happy.

"I didn't want you to have to sacrifice for this," Cas whispered.

"Cas..." Dean trailed off. How is Dean supposed to say how much more he was willing to give just to see him again? Well fuck it. If Cas had the balls to do it. Dean's stepping forward and wrapping a hand around Cas's waist, leaning down and bringing him into a kiss.

Cas tensed before going limp in his arms then clenching his arms tightly as if Dean'd disappear the moment he let go.

Dean loses himself in the softness of those lips. Saving the world is a bonus in some respects.

"Well boys, this is a surprise," and the voice isn't right, but the drawl is and Dean freezes. If it’s from relief or worry he doesn’t know. Dean sees Crowley for what he is now. Vaguely goat shaped, with red beady eyes and arrogance befitting of him.

There's jewelry painfully welded into the flesh of his soul- and isn't that a trip. There's a spark in the red of something green and bright shining gold through the cloud of tainted smoke.

Hope. Maybe.

Dean's true form inclines his head in warning and acknowledgment all at once.

Crowley's trueform winces following it up with a grateful bow of his head is surreal to the part of Dean that still feels human.

"How's he alive?"

Dean shifts without saying anything. Cas looks at him accusingly, although there's a good-natured gleam in his eyes, "It seems like someone went for more than just one rescue."

Dean shrugged, "I owed him a solid."

"Dean," Sam says, looking lost.

"I'll reap him either way," Dean says, Death’s voice joining alongside him, "Second chances. That's what this whole new management is all about isn't it?"

"Point goes to the poorly dressed lumberjack," Crowley says before snapping his fingers and disappearing.

The silence that settles is peaceful and anxiety inducing all in one.

"We really did it then," Sam said with disbelief.

"Yeah," Dean clapped his hands together, "So how about that vacation?"

Chapter Text

Santa Monica is beautiful.

The sun's dipping below the horizon. There's laughter and cheers and the distinct sense of rightness settling in Dean's chest when he looks out at the sea. Vast and never-ending.

There's two lawn chairs, Dean splurged on the ones with the cup holders, and a Corona nestled in both of them. Cas twists the cap off and yeah Dean might be able to do it on his but it doesn't stop some heat from flushing in his cheeks at the show of strength.

Or maybe it was just Cas. Who knows.

"Jack and Cas looks good by our initials," Sam says, breaking the silence, "Team Free Will."

Dean smiles and it's genuine and wide and full of life. He raises his arm up to Sam, "To Mom. To Bobby. Maybe even that sleaze Lucifer."

"To Kelly. To Jack. And to Cas," Sam says, he tilts his head considering, "To us. And to freedom. Been a crazy ten years."

"To everyone we lost along the way," Cas says and he looks like a mourning angel then before it washes away and he leans closer into Dean's arms.

"So you two are official?"

Dean felt the hint of anxiety there as the words locked in his throat. Together. When have they not been? Dean almost wants to laugh because telling his brother he's bisexual is sure as hell not gonna be the weirdest thing Sam's had to come to terms with this week alone but John's words echo in his ears and even after nearly two decades he can feel the blows raining down on him.

"Yeah," Dean chokes out.

"Has it always been-"

Dean nods and smiles tightly, "Yeah, but you know how it is Sam. It was dangerous. Added complications to everything. I couldn't be a hunter and be this way..."

Sam's eyes sparkled with unshed tears, "Jeez Dean, I'm-"

"It was my decision. To keep us safe," Dean flinched when Cas laid a hand on his shoulder but relaxed after a moment.

"You shouldn't have had to. You realize that right Dean? It wasn't right for Dad to put that on you."

"I didn't do it for Dad, Sam. Anyway," Dean cleared his throat, "Me and Cas are an item. Bonnie and Clyde and all that."

"Without the dying part," Cas interjected, "Permanent dying part," he interjected.

"Yeah, thanks for that one," Dean said, leaning back and pushing the sand between his toes, "Anyway Sammy nuff' said. Enjoy the day, aye? Loosen up a little and go to your girl."

"Sure Dean," Sam got up and ruffled Jack's hair.

"He'll be okay, Dean," Jack said, smiling, "As okay as humans tend to be that is."

Dean nods reassuringly, "You sure it has to be this way?"

Jack's smile looks too worldly to belong to someone so young, "It is so. Your ‘one more’ was had, Dean. Let him live now. You'll see him again. It's my time to go now," Jack said shyly, opening his arms, "Goodbye hug?"

Dean wrapped him in his arms and Cas followed suit whispering something in his ear that had Jack blushing.

"I'll see you on the flipside," Jack says and disappears into the air dissolving like dewdrops on a hot morning day.

Castiel gives him a sad, knowing smile. Dean watches the sun dip lower and lower on the horizon, and when he starts to feel the prickle of tears on his face, he stands. Cas stands beside him, solid. There's a tug in Dean's chest. Instinctually- and he wonders how long it's gonna take him to get used to it- he knows it's time.

He's needed.

Sam lets out a low chuckle followed by a belly deep laugh.

The sound is music to his ears. Dean doesn't know the last time he heard Sam laugh like that. He doesn't know if this'll be the last time he does. He figures now that he's only really corporeal when he wants to be. Castiel said something about associations of discomfort and pain being processed through the experience of a human or something the other.

All Dean knows is that the world feels smaller and bigger. The universe feels vaster than the ocean and smaller than a shoebox. The sand shifts beneath his toes. He has the absent thought that he won't have to worry about tracking the sand in Baby.

Dean Winchester had a job to do. His very own family business, one could even say.

"No matter what happens, you'll always be my brother," Dean whispers, watching how Sam looks at Eileen like she hung the stars and moon.

Sam’s gaze doesn't stray towards him. Or toward his surroundings in fear. Sam looks happy. Dean's eyes aren't getting watery and he's definitely not staying here longer than he has to. He rises to his feet on the lawn chair- he bought the fancy fifty dollar ones. He'll leave them here. Sam really is the one that has the most use for them. Dean won't be stopping anytime soon.

"You can stay with them," Dean blurts out, staring down at his toes trailing in the sand, "If you want, that is. I didn't save you to make you feel you have to follow me to the end of the earth or anything, Cas. Not that I'd want you to go but like," Dean rubbed the back of his neck feeling his cheeks heat, "You'll always have a place here but you don't have to-"

"Dean," Castiel said, voice gravelly with emotion, "There is no place I'd rather be than by your side." Dean swallowed back the emotion threatening to spill out.

Cas pats him on the shoulder, "Let’s go to the car," he says with a kiss to Dean's cheek. Dean stands there transfixed.

He smiled, "Well we got work to do," Dean said, dusting his hands off and wrapping one arm around Cas's shoulder's. He still can't quite shake the sight of Cas in a Hawian shirt and a trench coat. The creases of stress in his face are lighter than they've ever been.

"Shouldn't we say goodbye?"

Dean shrugs, shaking his head, "Nah. Goodbyes aren't cool." Castiel gives him a knowing look but doesn't argue.

They head over to Baby, who wasn't quite prepared to take the last trek down to the shore. Sand and salt even if you're the most powerful Horseman's car, never does wonders for the paint job.

Baby shimmered under the sun, the black glossy paint highlighting sinuous curves. The metallic skin reflects dreams of a bygone era.

The headlights blinked on twin lighthouses set in a grill. She looked daring and dangerous. Dean clapped his hands together hurrying behind the wheel.

"Baby," Dean says as her engine rumbles to life. Castiel heads to the passenger seat, giving a small eye roll at Dean's antics. Baby's engine howled in answer. A mechanical beating heart beneath the hood. Plush upholstery seemed to cradle them. Dean rolled the front window down, tasting salt in the air as he gave her gas.

The breeze brushed through his hair. The long stretch of highway in front of him promises better days. There was a sinking feeling in Dean's stomach as he drove further away from Sam.

He's better off that way. He'll have the life he always wanted to live. The life he deserves.

Dean's grip tightened on the steering wheel. Castiel gave him a concerned look. The intersection reminds him of a darker time. Of a crossroads he forced himself to go to. Another moment in time where he was missing a piece of himself.

"It's not too late. You can say goodbye, Dean," Cas said gently, ever so patiently.

"I don't know if I can," Dean says, "He was always my responsibility. It's hard to just leave him. What good am I if I don't do my job? I-"

A car honks and Dean jolts, head whipping to the side.

Sam pulls up in the rental car. Nothing special, a far cry from something like Baby even at her worst. But the smile he gives Dean makes up for it, "Gonna leave without even saying goodbye?"

Dean sits there for a solid couple of seconds with nothing but the encouraging purr of Baby's engine to fill the silence.

"Death's busy," Dean calls with the same bolster he had before the world tried to end itself, "Figured you were to. Besides chick flick moments," Dean's nose curls in exaggeration. Sam laughs, and the tension in Dean's shoulders seems to fall away. Sam revs the engine, Dean scoffs but there's no actual derision in his gaze, not when Sam's eyes are twinkling with that familiar glimmer all those years ago on a abandoned stretch of highway with a bunch of illegal fireworks safely tucked in the trunk.

"Sure kid," Dean says, pressing on the gas pedal.

"Love you Dean," Sam says, taking off.

Dean blinks, frozen for a second at the sheer audacity. "You little-" He presses down on the gas pedal, closing the distance quickly but idling around the same speed as Sam.

"Take care of the loser," Sam yells to Cas, who looks owlishly at him.

"I will try! He is significantly more bulletproof than before," Cas yells and Dean scoffs again.

They ride like that for a mile. For a century. For nothing but a few minutes. The highway divides two paths laid out before them. Dean revs Baby's engine grinning at Sam and giving him a wave. Sam nods, eyes glimmering with unshed tears and waves back, turning his blinker on and cutting through the next path.

Dean catches the too long hair blowing through the wind before the tailgate disappears over the horizon.

Nothing but a new road ahead of him. Something slots into place. A gambler finally hitting jackpot. A pool hustle gone right. A hunt where everyone is safe at the end. The open road ahead of them looks endless. Dean looks at Castiel sitting beside him and smiles. The dying light frames his face and brings out the blue in his eyes. He looks holy. Looks like an angel.

The kind that brings you home.

Dean wonders how anyone they pass doesn't know that angels walk among them.

"Where do you want to go, Cas?" Cas startles and then loosens, leaning back against Baby's seats. Dean doesn't stare uncomfortably at his lips. Or even notice how absolutely hot it is for Cas to ride shotgun in Baby. Nope, he doesn't notice a thing.

Cas smiles, "Anywhere Dean, isn't that the point?"

Death's horse rides on as the sun winks past the horizon and dips lower into the frigid night. The Angel of Death hums, the tune carries farther than one note 'out of love and loss and the happiness in having.

Sam lives.

Not in the Devil's shadow. Not in God's grasp. No Sam Winchester lives as his own man. Where Sam goes, Death doesn’t follow.

Sam hasn't seen Death in a long, long time. Sam's life has been good. After, you know, discovering that everyone he ever knew and loved wasn't in fact dead.

He's busy most days, then not. He's never really given it to Bobby for his sheer ability to keep going. Shifting hours on end through old texts, learning languages, pocketing information from the Queen of Hell herself, and helping the kids (because Sam Winchester is getting old and Claire and her gang of misfits feels young in a way Sam never got to be and Dean definitely never got to be) he's busy most days with too much work to truly feel the sting of nostalgia.

He loves his life. But sometimes he misses that open road. Sometimes he misses the familiar weight of a reassuring hand. Sometimes he misses the confused head tilt of Death's Angel. Sometimes...

"Dad!"

"Sam," the clack of fingers together. Sam doesn't almost knock down his morning coffee. He doesn't.

"Yeah?"

Eileen gives him a smile and some of Sam's despair melts like frost in the morning. She reminds him that today is the day and yeah judging by Dean Junior who is practically bouncing up and down in his shoes...

When do kids grow big enough to get a license? When do Winchester's start getting legal IDs?

Wonders like these will never cease to amaze Sam. "Get breakfast first," Sam said, taking a long sip from his coffee.

"I had an apple," Junior said, practically skipping to the door.

"A real breakfast," Sam said, "There's no rush."

"Daddddddd," Junior said, tugging on the coat sleeves he was wearing in irritation.

Eileen laughed, a light throaty chuckle that Sam couldn't help but fall in love with all over again. "Fine," Sam said, but he couldn't keep the annoyance up for long, "We'll head over to the dealership in ten minutes."

Junior smiled, knocked his shoulder lightly, almost sending his coffee spilling again. That jacket and that smile reminded him of his namesake. His hair and eyes are all Eileen. Somehow, Sam had made someone full of all the best things from the people he loved. Yeah, Sam Winchester believes in miracles, every day he lives one.

He doesn't expect to see her when he gets to the dealership. The red gleamed under the sun. It washed away for a brief second the scratches, dents, and rust that had peeled slowly away at the paint. Yeah, the thing had sat for a long time neglected, but Sam could see how Dean would have looked at it. How he would have reverently ran his hand across its fender and cooed sweet nothings like it could hear him and then turn around and act offended when Sam called him a nerd. Its sleek lines, reminiscent of a bird of prey in flight, commanded attention. The hood, adorned with dual scoops, hinted at the power that lay beneath its surface.

Sam knew those bucket seats would be incredibly painful to sit on. And that it'd be nearly impossible for him to get out of the car.

Yeah no, nice thought. But there's a reason Sam got a Nissan.

"Dad," Junior said, eyes blown wide like the first time he had gotten his hands on soda.

"No," Sam said.

"But Dad," Junior says and his eyes turn downward and smile falls and this is what Dean meant when he talked about puppy dog eyes. It's circular in nature it seems. Truly evil.

"Find something else," Sam says, crossing his arms and trying desperately not to cave into the pleading look sent his way.

The dealer chuckles, "She's a beauty, ain't she?" He walks closer to the metal death trap and Junior hurries to follow him.

Sam sighs, reluctantly following them, "I really don't think this one would be the best fit for-" A hard shove sends Sam stumbling. He wheels around looking for the source of whoever had touched him. An accompanying whoosh sound. A barely concealed giggle. His stomach flutters.

"Cas?"

As soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels stupid. Jack's whole new hands off approach applied even to the Winchesters.

Junior's smile has fallen, concern echoing in his gaze. Sam shifts between days where he can't stop talking about the two people who shaped his life and days when he can't even utter their names without bursting into tears. He never mentions them outside of the family, though. Holds his entire past close to his chest wherever he goes. Even the younger hunters don't dare to ask many stories about the Winchester's. Although they tell plenty of their own.

"I'm fine," Sam says, but his voice stutters at the end.

"I guess it doesn't have to be her," Junior says softly and the dealer who was awkwardly standing between them shakes his head.

"Of course, practicality, am I right? That's the most important part. Let me show you a newer car. The one beside it only has 50k on it. Nearly brand new if I do say so myself," the dealer clamps his hands together leading them away.

The sun glints off the chrome like a wink.

"That's not the one you want," a voice says. Sam startles because it's not quite the right tone. Not quite the right timber but it's close enough to scratch that part of his brain that screams Dean.

"Come on now Sammy, I've been hungover before but I usually don't forget my own brother," the person whispers and Sam launches himself at the person and into their arms.

"Dean," Sam chokes out and he should be checking to see if it's a monster. Or something worse. A demon. Something he doesn't even know but… "That's not even true. Remember the witch bullet incidents?"

Dean's chest rumbles with laughter, "Can't stay long Sammy. But that kid of yours," Dean shakes his head, and Sam knows at once that this isn't quite Dean at all.

The eyes are an offset hazel. He's a inch or so taller than Sam intentionally as a show of vanity or by coincidence Sam isn't too sure about. His hair's darker and the leather jacket clings to him weirdly. In a way that doesn't quite fit him.

"Just trying on new looks, Sammy. Made it myself," he leans closer in conspiratorial, "Don't tell Jack."

Sam nods, "And Cas?"

Dean shuffles a bit looking guilty, "May have ditched him to right some wrongs."

"If you're in trouble-"

"Gonna cut you off right there. Cause the only one in trouble is that kid if you let him drive a, "Dean gasps in horror, "Import."

Sam huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, "I drive an import."

"And that betrayal still stings, Sammy, but give the kid a chance to see what it's like to have some muscle behind the wheel. Or did you forget?"

"Oh, like I'd ever forget your reckless driving," Sam said.

Dean smirks, tilting his head and raising his hands splayed in such a way to convey his innocence, "I ain't gonna tell you what to do Sam. Jack knows that kid out there's all 100 percent you. But eh, he's also fifty/fifty Winchester, ain't he? So sincerely from Death himself, let the kid live a little, k?"

Sam hummed, but really he was thinking about caving even without Dean's input. Junior had been sequestered as far as Sam could manage from the hunting life. As far as he and Eileen could reasonably remain out of it.

"I'll think about it," Sam says.

Dean smiles and even on the wrong face, it manages to calm something restless inside of Sam.

"See you around, Sammy," he said.

"Dad?" Junior peered down at him and Sam registered that at some point he must have gone horizontal.

Sam sat up rubbing his temple, "Dammit Dean, he said under his breath."

"Junior's brows furrowed even further, "What did I do?"

"Nothing, just forget about it," Sam said, giving a patented Winchester smile.

Junior narrowed his eyes but nodded, "Probably should go tell the dealer you're all good then? You kinda gave him a bit of a scare there."

"Yeah better call him off," Sam said getting to his feet, yeah his bones definitely ain't as strong as they used to be, "But why don't you forgo the rest. I know the one you've been really eyeing," he tilted his head in the Firebird's direction.

Junior flashed a million-dollar smile.

The keys were placed in eager hands.

And a beast of a car roared to life.

Sam... well Sam prepared to explain to Eileen why he let this happen cramped in the passenger seat. When Junior revs the engine, excitement and life in his eyes that reminds Sam of a certain estranged brother... Well, Sam has many regrets, this can't possibly make the list.

Sam Winchester lives.

And what lives, must die.

Sam knows Death's coming. Sam knows like the first time he saw his dad leave a motel room- that Death would be back. He could always count on Death- on Dean.

Sam know's Death's coming because Dean promised him a long life and Sam feels it in his bones. His back aches. His joints pop and shift uncomfortably when he walks. His eyes are heavy more days than not and there's laugh and smile lines deeply creased on the corner of his face. So when Sam Winchester’s doctor warns him about his heart, he takes it as a sign of the times.

Sam, dare he say, is overjoyed.

No one ever dies happy, but the rare ones get to die content.

Sam wants to see his brother again. He wants to see Cas.

Eileen died three years to this day and Dean Junior is well- grown. Grown enough to be on his own.

So when Sam Winchester, one of the greatest hunters that ever lived, is diagnosed with heart disease, he tells Dean Junior to take him to a little far off place in Lebanon Kansas.

"I don't understand what could possibly even be out here that's got you so-WOW."

The door's had upgraded security since Dean blew through it with a grenade launcher. Sam produces the key from his pocket, charmed specifically to only work for a select few. Rowena sure knew some particularly good tricks.

Sam smiles, "Me and your uncle used to live here back in the day."

Junior's eyes are wide open and Sam is privately smug. "What in the world did you and your brother even do?"

Sam opens the door and steps inside for Junior to come in who takes the trip across the threshold with vigor. "Does this place still run? And you lived here by yourself?"

Sam brought his hands out in a calming gesture, ignoring the pang in his back. There's a thin layer of dust gathering on most things but it's not old enough to indicate that no hunter had been here.

Entirely possible that Clarie or another hunter had stopped in for the night or for information. The bunker had outgrown its usefulness for the hunting network and lost its necessity. A few had remembered. The important few.

Sam had been happy to let it fade to obscurity. The halls reminded him of his brother at every turn and even after decades, the grief still sits heavy in his heart.

"Dad? Are you okay?" Sam moves abruptly from his stupor, shocked to find that there's wetness gathering in the corner of his eyes.

"I think it's time to finally tell you about what me and your uncle really did." Junior straightens, looking serious and stern in a way that reminds Sam of Dean.

Maybe everything reminds him of Dean right now. While he's sitting in the bunker with his ticker counting down the days he has to live. Maybe Junior just looks like the best the Winchester's ever had to offer. Solid and strong and caring.

Sam takes a deep breath, "We're hunters. And we saved the world. On multiple occasions. With a little bit of extra help."

He smiles lopsided at Junior's own wide-eyed reaction and begins launching into the carefully censored tales of the Righteous Man and the Angel of Thursday and all the people they had known along the way. Junior takes it like a Winchester outta, even if Sam decides not to tell him about how Dean Winchester is very much not dead in the conventional sense. Sam makes the call not to shake too much of his kid's reality. "Was it all worth it," Junior asked, "Why did you stop?"

"Never really stopped," Sam said settling into the cushion, "The hunter community outgrew me. And people like legends, not war heroes," he smiled self-deprecatingly.

"Why did you decide to share, now?"

Sam's smile drops, "I wanted you to be aware. Me and your mom tried our best, you know? To keep you out of the life. But I didn't want the bunker to die with me. And Dean well... this was Dean's first home. Seemed fitting a Winchester got to call it theirs."

"Why are you saying it like-Dad?" He looks younger than he should then. Younger than the day he begged him to get him his car and all the way to the day he first asked him how to tie his shoes.

"It'll be okay Junior," Sam says with the same unfaulting tone he gave Dean all those apocalypses ago, "You're a Winchester and we always carry on."

What lives must die… You were never gone. You were just waiting for me at the finish line.

Sam doesn't know the exact hour he passes. It's a beautiful day when he goes on to the other side.

It's a quick death, that much he knows. Jack and Dean wouldn't have had it be any other way. All in all, it's not surprising when he hears his bells toll and sees the long line of people assembled for his funeral. He's not scared. And he's not worried when he looks down at his unwrinkled hands and moves with a grace he hasn't moved with in years. No, the bubbles rising in his belly turn into a giddy laugh and he's practically vibrating by his coffin. The air rings and shifts accompanied by a whooshing sound of wings and-

"Sammy! Was hoping to see you a little later then this but-” Sam's launching himself into Dean's arms before Dean can finish his sentence.

Dean's arms come to wrap around him, squeezing tightly.

"I missed you," Sam said, voice choking. Dean's answer was to squeeze tighter.

"None of that touchy feely crap, Sammy," Dean said, but his voice was equally tear ridden.

Sammy finds the strength to let go and Dean's appearance is more surprising than his own. There's a part of you that never stops seeing yourself as young and strong. You grow old but live young and all that.

Sam just doesn't remember Dean looking so alive.

Ever.

He looks the way he did before hell ever got its hands on him. Wrinkles abated, hair ridiculously spiked the way that he had always vainfully kept until life made it too difficult to. The leather jacket fits him better now, less like he's filling Dad's expectations and more like he's been talking to those biker gangs down in Arizona, Sam doesn't miss the glimpse of wings etched into his jacket. Maybe that's how Dean sees himself now.

The last bit of worry over what their separation has done to Dean falls away as Sam reads that easy smile on Dean's face and the person behind him standing awkwardly but just as attentive as always.

"Cas!" Cas opens his arms for a hug that woulda crushed a normal person.

"Wow," Sam says in awe of the wings he sees on Cas's back. Dark obsidian feathers with streaks of blue as the sun hits them.

Cas smiles looking bashful, "A portion of what they really look like."

"How have you guys been? And Dean, I know you've been watching don't think I missed all your stupid little hints-"

"Wow Sammy, cool it kid. It couldn't have been all bad right? Free will and all that. Plus, from what Eileen's told me, you guys were pretty busy," he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

On the record, Sam doesn't turn beet red. Nor does he punch Dean on the shoulder only to realize that it hurts.

Right. The not human thing.

Dean laughs and it's a lighter laugh than the one that he's used to. Sweet and happy. The funeral bells blare over it and the smell of graveyard dirt distracts Sam from the peacefulness of the reunion.

"I don't know if you really want to look at that," Dean mumbles, shuffling self consciously.

Sam is honestly enthralled at his own death in a morbidly curious kind of way. Junior's got tears streaking down his face. And his hunter friends and work friends seem to be coexisting in a way that they never could when he was alive. The hunters are stoic but reverent. His neighbors and coworkers are oddly confused and sorrowful.

He looks back at Dean, "This is how it always is?"

Dean nods, "More or less. They'll be fine, Sammy," he held out his hand, "There's people waiting for you."

"We've been waiting for you," Cas says, "Although we're glad it took longer than most." The wind picks up, ruffling his hair and drawing his gaze back to the podium.

"You know it's strange to me. I don't think we've ever really had a funeral," Sam says distantly. He thinks there must be some kind of outside influence. Maybe even Cas or Dean himself assuaging the fears that had lingered even on his deathbed. Oh, he went smoothly and painlessly surrounded by the people he loved. But it was Death. A permanent one.

He had a right to be scared.

Sam won't ask Dean, though. He'll take it as a favor done for free and leave it there.

He hesitated to go with Dean and Cas, remembering Heaven from decades ago.

Dean's jaw tightens that old steel back in his eyes like he's reading Sam's mind, "It's not like it used to be Sam. Jack and Cas made sure of it."

Sam doesn't know how normal people have the courage to reach across the veil and take Death's hand, but Sam Winchester takes his brother’s assurance for what it is.

Dean's hand had the same gun callouses, but the zing of something else, something more, shook him to his core.

A great peace settles over Sam's shoulders. A bright light beckons him, the warmth and kindness familiar.

The embrace of Eileen after a long day of work. Junior's smile when a lifeless engine roars.

Jody’s encouraging hand on his shoulder.

Bobby’s silent support.

Cas's strong presence.

Dean's laugh at Saturday morning cartoons. Sam says one last goodbye to a life long lived and steps towards the light.

Seems Thursdays aren't so bad after all.

It's not the pearly gates he's heard people describe before. Sam can't be disappointed with the turn out though. It's the smell of Kansas fields and spring.

It's a sun hanging in the sky shining down on him at just the right temperature. It's the sight of Jack standing there with a smile on his face and eager happiness his kid was always supposed to have.

"Sam?" Jack says just a bit hesitant and there's an ancient look in his eyes but there's also the kid that never got to be a kid and Sam has missed him so much-

He's pulling him into a hug before he can stop himself and is rewarded with Jack's own hug.

"How've you been?"

Jack smiles, "It's been busy but worthwhile." He splays his hands out, excitement clear on his face.

Dean slings an arm across his shoulder, "Wait till you see it Sam. There's a couple of people up here that've been waiting to see you."

Dean throws a conspiratorial look back at Cas.

Sam's brows knit together in confusion, "Who?"

"You'll see," Dean says, shoving him toward a dirt path, "Why don't we go together?"

"Okay, but you're making me nervous," Sam says, feet dragging slightly as he stops to make eye contact again with Jack, "I'll see you around?"

"Every day if you want," Jack says, "Nothing's stopping us now."

"Besides decorum," Cas says slyly. Jack waves that away and Cas smiles all light and brilliant and who would have thought Sam would ever get the ear of God forever, let alone a day?

Sam doesn't know exactly what he's expecting. At first he tenses when he catches glimpses of the people lined up by the path.

There's nothing outwardly hostile about them, different ages, races, and heights nothing seemingly in common besides the fact that they're apparently waiting for something.

Sam thinks for a brief moment that he wound up in hell after all. That he's got to prepare himself for another fight. But Dean just pats his shoulder reassuringly.

"They've been wanting to tell you something," Dean says, and he's got that smile on his face that he used to get when they were knee deep in a prank war. Sam relaxes, if minutely, as a person walking up to him smiles, "It was a werewolf in Kentucky for me. That's the first time you saved me. But I found you a couple years later and you taught me what I needed to do in order to survive. Thank you Sam Winchester, you're my hero."

Sam gawks, face going red as he stammers to reply. He suffers through their thanks, needlessly awkward and- well content. Content to hear that what he did mattered.

He takes particular giddy joy when Dean is thanked and blushes, brushing them off like cobwebs or something equally unwanted.

"It's what anyone would have done," Dean says.

"No it's not."

And really what are either of the Winchester brothers supposed to answer to that? Sam doesn't really know how it works but the people fade away once their piece is said. Until it's just Dean and Sam and an empty road.

It's not a crossroads.

Thank Jack for small miracles.

"Well I wasn't quite expecting them to be that handsy," Dean says good naturedly.

Sam huffs in exasperation,"You could have warned me."

"And spoil the surprise?"

Sam punches him in the shoulder. He does not nurse an aching hand for his troubles. Dean sticks his tongue out at him and Sam rolls his eyes and it's like decades haven't passed and it's like lifetimes are behind them.

"It really mattered. Everything we did?" Dean grows serious and Sam can't pinpoint if it's the change of what Dean is or something else.

"To them it did, didn't it?"

Sam concedes the point. "You and Cas," Sam begins.

"No chick flick moments, Sammy."

Sam huffs, "But how have the two of you been?"

Dean sighs, put upon, but eyes twinkling with happiness, "It's exactly what I thought I never could have."

Sam nods, "I'm happy for you." And a pang tugs at Sam's heart because his happiness is somewhere else and it's been three long years.

Dean jolts him.

"She's waiting for you at the Roadhouse 2.0. And so is everyone else," Dean looks hesitant just for a bit, "And when you're ready Jess isn't too far from ya either."

Sam doesn't blink rapidly to contain the tears. But if he suspiciously doesn't have a reply to that, well Dean doesn't push it.

"Why don't you show me this Roadhouse 2.0."

It's exactly how Sam remembers it. A warm atmosphere. the smell of whiskey. Jo, Ellen, Ash, Bobby, even Pamela stops in for a drink and to leer at Dean.

Cas bares his teeth. A fully animalistic gesture and Pamela laughs and jokes about her eyes, fully culling Cas's aggression for a nervous awkward reply.

Mom is there and she tells him how proud he's made her. Tells Dean how proud she is of him and Sam might combust with the sheer overwhelming emotion of it all.

Eileen, and he's missed her so much and the first thing Sam asks when he sees her is if she's turned into an angel because Sam doesn't remember her glowing quite like that ever.

She chuckles and orders another drink. He's knee deep into a conversation with Ash and Bobby when his dad approaches him.

"Sam," he begins and his voice is weary and nervous in a way that Sam doesn't remember his father ever being, "Can I have a word with you. Privately?"

Sam swallows down another shot of whiskey. The good that that will do him and follows him to a nearly remote corner of the bar.

"I'm proud of what you boys have done. Seems like I did raise you all right," Dad says and the anger that flashes through Sam is so startling he nearly stumbles.

"Whatever good we did was in spite of you," Sam says, "Dean raised me first and foremost. You should know better than to take credit."

He flinches and Sam is viscerally satisfied by that. "I didn't do right by either of you," Dad says through clenched teeth, "And I'm sorry."

Sam nods, "If you really mean that, you'll say it to him too."

Dad starts, stepping toward Dean where he's smack dab in the middle of the crowd. Relaying one of the Winchester's simpler, more fun hunts.

Sam's fear and worry about that old luck spell dimmed and wore away with the ages and he smiles privately at the absurdity of it. Dean looks happy there, surrounded by the people he loves. Sam reaches out and lays a firm hand in front of Dad's chest.

"Not now, Dad. Give him time," Sam says. There's a flicker of anger on his face and maybe a bit of heartbreak, but he looks at Dean, eyes lingering on the way Cas's hand sits gently on his shoulder and folds.

Dad nods and he steps forward, arms almost outstretched before he abruptly cuts off the motion. Sam doesn't know if he's disappointed or relieved.

"You did good kid," Dad says and Sam wonders how much growing up he really did when the statement feels as good as it does.

Sam nods, "Got a kid of my own now," the grin is unbidden but welcome at the thought of Junior, "And as a Dad, well he's the one that needs to hear you say that."

Then Sam leaves to rejoin Eileen who outta have been elected for sainthood cause she's still waiting patiently by the bar side gaze slyly tracking Jo and him. He doesn't notice when Dean walks out of the bar with John in tow.

Or when Cas follows silently after that with a few spoken words with Mary. He'll learn later or not at all. He'll sit in heaven and reminisce and wait ever patiently for the rest of his loved ones to gather.

He'll go and see his lost loves.

He'll learn that heaven's new policy is to give even monster souls a chance to reach them.

Sam Winchester will have all the barbeques and family dinners his heart ever wanted.

All this will happen... eventually.

And finally, Sam Winchester will rest.

Not so much for one Dean Winchester who takes his peace the way he's always taken his whiskey fast, and without question for quality.

Cas doesn't press him but the gentle reminding touch is both support and question on whether or not today is the right day to answer those looks that his father's been giving him for years now.

Never say Winchesters aren't good at avoidance. But Sam is here and brave enough to face him. Maybe it's Dean's turn.

Heaven doesn't force you to feel happy anymore but it does grab onto the nice warmer feelings. It's easy to get lost in a blanket of warmth and a foggy kind of peace.

Sometimes, that is.

There's always the pressure of his title that keeps him awake.

Death has a responsibility after all. And then Dean remembers the rest of the world. The stickiness of a humid day in the south. The refreshing taste of a soda or beer.

The cool wind of California. The sand that gets everywhere and tracks in baby's seats.

The rolling plains of the Midwest and the mosquitos that are always waiting for a weakness.

Open road and the freedom to go anywhere. When compared to that, Heaven will always be a nice stop but never his final destination.

He squeezes Cas's arm back reassuringly, nervously laughing when Cas gives his father a murderous look.

So he gets up from the familiar presence of his friends that he lost so long ago and follows out the door the man who raised him. He squares his shoulders, unsure of what to prepare for. A beating maybe. A lecture.

Maybe a condemnation.

Dean was never supposed to give up his humanity. He was supposed to be better than that.

He tenses when John blocks the way to move past him. John must catch on because he moves his body slightly out of the way. It's been a long time since Dean's felt like a failure. But right now he can see it through his father's narrow eyes.

"You did good," John says, and he steps back, makes way to move and Dean's heart clenches because....

Well that's it?

"That's it?" The words are past his mouth before he can take them back but his father does pause, causing his non beating heart to feel like it's skipped a beat.

"You did good. What else do you want, Dean? Your own personal pity party? You're a Winchester and you did what you had to do."

Dean's hands clenched tightly and he could feel the uneasiness in the landscape around him, all the grace keeping Heaven afloat shutter at his expanding presence.

He tucks it far away then remembers to control it. He doesn't remember his father getting as old as he looks now. Well worn lines on his face. The lighter look in his eyes. Dean remembers his dad being angry and commanding, but now?

Dean doesn't remember the last time he felt taller than his dad.

Doesn't remember the last time he looked old and strong at the same time.

John Winchester is just a man. And Dean Winchester... well maybe he doesn't need him after all. It's like a weight lifted off his chest to realize that. That his father can stand here blind to everything he gave away to be here today and he will go on.

"Nothing John," Dean says, "I don't expect anything from you."

"Dean..." John trails off... and he looks uncertain and confused and something like the kid Dean remembers meeting back in the 70s. Maybe it's too late for that man though.

Dean stops and turns back and he's never felt so far from his father then. A caravan of time and bad decisions between the two of them. Dean doesn't know if he wants an apology or something else. He doesn't know what will fix the wound that's been left to fester between them.

Eternity gives you all the time in the world you want.

It's not always a good thing.

"I'd like to see you around. Stop by at the house? You can bring," he makes a bit of a face there like he can't quite believe it himself, "Can bring Cas."

Dean nods surprised he isn't dreading it, "I'll think about it," he says before stepping off and away from the Roadhouse further along where Cas waits.

Dean steps away from the crowd. Away from John who looks for the first time like he's seeing Dean. He steps away from Heaven to gently lower himself to a familiar pond.

Cas appears shortly after he's settled onto the deck, feet in the water and kicking them gently.

Dean ignores that John doesn't look particularly thrilled by what Dean's become. The Roadhouse feels like it could have once been a home. Like a home that used to be his. Maybe in a kinder world that's what he would have had.

Maybe you outgrow homes like you outgrow leather jackets and jeans. Doesn't make the memories of them any less fond.

"The talk with your father?"

Dean tenses slightly, "Fine," he scratches at the back of his head, "More fine than I expected at least. It's not really fixed but..." Dean shrugs.

He was never supposed to live long enough for reconciliation.

"You don't need to give him another chance if you don't want to," Cas said righteously.

Dean chuckles, "No I guess I don't. But maybe for me, maybe I'll find a way. We got eternity."

"We're good people," Castiel said with all the confidence that he used to say he had a mission to carry out, "And we've suffered enough. You and your brother have suffered enough."

Something squeezes painfully in Dean's chest. Watching Sam live was difficult. To be separate from him. To watch and be unable to truly tell him how proud he had made him. Dean had broken the natural order for Sam Winchester several times before.

And for Sam Winchester, Dean would maintain it. Didn't make the separation any less hard. Didn't stop him from being sad while Sam lived as selfish as he was.

Cas isn't looking at him, instead staring wistfully off into the lakeside. It reminds Dean so starkly of all the other times he's been to this lake.

"It's not selfish to grieve for a life you didn't get to have," Cas reaches out to cup his cheek, "That is Death's job, after all. It makes you no more selfish to want than it did for me."

Of the way his mind still remembers that day fishing with Bobby so fondly that Heaven recognizes it as his refuge.

Dean raised an eyebrow, "You know something about my untimely demise that I don't know about?" He doesn't pull his jacket tighter or shuffle uncertainty. The fear that Castiel will one day leave him is mostly gone now.

Castiel gives him a knowing look, "He'll be fine. Jack will make sure of it." Castiel reached ever so gently to take Dean's hand bumping into his shoulder.

The Dean of a couple years ago would resent the gentleness. Dean wasn't fragile and Death certainly wasn't. But life was and after some point, well...

Dean leans his shoulder on Cas's. It's near awkward given the height difference but Cas leans in too and then it's just the two of them bending toward each other looking over the ethereal plane. Yeah what even is Dean's life?

"I love you," Dean says. The phrase leaves his lips easily a well-greased machine after all these years.

It always bears repeating he's learned.

If possible, Cas melts further, nose coming up to nuzzle his cheek.

Dean senses Cas's wings reaching out to wrap around him. Dean's are tucked away like he normally opts for allowing Dean to be mostly shielded by a tough array of feathers and warmth.

"I love you too, Dean," Cas says reverently like he always has.

Death's angel.

Death leans into his angel's side and smiles. The life of Dean Winchester was a worthwhile one.

And now... well maybe a part of Dean Winchester can rest.

As for the rest.

Well every good story lives on.

"What are you thinking about," Cas asks with amusement on his face.

"Just the future," Death says. They settle further against each other and watch the sun rise on a new day.

Chapter Text

A boy grips the steering wheel of an old Chevy pick up truck. In his pocket there's a well worn photo. A man stares at him with a smile on his face, a younger him wrapped in a half hug.

That man's face has haunted him for years. Ben Braden stops at a field in the middle of Lawrence Kansas. The only sign another person lives here is the Firebird sitting in the front of the warehouse.

He climbs out of the truck. "Here goes nothing," he whispers, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.

He gets up to the door. It's thick metal looks like it could take a beating and a half. He waits and waits for someone or something- a weird part of his brain says to open the door. It takes forever but finally the door swings open. Ben's chest tightens as he peers up into the eyes of a green-eyed brown-haired man who seems a little too familiar like a stranger you always pass by.

"Hi," he says nervously, straightening his shoulders, trying not to leer past him at the weird house, "My name's Ben Braden and I'm looking for Dean Winchester."