Chapter Text
It happens in an instant.
One moment Dean is standing slightly hunched, his insides burning with literal soulfire, his eyes riveted on the possibly biblically epicness happening right in front of his eyes, because when does one of these showdowns actually end like this, with forgiveness and hand holding and love.
One moment, Dean is watching Amara turn from creepy stalker to sympathetic sister, hand clasping God’s with an urgent sense of purpose, an undeniable undertone of affection in every glance. Dean watches God’s face soften. He knows that look, sees it on Sam’s face at least once a decade, when the little shit actually gets past his own issues enough to realize Dean’s only ever wanted to be a family.
And wow, it doesn’t even scratch the surface of how fucked up in the head he is that Sam’s God in this scenario, and he’s the frigging Darkness.
One moment melts into the next, and Amara’s hand is sliding from her brother’s wrist to clasp his fingers, Chuck’s squeezing back with desperate purpose.
Dean has a moment more to observe Chuck turning towards him, seeming to remember he was standing there for the first time. Has a moment to see that soft concern, that gentle affection and patient tolerance one last time. Has a moment to reflect on how odd those blue eyes are, because God isn’t supposed to be compassionate, isn’t supposed to look at a fuck up like Dean and see anything remotely worthy of anything. Because Dean may have been Heaven’s effed up fated friggin chosen one, but Heaven was possibly douchier than Hell at this point, if Crowley vs. Lucifer was anything to go by, and no Cas doesn’t fucking count, because he’s Dean’s angel damnit, not Heaven’s!
Because Dean has never payed the blindest bit of attention to the less fire and brimstone sections of organized religious doctrine, but he’s fairly certain that when you meet God, he isn’t supposed to talk about your fucked up childhood, he isn’t supposed to say “don’t confuse me with your dad”, he isn’t supposed to even give you the time of day.
He isn’t supposed to make you cry. He isn’t supposed to give you more of a time of day than your own dad ever did. He isn’t supposed to give you more undivided attention, to actually sit around long enough to even listen to your grievances, than John frigging Winchester ever did.
He isn’t supposed to end the meeting with a shoulder pat and an “I’ve always had faith in you”, no matter how passive aggressive it might have been.
And he sure as hell isn’t supposed to make you and your little brother fucking pancakes.
Dean’s been making his and Sam’s breakfast since he was four for crying out loud.
Dean has a moment to have one more ironic thought about how effing ironic their lives have gotten, as blue eyes that once again look more like they hold a doorway to the universe rather than a portal to a black-hole regard him with that infinitely weird mix of affection, exasperation, resignation, pride, faith, and love.
Has a moment to reflect on how much he misses his dad. The one he never got to have because heaven are dicks and demons are even dickier. How much he misses Bobby.
And then Amara’s free hand raises faster than God can react, the Almighty’s own hand coming forward a moment later, whether to beckon or shield or protest Dean never finds out.
The last thing he remembers is those blue eyes, fathomless as the stars, staring into his green ones with so much love.
And then everything fades.