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Dean’s days in heaven mostly look like this:
He sleeps in, is woken up by sunshine on his face. He stretches, gets up, walks downstairs. Makes coffee, and the coffee is never burned, never too sweet, never too bitter. Some mornings he’s woken by Miracle jumping on the bed, pressing his wet snout against Dean’s face. He was shocked when he first saw the dog, looked around, wondering if this was the day he’d finally see Sam. But his little brother is taking his time. Good for him, Dean thinks. He deserves it.
The weather is always perfect here – warm, but not too hot. He sits on the porch in the late morning, drinking his second cup. People he’s known and loved and lost walk past, greet him. Some sit down with him, chat for a while.
His house is an enigma – it’s like someone took all the places that ever meant something to him, put them in a blender. Everything smells like his childhood home, or at least how he remembers it smelling. The entryway is that of the boys’ home he lived in for a while, something familiar and comforting about that area where he would kick off his shoes so as not to carry in any dirt. The porch is Bobby’s, in a way, or it feels like Bobby’s. The view’s nicer though.
Speaking of the old hunter, that’s where Dean usually goes in the early afternoons. There’s a lake close to where he lives and if he walks its perimeter, it’ll take him to his house. Bobby might pour him a whiskey, both feeling indulgent for having a drink early in the day. He doesn’t really get drunk here, only reaches that pleasant buzz that makes time flow easier around him. He doesn’t need to hide the discomforts and pains he feels with the liquor.
Most of the time, it’s dinner with his parents. Dean usually knows to leave when Bobby either dozes off, or Annie Hawkins comes knocking. She sometimes winks at Dean, but he knows to stay far enough away from that. He’s seen the look on Bobby’s face.
So he goes outside. Sometimes he walks along the lake with Miracle, but more often than not, his car waits outside. The distance is longer when he drives than when he walks, but he’s learned not to question that.
He parks the car in front of his parents’ house, kills the engine, and then sits there for a moment. It’s usually dark at this point, a breathtaking sunset having accompanied his drive. The lights in the house are all turned on, and it looks warm and safe from the outside. He sees his mother and father in the kitchen. Mary’s cutting something up or stirring something in a pan and John will walk up to her, kiss her cheek and she will laugh. Dean sits, just for a moment, watches them. Then he gets out and walks inside.
Mary is sweet and soft-spoken, the way he remembers her. She’s not haunted, like she was when he got her back. She cooks his favorite meals, ruffles his hair. Sometimes Dean wonders if there’s something wrong with him, with the absolute bliss he feels by how different, how much calmer she seems. That his happiness shouldn’t be dependent on it so much. But it is.
Things are different with John, too. After dinner, they often sit outside. Dean hears cicadas as loud as train whistles, but there’s never a single mosquito. John at some point brings out a bottle of what he calls the good stuff. Something his own father used to drink. Dean hasn’t seen Henry here yet, but maybe John’s just not ready for that. This heaven, while different from the way it used to be, has a way of bringing you the things you need when you need them. Dean doesn’t fully understand it. It’s fine. The need to understand isn’t that strong here.
Before Dean goes home to bed, he drives out to the lake. There’s a spot there where the mountains on the other side are perfectly reflected in the water. There’s nights where the sky is so clear, the water so still, that he’s sure he’s looking at an upside down photograph. He takes a deep breath of the clean air. He’s calm. He’s content.
He’s out walking one day with Miracle, throwing him his favorite ball, when he sees you.
He’s in the woods near his house and usually, he doesn’t meet anyone there, especially not people he doesn’t know. He’s got everything he needs in his corner of heaven and he hasn’t felt the need to go exploring further. He sees you, looks away, then looks back.
An old Beagle is just running up and you lean down, scratch its ear, take the toy from its mouth. Suddenly, it runs off, and it takes only a moment before Dean understands it’s running towards him. Well, towards Miracle technically.
When you straighten you must realize someone’s nearby, because you turn your head. Your eyes land on Dean, and stay on him for a second while you take him in.
“Cute dog,” you say, nodding a little. Dean smiles carefully.
“You too,” he says. You look away from him, down at the Beagle.
“Her name’s Suzy,” you reply, while Suzy looks up at Dean with big, wet eyes. “She’s a retired show dog.” You look up again, shrug.
Dean nods awkwardly, then looks down at Miracle, who is letting Suzy sniff him, while giving Dean a confused look.
“This is Miracle, the… the dog,” Dean says, feeling idiotic immediately. He used to be good at this, but heaven has made his defenses go down, his persona starting to feel like a distant memory. He looks back at you.
“What makes him a miracle?” you ask, smiling softly. Dean huffs.
“That’s a long story,” he replies. You nod again.
“So, what brings you here?” Dean asks, widening his arms to refer to the air around him, wondering if small talk is the way to go here. You follow his gesture, look unsure about what he means. “I mean, I… death, obviously, but I’m not sure what heaven etiquette is on asking someone how they died.”
You blink, and then your smile slowly falters. Dean feels a pit open up in his stomach.
“I’m dead?” you ask, sounding shocked.
Dean opens his mouth, hoping he can somehow explain, but then he sees the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. A second later, you start laughing, and after another second of confusion, Dean has to laugh as well.
“That’s… that’s funny,” he says, scratching at his neck, a little embarrassed that he fell for it. You bring your hand up to your mouth.
“I’m sorry, that was mean,” you say, and Dean looks up at you, checks your face to see if you’re really sorry. It gives him a chance to just look at you. You’re beautiful, he notices. He’s pretty sure you catch him checking you out, but you act cool about it.
“Car crash,” you reply at last, and Dean has to tear his eyes off you for a second to remember what he asked. “You?” He inclines his head.
“Big… nail,” he says. You pull down the corners of your mouth.
“That must have been one pissed off nail,” you reply and Dean chuckles.
“Yeah,” he says, pushing his hands into his pockets, unsure what to say next.
“Well,” you say, “Suzy and I were gonna go over to that clearing with all the squirrels. She loves running after them and then giving up and whining.” Dean nods, smiles a little and you raise your eyebrows.
“Do you and Miracle wanna come as well?” you ask. Dean studies you for a moment. He’s not sure if having impure thoughts is gonna get him kicked straight out of this place, but he can feel some creeping up on him. At the curve of your neck, your hands. The intense way you look at him.
“Sure,” he says.
Dean doesn’t question why there are squirrels in heaven.
“Are they extras, do you think?” you ask while Miracle and Suzy are racing around, being made into absolute fools by the small, reddish creatures.
“What do you mean?” Dean asks.
“You know,” you say, “are they actual squirrel souls? Or are they just put here for set dressing?” Dean narrows his eyes.
“Do you think squirrels have souls?” he asks. You turn towards him. So far, you have been standing next to each other, looking off in the same direction, but now you’re looking at him.
“I didn’t even think humans had souls,” you say. “I thought it was all just chemistry and biology. I didn’t think there was a heaven, either.” Dean smiles, turns to you.
“Disappointed?” he asks. You narrow your eyes.
“Not sure yet,” you reply, then incline your head. “I do hate having been wrong, though.” He grins. He hates being wrong too.
“What about you?” you ask. “Did you believe in heaven? God and angels and the whole shebang?” Dean looks back at the dogs, who are currently barking up a tree at an unimpressed squirrel.
“I sorta knew heaven existed,” he says, watching. “And hell too.” He looks back at you just as you’re narrowing your eyes.
“Let me guess,” you say, “Methodist?” Dean shakes his head.
“No, I… I’ve died a couple of times already,” he says, checking your face to see how you react. “Went to both places.” Your expression is neutral, and he’s not sure if you believe him. To be honest, it does sound crazy, but you are also standing in heaven watching your dead dogs play with possibly dead squirrels.
“If we were on earth,” you say, slowly, while not taking your eyes off Dean, “and we were alive, I’d probably be paying and getting out right about now. But something tells me you can’t lie about that stuff up here.”
“I promise it’s the truth,” he insists and you nod, look towards the dogs again, a slight smile spreading over your lips before you look back at him.
“You want some ice cream?” you ask.
Dean closes his eyes, makes an effort not to sigh at the taste. He shakes his head and when he opens his eyes again, you’re watching him, fascinated.
“I had no clue apple pie ice cream existed,” he says before bringing the cone back to his mouth, tasting the delicious treat again. You chuckle when he lays his head back, groans at the taste.
“He’s got some unusual flavors,” you say, dipping your tiny spoon back into your own scoop. To distract himself from how pretty you just looked when you laughed and the not-at-all-suggestive-but-making-him-think-things way you lick the ice cream off the spoon, Dean turns, looks at the little cart you just came from - no payment necessary. There’s some kids running around, laughing, chasing each other. Parents sitting on the benches close by, watching them, smiling softly. Dean tries not to think about that part too much.
“So there’s some guy whose heaven it is to just sell ice cream?” he asks, trying to distract himself. You turn as well, look at the smiling man. He’s wearing one of those little paper hats. He looks content.
“I guess?” you say, shrugging. “There’s gotta have been someone somewhere at some point who thought the greatest joy in life was making people happy with something simple and sweet.” Dean looks back at you. He just saw a guy selling ice cream, but you saw what he’s really doing. He likes that. You’re damn smart. Just then, you look back at him, your eyes meeting and Dean holds your gaze just for a second. It’s you that changes the topic.
“So demons and vampires, huh?” you ask, referring to the things Dean told you while you walked over here. The walk was exactly the right length, the two dogs still running around you. You listened, asked the occasional clarifying question.
“And werewolves and ghosts,” Dean continues and you nod.
“Right,” you say. “Can’t forget about those.” Dean chuckles at your reply. He’s almost done with his ice cream so he lowers the cone, holds it out towards Miracle who munches it up, crunching the waffle between his teeth. Not like he can die again, Dean thinks.
“Must have been scary,” you continue. Dean lets Miracle lick the rest of the ice cream off his fingers, then scrunches up his ear briefly before looking back at you. “Fighting them. Killing them. Tough job. What made you pick it?” Dean blinks at the sun shining into his eyes. It’s getting a little lower. He used to get anxious at each day’s end when he was alive. He never figured out what that was about, but he doesn’t feel it now.
“It was kind of a family business,” he replies. He sniffs. You nod slowly.
“So it’s what you wanted to do?” you ask. You could have left it there. Gleaned what you wanted from his half-answer. But you seem to really want to know.
“You do some stuff long enough,” he settles on after thinking for a second, “and it doesn’t really feel like there’s anything else you can do.” It sounds more pretentious than he means for it, so he carefully looks at you again. There’s a soft expression on your face.
“I know exactly what you mean,” you reply, and Dean raises his chin, motions for you to continue.
“I sold ACs. Air condition units,” you say, deadpan, then slightly tilt your head. “Well, I worked in the accounting department of a company that sold ACs. So I know exactly what it feels like, that responsibility.”
You look off into the distance, and once again, Dean’s not sure how to react.
“Keep it cool at home,” you finally say with a slow nod, voice serious. “That was their slogan.” You turn back to Dean. He sees it then, the twitch at the corners of your mouth. He presses his teeth together, but you break first, sputter, then chuckle. Dean does too.
“That is important,” he says.
“It really was,” you confirm. “I once had a woman tell us we made her entire week. Beat that, demon fighter man.” You give him a loose smile at that last bit. A smile that makes his stomach flip.
“My brother and I once had a guy beat us with a broom after we took care of a ghost that was haunting his apartment complex,” Dean says and you snort, the effect he was hoping for, except it’s even better. “Feels good to be appreciated.” You give another small chuckling sound, and then the two of you are quiet. Look at the park around you. Listen to the voices and laughter.
“I should get going,” Dean says, even though he really doesn’t want to. He’s not sure how long he’s been here, but it doesn’t feel long enough to not go see John and Mary for dinner. He has half a mind to ask you to come, but that would be… weird, right? That would be weird.
“I’ll be at the park again tomorrow,” he says, and it’s out of him before he’s even thought about it. He wasn’t actually planning to go back to the park, but now he’s said it. You look at him, that unreadable expression on your face again. “In case Suzy and Miracle wanna hang out again.”
Your smile this time is smaller, a little less enthusiastic.
“Sure,” you say. “I mean, maybe, yeah.”
Dean feels awkward, suddenly. Did he read this completely wrong? Do you not want to see him again? Does he want to see you again, and he only just realized?
And then you get up, pat the side of your thigh, and yeah, Dean wouldn’t hate doing some of that himself, but it’s only to get Suzy to follow you. She waddles up, wet eyes blinking.
“See you around, super hero,” you say with a final look at him, and then you begin walking away. Dean opens his mouth before he realizes he has no idea what to say. So instead, he looks after you, hoping you’ll turn back.
You don’t.
You’re not at the park the next day, and not the next day after that either. You are, however, at the lake a few days after that.
Dean sees you from far away. He’s not sure at first if it’s really you, but then he gets closer. You stand only about a foot from where the water begins, look out at the mountains beyond. There’s a soft breeze that smells fresh, like something blooming.
“This is my lake, you know,” he says, coming up to you. He’s not sure if you noticed him approaching, but you only turn your head, don’t seem surprised to see him. He’s giving you a look that’s clearly supposed to imply he’s joking. “You’re gonna have to get your own.” You turn to him, cross your arms.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m dead longer than you are,” you reply. “So I got dibs.” Dean walks up to you, stops a few feet away.
“You can’t call dibs on the heaven lake,” he says and you give him a challenging look.
“And yet, I just did,” you reply, but there’s a small smile playing on your lips. Both of you turn towards the body of water, the beautiful display of nature, though Dean would prefer looking some more at the beautiful display of you.
“When did you die?” he asks, a strange question even for someone who’s lived his life.
“1920s,” you reply and when Dean throws you a questioning look, once again not sure how to react, you look down yourself, at the jeans and t-shirt you’re wearing. “Obviously, I’m a flapper.” He grins.
“Must have been some car crash,” he replies, not sure if it’s weird that he remembers what killed you, or if that’s normal. Is it like remembering someone’s birthday? Does it imply more or less closeness? You shrug.
“2010,” you answer, and Dean makes it a point to remember without consciously deciding to. “Right after the Repo Men remake. So it’s probably for the best.” Dean presses his lips together.
“Could be worse,” he says and you widen your eyes at him. “Means you missed the RoboCop remake.” Your mouth drops open.
“Noo,” you say and Dean nods. You chuckle, then turn back to the lake. Both of you are quiet again.
“I’ve seen you around, you know,” you say, and when Dean turns back, you’re not looking at him. Your eyes are still on the water. “In that car of yours. It’s a nice car. Or walking with Miracle. “
“You have?” Dean asks. Did he see you too? He’s not sure. Surely, he would remember. He feels like he would.
“Yeah,” you say, clear your throat. “A few times. It always looks like you’re waiting for something. Looking for someone.” Dean blinks.
You might be right. He can’t help himself. There’s nothing he needs to look out for up here - no cars driving the other way, no wildlife he needs to swerve for. But he can’t help himself. Squinting through the windshield, or into the thickness of the forest. His eyesight’s better now than it was when he was alive. Yeah, maybe he is looking for something. Someone.
“My brother.” It’s out of him before he’s made the conscious decision. He suddenly thinks he knows what you’re asking him, or maybe trying to ask him without actually saying it. You want to know if he’s waiting for someone special, a wife or girlfriend or some long lost love. He’s always wondered at that - whether he’d see Cassie or Lisa or someone he’s not expecting up here, all of it suddenly clear. He always found loving difficult, so many other things to consider and sometimes he wasn’t sure what he really felt and what he’d made himself feel.
“Oh,” you say, and you seem surprised, and maybe just a little relieved. “I see.”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “He’s taking his time, though. Must be living a pretty good life down there.” You scrunch up your nose.
“That doesn’t really matter,” you say, voice careful. “The idea is that he shows up when you need him. It doesn’t cut his life short or anything.”
“Right,” Dean replies. “Well, guess I just need a break from him. He’s kind of a dork.” He grimaces at his own words. He misses Sam, is the truth. Bobby explained it to him, and he thought he’d see him the minute he got up here. But he hasn’t. And he has no idea why.
“Okay,” you say, turning to him, and Dean’s dragged from his thoughts, sure that you’re gonna bolt again. But you don’t. Instead you give him a slow smile. “You got any beer in that car of yours?”
And that is how it happens.
Sometimes you meet at the park, sometimes at the lake. You walk or sit and drink and talk. Play with the dogs.
One day, Dean opens his front door to see you leaned against Baby with a backpack sitting on the hood behind you.
“I thought we could take a roadtrip,” you say, shifting around, seeming a little shy. Dean frowns.
“To where?” he asks, wondering about the technicalities. But like so often, you don’t answer the way he expects you to. You shrug.
“Wherever we want,” you say.
So the two of you just drive, the dogs in the backseat. Chat some more. Stop for coffee, the best he’s ever had. At some point you stop somewhere else, some place that’s not on any map, despite the big paper one Dean inexplicitly found in his glove compartment. It crinkles but you don’t need it to navigate. So you climb a few rocks. Dean takes off his flannel, ties it around his hips to chase around Miracle. When he turns to you, you’re watching him. He straightens, takes a deep breath. When you look away, he’s pretty sure you’re hiding a grin.
You invite him over for dinner, but Dean’s worried he’d miss the one with his parents, so you do lunch instead. You’re a horrible cook, which, weirdly, heaven does not fix. Maybe it’s because it allows Dean to show you how to make lasagna. It means you sit on the counter with a beer and watch him, commenting on everything he does. Maybe it’s a means to an end.
He raises a spoon with some of the sauce to your mouth, lets you taste it. He almost leans in then. Chickens out at the last minute. He thinks he might see you looking disappointed at that.
It’s not long before he wakes up in the morning and you’re the first thing he thinks about. He lies there, comfortable between the sheets, and finds himself smiling at the memory of something you said. The way you gently pushed him when he made a dumb joke. Looked at him in that way you do.
It’s not long before he wants to kiss you.
Once he starts thinking about it, he can’t stop. It’s like his eyes are glued to your lips. It’s not a sexual thought, not really. But they promise such comfort, such warmth. He’s pretty sure he’d be perfectly happy just holding you. It’s very strange.
After a long walk one day, he asks you to come to dinner with his parents. You initially say no, but Dean keeps pushing. You pull up your shoulders, bite your lip and it flusters him harder than if he’d opened up a nudie mag.
“I don’t know,” you say, but he’s already shaking his head.
“I do know,” he says, and finally you say yes.
John is quiet but weirdly charming with you, a side Dean’s never seen of him and watches with fascination. Mary is sweet and once the four of you are sitting down, she throws Dean a meaningful look over her glass of wine. He wants to shake his head but doesn’t.
Dean and you do the dishes. There’s something peaceful about doing them here - it’s not stressful or a burden, it’s a way to wind down. All the glasses come away without streaks. No plate ever breaks.
“Your parents are nice,” you say, hands in warm, soapy water. Dean’s drying a fork. “Did you get along well before?” Dean puts down the fork, reaches for the bowl you pass him.
“It was complicated,” he answers. “They had their own stuff to deal with.” You nod.
“The part where they’re only human too can be kinda tough to accept,” you say and Dean huffs. He looks at your profile, the shape of your nose, the way you’re giving your entire attention to the dish you’re washing. He wants to reach out, brush your hair out of your face and pull you close, but his hands are wet and soapy.
“I think they think there’s something going on between us,” he says, tries to make it sound like a joke, like it’s hilarious, even though he’s not sure why. “I’ve never really brought anyone home. I mean, here or then.” You pass him what you were cleaning, and your gazes meet. The sun’s gone down and you’re only illuminated by the soft kitchen light. It’s a pretty mesmerizing sight, Dean thinks.
“I did,” you reply, and he has no idea what you’re referring to. “Bring someone home, I mean. I thought they would hate him and it would give me a reason to break up with him. But they didn’t, so I married him instead.”
Dean shifts around, his hands halting. You’re not wearing a wedding band, but maybe you just weren’t into that. This feels like something he should have known about you, but he didn’t. He can’t deny the stab of jealousy he feels. That someone got to marry you, even though he clearly messed it up. Dean thinks it takes a special kind of idiot to do that, to let someone like you go.
“Did he…” he says, then changes his approach. “Is he around? Up here, I mean?” You chuckle, and Dean swallows quickly.
“He’s not in hell, if that’s what you’re asking,” you reply, looking down at where you’re working again. “He wasn’t a bad guy. We just weren’t a good match. Nobody’s fault.” Dean nods slowly.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it. You pull the plug from the sink.
“Thanks,” you say, as both of you watch the water swirl. When it’s gone, you turn your head, look at Dean. Something wistful on your face.
“Do you wanna go grab a beer?” you ask.
Somehow, the lake is even more beautiful than it is normally. The beer is cool, the air just warm enough to be comfortable. And you’re there. Moonlight on your face.
“I know I’ve probably convinced you that my life was pretty exciting, what with the accounting and Suzy the show dog,” you say and Dean brings the mouth of the bottle to his own, takes a long sip. “But it wasn’t.” He swallows the drink.
“Believe me,” he says, shifting where he’s sitting on Baby’s hood. “Exciting doesn’t mean good. I would know.” He looks at you and you look back.
“True,” you say, “I just kinda wish I could have hit some sort of medium, you know? Not full apocalypse-averting levels, but a little more adventurous.” Dean chuckles. He’s told you more about his life in the past weeks, or months, or whatever it is. Could be minutes, or seconds. You’ve listened to him, fascination on your face. At the beginning he felt awkward about talking about himself. But you’ve made it comfortable. Like he can’t say anything wrong.
“I didn’t want to have any regrets,” you continue and Dean keeps looking at you, unable to look away. “I thought that would be the worst thing that could happen. Took me too long to realize you could have regrets from not doing things, too.” He nods slowly.
“Not sure which one’s worse,” he replies. “The things you’ve done or the ones you didn’t.” You nod.
“I just always thought, one more day,” you explain, looking out at the water. “One more year of hard work, of grinning and bearing it and then that’ll be it. I’ll be ready to just enjoy life. To do all the things I always wanted to do.” You give a sad smile, take a sip from your beer, swallow.
“And then suddenly I was living in a place I didn’t care about, with a job I didn’t want, a husband I didn’t particularly like,” you continue, then clear your throat.
“I remember putting my keys in the front door one day, and thinking: if I have to do this one more time, I think I’m gonna kill myself.” You huff, like it’s funny, but Dean doesn’t miss the way you run the back of your hand over your nose.
“So I tore it all down,” you say with a small nod. “Quit the job. Quit the husband. Sold almost everything I owned. And I just drove. I drove until the tank was empty and then I got gas and I drove some more.” You turn to him, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as beautiful as you.
“And I kept thinking, just after that next curve, there’s gonna be happiness. There’s gonna be peace. Or purpose.” You look down.
“And did you find it?” Dean asks. You purse your lips.
“No,” you reply with a soft, sad smile. “I rounded one of those curves and I lost control of the car and went over an embankment.” You scoff, and Dean does the same.
“That sucks,” he says and you nod.
“It does suck,” you say and you look at him again. “I just wanted so badly for it all to mean something, Dean. I just wanted… to belong. Somehow. To be me, but I didn’t even know who I was.”
“I know what you mean,” he answers. You raise your chin, listening. “I mean, I did all these things, but in the end, it felt like I was using a teacup to get the water out of a boat with a hole in it the size of an elephant.” You chuckle, and it’s the best sound in the world.
“Sisyphus,” you say. Dean frowns a little.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to use that word anymore,” he says and to his delight, you laugh. Slap his shoulder. Take another sip, and it gives him a chance to look at you some more. He feels something so deep and big inside him he wonders if he’s about to die all over again.
“Anyway,” you say, swinging your legs. You move just a little, your shoulder pressing against Dean’s. Then you look up at him. “None of it matters now. Not like we can go back and–”
Dean leans forward in the middle of your sentence and kisses you. It’s like a magnet leading right from your lips to his. And when they meet, it all makes sense.
He’s pretty sure he’s not able to fool himself about the whole love thing up here the way he was able to down there. Any of his old flames could have crossed his path, found their way back to him, but none of them did. Instead he found you. And maybe Dean understands why. He breaks away, stays close enough that he can feel your breath on his face.
“If I shouldn’t—” he says, interrupts himself. “If you don’t want me to—” But then you grab his face with your free hand, and you pull him back in. Your kiss is intense, passionate, and it makes Dean’s head spin. He blindly tries to put his beer bottle down, nearly pushes it over, but when he rights it he can bring his hand to your face, cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin and his middle finger just below your ear.
You must have put your bottle down too, because your hands are on his arms, pulling on him. You taste like spring and lazy afternoons and Dean’s stomach feels the way it feels when he’s swimming - light and airy and like nothing can touch him. Except you. Only you.
One of your hands wanders lower, down his chest and then grabs at his jacket to pull him closer.
“Dean,” you mumble against his lips. But Dean has a hard time opening his eyes. When he does, he expects you to look regretful. But you don’t. You’re looking into his eyes, tugging at his jacket. When Dean understands, he feels like his heart tries to escape through his throat.
“Do you…” he asks, unable to finish the sentence, and you nod.
“Kinda been thinking about it a lot,” you say and Dean grins and then you do too.
“Are you allowed—” he starts, then stops himself, cause the wording makes him sound like an angsty teen. “Can you have sex in heaven, or will you get, I don’t know, evicted?” You giggle at that, shake your head.
“I have no idea, I haven’t tried it,” you say and then something beautiful comes over your face as you raise your chin. “But I think we should risk it.”
Dean grins, runs the tip of his nose over yours when a thought crosses his mind, probably the last coherent one for a little while, he assumes. Without letting go of you, he looks up at the wide, star-spattered sky.
“Look away now, Jack,” he says. When he turns back to you, you’re frowning.
“Who’s Jack?” you ask and Dean shakes his head, is already on the way to your lips again.
“I’ll tell you later,” he says and then he kisses you again, and nothing else in the world matters.
“So you know God?” you ask, laughing, your naked back shaking against Dean’s chest.
The two of you are squished into the backseat of the Impala. It’s almost too small for two adults, but the way it forces your bodies together is perfect. Dean has his arms wrapped around you, grinning at your amusement while he presses his lips to the back of your ear, then moves down and kisses your neck. You taste salty, sweat from your passionate love making already drying.
“I do,” he says, “both the old one and the new one.” You give an unbelieving huff.
“What are they like?” you ask. Dean pulls you closer against him, takes a deep breath, thinks for a second.
“One’s a giant douche, and the current one’s a toddler.”
You go quiet, and he moves his head to see that you’ve raised your eyebrows.
“Well, that’s… reassuring,” you say and Dean kisses your cheek.
“I think he’s doing alright so far,” he says and you lay your hands over where his arms are holding you, lean down and kiss the back of his hand.
“Can’t complain,” you reply. Dean rests his nose against the side of your head, closes his eyes. Just breathes you in, feels you. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this content. Not that he’s felt a lot of contentment in his life. But this, right here, is pretty amazing.
“So who are you waiting for?” he asks. You let your head drop back, against his shoulder, look at the ceiling of the car.
“What do you mean?” you ask.
“You said you thought I looked like I was looking for someone,” he says. “So what about you? Your heaven isn’t taking walks with Suzy all day long, is it?”
He realizes he fucked up when he feels you stiffen.
“I didn’t mean…” he says as you sit up and turn to him.
It’s not easy with the small interior of the car. You need to scoot around, hands resting on the seat, nearly shove Dean in the groin but then you mostly manage, sitting on your left butt cheek, turned to him. Your expression is serious, but you don’t seem angry.
“Maybe it is,” you say.
“Nothing wrong with it,” Dean quickly corrects himself. He’s very aware that he can see your breasts now, but he keeps his eyes on your face, stays focused. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like–”
“Like there has to be some guy coming?” you interrupt him, and Dean’s not sure how to interpret your tone. You’re not mad, not heated, but also not exactly soft and sweet the way you were a few minutes ago. “Louie McHale who frenched me on prom night?”
Dean snorts, then clears his throat.
“Maybe not him,” he says with a shrug. You take a slow breath, then let it out.
“Maybe heaven is just me being on my own,” you say, and although your voice is calm, Dean can’t deny the way it stings. “Maybe it’s just about being free of everyone’s expectations, of their judgement.”
“I didn’t mean to judge you,” Dean says. You’re still looking at him, expression neutral.
“Maybe it’s being free,” you say, and it’s quick, but Dean thinks he sees a slight quiver in your bottom lip. “Maybe it’s being at peace.”
And yeah, that Dean gets. He carefully lays his hand on your shoulder, worried you’ll shrug him off, but you don’t.
“It sounds amazing, honestly,” he says. He sees you swallow.
“You don’t think it sounds lonely?” you ask. Dean’s thumb traces your skin.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Do you think it does?”
It’s like someone letting the air out of you. Your shoulders go lower, your expression falls a little. Your gaze goes down, somewhere into the middle distance.
“I’m good at being lonely, Dean,” you say, and he’s sure this time there’s tears in your voice. “That might not make sense to you, but…”
“Hey, it does,” he says, and you raise your gaze, blinking quickly a few times, and Dean gives you a soft smile. “It absolutely does. I’ve just never been good at it.” You nod slowly, and then, to Dean’s utmost relief, you lean in, press yourself against him. His arms go around you and he holds you close. Sways you, gently, just a little. Both of you are quiet for a while.
“Do you think we can sleep in here without waking up with our spines in our asses?” you ask, and Dean snorts. He nods against you.
“I’m sure we can,” he replies.
“Good,” you say, voice quiet. Dean closes his eyes.
When morning light wakes him to a completely pain-free neck, you’re gone.
He goes to your house. He goes to the woods. The lake. The park with the guy selling ice cream. But he can’t find you anywhere.
That’s all his days consist of, for a while. Circling between these points, driving slowly, staring out the window. But no sign of you.
He finds your t-shirt in the backseat of the Impala. Wonders how you got home without it, then remembers you’re not home, but somewhere else. He lifts it to his nose, takes a deep breath. Remembers your laugh, the way you felt leaned against him. He holds the shirt out to Miracle, raises his eyebrows. Miracle just tilts his head to the side.
“Yeah,” Dean says.
He didn’t know you could grieve people in heaven. It seems redundant. Heaven’s supposed to be perfect, but he feels himself drift away to thoughts of you every chance he gets. Thinks of your voice, the feel of your skin. The sweet way your breath tasted in the back of the Impala.
Mary asks him if he’s alright, and then asks about you, like the two things aren’t connected. Giving him an out in case he doesn’t want to talk about it. Later on, when he leaves, he hugs her extra hard. She tells him it’ll be okay. He really hopes it will.
It’s not long after that Sam shows up.
He’s not there one second, and the next one he is. Dean blinks, looking at him, but it’s Sammy alright. He walks forward, pulls his little brother into a rib-breaking hug. Something opens up inside him.
He drives the two of them to their parents’ home. The drive is long, the road open. They don’t talk. They don’t need to.
Mary is standing outside the house when they pull up in front of it, watering some gardenias. She turns at the sound of the car, and when she sees not one but both of her sons getting out, she drops the hose, runs towards them. She and Sam hold each other close, tears on their faces. John, when he comes out of the house, doesn’t fare much better. Dean watches them, feels his heart run over with love for them. It’s almost painful. It is painful. But in the right way.
It’s when he blinks and looks past his family that he sees you.
You’re standing at the edge of the garden, hands clasped in front of you, watching. Dean blinks again. Sam, Mary and John haven’t noticed you, so he walks around them towards you, but he can’t help himself and by the time he reaches you, he’s jogging.
“Hey, there you are!” he says when he stops in front of you. He’s too excited to see you to slow himself down. He puts his hands on your arms. He’s missed the feeling of your skin. You look up at him, and there is something unsure in your face. Some doubt. To play over it, Dean takes your hand in his.
“Come on, I want you to meet Sam,” he says, starts walking towards his family but you stay where you are. He looks back at you.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, smiling softly. “Maybe you two should just spend some time on your own right now.” Dean frowns, takes a step closer to you again, not dropping your hand.
“I want you to meet him,” he says, not understanding. “You’ll love him. He’s a big dork, but I think you two would really get along.” You blink and for a second Dean’s not sure if there’s tears in your eyes.
“Just… enjoy this, okay?” you say, laying your other hand over his, squeezing. “There’s no rush. Enjoy your time together.”
Dean steps even closer to you. He wants to hold you, wants to touch you, but something tells him this isn’t the right moment.
“I don’t get it,” he says and you raise your shoulders, sigh.
“You know how it works,” you say, “people show up here when we need them to show up. Maybe Sam finally coming here is a sign that you need him right now.” You swallow, but then force a smile on your face again.
“Maybe you and I were moving a little fast, and he’s here to remind you of what’s really important.” Dean can only blink, so confused is he by what you’re saying.
“I…” he starts, but doesn’t know where to go from there. You raise one hand and cup his cheek.
“It’s okay,” you say, and by the slight tremor in your voice, Dean is pretty sure you’re putting on a brave act.
He hopes you’ll kiss him then, but you don’t. You look at him for another second and Dean hopes, prays, it’s not so that you can remember his face. Then you drop his hand and walk away.
He looks after you, rooted in place. Sam calls his name behind him and he turns, raises his hand to signal he’ll be there in a second. When he turns back, you’re gone.
The evening doesn’t end.
The sun goes down, but it stays warm. They sit at the table outside in the garden, empty plates and full bellies. Some lanterns lit, warm light on everyone’s faces. It’s when Mary asks John to help her carry the dessert outside, that Sam turns to his brother. Face serious.
“Who was that woman earlier?” he asks. Dean clears his throat, then reaches for his beer. For a second, he thinks about pretending he doesn’t know what Sam is talking about. Maybe that’s what he would have done if he was still on earth. But what would be the point now?
“Someone special,” he opts for. Sam nods in that wise way he does, the way he used to even when they were kids. “Someone… real special.”
“Are you two…” Sam asks, letting the sentence taper out, accompanied by a raise of his eyebrows. Dean huffs, looks out into the dark of the garden. Fireflies dance in the air near an old apple tree.
“I don’t know,” he says, sighs. “Something happened. I think I said something that hurt her. About her heaven being kinda… empty.” He clears his throat again. Feels shame hot and stinging in his heart.
“Ouch,” Sam says, and Dean scoffs.
“Yeah,” he says. “Really put my foot in it.”
They’re quiet for a while, Dean looking at his beer, thumb peeling off the edge of the label. God, to have you here now. Have you meet Sam, listen to you talk to him. Watch you eat, take a drink. Maybe Dean would pull you into his lap when no one is looking, press his nose into the spot under your ear that he found when you were in the backseat of the Impala, the one that made you squeal and giggle. He feels himself smile at the memory. Maybe you’d run your fingers over the side of his face in that way that makes him feel so soft, outside and inside.
“You know,” Sam says and Dean blinks, looks over. “I’m kinda waiting for someone too.” Dean frowns, not understanding.
“You’ve been here for half a day,” he replies. “The three of us not enough action for you?” Sam huffs, looks down and when Dean follows his gaze, he sees the gold band on his little brother’s finger.
“Sammy,” he says, feeling suddenly horrified at the fact that he didn’t notice, or didn’t ask. Hasn’t been bombarding him with questions about everything that’s been going on with him.
“I just think,” Sam says with a shrug, “I don’t know. We get the people we need when we need them, right? Isn’t that how it works?”
Dean chews the inside of his cheek. He’s not totally sure what Sam means by that. Yes, that is how it works, but what is he trying to say?
“I thought heaven was supposed to be perfect,” Dean mumbles instead, taking another sip. “If that’s the case, where’s your girl? Why would me and mine get into some dumbass argument? Why would… I mean, it’s not supposed to be like this, right?”
“Dean,” Sam says, but he’s not listening.
“It should just be easy,” he rambles on. “No hurt feelings, no goddamn… just, wanting someone and not having them. How does that make sense? You just end up alone, the way you did down there?” His eyes shoot to Sam, and he clears his throat.
“Not that I was alone down there,” he quickly adds, and Sam raises his hand, telling him it’s okay. “I just… why would I meet her? A complete stranger? And then for it to just not work out, what’s the point?” He finally stops himself, looks at Sam again. His lips are pursed in thought and then he drops his head back, looks at the sky above. Dean follows his gaze, looks too.
More stars than he could count. Hundreds, thousands. He needs to swallow. He waits for it to make him feel small, the way it used to, but it doesn’t.
“It can’t all be perfect,” he hears Sam’s voice after a while. He looks to the side. Sam’s face is in deep concentration. “If everything was perfect, nothing would be. You need a little bit of conflict. Something to work on. To get through.”
“That doesn’t sound like heaven,” Dean cuts in, and Sam rolls his eyes. It makes Dean feel such fierce love for him.
“Problems on earth,” Sam continues, “they could be too big. Too painful. Some things that happened, you couldn’t be sure you’d make it through…” Sam stops, clenches his jaw, looks at Dean, and he knows exactly what he means. Damn it, sometimes it felt like his life was filled with more of those things than with anything else. Most of the time it felt like that.
“But here?” Sam continues, then shrugs. “Maybe they just exist so you can learn something about yourself. Or about someone else. Maybe they’re just there to give you that little extra push you need.”
Dean nods, slowly, even though he’s not sure he totally understands it. He looks off to the side, trying to fit Sam’s words into the context of you. It’s only when he realizes Sam hasn’t looked away that he meets his brother’s gaze again.
“So…” Sam says, eyebrows raised again in that smartass way he does.
“So?” Dean replies, sounding annoyed.
“So, go,” Sam says, shaking his head at Dean’s pigheadedness. “Go, be with her. Tell her. Come on, dude.”
Dean opens his mouth, sure to fire something back, then closes it. Both brothers look to the side when the door that leads from the kitchen to the garden opens, Mary and John walking outside, laughing.
And that’s when Dean gets it.
Not because of his parents, necessarily. Not because of his brother’s words. Not because whoever Sam had in his life hasn’t shown up either, because maybe Sam needed to spend some time on his big brother first, get his happiness taken care of before he could look to his own.
He gets up so quickly he nearly sends the chair he’s on flying. Mary and John are just approaching the table, look up in surprise.
“I gotta go,” Dean says, looking between them, then looking at Sam. His parents seem almost worried, but Sam gives him a barely noticeable nod, a self-satisfied grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just… I gotta go.”
With that, he turns around. Presses a kiss to his mother’s cheek and then he’s off, speed-walking to his car.
It’s morning when he arrives at your place, and he does not question it. It’s just how it has to be. He gets that now.
He takes the steps up to your porch two at a time, then bangs his fist against the door, the mosquito screen clattering. He does it again when you don’t show up within two seconds. He’s terrified you won’t be there.
He feels nervous and giddy. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt nervous. It was always just mortal fear and pain. This shouldn’t feel as significant as it does compared to the other things, but it does.
He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees you appear in the living room, surprise on your face at the loud knocking before your features soften when you see it’s him. You make it to the door, push it open, and Dean needs to take a step back for you to do it, but he immediately steps closer to you again.
“Dean?” you say, like you’re wondering if he’s taken a wrong turn somewhere.
He hasn’t. He’s taken a lot in life, but this one is the right one.
“I always kept hoping for something on the other end of the curve too,” he says and you blink at him, not understanding, but Dean can’t stop himself to explain, just barrels on.
“I always thought, one more case. One more monster. Then I’m done. But the truth is, I wasn’t ever gonna be done. Living that life was a good way to stop myself from ever having to risk whatever came after.”
He feels breathless almost, but you are listening to him intently, and he needs to make himself understood, needs you to understand how similar you two are. How you’ve been looking for the same thing.
“And heaven… I don’t know, I think I was so terrified of what would come after, that heaven would have been just more of the same. Because allowing myself to want anything else, it just…”
And he’s not sure if you understand. He raises his hands, looks at them in a bid to make himself understood, and then yours go up, and you take his, hold them, almost as if to calm him. He looks back at your face. Your beautiful face. How could he have been so dumb and not seen it.
“Sam was always a good excuse not to get out,” he continues, and he feels something tight in his throat. It’s a mix of overwhelming love for his brother, and maybe some regret. But mostly love. “He was the excuse. Sammy didn’t need me. He was good on his own, too good, sometimes. But I needed him. Cause with Sam there, I never had to do anything else.”
He sees you trying to understand what he’s saying, trying to make sense of the mess of words he’s hauling at you. He loves you so much in that moment, so much that if he wasn’t dead already it would kill him all over.
“That’s why Sam didn’t show up,” he explains to you, and you tilt your head a little, so maybe he is starting to make sense. “He didn’t show up because I wasn’t supposed to use him as an excuse anymore.” You shake your head a little.
“Excuse for what, Dean?” you ask softly. But he can’t say it with words. Not really.
He steps closer, wraps your hands that are still intertwined with his around himself and then takes your face in both of his. You look up at him, and he thinks maybe you’re nervous too, or a little scared, but so is he, and maybe that’s okay.
“To avoid the things that scared me. But meeting you wasn’t scary,” he says, looking deep into your eyes, and it’s the only thing he wants to do for the rest of forever. “Falling in love with you wasn’t scary. It was the easiest thing in the world.”
You blink, lashes fluttering, and Dean sees the tears in your eyes. You swallow, your lips move.
“Dean,” you say, voice cracking on those few letters. He waits, waits for you to say something. You press your lips together, still looking into his eyes. “I’m scared.”
He nods. Runs his thumb over your skin, encouraging you to continue.
“I’m scared it’ll hurt,” you say, and he understands you perfectly. “I’m scared of…” You take a sharp breath.
“I know,” Dean says. “Me too.”
You look at him, and then you nod too. Take another breath, slower this time.
“Okay,” you say, blink, and it makes a single tear dislodge from your eye. “Okay.”
What can Dean do but kiss you?
He didn’t know that’s what it would feel like. It’s terrifying. It’s perfect.
You pull him close, so close that it hurts, and while there shouldn’t be pain in heaven, he understands why it’s there. Why he can feel the way you press your fingers against him, why he can feel the burn of his own tears in his eyes.
Because it’s part of it. Because it makes the feeling complete.
It’s a week or a year or a second later. John and Mary’s garden again.
The party is endless. No one gets tired, they never run out of food. No one gets too drunk. If you need a minute, you go inside or walk out to the road. Throw a ball for one of the dogs. You might see a deer in the woods. Freeze and look at it. Wonder if it’s a soul or set dressing.
Dean moves his hand, his fingers brushing over the back of yours before he interlocks his fingers with yours. The deer’s ear twitches, but it doesn’t bolt. Just stands there, in a beam of sunshine, like it doesn’t have a care in the world.
Dean turns his head, looks at you. There’s a soft smile on your face as you watch the beautiful animal, before you turn, look at him.
You’ll go back to the party soon. The dogs, the family, old and new. But for a moment, Dean just wanted to walk along the road with you, listen to the quiet all around. Not alone, not lonely. But a third thing that he hasn’t found the word for yet.
He pulls you close, and you lean your head against his shoulder. There’s a soft breeze. The deer’s ear twitches again, and then it starts walking away. After a while, Dean and you move.
Keep walking down the road, back towards all the sounds and laughter. Round the curve, and you do it holding hands.