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Dean Winchester died for the first time at 26.
John sent him on a solo hunt, looking into the bony remains of a couple in Iowa. Talking to some witnesses had led him to a warehouse, where he found a rugaru. It sunk its teeth into neck, tearing at his jugular vein. Dean felt the sharp sensation, then an increasingly erratic thumping in his ears, and then nothing.
In the nothingness— in the silence and darkness, the first thing Dean noticed was the heaviness of his eyelids. The tiredness was not new to him: his endless nights of research by his father's side had drilled into him early on the importance of working until exhaustion, only sleeping when it as absolutely necessary. Better he suffer through the sluggishness and headaches than cause more deaths as whatever monster they were hunting sought out its next prey.
It was selfish, John always said, to think otherwise. And Dean was not the selfish brother. He may be the fuck up of the family, but at least he didn't leave.
What was new to him, however, was the overwhelming sense of calm pressing down on him. Tranquility. Peace, even. The sensation carried itself from his blissfully empty mind to the rest of his body. Dean's jaw was slackened, stopping his habitual teeth grinding. His permanently clenched fists relaxed, fingernails no longer digging their crescent-shaped cuts into his palms. Even the pain in his lower back from being thrown against the wall last week by a particularly hostile djinn seemed to fade into non-existence, until all Dean felt was the impossibly neutral feeling of absence.
Faintly, Dean was aware of unsettling novelty of this peace. The discomfort of something you haven't had the chance to grow accustomed to, like boots not yet worn in cutting at your heels, making them red raw. It didn't suit him, he thought.
Opening his eyes was a deceptively difficult task: calmness crashed over him like turbulent waves, their full force lulling him into dormancy. His eyes fluttered open as the silence shifted into the static tuning of a radio. The familiar opening chords of Bob Dylan's 'Knockin' On Heaven's Door' began to sound out. He took a moment to adjust to the scene before him. It was dim, with only the pale moonlight casting a sheen on the dashboard.
He was in Baby, the car's interior was immediately recognisable. Dean looked to his right. The passenger side was empty— no Dad, no journal, nothing. Reaching with his left hand, he fumbled lethargically at the handle, before pushing the door open to get out. His legs tingled slightly as he pulled himself up.
A long, unlit stretch of road continued past where the moon and his headlights would allow him to see. Where was he? Everything was so incredibly nondescript it was almost comical. How many nights has he spent on some dimly-lit country road with the Impala's engine thrumming beneath his feet?
The sound of the trunk slamming shut made Dean almost jump out of his skin. Before he could react, he heard an achingly familiar voice shout, 'Come on, let's go!'
Sammy— and he was Sammy, short and scrappy and definitely not the eighteen years old Dean last saw him as— stood by the trunk. He held a box overflowing with fireworks, firecrackers and all sorts of, possibly illegal, pyrotechnics. Dean watched as his brother picked out the two largest fireworks and placed the box down on the field.
'Weird dream,' Dean murmured to himself, following his brother off the gravel road.
'Got your lighter?' Sam asked, overeager with childhood wonder, almost like he was five years old again and not thirteen.
Dean reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his old lighter.
'Woah, I haven't seen this in years.'
'Fire 'em up,' Sam said.
He carefully lit Sam's wick first, and then his own. Both of them lifted their fireworks to the sky and watched as they set off, shooting into the sky with high-pitched whines. They exploded into glowing sparks, which cast a red glow across the field.
'I remember this,' Dean marvelled as more fireworks exploded above them. 'It's Fourth of July 1996.'
Dean liked to think he slept best when he didn't dream, when the nightmares of the fire that killed his mom didn't burn away at his soul. But really, when he's as close to peace as he can get, Dean dreams of this night. Of the way Sam's face lit up when Dean brought a box of fireworks haphazardly swiped from the shelves of a local convenience store back to the motel room. Of Sam's animated chatter on the drive out to the field. Of the way Sam hugged him tight afterwards and thanked him for the best night ever, and for not letting Dad ruin it for once.
Dean's chest ached as he watched Sam's face as it was lit up by fireworks, so bright and full of joy. He wondered if this is how Sam felt all the time at Stanford, now that he's away from the life— from Dean.
Why's Dean reliving this now?
He thought back to his last memories before this. The pain. He figured, with a startling calmness, that he's dying— maybe even already dead.
He can't find it in him to mind, not really. He went out exactly as he lived. Dean wondered if that's the point of this memory: his brain is trying to ease him into the void whilst some of it is still functioning.
'Dean Winchester,' a deep voice rumbled from behind him.
He immediately turned on his heel, reaching for the knife in his belt with haste born out of years of necessity and relentless practice. His fingers closed around nothing. That's right— that night Sam begged him to leave his weapons behind, so they could be a normal family for once.
Standing there in front of him, close enough for him to feel the radiating body heat, was a stranger.
He sported a beige trench coat over a crumpled suit with a loose blue tie hanging inverted. His dark hair was carelessly tousled. But none of that was of any particular notice to Dean.
His eyes, icy blue and sharp, immediately met Dean's, widening slightly but otherwise unnervingly severe.
Dean's met a lot of people in his life, but, he thought with a burst of certainty, he'd remember if anyone ever looked at him like this. The man's eyes bore into him— not hostile, not critical, but unabashedly observing. As if Dean was some centre-piece statue in a museum exhibit, perfectly positioned to appeal to visitors, to be studied, to captivate.
The man's thinly veiled fascination was unrelenting. And, frustratingly, he seemed content to continue their exchange in silence.
'Who the hell are you?' Dean gritted out, forcing himself to take a step back and dig his heels into the soft mud of the field. Not that any distance put between him and this man decreased the intensity of his stare.
The man wasn't fazed.
'My name is Castiel. I'm an Angel of the Lord.' There it was again, that voice. Dean shivered at the gruff tone, its abruptness cutting him deep.
Dean tried to snort, a stubborn act of defiance in the face of this entire situation. Instead he gave out a shaky exhale.
'Yeah, right. And I'm Jimmy friggin' Page.'
The man— Castiel— just furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head.
'You're Dean Winchester,' he asserted. This time, Dean properly snorted. He couldn't help it, seeing Castiel's face further contort in confusion.
'There's no such thing as angels.'
Castiel stepped forward, angling his head slightly upwards to still keep eye contact. 'You know that you are dead. You know you're reliving a fond moment from your life. Yet, your lack of faith stops you from believing in angels or heaven. Just where do you think you are?'
Dean said nothing. Castiel matched Dean's stubborn silence, and then, 'Believe it or not, Dean, but heaven has plans for you. You have a role to fulfil.'
Dean heard himself choking on his response. 'What role?' He managed.
'You'll see soon enough,' Castiel said, 'but you need to be alive to do it.'
Dean wrenched himself from his and Castiel's staring match, and looked back at the memory behind him. Sam remained staring up at the fireworks lighting up the sky, blissfully ignorant to his brother's conversation with the angel.
Quiet, Dean asked, 'Can't I just stay here for a little while longer?'
Castiel's face softened, almost imperceptibly. Dean thought the hard lines in his forehead become fainter, not that he was paying much attention to the angel's face. Not at all.
'You'll see your brother soon enough.' Dean wasn't convinced. When he didn't respond, the angel added in a reassuring tone, 'I promise.'
But, despite his persistent anger, Dean hopes a little that he doesn't, that Sam can stay like that a little while longer.
'Nice meeting you, I guess,' Dean huffed out, turning to look back at Castiel.
Castiel tilted his head again, taking a long moment to examine Dean before he responded, 'I have enjoyed our meeting, too.'
The angel lifted his hand to Dean's forehead to place a delicate finger there. Dean instinctively closed his eyes.
The next time he opened them, Dean found himself lying on the floor of the warehouse, the rugaru charred next to him. He pushed himself up, trying to recall the fight's end, and with the faint impression of ice-blue imprinted in his mind.
—
The next time Dean Winchester meets the angel Castiel, it's much of the same. He doesn't remember that time— or the one after that. He wouldn't know this, but each time is a little easier. Each time Castiel appears in his memory, Dean feels a little less apprehensive, finds the angel a little more soothing.
When Castiel thunders into that barn, Dean sinks Ruby's blade into his chest. He listens to Castiel's threatening assertions and feels an acceptable amount of terror. But, when recounting their conversation later, Dean thinks that there just might be something about the angel that he could trust.