Chapter Text
The sun is just setting when he pulls up to the bridge, dust clouding behind him, and Baby rumbling quietly as she coasts to a stop right in the middle. The final iteration of “...don’t you cry no more…” cuts off when Dean kills the engine, pulls out the key, and opens her door with a familiar creak.
After listening to the song a dozen times over, its absence is jarring. The rustle of the wind through the trees behind him should be soothing, but it makes his skin prickle with trepidation. His initial excitement over seeing Bobby again and seeing Baby, gleaming underneath the (perfect) afternoon sun, feeling her familiar purr under his hands, has faded. In its wake, he feels slightly nauseated, like the morning after a rough night. His muscles tense subconsciously, the way they always does on a hunt, right before something attacks.
Dean walks to the side of the bridge, taking in a deep breath and forcing a smile. Even in Heaven and at peace, his body still doesn’t know any better. His muscles won’t unclench, his eyes can’t stop tracking every movement in the river and the woods surrounding him.
The bridge looks familiar, its metal railings overlooking a shallow river, reminding him, with a pang of nostalgia, of his and Sammy’s first hunt after Stanford. The Woman in White, looking over her shoulder at them from her perch on the railing, skin glowing in the pale moonlight and her dress flowing around her as she tipped forward and down into the darkness below. The hunt that started it all, fueled by a late-night tussle and “Dad’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days." It would end with another fire, another tragedy, and Sam’s face, tight with grief, as he forcefully loaded a shotgun, threw it in the trunk, and said hollowly, “We got work to do.”
It was strange that he should be reminded of such terrible moments from his life while he was meant to be at peace in Heaven, but there it was. The happiest times in his life had always stemmed from tragedy and had always led right back to it.
Dean leans against the railing and closes his eyes against the memories, cutting off the river below him and the forest surrounding this solitary bridge like tidal waves waiting to crash over him. The warmth from the sunset kisses his face and his smile grows as he feels something shift. A displacement of air, the soft inhalation of a breath. It’s him.
“Hey there, Sammy,” he mutters, eyes still closed, but knowing, always knowing, when his brother is beside him. He breathes out and turns. The sick feeling in his stomach dissipates instantly and shifts to a squirming thrill of pure euphoria at seeing his brother again, like a shot of adrenaline to the heart.
Sam stands frozen behind his left shoulder, looking like he hasn’t aged a day since that night in the barn, when his eyes were red-rimmed with tears trailing freely down his cheeks. In grief. Always so much grief. His cheeks are wet this time, too, but for a different reason.
“Dean,” Sam acknowledges in a strangled voice. He swallows heavily and struggles to fight back tears with the stubbornness of a man beyond his years.
Dean smiles at the thought. He wishes he could have seen Sam as an old man, hair thinned and skin wrinkled. He reaches out and clasps Sam behind the neck, a gesture done a thousand times in their lives, squeezing him before pulling him into a tight embrace. After a brief pause, Sam slowly lifts his arms up as well, patting Dean’s back twice and then enveloping Dean completely into his still-freakishly long arms, hugging him back just as desperately.
They remain like this for much longer than usual, just soaking each other up in a way that they had rarely done when they were alive. When they draw back, they don't really separate, as Dean keeps an arm around his brother, pulling him over to lean against the railing so they can look at the perfect sunset together.
Dean glances at Sam, who looks completely awed by the beauty of the horizon, the rush of the river, and the relief of this moment. Sam doesn’t look back but that’s okay. Dean’s smile feels like it is splitting at the seams, so wide that it is almost uncomfortable. He turns back to look at the treeline, where the sun is still sinking.
He is happy. He is so freaking ecstatic. Sam is here and the sun is beautiful and warm. They can see Mom and Dad. They can see everyone they’ve lost and there will be no guilt or shame or pain. Everything will be new and restored. Everyone will be happy. This is Heaven. He has a Roadhouse. His family and friends will visit his bar where he will make drinks and have an old-fashioned juke box playing the best hits. Maybe a live band on occasion. He wonders if he can reach out to long-dead musicians and bands. Surely, at least a couple of them have made it to the good place. His stomach swoops at the thought of meeting David Bowie or John Bonham. Maybe he can call in a favor to Jack. His cheeks ache from smiling so much and he glances back at Sam, who is staring blankly ahead.
“So,” Dean starts and Sam jumps, turning back to him and looking guilty. “Already tired of me, little brother?” Dean teases lightly, grinning. Fuck, he is so happy.
Sam flushes and shakes his head, looking shyly down at his hands, which are laced together on the top of the railing. “Shut up, Dean,” he mutters. “It’s all just,” he pauses, licking his lips. “Overwhelming.” He looks back up at Dean. “I mean, we got into Heaven, man. You and me.” He chuckles weakly. “How did that happen?”
Dean shrugs. “Beats me,” he admits, but then remembers. “Well, I talked to Bobby—”
“Bobby?” Sam interrupts, face lighting. “You’ve seen Bobby?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. “He, uh, welcomed me to Heaven, I guess is the best way to put it. He was the first person I met here.”
Sam turns back to the view, a smile breaking out on his face. “Bobby,” he mutters. “I really missed him.” He looks back at Dean. “I mean, you know, our Bobby.” He gestures between the two of them. “The Bobby we grew up with. Not that I didn’t appreciate the other Bobby, but he just wasn’t…”
“...ours,” Dean finishes with a grimace, looking at his hands as well.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees quietly.
“Anyway,” Dean says loudly to break the tension. “Yeah, he said that Jack fixed everything up here.” He fidgets. “Well, Jack and Cas.” He looks back up at the river. “Heaven is what we make it now. And everyone is together.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam smile.
“Sounds perfect,” Sam breathes, blinking rapidly, his throat working.
Dean stares at him for a long moment, drinking in the image of Sam, safe and happy and at peace beside him. He swallows heavily and blinks back the burning in his eyes.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat roughly. “So, ah, tell me about your life, Sammy,” he smiles back at his brother. “You ever get married? Kids? I know you couldn’t of stayed a virgin forever."
Sam barks out a laugh. “Man, shut up. You were the one who didn’t have sex for, like, two years before you died. You were practically a born-again Christian.”
Dean makes a face. “Yeah, doesn’t work like that, Sammy. Else, your hymen would’ve restored itself a long time ago.”
“Screw you, Dean,” Sam says, chuckling. “I had Eileen. Your right hand doesn’t count.”
“You didn’t have sex for, like, ten years, dude!” Dean exclaims, grin splitting his face. “I threw women at you at least twice a week and you spent your time researching.”
“To save your sorry ass,” Sam points out.
“To save our collective asses,” Dean counters. He turns to the sun, eternally resting lazily just above the tree-line, making the day just perfect. “And you didn’t answer the question. Did you ever have kids?”
Sam’s grin turns soft as he looks at Dean. He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. I have a boy.” He looks back at his hands, wringing them over the railing. “His–his name is Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes and nudges Sam with a shoulder. “As if you could’ve named him anything else.”
Sam shrugged. “True. I mean, Garth did take Sam and Castiel.” He meets Dean’s eyes. “I think he knew to save your name for me.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t save Sam for me,” Dean gripes, shaking his head. “Tell me about Dean Jr,” he insists and then grimaces. “Please don’t tell me you made him a ‘junior.’”
Sam snorts. “Nope, no. But, we did make him the Second,” he says, glancing up at Dean from where he hunches over, leaning on the railing.
Dean nearly chokes on…well, nothing. “You what?” he breathes in horror, eyebrows climbing.
Sam starts laughing, full-bellied and loud. Dean feels warm. Happy.
“I’m joking, man. Can you imagine? Dean Winchester, the Second,” Sam emphasizes the last word dramatically.
Dean rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah.” He lifts the cold beer in his hands to his lips and drinks deeply. Then, blinks and stares at the bottle in surprise. “Where the hell did this come from?”
“It’s Heaven, man,” Sam points out, holding up one of his own with a grin. “You’re welcome.” He drains half of the bottle in one gulp and Dean scoffs, turning away and trying not to look impressed.
“Anyway,” Sam continues, smacking his lips and picking at the label. “I swear that kid was yours,” he chuckles, eyes glazing in fond remembrance. “He was just as much of a pain in the ass as you were as a kid. Smart. Really smart. But, also, street-smart, you know?” he asks Dean, who nods, already completely enraptured. He is so happy.
“And that combination for a kid just spells trouble,” Sam goes on, shaking his head and smiling warmly.
Dean makes a noise of agreement, taking another swig of the perfectly-chilled beer, and thinking of Claire. The sunset is beautiful.
“Like, seriously, man, there was this one time—” Sam starts and Dean’s face hurts again from how much he is smiling, staring at his brother as he talks about the younger Dean, gesticulating and laughing. Sam’s words slur together in a comforting hum and Dean is content to just watch him and listen to the rhythm of his voice.
“Dean?”
Dean jumps, startled, focus snapping back to Sam, who is still talking and gesturing and chuckling, still completely immersed in whatever scandal Dean the Second had caused him. Dean frowns and glances around the bridge before looking back at his brother.
“Dean!”
This time, Dean is completely focused on Sam, so he knows at once that it hadn’t come from him. But, it is Sam’s voice calling for him. He straightens up and automatically reaches behind him for a weapon, surprised when he feels the familiar cold metal of a gun that definitely hadn’t been there before. He immediately draws it, cocking the rifle to arm it and points it in the direction of where he’d heard the voice.
Sam stops talking. “Dean?” he asks, startled, voice deepening to a rasp as it usually does when they are threatened, like an animal bristling to scare off predators. “What is it?”
Dean doesn’t answer, straining to hear the voice again. Next to him, from Sam, he hears the rustle of clothing, then a click of a gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam with another rifle, covering his left flank and focusing on the same spot Dean is. His heart thunders under his ribs. They are in Heaven. They are at peace. They are happy. This isn’t supposed to be happening.
“Dean, hold on! I’ve got you. Hold onto my voice!”
Dean jerks around with the rifle, unsteadily pointing it at the sky, across the river, then out across it to the other side of the woods. The voice—Sam’s voice—sounds desperate, panicked and seems to echo from all around them. Beside him, Sam copies his movements, following where Dean is aiming, eyes darting around frantically.
“Dean?” he hisses, turning so they are back-to-back. “What is it?”
“Didn’t you hear that?” Dean asks warily, scanning the tree-line, the other side of the bridge.
“No? Hear what?” Sam whispers back, turning his head slightly to eye him.
Dean licks his lips, a heavy weight settling in his stomach. He is happy but something is wrong. Whatever it is may have snared Sam as well. “It sounded like you,” he tells Sam slowly.
Sam turns completely to him, gun tilted to point away from Dean but still aiming. “Dean,” he says, stilted. “There’s nothing there. I didn’t hear anything. You must be hearing things, man.” He slowly lowers the gun and gives him a weak smile. “Heaven a bit too much for you?” he teases.
Dean frowns. This isn’t like Sam. He wouldn’t just dismiss him. There are too many harmful elements in the world that have affected one brother but not the other. He doesn’t answer and they both stand in the silence for a long moment. Sam sighs.
“Dean,” he begins, eyeing him, uncertainly. “Look, man, I know it’s hard, adjusting to all of this, believe me, I know, but you–”
“Dean!”
“Sam!” Dean yells back immediately, lowering his gun and turning in a complete circle to look around. “Sammy!”
Beside him, Sam moves forward, holding out a hand placatingly. “Dean,” he says cautiously. “I’m right here, man.”
In one swift movement, Dean jerks his weapon up to aim at him. “Get back!” he growls, stepping forward, face hard.
Sam jerks back, stumbling slightly. “Wow, wow, Dean, hang on!” his voice lifts in panic. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Here,” he sets the rifle down, moving slowly and holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m unarmed. Just, talk to me, man! What are you hearing?”
Sam looks so infuriatingly sincere and concerned. Dean’s weapon shakes as his hands tremble, every instinct rebelling against pointing the gun at his brother. He knows this is all just wrong. But, why is it wrong?
(Because if this is Heaven, then where is everyone else?)
“Dean! Come back to me, man. Dean, wake up!”
The gun falls from Dean’s hands as his limbs suddenly go numb. He stumbles forward, managing to avoid falling on his face by hitting on his knees and slowly sinking to the ground. A weight descends over his body, pressing against his chest, and compressing his lungs. His ribs scream in protest.
“Dean!” This cry is closer, coming from the not-Sam, who slides down next to him, crouching over Dean’s body, face white. “What’s happening?”
Dean chokes, lungs trying to expand but restricted by the invisible weight, crushing him into ground, into his bones. If he could lift his arms, he would claw at his throat until it was bloody. His eyes burn and bulge, feeling like they are going to explode or pop out, just to alleviate the pressure on his head and body. His vision of Sam’s face, only a couple inches above his own, begins to blur and melt into another image, another Sam, this one flushed, face smeared with blood.
“Hey, hey,” this Sam says roughly, shaking him. Distantly, Dean could feel a hand slapping his cheek hard. He blinks, surprises himself that he can, and sucks a rattling breath into his starved lungs. It is like a dam breaks and, just like that, he can breathe again. He takes in deep gulps of air, panting heavily as his lungs eagerly fill. Tears, formed from the lack of oxygen, spill down his cheeks and the burn in his eyes eases. He blinks rapidly to clear them.
“That’s it, man, that’s it,” Sam encourages, hands running over Dean’s body, gripping and massaging his throat, arms, and torso. “Keep breathing. You’re gonna be okay.” Sam’s face is partially in shadow, darkness all around them as a single beam of light glares in their direction from a couple feet away.
As feeling trickled back into his limbs, Dean realizes that he is freezing. His limbs tremble and his fingers ache fiercely as icy numbness flares up and begins to fade. It feels like a thousand fire ants are gnawing into his skin. He’s had worse. He’ll live. But, seriously, what the hell just happened? There are black spots dancing across his vision. His head spins as reality sets back in. He breathes heavily, slumped on a cold floor, and tries to register the new place he finds himself in.
Except, it isn’t new. Memories—real ones—ooze back into his mind. The pie festival. Going back to the bunker. Immediately passing out for a few hours. Waking up to a note from Sam, telling him that Jody called about a case involving a bunch of missing kids and a handful of bloodless bodies left behind. A vampire nest, most likely. He’d gone to help Jody and Donna, taking Cas’s old truck.
‘There’s already three of us,’ Sam pointed out when Dean had called, pissed about being left behind. ‘You were in a pie-coma, man. Figured it’d be best to let you rest, for once. Just relax—catch up on Dr. Sexy. There’s a new season on Netflix.’
Though Dean had refused to admit it, he’d needed the downtime. He hadn’t slept through the night since all the shit went down with Chuck. But, in a childish fit of rebellion, he’d found a case for himself, and jetted off on a ten-hour solo-trip to take down a djinn. Which he’d apparently failed miserably at.
His vision is starting to clear and as he struggles to reconcile those real memories with the djinn-induced delusions, he feels completely thrown off-kilter. The vampires stealing the children. Sam and Dean tracking them to an old barn. The searing pain of the rebar sinking into his back during the fight. Coughing up blood. Dying. Heaven. None of it, real. But, where did it start? Was the pie even real? His stomach turns and he swallows heavily.
With Sam’s help, he manages to sit up, shaking and sick. Sam drapes a coat over his shoulders, but Dean makes a face and bats him away.
“I’m fine, Sam!” he snaps and then clutches his head when the world tilts.
“A djinn,” Sam sighs, grabbing Dean’s shoulder to steady him. He shrugs his jacket back on. “You got caught by a djinn because you went on a hunt by yourself.” He straightens the denim fussily. “Like a complete fucking moron,” he finishes coldly.
Dean blinks slowly and glances around. They are in a large, crypt-like area that seems vaguely familiar. The floors are caked with grime, the ceiling too high to see without a light. He can hear something leaking, echoing across the space eerily. Shreds of rope lay around him, along with splatters of what must be djinn-blood. There is a silhouette crumpled motionless on the floor a few feet in front of them. In the lone beam of Sam’s flashlight, he can dimly make out an older woman’s face, framed by gray hair and streaked with blue tattoos. He turns away and shivers. Already, the warmth and brightness of the illusion, the Heaven, is fading, leaving a hollow feeling in his stomach. It can’t be just him, though. It is definitely cold down here.
“Eh,” Dean shrugs, trying to push the feeling aside. He raises his tingling arms above his head and arches his back to stretch out the ache in it. “Been there.”
Sam glares at him. “You were gone for a long time, Dean. No one knew where you were. It took us weeks to find you. We had everyone on the lookout.”
“Hey, I left a note!” Dean protests, flexing his hand and shaking it.
Sam scoffs. “With no relevant information! You just—” he breaks off and turns away, jaw working. He lets out a breath that whistles through his teeth. “You can’t just run off with no backup because you’re pissed that I went on a job without you. You should have waited for me to get back!”
Dean scowls. “Dude, it was supposed to be a freakin’ milk run! After all the crap we’ve faced, this was a cake walk.” He grimaces, rubbing his forehead. “Lucky bitch just got the drop on me,” he mumbles, embarrassed.
“Does this look like a cake walk to you?” Sam snaps, gesturing at the rope, the dead creature, the spattered blood. “Weeks, man! You screwed up, okay? You made the wrong call.”
Dean aggressively massages his hands even though the numbness has already faded.
Sam huffs and sits down, running a hand down his face and taking in a deep breath. ‘Mindful breathing’ is what Sam calls it. Supposed to alleviate stress or some other crap. Sam once tried to teach it to him, but Dean had made it very clear that he was just fine ‘alleviating his stress’ with a bottle of scotch.
“Dean,” Sam starts and Dean closes his eyes, groaning.
“Dude, come on, no chick flick moments. This wasn’t even a close call,” he whines.
For a moment, Sam’s face tenses in that familiar way it does before he starts shouting. But, the moment passes and he just looks sad. “Look,” he continues. “This life is still dangerous even if it doesn’t involve the apocalypse or Lucifer or God.” He looks at Dean’s fidgeting hands. “We’re still human. One slip and it’s all over and there’s no coming back for us this time.” He looks back up at Dean, his forehead pinching. “And we didn’t go through fifteen years of hell, fighting Chuck for the chance to lead our own lives, only to have it all end just weeks after we defeated him. That’s just stupid, man.”
Dean stills, lungs freezing in mid-breath, and his scattered memories from the djinn’s illusion—dying and Heaven—wash over him all at once. He breathes out and is suddenly shivering again. He thinks of the barn, the tearing pain of the rebar, impaling him, blood dripping from his mouth. Sam’s face, tear-stained and terrified, flashes before his eyes. Begging him. “Don’t leave me.” His own response, choked with tears and blood, but, somehow, relieved, “I need you to tell me it’s okay.”
“You once told me you didn’t see a light at the end of this tunnel.” Sam’s voice shakes him out of his reverie. He looks at his brother to find Sam staring at him challengingly. “And I told you that I would lead you through it and I will. But you have to meet me halfway, man.” His gaze softens as he swallows heavily.
Dean almost shakes his head in denial. He almost opens his mouth to tell him the same things that he has told Sam for almost two decades. That he is tired. He doesn’t see a life for himself outside of the fight and the hunt. That all he wants is for Sam to have a family, grow old, and be happy. And, that he knows, has known for a long time, that Sam will never get that life while Dean is still fighting. And as long as Dean is alive, he will always keep fighting.
He almost tells him all of it, but then he sees the smear of djinn blood and is, again, reminded of that terrible moment in the barn. A djinn’s illusion, painted in misery to fade into the background of Dean’s life before coasting him into the only happiness he would allow himself to have, Heaven. The After. No shame or regret for the endless stream of ‘should haves’ he would leave behind.
“Don’t leave me. I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to.”
In the world that the djinn molded from Dean’s mind, his response was completely genuine. He would want to go. He would need his brother to let him go. Then, the fake-Sam had given his permission and Dean had died, listening to the sound of Sam’s despair.
Dean feels bile rising in his throat and has to blink back tears, clearing his throat to swallow the lump rising. Looking back on it now, it all seems so needlessly cruel. So pointless. He closes his eyes. He takes a breath. He looks over at Sam, who is staring blankly into the darkness, and scowls.
“Well, I don’t see anyone around. You come here by yourself, you friggin’ hypocrite?” he says pointedly, veering away from dangerous topics. “You wanna talk about my self-preservation, then maybe you should start with yourself. Because there ain’t gonna be a lot of time left for me if you get yourself killed, Sammy.”
Sam meets his eyes, holding his gaze for a long moment before ultimately deciding to drop the subject. He turns to grab the bloody silver knife from the floor, wiping it on a stained cloth.
“No,” he answers roughly, cleaning the knife in swift, deliberate strokes. “Ah, actually, that is something that we should talk about.” He slides the knife back in its holster and stands, offering Dean a hand. “There’s been some…changes since you disappeared.”
Dean grasps Sam’s hand and hauls himself up, stumbling into him before carefully shaking out his legs. In the flashing beam of Sam’s light, he sees the glint of a blade, laying harmlessly off to the side. He regards Sam warily.
“What kind of changes?” he asks suspiciously, not sure that he wants to know the answer. It’s rare that any news is good news.
Sam, noticing the weapon, shines his flashlight around that area, revealing a scattering of other things Dean had brought with him. A couple of broken vials that had contained holy water. A wooden stake. Other blades of varying metals. A stripped gun.
“It’s not bad,” Sam says quickly, picking up on Dean’s trepidation. “It’s really not.”
Dean reaches to sweep up what is left of his bag, which had been discarded sadly in a corner after being ransacked by the djinn, and begins stuffing it full.
“Then, just tell me, man,” he insists.
Sam leads the way to the exit, flashlight steady and a gun at the ready. Behind him, Dean opts for an angel blade over one of his two banged-up guns that probably need to be taken apart and rebuilt.
Sam sighs, and Dean can feel the signature bitch-face in that sigh even though he can’t see it.
“Well, you know how Jack said he would be a pretty hands-off god?” Sam asks, voice casual and deceptively innocent.
Dean’s lips turn down. He has no idea where this is going but can already feel his hackles rise. “Yeah, what about him?”
“Turns out he decided to do one last,” Sam pauses, apparently trying to parse through his gigantic brain for the right word, “...miracle? Before he officially stepped out.”
Tension gathers in Dean’s chest. Sam sounds worried and wary.
“Just spit it out, Sammy,” he says tiredly.
They walk up stone steps. Dean can feel the flutter of a cool breeze, the crisp, breathless smell of winter. The stairs exit directly to the outside world above. Beyond Sam’s light, Dean sees the pale glow of moonlight on the last few steps and, on the highest step, the shifting beam of another flash light. Someone is waiting outside for them.
“He brought people back,” Sam tells him, stopping before they start up the last section of steps. He looks at Dean. “Well, he brought some people back.”
Dean stares up at him from two steps below. “From the dead?” He shakes his head. “I don’t get it. He said that he—”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam interrupts, but doesn’t move farther up the steps. “But that wipe-out Chuck did on the people who weren’t supposed to be here? The one that we thought Billy was behind?”
Dean nods slowly.
“He found a way to reverse it,” Sam tells him. “I guess he was planning to do it all along but it just took a bit more time since, well, most of them were from the other universe.” Sam hesitates. “There are a couple others that came back, as well, who weren’t from Chuck’s purge. But, Jack, uh, he said it was only fair.” He meets Dean’s eyes. “For us to start with a clean slate before he backed off. They’re calling it the Last Revival.”
Dean stares at him, heart thudding. He shakes his head at Sam, impatient. “Well?” he barks, raising his arms. “You gonna keep me in suspense? Who did he bring back?” He can’t say the names because there are just so, so many people that they have lost over the years. “We talking recently-dead or—”
“Eileen,” Sam tells him, a smile breaking across his face like a beacon. It makes him look years younger. “Eileen’s back, Dean.”
Dean breathes out a sigh of relief, grinning up at his brother’s happiness. “That’s great, man. I mean, it makes sense, right? She was one of the purge-people.” He stares at Sam for a second. “Uh,” he pauses to clear his throat and rolls the angel blade between his hands, already knowing the answer. But, he has to ask. “Did he—what about Cas?”
He keeps his head down to avoid Sam’s expression, which, after more than a beat of silence passes, he knows will be soft with pity.
“Dean,” Sam begins and Dean understands, now, Sam’s trepidation in telling him the news.
Dean holds up a hand, shaking his head forcefully. “Nope, no. It’s fine.” He looks up at Sam and shrugs, aiming for nonchalance and knowing that his brother sees right through him. “Chuck didn’t kill Cas. He’s in the Empty. Not Heaven. So, there’s no…” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “There’s no coming back from that.”
Sam shifts, moving down to Dean’s step. “Well, actually,” Sam begins hesitantly. “Jack said he was going to try, Dean.” Dean shakes his head again. “Jack is working with other entities to—”
“No, Sam!” Dean snaps, suddenly pissed that Sam won’t stop. That he doesn’t get it. “It’s not going to happen, alright? It’s the Empty! That’s basically angel hell, man. People don’t just come back from that!”
“Cas came back from it once already, Dean,” Sam reminds him, infuriatingly calm and understanding.
Dean laughs weakly. “Yeah, because he was an annoying dick who—”
“He can do it again.”
“No, he can’t!” Dean talks over him harshly. He glares at Sam and points a finger at him. “That thing, whatever it is, won’t be making that mistake again. The Empty is outside of Jack’s control, you know that. So, just drop it, okay? We got Eileen back. We got—” he breaks off, not knowing who else.
Sam lets the silence stretch, his face crumpled, and Dean thinks, guiltily, that Cas was Sam’s best friend, too, his brother, his family, and is reminded that he isn’t the only one grieving in the wake of this renewed loss.
“Charlie. Our Charlie,” Sam offers quietly, still looking right at him. “And Maggie. Kevin.”
Dean’s frown in confusion. “They weren’t part of Chuck’s—”
“Hey, I’m not questioning it, man,” Sam says with a shrug. “He wants to bring more people back, I figure we deserve it after all the crap Chuck put us through.”
Dean looks back down, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. He jerks his head in approval. “Yeah, that’s good. What about Bobby? Mom and Dad?”
Sadly, Sam shakes his head. “I think it was just people who actually wanted to come back, you know? Mom, Dad, and Bobby? I think they’re all at peace.”
Dean nods, understanding that, even though it still aches. He tries not to think about Cas, alone in the eternal darkness of the Empty. It already feels like years since Cas had stood in front of him, the endless black creeping up his body, absorbing him. Through a film of tears, the last part of Cas that Dean had seen was his face, open and happy, closing his eyes and sighing in relief at having spoken his truth, even as tears trickled down his cheeks and the darkness consumed him.
“Happiness isn’t in the having. It’s in just being. It’s in saying it.”
Dean breathes for a long moment, swallowing rapidly to loosen the lump lodged in his throat. He is very aware that he and Sam are standing at the edge of a crypt in the middle of the night, having been down here for almost half an hour longer than they needed to be. He knows they should leave, get in the car, and warm up. He keeps breathing.
“Dean?” Sam says softly and he can imagine his brother’s expression, eyes dewy and sad.
“I mean, even if Jack could get him out,” Dean continues abruptly and Sam nods to show his understanding. “He wouldn’t come back here. Jack’s keeping the angels on lockdown in Heaven now with his no-touching policy.”
Sam has nothing to say to that. His lack of response or argument makes Dean’s insides turn to ice. Dean turns away from his pinched expression.
“Let’s get out of here, man,” Sam cajoles after a long moment, squeezing his shoulder. “It’s freezing.”
“Just give me a minute!” Dean snaps, glaring at the wall.
“Yeah, okay,” Sam returns, mercifully falling silent.
Dean hopes Cas is sleeping. He imagines that sleeping is the only tolerable way to exist within the Empty. He hopes it is peaceful. He hopes that, between an eternity of suffering or just ceasing to be, Cas is the latter, even if it hurts to think of him just…erased from existence. Nothing.
“Okay,” Dean mutters to himself because it is time to keep moving. He takes another breath and gives himself a small shake. “Okay,” he repeats to both himself and Sam, clearing his throat loudly to dispel the tension. He continues up the stairs past Sam. “Let’s go. Stop keeping us down here, Sam.”
Sam shuffles up behind him. As they reach the top, the stone ceiling gives way to a vast expanse of stars. Dean pauses and looks around, seeing the sweeping hay fields surrounding him. He remembers, now, when he was driving here, that it was raining and snowing, a disgusting slushy mix of ice, water, and mud. Now, the sky is clear, the breeze is cold yet gentle. The stars light up the world around them, like pinpricks beaming through a dark blanket.
“I was about to come back down there after you, shock factor be damned,” Eileen says from behind him. “You took too long.”
Dean turns and feels a genuine grin breaking out over his face as Eileen hurries towards them. She smiles and, without hesitation, throws her arms around him. He holds her tightly, surprised, because while he’s always liked Eileen, they never had the opportunity to become close friends.
He pulls back. “Hey, there, hot stuff,” he says, the stars lending enough light for them to see each other’s lips. “Ready to leave my brother and run away with me yet?”
Eileen chuckles, shaking her head. Sam straightens up, grimacing in discomfort from having crouched for so long in the stairway. He rolls his eyes.
“Really, man? That’s the greeting you’re going with?”
Dean lowers his voice so Sam won’t hear and draws closer to her. “You know I’ve told you that you’re way too good for him. Granted, you’re too good for me, too. But between the two of us, I have the best ass.”
Eileen narrows her eyes, stretching to look pointedly at said ass. She nods sagely. “That is true,” she allows.
“Hey!” Sam protests, apparently having heard them.
Dean’s grin loses its edge and becomes softer. He clasps her shoulder and squeezes it. “I’m glad you’re back,” he says seriously.
“You too,” she returns and then her expression becomes hard. “You were gone for too long. Don’t do that to your brother again. Don’t be a moron.” It is a command, blunt and unforgiving. Dean’s spine automatically straightens at the tone.
He gives a weak laugh, mind returning, painfully, to the taste of blood, metal piercing his chest and Sam sobbing, begging him not to go. “Yes ma’am,” he says, mouth dry, while giving her a playful salute.
Her expression dims slightly and falls into something melancholy. “I am really sorry about Cas,” she says, her face open and honest. “I know that he was your best friend.” She pauses and regards him. “Jack is going to try to get him out.”
From behind Dean, Sam opens his mouth and closes it, throwing a panicked look at his back before signing something quickly to Eileen. Eileen glances at Sam’s hands, brow wrinkling, and then promptly ignores him. She steps closer at Dean.
“Yeah, uh, I appreciate it, Eileen,” he says, jaw tight. “I really do, but—”
She puts a hand on his arm, looking him in the eyes and says, firmly, “Good things do happen, Dean.”
Dean stares back at her, expression blank as he remembers another person telling him that exact thing, over a decade ago. The memory lingers, painfully, before fading. His chest loosens and the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding, releases. It feels bittersweet. He looks back into her honest, dark eyes. She is alive, and Sam is happy. He thinks of Charlie’s smile and her, “Peace out, bitches.” He thinks of Maggie, full of hope and enthusiasm, and Kevin, serious and still so young. He thinks of Jack’s sheepish grin, “I’ll be around,” and nods slowly.
“Yeah. I guess sometimes they do.”
“Are you serious, Dean? Your djinn-dream started with you dying?” Sam says incredulously from the passenger seat on the way back to the bunker.
“Well, technically it started with us going on a hunt,” Dean points out. He licks his lips, jaw clenching. “I mean, there was Heaven, too, and that was pretty cool.”
Sam frowns thoughtfully. “I mean, all of our friends and family were dead,” he says slowly and looks back at Dean. “I guess it makes sense that you would want to see them again. Though I don’t know why this djinn didn’t just conjure up an alternate reality where everyone is still alive like the last one did.”
Dean shifts uncomfortably, avoiding his brother’s eyes.
“Did you see Mom and Dad?” Sam asks, smiling sadly.
Dean hesitates. “Actually, no.”
“No?” Sam repeats. His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “What about…Charlie or Jo or Ellen?”
“Ah—nope. No, they weren’t there either.”
“Cas?” Sam prods skeptically.
When Dean doesn’t answer, Sam shakes his head. “How was Cas not there? He’s an angel. You were in Heaven!”
“They were around,” Dean says, flustered. He frowns, staring out the windshield. “They just…weren’t there at the time,” he mumbles.
“Sounds great,” Sam deadpans.
“Hey, Bobby showed up for a minute!” Dean protests.
Sam arches an eyebrow.
“And then you showed up,” Dean adds, tapping his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.
Sam stares at him. “Unbelievable,” he breathes, scrunching his face in distaste. When Dean glares at him, he holds his hands up defensively and chuckles weakly. “Sorry, man, but that just sounds pretty lame.” He leans back and folds his arms. “It just…I dunno. Kinda sounds like something Chuck would cook up. Just you and me. No one else. I mean, really?” He scoffs, slumping.
Dean scowls, unsettled and a little offended. He lets the matter drop and focuses on the sound of Baby’s rumbling, keeping his eyes ahead.
They are speeding down ninety-four, the only car on the road at nearly three in the morning. It’s strange to be back on an actual highway, one that looks just like the millions he’s driven on before, after ages spent traversing dirt roads on a perfect, warm day.
Sam originally intended to ride back with Eileen, but after a pointed look from her and some quick signing that Dean couldn’t keep up with, he’d climbed in next to Dean without complaint. Her car, a faded red pickup, had fallen pretty far behind the Impala as if she wanted to give them space even on the road. According to Sam, Eileen typically maintains the speed that gives her optimal fuel efficiency. Dean mentally snorts at the thought. No wonder they got along so well, damn hippies. So, while she trucks along at a humble sixty miles-per-hour, Dean is pushing eighty and probably twenty miles ahead of her, already.
Dean sighs when he feels Sam’s stare burning into the side of his head. “What?” he snaps.
Sam shrugs one shoulder. “I just still can’t believe that your djinn-induced paradise started with you dying,” he mumbles.
“Oh, for the—it’s not that big of a deal, Sam,” he mutters, reaching across the console to fish a tape out of the glove compartment. He has to swat Sam’s knees out of the way to wedge the panel open.
Sam shrugs one shoulder and turns back to look ahead. “Just explains a lot about the way you’ve been acting.” He pauses and regards Dean thoughtfully. “Well. How you’ve always acted.”
“Oh no, we’re not going back to this,” he tells Sam, struggling to fit the cassette into the player while keeping a hand on the wheel. “This conversation already played out in the last scene, remember?”
“Dean, this conversation has played out at least a dozen times for the past decade,” Sam retorts. “And it never changes. You never change.”
Dean scoffs and pushes the tape in, cranking up the volume. “Sorry to disappoint, man.” The opening notes of ‘Eye of the Tiger’ blare out of the speakers, drowning out Sam’s response. Success. But, just as the vocals start, the song is abruptly cut off. Dean shouts in protest.
“What the hell? You don’t get to touch the music! The driver controls, remember?” he barks, glaring at Sam for shattering the etiquette that has been their gospel for years.
“Watch the road,” Sam commands absently and Dean’s eyes automatically flick back ahead. With his attention diverted, Sam ejects the tape and tosses it in the back seat, shutting and pressing his knees against the glove compartment for good measure.
“Sam—!” Dean stutters, outraged. He glances over at his brother again before looking away, furiously staring at the road. His jaw tightens and he grips harder at the wheel. He takes a deep breath and says, in a deadly-calm voice, “I am about five seconds away from leaving your shapeless ass in a ditch.”
“Just stop, Dean!” Sam yells and Dean falters, looking at him in surprise. Oh, Sam is pissed. Not just bitchface-pissed but genuinely upset with him. “Look, all of this is exactly what I was talking about in the djinn’s crypt. Yes, you never change!”
“I’ve changed,” Dean protests heatedly, a little confused and completely unimpressed by his brother’s tantrum.
Sam shakes his head, hair swinging. “Dude, we have been through fifteen years of shit. You’ve had a death wish since,” he pauses, mouthing moving as he considers, “Well, pretty much since Dad disappeared.”
“Yeah, that is not true,” Dean snaps. He adjusts the rear-view mirror to reflect the back seat, looking for that damn tape to see if it is within his reach.
“Yes, it is, Dean,” Sam says. “Remember when you got electrocuted? Your heart was going to give out and you just didn’t care.”
Dean’s brow furrows as he tries to remember which near-death experience Sam is referring to. There are way too many to sift through.
Sam watches him struggle. “It was, like, the tenth case we had after you came to get me from Stanford.”
Dean doesn’t answer. It still doesn’t ring a bell. Sam sighs. “The religious guy who thought he was a faith healer? His wife was using the Reaper?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, eyebrows lifting. “She was getting him to exchange one life for someone else’s or some crap like that?” He barks out a laugh. “Man, that was a long time ago. Good times,” he says wistfully, lips curving up.
Sam makes a face. “Uh…yeah, good times, okay,” he mutters. “My point is that you didn’t give a damn if you died, Dean. You were only, what, twenty-six at the time?”
Dean shrugs, glancing in the mirror as a gleam of light reflects on the plastic of the tape in the back seat. Found it. But, it is resting behind Sam’s seat, definitely out of his reach. Damn.
“That was before everything, Dean,” Sam continues, gesturing widely. “Before either of us were tortured in hell. Before Lucifer and Purgatory and Chuck.”
‘Before Cas,’ Dean thinks suddenly, mouth tightening.
“It was even before Dad died,” Sam speaks slowly as if just realizing it. He frowns and shakes his head.
Dean sighs, wishing he’d never told Sam any details about the djinn-fueled illusion.
Sam looks over at him and is silent for a couple of seconds. “You’ve always been this way, haven’t you? You have always had a death wish.” He pauses, forehead wrinkling. “That didn’t just form when everything started getting so bad.”
Dean focuses on the road, avoiding Sam’s devastated expression. He scoffs and shakes his head in denial. “No,” he says finally. “You’re looking too much into it. I don’t have a ‘death wish,’” he mocks and shrugs. “It’s just this life, man. It was always gonna end this way.”
“So, there’s no point in trying to avoid it?” Sam challenges, looking up at him. “There is no point in fighting for your life?”
“No—” Dean begins and cuts himself off, huffing in frustration. “Of course there’s a point. You see me laying down in front of a werewolf, asking them to rip my throat out? Hell, no. We always fight.” He pauses and stares determinedly back at the road. “But, it’s gonna happen, eventually.”
Sam laughs weakly. “Really? You are actually preaching to me about the inevitability of death? You?” he asks sarcastically and turns his head back to the road. He presses his lips together and clears his throat. “So, what I’m hearing is that you’re going to just accept it when it happens to me too, right?” He straightens up, glaring back at Dean, challenging.
Dean hisses a breath out through his teeth, squeezing the wheel again. “Sam—”
“It’s going to happen eventually, Dean, even to me,” Sam speaks over him. “So, you’re gonna let me go in peace, right?”
They are both quiet, the silence broken only by the purr of Baby’s engine, the wind whipping against the windows as she cuts through the still night. Finally, Dean sighs in acquiescence and looks back at Sam.
“That’s different,” he says dismissively, turning back to the road. “You know that.”
“No, I don’t.” Sam’s voice pitches with vehemence, bordering on a plea. “And, no, it isn’t, Dean. It isn’t different at all.”
Dean scoffs loudly and spins the wheel to the right, pulling off onto the shoulder of the road, laying on the brakes until Baby comes to a stop, dust clouding after her. Around them, the grassy fields sway in the wind. It is so dark that they can barely make out where the fields end and the sky begins. In the hours they have been driving, a mass of clouds has shut out the stars and the moon. There are no other lights. They could be the last one’s on earth and not even know it. He parks and kills the headlights but leaves the engine running, turning fully to Sam.
“You wanna know why it’s different?” he spits, just as angry as Sam was before. “Because I need you to be happy, Sam. That is my Heaven. It’s you, happy and safe, living a long, good life and dying peacefully when you’re almost a hundred!. I’ve told you that, man.”
Sam visibly bristles and opens his mouth but Dean cuts him off.
“You want a life outside of this. A family. I don’t!” Dean says, making a chopping motion with his hand. “It was never in the cards for me. And you aren’t gonna get that life if I’m still here, fighting the good fight, okay? We both know this.” Sam shakes his head but doesn't say a word. Dean speaks forcefully, anyway, “I’m the one who dragged you back into this mess, Sammy, and I’m the one who’s gonna haul your ass back out even if it freaking kills me, okay?”
Dean sucks in a breath after finishing, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.
"So that's what this is, then?" Sam says slowly, realization dawning. "You blame yourself for—what, everything?"
Dean drums his fingers, glaring out the window. "You got out of this life. You had a girlfriend who you were gonna propose to, Sam. You were gonna be a freaking lawyer. And I—" he breaks off.
"Dean, it was inevitable," Sam insists, shaking his head. "Azazel—he fed me his blood when I was a baby. He was always gonna come for me. Even if you hadn't come to Stanford. Even if Dad had never raised us the way he did. Hell, even if Mom had never died. It was just…" Sam stops and laughs weakly. "Well, it was always God's plan—Chuck's narrative—for it to happen."
"But I didn't wanna do it alone," Dean says, swallowing. "I didn't want to be alone. If I hadn't—"
"It wouldn't have changed anything, Dean," Sam says firmly. "I need you to know that."
Dean shakes his head in denial. "Sam, every time I have been out of the picture, you've moved away from this life. Found someone who can give you a normal life," he points out. "Jessica. Amelia. Why would this time be any different?"
Sam stares back at him, expression horrified, face white.
“Dean,” Sam rasps and stops, throat working. “How could you possibly think that I would prefer a life without my big brother over, what?” he struggles, reaching for the words. “Some apple-pie life with a wife and kids? That’s not me, Dean, not anymore.”
“It can be,” Dean insists, glaring out the windshield. “If you just—”
“If I just, what?” Sam demands. “Stopped hunting? Kicked you out of my life? That’s not going to happen.” He faces Dean fully, trying to catch his eye. “I don’t want that to happen, Dean. This is my life now, and I like it.” He winces at his own words and tilts his head consideringly. “Okay, maybe not all the time,” he allows. “But, this is the life I chose and continue to choose. With you.”
Dean shakes his head. “No. No, it’s not too late for you.”
“It is too late for me!” Sam insists heatedly, throwing up his hands. “Dean, this isn't just about you, either. I mean, I was tortured by Lucifer for over a hundred years. I single-handedly opened the gates of Hell. I lost my soul.” He speaks forcefully, impassioned, trying to get Dean to understand. “I have so much blood on my hands that I can’t even fathom getting married or having a child,” he says thickly. “I wouldn’t even know what to do with that, man.” He shakes his head, leaning back. “And it was never going to work out with Amelia. Not in the long-run.”
Dean averts his eyes, giving Sam a minute. He looks at his hands, knuckles white and aching from grasping the wheel so tightly. Sam gusts out a shaky sigh and turns back to him. In the dim light of the radio, Dean can see Sam’s pinched face. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, but when Sam speaks, his voice is steady.
“I don’t want that anymore, Dean,” he says firmly. “Whether that be because of trauma or my own desires or, I dunno,” His voice pitches up sarcastically at the end, one hand lifting in a half-shrug. “I do have a life with Eileen now, who also has no desire to stop hunting. Did you forget about her?”
Dean turns away because of course he had forgotten about Eileen. Until just a couple hours ago, he’d still thought she was dead. As far as his djinn-addled mind had known at the time, she was out of the picture. His cheeks flush as he remembers the life he had conjured for Sam. Strangely, in Heaven, he hadn’t seen the montage that was Sam’s life, but now they come to him easily. A faceless wife who lingered idly on the blurred sidelines. A boy for Sam to play catch with and help him with his homework and hold his hand when he died. The warm glow saturating these fake memories fades and, in the wake of Sam’s distaste for such a life, they feel cheap and one-dimensional.
Sam regards him. “So, there you have it,” he says, coolly. “I guess you’ll have to find another reason to die a martyr because it sure as hell won’t be for me.” He reaches back to grab the abandoned tape from the back seat, and offers it to Dean.
Dean takes it, numbly. He feels completely off-kilter and wonders, as he sometimes does, just how much he really knows his brother. He stares hollowly out the windshield, the air thick with tension.
“Dean?” Sam prods.
Dean ignores him, flicking the headlights back on in hopes that Sam will get the message. When Sam repeats his name, he sighs heavily and reaches up to rub his forehead. ‘Please, no more,’ he thinks, head throbbing.
“Can’t we just be done with this BM scene, Sam?” he moans, feeling drained. “If we keep going, I’m gonna have to get a pint of Ben and Jerry’s for the ride back.”
Sam’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “Bowel movement?”
“No!” Dean snaps, looking up at him. “The bro moment.” When Sam stares at him blankly, he gestures wildly between them like that will help jog his brother’s memory. “You know, the— the bro moment! Feelings stuff? From that case at the school where they did some musical about us? That was a big moment!”
“Oh,” Sam breathes out a soft laugh and the tension eases, a bit. “Yeah, I remember.” He smiles faintly, looking down at his lap. “I wouldn’t call it a big moment, though.”
“It stood out.”
“It was a moment.”
Dean scowls. “Come on, dude, it was pretty cool.”
Sam looks back up at him. “Yeah, okay, but also pretty lame.”
“Eh,” Dean allows, turning back to look at the beams from Baby’s headlights. There are tiny specks of dust still floating lazily in front of them, shimmering faintly in the light. “Kinda lame. But it had its moments.”
“Like I said,” Sam sasses back and Dean rolls his eyes.
He shoves the cassette back in the player, but Sam’s hand darts out to stop him before he can crank up the volume. He looks at Dean.
“I’m just going to say one more thing. Just one more thing,” he repeats the last part emphatically as Dean groans, banging the back of his head against his seat.
Dean turns to him and sighs heavily. “One more thing, Sam. In ten words or less. I don’t have to respond.” He jabs a finger threateningly at his brother. “We are not having part three of this crap in the six hours of road time we have left.” He pauses. “And, I’m not talking to you for, like, a month after this, man, seriously. Those are my terms.”
Sam doesn’t react to the light-hearted rant. He looks Dean in the eyes, completely serious, brow furrowed and chin raised. “I want you in my life, Dean, I do. But, you?” He takes a deep breath, bracing himself, and Dean stiffens. “You have got to stop centering your entire life on—” he shakes his head and scoffs, “Well, on me. My safety and happiness.”
Dean chokes out a mocking laugh. “Really, Sam? You honestly think—”
“I don’t think, Dean, I know,” Sam says calmly. “You just said it yourself.” He pauses for a moment, catching Dean’s eyes meaningfully. “You gotta start making your own story, man. That’s what all of it was for, remember?”
Dean bites back another bark of mirth because, seriously, ‘all of it’ is the reason he has no idea what Sam is spouting. He bites back the scornful words, ‘What does that even mean?’ because he is so done with this extended heart-to-heart and doesn’t want to start Sam up again.
Sam isn’t finished, of course, because he never is. “And I know you like the hunt and nothing's gonna stop you from ‘fighting the good fight’…”
“This is more than ten words,” Dean groans, reaching up to run his hands tiredly down his face.
“...but you gotta have a life outside of it, too,” Sam finishes, looking at him closely.
Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel, trying not to squirm under the scrutiny and pretends to mull it over. “Okay, are we done?”
Sam sighs, long-suffering as always, and turns away. “Sure.”
Dean turns to him, giving him a cocky grin. “Awesome.” His hand moves to the gear shift and he clears his throat pointedly. “So, ‘a life outside hunting,’ that’s your prescription, Dr. Phil?” Sam glares at him but Dean’s smirk doesn’t falter. “Does this mean that we can take that beach trip I always wanted? Get some of those fruity umbrella drinks and slather on the sunscreen?” He leers. “Mack on the spring-breakers who are almost half our age?”
Sam’s face softens, and his lips twitch. “If that’s what you want, man, we’ll make it happen.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head and pulling out into the road. “It could happen,” he muses. “I have aged like fine wine.” He gives Sam a quick one-over. “It’s a good thing you’re already taken, though.”
Sam ignores the jab, smiling back at him, his expression warm.
Dean bites his lower lip, grinning, and actually considers it. A picture forms in his mind: a cloudless sky, sun beaming down on them, waves frothy and constantly shifting. Lounge chairs pulled up to the water, toes in the sand. Him and Sam and Cas—
The image flickers out immediately and the air is suddenly gone from his lungs. There is a sharp stab in his chest, as cold and clean as a dagger, that melts away just as quickly as it flared up. He keeps breathing, only a couple beats after he’d stopped, but feels sick.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam, the asshole, prods and, oh no, they are not getting into this again.
Dean clears his throat and keeps going, flooring it so they hit eighty-five in a matter of seconds.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says easily, giving Sam a crooked grin as he reaches out to crank the knob to full volume. The cassette, having run through Eye of the Tiger while the volume was down, proudly blares out its next song.
“I can hear them say…carry on my wayward son!”
Sam hums appreciatively. “Good song.”
“Oh, hell no!” Dean snaps, mashing the eject key frantically and yanking the cassette out, tossing it over his shoulder without looking. He waves his hand impatiently at Sam, who looks completely dumbfounded.
“Grab me another one, Sammy.”
Kevin has parked himself at the map table, laptop open, books and reports covering every surface within a three-foot radius. This image is the first thing that greets Dean upon entering the bunker. He stops, dizzy surrealism clouding his head as another one emerges from many years ago, superimposing itself over the present. He blinks, eyes gummy, at seeing another Kevin, wearing a different shirt, seated in the same place, scrutinizing the words etched on a stone slab. It is jarring, to say the least, but Dean marches down the stairs and crosses the room in a few purposeful strides to grip Kevin’s shoulder.
“Still a giant nerd, then?” Dean remarks casually and Kevin jumps, upsetting a stack of papers and sending them scattering to the floor.
Kevin drops from his chair onto the floor, quickly grabbing at the fluttering papers, hissing, “Dammit, Dean, I had these in a very specific order.” He seems to realize what he’d said a moment later and looks up at Dean, clutching the messy pile to his chest. “Wait. Dean?”
“In the flesh.” Dean spreads his arms. “You too, looks like.”
Kevin stands, haphazardly balancing the uneven stack on the table before reaching to pull Dean in a tight embrace. Dean ‘oofs’ in surprise, breath nearly knocked out of him. He tentatively wraps his arms around the kid, patting him roughly twice on the shoulder. “Okay,” he murmurs, sounding embarrassed but is secretly pleased, lips curving up into a small smile. Something in his chest loosens for the first time since he’d stumbled upon Kevin’s body, lifeless and eyes scorched out, on that horrible day so many years ago.
“We thought you might be dead, man,” Kevin laughs, pulling back to look at him.
Dean scoffs. “Please. I thought you had more faith in me than that,” he gripes. “You used to think I was cool.”
“Yeah, I never thought you were cool,” Kevin denies.
“You did a little.”
Kevin laughs weakly. “Maybe,” he concedes, taking a breath. “I guess dying on a normal hunt so soon after everything would be pretty lame,” he agrees, rolling his eyes.
Dean’s smile turns brittle. “Heh, yeah. Really, uh,” he scratches the back of his head. “Really lame.” He clears his throat, glaring at Sam, who gives him a pointed look from where he is unloading the weapons.
“Oh, Dean!” another voice chirps and he turns in time to get a face full of hair as Maggie throws her arms around him. Dean coughs, trying to breathe through the mess of curly hair.
“Huh. Getting a lot of hugs today,” he mutters, awkwardly patting her on the back.
She pulls back and smiles tentatively at him, swiping her hair behind one ear. Dean returns it, easy and genuine. “Don’t take it so personally. It’s not just you we were worried about,” she tells him, glancing at Sam. “The Commander, here, hasn’t been operating on all cylinders since you’ve been gone.” She tilts her head at Dean. “Now, we can get back to the fun stuff.”
“Commander?” Dean mocks and Sam flushes, busying himself with straightening the blades lined up on the table.
“Maggie,” Sam starts, face scrunching into his signature kicked-puppy look. “I’ve asked you guys not to call me that.”
“I know,” Maggie says, grinning. She looks more at-ease than Dean had ever seen her in the short time he’d known her.
Kevin looks at her approvingly and chuckles. “Co-maan-der,” he draws the word out, smirking.
Sam groans.
“Permission to get back to work, Commander?” Kevin wheedles, squinting at him.
Dean’s brow furrows as he regards Kevin thoughtfully: the lack of stress lines around his mouth, his forehead relaxed and unconcerned.
“Shut up, both of you,” Sam snarks, but his words have no bite and he chuckles softly. “And, yes, get back to your homework before I tell your mother what a lazy shit you’ve been.”
“Wait, your mother?” Dean asks skeptically. “As in, Mama Tran?”
Kevin rolls his eyes. “No, my other mother, idiot.”
“I thought she was dead!” Dean says, a little horrified. “Did Jack bring her back too?”
Kevin frowns. “No,” he says slowly. “She’s one hundred percent organic alive. Has been the whole time.”
Dean turns to Sam. “Why’d we think she was dead?”
Sam shrugs. “I guess because we hadn’t seen her in a couple years?”
“Yeah, well she had other shit to do,” Kevin points out bluntly. “The entire world doesn’t revolve around the two of you, you know.”
“At least not lately,” Sam mutters, looking down. Kevin looks confused, but Dean interrupts before he can ask.
“So, where is she? Doing her ‘other shit?’”
“Nah,” Kevin says, shaking his head and turning back to look at his work, trying to straighten the uneven stack of papers. “Ever since I came back, she’s been sticking around here, with me.”
“Yeah?” Dean prods him to continue. “Why are you here, anyway?”
Kevin winces. “Ouch,” he protests, not sounding hurt at all.
“No, I mean,” Dean stops and huffs, trying to find the right words. “Before, you were only here for your protection while translating the tablets.” He adds, reluctantly, “Which we kind of, you know, forced you to do.”
“Kind of?” Kevin repeats flatly.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, waving him off. “Water under the bridge and all that.”
Kevin bristles. “I died!”
“You got better,” Dean points out and smirks. “It’s a right of passage, anyway, means you’re really one of us now.”
Sam chimes in, looking up from the weapons that he, seriously, is taking way too long to sort. “Yeah, about that. That particular habit needs to stop.” He eyes all of them. “No take-backs.”
Maggie rolls her eyes. “Yes, you’ve given us this lecture already.”
“So, the point is,” Dean continues, shifting his focus back to Kevin. “You have a choice now.” He eyes Kevin closely. “The fate of the world isn’t relying on you melting your brain fourteen hours a day. You can go back to making a life for yourself, so why are you still doing this?”
Kevin shrugs, meeting his gaze unapologetically. “Same reason you do.” Then, he looks down, a little self-conscious. “I know that I’m not a prophet anymore and I can’t translate some magical text that will fix everything by closing the gates of hell.” He stops and glares at both of the Winchester brothers. “Not that you took that opportunity, of course.”
Sam shifts, uncomfortable, and Dean avoids his eyes.
“But, I can still help with research and stuff,” Kevin goes on, taking a breath and stuffing his hands in his pockets. “There are still monsters and demons in the world that hurt and kill people.” He licks his lips and shakes his head, eyes distant. “I can’t just ignore that. Not after learning what I have, not anymore.”
Dean looks up at him. He’s always respected the hell out of Kevin, ever since he saw the dedication the kid had put into translating those damn tablets. Even more so after Donatello went off the deep end. But, now, he feels a sense of comradery with the young man, admiration, even.
“So, I’m helping where I can,” Kevin finishes, shrugging. “Research, of course. I’ve always been really good at that but manning the phones, as well.”
For the first time, Dean notices the many chargers on the table, weaving through the scattered papers and books, all of them leading to an extension cord on the floor. He spots a cell phone, peeking from under a coffee-stained notebook, the taped-on label with Dean’s messy scrawl, ‘FBI.’
“So, you’re our new communication hub,” Dean says, lips twitching. “The new Bobby?”
“Just part-time,” Kevin tells him.
“Of course, Kevin’s idea of ‘part-time’ is still most of the time,” Maggie adds.
“Oh,” Dean frowns and looks at him incredulously. “You hunting, too?”
Kevin laughs, raising his hands. “No, no, no. I would majorly suck at it. Probably get people killed, and Mom wouldn’t let me, anyway,” he says, completely shameless, and Dean relaxes. “But, I am taking classes at a community college,” Kevin admits.
Dean’s eyebrows raise and Sam looks surprised. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“It’s new,” Kevin concedes. “I want to help. But, you know, I also want something of a life, too,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.” He looks challengingly at Dean, waiting for him to disagree. “I mean, this job is important. We’ve got to put all of our focus into it while we’re doing it. But, we also need a break from time-to-time.” He shifts and scratches the back of his neck. “It, uh, makes us fight harder when we remember what we’ve got to lose,” he finishes, lamely.
Dean holds his gaze for a long moment before nodding, slowly. “Yeah,” he mutters, reluctantly conceding and feeling a little called-out. “I guess.”
Kevin regards him with something that Dean refuses to call pity. Sam is very deliberately not looking at him. Above them, the door to the bunker screeches open and Eileen stumbles in, bag loosely hanging off one arm as she tries to balance a long staff that looks to be made out of marble. Sam’s face breaks out into a breathless smile and he hurries up to help her.
Dean watches Sam take the staff, which is still shorter than him, the giant, and usher Eileen in for a quick peck on the lips. He turns away, back to Kevin, feeling a little hollow, and clears his throat.
“So, your mom stops in from time-to-time?” he grins at Kevin. “Think I can convince her to bring us some decent food every now and then? That’s what moms are for, right?” Then, he thinks of his own mother with a pang of bittersweet fondness. “Well, some of them,” he adds.
Kevin looks at him oddly. “Yeah,” he draws out slowly. “She doesn’t just drop in. She works with us now.”
Dean frowns. “Come again?”
“Mrs. Tran helps with hunts,” Maggie clarifies helpfully.
Dean’s mouth falls open. “She’s a hunter?”
“Yeah, talk about hypocrisy,” Kevin mutters with a sigh and then glances at Dean’s expression, bemused. “You can’t honestly say you’re that surprised. She’s helped you and Sam, before.”
“Well, yeah, when you were involved, she went all mama-bear,” Dean sputters, reaching to unbutton his coat, throwing it over another chair. “Really didn’t think she’d want anything to do with us after all the crap we pulled with you.”
Kevin shrugs. “Yeah, you don’t deserve her,” he agrees. “But she’s here to stay as long as I am so what can you do?” He holds up a finger when Dean opens his mouth. “And don’t say you’re going to convince her to stop. It won’t happen, so get over it.” He sits back down in his chair, tapping the keyboard to wake up the computer before glancing back up at Dean, tilting his head. “On second thought, I’d like to see you try,” he considers. “She’ll probably hit you in the face and that would be fun to see.”
Dean scoffs and Maggie smiles. “Really?” he mutters.
“Karma’s a bitch, Dean,” Kevin says absently, already tapping away at the keys and completely dismissing him.
Sam and Eileen walk down the iron steps, Sam twirling the staff lightly, far too casual than he probably should be with whatever that is. It has what looks to be a ruby embedded at the bottom (top?) of it.
Dean scowls. “And what the hell is that?” he asks, folding his arms.
Eileen opens her mouth and closes it, looking at Sam, who examines the staff. “No idea,” he says cheerfully. “Eileen found it when she was cleaning out a nest in Savannah right before we got a lead on you. Probably something interesting since it looks cool.” He nods at Kevin. “Figured Kevin would have fun with it.”
Kevin’s fingers still. “Yeah, like I don’t have enough to do,” he bitches. He leans back in the chair, sighing, and regards the staff thoughtfully. “Maybe it's the answer to all of our problems,” he muses, fist tucked under his chin.
“What problems?” Dean asks, brow furrowing. He points a finger accusingly at Sam. “I thought you said everything was all rainbows, butterflies, and fucking sparkly hunts, Sam.”
“We’re trying to find an alternate source to the power Mrs. Butters generated for the bunker. A more ethical one, that is,” Sam explains. He shrugs a shoulder, turning the staff in his hands. “I mean, for once we don’t have our backs to the wall all the time. I figured that we could try to get a couple steps ahead before the next—” his cuts off and his face scrunches. He tilts his head consideringly. “Huh,” he says, before turning to Dean, looking bewildered and a little awed. “I guess there’s not going to be a next apocalypse is there?”
‘Supposedly,’ Dean thinks darkly, but doesn’t comment.
“Alright, I’m about all fun’d out,” he drones, feeling exhausted. “I’m turning in. You better not have already cleared out my room, Sammy.” He turns toward the kitchen and pauses. “And you better have restocked the beer!” he tosses over his shoulder.