Hallelujah.

Dean took a step back, looking over the sleek, dark form of his baby. Polished, dent-free, and shining, it's hard to tell she'd been half-destroyed before. The windshield replaced, cleaned so well you could hardly tell the glass was there. Brand new seats. Custom black finish that looked as good as the original. He'd built her from the ground up, again, and goddamn if he didn't do the job well.

"Looking good there," he said out loud, pleased with himself. Hot October heat licked at his neck as he patted the hood and smiled to himself. He'd have to call Sam out to give the Impala the once-over once he got back. Bobby too, now that he thought about it. "Prettiest in the whole goddamn ball."

He looked back at the junked cars dressed in rust. The glittering teeth of broken glass haunted some window frames like poltergeists. Yellow foam oozed from torn seats. Stacks of tires, worn and useless. Bobby kept them around regardless of use. As to why, Dean still hadn't figured it out.

The whole place smelled like dirt and sweat and crude, black oil.

It was an ugly place, but this- -this was home.

The only one he could return to, at any rate. The only one still standing. The only one not sitting on four lightly used tires.

Wiping his hands clean on a rag, Dean made his way back to the house. The old porch steps creaked up a greeting, soft and familiar. Even the door, despite numerous cans of WD-40, still squeaked when he opened it. The carpet coughed up dust.

It was ugly in here too. Unclean, broken, almost reflecting the cars stationed outside if you replaced the rust with dust. Bobby tried to keep it clean, Dean knew, but he never really could get the knack of it. Could lie through his teeth, juggle three cases at once, but the man couldn't clear away cobwebs to save his life.

A chuckle sounded in his chest as Dean walked into the kitchen, bee-lining right to the fridge, where a cool beer waited for him. He grabbed it, popped the cap off, and took a long swallow.

The liquid ran cool all the way down to the pit of his stomach.

With the toe of his boot, Dean nudged a chair out from the table, and sat down, thunking his feet up on the worn wood. The threat of Bobby's annoyance lingered- -"Boy, get your damn feet off my table! How many times do I gotta tell ya?"- -but without witnesses, Dean thought he could get away with it this once. What Bobby didn't know wouldn't hurt his feelings any.

He sipped at his beer again, feeling it along with that chill: The rare sensation of fulfillment.

His car sat perfect and pretty in the parking shed. He had a cold beer in his hand. And they were currently on a small hiatus from Hunting. The world seemed eerily quiet. But unlike Sammy, Dean let the world sleep, taking the small slice of freedom gratefully. His body needed this rest. Sleeping over four hours felt like a luxury, sweeter than any diner pie. And he was going to take each bite he could get, while he could get it.

Though, if he could admit the truth, something felt a little off. Something that nagged in the back of his mind. Something he couldn't place.

Maybe he forgot to check the windshield wipers on the Impala.

Yeah. That was probably it.

Dean kissed the bottle of his beer again, chugging the rest down. When he finished, he set it down on the table, and nearly jumped out of his seat.

"Hello, Dean."

Cas stood in the kitchen doorway, the outside light seeping in around him. That signature trenchcoat clung to his shoulders, a little dusty fro the junkyard. His hair fanned around his head wind-kissed. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but the shadows beneath his eyes stood out a little darker, a little heavier.

Dean didn't know why he'd notice something like that.

"Cas? Been a while." He thrust a thumb back at the fridge. "Wanna beer?"

A familiar confused expression slid over Cas's face, pronouncing those bags, those wrinkles embracing his mouth. ". . .You seem. . .content."

He cocked a brow, taking two more beers out of the fridge. "Maybe because I am. C'mon, Cas." He sat back down, gesturing towards an empty seat. "Stop standing around. Sit. Chairs exist for a reason, you know."

One beer went down on the table; the other came to Dean's mouth again.

Awkwardly, his entire body unsure, Cas came forward and took the seat opposite Dean. His fingers caught the sweating bottle and tugged it close, though he didn't drink. "Dean," he said, looking over at him. "I've been searching for you."

"Yeah?" He felt the beginnings of worry start to gnaw at his gut. "What's up?"

Cas stared at him. His eyes narrowed, brow tilted down. He looked upset, Dean realized with a start. And the worry that had only been sampling him before, reacted and devoured his entire stomach.

"What's wrong, Cas." He slammed down his bottle and stood up. Too fast. The chair toppled back and struck the dingy tilt with a clamor.

"Dean. . ." Cas's gaze didn't break, didn't waver, didn't exist anywhere but on him, observing every move. "You don't know where you are, do you?"

"Of course I fucking do," he snapped, too tense to deal with courteously. "We're at Bobby's."

When he said it, he knew that wasn't exactly true.

Bobby's house had burnt to the ground, along with the same table he stood at, the chair Cas was sitting in-the cobwebs Bobby never could quite reach. The books in the den-books he could still see when he glanced over at those shelves- -destoryed. Poof, gone. All up in smoke, the entire damn lot.

And Bobby- -

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. His knees felt weak, like jelly. They buckled as the force of his realization struck him like a fist to the jaw.

He felt himself falling, crumbling under the new weight resting on his shoulders.

A pair of hands found him before he could hit the floor. They gripped him tight for the second time and they held him up. Strong. Fingers grabbing the familiar scar like a habit.

"Cas- -" Dean didn't recognize his own voice. "Don't tell me I'm- -"

"Yes." Cas's voice rang hollow, sad, and deep. He wasn't lying, but he sounded like he wish he was. "I'm sorry, Dean."

Sonuvabitch.

"How-What about Sammy?" No. No, anything but that. "Don't tell me Sam-" He couldn't finish the words, couldn't decide which was the greater heartbreak-for Sam to be dead too, residing in his own Heaven, or to be alive without Dean there to protect him. "Damnit, Cas- -"

The angel stood there, still. His hands were fisted in Dean's green shirt, keeping him up. They hadn't moved, not a sacred inch. He didn't speak, not at first, just pressed his face into Dean's hair in a such a human way, it came as another slap to Dean's warped reality.

Of course. Cas wasn't an angel anymore.

Which meant-

This kitchen door, standing ajar. The light framing Cas's body, bright, too bright. A portal, not October sunlight at all.

"Cas-you too?"

Dean felt Cas's fingers tighten. The fabric of his jacket shifted and Cas's weight fell against Dean's shoulder, knocking it back. Their delicate balance teetered, broke. Suddenly, they were both on the floor, pressed against one another, a knot of legs and tangled arms.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas murmured again, mouth close to Dean's ear. The words felt heavy as they hit his brain. Guilty. Bowed with regret. "I'm sorry."

He had to move then. Dean wiggled away, scooting back so they were no longer connected. Cas sat there, shoulders sagged, face weary. The constant stubble stood dark against his pale skin. His blue eyes were bloodshot.

He looked real.

"Are you part of my Heaven," Dean asked through tight lips, focusing on that for now. He couldn't think of Sam, of what had happened to him-if he were alive or dead or back in the pit with Lucifer. He couldn't do anything about it. Not anymore. He didn't have that power. "Are you real, Cas?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." He reached across the gap Dean had formed, took his shaking hand, and lifted it to his cheek. He turned his face into the touch, heaving a small sigh. Those blue eyes closed, and the knot in Cas's brow deepened. "I found you."

The skin beneath his fingers felt real; the stubble poked at his skin, scratchy and alive.

Dean blinked. Hard. He looked around the kitchen that had seemed so real before, down to the detail. The crack in the counter from when he accidentally shot it when he was young and stupid. The grime on the floor, clinging to his jeans even now. The loose leg supporting the table with a wobbly purpose; the groves in the wood, promises scratched in the underbelly, a pact between brothers.

The decrepit junkyard and its likewise inhabitants. His Impala, engine purring again after his handy-work.

He hadn't known the difference.

He hadn't even questioned the absences of Bobby and Sam. He thought they had gone to the store for groceries. . .

How long had he been thinking that?

Days? A week? A millennium?

It all came down. Crashing. Splintering. The image of the kitchen began to waver, dancing at the edges of his vision like it wanted to disappear.

He was dead.

In Heaven.

No more miracles. This was it. Right here. Forever.

"Sonuvabitch," he gasped, throat tight. "I'm dead." He jerked his hands away from Cas, balling them into fists at his temples.

Cas was looking at him. Dean felt his stare, but he couldn't meet it. Didn't want too. Dead, fucking dead. He turned his head quickly, blinked again, and a single, fat tear rolled down his cheek.

He didn't even remember what happened to him.

"Dean-" Cas's long fingers found his face, grabbed it and made him turn to look. Dean didn't resist. He didn't have the strength.

His lips began to tremble. He squeezed his eyes shut so he didn't have to see Cas's face. The mirrored pain contorting it. Those lines tense and drawn, those blue eyes shining with his own sorrow. The hurt. The regret. The love.

No, he couldn't bear that too.

Cas's fingers swept back through Dean's hair as the first silent sob shook his shoulders. His trenchcoat hissed along the floor as he came closer, hands sliding down to cup Dean's jaw again.

Then the feeling of nearness. The firm, hard press of their mouths meeting. Cas kissed him with apologies falling from his tongue like scalding stars-and in his desperation, Dean parted his lips to taste each one, to feel Cas's mouth against his own, to remember their love before, when they both lived.

Dean grabbed the collar of his coat, knuckles white as he leaned into Cas. Their tongues touched, their teeth clacked and rang out as they lost themselves in each other.

That moment was when Dean recognized Heaven. True Heaven, sitting on the floor, a knee pressing against his thigh, with wild fingers smoothing down his throat and back, determined to rub away the hurt, the ache.

Through all his trying, Cas did manage to quell the worst of it. The hot pressure behind Dean's eyes faded, albeit slowly. The tension moved from his shoulders and back, gone beneath Cas's insistent touch. His lips forgot to quiver as they kissed and kissed and murmured to each other when they parted for quick gasps of air.

Words of reassurance. Words that took the bite of reality away, the fear, the uncertainty.

Cas spoke the most, his voice carrying through their touch down to Dean's chest, where he felt them imprint on his ribs, adding to the decoration already there. He said, "It will be okay, Dean. I'm here." And quieter, "It will be okay."

Dean held onto him, anchored by the warmth that radiated there. The throb of a quickened heartbeat. Blood and flesh and bone, human and there, really there.

Somehow, he believed it now.

"You're really here, Cas," he breathed, having to pull away from him. He needed to look at him. To see his face in this new light. That familiar face, those familiar eyes. That straight nose, those reddened lips.

Yes, there was no questioning it now.

"Yes, Dean." Dean thought he'd ran out of miracles-but when he saw the hurt finally leave Cas's face, he swore he witnessed another taking place. "I'm really here."

They kissed again, this time with Dean leading it. And it was sweeter than sugar on the lips. He closed his eyes and sank into him, almost content again.

The front door banged open, the drumbeat of heavy footfalls following. Dean leaned back, looking towards the den to see.

Sam lumbered in, holding two large grocery bags. His stance was relaxed; his dark t-shirt showed off patches of sweat. "Dean," he shouted, faltering mid-step when he saw the two of them on the floor, hands all over each other, lips tellingly red.

The face he made almost made Dean laugh.

"Gross! Guys!" Sam stalked in the kitchen hurriedly, dumping the bags on the table. He stared down at them, mouth open, but he seemed to decide against saying anything else. Shaking his head, brown hair stirring, he left, hands up in the air like, Do it on the damn floor for all I care.

Dean watched him go. Sammy. Not really. Just a shade to occupy his Heaven. He glanced at Cas, noting his frown, and looked away again, swallowing a lump in his throat.

It was going to take some time, but he'd get used to it.

Cas's hand found his, his fingers slipped in the nooks between Dean's own, and he squeezed. Tight. There, right there, to weather the storm with him.

He looked, across Heaven, to Cas. And the hint of a smile dared to touch his lips.

Yes, it was going to take a long time to get used to it.

But he didn't have to do it alone.