Dean jolted awake, the dream already slipping away. He wiped the drool from his face. The snores of his crew carried on as he sat up. The light in the kitchen was on, so someone else was awake (or Jake had forgotten again). Quietly, he rose from his cot. Barely managing not to stumble over his own boots, he slunk into the kitchen, tile cold enough to make his skin prickle with goosebumps. Administration had forgotten to turn off the cooler once summer ended, and it was perpetually freezing (though really it was because they were too cheap to fix the heater).

His zombielike state made the stove light exaggerated, and he blinked against it despite the dimness. There was a coffeepot from earlier in the back corner. Some jackass had forgotten to clean out the grounds. On the counter, the toaster was out. By the smell, something had recently burnt. He didn't see anyone though.

"Can't sleep?"

He didn't jump, but it was a close thing. "Damn it, Rick!" he hissed. Dean turned to face his friend, who began to laugh at his expression. "I've told you to stop sneaking up on people."

"Sorry, grandpa," he said, already focusing his attention on his bagel. He chewed with his mouth open, crumbs everywhere.

Ignoring the jab, Dean plodded to the fridge for a beer. It wasn't until he opened the door that he remembered he was still at the station, and on-duty. The only thing available was expired milk. He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. He was really out of it. Now he'd have to settle for cleaning out the coffeepot and no sleep once the caffeine hit his system.

It was times like these that he wished he'd settle for being just a mechanic so he could spend the evenings next to Carmen, sipping a beer and watching TV.

Rick waved at him, leaving for bed again. Dean threw him the bird, but missed seeing the other's reaction when the alarm began to shriek.

23:27

The clock over the stove glowed coolly, and he stared at it, wasting precious time. He mentally shook himself, trying to subdue his thoughts like a terrier with a rat. The rest of his unit were cursing themselves awake, already fumbling with their gear.

"Winchester!"

Dean looked away from the clock—

23:28

—and at Rick. Something in the movement made the other flinch, but he turned it into a gesture for him to hurry.

Strapping on his turnout gear, jumping in the truck, all familiar and safe and yet dangerous. But now that danger was exciting, made his blood flow. It didn't matter if it was an old lady stuck in her bathroom, a cat in a tree, car accident, or an actual fire. Dean Winchester was doing what he was meant to do. He was going to save people.

"What've we got?" he asked once buckled in.

Jerry glanced up from the map (no GPS for their unit, just old-fashioned radio and navigation), "Class A, potentially Class C. We're not sure what started it. Haunted house decorations went up like the fourth of July, so it probably wasn't up to code. Bunch of kids inside having a party."

Shit.

There weren't any trick-o-treaters out now, but the jack-o-lanterns and spooky lights blurred like an orange watercolor painting through the window as they sped through intersections and into a residential area. They didn't have to look for the house, it was lit up like a bonfire, complete with spectators standing around it. Dean had just finished adjusting his helmet when they began setting up a perimeter. EMTs examined children in costumes while the rest of the crowd was cordoned off for zone control. He noticed someone was dressed as the Marshmallow monster from Ghostbusters (he might have laughed in any other situation).

Dean listened to his boss check the available flow and establish the layout with one ear while he concentrated on stretching the hose into a cross lay. He heard "additional apparatus" and "water supply", which was never good. Neighborhood this size shouldn't have had a problem. They would lose precious time waiting for the second wave of responders while they used what was available in the engine. At this rate, they'd lose the house and have to surround and drown rather than use a direct attack to save the rest of the homes.

One of the bystanders, a beautiful woman with dark hair, began running towards the house screaming. Dean caught her, and she beat him with her fists and tried to escape, tears making her eyeliner run. He held her gently. It didn't look like she was injured, but there was still the possibility of shock.

"Ben!"

"Ben?" he shouted over the sirens. Please let it not be a—

She looked up at him, finally seeing him. "He's my son, he's still in there! He went upstairs to the attic before the fire started. Please—please—help him—please!"

"You're sure?" he asked.

The fire was already out of control. They had ordered everyone to stay out, too dangerous. Primary search wasn't authorized. He didn't have a partner yet. A Rapid Entry Team hadn't been set up if he went in to make the grab without backup. Was he really thinking of doing this? Was he really going to break one of the biggest search and rescue rules?

She nodded. The movement seemed to break her, and she collapsed. One of the EMTs was already rushing over. He left her there on the ground, already running. It wasn't even a question in his mind whether he should go.

"What the fuck, Winchester? Get your ass back here now!"

Dean ignored his boss, already letting the fear and other distractions fall away. He burst through the door, ducking his head against the blaze as the backdraft followed his wake. The smoke made it hard to see, but he managed to find the stairs as it began to bank down. The fire hadn't made it there yet, still stable. He began to climb.

He had to reach the attic.

His face-mask wasn't doing shit though. Coughing, "Ben?" he called. Nothing, no answer other than the sound of the house burning around him. He was at the second level, but it was the end of the stairs. How was he supposed to get to the attic? Dean tried again, "Ben!"

The roof groaned, he could see the flames begin to lick the ceiling in a flameover. Soon the whole place would fall down around his ears. There was something else though, it sounded like someone crying. At the end of the hall he saw a ladder leading up. He ran to it. Since it didn't crumble apart when he shook it, Dean started to climb, hoping his weight would hold. Another man might have prayed.

"Help!"

"I'm coming," he screamed, trying to let the boy hear him above the inferno. The sound of the stairs collapsing behind him made it impossible to hear though. No escape that way. He clenched his teeth, and pulled himself into the attic. Soon he would be dealing with an autoextended fire if he didn't get his ass in gear. "Where are you?" he yelled into the smoke. He tried crawling. The floor was scalding, even with his gloves and pants. He couldn't see three feet away, but he could still hear the boy's answer.

Deep breathes—don't do that—a hacking cough, "Mama?"

"Ben? Where are you?" He pushed aside a box of crap. "Keep talking so I can find you, kid."

"I'm over here," the voice said to his right. "I can't—" coughing "—I can't breathe."

"I know, I know," he assured. "Hang on, I'm gonna get you out of here." Dark eyes looked out from behind tiny hands, probably trying to keep out the smoke. Dean grabbed a shirt from one of the boxes, it looked like a maternity shirt, and held it to the kid. "Hold this over your mouth and breathe through it, okay? I'm gonna carry you out of here, so hold still."

What skin was exposed was blistering from the heat, he couldn't imagine how the kid was still conscious wearing only a Dracula costume. Dean wrapped him in his jacket, lifted him (no time to be gentle), and began walking along the wall. There had been a window he had seen from outside the house. That was going to be their ticket out. He just had to—

All around him, the fire began to roar in a flashover, but he could still hear the creak and moaning of the floor underneath. Ben struggled in his arms, trying to peek at the noise. He tried to run forward, and screamed, "Hold on!"

The floor dropped out under him, and they were falling…

Falling…

The weight of the house crushed them. Darkness overcame the pain, and everything fell away a final time.

"Step forward."

He knew he was dead. Life had never felt so empty before. He was kinda at peace despite the gloomy atmosphere. Beside him stood Ben, still in his Dracula costume.

So they were both dead (but he's too young).

A small curl of emotion twisted through the numb haze. Ben didn't belong here. Dean was supposed to save him. How had he screwed up so badly? The memory of fire was hard to grasp, harder to hold onto long enough to keep.

"State your names."

Dean dragged his attention up. The voice came from a figure of light without features. It held a staff and was robed in brilliance. Though it did not shout, its voice made the earth tremor.

"Benjamin Isaac Braeden."

Then he was speaking before he even realized he meant to (did he mean to?). "Dean Winchester." He felt like he was waking up from a long dream. "Am I dead?" It was a stupid question.

"You and Ben were the first to die on November 1st."

Next to him, in a small voice (so much like Sammy) that broke his heart, "Where's my mom?" The little dude was tough though, and glared at the light instead of crying.

"She is safe in the mortal realm," it said. "Death will not bring her to Erebus tonight."

"What are you?" Dean asked.

Ben gulped. "Are you Death?"

"No," it answered. "I am the god of judgment, Castieletho Dansekritos."

Dean spoke again before he could think through what he was saying. "Never heard of you."

"I am…not a popular god."

"No, I mean I've never really believed in gods."

Somehow it conveyed exasperation by tilting what Dean thought was its head. "Will you deny your own eyes before me?"

"I'm dead, there's not much you can do to me now."

"There are worse things than Death." The being studied him for a moment, making Dean feel exposed beneath its regard and kicking himself for opening his damn mouth. "I have decided," it said. "You will be given a choice. I can resurrect either you or the child, but the other must stay and suffer the punishment of the other."

"But I haven't done anything wrong," a soft voice whispered beside him.

It sat back stiffly in its throne. "Even the simplest wrongdoing leaves an inexcusable stain on a soul. You cannot pass to Elysium unless you are righteous." It considered for a moment before adding, "If you refuse to suffer on the Fields of Punishment to clear you of your sins, you will be exiled to the Fields of Asphodel."

"That's sick," Dean said. "You're asking us to choose being punished for something we didn't do wrong, or spend eternity in oblivion. Your way or the highway."

"I may be a god, but there are rules I must follow. This is all I can give you. For what it's worth, I would give anything not to have mortals make the choice" The god gripped the staff tightly. "What I am making you choose is between your life or the child's. Whoever stays must bear the other's burden though. That is something I cannot change."

Ben was looking at him with large brown eyes. Dean shook his head. He knew without even thinking about the consequences that he would choose Ben. The kid had a mother that needed him (she must be worried sick about him). He tried not to think of Carmen, or Mary, or Sam, or anyone.

"I'll stay, let the kid go."

"As you wish."

The light drew close, took Ben's hand, and Dean watched as he disappeared, Dracula costume and all. When he was gone, the light withdrew back to its place on the dais. It was silent for several moments.

"Every year, I have enough power on my holy day to resurrect one person. For centuries, I would see mothers carried across the river with their children in their arms. Sisters holding their brothers' hand as she tells him to fear not. There were lovers that tried to keep one another beyond death. Every year I offered this gift to others that were worthy like them," it explained. "I have asked countless. None of them have done what you did today for a stranger."

"He's just a kid…"

"And you are just a man." He answered Dean's unasked question, "The stain on your soul is dark, and will take a long time to be purged before you can rest in Elysium or be reborn."

He was beginning to make out his surroundings. Behind him stood a woman whose features hid in the depths of her dark hood. Somehow, he knew she was smiling kindly though. He trusted her. Farther back and tied to the shore of a river, a boat eerily drifted side to side despite the current. He couldn't see the other shore, but more boats were gliding towards them. Every single one held a passenger vibrant with movement and color; the other would guide the boat, face hidden by the shadows of their cloak.

"Reborn?"

"Time passes differently here. You might one day meet your family again."

"Please," he begged. The need to see his family again was intense, and the fog in his mind finally slipped away with that want. It burned him like a sun. "I'll do whatever it takes."

The figure stared into him, deep in thought. Dean shuddered. His ears were ringing and the tips of his fingers tingled as if asleep. In the distance he heard a scream. The cloud of confusion began to seep back into his vision, making the ground spin. He couldn't look away.

"If an Erinys reshapes your soul, the darkness in your heart would be purged in a mortal day. You could be reborn after and I would grant you the memory of your loved ones long enough for you to find them…"

It seemed like no time had passed for him to answer or think. Still, "Yes," he agreed forcefully. "I'll do it."

"You could wait for them in the Fields of Asphodel until they stand before me."

If only he had listened to the temple kids talk about the afterlife! (Who was he kidding? They were total nerds.) Dean felt lost and only understood some of what the god was saying. Why hadn't he listened? He could screw up his chances of being with his family if he made a bad deal. The thing didn't seem to mind his questions though. If he asked enough, he might be able to work through whatever was making him feel like an idiot.

"How long would I be at the lawn of falafel?"

The being ignored his stab at humor. "It would seem like an eternity to you."

Dean shook his head. "No, let me do this, please." He didn't want to forget his mom's lullabies, fighting with Sam, or Carmen's beautiful smile. There was also Jess, Bobby, Jo, Ellen, Ash, and Rufus. They were all his family. He wouldn't abandon them.

The light held up his staff and shone brightly. In the background, Dean thought he saw wings in the shadows stretching towards him (a little creepy).

"Very well, then I, Castieletho Dansekritos, sentence you to the Fields of Punishment under an Erinys until you are made clean once again."

The phone wouldn't stop ringing.

Mary sat up to grab it. Her eyes clenched against the backlight, automatically answering. "Yeah?"

"Is this Mary Winchester?"

Echonael Lyra, she knew what that professional, contrite tone meant. She sat up, hand flying for the lamp, heart racing. The last time she had heard that voice was when she lost John—what was it now?—three months ago. She had to keep it together though.

Now completely awake, in her best voice, "Yes, this is she."

There was the sound of papers swept into a pile on the other end, and the man cleared his throat. For a short moment, there was static on the line, but it cleared. Mary closed her eyes and prayed for the first time in years.

Lyra, look to your follower. Forgive me for forsaking you. Please watch over my family.

"Mrs. Winchester, you are listed as the mother of Dean Winchester. He's being rushed to the hospital now after being recovered from a fire wreckage."

She didn't gasp or go into hysterics like the gentleman was clearly expecting. Her training began to take over. Already she had slipped on a bathrobe and her trainers.

"Is he alive?" she demanded.

An uncomfortable shuffle answered her. She asked again in her commanding voice before he would respond.

"Not for long, ma'am. They're trying everything, I'm sure, but it took us hours to find him under the rubble." So whatever hadn't been crushed and burnt of him would have been without oxygen long enough to cause permanent brain damage. "I would recommend calling the rest of the family. The doctor estimated two hours at best."

She hung up the phone abruptly, shaking like a leaf, then began to dial Sam. While it was still ringing, Mary grabbed her keys, ready to run out the door. There was only one hospital in Lawrence. She knew the way.

There was a soul plummeting towards the ground from high up. Without really thinking, Castiel banked and dived to catch it.

The soul was screaming in agony, but calmed down enough to start sobbing when he caught it. Castiel landed as gently as he was able while holding the staff in one hand and a soul in the other before he took a closer look at the soul. It was shaking now, and trying to nestle closer into his light, but he still recognized it.

Dean Winchester

"Sleep," he commanded.

His soul responded to the command. In any other circumstance, sleep in the afterlife would have been impossible. He was ruler of Krites for a reason though. Castiel took the opportunity to examine the state of the man's soul. It was obvious his orders were being followed. There were unhealed wounds: bruises, abrasions, burns, and more. He could see the new shape the Erinys was creating.

The surge of regret he felt didn't make sense. It was the way of the afterlife to prepare souls to be reborn until they were ready for the Isles of the Blessed. Dean had consented to a method that would let him see his family once again. Not many earned the privilege to make such a decision.

But there was something tragic about the idea of Dean losing what made his soul different.

"Castiel."

He held the soul tighter. "Alastair," he responded.

"Sir," it barely held back a snarl. "How am I to do my job properly and remake him if I am interrupted?"

"I understand the importance of your work—". He hesitated. "However, he will be given this moment of reprieve."

The Erinys bowed, but warned, "I might have to start over. Your act of mercy will only prolong his suffering."

Castiel was well aware of the consequences, but was unwilling to let Dean return to Alastair. He could see the Erinys' soul, and it delighted in the mortal's pain. If he could reassign Dean to another, he would, but the Erinys was bound to the Winchester bloodline. Castiel had no other choice though. He was just as bound to his promise to the man. Reluctantly, he held out the soul towards Alastair. He turned away and spread his wings before he could take in the sight of the Erinys almost tenderly cradling Dean in hand.

"This really is for the best, your grace."

He nodded curtly before throwing himself into the ether, wings snapping. Castiel flew as quickly as he was able, and within a moment he was before the god of Death.

Castiel vaguely remembered the old god. He had been a gaunt figure, classically skeletal and dark. Balthazar was a strange heir, to be sure. He was also the god of liberation and freedom though, and he seemed to take that more seriously than his other duties. Part of that line of thinking most likely stemmed from the bronze bracelet and collar adorning his wrists and throat, symbols of his subservience to Castiel. They, including his dark robes, were his relics.

"Look who the cat dragged in," Balthazar teased.

Castiel ignored the strange idiom. He hardly ever understood them, and eventually realized that the other god was mocking him. Instead, he bowed shallowly in respect. It was important that Balthazar was in a good mood.

Balthazar bowed back with a flippant wave of his hand. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need your help."

"Of course you do," Balthazar snarked. "What is it this time? More problems with Reapers trying to destroy your relics? I'm telling you, just cast the troublemakers down to Tartarus. They're never going to stop trying to free me despite what I want."

Castiel sighed. "No, I need to resurrect another mortal."

"Time does fly," he said. Balthazar looked up into the ether with a strange smile on his face. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but, it hasn't quite been a year since I last did you that little favor?"

"No."

He held up his hands. "Then I'm afraid my hands are…tied." The bracelets clinked.

Castiel gripped his staff tightly, wishing he had the authority necessary to circumvent Balthazar's promises. "Tell me the exact words of your promise."

"If a human willingly sacrifices themselves on your holy day, one human may be resurrected," he intoned.

"A human."

There was a buzz of anticipation. "I have made no other promises or restrictions on other beings."

Castiel shone brighter. "He is a demi-god."

"Ah," he said. "He is still pathetically mortal, Cassie. But…if you make him your Priest, a divine follower, he will be neither human, nor god, nor beast."

He hesitated. "I—I have never had a follower, let alone a Priest."

Balthazar looked at him in pity. "He may not be a suitable candidate either. Your Priest must be the Righteous Man."

"Dean Winchester is a good man."

"Well, you would know best, considering you judged his soul." He grinned. "It's your funeral."

Castiel held back the urge to ask for clarification. Instead, he focused on the real problem. "How do I make him my Priest?" The only human he remembered turning divine before the bridge closed to other realms was Grace.

"You must burn away his humanity. Long ago, Demeter placed a child in a fire at night and fed him ambrosia by day to give him divinity. Achilles already had Thetis' divinity by blood, but she still had to hold him in the River Styx to wash away his humanity." The god of death looked at him appraisingly. "Since you have no followers and therefore no ambrosia to feed him, you will have to share your divinity in a more creative fashion."

Castiel suddenly recalled Grace's initiation had involved a carnal union…

Balthazar laughed. "You should see your face, Cassie."

"I have to go."

Once Castiel had all but disappeared in the horizon, Balthazar looked to the shadows and beckoned a figure closer. It was a blond woman with spectacles and a book. She primly held her nose high.

"What do you think, Atropos?"

She sniffed. "My sisters and I believe that it is Anna who will be our salvation. Castiel is simply a pawn. His new fascination with mortals will keep him out of my way."

"I wouldn't count him out quite yet, my dear." Balthazar winked. "He's surprised even me before."

"He surprised all of us when he sided with Naomi."

"What can you expect?" He shrugged. "Looking back, I feel stupid thinking he'd turn against his own mother."

Atropos stared at him for a moment. She shook her head. "He's not going to change, Balthazar."

"We'll see."

Sam hung up the phone and finally looked to see what Jess was doing in the closet.

"Are you packing?"

She stuffed another shirt into his duffle bag. "Of course, and I'm coming with you, so don't you dare—"

He crushed her in a grateful hug, burying his face in her tangled hair. She squeaked before returning it. When he no longer felt like breaking down, he let her go and started to help her. They had to hurry if they were going to catch the next flight to Lawrence.

He was being held once again by the light, which was speaking in a familiar voice.

"I've found another way. Say 'yes' and consent to becoming a Priest of the god of judgement."

Confused, he weakly struggled against the arm holding him in place (the other was holding a staff). He wasn't being held up by meat hooks anymore, but he knew better. This was just another game.

"Screw you, Alastair."

He stopped moving when he sensed the light's desperation (it was turning dark purple). There was a glimmer of recognition now. This was the asshole that made him choose (Ben). The anger helped clear his head enough to notice they were flying. Dean clutched the god's robes and shut his eyes. If it were possible to pass out in the afterlife, he would have. Alastair had known what he was doing when it came to torturing Dean with his top 10 greatest fears.

"Please, Dean, focus. I need you to say 'yes'." When there was no further response, the being flickered with earnestness (lighter purple). "Dean, please. Let me help you. I swear you will see your family if you consent to be my Priest."

At the mention of his family, Dean's mind was made up.

"Yes."

The god let out a triumphant shout, and folded its shadowy wings. Dean swore if he were alive that his heart would have stopped as they began to drop through the ether. All around them, muted colors began to bleed together the faster they fell before Dean closed his eyes again. He felt safe though, and the terror started to drain away as well.

"Hold on to who you are, Dean. I won't let go of you, so just hold onto yourself."

He didn't understand, but nodded in agreement. Just as he did, they plunged into a river. Dean opened his mouth instinctively in surprise, and it filled with dark waters. He began to struggle as the god dragged him down.

"I have you, Dean. Trust me."

The world began to burn, worse than dying, worse than Alastair. All around him, the sound of wailing spirits began to whisper eerily in unison. A chorus that drowned out his fight for air. There were church bells ringing, louder and louder

"I have you, Dean."

Castiel knew the moment the last of Dean's humanity was washed away. He pulled the soul out of the river, exhausted. It was a relief to still recognize it as Dean. The god dragged them both to the shore and lay there on the bank for a moment. Dean's soul shone brightly, but did not stir. Castiel forced himself to let it go.

All around them, the voices of the dead began to sing.

There was a mark where Castiel had gripped Dean. It was in the shape of a handprint. He touched it carefully and felt a spark of life.

The chanting grew louder.

Castiel drew away from the soul, nervous and unsure. He had to complete the transformation, but he was drained and without worshippers to replenish his energy. Nor was he certain that the next course of action would be the right one. He desperately wished that he could speak to Anna about Grace.

Castiel set down his staff and returned to Dean's side. He rested his palm on the mark. They both glowed dimly in response. Castiel drew his hand away again, and felt a rush of divinity.

The man shook his head and blinked, looking around. "Looks like rain," he commented.

Castiel reached to touch him again. "It does not rain here."

"Woah," Dean raised his hands and sat up. "What are you doing? What am I doing here?"

"Be quiet and let me finish. I only woke you because it made me feel uncomfortable to do this with you lying there."

Dean frowned. "You're Castiel. You promised to let me see my family. Then you—you tried to drown me."

"Silence," he commanded. "I'm told this part does not hurt humans. Once I'm done, you will see your family."

His soul blazed rebelliously for a moment, but did not move when Castiel touched his mark again. Instead, he sighed as if in relief and relaxed. The god shared the sentiment. If this was what it was like having a Priest, he could understand the appeal.

Castiel pressed harder on the mark and reached into Dean, slipping passed the barriers of his soul. The singing in the distance had died down for a moment, but quickly began to grow louder. Now he could make out the words.

Dean Winchester is saved.