A/N: I was having a bad day and went to write, and this happened. I took some creative liberties with Heaven, but oh well.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters mentioned. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. I make no money from the piece of fanwork.

This is a work in progress and I do plan to add more!

Please read and review! :)

Part One

It is over in a second. One moment, you are driving down the road, singing loudly to some old rock band, the next you run over a patch of black ice and the Impala's tires lose traction. The world flips itself over on its head, a well-placed blow is landed to the back of your skull, and suddenly everything hurts. The pain is like a fire, all-consuming, burning, hot, that incinerates you and your soul and leaves nothing but a pile of charred bones and raw nerves. To you, this pain seems to last forever and more, but in reality it only lasts a second or so.

When the pain leaves you, there is nothing but a blackness that swallows all other things. There is no light, no pain, no feelings, no anything. You cannot move in this darkness, cannot scream, cannot do anything. The blackness goes on past the edge of the universe, past the plane of reality you live on, and you are stretched with it, filling up the blackness with all of your being. Sounds begin to filter themselves into the blackness, filling the nothing with noise. Sirens in the distance, people walking and talking quickly, screaming coming from somewhere, the sickening sound of crunching metal. The words the people say make no sense to you. 'The driver isn't responding.' 'The passenger is alive and alert, but badly banged up.' 'The driver isn't breathing. Beginning chest compressions.' 'We've got the jaws of life.' 'Driver not responding. I'm calling it.' 'Passenger out! Airlifting him to the hospital.' More screaming, indistinct and undecipherable.

Then, light begins to pervade the darkness. It's bright and warm, almost comforting. The smell you vaguely remember as your mother fills your nose. Logically, rationally, you know the light should hurt, be too warm, should burn your retinas and not provide comfort. Only, it does. It wraps around you like a hug, and starts to pull you in. The sounds disappear and you shrink to the size of a toddler curling into the protective arms of a parent. You relax, close your eyes, and let the light take you. Before you are totally taken, one last sound hits your ears. A voice, one you know but can't place, is shouting a plea-curse-profanity-farewell-beg. 'Dean, Dean! Get up, Dean! Take the blanket off him, he can't breathe! Dean! This isn't funny! Dean!'

And that's when it clicks in your brain, the obvious answer that refused to come until now.

You are dead.

Actually dead.

The light consumes you.

Part Two

You end up on a beach that is too perfect. Sand cradles your body, feeling more like silk then tiny particles of rocks, waves lap at the soles of your feet, the water temperature too perfect to be real, and the sun warms your skin too just-right. Everything is too just right and it sets your skin crawling. You sit up, look around.

I am standing behind you, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. I am in the form you are most use too, the vessel that once belonged to Jimmy Novak. We both know that this is only for show, for your comfort, because my true form is much more suited for this place. I feel out of place in it here, but it makes you feel better. We both also know; though you cannot, will not, admit it to yourself, that this is it. There will be no crossroad deals this time around, no magic, no holy intervention, no hocus pocus, no war to bring you back, no nothing. Your eyes met mine, giving me an upset-angry-pissed-tired-saddened-scared-confused- unbelieving look. I feel the need to break the tension, so I take a breath and say the first thing that comes to mind. It is mostly joking, slightly serious. Conjuring my most impressive, stiff 'angel voice', I say, "It is done, Dean Winchester, you may rest."

You give me an unreadable look for a second, and then start to laugh. You fall back into the sand and laugh and laugh and laugh, in a way I have never seen you do before. You laugh as if it is the funniest joke you've ever heard. Perhaps it is.

I sit on the sand next to you, trying to keep a straight face, but this never-ending child-like laughter of yours is contagious and soon I am lying next to you and we both laughing as though we are drunk. Perhaps we are.

Soon, though, your laughter falls away and turns into sobs. Loud, ugly sobs that make the whole of the beach hurt. I cease laughing and sit up, wrapping my arms tightly around you and pulling you into my lap. You cry your ugly, broken sobs into my chest for who knows how long, and I hold you tightly to myself, rocking you like an infant, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, comforting you as best I can. Your cry is so filled with emotion I fear I will never fully understand it. It parts happy, parts angry, parts sad, parts fearful, parts frustrated, parts disappointed, parts things I have never felt.

You are, I think, the only person who has ever been this upset about getting into Heaven.

It is one of the many ways you are special.