Title: Measure My Life in Coffee Cups
Characters: Sam & Dean Winchester
Rating: T for language
Word Count: 7286
Warnings/Spoilers: Very vague spoilers for seasons 9&10, and please heed the fact that I am choosing NOT to warn in this one, as it would completely ruin the entire story. Anyone who knows me knows what I write and what I hate to write, so I hope you can trust me that it's not going to be overly traumatic, but please heed the fact that I'm choosing not to warn. Takes place at an undetermined time into the future, long after whatever S11 holds. Series end-fic, basically; I'm not giving any other spoilers here so continue at your own risk.

A/N: Fourth and final deleted scene from the above fic, really more a standalone story as it was supposed to revolve around the coffee pot and then took off in a direction I didn't expect, evolving from there. I may eventually polish it and make it a standalone, but I have other commitments first so that could take a while.

"Why is it that everything we gank has to leak blood and guts and I-don't-even-wanna-know-what-that-is like a mother?"

Sam only grunts in response, saving his energy on hauling the last of the demon corpses – this one, long dead before possession judging by the ripeness, ugh – into the garage and dumping it on the tarp. Dean drops his burden with a disgustingly moist squish, and they turn back into the Bunker.

"So whose bright idea was this, to drop the warding on the Batcave as a distraction for Cas's crazy scheme? Oh, right – yours, genius. Why again do I have to help with the cleanup?"

"You would rather let it take twice as long to get done and have a couple dozen meatsuits lying around to trip over for the next few hours?"

"Good point." Dean's boots skid slightly on a puddle of congealing blood, and his nose wrinkles in disgust. "Dude, this is why we should've gotten a motel room. No Stanley Steemer is gonna touch this place with a fifty-mile pole."

Sam snorts a brief laugh, knocking aside a half-burned – no, just stained from sitting in a pile of dark blood – book with his foot as they make their way back into the Bunker's main rooms. He shakes off the image of phantom flames that dance menacingly in the corner of his eye, and the glow of embers fades into a warm haze of Home as they head into the library. "Drink?"

"Sure." Dean steps over a crumbling chunk of something unidentifiable and thunks down into a chair at the nearest table, catching the glass that's slid across the polished oak with the ease of long practice.

"To a successfully-held fortress?" Sam inquires, a smile quirking his lips.

"Batcave, Sammy. Batcave." Dean grins, and their glasses clink in a chime of victory. A moment later, a dull thud of crystal on wood rings through the room, accompanied by a noise of disgust. "What is this crap!"

Sam blinks, not having drunk from his yet. "It's that same cognac we've been drinking, Dean."

"Well it's gone off or something." His brother makes a hacking noise with his tongue, shuddering. "Blech. I'm gonna go heat up what's left of the coffee."

Sam sniffs the glass, raises an eyebrow, and sets it down untouched; he isn't a fine liquor connoisseur, and anyway it was celebratory – coffee will serve just as well, possibly better, for their purpose since they still have a massive amount of cleanup to do. And ever since Dean bought that new, much fancier coffee machine, Sam's been wanting to try to make an espresso anyway.

Dean is already pouring a cup of the lukewarm brew when he gets to the kitchen, intent upon tossing it into the microwave – never wasteful, either of them, a trait drilled into their heads from childhood – but they both freeze when the lights begin to flicker, nerves already on edge from the day's events. Sam is already moving toward the stash of weapons in the drawer under the sink, when suddenly the coffee maker blinks into life, powering on without being touched.

"Salt. Where's the salt. Were any of those meatsuits still alive when we killed them?"

Sam tosses his brother the closest defense, a canister of flavored sea salt from last night's dinner, and then picks up a cast-iron skillet. "We've got no way of knowing, but – it's a little early for a vengeful spirit to be manifesting, isn't it?"

Dean twists the top off the canister with a little scowl of reluctance. "Dude, you know how expensive this stuff is at Whole Foods?"

The coffee maker's lights blink cheerfully at them, and then the programmable LED screen flashes a few times – but nothing else happens. The lights stop flickering, the tang of ozone in the air dissipates.

Both look around cautiously, before turning back to each other; after so many years, they can tell when a ghostly presence has left the room – left the building.

The coffee maker whistles once, blinks, and then powers down, falling silent.

They stand there for a moment, staring at it in the quiet. Then –

"What. The hell. Does this thing, like, send out a homing beacon for ghosts trapped in the Veil or something?"

Sam can only echo the sentiment, and try to ignore the crawling sensation in the back of his mind.

"No, seriously, what the hell!"

The sensation grows a little stronger, a little colder, and he closes his eyes against the headache building deep in his skull, only opening them when fingers are snapped in front of his nose.

For just the fraction of a second Dean's face flickers, wavers into something else – blurry, flickering reds and oranges and why is it that fire seems to follow them all their lives? – then settles back into place. Sam shakes his head to clear it.

"You phonin' home now, ET? Because I've been yelling at you for like ten seconds and you were staring right through my skull."

Sam inhales rapidly, hoping oxygen will chase away the tightness in his chest which makes it hard to breathe. "Sorry, just – felt weird there for a second."

"Weird as in, I ate a bad burrito weird, or weird as in, my coffee pot is maybe trying to communicate with me telepathically weird?"

Sam smiles. "Neither, Dean. Sorry."

Dean looks unconvinced, and shakes his head. He gives the coffeepot one last look, then shrugs, and starts to refill it. "Whatever. Still need my caffeine, possessed coffee machine or not."

Sam blinks, because since when would Dean not be tossing the thing out with the demon corpses to be salted and burned just on general principle?

Something's just…off, here.

He really notices, when an hour later, he's trying to clean up the library (a huge fight with a half-dozen demons and a squad of hell-hounds had gone down in there) and he discovers – about half of the books he's reshelving are completely empty.

"Whaddyou mean, empty?" Dean asks around a mouthful of half-chewed frozen pizza, while offering him the plate containing the rest.

Sam impatiently waves away the food. "Just that, Dean – the pages in almost half these books are blank!"

Dean shrugs. "So maybe they're just, extra journals or something. For the Men of Letters, y'know."

"No, Dean, I know I've read some of them before, or at least looked at them! But now they're blank, or like they'll have one or two pages with words on them or maybe a diagram and that's it!"

"Dude." Dean swallows, puts the plate of pizza back on the table. "You need to chill. We got all the time in the world to clean this place up. Sit down and eat something, relax for a little while. It'll be better when you go back to it."

Sam stares at his brother in disbelief. "And you!"

"Huh?" Dean glances at him over top of another slice of pizza.

"You – you're just – I mean look at you!" Sam points at the laptop screen, which is currently paused on what he vaguely recognizes is an old Thundercats cartoon. "You're you but you're not! Am I – did I get grabbed by a Djinn or something?"

"Do your symptoms fit those of a Djinn's dream-world, Sam?"

The voice is new, new to the Bunker at least, though not new to them. Dean does not appear to have heard, for he just goes back to his cartoon, headphones back on and totally oblivious. Sam spins around, swallowing down a jolt of well-deserved fear.

Death has never been one of their biggest fans, though he has never been a complete enemy either. However, after Dean Winchester had proven yet again that he would defy Death itself – himself – to save his younger brother, despite the cost to the world, Death had declared never again would he see the Winchester brothers in their lifetimes, and that any attempts at summoning him would have very harsh consequences.

Dean had not killed the Horseman that night so long ago, oh no. Death had been testing the elder Winchester, testing whether there was still a Man beneath the Mark – whether it had finally succeeded in twisting Dean Winchester's soul beyond hope, beyond saving. Whether Death had the option to simply banish the man to a place such as Purgatory, where he could at least have a sort of existence, or whether he must be bound forever in a different dimension, perhaps to replace Death as the eternal Grim Reaper, a fitting end for the inherited curse of the First Murderer.

Death had, frankly, not expected Dean to make the move he had; but then, the Horseman had underestimated the power of a Winchester bond before. These pathetic humans amused him at times; but this time? Dean's actions had not killed Death, but they had banished him for a time from the material plane – wreaking all kind of havoc in the already chaotic spirit world. Such a crime is not easily forgiven, and frankly Death had had quite enough, of both Winchesters.

He'd made that quite clear those years ago, and so to see him now, standing in the Bunker, well. Sam is understandably not quite at ease.

"You needn't fear me, Sam Winchester," the Horseman says dryly. "And your brother cannot see or hear me at present. Time is frozen around us, for the moment."

"Why – why are you here?"

Without moving, the Horseman still appears taller, grimmer. "You appear to be in possession of an incomplete memory, do you not?"

"I wouldn't really know, if it's incomplete, now would I?"

"Hmmph. Cute." Death walks slowly around the room, gestures with his walking-stick at the vaulted ceilings. "Sam, does none of this feel wrong to you?"

Sam swallows hard.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No." Blue eyes glint with determination, all-too-human determination. "This is Old Magic, powerful magic, Dean, pre-dating even the Creation. It will work – it must work. So it is written in the Law."

"Cas, there's not any precedent for this; we have no idea –"

"It has worked before, Sam." Castiel's eyes glint with urgency. "In the days of Jesus Christ. After the Crucifixion, the Scriptures say the Veil of the Temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom, a symbol if you will, of what was about to happen in the less physical realm. It is the Law, Sam – Old Magic is built on the incontrovertible Laws of the universe, set in place by God Himself."

Dean's jaw is set, teeth clenched angrily.

"I know you don't like it, Dean – but we are out of options. Less than twelve hours from now, the End will come. And it will come, Dean – there is no delaying it, stopping it, or holding it back this time. We have no choice."

"Things aren't quite making sense, but they're just little things," Sam says, hands slowly raking through his hair.

"And?"

"I'm not playing twenty questions with you!" Sam snaps, arms folding across his chest.

Death only looks at him, silent, judging. Sam shifts uneasily, knows he is being found wanting. Tries to ignore what feels like steadily increasing heat creeping in from somewhere around him.

"Okay, fine, but I'll do it."

"You cannot," is the quiet reply. "The Old Magic states that only with the willing sacrifice of an innocent, will the Veil be torn, and Death defeated. Neither you nor Sam are innocent of blood, of those who remain trapped in the Veil."

"Uh, no offense, Cas, but it's not like you've never killed anybody either," Sam interjects mildly.

Castiel nods, unoffended. "This is unfortunately true; however, since Heaven was closed off, and the Veil sealed, I have not taken a life other than that of those vessels inhabited by Angels, whose souls are exchanged straight to Heaven despite all barriers; I have not destroyed a purely human soul since the Veil was sealed shut. By the specifications outlined in the Old Magic, I qualify as innocent."

Sam pinches his forehead. "Besides all of this…Cas, there's no way you'd be able to get that spell performed without the equivalent of sending supernatural flares up, to tell every demon and angel in the entire country where you are."

A small smile curves the angel's lips. "That, among other reasons, is why I need your help."

Sam puts a hand to his head, feeling suddenly overheated. He shrugs out of his jacket and drops heavily into a chair.

"I don't – I don't get it, why are you making me remember this? What is this?"

"I am doing nothing, Sam. Your mind is finally giving in to the inevitable; it is seeing what most people in your position refuse to see, simply because they are content to live in their fantasy-worlds. You, fortunately or unfortunately, are too intelligent to let that pass."

Sam blinks, shudders as the room suddenly seems wreathed in flames, then flickers back into the familiar cheer of books and fluorescent lights.

"Seeing what, exactly?"

"Never thought it would come down to this, did you?"

"No!" he yells back, tossing a demon ten feet down the corridor with an adrenaline-infused fly-kick and then racing through the doorway after his brother, slamming it shut and ramming the bolt home just in the nick of time.

He catches up with Dean at the next corner and they keep running, feet pounding in frenetic synchronicity. He absently smiles, fondly recalling childhood races to and from trees and ice cream trucks, and marvels with detached interest that despite his height Dean is still just a bit faster than he is in a sprint.

The door behind them shatters, splintering as if it's just plywood.

"So much for your precious Men of Letters and their reinforced steel!"

"The wards just inside should give us the time we need."

"They'd better," Dean mutters, and darts off through the side corridor, Sam close at his heels.

His breath catches in his throat, and he turns in his chair to look at his brother, who is snickering at something on the laptop screen, safely inside his own time-bubble and blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding ten feet away.

Sam whirls back around, ignoring the flickering of menacing shadows on each side, and the cold crawling sensation that has been lurking in the back of his mind starts wrapping icy fingers around his heart.

"What happened?" he whispers.

Four demons jump them before they can get to the lockdown chamber.

Sam gets one of them with the demon knife, reflexes quicker than even thought processes, but the other viciously snaps his arm like a twig and he hits the wall ten seconds later hard enough to see stars. No longer juiced on the Mark of Cain, his brother is still getting accustomed to fighting like a human, and it takes a little longer for him to dispatch the two that went for him first and then fire off enough shots from his Taurus to distract the third long enough for Sam to slide painfully across the hall, grab the knife in his left hand, and hurl it with deadly accuracy into the demon's back. The empty vessel drops like a rock, and an instant later so does Sam, trying not to look at his arm, which dangles at a very unnatural jagged angle from his flannel sleeve.

A firm shoulder appears under his other arm. "Hey, hey, c'mon, we got work to do. You don't get to s-sit this one out. I need you." There's something wrong, off, about the voice, and he opens his eyes onto a spinning concrete ceiling, blows out a red-hazed breath to control the pain, and manages to take his weight as they stagger into the Letters' lockdown chamber. Dean slams the heavy door and then doesn't move for a minute, resting all his weight on it, face pinched and paper-white. Sam punches the lockdown code into the keypad by the door with his good hand, swallowing down nausea from the pain in his right. He smiles thinly at the knowledge that at least now, he won't have to worry about the months of physical therapy he normally would have, after a bad compound fracture like this.

Then he whirls around, panicking, as Dean slowly topples over onto the floor with a faint moan.

He remembers now – the terrible, hastily-laid plan, to distract the entire supernatural world from Castiel's last-ditch attempt to tear open the Veil between the worlds. It was an insane scheme, based upon ancient lore and more ancient, very Old Magic, a spell and a sacrifice needed literally tear the Veil: to release the souls trapped therein before the build-up of Soul energy – an atomic release of power that had finally, after many years of being trapped, built up to the point of being only a matter of days or hours before the lid blew off the pressure cooker, so to speak – destroyed the earth, heaven, hell, and everything in-between.

And while they were at it, he had pointed out during the unforgettable planning session in the back seat of the Impala one stormy midnight – if they were all most likely going out kamikaze on this thing, why not go ahead and take out anything and everything they could, while they were at it?

"Dean!"

He can see as soon as he hits the floor by his brother's side that this isn't good; there's not much he can do to make the next few minutes better – the wound is deep, far too deep (are they using angel blades now?).

"Well this s-sucks," Dean gasps through a coughed spray of blood.

Sam sniffles, just a little, and he thinks he's pretty much entitled to at this point. He carefully tucks his broken arm's hand into his jacket pocket to give him some support while he tries to help Dean lean against the wall.

"Dude." A hand shoves him away, in the direction of the ancient control board. Green eyes spark sharply at him, unyielding and strong. "Finish the job, Sam."

Dean has never looked more like John.

"It'll be okay, Sammy." A small smile, and a white lie they both know, but one Sam will actually forgive this time around.

Dean has never looked more like Bobby.

Sam stares into his brother's pained eyes for one more second, and then the door shudders beside them with the arrival of what seems to be, and is if all went to plan, the entire forces of topside Hell.

"Sammy, go!"

He darts away, trying valiantly to ignore the faint rumbling that is beginning beneath their feet.

Sam can barely breathe now, as his brain and senses begin to remember what his heart has already suspected.

Dean, white-faced and shaking – all but his hands, which are steady as they reload with devil's trap bullets. Coughing again, harsh and wet, propped against the wall with a rapidly-spreading bloodstain on his shirt-front.

Sam, following the Men of Letters' instructions and meticulously copying the ancient computer language's commands, typing carefully and accurately, jaw clenched, racing against time as the reinforced door shakes, as alarms begin to go off around him one by one – telling him the warding is starting to fail.

"Sammy, you got like less than a minute, tops," he hears, a blood-thick rasp, from behind him.

"Done," he breathes, and steps back from the computer, hands lifted.

Their eyes meet briefly across the room, and then an alarm begins to sound, shrill and deafening – the warding on the door has just failed, and it's only reinforced steel and concrete standing between them now and the very enraged forces of Hell.

Dean meets his eyes squarely, shining with pain and pride. "Do it," he says, cocking the Taurus and aiming it at the door.

Death looks at him now, not unkindly, as he drags his hands over his face, sick to his stomach with phantom pain, shivers with half-remembered shock, a flash of that single moment of gut-wrenching fear before…before, he doesn't know what, because people aren't meant to know what happens after that. "You do not appear well, Sam. Surely you were aware, that even the Winchesters would not beat odds such as those."

A loophole, an open ending, they had unwittingly left themselves, those years ago. An experiment which had no expiration date on its shelf life – and one which Sam Winchester now had the power to pick up and end, once and for all, their own, final contribution to Castiel's coup-de-grace.

Four words of Enochian, spoken deliberately, the final step in a chain of events that had never seen closure.

Ka. Na. Ohm. Dar.

A faint, startled rumble deep within the earth, nature itself quaking in startled awe, that a mere human would dare to do such a thing.

The "great lever," as Metatron called it, flipped, in the span of a second.

The world, in shock, watching, as every demonic influence within a hundred-mile radius of a Hell's Gate or crack between the worlds is suddenly reeled back inside, as air being ripped from an airlock, straight into a vaccuum.

Hell's doors, closing forever, trapping every inhabitant inside.

Forever.

He can hear the faint shrieks of enraged demons, deep beneath their feet, discovering their fate far too late.

The ones still topside, however, too far from home to be pulled back before the doors closed? Those are going to be the big problem.

Sam looks around, swallows hard. The Bunker walls flicker, like a bad television signal, and he can see between the images now – the still-smoking rubble of timber and stone, the charred remains of burned books and artifacts, the utter destruction that surrounds him, overlays his home with the true images of what his eyes should be seeing, what must be the imprints left in his final memories.

"Oh, God."

Dean scrambles painfully on his back across the floor to a more sheltered position behind a desk as the door splinters. Sam punches in the final codes, cancels all possibilities of an override just in case he's taken out before he can pull the levers needed.

He spares one glance back at his brother, but Dean's eyes are closed. Sam wonders if he's losing consciousness, or if he's sending out one last prayer to Castiel.

He blinks rapidly, and turns back to the keyboard, reaches for the last set of levers.

Behind him, the door suddenly gives way beneath a pack of snarling hellhounds, and he hears Dean's gun go off in rapid succession, buying him the five seconds he needs to pull the last lever. Even one-handed, it takes only a second.

Mercifully, he doesn't even have time to close his eyes.

"I must say, for a grande finale, ridding the world of nearly every demon, closing the gates of Hell, and re-opening Heaven, all in the blink of an eye? Rather impressive, Sam."

Sam's head is still buried in his shaking hands.

"I brought the Bunker down on our heads," he whispers.

"In order to take out all remaining above-ground demons, since the Third Trial said nothing about removing them back to their place of origin when the Gates closed, yes you did – that was your agreement, correct?"

"And – and Cas?" He looks up, eyes brimming. "Did it work?"

"It did." Death seats himself on the edge of the nearest table. "The Old Magic accepted his sacrifice, and it was powerful enough to rend the Veil. And as there must always be an opposing force to equalize any great application of Magic, then when the gates of Hell were shut, those of Heaven were required to re-open to admit the souls trapped within the Veil. Your research was sound, Sam, and you planned your coup to the moment with precise, strategic efficiency; you did well, you and your brother."

Sam drags his hands across his face slowly, trying to absorb this. "And…do angels – do they really die, like we do – do they have souls?"

Death regards him curiously. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it does!" Sam stands indignantly, paces a tight line across the room and back, stopping in front of the Horseman. "He's family. And – and Dean for one is never gonna stay in Heaven long if he isn't there, I can tell you that much right now."

Death does not appear to be impressed, only mildly exasperated. "Your precious angel was more human than seraph by this time in his unusual life-span, Sam. While not quite as powerful as a human soul, angelic Grace functions much the same for those beings. I have no doubt when things are more settled, Castiel will be arriving into your little world here to talk of his success to your brother and yourself. He will be aware that this is not reality, whether your brother is or not, but he will not be able to betray this fact."

Sam sighs with relief. "So…why are you here, then?" he asks quietly. "Is it because I was still in some weird illusion, caught between our last few hours on Earth and whatever Heaven is trying to generate out of my memory? Is Dean even – is he even really Dean? Or just a copy of him out of my memory? Did I survive the Bunker's self-destruct, am I in a coma somewhere? Or are we haunting the Bunker?"

Death seems to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "One question at a time would be preferable, Sam."

"Sorry. Am I – am I dead, then?"

"You are."

Sam swallows; while that was somewhat expected, it's still a little bit of a sickening shock; he suddenly feels a swamping wave of sympathy for all the ghosts they've talked into crossing over throughout the years.

"And Dean?"

"He is as well, Sam," the Horseman answers quietly. "The Men of Letters were quite resourceful, and extremely paranoid. Nothing, supernatural or otherwise, had a prayer of surviving their self-destruct measures."

"Okay." Sam blows out a slow, measured breath of decidedly not-panic. "Then…are we haunting the Bunker?"

Death favors him with a thin smile. "No, Sam. For once in your life, you were both actually cooperative with my reapers. Much to their collective shock, I might add; they were drawing lots to see who would not have the honor to come and collect your souls."

Sam's laugh borders on hysterical. "We're in Heaven, then?"

"If you wish to call this construct that, yes."

"So why are you here?"

"Simply put, because you are too smart for Heaven's pretty little fantasies, Sam. You would have seen through them – if not today, then tomorrow, or next week, or perhaps not until next year or next decade, but eventually you would have seen through them. Without proper guidance, the place is not as meticulous as it used to be in observing painstaking detail, nor does it have the same opinions regarding its occupants as it once did. Most of them now, do not even realize they have died, Sam – many of them simply go on, believing they are still living their lives, never realizing they are no longer on Earth."

"That's what they wanted us to think," Sam says quietly, glancing back at his brother.

"Indeed. However, they, like so many before them, underestimated the Winchesters to their detriment." Death sighs tolerantly. "Before long you would have unraveled your own heaven and taken half of their structural integrity with you, in addition to destroying your brother's sanity in all probability, tethered as his more fragile soul is to your stronger one."

Sam blinks. "Wait, what?"

"No man receives the key to the Darkness and emerges unscathed, Sam," Death replies gravely. "The Mark draws its power from the soul, the reason why it holds the power to turn a human soul into demon after death. Though your brother was freed of the Mark those years ago, when it was destroyed it took with it part of your brother's soul, ripped away like a portion of a missing limb and never to be returned. You, and your own soul's power, have filled that Void – one of the many reasons, why the two of you have been predestined since before my Time to be soul-mates."

Sam looks back at his brother, who is still smiling at the laptop screen, blithely unaware of the drama around him, and his heart twists in his chest. "Is that why he can't tell anything is wrong with this place?" he asks quietly.

"That is part of it, Sam. The other, is simply that if you will recall from your first, more disastrous trip here – Dean's soul has a very simplistic concept of Heaven, consisting if I remember correctly of crustless sandwiches and childhood hugs," Death answers dryly. "The soul is a force of the universe built on base fundamentals; it does not change with time. Your brother's soul requires nothing more complicated from his Heaven than that which you see around you."

Sam smiles, a little sadly, a little fondly. A home, family, entertainment, an occasional good hunt – he can see all too clearly, how Dean could live forever in such a place, perfectly content to never question its validity.

Sam, however, now that he has half-seen the truth…he may not be able to live with that knowledge. Nor may Heaven permit him to, if Death's presence is any indication – he seems to be the sole remaining Force in the universe capable of defying any type of supernatural influence, given recent past events.

"So…you're here to, what, banish me because I can disrupt that balance, because I see the truth? Send me to wherever you meant to send Dean back when he had the Mark?" Sam swallows hard, hands suddenly clammy. "Another dimension or something?"

"My gods, you humans do watch far too much melodramatic television," is the dry response. "Sam, I am only here to offer you a choice."

"Your last choice to one of us involved Dean lopping my head off with your scythe, so excuse me if I don't find that overly comforting."

"Touché. But this choice, is quite simple. Sam, I am capable of altering memories, in a far more delicate and permanent manner than that patchwork Wall I erected to keep out your time spent in the Cage. That was what you would call a rush job, and there was a far greater permeation of memory to alter. What I propose would be far simpler, and far more permanent."

Sam crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. "Like the Matrix. You're asking me if I want to choose the blue pill."

Death's thin lips quirk at the corner. "If you prefer that analogy."

"You can, what – make it so that I just think that we're continuing on with our lives?"

"Correct. You, and Dean – even your precious angel – would simply continue to live out what you believe is a normal life, here in this construct of the home you created on Earth. You would never realize you were actually in Heaven, Sam – because we both know, neither you nor your brother ever really wanted to end up here; it was simply the lesser of several evils, was it not?"

Sam snorts. "You've got it right, there." He looks back at Dean again, and frowns. "Dean would never figure it out as it stands now, would he?"

"I have no way of knowing that, but the angels' research so far does not show it likely. You have both been here for nearly a year, and he has shown no signs of suspicion. Given what we know of the remaining tenets of his soul, it is highly doubtful he ever will."

Sam staggers back a step, eyes wide. "A year?!"

"You see why it might benefit you to simply not know you are in Heaven, Sam. Unfortunately, you and your brother have well exceeded the maximum number of reincarnations and resurrections allotted to any human in one lifetime; you have more than upset the natural order, and it is time for you both to move on – and move on you must. It is up to you, however, what form that takes."

"What if someday Dean figures it out, though, and I've 'taken the pill'?"

"Then the angels will have to deal with that if and when it happens, Sam. The chances are quite slim, I assure you. Unless, of course, you would prefer I alter both your memories permanently."

They've been down this road before, thank you, and even now Sam is not about to cross that line. "No."

If he lets Dean know the truth, even if his brother believes him, then he knows what Dean's answer will be – he'd never agree to take the pill, never wanted to end up in Heaven in the first place. He'd always be searching for a way back. And the angels would not appreciate his efforts, might indeed punish it severely; Sam suspects they have long ago worn out their welcome, and have only ended up here by virtue of the fact that Hell emphatically does not want Alistair's prize pupil, and Dean is guaranteed a place here as the Righteous Man. Sam is just tethered to him by a soul-bond, apparently.

Death is right; their time is done.

But if Sam lets Death alter his memories, and then Dean does remember some day – what will Heaven do to his brother then? Can he leave his brother's mind and fate in the hands of some cold, indifferent angels? Even Cas will have no sway over any of them in centuries future, should Dean stumble on the truth, or should he just get bored and start suspecting their lives are too good to be true – it's happened before, with the Djinn, and what if it happens again?

Can Sam take that chance, that he won't be able to help if that does happen? He knows what it did to Dean in that Djinn-world, that they weren't close, and if this soul-bond thing is even more important here, then can he really chance doing more damage to it on the off chance that they'll have a couple centuries of blissful ignorance?

Is it really so bad, knowing the truth, and just ignoring it? Isn't that really what having a home and family is – knowing the truth, but living with it out of love?

"Sam? The angels may tolerate my occasional visit for the sake of keeping order, but they will not permit me to overstay my welcome here."

Sam exhales, painfully aware of the destruction around him and the fact that he cannot simply just will it to turn back into the beautiful gleaming wood and comfortable furniture that he called Home on Earth, now that he knows the truth. He will always be able to see the true forms of this construct-world, perhaps may get better at camouflaging them to himself, but will always have to see the damage.

But there is no real choice here.

"I won't take the chance," he says quietly, sadly. "I can't, and I won't. Even if we got a few decades, a few centuries of ignorance, of peace – I can't chance that Dean will someday figure it out and I not be able to help him. I won't trust the angels not to screw with his head if that happens – I need to be able to be there if he thinks he's going crazy."

Death regards him in silence for a moment, eyebrows raised, until Sam is almost ready to squirm under the scrutiny.

"What?" he finally demands, irritated.

"Nothing," the Horseman intones dryly. "Other than the fact that that is nearly to the word, precisely what he said about you."

Sam freezes, eyes narrowing. "What?"

Death vents a put-upon sigh. "Are you quite satisfied now?" he asks loudly, apparently to no one in particular, while at the same time waving his walking-stick in the general direction of Dean's frozen time-bubble.

A slight shimmering is the only indication Sam has before his brother's chuckle finally is audible again, though it isn't but a moment before Dean glances up, sees the Horseman standing across the room, and drops his pizza slice straight onto the laptop keyboard in dismayed shock.

"Something you want to tell me, Dean?" Sam asks dryly, as the headphones come off.

"What the hell is this?" Dean asks hotly, bolting across the room.

"Did you really think that Sam would not draw the same inevitable conclusions you did from his surroundings?" Death asks incredulously.

"Wait, you figured it out before I did?"

Dean looks at him tolerantly, pats his shoulder. "Dude, I've been trapped in a Djinn's dream-world twice and sleep-walked in one, you've never done either – I know what it feels like. This ain't right."

"Wait, so –" Sam turns, fixes Death with a look that has made crossroads demons renege on contracts. "What is this?"

The Horseman sighs, and glances upward. Sam has a feeling he's not fixing that annoyed look at the ceiling, but rather at the metaphorical eyes that are probably watching them right now. The man then looks between the two of them and gives what is probably supposed to be a placating gesture. "No one wishes to see the two of you unhappy here, Sam," he says quietly. "But the fact remains, you have upset the natural order, and you no longer have the option to return to life as you knew it."

"So you're, what, running us through simulations until we can't see through the Matrix anymore or one of us lets you wipe both our memories?" Dean interjects, cutting straight to the point.

The lack of contradiction speaks louder than a denial would have.

Fairly shaking with indignation and the still recent knowledge he's acquired as to their fate, Sam barely feels himself being steered toward the kitchen by a firm hand on his shoulder.

A distinct rumble of thunder from somewhere outside speaks very clearly of the angels' opinions of their lack of respect for authority in this place.

Dean's middle finger over his shoulder as they disappear through the vaulted archway even more clearly shows his opinion of said authority.

Once their footsteps die away, there is only an ominous, portent silence. Then, a flutter of new, interdimensional-wavelength manifestations rustles the Horseman's long coat, as smallish wings make a somewhat shaky landing.

"That went well," Castiel says brightly.

Death resists the urge to roll his eyes for two very good reasons. One, it is an appallingly human trait; and two, he must remember that newly-deceased seraphs are like children, reborn into an almost cherub-like state of energy which, although highly annoying, is but unintentionally so.

"You are not supposed to be here," he answers wearily.

"How am I to learn what to alter in the next rotation without regrouping after each?"

"Oh, for –" He halts, takes a deep breath, and is grateful once again that he need only deal with his more somber reapers on a daily basis. "Are you even certain you can continue to do this without being caught by your superiors?"

He receives a withering look that is entirely out of place on such an innocent face – that is purely Castiel, half-human, and a very belligerent human at that.

"My apologies."

This inane plan, hatched of a mutual realization that the world may yet have need of the Winchesters in centuries to come, has come to be one of his more amusing pastimes – and as this annoying little cherub is the one taking the brunt of the risk, in hiding clues time after time when the Winchester Heaven is reset, Death personally has nothing to lose in continuing the charade.

"Be careful, Castiel," he admonishes, preparing to leave. The increasing rumble of thunder tells him that the Winchesters Twain have but minutes before their Heaven will be reset once again, this time with better detail, the powers which be having learned more from this encounter.

The young angel beams, blue eyes bright with renewed excitement, before he disappears from sight with a flutter of new wings.

Death takes himself away before the door breaks down in a burst of light.

Angels are such ridiculously dramatic creatures; it is no wonder his reapers choose most of the time to live in the far more serene, in-between world of the Veil.

"Why is it that everything we gank has to bleed and ooze and just – yuck, all over the place?"

Sam only grunts, saving his energy on hauling the last of the demon corpses – this one, long dead before possession judging by the ripeness – into the garage and dumping it on the tarp. Dean drops his with a disgusting squish, and they turn back into the Bunker.

"So whose bright idea was this, to drop the warding on the Batcave as a distraction for Cas's crazy scheme? Oh, right – yours, genius. Why again do I have to help clean up?"

"Because you're the one who insisted we just had to try the new demon bomb recipe you found in the Letters' archive last month," Sam mutters, flailing to keep his balance in a puddle of congealing blood before righting himself with a hand against the wall.

"Heh." Dean's boots skid slightly as they round the corner toward the kitchen. "Was pretty awesome, though."

Sam snorts a brief laugh, knocking aside a book with his foot as they make their way back into the Bunker's main rooms. "Drink?"

"Coffee," Dean corrects him, stumbling toward the coffee maker. "Tired'a this same crap all the time. You'd think the Men of Letters would have a more expanded liquor palate, being all sophisticated librarian types."

Dean's sniffing the half-empty bag of coffee beans to judge their freshness when the lights begin to flicker. Nerves already on edge, Sam is soon moving toward the stash of weapons in the drawer under the sink, when suddenly the coffee maker blinks into life, powering on without being touched.

"Somehow I'm guessing that's not Kevin back for a house call. Were any of those meatsuits still alive when we killed them?"

Sam tosses his brother the closest thing they have to their usual kosher salt, a canister of flavored sea salt from last night's dinner, and then picks up a cast-iron skillet. "We've got no way of knowing, but – it's a little early for a vengeful spirit to be manifesting, isn't it?"

Dean twists the top off the canister with a pout. "Dude, you know how expensive this crap is at Giant Eagle?"

The coffee maker's lights blink cheerfully at them, and then the programmable LED screen flashes a few times – but nothing else happens. After a moment, the electric charge in the air dissipates, the machine powers down without another incident.

Both look around cautiously, before turning back to each other; after so many years, they can tell when a ghostly presence has left the room – left the building.

"Ooookay. That's weird..."

"So, I'm thinking we go out tonight," Dean says loudly. "That new steakhouse in town put their menu up online, and guess what? Eight kinds of steak, Sammy. Eight. There's a parmesan sirloin and a baked potato with my name on it, and some weirdo chef salad with yours, I won't even make fun of you for it if you just get moving."

Sam grins at Dean's rambling enthusiasm and follows his brother out of the kitchen willingly enough. But at the doorway he pauses, and glances back for just a moment.

The coffee maker powers on with a soft whir. The LED screen lights up, a muted reddish glow softly lighting that shadowy corner of the kitchen.

The words HELLO SAM scroll across the screen.

"Five minutes and I'm leavin' your slow ass here, Samantha!"

Sam quirks a slow smile. Glances around carefully, and turns off the light.

Their day will come.

And until it does, well. There are worse things, than being undercover agents in a world where you can't die.

Because, after all…there's a part of that, in every little boy's Heaven.