It was morning light when Dean reached Pontiac. He'd been driving for the past day-and-a-half, and he was exhausted. Better to be exhausted, he thought. Makes it so much easier to let go.
As he drove closer to his final destination, he thought about what he wanted to do before he left. So when a diner appeared on the left hand side of the road, Dean pulled into the lot without a second thought. The dirty black Jeep that he'd stolen fit in well amongst the other cars, and he was once again glad that it had been available for theft.
The door jangled a cheery bell as he entered into the diner with all its red-cushioned chairs and wooden bay seats. The bar itself seated four, and two of those were already filled by a couple of burly-looking biker types. Dean missed one seat between them and him and came to sit by the wall. He signalled the bartender with a small wave and a smile. The bikers chugged their beers cheerily.
"Hey there, son," the gruff bartender said, smiling at Dean. "What can I get you?"
That's a good question, Dean thought. What do I want for my last meal? "Erm… Can we start off with a Corona del Sol, then… Umm… A bacon cheeseburger with fries, and a side of… Err… Onion rings?... Yeah."
"Okeydokey," he said, writing it down on his notepad. "Is that everything?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean replied. "Wait – Do you have any pie?"
"Sure, kid," he said. "Apple and… Blackberry, I think. Is that good?"
"Yeah, that's great, thanks."
"I'll be right out with your burger, and here's your beer." The bartender left and went into the kitchen. Dean could hear his muffled commands through the door as it swung on its hinges. Dean smiled sadly, and took a swig from the bottle, trying not to think for a little while.
"Hey, mate!" one of the two bikers yelled drunkenly. "Bit early to be having a drink, ain't it?"
"Sure." Dean smiled briefly, but inside he was rolling his eyes. Couldn't these idiots leave him alone? All he was asking for was five minutes of peace. Give me a break, God. I think I've earned one y now.
He turned back away from him. They threw one of their burnt-out cigarettes at him. "Hey! We're talking to you!" the second practically giggled.
Dean sent out a small prayer for patience, but it must have got lost in God's mailbox because any help came way too late. "Yeah," he said. "But you're not meant to be smoking in here, so I figure I'll ignore you until you stop. Or go outside. Either will do."
"You wanna go outside, you little dick?" the first demanded angrily, drawing himself up to his full height.
"I wouldn't mind it," said Dean, an edge of cockiness hardening his tone. "But unfortunately for you I don't smoke, and I've got this rather attractive piece of pie coming my way in a sec, so I'd rather wait here."
The diner went suddenly silent. Every pair of eyes was on the first biker, who had turned a stunning shade of red; a mixture of rage and embarrassment. Dean winked.
The man erupted in a great mass of plaid, denim and beard. He let out a tremendous, wordless bellow so loud that a small girl sat by the window clapped her hands over her ears and screamed. Biker #1 grabbed a grinning Dean by his jacket and threw him bodily across the room. Dean hit his head with a crack on the diner's door, and blinked a couple of times before the great, bear-like man got hold of him again and pulled him to his feet. A heavy punch fell upon Dean's nose, breaking it cleanly.
"Jesus!" Dean heard the bartender yell. "Get off him! What the Hell did he ever do to you? Let him go, and get out of here!"
Unfortunately Biker #1 was one of those ignorant douchebags who feel that they have no authoritative figures, and so he paid no attention to the flustered bartender, and instead chose to slam his fist repeatedly into Dean's bloodied face over and over again.
Dean was nearly unconscious when he felt himself fall to the ground and land in a small puddle of his own blood. Vaguely he caught the words: "Enough now, mate… No… You'll kill him, man…" which Dean assumed to be Biker #2. He would have thanked him, but he was too busy coughing up blood and saliva, so he and his friend had gone by the time Dean was able to speak.
"You alright, son?" the bartender asked worriedly as he held up the limp Dean with one arm around his waist.
"Yeah," Dean coughed once more, his eyes watering.
"That was a load of bull, I'm sorry," he said hotly. "Knew I shouldn't have let them drink here."
"How much did you give 'em?" Dean asked, testing his jaw and clicking his nose back into place with a wince.
"Four lagers each, must've been," he said, shaking his head.
"Huh," Dean smirked. "Lightweights."
"Alright, son. You rest yourself over there. Food's on me, don't worry about it."
"Cheers, man," Dean grunted as he slid onto one of the wooden benches by the window. He picked up a napkin, shook it out and started to dab the blood off his face as he waited, looking at his reflection in the glass as he did so.
"Here ya go," the bartender said merrily as he came back, his arms and hands laden with plates. "Your burger… Onion rings… Another beer… Aaand your pie."
"Thanks, looks great," Dean said, and he picked up his burger from the plate, tucking in immediately. He savoured every bite.
When he had all but licked his pie-plate clean, Dean stood to leave. He bid his goodbyes to the bartender for being so hospitable. "You're awesome," he'd said. Probably the last time he'd use that word. The door jingled gaily as he walked out, but there was a specific downtrodden mood that hung about the Hunter that made even that joyful little bell sound sad. Bruised, and with blood on his shirt, Dean returned to his car. He looked like he'd just finished a hunt. And he liked that. It was how Sam would find his body.
He fired up the engine, and revelled in the fact that it would probably be its last roar. Although he sorely missed the homely growl of the Impala, and regretted its gifting to Sam. But it was either that or Baby rusted forever outside that barn where it had all begun. He reversed out of the lot as quickly as he could, pushing his driving skills. What did it matter if he crashed now? Even so, he didn't want to die in some crappy car in some stupid accident. He had a plan, and it was time to carry it out.
The drive to the barn was short, almost too short. But when he was there, Dean was no longer afraid of dying, as he always had been. This was like a refuge. The place where, for the first time, he'd laid eyes upon Cas. What was that thing he'd heard? The first time I set my eyes on you I knew you were something different. The last time I set my eyes on you I knew I was going to lose you. It seemed to fit the situation rather too perfectly. And it was beautiful, not scary.
The great wooden doors reared in front of him, and in his mind's eye they shook in the gales of that night's storm, and they burst open under the power of an angel's hand. He pulled them open himself, and the countless pentacles and spell circles greeted him with their familiar patterns. He felt his hand there, brushing over the lines, shaking his can of paint as he went. The two tables were still there too, although they were cleared of weapons, of course. He saw the place where Bobby had lain sleeping on the floor, as put there by Cas. The shattered lights flashed and crackled in his memory as he took his first step in.
It was déjà vu in all of its glory. Flashbacks smashed into Dean's mind, and he was bashed around with nostalgia and longing and pangs of desertion, for there was no Bobby here, and no Cas either. They were both up in Heaven somewhere, soon to be joined by another lonesome spirit. As much as Dean didn't want to die, he knew it was the only way to get to Cas. Besides, this would be over. All of it would be over and he wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore. The benefits of suicide were surely in his mind, but still tugged his instinct to live.
He reached the middle of the barn, and stood between the two tables, where he had been stood when Cas had walked in through the door, and where he had spoken to his angel from. He pulled his gun out of the waistband of his jeans and dropped to his knees, looking up at where he envisaged Cas' blue eyes to be. And then he didn't feel so alone.
It was like he was there. Right there. Watching over him, as Dean knew he always had. It was as though Cas' soul was touching his own through a thin veil of space, never to be pierced or prodded. "Cas," he whispered, uttering his name in bliss. And even though he knew that it was all in his head, he was happy to revel in its atmosphere at the end of his time. Even though there was still so much doubt that he would ever find Cas, Dean wasn't turning back now. This feeling of Cas, however imaginary, was reaching out to him, and Dean reaching back. It was like being close to him again. So what if Cas might not be there? Dean's Heaven was somewhat limited to memories of his mom and of those times when he and Sammy were happy. What were the chances of Cas appearing, and if so, would it just be a memory? But would it be so bad if it was?
As long as he's there, Dean thought. As long as he's there, everything'll be fine.
And as the barrel of his gun pressed its cold metal into the soft flesh beneath his chin, he imagined he felt the light touch of dark wings wrapping around him in an eternal embrace.
"Stop him!" Cas begged on his knees. "Please, I'll do anything. But just stop it."
"Sorry," the snake shrugged. "Too late."