AN: Keep in mind: Title Change Sunday: "From What I've Tasted of Desire" !!!

Oh, I can't help it, I'm just so excited. Finish the story – remarkable feet! Almost a hundred pages, in total, almost 50,000 words. . .which is to say, almost the length of a short novel, and written in four days. Hurray! So here's another chappie, for I am in a benign and giving mood.

In other news, because this was so hastily written, there are little things that I felt never QUITE fit in, but could be addressed. If you have any qualms – plot holes, things you think I missed, questions – feel free to post them in the reviews and I will be CERTAIN to address them along with some other notes at the very end.

Happy Reading!

The first time he'd died had been pretty bad, but not horrible. The worst had come before: his father's eyes flashing yellow, the ripping feeling deep inside his body, that inevitable realization that nothing nothing his brother or father did would be enough. Lying in the back of the Impala, bleeding all over her precious leather and knowing that it was too late. Knowing the hospital couldn't do anything, because somehow that demon had broken something deep inside him.

Yeah, that had been bad, but then the semi had hit, and it had just been darkness. Wandering around the hospital had been strange, unnerving, but not necessarily horrible.

The second time he'd died he hadn't even known it. Sam insisted that he'd died a hundred times, a hundred different ways, but there was no memory in his head of any of it. There was just a blankness, like he'd drunk one too many and the night had disappeared. So the second time he'd died hadn't been bad at all.

The third time he'd died was horrible. He'd been running – the first time in his life that Dean Winchester could remember just running, terrified, from anything. There was no plan to fight. There was no hope. He was just running. Pitiful. Looking for some way to stay alive. And then the tearing, and the blood, and through all of it, seeing just beyond the figure of Lilith, knowing that he was leaving Sam to her. . .

A torn leg, chunks of flesh flying, and Dean realized for the first time just what he'd done when he'd made the deal with the Crossroads Demon. This was his future, this horrible pain and sense of loss. For a moment he wished he'd never sealed the deal, that he'd let Sam die. Another tear, and he'd been in Hell.

Where he died again, and again, for forty years.

None of that compared to the fourth time he'd died, though, even though it hadn't really been him. Some future wasteland, running from a damn virus, stuck with a drugged out-angel, he'd watched as not-Sam has very calmly put a boot on not-Dean's head, and broken his neck. That had been the worst. Because even though he'd died a thousand deaths in Hell, even though he'd held those instruments of torture in his hands. . .at least he'd known that somewhere, somehow, Sammy must be okay. But here. . .he'd doomed the world, himself, his angel, and his brother. As the light had faded from not-Dean's eyes, he'd felt. . .nothing.

That cold nothing that he was certain he'd brought back from the pit.

Dying the fifth time, on the other hand, was pretty damn peaceful. As Jenine sidled up to him, a broad smile on full lips, he thought, hell, if you gotta go, might as well be like this. Sam was already on the ground beside him, lips blue. Dean had wanted to go first, had begged to go first, but as Sam had pointed out, it was impossible. For whatever asinine reasons, the vetala always took the Sam-Shape before the Dean one. So he'd been forced to watch as she'd strolled out of the shadows of the church and kissed his brother. He hadn't had to watch long, though. As soon as Sam hit the ground she. . .shimmered. . .and reappeared to him again, fishnet stockings and all.

"This won't hurt," she promised.

"Whatever," he said.

It happened between one blink and the next. There was a minute of pain. . .his lungs gasping for air, begging him, and then a soft grayness. When he opened his eyes he was standing on fluffy pink clouds.

Seriously? This was Heaven? Fluffy pink clouds?

"Sam?" Dean called out for his brother immediately. He jerked back, looking throughout the rose-colored marshmallows, but saw nothing. No sign of floppy brown hair, or hazel eyes, or patched and torn clothing. No near-giant lumbering around. Nothing. Just more cotton candy.

"I think I might have preferred Hell," Dean said. There was no way to tell which direction was which, no north, south, east or west. Just an eternity of the damn pink clouds. Experimentally, he raised one boot, set it down again. There was no resistance and then. . .there was.

"Weird. . ." Dean considered a moment. He was worried about his brother, but so far there didn't seem much danger in Heaven. . .he glanced over his shoulder, checked to make sure no one was around. He bit down on his lip, gathered all of his strength, and jumped as high as he could.

And bounced. Really, really high.

"Sweet!" he gasped. He bounced again. A third time.

"This is your version of Heaven?"

Startled by the sudden voice, he missed the landing and toppled into the whipped cream goodness. Some got into his mouth. Damn stuff even tasted good!

It was, however, a bit difficult to get out of. Dean struggled to an upright position, and turned around to see. . .a whole lot of nothing.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is somebody there?"

"Of course," the voice said again. Dean squinted. Unless he was going crazy, there was definitely nobody there.

"What is this?" he asked. "Some angelic form of hide and seek?"

"Oh, for goodness sake," he heard the exasperated a tone, and then, before his eyes there was a. . .shimmering. It was heat waves coming off a long stretch of highway, back and forth in waves. Silvery light in cotton candy clouds. . .and then slowly it solidified into the figure of a woman, dressed in a long white peasanty dress, with loose blonde hair and blue eyes that matched the sky overhead. She was no age and every age. Dean's jaw dropped.

"Mom?" he asked. She smiled at him.

"Hello, baby," she said. She held out her arms. And this time, when Dean bounced, he flew. Because this wasn't just Mary Winchester. . .this wasn't some young, confused Hunter in love. . .this was his mom, with lines on her face and those warm eyes. She smelt of cinnamon.

"Mom," he clutched her body tight, tried to press as close as he could, because even thought he could see her, hear her, even smell her he couldn't feel anything. It was clutching smoke. He did, however, feel a moment later, hands brushing his hair, petting at his back.

"My poor, poor baby," she said, her voice breaking. When he pulled back from the embrace, there were diamond tears glittering in his eyes. He could feel wetness in his own, as well. His mother reached up, with ghostly hand touched his cheek. "This is never what I wanted for you."

"I know," Dean said, surprised at the whimpering sound that came out. Was that him? Really? Ridiculous. He coughed, trying to bring some manliness back to the situation, because, the more he thought about it, the less likely that it was really his mother standing in front of him. It was probably just another angelic trick. Because if it was his mom. . .if Mary Winchester was really alive and wandering through heaven. . .he wasn't sure that anything would convince him to head back to earth.

"It's all my fault," Mary said. "If I hadn't made that deal. . .if I'd only told your father about it, he wouldn't. . .and you wouldn't. . ."

"It's okay, Mom," Dean said, because even though his head was screaming traptraptrap, the words still popped out. Remember the mission, he thought sternly. Think of Sammy, who's wandering around lost. Think about Cas, trapped with the crazy vetala woman. Think of the planet, which is doomed to the Apocalypse if you don't figure this out. Think of Bobby.

That was enough. He was on a mission, and there was no way that he was letting Bobby die for nothing.

"Listen, Mom," Dean reached out, tried to grab her by the shoulders, but they just melted away. Dean shook his head. "I need to find John."

"Your father?" Mary looked confused. "Of course. He's out with Sam, right now. We can go meet them?"

Of course. Dean felt like smacking him in the face. At the mention of John, Mary would assume he was talking about his father. Although. . .Absently, Dean reached down, picked a waft of raspberry froth, and stuck it in his mouth. Although. . .they had a little time, didn't they?

"Dad's in Heaven?" he asked.

"Of course," Mary said. "Why wouldn't he be?"

Dean shook his head. This wasn't right. He wasn't supposed to be looking for his father, he was supposed to be looking for

"Sammy?" Mary smiled. "Your father's gone to get him. We can be a family again, Dean. The way we were meant to. "

Dean nodded his head, cotton candy lightness in his mouth. Yeah, he thought. Yeah, that didn't sound so bad at all. And when they were all together again. . .Dad would have a plan. He and Sammy could talk, figure it out.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."

And Dean followed his mother across the mountains of rose-painted clouds.