..
Into the Uniform Greatness
..
Dean opens his eyes, and it's sunset. He blinks, disoriented, and stares up at a rosy sky and lush green mountains. The air is clear — pine and spruce and distant snow — and he watches a hawk wheel high above. It's peaceful, and beautiful, and confusing as hell.
Only a moment ago — was it longer? — Dean was inside a dilapidated barn, inhaling blood and sweat and bile. Sam's face flashes in his head, wide-eyed and tear-streaked, terrified. Pain spikes in Dean's back, but it's only a phantom. He reaches behind and touches his spine where the rebar had nearly cut him in half, and feels nothing. No wound, no wet patch of blood. He's whole.
"Fuck," he whispers to himself as realization settles cold over his shoulders.
He's dead.
He's standing, clear-headed and injury-free, surrounded by nothing but beauty, and he's dead.
"Fuck."
This doesn't look like Heaven did the last time, but it feels just as much a prison. The mountains encircle him, gleaming in the evening sun, and seem to close in on him like a giant bear trap.
He didn't have enough time. He didn't get enough. Damn it, he'd fucking earned more. They'd defeated God himself, and he'd enjoyed only a few months of freedom before he got dragged here.
And worse still, he's here alone.
He shouldn't have suggested they all split up to tackle two cases at once. If Eileen and Cas had been there to help with the vamp case in Ohio, instead of taking care of a werewolf pack in West Virginia, maybe the hunt wouldn't have gone sideways. Four hunters to a case was overkill — that's what he'd said. What was he thinking?
"Stupid," he berates himself, a rock working its way into his throat. "Stupid, stupid —" He got cocky, and now he's here alone.
"You alright, boy?"
The voice from behind him makes Dean jump, and he turns on his heel.
Standing in front of him cleaner than he's ever seen it, like the fire had never happened, is the Roadhouse. The neon sign winks in the fading sunlight, music from the jukebox faintly playing from inside. The porch is dusty, chairs creaky. And in one chair sits Bobby, a beer in hand and another on the table beside him.
"I know," says Bobby with a sympathetic nod, "it'll take some getting used to. C'mon, sit down."
Heart in his throat and skin prickling, Dean crosses the gravel to the porch and takes the seat adjacent. Bobby cracks the cap off the beer on the table and hands it over.
Dean turns the bottle in his hand, trying to wrap his head around his new circumstances. It's strange here, like upgrading from an old grainy TV to an HD flatscreen. Everything is too real and not real enough all at once. Overwhelming detail, and still a layer of intangibility under his fingertips.
"I don't understand," Dean says, unable to keep his voice completely steady.
"This is Heaven," Bobby replies. He wipes condensation from the neck of his beer bottle and leans back in his chair with a comfortable sigh.
"But—" Dean's words catch in his throat and his hand tightens around his beer to keep from shaking. "I don't— I'm supposed to be in Hell." He knows the rules. He's already been dragged to Hell once; his soul is poison. He's not supposed to be here.
Bobby shakes his head, smiling. "We're under new management. That kid of yours did away with the old company policy. No more sending good folks to Hell, and no more segregation up here."
Dean frowns. "Huh?"
"We're not plugged in to the Matrix any more," Bobby elaborates. "Nobody's stuck in their own personal glory-days recap. Everybody's together."
Dean stares, his heart thudding against his ribs like he's still alive. His brain is falling through space.
"You can spend your afterlife however you want. Wherever you want. Forever."
He doesn't know what to say, or what to do. He wants to run. He wants to scream. He wants to get back to Ohio, back to Earth, back to the bunker, back to his family. He's not done.
Before he can say anything, though, the door to the Roadhouse slams open.
"Dean Winchester!" Ellen Harvelle stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips, eyes sparkling and face shining in a grin. "Boy, you are a sight for sore eyes."
"Ellen?" Dean gapes. He never thought he'd see her again.
"Quit your staring and get over here," she says, holding her arms open.
He does as he's told, and when she hugs him she feels as solid as the ground beneath his feet. He's still not sure if she's real.
She ushers him inside. The bar smells just like he remembers — cheap beer, stale peanuts, just a hint of body odor — and it's easy to imagine that it never burned down at all. Part of him thinks this might be nothing more than a dream, that he's going to wake up back in the bunker and find Cas in the kitchen making coffee. Another part thinks he's in Hell after all, and this is just the demons' game to mess with him before the real torture begins.
From the corner, the jukebox croons a song he doesn't recognize. The bar is empty, but not in a desolate way. More in a we'll-be-back-tomorrow sense, like they've just closed and are about to start putting up the stools to mop the floor.
Behind the counter is Jo. When he sees her, Dean feels a tangible pulse of love in his chest, joyful and relieved, that she's safe and standing there with a smile on her face. Her death had kept him up more nights than he could count, plagued more nightmares than he'd ever admit.
Jo braces her elbows on the countertop, a mischievous grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. "You got old," she says by way of greeting. She's not wrong. The age difference between them is big enough now that he could probably pass for her father. He wonders fleetingly if Jo and Claire would have gotten along, if they'd ever met.
Dean blinks, and retorts, "Isn't that a good thing here?"
Ellen claps his shoulder. "Damn right it is. You lived a hell of a lot longer than I ever expected you to."
"Is Ash around?"
"No, not at the moment," Ellen shakes her head, then turns to her daughter. "Which philosopher is he terrorizing this week, Jo?"
"Anaxagoras."
"Right. Anaxagoras. Poor sucker." Ellen chuckles.
Dean stands there, beer still in hand, unsure of what to say or what to do. "Is Bobby coming in?"
Ellen flaps a hand in the direction of the door. "Nah, he likes watching the sunset, old codger that he is," she says. "Grab a seat, why don't you."
As Dean sits, he half expects the bar stool to collapse under him, tossing him downward into hellfire. Jo's beaming smile fades a little, and she reaches across the bar to touch his wrist.
"You okay?"
Dean swallows, and isn't sure how to answer. "I — I don't know. I mean, none of this is real, right?"
Jo shrugs. "Real is subjective, isn't it?"
"You've been listening to Ash too much," Ellen scolds with a roll of her eyes. "You're just going to upset the man. Look, Dean. This is real. It's real and it's good." She reaches over, cups his cheek, and her skin is warm. She feels real. She looks real. She sounds real.
Ellen steps back, and tells him to drink his beer, and Dean only just begins to believe what he sees.
Outside the Roadhouse, the sun gradually sinks behind the mountains. The sky transforms, orange to pink to blue to black, and stars — billions upon billions — cascade from above in unfamiliar patterns. New constellations take shape, wheeling through the air around a fat marbled moon. Bobby comes inside.
Time seems to trickle past more slowly here, like a river, unrushed and winding and certain.
Dean sits at the bar, talking well into the night. It doesn't feel late, not at all. The jukebox sings behind him, playing songs he knows and songs he doesn't, and Dean starts to think that this might not be the worst way to spend eternity.
But it's still lacking, still not enough. The bar is empty of the people Dean really wants with him. He doesn't want to be here if it means leaving everything he cares about behind.
As Jo and Ellen and Bobby regale him with stories — times they've had already, things they're excited to share with him, people he's lost and will see again — Dean quietly takes everything in, asking a question only every now and again. The overwhelming sensation of disorientation is fading, minute by minute, his surroundings feeling more and more real. And with that, the space around him grows bigger and more pronounced, absence prickling at the back of his head.
For a brief moment, Dean thinks that at least Cas will be able to come visit him here, and then the idea vanishes as soon as it appears. Cas is human. The Empty ripped out his grace from every cell, every atom, and Cas is wingless and mortal. There's no way for him to travel here, unless the trip is permanent, and the last thing Dean wants is for Cas to die for him. He doesn't want anyone dying for him, not anymore.
With any luck, it will be decades before Dean sees Cas, or Sam, or Eileen, or anybody else from his life on earth. He drinks the last of his beer, and it hurts to swallow.
Bobby clamps a supportive hand onto Dean's shoulder, his features softening. "He'll be along," he says.
Dean doesn't know if Bobby is referring to Sam or Cas, but he nods and doesn't request clarification. "Yeah," is his only reply.
Ellen brushes her hair back from her face with a sigh. "It's getting late. We ought to head out."
Jo yawns and dumps the empty bottles into the bin behind the counter, then shuts the bar lights off. Ellen shrugs on her jacket, and Bobby heaves himself off the barstool with a grunt. Dean hesitates for a second, not quite sure where they're heading out to, but follows the three of them to the door.
Outside, Dean pauses at the edge of the porch, gazing up at a sky that holds more stars than he's ever seen. The Milky Way leaves a violet smoke trail, visible even behind the full moon.
"Nice, isn't it?" Jo says, standing beside him. The stars glitter in her eyes.
Dean makes a noise of agreement in his throat.
She clears her throat and scuffs her boot on the wood planks beneath her. "Dean, I hope you didn't beat yourself up for too long about our deaths. You know there's nothing you could have done."
Dean blinks, caught off-guard, and doesn't know what to say.
"Knowing you, you're probably still beating yourself up right now," Jo continues with a laugh, "but we're okay. All of us. Really."
It's all Dean can do to ask, "You promise?"
Jo raises her right hand. "I swear."
Dean wraps his arm around her and pulls her in for a fierce hug. He really did miss her more than he knows how to express, and when he lets her go he kisses the top of her hair.
She steps back with a smile. He can still see a little bit of girlish adoration in her face, the fleeting remnants of her long-standing crush on him. But she's older now — in soul if not in body — and while she might have asked him out for a drink before, now her only question is, "Did you ever find a girl?"
Dean tilts his head slightly. "Sort of."
Jo nods. "I'm sure she'll miss you a lot."
And Dean isn't entirely sure why he feels no hesitation, but somehow, he's not worried about how Jo or Ellen or Bobby might react. So he sets the record straight. "He."
Her eyebrows shoot upwards. "He?" she echoes.
"Yeah. He."
Her smile only grows wider. "Anyone I know?"
Dean scratches the side of his neck, privately amazed at how comfortably he'd just come out with it. "Castiel," he answers.
"You and Cas?!" Jo is beaming now, overjoyed on his behalf, and Dean is suddenly glad to have shared this with her. "Good for you, Dean."
"What?"
"I don't know, just… thinking back on you guys, that makes a lot of sense," she states, as if it should have been obvious to her years ago.
"Took you long enough to figure that out," Bobby chides from where he's standing by his truck.
"Jo, honey, are you coming, or are you walking home?" Ellen calls, having waited by her car for the last several minutes.
Dean's jaw drops, his attention drawn to the lot in front of the Roadhouse for the first time. The Impala sits next to Bobby's truck, clean and gleaming in the moonlight, parked like Dean had driven her there himself.
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Jo huffs. She squeezes Dean's arm. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"
"Wait, wait—" Dean starts, following her for half a step as she heads toward her mother. She pauses, turns back. "Where do I go?"
Jo shrugs. "Wherever you want." With one last smile, she slides into the passenger seat of her mother's car, and a moment later they're gone, driving down the road until their tail lights vanish around a bend.
Dean turns to Bobby, who's leaning against his truck. "What am I supposed to do, Bobby?" He can't quite keep his voice from cracking.
Bobby looks up toward the sky, and clicks his tongue on the back of his teeth. "That's not for me to tell you." He draws a long breath, his exhale fogging briefly in the nighttime chill. "Heaven's a big place. You can go where you want, see who you want. Be who you want."
Dean swallows. He had only just started to like the person he was on earth, and now he feels like a broken compass. He has no mission, nowhere to drive to, nobody to save, nothing to kill. He doubts there are any monsters to hunt here. And Jack, before he left, had been very specific: everything was back to the way it was before Chuck's meddling. No more traveling between dimensions, or between the living and the dead.
He doesn't know where he wants to go, apart from home. He doesn't know who he wants to see, apart from those he won't find here.
Bobby reaches up and wraps his arms firmly around Dean's shoulders, hard enough to almost squeeze the breath from Dean's chest. When he releases Dean, he claps a hand momentarily to Dean's cheek. "It's good to see you, boy."
At last, Bobby climbs into the driver's seat of his pickup, and with a wave he drives off in the same direction as Ellen and Jo. Dean is left standing in front of the Roadhouse, surrounded only by starlight and the chirping of crickets.
A breeze ghosts past him, carrying the scent of pine and maple sap and a hint of salt — he thinks there might be an ocean nearby — and Dean finds the keys to the Impala in his coat pocket. And having nothing else to do, he opens her door and slips behind the steering wheel.
The car is safe, warm, and full of memories. The Legos in the air conditioning rattle when he starts the engine, as though the Impala herself is saying Welcome back!
Dean releases a breath, settling into the leather upholstery. "Okay, Baby," he says, patting her dashboard. "Let's go for a drive."
The first several days after Dean's death are the worst Castiel has ever lived through. Minute to minute, hour to hour, Cas is suffocating. He's utterly at sea. He's drowning.
He cleans Dean's blood from the Impala, and wants to scream. He finds a peanut butter and jelly cheesecake that Dean bought for him at the pie festival, sitting ungiven in the back of the car, and wants to scream. He sees the look on Sam's face as he drags himself from room to room, trying to find something to do, and wants to scream. All he wants is to scream, and scream, until it doesn't hurt any more.
But he's human, and he knows better than most that being human means being in pain. Except this time, there's no grace to retrieve, no wings to stitch back onto his spine, no Heaven to call upon. No direction to move in, no way to drag Dean back, and Cas can't see where the pain is supposed to end.
The number of times they've both been resurrected, and now is the time when he can't do anything about it, and it feels like Chuck's last sadistic joke. They'd left him mortal and unremarkable and alone and he'd still gotten the last word.
Sam keeps asking him if he's okay, until Cas wants to turn around and punch him to let him know just how stupid that question is. He keeps offering to talk, like he's not dealing with the same loss, the same grief — he's not, not really, not in the same way — and Cas wants nothing more than to tell Sam to leave him alone and worry about himself.
Eileen mostly fusses over Sam, making sure he eats and sleeps in some semblance of routine. It's not that she cares less about Cas, but the anger pours off of him so hot it's enough to make the air ripple. She can't get close enough to try. Cas simply doesn't want anybody near him, even at an arm's length, even if it would help.
He doesn't know what else to do, so he takes a page from the Winchester handbook and throws himself headfirst into the job. He spends long hours poring over his computer in the library, combing through news websites looking for cases until his eyelids feel like sandpaper. He tracks down case after case, monster after monster, killing anything he can get his hands on that deserves it. Saving people, hunting things… It's not about the saving.
He doesn't feel anything like an angel anymore, but he doesn't feel like a person, either.
He lies in his bed late into the morning, tangled in the sheets that still smell faintly of Dean. The last morning they'd had before Dean's death had been unceremonious and completely void of any sense of impending doom. Chuck was gone, after all, so what else was there to worry about?
I'll see you soon.
Dean's final words to Cas over the phone ring through the days as they tick past, week by week, reverberating within his head until it's all he can hear. Selfishly, Cas wishes he hadn't answered when Dean called, so that instead he'd have left a voicemail and Cas would have something more physical, a recording he could replay as many times as it took for him to fall asleep at night.
I'll see you soon, soon, soon…
He should have said something more meaningful, in that last moment they'd had together. He should have stayed in bed longer that morning, should have kissed Dean more fiercely, should have refused to let go. He should have insisted on going with Dean to Ohio.
That's what hurts more than anything, really: not that Dean was killed, but that Cas wasn't with him when it happened.
One night, weeks later, Cas steals away in the early hours of the morning and climbs up to the roof of the abandoned power plant that sits atop the bunker. Even in the middle of the summer the night is cold, but the chill doesn't quite register on Cas's skin. He sits on the edge of the roof, watching the stars and trying not to think about what it might be like to jump from this height without any grace to break his fall.
Part of him wants to jump, to just let go, but somehow the only thing he can picture afterward is Sam and Eileen, finding him sometime later when they eventually realize he's not holed up in his room, and the guilt is far more powerful than the impulse.
So instead of looking downward, he gazes up at the night sky, and prays as though Dean can hear him.
Dean doesn't stop driving for the rest of the night, the Impala's headlights illuminating the road ahead as he goes. The road is twisting, winding, hugged by forest that occasionally breaks into wide rolling fields. He passes moonlit lakes, idyllic farms, a sweeping lea where dozens upon dozens of deer graze unperturbed. Overhead the air swirls, mist hanging in waves and eddies. He drives, and drives, until the sky begins to lighten, and as the sun rises the world blushes pink and orange.
Somehow, it's only been one night, but it's been ages, too. Dean has been unhooked from the ebb and flow of the universe, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach, and that more than anything convinces him once and for all that this is real — it's not some elaborate dream, he's not asleep or in a coma, he's truly gone. He's truly here. Nothing of him remains on earth.
As the sun peeks over the horizon, golden rays poking through the trees ahead, Dean rolls down the window and breathes deeply, clean air filling his lungs to the brim, oxygen crackling in his fingertips.
Every turn in the road, every directional decision he's made since leaving the Roadhouse has been at random, guided by little more than chance. He's exploring, testing the limits of this limitless space. Only a day gone and he's already uncertain he'll ever find the place where the road ends.
He coasts beneath a lush green canopy — a mix of deciduous and evergreen — and some unnamed instinct prickles in his chest, urging him to slow down. He decelerates, watching leaves swirl across the pavement in a river of color. A small babbling stream follows along in a gully, dipping and returning, meandering through the trees before twisting off and disappearing downhill.
Just ahead to the left, a dirt road branches off from the pavement, leading up the slope. Dean turns to follow it.
This road isn't well-traveled, but the riding is smooth. Steeply it climbs — not enough to strain the engine. He takes the turns slowly, letting the Impala's tires grip the packed earth without slipping. Dean's not sure if this road existed before he found it, or if it's unfurling as he drives, springing into existence just for him.
It's not long before the tree cover breaks and gives way to open sky. The dirt road cuts through an untamed meadow, an expanse of tall grasses and wildflowers rippling in the wind. Dean follows the switchbacks for another two, three turns before the path fades into the reeds, and he's forced to at last stop the car.
He shuts the engine off. Her tank is still full.
The wind whistles softly past the car as Dean steps out, and his breath gusts from his chest.
Below him is everything.
Mountains surround the meadow, cresting up to the sky like ocean waves frozen in time. But he can see past the mountains, past the lakes scattered across the nearer landscape, past the forests and farmlands. The earth stretches past its own horizon, further than its edge, and hundreds of miles away Dean can see marshes, rainforests, glittering silver cities, and, even further, an endless blue sea.
He wades into the grass, letting the blades brush across his hands and watching troops of grasshoppers leap out of his way, bluebottles and soldier beetles and mayflies wheeling into the air.
There are signs of other people, other souls — a sailboat on one of the lakes, a car catching the sunlight on the main road, a tendril of chimney smoke to the east, a hot air balloon in the far distance. All at once, Dean can feel the billions of souls filling the infinite space.
He can feel his family. They're all here, somewhere, everyone he's loved that died before him.
Dean twists and gazes up the slope, to where the field gives way to woods again and then eventually to rocky peaks and distant snow gleaming in the midmorning sun. The waist-high grasses ripple in the breeze, bees buzzing from wildflower to wildflower everywhere he looks. Dean, dead and gone, stands surrounded by life, and he never wants to leave. He wants to live here. Right here.
He thinks Cas would like it here too.
He'll be along.
Eventually, whether it's tomorrow or the day after or years down the road, Cas will come find him, and Dean wants to be ready for when that happens. He heads back to the car.
He's got work to do.
NOTE: This fic is tied into my other works: Hell Or High Water, Candlelight, Bingo, Pie Crust, Unchained Reaction, The Matador, and Mystery Of The Quotient.