A/N: So I have an ongoing fic that I could have been writing, but it felt completely wrong not to contribute something to the fandom post the SPN finale. We all have our own opinions and while I was disappointed in several ways (See: Destiel fan), I did greatly enjoy Sam's montage with mini Dean and the utter happiness conveyed to 'Carry on'. Thus this fic was born, a lazy extension of that montage that made me cry because I am hormonal and an emotional wreck.

The soundtrack to writing this were the following on repeat (so you get my vibe):
"Carry on my Wayward Son" by Kansas (necessary)
"Bitter Sweet Symphony" by The Verve
"Giants" by Dermot Kennedy

Uncle Dean in Heaven

"Dad?" asked Dean, putting down the glass of milk and wiping his milk moustache on his sleeve. "Do we believe in God?"

His father dropped the bowl he was holding. He bent to pick it up, smothering a curse when he noticed the food splattered on the kitchen tiles. Dean grinned at the naughty word but did not comment.

"Why are you asking?" asked Dad, sitting down heavily in the chair beside him.

"Mrs Antar was telling us about all of the different re-gions today," Dean told him. "We were learning about Christians and Juice and Mus-lims and loads of other ones I don't remember. She was saying we have to re-spect the gods."

His Dad huffed out a laugh. "Jews, I hope Mr Levinsky doesn't hear you pronounce his religion wrong."

Dean raised his eyebrow. "Is Mr Levinsky a Jew? Abigail in my class is one too. She told us about the little hat her Grandpa wears."

Dad nodded seriously. "That's right, they are Jewish. They believe in the same God as both Christians and Muslims, but they pray to him in different ways and have different stories about him."

Dean cocked his head in focus. "Do we believe in that God too?"

It took a long time for his Dad to reply. "No, buddy. We don't believe in that God."

"Do we not have a god then?" asked Dean, sounding disappointed. "Mrs Antar had a name for people that didn't have any god but it didn't sound very fun. I wish we had a god."

Dad leaned towards him and put a large hand on his shoulder. It was warm as it squeezed him gently. "We do have our own special god. Our god is your Uncle Dean in heaven. He is watching over you and me and Mom, keeping all of us safe. Every night I pray to him and ask him to keep us all safe and to help you grow."

Dean nodded seriously. "Is he like an angel?"

Dad laughed in surprise. "Yeah, sure kiddo. He is an angel, your guardian angel, though he'll be mad at me for calling him that."

"Why would he be mad?"

Dad ran a hand through his hair. "Well, Uncle Dean met some angels and had some fights with them. He didn't think they were very nice people. Your Uncle is the nicest of all the angels, and he has a good angel friend called Cas to help him stay nice."

Dean nodded again and asked nothing else, satisfied with the idea of his very own angel looking after him. After dinner, he settled down on the carpet in front of the TV with his box of crayons, shooing his father away. His tongue poked out of his mouth in concentration as he drew: first, two circles and then wonky bodies. The wings were added next, in heavy and uneven black colouring after Dean realised the white crayon wouldn't mark the page. He added hands holding each other like good friends and big eyes and smiles, forgetting the finer details like noses or hair. Last, he printed the names as carefully as he could, the letters unintentionally different sizes and sloping upwards across the page.

He hadn't expected Dad to cry when he showed him the drawing. Dad usually smiled and shook his hand or ruffled his hair annoyingly. They were only little tears but Dean still frowned, confused as to why his picture made Dad sad.

"Uncle Dean in heaven," muttered Dean in frustration. "Please stop Daddy from crying like a baby."

Dad laughed so much he cried harder, picking Dean up in his arms, careful not to crumple the sheet of paper.

"What are you asking Santa to bring you for the holidays?" asked Mom, peering over his shoulder as he wrote.

Dean slammed his hands down on the paper, covering the pencil words from her sight. "You're not supposed to ask," he insisted, "It's supposed to be a secret."

"Mommies and their boys don't have any secrets," she told him. "I'll need to see the letter at some point anyway, I am going to scan it and email it to Santa this year."

Dean raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "Last time we posted it."

Mom hummed in agreement. "The lady in the post office on Main Street told me that they are experiencing huge delays in postage time this year to the North Pole, so I think we better email it this time to be sure it gets there on time."

Dean sighed but nodded reluctantly. "Fine. I'm asking Santa Claus for a baby brother."

Mom made the same choking sound she made sometimes when her water went down the wrong way. "You are what?"

"I already asked Uncle Dean in heaven for a baby," admitted Dean bitterly. "But he hasn't done it so now I have to use my Christmas wish instead."

Mom coughed again, sounding a little like she was laughing. "Deanie, you can't ask for a baby for Christmas."

"Why not? That's what I want to have."

"Because babies are living things," said Mom. "And everyone else in the house has to want one too. Besides, if you already asked Uncle Dean and it didn't work, I don't think Santa can do it for you either. Didn't your dad tell you that Uncle Dean is more powerful than Santa Claus?"

Dean's eyes drifted to the fridge where his picture was pinned in place with a Hard Rock Café magnet. Uncle Dean and Cas' stick figure faces smiled at him.

"If I can't get a baby brother, can I ask for a Playstation 7 instead?"

"Uncle Dean in heaven," began Dean, kneeling on the carpet and resting his clenched hands on top of his mattress. "Dad said you can see everything that happens to us."

Dean thought of the sound of squealing tyres, the bang when the vehicles collided, the smash of the glass shattering across the road. He imagined Dad the way he remembered last seeing him, sleeping in a hospital bed with bandages covering most of his face. He recalled Mom's crying face as she held his hand and the serious expressions of the doctors who had checked him over for bruises and broken bones.

"Did you see what happened with the cars tonight?" cried Dean, his body shaking. He held his hands tighter together to soothe himself. "Did you see Dad in the hospital? Please, Uncle Dean, I don't want him to die. Please, Uncle Dean, make Daddy better and keep him safe."

When he reluctantly returned to the hospital the following day, pulled along by the hand by Mom, Dean saw that his Dad was awake. His voice was quieter and every few minutes he groaned in pain, but he accepted Dean's hug and kiss to the good side of his face. He held Dean's hand and checked him over for injuries with his wandering eyes.

"Look at you," said Dad, his voice rough from both pain and drugs. "You're untouched. How were we so lucky? I was terrified I'd lose you when that van hit us."

"I prayed to Uncle Dean to save you and he did," said Dean, squeezing Dad's hand tightly.

Dad smiled. "Uncle Dean always did save me, no matter what trouble I got us into."

Abigail looked sad when she returned to school after three weeks off. Initially Dean had assumed she was sick but the rumours had spread quickly around the school. None of their peers had heard of or known a child to die before and the story spread with hints of shock and scandal. Dean frowned when he heard the other children speculate, tales of blood and murder or serious illness that caused the girl to lose all her hair before she died of vomiting.

Dean carried the frown home and was questioned by his father.

"Abigail's sister passed away," said Dad after sitting him down with a mug of green tea. It felt comforting in Dean's hands. "Unfortunately when she was born, she didn't have a strong heart like the rest of us. She had to spend a lot of time in hospital when she was a baby and a young kid and just recently her heart started to get really sick. That's how she died. It's rude of the other kids to be spreading stories."

Dean nodded in agreement, feeling older and wiser than his peers even though he was only eleven years old. "I know. I didn't like the rumours. They made it sound like Abigail's family did something wrong."

Dad gave him a small smile. "It's really hard to lose a sibling, and even harder when people are spreading trash news about you. Abigail would probably really appreciate you being her friend right now."

Dean thought of his Dad's words when he next saw the girl, sitting out of Gym on her own as the other kids milled around. As he walked closer, Dean could see that her eyes were puffy and red as if she had recently been crying.

"I'm sorry about your sister," blurted Dean as he sat down on the bench beside her.

Abigail glanced up at him in surprise and immediately looked away. "Thanks," she whispered awkwardly.

"I was talking about what happened with my Dad," said Dean after a few awkward moments of silence passed between them. "His older brother died before I was born and he said it was very difficult, so I thought it would be hard for you too. She was your older sister, wasn't she?"

Abigail sniffed loudly and nodded. Dean took that as permission to continue rambling.

"Don't tell anyone I said this," said Dean, eyes darting around to make sure no one was listening to accuse him of being uncool. "But I talk to my Uncle Dean and I think my Dad does too. Just because your sister is gone doesn't mean she can't still be your older sister and look out for you. You just have to talk to her in heaven to keep her interested in watching over you."

Dean inched backwards as the girl began to sob louder, feeling panic rise in his chest as he became concerned that he had offended her terribly. He flinched in surprise when she launched herself at him, almost toppling the two of them off the bench.

"I thought you would take Abby to the dance," said Dad.

The words sounded too casual, like he was forcing himself to act cool. Dean's eyes slid away from his own reflection to the corner of the mirror where he could see his father. He was leaning against the door frame with his arms folded and had no clear facial expression as he watched Dean get ready. Dean rolled his eyes as he returned to flattening his hair, knowing that his dad always had an opinion he wanted to express, even if he was trying really hard not to.

"Why would I be taking Abby?" he asked back just as casually.

Dad hesitated before answering. "You know, you're best friends and I think she's been carrying a torch for you for, well, only the last four years or so."

Dean rolled his eyes again. "Abby is my best friend, but I'm not attracted to her. Besides, you are so blind, Dad. Abby has been trying to get in Lara Howard's pants for the past six months. She doesn't want me hanging around her tonight to cockblock her."

Dad winced as if in mortal pain. "I hate it when you use words like cockblock. Weren't you watching Peppa Pig like five minutes ago?"

Dean pushed himself away from the mirror, dabbing some cologne onto his neck artfully. Dad leaned forward to sniff the fragrance. "Is that mine?"

Dean grinned at him. "Maybe."

"Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you're my child at all. You remind me so much of your uncle."

"Are you going to be asking Uncle Dean tonight to keep me out of trouble?"

"Hell no. Dean would be in complete support of you drinking underage and doing…things with older girls in the parking lot outside. Just to be clear, that wasn't a blessing to go ahead and do those things. I'll bust your ass if you get into trouble."

Dean saluted mockingly at his father. "Aye aye, captain."

He winced as the shouting hit a pitch he hadn't known his mother could achieve, the voice turning shrill. He turned to his father, shrugging as he did so.

"I didn't think it would be such a big deal," said Dean under his breath, keeping his eyes on the hysterical woman.

"You probably should have cleared it with us first," replied Dad, just as quietly to avoid the ire of his wife.

"I thought you'd enjoy the surprise, it's like a tribute to you. I had the guy make an exact copy of the one on your chest."

Mom had descended into lecturing about the dangers of poor infection control procedures and HIV. She hadn't appeared to notice their quiet conversation.

"You could have put it somewhere she wouldn't have noticed," whispered Dad. "Nobody sees it on my chest, but everyone will see it on your arm."

"Well, it looks cool, doesn't it? If I was going to put myself through the pain of getting it, what would be the point if no one sees it?"

Dad bit his lip and didn't answer as Mom looked sharply at them before storming out of the room in disgust with a 'you deal with your son' comment thrown at him. Dean wheeled around to look at Dad with an easy smile.

"We didn't get them to show them off, that wasn't the point."

"We?" asked Dean, looking at him with interest.

"Uncle Dean had the exact same tattoo as me, in the same place."

Dean scowled instantly on hearing the reference, suddenly pulling down his sweater sleeve to cover his cling-filmed arm. Dad reached out to catch his other arm, frowning when the teenager pulled away.

"Do you ever not mention him?" demanded Dean, avoiding his dad's gaze. "Sometimes I feel like there's a ghost in all our lives, following me around. Everything always comes back to Uncle Dean, the other Dean, probably the better Dean in your mind."

Dad stared at him in shock, not responding immediately. Eventually he said quietly, "Well, he's definitely not a ghost. I made sure he could never haunt us like that."

Dean huffed in frustration. "You always say stupid shit like that and it never makes sense," he said, before storming dramatically out of the room and slamming the front door on his way out.

When he woke up, Dean knew right away that he had messed up. He sat up, glancing around with dazed eyes what he realised was his house. He scratched his head absently, feeling a dull ache in the space behind his eyes. The tiles of the dining room floor felt cold against his legs even through the stiff denim of his jeans. Dean pushed himself up on all fours and slowly forced himself to stand, catching hold of the table to keep himself upright.

He knew it didn't make sense. The last thing he could remember before he had woken up had been the rain, beating harshly against the visor of his helmet. He had been flying around a corner, ignoring the hazard of the surface water, his heart thudding in his ears and then, suddenly, he was waking up on the floor of his house.

"This isn't really my house," said Dean, looking around the room and realising it to be true as he said it. It looked almost identical to the real version but it seemed to be off somehow, as if the outlines of the furniture were hazy or the colouring of the walls was a shade too dark. He stumbled around the table, keeping a hand on it for support as his head continued to throb. He hesitated as he realised he had reached the top of the table and that leaving it behind to go into the kitchen would mean he had no crutch to help him. He looked down at his feet and released his hold on the wood, feeling concerned when his body swayed threateningly.

"You should probably sit down, you have a head injury."

The voice was unfamiliar yet non-threatening. The words were said in a plain, matter-of-fact way that made sense to Dean's brain so without looking up, he pulled out a chair and flopped down onto it. He blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog that had settled in his brain, before remembering the entry of the unknown person. He glanced up towards the door, too quickly which caused his head to hurt. He groaned and held a hand against it while he looked at the man, who snorted at him.

"You're a disaster, kid," he said. He stood in the doorway of the room, leaning against the wooden frame and holding a bottle of beer in one hand. His free arm was draped across his body. Dean's eyes lingered on the bottle for a few seconds, thinking briefly about how he would enjoy a drink, before moving up to the man's face. He gazed at it in confusion for a while before something in his brain slotted into position.

"You're Dean," said Dean.

The man smirked at him. "And so are you." He raised his bottle at the younger man in a mock salute and then took a swig of it.

"You look exactly like the photographs."

"One of the perks of dying is that you don't actually age. It's great that I died before I had the chance to lose any of my youthful beauty."

The living Dean stared at him with a gaping mouth.

"By the way, that picture you drew of me and Cas when you were like six that Sammy has framed in his office, that looks nothing like me and was frankly insulting."

Dean ignored the joking. "I used to pray to you all the time."

The older Dean's expression turned from playful to serious. "I know. You stopped sometime around your fifteenth birthday when you decided you were too cool to pray anymore. I used to enjoy the stories you'd tell me."

"What are you doing here now?"

The other Dean sighed. "It's not about what I'm doing here now, more so what you are doing here now."

Dean glanced around the room again, thinking about how it was so like home and yet so unlike it at the same time. "Am I dead? Is this Purgatory?"

The other man barked out a laugh. "No, dude, this is nothing like Purgatory. And you're not dead, at least not yet. You are quite seriously unwell and you do have a head injury though."

Dean thought again of the thrumming sound of the rain, of the reduced visibility and the screech of tyres. "My motorcycle."

"Completely destroyed," chirped Uncle Dean with a happy smile. "It's insulting to my memory that you were named after me and you insist on riding that hellish thing. Do me a favour and drive a car. Just, not my car. I didn't keep Baby in top condition for thirty years for some preteen to wreck her on a wet night."

"I'm nineteen," said Dean, sounding offended.

"That's nothing in my years," replied Uncle Dean with a wave of his hand. He cocked his head to the side suddenly in concentration, as if listening to a noise far away. "It's really time you woke up, mate. I'm not sure how many more whiny prayers of your father I can listen to. My tolerance level is only so high."

"Is that why you're here? Because Dad's praying to you to help me?"

Uncle Dean huffed in complaint. "As if I'd need that Sasquatch's prayers to come down here and haul your butt out of trouble. I've been watching over you since before you were born. I used to do it for Sammy too, but I'll admit it's a lot easier now that I have a bird's eye view and sway over some events in the universe. It would be even easier if you could manage to stop walking yourself into these situations too." He gave Dean a pointed look.

"Sorry," answered Dean weakly, feeling sheepish. He rubbed at the back of his head awkwardly. "So what other parts of my life have you helped me with?"

Uncle Dean raised an eyebrow. "Remember that time you tried the 'shrooms?"

Dean blushed instantly. "Sorry," he repeated.

Uncle Dean shook his head with a laugh. "Never mind," he said, stepping towards Dean. He was taller than he'd imagined, and broader too, strong and protective. He reached out to touch Dean's head, petting at a spot just shy of his left temple. The touch was surprisingly warm and comforting.

"Time to wake up and stop giving your daddy heart failure, kiddo," said the man, continuing to brush at Dean's head. He nodded and felt his eyes flutter closed, relaxing into the touch and feeling himself become almost sleepy.

"Uncle Dean?" he asked, just before his mind began to slip away.

"Yeah buddy?"

"How is Cas?"

He heard the gruff laughter and a quiet none of your fucking business before he fell into unconsciousness.

The day was made easier by the fact that Dean had been preparing for it for months. He pitied the people who lost their family in instant moments, who never got the chance to let their loved ones know just what they meant in their lives before they passed on. Dean sat with his father in the weeks that he lost the ability to walk, to clean and feed himself, to talk and to swallow. Dean held his hand through it all and told him stories when his Dad's voice failed, showed him old photographs and read news articles aloud to keep him entertained. Mostly he just enjoyed the time where they sat together, holding hands like they had when he was a little boy and comfortable in each other's presence.

He couldn't explain how he knew when he looked at his father that day that it was the end. Something had changed that he couldn't label. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at his father with all of the love he felt for him.

"Dad," said Dean, his voice quiet yet strong. "It's ok, you can go now."

Sam Winchester did not respond, but he did not need to. Dean knew he had been heard.

"It's ok," he repeated, tears threatening to emerge from his eyes. "Uncle Dean is waiting in heaven for you. You can go and join him now."

A/N: However it ended, however wild the last few seasons were, I cannot deny the profound impact this show had on my life. 13 years of my life - I came in on season 2 as a naive 13 year old, watching boxsets of this American show on a portable DVD player in my room and ignoring problems in my family life as I watched two boys deal with their own family issues. How life has changed, even in the fact that I was able to stream the finale rather than pool together with a few friends to buy a boxset when it was released in my country. I have jumped and laughed and cried throughout this show. I still laugh at my mindblown reaction to the revelations of God and angels despite the foreshadowing and the presence of demons. I watch many of the episodes over and over again as familiar comfort when I feel off. The characters have captured my imagination to the point that I wrote many of my first fanfics for this fandom, excited at the responsiveness of other fans who were beyond supportive. How special that it is all now immortalised, good parts and bad, for us to return to and enjoy again and again, to debate and laugh and cry.

And Dean Winchester, 13 years later I am perhaps more in love with you now then I was at 13.

Thank you, Supernatural.