Dean's in Heaven. No, Dean's in Dean and Sam's Heaven. A shared one, because they're soulmates or some shit. Which must have something to do with Sam-and-Dean—the center of every universe but one Sam-and-Dean—and maybe it was set up this way from the start as the consolation prize for the whole Cain and Abel scenario. Or maybe it has something to do with Dean carrying Sam out of the flames and carrying Sam out of death and carrying Sam and carrying until Sam became a part of Dean and Dean became a part of Sam like a Gordian knot, wrapped in each other too tight to untangle without cutting one out of the other like a piece of a lung.
But it doesn't matter why, it matters that they're here, in their Heaven, stuck together for ever and ever. Just like Dean wanted, isn't it? Him and his little brother. He said it so many times.
And it's great, at first. Because they have good memories. So many good memories from almost four decades of their life together: on the road, under the night sky, in shitty motel rooms; each different, each so familiar. There are the prank wars in Texas and the fireworks on the Fourth of July and that one Christmas evening by the car air fresheners hung on their little tree—though without Hell looming behind the corner, this time. And there's laughter and laughter and laughter and none of the pain and, for a while, Dean thinks this just might be what Heaven should be like.
So that's their Heaven, but, though tangled, they aren't one and there are parts of their Heaven that are a little bit more Dean. He can tell those apart by Sam standing there in the doorways, hunched a little with soft smiles, since he wasn't there yet or he just wasn't there, 'cause maybe he was jogging when Dean taught Jack how to make pancakes and he'd join them later to eat those, with a ton of maple syrup because in Heaven it's not unhealthy, is it? Or maybe he did some research while Dean played video games with Kevin, or talked colleges with Patience while Donna took Dean to the opening of the new donut shop.
And then there are the corners that are Sam—all Sam—and preferably no Dean at all. Dean tries not to intrude when Sam flirts with Jess in the library (of course, it's a library) or Eileen teaches him sign language over margaritas.
Dean blinks.
And it takes him a moment. Because it's that road again.
But this was supposed to be Heaven.
To Sam's benefit, he looks pale. And maybe he'd even say that he was sorry to be putting Dean through the night he left for Stanford. One of the worst nights of Dean's life, even after all this time.
But Heaven already pressed play and, God, Dean can't go through it, not again. But he can't leave. Because they're a package deal, one dragging the other. Because they're soulmates.
And nothing says "soulmates" like walking away.
Dad's coming and Dean clenches his jaw. Here they go.
Even beating the haunted Hatchet Man mannequin right after that, doesn't make Dean feel any better. Neither does smoking the phoenix in the duel at high noon. It takes the return of his rainbow slinky to bring the smile back on his face and Sam even lets him make extra fun of his fresh, glitter-dipped look.
But Dean knows if it came once, it'll come again. And surely, it comes. So does the night Sam packed his bag, stole some money and ran off to eat pizza and have a dog. And the warm day under a wide oak tree, when Sam bitched about the professors and mooned over girls with his study buddies, ignoring yet another of Dean's calls. And Sam, with a bloodied dog in his arms, being chided by a pretty vet lady with a mess of curls on her head—Amelia.
Those memories never pop up all at once in a neat hellscape dream sequence. They're elegantly woven into the structure of their Heaven, emerging always unexpected, always just as Dean manages to get his spirits back up and hope maybe not this time, maybe Heaven'll have mercy.
But no such luck, they always come in the end. And in between, they remain an echo, still gnawing at Dean, like a gangrene, spreading in his heaven, ruining even the happiest of his eternal reruns. Sam always leaving and leaving and Dean can't get used to that no matter how hard he tries.
It's one of Sam's library memories that bore Dean out of his mind. Instead of a book that he's read three times over, Dean fiddles with a pen on paper, has moved past doodling dicks and on to doodling every sigil that he knows, to keep his brain from decomposing.
Then it comes to him. A circle split into three and a couple of squiggles in each part. He might not have a perfect photographic memory, but patterns he's always been good at. Remembering symbols, remembering faces and marks and words: there were times his life could have depended on it. And now so does his eternity.
It takes Dean a while to work out the details. He carries the pen and the folded piece of paper with him wherever the memories take him, scribbles on it when Sam can't see, until the sign looks just right. He's sure he's got it perfectly, even though it's been a decade and more.
Dean grabs a piece of chalk from the auditorium in one of Sam's Stanford memories. He carries it in the pocket of his jacket, and when one of the bad nights falls on him, he thrusts his hand in there and toys with the chalk with his fingers till they come out all white.
It's enough for a while.
It's not enough forever. As the chalk begins to wear off and shrink, so does Dean.
They're back in the Bunker—home. Still coming down from the rush of shouting and cheering at Gunner's last wrestling match. It's a good memory to end on.
Sam's about to bring Eileen back to life; he'll later spend the whole night through with her, drinking, having fun, enjoying each other's company. She was supposed to be Sam's happy ending, down there on Earth. It feels right to leave Sam with her, for now.
"I'll be in my room," Dean says. "Have fun, Sammy."
Sam nods, and on his lips, there's a soft smile, and a little bit of sadness in his eyes. Does he know? Did he catch Dean's chalk-dusted hand, or the paper he hurriedly stuffed into his pocket? Did he catch something in the way Dean's been lately; restless, withdrawn, aching?
"You too."
The tips of Dean's fingers caress the wall of the corridor as he walks. He misses this place—the real one—every day of his afterlife. His home. He already said goodbye to the memory of the Impala, the last chance he got. Down there, Baby got left in good hands, being a temporary home to Claire and Kaia on their road trips. He knows they're treating her well.
He enters his room, but doesn't sit on the memory mattress on his bed. If he does, he might not leave. He only drops the piece of paper on it, worn out and almost torn through at the folds, the sigil on one side, a few newly added words on the other: "See you someday, Sammy."
He doesn't have to look at the sketch, he draws the sigil from memory, white chalk on the wooden door of his bedroom.
Once he's done, he presses the doorknob, opens the door a crack, just to make sure. It's dark on the other end, and it surely isn't the corridor. The shapes look familiar, he can even see the outline of the pool table in the middle, a silhouette of a man beside it.
The hand still on the handle, he casts one last look around his room before crossing the threshold.
For once, it's him who leaves Sam behind. It's a good thing, they both know it. He leaves his Heaven, he leaves the last place he'll ever be able to call home. But it's fine, living on the road is something he knows well.
"Sorry to intrude," Dean says, as the door clicks closed behind him.
"Dean Winchester," says Ash, clapping twice to turn the lights on. "Took you longer than I expected."
"Well, a lot's been happening." Dean shrugs. "But I got bored."
"Good." Ash cracks his knuckles and tosses Dean a beer. He's got his laptop with celestial frequencies and the roadmap ready. "Let me show you what Heaven is really about."