Chapter VI

Rise of the Witnesses

Dean was deep in his thoughts, hands moving mechanically as he worked on the rock salt rounds. The Witnesses were rampaging above in Bobby's house while they hid in the man's newly-built panic room. This was good. The safety of the panic room gave Bobby time to figure out what was happening.

Suddenly, Dean froze in the middle of handing the next shell to Sam. Talk about the Seal of the Witnesses began circulating among the angels after one of the high-ranking Seraphim informed the others that it had been broken. Dean frowned; he knew that it wasn't in Heaven's interest to stop Lucifer from rising, at least as far as the highest order was concerned, but this was honestly ridiculous. The seal had been broken for three days now, and they only shared the news now?

"Dude!" Sam complained as he grabbed the shell.

"Sorry."

His mumbled apology earned him a worried look.

"You alright?"

Dean didn't hear the question, falling back into his own thoughts as he stared at his brother, but not quite seeing him anymore.

Sam's face slowly swam out of his sight as his mind wandered back to Lucifer and the impending Doomsday. He just didn't get it. Father loved humanity, he was sure of that, so why create plans to destroy it? They weren't even the reason why God left Heaven, as some of his siblings believed. Michael was there when He departed, His last words shaking the foundations of his beliefs.

"Human souls are the purest and most amazing form of creation," God had said, His presence brightening with that intimately familiar tenderness Michael hadn't felt in millennia. "I wish you all could see them as I do. A soul can conquer its destiny, Michael. Just lean closer and listen. It will tell you how."

That's why he did it—ripped his own grace out and fell to the plane of mortals to be born as a human. It was the only way he could think of to get as close to humans as an angel could, despite not expecting to be bestowed with a soul of his own. He wanted—no, needed—to understand, to grasp his Father's words and the reason for His love for humans, or he probably would have ended up going crazy like Lucifer did.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes focused on Sam's face again, and he didn't need to lean closer to his soul to hear what it was saying. It simply screamed, loud and clear, to protect him, to keep Sammy safe. Such a pure and beautiful soul as his brother's tainted for the mere purpose of becoming the vessel for his fallen brethren. His Father had wanted him to listen to the human soul, and so he listened.

But this wasn't the first time he had done it, was it?

Dean recalled the first time he truly listened, back when he was just a child, holding his baby brother in his arms, carrying him out of the fire, promising to keep him safe. That promise had shaped his entire existence. Every battle, every sacrifice, was for Sam. Protecting Sam was more than a familial duty; it was his sacred mission done out of pure love.

Father was right. Of course, He was.

Finally understanding the true meaning of God's words, Dean looked at Sam now not only with brotherly love, but with the reverence of an angel who at last grasped the unique splendor of humans his Father had spoken of.

Apocalypse made even less sense now though.

"Dean?"

He jolted when Sam touched his shoulder and shifted awkwardly under his and Bobby's concerned gazes.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm just—" Dean cleared his throat, "—just thinking. What with all the angels suddenly fluttering around and the crazy ghosts." He absentmindedly waved a hand up and down. "Heaven and Hell, and all that jazz in between."

Sam eyed him as if trying to decide how much bullshit was dished his way, but decided not to push it in the end. "Don't think too hard, you're gonna hurt yourself," he joked.

Dean shot his brother a withering look, making his half-smile widen into a full grin. "Speaking from experience?" he retorted. "Pretty sure I can handle it. I'm not a delicate wallflower like you, Samantha."

Sam shook his head, muttering, "You're such a jerk."

"And you're such a bitch."

"If you two idjits done with your heart to heart," Bobby interrupted their bickering with a fond exasperated grumble. "I have something." He tapped at the thick tome with his pencil. "The symbol you saw, the brand on the ghosts—it's the Mark of the Witness."

"Witness?" Sam repeated in confusion. "Witness to what?"

"The unnatural. None of them died what you'd call 'ordinary deaths'. See, these ghosts, they were forced to rise. They woke up in agony," Bobby explained. "They're like rabid dogs, and it ain't their fault. Somebody raised them on purpose and whoever it was, used a spell so powerful it left a mark—a brand on their souls. It's called the Rising of the Witnesses and it ties into an ancient prophecy."

While the man talked, Dean stood up and approached his table to take a peek at the several books he had open in front of him, some stacked on top of each other. It truly was amazing how good Bobby was with research. Dean spared a few moments to admire his ability to find any kind of information in the shortest time possible. Without Bobby Singer, the country's hunter population would have probably been reduced by half, if not more.

"This is a sign, boys."

Sam stopped next to his brother, folding his arms in front of him. "A sign of what?"

Bobby leaned against his chair and looked up at the two siblings, expression grim. "The Apocalypse."

An uncomfortable silence settled after that revelation. Sam glanced at Dean, then back at Bobby. "As in… biblical Apocalypse? The Judgment Day? End of the world?"

"Yea, that's the one," the older hunter agreed. "The Rise of the Witnesses is like a mile marker."

"Okay… So, what do we do now?"

Dean snorted. "We stock up on toilet paper," he said with a clap of his hands. Two other men fixed him with incredulous stares. "What?"

Sam sighed in that specific way when Dean was a special kind of immature. "This is serious, Dean."

"Of course, it is!" Dean exclaimed. They were going against God's plans made from time immemorial after all, but this wasn't the point. "Nothing is more serious than Armageddon. That's why I'm being practical here. You're gonna thank me, believe me."

A quiet, genuine laugh that tumbled out of his baby brother's mouth, even as short as it was, was exactly what Dean tried to achieve. He grinned in success.

"Before ya start your conquest to monopolize the toilet paper, boy, we need to deal with our friends up there," Bobby said, tapping his notes with his pencil again. "There's a spell to send the Witnesses back to rest. Should work..."

"Should?" Sam scoffed. "Great."

"If I translated it correctly."

Dean peeked at the man's notes, quickly scanning the text. Seemed correct. "Don't sell yourself short, Bobby."

"Thanks," Bobby said, a quick smile sliding across his lips. "Anyway, I think I have everything we need for the spell at the house."

"Alright!" Dean cheered with much more eagerness than the situation required. "Let's do it!"

Sam flew up the stairs two at a time and rounded the corner, zeroing in on the closet door at the end of the hallway. He cautiously scanned the narrow surroundings. Nothing seemed out of order. He walked forward, gripping his shotgun tightly, ready to use it at any given moment. Reaching the closet without any incident, he started searching for the red hex box, pushing linens out of the way.

"Sam."

He spun around, lifting the shotgun at the same time, his finger on the trigger, ready to press on it… and froze. It seemed like all his strength got sapped with lightning speed, because his hands started to shake and the shotgun suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

She stood at the other end of the hallway, looking exactly the same as before, just as beautiful as Sam remembered her to be. A long white dress gave her a regal, ethereal air, so pure and innocent, with her long golden hair framing her pale face like a bright halo. Even the small birthmark between her eyebrows was still in its place, and Sam recalled how she hated that it was slightly off-center and how he had kissed it over and over again, telling her how perfect she was—

Her name came out a little bit breathless as if someone punched it out of him, "Jess…"

The ghost smiled.

The shotgun slipped from Sam's limp fingers and clattered loudly on the floor. It was Jess. The woman he truly loved, the woman he lost, the woman he killed…

"Sam," Jess said softly, slowly walking forward until she was right in front of him, and, god, Sam could swear he could smell that familiar scent of strawberry and mint shampoo, which was beyond the bounds of possibility because Jess was dead, dead, dead, dead, burned on the ceiling of their bedroom years ago. He knew he should grab the gun, put a salt round through her head, and bring that box to Bobby.

But instead of doing any of that, he only whispered, "I'm sorry." And it was an apology, a prayer, a desperate plea. All of it and more. "I'm so sorry."

"I know you are, baby," Jess replied, her voice quiet and soothing. She cupped Sam's face with her cold hands and looked into his eyes. "But that doesn't change the fact what you did to me." She was still smiling as her hands moved down and stopped on his chest. "Doesn't mean that it wasn't your fault."

Sam gasped when one of her petite hands pierced his skin, slender fingers ripping into his flesh and sending waves of pain throughout his body.

The ghost's smile vanished and her expression twisted into a snarl. "Your sorry doesn't give me back my life, Sam!" she yelled, pushing her hand further.

And with the sudden clarity, Sam realized that she was right, that he agreed with her wholeheartedly, that even if he could do something, he wouldn't. He had screwed up once and Jess, the love of his life, had paid the price. He had screwed up again and Dean got torn to shreds by hellhounds and dragged to Hell, where he was tortured for forty years.

They were his sins. He deserved this, all of it.

Blackness threatened to overtake his consciousness when someone calling his name in the distance reached his ears.

"Sam!" Dean skidded into the hallway, almost crashing into the opposite wall. As soon as his frantic gaze landed on his brother and Jess, his eyes widened. "Shit. Hold on, Sammy!" he cried out, already sprinting towards the two. Once he was at an angle where he could shoot his shotgun without hitting Sam, he didn't waver in the slightest.

The ghost dispersed. Sam breathed in a painful gulp of air before collapsing where he stood.

"Sam?" Dean kneeled next to him, quickly inspecting the wound on Sam's chest. It looked nasty, but not life-threatening. He brushed a stray hair off his brother's face to see his eyes, then grabbed his head with both hands. "Sammy? You hear me?"

"I'm sorry, Dean…"

Not what Dean had expected to hear, and he knitted his brow in confusion. "Dude, it's not your fault that the ghost jumped you."

"No, not that," Sam fervently shook his head and gripped Dean's jacket, seemingly trying to shake him and make him understand what he tried to say. "You went to Hell for me… I-I'm sorry."

"Hey, hey, look at me, Sam!" Dean tapped his brother's cheek to force him to look at him, and once he did, Dean caught the gaze of his regretful, hazel eyes and held it. "That was my decision, you hear me? You can't be responsible for other people's decisions. But if you want forgiveness, I forgive you, Sammy. For everything. And my word on this matter carries a lot of weight."

Michael wasn't called a patron angel of righteousness and justice for nothing. As the commander of the Fire of Judgment, he reserved the right to judge sinners: to either punish or forgive them.

A faint smile tugged at Dean's lips as he made a quick motion of brushing his thumb across Sam's forehead, letting a speck of his grace seep into him as a part of this sacred ritual. It dropped onto his wounded soul, instantly cleansing and mending the tiny area around it. It wouldn't hold for long—too meager for too big corruption—but it was all he could do for now.

Sensing a presence nearby, Dean snapped his attention to it. Jess stood a few feet away, looking at him with obvious confusion. She must have felt it, the power of an angel. Molten gold flickered in Dean's green irises as he let his grace slide from where he hid it behind his soul, let it flare up as much as possible, let its edges sharpen like a sword ready to cut the enemy down.

Jess' eyes widened. At the next moment, she was gone.

Good call. Despite being such a small part of his true essence, it contained enough power to at least injure a simple ghost if he so wished, though he would have done it only as a last resort.

Dean urged his grace to return to its hiding spot while he moved so that he could haul his little brother's gigantic frame up from the floor. "Come on, kiddo, snap out of it," he said. "We need to help Bobby put these poor souls to rest."

"Yeah, alright," Sam muttered, too exhausted to argue. Dean simply didn't realize what he had done, what he was— the freak with demon blood in his veins—and how truly unworthy he was of his forgiveness.

Dean woke up with a start. Something slid from his lap, and his hand shot out on instinct to catch it. He lay there then, trying to figure out what had woken him up and when he had fallen asleep in the first place.

Going by the house shrouded in darkness, it was still the middle of the night. The only dim light came from the guard lamp outside. It poured through the kitchen and porch windows and illuminated the room with an eerie aura.

Realizing that he was lying on the couch in Bobby's study where Sam was supposed to be sleeping instead, he willed his brain to remember how he ended up here. The Last thing he recalled was browsing the Internet on Sam's laptop, searching for a sign of his grace. He actually found a promising lead and must have dozed off soon after.

Dean glanced at his lap and, sure thing, Sam's laptop was something that almost slid off. Thank goodness, he caught it. But then again, why no one removed it after he had fallen asl—

Wait.

Something wasn't right here. He looked around, puzzled. His senses picked on some kind of weirdness permeating the surroundings, but he couldn't quite make out what exactly was amiss. "This is…" Dean peeked over the door frame into the kitchen and saw Castiel leaning against the cupboard, waiting. He could also make out the faint shape of his wings as he kept moving and rustling them as if finding them uncomfortable in any position.

Dean dropped his head back on the pillow with a sigh. A dream. Or, more likely, a dream projection created by Castiel, a space and time between dream and reality. At least it wasn't a nightmare drowned in blood, soaked in Hell's stench, and full of screams of the damned. His human consciousness liked to take over and had fun with him while he slept. Sleeping was great, but he surely wasn't going to miss it once he wouldn't need to do it anymore.

With a sigh, Dean heaved himself up and walked into the kitchen. "Castiel," he greeted the younger angel.

"Excellent job with the Witnesses."

"Thanks."

Dean eyed the angel, unable to stop a surge of worry at the sight. He seemed even more of a mess than the last time they met. From what he picked up out of angelic chatter, Castiel was one of the leading captains here on Earth and he definitely must have gone through some battles. Subtly glancing at his wings, Dean noticed one of them visibly shudder before Castiel's stoic expression scrunching up.

Plunging into the depths of Hell was dangerous, even for an angel. Alastair held Dean almost at the very bottom, and while most demons couldn't do much to angels, their numbers exceeded the forces of Heaven and easily overwhelmed them. Not to mention, former angels dwelled among demons, twisted and tainted by corruption, and posed the greatest threat even on their own. Hell itself rejected divine beings by default.

Castiel must have sustained numerous injuries from the siege and then his trip to the bottom, but he also took Dean's taint into himself, cleansing his soul until it was sparkling and squeaky clean like a brand new. Now he was going through an uncomfortable and quite often painful ordeal of purifying his grace. While in this state, he also had to participate in battles against demons and corrupted angels for the seals.

Dean's heart gave a guilty lurch. This little sibling of his didn't even have to cleanse his soul. He doubted that his superior ordered him to do it. He would bet his wings that he was ordered not to do it; after all, they needed Dean Winchester pliant and susceptible for persuasions to say 'Yes' once the right time had arrived. Yet, Castiel did it out of his own violation despite all that.

"You don't look so hot," Dean said after catching a slight shudder running through the angel's wing again.

"I do not feel heat or coldness," Castiel deadpanned.

Dean snorted, an amused smile spreading across his face despite his more somber mood, and he clarified, "No, I mean that you look tired."

Castiel tilted his head slightly to the side and squinted, curious and analyzing. "You are worried about me," he observed. A frown settled on his features like he didn't know what to do with this information.

"Of course, I am," Dean replied immediately. Realizing it, he hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, you saved me from Hell, and then you yelled at me until my ears started bleeding, I yelled right back at you, and it's like, uh, friendly jabs in the human world, you know? So, it makes us buddies now," he rambled nonsense, ignoring how Castiel appeared more and more confused. "Anyway, speaking of Hell… I don't think I've said this yet." He looked straight into the angel's eyes, completely sincere. "Thank you."

Castiel blinked, seemingly surprised by such genuine gratitude, clearly not expecting it. "I was merely fulfilling my duty," he said, but a tiny, barely noticeable upward curve on his lips showed how truly pleased he felt. "But you are welcome."

Dean flashed a grin, leaned against the cupboard next to the younger angel, and after a short companionable silence spoke, "Bobby says we're dealing with the Apocalypse."

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. "That is why we are here, walking among you for the first time in two thousand years." When he didn't hear any comment, he continued, "The Rising of the Witnesses is one of the sixty-six seals. Those seals are being broken by Lilith."

"I bet nothing good will come if all those seals break."

There was a brief pause before Castiel shifted so that they were face to face again. "Once the last seal breaks, Lucifer will walk free." His voice was even lower than usual, grimmer.

Not surprising. The war in Heaven was brutal enough, no angel wanted to deal with Lucifer again. Or, well, any angel with common sense and survival instinct.

"And angels are here to stop this from happening."

Castiel nodded.

"I guess this seal was broken," Dean mused. "How are the others doing?" He heard the reports, of course, but he wanted to see how this young angel would answer him.

"Some we will save, some we will lose." Castiel turned his head to the side, as if he couldn't look Dean in the eyes any longer, and glared at nothing in particular. "We are trying, but our numbers are not unlimited."

"How many of you are down here?"

Castiel suddenly deflated, looking even wearier. His shoulders sagged and his wings drooped. "Not enough," he admitted quietly.

Dean's lips twitched down in a small frown.

Michael had been gone for centuries. Granted, he had left half of his grace up there to conceal his absence, but he had never planned to stay away for so long. The lower circles of his siblings wouldn't have noticed, but Raphael definitely should have. It would be in his best interest to stall or put everything on hold until Michael was found.

But Apocalypse was on its way, despite one of the main actors unaccounted for. This made no sense whatsoever.

It meant that Raphael either didn't know that Michael was gone, and the whole Host was in for a big nasty surprise, or his fellow Archangel had plans to somehow win against Lucifer by himself. Raphael knew his capabilities; he was not an idiot. He wasn't strong enough to fight his older brother. He had to have something, some kind of ace up his sleeve—

—like half of Michael's grace within arm's reach. Unprotected, pure grace would give him the edge he needed against Lucifer or anyone else, for that matter.

Dean paled at the thought.

Raphael wouldn't dare to do it, would he? It was just an assumption. He wouldn't steal half of his older brother's life essence just to fulfill some stupid prophecy, right?

No matter how he denied it, the possibility of his fellow Archangel's betrayal stung more than a knife through his heart ever could.

"Dean?"

A feather-light touch on his forehead and Castiel's grace carefully wrapping around him jolted Dean out of his bubbling panic and his eyes snapped back to the angel's face. A face that was an inch or so from his own. Talk about an incomprehension of personal space. "Dude," he grumbled, stepping back.

"You need not fear," Castiel said, observing him closely. "We shall prevail."

"Yeah…"

Of one thing, Dean was quite sure now—Castiel genuinely tried to stop the Apocalypse. He didn't know about God's plan or how Heaven's highest order faked their attempts.

This little sibling of his was so very naïve and pure. And an idiot. A naïve idiot that Dean moved into his 'must protect' list. He had already carried Castiel's protection brand on his soul and was in his debt for saving him; as the elder brother, he might as well return the gesture in kind.

Despite angels calling each other siblings, in reality, a lot of them weren't that close. They loved each other, they did, but there were just too many of them and they were too militaristic to have anything resembling a true family as a whole. It was inevitable that some angels grouped up into smaller units with those they felt closest to.

Then rebellion came and passed. Everyone was on edge after the battle. It got worse after Lucifer's imprisonment in the Cage, with brothers and sisters walking around each other as if expecting a stab to the back the moment they turned around. Those smaller units became frowned upon at first and a complete taboo after God left Heaven. It bred emotions they weren't supposed to have, or so angels justified, punishing those who disobeyed.

Michael and Lucifer had always been such a unit from the moment they came into existence. Later, they eagerly accepted Raphael and Gabriel, and for a long while, the four of them looked out for each other. Until they gradually stopped, even before the rebellion. Michael's hardheadedness, Lucifer's anger, Raphael's aloofness, Gabriel's avoidance—everyone contributed to ripping it apart.

Dean's old family unit was long gone now, but it didn't mean he couldn't build a new one. He already had Sam and Bobby, nevertheless, he wasn't against a new addition.

"We should go for a beer one day. You, me, Sam, Bobby. It'd be nice." A soft smile followed his words.

Of course, his intentions went over Castiel's head, his brow furrowing in a humans-are-confusing way. "I do not require an alcoholic substance."

Dean barked out a startled laugh. "If you talk like that, you certainly do," he stated as a matter of fact.

A set of specific orders rang out throughout the angelic mental communication, and Castiel's wings primed for a flight. "I'm needed elsewhere," and with that, he disappeared.

Dean sighed. He missed his wings.

The next time Dean woke up, it was slow and lazy. Such a good sleep. Must have been Castiel's doing, he thought, stifling a yawn. Blindly, he patted around his lap. When he didn't feel Sam's laptop anywhere on him, he glanced around the room.

The laptop was sitting safely on Bobby's desk. Sam must have moved it there after Dean dozed off.

The house was still dark, though not as much as in Castiel's dream projection. He still felt too tired to get up just yet. Staring at the shadows on the ceiling, he couldn't help but frown.

If Raphael truly planned to absorb his grace, Dean needed to pick up speed in the search for its pieces. The assimilation of other angels' grace into your own was feasible, though it carried a lot of hidden dangers and couldn't be done all willy-nilly. If someone wasn't strong enough to suppress the essence of an angel they tried to absorb, couldn't find the seams that held the grace together and dismantle it fast enough, they risked being eaten by that grace instead and losing their mind. Half of Michael's grace wasn't something Raphael would risk swallowing before making enough preparations.

At least, Dean hoped he wouldn't do it soon. If he had planned to do it at all. He still wanted to believe that his brother didn't plan to betray him like that.

Dean himself couldn't take in that half at the current moment either—his vessel wouldn't be able to survive. Or, it shouldn't. That was what happened with fallen angels who were reborn as humans after they had taken their grace back into their physical bodies. But they never had souls in them, unlike him. His body contained a soul, like those humans that said 'yes' to angels. Would that change anything? Dean didn't know and he didn't want to gamble his true vessel like that. Especially when he experienced excruciating pain after absorbing the first piece.

Taking his grace back piece by piece lessened the burden on his vessel and slowly saturated it with his essence until it reached capacity to absorb the remaining half left in Heaven without exploding. That was why he needed to collect the other four pieces first. The lead he found earlier was worth checking out. He wondered how he should explain it to Sam without making him even more suspicious.

Dean glanced around the room again. Where was that kid anyway? Opening his senses, he scanned the surroundings. He found Bobby on the second floor in his room and Sam outside on the porch.

Dean pushed blanked off which probably Sam put on him, because he didn't remember doing it himself, and stood up. Padding to the porch window, he peeked outside. It was fairly dark, but he could make out a lone figure sitting on the porch stairs.

He went to the kitchen next and put some water to boil. After finding his shoes under the couch, he made two mugs of coffee and brought them both outside.

The wooden floor of the porch creaked quietly under his weight. Sam never glanced back to see who was coming from behind, his eyes never moving away from the distant horizon.

It was early in the morning. On one side, the sky was the dark blue and purple of twilight. On another, the sun bloomed beyond the horizon, orange and golden petals bright amid the rich blue. Night chill still lingered in the air, but the daybreak was quickly bringing glimmers of warmth with it.

"Sammy," Dean called. His heart ached at the haunted hazel eyes that met his gaze. He didn't say anything else but instead offered the coffee.

Sam took it with a soft, "Thanks." Sitting here for who knew how long, his hands must have been cold by now. He wrapped his fingers around the mug, not bothered by its still-too-hot surface.

Dean sat down too, not too close to be crowding Sam's personal space, but enough that their shoulders brushed over each other. "Have you slept?" he asked carefully.

Sam stiffened and his hold on the mug tightened. A handful of emotions flashed through his features before the walls of defenses slammed firmly into place. "I'm fine," he said, his voice tight.

Dean observed him, wanting nothing more than to wipe that expression clear off of his face, to lighten his burden, to give this kid what he truly deserved. He wanted to ask Sam how he felt, how he could help. The urge to shake Sam and scream at him until he believed that none of it was his fault, that Jess wasn't his sin to carry, that everything that had happened to them was a deliberate plan to steer Winchesters towards this exact point.

Yet, Dean said nothing. Words were useless in this situation, because Sam was Winchester through and through, and the Winchesters never shared their aches and pains. They were always 'fine', and even when the weight of the world threatened to crush them, the Winchesters never agreed to divide it with the others.

So, Dean stayed silent. He shifted his eyes away from his baby brother and onto the horizon, taking a few sips of his coffee. Slowly, gradually, without anyone pressuring him to talk, the tension bled out of Sam's shoulders, his stiff pose relaxed, and his defense started to crack, to unravel.

Minutes ticked away as they just sat there on Bobby's porch in comfortable silence, surrounded by fresh morning air and coffee scent.

Dean's patience paid off when eventually Sam rubbed at his face tiredly, then brushed his fingers through his hair. "I just… I didn't expect to see her," he confessed, a bit reluctant, but at least he was talking about it now.

"Those spirits weren't in their right mind, Sam."

"I know, I know," he hurriedly said before sighing. "Doesn't mean that what she said isn't true."

"Sam, listen—"

"God, I hope she's safe now," his brother interrupted, and Dean let him. "I hope she's up there… You know, in Heaven. Hell and demons exist, so if angels exist, Heaven should be real too, right?"

Sam stared at him with pleading eyes, waiting for confirmation, and Dean's chest swelled with the need to comfort. "Heaven is real," he said, then hesitated, but pushed through regardless, "but the Witnesses, they, uh, they don't return to Heaven."

Sam's eyes widened and his face drained of all the blood. "W-What?" he stammered out, his voice full of pure horror.

"The souls that are raised as Witnesses are marked by the spell, by the brand we saw, remember? They don't go back to Heaven, instead, they get reborn and move through the reincarnation cycles until their souls are cleansed from any residue of that spell," Dean explained. A small smile tugged the corner of his lips up as he added, "After nine months, Jess will be screaming her newborn's lungs out somewhere in this world."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"

"Castiel told me," he lied without batting an eye. "He visited me in the dreams."

A scowl etched onto Sam's features as he relaxed a tiny bit and stared at the coffee in his hands, at the curling steam rising from it. "That's a good thing, right?" he asked after a moment. "The reincarnation?"

"Well, life is not always only smiles and the sunshine, more often than not, it sucks," Dean stated honestly. "But humans have a lot of good things too. Classic cars. Showers. Metallica. Beer. Sex." He smiled an easy grin as he listed all that before his expression softened into a fond look. "Family."

The way Dean said it while looking at him, with so much love and devotion, made Sam duck his head down, looking awkward and slightly embarrassed, a bit of red dusting his cheeks.

"Jess will be fine," Dean assured. "And this Apocalypse will not interfere with her new life, because we're gonna stop it." He lifted his coffee mug. It wasn't as cool as a beer, but it would do. "Together."

Sam's lips curled into a genuine smile. He brought forward his mug and clinked it into Dean's. "Together."

A/N

As always, thanks for reading! Tell me your thoughts in the comments :)