Chapter Text
Heaven is white.
Well. Isn’t that fucking stereotypical.
Dean blinks a couple times, just to reassure himself that his eyes aren’t deceiving him.
But no. It’s still there.
White. That same unrelenting white.
He’s vaguely conscious of his back on the floor, some hard bright surface underneath him, but there’s nothing else. Just endless blank space, bare and clean. It almost hurts his eyes to look at it.
He props himself up on his elbows, starting to push himself up.
Still white. Still endless.
Dean stands, and turns slowly on the spot, taking it all in.
No friggin’ way.
He presses his hands to his eyes, and takes a deep breath in.
He counts to ten.
Dean exhales, then he looks up.
The first thing that hits him is the color.
The white is gone now, a vibrant sky of turquoise and yellow in its place. Dean watches in awe, the endless streaks and blocks of color shifting aimlessly above him. Yellow melts away into a softer gold, then bright red. Then red becomes a crisp mint, changing as suddenly as if he had flipped a coin. Then coal black, then a fizzling orange—then a color Dean has no name for.
He hesitates, but then reaches up, as if he could curl his fingers around it, wanting to pull the brightness into his palm and let it crumble beneath his fingertips.
His hand closes around dusty cinnamon, but it quickly melts and blows away.
He drops his hand.
He's dead. That so much he knows. He and Sammy had gotten the rest of them out of there—and then Dean ran forward, shoving the kid out of the way, and then—
Nothing. There was nothing.
The space above his head peels into a sharp jade color, bleeding down around him. Dean drops his eyes back down, just feeling. He flexes his fingers.
He feels good. Hell, he feels goddamn fantastic. That kink in his back is gone, the one he couldn’t seem to shake ever since he turned forty—and there’s no ache in his hands, his knees…nothing. He vaguely wonders what he looks like.
And as if the sky wants to oblige him, it immediately turns a bright silver, so sharp and clean that Dean can see himself reflected in it. He peers upward, tracing the familiar lines of his face. He has to be almost thirty years younger.
The silver swirls and pools into a softer blue, fading away. It quickly turns clear, almost like the sea—floating down around him in waves of light. Dean would close his eyes and breathe it in, but he doesn’t want to look away from that beautiful shade of familiar blue.
He doesn’t know how long he wanders.
Dean moves through the colors, as everything pitches to a slight red, then a peach color, slowly melting to brown.
A thick, roiling brown—churning and settling into something more solid.
Dean shivers. He glances over his shoulder, but there’s still nothing.
He turns in time to see himself step onto solid wood.
He blinks at his feet, uncomprehending.
Then he looks up.
Dark, damp wooden walls, lined with shitty pool tables and dingy dartboards, and even the weathered counter, same as it was the day he saw it last.
Roadhouse.
Today is Dean’s Birthday
“You really shouldn’t be out in the sun, Sammy.”
“Dean, I’m fine. I’m not a child.”
“Still gotta make sure you don’t accidentally kill yourself due to stupidity.”
“Dude, after all the shit we’ve seen—I doubt heatstroke is really the way I’m bound to go out.”
“Yeah, but still—”
“Dean.”
Sam stops him, a solid hand on his shoulders.
“It’s been four years, okay? I’m fine. Doctors all said so. Tests are clean.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but can’t help his worried grimace. Sam sees the look, and sighs.
“Seriously. I’m putting my foot down. No cancer talk on your birthday.” His face crinkles with a smile. “Let’s get back to being grumpy old men, alright?”
Dean grumbles a little, but his brother just laughs, and nudges him down the sidewalk.
Dean huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t know why Sam wanted to take him to San Francisco, of all places. Bunker is still home home, in his opinion, even if they don’t hunt too much nowadays. That weird-ass condo Sam bought doesn’t count at all.
But of course Mr. Guilt Trip managed to convince him—after many sappy looks and wistful stories from his college days, weekend trips with Jess….
Well. Dean isn’t that heartless.
(Dean has forty-five minutes to live. He’s not aware of this fact. He trails after his brother, trying to hide his fatigue.)
They reach the top of yet another ridiculously steep slope, and Dean has to stop for a minute to catch his breath. He's a year away from 60, for god’s sake. He shouldn’t have to put up with this shit anymore.
“All these fuckin’ hills.” Dean places a hand to his back, massaging at a sore spot. “Good thing I tightened up Baby’s brakes last week.”
Sam snorts.
“Dude, the day that car fails, will be the day the apocalypse actually manages to happen.”
They walk down a side street, taking refuge from the heat in the back patio of a shady bar.
(Twenty-seven minutes left. Dean buys a beer and sips it casually, not caring as it gradually warms with the air around him, uncharacteristic for late January.)
They go to the pier. They go to all the nerdy historical sights. They even ride the damn cable cars.
And his brother teases him. And Dean teases back. They joke about things that don’t matter, and things that do, and Dean tries not to think of anything that will put a damper on the day.
(Eleven more minutes of life.)
Dean’s laughing at something Sam’s just said, not a care in the world.
(Ten minutes.)
It happens so suddenly, so quickly, that it almost seems like a joke.
The air cracks with the sick screech of metal on metal, and they both whip around—but they’re not ready for what they see.
At first glance, it looks like the whole front of the building has caved in—there's wood and concrete everywhere—
And people. People thrown to the ground like broken toys, groaning and covered in dust.
Dean’s first instinct is to go for his gun, ready to take out whatever monster caused this—when he remembers.
You don’t need it man, Sam said. We don’t see that kinda action anymore.
Dean pushes his way forward, cursing his brother in his mind. But as he struggles through the crowd, he grudgingly thinks Sam might be right.
There’s only frightened people, running every which way, screams and groans filling the air. The more cowardly shove past Dean, desperate to escape—but there are a couple brave souls fighting through the confusion and the dust clogging the air, trying to help those trapped in the wreckage. The two Winchesters join them without hesitation.
(Six minutes to live.)
“You okay?” Dean asks, pulling her up. The woman nods, her eyes wide. There’s a streak of blood on her cheek—but otherwise, she seems unhurt.
“Okay, go, go—“
He presses a hand to his chest, coughing concrete dust from his lungs. Sam is stumbling towards him.
“Dean,” he calls. “I think there’s something—“
“What?” Dean shouts, yelling over the noise of a flaring siren.
“I think there’s—“
Sam ducks a broken beam, panting.
“There’s—something—here—“
Dean whirls, but it’s too late. It hits them and they’re both thrown back, crashing into a pile of rubble.
He only gets a glimpse of black eyes before it seizes his head and smashes it against the concrete.
Stars explode in front of his eyes. He crumples, gasping for breath.
The thing wrenches him up, its hand like a vise on his throat.
“Winchesters,” it purrs, breath meaty and hot. “Must be my lucky day.”
Dean chokes, the world going black.
Sam comes out of nowhere, ripping the demon off him. Air surges back into Dean's lungs, and he immediately rolls over, shoving himself up, even though his body screams in protest.
The demon crashes back against the wall, collapsing into a motionless heap. Sam falls back to Dean’s side, breathing hard.
They both watch in tense silence as it starts to stand, fixing them with maniacal smile.
The demon cracks its neck.
“Someone’s been taking their vitamins."
Dean's hand moves slowly to his belt.
Luckily his brother had no such qualms about bringing Ruby’s knife. Dean pulls it now, the familiar thrill of the hunt rushing back.
“End of the line, pal,” he sneers.
The demon snarls back at him, black eyes mad with rage.
(Two minutes.)
The walls groan dangerously, and Dean darts a glance up to the weakening roof above him.
Shit. Demon must’ve been smashing up the place for fun—but looks like it got a little too carried away.
They need to get out of here.
Dean looks back into those fathomless eyes.
“We both know how this ends,” he says, his voice dropping down low. “Best come quietly.”
The demon leers, a dribble of blood spilling over his lips.
“Bite me.”
Dean smiles.
He bends his knees, ready to spring—
When Sam’s voice sounds behind him, halting Dean in his tracks. The familiar words of the exorcism echo around the unstable walls, and the demon freezes, its smile vanishing.
Dean shoots him a look, but Sam is completely focused on the demon. It growls furiously, thrashing and twitching in its meatsuit.
Something in the ceiling snaps, another shudder wracking through the building. Dean’s heartbeat spikes.
Come on, come on
The man spasms, the thing inside desperately trying to hang on.
“Te rogamus, audi nos!”
With a roar, the demon smokes out, disappearing into the dust-clogged air.
The man goes limp, and they both immediately rush forward. They grab him by the elbows, pulling him towards the exit.
Dean breathes hard, his blood pounding.
“I had him, Sam,” he snaps. “I’m not fuckin' useless—“
“We can’t hunt the way we used to, Dean,” Sam shoots back. “I was saving your ass.”
They duck under a half-collapsed doorway, spilling out onto the street. Sam struggles with the man's heavy weight, panting out his words.
“You can be pissed at me later."
Dean mutters a few choice curses under his breath, but they manage to get the dude outside, hauling him out of the building and out of danger. He quickly gets snatched up by the paramedics, and they collapse against a parked car, panting.
“I think that’s everybody,” Sam says breathlessly, pressing a hand to his ribs. Dean shoots him a look. Jesus, Sammy said he was okay, but his lungs—
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. No. He should listen to his damn brother.
He leans back, wiping the sweat from his face. And out of habit, he glances back at the ruined building.
He thinks his heart stops in his chest.
Underneath a lip of splintered wood, he hadn’t seen her before—
A girl who can’t be more than ten. She’s crying.
And above her, a steel beam, teetering dangerously.
Dean doesn’t think.
He bolts forward, running for her. He can hear Sam yelling behind him, but Dean shuts it out. The damage isn’t that bad—there's time, he can save her—
He ducks under a broken rail, kicking through scattered rubble, calling for her.
“Hey, hey—”
He clambers over glass and the ruins of a door, throwing out a hand.
“Come on!”
Those wide blue eyes find his, but she’s frozen—paralyzed by fear.
(Thirty seconds.)
Dean panics.
“Come on, come on—“
He’s close, she’s so close—
“Come on!” he yells.
Just a few more feet—
A crack—and the beam starts to fall.
Dean moves faster than he thinks he ever has in his life.
His hands find something solid, and he shoves it out of the way.
There’s a sick whistling sound, a scream of terror—and then—
"Dean!”
Dean takes a shallow breath, choking on the air. He’s vaguely conscious of his back on the floor, something hot and wet seeping out beneath him.
Oh god, no, no—
Sam’s rough and warm embrace, surrounding him, holding him tight.
Dean, no, hey, hey, come on—
His brother is shouting—why is he shouting?
There are other voices, panicked and wild in the chaos, but they all fade away.
Dean feels something hard and black inside him, a sort of white radiating pain sinking deep into his core. It sits red hot in his gut, then quietly fades away to nothing.
He doesn’t feel anything anymore.
“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean mumbles. “It’s okay.”
Then there are hands, soft and warm in his.
Dean smiles.
It’s okay.
The last thing he feels is those hands, pulling him forward.
x
“People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless. This is the greatest gift God can give you: To understand what happened in your life. To have it explained. It is the peace you have been searching for. ”
x
Dean takes a few cautious steps forward.
This is his Heaven? The fuckin’ Roadhouse?
Not that this isn’t great—hell, he’ll be glad to relax in a familiar place for once—but what about his family? Mom? Sam? And Cas—
Dean swallows, screwing his eyes shut.
Then he realizes, and he almost wants to laugh.
Of course. This isn’t his Heaven. There's no way this can be real.
He's back in Hell.
Dean isn't surprised. After all the crap he’s done, why would Heaven let him in? And god—it’s the perfect torture. Give him some familiar place, some small glimmer of hope—then just when he starts to believe it’s real—they'll cruelly tear it away. Dean almost expects the place to burn down any minute, his old nightmare—for the demons and the screams to come ripping through the flaming walls, and drag him down.
But it doesn’t.
He reaches out, tentatively placing a hand against one of the supporting posts. He runs his fingers up and down the thick wood, and despite himself, he smiles.
It feels real. Hell—even smells right.
There’s a shuffle and a noise from the bar, and Dean whirls, hand immediately going for his gun.
But his fingers close down on nothing but air.
Dean curses, patting himself down. Even in Heaven, he doesn’t have his fuckin’ gun. He’s defenseless.
“Porter, Stout…”
Dean freezes, his mouth falling open.
She frowns, peering at the taps behind the bar.
“Even got some of that fancy imported stuff, ‘cause the boys complained one time,” she says, wiping down a glass with her rag. “Ungrateful little bastards.”
He walks forward, unsure if he’s dreaming.
“Ellen?”
She smiles.
“What’ll you have, Dean?”
x
He just gapes at her. Ellen doesn’t seem fazed, turning to wipe down the counter.
“Bit of a shock, I know.”
When Dean still doesn't answer, she chuckles, scrubbing at an invisible speck of dirt.
“You sure you’re not one of the mute ones?”
“M—“
He swallows.
“Mute ones?” he manages to croak out.
She laughs.
“Guess not.”
Ellen slings the rag over her shoulder.
“The more difficult ones get the silent treatment,” she says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “S‘cause they don’t know how to listen.”
She leans a hand against the bar, an amused grin on her face.
“But never really figured you for one of those, Dean Winchester. Even though sometimes you boys’re dumber than a bag of hammers.”
Dean stares. He realizes his mouth is open, and quickly closes it.
Ellen grins.
“So, Dean.” She claps her hands together. “What’ll ya have?”
“Uh.”
He swallows, eyeing her warily.
“Surprise me. I guess.”
He’s not ready to let down his guard just yet.
But Ellen just smiles.
“You got it.”
She turns, busying herself with the glass. Dean cautiously sits down on one of the stools, glancing around.
“So.”
She glances at him. He shrugs.
“It’s a bar.”
Ellen snorts, pulling back the handle.
“You think it’d be Heaven without beer?”
She fills the glass and tops it off perfectly, sliding it to him.
“On the house,” she says, giving him a wink.
Dean automatically wraps his hands around the glass, but he feels numb.
“Heaven,” he repeats. “Right.”
Heaven. The last time he was up here had been anything but calm. More like frantic and terrifying, running blind with Sam, pursued by angels every step of the way. No freaky colors, no Ellen, and definitely no calm chitchat over drinks. So yeah, he’s a little confused.
Ellen smiles, puttering behind the bar. And suddenly, Dean feels cold.
“Well. Um.”
He laughs, empty and hollow.
“Thanks, and all, but c’mon.” He gestures. “Let’s go.”
Ellen frowns.
“What?”
He stands, shrugging.
“Y’know. With the resurrection.”
Dean looks up, expecting some winged dick to swoop in at any moment.
“Let’s go!” He shouts to the ceiling.
Nothing happens.
He throws Ellen a sharp look, but she doesn’t say anything.
Something in Dean’s gut twists.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “But that’s not how it works.”
He slowly turns to face her.
“Been dead a couple times before.”
He gestures towards himself, grimacing.
“Angels fix you up, you’re good to go.”
“Dean.”
“Sam’ll probably be missing me,” he says quickly. “He’ll be worried, and he’ll probably do something stupid, and I—“
“Dean.”
He stops, eyes fixed on the glass in front of him.
There’s a burning in his throat, and something pricking in the corner of his eyes.
“You’re done,” Ellen says softly. “You can rest now.”
“I’m—“
He takes a deep breath.
“I’m dead,” he whispers.
Ellen looks down. Then, she nods.
Dean digs his nails into his palm.
“For good?”
“Yes,” she says gently. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
She comes around the edge of the bar, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He doesn’t remember sitting down.
“It’s okay,” she says, moving a soothing hand over his back.
Dean stares unblinkingly at the floor.
“I—“
He closes his eyes.
“I wanna see Mom,” he whispers. The hand on his back pauses.
“I know.”
Ellen moves away, the pain clear on her face.
“I’m a poor substitute, kiddo. I know that.”
Dean bites down on his tongue, a sudden rush of shame hot and thick in his blood.
“I—sorry—“
He wants to apologize, but the words die in his throat. She smiles sadly.
“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I get it.”
She looks away.
“But I don’t know if she’s on your list.”
Dean frowns.
“List?”
Ellen straightens suddenly, and he holds his breath. This—Dean knows—this is it. Whatever she’s here for. He’s about to find out.
“There are five people you meet in Heaven,” she says.
x
Dean blinks.
“What?”
“Five people,” Ellen says again. “Sorta initiation process.”
She sees the look on his face, and snorts, crossing her arms.
“Don’t worry. It confused the hell outta me, too.”
Dean struggles to understand.
“But—who? Who are my five?”
Ellen just shakes her head.
“Sorry. Like I said, don’t know. Just that I was one of yours.”
Dean growls, his frustration getting the better of him.
“Why?” He snaps.
Ellen quiets, looking down.
That rush of shame overwhelms him again, and Dean covers his face with his hands, trying to breathe.
Why does he keep lashing out?
“Sorry,” he whispers.
Ellen’s voice is soft.
“It’s hard to accept at first,” she murmurs. “I get it.”
They’re silent for a moment. Somewhere, a clock is ticking.
“This is the first step for you,” she continues tentatively, as if she’s ready for him to explode again. “My second.”
Dean runs a hand over his face, trying to process it all.
“So.”
He breathes. In. Out.
“I’ll…get a Roadhouse of my own?”
Ellen nods.
“Yep. A little slice of paradise, carved out for each of us.”
She sits in the seat opposite him, leaning back.
“Never thought I’d say it, but it’s nice.” She laughs, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Ash, uh—Ash told us about your last cloud hopping experience—once he found us.” She shakes her head. “The things that boy can do, I swear."
She glances down, then looks up, raising an eyebrow.
“That beer ain’t gonna drink itself.”
Dean swallows guiltily and tugs it towards him. He takes a large gulp, trying to calm his nerves.
And damn, it is good.
Hell, it might be the best drink he’s ever had.
“Anyway."
Ellen smiles slightly.
"Ash may be a genius, but he didn’t realize you don’t need fancy sigils to cross heavens.”
Dean looks up, frowning. She shrugs, nodding towards something behind him. Dean turns to see a soft orange light, pooling from the window of a weathered door.
“Got a little corner I can pop into when I want to see Jo,” she says, smiling wistfully.
Dean clenches his jaw, dragging his eyes away. He can barely handle seeing Ellen right now. He can’t even start to think about seeing Jo.
“All heavens overlap. If you want them to,” Ellen says, after a moment. “Anyone we’ve met throughout the years. The more important, the bigger the overlap.” She props her chin on her hand, looking at the door. “Jo had a life outside me, so she doesn’t have to hang out with her mother for all eternity.” She purses her lips. “I’m sure she’s grateful for that.”
Dean swallows.
“Right,” he manages to say.
Ellen lays a hand on his arm.
“Usually you share with a soulmate."
Dean ducks his head. Ellen smiles wryly.
“Enjoy not having a roommate, while you can, kid.”
She smiles fondly at him, and Dean feels that burning again, knowing that it’s an affection he doesn’t deserve.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to give himself some time to think.
“So you…”
She dips her head, answering his unfinished question.
“Anyone I want to see, I can.”
Then she gives him a sharp look, a warning note in her voice.
“But only after I met my five.”
Dean realizes belatedly that he’s nodding. Then he remembers he doesn’t believe in any of this bullshit.
But hey, he’ll play along. If it means he’ll get to see his family again.
“Why five people?” He decides to ask first. “What does that do?”
“Freedom,” Ellen says. “Paradise without understanding is meaningless. God is offering the chance for you to make sense of your life.”
When she smiles, fine spiderweb lines crinkle the corners of her eyes. And for the first time, Dean realizes how young she really was.
“Hell, you know me. Never was really one for the God stuff," she says. "Didn’t believe in angels until there was one sittin’ in front of me." She leans her elbows on the table. “But it’s good. It works. It helped me, and it’ll help you, Dean. To understand why you mattered.”
“But I don’t,” Dean responds automatically.
When she doesn’t say anything, he glances up.
Ellen is staring at him, her expression something he can’t quite describe.
“Damn it, Dean,” she snaps.
Before Dean can react, she suddenly stands, grabbing his empty glass. She stalks back behind the bar as he watches, bewildered.
Ellen angrily jabs the glass under the tap and refills it, not looking at him.
“You had me really worried, kid,” she mutters.
“What?”
“We’re not blind up here, Dean,” she says, the frustration clear in her voice. “I kept an eye on you.”
She slides him his full glass, and it hisses to a halt in front of him, beer slopping messily over the edge.
Ellen turns on him, and Dean wishes he could suddenly vanish.
“I know you had a hard road, but Jesus—sometimes I thought you were going to end it before your time.”
Dean swallows. Ellen looks like she’s barely keeping her temper.
“Tried to get you to talk to someone, but god knows that didn’t work too well," she snaps.
She yanks down a tumbler and pours herself a shot of whiskey. She knocks in back in one go, squinting a little as it stings her throat.
Dean stares at her.
“That—that really was you. The psychic.”
Ellen slams the glass down, focusing that laser-like stare on him.
“Luckily your brother and that angel smacked some sense into you," she mutters.
Dean’s throat is dry. There’s a sour taste in his mouth, the reality of everything finally catching up to him.
“Why do you care?”
Ellen shouldn’t give a rat’s ass about him. She should hate him. He dragged her into that whole messy business. He got her killed—and Jo too.
She should hate him for that. He deserves it.
Ellen takes quiet steps towards him, her eyes narrowed.
“You think I’d stop carin’ about you just ‘cause I was dead?” She asks, her voice deadly quiet.
“No, I think you stopped caring when I got you killed,” Dean snaps.
All at once, Ellen's anger melts, and her face softens.
“Dean.”
“No,” he growls. “We’re not doing this.”
He turns away from her, and stops abruptly.
There’s no exit. The door from before has vanished. Dean’s breath catches in his lungs, and the wood seems to press in around him, stiff and suffocating.
The windows are still there, bright and shining, and he crosses over to one, furiously trying to yank it open.
“Don’t let the door smack ya on the way out,” Ellen mutters.
Dean whips around, glaring at her.
“Let me out.”
“No.”
“Fuck you,” he spits. “I didn’t sign up for this.”
“Dean, dammit—I am not angry at you.”
Dean stares at her.
She sighs, shaking her head.
“Don’t tell me you’re still blaming yourself for something you had no control over.”
“But you died,” Dean blurts. “That’s on me.”
Ellen advances on him, her voice rising.
“Dean—in what universe is that your fault? Are you that screwed in the head?”
“No, I—“
“Where does fault start? Where does blame end?”
She walks right up to him, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“I didn’t have to stay there. I didn’t have to stay behind, to volunteer to die with my daughter.”
Dean shuts his eyes, trying not to remember the echoing barks of those hellhounds, Meg’s smug smile and Jo’s sad one, the last thing she said—
“So am I to blame?” Ellen asks viciously. “Is it my fault?”
Dean shakes his head.
“No, of course not—“
“What about Lucifer? What about God? Is it theirs?”
Dean snarls, flaring with a sudden hatred for the both of them.
“Maybe, but—“
“If I was lookin’ for someone to blame, you’d never cross my mind,” Ellen says firmly.
She sounds like something Dean might have heard if he grew up with a mother himself.
She speaks slowly, quiet but determined.
“We knew what we were gettin’ into. We knew what the risks were.”
Dean digs his nails into his palms.
“But you died for nothing,” he whispers.
Ellen suddenly pauses, a sort of pitying softness melting her gaze.
“That’s really what you think?”
Dean swallows.
He can’t answer.
She sighs, then reaches out, gently taking his hands.
“It was something I was proud to give up,” she murmurs.
All around them, sunlight dances, orange and dusty. It almost feels like home.
“For my daughter. For you, for the world.”
Ellen sits him down again, but Dean feels numb.
“Sacrifices…are part of life, Dean.”
x
“Everyone makes them,” she says softly. “We all gave up something when we became hunters.” Her grip tightens. “Your sacrifices’ve been bigger than anyone else’s, God knows—but you have to understand.”
Dean is trying to breathe, but it’s like his lungs don’t work. He wishes his ears were just as dysfunctional—wishes that he didn’t have to hear this.
“Everything you gave up, everything that was taken from you—it made a difference,” Ellen murmurs, laying a hesitant hand on his head. Something in Dean, so starved for touch, instantly turns to that small comfort.
“You have no idea how many lives you affected.”
She strokes gently through his hair.
“I’m not saying it was fair, or that you deserved any of it,” she whispers. Dean closes his eyes, selfishly wanting to believe her.
“But you never really lose something,” Ellen says. “You just give it to someone else.”
Dean takes a deep breath, hating himself. He can’t let this go on any longer.
“No, Ellen,” he says quietly.
He gently pushes her away.
“You can spin that crap all you want, but we both know it’s not true.”
She opens her mouth, but Dean raises a hand, needing to make her understand.
“I’m not worth this. I’m not worth any of this. And you, just forgiving me like that, it doesn’t make sense, and I—“
Dean cuts off, his heart choking his throat.
“It can’t,” he whispers. “It just can’t.”
“Stand up.”
He looks up, confused.
“What?”
“You heard me,” she says sharply. “Stand up, boy.”
Something in Dean makes him obey, and he bolts upright before he even realizes it. Maybe it’s his military training, or maybe it’s the tone in Ellen’s voice, the one that tells him he’d really regret disobeying her.
“Now I’ve tried to be nice.”
She circles around him, her eyes narrowed.
“I’ve tried to be gentle. Because, hell, you just died, and don’t we all deserve some coddlin’ after that.”
Ellen plants her hands on her hips, staring him down.
“But Dean Winchester, if you can’t get it through your thick skull that my death wasn’t your fault, I don’t know what I’m gonna do with you.”
There’s such a fire in her eyes that cows Dean, and he can’t even say anything in response.
He stares at her. She glares back.
Ellen stands stock-still, completely unforgiving. She looks so goddamn ferocious that Dean feels the weirdest thing—the urge to laugh.
He bites his lip, and she scowls.
“Stop that.”
Dean shakes his head, but it’s right there, threatening to force its way out.
The corner of Ellen’s mouth twitches.
Then before they know it, they’re both bent over double, laughing like idiots in the dark air of the bar. Dean presses a hand to his side, fighting for breath.
Ellen manages to recover and straightens, wiping her eyes.
“Oh, you goddamn bastard.”
Dean coughs, giving her a sheepish smile.
“Sorry.”
She shakes her head, smiling at him fondly.
So when she holds out her hands again, this time he doesn’t hesitate.
Ellen wraps an arm around his shoulder. She squeezes it gently.
“You still got four others to meet,” she whispers into his ear.
Dean closes his eyes.
“But let’s start with me.”
x
“Come on. Say the magic words.”
He tightens the grip on her hand.
“Ellen…I…”
“Dean,” she warns.
He looks up into those warm brown eyes. She waits patiently, not blinking.
She’s not going to give him a pass on this one.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he whispers.
Ellen smiles softly.
“There we go.”
The windows glow with a sudden light, so bright the brown wood around them shines like gold.
Dean takes a step back.
“Ellen—what—“
But she just smiles.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says. “I’ll see you soon.”
Dean shields his eyes, trying to find her in the blinding light, but she’s so far away, he won’t reach her in time—
“No, wait—“
“Remember what I said, Dean.”
“The girl!” He yells. “There was a girl, did I—“
The room is shaking, and Dean makes a desperate grab for her hands—but Ellen feels like the wind in his grasp, impossible to hold.
The walls shudder, a high-pitched whine screaming through him. He falls to his knees, hands clamped over his ears.
A military plane streaks through the air—cutting the night with a bright orange flare, then spiraling off and crashing—the distant sound of the explosion shattering the dark night.
Dean falls back, gasping.
Fire roars, huge and red behind him, and he runs.
Here it is—Hell’s finest—they’ve finally found him and dragged him below, and now they're after him—
He runs and runs—past warped and ruined buildings, rusted out cars—a dirty chainlink fence—
It looms up in his path and Dean clears it before his brain can catch up with his body, everything in him working on instinct.
He hurls over the fence and crashes hard to the ground. His fingers curl into the weeds, his ears and eyes sparking with the bright bursts of fire.
Explosions of yellow and white, red and brilliant orange, burning his skin and tearing at his soul. The colors are supposed to be safe, right? They're supposed to be good—supposed to be his peace—
But in these colors he finds only terror.
Another flash of fire streaks across the sky, and the thing in front of him lights up, illuminated briefly—
No.
Dean drops to his knees, staring in horror.
The Impala, rusted out and abandoned, like he had seen her once. In a place he’d hoped he’d never see again.
“Baby, no,” he breathes.
Then he hears the snap of a twig behind him. He freezes.
The sound comes again. Dean flits over the wilted grass, searching. His hand falls on a jagged shard of metal and he seizes it, pulling it close. He might be dead, but this place scares the shit out of him. He isn’t gonna go through it defenseless.
He sits motionless, waiting.
Another flare of yellow light cuts through the night, and Dean doesn’t think.
He throws himself at the shadow, and they both tumble to the ground, shoving against each other. Dean rolls him over and pins him, jamming his makeshift weapon against the figure’s neck. It immediately sputters and squirms, trying to inch away from the dangerous sharp edge.
“Wait—“ He gasps. “Dean—“
“What!” Dean shouts. “What do you want?”
A cloud shifts, and the strange orange moonlight illuminates his face.
Dean’s grip loosens in shock.
“Chuck?”