Chapter Text
Dean would’ve loved this view. Starlight and water and infinite land, all from the roof of a car—which he would’ve thought made it better—and paired with a warm breeze.
He really would’ve loved it.
Would’ve.
If he was here to see it, Dean would have loved this view.
And if you were brave enough, you’d work out where they’d buried him, just to make sure it was somewhere he would have liked.
But you’re not brave enough. Even just the thought of a cross in the dirt, knowing Dean’s body—not Dean himself, golden and amazing and made of maybe the only light you’ve ever been able to feel, really feel, in more than just your bones and blood—is buried too deep in the ground for you to touch him, makes you feel sick. Empty. Wrong.
He’s gone, and everything in the world is dull and wrong, but he really would’ve loved this view.
Almost as much as you loved him.
Love him.
You still love him.
He’s dead, but you’ll love him until you join him.
“What do you think it’s like?” He’d asked you, a month before the end, and you’d just shrugged, not looking up from your book.
You should’ve looked up.
You should’ve looked at him while there was still a Dean to look at. A pretty face and boyish smile that’s never going to be focus on you again, green eyes that are probably nothing but dirt by now, short hair you’re never going to get to feel under your fingers.
But you’d kept looking at your fucking book.
“You’re going to have to be more specific, Deano.”
He’d shrugged in your periphery, his foot bumping yours as he spoke. “Hell. What do you think hell is like?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think it’s like, a freakin’ resort, and those sons of bitches are selling it bad to scare off the tourists. Beaches and beer pong and all the fruity drinks you could ever want in your fucking life. They’ve probably got pina coladas,” Dean had hummed your name, and you’d known he’d been joking—trying to distract you, or himself, or do anything but feel the time, slipping away—but had only made you squeeze the book a little tighter. “You should come with me. We can make a thing out of it, like me and Sammy goin’ to Vegas.”
“You and Sam have never gone to Vegas. You say you’re going to, and then you don’t.”
“Well, he can come with us then.”
You’d sighed, biting on the inside of your cheek until it stung, and refused to keep talking about it.
Dean had bumped your foot again. You should’ve dropped your book, crawled into his lap, and kissed him until he shut his big, pretty, stupid mouth about hell, and going to hell.
You didn’t.
And he’d kept talking.
“C’mon, Princess. I showed you mine.”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“No.”
“Dean Winchester-“
“Oops.” He’d hummed. “Full name. If you’re gonna stab me, can you tell me now so I can start running?”
“Shut up.”
“Bossy.” He’d been grinning. You’d been able to hear it in his voice.
You’ll never be able to hear his voice again, either. It’s been haunting you, but it’s always haunted you, and you’d always thought deep down that you’d hear it again, that you’d find your way into Dean’s gravity again, but now-
“For me.” He’d said. “Just, entertain me, okay? Please?”
You’d been sitting on the floor of Bobby’s library, and Dean had been right next to you even though it was a big room, and you’d been able to feel the heat of his body.
You really hoped they’d buried him somewhere nice. Not too cold, but not hot, either. He’d always hated things being too much of one or the other.
Hated.
If he could feel things, Dean would’ve hated being buried somewhere too warm or cold.
He’d always been a dramatic little bitch like that.
You love him a little more than you think should be possible. More than the sun loves the moon, and the moon loves the tides and the tides love the water. More Romeo loved Juliet.
You’d stayed alive for Dean.
And that was a fucking bigger testament of your love than dying with him.
And he’d said for me.
You hope that he somehow knows you would’ve done anything for him. That you’d tried to do anything for him. That if a single fucking crossroads demon would take the offer of your soul, you’d have gone in his place. That if the Sky told you it would bring Dean back, you’d do whatever it wanted you to. Be whatever you had to be.
So finally looking up from your book with a sigh, and entertaining Dean’s question, it was really nothing at all.
“I don’t know.” You’d muttered, running your thumb over your palm. “I mean, there’s Dante’s architecture. And every religion has its own idea of it. Maybe fire and brimstone, or just, you know, lonely wandering. A lot of cultures think Hell is being forgotten.”
He’d frown into the air. “Huh. Should I make Bobby get a tattoo of me on his forehead, so no one ever forgets about me?”
You’d giggled at that. You’d been exhausted and flustered and in pain, but it had been Dean, so you’d giggled.
“I think you can try.” You’d hummed. “But I also think you can get shot.”
“Smart. I’ll make Sammy do it instead.”
“And I wish you luck with that.”
“Thanks, Princess.”
“Don’t thank me yet, De. I’m not getting the face tattoo.”
And he’d laughed, and smiled at you, and for a moment—and a little longer, maybe forever—the world had been Silver and peaceful, and it had all only been Dean.
And you loved him.
And he’s not forgotten—as long as you have breath in your body, he won’t be, tattoo or not—but he is in hell. If you’re lucky, it’s the resort he’d jokes about.
But if your dreams are even just a little right, it’s... not.
There was a man in the gas station, this evening. He’d smiled at you with white teeth and a crooked glow behind his eyes, and you almost thrown up. He’d called you pretty, and ask what a beautiful little thing like you was doing in a place like this, and you’d only barely been able to swallow your spitting, venomous sneer of the truth.
So you’d just said running. As far away as you could get, because the man you love is dead and nothing in the universe is okay.
You hadn’t said that last part.
But the man had left you alone anyway—flashing two knives at someone will do that—and you’d just keep running. Moving. Going, until you found somewhere to drop that Dean would somehow catch you, or until you found Dean.
There had to be a way to get to Hell in more than a nightmare. A way to bring him back that didn’t kill you in the process, or a way that did.
And there has to be a place you can run where the Sky can’t see you.
You haven’t found it yet.
But you’ll keep going until you do.
“I know you’re watching.” You mutter, looking up to meet its millions of blinking eyes.
There’s always one, just one, trained on you.
And right now, as the Silver casts further and further out of your body—until you’re the fury of the wind and the resolve of the dirt and the ache of the car beneath you, missing the man who made it—you know the sky is only looking at you.
Same as it always does, when you speak.
So you know it’s listening.
“I’m not going to stop. You can’t make me, and if you weren’t a fucking coward.” You spit that last word, letting your lips curl into a sneer. “You’d come down here and fucking face me. Help me, instead of just watching me like a pussy. Because I need him, more than I’ve ever needed you, and I’ll keep going until he’s home.”
Safe.
At your side.
And the Sky remains silent, and the tears start to fall—they always do, around this time of night—and you don’t choke on them.
You’re not allowed to.
“I just need him to come home,” you whisper, and it’s not for the Sky to hear, but it still does. “I’ll- I’ll do anything, just bring him back. Please.”
Nothing.
And Dean stays de-
Gone.
You can’t say that word. It makes you feel small and useless and rotten, and it’s so permanent, so you never say it.
Dean’s gone. And one day you’ll scream, and the Sky will respond.
One day you’ll snap, and destroy it, and maybe Dean will emerge from the ash.
But he’ll come home.
He’ll come back.
And you’ll show him this view, and you’ll love him, and maybe—if you’re given a lucky you’ve never been offered before—the sky will finally look away.