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Driving Baby in Heaven is very different than driving her on Earth. One minute, Dean's southbound on the last stretch of US 281 before it hits Lebanon—blue skies and rolling fields and a farmhouse with a green garage door hidden inside a bristling thicket of trees. Then he's on a two-lane highway hugging the coast, ocean on one side and scrub hills on the other. After a moment, he recognizes it as central California. He and Sam worked a case there a few years back, a vampire nest hiding out in the woods skirting some seaside flyspeck north of San Luis Obispo.
A few beats later, he's on Route 66 where it cuts through Amboy. The asphalt is just as rough as he remembers from the solo werewolf gig he worked there right before Sam got back in the game; Baby rattles and bumps as she passes the ramshackle post office and what's left of Roy's Diner. Route 66 turns into I-95's slow curve through Searchlight, where he and Sam had tracked a moving pair of ghouls to the cowboy boneyard on the southern edge of town. Cas had joined them, flapping in tired and irritable after a long day of heavenly bullshit. Dean had killed the last hours until sundown teaching him how to play poker in a motor court the color of cigarette ash.
Then: the quiet, suburban street Jody lives on. The narrow lane connecting a Nebraska county highway with the Harvelle's roadhouse. Garth's night-dark cul-de-sac. The dirt track that ran behind Bobby's salvage yard, where Dean learned to drive when he was eleven years-old.
"Alright," he mutters. "Bobby said Jack fixed this. I just need to concentrate."
Another beat, and he's in Illinois—Highway 23, about ten miles north of Pontiac. Bright green soybean fields kiss the soft shoulder on both sides. Dean swings onto the first dirt road he sees and tells himself it's the right one. The sun starts sinking behind the trees, faster than it would in real life. As the sky bruises from purple to black, Baby coasts up to a familiar barn.
Twelve years has probably changed it on Earth; chances are, it isn't even still standing. But here, it looks exactly like it did that night—a sagging roof, loose slats, a collapsing frame. The symbols he and Bobby drew on the walls are still so fresh and bright he can almost smell the paint. They'd spent hours putting them up, using anything they could think of, anything they could find. Cas had still come strutting right through that door.
It all comes rushing back: the blood pounding in Dean's ears, the lights exploding into sparks, the wing-shaped shadows unfurling at an angel's back.
"Cas?" Dean asks quietly. "Can you hear me?"
"I can hear you."
He looks just like he did that night—windswept, crackling with power. He's wearing the old trenchcoat and the crooked blue tie. In the poor light, his face is all shadows and angles.
Dean asks, "Is it really you? Or am I just—you know." He taps his temple.
"It's me."
"Thank fuck," Dean says. He wants to pull Cas into a hug, but something about the stiff, uncertain way Cas is standing makes him hesitate. "So, when Jack brought everyone back, you ended up here?"
"Jack brought me here. He thought it would be… easier than returning me to Earth."
Something sour twists in Dean's gut, something that's telling him maybe he should've let sleeping dogs lie. Just because Cas said what he said before the Empty came doesn't mean he wants to shack up with Dean for all eternity.
He asks, "And you decided to stay?"
Cas hesitates before saying, "The Empty didn't hold me long, but it wasn't gentle with me in the time it had. I was… unwell when Jack pulled me out. I needed time to recuperate. I—" He gives Dean a small, sad smile. "I didn't anticipate you dying in the meantime."
"Neither did I," Dean says, huffing. "I suppose it had to stick sometime."
Honestly, it's almost a relief. He's sorry he left Sam behind, that he won't get to see his little brother live the rest of his life. But it's also nice to know he won't get spat out again just because some fucked up deity is missing his daily entertainment.
"When I heard you'd ascended, I—" Cas frowns slightly. "I thought I should give you some time to… acclimate. There are people up here you haven't seen in years. Your parents. Bobby. Ellen and Jo. And I wasn't sure you'd…"
"What? Want to see you?" Dean huffs again. "Of course I want to see you. After everything you said—"
"Dean, don't."
"Don't what?"
"We don't have to talk about it," Cas says, looking away. The barn creaks with a gust of wind. "I only told you because doing so would summon the Empty. I know it's nothing you wanted to hear."
Dean says, "Cas," and moves a little closer. "You sure about that?"
"You've never taken compliments with good grace."
"Not that," Dean says. Hay crunches under his boots as he takes another couple steps. "The other thing."
"Dean—"
"I mean, you scooted out of there pretty damn quickly after dropping that bomb." Slowly, Dean reaches out and catches Cas' hand. "I barely knew what was happening before Billie busted down the door and the Empty was swallowing you both up."
"Dean?"
It's easier here: there are no expectations, no dangers, no fears. There isn't a new big bad waiting for them before the corpse of the last one is cold. It's just the two of them, standing in a memory-copy of the place where they met, the place where Cas changed Dean's life forever.
Dean says, "I love you," and brushes his thumb over Cas' wrist. "Have for years."
Cas opens his mouth, but before he can say something stupid, Dean kisses him. It's soft and sweet and slow—everything Dean's always wanted. To make sure he gets his point across, he tugs Cas in as close as he can. He threads one hand in Cas' hair and fists the other in the front of his coat. He nips at Cas' lips and drags a wet kiss down the line of his jaw.
When they finally break apart, he says, "Hey. What do you say we get outta here? I've got a nice piece of paradise and no one to share it with."
Cas leans in and says, "Yes," against the corner of his jaw.