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Knockin' on Heaven's Door

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Ash is awesome.

Ash is better-than-Batman awesome. Ash is smarter-than-Newton awesome. Ash is so awesome, anyone who sees him begins to tremor. In awe.

Ash is particularly awesome today, because he’s just invented a device that allows him to see into other people’s heavens. Now, Ash hasn’t done this to get his rocks off or anything (even though he might have stumbled upon a few transcendental slumber parties). He’s doing this for science. Important, celestial-plane-breaking science.

So, he keeps an eye on his friends. He watches for Ellen and Jo, whenever they ride into the Great Beyond. He watches for Bobby, too. He watches for the Winchesters, even though he knows they’re both so stubborn they won’t stay long.

And then he sees one. And then there’s a cloud of antique leather and damp night sky and flashes of crimson and blue, and Winchesterland poofs into existence, but it’s already full.

Ash can’t say he’s surprised when they turn up together, the first time, Sam laughing freely and Dean chortling disbelievingly, like he thinks he should’ve been hanged by his boots as soon as he arrived. Ash is surprised when Sam crowds Dean against the Impala—a replica or the real thing, who knows, maybe cars go to heaven—grabs him by the lapels, fingers scrambling for a proper grip, tips tracing over their amulet, and pulls him in for a jaw-dropping, awe-trembling kiss.

That’s when Ash draws the curtain, so to speak. It’s their heaven. They don’t need him to watch. What else do you expect from soul mates?


But that’s just the first time.

Sam and Dean die. A lot. Either together or apart—although they never stay apart for long. When Sam’s alone in heaven, everything turns to Stanford, and it’s a nightmare; when Dean’s alone in heaven, everything turns to Sam, and he gets pissed enough to beat on whatever Impala heaven’s cooked up with a hard slab of dynamite.

When they’re together in heaven, they just kiss. That’s it. That’s all Ash’s seen, anyway. There’s sparklers lying half-lit and simmering on the grass; there’s pine trees, a dark road; mist unique only to summer midnights. Their heaven is so full, and they don’t pay it any mind. Every time, Sam kisses Dean. Every time, Dean kisses back. Every time, pounding fireworks ignite behind them, like heaven is all just one chick flick, and they don’t notice.


Okay, so maybe he watches a little more than he should. They’re his friends, even if they got him killed. Hell, they did him a favor—he finally got to meet and greet Thomas Fucking Edison. Damn, that man can drink.

Anyway, he’s a little concerned for them. He has to be, with their death toll. Every time they come, Ash hopes they’ll stay. And then they go.

There’s one time, and maybe that was the last time, penultimate, whichever, where Dean comes as himself, and Sam comes as a kid. A preteen. A tween! And Ash really isn’t ecstatic to watch them kiss again, not in those bodies, when he realizes—they forgot. Dean hugs Sam, Sam chases sparklers for the first time since 1997, and they forget the script, the kissing, the tugging, the ripping.

They forgot, and, Ash learns when he saves their asses from Dickless Almighty, they’re here on a mission.

Somehow, reminding them they’re soul mates isn’t as sweet as finding out the first time.


No, this is the last time, Ash is sure of it. Sam’s laughing hysterically, like he can’t believe it; Dean’s moving like he expects arthritis to sting him in the ass, even in heaven. They’re relatively young again—twenties and thirties, whatever. They don’t care.

There’s no shouting, no cursing, no slamming the Impala into trees to convince themselves to wake up; this is it. This is the aftermath. This is what the battlefield becomes when the blood and bones have been sucked out, and no man’s tread on it for years. This is permanent, and this is blissful, and seeing them kiss for the first time in the last heaven is almost as reassuring to Ash as it is to them.