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The door to someone else's heaven is always an interesting thing. Some, like Bobby, have nothing but barbed wire and warnings. Others, like Ash, are simply a back door at The Roadhouse; as if the bar itself had a hangover.
This door, however, is new.
Dean examines it, listening to the hum that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There's laughter though: the kind where you snort and cry tears of laughter. One hand hugs his journal close, a Captain's Log of sorts for this piecemeal journey of his.
There's a breeze from the door, scented like weed and BO. Dean wrinkles his nose as he steps through it, gritting his teeth at the pull that tries to keep him away.
Which, good luck, Dean thinks wryly as the strains of guitar suddenly roaring to life as someone else's heaven accepts him. It's chunky and piercing, pulling at something in his gut like the time he got a fish hook stuck in his finger. He can still hear his Mom and Dad's laughter, months before Sammy was born.
The guitar is joined by the thrumming of a bass, pulling him from the memory.
Dean listens, looking to the woods and sense of people around him. There's no bodies but there are presences. The idea of bodies, he thinks. He scribbles in his journal, narrating to himself as he writes. He slips the journal into his back pocket; it's a comforting weight even as the field around him waves in the distance.
"Dude, is this Woodstock?" Dean says, incredulously, before a voice startles him.
"Now, see, I've always heard that breaking into someone else's heaven was impossible but here you are; rude and impossible, all at once."
"Not the first time I've heard that, you know," Dean says, pointing at the person in front of him. He's tall; long black curls draped over thin shoulders, and familiar in a way an old photo is. The fringed vest hangs from their shoulders over a purple paisley shirt.
"I'm sure," he says, tilting their head at Dean. "So, let's chat. What are you doing here? You on the run? Hiding out?"
"I'm Dean. Not on the run or hiding out, but I'm looking for someone."
"Well, Dean," he says, lips curling into a smile, "step into my parlor."
He gestures to the field around them as if it were the grandest ballroom. The motion is familiar; almost comforting, if Dean had to pin the feeling down.
"So who are you looking for?"
Dean looks to the sky, the strangeness of hearing Janis Joplin and her band screaming across the field. There's a familiar ringing in his ears before he answers.
"I'm looking for a friend of mine. He was taken by The Empty," Dean says, hearing the gasp and seeing the flutter of a hand pressed to their chest, "I heard from a friend of a friend that he got out."
"Well, that sure is a story. But tell me, Dean: why this man?"
Dean clears his throat, looking to the direction of the stage that he can't see. He can hear the wall of sound and he knows that he's hearing a sense memory of Janis Joplin wailing with a screaming guitar behind her. He thinks of all the things he can say, the things he never said to Cas. He thinks of the last words Cas had for him.
"I need to tell him that he changed me too. I can't leave him there, so I need you to tell me if you've heard anything. Now."
"What is it with Campbells and Winchesters deciding it's their way or the highway?" he says, a smile on their face.
"What?" Dean says, struck.
The man before him, tilts his head, long hair falling over their shoulder to match the fringe from his vest.
"Come sit down. Looks like we have some catching up to do."
"Look, I don't know you from-from Janis Joplin bu-"
"Dean Winchester, who do you think introduced you to Janis Joplin when you were a kid?" he asks, putting his hands on his hips.
Dean's mouth drops open slightly, the same sense memory of an old photo creeping back in.
He blinks and hears the music clearly, remembering. Janis Joplin wailing on a record player, laying on the floor with the man with long hair and warm smile. Dean remembers sad eyes and sweeping hugs. Dean exhales slowly, remembering a van that was slowly replaced and an Uncle who was lost and not mentioned anymore.
"Carlos," Dean says finally, staring at him.
"Oh, since you're all grown up, you can't call me Losy anymore?" He says fondly as Dean steps forward, hugging him with a shudder in his gut. Dean knows it for desperation and the urge to be held; even if just for a moment.
It reminds Dean of Purgatory.
"Okay, okay," he - Carlos - says, "we're not getting mushy here. You have someone to look for."
"His. His name is Castiel. He's an Angel and he changed me and I lost him," Dean says, letting Carlos lead him to the back of a van to sit in. Dean thinks of being a kid, thinking Carlos' van was a magical portal; now, in Heaven, he thinks that isn't too far from the truth.
"Well, you certainly don't do things by halves. Tell Losy all about your man and we'll brainstorm," Carlos says, soothing.
Dean can barely remember the time before Sam was born and they lost their mother. He remembers storms and comforting words and the warmth of family that was lost when he was just four years old.
Now, faced with an almost forgotten member of his family, Dean allows himself to breathe.
"Here's what I have so far."