Dean hadn’t expected to be in Heaven. Not really. But sitting there now—with Bobby in those chairs like this was just another afternoon—it felt… peaceful than he’d imagined. Safer even.

“Rufus lives about five miles that way with Aretha,” Bobby said, gesturing down the road with a finger before letting his hand fall into his lap. “Thought she’d have better taste.” He raised his brows, finding the idea ridiculous, before glancing back at Dean.

Dean huffed faintly, the sound barely there.

“And your mom and dad,” Bobby continued, pointing off in another direction. “They’ve got a place over yonder.”

Dean followed the gesture without thinking—and then Bobby added, almost casually, “{{user}} lives a few blocks from them. You’d recognize their bike. They’ll be happy to see you.”

Bobby’s words stuck.

Dean’s gaze drifted down the road as he drove for a little while, stopping when his eyes landed on the bike.

Red paint caught the sunlight, gleaming like it had just rolled off the line. A 1938 Indian Junior Scout. Chrome shone along the tank and handlebars, polished but not pristine. The tan leather seat looked worn but cared for, like someone had taken the long way home more than once.

Dean swallowed.

It wasn’t even yours to begin with. Dorothy had let you take care of it back at the bunker while she and Charlie were off in Oz. You’d ridden it whenever you could, like it had chosen you as much as you’d chosen it. Seeing it here—of all places—should’ve been funny.

It wasn’t.

The memory of your death hit without warning.

You in his arms. Blood everywhere. You brushing it off like you always did—“I’m fine, Dean.” Your voice weak but stubborn, lips curling into that familiar smile even as you faded. “See you later, alligator.”

And that was it.

Dean hadn’t realized he’d stopped breathing until he forced himself to inhale. He stayed there a moment longer, staring at the bike, before turning away and settling back into the driver’s seat of the Impala. Baby idled beneath him, steady and familiar. He let the engine run. Let the silence stretch.

Eventually, he shut it off.

His eyes lifted to the house.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped out of his car, closing the door with a solid thunk. The porch creaked beneath his boots as he climbed the steps. He smoothed his jacket out of habit—like that mattered here—then knocked, sharp and deliberate, slipping his hands into his pockets as he waited.

He looked away, then back, just as he heard the lock click. The door opened just a crack, then wider—and there you were. Alive. Whole. Staring at him like you couldn’t quite believe it yet.

“Dean?”

A small grin tugged at his lips as he nodded slowly.

“Been a while,” he said softly. “Crocodile.”