A/N: Requested by worldatomic, LJ request post 9/28/09. Was supposed to be a drabble and got a little long.

Prompt: utopia

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.

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to each his own eden

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In a dream, the angel comes to him.

"I have something to show you," he says, and holds out a hand.

Because it is a dream, Dean takes it and follows him into the sky. There is no question of trust, because there is no harm to be done here. He doesn't need wings to drift on this wind. He doesn't need to watch his back, because there are no knives. (The voice of his father insists in his mind that there are always knives, even here, but if there are they can't hurt him. He just knows.)

For a while, the shoreline of a still grey sea drifts past below them. On the horizon there is a gentle greenish light, a colour Dean's pretty sure the sun has never been. At the very apex of the sky, a few stars still glimmer between the fading edges of the dark. Far ahead and to the east, inland, a line of jagged shadow grows through the mist.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

Castiel turns back to frown at him. "Nowhere, Dean. We're already here."

Looking down, Dean sees that the pale sea is behind them, and they are now flying over a white forest. The trees are tall and elegant, their thin fingers twining together as they reach for the sky, and here and there they are hung with the scattered remnants of golden leaves. The ground at their feet is strewn with them in a thick fragrant carpet.

Rising beyond the forest is a range of black mountains, high and sharp, but there is no malice to them. They are very proud in their blind silence. Nothing grows on their shapely glass flanks, as if the land has withdrawn to let the sky look at them. Their only adornments are thin wreaths of cloud at their tops, fine as lace.

Dean tightens his grip. "Hey, Cas? Where are we?"

The angel smiles at him, sad and ancient. "Heaven, Dean. Or at least, my memory of it. Sanctuary. Utopia. The destination of souls, the waiting place, the center of everything. My home. I have not seen it in a very long time."

Past the high teeth of the mountain range is a prairie stretching all the way to the horizon, flat and white as snow. As they sweep lower, lower, close enough to catch their fingers in the grasses, Dean realizes that they aren't grasses at all. They're flowers. Tall white flowers like bone flutes, swaying in the silent wind, as far as his eyes can see. They smell like rain and spring earth. It's the quietest place he's ever been. He feels like he could lie down among them and sleep forever.

"When everything's over-- if it's ever over enough for me to be free-- could I come here again? Or is it just for angels or whatever?"

Together they fall and land softly in the field on their feet. Castiel lets go of his hand and looks him straight in the eye, unblinking, but without the harsh edge his gaze has in the waking world. Here, at least, the war cannot reach them. "Of course, Dean. If this is where you want to be when the time comes, this is what you will see. No two souls ever see the same heaven. This... is mine. If it gives you the same peace it does me, I will share it with you."

Suddenly, Dean feels like he's intruding, even though he knows he was invited. It feels strangely intimate, to see so clearly what lies in Castiel's heart. He remembers the feeling from his teenaged years, stepping into a girl's room for the first time and realizing what kind of trust that implies. He opens his mouth to sound the retreat, but the angel looks at him with a gentle half-smile and shakes his head.

"Heaven is big enough for both of us," he says, his smiling widening.

Dean grins back. "Was that a joke, Cas?"

The angel shrugs, and turns to the west, where the strange sun is rising through the mountains.

"Either way, it is true." He hesitates, then continues. "I wanted to show you something beautiful. You have seen so many terrible things since you met me."

Dean throws back his head and laughs, startling Castiel into a narrow expression and closed posture. "Oh, Cas. I've been seeing terrible things all my life. This is just a different brand of crazy, that's all. But... thanks. I think I needed this."

"You are welcome," replies Castiel, and there are two meanings to it. "Always welcome."

Though the angel has not mentioned it, his eyes on the rising sun tell Dean the answer to the question he was about to ask next. It's morning. Time to go. He wishes with all his bruised, scarred, aching warrior heart that he could stay, but the time has not yet come. This is only something to look forward to.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again there is a motel ceiling staring back at him.

Castiel is not there, but Dean knows where else he's not, and that's a cruel, vindictive little comfort.

Heaven will have to wait for both of them.

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