A/N 1: Here it is at last; last chapter, folks! For those of you who favoured, read and reviewed, thank you, it means so much that someone enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed penning it! My eternal gratitude to you all!

A/N 2: So this chapter was one of the hardest ones for me to conceptualize and write, and I have a niggling suspicion that I might not have gotten John's character completely right. Still, his character had never had the luxury of achieving the maturity of six seasons' worth of build-up, so, I hope y'all can forgive me if I missed a few key aspects. This chapter was also pretty heavy, and I hope it doesn't come across as too weighty and lofty. But I thought that John, at least, also deserved a chat with God. So, have a read, and if you like, let me know!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in here, except my own thoughts and my own desire to somehow see a happy ending for every possible great character brought to life by the might of Kripke, Gamble and the talented actors that breathed life into thousands upon thousands of fan fics out there.

Chapter 5: John

The first thing he saw was the myriad of light green, nascent buds on the branches. That, and the slight shiver of new growth, breaking through thousand-year-old bark.

The Garden was always a strange place. It contained trees, plants and shrubs from every possible biome on the planet, existing in a state of elegant green perfection. There were trees here that grew to four, even five times the size of anything on earth, and saplings that were as spry and lithe as if they were but a few years into fresh life, not immortally coiled into an endless celebration of the power that made them thrive. It was a gloriously fitting, considering that more than two millennia ago, the Almighty had walked here, walked in His garden, in settings that reflected His indefinable, immemorial existence.

On good days, when Heaven was at peace, the Host occupied with keeping the world's forces and fates regulated and running, and the archangels themselves had refrained from their sometimes child-like playing and bickering, the sky that stretched over the Gateway of the Axis Mundi turned pearlescent gold as it curved beyond sight. Yes, Heaven was comprised of the billions of collected memories and spheres of the faithful dead, clustered about the Crux, the centre of Heaven, but for many of the collected souls that have existed here in a state of eons, proximity and awareness of the great city that wrapped itself around the Throne and the Garden was a Heavenly reward, a privilege that all were welcome to irrespective of time spent here in the afterlife, and many ultimately aspired to.

Here, the clouds were never too close, never cast shadows on the denizens of the city, or the far-off multi-winged majesty of the Inward Principalities that governed and guarded the Gateway, swooping lazily about, their watchfulness unbroken by eons upon eons of guardianship despite their languid gestures. The Holy City that straddled the very midst of the Great Road, like a massive collection of golden domes, timeless stone towers and unimaginably high spires, stood quiet apart from the slow hum of power that graced this bird's eye view. It was a hum that had vanished, two thousand years back. It was at that same time that every bloom in the Garden closed its petals, and the gardener as well as the entire assembled host, awakened to sudden, plummeting fear and indecision, watched as death reached into the very depths of Heaven, for the first time ever. Joshua had watched, his wizened gaze turning liquid with horror and sadness. First, before even all the archangels still in Heaven had realized, he had known what had happened. He had sunk to his knees in the tall grass that still grew and swayed about them, ignoring the hushed cries and the rising tide of demands for revelation and clarity. In his mind, the Gardener's voice was dwindling, speaking softly as Joshua listened. But he would keep those words close, would memorize and repeat them over and over until the prophesied day. A day that would come unlooked for by even the great divinities that governed and ordered the writ of prophecy into and through those mortal vessels, chosen on earth, to carry word in times of great adversity.

He knows what the angels are doing. He knows that the Apocalypse has begun.

Great tumult had warred within his mind then. Surely, yes, time was fluid for all angels, but the ones like Joshua, who had willingly distanced themselves from the politics and hierarchies of Heaven, long before the earth had even stood, were cut off from the gist of matters, their capabilities to affect the world outside almost as nothing compared to the lowliest of cherubs that finely tuned mortal sensibilities to fall in step with predestination. But as a gardener, as a willing simpleton in the Host, dedicated only to the absolute service of simpler matters, Joshua had lovingly tended the paths of the Lord in His domain, and with tenderness and infinite care. And because of that, because of such a simple concession to remain the most humble of the angels, and willingly, Joshua was privy to something that not even the archangels sometimes knew: the inner turmoil, the sadness that plagued an Almighty God at the state of His creation, at the travails of His angels.

He just doesn't think it's… His problem.

Joshua had seen glimpses, small smatterings of blurred visuals, could almost hear the voices of the distraught mortals to whom he would one day deliver these words. He did not know how long before this happened, for the time that stayed and steadied the steps of God was known only to Himself. An apocalypse… that was nothing new. But that it was whispered now, at the very moment that every single flower and flower-bearing plant, tree and shrub in the Garden was suddenly darkened with the unheard of spectacle of death within the Heavens… troubling was not a fitting word to describe it. And Joshua had known that God had left His Host, His Heaven and His throne, leaving it without so much as an explanation to his four eldest angels. Only Joshua.

Michael was furious, because Michael did not know, could not detect, the silent whisper of warning to the lowly angel who tended the Lord's Garden. And Joshua would never presume to approach the Mighty Judge of the Battlefield, the First General of the Holy Host, let alone speak to him. It was… meant to be, he knew, as the final lines of thought from his Father reached his ears, and his ears alone. He could hear the words, could hear them spoke in his own voice. Spoken through him by God, shaped into destiny before destiny itself would start unravelling. It was a terrible duty, a maelstrom pit of terror, to know these details, to know an outcome but not the means.

It's more than He's intervened in a long time… He's finished… I suppose He could, but He I won't.

"Father, please, let me see more," Joshua had whispered, closing his eyes, raising his face to accept the dwindling light as the clouds darkened and began casting a pall over the City like there had never been seen, the very air turning colder, crisper. Was not faith the companion of fear, its equal in moments of doubt and its better in times of suffering? Was it sin to question? And then the words, faded and all but vanished into the silence that echoed through the darkness over the City, caressed Joshua's mind with the intimacy of a parent instructing the meekest and neediest – yet ever beloved – youngest child.

When the time comes, be kind and truthful. But do not interfere. It will not be the first time, nor the last. But this time, they must remember, even when they are returned…

And for two thousand years, Joshua did not hear the voice of his Father again. Waited for it daily, trimmed the hedges and patiently maintained what beauty he could within the colder climes that seemed to tug at everything here, now. The Winter of Heaven, they called it. No flower had he tended here, but what those resting souls wandering into the Garden itself brought with them, the beautiful recollections of life's remembrances on earth. But none of it could recapture the surreal magnificence of what was now lost.

One by one the remaining archangels paid their respects, or visits. Gabriel, glib and garish in the travesty of his own secretive ways and affectations, his 'witness protection' as he called it, but respectful even as the despair of their Father's absence touched his fair angelic features. Michael, so lonely and tired, no match, despite his astonishing powers and charismatic command presence, for the constant wear of the Holy Host and life on his sensibilities, his desire and duty to guide and preside over a realm now absent its true Guide.

And then Raphael came, and in haughtiness he sneered at the simplest act that Joshua still performed, as if at any moment God might return. Raphael most of all was embittered, even more so when the fate of existence was suddenly teetering on the most basic decisions, wrought in absolute love and dedication, flowing through two mortal brothers who within moments suddenly unbound the collective millennia of prophesied actions and end goals. He was now the ruler in Heaven, and his spirit had become mean and petty as a result, embittered and dissatisfied.

God would not find His Garden neglected, this Joshua had sworn, right alongside his vows of before, to remember the words, and to speak them in wisdom, sympathy and truthfulness when the time had come. When the two boys had come here, to the Garden itself, for the first time, and then perhaps, for the last. Joshua could not see far, even in Heaven, and he could certainly not see beyond that moment he would meet those two. All that was granted him was, in that moment, to deliver the words, and then to rescind their presence. It was only then that he knew what had been spoken; that destiny would find itself unhinged and laid waste, mere earthly months hence.

Raphael did not speak to Joshua, and the gardener did not deign himself worth the only remaining archangel's attention. He had nothing to say to Raphael. His purpose had been fulfilled; ages of waiting, culminated in bringing despair to the hearts of those boys before sending them back to earth to finish their work there, and all he had to go on was unshakable faith, and the sadness of an ancient angel that was commanded to bring pain and break hope, if only to force hope to thrive again, in an unlooked-for moment. That at least, that moment of triumph, where the angel Zachariah had met his end, and Heaven gasped as the great orchestrator, the arid-minded, unimaginative right hand of the despairing Michael, of the apocalypse's end-game, had been brought low by a mere mortal, had been granted as a vision of sorts to Joshua. He had smiled grimly as he remembered; he had felt no cruel malice or vindication at the death, only a sad realization that things would get worse before they got better, now. So, all that he could do was tend the Garden, and wait.

And it seemed his waiting was finally bearing fruit, even as one of the crisp little leaflets from a bud snapped free of its dirt-encrusted cocoon of bark and soil, and a single shoot of light pinkish and white petals unfurled like tiny wings. Overhead, there was a cloud break, a massive shift of the ever-present clouds rolling back, right at that moment, to wash the Garden in golden hues and warmer tones. Joshua closed his eyes, tilted back his wrinkled face and soaked in the light. Once more, he was the first to sense this change. When the light once more faded somewhat, and he had opened his eyes, the small flower was still there, slowly growing larger, spreading its petals wider. The gardener angel smiled, and then he turned around, eyes seeking the Tower rising up to meet the very bend of sky that was bowed around the apex of the heavens, where the Throne rested still.

Joshua smiled, knowing suddenly and with the clarity of two millennia before, what was transpiring.

"I had thought it fitting, that we meet here, where on a clear day, everything is visible, no matter the time, space, or reality."

John Winchester watched the tall presence standing at the top of the elevated platform. He could barely keep his eyes focused, because the… man before him seemed to radiate light like a beacon, a pleasant and heart-warming aura of gold and white fire that danced over skin and hair. It was a handsome picture, a tall man, even taller than John, who had a chiselled face, open features and honest, dancing eyes. Those crisp blue eyes were the depths of a winter sky, unclouded and clear, refreshing and wise, and the mouth smiled easily, the smallest wrinkles of mirth touching the edges even as they gave warmth to the whole face. John Winchester knew divinity when he saw it, even if he had spent his whole life not believing, not caring, in fact, warning away from false hope in greater powers. Where he was standing now, staring out over everything, it was so hard to hold on to that lifelong despair and belief in no greater good, wrapped in soldierly command and resolve.

"I guess I was wrong a lot more than I thought," he said, sighing. God smiled wide, teeth flashing, as He tilted back His head slightly, then placed a hand on the back of the simple yet flawless seat, made of interlocking rectangular slabs of some warm stone. It stood on a dais made of seven steps, each one smaller than the one below it. It was the Throne of Heaven, John knew, and he was here, in the heart of the divine, conversing causally with a God he had never trusted in, or believed in. Oh, Mary, where are you now, that you could see this?

"It is not failure be wrong, John; it is failure to admit it for fear of being weak," God said simply.

"I've done that a lot too."

"You had to work in a dark world, with limited understanding," God forgave easily, with a small hitch of wide shoulders. "You had two small boys to protect, in a time when everything around you seemed threatening and damning." God removed His hand from the back of the Throne and slowly, gracefully descended the seven steps to stand before John.

"My kids resent me," John said. "I made so many mistakes. Dean… he resents me for turning him into a soldier, for asking him to kill Sam if he couldn't save him. And Sammy… he never saw me as anything but the obstacle he needed to overcome in order to live his own life." Then he breathed out, and continued. "And Adam was my biggest mistake… I damned him without ever giving him the chance to even protect himself from the things I forced onto Sam and Dean."

"You didn't look very closely, John," God said, His voice kindly. "If Dean resents you for what you asked of him in his short life, he also knows, now, the value of protecting his own, of putting his foot down to save his loved ones even when he knows the pain it might cause to obey that order. And Sam, more than ever, finally understands why you sought to keep so much from him, so that you could preserve his humanity and give him the strength of reliance, so that he could finally make his own informed decisions and not be ashamed of their outcome. To choose his own path. And even if Adam's mortal life was so short, and so traumatic with the sudden arrival of all these supernatural forces that first destroyed his life, and then consigned his soul to an eternity of suffering… at the very heart of him was always gratitude, simply to have a father figure who did try to be a father, in the most normal, everyday sense. Even when he was lonely, and felt it unfair that his father wasn't always there for him and his mother."

"I don't know if I can accept that," John replied, feeling the comforting glow of the praise but also feeling irrevocably bound by what he considered his failures with his sons. "You make it sound wonderful, but is it the truth?"

"It's the truth whether you can forgive yourself for it, or not," God stated.

"You brought Adam out of that cage?" John asked. He had not seen Adam on earth, and he hadn't dared to look deep down, even from the heights of Heaven, to what the pits of Hell held enchained in their darkest depths. God nodded.

"Because he was more ignorant of what was out there, I deemed it best that he not be subject to the worst of it. He had no knowledge to withstand it, despite the blood that flows through his veins," God smiled and winked at John. "Adam is here in Heaven, and here he will remain forevermore, and free of his time spent in the Cage as Michael's vessel."

"But you kept Sam and Dean down there to live through all that hell," John stated, disproving.

"Your elder sons are made of a much stronger substance than Adam was, if only because of the way they were raised. And no, John, they are not without their reward down there. The least I could do for Sam was to give him certain peace from the Cage, in such a way that life will not be a constant fight for sanity, without robbing him of the honour of his selfless sacrifice and what he learnt from doing what he did. To Dean I gave both freedom and peace, because he cannot live freely without Sam by his side, and he will never allow himself to have peace if his brother does not give it to him, simply by being."

"Did I raise them too hard? Do You think it was unfair of me to do what I did, forcing them to live inside each other's pockets?" John asked earnestly. The answers he was getting were completely devoid of falsehood, because he saw the truth in every word even as he heard it and mulled it over.

"Perhaps if you hadn't, then the world would be a very different place now," God intimated. "They have a bond unlike anything that has ever been seen in the world, and whether you think it a good or a bad thing, John, you had a very large part to play in it." John sighed, feeling a bit validated, but still not certain where all of this was leading to. There were many things he regretted, and in light of where he was right now, as many things that made him wonder at the seeming stroke of luck.

"So why am I here, then?" John asked, swallowing, wondering what the punishment was for a lifetime of close-mindedness and faithlessness. Were there worse things than the hell he suffered for a century, for the torment of being removed from his boys' lives when they had needed him so much? For not being there to save Mary, for not being there to save Dean, for not being there to save little Sammy?

"Such thoughts serve no purpose here, John," God interrupted the train of guilty recriminations. "People misunderstand a lot of things. It's easy to attach blame when you don't understand something, and hunters thrive and survive on the ability to mistrust accurately. Everything that happened, happened for reasons that I won't be specific about. The details could drive you insane." Even as the words sounded, and John wondered about how easy it was to just justify all the small minutiae away, he knew for a fact that, even as a soul exalted beyond the trappings of mortality, he, John Winchester, extraordinary hunter of evil and deeply caring if staid father, would never be able to contemplate or comprehend the inner workings of the mind of the eternal God. Still, it wasn't enough, not yet. He needed to know.

"But You could," John breathed, his throat working, his mind trying to find its usual clear-cut, defined modes of reasoning. The crisp, fast thoughts of a battlefield veteran, seeking to create order and stability in the middle of a skirmish, to give peace of mind to those who had lost their own in the throes of trauma and despair. He found that it was nearly impossible, while being this close to God. Who nodded slowly, His face radiating nameless sadness. "Why did You let this happen?"

"Because to have interfered would have cost humanity it's very core, the very essence that make you all so unbelievably precious to Me," came the easy yet weighty response.

"That's bull," John stated stoically, unwilling to accept what he considered a convenient cop-out. He fully expected wrath to obliterate him, but he was tired, and weary of circles within circles, always leading to greatly complex things that defied instant answers and solutions. That had always been Sammy's way, and Dean, despite the carbon-copy affectations of being like his dad, had never had trouble dealing and accepting that and accommodating it. To John, questioning orders was tantamount to wilful disobedience, and Sam had often carried the brunt of that. It saddened John, knowing how his beloved youngest had actually turned into the most amazing young man, a hunter on par with his brother, and a man worthy of the sacrifices John had made to keep them both safe.

"I wish to tell you something, John," God said, remarkably unflustered by the blatant defiance of the human soul that stood before Him. "But you need not accept it."

"Why ask permission?" John asked.

"Because it means that forgiveness is often not necessary, then, because there is nothing to forgive." God took a single step away from John, turning to gaze out one of the tall windows that allowed so much light into the Throne Room. "I will not lie, because I cannot."

"I've heard that before," John said. From Lucifer, when the archangel had so craftily seduced Sammy, brought John's embattled youngest to the brink with promises of peace, rest and release. John had been in the Throne Room for scant moments, and also for immeasurable centuries, watching helpless the space of years in the span of moments, felt the growing despair and sadness as his sons fought tooth and nail to stay human, stay together. John had seen it all, and he could not do one single thing to advise, to protect, to comfort. He had seen the highlights, seen his sons struggle with ever-escalating trials, year by year. Seeing Sam give in to Lucifer, to attempt to trick that ancient malice, had undone John, and for the first time in centuries he had cried long tears of remorse and heartbroken sadness at what baby boy had suffered, simply so that an uncaring world could have another chance.

"Not from Me."

"How do I know that?" John countered again, wondering why he was being so stubborn. Despite his best efforts, he could feel nothing remotely resembling malice, or veiled threat, from this amiable presence beside him. It could be a trick, the most elaborate ever, or it could be truth such as John had never imagined possible, and he was dancing all along that razor-thin edge of indecision.

"What could I possibly hope to gain from falsehood, John? Do you think I would plunge you into the deepest corners of hell for not agreeing with Me, for gainsaying My every word?"

"Yes."

And God laughed. John was shocked to the core, because it was so refreshing a gesture, so uninhibited by the cares of a world wrapped in the fog of its own insecurities and fears that it made him want to smile and join in. But he carefully maintained a stoic face, and waited for the next step forward. The moment of mirth passed, but the smile remained, an honest and unflappable expression.

"How could I not repay your honesty with My own, John Winchester?" the Almighty asked. "You are here because I wish to answer any questions you have, about anything you might think of. I will do it truthfully, though many things may cause you pain."

"Why do this?" John asked again.

"Because I did it for your sons, and for my own misguided angel, and for your old friend Bobby Singer. It's the least I can do."

"Fine. Then where's my wife?"

"Not here," God replied candidly. "Not yet."

"Is she safe?"

"She was never in danger, after her untimely mortal death, in the first place." John swallowed, and this time it was a lump that threatened to stick in his throat and blur his vision with sudden tears. "John, why would you ever think Me so cruel and uncaring that I would consign even those with limited faith, or dark and tragic pasts, to the Fiery Pit, with nary a thought for the sanctity of every thing that shapes each and every one of you?"

John took a deep breath, feeling every monstrous injustice and indignity suffered in life come surging to the forefront of his mind, clamouring for attention and demanding to be justified, or proved wrong. And so the fire of his question, even as it caught him off guard, served to strengthen his resolve all the more. He wanted answers, and God seemed willing to give them.

"Because You made a world that kills so easily; pus mothers of small babies on the ceiling with their guts sliced open and their flesh melted off their bones. You left a world that was turned into a zoo by Your precious angels, where demons come and go and do as they please, with no consequence," John grated accusingly. "You want me to believe anything You say, but You didn't do anything to stop these things from happening, again and again and again!" He was quite vehement by now, daring God to strike, daring the Almighty to damn him all over again.

"Because I lived lives that were touched by everything you just mentioned," God interjected, and John was appalled that He was seemingly continuing the cant that John had just thrown out there, with as much accusatory forces as John had invested in his own words. "Because I would not step in to stop these atrocities even when they tormented and destroyed the very flesh, blood and soul that formed around My intentions, the very fabric of a world I wanted to thrive on its own, without Me interfering every step of the way. Because in so many of My lives on earth, I had to watch parents die, leaving orphans behind; see cruel destiny destroy love and stamp out hope. Felt demons and monsters tear into flesh and bone for nothing more than depravity and wanton destruction. Felt the spray of bullets rip through skin and body, felt the pain of knives stab deep into guts; the touch of winter sucking out life, the swell of the ocean waves crushing existence into darkness, the feel of earth squeezing the last breath out of weary lungs, the feel of life as it ebbs from decimated bodies." God took a step towards John, His eyes radiant with unshed tears, His mouth caught in a moue of pain and inner suffering, and John was mortified by the emotions that rampaged across the immaculate face. "The despair of a child when its mother leaves her behind; the horror of a baby in his unformed thoughts when fire eats across the ceiling; the terror of the boy whose father has to go to fight a nameless foe, never to return; the suffering of a wife who loses the ability to bear children, when all she ever wanted was to add life and hope to a world that desperately needs it; the pain of a man who realizes too late that the hopes of his children were simply to feel loved and safe and accepted, not shaped, restricted and distanced for fear of loss."

"Why?" John asked, and he felt his sight blur at the impassioned yet monstrously devastating delivery of the silently weeping being before him, felt his own tears run trails down his unwilling cheeks. He could feel accusation in those words, could see the parallels being drawn that echoed his own thoughts and fears, and he wondered why he suddenly felt so very weary at it all. Why he wished nothing more than to vanish out of existence completely, his soul beaten and tired beyond measure.

"So that I could love again, love anew, always and forever. So that I could never forget why I let life take this course," God replied, and this time, His eyes were limned in tears of hope and redemption. "So that every single human child who ever felt hungry, needy, lonely and fearful would never taste it again when brief life was cast aside by the monstrosities that roam the earth. To come here where all is forgiven and forgotten, and where lives that had no memories of joy and happiness could find comfort in the shadows of the ones who had lived safe, happy existences on earth; could learn from them, and experience life here, forever free of the pain and torment of life before, to taste and touch only the good and not even remember that things had ever been bad. So that the small baby surrounded by fire could have a father who saved him and a brother who protected and loved him; so that the father could survive his war for another day and return to the children he kept safe because of his efforts. So that every mother who could not bear her own children could become the mother of all around her, and the father who taught his boys to be strong could stand here now and be proud of what his flawed yet pure intentions have wrought, knowing his boys survived everything they were put through, and came out immensely stronger for it. Hardened by life, to give those who never had guidance a fighting chance to learn, and love, and thrive."

"You could have prevented all of this, all of it, but You left it to us? Why? Why leave these things for ignorant people who know no better, and screw up everything they touch? Why did You let us have this pain?" John asked, heartbroken and soothed in turns, and not caring that the very presence beside him was its cause, or that it was the real deal. God shook His head slowly, meaningfully and with so much empathy that John wanted to scream at the unfairness of such endless grace and sympathy, and at the singular unfairness of life itself, even if he somehow felt robbed of pinning it all on God before him.

"Knowing what you know now, John, would you have changed anything? Would you have given your sons a normal life, knowing of the darkness out there? Would you have let Dean be his own man, not bound despite his own love and willingness, to raise and teach Sam? Would you have cheered Sam on when he chose to go to college, not to escape you but to make you proud of him?" God asked solemnly. John shook his head slowly, wracking his thoughts for a denial, summoning up everything in him to scream yes and be redeemed for his failures. But he could not lie, not to God, and it filled him suddenly with no shame, to admit it to himself.

"No," he whispered brokenly.

"And the pain you feel even now, the pain of leaving them behind in a world they could never shut away from themselves, ever again… that world would have destroyed then, and been destroyed as a result, if you did not do what you had done. Because you were a good father, and you did want what was best for them."

"Yes."

"None of this," God said, and the sudden insistence in His voice drew John up short, forced him to look up and hold the suddenly steely gaze of limitless power, staring at him through limitless depths of sorrow, understanding and strength. "None of it would have been possible without the down side; without the pain of guilt to make the thrill of redemption all the sweeter; without the anguish of despair to light the fire of hope; without the suffering of centuries to make the return to life and love all the more bearable and acceptable."

"What's the point in all of this?" John asked. He wanted to know, needed to know. "Why tell me all of this?"

God spread His arms wide, His features transforming into the picture of melancholy long-suffering, but with the promise of peace and restoration flaring golden in the depths of the rich blue eyes. "So that you can know for yourself why you suffered, and yet still thrived. Why you despaired, but still loved." A few slow moments passed, of John thinking it through, carefully mulling it over, putting the pieces of the dramatic and stunning picture he had been given together. Finally he closed his eyes, his mouth thinning with the realization, his heart slowly lulled into a soothed state of willing acceptance. God nodded then, knowing that John could finally see it. "Balance brings beauty, because it gives and it takes evenly, even when you can't see it right then. A child that knows no love will still seek it blindly, even if that search could lead to a bitter end. A baby that knows no way to describe its feelings will still smile when it receives attention from a loving parent, and will still cry when it feels nameless fear or pain. Life untaught stills finds a way to excel, and when we know better, then it is by the actions and methods of our intentions that we achieve balance and validation for everything we do."

"I think I get it," John admitted, and for once, he felt no desire to take the knowledge and use it to his own advantage, or to forge it into some weapon to be used for self-preservation and protection of his loved ones – there was no need, not anymore. This was simply clarification of so many things, a sharing of unimaginable value. But God, wise beyond reckoning, noted even that old streak of hunter-like instinct and paranoia, and continued.

"Demons know only passion, and it destroys them beyond redemption. Angels know only duty, and it denies them the power to see ought but what they perceive to be My will. Yes, even my archangels, who could feel and respond, ultimately rely on what I would ultimately say. But you," God extended a meaningful hand towards John, as though He equated John to be the sole representative of every human that ever was and would be. "You get to endure the blandishments of both sides, of both parties, and still arrive at the other end, rich in spirit, mind and life beyond anything that exists, even My angels. Free will is your gift, and the very thing that makes you suffer, even as it allows you to rise above angels, demons and monsters, and become the single most beloved of children in My vast creation."

John could only shake his head. Even when he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he did not want to believe this, he also felt that old, almost ancient feeling of hope and deliverance again, like he had not felt since the night that Mary had died. Since before, when Dean was just Dean, a precocious and charming little four-year-old kid who had just started to like play football and just be a kid, not a soldier. Where Sam's future was yet untold and unmapped, and his six-month-old will was not warped to feed the drive of an apocalypse that would ultimately never be. Just a baby. And Mary was just John's wife, retired from a hunting life she never wanted, and had seemingly escaped. When life was not an illusion built on false security, but a gift. And it filled John with more hope than he had dared to feel and trust in a long time. He felt the skin of a hunter slough off his body now, felt the freedom and peace that his sons still fought to hold onto settle into his bones, here, where death no longer held dominion, and there was only endless possibility and the chance to live a life that, although not real in the strictest sense, would be the best that it could ever be, all things considered. So John allowed himself the luxury of feeling this, of feeling like a man and not a soldier, like a father and not a drill sergeant. He shook his head, a smile wrapping itself through his jaw, as he looked at the God he never believed in, but Who had just granted him the freedom of will and the gift of knowledge and peace.

"Will my boys be okay?"

"You sons, John Winchester, are guaranteed their places of honour, here with me, when their time comes," God allowed, then slowly turned from John and ascended the steps. With a slow, infinitely graceful gait the tall mortal-seeming avatar took the steps, before turning around to stand with His back turned to the Throne, ready to take a seat that had not seen His magnificence in millennia. "But they are about to embark on a journey that is entirely their own, and not written in any mind in Heaven and below, but Mine." An elegant finger tapped the side of the head, and a sudden smile spoke uncounted volumes of secrets known, and knowledge kept where nothing could be moved to ever get it. And John would not have had it any other way, so he just returned the smile, his own way of saying thank you. And God knew it, because He nodded his acknowledgment in turn.

"And that old reprobate, Singer?" John couldn't resist as he grinned, thinking of crotchety old Bobby in heaven, yelling 'idjit' at every angel and soul that annoyed his old afterlife.

"Soon, but not yet, and that's all I have to say about the matter," God said simply. Then He sat down, placing both hands on the armrests of the Throne, His back straight, face held high, eyes suddenly transforming into lighthouse beacons of pure, radiant light and intensity, white fire dancing in the depths as the smile slipped into an expression of simple yet all-knowing majesty. Beneath his feet, John could feel a humming sensation build, could feel an overwhelming sensation of rightness echo through the chamber.

For the first time in his life, death and thereafter, John Winchester lowered his head and gave not-so-grudging respect and obeisance to the only supernatural being that had never demanded it of him, and had the good grace to make no demands of his abilities and his being. Then he straightened himself and turned to go.

Behind him, the avatar that was God dissipated in a storming torrent of blazing, actinic fire and energy, becoming a radiant force of never-to-be-equalled and always-unrivalled majesty, taking His place for the first time in two thousand years, His presence blasting through the Heavens like a clarion call and homing beacon to the wearied angelic souls and suddenly renewed faithful dead. John Winchester did not look back, as he left the Tower and made his way to the Garden.

Joshua watched John Winchester walk beneath the trees of the Garden. The grizzled-looking mortal soul now shone with something akin to the peace that the true faithful always had, and were always unconscious of. It was the signature brilliance of the human soul, and it was something that in its very own way was as beautiful as the angelic grace that gave the Holy Host its own unique grandeur. The man made his way to where the gardener angel waited.

"Did you finally find your way?" Joshua asked, a kindly smile gracing his weathered face.

"It took a while, and it was dark for a bit, but it's better now," John replied.

"Then you should know that there is a very beautiful woman waiting for you, over this hill, near the river," Joshua stated, tilting his head to the left and hitching a thumb over his shoulder, and it warmed his ancient being when centuries of damnation and hard mortal life dropped away from John Winchester's shoulders. The man gave him a radiant grin and started walking briskly towards the top of the hill. Above, where the Tower rose, the sky suddenly sheared in half as sunlight broke through the clouds, and the very top of that immemorial edifice suddenly exploded with golden fire. Overhead, the Holy Host was suddenly in flight, the sight of millions upon millions of wings catching the hallowed fire of the God that they had longed for, winging their way to the Throne Room to pay homage and obeisance to a returned Lord.

Around Joshua, the Garden burst into full bloom, and the gardener sat down slowly on the small bench behind him, taking it all in. He laughed suddenly.

This was good.

FIN