A/N: Bet you never thought you'd see this story updated again, huh? Me neither. Nevertheless, Spnfan asked if I would write an alternate ending where Dean chooses Heaven. I hadn't thought about it before but I kind of likedthe idea. So, here it is. Enjoy!

Oh, and my Heaven isn't totally canon and neither is Castiel's "true" form.

There was no white light, no tunnel, no heavenly choir of angels to welcome him. It was just Dean and the snow.

Snow?

He glanced up, just now noticing the flakes falling around him without a sound, fluttering down to the ground with quiet grace. Looking around, he saw he was standing on the border of a forest but not one filled with foreboding or darkness. The trees were spaced far enough part that he could easily see a hundred feet into the woods; the sun glistened off the snow-covered branches in a way that seemed surreal. There was something familiar about the stance of the trees, as if they were beckoning Dean home.

Which was stupid because trees didn't beckon and this certainly wasn't his home. Was it?

It was only when he started looking for his keys and wallet that he realized he wasn't wearing regular clothes. He was dressed in a white long sleeve thermal and navy sweatpants, an attire his only wore on his laziest day, clothes that shouldn't have been enough to keep out the cold and yet, he wasn't chilly in the slightest.

His feet were bare but when he moved forward a step, they felt warm against the white beneath them. Dean spun in a circle, searching.

"Sam?"

His brother wasn't near him and that meant something was wrong. Sammy was always at his side, always tugging at his elbow, asking for another sandwich. No, that wasn't right. Sam wasn't little anymore, he was an adult, he was at college.

Dean spun in another circle, panic making his head whip back and forth. There was nothing else out here, just the trees and the snow and the not-too-bright sun.

"Sam!"

"He's not here yet."

The voice, like the trees, was familiar. Just like the hand that appeared on his shoulder.

"Castiel."

Dean didn't know where the name came from, only that his tongue knew it, his lips were comfortable forming it. The man – not a man, Dean somehow knew instinctively – was shorter than the Hunter but certainly carried a presence. He was bare-chested and wore only a pair of jeans, held up by a leather belt. His hair was dark and mussed but his slight smile was gentle. It was the smile of amusement, of seeing an old friend after a long absence.

"Aren't you cold?" Dean blurted out, which was ridiculous because he himself was not cold. It was as if they were impervious to the weather around them. Castiel held out a hand and caught a snowflake, forming a fist around it and then opening it again. The snowflake was gone.

"Are you?"

Dean shook his head. The man's eyes were ice but friendly at the same time; looking into them made Dean dizzy so he glanced away.

"Where's Sam?"

"He'll be here shortly."

"Why don't you have a shirt on?"

"You ask just as many questions up here." Dean looked back at the angel, squinted at him actually because the dude was kind of glowing. Just a little bit, hardly even noticeable.

"Where's 'here'?" The not-man cocked his head and blinked.

"Heaven."

It didn't come crashing back to him with that one word, everything didn't suddenly click into place but there was a sour taste in the back of his mouth, a memory he was trying to access but couldn't quite reach.

"So I'm dead."

"Yes."

"And you – did you kill me?"

"No. That was Azazel." Castiel sighed after these words, as if they pained him. "I simply didn't stop the process. You were almost dead when I arrived at your side."

"Why didn't you save me?" Castiel smiled at Dean's offended tone.

"You asked me not to."

Dean blinked. It was almost there, this memory, but not quite. He couldn't imagine wanting to die, not when he'd spent his whole life trying to survive, both in body and soul. He'd been through too damn much to be in this snowy grave. Even if the snowy grave was kind of relaxing and soothing.

Castiel then stepped away from the man in front of him and in doing so, turned to the side.

"What the hell?" Dean took several hasty steps backward, almost falling into the snow but recovering his balance at the last moment. His hands flew for a gun he wasn't carrying. Castiel glanced over his shoulder.

"Ah," he said. "My wings."

There were huge. Big enough that once Dean saw them he was unsure on how he'd missed them before. Folded up, they brushed at Castiel's ankles, curving up delicately behind his head. At the sudden attention, they rustled and flexed.

"You're an Angel."

"You remember," Castiel said. "Good. It takes most people longer. Most want to wander around first." He gestured to the setting in front of them but Dean didn't follow his hand.

"Can we get back to your fucking wings?"

They flexed again, expanding outwards. Not all the way but enough that Dean could see they would be massive when fully exposed. They flapped once then twice, sending a rush of warm air toward the Hunter, the first change in temperature he'd felt so far.

"Do you like them?"

It was an odd question but then again, Dean was in Heaven, an odd place. Dean wasn't one for admitting something's beauty but Angel wings were a bit off his usual radar. Which was saying something.

"Yeah," he said, surprising himself. They were gun-metal gray, a chrome sheen to them, with some of the small feathers growing lighter the further in they were tucked.

"It was hard not to show my true self to your uncle and brother."

Sam.

In all the talk, Dean had forgotten his brother.

"Sam? You know Sam? Did you hurt him? If you did, I'll…"

"Enough," Castiel said, taking three steps forward so that when he reached out his arm, he could touch Dean's forehead with two fingers. "I think it's time to remember."

It had started with pain and it ended with pain.

Dean remembered the hospital, the colorless ceiling he had stared at for days. He saw Sam sitting beside him, holding his hand and murmuring senseless words into Dean's ear. Dean felt the demon – Azazel – tear into him again and again, until Dean was shredded into itty bitty pieces.

John was there too, with scruff on his jaw and nervousness in his eyes but he was there and sometimes he sat in the chair Sam sat in. A girl, hair blonde and past her shoulders, was holding his hand too, slipping her cool fingers into his.

Sam again, hefting immobile Dean into a wheelchair and taking him to the safety of the Impala. Dean remembered quite distinctly each jolt of the Impala's tires through his wounds and he groaned against Castiel's fingers as the Angel shhhed him with a soft murmur.

"It's okay, Dean. It's just a memory. It can't hurt you."

It could though, and he felt that as his body grew weaker inside Bobby's house and suddenly John had disappeared and was replaced by a young man who always frowned when he looked at Dean. The auras and the footprints. The loss of breath and the fever that had stolen his lucidity.

And always Sam. His little brother, the baby he had dragged out of that fire and into this life. Through piggyback rides and skinned knees and failed skateboard tricks, Sam was there and so it was right that he was curled against Dean when Dean took his last breath.

"I wanted to die," his whispered hoarsely as he recovered, somehow on his knees. Castiel's arm was under his and he hauled him upward, one of the wings brushing against Dean's knee as he stood. It was warm.

"Yes. I granted your wish."

"But that means…" Dean looked out at Castiel with haunted eyes, horror beginning to sink into his features, eyebrows knit together. "That means Sam too!" He was down on his knees again, hands together. Begging. Praying.

"No please! I change my mind, you have to save Sam! Please, please don't kill him, don't hurt him, let Sam live."

"I cannot," Castiel said and Dean moaned, slumping over. What had he done? So selfish, so irresponsible.

Look out for Sammy. You take care of your little brother, you hear me?

"Your brother is almost here. It would be too late to reverse anything." Dean couldn't hear him, could only sit there in the snow, staring at the bare feet of the Angel in front of him. The wing tips were visible through the gap in Castiel's legs and Dean watched them without any sense of interest.

God, he should be in Hell right now.

He should die a thousand times, should be…

"Don't." Castiel's voice was loud and firm. "Don't do that to yourself. You belong with the Angels now." The wings were moving, unfurling, their heat radiating toward Dean as they crept closer. They smelled good, he noted through his misery. Like pine and mint, sharp and clean. Dean felt them curl around his body, felt the feathers sweep him up and cradle him, as if he were a child again.

As they did so, Dean's suffering melted away as if it were ice in the sun and he was left in this cocoon Castiel had created. Suddenly there was no Sam, no John, no Azazel. There was only Dean Winchester and for the first time in his life, he fully acknowledged himself. That he had been alive and he had lived. That he was one of the few who had saved lives, stalked the creatures of the night, showed mercy where mercy should be given. It was over now, he could see that, could feel it. He'd made his choice – the best choice he could. There had been nothing else left to do.

"Sammy's coming," he mumbled into the feathers.

"Yes," Castiel agreed, smiling down at his new charge. "You'll be together always."

"Good," Dean breathed and then, suddenly exhausted, let his muscles go limp into the wings that held him. And for the first time since he was four years old, Dean Winchester slept without fear.

A/N: Okay, it's done for real this time! Feel free to check out my next multi-chapter fic, Ordinary Human, for more Sam and Dean angst!