Disclaimer: They're all Kripke's, more's the pity. If they were mine, you think I'd share? Titles from the poetical Samuel Beam.

Author's Note: A story in four drabbles, born of a fever dream. Many thanks to pdragon76 for the beta.


The Longest Path the Devil Laid

"You came for me yourself." He's shaking all over, but his eyes are fierce. "That's sweet."

"Anything for you," she purrs, and means it.

"So how does this work? Hellhounds, gore? Sparkly smoke, maybe?"

"Nothing so theatrical." She circles him on soundless cat feet. "You take six steps." Whispers in his ear: "On the last, you're already burning and screaming in a place with no doors."

He narrows his eyes. "Hell has doors, you pompous bitch."

"For all the good they'll do you, sugar." Her smirk fades to dark-eyed lust. "You ready?"

"As I'm gonna be." And Dean starts walking.

Break Every Bended Knee

Time's coming he won't know his own name.

Down here, any span of seconds is an eternity; all eternities are equal and indivisible. Damned, he's called. Scum. Vermin. Bitch.

"Man, twenty-four times you've melted my eyeballs in their sockets. Aren't you bored ye—ah!"

Morning he cracks wise. Evening he begs.

They show him Sam sometimes.

"Please God, help me! Help!"

"Creative," he says, recoiling from his brother's outstretched hands. "The guts are almost convincing."

He doesn't buy it. Often.

But flame licks his bones, closer to the heart of him every hour.

"Enough, scum?"

"My name's Dean."

Time's coming.

Free as Any Word of God

He stands transformed by ash and agony, and his companion says, "Our kind are always forged in hellfire. Nothing else burns hot enough."

"Whoever wrote the rulebook is a total nutjob."

"You knew you'd lose yourself, darling."

"I didn't expect to find this." Not an aspect of flame, not might to raze cities.

"No. You expected Sam."

No arguing that.

"Hell permits no saviors, for none enter or leave except by their own choosing."

"So why me? Why like this?"

"You burned undeserving, and so endured." At long last, she smiles. "Dean. Grace was never born of anything but pain."

A Vision Too Removed to Mention

Sam wasn't expecting him. He burns white-hot, wings unfurled and blinding, but his eyes are the chill green of deep water.

"You—you're beautiful."

"Dude," Dean groans. "Never say that again."

"Can I—" Sam reaches for a fiery wingtip.

"Stop it! You want third degree burns?"

Sam wants answers. "How is this possible?"

Dean only bows his golden head. "Sammy, I can't stay."

"Why not?"

Shrug. "Saving people, hunting things."

"Still?"

"Always." Angels grin lightning and laugh thunder, Sam discovers.

He has to know: "Will I see you again?"

"Bet your ass."

Sam needn't ask what heaven looks like.