There was a time when Sam once said, "Hope's kinda the point." Dean wasn't so sure.

With the end near at hand…literally outside their door and their plans centered around the mystic workings of an ancient gun, Dean was fairly certain their hope lay not in dreams for the future but in a measure of what they had done in the past.

"Saving people. Hunting things." It had to count for something, right?

Knowing that this moment would come; that their lives would end bloody and young, Dean pinned his hopes on one thing, but he never shared it. Not with Sam. Not with Bobby. Not with Castiel. Dean knew well enough not to jinx his hopes by uttering them aloud and releasing their power. It might have been superstitious nonsense, but he knew better than most that superstitions began somewhere for some good reason.

So he kept this one thought to himself and it nourished his soul even as he faced Death. Dean saw his father climb out of Hell and be welcomed into Heaven. If there was room for John Winchester in Heaven, they damn well better make a spot for Dean. He'd freakin' earned it.