My personal answer to this is the original scream movie. Picture: sam and dean think its a new case. They research and can't figure it out. They go to the party at the end (they're pretending to be young enough, its fooling nobody). They survive the massacre only to see TWO H U M A N teens spilling their whole genius plan to this other teen. And she beats their ass? Scream survived sam and dean sure, but could sam and dean survive Sydney?
What we all wanted to see at the ending of spn. They're all in heaven !
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Dean had died.
Thats what he knew. The nail (no pun intended) in the coffin. No angel to snap him back, no god to torment him.
He was and would remain: dead!
So when he got to a familiar bar, he was beyond confused. The stools were rickety, as he remembered. Even as his hand reached out to the bar counter, the sticky feeling met him happily.
It was all the same. The neon shitty light Ellen loved. Even the spirits Ellen insisted on stocking. Just quiet. Lonely.
He was in heaven. That was his first realisation. His next was he was 'fixed'. No nail, barely any of his scars and the joint pain he'd grown to bare had soothed. He was in heaven.
Even if he didn't believe it, he couldn't deny it. He'd been to hell and back for christ sake. He was in heaven. He was in heaven and he was severely bemused. The how, the why even the who all came to mind.
But heaven isn't paradise without desire, is it? Dean always had one desire; to relax with the ones he loved. No hunt, no death and as much alcohol as they could stomach.
So why was Dean startled at the entrance of Ellen. It was her bar, why shouldn't she be there? And Jo, with Ash tailing her, bottle in hand already (probably from his own slice of heaven).
They greeted him with open arms. Asking questions; 'how'd you die, then?' 'Are you finally resting?' 'Who's death was cooler?'
And he answered them all. Though, with his usual air of ignorance. A variation of I don't know or I don't care. He could finally rest.
He even waited for Sammy. Waited for his little brother to live out the quiet life he could never give him. And when his time came - naturally - he poured him a drink.
He had everyone he could ask for. His little brother, Bobby even swung by once he got off his ass and took his wife out. Jo, Ellen, Ash, his parents were around a lot. He swore at one point he'd never get rid of garth once he joined them in the sky.
He had everyone... so why was he still anticipating? He felt like he was always on edge. Waiting for one last miracle. One he knew was implausible. One he knew he'd never get. One last true comfort.
Time passed, a lot and a little simultaneously. People came, people went. Then came again. So on, so forth. Everyone was in reach, easy to laugh with within minuets. Time passed until one last figure graced his personal paradise.
The doorway darkened and instantly the person's presence was familiar. He hadn't needed to turn around to see it. He never much looked at the door anymore, a watched pot never boiled. And he knew all who stepped foot in his garden by the sound alone.
He also coincidentally knew the feeling of those eyes. The ones he'd thought he'd forgotten. Never see again. He even looked at the door to really check.
"Son of a bitch..." His voice became gravelly as contrasted to his light tone seconds before. Sammy had stilled next to him even before he'd taken a look.
Recounting each micro moment as his feet ferried him forward. Stood toe to toe, he could truly see it now: Castiel was home. He looked the same as on earth. He'd kept the meat suit, Jimmy being his preferred form of presenting. Only with the black, now material, wings by his shoulders. A blue aura to him that Dean could only describe as cas' angel mojo being annoyingly bright.
In some sort of attempt to test the waters Dean instinctively lifted his fist. A soundly slap of his fist to his angels cheek before he lowered once again. Cas was infact real. And unscathed, heaven had a way of fixing things.
Once Dean was certain Castiel was well and truly there, his mind was made up. Even the low rumbled voice wouldn't change his mind. "Dean-". It would've been a question. Maybe an apology of sorts for dying. Dean really didn't care.
His fingers traced the lapels on that damned trench coat and balled into them as he yanked it close. Lips crashed, it wasn't pretty. Dean was clinging, grasping at all of cas that he could from their position. Really that meant his hands were on his chest, or neck. Never stemming to above the neck. He thanked every diety he could recall from the books as cas met him with much more desperate adoration.
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