"What Could Have Been" One Shot
Summary: This is closely based off the season 5 finale and the beginning of season 6. However, the reader replaces Lisa in this story. Itâs the record of Dean and the readerâs year together.
Warnings: nothing worse than the show
A/N: This practically wrote itself, and I hope you take the time to read it. I love getting feedback, so please feel free to contact me. Â I promise to relpy! (The full version of this story contains a little bit of smut, and can be found on my blog under the Fanfics link.)
Dean didnât know how long he stayed kneeling in that field, oblivious to the lengthening shadows and the aching pressure of rocks under his knees. He just knelt, tears rolling down his cheeks, arms hanging loosely.
His brother was gone. Sam was gone, and he had taken Lucifer with him.
Sam was gone, not to Stanford or off on his own in a fit of rebellion. Sam had finally gone where Dean couldnât follow. For good.
Eventually Dean pulled himself into the driverâs seat of the Impala, throwing it into gear and tearing out onto the road. Any right turns he made he made blind; he couldnât stand to see the empty seat beside him. Sammyâs seat. The place his brother belonged.
Dean just drove on and on through the night, occasionally choking on an unsuccessfully smothered sob. Eventually he recognized the turn to your neighborhood, and let the Impala idle to a halt by the curb. He closed his eyes and rested his brow on the steering wheel, teeth gritted, jaw muscle twitching. Every bone, every fiber, ever molecule of his being screamed at him to find a way to bring Sam back, to make a deal with whatever god or demon or angel that would listen. It was never supposed to be Sammy. Dean had never regretted finding Sam at Stanford more. If he could take back what he said all those years ago, that he wanted Sam to come on the road with him, he would take it back in a heartbeat. He would take it all back, because then Sam would be somewhere out there, alive and well.
At some point Dean got out of the car and found himself staring at the front door. He couldnât bring himself to hit the bell- bright, tinny, happy- so he banged a fist against the painted metal. He heard soft footsteps inside padding toward the front of the house.
You pulled open the door, wondering who could possibly be coming by this time of night. To your shock, Dean Winchester was framed by the darkness, your porch light casting half his face in shadow. He looked up at you, and his eyes radiated so much pain that you reached out to take his hand in yours.
âAre you okay?â you asked softly.
He paused, the corner of his mouth turning up wryly.
âYeah.â He paused. âIf itâs not too late, Iâd like to take you up on that beer,â he ground out, voice cracking halfway through.
He stepped forward into your embrace, wrapping his arms around you. For the first time you fully realized how vulnerable this man could be, how hard he tried to protect himself, the amount of effort he put into keeping himself going. Dean leaned against you, slowly lowering his head to rest it in the shadowed crook where neck and shoulder join. He rested there for a minute, only focusing on the scent of your hair and keeping his breathing even. In and out. Just get air in and out.
Eventually he stood back up, letting his arms slip away. He shuffled awkwardly in the foyer of your house, which seemed much smaller now that he was in it.
You led him to the kitchen, not bothering to ask what had happened. You knew from his last, brief, and totally unexpected visit a few weeks ago that he was going into something ugly, and besides- in the ten or so years that you had known of Dean Winchester, he had never been one to talk about himself.
You handed him a beer and snagged one for yourself. He placed it against his lips and took two long gulps. The way he set it on the counter clearly told you he was tempted to down the whole thing and follow it with several more.
You moved into the living room, dimming the lights and putting on some music. Dean wandered in and joined you on the couch, sitting by your side, thighs barely brushing. You turned so your back was against the arm of the sofa and drew Dean down so his head was resting in your lap. Slowly you threaded your fingers through his hair, gently rubbing his scalp. Occasionally Dean would tense, his fingers digging into your thigh, and you could almost see him reminding himself where he was as he forced himself to relax.
Dean fell asleep slowly, reluctantly, his eyelashes fluttering against his freckled cheeks, his breath occasionally catching as he twitched.
You stayed with him, lightly stroking his hair or his face. You thought of the oddity of the situation, the closing of some strange ten year cycle. Your son was asleep upstairs, tucked into his bed, army men displayed on the windowsill and watching over him. Your lover of ten years ago, from that one magical weekend, was asleep in your arms, a shell of the man he was before.
Youâd told Dean that Ben wasnât his, that you had tested his genes, but you neither of you really believed it. If fact, the older Ben grew the more convinced you were that Bed was Deanâs son- the freckles, the precocious sass, the protective instincts.
You stayed like that through the night, holding vigil over the man in your arms- a man who may be the father of your child, a man who for all intents and purposes was a complete stranger. Eventually the room turned that dark lavender-grey, signaling impeding dawn and you shifted away from Dean, laying his head on a pillow. He grumbled a bit, but fell back asleep.
You walked quietly through the darkened rooms of the house you had struggled to keep and maintain. Youâd been barely out of nursing school when youâd met Dean during your party stage, and a handful of months later Ben had arrived. Money was still tight, but you made it work- you were determined to give your baby the childhood he deserved.
You peeked into Benâs room, and there he was, sprawled on his belly, one arm around his pillow. You smiled to yourself; Benâs contentment and vivaciousness was confirmation that you were doing okay. Stepping into your room, you called the number of the clinic where you were working and rearranged your schedule, taking the day off. Despite your trust in Dean, you were not about to leave him alone with Ben just yet.
After your shower, you were lured down the stairs by the siren song of hot coffee. There was a pot half full in the machine, but Dean wasnât in the living room or kitchen. As you closed the fridge to put the cream away, you caught side of his dark jacket against the wood of the back deck. He was sitting on the steps, mug held loosely in his hands, eyes fixed on the rising sun. Carrying your coffee outside, you sat down beside him, listening to the rustling of the dead leaves blowing around the lawn. It was cold, most of the summerâs heat gone.
âI donât know what Iâm doing here,â Dean said quietly, not making eye contact.
âThatâs okay,â you said slowly. âI think we can figure it out.â
It took a week for Dean to park the Impala in the garage. He stood looking down at the open trunk for a minute that seemed to stretch out into eternity. This was his familyâs car. His earliest memory was going to a drive-in when Sammy was a baby, his mother a laughing presence in the front seat, her hand on dadâs forearm. After the fire, the Impala had been home. Heâd watched Sammy do his homework against the dash; the two of them had learned to sharpen knives and disassemble firearms in that car while they waited for John to come back. Theyâd slept in the car countless times, Sam curled uncomfortably in the backseat, Dean propped against the door. The Impala meant loud metal and beers on the hood and Sammy complaining in the passenger seat- the Impala was the family car, and he didnât have a family any more. Dean shut the trunk for the last time and reverently covered the shining black paint with a dust cloth.
Over the next few weeks, everyone settled into a rhythm. You were working the early shift at the clinic, making it home by 2:00 every day to spend the afternoon with Ben when he got home from school. After Dean got Ben on the morning bus he headed to work at an auto shop across town. The Impala was what landed him the gig- this shop did normal routine maintenance work, but had a few clients wanting customized reconstructions on classic cars. Dean had never imagined legitimate work could be so fulfilling. His boss was great- said that everybody had a past, and shrugged off the fact that Dean didnât have one.
In the evenings, after Ben had gone to bed, you and Dean would sit quietly, watching something on TV or listening to music or just sitting together. You didnât feel a need to talk about the past, and neither of you brought up the future. You were content, you were making it work. Life was good.
Ben adjusted to Dean more easily than you had imagined. At first he pulled annoying, silly stunts- like the kind of stuff a class will try on a substitute teacher. Dean just rolled with it- he didnât yell, he didnât tattle to you, he just took it. And whenever Ben asked him a question, Dean always stopped what he was doing and gave Ben a full answer. In turn, Ben responded to that respect and came to adore Dean. He would follow Dean around the house, wanting to help with any chore or task he could.
You and Dean had agreed to keep it low-key for Christmas, but that didnât stop the man from crawling around on the roof stringing up Christmas lights, cursing when half a string would fail to light up. It was like he had never had to play the âtest every bulb on the light stringâ game before. Â He hung wreathes and was even more excited about the tree than Ben.
On Christmas morning, Ben unwrapped a long thin box to find a BB gun inside, polished to a shine and finely carved with curling symbols. âAwesome!â Ben exclaimed, shoving his other toys aside.
You shot Dean a look out of the corner of your eye. He leaned towards your son, pointing the short barrel of the gun at the floor. âYou listen to me kiddo- you never, ever point a firearm at someone unless you want to shoot them. Ever. Even if you know itâs unloaded. Later we can go out and Iâll teach you to use this thing, but if you misuse it I will take it away. A gun is a responsibility.â
Ben looked up at Dean, the small gun cradled in his lap. âYes, sir,â he said quickly. âI understand.â He laid the gun under the tree and scooted off to play with a few of the things you had bought for him.
Dean handed you a small box. Inside was a necklace pendant, finely hammered and soldered in the shape of a star, other tiny symbols painstakingly etched into the metal surrounding the star in a circle. It was a graceful and intricate rendering of the tattoo he had over his heart. Gently you ran your finger over the cool metal, not sure what to say.
âJewelry, I know, itâs a clichĂ©,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. âI just thoughtâŠâ
âDid you make this?â you ask, pulling it out to look at it more closely.
âYeah. I can go get something else if you donât likeâ-
âItâs beautiful.â You fastened it around your neck.
Dean became more and more affectionate as time wore on, holding your hand on walks, holding you against him on the couch, sending you flirty texts while you were at work. He was sleeping better, but every night he still made a full sweep through the house, and every night he would glance under the bed to ensure that his sawed off, silver knife, and holy water were easily accessible. You had a vague idea of what Dean had done before he moved into your life, after all, youâd met him on a hunt. But like so many other things, you didnât need to ask the extent of his work, and he didnât volunteer the information. Heâd slip into the bed beside you once he was sure everyone was safe and wrap his arms around you.
It was in these dark, gentle hours of the night that Dean was the most tactile, running his hands slowly up and down your back, playing with the ends of your hair, matching his breathing to yours. It was as though he was ensuring himself that you were there, that you were real, and by soothing himself he soothed you.
Winter began to thaw into spring, the world smelling of damp soil and the breeze carrying the promise of new beginnings. True to his word, Dean spent hours in the back teaching Ben to shoot his BB gun. Youâd often watch them from the kitchen window- how Dean patiently demonstrated the proper stance, the way to sight down the barrel, how to recover from the kick a larger gun would have. Ben was standing straighter and you could see his confidence grow every time Deanâs face broke into a praising grin when Ben successfully hit the target.
If the boys werenât in the back with the gun, they were in the garage under the hood of the beat up old Chevy pickup Dean had been traded by a client down at the auto shop. Ben was taking to that too, learning the names and purposes of many hand tools and engine components.
For Memorial Day weekend, you and Ben and Dean drove to a neighborhood cookout at the covered pavilions near a local lake. Ben ran off to play with the other kids his age after being admonished by you not to play too close to the water. Dean wandered off towards his truck with a few of the other men, probably to discuss horsepower and foreign models and thump their chests- as they walked away, you heard Deanâs voice say, âRight, I might just have to take the family and do thatâŠâ his voice trailed off as he moved out of earshot.
Family. You were a family; he was right. Like ivy working its way into the mortar between bricks, Dean had worked his way into your life, slowly and gently changing things in such a way that you would never be able to go back.
Time ran on as it inevitably will, pushing you along like so much driftwood on the tide. The days lengthened, dogs laid lazily in the shade of leafy trees, and heat waves would sinuously broil from the tarmac by 9am. Mrs. Paulson down the street was far more visible on her porch rocker this year, usually coinciding with the days Dean mowed the lawn. Several times Dean took Ben to work with him and the two would return in the evenings covered in grease and sporting identical grins. Youâd usually eat together on the back deck, watching to see who could spot the first lightning bug of the night.
The weekend of July 4th, Dean insisted you all go to watch the fireworks. You werenât sure why he was so adamant, but you piled snacks and pillows into the back of the pickup and set off up the road, Lynyrd Skynyrd pouring through the speakers. Dean parked up on a bluff overlooking part of the town, the lake glinting in the honey colored light off in the distance. A few other trucks and vans were parked in the area, but most of the town was headed for the mall parking lot or a few of the local churches.
Dean pulled out his guitar, your Christmas present to him, and fooled around on it a bit. He sang softly to himself, his husky baritone doing justice to the old country tunes or folk songs he was strumming out. You closed your eyes and just absorbed the moment- your man strumming his guitar on the tailgate next to you, your son laughing happily as he ran around with a few other kids nearby. It was the perfect night. For this brief moment in time, everything was okay in your little world.
Dean nudged your knee with his, his skillfull fingers plucking out the chords to Brown Eyed Girl. Your eyes opened to meet his- those beautiful whisky colored irises with flecks of Irish green. Youâd never get tired of opening your eyes to his gazing back at you. Loudly and enthusiastically the two of you sang, belting out the sha-la-la-la-tee-das. As the night fell to indigo, it became too dark for Ben to run around and he came back to the truck for those long, suspense filled moments as everyone waited for the fireworks to start.
Finally with a long whizz, the first firework cracked to light overhead, beautiful red sparks fizzing their way back to earth. You were close enough that you could feel the low-decibel bass of the explosion thrumming in your chest beneath your breast-bone. Despite the heat, you curled into Deanâs side, both of your faces turned towards the sky.
Dean sat with the woman he loved and the boy heâd kill to protect on either side of him and thought back to that Fourth so long ago. It was the summer of â96, and he and Sam had spent the week wondering where their father had gone. Dean had been seventeen, and in a rare streak of rebellion against his father he had purloined a box of illegal fireworks, grabbed the keys to the Impala, and taken Sam to a field outside of town. He didnât remember what the fireworks looked like or where exactly theyâd been because the radiant, childish joy heâs seen on his brotherâs face had surpassed everything else.
In the here and now, he still missed his brother in the way that a war veteran missed a limb- the ache of something missing, the constant reminder of ghost twinges. But things were better. He had a life, heâd been accepted into a new family.
The fireworks ended in a spectacular display of color and light and crackling bass. Other cars began to pull away, joining the inching grid of vehicles attempting to make it back to their beds. Dean stayed still, cushioned comfortably in the back of the truck, his woman and son dozing peacefully against him. The stars glittered overhead, and peepers chirped quietly in the trees. Occasionally in moments like these he would feel so guilty for being alive, for being happy when Sam was not, but those feelings were becoming more and more easy for him to shake off. Once the roads had cleared of the red of taillights, Dean shook you awake, gently kissing your forehead. You scooped up Ben and traveled back to your home in somnolent quiet.
The summer rolled on, eventually giving way to the fiery glory of autumn. Dean and Ben raked leaves in the yard, and several times you caught Dean looking up the topics of Benâs schoolwork online- the man was doing research so he would be able to help Ben with his homework if he asked for it. Your heart cracked a little bit, making room for all the love for Dean you held inside.
Every morning when you left for work Dean would kiss you on the cheek, his scruff ticking your skin, and pass you a travel mug of coffee. Ben would be at the table eating breakfast, although sometimes he and Dean would be arguing over the merits of one hero or car or team over another. Today it was rock bands.Â
The day went as most of your days did, busily running around the clinic, checking in with Dean on your break, stopping by the grocery store on your way home. When you got into the house, you started putting your purchases in the fridge, checking the clock to see how much time you had before Ben got off the bus.
Something cool and round was pressed against the back of your neck.
When Dean got home, he slammed into the house through the garage as usual, yelling his greeting into the house. Nobody answered. âYou out back?â he hollered, heading to the window to check.
There was a note on the kitchen counter. âWe have the girl and her kid. You know who we are.â Dean momentarily lost the ability to breathe, his chest clenching in fear, a type of fear he hadnât felt in almost a year. He grabbed his old set of keys off the rack and tore the dust sheet off Baby, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor. The loyal car growled to life, tearing down the street. Dean knew there was only one place in this town where a group of demons would hang out, and he was headed there now.
Cautiously he slunk around the edge of the old mill, listening for any noise inside. He knew that this was probably a suicide mission, that without backup it wasnât likely for any of them to make it out. This wasnât a new feeling for Dean, he had accepted that he was going to go down bloody a long time ago. Men like him didnât get to die easy. Carefully he pulled himself through a broken window, the edges of his jacket catching on the fine glass shards still embedded in the frame. He dropped to the ground lightly, absorbing his weight on the balls of his feet. Moving to the door of what looked like an old storage room, he peeked out into the main part of the mill. In between heavy rusted equipment, long gone silent, he could see figures moving around you and Ben, who had been gagged and tied to rickety folding chairs.
Dean skirted between machines and grinding stones, biding his time. Eventually a delicate-looking female demon came just a bit too close to his hiding place- lunging out, Dean clapped a hand over her mouth, dragged her into the shadow, and stabbed her through the heart with the demon knife. Dean placed the body on the ground, jaw set, not willing to reveal himself just yet.
âHeâs late,â he heard a male voice whisper harshly. âYou said he would have found the note by now!â Dean heard a slap and your muffled sobs. He gritted his teeth and turned his face away from the sound, wanting nothing more than to reassure you.
Your cries had slowed to smothered hiccups and the demons were anxiously pacing around the room. âWhereâs Abigail?â the largest of your captors asked, the one with the eerie black eyes.
âI donât know,â the other woman replied. She stalked off to look for her comrade. She was jerked behind a large grinding station in a shuffle of shoes on the cement floor. The two remaining demons looked that direction.
The leader grinned wolfishly. âLooks like we have a guest after all,â he growled, drawing a large pistol out from under his jacket.
You shuddered, praying that somehow, by some miracle, you and your family would come out of this okay. It didnât look likely.
âCome out, come out, Winchester,â the black-eyed man called. âI believe I have something that belongs to you.â
Dean stepped out into the open space, his eyes hard, his hand fisted around the hilt of a wicked looking, red-drenched knife. âIâm here,â he said lowly, his stare fixed on the demon in front of him. âWhat do you want?â He shifted his stance.
âRevenge, dear boy,â the demon chuckled. He gestured idly with his gun, and Dean flew against the wall as though held there by some great invisible hand. âYou stopped the apocalypse, you and your brother and that winged rat. I was planning on having a lot of fun, and now that had been denied to me. How do you think that makes me feel, hmm?â Leaning towards Dean, the demon smashed the barrel of the gun into Deanâs face with a sickening crunch.
Dean slowly turned his head back around, his cheek and eye-socket already swelling, a long gash pouring blood. The demon smiled at him. âThat angel has since returned to heaven, and your brother is trapped in a place that even a demon dare not go- so that leaves you, the prettiest of the three, the one who knows he was the least worthy of life.â
He hit Dean again, the gun crunching into Deanâs jaw, making Dean gag and spit out a stream of blood
âNot so pretty anymore, eh?â The demon settled back. âI canât hurt you too much at once,â he murmured softly, moving to run his hands over your hair. You were weeping softly now, accepting that there was no way for this to end well. You could only hope that he killed Ben quickly.
The demon yanked the gag out of your mouth, and you ran your tongue over your dry, cracked lips. Turning your face towards the wreckage of Deanâs, you said quietly, âI love you.â
A tear slipped out of Deanâs one open eye at this.
The demon grabbed your chin, jerking your face around to look at him. âWhy would you love him? After all, he let this happen. He didnât tell you about everything out there; he didnât teach you to protect yourself. Heâs been using you all along.â
Almost tenderly, the demon rubbed the flat of a knife blade across your cheek. âAnd now I am going to use you,â he whispered into your ear, his breath sulfurous. âBecause every whimper you make, every cry you scream out, every drop of your blood to hit the floor will be one step closer to me breaking the man hanging on that wall.â
Leaning back, he methodically dug the knife into the skin of your shoulder and drug it through the flesh of your collarbone. You ground your teeth together until you felt something pop, breathing heavily through your nose. âBrave one, eh?â The demon chuckled. Dean yelled something unintelligible through his broken mouth.
Suddenly there was a great flash of blue light and a fierce trenchcoat-clad man was holding the demonâs head and forcing him to the ground. The demon fell back, his eyes empty burned orifices of darkness as your rescuer pursued the demonâs accomplice. A giant of a man with long chestnut hair and a loose plaid shirt ran to you and untied you, pressing a wadded up bandana to the wound on your chest.
âBen!â you struggled away from the tall man, running a few steps to where your son was still tied bonelessly to the chair. âThey gave him something to keep him quiet, please, you have to help him!â
The man in the coat walked over and regarded your son with the bluest eyes you had ever seen. Gently putting two fingers on your sonâs forehead, he said, âYour son is fine. He will wake soon. My name is Castiel; I am an angel of the Lord.â He held his fingers to your head, and the pain drained from your body. Looking down at your chest, your saw your bloodstained shirt, but only smooth skin where the deep, jagged cut had been. The angel walked off, presumably to see to Dean.
You sat, cradling your sleeping son, until Dean walked to your side. âIâm so sorry,â he said, staring down at you, his eyes full of self-loathing. âThis is my fault.â Gently, he touched his hand to Benâs hair. âLetâs get him home, okay?â
You shifted away from him just a little, and immediately regretted it when you saw the hurt and acceptance in Deanâs face. You had no idea what was going on anymore.
âEr, how about Sam takes you home?â he gestured to the tall man who had talked to you earlier.
âSam? The Sam thatâs dead?â you asked, confused and overwhelmed.
âI havenât been dead for a while,â he said, helping you to your feet. âCâmon, Iâll drive you home.â
Dean stood and watched his once-dead brother lead you and Ben away. He closed his eyes, hatred and regret and longing all mixing into a sickening lump in the pit of his stomach. Dean felt a hand on his shoulder, and opened his eyes to look at Cas.
âYou knew?â he asked the angel, anger tinting his deep voice.
âYes.â The angel looked guilty. âI wanted to contact you, but Sam said you were happy and that we should let you be.â He glanced at Dean.
âYeah, we can talk about Sam in a minute,â said Dean harshly. âRight now, I know a way you can help me.â When the angel nodded and left with a flutter of wings a few minutes later, Dean fell to his knees and wept once more, a sickening parody of a beautiful fall day almost one year ago.
That night while you and Ben slept the deep sleep of the angel-touched, Dean moved through the darkened house one last time, gathering things together and stuffing them into bags or boxes, which he then packed tightly into the Impala. He locked the door behind him on the way out and slipped the key onto the door frame. Sliding into the Impala, he turned the engine over and didnât look back.
You woke up, stretching your muscles and luxuriating in your semi-awake state. Looking around your room, you smiled to yourself. What a strange dream youâd had about the beautiful and protective man with the Tennessee-whiskey eyes. Laying back against the pillow, you closed your eyes, not wanting to lose the bliss of your dream just yet. Down the street, you could hear an engine roaring onto the highway. Sighing just a little, you fell back asleep, dreaming of a father for your son, a lover for yourself, and a life youâd never had.
Dean just drove, ignoring the ringing of the cell-phone abandoned in the passenger street. He drove until he didnât recognize the streets, until he no longer felt like there was a vise wrapped around his chest. Dean drove until it struck him that there was no going back- that for you and Ben, he had never existed, that they had no recollection of his love. He drove until it was dark and his eyes hurt too much to drive anymore.
Dean turned onto a side road lined with fields and trees. Slamming out of the car, he yanked a few boxes from the backseat and tossed them into the ditch. He yanked the BB gun he had made for Ben for Christmas from the trunk and tossed it on top. Pouring gasoline over the whole mess, he tossed his lighter at the bottom of the pile. The fire caught, consuming all record of the past year- photos and pictures, gifts and belongings, obliterating everything but memory. Dean stood and stared into the fire until it was nothing but glowing embers, the heat of the blaze drying the tears on his cheeks. He stomped through the coals, kicking sand over the glowing scraps of a life that would never be. His toe scuffed against something metallic that had fallen to the edge of the destruction. Bending low, Dean pulled out the charm he had made for you. It was slightly charred, and blistered in his palm. Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean slipped the trinket into his pocket.
The Impala purred to life and slowly lumbered back onto the road, driving into the darkness and away from the wreckage of what could have been.Â
