She sat on the dirty bed in the dingy motel, listening to the hum of some show—probably House M.D.—playing quietly, merely shyly reminding her of the existence of the television.
She was reading a book she had found in the nightstand, though it didn’t really captivate her. Not enough for her to forget what day it was.
Her red-painted nails tapped absentmindedly on the already battered cover of the book as she waited for the door to burst open and for him to stand there—with a bouquet of flowers, movie tickets, and a bottle of cheap red wine.
And then, a moment later, it happened. The door slammed open, and Dean stood there. But he wasn’t holding flowers, tickets, or alcohol. In fact, he was barely standing on his feet, leaning his shoulder and forehead against the doorframe. The smile on his face seemed to almost spill over.
Right behind him, Sam stood in the doorway as well. With the same lazy smile and the same problem keeping him on his feet. And that’s when she realized that the men hadn’t been injured on the hunt as she had initially thought. They were simply drunk to the point of near incapacity.
Without saying a word, she shot both men a furious look, then stood up from the bed, walked into the bathroom, and slammed the decaying wooden door behind her. She twisted the rusted key in the lock, then sat on the edge of the bathtub. She placed her hands on her knees, thinking about the conversation she had been living with for the past year.
“I feel really lonely,” she gasped, as his hand pulled her closer to his warm body. “Do you know what day it is?”
“Don’t tell me you were expecting something,” he murmured sleepily, burying his face in her hair. She pulled away from him, sitting up so abruptly that he lifted his heavy head from the pillow. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked at her, irritated.
“What do you actually want?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day, Dean. I know we didn’t make any promises, but I need to feel special, just once a year.”
“I didn’t promise you anything. I don’t understand why you were setting yourself up for anything,” he shrugged, then laid his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes, hoping that by doing so, he would end the tiresome conversation.
They had met two years earlier on a loud ghost hunt in Lancaster. At first, Dean had been a nuisance to her. Loud, too confident, annoying, stubborn, and flirtatious. They kept getting in each other's way, and Sam, like the best diplomat, had to play mediator. However, after spending a long week together, full of arguments, they finally came to some understanding. And then they celebrated the fact that they hadn’t lost any limbs and that the body count was low—a successful hunt, in other words. They celebrated so well that in the end, they ended up in bed. Since then, the Winchesters and she had been inseparable.
She had fallen in love with him long ago. His loudness no longer bothered her; now it seemed expressive and funny. He wasn’t overly confident anymore; he just knew what he was doing. He wasn’t stubborn; he was focused on the goal. Even his flirtatiousness didn’t bother her anymore.
However, in moments like this Valentine’s evening, it didn’t change the fact that he was still irritating. In fact, in her opinion, he was cruel.
She was like a little puppy. She was there for him only when he needed her. She stayed silent when he wanted and spoke when he asked her to. She was loyal, even though he wasn’t. When he told her to stay, she stayed; when he told her to leave, she left. She wasn’t demanding, and Dean loved that.
He had what he needed, without ever considering what she needed. When he wanted, he had a friend, and when he asked, he had a lover. He didn’t think much about her. She was something constant, something that would always be there, no matter what he did. Like a puppy. And she did it in the hope that she might win even a crumb of his love. That, for just a moment, he would treat her with the same care he gave to Sam. Or that he would consider her opinion as he did Bobby’s. Or that he would respect her the way he respected Ellen. Or that, just once, he would look at her with eyes full of understanding and affection, without anger, irritation, or cold desire. She wanted him to be only for her, just as she was only for him. She wanted to be his whole world, his shining hope for a better tomorrow, his ray of sunshine on the darkest days, the person he thought of when he laid his head on his pillow at night and when the blinding morning light woke him. She wanted to be all the things he was for her.
But Dean didn’t know that yet.
“Sorry I wanted to go out on V-Day with the man I’ve been sleeping with for a year,” she said sarcastically. Dean opened his eyes again, and a scowl was painted on his face. However, he took two deep breaths and calmed down a little. That conversation was definitely not worth his sleepless night.
“Okay, next year I’ll make it up to you with flowers, chocolates, candles, rose petals, or whatever you come up with.”
“Dean,” she said calmly, but firmly, and the blonde merely mumbled in response to show he was listening. “You need to show me there’s something worth waiting for.”
She looked down at the old bathroom floor. Her bare feet clapped against the beige tiles, and not a single stupid tear rolled down her cheek. And that’s when she realized that maybe she didn’t love him after all.
The pain in his head woke him. Throbbing, unrelenting, and penetrating. He slowly sat up, gently resting his head against the bedframe. He reached for a glass to wash away the dryness in his throat, but the glass was empty. He glanced around the room. First, he saw the closed blinds, the table with stacks of pizza boxes, the turned-off TV, the open bathroom door, two beds—one a mess, the other neatly made—until his gaze finally landed on Sam. Sam was sitting deeply in an armchair, resting his chin on his folded hands, holding a phone. He stared into space, as if not really present at all.
“Did someone die?” Dean joked, flashing a mischievous smile. Sam, as if awakened from a trance, quickly turned to face him, shooting him an angry, almost venomous look.
“Hopefully not,” Sam hissed, then stood up from the chair and began pacing around the room. Dean leaned toward the nightstand in search of medicine. He opened the drawer but found nothing except an old, worn copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s Poems. He sighed loudly, and the headache only intensified. “This is all your fault, idiot.”
“What’s your problem now?”
“Don’t you think something’s changed?”
Dean looked around the room again. There were no meds in the drawer and no water in the glass, both of which were always there when he had a hangover. There was no fresh breakfast smell, no music, no show playing on the TV. There was no laughter, no sound of the shower, no sweet perfume. There was no warm, female body in his bed, no touch of soft skin, and no silky hair. And that could only mean one thing.
“Great question, I’ve been asking myself the same thing for an hour,” Sam said. He paced the room again. “She’s gone. Left me a pathetic note on the nightstand and sent a text with a photo.”
“She said she wants to hunt alone, that she’s leaving, that she’ll miss us, and we shouldn’t worry,” Sam started listing, collapsing back into the chair. “She said we shouldn’t look for her.”
“What does that even mean? Someone must have kidnapped her, something must have happened to her,” Dean said, jumping out of bed as if burned, forgetting about his headache for a moment. He quickly put on his pants and reached for his jacket to go out and start looking for her, but Sam’s voice stopped him.
“She’s fine,” Sam said, standing up quickly and showing Dean the photo she had sent earlier that day. She was sitting behind the wheel of her car, wearing the gray hoodie Sam had given her for her birthday some time ago. Her face was framed by a pair of sunglasses, and the wind from the slightly open window blew through her hair as she smiled widely.
“One stupid picture doesn’t mean anything,” Dean shrugged and reached for his leather jacket again.
“She told me…” Sam started but hesitated for a moment. He took a deep breath and continued. “She told me some time ago that she wanted to leave.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean grumbled. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Hell, can you blame her?” Sam stormed around the room again and sat down at the dirty table. Dean sat across from him, waiting for an explanation, any shred of information about the woman or where he could find her. "Every time you went out to the bar or on a date, without a word, she’d put a bottle of whiskey on the table, then pour us glass after glass. She told me a lot about her life, about her grandmother and little sister, about the cottage in the countryside where she always spent her vacations. She asked me about our parents and the house in Kansas. You spent so much time together, and she didn’t even know you were born in Kansas!’
Dean turned his face away and shifted in his chair, slightly irritated. But he didn’t know what that irritation was caused by. Was it that she had disappeared without a word? That she left Sam a letter and sent him a text message, and he seemed invisible to her? That Sam knew more about her than he did? That they spent so much time together while he was absent?
He wasn’t irritated. He was just jealous.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Have you gone completely stupid? She loved you, Dean."
He knew. Of course, he knew. Only a complete idiot wouldn’t have figured it out. But oh, how easy it was to pretend and convince himself that he didn’t know. How easy it was not to think about her feelings, about how he hurt her, about how he treated her. He never cared whether she’d be upset, whether she’d leave him, or what she’d think of him. He knew two things—she loved him, and he never promised her anything.
He had become a master at deceiving himself. Every day he told himself that her smile didn’t make him happier, that her little gestures—like making breakfast or taking care of him when he was sick—didn’t make his heart race, that going to bed with another woman whose name he couldn’t remember didn’t make him think only of her and how he was breaking her heart.
"You probably think it’s stupid, but she kept talking to me about last year’s Valentine’s Day. About how you promised her something special—and at least, she was expecting something special. And you came back... WE came back drunk, not even noticing that she locked herself in that disgusting bathroom for a solid two hours."
He knew what he had promised her. And he also knew what, between the lines, she had promised him. He was once again deceiving himself that it wasn’t true, but he knew she’d leave him if he disappointed her again. And maybe that’s exactly why he got so drunk. So he wouldn’t have to endure the pain of being abandoned, a pain he fully deserved.
A month passed. The brothers continued living as they had before meeting her. They went from case to case, got a little bruised, drank a little, fought a little. Sam missed her, as he had in his nature. Dean didn’t care, as he had in his nature. Or at least, he seemed not to care.
For the past month, Dean’s life had been governed by obsession. Although he told himself it was driven by concern. He thought he was just worried about the woman, that surely something bad had happened, because what other reason could there be for her disappearance? Or for not hearing from her in weeks, even though she was supposed to be there forever? Or for her not even saying goodbye, not telling him, at least for that one last time, that she cared about him? Something must have happened.
So Dean had an obsession. Honestly, he had it long before the woman disappeared. The problem was that now it had spilled out, with all the hidden jealousy, a mass of unspoken feelings, resentment toward her and toward himself.
He wrote. He wrote to her every chance he got.
Sometimes he wrote light-hearted messages. He told her jokes, talked about hunting situations, or encounters with old friends. Sometimes he mentioned his childhood or family, trying to make up for lost time.
Sometimes he wrote sadly. He told her who had been hurt during a hunt and what exactly had happened. He kept her updated on who was dead and who had nearly died. Once or twice, he mentioned his parents’ deaths, but shortly after that, he regretted even bringing it up.
Sometimes he wrote with anger – the way he used to address her. He reminded her of everything that had come to his mind. How she yelled at him when he needed her support, when he had sold his soul. How upset she got when he came home drunk. How she ran away from him. But each time, he regretted those angry messages more than anything else in the world. Still, he kept writing them.
Sam had dimmed a little. He didn’t know what he expected, he didn’t really know what he felt. He truly and deeply loved her, and he knew she loved him, even though they’d only said it once. That time, when Dean almost died for the the umpteenth time. They clung to each other, crying silently, unsure of what else to do. No words were exchanged; they simply wept, holding on tightly. And they fell asleep like that, curled up together, with traces of tears on their cheeks, full of regret and longing for someone they both couldn’t, and were afraid to, lose. So, it could be said with certainty that their friendship was built on the love for Dean Winchester.
Sam knew that Dean was in love. He knew, he saw it, but he didn’t say a word. Who was he to interfere? He supported her when she suffered from an unrequited love and tried to understand Dean when he saw how he was hurting her. But when the woman decided to break out of that vicious circle, Sam was filled with a strange calm. He knew that she had chosen not to love either of the Winchesters, whether romantically or platonically, but to love herself.
Six months passed. Sam received a picture. She was leaning against her car, wearing shorts and a sweater, the same glasses still perched on her nose, her hair, now a little longer, was blowing in the wind. In the background, there was a wild beach by a lake, and she was smiling, calm, and happy…
Under the photo was a short message: I took a little vacation xx
Sam debated for a long time whether he should even show his brother what he had received. He didn’t want to bring him down any further or give him false hope.
Six months had passed, but Dean’s obsession only intensified. He was sending fewer messages and decided to take action.
He tried to track her phone, but all his attempts were futile. He went to Bobby for help, but Bobby sent him away with the words: Leave that poor girl alone. He didn’t even want to discuss it with Sam, he knew his opinion.
Dean thought a lot. The past two years spent together replayed in his mind like a movie, and he always reached the same conclusion – that girl was very stupid.
He couldn’t explain the fact that he had rejected her time and time again, each time more harshly and painfully, and yet she always returned, like a boomerang, with even more patience and love. He manipulated her, treated her worse than an intruder, just to exchange hot kisses with her in the privacy of his beloved car in the evening. He would pull her in, then push her away, as if testing the limits of her endurance.
He wasn’t surprised she was in love with him. This thought didn’t come from vanity but from the fact that he had wanted to make her fall in love with him.
He knew she liked poetry. So he learned a few poems, which he would recite to her in his quiet, deep voice, cuddling up to her back on cold nights. He knew she liked horror movies, so once a week, almost casually, he would turn one on the old motel TV, just so she would cuddle into his arm with a smile on her face and stay that way for the next two hours. He never cared about the movie. He reveled in her scent, the feeling of her hand tightening on his forearm, the soft closeness that made his heart race. He knew she loved lakes, so as they drove from case to case, they would pass one, and she would sigh with admiration, which always made a small, satisfied smile appear on his face.
“Dean,” Sam finally spoke, slowly getting up from the bed. Dean raised his gaze from the file of some ancient demon they were dealing with at the time.
The brunette handed him the phone, and the man saw her face. Something pricked his heart when he saw her smiling and free from worries. Free from him.
She was crawling backward on her wounded hands, and the deathly pale silhouette of the woman was approaching her relentlessly. She knew this was the end. Bruised, tired, and terrified, she just closed her eyes, resigned to her fate. However, death didn’t come.
Instead, there was a loud shot, and the ghost dissolved into the air like an unpleasant memory. The woman quickly turned, and over her shoulder, she saw none other than the Winchester brothers, who, once they recognized their old friend, stood frozen.
A few long, silent seconds passed before Sam rushed to her and hugged her tightly to his chest. She gave a soft moan, to which the brunette loosened his grip slightly. He pulled her away, holding her by the shoulders, as if to confirm that it was really her, his closest friend, whom he hadn’t seen in a year, sitting on the floor of a dilapidated basement in one of the abandoned buildings in New York.
“Hey, Sammy.” She gave him a faint smile, despite her bruised cheek. Sam, seeing her pain-stricken face, quickly picked her up and headed toward the Impala parked outside.
Dean was boiling inside, but he just stood there, watching. He should be kneeling beside her, stroking her bruised back, pressing her cold cheek to his, whispering words of comfort, giving her a moment of relief for her tired body and soul. Yet, he just stood there.
“You need medical attention,” Sam murmured as he passed by the other man, holding her in his arms. She gave Dean a blank look before tiredly closing her eyes and nestling into the younger of the brothers.
The past year had been the freest she had ever been. If she wanted to go somewhere, see something – she just went and watched. If she wanted to meet someone – she just met them. If she needed a break from hunting, she took it. She was free, not having to consider anyone else’s opinion, rules, or approval, or the lack of it. No one’s feelings mattered except hers. The last year had taught her to be selfish.
The drive to the motel was quiet. The woman rested her head on Sam’s shoulder, who sat next to her in the back seat. Dean, on the other hand, drove uncertainly, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror to get a closer look at the woman he hadn’t seen in months. She hadn’t changed much. There were a few new tattoos, her hair was dyed, a bit longer, maybe she looked a little paler than before. Aside from that, and all the bruises, scratches, and blood, she looked pretty ordinary, just like before.
They entered the motel, and the woman immediately claimed the bed closest to the door. She awkwardly collapsed onto the pillows, and the familiar scent of the perfume she had once known hit her nose. The perfume she had long forgotten. It no longer evoked the warmth, safety, or desire it once had. Now, it was just a pleasant scent, but not unforgettable.
Dean, still not saying a word, took a beer from the fridge and opened it effortlessly. He took a long sip, then set it on the table. He sat down in a chair, staring at the woman who was resting on his bed.
His heart was breaking. Watching her so hurt, bruised, and suffering. He felt the tears welling up in his eyes, but swallowed the sadness that had gathered in his throat and drank away the despair with cold liquor.
Sam, on the other hand, came out of the bathroom with a large first aid kit. The girl turned onto her back and pulled her shirt up to her chin, revealing her badly wounded and bleeding chest.
The younger brother measured her body with a worried look, then sat on the bed. He first carefully scanned her hips, stomach, and breasts, and Dean felt a surge of anger. No one, however, paid attention to his frustration, and Sam began cleaning up the remnants of her once porcelain skin.
“Maybe I’ll do it,” Dean finally offered shyly. Both Sam and her focused their gaze on him, and silence filled the room.
“No,” she decided firmly, glancing back at Sam. He almost imperceptibly nodded and silently returned to his task. Dean turned away and took another swig of alcohol.
“You really got banged up,” Sam remarked when, after wiping away the dried blood, a long, though not too deep, wound appeared before him, running from her sternum down to her left hip. The woman snorted briefly, feeling a sharp pain in her lungs.
“Not the first time, and not the last.”
“Are you really not going to talk about it?” Dean finally snapped. He jumped out of the chair and slammed the bottle onto the table. “You just ran off, disappeared without a word, melted away like fucking camphor! I’ve probably sent you a million messages, and the only thing you could do was send a stupid picture, and not to me, but to Sam? Did you two sleep together as well or is there something else I don’t know about?”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell in the room. Sam looked at both the woman and his brother, waiting for the next development. Maybe he should leave?
The silence was broken by her laugh. It wasn’t the pearly, warm, and sweet laugh it used to be. It was mocking, sarcastic, unpleasant. Dean lost his composure, furrowed his brows, and stepped back a little.
“I wasted two years of my life on you, and you want me to give you more.” She looked at him scornfully. “I forgot that Dean Winchester is the center of the world and…”
Sam stood up without a word and left, quietly closing the door behind him.
“But I don’t love you anymore, Dean.”
It rooted him to the spot. He could almost physically feel his heart drop into his stomach, and his throat tightened uncomfortably. His hands instantly grew sweaty, and his eyes glazed over with sorrow. He wiped his hands on the legs of his pants and cleared his throat nervously. He looked down, seeing the dirty, worn-out carpet. He gave a slight nod, trying to sort out what exactly he wanted to say. He took a breath, releasing all the disappointment, self-loathing, and anger from his lungs. He sat on the bed next to the woman, and she closely observed every one of his movements.
“I know. You don’t have to. I don’t want that.” He took another deep breath and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Do you remember that night when we went to play pool in Louisiana? You wore that plaid dress, the one I knew you only wore for me. Your hair fell over your shoulders, you used those sweet, fruity perfumes, painted your nails black, and everyone paid attention to you.”
The woman only watched him in silence. She remembered that night. Dean surprised her like never before, inviting her on a real date (though he never called it that). She had tried for him, hoping that something would change in their relationship. But that night ended like every other one.
“When you were asleep, I lay there for a long time, inhaling that perfume... And I really felt at home.”
More silence, but this time, it was less suffocating. The woman slightly lifted herself on her arms, leaning against the headboard.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I knew you loved me, and I knew I loved you. I guess I didn’t want to admit that to myself because... because thinking about you made me dream of something I’ll never have. I started thinking about a peaceful, settled life that I’d really love to give you. I wish I didn’t have to worry about whether we’ll survive another horrible day, or if by the end of the day, I could hold you again and tell you how much you mean to me, or if every morning I could wake up with you in my arms. I knew I was hurting you, and I knew you’d leave one day, but I preferred to convince myself that I didn’t know. Because it was easier. And I’m sorry I chose the easier option, that I gave up the fight for what we could have had. And I don’t want you to take me back. Treat me like air. Like I’m not even here, but I want to stay with you and make sure you survive another day.”
“There’s this poem,” the woman sighed, staring into the space in front of her. She placed her hands on her battered thighs. “With a farewell kiss, When the time for parting has come, Today, I no longer hesitate to admit: You were right - now I know - My life was a dream... Happy Valentine’s Day, Dean.”
