Pairing: dean winchester x florist!reader
cw: death, trauma, depression, excessive drinking, Dean being emotionally constipated, angst, tiny bit of fluff, a lil bit of john winchester hate
summary: you were the love of his life. and the loss of his life.
a/n: so I randomly got the motivation to write while I was watching supernatural, so enjoy this messy, barely proofread, heart-crushing fic. its giving wife that dies at the beginning of the movie, and i'm kinda living for it
Dean has never been good at emotions. Ever since he was a kid, his dad cussed him out for crying after a nightmare and waking him up. He's been taught to “push them down, boy” and hide them, and that if he ever lets them slip out, he'll get punished for it. Even with Sam, whom he’s more open with than anyone, he can barely cry in front of, let alone tell him about all the inner workings of his mind, and if he did, what would Sam say?
Probably do his signature puppy dog eyes and comfort him, but what good would that do? It doesn’t change how he's feeling; it only changes who knows how fucked up and pathetic he is.
No, it's much easier to hold it all in.
Maybe not the healthiest.
He hears your voice in his head and stutters out a laugh.
He's been hearing your voice in his head a lot more lately, probably because it’s coming up on the anniversary. And at the thought of that dreaded date, he clutches his chest, as if he’s in pain. And physically, he isn’t.
His mind, however, is another matter. The number of times he's had to stop himself from laughing out loud at remembering a memory, or stop himself from sobbing at the more difficult ones.
“The days leading up to it are always the worst, y’know?” he hears Sam’s voice from behind him, and nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Jesus, man, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Dean grumbles, quickly composing himself and sitting up straighter,
“Yeah, sorry,” Sam responds, but he doesn't look particularly regretful,
“But you heard what I said?” Dean raises his eyebrows in mock confusion, then rolls his eyes and nods.
“Yeah, man, I heard it, thanks.” he turns away from Sam, getting up and grabbing his jacket,
“We have a case to research, let's go,” he feels Sam's hand on his arm and turns around.
“You can't avoid talking about it forever. It's gonna catch up and it's all gonna come crashing down,” he scoffs and lets Dean's arm go,
“God knows it did for me. With Jess. I didn't talk about it for too long, and it blew up in my face. You were there, man, you know how bad it got.”
And Dean does. He had been there, on that case, when they had found the 3 girls all tied up in a vamp nest.
2 of them were barely alive, and the last one…
She had been blonde, with similar features, and the wounds on her body were so similar to the ones Jess had had. And Sam had lost it. He massacred the rest of the nest by himself, and then went back to the motel and raged for 2 hours. Then cried for another hour. He had been so angry at the world, but mostly angry with himself.
Dean remembers it like it was yesterday, because he remembers the choked words leaving Sam.
“It was my fault, Dean. I know you said it wasn't, but it really was. I should've just told her everything. Or come back sooner. Or done - done something.” He had looked more pained than Dean had ever seen him, and it had been one of the few times that Dean had very nearly broken down in front of Sam.
Because Sam in pain was one of the worst things he'd ever seen.
And then you happened. And he realized that pain is a spectrum, and sometimes it hurts more when it's in the heart.
A choked breath leaves Dean, and he nearly breaks, but then he steels himself and rises.
“I know how bad it was, Sam, but I'll be fine. I'm handling it,” he gives a fake smile and heads for the door, swinging his keys on his finger,
“You coming, or not?” he raises his eyebrows, and Sam sighs and follows him, seemingly resigned to Dean's continued ignorance.
As Dean reaches the Impala, a memory flashes in his mind, a moment in time.
“Y’know, you are a terrible flirt, Winchester!” you giggle, your fingers toying with the top of the car as the wind dances in your hair. Dean's hand rests on your thigh as you drive down the highway.
“Oh, I know. It's one of my best personality traits.” Dean responds, turning his head to look over at you. For a moment, he's blinded; the light shining off your face might as well be the sun for how brightly it glows. You're smiling over at him, your hair blowing in front of your face, his heavy leather jacket draped over your shoulders.
He thinks you might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
“I love you, you know that, right?” he says, not a hint of joking in his voice.
“I may not be great with saying it all that much, but I really do,” you beam over at him, and intertwine your fingers with his.
“You do say it. In all the ways that matter.” You bring your intertwined hands up and kiss his,
“You get me flowers every time my old ones die. You remembered my favourite band and got me tickets to their show. In two towns over. After I mentioned them once. You,” you giggle a little,
“You got me my favourite candies after I mentioned I was craving them.” Dean looks bewildered,
“Isn't that what any good boyfriend does?” You bite your lip, loving him even more.
“Not all boyfriends will drive to 12 different stores trying to find them. That's definitely showing your love.” You lean over and kiss his cheek.
“So yes, I know you love me. I love you too, dumbass.” But you're smiling as you say it, and Dean is smiling back, and everything feels perfect.
And Dean is jolted back into the present by Sam slamming the car door, the emptiness returning. He gets into the car, and he thinks Sam asks if he's okay, and he thinks he says yes, but all he can really think is drive. Drive and drive and never stop, because if he stops, this overwhelming crushing feeling will catch up to him.
And he's not sure he can survive it.
By the end of the day, Dean is exhausted, frustrated and prone to biting Sam's head off. They found exactly one lead in their case, but unfortunately, that one lead turned up dead 3 hours later, so they're back to guesswork. As they're driving back to the motel, Dean catches sight of a bar that looks relatively empty, and decides he wants to get drunk. He pulls into the parking lot and stops the car.
“Let's get a drink, Sammy. I think we both need one,” he gets out, and Sam follows suit, looking a little wary.
“You sure that's a great idea, Dean? You're already pretty fired up.”
“Yeah, that's the point. It’ll dull the senses!” Dean shrugs his shoulders, locks the car, and heads for the doors, already planning to get completely smashed. If that doesn't make him forget, nothing will.
“Can you just let me cope in the way I know best? Please?” Dean's voice cracks slightly as he turns back to Sam.
“I just wanna drink till I can't remember why I was upset. I get that it's not the best, but it's the only way I can think to deal with this right now. So just-” he waves a hand at Sam and turns back to the door,
“You can go. I'll walk back to the motel. I don't wanna bother you with my shit.” He doesn't hear Sam's reply as the doors of the bar shut behind him, and he doesn't hear him follow, so he must have left. Dean lets out a breath as he sits at the bar and signals the bartender to get him two whiskeys. It's gonna be a long night.
2 hours later, Dean is 5 whiskeys in and feeling slightly less insane when he feels a hand on his arm.
“So, you're new around here,” a sultry voice says, and he turns to see a short, perky, raven-haired woman, exactly the type of woman he used to hit on in bars without blinking.
Until you. Until everything went to shit, and he lost the one person he fully opened up to, and all the progress he made fell apart.
“Yeah, I sure am,” Dean replies, not looking at her and downing another whiskey.
“Having a bad day, are we? I can help make it better,” her hand trails up his arm, and then onto his chest. Dean's hand shoots out and pushes her arm off.
“Sorry, sweetheart, not interested. I hope you have a great night, though.” Then he turns away, assuming she got the message.
But apparently not, because he feels her fingers trailing up his back.
“C'mon, baby, I’m sure whatever it is, I can make it better. My name's-” he cuts her off before she can finish the sentence.
“I don't care, I’m not into you, and I never will be. There's only one woman for me, and she's-” his voice cracks slightly,
“She's fucking gone,” He shuts up after that, definitely not intending for that to come out.
He shoves her off of him and drops some cash on the bar, muttering,
“Keep the change,” to the bartender, and without even looking at the women, leaves the bar. He doesn't stay to hear the bartender muttering to the woman, or to the whispering of the few people who were left in that shitty bar.
As he steps outside, the feeling of the wind hits him, and he groans, his feet stumbling a little from the many drinks he's had.
“Fucking hell,” he grumbles, turning the collar of his jacket up and starting the short walk to the motel.
Most of the town is asleep at this hour, lamps lighting up the empty streets. There's a few cars parked along the sides of the road, and he's admiring a nice one, trying to keep himself from falling over, when he sees it.
A little store, crammed in between two bigger ones, but of course, he'd notice it. He approaches the window, his fingers trailing on the glass.
Flowers, of every colour and kind. Roses, daisies, lilies, but the ones that caught his eye are right at the front.
A beautiful bouquet of perfect, blooming dahlias. And he's hit with another memory.
The smell of a million different scents hit his nose all at once as the door of the florist's opens and he steps inside. He feels entirely out of place, with his stained jeans and ripped jacket and many scars. This feels like a delicate place for people who don't hunt monsters on the weekends. He hears a bell jingle as the door shuts, and takes a few steps inside, when he jumps at the sound of a throat clearing.
“Can I help you, sir?” a soft voice says, and he whips around.
There you stand, in all your glory, with your beautiful hair tied back, a soft green apron tied around your waist, a dahlia perfectly placed behind your ear. He bets you smell just like the flowers you work with every day, and he wishes he could just breathe it in. A smile cracks your lips as you realize who it is.
“Dean! I didn't realize you were coming by today!” You immediately run to wrap your arms around him, and his hands find your waist, lifting you to twirl you around. You giggle, and the sound breathes life into him.
When he places you back down, it only takes a moment for his mouth to find yours in a long, breathtaking kiss. You feel him smile against your lips, and suddenly you're both laughing softly.
“Hi,” he says softly, pulling back to look at you, one of his hands coming up to cradle your face.
“Hey,” you say back, grinning up at him,
“I missed you. I’m glad you came by, but I thought you were busy today?” he shakes his head, his face hurts from how much he’s smiling.
“Nope, I finished up everything I needed to pretty quickly, and I wanted to come see my girl.” His hand is still on your waist, and he pulls you back in for another, slightly more heated kiss. It takes everything in you to pull back, but you do.
“Dean, I do have to work…” You trail off as his hand makes its way into your hair, tilting your neck as he leaves a couple of soft kisses there, breathing in your lovely scent. You sigh a little and then shake yourself.
“No, Dean,” you push him back, but keep one hand on his jacket,
“I have so much to get done. But I want to see you after work. Okay?” You almost melt as he does puppy dog eyes, nearly as successful as Sam's are, but you hold your resolve.
“I’m gonna see you later, okay? We’ll get shitty diner food and make out in your car for a few hours.” his eyes light up at the prospect, but he drops his head onto your shoulder and groans lightly.
“You're killing me, woman.. I have to wait,” he checks your watch,
“3 whole hours? I’m gonna die!” You roll your eyes at his dramatics and leave one more quick kiss on his lips.
“We’ll see each other later. I promise.”
The force of it hits him all at once, and his breaths leave in gasps.
He remembers every single second of that day. Every mistake, every choice he made. He's mapped it out in his mind every which way, trying to figure out if he could’ve prevented what happened.
Sam has told him before that there's no point worrying about it now. Thinking won't change the past. But that doesn't fix what he feels. That doesn't fix the crushing hole of guilt in his chest where you used to be.
The ringing of his phone wakes him from his stupor, and he grabs it instantly.
“Hey, baby, you finished work early?” The sound of you gasping and sobbing over the phone has him shooting up, reaching for his jacket and gun.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“There was someone behind the store, Dean, but he's not normal,” you sob into the phone; he can practically feel your hands shaking.
“Dean, he's got, like, black eyes or something. He killed Amy, threw her against the wall and her-” the sentence is cut off by a loud bang. And the sound of you scrambling.
“Her neck snapped instantly. Jayson is out there trying to fight him, and I don't know…” Dean's heart breaks at your scared voice, his heart stopping at the mention of demons.
“What do I do, Dean? I called the cops, but they're so far away.” Dean grabs his keys, shakes Sam awake from where he's lying on his bed, and heads for the door.
“I’m coming, sweet thing. Just stay hidden, I'm coming to get you. Stay hidden, you hear me?” You whisper a yes, and then the call cuts out. He races for the car, filling Sam in as they jump in and drive.
The place is a wreck when they arrive, chairs broken, cracked windows, and worst of all, blood. And lots of it. His heart stops, and he's running through the broken front door shouting your name.
“Where are you? Answer me, sweetheart.” he doesn't get a response, and his heart sinks even further as he follows a trail of blood with his eyes. It leads from the open back door all the way to the back room, and all the breath leaves his lungs as he sees you, lying on the ground, not moving. You're not moving.
The memory is going through his mind, like a runaway train that never stops. He sinks to his knees in front of the store, body shaking with the effort of holding it all in.
“Baby, wake up. Please wake up!” He's shaking you, screaming your name, and Sam is beside him, and tears are rolling down his cheeks, but Dean doesn't notice that. He doesn't notice anything except the blood still running from the hole in your chest. The hole where your heart used to be, where Dean's was too.
And he feels a part of him break.
He doesn't cry. No. Dean isn't someone who deals with these things the normal way.
For the next month and a half, Dean manages to track down every single demon that was responsible for your death, slicing and beating and strangling until every last one is dead. Before he kills the last one, they leave him with one final parting blow.
“Y’know, your girl? She never would have died if you'd just stayed away. We only killed her to hurt you.”
The sound of screaming follows before Dean stabs the demon in the heart, seeing red.
Dean can feel everything coming up, every single emotion he's held back for the past year, and he tries to claw it back down, to force it back into the box in his mind where it can't hurt him, but that just is not how it works, is it?
No, it isn't, Dean. He hears your voice again, and that nearly does him in. He knows what you'd say in this moment. He always does.
Crying is healthy, Dean. Crying with someone else is even better. It's like an orgasm for the soul. I do it all the time.
You'd told him that a month after you’d started dating, and he'd nearly choked on his burger at the words. You'd blushed a little after saying it, but he had found it hilarious.
If you never share your feelings with anybody but me, it's never gonna get easier. You have to open up a little to heal.
He closes his eyes as he pictures your sweet voice scolding him, smiling slightly.
He can still picture your face, your beautiful smile, the freckles that dotted your nose and cheeks. The sweet, melodical sound of your voice, and the way you always had paint stains on your clothes.
C’mon dean. Be brave, for me.
Dean lets out a shaky sigh. Standing from where he was kneeling on the pavement, he heads for the motel, the alcohol still in his system just enough for him to make himself have this conversation.
Sam is still awake when he arrives, typing away on his computer, and his head snaps up when Dean enters. He gives him a nod, then goes back to his research, but he does a double-take when he sees Dean's state.
“Dude, what happened? Are you okay?” He stands up and heads for Dean, but he puts up a hand to stop him.
“Just- give me a minute, okay? I’m… working up to this.” Dean looks at the ceiling, willing himself to be brave. Because for you, he will always be brave.
“Working up to… what exactly?” Sam says, looking confused, but when Dean sits on the bed and puts his head in his hands, Sam sits beside him.
“This-fuck, I’m not good at this, okay? You know that. But …” he sighs and lies back on the bed, groaning,
“You're right. I’m not okay. I’m fucked in the head, and I’m not coping, and I’m not talking to you about it. And I’m sorry for that,” he glances over at Sam, who looks surprised but relieved.
“And I really wish I were better at this kind of stuff, but I'm not. I was getting better, until…” he trails off, but Sam knows how that sentence ends.
“I know. I could tell, y’know? I mean, you were definitely more open with her, but you were getting better with communication in general. Bobby and I noticed. And I’m sorry that all of this shit happened, but that doesn't mean we'll stop being your support system. You just have to ask.”
“I know that. Really, I do. It's just the asking part that's hard.” Dean groans and sits up, hands laced behind his head,
“And you're right, I was never much good at this stuff except for with her,” he smiles softly,
“She helped me. A lot. And when she died…” his voice cracks a little, and he can feel a wave. A tsunami of emotions rising up, as he finally, finally, opens up.
“It fucked me up, Sam. She was good. And kind. And pure. And she didn't deserve the end she got, not one bit. And if I hadn't met her, if I'd just stayed away, she never would have died.” The breaths are leaving him in gasps again, and his shoulders are shaking.
Good, Dean. Feel it. It's the only way you'll ever get over me. He can practically hear the smile in your voice. He lets out a shaky breath, and then the dam breaks. Tears begin rolling down his cheeks, and he cracks.
Sam holds him through it, and later, when they head back to Bobby's, Bobby does too.
“You know, I think even if she had known the life you lived, she still would've wanted in,” Sam says, startling Dean a little. He sits up, wiping his face with his hand.
“What? O’course she wouldn't. Did you see the kind of person she was? She would've lost it!” Sam shakes his head.
“Nah, she may have seemed like a delicate flower on the outside, but she had a fondness for all things creepy and crawly. Remember,” Sam laughs a little,
“Remember that day she was working, and she came by after with an entire box of those ugly little caterpillars? She said they'd been eating the flowers, and she was supposed to kill them, but she felt so bad for them that she took them all home instead.” Dean laughs a little at the memory, remembering the look on your face, and you told them about the many details of the bugs.
“And she was a badass. You can't deny that. She wasn't exactly helpless, Dean. I think she would've found our life intriguing, at the very least. And I don't think anything you said would’ve changed her mind about you.” Sam squeezes him before letting go, and Dean shakes himself a little. Then Sam tilts his head at him.
“What made you want to talk, anyway? It's pretty out of the blue.”
“Out of all things, it was flowers,” he shakes his head,
“I was walking back from the bar, and there they were. Dahlias. The same kind she was wearing the day she…” he cuts himself off, and Sam nods, understanding.
“Well, I think it's probably good you got all this out. It's not gonna fix everything, but it's a step, Dean.” he nudges him with his shoulder,
“A big step. And I’m proud of you. And she would be too.”
Dean sniffs and runs his hands through his hair.
“She’d probably tear me a new one for taking this long to talk to you, though,’ he laughs a little,
“She always said I needed to open up, share my emotions. That if I just got over my fear and talked to you about shit, we wouldn't have nearly as many problems.” Sam shakes his head, but he's smiling.
“She was probably right. And honestly? You may be shit at dealing with your emotions, but I’m not much better.” Dean scrunches his brows in confusion.
“The hell are you talking about? You're Mister touchy-feely, heart-on-your-sleeve guy, always have been. You're the one always trying to get me to talk!” Sam smiles softly.
“Yeah, maybe that's true. That doesn't mean I was totally honest with you about how I was feeling, though. I was when it came to Jess, after a while, but when everything happened?” Sam's face crumples a little,
“Dean, neither of us did a great job of showing how we felt, but I think if I'd been more honest from the beginning, it would've saved us a hell of a lot of trouble. Her death messed me up, too. Maybe not as bad as you, but we were close. Close enough that when she died, a part of me just… couldn't process it. But instead of shoving it all down, like you did, I pushed and pushed for you to be honest, as if that would somehow make it easier for me.” Sam sighs, and Dean sees some of the brokenness that has been inside him.
“I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry that I didn't take better efforts to help you. To help the both of us. But I’m gonna do a lot better now, I promise.” Dean sees the pained expression on Sam's face and nearly breaks again.
“It's okay, Sam. It's not your fault,” Sam scoffs and goes to argue, but Dean cuts him off.
“No, Sam. I mean, it's not entirely your fault. Sure, you should have communicated better, but I should’ve too. It's always been a fatal flaw of mine, and I swear I’m gonna work on that.” his hand lands on Sam’s shoulder, making eye contact,
“I am. But honestly? If we keep blaming ourselves, it's only gonna feel worse, so I say we stop doing that. Now.” Sam nods, and Dean feels the gaping hole inside of him stitch over a little.
It may take months, or years, or forever, but he’ll heal. Slowly but surely.