whoa. easy, tiger @wildwestdean - Tumblr Blog

almost (sweet music)

summary: when out on what was supposed to be a supply run, dean gets captured by a djinn and thrown into a world that's full of everything he didn't realize he wanted - what happens once he's saved?

pairing: dean winchester x female reader; bestfriend!sam winchester x female reader (platonic)

word count: 17.4k+ (i am sooo not sorry)

warnings: hunting/working a case, dean goes missing, dean gets attacked, dean is held captive, swearing, angst, alternate reality, wife!mom!reader, husband!dad!dean, mentions of reader's parents, mentions/allusions of age gap, mentions of pregnancy/childbirth, alcohol consumption, magic use, manipulation, mature themes, dean thinks he's losing his mind again, angst, arguments, cannon level violence, idiots oblivious to their own feelings, idiots in love, unknown mutual pining, dean is a dick to reader for a bit, friends to lovers, denial of feelings, hurt/comfort, eventual love confessions, fluff, angst, use of [y/n], nicknames, homage to s2 ep20, did i mention angst?

“We need more beer,” Sam announced, emerging from the kitchen with two bottles in his hand. “We’re running low.”

“I’ll go,” Dean quickly volunteered, slamming his book shut as he practically jumped from his chair.

“We still have-” Sam tried to reply, but Dean waved him into silence.

“It’s fine, I’ll go,” Dean reiterated, slipping his flannel from the back of the chair and shrugging it on.

“Well, since you’re going out,” you started, glancing up at him. “Can you get me something to eat?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I can do food,” he replied with a nod, flashing you a sheepish grin.

“Thanks,” you said, matching his grin for a moment too long again.

Sam awkwardly cleared his throat while taking his seat, causing you to rip your gaze away and focus back on your book, heat burning under your skin.

“Just hurry up, would you? Stop using this as an excuse to get out of doing research,” Sam cut in with a huff.

“I would never,” Dean gasped, feigning offence as he held a hand to his chest.

“Sure you wouldn’t,” Sam sarcastically agreed, taking a sip of his beer.

“Whatever,” Dean muttered, sharing a look of contempt with you that had you giggling quietly, and Sam rolling his eyes.

“Dean-” Sam began to chastise, before being quickly cut off.

“I’m going!” Dean said defensively, holding his hands out in surrender as he backed away from the table. “Call me if you need me.”

“Yup,” you and Sam agreed in unison, both locking back onto the task of researching the case.

Footsteps sounded heavy on the stairs, and the bunker door screeched open and shut before plunging you and Sam into silence.

“How long do you think he’ll take this time?” you asked after a few minutes, a smile playing on your lips.

Sam laughed, running a hand through his hair. “Probably long enough for us to figure this all out.”

You hummed in response, closing your book and selecting a new one. “Probably,” you agreed, flipping through the pages with a chuckle.

The fact that Dean was gone for just over an hour at this point wasn’t entirely intentional. He may have spent some extra time chatting to the patrons when he stopped in for some cases of beer. He may have spent longer than necessary reading the menu once he walked over to the diner you liked - he knew your order by heart, but no one needed to know that, did they? And yes, maybe he put up with the flirtations of the waitress a little longer than he should have, but it’s not like he was purposely avoiding getting back to help with research.

Yet it still came as no surprise to him when your name showed up on his caller id, your irritation practically palpable through the screen already.

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Dean placated, answering the call as he made for the door. “Food’s hot, I’m on my way back.”

“Are you actually on your way back, or are you just saying you’re on your way back?” you questioned, and Dean couldn’t help but chuckle as your inquisitive stare came into his mind's eye.

“I’m on my way back, smartass,” Dean grumbled, setting the food on Baby’s roof as he fumbled for his keys. “Though don’t wait up for me to come save the day and crack the code on this thing,” he added playfully.

“Aw, don’t worry, De,” you comforted lightly, before taking on a more serious tone. “We’re not.”

A grin found its way to Dean’s face as you abruptly ended the call, and he laughed quietly as he unlocked his door.

He really, truly, was on his way back. He was halfway in the car when a noise reached his ears, his attention snapping to the alley across the street. He stilled, waiting in silence for a few moments as he listened for anything else. His hand was on the door, ready to snap it shut when it happened again.

Heaving a sigh, he got back out of the car and gazed across the street, a feeling of unease brewing under his skin.

“It’s just a cat,” he rationalised to himself, resisting the urge to reach for his pistol as he surveyed his surroundings. “Or, it’s whatever the hell we’ve been trying to track down.”

Inching slowly across the street, he carefully pulled the pistol from the confines of his jeans and mentally ran through all the things he could possibly encounter, trying his best to ready himself.

“Please be a cat, please be a cat, please be a cat,” he pleaded quietly, stepping into the shadows of the alley. As soon as his foot stepped over the threshold of darkness, a hunched shadow darted across the back wall, taking on all the likeness of a terrible Hollywood movie villain. “Not a cat,” he determined, quickly making his way through the alley.

Unable to find anything after searching three times over, Dean decided to cut his losses; he’d get back to the bunker, fill you and Sam in, and the three of you could regroup here later and see what could be found.

It was a good plan, except Dean never got to execute it - he never even made it out of the alley. He only made it halfway before he was met with blinding blue light, pain, and then nothing but darkness.

Dean woke with a start, a pounding in his head and cotton in his mouth as he frantically surveyed his surroundings.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he mumbled, throwing his head back on his pillow after recognizing his own room.

He laid there for a few minutes, running through the events of last night - or, what he thought was last night, but was maybe only a dream - before getting ready and making his way to the kitchen.

“Hey, there he is!” Sam greeted cheerfully. “I was starting to think you’d miss breakfast all together.”

“Nothin’ can keep me from my bacon,” Dean teased, making himself a cup of coffee as Sam fixed a plate for him.

“Well, here’s an extra helping,” Sam announced, sliding the plate onto the table before Dean. “Since today’s a special day.”

“Right, thanks,” Dean muttered, his mind running into overdrive as he tried to determine what made today special. “So, uh, what exactly happened last night?”

“What do you mean?” Sam questioned, sitting down across from his brother.

“I mean what happened,” Dean repeated gruffly, taking a hefty bite of his food. “I don’t even remember getting back to the bunker, next thing I know, I’m waking up in my room not even fifteen minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not really shocking,” Sam replied with a snicker. “You were pretty out of it.”

“I was?” Dean asked through a mouthful of food.

“Yeah,” Sam confirmed with a grimace. “Look, just shut up and eat your food so we can go meet up with [Y/N].”

“[Y/N]?” Dean repeated. “Where is she?”

“At the house,” Sam answered, off-handed.

Dean only stared at him, trying to determine if he was seriously supposed to know what the hell Sam was talking about or not. “The house?”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam confirmed, already exasperated. “You guys got the keys today, remember? [Y/N] wanted to get a head start on setting up the nursery and we’re supposed to go help her. And we’re late, so hurry the hell up.”

“Nur-... the nursery?” Dean spat, eyebrows drawn in confusion. “Since when the hell is she even pregnant?”

Sam stared at him like he suddenly grew three heads before rolling his eyes. “Hilarious, Dean. You know full well it’s for Ellen.”

“Harvelle?” Dean wondered, feeling like he was losing his mind - or Sam his; hell, or both.

“Winchester,” Sam supplied in disbelief. “Your daughter - dude, are you still drunk?”

Dean felt his blood run cold, his heart getting lodged in his throat. “I, uh, yeah - yeah, probably, I don’t know,” Dean sputtered, chugging the rest of his coffee with a shaky hand. Having completely lost his appetite, he pushed his plate away and abruptly stood. “Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna finish eating?” Sam asked curiously.

“Nah. Like you said, we’re late,” Dean answered, hurrying from the kitchen before Sam could see the look of terror on his face. “You should probably drive,” he added over his shoulder.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam agreed, following Dean out. “Sure.”

Dean spent the entire car ride feeling like he was going insane. Half of him wanted to search through his phone, figuring it would have most, if not all, of the answers to whatever the hell was going on. Though the other half of him was terrified by what he may find, and he was having a hard enough time trying to fend off the panic attacks already. So he settled for sitting in silence, wracking his brain for a single clue. He barely even noticed that they pulled into a driveway until Sam’s voice startled him out of his daze.

“Welcome home!” Sam cheered, eagerly exiting the car.

Dean felt like he was being weighed down with lead as he climbed out of the car, following Sam to the front door. “[Y/N/N] always loved this house,” he muttered softly, cluing in to the fact they were headed into the very house you always gushed over when driving by.

“Why do you think she was so excited to finally get the keys?” Sam asked with a laugh.

Dean continued to follow him up the stairs and across the front porch, feeling as though he was on autopilot and copying his brothers every move.

“Ready?” Sam asked with a grin.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure am,” Dean replied awkwardly, nodding in agreement.

“You’re nervous,” Sam pointed out, not entirely wrong. “Look, I know it’s a big change, but you have nothing to worry about. You’ve already been such an amazing dad, and that’s not gonna change just because you three won’t be living in the bunker anymore. Okay?”

Everything inside Dean started burning, screaming at him to get the hell away from this situation. It only just now truly sunk in that this wasn’t just his house. It was your house. He would be living here with you and his daughter. Wait, did that mean the two of you-

The front door was suddenly yanked open, jarring him from his thoughts. His bewildered eyes landed on your mother - grinning from ear to ear as she took in the sight of him and Sam - and your father, standing a few steps behind her with a polite smile. “I thought I heard you two!”

Stepping aside, she eagerly ushered them in, and Sam nearly had to shove Dean over the threshold as he grumbled incoherently about how weird he’s being.

Dean, once inside, had to steady himself when he saw you.

It wasn’t because you suddenly appeared from around the corner without warning.

It wasn’t because you had an infant resting on your hip; a precious little copy of you.

It wasn’t because the first words out of your mouth were a melodious “Daddy’s home!” when you spotted him.

Hell, it wasn’t even the ring on your left hand, catching the light so perfectly that it almost put the brightness of your smile to shame.

It was because when he saw you - grinning from ear to ear, dishevelled and exhausted from a never ending list of things to do, mysterious stains littered across your shirt - Dean swore you had never looked more beautiful.

“Hi,” he breathed out, wiping his suddenly clammy hands on his jeans.

“Hi,” you repeated with a laugh, advancing towards him as the child in your arms reached out for him.

He wasn’t sure what was more surprising: how natural it felt when he reached for her in return, how comfortable it was to hold her, or how easily he reciprocated the kiss you casually placed on his lips; as if you’ve been doing so for years.

“Sorry I left without waking you,” you confessed, wiping away a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth. “I figured you could use the extra sleep given how hard you went at Garth’s party.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dean replied automatically, despite not having a clue what you were talking about.

You and Sam both laughed, which irritated him. It felt like there was some inside joke that he was the butt of and wasn’t allowed to know.

“No, of course it wasn’t,” you teased, turning your attention to Ellen. “Daddy’s just as young as ever, isn’t he, baby?” you added, playfully pinching her cheek to elicit a laugh from her that made his heart soar.

Dean grinned mischievously, adjusting his grip on Ellen. “Yeah, well, I don’t think my age was a problem for you back when we made this little angel, now was it?”

Part of him was surprised he even said it, given he has no recollection of his life with you, let alone that, while the other half of him beamed with pride over how easy it was to play along.

“Oh, god,” Sam groaned, cutting off any chance you had to reply. “That’s my cue to leave. Who wants to help me make coffee?”

Quickly agreeing, your parents followed Sam towards the kitchen, leaving you and Dean grinning at each other in the hallway like smitten teenagers.

“Okay, come on! I need your opinion on paint colours for her room,” you gushed, tugging on his sleeve.

Firmly taking your hand in his, he followed in your wake as he listened to you ramble over the ideas you had. He wasn’t sure if he was really supposed to give his opinion or not, considering you never gave him much time to speak up, though he knows he would have agreed with you anyway just to keep that smile on your face.

He was glad you never gave him time, though, because at some point he completely stopped listening. It was neither intentional nor because he didn’t care. It was simply because you looked so happy, so excited and at ease. It felt like forever since Dean saw this sparkle in your eyes; he didn’t want to do anything to take it away.

It took you staring at him with raised eyebrows to realize he was supposed to say something.

“You weren’t even listening, were you?” you asked.

“Yes, I was!” he argued, setting Ellen down in her playpen.

“Okay, which colour is the one I like most?” your voice held a challenge, but the look on your face showed you were more amused than angry, much to Dean’s relief.

Scanning the colour samples on the wall, he confidently chose the one he knew to be your favourite before grinning in triumph.

You sighed, shaking your head with the shadow of a fond smile on your face. “Please, we both know that’s only there to make my mom think it has a chance. That colour is just awful.”

Playing it off as a joke, Dean laughed as casually as he could without making it obvious he was losing his footing all over again.

This was your favourite colour. He helped you paint your room in the bunker this colour. Nearly every trinket or accessory he ever bought you was this colour. Hell, he almost lost a bet that had him upholstering Baby in this colour - a bet he, to this day, has no idea why he accepted. Dean knew this was your favourite colour.

Yet, apparently, it wasn’t.

“So, like I said, I was thinking of this colour,” you continued, pointing to the last colour Dean would’ve thought you’d ever pick. “I figured it’d go really well with the wallpaper we picked out for the accent wall, don’t you think?”

Dean had no idea what the hell wallpaper you were talking about, but he nodded away. “Almost a perfect match.”

You grinned enthusiastically, planting a firm kiss on his cheek before beginning to ramble again. Not even Sam coming in to deliver mugs of coffee and steal away Ellen could stop your ideas from being known.

As the day carried on, you dragged Dean throughout the house to have him help you decide on final touches in each room, littering kisses across his face whenever you could and leaving him flustered each time.

As the day carried on, he grew more and more at ease, leaning into your touch every time.

Before he knew it, he had learned Ellen's nighttime routine while he helped you get her ready for bed, and was now sitting beside you at the dinner table to enjoy what seemed like a feast created by your parents.

“The first dinner in your home should be a special one,” your mother declared, seemingly reading his mind as she added the last dish to the table with a grin.

After expressing his thanks, he quickly fixed your plate before serving himself; a gesture that was familiar to him, as he knew he'd done this countless times before in the bunker. The kiss he received from you in return, though, was a gesture he still wasn't familiar with. Yet, it was one he guiltily realized he wouldn't mind getting used to.

The conversation flowed so easily between the five of you that Dean almost felt fooled into believing he's done this time and time again. Hell, maybe at this point he just wanted to believe it. Or better yet, maybe there just wasn't anything abnormal going on after all. If he had a crazy night out like you and Sam said, then maybe all his confusion could be chalked up to a crazy hangover. Maybe this really was his life. Maybe-

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, breaking him from his thoughts.

“What?” he asked, turning to look at you. “Yeah, why wouldn't it be?”

You arched an eyebrow at him, clearly picking up on the waver in his voice. “You were lost in space. What're you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he assured, wiping some sauce from your cheek. “Just a long day.”

It looked as if you wanted to argue at first, though you quickly plastered a smile back on your face. “Alright.”

“He's tired,” your mother announced. “Remember that he isn't as young as you are,” she chided playfully, pointing a finger at you.

“Yeah, and neither are we!” your father cut in with a laugh. “I think it's time we call it a night.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” agreed your mother. “Let's just clean up first.”

“No, absolutely not,” Dean declined with a shake of his head. “You two did all the hard work, we can handle the clean up.”

“Don't bother arguing,” you pitched in, cutting off your mothers reply. “I'll make Dean kick you out if you don't go willingly.”

Dean stammered over his response, trying to figure out if that was really something you expected from him or not, before he was met with laughter from everyone; laughter he belatedly joined in on.

“We're going, we're going!” appeased your father, standing from the table with a laugh. “No need to sic your attack dog on us.”

Dean laughed on time at that, because, well, he'd gone to bat for you many times before, and he doubts your parents are where he'd draw the line - and he's glad your father seems to know that.

Having said your farewells with them, Sam pitched in to help you and Dean clean up, carrying on your idle conversations from dinner as you did so. This is when Dean felt like things were finally normal again. With you and Sam tackling the dishes and laughing over your dumb jokes, while he tried to ignore you both and put the food away. Just like how it always was.

“Well, I think that about does it,” Sam announced, tossing the dish towel onto the counter - which earned him a glare from you as you quickly hung it up. “I should head out, too.”

“Already?” you questioned.

“Yeah,” Sam shrugged. “I got a new lead I wanna follow up on.”

Dean almost jumped for joy over his brother's response. “You hunting something?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam informed awkwardly. “Yeah, I've been working on a few cases.”

They were still hunting. Another sign of normalcy. This was good. He really was starting to think this was somehow just one massive misunderstanding. “Great! What do we got?” Dean asked eagerly.

The look shared between you and Sam made his blood run cold again, and he felt a pang in his heart as he watched you dip your head to play with your ring, a deep frown on your face.

“Well…” Sam started, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “We don't have anything, Dean. I'm still working alone.”

“What?” Dean asked curtly. “Why the hell are you hunting by yourself? I'm not allowed to help you anymore?”

The sound of your defeated sigh filled the room, and his attention snapped back to you. Avoiding his gaze, you said goodnight to Sam before practically running from the kitchen.

“Sometimes I don't know whether you're an asshole or just an idiot, Dean,” Sam said haughtily, running a hand through his hair.

“What did I do?” he asked helplessly.

“Dude, come on,” Sam sighed, taking a seat in the breakfast nook. “Why would you say that in front of her?”

“Say what? That I wanna help you?” he asked, joining his brother where he sat.

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed. “You don't do that anymore, Dean.”

Dean felt like he was caught in a sea of confusion, and every time he thought he'd break the surface, tendrils weaved from mystery and misunderstanding wrapped themselves around him, pulling him back under to where he was destined to drown.

“I don't… help you anymore?” Dean wondered, not understanding anything.

“You don't hunt anymore!” Sam replied, being as loud as he could dare without waking Ellen. “You stopped hunting as soon as you and Y/N learned she was pregnant, and you swore off hunting altogether as soon as Ellen was born.”

“Yeah, but-” Dean tried to say, before falling silent. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

“Look,” Sam butt in. “I'm sure you were only offering to help with research, but that's how it starts.”

“What do you mean?” he inquired, and he almost had to laugh, because he was suddenly reminded of when he first had to give the hunting talk to Sammy as kids - only this time, he was the one asking Sam all the questions.

“You have a wife, Dean,” Sam announced somberly, and Dean wondered fleetingly if his heart would ever stop skipping a beat when someone mentioned you as being his in such a way. “You've got a beautiful daughter, a house, a family. A family that you and Y/N are trying to make bigger. Why would you want to go back to hunting in any capacity?”

Dean fell silent, taking in what his brother had said and feeling like his head would explode.

All because he doesn't remember.

He doesn't remember dating you. He doesn’t remember proposing or getting married. He doesn't remember you being pregnant or getting you pregnant. He doesn't remember Ellen being born, or when you both apparently decided to have another child. He doesn't remember his life. But this is his life, and something in him doesn't want to lose any part of it.

“I guess I don't,” he finally admitted quietly, shocked at how true that answer felt to him.

Sam nodded, remaining quiet for a minute as they each gathered their thoughts. “I know you've been… freaked out, I guess, today. I don't know why, but if the reason has you wanting to start hunting again, you need to talk to Y/N about it.”

“That's not what's happening,” Dean denied, shaking his head.

“Alright,” Sam accepted with a nod. “Whatever it is, it's between you two, anyway.” With that, he placed a hand on Dean's shoulder in consolidation before standing up to take his leave. “I'll see you all tomorrow.”

Dean only nodded, his mind too far away to formulate any other response. He remained sitting there after Sam had left, staring at his surroundings for who knows how long. By the time he came to his senses, his initial instinct was to get up and find you, but instead he decided to wander around the house in search of some answers.

There was still so much left to do with the place, yet there were pictures littering the mantle and hanging up on walls that made him want to tear his hair out as he examined them. Engagement photos, wedding photos, maternity photos, vacation photos - an entire life with you portrayed right in front of him that didn't stir even the faintest bit of recollection within him.

Terror laid claim on his heart, his mind growing hazy as the world around him began to crumble. He felt like he couldn't breathe, a weight on his chest so heavy that the air was trapped in his lungs.

“Who the hell am I?” he asked himself, the picture before him beginning to blur as tears clouded his vision.

He was stuck. Stuck in a net made up of lies and deceit and impossibilities and he needed to get out but those woven tendrils had him wrapped up tight, binding him to a mind he couldn't trust and dragging him down, down, down into the sea.

“Dean?” you called softly, sounding muffled and far away.

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out; he couldn't even fucking breathe let alone talk. He tried to answer again, but it felt like he was choking, his throat burning every time he opened his mouth.

“Baby?” you pressed, sounding louder to him this time.

It wasn't just because you were closer now, having tentatively approached him during his struggle. It was the hand you gently placed on his arm, pulling him out of the black abyss and onto dry land once more.

“How is this real?” he choked out, unable to peel his gaze away from the photo above the fireplace.

“What do you mean?” you asked tenderly, taking his hand in yours.

“I mean this,” he breathed, squeezing your hand for effect. “How can this all be real? It shouldn't be real.”

He kept muttering to himself, and you gently took his face in your hands to get him to look at you.

“You feel that?” you asked quietly, wiping away his stray tears with your thumbs. “I'm real.”

“It just doesn't make sense,” he confessed, struggling to meet your gaze.

“Everything is alright, baby. I'm real. You're real. We’re real,” you told him, gentle yet firm.

“We're real,” he repeated shakily. “This is real,” he added, needing to convince himself further.

“I know this is all a big change for you, De,” you admitted, trailing your hands down to rest on his chest. “But why didn't you tell me it was this hard for you?”

“I don't think it's the move,” he told you, resting his hands on yours. “I just- I feel like I'm forgetting something. Like something important is slipping away from me, and I can't figure out what it is.”

You studied him carefully for a moment before threading your fingers through his. “Well, we'll just have to figure it out together, won't we?”

Dean smiled sadly, tightening his grip on your hands. “Yeah, I guess we will.”

All Dean could do was hope that everything would be better come tomorrow.

“Did you get a hold of him?” you asked, re-entering the library after shedding your pyjamas.

“No, still going to voicemail,” Sam said with a frown, pulling the phone away from his ear as he glanced over at you. “Why the hell did you change, where are you going?”

“Where do you think I’m going?” you asked in turn, staring at him as though the answer were obvious - which, in your defence, it really was.

“We don’t even know for sure if something’s wrong,” he sighed. “And you’re gonna… what? Just march around town looking for him?”

“Yes,” you said stubbornly. “That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Sam stared at you for a moment, and you readied yourself for his speech about it being a stupid idea; but it never came. Instead, he simply nodded and stood from his seat. “I’ll get my jacket.”

You wanted to grin in triumph, as you almost never got away without bickering with Sam over things like this, but the worry you had for Dean prevented it. Something just wasn’t right here. You aren’t exactly sure how it was that you knew, but you knew.

“Let’s go,” Sam called, heading for the garage.

You hurried after him, patting yourself down along the way to make sure you did in fact have your weapons on you - yeah, every vehicle you guys drove had some kind of arsenal, but you needed to know you had something at the ready. Just in case.

“So, what exactly is it that you think happened to him?” Sam questioned, starting the car.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “All I know is that he should be back by now, and not only is he not back, but neither of us can reach him, and we’re in the middle of working a case fully revolving around people going missing and never being seen again, so clearly there has to be some kind of connection because-”

“Hey, okay,” Sam gently interrupted your rambling. “I know you’re worried, but let’s just see what we can find in town before we start thinking like that, okay?”

“Okay,” you muttered, wringing your fingers together as you stared at the passing scenery. “We should check around the pub first.”

“Wouldn’t that’ve been the first place he went?” he asked, casting a glance at you.

You shook your head, keeping your gaze outside. “Yes, but the diner I like is just up the street.”

“Well, that’s good for you, but I’m not really hungry right now,” he replied, shifting in his seat.

Caught off guard by his response, your head snapped in his direction as you stared at him in surprise. You were about to make a snarky comment until you saw the corner of his mouth twitching, and you realized what he was doing.

“You’re such an idiot,” you snorted, grateful for his attempt to lighten your mood.

His poker face finally crumbled as he chuckled along with you, and the atmosphere surrounding you both really did feel lighter for the rest of the drive.

It felt lighter right up until Sam turned the final corner and you caught sight of Baby parked up the block, stationed and solitary, glistening under the glow of the streetlamp.

“Sam,” you said quietly, sitting up a little straighter.

“I see it,” he said, matching your uncertain tone as he pulled up to the curb.

You both seemed to struggle with leaving the car - wanting to run out to not waste any time, while simultaneously being held back by the fear of what you may find.

Surveying the immediate surroundings, nothing seemed out of the ordinary as you both approached the impala - an observation that was voiced by Sam.

“Everything looks normal,” he said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Maybe he’s just getting another drink.”

“I don’t think so,” you said confidently, eyes catching sight of the takeaway left abandoned on the passenger’s seat.

Sam noticed your gaze, though being on the driver’s side, he couldn’t see what you were looking at. “What?” he asked stiffly, bending down to glance through the window. “Okay, definitely weird, but not panic worthy,” he cautioned, coming back into view over the roof to give you a meaningful look.

“It’s unlocked,” you declared, ignoring his attempts to keep you from panicking. “He’d never leave it unlocked.”

“It’s not-” he started to argue, wanting to prove you wrong by pulling on the handle, but his words stopped short when the door opened with ease. “Okay, getting weirder,” he breathed out, looking over at you like a deer caught in headlights.

“I told you something was wrong!” you exclaimed.

“We still don’t know for sure!” he exclaimed in return. Yet you could see in his eyes that he was just as afraid as you were, and you suddenly weren’t sure if his denial remained for your sake or his.

“Should we split up?” you asked, trying to move on.

“No,” he stated, closing the door. “I don’t feel like losing both my brother and my best friend all in one night.”

“Sam,” you started, wanting to offer him some comfort, but he cut you off.

“Come on, let’s start asking around.”

He came around the car and nudged you in the direction of the pub, to which you quickly obliged, silently hoping you were wrong and Dean would be there. Though as you stepped inside, your hope was immediately shattered, for none of the gazes that you met held that familiar sense of home you’d grown accustomed to.

With a heavy sigh, you started talking to the patrons, while Sam did the same. You both ended up with the same information: Dean got there maybe two hours ago, stayed about thirty minutes to have some drinks and chat, bought some cases of beer, and left. Nothing new, and nothing helpful.

Refusing to acknowledge the time wasted, the two of you made your way over to the diner to start your next line of questioning - which was started by someone else as soon as you walked through the door.

“Oh, no. Did we mess up your order?” Lori, a greying server you often got whenever you came in, asked you.

“I- what?” you wondered, confused by why she was asking.

She tsked, tucking her notepad back into her apron. “That man of yours was in earlier and ordered your favourite, figured he was bringing it back to you.”

“My-... Dean?” you asked in confusion.

“Yeah, that green eyed statue of a man you stop in with from time to time,” she informed, giving you a smile that suggested she knew more than you.

“How long ago was he here?” you questioned, ignoring the feeling of unease her expression gave you.

Lori sighed, tucking her pen behind her ear. “Let me check the slips,” she answered, jerking her head towards the counter before heading in that direction.

You and Sam followed close behind, watching with increasing impatience as she sifted through the order slips.

“Aha!” she exclaimed, finding the right one. “It was about… an hour ago.”

“Was he here long? Did he talk to anyone? Did anyone leave around the same time he did?” you fired off anxiously.

Lori stared at you, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Are we thinking he’s cheatin’ or something?” she asked conspiratorially.

“I- we- he-” you stammered over your response, all versions of he isn’t at all my man, we aren’t even dating, and he’s fucking missing and could be dying somewhere lost to your frustration. Tears of fear and anger clouded your vision as you ran your hands through your hair.

“Hey,” Lori soothed, misreading the reason for your emotions but validating them nonetheless. “Hey, sit. Sit, I’ll tell you what I know.”

Ushering you onto a stool as she came around the counter, she hopped up beside you, patting your hands for reassurance.

“Now, all I know is he came in about an hour ago,” she began, repeating what you all just discovered. “He took some time going over the menu, more so than usual, but it didn’t look like he was waitin’ on anybody. He finally ordered what you usually do and somethin’ for himself, Cindy chatted him up while he was waitin’, then he got the order and left.”

“Cindy?” Sam asked, and you tried to ignore the sick feeling in your stomach to learn that you were worrying while he was just here flirting with someone - with Cindy no less; she was practically sex on legs.

“Yeah,” Lori said with a shrug, squeezing your hand. “One of our servers. Oh, she eyes him up every time he’s here, not that I blame her. Figure she thought it was an opportunity given that he was here alone this time.”

“Did it…. work?” you asked meekly, wondering if he was just off having a one night stand and nothing was wrong after all.

You were almost startled by Lori’s bark of laughter, and you watched her eyes sparkle in amusement as she answered you. “You rest assured, sugar. That man is completely hung up on you. I’ve never seen someone look right through that girl before, not a flicker of interest in him let me tell you. First guy in here I’ve ever seen turn her down, hand to god.”

You wanted to ask where in the world she was drawing these conclusions about you and Dean from, and why, but Sam’s voice stopped you from speaking up.

“Did that make her angry?” he asked. “Him denying her?”

Lori looked at him curiously, as if wondering why such a question was necessary, but she answered anyway. “She was upset, sure, but I don’t think she was angry, no. She moves on pretty quick. By the time he was leaving she was already talkin’ to someone else.”

“And you’re sure he left alone? He didn’t talk to anyone else?” you asked desperately, giving her a meaningful look. If her thinking you were accusing him of infidelity would get you answers, then so be it.

“I’m positive, sugar,” she assured, smiling sadly. “He was only here maybe half an hour, and he rushed out when he got your call.”

“My call?” you wondered, face scrunching with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, well, I assumed it was you,” she replied simply, sliding off the stool. “The way his face lit up and all. Had that smile he always gives you.”

“Did you hear anything he said?” Sam asked quickly, catching her before she walked away to confirm it really was your call she heard.

Lori shrugged, taking the pen out from behind her ear. “Not really. Just heard that he got the food and was on his way back, then he was out the door.”

“Okay,” Sam said with a nod. “Thank you for your time.”

“Sure,” she said with a half shrug. “See you around, sugar,” she told you, giving you a meaningful look before finally walking away.

You weren’t entirely sure if you thanked her or not, because your head was spinning with all the information she just gave you, but either way she’d be getting a big tip the next time you came.

“Well, that was interesting,” Sam declared lightly, staring down at you with an amused smirk.

“Was it?” you asked hotly, hopping down from the stool. “Too bad we didn’t get anything that can help us.”

“Well, we got a solid timeframe,” he pointed out, gesturing for you two to leave. “That’s something.”

“I guess,” you sighed, trying to ignore the churning in your stomach as you stepped back outside.

“Let’s walk through it,” Sam suggested. “Like any other case.”

You let out a breath, nodding in agreement. “Well, he would’ve come out talking to me,” you declared, standing outside the door. “And he’d be heading back over to Baby, since he said he was on his way home.”

You and Sam both made your way in that direction, taking the path he most likely would’ve taken, finding nothing amiss along the way.

“Did you hear anything on the other end at all?” Sam asked, stopping beside you.

You closed your eyes for a moment, going over the call in your mind. “No,” you determined, shaking your head. “Nothing unusual, just him getting into the car.”

“You’re sure he got into the car?” Sam asked, brows raised.

“No,” you admitted in defeat. “Though the food’s inside, so he was at least here to drop it off.”

“True,” Sam agreed with a nod. “Plus it was unlocked, which suggests he was likely surprised by something.”

“Yeah, but what?” you wondered. “Nothing here points to a struggle, and Dean’s not exactly someone that’s easy to sneak up on.”

“No, he’s not,” Sam sighed, glancing around once more as he went over everything in his head.

A sound caught your attention, and your gaze snapped to the alley across the street, an idea dawning on you as you stared into the shadows.

“What if he was lured away?” you asked, regaining Sam’s attention.

He turned to you, following your gaze and quickly catching on to your thoughts. “Let’s check it out.”

You each drew a weapon, his gun and your knife, as you made your way across the street.

Desperation clawed at you while you and Sam searched every inch of the alley, a familiar feeling of dread settling in your bones when you both came up empty handed.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” you seethed, kicking away an unsuspecting trash bag in frustration.

Sam’s answer was lost on you as all your focus was pulled to the dumpster, the street lights glittering off an object hidden underneath, previously obscured by the trash bag you just sent flying.

Quickly dropping to all fours to retrieve it, you felt a sob claw its way up your throat as you realized you now held Dean’s pistol.

Each day that went by, Dean found more and more things that were out of place.

Things he would’ve bet his life on turned out to be completely wrong.

Events he bore witness to never happened.

The people he had saved were gone. People that he lost were alive. Sam remembered all kinds of stuff about their lives that he didn’t.

Then there was you.

The food you liked was different. Your taste in music has changed. The clothes you wore weren’t your usual style. The little details that made you you were gone - you were the same, yet somehow a completely different person.

Dean tells himself this is what made it so easy to love you so openly. It was why he stopped squirming under your lingering gaze. It was why he took you out for a night on the town so he could show you off every chance he got. It was why he took you and Ellen to every event he caught wind of in order to boast his beautiful family. It was why he stopped running away from your wandering hands. It was why he started letting his own hands wander. It was why he found himself meaning it more and more each time he uttered the phrase I love you.

Dean wanted to accept it more than anything.

He wanted to believe that this was really his life. That he was the loving husband and father you made of him. That he finally freed himself from the shackles of hunting. That he found his happily ever after.

He needed to believe it, because he had gotten everything he never knew he wanted, and he didn’t want to give it up.

Yet he has to, because he knows something’s wrong; that something bigger is at play - hell if he knew what, though.

“What about Alec?” you suddenly asked from where you lounged beside him on the couch, pulling him from his thoughts.

“Alec?” he repeated. “Absolutely not.”

You sighed half heartedly, and he watched with a faint smile as you crossed the name off the list you held; a smile that widened as the title Baby Winchester, Round 2! ♡ caught his eye.

“Daisy?” he suggested.

“As in Duke?” you asked with a laugh. “Not a chance.”

Dean’s laughter echoed yours, and he pulled you in close as he fired off another name.

The two of you made suggestions back and forth, taking turns laughing at some of the choices made by the other in between actually agreeing on some. You had built a pretty solid list before you stood with a groan, his gaze lazily trailing over you as you stretched.

“Where’re you going?” he wondered.

“Errands,” you huffed. “Gotta pick up some last minute things for our announcement before everyone gets here.”

“I’ll come, too,” he quickly offered, eyes lighting up.

“Did you forget we have a child napping in her room?” you asked with a chuckle.

“No,” Dean lamented.

You grinned as you leaned over him, quickly kissing away his pout before it fully formed.

“I’ll be quick,” you promised, giggling as he chased your lips for one more kiss.

“Or,” he started, his palm cupping the back of your head to hold you in place. “We can wait until she wakes up and then we can all go together.”

“Dean-”

“C’mon,” he whined, taking hold of your hips. “I know some ways we can kill time.”

“I don’t have any time to kill,” you told him, placing a hand on his chest as you freed yourself from his grasp. “There’s a lot left to do for tonight.”

With a dramatic sigh, Dean followed as you left the living room. “Then let me help! Look, why don’t you give me the list of what we need and I’ll pick it all up?”

“You’re sure?” you asked.

“Of course,” Dean laughed. “I gotta check on some parts for the car, anyway. Was gonna wait on it, but may as well grab ‘em and help out my girl all at once.”

“A true gentleman,” you teased, though the look on your face made it clear you meant it. “It’s not too much, so it shouldn’t take long, but I’ll try to not wake Ellen while you’re gone. Lord knows she can’t go that long without her daddy.”

He grinned in response, grabbing the list from you. “Don’t worry, I always race home to my two best girls.”

“Maybe three now,” you grinned, placing your hands on your belly.

“Maybe three,” he echoed, his insides turning to goo as he placed a hand over yours. “And I’ll be back before the three of you can even miss me,” he added, planting a lingering kiss on your forehead before backing away.

“Oh - baby, wait!” you called out, catching him just as he made it to the front door.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning to face you from down the hall.

“I forgot to add it to the list, but I noticed we ran out of gin - could you get some?”

“Gin?” he repeated, the word sitting heavy on his tongue.

“Yeah,” you confirmed. “I wanna make sure we have some for my dad later.”

“Gin?” he asked again, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

“I know,” you laughed, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil he was suddenly facing. “I don’t know how he can drink the stuff, either.”

“Right,” he said, laughing awkwardly as he opened the door.

His mind was spinning the moment he left the house, trying to work out what was weighing on him. His chest was growing tight, and the feeling was the same as what he’s been experiencing since he first woke up here. He did his best to shake the feeling for the rest of the drive, deciding to blast the radio as he sped towards the garage.

“The hell are you doing here?” met Dean’s ears the second he left the car.

“Good to see you too, Bobby,” Dean replied, turning to face him with a grin.

Bobby rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, gesturing for Dean to follow him. “You know, people usually spend time with their families while on vacation, not show up to their place of work.”

“I’m running errands!” Dean defended, strolling over to look under the hood of a broken down Nova. “Still don’t have her purring yet? Man, you really are lost without me.”

“Shove it, boy,” Bobby grumbled.

With a boyish grin, Dean walked away from the car and plopped himself down on a nearby stool. “We got those parts in for Baby yet?”

Huffing in annoyance, Bobby set down what he was tinkering with and turned to Dean, wiping his hands on a rag. “What did I tell you when you put in the order?”

“You’d call if they came in while I was gone,” Dean said, awkwardly shifting in his seat.

“And did I call?” Bobby pressed.

“No,” Dean said meekly, clearing his throat.

“Well there ya go,” Bobby announced, turning back to his work. “Answered your own question.”

Dean sighed, getting up from his stool with hands raised in surrender. “Alright, I get it. You’re busy, works piling up without me-”

“If your name wasn’t up on that sign, too, you’d be kicked to the curb,” Bobby cut in, shaking his head.

“You and your empty threats,” Dean teased, making his way out.

With a fond smile on his face, Bobby chuckled quietly. “See you tonight, kid.”

“See ya, Bobby,” Dean replied, sliding behind the wheel with a smile of his own.

You weren’t lying, there really wasn’t a lot to pick up. Dean was wrapping up the shopping not long after he left the garage, bouncing quickly from store to store. He felt at ease again, focusing all his attention on the list you gave him, and the fact that in a few hours you’d be revealing to all your loved ones that baby number two was on the way.

Feeling giddy and eager to get back home, Dean breezed through his last stop. Grabbing a bottle of scotch for Bobby, some whiskey for himself, and wine for everyone else, he then searched the shelves for a bottle of gin.

It felt heavy in his hands once he found it, the bottle staring back at him seeming entirely unfamiliar as he moved through the check out.

His chest was tight again as he drove back home, the feeling once more the same as when we woke up to this life.

When he first woke up.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat as he had that thought, the realization bouncing around his mind.

A memory of a blue light flashed behind his eyes so vividly he had to swerve off the road, skidding to a stop as pain followed suit. Gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white, he gasped for air as he tried to calm himself down.

“Djinn,” he breathed out through a wave of panic.

You were handed a miracle.

It was all you could think as you stared at Ethan, the young man sitting before you and Sam.

The same young man who was listed as a witness to the latest abduction, but was quickly written off by authorities once they heard his story. The story which you and Sam were hearing now.

“You’re saying Mr. Kleinman was tased?” you clarified, starting to wonder if this was related to Dean after all.

“I mean, either that, or it was some kinda hoodoo crap,” Ethan told you with a shrug.

“Well, what makes you say that?” Sam asked gently.

Ethan sighed, seeming to consider whether or not to explain, before answering. “One second, I’m seeing the guy putting groceries in his car, right? Then, next thing I know, some creepy looking dude comes up behind him. He reaches out for the guy, and there’s this weird, like, blue light, then the guy is just… out cold. I don’t know what else could’ve done it.”

“And you didn’t see where they went?” you questioned.

Ethan shook his head. “No, it was like they just… vanished.”

“Vanished?” Sam repeated.

“Yeah,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I swear it was like they just turned to smoke or something. They were there, and then they were just gone.”

“Did you actually see any smoke before they were gone? Or smell anything weird?” you asked.

“No, I- it wasn’t so much smoke as just… like, mist, I guess?”

“Mist?” you echoed.

“Yeah. I don’t know how else to describe it. They just… vanished into the air.”

You and Sam shared a quick look before you jotted some more notes down.

“You guys don’t believe me either, do you?” Ethan asked.

“We believe that the brain copes with seeing terrible things in any way it can,” you told him sympathetically. “Though believe it or not, you’re being very helpful.”

“Really?” he asked hopefully.

“Really,” you confirmed. “Though I do need to ask - earlier, you described the suspect as being creepy looking. What exactly made you say that?”

“He was bald, and wearing some kind of dress or cloak or something,” Ethan explained. “And he had these crazy tattoos.”

“He had tattoos?” Sam asked, perking up.

“Yeah, and they must have cost a fortune. They were all over his face and head, his hands too. Who knows where else.”

“What did they look like?” asked Sam.

“They were just, like, crazy black swirls and lines. Kinda tribal, I guess.”

“Huh,” Sam said quietly, getting lost in thought.

“Do you think that can help you identify him?” Ethan wondered.

“I think there’s an excellent chance of it,” Sam said honestly, standing from the couch.

“Thank you for your time, Ethan,” you said sincerely, standing beside Sam. “This was incredibly helpful.”

“Good, I- I’m glad I could help,” he said awkwardly, standing as well. “I hope that guy is okay.”

“We’ll do everything we can for him,” you promised, hoping to ease his mind.

Ethan nodded, leading you both through the living room.

Once at the front door, Sam handed the young man his card. “In case you happen to think of anything else.”

“Yes sir,” Ethan said, taking the card before opening the door for us.

Sam made a beeline for the car as soon as he stepped out of the house, immediately sliding into the driver's seat.

“What the hell is going on?” you asked, scrambling to get in for fear he’d drive off without you.

“I know what took Dean,” he told you, making your head snap in his direction, seatbelt poised in hand.

“You what?” you asked.

“It’s a Djinn,” he told you simply.

“A Djinn? How the hell did you figure that out?”

“We’ve dealt with them before,” Sam grits out, hand coming down on the steering wheel. “I should’ve realized sooner.”

“You’re allowed to not know everything, Sam,” you comforted. “We worked with the information we had, which wasn’t a lot.”

“But I should’ve known!” he hissed. “He shouldn’t be going through this again,” he added, more so to himself.

A beat passed as you processed what he said, clicking your belt into place as the car picked up more speed. “What does that mean?”

He was quiet for so long you didn’t think he’d answer, and your gaze shifted from him to the window as his voice rang out. “Dean’s been captured by a Djinn once before.”

“What?” was the only thing you could force out.

“It was a long time ago,” he started to explain. “Way before you came around. Classic hunt gone wrong.”

“Dean never told me that,” you admitted.

Sam chuckled bitterly. “He’s not exactly one to brag about his shortcomings.”

“Right,” you frowned, staring at your hands clasped on your lap.

The only time Dean was anywhere close to being an open book was when he was with you. You knew there was still a lot you didn’t know, but he had shared with you some pretty horrific parts of his past, and it made you wonder what about that experience was so distressing that he didn’t want to share it with you; and if it was so hard for him that first time, was this time going to be even worse?

Steeling your resolve, you shifted your attention back to Sam. “How do we catch this thing?”

“Warehouses,” he began, which had you pulling out your phone to search for any abandoned sites nearby. “It was the main thing they had in common - setting up home in empty warehouses.”

“What do you mean the main thing they had in common?” you asked, fingers stalling over your keypad. “Are Djinn not all the same?”

“Just- let’s start with the warehouses, okay?” Sam replied, dodging the question.

“Fine,” you huffed. “Closest one is just off Milner Road, but it’s pretty central. There’s one a few miles outside of town, off Fowler and Carson that seems pretty secluded, so I’d put my money on that one.”

“Alright, so we start with that one, then.”

Dean swore his tires were going to burn out before he even made it to the warehouse, yet he refused to ease up on the gas.

Once he was able to bring himself back from the brink of terror, it didn’t take him long to put the rest of the pieces together. Given his last dealings with Djinn, he knew the abandoned warehouse outside of town would be his best bet; reality always bleeds through on the feeding grounds, and Dean needed to see for himself whether or not he was going crazy.

His feet were heavy as he walked through the door, his pulse echoing in his ears as he trudged past the dusty storage racks. He hadn’t yet decided on whether he would prefer to find the place empty or not when a voice rang out from the shadows.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Dean,” he heard you warn.

His heart stopped cold, and he knew without a doubt what he would find if carried on through the warehouse.

“Why did you have to come?” you asked, stepping into view.

Dean tried. He tried with all his might to find his voice, but the sight of you took his breath away every time he opened his mouth.

It wasn’t real, he knew that, especially considering he saw you less than an hour ago, but there you stood, hands resting protectively over a full-term baby bump as you met his gaze.

“Was I not enough for you?” you asked sadly, moving to close the gap between you two. “Were we not enough for you?”

“I don’t belong here,” he managed to choke out, fingers tightening on the hilt of his knife.

“This is exactly where you belong,” you snapped. “This is everything that you ever wanted, everything that you deserve! Why would you want to ruin this?”

Shaking his head, he took a small step back. “No. This isn’t real.”

“So what?” you asked, taking another step forward. “This is what you want, Dean.”

“I want to go home,” he found himself admitting. “I was happy there.”

“You’re happier here, and you know that.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, unsure who he was trying to convince.

“No?” you wondered, tilting your head. “What waits for you there, Dean? Another lonely night in the bunker, eating cold burgers on the road as you risk your life for a thankless job?”

“I love what I do,” he defended. “I have no regrets about it.”

“Maybe,” you conceded. “Yet you still want out. You want the nine to five, you want the girl, you want the family. Well guess what, Dean? You got it. You got it all. You just need to stay.”

“None of this is real,” he said quietly. “It won’t last forever.”

You approached him with a sad smile, resting delicate hands on his cheeks to wipe away tears he wasn't aware had fallen. “It can feel like forever. We can watch our children grow up, raise them in a life without hunting. We can grow old together. You can live out your whole life here, Dean. With me."

“I can't," he denied.

"Why?" you prodded. "I love you. I love you the way you deserve to be loved. You can't just walk away from this - from us."

"There is no us," he whispered, feeling like he was choking on the words.

"There is no us out there," you told him. "You're alone out there, Dean. We’re not yours. I'm not yours."

"You may not be my wife," his voice broke. "But at least you'll be real."

Before he could change his mind, he turned the knife on himself.

The warehouse you chose proved to be the right one, and you couldn't help the sob that tore through you when you came across Dean, strung up like a marionette as he was being bled dry; barely even alive.

Before you were able to make it to him, the Djinn got the drop on you, sending you crashing down. Pain radiated through your spine, your head pounding as you pushed yourself up off the concrete.

"Always have to sneak up on your prey, huh?" you sneered, aiming a swing of your knife at him.

Your attack was easily blocked, the blade sent skidding across the floor with a deafening clatter in the cavernous room.

Fingers pierced your wrists as you wrestled for control of the situation, your foot landing straight into his knee once you started losing the upperhand. The momentary lapse on his grip let you break free, a fierce kick to his stomach giving you the opportunity to run to your knife.

You underestimated how fast this thing was, and you landed back on the concrete after being tackled, blood pooling in your mouth when your chin ricocheted off the floor. Managing to flip yourself onto your back, you tried to kick him off of you to no avail.

It wasn’t as if you were a stranger to losing ground during fights, though you were usually still always able to hold your own. When you realized that you couldn’t gain back the advantage against this thing, a wave of fear rippled through you.

You flailed and kicked wildly when a hand clasped against your throat to hold you in place, a cry for help coming out as no more than a squeak when the air was stolen from your lungs. Terror widened your eyes as his other hand reached for your head, blue electricity dancing between his fingers.

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, you stilled as you waited for the blow.

When nothing happened, you peeled one eye open, afraid of what you would see. A cry of relief left you when Sam kicked the Djinn off of you, his limp body hitting the floor with a thud before dissipating in a stream of mist.

“You okay?” he asked, wiping the blood from his knife on his jeans.

All you could do was nod, a hoarse cough coming out when you tried to speak.

“Dean,” you croaked, rolling yourself onto all fours to try and pick yourself up.

Sam hurried to your side, ready to help you up, but you quickly shook off his grasp.

“No- get Dean,” you urged. “I’m fine.”

Knowing better than to argue with you, he quickly let go and ran towards his brother, making quick work of unhooking the blood bags.

Scrambling over as quickly as you could, you began to assess him, trembling hands meeting pale skin to check for signs of life.

As if the very touch of you awakened his soul, his eyes blinked blearily open to stare at you in fear and confusion.

“Dean?” you asked shakily. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m with you. We figured it out, we're gonna get you out of here.”

He laughed. Quiet and barely noticeable aside from the small quirk of the corner of his mouth.

“That’s my girl,” he muttered proudly, before his eyes fluttered shut again.

You and Sam had finished getting him down and, after checking on the others and calling in an anonymous tip to local police, made it back home in record time.

You settled Dean in the infirmary so he could recover properly, hardly ever leaving his side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression.

Which meant you were there when he finally woke in a cold sweat, confused and a little afraid, asking for a girl you had never met.

“Where’s Ellen?”

It was the first thing he asked, chest rising and falling rapidly as his eyes scanned the room in a frenzy.

“I-... I don’t know-” was the only thing you could stammer out.

You had armed yourself with answers to the onslaught of questions he was bound to have once he awoke, even had a few questions ready yourself, though this was something you couldn’t have prepared for.

Though it didn’t matter, since he didn’t seem to hear you.

“Is she with your folks?” he further questioned, crazed eyes turning to you.

“My-” your voice caught in your throat as tears sprung to your eyes. “My parents?”

He seemed to look right through you, eyes still glazed over in pain and confusion.

“Dean, just lay back down,” you urged softly, approaching tentatively.

He mistook your tone, flinching away from you. “Is she okay? What about the baby? Where are they, what happened?”

“Everything is okay, Dean,” you told him. “I need you to take some deep breaths for me.”

“I need you to answer me!” he declared, voice so fierce you jumped a little.

“Okay,” you placated, slowly sitting on the end of the bed. “I will, just breathe for me first.”

His gaze followed your movements like a caged animal, but he did what you said.

Once his breathing returned to a normal place, you started with a simple question.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He had to think about it for a while, which worried you to no end, though he finally recalled something.

“I went out,” he muttered. “We needed supplies.”

Your heart turned heavy in your chest, thinking he didn’t know anything that happened since he left the bunker; you weren’t sure yet if that was a good or bad thing.

Though when he carried on, you realized you were wrong.

“We had to get the last minute things, because everyone was coming over for- for dinner…”

He trailed off, eyes laser focused on you. First on your stomach, then the rest of you, gaze cutting across every feature you had and piece of clothing you wore with doctoral precision before turning to take in the room.

“What happened?” he whispered shakily.

So you told him. Slowly and carefully, you told him everything you knew ever since he left the bunker, your heart ripping in half as tears danced in his eyes while he listened.

The silence when you finished explaining pressed in on you, thick and heavy. His mood became impossible to read, and he refused to meet your gaze any more.

“Dean?” you prodded.

“No.”

It was all he said, quiet and unsure; you didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or himself.

“Dean?” you tried again.

“No!”

Before you could even think, he was scrambling out of the sheets and ignoring all your attempts to get him to lay back down.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, bypassing you and heading out into the hall.

“Dean!” you called out, trailing behind as you tried to reason with him.

He ignored everything you said as he marched through the bunker, and you didn’t know if it was intentional, or if it was because he was lost in his own thoughts.

“Talk to me, please,” you pleaded. “Tell me what’s going on.”

When you were met with nothing but silence once again, you called out for Sam in the hopes he would be able to control the situation better than you could.

He came quickly, managing to bypass Dean with just enough time to block the stairs, cutting off his escape as you covered ground behind him.

“Move,” Dean demanded.

You couldn’t see him, but you could tell by his voice that he had murder in his eyes.

“Not until you tell us where the hell you think you’re going,” Sam cooly replied.

“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Dean said. “Now move.”

“No,” Sam denied, standing straighter on the steps and glaring down at his brother.

“Sam I swear,” Dean warned. “Move out of the fucking way before I start swingin’.”

“Go ahead, Dean,” Sam accepted, arms opened wide in challenge before resting at his sides once more.

Dean stood as rigid as a statue for a few moments, and you could practically feel the anger vibrating through him. In a last ditch effort to get away, he turned and spun on his heels so fast he smashed right into you, sending you crashing to the floor with a thud.

You managed to catch yourself on your palms, hitting the concrete with so much force your hands stung and you were sure your tailbone would be sore for days.

Dean looked down at you, shock lining his features before morphing into worry, then regret, then back to anger as he looked away, all but stepping over you as he marched his way towards the garage.

You sat there in shock for a minute, dazed at how easily he had just dismissed you - he’d never done that before. Even when you two were in the middle of unresolved petty arguments, he had always made sure you were taken care of one way or another. Whether it was quietly leaving a mug of coffee on the counter for you, making sure the temperature in Baby was just right after a hunt, or letting your favourite program run on the tv in the Dean Cave while he and Sam shoot a game of pool - the gestures to prove he still cared were always there no matter what.

Tears prickled behind your eyes, though you did your best to brush it all off. You knew he was going through something you couldn’t even begin to imagine, and that he wasn’t himself right now, though it didn’t do much to lessen the pain of it all.

Sam stepped down from the stairs, helping you up. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, dusting yourself off. “Let’s just go get him.”

By the time the two of you made it to the garage, Dean was long gone, leaving you to guide Sam from the passenger seat as you tracked the GPS on the car Dean took.

You quickly pulled up to an area that was familiar to you, unable to think of a single reason as to why Dean would be here; it was nothing but a regular country lane on the border of town, a pretty farm house littered here and there.

When Sam rolled to a stop just behind where Dean was parked, you saw he was leaning against the car and staring out at the house you once declared your favourite, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Dean?” Sam called. He approached slowly, like he was afraid to startle him away.

You followed loosely behind, letting Sam take the lead this time - you weren’t in a hurry to relive how he looked at you when he left.

“Talk to us, man,” Sam urged, stepping closer when there was no answer. “What’s going on?”

“I had to see,” Dean mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Okay,” Sam said. “See what?”

Dean shook his head, eyes still fixed on the house across the street while he remained silent.

“Listen, you’ve been through a lot, okay?” Sam soothed. “Let’s get you back home, and we can talk about it if you want to.”

“Home,” Dean whispered, not bothering to wipe the stray tears that let loose.

“Home,” Sam echoed with a nod.

“That’s gone,” Dean muttered.

“What do you mean gone?” you found yourself asking, voice just loud enough to carry over to him.

His gaze finally tore away from the house to land on you, a fire burning in his eyes that made you take an instinctive half-step back.

“Everything,” he choked out, looking back to the house. “It’s all gone.”

“Everything is still here, Dean,” Sam told him. “We’re still here - your home is still here.”

“Is it?” Dean asked quietly.

“Yes!” you lamented, finally making your way over to him. “So please, just let me take you back there.”

His jaw clenched, head shaking as if trying to clear away his own thoughts. You placed a hand on his arm, hoping to steady him, but he ripped himself away from you as if your skin burned.

When he looked at you, you had a fleeting thought that this Dean must be the version of him that all those monsters he’d slain had seen right before the end. Breathing ragged, eyes wild, a sneer as if he couldn’t stand to look at what was right in front of him; you had no idea who this Dean was.

“Fine, I'll go” he huffed, turning to Sam. “But I’m not going anywhere with her.”

The words hit you like a gut punch, and your breath caught in your throat as you watched him climb into the car. You had no idea whether he meant for you to hear him or not, but given the less than fleeting glance he gave you before closing the door, you had a feeling he didn’t care either way.

“Alright, come on,” Sam cooed, quickly taking hold of your arm to lead you away. “Let’s get you back home, too.”

You nodded, feet numbly following along as he brought you back over to the passenger side while Dean peeled off down the road.

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” he promised quietly, before gently closing the door behind you and rounding to his side.

The drive back passed in a blur, and the weeks that followed were just as hazy.

Dean was withering away, you were hollowing out, and Sam was drowning trying to keep each of you afloat.

“What do you think I did?” you asked Sam, like clockwork, staring at the ceiling as you stayed buried in your blankets.

His answer never changed. “You didn’t do anything.”

You groaned, shifting to look at him in his place beside you. “I mean the other me. I - she - must have done something. ”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “And I still don’t think you did anything. Either version of you.”

“Well something had to have happened!” you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady. “He can barely even look at me.”

“He’s just… still processing everything,” he told you, but you knew him well enough to catch the undertone of uncertainty.

“He hates me,” you broke, unable to stop the tears from flowing. “He hates me, and it’s not even my fault.”

Sam sighed, falling into the well practiced routine of pulling you in towards him, comforting arms holding you as you cried. “No he doesn’t.”

You heard him every time he said it, but the words were always lost on you. How else would you explain the way he treated you? The way you suddenly became a stranger? The way he looked at you like he couldn’t even bear your existence?

It started with little things, things that could be chalked up to him getting his bearings again after being thrust back into reality. Things you tried to brush off.

First it was the way he forewent his morning greeting when meeting you in the kitchen, keeping his distance and ignoring the mug you already had ready for him, held out like an olive branch.

Okay, you told yourself, he’s probably just tried.

Then it was the way he always chose the seat at least two away from you in the library, never letting his limbs tangle with yours the way they used to; overly cautious not to let his skin brush yours the way it always did like second nature.

Fine, you said. Space is okay when he needs it.

You quickly noticed that he started using only your name to address you, a sound foreign to your ears when it was laced with his voice. No more sweetheart or sunshine, no more darlin’ or princess, no more shortcake or firefly. No more exasperated smartass, no more playful brat or menace, no more quietly proud trouble. Only ever your name, clipped and professional, as if you were always only ever someone he had to work with.

Well, nicknames aren’t always necessary, you rationalized.

Then you noticed the breath he always took whenever you entered the same room, as if bracing himself for your presence, before refusing to look in your direction unless strictly necessary. The way his body was always angling itself away from you, shoulders tense. How he always retreated a half beat before he needed to as soon as he realized he didn’t have to be there.

I guess he just has a lot on his mind, you excused. He’s always been busy.

The ice started to solidify next. His irritation seeped through into everything he said to you. His replies were always clipped and precise, nothing more than procedural. His eyes never left the work before him while discussing a case with you. His corrections were always too sharp and condescending whenever you got something wrong.

He hasn’t been sleeping well, you told yourself. He’s just stressed and overtired. He always takes too much on.

His interest in anything revolving you seemed to die completely. Any attempt you made at an inside joke fell flat, met with nothing but a blank stare. Every question you asked was answered with a distracted mumble, never any hooks to hang a conversation from. He never replied to any of the texts you sent of stupid things you knew would make him laugh. All the warmth and fondness that used to surround the two of you was replaced with cold indifference.

Maybe I’m overthinking it all, you found yourself thinking.

Then, you thought you were going crazy. Books you left open in the archives were closed and stacked away. Files you left scattered on the library table were gathered neatly. Mugs you put away were rotated, organized differently. Blankets you left crumpled up somewhere were folded neatly over chairs or armrests. You thought it was all in your head until you caught Dean refolding the dishtowel you had just put back, and you realized he was going behind you this whole time, erasing all the tiny traces of you from around the bunker.

You didn’t have any excuses this time.

Even the arguments were different - more often, sharper, harsh. With him never having the desire to say how he truly felt, or the care to fight for what used to matter, he always got in the last word after either blaming you for something or treating you like you were the problem.

Like when you drank the last of the coffee during a long night of research, and he came in before you started another pot.

“Did you finish this?” he asked, slamming the carafe down harder than he meant to.

“Yes,” you said, flinching ever so slightly at the noise. “I was going to make a new batch.”

He whirled around, glaring at you. “You didn’t even ask if I wanted the last cup.”

“I…” you faltered, trying to figure out if he was teasing you or not. “I never had to before, you always gave-”

“So you just assumed you could have it?”

“I- I’m sorry,” you stuttered. “I just didn’t think to ask.”

“Well,” he huffed, turning his back on you to busy himself with making a fresh brew. “Maybe you’ll remember to ask next time.”

Or when you queued up your music on the ride back after wrapping a case, and he almost tore off the knob turning it off.

“Not everyone wants to listen to music,” he snapped. “My head is killing me.”

“You never once minded if I played something,” you countered.

“What does that matter?” he asked, knuckles turning white on the wheel.

“It matters,” you said, taking a calming breath. “Because you never used to mind.”

“Yeah, you just fucking said that,” he bit back.

“Because it’s true,” you told him. “Why do you mind all of a sudden?”

“Because I do,” he said. “So drop it - and leave that shit off.”

Even the time when you double checked he had his blade with him on a hunt was unwelcome.

“‘Scuse me?” he asked, taken aback.

“I asked if you had your blade,” you repeated, meeker than the first time.

“You mean the blade that’s our only way of killing this thing? That blade?”

His tone made it obvious he wasn’t truly looking for a response, but you gave him one anyway.

“I just- I didn’t see you grab it,” you explained. “I wanted to make sure.”

He scoffed, unsheathing his blade from where it rested in his belt and brandishing it with a dramatic flourish. “Yeah. I got it.”

“Okay, sorry,” you said a little too quickly.

“I know how to do my job,” he grumbled, tucking his blade away again.

“I never said you didn’t.”

“You wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” he snapped.

“I always ask!” you exclaimed. “You would always ask.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, picking up his pace ever so slightly. “Let’s not pretend we both still care.”

What got to you the most was when it became clear he no longer trusted you on hunts, shoving you out of the way to take a shot he felt you were taking too long to make.

“What the hell was that, Dean?” you snapped, tossing your rifle into the trunk harder than you wanted to.

“You froze,” he shrugged. “Had to take the shot.”

“I did not freeze,” you seethed. “It was a calculated distraction.”

“Was it?” he asked half-heartedly, shutting the trunk.

“I saved that kid!” you shouted.

“Sure,” he agreed, sarcasm oozing off him. “While nearly getting yourself killed.”

“Yeah, well, what do you care?” you muttered, words hitting him like a blow he’d never let you see landed. “You used to trust me on these things.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I realized you were a liability,” he said simply. He stilled ever so slightly after he said it, and you thought maybe he’d take it back, or apologize. Yet he just carried on, opening the driver side door like nothing was wrong.

“I’m a what?” you asked shakily.

He sighed, as if the conversation was bothering him. “Hesitation gets people killed. You should’ve been smarter than that.”

“So… what?” you implored. “You just don’t have faith in my ability to do the job anymore?”

He paused for a moment. Deliberate. Calculated. Cold.

“No,” he told you. “I don’t.”

What you didn’t know, couldn’t see, was that Dean still reached for you every morning, a brief window where his mind was still half asleep and believed he was still married. The shock he felt every time he was met with nothing but a cold and empty bed was brash and cruel; it had him feeling the loss over and over again.

He couldn’t greet you in the kitchen anymore, because he didn’t trust himself not to take your face in his hands and kiss you good morning like he grew used to. He couldn’t take the coffee from your hands because he was scared that if his fingers brushed yours he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from intertwining them, because his hands felt empty without yours in them.

He wasn’t able to sit beside you anymore, because the smell of your shampoo made him homesick. The heat of your skin was painful, because all it made him think about was the warmth you emanated each time he held you. If he got too close, too comfortable, he was worried he’d fall into new habits and sweep you into his lap.

Your name was the only solace he had. Grounding him, reassuring him that you were still here. That you were still you. He couldn’t use the nicknames which used to replace your name in his vocabulary because they were too intimate. Too familiar. He didn’t deserve to use them anymore. He didn’t deserve to be that close to you anymore.

He had to brace himself every time you walked into a room because all he wanted was to reach out for you. To find out how your day was going and wrap you in his arms as you rambled on. He couldn’t stand to look at you because all he felt was guilt when he remembered the way you looked underneath him. The way you looked carrying his child. Deep down he knows none of it was real, but the shame he felt over it all definitely was. Every part of him was always screaming out for you, and he never trusted himself not to do something stupid, leaving you in his wake the second his presence wasn’t needed.

His conversations with you had to be cut short because the way you laughed now conjured the memory of the daughter he never truly had. The inside jokes you made tore him up inside, making him realize things could never be the same as they used to. He always came off sounding harsh when he corrected your mistakes because he didn’t know how to be himself with you anymore - he didn’t have it in him to poke fun at you, and he had to force the words out each time otherwise his voice would fail him. He had to type and retype replies to your texts before giving up entirely, and all the things he saw that reminded him of you, that made him say oh she’d love this went unsent, because suddenly he thought she would… wouldn’t she?

You left traces of yourself everywhere, and he hated that more than anything. The messes you made, the products you used, the things you did, all of it brought him back to living in that house. When the only traces of your existence came in the moment: cooking dinner, playing with Ellen, putting your laundry away, doing the dishes. Nothing was ever out of place. He never needed to go in behind you and tidy something up or put things away. So when you left your books in the archive, staked haphazardly and waiting for you to go back and shelf them, he did it for you. When you left your files spread across the library after you no longer needed them, he ghosted his fingers across the words he knew you’d read and gently tucked the pages away. When he opened the cupboard to grab a glass and noticed the mugs you hastily put away, he rearranged them in a way he knew you would’ve if you had the time; by size and by colour, handles facing just slightly outward so you could grab them easily but not knock anything down. Blankets were tucked away neatly because, if he was fast enough to do it, they would still be warm from your touch, your fragrance wafting off them just enough that if he closed his eyes he could trick himself into thinking it was you he was holding. He wasn’t trying to erase the traces of you. He was cherishing your existence. He was reminding himself that you were real. That you were here.

He was letting himself feel the love he had for you in a nonimposing way, because he knew now that he always loved you.

He knew that what he felt in his perfect little dream world didn’t just come from nothing. It was always there, lying in wait until it was safe to come out.

Which made it all worse. Because he let himself love a shadow of you before he let himself love the real you. It made him feel like he somehow took advantage of you, like he knew all these little secrets about yourself that even you didn’t know.

How could he possibly explain that he was mourning a family he never had? That he missed a life that wasn’t real?

How was he supposed to tell you he loved you, and make you believe he really loved you, and not the idea of you the Djinn gave him?

He couldn’t.

So he didn’t.

Instead he tried to push the feelings away; he tried to push you away.

He argued over you drinking the last cup of coffee without asking because he hated how you knew he’d let you have it like always.

He argued over your music because he hated how routine it was for you to take over his radio. He hated how for that split second it felt like nothing changed.

He argued over you making sure he was armed because he hated how much you still cared, even after everything, because he didn’t deserve your concern.

He argued over the choice you made during a hunt because he saw how badly it could've ended for you, and he hated how scared he felt. He hated that he knew you’d never turn your back on him no matter what he did. No matter what he said. He hated that he needed to try anyway.

So when Sam came storming in one day, holding your battered and bloody body like you were already dead… he didn’t know what to do.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, shaky legs carrying him over.

“Ambush,” Sam replied, bringing you towards the infirmary. “We didn’t think the nest was that big. She took the hit for me.”

Dean could tell Sam already felt guilty, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.

“You went into a nest?” he snapped. “You let her take the damn hit for you?!”

“It’s not like I planned on it, Dean!” grit Sam. “Just help me, okay?”

Dean took you in his arms before he even knew what he was doing, laying you on the bed with a tenderness he knew was being shown too late. He worked with Sam to patch your wounds, cleaning you up while muttering about how you’d be okay.

Now it was his turn, never leaving your side for the next few days, waiting and watching closely for any signs of improvement or regression.

Which meant he was there when you finally woke up, cold and afraid, asking what happened.

He told you what Sam told him. You got outnumbered. You managed to make sure Sam was clear and took on the heat yourself. Sam cleaned out the nest in record time after that, bringing you back home.

His jaw ticked, fists clenching in his lap, and you could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air.

“Go ahead,” you croaked, prompting him to quickly bring you a glass of water. “Say what you’re not saying.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” he asked miserably.

He sighed quietly, retaking his seat and watching as you sipped the drink, a small grimace on your face to show even such a small movement was painful.

All you did was shrug, resting the glass on your lap as you refused to meet his gaze. “It was a job.”

“Yeah, a job I didn’t even know about,” he pointed out. “Why the hell didn’t you at least have any kind of back up?”

You laughed, raw and unamused. “Like who, Dean? You? You made it clear you wouldn’t watch my back any more.”

“That’s not true,” he said automatically.

“Yes,” you said firmly. “It is. What the hell do you care if my case goes sideways? I’d just be another body for you to burn. You’d move on.”

The words hit him like a kick to the face. Not just the words themselves, but how you said them; like you really believed it.

He knew this is what he was working for the whole time, but now that he had it, he never wanted you to think that ever again.

“Don’t say that,” he choked out. “Don’t you dare think that.”

You scoffed, eyes still locked on the glass in your hands. “Please, Dean. You made it clear you stopped caring.”

“I always cared.”

“Well you sure as hell stopped acting like it,” you sneered.

“I didn’t know how to!” he snapped. “I didn’t know how to go back to normal with you when I could barely even look at you.”

“And why not?” you cried, fed up with still being in the dark.

“Because every time I look at you all I see is what I lost!” he exclaimed, standing from his chair with so much force it clattered backwards. “Everything I… everything I can still lose,” he added softly, gesturing to where you lay.

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!” you yelled, angry tears rolling down your face. “What did you lose? Just tell me!”

“Everything!” he yelled back. “I lost everything and nothing at the same time.”

You let out a watery laugh of frustration. “If you don’t want to tell me the details, then at least tell me what it was that made you hate me so much. I at least deserve that much.”

His gaze snapped to yours, a ragged breath leaving him when he saw how much pain you were in. He didn’t just mean the cuts and the bruises and the swelling. He meant the slumped shoulders, the red eyes, the tear stained cheeks and the quivering lip. He broke you, and he loathed himself for it.

“Don’t,” he breathed out, feeling himself break right alongside you. “Don’t you say that.”

“Just stop!” you sobbed. “Don’t turn around and tell me it’s not true when you’ve done nothing to prove otherwise since you recovered! I don’t know what the hell could have happened in a fake world that was so twisted it carried itself over in your heart to the real world but it was not my fault! And I am tired, so tired, of trying to fix whatever it was that broke while you’re standing there with the hammer behind your back.”

Your name left his lips like a broken promise, begging you to look at him.

So you did. Just long enough to say what you needed to say, but not long enough to watch the sorrow cross over his face.

“Just leave,” you mumbled. “It’s apparently what you’re best at.”

He never considered himself a coward before, but as he trudged towards the door he realized that when it came to you, that’s exactly what he was lately.

And you deserved better than that.

So for once, he stayed.

“Look,” he muttered, stopping at the door, gaze fixed down the hallway. “I know I’ve done and said things that I shouldn’t have-”

“You meant them,” you cut in.

He whirled around. “No. Who are you to say what I did and didn’t mean?”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes; or worse, chuck the glass in your hands at his head. “Then why?”

“Because I was scared,” he admitted.

“Of what?” you asked, holding back a laugh.

“Of realizing that I loved you,” he said.

He had said it so simply, yet after all he’d done the words hit you like a slap.

You flinched, choking down a gasp.

“Don’t you dare,” you seethed. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything."

“I fell in love with you, and I didn’t even know it,” he carried on. “Then I fell in love with you in a life we never really had.”

“What does that even mean?” you asked, fighting to keep yourself together.

“You wanted to know what you did?” he asked, arms folding over his chest. “What that version of you did?”

You nodded, no longer trusting your ability to speak.

He laughed. Low. Quiet. Bitter. Heartbroken.

“You married me, you menace.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you, crushing the air from your lungs. The silence filled the room like a third occupant.

“What?”

He shrugged, like he didn’t just detonate a bomb. “We lived in that house - you know the one. No more hunting, just a run of the mill job at my own garage. Even owned it with Bobby. You stayed home, keeping everything perfect. Taking care of the house and our one and a half kids-”

“Kids?” you breathed out, getting hooked on that detail.

He smiled. Sad. Reminiscent. “A baby girl. She looked so much like you.”

“Ellen?” you guessed, remembering how he asked for her when he first woke up.

He nodded, laugh watery as he wiped away tears before they fell. “Yeah. The day I got out, it was when we were gonna tell everyone we were expecting again.”

“Why-” you choked on a sob, trying to process what he was saying. “Why didn’t you just tell me this before?”

More tears fell as he avoided your gaze, but he didn’t bother wiping them away this time. “I didn’t know how. The guilt was killing me.”

“Guilt?” you asked incredulously.

“I had an entire life with you that you didn’t even know about; a whole family,” he lamented. “I realized that I was in love with you because I fell in love with the entire idea of you. I loved you, and I lost you, and I was mourning you even when you’ve been here right in front of me.”

He paused, pacing slowly to work off the emotions rolling through him. “How can I not feel guilty for that? How can you ever look at me the same way knowing what I did? It feels like it was some sick form of betrayal. I told myself that if I pushed you away it would make it all stop hurting. So that’s what I did.”

“Did it?” you asked quietly.

“No,” he said easily. Too quickly. “God, no.”

“Then what did it do?” you prodded.

“It killed me,” he admitted shakily. “And it almost killed you.”

His gaze trailed pointedly over your injuries, making it clear he meant it in more than one way.

“I know I should have told you,” he said. “But when am I ever doing what I’m supposed to?”

He tried for a laugh, but it didn’t come out quite right. Too high. Too fraught.

“I can’t go back and change what I did. But know that I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you like that."

You nodded dumbly, head too hazy to think of a response. You just sat there, watching as he stopped pacing to look at you. To really see you.

“You-” he started, before cutting himself off nervously. “Don’t you ever, ever think that you’d be just another body for me to burn. I’d never move on from that. Hell, I’d throw myself on the goddamn pyre with you because you are the love of my fucking life.”

The shock that ran through you was visceral, a sob tearing its way out of you. You had too many thoughts swimming in your head, too many things to process.

“Please,” you begged, unsure what you were asking for. “How could you do this to me?”

You weren’t entirely sure what you meant, but he seemed to know what you needed anyway. He always did. He always would.

“I’ll go get Sam,” he said calmly. “And I’ll give you your space. If you ever want to talk… I will be here.”

You lost all track of time after that. Dean was gone, replaced by Sam in what seemed like an instant but also an eternity. He held you while you cried. He listened while you explained what happened. He didn’t offer any advice or solutions; he just listened, and he didn’t leave until he was sure you were asleep.

But it was a fitful sleep.

A sleep that didn’t soothe your heart, the ache so fierce it followed you into your dreams and forced you to wake up. An ache that stayed until you sought out the only thing you knew would help.

You found him by instinct. Feet carrying you on their own, like you were following a thread he left for you to guide the way.

He sensed you before he saw you, jumping to his feet as he turned to watch the door. His body tense, like he was waiting for an ambush, only relaxing when he saw you standing dwarfed in the doorway.

“You hurt me,” you said, matter-of-fact.

“I know.”

“I am still so angry with you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t forgive you. Not fully. Not yet,” you told him.

He nodded in acceptance. “Okay.”

“But it’s only fair for you to know that I-” you stopped yourself, composing your thoughts.

“Don’t say anything you don’t want to,” he comforted, but you ignored him.

“I’ve always loved you, Dean,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve always known, or if it took until hearing you say those things for me to realize, but it’s true.”

He nodded once more, like reluctant acceptance. His face was stoic, body posed carefully, but the way his chest rose and fell gave his emotions away.

“And that life you had, that we had,” you carried on, hands shaking. “You didn’t lose it. Not really. Because it’s still here, in your future. In our future.”

His eyes flicked to your hands, his own flexing and relaxing on a loop as fought the urge to steady them.

The silence dragged on, and you started to mistake his distracted gaze as rejection.

“If you… still want that,” you added quietly, hugging yourself as a way to ease the nerves.

His attention snapped back to you in an instant. “I do,” he assured softly.

Every fibre of his being screamed out for you, but he forced himself to stay put. Not wanting to make the first move before you could fully process how you felt about everything, he ground his jaw to steady himself.

“Good,” you said, voice shaking as your eyes glistened. “Good, because I really missed you,” you admitted, voice blending with a sob as the emotions rolled over you again.

This time he let himself move, body taking action before his mind could catch up. He folded you in his arms before you even fully finished your sentence.

He held you like he was afraid to break you even further, but his fingers gripped the blanket hanging off your shoulders like a lifeline, knuckles turning white as his eyes screwed shut in a futile attempt to keep in the tears.

“Believe me, sunshine,” he whispered into your hair, planting the ghost of a kiss to your head. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, too.”

BONUS SCENE

“Do you think it was prophetic?” you asked Dean, tossing a glance over your shoulder.

“Do I think what was prophetic?” he asked, coming up behind you.

“That her name was Ellen,” you explained like it was obvious. “I mean, is that what we need to name her now?”

He laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest, chin resting on the crown of your head. “Well, first of all, we don’t even know if it’s a girl or not yet.”

You hummed, deep in thought, laughing softly as his hands shifted ever so slightly to rest on your belly. “I’d like it to be a surprise,” you admitted, resting your hands on his.

“Yeah?” he asked, placing a kiss behind your ear. “We could make that happen.”

“You don’t want to know beforehand?” you wondered.

He thought about it for a moment before you felt him shrug. “I want whatever you want, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter to me. Whether we find out early, or we find out in a delivery room, I’m gonna love that kid all the same.”

“Well aren’t you a smooth talker?” you laughed.

“Of course,” he laughed with you. “How else would I have convinced you to marry me?”

You giggled as he littered your skin with kisses, spinning in place to catch his lips with yours.

“I don’t remember much convincing being needed,” you told him with a sly grin.

“And I thank the stars every day that you haven’t come to your senses yet,” he joked.

“Never,” you chuckled. “You’re the only thing in this world that’s ever made sense to me,” you added on a more serious note.

“Who’s the smoother talker now, huh?” he teased, taking your hand to spin you back around.

You landed with your back against his chest with a laugh, and he wrapped you in his arms once more.

Standing there in the kitchen of your new home, you both stared at the sonogram taped to the fridge until the light flitting through the window bathed everything in sunset hues.

Sometimes dreams do come true, you each thought.

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