#dead lover

Rae

The van rocked gently as we headed home, soft rock mumbling from the radio. After a whole day running around with Dean and Garth, I was done. At thirty-two weeks, tired was my new normal. We’d spent the whole day playing house. We went shopping for cribs, bottles, blankets, all the little things that screamed a baby was actually coming. My head tipped against the cool window, the world outside smearing into green and gray.

Dean had the wheel, steady hands wrapped around it like he was pretending the van was Baby. He hated the thing, spent the morning grumbling about how a minivan was “an insult to mankind.” But that didn’t stop him from driving carefully. And Garth? Wedged in the back like a pack mule, humming off-key like he hadn’t just spent three hours wrestling strollers, car seats, and breast pumps.

There was still a mountain left to do, like paint swatches for the nursery, baby-proofing the bunker (good luck with that one, Dean), more doctor’s appointments, more checklists. But at least I wasn’t doing it alone. Everyone had been pitching in, even Gabby with her not-so-subtle drop-ins.

And Dean…well, he hadn’t left my side in twelve weeks. No surprise hunts. No vanishing acts. Just here. Always here. Sweet, yeah, but also kinda annoying. Everywhere I turned, he was there. That's why I no longer listen to audiobooks with my back facing the door. Learned that lesson.

But he’d become the ultimate "fixer," even if he still couldn't cook rice to save his life.

At this point, the baby basically ran the show. Everything ached, from my back down to my feet. Turns out pregnancy comes with DLC nobody asked for. Ever heard of round ligament pain or "lightning crotch"? Yeah, neither had I. Yet here I was, wearing a maternity belt every day and waddling like a penguin.

Heartburn’s a bitch, too. And somehow, the only thing that sounded good was diner food at two in the morning. The kind Dean swore fixed everything, and he wasn't wrong. I didn't even like greasy spoons before. Now? I'd sell my soul for a side of hashbrowns.

But if I was honest, it also scared me. The Dean I’d started to learn a few months ago wasn’t this man. He was a hunter, and from what Garth had told me, they didn't do this. They didn't stay, and they sure as hell didn't shop for strollers. Yet here he was, bending his whole life around me like he didn't know any other way to breathe.

Did it make me love our little peanut any less? Not a chance in hell. If anything, every ache, every kick, every time Dean’s face lit up when he felt movement, it just made me fall harder. For both of them. I just didn't know yet if I was watching him step up...or give up something he couldn't afford to lose.

A sharp twinge tugged at my left side. When I shifted my hand to rub it, the baby answered with a rolling kick. Dean’s free hand rested on his thigh, so I slid it over, guiding him to the spot. To anyone else, the constant "feel this" would’ve been annoying. But not him. Every time, he stopped cold, like the tiniest movement was enough for him to drop everything.

His thumb brushed slow circles, his shoulders easing. For a second the hunter face eased off. Then came that quiet smile, like he forgot how to be tough.

“Daddy’s hand is right here, peanut. Feel that?”

His hand twitched under mine. He swallowed hard, his ears going a little pink. He tried to play it cool, eyes fixed on the road, but that soft smile stayed anyway. Every kick wasn’t just movement to him; it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

“Whoa, easy there, slugger,” he muttered. “You're gonna break something in there before you even get out.” He looked from my stomach to my face, his green eyes warm.

I shot him a look, one brow climbing. “Break something? What? Am I incubating a wrecking ball, Papi?" His smile only grew.

From the back seat, Garth piped in. “Kid's a ballerina. No. Tap dancer. That's the vibe.”

Dean groaned. "Garth…”

“What?” Garth grinned. “Every great hunter needs a hobby. Why not jazz hands?”

I chuckled, my hand smoothing over my stomach. “Just picture it, peanut,” I whispered. “Daddy sitting in a dance studio full of moms, waiting for you to finish practice.”

The word still tripped him up. 'Daddy.' I couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or secretly loving it. Maybe both.

“Oh yeah,” Garth drawled. “Just you wait. Your daddy’s gonna be layin’ that Winchester charm on thick when you’re older. We saw him with those checkout ladies today, didn’t we? Total chick magnet.”

Dean groaned, his ears turning a deeper shade of red. “Dude… just shut up.”

Flashback - Babies ‘R’ Us

Babies “R” Expensive. That’s what the store should’ve been called. Bright lights, pastel walls, price tags that made my head spin. Pink everywhere. Plush toys with blank little button eyes. A wall of pacifiers that made me wonder how any baby ever survived. Overwhelming? Yeah. But in a good way.

Dean looked like he’d just been dropped into a Care Bears-themed version of hell. Completely lost. I was already biting back a laugh when two employees in matching purple polos zeroed in, all smiles and perkiness.

One of them, blonde ponytail, maybe my age? She smiled way too big at him. “First time, huh?”

And of course, the patented Winchester smirk appeared. “That obvious?”

I rolled my eyes. Not jealousy. Nah, not exactly. But he caught it, anyway. His eyes met mine, amused, knowing. I see you, Rae.

I shot back a look of my own. Whatever.

The twenty-something year old giggled. And I mean giggled. Too flirtatious for a store full of diapers. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you. I mean—uh, of you both.”

I glanced at Dean, already bracing for the charm. The harmless flirt he didn't even think about anymore. It never came. Instead, he reached for me. His large, warm hand slipping into mine, fitting perfectly, fingers lacing without hesitation. Then he bent just enough to brush a kiss against the top of my head, like it was something we’d done a thousand times before.

Hand-holding and a kiss? Seriously. I shouldn’t have been blushing. I definitely shouldn’t have been thrown off by it. But...dammit, Dean.

“Appreciate the offer,” he said smoothly. “But I think I’ve got my hands full with my wife. You’ll be my first call if we need backup.” His hand tightened around mine.

Wife. There it was again. Too easy. Too natural. Slid off his tongue like it belonged there.

Me? It still didn’t sit right. No matter how many times he said it. Maybe one day it would. Someday.

---

Strollers. Rows and rows of them. Monster trucks for babies. I swear some of them had more features than the Impala. Cup holders, suspension, tires thick enough to survive potholes, gravel, and whatever nightmare scenario Dean had already imagined.

He circled one with the same focus he gave weapons. Spun the wheel. Checked the frame. Muttered something about maneuverability.

“Sir,” I said flatly. “It’s a stroller. For a baby. Not a tank.”

“If we gotta move fast,” he replied, dead serious, “you’ll thank me for the swivel wheels.”

Oh, my God. He was actually weighing the options, like this was life or death instead of strollers. Trying to pick the one that would keep our kid safest. He was already being more of a parent than I felt like I was. I turned away, pretending to study the wall of car seats so I didn’t have to admit it.

As I wandered toward the heavy-duty bases, my hand brushed against a display box. I stopped when I saw it. A tiny, soft-white onesie sitting on top of a car seat, clearly abandoned by some other shopper who had changed their mind. I reached out, my fingers grazing the fabric. It was barely bigger than my hand.

And out of nowhere, thoughts of Michael crashed through me. The future I’d once planned. The one I lost. It suddenly became harder to breathe.

My hand had flown to my mouth, pressing hard like I could keep the sob trapped in my chest. Not now, Reima. Not with your husb—Not with Dean by your side...

Then there was a hand at my back. Warm. Steady. Broad enough to cover half my spine. Dean. He didn’t ask. Didn’t say a word. He just stepped into my space and held me. I leaned in, my head against his chest.

My jaw clenched until it ached. I clung to his shirt, bunching the heavy fabric in my hand, hanging onto him. There were no words between us. Just his palm moving up and down my back, like he knew exactly where to put pressure.

After a few breaths, the shaking eased. Not because I talked myself down. Because he was right here, and my body finally believed it.

Just as I started to look up, ready to offer a trembling thank you, his entire body went still. His voice came out flat, horrified, and loud enough to turn heads. “What the hell are those?!”

I pulled my face away from him, already bracing for whatever nonsense had triggered that tone. And sure enough there was Garth, walking toward us, arms stacked high with boxes.

Not one.

Not two.

But three. He looked like he’d just hit the jackpot at a county fair.

Dean’s face was priceless. Wide eyes. Ears flaming red. I snorted. I couldn't help it. “It’s exactly what it looks like, hon---er, Dean.”

At first, I thought he heard me because he didn't say a word. He blinked, staring at the boxes. “You mean…” He hesitated, then jabbed a finger at one like it was cursed. “…that thing milks you?!”

For a split second, I was a little disappointed. But when I saw the horror on his face and heard what he said, it took me out. I laughed so hard my stomach tightened and I had to brace a hand over the bump. "Stop! Both of you. I'm gonna pee myself!"

He was so damn pure sometimes. Garth nearly dropped one of the pumps, wheezing. “Dude, you should see the travel versions!”

“Okay, laugh it up, you two,” Dean muttered, face still red. "Yeah, yeah. Real funny." He shot us a look, shaking his head. “Glad you’re both gettin’ a kick outta this.”

Back in the van

I couldn’t stop replaying Dean’s face. Thank God for these two, because without them, the day would’ve crushed me. Still, I was going to have to figure those pumps out on my own. No way Dean was surviving the first time one of them actually starts doing what it's supposed to do.

The bickering started up again, this time about setting up the car seat in the Impala. 

"It's not going in Baby," Dean snapped.

"Dude, it's literally built for cars," Garth argued from the back.

I was too wiped out to weigh in, but yeah...nope. That thing wasn't going anywhere near the Impala. Not happening. I didn't even lift my head. "I swear to God if y'all start drilling into the Impala, I'm naming the kid 'Mazda'."

We had forty-five minutes left, and sleep was winning. It crept in slow, heavy, pulling me under piece by piece. The last thing I felt was Dean’s warm, steady hand resting on my stomach.

The last thing I thought of was Michael. The park. The day before he deployed.

And then the van was gone.

Michael and Rae

The cool breeze touched my face, carrying the sharp scent of freshly cut grass. I was lying on a gray blanket, the fabric soft and shaggy under my palms. Overhead, the sky was so blue it almost hurt to look at. Somewhere nearby, I could hear the river and children laughing. I pushed myself up slowly, confused. I hadn’t been here in years. Not since…

"Hey, darlin'..."

The voice. I turned, slowly, my chest already aching. Michael. Not a memory. Not a ghost. Just him. Crewcut neat. Hazel eyes still captivating. That crooked smile that used to feel like home. And his cologne, sandalwood, cinnamon, and leather warmed by his skin, still clung to him like the years had never happened.

“Michael,” I finally breathed. Saying his name hurt. I shut my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. When I opened them, he was still standing there.

I didn’t think. I just threw myself into his arms, clutching him. My whole body shook as sobs ripped out of me. Ugly. Raw. The kind that tears straight through you.

"Why're you cryin', darlin'?" he asked, his thumb, warm and real, brushing my tears away.

All those nights I’d dreamed of this, one more day, one more conversation, but now that he was here, it wasn’t relief. It was agony. Nine months into his deployment, he’d been gone. No goodbye. No funeral I was allowed to go to. His family made sure of that. Just silence. Just absence.

“Why didn’t you come back?” I choked, shoving at his chest. “You promised! You said you’d come back!”

He caught my wrists, gentle, and dropped his chin. Michael didn’t do that. Not ever. He was a Marine to the bone, the kind of man who stood his ground no matter what. Seeing him do it now wrecked me.

“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm sorry. That wasn’t the plan.”

That hit harder than I was ready for. The life I’d wanted years ago had all been with him. The rings, the kids, the home. Hearing him say it now was tearing me apart. My hand drifted to my stomach on instinct. His eyes followed.

The truth was right here, impossible to ignore: I was building the family Michael had wanted with me… but with someone else.

My mouth opened, then closed. I shook my head, looking away. “It’s not simple.”

His face crumpled. "Not simple?! Reima, you're carrying his child. You're living with him. Looks simple from where I'm standing. So tell me what I'm missing."

He said my name the way only he ever had. Reima. It burned.

Something in me snapped. "Because you’ve been gone, Michael!" My voice cracked on his name. "You have no idea what I went through since you left! What it took to keep breathing after you didn't come home." I turned away, needing air. Needing distance. “You don’t know me anymore.”

“Reima.” His voice hardened, harder than he probably meant. “So that’s it?" A beat, like he regretted it even as he said it. "I die, and you move on. And he just...gets everything I didn't?!” His eyes dropped to my stomach again.

"Tell me he's not just filling the space I left."

The slap landed before I could stop it. “How dare you?” My voice broke. “Is that really what you think of me?”

Regret hit him instantly. His shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just…” He stopped. Looked at me like he already knew the answer and still needed to hear it. “Help me out, darlin'. Why Dean?”

“Because he’s here,” I said, my voice shaking. “Because he came back. And then he stayed.”

The words were out before I realized I’d said them. And then quieter, "And... he loves me."

The truth hit hard. Terrifying. Real.

He bowed his head and for a second, I thought he might argue. Thought he might fight for what we used to be. But when he looked back up, his eyes were sad, not angry. “Then…choose him, darlin',” he said quietly. “Don’t make him pay for me.”

He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “I love you, Reima...” he whispered. "Always."

“I love you, too,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Always. And thank you…for letting me say goodbye.”

And then he was gone. The warmth, the weight of him, the scent I'd memorized...it vanished like smoke. One second he was holding me. The next, nothing. 

I folded in on myself, holding on tight. A broken, ugly sound tore out of me, too loud for this quiet place.

The next breath smelled of stale air. The van swayed. The radio mumbled. Dean’s hand was still on my stomach.

And I was still reaching for a man who wasn’t there.

Dean & Garth

In the passenger seat, Rae was finally out, his jacket draped over her. He didn’t move his hand from her stomach. Warm weight under his palm. A steady rise and fall. Right here, right now, it settled something in him.

“It’s just me and you, buddy,” he murmured. “Your mama’s sleepin’.”

The word still felt clumsy, the same way it still threw him off when Rae called him daddy. He almost wished he hadn’t said it, until the baby kicked against his hand.

Dean chuckled. “Okay. I hear you.”

“So,” Garth drawled from the back, “when you gonna do it?”

Dean’s eyes stayed on the road. “Do what?”

“You know. Ring. Wedding. The whole nine yards.”

He snorted. “It’s covered. Legal. On paper.”

“Paper ain’t the same as a promise,” Garth shot back, unusually serious. “You think she wants to tell your kid his parents got hitched by a hacker in a bar?”

Dean’s thumb brushed over the plain white-gold band where his hand rested on the wheel before he realized he was doing it.

Garth’s voice dropped. “And that ain’t helping either. Wearing that other fella’s ring.”

Dean’s grip tightened on the wheel. He didn’t answer. Garth already knew the whole story.

Silence settled until Garth tried again. Softer, this time. “So… you gonna name the kid after you? Dean Jr.? John, after your old man? Or, hear me out...Garth Winchester. Little G. He’d be the fifth.”

“Yeah, right. Like I’m gonna saddle my kid with Garth Winchester. That’s child abuse.”

The joke died fast. Dean flinched at his father’s name. John. Motel rooms. Orders. Cold coffee. His kid was never gonna grow up like that. Ever.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not John.”

He hesitated. Another name surfaced, one that felt strange on his tongue, like it had been buried for years. “Sam,” he finally said. “Or… Sammy, maybe. Samuel for a boy. Samiera for a girl.”

Garth gave the names some thought. "Sam Winchester," he repeated out loud. He grinned. "I like it."

Dean did too, and that was the problem. The name landed heavier than it should’ve. For a split second, he almost looked over his shoulder, like someone had said it before. No one had. Then it was gone.

Maybe he could do it. Be a dad. Maybe there’d be a life waiting for them after Azazel. Hell, maybe he could even quit hunt---

The thought didn’t get to finish.

A scream ripped through the van, snapping both men straight into hunter mode. It wasn’t an attack. It was Rae.

Dean didn't have time to think. He hit the brakes hard, not a full stop, but enough to drag their speed down fast. Horns blared behind him, but he didn't care. The tires screamed as he forced the wheel right, eyes snapping between the road and her.

"Rae---!"

She bolted upright. Eyes wide. Glassy. Staring through the windshield. 

He kept his voice steady by sheer force, one hand locked on the wheel. His other hand shot out, catching her shoulder and pressing her back against the seat. He didn’t know what was coming. He just knew something was wrong.

“Reima. Wake up.”

“Wait! Don’t leave!” she cried, clawing for the door handle, eyes fixed on something only she could see. “Michael!” The name tore out of her.

“Shit!" he snapped. "Garth!” He forced the van onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires.

Garth was already moving. He lunged forward, arms locking around her from behind, hauling her back against the seat. “Easy, Rae." To Dean, "I've got her.”

Dean twisted toward her as far as the console allowed, his hands framing her face. “Reima. Look at me. You’re in the van. You’re with me. Whatever you’re seein', it ain’t here.”

For a second, her eyes found his. Then they slipped past him again, and her hands pushed at his wrists like he was keeping her from Michael. Her sob tore loose, painful and broken.

“No! Let me go,” she sobbed. “Please, let me go.”

Dean’s chest caved in. She wasn’t with him. Not really. She was somewhere else, reaching for a dead man, and all he could do was hold on while it tore through her.

He had no idea how to bring her back.

One second she was there, screaming, fighting him, trying to get out of the cramped van. The next, his hands closed on empty air.

His jacket was the only thing left in the passenger seat, still warm from her body, slumped where she should’ve been. The seatbelt, still buckled, hung limp against the fabric. Garth was frozen behind him, arms wrapped around nothing, his face pale and horrified.

Her perfume was gone. So was the sound of her breathing. All that remained was the low, mindless hum of the radio and the ticking of the cooling engine.

“Dean?” Garth’s voice was a ragged whisper.

But Dean didn’t answer.

The van didn’t smell like exhaust or old upholstery anymore. It smelled like melted chocolate and malted nougat. A signature Dean knew too well. A calling card.

His fingers were still curved in the shape of her jaw, cupped around the space where she’d been a second ago. The feel of her tear-soaked face still burned in his palms.

He had just said the name Sam. He had just thought about home.