#spn crossover

Dean flips the page again, frowning. “Yeah, okay,” he mutters to himself. “So either I’m hunting a ghost… or Jason Bourne on demon blood.”

Across the motel room, Sam rubs his eyes. “Dean,” he sighs, “this isn’t supernatural.”

Dean taps the photo. A grainy surveillance image. A man with long dark hair. Metal arm glinting. “You see the part where he doesn’t age?” Dean says.

Sam pauses. “…Okay, that part’s weird.”

Dean stands, already grabbing his jacket. “Monster’s a monster, Sammy.”

The warehouse smells like rust and ocean water. Dean moves silently between shadows, the familiar weight of the Colt in his hand. Something is wrong. Hunters know the feeling. The way your skin prickles when something ancient watches from the dark. But this doesn’t feel supernatural.

It feels…human. 

A sound echoes behind him. Metal shifting. Dean spins— And suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against his temple. Cold. Steady.

“You’re not Hydra,” the voice says behind him. Low. Rough. Confused.

Dean slowly raises his hands. “Buddy,” he says carefully, “I got no idea what a Hydra is.”

The gun doesn’t move.

Dean glances sideways. And finally sees him. Bucky Barnes.

Taller than Dean expected. Hair falling into tired blue eyes. The metal arm gleams under the dim warehouse lights. But the thing that stops Dean cold—

The man looks exhausted. Not monstrous. Not demonic. Just… broken. A shell of a soldier. Dean would recognize that stare anywhere. “You’ve been following me,” Bucky says quietly.

Dean shrugs. “You leave a hell of a trail.”

The gun presses harder. “You here to kill me?”

Dean should say yes. It’s what hunters do. Kill the thing before it kills someone else. But Dean studies him closer. The shaking hands. The haunted eyes. The way the metal arm flexes like it’s not even fully his.

Dean has seen that look before. In soldiers. In victims. In himself.

He exhales slowly. “Well,” he mutters. “Was thinking about it.”

The silence stretches.

Bucky’s expression barely changes. “Then do it.”

Dean blinks. “…What?”

Bucky lowers the gun slightly. “Everyone else has tried.”

Dean frowns. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

Bucky stares at the ground. “Would make things easier.”

And suddenly Dean understands something terrible. This man doesn’t think he deserves to live.

Dean sighs and holsters the Colt.

Bucky instantly raises the gun again. “Don’t,” Bucky warns.

Dean points at him.“Yeah, see, that right there? That’s why I can’t kill you.”

Confusion flickers across Bucky’s face. “You hunted me across three states.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Thought you were a monster.” He gestures at the metal arm. “Turns out you’re just another weapon somebody else pointed.”

Bucky stares at him. Long. Searching. “Who are you?”

Dean smirks. “Guy who’s been someone else’s weapon before.” He steps a little closer. Not afraid. Not anymore. “You want a tip, Terminator?”

Bucky stiffens slightly at the nickname. Dean shrugs. “Monsters don’t hate themselves this much.”

The warehouse falls quiet again. For the first time in a long time… Bucky lowers the gun completely.

------

The rain hasn’t stopped since the warehouse.

It drums softly against the roof of the Chevrolet Impala as it eats up the empty Kansas highway.

Inside, silence stretches.

Dean Winchester drives with one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the window. Classic rock hums low through the speakers.

In the passenger seat sits the most dangerous man Dean’s probably ever let into Baby.

Bucky Barnes hasn’t moved much since they left the warehouse.

Back straight.

Hands on his knees.

Eyes constantly flicking to mirrors, road signs, tree lines.

Dean notices.

“Relax, Terminator.”

Bucky glances at him.

“You keep calling me that.”

“Metal arm. Murder reputation. Pretty obvious branding.”

Bucky looks back out the window.

Dean sighs.

“You planning to bolt when we stop for gas, or are we actually doing the whole safe haven thing?”

“…You trust me that much?”

Dean snorts.

“Buddy, I let a demon king crash on my couch once.”

He glances sideways.

“You’re practically a golden retriever compared to that.”

Bucky doesn’t respond.

But his shoulders loosen a fraction.

The bunker door groans open.

Fluorescent lights flicker on beneath the massive underground corridors of the Bunker. Dean strides in first like nothing’s unusual. Bucky follows slowly. Eyes scanning everything. Entrances. Angles. Potential weapons.

Dean notices. “Try not to assassinate the furniture.”

Footsteps echo from the library. And then—

Sam appears from between the shelves, holding a book. He freezes. Dean’s back. Which is normal. The six-foot, metal-armed stranger standing behind him? Not normal. Sam blinks. Once. Twice.

Dean drops his keys on the table. “Sammy, good news.”

Sam stares.

Dean gestures casually behind him. “I found the ghost.”

Sam squints at Bucky. “…Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s a man.”

“Technically.”

Sam slowly closes the book. “Why is there a metal arm.”

Dean shrugs. “Long story.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “You left to hunt a possible supernatural assassin.”

“Correct.”

“You were gone three days.”

“Sounds right.”

“And you came back with—” Sam gestures vaguely at Bucky. “—whatever that is.”

Dean turns. “Hey.” Bucky stiffens. Dean points between them.“Sam, this is Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow slightly. “Just Bucky.”

Sam stares. “…Okay.”

Dean grins. “Bucky, this is my brother.”

Sam extends a cautious hand. Bucky hesitates. Then shakes it. Sam immediately winces. “Jesus—”

Dean bursts out laughing. “Super soldier handshake, Sammy.”

Sam rubs his hand. “You brought a super soldier home?”

Bucky quietly steps back. “You can still turn me in.”

Sam blinks. “Turn you in to who?”

Bucky shrugs. “Government. Avengers. Whoever.”

Dean waves a hand. “Pass.”

Sam looks between them. Then back at Dean. Then the metal arm. Then Dean again. The realization dawns. Slow. Painful. “Oh my God.”

Dean smiles.

Sam points at Bucky. “You brought home a stray.”

Dean scoffs. “He’s not a stray.”

Sam gestures wildly. “You picked up a deadly government assassin on the side of the road!”

Dean shrugs like it was a normal, regular Tuesday and they were only discussing dinner plans.“He looked sad.”

Sam stares at him.

Bucky looks… mildly confused.

Dean crosses his arms. “What?”

Sam throws his hands up. “Dean, you can’t just adopt a super soldier!”

Dean tilts his head. “Why not?”

Sam opens his mouth. Stops. Sighs deeply. “…Fine.” He turns to Bucky. “You hungry?”

Bucky blinks. “…What?”

Dean smirks. “Told you.”

Sam points toward the kitchen. “We have food. And a shower. And a library if you’re the reading type.”

Bucky stands there for a moment. Like the concept is completely foreign. Safe places usually come with chains. Or cages. Or interrogation.

Dean claps him on the shoulder. “You’re good here, man.”

For the first time in a long time… Bucky looks uncertain in a different way. Not hunted. Not threatened. Just… unsure what to do with kindness.

Sam watches him carefully.

Then leans toward Dean and mutters: “Please tell me he’s not going to murder us in our sleep.”

Dean smirks. “Nah.” He glances at Bucky. “Pretty sure he’d already have done that.”

Bucky almost smiles.

------

The library of the Bunker is quiet except for the turning of pages. Sam has a laptop open, several old intelligence documents spread across the table. Across the room, Bucky sits stiffly in a chair, watching the floor like a man waiting for a verdict.

Dean paces. Dean hates this part. Research.

Sam suddenly goes still. “…Dean.”

Dean sighs. “Please tell me you didn’t find out he explodes or something.”

Sam slowly turns the screen. “I found Hydra programming files.”

Bucky’s head snaps up.

Dean notices immediately. “Hey, hey—easy.”

Sam hesitates. “There’s… something else.”

Dean squints. “What?”

Sam swallows. “They controlled him with trigger words.”

The room goes completely still. Bucky’s breathing changes. Shallow. Tight. “Don’t,” he says quietly.

Sam immediately backs off the keyboard. “I’m not going to say them. I don’t speak German or Russian.”

Dean walks closer to Bucky slowly.

“Bucky.”

Bucky’s metal hand curls into a fist. “Sometimes… they make you say them. To prove it works.”

Dean’s voice softens. “No one here is doing that.”

Sam closes the laptop gently.

Bucky stares at the table. “…You should keep them.”

Dean frowns. “For what?”

“In case I lose control.”

Dean scoffs immediately. “You’re not a weapon here.”

Bucky doesn’t look convinced. But he doesn’t argue. And that’s a start.

--

Later that week, Dean stands proudly beside Baby in the bunker garage. Bucky studies the car like it’s some sacred artifact.

Dean spreads his arms. “Alright. Rule number one.” Bucky raises an eyebrow. “You touch her wrong, I bury you under the bunker.”

Bucky tilts his head. “…You’re joking.”

Dean stares.

Bucky pauses. “…You’re not joking.”

Dean tosses him a rag. “Wipe the chrome.”

Bucky catches it effortlessly. His metal hand moves with careful precision over the bumper.

Dean watches. “You ever work on cars?”

Bucky shrugs. “1940s Brooklyn.”

Dean’s face lights up. “Atta boy.”

Soon they’re elbow-deep under the hood. Oil on their hands. Dean explaining engines like they’re living creatures. Bucky listens carefully. For the first time since he arrived… He looks calm.

Dean notices. “Feels good, right?”

Bucky nods slightly. “…Quiet.”

Dean grins. “Yeah, you’ll enjoy it here.”

---

It happens three nights later. Dean wakes to the sound of metal slamming. He grabs a knife and moves down the hallway. A door is open. Inside the room— Bucky is sitting on the floor. Breathing hard. Metal arm dented into the wall beside him.

Dean lowers the knife. “Nightmare?”

Bucky stares ahead. “I remembered another mission.”

Dean sits beside him. No questions. No pushing. Just quiet.

After a moment Bucky speaks. “I killed people who were begging.”

Dean nods slowly. “Yeah.”

Bucky looks at him. “You?”

Dean exhales. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of.”

Silence settles again. Then Dean nudges his shoulder. “Good news though.”

Bucky glances at him. “You’re stuck with us now.”

Bucky almost laughs. Almost.

----

The bunker alarm suddenly screams. A sharp, mechanical wail that echoes through the stone halls of the Bunker

From down the corridor comes the unmistakable shout of Sam. “DEAN!”

Boots pound against the floor as Dean Winchester bolts from the garage hallway, wiping motor oil from his hands onto a rag. 

“Yeah, yeah, what is it—” He skids into the war room.

Sam is already standing at the console, staring at the security monitor like it personally offended him. “Tell me I’m hallucinating,” Sam says.

Dean squints at the screen.

Outside the bunker entrance stand three very distinct figures.

One of them holds a shield.

Dean leans closer. “…Well.”

The man at the front—tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly square-jawed—steps closer to the camera. Steve Rogers.

Behind him stand a red-haired woman with an assessing stare—Natasha Romanoff—and a man wearing sunglasses who seems way too amused for someone standing in the Kansas wilderness. Tony Stark lifts his hand and waves directly at the camera.

Dean slowly leans back in his chair. “Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah?”

Dean gestures vaguely at the monitor. “Think we accidentally kidnapped an Avenger.”

Sam groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Dean, you can’t kidnap Avengers.”

“I didn’t kidnap him,” Dean protests. “He got in the car voluntarily.”

Sam presses the control panel button.

A distant mechanical rumble echoes through the bunker as the hidden entrance unlocks.

“Too late now,” Sam mutters.

“Door’s open.” Dean folds his arms. “Well… this should be fun.”

It doesn’t even take a minute. Footsteps echo down the corridor. Then suddenly Three strangers step into the war room like they just walked into the world’s strangest underground library.

Tony immediately looks around with open fascination. “…Okay, wow,” he says. “Secret bunker in the Midwest. Very dramatic. I’m into it.”

Natasha’s eyes sweep the room in a second, cataloguing exits, weapons, angles.

Steve doesn’t look at any of that. He’s staring at the brothers. Specifically Dean.

Dean raises his hands slightly. “Before you say anything, in my defense—”

Another set of footsteps approaches from the hallway. Slow. Measured. The room shifts. Bucky steps into the doorway. He stops the moment he sees them. His eyes lock instantly on Steve.

Something fragile flickers across his face—shock, disbelief, something painfully hopeful.

Steve’s breath catches. “Bucky?”

No one moves. Not Sam. Not Natasha. Not Tony.

Dean looks between them. Then leans slightly toward Sam. “…Well this just got awkward.”

Tony glances between the two soldiers, then at Dean. “Okay,” he says. “New question.” He points at the Winchesters. “Who are the flannel guys who apparently stole Captain America’s best friend?”

Dean shrugs. “Hunter.”

Sam sighs. “Hunters,” he corrects.

Steve doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky. “You’re safe here?” he asks quietly.

Bucky hesitates. Then nods once. Steve’s shoulders relax just a fraction.

Natasha crosses her arms. “So,” she says calmly. “You want to explain why the Winter Soldier is living in a secret bunker with two men who look like they run a classic rock radio station?”

Dean grins. “Funny story.”

----

The war room of the Bunker is quieter now. The tension that filled the air when the Avengers first arrived has settled into something calmer—something cautious, but not hostile.

Tony is halfway through a beer he definitely helped himself to from the bunker fridge. Natasha leans against the map table, arms crossed but relaxed. Across from them stand the brothers. Sam with his laptop. Dean leaning back in his chair like this whole situation isn’t surreal.

But the center of the room— That’s where the real moment sits.

Steve and Bucky stand facing each other.

For a long moment neither of them speaks.

Then Steve exhales slowly. “You disappeared again,” he says.

Bucky looks down at the floor. “…Wasn’t planning on sticking around anywhere.”

Steve nods slightly. “I know.”

Bucky glances toward Dean.

Dean lifts his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. You got in the car.”

That earns the smallest huff of a laugh from Bucky.

Steve notices. And that tiny sound means everything.

Tony tilts his head. “You kidnapped him with kindness.”

Dean shrugs. “Works on strays.”

Sam groans softly.

Natasha’s eyes move between Bucky and the Winchesters. “You didn’t turn him in.”

Dean snorts. “To who?”

Tony raises a hand. “Technically—”

Dean points at him. “No offense, Iron Man, but we deal with monsters, ghosts, demons—” He gestures toward Bucky. “This guy ain’t one. If anything, he’ got my respect. He’s a war hero, a vet just like my pops.”

The room falls quiet again.

Steve studies Dean for a moment. Something like respect flickers in his eyes. “You protected him.”

Dean shrugs again, suddenly uncomfortable. “Guy needed a couch.”

Bucky’s voice breaks the moment. “…I didn’t know where else to go.”

Steve steps closer. “You’ve got somewhere now.”

Bucky hesitates. His gaze drifts around the bunker. The long library tables. The quiet halls. The garage where the Impala  sits. For the first time in decades… He looks like someone standing inside a home. Not a prison. 

Dean watches him. Then scratches the back of his neck. “Well…” He glances between the Avengers and his brother. “Guess the question is—” He jerks a thumb toward Bucky. “You taking him back, or what?”

Steve looks at Bucky. Not answering for him. Just waiting.

Bucky takes a long breath. “…I think I’d like to stay here for a while.”

Tony raises his eyebrows. “In the spooky Kansas bunker?”

Dean grins. “Hey.”

Sam crosses his arms. “It’s a nice spooky Kansas bunker.”

Steve smiles faintly. “Then that’s where you stay.”

Relief passes through Bucky’s shoulders like a weight finally dropping.

Natasha nods once. “Good choice.”

Tony finishes his beer.

“Well,” he says, setting the bottle down. “This has been the weirdest road trip I’ve ever taken.”

Dean smirks. “You ever fought a vampire?”

Tony pauses. “…I’m listening.”

Sam groans again. But Steve laughs quietly. And Bucky— For the first time since he arrived— Actually smiles.

Later that night. The bunker halls are quiet. Dean leans against the hood of the Impala, wiping grease from his hands. Footsteps approach. Bucky stops beside him. For a moment they just stand there.

Then Bucky says quietly, “…Thanks.”

Dean glances at him. “For what?”

“For not killing me.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, well.”

He tosses the rag aside and pats the Impala’s hood. “Someone’s gotta teach you how to properly respect a classic car.”

Bucky looks at the car. Then at Dean. “…You gonna keep calling me Terminator?”

Dean grins. “Oh absolutely.”

Bucky shakes his head slightly. But he’s smiling again.

Down the hallway, Sam calls out— “Dean! Tony found the weapons vault!”

Dean groans. “Oh no.”

Bucky snorts softly.

Dean pushes off the Impala. “C’mon, metal arm.” He gestures down the hall. “Welcome to the family.”

1st drawing

Cas: a demon huh you don't seem violent though...

Skizz (holding a hand out between him and Impulse): listen here jerkface

Impulse: uh thank you? I think

Dean (from far in the back): who are you calling violent here!

2n drawing

Grian (hands on his hips): are they always like that

Crowley (hands in his pockets): usually.

3rd drawing

Charlie: and you coded all this with, what did you call it, redstone?!

Tango: Yeah wanna see my blueprints?

4th drawing

Gem (with a big sword in both hands): let me take care of this

Rowena: I like your style

5th drawing

Sam (pointing at a scar on his shin): and this one is from when I jumped through a window

The Broken Circle

Cold.

In one word, that's your last memory of when you gingerly cupped Dean’s face. How your tender fingers caressed his bruised cheeks and wiped away the dirt from his battered skin. Shakily combed out the rubble from his damp brown hair and scrubbed the dry blood off his fingers.

The last time you squeezed Dean's lifeless hand before it slipped from your trembling fingers. Cold and busted lips scraped against yours when you gently kissed him goodbye for the last time in this life.

...Or so you hoped. Who knew what heaven had in stock for you two.

You just wished you could have been there, in that damn barn. Been with him in his last minutes. Could have held his hand next to Sam. Could have told him how much you loved him. Reassure him that you'd give up the hunting life like you both had planned. That you'd try and live a good life for him... and that you were sure you'd see each other again.

But instead you had to take leave of Dean's lifeless body. Hollow. Drained of everything that made him the man you loved and had planned to spend the rest of your life with.

Dean gave his life for so many innocent people – hell, for the entire world. But he never got to have his own life. Never got to live it the way he wished to.

It just seemed so damn unfair. You had so much planned for your future. Have yourself some rug rats, a dog maybe, a house, a garden with those ridiculous white picket fences. You’d live a cherry pie life once you’d leave the hunting life behind you.

Or so you liked to picture it in your heads. On those rare, peaceful nights where you'd rest in each others arms like an old couple. His fingers combing your hair while your thumb carefully stroked his battered knuckles. Whispers of daring dreams filling the silence.

But reality was cold. Bloody. Like an animal put down. With a last effort, put to rest on his bed in the bunker by Sam and you.

This image will haunt you for the rest of your life, you know it. It already did for the past 5 years. If only you could have —

"Winchester?"

You blink rapidly, your mind thrown off for a moment when you snap out of your spiraling thoughts.

Denise waves with a paper in front of you to get your attention back. "She was mutilated. And it wasn't a bear. Her heart had been cut out."

"Jesus," Cassie breathes with a look of shock and disgust, shifting uncomfortably next to you.

"Yeah," Denise's face grimaces into a painful one. Her eyes are darting from Cassie, down to the report and back up to your still slightly absent gaze. "What do you make of it, Winchester?"

"Sounds like a werewolf." Damn it. The words slipped your lips before you could fully snap out of your memories. “I mean, sounds like a bit far-fetched but I’ll let Sheriff Tubbs know.” You force a wry smile when you grab the piece of paper from Denise’s hands, ready to head out of this messed up conversation.

“Sheriff Arlen,” Cassie calls after you and you stop in your tracks to look back at them with arched eyebrows.

“Sheriff who?” You inquire with a puzzled look. How the hell could you have missed this much in just one month off duty?

“Sheriff Beau Arlen,” Cassie repeats and Denise quickly adds with a teasing hum, “And his ass is just- mmmh-” she makes a chef’s kiss hand gesture while Cassie rolls her eyes with an amused chuckle.

You let out a huff in mock-annoyance but can’t help the faint grin on your face. Maybe, one day you’d dare to befriend them. Maybe, whenever you’d feel ready for letting people into your life again. But not today.

Ready to pick up your work at the police department, your eyes immediately land on the new name on what used to be Sheriff Tubbs office. ‘Sheriff Beau Arlen’ is written in an arched, golden text across the door’s glass.

You raise a sceptical eyebrow at the name. “Beau” you spit out the name under your breath, already feeling a distaste for this new sheriff.

In your defence, it wasn’t personal. It is just in your nature to feel sceptical towards anything new, especially people. Perhaps you gave up your hunting life. But any hunter will tell you between a swig of whiskey and a loaded shotgun that you’ll never lose your hunter instincts, no matter how hard you try. That’s not how it works. You don’t end this business by walking out the door.

It ends you.

In some way you were like trained bloodhounds. Always one chase away of your next kill. Unable to ignore the smell of blood. You were painfully aware of that fact. You could never live a fully normal life without the occasional hunch or a nervous look over your shoulder.

But you’d learned to accept it and make the best of it.

Here you can still help people. Save people. And once in a while nudge the sheriff into the right direction when you suspected something more than a suicide. Or you’d discreetly plant anti-possession charms on people when you had a hunch that demons were involved in a case.

Yet Sam believes you had retired fully from hunting like he did. And you liked to belief so, too. But on some days you weren’t so sure whether you even wanted to.

In some twisted way, hunting will always connect you with Dean. And at the same time it pains you, like a slow poison. Because you know it’s what he hated and never wanted for you.

And what took him from you.

It is a walk on a tight rope, really.

With a little huff of defiance you push the door to the sheriff’s office open. Your eyes dart around the empty room as you lean slightly forward, “Sheriff Arlen?”

Nothing. Oh well. With a quick glance over your shoulder you decide to take the chance and just drop off the report. You step inside, your fingers tracing the edge of the paper as your mind is instinctively drawn back to the case. I’ll have to look into this… bloody werewolf —

“Ah, Deputy Winchester, ain’t it?”

You freeze in mid motion.

And so does time. The paper slowly slides from between your trembling fingers and flutters to the floor. The unmistakable voice jolting through your mind and body like a lightning bolt. Your breath is caught in your throat, your mind and body paralysed.

The world holds its breath.

This is impossible.

“...Winchester, innit?” he repeats as he steps into the office and casually walks up to you, a wide smile spread across his face.

It can’t – NO.

You don’t dare to turn around.

Not that your body would be capable of any movement anyway. Every muscle is tense, your spine’s gone completely rigid. And your heart’s hammering against your ribs like it’ll crack your chest open from the inside.

You stand there like a deer caught in headlights. Headlights of a ‘67 Chevy Impala called Baby.

It has to be my imagination.

“Ya got somethin’ for me there? Oh-” You feel his elbow briefly brush your side as he bends down to pick up the paper next to your foot.

You don’t move an inch and stare ahead.

He straightens up again and steps around you to place it down on his desk. When he finally moves into your view and turns around to face you with his warm smile – your heart stops.

Emerald green eyes look back at you. Deep and sparkling green oceans. Alive.

Your brain freezes. Your mind scrambling for an explanation but failing to come up with anything.

This can’t be.

After a moment of tense silence, the tremors of your bottom lip make way for what your mind refuses to believe in.

“Dean?”

His name slips you in a mere breathless murmur. Afraid that whatever this is, will shatter the moment you dare to breath again.

Beau raises a brow. “Dean?”

He repeats the name with such nonchalance, such valuelessness, like it’s just some random clerk who he’s got no business with. As if that name didn’t mean the world to you once. Still would. Still does.

But the way his name dropped from his lips…

It clogs your airways. And the question mark at the end was him ramming a dagger into your heart and twisting it, without him even realising.

“Uh, no ain’t that.” He gently shakes his head and his lips melt into a cheeky smile as if that would make his next words any less painful.

“I’m Beau.”

Silence. Once again you feel like the air’s sucked out of your lungs. Like someone had pushed you off a cliff.

Someone who is an imposter of your deceased husband.

Beau. Your jaw clenches. And the name bounces off your mind. Your initial reaction being immediate rejection. No, you’re not... Beau.

Your eyes flicker across the man in front of you.

He might look quite… changed. He’s got a beard, neatly trimmed even. His hair is longer and… soft. Gone was the rugged and calloused man you loved. But it is still him. His eyes with their hidden secrets lingering behind those intense glinting, emerald green pools. His bow legs you’d recognize out of a hundred. His voice, his features, his – everything. Everything on him seems much softer but still… in your eyes, it’s Dean. No doubt.

“Why are ya lookin’ like you saw a ghost?” Beau questions with a tilt of his head, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

His voice snaps you out of your intense gaze. Your mouth opens, but no words make it past your quivering lips. All words drowned out in a flood of a million questions. Your focus drifts off, your eyes darting around the office like you’re expecting Gabriel to pop up any second and laugh at you.

But the room stays reduced to the two of you.

You feel like you’re on a tipping point.

Hands clenched, one subtly moves back to your hidden silver dagger – you do what you were trained to do in situations like these; Your mind grips for the lifeline and kicks into hunter mode. You rattle off the list of possible monsters; Shapeshifter? Ghoul? Am I dreaming? Is it some sick game of a trickster God? —

“Darlin’? You alright?” he asks, his voice now more concerned. You look terrified. As pale as a sheet, the blood drained from your face. Close to a panic attack, he guesses by your rapid breaths. Beau reaches out with his hand, gently patting your arm to get your attention. “Hey… Easy, just breathe.”

At his touch you jolt and finally snap out of your state of shock. The hand hovering over the concealed weapon falters. His worried eyes lock with yours.

The life-line snaps. Your mind tips over. Enough to make your stomach twist and turn, about to throw up. With only one shared look, everything’s back; The pain, the poignant grief, the cold skin under your fingertips, Dean’s lifeless expression, emerald eyes gone dull, the stench of decay, of old blood and dirt and his burning flesh and-- it all crashes down on you. All the emotions and memories you had buried in the depths of your mind, now laid open.

Fresh and hungry. Slowly swallowing you whole. Again.

“I- I don’t feel so… good – sorry,” you sputter, your hand clutching your chest in an effort to keep it together. The same second you spin around on your heels and storm out of the office without looking back once.

Beau. His mere presence was suffocating.

You remember the moment you and Sam cleaned up Dean’s lifeless body. How your fingers brushed against a folded paper, carefully tucked away in his jacket’s inside pocket.

Sam’s face had contorted the moment you pulled it out. Clearly, he had known what secret the paper held and before you got to question his knowing look, he suddenly got up. While walking out, he said he’d give you some time alone with his brother.

Once you unfolded the notepaper halfway, your breath stopped. Your eyes slowly shifted from one scribbled word to the next, each of them hitting harder than the next, each of them taking more of your breath. You swallowed past the lump in your throat when the realization of what you’d been holding in your hand slowly set in.

They were notes of Dean. Notes for your upcoming anniversary in two weeks.

You unfolded the rest of it and your eyes widened. The paper began to crumple in your shaking hands while wet stains swallowed some of his jotted down keywords. When your burning eyes reached the last four words, it had felt like whatever was left of your broken heart had just been ripped out entirely.

The raw emotions rolled down your cheeks, your tears mixing with his last unspoken words…

“Will you marry me?”

Beau was left back staring at the slammed door in bewilderment and a little stunned. After a moment, he sighs and pushes off the desk to follow after you.

“Winchester!” He calls down the corridor, watching you stumble out the front door into the outside. He jogs after you, slightly panting, while his eyes dart around the parking lot in search for you.

The rain crashes down on him the moment he steps outside. His head briefly tilts up to face the grey sky with an annoyed groan. The raindrops are pattering against his creased forehead, running down his cheeks to pool at the tip of his beard.

But then he hears a muffled sniffle next to him. Strands of his soaked hair fall into his face when he whirls his head around, spotting you leaned against the wall.

“No- no – it can’t be you – Damn it – it can’t…” you mutter under your rapid breaths, somehow trying to fight your scrunched up, stinging eyes with words of common sense. Your chest feels constricted. Your heart’s hammering in your ears and your breath’s clipped, feeling like you might faint any moment of lack of oxygen.

Leaning back against the wet wall for some support, your mind’s on the brink of a breakdown. There’s no explanation for this. This can’t be happening.

Beau suddenly appears in front of you and before you get to react, he places a hand on your shoulder. You flinch but don’t pull away. His hand feels heavy against your soaked jacket, grounding, gentle – but casual, like you would with a stranger. You are strangers.

“Hey, hey take it easy. You’re gonna give yourself a panic attack. You’ll be okay.” He says as he crouches down to your level. He glances over your trembling body and how your eyes try to avoid his, your expression like you’d just witnessed a murder in slow-motion.

“Look at me, deep breaths.” Beau speaks in a firmer, yet gentle tone, trying to break through your panicked state.

When you refuse to look up, he tilts his head down to meet your eyes behind some soaked stray hair that sticks to your skin. He pushes them out of your face, his intense gaze searching your contorted face for some form of hint for what’s got you so spooked.

He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. While his soothing words just keep coming, his voice now a lower whisper as he’s desperately trying to understand what is going on in that head of yours, “Hey, c’mon… talk to me, Winchester…”

Your eyes are burning from the tears that have been building up until now. Eyelashes heavy and clumped together by the droplets of the rain. And his intense eyes staring into yours, the very same eyes you fell in love with over 10 years ago, do nothing to ease your pain.

You try to tear your gaze away from his, but find yourself caught in them. It’s like you’re staring into a beautiful forest after years of living in a desert. They pull you in, and you feel like you are right back where you’d always longed to be. Home.

But a home that isn’t yours any more. The soul behind those eyes looks familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. You thought you’d never see those eyes again – but those very same eyes hold no memory of you.

The same question keeps repeating in your head, ripping at your heart and soul like a Hellhound.

Dean… is this you?

His voice cuts through your thoughts like a soft knife. “Take deep breaths darlin’, it’s oka-”

“Please- just-” you cut him short, a painful, shaky breath rippling through your voice, “Just stop talking.” Beau’s voice is like a dagger to your heart, twisting it whenever he speaks up. Mocking your memories with that uncanny tone of his.

I’m just tired. You hear Dean’s voice in your head and just like him, you wished you didn’t feel a damn thing.

Beau raises a brow and tilts his head forward, studying your face. For a moment he opens his mouth about to speak again, but when he sees you flinch, he forces himself to shut it closed.

His jaw’s clenched from fighting the urge to talk and feeling a bit overwhelmed with the entire situation. Not knowing where to go with himself or what to do without making things worse. He isn’t sure what it is, but something about you tugs at his heart in a way he can’t quite understand. But he quickly dismisses it, for now.

His eyes snap up to the sky when the rain starts to increase. Heavy drops splatter off the both of you, coaxing a single tear to let go of the corner of your eye. It was like the sky cried for you. Eyes that parched exactly 5 years ago.

Without a word he moves closer, gently wrapping his free arm around your waist. But you stop him before his palm touches your side. Your hand's shaking as it clings to his wrist like a lifeline.

Beau’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t comment on it. His expression grows pensive and his eyebrows slightly furrow, watching your trembling form. Your chest's heaving heavily, like you’re struggling for air. And your eyes are out of focus, like they're reliving some nightmare.

He suddenly feels a strong protectiveness - decides to hold himself back, though, afraid he might make things worse. But it pains him terribly to see you this way, even if he might not know you, yet.

You don’t say anything. Unable to form the right words as nothing could express the storm of contradicting emotions you are trapped in. The wavering grip on his arm is clenching and unclenching subtly as if unsure whether you want to push him away or pull him in.

“Sorry,” you finally croak between shuddering breaths, unsure what you were even apologizing for, “I’m sorry…”

Why were you apologizing? A strange feeling settles in his guts, one of this being a lot bigger than he could comprehend.

Next moment you know, you’re pulled into a tight hug. Both his arms wrapping around you to pull you close and hold you together.

At first you stiffen. Standing there like a fragile, shaking tree. Your arms pressed against your sides, unable to comprehend any more what is happening.

But he keeps you in his embrace, murmuring soothing words, muffled by your hair and the heavy rain. You lift your head slightly, just enough for your wavering eyes to meet his again.

That’s when the realization hits you. He looks so whole. So unbroken. His skin and his hair was smooth and tender beneath that thin layer of rain. He lacks any form of scar, any edges or any memory of the horrors you and he had faced and committed. Your heart twists; This isn’t what a scarred hunter looks like. And at the same time you feel your heart sink at the next conclusion… Beau would have been Dean’s idea of a perfect life, without ever having been born into the hunting business.

And it makes you wonder whether he was granted that alternate life.

Beau feels your trembling body against him and how your gaze is searching his face for something he doesn't know. Why are you looking at him like that? A lump forms in his throat. His hand gently caresses your back in a circle motion, while his other keeps stroking your hair.

“It’s alright, s’okay. You’re okay.” Beau says in a soothing, comforting tone and he tugs you a little closer, allowing you to rest against him.

Your wet hair falls into your face once more when your head drops to his chest. You both stay still, the only sound being the pitter-patter from the raindrops against the hood of his truck and the puddles around you. Your ragged breath’s nearly drowned out by the rain. The world seems to have shrunk to the beat of his heart softly thudding against your ear.

And that breaks the dam. Tears it down as the floods of emotions search their way out. Your shoulders rise and buckle against his chest. The tears finally break free, streaming down your face, mixing with the rain soaking your clothings. Your body wracked with sobs – raw, desperate, painful. Liberating.

You begin to shake uncontrollably, the sobs growing more and more powerful. They start to rack through every fibre of your body. Your legs grow unsteady beneath you, daring to crumble from the weight of every emotion you had buried in the past 5 years released and unloading all at once.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll stay right here as long as ya need me to. C’mere…” He reassures you, and pulls you even closer. His chin comes to rest on top of your head, his facial hair brushing against your scalp and his warm breath wafting down at you. “Just let it out… you’re gonna be okay… you’re not alone, ‘kay?”

You clutch at his jacket tightly, holding onto him like you’re drowning. Like you’re afraid he might be a dream after all. Might disappear from your grasp at any moment. Everything spills out of you, incoherent words bubbling from your wet lips. “Y-y-you’re alive- you’re alive- a-alive- I missed you so much, Dean- so so much-”

Beau can’t exactly make out the words that are tumbling from your mouth, but he can feel you shaking against him terribly. He quickly takes his big jacket off to drape it over you, to try and keep the rain and cold off you.

His heart tightens at the sight of your curled-up body, clinging to him while shivering badly and breaking apart in his arms. He slowly begins to speak again, a hint of an encouraging smile on his face, “Hey, ‘m gonna pick ya up. Ya ain’t gonna stand that cold and rain. Ya’ll get sick.” He then places his arms on your back and under your thighs, before lifting you up off the ground in one smooth motion.

He holds you close against his chest, wrapping his jacket over you for extra warmth. The rain patters against the concrete floor while his boots splash through the puddles, carrying you over to his truck.

You don’t protest as your body was giving in at this point. Like a run down shed in a storm.

Your fingers slowly going numb from the death grip, the wet and cold. You choke on your sobs while the tears keep rolling down your reddened cheeks.

But from joy.

You don’t know whether he is Dean or not. Whether this is real or you finally lost it.

But in this very moment you didn’t care.

You let yourself drift back to the happiest place in your mind. One you hadn’t dared to visit for many years. Locked up and keys buried along your husband. Deep down in your broken heart.

When you close your eyes and press the side of your face against his chest, you can hear his heart pounding. When he speaks, you hear Dean’s voice above you, soft and peaceful.

And you feel his body through the drenched pieces of clothings between you.

He feels warm. Warm.

A/N: it was meant to be a drabble IT WAS MEANT TO BE A DRABBLE

I'M NOT CRYIN'- OKAY FINE I'm still coping with his death - I haven't even watched it since I'm still catching up with the seasons. GAWD I HTE THIS - I JUST NEEDED CLOSURE DAMN IT

Anyway, I just had to get this story off my chest before next year. I don’t know yet whether it deserves more parts but do let me know if you think so!

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