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All My Love

Title: All My Love

Summary: When Dean Winchester is six years old, he makes a fool of himself in front of a girl with the brightest smile he’s ever seen. And, despite the fact he is only supposed to stay in Sioux Falls for a couple of weeks, she manages to become his best friend. So, she sticks by him through thick and thin and he promises himself he will love her forever. Maybe even longer.

Author: deanssweetheart23

Characters: Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Bobby Singer (all mentioned), Mark (OMC), Rose (OFC, mentioned)

Word count: 9118 (I know, I know, it’s a monster, but it’s worth it)

Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Some language. Implied smut. Parental loss. References to death, grief and Alzheimer’s disease.

Author’s Notes: This is my submission for @kathaswings Chiliad. Lina, thank you so much for letting me participate, I loved working on this one.

Special thank you to @trexrambling aka the brightest sunflower on Earth for being my amazing beta. This wouldn’t be the same without her.

My prompt is “So, you got a little thing for me, huh?” “No. Big thing.” and it’s been included in bold in the fic below. A line from SPN has also been included in italics. Highly inspired by Castle On The Hill by Ed (Awesome) Sheeran. Side note: Bluebells are actually symbols of “constancy, gratitude and everlasting love" (I swear there’s a reason I’m leaving this here, I’m not crazy)

Thank you for bearing with me, y’all. Enjoy <3

Dean is six years old and he’s alone for the first time in months.

He’s not sure he likes being alone, because everything seems quieter and lonelier than before and he’s a bit worried about his kid brother, but, like grown-ups say all the time, he knows it’s what he needs today, and so he just keeps pushing his football towards the clearing of the hill he had the chance to explore the last time he and Sammy visited Uncle Bobby.

And he has to admit, despite how afraid Dean was the first time he saw him, he really likes Uncle Bobby. Granted, he can be kind of grumpy sometimes, and he drinks a lot and knows a lot of bad words, but he’s always nice to Sammy and lets Dean eat as much as he wants and, just the other day, he bought him a pair of brand new shoes because his old ones were worn out.

Smiling to himself at the thought, Dean throws his football, aiming at the willow tree that’s supposed to be the end-zone for his touch-down, but he misses, and the ball –his favorite football- starts rolling down the cliff.

So, he chases after it immediately, but his right leg decides to give out after the first ten steps and then he’s falling, falling, falling, until he halts to a stop in the steep middle of the mountain hill.

Covered in mud and grass.

With his ball nowhere in sight.

With no one nowhere in sight.

Yeah.

His dad’s definitely going to kill him.

With a deep breath, he tries to sit up straight, but his leg hurts so much that, for a second, he thinks about muttering one of those bad words Uncle Bobby loves to use under his breath.

He casts a tentative glance at it.

It’s red and swollen.

“Son of a-”

“I think you broke that,” a small voice mumbles from behind and, before he knows it, Dean is craning his neck over his shoulder, brows knitted together in puzzlement.

A little girl with messy Y/H/C hair is standing there, staring at him in concern while her tiny arms are clutching at the oval-shaped cause of his torment.

She’s wearing a long, white dress that reminds him of his mom and has a single blue flower etched behind her ear –one of those flowers with petals that look like bells- and, even though Dean believes girls are the worst, he has to admit…she looks kind of cute.

She smiles at him. “This is yours, right?”

A nod.

“I figured. We saw you rolling down the hill.” She smooths down her dress, smiles at him a bit. “It looked cool. Like in the movies.”

“Uh,” Dean scratches the back of his neck, “thanks.” He lets her words sink in for a second and then, “Hey.” He licks his lips, “Who’s we?”

The girl pushes some hair off her face. “Rose and I,” she explains, matter of fact.

Dean squints at her.

“She’s my friend. She went to get help.” A step towards him. “Does it hurt?”

God, yes.

It hurts so much that Dean actually wants to cry, but he can’t just tell her that. Not now that she said it looked cool.

So, he clears his throat.

“A little.”

She hums, furrowing her brows.

“What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

“I’m Y/N. I saw you with Mr. Singer in town the other day.”

“Yeah, I-”

“Your Batman costume was awesome.”

Despite the pain, he smiles.

“Thanks.”

Nodding, she takes a seat right next to him, dirt staining the whiteness of her dress.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

“Uh… How long do you think it’s going to take? Until they get here, I mean.”

“Not too long. Rose lives a few blocks away and her mum’s a nurse.”

He hums in response, wiping some sweat off his forehead, and for a while none of them say anything.

Until-

“Hey, Dean?”

“Hmmm?”

Her hand reaches out for his.

“Hold my hand,” she whispers, fingers brushing up against his. “It’ll be okay.”

And Dean wants to tell her that nothing is going to be okay because Uncle Bobby will be mad he hurt himself, and his mum’s still dead and his dad still disappears for days and leaves them with people he barely knows. But then he sees the way the sunshine dances across her face like a halo and remembers all the things his mum used to tell him about angels and how they’d always be watching over him.

So, he believes her.

Dean is ten years old and he’s already hunting monsters.

It’s something he’s not supposed to talk about, though it has already left its marks on him in the shape of tiny scars that litter his skin, and Sam doesn’t exactly like it, but he thinks it’s cool, how he and his family help others, how they save people’s lives without expecting anything in return.

He wishes someone could have done the same thing for his mum.

“D.,” Y/N’s tiny voice pulls him out of his thoughts as she tugs at his hand, “hey, D.”

Blinking his eyes open, Dean sees her laying on that blanket her mum laid out for them on the grass a while ago, one of the Gummy Bears they’ve been sharing squeezed between her fingers.

“Hmmm?”

“I’ve been talking to you for five minutes now, you doofus.” She giggles, turning on her side to face him. “What were you thinking about?”

“Dad,” he blows a raspberry, “he’s coming over tonight.”

She nods, like she’s trying to process this new information.

“So, does that,” she licks her lips, “does that mean you’re leaving again?”

And the way she juts her chin and bites on her bottom lip are enough to tell Dean she already knows the answer to that question, but he replies anyway.

“Uh-huh. He called us this morning.”

“But you just got here last week.”

“I know, Y/N. But that’s just how Dad’s job is.”

Y/N sighs.

She does know what John’s job is like. No matter how much Dean tried to keep it from her –and he really did- in the end, it had been impossible.

He still doesn’t know whether the way her eyes grew dark and pleading and her forehead puckered in the cutest way possible every time he told her he had to go had anything to do with it, or whether he’d just gotten tired of trying to come up with convincing excuses to her smart questions, or if, simply, a part of him just wanted her to know about the things that go bump in the night so she could protect herself, but he’d eventually caved, told her everything she needed to know.

“Do you think,” she pauses and pushes some hair off her face, “do you think I can come with you this time?”

Dean’s brows shoot up.

His jaw almost drops to the floor.

“Come with us?”

“Yeah. To help you with, uh-” she glances around to make sure no one’s listening, then lowers her voice- “you know, monsters.”

Dean’s throat tightens a little, shoulders tensing like they always do when he hears weird noises in the house late at night.

“Um, no.”

“Why not?”

He sits up, folds his arms in front of his chest. “Because I said so.”

Y/N rolls her eyes so hard that Dean thinks they’ll get stuck like that.

She gets on her feet, “That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t care. It’s dangerous.”

“But you go,” she deadpans, hands on her hips.

He grits his teeth, balls his hands into fists. “That’s different.”

“Why? Because I’m a girl?”

“No. Because you’re-”

“Liar,” she screeches, throwing a Gummy Bear square on his forehead. “You’re a liar and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

She takes off then, and Dean races to catch up after her.

“Y/N, wait!” he shouts.

His fingers wrap around her arm, and he tugs.

“Wait,” he says again, and she looks up, lashes wet and bottom lip wobbling.

“Y/N-”

“I just,” she sniffles a little, “I don’t want the monsters to get you.”

Dean lets out a deep breath and takes a step closer to her.

“Bluebell, that will never happen. My dad’s a hero.” A small smile plays at the corner of his lips. “He’ll never let them get to me.”

She shakes her head, a little whimper escaping her.

“But he might take you away for months. And when…” A pause. Eyes that look anywhere but him. “When my daddy left, he forgot about me. What if-””

“Y/N, your dad was an idiot.” Dean reaches out for her hand, an all too serious expression etched on his features. “I’m not.”

She perks up a little at his words, rubs at her eyes furiously. “So, you won’t forget about me?”

“No.”

“Promise?”

And Dean knows he’s only supposed to make promises he’s sure he can keep, and that the rest of his life is going to be a long time, but he really wants to be her friend forever because Y/N’s the coolest person he knows.

So-

“Promise,” he whispers, intertwining his pinky with hers, and she smiles with a smile that makes the back of his neck turn pink as he leans in to kiss his cheek.

Yeah.

He’ll always come back to her.

Dean’s fifteen years old and he doesn’t really have a home.

The absence of it had always been an earmark of his, one of those things that set him apart from others and came tumbling out of people’s mouths when they were trying hard to find something that would faze him, would manage to split his walls wide open, pierce through the perfect façade of the rambunctious teenager he’d spent years of his life building.

And yet, he never minded.

Well.

Never until now anyway.

Because as he runs towards the clearing of the hill that has become a shelter for him through the years, calloused fingers soundly interlocked with Y/N’s soft ones, while her laughter seeps into his soul, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, having a home here wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

“Oh my God,” Y/N gasps when they finally come to a stop, “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He chuckles, wipes some sweat off his forehead. “You alright, Bluebell?”

Taking a deep breath, she plops down on the grass right next to where he’s standing.

“Yeah, I think so.” A glance that’s all mischief and amusement. “Just remind me to never get in a car with you again.”

“Oh, please. M’ an awesome driver.”

“Wanna tell that to Bobby’s pick-up truck?”

“Shut up.” He takes a seat next to her, scoots as close as he can until their knees are touching. “Just don’t tell him anything.”

“D.,” she rubs at her forehead, “the cops will tell him. About that and the spirits.”

He shifts, grins a half-grin as she lays on her back, then does the same.

“Yeah, he’ll kill us.”

“Well, at least I won’t have to go to work tomorrow.”

A snort.

Lips curled up in a soft smile as he looks at her.

“How is that going, by the way?”

“S’ okay.” She stares at the endless blue sky above her, at the sun that’s about to set. “I mean, Mr. De Niro is kind of an ass, and I barely have time to study on weekends, but-” the tips of her fingers brush up against his- “it pays well.”

He hums and the muscles in his jaw twitch, because he knows exactly what she means, knows what it’s like to have to worry about money more than she does –more than he hopes she will ever have to- and he’s so furious that her father, her so called father, walked out of her life when she was still a little kid and never looked back.

He’s furious because his absence forced Y/N to grow up too soon, forced her mother to work weird jobs just to get by, because no one wanted to hire a single mum that had dropped out of high school, and he’s furious because Y/N shares so many of his own scars, even though she deserves so much better.

His grip tightens around her hand.

“How’s your mum?”

She moves, crawls a bit closer to him and nestles against his side.

“Tired.” Deep breath. “She’s been working double shifts at the coffee shop since you left and it’s just… too much, you know?” She presses her forehead against his chest. “Last Friday, she was so exhausted she couldn’t even remember how to turn the microwave on and I can’t –I don’t know what else to do, D.”

He nods, plucking a strand of grass from her hair.

“You’re doing it already, Bluebell. Your mum knows that.”

She holds her breath for a second, fights with herself like she’s going to say something she’s not supposed to but-

“Yeah,” she nuzzles his collarbone, “yeah, you’re right. Anyway,” she smiles, but he knows it’s all smoke and mirrors, “enough about me.”

“Um, no.” He lifts his leg over hers, pokes her ribs with his finger. “You haven’t told me what’s up with whatshisface yet.”

“His name is Mark, Dean.” Her nose scrunches up in indignation. “And nothing is up.”

“Y/N.”

“Dean.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Letting out a loud groan, she half-sits up. “He just… Ugh. He found out you won’t be here for the spring dance, so he wants me to go with him.”

“Okay,” Dean props himself on his elbows, lets his eyes flicker over her, “but that’s a good thing, right?”

“No.” Her forehead puckers, hair still disheveled. “No, Dean, it’s goddamn awful. It’s the worst thing that has ever happened to me.”

He waits for a further explanation, but nothing comes.

“Alright, yeah, I’m officially confused. I thought you liked Mark.”

“I did. I do.”

“Then why are you making such a big deal out of this?”

A frustrated sigh.

Eyes rolled skywards like it’s his fault she’s not making any sense.

“What if he tries to kiss me?”

A smirk tugs at his lips.

“Well, then you kiss him back, Sherlock. Wait,” he scratches the back of his neck, takes in her wide eyes, the look of pure horror floating across her face “you haven’t –really?”

“Dean, if you make fun of me, I swear to God-”

“Hey, no,” he holds his hands up, “I wouldn’t make fun of you about that, Bluebell. I just –if you really like him, and you trust him, you should just… go.”

“But what if,” she casts her eyes downwards, juts her chin a bit, “what if I’m a terrible kisser?”

He chuckles.

He really can’t help it.

“I seriously doubt that.”

“He’d never talk to me again,” she mumbles to herself, like she hasn’t heard a word he just said.

“Then, he’d be an idiot.”

“Not if I’m a terrible kisser,” she whines, rubbing at her temples. “Oh God. He’ll tell everyone about it. The entire school will know I’m an awful kisser and then… And then no one will ever want to kiss me again.”

He barely manages to stifle his laughter this time.

“Don’t you think you’re maybe going a bit too far with this?”

“No.”

He sighs, lets himself think about everything she told him the past few minutes, about how well he knows her.

“No matter what I say, you’re still gonna worry about this, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then. Do you trust me?”

She furrows her brow, cocks her head to the side. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Bluebell,” he says again, clasping a hand on the side of her face, “do you trust me?”

She smiles then, a smile that’s all sunshine and love. “Of course I do, D. You know that.”

He nods, like he’s heard something else entirely, and gives her one, two, three long seconds to see if she’s going to pull away, if she wants to stop this, but she just leans in, just keeps staring into his eyes.

Dean’s never kissed anyone before, of course, but he pretends that he has, pretends that he knows exactly what he’s doing, that he’s not absolutely terrified, and lets his mouth brush up against hers and, for a second, he almost forgets how to breathe, because her lips are so sweet and gentle and soft against his own.

The kiss is short-lived and unsure and just a tad sloppy, but Dean knows, knows with a certainty that reaches his very marrow, that nothing has ever felt better.

He pulls away seconds later, lets his eyes dart up to take in her bright Y/E/C ones, her flushed cheeks and her leather jacket, his leather jacket that’s meant to keep her warm.

He vaguely wonders whether she can see the tips of his ears going pink.

“There,” he smiles, “you don’t have to worry about it now.”

“Yeah, but was it,” she lets out a nervous laugh, gnaws on her bottom lip, “was that okay?”

“Yeah.” He thinks about the way her warm lips felt on his, how they tasted like strawberries, how he never wants the memory to fade. “Yeah, that was good.”

He wishes he could kiss her like that again.

Dean’s twenty years old and he’s lost to her already.

It’s always been there, he supposes, hidden in lingering smiles and whispered touches that grew more meaningful over the years, in nights spent on the hood of the Impala and evenings filled with sunsets and laughter and that quiet realization that he’ll always have a place, a person, that keeps parts of him alive.

It grows intense as he grows older, hits him in waves every time he sees her again and realizes that, despite the days or weeks or months spent apart, despite their arguments and the way they’ve changed through the years, what they have, the way she loves him, that never changes.

He turns around to look at her, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

They’re in the middle of a fun-fair, pushing through the crowds to get to the stalls with the homemade pies she swears he’s going to love, and she’s holding his hand soundly in hers, like it’s the only thing she knows how to do.

“Are you sure you still want to do the Ferris Wheel?” she implores, eyes drifting to meet his. “I know it’s…high.”

A groan.

Eyes narrowed the size of half-dollars.

“Y/N, for the millionth time, I’m not afraid of heights.”

“Course you’re not. M’ just saying,” she slants her brows, “I still remember that time you almost cried in the Sky Swing.”

“You know… I don’t even know why I’m still hanging out with you.”

She laughs, and it’s the sound that makes the stars dance at nights.

“Oh, please,” she brings their joined hands to her mouth, drops a sweet kiss on his knuckles, “you’d be lost without me.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he looks at her with a look of delighted frustration, head tilted to the left.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know.”

Brat.

He wraps his arm around her then, pushes her close and presses a noisy kiss on her temple, laughing at her annoyed screeching.

A moment passes, and then-

“Do you think Sammy will be okay tonight?”

She huffs air through her nose, but keeps herself pressed up against him, rests her head on his shoulder.

“D., that kid fights monsters for a living. I think he can handle a first date.”

“But what if-”

“Daphne is a shapeshifter?” she asks, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Then he can stab her with that silver knife you gave him. Or, I dunno, exorcize her.”

“You only exorcize demons, Y/N.”

She rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “And you are just missing the entire point here.”

“Which is?”

“The worst thing that could possibly happen to Sam tonight is to have that girl play footsie with him under the table.”

“Ew, Y/N, c’mon” he whines, eyes squeezed shut and lips pursed like he’d been chewing a lemon, “that’s my kid brother you’re talking about.”

“Well, stop worrying about it and I’ll stop grossing you out.”

“Smartass,” he grumbles.

She smiles at the words though, all warmth and depth and softness, and, for a moment, Dean allows himself to imagine what it would be like to kiss her again, run his fingers through her hair, trace her collarbone with his lips and-

“Well, well, well.” A hoarse voice pierces through his thoughts, and Dean turns around only to find whatshisface glaring daggers at them, an empty bottle of vodka in hand. “If it isn’t the town’s favorite duo.”

Y/N shuffles closer to him, almost absentmindedly.

He can’t really blame her.

Even though she never told him exactly why she and that complete douchewad had broken up –she always insisted it was just another argument gone wrong- Dean’s pretty sure the separation wasn’t amicable.

His grip around Y/N’s waist tightens.

“Mark,” he says, his voice almost a snarl, “s’ good to see you, man.”

“Yeah, right,” the man runs his fingers through his hair, “did she tell you to say that?”

“Mark,” Y/N sighs, something pleading.

“I was so damn right about him, wasn’t I, Y/N?” Mark laughs bitterly, dark eyes locked on that spot Dean’s fingers were digging into Y/N’s hip.

“Right about me? What did you,” he turns to Y/N, who’s gone pale, “what did he say about me?”

Y/N juts her chin, bites on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Mark, can we please not-”

“We broke up because of you,” Mark spats, and the words are like a bullet that goes straight to his heart. “Because I couldn’t stand watching my girlfriend run after you like a lap dog every time you were in town. Because I could see how pathetically in love with her you are. I could always see it, Dean.”

Dean’s hand balls into a fist, eyes burning with fury.

He clenches his jaw almost painfully.

“Dean,” she breathes out, but he’s not listening.

“You never really liked me,” Mark carries on, brows furrowed into a scowl, “never really thought I was good enough for her. Everyone told me you were just being protective, just being the good ole Dean, but I knew.” He takes a step closer to them, jabs a finger at his direction. “You just wanted her for yourself.” A drunken laugh. Empty eyes staring into nothing. “You know what? She’s all yours. Never had a worse lay, anyway.”

Dean growls then, the sound slicing its way out from somewhere deep within him, and launches forward, his fist connecting with Mark’s jaw.

The sound is sickening, and his knuckles are hurting, but he doesn’t care. He just leans down to get to Mark’s face, meets his gaze, calm and collected.

“You ever talk about her like that again, I’ll break your face,” he grounds out. “And she won’t be there to stop me.”

The words echo as they leave his lips, brisk and gruff and loaded with fury, and Mark nods furiously and holds his hands up in surrender, tears dancing at the edges of his eyes.

“Dean,” Y/N calls, and he glances away from the terrified man in front of him and back at her, at the way she’s holding out a hand for him, the way her eyes are begging him to please let it go.

And so, he does.

It’s all a blur of bemused whispers and narrowed glances after that, people pointing at them or just muttering under their breaths, but he ignores them and lets Y/N lead him out of the crowds and into the parking lot where Baby is waiting for them.

“Okay, c’mon,” he runs a hand over his face, takes a deep breath, “let’s hear it.”

She shakes her head, pushes some hair off her face.

“Let me see your hand.”

“Kid, you don’t have to-”

“Dean,” she grits, brows furrowed in a scowl, “your hand.”

With a –quite dramatic– roll of his eyes, he does as she asks and watches while she inspects it meticulously, taking in the swollen skin.

“That was beyond stupid,” she says.

“I know.”

“And unnecessary. I could have handled myself.”

“I know that, too.”

“Good. On that note-” she lets her fingers brush over his wounded knuckles, just a breath of a touch- “thank you.”

She beams at him as she whispers the words, and he wishes, for her sake, he wishes that he could turn back time right before they’d ran into Mark, wishes that everything he always knew to be true but was too afraid to admit out loud hadn’t just tumbled out in the crisp night air for him to see.

“Y/N,” he sighs, “about those things Mark said…”

“Don’t,” she cuts him off, leaning against his car, “Mark’s being paranoid.”

“But he isn’t. Not entirely,” he whispers, looking down at his hand. “I can’t just keep leaving and expect you to-”

“Hey,” she places her hand over his, pulls him a bit closer, “I’m not here because that’s what you’re expecting from me.”

He looks up at her and she smiles, a soft, gentle smile that lights up her face.

“I’m here because I want to.” Her arms winds around his waist, her head pressed against his shoulder. “You’re my best friend, D. And if someone can’t accept that, that’s their problem, not ours.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

He kisses her hair, and swears he can feel her words, feel them engraving themselves deep into his bones.

So-

“Can I tell you something, Bluebell?”

She hums, lets her eyes dart up to meet his.

“I know… I know how all of this ends for me. And I’m okay with that. But when,” he braces his forehead against hers, “when I do picture myself happy, it’s with you.”

She’s close now, so close that he can see the specks of colors in her irises, can feel her heartbeat in his veins, feel it whispering secrets with its uneven pace, like this isn’t all just inside his head.

Like he’s not the only one wanting this.

His eyes drop to her lips.

“D.,”

“Tell me to stop, kid,” he pleads, and it’s absolutely wrecked, “tell me to stop and I will.”

She nods, but only tips forward, fingers tracing his jawline.

“I love you,” she whispers.

And they might be just three little words, shaky and timid and rickety, but it’s all he needs to hear, it’s all he’s ever needed to hear, and so he leans in and lets his lips slide against hers in a kiss that’s gentle and fragile, a kiss that turns everything into dust until the only thing left in the world is Y/N and her taste and her scent and her.

He pulls back seconds later, lets her smile ground him back to Earth.

“D., I-”

“Ssssh.” He runs his thumb over her bottom lip, keeps her from saying anything and just looks at her, looks at her like he’s just found the one thing he’s always wanted, like she’s a dream come true.

“So,” she nuzzles her nose against his, eyes bright and lively, “you got a little thing for me, huh?”

“No.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Big thing.”

She smiles, and it’s a smile that could cut him wide open and he wouldn’t even complain.

Maybe, just this once, he can let himself be happy.

Dean’s twenty-four years old and he’s tired.

It’s funny, really, how he is so young, yet feels so old, how others feel like life’s just starting out for them and he waits for his to be over because that’s just how things are in his line of work.

It’s almost as if every hunt, every time he’s killed a monster, or something, someone was taken away from him because of what he does, has left a scar that’s never going to heal quite right, right there in the middle of his heart.

And it’s ridiculous because he didn’t use to mind; his brother and his father and Y/N were always there to make the burden more bearable.

He belonged.

And then, his brother went away, and everything went to hell.

Watching the water pour into the shower’s drain, Dean reaches out for a towel and wraps it around his middle, his mind drifting to Y/N and how he has to leave her again in a couple of days.

It’s a weird system, the one they have going on, and it often leaves him feeling guilty and broken when he has to drive off, but it’s the only way for them to be together.

He’d taught her how to hunt, of course, trained her just in case, but, no matter how much she tried to convince him that she could join him and John on the road, her mum’s illness –she was diagnosed with Alzheimer just a little over a year ago - ruined all the plans she’d made.

So now, Dean stays with her between hunts, and every time he sees her eyes darkening and her smile fading when he talks about dirty motel rooms and greasy diners, he tells her, with his forehead braced against hers and his heart dancing in his eyes, he tells her that she has him, has all of him, and there’s no one else he could ever be with.

And that promise is the only thing he actually can give her, that promise and those lingering kisses that are flooded with things left unsaid, the intertwined fingers and the hushed laughs in the middle of bookstores and his love, all of his love.

He just wishes those things are enough.

Running a hand over his face, he enters their bedroom and finds her tangled in the sheets, clad in one of his old AC/DC T-shirts, a dog-eared copy of Winnie the Pooh in hand.

“You know,” he says, smirking when he remembers how he’d gotten that for her birthday over ten years ago, “I can’t believe you still have that.”

Her eyes dart up to meet his.

“Are you kidding?” She holds up the book as he reaches her side. “This book is the book of the gods.”

“Yeah,” Dean kisses the tip of her nose, “if the gods are five years old.”

A groan.

Warm fingers that smack his hand away.

“Funny, because I seem to remember a certain green-eyed boy-” she lets her eyes drift to his lips, fingers threading through his short hair- “reading this to his brother when he was like, uh, I dunno, twelve?”

And he knows she’s only teasing, knows she hasn’t even thought of the words until they leave her mouth, but they still cut through him like broken glass.

Sighing heavily, he pulls away and rubs at his forehead, watching her frown out of the corner of his eye.

“D., I didn’t mean-”

“S’ okay,” he whispers, squeezing her thigh.

One, two, three long seconds of uncomfortable silence pass and then-

“So,” he claps his hands together, “what do you want me to make for dinner?”

“Dean-”

“I’m thinking bacon cheeseburgers. We could probably use the energy after, ya know, everything.” He smirks, but she doesn’t roll her eyes like he expects her to, doesn’t groan or blush or laugh.

Instead, she just stares at him, and it’s that same look that’s there every time she wants him to know that she’s not buying into any of his lies, that he can wear an armor and put on walls and wrap himself up in a devil-may-care attitude as much as he wants, but she sees him, sees through him.

It’s a look that scares him sometimes because he’s not used to it, not used to people taking him in, accepting him for all he is.

It’s a look he loves.

“Baby, you can’t just pretend he doesn’t exist every time someone brings him up.”

Her words go straight into his heart, slice his wounds wide open.

He clenches his jaw.

“Yeah, well, he seems to be pretty good at it.”

He tastes the bitterness on his tongue, before he even speaks the words, and she can, too, because she reaches out for him, all gentleness and concern.

He walks away from the bed though, leans against the wall because it’s easier that way, it’s easier if he puts some distance between them.

“D., you know it’s not like that.”

“He’s been gone for months, Y/N.” He cracks his knuckles absentmindedly. “And he never called. Not once. Not even you.”

Deep breath.

Fingers that run through her hair.

“Maybe he’s just scared,” she whispers and walks up next to him, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “The night he went away, the way you two left things... It was awful. Maybe he’s scared no one will pick up.”

“And I’m not?” He turns around to face her. “Y/N, Sammy is… I spent my entire life looking after him, and if I call and he doesn’t pick up, I don’t think I can…”

The rest of the words are swallowed by her lips as she presses them against his own in a kiss that’s all determination and purpose and love, a love that tastes like salted caramel, a love that’s real and hard and there, that seeps into him and makes him feel whole again.

When they break apart, she stays close, nose nuzzling his.

“I don’t want you to call. Not if you’re not ready. I just… You’re the best man I know, D.” She cups his chin. “And I love you. So much.”

He presses a kiss on the side of her head.

“I know, Bluebell.”

They don’t say anything else.

They just stand there for a few seconds, holding each other, breathing in heartbeats and heat and closeness.

“Okay,” she says after a few minutes, lacing her fingers with his, “enough with all those sappy touchy-feely stuff, yeah?”

He chuckles, broken but thankful.

“What do you have in mind, kid?”

She smiles at him, and it’s all mischief and playfulness.

“M’ so glad you asked because I-” her lips brush against his knuckles- “am about to let you in on one of my darkest secrets.”

He leans forward, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“You’re actually into some kinky shit when it comes to sex, aren’t you? Because I can definitely-”

“Dean, for the love of everything that is holy, shut up,” she groans and, despite the narrowed eyes, her smile is radiant.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A snort.

Brows raised in frustration.

“Back when we were kids, I wasn’t... I knew you had to travel a lot and I had accepted it almost from the start, but... There were days when I just missed you, you know? I mean, something awesome would happen at school or a friend of mine would do something absolutely stupid and I’d want to tell you so bad, but you weren’t there.”

He nods, nuzzles the top of her head.

“So, my mum came up with a system to cheer me up.” She pauses, looks up to face him. “Every time she could see I was getting lost inside my head, she’d just turn on the radio and make me sing the song that was playing at the top of my lungs.”

He grins at her words, tries to picture a seven-year old Y/N, dressed in one of those fuzzy bunny hoodies of hers, dancing around the house like a crazy person.

“And that,” she mumbles as she pulls away and reaches for the stereo, “is what we’re about to do now.”

“Nope. No way.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Kid-”

“Sssh,” she points to the stereo. “Oh my God, this is Tiny Dancer.”

“No way. No frigging way,” Dean grumbles, taking a step backwards, but her eyes widen, and her bottom lip sticks out in that adorable pout that never fails to remind him that he is, indeed, a hot-blooded man.

“D., please.”

“Don’t gimme that look, Bluebell.”

“But-”

“I ain’t dancing to Elton John,” he groans, but she’s not listening.

She’s just swaying to the rhythm, all carelessness and delight, but her expression is stern as she locks eyes with him and brings her hands in front of her mouth like she’s holding a mic, and then-

“Ballerina, you must have seen her,

Dancing in the sand

And now she’s in me.

Always with me.

Tiny dancer in my hand.”

He laughs.

He really can’t help it.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he asks, pulling her to him.

She smiles, and it’s so beautiful it breaks his heart.

He wishes he can always see her smile like that.

“Yes.”

He grins, clasps her hand in his and twirls her around until she’s beaming at him, until her happiness is wrapping around him like a blanket and makes him feel like he’s home.

“But I love you for it,” he whispers when he has her flush against his body again, has her arms wrapped around his middle.

She looks up at him when the words fly out, looks up with eyes that have seen him bleeding and fighting, snapping monsters in two like it’s nothing, eyes that have trailed over him in quiet moments and boisterous nights with awe and tenderness, and squeezes.

And he knows.

She’s more than he’ll ever deserve.

Dean’s twenty-six years old and he has to leave her.

It’s a possibility he’s always considered, a thought that would nag at him at the oddest of moments, in the midst of lazy lovemaking and on sunny mornings with breakfast in bed, or when she was laughing at his jokes in a bathtub full of bubbles, head thrown back in amusement as he tickled her sides and left him feeling bruised and numb because he knew it was more than feasible, knew it was the right thing to do.

His Dad had been right; being with Y/N put a target on her back and, as much as he wants to look past it, he can’t do it.

Not now that the stakes are running high and his life is about to spiral out of control.

So, he breaks her heart.

“You’re quiet,” she whispers, lips brushing against that soft spot on his neck.

They’re standing on the top of the hill, their hill, arms wrapped around each other so soundly that it feels like they’ll fade into nothing if they don’t hold on tight enough.

Maybe they will.

He hopes he can remember this though, hopes he can remember the warmth of her body right next to him and the way they made love the night before, desperate and ardent and slow, bodies moving together in sync over and over and over again until their limbs were sore and their souls sated.

He hopes he can remember how they got dressed afterwards, amidst crisp kisses and loving glances, and drove to all the places that had become theirs over the year; to that little coffee shop with the best waffles Dean had ever tasted and the lake outside Sioux Falls where they’d gone skinny dipping on the full moon, and that drive-in movie theater she loves so much.

And he hopes he can remember this, how she shines next to him right now, how her hair dances with the wind while she watches the colors paint the sky in oranges and reds and blues.

Letting out a deep breath, he tightens his grip around her waist.

“M’ just thinking,” he smiles, but it’s bittersweet. “Do you remember the first time we watched the sunset here?”

She raises a playful eyebrow. “You mean the first time you kissed me?”

A nod.

The tips of his ears turning pink.

“It’s kind of hard to forget that, D. You were a crappy kisser.” Her eyes burn with mischief. “Still are.”

“Oh yeah?” he smirks, lips millimeters away from hers.

“Hmmm…”

He kisses her then, a deep, thorough kiss that makes him feel alive in ways few things in the world still do.

They break apart moments later, but he keeps her close, keeps his forehead braced against hers.

“You know, we were practically still kids back then, but I,” he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, “I was already so fucking in love with you.”

Her lips curl up in a broken smile.

It tears him apart.

“We wasted so much time, didn’t we?”

“Hey,” he cups her jaw with his large hands, “none of that. No tears, remember?”

“I know,” she nuzzles his palm, “m’ sorry.” She clears her throat, tries to pull herself together a bit. “Are you sure I can’t-”

“Yeah,” he answers, voice wavering a bit, “yeah, kid, you got to take care of your mum. And I can’t…” He wipes away her tears with his thumb. “I can’t risk having your blood on my hands. Not yours.”

She swallows hard.

“Okay, just,” she shakes her head, “I love you. I’m always going to love you.”

His heart clenches.

He doesn’t remember the last time he wanted to cry so much.

“M’ always going to love you, too, Bluebell.” He reaches for her hand, laces their fingers together. “You know that.”

“So, come back,” she whispers, and he can see the tiniest glimpse of hope there, just a shred of it, dancing in her eyes. “When this is all over-”

He wants nothing more than to agree with her, wants nothing more than to tell her what she wants to hear, to make plans and wait and hope, but he can’t.

Hunters don’t get happy endings.

“It’s not that easy, sweetheart. Dad says he’s getting close to finding that thing that killed Mum, but this could still take months. Years even. And I can’t-”

“I don’t want easy,” she tells him, and there’s a fire burning in her eyes that hurts him more than any stab wound ever had. “I want you.”

And he can think of about a million reasons why he shouldn’t say yes to this, but when he looks at her, all he sees is the girl he grew up with, the girl that never gave up on him, the one that waited and prayed and loved, expecting nothing in return, and nothing else matters.

“Okay,” he brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses the back of hers sweetly, “someday then.”

He interlocks their pinkies together.

She smiles.

“Someday,” she says, and he nods and holds her.

He holds her for seconds, then moments, then minutes, holds her until her tears seep into his skin and her warmth becomes part of him, until their edges and curves are so interlocked that he thinks he’ll take her with him if he pulls away.

He holds her until he can’t hold her anymore, hoping the memory of it all will prepare him to live in a world without her.

And then, he lets go.

Dean’s thirty-seven years old and he hasn’t talked to her in eleven years.

He’s never meant for it to happen, never meant to let her drift so far away from him, but after he found his Dad, it became evidently clear that things could never go back to the way they used to be, that he could never go back to the man she’d loved, and staying in touch with her, listening to her voice over the phone and texting her in the middle of the night hurt, made him feel hollow and dazed and broken.

So, he stopped.

He stopped, but he didn’t forget about her.

He never forgets about her.

She’s still there in the few quiet moments he gets to himself, moments when he’s too tired or too drunk to pretend he’s okay.

She’s there when he stumbles across that dog-eared copy of The Cat’s Cradle she bought for him years ago, or when his eyes drift to the elephant hair bracelet she gave him on his birthday. She’s in the car with him when Tiny Dancer starts to play on the radio, and wraps herself around him every time he drives by a field of bluebells.

And he knows, knows it deep within his soul, as he stares at that picture of her he’d always kept hidden in his wallet, while Sam and Rowena and Chuck are waiting for him outside to lead him to his death that, he knows that no matter what he said or did, he spent his entire life being in love with her.

He almost calls her then, almost convinces himself that it’s okay to be selfish just this once, to want to hear her voice one last time, but he soon realizes he can’t, he has no right.

So, instead, he reaches for a small box he keeps hidden in his wardrobe, the one he took from Bobby’s house after he died.

It’s filled with mementos of his and Sam’s childhood, little things Bobby kept around the house without really telling anyone.

He looks inside, finds his first baseball bat and a drawing block Sam used to love when he was a kid, but he ignores them, goes for the photo album that’s there. Before he has the chance to open it though, a manila envelope falls to the floor, catching his attention.

His eyes flicker to the messy scribbles that are sprawled across the middle of it.

For Dean.

He unfolds the letter, jaw painfully clenched.

30 May 2012

D,

It’s been so long since the last time we saw each other, hasn’t it? It still surprises me sometimes, how you’re not an active part of my life anymore, how you’re not the first person I call when something good happens or the one that rushes next to me when things go downhill. I’ve tried to get used to it, but there are moments when I listen to the engine of an Impala rumbling outside my house or hear a guy talking about classic rock music and I turn around, half-expecting to see you there, but it’s not you.

It’s never you.

I miss you. I’ve tried not to, and I know reading this will hurt, but I really do miss you. And I think I’m a little drunk right now, so I have no filter. Try to forgive me, okay?

I visited Bobby today. I’m moving back in my old house and I wanted to see how he’s holding up. He doesn’t seem well. I feel terrible for not visiting him more often. Calling’s just not the same, you know? He was glad to see me though. He’s always been such a teddy bear of a man, our Bobby. I hope he knows how much I love him.

We talked a lot. He’s mad I quit my job at LA, but he’s glad I’m back home. I wanted to ask about you, but I was scared. He told me anyway. Said you’ve been better, but I figured that much when I saw you were wanted for mass murder last week. Still, he promised he’ll give you this letter the next time he sees you.

He also told me about those things –Leviathans? They sound pretty awful. I hope you kick Dick’s ass (yeah, I do realize how ridiculous this sentence sounds).

I’ve started hunting. Please, don’t be mad. I know you’ve never wanted that for me, but it makes me feel good, Dean. It makes me feel like I have a purpose. And you trained me so well. I’m terrific at it.

I don’t know if Bobby told you, but my mum died last year. It was quite peaceful. She fell asleep next to me on the couch and never woke up. Maybe it’s better that way. The disease had turned her into a woman she’d never want to be.

She’d remember you sometimes. When her mind wasn’t so foggy, and the meds were doing their work, she’d ask me where my green-eyed prince was. Can you believe she called you a prince? I think her doctor thought I was involved in a royal love triangle or something. And still, she had the nicest things to say about you. She loved you. Always had. I can’t really blame her. It’s impossible for someone not to love you, D. Which is why I’m writing to you.

Do you remember that last evening we spent on the hill?

It’s been years since then, and I’ve met so many people and my life has changed so incredibly much, but I still love you. More than I’d care to admit. More than I can put into words.

When I tell people about you, they all tell me that what we had wasn’t as strong as I deem it to be; that we were just young and naïve and in love. But it wasn’t like that.

What we had was real because, despite what they choose to believe, you are more than a guy I fell in love with. You are my best friend.

You’re the boy that bought me Hershey kisses every time I was sick, the one that let me sleep with him when I had nightmares and gave me my first beer, my first kiss. You’re the guy I still trust with my life and I hope that, someday, you’ll knock on my door again and we’ll pick up right where we left off, just like you promised.

Until then, take care of yourself, D. And, no matter what happens, with the Leviathans or Bobby or anyone else, please, know that you’re a better man than you give yourself credit for. You’ve always been.

PS. I can’t wait for someday to begin.

All my love,

Bluebell

He lets his fingertips trace across the ink on the page.

He’s never felt more defeated.

Dean’s thirty-eight years old and he’s driving.

It’s such a weird feeling, speeding down old country lanes when just a few days ago he was trapped in the middle of nowhere, interrogated by Secret Service like he was the world’s most dangerous criminal, but, honestly, he can’t bring himself to care.

Turning on the radio, he lets the notes of that Elton John song play out, lets them dance into the car and drinks in the memories they carry with them while his eyes drift to his phone, where dozens of text messages are binging through, all capital letters and exclamation marks to establish what he already suspects; his brother’s worried about him.

He can’t blame him.

Even he can’t believe what he’s about to do.

But the endless hours he’d spent in isolation, tracing scars with his mind, thinking back on all the things he could have done differently, on all the people he could have saved, or the friends he’d loved and lost, made him see the one thing he’d been refusing to acknowledge since he found her letter in Bobby’s box; giving her up, not fighting for her, was one of the worst mistakes he’d ever made.

And he has to fix it.

Parking his car a few blocks away from Bobby’s abandoned scrap yard, he gets out and walks down the empty streets, wrapping his leather jacket tighter around himself.

It’s early morning and, even though the blackness of the sky has long begun to fade, he can still see thick, grey clouds dancing above him, pierced only by a few scattered rays of light.

He wonders whether he’s going to make it in time.

He wonders whether another man will answer the door for her.

It wouldn’t be absurd.

It had been years since she wrote that letter and a lifetime since they last talked, really talked to each other. He’s not the twenty-six-year-old boy she remembers anymore, and, maybe, she’s changed, too. Maybe she’s found someone that gives her everything she deserves, someone that hasn’t failed her like he did.

Maybe she’s given up on him.

Yeah, this was a mistake.

He can clearly see it now and, cursing under his breath, he turns around to leave but stops when he catches sight of her garden, of the bluebell wood that’s planted there.

His stomach churns.

He allows himself to think of her, of her sunshine frosted smile and her sparkling laughter, of how bright and radiant and real she’s always been.

He thinks and thinks and thinks, and, before he knows it, he’s knocking on the door.

One, two, three long minutes pass and then-

“Dean?” an all too familiar voice mutters in disbelief.

God, she’s beautiful.

He’s not sure if it’s because he hasn’t seen her in so long, or because her memory had really started to fade from his mind, like sand slipping through someone’s fingers, but he swears she’s more beautiful than he remembers.

He gives her a small, hesitant smile, lets his eyes flicker over her features, from the messy bun she’s got her hair in to her brilliant, tired eyes and the pair of Mickey Mouse pajamas he’s never seen before.

His throat has gone dry.

He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to speak.

“Bluebell,” he swallows, gives her a little nod, “hey.”

He can’t be sure, but he thinks he sees her bottom lip wobbling.

Her brows furrow in a scowl.

“What are you-”

“I know I’m a few years late,” he says, and it’s scraped and brittle and gruff, “and my life’s still fifty shades of crazy, and I’m probably the last person you should get involved with, but I was wondering,” he pauses, lets his eyes lock into hers, “do you want to watch the sunrise?”

The breath hitches in her throat.

When she speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“The sunrise?”

He nods.

“Yeah,” he takes a tentative step forward, “I know the sunset had always been more of our thing, but maybe it’s about time we changed that.”

A moment passes, and nothing happens.

He begins to think that it really is too late, he is too late, but then-

“Yeah.” The most gorgeous smile plays across her face, hopeful and broken and sunny, all at once. “Yeah, I’d love that.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

His eyes drift to her hand, to the way it’s reaching out for his own.

And he knows.

He’s a kid with a broken leg, a teenager falling in love, a man with a heart that’s aching for her, and she?

She’s home.

Always.

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