Chapter Text
Synopsis: Reader is a hunter working with the Winchesters. She’s deeply in love with Dean. And that’s all you need to know.
Word count: 2500
It was quiet. Eerie. A sort of quiet you expected from a hunt. But it was beautiful. You remembered stepping out into the hallway of a large home, bright light spilling through the windows, casting a radiance onto the world before you.
You were clean and dressed as you imagined you might in a home like this. A white sundress hung off your shoulders, your bare feet seeming to carry you through the beige carpeted home. An overwhelming smell came at you as you reached the stairs, beginning the descent, “Bacon… and eggs…” You muttered to yourself as you walked. You had woken in a sort of stupor, unsure of how you got here, but now it felt like home.
Reaching the bottom stair, you peered into the kitchen, watching as a man in a red plaid shirt seemed to be slaving away in the kitchen, humming. You recognized the tune, hearing the telltale Kansas song wafting towards you like the smells in the kitchen.
A smile caressed your lips as you watched the tall man turn towards you, unmistakable green eyes glittering in the morning sun. He was holding a skillet with bacon on it, smiling at you, “I told you I’d bring you breakfast in bed, sunshine. Couldn’t keep away?” He grinned, that grin you loved, etched into the scruff of a chiseled face.
Unsure if this was a dream, you lifted your hand, walking closer, “Dean?”
He laughed a bit, removing the rest of the bacon and placing it onto perfectly arranged plates, “Duh. Should I be worried you were expecting someone else, Y/N?”
He smiled up at you, crookedly, your own face a bit dazed as you shook your head, “No, I uh… I just didn’t… I didn’t expect this.”
He seemed to laugh as you got closer. He placed the hot skillet down onto the stove that had been rendered inert, placing his large hands on your hips, “I promised, remember? Five years is a long time to put up with a dude like me, but you’re a pro. Shouldn’t have expected anything less.” He leaned in and placed a kiss upon your lips, so gentle you wouldn’t have ever known.
The kiss was brief, and sudden, but so full of love. Your body seemed to float, your chest warm as your stomach fluttered. It felt so right. So good. It was unconscious that you had wrapped your arms around his neck, nestling into him, “Dean…” You muttered, half whispering, half praying.
He moved his hands to rub your back gently, “Much as I like where this is going, the food’s gonna get cold if we don’t start to eat it.” You pulled away, the smile on your lips unmistakable. This was paradise, if there ever was one.
Sitting down at the table, set with a small bouquet of lavender (your favorite), you smiled. But something was nagging at you. Looking up, you eyed Dean, “What… what are we doing here? In a house, in the suburbs?”
Dean took a big bite of bacon, smiling as he waited to respond by chewing, “What I promised you, remember? Happiness.” He reached over and rubbed your arm warmly, “Why do you ask? I thought we went over this when we stopped hunting.” The idea of not hunting, especially Dean not hunting, was a powerful thought.
You could only shrug at it, “What could I have possibly done to make you stop hunting?” He gave you a look that made you think that *you* had been the one to go crazy. But he smiled after a moment.
You watched as Dean stood, moving to where you were and crouching by you as you remained seated. He took your hand in his, smiling up at you with his glorious green eyes. You never thought you could feel so warm and so safe with just a look and a touch, but his look and touch made the world suddenly make sense, “Because you showed me that there are some things worth fighting for, even if that fighting isn’t with a gun or a knife. I love you, Y/N. Always. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew. I knew we’d wind up here.” He lifted your hand to his warm lips and kissed your knuckles, wrinkles forming in his eyes as he smiled widely, warmly, the smile you knew to be true and sincere.
Reaching over, you touched his face with your free hand, feeling the rough skin and stubble that seemed to be a part of him at this point. You trailed your fingers up to his hair, the hair you had debated about, ad nauseum, as to whether it was dark blonde or light brown. You could see a few stray white hairs, remembering teasing him about the fact that he was becoming an old man. You felt the laughter from those moments, the joy it had brought into your life.
You remembered when he kissed you, late that night after too much drinking, how he had insisted he was a sober as a judge and how he had tasted like everything you imagined but nothing you could have predicted. You remembered when he told you it was time to stop hunting, because it was time to be happy. You remembered that he told you that you made him happy.
The memories were washing over you in a flood, each filled with such a powerful stab of joy you could almost lose yourself in each memory. And for a moment you did. Closing your eyes, you traced your fingertips along his face, “Dean…” You whispered the words.
Hearing him speak your own name, “Y/N…” It was soft, and warm, a name filled with kindness and with love. You remembered now the way he had worked to get a job on a construction crew and worked part-time at the local hardware store. You thought of teasing him for going off hunting deer and how you had told him his outfit made him look like a goofy redneck. He had teased you in turn by tickling at your sides until you laughed so hard tears formed in your eyes.
Then he said your name again, “Y/N!” It was jarring this time, loud, snapping you for a moment as you opened your eyes and saw his face. He looked scared this time, though, frightened, “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
You looked, confused and shook your head, touching his face again, “Of course… Are you OK?”
His face turned back, as though it were buffering for a moment, smiling again as he watched you, “You drifted off for a second, maybe you should get back to bed. C’mon.”
He stood, holding your hand warmly, smiling as you pushed your seat back. He lead you with warm guidance back through the halls of the home that felt so familiar. You could remember walking through during the open house, whispering ‘This is it, Dean! I know it. I love it.’ He had asked you if it was too small, but you had insisted it was perfect. He had, in turn, insisted you were perfect instead. It had made you smile. He had whispered into your ear, “Anything to make your dreams come true. Anything to make you happy.”
Opening the door to your bedroom, it had looked as you’d always imagined. Dean had, of course, mounted a few of his more favorable weapons. There was an old turntable with some vinyl records of old rock bands lining nearby. Your own collection of posters, a sort of small montage, was mounted by the bed.
The bedroom looked exactly like something no one else would dare to live in except the two of you. It was yours. Even the blankets, a deep purple color he had agreed to because you had insisted, was still unique to the two of you.
You laid down on the bed, Dean sliding in with you as you rested your head on his chest. You could smell him, the faint aroma of bacon mixed with sweat and leather, along with cedar from what he had been working on. He was warm, but not hot. His firm body seemed to protect you. His fingers raised and began to intermingle with your hair, stroking it, “Is this how you imagined our life, Y/N?”
You nodded, wordlessly as you stared at the cieling, glow-in-the-dark stars mapping out your favorite constellations. Somewhere you knew he had done that. He had found Ursa Major and Draco, Orion and Perseus. So many more. You remembered those times, lying on the hood of the Impala, when he had driven you somewhere dark when you couldn’t sleep so you could fall asleep with him, staring at the stars. Staring at the sky.
It was then, sharp as lighting, you heard it again, “Y/N, please! Please wake up!” You turned your head sharply, stunned a bit as Dean was gone. His warmth was gone and you sat up, looking around.
The room had grown darker, the light shining in having dimmed considerably. But you stood, staring out into the backyard, watching now as Dean ran in circles with a gorgeous German Shepherd, playing a game with rope. You smiled as you watched him, placing your hand against the window. But it was cold. Despite the obvious warmth from the home, the window felt cold.
“This is what you always wanted.” The voice was familiar, and you didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.
Tears were dancing at the corners of your eyes as you felt your stomach drop, “I know.” Speaking made it worse, and those tears you thought you could hold back began to slide forward, down over your cheeks.
The voice became a human, a hand resting on your shoulder, “So stay. Be happy. You are happy, are you not?” The accent, Middle Eastern in origin, danced into your ears.
You did want to be happy. And wasn’t this happiness? Dean playing with a dog in your backyard, the history you had dreamed for the two of you, it was real. It was tangible. His taste was still on your lips and you reached up to touch your own, remembering him, “I am… I am happy.”
Were you? You closed your eyes tightly and behind you could see every blissful moment. Sharing secrets and sharing meals, making love in your bed, talking about eventually making a family together. When you were ready. He had promised that he would wait for you, and any time you needed, he would give. He had spent his life fighting, and he had realized it was for this. He had told you that the Dean Winchester you knew, the one that had spent his days killing and surviving alone was not who he wanted to be.
Sam had given his blessing and had kept in close touch. The two of you were going to start a family. Hadn’t he promised that? Hadn’t you teased him that the Dean Winchester you knew could never settle down? You had. And he had smirked and told you that maybe you had superpowers you didn’t know about.
Tears began spilling freely from behind closed eyes as you shook your head, “It isn’t real.” And it wasn’t. That joy, that love, that feeling of warmth in your chest that lit like fire when you saw Dean. And that look he gave you, that crooked grin on his warm features, a smile reserved just for you. A touch reserved just for you. And while you wanted nothing more than to live that way forever, you knew. Just as certainly as you knew what you had to do next.
Without turning, you watched as Dean chased the dog in circles outside, the sadness beginning to swell in your stomach, overtaking the feeling of butterflies and warmth. A cold steel coursed through you as you reached to the side and picked up Dean’s old revolver, still loaded.
You watched him smile and laugh, watched his eyes light up as he looked up at you in the window. And you held a hand up to him, waving, your other hand cocking the gun.
The shot rang out, loud, jarring as you as you shot upwards, woken to the dark reality that was the truth. Tears were warm on your cheeks as you felt light-headed and empty. The world was lifeless and dim, cold. You were in a warehouse, a few bodies hanging limply around you, drained of life. Sam was removing a tube from your arm where your blood had been removed from. Dean was holding you, looking concerned, “Y/N! C’mon, sweetheart, don’t give up yet, OK? I need someone else to nag me about music. Sam can’t do that alone!”
You blinked your eyes a few times, the world clearing, “Djinn, wasn’t it?”
Dean nodded his head, motioning to the side where the creature he had slain was collapsed into a heap, “Yeah, didn’t think we’d be able to get you out. Scared the crap out of us.” A laugh came from your lips, but it was cold and it was empty. It was a laugh for the sake of laughing.
Dean helped you to your feet, your body feeling heavy. You tried to convince yourself it was because you had lost blood, or that it was because you had been through a traumatic ordeal, but you knew better.
Even as you sat in the back of the Impala, driving to your motel room, you saw Sam’s eyes in the mirror, the sadness that reflected back told you that he knew. But Dean didn’t. Dean had only known terror through the eyes of the Djinn, and he had assumed the same for you.
As he helped carry you back inside, letting you rest on the motel room bed, he looked at you as he always had, “So what kind of nightmare did that that jerkoff make you see?”
You contemplated for a minute. The man you loved, who you knew could never give up hunting or admit to loving you, the man who would die in this life the same way he lived. You thought for a moment and closed your eyes, “I saw my life get ripped away.”
You knew Dean could never love you. He could never stop hunting. He would never have a home with you in the suburbs, drinking whiskey, working late and waking up to homemade breakfast. You knew that what he saw was a life of hunting, and if he did love you, he would never be able to do anything more except wish. He would wish for a world where the two of you could be together, because this world wasn’t it.
Because sometimes the worst dreams, the worst nightmares, the worst that we can imagine, is the happiest. Because sometimes, we know that somewhere, happiness just isn’t for us. Sometimes the torture in life is knowing that we may never truly live.