Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean prayed to Her. 

It was all lost, but Dean prayed to Her. It was the last thing he had. Michael was MIA, and wasn’t coming back. Cas was getting more and more human by the day. Sam was-

Gone. 

Dean had to keep reminding himself of that. Sam wasn’t in danger, or need of saving. He was gone. He’d made his choice, and whatever Dean had done—whatever he was—it hadn’t been damn near enough to save him. To stop him. To stop all of this. 

They’d set up camp fairly fast, after everything went to shit. Dean was the leader—a real shit idea, if he was being honest, how the hell was he even supposed to protect these people when he couldn’t protect Her and Sam—and Cas was… A Cas. He’d been useful, to get going. When he still had some angel juice. And he was still useful now, even if he was high half the damn time, and covered in arousal and cum whenever Dean poked his head in without knocking. 

It was good for morale. Everyone needed to let off steam, and after a year and a half of this shit, relaxation was hard to come by. And Dean needed Cas. Without Cas, he had no one. 

No one he cared about, at least. 

He’d have Chuck, whining and worrying in his ear, but that didn’t damn count. 

Chuck wasn’t there to sit with Dean in the dark, and remember. Chuck was sorry about Sam, but he didn’t share the heaviness like Cas did. Chuck hadn’t been there when they got separated from Bobby and Ellen, and Chuck didn’t help Dean burn wood in a mock funeral when they’d gone back in the morning, and found nothing there. Chuck got scared, when Dean got angry. Cas just stood in the corner of the room with a tired expression, and waited for him to calm down. 

There was no use in telling Dean to calm down, and Cas got that. Everything was too goddamn horrible to calm down. 

And Cas had said—a few months into it, after all the lines went down—that he was still carrying enough grace to feel it. 

Feel Her. 

Cas had been cut off from heaven, but She still had enough light and power for Cas to feel Her. Which meant she was alive, and Dean hadn’t lost everything. 

But Cas’ grace faded into only an occasional warning of Croats nearby, and slightly longing stares at the sky Dean always pretended not to see. 

“You miss it?” He’d grunted once, after handling some domestic dispute that got loud enough to disturb everyone else. “Heaven?”

Cas had shaken his head, and let out a long, heavy breath. 

“I miss knowing.” He’d murmured. “I miss… lacking all this fear.”

Dean had nodded, and opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again, because goddamnit, that was a stupid question, but he had to know. He had to, or he might as well just strip away the last bits of foul, festering hope in his body, and accept that this was going to be a long, long dark- 

“I do still feel her, sometimes.” 

Dean had blinked at Cas. “You mean…”

Cas had nodded, and said her name. “If I am close to the earth, I can feel her. As human light pollution fades, I find her in the stars.”

“That’s poetic, man, but-“

“I am not speaking metaphorically, Dean.” Cas had tilted his head up, watching the sky. “I feel her.”

Dean had swallowed. Choked down the hot feeling in his eyes and throat, because he didn’t cry where anyone could see. The camp needed him to be strong. Needed him to never waver. And these people weren’t his friends, they were his Cas, Chuck—somehow, worming his way into being the only other person Dean fully trusted—and his soldier and civilians. Cas had joked softly once, that Dean had accidentally made himself a king. Dean hoped it was the one from Braveheart, who rallied his people then died beside them. 

Maybe not that one. 

That one had lost his whole family—his love—and Dean really didn’t want to draw that parallel.

He’d looked up at the sky more, and Cas was right. 

Light pollution was slowly dying, with the lack of humans to keep it going. The night sky was bigger than Dean had ever known it could be, and every time a new star shimmered into the sky, he wondered if She could see it too. That wherever She was, she could see all the stars, and have the time to watch them. 

Dean hoped She’d come home. Goddamnit, he didn’t cry anymore, but he got real damn close when he thought about it. Her, on the other side of the world, fighting this alone. Dean had failed Her without even being there. He shouldn’t have let Her leave, after Jo. He should’ve stopped Jo from dying at all. He shouldn’t have left Sam, should’ve listened to the voice in his head saying She’d be so damn pissed, to come home and realize they weren’t talking.  

He didn’t care if She was pissed anymore. Dean didn’t care if She came home, and saw how low he’d sunk into the mud, and spat on him. If She looked at the monster he’d become—colder and ruthless, no more jokes because there wasn’t the damn time, no care for pie or Baby or music because they didn’t have the damn time—and realized that under it all, this was what he’d been the whole time. A selfish, brutal man who, without someone ordering him to kill, just ripped through the world with his own, bloodied hands. 

Dean didn’t care if She saw that. If She ran in horror, or never looked at him like he was worth something—he wasn’t—again. 

He just wanted to see Her. To touch Her, for a single second, and make sure she was real. Then She could leave him.

Dean just wanted to know She was okay. 

But months had bled into a year. And time passed, and the camp grew, and Dean remained the crude kind of beast who bit for a pack he didn’t even like that much—but they were people, and what was he for if not to bleed for people—as the hope of Her coming home turned to nothing. 

The Croats couldn’t have gotten Her. Dean was pretty sure She was immune, and Croats were just low-level, mortal demons. 

“Actually, they’re more like, um- Fungi demons?” Chuck had said, when he ran that idea past his council. 

Himself. 

Cas. 

Chuck. 

A wiry guy named Garth, who’d known Bobby and Rufus. 

A chick named Risa who was good with a gun, but also wouldn’t stop trying to get Dean to sleep with her.

She’d scoffed at Chuck. “Fungi demons? Wow, you’re just saying anything-“

“No, Chuck is right about that one.” Garth had shrugged. “They basically have a hive mind. A single desire, to infect. They’re demon adjacent, but it’s all just theory.” Garth had given Dean a pointed look. “If you’d let me get my hands on one, to examine-“

“We could all die.” Dean snapped, looking to Cas. “Say they are fungi demons. Could they crawl their way into an angel?”

“Me, yes. But I am no longer-“

“Why do we care what they do to angel.” Risa had spat. “Those douches never did anything for us. I say let the Croat get them too.”

“No, do not let the Croats get an angel.” Chuck had shifted nervously on his feet. “They’re so powerful, Risa, you don’t understand-“

“I understand. They’re powerful, but not enough to save us.”

“Cas has been trying to save us.” Garth offered, and Risa rolled her eyes. 

“He’s not an angel anymore. Dean.” She’d leaned close. “We don’t need to understand them. Just kill them. You know that,” her finger had come up to trace his arm. “Right?”

Dean hadn’t even been listening, let alone present enough to feel her touch. They probably couldn’t get into angels, because it was a disease. Angels didn’t get sick. Couldn’t get possessed. And Dean had never really questioned it before, but She’d never had an anti-possession tattoo. Never needed it. And he was no scientist, but-

“She couldn’t get infected, Dean.” Cas has said softly, and the whole table had fallen silent. “I doubt the croatoan virus would even recognize her as a viable host.”

Dean had swallowed the lump in his throat, and nodded. Realized Risa’s hand was still on his shoulder. Rubbing in a poor mockery of comfort. 

He’d knocked it away, and not even spared her a glare. 

Back in his tent, he’d decided She was okay. She had to be okay. 

But She still didn’t come home. 

Time kept moving. Dean waited. They started a farm program, at camp, and She would have liked it. Whenever they found a book on a supply run, Dean grabbed it for Her. Just in case. 

Risa’s come-ons got less and less subtle. Dean didn’t miss the way her eyes rolled, whenever She was brought up in a meeting. 

“I don’t get what’s so special about her.” 

Dean froze in the street, and ducked behind a tent as Risa and another lady walked past.

“I mean, I’m here. She’s where? In Europe.” Risa scoffed. “And he’s still obsessed with her.”

“You just need to get him over her.” The other lady hummed, and Dean’s hands curled into fists. “Do it for all of us, Ris, his ass is too hot and commanding to be whining about some dead girl forever.”

They wandered out of earshot, and Dean felt bile in his throat. 

She wasn’t dead. 

He didn’t know what the hell he’d do, if She was dead. He couldn’t die too—people depended on him—but goddamnit, his heart would. It would wither and erode, until he was really nothing more than a machine of defense. It would be a Hell Cas couldn’t pull him out of.

She couldn’t be dead. 

Everything was already gone. Dean couldn’t lose Her too. 

So he prayed. 

He hadn’t prayed since it all started. He’d never really thought to pray to Her, because she wasn’t an angel. She was too good for that. 

But he didn’t have anything left to give. 

So Dean zipped himself in his tent, got on his knees—trying to mimic the people he’d seen in movies—and put his hands together like some sucker. 

“Uh,” he cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut. “If there are any angels on the line, hop off. This one isn’t for you. If there’s, like- A prayer switchboard operator, don’t send this one to heaven.” He said Her name, and his voice was weaker than he wanted it to be. “Patch it through to her.”

He waited, and he wasn’t sure what he was expecting. A copy, go ahead. 

There was only silence. 

So Dean took a ragged breath, and muttered Her name again. 

“Come home.” He whispered. “I don’t know where you are, sweetheart. Don’t know if you’re even still-“ He choked. He couldn’t say that part, or the pit inside of him would eat him alive. “Sorry, uh- I’m just- I need you to come home. I need you to be here,” he rasped Her name. “I need you, Princess, I need you, I can’t fuckin’ stand not knowing if you’re okay, haven’t been able to breathe since you left, and- I don’t even know if you can hear me or I’m just talking to myself, but come home. Please.” He swallowed, hot tears threatening behind his eyes. “Come home.”

He was met with nothing but silence. Nothing but faint, comically cruel crickets, singing in the dark. 

Nothing but a pounding, white-hot pain in his chest. Something to the right of his heart was roaring, thrashing and pushing against his ribcage, and Dean’s vision danced with spots as the pain grew. So larger, he wondered if some angel had gotten annoyed by how damn pathetic he was, and struck him down. Vomit rose in his throat, and something like poison burned over his body, and-

It all vanished. 

But something in the air had shifted. 

It was late fall. The air had been frigid and cold for a while. Dean had spent too much time last week rationing out blankets and firewood for them not to be crawling into winter. 

And yet, it was hot. Sticky and warm, like they’d been dropped into the center of a jungle. The crickets were chirping louder. Dean could swear he heard birds singing, even though it was the dead of night. When Dean pulled away the blankets that made up his floor, the ground wasn’t packed and gray-brown, with frozen dirt. 

It was blooming. The soil looked rich, and fertile, and healthy. 

Somewhere in the center of camp, someone screamed, and Dean snapped out of his odd trance. He grabbed his gun, and booked it out of the tent. Shouldered his way through the crowd, looking for whatever was wrong, ready to shoot or kill or just throw his damn body as a sacrifice to give everyone else time to run. 

But there were no Croats. No bodies. 

Just a strange formation of the earth, that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Vines and flowers and leaves, rising up out of the ground like a strange cocoon. Fireflies—or something like fireflies, because the air near them crackled with electricity—danced around it, the whole world seemed to bend like it had gravity. The trees bowed slightly, and the stars above them shone like diamonds, and the world was Technicolor. 

Dean’s gun slipped from his hands. 

He knew. 

No one else did that. No one else had ever managed to make his heart beat like a war drum. 

No one else made him move like this. Called him so naturally. Cast him into almost a feral trance, as he took one step slowly to the cocoon. 

Then two. 

Then three. 

Then Dean broke into a full-on sprint, and fell to his knees at the cocoon’s side. Someone called his name, but he couldn’t hear it. Didn’t care to try. It was all just noise behind him, anyway. And he only cared about what was in front of him. 

Dean only cared about Her. 

He grabbed at the branches and roots, and ripped them away. Pulled them from the ground in unrelenting desperation. Not caring if he bled, or for the ache of his muscles. Vaguely, he was aware of Cas at his side, pulling aside the vines and tearing through the leaves. Dean would thank him later. Right now, he just had to get through this last barrier. To get Her out. His arms were heavy with exhaustion and he felt like a madman, but he had to get to Her-

Dean pulled aside a thick, spiked vine that somehow managed not to prick him, and made a strangled sound. 

She was there. 

Fast asleep. Safe. Just as beautiful as the last time Dean saw Her. 

The only truly beautiful thing he’d seen, since the world ended. 

Home. 

Dean pulled aside the last branch, and reached out to touch Her. Lightly, in case She shattered, or woke up and screamed. 

But She didn’t. 

She made a soft noise, and leaned into Dean’s hand. 

Something snapped, deep inside him, and a strangled, broken sound tore itself from his throat. 

Dean grabbed Her. Pulled Her out of the earth with a grunt, and let out another choked sob as She curled into his chest. She still fit there, so fucking perfectly. When Dean pressed his face into Her hair, the tears started to slip from his eyes, She still smelled like that strange fruit. 

He clung to Her. He was vaguely aware of Cas shouting orders at people, but Dean didn’t bother to try and help. Cas would make sure She got medical attention, and that no one tried to get Dean to leave Her side. 

They could try. It would be the last thing they did. 

Dean was never going to let anything pull Her from his arms again. 

You can still hear him on the fringes, all the time. 

Sam.

Not Sam. Sam never sounded that cold. Sam had darkness, that lined his purple, but he was still made of the same stars as Dean. He was still made of light. 

But when he’d sneered your name, and said that—if you wanted to have fun—it wasn’t too late to join him, you hadn’t seen Sam.

It had been his body. His face. His shaggy hair and puppy eyes. But he’d been filled with red. Been made of teeth and wings and something glinting, that wasn’t Sam.

There had been nothing left of Sam. You’d abandoned them, and you’d lost Sam. 

And Jo, still tattooed on your fingers. 

You’d looked at Sam and seen Lucifer, but Sam’s voice was still Sam’s voice. Saying Dean was as good as dead, but he’d be merciful and maybe give Dean a nice cage in hell, if you joined him. You’d stabbed him, when he tried to grab you. Your forearm had planted on his neck, to drive the knife properly. When you’d shoved him away, the skin had been covered in purple, like a birthmark. 

A mark of Sam. Whatever was left of him, stuck to you.

You’d looked at your fingers, and only seen Jo in glowing blue. 

You can’t remember much else after that. Just being everything, then warm darkness. Restless sleep, that had pulled you through the world without ever letting you touch any of it. If you close your eyes and focus, you can sort of recall lights and voices and feelings. Over your skin, you can still feel cool, salt water from being the ocean, you’ve tried to shake out your wings a few times, like you’re still a bird in the Amazon. You hear Sam’s voice, and it’s not Sam’s, and you try to scream but then you can hear a million prayers again and you have to cover your ears. You sit near a bed of flowers, and remember Golden hands inspecting them. 

The Silver sits deep in your bones. It doesn’t cooperate anymore. Not enough to make you useful. It was already volatile, when you lost Jo. Since you woke up—since you can’t look at blood, because it reminds you of Lucifer’s red, which reminds you of Sam, which makes you vomit—it’s had the force and consistency of a volcano. 

You can feel it, all the time. Boiling. Bubbling. Waiting for the time to explode.

It will either happen all at once, or not at all. 

You tell Dean that, a few weeks after you wake up, suddenly back home. You say everything you can, and try not to flush and hide under the intensity of his stare. 

“I should go somewhere safe-“

“You’re safe here.” He’d grunted, and you’d sighed. 

“Safe for everyone else, Dean.”

“They’re fine.”

“Right now, but- If I lose it-“

“I won’t let that happen.”

He’d held your gaze, voice low and rough, and you should’ve fought him more. He can’t control the world. Can’t promise something won’t happen—outside of his control—and you won’t lose it. Won’t wipe out half the camp with an explosion, and destroy everything he’s built. You’re a sickness. It’s not wise, to let you through their door. 

But Dean didn’t blink. He’d just stared at you, tired and determined. You’d reached up, and traced over his cheek.

Golden. 

His mouth had parted a little bit, and his hand had shot up. Held you carefully against him, eyes shining with desperation. He’d looked so tired. His hair was longer than you’d ever seen, and his lips were chapped. There was dirt under his nails and more calluses on his hands, and he still felt cleaner than you’d ever been. 

“Stay.” He’d rasped, and been the only clear thing in the world. “Stay here.”

You’d open your mouth, and he’d turned his head. Pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist. 

“I need you, Princess. Please.”

That had been all it took. 

“Okay.” You’d whispered, a hot tear slipping down your cheek. “I- Okay.”

Dean’s shoulders had sagged, and he’d pulled you into a bone-crushing hug. You’d felt his strained sobs, against your neck. 

You’d just held him tighter. 

It took a while to get adjusted, once Dean’s doctors—one woman who’d been a nurse, one guy in the army who’d dated a field medic, and a few textbooks they treated as gospel—decided you weren’t going to die, and probably weren’t going to hurt anyone. 

No one could promise the latter. Dean glared like he was contemplating murder, when the veteran had suggested you might be a danger, but the man wasn’t wrong. Everything was too loud, now. Every color was too sharp, and things that felt like threats—that might be able to hurt you, hurt Dean—were neon. 

Dean moved you into his tent, and you wake up most nights screaming and trying to fight the shadows. When you hear echoes of Sam, you hide in hidden corners with your ears covered, snarling like an animal if people try to get too close. You stare at the sky at night—because He is gone, the Sky is gone, but every time you try to bleed the wound closes and you can swear he’s still there—and spin your knives in your hands wherever you walk. Just in case. Just to make your hands do something, other than scratch at your skin until it’s raw. If someone other than Dean or Cas tries to touch you, you flinch and stumble away. 

You’re trying to protect them. You’re a soul-eater. If they touch you too long, they might be dragged to hell, and the only thing left will be a stain of their soul on your body.

You know you’ve lost your mind. You’re not a fool. You sit in flowerbeds and whisper to the birds when they land outside Dean’s tent. You don’t eat unless you’re told. You don’t help out with much, beside the few sheep and goats the camp had managed to wrangle, and when you do help, you don’t cooperate.

Hannah, the woman who runs the barns, is the only person ever happy to see you outside. She smiles, and tells you to do what you want. 

You know she’s the only person who means it, too. Most of them let you stay in the camp because Dean has ordered them to. 

“Oh. You’re alive.” Risa—a dark-haired woman that Dean trusts, but doesn’t seem to like—gives you a simpering smile. “Whatever. Go scoop Daisy’s shit.”

You blink at her slowly, crossing your arms over your chest. You don’t want to fight. Don’t want to try and argue with her, because her soul is a dark, red-purple that burns like wildfire, and you don’t think you can handle its fury without crying. 

“What the fuck are you just standing there for, go-“

“Hannah said I could do what I want.” You say softly, dropping your eyes to the mud. It was cold and frozen, only a moment ago. It’s melted into something more like river or hot spring mud. One of the baby calves—Toad, who you helped deliver a few weeks after arriving—has wandered over to nose at your pants. 

You reach down, and pet her. 

Risa scoffs. “Don’t you always?”

You flinch a little, at that. She doesn’t get to see you cry. 

“I’m just here to help, and- The cows, you know they like me-“

“Everyone likes you.” She spits, and you just keep petting Toad’s head. “Spoiled little bitch.”

You let out a heavy breath, and let her stalk away.

“Don’t tell him, Cas.”

Cas clears his throat, from where he’d poorly hidden a few feet away. “I thought I was getting better at concealing myself.”

“You are. I just always know.” You look up, and give him a soft smile. 

It’s still strange to see him human. It’s like all his eyes and wings and hands had been shed, and his rainbow had been peeled away. Leaving only electric blue. At first, made of the same shining light Sam and Dean were. Now, as time passes, turning more air-like. A tornado, or a storm. Still strong. 

So human. 

Cas says your name, voice low. “I must tell Dean she spoke to you like that. He will-“

“What, yell at her and make it worse?”

“I believe they should be taught not to treat you like you are a problem,” Cas mutters, eyes searing into you. “You are the only one the cows like, and- Well. The only person here I like. The only one Dean-“

“Cas.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “I- Just don’t. Please.”

Cas pauses, and for a second, you think he’s going to ignore you. He certainly did when you told him to forget Dean’s orders, and stop trailing around after you like a bodyguard. 

But this time, he nods slowly. 

“I will not tell Dean. But-“ He gives you a firm look. “Her words are not the truth. You are very important, to all of it. She is just angry the cows like her less.”

You laugh, barely a breath, and shrug him off. “Go report back, Cas. Good luck with the run.”

“Good luck with the cow shit.”

Cas touches your shoulder gently, before he walks away. You let out a shaking exhale, and watch the cloud of your breath vanish into the air. You’ll busy yourself, with the animals for the afternoon. Just to do something, and not be the useless parasite you know you are. Then you’ll find your way back to the tent, and read until sunset. Wait for Dean.

Stay where the rest of the camp won’t look at you, and not bother to hide their disgust. 

You know what they whisper about you. The crazy bitch who gets special treatment. Dean’s little whore.  The hippy worse than Castiel, who can at least pick up a gun and fight. The girl more nervous than Chuck, who stares at everyone and writes in Enochian. 

You used a journal, before a man named Finn stole it. You think he was trying to prove that you were a demon agent, or just spread rumors about you. But every word had been written in Enochian, and Fin hadn’t been that smart. He’d asked Cas to translate it. Cas had, of course, told Dean. 

Dean looked like he wanted to beat the man to death, but simply settled on permanent construction assignment, for violation of privacy and theft. He’d thought it was too light a sentence. 

Everyone else had just looked at you, and hissed on the wind that you were corrupting him. That their leader was getting soft, for such a stuck-up, weird bitch. 

You don’t blame them. 

If you were stronger, you’d tell Dean he needs to stop acting like you’re not just another one of his people. That he should give you another tent, and an actual job instead of just do what you want, let people distrust you until you prove yourself. 

But, just as always, you’re not stronger. You like being his exception. You like the sheer, undivided attention he gives you, and how it’s only for you. You can’t sleep unless he’s holding you, and you can’t come down from a nightmare without him there. Holding your face and petting your nose. Kissing your brow and making low promises that it’s going to be alright. 

You love him. You’ve never earned him looking at you, like you’re the last miracle that fell from the sky. 

But he does. 

And you don’t know how to just let that go. It would be like asking you to fight gravity, when you’ve already jumped off the cliff. 

So you wait for him. He goes on his supply run, and you curl up in his tent. Comb through one of the books he’d saved from Bobby’s house—even though you don’t remember Bobby ever having this one—and wait for the bell to go off that signals a party’s return. 

You try not to run, to greet him, but you don’t bother to try and freshen up. Your hair hangs over your eyes, and you wear only sweatpants and his t-shirt. You must look like a mad ghost, hanging on the edges of the crowd as everyone welcomes them home. As everyone vies for Dean’s attention, because he’s Dean. 

His voice rises above everyone else's. Barking orders about the food and clothing, drawing closer every second. You can feel a few people shoot you glances, so you turn to stare at them. They look away fast. 

Dean appears, as people start to part around him. 

He only looks at you, his eyes almost luminescent in the dark. 

You smile at him, small and nervous. 

Dean’s face splits into a grin, and he almost sprints the small space between you. Picks you up and spins you around, swaying you back and forth in a tight hug. 

“Dean-“

“Missed you.” He mutters in your ear, already starting to walk you backwards to the tent. 

You can feel everyone’s eyes, as Dean all but herds you away from the crowd.

Right now, you really don’t care.

“You saw me this morning, De.” You murmur, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. 

“That was, like, fifty years ago.”

You giggle. “So dramatic.”

“Only for you.” Dean kisses the top of your head, and you melt a little into his arms. 

That’s true. 

Somehow, even in the end of the world, Dean’s only for you. 

“How was your day, Princess.” He asks, leaning back to watch you carefully.  

“Fine.” You whisper, because the day itself wasn’t amazing. But Dean’s home now. And that cancels out everything else. “I missed you, too.”

Dean’s lips twitch, and his fingers trace lightly over your cheek. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” All the time. 

You love him, and miss him, and need him more than he needs you, all the time. Dean leads a camp of survivors. Of warriors. 

You’re just you. 

Just nothing, and his, and you still haven’t figured out how to tell him. The world is over, but you can’t figure out how to break that final rule, and tell him you love him. If he doesn’t love you back, you’ll lose him forever. And you’ll be nothing, and alone. 

“Well, I’m here now, baby.” He murmurs, mouth ghosting against yours. “And I’ll always come back.”

Baby. I love you, baby. 

He just says it all the time now, when it’s only the two of you. 

And you flush, dropping your face back into his chest. He holds you there. Doesn’t let go. 

"You sure the day was fine?” Dean mutters your name. “‘Cause if anyone gave you shit, I can-“

“I’m good, Dean.” You take his hand, and squeeze it three times. 

I love you. 

“I’m good.”

People don’t know how to whisper. 

Dean thought his men and women were smarter than that. He didn’t expect more loyalty—as long as their unwelcome thoughts on his personal life didn’t affect their respect of him, or their willingness to fight for their people, he didn’t care—but he expected them to know how to gossip. At the very least, how to do it better than a schoolgirl. 

But they were goddamn idiots. And Dean heard every word. He heard them murmuring rumors, about what She and Dean were, during all the raids and supply runs. 

“They sleep together,” George muttered as they all patrolled the woods around camp, and Dean’s teeth felt like they were going to snap. “They share a damn tent, man, of course they’re together-“

“They never kiss.” Naomi hissed back. “And Risa says Dean’s still flirting with her. I think they’re just like- Close.”

Dean barely managed to swallow a laugh. The whole statement was goddamn ridiculous. Risa was cunning, and Dean told her that, but that was the closest he’d ever gotten to a compliment, let alone damn flirting. He didn’t even look at the woman for that long, and he’d stopped tolerating the small touches after She got back. 

“You and Risa seem close.” She’d murmured suddenly one night, and Dean had frowned up from his rations. 

“Me and… Risa.”

She’d nodded, that small furrow on Her brow. 

Dean had cleared his throat. “What makes you think that, Princess.”

“Nothing.”

He’d grunted Her name, and she’d poked at her own food with a frown. 

“Dean, it’s nothing-“

“No, it’s not.” He’d leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “But sweetheart, I can’t help if you don’t tell me.”

“There’s nothing to help.” She’d mumbled, and Dean had just waited. 

When Her eyes had finally darted up to Dean’s, She’d swallowed. Flushed a little, lips forming a small pout. 

“It’s dumb.” 

“Yeah, I bet it is, baby. Tell me.”

“I just- I-“ Her words had been soft. Dean had hung onto them like She was heralding the arrival of paradise. “Risa says you’re close. To her. I heard her talking about it, while I was getting paper, and- She said you’ve been spending nights with her and-“

“Stop there.” Dean grunted, narrowing his eyes. “Princess. Where the hell am I, every damn night.”

Her flush had deepened. “Here.”

“With?”

“Me. But- Dean if you want-“

“No. I don’t.” He couldn’t. Not when he could wait—however long it took—and maybe have Her. “Eat your chicken, Princess.”

She’d frowned. “But-“

“Listen to me.” Dean leaned forward, pressing his brow against Her’s. “Risa and I never even kissed. She’s a good soldier. Decent woman. But I look at her same way I look at Garth. You think I wanna fuck Garth, sweetheart?”

Her breath hitched, and Dean loved it when She looked at him like that. Like he made and razed the world for Her. Like She was half as enchanted by him as Dean was by Her. Like he was a savior, and not just a very tired, bitter man who wanted to do some pretty sinful things to Her. 

Dean muttered Her name, and she shook her head. 

“No.” She breathed out. “I- I don’t.”

"Good.” Dean glanced down to Her mostly untouched food. “Eat.”

She huffed. “I am eating-“

“Not enough.”

“Maybe I’m not hungry, Winchester.”

“Well, let’s have you eat, just to make sure.”

Dean had held Her glare, and sat a little taller when he won, and She took an exaggerated, sullen bite off Her plate. 

“I’m gonna shove this chicken up your butt.” She’d muttered, and Dean had chuckled. 

“Good luck, baby. I got iron clad cheeks.”

She’d made a grumbling sound, and Dean had just watch Her eat with what he was sure was blatant, open adoration. 

Somehow, She never seemed to properly see it, for what it was. 

Love. 

“Stop looking at me.” She shoved his knee with Her own, and Dean shrugged.

“Why the hell would I do that, Princess? No more TV, gotta pass the time somehow.”

“I am not Dr. Sexy-“

“Yeah, you are. But,” Dean scooted around, until they were pressed thigh to thigh, and She was looking up at him with wide eyes. “Just to me. Think you’d be better suited as like, a David Attenborough movie.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Dean, you can’t just- Tell me what you mean-“

“Nah.” He kissed the side of Her head, and She scowled. 

“Tell me-“

“Bossy.” Dean moved his mouth down to Her cheek, and her words died. “Eat your chicken, baby.”

She did, with a flush, and Dean smirked. Watched Her with that same adoration, as She cleared her plate. He’d gotten a little worried She was eating a third of Her rations, and returning the rest to the dining hall. Meena, his cook, had reported a surplus every night for six months. The time She’d been home. 

It had stopped, after Dean started eating with Her. It returned, whenever he was gone overnight for a run. 

For the past two months, since he realized what was happening, Cas had been assigned to eat with Her when Dean couldn’t. And maybe just keep an eye on Her in general. Make sure no one was giving Her shit. Make sure She wasn’t hurting her damn self. 

Overall, the reports were fine. Cas said She was adjusting. Doing a lot of reading, working more and more on the farm, building a pretty strong connection with their small group of kids, who seemed to recognize Her as a safe, glowing fairy-queen of a woman. She’d stopped clawing at Her own throat, and even though she was talking to birds and whispering to Herself about holy rainfall and coming tides, She was alright. 

The months turned into a year, then a year and a half, and Dean really thought She might be okay. They’d be alright, because even in this half-world, they still had each other. 

The only thing that bothered him were the goddamn whispers. 

That somehow, nobody got that She was the most beautiful thing in the world. Jealousy and disapproval from people he only half-respected, Dean could handle. 

Shit talking his girl was a whole other beast. 

They called Her crazy. Spoiled. Weak. A crybaby. A slut. And son of a bitch, they didn’t even the decency to learn how to whisper around Her. 

She pretended She didn’t hear it, or didn’t care. That all of Risa’s spiked comments barely grazed Her skin, and George’s snide remarks about Dean sharing his soft baby doe didn’t make Her face drain of color. 

Dean watched Her smile at them. Watched Her pull herself thin, trying to help in any way She could. The farm turned into learning how to spin the wool, and make the milk. Turned into cooking, and sewing. Turned into managing storage, and working more with the kids. 

Sometimes, Dean would be walking through camp, and see Her sitting in the shade with a bunch of children at Her feet. Talking to them about different animals, or reading a book, or just telling them history with Her siren-like voice gathering a small crowd to listen. 

In those moments, the group of people who hated Her seemed smaller. It eased every day, as the people realized that She really was just a damn miracle, who worked harder than anyone else. 

The only people who still seemed to loathe Her were the soldiers. 

“She can’t even use a fucking gun.” He overheard Risa mutter at a camp bonding night—a bonfire and singing and morale booster, according to Cas—and She went still at his side.

“Princess,” Dean muttered, and She shook her head. 

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t. He needed to make it goddamn clear that they shouldn’t be trash talking their own, whether they thought She was Dean’s slut or not. 

Cas grabbed his arm, and gave him a firm look. 

Not at the bonfire. 

But goddamnit, Risa kept going. 

“I mean, she’s like a housewife. We don’t have space for that here, and- You know, Castiel says she was a formidable hunter before the end.” Risa scoffed. “She doesn’t even let us kill the cattle anymore, because it makes her cry. Sweet little princess couldn’t handle a Croat if it was lying down in front of her, begging to be shot.”

Dean keeps his gaze locked ahead, muscles twitching. He’d just have to turn around. Just have to sock Risa in her righteous, pathetic face-

She squeezed his hand three times. 

Not telling him. Reminding him. 

They had each other. Everything was fine. 

Dean let out a slow breath, and kissed the top of Her head. 

The rest of the night passed slowly. Dean made the rounds, because Cas said his presence lifted them all up. He was pretty sure that wasn’t damn true at all. If Dean had to bet money, it would be on Her. It would always be on Her. She smiled at people and made soft jokes, staying pressed to Dean’s side and flushing whenever the conversation shifted to Her. 

As people warmed up, they became more and more interested in Her. They asked questions about Her. Her and Dean. Her and Cas. Her and Bobby, who’d become sort of a folk hero. 

Dean allowed that one, because it only made Her a little softer-voiced and glossy-eyed. She was always happy to talk about Bobby. Dean was pretty sure She was convinced he was still alive out there, and he didn’t have the heart to hit Her with the reality of it all. 

The only thing people never asked Her about was Sam and Jo. They were strictly off-limits, no matter how much everyone wanted to know. 

Some of them never asked anything at all.

Some, namely Chuck, only stared. Lingered on the edge of the crowd, and watched Her like he was looking at a fallen star. Dean didn’t love it. He couldn’t threaten Chuck over looking. Couldn’t blame him, either. She had a fairytale kind of face. She was a star, but not one that had fallen. Just one that had chosen to settle in the mud with the rest of them. 

So Dean let Chuck stare. Stayed close, whenever he tried to strike up a stumbling conversation with Her, and She stared at him like he was an odd-looking frog. 

“Have I met Chuck before?” She asked later that night, fingers combing through Dean’s hair. 

She cut it, now. She’d made a soft joke about him keeping the longer hair. About how it suited him. 

For that, he’d thought about it. The only reason he hadn’t was the practicality and safety of shorter hair. 

Plus the bonus of sitting before Her, and feeling Her fingers scratch over his scalp. Couldn’t get much better than that. 

“Not sure.” Dean muttered, leaning back into Her. “Why? He giving you trouble-“

“No.” She said quickly. “No, it’s just- Whenever I talk to him. I could swear I know him. Like- It’s foggy.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Never mind.”

Dean opened his mouth to push a little more—She wouldn’t have brought it up, if it wasn’t important—but She kept going before he could have the chance. 

“Can I come with you? On the next supply run?”

Dean’s blood went cold. “No.”

“But-“

“No.”

“Dean-“

“No.” He snapped, turning to glare at Her. “I’m your leader, sweetheart, and I’m tellin’ you no.”

She snorted, crossing Her arms over her chest. “Oh, you’re my leader now?”

“I’m the camp leader, you’re in the camp, that makes me-“

“My leader.” She rolled Her eyes, and Dean shouldn’t feel his pants tighten at Her tone. 

He wanted to kiss Her, real damn bad. Make Her say that, but maybe more breathy, or just as bratty, but soft and molded below him. Wrestling on the ground as they both moaned. 

“You gonna tell me what to do, Dean?” She glared at him, and Dean narrowed his eyes. 

“Yeah, maybe I am.” He reached up, grabbing Her hip. “I told you, I’m the leader, no going on the raid.”

“And what would you do if I did?” 

“I’d- Son of a bitch, sweetheart, it’s not safe out there-“

“It is for me.” She gave him a pointed look. “The Croats won’t attack me, Dean. You know that.”

Dean swallowed. She didn’t waver. 

He loved all of Her. Every single bit. The softness that She had, the way he’d felt like She gave more light to life than the damn Sun. 

But he’d missed this side, just as much as he loved the softness. 

Missed how stubborn She could be. How bossy and demanding and powerful, the whole world—Dean included—almost bending into Her. How smart Her mouth got, how fucking hot She was when she was pissed at him. 

“I thought we were partners, Dean.” She said, and he almost laughed. 

She had him by the throat. 

He wouldn’t want it any other way. 

“You’ll have to listen to me, in the field.” Dean said, watching Her carefully. “At least pretend you think I know what I’m doing.”

“I do think that-“

“Ah.” Dean raised his hand, and She fell silent. “You gonna listen to me, Princess?” And then, because She looked like a wild animal and he was driving himself out of his mind with desire, added, “Gonna be a good girl?”

She flushed the prettiest fucking color he’d ever seen, lips parting and breath hitching. 

Dean smirked, drawling Her name, and She narrowed her eyes.

“Fine. Turn around.” 

She started to move him back around, to get access to his hair. Dean chuckled, and caught Her hand. Kissed Her knuckles. 

He’d keep Her safe. 

If She had to do this, Dean was going to keep Her safe. 

And it goes like this. 

You go on one raid. A test raid, Dean calls it. With him always at your side, and everyone shooting you glares the whole time. Like they know you don’t belong. 

And you don’t. 

Just not in the way they think. 

You are not the soft little lamb they seemed to have painted you as. You wish you were. That the test ended with you crying in Dean’s arms on the way back to camp, and they all just kept sneering about how weak you are, for the rest of time. 

But you’re not weak. 

You’re the sickness. 

Somewhere, during the raid, Croats flood the abandoned Kmart that had a power generator, that Dean heard was still stocked with rare perishables. They go right past you, like you don’t even exist. One goes for some asshole named George, who’s always acting like you’re some docile, pretty thing Dean refuses to share. 

Dean, because he’s a good man, shoots the Croat down before it can sink its teeth into George’s neck. 

But it distracts him. And another Croat runs for him. Risa raises her gun, and misses. 

The Croat tackles Dean. 

The rush kicks in. It’s just fast enough to handle everything before the Silver explodes. 

It’s all just a blur of metal and blood, until it’s not. Until you’re breathing raggedly, standing in the center of the Kmart, drenched in blood with twelve dead Croats at your feet. 

Then, you do start crying. 

But only because of the blood, red like Lucifer, and how it’s stained over the splotch of Sam on your forearm. Only because one of the Croats, at its angle on the ground, sort of looks like Jo. 

Only because it takes Dean a second too long to get up, with a grunt. 

He soothes you, right there in the center of the Kmart. His thumb runs down your nose, and he talks like you’re the only two people in the world. 

“It’s okay, Princess.” He murmurs. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I- I-“ You hiccup, shaking your head. “Dean- I- Can’t-“ Your gaze falls to the blood on the floor, and you let out a horrible, broken sound. “Sam.”

Dean lets out a heavy breath, but kisses your forehead.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He leads you back outside. Nobody—not even Risa or George—mentions your meltdown.

But you come out of the raid with the largest haul in—according to Cas—ever.

You still, mostly, stay in the camp. Dean doesn’t seem to want to pull you unless he has to. Whenever he does, it’s with a mumbled Cas and Garth made me, and a small, extra gift of apology. 

Because he’s been bringing you gifts. 

The whispers slowly die, and the world is ending but life continues. The cattle herd grows. Risa finds a chicken coop, and gives it to you with a reluctant, sour expression. Dean comes home from every run he does without you, bearing a gift. 

Sometimes it’s candy. Sometimes it’s books, or pencils. Rarely—but as often as the world can manage—it’s ingredients. 

For magic. 

Only three people in the camp—beside you and Dean—know exactly what you are. 

Cas, Chuck, and Garth, because he walked in on you designing croatoan wards. 

If people have noticed, the way Croat sightings near camp have gone down, and how the water in the river is now always clean, they’ve chalked it up to summer. When the winter comes, and it continues—along with fires that burn longer, and new cabins Dean’s been building that never really seem to get cold—it’s Dean and his excellent leadership. 

“We should tell them.” He mutters one night. 

You’re curled between his legs, reading and making notes in the margins. He’s been playing with your hair, and trying to read over your shoulder, before obviously giving up and trying to distract you. “I don’t want to.”

“But- You’re making life safe, baby. They should know it’s you-“

“They’ll be weird, De. They won’t believe us, or- They’ll get weird.”

Start to act like you’re a miracle, instead of just a beast who’s trying to apologize. Who’s trying to fight for them, instead of tearing them apart. 

Dean sighs, and gives up. 

He kisses your neck, though. Soft and sweet, his hand splaying over your stomach. He’s been doing that more lately, but it never goes beyond this. Kissing. Holding. 

Neither of you speak about it. There’s no need to. It would be like talking about the air, and how strange it is that you have to breathe it. Dean is kissing you because that’s what he does. You’re wiggling further into his arms because that’s what you do. 

Everyone knows it. None of them speak about it, either. At least not lately. 

Risa doesn’t hit on him anymore. None of them question your place, as you claw your way to proving yourself, over and over. 

So you never speak about it. 

Dean keeps leading. You keep working on anything you can to help. Keep the animals safe, ward off foxes. Keep the children healthy, make small, miracle cures that nobody sees you slip into the water supply. Organize all the books Dean brings you, and start a small library. 

Try to work on a cure, for the Croats. Dean thinks it’s pointless. You tell him there’s always another way. That it might take a while, with your lack of resources, but you can do it. You have to do it. 

He just sighs, and kisses your nose. 

“Okay, baby.” He murmurs. “Whatever you want.”

You smile, and keep working. On all of it. The cure, the farm, the order you’ve given the soldiers to actually start bringing any book they see back, so everyone can start to learn things again. You even talk Dean—who had a strict, only-what’s-necessary policy—into maybe letting people do supervised drinking and drugs. 

That one’s a popular choice. You’ve never seen Cas high before. It’s kind of amazing. 

You’ve never seen Dean high, either. 

It’s sort of the best thing in the whole world. 

“You are…” He turns his head in your lap, pressing his face against your stomach. “Everything.”

You laugh softly, combing your fingers through his hair. “Yeah? I’m everything?”

“Yes. The stars, and ocean. Bird. Good songs. Green things.”

“Green things?”

“Made of leaves.” He mumbles, broad hands wandering up and down the base of your spine. “Sometimes got colors. See ‘em in the woods.”

You giggle. “Plants?”

“Yeah. You’re a plant to me, Princess.” He nuzzles further into you. “And the Sun.”

You flush slightly. 

He’s very close to your core. His lips keep brushing over the crotch in your pants.

You feel sort of dizzy. Might be a secondhand high.

“You’re everything to me too.” You whisper, and he laughs. 

He fucking laughs. 

“What’s so funny, Winchester-“

“Nothin’. I’m-“ He chuckles. “You’re more, to me.”

You frown. “No. You’re- Dean-“

“You’re my stars.” He rolls back over, taking your face between his big hands. 

Your breath catches. “You said that already, De.”

“Ah. Well.” He gives you a boyish smile. “You’re my Juliet.”

“That play is a tragedy-“

“You’re my Daphne.” He hums, thumb tracing over your cheekbone. “You’re my sunshine, you’re my Ramble On, you’re my Marion, you’re my Catwoman and my Helen and my Eurydice.”

Tears prick at your eyes. “Eurydice?”

“Know you like that story.” He mutters. “Read it. Like knowin’ what you like.” He yawns, wrapping back around you. “Love you.”

Your heart stops. 

He said it. 

Neither of you are supposed to say it. The world should end. The Sky should fall, and swallow you whole. Something horrible should happen, because you should not be loved.

But the world can’t get any more ended.

Dean passes out in your arms. You let the tears fall.

He loves you. He said it so simply. So easily. And you don’t know how to live with that in a way that counts. 

You can’t say it back. It just keeps getting caught in your throat, even when you try to scream it. Like something just won’t let you. 

But Dean loves you. 

He loves you. 

You lie down and smile at the ceiling.

Dean loves you.

You’re nothing good. 

He loves you. 

And really, that’s all you fucking need. 

He did something stupid. 

They’d been out on a raid. Dean thought it would be a milk run, so he’d told Her to stay home. They wouldn’t need Her, and he never wanted her in the field unless it was absolutely necessary. 

It hadn’t been a milk run. 

They’d gotten jumped by a horde of Croats, and barely managed to get out. No supplies, but, at least, no one bitten. 

But Chuck dragged his damn feet. And they got jumped again. 

Dean was out of bullets.

He threw himself in the way instead.

And the world went black. 

In the dark, some part of him was able to hope. That if he’d gotten infected, Cas would know better than to take him home. That he’d get shot in the head, and She’d never have to see him like that. Dean had a feeling—though he didn’t care to dwell on what it meant—that if they got him back to Her, she’d refuse to let them kill him. He’d turn, and even if he didn’t hurt Her, he’d hurt someone.

And She’d have to kill him anyway. 

So son of a bitch, Cas better have put that bullet in his brain. If he was waking up, it should be in Heaven, where he could find God. Chew him out properly for abandoning Earth, maybe give Michael a shiner for doing the same. 

Wait for Her, and hope he waited a long time. 

But it didn’t get to be that easy. 

Dean woke up, not dead. Not in heaven. 

In their makeshift hospital, with the softest blankets, and best bleach no money could buy. 

He blinked, eyes adjusting to the low light, and reached up to touch an ache on his neck. 

No bite mark. He didn’t feel more violent than usual. No strange cravings for flesh. 

Just the warmth of the blanket, and security of Her hand in his. 

Her hand.

She was there. 

Dean watched Her for a moment. She’d pulled up a chair to his bedside, and fallen asleep with Her face pressed to his thigh. Her hair was a mess. There was drool running from Her parted lips, and exhaustion painted all over Her face. Dean started to check his watch, then realized that was the hand She was holding. And he wasn’t going to wake Her up for anything. 

He just watched Her. Beautiful. 

There. For him.

“Oh, you’re-“

“Shh.” Dean glared at Iris, their best ‘doctor’, and she flinched. 

“Sorry,” she dropped her voice, glancing to Her sleeping form. “Um- Just wanted to check on you. You didn’t get any bites, somehow, but you got scratched up bad, Dean. You need a lot of rest, before you-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll sit on my ass for a week, if it makes you happy.” He didn’t care what made Iris happy. He had a feeling She’d handcuff him to a chair if he tried to go back on a raid. “Can you bring her a blanket?”

Iris nodded nervously, and scrambled away. Returned with a knit blanket, and tossed it over Her body before retreating once more. 

“Um-“ She pause in the doorway, watching Dean carefully as she said Her name. “She hasn’t left, since you got back. Castiel and Chuck tried to make her, but she gave them some very… graphic threats.”

Dean nodded, turning their hands slowly. Running his thumb over Her knuckles. “Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Alright. Dismissed.”

Iris shuffled away, and Dean smiled at Her. 

Christ, he loved Her.  

He waited for Her to wake up. People visited, checking in and asking for direction, and his only order was that they keep it the hell down. Somehow, despite the constant flow—and Chuck accidentally bumping against Her, twice—She stayed peacefully asleep until sunrise.

“Dean?” She mumbled, before letting out a loud yawn. “I’m- Dean-“

“Hey, Princess.”

Her eyes shot open, and Dean grinned at Her. He opened his mouth, to say something witty and cool and smooth. 

She tackled him, face pressed into his neck, body shaking with sobs. Dean sighed, and just held Her back. Hummed low and deep, as he rubbed Her spine, and waited for her to tire herself out. 

“You- You-“ She took a ragged breath, words hot against his skin. “You said it would be a milk run.”

“Yeah, well, we got jumped-“

“Then don’t.”

He rasped out a laugh. “Don’t get jumped?”

She nodded, arms in a strangling grip around his neck, and Dean kissed the side of Her head.

“Alright. Next time, I’ll tell them we’re closed for jumping business.” Dean paused. “How long you been here, sweetheart?”

“Since you got home.” She mumbled, and Dean had known that. 

He just wanted to hear Her say it. 

“Yeah? You worried about me?”

Dean meant it as a joke. Maybe to get Her to relax, giggle and roll Her eyes. 

Instead She just nodded, words soft against his skin. “Yes. Please don’t die.”

He swallowed, muttering Her name, and she shook Her head.

“I- I can’t- I can’t if I lose you, Dean. I can’t.” She leaned up and wiped Her nose with her sleeve. 

Dean could see it, on Her face. For the first time, after wondering if he was just seeing what he wanted, Dean couldn’t hide from it. 

She needed him. Just as much as She needed him.

Maybe a little less, because the tree didn’t need one leaf.

But goddamnit Dean wanted to be Her favorite leaf. The one She adored, the one she grew higher and healthier for.

“You can’t lose me.” He murmured, and She sniffed, but nodded. 

She believed him. Which was good, because She couldn’t.

And for a while—at least the past year—it’s felt like Dean couldn’t lose her either.

He hasn’t wanted to say it. There’s been too much to lose. The old fear, from before the world ended, that he’d say it wrong and ruin everything. The even older fear, that She didn’t feel it back. The way She’d been so fragile, when She returned, and Dean hadn’t wanted to freak Her out with more. It’s hard to tell the woman you love that you’d die for Her, when she’s mourning everyone and telling ghost stories to the squirrels. When you’re not sure you’re going to see the morning. 

So Dean had kept it to himself. He whispered that he loved Her in the dark. He kissed Her, and didn’t even question when that had started again.

And sometimes they’d get hot and heavy. Once, his fingers had ended up between Her thighs, after a rough mission. Another time he’d been wound so tight he shouted at Cas about being a Fleetwood Mac loving Woodstock pixie—he didn’t even knew what that meant, he’d just been pissed—and She’d crawled into his lap. Straddled him. Touched him, until he couldn’t remember how to be mad at anything at all. 

Then She’d made him apologize to Cas in the morning, and he had. 

After, they’d gone back to their cabin, and Dean had pinned Her to the floor. Dragged Her legs apart, and pressed his mouth against Her slick, hot core. 

Eventually, She’d whispered to him that she’d never done anything before him. 

Dean had gone out for a five hour walk—trying to work out if some angel had been play a very cruel, four year trick on him—then marched back to their tent, and done something about it. They didn’t have time, for him to waste pussying around about morality and what if. He took care of Her like he loved Her, because he did. 

He just never had the balls—never had the resolve—to say it out loud. The words didn’t come easy, until they did. 

Suddenly, things changed. Dean wasn’t really sure what. Maybe it was the near death, or the way he’d been able to see all his own devotion, mirrored back on Her face. Maybe it was how everything had, so strangely, settled. The world was still over. Dean didn’t ever see that changing, not when the angels had given up on them. 

But he had Her. And that, at the very least, made him happy to sit in this dark. 

He rolled over one morning, before light had even started to leak through the windows of their cabin.

It was a kind of peace he’d never known before. Even in his thirty years before the apocalypse. This cabin really was their’s, because She’d decorated it with old posters and a woven carpet—She’d taken up weaving, to pass time, and there really wasn’t anything she couldn’t do—as well as a shelf for Her books and a mock pool table She’d had the carpenters make for Dean’s last birthday.

Even in the morning, She seemed to make Her own light.

He watched Her for a while, like at the beginning. When he hadn’t been sure any of this was real. 

He was sure now. 

She was real. 

And his. 

She slowly woke up, blinking bright eyes awake, that found Dean like magnets. He smiled at Her, tracing over her features with light hands. She hummed, and leaned into him. 

“Dean.” She mumbled, and the way She said it had always been something different. It didn’t make him feel like Dean, the weapon, the warrior, the hunter, the brute. 

It made him feel like Dean.

Her’s. 

“Morning, Princess.” He said softly, and She hummed. Turned into his touch. 

Hair shining, eyes fluttering. Voice calling him down, when he did have to get up soon. 

“I love you.”

Dean said it before he could think about it, and She froze. 

Opened Her eyes slowly, staring at him. Her fingers curled on his chest. Her mouth fell open and moved like She was trying to say something, but couldn’t work out how. 

“I love you,” Dean said Her name, pressing his brow against Her’s. Letting himself get lost in Her, for one moment. “Loved you for longer than I can work out. Gonna love you until I die. I- Just love you. Like, a dumb amount.” He laughed, not a big fan of how quiet She was. “So, uh- Yeah. Love you, Princess. Just so you know.”

She took a deep breath, and nodded slowly. 

“I know, Dean.” She smiled at him, lips ghosting over his. “I know. Me- Me too.”

Dean grinned, and pressed his lips firmly over Her’s. She melted into him, and didn’t say it back. Not really. 

But Her too. She loved him, too. 

“All the way down.” He muttered, somewhere in the warmth of Her body. “Love you, all the way down.”

She nodded against him, and pressed Her face into his neck. “All the way down.”

There’s a light. 

Dean doesn’t believe in it. You know he doesn’t. People say he’s gotten better, in the years since you came back. Cas has said that losing you and Sam and Bobby all at once, he’d been pretty sure Dean was either going to take himself out by spring, or turn into a version of the man neither of you recognized. 

And you think you would have loved that man. 

You love all of him. Even the angry, darker parts. They’re still Golden. They’re still made of Dean, and he’s something righteous and loyal and so good. 

But he still doesn’t see the light. 

He’s practical like that. Always has been. Do the job, do it well—which often meant do it, for everyone’s safety, save for often his own—and keep it all together. Back on the moroi case, he’d tried to stop you from going in on the whim that maybe, you’d succeed.

But you always succeed. You’re good at your job. You get through it. 

You always get through it. 

So there’s a light, at the end of this. 

And you’re going to get out into its warmth. Into the other side. 

You try to wait up. You’re too excited to sleep. You’re holding the stuffed dragon he found for you—just a few months back, a birthday gift that came about six months too early—and rocking back and forth on the ground. Scanning over your notes, making sure you’ve got it. Making sure you’re not going to present him hope, only for it to wither and die because you made a mistake.

You didn’t. 

Everything lines up. You’ll have Cas check in the morning, but you’re sure. 

You made a cure. 

And you want to tell Dean now. Need to. But he’s gone, later than he said he’d be. Late enough that you start to worry, and wander out to check for news. There is none, but you’ll be the first person they tell when there is. You always are.

The tent is too big, without Dean. He took Cas on the raid, so you can’t go bother him. Garth, too. 

Chuck is still here, but you don’t like talking to him. You never have. Something has always felt off. 

His soul is white. Pure white, and made of mist. There’s no one else who can see it, and if Cas thought it was strange—before he lost his soul-vision—he didn’t think it was worth mentioning.

Chuck stares, too. Mostly at you. Enough that both you and Dean have noticed it. 

Dean wanted to confront him, after two years of it. You’d wrapped yourself around him, until he’d settled, and calmed down. It was strange, but harmless. 

You still didn’t want to hang out with him, though. 

So you just lay on your back, and waited for Dean.

The minutes crept on. You sang to yourself, and re-read the book you’d finished last night, and—eventually, when your eyes were getting heavy and morning was breaking—feel into peaceful, easy darkness. 

You wake up to the strong smell of cinnamon and grass. Large arms around your torso, and lips grazing your neck. 

“Dean.” You murmur, and he kisses behind your ear. 

“Sorry, baby.” His lips move to under your jaw. “Place had more stuff than we thought. Took a while to get it all back.”

You nod, settling fully into his arms. “Everyone safe?”

“Yeah. Nothin’ interesting.” He pauses. “Timmy on watch said you were up ‘round midnight.”

“Got worried.” You mumble. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Anything I gotta worry about? Or just…”

Dean trails off and you sigh. You know what he’s asking. If the nightmares have gotten worse again, or if they’re… The same. The kind that never goes away. That you might have to live with, for the rest of your life. 

Might.

You could fix it all. And it wouldn’t cure the nightmares, but they’d never get worse. 

Nothing would ever get worse. 

“Dean?”

He grunts, and you swallow. 

“Do you- In another life. Where none of this happened. What would we be?”

He’s silent for a moment, and your skin itches as you wait. When he answers, his words are slow. 

“You and me? In, what? An apple pie, normal life?”

You nod, and Dean lets out a hot breath.

“Princess. You’re gonna hurt yourself, thinking about what if-“

“Just entertain me, De.” You roll over, meeting his gaze. “Please.”

Dean’s eyes flash in the dark, and his hand curls on your spine. 

“Fine. I- I dunno. Think we’d find each other, and- Get married. Have kids, or- A dog.” He pauses, watching your reaction. “Two dogs? A cat-“

“I don’t want you to give the answer that you think I want, Dean.” You murmur, playing with the fabric of his shirt. “What would you want?”

“I don’t.”

“Dean-“

“No, I don’t.” He gives you a firm look. “I don’t wanna think about what ifs, sweetheart, ‘cause I know that as screwed up as things are now, least I got this.” He kisses your nose. “Least I got you, and we got each other. Any other choice, I mess that up. So I don’t want. I have, Princess.” He lets out a slow breath. “I have you.”

You drop your face into his chest, a lump formed in your throat. “You’re so cheesy.”

“You love me.” 

“Yeah, I do.”

Dean chuckles, because it’s the same half-answer you give him every time. He never pushes for the full one. 

He’s too patient with you. You could never deserve it.

So you’ll tell him about the cure in the morning. When you’re sure it works, because you’ve tested it. When you can bring it to him, and say look, Dean. 

We can have both. 

Tonight, you just kiss him. Soft and slow. 

And, through the light, you find a way to say it. 

“I love you.”

Dean freezes. His fingers dig into your hips, and he leans up slowly. 

You smile at him. There’s nothing else for you to do. 

“I love you, Dean.” You say it again, just to make sure he hears. “It’s you and me. All the way down.”

Dean nods slowly, seeming to not have the words, and kisses you like he’s been starved. Like he’d never gotten to kiss you before, never been sure if he was really kissing you at all, and now he needs to fuse your mouths together, just to be sure. 

You kiss him back. Wrap your legs around his torso, and give him whatever he asks for. A hand, pressing between your thighs. Fingers curling inside your dripping cunt. A fistful of hair, as you crawl down his body and take him in your mouth. A gag, when he presses against the back of your throat, and moan when you choke on him. Smiling and relaxing, as his thumb rubs tights circles on your clit, and he slides into you. A scream of his name, when he drives into you hard enough that you see stars. 

I love you. 

You whisper it a million more times, between sweating skin and soft moans into each other’s mouths. 

It’s the last thing you say, before you fall asleep. Safe and warm, in Dean’s arms. 

You wake up, and he’s gone. 

It’s all gone. 

And there’s light, but it’s cold. 

You’re not home. You’re not with Dean. You’re in a strange, large, marble room. A bedroom, where the sheets are so cool and silken, they just feel like clouds. You stumble to the massive, glossy doors, and try to turn the golden handle. It doesn’t budge. 

You shake it. Pound on it. Scream. 

Nobody arrives. You dig your nails into your palm and scratch at your skin, but you don’t wake up. You call for Dean, and you’re answered by silence.

You’re alone. 

You’re trapped, and alone, and when you stare at your palms, Dean’s Gold is already starting to sink into your bones.

This time when you scream, you explode. With everything. You are the beginning, and the end, but nothing in the room. Just yourself, bigger than you know how to handle. And you’re trying to tear through the world—to get back to Dean—but you keep slamming into something. A wall, or barrier. 

Keeping you here. Keeping you you. 

The Silver builds so high you think it’s never going to come down, then collapse back into you. The world is blurry. You can’t really breathe. 

You’re not wearing the clothing you went to bed in.

You stumble to the bathroom, and vomit into the polished basin. 

Dean will find you. It has to be repeated, like a mantra. Your hand wraps around your throat but your breathing slows, because Dean will find you. He always does. You always return to each other, so Dean will find you.

You can swear you hear him calling. Pulling at something to the right of your heart, and calling you home. 

He’ll find you.

Eventually, you stand. Wander back into the bedroom—like the ghost you’d been at the start—and over to one of the massive windows. 

You’re in some sort of manor. So large, it seems to sprawl to the horizon. Built around beautiful, hanging gardens. Clean and neat, everything put together like a picture, or painting, or story. One of the ones Bobby gave you as a kid. The ones that always had happy endings, because he thought you needed them. 

All perfect. 

Too perfect. 

You walk through the whole room, because there has to be some hint of where you are. Something that will tell you how to get out. You comb the whole room, trying to at least figure out how you went to sleep in Dean’s arms—fuck, he’s going to be furious, he’s going to rip himself apart, and if he hasn’t kept himself in one piece for when you get home, you’re going to kill him—and woke up in this strange, creepy mansion like something out of American Psycho. 

But there’s nothing. It’s all just… clean.

You return to the bed, and flop on your back. Wrap your arms around your stomach, and take a ragged breath. You’ll get through it. You always get through it. Dean will find you, and you always get through it-

You flip over, to muffle your tears in the pillow.

And your hands brush against paper. 

A note. 

I don’t like admitting failure. I try not to. I don’t fail. But this didn’t go how it should have. None of it did.

And I will make sure it won’t. 

Dean will fix it, for us. Mostly you, but also me. He does not know he is fixing it, but he will, in your name. And I will be able to set everything back to its place. That’s the good news. The bad news is that I can’t have you there, when Past Dean comes to visit. It would be very bad, for reasons this version of you doesn’t understand, but the other one will. 

One day. 

You will understand, one day. Why I have done all this. That, like Dean, I do it in your name. 

The only difference, though, is that with me, you will have everything you want. I promise. This is for the best. 

Just wait here, while I fix it. 

I’ll be home soon.

Dean prays to Her. 

Every day, he prays to Her. He’d searched everywhere, and ripped the camp apart, and shouted until his voice was hoarse, and prayed. It was all he did. 

Scream at the sky again, and pray to Her. 

But this time, he wasn’t lucky. This time, She didn’t appear in the Earth, and Dean didn’t get to pull Her from some great sleep. 

This time, he just had someone he had to find. Someone to kill. 

Lucifer. 

There was no other explanation. She hadn’t just left, because all Her knives were still in their tent, there was no supplies missing, and no guards saw Her go.

And She wouldn’t. 

She might have before, but She wouldn’t now. Wouldn’t just leave him, for no reason. Without a tearful apology. Hell, She would’ve have ever managed to get out of bed without waking him up. 

So it had to be Lucifer. 

And Dean was back on the rampage he’d been lost in at the start. The one that had slowly waned, as it didn’t become only about survival.

He’d find Lucifer. Split his skull open. 

Pray that he could give some demon loose lips, and bring Her home. 

He feels it. Himself, slipping back into a hollow, machine of a man. He will keep his people alive, until the only person left who’s made of Life—real, bright Life—comes home. He will do whatever he has to. Dean will fight, and hope there’s still enough left of him for Her to love, when it’s done. 

A few months after She vanished, he gets a visitor. 

Himself, from the past. From when Sam had just jailbreaked Lucifer, and She was still somewhere off in Europe. From before he and Sam had a fight that couldn’t be patched up with beer and feelings talk. 

From before the world ended. Before Dean had Her. 

Before he lost Her. 

He tells himself to say yes, to Michael. At least the archangel would jump ship, after, and She’d be safe. There wouldn’t be a dark for Dean to have Her in. There wouldn’t be a dark at all. 

Just light. 

Like She’d always wanted. 

Past Dean asks about Her. Where She is, in the whole mess. Dean knows the shine in his eyes. The devotion that has only grown stronger, since 2009. And even in this version of himself, the devotion is strong. Unwavering.

Dean was pretty sure if he told Past Dean the truth, he’d either start crying, beat Dean up, or grab a gun to go after Lucifer himself. 

So he lies. 

He doesn’t need this version of himself going all hero. Doesn’t need to see his own, twisted and vile failure, fucking failure, unworthy, bloody failure echoed on Past Dean’s face. 

Dean tells Past Dean that She died. He won’t specify. He can’t think of a lie that won’t make him vomit. Can’t think of a version of reality that doesn’t make him want to drive his fist into the wall. 

We didn’t save her? 

That’s the only thing Past Dean asks. 

Dean can’t think of an answer. Past Dean pushes. Asks how long ago. How fast. If it was a fight, or a sickness. If he could catch Her now. Save Her now. If it’s something he can watch for, if Dean just missed the signs, if She did it to herself, if it was one of her sacrifices, if an angel grabbed her, if Dean’s sure, if they ever got to tell Her- 

Yes. 

Dean told Her. Dean loved Her.

He still lost Her.

He doesn’t tell Past Dean that, though. He just makes Cas take him away. 

And Dean prays to Her. Finds the colt, and prays. Almost hears Her siren voice, calling on the wind, and prays. 

He’d find Her again. She always came back, and Dean would catch Her when she collapsed in his arms. 

Dean dies, praying to Her. 

Just that She knows he loves her. 

There’s never been much else to say.

After Dean dies, Past Dean goes home.

He’s not going to fail Her. He will save Her. Go with Her, if She’s falling, or running, or just wandering. 

All the way down. 

It’s Her and Dean, all the way down. 

And everything fades to black.