#if you read all these tags and had no problem understanding my rambles hey fellow neurodivergents haha

[jacquiarno]

What if we kissed under the Pride umbrella?

[cajunquandary]

THE EYES ARE WINDOWS (Michelle’s 2K Follower Challenge)

Pairing/Characters: Eventual Dean x Reader, Sam, mentions of Benny

Word Count: 5400

Warnings: Alcohol use, flashbacks to implied rape and torture, mentions of PTSD, canon level violence, light cursing, mention of Alzheimer’s.

Prompt: “I’ll keep fighting. I’ll keep swinging til I got nothing left.”

Summary: Dean Winchester begins to investigate a strange case in a small town in Louisiana, meeting a local hunter. Expecting a simple salt-and-burn or demon, the actual culprit was not what the local hunter could have prepared for.

A/N: This is for Michelle’s 2K Follower Challenge, @luci-in-trenchcoats. If any of the above triggers affect you, PLEASE, please don’t read this. It’s not too angst-y and ends with lots o’ fluffy goodness.

(Not my gif)

Louis and Christine’s was especially packed, even for a Thursday night in the college town. You shouldn’t have been surprised—fraternity guys and coeds loved $2 shots as much as any hunter. You quickly secured one of the two high-top tables left for yourself and your research. Halfway through your double whiskey on the rocks, you hardly noticed the din from chanting students or the scruffy looking man who had slid into the opposite seat. Last week, Alexandria had a mysterious string of deaths that you were sure was the aftermath of voodoo performed by an angry civilian. Pretty run of the mill for Louisiana, and nothing you hadn’t come across before. In fact, I’d be damned if it wasn’t little old Miss Maxine Martin causing trouble for the nursing home again. Alzheimer’s is difficult for anyone, but when those who spent their lives dabbling in voodoo develop it…

“So are you going to sit there and ignore me all night? What’s a pretty little girl like you doing reading that crap anyway?” You nearly jumped out of your skin as the gravelly voice caught your attention, shutting the laptop and stowing the newspapers with it.

“That depends. Are you going to buy me a drink?” You leaned back in your chair, finished the whiskey, and folded your arms. He motioned for another round, then leaned back mirroring your body language.

“You still didn’t answer my question. What’s a girl like you doing reading about voodoo in a place like this?” His lips remained turned up in a smug, flirty fashion, green eyes glinting in the dull light of the bar. Freckles faintly littered his nose and cheeks. You wondered how many were…wait, what was his question? “I see we got off on the wrong foot. Name’s Dean. Winchester.”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You leaned forward, thanking the waitress for your fresh drink. After a moment, you recalled why the name sounded so familiar—Dean Winchester, a legend among hunters—and smiled. Having only met a few other hunters in your brief time in the life and being a sucker for their stories, to hear some from a legend was an opportunity that left you giddy.

Several hours and many drinks later, you and Dean had become familiar with the scariest, funniest, and most bizarre hunts you’d been on, and briefly discussed your families.

“So, Y/N, what made you start hunting?” You always hated that question. It was a long and painful story, best left untold to other hunters. There was a reason you hunted alone. Well, not completely alone.

“Hey Y/N, I see ya found a nice beau, but we closed an hour ago, cher. Do you need me to walk ya home?” Everette, the bartender and a friend of yours, gratefully interrupted, while giving Dean the classic ‘stink eye.’

“No, thank you, Ev’, we were just leaving. I’ll see you tomorrow night,” you smiled and slid not-so-gracefully from your seat. After a quick hug and polite nod toward Dean, he walked away to finish closing up.

“Mind if I walk you home?” Dean asked, taking your arm in his.

“Not at all.”

The walk was not too far to your simple little apartment, and you discovered along the way that Dean was in town for a string of recent suicides that had been kept from the news. Apparently they were all young men in their twenties and thirties. Some had grown up here, like you, and others were just passing through, but all walked themselves miles to the outskirts of town to an old farm house that had been abandoned twenty some odd years ago. He had already spoken to the former owners who said nothing weird ever happened while they were there, and only left because they couldn’t afford the mortgage anymore. Since then, the home and land had been in the bank’s possession and had never been resold. “What’s been weird is that none of the locals want to talk about the house. There’s more to this, but I can’t find it.”

“Where exactly is this house, Dean,” afraid you already knew the answer. You wiggled your apartment’s key into the lock until the door was freed. Normally this took a few minutes of wrestling and bargaining with the door, but you were thankful that this time it gave easily. Your spine was crawling and every hair on your body was standing on end in anticipation of his answer.

“Cute place.” Dean looked around and found the bathroom, unaware of your shaking hands closing and double locking the door. “Mind if I..?” he pointed towards the bathroom. You nodded, and he slipped away. Not but a moment later, Dean burst out of the bathroom and tripped on the mat. “Did you—uh—do you know you have a pluming problem? The sink just shot water out of the side at me while—um—never mind. Not important.” Dean’s eyes cast downward, his face flushed and sporting a sheepish grin.

Laughing and allowing some of the tension to leave your shoulders, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes and pick up the silver pocket knife you’d accidentally left behind, placing it protectively in your pocket. Dean laughed as well, and flopped into your armchair.

Picking up where he left off, Dean replied, “The house is on Magnolia Way, right off of the highway, close to campus.”

Silence flooded the room, like molasses suspending everything in place. Dean tried to read your face, but you didn’t notice, staring out the window and into another life, a painful memory. The icemaker in the fridge released all of its contents onto the kitchen floor before you could get pulled too far away and you jumped up to clean it, Dean helping to gather the stray cubes. You pushed the memory away and focused on the mess at hand.

“The last one!” Dean said excitedly as he pulled a half melted cube from beneath the counter, popping to his feet quickly. Too quickly he realized, hitting his head on the corner of an open cupboard.

Knowing very well that neither of you opened it, you closed it quickly and turned him around. Grinning, you offered, “Want some ice for that?” He wrapped his arms around your waist and twirled, both consumed in a fit of laughs.  Oh, how his arms, his scent, his laugh, and the way the corners of his eyes scrunched were intoxicating.

“There’s something you should know,” you pulled away from Dean, grabbing the dishtowel to fidget with. “About me, about this apartment.” He raised his brows in question. “I don’t usually bring strange men home from bars—“ Dean looked mildly offended at being lumped in with such a crowd, but then nodded in understanding and leaned forward, kissing your forehead.

“I get it,” he cut you off. “You need your space, and I need my beauty rest. Meet me at the diner at 6am. You’re buying!” And just like that he had sauntered out your door, leaving the small space feeling empty.

You shrugged, and prepared to shower and sleep. “You can come out now, Armand.” The ghost of the young man appeared next to you, looking rather agitated. “Don’t look at me in that tone of voice! I tried to tell him—“

“He a hunter! You cain’t let’im know I here! He send me to tha gret beyond. Then who watch you back, boo?”

“Well, I wasn’t the one causing a scene. Rest up, I’m gonna need you tomorrow. We caught a case here in town, and I need to wrap it up quick to go take care of the case in Alexandria. I think Miss Maxine is at it again, bless her poor little old heart.”

Armand disappeared again with a disgruntled “Hmph.”

You don’t know what had gotten into you that night. Maybe it was the stress from finals, or the pointed comment from your only girlfriend about you being a recluse, or maybe it was the lukewarm, charged air of the stormy season that made you restless. Whatever it was that had led you here, to the frat party, wearing a sweater and blue jeans (leaving everything to the imagination, unlike some of your fellow party goers,) and standing in a corner of the pulsating room clutching your glass of mystery punch, it was a mistake. Amy invited you, of course, but she had already run off somewhere, maybe doing karaoke, maybe beer pong. Who knew? A strapping freshman new recruit to the fraternity (dignified by his wearing nothing but a trash bag) grinned down at you. He seemed nice enough after chatting for a bit. He was studying microbiology with a minor in business, and wanted to save the world. As a junior with only a few credit away from graduation, you knew that he would no doubt change his studies and views several times before the end. His excitement, however, was infectious, and you followed him to the patio, reminding yourself that you were supposed to be relaxing and having fun. The kid was scrawny, you could take him and a buddy in a fight and win. Thanks for the training, Dad. There was something off about him though, and the other members. Maybe it was their eyes. Most of them had very pretty eyes, ranging from bright blue to amber, but something was off about their eyes. Yeah... That’s it. Their eyes don’t catch the light. No reflections. Hm. Must be the bad lighting.

The kid started to ramble about the stars, and a few partygoers ran past, playing drunk tag. You looked up and marveled the same, then the stars faded and darkness took over.

You fell out of bed, a mess of sheets and pillows on the floor, sweating and shaking. You grasped for the alarm clock behind you. 4:56am. Too late to go back to sleep now, if you even could. You sighed. After turning on the shower to warm up, you turned to gather your clothes for the day—a dark grey flannel and black BDU pants you saved for particularly difficult jobs. One quick rinse and two cups of coffee later, you twisted your hair into a bun, not caring how it looked, grabbed your bag and walked out the door. Halfway down the hall you heard a loud crash. “Crap. Sorry Armand!” You scrambled back through the door and put the pocket knife in your pocket, glad that the crash was only a few pans spilling out of the cabinet to the floor. Sometimes when Armand got really mad he would end up breaking things.

“Woah. Mornin’ sunshine. Just roll out of bed?” Dean had a mouthful of pie. Apple, by the looks of it. His eyes lingered for a moment at your head, surely debating whether or not to mention the mess.

“Yeah,” You have no idea, you thought. “Isn’t it a bit early for pie?”

Dean looked completely offended at this. “Are you kidding?” He said between chewing the mouthful.

You shook your head. The waitress set down pigs’n’blankets, eggs, bacon, and pancakes, followed by another with coffee for you and two orange juices. “Uh, Dean? Did you order all this?”

“Yup. Hm. I’m used to ordering enough for me and Sammy.” He dug into the eggs.

“Where is Sam?”

“He’s off in Alexandria. There’s a little old lady there causing some trouble, and he is helping the staff of the nursing home keep her away from the voodoo crap. Well, when he isn’t being hit on,” He winked. “What can I say, older ladies have a thing for him.”

You almost spat out your coffee laughing. “That’s the case I was about to work when you interrupted my research the other night. I’ve had to go over there a few times. Miss Maxine is always getting herself in trouble. It’s sad, she was an incredible lady back in the day. Scary, but cool. I’m now friends with her daughter. Tell Sam to tell Miss Betty that Y/N says hello, she should give him less fits.”

Dean had amusement in his eyes and a mouthful of pancakes as he texted Sam.

Surprisingly you and Dean had almost cleared your plates completely. The only mishap during breakfast being Dean’s coffee spilling in his lap. Armand could have been worse and had trays of food fall on Dean, so really it wasn’t that bad.

Dean thought that the string of suicides might be ghost or demonic possession, it was an odd one. He had already interviewed the families of the victims and visited the places they were last seen alive the day you met him. In fact, that’s half the reason he had been at Louis and Christine’s. All of the victims had passed through there. You absentmindedly wondered if you had ever seen or met them.

The plan was to take Baby to the house and scope it out for any activity, sulfur, EMF, etc. Simple enough, but you were terrified of what you might find, terrified of the personal demons you would have to face. There was a reason this town didn’t talk about it—the atrocities that occurred there had brought the town to its knees. The town leaders had done everything in their power to keep it out of the papers as to not instill panic. It was only a twenty minute drive, but you didn’t remember falling asleep.

The room was dark with only a few tendrils of light sneaking through the boarded up windows. It was like waking up from a strange dream… but ropes dug into your wrists and ankles, and there was something wrapped around your mouth. Your eyes struggled to focus, and your head ached uncomfortably. You heard a bird outside, the wind. Then the blood curdling scream from beneath the floor boards. It seemed to stretch on, panic rising, threatening to close your throat in fear. You looked for a door, it was closed. Before you could consider getting your binds off and attempting escape through the window, the door flew open, the shuffling and thumping and screaming downstairs fading. There in the doorway was the freshman who spoke about the stars, looking much taller and stronger than he did last night. Was it last night? The light caught his hazel eyes—there was still no reflection. It was as if the light was sucked into them, and nothing escaped. Maybe it wasn’t bad lighting after all. Mama always said the eyes are the windows to the soul. This is my fault—shoulda known. Dammit! The kid pulled you sharply by the binds on your ankles, dragging you down a hall and a flight of stairs, your head, shoulders, and back taking the brunt of it. You were in the basement, if you could tell by the cold, damp, stale air and tiny windows by the ceiling. Your eyes wandered from the windows to the ceiling and stopped, taking in the blood spray. Based on the layers, you and the screamer were not the only victims. You and the kid were surrounded by people in black hooded robes. Seriously? How original. You shouldn’t have rolled your eyes—your ear was met with a swift kick and blinding pain. Your head lolled and you felt blood trickle down your neck as they hoisted you up, suspending you by your wrists from the rafters. Those who were cloaked circled you, chanting with deep, low voices. The kid laughed maniacally, lifting his arms as if this gave him more power, then spent unfathomable time carefully slicing into your skin. This you could take, focus on, and despite the blood loss, you knew you could recover fairly quickly. What happened after the sun set until it rose again, you wouldn’t recover from. You refused to cry out, but cried the same, praying for release, to pass out, for death. No relief came.

“Y/N… Y/N! Hey, you okay?” Baby was parked, Dean was crouched down next to you from the outside, his hand on your shoulder and concern in his eyes.

Unable to move for a moment from the paralyzing sensation that these dreams bring you, your eyes drifted to the house.

“I can take you back to town. C’mon, you don’t need to be out here right now.” Dean moved back towards the driver’s seat.

“N-no I’m good, I swear. Just didn’t sleep well last night. Too much whiskey,” You lied. You grabbed your bag and followed him towards the house. With the front door completely boarded up and wrapped in Police tape, Dean decided to entire through the first floor window. Knocking off the half-rotted boards was easy enough, and you set them to the side as he climbed in, EMF reader in one hand, gun in the other. You set the old board in the grass far enough that if you needed a quick escape you wouldn’t land on them upon exit. Turning and standing, the basement window caught your eye. It was the one with the crack running jagged and crossways through it. How many hours, no, days, had you looked at that crack?

Dean’s voice pulled you from your trance. “No EMF yet, and I don’t smell sulfur. I’m gonna check the basement. You comin’?” He poked his out of the window.

“Right behind you.” You followed him in, clutching the little knife in your pocket tightly, and it warmed in response. You knew you could face this. Dean wouldn’t let anything happen to you, and Armand, even though he was a pain in the butt, was fiercely protective of you, helping you through the last three years of recovery.

You followed Dean carefully down the stairs, keeping an eye out for any movement, ectoplasm, or other indication of what was killing these men, trying not to focus on the familiar notches in the walls. As you closed the distance, you jumped and fell, back hitting the stairs, as Dean’s EMF reader went from zero to sixty in no time flat. You smacked your forehead with your palm, realizing that you should’ve left the knife in the car. The EMF was picking up Armand. But it was too late.

“Woah. Jackpot,” Dean turned and gave you that million dollar smile.

“Hey Dean, I left something in the car, I’ll be right back.” You ran to Baby, Armand appearing.

“Hey, don’tcha leave me out her! What’tif tho boys comen back and findju? Huh? You don needta be out her anyway! Les go home, cher, please.” You knew Armand had been through the same ordeal as you but hadn’t been lucky enough to survive it. After all, this is where the knife came from. In life, it had been his. Armand was a local young farmhand fond of attending the parties at the college, until the night he was taken a few months before you.

“Y/N, whatch out!” Dean yelled, and shot Armand with rock salt.

“No! Dean, NO!” You held up your hands in defense, Armand seriously pissed off and back behind you, hiding from the Winchester. “Armand is my friend. Please, I tried to tell you, let me explain.”

Dean slowly lowered his gun. Was there a tear welling up in one eye? He turned slightly, and it was gone. You had heard about Bobby, so hopefully Dean would understand.

“Y/N… you need to let him go, it doesn’t matter wha—“

“You listen to me, Winchester. Whatever is killing those guys, it’s not Armand. He protects me. In return, I protect him. He and I, we have history with this place. Bad history.”

Dean turned his gaze to the house, and back between you and Armand. The sun’s last rays rested in the trees, leaving the house shrouded in darkness.

“Okay, fine. But you owe me an explanation. Now.” Dean stormed back to Baby.

You couldn’t remember ever being this hungry or tired—no, you couldn’t even remember hunger or a time when your bones didn’t strain and ache. There was only numbness, inside and out. You watched without interest when the kid received his own cloak. You felt nothing when they all scampered about, something about police? You couldn’t quite make it out. You just stared at the crack in the window. You liked the way it caught the rain, when it caught the sun, or the glint of candlelight. You liked that window; it was broken like you.

When the police had come and arrested or shot the cloaked people, you just watched. Suddenly they didn’t seem so big anymore. But it was all distant. You fell in and out of consciousness as you had for… how long? That was the day Everette knew he loved you. He cut you from your bonds, covered you and carried you out. He was there when you woke in the hospital. Shortly after, he retired from the force and opened a bar, named after his parents. Said his twenty years were time enough, and he was too old and tired to be carrying pretty girls out of basements. It was time for the young men to do that.

They had held you for a week, some kind of imitation ritual. From the bodies the police found, the victims were both male and female. Whoever was unlucky he guessed. Many victims couldn’t be ID’d and were cremated, including Armand. Everette had given you Armand’s pocket knife when you were finally ready to go back to your apartment. You had thanked him even though it wasn’t yours. It was six months before Armand showed himself (and nearly killed you in fright), but you grew very close even though you never met him in his mortal life. It was a year before he could move things. Two years after the event, you started hunting monsters with Armand by your side. Monsters weren’t as scary as people. In fact, Armand proved himself a better partner than any mortal human could be, with his invisibility, telekinesis, possession, super strength, and ability to see the supernatural beings shrouded from your view. He even helped you send the crossroads demon those men had sold their souls to for strength and power back to hell.

While you relayed your experience to Dean, you failed to notice the weight lifted from your pocket.

Dean sighed and pursed his lips, a hand running through his hair. “Look… Y/N, I’ve been to hell. From the sounds of it, you’ve had a taste as well. But Bobby… ghosts don’t stay good. They lose themselves over time, some slower than others, but it happens. They go vengeful. Especially those who died violently. You have to destroy the knife. Let him go.”

“But—“

“Do you really want a vengeful spirit on your hands? Because he’s getting there,” Dean started to raise his voice gruffly. “These victims—“ Dean was interrupted by a horrible scream.

You froze. “Armand, what was that?”

You got no answer, and instinctively reached for the knife, finding nothing. “Armand! It’s gone!” You turned to Dean in panic. You both jumped out of Baby, armed now with rock salt, guns, and an iron crowbar. Dean ran down the stairs to the basement with you shortly behind. There was a young man, beating himself into a wall. It looked as if someone had also thrown him down the stairs. Startled, he turned to us, staring right down Dean’s shotgun barrel. There was the tiniest black teardrop rolling down his cheek. Dean shot the man with rock salt in the chest without further hesitation, sending Armand out of him. The man slumped down in the corner and moaned, hurt, but alive. Armand growled, the room shook like an earthquake, dust raining down from the rafters.

“Burn it, NOW!” Dean yelled and swung the crowbar through Armand and dissipating him. The ghost was attacking viciously, throwing a bench, glass jars, wrapping dean with bloodied rope. Dean struggled to get free, but managed to toss you his lighter and keep Armand distracted as you lit a small, extremely hot fire with debris under the stairs. You frisked the victim for it, finding it in his hand. You threw the knife in, crying “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Armand,” over and over, until the room was quiet, and warm, strong arms were around you.

Neither of you spoke on the short drive to drop the victim off at the hospital. His injuries weren’t too bad, considering.

Dean was cut and bruised, had a busted lip and a few rope burns. You didn’t realize you were staring on the way back to your apartment, but you had memorized the angles of his profile, the way his brow furrowed, and all those freckles. It had been so long since you’d let anyone into your life. Especially men. Armand had kept them at bay…

“It’s not your fault you know,” Dean put Baby in park and shifted a concerned gaze to you. “Even Bobby possessed and tried to kill in the end. Armand held out for a long time. He protected you. Those men—all he saw was your captors. I don’t blame him. Or you. You gotta know that. Those hunts you talked about—you both saved lives. That’s worth somethin.”

“Dean,” you said quietly, “I can’t live here anymore. Armand was mine. He’s been by my side for three years. He always ate all the cereal—do ghosts even eat?—but I swear he did, and he always messed up the laundry, or changed the TV channel at the good part. He always had my back on a hunt, kept me safe when I walked at night. I can’t stay here. He’s gone. This town, my home, it’s all foreign now. How did you do it Dean? How did you come back from hell, and purgatory, and keep going? This world? It weighs on you. And after a while…I don’t belong in it.”

Dean muttered a son-of-a-bitch under his breath. “Okay. You got to listen to me. You got to keep fighting. When you want to stop, fight harder. Me? I’ll keep fighting. I’ll keep swinging til I got nothing left. You’re gonna do the same. Now you’ve got a choice. Get out of this life while you can. If you don’t you’re gonna die bloody. We all do in the end. What’s it going to be?”

His words gave you strength. The sun started to peak on the horizon, spreading light pinks and yellows at the edge of the trees. You watched it, the sun now blinding your eyes with the first rays. You turned to meet his gaze. He was so beautiful lit up like that. If it weren’t for a little blood here or there, you could surely count those freckles. The green folds of his irises were lined with flecks of gold. Peace slowly rolled over you with the warmth of those rays, reflecting off those beautiful eyes. Mama always said the eyes are the windows to the soul… and his is the most radiant, beautiful soul I’d ever seen.

“I’ll fight too. I’m a hunter. And if I go out bloody, that’s okay,” you said with steely resolve. There was a strength in your chest, one you hadn’t felt since before the last three years.

“You know, you remind me of someone I used to know. From purgatory.”

“Oh, you mean Benny?” Dean’s jaw dropped. “Close your mouth or you’re gonna catch a fly, Winchester. Benny would swing through town occasionally. He and Everette could talk for hours over nothing, and I loved to listen. He spoke about you the most.” You grinned at the memory. It was no wonder Benny spoke so highly of Dean, or how Dean’s soul radiated warmth and beauty. You understood the intoxication and the draw that every beast in Purgatory had felt towards Dean. “I miss him, haven’t seen him around in a long time.”

Dean cast his eyes downward. “He chose to go back to Purgatory. Didn’t even let me talk him out of it. He went back to save Sam, and chose not to cross the threshold. Kept talking about it’s purity…” He trailed off. “I won’t let you do the same, so don’t even try.”

Dean waited while you packed your duffle bag with clothes, and a few pictures of your family, and other miscellaneous items from your former life in a small box, left the key in the lock of the stubborn door on your way out. Standing in the middle of the hallway, you waited to hear Armand make things crash because you didn’t grab the knife, but smiled sadly and walked away when there was only silence.

Sam met up with you and Dean at the diner for breakfast. He was a lot taller than you expected.

“Uh, you smell like old lady.” Dean turned up his nose and Sam plopped down next to you, disheveled and tired looking.

“And you smell like moldy basement, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

The waitress brought another feast.

“You must be Y/N. It’s nice to meet you and um—Miss Betty says for us to take good care of you or she’ll let Miss Maxine turn me into a faut carot?”

“What, a fake carrot?” Dean asked with a mouthful of—apple pie or pancake? You couldn’t tell anymore.

You laughed, “No, Sam, she threatened to turn you into a large black grasshopper.”

Dean hummed humorously through his mouthful of—okay it’s definitely pie—and nodded, raising his eyebrows jokingly at Sam. Sam huffed and crossed his arms. “She said both of us, Dean.” Sam lifted his eyebrows right back. “Said she would know otherwise.”

The brothers caught up, and you filled in the details for both cases that the brothers couldn’t. Bellies full, you all retired to the motel to catch up on much needed sleep, Dean taking the couch. You didn’t dream this time. It was discussed that you would return to the bunker with them until you got back on your feet. Before you left town, though, there was someone you had to talk to.

Everette was shining glasses at the bar, preparing for the busy weekend night ahead. “Bonjour mes amis!”

“Hey Ev! This is Sam and Dean, Winchester.” He nodded in greeting. He knew who they were, knew the whole time. Dean was more than a legend among hunters and those who knew of the supernatural world around them, like Ev. Dean had a reputation regarding ladies, which is why Ev had given him the nonverbal warning. “Ev, I’m leaving town. There’s nothing left for me here.”

“Well boo, it’s about damn time! C’mere,” He walked around the counter to pull you into tight embrace. “You get on out of this Bayou and make somthing of yourself. And don’tchu worry, I’ll come check up on you.”

You held tightly to him as the finality of your leaving struck in you an odd sense of calm and excitement at the same time. “You better. Take care, Ev.” You traded sad smiles, Everette threw a few hairy eyeballs towards the boys, and before you knew it, you were on the road to Lebanon, Kansas. Sam slept some more in the back seat, obviously exhausted from his case, leaving you and Dean in the front. He reached for your hand, and you smiled.

“Dean?”

“Hm?”

“Me too. I’ll keep fighting, til I got nothing left.”

He unbuckled your seatbelt and pulled you closer. Now in the middle, you refastened your belt and leaned on his shoulder, the time spent in your hell washed away by his warmth. He held you close, and didn’t let go. Not when you got to your new home, or during the tour of it, and in the night when the dreams would come back, he was right there to push them away again, and so were you for him.

A/N: Thank you so much if you actually made it all the way through this! Here is a bonus gif (not mine).

[greenappleeyes]

When You Go (Part 5- Finale)

Words: 2.8k

Summary: You and Misha are officially back together and ready to get your life back to normal. Or not…

Warnings: Second had embarrassment? This is pure, unadulterated, painfully sweet, domestic fluff. Consult your dentist before reading.

A/N: This is the conclusion. If I keep going, the series will never end. Tag list is at the end, let me know if you’d like to be added for more Misha/Castiel stories.

—————

When you woke up the next morning, he was gone. You knew he would be, he had an early call time this morning. You were a little bummed he hadn’t woken you up to say goodbye though. You stretched your sore muscles before heading downstairs to make some coffee.

Entering the kitchen you saw that coffee was already made and there was a box of muffins on the counter with a folded note on top.

Morning sunshine! Hopefully you wake up before noon and your coffee is still hot. Love you. ~M

You were extremely pleased that no one was around to hear the inhuman sound that escaped as you read the note. Even after all the years together, he still managed to release your inner fangirl.

—————

Your day was pretty uneventful until Misha showed up at your doorstep with takeout. You barely had the door open when he wrapped his free arm around your waist and pressed his lips to yours. You melted into his touch before he pulled away mumbling about to food getting cold. You ate, quickly, giving each other bedroom eyes the entire time. Every time he winked at you, you felt the pool of desire intensify. This man was going to kill you, and you were going to die happy.

After helping to clean up after dinner, he walked into your living room, getting distracted by your new coffee table. “This is new.” The disappointed tone was to be expected. “What happened to the one I made you?”

You wanted to lie and come up with any answer other than what really happened. “I… was upset, Misha. I’m sorry.” You really were sorry. You felt great initially taking a sledgehammer to it, but regretted it immediately afterwards. “I broke it.”

He stared at you in shock momentarily trying to figure out how you could have broken an oak table. “I could try to fix it for you.” he offered hesitantly.

“There’s nothing left to fix.” You winced at what you were going to have to say next. “I…um… burned the pieces. I’m so sorry, Misha! I was angry and upset and it was there and it reminded me of you everyday and…” You bit your bottom lip to cease your ranting.

“Well, I can’t say I’m not a little hurt by this. I mean, breaking and burning something I made you is one thing. But replacing it with something from IKEA?!” His mock anger quickly turning into a grin.

You sniffled, grateful he wasn’t really angry with you. “I put it together myself.” You let out a pained laugh. “It was awful! This table is garbage. I miss my old one.”

He inspected your handiwork, chuckling about how cheaply made and poorly constructed it was. “It’s not the worst I’ve ever seen. Did you burn anything else I should know about?”

You laughed, in spite of your own embarrassment. “No. Just the table. I really am sorry. In my defense, which is a weak one, I wasn’t sober. You know tequila makes me do stupid things.”

He gave you a knowing nod before pulling you down to sit on the couch with him. “Tequila makes us all make mistakes. Breaking and burning furniture, thinking more tequila is a good idea…” he sighed deeply. “Hooking up with an ex girlfriend…”

You sat, leaned against his shoulder, unsure of how to proceed. He opened that door, so he must want to talk about it; you certainly did. “So… we’re having that conversation now, right?”

“Yeah, I guess we are. I know you want to know what happened. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know as long as you promise not to get upset about it.” He spoke calmly, he only used this tone when he felt tense.

You sat up to face him. “I can’t promise not to be sad or get upset. But I promise I won’t take it out on you.” He nodded. “So, I guess how… many times…? Was she better? Was the relationship better?” You rambled the first questions quickly.

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Well, um, the relationship was too short to try to decide how good it was. We were only together for a couple months.”

You were surprised, you thought they had been together for a lot longer. You were not surprised he was trying to gloss over the uncomfortable questions. “Ok…?”

He sighed, knowing you weren’t going to let him not answer. “Yes, we had sex. It was good, but not as good as it is with us. Although, that might have been my fault.”

You knew, all too well, that Misha was great in bed. You gave him a confused look and asked, “How could it be your fault? You’re pretty amazing in bed.”

He gave a small, embarrassed smile. “Yeah, with you. I, uh… fuck you’re gonna make me say it aren’t you?”

You laughed a little at his flustered state, “I don’t even know what you’re trying to say Misha. What? Couldn’t get it up or something? Old age getting to you?” You joked as you poked his shoulder.

“Hey! I’m not old. I’m youthful and vibrant still!” His tone turned serious. “No, that wasn’t the problem. Not exactly. We only had sex twice during the entire time we dated. And I… had a reaction both times.”

You were still confused. He was rarely vague like this. He was never embarrassed by, well, anything really. “Babe, what the hell are you talking about. Reaction? What, you’re allergic to her vagina or something?”

Exasperated, he finally blurted out, “I cried! Ok? Ugh, both times.” He ran his hands over his face in embarrassment. “I felt so guilty afterwards and I couldn’t help it. She wasn’t you, which wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t fair to her, or me, or you. It was clear that I wasn’t going to be able to move on. Lucky for me, she was surprisingly understanding. We settled on friendship when we realized I wasn’t ready to let go yet.”

You reached over to grab his face to make him look at you. You kissed him softly before pulling away again. “Mish, that sounds horrible. I’m sorry you felt so tormented. But, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel a little better. You seemed to be able to move on so quickly. I assumed you were happier with her and would never think about me again.”

“Look, I love you. It’s clear that’s not ever going to stop. In another life, another universe, maybe Vicky and I could have been happy together. But not here, not now. I only want you.” He smiled softly causing you to fall for him all over again.

“I love you too, Misha.” You pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss. You crawled up to straddle his lap, laying your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around your lower back and just held you against him. It was brief moments like this that you both always treasured. Sitting with your arms wrapped around the person you loved most was something you could do all day everyday.

—————

Things fell back into your normal rhythm after a few weeks. This meant you hadn’t been able to see Misha for the last week and a half as you both had very busy schedules. It wasn’t uncommon that you’d have to go a couple weeks without seeing each other during your previous 3 years together.

The stars and schedules finally aligned when you both got to work on an episode together. He was trying his hand at directing again and was lucky enough to get one that focused on your character; a fellow hunter than occasionally helped Sam and Dean.

In this particular episode, your character ended up cursed by a witch. Unfortunately for you, that meant a lot of time in the sfx make up chair. By the time you were on set and ready to film, the bright lights had given you a headache and made you feel ill. Misha, of course, noticed that you didn’t feel well and asked if you needed a moment. You were stubborn and just wanted to get the scene done so you could go sleep in your trailer.

Misha was still concerned, but let you keep filming. You thought the scene would be really convincing because you figured you felt as awful as your character did. You kept thinking “Alright. Almost done. This is the last scene I have to shoot. Then I can go force myself to barf and go to sleep for a week.”

You had forgotten one small detail about how the scene ended. It involved a thick reddish-brown liquid seeping out of your mouth. Misha saw your panicked look and knew exactly how you felt. He had told you the story of him filming the Leviathan scene while having food poisoning. He gave you another sympathetic look and asked, once again, if you needed a minute. You forced a smile and reassured him. “Mish, if you could handle it when you had food poisoning, I can handle it when I’m just feeling crappy.” Or so you thought.

As soon as you felt and tasted the goo in your mouth, you had to spit it out and heaved into a trash can. It took you more takes to do that one scene than it had ever taken you before. You were mortified and kept apologizing to everyone around you. Once you finally managed to film everything they needed, you took off to your trailer and sobbed.

Misha met you inside a few minutes later with a cup of tea and some chicken noodle soup. “Hey, sweetheart. You did so well today. I’m sorry we had to put you through that.” He urged you to sit and rubbed your back. “Here, babe, drink this. It should help settle your stomach enough to be able to eat a little.”

You whined, “No, it will make me barf again.” You pouted as you leaned against him. “I just want to sleep until I die.”

“So dramatic. It’s a good thing you’re an actress.” He chuckled lightly at the Castiel-worthy side eye you gave him. “Come on, you’re not going to feel any better on an empty stomach.”

You sipped the tea and ate about half of the soup. You felt better enough to handle the car ride home. Misha unfortunately still had scenes to direct, so you had to head home alone.

You managed to get home just fine and went right to bed. You woke up starving, but still kind of nauseous. After eating some toast your stomach improved, but you felt exhausted. You just felt… off.

—————

You paced back and forth in your bathroom nervously, waiting for the timer to beep at you. Were you ready for this? You had only been back with Misha for about 6 weeks, you couldn’t expect him to be ready to jump into… this.

You were pulled from your frantic thoughts as the timer beeped at you. You hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath before looking at the results.

—————

A very tired Misha walked into your house to find you sitting on the couch waiting for him. Before he could ask you why you insisted he drive to your place instead of going him, you walked over to him and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Hey Daddy.”

He cocked his eyebrow at you and reached down to squeeze your ass. “Daddy, huh? Is that why you wanted me to rush over here? Have you been a naughty girl?”

You let out a giggle. “That’s hot, Misha. We’ll come back to that later. But, that’s not what I meant.” You looked over to the table where 4 positive pregnancy tests sat.

He looked at you confused for a moment as he tried to process what you were telling him. He drifted away from you for a second to look closer at the tests. It felt like an eternity of silence and you were now worried about his reaction. “Mish, say something.”

Your worries were tossed aside when he turned back to face you with tears running down his smiling face making his eyes sparkle. “I’m going to be a dad?.” His voice was quiet. You smiled and nodded in response.

Suddenly he hugged you, lifting you off the ground and spun you around before shouting, “We’re having a baby!” He set you back down and peppered kisses all over your face. “I love you so much, Y/N.” You couldn’t respond because you were happy-crying to hard.

You let out a choked laugh when he dropped to his knees and lifted your shirt to kiss your belly. “Hey, little one, you don’t know me yet, but I love you so much.”

He looked up at you with the biggest smile you had ever seen. “Y/N, I meant to do this under different circumstances. But I just can’t wait anymore. I love you so much. I am a better person with you, than I ever could be on my own.” You stooped down so you were both kneeling in the floor and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He grabbed your hands and kissed your knuckles before looking at you again. “I’m gonna need you to quit your job.” He said in a deadpanned voice, but he couldn’t hold his grin back for too long.

You pulled one hand back to slap him on the shoulder. “Misha! You’re so mean.” You puffed out your bottom lip in an obnoxious pout. He just grabbed your chin and pulled you in for a kiss.

Pulling away again he grinned at you again. “Babe, you know what I want. I’m gonna need you to marry me. Like, tomorrow. I already have your ring.”

Your eyes went wide with shock and it took you a second to respond. “Misha, tomorrow? You’re crazy! Weddings take time to prepare. What are we supposed to do; hop on a plane to Vegas for a quickie Elvis wedding?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, why not? I don’t care where or how we get married. I just want to call you ‘Wife’ as soon as possible. So, I haven’t heard an answer yet.”

“Well, duh ! Ya big dummy!” You joked while throwing your arms around him.

“Hey, words hurt.” He whined before scooping you up, aptly named, bridal style. “We have much to celebrate.” He said slyly with a wink.

————

At the beginning of the week, you were in a new-but-not-new relationship and your life was finally feeling back to normal. Now, you were laying in bed next to your husband and pregnant with his child. Your head should have been spinning and you should have been freaking out. Instead, you had your back pressed firmly against his chest with your head on his arm while staring down at the ring on your finger with a smile on your face. Misha was asleep behind you; but even unconscious, his hand always remained on your belly. You knew how happy and proud he was, how happy and proud you were; your emotions started to get the better of you.

He woke up and got worried when he felt warm tears drip on to his arm. “Hey, what’s wrong babe? You feeling alright?”

You rolled over to face him, shook your head and wiped your eyes. “No, no I’m fine. I’m great. I must be hormonal or something. I’m just really happy.”

He smiled at you. “I’m happy too.” He pressed his lips to your forehead. “You make me unbelievably happy, you have no idea.”

—————

“Come on, Y/N! Please?” He begged, sitting behind you while he rubbed your swollen, 7 month pregnant belly.

“Why?” you whined. “It’s not like it’s relevant anymore. You know I don’t feel that way now.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s still our song and I want to hear you sing it again. I want our little one to hear it.” He thumped his fingers on your belly and kissed your temple.

You turned to give him a quizzical look. “How is a song about being dumped, our song? That’s pretty fucked up, even for us.”

“Think about it. Would we be here right now, married with a baby on the way, without that song? Sure, the backstory to it is a painful one, but most love stories start out that way.” He shifted slightly so he could look at you. “Now will you sing it, please?”

You leaned back into him and hummed with a smile on your face before singing the opening lyrics to “When You Go.” Misha hugged you tightly and placed a kiss to your shoulder as he rocked you gently back and forth. As he listened to your voice, he wondered how he had gotten so lucky.

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