#terrible things

Author:@hogwartsismyhometoo

Word Count: 3,285

Read Part:  (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

Dean

It was barely 5:30 a.m. almost a week later when Dean jerked awake to the sound of gagging and retching. Disoriented and uneasy on his feet from a sudden awakening, he stumbled to the bathroom where Y/N was hunched over the toilet again. He sighed, rubbing her back until she shakily reached for the flusher and lowered the lid.

“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, hair sticking to her sweaty forehead. “Did I wake Mason up?”

“No, he’s still sleeping,” Dean murmured back, but his face was still set in a grim frown. He took her face in both of his hands and tilted her chin up so he could get a good look at her. She’d lost so much weight in the past couple weeks, though he couldn’t figure out why as she’d been eating normally and there wasn’t any added stress other than the baby. Her cheekbones stuck out more than usual on her hollow face, pajamas hanging more loosely on her body. Her skin and the whites of her eyes even had an aged paper sort of look, almost yellow-ish.

“I don’t want to get you sick,” she whispered, though he could tell it wasn’t just for the baby’s sake, but also from how weak she was.

“Y/N, I don’t think this is a stomach bug. This is the sixth day in a row you’ve thrown up. I think we should get you to the hospital, make sure everything’s okay.”

“I’m sure it’s just my body being out of whack after giving birth. My mom was sick for a little bit after I was born.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Sick like this?”

She bit her lip.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “We need to go, I don’t want this getting any worse.”

"But Mason—”

“Sam can watch Mason,” he said firmly before she could argue anymore. “We’ll be home soon, it shouldn’t take too long.”

Y/N didn’t say anything else, just nodded weakly and reached up for Dean’s help getting to her feet. He led her back over to the bed where she instantly curled up under the blankets, then scooped Mason into his arms, cradling him gently against his chest. The baby squirmed a little, letting out a soft fussing noise, but didn’t wake. He let out a breath of relief. At least he wasn’t crying on top of everything else.

Dean knocked as softly as he could on the door without waking up Mason, holding him close to himself and praying silently for Sam to answer. He’d never been as light of a sleeper as Dean was.

But thank God, the door opened a crack, enough space between the door and the doorframe that Dean could make out Sam’s face. His forehead was wrinkled, eyes squinted with sleepy confusion. Dean’s shoulders slumped forehead, breathing a little easier, and Sam opened the door all of the way.

“Dean?” Sam said, just loud enough that Dean made a shushing movement and gestured to Mason. Sam let out a little “oh” and lowered his voice. “What’s up? Why are you up so early?”

Dean opened his mouth, found that no sound came out, and closed it, shaking his head. He held Mason carefully out to him, and Sam took the child without question. Hoarsely, he whispered, “I have to take Y/N to the hospital. Can you watch him for a few hours?”

Sam’s eyes widened at the news. “The hospital? Is she okay? What’s going on?”

“Yeah, yeah, she—um—” Dean scratched the back of his head, trying to find the words in his foggy brain, but failing. The worry that sat in his stomach like lead crawled up to his chest, making his heart beat even faster, than his throat, which tightened up and made his eyes water. He could practically feel his skin paling to a sickly, ghostly color, and he knew there was no way he’d be able to hide anything from his little brother. His green eyes were bright, the very definition of “windows to the soul” as they showed everything he was feeling at this very moment. “Sam, I’m scared. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, I don’t know how long it’ll last, or if it can be fixed, or—I just don’t know anything. I can’t help, and she’s in so much pain—” He broke off again, covering his face with shaking hands in an attempt to shut all of this down. Just because he was burdened with this didn’t mean Sam had to be.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said, voice incredibly soft and soothing, and he shifted Mason in his arms so he had one free arm to wrap around his brother and pulling him in for a hug filled with safety and comfort. “It’ll be okay. Don’t worry about a thing, Y/N’s strong. She’ll fight it. And we’re all here for her andyou, whatever you guys need. Cas and I’ll step up, Charlie and Jody, too, I’m sure. You have a support system. It’ll all work out.”

Feeling slightly steadier, though the heavy, sick feel still hadn’t gone away, Dean nodded and pulled back. He swallowed hard to get rid of the lump there and croaked out, “Thanks, Sammy,” before giving a smile that felt like a grimace. He rubbed his thumb across Mason’s wrist, taking another look at the peacefully sleeping baby, and left to go back to his room.

Y/N was full on shaking by the time Dean got back, but the blankets had been thrown aside, mostly lying on the floor now. She was drenched in sweat, eyes wide and even more yellowed, and watery. Her arms were wrapped tight around her stomach, and when she saw Dean come back in, a little whimper escaped her.

He felt something in him crack, the beginning of a fault line, trembling like a warning. He lifted her from the bed and held her much like he’d held Mason, her curled up against him, shudders coursing through her body so violently he felt it almost as if he were the one in pain. His own voice quivered as he whispered to her, carrying her from the Bunker and pressing a kiss against her sweaty forehead, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. We’ll be there soon.”

“D-Dean,” she stuttered, voice strained. Her bony, yellow hands reached out to him, finally grasping his as tightly as she could. It was a weak grip at best.

“What is it?” Dean asked as he settled her in the passenger seat of the Impala. He buckled her in and kept his hands resting on top of hers.

She opened her mouth to say something, closed it again, and gave a small shake of her head, almost imperceptible. “Drive fast.”

And drive fast he did.

Y/N

The ride to the hospital was a blur, whether from the unbearable pain in my stomach or how fast Dean was driving, I couldn’t tell. What I could see through my tears was how worried he was, jaw clenched tight and eyes fixed on the road with a kind of fierce determination I’d only seen in him when he was hunting.

I blinked, and suddenly I was being whisked away on a stretcher, hair fanned out around me on a pillow that smelled strongly of cleaners. The sweat and tears made the pillowcase wet, but I was more focused on looking for Dean. He wasn’t anywhere to be found, just a couple of nurses who were pushing my stretcher. I struggled to sit up, propping myself on my elbow.

“Dean,” I choked out, panic rising in my voice. “Where is he? Where’s my husband?”

“Shh, honey, just lie back down,” said one of the nurses in an infuriatingly condescending tone that made me clench my fists with anger. I knew that she was just trying to be kind, but in my current state—scared, in pain—I wasn’t thinking clearly.

“I want my husband,” I repeated slowly and through gritted teeth. “Where is he?”

“In the waiting room, sweetie,” the same nurse said, gently but firmly trying to push me back down onto the stretcher. “The doctor’s going to take care of you and then get him in there right away. Don’t worry.”

But worry I did. I didn’t want to be alone, not now of all times, not here where the light was harsh and smell even more so. This place wasn’t unfamiliar, there’d been more than one occasion where a hunt had gone wrong and we needed to make a trip to fix a broken bone or concussion, but Dean had always been by my side now. This was different. I couldn’t place this pain, any of these symptoms, and now the only people standing next to me were a couple of nurses who wore too much perfume.

A few minutes later, I passed out.

I woke up soon after, pain still there, but not as strong. I was attached to several tubes, head foggy. They’d given me meds, that much I could tell. Just as I was sitting up in the bed, leaning against the pillows, the doctor came in.

He gave me one of those “don’t-worry-I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-everything-is-going-to-be-just-fine” smiles. “Mrs. Winchester?”

I nodded.

He held his hand out to me, and I shook it, though I was sure my grip wasn’t as firm as it usually was. “I’m Dr. Lattimer. I need to ask you a few questions so we can pinpoint what exactly this pain is that you’re having. Do you mind?”

“No,” I said, but my voice was so hoarse I had to clear my throat and say it again. “No, go ahead.”

So he asked me some questions, about the pain, the vomiting, how my diet had been these past few weeks, even the pregnancy. He was very thorough, we must’ve been talking for an hour before he stopped typing the notes into his laptop and “ran some tests,” whatever that meant. I barely registered anything he did until it was another couple hours later and he came back in the room to find me half asleep from the side effects of the pain medication they’d given me.

“Mrs. Winchester, I think it’s best if we call your husband in now.” He gave me a small smile, one very different from the first. This one didn’t meet his eyes.

I narrowed mine at him. “What’s wrong?”

He set his laptop down on the counter by the window, removing his glasses and wiping them on his shirt with a heavy sigh. He didn’t answer me until he’d replaced them, clearly stalling for time. “I just think you should both be in here when I give you the facts.”

I shook my head, balling up the sheets in my fists to keep my hands from shaking. “No, I want to know first.”

“Mrs. Win—”

“Please,” I said firmly, more a demand than a request. “I want to be the one to tell him.” Then, more gently this time, “Please.”

He studied me for a good few seconds, nodded, and said, “All right.” He pushed the chair over a little closer by my bed and sat carefully, as if it were made of something extremely fragile, or there were pins scattered across it and he was trying not to sit on any. When all he did was stare at his clasped hands, resting on his knees, I figured it was time I got the ball rolling.

“Just give it to me straight,” I said in as casual a voice as I could manage. Even though I was terrified of what he was about to tell me, I had to start acting strong now. For myself. For Dean. “Don’t sugarcoat anything, I can handle it.”

“Mrs. Winchester, I highly doubt this is something you’re prepared to hear …”

“Just tell me.”

So he did. Then I asked him to leave the room and wait five minutes before going to get Dean. Five minutes, that’s all I would allow myself. Five minutes would be enough time to cry.

Dean

“Y/N.”

Dean said her name in the way one would let out a sigh and say “thank god.” And that was pretty much what was going through his mind at the moment, too preoccupied with the sight of her awake and sitting up and even smiling at him to realize that the upward quirk of her lips was tight and forced. He collapsed by the side of her bed, knees banging painfully against the floor, but he didn’t notice or care. Gripping her hand in both of his, he gave a little squeeze. “How are you feeling? The doctor said you wanted to talk to me.”

“I’m feeling okay,” she said softly, voice slow and smooth as caramel. It was calm, gentle … too calm. Y/N didn’t talk like that, she was fierce and explosive. Even when she was totally relaxed her tone was emphatic, not like this. Dean pushed the worried thoughts away, dismissing it as a side effect of the meds they’d given her. “Hey, why don’t you take a seat?”

He shook his head, his once relieved smile slipping immediately. Something was definitely off. “No, I’m fine. I want to stay close to you.”

Dean could’ve sworn he heard her breath hitch on the inhale, but if it had, she straightened it out right after. She nodded and scooted to one side of the bed, carefully arranging the tubes in a way that kept them from getting tangled, and patted the empty space beside her. “Then get in here.”

He stood back up, wincing at the resistance of his sore knees where he’d bruised them, and got into bed next to her in a way that wouldn’t disturb her too much. His right arm went around her waist, holding her close to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, took a few breaths deep enough for him to feel, to hear. With each passing moment he felt his heart beat a little harder. This not knowing was killing him slowly. Not getting all the information right away when he was sure she knew everything could only mean one thing: this was not a good thing.

“I have something to tell you,” she whispered, rubbing her thumb across the lines in his palm.

“I know, Dr. Lattimer said you did.”

“You’re not going to like it.”

Dean inhaled sharply, held it. “Okay.”

Y/N took another deep breath, pulling her head from his shoulder as she did so, as if the effort were that of lifting a heavy weight. He could see the lump in her throat bob up and down as she swallowed hard, eyes flicking around his face. It was almost like she was trying to memorize it, but her gaze finally landed on his, blue eyes meeting green.

“Dean, I have liver cancer.”

The phrase “time stood still” crossed Dean’s mind. Nothing moved, neither of them breathed. This was a joke, it had to be a joke. A trick worthy of Gabriel or some other angel who had it out for them. Could this be a dream? Another nightmare?

“But—” He stammered, the rest of his words lodging in his throat.

“Dean,” she whispered again, sliding her hand up his arm, down again, resting on top of his. Their wedding rings glinted in the hospital light. “Say something.”

“But there’s treatments, right?” He croaked out. “Chemo, something … just—there’s got to be something.”

She bit her lip, then pressed them both together and gave one barely perceptible shake of her head. And he could tell the strength she fought to have for him, the kind of strength he’d fought to have for her and Sam and Cas and anyone he’d ever loved deeply enough to hide his own hurt for the sake of healing theirs, crumbled. The strongest person he’d ever known, falling apart before his eyes. “Dean, I’ve only got weeks.”

Dean Winchester had heard of heartbreak. It was in enough songs for him to know that it was real, but he’d always had a hard time believing it. A person could be stabbed, but their heart couldn’t break just from the sheer force of pain.

But now he understood. Now he could feel it, the fault line pulling apart into a chasm, bits of his heart and his soul landing in the pit of his stomach and rest there. Dead weight.

         Dean had died before, on multiple occasions. He’d felt the sharp, ragged intakes of his last breaths. He knew what it was like to watch the lights fade away and every sound turn to dust. the smell of his own blood, the feeling of the hard ground beneath him as cold as the grave he’d occupy just days later as he clung to the last person who’d ever hold him … none of that compared to this. Now.

He’d been silent too long. He hadn’t heard Y/N whisper his name until her pale, twig-like fingers found his shoulders and squeezed. “Dean, please don’t be sad. Please. You’ve had too much pain in your past to let this hurt you, too. It’s my own damn fault. All that binge drinking I did as a kid, well … it was hard on my liver. And I’m paying the price for it now.”

“Why didn’t I catch it sooner?” He said hoarsely, staring right through her. “The vomiting, the weight loss, your skin … if I’d said to come check it out—”

“I would’ve said no.” Y/N rested both of her hands on his shoulders. “Dean, none of this is on you. Okay? None of it. So don’t guilt trip yourself over something that can’t be undone. We need to focus on the time we have left, on Mason—” Her voice wobbled and cracked, but she regained her composure with surprising ease. “Can you do that? For me?”

Dean had to fight tooth and nail not to break down right then and there, but with an astronomical amount of effort, he nodded.

"Thank you,” she sighed, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. He pressed his nose into her neck, but her usual flowery scent was barely recognizable under the sweat and hospital chemical smell.

“Dean?” She whispered once more, shaking so slightly he might not have noticed it if it weren’t for the fact that every bit of his energy was going into staying steady for her. “I really believe you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Dean squeezed her even tighter against himself, knuckles bumping the tubes stuck in her. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Her voice strained and cracked, and she collapsed into great heaving sobs, soaking his shirt in seconds. It was clear she’d been trying so hard to hold it in, tried to stay brave. But she was so scared, and she had every right to be. Life had dealt her a shitty hand, and now all the cards were laid out in plain site.

He would stand by her through this. He would be her rock.

And he would build a dam to keep anything from leaking through. She didn’t deserve this kind of an ending. He would rewrite her a final chapter, a proper departure.

If death was going to steal her away from him too damn soon, he would hang on as tight as he could for as long as he could. For her.

He wouldn’t let her see him cry.

Imagine Dean surprising you for your birthday.

Author:hogwartsismyhometoo

Word Count: 2,472

Read Part (1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

Y/N

Traveling with the Winchesters was like falling asleep after a really bad day and having the best dreams. I found a great quote by Dr. Seuss that I scribbled down and left for Dean in his hunting bag: “You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” That’s what being with Dean was. I tossed and turned every night, every inch of my body tingling with energy and anticipation of the next day, the next hunt.

And it wasn’t just Dean, it was everyone. It was belonging, it was being a misfit then finding your place in a group full of them. It was knowing that you had a place in the bed next to the man you loved, a seat in the back of the car reserved for you, an ongoing conversation with your family. It was having nothing but the open road ahead of you. It was adventure and laughter and passion and love. It was Sam’s hugs, Charlie’s bad puns, Cas’ comfort, Dean’s kisses. It was all of it and it was mine.

My mind used to wander back to Starryedge and to the diner for the first few weeks on the road. But after realizing that there was no going back, that there was nothing worth going back for, the details of the town started to blur in my mind. I couldn’t remember what Hadley looked like anymore, couldn’t recall what color my bathroom had been painted. Then I realized I didn’t care.

The bunker, the Impala, Dean, this was my home now. This is right where I wanted to be.

No matter how many times I kicked Dean’s butt when we practiced in the training room of the bunker, he still insisted on keeping me in his sights at all times during cases. Whether I was posing as FBI or doing research at the library, he had to be right by my side. When he’d broken his ankle on a hunt and had to stay behind while Sam and I took a case a few hours away, I couldn’t help but smirk at the glare on his face. It probably didn’t help that I had to be Sam’s date to a dance in order to blend in.

But the best moments were when we were alone. When it was just the two of us, in the dark, finding light in each other’s eyes. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but Dean’e eyes were so much more. When I gazed into his bright green irises, I could see my past, my future, all of it with Dean. And it was wonderful.

Weeks passed. Dean only brought up Starryedge once in conversation, which I quickly shot down, insisting that I was never going back there. Weeks turned into months, months turned into years. The guest bedroom, which the boys had politely asked me to refrain from decorating when I first arrived, was now painted lilac and plastered with posters. It was my room. The bookshelves were crammed with different adventure stories, a beautiful, hardback, Lord of the Rings set from Charlie sitting front and center.

Christmas had passed twice in the time I’d known them. The first one we missed due to being on a hunt and a graceless Cas lying in the hospital with a concussion. Nobody slept that night. The second one I’d insisted on spending at home, in the bunker, with Charlie and Cas. We exchanged presents. We wore the ugly Christmas sweaters I’d bought everyone. We laughed. We drank a little bit of eggnog with a lot of vodka, though I rejected every offer of alcohol. I wasn’t about to ruin a fourteen-year streak of soberness, especially after what had happened the last time I was drunk and stupid.

In early January, my birthday came and went, barely remembered as Sam, Dean, and I were in the middle of a case. Dean gave me a kiss and mumbled, “Happy birthday” against my lips in the morning, grinning. Sam surprised me by bringing a store bought birthday cake to the motel room. Charlie sent an e-mail. Cas texted, adding a dozen different emoticons, including one of a present, a slice of cake, confetti, balloons, and a duck. He hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it, yet.

The case was simple, though, so after a quick salt and burn, we were back to the bunker before eight. We went to our rooms to unpack our things. I was putting my clothes away when Dean knocked on the door frame.

“Hey,” I said, smiling at him. He hadn’t shaved for a couple days, so the golden stubble was coming in thicker than usual. “What’s up?”

Dean shrugged, though he didn’t meet my eyes. There was something he wasn’t telling me, but I didn’t push it. He was always a little more down in the wintertime. Bad memories of his past, I guess, though November was the worst.

“Nothing,” he said. “I just feel bad. We didn’t really celebrate your birthday this year.”

“Don’t feel bad,” I reassured him. “Your birthday gets pushed off a lot, too. And Sam’s. I knew what I was signing up for when I got in the car that day. I don’t expect to have a huge party every year.”

“Still,” Dean said, shrugging again. “I want to do something. For you. Can you meet me at the car?”

“Sure.” I pulled on my leather jacket, a birthday present from Dean last year. It made me feel truly badass when I looked at myself in the mirror, like one of the gang. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise. Be out in five minutes.”

He left, giving me a little time to touch up my makeup and run a brush through my hair. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, examining the faint scars on my face. I’d had a few nasty cuts while on the job, and the silver lines never completely faded away. The scars told my story, though, told everyone that I’d gotten out of the town I’d lived in all my life for something exciting, something better. It told everyone, this is me. This is my life, and I love it.

Then the most prominent feature of all, the smile that seemed to be perpetually carved into my face. It said, I am in love.

Dean was leaning against the Impala when I stepped outside, looking about ten years younger; boyish smirk, ruffled hair, cool car, leather jacket. He opened the passenger side door for me, letting me slide in before taking his own seat and starting the engine.

“Should I have brought anything?” I asked him as we backed out of the driveway.

“Just yourself,” he said distractedly, still looking at anything but my face.

We drove for a long time, passing twenty-four hour grocery stores, gas stations, fast food establishments. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even put on his music. I resisted the urge to ask if everything was okay, because I knew if I did, he was give me a clipped, “I’m fine,” and shut down completely. If I let him come to terms with whatever was happening on his own, he’d eventually tell me and we’d work it out together. Everything always turned out okay if we gave it time.

“We’re here.” Dean pulled off to the side of the road and killed the engine. Silence fell, broken only by the hum of a few crickets braving the cold.

“Dean?” I said uncertainly. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

He gave a small smile, looking out at the dead cornfields flanking us. “Exactly.”

We both got out of the car. He looked somewhere just below my eyes when he took my hand and led me to the hood of the Impala, helping me up so we could both sit on top of it.

“Look up,” he whispered.

I let out a little gasp. The navy blue of the sky was almost impossible to see. What was once just a sprinkle of stars, a small moon to decorate the dark canvas, was now a sheet of spotted silver. Stars upon stars upon stars surrounded us. The infinite condensed itself to a blanket that tucked us in, filling us with warmth and possibilities.

“It’s hard to see the constellations,” Dean said apologetically. “But it’s still—”

“It’s beautiful,” I interrupted him. “I’ve never seen so many stars.”

“I thought you’d like it.” His tone softened, low, smooth, and warm, like a sweet mocha drink. I felt his gaze upon me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sky, the endless sky.

“Are you cold?” He asked, upon seeing me shiver.

I nodded, and he pulled a thick blanket from the trunk, along with a beer for him and a coke for me.

He threw the blanket over the both of us, for once not protesting when I tucked my feet up on the car. We pressed our bodies together for warmth, clinking our bottles together.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” he whispered.

         I kissed him in response, long and slow, under all those stars. The seemed to act as a kind of bubble, a form of protection from the outside world. In this silver, speckled dome, only we existed. Everyone else, all of our troubles, melted away into the breeze, into the soft music made by the rustling corn stalks.

“Was it a good birthday?” He asked when we broke apart, putting his arm around me.

I nodded against his shoulder. “A wonderful birthday. Even if my name was misspelled on the cake.”

“Your name was misspelled?” Dean said in incredulity.

“Last I checked, that ‘e’ was extra.”

He laughed, a loud, rich sound that made the bubbles in my stomach extra fizzy. Even after two years, we’d managed to simultaneously keep that first date tingle alive and fall into a comfortable rhythm. We were strangers and best friends. But we were the best possible combination of both.

I felt him lean in before I saw him, felt the tickle of his stubble against my cheek. “I love you,” he murmured into my ear.

“I know,” I whispered back.

He pulled away a little bit, matching my wide grin with one of his own. “Did you just quote ‘Star Wars’ at me?”

“It’s possible.”

He laughed again, then sat up, staring at the waxing moon. The full would be upon us soon, and with the full moon came werewolf attacks. It wouldn’t be long before we were out on the road again.

“What is it?” I asked him, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I cringed as I sat up, dreading his typical Dean response. “Nothing.” “I’m fine.” “Don’t worry about it.”

But instead, he said, “I’m scared.”

This answer left me speechless for several seconds. I watched him fiddle with the half-empty beer bottle, his head dropping to face the hood of the Impala, face darkening. I could almost feel his pounding heart.

“Scared of what?” I asked him, so wanting to reach out and touch him, to comfort him, but too confused to know how. Dean Winchester admit that he was afraid? His fear scared me more than any monster could.

His lips twitched into an almost smile. “Of you,” he finally said. “Of what you do to me. I’m terrified, actually. I haven’t felt like myself in years, but—I don’t mind it. It’s almost like I pretended to be something I wasn’t for so long, I forgot it was all an act. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so—”

He broke off, looking at me in the eyes for the first time that night. His gaze pierced me to my very soul, leaving me breathless. “I have a present for you.”

It took me a few seconds to realize what he was talking about. “Oh, you didn’t have to—”

“No, I wanted to,” he insisted, setting his beer down on the bumpy pavement of the road. He dug in his pocket for something. “But I can’t exchange it, so I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” I assured him, setting aside my own bottle so I could take the package from Dean.

It was small, square, and simple, tied up with brown paper and string. I gave him a curious look before tugging one end of the string to untie it and unwrapping the paper.

People always talk about how their heart speeds up when they’re nervous or excited, but mine slowed way down, pounding heavily but steadily, a strong thudding rhythm. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.

It was a tiny velvet box, as deep a blue as the almost-black sky. I noticed the hinge, indicating where to open it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything but stare.

“Go on,” Dean prompted me, sounding as breathless as I felt.

Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.

I could hardly feel my fingers as I pried it open.

And there it was. Small and shining like one of the stars in the sky above us. A single diamond on a thin, golden band. A ring.

“Dean,” I whispered. Only his name came out. My brain was a total blank to any other words available to me.

Dean slid off the hood of the Impala, turning to face me, bending down on one knee. Tears sprung in my eyes, a breathy laugh escaping from my lips. I could barely see him now.

He cleared his throat, then, as strong as he could manage, said, “Y/N, will you marry me?”

There wasn’t anything to think about, nothing to say, no hesitation necessary. Somewhere, tucked away in the corner of my mind, the answer had always been there.

“Yes,” I laughed, falling into him and wrapping my arms around his neck. “Oh my god, yes!”

He laughed back, his body melting into mine in relief, the perfect fit. He squeezed me so tightly, I couldn’t draw in a single breath, but it didn’t matter. He kissed me hard, enough life for the both of us. All I could see was stars and night and green eyes. It was several minutes later before he actually slid the ring on my finger.

“Thank god it fits,” he sighed when I stretched out my hand for the both of us to see.

“It’s perfect.” I leaned into him, placing another kiss on his scratchy cheek. “Thank you.”

The ride home was a different kind of silence, a shared one. We both had so many things to say to each other, but all we could manage a smile and a gentle squeezing of each other’s hands, interlocking our fingers in between our car seats. Some things didn’t need to be said. Not with words.