Here it is! A new story, this takes place after "Last Chance," the final installment of my "Chances" series. If you haven't read that one yet, I suggest you do, so you'll understand what's happening here! As always, drop me a review and let me know your thoughts, questions, ideas, etc. I LOVE getting feedback, and can't wait to hear what you guys have to say about this story. Don't worry, guys. Things are not as cut-and-dry as they seem. ;) Enjoy!

Chapter One

The smoking started three months after.

"After."

That's how he thinks of it now. His life, all their lives, split into "before" and "after."

Six months later, "after" still hurts.

He feels guilty about that sometimes. The way it hurts. He loved her, of course, and he misses her something awful. But it's not like she was his cousin and best friend. She wasn't his daughter. She wasn't his wife.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

Back at the beginning, right after it happened, he and Peyton would switch off. He'd wake from a horrible nightmare, cold sweat soaking his trembling body, and she'd calm him down as best she could, holding him until his breathing had regulated again, drifting back to sleep in her arms. And the next night, if he was lucky, he'd manage to wake her up before she started to scream, and she'd cling to him until the terror had subsided.

And then, they'd found out their little world was growing.

It wouldn't be just the two of them anymore. There was a baby on the way. And as much as that flat-out petrified Sam, it somehow made everything easier. He couldn't explain it. Shouldn't the thought of a child send them into whole new realms of panic? Instead, the nightmares dwindled from one of them waking each night to only occurring a couple of times a week. Then maybe once a week, then once a month.

The nightmares still happen, but they're few and far between now. Six months later, that doesn't surprise any of them.

The smoking did.

It was jarring, walking out of the house to find him standing there, white t-shirt on, dark, ripped jeans on bowed legs, heavy booted foot propped up on the wall behind him, cigarette dangling from his lips. It fit. Come to think of it, a cigarette had seemed almost necessary to complete the badass, rebel-without-a-cause persona he'd always put forward.

It shocked Sam at first. It was like going back in time, only this time, the man at the end of that glowing cigarette wasn't the long, lean, dark-haired man that seemed to ooze danger and mystery from his pores. The lips around the butt of the cigarette weren't shadowed by a salt-and-pepper beard.

No, this time, the man was maybe an inch shorter, cocky as hell, carrying that same air of mystery he'd inherited from his father, cheeks shadowed by reddish-tinted facial hair that stumped the hell out of his brother.

Dean's hair had been blonde when he was little. Damn near white when he was a baby and toddler, darkening to a golden as he grew. His hair had steadily darkened as a child, before it lightened again when he was a teenager. But it never reached the rich, chestnut-brown shade of Sam's own hair. No, Dean's hair was an intriguing mixture—the perfect mixture, if Sam was being completely honest—of John's raven black and Mary's golden blonde.

However, Dean's hair was never, ever red. So why his beard was, Sam could never figure out.

The beard came just before the smoking did.

Sam had asked about it. Dean had been known to go a few days without shaving, using the scruff to add to his badass attitude. But he always gave in and shaved. Sam watched and waited until the full beard had appeared, then approached Dean as he was working in the garage. Dean had shrugged him off, diving under a car and going to work on a radiator leak. Sam had shrugged his own shoulders, going back to the house, grabbing his backpack and settling into the sunroom.

And hours later, Sam was yanked from the stillness he'd enveloped himself in when green eyes full of tears forced him up and into a sparring match. Sam didn't even try to fight back. He just took the blows, blocking the ones that would have made contact with his face, but enduring the ones to his chest and abdomen, until Leo and Chris had run in, managing to pull the Winchester boys apart.

She'd always liked the scruff, often teasing him and daring him into growing a full beard. He'd go a day or two, then complain that it was itchy, and she'd pout every time the razor appeared.

He still couldn't say her name.

When Dean had stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him, Sam took the little nugget of information and tucked it away in a lockbox in his heart, taking it out days later when he was by himself for a while and able to grieve the only way he'd found he was able.

All alone, hiding in the bathroom, folding his huge body as small as he could make it, crying until he couldn't see or breathe.

And every single time, Peyton would come and find him. She'd make herself as small as he felt he was, climbing into his lap, completely invading his personal space, not letting go until both of them could breathe easily without the threat of more tears.

But honestly … The smoking wasn't that big of a deal. Well, okay. It was, but no one made it out to be. Whose problem was it really if he wanted to destroy his lungs along with his liver? No one but his own.

Boy, did that thought sting.

Four months in, Sam caught him just before he wrecked the Impala.

He was going to. He had just enough liquor in him that it seemed like a good idea. He'd rebuilt her from the ground up once before. Doing it again would be a piece of cake. But Sam stole the keys from him, and got a punch in the jaw for his trouble. He saw stars for a good fifteen minutes, until a shot of something that tasted like straight gasoline made the ache dissipate.

Once the liquor was in Sam's system, dulling the pain in his jaw, he'd gone out to discover his brother had gone to the car anyway, hitting her with his fists, kicking her bumpers and the tires. And then, he collapsed. Just hit the ground right beside the driver's side door, and Sam walked over, kneeling down beside him. He'd grabbed onto Sam's jacket, pulling him closer, bleary, tear-filled eyes meeting Sam's.

"It hurts, Sam. All the fucking time, it just hurts so goddamned much."

What was he supposed to say? "I know"? "I'm sorry"? He deserves another punch just for thinking that. He ended up just laying a hand on his brother's arm, nodding his head. Dean gasped as tears poured down his face.

"I just … if I had something that looked as bad as I feel…"
"It won't do any good, Dean."

Dean let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

"I can't do this, Sam. I—I can't. Not without—I need her, Sammy."
"I know. I know, Dean."

Dean fell forward, head falling onto Sam's chest. Sam wrapped his arms around him, holding him close while Dean sobbed. Sam closed his eyes, hanging onto his brother until Dean finally let out a shuddering breath, tapping onto his brother's shoulder, their signal that he could breathe on his own again. Sam leaned back, keeping a hand on the back of Dean's neck.

"You know I'm here, right?"

Dean nodded, a small half-smile on his face. Sam sighed, speaking even softer.

"I don't know what to do here either, Dean. We just … we have to muddle through, the best way we know how."
"Liquor and killing monsters."

Sam let out a laugh.

"If only there were monsters these days."

Dean gave him that little smile again, then let out a long, shaky breath.

"Don't let me turn into Dad, Sam."

Sam blinked, and Dean shook his head.

"I get it now. Why he was the way he was, why he did the things he did. This is … this is hell, Sam. And I've been there. This is a million times worse."

Sam let out a breath, going to shake his head, and Dean spoke again.

"Don't you let me become him. I can't … it's hard enough without imagining that, but I can't stop thinking about it. You gotta promise me, Sam."
"Dean—"
"Promise me you won't let it happen."

How in the hell was Sam supposed to promise that? Dean had always been damn near a carbon copy of their father. Hell, in some ways, Dean was more John than John had been. Sam swallowed, meeting green eyes full of grief, boring into him.

"Okay, Dean."
"I mean it, Sammy. Whatever it takes to keep me from being him, you gotta do it."
"Dean—"
"Please, Sam."

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat, whispering softly.

"I promise."

There are no monsters anymore.

Weird as hell to think of. They'd been chasing monsters since before he could remember. Before they were even born, if that time travel stint they'd done was true. And Sam knew it was.

Who knew that the death of an archangel was all it took to rid the world of monsters, angels, demons, and anything else that might have once gone bump in the night?

Every single day, he wished there had been another way.

It had come as a bit of a shock at first, when they'd noticed. A family full of magical beings, suddenly devoid of the magic some of them had known their entire lives? Of course they were thrown for a loop. And it wasn't just them. No, magic was gone all across the board. It had taken a month or so, but they'd gotten in touch with contacts and friends confirming their suspicions.

The vampires without that second set of teeth.
The wendigoes that simply disappeared.
The shapeshifters that could no longer shift.
The witches with worthless spells and useless potions.
The orb-less whitelighters.
The demons trapped in Hell with no way up.
The demons stuck topside with no way down.
The hunters with quite literally nothing to do.

It had been one hell of an adjustment period for them. Not only could the Halliwells no longer use the powers they'd always had, but now they also had to be extra careful. The whitelighters in the family could no longer heal, which meant it was a blessing that they had good health insurance, since they finally realized just how clumsy they were. That elusive thought of normalcy, the dream Sam had been chasing his entire life, was now their reality.

And to be honest, he didn't care for it.

But, it's not like he could do anything about it. So, Sam enrolled in The College of San Francisco to try and finish his degree, easily fitting back into life as a student. Peyton took a job at a local salon, despite Sam's protests, meeting his concerns with research and facts of her own that proved it is perfectly safe for a pregnant woman to work in a salon. Leo and Dean had their mechanic business in the garage. Paris took on a heavier load at the company she and Phoenix had started together, the matchmaking service that had exploded into a multimillion-dollar worldwide phenomenon. Wyatt started working at an animal shelter, and Chris?

Chris got married.

It was a shock to all of them when Chris walked into the Manor, holding hands with an exotically beautiful brunette. Piper had stopped short, dark eyes wide in recognition.

Her name was Bianca, and she used to be a Phoenix. A Phoenix, Sam had learned, was a high-powered assassin. Years ago, when Wyatt was just a baby and Chris had gone back in time to save him, Bianca had followed him and nearly killed him, until she died in the process. With Wyatt being saved from turning evil, the future had changed, and Bianca had lived, going to high school with Chris, but leaving for college abroad. She'd just recently returned to California, and when her powers disappeared, she'd called Chris. They met up, discovered they still had feelings for each other, and Chris convinced her that life was too short to waste.

So they'd eloped.

And the Halliwells had gotten a dog.

They all knew it was coming, with tenderhearted Wyatt working at the shelter. And their hearts had melted when he'd walked in the house with the tiny mutt with red-tinted fur in his arms. Kate had taken one look at the puppy and had named her Ariel.

Kate had—still has—a deep obsession with The Little Mermaid. She wants to be Ariel, would spend hours in the bathtub if they'd only let her, and constantly begs Peyton to dye her hair red. So, when she noticed the red-tinted fur on the dog … There was no other option for a name.

Now, the mutt is thriving. She's healthy and almost normal-sized for her age, but still a little bit on the small side. She's very loving and sweet, follows Kate around like she's her shadow, and—just like Kate—has developed a deep attachment to Dean. So much so that no matter what, every night, the dog creeps in from her place in the kitchen to curl up beside Dean's couch/bed in the sunroom.

Dean still can't go upstairs.

They don't talk about why.

October was hard.

Dean left just after the first, in the middle of the night. Leo stood at his bedroom and watched the Impala crawl down the street, tears slipping down his cheeks. Dean called Sam later, staying on the phone just long enough to let him know he was with Bobby and he'd be back later. When that would be exactly was left unsaid, but if Sam was a betting man, he'd put his money on sometime in November.

Dean stayed drunk from Peyton's birthday to Halloween. Bobby couldn't blame him, and he didn't even try to stop him.

Bobby knew. While Sam knew what it was like to lose someone he loved, Bobby knew what it was like to lose his wife. Everything Dean was feeling, Bobby had felt. Twice, goddamn it. Losing his wife had been the worst possible thing Bobby had ever had to go through, and if he could have died to be with Karen again, he would have.

Life has never been one to give Bobby what he wants.

So, he drank. And he managed to pull himself out of the bottle when a young, grieving man with two wide-eyed little boys showed up on his porch, asking questions about things he never should have known about.

Bobby watched as Dean drank himself to sleep each night, wanting to do something to help the kid, but knowing in his gut that he was doing all he could. He helped Dean to bed each night, helped him through the hangover the next morning. Although, he didn't really count that, since their idea of a hangover "cure" only consisted of more alcohol.

But on November first, Bobby stood back and watched as Dean spent most of the day hunched over the toilet, waving off Bobby's "help." And when the sickness finally eased, Bobby watched as shaking hands twisted the top onto the half-empty bottle.

Onto. Not off of.

Dean slept through November second, which both Sam and Bobby took as a blessing. Sam offered to drive up to Sioux Falls and bring Dean back with him, and Bobby offered to drive Dean back to the Manor and visit everyone. But Dean insisted he'd wait until he was 100% again and drive himself back.

The alcohol was out of his system by November fourth, and after a hot shower and half a pot of black coffee, Dean headed back to San Francisco. He gave Bobby a long, hard hug, and both men were relieved when the ringing of the phone saved them from an awkward goodbye.

Dean tried to apologize when he got back to the Manor, but no one would hear of it. Instead of the brushoffs he was expecting, he received hugs and nods, before everyone went back to their own things. The dog acted like he'd been gone a year instead of a month, and Kate took up residence in his lap, telling him all the things she'd learned about in kindergarten while he'd been gone.

Peyton's belly had popped while he was gone. He'd laughed when he saw her, looking like she'd stuffed a little basketball under her shirt. And when his laughter had given way to tears, Peyton had just wrapped her arms around him, sliding her fingers through his hair until he could breathe again. After that, Dean spent quite a bit of time with his hands resting over his niece or nephew, smiling when he began to feel soft kicks against his palms. Peyton spent the time with Dean reading through What to Expect When You're Expecting, and it was somehow therapeutic for the both of them.

Dean stood at the kitchen sink, a cup of coffee in one hand, the other in the front pocket of his jeans. He looked out the window, watching the sun begin to light the Earth, watching that damn dog run around while barking her head off, chasing after butterflies in the garden. He reached up and touched the chain around his neck, swallowing the last of his coffee before setting the cup in the sink and sliding both hands into his pockets.

Six months.

Somehow, he'd survived six months without her. He didn't know how. Honest to God—or whoever—he had no idea how he was still breathing. Let alone how he was still topside.

At first, he'd wanted to die, too. That would have been so much easier. Less painful. He'd gotten pretty damn close a couple of times. And just when he was about to pull the trigger, or pull a Juliet and drive the knife in, Sam would cross his mind, or he'd hear Kate giggle, and he … He just couldn't.

So, he cried instead. And he diligently ignored the stern voice of John Winchester in his head, telling him to "dry it up, son. Soldiers don't cry." When he'd grown tired of crying, he'd done what he thought Winchesters did best, and tried to drown his sorrows in alcohol. October had been especially brutal on his liver, and if he didn't end up with some sort of liver damage from that bender, it would be a freakin' miracle.

He reached up again, rolling his fingers over the two oddly-shaped bumps that now constantly rested beneath the collar of his shirt. He'd noticed the stares, the questions on everyone's faces, especially Sam's. He wouldn't answer questions about it.

The amulet was gone. He'd thrown it away in some godforsaken, forgettable motel room, and honestly, he regretted it. If he could go back, he'd handle that differently.

He'd do a lot of things differently.

He let out a sigh, running one of his hands over his face before reaching for his cup in the sink, meaning to wash it out. Instead, he gripped the edge of the countertop. He hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to focus on pushing air into and out of his lungs.

It happened like this sometimes. Just out of nowhere, a wave of grief so overwhelming and consuming would slam into him, and he'd be certain that this time, he wouldn't be able to get through it. With his eyes closed, he could see her standing before him, the sweet smile she only gave to him on her beautiful face, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay. I love you."

The light had been so bright. He was honestly afraid for a second that he'd end up like Pamela, eyes burned out, and the last thing he'd ever see was his wife sacrificing herself.

But he'd opened his eyes to a field of emptiness.

And now, he opened his eyes to see the dog through the window, sitting in the grass, head tilted to one side as she looked back at him.

Dean blinked, tears swimming in his eyes, and he let out a quiet laugh. He shook his head and forced his legs to move, walking to the backyard and dropping to his knees, laughing again when Ariel tackled him, licking the tears from his cheeks.

It still hurt. Every breath brought with it a twinge of sadness and pain, but he could laugh again. He could play with Kate, make her giggle like he used to. He still couldn't go to their bedroom, and he honestly couldn't even say her name. He knew he'd never love anyone else as long as he lived and that, strangely enough, was okay with him.

"Okay."

He wasn't okay, not by a long shot. He'd never be "normal" again, not even in the twisted sense of normal the Winchesters held. But he was alive. And maybe this could be his new normal. Figuring out a way to work through the pain.

No, it wasn't ideal, but it was all he had.