Another dreary day dawns in Missouri. Light penetrates my eyelids, killing the darkness that I love so much. I wince and groan.

I want to sink back into my dreams – not that they're not getting increasingly bizarre. I'd like to just sit here, warm, in my bed, and create a world. One where Daddy never died, where nobody looked twice at he and Mom. Hell, one where nobody ever looked twice at me. I smile ruefully. Caught between two worlds, always; not white enough for the snooty uppercrust girls, not black enough for the others...

My fingers snag in my kinky hair, and I have to smile. I always fit in with Dean Winchester. Always.

I remember more, and I sigh. I don't fit in with Dean anymore. Not since he showed up with his brother, saved me and my mother... and left.

I frown and clench the sheets, hard. No, Cassie. Don't you say things are anything other than what they are. Dean Winchester came, fucked you, came again, and LEFT. He left you with some vague promise to come back, with those goddamned green eyes making pleas – Believe me, Cassie. This pretty face wouldn't tell you lies, would it?

I'll be back, Cassie. I love you, Cassie, my mind makes him say. I've gone and fucked a hundred, a thousand girls, but you are the one I want.

What beautiful lies. I wish part of me didn't buy into it so wholeheartedly. I wish the other part of me hadn't proactively shut him down.

I feel tears beginning to form, and it pisses me off, quick. No. Not today. My masochistic brain reminds me of what the date is, and I grit my teeth and haul myself out of bed.

I grab my laptop and set it on the desk. Maybe some work would do me good... even though I know my boss will kill me if he finds out. You're on leave, Cassie. Vacation? You know what that is?

The police scanner gets flipped on, and it's the same shit all over again. Don't get me wrong – it's not that I terribly want to hear that some freaky Christine-like truck has come to life and is killing people, again – but this is boring. Carol from two streets over was found drunk again, and hit on one of the officers. Little town, such a quiet village. Every day, like the one before...

And that's when I really start to miss him, goddammit. I miss the gravelly, rough voice, the smile, the cheesy one-liners. Hell, he got me into bed with one of those damned pickup lines. Something about how my skirt matched my eyes, but it'd look so much better on Dean's floor. No man has ever, ever gotten away with that before; depending on where I am on the sliding scale of sober to shitfaced, that might possibly have gotten someone a knee to the family jewels. There were just something about him, though. Some... intense energy. That face, the sparkle in those pretty green eyes, that grin that promised unearthly and probably illegal delights.

Oh, I'd been so angry with myself afterwards; a one night stand? Me? Way to possibly derail your dreams. How am I gonna get a Pulitzer with a scorching case of syphilis?

No syphilis or herpes or even a mild case of flu, though. Just a guy who bagged a chick, probably intending to brag about it later to his buddies, but, for some reason, decided to stick around. We went all night, but I fully expected to wake up to an empty bed the next morning. I didn't; he was there, all bedhead hair and wide grin, and he said the single most romantic thing I've ever heard: "Waffles?"

So after a blink of surprise and a laugh ("No, darlin', shower later. Waffles now. Unless they have pie, and then pie now."), we were in an IHOP. That led to a fairly messy meal, more laughs, the promised shower. And before I knew it, seeing him, talking to him, became the bright spot of my day. And my night.

I smile to myself ruefully. Some people wish they'd taken more pictures in college; I wish I'd skipped more classes and spent the time with my legs wrapped around him. I wish I'd gotten to see that smile more. I wish that the last night hadn't happened...

We'd been in bed, and were just holding each other. I remember thinking how perfectly, utterly content I was. Snuggled up warm against this beautiful man that I'd come to love... it was perfect. I even remember smiling at him and letting my mind go places I never let it go – I pictured our wedding day, something simple but lovely, maybe at a beach or something. And we'd have fake, funny arguments about whether to have cake or pie, and in the end, we'd serve both. He'd love my family, they'd love him... and this father and brother of his that I'd only heard one terse mention of would come. They'd have a wonderful reunion, clapping each other on the back in that "way to go, bro" manner that guys have, and they'd hug despite themselves. We'd say "I do", and I'd be Mrs. Cassandra Winchester, and I'd get to watch the little lines he got around his eyes when he smiles deepen year after year... I pictured us, old people, holding hands on the porch of an old house, Dean literally yelling for some punk kids to get the hell off of his lawn.

That's when he told me he had something he needed to say.

My mind went through the possibilities in a split second. Gay? No, no way. Bi? I could handle that; I know they call the MMF threesome a "Devil's Trap", but if that's what he wants... I'd do it. Oh, please, God, tell me he's not leaving. Or sick. He's not sick, is he?

And then he told me.

It was none of those things. I wish it was something as simple as "I'm gay, Cassie", "I'm gonna die in a few months, Cassie".

I watched in horror as the man I loved, the only man I would ever really love, reveal to me that he was seriously mentally ill. Hunting demons? What the hell?

I remember crying silently as I listened to him. He really believed this; it wasn't some weird way he was trying to get me to leave. He really, truly thought he'd seen his mother pinned to the ceiling, engulfed in flames. He dragged me down to his old Impala, popped the trunk and pulled up the floor of it, showing me the dozens of weapons that he kept for hunting down the bad guys. He pulled out one gun and leveled it at me, telling me it was okay – check the barrel, Cassie! It's not loaded with ammo. It's loaded with rock salt!

All those trips he'd taken came into focus. He said he was a hunting enthusiast, before; gave some excuse about how it was what he did as a kid with his dad, and how it made him feel good to keep up the tradition. I always asked to go with him, even though I was kind of sickened by the thought of killing Bambi, but he said no every time. And the look he got when he said no... It was always strange, didn't fit, but I got it now. He really thought he was protecting me.

Oh God. My boyfriend robs graves and torches dead people and thinks he's keeping the world safe from Evil Casper.

I couldn't handle it. That perfect little future I'd so lovingly envisioned... It shattered like glass, and the shards dug into me from every angle. Our wedding burst into flames, the children we'd have plunged knives into my heart, I watched as the house we'd live in when we were eighty burn... everything disintegrated, and I was left where I started: alone, alone, alone.

I remember telling him to get out. I couldn't yell it; I didn't have the energy. It was almost a whisper. And, oh, seeing that perfect face across from me fall, when he realized I didn't believe him... More knives. "Baby," he begged, "I know, I know this is strange, but you've gotta believe me. Please. I've never told another woman this in my life, but... other women, they aren't you. I love you, baby, I want things with you that I've never wanted-"

I began to get a little angry. "Dean... why? I don't know what you're trying to do, but if you're trying to break my heart, you're doing a damn good job of it. You're sick, Dean, and you need help. Please," I said, unable to hold in a sob anymore, "go get help." I looked at him just long enough to see one tear spill onto his cheek, and his chin start to quiver, and I just couldn't look anymore. I turned, walked back into my dorm room, and curled up onto a ball in my bed. I had just enough strength left to pick up my phone and call my friend Amanda, who hurried over and spent the night stroking my hair and telling me it was going to be okay.

It wouldn't be okay. It would never be okay.

I turn off the police scanner and wipe a tear from my cheek. Nothing is happening, and unless I want to write an article on the insanity that my life has been for the past few months, I had nothing interesting to say. Probably a good thing, I muse to myself; my boss really would try to fry me for working while on leave.

I sit back in the recliner and rest my head, sighing with the old leather. More tears run down my cheeks, and I resign myself to the fact that it's gonna be one of those days. At least Mom isn't home yet; I wouldn't want her to see me like this.

My mind marched on to the second worst day of my life: the day I realized that Dean had never been lying to me. Placing that call, asking him to come back, telling him I needed him... there was nothing harder. I just couldn't ignore Daddy. A realistic, pragmatic man to a fault, he died telling me that something unearthly was after him. I didn't believe it at first, couldn't; my father, telling me that some malevolent car with no driver was trying to kill him? I cycled through so many explanations. Illness. Dementia. Too many damn beers. But when I started to poke into it, I saw the stories of others myself, and I couldn't deny that something extremely strange and extremely dangerous was going on. My father was at risk – my father! - and I had to call Dean. It was the only avenue left to me.

I'd never thought that my heart had healed after what happened between us. Scarred, yes; memories locked away; yes. But when he walked in, I realized that no attempt that I'd ever made to heal myself had worked. All those knife wounds opened again, and they poured heart's blood. I banished the tears that tried to form, and I put on what armor I had.

Oh, he looked so good. He'd cut his hair... he'd had this silly floppy hairdo back in college that made him look more than slightly girly. I'd tease him about it, and he'd fake getting pissy about it and growl "You love it, it gives you something to pull".

He'd filled out, too; not that he'd ever been skinny, really, but he looked as if he'd put on quite a bit of muscle. My fingers itched to see if it was true. And oh, those eyes – I'd forgotten just how green they were, how long the lashes that fringed them were, how much I loved the little lines that were at the outer corners, the way they crinkled when he smiled.

And Jesus! This was the brother? What the hell do they feed these boys in the Winchester family? Miracle-Gro?

The important part was that Dean and Sam saved my mother, saved me. I'm still alive today because of them. And as wonderful as that is, as much as I should rank that as the most important thing to come out of that whole situation... I can't. My mind goes too quickly to the last night we got to spend together.

My poor Dean... he'd closed up, bottled everything. It was obvious he'd gone through hell since we were last together; in addition to everything about him screaming "don't get close to me", his perfect body had been marred time and time again. We made love that night, at first furiously with the omnipresent danger looming, and then more slowly. I traced the lines he'd accrued, the twisted scars he hid – but looking deeply into his eyes as he moved above me, I could see that the bodily scars were nothing compared to the scars inside. I held him to me desperately as he breathed my name, and the sound... I felt a tear, cold with the air, slide down my temple.

I'd missed this, and I'd miss it for the rest of my life.

He left again. He had no choice, said that his father was in danger and that he couldn't stay. Not for now, anyway. I decided to make it easy on both of us. He didn't need to be worrying about some girl at home while he ran around, always putting his life on the line... He didn't need distractions. So I let him off the hook. I told him he didn't have to come back, and I lied my ass off, saying that I needed to get on with my life anyway. I put on my stoic face, and wished him well, and I watched the Impala become small with the distance.

More tears.

And, of course, this is when Mom gets home. She puts her bags from the grocery store down on the kitchen table. "Cassie," she yells, "I bought you more of those strawberries that you like so much..." She swings around the corner to find me in the old recliner, trying to look like I wasn't just throwing the world's largest pity party.

She sits down on the couch and reaches out, gently touching my arm. "Cassandra, honey," she says quietly, "please, honey. Call him. You need to."

I shake my head. "No, Mom. He's got a life, and it doesn't have any room for... this in it."

She frowns with concern. This is an old argument, and she knows she won't win it. "I'm worried about you," she says.

"I'll be fine, Mom," I say, putting on a small smile.

"You hungry?" If Mom can't heal me with a hug, she's sure going to try with food, I think to myself, smiling a bit more.

"Ugh, no, sorry. No room," I say.

She nods, understanding.

"I'm just gonna go... spend some time by myself." I get up and walk upstairs, and I can feel her concern follow me. I walk into the newly redecorated second bedroom – the one that used to just be for guests – and I sit down heavily in the rocking chair. I stare out the window listlessly, and my hand caresses my now-huge stomach. I wonder – not for the first time – what my daughter will look like.

Two days later, I find out, Dean's eyes staring up at me in amazement from a tiny pink face.