Stopping only to grab a blanket off the back of the couch, you drop heavily into the chair in the corner, next to the lamp, and pull the blanket up to your shoulders, wrapping your arms around yourself. Almost as soon as you get comfortable, you dissolve into a puddle of tears. Your eyes sting, your throat is sore from the struggle not to scream, your hands are shaking and you're in that weird stage of being cold, but sweating slightly. Pulling your hands out from under the blanket, you sob into them, not masking the sounds of your cries. No one's home anyway. Castiel had some emergency; Sam and Dean are on a hunt. It's just you. And prior to about an hour ago, it was you and your cat.

You got her from the shelter after much begging. You had looked online at the local shelter's list of adoptable cats, combing through the pages of pictures for just the right one, and when you saw her, your world stood still. The patch of white under her chin, the stripes on her legs, her green eyes that reminded you of Dean's. When you went to the shelter to see her, the lady at the desk grabbed a volunteer to take you to the back, and when you searched the kitty cubicles, desperate to find her, she was asleep in her bed, curled in a ball of fur, her paws crossed. As you cautiously opened the door to the cubicle, she stood straight up and meowed, and when you picked her up, she nudged your chin with the top of her head so hard it made your teeth snap together. She was perfect, in every way.

When the boys went on their hunts, and you were held hostage in the bunker at the Men of Letters Headquarters so that no evil "son of a bitch" would get to you, she was your companion. She followed you around the bunker like a shadow, meowing loudly if she couldn't find you. When you sat on the bed with the laptop and a stack of notes to research, she curled in your lap purring happily, reaching over to bite down gently on your fingers while you typed. She'd wake you up by pressing her nose to yours, then licking your forehead, occasionally by curling up against your arm with her paw draped over it. Dean, as much as he hates cats, had even taken to feeding her in the morning so you could sleep in or reaching over absentmindedly to pet her, even if it made him sneeze.

But this evening, despite being in the bunker, you could hear the rain. And it had been so long since you had felt it on your skin, you couldn't help stepping out the door to feel the electricity in the air, smell the rain. Stepping out the door, your little shadow trailing behind you, the two of you stood in the gentle rain, your cat drastically less pleased by your plan than you were. And then all of a sudden, you felt it. The chills racing up your spine, the hairs at the back of your neck standing on end, the warm air turning so cold you could see your breath. Something was here. Turning quickly to run back down the steps to the bunker door, you wrenched it open, looking desperately for your cat. Calling her name, squinting through the rain, you couldn't even manage a scream when you saw it.

She, with her black eyes and her menacing glare, held your cat in her arms. Your cat struggled in the demon's grip, too sweet to use her claws, too sheltered to know the danger she was in, but smart enough to know that she didn't like this girl. And really, a girl was all she was. Not a child, not an adult, but a teen. Her hair was blonde with chunks of purple, and her ripped jeans and worn-in band tee made your emotions twist with empathy. This poor girl. The demon, with her eyes not leaving yours, lowered her face towards your cat, rubbing her cheek on her and whispering softly, "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty." Without moving too quickly, you had slipped your hand in your back pocket, pulling out the pocket knife with the devil's trap carved on the blade, dipped in holy water. It was your birthday gift from Castiel. You had laughed at the thought of using it anytime soon. As the girl nuzzled your cat, who was growing more frantic as the seconds ticked by, your brain kindly reminded you of how furious Dean would be when he got home. You were under strict orders not to leave the bunker when he or the other members of Team Free Will weren't there. You weren't a trained hunter yet.

You watched silently as her hands closed tighter and tighter around your cat. Just as you were about to cry out that she was hurting the poor animal, your cat lashed out, swiping her claws across the demon's hand. She hissed with pain, and before you could stop her, snapped the neck of your cat in one smooth motion, dropping the soft body to the ground.

"Bad kitty."

But before she could start towards you, you flipped the blade out of your pocket, throwing it as hard as you could at her, staring in shock as it planted itself perfectly in her shoulder blade. With a scream of pain and anger, she clawed around the blade, unable to actually pull the blade out. Then before you could register what you were doing, you pulled her towards the doormat, under which was another Devil's Trap, and began repeating what you had heard Sam and Dean say so many times before. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica... Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te ... cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare... Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis... Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei; contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine... quem inferi tremunt... Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine. Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."

She had been squirming and cursing through the exorcism, trying to claw the knife out of her shoulder blade with little success, unable to move off the mat. When you said the last words, she let out a blood curdling scream, vomiting black smoke before she collapsed into a heap at the door way. Knowing your cat was already gone, you edged towards the girl, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. In fact, by the looks of her now that the demon was gone, she had been dead a while. Yanking the blade out of her shoulder, you turned towards the form of your cat, finally letting tears spill over your cheeks. Poor baby. This was your entire fault. You never should have stepped outside to feel the rain. It was stupid. Dean was right; you weren't supposed to leave the bunker alone. You did, and look what happened?

Scooping the cat into your arms, you let out a desolate sob. She had been your baby. Carrying her inside, dropping the blade on the kitchen counter, you clutched the cat to your chest, carrying her down the hallway to the linen closet, then grabbed a small fleece blanket from the back, wrapping her gently, before placing her in a spare room and walking out with your face in your hands. You couldn't bury her. You would pay Dean in booze and lap dances if he would do it. Anything not to do it yourself.

And now here you were, curled in a ball in a chair in the den, sobbing your heart out, so hard you choked every so often, and hyperventilating to the point that your head began to feel dizzy. As soon as you would calm down, you'd remember the weight of her body jumping up to sit in the chair beside you and loose it all over again. Finally as you had almost cried yourself to sleep, you heard the front door open, the laughter of Dean as he recounted Sam's face when he turned around and saw the clown statue in the corner, and the conversation about the girl on the mat outside the bunker.

Then there was the shuffling of feet in the doorway of the den, and Dean rounded the corner of the chair slowly, uncertainty written across his features.

"Y/N," he started slowly, "You okay?"

Raising your eyes from the spot at his feet to his face, and the concern in his eyes made you start to cry again. When he realized that you weren't a demon, but rather a very sad, heartbroken version of yourself, he softened, motioning for you to scoot over so he could sit down. Complying slowly, you adjusted so that he had room to sit, and when he wrapped at arm around your shoulders, you broke again, sobbing against his shoulder.

He let out a soft, "Oh," as he pulled you closer, running a hand over your hair, while rubbing your shoulder. "It's okay." And he stayed in this position, waiting for your breaths to calm enough for him to ask a few questions.

"Did you off the bitch outside the door?"

Nodding slowly, you hiccupped and added, "She was just a kid."

"When she was alive. She hasn't been in a kid in a long time. Don't let it bother you so much."

"That's not-" You let out a single sob, running your hand across your face to clear your tears. "That's not why I'm sad. She killed…"

But you couldn't say it. You couldn't say that your shadow was gone. It didn't matter that you had watched it happen, saying it made it even more real. Saying meant that you had to explain why you were outside in the first place, which would make Dean even madder at you, and then he'd yell, and then you would lose it again. He frowned, waiting for your answer, before glancing around the room his eyes clearly searching for your cat. When he didn't see her, he turned his face slowly towards yours, not asking in words, but with those gorgeous eyes. And when you nodded, he didn't say anything but clutched you tight to his chest. You were faintly aware of how silly you must seem, crying over a cat, but you loved her. Almost as much as you loved him. Not that you'd ever tell him.

Yes, he was holding you. Yes, he was petting your hair. Yes, he wasn't yelling at you for shanking a demon like he would have under normal circumstances. But you watched the way he had looked at women on hunts. The desire that filled his eyes and the way his tongue would flick across his lips. The smooth tone in his voice when he asked them kindly, lovingly, about the monster they had seen. He never looked at you like that. He bought your beers when he lost a round of poker, and he carried you to bed when you broke your foot and it was still too swollen to walk on. He hugged you when he was overly proud of you. But he didn't love you the same way.

And then he was gone. His leaving so suddenly surprised you out of crying, leaving you with the shaky breaths and occasional hiccup. You could hear doors opening and closing, then silence, then whispers with Sam, and then he was back, his arms full of something that you couldn't see in the dark, and slipping down in the chair beside you.

"Here's my guess. You went outside, like I told you not to do, and your cat followed you. Demon girl was outside waiting, grabbed your cat, and killed it, so you killed her. Close enough?"

Unable to speak, you nodded slowly, your eyes never leaving his. He sighed softly and sat back, wrapping an arm back around your shoulders. You knew what he wanted to say. That you should have listened to what he said and stayed inside. What were you thinking? This was all because you were stubborn. If you weren't so stubborn...But he didn't say it.

"Sam's going to take care of it. And I'm going to take care of you."

Before you could respond properly to what that meant, he grabbed a remote from the side table, kicked his feet up on an ottoman, and pulled you against his chest. "So we're going to watch your favorite shows, pausing only for food and alcohol," which he presented with a dramatic flourish from his side of the chair, "And then when you're ready, I'll buy you a new kitten."

The surprise had you frozen, your cheek pressed to Dean's chest, the sound of his heartbeat filling your mind. All of your favorite things and a…compromise? He hated cats. Why would he agree to get you another one? And then the thought dawned on you. Maybe he did like you a little. He was always doing little things for you that you just assumed were because he was being nice. Feeding the cat in the morning, bringing you breakfast after a long night, providing you with water, greasy food, and Advil the morning after a wild night out. Sitting up so that you could look at his face better, you paused, tears subsided for the moment.

What the hell?

Dean glanced away from the candy he was dumping in his hand to your face, raising an eyebrow in feigned innocence. "What?"

"What yourself."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do."

"No I don't."

"Dean."

"Y/N."

"Dean Winchester, if you don't tell me what you're up to, so help me-"

But before you could finish the sentence his lips were on yours, his hand slipping behind your neck to pull your face as close to his as possible. His lips tasted like sugar, and he was everything you had wanted him to be. He was perfect. And as you pulled away slowly, every nerve in your body buzzing, you let out a sigh of contentment.

With a wicked grin, he turned back towards the television, tossing Sour Patch Kids in his mouth, muttering softly, "Phase One, complete."

And despite the sarcastic comment you wanted to make, your brain wouldn't come up with one. So instead, you leaned back, curling against Dean, deciding that any conversation could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, you would grieve and celebrate. An ending and a new beginning. Life was beautiful.