AN: Happy Friday, friends! Hope you all have a lovely weekend!

Additional warnings: This is a rough chapter, folks. I've been writing serious angst for years now and I think this might be the most intense grief I've ever written. I don't know how that happened, but... Beware. Tissues and chocolate may be needed. It is also INCREDIBLY LONG. I don't know how that happened either.


the lovers left broken

Written by Becks Rylynn


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Chapter Two

ALL THIS LOSS

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You stand red-handed.
You want to wash yourself
in earth, in rocks and grass

What are you supposed to do
with all this loss?

MARGARET ATWOOD | DOWN

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So she has this picture of him.

It was taken during his last trip home. She was already in bed when he came home; curled up under the covers in her pajamas with her glasses on, laptop open in her lap, still working. She had gotten home from work at eight, changed her clothes, made herself a cup of tea, and kept working, barely stopping long enough to move from the living room to the bed. It was just past eleven when he came home, dropping his bag just inside the bedroom door, and greeting her with a kiss on the cheek and a tired mumble of, ''hey, babe'' before heading into the bathroom to take a shower. It was only after he got out of the shower, padded into the kitchen wearing only his boxers and called out a, ''Is there any food in the house that isn't leftover takeout?'' that she realized she hadn't eaten dinner and had actually barely eaten all day long.

They wound up at the 24 hour grocery store down the street at a quarter to midnight, standing under the fluorescent lights with dark circles under their eyes, alternating between conversing and yawning while they shopped for food. Well, while Dean shopped for food. Laurel mostly played Flappy Bird and snuck random things in the cart. She had many strengths but she had to admit grocery shopping was not one of them. Especially not Dean's version of grocery shopping. He was a little drill sergeant when it came to grocery shopping. Probably because he hated it. He got in and out as soon as possible with no dawdling. And he always had a list. She never had a list - usually because she forgot it - and always wound up forgetting what she needed, wandering around aimlessly hoping it would come to her, grabbing random things and only remembering the milk when she was on her way home.

That night, because it was late and they were both tired and hungry, she had let him do it his way.

Until they got to the cereal aisle.

''Oooh,'' she looked up from her phone briefly. ''Don't forget to grab Cocoa Puffs.''

He had glanced back at her from where he was busy studying the differences in prices between the name brand cheerios and the knock off brand. ''Ugh,'' he wrinkled his nose. ''How can you eat that shit?'' He asked, but grabbed a box of Cocoa Puffs (name brand - the good stuff) anyway.

''It's delicious,'' she shrugged.

''It's pure sugar and made for six year olds.''

''I like it.'' Without looking up from her game, she picked up a box of Lucky Charms, studiously ignoring the way he rolled his eyes. ''Cereal is an important staple, Dean.''

''So why can't you get Cheerios?''

''I hate Cheerios.''

''Who the fuck hates Cheerios? Is that even a thing?''

''They're boring.''

''Why does your food need to be exciting?''

''Cereal is a breakfast food,'' she grabbed a box of Cap'n Crunch. ''It needs to wake you up in the mornings.''

He had shot her this adorably ruffled look, complete with a crinkled nose and furrowed brow as he pushed the cart down the aisle slowly. ''Laur, why are you being Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby over cereal?''

''I don't know,'' she laughed, grabbing the back of his neck and leaning in to nuzzle his neck briefly. ''Why are you being Cary Grant in Bringing Up Baby?''

''You don't even eat cereal in the mornings,'' he pointed out. ''You drink coffee, forget to eat breakfast, and eat cereal in the middle of the night. Or after sex. You always eat cereal after sex. What's that about?''

''Not always,'' she sighed, tossing another box in the cart.

''How many boxes are you going to - ''

''I'm trying to put on weight, Dean,'' she snapped. ''Remember?''

''Are you also trying to give yourself diabetes?''

''Really? You, of all people, are going to try the 'eat healthier' thing? Honey, I once saw you eat three cheeseburgers in one sitting.''

''That doesn't count! That was right after I got back from Purgatory! I was famished after Purgatory! I hadn't eaten in a year.'' He paused, like he was just realizing how that literally made zero sense, and then he gave up his attempts to put the Lucky Charms back on the shelf. ''I think Purgatory was weird.''

Her response, mumbled and tired but still somehow indignant, had been, ''Your face is weird.''

There was this short moment of silence and then he started laughing. Really laughing. Not just a tired chuckle or a short bark of something that sounded fake or bitter. This was real laughter that came from deep inside his gut, rich and warm. When she had looked up from her phone, there was this huge smile on his face. It was such a rare and beautiful sight to see him laugh like that. She hadn't been able to help herself. Lips curling back into a grin of her own, she pointed her phone at him and snapped a picture. It's been the background on her phone ever since.

The picture is a little blurry and there's a glare from the brightness of the lights in the store. He looks tired, exhausted, especially around the eyes, but he's smiling this wide, genuine smile that makes his eyes crinkle and shows off his teeth. In the picture, he looks so close to being content and relaxed that he almost looks like a normal guy. One who doesn't have to worry about saving the world once a year. No weight on his shoulders, no crippling depression or PTSD, no drinking problem. Just a man. He looks happy.

Laurel loves this picture.

The first time she sees it, after, is in the airport. Tommy's on the phone with the car service and Laurel has to phone Oliver to let him know that they arrived safely and they're on their way to the hospital. Her lock screen is a picture of her and Sara making stupid faces, taken just a couple of weeks ago, and there's this brief, dull stab of 'I really wish she was here' pain. But when she gets to the home screen... She stares at the picture, lips parted, mesmerized by the sight of him happy and so alive, until the phone times out.

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All Laurel was told about her father's condition was that there had been some complications and she needed to get back to Starling right away.

In the car, on the way to the hospital, Oliver and her mother tell her over speakerphone that he had a blood clot dislodge and it started to make its way to his lungs, which is not uncommon after major surgery, but it is serious. They also tell her that the doctors were great. They caught it quickly and they intervened.

''He's going to be fine,'' her mother says. ''He's going to be just fine.''

She doesn't cry. She doesn't start weeping tears of joy and relief, but she can't speak either. There's a rock in her throat and her lips are moving, but she can't get any words out. In the silence, Tommy wraps his arms around her and she squeezes her eyes shut, listening to the sound of her mother's breathing on the phone.

Nobody says a word about Dean.

It is only when she steps off the elevator in the hospital and sees her mother's red, watery eyes that the loss is even acknowledged.

Laurel hasn't been extremely close with her mother since Sara died. There is hurt there that cannot be fixed with the occasional check in call or warm hug. Dinah Lance is not a constant in her daughter's life. She hasn't been for a long time. That's just the way it is now. Laurel thinks that her mother will always be in her life and they'll always have some sort of relationship, but it will never be like it was before, when she could spend hours with her mother just talking. Some things can be forgiven but they can never be forgotten. When Sara ''died'' and left her life and her family behind, it was because she didn't have a choice. Sure, she wound up there because of the selfish and naive choices she had previously made, but she never chose to leave her family.

Dinah did.

She chose to abandon her remaining family - her husband, her surviving daughter, her elderly mother in the nursing home - and start fresh somewhere else, putting her life - putting Laurel - in the past. She gave up being a mother when Sara went away. It was like Laurel didn't even matter. It hurt. It still hurts.

Still, sometimes, despite the hurt and the bad blood, you just need your mom.

As soon as the elevator doors open and Laurel sees her mother standing there, clearly in the know about Dean's death, she feels like a kid again. Her mother opens her arms and she is a helpless four year old, sick with the flu, too hot and too cold, coughing and aching and all she wants is her mommy. Laurel practically collapses into her mother's arms, falling apart at the seams the second she is wrapped in the familiar embrace. She doesn't cry. She's too numb to cry. But she leans on her mother like she can barely stand, holding onto her so tightly she's almost afraid she's hurting her. She is tired. She is so tired.

Her mother just holds her tight, strokes her hair and whispers, ''I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm so sorry'' over and over.

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Laurel is right where she should be, by her father's side, when he wakes up.

He's groggy, still doped up on meds, but it's the first time she's seen his eyes in two days and it feels so good. ''Hey,'' his voice is weak and raspy, but there's so much feeling behind it that her breath catches. His hand closes around hers.

She smiles shakily and takes his hand in both of hers. ''Hi, Daddy,'' she whispers. ''How do you feel?''

''I've had better days,'' he croaks out, ''but pain is a part of life.''

Laurel swallows hard and does her best to keep her composure and not let her smile falter.

''You gave us quite a scare, Quentin,'' her mother says, holding a cup of water to his lips, smoothing his hair tenderly.

''Maybe I just wanted to see you,'' he tells her.

Laurel forces out a weak laugh. ''Still a charmer, even on drugs.''

''The plus side,'' he says, ''is that I've cheated death - again. It seems to run in the family. Even the extended family.''

The smile drops off her face and she watches as her mother's hand ceases movement.

Even drugged to the gills, it doesn't take him long to notice that something is horribly wrong. ''What?'' He asks. ''Laurel, what's wrong?''

''Um,'' she clears her throat. ''Dad, there's...'' She's not sure she trusts herself to speak.

''There's something we need to tell you, Quentin,'' her mother says, taking over for her when she can't go on. ''About... About Dean.''

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Laurel steps into her quiet, empty apartment and lets out a breath she has been holding for God knows how long. Her entire body is sore from a bone deep exhaustion and her brain is working so slowly that she almost forgot to get off the elevator on her floor. She drops her bag by the door and steps further into her place. The apartment is dark and the moonlight outside is casting strange shadows on the walls. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, wrapping her arms around her middle and inhaling the familiar scent of home. Her home - their home - has always smelled warm. She doesn't know how to describe it other than to say it smells warm. Lavender scented candles, fresh laundry, just a hint of baked goods, and, for awhile there, it was almost impossible to miss the slight smell of wine and whiskey that permeated the air. The apartment smells like Laurel and it smells like Dean. It smells like home.

The familiarity is anything but comforting to her tonight. It makes something crumble inside of her. Just knowing that someday, his scent will disappear, just another trace of him that's gone.

She opens her eyes.

She's been through this before, you know. When he was trapped in Purgatory. He had disappeared without a trace. The assumption had been - from the beginning - that he had died. Sam didn't even try. He had just...accepted the loss. But Laurel hadn't been able to do that. Hadn't been able to deal with yet another person vanishing from her life without a trace. If she was going to bury another coffin, it wasn't going to be empty. For a year, she never gave up hope. Even when his scent faded from his pillow, when she momentarily forgot the sound of his voice, what his hands felt like on her body, she never stopped believing he would come back and she never stopped trying to bring him home.

She immersed herself in his world, going to psychics and mediums, mythology professors, witches, even went to a crossroads demon once, which was a terrible mistake. She learned things she was never supposed to learn. She never lost hope.

And, in the end, he came home.

It took a year, and it was a bad year, but he came home.

One night, she came home from CNRI, and he was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, like he had never left. The only indication that something wasn't normal was the way his voice shook when he greeted her with a murmur of, ''Hey, baby.''

He won't come home this time. They don't get another chance. They've used up all their miracles, all their lifelines. This is it. This is how their story ends. If she could rewrite it... But she can't. She's stuck here, in this new world, in the apartment they shared, without him. Their story is over. It ended bloody and brutally, without warning, like she had always been afraid it would, and she can't change that. Nothing can. Now she just has to find some way to live in a world where he does not exist anymore.

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In the bathroom, Laurel studies her ghastly appearance.

She looks dreadful. Her eyes are puffy, red rimmed and bloodshot, with deep circles under them. Her skin is sallow and sickly looking. Her hair is stringy and greasy and it feels disgusting when she pulls it out of the ponytail it's in. She looks more corpse-like than Dean, which is a morbid thought that makes her grimace. Physically, she feels...broken. She feels weak and tired and shaky, unsteady on her feet. Her head is throbbing from all the crying she's done and her stomach is churning. Emotionally, she feels...

Well.

Like she's dying.

She turns the shower on as hot as it will go, strips off her clothes and steps inside. She washes her hair three times, until she starts to feel a little bit more like a human being, and then she scrubs at her skin until it is pink, soft and raw, like it is a brand new skin.

She tries not to think about anything but getting clean, but it doesn't work. She is extremely tired and extremely out of it, and she winds up thinking, for a brief moment, about how if this is a new skin, then she has washed away all of the skin that Dean has touched or kissed, and he will never touch this new skin. It's a ludicrous thought, but it nearly sends her into hysterics. The only reason it doesn't is because she's simply too tired for hysterics right now.

A year ago - almost exactly a year ago - right after the earthquake, when she was still a shaky mess, so fragile she could have shattered if the wind blew, more shell shocked than anything else, Dean climbed into the shower with her and helped her wash away the grime, the soot and the blood, the ashes of life before the earthquake. It was probably the gentlest his hands had ever been.

Contrary to people's immediate judgments upon first seeing him, Dean is actually an incredibly gentle person. ...Was. He was an incredibly gentle person. But that night was different. It was like he was terrified of breaking her, as if he was genuinely worried about her cracking and falling apart while he was washing her hair for her. That won't ever happen again.

She'll miss that.

That gentleness.

Nobody had ever been that gentle with her before. Nobody had ever been that concerned with keeping her whole and unbroken. Every other person in her life - boyfriends, family, friends, whatever - had always been more worried about themselves. If she broke into pieces, it was her problem, not theirs. She could handle it on her own. She doesn't think it was necessarily something malicious. Everyone else just saw her as this strong, unbreakable goddess. Everyone had such a skewed view of her. To them she was perfect. Too strong to break. Too high up to hit the ground. They don't think of her like that anymore. After this past year, she's not sure anyone will ever see her as strong again.

Dean was never like that. He knew she had flaws, he knew sometimes she needed to let herself be vulnerable, and he knew that, despite her outward strength, she was breakable. He never treated her like she was a weak porcelain doll or anything but at the same time, he made sure he never stepped on her to get where he was going. He treated her like she was worth something. It had been something new to her. She remembers it had startled her at first. Not the fact that he was doing it, but the fact that being treated well was something new for her. It was how she knew - she knew - that he was it for her.

And now he's gone.

And yes, she is stunned. She is shell shocked and grief stricken and no, it doesn't feel real. It seems like every five seconds the same thought rushes through her head: this can't be happening, this can't be real. But, at the same time, somewhere in the back of her mind, she is not all that surprised. There is a part of her that always knew it would end this way. For almost their entire relationship, she has lived in fear. Every time he was away from her, she would be one horrible thought away from a panic attack. If he didn't call at the time they set, she couldn't sleep, but every time the phone rang, she would be petrified that it would be a blubbering, devastated Sam or a stoic, apologetic police officer. For over five years, she has worried more about his life than her own because for over five years, she has had this sinking feeling in her stomach. This feeling that no matter what they did, no matter how hard they tried, they were never going to grow old together. She tried to combat the feeling with the selfish, rather childish thought of, well, then I'll just make sure I go first.

Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way.

Nothing gold can stay. She knows that. He was nothing if not gold.

After her shower, still wrapped in a fluffy white towel, she makes a half hearted attempt to choke down some dry toast and a glass of water and then she wraps herself up in Dean's shirt and crawls into bed, hair still wet. She doesn't expect to be able to sleep.

She's asleep the moment her head hits the pillow.

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She wakes to a strange sound in the darkness.

It sounds like fluttering.

She forces her heavy eyelids open and rolls over to give the darkened bedroom a quick scan. Sure enough, there is a figure hovering by the end of the bed, silhouetted by the shadows. She jerks, bolting upright with a startled gasp.

''Laurel.'' He steps into the thin strip of moonlight, illuminating his sorrow filled face.

She lets out a breath and closes her eyes, one hand over her racing heart. ''Castiel.''

He doesn't say anything. Just stands there in the moonlight, eyes downcast, lips pressed together. For a long, painful moment, there is only silence. Frozen under the covers, barely able to force herself to breathe through the pain that suddenly slams into her when her sleep addled brain remembers that Dean is gone, she doesn't offer him anything. She doesn't bother to ask him if he knows about Dean because it's abundantly clear just from the look on his face that he does. She doesn't ask if he's okay, she doesn't ask if he's been to see Sam, she doesn't move to comfort him, and she doesn't dare ask him the question that pops into her head as soon as she sees him.

What do you think of humanity now?

Throat aching, she yanks back the covers and rushes over to him, pulling him into a hug before he can protest. It takes him a moment to wrap his arms around her but when he does he practically melts into her, burying his face in her hair and releasing a shaky breath. Something about it reminds her of Dean. ''I didn't mean to wake you up,'' he finally says into her hair.

Laurel smiles through the tears in her eyes and a small, trembling laugh forces its way out of her throat before she can stop it. ''That's okay.'' A few tears dribble down her cheeks and she quickly draws away from him to swipe at them with the back of her hand. She sniffles, trying to regain at least a facade of composure. ''I'm really glad you're here,'' she tells him softly. ''He...'' She smiles again, this watery, unconvincing smile, and brings her hand to his cheek. The warmth of her palm against his cheek in such a gentle manner seems to surprise him. Like he doesn't know what to do with it. ''He would be so glad to know you're okay.'' At that, Castiel grimaces. He draws away from her hand and takes a step back. She frowns. He turns, staring down at the floor so she can only see his profile. She takes a step towards him and then stops. ''You are, aren't you?'' There's a clench of dread in her chest. ''You're okay?''

''I'm an angel,'' he says firmly, like that's an answer. It's not as convincing as it should be. Even he doesn't sound convinced. ''I'm sorry,'' he says. He looks up at her, all gigantic, sorrowful eyes. ''I'm sorry I couldn't save him.''

Her frown deepens. ''Cas,'' she says.

He shakes his head. ''If I had been with him - ''

''Castiel.'' She reaches out to grasp his arm, pulling him down onto the edge of the bed where she perches herself. She understands this, she really does. This desperate need to assign blame for a tragedy. Usually on yourself. She's been here before. Several times, actually. It never ends well. ''This is not your fault,'' she tells him. ''If you had been there, there's a good chance you would be dead, too. And you know that.''

There's a sharp intake of breath, a long pause, and then he looks at her. It's that familiar searching gaze that makes her squirm uncomfortably. ''How are you?''

She draws in a deep breath. She looks away from him. How is she supposed to answer that? ''I'm tired,'' she mumbles. Her focus moves to the picture frames on the dresser. In between the picture of her and Sara from when they were kids wearing matching pajamas on Christmas morning, Sara missing a front tooth, Laurel's bed head out of control, and the old black and white picture of her maternal grandparents' wedding day, is a picture of her and Dean.

It was taken at a backyard barbeque at Joanna's parents' house. It's funny. That barbeque was years ago and yet she can remember almost every single detail of it. Funny how we latch onto certain memories. It was a birthday party for Jo. Her younger sister, Lucy, had just gotten engaged to her longtime girlfriend and Laurel spent most of the party talking about wedding plans and dodging questions about when she and Dean were going to get married. Dean had been in town for the week and when Laurel had brought up the barbeque, instead of making an excuse to leave town early, he had said, ''Sure, why not?''

She remembers that the most awkward part of the night had been the drive there. She sat in the backseat, listening to her father - who was still not quite on Team Dean, although he was softening towards him - critique her boyfriend's driving abilities. They showed up late with a bottle of wine, a six pack of beer, and her father's homemade potato salad, and when Jo, already a little tipsy, had shrieked out an excited greeting and all eyes had turned towards them, Dean blanched and practically glued himself to Laurel's side. For the first twenty minutes, he barely left her side, arm thrown around her waist or over her shoulder, trying to look casual rather than tense and nervous. It had been Jo's older brother Danny who finally coaxed Dean into actual friendly, civilized conversation.

After that, once he loosened up, he did great. He charmed pretty much all of Jo's family and Danny's four year old son wound up clinging to him. It wasn't surprising to her at all. Dean could get along with anyone when he made an effort to be something other than Jack Lemmon in Grumpy Old Men and he had always been good with kids. But it was the first time her father had seen that side of Dean and it was the first time he looked at him like maybe he wouldn't be the worst son-in-law to have.

He laughed that night, had lively conversations with people, and his usually tense body was relaxed. She's still not sure if it was an act or what, something he was doing for her, but because of that night not only did her father finally decide to give their relationship his blessing (not that she needed it, but it was nice to not have to keep cutting off her father's not-so-subtle insults anymore) but it led to a genuine friendship between Dean and Danny that lasted right up until Danny's death last year.

It was one of the times where they weren't Dean Winchester: Righteous Man, Infamous Hunter, Soldier with Crippling PTSD/Alcoholism/Depression (and various other anxiety disorders) and Laurel Lance: Oliver Queen's clueless girlfriend, you know, the one he cheated on all the time, The Sister of that Girl Who Died, Motherless Daughter. They were just Dean and Laurel: Perfectly Normal Couple. It wasn't something that happened very often.

It's why this picture of them is one of her favourites. In the picture, her hair is wet from when Jo's boyfriend had pulled her and Jo into the pool and her makeup has been mostly wiped away. Dean is wearing sunglasses, even though the sun is setting in the background, and he's wearing that nice button down shirt that she had gotten him. Their heads are tilted together and their smiles are soft. Peaceful, even. They look content. They look happy. They were happy.

That was the thing about their relationship. No matter how bad things got - and things got pretty damn bad - they could always make each other happy. He could always make her laugh, no matter how shitty she felt, and she could always make him smile with those cute little eye crinkles of his, no matter how bad his self-loathing was.

Laurel releases a shaky breath and looks down at her hands, folded in her lap. ''I'm so tired,'' she mumbles, which - she is. She is so tired of it all. She's tired of losing people, she's tired of the constant grieving and the seemingly unending unbearable pain that just keeps being piled onto her and her family, she's tired of having everything and everyone taken away, and she is...so tired of being without him.

''You should rest,'' Castiel says, even though she's certain he knows exactly what she meant.

She nods. ''Yeah,'' she whispers, and keeps staring at her hands. There's an odd moment, while she's staring down at her bare ring finger, where she deeply regrets not pushing the marriage issue more. Marriage was always one of those things. It was like buying a house. Or having kids. Or vacations. They talked about it frequently, but never acted on it, because they were busy and because they figured there would be more time. She's not sure why it matters now. It's not like it would give her something more to hold onto. It's not like it would make him any less dead.

She squeezes her eyes shut and wraps her arms around her stomach.

This is excruciating. What the hell is she supposed to do now? What is she supposed to do with all of this loss?

''You know,'' she raises her head. ''He was always leaving.'' There's a beat of silence after her admission and when she looks over at Castiel, she expects him to be looking at her in confusion, brows furrowed, lips pursed, like he's worried she's losing it. But he only appears to be mildly contemplative. ''It seemed like we spent more time apart than we did together,'' she continues. ''He was always walking out the door, off to save the world.'' She shrugs. ''And I was always here, in a bed that's too big, lonely, and pretending like I wasn't waiting for him. I got so sick of it. But do you know what I never got sick of?''

''What?''

''When he would come home.'' She smiles faintly. ''It was like... As soon as he walked in the door, everything was right again. Like the world had been off balance while he was gone and I hadn't even realized it until he came home and everything suddenly felt better. Does that sound cheesy?''

''No,'' Castiel responds, very quietly. ''I think it sounds like love.''

''Have you seen Sam?'' She changes the subject quickly, inhaling sharply and closing her eyes momentarily, until she can be sure she won't cry. When she opens them again and looks at Castiel, he is not looking at her, grimacing and staring at the carpet.

''I have,'' he says.

''How is he?''

''He's been better,'' is the careful, tight voiced answer she gets.

''I know,'' she sighs. ''I...'' She rakes a hand through her hair. ''I know. I didn't want to leave him. I thought - I don't want him to be alone, but my father...'' She stops and shakes her head. ''I'm going back to Kansas as soon as I can. I just need - ''

''No.'' His voice leaves no room for argument.

She's going to argue anyway. ''No? What do you - ''

''You can't go back to Kansas.''

''What? Why not?''

He rises to his feet, back to her. His entire demeanor has changed. His back has stiffened and his hands have curled into fists. He has gone from trusted friend to strictly professional instantly. ''That's why I'm here.'' He turns to face her. ''I've spoken to Sam and we both agree that it's best if you stay here.''

Laurel clenches her teeth. She folds her arms across her chest and does her best to remain calm. ''Oh,'' her voice is ice. ''You've both agreed on that, huh? I don't get a say?''

''Your father needs you, Laurel,'' he says. A red hot burst of anger courses through her. Just how long is this going to go on? How long is she supposed to pretend that the men in her life and their chauvinistic, archaic behavior doesn't make her want to scream? He is actually trying to use her father to guilt her into taking orders. It shouldn't surprise her that he could stoop this low. We all do questionable things when we're desperate. Castiel is quite obviously desperate. It's clear he's trying, but he can't quite hide the manic look in his eyes. She's never actually seen that look in Castiel's eyes before. It's...worrying. ''Your family needs you,'' he tells her.

''You are my family,'' she snaps. ''You and Sam. We're supposed to get through this together. That's what family does. Don't you think Dean would want that?''

''I think Dean would want to be alive,'' he responds, coldly.

That's it. That's what does it. Just eight little words that she wants so badly to believe, to cling to, but she can't. She knows too much to believe that. She's seen too much. She's the one who had a first row seat to Dean's slow death. She may not have been there when it all stopped, but she watched the suffering. She stares up at Cas silently, head tilted to the side and then she says, in an eerily calm voice, ''Except that's not exactly true, is it?''

A vaguely horrified look crosses his face and his lips part, like he wants to say something but he's too shocked to speak. When she stands, his body twitches like he wants to step away from her but he doesn't move. He squares his jaw and he lets her come.

''You love Dean,'' she says. ''I know that.'' She pauses to swallow the lump in her throat and take a breath. ''And I know you lost him too. And I know it hurts.'' She narrows her eyes at him and takes a step towards him. ''But don't pretend you knew him because you didn't. You didn't know who he was at the end, because you weren't there. You knew a memory.'' She takes another step closer. ''For the past two years, you have been off embroiled in your own shitty storyline, which is fine. You had - have - responsibilities. You have a life outside of the Winchester family. Hey, that's great.'' She sneers, crossing her arms. ''Good for you.'' The anger burns in her stomach, her chest, her throat, like lava is running through her entire body. She is practically shaking with it, sweat breaking out on her forehead, teary eyed and ready to start swinging. ''Meanwhile,'' she scoffs, ''Sam's brooding like a sixteen year old and spewing his hateful crap at Dean, blatantly ignoring other people's problems in favor of his own because that's what Sam does. I've made peace with these things, Castiel,'' she lowers her voice. ''Sam is selfish, you are more of an absence than a presence, and that's fine. I still love you. Dean still loved you. You're still good men. But neither of you were there. Neither of you helped him. And don't lie to me and tell me you tried,'' she cuts him off when he opens his mouth, pointing a finger at him. ''Because we both know that's bullshit.'' She takes another step closer, just one more, so close to him she's almost nose to nose with him. ''You know where I was? I was here. I was always right here. And I saw everything. Did you know that he hadn't slept in weeks?''

''Laurel - ''

''He'd get half an hour, maybe forty five minutes if he was lucky, and then he'd spend the rest of the night in the living room, pacing. Did you know he was barely eating? And when he did, he could only keep it down about half the time. He was drinking again, worse than before. His hands shook. That's how bad it was. He was angry all of the time. He was afraid. He was afraid of himself. Did you know that? Did you know any of that?''

Cas swallows. ''No.''

She shakes her head. She steps away from him and stares down at the ground, licking her lips. ''You keep loving him, Cas,'' she whispers, ''and you grieve for as long as you need to. But don't you dare presume to know what he wanted.'' She turns her back on him because she can't stand to look into his wide, glassy eyes without crying. He doesn't say anything to her. She's a little surprised. She expected him to get angry.

She moves away from him and over to the window, pulling back the gauzy curtains just enough so she can see outside. It's not much of a view. Not like the amazing view of the skyline from every room in the all glass high rise condo Tommy used to live in, or the peaceful view of memorial park from Joanna's place. It's just a fire escape and a view of the dark, creepy alley. She doesn't even have a clear view of the sky. The tall, all brick building next door obstructs the view of the sky. To see the stars, you have to climb out onto the fire escape and even then the skyscrapers and city lights are mostly what you see. Despite its name, Starling City isn't the greatest place for star gazing. It's one of the reasons Laurel - a self proclaimed city girl - has always had a secret dream of settling down in nice cozy cabin in the woods, not completely isolated but far enough away to be free of the noise of the city, somewhere near water, where you can always see the stars.

Dean used to tell her, ''One day, after you've saved the world and after I've suffered the inevitable injury that keeps me from hunting, we'll go be mountain people together. We'll get a nice cabin, preferably with a hot tub, we'll get a dog, and we'll be that weird old couple who only comes into town to buy dog food and lottery tickets.''

''Just what I've always wanted,'' she'd say, laughing and winding her arms around his neck. ''Someone to grow old and weird with.''

Laurel gnaws on her thumbnail and stares out at the shadowed alleyway. She's always been a fan of heights; never scared of them, always comfortable perched up high, like a bird. Most nights, she'll sit out on the fire escape with a mug of tea or hot chocolate and try to see the stars. Usually, she'll just wind up watching people go in and out of the all night bodega across the street, which she has a perfect view of. Unlike her, Dean has always hated heights; hates the lack of control and the possibility of dying a completely undignified accidental ''splatter-y'' death. But he'll still climb out onto the fire escape next to her to drape a blanket around her shoulder, sitting with his shoulder pressed against hers, their knees touching, doing his best not to look down while he tries to make her laugh. Or - He did.

She closes her eyes and exhales softly.

''I think he would want you to be safe,'' Castiel murmurs, not unkindly.

She turns to face him, anger and frustration slowly giving way to defeat because, try as she might, she can't argue with that.

''It's safer for you here,'' he adds on.

''Safer,'' she echoes. ''What does that mean?''

He pauses. A strange look passes through his eyes. He's trying to choose his words very carefully, she can tell. ''Dean,'' he starts, and then immediately stops, huffing out a sigh. ''Dean Winchester was both a famous and infamous hunter, Laurel. He was feared, hated, celebrated, and, in some cases, worshipped. And that's just within the hunting community. When it came to monsters and demons, he was something of a ghost story. He was the monster under the monster's bed. Once word gets out that he's...'' He trails off. ''It's going to be chaos. Demons, angels, vampires, werewolves, hunters, all of them, they're all going to want to pick apart the carcass. Worse than that, they're all going to come for us. We're vulnerable. And this - this world - his world - demons and angels... This is not your world. I have no doubt that if anything happens to you because of that, Dean will claw his way out of the afterlife just to yell at us for not keeping you safe.''

She heaves a sigh. How is she supposed to argue with that? She wants to. She wants to tell him that she is a big girl. That she is not some helpless child. That she can't let them grieve alone. If it were just her, she would be doing just that. She would be laying down the law. That's the problem, though. It's not just her. It's never going to be just her again. He's right. She may not have been an active part of the supernatural world but even she knows how notorious the Winchester brothers are. They're untouchable. But with one of them now gone...

Dean would want her to be as far away from that mess as possible.

''That does sound like something he would do,'' she admits with a faint smile.

''Laurel,'' Cas says, with a small smile. ''You need to understand - Dean is not the only one who loves you.''

She sinks back down onto the edge of the bed, rubbing at the back of her neck. ''And you really think I'm safer here?''

''There are people here who can...protect you.''

She scoffs. Honestly, why does every man in her life still operate under the assumption that she needs to be protected? She doesn't get it. Dean, her father, Sam, Oliver, even Tommy and Cas. What is that about? Do they enjoy rescuing her? Does it make them feel good? She's saved most of their asses at one point or another. For God's sake, Ollie hasn't even acknowledged the fact that she literally killed a man to save his life. She actually unloaded a clip into a police officer (albeit an extraordinarily corrupt one) to save his life. You'd think that would at least warrant a ''thanks'' or a ''hey, how are you doing with the whole taking a human life thing?'' but nope. That's just another thing Oliver has probably conveniently chosen to forget about.

Men.

Just this once, just for tonight, because she's too tired, she decides she can let it slide and not go into a full length rant about how yes, she's a woman, but that doesn't automatically make her a damsel. ''Are you talking about Oliver?'' She can't help but ask, wrinkling her nose.

''I'm talking about your sister,'' he corrects.

''Well, I'm sure she'd be flattered,'' she says, ''but she's not here. Sara left town a couple days ago. I haven't even been able to get a hold of her to tell her about our father.'' She looks down at her hands. ''...Or about Dean.''

Castiel looks momentarily thrown. ''Oh.'' He shuffles from foot to foot awkwardly. ''Well,'' he noticeably hesitates. ''I...suppose Oliver Queen will have to do then.'' His eyebrows furrow together. ''Perhaps I should send someone to watch over you.''

She arches a brow at his blatant distrust of Oliver. ''I'd really rather you didn't, Cas.''

''Can you promise me you'll stay in Starling City?''

She tilts her head to the side. ''I'll stay in Starling,'' she nods. ''On one condition. You both have to check in with me twice a week. Phone calls, not texts.''

''Done,'' is the instant reply. ''Just make sure the Devil's Trap under the door is always intact, keep the windows salted, and make sure you have an exorcism memorized.''

''Okay.'' Before he has a chance to say anything else or disappear into thin air, she rises to her feet and envelopes him in another hug. ''Please be careful,'' she whispers in his ear. ''Please, Cas. Please be careful. Please don't die on me, too.''

''Oh, Laurel,'' he says, after a moment. ''We're trying.''

.

.

.

After Cas is gone, Laurel, unable to sleep, shuffles into the kitchen to make herself a cup of chamomile tea, hoping it will be able to calm her down. Amazingly, she manages to make it a full eight minutes before she starts hearing his voice in her head (''I don't know how you can drink that crap,'' he always said, lip curling in disgust whenever he saw her drinking chamomile. ''It tastes like grass. If you want to ingest grass for kicks, at least - '' ''Do not make a pot joke, Dean, I swear to God'') and picturing his face.

It comes to her in flashes.

His smile, the crinkles around his green eyes, his hands that were always strong and warm and made her feel so safe, the freckles splashed across various parts of his body - his shoulders, his nose, in his ears, on his back, around his eyes. His voice in the mornings when they were in bed; this low, gravelly rumble that was just so comforting to her for some unexplainable reason. The sound of him singing in the shower, horrible and off-key, but loud and energetic and alive and, on occasion, directly to her, just to make her laugh (''come on, baby, don't say maybe, I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me'') because Dean Winchester didn't say 'I love you,' he just sang cheesy power ballads to you. His laugh. His laugh.

These are things that she loved about him. These are all things that have been taken from her, ripped from her life violently and without warning. Those lazy Sunday mornings spent in bed, drawing maps on each other's skin of the places they wanted to go together, the people they wanted to be together? Gone. The vacation they were saving up for, the one they'd joke about ''maybe by our tenth anniversary we'll be able to afford it.'' Never going to happen. The dreams they shared of a normal life; a house with a big backyard, a couple of kids, a dog; he'd be a stay at home dad while she built CNRI back up from the ashes. Not an option. That feeling of relief and excitement, that thrill, that rush of something so powerful she didn't even have a name for it whenever he would walk in that door? She will never ever feel that again.

Their future, their hopes and dreams, have all been wiped away in one fell swoop.

Dean Winchester is dead.

Now all that's left is a gaping hole in her life where he used to be, the pictures of the life they shared together, and perhaps the biggest reminder...

Laurel squeezes her eyes shut and swallows the lump in her throat. When she realizes her hands are shaking so badly her tea is nearly sloshing over the edge, she places it on the counter. Slowly, trying to calm down, she breathes in through her nose and exhales through her mouth. She braces herself against the counter, hands gripping the marble top tightly, staring down.

Well.

Now what?

She raises her eyes and takes in a few more deep breaths.

Grabbing her mug of tea, she pads out of the kitchen and into the living room, snatching up the bag she had filled with Dean's belongings. It's not a good idea, not right now, before the wound has even begun to scab over, but she does it anyway. Call her a masochist. She unzips the bag, rifles through clothes, and takes out the well loved Led Zeppelin album.

Dean loves this stupid thing. Loved, damn it. He loved this stupid thing. When they had first discovered the Men of Letters bunker and Dean had found an old record player in one of the many rooms, one of the first things he did was go out and buy records for it. Led Zeppelin's first album, Queen, Pink Floyd, Pearl Jam, along with various other albums he didn't want people to know he had (Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Air Supply, and she's pretty sure she saw a Fleetwood Mac album somewhere in the stack he brought home). She didn't necessarily get it - she's never really been a classic rock person, a fact that Dean used to call ''her only real flaw'' - but she loved seeing him so excited about something.

That year, for their anniversary, she got Thea to take her to this cute little music store that sold vinyl records for a decent price and she got him Led Zeppelin IV and an Otis Redding album to go along with the watch she bought for him. He probably liked the albums more than the watch, to be honest. She may not have been a classic rock girl, but she quickly developed a certain sort of fondness for Led Zeppelin. It became something of a tradition. Whenever she was at the bunker, it was the record he put on. The running joke was that if you heard When the Levee Breaks coming from Dean's room then you knew to either knock first or risk being traumatized. (Poor Kevin found that out the hard way.)

Laurel places the record down on the coffee table and moves over to the cabinet that is supposed to hold her fine china and wine glasses but is instead stuffed with old knick knacks and other assorted junk because she's kind of a pack rat. Carefully, she pulls out her grandfather's old record player. When her grandfather passed away when she was twenty two and her grandmother went into the nursing home, her mother's sisters and brother pretty much picked his house apart, loading up their cars with things that they just ''had to have.'' They were like vultures. Laurel thought it was shameful, morbid and disrespectful and refused to take part in it. She wasn't about to use her grandfather's death as an excuse to steal his things.

Regardless, she still ended up with the record player.

Her grandmother, who knew that Laurel was the one who had fond memories of dancing on her grandfather's feet to Bing Crosby, had stolen the record player back from one of the aunts and sent it home with Sara to give to Laurel.

Even though she had no idea how to use it and the only records she owned were cheesy old Partridge Family records that her mother left behind, she kept it around, unable to part with it. When she met Dean, he was the one who brought out the old thing and the dusty records, cleaned it up for her, and patiently taught her how to work it, stifling laughter as they tried to converse over the sound of David Cassidy. Eventually, he gave up and pulled her up off the couch, twirling her around and singing, ''I'll meet you halfway, that's better than no way, there must be some way to get it together'' until she was laughing into his neck.

By the time she's finished fiddling with the record player and the familiar music is filtering through the room, the sun is just beginning to peek through the curtains and her piping hot tea is lukewarm. She stands by the window, clutching her mug, watching the sun rise as the music Dean loved plays. She manages to keep it together for a few songs. It's only when she begins to hear the opening riff of When the Levee Breaks that she begins to deeply regret her decision to listen to the record. She bites down hard on her bottom lip and closes her eyes.

She can still remember - vividly - what his hands felt like on every inch of her body. She remembers that they were warm. They were always warm. She also remembers what they felt like most recently. They were cold and stiff and she couldn't pry his fingers apart. She remembers laying her head on his chest most nights and listening to his heartbeat until it lulled her to sleep. She also remembers what it felt like to lay her head on his still chest and hear nothing but a deafening silence. She remembers his face - bright smile, all perfect white teeth with eye crinkles and a glint in green eyes. And then she remembers gray, waxy skin that was cold to the touch, blue lips, closed eyes that would never open. She remembers the sight of him alive, breathing and vibrant. She also remembers the sight of him dead, colorless and still.

A whimper pushes its way through her lips.

What do you think it felt like? When the blade went in? How long did the pain last? How long until the body went into shock? What do you think it sounded like when the blade went through? When it tore through muscle and sinew and crashed through bone? When he gasped wetly as it punctured his heart?

His heart. Oh, god. His heart.

How much blood was there? Do you think he was scared? What was it that he wanted to tell her? Why wasn't she there? Why wasn't she with him? Would that have made a difference? Could she have saved him or would she have just died with him? Would she have minded? Dying with him, bloody and final, her body falling next to his. Would she have minded?

See, that's one of the things that movie scripts, novels and television shows don't tell you about grieving.

There are always so many questions and never anyone left to answer them.

Meanwhile, the record player keeps playing that one song, Robert Plant's voice coming out in a raspy groan, ''Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan.''

Dean is dead now. He died. He died violently and in pain and scared, full of blood and relief, and left everything unfinished. And all of those things they talked about she'll have to do by herself.

He's not coming home.

The mug of tea slips out of her suddenly numb hands and goes crashing to the floor. It breaks apart and the tea sloshes onto the hardwood floor. She would care, except that she's a little preoccupied with the fact that she can't breathe. She opens her mouth, attempting to gasp for air, but it's not there. It feels like all of the air has been sucked out of the room. Her hands fly up to her throat and she gasps desperately, fruitlessly, for air. She only realizes that she's crying when she tastes the salty tears on her tongue. She goes down hard on her knees, still gasping and finally - finally - the air gets through. She gulps in much needed oxygen, trying to swallow down the lump in her throat. She can't. The sobs come suddenly. They just kind of explode right out of her. Like screaming. And these are not quiet, pretty little cries either. These are loud and out of control howls.

She is suddenly glad that she's on the floor because she's not sure her legs would be able to support her. She brings a shaking hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs but she can't stop them. He's gone, a voice keeps reminding her, over and over as she breaks apart. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's really gone.

Outside, the sun rises.

This is the beginning of day one as Dean Winchester's widow.

''Cryin' won't help you now, prayin' won't do you no good...''

.

.

.

Laurel opens her eyes to movement.

Her eyelashes feel gluey and her eyelids are crusted with sleep and dried tears. Her head is pounding. She remembers hauling her body up onto the couch, but she doesn't remember falling asleep. She focuses her bleary gaze on the two familiar figures in her apartment. Oliver is cleaning up the broken mug on the ground. Tommy is just slipping the record player into the cupboard. She can hear someone moving around in the kitchen. Probably her mother.

Oliver is the one who spots her first. ''Laurel,'' he abandons his task and stands, but visibly restrains himself from moving towards her. He looks oddly nervous and uncomfortable, lips tightened in concern, eyes narrowed with strain.

''Hey,'' Tommy is the one who swoops in with an easy smile, gently easing her back down onto the couch when she makes a feeble attempt to sit up. ''Hey, it's okay,'' he says softly. ''Just rest.'' He rises to his feet, turning around and grasping Oliver's sleeve, leaning in to whisper something in his ear.

The next thing she knows, Oliver's lifting her into his arms, murmuring a gentle, ''I'm just going to take you to bed, okay? Go back to sleep.''

She's too tired and groggy to argue, so she does.

When she opens her eyes again, she is comfortably burrowed under the covers in her own bed. Her head is still a little achy and the nausea she figures she's going to have to get used to has returned, but she feels a little better than she did. Sleep helped. She blinks a few times to clear her vision and stares at the empty side of the bed. She bites down hard on her bottom lip and rolls over to avoid looking at it. She blinks against the late afternoon sun streaming through the gauzy curtains and blindly fumbles for her phone.

5:17.

She's slept all day.

And yet she still feels exhausted.

She lets out an exhale and closes her eyes. She should probably get up. There are things to be done. She knows this. She takes another quick glance at her phone. She has eight missed calls and fifteen texts, mostly from work, so she should probably head into the office. She has to call Sam, she should really have a long overdue conversation with Oliver at some point because A) they need to talk more about the past two years, and B) he and his team handled the existence of the supernatural like champs but she still needs to go over the basic guidelines with them and make sure they all get anti-possession tattoos. And she needs to be with her father.

There's no time to wallow. The grief will just have to wait.

Laurel opens her eyes and stares at the light coming in through the curtains.

She doesn't move.

.

.

.

For the next two days, while the wound is still gushing blood and it hurts just to breathe, Laurel doesn't leave her apartment.

She forces down food that doesn't taste like anything to her dulled senses, blames it on stress and grief when it comes back up about half the time, and calls in to work, feigning illness. Her mother spends the days back and forth between the hospital and Laurel's apartment, Tommy and Oliver are in and out (Tommy more so than Oliver because Oliver is being weirdly awkward with her) with food and various other things they think she needs (Tommy keeps bringing her lavender scented things for some reason?) and she talks to her father on the phone, but for the most part, she's alone. Other than the one time her mother drew her a bath and refused to leave the bathroom doorway until Laurel got in the tub, she stays mostly in bed, alternating between sleeping and staring at the empty space beside her, feeling disconcertingly numb.

All she wants is for this bone deep exhaustion to go away, but it won't, no matter how many hours of sleep she gets. Every part of her hurts. There is a persistent ache in her body. The emotional pain is so bad that it's beginning to affect her physically.

The grief isn't actually killing her. Logically, she knows that. Her body is fully functioning. It only feels like she's shutting down.

On the morning of the third day, she wakes up at five in the morning and can't get back to sleep. She lies there for an hour and a half and she just thinks. It's a dangerous thing to do for someone attempting to wade through such intense grief. Out of all of the sorrowful, pleading, angry, desperate, somewhat disturbing thoughts that keep running through her head, there is only one that stands out with such fierce intensity that it makes her breath catch.

Make it stop.

She feels like she needs to scream. She's not sure how to describe it. It's like there's something caught in her throat; no words, not sobs, but a scream. She feels like she needs to fall to her knees and scream it out, louder and louder until the windows crack, until it's all out of her, until all of the pain has been released and she can start fresh.

Ridiculous, she knows.

She just wants it to stop.

It's just after seven o'clock in the morning when her bedroom door creaks open. She doesn't move. It's probably just her mother stopping in before she heads to the hospital. Quiet footsteps approach the bed and the next thing she knows, the mattress is dipping as someone climbs into bed with her. Laurel lifts her eyes. There's a brief second of shock, a welcome flood of relief, and then she's a blubbering mess. ''Sara,'' she chokes out through her hysteria.

Sara lies down on the empty side of the bed, filling the space. She smiles, or at least attempts to, but it's too sad to be a real smile. ''Hi,'' she whispers.

Unlike everyone else who looks at her, Sara is not looking at Laurel with pity in her eyes. There is no 'oh you poor sad girl, what a mess you've gotten yourself into' condescending kind of pity like when her mother looks at her. There is no 'you just can't win one, can you?' type of pity that she sees in Tommy and Oliver's eyes. There is only a gentle, understanding kind of sympathy. Maybe, just maybe, someone is finally here to help her instead of watching her burn.

''You came back,'' Laurel slurs out, weeping but grateful, so, so grateful.

Sara smiles again, just a barely there glimmer of one, and she reaches out to tuck a strand of Laurel's stringy hair behind her ear, a move that Laurel has made so many times before. ''I came back for you,'' she says. ''I'll always come back for you.'' Her smile fades and she takes Laurel's hand in her own, squeezing gently. ''I'm sorry,'' she whispers. ''Laurel, I am so sorry.''

Laurel wants to say something. She wants desperately to take back her control, to stop crying, and be the older sister. She wants to say something like, ''I'm glad you're here'' or, ''thank you for coming.'' She wants to tell Sara to go see their dad because he needs her more, but she can't speak around the strangling sobs or the ever present scream stick in her throat. When she finally does manage to get something out, it's not any of these things. It's a desperate choke of, ''What do I do?'' She clutches at her sister's hand like a lifeline. ''Sara,'' she mumbles miserably. ''What am I supposed to do now?''

Sara, stroking Laurel's hair with her free hand, frowns deeply. ''Laurel - ''

''No,'' Laurel moans, shaking her head. ''No, you don't - you don't understand. I... Sara...'' She licks her lips. She says it very quietly, ''I'm going to have a baby.''

Sara freezes. She draws her hand away from Laurel's hair and her lips part, but no words come out. ''Oh,'' is all she manages to breathe out. Something must click then because the stunned look in her eyes shifts from shocked to worried. ''Oh.''

And there it is.

The thing she has been so afraid to acknowledge.

She has said it out loud to someone. An alive someone. The one and only time she has said it out loud, the one time she has fully acknowledged that there is something growing inside of her, is when she whispered, ''We're having a baby,'' into Dean's ear while she was lying on the bed with his body, foolishly hoping he would somehow wake up if she told him the ''happy'' news. Saying it out loud to Sara, a living, breathing person, is different. It makes it real. This is real.

She's having a baby. She's having a dead man's baby.

''Oh, Laurel,'' Sara says, voice cracking on her name, right before she scoots closer and gathers her into her arms. Laurel tenses for a moment, just as Sara's arms are wrapping around her, simply because she is the older sister. She's the one who is supposed to take care of Sara. Not the other way around. But Sara keeps murmuring, ''I'm sorry, honey, I'm sorry, I love you, I'm here,'' into Laurel's hair, and her body is warm and she came back for her.

Sara has never come back for her before.

So Laurel allows herself to melt into the embrace and she holds on tightly, letting Sara pull her out of the water.

Laurel has gotten so tired of drowning.

It's nice to have someone hold her up for awhile.

.

.

.

Okay.

Here's how it would go.

If Laurel could rewrite their story, fix the broken parts, save them both from the torment and the tragedy, the sharp edges and the cruel forms of love thrown at them, there are two things she would do.

One: She would realize, sooner, that she didn't deserve the things that have happened to her, the things that have been done to her, said to her, and that none of it was ever her fault.

Two: She would talk Dean off that same ledge - before he went to Cain, before he started the process of committing slow suicide - and make damn sure that he knew he was good; that regardless of whatever Sam said to hurt him or whatever his father did to him in the past, he was a good man who made mistakes but who was still worthy, and it was going to be okay.

In her version, they are not shamed for being broken by their friends and family, by themselves. Instead they are allowed to quietly repair themselves and each other until they evolve into two people who, despite the crushing weight that will always be there, are happy.

In this version, this fairytale world, they are allowed peace.

She has a dream about it.

It goes like this:

A cozy house in the woods, surrounded by trees, with the sparkle of water just visible through the leaves of the trees. Laurel, standing out on the porch in the moonlight, watching the stars that feel so close she thinks she could touch them if she tried. Dean, in the doorway, a dark silhouette framed by the warm light coming from inside. He's holding their child in the crook of his arm, a beautiful, perfect bundle of blankets and soft fuzzy hair, and he's beckoning her towards him.

Come back inside, pretty bird. Come back to bed.

She wants to. In the dream, there is nothing more she'd like to do than go inside with her family. She wants to go inside. She wants to be happy. She can't. The dream ends rather abruptly. Dean goes back inside with their baby, into the light, and she is left in the cold, in the dark.

Alone.

The door slams shut.

She wakes up.

.

.

.

The answer is no, by the way.

She can't win one.

.

.

.

When Laurel wakes up, jerking awake in bed, the sound of the door slamming still fresh in her mind, Sara is gone.

She wonders, briefly, if it was a dream - her sister coming to rescue her - but then the smell of fresh, sizzling bacon greets her. Her stomach grumbles hungrily, reminding her that she hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. She can hear Sara puttering around in the kitchen, banging around various pots and pans. She rolls over to check the time and when she sees that it's almost noon, she heaves a sigh. She sends one last glance over to the empty side of the bed, and then she gets out of bed.

It's time to rejoin life.

She takes an extra long, hot shower, spends a truly pathetic amount of time trying to decide whether or not using Dean's shampoo would be comforting or painful before ultimately using her own. After she gets out of the shower, hair still dripping wet, she pauses in front of the full length mirror in her bedroom. She hesitates a moment and then she drops her robe. With narrowed, searching eyes, she gives her naked body a critical - probably too critical - onceover, looking for any visible signs of pregnancy.

Looking back on it, she supposes there were things she missed. Things she shrugged off or blamed on stress. Lord knows there's been enough stress in her life. She's been tired lately, more so than usual, but she is always tired so she blamed it on her crappy, hectic life and made a half hearted mental note to get more sleep and up her coffee intake. She's been nauseous and a little headachy, but she has a history of physical discomfort due to the amount of stress she piles onto herself. Nausea and headaches are par for the course with her. Not to mention, she's clean and sober now, but it's still something relatively fresh and every now and then, she'll get a craving that will make her hands shake or her head pound. There'd been a bad bout of vomiting a couple of days before Dean left for Chicago that had her camping out on the bathroom floor while he held her hair back for her and refused to leave her side, but that was the same night she had gone out with her dad to some new Thai place downtown so she blamed it on food poisoning and vowed never to eat there again. Periods weren't a major concern for her either. Her periods have always been irregular - sometimes heavy, sometimes light and spotty, often times missed, especially in times of stress.

Even the physical changes didn't really register with her. Right now, looking at her naked body in the mirror, she can see that there are physical changes. They're incredibly minor, but they are there. Her breasts look fuller, her stomach bloated, just barely, but she has been actively trying to gain weight these past few months. This past year, she lost a drastic amount of weight because that's what drinking your meals does to you, and she didn't look healthy. It got so bad that Dean pretty much openly admitted he was afraid of accidentally breaking her. So, gaining weight... She just thought...

But nope.

She's pregnant.

In all honesty, the fact that she's pregnant isn't terribly surprising. She and Dean could have been better at safe sex. They had been somewhat lacking in that category for the past several months. You would think they would know better considering last year, but no. Look, this past year has been really weird, okay? Neither of them were at their best. Sometimes it's hard to remember to take your birth control pills when you're more concerned with popping benzodiazepines, downing a glass of wine and jumping him the second he gets out of the shower. Sometimes condoms are forgotten when you're both drunk and can't even make it to the bedroom so you have drunken, messy, kind of awkward sex on the floor of the hallway without taking all of your clothes off. And sometimes, when your significant other is gone for a long stretch of time, your only thought when they walk in the door is the quickest way to get naked.

So, no, the fact that she's pregnant isn't something that is hugely surprising. What's surprising is that she's ten weeks pregnant and she didn't even know, didn't even suspect, which she thinks sounds absolutely ridiculous.

God's honest truth?

She has far lower self-esteem than people think. She has issues with every part of herself, including her body. She didn't used to. Not when she was a kid, or even into her early teens. But when Sara blossomed, she blossomed so beautifully. Sara had curves. Sara turned heads with her thick blond hair, pouty lips and doe eyes. Laurel was flat with chubby cheeks, skinny arms, and glasses. That's not to say that people were never interested in Laurel, because they were. The problem was that she didn't know why. She never saw what they saw. It was her own issues, her own head, and her own self-doubt that kept her from having a social life.

And then when she started dating Oliver... Well. Oliver liked to look. Let's put it that way. (Oliver, as she learned later, liked to do more than look.) Most of the time, when he looked at other girls, he was looking at girls who didn't have flat chests or weight that fluctuated. Over the years, her self-consciousness grew and grew, until she began to hate the mirror.

All of that is the reason why, every now and then, she'd look at Dean - tall, strong, handsome, let's-face-it-hot-like-burning Dean - and blurt out, just out of nowhere, ''You know you can do better, right?''

Instead of looking at her with an expression full of muted horror (Tommy) or vague annoyance (pre-island Oliver), he would kiss her cheek and say, ''No such thing, pretty bird.'' He was never aggravated by her issues (pre-island Oliver...and a little bit post-island Oliver) or made things awkward while he was trying to make things better (Tommy), he just said, ''No such thing, pretty bird,'' and spent the next few days making subtle, very sweet attempts to make her feel better.

The point is that she doesn't like looking at herself naked and she doesn't like feeling like shit about herself, so she's learned to avoid studying her appearance too carefully. Because of this, she has missed certain things. It's not like it's overwhelmingly obvious that she's pregnant yet, but her body has changed and she feels like she should have noticed that. She should have noticed all of it. Especially because...

Well, because she's been pregnant before.

Last year - almost exactly a year ago - she went through morning sickness and sore, growing breasts and headaches and even a little bit of weight gain. How could she not have known this time? She had been pregnant the last time she saw Dean. She had been pregnant when he left for Chicago. She had been pregnant during all of those Skype dates, all of those phone calls, when they couldn't get a hold of each other. She had been pregnant when she had been trapped in the rubble, when she had been drugged, when she had been kidnapped. The mere fact that the baby survived all of that is a miracle. She had been pregnant when he left that message. That last voicemail. That last call. She had been pregnant when he died.

Ten weeks.

And Dean never even knew.

Because she was too stupid, or too stubborn, or too stuck in denial, or too busy to listen to what her body was trying to tell her.

It's not fair. None of this is fair.

Would it have made a difference?

There's another one of those questions that will never be answered. Except - No. She does know the answer to that question. It would have. She's not sure how it would have made a difference, but it would have. She knows that. Even if the only difference was him knowing... It would have made a difference.

Laurel pulls the robe back on and searches for something to wear. Part of her wants to hide in here for a lot longer, maybe forever, because she doesn't want any of what's about to come. She doesn't want people's condolences, she doesn't want them to be sorry for her loss, she doesn't want their inevitable pity, and she doesn't want to have to answer their questions. She doesn't want to talk about losing Dean, or the baby, or any of it. She wants Dean.

In lieu of his miraculous return, she would just like to go to sleep.

Most unfortunately for her, she has a life.

Once she has decided on an old t-shirt she's had since high school and a pair of yoga pants, she pulls her hair up into a sloppy ponytail and reluctantly shuffles out of the bedroom. The air smells like coffee and bacon. The bacon smells good. The coffee smell instantly turns her stomach and the ravenous hunger she had previously felt seems to all but disappear.

She can hear music playing in the kitchen. Sara probably has the radio on. She always did that. When they were teenagers and their parents were working late, Sara and Laurel would take over the kitchen. Sara would make dinner with some new recipe she had gotten off the internet and Laurel would make dessert. To cover up the silence, even if it was relatively comfortable silence, Sara always turned on the radio and sang along, whether she knew the words or not. When they were really little, Sara would make up silly lyrics to go along with the songs she didn't know the words to and sing them at the top of her lungs until Laurel was laughing hysterically and their parents were practically begging her to stop.

After the boat went down, after Sara, Laurel's life went silent. The music stopped. She didn't laugh. Until Dean came along, singing AC/DC at the top of his lungs and doing whatever he could to make her laugh. It's strange. For so long, so much of her life could be divided into two parts. With Sara and then after Sara. Now that Sara's home, everything should be right again. Except now she has to live a life after Dean. Is this some kind of twisted balance thing? Is that what this is? She has to be without Sara to have Dean and she has to lose Dean to have Sara? Is she only allowed a certain amount of happiness?

Laurel follows the music to the tiny kitchen in her apartment and finds her sister, bustling around the tiny space like Dean used to, not singing but humming along to the music while she munches on a strip of bacon. Laurel props an arm up against the doorframe and watches. Even in the ridiculously small space, Sara is flawless grace. Always has been. Sara - the dancer - was all grace while Laurel - the gymnast - was all elegance. Her father used to be awed by them. Or so he says. ''My angels,'' he called them. ''Graceful and elegant. Aren't I lucky?''

She swallows the scream again.

Aren't I lucky?

What a fantastically depressingly incorrect statement.

There's no such thing as luck.

''How are you feeling?''

She jumps at the sound of her sister's voice, standing up straight. Sara is loading up a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon and two pieces of buttered toast. She hasn't even turned around. Laurel considers this question for a moment and thinks about all of the possible answers to that. ''Like I've been emptied out,'' she blurts out, without thinking. ''I don't know. Like something's been scraped out of me, I guess? I feel...''

At the counter, Sara has suddenly gone utterly still. She turns around to face Laurel. ''Hollow,'' she tries.

Laurel nods jerkily. ''Yes. Hollow. ...I've been here before.''

''So have I,'' Sara says. ''It's loneliness.''

''It's loss.''

Sara's lips tighten like they do when she's about to cry but before Laurel can react, she's smiling again. It's extremely fake, but it's pretty clear she's trying to be a cheerleader here and Laurel simply doesn't have the heart to tell her to stop. Sara holds up the plate of food. ''I made you breakfast.''

Laurel recoils, splaying a hand over her queasy stomach. It's possible she's only feeling sick because she's hungry but she's not sure she's willing to take that chance. ''I'm not hungry.''

Sara falters, but ultimately keeps the smile on. ''Laurel, you have to eat something.''

She really should eat something. Being pregnant is utterly terrifying and it's devastating that she'll have to do it without him, but the truth is that this baby, while unplanned, is very much wanted. She is going to have to start taking better care of herself. With a sigh, she nods towards the coffee pot. ''The coffee smell is making me nauseous.''

''I'll get rid of it,'' Sara says immediately. ''I promise. Just... Here,'' she practically shoves the plate of food at Laurel. ''Take this and try to eat, okay? I'll make you some hot chocolate or tea. Or both.''

''You don't have to do that.''

''I know. But I want to.''

Laurel looks down at the plate of food. She doesn't move.

Sara edges towards her cautiously. ''Please let me help you, Laurel.''

Laurel's eyes water, but she blinks furiously until her vision is clear. ''Okay.'' Dutifully, she takes the plate of food and heads into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. She manages to choke down half a strip of bacon and two bites of toast, forcing herself to swallow it down before she stops, leaning back against the couch and bringing her knees up. She's trying, she really is. She knows she needs to eat. It's just hard to have an appetite when you constantly feel like you're spinning from grief. Well. That and Sara's never been great at breakfast foods. A pot roast, sure. Homemade pizza, sure. But Sara has never really mastered the simplicity of bacon and eggs. Which was always fine, because breakfast foods and mac and cheese were basically the only things Laurel could cook. (She still can't cook much. But Dean was a good teacher. He never got frustrated with her. Never even laughed at her for making some ridiculous mistake.)

When Sara sits down next to her, handing her a mug of what smells like peppermint tea, the first thing Laurel asks, before Sara can bring up Dean, is, ''Have you been to see Dad?''

''I went to see him last night,'' Sara sinks back into the couch cushions. Laurel looks at her closely. She looks tired. Pale. ''I wound up spending the night there. He tried to insist I go see you right away, but I... Um... I just felt like I really needed to stay with him.''

Laurel presses her lips together and sends her sister a sharp look. That's worrying. ''Is he okay?''

''He's healing,'' is the quick response. It's a little too quick. ''He's just...'' Sara picks at her cuticles, something she does when she's nervous. ''He's still in a...a fair amount of pain.'' When she notices the way Laurel's hands tighten around the mug, she is quick to sit up and place her hand on her sister's arm. ''But he's going to be okay, Laurel. The doctors say he's going to be okay. He just hates hospitals. He complained nonstop,'' she huffs out a small laugh. ''Which I think means he's getting better.''

Laurel almost allows herself to laugh too before she remembers she can't. Not right now. She just...can't. She sips at her tea.

Sara, when she eventually does decide to fill the silence between them, sounds hesitant, reluctant to even say his name, like she's afraid the mere mention of him will break Laurel into pieces. She's not entirely wrong. ''Did...Did Dean know?'' She asks. ''About the baby?'' When Laurel stills and reaches forwards to put the mug down on the coffee table, Sara hurries to backtrack. ''I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – ''

''No.'' Laurel quickly grasps Sara's hand, squeezing gently. ''No, it's okay. You - It's fine.'' She shakes her head. ''Um.'' She clears her throat after a pause. ''No. He - He didn't know. I never got the chance to tell him.'' Not when he was alive anyway. ''I didn't even know until the day he...'' She pulls her hand away from Sara's and draws her knees up to her chest again, resting her chin on them. ''Dean called me that night, you know. It was literally seconds after I had been told about - about the baby. I heard my phone ringing. I...'' She closes her eyes. ''I knew it was him,'' her voice breaks. ''And I didn't pick up. I should have picked up the phone. But I was... I was in shock and I...'' She steps, clenching her teeth. ''He left me a message. He promised he would call me back. He never did.''

''Laurel,'' Sara whispers. She doesn't say anything else.

''Sam said he was trying to tell me something.''

''Dean?''

She nods. ''He said that Dean... At the end... He kept saying ''tell her'' but he couldn't... He never...'' She trails off again. She can't quite get the words out. It's like they're there, right there, on the tip of her tongue, but they won't leave her mouth. She swallows down the whimper that she can feel in her throat. She forces back a flinch when Sara takes her hand and lets her sister thread her fingers through hers. ''He never called me back,'' her voice is thick. ''And he never got the chance to tell me whatever it was he wanted to tell me. And he never knew about our baby. And I didn't pick up the phone.'' She rakes her free hand through her hair. ''I should have picked up the damn phone.''

Sara pulls her in for another hug, both arms wrapped around her. Laurel lets her. She releases a breath into her sister's shoulder and melts. Sara doesn't let go for a long time. ''I don't know what to do.''

That's when Sara pulls away. She doesn't look like she knows the answer to that question. She looks like she wouldn't mind having someone tell her the answer to that question. ''Well,'' she says. ''You take it day by day. Minute by minute. Some will be harder than others. For now,'' she grabs the plate off the table. ''You eat your breakfast.''

''Sara...''

''Laurel, please. For the baby.''

She sighs. She grabs the half eaten piece of toast off the plate and nibbles at it slowly. Sara seems to accept this as good enough for now, because she puts the plate down and doesn't try to push the scrambled eggs on her. Laurel makes it through the piece of toast and, when Sara gives her a pointed look, picks up the second piece. It gets easier. Eating the toast. It gets easier. She wonders if that will be what life is like now. You force yourself to keep going and eventually, it gets easier. That has not been her experience so far.

''Laurel?'' Laurel looks over at Sara, who has a thoughtful look on her face. She opens her mouth and then closes it, looking away and chewing her lower lip nervously. ''If it's okay,'' she begins slowly, cautiously. ''I'd like to know more about him.''

It's a simple request. It sounds rather sweet, actually. A sister wanting to know about the brother-in-law she never got the chance to know. Except it's not that simple. It never was when it came to Dean and Sara. The only thing they ever shared was a mutual animosity. Something dreadful and sour curdles in Laurel's stomach, not morning sickness or grief, but bitterness. ''You didn't even like him,'' she bites out, far harsher than she intended it to be. The venom in her voice surprises her. It always does. Tommy always says her bark is worse than her bite. She's not one hundred percent convinced that's true, but that doesn't mean her bark isn't a little terrifying, even to her.

''No, I didn't,'' Sara responds calmly, albeit bluntly. She doesn't even flinch. ''But you loved him,'' she says. ''And he sure as hell loved you. I'd love to know more about that. If that's okay with you.''

Laurel softens. There's a pause. ''What would you like to know?''

Sara shrugs. ''Anything. Whatever you'd like to tell me. Just...'' She looks like she's struggling for words. ''What was he like? What were his hobbies? How did you two meet?''

Laurel fixes her eyes on her plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.

They met in February, on the streets of Starling City, right outside of this greasy spoon diner that served the best pancakes in Starling but had the worst coffee.

It's not there anymore. It got wiped out by the earthquake. The sidewalk where they stood, where she first saw what he looked like when he smiled, is cracked and ruined and stained with the blood of the owner of the diner, who was also lost in the quake. Dean used to take her there on Sunday mornings, or late at night when he would find her at CNRI in the middle of the night, working on something that she couldn't get out of her head. So many parts of their relationship have been wiped out. Like life has been slowly, systematically taking apart the foundation of their relationship for the past two years.

That day in February, that cold winter day that changed everything and forced her to throw out every life plan she had ever made for herself, she was running. Not because she had somewhere to be, just because back then she always seemed to be in a hurry, rushing towards something she couldn't see. ''Did you swallow a fuckin' tornado at some point in your life?'' Dean had asked her once, hurrying to catch up with her.

It was a Saturday afternoon, it was winter, and she was freezing. She hadn't exactly been planning on meeting the love of her life - she was just going grocery shopping - so she wasn't wearing a cute dress with flawless hair and makeup. She was wearing ratty old jeans with one blown out knee, an old Starling City University t-shirt with a pizza stain on the left shoulder, a black blazer in an attempt to class up the outfit and cover the stain, and sky high heels just because she could. Her hair was still wet from the shower, so she had it up and had a knit cap on her head. She hadn't felt like putting in her contacts, so she was wearing her black rimmed glasses, she had no makeup on, and she had forgotten her gloves at home. All she could think about was that she should have worn more clothes because it was colder than expected and she really needed some kind of hot beverage to warm up her ice cube hands.

She was going to go grocery shopping, because all she had in her house was a half a block of cheese that was growing moldy and boxes of cereal but no milk, she was going to stop at the used bookstore, beside the supermarket she went to, because she read the most in the winter and she had run out of things she hadn't read at home, and she was going to run to the precinct and check on her father. None of that happened.

She wound up running into Dean instead.

She hadn't been looking where she was going, too preoccupied with fishing her cell phone out of her bag so she could call her dad and ask if he needed anything from the store, so she hadn't actually seen him coming out of the diner with a coffee cup in his hand. She did, however, feel it when she ran into his solid body and the hot coffee splashed all over both of them.

It still makes her laugh when she remembers that the first words she ever heard him say were, ''Son of a bitch.''

Once the shock of the hot coffee had worn off, the mortification had set in. ''Oh, god,'' she had grimaced, reaching out for him without realizing what she was doing. ''Oh my god, I'm so sorry!''

''No.'' She remembers that even though she was upright and had never really been in danger of falling over, his hands had gone straight to her arms, not in a threatening sort of way but like he wanted to catch her. ''No, it's okay, it's my fault,'' he said. ''I wasn't - ''

She raised her head from where she had her eyes downcast, focusing on the coffee stain on his shirt and the splotches on her shoes, the empty cup rolling away, and their eyes met. He went silent immediately; lips still parted like the words were right there but had somehow died in his throat. For her part, she wasn't much better. Still completely embarrassed, all she managed to come up with when she realized the person she had given third degree burns to was incredibly good looking was a squeak of, ''Oh.'' She tried to offer him an apologetic smile but it probably came out as more of a wince. ''Hi.''

He looked at her, studying her with such intensity - brows knitted together, eyes narrowed - that she started to worry she had something on her face. ''I'm sorry,'' he had said, finally, shaking his head. ''Do I...'' He paused, frowning and inclining his head to the side. ''Have we met?''

''Um,'' she pulled her purse up on her shoulder. ''I don't think so.''

''Are you sure? You look...really familiar.''

''Well,'' she had laughed, bending over to pick up the empty cup. ''I'm pretty sure I would remember you.''

And that was when he smiled.

Somewhere deep inside of her, she felt this awful, uncomfortable, wonderful kind of stirring in her gut, in her chest that she immediately tried to ignore because she did not have time for that. ''I'm really sorry,'' she went on, when he didn't say anything, swallowing in an attempt to swallow down the heart in her throat. ''I should have been watching where I was going.''

''No, really,'' he waved it off. ''It's okay.'' He smiled at her again, only this time there was a devious twinkle in his eye that made her stomach flip flop. She knew exactly what that meant. She'd seen it in the eyes of a lot of people who flirted with Jo whenever she dragged Laurel out to one of the clubs. ''Feel free to run into me anytime.''

She laughed, because she couldn't help it, and her hand went out to touch his shirt, where the coffee stain was. ''I spilled your coffee.''

''It was terrible coffee.''

''You got it from the wrong place then,'' she blurted. Instead of offering him one last apology and walking away, she held out her hand and said, with a smile that probably looked calmer than she felt, ''I'm Laurel.''

He glanced down at her outstretched hand, hesitated just long enough for her anxiety to curl up inside her throat, restricting her breath momentarily, and then he took her hand. ''Dean.'' His hand was warm and she remembers that he held onto her hand for a second longer than necessary, like he was trying to warm her up, something that he would spend the next five years doing flawlessly. ''Hey, Laurel,'' he said, ''do me a favor?'' He leaned in, not so close that he made her uncomfortable, but close enough so that she could see that his eyes were a lovely shade of green. ''Go inside and warm up. Your hands are freezing and your hair is wet. You'll catch pneumonia out here.''

She arched a brow, thought about it, and then decided to take the leap. Joanna was always telling her to step outside of her comfort zone. There was a part of her - the part of her that had once belonged to Oliver, to Tommy, the part of her that had avoided every look that came her way for the past year - that was screaming at her, what the hell do you think you're doing? But the other part of her - the part of her that was lonely, that was tired of waking up alone, that wanted someone to warm her up - simply said, you can't pretend you're okay with being alone forever.

So she went for it.

''You know, there's a coffee shop around the block. It's warm, very cozy, and they make killer coffee. I'll go in there and I'll even sit by the fireplace, as long as you come with me and let me buy you a cup of coffee.'' She shrugged and did her best to appear nonchalant, despite the fact that her heart was racing, her anxiety was through the roof, and she honestly had no idea what she was doing. She wasn't a shy person, but this had never been one of her strong suits. It never had been. She had always been chased. She had never done the chasing. And she was terrible at flirting. Everyone said so. ''Maybe if we're both sitting down, it'll up your chances of getting the coffee in your mouth instead of all over your wardrobe.''

She was pretty sure he would say no. He was still smiling at her, but it didn't quite reach his eyes and his body language had suddenly become closed off. He looked reluctant to say yes, throwing a look over his shoulder like he was waiting for someone. He wasn't, she would learn later. He just wasn't used to not having someone to wait for. Sam had ''died'' months ago and he still wasn't used to being alone. He licked his lips, which was an extremely mixed signal, and took a breath. ''Actually,'' he said, eventually. ''That sounds great.'' A slow, hesitant smile crawled its way across his lips. ''Lead the way, Laurel...''

''Lance,'' she supplied. ''Laurel Lance.''

''Well, it's nice to meet you, Laurel Lance.''

.

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.

But whatever, whenever, however this ends
I want you to know that right now,
I love you forever.

ANDREA GIBSON | HOW IT ENDS

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end chapter two


AN: Okay, so, yes. She's pregnant. I don't want to make this AN too long but I want to talk about that briefly because I know that pregnancy fics are not everyone's cup of tea. I totally understand that. Sometimes pregnancy fics (or even pregnancy storylines in canon) just wind up being fluff or angst fests where the pregnant character is either kept out of all of the action or acts OOC. That will not be happening in this fic. Not in the slightest. This is a Laurel-centric story, the pregnancy is actually extremely important for plot reasons, and I can assure you she is going to be all up in that action in MAJOR ways.

Black Canary is coming. She's just fighting for two now.