You wake up to his warmth leaving you, and you groan in protest. Immediately, his big hand is brushing your hair from your face, and you lean into his calloused skin.

"Shh, sweetheart," he murmurs, "It's okay. Stay here for me."

That wakes you up a little, and you crack one eye open to meet his gaze. Your heart is breaking in your chest, but you allow none of your pain to show on your face. "Will you come back?" you whisper, fearing the answer.

He pauses, and the regret and pain in his face has you reaching up to run your fingers along his cheekbone, down to his jaw. He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, we'll come back."

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, and you've never felt so loved, even if he is bound and determined to leave. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

xxxxx

Dean can't remember the last time a hunt went quite that well.

He and Sam moved in perfect tandem, approaching the little shack that the vampire nest was holed up in silently, then moving into it just as soundlessly. His machete was fast, moving through necks and spinal cords like butter. The deep part of him, the part of him that he'll never acknowledge, loved it, rejoiced in the blood spattering across his face and the creature that threatened his woman dying bloody and terrified.

He wipes the blood off his face with the tail of his flannel as he and Sam make their way back to the Impala. He knows what's coming, but he hopes against hope that his little brother will keep his fucking mouth shut.

No such luck. "Dean, we need to talk about Y/N."

Dean doesn't look at him. "We really don't."

Sam sighs, and Dean rolls his eyes. "Dean, I don't think just leaving her here is a good idea."

Dean opens the trunk and places his machete in it's place. He'll clean it later. "Yeah, well then what the hell am I supposed to do, Sam? You saw her, she's... " He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes against the familiar feeling of guilt and shame hammering at him. "She's so young, I can't take her with us, Sam."

"Dean, for fuck's sake, it's like you're determined to feel bad about her." Surprised, Dean turns to look at his brother, who looks exasperated. "I mean, she's an adult, dude. And she's your soulmate. You can let her make her own decisions."

Dean shakes his head. "Sam, she won't… She doesn't understand the danger it would put her in to be with me." He shakes his head again, his decision still firm. "No. No, she's not coming with us."

Sam gets in the car next to him, and it's silent for a while. Dean relishes it until Sam speaks again.

"You're a fucking idiot, Dean."

xxxxx

When they pull back into the driveway, something that was high and tight in your stomach relaxes. It's very, very late morning, and you've been busy since they've been gone.

You weren't able to go back to sleep after he left (which makes you worry vaguely about your ability to sleep without him, but you push that fear to the back of your mind, because it's not like there's anything you can do about it). So, instead, you got up and got busy.

You washed all of the clothes of theirs you could find, ignoring the little twinge of guilt at going through their bags. You didn't read either of the journals you found, one Sam's and one Dean's, you honestly just pulled their clothes out to wash them. There's a lot of blood, so you get it out the best you can. Some of their shirts still have faint stains, but you were determined, so mostly they're presentable.

You also cooked a massive meal, because you know they didn't eat before they left. Which bothers you, they really should eat breakfast, and having an empty stomach surely makes hunting more dangerous? You plan on having a serious talk with him about it after breakfast. Even if he's not sticking around, he's still your soulmate, and you expect him to take care of himself.

You take a deep, relieved breath, unlock the door, and go back to folding clothes on the kitchen table. You don't turn around when they come in, but you're smiling. "Morning, gentlemen."

"Hey, Y/N," Sam says softly. You can hear the frown in his voice. "Are those-"

"Yeah, I did your laundry while you were out." You finally turn and smile at Sam, still not quite ready to look at Dean. "I mean, you guys went to kill a vampire for me, so it's kind of the least I could do."

Sam smiles a little, and you know he knows you're avoiding his brother. "Well, uh, thank you. You didn't have to do that."

You shrug. "No problem." You turn back to fold another of Dean's t-shirts. It's dumb, but you did Sam's first because you hate folding laundry, and saved Dean's for last as a kind of reward. Which is something that you will absolutely never ever tell anyone about. Ever.

"Although I do hope that most of this blood isn't yours," you say cheerfully. "Because, if it is, you should both be real dead."

His deep, rough chuckle makes you aware that Dean is right behind you. You shudder. "It's not all from one hunt," he says softly, his rumbling voice sending shivers up and down your whole body. "And no, not all of it is ours."

"Good," you say in an almost whisper, unable to be much louder when he's so close to you. "There's, um, there's food in the oven for you guys. It's just biscuits and gravy, but it's good."

You can feel him fighting the urge to touch you, because you're fighting the urge to turn around and wrap yourself in him. So you solve the problem for him by folding the last t-shirt, placing it gently on the stack of clothes, and picking them up. You don't turn to look at him, you just walk away to put them on the bed in the room he's staying in.

You try to think of something to say, but there's nothing. It's all already been said, at least the important part. The part where he's your soulmate, the man that the powers that be have designated for you and you alone, and he's leaving soon. Maybe even today.

That makes your heart ache, but you don't make a sound as you ascend the stairs to put his clothes away. He'll be yours for at least until after they eat, so you'll have to figure out a way to be all right with that.

xxxxx

You're doing their breakfast dishes, over their protests, when Dean comes into the kitchen with a sort of… Nervous look on his face.

You smile at him, then take a moment to let your eyes trail down his body. His broad shoulders, his muscled chest and abdomen, his slim hips, his bowed legs. You trail them back up, taking it all in again in reverse, then meet his eyes. Maybe he's going to leave, and maybe you'll have to be okay with it, but you're certainly not going to make it easy. So you let the heat that pools in your belly at the sight of him in just a t-shirt and jeans show in your eyes, and you gently bite your bottom lip.

His green eyes zero in on that, and his breath stutters a little, sending satisfaction spiralling through you. Take that.

"Did you need something, Dean?" you ask softly, letting your voice husk.

He clears his throat a little, but doesn't let his gaze wander from your mouth. "I, uh, yeah, I…"

When he trails off, you laugh out loud. His eyes snap back up to your face, and he smiles ruefully, but there's a weird look on his face. A look that makes your heart beat faster, a look that you want to see on his face all the time.

Before you can define it any more than that, he speaks again. "Look, I have to leave tonight, we have to… Uh, leave tonight, but I don't want to leave you unprotected."

The heat goes out of you all at once, just like that. You frown. "There's an easy solution to that, you know."

He shakes his head. "Y/N, I-"

You hold a hand up. "Can it, I don't want to hear more excuses. What did you have in mind?"

xxxxx

Sam and Dean spend the rest of the day either fixing up little stuff around your house, or monster proofing it.

It's an old house, and a big house, and all of the things that tend to be wrong or fall apart in big, old houses are wrong and have fallen apart in yours. Dean reaffixes the gutters to the roof, oils hinges on doors throughout the house, and mows the lawn. Sam fixes broken shutters, changes all of the locks in the house (all of the doorknobs are coated with silver, which you are sure makes them the most valuable thing in the house), and fixes the broken railing on the stairs.

They also paint devil's traps on the underside of all of your rugs and on your ceiling, repaint each windowsill and threshold with salt-mixed paint, and put silver and iron fixtures around the place. Dean leaves a jug of holy water under the sink and gives you a brief lesson on the handgun he's leaving you. You're absolutely, one hundred percent certain you'll never use it, but you let him show you anyway, because it seems to make him feel better.

Sam spends the day shooting dark, irritated looks at Dean, and spends the rest of his time shooting looks to you that range from sympathetic to amused. You decide to bombard him while he's fixing the railing on the stairs.

"So, this is a guilt thing, right?" you ask, sitting on the step beneath him.

He chuckles. "Yeah, I think so. He doesn't want you to be vulnerable, but he's got a stick up his ass about staying, or about you coming with us."

You sigh and lean your head back against the wall. "Is there anything I can do to change his mind?"

He looks back at you, the places a warm hand on your shin and squeezes comfortingly. "I don't know," he says gently. "He can be pretty stubborn about stuff like this, and he's trying to keep you safe, so it's going to be easier for him to justify it to himself."

You sigh again. "And the age gap isn't helping."

He chuckles and turns back to his work. "No, the age gap isn't helping."

"It's not like I've been on my own since I was sixteen. I've been taking care of myself for almost a decade, that doesn't qualify me as an adult?"

He gives you another sympathetic squeeze. "It does, Dean's just using any excuse he can."

xxxxx

Dean listens to them talk about him, trying to tamp down the anger. He can just barely see her leg, and he sees Sam's hand land on her shin. He's just trying to comfort her, he's just trying to comfort her, he repeats to himself over and over, fighting with the jealousy rising in him.

He has no right to be jealous of anything. He knows that. She can do whatever she wants. Just because she can see color now, because of him, doesn't mean anything. Especially since he's not staying. He knows that. He knows he has no right to be jealous of anything.

But goddamned if he isn't.

The way she looked at him in the kitchen, her pretty eyes devouring him, damn near killed him. Even now, just thinking about it, has his blood rushing south. He shakes his head and silently slips back outside to finish the work on the gutters, and to distract himself from the thought of her moving and crying out beneath him, sweaty and curvaceous and soft and lovely.

Not helping.

xxxxx

It's later in the afternoon, after you've fed everyone again. You're sitting at the kitchen table, working on another presentation for your job. You're making a note on one of the pages when Dean comes in.

"Where's your car, Y/N?"

You blink, your thoughts scattering. "Huh?"

He smiles, and you melt a little in the face of it. "Your car, sweetheart, where is it?"

You rub a hand down your face. "Oh, uh, I don't have one. One less thing for you to fix." You smile.

He's frowning now, though. "What do you mean you don't have one?"

"I walk everywhere, Dean. I was walking home from work last night when we met."

He stares at you for a second. "Y/N, where is it that you work?" When you name the cross streets, anger starts snapping in his green eyes. "God dammit, woman, that's at least an hour walk!"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, it is not. Dean, it's like three miles, I'm fine."

"Half a mile of it has to be through those woods!"

You nod. "Yes, and I've been walking it for years. The only time I've ever had trouble was last night."

"God dammit, Y/N!"

You stand, pushing your chair back behind you. "You don't have any right to yell at me, Dean Winchester," you snap, gathering your papers into a stack. Your focus on work is long gone. "Maybe you would if you were sticking around, but as of right now, you're just some random dude who showed up, fixed my house, and is trying to boss me around now. So feel free to go right on ahead and go fuck yourself."

He winces at your words, and you soften. "Look, I'm sorry," you say gently. "I didn't mean that. It's just that I've been taking care of myself just fine for a long time, Dean." You come around and stand in front of him, unable to fight the urge to gently run your fingers down his stubbly jaw. "I'm all right, Dean. Stop feeling guilty about me."

"I can't, sweetheart," he says roughly.

You sigh. "Dean, is this because of our age? Because it's not an issue for me, so I can't imagine why it's a problem for you."

He groans and tilts his head back, and while the sound kicks something awake in your solar plexus, you ignore that and continue stroking his jaw softly. You shouldn't, you know it's just playing with fire, but if he's not going to stop you, you're certainly not strong enough to stop yourself.

"You've just got… I don't want to be the thing that ruins your life."

You roll your eyes. "You keep saying that. What exactly is it that you see here that could be so easily ruined?" When he tilts his head back up to look at you, you smile up at him. "Dean, I work at a job I don't particularly like, in a house by myself that I own outright. I don't have friends, I don't have family, I don't even have so much as a cat. So what is that you're seeing that you don't want to ruin? Because from where I'm standing, there's not much here, anyway."

He shakes his head. "You've got a life here. You don't understand, if I stayed here, or if you came with us, it wouldn't be like that. You can't… There's nothing, I have nothing to offer you, sweetheart." His big hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheek, and you realize that you're crying again. Jesus Christ, I've cried more in the last day than I did in the last year. "I'll ruin you, Y/N," he whispers roughly, and you also realize that you've stepped closer to him, your chest pressed to his. "I just take, I have nothing to give."

You shake your head, never breaking eye contact. "I don't believe that," you whisper back, "I don't think that's true. You have you to give, and what if that's all I want?"

Real fear enters his eyes, and it breaks your heart because you know what he's about to say.

"I can't do that, sweetheart."

xxxxx

After the conversation in the kitchen, which Dean bailed out of rather quickly, the wind is knocked out of your sails. You try to focus on work, but you can't. You just keep crying like an idiot, and after half an hour of sniffling and watching the men walk by you like they don't see it, you give up.

You go into the linen closet and pull out a huge comforter, then you curl up on the couch wrapped in it. You find the remote and push play, since the move is already in the player. Mrs. Doubtfire starts, and you huddle into your blanket, perfectly content to ignore the Winchesters until they go away.

"Mrs. Doubtfire?" Dean's deep voice asks from the hallway.

You don't look at him, but you do raise a finger and point at him threateningly. "Not a word, you. This is one of the best movies ever made. It's perfect. Sit down and watch it with me or shut up and go away."

The couch dips with his weight, and you refuse to look at him still. You just watch, crying silently about both the movie and your situation.

Sam comes in somewhere near the middle of the movie, sitting on the big armchair next to the couch. You can't decide whether you're okay with him being over there, leaving you and Dean on the couch, or you wish he was on the couch, too, so you would all be next to one another, and it wouldn't be awkward as hell.

As the movie goes on, the three of you laugh together a lot, and it feels nice. You don't realize you've relaxed until the end of the movie.

You start to cry again, your shoulders shaking. You know you're whimpering, but you can't help it as the message about families and love stretching over distance and time washes over you. You turn your head, and with a little bit of shock realize that you're sitting beneath Dean's arm, leaning into him, and now your face is pressed into his chest. It felt so natural you didn't even know that either of you had moved.

You stay there, crying in his arms, for a long time after the movie has stopped. Sam quietly leaves the room, and Dean hauls you into his lap, until your head is beneath his chin and his hand is stroking your hair comfortingly.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I know, Dean."

And there, crying in his arms, you come to a decision.

xxxxx

Dean holds her until she's snoring gently, and considers moving, or taking her up to her bedroom. Instead, he stays there, stroking her hair, savoring the way her weight sinks into him, and her soft snores start to lull him to sleep.

He hates this. Her beautiful eyes, her enrapturing face, looking up at him, arguing to go with him. He's known her for almost twenty-four hours now, but sitting here, watching the late afternoon night sun sweep across the room, this is the most he's felt at all for a long time.

To be a hunter, or more accurately, to be a Winchester, feelings can't be part of the equation. He can't go around being in touch with his emotions. People are too easily lost, too easy taken, to love anyone other than Sam.

But he can feel himself slipping into loving her. The way she looked while she was working, tapping her pen against her lips when she thought, making quick little notes then scratching them out. She was lovely then, and she's lovely now. Wrapped in her blanket, all cried out, sleeping away her exhaustion against his chest. He never wants to move.

He has to. His life isn't good enough for her, she deserves so much better. Maybe she'll find someone else. Maybe she'll go be happy with someone who can give her a good life, who can be there for her like he can't.

The thought breaks his heart, but he tries to brace himself against the pain. This is the best way, he tells himself firmly.

xxxxx

You wake up wrapped in his arms, in his warmth. Giving in, you lean up to press your face into his neck, then place a hesitant, gentle kiss on the skin there. You go no further, you can't trust yourself to go any further, but you stay there. His breath hitches a little, and you relish the reaction he has to you for a moment.

"Can I, uh, take you to dinner?" he asks hesitantly, his low voice resonating in your soul.

"What about Sam?" you ask softly.

"Sam will be fine."

xxxxx

You're at a local diner that you've always loved. Dean holds the door for you, pulls out your chair, and pays the bill when it comes. It's kind of nice. He asks you questions about your life, and you answer patiently, but not without trading information.

You learn about his militant upbringing, which breaks your heart.

You tell him about your normal upbringing, which he absorbs raptly.

He tells you stories about hunts he and Sam have been on, making you laugh so hard tears run down your face.

You tell him about your boring job, which you excel at, and he seems way too interested in that to be genuine.

But he is. He wants to know everything about you, and you struggle to not let that make you bitter, because it doesn't matter how interested he is, he's still leaving you in a couple of hours.

As dinner winds down, the conversation turns toward the situation you find yourselves in.

You give a bitter little laugh and drain your wine glass. "It figures this would happen to me," you say mildly.

He frowns. "What?"

You smile. "Oh, that I would find you, and you're not sticking around. It just… Puts the cherry on top of the crap pile that is my life now."

He frowns harder. "Y/N, it's not because of you. I just… This is the best way to keep you safe."

You take a deep breath, because this is going to be the hard part of this conversation. But you've reached your decision, and you're not budging.

"Dean, you don't have to lie to me," you say softly.

His eyes snap up to yours, and you smile wanly. "Dean, I know what this is. It's good-bye. You're leaving." He winces, but you forge ahead. "You're leaving, because you think you're making a selfless choice. You think that leaving me here means that you're doing the right thing, you think it means you're keeping me safe." You smile humorlessly. "You think because it's the hard choice, it's the right choice. But it's not."

He looks pained, and he opens his mouth to reply, but you don't give him time. "It's bullshit, and you know it. You're not leaving me here because it's safer for me, you're leaving me here because you're too scared to lose me, to be hurt." You take a deep breath, because your voice is shaking and you want it to stop. "I'm telling you this because, while you're a hero, and you may save people, I don't want you to walk away thinking that you're the hero in this situation." The tears fall down your face and your voice finally cracks. "Because you're not, you can't be, not when you're leaving me here without you, but with a houseful of symbols I don't understand to keep me safe from danger you won't explain to me."

You take another deep breath, wipe your face angrily, and look into his eyes again. "But I'm also telling you this because I don't care."

He blinks. "What?" he asks, his voice rough and deep.

You smile sadly. "I don't care. I just want you to come back to me."

He frowns, not understanding, so you continue. "When you're between cases, or when you have a case close by, come back to me. I'll wash your clothes, and you can eat food that doesn't come from a diner, and take a hot shower, and sleep in a real bed. You and Sam both, come back to me, whenever you can. That's all I'm asking." When he looks like he's going to say no, you let your pride go and resort to begging. "Please, Dean, all I need is this. You can lie if you need to, but please, please, please say yes."

A long silence passes, the longest of your life. He finally nods briefly. "All right, sweetheart."

It doesn't matter to you that you don't know if he's lying.

xxxxx

You hug Sam tight, letting his big arms around you comfort you. "Be safe, Sam," you whisper.

He squeezes you back. "You, too, Y/N. I'll work on him, okay?"

You smile and step back. "It's all right, Sam, you don't have to."

He cups your face for a second, and you realize how big this dude is. "I will, though."

He goes to the car, and you turn to Dean, standing awkwardly on your front porch, his duffel in his hand. He smiles a little sadly. "Take care of yourself, Y/N."

The words are not the ones you want to hear. They're weird and cold and formal, not something you'd say to your soulmate when you're leaving her forever.

And suddenly, the idea that he just gets to leave is bullshit.

Well, fuck that then.

You step forward, grab the front of his unbuttoned flannel and fist it in your hands, and yank him forward, crashing your mouth to his.

Everything inside you explodes and melts at the same time. He makes a surprised sound. Then, before you realize what's happening, he's dropped the bag, his big hands are on your hips, and he's turned to shove you against the wall of the house and pin you there with his weight. You gasp, and his tongue sweeps into your mouth, invading every sense you have with him. He tastes like the good whiskey you keep in the cabinet, he smells musky and a little spicy, he's hard beneath your hands, and his hips press against you. You roll your hips and he shudders, sending that good, feminine satisfaction through you.

His lips moving on yours are making thoughts completely impossible. Goddamn, the man can kiss. It's both gentle and sweet and affectionate, and hard and demanding and possessive, all at the same time. It's making your head swim, so you give up and just kiss him shamelessly.

He pulls away and presses his forehead against yours, and you're both catching your breath, your air mingling with his when he doesn't pull away. His eyes are closed, and his face is pinched and worried, and you can't resist the urge to run your fingers along his cheekbones, down his jaw, relaxing those tense lines with your soft touch.

"Be safe, Dean," you say softly, "And remember what you told me."

He looks at you for a moment, then presses his lips to your forehead. "All right, sweetheart," he says roughly.

He turns away, grabs his duffel, and goes down to the car. You wave at Sam, who gives you a tight smile as they get into the lovely Impala. Then they drive away, right out of your life.

You can't help the sob that tears through your chest.

"God damn you, Dean Winchester."

xxxxx

Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:

I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)

Reviews and comments give me life and keep me going.

And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.

**I dunno, this one spoke to me today, and I really wanted to share it with you guys.