OCTOBER 1ST, 2015 — NEW YORK, NEW YORK
It's a crisp autumn morning, chilly and dreary with a light drizzle painting the window panes with streaks of moisture. You lie in bed, alone as you've done for the last seven, nearly eight years of your life. The bustling cars outside seem in such a fit to get to where they want to be. Perhaps it's your pessimistic attitude that morning, but you can't quite seem to see why everyone is always in a hurry. Though, your motto of, "My life isn't going anywhere soon, so why should I?" isn't exactly helping the thought process any. You were never this way before the incident, though and you know that. Somewhere deep down you've known that for the past seven years and you'll continue to know that so long as you shall live. Never the less, it doesn't make it any less painful to live like this.
A soft, exasperated sigh leaves your lips, your urge to just sleep in instead of cleaning your apartment is strong, but you ignore it for the most part, knowing you need to do a bit of tidying up before the holidays come. And of course, October first marks holiday season with Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas in succession soon. Your legs swing out from beneath your duvet, hitting the floor softly and in one swift motion, you're in a sitting position on the edge of the bed, head pounding with last night's rum and coke on your breath. The occasional liquor when things get too tough has been your way out for what seems like ages now, but you're beginning to find a place in your soul to stop it; it's far less frequent.
Standing up, your back sounds like a rice krispie treat as it snaps, crackles, and pops its way into place. All those years of hunting wasn't the kindest to your frame, but you've managed to deal with the day to day effects of your previously life. A decently paced saunter toward the bathroom with sleep filled eyes and a wide yawn causes you to nearly miss the doorway all together—which would have landed you a kiss with a brick wall—but last minute you manage to catch yourself from running into something and divert your path back to the bathroom. It doesn't take you long to handle your morning routine of urinating, fixing your unruly hair, and then putting on something decent. This morning you've opted for a pair of grey scale plaid shorts that cut off at the mid-thigh region as well as a white wife beater and the same pair of slightly dingy socks you wore the night before.
Exiting the bathroom, you head toward the kitchen in your quite dilapidated one bedroom apartment; coffee is calling your name in the most romantic of ways that even he couldn't. Maybe it's just been so long that you've forgotten what it felt like to hear him utter your name in his typical raspy and extremely endearing tone. Once you're in the kitchen, your sock clad feet slip a bit on the cracked tile, nearly sending you into the counter top, but you manage to reach forward and grip it tightly, raising yourself from a certain hospital trip that you definitely didn't have time, a ride, or insurance for.
"Get it together, Y/N... Fuck," you whisper to yourself, shaking off the minor after effects of your slight drinking the night before.
You hadn't drank enough to get plastered, but enough to become numb and blissful—though you'd never believe it now that your head was screaming and stomach in knots. Coffee though, coffee might come to the rescue of all this hullabaloo going on inside of your body. You straighten yourself up, wiping the rest of the sleep from your eyes before reaching forth on the counter to bring your coffee pot closer to you. A nice, steaming mug of java sounded amazing right now, but the only issue was that your can of the grounds was on top of the abnormally tall refrigerator. A loud groan leaves your chapped, parted lips. When the hell did you put those up there and how in the hell were you going to get them down?
Wetting your lips, you grab an ornate wooden chair from your two seat small dining table, placing it in front of the fridge. With a huffed oof! as you hoist yourself onto the chair, you reach at eye level for the coffee, but something else catches your attention; it's a Chuck Taylor Converse shoe box. There's a small tilt of the head as you don't quite remember putting that there either, but living in this apartment for seven long, long years can make things a bit fuzzy. Especially with your friends Jack and Jose clouding your mind from time to time.
Your nimble fingers grip at the sides of the box—which proves to be quite heavy—as you pull it down off of the fridge and sit it on the kitchen table after stepping down off the chair. There's a thick, rather repulsive layer of dust and debris on the lid of the box, but you can faintly make out a metallic lettering that was probably put there by a sharpie or something. Pursing your lips, you blow the dust away to reveal a sloppily written bold wording that read, "Dean & Y/N, 2003 - 2008" and immediately your heart stops; you thought he was long gone form your life, but fate had a funny way of showing things, now didn't it?
A shaky breath leaves the agape twin flesh curving down into a frown that hides an even deeper sadness threatening to poke through. Your hands begin to shake as you take your hands to the sides of the lid, lifting it gently with ease to have your eyes scan over various photographs and objects that were hidden within the confines all this time. Sitting the top down, you run your frail digits along the brim of the cardboard box, taking a moment to simply breath before you would touch anything inside. Drenched in your pain again, you remembered how you became who you are—the death of your one true love, Dean Winchester.
He was everything to you, not just some summer fling you would wake up from in September. He was five years of your life that meant everything to you. Five years of your life that were suddenly taken from you after he made a deal with a crossroads demon to live for one more year in order to bring his brother back from the dead. He was everything and more and he was swiped out from beneath you faster than you could blink.
Finally, after a pregnant pause, you reach inside and grasp between fingers a Polaroid picture taken in 2003; you were in Milwaukee, Wisconsin on a case. The case in question was a vamp nest that was moving throughout Milwaukee and it's suburbs where various people were turning up dead, drained of all their blood. You were almost chow before a dashing hunter with light brunet hair and soft, caring green eyes swooped in and saved the day. He took you back to his car, a rather nice 1967 Chevrolet Impala, checking with you to make sure that you were okay. The way he uttered the words, "Are you okay?" had you weak in the knees. Shaken up a bit, but still alright, you put on a pseudo strong act and told him you were just fine. Still, he offered to buy you dinner because you looked—and quite frankly were—famished. After accepting, he took you to a small diner and the two of you talked the night away before snapping a photo with a Polaroid camera you'd swiped off a pawn shop.
It's a nice thought, going back to the first time you ever met Dean Winchester. However, thinking back to it, it was probably the best and worst thing that'd ever happened to you. The solemn expression on your face tells that you're probably moments from crying, but you blink back the tears and carry on rummaging through the box. There's numerous items within from the anti-fairy tale romance of a relationship you had with Dean. Not that it wasn't a passion filled and loving thing you had going, but it was the most unorthodox five years of your life. Though, with Dean, you made it work because for the first and only time in your life, you were in love.
With a smile and wide, bright eyes, you sigh happily. That is, until your fingers brush against a large cloth in the bottom of the box that feels crusty and quite shredded to be frank. You immediately lock onto it; it's the shirt that Dean was wearing on that fateful day. You don't remember saving such a morbid thing, but you fall to your knees anyway, immediately breaking down. Salt filled tears burn, making their way through welled eyes and down onto flushed, sweaty cheeks. You're a mess; a crying, hyperventilating mess in complete hysteria as you hold the shirt the love of your life left this world in, in your hands. The pain radiates through you, you've only once ever felt like this and that was the day he wore the article of clothing in your hands.
Without fail, you've begun to lose your sanity with thoughts, feelings, and emotions all running through you, tearing you to pieces as if you'd become as shredded inside as Dean was on the outside the last time you saw him. Why the hell did he make that deal? Why was Sam so important? Did you mean nothing to him? Fumbling to your feet, you take the box in your hands, white knuckling it for a moment before hurling it toward the nearest wall. A few things shatter as you sob, your body shaking violently as you slide against the door to your apartment that's locked up. Everything has hit you like a freight train and your mind is crumbling, but something makes you snap back to reality from the darkness—there's a knock on the door and a voice calls out.
"Y/N? Y/N, open up!" the voice is familiar and for a moment you can't quite put your finger on where you've heard it until you realize it's Sam and he's finally found you.
Your hands raise to wipe at the wet streaks running down your heated facial skin. A panic sets in and you're tempted to bolt down the fire escape, but the handle jiggles hard; he must have heard your fit. Stumbling backward, you fall to your rear on the hardwood floor as the door bursts open, breaking the lock and handle. At first you're enraged by the fact that Sam Winchester not only tracked you down after you spent seven years hiding yourself from all hunters, but now he has broken your door... until you see who's standing beside him with a frantic expression.
"...Dean?" a small, cracking peep leaves your lips. "Dean, is... is that you?"
It's an act as you slide back further to grab a bottle of holy water behind your sofa. Though, just as you toss the liquid on him while the two brothers enter your home, you see something in Dean's eyes. He's a broken man, but he's your broken man. This is the Dean Winchester you thought died all those years ago, hell—you even watched him die all those years ago. But here and now as he stands before you, you don't feel the need to test him further even though your hunter instincts tell you to. The male rushes forward toward you, dropping to his knees opposing you, a moisture in his eyes that you'd probably only seen a few times with him.
"I spent seven years looking for you, Y/N..." his usually gruff voice has a crack in it that spills emotion. "I just... I needed to find you. I needed to see you. I needed to tell you that I crawled out of a pine box in the dirt for you. I needed to tell you that I didn't know how or why at the time, but I was alive. And the only thing I've wanted for the past seven years was to find you."
It feels as though a U-Haul full of bricks has been lifted off of your chest, but it doesn't feel real yet. Everything is happening so fast and the only thing you want to do is wrap your arms around him and tell him how much you love him. But as the thought crosses your mind, guilt sets in. He spent his life after death looking for you and you hid from him. Soon you would tell him everything, but the most important thing right now was that you were reunited with your one true love.
You reach out to him, wrapping your arms around his muscular frame. He looks so different, but then again, so do you. A light sob into his shoulder tells him how much you've missed him. How much you've missed being with him and feeling his touch. It's a feeling you would have never forgotten, but a feeling you realize now that you'll never have to forget again. And that feels more than amazing. It just feels right.