Chapter 7

Stella looked down at the bowl in front of her and poked her fork at the round pasta and itty-bitty meatballs. She raised her eyes slowly and gave Dean a look.

"Spaghetti-Os? Are you serious?"

"What?" He was defensive. "I got rolls, too."

On the other seat, Sam was laughing so hard he was nearly doubled over. It had been funny enough to see Dean in a real kitchen, but when he'd realized what the menu was for dinner? It was simply priceless. Stella was far from a food snob; they'd all eaten tuna out of a can or indulged in something like Spaghetti-Os when money got lean. But she had complained so loudly about the food in the hospital, Sam knew she was craving something more robust.

Dean turned on him. "You're a little bitch, Sam. I'm your brother; you're supposed to have my back." He threw down the hand towel he'd been holding and stomped out of the kitchen. He went to the side door and out onto the deck. Stella watched him walk to the front and lean on the deck rail.

"Shit," she muttered. "I think we really hurt his feelings, Sam." She got up and followed Dean. She stood next to him in silence for a minute, but he didn't look at her.

"Dean? I'm sorry."

He didn't say anything; didn't look at her. Finally, after a very long five minutes of deep silence, Stella turned away and started to head back into the house.

"I suck as a cook," said Dean. "Hell, I've eaten take-out for the past 20 years. I wanted to be back when you woke up, so I just found a crappy little corner store because I knew you'd be hungry. All I wanted to do was cook you dinner."

Stella stopped and turned back. She looked at her feet. "I'm sorry, Dean. I really am. I wasn't thinking about it that way. It was really nice of you to make dinner. If I was alone, all I'd be able to cook would be soup and Spaghetti-Os. I shouldn't have complained. Forgive me?"

"Maybe." Then he finally looked at Stella and gave her a crooked smile. "But only if you eat the whole bowl."

Over the next two weeks, Stella, Dean and Sam settled into a little bit of a domestic routine. It was an alien experience for all three of them. They were so used to moving from city to city, sometimes sleeping in their cars, hustling pool to get money when they needed it. Having a place to call home was a novel experience. The adjustment, however, was not without its rocky patches. The first fight was about the dishes. Stella, feeling badly that she couldn't do much of anything, would put as much as she could into the dishwasher. The brothers, however, had a penchant for just leaving their dishes in the sink. When you eat take out or just use paper plates, washing dishes doesn't become a habit. There were also "discussions" about a few other issues, but the worst was about hunting.

As much as all three of them appreciated the quiet and fantasy of domestic bliss, they were all hunters and too much quiet made them restless. It wasn't long before Sam was scanning the Internet, looking for signs of paranormal activity. Stella helped him for a bit, but Dean lost his mind when he found them debating whether or not some news articles hinted at a cursed object or not. As far as he was concerned, the time in Colorado was for Stella to recover and to him that meant no hunting. Dean started yelling at Sam, who had no problem yelling back. It wasn't long before Stella—tired of being the inanimate object in the argument—started making her opinions known. Her shouting strained her lung and brought on a fit of coughing and gasping that brought the fight to an instant stop. It flared a few more times before they figured out a compromise.

One afternoon, Stella had fallen asleep on the porch, warmed in the afternoon sun. Dean was relieved at how much better she looked. She wasn't pale anymore and the dark circles under her eyes had disappeared. Stella wasn't, however, better yet. She tired easily and could fall asleep in an instant like a cat that had found a sunny patch in a window. Dean let her sleep as much as he could; he knew rest was the best thing for her. It also kept her from nosing around on the laptop for supernatural events, something that was still a sore subject for him.

He looked down at her hand where it rested on top of the magazine she'd been flipping through. His old silver ring was shining in the sun on her middle finger. Dean didn't remember where he'd picked it up; it wasn't worth much. After the Hell Hounds had torn him up and killed him, Sam had taken Dean's golden amulet, the one he'd given Dean for Christmas one year when they were kids, as a keep-sake. Stella had asked Sam if she could take the ring, and of course Sam had said yes. He would have never denied Stella a memento of the man she loved. When Dean had been pulled out of Hell, Stella offered to give the ring back. Dean had said no, telling her to keep it. She wore it on the middle finger of her left hand, right next to her ring finger.

That memory stirred up a second one from the deeper reaches of Dean's memory…

"Do you think you're ever going to find another woman like her, Dean?"

Dean downed another shot of Jack and ignored his brother. He looked around the bar. It was dingy run-down with the typical selection of humanity: A group of young men at the pool table trying to impress the pretty but vacant girls at the next one. The girls were giggling and flirting. Old-timers clustered at a corner of the bar. A bartender with thinning hair pulled into a skinny pony-tail wiped the bar and there were some waitresses making sure they gave the right patrons an easy view of some cleavage in the hopes of a higher tip. Dean sighed; compared to when he was hunting with Sam, this was June Cleaver normal for him.

"Dean!"

"What?" He rolled his eyes at Sam.

"So, why don't you marry her?" Sam leaned forward and raised his eyebrow at his brother.

"We've discussed this, Sammy. I don't want to get into it again."

"She's a hunter so she understands this crazy life. Clearly she loves you for some odd reason…" Dean glanced at his brother, mildly offended by that, but Sam kept on talking. "She's great looking, not that that should matter… And you love her, Dean. I know you do. So, why not?" Sam wasn't going to let it go.

"Sam." Dean sighed and rubbed his face. "What do I have to offer as a husband? I have a bag of clothes, the Impala, more fake IDs than I know what to do with, and a trunk full of weapons. I hunt friggin' demons for a living! So in other words, I've got jack squat. In less than a year, I'm getting dragged into Hell. I'm going to die, Sam! I'm going to die and I am not – NOT – leaving a widow behind."

"If you go to Hell, Dean, you're leaving Stella behind either way. What's the difference between leaving a girlfriend and leaving a wife? Does it really matter?"

Dean glared at his brother. "It matters to me, Sam. It matters to ME."

Signaling to the bartender, Dean watched him fill the shot glass. He threw it back and felt the whiskey burn down his throat and settle into his belly. Did Sam think he didn't want to marry Stella? There'd been precious few girls Dean had really loved during his life, and they all paled compared to Stella. But they were hunters. This wasn't a normal life. He'd know other hunters who were married, but Dean wanted more. To him, a wife meant a family, and a family needed a home. A home that was safe, where the kids went to the same school, and had high school sweethearts… not shotguns and bow hunting lessons and learning how to fight with a knife. No, unless he could give Stella those things, unless he could give himself those things, Dean Winchester was not going to be a marrying man.

Stella sighed in her sleep, pulling Dean out of his memory, and he wondered what she might be dreaming about. He looked at the ring again. Had he been wrong to be so stubborn about getting married? He couldn't imagine being with another woman any more. Sure, he looked at pretty girls. Hell, Stella looked at good-looking guys. But at the end of the day, they only saw each other. She really was the only star in the sky as far as he was concerned. What if… What if Stella Bodine became Stella Winchester?

Maybe Sam was right and Dean, for a moment, allowed himself the fantasy of a home – maybe right here in Colorado – with a couple rug-rats running around… Uncle Sam and Bobby coming over for Thanksgiving… Celebrating wedding anniversaries until him and Stella were old and wrinkled…

"Hey, there." Stella's voice was soft, still sleep-filled. "What are you thinking about, Dean?"

He took her hand in his and let his thumb rub back and forth over the silver ring. "Nothing important, baby. I was just daydreaming…"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank you! All of you have a whole lot of choices on ff-dot-net so thank you for spending your time on my story. I'm definitely having fun writing it – I hope you're having even more fun reading it. Don't worry, we've got some more action coming up. If you're so inclined, I'd love to get feedback from you about what you like about the story, what you think I could improve on. Thanks for reading!