FINAL CHAPTER!

Hey guys! Okay, first off, I am SO, SO SORRY about the long wait! School just started back, do I've been busy stressing about that, but I finally found the time to get back to this. And since y'all had to wait so long, I decided that, instead of splitting this into two chapters like I originally planned, it'll be just one long one.

Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed. It really means a lot to me, and it makes my day to see your notifications.

Now, on to the story!

You wake to a considerable amount of pain. Your head and broken bones ache, as well as your chest where your bruised spleen resides. You lie in bed for a few moments, taking steady breaths as you try to breathe through the pain. You seem to get somewhat of a hold on it, and then slowly get out of bed and head to the bathroom with a change of clothes. You do your business, brush your teeth and your hair and then take a moment to study your reflection.

Your face, thankfully, looks better by now. Your swollen lip has gone back to normal, and your black eye has mostly faded, even if it still has a little ways to go. Your broken nose looks okay—still a little bruised under the bandage, but at least it's not crooked.

You start to change, a process hindered by your sling, but you somehow manage it. But once you get your shirt off, you grimace at the ugly bruises littering your torso. The worst is the hematoma on your breast—it's a deep purple, the edges fringed with blue and sickly yellow. It has shrunk, but it's still as cringe worthy as ever. You were about to put your bra on, but after studying the hematoma and gently prodding it, only to be met with sharp bolts of pain, you decide, fuck the bra. You toss it onto the counter and begin awkwardly pulling your shirt over your head.

When you emerge from your room, you're met with the smell of bacon. You follow it to the kitchen and find Dean standing over the stove, cooking breakfast. And singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of his lungs.

"SO YOU THINK YOU CAN STONE ME AND SPIT IN MY EYEEE—" he yelps when the bacon suddenly spits hot grease onto his hand. "—GOD FUCKING FUCK—"

It's at this point that you snort so hard, you hurt your throat. Dean jumps and turns to see you standing in the doorway, and he's suddenly blushing furiously. But he's also grinning and playfully demands, "What are you laughing at?"

You grin. "Oh, nothing, just your manly manliness."

He flexes dramatically. "Ah, milady, are you impressed?"

You giggle. "Immensely."

He laughs, and dammit, why does he have to become ten times more attractive when he does?

You shake your head and try to stop staring as you approach the stove. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but you really don't have to cook."

"Don't worry about it, I wanted to," He insists. "I like cooking."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Especially since I grew up eating ramen and cheap diner food. Now that Sam and I have a place of our own, we actually have a real kitchen so I can make real food. I'm usually the one to cook meals anyway, since Sam's so busy with school."

"Mm." You lean towards the pan. "Well, it sure smells good."

"Yeah, and tastes better too," Dean grins.

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are seated across from each other at the island, digging into eggs, bacon, and pancakes.

"My God," you mumble around a mouthful of fucking delicious food, "can I keep you?"

Just as Dean laughs, there's a loud banging on the door. You jump, heart suddenly pounding, and the first thing you think is, Is it the muggers coming back to finish the job?

Dean has already leapt to his feet and is stalking towards the door. It's here that you can finally see all the military training his father drilled into him—the way he moves silently, hands held in a defensive stance, calculating eyes void of emotion—it's actually a little scary to watch. You slide off your stool and move back into the living room, where you'll have a view of the door but can run back to your room if necessary.

Someone pounds on the door again. "Y/N!" the person shouts. "Open the damn door!"

"Oh, no," you mumble. It's Brandon.

Dean looks back at you. "You want me to get rid of him?"

You flinch when Brandon continues banging. "Please?" you say helplessly.

Dean turns back to the door and wrenches it open. "What do you want?" he growls.

Dean's form blocks the doorway so you can't see Brandon's face, but you can certainly hear the rage in his voice. "I want to know what the fuck you're doing at my girlfriend's house!"

"Alright, get this through your thick head: She's not your girlfriend anymore. She invited me to stay and I was happy to. And you're drunk. Go home."

"Fuck you!" Brandon must have tried to shove Dean, because Dean jerks back a little in the doorway but otherwise doesn't move.

You hear Dean heave a sigh. "Look, man, I don't want to fight. Right now, Y/N's hurt and upset. Think about her. If you keep trying to stir up trouble it's only going to end up hurting her more."

But Brandon doesn't seem to listen. He grabs Dean's collar and yanks him forward and down the steps, the two of them tumbling into the driveway. You scream in shock and horror and run forward to stand in the doorway.

Brandon manages to land a punch across Dean's cheek, and then tries to shove his face into the cement. "Stop it!" you scream, tears beginning to stream down your face.

But Dean quickly gets over the shock of the sudden attack, and in less time than it takes you to blink he has Brandon pinned to the ground, arms twisted behind his back. Your ex is screaming in pain, and Dean loosens his grip just enough to get him to shut up. Dean leans down and hisses something into Brandon's ear. You're too far away to hear what Dean's saying, but Brandon's eyes widen in terror and he freezes his struggles. Dean roughly lets him go as he stands, kicking Brandon away for good measure.

Brandon scrambles to his feet and stands balanced on his toes, as if ready to take off at any second. He turns to face you, but keeps his eyes downcast. "Um, Y/N," he begins in a shaky voice, "I would like to sincerely apologize for all the trouble I've caused you—and um, I'll be leaving you alone from now on." Then he turns and half-runs down the street.

You stare after him in confusion and amazement, but your heart is still pounding and there's a tight pain in your chest. You lean back against the doorframe, one hand massaging your chest. Dean quickly runs over to you and pulls you inside, shutting the door. He places his hands on your shoulders and leans down to look into your eyes. "Are you alright?" he asks in a worried tone.

You nod, although your eyes are still watery and pinched in pain. "Y-Yeah—" You sniffle, and Dean reaches up to help wipe your tears away. "I think I just got too excited—my chest hurts a little."

"Come sit down," Dean urges. "I'll get you some water."

He leads you back to the living room and you ease yourself down onto the couch. While Dean goes to the kitchen, you gasp a little as you try to hold back a sob. For some reason, you just can't stop shaking, and the overwhelming sense of fear still attempting to consume you. Get it together, you silently scold yourself. What the hell is wrong with me?

Dean comes back and you try to hide your emotions. You gratefully take the glass of water from him and sip it slowly. But Dean can see your hand shaking, and he gently touches your arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"

You try to wipe the tears away, but more just keep coming. "I'll be fine," you say thickly, your voice cracking.

"You remember what that hospital psychologist said about PTSD? It's okay to get upset. You don't have to feel ashamed."

You sigh. "It's just so frustrating. Even though it happened days ago, it still has to follow me." You choke on another sob.

Dean takes the glass to set it down on the coffee table, and then moves closer to wrap his arm around you. "It'll pass," he murmurs. "You just have to give it time."

You bury your face in his shoulder and gasp around another sob. Dean pulls you closer so that you're leaning into his side. He sits with you for a good while, carding his fingers through your hair and holding you gently to avoid hurting your broken arm.

After several minutes, you manage to calm down. Your heart slows and you finally stop crying. You sit up away from Dean as you reach for the tissue box sitting on the coffee table. You sniffle and wipe your eyes in embarrassment. Dear God, you think, I just cried all over this poor man. Wonder what he thinks of me now.

You blow your nose and huff out a laugh. "Am I pretty yet?" you ask in a weak attempt at humor. Your face must be beet red by now, eyes swollen and nose running.

But Dean only tilts his head and regards you with a strange, pensive expression. "You've always been beautiful," he says quietly.

You freeze, your heart fluttering. Finally a smile finds its way onto your face and you dip you head shyly. "Um, th-thanks," you murmur.

Dean blinks, seeming to come back to himself, and shifts to face you more. "Look," He says, reaching out to take your hand. "I know you probably still think I'm only doing all of this just to be nice, and I know I've said this before, but I can promise you—I'm doing this because I really want to. I care about you, and want you to be okay and I want you to be my friend. That's why, when all this is over, I'm hoping we can stay in contact."

You smile. "Actually I was hoping for the same thing."

He lights up at that. "Awesome!"

The rest of the day is spent just like all the others. The two of you just hang out and talk and watch movies and play video games and dumb, made-up games and laugh together . . . and it would've be one of the best days of your life if there hadn't been one particular cloud hanging over you.

"I want you to be my friend."

His friend. Just friend. Not . . .

These thoughts whirl through your head as you lay in bed later that night. You'd thought that there was something between you . . . little moments throughout the time Dean had been here had indicated—or at least you thought had indicated—that maybe, just maybe . . . he liked you. Like the times when he'd touch you and his hand would linger a moment longer than necessary, or when you'd catch him staring at you and then he'd quickly look away when you noticed, or when the two of you would be talking and laughing together, and he'd suddenly gaze intently into your eyes with those bright green orbs of his.

You realize you're grinning like a fool into the darkness of your room, but then you drop it with a sigh. You try to be realistic—after all, why would a wonderful, amazing, handsome man like him, who is obviously way out of your league, be into you?

Unbidden, tears try to fill your eyes as you roll over onto your side, squeezing your pillow. Wow, now I'm being a brat, you think sullenly to yourself. So he doesn't like you, big deal. Get over it. He's still a great guy and a great friend. You'll find love somewhere else.

But you don't want to find love anywhere else.

You scowl angrily and bury your face in your pillow, trying to ignore the sharp pain in your chest.

A few weeks later and you've healed completely, and both you and Dean have gone back to your normal lives, although the two of you hang out regularly.

In fact, right now you were lounging on his couch next to him and Sam late one Saturday night, drinking a beer and watching Fateful Findings, one of the shittiest goddamn movies ever made. Horrible acting, horrible writing, horrible directing, horrible picture quality and what looked like a budget of about twenty bucks. And because it was so awful and also because everyone was a little drunk, it was hysterical and you were all loving it.

You scoff out a laugh. "Since when do hospital rooms have carpet? This is obviously somebody's house."

"And what about that lab coat that's actually just a dress shirt," Sam chimes in with a drunken giggle.

The three of you were cracking up as the scene continued. The guy in the fake hospital bed had over half his face covered with "bandages" and was dramatically removing all the equipment attached to him.

"Those IV cords don't even have needles in them!" Dean says. "They're just taped to his arms!"

"And why does he have an oxygen mask and a nasal cannula?"

"That thing isn't even in his nose!" You shout while laughing your ass off. "It's literally taped on top of the bandages! HOW THAT IS SUPPOSED TO WORK!?"

All three of you nearly topple off the couch, dying laughing at the stupidity of it all, and by the time the movie is over everyone is crying and quite drunk.

After a while, you all manage to pull yourselves together somewhat and you help Sam and Dean clean up. Then you head to the bathroom, do your business and splash some cold water on your face to try to sober up some. But your head is still swimming, so you go back to the living room where the boys are and ask, "Is it okay if I just crash on your couch tonight? I don't think I'm good to drive."

"Sure," Dean says. "Just let me get you a blanket and a pillow."

"Thanks," you smile. A few minutes later and you've kicked off your shoes, bedded down on the couch and passed out.

"Goodnight, Y/N," Dean calls softly, turning off the light and padding out of the room to the kitchen.

Dean hears a chuckle and turns to see Sam leaning against the sink, arms crossed and smirking.

Dean frowns. "What?"

"When are you gonna ask her out?"

Dean's face suddenly flushes red. "What're you talking about?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Dude, I see the way you two look at each other. It's obvious to everyone except you and Y/N that you're into each other."

Dean pretends to busy himself with getting a glass of water. "Well, you're wrong," he mumbles. "Maybe I do want to be with her, but every day I realize more and more that she's way out of my league. It'll never happen."

"Whoa, wait—out of your league? Since when is any woman out of the great Dean Winchester's league?"

Dean gives a frustrated sigh. "This is different. All those other women—they were just . . . we were never a thing. It was only about sex. I can't remember the last time I actually had a committed relationship. I've never been interested in having a relationship, and I've never met anyone I'd want to have one with. . . . And then Y/N comes into my life and I just . . . I . . . I don't know, okay? Stop laughing, Sam!"

"Sorry," Sam chuckles, "It's just, I've never seen you this nervous about a woman before. But come on man, she's seriously into you! She's an amazing girl and you gotta ask her out now before another guy swoops in and gets her first—because, seriously, someone like her will attract a lot of people."

Dean nervously fiddles with his belt loop. "But how do you know she'll say yes?" he finally says desperately.

"Oh, I'm sure she will. But you'll never find out if you never ask."

Dean blows out a breath. Okay, he thinks to himself, you can do this. Tomorrow, you're gonna ask her.

The next morning, you wake up with that icky residual feeling that always follows getting drunk. You rub grit out of your eyes and stretch. Pushing yourself up from the couch, you fold up the blanket and drape it over the back before pulling on your shoes. If the silence of the house is any indication, neither Winchester is awake yet. Part of you wants to wait for them, but the other part really wants a shower and an aspirin. So, you scrawl out a quick note for the boys, grab your keys and drive home, eager to clean up and sleep a little more.

Later, sometime around noon, your phone pings. You sit up from your position on the couch and pick it up, glancing at the screen. You open the text from Dean:

Hey, i heard there's gonna be fireworks down at the lake tonight. U wanna come?

You smile and type out a reply:

Sure, sounds fun!

A second later your phone pings again.

Great! i'll pick you up around nine :)

Nine o'clock rolls around, and your doorbell rings. You grab your purse and open the door, where Dean is standing on the top step with his hands in his pockets and an easy grin on his face. "Hey," he greets as you close and lock the door behind you. "You ready to go?"

"Yep!" You bound down the steps with him, and Dean quickly jogs to the passenger side door of the Impala and opens it for you.

"Thanks," you smile as you slide into the seat, and then something occurs to you. "Sam isn't coming?" you ask curiously when Dean climbs in behind the wheel.

It's so quick you almost miss it, but for a fraction of a second you see Dean tense. "Um, no actually," he says, cranking the car up. "He, uh, he had a paper to write."

"Oh. Guess it's just us, then."

"Yeah, guess so," Dean laughs, and if you didn't know any better, you'd say he sounds almost . . . nervous.

That was weird, you think to yourself.

But when you arrive at the lake twenty minutes later, those thoughts slide out of your mind. The fireworks hadn't started yet, but the sky was clear and the stars were bright and beautiful.

Dean drives slowly around the lake until he finds a spot distanced away from the other groups of people camped out to watch. The two of you get out of the car and climb up to sit on the hood.

Dean checks his watch. "They should start in just a little bit."

You tilt your head back to study the stars. "It's so pretty out here," you comment wonderingly. "I don't know why I don't come more often."

"Maybe we should start," Dean suggests. "Every weekend or something?"

You smile, you eyes still glued to the sky. "That would be nice."

The next few minutes pass in comfortable silence. Well, for you it's comfortable, but little do you know, Dean's stomach is churning nervously as he tries to gather up his courage.

Finally he takes a deep breath. "Y/N?" He says tentatively.

"Yeah?"

He coughs a little. "Um, I've been thinking . . . y'know, over the past couple of months . . ." he trails off, and you finally move your gaze from the sky to him. It's dark, so it's hard to see his face, but you can still make out a nervous expression, which confuses you.

Dean chews his lip, trying to find the right words to say.

"Dean?" You prompt him quietly, wondering what was going on.

Finally he blows out a breath. Bite the bullet, he thinks. Either it works out or it doesn't.

Dean turns to face you. "Y/N," he says firmly, "I like you. A lot. I have ever since I met you, and I know that when we first met I was just looking for sex but it's way more than that now."

You're frozen, unblinking, heart pounding, mouth hanging open slightly in shock.

"When I saw what those muggers did to you . . . the only other times I've ever felt that angry in my life were when someone hurt my little brother. And I felt something else, too, but I didn't really know what it was. But then those days I stayed with you and took care of you . . . that was when I figured it out. I think . . . Y/N, I think I'm falling in love with you."

You sit there staring at him, still frozen, unsure of what you say. Part of you if it's elated—Oh my god he likes me?! But the other part is scared to believe that this is real, that it's actually happening.

When you remain silent, Dean suddenly becomes flustered again. "I-I mean, I'm sorry, it's okay if you don't feel the same way, I . . . I just . . ." he starts to slide off the hood and walk away, but finally your brain bursts into action and you reach out to grab his arm before he can.

"Wait!" you gasp, "Dean, I . . . I feel the same way."

He slowly meets your eyes again. "Y-You do?"

You nod. After hesitating a moment, Dean reaches out to touch your shoulder, and then he begins moving closer. He brushes your hair behind your ear, his hand coming to rest on the side of your neck. He keeps coming closer, and closer, and oh god, you can feel his breath on your lips—his other arm has wrapped around your waist—you can see each and every dark eyelash—

His lips meet yours, and your world explodes.

Dean's lips are soft and full. The hand on your neck moves gently up into your hair, while the other tightens around your waist. Lightning bolts shoot through you, traveling all the way down to your fingers and toes. You heart is pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it and you can't even breathe—

The kiss breaks, and both of you gasp for breath with your foreheads pressed together. You're so full of giddiness you can barely contain it, and it shows with the huge grin on your face.

You pull back a little so you can look at Dean. He's grinning too, and for a moment you just stare deeply into each other's eyes.

Then you plant your hands on his chest and shove him right off the hood.

He hits the ground with a shout, and you crawl to the edge to glare down at him. "Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to do that?" You demand. "Do you?!"

The terrified expression on Dean's face vanishes and he bursts out laughing. "I'm so sorry," he chortles, "but if you come down here I'm sure I can make it up to you." He winks cheesily.

You can't help but laugh, and you slide off the hood into the soft grass and get down to lay on top of him. His arms wrap around you once again, one around your back and the other on the back of your neck. You card your hands through his hair, and your lips meet again, this time with his tongue gently probing your bottom lip. You gladly open your mouth and let him in. He tastes like cinnamon and smells like leather and motor oil, and you feel like you could just drown in him.

You lose track of time. You even forget where you are until the sound of a firecracker bursting startles you out of your blissful reverie.

"Mm." You roll to the side, off of Dean so that you're lying next to him. You tuck your head into his shoulder, head turned so you can still watch the fireworks. He runs his fingers gently up and down your back. "So," he murmurs, "officially dating now?"

"Oh, hell yeah," you say, grinning.

Dean shifts onto his side, wrapping his arms around you and pressing his lips just beneath your ear. "I'm glad you're finally mine," he whispers.

You heart stutters with joy at those words. "Me too," you whisper back, and, turning to bury yourself in his arms, the rest of the night is spent in a warm embrace under a sky full of stars and a fiery display as bright and wonderful as the joy filling your heart.

FIN

SO! I hope my ending wasn't too cheesy lol. I actually considered something of a smutty ending, but decided against it. I sort of wanted a more romantic ending rather than a sexual one, and plus I didn't want to have to give this story a mature rating for anyone who is uncomfortable reading those types of things.

And one more note: I've been thinking about doing two more of these types of stories—with the reader being the main character—one for Sam and one for Cas. No guarantees at the moment, but I have a few ideas, so keep a look out!

ANYWAY! Thank you so much for reading, and as always:

Reviews are food for a writer's soul!