discoloured photos


Change - Dean Winchester

Summary ;; in which y/n’s life was lost and dean can’t move on with his life, not without her.

Warnings ;; mentions of character death, sad dean, angst

Words ;; 1.6k

Published ;; 7th may, ‘17


Stay safe + ily🦉

Dean wasn’t always like this. Well, not when you were around to keep him from slipping or to ensure that he was being the best version of himself that he could be.

He used to wake up with the glint of a smile on his lips, the unfamiliar but pleasant feeling of happiness swelling in his chest when you slept soundly by his side. He used to wrap his arms around your dainty waist and bring your body closer to himself, his protective side was always showing - no matter how much he knew that you could look after yourself.

His fingers used to instinctively come up and gently push a stray hair that had fallen from the messy bun on top of your head behind your ear that was peppered with various small piercings. He used to trace random, tender patterns on your skin, the pads of his fingers running over your features ever so faintly.

After a particularly bad hunt or a haunting anniversary from your rough past, you used to twist and turn under the covers, pained whimpers of terror falling from your agape mouth. Dean was always there, shaking you lightly and calling your name from where he leant worryingly over your sleeping figure.

You used to shoot up, gasping pants escaping past your lips and hot, heavy tears making their trek down your rosy cheeks. He used to hold you tightly in his arms as you cried. “I’m here; I’ve got you.” He hated how plagued your mind was; you didn’t deserve the shit that you had been through. But, he stuck by you, nevertheless. Just like you had done to him.

And when you were able to sleep dreamlessly, he used to feel so glad. He thought you were beautiful when you slept. Well, he thought you were beautiful whenever and wherever - without a shadow of a doubt. But, when you slept without the burden of your night terrors, he couldn’t help but fall in love with you all over again.

The way your eyelashes rested delicately on the tops of your flushed cheeks, soft breaths falling from your smooth lips and your arm casually slung over his waist as you nestled your face in the solace and safety of his chest or the crook of his neck. The way that your body cuddled up to his despite Dean’s incessant growling that “Dean Winchester does not cuddle.” You and him both knew that was a lie - Dean Winchester loved to cuddle as much as the next guy, especially when it was you that he was cuddling.

However, he thought that the best part was always when your eyes slowly fluttered open, exposing the deep (y/e/c) colour that he used to often find himself getting lost in whenever your eyes met. “Good morning,” His breath getting caught in his throat as you would gaze up at him with your big, doe eyes, a soft smile appearing on your lips even at the brink of the early morning.

You said it more often that Dean did, but you didn’t mind. Those three words that Dean was so scared to say were shown through his actions and his words. Like the way that he would always have you with him whenever you, him and Sam had to split up on a hunt.

“(Y/N), you stay with me.”

Or the way that he would always have his eyes on you and only you - even before the two of you had gotten together, he wasn’t interested in any other woman; it was always you.

“I think I’ll stay in tonight - do research with (Y/N/N) instead.”

It was shown in the way that the two of you argued, when he was adamant to throw himself in the line of fire to save either you or Sam, or when you had gotten hurt on a hunt. In the end, you both knew that those arguments happened because you both care. Because you both love each other.

“You need to be more careful, dammit! I could’ve lost you tonight and I can’t- I just can’t… I can’t lose you, (Y/N). Not you.”

And even though he knew that you knew he loved you, he now knows that he should have said those three words more often than not.

Because you had been taken from this harsh world. One, simple hunt gone horribly wrong. You’d been snatched from life too early and no one had been ready for it – Dean especially; he had lain with you when you choked out the words “I love you.” He’d kept shaking his head, burning tears tumbling down his cheeks and denial running through his veins as he stared at the girl he loved with his whole being. “It’s okay,” You had told him, your voice a broken whisper. Then, your shaking hold on his hand loosened and your body fell limp in his shaking arms.

He hadn’t been the same since.

Now, he wakes up and is immediately reminded that he’s lost you as he stares solemnly at the empty side of the bed that you once slept in; the void of your presence is always haunting him. Cas, Sam, Jody, anybody they had made acquaintances with had phoned or had come and gone through the bunker - repeatedly telling him they’re sorry, that you shouldn’t have died, that you were an amazing hunter and person in general. Dean didn’t need to be told this. He knew this; he knew this better than anyone.

His green iris’ settle on the photograph that he pulled from its permanent place, tucked nicely in his wallet; it was a picture of the two of you, leaning against the Impala which was parked in a layby on the side of some dusty road, the sun shining down and illuminating the both of you with its warm rays.

Your hair was up in a messy ponytail and you were clumsily holding a beer bottle in your hand as you laughed at something that Dean couldn’t even remember. Your head was thrown back with joy and the happiness was radiating from you and him. Dean’s eyes were focused on you, a wide, elated smile instead of his usual, cocky smirk on his lips as he peered down at you lovingly.

There had been many photos taken that day; Sam had found a disposable camera and had been snapping shots at any opportunity given, but, Dean liked that one the most and so he asked for it to be developed. He thought you looked absolutely and breathtakingly beautiful. He’d never told you that he had done it, though, or that he kept it safely hidden in his wallet at all times.

Looking at the slightly crumpled and discoloured photo, he’s struck with the dreaded realisation that he should’ve said those three words that seemed to always bring him bad luck and anguish. He should’ve allowed himself to love you further. You gave your full self to him and he only ever gave a little back, and that’s his greatest regret of all time.

He was scared to admit his love for you, even though he adored the absolute crap out of you and you were the best thing to ever waltz into his damaged and deranged life, but you were now void of life, nevertheless. His often declaration of love to you or his decision to never speak those words instead wouldn’t have changed the dreaded outcome.

This fucking sucks, he concludes sadly to himself. He wants to see that smile again as you sing obnoxiously loudly to the blaring rock music playing from Baby’s radio.

“Your singing is shit - don’t stop.”

He wants to hear your laugh again as you watch the brothers bicker stupidly over nothing in particular or when you catch Dean watching Dr Sexy MD on the motel’s tv.

“What the hell are you watching?!”

He wants to hold you in his arms again like how he used to when you or him were having a bad day.

“C’mere, baby.”

He wants to feel you again like before, when Sam left to do research and you had the bunker or the motel room to yourselves.

“Don’t smirk at me like that, Winchester.”

He wants you back here, with him.

You wouldn’t have wanted him to stay inside all day and sit with his toxic thoughts, he knows that. But as he continues to peer at the photograph that’s held in his shaky hands, memories whirling around in his messy mind; his throat starts to burn and he feels the tears settling on his waterline, ready to cascade. His head pounds profusely as he chokes out a sob.

People say that change is good, Sam had told him that multiple times; he said that a little change is always needed. But, he couldn’t disagree more as he sits in your shared bed, his heart feeling heavier than ever. The bunker is eerily silent; the sound of your contagious and joyous laughter is missing.

And yet again, he’s reminded; you’re gone.