1.

She hadn’t woken up like this in a long time; all covered in sweat, the bags so heavy under her eyes she felt their weight, and she was nauseous. She looked in the mirror for a long time, but not really at herself.

Sometimes, she’d look in mirrors and look straight past herself and start seeing green; intense, heavy laden green that brightened on occasion instead of dulling on the latter. She’d see straight past herself and look right at contrasting pale, pink; that used to lay heavy against her deep browns. She’d look straight past herself and see Dean Winchester; she had been doing it since the day they fell in love, but a little more over the past two years, on March 19th. The day her husband of five years was killed.

At first, she and Sam looked for ways to bring him back. Neither of them, per Winchester fashion, were going to let him stay dead. But one week turned into three months that turned into a whole year and half of she and Dean’s son, little Bobby Winchester, asking when his father was coming home for them to get desperate. And a little scared. A year and a half turned into two and Sam was getting tired. And life seemed to stop, for all three of them.

It wasn’t until the end of last year when Garth (the self -proclaimed “new Bobby”) told them that there may have been a way to get him back. So the hunt was back on. And they started moving again, but never really moving on. Just, seemingly, on the same cycle for two years.

Today marked their third year without Dean. So she woke up in cold sweats from bad nightmares and heavy amounts of guilt from not being there. Little Bobby Winchester was turning three in two weeks and Cassie only had one gift in mind to give him; but she was shortly starting to believe that that wasn’t possible.

Her answering machine startled her out of her haze;

“Hey Cassie, its Sam. Got your text and checked out that coven; they didn’t have what we were looking for. Maybe they were too young, but they’d never heard of the ingredients for the ritual. I’ll keep looking.”

Beep.

“Cassie—hey, it’s me, Sam. I talked to Garth; and apparently he ran into a warlock that might have done something that maybe could be our thing? I don’t know, I’m running on a lot of guessing. But I’ll keep looking. We’ll find a way…to bring him back…”

Beep.

“Hey Cassie…its Sam. I don’t think I ever call you just to ask how you’re feeling…I know today’s—well, you know what today is—I’ll swing by tonight, if you want. We’ll watch Bad Santa and drink really bad beer and—and we’ll sing Bobby to sleep. I know that was a “you-and-Dean” thing but—hey, I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I miss him. And I miss you and Bobby and--and I’ll come by later. See you soon.”

Beep.

By the last one, she was already in tears.

She grabbed both sides of the bathroom sink and braced herself against sobs that threatened to rack her body; sobs that signaled a sort of giving in to the fears that Dean may be never coming back. She didn’t know if she could let herself believe that.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

“Mommy?”

She stopped, and steeled herself, easing, gently into the small touch of the caramel colored, curly haired, green eyed boy holding her knee, looking up at her with blissful, unknowing, innocence. She looked down, and closed her eyes, for just a minute. Because she never wanted that innocence in his eyes to leave. She never wanted to tell him that his daddy wasn’t coming home. She didn’t want that to be the truth.

“Mommy? Are you okay, Mommy?”

“I’m fine, handsome”, she picked him up, and kissed his head “I’m perfect now that you’re here”.

“Mommy, what are we having for breakfast?”

“What do you want baby?” she walked away from the bathroom and into their small kitchenette, going through the fridge, but never putting her little boy down.

“I like pancakes”

“Me too—don’t we all like pancakes?”

“Yes, all of us! Me and you and daddy!”

“Yes, me, and you and…daddy”, she smiled, looking at her son. She took a moment, looking at his eyes. They were shaped and shaded just like his father’s. He looked so much like him. And he was growing into such a handsome boy…and Dean was missing it.

“Is daddy having breakfast with us too?”

She looked away now, keeping busy, “daddy’s working, dear.”

~*~*~

Three knocks sounded at the door around lunch time.

For a second, she thought…there were three knocks, they were heavy as if the person was laying on the door…Dean knocked like that…

But she shook it, and answered the door to see Sam’s smiling face. Sam’s smiles were a lot like his affection; completely genuine. But he looked like he’d been crying too, which made her feel a little less alone.

And the whole evening went according to plan; Sam played with Bobby for hours, and helped her make dinner. And while she gave Bobby a bath, Sam cleaned house (much to her chagrin later), and then Sam told Bobby bed time stories, and they sang to him until he fell asleep. Sam even came through on the beer and “Bad Santa”.

It was while they were watching the movie when Cassie finally let the levies break.

And Sam didn’t ask any questions. He just held her. And she cried, and he cried, and she closed her eyes; tormented by uncertainty and denial and Dean’s eyes. Those eyes that now belonged to her son.

The eyes she’d never be able to escape.

2.

“Cassie, what the hell is this?”

Cassie rose her head up from the profound novel she was reading about Egyptian folklore—doing research, as her boyfriend so colorfully suggested she do.  

“Dinner, honey.”

Dean looked at her, mouth ajar as he held up the almost completely burnt, cold slice of pizza. “Seriously?”

They'd been at it for the past three days. Ever since the witch case; when Dean asked Cassie to stay back, and she came anyway, proceeding to save both Dean and Sam but nearly getting killed in the process. Dean’s been pissy and Cassie’s been fed up. At first, they argued; it wasn't words full of jabs; just really harshly said truths. Sam, who had kept his mouth zipped the entire time (because when he tried to interject they both turned on him) watched on, as the arguments turned into childish cold shouldering and fight picking. Dean would purposely ignore Cassie. She hated when he did that. So she started doing the very opposite of everything he asked her; down to the giving him a glass of milk instead of a beer from the fridge. So he started sleeping at the table, and Cassie kept the bedroom door closed, and Sam busied himself with looking for another case while the two of them duked it out.

It was day three, and Sam was so tired he took to outright laughing at them.

Because this was funny.

“What is your problem?” Dean asked, glowering at his girlfriend from behind the fridge door.

“Right now? You. Asshat.”

“Hey, that’s my word!”

“Oh, I’m aware”, she finally placed her book to the side. Sam coughs away the giggles, because Dean’s face is priceless, and Cassie was starting to look like she’d come out on top of this one.

“This”, Dean holds up the pizza like a dirty diaper, “is going too far!” he tosses it into the trash, and slams the fridge door, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sam suppressed another laugh, because Dean was wearing his serious face.

“You know what’s going too far?” Cassie stood now, pointing at him, “putting me on the burner and getting mad at me for doing my job!”

“I asked you to stand down, and for good friggin’ reason”, he points at her wrapped thigh “he could have killed you!”

“And I’m supposed to sit back while he tries to kill the both of you? That’s selfish and foolish and I refuse to let your stupidity get you killed and I have to be the one left living with it.”

This got real, real quick. Sam knew the look on Cassie’s face. It was a common Winchester look. The one they gave when one of them was all guts and glory and thoughtlessness. Both of the brothers had gotten it; mostly from each other. But now there was Cassie, and she wasn’t like them. Sam was glad about that; they needed someone who was willing to hit them upside the head and remind them to use it. And she loved them; and she as in love with Dean and was willing to help them carry their ever present load. And Dean needed to learn to appreciate that. Fast.

Sam hadn't realized that he’d been thinking out loud, until Cassie and Dean’s facial expressions caught his attention. Dean’s chin was turned down, his eyes searching and not knowing what to do with his hands; he was giving in. Cassie’s eyes were a little watery, and she was worrying her lip, looking away from the both of them. Sam stood up from the desk he had been working at, “I’ll—go grab some dinner.”

They both watched as the door closed behind him, and remained looking at the door, silent.

Dean and Cassie were so much alike it scared them. Both head strong, stubborn, and unwilling to yield, because neither could admit to being wrong and always saw their side as truth, whether that truth be full out or only half way there. Both had pride issues. The list goes on.

But the biggest thing they had in common, was that neither knew how to say sorry.

They turned to each other simultaneously, confident at first, but upon meeting the other’s gaze, faltered back a bit.

“Look, I—“

“Dean, I’m—“

They looked up at one another. He laughed. She smiled. “I’m sorry—okay?”

“No—“

“Let me finish, Cassie”, Dean sighed, approaching her, “I was wrong. I undermined you. I treated you like a damsel in distress, and that wasn’t right. At all. I mean, you saved me…I’m not real good at this. I was being selfish, and foolish and stupid, and Sam was right, I just…“

“Dean”, she locked her eyes on his, approaching him, “I understand—I know you. I get it, and I’m sorry if I scared you. Or made you feel like you were gonna lose me.”

They were face to face now. She had a hand on his cheek. He kissed her palm and held it there. She got closer, “I chose this. And I chose you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean looked at her, he really looked at her. And Cassie Robinson had that look in her eye; the one she had when they first met that let him know that she didn’t have to swear to or on anything for you to know that she was making a promise. And she always kept her promises.

And Dean would always be scared. Because the women around them never lasted. But she was here; she was standing the tests of time and everything that came at them. So he would believe and trust her—he’d at least try.

He took her into his arms and kissed her. Kissed her like she was air. And she kissed him. Kissed him like he was the answer to everything.

And after they were spent, they pressed their foreheads together, breathing and smiling and embracing, “can I sleep in my room now?”

Cassie grinned, kissing him again, “who said anything about sleeping?”

Dean grinned, following her lead back to their room, when he had a thought, “wait…can we talk about the pizza first?”

Cassie arched a brow, “really? You wanna talk about the pizza or moving this furniture around?”

Dean looked thoughtful for about point five seconds, garnering exasperation out of Cassie before he shook himself, “Right. Furniture.”

She stretches out her stiff limbs in the bed that’s two small for the both of them to fit; but they close in so tightly to one another that they’re unaware of the bed size and more concerned with the curve and crook of the other’s body.

She turns towards him, because the shades are open and the sun’s shinning right on the window. She puts her legs over his, and he only moves to adjust so that they’re both comfortable, but his eyes remain closed.

She wants to smile; he looks so peaceful when he sleeps, and yes, she understands that everyone does, but she knows him; the hard lines of his jaw, the purse of his lips, the stone in his eyes because he’s trying so hard.

Because he believes he has to; for her. And it breaks her heart and sometimes she regrets them, but he won’t ever let that thought stay because he can tell when she gets that look and he eradicates it immediately.

Because, no matter how many lines and crossed looks he receives for the hardness in his face or the girl on his arm, he’s never ever regretted them. She knows, that long after this, wherever this goes, he won’t ever regret them.

Because he loves her and he loves what they are and he’s always respected a challenge, so he takes them in strides, no matter how tiring it can be.

Memory is such a capricious thing.

One moment, you are living in the present; your co-worker of two years has made a joke about your boss and you laugh, your routine fortified, and you fax in a case file, a process you have committedly retained so that it is almost mindless.

And then, suddenly, your senses are engaged and you smell something that reminds you of home, 4 thousand miles away. Or you feel an embroidered cloth and you are reminded of a wedding day you keep wanting to forget.

Or you hear a voice, and your heart squeezes, remembering the hurt and the pleasure and tornado of emotion it once endured because of the man behind that voice.  It takes almost nothing, and suddenly you are reliving your past

"Cassie Robinson."

Kita's eyes, as big as balloons behind her glasses, dart between Cassie and the disembodied voice of Dean Winchester at her back.

She breathes, quick and seamless, before her features are schooled into the coolest smile and she turns to face him, "Dean Winchester?", the name does nothing to lessen the grip on her heart or the cotton like thickness in her throat, but she won't let them know that.

There is a moment of unbroken eye contact; he initiates it, and she can't escape all the memory that floods up from the recesses of her mind. She hopes it doesn't last as long as it feels, because the word eternity comes to mind the longer her eyes connect to his, "And Sam Winchester; what a surprise."

"Yeah", Dean swallows thickly and she tries not to muse about how similar their reactions to all this are, "yeah, it is; how are you, Cassie?"

Cassie breathes around all the memories building up in her chest. Her heart is sitting in an iron vice grip that's almost ten years old and burns, "I'm fine, Dean." She doesn't ask him what brings him to town, because the minute she heard about the axe murders with the masks, she thought, absentmindedly, maybe that's one of those things. Every so often, a case will cross her path that reminds her of the strange happenings back in Ohio and that familiar squeeze will come back.

But Cassie has a life now; she has learned to pack up those memories, push them back, to not live in the past.

It's hard to keep a memory in the past when it's standing right in front of you.

"Is there something we can help you two with?", Kita's Indian accent only highlight her no-nonsense tone.

Dean has not lost his brass, staring openly at Cassie. It is Sam who relays that they were looking for obituary articles from the news station from the previous year. Kita flags down one of the resident clerks, and Sam accompanies her.

Dean stays.

"Wow", Dean says, and Cassie can tell he does not know what to do with his hands, "it's really you."

"It's really me", she says, all that cool posturing firmly in place, and she thanks the high heavens that there is a five-foot desk between them.

"It's good to see you", his charming smile, which is the most familiar thing about him in this moment, makes that vice around her heart hurt a little less, "you haven't changed a bit."

"I wear my hair a little different", she shrugs, falling into a step she doesn't mean to, "I'm also married", she lies, because does it count if you are separated? That's none of his business.

She hoped it would help; telling him that she was married, implying that she had moved on, but that vice grip is still clutching her heart and the look that passes his eyes does not make it better. It's something like acceptance, and a number of other things reminiscent of regret. The grip finally cracks her heart, just a little bit, when she says that.

"Lucky guy", he says, and he holds his mouth the way he used to whenever they'd talk about the little brother he'd felt like he let down or the father he could never live up to.

"Yeah", she nods, and she feels her own well sculpted mask begin to fade, "yeah, you working?"

He nods, his smile redolent, "Yeah I am. You left Ohio; is this home, now?"

She shrugs, "traveling journalism; home is where the four-star hotel is". The laugh they share is genuine and related because they both know this life now, and something akin to pride passes through his eyes. "You are still too easy to read, you know."

"Am I?", he shakes his head, shuffling a little closer to the desk and putting his hands on the table top, "that's not what they tell me."

She laughs, the words leaving her lips before she can pass them through the cool mask, "They must not know you very well."

His smile is disarming, but his words are loaded, "No one knows me like you do."

And just like that, it's '04 and they're lying on their backs in a gray pick-up Dean swears he didn't steal, drinking and making love, and naming their imaginary children after constellations, for fun. Suddenly, it's '06 and he's saying goodbye, promising it wont be the last time.

And then those ten years he missed fill themselves in on top of those memories. As strong as they are, nothing can compete with time. "Used to", she smiles, hoping her brick wall doesn't bruise him as she throws it up, "I used to know you. It's been ten years, Dean. Things change."

His eyes, which are the windows to his soul and tell her everything, are inescapable, "not everything."

She doesn't remember when Sam comes back, or when the Winchester's bid she and Kita a farewell, but later that night, when she gets a call from the concierge that she's got a visitor, she thinks that maybe this memory won't be so easy to pack up and leave behind. Maybe this memory wants to be relieved.

Maybe, she'll want to relive it.