𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 ; Dean Winchester.

ONE

I wish I could recall exactly what my life had been like amiss leading up to September. Not like it had mattered, truthfully it had been a blur until my eyes focused on a light blue car pulling slowly into my gravel driveway. Purposely, I secluded myself off from the rest of the world-occasionally of course rejoining society for groceries and things of such. The dangerous life of having hunters in and out of my home; with wounds across the board, some little, most of them chaotic had worn me thin. When the car came to a halt, I shot up from the kitchen table, my stomach preparing for a gut wrenching wound. I was betting on encountering the aftermath of a hunters festering battle with a creature. Instead I was met with emerald irises of 'Dean Winchester'.
Dean Winchester looked good for a dead man. Not even hell had managed the soften his stoic demeanor or square jaw. Despite the look of exhaustion and dehydration; he looked just as I remembered. He carried a plastic bag between his fingers as he came onto my porch. "It's good to see you," he had met me right in the door frame, his arms wrapping me up tightly; for the first time ever if I could recall. He wasn't the affectionate type, and when he 'died' our terms were nothing more than platonic.
"I wasn't going to make it to Bobby's in that thing." His voice was eager and full of color, yet he had let himself into my home, almost like he was simply returning from work; but it wasn't like that. "How is this possible," I followed behind him. "You were dead, in hell, Dean." My skeptical tone froze him in his actions. His head would turn from the fridge and his gaze fell directly onto me.
"I don't know, I'm just as confused, I need you to look at somethin' for me." Of course, he had stopped by not to see me, but to get a medical adversary. He was assumably broken out of hell, I was more baffled at the fact he wasn't just bones chaotically stomping around. "Take a seat," I pointed to a near by kitchen chair, I'd nurse so many men and women in that very spot. Burns, cuts, even potential limbs that were near amputation-but now sat Dean, a survivor of hell.
I turned to the sink, washing my digits free of any germs that could linger. Swiveling on my heels, my eyes met a large hand print on his bicep. It was pulsating, red, and larger than anything I had seen before in that form. My brows furrowed in theory, I brought myself closer to analyze exactly what it could be. "Demonic?" I questioned, his eyes fell onto mine once more. He had been watching me ever-so carefully and it softened my heart to a degree where I couldn't bring myself to question if this had even been the real Dean Winchester.
"That's the thing doc', I can't tell ya' cause I dunno'." He would shrug, only before wincing once my finger grazed over half of the print. "I could test it, but I don't have half the things I need here--this is my home now, not a med lab." My tone had come across cold and I could see him visibly be taken aback by my frustration. How was he suppose to know she had officially gone off the grid from the life of hunting in the last few months?
"I'm--I--i'm sorry, " He uttered under his breath once I had turned to begin rummaging through a few containers, the least she could do was sterilize the swelling. "I can get out your hair, give me a bandaid and i'll make do." He dryly remarked. "I'll gather what I can," I had completely written him off in my tone. Of course, in the year before his demise I begged and pleaded for him to not seal his fate, thus of which he did anyway. Deep down, I know I had been hurt by that, that was a scar on our friendship and even my heart that I hadn't been able to heal. I steer away from the night Sam brought his body to me, torn to shreds, barely breathing. He had been the only person i'd ever had die on my watch: that fact haunted me. "I can at least give you a ride to Bobby's." I offered, as redemption from my cold and menacing irritation.
A smile manifested across his face and just like that I had a feeling that the life I had been so desperately trying to escape had roped me back in. I dug through a few more boxes, freeing a bundle of bandages. To my left, he had joined me and just so happened to pick up an old inexpensive monitor, "What took you out the game, Ang. You did good for a lot of people, myself included." He dusted off the screen, quizzically looking over the scanner.
"It's been tough, Dean. You died on my table, how was I suppose to keep operating after that?" I glowered, taking the monitor from his grasp and placing it back in its bin. I let out the breath that I didn't realize was building in my lungs. "I couldn't, and I still can't." I motioned for him to sit back down and began wrapping his arm with with the bandages. Once I had finished, I backed away and prepared to retreat upstairs to get ready to leave. This was the plan before he grabbed my hand with his own. "Hey," His eyes directly zoomed into mine, "I'm sorry, I never wanted to put you--you or Sammy through that." I knew deep down that hearing he had died on on my table had gave him more insight on exactly where Sam's mindset had been. "You're here now, make the most of it." I brushed off his attempt to atone with ease, "We leave for Bobby's in ten, feed yourself." I delicately freed my hand and retreated upstairs where I almost burst into an overwhelming amount of tears.