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  Dean remembers her as if he spoke to her yesterday. Her voice rings crystal clear in his ears, and her face is forever etched into his brain. He’s always going to remember every smile, every laugh, every tear she shed in his presence.

  Her number is still in his phone. He makes sure to transfer it every time he gets a new one. Sometimes he goes to the number and contemplates calling it if only to hear her voice message. In the past he used to call it at least once a week and leave short messages saying how much he missed her, but he drifted away from the habit as years went by.

  They were both so young, and she was so much fun.

* * * * *

  “How old are you?” Dean asks the girl walking next to him.

  “Twenty-one as of last month.”

  “And you’ve never been on a hunt?”

  “I’ve been on hunts before, just . . . not by myself.” She smiles shyly at him. “What about you?”

  Dean shrugs. “I’ve done a few solo hunts since I was sixteen. I guess my dad wants me to be as independent as possible. We should split up. We’ll find more clues that way.”

  He moves towards the stairs, meaning to take the second floor of the dark, after-hours library, but a hand grabbing his arm stops him.

  “Please don’t leave.” The girl looks at him with a pleading gaze.

  “Are you scared of the dark?”

  She shrugs. “I’m scared of being alone in it.”

  “Hey, you’ve got nothing to worry about. This place is completely safe.”

  “Can we please just stay together?”

  “If you want to get out of here, the fastest way to do that is to split up. You’ll be fine, and I’m only the next floor up.”

  “Dean . . .”

  He sighs, studying her worried features, and then he comes up with an idea.

  “Where’s your phone?” He asks.

  “Right here.” She pulls the device from her pocket.

  He takes her phone and hands her his. “We’ll swap numbers.”

  After entering his number, he waits for her to finish and then swaps phones again. He immediately dials her number, and she answers it, eyeing him curiously.

  “We’ll hang up when we meet up again. I’ll talk to you the whole time. Think you can handle splitting up now?”

  She smiles at him and nods. “Yeah.”

* * * * *

  There are still pictures that Dean carries around. Some are of her, some are of him, some are of them together, and others are of seemingly random objects and locations. Each of these photos has a meaning to him.

  Many of the photos were taken on her digital camera, but there are also quite a few faded pictures she'd taken with her old Polaroid, her most prized possession. She loved that camera and took care of it as if it were a living creature. It had outlived the digital camera which had been destroyed after being dropped in a bathtub, and she etched her name into the underside so that it would always be connected to her.

  Dean has never thought of himself as a photogenic person. In his own eyes, he never looks good in pictures, and he told her so. She still dragged him into it. When he looks back at these photos, he still doesn't think he looks good, but he thinks the opposite when she's in the photo with him. She made him look beautiful, made him feel happy, made him love himself a little bit more.

  She made two prints of every picture taken with the digital camera so that they could each have one, but the Polaroids had to be divided. With his, Dean stored them where his dad wouldn't find them and only took them out when John wasn't around. Hers she put into a scrapbook, stuck them to the pages with whatever she had handy and wrote little messages next to them.

  “What's that?” Sam peers over his brother's shoulder at the open scrapbook. “Evidence from a hunt?”

  “Better.” Dean smiles nostalgically. “They're good memories.”

* * * * *

  “Come on, Dean.”

  “(y/n), please don't make me do this.” Dean protest as she pulls him over to the restaurant sign. “I don't look good in pictures.”

  “Yes you do.” She raises the Polaroid lens to eye level. “Now, smile!”

  Knowing resistance is futile, Dean leans against the sign and smiles for her. So used to the flash is he that he doesn't blink. When she's done, he comes over to join her at the Impala, watching as she flips to an empty space in her scrapbook and sticks the photo in place using a bit of the gum she's been chewing. Then she takes out a pen and writes something next to the photo. Dean leans in next to her to read it.

  Just got done with lunch. Love this boy.

  Dean takes the pen and writes a message of his own underneath the one she wrote.

  But I love you more.

  He grins at her, making her blush and smile as she replies.

  Then prove it.

  Not missing a beat, Dean swoops in to kiss her full on the mouth. He's never kissed her before. For all their incessant flirting, neither of them has ever made the move to kiss until now. It's a short kiss, but it means the world to both of them.

  She's still blushing when it ends, cheeks red from the heat of the moment, and Dean can feel a bit of warmth in his own face.

  “Why do you take so many pictures?” He changes the subject to avoid potential awkwardness.

  She shrugs. “I wanted to be a photographer when I was a kid, and it became a hobby when I grew up.”

  “You should still go after that. You could make a career out of it.”

  “I don't know. It's a little far-fetched, don't you think?” She turns to take another picture, this one of the restaurant rather than just the sign.

  “Not at all. You should seriously think about it.”

  “Maybe.” She hands him the photo once it prints.

  “You know,” Dean takes the photo. “You've been giving me a lot of pictures of random things, and I don't know why.”

  “They aren't random. Trust me, there's a method to my madness.”

  “The only pattern I see is that they're places we've been.”

  “Places that make you happy, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember a while back when you told me how you never really feel happy unless we're together? You said your life was a mess.”

  “I do remember that.”

  “The 'random' pictures I've been giving you are of things I know make you happy like restaurants, your car, pie, the covers of classic rock albums. My hope is that you'll look at these pictures when you feel bad and that they'll make you a little bit happier.”

  Dean smiles. “You are way too good to me. I don't deserve you at all.”

  “I know.”

  Dean rolls his eyes and turns to head for the driver's seat of his car.

  “Wait!” (y/n) stops him. “Please don't leave. I wanna take one more picture.”

  Dean makes a face but grants her wish. She presses her cheek to his and holds the Polaroid out at arm's length, intuitively knowing how to position the camera in order to capture both of their faces in the shot. It clicks, flashes, prints, and she sticks it next to the first one with another piece of gum before writing a message next to it.

  Post first kiss!

* * * * *

  “She was like therapy, man.” Dean fills Sam in on the story behind the scrapbook. “I didn't just want her, I needed her. My life was . . . less than desirable, more so than usual. You had barely left for college, Dad was getting harder on me, lashing out at me, blaming me for you leaving, but she was . . . she was the eye of the storm. We met up every week or so, and she brought calm with her, let me relax and be happy for a day or two. I hated where I was and what was going on, but she . . . she made it better.”

  “She's pretty.” Sam comments as he thumbs through the scrapbook.

  “She's gorgeous.” Dean leans his head back. “You would have liked her, Sam. Everybody liked her.”

  Dean remembers vividly the way she used to touch him, the way she knew exactly what to do to make him relax. Hands around his waist when he was upset, rubbing his shoulders when he was stressed, stroking his hair when he hated himself. She could read him better than anyone. He couldn't hide anything from her.

  Her skin was unnaturally soft for a hunter. She didn't have the rough callouses like Dean, and he often felt that she was too smooth, too pure, too flawless for him to touch, but he still did. They always had their hands on each other. Fingers laced, arms linked or around waists, heads on shoulders, it didn't matter. They couldn't get enough of each other. They didn't want to let go.

* * * * *

  Dean wakes with the girl pressed against his side, one arm extended across his chest. His own arm is looped under and around her shoulders, and his legs are tangled with hers. A breath through his nose fills his head with the scent of the cheap shampoo she used yesterday, and he can faintly feel her heartbeat.

  There's still time. It's still early. He doesn't have to leave yet. It's still dark outside, the gray light of the early hours have barely begun to show.

  She stirs, makes a small noise in the back of her throat, and stretches.

  “Morning.” Dean says quietly.

  “Is that what it is?” She opens her eyes and looks up at him blearily. “It's too dark to be morning.”

  “Give it half an hour.” He kisses her forehead. “Did you have fun last night?”

  “Mhm.” She mumbles incoherently.

  “I'll take that as a yes.”

  “You talk too much for this early in the morning.”

  Dean lets out a soft laugh. He starts rubbing light circles into her shoulder, letting her lie against him. Her hand moves to rest on his neck, and the distinctive coolness of her skin makes him melt a little. Soon enough, light seeps in between the gaps in the curtains.

  “We should get up.” Dean moves to sit up.

  “Please don't go.” She tightens her hold.

  “I have to. My dad's gonna be wondering why I'm not back yet.” He forces himself to pull away and get up.

  (y/n) sits up, props herself up on one elbow, and watches him get dressed. “Why do you do this?”

  “Why do I do what?”

  “Why do you go back to him?”

  “Back to Dad? Because I have to.”

  “But why? What's stopping your from leaving?”

  “Why would I want to leave?”

  She sighs. “You always talk about how stressed you are with him, how he pushes you. He blames you for everything, not just for your brother leaving. He's obsessed and controlling and demanding, and I don't have to meet him to know that. He's desperate and frustrated, and he's taking it out on you. That's not a healthy relationship, not for either of you.”

  By now he's completely dressed, and he studies his cord bracelet as your words hit his ears.

  “I know you don't like hearing this sort of thing about your dad, but it's the truth. I wan't to help you, Dean. I don't like how you hate yourself every time we get together. But if I'm going to help you, you have to help yourself.”

  He lets out a breath and sits on the edge of the bed, and she sits up to lean against him, rubbing her hand across his shoulders. Before he says anything, he meets her eyes, finding no judgment, only love.

  “I don't know anything else. I don't know any other way of living.”

  “What about me?”

  He pauses. “I wouldn't be able to let go enough. There would still be a tether between me and Dad, a connection that would interfere with what we have. If I'm gonna be with you permanently, I want to be in it one-hundred percent. And to be honest . . . I'm a little scared about what he might do to himself if I left.”

  “You're a good man, Dean Winchester.” She smiles calmly at him. “Just do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Don't let him get to you or drag you down. I don't like seeing you hurt.”

  Dean returns her smile. “I'll do my best.”

  “Thank you.”

  She strokes the hair around his ear, and her eyes land on his mouth. Dean leans forward slightly, silently giving her permission. In a second she closes the gap between them, aligning her lips with his. The kiss is gentle, affectionate, intimate, and Dean finds himself unable to keep from straightening up and sneaking his hands around her waist. Her arms find their way around his neck, and with this leverage she keeps him above her as she lays back on the bed.

  “I just got dressed.” Dean mumbles when the kiss breaks.

  “I know. I don't approve.”

* * * * *

  “(f/n) (l/n).” Sam reads the name etched into the Polaroid camera. “So that's her name.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “What?”

  “Did you love her?”

  Dean is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles. “Yes, I suppose I did. I kept pushing her to get a job as a photographer someplace, told her she was better than what she was raised to be. I wanted her to get out of hunting, and I wanted to go with her. I figured if you got out, then I could do it too.”

  Dean glances over to see where Sam is in the photo scrapbook. There's a picture of Dean asleep in the front seat of the Impala, and below that is a picture of him at the wheel with sunglasses covering his eyes as viewed from the passenger seat. She'd had to retake that one after the first print had blown out the window on the highway.

  “I started fighting with Dad, tried to make him hate me so that he'd be happy when I left. I worked on a whole speech to give (y/n) and tell her I wanted to stay with her. The day I planned on doing it, she told me she got a job as a part-time photographer for a locally-owned magazine someplace, and she was so excited that I forgot to tell her. I told her I'd do it the next time I saw her.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

* * * * *

  It's odd enough for her to not answer her phone, but it's even odder for her to not return the call or text a reply. It's been three days. There hasn't been a word from her.

  Dean began calling other hunters after the first twenty-four hours, but no one knows where she is. In his limited circle of hunter acquaintances, her name is either unfamiliar or a distant memory. By the second day, he was beginning to be concerned, and by now he's legitimately worried. She should have at least texted him by now.

  When the end of the third day comes, he makes up an excuse to his father, takes the Impala, and follows her trail to the last place she called him from.

  He doesn't find her there. The clerk at the front desk recognizes her when Dean shows him a picture, but he doesn't know where she is.

  “Yeah, she checked in last week. Her stay ended three days ago, and I had to have her car towed this morning.”

  “Any chance I could see her room?”

  “Uh, it's already been rented out, but all that was in there was a duffel bag. It's in the back.”

  When the clerk isn't looking, Dean sneaks out with the duffel. In the privacy of his car, he searches through the bag's contents. All that's in it are some clothes, a box of rock salt, and a few loose photographs, nothing to tell him where she might be. The only thing missing is the gun she kept in the bag.

  She hadn't told him what she was hunting. She said there was a possible hunt, but she didn't say anything else. Dean has no idea where she is, and he's getting scared.

* * * * *

  She wasn't a delicate thing, she just looked the part. Rough, well-worn hunter clothes didn't do her body justice. She was too pretty for that style. Once, Dean bought her a locket. He wanted her to have something nice, something prettier than what else she had. It wasn't an incredibly fancy locket, but she wore it all the time. She put his picture on one side and hers on the other. Those have faded now, though they're still discernible, but the locket hasn't dulled. Dean keeps it up too well for that to happen.

  “How'd you keep this from Dad?” Sam turns the locket over in his hand.

  “I didn't let him see it.”

  “Was it for a special occasion?”

  Dean shakes his head. “No. I just wanted her to have something nice.”

  Sam glances around at the photo book, the Polaroid, and the locket. “You have it though. You have these things that obviously meant something to her.”

  Dean's face takes on a somber expression as he nods his acknowledgement.

  “Where is she?” Sam ventures. “What happened to her?”

* * * * *

  “I thought I taught you how to get out of rope bindings.” Dean finishes untying (y/n)'s hands, freeing her from the chair.

  “You did.” She rubs the red marks on her wrists and shakes her hands to get the blood flowing. “They drugged me, and by the time that wore off, they wouldn't leave me alone in the room.”

  “You still could have taken them out.”

  “They took my gun.”

  “Ah.” He helps her to her feet. “Whaddya say we get out of here?”

  “I like that plan.”

  Dean keeps one hands around her waist as he escorts her towards the exit of the abandoned library.

  “Why are you on this hunt, anyway?” He asks. “Doesn't your job start next week? I thought you would've been settling in someplace.”

  “It does, and I was going to, then I caught wind of this hunt and thought hey, why not? Let's go out with a bang.”

  “Taking out a pair of shifters by yourself wasn't your brightest idea.”

  “I had it under control.”

  “I just untied you from a chair.”

  “All part of the plan.”

  “Sure.” He gives her a squeeze, getting concerned when she hisses in pain. “You okay?”

  “Got myself kicked in the ribs is all.”

  “Anything broken?”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Let me check.” Dean stops and turns to face her, hands going to her rib cage to feel for damage. “I can't feel anything, so it's probably just bruised. We'll get you to a motel so you can put some ice on it.”

  “Sounds good. Dean, did you say a pair of shifters?”

  “I might have. Why?”

  “There were three of them.”

  A gunshot from behind him makes him jump and spin around. He takes out his own gun and fires at the shifter, missing. The shifter lunges for Dean, somehow dodging another shot, and tackles him. The pair rolls around on the floor, each wrestling for dominance. Two more shots are fired by the shifter, one of which hits one of the nearby light bulbs. With every ounce of strength he has, Dean pins the shifter's gun hand to the floor and kills the monster with a silver bullet to the head. The shifter goes limp, and Dean gets to his feet.

  “Well, that wasn't so bad.” He tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “I thought maybe-”

  His voice stops short when he turns around. She has her hands clamped over her stomach, and blood seeps from between her fingers. She meets his eyes for a moment, shock the only emotion on her face, and then collapses. Dean's at her side immediately.

  “Hey, let me see. Let me see.” Dean pulls her hands away from the wound. “Oh God, okay, we gotta get you help. We need to get to the car.”

  He starts to lift her, stopping when she cries out. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “Dean.” She gasps, surprisingly calm for the situation. “Hold me.”

  “I will, but you need to get to a hospital.”

  “No. Do it now.”

  “(y/n)-”

  “Please.” She looks up at him pleadingly. She's scared. “Just hold me. I won't make it anywhere. Just hold me.”

  Dean moves to lift her again, but her eyes make him stop, and instead he pulls her into his lap, cradling her.

  “I can save you.” Dean begs. “Let me save you.”

  “You already did.” Her voice is disturbingly peaceful in the face of what she undoubtedly knows is coming. “You saved me the day we met. I was scared of the dark, and when we talked on the phone the whole time, I wasn't scared anymore.”

  “That doesn't count.”

  “Yes it does. So do all those pictures. Every time those shutters clicked, you saved me. Do you remember what you told me when you gave me the locket?”

  “I told you I got something pretty for a beautiful girl.” His voice wobbles.

  “You made me feel beautiful. Don't ever think you didn't save me.”

  “You're saying goodbye to me. Stop it.”

  “I love you.” She smiles sadly at him.

  “I love you too.” He presses a kiss to her forehead.

  She takes a shaky, labored inhale, her smile fading. “I'm scared, Dean. I don't want to be alone.”

  “You're not alone, alright? I'm right here. I've got you.” It takes every bit of integrity he possesses to hold back tears.

  “Please don't leave.”

  “Never.”

* * * * *

  Dean has the locket now. He turns it over and over in his hands, playing with the clasp, running the chain across his fingers, studying the design on the face of the pendant.

  “I carried her out of there, I drove out to the woods, I burned her body, I stayed until the fire went out, I got stuff from her car, and then I went back to Dad. That was it.”

  “How long did you know her?” Sam asks gently.

  “A year.” Dean closes his fist around the locket. “I knew her for a year. She was twenty-two. She didn't deserve to die. She was too young.”

  Sam looks down at the Polaroid camera her now holds. “You fell in love, and Dad never knew about it.”

  “No one knew about it.”

  “Why haven't you told me about her before now?”

  Dean shrugs. “I got used to keeping it to myself. By the time you came back from college, it was a habit.”

  “You still miss her, don't you?”

  “Yeah. I still miss her.”

  Though he tries to hide it, her absence hurts. Every time something reminds him of her, the pain returns. It's been years, and he still misses her with every fiber of his being. To him it sounds cliché, but there's a hole in his heart where she used to be, a hole that can't ever be filled again.

  She still remains a beautiful memory, though. She left imprints on his brain and laced his memories with her essence. Dean still dreams about her sometimes, fragments of memories that come back. Her smile, her kisses, driving with her, fighting over the last piece of pie, even her death. She was a good thing, one of the best things that ever happened to him, a wild ride with an unforgettable aftertaste.

  Dean was in love. He loved her then, and he loves her still. By holding on to things that were unique to her – the camera, the photo book, the locket, her number – he can pretend she's still around. When he holds these things, the ache in his chest doesn't hurt so bad.

  Physically, she isn't around. He'll never be able to hold her again, never be able to kiss her or tell her he loves her, but she's still in his head as somebody that he used to know.