Okay, so this story was really just more of a flush of the creative pipes than anything. I like it, and I'll finish it, but it's only going to have a few chapters. It will be filled with angst and wordy prose, and it should help me stay motivated and on track with my other stories.

I also have no idea when updates will happen. They probably won't be regular. Sorry, beautiful readers. 3

Tell me what you think! :)

xxxxx

You're staring at the stupid rain falling outside the stupid window of your stupid office in the stupid building owned by the stupid company that you work for, wishing for a little excitement. A break in the routine.

Fuck, even just some color at this point in your grey, black and white world.

What happened to saving the world? It's a question that's been on your mind more and more lately.

When you graduated high school, you were determined to save the world. You were going to change things, you were going to help people. You knew it, you were destined for it, it thrummed through your veins and made your heart beat faster.

Then college. College, where you found out that saving the world has more paperwork involved than you thought it did. College, where you were left behind as your friends found their soulmates left and right. And the ones who didn't? Why, they went abroad, and found their soulmates in other countries.

Leaving you stuck here with rather dented and stained dreams, a four-year degree that isn't doing you a damn bit of good now, and a fancy, forty-hour-a-week-with-dental office job.

"Y/N!"

The bark startles you, and you almost fall out of your chair as you spin and stare at your boss. "What? I mean, yes, sir?" you say quickly, wincing at the attitude in your tone.

He doesn't seem to notice. To be fair, Trent doesn't seem to notice a whole lot.

"Did you finish that presentation?"

You nod. "With bells and whistles attached, boss."

He smiles and takes the folder from your hand. "Good job. You're doing great, Y/N."

You blink as he walks back out of your office. For Trent, man who notices little and says even less, that was damn near a pep talk. "Huh. That was weird."

You shake your head a little, hoping to dispel both the depressing thoughts you were having before and the weird thoughts you're having now. "Back to work with you," you say softly to yourself as you turn back to your computer.

xxxxx

You end up being so engrossed in work that Trent has to remind you it's time to go home at the end of the day.

"Sorry, boss! Go on ahead, I'll lock up."

He frowns and looks at you. "Are you sure? I'm happy to wait."

You smile and wave a hand. "Go on, go say hi to Denise for me."

He shrugs and walks out without another word. You smile and power down your computer. The job sucks, but at least you're good at it, and at least your coworkers are all right.

You're still trying to convince yourself that you're not disappointed in how your life turned out as you flip the lights off, lock the front door, and set off on the long walk home.

I mean, it's not that bad, you reason with yourself. And it's not. You can pay for the roof over your head, you can pay for food in the fridge and the lights to be on. You don't have any of what you would call actual "friends," but there's a bar a block and a half away from your house, and there's always people there if you feel lonely (and you stalwartly ignore the voice in your head insisting that those people don't cure your loneliness, they just make it worse). You've been thinking about getting a cat, even. You want one of those weird ones, with like a missing eye, or maybe a tripod. Someone who's been through some shit. Someone who has stories to tell.

You're reflecting on how truly boring and rather sad your life is when you run into a cold, hard chest.

You gasp and stumble a little, then look up into the man's eyes. He's staring at you like you're a meal and he's starving, and fear starts flirting with the base of your spine.

"E-excuse me," you say softly, your eyes wide when they meet his. "I didn't see you there, I'm sorry."

He smiles coldly, and you whimper a little. "It's all right, dearie." He suddenly leans forward and… Nuzzles your neck? He's inhaling deeply.

You whimper and stay where you are, trembling in fear. Warrior princess I am not, you think weakly as he presses his nose to your neck and inhales deeply.

"You smell good," he mutters, upping the creep factor by one hundred percent.

Suddenly, for no good reason, your fight instinct kicks in. You start kicking and struggling, but his hands are like iron around your arms, and you don't get far. "Get off of me!" you shout, hoping against hope that someone will hear and care enough to come see what's going on.

But you live in a big city. A big, rather heartless city. No one's going to care.

On the other hand, you're clearly not strong enough to fight him off yourself, so screeching like a banshee it is.

"Help!" you cry out, still trying desperately to twist your body away from his. "Someone! Help!"

He's laughing against your skin, and when his cold lips touch your neck, you scream.

And just like that, he drops you. Your legs are a little weak, so you collapse, and when you look up at him, he drops a slow, deliberate wink. "I'll see you later, dearie. Count on it." He taps his nose as he takes a few steps back. "Got your scent now, and you smell divine."

He turns and sprints away.

"Wh.. Wh… What the fuck?"

Two sets of heavy footsteps come from behind you, and you try to stand, but your legs are shaking, and there are tears in your eyes, and you've never felt more pathetic in your life. He didn't even do anything to me, you scold yourself as the two men who were behind you run past, then stop a few paces in front of you.

"Fuck!" the shorter one yells, although it feels wrong to call him that. He's still taller than you, which you can tell even though they're facing away from you and you're on the ground.

"We'll catch him, let's check on her," the taller one suggests gently.

They turn to look at you, and your brain quickly and neatly shuts off.

Oh, heaven, give yourselves a round of applause, because just look at them.

The tall one is good-looking, with a gentle smile, gentle eyes, and hair that goes just past his collar. He's wearing a suit and tie, with a long overcoat. He walks with a sort of catlike grace as he approaches you, hands held out to prove he's not a threat. "Hey, are you okay?"

Before you answer, your eyes flick to the other man, and you feel your heart stop and your breath catch.

It's not because he's actual perfection, because he is. It's not because the bowlegged way he walks makes heat pool in your belly, because it does. It's not because looking at his hands makes you think sinful, blush-worthy thoughts, because they do.

It's because his eyes, unlike everything around them and everything you've ever seen, aren't grey.

They're a color.

"Oh," you say softly, lamely, as the most beautiful human being you've ever seen in real life stares at you with wide, whatever color they are eyes.

xxxxx

Dean Winchester has never wanted to meet his soulmate. He's perfectly okay with the black and white world he lives in, because as complicated as it is, it's still simpler than it would be if he had a soulmate.

He used to worry that every woman he'd meet was his soulmate. He'd look into their eyes anxiously, but when they remained grey, he would let himself relax. Safe for another day, he'd think to himself.

But he's stopped worrying all the time. He's even idly wondered if he'll never meet his soulmate. He's only very rarely heard of people not meeting their soulmates until they're nearing forty. And he would be okay with never meeting her.

He saw what it did to his father, to lose his soulmate. It drove him insane with grief and rage. He saw what it did to Sam, to lose his soulmate. It devastated him, then drove him insane with grief and rage.

Dean is a hunter, he knows he's not going to make it a whole lot longer than he already has. He's been pretty lucky, in the sense that he keeps coming back from dying, not that he hasn't died more than his fair share. And he doesn't want to put some poor, innocent woman through that. Not that he thinks he's a catch, but the soulmate thing freaks him out and is a general mystery, and he doesn't want someone hurt just because he is who he is.

He honestly thought he was safe. It's been so long since he even thought about a soulmate, he thought he was all right.

And now he's staring into eyes that are not grey, and he feels his heart stop completely, then start beating so hard he can feel it through his whole body.

"Oh," she says softly, and her voice wraps around him and soothes him somehow, even though he wasn't aware he needed soothing.

"Shit," he says roughly, and he can't help but watch hungrily when he sees her breath quicken and she shudders at the sound.

Sam turns back around and frowns at him. "Dean? What's wrong?"

"Dean," she says softly, testing his name out. The sound of it in her mouth knocks him for a loop, and he knows he's just staring at her like an idiot, but he can't help it.

Sam is looking at him, then looks back at her, then looks back at Dean, his own eyes going a little wider. "Dean?"

"Dean," she says again, more firmly, still letting her mouth get used to it. It's still affecting his thinking process.

"Shit," he says again, faintly.

"Can you… I mean… Is she…" Sam's stumbling over his words.

She's the first to get herself together. "Your eyes aren't grey," she says softly, still staring at Dean with wonder. It's making it hard for him to breathe, the way she's looking at him. "They're… Well, obviously, I don't know what they are, but they're definitely not grey."

xxxxx

"Green," Sam says softly to you. "His eyes are green."

You blink, then nod. Green. A strong word with a gentle end, a fitting word for the man who's standing in front of you. Green. Your soulmate has green eyes.

He looks back at Dean. "Y/E/C, Dean, her eyes are Y/E/C." Dean just nods mechanically, his lovely lips shaping the word silently as he mouths the word to himself.

Blatantly, you realize that you're still on your ass on the sidewalk. Smooth, you think to yourself. You slowly push yourself up so you can stand. The adrenaline drains out of you suddenly, leaving you trembly and weak. Get it together, Y/N, you think as you start to get up.

You see Sam's hand reach for your arm to steady you, but the last man who touched your arm accosted you, and suddenly you want nothing more than to beg him not to help.

Before the words can come out, though, a strong arm is around your waist. You inhale sharply, then look into Dean's green (and, really, has a word ever been so perfect?) eyes. The shock and trepidation you're feeling about everything the last fifteen minutes has brought is reflected in those eyes. Now a little overwhelmed, you feel your own eyes start to water. Honestly, this is too much for a girl to handle in one night. Half-mugged and meeting my soulmate? Jesus, take the wheel.

Again, before you can speak, his big hand is on the back of your head, and he's gently guiding your face to press into his neck. Somehow, that seems perfectly natural, so you go willingly. You barely notice yourself stepping to stand in front of him, or that your arms wrap around his middle, beneath the long overcoat and the suit jacket he's wearing. Oh, heaven help me, he's built like a Greek god. You take in a deep inhale, and his musk fills your head and your lungs and chills you right out.

His fingers are threading through your hair, which practically has you purring like a kitten, when he speaks.

"We're gonna need to get a room, Sammy."

"You don't want to-"

"It's too dark by now. Safer in the morning."

"You can stay with me," you say softly into his warm neck, "I have plenty of room."

His hand stills in your hair, but you don't pull away. He's warm, firm, and he smells good. Wild horses couldn't get you to move.

"I don't know-"

"Dean," Sam interrupts, his soft voice chiding, "It will probably be safer for…" There's a pause. "God, we don't even know your name yet."

You blush, and that "yet" makes you all warm inside. "Yet" confirms that there will be more. "Y/N, my name is Y/N," you say, keeping your face pressed against the neck of a man whose clothes you crawled beneath before you even introduced yourself.

"Y/N," he says softly. The sound of your name in his deep, whiskey voice sends awareness up and down your spine.

"Y/N," Sam says. You can hear the smile in his voice. "It will probably be safer for Y/N if we're staying with her."

You frown and finally lift your head. You look up at Dean, who's honestly a little overwhelming up close. "Safer?" you ask. "Safer from what? That guy?"

Dean looks down at you for a long time, and you get the distinct feeling that you're missing something.

xxxxx

Dean follows her into the big house she calls home. He's sick to his stomach with dread and heartbreak. He hates this.

She's so young, he thinks mournfully. She's at least ten years his junior, and he wouldn't be surprised if it's more than that. I'm going to ruin her life.

He's pulled out his thoughts by Sam's voice. "This is a nice place, Y/N."

She's fishing for her keys from her bag (which should annoy him, but God help him he thinks it's kind of cute), but she spares a moment to flash a smile at Sam. "Thank you. It belonged to my parents."

"Are they…" Dean asks before he can stop himself. Dammit. He hopes it's not a painful subject. When she was just a little shaky before, he got a little shaky seeing her like that. If she cries, it might actually kill him.

Her eyes flick to his, and the warmth there relaxes something in him. She nods. "Yeah, they died in a car accident when I was sixteen. Left me the house and enough money to pay for college." She finds the keys, gives him a triumphant smile, and unlocks the door. "I lived with my grandfather, who was an abusive bastard, for about two weeks before I ran away and sought emancipation. I got it, stroke of luck more than anything, and I've been on my own ever since."

She leads them into the house, and Dean soaks in her home eagerly, desperate for clues to who she is.

She's making a face. "Oh, this is godawful."

It's… Colorful. In a way he couldn't have appreciated half an hour ago. The nicest word he can think of is "eclectic."

Sam is kinder than he is. "It's not that bad. You couldn't see it."

She gives him an incredulous look over her shoulder as she ushers them in and shuts the door. "You don't have to be nice, Sam. It's horrific."

Dean smiles and watches her disassemble herself. She pulls her coat off, and the way the deep blue of her sweater sets off the color of her hair makes his mouth go dry.

She toes her shoes off and pads into the kitchen. "Have you guys eaten yet?"

"Please tell me you cook," Dean says vehemently, before he can stop himself. God dammit, he thinks angrily, stop acting like you're sticking around.

But her soft laughter is worth it. "Oh, you're a foodie, that's good to know. Yes, I can definitely cook. I don't have a lot right now, so it's going to be leftover veggie lasagna and garlic bread. Sound okay?"

Dean nods, even though she can't see him. "Yeah, sweetheart," he says softly.

His heart is in his throat. He can barely think around the emotion rising in his chest. He's practiced at tamping them down, but it's harder this time. She's his soulmate. And here she is, with an established life, with a job and a house and probably friends and family. It makes him want to stay with her. Just give up all of this shit, give up on everything and just stay here with her.

"So, you guys are, what, cops?" Her voice shakes him from his dark thoughts.

"Yes," he says, at the same time that Sam says, "No." He glares at his brother, who glares right back.

Suddenly angry, he grabs Sam's arm and drags him outside. He swings the door shut and spins to his brother. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Sam flings his arms out to the side. "What are you doing? What, you're just going to lie to her?"

"We can't stay here, Sam!"

Sam blinks, then pales. "What?"

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Sam, God dammit. We can't stay here, she can't come with us. We're hunters, Sam. We can't… She can't… Sam, she's probably twenty-goddamn-five. What am I going to do? Drag her around the country? Teach her how to pack a salt round? Are you shitting me?" He flung his arm toward the house. "Sam, this isn't going to work. She won't be safe."

"Dean, we can keep her safe! That's what we do!"

Dean shakes his head, resolute. "No. We can't do that to her. She doesn't deserve that."

Sam runs his hand through his hair in frustration. "Dean, what about her? She deserves to, what, meet her soulmate and then have you bail?"

Dean's already turned back to the door, his mind is made up. "She deserves more than what I could give her, Sam. That's the end of the discussion."

When he sees the door, he realizes it's wide open, and his blood freezes. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He turns back to Sam, whose eyes are also wide. He turns back to the door and walks in slowly. She's not in the front room, so he goes to the kitchen.

"So, in fun side news," she says softly, "I'm not deaf, and if the door doesn't click, it won't stay closed."

Dean winces at the raw emotion in her voice. Her back is turned him, she's making the garlic bread. Her shoulders are tense, and he wants nothing more than to comfort her, to wrap his arms around her and kiss the tenseness from her shoulders and neck until she's not mad at him anymore.

But if he does that, he'll stay. So he just stands there in the kitchen, awkwardly, heaping on more self hate than he already has.

xxxxx

"Dinner's ready," you say softly, wrestling with the emotions that make you want to collapse and cry for days. You just met him, you scold yourself. Don't be this upset.

But he's not just some guy. He's your soulmate. He's the reason you can see that the veggie lasagna that you'd always suspected looked delicious really does, it's got beautiful deep greens (the color of his amazing eyes, those eyes that aren't sticking around), and several other colors you don't have names for yet. They make books for that, it'll be all right.

He's your soulmate, and even he doesn't want to stay with you.

You steel yourself, refusing to let it get the better of you, and you turn and smile at him. You ignore the pain and guilt written across his lovely face and keep your smile bright. "Let's eat, gentlemen."

xxxxx

Dinner is awkward and silent until you speak. You can't stand awkward silence, you can't deal with the way they're shooting angry looks at each other. Dean's shooting guilty, aching looks at you, and Sam's shooting sad, sympathetic looks at you. It's driving you crazy.

"So, what's a hunter?" you ask calmly. "I assume you don't mean that you shoot at Bambi."

Sam chuckles, then flicks a look at Dean, as if he's asking permission. Which irritates the fuck out of you. "Look, gentlemen," you say sharply, "Do you need me to leave the room? So you can discuss what's 'safe' to tell me? Before I ask more uncomfortable fucking questions?"

Dean winces, and so does Sam. "Y/N-" Sam starts.

You hold a hand up. "Nope, no dice. I want to hear it from Dean." You stare into his green, pained eyes defiantly. "I think I deserve at least that much from you, Dean, before you leave." When he's silent, you wave an impatient hand. "Come on, what's a hunter?"

Dean looks at you for another moment, then heaves a sigh. "We… Look, Y/N, this isn't something that you can just learn about in a night, it-it-it… It'll ruin your life." There's just the slightest hesitation, then, "I'll ruin your life."

Suddenly, the food in front of you has no appeal whatsoever. You just stare at him. "Isn't that for me to decide?"

He stands, shoves his chair back, and walks out the front door. When it slams behind him, you flinch, fighting the tears in your eyes. You look at Sam, and the sadness in his eyes almost bowls you over. Instead of giving into that, you ask, "What color are your eyes, Sam?"

He smiles. "Uh, I guess brown? Jess called them hazel."

The past tense does not escape you, but you leave it. You just don't have it in you to deal with more sadness and upset than your own right now. You take a deep, deep breath. "All right, what's a hunter?"

xxxxx

Forty minutes later, you're sitting in shock when Dean comes back. You're barely even mad at him anymore, because, obviously…

"Holy shit," you say softly. "You're batshit crazy." You groan and lay your head down on the table, pushing your plate of food away.

"Y/N," Sam says gently. "I know this is a lot to take in-"

You turn to lay your cheek on the table and look across at Dean, who has sat back down and is watching you warily. "I mean, of course you're a lunatic. You walk around looking like that, you've got to have one hell of a flaw hidden somewhere."

Dean smiles a little, and even if you are mad at him, it lightens your heart. "I know it's a lot, sweetheart."

You close your eyes. "It's not a lot, guys. It's impossible."

"What about the guy who attacked you?" Dean asks. "Wasn't there something a little… Off about him?"

When you think about it for a second, you raise your head and meet his heart-stopping eyes. "He was cold," you say softly. "And… And I think he sniffed me."

Dean nods. "He's a vampire. It's why we wanted to stay here. Did, uh, did Sammy explain about vampires?"

You nod.

"Once they have your scent, they have it forever. It's why you'll be safer with us here. Hopefully, we can go after him tomorrow morning, so you'll be safe."

Be safe because he's not going to be here later to protect you. But you're suddenly too tired to argue about it, and you don't want to be mad. You're exhausted, from the adrenaline and the soulmate revelation and the whole fucking night. God, you're just so tired.

So you just say, "Okay, Dean," and stand to clear the table. "There's two guest bedrooms upstairs. The sheets are probably kind of stale, and if you really feel the urge, you can change them. But I think I'm going to go the fuck to bed."

The concern in their eyes is making your heart ache, so you ignore it to go into the kitchen to wash the dishes.

While you're washing, you see him come stand next to you. "Towel?"

You point. "Second drawer."

He pulls out a dish towel and starts drying as you hand plates to him. It's too much, it's too domestic, it's too much like everything you've ever wanted from a soulmate. But the dishes need to be washed, there's nothing to be done about the situation, and you're done fighting this. So you just cry silently, trying not to shake too much, hoping he won't mention it.

As you hand him the last plate, you wipe your eyes and sniffle. You leave your hands covering your face, struggling to keep yourself together. You turn to walk away, to just go to bed, but you run into his warm, firm chest, and you totally break. His strong arms wrap around you, he tucks your face into his neck again, and he holds you. You put your arms around his middle again and whimper, shaking and shuddering in his embrace.

"Shh, I'm sorry, sweetheart, shh, it's going to be okay," he murmurs to you.

"No, it won't," you whisper. "You're some kind of goddamn superhero, and you're my soulmate, and you're going to leave, and I'm going to be fucking stuck here by myself with colors I don't have names for and alone for the rest of my life."

His chest hitches a little, but God dammit, you're the one who needs to be comforted, so you ignore it. Fuck him.

He's rocking you gently back and forth, holding you tight to him. "Shh, I know, sweetheart, fuck, I'm so sorry, I wish this hadn't happened. I wish you didn't have to be… This, with me. Fuck, I'm so, so sorry, Y/N." His rough voice, shaking with emotion, soothes you.

You stand there for a long time, breathing him in, holding him, trying to give him comfort even as you receive it. Finally, you lift your head and sniffle again. You meet his green eyes, wet with tears, and you give him a tremulous smile. "It's okay, Dean. I'm just tired. I think I'm gonna go to bed, and in the morning, we'll deal with everything else."

He raises a hand to cup your face, and you lean into his touch. "All right, sweetheart."

xxxxx

Dean lays in one of her guest bedrooms on his back, one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his stomach.

He can't fucking sleep.

The longest day of his damn life in recent memory, and he can't fucking sleep.

Fuck this.

He sweeps the blankets off and stands to find his sweats. Maybe he'll go for a drive, maybe just walk around the damn house until he feels better. He's telling himself that he's restless because there's the threat of a vampire. He knows he's lying to himself, but he lets it happen.

He quietly slips out of the room and starts down the hall, wincing when the old floorboards creak.

He stops when he hears her in the kitchen, humming softly. He slowly descends the stairs and comes upon her mixing something in a bowl. She's wearing a tank top and shorts, her hair pulled up in a wispy, messy knot.

She's lovely.

And he can't have her.

He's overwhelmed by her, and he allows himself a rare moment of weakness. He crosses the room and stands behind her. Without hesitation or nervousness, because this is what feels natural, what feels good, he wraps his arms around her and tucks her close to him, resting his chin on her head. She doesn't tense or move away, she must have known he was there. She just leans back into him, and starts singing softly.

"Hey, Jude, don't make it bad,

Take a sad song and make it better,

Remember to let her into your heart,

Then you can start to make it better."

Unable to help himself, and allowing himself another small weakness, he sings gently with her, rocking her side to side as she whisks whatever it is she's whisking. It doesn't really matter now, anyway.

"Hey Jude, don't be afraid,

You were made to go out and get her,

The minute you let her under your skin,

Then you begin to make it better."

Her shoulders begin to shake, and he slowly runs his hands down her arms to cover hers, which are trembling. He gently helps her put down the bowl and the whisk, then turns her in his arms and tucks her into him again. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I know," she whispers, pressing her face into his neck like it was made to go there. Which, of course, it was. "I know, I just wish you'd… I wish…"

She seems at a loss for words, so he just hugs her tighter and holds her tight.

A long time later, when her soft sobs have gone down to whimpers, he disentangles himself enough to scoop her into his arms. She gasps, but burrows close as he carries her into the living room and sits on the couch with her. He gently arranges them so they're lying down, her chest pressed to his front, her legs tangled with his. She wraps an arm around him and cuddles close.

She's asleep in minutes.

He's asleep right after.

xxxxx

Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:

I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)

Reviews, comments, and kudos give me life and keep me going.

And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.

**Also, apparently I'm incapable of making a character who isn't a feminist. Look at me go.