Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine.

Warnings: Swear words.

Also, I'm not sure if this is a turn off or not, but there is an OFC. Don't worry, she's not like a Mary Sue or whatever, but she is necessary on the sole basis of helping to further the plot. So, even though she's listed as a character, the focus is Dean!

A/N: Whew, this is the longest one shot I've written as of yet! Hopefully it's good, but I'm too excited to wait and read it later like one should do when editing their work.

This is what I imagine Dean's future could be like after the series. Thus why the summary says "end of series fic."

Notes: "Hell" and "hell" are different. The first is a location and the other is the way most people use it (As in, I've been through hell, but I have not been to the actual Hell where the devil is.)

Read, enjoy, and review! :)

"Freakin' great, throw that on a pan and crisp it black for me," he grumbles, grandiose gestures and a permanent scowl plastering his persona.

All the kiddos (because they're coming into this world younger- all shiny and smooth faced and innocent), the employees, his underlings, scurry around like low level demons. He'd call them idgits, but that implies affection, so he frowns deeper instead.

Dean guesses this is what he gets for only having a GED. Nobody's all that interested in hiring the guy who saved the world (how many times? It gets foggy after the third time.) when he doesn't even have a college degree. But hey, at least he can make the monkeys dance for him. And it's sad that this is the best part of his day. He's pretty sure he's learned to smell fear, now that he's been knee deep in civilian life and so much madder about it than the last time, and being the cause of it gets kind of addicting.

But alas and woes be forever staining, his life took a turn for the lame over four years ago and he's got no way to bring it all together to change a damn thing. He's stuck being a grease monkey overlord- manager at a fast food joint.

Sam did always say he was a strategic genius. Thank god he's putting his talents to use then.

So his days are lonelier and they start at a structured, predictable pace. He's submerged in routine and peaceful living, drowning in it. Not, that he's whining or crying about it or anything. He's not Sam. He's just… acknowledging the unlikeliness of it.

He gets up at 6 am after a good night sleep and makes himself some breakfast. He knows he's going to be surrounded by crap food all day, so he thinks to himself, "maybe I'll eat an apple too," and then cuts himself up said apple to go with his eggs and turkey bacon and toast.

When breakfast is done, he takes the time to shave and uses shaving cream, because why not, when he has the time and can afford it?

Smooth as a baby and fed like a rabbit, he leaves and drives in the Impala (So at least he's not a total civvie, right?) to work, where he arrives ten minutes early.

And that is his morning. Yeah, he agrees, it's kind of a piss in a cup (that is to say, not something you really want to be doing).

She must be saying something. He can tell. Her lips are moving and her eyes are locked onto his (He thinks, "Arm weapons and set to smile; it kills the ladies every time."). So yeah, she's totally making some sort of point. The question is what though. Dean's got no freakin' clue.

"What you're saying is that I should have a yard sale?" What does that even mean? But Dean doesn't do confused, so he frowns like he's offended and waits for her to fix it.

Apparently she's at the friend stage in their relationship, because she just rolls her eyes and gives Dean the Pursed Lips of Disappointment (He guesses at this point that he must be doing something wrong if everyone that's ever known him for long has their own patented glare, but eh. It's part of his charm.).

She speaks real slow, easy and simple like, "Yes, Dean. A yard sale. As in, put your things in the yard and sell them."

"No." He doesn't even have to think about it. What's it to her anyways?

"And why not?"

Now Dean doesn't usually spare precious seconds thinking before he says things, but he wants this to end without him sounding dumb and without her winning. Unfortunately, all that not using his brain to mouth filter must have had some lasting effects, because he stills says without the permission of his brain, "I don't wanna."

SoL

She's at his house now, looking at his things, and he doesn't like this. Not one bit. His mind is whirring around with the seagull-like mindset of, "Mine, mine, mine don't touch!" and it's a struggle for him to follow her without spritzing her with holy water. Instincts are tough to kick out, even when they're of absolutely no use.

"What's this do?" She's looking at his salt bomb prototype, unfinished and never going to be finished.

"Just a thing," Arms crossed and head turned from her, he mutters the response. She, again, gives him the glare she made special for him.

He sighs and says to the ceiling, "A salt bomb."

He must know how to pick them, even when he totally has not agreed to this whole friendship thing, because she looks mildly interested and then drops it in the box she's carrying. He knows at this point it wouldn't help to argue with that. Besides, he's kind of sick of seeing it around the house anyways. Doesn't match the décor.

SoL

She's bending over, sifting through some box he's forgotten even having and he decides maybe a yard sale isn't so bad if it comes with a view.

"Stop staring at my ass, dick brain." He takes it back. He hates this and her and everything in this shitty place with a burning passion. Also, she shouldn't have bent over if she didn't want him to look.

"You're still looking."

"You're the one who's still bent over, besides- Is that a thong? Oh babe, if you wanted to have a night with me, you should have just said so. I always help a lady in need, especially someone as sad and lonely as you."

She gets up, nice and leisurely, turns and walks towards him. Her face moves closer and closer to his, tilting up, and her eyes are half-closed. Her breath smells like coffee and pizza. Gross, but now he's hungry.

"And you're just brimming with love and hurrahs, aren't you? I can tell by how you're surrounded by loved ones."

So she says, metaphorically stabbing him the eye with a nail file, and then carries the filled up boxes into the foyer.

Ouch.

He's back at work again.

Most of the time, Dean is content to sit in his office and spin in the whirly chair (and what's the word for it? He's never had one before, so he never really thought about it.), occasionally balancing a pencil on his nose.

Today, there's an incident he has to take care of.

Someone (His worm employees won't tell him which dirt digger did it, but he's got his guess) created a very controlled, linear-direction oven fire that blasted out of said oven and fried the wall opposite of it.

Dean almost thinks there's a hunter in the idiot who did this, but then he remembers he doesn't think like that anymore. Instead, he shakes his head and says, "Someone's going to have to explain this to the owner and it sure ain't going to be me."

There are all around groans and Dean hears someone mutter something about him being the boy toy sleeping with the boss. And Dean still has a little man-whore in him, so he lets the comment slide (besides, once upon a time that was Dean shoving his foot into his mouth, arrogance and all).

SoL

"Let me get this straight. Someone destroyed half of my kitchen- my money maker, my bacon bringer, my beautiful place of business- and you're saying it's not your fault, even though you are the manger and therefore are currently responsible for this dump?"

Dean is pretty sure it was Tommy freakin' Delaney who burned down a wall, but it's Dean who's getting lectured.

"I thought you just said this place was your heart and soul or whatever. Now you're calling it a dump?" He sighs breezily, running his hand through his hair as casual as can be, "Man, whoever said it first sure wasn't kidding when they said 'woman is always fickle'."

And then there is dead silence. Because Dean has just mouthed off to the boss and inserted a sexist quote like a real winner.

These chumps don't know the boss like Dean does though. They don't get that she's a life ruiner and home raider and totally deserves this after invading Dean's house, taking his stuff for a yard sale, and pointing out that he's all alone in the world. They don't get that this is just the mechanics of a beautiful friendship. They don't get- SMACK.

They don't get that this woman is a pain in the ass and- son of a bitch that hurt!

"Are you still mad?"

"Come on, buck up."

"Don't be such a baby."

"Deeeeean!"

She is following him and whining and damn, Dean just needs a drink. She's exhausting.

"What?" He finally says, because he really was hoping for a quiet night of alcohol and liver damage, but it seems like she's here to stay.

"You know I only smack you out of love."

That's all she wanted to say? Really? Dean thought she was sticking around for something important. After all, what's a smack between sexist employees and their bosses?

"You could have fired my sorry ass, babe. I really don't care about that."

"What's wrong then? You've been more of a loser than you usually are these past few weeks."

Because Dean doesn't do feelings (never has, never will), because if he theoretically maybe did once in a while talk about this whole 'feelings' thing with a certain tall, bush haired giant and no one else, he shoves a beer into her hand and goes for the whiskey himself.

SoL

He is so gone. Like a squirrel with too many acorns or a cat on catnip or a dog watching animal planet (and because he's drunk, Dean is so not going to think about why his similes compare him to small, furry critters), he's wasted.

He is so fried he thinks it might be a good idea to say, "Man, I miss him."

And lady boss pants is just as drunk, so she misses the obvious admission of deep internal strife or whatever and says, "Darling, we all have that one guy who got away."

Dean huffs, sinking lower into the couch and ignoring the fart-like toot that comes from the cushion noise that definitely wasn't him (no sir, Sam's the gassy one. Dean is all roses and good smells.). Pouting, he says, "M'not gay yah idgit."

"Really?" High pitched drawling of the word and now she's acting like she something special, a real funnyman. Like she's freakin' Jerry Seinfeld or some stupid shit like that.

And even though he knows she's kidding, he gets just a little defensive and says, "I'm up your ass every day. How'm I gay?"

Wrinkled little eyebrows clue Dean in that she's 'thinking' and maybe it takes her alcohol addled brain a little longer to respond, but she eventually says, "Just. I've never seen you interested in anyone. Thought you were confessin' your gayness to me just now."

He can tell she's really trying to get at something else, but he's way too drunk for this right now, so he answers the obvious statement and ignores the subtle whatever she was going for, "Yeah, well. I wasn't."

And he chugs more whiskey, because he wants to forget this.

Dean doesn't need to think about how he almost talked about him. Dean doesn't need to think about how his she-friend might remember this tomorrow.

He takes another sip.

"He's m'brother," Dean admits and then passes out.

SoL

Dean's been trying to forget about Sam for years and apparently he can't even do that when he's hammered. Granted, he doesn't remember remembering Sam during the booze fest of yesterday, but apparently he did.

Outrageously not hung-over (because she's that kind of bitch), his crappy friend-boss lady is digging into his brain with too loud words and annoying perseverance. He used to like that in a woman, but he doesn't need to be sharp anymore and now it's just pushing him to a place he doesn't want to go.

"For the last time, no! Buzz off bird brain."

"Dean," she says as she fixes him with a glare. Oh yeah, because after all the monsters and demons and almost dying, that's what's going to scare him into telling her everything she wants to know.

When that doesn't work, she flails, arms and legs kicking into the air, like a child having a temper tantrum and whines his name, "Deeeeean!"

He snaps at her, desperate to forget all this, to not have to deal with this possibly forever, "What? Why do you care? You've got not family. I've got no family. Why is it that you're pestering me about my past? You want to talk about how you can't hold down a boyfriend? Or maybe we could talk about how you're a shit boss who'd be in debt and homeless if it wasn't for me!"

He's been angrily jabbing his arms at her and pacing, but now he stops and turns to her. Mock sympathy in his voice, he looks her in the eyes and says, "Let's talk about you. How are you feeling?"

SoL

Dean is holding a frozen bag of peas to his cheek.

After his outburst, she looked as if she was about to cry. Instead, she socked him (again) in the face. Really, she's never hit him so much as once in the past three and a half years they've known each other. They must really be going for the title-holding record this week.

"You're like wine gone bad."

She breaks the hour long silence (and Dean will never understand why she didn't just go home. Actually, he doesn't understand why she never goes home.) with a nonsensical sentence that does not have the excuse of being a part of drunken rambling.

"What?" Dean says tonelessly.

"Well, like, usually wine starts out as gross, squishy grapes, but then they get smashed into a sophisticated grown-up drink. From there it's just a matter of following the right process to make the wine better and better and then wine is like a godsend in its old age."

Dean doesn't like to afford this woman more attention than he absolutely has to, but right now he's finding that he needs more than his usual one brain cell given to the task of interacting with her.

"So… I'm… not good, like bad wine and I get worse as I get older?"

"Right! You sour with age!"

Dean's at work again, typical, boring, civilian work, when his boss lady barges in through the front door where the customers enter from.

"My ticker is on a count down! I'm going to be ugly and sterile and die alone!" And she's got mascara running down her face, her hair is frizzy and one side is a tangled nest of a very expensive future hair salon visit.

"Keep working guys," Dean tells the minions as he breezes by and towards the psycho with 'ticking biological clock' written all over her face.

He reaches her, grabs her by the arm, and hauls her into his office (she doesn't have her own because she doesn't believe in committing to regular or even frequent working hours when she's got a manager for the joint).

SoL

"I know Dean, but it really just hit me today. Usually I let life take me where it will," and Dean thinks, yeah, like my house, "but I was drinking with one of the girls," and Dean really has no clue who 'the girls' are because this woman is a homebody and spends at least half of her life by Dean's side, "and it occurred to me that they're all married and popping up kids."

"You hate kids. And commitment," Dean points out, because she really is not firing on all cylinders today.

"I know that, Dean! But biology has been around longer than me and it's screaming in a very scary, demanding voice that may or may not sound like my mother, 'have a family'."

"You have a mother?" and Dean turns, looks off into the distance with a thoughtful pose and facial expression, "And to think all this time I thought you were a product of that one night I spent at Tijuana with that surprisingly accommodating witch."

She shoots him the Pursed Lips of Disappointment (and yeah, he was definitely missing that) and says, "Funny, jackass."

She continues, back on topic and not at all letting Dean weasel out of talking about Serious Issues, "What am I going to do? I've been fine living like this. I really, really have. But now. But now it's just not working, Dean.

I've been through hell," and she turns to Dean, adds on, "We both have," before going on, "and for the longest time, I could only think as far ahead as the next day. I thought I'd be happy just to stay afloat, but things are different now. I'm stable. My life is stable. I want to move on front that place I've been stuck in most of my life and maybe start a family."

She finishes and turns to Dean expectantly.

He licks his lips and says, "That's, uh, that's a big step," before abruptly leaving the room and running out of the diner.

He's never asked for much in life. He's been content to fight the good fight and throw back a strong one for courage before facing certain death.

Sure, most of the time he was miserable or contending with some pretty strong worries, but he had the most basic things he needed.

Sam, the Impala, and purpose (although the last one pretty much aligns with the first one).

Funny how permanent changes and time can make these sorts of insight pretty obvious.

SoL

"I," and he clears his throat for no reason other than because he hasn't drunk anything since this morning. Clearly.

"I know I haven't really visited except for those few times at the start of all this. Um. Well, I guess I'm here now."

He stops and blinks hard a few times, crouches forward and looks down, "You know I don't believe in all this crap. The whole, talking to long gone loved ones. But, you're all I've got. You're all I've ever had."

He gets up and turns away, roughly swiping at his face.

"Why'd you do it Sammy? Why'd you have to leave me all alone?" And it's a question, as much rhetorical as any question when it's unanswerable. But god does Dean wish Sam could just come alive, pop up and answer it.

He mumbles, "I don't know what to do." And it almost feels dirty to say, because Sam was always the little brother and Dean always had the answers. He has to turn away, because he can't deal with this.

SoL

He's back home and the lights are off. There's a slight glow from a street lamp right outside his home, but otherwise Dean is alone in the dark, zoning out over some Jim Beam.

The door opens, slow and cautious, and she's there. He ran away from her and she follows him anyways. Why does she do these things?

She spots him, most likely seeing a slightly darker blob out of rest of the darkness cast about the room, and says, practically whispers, "There you are."

Even in the worst of times she's perfectly happy to make herself at home, so she plops down right beside him and steals his longtime friend, Jim Beam, for a big gulp.

"Agh," she says, as if trying to release some of the burn. Then she asks with forced casualness, "Why'd you run away?"

And he says nothing, because what she's saying is not entirely true. She seems to sense that because she looks around. All the boxes she left in the foyer are gone. All the things she didn't put in the boxes are gone too.

She says levelly, voice void of emotion, "You're still running."

There is quiet between them and spanning the room for several long, tense minutes before she turns to him, feeling returning to her voice, "Tell me why, Dean? You've been stringing me along ever since I might you. At first I thought that might just be your personality, but I'm the only one you ever gave the time of day to!"

Dean doesn't say anything, but this time, she waits. Finally, he answers, "You were the only one I'd come across who knew."

She exasperatedly says, "Knew what?"

He responds without pause this time, "About what's out there. You knew about the things that go bump in the night and what… what I did back then."

And then Dean is really getting into it, letting out all the things that have gone unsaid since the start of whatever this is, "I was all alone. I'd promised to quit hunting, because I still had to stick around and I knew I wouldn't last long if I could just through myself at whatever danger I came across. But I've never been good a civilian life. It's just wrong to me. And then you came along. And- And you were a civvie, a total novice to the all the things out there, didn't even know the rifle butt from the trigger! You were perfect. Stick with you and I wouldn't have to hunt or pretend to be normal."

He finishes and she's gone stock still. It's a lot to take in and it changes some things.

She sighs and says, "Okay, so you were using me."

She seems to collect herself enough to continue, to get to the core issue that's burning at them, "But that doesn't change where we are now. Now we're friends. Now we're closer to each other than anyone else in our lives. We're growing up and there's nothing else to pick but each other."

She puts the bottle on the ground, out of the reach of either of their hands, and turns to Dean. She looks him straight in the eye, like she did earlier today when she was talking about maturing and commitment and families, and leans in.

She gives him a kiss, one which he leans into. It lasts and it's deep, with her holding onto his shoulders and him gripping her arms.

They pull away and she says, "Stay with me." She looks away and looks back, pleads, "Be with me."

And everything hits him then. The fear most of his life was built on, the arguments and tension and hurt he went through with Sam, the hope that faded away slowly at first and then quicker and quicker until the end. He thinks about the day Sam dropped (dead weight) and how the next half a year was a blur. How sometimes life is still a blur.

Then he thinks of her. How he's out of the game but he's still the same. There's electricity between them and she's got a style that would make her a great hunter if he hadn't convinced her not to. She's tough, not afraid to use the low blows, doesn't let Dean off the hook.

He thinks about how life could be so good with her.

He says, "I'm sorry."

He's sorry, because he doesn't lay awake at night missing her. Because the only future he can imagine is one where he follows Sam. Because the first word he thinks of to describe himself is 'brother.' Because his first instincts will always be to reach for a weapon. Because he pushed moral and emotional boundaries for Sam, but he can't imagine doing that with anyone else.

Because she's not everything to him.

By the time he takes in his surroundings as not just a hazy blur of alcohol, she's left. The door is close and a pair of keys is lying on the floor in front of the door.

Dean sighs, gets up, and pops his back.

Everything's already been emptied out of the house and all he's ever really needed can fit in a duffel bag.

He's got nothing else, so he walks out the front door, hops into the Impala and drives.