The doorway was as close as she dared to venture, or rather, that she could even manage. Crossing the threshold of that room made it real- made him really dead, really not coming back. One arm held herself in a bicep crushing hug, the other hung limply at her side. All she could do was stare at the bed where Dean laid, not moving, not breathing, not living. No thought crossed her mind, not even regret, because that would have required more than possible from her numb-shocked mind. She could not think, or speak, or move. All she could do was stare and breathe, and with the love of her life lying lifeless in the bedroom before her, both felt like futile endeavors at the moment.

When her feet finally moved of their own accord, the action threw her off balance, and she stumbled across the doorway. Hesitantly she moved towards the bed. With every step towards Dean's body the duller her senses became, the heavier the weight on her chest, until it was as if she was not longer in control of her own body anymore, merely watching from the inside, trapped inside her own head.

Slumping next to his prone body, she slowly reached for his hand, but her fingers recoiled before they could touch. Instead, her hand dropped to the fabric of his plaid shirt. Clenching the fabric in her tightened fist, she worked the soft, worn material through her trembling fingers.

Soft, but worn out around the edges- just like Dean.

Memories began painfully assaulting her. She remembered buying this shirt for him at a thrift shop in Indiana. She remembered scrubbing the chili dog stains out of the fabric at that laundromat in Oklahoma, rolling her eyes and cursing under her breath something about him being the reason why they couldn't have nice things. She remembered sleeping in it that night in Oregon when they had been forced to crash in the backseat of the Impala.

She remembered the way in which he had slipped it off his shoulders and handed it to her without pretense, simply a gesture of consideration, of affection, of love.

She remembered how he held her against his chest, her arm draped across his chest, his arm securely around her waist, holding onto her for dear life.

She remembered the words he had whispered against her hair, voice heavy with sleep as the drifted off, cramped together in the back seat of the Impala.

"Buffy, will you marry me?"

"Obviously, idiot," she answered, voice muffled by his chest pressed firmly against her cheek.

"Awesome," he replied, voice barely above an exhausted whisper.

Never opening his eyes, slipping his free hand into the chest pocket of the plaid shirt, he pulled out a ring, slid it onto her finger, and dropped a firm, drawn out kiss to the crown of her head.

Of course, they had never bothered with making anything legal, since marriage licenses required birth certificates and permanent addresses and not being wanted fugitives in more than a few states. They didn't need a bunch of bureaucratic paperwork to tell them what they meant to each other. They were tethered- souls bonded by the Fates personally, chosen from the billions of people on the earth to share one destiny. Plus, the only real benefit to legal marriage were the tax incentives, and when you received the majority of your annual yearly income from hustling pool and credit card fraud, you didn't really worry about paying such nonsense.

Tears were running down her now, and her eyes moved to the ring on her clenched fist. Nothing extravagant- just a simple, antique silver ring he had found at a pawn shop set with a prismatic opal. The very same gem on the amulet that had brought them together in the first place, the night she beat the shit out of him thinking he was a vampire.

Memories.

The thought of their first meeting sent a surge of emotion through her body, and suddenly her brain was processing again. It started building under that weight on her chest, then boiling. If he had come to her in Cleveland, talked to her before acting that night she attacked them in the mausoleum, he would have never gotten hurt.

And, once again, if he had come to her, discussed this with her, he would never have been cursed with the Mark of Cain. He would never have gotten hurt. He would be sitting here arguing with her instead of lying here dead. Again.

The cry of white hot fury that escaped rattled the foundations of the Bunker, echoing off their concrete confinement. She pounded the mattress, busting a spring under her slayer borne, rage fueled strength. A fist came down on his chest, and another, and another. Hysterically sobbing, Buffy wailed and seethed, cursing everyone- Demons, Angels, all their friends who were useless to stop this, God-

"But, no one is to blame more than you, Dean Winchester! We were a team! A dynamic-fucking-duo! Remember!? Were were Batman and Wonder Woman, you selfish, arrogant, son of a bitch! We were meant to do this together! We were supposed to die together!"

When his hand shot up and seized her wrist, it stole away her breathe.

When his eyes parted, revealing solid black pools where dreamy green eyes had once been, it stilled her racing heart.

"Pull yourself together, woman," he groaned, tossing her away with epic demon infused power.

Crashing against the dresser, collapsing into a heap of splintered wood and strewn clothing, Buffy raised her throbbing head from something sharp, and felt blood trickling down her neck. The last thing she saw was Dean looming over her as darkness invaded from the edges of her vision.

She came around to the distorted voices of Willow and Sam, calling her name, discussing her condition... something about concussions. Shaking her head, her vision focused enough to make out the relief on their faces. But, the distraction of something held within her hand drew her attention away, blinking her eyes at what appeared to be a small piece of rolled up paper. Opening her hand revealed it was held together by a silver band.

Dean's ring.

Ignoring their protests not to move, Buffy slid off the ring and unfurled the paper.

Darlin', let me go.