Voicemail

Dean brought the small cellular phone to his ear with a shaking hand. He could feel his eyes misting over with tears that he would refuse to let fall as he listened to the voicemail. A voicemail that was almost four months old. A voicemail that allowed him to hear her voice and commit it to memory.

“Hey, Dean,” she started, her voice thick with emotion. “It's Ed. Listen, I just wanted to leave this really fast in hopes to get a few things off my chest before we go after Lilith.” He could hear her take a deep breath, steadying herself before she spoke. But he could still hear the sadness and fear.

“By the time you get this, it'll be too late. But I had to do it, Dean. I couldn't even begin to imagine how my life, how Sammy's life, would pan out with you gone,” she stated. Another deep breath. “I just wanted to tell you thank you, for making my life, and my father's, so much more. For giving us both a reason to keep going. To smile. All because of you and Sammy.”

Dean could feel the tears in his eyes before they finally rolled down his cheeks. A large hand came up and wiped them away, only to be replaced by more. He took a deep breath, continuing to listen to her voice, relishing in the sweet sound. He had always compared her voice to wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. Soft and sweet when docile, yet loud and ferocious when raged during a storm.

“I'm sorry, Dean,” she spoke. He could hear her choke back a sob before a gasp of horror left her lips. “We’re getting ready to face Lilith, and she holds your,” she paused. “My contract. And the one thing that hurts me more than losing you, is you having to watch me die.”

The elder Winchester reached for the long neck in front of him. He downed the rest of the amber liquid, relishing in the burn that followed.

“I just had to tell you, before I'm gone, that,” she paused, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I love you, Dean Winchester. I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember, and I just had to tell you before we went in there to face Lilith.”

More tears flowed down Dean's cheeks, and this time, he didn't bother wiping them away. He didn't care, because she was gone. His sweet cherry pie, the only highlight in his life, other than his little brother, was gone. And no matter how many deals he tried to make, he couldn't bring her back. And that hurt him more than making the damn deal in the first place.

The last thing Dean heard over her voicemail was her voice, growing stronger, not a trace of fear found, as she spoke. He could hear her, putting on her brave face, and could almost picture it in his mind's eye.

He could picture her bright, blue eyes hardening. The set of her soft jaw clenching and her hands fisted tightly, her knuckles turning white. He could imagine her long, dark hair falling around her shoulders in loose waves, the wind tousling her dark tresses. His brave, little hunter.

“Thank you, Dean,” she spoke before the line finally went dead.

“Damn it all, Ed,” Dean ground out, his voice thick with emotion. “Stupid, self sacrificing, son of a bitch!” He slammed a fist down on the wooden table of the dingy, rundown bar he was in. A few of the bottles rattled, one falling to the floor, shattering, and echoing about the bar.

A waitress looked at him with a quirked brow. She made her way over to him, watching as he slipped his phone back in his pocket. “Maybe you should head on home, honey,” she told Dean.

He looked up at the older woman. She was sweet, with a mother hen instinct and a mean right hook. He had seen her kick a few patrons out of the bar, taking care them before they could get too rowdy. She made him think of an older version of his cherry pie.

“Yeah,” he spoke softly. “I'm sorry about the glass,” he told her apologetically. He then stood from the booth, sliding his worn, leather jacket on in the process. “I can clean it, if ya want.”

“Don't you worry about that, sweet pea,” she assured him. She then turned to the bar, waving down one of the staff to grab a broom and dustpan. She then turned back to Dean, a sweet and understanding smile on her face. “We’ll handle it. You just focus on getting home and getting some rest. You need a ride or a cab?”

Dean shook his head saying, “Nah. I'm okay to drive.” When she gave him an incredulous look, Dean gave his usual disarming, Winchester smirk. “Honest.”

The waitress nodded. “Alright,” she spoke. “But you be careful, ya hear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied before turning to the door.

Once in the Impala, the elder Winchester slumps in the driver seat, pulling out his phone once more. He scrolls through, finding his voicemail and opening it. He then pressed play, listening to her voice again.

“Hey, Dean.”

It was a comfort for him, to keep the voicemail, listen to it over and over. Dean never saw himself as sentimental, but when it came to her, it was almost as if he was a different person. And if the damn voicemail was the only way he'd get to hear her voice, then he'd keep it until the day he saw her again.

“I love you, Dean Winchester.”