Tough Love ✔️

Finite Finale?

"What do you mean, real?" you snapped from the chair you were still in, nauseated, "Real as in I lived it all and you did the zappy thing where I go back in time and you pretend it never happened and lie to me?"

God didn't move. Dean was looking to his feet as if they were the most interesting thing to have been made besides you. And you, slowly, shaking, moved from your perch to stand up to God.

If he said it was, that is was real, that dream, then the last years you had been with Dean for would be more than untrue, but complete lies - that dream, if confirmed to be real, was horrible. Borderline psychotic; who in their right mind would want to put someone literally through hell?

If it wasn't real, well...nothing.

"Yes," God affirmed.

"Yes?" you repeated. "Yes that you erased most of Dean's and my lives?"

God looked down. Dean's apple eyes met yours, and you melted almost immodestly, immediately.

"It's okay, ______," he whispered, "I don't remember any of it."

You shook your head. "That's even worse, Dean, its like amnesia after a really good day or something - this is not okay!"

"You two are not fated to be together," God managed to say, "its not supposed to be."

You looked to God, and almost bared your teeth, you were so angry at the being. But Dean's hands around your midsection did twofold a job; pulling you back from pouncing onto a god with infinite power and calming you at once.

"Not supposed - we are in love!"

"Shhhh," Dean murmured into your (h/c) hair, slowly and soothingly. "Don't fret," he said, and you noticed the words to be almost the same to the night in the car you shared with him. "Just breathe."

"Breathing, Dean, is an art I mastered since birth," you whispered back in a calmly harsh tone, your eyes closed to attempt to make you not as angry.

"Yeah, but you haven't had me since birth," Dean laughed into your hair and the tension about the being before both of you dissipated. "There we are, all chilled out. Now we can face this rationally."

You opened your (e/c) eyes and saw God in Chuck's body, and took a deep breath.

"Now, God," Dean began cockily, "______ and I don't appreciate being used as a blackboard, erased and rewritten and it has come to our best interests to tell you to -,"

"Politest," you interrupted. "Tell you in the politest way to. He's God, He can do anything if he wants to."

Dean snorted. "-our best interests to tell you in the politest way to leave us be."

You nodded. "I don't care if you've fated it to be," you added, "I love Dean more than I love anything in the world, heck, even more than my own self at times! And I won't be dropping his ass anytime soon."

Dean chuckled, and to that, put in, "and the tip-off about the nightmare? Only made us want each other even more."

At that, you felt a hand touch your but, and saw the introverted exterior of the God himself cringe.

"Alright then, I get the message," He cried. "I'm off."

And he was.

You turned to Dean and took in his entire image. The dark blonde hair, ruffled up. Large green eyes able to break hearts and homes. Strong jawline, shoulders as broad as his love and capability for you. And you, taking a deep breath, threw yourself at him.

"We're alone now," you whispered, and you felt a smile come across his face.

"Ah, it feels so good to not have a supreme being telling us to split up hanging around any more," he sighed dramatically as if taking lines straight from a soap. "Lets not break up, _______. Ever."

You laughed. "That means marriage, basically, Dean," you giggled.

His face held not a hint of jesting when he said, "That was what I was getting at, ______," his green eyes read yours. "Lets just stay together. Always. No matter what."

"I like the sound of that," you whispered.

You didn't mind bikers. Or Kombi van driving hippies. Or backpackers hitchhiking their way over the states.

None of those travellers gave you a second glance, neither did you. But what did bother you was the stereotypical handsome hotshots, the boys who were too gorgeous to hold down a woman for more than one night and had insanely good looks. The guys too old to be living in their parent's houses, too young to have started a family of their own by now. The kind who were just like Dean had been, and with you, had become unlike that. He was more than just another pretty face on the road - he was your pretty face on the road.

These hotshots - specifically Dean - gave you a cause to make you laugh, love them more than anything you could think about. They made you attempt to go up against God himself to protect what you had come to call your own, your love.

"I love you so much, Dean," you laughed into his jacket.

"And I you, ______," he grinned. "And I you."