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She loves him.

 

She loved.

 

She changed her dress three times.

 

The first was blue, too simple, too faded against hospital walls already lighter than needs be. The second was black, and she took it off nearly as soon as she’d seen herself in the locker room mirror: Hair held up, dressed and ready...

 

For a funeral.

 

She changed her dress three times, and her earrings twice, but she only pressed the elevator button once. She tells herself;

 

 

 

But she wasn’t.

 

The rain is hard, pummelling down just enough to see the immediate area in front of her. She’s walked across the same patch of grass three times in that month. She’s worried she’ll run into someone if she dares do it more frequently.

 

She went to the funeral, and she wasn’t the only one.

 

Strangers stood, only a small cluster, and by their tense statures, it was clear at least some of them had met the others. They seemed too rough to be friends of Denny, someone she could only think of as gentle and sweet and funny and—

 

She stops, because the same can be said for everybody no doubt and she’s only making assumptions based on the beards, and what looks like a gun in one of the men’s waistbands.

 

So every time she musters up the courage to get through the creaking Iron Gate at the entrance of the cemetery she desperately tries to think of a million and one excuses for her being there. Standing there and can only come up with one.

 

She expects a wife, or a sister, or hell maybe even children because she didn’t know enough.

 

Enough to love him, enough to want to be with him, but not enough to look back and say she knew the details. Really knew.

 

He was a smooth talker, a ladies man. He knew how to make her smile, and let her return the favour more than once.

 

She knows she could have worn the worst dress in the world that night, and he still would have smiled enough to make his dimples shine.

 

She missed them that night. The smile she was waiting for, yearning for. Instead she walked into a silent corridor, and after noticing the third nurse meet her gaze steadily as though to give her comfort, she grabs the bottom material of her dress, and runs in her heels. They clap against linoleum, and the clock seems to tick so damn loudly.

 

She remembers everything she saw when her shoes skidded to a stop, and the nurse inside—tucking the blanket around Denny—looks up, and starts forward. She knows something happened here, there’s no use in denying what they all know, but right now, what matters is the same expression the nurse has seen a thousand times.

 

That wistful look when a family member doesn’t understand, doesn’t comprehend.

 

The same wistful, childlike confusion stays on Izzie Stevens’ face for less than a second before she’s walking in precisely, aiming for the side of the bed. She doesn’t notice the nurse leave.

 

She isn’t sure how long she’s been lying there before she hears a faint voice tell “She’s in there, with him.” And footsteps echo on their way to see her.

 

All she can do is hold his chest—hand above his failed heart, wondering what it would feel like to hear it beat once more, desperately searching through every piece of medical know-how in her head to explain away her grief.

 

“It’s not Denny, not anymore.” She hears, and closes her eyes.

 

She knows she just doesn’t want to admit it. She doesn’t want to admit that she lost him, because she owes him more than that, she’s sure.

 

 

The way he stays so still she wonders if that was how she’d wake up to him in the mornings. Wonders if he was a restless sleeper or the kind that could stay snoozing through an earthquake. She wonders how long she’d lie there and watch the steady rising of his chest. Wonders how many days she could afford to be late just because she wanted to watch him for a little bit longer.

 

She lets the tears fall, and can no longer control them as she tries to speak.

 

 

She doesn’t remember the last time she felt so broken.

 

Being here now, standing in the rain, it isn’t enough. Having her shoes sink into the muddy grass isn’t enough. Clothes sodden and hair plastered to her forehead isn’t enough. She wants to know if he’ll still see her when her heart’s shattered into a million pieces. She wants to see him now.

 

She takes no notice of the slight beaming light through the fog, unaware that they’re headlights, and she doesn’t stop crossing the road leading to the back of the large graveyard until the horn beeps loudly, and she hears shouting from inside of the car about respect for the dead. For a second, her eyes are wide, heart thumping against her chest, and breath short as she takes into account how close the hood is to her knees, but then she lets her shaking fingers curl around her sides, and with her head bowed she continues on her way.

 

“Hey, you okay?” The driver asks gently, short hair seemingly longer as the rain beats it down. He’s calling after her, door open, now leaning on the car—an Impala—‘s roof. She doesn’t stop and the passenger watching through the drops of rain on the windscreen can’t believe his brother just asked her that. He’s watching her so carefully, worry in his eyes because he’s looking; and he sees.

 

She doesn’t answer, just turns away, and keeps walking.

 

She tries to forget the way the dimples grew when he tried to smile reassuringly, in a way far too familiar.

 

“Dean...” Sam begins, but Dean in turn ignores his brother, and reaches into the back for one of the big umbrellas they decided to invest in before racing after the soaking wet blonde.

 

Her shoulders are hunched over in a vain attempt to shield her face from the pounding droplets so akin to hail, and it takes her less than a second to register the shadow above, and the lack of freezing cold rain. She stops, looks up confused.

 

She’s been heading for the exit and Dean asks her if she needs a lift to anywhere, the rain’s only going to get worse and a streak of brilliant bright-white lightning crackles across the rumbling clouds to prove the Winchester’s point.

 

“I’d rather walk.” She says simply, though not unkindly, and runs off towards the gates, leaving Dean beneath his umbrella.

 

When he makes his way back to Sam he doesn’t even stop before following the directions the undertaker gave him.

 

Izzie stands under the tree for a moment, watching as the shorter man puts the umbrella down, bows his head, and keeps his hands crossed in front of him. She sees the taller one look up to the sky, eyes open against the rain, hands hanging by his side. She knows the grave by which they stand.

 

She desperately tries to think of a million and one excuses for her being there as she walks back in their direction after seeing them there. She sees them, and by the ripples in their shoulders, they know she sees them.

 

Standing there.

 

She’s trying to think of a million and one excuses for her being there, and can only come up with one.

 

 

So did they.