When Dean and Sam are on a hunt, getting a call from the younger brother always unnerves you a little. In the past, the majority of calls have been about an injury, a question regarding how to fix a wound, or the occasional ‘Is it alright if I crash in your guest room tonight?’. But even before taking the phone off its base today, you know something is wrong.
“Hello?”
Sam’s voice immediately confirms your suspicion. “Hey,” he says, adding your name with what sounds like a forced smile.
“What’s wrong?”
He chuckles a bit, rather humorlessly. “How’d you know?”
You give a small smile of your own. “Call it a superpower.”
Sam sighs before quietly saying, “Dean’s, uh... well...”
“Just say it, Sam.” You lean against the kitchen island, bracing yourself just in case. You don’t sense that it’s a life or death kind of call—the fact that Sam is hesitating means that something is definitely wrong, but it’s not as bad as it could be.
“Well, Dean’s lost his memory.”
You blink. “Um.”
He gives another exhaled chuckle. “Yeah, exactly.”
“What happened? How?”
“It was an angel, I guess. I-I wasn’t with him but I heard him call for me and by the time I got to the room he was in, he didn’t even know who I was. He just kept saying ‘an angel did it, an angel did it’ but he didn’t even know what it did. He doesn’t remember anything.”
Sam’s emphasis on that word sends a chill down your spine. He may as well have said ‘he doesn’t remember you.’ You inhale deeply and close your eyes. “Okay, so what now?”
“You didn’t let me tell you the worst part.”
“Oh, I just figured you’d gone straight there,” you reply quietly, almost jokingly.
“He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“I don’t know. He took the car and he’s gone. I’ve been looking for him for the past two hours and I can’t find him anywhere.”
You open your mouth but no words come out. You don’t blame Sam, although if anyone was their brother’s keeper, it was the Winchester boys, but your concern leaves you speechless. Where would Dean go with no memory? Would muscle memory kick in and take him somewhere? Maybe Bobby’s old place? Or perhaps Lawrence? Or—
The familiar sound of the Impala pulling into the driveway draws your feet to the front window. You blink hard, making sure you’re not imagining it. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“He’s here.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah, he just pulled in.”
Sam was noticeably relieved when he said, “Oh good. I was hoping he’d remember you somehow.”
Dean was barely visible in the porchlight’s glow and you can make out his confused expression. His brow is furrowed tightly and he stares blankly at the house. He’s lost and doesn’t seem to know what to do next.
“What do I do?” you ask, careful to stay hidden behind the curtain. It’s been two weeks since you last saw your husband so everything in you wants to throw the door open and welcome him, but you’re unsure how he would react. “Should I pretend I don’t know him or would that just makes things worse?”
“I’m not sure,” Sam admits. “Maybe just follow his lead. The memories are still there... I hope. He just has to find a way to access them again. And apparently, subconsciously, he thinks you’re the key.”
The driver’s side door opens and Dean steps out gingerly, like he’s afraid neighbors will see him and call the cops because he doesn’t belong here.
You straighten. “He’s coming, I’ve gotta go.”
You can almost hear Sam’s nod. “Okay, yeah. Good luck. Call me later and let me know how he is.”
“I will. Oh, wait, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think he’s... violent?” It sounds absurd when you see how much of a frightened child he looks like as he slowly rounds the car towards the house’s front door, but you just want to be sure.
“I... I don’t know.”
You lose sight of Dean as he walks onto the front step. “Okay, thanks, Sam. Bye.”
“Good luck,” he repeats before hanging up. You feel a bit lost yourself as you walk to the door and wait for Dean to knock. You’ve seen memory loss patients in the hospital before but, as far as you know, their loss had never been caused by a supernatural being. There was always an explanation for it and some sort of plan. But you don’t have a plan right now. Not even half a plan.
You wait, expecting Dean to knock, but after a minute of silence, you unlock the door and open it. Dean’s eyes meet yours and he stares. There’s not even a flicker of recognition. “Hi,” he offers politely.
You smile softly, disappointed. You had hoped that the sight of you would jog his memory. You’ve never seen him look so innocent. He barely resembles the confident man you normally greet. “Hi,” you reply.
“I-I don’t...” He frowns and shifts his weight, glancing away. “I don’t know if you know me, but...” His mouth stays open but the words he forms come out silent. He’s struggling.
“I do know you,” you state with a nod. “You’re Dean Winchester.”
He flicks his tongue over his lips and swallows. “Uh... well that’s good, I guess.”
Your smile fades a bit. “Do you know me?”
Dean looks down, shrugging. “Not really.” Looking back up, he shakes his head. “No. But I think we’re friends.”
You nod. “Yeah, we are. Here, come in.” You step back, allowing him room to enter. He hesitates before stepping in. As you close the door, he looks back the way a caged animal would. You leave the door unlocked, in case he wants to bolt. “Sam called.”
His expression changes again. “You know Sam?” You’re not really sure how much he knows Sam himself, but he seems relieved by this.
“Yeah, I’ve known both of you for about five years.”
His jaw tightens. “Well, then this must be really awkward.”
You take a chance and be blunt, “A little, yeah.”
Dean’s eyes smile along with his mouth. It’s genuine. Good, you think, at least he’s still in there.
“I’m sorry for comin’ so late, but I saw your picture on my phone.” You know exactly what picture he’s talking about even before he pulls out the device and shows you the last thing he had open. It’s from your Birthday two months ago when he surprised you with a trip to the drive-in movie theater where he had arranged for exclusive access for the two of you to watch your favorite movie. He’d snapped the image right as you realized what he’d done and you were in the middle of a laugh. You’d asked him to delete it because you thought you looked silly, but he’d disagreed and instead made it his background image.
Right now you’re very thankful he kept it since it brought him back to you.
“How did you know where I lived?” you ask, careful not to say ‘where we live’. He doesn’t seem to know that you’re more than a friend yet.
He quietly pulls his phone back and taps something before aiming it back for you to see. It’s his ‘Recents’ list on his call log. Your number is the last five. “I checked out your contact info and found your address, so...” He smiles sheepishly.
You find it impossibly hard to stand so close to him, though he is intentionally keeping a fair bit of distance between you, presumably because he doesn’t feel comfortable with you, and not hug him. It has been two weeks, after all, and you’ve missed him like crazy. And, you must admit, you feel even more disappointed that it wasn’t muscle memory that brought him home. It was just your address. But you’ll take anything you can get.
“Well, I’m glad you found your way here. Do you want to sit down?” you ask, gesturing into the living room as you move in that direction. You sit on one side of the couch, make sure to leave a comfortable amount of space for Dean on the opposite side instead of sitting in the middle as you normally do. Your training and instincts are kicking in. People with memory loss are unstable and can be easily unnerved, so you know to give Dean lots of space and time, but those instincts are constantly being pushed around by your desperation to comfort him.
Dean removes his boots and places them on the waterproof mat by the door. You smile to yourself. That’s definitely not like him, but would it be wrong to hope that maybe he doesn’t recover every single thing, like that bad habit of kicking off his boots and leaving them in the way?
He slowly, very slowly, walks to the couch, his eyes darting around the room and taking it all in like it was the first time he’d been there. You pick up the pile of mail that you’d dropped on the coffee table when you came in from work earlier and rearrange it so that Dean’s name isn’t visible, but casually so he just thinks you’re not rushing him.
But when he doesn’t sit down, you look up. “Something wrong?” You follow where he’s looking and sigh. Your wedding photo. You chance a look back at him and gauge his reaction. He doesn’t necessarily look confused. In fact, he seems relieved.
Dean’s lips curve into a barely-there smile. He lifts his left hand and points to his ring. “I was wondering about this.”
You hope it’s not too much for him. “Well... okay, maybe we’re more than friends.”
His smile grows. “Friends with benefits, eh?”
You don’t quite know how to react. He seems proud of himself for leaving you speechless and you laugh. “Well, you’re definitely still Dean.”
“Yeah,” he replies, a bit sadly, as he sits. Far on the opposite side. “It’s weird,” he continues. “It’s like when a word is on the tip of your tongue. I think I know something, but I can’t find the memory. It’s just... blank.” He drapes his left arm on the armrest and the other on the back of the couch, just like normal.
Sighing, you adjust so your legs are under you. “I don’t know how to help you.”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure if you can.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “I’m a nurse, I don’t like that answer.”
He looks at you, surprised. “You’re a nurse?” At your nod, he smiles. “Wow, I’m really domestic, huh?”
“I guess so,” you say with a chuckle.
At least the conversation is easy, even if he doesn’t remember you. He reminds you of the Dean you’d first met in that hospital room; not 100% but trying to prove that he’s better than he was and polite, but unabashedly flirty. Something occurs to you and you voice it: “Do you want to see our bedroom?”
One brow rises and he smiles. “I can see why I married you.”
You snort. “No, you idiot. Pretty much every time you come home, you say that as soon as you walk in there, you feel like you’re really home. Maybe it’ll help?”
He gives an almost apologetic smile for his jokes and nods, standing. “Yeah, let’s try that.”
You get up and walk past him when you realize he doesn’t know the way. It feels strange to you, leading a man who is essentially a stranger to your bedroom, but you’re pretty well convinced by now that this version of Dean is still very much Dean and you don’t have to worry about anything. Except how in the world to recover his memories.
At the doorway to your room, you step back, allowing him to enter first. He does, and his concentrated frown returns. He looks around, first to the bed, then the tables on either side of it, then the closed door leading to the bathroom. He looks back at you and points to it. “Bathroom?”
“Do you know that or are you asking?” You’re hopeful.
He smirks. “It seems logical.”
You purse your lips. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Oh, soon enough I’ll be back to normal and you’ll miss me.”
The easy way he talks, his laugh, the way he looks at you, it all seems right, but it doesn’t bring you comfort. Instead, you find your vision blurring. You just miss him.
His smile dissipates and he looks down. “I’m sorry, I know this must be hard.”
You wipe a tear that falls against your will. “No, I’m fine,” you lie.
But it’s Dean and even if he’s not all there, he still seems to know exactly what to do. When you see him moving closer to you, you shake your head, not wanting to make him uncomfortable or feel like he has to worry about you, but he ignores you and pulls you close to him. You instinctively rest your head against his shoulder as your arms slip under his jacket and around his waist. His right hand cradles your head while the other rubs your back. Just like normal.
When Sam said what had happened to Dean, you’d expected to feel panicked and scared when you talked to him, but you instead feel a deep sense of loss. And as he consoles you, even without really knowing you, that grief grows. You just want Dean back. All of him.
“Maybe I should go,” he whispers. “At least until—”
“No.” You pull back and rub your wet cheeks with both hands. “No, this is your home. If you’re going to get your memory back anywhere, it’ll be here.”
He looks at you, pure concern in his eyes. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”
You manage a small smile. “I’m sure.”
“Alright.” He glances around the room again. “But, I’m sorry to say, this room isn’t helping.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. If you wanna just walk around, go ahead.”
He nods but hesitates. “Are you okay?”
Nodding, you walk to the bed and sit down. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
Dean gives a reassuring smile before walking back down the hallway and entering the kitchen. You watch him until he’s out of view and then lay down. It’s almost midnight and you’re exhausted, but you doubt you’ll sleep well tonight. Your mind is racing. Should you be looking up other incidents of hunters losing their memories to angels? Would there even be a single result if you did? Has Sam learned something? You said you’d call him, but you don’t want to do that while Dean can hear.
You hear Dean open the fridge and, a moment later, pull out a beer. Whether he thinks the taste will induce a memory of being home or he just wanted one, you’re not sure, but you’re able to convince yourself that nothing is out of the ordinary. That familiar ‘fsst’ sound as he flicks off the cap, the way he shuffles into the living room, and the TV turning on all sounds so normal. It’s like he’s going on autopilot and his body knows what he would be doing on any average night.
And, to your own surprise, the convincing sounds soothe you so much that you feel yourself falling asleep.
Next thing you know, you hear birds outside your window and you stretch, your mind still foggy from the dreams. Dean had been acting weird in the dream. He didn’t seem to remember you and... Your eyes snap open. That wasn’t a dream.
“Hey, you.”
Your attention jerks to the doorway. Dean’s smiling fondly. It’s a different smile than last night. “Hey,” you whisper. You’re too afraid to ask if there’s any change so you don’t. “How did you sleep?”
He walks in and sits on the edge of the bed, close to you. Much closer than he had seemed comfortable last night. “That’s all you want to know?” He brushes a wayward strand of hair from your face.
The gentle touch causes your eyes to close involuntarily. “Well, no, but...”
Dean’s lips settle on yours and it feels so right. Your hands blindly find the back of his head and your fingers comb through the short hairs. By the time he pulls back and you focus on him again, you’re convinced that something happened overnight. “Is it really you?” you ask, steeling yourself just in case.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
You push yourself into a seated position and kiss him again, cupping his face with your hands, and you feel him smile against you.
“How?” you finally ask.
Dean drags a hand over his face as he shrugs. “I don’t really know. It was a dream, but I saw Cas and he said he was going to fix things, and then I woke up and I remembered everything.”
“Prove it,” you challenge.
He smiles, approving of your game. “Try me.”
“What’s my birthday?”
“December 1st.”
“When did we get married?”
“August 6th.”
"Why did you marry me?” you add, now certain that Dean really is himself again.
His eyes narrow and he’s silent for a moment. “Because—” He abruptly stands and pulls out his phone. “I just remembered, I forgot to call Sam.”
You grab the front of his shirt and pull him back down. He’s laughing as he carefully falls over you, arms supporting him on either side of you. You move your hand to his collar, attempting to hide your amusement. “Answer the question.”
He leans close, barely brushing his lips to yours. Shivers flood down your neck at the soft touch and his hot breath as he whispers, “Because you were crazy enough to say ‘yes’.”
I was wondering if you're ever going to finish "Sharing the Covers" MD. I would love to read it!
One day I will! I'll re-read it one of these days and see if I have any good ideas for finishing it. I still don't know why I never did, it was like I backed myself into a corner and had no idea what to do next. Same with the First Date story. I don't know why, normally I have no trouble but those two... it's weird. But I'll try!
so i've read and reread all the md fics because they are amazing and my favourite things ever and i was wondering if you ever thought about doing one as a flashback or whatever of when/how dean proposed like would it be a full down on one knee or just a pull out the ring while watching tv sorta affair, i dunno what you think but i'd like to
Okay you pretty much nailed the proposal I've already written haha please read this <3
hi i love your MD fics can you do one where u & dean have 1 year old son so u teach him to say dada and when dean is back ur son run to him saying dada and dean is super happy and its all fluff
Oh no it’s so fluffy the idea literally hurts my soul in such a good way! I settled on the idea that neither M universe will involve the boys having kids since it sort of complicates things, but an AU story might work for this. I’ll give it a try!
YOU POSTED EEE!!! YOUR BLOG IS MY FAVE BLOG OF ALL TIME IM NGL OMG <333
OH my goodness thank you!! That's so awesome! Yes I'm so so sorry it's been so incredibly long since I've posted, I've just had so little inspiration for writing and I haven't even been watching SPN lately, but this new story just flowed so clearly writing MS and MD fics don't depend on inspiration or dedication, they're always with me haha. I'll try to write more soon! <3
You step out of the shower and immediately find your towel, not just for the sake of drying off but also, and perhaps most importantly, for warming up. That five second gap between the hot water being turned off and wrapping yourself in a towel always feels longer than any other five second time period, or at least during the winter it is.
It's been a long winter already and it doesn't show much sign of ending soon, so you're perfecting the art of the quick shower-to-towel routine.
A soft knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. "Uhuh?"
"Did you want anymore cake or should I put it in the fridge?" Sam's voice is hushed and you assume it's because Kansas is fast asleep outside the bathroom door, as he almost always is when you shower, even when Sam's home. You're not sure if it's due to loyalty or because of the hot steam that comes from under the closed door.
"Oh I'm good, thank you."
"Yup."
Sam's footsteps pad away slowly, back to the kitchen where you can hear the dishes being stacked and put away. He was quite insistent about the necessity of his doing dishes tonight while you enjoy a long, hot shower. He always did his best to make it home for special days, and you remind yourself to thank him for driving through the night yesterday so he was sure to be home for your Birthday.
It had been a special surprise to wake up to not only Sam, but also to warm homemade crêpes.
And the rest of the day had followed suit with special surprises, the best of which was spending most of the afternoon on the couch enjoying a selection of your favorite movies and just having a lazy day with nothing on the schedule but spending time with your husband. You'd actually fallen asleep with your head in his lap and woke up about a half hour later to find him fast asleep.
It was the perfect picture of a lazy Wednesday afternoon with a happily married couple.
You think back to the snacks you'd eaten while enjoying the movie marathon, and then dinner and cake, and slowly pull the towel away from yourself as you step in front of the mirror. You don't look any older, physically, and you don't feel any older, emotionally, but you've heard that one day people look in the mirror and don't realize they've gotten old. You silently wonder how long that will be.
It isn't a Birthday until you've considered that, right?
Another knock on the door. "Hey, babe?"
"Yup?" You grab your robe and slip into it before going to the door and opening it just enough to peek through.
Sam smiles at the sight of you then motions down to the floor where Kansas is indeed out cold. You chuckle and look back to Sam.
"I've just gotta call Dean for a quick second and then I'm all yours, alright?"
You nod, that familiar ache in your chest taking its rightful place again as you realize just how much you care for the man before you. "Yeah, go ahead. Tell him I say 'hi'."
"Will do, and 'Happy Birthday' from him, since I'm sure he won't actually remember to say it." His dimples deepen as you laugh. "I'll be right back." He takes a step away and then comes right back, leaning close to you and placing a gentle kiss on your cheek. "I love you."
The ache grows.
"I love you, too."
Sam walks away, the cell phone in his hand quickly being put to use, as you step over the almost full grown dog, and across the hall into your bedroom. Sam's voice carries into the room and you listen to him lay out details of the case he and Dean must have finished, pointing out some things he apparently hadn't noticed at the time. You're not sure what it all means, but it's not your world and you're fine with that.
You choose the comfiest, and warmest, pajamas you have that still manage to hug your body enough for Sam to notice. Yes, just for his notice. It may be your Birthday but that doesn't mean he won't get anything out of it.
After dressing, you run the towel over your hair a few more times to dry it as best you can and then settle into bed with a novel in hand. This, followed by what you're sure till take place later, is the perfect end to a perfect day, you mentally state, completely satisfied and happy.
For a few minutes more, Sam continues to talk to Dean, covering a few different topics, before he hangs up and comes into the bedroom. The grey t-shirt and jeans he's wearing perfectly compliment his broad shoulders and thin waist, and something in you tightens. It's not the same ache of love, it's more of a grip of desire.
"So," he says, leaning his shoulder against the doorpost and crossing his arms over his chest. A smile perks his lips. "How does it feel?"
"How does what feel?" You ask, setting the book down.
"Being so old?"
You smile, not bothering to feign horror at his statement. "Oh it's good. It's comforting to know I'm not as old as you," you reply, knowing by his grin that he enjoys the gentle jabs as much as you do.
"Nice one."
"Thank you." You lean over to his side of the bed and pull the blanket back, silently inviting him in. He smiles and in one fluid movement pushes away from the doorway and lifts his shirt over his head and tosses it into the laundry bin. Another slow and deliberate movement brings him down to his boxer shorts.
You try to look concerned and not as thankful as you are for the sight. "Aren't you cold?"
His brows crease, a teasing light warming his eyes and a twitch of the same nature quirking his lips up to one side. "I'm home, in my boxers, on your birthday, and that's what you're worried about?"
The laugh that statement produces from you wakes Kansas up and he swiftly rushes past Sam and leaps into bed, immediately settling into where Sam was headed. You and Sam exchange a look, and laugh, before Sam shrugs and walks to your side of the bed and sits next to you. He places his arm over your raised legs and looks at you, his eyes filled with love. "I hope today was good."
You raise your hands and cup his face. "It was the best. Thank you for everything."
He leans forward and kisses you so delicately, so softly, you feel weightless. You separate for a moment before he kisses you again, more passionately this time, his breath hitching in his chest when your hands trail from his face to his shoulders. Sam breaks the kiss again but only enough to push the blankets back and settle next to you.
His hands find the bottom of your shirt and lift it slightly, his warm, big hands covering your skin and warming you inside and out. His kisses are thorough, loving, and utterly delightful.
You could have never imagined a kiss to make you feel so loved and adored.
Slowly his lips move from yours to your cheek, your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, your arm, and down until you can't keep your eyes open from the pure delight of every touch.
And then suddenly, he stopped. Your eyes open, blurred by your every sense being awakened, but you see and feel him standing and rounding to the other side of the bed, ushering Kansas down.
You feel cold at his departure and don't understand his absence. "Um..." is all you manage to say.
Sam settles into his side before turning on his side, propping his head up with his elbow, and smiling at you like a boy. "Birthday kisses."
You're still confused. "Um... what?"
"I kissed you the number of times as your age."
His smile is starting to make sense. "And that's all I get?" you ask, a whine nearly escaping with the question.
Sam shrugs and sighs. "Don't you wish you were older?"
Your lips purse in frustration, and amusement. This man... oh how you love him.
Before you can decide between changing into your completely unflattering pajamas and pushing him off the bed, he laughs and quickly returns to his place hovering over you, kissing you and apologizing, but really only halfheartedly.
Hello, yes, I went through all of your MD and MS fics as well as most of the Ask ___'s Wife posts last night and I love this blog and have reread most of everything and I adore this and you and I'm sorry if you haven't posted in like three years (I'm strictly mobile and I don't even know how to check that but... it's a sad tumblr existence), but your writing is amazing and sweet and funny and heartwrenching and perfect so... Carry on with your excellence as I slink away in embarrassment (◕‿◕✿)
Oh goodness, thank you, darling!! This is so very sweet of you to say and I truly appreciate it! It's been so long since I've written an MD or MS, except for my latest one, and I'm thrilled to be back into it. I've missed these stories so much and your words are very encouraging <3 Thank you, again!
Yes! I'm so sorry for the wait between stories, my friend, I never meant to let it go that long :( Unfortunately my inspiration jumps from thing to thing and sometimes jumps away from something for months. But it's finally back on these stories so I hope to get a few written soon!
Friends, if you notice a mistake in any of my fics, please send me a message with the story title and where the mistake was and I'll fix it, no matter how big or small. I don't have a proof reader except myself and I easily miss things because I basically see what I think it should say :P So don't worry about offending me by picking at a mistake or whatever, I would really appreciate it.
It started when you noticed the new scar forming on his neck.
"How'd you get that?"
Dean glances at you then down to his shoulder, not actually able to see where you're pointing but reacting as if he could. His eyes meet yours again and he smiles ever so slightly. "You really wanna know?"
You bite the inside of your lip, nodding slowly. He asks because for the most part, you don't like knowing the details. Not about what he's fighting, not about what weapon he came in contact with, and not about just how close that weapon came to him. As a nurse you know too well how quickly someone can bleed out when certain arteries are struck and just the thought makes something in your chest tighten. But now, you really want to know.
Because ever since you first saw his bare chest for the first time and noticed the handful of marks of varying sizes marring the skin over his back, chest, arms, and hands, you've wanted to know.
And somehow tonight just feels right.
Dean shifts in bed, putting the Kurt Vonnegut book on the side table, and turns to face you. Realizing that this probably isn't going to be a quick story, you sit up and lean against the tall headboard, inhaling deeply.
It's almost one in the morning, you notice, before turning your attention wholly on Dean. He smiles when you focus on him. "It's from Sam."
Your smile fades. "What?"
"Sam," he repeats, nodding. "He was cleaning a blade and lifted it up and he didn't realize I'd come up beside him and he nicked me."
Your smile returns and it's coupled with a gentle laugh when he does the same. "You're serious?" He nods again. "That is so much better than I thought it would be."
After a few seconds of just staring at you, an unspoken sadness in his eyes that you can't quite read, he lifts his arms and removes the white t-shirt he's wearing. Immediately, shamelessly, your eyes drift to that familiar tattoo. You can't recall a time he took off a shirt in front of you that you didn't make sure to appreciate the black ink that made you uncomfortable the first time you saw it.
"And this one," he said, pointing to a small, jagged line on the lower middle of his right side. "is from a demon with a little pigsticker. Lucky shot," he adds with a wink.
Without thinking about why, you feel the need to touch the spot of raised flesh and lean forward, your fingers brushing over the only evidence of Dean's fight, except for the obviously clear memory in his mind.
He watches your hand, you note when you look at him as you touch him, and he inhales quickly, intentionally, when you do.
That's something you love about him - among many other things, like how he thinks Kurt Vonnegut is easy reading; how he very visibly reacts to your touch. It could be a slow swallow or a shallow inhale, like now, or a very intentional blink... no matter the reaction, it always warms you somewhere you never thought something so simple could warm.
"What about this one?" you ask, fingers trailing to just above the top of his pajama pants where a thin, almost unnoticeable scar lays. You don't look at his eyes, instead watching another inhale make his ribs more visible behind his untanned skin.
"Uh, that's from..." he pauses, thinking, his voice slightly rougher when he spoke again. "When the Impala flipped and a piece of glass hit me there, and here." He stops again, his hand grasping yours and lifting it to his left shoulder. You trail the longer mark, your throat growing dry. You swallow quickly.
When you meet his stare, his lips slide to one side with an easy smile, clearly enjoying both your effect on him and his on you.
"Another one thanks to glass the first day Castiel tried to speak English," he said, lifting his left arm and eyeing a small but wide mark. "Idiot," he mumbles under his breath, earning a smirk from you.
"And this one," he continues, guiding your hand to his forehead, just below his soft hairline, sometimes hidden by his hair when it was resting more on his forehead than standing. It was a scar you had noticed the first time you'd kissed him. "is from Alastair."
You feel a deep shudder begin to shake your body at the mention of the demon's name, but push down the feeling.
"So's this... and this." He closes his eyes and lowers your hand to his neck, which he angles so you can see the dull red line fully, and then down to his belly, between two ribs. Something about seeing the effects of the demon's abuse on your husband's body makes you hate it even more.
You can't imagine how many more emotional wounds Dean had from him.
Dean clears his throat after a minute of you caressing the last mark he'd explained. "Bored yet?"
You smile. "Not at all."
Nodding, he continues. And continues. Over his shoulders, to his back, down his arms and to the back of his hands. You find yourself amazed by how many reminders he physically and emotionally carries with him, and how many you had never noticed before.
And suddenly, he's raising himself to his knees and removing his pants - slowly, somewhat awkwardly, without getting off the bed.
You let out a surprised chuckle, which he meets with a boyish grin. "Uh, what are you doing?"
"Still not bored?"
Realizing what he was doing, you shake your head, and he slips out of his pants, the only things remaining on his body being his boxers and black watch on his left wrist.
He begins by explaining how several scars on his legs were from various vehicle related crashes, while others were from monsters. He also attributed one to Sam for a reason like before: he just hadn't seen Dean get so close. At both mentions, you had to laugh.
Remembering one he had forgotten on his upper body, Dean raised his hand. "This one was actually -" Dean abruptly stops when he places his right hand on his left arm and he quickly looks at it. You do too and notice no puckered skin in the place he's pointing.
"What is it?" you ask quietly, knowing by Dean's expression that he's struggling with something.
He glances at you, brows low. "Nothing, it's just... it's weird."
"What is?"
"I had so many more scars before... before hell." You notice him swallow hard at the mention of the word. He barely talks about it, maybe brings it up once or twice a year, never more than that. "When I came back, I'd lost everything that happened before that."
Lost.
The word strikes you.
You wonder what it would be like to no longer have the scars from your childhood and beyond, the physical memories of both the good and bad mapped on your body. You also wonder how many good memories Dean had had on his body that he hadn't wanted to be free of, like falling off a bike or something that most would considered unpleasant to most, but he would have considered normal - something he'd experienced so little of since his mother's death.
Deciding to ignore their lack of existence on his body, you motion to where his hand is covering. "What was that one from?"
He gives a reminiscent smile. "Vampire. Well, no, me, actually. I was trying to draw it out so I cut myself to get its attention."
"That's... gross."
At your reaction, Dean laughs. "I guess so. Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Did it work?"
"Yup. My blood's like sugar to them, apparently." His lips purse and he nods once, like he's bragging about it.
"Like I said. Gross."
He moves his hand and you focus on the bare area of skin and reach out to touch it, rubbing over where you can imagine the once noticeable discoloration being.
"What else can't I see?" Your voice is soft, both from growing tiredness and tenderness toward his situation. The realization of just how much Dean has been through in his life is beginning to weigh on you.
He points to various spots on his face, the bridge of his nose, to the left of his bottom lip, his cheek, the bone above his eyes, relaying how many punches he'd taken to the face and how sometimes after a fight, late at night, he can feel each blow again. Sort of like after you've been swinging and then you lay down and you can feel the sensation so clearly, you think, imagining he probably wouldn't know that example.
Some blows were from demons, some other unnamed monsters, some from Sam, some he couldn't remember. But he always remembered the sharp, sudden pain that, just for a second, was capable of taking his breath away.
Then Dean takes your hand in his again, grazes a kiss over your fingers, and rests it on the middle of his chest, palm down. "Here's where the Hellhounds tore me up pretty good."
Ignoring your immediate desire not to ask, you whisper, "How good?"
He trails your palm up and down in the formation of several lines and you can easily imagine the razor sharp claw marks on his chest. But it's the number of times he lowers and raises your hand that bothers you even more.
Tears burn your eyes when he finally finishes and when you look at him, you see the toll all of these memories are taking on him.
There's so much beauty in his eyes, so much gentleness and care and love, but all of that beauty lays behind a mask of pain that he can't help but see the world through. And it breaks your heart.
"I'm done if you are," you say, giving him the chance to end this now without anything more needing to be said.
He's clearly exhausted but he shakes his head slowly. "One more."
"Okay."
He motions to his right arm, specifically to his elbow and twists it so you can see the tiny blemish. You'd barely even call it a scar. "And that is?" You tilt your head, as if that would help you see it more clearly. It doesn't.
"You don't recognize it?"
You look up to him. "Should I?"
He nods and chuckles under his breath. "I guess not. But I do. I got that one two years ago, one night when a demon tossed me around pretty good. I ended up landing against a tree and broke my arm in two places. Sam convinced me to get it looked at and when I did, a mouthy nurse told me I needed to take pain killers and come back in exactly three weeks or she'd get in trouble."
The more he talks, the wider your smile grows.
"So I did... and then that beautiful nurse made me the luckiest damn guy there ever was by marryin' me, for some reason."
The tears that had threatened to fall before returned, one slipping down your cheek. Dean reacts quickly and wipes it away, leaning close and kissing you slowly.
You love him.
You love him so much, sometimes it just plain hurts.
He pulls back, gradually filling his lungs again, in no hurry, and smiles. When he knows you're watching him, he begins unlatching his watch and set it on his book. Then, he reaches for his boxers and places his thumb under the top of the material.
A blush creeps over your cheeks. "What're you doing?" you ask, your speech slightly slurred.
"What do you think I'm doing?"
You bite your bottom lip before replying, "Playing strip poker?"
Dean's smile turns from innocent to filled with intentions that you find yourself longing to see fulfilled. "Sounds about right. And it's your turn." He motions to your oversized tshirt and grins.
"Dean..." You glance at the clock. 2 a.m.
He replies with your name, his tone teasing.
"It's late. You need to sleep."
"I need something else more." His eyes drop to his boxers and you cover your eyes, both ashamed by his lack of shake and amused. "Come on, humor me."
You're laughing now. "Oh, I am."
When he's removed the last piece of clothing from his body, he gently pulls your hands away, and kisses you with what you can only describe as feverish determination. When his hands fall to your sides and bunch the shirt up, with every intention of raising it over your head, you break the kiss to oblige.
And for the next hour, you explore each other, your hands grazing over the map of your husband's body, each bump, blister, and flaw illustrating a piece of Dean's past, and later, as you fall asleep in his arms, you thank him for letting you be apart of his future.
His voice surprises you after the stretch of silence that had begun as soon as you and he had closed the Impala's doors and the engine roared, excluding the occasional coughing spell. "What? Why?" The smell of smoke that's filled the car makes you want to gag.
Dean gives a small smile, glancing at you and back to the road. "I'm hot." Without waiting for an answer, he lowers the window. Immediately, cool air wafts through the vehicle and you close the zipper on your coat. He's still suffering from the heat he had been surrounded by but you're chilled to the bone. When he notices your reaction to the wind, he rolls it back up. "Sorry, didn't know you were cold."
"It's freezing out there, Dean," you reply flatly.
He looks at you, longer than before, but you don't meet his eyes. Instead you focus on the passing houses and wait impatiently for your home to come into view. When it does, you barely wait for Dean to direct the car into the driveway before you open the door and step out. Dean calls to you but you ignore him, instead walking directly inside and gathering the needed First Aid kit from in the bathroom cabinet and any other items you might need for tending to the burn on your husband's arm.
You sigh quietly and lean back against the wall, slowly sinking down to the bathroom floor. You set the kit aside and allow yourself a moment to just... sit. This wasn't how the evening was supposed to go. After the perfect dinner, you were supposed to go home, tease Dean about how he had some ketchup on the collar of his shirt, have him react by pulling you into his arms, and then spend rest of the night enjoying his company in your lonely bed.
The only reason you're home now and not at the hospital is because the firefighters let Dean go with you after hearing that you're a nurse, with the promise that you would check him out and if anything was serious, you'd bring him to the ER.
When you hear the front door close quietly and Dean's coughing, you stand and rest your hands on both sides of the sink, inhaling deeply to steady yourself. You've seen burn victims and smelled the smoke on their clothes but the overwhelming odor is sickening to you now. As soon as Dean's burn is bandaged you plan on changing into pajamas and putting both yours and Dean's clothes in a tightly sealed bag to be washed soon.
Retrieving the First Aid kit, you open the door and slowly walk to the couch where Dean is sitting. You don't think about how much the couch cushions will need to be cleaned because of the dark ash that covers his clothes and you don't really notice how he's wiped his face with the arm of his shirt. You just seem him; his large frame somehow seeming smaller against the situation. He avoids your eyes and instead stares at his folded hands, his elbows resting on his knees. That permeating smell is thoroughly filling your home, you note with a grimace.
He shifts in the seat, allowing more room for you, and you settle beside him without saying a word. This scene is so familiar; Dean coming home from a hunt injured in some way and you bandaging him up on that couch. But this felt different. Because this wasn't related to a hunt, this was something you'd witnessed.
He's already removed his darkened dress shirt, the one with the ketchup stain on the collar, and rolled up the short sleeve on his white t-shirt for your benefit. The burn is relatively small, you observe, only covering about two inches of the skin above his elbow. He flinches when you touch the area around it but you don't apologize as you normally would. You're angry at him; perhaps more than you should be, but you can't stop seeing him running into that house and the more it plays and replays in your head, the more difficult you find it to keep your cool.
"So," Dean begins, his voice hushed. "You said you were gonna scream at me later." His quiet, somewhat sheepish tone matches his slouched posture. "You gonna do that now?"
You exhale slowly, trying to find that line between wanting to say everything on your mind and patience for your anger to subside. "No, I'm too mad," you reply honestly. When he glances up to you carefully, as if assuming you might take a swing at him, your mouth curves slightly. "Just... give me some time."
Dean nods and sighs quickly. "You know, this might be a crappy time but, you look... really beautiful tonight." His eyes sweep over you and you look down, having forgotten that you are still wearing your dress and jewelry. Somehow in the events of the night, your outfit had become the last thing on your mind. You meet his eyes again and shake your head slowly, unable to keep the smile from your lips.
"Oh you're so not getting off that easy, buddy."
He smiles, the lines around his eyes tightening. He moves so his knee touches yours affectionately. "It was worth a shot," he says with a wink.
You shake your head again and return your focus to the burn and Dean silences, giving you the quiet you need as you determine whether the burn is treatable by you or should be seen by a Doctor. Dean isn't in severe pain and while a burn of that size and depth can be agonizing, you consider your husband's high pain tolerance and his lack of interest in actually going somewhere for help, you decide that that you'll bandage it tonight and see how it is tomorrow.
"Can I say something in my defense?" Dean asks quietly as you unwind some of the cloth bandage and find the gauze tucked in the Kit.
"Okay." A part of you hates how easily you find yourself wanting to hear his voice, to touch his broad shoulder, to feel his breath on your neck. His entire being is a beautiful distraction, even when you're angry, and that will never cease to annoy you.
"I do this kinda stuff every day. I can't switch off my brain when I get home and tell myself not to react or do the things I'd do when I'm hunting." He turns his head, looking over his shoulder to you. "Don't forget who you married," he says, voice growing quiet as he almost whispers the affectionately shortened version of your name.
Inhaling slowly, you close your eyes, lowering the gauze to your lap. "I know," you reply, the image of the burning home crystal clear behind your lids. "But... I've never really seen that, you know? I mean you talk about all this stuff and it's like some other world and when you come here, it's all normal and that's what I'm used to. So to see that tonight, it just... it scared me." You open your eyes while speaking but don't look at him, keeping your attention on your hands rather than him as tears burn.
"I know." He slips his right arm back and takes your hand in his. He lifts it to his mouth, kisses it softly, and you look up. You quickly realize that the anger, frustration, and overwhelming pain you feel is out of the love for him - and you feel like you could drown in it.
"I should know that you'd be the first person to run into a burning building. And I-I do know, that if anything were to happen to me, you'd do everything you could to save me." He nodded once. "It's just that we're married, you know? What you do, everything you do, affects me. We're a team. I need to know that you at least think of me before you do something stupid. I need to know that you think about me and maybe hesitate for a second before you put your life on the line because... what would I do without you?" A tear slips down your cheek and your throat constricts with emotion.
Dean slides off the couch onto his knees and immediately pulls you against him. Your chin falls to his shoulder and your arms wrap around him as he does the same, not thinking about the smoke or ash or anything but him. It feels so good to hold him, to just be close and know he's safe.
"Okay," you say after a moment as you sit back, your hands slipping over his arms until they meet his and his fingers intertwine with yours. The anger you had felt before seems to have dissipated as soon as you meet his eyes and note the sheen of tears. He lowers his head and coughs for a few seconds then clears his throat and looks back to you. "I've talked enough. How are you?"
He gives a sweet one-sided smile. "I'm fine."
"No, seriously. How is it?" You nod toward the red and puckered skin on his arm.
"It's okay. I mean it's stinging and it's hot as hell but it's okay."
"In other words it's not okay."
He smiles, the kind of smile where he looks like the five year old that you know him to be, "Once you bandage me up and I shower this stink offa myself, it'll be okay."
"Alright then." You place a soft kiss on his cheek, lingering there for a second longer than was needed when you feel his smile against your skin, then return your attention to the First Aid kit and his burn. He shifts back onto the couch and sits silently, hands folding and unfolds. A hitched breath hisses in through his teeth when you dab the burn with the disinfectant. "Sorry."
"S'fine."
As you work, unwinding the bandage and drawing it around his muscular arm, you tilt your head as a question forms in your mind. "Hey, Dean?"
"Yeah."
"How'd you find the woman in the house?"
He's quiet for a moment until he sighs. "Well you know in a fire, you can get overwhelmed by smoke pretty quick so I knew there wasn't a lot of time, so I went for the first room I thought she'd be."
"And that was?"
"She was in the kid's bedroom. She'd probably been looking for him before she went unconscious."
"Oh. Okay," you reply quietly, considering how much the sight would have effected Dean. With his own mother having died in a fire, you know the image of a mother desperately searching for her child until she couldn't anymore would impact him.
Dean doesn't say anything else for the rest of the night besides 'thank you' when you finish the bandaging and 'good night' when he finished his shower and slipped into bed beside you. And you don't ask him to say more.
You also determine that you'll use your 'free screaming-at' pass another time. Dean was a hero today, just like he was every day, and that family was alive and together because of him. That seems far more important than the terror you felt for a few minutes.
Hey! I saw that you were having some trouble with writers block and such. I don't know what will help you, but for me, I put on some grunge music or classical music (sounds flimsy but it helps) and just listen. Or I talk aloud into a voice recorder. Hope that unheeded advice helps!
Thank you, darling, those are actually two methods I use a lot!! I love instrumental music that fits the mood of the story, I find it can really be inspiring, and I almost always talk about loud when I have an idea and just play the characters and something good usually comes out :) That's already helped once for this scene but now I'm still stuck haha. I think I just need to keep trying and something will work.
gummygunk
romaincrisis
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
theartofmadeline
andulkaphoto