As one may easily guess, Dean cannot and will not, in fact, function in the morning without his three mugs-worth of caffeine personally inserted into his bloodstream at the first sight of dawn. He’ll hiss and growl and glare and snap and bite if he’s not groomed accordingly by his elixir, so it is expected that he will not react pleased if there were to be something that prevented him from accomplishing this one vital task. Anyone who has met him knows this. And they all work to avoid the evitable pain of Morning Dean. For 30 years or so, it has worked, and Dean hasn’t been bothered since.
So when he wakes up one Tuesday morning, groggily makes his way to the kitchen and spots Sam, Jack and Rowena looking like hyperactive zombies scattered about on the table with roots, spices, dragon teeth, gorgon’s blood and many other pagan bullshit they got stocked in their storage room littered about their fucking kitchen, he’s rightfully surprised. What’s more: there’s a small, snowy crowtit standing smack center of the entire mess screaming bloody murder into the air.
Sam spots him. “Dean—“
Dean makes a beeline for the coffee maker. There’s already some prepared. He downs the whole thing from the pot, tastebuds be damned.
Fuck mornings.
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A preview of something I’m working on 👀
