deansimpalacannotbetamed replied to your post:Hey, I´d like to hear your opinion about how Sam is acting lately? The 'we aren´t brothers thing, the I wouldn´t do the same, the you only sacrifice if you don´t get hurt' ... I hope is ok to ask and you don´t mind, I don´t intend to start wars or offend you or anybody, I´m just really curious about your thoughts. You just can ignore this message if you want, I won´t be upset ;)
Cici, that last paragraph, summed up exactly how I feel.
I get that it may not happen, but i hope...
The only other option besides Nina's end is Jensen's "Butch and Sundance"
Note: This story was inspired by this "Supernatural Imagine"
You look up from the book you’re reading when you hear the en-suite bathroom door open. Dean stands in the doorway, clad only in a pair of charcoal-gray boxers, and holding in his right fist a clean navy-blue t-shirt, his still-wet hair clinging to his brow. You feel your heart start to pound a little harder but you’re not surprised when your gaze first lands on his firm abs and then slides up to his pecs which are tanned and toned and sparkling with a few remaining droplets of water, letting your gaze linger a moment longer on the tattoo under his collar bone and swallowing hard. After only halfway successfully suppressing the desire to lick your lips you lift your eyes to your husband’s face and note once again, the way you did when he came in the front door an hour or two before, the small cuts scattered across his face as well as the fair-sized red and purple bruise which sits across the right side of his forehead, and it squeezes your heart worriedly. Seeing him hurt always does, despite how unnaturally good he looks with (or without) injuries. But you also see those amazing emerald eyes of his, shining softly like they always do when they see you, and that’s enough to bring up the corners of your mouth in a gentle smile.
“Hey look,” you remark with gentle teasing sarcasm, “it’s actually you! Not a man covered in dirt and blood and who-knows-what-guts that only looks like you.” Twisting at the waist, you set your book on your nightstand and lean your head back against the high headboard, folding your hands in your lap.
Dean answers with a small chuckle and matching grin, quirking his eyebrows up quickly and nodding slowly, his weariness showing in the obvious amount of effort it takes to make those simple motions. This latest hunt had lasted about a month and had been hard, bloody, and tiresome work, with a lot of time wasted on dead-end leads and discouragement from the unnecessary loss of human life. At least that’s what you gathered from Sam when he’d called you to say they were about an hour out. Dean himself hasn’t breathed a word to you about the past month since arriving home, nor did he speak of it during your one phone conversation beyond assuring you that he and his brother were fine physically. Your husband has never been one to spend a great many words on the details of a hunt and you figure he never will. It’s just not his way; he likes to keep his home a place free from the troubles and weights and stress of hunting. A place where he doesn’t have to think too much about what happens out there in the real, frightening and deadly world, he can simply relax and rest and be with you. You also know that he keeps much of what he goes through from you in an attempt to lessen the amount of worrying you do over him, to lessen your stress and anxiety, and while you do honestly appreciate that, you sometimes wonder if opening up to you a little more about would help Dean any. You wonder if taking the time to just get some of the crap he goes through off his chest would be beneficial to him in any way. But you don’t really know, so you rarely, if ever, press the issue. He’ll tell you what he feels is best to share, and in your heart you’re fine with that, though you’d be happy to be his listening ear should he choose to verbally release more. You hope you’ve made that clear to him.
Never tired of simply watching him exist, your gaze continues to rest on his familiar, beautiful form as Dean steps out of the doorframe and moves toward the bed, but before sitting down on the edge of his side he drags his left hand down over his face, not bothering to cover his mouth when a drawn-out yawn gapes it open, his eyes squeezing tight shut and then blinking blearily back open when the yawn is complete. Having lowered himself to a seated position, you’re surprised when he doesn’t move for a few minutes, his shoulders drooping and his head following suit, left elbow resting on his knee, hand cradling his bruised forehead after rubbing over the back of his head and down his face again.
He’s so gorgeous, even bruised and beaten-down. Even when the job has taken so much from him, like it always does, he’s still the most amazing specimen of a male human you’ve ever seen. And as a nurse you’ve seen your fair share of men, some pretty handsome, but Dean will always take the cake.
Dean, whose naked back with its thousands of tiny freckles, toned muscles that taper beautifully down to his waist, and soft tan skin are now too tantalizing to keep from touching, so you give in to temptation and pull your legs out from under the covers, crawling across the space of bed between the pair of you and when you reach him, placing a small hand on that back. Sliding your hand gently up and down over his skin in a slow pattern, and feeling him relax, even ever-so-slightly, under your touch, you lean in close and rest your cheek to the backside of his shoulder. He still radiates warmth from his hot shower and that warmth, mixed with the subtle smells of aftershave, soap and shampoo, and the way his breathing softly moves you to and fro, is soothing to you, so you let your eyes slip shut and your voice drop to a quieter cadence when you tell him, “Missed you. M’glad you’re home.”
Your right hand snakes around his waist to rest on his ribs and Dean’s left soon finds it, tangling calloused fingers with yours and squeezing gently. “Yeah. Me too.” His deep voice rumbles against your ear. Releasing your hand-hold, you move both hands up to his shoulders, palms coming to a stop at the peak of the broad expanse of muscle and applying just a little bit of steady pressure downward as you squeeze to let him know you understand his typical-man-of-few-words answer to your statement. You’re surprised at the amount of tension you feel in the powerful muscles, and you voice that sentiment.
“Your shoulders are really tight Dean, you okay?” Sitting up just enough to lift your head, you crane your neck to try and see your husband’s face better.
The hunter scoffs sarcastically, “They’re always tight babe, s’just my shoulders.”
You decide to do something about that. “Well we better fix that.” After speaking, you sit up fully and scootch around a bit on the bed, shifting behind Dean so that you’re standing on your knees as it were, and begin to firmly massage the tension-filled muscle-masses. As you dig your thumbs into his shoulders, working the muscle in small repeated circles, a sound that’s part groan-part sigh escapes your husband’s lips. “That feel good?” you ask him before leaning down and planting a kiss right where his neck connects to his back, relishing in the way his warm, smooth skin feels under your lips.
Apparently the massage feels too good for words because all the man can muster in answer is a low ‘Mmm’ sound. You chuckle and kiss his back again. “Good.”
For ten or twelve minutes or so after that, the only noise that fills the room is your breathing and his, Dean’s exhales occasionally ending in quiet moans of pleasure, your small hands thoroughly canvassing the landscape of his broad shoulders, smiling to yourself when you feel the hunter really begin to relax.
When you feel you’ve worked every possible inch of muscle you lean forward so that you’re chest is against his naked back, arms draping over the just-massaged shoulders and hugging them lightly, tender skin of your cheek chafing against the hint of stubble that Dean always leaves on his. Turning your head you press your lips against his right cheek , shutting your eyes in contentment and resting your forehead to his temple after the kiss.
The hunter’s body is has gone as lax as it can against yours without pushing you over with its weight, head lolling back slightly, eyelids closed and breathing steady, simply enjoying the chance to feel and absorb your close proximity. He could almost be asleep, except that he speaks, his voice huskier than normal. “Thanks,.” is all he says, your name ending his words of gratitude but because you know him, you know how exactly how much me means it.
“You’re welcome, Dean. Anytime.” As you kiss his short, soft sideburn, you’re sure he knows exactly how much you mean that.
Your husband pulls away some, twisting his neck and letting his eyes blink open, green pools meeting yours and he just….looks at you. Gaze drifting over every part of your face and lingering at your eyes momentarily and flitting down to your lips just before he leans in to cover them with his own. The kiss is gentle, yet strong and tender, his left hand rising up to cup your jaw and neck, thumb stroking softly. He moves back and guides your head down to plant a kiss right above the spot between your eyes. “Love you.” he whispers against your skin and you hope that shiver of awe and returned love that always thrills through you when he says those words never goes away.
“I love you too.”
The exchange of affection seeming like a fitting time to do so, you move back and scoot back to your side of the bed, switching off the lamp and turning back toward Dean in time to watch him pull the navy-blue t-shirt over his head and down his torso in one fluid motion. You don’t know what it is but you love to watch him do that. After the man swings his legs up onto the bed and lays on his back, he breathes a soft sigh and shuts his eyes, raising his left arm in an invitation to you , one which you quickly accept, sliding quickly across the sheet and closing the gap between you, coming to rest with your cheek and ear on his broad chest, the dull throbbing of his heartbeat seeming to pound throughout your entire body, and you wouldn’t haven’t any other way.
Unconsciousness is just beginning to creep over your senses when Dean gently squeezes the hand of yours that he’s holding which rests on his left pectoral, right above the tattoo, deep voice murmuring sleepily, “I meant to tell you, you got strong hands baby.” You can hear the cheeky smirk he wears and in spite of yourself it makes you grin, even in your deeply relaxed state.
“Thank you so do you.”
The hunter’s chuckle rumbling in his chest is the last thing you hear before sleep overtakes you.
I was tagged by: pearlsinaclamshell <3 whom I love but is evil to do this sort of thing.
Rules: in a text post, list 10 books that have stayed with you in some way. Don’t take but a few minutes, and don’t think too hard—they don’t have to be the “right” or “great” works, just the ones that have touched you.
Tag 10 friends, including me, so i’ll see your list. Make sure you let your friends know you’ve tagged them!
1) The Bible
2) To Kill a Mockingbird
3) The Lovely Bones
4) The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time
Rules: in a text post, list 10 books that have stayed with you in some way. Don’t take but a few minutes, and don’t think too hard—they don’t have to be the “right” or “great” works, just the ones that have touched you.
Tag 10 friends, including me, so i’ll see your list. Make sure you let your friends know you’ve tagged them!
You find yourself speaking the words to Dean one day, almost without realizing, as you stand beside him in line at the ice-cream stand.
As the remark leaves your lips, your smaller hand finds his larger, calloused one dangling by his side and the your fingers slip in between his like the spokes in two gears. Your husband's grasp tightens gently as he turns his emerald-eyed gaze on you and presses a kiss to your forehead before answering in his deep, soft voice, "I am too." Dean's full lips then plant another kiss on the side of your head after you've faced forward again, resting your head comfortably on his strong shoulder afterwards.
You're not really sure why you said the words. They weren't brought up by anything else, nothing you'd been thinking about or conversing with Dean in relation to earlier, no; you'd simply wanted him to know that you're happy, beyond ecstatic really, to know him, let alone be married to him. There have been some rough patches involved with being a part of Dean Winchester's life, yes, he's a freaking hunter of nightmares , but you wouldn't pay a cent to have changed the face you were gobsmacked by that night, er rather morning, at two o'clock. The man behind the gorgeousness had turned out to be better and more amazing than your wildest dreams. Genuine and loving and sweet and smart and funny, with a short temper and one hell of a job description. But every day you wake up, whether he's beside you in bed or not, and despite the crappy, you're thankful to know him.
So you tell him. "I'm so glad I met you."
And despite the lack of elaboration in Dean's answer, you know he feels the same.
It had been six weeks since you'd spent an evening with Dean, and three months since you'd enjoyed a date with your husband. Driving home, your left hand covered by his free hand, your eyes taking in the dark scenery of the town, you consider how much you enjoy his company. Quiet conversation and laughter in a dimly lit restaurant had stirred your passion once more.
Not that you'd ever lost your passion for your husband of just under a year had ever dwindled, but time apart did take its gentle toll on your relationship. And because of that, you made an effort to enjoy every minute together when he was home, and tonight was a perfect example of how a night together should be.
You think back an hour or so ago, to when you were seated across from each other at the small table. Dessert had come and gone and you found your heart pounding roughly against your ribs when Dean put his full attention on you. Your focus had been distracted when he stretched his arms out to the side and his buttoned shirt stretched to one side, revealing a hint of skin and the edge of his collarbone.
This was your husband, for crying out loud, you thought with a smirk. This man that you were falling dizzingly in love with again, this man who's flash of skin made your cheeks warm, this man whose lips were a constant distraction, this man who you could call to bed anytime you wanted, this man was yours. This man was yours and yours alone.
Even still, the thought caused a smile to spread over your lips.
"Thank you," you say, shifting against the seatbelt to face him.
He glanced away from the road for a second, eyes catching yours, before he looked back. "For what?"
You don't reply right away, instead just enjoying the way the warm coloring of the street light glides over his angles of his face before leaving him in darkness for a few seconds until the next light did the same. "For tonight. It was really nice."
"Yeah." He looks at you again. "It was." He squeezes your hand and returns his eyes to the road.
Dean has never been one for drawing out conversations or staying on what could be considered a fluffy or chick-flick topic. But you know he truly appreciates the short time you have together between jobs; his words are more spoken with his expressions and actions than with his mouth.
"Hey I was thinking," Dean began, flicking his tongue over his lips quickly. "When we get home, we should... watch..." His words trailed off quietly.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. "We should watch... what?"
Without completing his thought, he pressed the brake and motioned up ahead. You hadn't been paying attention to the road or else you would have noticed the bright flashing lights as soon as Dean had turned onto the street. But what was more worrisome were the ugly orange flames devouring the interior of the house and licking the outside through the broken windows.
You sat up in your seat, fear settling as nausea in your stomach. "Oh no," you whisper.
Dean eases the car behind one of the dozen fire trucks and you and he jump out as soon as the car is stopped, the engine just cutting off before he pulls out the key and slams the door behind him. You both hurry to where a group of people have gathered on the sidewalk, the whole scene well lit by the burning home and colorful flashing lights. Dean touches your arm, just to make sure you know that he's walking further when you've stopped.
"What happened?" you ask a lady standing nearby, her dark hair stuck in a quick ponytail and a soft pink robe acting as her coat.
She shakes her head, eyes trained on the flames. "I don't know, all's I know is that I woke up to the sound of sirens and when I got up, I saw this bright orange coming from across the street." She was visibly trembling.
"That's terrible," you reply. "Is anyone hurt?" As a nurse, that question is never far from your mind.
The woman meets your eyes for the first time and you note her unshed tears. "I don't know. The sirens just came by about five minutes ago and I just got out here." She pulled in an unsteady breath. "There's a real nice family who lives there. I pray they made it out."
Thanking her, you walk around the group of people, scanning the sickly lit area for Dean. You find him inside the protective barrier that had been set up on the sidewalk, among where the firefighters are standing with large hoses aimed at the home. The hiss of the water fills your ears. Dean is quietly talking to a man, who you assume is the owner of the burning home. A small boy stands directly beside him, hand in his father's, thumb in his mouth. The toddler couldn't be more than 3 and he stares up at his father, as if trying to understand why his Dad is crying and why they're outside. The man drags a hand over his wet cheeks and through his thin beard. He's shifting his weight from side to side, anxiety and fear written in his motions and expression.
Suddenly the man collapses with an agonized cry and Dean catches him, slowly lowering him to the ground as the young man begins to sob. The boy beside him loses his father's grip and he steps back, afraid. Your wide eyes move from him to where two firefighters are exiting the front door of the house, oxygen masks covering their faces.
"No, no, oh God please no! My wife!"
You feel a shiver slide from the base of your skin to the top of your head and you shudder, but it's not from cold or worry. Dean, who had had his back to you, looks over his shoulder and you see sense that he's about to do something. He shrugs his coat off, ignoring your mouthed 'what?', and immediately after, Dean lets go of the man, allowing him to hold himself upright, and stands, rushing past the dozens of police officers and firefighters.
"Dean! No!" Everything in you is crying out as your husband runs into the burning home, ignoring the protests of the firefighters as they try to stop him. He's inside before they can reach him but they follow "NO!" You push through the barrier and are immediately stopped by a police officer who grabs you from behind, holding you tightly so you can't run further. "No no, please, my husband -"
"It's alright, ma'am, we're going to get him, don't worry." But the officer's tone gives you no comfort. You struggle against him as he repeats the words over and over again.
The man on the ground is shouting and crying, his voice breaking as he screams desperately for his wife. And when you hear him, you suddenly understand why your husband ran into the burning building.
Minutes pass and tears blur your vision until the fire before you is just a blur of dancing colors. You're shivering and the officer holds you tighter until you stop fighting.
A loud boom from inside the house causes you to jump and the man holding you takes a step back, keeping his grip on your arms. You hear screaming and it takes you a few seconds to realize the sound is coming from you. The house is collapsing.
A frightened hush falls over the crowd of onlookers when realization settles in. The man who is clinging to his young son and weeping is without his wife, and three men are possibly lost inside the home. But selfishly, you only cry for one. Losing the strength in your legs, you sink down, the officer holding you lowering you down in the same way Dean had helped the father moments before.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. The worry and fear and anxiety about Dean's safety was supposed to end as soon as he got home. You cover your eyes, trying to block out the flames and situation as you fight nausea.
"Ma'am, look," the officer behind you says, gently patting your arm until you look up.
In the doorway, with flames surrounding the interior of the barely visible hallway, the two firefighters appear, one with an unconscious woman in his arms, and the other with your husband by his side. You release a quick breath and roughly brush away your tears as the uniformed man beside you helps you stand.
The paramedics hurry to where the woman is being held, dragging a stretcher behind them. The man and woman helping with the woman are familiar to you; you've seen them countless times as they unload patients from the ambulance into the emergency room and you take over from there. This side of the drama is something you've rarely seen before.
"Are you alright, ma'am?"
You glance up to the officer, nodding quickly. "Yes, thank you, I'm sorry," you blurt out, your throat thick with emotion. He smiles kindly and releases you, motioning to where your husband is kneeling on the front lawn a safe distance away from the house. You walk on rubber legs to him and drop to his side. "Dean," you whisper, ignoring the heat emanating from the huge fire and the water that's blowing over you.
Dean is coughing harshly and leans forward until his hands are on the ground and his forehead rests on them. His body is shaking and convulsing from the violent coughs. You place both hands on his back, surprised to feel the heat on his blackened shirt. The back of his neck is slick and dripping with sweat and his wet hair looks as if he'd just showered.
Although you're flooded with relief that he's okay, as he sits up slightly, still leaning heavily on his anchored arms, you resist the urge to slap him hard across the face. How dare he do that? How selfish could he be?
His eyes slowly meet yours and as he turns his face up to you, you notice the dark covering his skin holds from the smoke. It turns your stomach. You instinctively touch his face, wiping away some of the ash, and his eyes drift shut before another coughing fit wracks him. You fold your hands together to try to hide the shivering that's coming from deep inside you. When he looks at you again, you quietly say, "Remind me to scream at you later." He gives a nearly imperceptible smile and nods. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he replies hoarsely, his voice unrecognizable. He coughs again and his eyes squeeze shut. "My arm..." He doesn't finish and instead angles his shoulder so you can see where the fire had touched him, burning his shirt and the skin beneath. You suck in a breath. "Not as b-bad as it looks." Dean swallows hard and he touches your leg. "Just gonna make sure..." He pulls in a slow breath, coughing in response to the intake. "make sure they're okay and we can go home."
You sit on the damp grass, nodding numbly as he stands and walks to where the stretcher is being loaded into the ambulance. The woman's husband grabs Dean and pulls him into a fierce hug, his words inaudible but his gratitude clearly visible. After the man and his son get into the back of the vehicle, the male paramedic slams the doors closed.
Dean leans down to retrieve his coat from the driveway and looks at you. You stand slowly, glancing back at the fiery building once more before going to him.
"Sir, that was the stupidest move I've ever seen someone make." You turn to the loud voice and see one of the firefighters who had gone in after Dean near, stripping his helmet off and tucking it under his arm. His tone is harsh but his eyes are creased with concern. "What were you thinking?"
Dean turns so his injury isn't visible to the dark skinned man. "Wasn't about to let that woman die," Dean replied quietly. You look at him, knowing full well what his motivation had been. This wasn't the first house fire he had seen and he'd made sure that this situation had a better ending.
The firefighter released a slow sigh and shook his head, extending his right hand. "Well, you're an idiot, but you're a hero. Thank you."
You love how casual and easy-going Sam becomes after he’s been home for a few days. It’s as if he really begins to relax into this way of life, really starts to let the thought cement in his head and heart that this is his home, he’s allowed to let his guard down and really be himself here. He doesn’t have to worry about what he’s doing because he can do what he wants. You love how much he cherishes that freedom, how you can see that relief of weight dropping off his back sweep over his face the minute he steps in the door. And it’s all real, not a bit of it is put-on for you or for any reason: he means it. Sam is an amazingly genuine person and you’ll never be able to put into words exactly how much you admire and love him for that. He’d never joined you for a rest but that’s okay. There’ll be other times.
‘You really snagged an awesome guy,” you tell yourself as you stand to your feet and head out of the bedroom and down the hall, using your name in a mental tone of satisfaction, ‘He’s sweet and outrageously handsome to boot. You’re a lucky girl.’ You chuckle to yourself and shake your head at your own silliness.
As you walk down the hall you hear the sound of the TV. Coming into the living room you give another smile at the sight of your favorite person seated on the couch with the remote control in his right hand and his lefts dangling down to absentmindedly scratch the head of the golden retriever who lies as his feet. Sam is wearing such a strange expression as he looks at the television screen that you have to work to suppress a laugh-it looks like a mixture of intense concentration and spacing out with a little bit of perplexity tossed in the mix as well. It’s really amusing.
“Whatcha watchin’?” You ask your husband.
Sam’s neck twists as he looks at you, dropping his weird and adorable facial expression and exchanging it for a face-illuminating smile as he answers, “Uh nothin’ really at the moment. I’m just kind of surfing the channels.”
“Ah channel surfing.” You say, dropping yourself down next to him on the couch tucking your legs underneath you and looping your left arm through his right one and hugging it lightly, leaning against your head and side against his shoulder and arm. “That can actually be kind of fun. I’ve discovered some…interesting programs during my adventures with riding the TV waves.” You make a sound that is part laughter and part disgust at the memory of some of the things you’ve seen when casually scrolling through channels.
Sam gives a soft, short laugh as he continues to press the next channel button on the remote, “Have you? Yeah, I can relate to that. There’s some weird stuff to be seen on TV.”
Your eyebrows rise in curiosity and a grin slides on to your lips as you put another question to him. “Oh and how exactly would you know that, you being such a busy hunter with monsters to research and kill and whatnot? Do you and your brother have more spare time than you tell me to sit and watch TV in random crap motel rooms? Hmmm? Have the Winchesters developed an affinity for certain soap operas over the years?”
In spite of himself your husband blushes under your teasing and closes his eyes for a moment, presumably to keep from protesting to your words too quickly and make himself look bad. But under that you can see a grin slip onto his face and a playful light dancing in those beautiful eyes. “Maybe.” He states vaguely accompanying his words with a small shrug. “I have caught Dean watching some shows that he wouldn’t easily admit to watching that’s for sure.” You let out a laugh at that, enjoying the mental image of your brother-in-law getting all into some cheesy cop show or medical drama. “But honestly,” he asks, using your name, “you can’t really blame a guy for filling up his spare time can you? Waiting for your turn in the shower can take a while.” Sam’s laugh join’s yours as you you shake your head to say no I guess not. “Anyway, moving on from what TV shows I’ve seen. Did you have a good nap?” Sam wants to know.
You give a moan of pleasure to accentuate your answer, “Oh, it was wonderful. Maybe the best nap I’ve ever taken actually. I can’t thank you enough for making me take it.”
Your husband chuckles again and you can feel him smiling as he presses his lips to your hair in a gentle kiss. “Well you’re very welcome, babe.” He tells you in his soft suede voice that never fails to make your heart melt like butter. “Just know that I may call in a favor sometime soon.”
“What?!” You sit up, trying to hide your smile at his words with a look of mock indignation. “Woah, hold up Mister Winchester, you never mentioned anything about this being a ‘you’ll owe me one’ situation. That’s not fair to spring it on me now.” Your struggle to keep your amusement at bay is failing and the ghost of a grin plays across your lips as you gaze at Sam and wait for his response to your accusation.
He holds your look without flinching and once again you’re struck by his incredible good looks. Geeze! How in the world did you score him?? Out of all the girls in this world who he’s ever introduced himself to as some fake FBI agent or reporter or what have you, you ended up as the woman he cares about more than his own life. The girl he promised his love and his life to on the day you were married. What are the odds? More importantly, to what higher being do you owe your thanks for this amazing, 6’4”, broad shouldered, well-muscled, perfect haired, heart-of-gold blessing of a man that sits next to you on the couch. Whatever the case may be, you know you’ll never be checking Sam Winchester off the list of things you’re grateful for. In fact, he’s number one on that list.
“Oh I didn’t mention that you’d have to pay up eventually?” The tall hunter asks with fake innocence in his tone and a look of assumed incredulity on his face. “Damn, I thought for sure I had.” Sam shakes his head as if disappointed in himself. He then laughs outright as you punch him lightly in the arm, his amusement growing as you can’t pretend to be angry with him any longer and let your own giggles join his.
“You’re a dork.” You inform him, leaning close to plant a gentle kiss on his lightly stubbled cheek. You rest your left hand on his shoulder for balance, feeling the taut muscles and instantly becoming aware of the power and strength beneath your palm, as well as your own smallness in comparison to your husband’s large frame. Whispering your next statement, you move your lips so close to his ear that they just barely brush over the skin and relishing in the almost imperceptible shiver which courses through Sam’s body as you speak. “Despite that, you just say the word, Sammy and I’ll be happy to return the favor. Just let me know what I can do.” Letting your words sink in, you leave another quick kiss on his temple and resume your position of leaning against the back couch cushions with your arm threaded through Sam’s, smiling at him sweetly before giving your attention over to the TV set.
But in your peripheral vision you can see him as he stares at you for a moment, mouth partly open and his tongue flits over his lips slowly, presumably in reaction to the insinuation dripping from your whispered assurance of your readiness to thank him for his good deed this afternoon. “Okay.” Is all Sam says in response but the single word is uttered in a voice that’s gone husky and gravelly and lower than normal, like he needs a drink to moisten his throat. Nodding slowly, he repeats in the same tone, “Okay then.”
You bite your lips to hide your smile as your husband shakes his head as if to clear it of certain thoughts and images aroused by this last part of your conversation. He might be blushing but you can’t tell from your angle. You wouldn’t be surprised if he is though. Sam clears his throat and leans back to rest against the back of the couch next to you and you rest your head on his shoulder again.
“Where were we?” he inquires, twisting his neck to look down at you as you crane yours back to look up into his face. He gives a dimpled half grin with a boyish wink and you don’t hide your own grin this time.
“Channel surfing.” You tell him. Oh how you love rainy afternoons.
