Fingers trembling, room dark and cold, brain full of abyssal pits to fall in and forget to get out. Fighting ice cold shivers running down her spine and whimpering at tree branches brushing against the window. The howling of the wind, a moonlit sky. Things she should find beautiful. She's too preoccupied with the staccato beat her heart has adopted.
Fisting the blanket, she sighs and curls tighter into herself. The black device in her hands is steadily losing battery percentage the more she stares at his contact. What's the worst that could happen? Him hanging up on her, irritated? Yelling at her? Not even replying? No, no he's not like that. Right?
She presses the green call button before she can second guess any longer and presses it on her ear, convincing herself it's not that bad. Eager to hear his warm voice. Yes, that's exactly what she needs.
“Hello?” Instantly, it feels like she just stepped under a hot shower after a really long day. Shoulders dropping, heart quieting, getting louder for a whole different reason. Her skin still feels prickly, the shivers are still there. It's fine, though. Fine.
“Hey,” she echoes quietly, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. “Did I wake you?”
“No, you didn't,” he assures and she can picture his disheveled hair and big green eyes fatigued and droopy. “Is everything okay?” He sounds tired and confused, his voice a deep gravelly baritone she wishes she could feel radiating through his chest against her.
“Yeah, yeah, uh, question. Do you prefer duvets or blankets?” She spews out the first thing that comes in mind and clenches her eyes shut because it's the stupidest thing she could've said, but she needs this. The flare in her chest is one of hope for him to go along.
“Duvets,” he doesn't think much about it. “They're just heavy enough, always warm and you can kick them off quickly should you have to.” and that is such a Dean thing to say.
“Yes, but isn't there a comforting weight to, say, two, three blankets?” He hums. “Plus, you can curl up with them on a couch. A duvet is far too big for that.” Eyes sti shut, focusing on forming sentences and thoughts.
“You've got a point,” he states thoughtfully and her fingers twitch, wishing desperately for him to have been here. “Can't sleep?”
“No,” her voice nimble and small. It's quiet for a second. “I'm sorry i-if I'm bothering you, or anything, I'm sure you wanna go to sleep.
“You could never bother me, sweetheart,” he says, and it's all clear sincerity and honest truths. Somehow he manages to transmit that kind of tone through an old speaker. “Do you need me to come over?”
Fidgeting nervously with the blanket, chest flaring with more hope. It's not very nice of her to ask something like that, is it? But then again he did offer. Why does she feel needy? And ripped open? And sad and sulky and all around uncomfortable and- yeah. Yeah she needs him to come over.
“Could you?” Shuffling. A huff.
“I'll be there, ten minutes tops.”
Soon, knuckles on wood, fingers on a door handle, the opening of a door and- and Dean.
Closing the door behind him. He stands there with sweatpants and a loose fitting hoodie over a tight black tee, and he stares at her gently.
Nothing but the sounds of nighttime waft in the air. Nothing but crickets and breeze and her old fridge buzzing incoherently in protest.
“C’mere.” Long arms stretching open, untucking his hands from his pockets and urging her to move closer. Bare feet take her up to him, wrapping her arms around his back, palms splayed on wide shoulders. His arms curl tight around her, calming her shivers by a smidge. “You're okay,” he assures her. She's not. But he’s here, he's hugging her, and she will be.
