I’m not being honest with my family about my ED behaviours. They think I’m making progress because I’m eating but they don’t know how much I’m struggling with b/p episodes and I’m too embarrassed to tell them.
Your eyes fly wide when you felt it. You had forgotten to pull it out of reverse. Your hand quickly fumbles for the gear shift, but it’s too late, for you are already crashing into the dumpster behind you. “Shhhit,” you breathe, closing your eyes and dropping your head to the steering wheel.
“Y/N!” You hear Dean yell, his voice rising in anger. His footsteps can be heard growing closer.
“Oh, dear God,” You mutter, before jumping out of the driver’s seat. “Dean, I’m so sorry,” you say, covering your mouth to suppress a gasp as you go around to assess the damage.
His eyes flash with fiery anger, but as best he could he contains it. If it were anyone else but you he would surely be ranting and raving.
You shake your head with wide eyes as you try to convey your truest apology. You had one job. Pull the car out of the parking lot. And you had miserably failed.
His eyes trail down to the bumper, taking in its crushed appearance. His head raises to look at you once more, a disbelieving look it his eye. It was the most obvious thing that he was trying to contain his anger.
But as he takes in your horrified expression, his anger diminishes to nothing. He couldn’t stay mad at you. The look on your face, the guilt in your eye, the way your hands toy with the hem of the flannel you wear - his flannel - in nervous habit.
“Dean, I’m really sorry. I thought it was out of reverse and - ”
“Are you okay?” He asks, raising his eyebrow.
“Are you okay?” He repeats, looking up at you through his lashes, an exhausted look in his eyes.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say. “But, Dean, the car…” You stretch your arm to present the damage.
He shakes his head, a ghost of a laugh breathed out as a miniscule smirk plays at the edges of his lips. “Y/N, it’s a car - I mean, sure, it’s the car - but Baby can be fixed. I’m more worried about the precious cargo.”
And maybe, in one thousand years, plus a day or two, those brave volunteers we sent to fight in a war none of us understand will allow the most dangerous idea of all into their heads: they will turn back, and return home to us. Against all laws of time and space. Paraphrasing the half-remembered words of an ancient prophet, perhaps they will bring this love back to us. Or maybe, they already have.