Summary: When Dean asks you to reveal something he doesn’t know about you, your answer may just shock him more than he had anticipated.
A/N: This is my entry for Week 17 of the SPN Hiatus Writing Challenge 2017 being hosted by @thing-you-do-with-that-thing. The prompt given is in bold.
Word Count: 539
Characters: Dean Winchester x reader, Sam Winchester (mentioned)
Warnings: None, just some fluffiness
Despite having been in a
relationship with Dean Winchester for almost four years, there were still times
when he was able to catch you by surprise and take your breath away with just
how caring and considerate he could be.
He knew that getting hurt on the
last hunt and being stuck back at the bunker had been hard on you. Forced to watch as he and Sam had driven
away, the time you had spent alone had been excruciating, especially when all
you wanted to do was to be out there with them, fighting alongside them. So when you got a call to say they were on
their way home, you had been over the moon.
Your good mood had been further increased when Dean had told you to pack
a bag as he was going to whisk you away for the night, give you some time to
reconnect with each other.
While this gesture may not have
seemed like a big deal to some people, you knew that this was Dean’s way of
showing you just how much he loved and adored you. He might not say the words very often but he
showed it every day in the little things he did; bringing you a cup of coffee
in bed each morning, buying a bar of your favourite chocolate whenever he
pulled into a gas station, carrying you to bed no those occasions when you feel
asleep over a pile of research.
A few days later, a weary pair of
Winchesters walked through the bunker.
As tired as he was, Dean was determined to get back on the road, this
time with you at his side. He was barely
back home for long enough to have a shower before he was practically dragging
you along behind him, pushing you into baby’s passenger seat, and pulling out
of the garage, tyres squealing and smoke rising from the back wheels.
Blue is the sunlight filtering through trees in the morning. She’s a field of flowers; bluebells and daisies and snow drops and honeysuckle. She’s the drive to breakfast on a Sunday morning at 7am, yawning against your knuckle, turning your face into the sun. She’s pancakes with berries and yoghurt, honey and coffee and sticky vinyl tables. She’s oversized knitwear, hiding you face behind scarves, your hands balled up in sleeves. She’s kicking up leaves in mud-splattered boots and wind flushed cheeks and unapologetic laughter. She’s the hushed silence at the end of the night.
Gansey is the sound of a library at two am. He’s murmurs over coffee, the sound of a page turning. He’s the first stretch after you wake up, lazy smiles over pillows, that little laugh you do to break the silence. He’s the way you push your glasses up your nose, the embodiment of a whirring thought. He’s the burn in your lungs after running up a hill, gulping air like liquid life into your lungs. He’s grass and morning dew, light and fresh and just the right side of cold. He’s the trip in your gut when you miss a step, the pad of a thumb over a cheek. He’s looking at the stars on a clear winter night.
Noah is the first conversation in the morning. He’s the smell of cooking waffles, cream and sugar and syrup. He’s drawings in a foggy mirror, the steam pouring from a shower. He’s the biting chill of frost, the thrill of slipping on ice. He’s winter gloves and duffle jackets and laughing at each other being silly. He’s snowflakes stuck in your hair, your breath on a cold day. He’s art, paint smudged on your cheek, deliberate movements. He’s milkshakes when it’s too cold, brain freeze, pastel coloured diners. He’s pale pinks and washed out greys and cold blues. He’s the catch in your chest when you see something beautiful.
Adam is dusty summers, tumbleweeds and shielding your eyes from the sun. He’s your favourite pair of shoes, reliable and soft. He’s the night someone puts their arms around you while staring at the stars, the sound of silence. He’s the way your lip twitches when you hear a joke you shouldn’t laugh at. He’s the smell of the ground after rain, water rolling down your spine. He’s the flickering lightbulb hanging loose from your ceiling, a single streetlamp on a forgotten road. He’s running when you have no idea where you’re going, the small exhale of breath when you come to a stop. He’s the gentle hush when you wake up beside someone you love. He’s the hands that hold you when you think you’re falling apart.
Ronan is smoke and tyres and burning rubber. He’s the anticipation of a street light turning green. He’s soft whispers across your skin, teeth dragging over your lip. He’s a shout and a whimper, the two of them combined. He’s satisfied smiles and longing eyes. He’s digging up soil with your bare hands, dirt trapped under your finger nails. He’s confident winks and subtle touches, a steady hand at the base of your spine. He’s balled fists and shattered windows and blood splattered floors. He’s the sensation of being home in a place you’ve never been. He’s coffee and split lips and gold chains with crosses hanging just out of sight. He’s the chink of light through the window of a dark room. He’s the embodiment of Autumn; just the right side of falling apart.
After he drifted the entire hill climb course, I managed to catch ‘Mad’ Mike Whiddett doing some donuts at the top. The marshals looked on slightly disapprovingly, but he seemed to win them over by the time the smoke cleared, as seen in the pic above. I heard he was using a fresh set of rubber for each run, you can see how much got vapourised on the 1.2 mile course by the meager depth of tread left at the end…