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“Mm, couple more…”
She plops exactly two droplets of oil into the warm water of the bathtub.
“So… oil, candles, towels, robe--check.” The final item on her list? Switch off the overhead lights.
Following a flick, the Men of Letters bathroom becomes infinitely more inviting. “Perfect.”
She takes a single step into the hall, on her way to coax Dean out of the kitchen, when she spies him all of 10 yards from her. He’s standing in front of her closed bedroom door, anxiously flexing his hands where they dangle by his hips.
From her concealed space, she continues watching him. He mutters something she can’t hear and shifts awkwardly on his feet. His knuckles rise to the slab of oak, but freeze before making contact. Lamely dropping his arm, he sighs.
She emerges, determined where he’s hesitant. “Hey, I was just looking for you.”
Dean startles slightly and moves a few strides away from her door. “Yeah?”
She meets up with him, noting he appears more relaxed now. Relieved, even. “Yeah. I have something for you.”
His eyebrows raise, and then he hisses, the cuts on his face still tender.
Ever since Dean trudged out of that barn--out of that prize fight with the Father of Murder --she’s felt like a taut string. Every little glimpse of his pain threatens to be the pluck that makes her snap. But she withstands the distress once again. He doesn’t need her falling apart while he’s barely holding it together.
She grasps the very hand that never knocked and slowly leads him to the bathroom.
Dean observes the space, complete with her personal touches, while she shuts the door to enhance the ambience. “What’s all this?”
“Well, I know you’re exhausted, and you’ve gotta be so sore… ” Her voice cracks when she catches the way he’s staring at her. If she were to trip, she’s positive she could fall into his eyes. Flustered and heartbroken, she seems to have no control over her babbling. “So I figured a bath might help you sleep. The warmth for your muscles, of course, and I added eucalyptus-scented oil for aromatherapy…” Mercifully, his gaze flits to the tub, and she’s able to suck in a breath--and shut up.
He also inhales deeply. “It does smell really good…”
She grins, proud and grateful she convinced him to pamper himself for a bit. Ready to exit, she concludes, “Well, then, I’ll leave you to it.”
“I…” Dean chokes out. This man, whose established façade presents him as filled to the brim with bravery, appears so damn small in that dimly-lit room. “I don’t wanna be alone.”
In a heartbeat, she’s advancing toward him. “Okay, honey. Okay.” She tenses at the involuntary term of endearment, worried it was too much, but he drinks it in as if it were mixed with tea.
Soothed by his acceptance, she finds the courage to verbalize her idea. “How about you get in and, um, use one of the bigger towels for privacy?” He nods. “I’ll just…” She spins away from him. “Let me know when you’re done.”
After a few gentle thuds, a couple of clinks, and too many muffled groans, she hears one of his legs plunge into the bathwater. She shakes her head, banishing the fact that the most gorgeous man she’s ever known stands unclothed behind her.
“You can turn around now,” Dean softly informs her.
His long, stocky body is submerged as completely as possible in the modest-sized tub. A beige bath sheet drapes over the sides of the porcelain and tile, shielding him from navel to lower thigh. Bruises ranging from rich scarlet to deep amethyst cover his visible skin, their shades making his face even paler by comparison. He wears a tiny, bashful smile and remains as beautiful as always.
Fighting a blush, she sits on the step leading to the bathtub. Pressing her side into the tile, she lays an arm on the ledge, being as close to him as she can manage without actually touching him.
“How’s it feel?” she whispers.
Dean hums in response. With a light slosh, he raises his hand to take hers. “Thank you.”
Whether it’s due to the low rumble of his kind voice, the clean mint scent, or the heat of the steam, she’s unsure, but she’s less nervous now. She lifts their joined hands to her lips and carefully kisses each of his crimson knuckles.
When she looks at him again, his eyes are closed, long lashes wet. His sob echoes off the brick walls, off the walls of her heart.
Immediately, she’s on the move. She places a folded towel on the concrete floor and kneels behind him. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, but settle no lower than his collarbones, concerned she’ll hurt him or cross a line.
Dean wastes no time leaning against her, basking in her comfort. The front of her t-shirt ends up soaked, but it doesn’t bother her in the slightest.
Humbly processing his trust, she allows her touch to descend. Her palms gently rest on his sternum, the right above the left. She feels his heartbeat.
He’s still here.
The reality of the last 36 hours begins to sink in. The tension in her body loosens, but shifts itself to constrict her throat.
She needs more. More of him.
She nuzzles her nose next to Dean’s ear, and she can’t tell if the whimper that reaches her senses came from her or him.
Illuminated by candlelight, the two of them stay swept up in each other’s presence until the water turns cold.