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The early afternoon sun was more golden than normal, making our pale yellow kitchen glow as I sat at the table. I had the day off so I was doing chores around the house. I sighed and stared out the window as I plucked another shirt from the pile of clean laundry I had dumped on the table. I hated days when he worked and I didn’t, I couldn’t focus on much other than the clock. It was only two in the afternoon and he wouldn’t get home until almost six. Wearing his old flannel made me feel a little better. With the sleeves rolled up and the front unbuttoned with only a bra underneath, it smelled like him.
The thing about love is that it’s not like in the movies or fairytales. It’s not always butterflies and breathlessness. It’s not a million ‘I love you’s shouted from a rooftop. In fact, we didn’t even say it out loud often… we didn’t have to. It’s deeper than the giggles and fluttering eyelashes. Love is a pull, a tether, to the other. The need to be with them, just be near. It’s wanting to be part of them forever… and have a piece of them as well.
My eyes wandered to the clock again, three and a half hours left, so I went back to folding and watching out the window.
The first time we met was brief, only a few months after I retired from hunting. A bad injury left me useless in the field so I retired near an old friend to help with his mountains of books and information. Bobby Singer was grateful for the help and the company. The Winchester brothers stopped by for information that Bobby and I gladly helped them with. The younger brother, Sam, walked me home late that night since I only lived down the road. He was sweet and charming as he insisted on carrying my bag full of research so I could better use my crutches. He smiled brightly and listened intently as I told an animated story about Bobby trying to make a good impression the first week we had met. Sam even stayed a few hours, helping with house work that I couldn’t do with a shattered leg. I repaid him with a soft kiss on the porch that left him a little flustered.
Not long after that, Bobby passed away and I was left to take over. A few quiet years passed, helping hunters and keeping to myself. But my past seemed to catch up with me and the second time I met Sam was when he and his brother saved my life… but not before the demons could do their damage.
After an extended stay in the hospital, I was left with an arm I couldn’t raise past my shoulder, no spleen, one and a half lungs, a piece of my scull about the size of a baseball missing, and I was left infertile. They replaced the missing part of skull with a plastic part but left me with a scar hidden in my hair, only adding to the collection of scars already scattered along my body.
One down the center of my chest where they cracked me open to stop the bleeding and remove the most damaged parts of my lung. One across my side where they pulled out my spleen and cleaned out that damage. One from my shoulder almost down to my elbow where they had to put rods and screws to put me back together. A long one down my leg from when they put my shattered leg back in place. And a million others from things and people who weren’t doctors and weren’t trying to help.
The Winchesters are the ones who took me home when I was released from the hospital, they even stayed to help take care of me for a few days. Dean eventually left, taking a job… but Sam stayed, and had ever since.
That was almost seven years ago. As I daydreamed about the past few years, I heard the squeal of the front door followed by a slam that shook the windows. I shot up from my seat, but didn’t go into the living room. His boots thundered through the house, pausing to look down the hall and into rooms as he looked for me. When he came to the doorway to the kitchen and saw me I could see his shoulders relax a little bit. I leaned back against the table and he walked in and leaned against the cream colored counter a few feet in front of me.
Sighing, he let his head lull back against the yellow cabinets, “Car backfired today,” he muttered and I didn’t interrupt him, “Wouldn’t have been so bad if it was at work… the guys… they know to expect it,” another sigh and he ran a hand down his face, “But I was headed to lunch and some stupid kid with a loud old car,” his fingers flexed to cling to the counter, “Car fired and I pulled my gun, hid behind a shop doorframe,”
He chuckled, but it wasn’t one with humor, “’Course, somebody called it in and Mark showed up and hauled me in. Left the cuffs off this time. Jody let me off, told me to reconsider carrying,”
I sighed, Jody told us a few times that we probably shouldn’t carry our weapons, but with hunters retired is never for sure. So we always carry. Hell, even if I was home alone walking around in my sweatpants you better believe I had my pistol tucked in my waist.
Sam’s PTSD was a little delayed, his first episode didn’t happen until he had been retired with me for almost a year, and it had seemed to escalate to about an episode a month. He worked restoring old cars and he loved it, reminded him of Dean and his dad, but old cars come with loud engines.
I pushed off from the table and swayed toward him slowly. I softly trailed my hands up and down his arms and felt the muscles tense before relaxing. He sighed and his breath shook.
“God, I miss when I could just shoot something,” he grumbled and his fingers flexed again around the lip of the counter.
Resting my hands on his chest I gave a sad half smile, “No, you don’t,” I whispered.
He opened his eyes to stare into mine before nodding slowly in agreement. He didn’t miss shooting and I knew it, we both did. His forehead pressed to mine and his shaking hands slid softly around my hips to pull me flat against him. Staring into each other’s eyes he nodded gently again and he matched his breathing to my slow even ones. As he listened to me breathe, he shut his eyes and let his fingers rub idly at the small of my back while I curled my fingers in the soft fabric of his shirt.
I moved one hand up to the back of his neck, twirling a bit of his hair that fell there, “Hair’s getting a little long,” I murmured with a smile. It wasn’t overly long, just longer than I knew he liked it… though I sort of liked it like this, messy and soft.
His eyes opened an had a bit of his sparkle back as he smirked, “Yeah, I might leave it like this,” something in his eyes told me that he knew. He knew I liked to be able to tangle my fingers in it and have something to tug on. So I did just that. He groaned as I pulled gently at his hair and I grinned again.
Strong hands pressed more insistently into my back. He wanted a distraction and comfort. Moving slowly, I rolled onto my tiptoes and pressed my lips against his softly. He hugged me tighter and sighed with relief as he kissed me back.
After a long night of slow lazy kisses and holding each other tight, I decided to get up and make our morning coffee. Kissing his forehead softly, I wiggled out of his arms and tiptoed out of the room in my underwear and his tee-shirt leaving his soft snores behind me. Apparently Sam had done the dishes last and decided to put my favorite mug on a shelf just barely out of my reach. Bobby had given it to me on my last birthday before he passed. His wife had hand-painted it with beautiful flowers and vines and it meant the world to him.
I stretched up on my toes as far as I could and used my good arm to reach. My fingertips brushed against it and I tried to push it a little closer. I almost had it when I lost my balance and sent the mug hurtling toward the tile floor.
The crash of ceramic echoed through the house and I stood in horror looking down at the last piece of Bobby I had, split into five or six pieces. I put a hand over my mouth and turned away as tears started to slip through my eyelashes.
Sam stood in the doorway, looking between me and the shards of glass and back again. He stepped forward and pulled me into his chest, brushing his fingers through my hair and kissing the top of my head. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t tell me it’d be ok or that it’s just a mug.
Love is weird. It’s every cheesy cliché and more. It’s the littlest touch and the softest sound. The most beautiful calm ocean and the most terrifying crashing waves. A beautiful symphony and a rock band playing a little too loud in the garage next door. It’s a cup of luke-warm coffee sipped over a burnt pancake breakfast. An ice cube on your tongue after you burn your mouth on a fresh cookie. It’s everything… and it’s weird.
Two days later, I came home from work and he was still gone at work.
On the kitchen table I found a handful of flowers and my mug, glued back together almost perfectly.
Actually, it was more perfect. Because now it was from two people I loved.