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When Dean finally stirs, he finds himself wrapped in her arms and drenched in guilt.
He slept better than he has in weeks. But he kept her up till 4:00. He made her sacrifice the scant space of her bed. He friggin’ soiled her favorite pajama top with tears, and maybe drool, too…
Simmering in shame, he sets his jaw in an effort to muster up the courage to face her.
Hesitantly, Dean lifts his head from her chest and chances a glance at her.
She’s already awake and looking down at him like he gifted her the moon and stars last night.
“Hi,” she greets him with a smile.
It’s inexplicable--what she must see in him. He’s broken and weak and a burden, but she goes to every length to keep his head above water.
“Hi,” he reciprocates, no longer able to meet her eyes.
Just when Dean’s about to pull away, her hand begins brushing up and down the path of his arm. How quickly the simple movement convinces him to stay.
“You okay?” she whispers.
He nods, as he always does when someone asks him that question. But this time, he realizes it’s mainly honest. The shit that was bogging him down only hours ago has mostly dissipated. Temporarily, of course, but… He feels warm. Like the promise of hope is protecting him from the all-too-real nightmares of his life.
She did that.
Again.
The crease between her brows tells him she’s not sure if she believes him, so he verbalizes his response. “I’m okay.” He rubs a hand over his mouth and takes it a step further. “I’m just sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Why?”
He sucks in a deep, mildly-shaky breath and murmurs, “For bothering you.”
“Dean.” She fits her palm to his cheek, and he instinctively leans into her touch. “Did I do something to make you think that? That you’re bothering me?”
The tight line of her lips shows her utterly-selfless worry, and then and there, Dean concludes he’s the luckiest bastard on this sad planet.
Well, okay, maybe not the luckiest. If he were, she’d be his. Not only his closest friend, but his partner. The woman he’d wake up with after his tolerable nights, too. But that’s a pipe dream. Something he fights not to dwell on and fails to do so every godforsaken day.
“No,” he reassures her. “But I--”
“You are always welcome here, Dean,” she interrupts. Her words are delivered so softly, so sincerely, his throat burns.
He gently removes her hand from his face and smooches the back of it. The gesture nearly kills him.
The smile she offers in return is one he won’t forget any time soon. But he must move past it for now, or he’ll wind up stuck.
Dean sits up, shifting to throw his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m gonna start breakfast.” He sniffs before muttering, “S’least I can do.”
She blankets the hand he has settled on the mattress with hers. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Dean narrowly holds in his scoff. He shoots her a pointed, pleading look.
She exhales, and her tone lightens. “Are we talking bacon?”
“Obviously,” he reveals with a mock-offended pout.
She chuckles, and he would gladly spend the rest of forever trying to make her laugh.
“I’ll be there in 10,” she informs him.
He grins before ripping himself away from her sanctuary.
When Dean enters the kitchen, Sam is stationed at the table with his laptop and a notepad.
The younger Winchester checks his watch. “Good morning. Barely. ”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles halfheartedly, reaching for a frying pan. A weird energy buzzes throughout the room, and it leaves him itchy. His gaze falls on Sam, and he notices the amused expression his brother aims at the computer screen. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Sam states innocently, but an underlying knowing twinkles in his eyes when they lift upward.
Dean splits into two equal parts of annoyed and embarrassed. “Oh, would you-- Nothing happened.”
With the tips of his ears scalding, Dean busies himself with bacon, eggs, and toast to fend off his little brother’s razzing and to distract himself from tempting thoughts of her.