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There was an ache deep in Dean’s mind, like the weariness in someone’s bones after a long day. He sat down, leaning back. His back hit the wall that seemed to always formulate without rhyme nor reason while he was here in the void.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
Chris was alright, they were having a good time with Zeyn and the brat. Dean would notice if something was wrong. It shouldn’t, according to Dean’s calculations; not tonight, anyway.
Someone made a low exhale as they sat down beside him. Dean glanced over at D.F. The large alter was not looking at him. He was sitting on Dean’s left, so his hair obscured the faceless void he had for a head.
He often did that. Dean wondered if it was on purpose, so that Dean could see him.
“How is it, tonight?” D.F. asked.
He often asked. There was an innate curiosity in him about the world, and since he wasn’t allowed even near the front most times, he relied on mostly Dean and Chris’s interpretations of outside their headspace.
“Rainy,” said Dean. “Chris let Zeyn have the bloody umbrella, so we got soaked.”
“That was kind of him,” murmured D.F. “What does rain feel like?”
“I’ve told you before, you dumb fuck.”
“I forgot,” said D.F. simply.
“That’s a boldface lie,” said Dean.
“Humor me.”
Dean sighed loudly. “Fine. You know when Chris or Umi cry?”
“I do,” said D.F. He turned slightly, so that he was facing Dean a little more. His black eye was centered on him from behind the long curtain of hair that framed his face.
“It’s like that, but trillions of them.” An unfathomable number. “They’re all coming down on you, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, depending on the weather. Today, it was fast. And they were fucking cold.”
“Can they be warm, sometimes?”
“Yes. In the late spring and summer the rain is usually warm.”
“What season is it now?” asked D.F.
“Autumn. The shitloads of bugs are gone now, and the leaves are turning different colors.”
“What colors do they turn?”
“Red,” Dean said. He was getting bored of this conversation. “Yellow. Orange. Then brown, and they all fall off. What did you do today?”
“I talked to Umi,” said D.F. “And I came near the front, twice, when you and Chris were having an argument.”
Dean remembered it. He wouldn’t have called it an “argument,” but D.F. was very sensitive to any sort of tension between any of the alters and Chris, even if it was miniscule.
“I know that,” Dean said.
“Other than that, I played some games. Umi introduced me to Settlers of Catan.”
Dean had played that, once or twice. It wasn’t completely his style, but it was one of the few games that Umi liked to play that he could actually beat him at sometimes.
“A bit different from chess, huh?”
“It’s still a strategy game,” said D.F.
“How did you do?”
“Umi beat me the first, second, and fifth times. I beat him the third and the fourth.”
“He’s a smart little fucker.”
“He is intelligent, yes.”
“You know, D.F.,” said Dean, “when I first met you, my first impression of you was that you were going to be a pain in my ass to deal with.”
“Did that turn out to be true?” asked D.F.
“Yes.”
“I’m glad I lived up to your expectations.”
Dean couldn’t help but laugh at that. D.F.’s eye crinkled up into what Dean had learned was a smile.
“Sometime, I’ll bring you to the front when it’s raining. That way, you won’t have to ‘forget’ anymore.”
D.F. hummed lowly. He turned his body towards Dean, leaning down into his space.
“I would like that, Dean,” he said.
Dean didn’t know whether he wanted to insult him or kiss him. He chose the latter, leaning up into the void of his face and finding the indents of his lips.
He felt D.F. smiling into Dean’s lips.
Dean grabbed the side of D.F.’s face, pulling him down even further and threading his fingers through the long, soft hair. D.F.’s lips parted slightly, and he gently ran his mouth along Dean’s, more nuzzling than actual kissing.
Dean adored him, and that made him angry.
He pushed it down. He wasn’t some schoolboy pulling pigtails at recess; he could be kind, and loving, and making sure his lover-not-lover got the soft attention that he deserved—
D.F. reached up, running his hands through Dean’s hair, and Dean instinctively bit the alter’s lip. Hard.
“There it is,” D.F. murmured with a small laugh.
“Fuck you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Bloody hell, I didn’t mean literally, you psycho.”
D.F. chuckled softly. “Neither did I. It is a funny joke, though.”
Dean hummed. He leaned into the touch that was still threading its way through his hair.
He hated touch, normally. With D.F., though, it made him feel safe. Beloved, wanted for his own self. They were emotions that not even Chris could stir. Like Dean could let go and simply just breathe.
“Bloody Dumb Face,” they muttered, and D.F. chuckled again.
“Of course, Dean.”