Looking outside once more, watching potholes fill with rain, a small smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Never knowing you’d go back to the hotel and imagine it was you he was with. Going home with skank after skank as if you didn’t exist. He had made it clear that he was not looking for anything more than a quick fling with whatever local tramp stamp bearing bimbo he could find at the local bar when you first joined their band of wayward travelers. Not that there was any hope for something more than what you had. And even though you knew he tolerated you at best, getting to be near him day after day was what kept you waking up every morning. Keep fighting.ĭean had been the one good thing that had come out of all the blood and tragedy. All you could do was what you’d always done. Whether he had finally made a mistake or if his reflexes had started to slow, you’d never know. Knowing it was a large nest, your dad had called the Winchesters to come help out. He died in what should have been a simple vampire hunt. An occupation you had managed to survive for a decade. At the ripe old age of 15, all dreams of a normal life died, and you became a hunter. Your father, much like John Winchester, became obsessed. Your dads were friends for years after John helped your family when a coven of witches moved into the small town you had lived in, wreaking havoc all around and resulting in the deaths of dozens. ![]() With Dean.ĭean Winchester had been the object of your every daydream, fantasy, and vibrator driven solo mission you’d had since you met six months ago. Shrugging, you tried desperately to keep your mind off what you’d like to do to pass the time. What the hell are we supposed to do while we wait?” “Ugh, this sucks!” He tossed the remote onto your bed as he sat up, swinging his feet to the ground. A groan brought you out of your thoughts. His head rested on his hand while the other pointed a remote at an old fatback television, flipping through channels he could barely make out through the static.Īpparently, the storm had taken out the cable along with internet and cell phone service, leaving you stranded here until you could get in touch with Sam and Castiel. The one bright side was the 6-foot tall man sprawled on one of the beds. You didn’t know which was gloomier the dreary gray soaked mess outside or the shabby dilapidated hole you found yourself in. The queen-sized beds squeezed into the small space covered in olive threadbare comforters from decades past. The smell of stale cigarettes clung to old carpet and wood-paneled walls. Picking at the chipped table, you glance around the room. Rain leaked through the windowpane, bubbling the paint on the sill. Thunder rumbled across the sky as the heavens poured from above. My prompts were “Life begins at…” and “But enough about me, let’s talk about you.” ![]() ![]() Warnings- Little bit of angst, mutual pining, fluffĪuthor’s Note- This was written for Roaring at Forty challenge. Summary- You and Dean reminisce about your childhoods and decide it’s never too late to play in the rain.
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