sleepy & thinking abouuut dean winchester with a partner who is just a little peculiar in the ways in which they express their love towards him.
you sniff at his neck and press your nose into the soft spikes of his hair as he sleeps, breathing him in with deep inhales, faded cologne and basalm and dark vanilla. he might stir, and doesn't speak at all, fingers finding your waist to pull you closer.
sometimes, you'll clamber over him in bed and stare down, blinking owlishly and quiet. he stares back, tips up into your palm as it smooths over his forehead. he likes it. likes you, likes how quiet you can be, likes how you stare and bump the tip of your nose to his.
you'll admit things, in the late evening, when it's only him and a gauzy breeze rolling in soft waves through the cracked window of a worn motel room. he cleans his machete, his pistol, and there's so much you've got to tell him.
"i look at your knuckles a lot," you murmur.
his knuckles. it's only a little weird, when he thinks about it and glances to where you sit on the edge of the mussed bed. the mattress creaks as you shift. you're so pretty. he loves that you think about his knuckles. it feels intimate in a caliber he hasn't allowed himself to experience.
