Title:
Comfort
Rating:
PG-13
Pairing:
Dean/OFC
Warnings:
None
Spoilers:
None
Word
Count: 502
Summary: She hears his voice and all is well. Mostly anyway.
Author's Note: Written for the 'These are my favourite things' challenge at spnhetlove.
"Liar".
She hadn't known it then but that one little word would change so much.
It wasn't even the word itself but the way he'd said it. Easy, confident, like the arrogant bastard thought he knew her.
In truth he did though. Or knew of her at least. Enough so that when she denied that she was a young woman from a family of hunters who was running her now deceased grandmother's occult store, as well as one who was showing empathic tendencies and just happened to have lost her mother in a house fire a six months old, he could reply with one word and an knowing smile.
"Liar".
He'd irritated her greatly at first. Every word he'd spoken had seemed like a thinly veiled jibe dressed in honeyed tones. Sam was friendly. He'd asked for her help in tracing a particularly elusive spirit, knowing her gift could be useful in pinpointing its presence.
Dean on the other hand had taken to referring to her rather coldly as a 'walking, talking evil thing radar'. She'd put up with it for a while until his dismissive manner finally made her snap. Much to her surprise her angry tirade seemed to leave him suitable chastised, mumbling a sincere if slightly reluctant apology.
Since then that voice had snuck more and more successfully into her life whether it be down the telephone asking for help with the occult or in person talking about nothing in particular.
She often joked that he must have gargled with whiskey and gravel as a kid to end up with that tone and timber. He'd laughed, pointing out that the ladies said it was rather sexy.
And despite her throwing back a sarcastic comment, deep down she could understand its appeal. Sometimes, when they talked in the dark, abandoned shop, him confessing to her things he would have usually told no one but Sam, the sound of his voice was like being wrapped in soft velvet. It strangely made her feel better no matter what horrors it spoke of.
The first time he kissed her he'd mumbled her name between presses of his lips against hers and it was the most pleasant sensation of drowning in warmth she could possibly imagine.
She had grown to learn that that voice had so much more to say though.
When he's worried it cracks and breaks no matter how much he's trying to keep it together and it gives him away.
When he stands near, his whispers so close in her ear make her shiver and she complains that she wishes he wouldn't do that because it makes her feel like agreeing to anything. He just chuckles and says he'll keep doing it then.
On a hunt, barking out his orders, sometimes he scares her with the intensity of his passion for the kill and with the realisation that this is part of who they are, ingrained so deep that a normal life is nothing but a pleasant fiction.
But most surprisingly of all, in the quietest parts of the night his voice was a comfort, a tenderness there she heard at no other time. A soothing presence setting her mind at ease and telling her that despite it all, it would be okay.
Saying that he would always be there to comfort her in the dark.