Dear Winter,
You are the snow-covered valleys that follow my footfalls. You are the season that buries my rose buds and keeps them from blooming. The days where the bunker becomes buried in snow falls deep enough to hide within. The leaves are gone, all traces hidden within storm drains. The sun's light is bright but there is never enough heat. Winter you are the enemy that brings forth my first cold, first sniffle, first cough. The common cold is a disgusting illness that requires me, an angel of the Lord, to use a Kleenex for the first time. You are also the season that brings Dean close and wraps me in his warmth.
Dean tries to teach me how to snowball fight. I hate the feel of icy snow running down the back of my coat, but Dean's smile melts it instantly. Dean likes winter I think, he smiles often. Alternatively, perhaps he is laughing at my lack of knowledge on trivial activities such as making snow angels. That one hit a bit too close but I make one anyways and draw it a halo. When my nose is icy, pink and my fingers freeze, Dean makes me hot chocolate. My clothes are soaked so he exchanges them for a blanket while they dry. The chocolate is warm enough to sooth the cold but I shiver anyway because it brings Dean closer.
His hands are rough on my shoulders but I cannot help but lean into the touch because I know the feeling will be missed when he is gone. And he just smiles and smiles, melting the ice hanging from the stairwell to the bunker. When a book in the library entrances Sam, Dean moves closer. His arm swallows me as he pulls me into his chest, and we stay like that. There is no fight for dominance, no need for copulating, just Dean and I. He runs strong hands against my spine and I am embarrassed as I nearly purr into his side. He likes that.
Then a case comes along and Dean and Sam get pulled out into the city. I have to stay behind with Kevin because he needs a guardian and I cannot hit a target yet. I have been practicing, but as Dean would say, no dice. Kevin is quiet, spends most of his time in the study reading, or in his room thinking. The bunker is icy again and no amount of blankets is warm enough. Loneliness is cold like winter, burns in my gut like frostbite.
I keep moving, washing the dishes, cleaning my room, Dean's room. Dean's room is warm, his sheets mottled with his scent. I find myself curled under his sheets, taking in his scent and I miss him when he is gone. A second pillow small enough to curl my arms around, but it is not Dean though I dream it is. When awoken, I shiver at the emptiness his room holds.
Dean comes home a few weeks later; he has a new scratch above his eyebrow I wish to heal. My 'mojo' is gone; all I can do is press a kiss to his temple and hold him, grateful he is home. Dean's room is warm that night as he lies pressed against my side. Empty mugs line his shelf with a promise to return them to the kitchen in the morning. For now, Dean is the blanket I have been missing, the sunlight through this dragged out winter.