Author's Note: And now we are up to Day 5 in my offerings to hekate1308 for the "All I Want for Christmas is Drowley" exchange on tumblr. Prompts? Holiday? What are these words of which you speak, I know them not. This one is a weird kind of experimental little piece. Mainly as a result of my absolute exhaustion the evening I wrote it. Here's hoping it works! Takes place during S13 (or maybe even a little later).
Hope you enjoy!
It happens in stages.
But not any sort of stages that can be planned for. Anticipated. Because this isn't some storybook romance.
It's not a romance at all.
Though it could be.
They veer through some typical tropes. Enemies, reluctant allies…lovers. Partners in crime. Though not necessarily in that order, and some they visit on and off, again and again. Trying out this one, or that one, as the need or want may arise.
The epitome of two steps forward, ten steps back.
Always skirting into and around the winding path that a friendship makes, without ever quite walking it. Without either one ever quite willing to take the risk. Never certain if they can trust.
Never certain if they should.
It's exhausting.
So much so that they've both lost time, thinking, wondering, worrying.
Considering.
Should they just cut their losses and run?
But neither is quite willing to step away.
And so they circle one another. An ongoing ebb and flow.
Like a dance.
Until one day, Crowley dies.
By his own hand.
And Dean - Dean can't figure out how to slot that into place. It doesn't feel like the right ending for them.
It doesn't feel like an ending at all.
Instead it feels more like a pause.
Like whatever malevolent writer is scripting their story just decided it was time for a break. Stepped away from the keyboard, and went off to have a cup of tea. Or a beer. Right in the middle of what should have been an epic redemptive arc.
LIke they were bored. Or blocked.
Or just didn't care.
(And Dean promises, if it's Chuck still at the helm, and not some other upstart angel like Metatron, he's going to find him in the void one day, and they are going to have words.)
But Dean does care and so Dean spends the days, then the weeks, and then the months after Crowley's death revisiting all their greatest hits in a weird sort of mourning based nostalgia.
Which, inevitably, leads to him talking to a ghost that isn't there. Odd little asides after a case, or when Sam or Cas or Jack, or even his Mom once they get her back, are grating on his nerves and he just wants someone to be on his side.
Or for no reason at all, other than he misses him.
Misses the snark and the sass and the Armani. Misses the witty banter and smooth innuendo.
Misses him in that way that only the water of time can permit. When it wears down the rough edges until all that remains is easy to handle memories.
However it shakes out, the fact is that he misses him.
It's only once a year has passed, and Dean figures he's got a lock on dealing with the whole loss thing, and is in the middle of raising a toast to his…not quite but could have been if they'd just been given the time...friend, and wishing him well wherever he might be, that Crowley returns.
A little torn and tattered at the seams. A little skittish and unsure as he blinks back into existence after the commercial break to end all commercial breaks.
But it's him. Real and solid and undeniably him standing in front of a Dean that has learned how to be somewhat less emotionally constipated, and so Dean does what Dean always does when confronted with the unexpected return of someone he cares about from beyond the grave.
He hugs him.
Two arms wrapped around and holding tight to someone he didn't realize mattered so much until he was gone.
It's not until Crowley's arms are around Dean, hands bunched into the back of Dean's shirt, clinging to him as if he'll never have another chance, that it occurs to Dean that this is - for all intents and purposes - the first time they've ever done this.
The first time they've ever just hugged.
Before their arms have returned to their sides, Dean decides he wants to do it again. Soon. And often.
So he does.
He feels a little better each and every time.
They happen in stages.
Though not in any sort of order like one may expect. Because this isn't some storybook romance.
Because it wasn't a romance at all.
Until, of course, one day it is.
~End