He's never been much for talking, not really. You think it's because he has so much on his mind it weighs it all down – crowding out all the words that mean anything.
But it's not about the words, not for Dean anyways. He's tried before, to shape it into something big enough to contain all that he's thinking and feeling and being, but it makes him feel like he's complaining – and if there's one thing he'll never do it's that.
So when the screen door bangs against the frame, and he walks in with eyes like a storm cloud, all dark grey-blue and fierce – walking up like he can't stay still, like if he stops moving he stops living – you don't ask any questions.
You glance through the window – his car's in the driveway, all muscle, like him. The door creaks, and its breaking, little by little, and that's like him too you think, while you finish drying your hands on the dish-towel.
"Hi," He says – his voice is strained. You run a hand through your hair, trying to tame it. "I –" he paused, "I should a' called."
You shake your head no, because he wouldn't be Dean if he called ahead. "You know you're always welcome here," you tell him, striding forward.
He's shifting from foot to foot – can't even be still when he's standing in the same spot – and you allow a fleeting moment to wonder what he does and what his life is, aside from the little bits he's told you – the brother, the father, his dead mother, the job that keeps him on the road and keeps him coming back. You think you know more about him from what he doesn't say than what he does, and it saddens you sometimes, but then – it's never been about words between you.
He shrugs, chagrined, tilting his head and looking at the ground, "is he…uh…"
You nod, "He's sleeping."
A small smile ghosts across his lips as he comes closer, the spaces between you disappearing.
He smells like dust you think, and then he's there – there's so much of him, and you think that's how it should be – because all that he's filled up with and all that he bottles up needs some place to go.
And suddenly, you think, you think too much, and thinking's no longer a priority when his hooded eyes catch yours and hold them, like he's a predator, pulling you hard and fast against him, and even through the layers of clothes, he's pulled taut like a sting, holding tight like it's painful, because he knows he wants all those things he can't ask for, and if he's not careful, he could stay still, and then he wouldn't keep moving.
He brings his face closer to yours, his mouth open and wanting like his eyes, and you can't even notice how your breath is catching, because he's kissing you and killing you, the back of your thighs hitting loudly against the kitchen table, and you could care less, because you're desperately trying to find a way to touch him and not his clothes as his breath plays hot against your neck and he's deepening the kiss – delving in and out with his tongue – and you have to feel your palm against his skin – need to touch him.
He's tossing his jacket on the floor, and you're yanking his shirt up from his pants, snaking your hands underneath – he pulls it over his head, then seizes your mouth again – a gentle sort of urgency, like he could take it because he needs it so much, but he wants you to give it, and so you do – you kiss him hard, and force him backwards, gasping as he splays his hand across the breadth of your back.
Feet are twisting and turning and the wall feels so cold against your back where he's pressing hotly against your front, and suddenly you're sucking in a breath and keening deep in your throat as his lips find your neck, and that spot just below your ear that makes you want.
He's pulling down your braw strap with infinite tenderness, frantic and shaking and needing, but trying not to hurt you – you have no idea where your shirt is or when it left, but you don't care, because his hot wet mouth is on your collar bone, and your hands are running through his hair, and you can see him glisten with sweat.
He always does this to you – makes you feel invincible, and you can't deny him, every time he rolls into to town, full of bravado, because when he's here, he's like this, raw and masculine and vulnerable.
And sometimes you think maybe you need this just as much as he does. So you grasp his hand, and lead him down the hallway…
Sometimes it makes you sad, when the warm cocoon of his body disappears, and all you're left with is cold sheets. It's not the same as him. But you know, just as much as he does, that you're only part of the reason he's here.
So you wind the sheet around your body, and lever yourself to standing, padding softly out of the room, down to the other end of the hallway. It's a small room, and cluttered, but Dean's there none the less, sitting beside the bed, stroking the wispy brown strands of hair, gazing adoringly at the sleeping three year old.
Making sure his chest keeps rising and falling, his pink little cheeks puffing in and out shallowly, clutching his blanket.
His eyes are full up of tears that he can't shed, and words that he can't say, but he stroke's his hair, and you know he loves.
"Hey son," he chokes, "I'm sorry I missed your birthday this year – but I was only a few days off, right?"
He pauses, and you can tell it's hard for him, and in his hand he's got a tiny three year old sized baseball mitt. He stares at it for a second, gaining his composure. "I used to like to play it – before everything. This used to be mine." He chuckles lightly under his breath, and puts it beside the bed.
He stays there for some time, just watching his son breath in and out, in and out. The sun's beginning to filter through the trees, and he stands, turning to you, his eyes are red, and his voice is hoarse, but there's an unclenched cast to his face that wasn't there before.
"He got big," he murmurs, pulling you close, holding you, finally still.
"yeah."
You pause, and then tell him. "Alec misses you…and so do I."
His breath catches in his throat and he turns his head away. "You know – I've got things to take care of. But when its all done, when it's over – "
"I know. And you'll still be welcome." You whisper, kissing him lightly.
The motel door opens, and he's carrying a greasy paper bag. "Sam! Wake up – breakfast!"
Sam squints and groans but shoves off the blankets. "Why can't we get real food sometimes?"
Dean doesn't answer, just bites into his egg mcmuffin in silence.
"You alright man?"
He doesn't answer, just stares out the window. "sure." He mumbles. "Lets hurry up and get this done."