Sorry for the up and down updates, guys. I used to upload a chapter every Friday but now it's all over the place. The struggle of facing real life obligations doesn't suit with me. I'm moving into my own apartment and my writing desk currently consists of a cardboard box along with some novels stacked on top if it. You wouldn't believe the back cramps I get trying to write.
Loved your reviews on the the last chapter and took all of your words and advice to heart! Hope you continue to enjoy!
THIRTY-FIVE: Pillow Talk
New York, New York
"I feel out of place," Dean grumbled after stopping at the eighth red light and glowering out of the windshield which was sprinkled with a light rain. "There's a friggin' sea of people and the lights only last about five seconds. Who taught this asshole how to drive!?" he suddenly spat at a mad taxi driver and swerving the Impala so that a few cars honked angrily. "I hate the city."
"Being in a largely populated area is a good idea until the situation in Baltimore clears up," said Sam.
"And in the meantime," I said from the backseat, straightening the newspaper in my hand, "we have a man who had said to be vividly hallucinating before having a severe seizure and—oh wait. No . . . he just accidentally added too much nutmeg to his drink."
"How the hell do you accidentally add too much nutmeg to your drink?" said Dean heatedly. I shrugged. "Once we find the motel, I'll be able to lower my heart rate."
"Yeah . . . according to this address Bree gave us, it should be right about . . . here," said Sam. We all leaned to the right to get a better view of the building. In unison, all of our jaws dropped. It was a very tall structure, nearly thirty stories, its roof seeming to rip through the dark clouds above. The two glass double doors were maintained by a pair of doormen who wore very straight expressions.
"Um . . ." said Dean. "This can't be right."
"Uh . . . yeah. Yeah it is," said Sam with a light chuckle, just as someone behind us honked their horn and Dean hurried to find the parking garage. A man was waiting for us just at the front of it, indicating Dean to roll down his window.
"Can I park your car for you, sir?" he asked.
"What?" said Dean as if the man had requested for one of his limbs.
"Your car," the man repeated with a polite smile.
"Why?" Dean demanded sharply.
"Dean, it's his job," said Sam.
"But—"
"Just give me your name and number and I'll make sure your vehicle is well taken care of," said the man.
A few moments later Dean got grudgingly out from the Impala, staring down at the man's outstretched hand and fondling the keys very timidly between his fingers. He handed them to the man, but when he pulled to retrieve them, Dean had still not let go.
"Sir?"
"Yeah," said Dean stiffly.
"Dean, come on," said Sam just as I had finished gathering my things and exited the car. Dean swallowed, wearing a very worn smile, but it merely looked as though he had a bad toothache. The man was beginning to shift very questioning looks toward Sam and me, but I was having a hard time fighting a laugh.
"Dean," I said smoothly, grabbing the hem of his jacket and giving it a small tug. He looked at me, as if mutely begging for aid. "He's going to take good care of your baby. Let's get inside."
"Right, um . . ." He released the keys, staring at the man as if he had entrusted him with the care of his newborn child. He leaned in slightly. "If you do anything to my car, I will pummel your ass."
Then we left, leaving a very baffled and blank-expression parking man behind us.
"I don't know about this," said Dean, glancing warily at the doormen. "I can't smell the used mattresses or cat piss from the front door. This doesn't ring a home bell for me."
The hotel was indeed very fancy, but it had a slightly modest aspect that was hard to place. When we gave our names to the front desk, the concierge announced that our room had already been paid for and gave us three keys to our room. Dean's uncertainty seemed to be waining slightly as he gazed around at the tall, cathedral-like ceilings and the staff that seemed to be frolicking around just to do the customer's bidding.
Dean let out a low whistle as we entered our room on the ninth floor. The carpets were a light pink rose color which went well with the white walls that were decorated exuberantly with various oil paintings.
"Think you might be changing your mind?" I asked, throwing my bag on the frighteningly white couch.
He didn't answer immediately, choosing instead to investigate one of the bedrooms. Sam and I glanced at each other. A moment later, Dean barged back in, grinning ear to ear with two pieces of what looked like wrapped chocolate in his hands. "They put out those little mint chocolate thingies on the pillow!"
It was impossible not to smile at the look of utter delight on his face.
"This makes me realize how much we're usually deprived of, seeing as you get excited about pillow chocolates," I snorted as Dean plopped one into his mouth, offering me the other one.
"No, thanks."
He raised his eyebrows. "No one likes a chocolate hater. More for me," he said, unwrapping the other and chewing it roughly while peering indignantly down at me.
"Where's Bree supposed to be?" asked Sam after returning from his inspection from the bathroom.
"Dunno," I said lightly, glancing around for a note. "Something tells me she likes the element of surprise."
"Good God," said Dean, evidently not listening to a word of our conversation. He had a menu in his hand, flipping through it and gazing down at it as if it was a particularly challenging eye test. "The cheeseburgeris thirty-five dollars. What, are the sesame seeds made of gold?"
"Yeah, you don't get to touch that," said a voice from the furthest doorway. I didn't need to turn to know who it was. Bree stood in a short, white towel with her skin still dripping wet and rubbing a peach smelling lotion over her arms. Her yellow eyes were fixed warily on Dean who had lowered the menu to stare at her.
A very strong, very unfamiliar feeling started to rise from the center of my gut, and it only ignited when I saw Dean eye the brim of the towel. Yet he recovered himself almost at once, putting on his best sour expression he could manage.
"I didn't know this was a clothing-optional meeting," I said.
"Any occasion is clothing-optional," she answered, taking the towel off her head and shaking her abnormally thick hair behind her shoulders and disappearing into the bedroom.
"Right, remind me again when we all agreed this was a good idea?" said Dean with frail attempt to keep quiet.
"I'm on an quest to find myself?" I suggested lightly.
"Ha!" I heard Bree scoff, reappearing a few seconds later with her wet hair tied up in a tight bun and wearing an outfit suitable enough if she was about to attend a yoga class. "I'm not promising you anything if you're attempting to go on a soul-search. This isn't about sitting cross-legged and letting out a bunch of 'ooms'. Hurry up and change."
"For what?" I said quickly.
She raised her eyebrows at me suspiciously, as though she thought I was trying to be funny. "Remember that sister-on-sister thing I mentioned before you darted for daddy dearest? It's girl time, kitten."
She tossed a pair of black stretch pants that were identical to her own at me along with a olive green tank top. I caught them uncertainly, holding them up and guessing the top was going to be a bit tight on me.
"No one mentioned anything about physical exertions," I murmured grumpily.
"And what are we supposed to do while you're going off doing sister-bonding?" said Dean and she looked at him with a heavy amount of unnecessary scorn.
"I—can't care less," she said slowly, as if hesitant on whether to answer him at all. "Do what you always do? Look for a case? Take advantage of the open selection of adult content on the TV?"
Sam, who had been seated on the couch while browsing channels on the television, looked up with a slightly dubitable expression.
"Yeah, thanks," said Dean dully, rubbing his eye.
Ignoring him, Bree turned to me. "Ready?"
.
After about the fifth time on landing roughly on my rear on the blue mat, my faith I had in my hunting skills was beginning to wain slightly. Bree had led me to the small but deserted gym in the hotel that was mostly built up of blue mats, punching bags, and weights.
"You keep dropping your shoulder; I know when you're going to throw a punch," said Bree.
"I thought we were going to do a more of a philosophical lesson?" I said very irritably, jumping to my feet and tightening my loosening ponytail.
Her arms relaxed along her sides, her long eyelashes blinking feebly over her yellow eyes as she gazed at me.
"I told you I would teach you everything, including fighting like a real hunter. While you were taught on the physical level, you have traits that don't accommodate with humans. Hearing their movements, listening to their heart beat as their fear picks up; it's almost like mind-reading." She swung a very abrupt kick to my side, which I hardly dodged, my chest giving a great heave as I raised my forearm to block her next punch. "You just haven't opened yourself up enough."
"I've never had trouble fighting this way before."
"No, but you're not 'human' anymore. You're trying to force your body into a fighting style that isn't built for it, like trying to squeeze a circle into a triangle. You're—" she made a sudden jump, her entire body creating a karate-like spin as her leg came hurling at me. I caught her ankle, but she jerked it back so fiercely that I nearly tumbled forward. "—thinking too much."
I grit my teeth, closing my eyes briefly and tucking a bang hair that was slightly wet with sweat behind my ear. It was a little like sparring with a wild jungle cat. Her body seemed to take form of water; easily taking any shape and swiftly dodging any attack I may advance upon her, and I could tell she was having the time of her life bossing me around.
"Then tell me exactly how not do that," I said, surprising myself with how placid I sounded.
"Can you give me simple instructions on how to live?" she inquired. I narrowed my eyebrows. "S'not that simple, kitten. You don't learn how to fight, you just—do it. It's already built in your system, you just need to learn how to awaken it."
"And my questions have been answered," I said dully.
She didn't smile. "Fine. Have it your way. Shoot me a question."
I straightened up, kneading my bruised knuckles against the palm of my hand, my eyes flickering to meet hers. "Why blood? Why hearts? Why is it always those two? Like, I can't settle for a Caesar salad to get rid of the hunger?"
Bree looked as though she was about to laugh. "Because it's always blood; it's what keeps people alive. We drink it, we need and crave it. We feed on their life, henceforth, giving us life. There's a reason it's overly written in horror stories. Same goes for the hearts."
She threw a very unexpected punch at my face. I reacted, but still she managed to graze her fist on my left cheekbone. It was no frilly throw, either; I could feel almost her entire body weight heaved into that punch, resulting in a stinging pain in my face.
"Possession," I breathed out, taking a few quick paces back as she aimed a kick for my face. "Cor Comedenti's are supposed to have their own bodies; how does it work?"
She took her in time in answering, delivering a trio of fanatic punches, looking surprised as I felt when I was able to dodge all of them.
"It's not like the black-eyed hooligans," she said, erecting her shoulders and craning her neck. "With the Cor, it's a skill, and not everyone can do it. There needs to be an open wound on the victim, a bite, of course, being the preference." She lifted her shirt almost to her bust line to show a bite similar to Dean's, but just below the left breast. It looked more like a bear had attacked her. She lowered her shirt. "We kind of . . . dissolve into the body through the wound. It costs a lot of mind power and you can end up completely damaging the person's brain if you're not careful. A lot of the Cors' abilities are psychic, actually."
"Huh?" I said, so taken aback that I forgot to dodge her next kick and swore one of my ribs cracked.
"Oh, we're more than just physical," she said as she watched me rub my side tenderly. "But again, like possession, not every Cor can do it. Dream walking being the most common skill."
"Dream walking?"
"Entering other people's dreams," she explained. "You, however, having a human father, have a very slight chance of having any kind of ability."
I had no problem with this seeing as adapting to blood lust and heightened senses was hard enough.
"Anyway, the possession would be permanent if it weren't for the full moon every month. There's really no need to possess someone, but it makes feeding a lot easier," she continued.
"How so?"
She grinned.
"Well, if you were a lonely man walking into a bar at one in the morning, who would you prefer to show your silks to? The seemingly but not all too innocent busty ebony, or the horse-sized dog?"
"And that's what your real form looks like?"
"You'll have to find out next full moon, won't you? Which is . . . little more than a week, come to think of it."
My throat tightened. Was it really that close already?
"Anymore questions?" she asked briskly.
"What's up with the yellow eyes? For about a year when my emotions were running high or I didn't eat anything, they were demon-black."
She threw another punch to my face and I caught it within a centimeter of my nose. It was an odd moment; for the first time in longer than a year, a person's temperature met mine. It wasn't cold, but I could not feel the heat, perhaps because she was just as warm as I.
Bree met my eyes as though she knew what I was experiencing and quickly withdrew.
"Think of it like Cor puberty. Y'know, like humans get pimples, voices get deeper, boobs get bigger. When we're first born and up to about ten, they're a really light brown, then fade into yellow. No one really knows why we get black eyes, but the yellow . . ." She gave a disturbing smile. "It's like the monster within is . . . getting comfortable."
We stared at each other. Although my stomach dropped a little at her words, I kept my expression straight. Her eyes waved over me like a hawk searching for vulnerability, but I would not give it.
I hurled myself forward, ducking under a backhanded throw and actually managing to get a firm punch onto her side. She didn't stumble, but her balance suffered for a few short moments in which she tossed her hair defiantly.
"Better. Maybe you can ask the chuckleheads to volunteer as a punching bag. Sure they wouldn't mind."
I straightened my back. "What's with the immediate angst towards the two?"
Her smile quivered and her eyelids slid half-closed, her body relaxing from its former tense state.
"Nothing personal," she said. "I just don't like men."
I frowned at her unusual answer, but wondered if it was smart to pry; Bree didn't seem the type of person to willingly spill out her feelings in front of someone, especially someone who was next to a complete stranger.
"What caused that viewpoint?" I inquired.
Her eyes lifted a margin, yet didn't meet mine. "The past is a dirty thing, kitten. I'm sure given your recent circumstances, you can understand that."
I looked away. "If we're going to be traveling together—"
"I said nothing of the sort. I will not be jammed inside that Impala, scanning over newspaper articles and trying to play hunter. That's your weird hobby, not mine. We may have the same mother but I feel no obligation to play older sister."
There was a brief silence.
"Isn't that what you're doing right now?"
Again, it looked as though she was having a hard time maintaining her indifferent expression.
"Done talking," she said abruptly. "If you want anymore of my time, start throwing punches."
.
Sam looked irritably up from his book as Dean gave out another triumphant yell from the living room, proving yet again he had found the goodies whilst rooting through a bowl of trail mix that was placed on the coffee table.
"I don't get why they even bother to put candy in with nuts and raisins; just becomes a game of Find the M&M's," muttered Dean. "What time is it?"
Sam checked his watch. "Quarter past seven."
"They've been out awhile."
"Yeah, well I'm guessing Kat's going to be parched for information, what with being on her own for a year an' all."
Dean glanced up at the television where an unknown show was playing merely for background noise. He sneezed, rubbed his nose, then got to his feet to retrieve a beer from the fridge, gently prodding his brother's shoulder to get his attention.
"So, honestly, what's your take on Sabrina the Teenage Bitch?"
Sam glanced up at him with a small frown, then shrugged. "I already gave my take."
"We don't really have a reason to trust her."
"We don't have a reason not to trust her. I mean, I've been doing some research of my own," he raised up the book, "and Cor Comedenti aren't that much different than wild animals, yet have higher human intelligence. It's not like they're particularly foul to anyone. They just want to be left alone."
"Yeah, but would you invite a wild wolf for supper?" said Dean with a dry smile. "Besides, all that crap that Jack said about Kat's family really does raise doubt."
"Jack also said Kestrel was different, so why can't Bree?" He sighed and gave a small eye-roll at Dean's expression. "I just think that looking at this logically is the best way to go at it; we've slice and diced too many times without thinking, and she's Kat's sister."
There was a short pause.
"You wouldn't by any chance be developing a small crush on the elder sister, would you?" said Dean, a smirk coiling along his lips. "Sixty-four, though. Maybe Sammy's got a thing for the cougars."
Sam was not amused. "Yeah, right. Just because I don't want to kill someone means I have a crush on them."
Dean shrugged. "Kinda a big deal nowadays, huh?"
The door opened and in strode Bree, her now loose hair bobbing about her shoulders like a mindless black waterfall. Dean opened his mouth to question about Kat's whereabouts, but the next moment she slumped in with as much fervor as a person who had just been run over by a truck. She was hunched over and walking with a slight limp, her hand placed on her lower back. Despite her obvious display of ill physical health, she managed to grin up at Dean, though winced slightly as she stretched the bruise on her left cheek. Dean stared at her with wide eyes.
"What the hell did you do to each other?" he demanded.
"Did to me," corrected Kat, flinching as she attempted to erect her spine and letting out a little groan.
"Did you run her over with a friggin' cement truck?" Dean demanded angrily of Bree, seeming to take in her lack of injuries as a grave crime.
"A cement truck would be preferable," stated Kat as she struggled to inch her way to the fridge, but this time when her face screwed up in mild pain, her hand swept over her stomach in the same manner she had outside of Karen's Giles' house back in Baltimore.
"Maybe you should lay down?" Sam suggested. "There's only one other bed." He looked at Bree as he said this, as if questioning her motives.
Her head lifted as though this comment, opposed to the rest of the conversation, was the only thing worthy of her attention. She began tracing the shape of her lips again, looking at Sam with a slightly arched brow and a cool smile.
"I kind of took you three as the kind who all shared the area between the sheets, if you get my drift."
All three of Dean's, Kat's and Sam's faces had a marginal amount of color added to them, taking a moment to make short awkward eye-contact.
"Wha—" began Kat.
"Sam and m—what the hell is wrong with you?" demanded Dean, heavy bites of disgust practically sagging in his voice.
"I am fucking with you," said Bree, though her minxy smile vanished. "Work the bed situation between yourselves. I have stuff I need to do."
She walked to the fridge, took out what appeared to be a chocolate milkshake, and left a slightly disgruntled trio behind her.
"What did you say about keeping her alive?" said Dean, looking slowly over at Sam whose eyes were on the closed door of Bree's room.
"Couch," muttered Kat who was the first to recover herself, slouching her way past the brothers and toward the soft couch in the living room. Dean took his chance, hastily putting aside his beer and grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and quickly returning to Kat's side as she sat down, still massaging her sides.
"Thanks," she said, accepting it and sliding the freezing thing under her shirt and letting out a painful/alleviated sigh. Dean watched her closely, but she was frowning up at the TV. "I didn't know you watched Friends."
"Huh?" he said distractedly, following her gaze. "Oh, well, Jennifer Aniston's hot."
She hummed a quiet laugh, allowing her full body weight to sink back into the cushions, which were so abundantly stuffed that the couch looked as though it were trying to swallow her whole. At first he thought her eyes were closed, but a few seconds later, she looked back up at him and smiled.
"You seem to be doing well, seein' as it looks like you've had the stuffing beat out of you," said Dean.
"Keep the compliments rollin'," she grinned.
"How's your bullet wound doin'?" he said, returning the smile.
"Nonexistent." She hesitated a moment before shifting a little to lift her shirt just above her hip bones. The skin was clean, smooth, and wound-free. Dean stared down at the area where she had been shot, giving a small swallow as his gaze rose back to hers.
"Okay," he said slowly. "I'm tempted to stab you just to experiment how long it will take to heal."
"Thanks, Dean."
"Do you, um," he cleared his throat, "need anything?"
"A giant tub filled with Oreos and milk and maybe a huge box of puppies to make me feel better."
"Yeah, I meant something more under the line of possibility?"
"A glass of water?"
"Now we're talkin.'"
He didn't know why he felt as if he was accomplishing some kind of achievement as he filled a glass with water, feeling it better to pretend he didn't noticed Sam's rising eyebrows. He just knew he liked the feeling of Kat needing him in some regard.
"Do you mind turning that down a little?" asked Sam after a few minutes of Dean and Kat sitting on the couch whilst channel surfing.
"Huh?" said Dean, intentionally turning the volume up a few notches.
"I said," Sam lowered his book, "can you turn it down?"
"Sorry, can't hear you," said Dean, readjusting his position and taking a cheerful sip from his beer. Kat's tired gaze lingered doubtfully on Dean for a few moments, but he acted as though he hadn't seen.
"Dude," said Sam very irritably, giving his brother a wholehearted bitch-face.
"You say something, Sammy?" continued Dean in what even he thought was a maddeningly calm tone.
"I—" But Sam evidently was in no mood to deal with his brother's childish behavior. Shaking his head slightly, he gathered his things and entered the other bedroom, yet not before throwing Dean a very annoyed expression.
Dean chuckled exultantly, his ego being caressed slightly as he saw Kat giving an amused smile, but she said nothing.
"So how did your, dare I say, training session go?" he asked after half a minute.
"I think your impression of me getting run over by a truck was a pretty accurate description. Other than that, fine. I learned a few interesting things."
He raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Cor Comedenti stuff, I take it? Something us mere humans won't understand?"
"I learned that some of the Cor can enter in and out through people's dreams. Had any specific ones of me dropping in lately?"
Dean blinked rather obviously, his gaze flickering back to the TV and taking a very casual sip from his beer.
"Nada."
"The chances of me being able to do it aren't high, anyway. But, um . . ." She trailed off, unconsciously massaging her stomach and staring reproachfully at the television screen. He looked back at her, watching uncertainly as her fingers soothed softly over her pelvis. She began shifting so frequently it was as though she were trying to sit on a pile of Legos.
"Bree gave me this whole lecture on how important it is to drink blood from humans, that I can do it without killing them but that's—it's not going to happen, I already know that. She was right about one thing; I'm not really convinced I'm not—y'know. Human."
"Yeah," he said, wishing he could come up with a more interesting response, or in the least, a sympathetic one. He knew Sammy would have known what to say.
She met his stare with leisure. "Over a year and I still haven't really gotten used to it. I really needed to add stomach aches on the list of things to worry about, should I not succumb to eating a person's heart out."
Dean was at an even bigger loss of what to say to that. He made a face."That's a tough one. Maybe try V8; heard it's high in protein."
He certainly didn't want this to be the only topic that they brought up whenever they had a chance to be alone, but no matter what they always seemed to find something dire to talk about. This thought did nothing to raise his morale.
She made a very grumpy noise that was halfway between joking and genuine discomfort, turning her head away from him to face plant into a large pillow. She was still for a few moments, and Dean stared at her back with a very pressuring thought emerging from the back of his mind.
What was some stupid magazine saying that he had read years ago about what to do when your 'girlfriend' had stomach cramps? Trashy magazines, rub their backs, a few dozen chocolate bars, and a catapult to throw them?
Dean humored himself temporarily with the mental image of him hiding behind the kitchen counter and launching Hershey chocolate bars over at Kat on the couch.
He smiled a little but when he heard another small muffled groan of discomfort from Kat, he began thinking again.
Dammit, he was no good at this stuff. He didn't like that she was in pain, little as it may be, and he wanted to feel as if he was of some use to her. He also felt a little guilty for leaving her on the couch the other night because he had a feeling it made him seem a lot angrier with her inquiry about his father's death than he was.
He placed his beer on the coffee table, cleared his throat involuntarily and shifting only a couple of inches toward her. However, the couch was so squashy that this made no difference in her position whatsoever, and she remained still, giving no sign she was aware of what he was doing.
He cleared his throat again, but this time to give her some inclination that he was closer so as not to alarm her. She uplifted her face from the pillow, turning it in the direction of the wall. He could actually see the shadow of her lashes flicker up and down on the arm of the couch. She appeared to be waiting for him to do something.
Dean brought the tips of his fingers to her spine, almost at the tail bone, and very tenderly trailed them in an upward motion until they rested between her shoulder blades. He awaited for some kind of reaction, whether rejection or approval but she merely tightened her arms around the large pillow and closed her eyes again. He took this as a green light.
He continued the procedure; brushing the front and back of his fingers up and down her back, feeling each bump in her spine bone beneath them. He kept his touch very light until Kat sighed out in what Dean was almost sure of was a satisfied sigh. This was enough for him add a small imaginary oval or two to his routine, settling himself more comfortably into the couch cushion.
Even over the cloth of her shirt, the heat of her skin met his fingers. It wasn't as if she was too hot too touch, but the best explanation he could come up with were the heat waves you felt when your raised your hands to warm by a fire. That fluttering, soft, comforting heat that thawed the freezing tips of your fingers after a few hours in a blizzard . . .
His eyes lifted to the large window that overlooked the glowing city below. The car horns, police sirens, the excitement that was promised around every corner—they were all so alien to Dean, and he didn't like it. The pollution drowned out the stars and there were always people up and about. The city never slept and the lights didn't go out; it never rested. He couldn't wait to get back into the country again.
"Mm. Rubbing went away," whined Kat sleepily.
"Sorry," he said distractedly, though he was rather pleased that she had implied for him to continue.
Her head lifted again and she looked at him over her left shoulder.
"Do you know what we're doing tomorrow?" she asked.
"Guess look for another case, I don't know. Wish we didn't get dragged all the way to New York, though."
"I don't like the city that much either," she confessed. She looked as though she wanted to add something else, but her gaze lingered for a few moments upon Bree's door, leading Dean to assume she wanted to say something about her but refrained from doing so in fear of being overheard.
He also wanted to put some ground between them and Bree, no matter what Sam said. Her presence did him no comfort and he felt he would be able to rest easier if he were not sleeping under the same roof as her.
"Are we going to work on tracking down this . . . who was he? Yellow Eyes? Aza-something?" she continued. He looked at her, for a moment confused by the name 'Yellow Eyes', automatically thinking of Cor Comedenti, yet a second later he felt rather stupid.
"Bobby's been keepin' an extra eye out but he hasn't heard of anything," he replied flatly, once more wondering why the highlight of their vocabulary in their conversations mainly included yellow eyes, demons, hearts, and blood. What if he wanted to talk about the weather?
Kat sat up, sitting in a criss-cross position for a moment and gazing at the TV before spinning abruptly and lying herself back down, though this time her head was placed in his lap. He quirked an eyebrow, and although her eyes were closed, she was smiling as though she could see it.
"What are you doing?" he said.
"Long day. I'm going to turn in for the night and you're my chosen pillow."
"And what am I supposed to do? Sit here like this all night?"
"Shh. Pillows don't get to talk."
"Yeah, great," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not gonna be your freakin' pillow."
"Well, what else are you going to do? There's only one other bed and Sammy has it."
"I'm rooting for the option of kicking him out of it."
She opened a single eye, peering up at him with another smile which was more like a smirk.
It was times like these Dean was reminded of the days before they were separated nearly seven years ago. Kat had always been lighthearted, optimistic, and overall the 'family' prankster. He supposed she must have picked that up from him, and it was mind-blowing to think they had been together long enough for her to pick up any traits from his personality. Or maybe he got it from her.
He supposed the recent events would have meddled with her view on herself, which had made a noticeable change in her attitude, but it was refreshing to see that she did still have a bit of her old spark. Maybe it was this spark that always made it so easy for him to love her. Maybe, after seven years apart, the ashes of this spark were enough to ignite something else within him. Something that made him completely overlook the fact that she no longer identified herself as a human . . .
The loss of Kat's smile made Dean realize that his feelings were written over his face, and once more he quickly averted his eyes to watch the TV, using his arms to shift himself more upright so that Kat's head slid down his legs a little, but she repositioned herself at once.
"You look lost in thought," she said after almost two minutes of silence.
"It's nothin'."
"No, you have 'something' face."
He looked down at her, not sure what to think of the small drop in his stomach when his eyes met hers so abruptly. They were not the vivid topaz yellow like Bree's which reminded him of a snake's, but more like an amber fossil that was lifted to the flames of an orange fire. Even as he looked, the iris's seemed to moving like the heat waves that would emit from a volcano. Only a few last bits of hazel were left in little streaks around the pupil. In a way, the color had beauty, if you overlooked the abnormality of it. It made her skin seem paler, and her hair darker.
He wasn't even aware that his left hand was tangled in a small bundle of her red locks, nor that his fingers had been absently combing through them. Realizing this brought up the question of whether or not to continue, but she didn't seem to mind.
"If you're that offended about being the pillow, you can move," she said.
"No, it's not the freakin'—it's not anything, really." He didn't even believe himself. She gazed up at him with a straight face, though her pink lips were starting to part. Evidently she was thinking there was something wrong, which he guessed depended on your perspective.
There was no way in hell or heaven he was about to admit how badly he wanted to kiss her right now.
Back at Bobby's . . . it might has well not have happened. It was like going for a calm walk, listening to the birds, looking up at the trees, breathing in the fresh air and then having a train run you over from behind; it had happened so quickly and it had been within the first twenty-four hours of him finding out about her.
Yet lately it was difficult to ignore the desire of how much he wanted to be placed back in that situation, especially now that the waters had finally cooled down. When he tried to think practically, whether it be about how she was a 'demon', or that he was simply afraid of rejection, he could distinctly hear a childish voice in the back of his head saying, 'I don't care.'
Who cared that she had the eyes of a dog, that her canines were growing in sharp, or even that almost daily she heated up cow's blood in a microwave? So what. People worked through issues all the time. Kat's were just a bit more . . . colorful.
He could have smiled at how ignorant that sounded, but he also wanted to cry with how much he agreed with it.
He closed his eyes briefly with his brows slightly narrowed, opening his mouth and preparing to say something, but he was cut short as he caught sight of Kat.
You've gotta be kiddin' me.
She had fallen asleep.
It seemed the strain of her worn out body had finally devoid her of all consciousness, though the bruise on her cheek was already fading. Her face was turned into him, almost touching his stomach as her body lifted up and down in time with her breathing. He could feel it seep through the fabric of his T-shirt.
He would have rolled his eyes again had he not found the situation a little cute. Just a little.
Very gently, he lifted her head off him and managed to get to his feet without disturbing her slumber. Half a minute later, he turned off the lights and TV, soon returning with an abnormally soft, fuzzy green blanket and a few pillows that he found in the closet. It was a little awkward trying to squeeze in between her and the head of the couch, but when he finally did, he found it was extraordinarily comfortable, tight fit as it was.
Even in sleep, Kat seemed to follow the notion that he was her personal pillow because almost as soon as he had laid his head down, she rested the side of her face on his shoulder. Yet he found the action to be strangely comforting to him. It wasn't until this happened did he realize himself how exhausted he was, the hot breath emitting from Kat's nose soothing over the skin of his neck only seeming to make him more drowsy.
Maybe tomorrow, he thought lazily, staring up at the ceiling as his eyelids slid gently shut, breathing in the nature-y smell from Kat that seemed to nestle itself under the blankets with them. Maybe one day. But tonight we can just . . . just . . .
But he had fallen asleep before the thought could be finished.
I hope you liked this informational yet fluffy driven chapter, which was pretty fun to write. I may admit that it drug on a little, but altogether, I'm rather satisfied with it :) It was meant to be longer but I couldn't bring myself to add anymore to the ending, so there you are.
Nooow, for those of you getting impatient in the romance category, I beg you just to keep your patience with me a TAD bit longer, but I'm not giving anything away.
Also, I have to ask; what do you guys think of Bree so far? There's no wrong answer, obviously. I don't think I'm even sure yet. I would love to hear all of your thoughts, such as the scene with Kat and Bree and especially the little couch scene, which for some reason I tend to write a lot about.
I DESIRE YOUR FEEDBACK, YOU PRETTY PEOPLE YOU.