They stayed out on the dock until well past dark, both catching each other up on the past twelve months and more. It wasn't until Dean's stomach began audibly growling that they were driven inside.
"Now, look," Meredith said as they made their way up the cabin's steps. "You did show up unannounced. The place isn't necessarily in order."
Dean smiled. "I spend all my time in sterile motel rooms," he reminded her. "A little mess is good—makes a place feel lived in."
"Well, this one certainly is," Meredith said jocularly, the door squeaking on its hinges as she pushed it open. Her hand found the light switch just inside the doorway and flicked it on. "I need to replace the bulb," she mentioned, nodding up at the overhead light, which was noticeably dim.
"A little mood lighting never hurt anybody," Dean tried, grinning at the back of her head and expecting her to come back with a witty reply. All he got was a stiff chuckle.
Mer had covered the few strides it took to reach the kitchen, picking up a ladle beside a large soup pot. "Do you mind starting a fire in the stove?" she questioned over her shoulder. "It's been damn cold at night."
Dean nodded, walking over to the squat stove that stood halfway along the wall, its black chimney jutting up into the ceiling. He stood there for a moment and looked around the cabin, drinking in the familiarity of the place. It wasn't much—a rustic, one-room dwelling, if you didn't count the separate bathroom just off the kitchen.
The kitchen occupied the third of the cabin furthest from the front door, a long island countertop sectioning it off from the rest of her living space. Like everything else in the cabin, the kitchen was modest-sized but carefully outfitted. When she wasn't at work, Mer was humming her way around the kitchen, and the top-of-the-line appliances she had splurged two years prior on were already worn from good use. She had redone the cabinetry in a color and grain that matched the lumbered walls of her home, but the effect was far from monotone. Small touches—a brightly patterned kitchen towel, a vase of flowers, her colorful ceramic cookware hung on their hooks—made the space seem alive.
Mer's "bedroom" occupied the side of the cabin opposite where Dean stood, her headboard, bedside table, and the clothing rack that doubled as her closet lining the wall. Her dresser was pushed against the front wall, spaced just far enough to allow the front door to swing open fully. The top of the dresser fit below the window sill and was laden with framed photos. Dean smiled to himself, knowing rather than seeing that there was a picture of the two of them there, taken at a college party four years before.
At his back was a small, square dining table, tucked into the corner of the room so it could only accommodate two chairs. It had always been just two of them there when he visited, but he imagined Mer hosting dinner parties, pulling chairs in from the porch to seat her guests. When she bought the place, the porch had been nothing more than a crumbling mess of wood rot. She had hired a contractor almost immediately to rebuild it, adding several feet to make room for the rectangular table that stood there now. In the warmer months, this table was the epicenter of activity.
When she had first called to tell Dean to tell him she had bought herself a run-down cabin in nowhere Colorado, it had taken him off guard. It didn't make sense to him that Mer—vibrant, popular Mer—would want to live so far away from everything and everyone. It was easy for him forget that Mer wasn't the social butterfly she seemed. He had registered on occasion that, though Mer made and kept friends easily, she was seldom desperate for social interaction. In fact, it could be quite the opposite.
The simplicity and solitude of the cabin seemed to suit Mer, more than her hometown of Denver or the college town of Davis ever did. Dean remembered his first visit, when the porch was more hazard than host and the only furniture in the place Mer's mattress and box spring. The two of them had sprawled out on the area rug in front of the old potbelly stove, drinking whiskey and talking until the sun came up. Once he knew her there, he wondered if he had really known her before. She was always there in his mind, and now he couldn't see her anywhere else.
"You're awful quiet over there," Mer's voice floated over from the kitchen. "That's never good."
"I was just thinking about what a hermit you are," Dean quipped back.
"Serves you pretty well," she commented, leaning over to look into the soup pot. "You can slip in and out of town without detection."
"You make me sound like some kind of mistress," Dean replied.
"Well…"
Dean laughed. "Yeah, all right. I guess your hermitage has some perks."
"Of course it does," Mer responded with the hint of a smile, as if he were stating the obvious. "On the weekends, I can go a full forty-eight hours without seeing or talking to a single soul."
"God, don't tell me that," Dean groaned, his tone suddenly changing.
"Dean…" Mer warned, the conversation all too familiar.
"Anything could happen to you out here," Dean insisted.
"Anything could happen to anyone anywhere," Mer countered. "I mean, how many cases have you taken in cities and neighborhoods?"
"Oh, come on—"
"Dean, I know there are things out there and you can't help thinking about them," Mer interjected compassionately, though matter-of-fact. "But even if you were to sit out on that porch with a shotgun full of rock salt and God knows what else for the rest of our lives, something could still happen to me."
"Mer—"
"Dean." She cut him off with finality, glancing at him over her shoulder.
Dean clamped his mouth shut as he balled up handfuls of newspaper to place beneath the logs in the stove. He flipped open his lighter and watched fire flicker to life.
"Thank you for doing that," Mer told him, watching him from the kitchen with a much softer demeanor. "Can't wait till it heats up in here." She rubbed her hands together.
"You cold?" Dean questioned, already forgetting their argument. He straightened up and moved to join her in the kitchen.
"Yeah, a little," Mer admitted.
Dean walked around the kitchen island to stand in front of her. He took her hands in his and blew into them gently. "How is it that I'm the one who took the polar dip and you're the one who's cold?" he wondered.
Mer shrugged, her eyes focused on his lips, still blowing warmth into her fingers. "I run cold, you know that," she replied.
Dean wrapped his arms around her, pulling her gently to his chest. His hands canvased her back, trying to rub warmth into her.
"That's nice," Mer commented, burrowing into him.
Dean's lips found the top of Mer's head, kissing her hair softly. He drifted lower, to her temple, her cheek, along her jawline, her neck, feeling an almost magnetic pull to her.
"Dean…" Mer murmured, her tone cautioning, though she made no effort to move away from his embrace.
Dean cupped her cheek in a hand, lifting her face to his. "I'm just saying," he breathed, lips brushing hers. "I know a pretty surefire way to warm you up."
They gave into each other, their lips connecting in a subtle way at first. Then Dean leaned in, his arms tightening around her as his hands gradually rolled the back of her sweater up until they rested on the bare skin of her lower back. His lips grew more steady on hers, deepening the kiss.
"Dean, stop," Mer stated suddenly, pulling away from him.
He let go of her immediately, unable to hide his confusion as he took a half-step back. "Sorry…"
"It's okay," Mer assured him, not making eye contact.
Dean cleared his throat, an awkward lull looming between them. "I-I thought I caught a vibe down at the dock," he explained himself. "I mean, usually we…" He let out a self-conscious chuckle. "…I feel like we usually don't wait a full five minutes before tearing each others' clothes off."
"I just…I don't think we should do this," Mer replied, still not meeting his eyes. She had begun to pull at a loose thread on her sweater. "Not this time around."
Dean nodded. "Okay," he replied easily.
Another bout of silence. "Mer…are you…okay?" he asked. The question had been loitering on the tip of his tongue since he'd gotten there.
"Yeah, fine," Mer responded, a wan smile flickering across her features as she turned back toward the stove and picked up her ladle to tend the stew.
"Well, there are other ways to get warm," Dean trudged on, determined to make up for his misreading of signals. "How about another?" he asked, pointing to her empty whiskey glass.
Mer propped her chin on her shoulder and flashed a real smile. "That would be wonderful," she answered. "Stew's almost ready, by the way. Just a couple minutes."
"Can't wait," Dean said, unstoppering the whiskey bottle. He snatched her glass off the counter to refill it.
When he handed it back to her, she accepted it gratefully, taking a sip. In another second, she had turned around to look at him dubiously. "Did you water this down?" she asked, eyeing the glass with her brow knit.
"No," Dean replied, shaking his head. "I know you like your whiskey straight."
She stared more thoughtfully at the glass, then seemed to shrug it off, turning back around to stir the stew. As she took another sip, it was as if Dean could hear the gears turning in her head.
Suddenly, she wheeled around. "You spiked it with holy water, didn't you?" she interrogated.
Dean looked like a deer in the headlights, his mouth opening and closing.
"What, because I didn't want to jump your bones the second I saw you means I'm possessed?" Mer questioned incredulously.
"Mer, it's pretty standard practice nowadays. You don't—"
"Don't tell me I don't understand!" Mer seethed, setting her glass down on the counter audibly. "I understand perfectly."
"Mer—"
"You wanted an easy lay, so you show up here? I'm sorry to break it to you, but I'm not your kept woman out in the woods—"
"That's never what this has been about," Dean defended, impassioned. "That's not why I come here, Mer, and you know it."
"I used to know that," Mer spat back. "Now I'm not so sure. Maybe you've changed."
Dean frowned, growing frustrated himself. "Look, if I wanted an easy lay I'd check out the dive bar nearest whatever fleabag motel Sam and I are staying in for the night. I sure as hell wouldn't sit on a Greyhound for ten hours and walk my ass all the way out here to the middle of freaking nowhere to see you!"
"Don't raise your voice at me!" Mer snapped.
"You're raising your voice at me!" Dean retorted in his booming manner.
"Just—don't!" Mer demanded, though her voice came across more desperate than commanding. She took the slightest step backward.
Dean did his best to back off, while feeling his anger and hurt threaten to bubble over. "All I'm saying is that seeing you is the opposite of easy—especially when you don't return my calls for a freaking year."
"Oh, so that's what this is about," Mer scoffed. "I'm sorry, Dean. I know I'm usually at your beck and call, but I've had a lot going lately." She looked at him coldly.
"A lot going on?" Dean questioned hotly. "You've had a lot going on? I lost my dad this year, Mer. Sammy too—for a week. Hell, I met with the grim reaper a couple times myself. And after every single one of those things happened I picked up the phone—because when things are going to crap you're the only person—the only person—I want to talk to. And I got sent straight to voicemail, every damn time."
"Dean—"
A loud crack and shatter sounded as Dean's hand brushed Mer's discarded whiskey glass, knocking it to the floor. Mer let out a sharp scream and jumped back, throwing her arms up defensively.
"Shit," Dean swore at his mistake, glancing around for a broom.
His attention was quickly pulled from the broken glass at the sight of Mer, cowering against the wall with her arms raised over her face. "Mer?" he questioned concernedly, taking an instinctive step toward her.
Mer jutted out her hand to stave him off. "Please," she rasped. "I just need a second." She turned and fled abruptly, the cabin door opening and closing in a sharp burst.
Dean stood there, stunned, for a number of moments before he felt able to move. When his stupor had lifted, he first glanced out the cabin's front window, satisfied to see Mer hadn't gone far—she was seated on the porch steps. He swallowed hard and moved to find the broom and dust pan.