Dean loved winter most of all.
The creeping day revealed traces of frost crawling from the grass, shining as the sun broke over the horizon. The subtle light seeping through the window was content to roll in slowly during the first hours of daybreak. There was a calm stillness to the winter, the weak, diffused light tucked away under sheets of cloud, the quiet whispering of nature hidden safely from the bright harshness of spring.
As the sun rose higher in those first few moments of dawn light crept into the room, divided by the shutters into strips of shadow, sliding across the sheets and sinking into the skin of the man lying beside him. Dean's hands followed the lines of darkness, reaching over smooth, cool skin, fingers skimming along the intricate frame of bone beneath, rubbing over sharp dips and ridges, and all the while his movement was traced by those clear blue eyes- eyes which echoed winter in all their vastness, the promise of a purer day signaled by the delay of spring.
Dean loved winter most of all, for these still morning moments of resting cool beneath the sheets, content in watching the shadows slide over the man beside him in a smooth spread, a soft cloaking of the form he had become so familiar with; a form which remained still, calm and steadfast, like unflinching winter itself.
Such a contrast, Dean thought, his eyes studying skin that mirrored the days reveling in crisp air, casting out such a pull that drew him in and coiled around his body, burrowing into his soul.
It was an all-encompassing envelope, secured in an embrace and leaving behind evidence of its presence in the form of a steady beat within Dean's chest. It was the solid affirmation of resilience cool against the shell of Dean's ear. It was the indisputable faith evident when his eyes met Dean's own.
It was winter.
And Dean loved Winter most of all.