You interlacing their fingers comes as a surprise; it makes him startle, shoulders jerking before he quells the impulse. He isn't sure how far you're willing to pretend—or how far you're able to pretend. He doesn't know how much it would take for you to . . . pretend that you love him. Like he loves you. Your hand in his is a pleasant effort.
Those aren't the words of someone who shares a house with someone else. But that might be taking this too far. It's nice to here, whatever the context. It's very nice. His heart beats faster in the hollow of his throat as his stomach churns nervously. He wants to wrap his arms around you. To hold you. He'll get to hold you, later tonight. You agreed for the entire night. There's time for it. Right now, he can focus on enjoying holding your hand. He rubs his thumb along the side of your index finger, trying to remember that, and squeezes your hand tightly, hanging on. His head finds your shoulder.
"I missed you, too, Dean." During the last six months. Longer than that, actually. Sometimes it's felt as though he's been missing you for years. He's glad you're here too. He likes having you here, sitting here with you. After a pause, he adds more quietly, wonderingly, "I think I miss you all the time." In every moment where he can't see you. When he can't be close to you. Feel—connected to you.
He nuzzles his cheek against your shoulder. He doesn't miss you right now. Right now, he feels—content. Or as close as it's possible to be.
Taking another sip of whiskey, he tries to identify what else they should talk about before going to bed.
"Tomorrow you should take the Impala." Rather than leaving it here. Her here. If he doesn't want to leave the Impala here, unused and unattended, then he can't imagine what it's like for you. "Lots of black '67 Chevys exist; the Leviathans have either found a better way to track you by now or their ability to recognise the Impala won't make a large difference in the long run. The sacrifice isn't worth the slight advantage to stealth." Not with how much you love that car. How much a part of you she is. He pulls their joined hands into his lap, and tilts his chin up so he can your jaw and the corner of your eyes above the plane of your cheek. You should have your car, Dean. "I, uh, would like to go for a drive."
Right now. Can they go for a drive in the Impala and hold hands like this before going to bed?
no subject
Those aren't the words of someone who shares a house with someone else. But that might be taking this too far. It's nice to here, whatever the context. It's very nice. His heart beats faster in the hollow of his throat as his stomach churns nervously. He wants to wrap his arms around you. To hold you. He'll get to hold you, later tonight. You agreed for the entire night. There's time for it. Right now, he can focus on enjoying holding your hand. He rubs his thumb along the side of your index finger, trying to remember that, and squeezes your hand tightly, hanging on. His head finds your shoulder.
"I missed you, too, Dean." During the last six months. Longer than that, actually. Sometimes it's felt as though he's been missing you for years. He's glad you're here too. He likes having you here, sitting here with you. After a pause, he adds more quietly, wonderingly, "I think I miss you all the time." In every moment where he can't see you. When he can't be close to you. Feel—connected to you.
He nuzzles his cheek against your shoulder. He doesn't miss you right now. Right now, he feels—content. Or as close as it's possible to be.
Taking another sip of whiskey, he tries to identify what else they should talk about before going to bed.
"Tomorrow you should take the Impala." Rather than leaving it here. Her here. If he doesn't want to leave the Impala here, unused and unattended, then he can't imagine what it's like for you. "Lots of black '67 Chevys exist; the Leviathans have either found a better way to track you by now or their ability to recognise the Impala won't make a large difference in the long run. The sacrifice isn't worth the slight advantage to stealth." Not with how much you love that car. How much a part of you she is. He pulls their joined hands into his lap, and tilts his chin up so he can your jaw and the corner of your eyes above the plane of your cheek. You should have your car, Dean. "I, uh, would like to go for a drive."
Right now. Can they go for a drive in the Impala and hold hands like this before going to bed?