Supernatural Imagines

2629745 (Untitled Part 3)

You were sitting on the Impala, the cool metal of the car supporting your legs; your back against the chilly glass of the windshield. It was a late night in August and the usual heat that Kansas maintained was nowhere to be found. Or maybe you had just gotten used to the weather of Lebanon, but that town was miles behind now. A chilly air threatened to wrap itself around your form, thin fibers of frigid wind swirling all around you and begging to take away the heat of your body.

But their attempts were useless against you, as you were not cold at all. Dean Winchester, the savior of this story (and dozens of others you loved recounting), had long ago given his jacket up for the common good—or your common good, at least. The soft cloth was now enveloping you with warmth and, what you liked the most about it, Dean's scent.

It was the sort of smell that one would expect to find when curled up in the back of an old car, or more specifically, the Impala. But it was also the opening of a whiskey bottle and the pressing of the trigger of a shotgun. It was the scent of spending a night out camping: burning marshmallows and telling stories around a campfire before settling down to sleep underneath the stars. It was the sort of smell that one would expect from Dean Winchester. And lately, as you had happily found yourself thinking about it, it was also mixed with a certain other fragrance: yours.

But that was not the only heroic action, of course. One could not simply believe that to be the only way for Dean to express his hero complex. His arm was around your shoulders, pulling you as close to him as possible, and letting your head rest against his chest. You could hear his heart thumping against your ear loudly, strangely comforting you and a lullaby that was pulling you into a slight slumber.

"There it is," Dean whispered suddenly, shaking you gently.

You yawned, opening your eyes slowly and looking up at him, carefully following his eyesight. An infinite number of specs of white blinked at you from the dark canvas of the night, crying out to be observed as the rare smile of the Mona Lisa would. They swirled and clustered with grace, just as little ballerinas in the middle of a dance, their shining faces smiling back at you.

"Exactly which one am I looking for?" you asked in the same quiet tone that he had spoken in.

There was always something about these little moments that made them sacred. They gave you the same feeling a library would, with the humming of the insects around you replacing the flipping of pages and the stars being the ancient tones of information.

"The Hunter; Orion."

Dean raised his free arm to point at the sky, invisibly connecting the merry dots with his index finger, the final masterpiece making up what would appear to be the crude drawing of a caveman—but a masterpiece, nonetheless. Sometimes you would wonder how people would even find these patterns in the sky, and silently thanked them too, as their discoveries allowed for you and Dean to share your time with intimacy.

"Oh. I see it," you nodded, observing the constellation for a few more moments before putting your head against his chest once again, breathing in his cologne deeply.

Dean smiled down at you, holding you just a bit closer to him and kissing the top of your head, letting his lips linger a little longer than necessary. His hand rubbed your upper arm slowly, his breath mingled into your hair and his heartbeat tranquilizing until it was matching yours.

The walls were too bright. Their top half, covered by a flawless coat of white paint, reflected the light without mercy. It was almost impossible to look at them without frowning from the harshness. The bottom half was a soft blue that was meant to be calming, but it only managed to annoy you, as you could not imagine any other time you had been as much of a wreck as you felt right now.