BED OF ROSES. ( s-one, ep-one) 01. BETTER BE HOME SOON
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IT'D BEEN JUST UNDER TWO YEARS SINCE I LEFT THEM, when Sam visited me, explaining the predicament that John Winchester had found himself in, and asking for my help in finding him. I remember it very vividly: it had been a chilly night, and the twinkling lights of a thousand stars shone overhead, decorating the clear night sky that would have otherwise been bland and insipid: much like a coffee without sugar. I was cold, stiff, dressed in a silk bathrobe, and I had been sitting in one of those egg-shaped hanging chairs on the veranda, curled up, my legs tucked to my side, and I blew softly on the chamomile tea I had made, in an attempt to cool it down.
The house that I had built with the help of Alex was a major source of pride for me – I spent every penny that I had saved to acquire the land, and the home we built was situated at the top of a small hill, with a balcony that overlooked a large lake. A beautiful place for us to grow a family, raise children. A peaceful home to live in, with more of a chance to die with people I loved by my side, unlike hunting, where I was sure I would die surrounded by monsters, with Dean and Sam screaming somewhere off in the distance, calling my name, or dying themselves.
The moon reflected in the lake, whole and beautiful, and I stared at it for a good long while, perhaps hours, thinking about the myths surrounding werewolves before I knocked myself out of my stupor and headed through the sliding door, and inside. I crossed the cold wooden floorboards and drained what was left of my tea in the sink before washing the cup out – at this point I was so tired that I was on autopilot, and my mind was empty.
Alex had woken up more than half a dozen times through out year and a half of being together, only to find me on the balcony, my insomnia plaguing me as I busied myself with a game of sudoku, solitaire, or chess, all by myself to pass the night and told me a great many times to tell him when I awoke, so he could keep me company. He offered me massages, which I always gratefully accepted, and made me food. But the next day he'd be so tired, dragging his feet, eyebags prominent on his pale skin, his words somewhat slurred and his thoughts jumbled: and I would feel too guilty to tell that this was how it was almost every night. Instead I learned how not to disturb him when I untangled myself from our blankets, and how to silently make my way to the lounging area we made on our balcony, and preoccupy myself as he slept in a deep state.
I would creep back into bed a half hour before his alarm sounded. Sometimes I would sleep: most times I would not.
He caught me doing the dishes that night, and the image of him standing in the entrance of the kitchen, leaning on the door frame with his arms crossed, messy dark hair and halfway in a yawn will forever be stuck in my mind. I froze in mid-air when I saw him, a washed plate dripping soapy water on the ground, and my guilty smile met his soft, tired one. He shook his head good-naturedly, before pushing himself out of the door, and accompanying me in the kitchen.
