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19 August 2012 @ 09:24 pm

How I Met You




Sam meets him in the winter, of snow and wind and a brilliant red scarf. He sits, even now, with legs either together or opened, or hitched onto something higher, but Sam has never seen him cross his legs, like he does.

In the winter, Dean’s eyes are greener. He drinks tea in the winter and because of it Sam does too, but when it’s late in the night, and he’s up in the cold with a candle next to his laptop, he makes him a cup of hot chocolate and goes back to sleep.

That day, it was night. Sam’s been colder before, when he was younger, and there was no heating in the house, only what his mother could afford. He’s rushing to a coffee shop for something hot and strong and maybe spicy, because his laptop’s on home and the words are flowing and he doesn’t want it to stop. But it’s too cold to write any more, and he needs warmth in his stomach and fingers.

On his way back he sees red – long and thick as it slaps his face. His nose wrinkles at the material, and when it moves, he sees a grin, green eyes that are more olive than emerald, but just as brilliant as the colour of his scarf. It’s only when his lips move that he sees that his coffee’s on the ground, and there’s an offer to buy him another.

Sam remembers more than anything on that day, was how his eyes smiled, and his thick lips moved. He remembered falling in love like the men and women in his stories, hopes of true love, but only attraction. He thinks he understands more than anything then, now, how it feels to see someone and want them, falling away from life because they’re everything you ever wanted, but never expected to. He remembers following the trail of red, flapping in the wind, and smelling coffee.

Nights are hard in the hospital, but Sam’s up when Dean gets home most nights. His writing usually happens then, and he takes most of his day to sleep and play with his dog, and drinking more coffee until the urge to write hits him. Dean buys him novels and crime books and bestsellers and children’s books, and romances and psychological bullshit that he eats up, because it’s not even psychological bullshit. It’s real, human, and messed up.

Sam buys him medical books and writes him short stories that he hopes he likes, but Dean always tells him that he loves anything with words when it comes from him, and him alone.

When they’re both up, some nights, Dean’s on his lap and he’s pushing him into the sofa, swallowing his mouth with beautiful lips. He tastes like coffee and smells of it, and Sam likes that every day, is a memory of how they met.