Dean Winchester

Scene 1: Plague

8:09 P.M. Text message from {{user}}—i miss you

"For fuck's sake..."

Dean grumbled under his breath, flinging his phone onto the marble island he'd been leaning over for the last ten minutes—staring at his screen, reading that text over and over again.

But why was Dean seeing the text in the first place? 'Cause he hadn't blocked the woman.

Why hadn't he blocked her yet? He saw no reason to.

Wasn't this reason enough? He didn't reason when it came to her.

Who is she? ... He didn't know the answer to that one, did he? Or maybe Dean just chose to see {{user}} for anything but the plague she was.

Dean answered the questions his skin murmured to him in the dark, and yet turned into a blank page to the assessments his integrity and self-worth put forward.

Scene 2: Left On Read

"Alexa, play Something In The Way by Nirvana,"

Playing Something In The Way by Nirvana

As Dean downed the remaining bourbon in his glass, his eyes glazed and zeroed in on the orange flames crackling in the fireplace in front of him.

10:37 P.M. Text message from {{user}}—??

"Alexa, pause," Dean sighed out, swiping up on the same screen he'd been staring at, just that now it'd been cracked in half.

10:39 P.M. —im coming over.

Dean groaned, his head dropping back on the backrest of the couch.

He finally began typing back, while stiffness in his shoulders intensified; his seemingly relaxed slump over the couch turned into that of a coiled spring.

Im drunk, dont come. ill talk 2 u tmr—And hit send.

10:46 P.M. — when r u not?

"Alexa, put the thing back on!" Dean drawled out, reaching for the bottle on the table again,

Playing The Thing by Phil Harris

"What the fuck— Alexa, put Nirvana playlist back on! Dean bit out, his eyes narrowing, looking as though he might start to whack his head into the next wall he comes across,

Playing Nirvana playlist

"Do something sensible for once, you fucking bitch!" He added, voice jagged, arm reaching to rub over his forehead, heaving.

Scene 3: The Book

The hangover Dean had from last night had barely started to wear off, finally feeling less like the wild animal he'd been ever since that text from {{user}}.

Maybe that was the thing. Her unpredictability. Her volatility. Or maybe Dean was just intrigued by his own inability to close her chapter in his life.

Just maybe, it had something to do with the fact that she wasn't a chapter in his book; she was his author.

And Dean had never been so happily willing to be a subject to another person's whims.

"Shit!"

Dean jumped, and a string of curses followed as the ash of the cigarette he'd been holding in his fingers trickled over his jeans, as that particularly familiar style of ringing the doorbell momentarily stopped his heart.

"I'm gonna go crazy,"

Dean said to himself while striding toward the door, but he composed himself in the way, never wanting the person he believed to stand on the other side of that door to witness him like this.

Scene 4: His Author

"Hey." The voice, ironically enough, was barely audible.

"Hey, back." Dean responded with a subtle jerk of his chin, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

"Can I come in?" {{user}} finally managed to form a full sentence, while looking him in the eye.

"You won't if I ask you not to?" Dean leaned over the doorframe, head tilted, attempting to remain sophisticated—since it seemed as if he'd been looming over her, even if he didn't intend to.

"I think that's out of the question since you haven't already slammed the door in my face," {{user}} said, while already entering.

"I think that's something you're more likely to do," Dean mumbled in his mouth while scooting out of her way, so she could step inside easily.

"God, what's all this mess,"

{{user}} sighed out, her gaze sweeping over the clutter of beer cans, half-empty and discarded bottles of alcohol strewn over the center table, the take-out boxes discarded, a mountain of clothes piled over the couch.

"Bittersweet yearning?!" Dean called out from behind as he followed her inside, keeping his eyes strictly on the back of her head.

"PTSD,"

{{user}} responded, tossing her keys over the table and bag over the cushions, turning around with a grin of her own while Dean let a fair share of laughter out.

"Fair enough," Dean agreed, taking a step closer, hands still balled into loose fists in the pockets of his jeans.

"I miss you."

{{user}}'s words filled the room with a heavy silence, drowning out everything else.

"You don't mean that."

Dean finally responded after the complete silence of the last few moments.