weary_head | (no subject)

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faye

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There are no fewer than four plates of food beneath Dean's bed, all of them in varying states of disuse and decay. Neil's been sending people over with them left and right, as if Dean's sick, as if he's so born down by grief he can't feed himself.

He can, as it turns out. But after feeding and looking after Cori, after checking up on Roger, on the others Sam left behind, on the clinic, on studies he aims to take next school term, after running around after everyone hard enough to keep the grief at his back, Dean finds he has neither energy nor taste for food.

He takes it anyway. After so many losses, a part of him thinks the food is given to comfort the giver as much as he himself, and he can't fault anyone for that. "We keep going," he sighs, lying flat on his back on the bed, "anyway we know how."

His eyes narrow at the telltale creak of the door opening. "I'm eating!" he grunts. "God, you'd think this was my first go round."

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"It's not your responsibility to carry the whole world on your shoulders," Faye points out once Dean's voice fades, lips brushing against his skin again, close to his brow. She's not sure that she's ever seen this quality in people before. Not sure that she's ever seen someone bend back so far, save perhaps for her own parents, memories already quickly fading as time goes by.

"I'm sure you helped him back as soon as you could. I'm sure of it," she murmurs, sitting straight again, fingers steadily brushing through Dean's hair. "But you're only human."

"I'm his big brother, Faye," says Dean, lips stretched in a sad smile, but the words come out perfectly sincere. He failed Sam. He does in his future, and he did in his past. No matter what he does, it's not enough.

"I'm supposed to be Superman."

"Superman doesn't exist. Not even here," Faye replies in turn, running the back of her hand against Dean's cheek, feeling his stubble scrape against her skin. "You're his big brother, that means you love him no matter how much he screws up. And you try to keep him on the right path. But we're not gods, Dean. We can't keep everyone safe all of the time. We definitely can't keep people from making mistakes."

Her lips quirk. "Look at me, talking like I'm some hotshot hunter. All I've ever done is bring in felons. Convicts."

"'Cause that's so easy," Dean huffs, turning his smile against the soft skin of her thigh. She smells good. She always does, but more and more, she smells like home, not just the sweet, spicy scent he's come to associate with her, but warmth, too. And comfort.

"I know you're tough. I like it. Somebody's got to be while I'm holed up in here moping."

In spite of herself, Faye smiles, one to mirror the expression that Dean presses against her skin. Her brow furrows at the same time, a deep cut of shadow as she presses her fingers through his hair, unsure if she's acting on memory or instinct. Sometimes, they hit her out of nowhere, a sense of belonging and the feel of a mother's hand coaxing her to sleep.

"Take your time," she says, means it, before her voice lightens and teases. "Just as long as you take a shower often enough. I'm not sure I'd find it in myself to stick around otherwise."

"C'mon, sweat is manly," says Dean, barely suppressing a flinch as he tests the scent of his own armpit.

"You know," he says, peering up at her. "It'd be easier to find the motivation if I had company."

"Communal showers get pretty busy," Faye reminds Dean with an arched brow, taking the opportunity to slide down a little further, Dean's temple about level with her chest. "Unless the idea's to give everyone a show. Or unless you think you'll be able to keep silent."

Her lips quirk further, a soft sigh escaping her lips before she reaches over, pulling Dean closer until she's able to press a kiss to his forehead.

Dean closes his eyes, unable to stop himself lifting his head just enough to reach her breasts, fatigued though the resulting motorboat might be.

"So we go sponge bath," he says, letting his head drop again. "Though I have to say, those are way sexier in theory than in practice."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Faye scoffs, snorting when Dean places his chin close enough to her breasts that all she needs is a slight shuffle down on the mattress to give him access. Which she offers— maybe it's a generous mood. "Considering my age, I'm pretty flexible."

Her gaze skirts over the ceiling in thought. "Or if we could find a smaller, freshwater pool somewhere. I have a few ideas as to what we could do with one of those."

"Sounds promising," says Dean, picturing it, or rather, her in it, even as his eyes begin to narrow. "You're luring me out of the house, aren't you? You want to get at all the dishes under my bed."

"Yes," Faye replies plainly, turning on her side to better face Dean, propping herself up on an elbow as she traces his cheek absently with the back of her hand. "Can you blame me? You need fresh air, Dean. And we need for those dishes not to suddenly find a life all their own."

"Don't knock it," says Dean, leaning into her hand. "Mold is how we discovered penicillin. Sometimes," he says, holding up a finger, "Poor hygiene and slovenly behavior saves lives."

"Whereas I don't think sex has ever saved anyone's life," Faye counters teasingly, keeping her hand against Dean's cheek, turning it until it's her palm pressed to his skin, thumb then tracing the line of his shadow. "Certainly not on so wide a scale. Does that mean we stop rolling in the hay?"

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