Author: callmeadreamer @ october_thunder
Prompt: Hours (#06)
Fandoms: One Tree Hill and Supernatural
Claim/Pairing: Dean Winchester/Haley James
Rating: PG (for light innuendo towards the end)
Words: 1,525 words
Disclaimer: Unless otherwise noted, I own nothing nor am I gaining any sort of profit from the use of these characters, nor the mention of The OC.
Progress: 1 of 100 (table)
You stand at the window, staring out into the raging storm as you wait for him. Unsure about his fate. Questions run through your mind as you send silent prayers to the heavens that he comes back safe. That he gives up on his revenge with this being. You’re alive, that’s what should matter to him. He shouldn’t blame himself… he should blame you. You let your guard down, when you knew. You knew that things were out to get him, now especially, when the war is beginning. It’s common knowledge that you’re his weakness now.
Your gut twists painfully as you glance at the square clock on the nightstand of the old cabin that they’d been staying in as a safe house for a week now. Something Ash and Ellen had set up for them after you were attacked. He’s been gone for five hours now. He told you two at the most, one if there were no other obstacles. He told you that with his infuriating lopsided grin, and that quick wink that he saved for you now. You hate it sometimes how cocky he is. You always tell him that it’ll get him into trouble one of these days. You tell him this as you try to hide the little smile and the flutter in your stomach because you know that it’s all just for you. He likes to rile you up. You tell him that his cockiness is a death sentence… and you hope that you’re wrong.
The first hour you watched a rerun of The OC, sighing as it reminded you slightly of your old life. It was only meant as a distraction, not to bring up the painful memories. Or a debate between who was better: Marissa or Taylor. Taylor wins, hands down, for the record.
The second hour, you flip through statistics and facts from the journal. The one he didn’t like you touching. He tried to shield you from as much as possible even though you traveled with him and saw it on a regular basis. You were meant to be a shrink for the victims almost. He said that you have a quality that brought the truth out in people. One of the reasons he was never able to keep up the farce with you when you first met. However, you were never meant to actually interact with the demons and spirits and whatnot that he fights. He rather you feel like this in the motel or wherever, as long as you were safe and not with him feeling like this and feeling worse as you witness first hand what he does. He was okay with you seeing it every once and awhile. But not every time.
The third hour is when you began to worry, remembering his promise… that he wouldn’t be longer than a couple hours. ‘A couple’ is two. Not three. Three is officially ‘a few’. You try busying yourself by watching the home shopping network, turning it off when the porcelain dolls came on because he once told you of a voodoo practitioner that brought to life dolls. It gave you nightmares for a week. Something he didn’t mind, as you curled up in bed with him, seeking the comfort his warmth provided.
Halfway through the fourth hour, you gave up sharpening his knives (which you packed your guitar away for as a new hobby on the road with him) and went to look out the window. You stared out of it for the rest of the fourth hour, and through the full fifth hour. You stared out into the storm for one hour, thirty-six minutes, and twelve seconds. Ninety six minutes. Five thousand, seven hundred, seventy two seconds. Or something like that. Your mind is too fogged with worry to work out the precise mathematical details.
You pray that every shadow flickering past the window is him. You pray that he’ll burst through the door, splattered with blood from his kill and drenched with rain. You feel your chest tighten as your hopes get dashed when you realize that the flash of lightening only illuminated a figment of your imagination. This was never supposed to be your life. Waiting for the man you care about more than words can express. Waiting for him to come back from killing supernatural beings. Something you didn’t know existed until a year ago when one killed your friend and he came into your little town of Tree Hill, North Carolina to investigate it with his brother. So much has changed since then. In you, around you. Your nails were once long, but since meeting him, they didn’t exist anymore; the skin around the nail bed dotted with blood from where you bit the skin off in worry.
You pace now as six hours pass. You realize dawn will be breaking in two hours. The thought makes you sick. You have heard at the Roadhouse from other hunters that you shouldn’t wait around if your hunter isn’t home by dawn. It means he won’t be coming back. It means a red dawn. You sit down on the edge of his bed, leaning forward to quell the nausea that’s rushing through you. Fingers laced together around the back of your neck as you rock back and forth slightly. The thought of losing him heightens your senses. You can suddenly smell him. On the bedspread, in the air. It’s everywhere. It’s too much, but not enough at the same time. You slide back on the bed, grabbing the pillow from behind you and hugging it to your chest as you inhale the scent of the both of you.
Next thing you know, you’re awake and the clock is breaching on eight hours. The sky outside the window is streaking with the first signs of the coming morning that won’t be out for an additional hour. That’s when you hear it. The sound of heavy footsteps, slapping through puddles of mud on their trek to the door. You grab the hunting knife off the nightstand, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst. Best being he’s back, worst being that he isn’t the he you want to see again.
But then the door’s open, and it’s him. You drop the knife in relief and are in his arms in a second, your front immediately drenched just like him. He groans, and you know he’s hurt, but you can’t care as relief floods through you that he’s alive. When you pull away, your hands ghost over his face, wanting to touch him as you take in the large gash over his right eye, blood streaming down the side of his face faster than it should, aided by the salty rain. You finally cup his cheeks, trying not to think that it’s not just the rain that’s slick under your fingers, as you pull him to you and kiss him. Hard and hungry at first, reveling in the feel of his arms as they encircle you in his embrace. Relief brings tears to your eyes, trailing down your cheeks as you soften the kiss to convey your emotions to him.
He pulls away from you and you worry you hurt him. He just sheds his leather jacket and toes off his muddy boots, throwing them into an empty corner of the room. You hear the words softly at first, and then he turns around and speaks clearer. I’m sorry, Hales. You know that it’s for more than being late. Even when you tell him there’s nothing to be sorry for, he dances away from you. He won’t let you touch him, because he knows you. He knows you’ll try to comfort him, and he doesn’t think he deserves it. He doesn’t need comfort. He needs forgiveness. You give him both, even if the latter isn’t necessary. You give him comfort in your embrace, and forgiveness in your body. Tension washing away as you lay next to each other, unable to sleep even after everything the night had dealt.
You can tell what’s going through his mind. You didn’t have to be psychic to know; it was written across is face like a roadmap to hell. He’s wondering just how messed up he’s made your life by bringing you with him. After his brother ran off with your best friend when the demon was killed with the help of the ghost of their father, he chose to continue this fight. It was all he had, while the only other member of his family chose a life of law school and picket fences. Something you once wanted. But you gave it all up for the man that lies next to you, trying to guard himself from the world as he carries the weight of it. You gave it up for him, because even though you haven’t managed to tell him (but you suspect he knows), you fell in love with Dean Winchester irregardless of the dangers of his life. And whether he wants you to or not, you’ll wait uncountable hours for him to return to you, when he promises he will.
Best friend refers to Peyton, not Lucas =P
Ta-da! Hee. PLEASE review. This isn’t my normal writing style, so feedback is greatly appreciated. I know Dean/Haley isn’t the most popular cross-ship, but I love them. And expect more. There are 99 more of these puppies to come, as part of the challenge. And then 100 Haley fics. Hah. Fun!
If you wish to see these, you can friend the journal if you wish =)