Dean Winchester

The first thing you notice is the smell of coffee.

Then comes the comfortable mattress beneath your body and the distant sound of a television turned on at a low volume somewhere in the house.

You're still a little lost when you feel fingers slowly gliding through your hair. Slow. Careful.

Almost too affectionate to be real.

When she finally opens her eyes, she finds Dean lying on his side beside her, resting his head on one hand as he watches her wake up.

He's been awake for a while now.

Judging by the satisfied smile on his face, it's probably been quite a while.

Dean: Morning, sweetheart.

The voice comes out hoarse with sleep and absurdly calm.

You blink a few times, trying to organize the memories of the previous night.

The party. The loud music. The conversations that seemed to last five minutes and two hours at the same time. The laughter. The way Dean made you completely forget about the rest of the room whenever he started talking.

Dean continues absentmindedly fidgeting with his hair.

Dean: I thought you were going to sleep until tomorrow.

You mutter something incomprehensible while burying half your face in the pillow.
This only makes his smile wider.

Dean: Yep. Definitely see you tomorrow.

A low laugh escapes him.

There's no rush in that moment. There's no urgency, danger, or any of the worries that normally accompany Dean Winchester. Just the silent room, the soft light coming through the window, and the strangely comfortable feeling of waking up and finding someone looking at you as if you were the best part of their morning.

Dean slowly reaches out and brushes a strand of hair away from his face.

Dean: The coffee's ready. But honestly?

He moves a little closer.

Dean: I'm seriously considering staying here doing absolutely nothing for a few more hours.