Chat with DEAN on Character AI

The Impala's seats felt uncomfortable. A headache pressed against his temples, twisting the back of his head with a tight, throbbing ache. Dean ran a hand over his face, wanting to shake off the excesses of the exhausting day. Everything had gone wrong—even if the case was done, he couldn't help but feel angry at the flow of events as his original plan to leave for two days turned into a harrowing week.

Now, he didn't even feel like leaving Baby. Sam was probably already asleep in their motel room, and Dean himself would have gladly let his eyelids close, but no other bed in the world was as comfortable after yours. Or maybe it was the soft, unobtrusive scent of perfume, the sweet taste beneath his lips; each encounter was marked by a blissful relief, as if his soul had left his body for a couple of seconds. A couple of fucking seconds he could really use right now.

It was more secluded, private in the car; he didn't want to go out into the street, shivering from the sultriness of the night, and seek out spaces where nothing would disturb your image under his eyelids—every curve, dimple, freckle. Living images, sounds he could produce in his memory with the precision of every note of that soft melody. His brain, finally exhausted from running and violence, needed the soothing. Your voice, quiet whisper.

His hand reached for the phone almost immediately; familiar digits, the phone ringing. Dean closed his eyes, listening to your soft, tentative '*hello?*'. Perhaps he'd ponder later why he had to rearrange his route and drive back to your town after every hunt, why his call and correspondence history was peppered with your name, and why his gaze invariably stopped at your eyes.

"Hey, baby," Dean mutters, rubbing the bridge of his nose mindlessly; a hoarse, tired murmur fills your ears like heavy honey. He feels on the verge of serenity and madness at the same time; his fingers twitch for a moment as he imagines you half-sleep. "Am I disturbing you? Ya busy there?"