Chapter Text
“Mmmmmmhey gorgeous…”
“Dean, please don’t Hey-gorgeous me,” you sigh, pretending you’re not rolling your head back against his face.
His fingers squeeze your sides before sliding around your waist, and he bends his knees so he can curl himself against you, breathing in the scent of your hair. It’s lovely - an intoxicating echo of this morning’s wake-up call - and almost makes you forget you’re wearing rubber gloves and elbow deep in a roasting pan and suds.
“Mmm I don’t have a choice,” he mumbles and mashes a kiss into your hairline.
You sigh “God, sweetheart,” - he’s working his lips around to your ear, rolling his hips up into yours a little - “I just wanna clean up a bit before your mom gets here-”
“Why?” he moans, “Why do you choose such unimportant activities at these times?” Then he slides a hand between you and the benchtop, those strong mechanic’s fingers pressing over the fly of your jeans, tracing the seams and creases with a keen weight.
You hold onto the sink’s frame to push back on him a little and he surges forward in reply. You drop your head and brace yourself against the sweet pressure of him right where he belongs. “For fuck’s sake, Dean,” you sigh, “that’s not fair.”
“Being expected to leave you alone isn’t fair,” he counters.
“Yeah, you say that…” You’ve closed your eyes, and he’s starting to take up some solid room against your ass.
You can’t believe how your body is reacting already. You thought, maybe, after so much attention and sex, you’d be tired and tenderised. Risen to the challenge more like. This kid-free night hasn’t been a minibreak as much as a kick-starter, reminding you both of how much potential there is in the rest of the house’s rooms and just how loud you can be. And now, in the oh-so-versatile kitchen, your groin is buzzing, your face is warm and his breathing is getting heavier by the second, so you snap out of it before it goes too far.
“Shit, come on, stop,” you tap him, “we can’t greet your mom like this,” and stand straight and sensible. In consolation, you turn around to kiss him, which is a silly idea because he smears himself against you and demands something that steals your equilibrium.
“Goddam it,” you sigh.
“What?”
“Fifteen years and I still have no weapon against that kiss,” you breathe, and lean your forehead against him.
He rumbles a chuckle and sways you, saying “You are the weapon, gorgeous. Thirty hours of you to myself, kissing you senseless just buys me a little time to think.”
You peel off your gloves and collect his face, pulling him in for another kiss and slide your fingers up his neck and into his hair. He moans encouragingly, holds you, pulls you into him, and sighs-
“Hellooo!”
-and stops.
Anna and young John barrel in, ignoring how you step away from each other, and start talking at once.
“Hey Mom!” Anna runs into your waist for a hug.
“Hey gorgeous,” you reply, and let Dean’s hand slip from yours as he heads for the lounge room (buying a bit of time to…. uh, deflate) saying “Hey guys” as he goes.
“Hey Dad!” John doesn’t worry about affectionate greetings: “Mom! Grandad said we could have his fit ball!” he announces.
You look at the massive blue thing in his arms, saying “Apparently.”
“Can we take it on the trampoline?”
“Uuuuuuh that,” you try to imagine all the ways that can go wrong. “Okay, that may be a lesson very soon, but one at a time, okay?”
“Yesssss,” he runs off, Anna close behind him calling “You get one minute, then it’s my turn-”
You head down to the front door where Mary is waiting. “Hi! Why didn’t you come in?” you ask.
“We came straight from the farmer’s market and I haven’t got a change of shoes,” she explains and you peck each other on the cheek for a quick hug.
“Since when did your John have a flipping fit ball?” you wonder.
“Ha! Jess gave it to him for Christmas,” she explains. “Wishful thinking. You two have a good time?”
“Yep!” you reply, “Just took it easy and spent some time.” That’s the moment Dean walks up, giving Mary a quick kiss before she pulls back to look at him.
You can tell, from the tilt of her eyebrows and the crooked, affectionate smile, she knows what’s up: Dean’s still pretty rosy. “Really? Didn’t feel like going out?” she stirs.
You look at Dean, pulling your lips between your teeth while you hope he’ll field this one. You looked down at your shoes, and notice your t-shirt, quietly adjusting it back to centre.
Dean clears his throat, holds a breath, while he tries to think of something to cover… “Sooo, Benny’s in the car?”
“Nice,” you nod. Mary giggles, patting him on the chest while he mutters “Can’t believe my own mother giving me grief about enjoying time with my wife-” and you both laugh at his embarrassment.
“Oh honey, it’s too easy,” she beams. “Benny-boy fell asleep on the way. Let me go get him,” she insists and you both wait in the foyer while she collects the car capsule.
“You do look like you just finished a Harlequin paperback,” you tell him and collect one of his shirt buttons like you do when you’ve thought of something. “Hey, remind me to search trampolines and fitballs.”
“Two projectiles in a bouncy bowl?”
“Shit, dammit-” you groan.
“S’ok, I’ll check on them. He woulda done it even if we’d said no,” he smirks. “Just-” and then his face drops in worry. His eyes flick to yours, almost afraid, then glance around the room in urgency. He grabs your hand hard enough to hurt, and says your name with a sternness, a gruff force you’ve never heard before. You’re reaching for him to help, support, listen, when his eyes close and he drops to the ground.
“Dean?!” You’re beside him already holding his face, then shaking it gently. “Dean? Dean!” He doesn’t respond to you shoving his chest, or feeling his pulse or pulling open his eyelids. You don’t even know what you’re looking for - some sort of reaction - but there’s nothing. “Mary!” you call, your voice harsh and scared.
You bend over and put your ear to his mouth, trying to hear or feel a breath, but there’s stillness, you think. Your nurse training seems to have failed you in panic. You rest your ear on his chest and listen. It’s so warm, and his smell is right there, but you can’t hear a thing. You wait another few seconds.
Nothing.
In panic and fear you sit up screaming “Dean!” that close to thumping his ribcage and you can feel your face warp because you don’t know what to do. You stand, lunging for your bag with the phone inside, one hand stretched out toward him, as if you can reassure. You’re not sobbing yet, but you’re stabbing at the digits to call emergency and call Mary’s name again screaming “Where are you?!”
Then you notice your body go cold. Your vision seems to tunnel, but not like you’re blacking out. The edges of the room change shape, dark shadows and objects beginning to reveal themselves around you, edges and pulling depths.
“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
You land by Dean again, one knee at a time, cupping his jaw and feeling your stomach roll at the cooling slackness of his face, now the only thing you can see.
“My husband-” you blink, fighting off the enveloping black, there are hands on your arms and somehow you feel grabbed, held, lifted. (“Ma'am? Can you tell me your emergency?”) The phone doesn’t feel there any more. You close your eyes and there’s the sensation of dropping. “Dean.”
You don’t land on anything. You feel heavy, cold and sick. And there are hands.