His point of view:
That was the reason. That was always the reason. The reason why he always came back.
"Sara?….. It's Dean"
A pause. A long pause.
Maybe he shouldn't have called
The line went dead.
He removed the cell phone from his ear and stared at it for a moment. Then he flipped it shut and drove off.
Fifteen minutes later he was there.
He shifted into neutral and coasted to a stop in front of the house. He shut off the headlights and looked at the house. He knew why he was here. Why he always came here. Every chance he had.
She was in there. Waiting. Waiting for him. He didn't understand why she would wait for him. But he knew she was. She shouldn't be waiting for him. No one else would. Not if they knew him.
But nobody knew him. No matter what they thought. Who they thought he was. Who he pretended to be. He knew he wasn't that person. And she knew too. She never said she knew. He just knew that she did. She wasn't like everyone else. She accepted him. For who he really was. For him. She didn't tell him he could be better. Be smarter. Be stronger. Move faster. Think faster. Not like Dad.
Dad always made him feel inferior. That he wasn't quite good enough. That he would never be good enough. No matter how hard he tried. No matter what he did. He was never good enough for Dad. He could never measure up to Dad. He knew that. And Dad knew that. And Dad never let him forget.
And Sam. Sam thought he was weak. Not physically. Mentally. He was weak because he could never stand up to Dad. Never had. Probably never would. Not like Sam. Sam always stood up to Dad. Always questioned him. Defied him. Sam had the guts to do that. No matter what Dad said. Or did.
But Dad never got mad at Sam. Dad got mad at him. It was his fault. He had turned Sam against Dad. Against what Dad wanted. That's what Dad thought. Dad blamed him. So he accepted the blame. Because he wanted to protect Sam. From the monsters. From Dad. From everything. He let Dad tell him he was wrong. That he was always wrong. That he wasn't good enough. And he knew he wasn't.
But nobody could know. Know that he wasn't good enough. So he concealed himself. Behind a facade. A thin one. One he covered with jokes and wisecracks. And confidence. Fake confidence. He pretended he believed in himself. Displayed self-assurance. But he was only hiding who he really was. Portraying someone else. Someone better. Stronger. Faster. Smarter.
Someone good enough.
But she knew who he really was. And she didn't care. She didn't care that he wasn't good enough. She thought he was. And she believed it. But she was wrong.
Just like he was wrong. Wrong to be here. Wrong to want her to make him feel better. To expect her to. Because that's why he came. Why he always came. She would make him feel better. She would make him feel like the man he knew he wasn't. She always did.
He pulled the keys from the ignition and squeezed them in his hand. He got out of the car and dropped the keys in his coat pocket. He stared at the house. Then he started up the walkway towards the house and bounded up the stairs. He put his hand on the doorknob and hesitated.
He shouldn't be here.
But he was.
And she was waiting. Waiting inside.
So he turned the knob and opened the door. He could see her sitting on the stairs at the end of the foyer. Like she had so many times before. Waiting.
He took a cautious step inside the house. The door closed behind him. He was here. With her.
She had waited.
She stood up slowly. As slowly as he had opened the door. She took a step towards him.
He couldn't hold back anymore. He rushed towards her until he stood directly in front of her. She reached up and put her arms around his neck and lifted her head to meet his mouth with her own. His hands went to her waist and he held her. He captured her mouth in his. His kisses were fervent. Raw. Desperate. His hands grabbed her blouse and pulled it out from her jeans. She didn't stop him. He took a step forward and pressed himself closer to her. She ran her fingers through his hair and in an instant he had backed her into the wall. He forced himself to release her mouth. He ran kisses down her cheek and onto her neck. He ran his hands down her blouse, undoing the buttons as he went, and when he was done, he traversed them back up her body until they came to her breasts. He slid his hands behind her and unfastened her bra. Then he slipped her blouse and bra down her arms and off her body. He reveled in the feel of her soft skin. He slowly negotiated his way back up her arms until he reached her neck. He let his hands journey over her collarbone until they settled on her breasts. He rolled his hands over her soft, firm breasts and he could feel her nipples harden under his touch.
She threw her head back into the wall and let his mouth and hands wander over her body. She let his weight push her into the wall. She was willing to let him take her. Like he wanted. Like he needed. His hands released her breasts and traveled downwards to her jeans. He skillfully undid the button and began to pull the jeans over her waist. She didn't resist him. His mouth left her neck and traveled down to her breasts. He stopped there momentarily to nuzzle her breast. He could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She moved her hands to the sides of his head and caressed his face but he seized them and placed them back on the wall. He held her wrists tightly. So she couldn't touch him.
Because he was afraid. Afraid that she would see inside him. Afraid she would find him. With her touch.
He was afraid that she wouldn't want him.
Slowly he lifted his head from her breast and stood. He looked into her eyes as he held her arms to the wall. She didn't move. She looked back at him.
And she waited. Waited for him. To decide.
And he knew. He needed her. Needed her to want him. Needed her to help him. Help him to reclaim himself. Who he really was.
He picked her up. Carried her upstairs. To her bedroom. He placed her on her bed. His hands found the waistband of her jeans once more. He hooked his fingers around both the jeans and her panties and he swiftly pulled them over her hips and down her legs until they fell to the floor. He stood at the end of the bed and looked down at her. She lay there watching him.
He looked at her. At her body. She was beautiful. And she was waiting. For him. Only for him.
He hastily removed his clothes and he joined her on the bed.
Their lovemaking was more primal than seductive. Urgent. Passionate. Needy. He clung to her like a person drowning. Desperate to be saved. Saved from his fears. His nightmares. His life.
Because she knew. She knew what he needed. To be worthy. To be valued. To be accepted. And she accepted him. He knew she did. Knew by the way she held him. Loved him. Needed him.
Like he needed her.
He held her. Held her tight. Until she fell asleep. In his arms.
Because he knew...
that in the morning….
when she awoke….
he would be gone.
Her point of view:
"Sara? It's Dean"
Her heart skipped a beat. He was back.
She hung up the phone and stared down at it. She went to the window and looked out. Nothing. No one was there. He wasn't there. But he would be. Soon.
She sat on the stairs. Where she could still see the street. Through the window in the living room. She would see him come. She would know when he got here. So she waited. Waited until she saw the headlights. And heard him kill the engine.
He was here.
Still she waited. Because she knew. She knew he would not come in. Not yet. It would take him time. It always did. Because he thought it was wrong. Wrong for him to be here. Wrong for him to want her. Wrong for him to need her. Because she knew he did. Need her.
But she needed him too.
And she wanted him. Had always wanted him. Still wanted him. Because he made her feel special. Alive. She wanted him to come to her. To choose her. To be with her. She wanted him. For who he was. Not who people thought he was. Not who he pretended to be.
She wanted to tell him. Tell him that she needed him. But he wouldn't believe her. He would think she was lying. Lying to make him feel better. To make him feel wanted. Because she had to. Had to lie because he wasn't good enough. Good enough for her. For anybody. But she wasn't lying. He was good enough. Regardless of what he thought. She would show him that he was. That he was wanted. That he was needed. She would give him that.
So she waited.
She heard the car door shut. Heard his footsteps on the walkway. She saw the doorknob turn and stop. She held her breath. And waited. Waited for him. To come in. To open the door and come in. Finally the door opened. Slowly. She could see his silhouette outlined in the dim glimmer of the streetlight that shone behind him. He stepped inside and waited.
He was here.
She stood up and looked at him Her heart was in her throat. She wanted to run to him. Hold him to her. She took a step forward. He came towards her and stood in front of her. She reached up and put her arms around his neck and lifted her head to kiss him. She could feel his need through his kisses. His need to be accepted. Wanted. She felt his tongue snake past her lips and into her mouth. There was desperation in his kiss. Desperation to feel alive. To be alive. To find himself. To be himself. Beneath the façade. The one he created to conceal himself. His emotions. His needs. So he could be in control. Of himself. His real self.
But he didn't know how.
So she relinquished control. To him. To help him.
She let him back her up until she hit the wall. She let him remove her clothes. Because she wanted him.
Because she knew he wanted her.
She wanted to touch him. Caress him. But he stopped her. Stopped her from touching him. He held her wrists so she couldn't touch him. Not yet. So she acquiesced.
She could wait. She would wait. Until he felt safe. Safe with her. Safe for her to touch him.
She was in his arms. She felt safe. Secure. He carried her upstairs and into her bedroom. He lowered her to the bed and she let him finish undressing her Because that was what he wanted. What she wanted.
She stared into his eyes. She saw his need in them. But she also saw sorrow. The sorrow that he carried with him. Every day. Everywhere he went.
She watched him. Watched him look at her. Like she was his. Only his.
And she looked at him. Like he was hers. Only hers. Hers to touch. To love. To comfort.
Because that was what they needed. That's why he came. Why she waited.
He was all she needed. All she cared about. He was her choice. So she gave herself to him. She belonged to him.
At least for tonight. Tonight while he was here. In her bed. His arms around her. Holding her.
Because she knew...
that in the morning….
when she awoke….
she'd be alone.