Dean Winchester (filiussileo) wrote in spindlesend, @ 2010-03-09 16:38:00 |
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Current mood: | groggy |
Who: Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle
When: Tuesday morning.
Where: C118
What: Coffee and conversation (or something like it).
Rating: Probably harmless.
Status: Incomplete.
Dean Winchester has never been a morning person. If it were up to him, nothing would ever happen before noon, or at least nothing he ever had to be involved in. Ever. It’s not so much that he doesn’t like mornings themselves, it’s just that he has no interest in being up during them if he can help it. He has no idea what time it really is right now, but it feels like morning - that lazy, bright part of the morning where everything just feels warm hazy and perfect for sleeping in - too aware for dreams, but too out for real thoughts. It’s perfect.
Except, lately, someone’s been knocking on his door, waking him up - and then disappearing, leaving behind coffee. He’d been a little wary, the first time, but it hadn’t seemed like there was anything wrong with it... and he had complained about the coffee here, in a moment of boredom. So it wasn’t completely random. And it had tasted great, and clearly not been the crappy decaf stuff they have around here. So for almost two weeks, he hasn’t been sleeping in - because even if he woke up and brought the coffee inside and went back to sleep, it would get cold before he’d get the chance to drink it, and that would be tragic, and by the time he’s finished the coffee he doesn’t really feel like sleeping anymore - which is half the point of real coffee anyway.
He’s not at the point where he expects it enough for the knock to stop surprising him, but he’s past the instinctive grab for the little jar of salt under his pillow and the lunging out of the covers to yank the door open. Instead, he just sort of half-opens his eyes enough to see that it is, in fact, morning, and he untangles himself from his mess of blankets (he’d pulled the extra blanket off the spare bed and thrown that over top of his own a couple days ago, now, because it gets friggin’ cold in here at night) and stumbles for the door. Were he a more verbal person, he’d be grumbling halfheartedly the whole way to the door, but as it is he isn’t, he’s just shuffling his feet and running a hand through his probably sleep-crazy hair, and when he opens the door, he doesn’t expect there to be anyone there. There never is, not even a sign anyone was there except for the coffee sitting on the floor in front of his door, like whoever left it ran away really fast, ducked around a corner or into a room, not even anyone in the hall anywhere.
Except, there is today.