She let's the river answer ; you've always been her lover ( drabble )
Pairing: Dean Winchester & Elphaba Thropp.
One day, she thinks, in a week, or two, or three (not in months, since she refuses to postpone things in months nowadays, not here, anyway), she wants to wake up in Dean Winchester's (untidy, unlawfully unorganized as the man himself) apartment, make coffee and claim ownership over his windowpane (since well, it's not like he appreciates it anyway).
And it's the silliest of wishes, by all means, especially when she has a windowpane of her own, mind you. At times she scolds herself for even being so absurd.
Yet after a while she realizes it will probably never happen. For all her wishes, somehow, somehow she ends up oversleeping every time, be late for work and earn herself a month long of teasing for it. Unbearable, she thinks, since before she was never late, to anything, ever.
She tries to trace back how it happened and discovers she can't quite put her finger on it,
At first, she unraveled for him without knowing why. And the longer she tried to solve it the more she realized it never really even mattered. She wasn't even sure why she trusted him, but it's him who got her darkest of secrets (on lack of souls and planned murders). It was almost alarmingly too easy.
It's also a bit to easy to just accept her feelings as facts now. They are there, a bit unexplained, like rain in summer or a lightening storm mid-August, but nonetheless, they're a fact she's not denying.
So she ends up accepting over-sleeping as yet another fact of life introduced to her by Dean Winchester, and takes her revenge by making tea at midnight (yes, tea, she doesn't even care for his disapproval of the whole thing).
She sips it under the covers and apologizes for being impossible for a little bit of time there in the past.
"Months," comes the correction.
"A bit," is her own insistence.
It's absurdly late, and she knows she will oversleep again (damn it.)
"One day," she says, in a final-know-it-all-fact-of-life tone that's not to be argued with, "one day I'll wake up at six in the morning, make myself a damn cup of coffee, sit on that unused windowpane - and I will not, I will not be late for work."
And it's true and final, as a general never-will-happen-idea, she knows.
She pretends not to smile at the realization.
One day, she thinks, in a week, or two, or three (not in months, since she refuses to postpone things in months nowadays, not here, anyway), she wants to wake up in Dean Winchester's (untidy, unlawfully unorganized as the man himself) apartment, make coffee and claim ownership over his windowpane (since well, it's not like he appreciates it anyway).
And it's the silliest of wishes, by all means, especially when she has a windowpane of her own, mind you. At times she scolds herself for even being so absurd.
Yet after a while she realizes it will probably never happen. For all her wishes, somehow, somehow she ends up oversleeping every time, be late for work and earn herself a month long of teasing for it. Unbearable, she thinks, since before she was never late, to anything, ever.
She tries to trace back how it happened and discovers she can't quite put her finger on it,
At first, she unraveled for him without knowing why. And the longer she tried to solve it the more she realized it never really even mattered. She wasn't even sure why she trusted him, but it's him who got her darkest of secrets (on lack of souls and planned murders). It was almost alarmingly too easy.
It's also a bit to easy to just accept her feelings as facts now. They are there, a bit unexplained, like rain in summer or a lightening storm mid-August, but nonetheless, they're a fact she's not denying.
So she ends up accepting over-sleeping as yet another fact of life introduced to her by Dean Winchester, and takes her revenge by making tea at midnight (yes, tea, she doesn't even care for his disapproval of the whole thing).
She sips it under the covers and apologizes for being impossible for a little bit of time there in the past.
"Months," comes the correction.
"A bit," is her own insistence.
It's absurdly late, and she knows she will oversleep again (damn it.)
"One day," she says, in a final-know-it-all-fact-of-life tone that's not to be argued with, "one day I'll wake up at six in the morning, make myself a damn cup of coffee, sit on that unused windowpane - and I will not, I will not be late for work."
And it's true and final, as a general never-will-happen-idea, she knows.
She pretends not to smile at the realization.