FANFIC: Clear the Area, Ch 2: Knock, Knock
Pairing: Dean/OFC
Characters: Dean, Sam, OFC, Castiel, Kevin
Rating: R
Chapter Word Count: 2,762
Total Word Count: 18,050 (Complete)
Genre: Romance/Humor
Summary: This is the story of you and Dean, and how he manages to slip past your defenses. Written so that you can put yourself in the OFC's shoes. Sorta set end of S8. AU in the fact that Dean, Sam, Castiel, Kevin, and YOU all live in the MOL Bunker; everyone is healthy, and Cas is still an adorably clueless angel with zero tact. (Story title from appropriate Imogen Heap song.)
Author's Note: Not beta'd, any and all mistakes belong solely to me. This is the first Supernatural fanfic I've posted, so please let me know what you think! :)
One thing you can say about the Men of Letters bunker: excellent water pressure. You have yet to walk out of the shower without feeling 10 times better than you did when you got in.
After pulling on a tank top and a pair of loose bed-pants, you towel-dry your hair and walk back to your room. It's not 5-stars or anything, but it's all you could ever ask for. One of these days you'll get around to decorating, but really? You're just happy to have a safe, clean place to call your own.
Your room is situated about as far from the main living areas as you can get. The distance typically provides privacy. You only bump into Kevin once in a while when he gets turned around in the maze of hallways. Sam will send you a text before ever showing up unannounced at your door. (Unless, of course, it's an emergency.)
Castiel, though, has been known to occasionally poof! into your room without warning. If a question pops into his head or he feels the need to tell you something, he thinks the next logical step is to just show up uninvited to speak with you. His unexpected visits have resulted in some awkward conversations. Like explaining the purpose of a bra to the angel... while standing in front of him wearing only your bra and thong. Or said-angel waiting until breakfast the following morning, in front of the guys, to come out with this gem:
"I am unfamiliar with the use of roses as wards," he announced, brow furrowed as if he had been pondering this all night. "Tell me… what is the purpose of the flower tattooed on your left buttock?"
It was a good thing Sam was sitting close enough to smack Dean on the back and dislodge the piece of bacon he choked on.
But, you have to give credit where it's due - Cas has gotten much better lately. Dean's spent a considerable amount of time stressing to him the concept of personal space and privacy in people's bedrooms, and reiterating its importance when dealing with women.
That being said - Dean, himself? Not so easy to avoid. Especially when something's bothering him. Or when he's bored. (God help everyone when he gets bored.) And since he has the convenient, frequently used excuse of 'just passing by' your door on his way to the garage to check on his Baby, he stops by far more often than is good for your blood pressure.
"Knock, knock," he says from your doorway now, though you heard him coming a mile away. He'd intentionally made noise to avoid startling you.
Then again, noting the way he's currently swaying and leaning heavily on the door frame for support, his shuffling and stomping might not have been intentional after all. He gives you a goofy smile and your stomach drops.
Oh, Lord. He's kicked in the ass. That means he's going to be even more adorable and hard to resist than usual.
You toy with the notion of praying for Cas to come and extradite the drunken Winchester from your bedroom. You quickly decide against it after imagining the conversations that would take place, as well as how long it would take to get them both out of here.
"Wow. Still up, huh?" You tease, looking over your shoulder at him as you brush your hair up into a ponytail. "Thought for sure you'd be sleeping it off by now."
"It'll take a hell of a lot more alcohol than that to keep me down," he assures.
With that said, you watch him cross your room and flop down face-first onto your bed.
"By all means, make yourself comfortable," you comment wryly.
"Don't mind if I do," he replies, but his words are heavily muffled by your pillow. He rubs his face against it before rolling over onto his side and settling in just like he belongs there.
You shake your head and laugh, busying yourself with putting your clothes in your hamper. From behind you, you hear the telltale 'thunk…thunk' of his boots being toed off onto the floor. Your eyes widen in surprise. He really is just going to make himself at home in here, apparently.
You have no idea why he's in your room and, more importantly, why he's torturing you by climbing into your bed. You're damned well gonna have to rewash that pillow and blanket now. They both undoubtedly already smell like him. All Dean-sweat and leather and gun oil and whiskey. Damn him. You wonder how many times you'll cave and sniff the linens before tossing them into the washing machine...
Steeling yourself for whatever's to come, you turn back to face him. You had really been looking forward to crashing for the night. Now there's a Winchester-sized roadblock standing directly between you and sleep.
"What can I do for you, Dean?" You ask tiredly.
He grins and scoots over on your bed, patting the empty space beside him in invitation.
"Ooohhh no! Definitely not," you laugh, arching a brow and stubbornly crossing your arms over your chest.
"What? I'm not gonna try anything. I swear," he insists. His inebriated attempt at an innocent smile is priceless.
"Really? Dean Winchester is drunk, in my bed, wants me to join him, but he's 'not gonna try anything'? Christo."
"Oh, wow. I have to be possessed to not be trying to get into your pants?" He asks.
You smirk, but say nothing.
"You wound me," he says, clutching his chest in feigned insult before trying again at persuasion. "Cooommee oonnn. I give you my word. Not gonna try anything."
"Then what reason could you possibly have for wanting to share my bed when you have a perfectly good mattress of your own in your room?"
"I just want to talk," he insists.
"So talk," you reply stubbornly.
"Not unless you come over here," he declares. Mirroring your pose, he crosses his arms over his chest and makes a big show of getting more comfortable, nestling down into your pillow.
I may need to burn that thing now… you think. Washing it might not be enough.
"I got all night, doll," Dean says. "And I ain't movin'."
You groan. As tired as you are, you're not sure you'll be up for the feat of strength it would require to resist him if he comes on to you. But, again, you're exhausted. And whether Dean's in there or not, you're going to sleep in that bed.
With a sigh, you trudge over and climb up onto your mattress, thankful that you opted for a queen-sized instead of a twin. At least there's some space between the two of you. You opt for resting on your back. Safer that way. Not facing him directly, or else you'd have to stare into those damnably green eyes of his. Not on your stomach. That would put your ass within reach if he gets grabby. Could also result in him climbing on top of you and offering, yet again, to give you a back-rub. (As if it would stop at a massage if you ever let him put those hands on you.) Not turning your back on him. That'd be a majorly bad idea. It'd put you in the position to play little-spoon if he's drunk enough to feel cuddly.
Dean grins victoriously as he watches you try to get comfortable beside him.
"Hi," he greets when you finally settle in and dare to glance over at him.
You can't help but crack up.
"Man, you are sooo wasted," you say with a shake of your head.
"Not that wasted," he insists.
"Whatever," you laugh.
Sure, not wasted. Because he's always this happy-go-lucky when he's sober.
"So, you got your way. What do you want to talk about?" You ask as you look over at him again.
He bites his bottom lip (which is way sexier than it has any right to be) and an exceedingly rare look of indecision passes over his features. You frown deeply at that, wondering what in the world could possibly be going through his head. Turning on your side to face him fully, you study his expression curiously.
"What is it?" You ask worriedly.
"You care about me," he finally states matter-of-factly.
You're sure your expression is comical. For a moment your face can't decide whether to go with shock, denial, agreement, or amusement, so it involuntarily shifts back and forth between all of them.
"Umm... okay," you answer slowly and cautiously. It comes out sounding like a question. You have no idea where this is coming from or where it's going.
"You do," he assures, as if you need him to tell you this. "I mean, not because of you saving my ass or stitching me up, 'cause we all do that shit for each other. It's the other stuff. The talking and the hanging out. Looking out for me. Making sure I get the last piece of pie..."
"Pie equals affection, huh?" You laugh.
"Damned straight," he agrees with a grin.
"Okay... so... where are you going with this?"
"You do, though - care about me," he reiterates.
It takes you a minute to realize he's not going to let you off easy. He's waiting for you to confirm it.
You inhale deeply through your nose and exhale slowly.
He waits patiently.
Bastard.
"Sure. Yeah. I do." You answer reluctantly and pray to God that he's not going to lean over and kiss you, because if he does? You're toast. There'll be no more fight left in you. No way will you resist.
Instead, he gives you one of his 10,000 megawatt smiles.
"Okay then," he says, clapping his hands together and getting up on his knees on the bed beside you as if something's been decided.
"Okay then...what?" You ask, trying to follow along with his train of thought.
"At the bar tonight, you said you wanted to 'actually care about' a guy if you're going to sleep with him. You care about me. Said so yourself. So…" he pauses to snap his fingers and do a sexy little dance that involves entirely too much hip motion. "Let's do this thing."
"Oh my God!" You groan in exasperation and roll over onto your back, trying to ignore the way he's licking his lips and staring at you.
"You can call me Dean," he says cheekily and waggles his eyebrows when you chance a look up at him.
"Dean..." you sigh, covering your face with your hand. "I am not going to have sex with you. Even if you did come in here armed with drunken logic."
"Irrefutable drunken logic, thank you very much," he corrects. "And why the hell not?" He asks, pouting.
No, you are NOT going to move your hand away from your eyes and look over at those gorgeous lips shaped into a full-on pout. It'll be too much to bear.
"You really thought you'd cracked this one, huh?" You ask with a smile. "Figured out the solution to the puzzle?"
"Umm... yeah!" He answers in frustration, and it sounds remarkably like 'no shit!'
After a moment, he flops down onto the bed beside you. He's closer this time, you note, but he's on his back now.
"I don't get you," he announces with barely concealed disappointment.
"I'm not going to sleep with you because it'll be weird," you offer, finally working up the nerve to look over at him.
"Only if you're into that kinda thing," he teases, deliberately misinterpreting your words as usual.
"Ha-ha, smart ass. You know what I mean. Afterwards, it'll make things...awkward or tense. It'd be like starting the countdown till I had to leave. And I happen to like it here. A lot."
Dean considers that for a long moment, then sighs and reaches down between you to take your hand in his. You tense at first at the contact, but relax when he glances over at you.
"Yeah, well. We like having you here, too," he grumbles as he interlaces your fingers.
"Are you gonna keep pouting?" You ask with a smirk.
"Will it get me anywhere?" He asks hopefully.
You laugh and shake your head.
"Then no," he replies.
The room settles into silence for several minutes.
You don't even realize you're starting to doze off until his voice startles you fully awake again.
"Why would it have to... you know... get weird?" He asks.
You open your eyes and, against your better judgment (you blame your exhaustion), you roll over onto your side to face him.
"Because..." your voice is sleep-softened already, even to your own ears. You trail off when you look at the profile of this gorgeous, perfectly imperfect man in your bed, holding your hand. You're not sure you can find the courage to finish what you were saying.
Dean rolls over then, shimmying down the bed enough to be eye-level with you. He's still holding your hand in his, and has somehow managed to bring them both up against his chest... His warm, muscular, manly chest wrapped in soft, touchable cotton and dear GOD what had you been trying to say before?
"Because what?" He prompts softly as his eyes intensely search yours for answers.
Whhhyyyy does his voice have to get even sexier when he's tired? You swallow hard and focus with all of your might on one of his shirt's buttons. There. Something not-sexy to stare at.
"Because..." and you have to close your eyes before jumping off of this cliff, "just sex wouldn't be enough."
The words seem to echo in the silence of your room.
You finally told him the truth. The real reason you've never let him get closer than a friend.
You want more with him. SO much more than 'just sex'. And if you start...? If you get a taste of what it could be like to have him...? Your heart wouldn't be able to stand watching him go on as if it had meant nothing. It would kill you to watch him move on to the next girl, to joke around with you about his latest one-nighter, to flirt with women in front of you as if it wouldn't be tearing you up inside. Eventually, it would become too painful, and like you said, it would be only a matter of time before you'd have to leave. You can't do that to yourself. You'd rather have him as a close friend than that.
Dean is quiet for a minute, and you may or may not be holding your breath the whole time.
"Huh." He finally breathes before descending into silence again.
Another minute passes.
Dean nods to himself, as if he's got it all figured out, and says simply, "Okay."
Without saying another word, he pulls you closer to his chest and curls himself around you.
"Dean?" You squeak nervously, because seriously? So not fair surrounding you with warmth and soft skin and Dean-scent when you're trying to be strong-willed here!
"Go to sleep," he instructs and presses a kiss to your thoroughly-furrowed brow.
Go to sleep?
Really?
How the hell does he expect you to fall asleep like this?
But he must know better than you do, just how close you are to passing out. You only obsess about your current position for a matter of minutes before you catch yourself yawning, nuzzling closer, and sighing contentedly.
You smile when his adept fingers free your hair from the tight ponytail you always wear. He shakes it out across the pillow and gives a little 'hmm' of approval. You laugh lightly when you feel him chuck your hair-tie across the room. Apparently he prefers your hair down.
His fingers passing through your hair in a slow, steady rhythm lull you into a deep sleep.
Characters: Dean, Sam, OFC, Castiel, Kevin
Rating: R
Chapter Word Count: 2,762
Total Word Count: 18,050 (Complete)
Genre: Romance/Humor
Summary: This is the story of you and Dean, and how he manages to slip past your defenses. Written so that you can put yourself in the OFC's shoes. Sorta set end of S8. AU in the fact that Dean, Sam, Castiel, Kevin, and YOU all live in the MOL Bunker; everyone is healthy, and Cas is still an adorably clueless angel with zero tact. (Story title from appropriate Imogen Heap song.)
Author's Note: Not beta'd, any and all mistakes belong solely to me. This is the first Supernatural fanfic I've posted, so please let me know what you think! :)
One thing you can say about the Men of Letters bunker: excellent water pressure. You have yet to walk out of the shower without feeling 10 times better than you did when you got in.
After pulling on a tank top and a pair of loose bed-pants, you towel-dry your hair and walk back to your room. It's not 5-stars or anything, but it's all you could ever ask for. One of these days you'll get around to decorating, but really? You're just happy to have a safe, clean place to call your own.
Your room is situated about as far from the main living areas as you can get. The distance typically provides privacy. You only bump into Kevin once in a while when he gets turned around in the maze of hallways. Sam will send you a text before ever showing up unannounced at your door. (Unless, of course, it's an emergency.)
Castiel, though, has been known to occasionally poof! into your room without warning. If a question pops into his head or he feels the need to tell you something, he thinks the next logical step is to just show up uninvited to speak with you. His unexpected visits have resulted in some awkward conversations. Like explaining the purpose of a bra to the angel... while standing in front of him wearing only your bra and thong. Or said-angel waiting until breakfast the following morning, in front of the guys, to come out with this gem:
"I am unfamiliar with the use of roses as wards," he announced, brow furrowed as if he had been pondering this all night. "Tell me… what is the purpose of the flower tattooed on your left buttock?"
It was a good thing Sam was sitting close enough to smack Dean on the back and dislodge the piece of bacon he choked on.
But, you have to give credit where it's due - Cas has gotten much better lately. Dean's spent a considerable amount of time stressing to him the concept of personal space and privacy in people's bedrooms, and reiterating its importance when dealing with women.
That being said - Dean, himself? Not so easy to avoid. Especially when something's bothering him. Or when he's bored. (God help everyone when he gets bored.) And since he has the convenient, frequently used excuse of 'just passing by' your door on his way to the garage to check on his Baby, he stops by far more often than is good for your blood pressure.
"Knock, knock," he says from your doorway now, though you heard him coming a mile away. He'd intentionally made noise to avoid startling you.
Then again, noting the way he's currently swaying and leaning heavily on the door frame for support, his shuffling and stomping might not have been intentional after all. He gives you a goofy smile and your stomach drops.
Oh, Lord. He's kicked in the ass. That means he's going to be even more adorable and hard to resist than usual.
You toy with the notion of praying for Cas to come and extradite the drunken Winchester from your bedroom. You quickly decide against it after imagining the conversations that would take place, as well as how long it would take to get them both out of here.
"Wow. Still up, huh?" You tease, looking over your shoulder at him as you brush your hair up into a ponytail. "Thought for sure you'd be sleeping it off by now."
"It'll take a hell of a lot more alcohol than that to keep me down," he assures.
With that said, you watch him cross your room and flop down face-first onto your bed.
"By all means, make yourself comfortable," you comment wryly.
"Don't mind if I do," he replies, but his words are heavily muffled by your pillow. He rubs his face against it before rolling over onto his side and settling in just like he belongs there.
You shake your head and laugh, busying yourself with putting your clothes in your hamper. From behind you, you hear the telltale 'thunk…thunk' of his boots being toed off onto the floor. Your eyes widen in surprise. He really is just going to make himself at home in here, apparently.
You have no idea why he's in your room and, more importantly, why he's torturing you by climbing into your bed. You're damned well gonna have to rewash that pillow and blanket now. They both undoubtedly already smell like him. All Dean-sweat and leather and gun oil and whiskey. Damn him. You wonder how many times you'll cave and sniff the linens before tossing them into the washing machine...
Steeling yourself for whatever's to come, you turn back to face him. You had really been looking forward to crashing for the night. Now there's a Winchester-sized roadblock standing directly between you and sleep.
"What can I do for you, Dean?" You ask tiredly.
He grins and scoots over on your bed, patting the empty space beside him in invitation.
"Ooohhh no! Definitely not," you laugh, arching a brow and stubbornly crossing your arms over your chest.
"What? I'm not gonna try anything. I swear," he insists. His inebriated attempt at an innocent smile is priceless.
"Really? Dean Winchester is drunk, in my bed, wants me to join him, but he's 'not gonna try anything'? Christo."
"Oh, wow. I have to be possessed to not be trying to get into your pants?" He asks.
You smirk, but say nothing.
"You wound me," he says, clutching his chest in feigned insult before trying again at persuasion. "Cooommee oonnn. I give you my word. Not gonna try anything."
"Then what reason could you possibly have for wanting to share my bed when you have a perfectly good mattress of your own in your room?"
"I just want to talk," he insists.
"So talk," you reply stubbornly.
"Not unless you come over here," he declares. Mirroring your pose, he crosses his arms over his chest and makes a big show of getting more comfortable, nestling down into your pillow.
I may need to burn that thing now… you think. Washing it might not be enough.
"I got all night, doll," Dean says. "And I ain't movin'."
You groan. As tired as you are, you're not sure you'll be up for the feat of strength it would require to resist him if he comes on to you. But, again, you're exhausted. And whether Dean's in there or not, you're going to sleep in that bed.
With a sigh, you trudge over and climb up onto your mattress, thankful that you opted for a queen-sized instead of a twin. At least there's some space between the two of you. You opt for resting on your back. Safer that way. Not facing him directly, or else you'd have to stare into those damnably green eyes of his. Not on your stomach. That would put your ass within reach if he gets grabby. Could also result in him climbing on top of you and offering, yet again, to give you a back-rub. (As if it would stop at a massage if you ever let him put those hands on you.) Not turning your back on him. That'd be a majorly bad idea. It'd put you in the position to play little-spoon if he's drunk enough to feel cuddly.
Dean grins victoriously as he watches you try to get comfortable beside him.
"Hi," he greets when you finally settle in and dare to glance over at him.
You can't help but crack up.
"Man, you are sooo wasted," you say with a shake of your head.
"Not that wasted," he insists.
"Whatever," you laugh.
Sure, not wasted. Because he's always this happy-go-lucky when he's sober.
"So, you got your way. What do you want to talk about?" You ask as you look over at him again.
He bites his bottom lip (which is way sexier than it has any right to be) and an exceedingly rare look of indecision passes over his features. You frown deeply at that, wondering what in the world could possibly be going through his head. Turning on your side to face him fully, you study his expression curiously.
"What is it?" You ask worriedly.
"You care about me," he finally states matter-of-factly.
You're sure your expression is comical. For a moment your face can't decide whether to go with shock, denial, agreement, or amusement, so it involuntarily shifts back and forth between all of them.
"Umm... okay," you answer slowly and cautiously. It comes out sounding like a question. You have no idea where this is coming from or where it's going.
"You do," he assures, as if you need him to tell you this. "I mean, not because of you saving my ass or stitching me up, 'cause we all do that shit for each other. It's the other stuff. The talking and the hanging out. Looking out for me. Making sure I get the last piece of pie..."
"Pie equals affection, huh?" You laugh.
"Damned straight," he agrees with a grin.
"Okay... so... where are you going with this?"
"You do, though - care about me," he reiterates.
It takes you a minute to realize he's not going to let you off easy. He's waiting for you to confirm it.
You inhale deeply through your nose and exhale slowly.
He waits patiently.
Bastard.
"Sure. Yeah. I do." You answer reluctantly and pray to God that he's not going to lean over and kiss you, because if he does? You're toast. There'll be no more fight left in you. No way will you resist.
Instead, he gives you one of his 10,000 megawatt smiles.
"Okay then," he says, clapping his hands together and getting up on his knees on the bed beside you as if something's been decided.
"Okay then...what?" You ask, trying to follow along with his train of thought.
"At the bar tonight, you said you wanted to 'actually care about' a guy if you're going to sleep with him. You care about me. Said so yourself. So…" he pauses to snap his fingers and do a sexy little dance that involves entirely too much hip motion. "Let's do this thing."
"Oh my God!" You groan in exasperation and roll over onto your back, trying to ignore the way he's licking his lips and staring at you.
"You can call me Dean," he says cheekily and waggles his eyebrows when you chance a look up at him.
"Dean..." you sigh, covering your face with your hand. "I am not going to have sex with you. Even if you did come in here armed with drunken logic."
"Irrefutable drunken logic, thank you very much," he corrects. "And why the hell not?" He asks, pouting.
No, you are NOT going to move your hand away from your eyes and look over at those gorgeous lips shaped into a full-on pout. It'll be too much to bear.
"You really thought you'd cracked this one, huh?" You ask with a smile. "Figured out the solution to the puzzle?"
"Umm... yeah!" He answers in frustration, and it sounds remarkably like 'no shit!'
After a moment, he flops down onto the bed beside you. He's closer this time, you note, but he's on his back now.
"I don't get you," he announces with barely concealed disappointment.
"I'm not going to sleep with you because it'll be weird," you offer, finally working up the nerve to look over at him.
"Only if you're into that kinda thing," he teases, deliberately misinterpreting your words as usual.
"Ha-ha, smart ass. You know what I mean. Afterwards, it'll make things...awkward or tense. It'd be like starting the countdown till I had to leave. And I happen to like it here. A lot."
Dean considers that for a long moment, then sighs and reaches down between you to take your hand in his. You tense at first at the contact, but relax when he glances over at you.
"Yeah, well. We like having you here, too," he grumbles as he interlaces your fingers.
"Are you gonna keep pouting?" You ask with a smirk.
"Will it get me anywhere?" He asks hopefully.
You laugh and shake your head.
"Then no," he replies.
The room settles into silence for several minutes.
You don't even realize you're starting to doze off until his voice startles you fully awake again.
"Why would it have to... you know... get weird?" He asks.
You open your eyes and, against your better judgment (you blame your exhaustion), you roll over onto your side to face him.
"Because..." your voice is sleep-softened already, even to your own ears. You trail off when you look at the profile of this gorgeous, perfectly imperfect man in your bed, holding your hand. You're not sure you can find the courage to finish what you were saying.
Dean rolls over then, shimmying down the bed enough to be eye-level with you. He's still holding your hand in his, and has somehow managed to bring them both up against his chest... His warm, muscular, manly chest wrapped in soft, touchable cotton and dear GOD what had you been trying to say before?
"Because what?" He prompts softly as his eyes intensely search yours for answers.
Whhhyyyy does his voice have to get even sexier when he's tired? You swallow hard and focus with all of your might on one of his shirt's buttons. There. Something not-sexy to stare at.
"Because..." and you have to close your eyes before jumping off of this cliff, "just sex wouldn't be enough."
The words seem to echo in the silence of your room.
You finally told him the truth. The real reason you've never let him get closer than a friend.
You want more with him. SO much more than 'just sex'. And if you start...? If you get a taste of what it could be like to have him...? Your heart wouldn't be able to stand watching him go on as if it had meant nothing. It would kill you to watch him move on to the next girl, to joke around with you about his latest one-nighter, to flirt with women in front of you as if it wouldn't be tearing you up inside. Eventually, it would become too painful, and like you said, it would be only a matter of time before you'd have to leave. You can't do that to yourself. You'd rather have him as a close friend than that.
Dean is quiet for a minute, and you may or may not be holding your breath the whole time.
"Huh." He finally breathes before descending into silence again.
Another minute passes.
Dean nods to himself, as if he's got it all figured out, and says simply, "Okay."
Without saying another word, he pulls you closer to his chest and curls himself around you.
"Dean?" You squeak nervously, because seriously? So not fair surrounding you with warmth and soft skin and Dean-scent when you're trying to be strong-willed here!
"Go to sleep," he instructs and presses a kiss to your thoroughly-furrowed brow.
Go to sleep?
Really?
How the hell does he expect you to fall asleep like this?
But he must know better than you do, just how close you are to passing out. You only obsess about your current position for a matter of minutes before you catch yourself yawning, nuzzling closer, and sighing contentedly.
You smile when his adept fingers free your hair from the tight ponytail you always wear. He shakes it out across the pillow and gives a little 'hmm' of approval. You laugh lightly when you feel him chuck your hair-tie across the room. Apparently he prefers your hair down.
His fingers passing through your hair in a slow, steady rhythm lull you into a deep sleep.