Genre: hopeless fangirling
Character: Dean Winchester
Spoilers/warnings: Dean in the shower? Blatant and unashamed objectification.
Word Count: 475
Disclaimer: I don't own him
It was seventy years old and every scrap of logic that had ever found its way into Dean's skull knew it shouldn't work. Yet somehow it did.
Sam had applied his formidable mind to the puzzle almost as soon as the brothers had discovered the Men of Letters' bunker and still had no reasonable explanation to show for his labours.
So Dean just filed it under his 'ain't broke don't fix' list and calmly carried on regardless, relishing the benefits it brought.
Tonight, he appreciated it more than ever as he stood under the powerful spray; its temperature just south of too hot, its tortuously good pressure kneading and pummelling aching, tired shoulders like relentless fingertips.
A deep sigh rumbled in his chest as he stood, head bowed onto his bicep, palm pressed against the smooth tiled wall. He revelled in the steaming torrent which pounded his weary body, penetrating sore, abused muscles like a healing balm and soothing away the tension of tonight's hunt.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the pine-scented steam that coiled around him, and relaxed; trying not to relive the trauma of the werewolf attack. The sting of a thousand needles of hot water rinsing the gash across his back, washing away the creature's grime and filth together with his own spilled blood, was a good pain, a cleansing pain and Dean welcomed it. He began to drift, losing himself in the water's comforting heat and mesmerised by the fading red spiral that circled the drain between his bare feet.
Pulling in another deep breath, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, allowing hot rivulets to trickle down the curve of his throat, pooling in the hollows above his collarbones before cascading down the slippery planes of his chest, rinsing away the rich soapy lather which pooled at his feet, before coiling lazily down the drain, taking with it the last of the lingering fatigue that weighed so heavily on him.
He raised his head, blinking through pearls of steam which clung to his lashes and stretched, flexing his rigid back. Combing fingers through his soaking hair, he scraped it back from his wet forehead and sighed as he slowly turned the handle to switch off the water.
There were many wonders in the bunker; magical, dangerous and extraordinary things that spanned centuries and astounded all who saw them.
Right now, Dean would trade them all for a few more blissful moments under that shower.