I was just tinkering away at the weekend, and came up with this little extension of a drabble I wrote a few years ago. Written for a challenge over on Facebook; 'write a backstory for a Spn character'.
I've interpreted the term 'character' to it's fullest extent here!!! ;)
Genre: Friendship, Humour
Word Count: 400
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural
Dean’s memory-foam mattress here.
Being a memory-foam mattress isn't a difficult job. I mean, it's not exactly up there alongside neurosurgery or particle physics, but even so, it has its challenges.
And I’ve got to say, my Dean sure is a challenge!
The guy's lived a hard life for sure, and it's my job to give him a comfortable night's sleep. However, I have to take into account his stiff neck, his crookedly healed collarbone, the popping joints all along his spine, his twitchy sciatic nerve, his finger that dislocates for no apparent reason, and his cramping calf muscle.
That sure is a lot to remember.
But however challenging it is, I love it... Every. Freaking. Minute.
I remember the day back in 2013 when Dean first walked into the store and saw me. I swear his eyes lit up!
I’m a pretty unremarkable basic level memory-foam mattress. My marketing didn’t have all that shit about ‘spring pockets’ and ‘precision engineered viscoelastic polyurethane foam layers’ compared to some of the more space-age versions of me.
Consequently, I’d been stuck in the store for months; years even, being ignored and sneered at, just watching people walking past me as they were guided toward my more technically advanced – and expensive – companions.
I was on special offer (25% off, if you must know), stood in a quiet corner with a film of dust on my cellophane wrapping when I saw this dude – Dean - striding enthusiastically toward me. It was love at first sight. Or at least it would have been if I’d had eyes. Which I don’t on account of the fact that I’m a mattress.
I think the big red 25% off sticker helped him make his decision, but I don’t care. My Dean had barely been in the store five minutes, and money was changing hands. Then, with the help of spotty seventeen-year-old Billy, the Saturday morning sales assistant, my new owner wedged me into the back of a big black car and now, here I am.
I know how much Dean looks forward to climbing into his bed when he retires at the end of the day. I know that he appreciates the sound sleeps I give him after he nestles into my spongy embrace each night. I know that Dean s grateful for the way I soothe all of those many and varied pains and discomforts.
But most of all, I know that what Dean loves best about me is that I remember him. I steadfastly memorise every nook and every contour, every bone and every muscle of his weary body to give him the healing sleeps he craves so much.
He thinks I can do this because of my design, and because of all my years of dedication to my task, but he’s wrong.
I spend every night with Dean Winchester on top of me.
As if I’m ever going to forget that!