Dean's head bobbed as that familiar piano riff began, his voice bellowing over the expanse of the too-small apartment, "just take those old records off the shelf! I'll sit and listen to them by myself!" He skated around the hardwood in his socks, the tube socks Abbie absolutely hated but were perfect for hardwood, in a crew neck and basketball shorts. He'd tossed the laundry in the machine downstairs. He'd gotten the dish washer started. The stereo was turned up to a healthy 90. Abbie had been knocked out this morning. It was Saturday and he was going to clean house in peace, his way, with no interruptions and it made him want to do a little happy dance. So he put on some tunes and did just that.
That's how Abbie found him.
It's not like she wanted to. She'd been very content, in bed, dead to the world: her week, like every one before it, had been hard. Saturdays were pretty much the only days she could spend in bed, in peace. Not since Dean, though.
Most of her former house guests had been the quiet types. Luke was a health freak and went on hour long runs Saturday mornings, giving her ample time to get up when she pleased. Ichabod didn't know what a stereo was, and read his way through daylight on a lazy Saturday, meaning she'd set the tone. Jenny was erratic; maybe she was home, maybe she wasn't? Much like their childhood, except when she was home, someone else was possibly with her. After they met the Winchesters, that was almost always Sam. Then they got serious and she started spending a whole lot of time at his place because Abbie couldn't handle the noise.
Then Dean started coming over. Sometimes to escape the loud, happy sex, and sometimes to help her with a case. And then he started coming over to watch Back-To-The-Future marathons. They'd order Chinese and laugh. Then he was coming over for coffee, because he was out at his place. They'd drink coffee and bitch about how much Jenny and Sam put away. Then he was coming over just to see her, which had been as honest as either of them would get. A will-they-wont-they started that hasn't met its painful end yet. There were not-so-accidental kisses and ‘sorry's' they never actually meant. There were nights, where she was cold and couldn't shake her purgatory memories or missed Crane, and they wouldn't talk about it, but it was like he knew, and he'd be there, and they'd lay there, side by side and it was as chaste as it could get. He'd press one of those light kisses to her forehead and she'd close her eyes, intertwine their fingers, and sleep.
They'd become domestic on accident. They didn't call it, because it was honestly more fun to see what would happen next, and they were both on the same page when they said that they'd deal with it later. Right now, it was easy, like a Saturday morning.
Well, some people's Saturday mornings.
She had heard that damn riff from the bedroom and knew he was up and at ‘em, cleaning the apartment and revving to get on her last nerve. She only woke up with seven on a given day, and Saturdays, they were in short supply. She groaned, obnoxious, even though he didn't hear it over his crooning. She looked for her pants and a pair of socks, ensuring that her bonnet had stayed firmly in place before walking out of the bedroom, down the hall and leaning against the arch of the scene of the crime.
She glared. He smiled. She sighed, "what time is it?"
He had Windex cleaner in one hand and a rag in the other, blinds pulled open as he scrubbed away at the windows, "12:47. Rise and shine, hot pockets!" He was still shimmying away, the song blaring over the speaker. He tapped his foot, sometimes off beat, and as she began to examine him, a smile spread over her face, until she was just about laughing, "I like sleeping in on Saturdays, I was never big on Saturday cartoons."
Confused, like a puppy, which made her giggle some more, he turned to her, "the TV isn't on?"
She nodded, laughing a little harder, "I know."
Realizing, his jaw set and he arched an unimpressed eyebrow, making the muscles in her stomach contract a little more, "I am literally cleaning your house, and you insult me?"
Rolling her eyes, she walked over and snatched the rag, "you volunteered."
He squinted down at her, reminding them that he was bigger no matter what she said, and snatched the rag back, "it's happening. So sit down and watch the show or go back to bed."
She squinted, quelching the smile trying to push its way off of her face, "With your screeching? How?" She walked back through the hallway to the bathroom, as he, offended, yelled after her, "I have a beautiful voice, Abbie Mills. Don't insult me."
"Who am I to tell a kid the tooth fairy aint real?", she says from the bathroom, washing her face, and getting the toothpaste. She hears him laugh, one of those amused without meaning to be laughs, and she smiles. These moments are so...so nice. And they happen so often. Sometimes she thinks that this is the way it was supposed to be. Shit has been so dark between Dean and Abbie's lives that, when they're together, they keep it light. They both need it. She didn't know how much until she met him.
She keeps the bonnet on, walking back into the living room and plopping down on the couch, in front of where he's cleaning the table.
He lifted his eyes up to her, long eye lashes fanning out every time he blinked. Every time he looked at her like that something they couldn't talk about after, happened. The first time he looked at her like that, they'd just finished watching Looper and bitching about how creepy the facial modification on Joseph Gordon-Levitt had been and how weird new action movies had gotten. They'd laughed, reminisced about Stallone, Samuel L. Jackson, and Schwarzenegger, and eaten the greasiest pizza they could find. It was all buddy cop until she turned her head to the left and he was looking at her. Like that. Like he was ready to give her everything.
She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and is really trying to anchor herself to something so she doesn't obey instinct, not at all to give him any ideas. But he's licking his lips and putting the Windex down and shit she said she wouldn't complicate this any more than it had to be so she parted her lips, breathed and then looked at the stereo, "do we have to listen to old fart radio?"
Instinctually, the divot between his brows creased and his devotion to 80s music killed the magic a little bit, "these are classics, baby. Are you serious?"
"Classics? You know where classics belong?", She stands, searching through his iTunes, realizing it's a lost cause, except...
Hey, yeah! I wanna Shoop baby!
She turns and twists, moving her hips to the beat, eyes closed, enjoying herself the way she might of on another Saturday without Dean. When she opens her eyes, she can't help but smile at the exasperation on his face. Partly because it's familiar, and partly because she knows he knows this is a distraction. She dances to him, and he crosses his arms, brow arched, "I'm cleaning."
"Your packed and your stacked, especially in the back", he fights a smile and she spins around him. He mutters a non-serious ‘no you don't' after how does it hang . She smiles at how cranky he's trying his best to be when he continues to clean the rest of the tables. She dances in the middle of the floor because she can; the world isn't ending, Salt-N-Pepper is flowing and she's up anyways.
"You're just gonna stand there and dance and...", his pause is loaded, so she looks at him and wishes she hadn't because those damn eyes are still firmly set. "And change my music?" When he walks up to her, the heats coming off in waves, and she's almost ready to receive it when he pivots and turns to the music. A slow electric strum builds into a drum kick, and then, Dean gets it started, "she was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean, she was the best damn woman that I ever seen!" He's sweeping now, and she's got hands on her hips in defiance because this must be for the misdirect earlier. He's dancing around the broom. She takes the moment to go back to the iTunes, and surf.
She feels that heat again, and his hands slide down the length of her arms, hands dwarfing hers. She turns the music down, and she turns in his arms. There go those eyes, "we were in the middle of something before you started dancing in the middle of the carpet."
"Cleaning?", she asks, innocent as possible, closing some of the gap between them. He presses in as much as she does and then there's no space. He shakes his head, leaning down. She closes the gap.
Maybe this is a little better than sleeping in on Saturday.