A/N: A little thing I did to help with the writers friction, because I didn't stop, only slowed down.
Please enjoy!
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Brown grocery bags in hand, filled with frozen vegetables, macaroni and cheese, Hamburger Helper, and ice cream bars, Dean makes his way into the rather large apartment, only to hear clattering followed by a thud from the kitchen. Needless to say, his pace quickens.
"Sam?"
"Knifes go to the right of forks, right?" A muffled answer comes from under the table, little red Chucks poking out past the table cloth.
"Whatchadoin?" Dean sets the two bags down onto the counter before lifting the cloth up to see his little brother picking up the last piece of silverware from the floor.
"You said you were makin' dinner," Sammy says as he crawls backwards into the light, "I just wanted to help," gestures with the pair of forks and knives in his hands. Dean watches as Sam, sitting on his knees, begins to wipe at the utensils with his shirt, the shirt that was just sandwiched between little boy and floor.
"We don't need the knives, Sammy." Dean helps his brother up, taking the knives back.
"What did you get?" Inquisitive hands grab at the bags, tilting them down to see inside.
"Glover!" Sam jumps in the air and attaches himself to Dean's leg, only he's getting bigger now, so it's more hip he's grabbing than anything else. "Can we have Glover now, Dean? Please?"
Without looking away from the task of rinsing the knives, "Why do you think I got it, huh?" Bouncing back to the table, Sam places the forks on napkins then pulls two bowls from a cabinet and sets them up. Dean's now working the stove, opening boxes, packets, and cabinets in a symphony of movement. The two move without saying anything until it's just Dean moving and Sam is only watching from the kitchen table, legs swinging back and forth from the chair. This goes on silently for some time until leg swinging turns into body squirming, which turns into sliding down the chair and running for the bathroom faster than Dean could swear.
"Take your time, Sammy Boy!" Dean calls after him, "Dinner's not gonna be ready for a few minutes." Grinning down into the pot he's stirring, he doesn't notice the neighbor's cat working its way through the kitchen window just above the sink. Dean leaves it open whenever he cooks, figuring it is best to leave soup making to the Campbells, not himself.
It moves slowly at first, meandering carefully past the dirty dishes, stopping every few paces to lick or gnaw at what smells like a good idea. Plump furry paws change directions, heading closer to the smell of new food rather than old. When Dean turns to get at a cabinet, facing away from the intruder, it takes its chance and darts toward the stove. An instinct of all animals is the avoidance of fire, at least the avoidance of being on fire. So it's completely natural that the cat screeches to a halt before reaching the pot, but tile being the slick surface that it is and momentum being a the law of physics that it is, the cat keeps moving forward.
Salt and pepper in hand, Dean turns back to the Hamburger Helper in time to see a rather large ball of fur barrel into the cooking pot, and without hesitating, he drops the spice shakers to grab the cat from the fire, only to knock the pot over, exposing the flame enough to lick his arm.
"STUPID FURBALL!" Dean screams and yells as he wrestles the cat outside, slamming the door hoping to get its tail. Looking at the closed door, the cat licks its front paws before heading off home to watch Matlock with her owner, Peggy. Fragile skin blisters on the back of Dean's right wrist, a few even making it onto the meat of the arm. He swears each time he prods the wound; no use calling it anything else, as he moves toward the sink, slamming closed the window with his left hand.
"Dean?" Dean didn't turn toward Sam, who was returning to the kitchen. The mess of Hamburger Helper dripping off the stove and splattered on the floor stays untouched as Sam moves towards his brother. "What happened?" Dean turns, pulling his arm down to his side,
"Peggy's cat, Douche, struck again." He moves toward the towel drawer, opening it and grabbing towels with his left. "It's nothing." Dean turns his back onto Sam to start the clean up. Sam watches for a second before furrowing his little brows together,
"Did you hurt your hand?" Sam moves towards Dean, grabbing for his brother's wounded hand. It takes three tries, alternating between approaches, before Sam finally sees the damaged hand and when he does, he takes the soiled towel from Dean and yanks his brother to the bathroom. Dean assures Sammy that it's really nothing, honestly, the entire way, and little Sammy wonders what he'll have to do to make Dean stay sitting on the tub so his little fingers can work to treat the wound, wrap gauze over ointment covered hand. Sam grimaces knowing Dean will flinch at his touch.
Sam's seen burns before but not too many of them have been on Winchester men. The knowledge of what to do is there, much like he knows how to shoot, but just because he knows how to shoot a gun doesn't mean he knows all guns. His hands don't shake, but he's sure that they should. Dean doesn't fight him anymore.
Gauze in place, Sam turns away from Dean and begins to clean up the bathroom counter of supplies, tucking away bottles, containers, and bandages, his hands moving without much oversight from his eyes. Dean watches and picks at the white covering his hand.
"I'm sorry." Dean looks up at Sammy,
"Why?" He asks of his little brother.
"If I hadn't fed him that first time-"
"No Sammy…" Dean pushes himself up and looks at Sam, "The cat's just stupid. Doesn't know danger when it sees it." Dean touches Sam's lowered chin with his good hand, ever so slightly lifting it. "Next time it stops by for dinner, it will be the dinner." Sam softly chuckles at the thought of Dean stuffing a struggling plump cat in boiling water and nods. Dean's hand drops and Sam stands alone in the bathroom before following his brother.
At the sight of idle Hamburger Helper, Dean sighs and begins to move to the abandoned towel. Sam stops him by grabbing the towel and glaring at Dean. One hand goes up in mock surrender as Sam shoos Dean out of the kitchen and into the living room. He gives his big brother the option to sit watch TV or do something productive. The TV flares up and Sam cleans to the sound of commercials.
It takes a few minutes before Dean stays on a channel, becoming so engrossed he starts leaning closer. Running water and the click of the stove lighter snaps his attention back into the house minutes later and he gets up from his seat to see Sammy on the step stool checking the level of the flame.
"Sam?" Sam waves him off, turning the flame all the way up.
"Can't burn water," Sammy states with a grin. Dean just stares as Sam steps down, and drags the stool toward the grocery bags getting on again. Checking their contents, his head and hands disappear into one bag only to reappear holding two blue boxes.
"Sam…"
"I've seen you do it a gabillion times, Dean," Sam shakes the boxes like maracas, "I can do this." Dean turns into the living room,
"If I find that you were stingy on the cheese-"
"-I'm your punching bag. I know, I know." Sam rolls his eyes, opening the two boxes, pouring them into the water.
"You wait 'til the water is boiling, Sam!" Dean yells from the sofa.
"Like it matters!" Sam yells back, stirring the noodles. When he's done with that he pulls milk out from the refrigerator and measures the milk he needs, spilling some on the counter. Sam wipes at it before Dean can wonder why the jug is sitting open on the counter, untouched, blocking the view of the spreading white being mopped up.
Recapped milk in the refrigerator, Sam moves to measuring the butter. He unwraps the cool stick, placing it on the cutting board and slowly judges the best placement for the cut from the knife. He avoids touching the yellow surface of the butter by moving the now diced butter with his knife into a bowl, placing it near the measuring cup of milk.
Dean, for the first few minutes watched Sam work, but now all he's watching is reruns through his eyelids. That's how Sam founds his brother when he comes out, tired of watching the noodles begin to boil. Sam pulls the remote from Dean's grip, clicks a few channels left and waits without sitting down.
"Dean," firmly coaxes Dean from his sleep, "food's ready." At that his eyes snap open.
"Didn't burn down the place, did ya?"
"You still here, right?"
Dean rubs his eyes, nodding, then looks to the dining room to find the same place settings but now accompanied with a large silver pot. Dean yawns as he gets up and smells the cheese. Sam is already sitting at the table but waits for Dean to join him before grabbing the serving spoon. Dean takes a rather large mouthful of cheese covered noodles and grins into his bowl.
"Guess you're not a total loser." Sam huffs before stuffing his face with another spoonful and Dean just smiles. Placing his spoon down, Dean licks his thumb and rubs out the orange powder near Sam's right temple, "doesn't mean you don't look like one."