disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of it's wonderful characters.
The door slams shut, the sound echoing through the room and settling like a dark cloud before a storm. It's a warning, a siren that forebodes the coming clash of two Winchesters. Normally, it was a siren that would have Dean jumping to his feet, ready to respond like a good little solider and throw himself onto the grenade before it could go off, but not this time. This time, he just covers his throbbing head with a pillow and prays it's only a false alarm. He holds his breath hoping that his brother won't pull that pin, that his dad won't explode.
"It's not fair!" Fingers latch around the pin ready to yank it out.
"Sam…" his dad warns in a last ditch attempt to keep the pin in, to keep the peace.
"Don't 'Sam' me, Dad. You said we could stay this time, but you lied. Again. Do you even care about what all this moving around does to us?" The pin is yanked free, and tossed aside along with any chance of avoiding a fight. It doesn't take long for the explosion to follow. Both voices rise, each competing to get their own point across and neither listening to the other.
Dean tries to ignore it. He pulls the pillow tighter and tries to duck out of the blast radius. His head pulses achingly with every shout, rattled by every harsh word. He swallows thickly over the painful swell in his throat, and mutters out a soft "stop" through cracked lips. The sound is a bare whisper, a ghost of his usual voice, and is quickly lost amongst the harsh tones of his family. He tries again, but it's a lost cause and his voice slips under the radar. Then again, what did he expect when it usually takes him bodily forcing himself between them?
"Dean and I could stay here while you go on a hunt." Dean winces at the sound of his own name. He doesn't want drawn into this. Not this time. Not when he can hardly think past the pounding in his head. Not when he can hardly talk past the ache in his throat. He coughs dryly, and bites back a groan as it flares up the fire burning at the back of his throat.
"We're leaving first thing in the morning. End of story." Dean sighs knowing that it's not the end of the story. His head pounds and he tunes out the words, wishing he could tune out the sound too.
"Mom would never have made us leave!" It's petulantly flung, bursting out the same way "I hate you" flies out of most kid's mouths. It's clear Sam regrets his harsh words the second he spits them out, but he doesn't take them back. He's too angry right now, too caught up in the moment. He'll apologize profusely later, swear he didn't mean it, but for now he leaves his words hanging heavy in the air.
The tension is thick after that, and as much as Dean wants to celebrate the silence, to thank the heavens for the quiet, it's worse like this. He coughs, the sound harsh in the heavy silence, and he can feel his family's eyes swivel to focus on him. The fire in his throat is worse, but he swallows anyway, trying to come up with something to say. He knows he can't put the pin back in the grenade; he can't shove Sam's words back in his mouth, but maybe he can do some damage control. He's so caught up in trying to come up with the perfect words to fix everything, he almost flinches when a small hand lands on his shoulder.
"Dean," Sam's voice is much softer this time, "you're burnin' up."
For a moment, Dean thinks maybe he won't have to think of anything to say, maybe that cough was enough. He holds his breath hoping that the battle is over. For all he cares they could even fuss over him being sick, if it meant they'd stop yelling.
"This is your fault," Just like that the war starts back up again, "you shouldn't have taken Dean on that hunt. You knew he had a cold and you knew the weather was bad."
"He's fine, Sam. He just needs a good night's rest. Let him sleep and pack up your stuff."
"He's not fine, Dad. He's sick. He needs a doctor."
"He's fine. "
"No he's not."
"Sam, pack up your stuff."
Both of their voices are raised again, each one trying to overshadow the other and neither willing to give in. The sound makes Dean's head ache, makes him want to yell at them, to tell them to shut the hell up. He feels shitty enough without them arguing about just how shitty he feels.
It takes a moment for Dean to realize it's suddenly gone eerily quiet. It takes him even longer to realize it's because he was thinking far too loudly. He should apologize, tell them he didn't mean it, but the quiet is too alluring and sleep sounds far better than pointlessly trying to put the pin back in the grenade.
Dean wakes to find Sam pressed against his side sound asleep. The clock on the nightstand tells him it's twelve thirty, and well past what should have been their early morning wake-up call to leave. Their bags are packed and neatly sitting in front of the door and Dean can't really think of any reason why they're not in the car miles down the road to the next hunt. He's not complaining though. For the first time in a long time, it's actually quiet. There's no yelling or fighting destroying any chance of quiet. There's no more grenades being thrown, no more breaking of his family. He's content here, his brother a warm and comforting presence against his side, and the fire in his throat a dim flicker of what it was before. It's not a perfect peace, not a cure-all, but it's enough for him. He can't shove the pin back in the grenade. Heck, he can't even always stop them from pulling that pin, but he can get them to sign a peace treaty. Maybe he'll never be able to get them to stop arguing all the time, but he can hold them together. Because in the end, they're family, and that's all that really matters.