Title: somewhere a clock is ticking [2/?]
Author: alakewood
Warnings: None.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~900
Summary: Dean contemplates domesticity, Sam gets another headache and Dean follows him outside where they share a companionable silence as the sun rises.
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing.
oxoxo
Dean couldn't remember the last time he and Sam had spent so much case-free time together. It definitely had to have been sometime when they were still kids. They hadn't been on a hunt in a good two weeks – and the mouse in the kitchen so didn't count.
The strangest thing about it, though, was that it actually didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. The fact that it was all to make sure that Sam was okay was part of it, but there was something else, too.
He sat across from Sam at the table in the kitchen, allowing himself to see what it could be like if they were ever to live a normal life. Granted, if they ever got to go down that road on a more than just trial basis, he kind of hoped that Sam would be settling down with a nice girl, not with him. Picking out dishes and bed linens and bath towels with Sam was awkward enough the first time and Dean didn't really want to repeat the experience.
Sam glanced up at Dean from the open newspaper before him and reached for his mug of coffee. "What?" he asked, slightly wary of his brother's stare.
"This isn't so bad," he admitted.
Sam took a drink and set the mug back down. "What's that?"
"This. Being...domestic. Normal, you know? It's kind of nice."
"Uh huh," was Sam's response, eyebrows slightly arched as he returned his gaze to the paper. "It's only been a couple of weeks, Dean."
"I know, but..." he trailed off, not knowing how he could explain to Sam how grateful he was for their break without giving away what he'd done.
oxo
They'd been in the house for a little over three weeks which was long enough for Dean to fix the leaky roof, the banister on the staircase leading to the second floor, and to recognize the difference between typical old-house-in-disrepair noises and the sounds of Sam getting out of bed with a headache and wandering around.
But Dean had always been a light sleeper, so regardless of if the noises were just because of the weather – be it hot and humid or dry and cool – making the floorboards in the hall creak and doors stick or pop open in the slightest breeze, every little sound the house made roused him from sleep.
The night had been uncomfortably warm and his sheets were twisted about his feet in a failed, half-asleep attempt to kick them to the foot of his bed. He was disentangling himself when he heard the noise that had awoken him once more. The low creaking seemed further away now, and he recognized it as the stairs.
Dean climbed out of bed, stretching as he padded into the hallway, pausing to poke his head into Sam's bedroom across the hall. But Sam wasn't there. Another headache, he was sure. Most nights, he'd find Sam in the kitchen nursing a tall glass of cold water; some nights, the headaches were bad enough to prompt Sam to opt for something a little stronger. It only happened a few times and Dean never said anything about it – Sam was a grown man and could deal with his pain however he saw fit. Anything to help him sleep because he was barely getting any at all and that meant Dean wasn't, either. If Sam was up, so was Dean; not that he'd ever let on to his brother that he could never fall back asleep unless he was certain that Sam was okay.
When Dean reached the bottom of the stairs, he had a clear view of Sam's hunched back through the screen door. He was perched on the top step at the edge of the porch in the darkness; the floodlight mounted atop the pole next to the garage didn't do much but illuminate a four- or five-foot wide hazy halo about itself in the dense fog.
The spring on the screen door squeaked when he opened it, and pulled it shut with a bang that was only a little muffled by multiple layers of paint. "Sorry," Dean apologized, dropping a hand to Sam's head, gently ruffling his brother's hair.
"It's okay," Sam said, voice sounding rough.
"How's your head?" he asked, letting his hand slide down to the nape of Sam's neck as he stepped down a stair, let the hand linger a moment longer than he normally would have, then let it fall to his side as he sat beside Sam.
"Better now. Just needed some air."
They sat, silently, side by side as morning crept upon them, the sky not visible, just the fog phasing through shades of blue to gray, the sunrise hidden. Eventually, the heat of the sun burned through the fog, slowly revealing the yard, then the field, then the hills beyond.
Dean was the first to break the quiet, knocking his knee against Sam's as he spoke. "I'm gonna go make breakfast. Come in whenever you're ready." He stood up and brushed off the seat of his shorts then headed for the front door. He paused as he opened the screen, glancing back at Sam.
"Yeah. I'll be in in a few," Sam said when he didn't hear the door slam shut.
Dean watched Sam a moment longer, then went inside, gently closing the screen door behind himself.