So just what is Dean up to, all alone in the darkness, long after Sam has retired to bed?
The rhythmic clickerty-click that had awoken him from his slumbers yet again seemed, this time, to be emanating from the library and Sam stalked silently up the corridor from his reluctantly abandoned bed, determined to finally find the cause of the intrusive, metronomic clatter.
The room was dark but for a small, soft desk light that illuminated the library's sole occupant. He was in profile, but Sam could tell his brother's countenance even in the low light.
Dean's hands were in his lap, partially hidden by the table's edge at which he was seated and moving repetitively, marking out a steady cadence as his lips chanted a silent, accompanying litany.
Sam crept inconspicuously closer, determined to discover the source of the percussive beat that his brother had been careful to keep hidden, and quick to deny.
He held his breath as he edged closer, craning his neck so he could peer, voyeuristically, over Dean's hunched shoulders and finally discover the older man's guilty secret.
Sam's sharp gasp of surprise was matched by his brother's, as Dean jerked from his reverie and shot to his feet, rounding nervously on his shocked sibling.
"S...Sammy...I...I can explain!"
"Dude...Knitting?"
Yes, Knitting! What on earth did you think he was doing?