'I've been sleepwalking,
Been wandering all night,
Trying to take what's lost and broke
And make it right.'

"Burning House" ~ Cam

Noise is a part of their family's ambiance, as it turns out.

Not in the past, but after what happened they like to stick closer together. It's the tapestry of their new normal: the sounds of Jules on the phone with UN lawyers and Marina humming along to the radio in the kitchen. The burbled snore duet of Wordy and Sadie on the couch. The tap of Greg's cane where he putters down the hall.

Thanks to all of this, when Spike jerks awake from lurid images of guns, a basement in the desert sand, and water bottles filled with blood, he relaxes almost immediately. Just listening to this symphony of normal.

You're at home. This is Greg's house, not the basement.

Nor does he stir when yet another sound gets added to the mix.

The muted slide of sock feet on carpet grows in volume until, suddenly, it stops.

Spike exhales in little pants, clavicle slick with sweat. He can still feel the ghostly sensation of blood surging up his trachea.

He doesn't move when the covers of his bed are lifted and a soapy smelling hand, fresh from the shower, pats around his nasal cannula to make sure it's working. A whisked tut brings a faint grin to his face.

Then a body settles gingerly down next to him and tugs the blankets, including the heated one, back up over them.

Spike doesn't open his eyes once, hoping for that holy grail: the swirling, heavy dark of beckoning sleep. So far he hasn't been too successful.

But he doesn't need to open his eyes to know who it is.

Especially not when a soft hand interlaces their fingers together near Spike's chest where he is turned on his right side.

"You're okay," a voice whispers, apparently worried about whatever sound Spike cried out, thinking he's still asleep and in distress. "You're safe and I'm here."

Spike's puffing slows down, but it's still fast enough to punch his chest at their plaited hands. He coughs once and that feels better.

The figure is facing him on his side too, breaths blending in ethereal currents between their bodies. Bandage meets bandage when their palms touch with such gentleness that Spike's eyes prickle behind his closed lids.

Their woven hands are a perfect match.

They breathe together in the guest bedroom's dim, accompanied by the oxygen tank's hiss and the feel of each heartbeat, one cherry bomb pops and the other molasses drips, snuggled close enough to unwind the last of the Spike's tension.

Spike gets a hold of his already muddled emotions, only to hear sniffles.

"It was just a nightmare, Dean." He keeps his voice low. "I'm not actively dying anymore and if Jules has her way, I'll be overweight in no time. You hear? I'm still alive."

A head rolls forward to rest on Spike's. "I know."

"I'm sorry I didn't recognize you that night, for pointing a gun at you." Spike leans back to kiss the hair tickling his forehead.

"It was really…really awful, Spike. There was so much blood."

Tears pound at the door of Spike's eyelids. He holds his brother close and wishes, just for a fleeting, thorn puncturing the rose petal moment, that he'd known this boy since childhood. That they'd actually gotten to grow up together.

Spike rarely lets himself indulge in such fantasies, a much more 'in the now' personality, but this one time there's no stopping it. He's gone through Greg's albums and Dean's baby photos, of course. Those infamous pictures of toddler Dean wearing Greg's dress shoes.

Here and now, though…it's not the same. It isn't enough.

Being an only child, Spike never got to teach someone how to ride a bike, to play wrestle, how to talk to girls, the right way to get his father's attention, how to tie a tie…

A whole lifetime they'll never get to live. All they can do now is move forward together, to weave their hopes just like their hands.

"I'm sorry," Spike whispers again, understanding what Dean is actually trying to say. He runs a quick hand through Dean's hair. "I didn't want to leave you behind and I won't do it again. Okay? I promise. I'll never abandon you."

In the ensuing silence, Dean's hand clenches, clammy around his bandage. He tugs Spike's hand closer to his own chest, cuddling it tight with both of his own like a favourite teddy bear.

"I'm just glad you're alive. I thought we'd lost you for good when the plane took off."

Spike lays there, each pulse beat hollow in his chest. He has to suppress a shudder, now wide awake. "…Me too."


Day time is the easiest thing in the world.

It's a relief, distracted at every turn by side hugs and pieces of cake pressed into his hands (not strictly kosher to his recovery but Sam just laughs, "Don't tell Jules.") and feeling so safe amongst this nest of familiar people that he'll fall asleep virtually anywhere.

The couch. The stairs. Head pillowed on the kitchen table. The floor, that one time he bent down to play with Sadie and dozed off on her playmat, curled up like a cat. Many photos were taken of that incident, he found out after, posted in a shared group chat.

Day time is homey and velvet and belly full.

Night time, well…

That first night they drove back from the airport, Ed woke Spike to say a hushed, teary goodbye before leaving with his family. Spike handled it with flying colours, going so far as to comfort the sniper with a bleary smile and a bad joke.

And when the Lane family truck drove away, Spike…Spike stood at the window without moving, long after they disappeared down the street.

Night time is for sweating, alone, in the dark. Night time is for clenched hands and shaking on top of his mattress.

Night time is swallowing until his body remembers that it's not being chased, just because Ed isn't present within his eye line. Night time is for memories of harsh hands, dead bodies at his feet, and being alone in the desert.

Nights are for texts.

Ed is faithful about replying and hearing the zzzhhng zzzhhng vibration of an incoming text—'I'm doing great, Spike. Although I still argue I'm not Gerard. Maybe I can be Poole?'—allows Spike to close his eyes. Release the strain in his jaw.

About two weeks in, after that evening picnic with Winnie on the dock and deep kisses that speak of missed time, Spike opens his eyes to find he's left his bedroom without even noticing.

Sometimes this happens, his mind lost for a minute. His healing feet, bandages now thin enough to finally fit inside socks and shoes, continue to carry him forward without consulting his brain.

It's the dead of night. Even Dean snores in the next room over.

Or at least…he normally does.

Spike blinks and instead of the Parkers' guest bedroom he's standing on the porch. Chilly October wind sears at his already pale skin.

I didn't even feel myself open the door.

There are no stars this time. Not in urban Toronto and certainly not with rainy clouds overhead. The air tastes like ozone and rotting mulch.

Wind rustles his hair too. Thick, fondant folds of chocolate brunette stained with sweat.

Spike glides down the deck steps as if in a dream. His bed definitely isn't good for such things. He doesn't have nightmares, so long as he sleeps during the day.

When his socked foot hits the grass—

CrrrrUNCH.

Spike glances down at a few leaves Ed missed in the clean up. Blown about without attachment. Nothing to tether them down.

And when Spike takes another step forward, then another one, still one more, he travels back in time. It's indelible, this smell of leaves and maple and dank earth. The feeling of a frigid night, quiet, against his back.

Spike closes his eyes. He breathes out a higher pitched sound that he's ever so glad is lost to the wind.

"Spike?"

The tech only turns half way at the voice. And he keeps his eyes on the leaves. "Sorry if I woke you."

"You didn't." Greg crunch-crunches across the lawn to stand at Spike's side. Spike can tell by his loose hand on the cane that he wants to touch Spike but isn't sure he should. "Call it a gut instinct. I saw your bed empty and wanted to make sure you're okay."

Spike sighs again. "I'm fine. Trouble falling asleep, just like I told the doc."

Greg hums. He's in a plaid bathrobe, free hand deep in his pocket, and rubber soled slippers. His shoulders hunch up near his ears to preserve some body heat.

"So you came for a walk?"

"Didn't really mean to," Spike confesses. He waves a hand. "Just…woke up here."

Greg huddles even closer. "I thought you weren't sleeping."

Spike crinkles his toes, for the hollow pleasure of feeling the leaves dissolve under his feet. They're so intangible, so breakable. "Did you know leaves are actually a great source of insulation?"

Something in Greg's eyes shutters. He limps around to face Spike head on, voice lamb's wool soft. "Yeah, I did know that."

"And…and camouflage too."

Greg's face twists with pity. "Spike—"

"They smell like home, no matter where you are." Spike blinks very fast. "Just like this."

Greg removes his hand from its flannel burrow, so the fingers are warm when they make contact with Spike's cheek. "Even in the rural woods of Pennsylvania."

Spike nods in reply, swallows some more for all the good it does.

It starts to rain, even though the storm hasn't reached their yard yet.

A few drops catch on Greg's calloused thumb. He rumbles a fond note in his chest. "That's because home will never be a place."

Spike's chest hitches again.

"It's over, Spike, you know that?" Greg doesn't say it in that light, jostling way of bantering friends. He says it with a furrowed brow, ducking to catch Spike's eye when he tries to look away. "Do you know that?"

Spike doesn't answer, but in a way his body does for him. Trembling, china skinned, and raining. His own personal storm.

Greg tugs him inside when it actually starts to thunder, just before they both get soaked. He stops in the kitchen with a puff of ragged air. There's a funny shake in his limbs.

Spike doesn't fight it when Greg pulls him in. Greg holds him close, running a strong, firm hand over Spike's head. It's warm, safe, so very unlike the bracing and manly slaps his biological father used to embrace him with.

He watches a flash of chain lightning over Greg's shoulder. It highlights the leaves for a microcosmic second. They tumble about in the wind, dispersed to other yards and storm drains. Disposable.

Dread prickles along his sternum.

Just because it's over, Spike thinks, doesn't mean it can't happen again.


AN: Dean and Spike give me so many! Feelings!