Somewhere a Clock is Ticking, Epilogue (R, Sam/Dean)
(Please make sure you've read Chapter Nine, which was posted right before this, before reading the epilogue!)
Epilogue
The clock across the room was ticking too loudly for Dean to sleep.
He tried not to watch the hands moving, but his eyes kept being drawn back to it. Finally he rolled onto his side to stare at his brother instead. Sam was a solid, reassuring weight next to him, face half-hidden in his pillow, his hair mussed into what would be a ridiculous mess when he woke up. He was close enough to touch, but Dean held himself back, forced himself just to look instead.
It was getting easier, in some ways. He didn't need to touch Sam all the time any more. Now he just wanted to, and Dean still hadn't figured out what to do about that.
He guessed that in eighteen minutes he'd find out whether or not he was going to get a chance to work it out.
The hell with this. He couldn't just lie here and wait, or he'd go mad.
Dean started to roll over, then hesitated and leaned over to brush a kiss against his brother's cheek. He stared at Sam for a moment longer, then got out of bed, and told himself he'd be back.
The basement was dark, but Dean didn't bother to switch on a light. The cubes lined against the wall glinted, casting a faint glow, and that was enough to see by.
He hated it down here, but at the same time it held a weird fascination for him. He could still remember what it had been like, trapped inside that cube with the other spirits, feeling all his boundaries eroding as they bled into him. So when the clock started ticking too loudly, he came down to the basement, to see for himself the additional bare spaces on the shelves where he and Sam had managed to lay all the spirits in a cube to rest. It was time-consuming work, even with Thomas's detailed notes on who the spirits were: usually eight to ten corpses to salt and burn, then breaking the receptacle to check that none of the spirits were still being held by something else. They'd only managed to destroy two cubes over the past three weeks, but it was a start. At least Sam had never questioned Dean's need to do it, even though it was obvious to both of them how long it was likely to take.
Much as Dean hated it in the basement, it was always a good reminder of how much he'd regained. And how much he still had to do - how much he was now able to do.
Assuming, of course, that hellhounds didn't break down the basement door to drag him to hell in ten minutes or so.
Dean tried not to think of that, tried to concentrate again on the work they had ahead of them. Freeing the trapped spirits and laying them to rest; hunting down the demons they had thought they'd killed over the past year, and dealing with them again; finding Casey and her lover and deciding what to do about them. They had a lot to do.
He heard a giggle behind him, but didn't turn. "Hey, Lara."
She rematerialized in front of him. "Not hiding good enough. He's gonna find you!"
Dean felt the corner of his mouth turn up. "Thanks for the warning, kiddo."
Lara beamed up at him and vanished again.
Dean sighed. Dead or not, she was a cute kid. They'd found out that her corpse was trapped at the bottom of a lake, and he and Sam had tacitly agreed to wait and see if she went crazy and started causing trouble before they tried to retrieve it. Dean was really kind of hoping she'd prove Thomas wrong, even if he hadn't managed it himself.
He heard the basement door click open, but didn't flinch. Hellhounds weren't likely to use the door handle. And even without Lara's warning, he'd never really been dumb enough to believe that Sam hadn't noticed the way he slipped away in the middle of the night.
"Hey," Sam murmured, coming up behind him.
"Hey," Dean said, grateful that Sam hadn't started in with stupid questions like are you okay?. His brother hadn't reached out to touch him, but he was standing close enough for Dean to feel his warmth against his back.
He wondered what Sam would do if Dean did drop dead in a few minutes, if the crossroads bitch had somehow found a way to play him. He guessed that was on his brother's mind too, because after a minute or two, Sam said, his voice hoarse, "Dean -"
Dean turned around to meet Sam's eyes, saw his own fear and hope reflected there, and knew he didn't want to go on or go out this way.
It wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be to take a step forward and lean against Sam, pressing his face against his brother's neck, the way he had when he'd been slipping as a ghost. It felt a bit like he was slipping again now, but Sam's arms tightened convulsively around him, like he was the one who'd been slipping for the past three weeks and Dean was his lifeline.
Dean stood and listened to his brother's heart beating down the minutes, and wasn't sorry, not for anything.
Eventually, he felt one of Sam's hands move away from his back, and the sound of a watch ticking close by his ear. Dean held his breath, and tried not to think.
His brother made a strange, half-strangled sound, and then Sam's hands were closing around Dean's face, pulling his head up roughly into a kiss, frantic and triumphant. Dean held on, dizzy with it, and let the implications sink in.
Sam finally pulled away, his hands still clutching him close, and Dean took his first deep breath in what felt like forever, holding on to his brother for support and focusing on Sam's smile. He didn't have the first clue what to say.
"C'mon," Sam said eventually, still smiling like he was never going to stop, and grabbed his wrist, tugging him up the stairs and out of the basement. Dean followed, still feeling dazed. Jesus, he had time. Time for... for everything.
When Sam dragged him back into bed, he didn't resist, and didn't pull away to put distance between them. He could feel Sam's warm breath grazing the back of his neck, one solid arm reassuring against his chest.
The clock across the room was ticking too loudly. Dean let the sound lull him into sleep.
Epilogue
The clock across the room was ticking too loudly for Dean to sleep.
He tried not to watch the hands moving, but his eyes kept being drawn back to it. Finally he rolled onto his side to stare at his brother instead. Sam was a solid, reassuring weight next to him, face half-hidden in his pillow, his hair mussed into what would be a ridiculous mess when he woke up. He was close enough to touch, but Dean held himself back, forced himself just to look instead.
It was getting easier, in some ways. He didn't need to touch Sam all the time any more. Now he just wanted to, and Dean still hadn't figured out what to do about that.
He guessed that in eighteen minutes he'd find out whether or not he was going to get a chance to work it out.
The hell with this. He couldn't just lie here and wait, or he'd go mad.
Dean started to roll over, then hesitated and leaned over to brush a kiss against his brother's cheek. He stared at Sam for a moment longer, then got out of bed, and told himself he'd be back.
The basement was dark, but Dean didn't bother to switch on a light. The cubes lined against the wall glinted, casting a faint glow, and that was enough to see by.
He hated it down here, but at the same time it held a weird fascination for him. He could still remember what it had been like, trapped inside that cube with the other spirits, feeling all his boundaries eroding as they bled into him. So when the clock started ticking too loudly, he came down to the basement, to see for himself the additional bare spaces on the shelves where he and Sam had managed to lay all the spirits in a cube to rest. It was time-consuming work, even with Thomas's detailed notes on who the spirits were: usually eight to ten corpses to salt and burn, then breaking the receptacle to check that none of the spirits were still being held by something else. They'd only managed to destroy two cubes over the past three weeks, but it was a start. At least Sam had never questioned Dean's need to do it, even though it was obvious to both of them how long it was likely to take.
Much as Dean hated it in the basement, it was always a good reminder of how much he'd regained. And how much he still had to do - how much he was now able to do.
Assuming, of course, that hellhounds didn't break down the basement door to drag him to hell in ten minutes or so.
Dean tried not to think of that, tried to concentrate again on the work they had ahead of them. Freeing the trapped spirits and laying them to rest; hunting down the demons they had thought they'd killed over the past year, and dealing with them again; finding Casey and her lover and deciding what to do about them. They had a lot to do.
He heard a giggle behind him, but didn't turn. "Hey, Lara."
She rematerialized in front of him. "Not hiding good enough. He's gonna find you!"
Dean felt the corner of his mouth turn up. "Thanks for the warning, kiddo."
Lara beamed up at him and vanished again.
Dean sighed. Dead or not, she was a cute kid. They'd found out that her corpse was trapped at the bottom of a lake, and he and Sam had tacitly agreed to wait and see if she went crazy and started causing trouble before they tried to retrieve it. Dean was really kind of hoping she'd prove Thomas wrong, even if he hadn't managed it himself.
He heard the basement door click open, but didn't flinch. Hellhounds weren't likely to use the door handle. And even without Lara's warning, he'd never really been dumb enough to believe that Sam hadn't noticed the way he slipped away in the middle of the night.
"Hey," Sam murmured, coming up behind him.
"Hey," Dean said, grateful that Sam hadn't started in with stupid questions like are you okay?. His brother hadn't reached out to touch him, but he was standing close enough for Dean to feel his warmth against his back.
He wondered what Sam would do if Dean did drop dead in a few minutes, if the crossroads bitch had somehow found a way to play him. He guessed that was on his brother's mind too, because after a minute or two, Sam said, his voice hoarse, "Dean -"
Dean turned around to meet Sam's eyes, saw his own fear and hope reflected there, and knew he didn't want to go on or go out this way.
It wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be to take a step forward and lean against Sam, pressing his face against his brother's neck, the way he had when he'd been slipping as a ghost. It felt a bit like he was slipping again now, but Sam's arms tightened convulsively around him, like he was the one who'd been slipping for the past three weeks and Dean was his lifeline.
Dean stood and listened to his brother's heart beating down the minutes, and wasn't sorry, not for anything.
Eventually, he felt one of Sam's hands move away from his back, and the sound of a watch ticking close by his ear. Dean held his breath, and tried not to think.
His brother made a strange, half-strangled sound, and then Sam's hands were closing around Dean's face, pulling his head up roughly into a kiss, frantic and triumphant. Dean held on, dizzy with it, and let the implications sink in.
Sam finally pulled away, his hands still clutching him close, and Dean took his first deep breath in what felt like forever, holding on to his brother for support and focusing on Sam's smile. He didn't have the first clue what to say.
"C'mon," Sam said eventually, still smiling like he was never going to stop, and grabbed his wrist, tugging him up the stairs and out of the basement. Dean followed, still feeling dazed. Jesus, he had time. Time for... for everything.
When Sam dragged him back into bed, he didn't resist, and didn't pull away to put distance between them. He could feel Sam's warm breath grazing the back of his neck, one solid arm reassuring against his chest.
The clock across the room was ticking too loudly. Dean let the sound lull him into sleep.