fanfiction

White Noise ☆ Supernatural

Character/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Wincest
Prompt: 2AM
Date Written: 16/05/2010

He couldn’t sleep.

Simple as that.

How could he? Every time he closed his eyes, he felt panic bubble in his chest and swallowing didn’t settle it. However, while his eyes were open, all he could do was stare at the ceiling. The perfectly speckled ceiling.

The hotels never had that. The inns were just painted over. The motels had water damage. Rolling his head to the side, he noted the beside table next to his side of the bed. No second bed on the other side; just neatly drawn curtains slid across a window. The house smelt of perfumes and candles. Who would have guessed he’d miss the smell of mildew? The bed was comfortable. No lumps, no springs. It didn’t even creak when he shifted.

A sigh to his right.

Quiet and peaceful.

Feminine.

Probably having picture perfect, white washed dreams with plenty of colour and lights. When was the last time Dean had had one of those? Had he ever?

He couldn’t sleep.

Pulling the covers off, he laid them down beside the woman he’d promised to be with and live this glorified apple pie life. Rolling off the bed, he got to his feet and for a moment just stood there. The room was so … full. Everything was so full. Ornaments, pictures, plants. No simple lamp, generic telephone or notepad with the company logo on it.

Nibbling the inside of his lip, Dean slipped out of the room and closed the door silently behind him. Moving to the living room, he sat down upon the couch. A couch. Tired eyes glanced up at the clock and for a moment, he even read the hands backwards. His mind corrected himself.

2 am.

The house was too silent. No noisy neighbors, no snoring; not even white noise from a humming air conditioner.

Reaching for the remote control that still had all its buttons, Dean flicked it on. With the volume turned down to a more familiar softness, he began surfing through them. He was looking for something particular.

There were too many channels.

He pressed on. Then, finally, a familiar looking blue screen flashed on, scribbled with 1-800 numbers and credit card logos.

Infomercials. The background noise to his past 4 years.

Leaning forward, his eyes flicked back and forth across the screen as the scenes continued shifting. Horrible acting, useless inventions and the idiot at the end who takes all the credit.

God, he’d missed this.

Placing the remote on the table, he reached back to pull off the thin blanket draped over the back of the couch. Pulling it over himself, he laid down with his arm tucked under his head for support. The couch had lumps. If he pressed hard enough, he could feel the springs. The material of the cushions had turned stubborn rather then soft with use.

He couldn’t recall ever feeling so at ease.

The thought cut through the guilt that had long since nestled in the pit of his stomach.

He couldn’t sleep.

“God dammit, Sammy.” I’m so sorry, kid.

FIN ★ ☆ ★ Constructive critique always welcome!

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