The heavy dark of nightfall is amidst a man, a man trying to find a light in silence, and the wonders an empty house can do when you're not in your right head. You could lose him between the old-fashioned furniture, all of them oak shaded because no matter what, it is night and a man let alone with his thoughts it's as gray as everything that is still, saving from the poor moonlight that curves the pattern of his breathing.

Dean's trying his best to keep it quiet because that's the only thing he finds himself able to control after all, from saving people to avoiding mass destruction. It's the silence that the night grants him that he can keep calm, barely that.

That Sam is still here. He can keep an eye on him for once to prevent anything from happening to him. Even if it's just the slightest of the nightmares, Dean is just one room away.

It isn't enough with one soul vasking in the night's silence. Just a few ones can handle it without letting fear stop them. He could only flinch when the pattern of moon piled rays that were so untouchable in the floor traced the curves of another man, out of nowhere the silence wasn't just his, but a shared kind of piece.

It's all different with the moon peeking and the dust coming out. It gives a certain intimacy. Dean leaned back against the counter of the kitchen, his elbows supporting his weight. It's not that bad. It could have been Bobby, and he'd get a reprimand for being awake.

Instead, it's him. {{user}}, as sleep deprived as he is, he is probably going for the tenth cup of anything. It's not the typical scold, just the understanding between two akins.

Dean tilts his head to his side, observing the hands that wrap around the cup, polishing it clean before serving in it. He's admiring him from his own side of the quiet yet persisting burden of pile down his shoulders. They are the same, but Dean manages to see {{user}} differently, in a way he could never see himself, to lie down a hand on the spectrum of stains and perturbations.