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Dean shuffles awkwardly around the pile of boxes on his way to the kitchen. It’s been a few weeks since Jack moved back in and Dean hadn’t gotten around to tossing out the small mountain that had accumulated on the floor of their living room. Jack blames it on his laziness, another point on a long list of things he choses not to do in favor of fucking around.
But it wasn't that he hasn't tried, he wants to explain. It feels monumental. A year of the flat being half empty. A year of sporadic, strained conversations that only ever led to the same conclusion, that this was just how things were now. And suddenly all of Jack’s things had fallen seamlessly back into the fabric of the flat. It still throws him off sometimes when he walks in, for a moment believing he's been sent back in time, or dreamt the past year up. In his worse moments he wants to walk around and catalogue each new-old item, painstakingly mark its location in the room and memorize it. To know what isn’t ‘his.’ He’s too embarrassed of Jack walking in and seeing him, though.
Mindlessly he flicks the kettle on as he pulls out a mug. His hand flutters for a moment before grabbing a second one. It’s louder, too. He supposes that's par for the course when two people are living in a space compared to one, but it had been a welcome change to the eerie quiet. When they hadn’t been speaking it had felt like what had been white noise of neighbors and cars suddenly became loud and droning, a hard to shut out background track to quietly shuffling feet and empty bedrooms. It wasn’t that Dean was a quiet person, he knows he isn’t, but the only friends he really had weren’t speaking to him, either by their own will or government force, and suddenly he found he had very little to say. Even now there are lulls, times that he slips back into the habit. These usually end with him scaring the shit out of Jack, who has taken to loudly complaining, assumingly as an attempt to cover embarrassing squeaks. Last year he would have had a field day poking fun at him for it, but now even the thought causes his stomach to twist.
He shifts on his feet as watches the water bubble through the clear pot, startling slightly when it starts to beep. The water calms as he pours it into the mugs, steam gently rising from them. The pot gets returned to its base with a small click as he reaches to plop a tea bag in each. The sound of feet dragging on carpet catches his attention as he looks up to find Jack slowly moving towards the living room.
“I made you tea,” he calls out.
“JE-sus!” Jack startles, jumping a bit. Dean snorts quietly as he starts to whine, “I’m going to put a bell on you, this is ridiculous.”
“’s not my fault. I’m not doing it on purpose, you know.”
Jack huffs, unconvinced, as he moves towards him. He isn’t wearing his glasses and his quiff is unstyled, half covering his forehead. It makes him look younger. Dean looks away quickly, grabbing the sugar, and turns back to the mugs as Jack pauses next to him, leaning on the counter to sleepily watch him. The mug scrapes against the counter as he pushes it towards Jack.
“Are you going to pick up those boxes yet? I almost tripped on them. Again.” Jack’s tone is jovial and overdramatic, but the question still worms its way into Dean.
He hums noncommittally as he taps a spoon on the rim of the cup. If it bothers him so much why doesn’t he just take it out? Can’t he be selfish, revel in the uncertainty while it's still here? Questions clutter his head, stacked precariously on top of one another building staggering monoliths. He considers them in their enormity. He imagines pulling one question out and watching as it destables the whole structure, quivering before crashing against the other towering monuments. Maybe then, once they’d lay littered at his feet, he’d finally address them.
The spoon clatters hollowly against the sink as it’s dropped in, “I’ll get to it.”
--
“Wha-?” Dean startles as a stack of messily folded blankets are dropped on top of him. He looks up to see Jack grinning stupidly at him, he's got his glasses on now but he's left his hair alone. It pulls at Dean's heart a little, makes his face flush a little, the remnants of teenage naivety that he never fully outgrew. The same naivety that made him (and, being honest, still makes him) follow Jack around like a lost puppy vying for attention. Marv had caught on to him once, when they were all sitting in her old office. He remembers waving his hand at her threateningly while her eyes bulged and face reddened with barely restrained effort not to shout. Jack had then asked if she was choking and it had annoyed her so much she’d forgotten about this revelation. That was until later when she had cornered him, asking one question, “Why?” Which, rude, he’d thought; he had perfectly decent taste in men, thank you very much.
“Aren’t you cold? I can practically see my breath, I swear.”
Jack toes one of the boxes that has started to slide out of the pile back into place as he speaks, eyebrows pinched in effort.
Dean rolls his eyes, “I thought I was the dramatic one.”
He watches as another box slides out on the other side. Jack stares at it for a moment before giving up and sitting down next to him.
“You are.” Jack says.
He’s still smiling, there’s the slightest echo of crow’s feet by his eyes. Dean swallows the guilt threatening to rise up his throat. It's unfair of him to assume Jack's going to leave again because of his own insecurities.
"Do you want to watch something?" Jack asks.
Dean pauses, stares at the pile at their feet.
"Yeah, alright."