He started to reach into the drawer before he saw it.
A pipe in the Men of Letters shower room was leaking and that steady drip-drip-drip was getting on Dean’s last nerve, an easy thing with the Mark on his arm. Better to fix, better to keep busy.
Halfway down the Bunker hallway, a door hung on its hinges, splintered and broken, that should be replaced but he and Sam had tiptoed around it for three days without a word. Better not to think, to ignore.
When he pulled open the utility drawer, the wrench he needed slid into view and beside it, the hammer. Dean held his breath, then skated his fingertips down the scarred red handle and dark steel head. The compulsion to pick it up again was tunneling dark through his veins; a diamond-bright drill bit pushing out from his hindbrain, looking for something to hurt, to damage. Pick it up.
Sam stood in the kitchen doorway, eyes on the drawer, on Dean’s hand. For such a big guy, his brother moved through the Bunker on feet as quiet as cat paws. Sam's fingers fluttered against the doorframe, a muscle ticking in his neck. His tongue snuck out to lick at his lips without thought as he raised his eyes to meet Dean’s. All the signs of prey ready to run. Sam should know better than that.
They stood still for the endless time it took them to exhale; Dean felt his muscles coil, like a lion settling on its haunches, watching a gazelle crash through the long grass. Sam blinked several times, and it broke the moment. Dean snatched the adjustable wrench out of the drawer, the weight of it heavy in his palm (good but not quite right), and held it up for Sam to see, shutting the drawer with his hip.
“Just a leaky pipe in the shower room, Sam.”
“Dean—” Sam said, but Dean pushed past him into the hallway.
“Not today, okay? Not today.”