"'s not righ', Sam."

Even in his own ears, he's slurring but he's distracted, eyes snagged by the legs wearing his jeans, his boots.

Forces those eyes closed, drags his memory back to – when? This morning? Yesterday? Time's as screwed as his head, but he can remember sticking a finger through the 'z' shaped rip across the right knee and thinking that it was about time J. Teekirk got them a new wardrobe.

Eyes flicker open again, catch a brief glimpse of worried, fractious puppies but then those damn legs swing into view, wrong on so many levels.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

Tries to explain but the words won't come out right, tangled up in concussion. Tries again, speaks the words with the kind of finicky precision even his geek brother would be proud of.

"Too many legs, Sam. 'M not a insect."

Weary huff against his neck and the arm around his waist pulls him in tighter, shuffles them on down the yellow brick road.

"How many legs do you see, Dean?"

Even in his wall-addled brain he can appreciate the variety, answers earnestly.

"Eleventy billion."

He never knew you could hear an eyeroll.