"Oh, don't!"

The outburst was followed by a torrent of laughter.

"Yeah, you're sick and you love it." But she smiled as she said it. Natalie looped her arm through Gwen's as they walked home down the street, tottering a little as they fought to remain standing on their towering heels.

"I never said-"

"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face."

Gwen gave a lopsided grin. "So you don't mind, then?"

"Honey, why the hell would I mind? He's been all emo since Cindy dumped him."

"Made for great songs."

"Heh. Let's keep him in a perpetual state of misery. I like that."

Gwen laughed and took a step, her shoe catching on a crack in the sidewalk. She stumbled, and Natalie pulled her upright.

"You can't be that drunk."

"Dizzy spells. Give me a minute." She met her friend's eyes as she straightened. "I had the dream again last night." She blurted.

The amusement faded from Natalie's face and she raised an eyebrow. "God, you're a miserable drunk, Palmer." She said sternly, hands on her hips.

"But-"

"If the world was going to end, wouldn't you think that someone, somewhere, would have noticed?" It was only then that she realised that Natalie was teasing her.

Gwen stuck her tongue out.

"Howzabout we go the long way. I can't see what direction you puke in the dark, anyway. These are new shoes."

"They're only shoes."

"They're good shoes!"

Smiling, Gwen followed a slightly swaying Natalie into the brightly lit street. Under the harsh lights and surrounded by laughter and the sounds of people gearing up for the New Year, the nightmare didn't seem so real.

Nat, her best friend, blood trickling down her chin, her hand stretched out imploringly as a dark figure behind her drove a knife deep between her ribs and ripped her apart.

"Good morning, sweetheart."

"Mmph."

There was the sound of bare feet crossing the tiles and an egg being cracked against the side of a pan. Sam refused to look up, because that would then mean he had to stand up, and he didn't think he could manage that quite yet.

"Ah." Dean smiled as the eggs began to sizzle. "Bless the landlady who buys too much on shopping day." He pulled a couple of strips of bacon out of a small plastic bag and slapped them down as well. "Rise and shine, Sammy!"

He was feeling good. Better than he had in a long time, in fact. What was the word? Re-energised. Sam had just stumbled in and crashed on the couch where he sat, not even bothering to take off his boots. Dean had come in, refreshed the salt lines and had even brushed his teeth before slipping under Mrs Potter's patchwork blankets.

Groaning, Sam unfolded himself from the unnatural position on the couch, which was several feet too short for him. "What time is it?"

"Quarter past nine."

Sam rubbed at his eyes before sniffing at the air.

"Are you cooking?"

"Yeah. Problem?"

"You cook?"

"Give me one reason I shouldn't." His tone was distinctly defensive, and even though Sam could have said many things, he backed down.

"I didn't know you cooked."

"What can I say? I'm a man of many talents." Dean splashed out two glasses of orange juice. "You really didn't think me an' Dad lived off beers and burgers all the time, did you?"

Sam was silent as he dropped into a chair. "Hm."

"What?"

"Now I know you're kidding me. There's no way Dad taught you to cook."

"Ha. Sausage?"

"Why not?" Sam watched as his brother piled up both their plates. He picked up a fork and reached for three slices of toast Dean had left sitting on the edge of his own plate.

"Where'd you get all this?" He began to cut his bacon into strips as Dean sat opposite, sipping his juice.

"Mrs Potter," Dean said. "Bought extra. Says that we fine young men shouldn't eat like the homeless."

"Even though essentially we are?" Sam replied. "Almost a week. This would have to be one of the longest relationships you've ever had with a woman."

"Funny."

"She likes you, you know."

"She's just what TV says a grandma is supposed to be." Dean said wistfully.

Sam smiled. "You know." He said around some bacon. "This isn't half bad."

"Always with the tone of surprise." His brother wrapped his sausage in a hunk of bread and bit into it.

For several minutes, the only sound was the clanking of cutlery against the plates.

"That hits the spot."

"Mm."

"So. What do we do today?"

"Well, nothing's come up yet, so I figure we sit around and watch cartoons."

"That would be good, but gosh, we did that yesterday."

"We could wash the car." Sam offered lamely. "Do the laundry."

All he got in reply was a flat stare. "What planet are you from?"

"Alright, hotshot. What's your plan, then?"

"Simple." Dean drained the last of the juice from his cup. "We comb the papers. Go poke around the usual places. See what ugly sonofabitch comes to the surface first."

"Dude, we've been doing that since Christmas wrapped." Sam knew that, Dean knew that, but the pair of them were still reluctant to move on from Mrs Potter's spare room. Not just because she insisted they join her for baked dinners every Sunday, but because the little blue-haired old lady made them feel included, part of something almost normal. Dean was right; she had treated them no differently to her own grandsons since they moved in.

Which could be a drag at times, admittedly. Especially when she demanded shrilly that they help her weed the garden or to bring in the washing.

"We could check out the library, too."

"Sure, whatever."

"You're bored, aren't you?"

"What? Me, bored?"

Sam shrugged. "You've never cooked before." He stated bluntly. "I believe I would have remembered such a miraculous and unlikely event occurring. Sort of like Hailey's Comet passing."

"Dude, so not cool."

"Seriously, man. What happened to 'Sammy, I just wanna kick back and relax for a bit'?"

"Do you have to be right all the time?"

"No. I'm just never wrong."

Dean's lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. Once the look would have sent Sam scurrying in terror to hide under the blankets for a while, but now all he did was raise an eyebrow.

"This – this sitting still and doing nothing is –" Dean forced out. Sam remembered that his brother always had needed to be doing something, or he'd become destructive. During their informative years, more that one teacher had written letters for the boys to take home to John Winchester, singing the praises of Ritalin.

"I'm going crazy. And I'm taking you with me."

Judging by his tone, it was no idle threat. "Okay." With a sigh, Sam conceded defeat. "Let's go snoop around where we're not wanted and do some loitering in dark corners."

"That's the spirit." Dean sniffed. "Not until you have a shower, though."