There was a knock at the door, one tentative knock followed by a pause, and two more resigned knocks as though the guest had started before they meant to. The problem was, nobody knocked at the Bunker. Only a select few were supposed to even know it was there. Sam whipped his head up from his book on the table in front of him, shifting his gaze briefly at his brother then to the source of the hollow thuds. He slid the knife off the table into his hand, concealing it behind his leg as he moved as quietly to the door as he could (it was surprisingly difficult not to stumble into anything). He could feel Dean's eyes boring into his back as he approached the door. He tried to make his voice as gruff as possible, which wasn't easy as sick as he was.

"Who's it?," it was a long shot, but maybe someone had found their way in by mistake. No answer, he readied his knife and cracked it open lightly. "What do you want?"

"Um..." the voice, light and nervous. A flash of red. Was that...? He threw the door open, knife bared, making Charlie jump back in surprise.

"Charlie?" he said with confusion. Dean jumped up from his chair and went over to the door.
"What's up? You never told us you were gonna stop by, last time we saw you you were headed... Where, the hospital?" Sam continued. Charlie tried a weak smile and laugh, a nervous habit that never got kicked, couldn't be kicked, because really, she was always nervous.
"Yeah uh, I was. I did, I mean. I just, um... She... I..." Charlie started but the words didn't come out. She hadn't told them she would pull the plug, she wasn't even sure she would do it until she got there. She had a feeling Dean suspected it, and judging by the way he was studying her now he was figuring it out. She was stiff as a board, working hard to seem relaxed, too hard. Working not to give anything away because it felt stupid to break down now. She thought she was fine, that she'd already grieved and really if there was anything left she could handle it herself. She wasn't supposed to stay in one place, she had a "2-month rule" that applied to going back anywhere once she'd left. But then his face shifted subtly and he tilted his head slightly.
"Quit playing the game...?" he asked lowly, narrowing his eyes. Her resolve crumbled and she wiped her sleeved over her blurring vision. She felt stupid for still crying, like she should be used to this by now, but she'd spent forever convincing herself her mom wasn't really gone and now she had no excuses. Dean sighed a quiet curse and tugged her against him, putting his arms around her and letting her hide her face while Sam looked on, working out what had happened.
"Did she...?"Sam started but she shook her head, clearing up her face and making her voice work.
"I... I let her go," she tried to sound decisive and strong, but she was mostly trying to shut down the guilt telling her she'd just killed her again.
Back in the Bunker Charlie, now with mostly dried eyes, tossed her backpack tiredly on the floor and hunched over the table darkly. Dean dropped a glass of whiskey in front of her, which she grabbed onto as if it were keeping her grounded to the earth but didn't drink. They sat with her quietly until Sam noticed her breathing had slowed, then they both started when she jolted awake, blinking around for a confused couple of seconds.
"Bad dream?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised. She sighed and nodded, feeling distinctly pathetic and rubbing her face.
"Yeah that's been happening a lot..." she responded.
"How much is a lot?" Sam asked suspiciously. She shrugged, trying to avoid answering but it was clear they wouldn't have it.
"Uh... Mostly whenever I try to sleep," she pretended to be casual, but suddenly the lack of sleep was obvious in her voice.
"Wait, try? Exactly how much sleep have you gotten the past 2 days?" Dean pressed. $% shrugged.
"Few hours... Maybe."

"So you just stopped trying?" Sam asked incredulously.
"Sometimes I pass out on accident for a couple minutes?" she offered in return, "Figured it would work itself out," she said, sighing again and rubbing her eyes.
"Yeah and we all know that's crap," Dean rolled his eyes and took a sip of his own drink. She shrugged.
"I'm out of ideas."
"Yeah well not sleeping isn't an option, trust me on that one," Sam insisted.
"Well," she punctuated with a slap of her hands on the table, "When you figure out another one let me know."

There was something comforting about the three of them sitting at the table laptops out, a weird kind of solidarity. Neither of the boys asked her stupid questions, like 'How are you?', or made her talk much about it at all. The cops did that after the accident and it was the worst part. People who don't even know you, pretending to care about you, asking you stupid questions when all you want to do is crawl into a hole and it should be so obvious. Maybe it was experience, she knew surprisingly little about them for how often she sought out their company, but she did know they were parentless as well, and they were always on the run. Maybe she was better suited to their life than she thought.

Carefully, quietly, Sam and Dean tried to sneak from the table, making sure not even their chairs made any noise. Charlie was slumped onto her laptop, face in her arms and unresponsive. They were fairly certain all she really needed was a quiet place to sleep, who knew what kind of dives she'd been staying at. The thought creeped them out. It seemed like they might get away, and Sam was considering carrying her to one of the spare rooms when she startled again, this time accidentally lashing out and swiping the untouched glass of whiskey off the table. She cringed as it shattered on the floor and looked over the edge tiredly at the mess.
"Shit... Sorry," she said quietly, standing.
"Don't worry about it," Dean pushed her lightly back into her seat and headed for the kitchen, coming back with a towel over his shoulder. She let out a laugh and tried to stifle it, but couldn't. He gave her a funny look but the corners of his mouth turned up.

"You look like a bartender. You'd be a good bartender," she explained.
"Dude I think she's loopier than you," he tossed at Sam, then put on what he assumed was a good bartender face, "Can I get you another drink?"

This almost sent her into another fit of laughter but she managed to fight it off, shaking her head.
"I'm gonna get drunk on RomComs, B movie horror, and chocolate," Charlie replied, hitching her bag over her shoulder.

"You know Sam loves RomComs," Dean flashed a signature grin at his brother, "and he'd just LOVE to take the rest of the night off." He pretended not to notice the pointed stare accompanied with a sigh. Charlie looked between them, eyebrows raised, before following Sam down the hallway to the guest bedroom she'd taken the last time she was here. She eyed him and pulled her fingers through her hair.

"Do you really like-" she began but he interrupted with a laugh and a shake of the head.

"He's trying to make me take it easy so he can do the heavy lifting," he replied as he turned on the TV for her, putting in the movie she tossed him. She climbed into bed and looked at him hopefully.

"Well... You wanna kick it for the night anyways?"

"I... Yeah, sure," he conceded. Maybe relaxing would help her sleep, and if not...

"Sleeping pills? You keep sleeping pills in the guest bedroom?"

"We figure if anyone's found their way to us they'll probably need them..."

"Okay but I've already tried sleeping pills."

"Yeah, well, humor me," he insisted, sidling next to her on the bed.