Sam lets out a disappointed sigh when he peeks into Anna's room to see her uneaten dinner from last night. It's been exactly one month since they took her to the bunker. He has hated leaving her here by herself when he and Dean go on hunts, and sometimes even sits them out to stay with her. The bunker seems to be their home now more than ever.

She seems to be adjusting to her new school okay, but he has yet to hear of any friends. He took a peek at her grades, once (everything is online now), and he was proud to see that she had all A's and B's.

Right now, Sam is happy with his life, which scares him. His happiness never seems to last.

Anna hates the sixth grade. There is simply no other way to word it, and Anna, being a writer, would usually pride herself on being able to do so. First of all, the sixth grade will always remind her of her mother. Second, she has seven different teachers with seven different sets of expectations and six homework assignments every night. Not to mention that she can actually feel Sam worrying about her all the time. He's just always there.

After staring at a math problem for an overly extended period of time, Anna puts down her notebook and picks up her journal.

November 20th

Dear Journal,

Right now, my life kinda sucks. Not that I'm complaining. I mean, I could still be back at that foster home. And I like Sam, I really do, but I don't think that even the know-it-all knows what he's doing any more than I do.

Dean seems like a pretty cool guy, given how extremely messed up he is. He's always doing this annoying self-hate thing to himself. But, you know, I'm not judging, just observing…supposedly. I don't really know the full extent of what the two of them have been through. But I'm worried about them. They just look so tired, so emotionally spent. But all they do is keep on marching through life, guns blazing. I think they just need to sit down and take a breather. I think that the world can keep turning for a few minutes in their absence.

I haven't been eating. I know that I should, but I can never bring myself to. Mom probably has something to do with it, but

There is a light knock on the doorframe. Sam is leaning against it with a small smile on his face. "Can I talk to you?"

"In a minute," she says, looking up at for a moment, then back to her writing. "I'm not finished, yet."

I think, she manages to write, before Sam speaks again. "Anna, just stop with the journal for a minute, please. I need to talk to you."

Reluctantly, she puts her pencil down at looks at him. She knows what he's going to say. He sits down on her bed. He nods over to the plate with chicken breast and rice on it, untouched from last night. He raises his eyebrows. "What's that?" he asks.

Anna looks nervous. "Food," she says, as innocently as she can manage.

"Really? Because it really looks like the dinner I made you last night."

"That's odd," she says anxiously.

"Have you eaten anything today?"

"Yeah, I have," she lies. "Now, will you just go away?"

Sam just looks at her. He can see right through her. He can see everything that she doesn't want him to. All he wants to do is help her, but she doesn't want to be helped. "I lie professionally, so you're going to have to do better than that." he says.

She gets under the covers and sinks back into her pillows. "I don't know, okay?"

"You need to eat something."

"I know."

He looks at her thoughtfully, then says, "I'm going to heat up a slice of pizza. When I come back for it, it had better be gone, okay?"

"Or what?"

"Or, we will cross that bridge when and if we come to it."

.

.

Sam walks over to the large table in the library where Dean is sitting. He's eating a sand which and watching something that is apparently very amusing. He sits in a chair next to Dean and sighs. Dean pauses his movie. "What's wrong, Sammy?"

"She won't talk to me. I mean, obviously something is wrong, but she just won't talk to me!"

"Well," Dean says, between bites, "you won't like it, but there is a way to know everything she's thinking."

"Dean! No." No matter how incredibly tempted he was to do so, he was not going to read his daughter's journal.

"You think of a better idea, let me know," he says, unpausing his movie.

.

.

So, against his better judgement, Sam decided to take Dean's advice. When Anna was at school the next day, he went into her room. He gave everything a once-over before checking the dresser. Sure enough, he found it at the top in the sock drawer. It was looked worn, and it was bound in black leather, with a red ribbon marking her current place.

He opened it to the cover and read her warning, taking a second to marvel at how great of a writer she was for her age. Then, he opened it to her latest entry and began to read. He wasn't sure how to feel about what she had written about him and Dean, but then again, it was in her warning. He stops dead, when the subject of her entry changes. He leans in, intrigued. This is what he was looking for.

I haven't been eating. I know that I should, but I can never bring myself to. Mom probably has something to do with it, but I think it may be something different.

Ever since I moved, everything has fallen apart. I hold myself together in front of Sam and Dean, but I'm sad. Everyone that I have ever cared about is back in Pennsylvania. And I miss them. I miss everything. Until now, I have lived in the same house for my entire life. It was my home.

And I had friends, people who I have known since kindergarten. People that I needed. And now, I dread every time the teacher assigns a group project, or has us work in partners, or, God forbid, lets us sit wherever we want. Because now I'm the new kid who doesn't know what place is acceptable to sit at lunch, and who doesn't understand any of the gossip and who all the kids love to stare at because I don't belong. For the first time, I'm the odd one out. And it sucks.

I guess that's why I don't want to talk to Sam. I know that he means well, and I appreciate how much he cares, but I guess…I just don't want to feel silly.

Everything that they've gone through, and everything that they're facing is infinitely worse than any problems that I could ever have. So, they don't need to hear about it. Any of it. Not that I'd want them to know anyway. Which is why I've elected not to tell them that it's my birthday tomorrow.

Anyway, I guess I lied before. Not everyone I've ever cared about is in Pennsylvania. Because two of them are right here.

Sam smiles a little and closes the book with a soft thud. He shoves it back into the drawer and exits the room, making sure to close the door on his way out.

.

.

Anna doesn't talk to Sam on the way home from school, or rather, she tries not to. "How was school?" he asks her.

"Normal, boring, mediocre, et cetera." she sighs.

"Did you, uh, learn anything?"

She shrugs. "I dunno, probably."

"Are you making any friends?"

"What is this, twenty questions?" She glares at the back of his head. "You need a haircut. You look like a girl."

The car ride is silent after that.

.

.

Anna doesn't acknowledge Sam as she descends the staircase, rushing to her room as quickly as possible without running. Sam knows that something is off with her, even more so than usual, but he decides not to bother with it, not yet.

When Anna gets to her room, she collapses on the bed. School today was worse than mediocre. It flat out sucked. She got a D on her math quiz. Anna did not get Ds.

She get up and reaches her hand into her dresser drawer for her journal. She stops dead. That's odd, she thinks. Anna heaves a sigh because she is forced to leave the comfort of her bed to examine the situation more thoroughly. Upon full inspection of said drawer, she notices several things amiss. Her journal is not neatly positioned in the back left corner of the drawer. It is instead placed randomly in the middle of the drawer, disrupting the order of the socks around it. Anna slams it shut.

"Sam," she says angrily to herself, slamming the drawer shut. Anna barges out of the room and to the library, stopping in front of the long oak table where Sam and Dean were sitting. It looked like they were researching for a case. They look up at her curiously.

"Well, somebody doesn't look very happy," Dean says.

"Somebody went into my room," she says. "And I am willing to bet it was Sam. "Sam's eyes widen and he gulps. He's been caught. "So, I have a question for you, Sam. Did you read my journal?"

"I-"

"Just answer the question, please."

"Yes."

Tear fill up in her eyes, she is barely able to keep them at bay. "Of course you did. God, I can't believe you!" She turns and runs to her room, slamming the door behind her twice, to be sure that they got the message.

Sam gives Dean a glare, to which he raises his hands in surrender. "It really was terrible advice, but I'd thought you'd have better judgement, Sammy."