Disclaimer: Sad to say, I own nothing Supernatural.

Sam's POV:

Do they even actually sell rat poison? Anywhere? I mean is it that what I should be looking for, a box marked 'rat poison' with some kind of skull and crossbones picture? Or a rodent encased in a big red circle with a line through it? "I don't think they have any," I say, but I still keep searching the shelves. "Maybe a hardware store or something?"

He nods and grabs a couple bags of M&M's to go along with the bread Sal sent us out for. Well, bread and of course rat poison, or a trap, or, according to her, a shovel if necessary. Anything we could find to kill her uninvited guest.

Dean hasn't said a word since we left the house, not a single word. It's starting to freak me out. I guess he's embarrassed, but really – and I would never tell him or anyone else this – I probably would have flipped out too. That thing was hideous. I remember coming home one night after a late class and finding Jess up on the kitchen counter. She was sitting cross-legged with a pint of ice cream in her lap and from the doorway she looked like a girl from one of those chick flicks, sitting around in sweats shoveling food in her mouth to keep from crying over some guy or something. As soon as she saw me she started screaming about some kind of little beast that was stalking her. It took me forever to figure out that she was talking about a mouse, a tiny little gray mouse that scurried under her feet when she was bringing in the groceries. Apparently, she was so freaked that she jumped up on the counter and didn't move 'til I got there almost an hour later. She had to eat the ice cream she'd bought because there was no way to get to the freezer without padding across the floor and that just wasn't gonna happen. I laughed at her, stole a bite of the mushy Rocky Road and almost choked on it when I felt something brush against my foot. Again, this is not something I would ever tell Dean, or anyone, but I spent a good hour cowering on that countertop with Jess laughing and insisting that I just "be the man already".

Anyway, I get it. And for the last hour or so I've been really good about it all too. I haven't made a single disparaging comment and no laughter nor anything that might resemble it has spilled from my lips. "Rat got your tongue?" Okay, for the whole drive I was good though.

He gives me a dirty look, narrow eyes and tight straight lips, and for a minute I think he might actually hit me. Instead he turns and heads for the counter mumbling something that sounds vaguely offensive. Ah, well, I deserve it.

The girl at the counter's been watching us since we walked in. And by watching I mean staring. She can't be more than sixteen or seventeen, long mousy hair – ha, mousy – and a mouth full of braces. The term 'ugly duckling' springs to mind. Not to say she's ugly per se, just…awkward. I feel for her. Hell, I was a six-foot-tall thirteen-year-old, I know awkward.

She smiles at Dean when he walks up, big, bright, and metal-laden. He doesn't even smile back. "Will that be all?" she asks slowly.

"Yeah."

"Are you sure there's nothing else you need?" I crack a smile at her eagerness to help, to prolong our stay. "Pack of cigarettes?" She motions behind her to the wall filled with Marlboros and Camels and Virginia Slims.

Dean freezes, his fingers half in his wallet gripping his cash, and glares at her. "I look like I smoke?" he says a little too harshly. She doesn't respond, but her eyes bug out a little and her face totally flushes. Nice, man, humiliate the poor girl why don't ya.

"Just this," I say, stepping up and grinning at her. I push Dean out of the way and pull out my own wallet.

"Lotto's up to 5.2 million if you want a ticket," she says excitedly. "I never play, but…" Dean scoffs loudly and shuts her down, the color leaving her face again. Her eyes drop and fingers fumble while she bags our stuff.

I turn around and shoot a scowl at Dean. What a jerk; she's just a kid. "Actually, Rachel," I say, reading her name tag, "a Lotto ticket would be great. This is Vegas, right? Or almost. Gotta gamble."

"It's not gambling, it's a waste of money," Dean says as he leans over and snatches the bag from her hand. He storms out while I wait for my change, apologizing to Rachel for my brother's jackassness. She mutters something about it being okay, but looks like she might cry all the same. Part of me wants to hug her and tell her it's okay, it's not her fault, some people are just jerks and you can't take it personally. I want to tell her that in a few years her braces will be gone and she'll have grown into her lank a little more and she'll be having to fight guys like Dean off with a stick. I don't really know if that's true or not, but I certainly like to think it is, and I want to tell her so. But I hear the engine of the Impala gun and realize I better haul ass before he tries to take off without me.

"What is your problem, man?" I say as he pulls away, presumably heading for the little hardware store we passed a few blocks down. He shrugs. "She was just a kid."

"A creepy kid."

"You could have been a little nicer."

"I could have been a lot of things, Sam." Loaded statement. I wonder if he realizes just what that could mean. "This is so fucking stupid!" he says, slamming his hands onto the steering wheel. "I mean, come on man, this is supposed to be a vacation!"

"Yeah, well…"

"You know how long it's been since I had some time off?"

"27 years?" He gives me a weird look, one that says clearly, 'yeah, totally.'

He turns back to the road and mumbles some more. "Looking for something to kill a damn monster rat, picking up bread. Next thing you know she'll be making me hoe her garden or something."

"Kinky."

His face melts as he shakes his head and I think I can hear…wait…yes, it's laughter, real, genuine laughter. "You're a freak, you know that?"

"I've been told I'm not the only one," I say smirking. I can't help but be a little leery of his change in mood. Lately, Dean's been kind of all over the place. One minute he's cracking jokes like always, the very next he's shutting down and shutting up, sullen, I guess, somber…sad. I know it's because I'm leaving. I know he's angry about it. I know he feels, I don't know, abandoned. I can't even blame him for it. I just wish he'd it give it all a chance, give me a chance. I wish he'd give himself a chance, because really, now's the time.

"Hey," I say, "how long were you here, helping them out and all?"

He shrugs and I feel the knot in my stomach grow. Are we shifting to moody evasive Dean all ready? "A while."

I know it was a little more that a while. Jake said he helped with the whole renovation, it must have taken months. But I won't push it, gotta pick your battles. "Did you like it here?"

"It's all right. Hot."

"Better than cold." I know my brother, he hates the cold. Truthfully, I always thought he'd end up on a beach somewhere, retiring to the Bahamas or something. Of course he might have to get on a plane to do that, which could be tough. "I think it's nice. Kind of small town feel, but right next to a big city."

"Big shit hole, you mean."

"I thought you liked Vegas?"

Another shrug. "It's not bad, it's just…a playground, you know…not a city." I bet all the people who don't live and work solely on the strip would disagree, but again, picking my battles.

"Still, it's nice. And you've got friends. And, really, this isn't too far from Stanford." He pulls into the parking lot, puts the car in park, pulls out the keys, all in staunch silence. I see his hand move for the door handle, stop and retreat, then move back again and grab hold.

But he doesn't get out. Instead he turns to me and says simply, kind of pathetically, "Sam, I can't."

When I was six I got the Chicken Pox. And promptly gave them to Dean. We spent two weeks at home, whatever home was then, lying around feeling like itchy, blotchy, pukey crap. Dad was gone most of the time, hunting maybe, could have been hitting the bars. For all I know he went on one of his repentant benders, which usually included crying to Caleb or Pastor Jim about what an awful father and human being he was, promising to get help, be better, and quickly thereafter falling headlong into a bottle of Jack or Wild Turkey. Doesn't matter, point is, I don't remember him being there at all. What I remember is my brother putting all of his pain on hold to take care of me. What I remember is Dean running out, hot with fever, itchy with pox, to get more 7up and Calamine lotion for me. What I remember is him taking my temperature and smacking my hand away when I tried to scratch and force feeding me chicken noodle soup and crackers, and just in general being a parent to me.

I needed him then. Now? Now things are different. Now I think maybe he needs me. And God knows, I owe him. But for the life of me, I don't know what to do about that.

I don't even know why I'm thinking about this right now. Here we are standing in line behind some ancient looking guy buying lumber – what could he possibly be doing with all that anyway? – and I'm reminiscing about the Chicken Pox.

They have to do a price check on one of the traps we got and I can see Dean getting all shifty and impatient. But at least he's not being incredibly rude like he was to our last clerk. By the time we finish paying and head to the car…unbelievable…it's almost two o'clock. The first day of our unofficial get-your-brotherly-bonding-in-while-you-can-cause-Sam's-leaving sabbatical, and it's been spent hunting rat.

There must be something about the heat out here, aside from the fact that it's trying to suffocate me, that is. Everybody seems to be moving incredibly slowly. We shuffle back to the car and I see the tiny old man who was in front of us in line climb into a monstrous pick-up, the back completely filled with wood and what looks like jugs of gasoline. Is he building something or having a bonfire? I keep my eye on him in the mirror as we pull away and notice that he looks like he can barely see over the wheel. There is no way a guy like that should be street legal.

We pull onto the main drag and the car promptly stalls, smoke billowing out from under the hood. "No, no, no!" Dean might be upset, but I can't say I'm surprised. This certainly isn't the first time the Impala's overheated. And even though being stuck at a light on what feels like the hottest day the planet's ever seen isn't actually my idea of a good time, it sure beats the middle of the woods with a werewolf with on the loose. At least if we have to walk somewhere for help here, we won't run the risk of being eaten. I hope.

Dean continues to alternately curse under his breath and whisper sweet encouragements to his 'baby' while I stick my head as far out the window as I can. Sweat drips down my forehead, down my neck and back and makes my T-shirt stick to my shoulder blades. Gross. I gotta get out of this car.

I turn around to make sure no one's gonna zoom past and run me down. Of course they won't, they can't move, we're blocking them in. I open the door and get out just as our light turns green. No one honks. No one even moves, and at first I think it's because of the heat, it just breeds laziness. Or maybe, around here, this sort of thing is so commonplace it doesn't even register with them to be angry or impatient. But then I hear the screech of tires and the impossibly loud crash. And the rest of the world drifts into silence.

A/N: If you would like to make my world a little brighter, you may feel free to go review now.