"Hey, Sam." Poking my head into the adjoining room, I studied my little brother for a second. From my own foggy memory of the night before, he wouldn't be fully sober for awhile yet but at least he was breathing, which was something. "You alive?"

Cracking a lid, Sam looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. He looked like shit, seriously the worst I'd seen him. At least, up to that point. I kind of wish I could still say that. When he finally managed to get a few words out, he sounded like he'd been crying half the night. Hell, he probably had been. Not really something he likes to talk about, even now. "No, go away."

Arms crossed, I leaned against the doorframe, one eye on Sam and one eye on Skyler as she flipped the TV channels and pretended not to listen in. How do I know she was pretending? Because she's just as much of a nosy little shit a I am. (That's true, I am, and I was. -Tink) "I'm gonna run out and get food, what do you want?"

"Nothing." Sam closed his eyes and turned away, mumbling barely loud enough to be heard, "Go away."

"Come on, Sammy." Stepping away from the door, I closed it firmly behind me, shutting out Tinkerbell and the sounds of the Golden Girls theme song coming from the TV. (I want to be Sophia when I grow up. -Tink) "You gotta eat somethin', man." It couldn't have been more than half a step from the door to the bed, the room was that small. No wonder Tink had decided against it. "Whatever you want, I'll get it."

"I want you to go away and leave me the fuck alone."

"Okay, have it your way." Couldn't really blame the guy for wanting to shut himself off. I couldn't even imagine what he'd been through. Hell, I don't have to imagine anymore, I've been there, and I'll tell you right now, it never gets any easier. "Skye's gonna be in the other room if you need anything."

Half-turning to glare belligerently up at me, Sam expressed his true feelings with a single finger and a growl. "I don't need a babysitter, Dean."

The hell he didn't. "The hell you don't. I'll be back soon, don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"Fuck off."

Sitting down on the bed I'd tried to sleep in the night before, I winced as Sam slammed the door about half an inch from the back of Dean's head. That could have hurt and I'd've been the one cleaning up the mess. "So, how's Sam?"

"Not great."

Dean ran a hand through his dark hair, flashing me a strained smile. Really, he didn't look much better than Sam sounded, like a watchspring wound a little too tight. I didn't quite know why at the time—not that I'm stupid or blind or anything, I just didn't have the experience then that I do now (Yeah, there's a word for that. It's called naive. -Dean)—but it was pretty obvious to me that he just needed out for awhile and he was using a food run as a good excuse. It's not like we couldn't get something delivered, after all, but I wasn't about to say as much.

"Keep an eye on him for me?"

"I can do that." Scooting back up against the headboard, I tried to keep my attention on the TV across the room and not on Dean as he got ready to go. Which, you know, not easy. He was hot as hell then (and he's only gotten better with age) and I fully admit my eyes were superglued to his ass a good portion of the time. Of course, I always pretended they weren't as soon as he turned around, but I don't think I was near as subtle as I would have liked. "...but what am I supposed to do if he does try 'somethin' stupid'? Lock him in the bathroom?"

"If you have to." Sitting on the end of the other bed, Dean pulled his boots on before getting back to his feet and retrieving his jacket from where it'd ended up on the floor. Shrugging it on, he looked over at me for a second, rolling his eyes before digging into his pocket and coming up with a pen and a notepad. (I maintain that leather jacket had pockets that were, in fact, the TARDIS.) (Nerd. -Dean)

Scribbling something down, he ripped off the sheet of paper and folded it in half before holding it out to me. "My phone number. If he becomes a problem, call me."

"And I'm supposed to do that how?" Leaning over, I snagged the paper out of his fingers, raising a brow at him as I glanced around the room before looking back up to meet those gorgeous green eyes of his. "I don't have a phone and there's not one in the room."

"Of course you don't and of course there isn't." Looking frustrated for more reasons than I was aware of at the time, Dean tucked his hands in his jacket pockets and huffed out a breath as he looked back down at me. "Alright, well, I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, I'll do my best to keep him from jumping out a window." At least I didn't actually have to worry about that unless Sam decided to emerge from his windowless lair.

"Thanks." Turning away, Dean hesitated, looking thoughtful before turning back to me. I could see his brain clicking, formulating the words. Have I mentioned he's really adorable? And has freckles. So. Many. Freckles. "...and thanks for takin' care of him this morning. I appreciate it and I'm sure he does too."

"Don't worry about it." For the record, I didn't (and still don't) take compliments or thanks or basically acknowledgement of any kind very easy. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm a lot better about it now than I was back then, but it's still very much a work in progress. I'm a mess, I know, but I promise there's a very good reason for all of it; namely deep psychological trauma. Fun times! "Anyone would've done the same."

"No, they wouldn't." Cynical, isn't he? Yeah, that's actually gotten worse over the years. Dude has serious trust issues. (And there's a reason for that, too, but that's several hundred stories for a later time. If you want to know, you'll just have to stick around and read the rest of my stupid journal. Ha!) "Seriously, thank you."

"...you're welcome." Gnawing on my lip, I watched Dean dig the car keys out of his pocket, internally debating on whether or not I should say anything. It took a minute, but eventually my concern for the Sasquatch in the other room overcame my uneasiness at the fact that it was none of my damn business. "Hey, Dean?" Sliding to the edge of the bed, I stood, tucking my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. God, I must have looked so anxious when there was no real reason to be. "It's-Last night...or this morning, I guess, when Sam was sick-"

Raising a brow, the car keys dangling from his fingers, Dean prompted me to finish when I hesitated, "What is it, Tinkerbell?"

"It's just, he kept saying how sorry he was." Even thinking about it now makes me want to tear up. Stupid, lovable, shaggy-headed puppy making me empathize with him. I hate that. I don't like feeling pain on my own behalf, let alone somebody else that I barely fucking knew. "I'm just worried about him, is all."

"Hell, I'd be apologizing if I'd made a big ass mess too."

"Yeah, except it wasn't me he was apologizing to..."