On the eighth day of Christmas, Supernatural gave to me eight grave desecrations (seven homoerotic undertones, six crazy fangirls, FIVE BURNT CEILINGS, four bags of salt, three demons, two fake ID's, and an angel watching porography).
Sam was lounging on the bed in the third awful hotel of the week, and it was still only Wednesday. He figured that they'd be out of this one soon too. There appeared to be hunters in the area already- even if they were inexperienced. It was a simple enough case, a simple salt and burn, and yet there had been eight grave desecrations in the local cemetery in the past week and a half. Each one was clearly more desperate than the last, and if Sam was being honest, he was getting a bit frustrated with the person. They obviously didn't know enough about hunting to be careful in whose grave they were digging up.
Dean was out trying to figure out who was the idiot who dug up a woman's grave while they were dealing with a male ghost, but Sam didn't feel up to leaving the hotel. He knew that the only reason that Dean was letting him stay was because he was obviously worried about him, but Sam didn't particularly care. As long as Dean was leaving him alone.
Dean was right. He wasn't okay, but there was no way in hell that he was going to tell him what was bothering him.