Sam woke to voices and a feeling of panic twisting in his stomach.

The panic was familiar—the voices were not. They didn't belong to Dean or Bobby or doctors in white coats—they were the voices of strangers, pure and simple.

And they were close.

What were people doing in his alley?

Sam shrank closer to the wall behind the trash bins he'd been hiding behind, wrapping his arms around his head and swallowing back the sounds his voice was trying to make. The voices grew closer—a boy talking, and a girl answering him.

"Why do you like taking shortcuts through creepy alleys so much?" the boy asked.

"Because I am on the crack," the girl replied, a trace of laughter in her voice.

"Really? And here I was thinking that you'd just become entirely too fascinated with horror movies."

"Well, that, too. Hey, at least it's light out this time—no reason for you to start freaking out and trying to run away from rats this time."

"Hey, that rat's eyes were red. That's not natural!"

The girl laughed again. She sounded like she was very close, and in his attempt to scramble closer to the wall, Sam's foot hit one of the bins with a loud crash.

The sounds of footsteps stopped cold, and then the girl said, "Was that--?"

"Behind the trash cans, yeah. So should we run screaming or do what every horror movie in the entire world discourages, and check it out?"

"Well, it is broad daylight, and every horror movie in the entire world also takes place at night, so I say check it out," the girl said, her voice already moving toward him.

Sam shrank back again. No, no, no…go away, go away…

The girl didn't heed him, and a second later a pale face framed by red hair peeked around the trash cans. Her hazel eyes went wide and she stared at Sam, who stared right back, his heart threatening to pound straight out of his chest.

"Brad, c'mere."

"What is it?" the boy—Brad—asked, and then another face appeared, and if Sam could have melted into the wall, he could have. As it was, his back hurt from how hard it was pressing into the bricks behind him.

"Oh…uh…hi," Brad said uncertainly. "Who…?"

The girl elbowed him before he could finish whatever he was about to ask and then turned to him, her face gone from surprised to kind. "Hi, there," she said, her voice friendly. "You back here for any particular reason, or do you just really like these trash cans?"

Sam stared up at her and trembled, unable to do anything else.

"Okay…let's try it directly," the girl said, glancing up at her friend. "I'm Amy. This is my brother Brad."

Sam looked at the boy named Brad with new eyes. Brother…?

You have a name?" Brad asked.

Sam had been leaning forward a little, but now he flattened himself against the wall again, shaking his head.

"You don't have a name?"

Amy elbowed Brad again and he winced. "Shut up," she said firmly and then turned back to Sam. "That's okay, you don't have to tell us. Have you been here all night?"

Sam nodded slowly.

"Are you gonna come out anytime soon?"

Sam shrank back and shook his head violently.

"No?"

Sam turned toward the wall, unconsciously adopting his pose from all those weeks at the hospital, and shook his head again.

"Um…okay…wanna tell me why not?"

Sam opened his mouth, licked his lips, and his voice came out raspy and cracked. "Go away." He paused, and then looked back at her and repeated it. "Go away. Please."

Instead of looking offended, Amy's face softened even further, and she said, "Okay. I'm sorry."

And then her face disappeared, and so did Brad's, and their footsteps faded into the distance.

And Sam curled up against the wall and cried.

XXX

Sam ventured out from behind the trash cans four times that day, and every time he made it a little further before he darted back to his hiding place. But he never did make it to the end of the alleyway, and as night fell he returned there and sat down, gazing up at where he was pretty sure the stars should be, but he remembered distantly that city lights blocked them out.

He was also faintly aware that he was…hungry. The time when he usually got his chicken-pudding had come and gone, he thought, and he still had no way to get any food. He was still too afraid to find a way, to get money, to have a change of clothes.

He was in the middle of thinking this—and, admittedly, feeling sorry for himself—when he heard footsteps again. More people in his alley, and Sam hid his face in his hands in the hopes that the principle of If you can't see them, they can't see you might apply here.

But the person—whoever it was—didn't even pass the trash cans. They came close, but then they stopped, and there was the shuffling sound of something being set down. Then the person started walking again, going back the way they'd come and fading until they were completely gone.

Sam waited for another minute before slowly peeking around the side of the trash can. It took him a long time to make sense of what he was seeing—it had been way too long since he'd seen take-out bags.

He crawled toward them slowly, half-expecting them to blow up or something impressive like that. But he reached them without anything going amiss and took them back to his hiding place to open them.

His mouth began to water the moment he opened the white boxes and found a cheeseburger, French fries, and soda in a Styrofoam cup. It was familiar food, food like home, and Sam, hungry as he was, dug in without even noticing that he was crying.

XXX

The take-out didn't stop coming with the burger and fries. The next day there were pancakes for breakfast and a chicken sandwich with a salad for lunch, and the only thing Sam determined was that he was going to figure out who was leaving it at dinner.

So he waited. Patiently. He waited and remembered Dean—but good things, not Dean being tortured, not Dean in hell, not Dean being tortured in hell—and felt glad he hadn't had any more visions so far and waited some more, and when the footsteps finally came he gathered up all his courage and looked around the side of the bins again.

It wasn't Dean.

He hadn't realized how much, how irrationally, how desperately, he'd been hoping it would be, no matter how his mind told him it wasn't possible.

But it didn't matter, because it wasn't Dean.

"You're not Dean."

Amy looked up from the bags she'd been carefully arranging, seeming surprised to see him, though it didn't show in her voice. "Uh…no. I'm…not Dean. You remember me? From yesterday?"

Sam cocked his head to the side a little and stared into her hazel eyes—so much like Dean's, and why was everything reminding him of Dean even more than usual?—and she smiled.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you do. I'm also pretty sure you've been eating the food I've been leaving, so I guess you're not pick. Here I have a BLT, no mayo, and a baked potato with butter and sour cream, and a Coke to drink. I didn't mean to disturb you—I was trying to sneak out all quiet-like, but I guess you have pretty good ears on you…" She trailed off and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm babbling. I'll just…go. Enjoy your dinner."

She was standing up to leave, and Sam was watching her go and thinking of Dean and the words were rushing out before he could stop them, piling all over each other in their hurry.

"Do you have a phone I can borrow?"