The rest of the house is quiet, no one else seems to be around. Not that I look anywhere but where we're walking. I don't ask where Cas and Bobby are because I don't really want to know.

"All right, grab a seat." Dean propels me to the table, pulls a chair out, sets me down, hands me my remaining clothes and keeps going to the stove all without breaking stride. "I've got mac and cheese, the brand name stuff. It'll be ready in just a few minutes."

"Okay. Thanks."

He tosses me a quick look like he wonders why I'm thanking him, but then all his attention is on the steaming pot on the stove in front of him and while he stirs and drains and measures and pours and stirs again, I get started putting my socks on.

Nice, thick, warm, wool socks.

"Want help?" Dean asks.

"No."

"Need help?"

"No."

"Hmmm…"

But he leaves it at that and I accomplish my task just before he serves us each a plate of macaroni and cheese. Really good macaroni and cheese. Oh my God macaroni and cheese. It might even be better than the hot water in the shower.

Dean's watching me eat and his smug look tells me he can read in my face how good his macaroni and cheese is. I ignore him. I try to ignore him until I've eaten my last spoonful and he asks,

"Good, hunh?"

And it is so good, I don't even point out that anything tastes good to a man who's starving –

It hits me so fast, so hard, so completely –

Starving, Famine, the restaurant -

"Sam?"

- the taunt that Famine leveled at Dean that he's dead inside.

"Sam? What?"

"Are you okay?" I ask him. I have to ask him.

"Me? I'm fine. Let me get you some more mac n' cheese."

"Dean –"

He takes both our plates and turns to the stove. His way of ignoring me.

"Dean? Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He brings the plates back to the table. "I'm not saying I couldn't use another couple hours of sleep, but I'm good. C'mon, eat up. You look tired enough to sleep another month."

If I ask Dean outright about what Famine said, he'll clam up and shut down and I'll never, ever get another chance. I'm too tired to try subterfuge and the second plate of mac and cheese is just as good as the first one was, so I bide my time and eat my – breakfast? – and enjoy being upright and alive and with Dean.

"You want anything else?" Dean asks when I've finished the second serving. "Tea? Warm milk? Because beer with the morphine – probably not a good combination."

"Tea. I think tea would be good."

"Tea it is."

He puts our dishes in the sink, fills the tea kettle and sets it on the stove to boil. Then he turns back to me.

"C'mon, let's get you upstairs. Drink your tea in comfort."

"Are you okay?" I ask again.

"I'm fine. You already asked me that. C'mon."

He makes that impatient gesture with his hand that means he wants me to stand up. He wants me to stand up and drag myself upstairs and drink my tea and go back to sleep and stop asking him questions that he doesn't want to answer.

But I don't want to move. And I know how to get answers out of Dean without necessarily asking questions.

"I need to sit, just let me sit and drink the tea. Okay?"

He's not convinced, not yet. He crosses his arms and gives me his 'this is my serious face' face.

"C'mon, Dean. Once I get to the bed, I'm gonna want to just go to sleep. Let me drink the tea down here. All right?"

He growls. He grumbles. He gives in.

"All right. One cup of tea and beddie-bye. Right?"

I nod, fast, like I think he'll change his mind if I don't.

"Right."

He still gives me the stink-eye as he turns back to get a cup and a tea bag and the honey bear bottle of honey Bobby has in his cupboard. I keep my expression blank and innocent and exhausted. The last of which isn't hard at all.

When Dean is turned away from me, I look beyond him out the window over the sink. It's not blizzarding outside. It's snowing and the wind is blowing hard and then not hard and then harder again. The snow and the fresh air both seem so clean and real and untainted and suddenly I need to be out in it.

"Changed your mind about going up – hey." Dean says as I push to my feet and head for the back door. "There's no chair anywhere near that door."

"Air. I want air."

He walks towards me, clearly intending to put me back into my chair. He puts himself between me and the door.

"There's air here. Right here in the kitchen. Plenty of it."

"I need – I want – I can still smell the panic room. I don't want to smell it anymore."

"I'll get you some Febreeze."

"Dean –"

"Sam – it's twelve degrees outside. It's winter in South Dakota. And you're not exactly at fighting strength. Or any kind of strength."

"It's clean." It's the only thing that matters to me. "It's clean."

Dean sighs. He's giving in.

"I'm getting you a jacket first. And a blanket. And boots…"

He moves off, still listing everything he's going to get me. He's onto earmuffs I think and the fresh air is too inviting and I walk out onto the back porch. The first blast is icy but not overwhelming so I sit down on the top step and enjoy the air and the snow and the freedom.

Freedom which seems like it's going to be short-lived when Dean bursts out onto the porch, blanket in hand. He's so pissed his lips are pressed white.

"Really, Sam? You couldn't wait for me? You don't even have any shoes on."

"I'm fine." I say. And I even manage to say it without giving in to the shivers that want to rattle my teeth.

Dean rolls his eyes and wraps the blanket around my shoulders and pulls an edge up behind my head. Then he glares at me, hands on his hips, waiting for me to change my mind or burst into flame.

"Are you having tea?" I ask, but that's not what I'm really asking and he knows it.

"Give me a minute." He grumps and disappears back into the house.

tbc