Dean scratches his balls and snarls at the words on his phone. He drops his leg from the back of the couch and sets his feet flat on the floor.

SW: Not a good time, buddy.

"Buddy?" He grumbles at that word like it's profanity and stuffs the offending device under his pillow. In the kitchen, Jody is already at the table, scratching off lottery tickets. A cigarette bobs between her lips when she speaks. "Morning, sunshine."

Dean groans into the mostly-empty fridge and each of the bare cabinets. Finally, he snaps his fingers and smiles, remembering his treasure. He finds his backpack where he left it, hanging off the back of the other chair. He unzips it and his face falls. His head snaps around, giving a second look at the table.

There it is. Well, sort of. The tupperware container with his name written on the top in flawless cursive with fuchsia Sharpie is there. And it's empty: bare as the fucking cabinets.

He takes a deep breath, trying to stop his lips from quivering in anger. His throat is locking up so tight that he can hardly form the words. "Dude. You did not eat my cookies."

"Don't call me dude."

"Did you eat my cookies, Jody?"

She snickers. "You look like Peter Pan."

Dean drops his hands from his hips and bashes a fist on the table. It makes her jump, but isn't as rewarding as he'd hoped. "Jody, did you eat my fucking cookies or what?"

She grins up and answers slowly, taunting him. "They were really good, too. You got a little girlfriend baking for you now? I thought you were sucking dicks this week."

Deep breathing isn't working anymore. Dean is literally on the verge of hyperventilating. He had baked those cookies his-fucking-self. "Are you serious? That was my breakfast."

"Eat something else."

"There is nothing else!" He's not exaggerating. He knows about the fucking hunger games, for real, and he is not picky. He would have made a ketchup sandwich if there had been any bread.

Jody lifts her hips in her chair so that she can reach into her pocket to produce a crumpled one dollar bill to flick across the table. "There. Go get yourself some hash browns or something and quit bitching at me. Jesus."

Dean throws up his hands and leaves the kitchen before he gives in to the urge to bludgeon his mother to death with that empty tupperware.

Dean gives his roaring stomach a reassuring pat as he pushes through the double doors. He's done hollow days before. It ain't fun, but nobody starves to death in one day.

A trio of giggling girls pass. One of them even has the rocks to meet his eyes. Not the cute one, but still. He tosses his chin up. "Ladies."

It has the desired effect. The whole gaggle of them, even the brave one, squeals and bumps shoulders with one another. Girls are a riot. Dean snickers to himself and almost forgets his empty guts.

Even before he turns down D hall, he hears the clanging and laughter. He assumes it'll be another worthy distraction. As it turns out, Ash has invented a new sport: Nerd Squash.

There don't seem to be any rules other than shove the geek back up against the puke green lockers every time he tries to get away. The sound of the kid whimpering sets off Ash's growing audience in a series of whoops and cackles and the occasional self-righteous complaint from a passing female.

Ash pushes the beanpole of a boy against the steel doors again. There's a loud clank as the kid actually bounces before he whines. The guys cheer. Dean thinks, 'Idiots,' and would really rather walk away. Most of this crowd are guys from the team, which means he'd be walking a tightrope getting involved, but he fucking hates bullies. Always has.

He rolls his eyes and steps between Ash and the kid.

Ash blinks, confused by the interference at first. Then, he moves aside with a grin, as if graciously offering Dean a chance to knock the dweeb around.

"What's the deal here?"

Ash laughs. "Little morning warm-up."

Now that the spectacle is over, the guys start to clear off. Dean nods a greeting at a couple of them The twerp has his back pressed against the lockers, as if some invisible force is pinning him there.

"Why are you fucking with this kid?"

Ash gestures. "Look at him."

Dean gives the squash ball/shivering dork a once over. He's all skin and bones with too-big eyes in a too-small head; he's got a pointy, crooked nose, and his neck is about half a foot too long.

He reminds Dean of that half-starved, homeless dog he tried to feed in Pensacola, back when he was 8 years old. For the longest time, that damn thing had been too shell-shocked to come to him even for food. Dean had named it FUBAR. After a week, it was gone anyway.

He looks at the chump and points down the hall. "Scram."

Ash frowns at the scurrying stray. His sneakers squeak on the linoleum as he dodges oncoming students. He only slows to scoop up his backpack.

"The bell's going to ring in like 3 minutes, man. You get detention, coach is going to have all our asses."

Ash nods and claps Dean's shoulder like he just did him a huge favor. He runs off, too, but in the opposite direction. Dean shakes his head, takes his own advice and gets to class.

Coffee strings Sam out. So does black tea. He brings his own strainers and decaffeinated, loose-leaf oolong from home. Steam curls up over the mug in his hand while he watches his coworkers prattle on about some show he doesn't watch. Their voices blend with the clack of calculators, the crunch of staplers, the scrape of tape.

He doesn't particularly dread what's waiting at his desk, but lingers by the coffee table with eyes unfocused. Mindlessly, he twirls a plastic spoon in his cup, even though he doesn't take sugar. Natural sweeteners also string him out. The artificial ones are carcinogenic.

His mind wanders back to the way Dean's eyes glinted in the dwindling sunlight. He remembers as clearly as if he had been gazing into them when he woke up this morning: glowing emerald, viridescent crystal he'll probably never see again. Surprised by the sudden sinking feeling at that thought, he huffs quietly. He tucks the spoon into his pocket to take home and recycle.

The number is still in his phone. Sam could call him back or send a text message, but what good could come from that? Still, he grins to himself. 'Intrepid little bugger.'

He makes his way back to his cubicle and gets to work.

Dean stares out at the field. There won't be practice in an outright downpour. He sighs and watches the rain batter the glass. The teacher drones on like something out of Charlie Brown. His stomach growls. A wad of gum from underneath his desk is now stuck to his pants leg. This day is fucked.

He slouches down so he can hide his cell behind the desk.

DS: GAS

Sam always works with his head down and earbuds in. Still, totally immersed as he is, he notices out of the corner of his eye when the screen on his phone lights up.

Dean's pocket buzzes. A flash sparks in the center of his chest.

SW: What?

Dean scoffs at first, thinking Sam is being a dick.

What? As in, what do you want, you little piece of shit?

Then, he grins, realizing he doesn't get the abbreviation. 'Old people.'

DS: Got a sec

SW: Working

DS: Wt do u do

SW: Accounting

DS: Snds tuff. U shd tk a brk

SW: Aren't you supposed to be in school?

DW: Am. Trig is tuf. Im tkng a brk

SW: In the middle of something

Dean rolls his eyes at the message and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. A minute later, his pants vibrate.

SW: I get off at 9. Msg me then, if you want

Sam slips a few folders into his briefcase and shuts down his computer. He picks his phone up from his desk and looks around the mostly darkened office. His will be the last lamp extinguished, like most nights.

He doesn't actually expect the kid to message again. He doesn't even know if he wants him to. 'What good reason is there for talking to this kid?'

Still, he switches the setting from mute to ring and carries it in his hand. His shoes echo loudly through the empty parking garage.

Dean is laid out on his couch, comfortable and relaxed, except that his stomach is tied up in a knot that is, maybe, not just hunger related. He picks up his phone for the fifth time and puts it back down. "What are you, a fucking girl?"

He sits up and leans over to turn up the theme song to Dukes of Hazzard. Soon, he'll see his sweetheart, Daisy, and everything'll be right with the world.

The car turns over. Vivaldi springs to life from the speakers. Sam glances over at the phone in his passenger's seat before he pulls from his space. At a red light, he gives it another peek. The windshield wipers whip out of time to the music. Sam turns them down. The storm is passing over.

'Oh, come on' Dean groans at a Lucky Charms commercial. He wishes like shit he had some cereal right about now. He picks up his phone again.

As he is walking up the wet pavement to his building, that charming melody lights up his pocket. Sam stops in his tracks and sighs.

DS: Now good?

"No," he answers out loud.

SW: Not really. Have a good night.

He powers down the phone before continuing into the apartment.