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Starved

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Sam admits, Stanford spoiled him. Organic markets, gourmet food trucks, even the corner bar served simple-local-fresh. A week back with his brother and he’s fucked. Greasy-spoon burgers, frozen burritos, bacon and whiskey are Dean’s Four Food Groups.

Holed up just outside Grand Junction, Wendigo ash washed down the drain and Sam’s starved. Breakfast handful of M&M’s was like fifteen hours ago.

“I’ll call in a pizza,” Dean offers.

Sam agrees. Finding and fighting for better’s not worth it.

He scores a half-green banana from the Gas-n-Sip come morning. Braves Dean’s disbelieving stare over his wilty chicken Caesar lunch.

“You watchin’ your figure, there, Tyra?” Lips curl into a part-infuriating, part-incendiary smirk.

Defensive shoulders. Shut-up eyes.

Dean shrugs, crams a handful of fries and chews with his mouth open. Just until we find Dad, Sam tells himself. Kill the thing that killed Jess.

**

They made it out, but Sam can’t shake the image of Dean’s brains dripping down the wall of the Miller house. Especially after yesterday – fighting the impulse to sink to his knees for “Father Simmons,” which, seriously, how depraved can he get? – he’s desperate for comfort. Something pure that won’t sit like a rock in his stomach.

“I’ll call in a pizza,” Dean says and Sam snaps.

“No, goddammit! No more pizza! No burgers or nachos or Buffalo wings. I need food, Dean! Something that still vaguely looks like a plant.”

Dean blinks. Fires back, “Well okay, Jenny Craig. What the fuck is your problem?”

“Wha… What’s my problem?” Sam gapes. “Dean, I watched you die! I saw Max blow out the back of your skull. I…” Tears well. Perch like suicide jumpers.

Dean’s hostility melts. His forehead scrunches. “And-uh, rabbit food’ll make it better?”

Sam laughs. Mirthless. “No.” He looks up, tries to will his eyes dry. “I just…”

Dean’s in his space. Sam feels his heat, can smell his sweat. Fingers curl around Sam’s shoulders. “C’mon, Sammy, it’s okay. We’ll get you some Brussel sprouts or some shit.” Hands slide down his arms. “Whatever you need, man. You know that.”

Sam drops his chin. All he’d have to do is…

Dean steps back. Smooths Sam’s lapels. “I can get meat anywhere,” under his breath. Not really talking about a burger anymore.

Sam grimaces. “Fuck it. Pizza’s fine.”

Dean looks at him like he’s a hair-trigger with the safety off. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” He holds Dean’s eyes. I’m sorry. Not Dean’s fault he’s a foodie douchebag psychic freak.

Dean nods. Goes for his phone. Sam goes for the shower.

Hair’s still wet when a box plops in front of him. He lifts the lid. Mushrooms. Olives. Tomatoes and spinach and green bell pepper. Dean glares, dares him to make a big deal of it. Sam just grins and Dean’s shoulders ease. He cracks two beers with his ring. Necks clink.