(no subject)

[weary_head]

There are no fewer than four plates of food beneath Dean's bed, all of them in varying states of disuse and decay. Neil's been sending people over with them left and right, as if Dean's sick, as if he's so born down by grief he can't feed himself.

He can, as it turns out. But after feeding and looking after Cori, after checking up on Roger, on the others Sam left behind, on the clinic, on studies he aims to take next school term, after running around after everyone hard enough to keep the grief at his back, Dean finds he has neither energy nor taste for food.

He takes it anyway. After so many losses, a part of him thinks the food is given to comfort the giver as much as he himself, and he can't fault anyone for that. "We keep going," he sighs, lying flat on his back on the bed, "anyway we know how."

His eyes narrow at the telltale creak of the door opening. "I'm eating!" he grunts. "God, you'd think this was my first go round."

Comments

[attitude]

"Yes," Faye replies plainly, turning on her side to better face Dean, propping herself up on an elbow as she traces his cheek absently with the back of her hand. "Can you blame me? You need fresh air, Dean. And we need for those dishes not to suddenly find a life all their own."

[weary_head]

"Don't knock it," says Dean, leaning into her hand. "Mold is how we discovered penicillin. Sometimes," he says, holding up a finger, "Poor hygiene and slovenly behavior saves lives."

[attitude]

"Whereas I don't think sex has ever saved anyone's life," Faye counters teasingly, keeping her hand against Dean's cheek, turning it until it's her palm pressed to his skin, thumb then tracing the line of his shadow. "Certainly not on so wide a scale. Does that mean we stop rolling in the hay?"