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Mar. 7th, 2012 07:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
weary_headThere 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."
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."
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Date: 2012-04-01 06:01 pm (UTC)