"He's fine," Dean says sharply, bitter and angry and -- guilty, too.

(can't stay there any more, he can't, he can't handle Sam being so happy and normal and peaceful and wrong, can't deal with exploding trees and knows the others will look after him and -- sure, maybe he's running away, but fuck, it's not his fault and god damn he needs a drink. Or twenty.)

"He's fine. What're you readin'?"