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(A few hours after this.)

The front door to Milliways opens on an early morning somewhere in the woods. Andrew Wells stumbles in, pale and shivering, a second jacket draped around his shoulders over the one he's already wearing; Sam Winchester is a few steps behind him, still outside. Andrew stops just inside the door to lean against the doorjamb, half-closing his eyes.

"Hey. Andrew."

It's quiet, but enough to get him to lift his head and look back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Sam's face is unreadable. "Thanks for trying. Tell Mac I said I'm sorry, and goodbye."

Andrew's eyes fly wide, and he turns -- but Sam's already swinging the door to, and it shuts in his face before he can reach to stop it.

"Sam!" He pounds a fist against the door, stupidly, uselessly, as though Sam could hear him from the other side -- "Sam!"

[OOC: Sam is not taggable in this thread, but Andrew is. *cheerful* He's also being pretty noisy, so feel free to notice.]

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"Why did you do it to him. If not just to screw around."

...He didn't tell him that, either?

Ohhhh, Winchester, you are so damn lucky you shut that door before he could take another crack at you.

"Because," he says, tone squarely falling into the speak slowly and use little words camp, "in case you haven't noticed? Him and Dean are more codependent than a couple of freakin' gut parasites. He couldn't handle the idea of watching his brother die, so, I toughened him up a little. I was trying to get him to let go before the bad guys swooped in to take advantage like a quarterback with a roll of roofies."

He rolls his eyes.

"See how well that worked out."

Andrew's staring at him, as though waiting for him to start making sense.

He stares right back for a beat before sighing, explosively, and flopping his head back.

"Do I have to break out the flashcards here? There is way more going on than those two will ever get. They've got entire armies clamoring for their souls, just waiting for a chance to pick up the fumble. Not being able to cope when one of them bites it? That's a hell of a fumble. Pun completely intended."

Barely audible: "So you thought hitting him with the thing he was most afraid of would ... what, make him not care so much when it happened for real?"

This time, as he lifts his head, the smile is considerably thinner.

"I was gonna call it a dry run or hundred before the curtain came up, but...yep."

His throat works.

(Andrew, I can't go through that again. I -- I can't lose Dean. I can't watch him die. I can't.)

"You're a complete idiot."

Aaaaaand boom go the eyebrows again.

"Ya think?"

"You did exactly the opposite of that. You made him more scared. I could've told you it would, would do that -- anybody could've told you, it was obvious --"

His breath is coming rapid and shallow, and the shivering is worse.

"You nimrod. You frelling moron. Pushing yourself in, trying to fix everything, trying to help, only you don't know what you're doing, you think you do but you don't, and you just end up mh, making things worse --"

"Yeah?"

He examines his nails -- though even with his attention diverted, his eyes have darkened in ways very much not Christo-related, a sharp flinty anger simmering beneath the careless attitude.

"Sure we're talking about the same guy here, Sparky?"

"Stay away from him."

Andrew braces his hands on the seats beside him, braces his trembling arms to push himself to his feet.

"Not gonna happen."

You couldn't get a blander voice out of him if you asked about the weather. The sharp glance flicks over to Andrew's shaking arms, locks there with curiosity.

Tears are standing in his eyes. "He doesn't deserve this. Leave him alone."

He scoffs, loudly, and shakes his head. "Whether or not he deserves anything isn't the issue here."

(We'll take words he never thought he'd utter for five hundred, Alex.)

"You think they care about who deserves what?"

Andrew doesn't answer. He's struggling to get to his feet now, trying hard to keep his balance against the table.

"This isn't about you."

In spite of himself, his voice has gone a little quieter.

"It's not even about Sam, entirely. It's about something bigger than that." He tips his chin toward Andrew. "Just remember that."

"Whatever."

He wants to turn on his heel and stomp away, but fumbling for the nearest chair back and using it to pull himself along is about the best he can do right now.

He shakes his head, spares another eye roll, then picks up the last two cards to drop them into the deck.

The joker, he leaves out to flick in Andrew's direction.

He looks at the card until it blurs in front of his eyes, and then starts moving again, slow and unsteady.

There's no way he can make it up the stairs. The couch will have to do.

Or maybe this empty booth wouldn't mind if he just rested here for a minute.

It's maybe half an hour later when a couple of waitrats come by to tuck a blanket around him, and leave him there to sleep it off.

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