He didn't know if there was alcohol under a table, Sam. Also, he barely touched everything. Have you seen him touch anything with this much grime on it. He's your germaphobe brother. It doesn't matter that he's a slob.

Dean was always better at cooking than Sam was, at that age, anyway. Sam's repertoire expanded the healthier he started eating. He remembers Sam like this. Bonier and stressed, hardly sleeping. He's all skin, nerves, and guilt.

"Fresh?" he asks, looking around for - nothing that he can find so his pants will do. He wipes the front and back of his hands on them. His hands are now dirty, again, depending on -- what happened before and how much that affects his state now.

He looks up then, hands frozen in front of his thighs, cocking an eyebrow.

"That so?"