Dad is gone. Dean has no clue when he left. It could have been hours ago. Or maybe it was just five minutes. He can't stop shivering. The room John left them in doesn't even have a bed. He's huddled, face down, on the couch. Sammy's...somewhere. He's pretty sure he's on the floor...or maybe Dad took him with him. "Sammy," the syllables breaking, worry cracking his voice. He can't get up, he can't move for shaking, but he needs to know his brother is safe.

A half smile crawling onto his lips as he feels his baby brother's pudgy little hand against his forehead, finding the energy somewhere to roll back onto his side so he can look at him. Sam's holding out his blankie, "No Sammy, you k-ke-eep it," and he shakes his head, wrapping his arms round himself. But Sammy just ignores him, swinging one leg up onto the couch and pulling himself up, rolling into Dean, "Dee cold," he still can't quite say his name, and Dean helps him pull the blanket over them, one protective arm slung over the chubby two year old, and he kisses the top of his head, "Thanks Sammy," he breathes.