By: Karen B.

Summary: It gurgles. It growls. It flips. It flops. It nibbles. It slithers. It gnaws. It's Sam on an eating binge…or is it? Some crack-like Humor/adventure/little brother hurt/ big brother care.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Just as the title indicates: Crazy with weird on top…you've been warned.

'A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?"

~ Albert Einstein 1879-1955


Using a towel, Dean wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror. Wearing nothing but his jeans, he nabbed a can of shaving cream and lathered up his face, and using a brand new blade, he began to remove three days' worth of facial hair; rinsing the razor after each careful stroke.

It'd been a hard, but productive two weeks. He and Sam had tracked and killed a Black Dog in the woods of Pennsylvania. Cleansed a diner of a poltergeist in a small West Virginia town, and cut the heads off a nest of vampires living in a cave in Kentucky.

Wasn't often they racked up three solid kills back-to-back like that. Was like winning the Winchester lotto.

Job's well done and quota filled slated the hunters for some downtime.

Was a rule he and Sam had come up with years ago to keep from burning out? Any well-done job deserved rewards. And rewards, Dean would get. Even the motel they'd chosen to stay in – whatever state this was now – was of higher quality than the norm. With softer beds, clean walls and carpet, well stocked refrigerator, and a bathroom you didn't need to hold your breath in, or use the tip of your boot to flush the toilet with.

Down the road was an Amish country restaurant – the homemade all-you-could-eat type. Not to mention the added bonus of a Hooters just down the road from there.

Hell! Life was good.

Done shaving, Dean finished wiping the last of the shaving cream off his chin. Both hands on the sink, he leaned in close inspecting his work in the mirror.

Not a nick on him.

How he loved a smooth shave, normally not taking the time to give himself one often.

"You are an awesomely handsome dude, Dude." He smiled, grabbing a dark-blue tee-shirt and pulling it on over his head.

He gave himself a sexy wink, and then emerged from the steamy bathroom. Clean, refreshed, and ready to have some fun.

"Morning, Sammy," Dean greeted his brother who was sitting at the small kitchenette table, hovered over his laptop and eating a bowl of cereal.

"Morn, Dean," Sam mumbled around a mouthful of Lucky Charms not bothering to take his eyes off the screen.

Dean opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of orange juice. "So…" He leaned against the sink counter, chugging straight from the container. After several long, loud gulps he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What's the plan for today?" he questioned, hoping Sam would say fishing.

Fishing was something else Dean loved to do, but rarely ever got to. A pole in one hand, beer in the other, cooler full of sandwiches, bait cast out into a clear lake, his ass in a chair. Was the best kind of hunting there was next to killing evil bitches.

Dean took another slug of OJ, studying his six foot four inch brother who hadn't answered his questions, to busy clicking on the keyboard. "Hello! Sam?"

"What?" Sam shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, reading whatever the hell it was that he'd pulled up on the screen.

"Turn the lights on," Dean bellowed. "I asked you what you wanted to do today."

Sam shrugged, shoveling yet more cereal into his mouth.

"You do remember we're on hiatus now, right?"

"Yeah. Great. Hiatus." Sam screwed up his face into a grimace, eyes still on the screen.

Dean sighed. Yeah right.

Sam hated hiatus. Said it sucked big time. That it was too hard to get back up and running and how it threw off his bio-rhythm or some crap like that. For a kid who bucked the life so hard… it was amazing how Sam's whole life's schedule now revolved around hunting.

"You know when you were a kid," Dean gave a soft chuckle, gesturing to the Leprechaun on the box, "You used to dump the cereal out on the table and only eat the marshmallows," he chuckled a little louder.

"Was a science experiment, Dean," Sam defended seriously, downloading something.

"A science experiment that you probably ate before it ever got graded," Dean added.

"I got an A+," Sam huffed, dipping his spoon in the bowl and taking the last bite intently watching the screen.

"A + for what? Finding the free cheap ass toy at the bottom of the box?"

"There was never any cheap ass toy at the bottom of the box," Sam muttered, crunching away. "'Cause my jerk of a big brother always dug down in and stole the cheap ass toy before I ever had a chance to find it."

Dean hid a knowing smirk.

"And for your information, Dean, I got an A+ for finding out the ratio of cereal to marshmallows."

"Little brother, "Dean rolled his eyes, "Everybody and their brother…except my geek, little brother… knows there's more cereal. Don't need to count or do any fancy math. You can tell just by looking," Dean grumbled.

"Least I didn't think Snap, Crackle, and Pop were really talking to me." Sam retorted smoothly, mouth cracking into a grin. "Stupid," he whispered, reaching for the box of cereal and happily pouring himself another bowlful.

"Shut up, bitch."

Sam did as he was told, obviously only because he was too busy stuffing his mouth full and watching a video.

Dean walked over and leaned down to peer at the laptop. "What are you watching that's got you so interest…." He balked and stood straight. "What the hell?" he waggled an accusing finger at the laptop. "What the hell is that?"

Sam shoved another spoonful in his mouth, eyes on the screen, and mumbled, "Seattle zoo's giraffe is about to give birth…it's streaming live."

"What?" Dean winced. "Why?"

"Why not?" Sam muttered as if that was explanation enough.

"I'm going to be sick." Dean slammed the laptop closed and pushed it off to one side, effectively censoring the video.

"Whatever." Sam pulled his bowl of cereal in front of him and kept right on shoveling

Dean scowled. "What is that? Like your third bowl?" he asked, waving a hand at the empty box.


"You've been eating like a Trojan for days."

Sam shrugged and kept right on eating.

"What's with you, man? You going to eat the bowl and spoon too."

"Hungry, man." Sam set the spoon down to drink some coffee from a paper cup, then going back to feeding his face.

"You've already been through five growth spurts. You can't possibly grow any taller, Sasquatch."

"Not trying to." Cereal finished, Sam sat back and sighed, reaching to pull the laptop over and firing it back up.

"You better not be watching that streaming...whatever crap again," Dean grouched.

"Not…looking for a job now."

"We are on hiatus, Sam," Dean reminded sorely.

Sam had nothing to say, just kept on type, type, typing on the keyboard.

Dean frowned swearing he heard Sam's stomach rumble and thinking the kid looked rather gaunt, his clothes not fitting right. Dean shook his head. How'd the song go? Paranoia will destroy you.

He gave up trying to censor his brother and chalking the kid's hunger up to the exercise they'd gotten killing all those evil sons of bitches. Going back to the counter, he polished off the orange juice, and then slam-dunked the container into the trash.

Speaking of hunger - despite the grossness he'd just been forced to eyewitness - he was starving.

Leaving geek boy to his laptop and vowing to confiscate the thing from Sam later, in exchange for fishing poles, Dean rummaged around the kitchen to cook up his own brand of breakfast.

He'd gotten as far as sizzling bacon in a pan and fork-whipping eggs in a bowl, when he was suddenly aware of Sam right at his back, watching over his shoulder and breathing heavily in his ear.

"Sammy, what I tell you? " Dean jerked a step sideways. "Personal space," he growled.

Sam stood licking his lips and looking down into the bowl. "That smells great. What'd you put in those eggs, Dean?"

Dean cocked his head curiously at the yellow mix. "Eggs, Sam. They're just eggs."

Sam went to dip a finger in the bowl, obviously wanting a taste.

"Hey." Dean smacked the appendage away. "Paws off! Go back to counting your friggin' marshmallows or watching giraffes hatch."

"They don't hatch, Dean. Mother giraffes give live birth standing up. Did you know the calf falls 6 feet out of the womb to the ground where the mother giraffe then begins to lick and eat the –"

"Stop!" Dean held up a traffic cops hand, face twisted in disgust. "Stop right there."

"I'll stop if I can have some of those eggs," Sam stated, his features turning heartbreakingly-homeless- starving-puppy.

"Bro, knock it off. You know that puppy-power crap doesn't work on me."

Sam took one final look at the egg mixture, and then trudged dejectedly back, plopping into the chair at the table and staring at the computer screen.

Dean sighed impatiently, going back to his eggs. He poured them right next to the strips of bacon coating the whipped up yolks in bacon grease. Adding a generous amount of salt and pepper, and began scrambling with gusto.

The room was quite, save for the sound of bacon spitting and sizzling in its own fatty juices and the fork scrapping the bottom of the non-stick pan.

Behind him, Dean noted Sam was no longer tap-tap-tapping on the keyboard or slurping milk from his cereal bowl. Kid was probably pouting like a four-year-old. Since when did his brother like his cooking, anyway? Sam always called his breakfast's 'heart attack in a pan.' Health food freak that he was.

Sam's stomach rumbling again greeted Dean's ears. And was that… a sniffle?

Strangely, Dean felt guilty. What the hell?

After all…they were on hiatus. Taking time away from the hunt, time they needed to spend enjoying things – to reconnect as brothers. It wasn't like they got to very often. The last time they went off the grid was that time they spent a week in Vegas. Dean smiled at the thought.

What an awesome blast. Show girls. Money. Show girls. Even Sam had joined in the fun that week. They'd have to turn that into a yearly trek.

Fishing wouldn't be as exciting but hey…it was something. Vegas was too far away, and besides they didn't have a lot of cash right now. Three hours away they'd be soaking it all in at the best fishing hole in these here parts, he was told by an old man on a bike at their last gas stop. Dean remembered Bobby taking him fishing a lot when he was a kid. Walleye, bass, perch. Bobby was a great fisherman and an even greater cook. Good times. They'd be heading that way if all went as planned.

But this hiatus wasn't starting out as planned, however, with a hungry, pouty little brother to contend with.

He'd fix that in a flash.

"Sam," Dean threw over his shoulder. "How do you want your eggs?"

"But, I thought…"

"Don't need you crying like a girl," Dean said in a light tone, waiting for Sam to snap back.

There came no response.

Dean scratched the top of his head and peeked over at Sam. "Huh." Not so much as a bitchy face or muttered jerk.

"Scrambled, "Sam finally spoke up. "Like yours." There came the tap-tap-taping on the keyboard once again.

Dean gave a nod and smiled, going back to his…their breakfast. "All righty then… scrambled it is."

It was going to be a weird day.


At the driver's wheel, eyes hidden behind his super-dark sunglasses, Dean headed them happily out toward the lake.

All four windows of the Impala were rolled down, a warm breeze blowing through the car, and the radio cranked as high as it would go.

"Ramble On, And now's the time, the time is now, to sing my song," Dean scream-sung along with Zeppelin, fingers drumming to the beat on the steering wheel, ass wiggling in the driver's seat. " I'm goin' 'round the world, I got to find my girl, on my way. I've been this way ten years to the day, Ramble On…" Dean gave a quick glance to his brother.

Sam's brow was crinkled and he sucked in his bottom lip, staring blankly at Dean.

Dean reached over and turned the volume down to nothing. "What?"

"You should be more careful, Dean." Sam glanced back down at the book in his lap, the warm air flowing in through the window playing with his bangs. "Might strain yourself and get a hernia or something singing like that," he cracked, keeping his face expressionless as he flipped the page.

"Very funny, Sammy."

"A hernia is a condition that is nothing to laugh at, Dean," Sam said dryly, eyes intent on his book. "Part of the stomach can protrude through the diaphragm and…"

"Dude! I don't have any conditions," Dean snapped, then shrugged, lowering his voice glaring at the book in Sam's lap. "Except one," he griped, snatching the hardcover away from Sam and flinging it to the back seat. "Man, Sammy, you're not in college anymore. No super-duper bonus points for having your nose in a book or laptop all day."

Sam shook his head and tisked.

Dean angrily stared out the window at the road. "Bro, can we just have a normal day of rest and relaxation."

"And food. " Sam's stomach growled just as they zoomed past a small roadside diner. "Dean, turn the car around, man, I'm starving, haven't eaten since eight o'clock." Sam craned his neck, still ogling the diner.

Dean glanced at his watch, then did a double take of Sam, slowing the car. "Sam." He blinked inquisitively at his brother. "That was only an hour and a half ago. You can't possibly be hungry again."

Sam turned back and gave Dean a wounded look. "Starving to death here, Dean."

Sam's stomach made a hollow, bubbly sound for proof.

"Moment ago you were reading to death," Dean complained, turning the car around as requested. "No willpower, Sammy. No willpower," he said, pulling into the diner's parking lot, his stomach also making a hollow bubbly sound. Damn the power of suggestion.

"How you doing over there on willpower," Sam sneered, cattily.

Dean abruptly sat back and cut the engine. "Shut up," he said giving Sam a glaring look. "Let's just go get you filled up once and for all. Fish won't wait forever." He exited the car.

Sam did the same, taking a few hurried steps in front of Dean as if it were a race to the finish line.

Dean dipped his head, letting his sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose so he could peer at his suddenly food-obsessed brother with his own eyes. He was totally puzzled. What the hell was going on with the kid? Sure Sam had been eating more lately. He hadn't thought much of it when Sam went bonkers on Monday at the all-you-could-eat brunch bonanza they'd happened across. He'd laughed at his brother as he ate a boxful of chocolate donuts on Tuesday at that sleepy little coffeehouse in Tremont. And even joined Sam in munching-out on a five gallon sized bucket of sweet-and-salty butter drizzled popcorn his brother had spent $22.50 on Friday when they'd worked that drive-in haunting in Ohio.

Here it was a week and a half later, and Sam was still on an eating binge. And if anything, the kid's appetite had grown tenfold. This day was just getting wackier by the minute.

Sam stepped into the diner, Dean a close second. A sign posted told them to seat themselves.

Sam did just that racing to a booth.

Dean paused, hooking his sunglasses to the front of his shirt collar and taking in his surroundings. He was never one for glitz and glamour or white linen tablecloths, and he'd eaten in his share of dives, but this place was the worst.

Dirty and bug infested.

He walked uncomfortably across the slimy-brown tiled floor noting the walls were bumpy and coated with an equally grungy, slimy-brown color as he slowly slid into the booth across from Sam.

Sam had already grabbed the menu positioned between the empty salt and pepper containers. "This is going to be great," he said excitedly as he scanned the list of food options.

"Yeah, great," Dean muttered, fairly certain no paint on the planet earth could cover up all the splattered grease.

He noted the vinyl seat he sat in, along with all the others around, were held together with black electrical tape. Place just needed to be ripped down and he said so, "This place just needs to be ripped down."

Sam didn't seem to hear him, a happy, satisfied smile on his face as he studied the menu as if he were cramming for one of John Winchester's Latin tests.

"Sammy. If I didn't have a condition before…" Dean swallowed hard. "I certainly will have one after eating here."

Sam didn't acknowledge Dean in any way.

With a sigh of disgust, he tentatively reached for his own menu, wiggling uncomfortably on the sticky seat, while Sam wiggled with anticipation in his.

"Oh, wow, check out this picture of their meatloaf and mashed potatoes." Sam flipped his menu around and pointed at a picture excitedly. "Yummy."

Dean's lips twitched in revolt. "Not my first choice of words, Sam, "he uttered.

Tearing his eyes away from the picture of a sickly-gray slab of meat that looked more like cement than food, he tracked a heavy set woman with unbrushed, frizzy-brown hair. She sluggishly moved behind the counter, then went over to a table and poured another patron a cup of what looked to be very thick, black coffee. She was a tough-looking lady, probably in her early 50's, and appeared to be the only waitress in the joint.

She glanced up and scowled evilly at Dean. Chewing and sucking on a wad of gum in her mouth, she spit brown juice out onto the floor–a disgusting habit even for a man. Dean took a closer look at the floor where she spat.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said under his breath. It wasn't chewing gum, it was chewing tobacco. Dean swallowed down hard. "Ah, Sam, I don't think the walls in this place are brown because of their awesome, greasy burgers."

"So," Sam replied with a shrug, face buried deep inside his menu.

"Bro, its nicotine spit." Dean cringed. "From a chick…that's so gross."

Sam didn't respond.

Dean leaned across the table and whispered, "Sammy, open your eyes, this place is filthy."

Oblivious, Sam countered, "Think I'll have the breakfast burrito."

"Sam!" Dean finger tapped the table loudly. "Did you hear me? This place is gross."

Sam peered up over his menu at Dean, tossing his hair out of his eyes. "And this… coming from a guy who likes to lick Jell-O off cocktail waitresses breasts?"

"Dude, it was my 21st Birthday." Dean lowered his voice, pressing both hands flat to the table. "Ewww…nasty, "he squealed, lifting them to wipe the sticky crap that stuck between his fingers off on his jean-clad thighs.

"Dean, Rugaru's are nasty. Not a little sticky spot on a table. Just order something," Sam said, completely annoyed. "Look." He went back to searching the menu. "They've got that pig in a blanket stuff you like."

"Pig in a Poke, Sam." Dean nervously watched the emaciated cook in front of the grill behind the counter brush his long, stringy hair out of his face as he sniffled and coughed incessantly, while waving his fly swatter like an air traffic controller directing the insects into his pot on the grill.

Dean recoiled. "Sammy, the cook looks like he'd have no problem using rats should they run out of hamburger meat," he informed.

Sam glanced up ever so briefly to look at the cook. "He obviously works hard, Dean.

"What the hell is wrong with you," Dean barked, his gaze landing on a dry-erase board hanging cockeyed on the wall; on it was written:

Thinking of asking for substitutions?

Just don't!

Below that was a horrible artist's rendition of a rat, a hand holding it by the tip of its tail, dangling the frightened creature over a large boiling pot – visual confirmation on his previous observation?

"You ready to order?" Sam smiled up at him.

"Sammy," Dean's eyes were wide and fearful. "I am not going to eat here."

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

"Are you blind?" Dean kicked Sam in the chin under the table.

"Ow, you jerk!"

"Bro," Dean continued to whisper. "Take a look around you."

Before Sam could say a word, the waitress decided to lumber over, pulling a broken pencil and a red-stained pad of paper from her equally red-stained apron.

Dean's stomach flipped and flopped and he leaned back, doing a slow sliding slouch down into the booth as if he could hide from –he squinted to read her name tag. "No. No, no ,no," he cringed. "Not ordering anything from big, bad Bates," he muttered.

"Dean." Sam narrowed his gaze at his brother. "Aren't you hungry?"

"No. But she is," Dean said, hearing heavy footsteps, fearfully never taking his gaze off of Sam.

Sam glanced up as their waitress approached.

"I'll distract Kathy Bates, Sammy." Dean devised his plan bravely sitting up straighter. "You save yourself."

Sam tilted his head toward Dean and shot him his typical don't-be-ridiculous-and- rude-and-while-you're –at- it –stop- embarrassing-me look.

Before Dean could make a move to beat feet out of the booth, the waitress was there blocking his path. "What will it be?"

Dean glared wide-eyed at Sam. 'Misery', he mouthed, gesturing a hand toward her name tag.

"Fellows, I'm Annie, how would you like some of our famous meatloaf, or how about a piece of our homemade pie? You first Mr. Man."Annie stood tapping her broken pencil on her blood-stained note pad, waiting for Dean to respond. "Well?" She asked, wearing a face that read 'don't mess with me, I'm psychotic.'

"Was going to have the breakfast burrito, "Sam interrupted, then thoughtfully said, "But I think instead I'll have the Tuna melt with…"

Annie turned to Sam. "No Tuna. No breakfast burrito. No nothing. That menu's outdated." She gave a grizzly bear-type growl. "Special today is dead cow, dead chicken, or dead fish…all served with a side of fried pork rinds and some sort of peach crap."

"I'll have the dead cow," Sam said happily as he shut his menu and replaced it neatly between the empty shakers, arranging them just so.

What the…? Dean nervously hitched higher in his seat.

"And you?" The waitress glared down her nose at Dean with an especially horrific glint in her eye.

"Nothing for me, thank you." Dean smiled up ever so sweetly.

Annie pointed the overly sharpened point of her pencil at Dean's heart like a dagger. "You'll order and eat 'till you choke."

"'Eh…I…he…I…"Dean squirmed in his seat, visions of hot soup being spilled on him immediately followed by his ankles being shattered with a sledge hammer.

"He'll have the same," Sam broke in to save the day.

Dean shifted his eyes to his food-obsessed brother, shaking his head firecly.

"Fine." Annie jotted the orders down and stormed away.

"What's with you?" Dean snipped. "This place's a dive."

"Hungry." Sam shrugged. "Stop worrying, Dean. I'm sure the food is great here."

"Right." Dean flopped back in the booth and started to hum Metallica, drumming his fingers on the table, quickly stopping as soon as he felt the tackiness again. Instead, he folded his arms protectively over his chest and continued to hum.

"Something's wrong with you, bro. This is six degrees of crazy. You've always been a picky princess about your food. Too spicy, too salty, too fatty, too hot, too cold, too chewy, too pricey, too this, too that."

"No I haven't." Sam smiled innocently.

"Sam, you're friggin' Goldie Locks. Wouldn't so much as eat day-old bread let alone 'dead' anything," Dean kept his voice down, eyes darting this way and that.

"Dean, chill," Sam frowned at him. "It's just food."

"Uh-huh." Dean pressed his lips together, listening to the cook snort and gurgle over the grill.

"Relax, Dean. You'll feel better after you eat. "

"You're weird, Sam. "Dean glanced down at the sticky table. "For that matter this place is weird." He picked up the only piece of cutlery sitting on a torn, suspiciously used napkin. He twirled the aluminum spoon around in examination, its edge not round, but slit like a fork. "And what do we do with this?" Dean waved the freaky object right under Sam's nose. "Because it looks like the cook uses these to pick out snot, or maybe scoop out people's eyeballs." Dean gestured with a chin tip toward the cook sucking boogers back into his nose. "Probably uses both to flavor his soup."

"It's called a spork."

"A what?"

"Spork. Half-spoon. Half-fork," Sam drawled, rolling his eyes as if Dean should know that bit of Intel.

"Only you would know that."

"And only you wouldn't," Sam retorted.

Dean dropped the spoon – the spork – the whatever back to the sticky table with a clatter. "Does that make you half-bitch and half-dork? Ha," Dean laughed, trying to be funny, only he didn't feel very funny as Annie arrived at their tableside with a tray of what Dean would never call food, and plopped it down in front of them.

Sam went at his plate with passion and zest. Dean shoved his plate aside, and took a moment to watch his whack-job brother chewing around a mouthful before grabbing the spork off the napkin and standing.

"Where you going?" Sam barely took the time to ask as he inhaled his food.

"I am taking this spork." Dean held the utensil up high in the air and waved it about as if he'd won a prize. "And I am adding it to our weapons cache. Meet me at the car when you're done ravaging your dead cow." He started to walk away, but then paused to look back over at his brother. "And… Sammy."

"Huh?" Sam kept right on shoveling as if he were going for the World's eating champ record.

"Don't chew off your tongue, little brother," Dean warned worriedly.

"Mmmmm," Sam muttered.

Dean hurried outside, humming Metallica again. Something was so way wrong here with Sam.

TBC….(Story is complete and will post daily)