Dean glanced down at his phone - something was wrong with it, all it did was make words that he didn't want or letters that weren't words - and then back up as Sam slid off his stool (not particularly gracefully, and Dean let out a laugh that ended in a snort), hurrying to follow. The night was young. Or something. He wasn't sure where they were going - had they even talked about leaving? He didn't know - but it really didn't matter.
Somewhere between winning a dozen shots at a burger-eating contest and the point where time skipped ahead and he found himself tagging along with Sam as they pushed out the door of the bar - one hand reaching out to catch Sam's sleeve, because he was moving so fast there were lines and streaks and maybe that was the alcohol but if it wasn't, if Sam was moving too fast again, he didn't want to get left behind (not again, not this time) - somewhere in there, between all of that, Dean decided that something was wrong with his brother. Not something big like broken bodyparts or stabs or something, thank... something. Just, he wasn't right. He was heavy.
Not that he wasn't always heavy, now, ever since he turned like fifteen and started growing into a giant he was always freakishly heavy, but that wasn't the same thing.
And now Sam was calling him a jerk, and Dean looked over (up - way, way, way, way up, why was Sam so tall?) at his brother with a skeptical frown. "Wha'?" he asked, eloquently as ever, the "Bitch," that was tagged onto the end more obligatory than anything. He wasn't sure what was his fault, but he was pretty sure he hadn't done anything. Except steal Sam's fries. But he didn't think Sam had even noticed that, and anyway why would he be bringing that up so much later? Plus, that still didn't make sense. Probably.