Sam was being a grabby, mumbley bitch, tripping over stuff, or something, and Dean grabbed at him right back, eyes widening almost comically. Once Sam seemed stable, he let go, patting his brother on the arm and watching him blankly as he started walking again, then hurrying to catch up.
>"If I don't keep the other stuff...if I don't stay busy, we could all..."
So he was right. He'd been right when he thought Sam seemed off. Heavy. Sam wasn't okay. If Dean wasn't drunk he was pretty sure he'd be able to know exactly what that meant, he'd be able to figure out how to make it better, but right now it all just fell into a neat little over-simplified category of Sammy isn't okay and he was going to fix it because fixing it when Sam wasn't okay was what he did.
Or tried to do. Sometimes, he didn't do so good.
"Sam," he started, but then his brother was acting like it wasn't important, brushing it off, and talking about the burgers, and he wasn't going to let him change the subject like this. Nope. Except, thinking about the burgers made Dean feel a little bit nauseous because really, they did not really go well with... whatever it was he'd been drinking. And he'd really eaten a lot. A lot. He was not sure that was safe.
"I ate them," he replied, with a tone and matching expression of dawning horror, "I ate all of them, Sam."