He likes your fingers playing with his hair. It creates a light, ticklish sensation, raising goose pimples on the back of his neck. He shivers a little from it, and from the chill settling into the car. It's cold. He shouldn't have let himself get so cold; his room isn't that warm.

But he still wants a burger. And you want pie. "I—forgot. You like pie." He doesn't remember when he found that out originally, or how. He wants you to have pie, and anything else you love. Stretching out his neck, he ducks up for another soft kiss, enjoying the fact that he can for right now. That you seem to like it. He shivers again as he pulls back, more violently this time, from the cold. In truth, he's far more cold than he is hungry.

His shirts and jacket are still in the front seat where he left them. He snags his sweatshirt from where he dropped it and pulls it quickly over his head. He wants his comforter, and the space heater. He wants to go back to cuddling with you. Leaning his elbows on the back of the front seat, he turns to look at you over his shoulder, awkward and apologetic.

"I—you should have pie, Dean. But I . . . I'd like to go back." To the house. Where it's warm. He knows he's lost muscle mass in the last six months, though he doesn't think the food he eats is all that different from what was available at the camp in terms of quality. He's not sure about quantity. Whatever the case, it leaves his body more and more susceptible to cold as winter sets in. Gripping the seat back, he slides one leg onto the front seat, and then the other. As he pulls his jacket back on, he glances around at you.

"Raincheck?"