"You're going to feel like shit if you don't shower," Puck points out, signaling for a left-hand turn. His hand jerks on the wheel as Sam kicks his arm, but it's accidental, and he ignores it. "I'm not sleeping outside. The fuck's wrong with the bed?" The fuck's wrong with your bed? "This isn't fucking camping tonight. This is you getting rid of your damn hangover and not puking in my truck like I know you're gonna in the morning." Maybe the truck is cozier than the house [especially with the back cab] and maybe it reminds Sam of living on the road, of sleeping with the soft vibrations of a moving vehicle, but it's not reality. It's not their reality right now.

He turns the truck into their driveway, parking it; the light over their porch and stairs is on, and moths fly around it. "Come on," he throws an arm in the backseat, rubbing Sam's shoulder. "I'll get you in the house, okay? I'll fix the coffeemaker, get you meds and shit, get you water. Let's go. I don't wanna carry your ass if I don't have to, you're fucking heavy."