Sam looks at the small bottle like he can't quite wrap his head around what Dean is telling him. Mostly because it would mean Dean did something for him - even if it was for Dean by virtue of shutting Sam up. He reaches out hesitantly, taking the bottle, turning it over in his hands. It's definitely sleeping pills; Sam used these when the premonitions were bad. Or when he dreamed of Jess dying. When Dean burned in Hell.

He nods, pocketing them.

"Thank you," he says quietly, unable to meet Dean's gaze. It's genuine thanks, but he feels hollowed out and undeserving. "Other people deserve this. Should just have them relocate me so you get better sleep, and give it to them."

But it's nice.

"I won't say anything, though."

Changing the subject to something Dean obsesses over seems like a good idea, and he clears his throat. "Anything else? Anything about the gun?"