[And that is such an illogical but logical explanation for what's happened that it makes his head spin and he feels kind of nauseated. He does have to do something. He just has no idea what. When does he ever? He'd told Dean ages ago that he flies by the seat of his pants.

He's supposed to have a Plan B. He always has a Plan B.

He doesn't have a Plan B. He doesn't even have a Plan A. He paces his room for several long moments, rubbing his hands over his face and taking a handful of Adderall because this is all going to require more focus and concentration that he currently has.

You're the one who always figures it out. He can still hear Lydia's words from over a year ago in his head as clearly as though it was just yesterday. She's so wrong. He's not been good at figuring shit out for awhile now.

Fuck.]

Yeah. Yeah, of course. I'm -- [His voice cracks and he closes his eyes, forcing himself to take a couple deep breaths. Willing himself not to have a panic attack.]

I'm so sorry. God, Anya -- are you -- I mean of course you're not okay but. [He rakes a hand through his hair.] What can I do? For you?