Sam ruefully observed the, now, coffee-coloured scar on his arm. Dean hadn't said much the last few days. Not that that was anything new, but Sam had achieved a whole new level of guilt over what his possessed body had done.
"Would you stop that?"
"What?"
"Stop picking at it!"
"I'm not!"
Dean sighed.
"I was being meta… physical."
"Metaphorical?"
"Whatever dude. You know what I mean."
Sam smiled. He knew exactly what Dean meant – and that he had deliberately used the wrong word.
"Dean."
"What?"
"I feel like a beer – how'bout it?"
"Seriously?" Dean looked incredulous – and pleased.
"Seriously."