"I need you, Dean."
Sam's hot breath ghosts over his neck. He swallows thickness in his throat.
"This is wrong, Sammy."
"How could something wrong feel so r…"
The chair screeches back and Dean bolts to the bathroom.
Heave, puke, flush.
Douchebag. And he's not talking about the witchy dick who poisoned him, although to be fair he was one, too.
"You okay?"
Sam's concerned. It's a little late for that.
"No."
Heave, puke, flush.
"Dean." Exasperation. "It was all I could think of."
"Yeah, next time you have a bright idea, just blow my brains out. It'll be quicker."
Please review. Thanks!