There are a lot of people out there I can get along with just fine, regardless of race, age, gender, culture, native language, sexual orientation, political stance, sense of humor, taste in entertainment, or hunting style. I'd like to think that I'm a pretty friendly guy, and that the people who talk to me are generally decent underneath all the quirky little facets of their personalities. If I'm talking to somebody and it turns out that we don't see eye to eye on a certain issue, I'll usually keep my mouth shut about it. Usually. If it's nothing hugely important.

There's only one guy I've ever met who consistently rubs me the wrong way. I just can't stand him. Every other thing that comes out of his mouth is just so wrong that I can't stand to let it go. It's Gordon. Of course it's Gordon. How many times have I bitched about Gordon in here? To Garth? To Charlie and Ash and Jo and whatever monsters happen to be in my cells at that time?

Gordon is legitimately a psychopath. Yeah, I know, I know, you could make the argument that every single one of us in this business has psychopathic tendencies, but I'm not talking about tendencies when it comes to Gordon. He's full-blown. He's the real thing. I've never met anybody before who took so much pleasure in the act of killing. The act of torture, even. Garth told me, once that sometimes he laughs while he's doing it, and let me just tell you right now that I don't doubt it for a second. Even coming from Garth.

His hate for the things that we're fighting against goes way beyond anything I've ever felt myself, or anything that anybody else has ever felt, I think. It's insane. If he stumbles across a monster, it doesn't matter if it's hurting people or not, or if it's ever hurt people. He'll slaughter it just for what it is. I know that he hates bringing live captives to me because he thinks that they're not going to get what they deserve. Feeding them is too lenient. My experiments aren't harsh or painful enough. They're not even alive when I cut into them to take a look at what they're made of. If Gordon were running things, my cabin would look like Josef fucking Mengele's laboratory.

It was his sister that got him into it. Hunting, I mean. She got turned and taken away by a vampire when he was much younger, and it took him years to track her down. What do you think he did when he found her? Tried to cure her? No. Weaned her onto animal blood so she wouldn't have to hunt human beings anymore? Of course not. He killed her. He didn't even have someone do the actual deed for him – he decapitated his little sister himself. And if that doesn't prove that Gordon has ice water in his veins and a pile of razor blades where his soul should be, then I don't know what does.

- Personal journal of Sam Winchester

Dean was perched on the railing of Sam's porch when he came outside with a mug of coffee in his hand, eyes closed and face turned up towards the sun. A light breeze, sweet with the scents of pine and damp earth, wafted past them, the needles of the trees rattling. Dean's hair wasn't nearly long enough for the wind to move it, but his loose T-shirt at least fluttered around his midsection.

"Don't get sunburned," Sam told him, sitting down on the sagging steps and being careful not to get any splinters in his bare feet.

"I freckle," Dean replied without opening his eyes. "Though, actually, maybe I don't, anymore. I don't age. My hair doesn't grow. Why would the sun do anything to me?"

Sam wasn't really sure how to respond to that. He could have told Dean that there were a whole lot of people out there who'd give literally anything to stop aging at twenty-eight, but he wasn't sure how much that would comfort him. Since Dean himself had given literally everything for it.

"Thanks for the coffee," he said instead, raising his mug as he changed the subject. The coffeemaker had been percolating when he got up this morning. And Dean had been gone, which had freaked the hell out of him (pun completely intended) until he'd glanced out the window and seen him sunning himself on the porch. "It's really good."

"I mixed cinnamon and vanilla into the grounds before I put 'em in," Dean replied. His eyes were still closed. "Pretty much the only spices you have that aren't expired, by the way." Now he opened his eyes, turning to smile down at Sam. "I've forgotten a lot of things, but I still know how to make kickass coffee."

"I'll say." Sam took a sip. By the smell, Dean could have mixed in fresh angel tears, and the taste was even better. Amazing how good a little cinnamon and vanilla could make things. "D'you want me to go get you a cup?"

Face turned back to the sun, Dean shook his head.

"You sure?"

"Wouldn't be able to taste it," Dean replied. "There must be something about taste that the soul's involved in, 'cause everything's dirt and ash to me now. No matter what I'm eating or what vessel I'm in."

So it wasn't just that he didn't need to eat – he couldn't. There was no enjoyment in it for him. Sam had never asked any other demons about their sense of taste before, so maybe food was okay for some of them. But not Dean.

"Sorry," he murmured, staring down into the mug that he was cupping in both hands.

"Is it your fault?" Dean asked, a little sarcastically. "Don't apologize. I might've been able to taste coffee before, but I couldn't rip a tree outta the ground with my mind, so…" He shrugged. "Even trade, I think."

Sam looked up at him, rhythmically sipping from the mug of coffee, and commented, "That railing is almost completely rotten."

"Yep," Dean agreed.

They sat in silence for a while. Relative silence, anyway. Dean bullied Sam back inside to get more for breakfast than just coffee, and glared at him, begrudgingly, when he came back out with two slices of toast. They had peanut butter on them, and Sam was pretty sure that that was the only reason that the demon didn't throw a real fit. But they didn't talk for a long time after Sam had sat back down. He ate his toast and Dean soaked up the sun and the wind, and it was a more comfortable silence than Sam had known in years.

"Feels nice to be outside," Dean spoke up out of the blue, a few minutes after Sam had finished eating. Sam nodded, looking at him.

"Yeah. I bet," he agreed. He realized that Dean hadn't been outside, able to see the sky, since Gordon had dragged him from his car to the cabin. "You…like this?" He gestured vaguely, encompassing everything around them. Dean glanced down at him.

"Yeah," he replied. "We all do." He looked out into the forest again. "No one likes Hell, Sam. Mole tunnels made outta rock. Everything's covered in ash and sulfur. Sometimes there's fire, and sometimes there's blood, and sometimes the whole place…thumps, like you're inside a giant heart. That's the level that most of us end up on. Even me." He fell quiet. Sam tried to quell the urge to note down what Hell had been like for Dean. "And then there's demons everywhere, of course. And they're real shitty company."

He shot a grin at Sam who, tentatively, returned it. And then, suddenly, he was off the railing, and standing twenty feet away from the cabin. The railing creaked as Dean's weight suddenly vanished from it. His back, ramrod straight, was turned to Sam.

"Dean?" Sam slowly rose to his feet, empty mug dangling from the fingers of one hand. Something was obviously wrong, and he didn't want to move too fast. Was this Dean's reaction to remembering Hell?

Dean glanced over his shoulder, then turned back. Sam's heart beat nervously in his chest for almost a full minute, then got really close to exploding out of his ribcage when Dean suddenly popped into existence right in front of him.

"Fuck – " he started to yell.

"There's something out there," Dean interrupted, talking over him as he grabbed his non-mug-holding hand and squeezed it tightly.

"Don't," Sam snapped, breathing hard. "You're as bad as a fucking – " His brain caught up to what Dean had just said. "What d'you mean, there's something out there?"

"There's something out there," Dean repeated. "In your forest. I can feel it. I just barely felt it, actually."

"Well – " Sam shook his head, starting to get a little freaked out. "What is it?"

"I can't tell," Dean replied. "You have got so much iron and salt around here, Sam, and crazy sigils – it's messing with my senses. Think of, like, uh…a dog trying to track somebody through a slaughterhouse. There's too much interference."

"Okay," Sam said. It was daylight, which immediately eliminated a lot of really horrible things and made him feel a little better. Plus, he had a Knight of Hell to look out for him. Nothing to be afraid of. "Do you think you could find it?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Okay," Sam repeated, crouching to set down his mug. It was his last one without any cracks, so he didn't want to just drop it. "We're gonna go to the shed, and – "

He was cut off when the phone started ringing. He could hear it loud and clear, having left the front door of his cabin wide open. He glanced towards it, then stumbled up onto the porch when Dean shoved him in the general direction. His teeth gritted, the muscles of his jaw clamping, as he felt a long splinter slide neatly into the meat of his left foot.

"You go answer that," Dean instructed, apparently oblivious to Sam's pain. "Close the door. I'll go track down whatever it is that's running around out there and take care of it. Won't be gone long." He smiled, quickly. "Promise."

"No. Dean – " Sam grabbed for him, but his hand snapped closed on nothing but empty air. He overbalanced and had to snatch one of the support beams to keep himself from falling flat on his face. Another splinter stabbed into his palm. "Dean!"

A second after he yelled it out, furious, he realized that he'd probably just told Dean's monster exactly where he was. He limped inside, closing the door behind him. After a moment's hesitation, he locked it, too. Couldn't hurt.

The phone stopped ringing while Sam was picking his splinters out. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when it started ringing again almost immediately. Muttering curses under his breath, he walked over to pick it up with his uninjured hand. "What is it?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?" There was a cutting edge of sarcasm to Gordon's voice, one that came through loud and clear even over the phone.

Sam closed his eyes, slowly, and leaned heavily on the surface of his desk, where the phone's dock was. His leg suddenly began to throb and ache with apocalyptic pain, despite how thoroughly Dean had massaged it last night. Great. This was just exactly what he needed right now – exactly.

"Hi, Gordon," he said, because hanging up the phone without another word would probably just make things even worse than they already were.

"Hi," Gordon replied, without any hint of politeness to his tone. "I'm gonna go ahead and cut right to the chase here, Sam. Just uncovered a whole string of really important possession cases up and down the East Coast – we're in deep. Is the Knight dead?"

"Uh, no – "

"Exorcised, then?" Gordon demanded impatiently.

"I can't – find a ritual that works on him," Sam replied. Which was technically true. He just hadn't tried more than a few before getting distracted by other, more important things.

"Goddammit, Sam!" There was a loud but muffled crash, like Gordon had just punched a hole through the nearest wall, and Sam flinched. His fuse must be even shorter than usual. Sam was glad that they weren't in the same room. Or even the same state, hopefully. "Do you want them to win?"

"Of course I don't!" Also true, just so long as "them" meant the demons that Gordon was fighting right now and didn't include Dean. "How the hell could you ask me something like that?"

"Then why haven't you gotten rid of the Knight?" Gordon asked, enunciating each word carefully and angrily. Like he thought he was speaking to an idiot – which, come to think of it, he probably did. "D'you have any idea how hard it's getting for us out here? What if there are a hundred of those things clawing their way up from the Pit as we speak? We won't stand a chance against 'em until you figure out how to hurt them."

"Yeah, I know – " Sam began, trying to defend himself as he peered out through all the window he could see in his current position. Nothing but trees and a few patches of blue sky; no sign of Dean or whatever he'd run off after.

"Have you been wasting time fucking around with that damn wraith again?" Gordon interrupted harshly. Sam put a hand on his forehead as all the guilt that Dean had been distracting him from came flooding back. It was like a freaking tsunami.

"No. No, I haven't, actually." Sam dragged a low, agonizing hand through his hair before clearing his throat. "He died a little while ago."

"Really?" Gordon's tone immediately swung from the angry end of the spectrum to interested. "Well, it's about damn time. What'd your dissection show? Any new weak spots that I should know about?"

"I didn't…" Sam rubbed his face, shaking his head even though he knew the gesture was lost on Gordon. "I didn't do a dissection."

On reflex, he looked out the window again. He still didn't see anything. Or hear anything. If something went wrong, then he'd hear screaming or something, right? He'd know if Dean needed his help?

"What d'you mean, you didn't do a dissection?" Gordon snapped. "That is part of your damn job, cutting up dead monsters. Who knows when you're gonna get another baby wraith?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I just – " Sam blew out a huge breath, wishing he were doing absolutely anything but this right now. "I get it. But I couldn't do it."

"You couldn't do it?" Gordon repeated, sounding incredulous. Sam imagined him slowly opening and closing the fist that he'd just driven into the wall, getting ready to punch something else. "Sam, I know you've got a Niagara Falls of a bleeding heart, but how many times do I have to remind you that this is your job? The only one you're good at! You couldn't do my job, with that lame leg."

"I know," Sam said wearily. Where was Dean?

Gordon paused for a few seconds. When he spoke again, Sam could tell that he was dead serious – and suspicious, too. Which immediately set off alarm bells in Sam's head.

"What the hell is going on there?" he asked.

"Nothing," Sam replied, before he could come up with a better answer.

"Well, obviously," Gordon responded acidly. "What I wanna know is what the hell's gotten into you to make all this nothing happen."

"Nothing," Sam repeated stupidly. He was too full of worry for Dean. Too full of fear and pain. He was a deer in Gordon's headlights.

"Maybe I should come up there and take a look at this 'nothing' myself," Gordon said, a dangerous note creeping into his voice. "Maybe all you need's somebody to straighten you out."

"Gordon, come on – " Sam started, finally feeling like he might have regained the ability to talk his way out of this, but Gordon cut him off.

"I need to know how to kill a Knight of Hell, Sam," he stated. "Or at least get rid of it for a while." He hung up.

A low, desperate growl rolled out of Sam's throat as he put his own phone back in its dock, the sound of a wounded and cornered animal. He smoothed his hair back, away from his face, hard, with both hands, then turned away from his desk and paced into the kitchen. He didn't need anything; his movements were aimless. He was just walking, moving in order to try and help himself figure it all out. He couldn't see any way he could possibly do that, but maybe something would come to him. Before Gordon got here.

He still wasn't used to teleportation, either going along for the ride or watching it happen. So it sent his adrenaline levels straight through the roof when a blood-covered figure appeared in the middle of the room. There was a brief moment of pure, mindless panic (in which Sam found himself reaching for the nearest weapon – a heavy cast-iron skillet hanging on the wall underneath his cabinets) before he recognized Dean under the slick coating of glistening red.

Sam felt his mouth drop open as Dean glanced around the room, eyes, mercifully green, finally coming to rest on him. As uncontrollably as kicking after being hit in the knee, he blurted out, "Oh, my god – "

"None of it's mine," Dean hastily assured, raising both sticky hands. He wasn't completely covered, Sam realized. Just his arms up to the elbows. And his shirt. And his jeans. And a little splatter on his face, like a secondary set of bright crimson freckles.

"Aauhh…" Sam made a noise as he scrambled for words. He'd been out of the hunting game for years, and hadn't had to deal with anything more unexpected than his monsters trying to break out of their cells since. This was too much. "Jee – Jesus Christ, Dean!" He smoothed his hair back from his face again, pulling on it a little too hard in his stress. About a dozen brunette strands floated to the floor and stuck to his sweaty hands. "What'd you do?!"

"I found it," Dean began, lowering his hands. "The thing that I sensed out there. A group of 'em, actually."

"And then you, what?" Sam demanded, shaking his head. "Took a bath in them?"

"Tore 'em apart, actually," Dean replied, sounding pretty proud of himself as he folded his arms over his chest. Sam's nose wrinkled, automatically, as the coppery smell of blood hit him. It was mixed with rotten eggs, which was just vile, and – rotten eggs. Sulfur.

Awesome.

"They were demons?" he asked, stomach sinking like he'd just swallowed a pound of lead. Dean's eyebrows rose with obvious surprise.

"Uh, yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "They were, actually. And I've got good news and bad news about them."

Sam blew out a heavy breath, closing his eyes for a second to gather up his scattered, frayed thoughts. "Good news first, I guess." He reached up to scrub a hand under his nose. "And, dude, please go take a shower. The smell's making me feel sick."

"Wuss," Dean replied, then sobered, licking his lips before he continued. Sam wished he wouldn't. There was blood on them. "I killed three. I – I can do that, as a Knight. It's just a whole lot tougher for me than it would be for, say, an angel. And I gotta rip up the vessels to do it, which Alastair told me I won't have to do in another hundred years or so…"

He was rambling. The bad news must be really bad, if he'd brought up Alastair in order to avoid telling him what it was; Sam got the feeling that he didn't feel very warmly towards the demon who had tortured him in Hell.

"So, you killed three," Sam prompted. "Awesome. What's the bad news?"

Dean looked at him, and sighed heavily before admitting, "There were four of them."

"So one got away," Sam concluded. The heavy feeling in his stomach was back.

"Yeah," Dean replied, looking like he'd drunk about a gallon of vinegar. "I couldn't go after him. Which means that everybody back home is gonna know that I've gone off the reservation. I'm outta your trap, I'm killing demons – they're not gonna be happy."

"Uh, no, probably not," Sam agreed, chewing on the inside of his lower lip once he was finished talking.

"How're we gonna deal with this?" Dean asked him, shrugging jerkily. Sam just shook his head, feeling more helpless than he had since he'd woken up in the hospital and they'd tried to teach him how to use the wheelchair. "Okay. Uhhh…" He glanced towards the bathroom. "I'm gonna go shower?" He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "We can talk about this later."

"Okay," Sam said. It'd probably be a better idea to figure it all out now, but he agreed anyway.

"You should go lay down, Sam," Dean told him seriously. "You don't look good."

"Okay," Sam repeated. He didn't do it, though, until he'd taken Dean's bloody clothes outside and set fire to them. As they burned, he looked out towards the forest, thinking about the three dismembered bodies left lying around out there. He doubted Dean had buried them. Which meant he'd have to find them and take care of them. But not right now. He couldn't do it. His own weakness depressed him, but he didn't know how to fix it. Just like everything else that was going wrong right now.

Dean's advice had been sound – laying down in his room, darkened by the shades over the window and the partially-closed door, helped him. Slowed down his breathing and heart rate, anyway. His eyes were closed and he was sprawled out over his pillows and tangled blankets when he heard the door creak open and bare feet pad across his rugs. He threw a forearm over his eyes and groaned.

"No," he commanded. "Go away."

"If we're not gonna talk about the giant demon army that's probably bearing down on us right now," Dean replied as he climbed onto Sam's bed, "then I can at least stop you from wallowing in…whatever you're feeling right now."

"'S that what I'm doing?" Sam mumbled.

"Uh, yeah." The mattress creaked. "Trust me, I have seen a lot of wallowing. Not much else to do when the Marquis that they've assigned to you is outta the room." He lowered his head. Plump lips brushed against Sam's forearm. "So I'm an expert. And I'm pretty sure that the funk that you're in can be fully cured with sex."

"I don't wanna have sex right now, Dean," Sam replied. He heard Dean snort above him.

"The hell you don't," he responded. "You're human, and you're a guy. You want sex every three seconds." He grabbed Sam's hand and moved his arm down in order to expose his closed eyes. "Or maybe you think about it. Whatever. Same difference."

Sam opened his eyes and squinted up at Dean. His face was in shadow and his hair was damp and scrubby, but his eyes were bright. And his lips. His lips stood out.

"Who called?" Dean asked, voice soft and husky like a purr.

"Gordon," Sam replied, and something vindictive suddenly rose up in him. He wanted Dean to understand, like he did, that things were completely hopeless. There were too many disasters converging at once. "He knows that something's going on with me. He's going to come up here to try and find out what it is." He closed his eyes again. "He wants to get me back on track so that I can figure out how to kill you."

There was a beat of silence, as Dean took that in. Then he suggested, "Maybe he and the demons will cancel each other out."

"Wouldn't that be great." Sam rolled onto his stomach and smashed his face into a pillow. He couldn't breathe. He didn't care.

"…okay." Dean heaved out a huge sigh, still above him. Probably straddling him, since he suddenly sat on his thighs. Sam grunted, mouth closed, when Dean took a handful of his hair and hauled his head up. "There. You got to throw your tantrum. You got to snap at me. You got to lay in your dark room for a while. Seems like a pretty pathetic way of freaking out to me, but, y'know, hey, if it works for you…"

Dean was very warm from the shower. And naked. Sam could easily tell both, even through his jeans. He bucked, trying to get him off.

"Leave me alone," he said. Or demanded, really. Even though he suspected that the tone wouldn't make much of a difference to Dean. "Just – lemme rest, okay? My leg's killing me."

Dean snorted derisively. Sam, offended, opened his eyes, made a face, and rolled over. He cried out a little startled, when Dean covered his face with one of his hands, calluses catching on last night's stubble.

"No, no," Dean declared authoritatively, as Sam reached up and started pulling on his wrist. His hand was only resting lightly on his face, not squashing his nose or anything, but it didn't so much as budge, even as Sam's biceps bulged and strained. "No bitchface. And no bullshit, either. You need to cut that right now." He took his hand away. Sam had a strong urge to spit in his face, but quelled it. "I can't even believe that you'd use your leg as an excuse like that. Haven't you spent the past seven years or whatever trying to prove that you're still useful even though a wendigo took a chunk outta you?"

Sam didn't answer. His leg actually did hurt. And both demons and Gordon were coming for him – it was a great opportunity to feel sorry for himself, which was an indulgence he hadn't allowed for years.

"Stop acting like a damn five-year-old, Sam." Dean pushed himself up, turned, and ripped the curtains open. Late morning sunlight poured in, lighting him up like a marble statue.

"You're naked," Sam hissed, the words tumbling out on reflex.

"Who's gonna see me?" Dean replied. "The deer? You've got it made up here – I might just walk around naked all the time from now on."

Sam didn't want to be interested in the image that that produced, but he felt himself twitch anyway. Dean looked back down and grinned.

"I felt that," he said. "Anyway. This whole 'despair' thing doesn't look good on you, Sammy." He reached down with both hands, and Sam felt him arranging his hair around his face. "You're a lot stronger than this. You killed a banshee, and a djinn. You tamed a freaking Knight of Hell – and I heard you bitching Gordon out more than once. If you can do that, then you can dupe him and ship him outta here in five minutes whenever he decides to show up. And then we can deal with the demons." He finished with Sam's hair, putting his hands on his own thighs and squeezing them. "One thing at a time, though."

Sam made a face again. What Dean had called a "bitchface."

"I never get to give up," he complained, letting a note of whininess slip in on a whim. "Can't I give up just this once?"

"Not until you're a pile of ash," Dean replied. "And even then, I'll probably find a way to haul your ass back so I can keep making you do stuff that you don't want to."

"Of course you will." Groaning softly, Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position, which put him almost exactly nose-to-nose with Dean. "Okay. So." He wanted to draw his legs up and fold them, but he couldn't with Dean sitting on them. His hamstrings had started to burn pleasantly. "Let's do this. Let's come up with a plan."

"Nope. Not yet," Dean replied, shaking his head. "First, we're gonna have sex. I think we could both use the stress relief. Then we're gonna come up with a plan." He grinned. "Good idea, right?"

"Sounds good to me, at least." Sam laid back down. Somehow, he felt better aobut everything, he realized as Dean's hands slid up under his T-shirt. "So…d'you wanna…?"

"Top?" Dean supplied as Sam trailed off. "Yeah, I think I'd better." He leaned down, pressed a kiss to his neck. Sam tipped his head back with a soft sigh. "I think you need it."

Sam stayed quiet, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and let Dean take his clothes off. First his shirt, then his jeans, and finally his boxers. As he tugged those down over his feet, he grabbed his ruined calf, and rubbed it firmly, warming and loosening the muscles there.

"We'll talk about our plan while I work on your leg," Dean said, his voice soft. "You gotta take better care of it, Sam. Can't let yourself get so tense."

"Not like I'm under any kinda stress or anything," Sam mumbled, eyes closed, and Dean chuckled.

Sam's lube wasn't difficult to find, in the top drawer of his bedside table, so he didn't even have to direct Dean to it. He didn't have to tell him that he'd never been penetrated, either; Dean seemed to already know. He was gentle, spending half an hour working him open with slow, slick fingers and soft praise. Sam had no trouble relaxing. He shuddered with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation when Dean entered him, huge and hot, but there wasn't anything to be afraid of. It didn't hurt. Actually, it felt pretty incredible, once they got going.

They rocked back and forth, slipping in and out of each other, the springs of the mattress creaking in rhythm with them. The sun was bright, beautiful. It lit up the whole room, picking out every freckle on Dean's skin, every golden highlight in his bronzy hair. Sam knew the cabin well enough to be sure that the window perfectly framed their lovemaking from the outside.

This was so much more comfortable than the chair. Partially because Dean was inside of Sam instead of it being the other way around, which just felt right. He hit his prostate and Sam moaned, feeling like someone had just swung a sledgehammer into the pleasure center of his brain. It felt good, it hurt. But even the pain was enjoyable, in a way.

He did a lot better this time, on holding himself back and lasting. Probably because he was more sexually satisfied, but he couldn't think about that as Dean started playing with his nipples, a low purr rumbling out of him as he did so. Sam gasped, back arching, which sent part of his body up towards Dean's warmth and the rest down into the softness of his bed. Sam thought about bringing up a hand to jerk himself off as Dean was fucking him, but rejected the idea almost as soon as he'd had it. The friction of their two flat, hard stomachs, both shadowed with the suggestion of abs, against his cock was more than enough.

Sam yelled Dean's name at the top of his lungs when he hit his climax, eyes clamping shut and hips bucking wildly. Why shouldn't he? It wasn't like anyone besides Dean himself was going to hear it. They were alone. Come hit his stomach and chest, dribbled across his hypersensitive skin before beginning to dry. As he came down from it, he had the pleasure of feeling Dean shoot his load inside of him, and reveling in the fact that a demon had just made mind-blowingly good love to him.

"Good thing you haven't showered yet," Dean rasped, as his own thrusts wound down into twitches and finally nothing at all.

Sam grunted his agreement, then opened his arms and caught Dean as he tumbled into the plush nest that his bed was right now, lying next to him. He didn't fall asleep. But he did catch his breath listening to a Knight of Hell whispering to him about how everything was going to be all right, and how much he loved him.