A/N: The sword-oiling can be innuendo if you want.
"Hhhh... hh-hh-HRRRSHSHH-oooh!"
"That's not good."
Dean snuffles, flushing. "I duddo. I'd have givedd it add eight out of ted. Baybe eight poidt five."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Maybe you should call it a night."
"KKHRTCHCHH!"Dean shakes his head muzzily, settles deeper into the couch. "A dight." He smiles brightly, keeps oiling his sword. Too many more blades glitter on the coffee table.
Sam rubs his face. "I'll bring you jello?"
The cloth stills. Dean stares, hawklike. "Dot lebudd?"
"Not lemon."
The back of Dean's hand hovers near his throat, then drops.
"Why Sabby. I do declare."
"Yeah. Bed, Scarlett."