We've already been over how demons are made and exactly where they come from a couple times already, so I don't think that I need to remind you of that. I just want you to think back to it. All that torture, all that strain placed on the soul until it twists and parts slough off and it isn't a human spirit anymore – it's a demon. So, yeah, just think about that for a few minutes. Everything that I've described. The personal testimony from one of my demons that I included. And ask yourself this: do you really think that anything, even the nicest, kindest, most altruistic person you've ever come across, could come out of that with any human feeling at all?

We give all of that up when we "pass through the eye of Lucifer" (expression used by several older demons during interrogation) and become demons. Love, compassion, concern, loyalty, empathy, grief, guilt, regret, sorry…it's all gone. Any demon you see, no matter its class or its age or its level of power, can hate you. It can be angry with you. But it can't love you, and if it winds up killing you, it won't be able to feel bad about it later. This is how you know that, if a demon tells you it regrets doing something or misses someone, you can't trust a word that comes out of its mouth.

There are quite a few demons that don't really make any effort to hide how narrow their emotional spectrum is. They might even try to psych you out by showing off how little they care, how inhuman they are. These demons are still pretty damn dangerous, just as much as any of the others, since they're cruel and strong and know more than a little about human weaknesses. They just come right out with what they are. In my opinion, though, the ones that lie and pretend and put on a show for you are a lot worse. They act like people. And wince we're all people (just going to assume here), we can't stop ourselves from opening up to them. Even though we're tough as nails and have been hunting for years. Even if it's just a little bit.

And demons are a lot like sharks – they can smell blood in the water, or weakness, and the tiniest amount drives them into a frenzy. I know I've said this before, but let me repeat it: they'll seize on any kindness or even slack you give them, and use them to rip you apart.

If you've got a demon in captivity, you just have to keep reading this sentence to yourself: Demons aren't human, and they aren't capable of human emotions, and you can't trust them.

- Demons and Other Biblical Monsters, Sam Winchester

"Ah – careful, don't drop it," Dean warned, as Sam's wireless router, perched haphazardly on the edge of his desk, wobbled. Sam slapped one hand down on top of it, stabilizing it, as he fumbled through a knot of rubber-coated extension cords. "I might be able to catch it if it was inside my circle. And if I was really worked up. But definitely not out there."

"Well, that's interesting." Plugging the router in after a very brief, one-handed struggle, Sam rocked up onto his knees so that his head popped up over the edge of his desk. He moved the router away from the edge and into a safer area as the lights along its front began to blink orange. "Your powers are limited in strength and range by all the stuff that's on you right now." He gestured, very vaguely, in Dean's direction. "I need to write that down."

"Yeah, sure you do. Like you've taken any notes about me at all, so far," Dean replied. Holding onto the solid wood of his desk, Sam pulled himself up onto his feet with a groan. Crawling around and crouching for most of the morning in order to hook all the cables of his workstation back up had not put his leg in a good mood. "You're falling down on your job."

"Now's a good time to start back up again, then," Sam replied with a shrug, leaning across his desk in order to pat the top of his closed and dormant laptop. "Since everything's back out here now." Which was a huge relief, considering how crowded his bedroom had been getting with all of his word. Work that he had, admittedly, been neglecting lately, but he felt like he had a few good excuses.

"Yeah, I can just imagine the kinda notes that you're gonna take," Dean agreed. He was standing at the very edge of his circle, in front of the gate that led into his cell, rocking back and forth like he had been since Sam got up this morning. Maybe he just liked moving. His arms and hands were still bound, but that didn't stop him from opening his palms in front of his face like he was holding a book. "'Dear Diary: Today, Dean finally kissed me. I can't believe it, I'm sooo exci – "

"Okay." Sam held up his hands and cut off Dean's ridiculous falsetto. "Okay, okay. I get it." He limped out from behind his desk. "Aaaand that reminds me. We've…" He took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out. "We've gotta talk."

"That doesn't sound good," Dean noted, shaking his head. He really didn't look all that concerned, now. He had been in a better mood than Sam had ever seen him in since…well, since yesterday, actually. "Is this the 'let's-be-friends' talk?"

"Uh…no." Sam shook his head, then glanced towards the back door. "No, it's not…we just need to…" He blew out a deep breath as he abruptly realized that he had no idea what to say. Dean had been shockingly good company so far this morning, polite and happy and nowhere near as bloodthirsty as demons usually tended to be around Sam – or as he had been at first. He hadn't brought up what had happened yesterday more than a couple times, and always casually. He'd taken Sam's mind off of Vaughn and everything else. But it wasn't easy anymore – this was complicated. Definitely not the light banter that had allowed him to focus mostly on the cords. "Just – just stay here."

"You really think I'm going anywhere?" Dean asked, arching an eyebrow and rattling his chains. Sam didn't answer his question as he walked past him and stepped into the boots that sat next to the back door. It was a quick trip out to the shed, and he was glad that he kept the contents so organized, because he was easily able to find the boltcutters and the hacksaw, even though he hadn't used either in a long time.

Dean took a few steps away from the door of his cell when Sam came back in, carrying the tools. He eyed them warily, but was half-smiling as he asked, "Should I be worried?"

"Gordon didn't leave me the keys to your chains or cuffs or anything," Sam replied, tucking the tools underneath one of his arms as he picked out the gate key and put it in the lock. "And I don't feel like spending an hour or two picking them. My fingers are pretty tired as it is from untangling all those stupid cords – no idea how they got like that, since it's barely been two weeks and I haven't touched 'em."

Both of Dean's eyebrows rose. Sounding a little incredulous, he asked, "You're not seriously…taking these off of me, are you?" He rattled his chains again.

In answer, Sam pushed the door open and stepped inside with his tools.

"Don't you think I'm dangerous?" His voice went up just a little on that last word.

"Not enough to warrant all that," Sam replied, nodding to Dean's restraints. "C'mon, Dean. Lemme see your hands. I wanna get those cuffs off of you."

Very slowly, Dean stepped forward, and offered his wrists as best he could with the chains still wrapped around his arms and chest. Sam raised the boltcutters. They snipped easily through the narrow chain between the two bracelets of his cuffs.

"That completely disables their power," Sam told Dean. "They have to be connected for the runes to work. "I've actually made a couple sets myself."

"Really," Dean replied, examining the separated cuffs with bright, intelligent green eyes. "You're obviously a man of many talents, Sam."

The chain was next (it quickly became apparent that it was just one chain, looped and crossed many, many times). It was anchored to itself with small rings at several points and, of course, to the collar around Dean's neck and the handcuffs that he'd just cut apart, so Sam had to sever it a couple different times. It was definitely harder to cut through than the cuffs had been. When he was done, it slithered off of Dean and dropped to the ground with a loud, metallic clang. The demon groaned as, very slowly, he straightened out his stiff arms.

"Feel good?" Sam asked softly, watching.

"You've got no idea," Dean replied as he almost reverently shook his head.

Sam leaned against the wall, feet planted firmly on the floor, and watched Dean for a few minutes as he worked all the kinks and cramps out of his upper body. The bracelets of the handcuffs rattled up and down his wrists as he swung his arms with his eyes closed and a look of pure bliss on his face. Sam knew that they'd probably end up bothering him in the future, but he didn't know how to get them off. The boltcutters wouldn't do it, and they were too close around his wrists for Sam to feel comfortable using the hacksaw.

He'd probably heal just fine, if Sam happened to cut into him. But the idea of slicing into living flesh (especially because it wasn't really Dean's to begin with) just wasn't one that he could even entertain for more than a few seconds at a time.

After a little under ten minutes of exaggerated stretching that Dean obviously enjoyed, Sam pushed off the wall again, clearing his throat and scooping the hacksaw up from where he'd set it on the floor. He got Dean's attention; the Knight glanced at him over one bare shoulder. There were indentations in his cream-colored skin where the chain had been pressing into him for weeks now.

"All right," Sam announced. "Let's get that collar off of you, now. And then I really wanna take a look at that stab wound on your chest." He tapped his own solar plexus with the tip of the hacksaw in order to demonstrate what he was talking about.

"You wanna get rid of the collar?" Dean turned around to face Sam, reaching up to grab onto the collar around his neck. He grinned. "But, Sam. C'mon. Think of the kinky possibilities."

"Lemme have it," Sam replied, unmoved by the playful note in Dean's voice. He took a step forward and reached for the collar with his free hand, but the demon was a little too quick for him, a few fast steps taking him out of range.

"What? You totally vanilla or something?" Dean asked, grin widening. Sam privately thought that he was way too amused by this. "No way. Not you. You board monsters for a living – you've gotta need a little excitement in the bedroom, too." He evaded another grab from Sam. "Don't you like the idea of leading me around on a leash?"

"If you wanna run around in a collar all day, then I'll buy you one," Sam answered. Dean finally allowed himself to be caught. "With your name on it and everything. But this one has gotta go – seriously, it can't be comfortable."

"You'll buy me one?" Dean repeated, smiling. "Aw, baby, you know I get all hot and bothered when you say you're gonna get me things."

Sam snorted and went to work, grateful for the fact that Dean stayed perfectly still while he was sawing at the ring of metal around his neck. This was different from the handcuffs – much bigger and much looser, so he wasn't nearly as worried about cutting Dean's vessel. He sawed through the left side first, then the right, then tossed it onto the chain. That was about the time that he realized that he had no idea how Gordon had gotten the collar onto Dean. It didn't have a hinge or a lock. It probably wasn't quite big enough to fit over his head. He almost asked Dean about it, then decided he didn't care.

Dean reached up, fingers running over the smooth, uncovered skin of his neck and collarbone. He briefly closed his eyes, murmuring, "Feels good to be a free demon."

"You're still in a cell," Sam pointed out, picking up the boltcutters in his free hand and walking towards the door. He wanted to put them back where he'd gotten them, just to procrastinate. Put off the talk that he needed to have with Dean.

He was interrupted, though. Callused hands suddenly grabbed his wrists from behind, yanking them swiftly backwards and sending the tools flying uselessly out of his grip. His arms were pinned between his back and the flat muscles of Dean's chest in less than a second. A forearm crossed his shoulders, holding them tightly, and a hand buried itself in his ample hair. Breath ghosted across his ear and the side of his face as he froze, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah," Dean agreed softly, speaking right in his ear. "But the difference between now and then is that, now, I can kill you."

Sam swallowed. It took him a couple of seconds to find his voice – this version of Dean was much more like the one he'd dealt with at the very beginning. The one he'd been afraid of. For one absurd moment, he was oddly comforted by that. "You won't, though."

"You don't sound very sure, Sammy." Dean's fingers tightened incrementally in his hair. "What would make you say that?"

"You're never getting outta here without me," Sam replied.

"You think they're not gonna send more demons to spring me?" Dean countered. "I'm their last Knight and Cain refuses to make any more. They won't stop until I'm free."

"Cain?" Sam repeated, turning his head, very slightly, to the side. Interest suddenly replaced his fear. "Like, as in, 'Cain and Abel' Cain? What happened to Alastair?"

He felt Dean stiffen, and guessed that he'd let something slip that he hadn't actually meant to. Sam couldn't stop a flash of smugness at that realization.

"D'you have any idea how easy it'd be for me to snap your neck right now?" Dean threatened, rather than answering Sam's questions.

"Why'd you kick the lighter out of my hand last night, Dean?" was Sam's quiet response.

Dean was really pulling on his hair; it was actually starting to hurt him quite a bit. The demon was silent for a few heartbeats, before saying, "I wanted you to get those chains off me."

"If those other demons who're coming for you can get you outta this Circle," Sam replied, "then they could've dealt with the chains. Eventually. Tell me the real reason." He turned his head fully now, in order to look Dean in the eye. "And while you're at it, tell me why you thought that it was a good idea to kiss me, too." He paused. "You didn't break my fingers, by the way."

Dean snorted, ignoring what Sam had added on, and pulled his hand out of Sam's hair – which was a huge relief to his scalp. "Tell me why you kissed back."

"Uh, eight-year dry spell," Sam began, almost automatically. "Intense emotional distress." He looked at Dean again. "Attractive vessel."

Surprise and pleasure, equally brief, flickered across Dean's face, before he let go of Sam and stepped back with a snort, freeing him. "So that's why you treated that djinn like you did."

"You're not gonna kill me?" Sam asked, turning and deciding not to start up a discussion about his feelings towards Nadia. He didn't think that now was the time to talk about how complicated his sexuality was.

"No fun if you're not gonna fight it," Dean replied. He turned his back to Sam, walked across the cell. Sam walked after him, stopped him with a calm hand on his shoulder, and pushed with the heel of it until he was facing him again. Then he peeled off the gauze pad taped over his wound. There was no blood on it, and the skin was fresh and pink between the stitches. Sam pressed his fingertips to it, clinical, and Dean let him.

It was insane, how calm he felt right now even though he was inches away from – touching – the creature who had just barely threatened to kill him by breaking his neck. He should be terrified. He should have left the cell, run away from Dean just like he had done all the other times. And he shouldn't be feeling like he wouldn't actually hurt him, because the thing in front of him had been engineered in the bowls of Hell to be a sadist and a psychopath. Trust was something to be reserved for beings like Vaughn. Because if he had been domesticated, then Dean was definitely feral.

Dean watched Sam probe at his fast-healing wound for several minutes, silent as he felt it and the skin around it out. Then, abruptly, he spoke up: "It was hurting you."

Startled out of his thoughts, Sam glanced up at him, blinking. "Huh?"

"The – the cursed thing. The lighter." Dean coughed, then cleared his throat. "It was hurting you."

Sam's brain was still on scar tissue and dissolvable stitches (and Vaughn), so it took a second for that statement to sing in. When it did, he blankly asked, "And…you cared about that?"

"No," Dean replied, instantly and vehemently. "I haven't cared about anything but me and mine for three thousand years. I just saw that it was hurting you, and I decided to get rid of it. End of story."

"No human emotions at all," Sam stated, skeptical.

"Nope," Dean confirmed. "None of your pansy-ass feelings got in the way. Whole damn point of being a demon, Freud."

"And what about the kissing?" Sam asked neutrally, as he balled the gauze and tape up and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Sex and violence," Dean proclaimed, putting both hands on his bare chest. "I've still got urges, and you're the only available piece of ass around here, with the djinn dead. I just need to fuck something raw every once in a while." Green eyes raked appreciatively up and down Sam's body. The gesture seemed exaggerated to him. "Not all that opposed to it being you."

"Well, you had every chance to do that yesterday," Sam pointed out. "I'm sure you could tell how tired I was, after that. It was like an epileptic seizure." He showed Dean his arms, which his T-shirt left bare. Bruises, some barely visible and others nearly black, marred the naturally-tan skin, even running under the healing cut on his forearm. "I was hurting pretty bad, too. Between those two things, I could barely move a muscle. There's no way I could've fought back if you ripped my pants off then." Dean's hands rose from where they'd been dangling at his sides, and he caught one of Sam's arms before he could draw it back. His eyes flicked over the bruises like he was memorizing them. "But you didn't do that."

Dean lifted his eyes to Sam's, and they stared at each other in silence for a couple of seconds. Then his eyes suddenly flicked to black and he stated, "Sometimes you hiccup."

Well, that came out of the blue. "What?" Sam cocked his head, squinting. Maybe he'd heard wrong.

"Sometimes you hiccup," Dean repeated, dropping Sam's heavily-bruised arm and taking a step back. Putting some distance between them. "Reflex from when you had gills – that's what I've heard, at least. And sometimes I kiss real nice." His eyes returned to normal. "Reflex from when I had a soul."

Sam snorted, a sound of disbelief that he couldn't hold back, and shook his head as he stared down at his bare feet and folded his arms across his chest.

"I think you should go take those notes about me now," Dean said.

Sam turned his head back as Dean walked away, then sprawled into the chair he'd provided for him. He wasn't ready to leave yet, he realized. He wasn't content with being lied to.

He had no idea how he'd come to the conclusion that Dean wasn't telling him the truth. He just knew it.

He watched Dean tip his head back in order to stare up at the spray paint devil's trap on the ceiling, making a big show out of ignoring the fact that Sam was still in the cell. Sam knew that he shouldn't be, but he was bothered by the role-reversal – he'd made a huge effort to ignore Dean when he'd been constantly rattling his chains and when he'd been trying to talk to him, shouting at him from across the cabin. It was an unpleasant feeling to have a cold shoulder turned to him for no reason, since it wasn't like he was personally attacking Dean. Laying siege to sleep patterns that were precarious as they were and picking away at open wounds on his psyche.

Frustration boiled inside of him, an acidic taste creeping into his mouth, and before he could even think about censoring himself, words were pouring out. Harsh. Edged with anger. Each one sent pain shooting up his bad leg as he walked towards Dean.

"It was a wendigo," he began abruptly, with no warning. Dean's eyes flicked back to him as he raised his head, and for a second, Sam was gratified because he was paying attention to him again. "When I was seventeen. My dad was a hunter, and so was I – ever since I was six months old. I wasn't quite born into it, but almost."

Dean blinked, and it was slow once again. Sam thought of lizards, frogs, cold, inhuman things staring blankly out through a pane of glass as they squatted under a heat lamp. He'd never liked reptiles. Or amphibians, for that matter.

"What was a wendigo?" he asked, shaking his head. Sam just kept talking as if he'd never opened his mouth.

"It was in Vermont," he said. "Early November, so the leaves'd all changed colors, and there were a ton of hikers and picnickers and everything. So many of them kept going missing; the thing was stocking up for the winter. It'd gotten so bad that the FBI had been called in, but they had no idea what they were up against. They thought it was some kinda cult. They weren't letting people into the forest, but Dad and I managed to get past them."

Dean was really listening in earnest now, and Sam could tell that he was interested. He'd slung one leg over the other and cocked his head to the side. His eyes were fixed, creepily unblinking, on him.

"We knew that it'd denned up in the pines, where nobody ever went," he continued. "'Cause, y'know, there weren't any leaves to look at up there. We hiked up with extra sets of lighters and backpacks full of Molotov cocktails. Because fire's the only way to kill a wendigo."

"I know that," Dean spoke up, quietly. "I know all about wendigoes."

Sam chose to ignore that. "We were stupid. We didn't know that it'd found a cave system, and when we stumbled on an opening, we didn't know how far down it went. This wasn't our first wendigo hunt. We knew the drill. We figured we'd be done in time to grab some burgers at the local diner. But this thing…I don't know, it must've been older than all the others we'd ever gone after, because it was smart." He reached up, and rubbed at his face. "It separated us, first. Lured us in deep. Then it played with us, imitated our voices...when we finally found each other again, near an exit, it was waiting. Killed Dad, one swipe." He demonstrated with a flick of his wrist. "Claws were like freaking cutlasses. It got my leg, and there was no way I could walk. I dragged myself out into the light while it was – while it was busy with my dad. I passed out. And it would've eaten me, too, if the FBI hadn't found me before nightfall."

"The FBI?" Dean asked, sounding incredulous. "The damn FBI saved your ass? You gotta be kidding me. They're useless."

"Apparently not here," Sam replied. "They got me to a hospital. I was pretty out of it; I told them my dad was dead, and they did eventually find his body." What had been left of it, at least. "I was still a minor, so they hunted down my next of kin. Apparently, my dad had set Ellen Harvelle up as that." He cleared his throat. "They were friends. She runs the – "

"I know her."

Sam paused after Dean's interruption. He was a little surprised. He guessed that it wasn't inconceivable that the name "Ellen Harvelle" would have made the rounds through infernal circles, but Dean hadn't said that he knew who she was. He'd said that he knew her.

Maybe he hadn't meant it like that. Maybe he had. Either way, Sam made a snap decision not to push it right then.

"They gave me to her," he said. "And I stayed with her and her daughter, at their Roadhouse, for about two years. Healing. It took a long time – probably because I had an infection in my leg that just wouldn't clear up." He smiled humorlessly. "I guess wendigoes don't sterilize their claws."

"But what about that wendigo?" Dean asked. There was an edge to his voice that Sam didn't understand. "You went back and killed it, right? For what it did to you and your dad?"

Sam snorted. "I might've wanted to. But I was in a wheelchair for six months. Then on crutches for almost a year. And, after that, I had to use a cane. I couldn't even kill a butterfly, and I knew it. So another hunter took care of it for me without me ever even asking about it. Older guy. Bobby."

Dean visibly twitched. The expression on his face didn't change, though. "Bobby."

"Heard of him?" Sam asked, a little dryly. Instead of answering the question, Dean posed one of his own: "Where is he now?"

"Gone," Sam replied, and felt grief that was still just a little too fresh well like arterial blood in his chest. "Disappeared a few years back." Dean moved. It wasn't much, but it was something. Sam committed the reaction to memory. "This cabin, though…this place was his." He turned, glancing around. "He gave it to me."

Dean cleared his throat. "Really."

"He was the one who first suggested that I do what I'm doing now," Sam answered. "He said that, even if I was outta the field, I didn't have to retire. I didn't have to be useless."

Dean didn't respond to that. His eyes slid away from Sam, just slightly, and his mouth worked like he was chewing at something inside of it. After a few seconds of complete silence between the two of them, he shook his head in apparent frustration. Looking back up at Sam, he demanded, "Why the hell're you telling me all of this? That your dad's dead. What happened to your stupid leg. This is – this shit's personal, Sam, about as personal as it gets, and I'm the last one you should be trusting it with."

Sam, unruffled because he knew all of that already, replied, "I told you why I suck at being a hunter. Now you can tell me why you suck at being a demon."

Dean looked completely taken aback. For about a second. Then his expression smoothed out into one of clear irritation and, after rolling his eyes, he snapped, "You are not still on that."

"Uh, yeah, I am." Sam folded his arms across his broad chest, firm and unmoving, and stared Dean down. "I'm just curious, Dean. Why do you have human tendencies?"

"I don't," Dean replied instantly. "They're all gone. Left 'em behind in the Pit." His eyes went black again. "If you're some hotshot demon researcher, shouldn't you know that?"

"If you're an ice-cold, blood-loving Knight of Hell," Sam returned without missing a beat, "shouldn't you have done something besides kiss me last night?"

Dean's only response was to get up and walk to the other side of the Circle. Sam followed him, hardly read to give up. He wasn't afraid of any reaction Dean might have.

"Is it because you know Ellen and Bobby?" Sam demanded. He wanted answers. "Did one of them catch you, like Gordon did? Talk to you?"

"No – leave me alone," Dean snapped, whirling around and glaring at Sam. His eyes were still black.

"You shouldn't've been able to do what you did yesterday," Sam replied. "Was it Ellen or Bobby?"

"I didn't – Gordon was the first hunter I ran into, okay?" Dean snapped, shaking his head. "After I…" He trailed off, and shook his head again.

Sam, however, seized on it. "You knew them before." The excitement that suddenly bloomed inside of him began to creep into his voice, onto his face. "You knew them when you were human."

"Leave," Dean ordered. His back was to Sam now, so he couldn't see his face, but it sounded like he was gritting his teeth.

"When you said three thousand years," Sam continued, ignoring him, "you meant Hell-time. You…how long have you been dead, Dean? Only about twenty years? Thirty?"

"Why the hell does it matter so damn much to you?" Dean demanded furiously, turning again. His eyes were black, once again. And Sam, once again, wasn't afraid of him. He knew that he could hurt him. But he also knew that he wouldn't.

"Ellen and Bobby ran in very specific circles," Sam replied, not really answering the question. He got the feeling that Dean didn't really want an answer, anyway. He just wanted him to stop talking. "Ellen still does. There's only one way you could've met the two of them."

He had stopped walking, and so had Dean. They were standing a few feet away from each other, close enough to touch. Close enough for Sam to feel the tension and discomfort that was just pouring off of Dean, thick enough for him to cut with a knife. It didn't stop him from speaking, though. From continuing. He knew that he was right, but he had to see Dean's reaction when he spoke his realization out loud.

"You were a hunter when you were alive," Sam said. His voice had unintentionally dropped into a soft murmur, which he felt was oddly appropriate. "You were like me."

Just because Dean couldn't teleport within the confines of the Circle didn't mean that he couldn't still move inhumanly fast. Sam didn't see him take a few steps forward, and he didn't register the scrape of his boots of the cement until later. But he definitely felt it when Dean's open palms smashed into his chest, shoving him violently backwards, the furious strength behind the blow almost guaranteed to leave hand-shaped bruises on his pectorals.

"I was never anything like you!" Dean was shouting now, and the rage in his voice would have been obvious even if Sam hadn't been looking at his face – twisted up, blotched red under his freckles, eyes black and soulless. "I wasn't weak – I wasn't pathetic – I didn't let anything ruin me." Every emphasized word was accompanied by another shove, not as strong as the first one but just as angry. "I didn't ever let myself fall in love with the monsters that I ganked. I saw 'em like they were." Sam was being steadily herded back towards the gate by Dean's pushes, stumbling each time he was forced off-balance and usually just barely catching himself. He didn't fight back – just maintained steady, mild eye contact. Because he still wasn't afraid. Maybe something had snapped in his brain and he was seconds away from having his guts clawed out and thrown in his face by a Knight of Hell, but he wasn't afraid. "I was strong, okay? I was good at what I did. I was the best." Dean's hands clenched into fists now, as Sam steadied himself from that last shove. "I was – nothing like you. And you're not anything like I was."

He gave Sam one final push, shoving him where he was standing and trying to stop himself from swaying. It was stronger than all of them except for the very first one. And this was the one that he couldn't bounce back from, Sam immediately knew. He stepped back, onto his bad leg, and it buckled under him, exhausted and agonized. He wasn't exactly surprised. He was ready to hit the ground, struggle back to his feet, and leave, since Dean pretty obviously wanted him out of the cell.

That didn't happen, though. One of the same hands that had been bettering at his chest for the last few minutes caught his upper arm and hauled him up, standing him back on his feet. Dean put his other hand on Sam's opposite arm and held him steady, making sure he didn't fall again. He studied him with black eyes, then blinked and changed them back to green. Sam realized he was breathing hard and fast, and struggled to get his lungs back under control.

"But none of that matters, does it?" Dean asked, sounding infinitely calmer now. And sad, even, rather than angry. "Not anymore. That's all gone now."

Sam swallowed, then lifted a hand. Dean let go of him as he did, but didn't move back, allowing him to tentatively touch his shoulder. Neither of them broke eye contact, and Sam noticed blossoming crow's feet at the corners of Dean's. Wrinkles that came from smiling or squinting in the sun.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. He gave Dean's shoulder a quick squeeze. "I shouldn't've pushed so hard."

"'S your job, isn't it?" Dean replied.

"No. I didn't need to know that," Sam admitted, shaking his head. "I need – I need to know how to kill you." He chuckled hollowly. "Not what you did before you became a demon."

"Well, if I knew, I'd tell you how to get rid of me," Dean said dryly. "I've been a whole lot more trouble to you than I'm probably worth." Sam stayed silent, because any protest that he voiced would have sounded insincere. Dean looked away from him for a second, appearing to forget about the hand on his shoulder, and shook his head wordlessly. "Hurts to remember, Sam. Lotta holes."

Sam had never heard that before from a demon, no matter its caste, age, or anything else. The memories of their human lives had faded, definitely. Dulled by years and other, more exciting experiences, which he guessed made sense. None of them were interested in talking about the time that they'd spent as people. But they'd never claimed that it hurt before – or that there were actual gaps in their memories.

"I didn't…" Sighing, Sam lowered his hand from Dean's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." Dean's funky memory could wait to be analyzed. Sam had decided to mend fences before allowing himself to slip into his "scientist" mindset.

"No way you could've, so you don't have to apologize." Sam's breath stuttered in surprise for a second, when Dean suddenly took both of his hands in his own. He hoped the demon hadn't noticed. "I'm really…look, Sam." He cleared his throat. "I'm the one who should be apologizing, here. For all that stuff I said. I didn't mean any of it, I guess I just – wanted to hurt you."

"'Cause – you were in pain," Sam guessed, dipping his chin in half a nod. "'Cause it hurts to remember."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, the word coming out short and snappy.

"But you don't wanna hurt me now." Sam didn't phrase it as a question, and was sure that Dean wouldn't take it as one. He studied the face of his vessel. The last thing he wanted to think about right now was that that face didn't actually belong to Dean, that it was a family member he'd exploited, but it popped into his head anyway. He did his best to push it away. He wasn't sure why he couldn't face it.

"Nnno." Dean drew the word out of himself with some hesitation. Sam watched him carefully. "I don't." He paused. "I didn't last night, either."

"You're not acting like a demon," Sam replied, shaking his head. Dean rolled his eyes, suddenly fierce again.

"Oh, fuck off, Winchester."

Dean's hands moved to Sam's hips, and Sam made a soft noise of shock as he was suddenly pulled forward. A blush flamed across his face embarrassingly quickly as he realized that Dean was half-hard in his chewed-up jeans, and as he began to perk up himself. It'd been so long, and the demon's vessel really was so attractive, and he touched him so well. As exemplified by the one hand that he suddenly spread in the small of Sam's back and the other that he tangled up in his long hair in order to hold him in place – a gentle parody of when he'd been threatening to break his neck earlier.

"Why are you like this?" Sam asked, arms creeping loosely around Dean's waist.

"I don't know," Dean replied, then pulled Sam down to his pink, pillowy mouth, and Sam just stopped wondering what the hell was going on for a while.