She was a couple of years older than me, maybe about eighteen. She was still in high school, I know that for sure, and it wasn't because she'd been held back. She was smart. That was why we met in the first place – we were both in Honors Chem, and the teacher paired us together as partners.

Kara never pushed me into anything. If I wasn't ready, it wasn't anybody's fault but my own. In the beginning, I don't even think that she was interested in me. Not in that way, and not in any other way, either. She was just nice to me because she was a good person. She helped me with my homework when I'd been out too late with Dad to finish it the night before, she let me copy her notes when I missed a day, she even let me eat part of her lunch one time when we'd run out of money and I was starving. I was sixteen. Is it any really wonder I fell for her?

I came over to her house to study one time, after school. I ate dinner there. We ended up having sex. It happened a lot slower than that, of course, and looking back on it, I'm almost positive that I wanted it more than she did, but it still happened. She had condoms. We did it under the covers, because her parents were home, but downstairs. It wasn't actually her first time, but I thought it was, so I tried to make it good for her. I don't remember if she came. I don't really remember if I did, either. All I can think of right now is how it felt to get lost in her, and how it felt to fall asleep next to her for about an hour.

She woke me up then, and told me that I had to go home. She was still naked, wrapped up in a sheet. It was a Friday night. We left town that Sunday. I wish I hadn't made love to her, because doing that and then leaving without ever seeing her again was the most painful thing I'd ever been through. Until I was seventeen, at least.

- Personal journal of Sam Winchester

Dean huffed out a very loud, obnoxious sigh, and Sam felt the warm breath of it puff against the underside of his wrist as he reached over his face to adjust the candle there. Green eyes stared up at him, determined, and he finally gave Dean the contact that he'd been struggling to get for the last five minutes or so. He arched an eyebrow at him.

"Bored?" he asked. A little redundantly. Since it was so flamingly obvious.

"This seems like way too much trouble to go through to remember where you put your damn keys," Dean replied, turning his head to look at the candles. Sam grabbed his forehead and forcibly turned it back.

"Don't move," he commanded. "For the twentieth time." He reached for a plastic baggie next to his legs, folded under him in a kneeling position. "Traditionally, you just light one candle and sit in front of it. This is just me trying to boost the spell."

"Only one traditionally?" Dean asked. "Jeez, Sammy. There's about fifty here." All arranged in a tight sarcophagus shape around Dean, who was lying stiffly on the hard floor. "You're gonna have me remembering my own conception." He paused. "Please take some of these away."

"No," Sam replied, tugging open the baggie.

"Please."

"No!" He reached in and took out a handful of the powder inside. "You're not gonna remember your own conception." Maybe his birth, but he hadn't had anything remotely resembling a brain at conception. So, no memories. Sam sprinkled a long, thin line of the powder down Dean's bare torso, from the hollow of his throat to his navel. Almost immediately, the demon began to gag.

"What the hell is that?" he asked, raising his head. Sam firmly pushed it back down.

"Dried ginkgo leaves," he replied. "Helps with memory."

"It smells like barf," Dean told him seriously.

"It'd be a lot worse if they were fresh, trust me." Sam closed the baggie of ginkgo and reached for another one, dusting his hand off on his jeans. "Okay, this is ginseng."

"I feel like a freaking roast," Dean grumbled. "Why don't you go get some rosemary and basil while you're at it?"

"Close your eyes," Sam instructed, then sprinkled a small pile on each of his eyelids when he did as he was told. "All right. Last thing."

Dean sniffed as Sam opened the third baggie. "Yarrow?"

"Yep," Sam replied as he laid a line across Dean's freckled forehead. "Helps with spells. Magic conductor."

"Super sensitive to magic, too," Dean said. "Grows around witches' houses and crossroads that my guys show up at a lot. I know. I was a hunter, remember?"

"I keep forgetting," Sam admitted softly. He stood up with the baggies, all closed now, and walked over the chairs, where he exchanged them for an older notebook full of scribbled spells and his notes on them.

"Me, too," Dean said, without a trace of humor in his voice.

Sam returned to him, kneeling above his head this time and flipping the notebook open to the page that he wanted. It was easy to find, since it was so well-worn. Which certainly wasn't because he used it at least once a week to remember when he'd last shaved.

He laid the notebook down in front of him, between his spread knees, and pulled a lighter out of his back pocket. Dean's eyes twitched under his lids, dislodging a few grains of dried ginseng.

"Is that one cursed?" he asked.

"Shouldn't be," Sam replied. "I've been using it for a couple years now."

They were the black candles that he had planned to use for the immobilizing spell, standing around Dean. Once one was lit, they all caught. He spun the wheel of the lighter until a flame appeared, then touched it to the wick of the nearest candle. All the others immediately sprang to life. He heard Dean grunt in surprise, and maybe a little bit of fear, too. Even though fire couldn't hurt him.

Sam put the lighter back in his pocket and picked up his notebook, scanning the invocation. The final part of the spell. He hesitated, and murmured to Dean, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Dean replied, clearing his throat.

Sam swallowed, and began to read. The spell was Asian and the dialect was difficult, but he was so used to it that he probably could have recited it from memory. The candle flames flared suddenly when he was halfway through, turning a bright, acidic green. Dean stirred in the middle of them.

"What's going on?" he asked, voice little more than a whisper. Sam couldn't respond, obviously, but he held the notebook with one hand and reached down with the other to touch his hair. It was warm, and Dean pressed slightly towards the touch, seemingly trying not to dislodge any of the herbs.

The flames wavered, filling the cell with green light. Shadows, twisted and fleeting, flickered across the floor and in the carvings. Suddenly, Sam's voice faltered, doubtful. Would the spell work inside of a Circle of Solomon? It was designed to contain demons, but that might extend to magic. It was a little too late to test it out now, though. He kept going, voice strengthening again.

When he finished, the flames abruptly went out, leaving them in relative darkness. Sunlight still streamed through the bars of the gate. Sam licked his lips, mouth dry, and set the notebook aside. He started moving the candles even as thin tendrils of smoke still rose from their tips, stacking them up so that he could put them back in the cabinet he'd gotten them from. He brushed the yarrow off of Dean's forehead with the side of one wax-covered hand. "You can move now. I'm done."

Dean sat up with a groan, immediately brushing the ginkgo and ginseng off of himself. He squinted at Sam, before moving to help him with the candles. As soon as they'd all been moved, he stood up, grabbing his shirt off of the back of one of the chairs and pulling it on. Sam watched him, legs folded and hands on his knees.

"So…did it work?" he asked. Dean shrugged, turning to look down at him.

"I don't know," he said. "How fast does it usually work?"

Sam sucked his teeth. "Instantly." He pushed himself to his feet. "Try thinking about it. It doesn't pop right into your head."

"Okay." Dean blew out a breath, reaching up to lace his fingers together behind his head. "You go ahead and put your stuff up. I'll just…try to remember."

Silently, Sam scooped up an armful of candles and grabbed the baggies of dried herbs. The former went back into the cabinet, tied together in bundles of three again, and the returned the latter to the shed. He glanced out the window, almost instinctively, but he didn't see any more demons out in the forest. There was a deer, but he doubted that it was a threat.

He headed back inside, meaning to put away the rest of the candles and his notebook. It was clear to him that the spell hadn't worked – it hadn't been meant for such a huge recall. The whole thing about closing the Gates of Hell had probably just been a lie, anyway. Dean didn't know anything.

Sam was jarred out of his thoughts as soon as he was close enough to see into the demon cell. Dean was slumped in one of the chairs, head tilted slightly, apparently looking at nothing. Sam felt concern spike through his chest and pushed open the gate, stepping over the threshold and the line of salt (smeared and scattered by now, useless) and into the cell. Dean glanced at him as he did. He'd been facing away from him, so he hadn't been able to see that his eyes had gone black.

"I was an alcoholic," he told him. Sam stopped just inside the doorway, wary.

"Huh?" he asked.

"I was an alcoholic," Dean repeated. "A bad one. I was twenty-eight and I'd been drinking every day for more than half that. It was the only way I could cope. Explains why the first thing I wanted when I got outta the Pit was a shot of whiskey – and why my liver was in so much worse shape than the rest of me when I went to put my body back together."

Sam stared at him. It was on the tip of his tongue, to assure Dean that almost every hunter out there was either an alcoholic or addicted to something else, like painkillers or sex. But maybe that wasn't what he should be focusing on right now.

"You're remembering," he said blankly. Dean nodded.

"Favorite food was bacon cheeseburgers," he said, looking away from Sam again. "Goddamn. I was not a healthy person."

Sam walked across the floor with bare feet, approaching Dean where he was sitting in his chair. Laying a hand on his shoulder, he quietly began, "The Gates – "

Dean cut him off, by sucking in a harsh, horrified breath. His hand flew up, latching onto Sam's and squeezing with supernatural strength. Sam hissed in pain, but didn't pull away. He wasn't sure he could.

"They ate my guts." Dean's voice was deeper than normal. Rougher. "My intestines. Tore me open and went for the organs that wouldn't kill me right away. Wondered where they went, after I tracked down my body."

"A – " Sam tried to ask a question, but was too shocked to quite manage it. He tried again. "Are you talking about the hellhounds?"

"Of course I am, you fucking idiot." Dean coughed. "What the hell else would I be talking about?"

Sam felt a little flutter of irritation at the insult, but he ignored it, letting Dean keep crushing his hand instead of pulling away. If he were remembering his own extremely violent and painful death, he'd probably be calling people fucking idiots, too. He put his other hand over Dean's, stroking his knuckles, and decided not to push until he was done with this…flood.

"They told me that they were gonna go after my dad as soon as they'd dealt with me," Dean said. Sam, looking down at him, saw that his eyes were still black and that he was staring at nothing again. "I guess they really might've. You said he disappeared. Just like I did."

Sam couldn't think of anything to say that would comfort him. Even if he could, he wasn't sure that Dean would be able to hear him.

Dean cried out suddenly, releasing Sam's hand as he reached up to grab, panicked, at his face. "Oh my god, what do I look like? What'd they do to me? They cut my lips off – did they grow back?"

"You – you look fine, there's nothing wrong with your face." Sam grabbed Dean's wrists and pulled his hands down, not without some difficulty as he struggled. He was worried about him hurting himself. "Your lips are fine."

"No, you can't see me!" Dean broke Sam's hold on his wrist and grabbed his face now, both sides. His fingernails, as blunt as they were, cut stinging crescents into the sensitive skin, and he squirmed. Dean didn't seem to notice. "You aren't dying. There aren't hellhounds three feet away with your scent in their noses! You can't see my face! You can't see demons! Not like I did, you're not – you won't – fuck – son of a bitch!" He shoved Sam away, so violently that he would have hit the floor if it hadn't been for some creative stumbling. He touched one of the areas where Dean had dug his nails into him and his fingertips came away flecked with red.

This, he suddenly realized, had not been a good idea.

He looked up again, at Dean, to see that he'd…folded into himself. He'd wrapped his arms around his chest, hugging his ribcage tightly, and he'd drawn his knees up to his face, pressing the caps against his cheekbones. The heels of his boots were set on the edge of his chair and his back was hunched. He seemed to have shrunk to half his size.

"You don't know what we look like," he said. His voice had dropped to a mumble. "Or what we can do…I was a hunter. Shit, I was a hunter." He started to rock a little, and Sam hurried back over him. "I killed these things, hundreds of them. I hated them, so fucking much…that's why I wanted to close the Gates on 'em…" Sam's heart jumped. But he didn't say anything. "And now I am one. I'm a demon, I'm a Knight of Hell, I…I…" Sam was startled by a dry sob. "My dad would wanna kill me, if he were here. If he knew everything that I've done since I crawled outta Hell."

Sam tentatively reached out, placing a hand on Dean's upper back and feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. He twitched under the touch. And then he turned, and Sam found himself pulled into a bone-crushing hug. Or, well, it wasn't really a hug, he guessed. It was more like Dean was clinging to him so that he wouldn't be swept away. He was a chimney in a flood.

"You better not go anywhere," Dean growled. His voice was muffled, because he'd shoved his face into Sam's stomach. "This is your fault. You and your retarded spell. Bastard."

Sam winced, putting his arms around Dean. Who then slipped onto the floor like he was made of jelly. He was still holding onto Sam, so he went down with him, and they ended up sitting on the concrete together, hips pressed close and arms wrapped around each other. Dean leaned heavily against Sam's chest, his head resting on his collarbone. Sam couldn't see his eyes anymore, but he assumed that they were still black, and still blankly open.

"I am…so sorry," Sam began quietly, holding Dean. "You're totally right. This is completely my fault – it was a bad idea. I shouldn't've pushed so hard. Never. I shouldn't've forced you to remember."

"You think?" Dean asked with a snort, then shuddered against Sam. "I lost for the first time when I was sixteen. Against a monster. Troll ate a little girl in front of me, from the feet up. I couldn't do a thing, I was chained to a bridge support." He groaned. "I don't wanna know this stuff."

Sam sighed through his nose. "Yeah, I know."

"It hurts." His arms tightened around Sam, who gasped softly as his ribs creaked.

"I know…" He patted Dean's back between his shoulder blades.

"It's like poison." A breath hissed out of Dean, hot and moist against Sam's bare skin. "I can't fight it…it's everywhere."

Sam started rubbing, silent, and watching the afternoon sunlight creep across the floor.

"If I knew how to kill a Knight…" Dean sighed. "…I'd tell you."

"No, no." Sam held on a little harder, turning his head so that he could press his cheek into Dean's hair. "C'mon, Dean. Don't…don't talk like that, okay? Even if I knew how to, I wouldn't kill you. I couldn't."

"Gordon's not gonna be happy with you," Dean muttered. "He doesn't even think you're human, y'know. Heard him talking to one of his cronies while he had me. He figures someone lamed you and stuck you in the middle of all these wards, so you've gotta help guys like him. Bound to it."

"Well – fuck him, then." Sam was deeply offended, but he really couldn't say that he surprised, given how Gordon treated him and his general thought processes. The guy had killed his own sister and still firmly believed that it was the right thing to do, for Chrissakes. "I don't care if he's mad at me or not, I'm not killing you. Not even if you ask me to." He turned his head a little more, trying to get a glimpse of Dean's face. "Haven't we already been over this?"

"I'm a hunter turned Knight of Hell," Dean replied. "Got nothing to live for. And I really doubt that all your hunter friends out there are gonna find your mercy as cute as I do."

"Not all the way," Sam said, shaking his head. Dean shifted against him in apparent confusion.

"Not all the way what?"

"Not all the way turned," Sam replied. "Full-fledged demons can't love. They can't feel pity for somebody else. And they definitely – " He moved a hand, swiped it across Dean's cheek, and the skin was wet. Screw Gordon and his merry band of psychopaths, it was wet. Way too wet to be fake. " – can't cry. Not like this." He turned his face, to press his lips into Dean's short, dirty hair. "I think they missed a spot. Down in the Pit."

Dean was quiet. For a long time, actually. Upwards of fifteen minutes. By the time he started talking again, his position had changed. He was leaning back against Sam's chest, sitting between his spread, bent legs. One of his own legs was stretched out in front of him and the sole of the other's boot was pressed against his knee. His hands were limp in his lap and Sam's arms were wrapped loosely around his waist. Sam was propped up against the wall. Dean's head rested on his shoulder, and his eyes were finally closed.

"You aren't my first," he spoke up in a whisper. Sam didn't say anything, figuring that he'd been silently remembering for the last quarter of an hour and had finally found a fragment that he needed to talk about. "The first one I…loved, I mean. There was another one, before I died. You kinda remind me of him. Smart, y'know. Into books."

Sam cleared his throat. He had to, after being quiet for so long. "What was his name?"

Dean shook his head, rolling it back and forth on Sam's shoulder. "Hasn't come back to me yet." Sam heard him lick his lips, wetting them. "He was a Prophet."

"He was?" Sam instantly became ten times more interested. Prophets were rare. He would have killed for the opportunity to interview one, but they were harder to find than purebred werewolves. "Seriously?"

Dean snorted. "Appreciate the interest in my love life, Sam, but turn off the creepy researcher for a second, okay? I'm trying to tell you something." He shifted, but only a little. "He read a Tablet for me, which was pretty damn important, as it turned out."

"What kind of tablet?" Sam asked, curious despite doing his best to turn off the creepy researcher. Vaughn had called him that, too.

"A Tablet," Dean replied. "Capital 'T,' Sam. You know. A Word of God?"

Sam was sure that Dean felt him tense with shock, but he didn't say anything. After about a minute spent trying to wrap his head around that, he asked, "Dean, where the hell did you even get one of those?"

"Don't remember," Dean answered. "Yet. Anyway, it was apparently the demon Tablet. I kept it in my backpack 'cause I thought that it might be useful, even though I couldn't read it. My Prophet found it one day when he was going through my stuff – he was a nosy little shit, that's another thing that you two have in common." Sam scowled. "He told me that he could tell what it said. So I had him read it to me. Took weeks, gave him migraines, but we finally got through the whole thing."

Chewing on his lip, Sam processed that. "So…" He looked down at Dean expectantly. "What'd you learn?"

"That you were right," he replied, looking up at Sam with green eyes. "I know how to close the Gates of Hell."

There was no delay this time, between Sam hearing the information and his mind understanding it. He instantly got the implications of Dean's words, and was about to lunge to his feet to grab a notebook and a pencil from his desk when Dean continued, stopping him before he could even get started.

"I'm not gonna tell you, though," Dean said wearily. "And before you start bitching, it's because it's impossible to do it. 'S why I stopped. I got so close, and then the last task…I gave up as soon as he told me what it was." He let his head slump a little more. "They didn't need to kill me. I tried to tell them that, but demons'll only listen to you if you're the one holding the knife." He turned his face up to look at Sam. "And they cut my hands off two hours in. After I slipped my cuffs for the third time."

The skin along Sam's spine crawled. And around his wrists.

"Sam." He'd been thinking about voicing his sympathy, but Dean spoke again before he could even open his mouth. "You don't think they turned me all the way. Into a Knight." He raised a hand, laying a hot, callused palm against Sam's cheek and cupping the side of his face. "Make me feel human."

Sam raised his own hand, putting it over Dean's and giving it a light, comforting squeeze. A soft sigh left the demon, and Sam couldn't tell if it was sad or contented.

"Just tell me what the last one is," he whispered to Dean, still holding onto his hand. "Please. So I can know if it's really impossible or not."

Dean's hand slipped out of Sam's, and he pushed away from him, looking over his shoulder with an expression on his face that was nothing short of disappointed. Sam felt guilt pound through him, dull and nauseating. He pushed himself up onto his knees and reached for the hem of Dean's shirt, resting his hands momentarily on his hips.

"I'm sorry," he murmured without meeting Dean's eyes. "I…we don't need to talk about that right now. It doesn't matter." It did, it mattered so much, but it shrank away to a pinpoint in Sam's mind when he lifted Dean's shirt up and exposed his flat, freckled stomach.

"Yeah." Dean helped get his shirt off, tugging it up over his head and tossing it aside so that it landed on the concrete with a quiet pompf.

"This is what you wanted, right?" Sam asked, just to make sure. He worked the button of Dean's jeans back through its denim eye, then unzipped him. "When you told me to make you feel human?"

Dean snorted quietly. "What d'you think? Virgin."

"I'm not a virgin," Sam protested. Dean got to his feet, grabbed Sam's hands, and pulled him up, too.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, hands sliding under Sam's shirt. They stopped on his sides for a moment before pulling it off of him, the calluses scratching at the soft skin there. "How many other guys have you done?" When Sam was stonily silent, just focusing on getting them both undressed, he grinned triumphantly. "Virgin."

It wasn't long until they were both stark naked, jeans and boxers and, in Dean's case, boots laid out across the sigils that made up the Circle of Solomon. Sam had begun to stir halfway through the process, forgetting how scared he'd been for Dean earlier in favor of getting excited over scoring for the first time in almost a decade. And Dean was already fully erect, length impressive and girth even more so, as he sank into one of the chairs. He slumped down and spread his legs so that his entrance was on display, a tight pink pucker under his balls. Sam throbbed.

"I need to go grab something really quick," he began, voice husky as he tried to remember the last time he'd seen something as hot/beautiful as Dean baring himself for him. Dean shook his head.

"We don't need lube," he said. "Just eat me out. This ain't my first rodeo – your spit'll be more than enough, trust me."

The knee-jerk disgust that Sam felt at the thought of putting his mouth on somebody's ass must have shown on his face, because Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay. It's not as gross as it sounds. I promise." He wrapped a hand, almost absentmindedly, around his engorged cock, and precome welled on the tip of Sam's own. "Maybe if I was still human, but I haven't eaten anything since 'eighty-seven. I'll let you do the math there."

Sam took a step closer to him, and Dean tipped his chin up, looking at him through hooded eyes that had gone dark and glossy with lust. He extended one hand to him, probably to help him down onto his knees, but Sam hesitated.

"There's no part of you that's still…rotting, is there?" he asked uncertainly.

"I sure as hell hope not," Dean replied. Sam didn't find that very reassuring, and Dean must have picked up on that, because he shook his head and amended, "No, I'm not rotting anymore. I cleaned everything up. I regrew everything. It's all good." He spread his hands. "You're not gonna find anything nasty up there, Sam, I guarantee you."

Sam took his hand, lowering himself into a kneeling position. He spread his hands over Dean's well-muscled thighs, and, on impulse, gave the shaft of his cock an almost playful nudge with the very tip of his nose.

"Sorry," he murmured. He felt a hand in his hair.

"Nah, you're okay," Dean replied. "I wouldn't want any of that kinda stuff in my mouth, either."

Sam's hands tightened on Dean's thighs, fingernails, scraping over the skin. Words tumbled out of his mouth: "I love you. I'm sorry."

Dean's hand slipped down to the back of Sam's head, cupping his skull and tangling his fingers in his hair as he pressed him forward. "Show me."

Sam parted his lips, tongue slipping out. He licked, slicking the hot, dry skin in front of him with his saliva. He tasted sulfur, but he'd expected that. He moved his hands up, onto Dean's hips, and held him tightly there, laving the outside of him thoroughly. He really had no idea what he was doing, mostly just going by instinct. And by the quiet, pleasured sounds that Dean was making above him.

He plunged in after a couple of minutes. More sulfur, but it was also wetter in here, easier to move his tongue around. He'd expected it to be pretty tight, but Dean hadn't been kidding when he said that this wasn't his first rodeo – he opened right up. Sam lapped at his quivering walls, having plenty of room to do so. He flicked the tip of his tongue into every hollow and curve that he found, exploring it. Just like Dean had said, he was completely clean. Beyond the taste of sulfur, at least. And Sam might be able to learn to like that.

"You're not gonna be able to reach my prostate with your tongue." Sam had opened his mouth wider, lips pressed against that outer ring of muscle, and pushed his tongue in as far as it would go. He had no idea how Dean knew that that was what he was trying to do. "'S just not long enough." He groaned appreciatively at something Sam had done. "Sorry to disappoint you."

Sam pulled his tongue back and straightened up. Saliva dripped out of his mouth, and he licked his lips before wiping them on the back of his hand. "What about my dick?"

Dean made a show of leaning over and looking down at Sam's groin, then settled back with a grin. "Yeah, looks more than long enough to me. Why don't you give it a try?"

Sam used Dean's hips to pull himself up, eyeing his position and brain kicking itself into high gear as he tried to figure out how to get himself into the opening he'd just spent the last five minutes licking. Having sex on a chair wasn't an easy thing to do. Especially if that chair was one of the flimsy little things that came out of Sam's kitchen.

"I could lay on the floor if you want," Dean volunteered, apparently noticing that Sam couldn't really decide what to do.

"No, no, that wouldn't be…comfortable," Sam said, shaking his head. "For either of us."

"Well, you're not gonna let me out, so this and the floor are really your only two options," Dean pointed out. Sam hesitated, thinking about it, then decided that he just couldn't wrap his head around having sex in a chair.

"We'd better do the floor," he said. It felt like admitting defeat.

"Fine with me," Dean said, slipping out of the chair and spreading himself out. Sam could see him much better now, and he swallowed reflexively. He felt like he was looking at the centerfold of a really classy skin mag. "Get down here." When Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unsure of where, exactly, he should be, Dean sighed a little. "C'mon, Sam, I'll tell you what to do. I've done this a million times before."

"Isn't that a surprise," Sam said. Under Dean's instruction, he knelt down, straddled his thighs, put his hands on his shoulders to steady himself, lowered his hips slightly, moved forward, and…just slipped in. He was warm and wet and tight around his cock, even though Dean had felt relatively loose around his tongue.

"Oh, yeaaah, Sammy, that's it," Dean groaned, smiling up at him. He was starting to pant with pleasure. "Fuckin' huge cock, love the way you feel in me."

Sam blushed violently, having to look away from Dean. Dirty talk wasn't something that he was used to, and he had no idea how to respond. He squeezed the firm flesh of Dean's shoulders, reassuring himself with the feeling of warm skin against his fingers, then began to move. It was a little awkward until Dean bent his legs, lifting his hips up to give Sam a better angle. Things went smoothly after that; it practically felt like they'd been made to fit together like this, Sam thought as pleasure throbbed through his brain.

Dean grunted, and the muscles in his throat jumped as his hands came up and he grabbed onto Sam's hips. Sam watched his body move under him as he rolled his hips rhythmically, sweat slowly beginning to shine on the freckled skin even though it was pretty cool in the cell. He felt around for his prostate with the head of his cock, biting the inside of his lower lip in concentration. He didn't know what it felt like, since he'd never been inside another guy before. But when he hit a hot, firm lump dead-on, sliding rapidly over it, and Dean threw his head back and yelled with a rough voice, he figured that he'd found it.

Sam knew that he'd just recently had a blowjob and come pretty powerfully from it. But actual sex was a lot different from oral, satisfied a whole other set of urges, and he knew he wasn't going to last when he wasn't more than a few minutes in. Dean felt too good. Maybe there was something about the emotional aspect of making love to him, too.

He wasn't about to finish in the first five minutes and leave Dean hanging, though. He obviously needed this a lot more than Sam did, considering the kind of day he'd had (which had been entirely Sam's fault, he remembered with another stab of guilt). He reached down between their rolling bodies with one hand, and wrapped it around Dean's length. The heavy solidity of it sent a shock through him; it'd been a while since he'd held any cock but his own.

Dean twitched a little at his touch. His eyes were closed, Sam realized as he looked down at him, and his face was placid. It only took him a second to realize that he was remembering again.

"First time it was in the bed of a pickup, out in the scrapyard," Dean murmured. The words were short with the exertion of sex. "I'd laid a quilt down earlier. We were both drunk." Sam started moving his hand on his cock, and Dean stalled himself with a groan. "That was when I was still going to the high school. Sometimes."

Sam didn't say anything in response. Just lowered his mouth down to Dean's, using the one hand that he still had on his shoulder to make sure that he didn't collapse on top of him. Even so, the muscles of his stomach and thighs burned with the effort of keeping himself upright and thrusting. Dean kissed back, then gave his hips as much of a buck as he could manage with his hips already up in the air. It sent him sliding down onto Sam's shaft and up into Sam's hand.

"Yeah, I get it," Dean said breathlessly, grinning up at Sam when he pulled away. "I'm with you now, and I love you. You're something more special than you know."

Sam couldn't help but wonder just how long it'd been since Dean himself had last had sex, because he hit his climax in the next second. So Sam figured it was okay to stop holding back, and spilled his release inside of the demon as sticky white ropes painted themselves across his stomach and hand. As he kept thrusting through it, one thought stood out clearly in the fireworks show that was his brain: if Dean just coaxed him into sex every time he brought up closing the Gates of Hell, he'd never found out what that final task was.