Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~5100 words. Spoilers for 3.12, Jus in Bello. Artwork by Ponderosa, NSFW.
“Seriously,” Sam says, a shadowy mountain of disapproval. “You forgot your key.”
It hisses, “Show time,” over Dean’s frantic, No, no, nonono, and throws his body against the paint-speckled door with a bone-jarring thud.
“Sammy,” it calls out, pushing Dean’s voice into an annoying singsong. “Sammy, lemme in, forgot my key!”
You got sulphur for brains, genius? Dean snarks at it. He’s not going to fall for that.
From inside the room comes a muffled thump, one long, irritated huff and the slide-clink of the chain. The door opens a sliver, warm lamplight knifing through the dark. “Seriously,” Sam says, a shadowy mountain of disapproval. “You forgot your key.”
Dean feels the weird, ghostly echo of his mouth being pulled into a wide, obnoxious grin. “Had more important things on my mind.” It jams his face right into the crack. “Like this little brunette I found,” it says with a tiny moan. “Sammy, you know how I like ‘em-”
“Okay,” Sam blurts. He shoves the door shut, throws the locks in quick succession and steps back as he opens it wide. “Okay, I don’t need details. Get in.”
The demon stumbles inside, claps a hand on the side of Sam’s neck and thinks loud and clear how nice it is that Sam’s got a few inches on them. It turns around to take another long look at Sam, some smart, sick comment forming just at the edges of Dean’s consciousness, when Sam finishes toeing the line of salt back into place.
You’re in so much shit now, Dean crows. Trapped in a motel room with Sam for the night? You’re gonna be begging for hell by dawn.
Or you will be, the demon says back, the first direct words it’s spoken to him since the back alley of the pub. He doesn’t hear them so much as he knows them, like having a thought pop up in his head only it’s not him doing the thinking at all.
Sam flicks the deadbolt and moves back to the bed, stretching out with his feet crossed at the ankle and remote in hand. The stupid demon just stands there and stares like it’s never seen primetime before.
“You stink.” Tucking an arm under his head, Sam wiggles deeper into the pile of cushions between him and the headboard. There are almost half a dozen of the damn things, jerk probably stole them from the other bed. “What were you doing, rolling around in a dumpster?”
It starts unlacing Dean’s boots and says, “Something like that. Had myself a real good time.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Go hose yourself down.”
The demon steps across Sam’s field of view as it shrugs out of Dean’s jacket, strips his shirts off right over his head. Sam’s eyes flick up, hesitate, flick back. The thing’s smug satisfaction crawls up Dean’s spine. He can feel its ugly anticipation in his gut.
I don’t have a fuckin’ clue what you think you’re doing-
It cocks his head in front of the mirror, hand resting nonchalantly at the button of his jeans. Don’t you?
You’re all sick fucks, I get that.
A loud laugh track echoes from the other room. The demon smirks and glances at the door, shows him that it left it open more than just a crack. Dean can see the whole long length of Sam’s legs right up to the hip.
Casually, as if it isn’t shucking Dean’s jeans down his legs, it says, You realise, Dean, that you’re terribly aware for a useless bag of meat. It turns sideways in the spiderwebbed mirror to watch as it spreads a hand over Dean’s abdomen, fingertips lightly caressing. Most of your kind black out. I’ve never been sure if it’s because they’re weak or they just choose not to live the… experience. His hand skates upward, flirts with the black flames inked into his skin.
Why would anybody want to miss your charming company. Get your fucking hands off me.
A feeling like the sound of dozens of windows shattering at once explodes in Dean’s head. He’s instantly dizzy and woozy but his body is doing fine as it cranks the taps, which makes no sense at all. The demon smiles as the not-sound happens again and Dean realises that it’s the fucking thing laughing at him.
It steps into the tub, turning his back to the warm spray so it hits right between his shoulder blades. Humming softly under his breath, it lathers up the soap and reaches down, and no way, no freakin’ way Dean wants to feel it groping him.
It ignores him, pulling one soapy hand down the length of his dick. The pleasure is muted, barely there, but he can feel its appreciation like a black slick of oil inside his head. It washes carefully, slowly, lingering way too long there before his hands slide up, trail warm soap bubbles across his chest. The throb of blood in Dean’s body is distant but he can feel the heavy, familiar weight between his legs. For awhile, the demon moves on to safer things, even washing between his goddamn toes, and then Dean feels the sudden sharp burn of a thick, soapy finger shoved up inside him. This time, he hears his own startled gasp echoing off the tile.
Now, now, it chastises. It plants a hand on the wall, leans forward and presses deeper. There’s no need for that sort of language.
Dean’s not a complete stranger to the idea–adventurous girls with smooth, slim hands, soft fingertips pressed lightly to his hole to get him off even harder while they’re going down on him–but this is mechanical, invasive. It shifts his ass into the spray, steady thrusts cleaning away the soap until it’s just water pushed up into him.
Fuck you, you sack of shit, fuck you. What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?
The lamb, it says as it shuts off the taps and towels dry, must be clean before the slaughter.
I’m gonna kill you.
Towel wrapped loosely around his waist, it swings the door open the rest of the way. Steam billows into the room. Sam looks up, eyebrows raised. “Are you trying to boil yourself?”
“Needed to get that chick off me,” it says.
Sam just says, “Huh,” and goes back to staring blankly at a Friends rerun.
It crosses the room to stand between the beds, half turned away from Sam, and Dean is sure he can feel the towel slipping but can’t force his head down to look, can’t even tell where his hands are. Then he knows he’s buck fucking naked because the demon is scrubbing the water out of his hair with the flimsy bit of cloth.
Sam doesn’t say a thing. Not that Sam should say a damn word, because it’s not like they’re shy around one another but come on, neither one of them has ever made a habit of prancing around like hippies in a nudist colony.
By the time Dean feels the slick coverlet under his hands and knees, he can’t hear what Sam’s saying over the pounding rush of blood in his head. In the most surreal moment of his life, Dean watches himself lazily crawl up the length of Sam’s body, feels himself settle with his knees spread wide around his brother’s narrow hips. Where everything was muffled before, now his skin is oversensitive, screaming. He can feel every single fibre in Sam’s worn jeans scraping his flesh.
When it lifts his eyes to Sam’s face, Dean can’t interpret the mangled mess of emotion there. He can feel his mouth moving but can’t hear what’s coming out of it, but whatever it is turns Sam’s face dark and hard with anger.
Sound pops back into being and he hears Sam say, “This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not laughing,” it says, too low and too serious for Sam to ignore. “You want me to beg, that it? You think this is fuckin’ easy?”
“Shut up, just shut up.” It fists Dean’s hands in Sam’s shirt and Dean rails at it, Look up, look up, fucker, tell me Sam’s not buying this shit, but it doesn’t, it keeps looking down, gaze fixed on a ketchup stain near the hem. “I got what, a month, month and a half left? And then I’m going to hell, Sammy. Hell.”
The demon snakes a quick glance upward. Sam’s face is stricken, washed out. His eyes are shocked-wide, wild. The heat of his hands hovers somewhere near Dean’s waist, so close to touching.
“And you can’t save me-”
Sam’s palms are brands slapped onto his sides. Dean can feel the individual length of each finger digging in, the tingling-cool span between them. The demon lets out a short, bitten-off noise that’s way too familiar.
It says, “It’s okay, I get it,” before Sam can get a word out. If he could, Dean would bite off his own fucking tongue right now. Better to almost bleed to death in Sam’s arms than do this to him.
You don’t really believe that, do you?
Get your fucking slimy, smarmy mitts off him or I swear to god, I will fucking end you.
They’re your hands, Dean. And if you were paying attention, you’d realise the last thing your brother will ever do is shove you away again.
Dean’s head jerks up. Sam’s face is still unreadable but his eyes have gone soft and shiny, sad.
“I am going to save you,” Sam says, pure and steady conviction. “You don’t need to do this.”
“Not doing it for you.” The demon moves to pull away but Sam’s grip tightens, holds him in place. Real shock shoots through Dean’s head, half his own and half the demon’s pleased surprise. It edges closer than before, brings Dean’s mouth up to the delicate-soft skin beneath Sam’s ear. Sam smells warm and alive and good, it thinks, better than the chemical stink the girl in the bar had left on Dean’s skin. Sam smells like the beginning of really good sex and it has been an awful long time since the demon had that, hasn’t it.
Dean starts to lose his tenuous grip on consciousness as Sam’s hands glide up his back. The sensation flickers in and out but the demon arches into it, cat-like, sinuous, and Sam’s got to know that’s not him. He might be shameless but he’s not sex-starved, wouldn’t shiver like that under anybody’s hands no matter how bad he wanted it.
Sam’s hands skim over his shoulders, down, fingers looping loosely around his forearms. Dean’s skin prickles, the hair in Sam’s wake standing on end, and he feels the moan building up in his chest break free when Sam tightly grasps his wrists.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” the demon says. It lists forward, tugs against Sam’s grip. Sam holds on harder and it sucks in a sharp breath, starts rutting against Sam like a fucking virgin. “Fuck, I’m sure, really, really sure.”
Apparently, Dean’s not as shameless as he thought he was, either, because though it’s the demon driving, he can still feel how blazing hot his face is. But Christ, it’s Sam he’s friggin’ well dry-humping. Maybe it feels good but that’s no excuse, no reason.
The whole world tilts sideways as Dean flails uselessly inside his own head. It takes him way too long to figure out what the fuck just happened and by the time he does, he can’t believe it anyway.
Sam’s above him now, one huge, solid weight pinning him to the mattress. His arms are held above his head on the pillows, wrists crushed together in only one of Sam’s hands.
It feels very good, doesn’t it, the demon says. It makes Dean stretch out, push up into Sam’s body, makes him painfully aware of all the ways it could twist away but isn’t going to, no, because why give up something as fantastic as being held down by Sam.
And that’s what makes Dean fight. He struggles and snarls and gathers up every bit of strength he’s got in him to claw uselessly at the black smoke caging him in. It doesn’t hurt his body but he can feel it ripping through his soul. So much pain and it barely manifests in more than his arms jerking up off the pillow just for Sam to shove them back down, growl right up in his face, “Stay down.”
Dean gasps out, “Sam,” realising too late that it came out of his mouth instead of echoing inside his head, and by then the demon’s back in control, grinding his hips against Sam’s.
The demon says, Impressive and Dean isn’t sure what the hell it means until it actually starts wrestling against Sam’s grip, bucking and twisting and setting Dean’s skin on fire. Sam’s shirt is sticking to his cock, soft cotton and the hard, punishing dig of button edges every time Sam shoves him back down.
The slap of Sam’s open palm against his face stops both him and the demon dead. The demon tongues at the split on Dean’s lip, surprised Sam had that in him, while Dean’s still reeling, not sure where the fuck that came from and why the hell his heart’s galloping a million brutal miles against his ribs.
Belatedly, Dean says, Shows what you know.
“Is this what you want?” Sam snarls. The bones in Dean’s wrist start to grind together, sharp, slicing pain that does absolutely nothing to ease the desperate ache in his balls. “Because I’m not going to hurt you, Dean. I’ll hold you down and fuck you stupid if that’s what you want, but I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Dean’s body jerks, a warm spill of precome squeezes out of his cock, soaks through the fabric of Sam’s shirt. Sam’s eyes widen when he feels it and he backs off a little, wraps his fingers around the sticky-wet head like he has to touch it to believe it.
Smug and gleeful, the demon says, I had no idea you wanted your brother so badly, and Dean can tell its lying through its foul, rotten teeth; it thinks it knows exactly what Dean wants. That was all you, Dean. It’s your body that wants your brother’s touch. Your flesh that craves it.
You’re sick in the fucking head, Dean shoots back. He can feel himself writhing under Sam, his spine bowing to push himself harder into Sam’s grip, but he can’t feel Sam’s hand on him. It’s weird and wrong and for a split second, he doesn’t know if it’s because Sam’s jerking him off or that he can’t feel it.
It bites out, “Harder,” and full sensation comes crashing back in. The heat of Sam’s body, the flex-shift of miles and miles of hard muscle holding him down. Sam’s hand, bigger, stronger, than anybody’s hand he’s ever had on his dick before. Sam’s not even jerking him so much as he’s tugging good and slow, thumbing lazy circles along the ridge.
Baby brother knows what he’s doing, the demon says, then, “God, Sam, please, how-” breaking off with a noise Dean didn’t know he could make, this hard, desperate thing with decades of pure want packed into it.
Startled, Sam says, “You like being teased.”
And Dean does fucking not, thank you very much, but the demon fills the air with a long, throaty moan and Dean feels his knees pull up, fall wide. He’s spread out and vulnerable and on goddamn display and Sam’s just staring down at him, eyes gone almost demon-black except for the bright white edges.
“Tell me what else you like.”
Dean’s eyes snap open. He’s not sure if that’s his surprise or the demon’s, but he’s sure as hell never heard that tone come flying out of his little brother’s mouth before. It crawls under his skin, shortens his breath, all the demon’s fault for playing puppet master with his body.
It groans, “Don’t know,” and tries to tug his wrists out of Sam’s grip. Another thick pulse of precome forces out Dean’s slit in response to Sam tightening his hold both up there and down below.
Right up in Dean’s ear, Sam growls, “Tell me the truth.”
The demon’s quiet too long, just reacting to Sam’s touches, arching into them and making Dean bite his lip. Grossly, he can feel the demon start rooting around his head like a mangy alley cat looking for juicy scraps. Nervous dread rises up, starts to black out the physical; Dean loses bits and pieces of what Sam’s doing, feeling a slight tug on his balls and then nothing, nothing, more nothing.
Sam says, “Tell me, I know you know,” and like three’s the magic number, the demon starts talking.
“Like that you’re bigger’n me,” Dean hears in his own fucked-out rasp. He thinks one loud, vehement, No! but Sam can’t hear him and the demon doesn’t care. “Love that you can hold me down, Sammy, fuck.”
Sam’s teeth graze the shell of his ear like an electric shock wired straight to his dick. “Keep going.”
“Your hands, think about your fingers in my mouth.” Sticky fingertips touch Dean’s lips, belatedly making him realise he can feel everything again, can even smell the thick scent of sweat and sex on Sam’s hand. The demon licks his lips and Dean’s stomach lurches. He can taste it, too.
Sam’s fingers push slowly past his lips and it’s Dean who moans miserably as his tongue slides over them, who swallows convulsively when Sam pulls his jaw wide, pins his tongue down.
Slow and careful, Sam says, “You’ve never even sucked a dick before.”
Peals and peals of shatter-glass laughter slash through Dean’s head. Even the demon doesn’t try to hold back the wretched noise Dean makes, delighted to let Sam hear what it does to him, let Sam interpret it as pure mortification. It shuffles through Dean’s mind like flipping the pages in a book, quick and hurried, distracted.
Dean jerks his face away from Sam, tastes the salt scraped off Sam’s fingers by his teeth. This is his chance to say no, stop, this isn’t him but the words get stopped in his throat, clogged up by the black smoke roiling through his head.
“Guess you get to be the first,” it says, unsteady and shamed like Dean feels. “Go easy on me, huh?”
Sam hesitates. His hand hovers at the edges of Dean’s vision, fingers glistening wet.
He wants to, the demon chortles. Do you see this, Dean Winchester? Your brother wants so badly to be the first one to stick it in you. Almost as badly as you want him to do it.
So full of shit! Dean shouts. His body is shaking, trembling, with the fight going on inside or just the demon’s sick enjoyment he doesn’t know but he feels like he’s going to fly to pieces. What the fuck d’you know, you don’t know anything, don’t know a fucking thing.
Near-full awareness comes flooding in. Dean’s heartbeat is in his throat, his dick. The ghost of Sam’s hand on his cock is this horrible, unreal thing, his nerves scraped raw by the throb of want-need coursing through them. His limbs are locked in place, his mouth open on short, shallow gasps.
Dean’s lips form words he doesn’t know it’s going to make him say until he hears, “Like this, okay? D’you- Do it like this.” Too late, he tries to bite it back. Tries to close his eyes but the demon won’t let him.
The only thing he can see clearly on Sam’s face is that this is going to happen. If Dean wakes up tomorrow morning, it’s going to be to the soul-deep ache of what it feels like to let your little brother fuck you.
Sam breathes, “Okay.” His fingers skip down Dean’s side leaving cool, damp trails behind. He palms Dean’s thigh, slips higher to cup the cheek of his ass and lift-shove Dean’s hips up.
Dean starts losing bits and pieces again, catching snatches of the hair falling into Sam’s face, the flash of metal as Sam opens up his jeans. The taste of sweat-salt explodes on Dean’s tongue and he feels his mouth close greedily around Sam’s fingers again, licking and sucking, wet and careless about the saliva slicking his lips.
“Legs around my waist.”
The demon won’t let Dean meet Sam’s gaze and Dean’s actually grateful for it. He knows if he could, he’d look, he’d have to, and it’s better not to see what he knows will be there. His legs go up, thighs pressed to Sam’s bare hips, heels digging into the tense muscle of Sam’s ass. He’s back to feeling every last thing now, wishing so hard he wasn’t.
Then Sam says, “Look at me,” and Dean squeezes out, “No,” without the demon’s permission. Sam doesn’t notice the difference, doesn’t matter anyway because it’s back in control, forcing Dean’s eyes up, holding back the burn Dean can feel building behind them.
Spit-warm fingers push between Dean’s legs, slip wetly beneath his balls. Sam’s still pinning his arms but his lower body is completely free for the demon to twist fitfully against the light, teasing strokes over his hole.
It starts goading him, making him close his eyes and focus on nothing but that single touch, showing him how good it feels, eagerly hissing that he hasn’t seen anything yet. It makes him drag his gaze down to the shadows between their bodies, stare at the hard, full length of his brother’s cock so close to his own, and wouldn’t it feel good, so good, if it rubbed up against him, stained his pretty, worthless skin with come.
“That’s it,” Sam whispers to him through the rough noises he didn’t realise he was making. “Let me open you up, just-”
And Dean knows the ragged groan that the slow, steady thrust of Sam’s middle finger pushes out of his mouth is all him. His legs jerk and Sam keeps going, pulls back, does it again, again, and it feels so good that Dean’s going to fucking throw up.
Two, the demon says. Two of those long, thick fingers up inside you and look at you. We all knew you were a slut but this is remarkable.
Dean shakes his head, moans, “Oh god,” but the demon stops him before he can say anything else. His hips stutter, still, then start up again, and he realises it’s the difference between him riding Sam’s fingers and the demon making him do it, smoothing out his unsteady rhythm.
What will you be like when he splits you wide open on his dick, I wonder.
“What?” Sam asks. “Dean-”
It shakes his head and lifts most of Dean’s body right up off the sheets. “Need to feel it. Fuck, your cock, slick it up.”
Sam shudders and pulls his fingers free. The sharp friction sends sparks shooting straight into Dean’s gut. Jesus Christ, he can’t take this. The demon screeches in delight inside his head because he wants it, he really fucking wants it, and Sam’s about to give it to him.
Dean hears Sam spit, hears the wet slap of his hand on his cock, feels the blunt head nudge up right against his hole as Sam leans more weight on his trapped wrists. He hears the demon echo Sam’s order to open his eyes, watch, watch, and he does, eyes locked against his will on Sam’s face as the pressure deepens, turns to a slick, slow burn.
This is the best part, the demon glees. The very best part. The real, inescapable sin of Sam’s dick sinking into him, of Dean arching into it, of them both sweating and cursing and fucking with the Almighty’s name on their lips. Dean is going to hell and he’s dragging sweet baby brother with him because Sam loves him so much, so very, very much that he’d do this, just because Dean asked.
Sam bottoms out and Dean chokes on the air the demon sucks into his lungs. It forces him to breathe through the too-full feeling, forces him to tighten up around Sam’s cock so Sam gasps and jerks, fucks into him before they’re both ready.
“Do it,” it chants. “Do it, Sammy, do it.” Fuck him.
Whole-body tremors go through him as Sam slides out, all hard, gritty friction. He tenses up when just the head is left holding him open and Sam spits twice more, once into his own hand and once straight onto Dean’s hole. The push back in is easier but not by much and still slow enough that Dean can feel every grudging inch.
Buried deep, balls pressed up snug against Dean’s ass, Sam collapses forward, elbows bracketing Dean’s head. “Can you feel that?” He tucks his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, drags his hand down to nudge it tight under Dean’s hip. Dean can feel his heartbeat pounding against Sam’s chest. “Me, can you feel me.”
The demon tears the truth out of Dean, chokes him with it until he rasps, “Yeah, Sammy, yeah, s’okay.”
“It will be,” Sam says, and he shoves his other arm beneath Dean’s shoulders, hauls them tight together and thrusts for real. He keeps talking, voice a low buzz under Dean’s skin, words muffled and pointless because Dean is suffocating, buried under Sam and his own sick pleasure.
Inside him, the demon wrenches. Dean’s eyes snap open, a thick, black tar obscuring his vision. He hears himself hiss, feels Sam’s grip on him go hard. Vicious pain stabs into the centre of his chest, sharp counterpoint to the slick-smooth push of Sam inside him. Sam doesn’t stop, his voice doesn’t change, this steady, inexorable whisper that buffets the demon like a whirlwind.
It claws at Dean’s insides, slices fiery-hot lines through his brain. Sam says, “I’m sorry,” touches his lips to Dean’s temple and grabs onto his head, forcing him to stare blindly forward. The more he talks, the more numb Dean feels, and Dean has to wonder if this is what it was like for Sam.
His body jerks, bucks and writhes on the bed but Sam holds him down, holds him close. He can feel the strain on his bones, how his muscles scream against what the demon is trying to do with him, but it’s distant, unreal. Sam is being careful, beginning with the invocatio and reciting psalms between each stage, afraid because it’s him.
Too careful, because the demon tears through the cage Sam is trying to build. It shoves his face right into Sam’s, snarls, “This is how you’ll save him? Visit sins upon his flesh and hope his soul will be yours to keep?”
“It will be,” Sam repeats, strong and sure, and picks up right where he left off. The bars snap back into place and the demon screeches Dean’s throat raw. Black scorching smoke pours out of Dean’s mouth, raises blisters he knows aren’t real, and Sam drops his forehead to Dean’s chest, mouths the words to finish it straight into Dean’s skin.
Dean drops back to the bed in a limp heap. His body is one massive ache, the hurt of having a demon ripped out of him inseparable from the dull, steady pounding in his blood. Sam shifts, pushing a ragged groan out of him, and when Sam’s mouth seals warm over his, he’s absolutely powerless to do anything but let Sam kiss the reek of sulphur from his tongue.
His hands grasp uselessly at Sam’s back. He’s not even sure what he wants until Sam moves, draws back and fills him up again. Livewire sensation skitters out to Dean’s fingertips, grows stronger, pulses thicker, as Sam fucks into him. Their mouths stay so close together, almost-kiss, Dean breathing in Sam’s breath, feeling his own shunted warm back over his lips. Sam bites at his mouth, hands everywhere all at once, stroking, holding, having and Dean doesn’t even try to keep from pushing into every last touch.
Sam shifts again, worms a hand between the small of Dean’s back and the bed. He lifts, traps Dean’s leaking cock between their bellies and grinds down, shaking and shoving and saying, “Please, please, c’mon, it’s good, you gotta come, Dean, c’mon,” and Dean does, so hard he thinks he actually finally will black out.
But Sam’s still going, more wordless noises filling up the air between them as he shoves up on his hands. He stares down at Dean, mouth slack, eyes so heavy, and his thrusts go hard, bruising. He grabs onto Dean’s hip and shoves himself deep, freezes there, but Dean can feel him on the inside, the twitch and swell, the warm spill of come filling him. He can’t stop himself from squirming, his hips jerking in tiny little circles at the way it feels.
For a second time that night, Sam’s full weight crushes him into the mattress. He’d bitch, oh god, he’d bitch, but he’s got a lot of other stuff on his mind. Like how the hell is he supposed to feel right now.
When Sam stirs, it’s to touch his lips to the marred ink where the girl’s nails had scratched him, deep enough to draw blood and distort the mark. The welt she’d left stings under the soft brush of Sam’s mouth. Dean tenses up and sucks in a hissing breath as he’s rudely reminded that he’s still got his brother’s dick up his goddamn ass. Nothing’s ever really going to make that okay.
“No more,” Sam says.
Dean doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth.
“No more,” Sam repeats, lifting his head. He meets Dean’s gaze head on, stubborn and determined. “I mean it. No more girls. No more bars in the middle of the night without me. No more without me.
Visibly trembling, mentally willing Sam not to say a fucking word about it, Dean awkwardly smoothes back Sam’s hair. Something he’s done dozens of thousands of times before. It still means the same thing, mostly.
His own voice is absolutely wrecked when he says, “How’d you-”
“I know you,” Sam says, the plain, stark fact of it a glint in his eyes. “And sometimes.”
Dean doesn’t want to hear what Sam will say next. He knows it’s too late now, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Maybe it just makes it harder.
“Sometimes, demons tell the truth.”