The Firefly that Loved Metallica (Sam/Dean, 10,595 words, R)

[fleshflutter]

I started writing this just a few days after All Hell Breaks Loose and have been picking it up and putting it down since then. It's finally finished and if I don't post it now, I reckon I'll just keep on picking at it. *g*

The Firefly that Loved Metallica
(Sam/Dean, 10,595 words, R, set post-AHBL)
In which Sam has a bottle full of soul.


Dean's soul tastes like candyfloss. It's like a little, warm cloud of spun sugar in Sam's mouth.

Sam'd thought it was the Crossroads Demon trying to slip him some tongue as they sealed the deal, sealed her defeat. Dean would probably be offended to have his soul mistaken for demon tongue.

"He's all yours, baby," she hissed in his ear when she finally let him breathe again. Sam had stared at her, not daring to move and every drop of stubborn bravado wrung from him in the face of this one last complicated victory.

All pretence of humanity had slid from her. Her eyes turned bloody and the bones in her face sharpened, straining against her sweat-slick skin. A low, guttural noise like boiling water hissed through the air as she flickered and was gone, pouring out black smoke and leaving a crumpled woman on the ground.

And Sam just stands there, feeling his brother's soul flutter against his lips.

"Oh my God!" says Jo.

"Yeah," says Bobby.

"Mmmm!" says Sam, waggling his hands frantically.

It occurs to him that he could very easily swallow Dean's soul, and that if he opens his mouth, even to breathe, Dean's soul could float away like dandelion seeds. He's got his brother's thin sugar soul in his mouth and Jo and Bobby are just staring at him.

"Mmmmm!" he says again, with greater, irritated emphasis.

"Oh! Right!" says Bobby.

He presses his shotgun into Jo's hand and runs back to the Impala. Jo's screwing her eyes up and staring at Sam, as if waiting for light to come flooding out of his nose or something. She takes a step closer and that doesn't stop Sam from wanting to hyperventilate. He watches her warily, ready to smack her hands away if she tries to get her fingers in his mouth, but she just goes on staring, a little frown on her brow, pink lips parted in a small, wondering 'o'.

"Here," says Bobby, pressing something glass to Sam's lips. "Spit."

Jo says something like, I hope to God you emptied that first, Bobby, but Sam doesn't pay attention. Slowly, ever so slowly, he closes his lips about the rim of the bottle and pours the soul out of his mouth. A dollop of light drops into the bottle then contracts to a single point of pinkish-red light. It darts, firefly-like, up and around, making no sound as it taps the glass.

Bobby snatches the bottle from him and screws the lid on tight and it's only then that Sam can see the label. Jack Daniel's. They're keeping Dean's soul, his iddy biddy pink-and-red soul, in a bottle of whiskey.

"He's not going to suffocate in there, is he?" Jo asks.

Sam and Bobby exchange looks. Sam doesn't have much experience in storing souls and he suspects Bobby's expertise doesn't stretch to it either. Taking the bottle by the neck between his thumb and forefinger, Sam holds it up to the moonlight.

He expects the glass to be warm already when he presses a fingertip to the side of the bottle, but it's not. The firefly inside briefly comes over to inspect Sam's fingertip but obviously gets bored of the sight quickly and flitters off.

"He's going to be okay," says Sam.

:::

They pile into the Impala and Sam reluctantly hands the whiskey bottle to Jo. It's a tough choice. As much as Dean might like and respect Jo and Bobby, there's no way he'd trust anyone but Sam to drive the Impala. Over my dead body, as he'd taken to saying when there were too few days left for Sam to find that kind of thing funny.

But if Sam's going to be driving, the only place he could safely have the bottle would be wedged between his thighs and that just feels like it's the one thing that's even more wrong than having Dean's soul in a whiskey bottle in the first place.

"Don't know about you," says Bobby. "But I wasn't expecting that. Didn't you just get popped straight back into your body?"

Sam flicks a glance in the rear-view mirror and sees that Jo's got the bottle cupped reverently in her hands, firefly flickering behind her soft splayed fingers, then he looks back at the road. He nods jerkily, thinking of the empty corpse that Ellen must still be baby-sitting.

"Yeah. Just woke up. Maybe… maybe it was different because she wasn't the one who had my soul, or maybe she was just being a bitch giving it back like this or…"

"Or maybe it's not gonna go back in his body," Bobby prompts. His tone is gentle and Sam knows he's trying to play Dad and prepare him for a disappointment. Thing is, as far as Sam is concerned, dads prepare their sons for disappointment with weapons training and barked orders, so Bobby's attempts are a little lost on him.

“So… what are you saying, Bobby? That I’m just going to have a bottle of Dean’s soul? Is that…?”

Sam flicks another surreptitious glance at Jo, who is hunched over the bottle, peering inside. The expression of open wonder on her face and the blonde hair falling about her lit-up face conspire to make her look like a twelve-year old at the carnival. Sam considers pulling the Impala over so he can take Dean’s soul out of her hands, take it back with him where it belongs.

“Souls don’t die, Sam,” Bobby is patiently explaining. “Flesh does. You gotta be prepared that maybe this isn’t going to work.”

“You said that about the Crossroads Demon. You said I had to expect her to dig her claws into Dean’s soul and never let go. And look, I got it. I got his soul back. So don’t tell me what I’ve got to be prepared for.”

Jo is whispering something against the glass and her lips are curved into a smile. She’s crooning at the firefly like it’s a goddamn baby in a crib, and nothing at all like the soul of a demon hunter trapped in a whiskey bottle. Sam doesn’t quite get what that difference demands by way of treatment, but he feels right down to the bone that it’s a pretty big distinction.

He opens his mouth to say something but her gaze flicks to him abruptly, the eyes of their reflections meeting in the mirror.

“Quit pouting and quit checking up on him!” she snaps. “I’ve got him. I’m not going to drop the damn bottle.”

Sam doesn’t quit pouting. In fact, he pouts even harder because this is not how victory is supposed to feel. Victory is supposed to include Dean, Dean looking out from behind his eyes and Dean’s gruff, slightly overwhelmed voice coming from his mouth, and Dean awkwardly patting Sam on the back and trying to act like Hell had been no worse than sitting through Pride and Prejudice that time with Sam. Victory is supposed to include AC/DC and Sam riding shotgun and Dean being right there.

Sam puts his foot down and the Impala roars; Sam’s pleased to hear it sounds as disgruntled and pissed-off as he does.

:::

Ellen's tried to work out a schedule, a timetable in her head so she knows when to expect them back and when to accept that it’s not worked. She knows how long it'll take them to get there and back, but it's the bit in the middle she can't puzzle out. How long does it take to get a demon to give up a soul? A soul it's worked hard to win?

If it's Sam Winchester asking, Ellen doesn't think it should take long at all. There's only one thing in this world scarier than a Winchester, and that's Winchesters. Still, demons have never shown much sense when it comes to messing with Winchesters.

She sets her empty coffee mug down and looks at Dean again. The firelight flickers over his mottled blue skin, like he's some hollow, marble egg.

They've been keeping him in Bobby's deepfreeze since Dean dropped dead three days ago. Sam had refused to bury him and so Ellen got Bobby to lay him out in the ice, and she'd indulged herself and played mother, drawing a blanket of bags of frozen peas and uncooked meat up around Dean. When it was time, she'd uncovered him and had Bobby bring him back in, not Sam. She’d been glad of that. It hadn’t been Dean they brought out of the ice, just his body.

After they'd gone, Ellen had bullied the fire into life and set about thawing the corpse. After all, bad enough being dead, but she's not going to have the poor boy waking up cold. She'd sat with Dean while the frost on his stupidly feminine eyelashes glistened and melted, rolling down his waxy cheeks like tears.

Then she'd made a pot of coffee. Billy always liked a shot of caffeine to wake him up and she thinks that Dean would probably appreciate coming back to life to find a cup of coffee waiting for him. But she's drunk all the coffee and Dean's still not woken up. She's pretty sure she'd've noticed if he had. He doesn't strike her as the type to come back from the dead without a lot of noise and fuss.

The Impala screeches to a halt outside and Ellen takes a breath. She stands up and rubs her hands together, not sure when she got so cold. The door bangs open and the first thing she can think is that the grief has driven Sam to drink and she'll murder Bobby for letting the poor boy drink a whole bottle of whiskey and if he let Sam drive her baby girl around after drinking that much she'll murder him all over again.

Sam drops to his knees by Dean and Ellen almost thinks she can't bear to watch until she notices that Sam is trying to pour what's left of the whiskey down his brother's throat.

"Oh honey," she whispers. "Honey, I don't think that that's…"

"It's his soul," Jo hisses.

Ellen stops and turns to look at her daughter. Jo's transfixed, she's not even blinking. Ellen thinks she needs a little clarification but isn't sure what she should ask in order to get it. She looks back at the bottle and at the red-pink firefly that Sam is tipping into Dean's open mouth.

"His soul," she says, and even Bobby, who can normally be relied upon to be reasonable and sane, doesn't take pity on her and explain.

She gives up on understanding. Sam's got one of his giant hands covering Dean's mouth. He doesn't look to be breathing and Ellen begins to worry that he plans on holding off on breathing 'til his big brother takes it up again.

There's something about these two boys that calls to Ellen. They're too old to be thought of as orphans, but that's what she's always seen looking out of their eyes: two little boys who need a good hot meal and the missing buttons stitched back on their shirts and someone to kiss their foreheads just before they go to sleep.

Ellen can't give them that, wouldn't try to. Dean's been mom, dad and everything else to Sam since long ago and she doesn't think she could match up to whatever brand of parental care he's been giving Sam, but right now, she wants to be that for them more than she's ever done before.

The fire crackles fitfully, the last log toppling into the embers, as they all watch and wait. Almost lazily, the firefly drifts out of Dean’s right nostril and rises up into the air. Sam’s hand goes slack on Dean’s face as he watches his brother’s soul meander towards the rafters.

“Goddamn it, Dean!” he snarls, scrambling to his feet. “Don’t be so fucking awkward! Just take your fucking soul back, would you?”

“Quick! Grab him!” shrieks Jo.

Ellen leaps up onto the sofa to get some extra height, Bobby taking the table, but Sam gets there first. He flings his long body forward and his hand closes about the speck of light. As his fingers curl closed, it looks like a wet jolt of electricity goes through him. His eyes flare wide and his teeth grind together, but the firefly’s caught. Then he crashes to the floor, his knees hitting the floorboards hard.

Balancing precariously on the arm of the sofa, Ellen freezes in order to watch him. Sam kneels there on the floor, opening his cupped hands just enough to see inside. The pinkish-red light stains his fingers, lighting him up so that Ellen almost thinks she can see the pulsing of his blood. The light splashes back up on his face like sunshine.

“Did you… did you crush him?” Jo says. Her voice wavers and Sam gives her a smile that has more patience to it than anything Ellen’s seen from him in the last week.

“No, he’s fine.”

A sigh heaves through the room and Ellen thinks it’s born from all of them. She climbs down from the sofa. They move back to the still body stretched out along the floor. Bobby takes Dean’s face in his gnarled old hands and Ellen pinches Dean’s nose shut. It’s kind of ridiculous and Ellen is struck by the question of how the hell they’d explain to someone who should walk in what they were doing to Sam’s brother’s three day-old corpse, with a firefly in his hands and an empty bottle of whiskey lying by the side.

She bites back a laugh because she knows they’d just think hysteria had taken hold of her. It’s enough that Dean would get the joke.

“Right,” says Sam, and cups his hands over Dean’s open mouth.

They huddle around Dean until the light that flickers between Sam’s fingers disappears. Sam doesn’t take his eyes off Dean’s face. He leans forward and Ellen wonders if it’s so that when Dean opens his eyes, Sammy’ll be the first thing he sees.

“Uh, guys?” says Jo.

The firefly flies out of the bottom of the leg of Dean’s jeans and makes for the window. It taps against the pane for a second, before locating a gap through which to slip out into the early morning.

“Ew,” says Jo. “I don't wanna think about where that came out.”

As they rush for the door, Ellen privately finds herself agreeing with her.

:::

The firefly drifts out over the twisted shapes of the cars in Bobby’s yard. It spirals about the towers of old wrecks, rising sometimes into the pale yellow sky, only to sink again to skim the stony ground. Bobby and Ellen circle round, probably with some mad idea of cutting the firefly off at the gates, while Jo runs along at Sam’s side, clambering over cars and rusted metal.

Sam’s heart is knotted in his chest, not beating so much as buzzing like the wings of a hummingbird. He’s never realised how big, how fucking immense the world is until Dean’s tiny little pink soul is threatening to disappear into it.

There are times when he thinks the firefly’s finally gone, and he goes on running simply because his body doesn’t know what else to do with itself. And then he’ll catch a glow of light out of the corner of his eye, or Bobby will shout out There he is! By the blue Ford! No, not the damn Escort, the CX with the broken tail-lights!

When he catches up with the firefly, it’s bobbing about the hood of the Impala and Sam wonders why he didn’t think to head there first. He hunches his lanky body over, trying to curl into something non-threatening as he would to corner a wild animal. The firefly doesn’t even seem to notice him, just goes on dancing about on the shining black metal, its light reflected like it’s going over dark water.

Jo hangs back as Sam creeps forward and he’s reminded again that she’s not stupid and that she does care. But he’s the only one he’d trust to reach out to Dean’s soul. He stretches his hand out, fingers spread wide, and the firefly arcs back towards him.

“Dean?” Sam whispers. “Please… c’mon back here… Please…”

Two times Sam manages to catch a firefly about the size of a speck of dust; it’s some kind of luck he must have. His palm fills with light and the firefly draws lazy patterns over his hand, as if Sam is just one more interesting thing to investigate. There’s that same warm, fuzzy certainty of Dean when he’s skin to soul with his brother, just as he had when the firefly was trapped in his mouth.

Sam takes a deep breath and swallows, wondering if he'll ever dare move again, then glances over his shoulder at Jo.

“Are we gonna try again?” she asks. “‘Cos if we are, you’re gonna have to be the one to plug him shut.”

:::

They don’t try again. Bobby hauls Dean’s body up onto his shoulder and carries him out into the dawn to the deepfreeze. Jo holds the torch and lifts the lid on the big, long freezer. She stands sombre and pale, and Bobby is irresistibly struck by the memory of the picture of the Angel at the Gate that was in the Sunday school Bibles when he was a little boy.

Jo’s taking it hard and if Sam weren’t around Bobby would think Jo was quite a problem. But with Sam and his earth-rumbling, wrathful grief about, Bobby’s got no mind to spare her. Jo’s mourning doesn’t have the same sense of apocalypse that Sam’s does.

Between them, they get Dean settled back into the ice. This can’t go on too much longer. There was a time before that Bobby had to keep a body on ice - poor old Gary Lavigne, a hunter fighting the battle against being turned vampire - and after a while, things were just past salvaging.

Sam won’t understand that, of course. So long as there’s one part still working, he’d said after that Impala had been wrecked, and now he’s got his hands on Dean’s soul. Even Bobby’s hard-pressed to decide when they should cut Dean free. It’s a shame: nice boy, damn fine hunter, stubbornest brother in the world, excepting Sam perhaps. But Dean’s soul belongs in his body or in heaven, not in an old whiskey bottle and Bobby just doesn’t know how to make Sam see that.

“You’re thinking so damn loud it’s a wonder Dean hasn’t heard you,” says Jo.

Jo’s adjusting Dean’s collar, not looking at Bobby. Her fingertips drift over his throat and then her fingers curl into helpless little fists. Bobby brings the lid down.

“What would Dean say to all this, huh?”

Jo’s got no answer for that; Bobby didn’t expect her to. They trudge back through the yard to the house and he sends Jo to bed. Ellen’s curled up asleep on the sofa. Sam’s awake, like Bobby expected him to be. He reckons John’s youngest’ll be on his feet ‘til unconsciousness knocks him clear off ‘em.

Sam’s at his laptop, his chin propped up on his palm, eyes heavy-lidded as he stares at the screen. It’s the pink-red light of Dean’s soul, back in his bottle, that Sam’s working by. Bobby can’t help a smile at that.

Even when he turns in his chair to look at Bobby, Sam’s long fingers reach out to curl about the bottle, keeping his brother in-touch if not in-sight at all times.

“What do I look for?” he says. The weariness in his tone makes Bobby think the question more rhetorical than anything. This is new ground, no maps and no travel guides. Sam’s eyes try to close but he fights them back open. “I’ve been looking at po tèt but that doesn't fit. I’ve got a whole archive here on out-of-body stories but most of them are nothing but bullshit. Do I try getting hold of a Reaper?” Bobby really doesn’t think that’s a good idea and opens his mouth to say so, but Sam’s already moved on. “Or how about I summon the Crossroads Demon and get her to do something?”

"Maybe you should get some sleep first. Sleep on winning this one, and we'll get some sort of plan worked out for the next step when we're not all-"

Sam's already shaking his head and turning back to the laptop. His fingers fly across the keys and Bobby can barely keep up with the pages that flash onto the screen. The light of Dean's soul is constant but it shifts, rolling like marbles in a bowl, rippling over Sam's hands as he types.

"You go," says Sam. "I can't… not yet. Just… a few hours more."

"Sam-"

"No. Not yet. Gimme a while longer."

Bobby wonders whether John would be proud that his son is as stubborn as he was, or frustrated that he'd passed that particular trait on so damn successfully. He nods and backs away.

Sam doesn't watch him go, his hand is on the bottle again.

:::

The dreams have barely had time to come, misshapen little confusions of red eyes bursting into clouds of pink butterflies and then nothing at all like she knows, when Jo is startled awake.

At first she thinks the rumbling is an earthquake. Her hands clutch at the bedframe while she tries to make sense of what's happening. Because earthquakes don't have notes. They don't have a bass line or loud drumming either. Earthquakes don't sound like Enter Sandman, and Metallica can only be mistaken for a natural disaster when it's being played that damn loud.

She draws in a shocked, angry breath then swings her legs over the side of the bed and drags on an old shirt. The clock by her bed says it's 4:57am. She pads down the stairs, into the growling pit of music, where the dim dawn light is just beginning to creep in.

Her mom's still on the sofa, but her head is buried under cushions. Sam's where he was too, but his laptop's been pushed away. His arms are folded on the table, the sharp point of his chin resting on his hands and his shoulders hunched over. The whiskey bottle is before him and the firefly is weaving crazily about inside the glass. Sam's grinning as he watches and Jo thinks it's the first sign of life, real life she's seen from him in just about forever.

"Thrash metal… that's a new kind of wake-up call," says Jo.

Sam flicks her a glance out of the corner of his eye but he doesn't make any move to turn the music down.

"He likes it."

From the exhilarated pink fluttering in the bottle, Jo thinks he's right. And maybe the firefly’s even a little brighter too. It's a sharp stab to the heart, to remember that that tiny little dot of light is Dean. That’s Dean who likes his mullet-rock, who smells of guns and old leather, who used to watch her with that look of confused desire on his face when he thought she didn’t notice.

She wants to ask what it felt like when Sam had Dean’s soul in his hand, or in his mouth. She wants to know whether the firefly has a texture or a taste. But it’s not the kind of question that feels right to ask a brother and she doesn’t think Sam would tell her anyway. There are some things that she’ll never be allowed any part of, and Dean is Sam’s brother and Sam is Dean’s brother and that’s a knot that she’ll never untangle. Mostly she doesn’t even want to untangle it, mostly.

Sam’s completely forgotten she’s there, as if there could be anything more deserving of his attention in the room than the firefly. Jo’s never been all that interesting to Sam. Any scrutiny she’s had from him has been all about Sam deciding whether she’s good enough for his brother. She’s never fooled herself: Sam could shut down any of those vague feelings Dean has for Jo in a heartbeat. It’s a secret source of pride and joy for Jo that she’s been deemed just about worthy in the eyes of Sam Winchester.

“Did you find anything?” she asks.

It takes long enough for Sam to respond that Jo’s thinking maybe he didn’t hear her or maybe he’s deaf and blind to anything but Dean’s soul.

“I found someone. I think. Left a couple of messages on her answer phone. If she doesn’t get back to me by eight, I’m driving out there anyway.”

Jo sits down opposite him, the bottle between them, and watches. She doesn’t try to make conversation or offer to fix breakfast. Morning slants through the windows, across the dusty floors and over the piles of Bobby’s books, sparks off the glass bottle. It’s going to be a bright day. Metallica crashes to a halt and Jo waits for Sam to switch the tape over, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns the player off and stands up.

“Bobby?” he yells. “Bobby, where can I get a truck with a freezer? Fast?”

It’s only a quarter to seven. Jo doesn’t know who this woman is that Sam’s found, but she hopes for her sake she can give Sam what he wants.

:::

Black Bella is a witch. She lives in Nova Scotia. That’s a trip that Sam can’t make without at least a few hours sleep in the middle. Ellen doesn’t think Sam knows that though.

Black Bella better be ready to have Sam turn up on her doorstep, thinks Ellen. And please God let Sam at least try knocking on her door before he picks the lock or they’ll all be turned into goddamn frogs and Ellen doesn’t want to know how Sam would react to that kind of frustration. It’s not like he’d let a little thing like that hold him up much. Not when Dean’s a corpse and a pink firefly in a bottle. Still, maybe if Sam were a frog, it wouldn’t matter so much that Dean were a firefly.

And that train of thought is a clear sign that the sleep you get from sleeping on a sofa while Metallica roars and growls at you is no kind of sleep at all.

Sam is driving like the road's dropping into hell behind him. No one else is trusted with his brother's car, of course. Jo's in the back with the whiskey bottle full of soul and Ellen can see Bobby in the rear view mirror, at the wheel of a big old reefer. It'd been a relief to Ellen that Sam had been reasonable enough to keep Dean's body on ice and not insist that he go in the Impala's trunk. Winchesters weren't usually reasonable men.

It must be like juggling: a soul, a body, a beloved car, all up in the air, never in one hand at once. Ellen stops herself from thanking God that Dean's too broken to fragment anymore, because counting your blessings only points out what you've got left to lose.

Still, Sam's hanging on by a thread as it is. He's barely keeping it together. It's only the fearsome-intense love he's got for his brother that keeps him glued together.

She doesn't like to think too deeply about just how much the Winchester boys love each other, how far they go for each other because of that love. One of them sells his soul and buys a one-way ticket to hell for the other, the other faces down demons and drives a four-day old corpse across country on a hope so thin it wouldn't stand up to a light rain. If she let it, the Winchester boys would make her love for Billy seem more than a little inadequate, like she just didn't care enough.

Shouldn't a wife's love be stronger than a brother's?

She can't answer that. She can only wish she and Billy had had time to give Jo a kid sister.

Ellen glances over her shoulder at her daughter, who's fast asleep, wrapped about the bottle like it's her favourite raggedy-ann. Her hair's tied back in a lank ponytail and there are bluish-gray smudges beneath her eyes. But she's holding onto that bottle so hard her fingertips are white. Dean's soul peeps out between her splayed fingers, his glow bright even in the glare of sunlight that burns through the dust-caked car windows.

Sam's so silent but he's watching the mirror more often than he is looking out the windscreen. She doesn't like the set of his face, it reminds her too much of John, that late-night look he'd get at the Roadhouse, dark eyes fixed on the shadows at the bottom of his glass, seeing nothing but how wrong and nasty things can be.

"Gonna need a rest-stop soon, Sam," she says. "I'm sticky and dirty and dying for a cup of coffee."

Sam's gaze flicks back immediately to the road. His brow tightens into a frown.

"Already? We haven't been driving that long."

"It's been four hours, sweetheart. They flew by that fast for you?"

She smiles and it comes through in her voice even though Sam's not looking at her. She doesn't want to push, but sometimes that's what a boy needs. The car smells warm and rough, smells of Dean. The cassette tapes, old diner receipts and greasy, screwed up paper serviette mark this as Dean-space. And even if Ellen didn't think that Sam should take a break from this mobile temple to Dean Winchester, if her legs are in need of stretching, Sam's ridiculously long ones must be in need of it.

Sam twists his wrist, glancing at his watch, eyebrows rising slightly.

"Okay. Yeah. But we can't take too long." He's quiet for a moment then flashes her a smile that's as weak as water and adds, "Guess we're just having too much fun."

They find a diner and while Ellen leans into the back to wake Jo, Sam pries the bottle away from her. It's a struggle because Jo's first waking thought is the bottle and Sam doesn't look like he ever thinks about anything else. Ellen shushes Jo as best she can and bites her tongue before sleep-deprivation and desperation drive her to offer her candy or something to make up for the loss. There's always one kid on the playground who's not prepared to share, and Sam's a little too old to learn that lesson now.

Bobby's semi rolls in behind them and Sam's straight over there, lingering by the door at the back, hand against the rusted metal.

"Everything okay?" he says to Bobby. "Everything…?"

Bobby nods and he's so calm and reassuring that Ellen wants to plant a kiss on him. Every weird-ass family needs its parents, and she guesses it's her and Bobby for this one.

"God, I've got one hell of a migraine. Feels like someone's stamping on my skull," Jo groans. She rakes her fingers through his hair and Ellen drapes an arm around her. She's not brave enough to do the same for Sam, only just brave enough to touch his shoulder.

"C'mon. Coffee. That'll set you right."

Sam lets her herd him in but slinks off to a table in the window where he can keep an eye on the semi. He slouches in his seat and picks at the label on the whiskey bottle. His hair sticks up at all angles and the taut line of his jaw makes the diner waitress give him a doubtful look. Ellen smoothes it over with a smile though and Bobby's so nice and normal that the waitress forgives them for Sam being so sullen and strange.

Jo stretches, long and languid as summer, her old-t-shirt sliding up her tanned belly. There's a table of truckers over in the corner, three of them, with tiny eyes and the lines on their faces marked out with dirt, and they pay more attention than Ellen can feel comfortable with. She shunts Jo into the far seat, then herds Bobby in after her, and she slides into the seat next to Sam.

None of them really have anything to talk about. Ellen puts cream in her coffee, simply to watch the inkblot of white ripple across the black surface. Sam drinks his straight away, like his mouth's made of asbestos. Jo puts her elbows on the table and slumps forward, starts wearily teasing Bobby about how much sugar he's got in his coffee.

The truckers' chorus of grating laughter from across the diner makes Ellen draw in a breath and shift in her seat.

Oh what she'd give to have Dean here now. Dean with his 'instant respect' body language, who sends out 'don't mess with me' signals just by the way he moves. There's not a single person at the table who can't take care of themselves, but Dean always makes it so damn obvious. People don't have to learn the hard way with Dean. Of course, it's not like having Dean at the table wouldn't cause a few problems of its own.

She keeps an eye on the truckers out of the corner of her eye, watches Jo as best she can too.

"Show a little respect," she hisses when Jo laughs and tweaks Bobby's moustache.

"She's alright," says Bobby mildly. He looks at Ellen and follows the direction of her gaze. One of the truckers has stood up, tugged his sagging belt back up over his paunch and is heading towards them. Bobby sighs and kicks Sam under the table. Sam ignores him.

Ellen shoves her cup away as the jerk draws near and looks up at him with a bright smile that doesn't do anything against the light of steel in her eyes.

"Can I help you?" she says.

Some men are just too easily led about their dicks to see when they're getting in over their heads, thinks Ellen, as the jerk addresses himself to Jo instead.

"You go for the older guy, do you, little lady? Bet you do. Real daddy's girl, aren't you? C'mon, come sit with us." Jo's rolling her eyes and opening her mouth to shoot off some standard rejection, but the trucker buys himself a whole load of trouble by reaching out and picking up the whiskey bottle. "What's this, baby? You been drinking daddy's liquor?"

"Put it down," says Sam.

The diner's gone very quiet. The trucker's buddies are on their feet, the waitresses are watching in a huddle from the counter, customers have frozen in their conversations, twisted round in their seats to see the show. The trucker hesitates a moment, because even slugs have some kind of survival instinct Ellen supposes, but then he jerks the bottle round, gripping its neck like it's a weapon. The firefly's just sweeping about inside like everything's dandy.

"Or what, tough guy? This your bottle?"

There's the quiet click of the hammer as Sam cocks his gun at the trucker, then a rustle of panic through the diner. The situation's getting totally out of hand and what should have been a little incident is growing into something that'll draw way too much attention. Ellen touches Sam's forearm, anything to remind him that the world's bigger than what's in the bottle.

"Just give him the damn bottle back," says Jo.

"We don't want any trouble," says Bobby. "Just give him the bottle."

Ellen'd feel sorry for the trucker, with that stupid look of 'how the hell did I get here?' on his face, if this wasn't all because he was too much of a loser to know when to keep his hands to himself. He doesn't even have the sense to know how to get himself out of it. He goes on standing there, staring at the gun pointing between his eyes.

Sam's doing that not-breathing thing again and how fucked up is it that Ellen wishes his hand would wobble or there'd be some colour in his cheeks or something?

"C'mon," she says to the trucker, gentle as she can manage. "He just wants the bottle back."

Even then the trucker doesn't move.

"S'just a bottle," he says, too bemused to sound disdainful.

Sam rises up out of his seat, slow and not quite right, and Ellen swallows something cold and unhappy down. The gun, dull and black, slides across her line of vision.

"Give it back."

Is there an echo to Sam's voice? Ellen can't quite catch what the difference is, just that his voice is quiet and big and hollow.

The trucker dumbly hands the bottle back to Sam, and the world flutters back to life. One of the waitresses starts to move behind the counter and Ellen doesn't wait to see if she's going for the phone or just disappearing out back to tell the line cooks what just happened. She grabs Sam's arm and drags him out of the diner, Jo and Bobby bringing up the rear. Sam doesn't fight her, just climbs back into the Impala and nurses the bottle between his large, flat palms.

"All right, no more rest-stops," says Ellen.

:::

The sky's the colour of nectarine skin, rolling into black clouds. The white houses along the waterfront stand out stark and tiny beneath the stormy sky, like a row of cut-outs. It's all peach softness along the horizon, but there's bad weather coming through first.

Black Bella meets them at the door. Her garden smells of herbs but all Bobby can see is forget-me-nots. She's standing there amid the tiny little blue flowers, waiting for them, watching them through the half-light.

"Mr Winchester," she says, catching hold of Sam's hand and gripping it tightly, using it to hold him still as she peers into his eyes. Whatever she sees, she approves of, and Sam's given a quick, curt nod.

Jo and Ellen are dismissed but Bobby's ushered in behind Sam, neither greeted nor ignored. He's kind of used to that treatment. He looks back over his shoulder, just once, at the fading sunlight on the water, and the Harvelle women looking worn-out but beautiful as they lean against the Impala, and then he's in the fragrant gloom of Black Bella's house.

Bobby can't see Bella past Sam's hulking frame, but he can hear the sweep of her skirts. Sometimes he can see little glints of light sparking off the pins in her dark hair. She leads them to a parlour and takes a seat, a squat cushioned wicker chair. It's a comfortable and normal room, but for the shrine of family photos on a table by the window. A candle burns in front of the faded sepia pictures, its flame small and bright against the wide expanse of the dull, dusk window.

"Let me see him then," says Bella.

Sam hesitates then passes her the bottle. He fidgets as her fingers close about it, and Bobby thinks first of Dean whenever anyone without Winchester blood gets their hands on the keys to the Impala. Then when Bella looks up at Sam from the bottle and says, I like his eyes, Bobby thinks of the few times John ever spoke about Mary, halting and loving and always acting like he was saying too much.

Sam takes the bottle back from her and says,

"But can you help us? Please. I'll do anything."

Bella's still been intent on the bottle until then, her pale eyes fixed on Sam's long, knot-knuckled fingers about the curve of the glass. But Sam startles her out of it and she raises her eyebrows at him, leaning forward in her chair with a creak of wicker.

"Really? Anything? Why?"

Sam glances at Bobby but Bobby can't give him any clues on that one. Black Bella's mouth is open, ready to pounce on Sam's response and devour it with a crackle of bones. Bobby shudders; he's never met a woman calling herself a witch yet who didn't give him the creeps in one way or another.

"Because… he's my brother."

"And?" Bella prompts, before Sam's even finished giving his answer.

It's all too clear that Sam's fighting back several days of frustration and grief. His lips twitch into a knife-sharp smile.

"I love him."

"And you love him because…?" says Bella.

Bobby lays a hand on Sam's shoulder as he starts out of his chair. The woman's some kind of crazy and if Bobby hadn't been regretting hauling Dean's corpse across the country before, he certainly is now. But Sam shaking the woman so hard her eyeballs rattle out won't improve matters, they won't even make Sam feel better in the long-run.

"He's. My. Brother."

Black Bella stares at Sam for a long, long moment. The candlelight goes on flickering and thunder rumbles somewhere outside. Then she sighs and sits back in her chair, picks up a misshapen baby's bootie that has two knitting needles sticking out of it. The needles clack together as they move rapidly through the black wool.

"I can't help you. Best let him go, dear. Best for everyone. Really it is."

Bobby wonders if it'd make Sam feel better in the long-run if Bobby were the one to shake Bella's teeth out of her head.

:::

In the end, Black Bella waves them off, unharmed and apparently oblivious to their fury. Sam fantasises about killing her, torching her house and her stupid family photos, while he lets Ellen navigate him to the nearest motel. He's not trusted to even check them in and that's fine with him.

Adrenaline makes him shiver but there's no fighting or fleeing. There's just this fucked-up thing.

The bottle presses against his ribs as he sprawls on the bed and he drags it out and sets it on the bedside table. It's better than any lamp and though he's still a pit of fury and hatred, the firefly's weaving and circling is oddly hypnotic. The pink glow splashes the dim room with colour and Sam's breathing evens out.

The drone of Bobby watching television in the room on one side and Jo and Ellen talking on the other levels out to a single oceanic murmur. A car rolls by outside, its tyres crunching wetly over tarmac, and its lights shine through the cheap motel curtains, slanting over the ceiling.

Sam rolls onto his back and watches the firefly. He heaves a breath and feels his body uncramping, like it's been stuck in a box for weeks and is only just now unfolding again. Tension still buzzes through him and his hand settles on his stomach, slipping under his shirt and tugging his flies down.

His hand slides into his pants, under his boxers, and he doesn't know when he got hard, but he is. His cock's heavy in his hand, straining, the head damp already. He lets out another breath and lifts his hips to tug his underwear down. The light of the firefly is burning into his retinas, fuchsia pink and Dean, as his fingers curl about his cock.

He fucks his fist lazily and thinks of all the motel rooms, just like this, that he's shared with Dean.

He remembers when he was younger, young enough that he and Dean were still part of Dad's miniature army, he used to listen to Dean jerk off in the mute, humid night. Dean never did it when they shared a room with Dad, used to sleep straight through 'til 5am then. But when it was just them, Sam would lie in his bed and listen, waiting for Dean to shift, for the rhythmic rustling of blankets, the slip of skin, and, best of all, for the hitches in Dean's breathing, like he was catching hold of a sob.

He'd wait until Dean's breathing had evened out again, until he was asleep again, and then he'd jerk off just like he was doing now. Hips arching up to his big, sweat-damp hand, eyes locked on the fuzzy shape of his brother - the sweeping line of his body under the blanket then, the nebulous dot of light now.

If he stares at the firefly for much longer, he's going to go blind. But he's so close, can feel the knot tightening in his belly, his muscles twisting. And if it's wrong to think of Dean - Dean with raised eyebrows and lips parted in incredulity - when he comes, well, it won't be the first time. Won't be the last time he comes with Dean's name on his lips.

His come splashes his fingers and his boxers and he fumbles for a tissue.

The firefly's still fluttering about against the glass and Sam decides there and then to let him go. He has to do it quickly before that selfish part of him, the part that loves his brother, loves loves loves Dean in any and every way that it wants, insists on keeping Dean. Dean will never ask to be set free, Dean will never hold it against Sam that he kept him as trapped light in a bottle when he should, by all rights, be at rest. It's wrong to keep expecting Dean to soldier on.

Black Bella was right: Sam has to let him go.

He snatches the bottle up and moves to the window. He hooks the curtain back over his shoulder and opens the window. His hand shakes as he unscrews the lid of the bottle. And then the bottle's open. The firefly shoots up through the neck and into the air.

Gone.

Sam watches it float out across the parking lot, lingering briefly to skim over the hood of the Impala, before disappearing into the sky.

Gone.

He staggers backwards, bouncing unsteadily off the television set and into the wall. His legs wobble then give out entirely. He slides down the wall, bringing his knees up to his chest. He can't seem to stop shaking. His vision is blurry and wet and he drags the back of his hand over his eyes.

It's a mistake. He can feel it already. He's given up on Dean too early. One little setback and he's let Dean go. How's a tiny pink soul meant to look after itself?

He stumbles back to the window with no plan at all, and stops-

The firefly is back at the Impala.

"Dean," says Sam.

He's struck by the memory, millions of memories, of Dean leaning against the Impala, turning back to glance over his shoulder at Sam, the tilt to his head, the pale light of his eyes. So he says Dean's name again because if it's bone-deep and blood-deep for Dean to be there for his little brother, then maybe it's soul-deep too.

It is.

Sam stretches out a hand as the firefly weaves lazily back towards him. The light has no weight in his palm, no substance, but it's like being in a room that Dean's just stepped out of, like he's in the shower and his clothes are still bundled on the bed, waiting for him.

"You can’t go," he says. "I love you." He hesitates and then adds, "Sorry."

He doesn't know what in particular he's apologising for, just that he needs to.

:::

On her way to breakfast, Jo stops and knocks on Sam's door. She can make out the beat of music but it's only when Sam opens the door that she registers it as Led Zeppelin.

Sam blinks and takes a moment to recognise her then he gives himself a slight shake and smiles at her.

"Jo. Hey. What do you need?"

"Getting coffee for mom. You want some?"

Sam shakes his head but takes a step back, pulling the door wide. He jerks his head, still smiling.

"Take a look at this."

This is new and Jo hesitates a second before stepping into the room. Then her eyes fall upon the empty whiskey bottle and panic takes her voice. She points a trembling finger at it as she turns to look at Sam. Sam, who is still fucking well smiling, even though the bottle is empty and all they have left of Dean is a corpse and a car.

"Watch," says Sam.

He stretches out a hand into the air and looks about. The smile lingers on his lips but it's softer, sweeter, edged with uncertainty. His breath comes in little, trembling huffs. Then he says Dean's name, low and coaxing, and even as Jo watches, the firefly scoots in from the bathroom and drifts over to Sam's palm, like it was going that way all along.

Sam stares at the firefly for a moment, that smile breaking out all over his face, then flicks a look at Jo.

"God," she says. "Dean."

She doesn't realise how much she's been missing him until he's being all Dean-like, coming just because Sam's calling him. She misses seeing him stretch and yawn after spending ages hunched over maps and notes with Sam and Bobby, misses him throwing displeased looks at the patrons of the bar when they confuse 'barmaid' with 'prostitute', misses his lame jokes and flirting-on-instinct.

"I think he prefers it out of the bottle."

Jo doesn't ask how Sam found that out. She doesn't want to think about what Sam might have been doing letting the firefly out of the bottle. It makes her heart squeeze up tight. She wants to tell Sam that he's not just his to let go, that she'd have wanted chance to say goodbye, even if she's only saying goodbye to a pink dot of light.

It's not a fight she'd ever win though. It's not a point Sam would ever concede. How could he possibly be expected to care how much she'd miss Dean when he'd be missing Dean too?

So she sits down next to where Sam's sitting on the bed and holds out her hand.

"D'you think he'd…?"

Sam doesn't look at her for a second; the firefly's looping about his long fingers. Then he moves his hand towards hers, tilting his palm. There's a flicker, where the firefly's more like liquid, thick and sparkling, and then it's the firefly again, drifting up to the ceiling.

It hurts but it's not unexpected. Jo sits on her hands and watches the firefly circle the light bulb. The sympathetic way Sam's looking at her is making her uncomfortable. Her face tightens and she takes a breath, then speaks before he can.

"I wanna say, I think… I think it's awesome that you've never given up on…" She wets her lips and tilts her head back to track the firefly's path, like she's a kid again and watching fireworks. "You two, you're just…"

That sentence doesn't go anywhere either, so she shuts up and nods like that's her point and she's made it.

"He's my brother," says Sam.

If that's his point it's as crap as hers.

"You don't think what you've done for him is kind of… I dunno, above and beyond?"

Sam laughs a little, quiet and incredulous. He scrapes his fingers through his hair and shrugs, turning to look at her. Jo relents slightly because this is interesting to her and she looks back at him. God, the Winchester boys are as fucked-up as her mom always told her.

"He's my brother. He sold his soul for me. What else was I supposed to do?"

"Yeah, that's another thing. Don't know that many people would volunteer to go to Hell for their brothers."

"He's my brother!"

"Yeah," says Jo, "and Hank Donovan shot his brother between the eyes when Denny slept with his wife. When Saul Wertheim was taken by ghouls, Jacob saved his own ass and just drove off. I've seen brothers, and I've seen you two. And you're…" There seems to be some barrier to speech every time Jo tries to say what exactly Dean and Sam are. So she settles for, "Not all brothers are like you two."

Just as she's starting to think that no matter how long and hard she pretends to be watching the firefly Sam's never going to stop staring at her, he stands up and heads for the door.

"C'mon," he says. "There's something I need to try."

When the firefly zips past her shoulder, Jo realises Sam wasn't talking to her.

:::

Sam's marching across the parking lot like a man on a mission and Ellen doesn't know whether the fact Jo's with him, half-jogging along at his elbow as she tries to keep up, makes her worry less or more. She feels a little better when she sees Bobby's trailing along after them but the frown creasing his face brings her back to square one.

No, scratch that. It makes it clear that whatever's happening is a very bad idea.

She heads out the door, dragging on her jacket as she goes. Bobby catches her gaze as she moves on intercept. He spreads his hands helplessly. Sam's going for the semi, she notices suddenly. Not the Impala. He's heading for the semi.

"Don't look at me like that," Bobby says to her. "I tried."

She shakes her head - it's not like any of them can stop Sam from doing a damn thing he chooses to - and hurries to join them at the semi. Sam's unlocking the door at the back and he doesn't even seem to notice Ellen. Jo shoots her a helpless look and Ellen realises she's on her own in this one.

"Sam, sweetie, what are you doing?"

It's not like Sam's about to answer but Ellen would have been temporarily distracted from whatever he said by the pink firefly suddenly swooping in to zoom around Sam's head. Ellen stares at it for a long moment while the cold air of the freezer compartment hits her and Sam climbs in to the back.

"Is that…?" she manages to ask finally.

Jo nods. Ellen mirrors the nod blankly, still watching the firefly. This is why kids need their parents. Without them, they start doing crazy things like letting their firefly-brother out of the whiskey bottle and getting it into their heads to go visit their brother's corpse.

"Come here," says Sam.

The firefly darts off towards him and Ellen watches as it goes straight to settle in his palm. Sam's kneeling by Dean's body. It must be the first time in a few days that Sam's seen him. Ellen tries not to notice the wet streaks on Sam's face. That body there, it's not Dean. It's as empty as that old bottle of Jack they've been keeping his soul in.

"Sam, honey-" she starts to say but then Sam's bringing his hand up to his mouth and breathing Dean's soul in.

Then, like he doesn't care if Bobby and Jo and her are all watching, Sam straddles his brother's body and kisses him. He kisses him square on the mouth. She can see his tongue slide out to part Dean's frozen lips. And then his mouth is covering Dean's and she can't see anything but Sam's closed eyes and his big hand clasping Dean's pale blue cheek.

Bobby's voice, low and soft and full of grief, comes right by her ear, cuts through her horrified misery.

"We've gotta stop this."

But right then, as Ellen starts to move forward, it's like a flood of colour goes through Dean. The chill's chased away by a sudden red flush. His body jerks and Sam pushes closer, grips his face even harder in his hands. The flush fades, but not back to blue. His skin stays that same, healthy peach hue of too much driving in the sun on a naturally pale complexion.

Sam breaks the kiss but only moves his face a fraction of an inch away from Dean. Dean, who's blinking and looking shell-shocked but alive. Not zombie-alive either, there's light in his eyes. He's alive. He struggles to prop himself up on his elbows and Sam's instantly right there, getting his arm under his brother to help him sit up.

Neither of them has taken their eyes off each other.

"Fuck, I'm cold," Dean says and Sam bursts into hysterical laughter like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard or he's high or it's both.

Sam's not let go of his brother yet either. Not exactly like Dean's trying to shrug him off either.

There are about three too many people present, Ellen realises suddenly. Bobby's already got there because he's got a hand on Jo's shoulder, ready to steer her away.

"Right then," says Ellen. "Reckon we need to change Sam's room to two queens."

It's a good escape line, even if it's not exactly true.

:::

Dean gets it. Sam knows he does because he doesn't complain about Sam feeling physically incapable of letting go of him. He hasn't tried holding Dean's hand because he thinks that's pushing it too far but he's been allowed to hug him a couple of times without being called a weepy little bitch. He probably wouldn't even care about being called a weepy little bitch because Dean is warm and alive and sitting on the end of his bed, drinking coffee.

"You were dead," he says again.

"Yes I was," Dean agrees. He stares at his coffee for a moment then lifts his head to shoot him a small smile. "You been working on that kiss of life long? They teach you that at Stanford or is it natural talent?"

"Dude. You were dead."

He tries to say more but completely fails. The sun's coming through the window and it seems so bright, burns his eyes, all Sam can do is hide his face in Dean's shoulder. He presses his cheek to the slightly damp material and feels the rise and fall of Dean's breathing.

"You were dead, Dean," he whispers. And he doesn't care that he's crying again. Because Dean's not dead and Dean's with him and the world can start spinning again.

He thinks he feels Dean's fingers in his hair but the touch is breath-light and when he looks up, Dean's hand is back on the bed.

"How'd you do it?" Dean says. There's a sudden hint of colour in his cheeks and he wets his lips, maybe out of nerves or maybe he's remembering. His lips are still a little swollen from where Sam kissed him, Sam thinks. "I mean, about getting the Crossroads Demon to give my soul back. What did you do? You didn't-"

The abrupt note of angry panic in his voice fills in what he can't find words for and Sam finds himself rubbing his cheek against him, catlike, in an attempt to soothe him.

"Didn't make a deal. Just… Bobby and I, we figured out a way to summon her right into a Devil's Trap. It was risky but it played out-"

"I don't want you taking risks for me. I don't want you doing anything like that for me!"

Sam sits up and looks at him. Dean's wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and he obviously doesn't want to look at Sam. There are still beads of water in his hair, gathered at the dip of his collarbone. He's angry. Sam's only just noticed it but he is. He's furious.

"I don't get it," he says. "Dean, you were dead. I couldn't save you but I found a way to bring you back. I couldn't… I couldn't leave you there, Dean. I couldn't…"

"But you shouldn't have had to-!"

Dean cuts off and looks away. He's breathing heavily and even as inexplicably pissed off as Dean is, Sam can't help placing his hand on his chest, palm to heartbeat. Dean's alive. Dean goes still at his touch and Sam listens to him swallow and let out a breath.

"Should have had to…?" he prompts.

"I woke up and your tongue was in my mouth." Sam feels suddenly sick and ashamed and it must show on his face because Dean clumsily starts to reach out to him. "Just, you shouldn't have had to do that."

I didn't mind. I wanted to, Sam thinks but he's not an idiot and he doesn't want Dean bolting, not now he's come back to him. So instead he makes do with the contact of his shoulder brushing Dean's and knots his hands in his lap.

"Why not? Is kissing you really that bad? A fate worse than Hell?"

"No! Of course it's not. But c'mon, Sam, you-"

"And is being kissed by me a fate worse than Hell?"

Dean goes quiet and Sam feels his stomach lurch. His lips twitch, like they can't decide between smile and pouting. He wonders how long Ellen and Bobby are going to give them, whether there's time to get his heart good and trampled by Dean before they knock on the door.

"No," says Dean, and it's little more than a breath. But he rolls on even as Sam's toying with the idea of grabbing hold if Dean's chin and forcing him to look at him. "But I'm your brother and you shouldn't have had to-"

"I didn't do it because you're my brother. And I didn't do it because I wanted to, even though, yeah, I did want to. Still do."

It's one way to get Dean's attention, even if now he's actually said the words, Sam doesn't feel brave enough to look back at him. He feels Dean shift, as if getting ready to stand up and Sam bites back a small, happy noise when Dean doesn't.

"So why did you?" Dean says at last.

Sam stares at the windowsill, where the sunlight is catching the edges of the empty bottle of Jack Daniel's.

"Because I love you. Not like a brother, but, yeah, like that too. Just… I love you. As my brother, as everything. It wouldn't have worked if it was about anything but love."

Sam lowers his eyes and bites his lip. He's not sorry he's said it but it's going to change everything now and he doesn't know if he's ready for that. He feels Dean shift again but it's only to rub the back of his neck. Dean opens his mouth to speak and Sam instinctively braces for it.

"I don't know where you learnt to be such a wuss," says Dean. "You think I love you any differently, any less? Just manage to keep my mouth shut about it, is all."

He's grinning at Sam when he says it. It's strained but it's a grin. And just like that, everything that needs to be said has been said. Sam jostles his shoulder lightly.

"Dude, your soul is pink and tastes like sugar. You want to talk about being a wuss?"

Dean flushes and pulls a face at him.

"You're never gonna let me forget that, are you? And give me my frickin' car keys back. Where the hell are we anyway?"

Sam pulls the keys from his pocket and drops them into Dean's open hand. He closes Dean's fingers about them and then grins back at him. They've got a long trip in front of them, but Dean's going to be driving and Sam's going to be riding shotgun and that's all Sam wants.

"Pink and tastes like sugar," he tells him.

No, he's never going to let Dean forget.

~end



Thanks to meret for the accompanying artwork. ♥