at the crossroads, I am standing
Title: at the crossroads, I am standing
Author: missyjack
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2,470
Beta: Many thanks to wenchpixie and crazywritinfool
Summary: A porny coda to Bedtime Stories. If Dean wants Sam to let him go, why is he holding on so tightly?
A/N: Title from the song Hold On by Sarah McLachlan.
Not all fairy tales have a happy ending.
A little girl’s rage has murdered four people, but the truth has set her free. But while the killing has ended there is no sense of victory for Dean and Sam this time and they stand, heads bowed, as they say their goodbyes.
"Callie was the most important thing in my life," says Doctor Garrison, "but I should’ve let her go."
The grief is plain on his face under the harsh glare of the hospital lights but there is a note of quiet acceptance in his voice.
"See you ‘round, doc," replies Dean, with a half-smile.
"I hope not." And he leaves; back to his job and what remains of his life.
Dean and Sam stand alone, for a moment the hospital quiet around them.
"You know what?" Dean nods slightly. "Some good advice." He says it matter-of-factly, as if he is talking about something simple, practical.
"Is that what you want me to do, Dean?" asks Sam. His voice is so quiet Dean can almost pretend he doesn’t hear it breaking. "Just let you go?"
Dean looks at Sam, pleading silently with him not to make this any harder. The anguish he sees in Sam’s face is like a punch in his gut. He turns quickly and walks off alone down the corridor.
He has eight months to live, but Dean feels like he is already saying goodbye.
***
Sam is quiet on the drive back to the motel and Dean is reluctant to break the silence. He looks over at his brother, slumped down in the seat, half-turned as he stares out the window. This is their life, Dean thinks, they might be traveling together but sometimes he feel as if they each have a side that the other rarely sees.
A side always turned toward the window, looking away.
***
Dean swings open the door to the motel room, rolling his shoulders as he enters, sore from the fight with the guy formerly known as the Big Bad Wolf. He thinks that if he can lock himself in the bathroom for thirty minutes he can wash away the aches, and hopefully by the time he’s finished Sam will be out of his funk. But before he’s halfway across the room, Sam grabs him roughly by the arm.
"You don’t decide what I do." Sam doesn’t yell, his voice is low and controlled, but a taut anger runs through it like a wire.
"Look - I know how you feel..." Dean shrugs away from Sam’s hand.
"Don’t." Sam’s lips are tight with anger. "Don’t tell me how I feel."
Dean holds his hands up, palms out, trying to placate him. "I’m just trying to make it easier for you…"
"Easier?" Sam barks out the word and pushes him, hard. "You think you dying can ever be easy?"
No, Dean thinks. It’s hard. And I’m scared. Scared of dying; scared of being without you. Shit scared that if you see how much I need you, you’ll stop at nothing to save me. But he says nothing, just tries to step past Sam.
"Fuck you." Sam pushes him again. Dean tries to shoulder past him but Sam propels him back into the wall, and presses against him - chest, hip, thigh - holding him there with length of his body. He slams a hand against the peeling green wallpaper, right beside Dean’s head. "Fuck.You!"
Dean’s hands are trapped in the space between them. He can feel the rapid rise and fall of Sam’s chest. Sam is alive; Sam is breathing. That’s all that matters.
"People die all the time, Sammy. Life goes on." Dean tries to steel his voice, but it sounds brittle, even to him. Afternoon sun shines through the grime of the motel room window, but it’s not the glare that keeps him from looking at Sam.
"How can you say that?" Hurt is corroding Sam’s anger. "Do you really think I could just go on? After all that we’ve done together? After...everything?"
Dean’s been wearing his bravado like a jacket, but it’s slipping now and he slumps against the wall, his head bowed.
Sam lifts Dean’s chin, stroking his bottom lip with the ball of his thumb. "Let me in, Dean."
Sam presses his mouth down and Dean parts his lips slightly. He can never be closed to Sam, but he holds back as Sam kisses him.
The last time they’d been together had been the night after the devil’s gate had opened. They’d fucked with a fierce passion, as they tried to obliterate the death and horror of what had happened, of what they had done.
It was after that, as they lay entwined, sweat and semen smeared across bodies bloodied and bruised, that Dean realized what his bargain really meant - that even if hell was a five star hotel, it would be wasteland of desolation for him because he’d be without Sam. And the enormity of his need and his fear would be a millstone that would drag Sam to hell with him.
Since then he’d been cutting himself off, deflecting Sam’s concerns with smart comments or blunt rebuttals. He’d only occasionally let Sam close, and only when, after a hunt, wired with adrenaline, he could pretend it was about something else.
Sam’s mouth works at his for a minute, but when Dean doesn’t respond, he pulls back, just enough that Dean can see the pain in his face as surely as if he’d hit him.
"Why do I need to let go?” Sam spits at him. “It’s like you’ve left me already."
"It’s going to happen, Sam. You need to accept it, accept that I’m..." Dean’s last words are inaudible as Sam kisses him again.
This time it isn’t a gentle kiss; it’s rough and demanding. Sam’s hand spans his jaw and pulls Dean’s mouth open, his tongue thrusting deep, as if to obliterate the words that Dean had been about to speak. Dean wants to protest, all the reasons why they shouldn’t do this are on the tip of his tongue, but he loses them in Sam’s mouth.
The argument isn’t finished. It continues wordlessly as their mouths collide, the challenge still in their eyes as they step apart to undress. Their lips are swollen, spit-smeared, and Sam barely breaks from working his mouth against Dean’s, as if by silencing their words, they might speak the truth with their bodies.
Dean’s body is responding all too obviously, but he still keeps a part of himself locked away. He tells himself this is for Sam, that he’s doing this to give Sam the connection and comfort he needs. And tries to deny that he needs it too.
They circle each other like wrestlers, grappling for control, legs entwined, hands grasping and firm fingers digging into tense muscles. They pause, standing close, and stroke each other hard. Sam wraps his hands round both their cocks, squeezing them together, and smearing pre-come between them.
"You want this? Tell me you want it." Sam’s voice is a breathy whisper in his ear.
"Want this?" Dean’s resolve is dissolving like a sandbank by the sea. "You know... Fucking always want you, Sam."
Sam moves to pull him closer, grabbing him by the waist, and Dean flinches, still sore from his earlier fight.
"Sorry," whispers Sam as his fingers ghost over the bruised ribs. "I’m sorry."
The tenderness is too much, too near to what Dean needs, and it hurts more than his ribs. He tries to pull away, but Sam grabs his hand and steps back, drawing Dean with him. As he stands by the bed, he loosens his fingers around Dean’s wrist, stroking a thumb slowly across Dean’s pulse as if to calm him.
“Please?” Sam lets go of Dean’s wrist and trails his fingers across his palm, until only their fingertips are hooked together.
A wave of desire breaks over Dean, and a riptide of need pulls him under. He circles an arm around Sam and hugs him close, kissing from his mouth across his jaw, down his throat, stubble grazing his lips. Dean is gentle at first and then, with an open mouth, he sucks hard, teeth scraping across skin. As he reaches Sam’s chest, the kisses turned to bites, hard enough to make Sam gasp. He moves a hand up Dean’s arm, over the swell of his bicep and along the curve of his shoulder until he grips the nape of Dean’s neck.
"Fuck, I need you," Sam demands. "Now. I need to be full of you, now."
Dean pushes Sam back and down, laying him out. He runs his hands up long calves and thighs, pressing them apart before he leans in to lick from Sam’s balls, nestled amongst a mess of dark, wiry hair, and up along the underside of his shaft. When he reaches the head, he takes it into his mouth. Glancing up, Dean sees Sam watching him, his mouth moving as he repeats a barely audible mantra of yesyesyes.
Dean kneels on the bed, straddling him. He spits on his hand and reaches down but Sam snatches at it and sucks greedily, licking Dean’s fingers, soaking them, until finally he guides him to his ass.
Steadying himself with a hand flat against the broad planes of Sam’s chest, Dean slowly rocks forward and back, rubbing their cocks together as he works Sam open. Finally he presses forward and his hand on Sam’s chest feels the ragged breaths he takes as he stretches wide and tight around Dean’s cock and takes him in.
Dean fucks into Sam, with a dip and roll of his hips, and whispers his brother’s name over and over into his mouth, devouring him with a hunger too long denied. Sam surrounds him, engulfs him and for a moment, or maybe two, there is no past or future - just this.
Both men are a study in human geometry - the long lines of their limbs and ligaments, the sharp angles of hipbones and elbows, the clear lines of their muscles cutting lean against their skin. And as they move together, there are planes where they connect, points of intersection between sweat, skin and soul.
Then Dean lifts his mouth from Sam’s and sees his own love and fierce desperation reflected in Sam’s lust darkened eyes, and suddenly it’s too much. Dean turns his face away but Sam places the palm of his hand against Dean’s cheek and turns his face back towards him.
"Look at me." Sam grips Dean’s chin. "Be with me, here. Now, at least."
Dean can’t do this - can’t see how much Sam wants him, can’t let Sam see how much he needs him in return. He’s angry at himself for letting this go too far; angry at Sam for wanting it. He pulls back, and his cock slips out and although Sam’s hand is there, guiding him back in, hips arching beneath him, Dean’s hips stutter and he can’t regain his rhythm.
He pulls out of Sam, kneels back and slaps a hand on Sam’s thigh.
"Turn over." Dean struggles to keep his voice steady, and it comes out harshly.
"It’s okay," Sam reaches up a hand but Dean brushes it aside.
"No. I can’t... Just turn over."
Sam starts to say something more, but thinks better of it and rolls over, leaning on his elbows, ass raised from the bed. Dean nudges his legs apart and rubs the head of his cock up and down Sam’s crack before pushing back in.
As they start to move together again, Dean looks down Sam’s back and sees the wound, a long ribbon of white skin just below Sam’s shoulder blades. He hasn’t seen it since that night, hasn’t wanted to see what is to him, not something he healed, but a reminder of what he should never have let happen.
Dean reaches down and runs two fingers along it, fingertips bumping over the ridges of Sam’s spine below the healed skin.
Beneath him, Sam arches his back down, trying to escape the touch.
"No," he whispers. "Don’t."
"But it’s real, Sam." Dean covers it with the palm of his hand. "It’s part of you; part of us."
"It’s how I killed you."
Leaning forward, Dean traces his tongue over the line his fingers had followed, and then re-traces the path with a line of kisses. The skin is silky smooth, almost delicate, and he’s gentle, as if even the brush of his lips could rupture it, and tear the wound open anew.
Dean wraps his arms around Sam, one across his chest, one across his collarbone, and half-lifts him from the bed, Sam sinking further onto his cock as he does. Dean holds him very close, so close he can feel Sam’s heart echo against his own. But between their hearts is the scar.
Dean buries his head in the crook of Sam’s neck against the curls of sweat-damp hair. Sam’s almost sitting on him now, leaning back, and they rock together, their pace quickening. As Sam rises and falls along Dean’s length, Dean reaches down and starts stroking Sam’s cock firmly in time with the gentle thrusts of his own.
Sam’s making little grunts that are not quite moans, and he drops his head to muffle the sounds against Dean’s arm. A spurt of precome wets Dean’s hand and he knows Sam is close to coming. As Dean fists his cock faster, Sam bites into Dean’s forearm, swallowing cries of pleasure as they well up in his throat. Dean feels Sam tighten around his cock, and then tense and release in wet spurts over his hand, and up over his own belly.
Dean surfs the wave of Sam’s orgasm as it courses through him. He lets go, of himself, of his fear, but as he comes hard and deep inside Sam he knows with a certainty that he will never let go of Sam.
Not now; not ever.
***
When Dean wakes hours later, he’s alone in the bed. For a moment his heart rises in his throat, until he sees the light shining under the bathroom door, and hears a tap running.
He feigns sleep when Sam emerges, and is relieved when he settles into the other bed. He listens for a long time; until the sound of Sam’s soft snuffling snores are testament to his slumber. Just like when they were kids, he thinks, and Dean would wait until Sam was asleep until he snuck off for some midnight mischief.
When he reaches the crossroads, the full moon is sliding down the night sky. He has come without weapons, armed only with a vain hope. Dean doesn’t know what he can offer, but he is prepared to beg for more time. What else he is prepared to give, or do, he is too scared to consider.
He puts his photo, cut from a fake i.d., in the rusted metal box, along with the cat’s bones and graveyard dirt, and kneels to scoop out a small hole in the road. When it’s done Dean stands, wiping the dry earth from his hands on his jeans, and looks around, waiting for the Crossroads Demon to appear.
Dean stands alone, at the crossroads, for a long time.
Author: missyjack
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2,470
Beta: Many thanks to wenchpixie and crazywritinfool
Summary: A porny coda to Bedtime Stories. If Dean wants Sam to let him go, why is he holding on so tightly?
A/N: Title from the song Hold On by Sarah McLachlan.
Not all fairy tales have a happy ending.
A little girl’s rage has murdered four people, but the truth has set her free. But while the killing has ended there is no sense of victory for Dean and Sam this time and they stand, heads bowed, as they say their goodbyes.
"Callie was the most important thing in my life," says Doctor Garrison, "but I should’ve let her go."
The grief is plain on his face under the harsh glare of the hospital lights but there is a note of quiet acceptance in his voice.
"See you ‘round, doc," replies Dean, with a half-smile.
"I hope not." And he leaves; back to his job and what remains of his life.
Dean and Sam stand alone, for a moment the hospital quiet around them.
"You know what?" Dean nods slightly. "Some good advice." He says it matter-of-factly, as if he is talking about something simple, practical.
"Is that what you want me to do, Dean?" asks Sam. His voice is so quiet Dean can almost pretend he doesn’t hear it breaking. "Just let you go?"
Dean looks at Sam, pleading silently with him not to make this any harder. The anguish he sees in Sam’s face is like a punch in his gut. He turns quickly and walks off alone down the corridor.
He has eight months to live, but Dean feels like he is already saying goodbye.
***
Sam is quiet on the drive back to the motel and Dean is reluctant to break the silence. He looks over at his brother, slumped down in the seat, half-turned as he stares out the window. This is their life, Dean thinks, they might be traveling together but sometimes he feel as if they each have a side that the other rarely sees.
A side always turned toward the window, looking away.
***
Dean swings open the door to the motel room, rolling his shoulders as he enters, sore from the fight with the guy formerly known as the Big Bad Wolf. He thinks that if he can lock himself in the bathroom for thirty minutes he can wash away the aches, and hopefully by the time he’s finished Sam will be out of his funk. But before he’s halfway across the room, Sam grabs him roughly by the arm.
"You don’t decide what I do." Sam doesn’t yell, his voice is low and controlled, but a taut anger runs through it like a wire.
"Look - I know how you feel..." Dean shrugs away from Sam’s hand.
"Don’t." Sam’s lips are tight with anger. "Don’t tell me how I feel."
Dean holds his hands up, palms out, trying to placate him. "I’m just trying to make it easier for you…"
"Easier?" Sam barks out the word and pushes him, hard. "You think you dying can ever be easy?"
No, Dean thinks. It’s hard. And I’m scared. Scared of dying; scared of being without you. Shit scared that if you see how much I need you, you’ll stop at nothing to save me. But he says nothing, just tries to step past Sam.
"Fuck you." Sam pushes him again. Dean tries to shoulder past him but Sam propels him back into the wall, and presses against him - chest, hip, thigh - holding him there with length of his body. He slams a hand against the peeling green wallpaper, right beside Dean’s head. "Fuck.You!"
Dean’s hands are trapped in the space between them. He can feel the rapid rise and fall of Sam’s chest. Sam is alive; Sam is breathing. That’s all that matters.
"People die all the time, Sammy. Life goes on." Dean tries to steel his voice, but it sounds brittle, even to him. Afternoon sun shines through the grime of the motel room window, but it’s not the glare that keeps him from looking at Sam.
"How can you say that?" Hurt is corroding Sam’s anger. "Do you really think I could just go on? After all that we’ve done together? After...everything?"
Dean’s been wearing his bravado like a jacket, but it’s slipping now and he slumps against the wall, his head bowed.
Sam lifts Dean’s chin, stroking his bottom lip with the ball of his thumb. "Let me in, Dean."
Sam presses his mouth down and Dean parts his lips slightly. He can never be closed to Sam, but he holds back as Sam kisses him.
The last time they’d been together had been the night after the devil’s gate had opened. They’d fucked with a fierce passion, as they tried to obliterate the death and horror of what had happened, of what they had done.
It was after that, as they lay entwined, sweat and semen smeared across bodies bloodied and bruised, that Dean realized what his bargain really meant - that even if hell was a five star hotel, it would be wasteland of desolation for him because he’d be without Sam. And the enormity of his need and his fear would be a millstone that would drag Sam to hell with him.
Since then he’d been cutting himself off, deflecting Sam’s concerns with smart comments or blunt rebuttals. He’d only occasionally let Sam close, and only when, after a hunt, wired with adrenaline, he could pretend it was about something else.
Sam’s mouth works at his for a minute, but when Dean doesn’t respond, he pulls back, just enough that Dean can see the pain in his face as surely as if he’d hit him.
"Why do I need to let go?” Sam spits at him. “It’s like you’ve left me already."
"It’s going to happen, Sam. You need to accept it, accept that I’m..." Dean’s last words are inaudible as Sam kisses him again.
This time it isn’t a gentle kiss; it’s rough and demanding. Sam’s hand spans his jaw and pulls Dean’s mouth open, his tongue thrusting deep, as if to obliterate the words that Dean had been about to speak. Dean wants to protest, all the reasons why they shouldn’t do this are on the tip of his tongue, but he loses them in Sam’s mouth.
The argument isn’t finished. It continues wordlessly as their mouths collide, the challenge still in their eyes as they step apart to undress. Their lips are swollen, spit-smeared, and Sam barely breaks from working his mouth against Dean’s, as if by silencing their words, they might speak the truth with their bodies.
Dean’s body is responding all too obviously, but he still keeps a part of himself locked away. He tells himself this is for Sam, that he’s doing this to give Sam the connection and comfort he needs. And tries to deny that he needs it too.
They circle each other like wrestlers, grappling for control, legs entwined, hands grasping and firm fingers digging into tense muscles. They pause, standing close, and stroke each other hard. Sam wraps his hands round both their cocks, squeezing them together, and smearing pre-come between them.
"You want this? Tell me you want it." Sam’s voice is a breathy whisper in his ear.
"Want this?" Dean’s resolve is dissolving like a sandbank by the sea. "You know... Fucking always want you, Sam."
Sam moves to pull him closer, grabbing him by the waist, and Dean flinches, still sore from his earlier fight.
"Sorry," whispers Sam as his fingers ghost over the bruised ribs. "I’m sorry."
The tenderness is too much, too near to what Dean needs, and it hurts more than his ribs. He tries to pull away, but Sam grabs his hand and steps back, drawing Dean with him. As he stands by the bed, he loosens his fingers around Dean’s wrist, stroking a thumb slowly across Dean’s pulse as if to calm him.
“Please?” Sam lets go of Dean’s wrist and trails his fingers across his palm, until only their fingertips are hooked together.
A wave of desire breaks over Dean, and a riptide of need pulls him under. He circles an arm around Sam and hugs him close, kissing from his mouth across his jaw, down his throat, stubble grazing his lips. Dean is gentle at first and then, with an open mouth, he sucks hard, teeth scraping across skin. As he reaches Sam’s chest, the kisses turned to bites, hard enough to make Sam gasp. He moves a hand up Dean’s arm, over the swell of his bicep and along the curve of his shoulder until he grips the nape of Dean’s neck.
"Fuck, I need you," Sam demands. "Now. I need to be full of you, now."
Dean pushes Sam back and down, laying him out. He runs his hands up long calves and thighs, pressing them apart before he leans in to lick from Sam’s balls, nestled amongst a mess of dark, wiry hair, and up along the underside of his shaft. When he reaches the head, he takes it into his mouth. Glancing up, Dean sees Sam watching him, his mouth moving as he repeats a barely audible mantra of yesyesyes.
Dean kneels on the bed, straddling him. He spits on his hand and reaches down but Sam snatches at it and sucks greedily, licking Dean’s fingers, soaking them, until finally he guides him to his ass.
Steadying himself with a hand flat against the broad planes of Sam’s chest, Dean slowly rocks forward and back, rubbing their cocks together as he works Sam open. Finally he presses forward and his hand on Sam’s chest feels the ragged breaths he takes as he stretches wide and tight around Dean’s cock and takes him in.
Dean fucks into Sam, with a dip and roll of his hips, and whispers his brother’s name over and over into his mouth, devouring him with a hunger too long denied. Sam surrounds him, engulfs him and for a moment, or maybe two, there is no past or future - just this.
Both men are a study in human geometry - the long lines of their limbs and ligaments, the sharp angles of hipbones and elbows, the clear lines of their muscles cutting lean against their skin. And as they move together, there are planes where they connect, points of intersection between sweat, skin and soul.
Then Dean lifts his mouth from Sam’s and sees his own love and fierce desperation reflected in Sam’s lust darkened eyes, and suddenly it’s too much. Dean turns his face away but Sam places the palm of his hand against Dean’s cheek and turns his face back towards him.
"Look at me." Sam grips Dean’s chin. "Be with me, here. Now, at least."
Dean can’t do this - can’t see how much Sam wants him, can’t let Sam see how much he needs him in return. He’s angry at himself for letting this go too far; angry at Sam for wanting it. He pulls back, and his cock slips out and although Sam’s hand is there, guiding him back in, hips arching beneath him, Dean’s hips stutter and he can’t regain his rhythm.
He pulls out of Sam, kneels back and slaps a hand on Sam’s thigh.
"Turn over." Dean struggles to keep his voice steady, and it comes out harshly.
"It’s okay," Sam reaches up a hand but Dean brushes it aside.
"No. I can’t... Just turn over."
Sam starts to say something more, but thinks better of it and rolls over, leaning on his elbows, ass raised from the bed. Dean nudges his legs apart and rubs the head of his cock up and down Sam’s crack before pushing back in.
As they start to move together again, Dean looks down Sam’s back and sees the wound, a long ribbon of white skin just below Sam’s shoulder blades. He hasn’t seen it since that night, hasn’t wanted to see what is to him, not something he healed, but a reminder of what he should never have let happen.
Dean reaches down and runs two fingers along it, fingertips bumping over the ridges of Sam’s spine below the healed skin.
Beneath him, Sam arches his back down, trying to escape the touch.
"No," he whispers. "Don’t."
"But it’s real, Sam." Dean covers it with the palm of his hand. "It’s part of you; part of us."
"It’s how I killed you."
Leaning forward, Dean traces his tongue over the line his fingers had followed, and then re-traces the path with a line of kisses. The skin is silky smooth, almost delicate, and he’s gentle, as if even the brush of his lips could rupture it, and tear the wound open anew.
Dean wraps his arms around Sam, one across his chest, one across his collarbone, and half-lifts him from the bed, Sam sinking further onto his cock as he does. Dean holds him very close, so close he can feel Sam’s heart echo against his own. But between their hearts is the scar.
Dean buries his head in the crook of Sam’s neck against the curls of sweat-damp hair. Sam’s almost sitting on him now, leaning back, and they rock together, their pace quickening. As Sam rises and falls along Dean’s length, Dean reaches down and starts stroking Sam’s cock firmly in time with the gentle thrusts of his own.
Sam’s making little grunts that are not quite moans, and he drops his head to muffle the sounds against Dean’s arm. A spurt of precome wets Dean’s hand and he knows Sam is close to coming. As Dean fists his cock faster, Sam bites into Dean’s forearm, swallowing cries of pleasure as they well up in his throat. Dean feels Sam tighten around his cock, and then tense and release in wet spurts over his hand, and up over his own belly.
Dean surfs the wave of Sam’s orgasm as it courses through him. He lets go, of himself, of his fear, but as he comes hard and deep inside Sam he knows with a certainty that he will never let go of Sam.
Not now; not ever.
***
When Dean wakes hours later, he’s alone in the bed. For a moment his heart rises in his throat, until he sees the light shining under the bathroom door, and hears a tap running.
He feigns sleep when Sam emerges, and is relieved when he settles into the other bed. He listens for a long time; until the sound of Sam’s soft snuffling snores are testament to his slumber. Just like when they were kids, he thinks, and Dean would wait until Sam was asleep until he snuck off for some midnight mischief.
When he reaches the crossroads, the full moon is sliding down the night sky. He has come without weapons, armed only with a vain hope. Dean doesn’t know what he can offer, but he is prepared to beg for more time. What else he is prepared to give, or do, he is too scared to consider.
He puts his photo, cut from a fake i.d., in the rusted metal box, along with the cat’s bones and graveyard dirt, and kneels to scoop out a small hole in the road. When it’s done Dean stands, wiping the dry earth from his hands on his jeans, and looks around, waiting for the Crossroads Demon to appear.
Dean stands alone, at the crossroads, for a long time.