Obviously Dean's been a little off the edge.
Maybe Sam can't take it as well as he pretends.
Maybe the first hit is the wrong hit.
The knee to the gut feels good, watching Dean's face go sharp and stunned and angry and entirely totally aroused.
Stumbling back, still with enough brains to know he shouldn't reach for his gun, but his knife is another matter.
Sam knows him too well.
Sam has the knife.
Dean doesn't…how did he get the knife?
And he's frightened and it rings like a death toll and they should both be dead for this.
A million times over they should be dead.
So it's mutual necrophilia as their mouths collide and Sam isn't taking shit.
Sam is forcing pushing hurting not coercing.
"Little. Toy. Soldier."
"No, Dean. No."
So maybe the most mind-blowing sex Dean ever had was the sex he never had with his father.
Maybe the hilt of the knife up his ass and Sammy bleeding onto the backs of his thighs is…is…
"That's right. Cope with it, Dean! Cope!"
He wants the gun.
He wants the…he wants the gun to…
Sammy always knows.
He pushes it into his mouth and Dean licks the bitch clean and shiny.
"Keep marching that straight line!"
Maybe Sam is a little hysterical.
Maybe Dean can't keep his legs shut.
"No! Not me! Not me, Dean, never me!"
Stop saying my name, he screams, he screams.
And Dean feels like his brain has been turned into tuna salad.
"We're goin' to Hell."
"That's right, Dean. That's right. Keep sucking."
Maybe he's whimpering and squirming like a whore.
Maybe he's got this pretty picture of Sammy in some squalid alley with some faceless slut.
Fucking her raw.
"Yeah, he's up there…"