Tackling the zombie may have thrown Dean's back and neck out, but his mouth?

That worked just fine.

"No way, dude," Dean said, spreadeagled on the motel bed. "No, no, no, and hell no."

Sam sighed. "You can't move and I can't do it for you."

"It's gross!"

"Just do it."

Dean eyed the bottle's small opening with disgust. "Get me a Gatorade bottle at least. That might be wide enough."

Sam rolled his eyes, but offered Dean a plastic soda cup from the wastebasket.

He turned around, smiling as Dean cursed.

And fumbled.

And finally sighed in blissful relief.