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Dean lies alongside him, drowsy with the summer heat. Sam’s sweat pools between them, slick on both their skins. Dean doesn’t sweat any more.
The air hangs heavy, amber and swollen as a honey comb, the hush resonant with cicadas. He lifts his hand, raising the knife. Slices delicately at the skin in the hollow of his collar bone, just above his demon ward.
Dean shifts at the smell of blood, dips his head. Drinks, lapping like a cat at the shallow wound. Sam twines his fingers through his brother’s hair, stroking. And everything is almost right with the world.