No idea if it's true or not. Ritual seems legitimate enough. But that fucking sleep spell seemed legitimate, too, and all it did was [illegible] out. Already written about that. Can't confirm this, haven't had a demon in months and the only guy who might have known if this was the real deal or not is dead. Priest, knew about everything – Jim brought me [illegible]uff, to see if there was anything useful in there. The guy was less organized than a crocatta (though I'm willing to bet he didn't sleep in a pile of trash). Took me a week to go through it all. Then there was [illegible] almost threw it away. Though it was garbage. But I [illegible] in big letters: "How to Cure a Demon."

My hand is shaking. Can't read half of what I've written. [illegible] If this is true, then, fuck, it changes everything. They're not lost. We can get them on our side. It changes everything.

The blood has to come from somebody who's "purified" themselves. I think that that means confession. Makes sense, [illegible] in a church. There's some other stuff. Need to read it again. Takes forever, rough on the demon, rough on the hunter, but [illegible] 100% success rate.

Have to test this. Fuck it, [intelligible] real. Wonder if Jim would let me try it out in his church. Does it have to be a Catholic church?

Need a demon first. Can't [illegible] somebody [illegible] hate it so much.

- Personal journal of Sam Winchester

Wind, smelling heavily of warm dirt and rust, swept across Sam's face and blew his hair back. He had to shut his eyes against the suddenly-blinding sun. It was hot, wherever Dean had brought them. Hotter than the woods around Sam's cabin, at any rate. And the air was different. Heavier, more dry. Sam could feel it in his lungs. They weren't in the mountains anymore.

"Where are we?" he asked, opening his eyes in a squint (which his blackened one wasn't going to be able to go past) and looking around.

"South Dakota," Dean replied, right as Sam caught sight of the sign directly in front of them. Singer Salvage. "Right outside of Sioux Falls."

Sam adjusted himself in Dean's arms. His hand, on his back, brushed a rip in his T-shirt and then a wet, ragged wound. He quickly jerked his hand back, even though Dean hadn't reacted to the accidental touch.

"This is Bobby's place," he said. He decided not to mention the injury. Dean had to know that he was hurt, and anything shy of dismemberment was probably superficial for him, anyway.

"It's my place, too," Dean replied, before beginning to walk forward. His boots crunched on the gravel in the dirt road that led up to the house. "Never thought I'd see it again, honestly,"

"Isn't this the first place they're gonna look for us?" Sam asked, eyes on the piles and piles of rusting scrap and wrecked cars that surrounded Dean's childhood home. He remembered them. He'd played in all this stuff when he was much younger, cut up his hands and knees every day on jagged metal and broken glass. It was eerie to realize that Dean had done exactly the same thing, twenty years before Sam.

"Not necessarily," Dean replied. "Besides. This place is lousy with wards. Set most of 'em up myself." He looked down at Sam, and winked. "Which means I know how to get past them."

He carried Sam onto the porch, stopping in order to unlock the door and push it open without touching it. Everything inside the house was covered in a thick layer of soft gray dust. Some of the furniture looked like it might've been chewed by animals, but there was no sign of those animals now. Dust puffed up from every step that Dean took as he started up the stairs. He turned into one of the bedrooms. One twin bed, covered in a duvet that'd used to be navy blue, and one nightstand with a lamp on it. The ceiling sloped and the window looked out on the scrapyard.

"This is where I used to stay," Sam said as Dean tensed slightly and the dust swept itself off of the pillows and duvet.

"Yeah, this is my room," Dean told him. He set him down on the bed, gently. "Was, I mean." He fluffed up the pillows behind him. They smelled metallic. "You stay here. I'm gonna go see if I can find a first-aid kit."

"D'you really think I'd go anywhere? Even if I could?" Sam asked, shaking his head as Dean left. He turned his attention to the foot that had nearly been clawed off while they were running away. Three deep, messy furrows, from his ankles to the bases of his toes. Extremely bloody. His whole foot was covered, and the bottom of the leg of his jeans was soaked through. It'd probably been an acheri that'd gotten him; one of several varieties of clawed demons. (Or it could have been a daeva – no, it couldn't have, they were afraid of light and it'd been high afternoon when he and Dean had fled.)

He grimaced, more from how nasty the wound looked than from the pain of it. It reminded him that he didn't have a single pair of shoes with him. Or even socks – or even a change of clothes. He was worse off than the average teenage runaway, because they, at least, tended to throw a few things into a backpack before taking off.

The real weight of his situation was just beginning to settle on him when Dean came back, loaded down with at least eight different first-aid kits of varying size, shape, and recency. He dropped them all on the foot of the bed.

"Okay," he announced. "Between all of these, we should be able to find at least some stuff that's still useable."

Sam's foot was apparently the most pressing injury, because Dean took care of that first, cleaning it out thoroughly before slathering it with some kind of ointment and wrapping it up into a gauzy club. His hands were next. Sam had all but forgotten about them, but, admittedly, the scrapes were starting to look pretty bad ("What'd you do, take a belt sander to these?"). He got cream and gauze around his neck, to take care of the twenty or so superficial wounds that Gordon had inflicted while "testing" him. As for his face, Dean used bandages to tie on an instant cold pack everywhere he had swelling or bruising. Eye, forehead, jaw. The whole process took a while, and reminded Sam strangely of when he'd cleaned and bandaged all of Dean's injuries. Back when he'd still been strapped into that chair.

Finished, Dean put the depleted kits on the floor, then left again. Sam heard him open and close the basement door on the floor below. He returned in a few minutes, two dusty bottles of water in one hand and an equally-dusty box of Twinkies in the other. From the design on the box, it dated back to at least the nineties.

"Look, I brought you dinner," Dean announced, setting the water and the Twinkies down on the nightstand. Sam eyed them skeptically.

"Uh…how old are those?"

Dean glanced at them.

"Which one?"

"Both." Sam pushed himself up a little higher against the pillows.

"Oh. I, uh, don't actually know," Dean admitted. "But water never goes bad and these things – " He picked up the box of Twinkies and shook it. " – have a shelf life of, like, fifty years or something. So you're okay."

"That's disgusting," Sam said frankly. Dean sighed, putting the box back down and lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

"Okay. Sam." Dean reached for one of his heavily-bandaged hands, gently taking it. "I'll get you real food later. But right now, I can't leave you. And you really need to eat. So you can take some painkillers." The protests that Sam immediately started formulating must have shown on his face, because Dean kept talking. "You need to eat so you can take some painkillers. You need to take painkillers so you can sleep. And you need to sleep so you can heal some of…" He gestured to, pretty much, Sam's entire body. "…this."

Sam huffed out an exasperated breath and shook his head, looking away. As much as he hated to admit it, Dean had a point. Despite the old wives' tale about having to stay awake if you had a concussion, sleep was probably the best thing for him right now, and he wouldn't be able to drop off without medication. The adrenaline was gone. All the pain had come back. The aching. The stinging, the throbbing, the nausea. He could probably manage a couple Twinkies even with the last one, though.

"Fine," he said after a while, looking back over at Dean. "I'll eat your Twinkies. Bet each one takes a year off my life, though."

A bottle and a half of water, three Twinkies, a mixed handful of aspirin, ibuprofen, and Tylenol. It all sat heavily in Sam's stomach after he finished, as he lay stretched out on the bed with two pillows cradling his skull. The top of his scalp touched the headboard. His heels hung off the end. The last time he'd slept in this bed had been before he hit his growth spurt.

"How you feeling there, Sammich?" Dean murmured, standing beside the bed and gently stroking Sam's hair.

"Better," Sam murmured back, drowsily. "Pain's starting to fade." He lifted his head, squinting at Dean before he pushed him back down. "'Sammich?'"

"Wanna get under the covers?" Ignoring the question, Dean put his free hand on the edge of the washed-out blue duvet. Sam shook his head back and forth, being careful not to dislodge the ice packs on his face. In the greater scheme of things, being called "Sammich" probably wasn't that big of a deal.

"No. 'M gross."

Dean snorted. "Well, you're gonna keep being gross until we can find a working shower, so get over it. The temperature drops hard out here at night, even this time of year, and I'd bet you dollars to doughnuts that the heater in this place is busted." He tugged at the duvet, made to lift Sam up. "Get under the covers before you freeze to death."

Instead of letting Dean manipulate him into bed, Sam groaned, and lifted a forearm in order to lay it over his eyes. Or, more accurately, one eye and one ice pack. Heater. Covers. The space heater in his bedroom, the piles of blankets on his bed. Home. Gordon's corpse. His cane. His winter coat. Dean's empty, useless cell. With the pain gone and nothing else that he could do to tend to his wounds and keep himself occupied, other things were floating to the surface.

"Ohhhhh, I'm so screwed," he groaned. Even though he was laying down, his heart felt like it was falling into his stomach.

"What the hell's wrong with you now?" Dean asked. He was starting to sound a little fed up, which Sam guessed he could understand. Dean was used to other demons. A fragile, emotional human, with inane needs like food and sleep, had to be as annoying as a goldfish that jumped out of its bowl every five minutes.

"I just…I…oh, my god. I'm done," Sam said, thoughts pouring out through numb lips. He lowered his arm, staring up at the cobwebs on the angled ceiling. They billowed every time he exhaled, impossibly delicate, but he didn't really see them. "There's nothing I can do. It's all over."

"Uh, okay, crazy." Dean sat down on the edge of the bed again. The springs of the mattress creaked. "You know I can't help you if I literally have no idea what you're talking about, right?"

Sam groaned again, closing his eye now. He was still sorting out his own thoughts.

"C'mon, Sam, use your words," Dean encouraged.

"I let you outta your cell," Sam burst out, finally. Maybe he could explain it now. "I slept with you. I gave you access to hunter lore – I let you read my books. I killed Gordon. I ran away. There are at least fifty demons combing over everything I know right now."

Dean was quiet for a few seconds.

"…so?" he asked tentatively.

"I killed a prominent hunter," Sam repeated. "I'm sure that he told everyone he could get ahold of that something weird was going on with me before he went up. Just in case he didn't come back from my cabin." Which he wouldn't. "I killed him. I murdered him. And then I ran off with a Knight of Hell."

"Well, he deserved it," Dean pointed out.

"That doesn't matter!" Sam replied. "D'you think they'll ask me for my side of the story? D'you think there'll be a trial? Of course not. The first one to find me'll be my judge, jury, and executioner." He put a hand over his mouth and spoke through it, voice muffled. "We don't just have all your demons coming after us. We've got half the hunting community, too – and the other half won't lift a finger to help us." He lowered his hand. "There's no going back."

"Nobody's gonna find you." Dean put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing comfortingly. "Nobody's gonna hurt you."

"I'm screwed," Sam replied dully, repeating himself from earlier.

"No…" Dean groaned, shifting his weight. He touched Sam's face now, stroking him gently. Trying to calm him down. "Don't do this again. Don't get yourself all panicky and worked up – that'll be the second time today. And you can't afford it right now. Not with how hurt you are."

"I don't have anything anymore," Sam replied. It must have been pain and exhaustion and little else that made tears sting at the backs of his eyes – even the one covered by a cold pack. "It's all gone."

"Hey." Dean leaned over. The sun was sinking, weird light slanting in through the grimy windows and throwing his fine features into shadow. Sam didn't realize what he was doing until he felt his full, soft lips. The kiss had the feeling of floating on his back in a perfectly-still pond, staring up at a cloud-dotted blue sky ringed by trees. It was soothing, in other words. Their mouths stayed closed, but Sam still tasted a hint of sulfur from Dean. He exhaled softly when he pulled away. "You've still got me."

Dean kissed him again. Sam didn't even have to ask for it, and he wondered how Dean had known that he wanted it. He opened his mouth, and a hot, wet tongue slid in. Filled him up. His body arched and his jaw moved, and a deep, needy moan rumbled out of the middle of his chest. Dean pulled away after that, giving him a chance to breathe.

"Dean," Sam panted. Dean brushed hair that'd gotten stuck to his cold packs out of his face.

"Yeah?" He kissed the tip of his nose. It tingled.

"You said that we were gonna make love again. After it was all over."

"Well, Sammy, I didn't know that you were gonna be so banged up when it was all over," Dean said, with a very short laugh. "I don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't," Sam reassured. He got his elbows under him, pushed himself up slightly. Dean put a hand on his chest, but didn't force him down. "I…I need this." He laughed himself, and it came out a little shaky. "Today was pretty bad, but it's been a rough couple of weeks. I just need to forget for a while. Before I go to sleep."

Dean studied him for a second, then moved his hand off of Sam's chest, putting it on his shoulder again instead.

"You thinking about that wraith kid again?" he asked. Sam sighed, closing his eye. "How long's that gonna bother you for?"

"I don't know." Of course Dean didn't understand human grief. Sam tried not to get too worked up over it. "Uh, forever, maybe."

"Yeah." Dean's voice was soft. He stroked his hand over Sam's bicep, down to the elbow. "You loved him."

Sam opened his eye again, disturbed. "Uh – "

"Like a little brother, pervball." Dean lightly smacked his arm with the back of his hand. "You were responsible for him. You feel like you should've protected him better. You blame yourself for what happened." He went back to stroking. "I might've been an only child, but I still get it."

"What d'you mean?" Sam asked, sinking back down.

"Well, I'd like to think that…" Dean hesitated, then continued. "That if I hadn't died in 'eighty seven. If I hadn't wound up under Cain's knife. Your dad still would've met my dad, and me, too. You were real little back then. Maybe, I coulda taken care of you." Sam opened his eye in time to see Dean looking blankly down at his legs. "Maybe I could've kept that wendigo from clawing you up."

Sam reached across his own chest and grabbed Dean's hand, holding it in his own bandaged one. After a second, Dean turned his attention back to him

"Sorry," he said, a note of apology in his voice. "Did I make it weird again?"

"No," Sam replied, shaking his head. Well, trying to, at least. It was kind of a hard gesture to make while lying down. "No, that's…that's kinda nice. To think about."

Dean gave his scraped-up hand a gentle squeeze, then shook his head, snorting softly as he slipped off the bed and started rummaging through the first-aid kits again. "You are damn lucky I've got a thing for sexy invalids. Nympho."

One of the kits, as it turned out, happened to have a tiny squeeze tube of lubricant in it. Or, well, Sam didn't really know exactly what it was, but it was slippery and didn't burn him, so he supposed it didn't really matter. Dean straddled him as he unzipped them both, tugging their jeans and boxers down around their thighs. Sam tilted his head back with a groan as Dean prepped him. He really had to work to get that first finger in.

"How the hell are you so tight?" Dean whispered. "I literally just did you this morning." Sam's cock, already half-erect, twitched as precome beaded on its swollen tip.

The bed was barely big enough for the two of them, and Dean had to keep adjusting his position so his knees wouldn't slip off the edge of the mattress. Sam held onto him, clumsily, and felt his fingers tighten to the point of his knuckles going white when Dean pushed into him. His strokes were languid, gentle. One blended into the next, like waves lapping on a beach. For a demon, the incarnation of violence and cruelty, Dean was surprisingly careful about the act of sex.

The light slowly faded outside, until Dean was fucking him in darkness dotted by the dregs of sunset. But "fucking" implied something a lot rougher than whatever this soft thing was, so Sam nixed it temporarily from his vocabulary. Dean was obviously going slow so as not to inflame any of his injuries. Sam was tempted to get himself off, but he couldn't do that with gauze wrapped around his palms. At least Dean was keeping his prostate almost constantly stimulated.

"How's your leg?" Dean murmured, just as Sam was starting to build to climax.

"How's your back?" Sam returned.

"Just a scratch. It'll heal in a few days." Dean moved his knees again. "Doesn't even hurt."

Sam came about a minute later. Just like everything else about this, it was slow. Drawn out. Powerful. He felt like all his worries, all of the toxic emotions of the day, were bubbling out of him. Definitely worth waiting for.

Dean pulled out of him while he was coming down and shot his load into a wad of tissues taken, once again, from the first-aid kits. Sam would have preferred for him to come inside of him, but it wasn't a big enough deal to complain about. He started to pull his boxers up, but Dean stopped him, cleaned him up, then did it himself. Sam let him put him under the covers when he was done. He felt warm and loose and half asleep.

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which seemed to be turning into "his" place, and carded his fingers slowly through Sam's tangled hair. Night had fallen completely now. Laying down, Sam could only see the sky through the window. All the constellations. They were barely different from the ones he could see from his cabin, only slightly displaced.

"What d'we do now?" he asked. Dean's fingers stopped for a second, then kept going.

"Thought you were asleep," he said. "We…I don't know. We live. We keep moving. All around the world. I always wanted to go to Costa Rica. The Netherlands. Japan. New Zealand, maybe." He leaned over to look at Sam's face, since he was laying on his side and his back was to him. "Where d'you wanna go?"

"I'm not sure I can do that," Sam replied. "I've spent my whole life helping people. Being useful. I don't think I can just walk away from that." He turned his head to look up at Dean. "I don't wanna run forever, either."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but that's kind of our only option," Dean pointed out. "They'll find us, eventually, if we stay in one place. Doesn't matter how good the wards are."

Sam licked his lips. "Tell me how to close the Gates of Hell."

"We can't do that," Dean replied immediately, shaking his head.

"I know." Sam looked out the window again. He knew he was being selfish (again), that Dean didn't want to talk about it. He didn't care. "Just tell me."

Dean was silent for a while. Sam assumed that he just wasn't going to talk. But then, all of a sudden, he said, "The first Trial is bathing in a hellhound's blood."

"Jesus," Sam said. He couldn't think of anything else to say to that.

"Wasn't that bad," Dean replied. "Thing ran over the top of me. I gutted it, and all the blood poured out. It was like oil that smelled like sulfur. Better than having it chew me open, I've gotta say."

"Sounds hard," Sam said.

"It was a real bitch," Dean agreed. "Next one was worse, though. Getting an innocent soul outta Hell."

"Oh my god," Sam said, lifting his head. "How did you - ?"

"Bribed a reaper," Dean replied. "He took me in through Purgatory. Which, by the way, is real, but it's full of monsters' souls. Not dead babies." He reached up to rub at his jaw. "Barely remember the guy I got out, to be honest."

"And what about the last one?" Sam pressed, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "The impossible one. The one you couldn't do."

Dean looked at him.

"You had to cure a demon," he said evenly. "Which, of course, is totally impossible. Can't be done. A soul can't heal, once it's gotten to that point. I think that I would've – what?" A noise had jumped, unintentionally, out of Sam. "What is it?" He swallowed. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"'Cause I know how to do it," Sam replied.

"Know how to do what?" Dean demanded. Something in his eyes had changed.

"Cure a demon." Sam started to sit up, beginning, "But I don't know if it w – "

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean interrupted. Loudly. His eyes, suddenly, went black. "And you didn't think that, maybe, this was important enough to tell me earlier?"

"Well, it's not like it ever came up!" Sam exclaimed, defensive. "You didn't even tell me what the third Trial was, so how was I supposed to know? And I told you, I don't even know for sure if it works or not."

Dean was silent again, brooding. Staring at nothing with black eyes, chewing on his lower lip. Sam waited, working himself up into a sitting position.

"How?" Dean asked, finally. "How d'you do it?"

"I don't remember the whole ritual," Sam admitted, wishing he'd memorized it. "You take a demon into a church, I know that. Restrain it. And then you inject it with blood from a human who's, uh, 'purified' themselves?"

"Blood." Dean rubbed his hands over his face. When he took them away, his eyes were green again. "Yeah, it's always about blood." Before Sam could ask him to clarify that statement, he shook his head and continued. "Where's the rest of this ritual?"

"I wrote it down." Thank god for that. "It's…back in my cabin. Under my bed."

"Well." Dean cleared his throat, folding his arms over his chest. "We're gonna have to go get that."

"Yeah." Sam folded his hands tightly in his lap, staring down at them as he sucked his lower lip into his mouth. The bandages dug furrows into his palms.

"Hey." Sam glanced at Dean's hand when it landed on his shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze. "What's wrong with you? This is, like, what you've wanted to do since you learned I got turned into a Knight for trying to close the Gates. Why aren't you all excited?"

"I just…" Sam shook his head and sighed. It was like he was seventeen again, realizing that he'd have to stop hunting but couldn't go to college, like he'd always wanted to since he was twelve – because he was crippled and always would be. "I don't think I can do this, Dean. I thought these Trials were just actual rituals. Rare ingredients, candles, incantations…I didn't have any idea they were so demanding. I mean, killing a hellhound? Springing a soul from Hell? I can't do that." He shook his head again. "On a good day, I can barely even walk. You had to carry me today because I kicked someone in the neck, basically. Those things would be impossible for me."

"You're talking about your leg," Dean guessed, standing up with his arms still folded over his chest. Sam nodded.

"Of course I am," he replied.

Dean reached down, and flipped the covers off of him completely with a fluid movement, exposing his legs. With the sheets and duvet all bunched up on one side of the bed, Dean crawled onto the foot. He pushed the leg of Sam's jeans up to his knee, putting his thin, scarred calf in his lap. He held it with both hands.

"I appreciate it, but it doesn't hurt right now," Sam told him. And it was going to take more than a massage to get him running on that thing.

"Welp, it's about to," Dean replied. Before Sam could ask just what the hell he meant by that, it felt like a white-hot, searing knife ripped through the damaged muscle of his leg. Scraped against the bone. Ran along the nerve.

Sam screamed his lungs empty. His entire body locked tight with agony, he tried to struggle away, to crawl to safety, but something held him in place. A telekinetic grip, most likely. He dropped back onto his pillows and convulsed. His muscles writhed in his leg. His skin crawled. The bones themselves creaked. Everything was pulling itself apart.

Fucking demon. "Rescuing" him from all the others just so he could fuck him and then have the pleasure of killing him himself. Ripping him to pieces from his useless leg up. Never should have trusted him.

It felt like forever, but in reality, the unbelievable agony, worse than the original wound, probably only lasted about five minutes. Sam thought – he was pretty sure he'd passed out at one point and then come to again. His throat was too raw to scream anymore as the pain started to fade. Dean let go of his leg and slid off the bed, but his own legs obviously didn't catch him like he'd been expecting them to. He hit the floor. Good.

Sam heard him struggle back to his feet, hauling himself up using the bed. He stumbled over the side, and touched Sam's forehead. Sam grabbed his wrist so hard he felt the bones give a little, and opened his eye.

Dean was soaked with sweat. Trembling. Five shades paler than usual, which really made his freckles pop out. Blood had crept through the fabric of his shirt, probably from the wound on his back, to his front. His eyes were black. He was wincing when Sam first saw him, from having his wrist squeezed, but then he smiled weakly down at him.

"Regrowing muscles hurts like a son of a bitch, doesn't it?" he wheezed raspily.

Sam's grip on his wrist loosened. "What?"

"C'mon. Sit up." Dean gestured tiredly with his free hand. "Take a look at your leg."

Reluctantly, and very slowly, Sam sat up. He let go of Dean so that he could push himself. He looked down at his leg in the starlight, turning it to the side so that he could see his calf. There was no blood, no protruding bones or dangling strips of ragged flesh. None of the things he had expected.

Instead, the muscle was gently rounded out. Whole. The skin was uniform, milk-colored in the silvery light. No trace of the heavy scarring that he'd looked at every day for years.

He touched it, movements almost dreamlike. He squeezed it. The muscles didn't spasm or cramp.

"I didn't know you could do this," Sam whispered. His eyes, for some reason, were burning.

"Yeah, well, neither did I." Dean was apparently too tired to keep standing; he collapsed onto the bed. Sam scooted to the side to make room, wrapping an arm around him so he wouldn't fall out. "Not without killing myself, at least. I'm almost burned out right now." He leaned, heavily, against Sam. "We're not really made to heal things other than ourselves."

"So that's how someone could kill you," Sam said. He laughed, feeling like he'd swallowed an entire tank of helium. "Just get you to heal something major, use up all your energy."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean replied. He yawned. "I'm gonna have to sleep."

"Okay." Sam was still touching his leg with his free hand. It was surreal, to run his fingertips over it and not have them fall into the craters and valleys formed by the scar tissue and the misshapen muscles. Dean, chin resting on his shoulder, watched him.

"It's still gonna be weak, since you haven't done a whole lot with it for so long," he said after a while. "But that's nothing that training can't fix, and the pain'll be gone. It'll be a lot more stable, too."

Sam turned, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against Dean's.

"Thank you," he whispered. It wasn't enough, he knew. Nothing would ever be enough for this.

He felt Dean smile, plump lips brushing against his own.

"So." Dean awkwardly wove their fingers together, his movements clumsy and tired. He must be exhausted. "You ready to save the world with me now?"

Sam laughed.

"D'you even have to ask me that?"