strangeallure: (spn sam and dean b/w)
[personal profile] strangeallure
So I signed up for a challenge a while back, and I'm posting one day before the deadline. I am so proud of myself.

Now I can move on to cleaning up that pre-series fic I wrote. And then start working on the backlog. Why am I even doing this to myself?

Title: Running Ragged
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~5,100
Warnings: vampoca!fic; angst, blood and violence; very mild breathplay

A/N: This was written for [livejournal.com profile] vamptastica in the [livejournal.com profile] spn_j2_xmas exchange challenge. I used her prompt “Sam/Dean - dark fic! blood guts mayhem and yet they still survive another day living for only one another”. I hope you like it!

A very special thank-you would not be enough to acknowledge [livejournal.com profile] meiou_set’s role in this. She motivated me to write and finish this fic and then did such an amazing job with the beta that I simply had to promote her to creative consultant. The new title comes with some perks, I promise.

Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.

Running Ragged

With the back of his hand, Sam wipes more blood from his face. He has a feeling he’s only smearing it across his skin. Not that it matters.

They’ve been on the run for weeks now, haven’t showered in days. There’s blood and grime and dirt all over him. At least it covers up the stench of his own sweat.

He throws a look over his shoulder. Dean’s still there, fighting, having his back. Dean’s always there.

Sam makes sure the head is severed clear off the shoulders. He never takes chances with vampires anymore. They're dangerous as it is, but when their bodies are possessed by demons, they're damn near indestructible.

Fucking apocalypse, screwing everything up.

He feels like he keeps losing; they keep losing. With every win, they just keep on going under, and he doesn't know how to stop it.

They found the thing that killed their mother – and lost their father.

They outplayed the yellow-eyed demon, and Jake sliced clean through Sam’s spine.

He came back from the dead only to find that Dean had sold his soul. For him.

No matter what Sam did, what he tried, he couldn’t save Dean, not prevent him dying, not bring him back. There was just no way.

When Dean had come back, Sam had been thankful, grateful – feelings so strong he couldn’t put them into words –, but he had felt useless, too, broken. And he had wound up losing Dean all over again.

And now it's the goddamn apocalypse. With angels and demons, all up against the two of them. With Lucifer in his mind every night and God nowhere to be found. The demon bloodsuckers are just the icing on the cake.

They grouped on this town, taking over a whole coven, then started making more and more of their kind. Sam supposes they like the near invincibility and heightened sense perception of vampire bodies. With the world as it is, chaos everywhere, they could pretty much count on hunters being too busy with regular demons to find out in time, to stop them. If you’re evil, it’s pretty much a free-for-all these days.

Sam's so tired. Sometimes, he's just so damn tired. But there's Dean, there's them. That's enough to keep him going.

He's back to back with Dean now. Both of them against three vampires. Not really moving, never standing still. It’s a dance. A dance in a room full of tripwire.

Sam managed to get his hand on some metal cord earlier, and now it’s wound loosely around both his hands. The vamps don’t seem to have noticed yet, they’re too busy feeling smug. They know how long Sam and Dean fought already, how exhausted they are. They know how fast their own vampire bodies can move.

They can see and hear and smell them. They know the signs of bodies wound too tight, pushed too hard, worn too thin. Dean and Sam are on their last legs, and this might be their final shot.

The vampires are taunting them. It shows how wrung out Dean is when he doesn’t even try to trash talk them a little.

Suddenly, one of them reaches out and rips her fingernail right across Dean's cheek. Sam only chances a look, trying not to let himself be distracted by Dean’s hissing intake of breath, or by the blood dripping down the side of his brother’s face, staining his mouth.

"Knew you'd be even prettier with lips all red," the vampire mocks. She's tiny – blonde and lithe – body barely fourteen with big bright eyes, still looking strangely innocent despite the copious bloodstains on her clothes. Once upon a time that would have mattered, somehow. But now Sam barely remembers when he still allowed himself to care about the vessels.

The whole warehouse is drenched in blood and gore and pieces of bodies, both human and vampire. The air is sweet and heavy with copper and sweat and excrement. He would vomit if he weren’t so busy trying to stay alive.

Sam's sure the vamps couldn't keep their teeth in check if they wanted to. Sensory overload, like a Pavlovian response. The analogy is so absurd, it almost makes him smile.

When the demons took over town, they had made this warehouse their dedicated feeding grounds. Holed up a group of people here, mainly children too small and delicious to be anything but meals; cooped up with one parent per cage, living on bread and water until it was their turn to be fed on.

So many children.

Dean and he had tried to save them, they had. And the vamps had taken great pleasure in breaking their necks like twigs, right in front of their eyes. Snap, snap, snap.

Not letting them save one. Not one child.

That they didn't have the time to suck them dry obviously didn't mean they couldn't enjoy a good kill. Fucking monsters.

Sam’s back is pressed to Dean's, and he feels his brother's movements a little slower, a little less agile and fluid than they usually are. He doesn't even know if Dean's bleeding. Doesn't know how much of the blood they're covered in is their own.

But as long as Dean's breathing harshly, his back pushing against Sam's, there's still something to fight for.

The vamp girl keeps taunting Dean, easily evading him when he tries to get in a stab at her. His knife falls to the floor suddenly, and the other vamps laugh at her smart-ass remark about it. With Sam, it doesn’t even register.

He uses the moment of distraction to make a wide loop with the metal wire in his hands. He feigns a right turn, but suddenly his hands are up over his head. Sam pushes the sling over her head in a movement so quick it surprises himself. He pulls fast and tight and hard and he doesn’t turn away when her blood hits his face. He learned a long time ago that he’s immune.

He's made such a good pull with the sharp wire, and it makes for a clean cut; her head falling right off, blood gushing. It rolls towards her two cronies, and another laugh threatens to take Sam over.

The picture is so surreal: her blue eyes and pink lips slightly open in surprise, her long blond hair twisting around her head, streaked with the blood pouring from her neck. It makes him think of 'Heathers' and of 'Death Becomes Her' and of David Lynch. David Lynch would love this.

The thought alone makes him huff, and it comes out a chuckle.

Sometimes, he forgets that there used to be something other than this. That he used to have a life in a world where regular people didn't know about this, about angels and demons and evil and the apocalypse. Where he went to the movies or watched them on a crappy motel TV set or the even crappier one in his dorm. The idea has a déjà vu-like quality to it: it feels so real, but at the same time, it simply can’t be right. These days, there’s only killing.

As the severed head rolls right between the two other vampires, they jump apart.

It's only a short moment, but it's enough of a distraction for Dean to drive the blade into the arm of one of them. It's dipped in dead man's blood, but it takes a few seconds for it to be pumped through the guy’s system, for the poison to take effect.

In those few seconds, the demon still has full control over this body – and he uses it to lunge for Dean.

Sam hears himself yell, “Dean,” but Dean isn't fast enough. The creature gets a hold of his brother’s arm and tosses him against the side of one of the cages. The sound of his body hitting the metal is too loud, impact rattling the steel bars. Sam winces in spite of himself.

The groan Dean gives is rough, dark and way too controlled. Sam's heard it many times. What Dean really wants to do is shout out, cry in pain – and all Sam wants is to rush over and help him, take care of him, but he has to keep a level head and an eye on the other vamp. So he’s getting the wire ready again; ready for the next kill.

The first vampire scrambles in the direction of Dean, obviously wanting to finish him off, but he’s already having trouble standing on his feet.

Just as Sam’s closing in, the other demon vamp rushes towards his partner - whether to help his friend or simply to kill Dean, Sam doesn't know - and trips over the blond girl's head, right towards Dean and his waiting blade.

The vampire manages to pull himself away, but he’s so off-balance, disoriented, that Dean has time to roll to the side before the bloodsucker can latch onto him.

Within moments, both vamps are on the floor, right on the edge of losing consciousness.

And Sam should be checking on Dean. He should cut off the vampires’ heads right now, eliminate the last threat in here. He and Dean should be making quick work of this, have this battle over and done with, but they can't.

They can't because they're both lying on the floor, doubled over, laughing.

Dean's wheezing through the pain, Sam can hear the strain in his voice. He’s snorting and trying to form words.

Finally, Dean has collected himself enough to pant out, "Damn, Sammy. That head, that fucking head." He guffaws and honest-to-goodness giggles. "Like a fucking game of demon bowling."

Sam’s mind comes up with a photo-sharp picture of vamps in two-colored shoes, standing on a freshly waxed bowling alley, and he all out chortles. "Yeah. Almost knocked themselves out. Like the Three Stooges or something."

That earns him another full-belly laugh from Dean, only fuelling his own laughter, until it sounds way past hysteric.

When both of them finally calm down, though, Sam takes in the tight set to Dean's jaw, the way he curls in on himself a little. An unconscious act of self-protection, his body shielding itself from further damage. He's in pain. A lot of pain.

Sam gets up and walks over. Dean's starting to get up, too, but he's clearly having a hard time.

"Dean, maybe you should sit down for a while, let me finish this," he says, worried.

Dean shakes his head. "I'm good, Sammy." His voice is like gauze pressed tight over a wound. "We did our job, killed those sons of bitches. I'm good."

Sam knows when not to argue.

"Now," Dean puts his hands together in a gesture that would look gleeful if a small wince didn’t give him away, "let's cut off their heads and exorcise those fuckers." He shakes out his body, as if to get rid of some of the tension, the pain, then gives Sam a crooked smile.

Before, simply killing the bodies would have been enough. These days though, they can never be too sure.

Sam goes to pick up the axe they lost close to the door earlier.

Dean found an old saw on a workbench in the far corner of the barn and is about to use it, but when Sam wordlessly exchanges it for the much sharper, more precise axe, he doesn't argue.

Sam gets to work, quickly sawing off the unhappy bowler's head.

By the time he’s finished, Dean’s already begun to whisper the words of an exorcism ritual. They both know several by heart these days. When you're always on the run, you learn to memorize what’s important.

When they're finished with the three vamps, they start to go through the rest of the bodies. There are many, too many.

They have a system now. They had to come up with one.

Each place, each battlefield, they divide into quadrants to scour separately.

They paint a green circle on the hand of every dead body they deem safe and try an exorcism on every corpse they're not sure about. It's time-consuming and tiring, but it's the only way to be certain, to not be caught by surprise again, off-guard. And sometimes, they find an unexpected survivor in all the carnage.

Not today, though.

Today, they couldn’t save anyone. It's nothing they talk about.

Sam knows it's not about the present. It's about the future and what won't happen tomorrow. Because they were here, because they did their job.

When he draws a circle on the last hand in his area, he feels a small smile burning at the corners of his mouth, about to warm his face.

He turns around to see if Dean could use his help, and the smile falls from his face like ashes.

His mind takes a series of snapshots. Disconnected pictures.

A limp hand, fingers losing grip on a green marker.

White, too much white, no green. Eyes rolled back into the back of Dean’s head.

Strange angle, leg stretched out all wrong from Dean’s body.

Canvas jacket fallen open, revealing a skewed red spot growing on a plaid shirt.


Sam wants to move, he wants to scream. He stands still.

He always figured they’d go out together, go out with a bang.

Not during clean-up.

--

Sam doesn’t remember how he gets moving, gets thinking straight again.

He doesn’t remember how he gets Dean out of there, how he cleans him up, dresses his wounds, gives him pain meds and antibiotics. He doesn’t remember how he fills the car up with gas and provisions, how he gets them up into the mountains, how he finds this cabin.

But somehow, he does.

They might have come here before on a job, maybe even with dad. It looks familiar, though Sam doesn’t have the patience to place it. No-one’s lived here for a while. That’s good enough for him.

He demon-proofs the place the best he can. He makes sure the well outside is working, so they won’t run out of water. He sets up camp for them. He hardly sleeps, watching Dean, guarding him. They can never hide for long. Eventually, they come. Always.

Dean drifts in and out of sleep for the next week or so, awake only long enough to eat, drink and take his meds. They’re running low, Sam notices when he puts together Dean’s morning cocktail of painkillers, antibiotics and anti-inflammatory drugs. He files that fact away for later. They still have some time left to rest, to heal. They’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Dean does seem to get better. He was even able to take a bath by himself in a make-shift bathtub yesterday.

His leg heals up nicely, too, – it was a clean break, fortunately – and there was no internal bleeding, as Sam had feared. Dean just lost too much blood from a flesh wound. A flesh wound the vampire apparently gave him when he turned the blade on Dean. So stupid. Why didn’t Dean just tell him?

And why hadn’t Sam seen it? Why hadn’t he seen when it happened? Why didn’t he notice afterwards? He saw Dean curling up with pain – why did he let it go? Why didn’t he check on him? They both got hurt so many times, but it never gets any easier.

Sam’s tired of it, so fucking tired. He knows Dean trusts him, he knows. Yet, Dean always plays down his own injuries, pretends they’re nothing, doesn’t let Sam help the way he wants to. Playing big, brave brother to the point it hurts the both of them.

Like he still doesn’t get it, like he doesn’t know that Sam could never go on without him. Sometimes, Sam wishes he had found a demon to take his soul in exchange for Dean’s back then. Just so Dean would know, so Sam had proof that his life meant nothing to him without his brother, that he would do anything for Dean. Anything.

Sam shakes his head, his fingers tightening on Dean’s arm.

Suddenly, a rough hand closes over his.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says in a sandpaper voice, coarse but steady.

When Sam looks up, he gives him a crooked half-smile. “Thanks for patching me up.”

Sam just keeps looking at him.

“Figured I didn’t say it before,” Dean’s still smiling, an odd mix of fondness and uncertainty. “I really feel better now.” The smile turns into a grin. “Come on, help me get up. I gotta take a piss.”

Sam still doesn’t say anything, simply helps him up and keeps watching.

Dean really does look so much better.

Eyes clear, no dark circles beneath them. His posture so much more relaxed than Sam’s seen in a long time. Blue drawstring pants hanging low on his hips, crinkled grey tee emphasizing the fairness of his skin. His hair sleep-tousled and flattened to his head on one side.

Maybe they needed a break more than they realized. It’s a weird thought to have, to think that Dean getting injured could be a good thing, but Sam can’t help it. Even with the lack of sleep, he’s feeling better, too.

He checks the hex bags, devil’s traps and other protection signs and marks he put up every day. He spends his time around the cabin, cleaning, cooking, rereading his books on the supernatural.

It’s strangely domestic; a reprieve after the endless stream of demons and fights and face-offs. He finds himself thinking that he could get used to this. If it could last.

When Dean comes back from the bathroom – not an outhouse, thankfully – Sam notices that he’s only slightly favoring his left leg. That’s good.

There’s sunlight streaming through the cabin window, turning Dean’s hair into a mess of shining brass, making his skin glow, white like cream, freckles turning into specks of honey. His one hand runs through his hair while the other scratches his belly.

For a moment, Dean looks so young, innocent even. And then, he scratches higher on his belly, shirt riding up enough to reveal where Sam patched up his wound, to show more scars on his skin. The light makes them glow, too, a rosy silver, mother of pearl.

Dean’s not innocent, he’s not a child – and Sam can’t protect him. He’s worn and broken; they both are. This is just a short time-out, a few days to catch their breaths. Then they’ll be out on the road again, covered in dirt and grime and blood, hunting.

This Dean, looking soft and sleep-warm and open, will be gone like he was never even here. And maybe he wasn’t.

Oblivious to Sam’s thoughts, Dean shoots him another grin. “So, what’s for breakfast?”

And – incomprehensibly, even to himself – that is what makes Sam snap. He takes a few fast strides over to Dean, takes him by the shoulders and presses him up against the wall.

“You idiot. Fucking idiot.” He shouts right into Dean’s startled face. “Why didn’t you tell me about the vamp stabbing you?” He doesn’t give his brother time to answer. “Why did you risk bleeding to fucking death? Just because you have that big manly pride thing going?”

“Sammy …,” Dean starts, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“Don’t even try, Dean.” He knows his eyes are flaring, anxiety and pain and fear all battling for an equal share. “You’re such an arrogant, selfish bastard.”

“I was just trying to finish the job first,” Dean says, voice still calm.

“Fuck you,” he spits out. “Don’t give me Dad’s bullshit. I was done with that a long time ago.”

Dean’s hand reaches out to cup his face, and Sam’s elbow comes up out of reflex, forearm pinning Dean all the way back against the wood of the cabin wall.

He steps forward, until his nose is almost touching Dean’s. “You’re it for me, Dean. You’re everything.” He swallows, hard. “You can’t just do that, risk checking out on me.”

“I didn’t …,” Dean tries again, but Sam can’t let him. He needs to finish this, make himself clear.

He adds some pressure to his arm against Dean’s throat and touches his mouth to Dean’s ear, his breath coming out in short, hot gusts. “Your life? It’s not yours anymore. It’s mine. You get that? Mine.”

He pulls his head back, but keeps his arm where it is, trapping Dean. Dean, whose eyes are piercing into his. Finally, he nods.

Sam exhales sharply. “Good.”

He tilts his head slowly, moving in, and catches Dean’s mouth with his. It’s a slow kiss, gentle and warm, and Dean’s lips move softly against Sam’s, his panting coming more from a slight lack of air than from passion.

After a while, Sam whispers against Dean’s lips, “Your sorry ass doesn’t get to fuck with what’s mine.” He opens his eyes to find Dean looking at him, eyes dark and clear at the same time. “Is that understood?”

“Yeah,” Dean rasps, pushing his body against Sam’s. “Yours.”

And fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing Sam’s ever heard. He lets his arm fall from Dean’s throat, but doesn’t let him catch his breath. Instead, he uses both hands to pull Dean in, kiss him hard, too much friction between their lips and teeth, tongue pushing in too deep, grip too tight.

Dean’s chest is heaving against his, hands scrabbling against his back, his body pulling Sam in as tight as he can, cock pressing hard against his thigh. Dean’s so greedy, so needy for this. It makes Sam’s skin light up everywhere he can feel Dean’s weight push up against him, everywhere they touch.

He pulls away from Dean’s mouth, leaving it wet and blood-red, then goes on to quickly undress the both of them.

The way Dean just lets him, readily pulling up his arms, eagerly drinking in the lines of Sam’s naked body. It turns him on like nothing else.

He lets his body fall against Dean’s, hard cocks rubbing against each other, against their bellies, as his teeth sink into Dean’s bottom lip. He nibbles and bites, only turning it into another full-fledged, frantic kiss when Dean whimpers into his mouth, pulling at his neck helplessly. He kisses his way down Dean’s jaw, down his throat and chest and stomach, until he can take the head of Dean’s dick into his mouth. It’s wet with precome and tastes salty and bitter and delicious.

His hands are on Dean’s waist, and Sam feels his brother’s legs give a little. He slides his palms down an inch or two and tightens his grip, wide and possessive across Dean’s hips. Quickly, he lets Dean’s cock slide from his mouth and says, “Don’t worry. I got you. I take good care of what’s mine.”

He feels Dean buck slightly at that, his hands sliding into Sam’s hair. “God, Sam. Yes,” he murmurs. “Please.”

Sam swipes the flat of his tongue along the underside of Dean’s cock, tasting more of his skin, salty and warm. He swirls it around, getting Dean’s cock all nice and wet, until Dean squirms in the tight hold of Sam’s hands, pulling at his hair, trying to get Sam’s mouth around him.

Finally, Sam complies, letting Dean glide into his mouth, taking in as much as he can.

It’s sloppy and slightly awkward but when his eyes travel up to see the way Dean is looking down on him, all want and need and affection, Sam feels his balls tighten, already close to coming.

He knows he has to keep holding Dean, make sure his leg doesn’t give out, so he can’t do everything he wants to do. He can’t rub his palm over Dean’s balls, he can’t tease his hole with his fingers while he sucks him, can’t fist the base of his cock with his hand.

But he can move his mouth fast and slow on Dean’s cock, he can twist his head this way and that and tighten or loosen his lips. He can use a hint of teeth, making Dean’s fingertips dig into his scalp, and then let him slip out completely to place soothing kisses all over his skin. He can lick across Dean’s balls and suck them into his mouth. And he can get him all messy and wet only to breathe out across the length of his cock.

He does it all; wants every noise Dean can give him, every movement of his hips he can have, every twitch of his cock he can feel. Until Dean is keening, begging Sam to let him come.

After a last blow of air over Dean’s sensitized skin, he sucks him down as far as he can. His lips press tight around Dean’s cock, and his tongue rubs wherever it can reach.

He gives it all he’s got, even when his throat is closing up and his eyes start to water. He just moves, moves, moves. Dean’s scent, Dean’s taste, Dean’s sounds and the way he feels inside Sam’s mouth the only focal point. His whole world narrowing down to the sensation of Dean filling him up, filling up all his senses.

When he opens his eyes to look at Dean, gaze locking, he sees the emotion there.

Dean’s fingers twist in his hair, hard, pulling him almost all the way down to the base. Sam’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t take them off his brother. His brother whose intense stare is burning him up, who pushes into his throat with a single thrust so strong Sam almost loses his hold on his hips.

And then Dean is coming, coming into Sam’s mouth.

He has to pull off, has to cough a little, can’t catch it all. He feels it run down his chin before he can start to really swallow, but when he does, he does it greedily – wanting to drink down Dean’s taste, to keep it inside of him.

Slowly, he gets up, his hands still holding Dean. Dean looks up at him, a little dazed.

“Fuck, Sammy,” he whispers, falling bonelessly against the wall.

“When your leg’s all better, we will,” Sam promises, voice raw. “For now,” he smiles and starts driving his cock up against Dean’s belly, “this will have to do.”

He kisses Dean, shares the taste of his come with him, before his thrusts speed up and he has to bury his teeth in Dean’s neck, muffling the shout of his own orgasm.

Sam uses his tee to clean both their bellies, and then pulls Dean back to his bed. It’s not really meant for two, but he doesn’t mind.

The closer they are, the better. Watching out for each other, having each other’s back.

After a while, Dean murmurs sleepily into his skin, “It might be good if we stayed here a while longer, you know? Until I’m a hundred percent again.”

Sam feels his own face relax into a broad grin, “Sounds good. Better not take any – ”

There’s a bang, a dark shadow, a mix of splinters and shards raining into the room, and the word ‘chances’ dies on his tongue.

It’s a demon. A fucking demon. He doesn’t need to see it to know.

But how? How? How?

After a split second, his father’s training kicks in, and he’s jumping up in a defense position. His eyes frantically scan the place for possible weapons, assessing the distance to his duffle bag, gauging the fastest way to lure the demon into the devil’s trap he painted beneath the big, shabby rug.

Surprisingly, the demon’s motions slow as he’s advancing, and he’s looking Sam up and down, a leer spreading across his face.

“Going somewhere, loverboy?” he asks.

And for a moment, Sam had forgotten that they were naked, but now he’s decidedly aware of the fact.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean moving, getting something from under his pillow.

Dean and his damn paranoia, always sleeping with a knife within reach.

“Dead man’s blood?” The demon smiles at Sam’s look. “I can smell it from here. It won’t get you very far—” The demon’s taunting is interrupted by his own scream as Dean splashes holy water right into his face. Sam sees his brother lift the small silver flask to give the demon another dose, making the creature recoil, buying them a little more time.

Enough time for Sam to reach his duffle with the weapons. He really wishes they still had the colt or Ruby’s knife, but at least the machete’s blade is large and dangerous and deadly sharp.

He grips it much like a baseball bat, ready to take a swing and slide clear through whichever body part he’ll hit. The demon seems to realize the damage Sam could do to his vessel. He backs away from him, focusing on Dean instead, who got into the far corner of the room. Right behind the rug.

The demon charges forward, about to grab Dean, when the trap takes effect, halting him mid-motion. Dean grins, naked and cocky, and then immediately starts muttering in Latin. He goes through the chant quickly, ignoring the demon spewing filth and threats as he exorcises him. The creature lets out a last, bloodcurling scream and a whirlwind of black smoke plunges the room into darkness.

When the smoke clears, the vessel falls to the ground, lifeless. It’s not even a surprise anymore. In a world where everyone knows, there seems to be no reason for demons to keep their vessels alive anymore.

Dean looks at the window the demon destroyed, the mess of broken glass and pieces of wood on the floor. His skin’s not glowing anymore. He jerks his head. “Guess we’d better get packing. Keep moving.”

He grabs his clothes, dressing quickly.

“Yeah,” Sam says, reaching for his own clothing, “probably more where that one came from.” There always are, after all.

Dean looks up from tying his shoes and winks at him, “No rest for the wicked.”

Sam just shakes his head, and for a moment, he wants to scream. Instead, he forces a grin onto his face. When his eyes meet Dean’s, somehow, it starts to transform into something more real.

He gets up, walks over and quickly clasps a hand over Dean’s shoulder. “I’ll go get the car.”
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March 2011

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