
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/269718.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Mythical_Beings_&_Creatures, Wincest_-_Freeform,
      Weechesters, Public_Sex, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-10-28 Words: 5154
****** By The Horns ******
by BewareTheIdes15
Summary
     Sam is aware, in the most painful and acute of ways, that he has
     never really been normal.
Notes
     Another of my creature!boys fics - this one for the_miss_lv and
     kototyph's prompt: horned gods.
Sam is aware, in the most painful and acute of ways, that he has never really
been normal. He’s tried – oh God, he’s tried – but it’s like there’s some part
of him that wasn’t put together right, some odd angle that just won’t let him
fit into place. Now, sitting in the middle of the woods, in the middle of
nowhere, with no actual clue how he got here, he thinks he’s starting to
understand exactly what part of him that is.
The horns. It’s totally the horns.
In his defense, he probably could have figured out that it was the horns
interfering with his normative high school experience much earlier if, you
know, he’d had them much earlier. As it is, a month ago he’d been convinced he
had a couple of those annoying under-the-skin zits. Two weeks ago he’d been
convinced he had tumors – freaky, malignant forehead tumors. Yesterday the
stretched-thin, irritated skin over the lumps had split, revealing dark, bony
protrusions and Sam had been convinced he was having a very long, elaborate
nightmare.
Now he can only assume he has died and this is the most jacked up version of
hell in the known universe. Because there’s a bonfire with mostly naked people
dancing – and, ok, that one couple, totally not dancing, even if they are doing
it to the beat of the music that’s coming from nowhere – around it despite the
early spring chill and a guy standing in front of him with horns. Like the ones
that are apparently growing out of Sam’s head, only not, you know, tiny and
lame. His are like horns - black and glossy, moonlight catching on the ridges
scalloping the curve of them up to points that curve back to disappear in the
spikes of his dark blond hair.
He’s leaning back on this car that’s just as black and shiny as his horns,
jeans caught low enough on his hips to reveal a little sliver of flesh under a
t-shirt and leather jacket. If it weren’t for the friggin' antlers growing out
of his forehead, he’d probably be the most normal-seeming guy here, but those
things are seriously hard to overlook. And he looks entirely too pleased to see
Sam.
Against his better judgment – pulled against his will by the heady draw of
music and smoke on the air - Sam slowly walks toward the gathering. The last
thing he remembers is his eyelids getting heavy as he probed the internet for
an explanation for spontaneous horn growth. He’d been in a pair of sweats
because he hasn’t bothered to leave the house since the tumor phase but now
he’s got on his favorite pair of jeans and a flannel, crunching old pine
needles and twigs under his tennis shoes.
Hell is confusing.
“Sammy,” the guy grins, firelight casting strange shadows over his features.
He’s good looking in that Abercrombie-model-meets-anime-fan's-wet-dream kind of
way. All muscled lines, curved and corded in a way that looks natural and
effortless, topped off with a pretty boy face of pouty lips and big green eyes
with eyelashes like smudges of soot. The whole package makes Sam feel knobby
and coltish all over again, even though he’s really started to fill out around
his height this past year – almost seventeen, it’s about damn time.
It doesn’t register until several seconds too late that the guy called him by
name. At that point, though, what he’s calling Sam doesn’t really matter
because he’s pushed himself off the car and, faster than Sam can react, has his
arms wrapped around him in a fierce hug that has his feet bidding farewell to
the ground.
“Look at you!” the horned dude enthuses while Sam’s still trying to re-expand
his rib cage, “You got so big!”
Before Sam’s fully recovered from the first wave of assault, the guy’s got a
hand on either side of his face to hold him still for a head-butt that sends
Sam reeling. Pain starbursts through his skull, blinding him and turning his
knees liquid. But for a strong pressure around his middle he’d be kissing the
dirt.
Gentle fingers brush his bangs back from his forehead, soothing over the
stinging places where he’s sure blood is blooming under the skin.
“Sorry, sorry, kiddo.” The guy’s voice whisper-laughs against his cheek,
leaving moist, warm imprints that make Sam’s hair stand on end. “Forgot you’re
still a delicate flower.”
He smells like freshly turned earth and rain, leather and musk and motor oil.
Under the jacket he’s burning hot, a soothing heat that melts through Sam’s
shirt where they’re pressed chest to chest, thaws his cold fingers as they find
their way around the guy’s back, slipping under his shirt to meet soft skin.
Sam’s never felt like all of his pieces lock together quite as thoroughly as
they do at this moment. That must have been one hell of a blow to the head.
A set of soft kisses get laid against the space between the blunt jut of horns
just below his hairline, just a little bit damp where the inside of the guy’s
lips touch his skin. At the same time his thumbs sidle up against the mounds
where the broken skin is still swollen and tender to press tiny circles into
the flesh. The pain flares briefly before mellowing into this pleasant ache
like massaging an overworked muscle.
It’s all stupidly comforting, this scent and this presence, strong fingers
raking through his hair, strong body holding him in close. Comforting enough
that it takes Sam a minute to remember that there are a number of very not ok
things going on at the moment, not the least of which being the drugging, happy
thrum running through his veins. Something is definitely up.
As soon as that filters through his head, Sam is pulling away. Trying to
anyway, not that he gets far with the guy’s arm still wrapped around his waist
like a steel band, keeping their hips locked together even as he arches back
enough to really look the guy in the face.
He’s still smiling at Sam, happy as can be – guileless, guiltless. Like this is
business as usual for him. And shit, maybe it is, maybe this is like his job or
something – confuse the newbies so they don’t fight the fact that they’re in
hell even though they never had nearly enough fun to really deserve to be
there. Shit, he can’t be Satan, right? There would at least be a pitchfork or
something. So, like, a demon, or... or something? But if he is, then what does
that make Sam?
“Man, you think way to damn hard,” he grins, bright and easy, pushing in closer
to Sam’s face. For a second Sam thinks he’s in for another headbutt but at the
last second the guy tilts and instead it’s just their lips that make contact, a
satin-soft brush that zips across Sam’s nerves like licking a battery. “C’mon,
let’s get you something to drink.”
His sneakers skid over damp leaves slowly decomposing into the forest floor but
the guy doesn’t seem to mind that he’s mostly dragging Sam toward the circle of
light like a ragdoll. Doesn’t even seem to notice, in fact.
As they approach, a girl in purple lace underwear - she has got to freezing but
you'd never know it - breaks off from the group she's laughing wildly with to
snatch up one of the red plastic cups that seemed to be scattered around
everywhere and bring it over to them. With the cup changing hands, she kisses
the horned guy, mouth wide open so Sam catches shutter-flashes of their tongues
writhing together, glossy in the firelight.
She huffs this sound when they finish, like the bastard child of a laugh and a
sigh that Sam's brain jumps in with 'swoon'. Her lips are all slick and pouty,
moreso when she licks them and scrapes the bottom one with her teeth and it's
not until she's pressed up against his chest that Sam realizes she's been
watching him stare at them.
Clearly Sam missed some important information about this party - like, all of
it - because evidently this kissing strangers thing is like a trend or
something. With Anonymous Purple Lingerie Girl's tongue pushing into his mouth,
he can't seem to feel very upset about it.
What? He's mostly an adult and maybe possibly dead. He can makeout with hot
crazy people if he wants to.
A dark, velvet laugh pouring into the curl of his ear brings his attention back
to the Maybe-devil-demon-thing guy who, Sam realizes with sudden clarity, has a
thumb hooked inside of Sam's waistband, hot against the cut of his hip. It
startles him enough that he pulls back from the girl's mouth, getting an
unhappy sound in response and this hip roll that- Yeah, ok, his dick's more
than a little bit interested.
But there's the guy, this guy with freaking horns and he's all up in Sam's
space, bridge of his nose to Sam's cheekbone and his breath so damn warm, like
a mid-summer wind caressing Sam's neck so goosebumps pop up and he shivers
paradoxically. This is so not the time to be hard and - fuck, he's never going
to be able to use the word horny again, is he? - turned-on and rules by his
dick. Sam hasn't got an ever-loving clue what kind of time it is, but it's
definitely not that time.
“Who the hell are you?” splutters out of Sam’s mouth. Maybe not the best choice
of words under the circumstances, but whatever.
That pulls the guy up short. He's still smiling, drawn back just enough that
Sam can see him while still sharing all that body heat, but there’s a waver to
it that wasn’t there before.
“I’m Dean,” he says, and it might just be the way the fire catches on the gold
flecks in his eyes, but he almost looks pleading. “You were probably too young
to remember, but you used to call me Dee. I- I took care of you.”
At some point the girl must have melted back into the crowd, but Sam missed it.
Only notices now because Dean slides around so he's directly in front of Sam,
arms looped around his hips, and he doesn't have to jostle her out of the way
to do it. Thick fingers pluck at Sam's shirt at the small of his back, the
temperature there rising and falling slightly with the flushes of fresh air. He
can feel the cup resting against the curve of his ass, this tiny brush that
makes him feel skittish and unglued.
"I've never met you before," Sam argues as if there's one single second of
anything that's happened so far that follows the laws of reason.
Dean flinches, barely perceptible but it's there. If anything, though, he's
crowding in closer to Sam who's still just standing here taking it for reasons
he can't even begin to grasp. Shock, maybe.
"All your life," is solemn, a statement and a whisper that breaks against Sam's
skin and seeps into his pores.
There's got to be something to say to that, but Sam doesn't know what it is.
He's not really in a position to argue considering he's stumbling blind through
this whole whateveritis and Dean seems so sure that it's almost like...
No. Sam brushes away that 'did I remember to lock the door' tingle because
there's nothing he's forgotten and the moment he does it's gone like fog in the
sunlight.
In a blink the whole atmosphere changes. Those serious eyes Dean had him locked
with thaw to an easy non-chalance and his arm is crooking around Sam's
shoulders, tugging him into a one-sided hug. It's weird. It's all very, very
weird and Sam's not sure why he's surprised by that, all told.
"C'mon, kid," he claps Sam on the arm, taking a deep drink out of the cup the
girl had brought them before offering it up to Sam. "It'll make you feel
better."
Drinking beverage of unknown origin is one of those things his grandma and
grandpa brought him up smart enough to know not to do. Then again, they've
spent the last couple of weeks sending each other furtive glance and insisting
that the fact that he's growing freaking horns isn't anything to worry about,
so what the hell.
He'd been expecting beer - are you even allowed to serve anything but beer out
of red plastic cups? - but his mouth is flooded instead with something sweet
and thick that he doesn't have the words to describe. It's like it bypassed his
entire digestive system and slides straight into his veins, warm honey and
sparks lighting him up on the inside.
It's so good but it's... it's wrong. One sip shouldn't make him feel like this.
It's got to be drugged or something, dosed somehow-
"There you go." Dean puts a finger against the bottom of the cup as Sam moves
to lower it, tipping it back against his lips again so the sweet liquid rushes
past them. Sam can't keep himself from swallowing. "Food of the gods, baby
boy."
He couldn't stop if he wanted to, not with Dean urging him on like this, but he
doesn't bother to try again. Not until the cup is drained dry and he's licking
the taste from his lips.
The world is spinning just a little bit faster than it was a minute ago but he
doesn't feel drunk. He feels connected. Plugged in and just- just right in this
crazy, spinny, perfect way. And Dean! Dean's great. He's just, like, just
right. Just like exactly the person Sam needs and not just because he's
probably the only thing that's holding Sam up right now. He's like good. Like
really good. They should kiss again, that was good too. Kissing, yes, more of
that.
Dean laughs against Sam's mouth when he tips his head onto Dean's shoulder and
offers up his mouth but he doesn't say no.
Sam’s kissed a few people before. Girls. Okay, a couple. It’s never hit him
like this before, though. Never made him want to open up and take everything
the way just the ghost of Dean's breath on his lips does, put himself at the
mercy of a slick slide of tongue and that shuddery electric bliss that he just
got a shadow of earlier.
Dean seems to be perfectly content with the situation, holding Sam still with a
palm to the back of his head so he can eat at Sam’s mouth. At the soft hollow
of his temple he can feel one of Dean’s horns, smooth and slightly cool and
he’s struck suddenly with the idea of what it would be like if his own matched.
Would they tangle or slip against each other? What would it feel like? How
would it work?
He's got this impression in his head like a photo out of focus of a sensation,
a pressure, strange and alien but familiar. Then Dean's fingers comb through
his hair again, one butting up against the tiny nub of his horn to trace around
it and it all comes into clarity so sharply Sam's surprised it doesn't leave
him sliced open and bleeding.
The "Dean!" that jolts out of him would be a shout if he could freaking
breathe. He ends up stumbling backward against Dean's car - when the hell did
they get over here? - when he pulls away because his legs try to collapse under
him, leaving him clinging to night-cold black metal and glass for a substitute.
"Yeah?" Dean's edging forward, worry clear in every line of his face. One of
his hands hovers in midair between them, halting when Sam winces away.
Sam doesn't want to say it, can't even process it with all of these impossible
memories of his parents and a house and a life long before he should have been
old enough to be able to remember anything crashing in on him, but it's also
the closest thing out of all the mess in his head to being something he can
deal with so it comes out anyway, choked and awed. "You're my brother."
Dean's grin is so huge it seems like dawn should break, like the whole clearing
is going to go bright with that elated flash of teeth as its own miniature sun.
"Yeah," Dean says again, almost a laugh. Apparently it makes him forget all
about personal space because he's bracketing Sam in against the car now,
pressing his face into the warm hollow under Sam's ear and licking at the skin
as if he can't feel Sam rigid and struggling against him.
"No, Dean! You're my brother!" he insists. There's a door handle digging into
the meat of his ass hard enough it'll probably bruise but it's the only way he
can get anything remotely resembling space between his body and his brother's.
His freaking brother! Oh God. Oh shit.
"Yeah..." Dean says slowly like he's waiting on Sam to make a point. As if it's
not perfectly obvious what's wrong with this scenario.
He eases back enough that they're looking each other in the eye, but there's
still an arm planted against the roof of the car on either side of Sam and
Dean's legs are still long trails of heat melting through Sam's jeans.
And Sam honestly can't think of a good way to phrase this so he just bursts out
with it, too loud for the scrap of space between them. "You kissed me!"
Kind of a lot, actually, with Sam as a willing participant for at least part of
it. Great, he finds out he's not in hell - that he's a freaking demi-god, what
the fuck? - only to immediately buy himself a one way pass downstairs with his
brother.
Dean rolls his eyes so hard he's bound to have strained something, muttering,
"Fucking humans," before grabbing Sam by the chin and forcing their mouths
together again.
Sam's squeak into it is anything but manly but right now he doesn't
particularly care. Dean's sucking at Sam's lips, fingers pressing into his
cheek to pry his jaw open so he can force his tongue inside. The most messed-up
part about it - and considering he's being forcibly made out with by his newly
remembered sibling, that's saying something - is that it still feels just as
good.
Sam wasn't doing so hot at standing on his own anyway and the rough satin swipe
of Dean's tastebuds against his own is just making his knees weaker. It's ok,
though, because Dean's using his hips to pin Sam to the car, keeping them both
upright while also making it painfully, deliciously obvious that they're both
rock hard.
"'S wrong," Sam manages to slur when Dean changes the angle. Admittedly the
fact that he's trying to lick Dean's molars at the same time detracts somewhat
from the objection.
"Does it feel wrong?" smears against the corner of Sam's mouth. As much as he
knows he should, Sam can't get himself to say yes. Instead he moans out a
wordless noise that Dean catches with his mouth, warm used air pouring back and
forth between them at the rate of Sam's erratically pounding heart.
"Sixteen years, Sammy," Dean pants, his hips starting up the rough, churning
grind that tears Sam's focus to ribbons, "They could take you away from Mom and
Dad but not from me. Even when you weren't allowed to see me, I always watched
out for you. Always. And now you're all grown up and you can choose for
yourself."
So carefully, he shakes his head, just enough that the hard curve of his horns
catch at the stubs of Sam's with a soft clack that jars Sam down to his marrow.
He remembers them - people, no, not people, gods; angry with his mother for...
for choosing a human, loving him, having his children. Being torn from her arms
because of some technicality and not understanding, never understanding until
he forgot it altogether, until he was just the human he was sent to be raised
as.
"Don't tell me no now," it's a plea, nothing but, and it gets under Sam''s skin
in ways he doesn't think anything has before. "Not after everything, Sam,
please. You're my brother."
All things considered, that shouldn't mean much. Sam's got maybe six months’
worth of memories - he was a goddamn baby, how does he even have memories? -
and the last hour or so to go by; hardly anything in the grand scheme of things
but still everything when it comes to Dean. Because Dean held him and played
with him and helped feed him. Because Dean kissed him goodnight every night
when their mother put him to bed. Because Dean, tiny and golden with his chubby
fingers and little prongs for horns, reaching out for Sam as he was taken away,
screaming Sam's name, has been a part of every single nightmare Sam has ever
had even if he didn't remember why.
Because he's Dean and Sam never had a chance to learn how to say no to that.
It should feel stranger than it does when he lifts a hand to run his fingers
through Dean's clipped hair, stalls out halfway and ends up palming the back of
his head instead, pulling him in until their lips crash together.
There are a lot of things Sam still doesn't understand and probably a lot more
that they should really sit down and talk about - like, oh, say, everything
that's happened since he was six months old - but there's still this thrum in
his system like sitting on a amp with the base turned all the way up and he
can't get past it. So he does the only thing he can do; he hitches his leg up
against Dean's hip and goes with it.
Dean groans like he's dying and loving every second of it. He ducks out of the
kiss to mouth at Sam's neck instead, shocky-sharp thrills burrowing down into
Sam's gut as he nips at straining tendons.
“I wanted you to remember," he says like Sam can process one damn thing outside
of the rough friction of Dean's cock rutting against his own, "I thought for
sure when you saw me-“
Sam cuts him off with a breathless, doped-up, “I dreamt about you. I didn’t
understand, but you were always there. I never forgot that.”
It has Dean groaning again, hands skidding over the car's roof with a sweat-
tacky squeals. Then he's down on his knees, crumpling gracelessly to breathe
hot-spots into the swollen thickness under the sipper of Sam's jeans. Sam
almost joins him on the ground involuntarily, only Dean's hands bruising firm
on his hips keeping him steady.
The blunt curve of his horns presses into Sam's belly, shortening his breaths
as hard bone digs against tender softness. He'd probably mind it if he could,
like, think, but whether it's the drink or Dean or the fact that everything he
has ever believed about himself and the world at large has just been turned on
its head, Sam has no particular ability or inclination to do anything but watch
the soft give of Dean's lips against tough denim as he rolls his hips.
He doesn't seem to need much more incentive to get Sam's jeans open, the first
rush of cold air on hot flesh seizing up Sam's lungs. Which is about the time
that Sam remembers this isn't exactly a private party.
They're standing far enough outside of the circle of firelight that they aren't
completely on display here, but one look up tells him they haven't been
entirely forgotten either. The music-from-nowhere has picked up a heavier
pulse, tempo clicking up a few notches to a fittingly-frantic pace. Most of the
people - Dean's followers or friends or whatever they are - appear to have been
swept up in it, dancing devolving into something that looks a hell of a lot
more like an orgy. There are still a few on the fringe, though, sticking to
more casual touches and undulations, focus unabashedly on where Sam is propped
up against Dean's car with his dick hanging out and his brother on his knees in
front of him and-
Thoughts. Sam had them. Really, he did. Now they're fond memory because sweet
holy fucking fucking fuck. Dean's mouth. It's awesome. Sam wants to live there.
The feeling - hot, wet, slick, fuck - is overwhelming, so much so that it isn't
until Dean hums happily and arches into it that Sam even realizes what his
hands are doing. The answer is using Dean's horns like handles to push him down
further onto Sam's cock.
Dean glances up at him through the spread of Sam's arms, eyes shadowed by the
angle and the lust swollen pupil that has all but erased his irises. His lips
are pouted obscenely around the thick swell of Sam's cock, dark and shiny with
spit, cheeks hollowed out enough on a slow suck that Sam can see the shape of
the head through Dean's cheek. There's not a single part of that that should
look even a quarter as hot as it does.
Against his hold Dean's horns jerk slightly, a pointed nudge that makes Sam's
damp palms slide against ridged bone - permission as much as the uptick of his
eyebrow is a dare.
The horns are just starting to warm under Sam's touch when he firms his grip,
pulling just a little tentatively at first, then harder when Dean bucks into
it. There are rules for this kind of thing, Sam's sure. Well, maybe not this
kind of thing - he doesn't know if there are enough people out there who have
been given blow jobs by horned demi-gods to have a firmly established set of
protocols - but getting head, there's definitely rules for that. Sam doesn't
know what they are and if he ever did, the memory is long gone, but he's still
pretty sure he's got to be doing it wrong as he feels Dean go tense and loose
by turns while Sam uses him.
Dimly Sam can hear things over the rapid huff of his own breath and the swirl
of blood in his ears. The music is still there, keeping tempo with Sam's
scattershot heartbeat, and the people, moans and grunts punctuated by giddy,
unhinged laughter and things that might be praise or suggestions or who knows
what. He feels like some of them are directed at him - them, together - but
he's too distracted by the wet click of Dean's throat, almost gagging, fighting
to swallow, porn-nasty and blazing fucking hot, to actually listen or care.
There are reflex-tears watering at the corners of Dean's eyes but he's just
letting Sam have his way, manipulating Dean's head by the horns in little
shifts and hitches that have him alternately going deep, pulling out to thrusts
shallowly against the silky insides of Dean's cheeks.
He's too high on this to be allowed to think about anything and still he finds
himself wandering off into the idea of how Dean expected this to go. Did he
want it sloppy and frenetic and in over their heads the way it is now or had he
planned something else, soft and easy? Is this his style, all-in, giving it all
up for all the people he sleeps with or is it something just for Sam, his baby
brother? If the years he's spent watching out for Sam, never able to interact
is what brought this on, some kind of creepy, pining obsession or if this is
just... them? A part of their nature.
Not that it matters - not right now. Later, maybe a lot, but not now.
The sweet rasp of Dean's tongue sinks into Sam's nerves, sets them shivering
like his breath, aching like his balls. He feels like whatever tether used to
keep him grounded to the Earth snapped and somehow got tangled up around Dean.
If the dirt under his feet disappeared right now, Sam doubts he'd even know it,
just as long as Dean was still there, still doing that.
At some point along the way Dean got his own dick out of his jeans, his fist
moving over it in an unsteady blur as he humps up into his own grip. Sam only
gets flashes of it, fat, glossy head through the circle of thick fingers, dark,
heavy shaft that makes his mouth water. Pretty sure that's a brand spanking new
reaction to a dick, but whatever, Dean's looks good, really good. Especially
framed by Sam's arms manhandling Dean into taking him deeper, all long
fluttering eyelashes and this moan that takes Sam's brain, tosses it in a
blender and hits puree.
The heat boiling in the pit of Sam's stomach prowls out under his skin, making
the little prickles of air-cool sweat at his hairline tingle like shaken soda.
He feels fevered, delirious, motherfucking awesome. Then Dean tosses him this
look that, like... Eyes can't actually flash hot, ok? But it feels like it,
like there's something simmering just behind the surface of Dean's just waiting
to pounce on him.
And Sam explodes like shatterglass.
Thick, choking waves of ecstasy wash him under, Dean sucking him through it
ravenously, shoving more sideways pleasure deep into Sam's veins. It's
perfection on that crackling edge of painful and Sam can't do anything but
surrender and trust Dean to get him through it.
"Come on, baby boy," Dean's whispering against Sam's cheek when he finally
manages to tune back in again. In the background he hears something that sounds
unnervingly like cheering.
He's on his ass in the dirt - like, bare ass meets dirt; awesome - with the
cold metal of the car door bleeding through his shirt at the back.The heat of
Dean's body kneeling all but on top of him counterbalances it so that all Sam
has room to feel is sated and sticky.
The sticky part seems to have a lot to do with Dean's hand rubbing over his
belly, a suspiciously thick wetness that's growing tacky on Sam's skin.
"Dude, did you just rub your spunk on me?" Sam's voice sounds like he's been
snacking on sandpaper and there's like, absolutely zero inflection, but he
still thinks the accusation comes across. All it does is make Dean smirk.
Sighing, "I have the weirdest brother in the world," pumps the look up to
Cheshire cat proportions. It also earns Sam a slow, soft kiss that melts into
an even slower, deeper one so he figures that's ok. Somehow or other. He really
doesn't have the energy at the moment to worry about the details. And with the
way Dean's hands are wandering, he's starting to doubt if he's going to have
the opportunity either.
Yeah, it's good to be home.
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