"To talk," i say, borrowing some of dean's old brightness. poor bastard probably hasn't sounded like this since he was fifteen. "Haven't had a real, face to face conversation in ages, and no, our chat by the bonfire doesn't count, you were tripping balls. But I did enjoy what you were selling."

pick up the knife, twist it in the dim light. he loves doing that.

"Ever considered just." i shrug. "Doing that on the regular?"