Rating: NC-17 for sexual situations, language
Length: 5,100 words
Summary: Set a few weeks after 2x03. Sam finally cashes in his rain check. Dean never saw it coming.
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean are not mine. *sigh*
Spoilers: Through 2x03, Bloodlust. Events of 2x04 are not a factor.
Author’s Note: This fic has shifting POVs, which is an experiment of sorts. Each is clearly marked by a section break. Thanks to wendy for reading over the early parts of this. And thanks to both wendy and txtequilanights for encouraging me/cheering me on through my first no-squinting-necessary Wincest fic. It was honestly...inevitable.
X-posted lots of places
He never saw it coming.
Dean blinked, eyes watering, pain blooming across his cheekbone. He stared at the stained, rough ceiling above him and tried to sit up.
Too soon. He let his head fall back to the floor.
“Fucking hell.” His hand came up to brush his face, skin tender already.
“You alright, man?” Sam’s voice came from somewhere above him.
Dean tried to focus his eyes and looked up. And up. He wondered if Sam had always been quite that tall. Of course, he didn’t always view Sam from the vantage point of flat on his back on a filthy carpet.
“No, I’m not alright, Sammy. You fucking decked me! What the hell?” Dean grimaced up at the slightly blurry version of his younger, but by no means little, brother.
“Just cashing in my rain check.” Sam’s long fingers reached out to Dean, crooked slightly in invitation.
Rolling his eyes and pursing his lips in irritation, Dean took his hand. Sam pulled him to his feet and then caught him tightly by the shoulders as he swayed alarmingly.
“Goddammit. For once, I regret ever teaching you how to fight.”
“Is that what you called picking fights with me every other minute when we were teenagers? Teaching me?” Sam snorted, shook his head.
“You learned, didn’t you?” Dean squinted at him, realized the right side of his face was already swelling. “Jesus, Sammy.”
Sam let his hands drop from Dean’s shoulders and took a step back. His face was drawn, anger and frustration clear.
Dean tested his jaw, relieved when it moved normally. Sam had nearly knocked him cold. Dean supposed he had Sam to thank for the fact that he wasn’t unconscious. He must have let up, for one reason or another.
“Rain check, huh?”
Sam crossed his arms on his chest, the solidity of his forearms, the twitching veins under the skin, sending a clear message.
Sammy was really damn strong, and he was really fucking pissed.
“Yeah, rain check. I know you remember.”
“I do. Just not sure what made you want to redeem it this particular night.” Dean ignored the throbbing pain in his cheek in favor of glaring up at Sam.
Sam threw his arms in the air and spun on his heel. He paced across the room and Dean could read the rigidity of his back, the tightness in his walk. Sam faced the door of the motel room and didn’t turn around. His whole body heaved once as he took a deep breath and spun to face Dean.
He held up his thumb and index finger, an inch apart. “You come this fucking close to getting your head knocked off less than one hour ago and you want to know why I wanted to punch you?”
Dean cocked his head to the side. “Let me get this straight. You were mad I didn’t get my head cut off, so you punched me in it? Sammy, you’re making no kind of sense here.” Dean started to turn and walk toward the bathroom when he was suddenly jerked around by the arm.
Dean looked down at Sam’s hand holding his upper arm in a death grip. “Dude, what the...”
“Don’t you get it, Dean? You almost got yourself killed.”
“And that is different than every other night how?” Dean felt Sam’s fingers loosen a fraction.
“It - just - it was close, Dean. And you weren’t being careful.”
Dean grinned, making Sam tense further. “That’s what I have you for, Sammy. You’re careful, I’m reckless. It’s like good cop, bad cop. Remember?”
Sam let go of Dean’s arm and scrubbed his face with both hands, hard. When he dropped them, he shook his head. “Forget it, Dean. Just...get a shower. You smell like - like death.”
“Well, that’s what graveyards smell like, Sam.” Dean shrugged his jacket off and tossed it on a chair, walking away.
When he heard the water come on in the bathroom, Sam slumped onto the nearest bed. His whole body was humming, sending a distress signal to his brain, his heart, to whatever part of him that would listen. The whoosh of the shovel slicing through the air towards Dean’s head would not leave him. It whistled through his ears like wind through bare trees.
The rational part of his brain reminded him over and over that Dean had ducked and was perfectly fine. The shovel thunking into something solid was not Dean, it was the tree behind Dean.
The irrational part kept screaming that the metal edge of the shovel had been close enough to brush the ends of Dean’s hair. That Sam had been too goddamn slow, knocking the possessed gravedigger to the ground in the next second. It could have been a second too late. It was a second too late. Dean had actually saved himself.
“Fuck.” Sam stood up, paced. The water kept running. He could feel the steam pushing under the door, making the room feel warmer, thicker. It made him restless, made him feel trapped in the four walls of this room on the side of the road in nowhere, Michigan.
And despite that feeling, a part of him too large to ignore would be willing to stay in this room for a pretty damn long time if it meant keeping Dean safe. Alive. It had taken some time, but Dean had slowly eclipsed everything else in his life. Especially since Dad died. Things like college and girls and any life but this one were fading in his memory, in importance. Until there was just Dean. It should scare him.
Sometimes, it did.
Sam held his fingers to his mouth, just breathing. The flutter of panic simply wouldn’t settle. He knew, he knew Dean could take care of himself. He also knew what it was like to walk down the corridor of a hospital and find your father dead on the floor. A man he also thought could take care of himself.
Sam dropped his hands, crossed the room again in restless steps.
The water was still running. Dean was a quick shower kind of guy. Sam jerked his head up, eyes on the bathroom door. What if - was he -
He crossed the room in seconds, yanking the door open to the bathroom without preamble. The heat and the steam hit him in the face first, flushing his skin. Then, Dean making hard little rough sounds. Sam panicked, grabbed the shower curtain and pulled it back.
The sight before him choked back his words, Dean’s name dying on his lips. Dean was naked before him, naturally, since he was in the shower. Water was chasing over his every angle and plane, fast and fluid. He was leaned forward, braced on the tile by his left hand. Fresh bruises were livid against his skin, on his hip, his shoulder. An especially fresh one was gracing his cheekbone. But his eyes flipped from Dean’s face to Dean’s right hand in an instant, and more specifically to Dean’s right hand wrapped around his cock. Sam’s whole face flushed redder, not just from the steam, and he backed up a step.
“Dude, what the hell?” Dean’s face was all frown, but Sam’s brain was busily cataloging the fact that not only had Dean’s hand not left his cock, it was actually still moving.
Sam’s eyes met Dean’s. “Fuck. Uh, I’m - I thought something was wrong - and dude, do you have to keep -“ Sam gestured at Dean’s hand.
“Sammy, you’re the one who busted in here like his pants were on fire. I’m in the middle of something, yeah? So, can I help you?” Something deep in Dean’s eyes made Sam flinch and have to swallow past a sudden lump in his throat. Because he didn’t know, didn’t know what he was seeing and what it meant.
If he spontaneously combusted right then and there, Sam would not have been surprised. He felt dangerously close at this very second and the flutter of panic in his stomach had turned into some kind of tremor of what-the-fuck. He backed up, hitting his shoulder on the open door.
“No, I’m - sorry. Right. Save some hot water, okay?” With that weak rejoinder still in the air, Sam fumbled for the door and escaped into the slightly cooler air of the room. Door firmly closed behind him, he pushed off and stood a few feet away. Staring back at where he had just been, still seeing what he had just seen.
The sudden realization that he was half-hard in his jeans made him gasp aloud in the quiet room.
Dean let his hand continue to slide, eyes on the door closing behind a rapidly departing Sam. God forbid his brother realized that some of this was for him. Dean took love where it found him and the weight of Sam’s reaction to him almost being beheaded was love in Dean’s book. Dean showed love by protecting, by fighting for someone and no matter their differences, he and Sam were cut from the same genetic cloth. When Sam looked ready to kill him for almost getting killed, he knew that expression. Knew Sam was mad at himself for not being faster, stronger, better. Dean went through that every time Sam got a scratch in a fight.
The fact that Sam felt that way about him was enough to make his jeans feel suddenly tight. Because yeah, Dean felt things hard: in his gut, in his heart, in his cock.
He tightened his grip, freaking out only a little that Sam’s face came to mind. That remembering his eyes, hot on Dean in the shower, was making him slide his hand faster and tighter and then he was coming hot and hard, water still pounding on the back of his neck, sluicing down his back in a river of warmth. And Dean’s chest was heaving slightly, mouth dry. His eyes slid cautiously to the door and the idea of Sam on the other side.
He slammed the water off with his free hand and straightened. Facing that music was not going to get any easier. He could ignore it, he guessed, but between what he just did and the way Sam’s face changed when he yanked that curtain back, it seemed a bit too late. It also seemed like it was about time.
Dean toweled off slowly, skin still humming with heat and sensation, with an uneasy sense of what was to come. He liked certainty. Quick decisions, made on instinct. And this was one of those, but for once, he was less than certain.
Sam had been so pissed off just beforehand. Angry about his completely typical, but yes, reckless behavior in the graveyard. He couldn’t have Sam treating him with kid gloves. It was just - yeah, they were going to need to have this out, one way or another.
Dean scrubbed his hair half-dry, spikes sticking up. He wrapped the towel around his waist and exited into the room. He scanned the room quickly, expecting to find Sammy and frowning when he didn’t. As he walked toward the door, Dean absently brushed his face, grimaced when he felt his cheek. Sam gave him a fucking shiner. He was going to look like hell tomorrow, he knew it.
He yanked the door to the motel room open abruptly and was almost crushed under the weight of his younger brother as he fell into the room. A cool rush of air came in with him.
“Jesus, Dean!” Sam stumbled, gained his balance without either touching or looking at Dean.
“Hey, I’m not the one leaning on the door. On the outside of the door for some damn reason.” Dean gestured at it, realizing he was veering away from the issue at hand in favor of a standard issue argument. He forced himself back on course.
“What’s going on with you, Sammy?”
Sam shrugged, walked away. “Nothing, man.” This time it was Dean who took a hold of his arm, jerked him to a stop.
“That’s a load of crap and you know it.” Dean waited for Sam to stop resisting his pull, to finally lift his eyes and peer at him through his hair. When he did, it made Dean hesitate. Pause. Possibly stop breathing.
Sam couldn’t look at Dean. He needed to not look at Dean. There was too much swirling in his head and his stomach, making him feel seasick, for god’s sake. He was terrified Dean wouldn’t get it and having Dean laugh at him for this would just be the end of him.
He also knew Dean was in a towel and he smelled amazing, all clean and soap-scented. It was fucking with him and he was already so fucked, he couldn’t see straight.
But when Dean had taken his arm, his grip unwavering, Sam realized he was stuck. Dean was like a dog with a bone sometimes. Relentless. He finally did look at him, knowing immediately he had failed in hiding all the stuff slowly turning him insane.
“We’re going to have to talk about this, aren’t we?” Dean’s voice was rough, hiding all the important cues Sam was hoping for.
He went for playing it a bit dumb, looked away, over Dean’s shoulder. “Talk about what, Dean?” Sam could hide the hints too, if he wanted.
The fingers on his arm tightened until he flinched. Dean was fucking strong as hell.
“You want I should make a list?”
Sam actually knew exactly what that tone of voice meant. Dean was fast losing patience. He pulled his eyes back from the wall beyond Dean and refocused on Dean’s face. On his eyes flashing a warning of some kind, or was it a signal?
It seemed Dean took Sam’s silence as assent and started in on the list he had apparently written in his head.
“We could talk about you never again punching me in the face.”
Sam stood there, quiet.
“We could talk about how you are being overprotective and stupid and irritating the fuck out of me.”
Sam frowned, eyebrows in a perfect straight line across his forehead.
Dean tugged Sam’s arm, catching him off-balance slightly. Sam took a step closer to Dean.
“We could talk about things like bathroom etiquette and not barging in on your brother while he’s jerking off.” Dean lifted his eyebrows and Sam swallowed, cheeks flushing just slightly.
Dean’s voice slipped an octave lower, coarsened like sandpaper as it rubbed raw across Sam’s nerves.
“Or we could not talk about this.”
Sam took in a sharp breath as Dean’s free hand lightly curled around the bulge in Sam’s jeans.
The way Sam pulled away and then swayed back into his touch was really all the answer Dean needed. His palm pressed into Sam, eyes locked on his reaction.
Sam’s lashes fluttered as he bit off a curse.
“This is fucked, Dean.” He barely said it. Mostly breathed it even as he let his hand fall onto Dean’s shoulder. His palm was warm and sweaty on Dean’s clean skin, sliding briefly.
“No shit, Sammy. Remember how I just said we’re not going to talk about it?”
“You on board with that?” Dean looked unsure for about half a second as he waited for Sam’s answer. He let his hand fall away, hang at his side.
Sam looked his brother over, head to toe, a thousand thoughts buzzing his brain like flies. This was well and truly fucked up. But he couldn’t figure out how to settle the worry in his gut, the taste of fear dry in his mouth. He needed to know Dean was right there, right with him. Not fucking dying on him without warning. Somehow having Dean’s warm skin under his hand was the first thing all day that made him feel better. Each new sensation was pushing out one of the negative ones.
Replacing fear with craving, exchanging worry for need.
He supposed Dean would understand if he just answered the question by nudging Dean’s towel off his hips with one hand, listening to the soft thump as it hit the ground. The look in Dean’s eyes, glittering in the dim light, was enough to make Sam breathe a little harder, to focus on not coming in his jeans right that fucking second.
This was nothing like those few times they’d both gotten hammered and roughly groped each other, falling into one bed, breathing into the other’s hair as they passed out. This was the two of them stone cold sober, standing in the middle of a motel room, stepping off a precipice.
Sam gasped, realizing he had been holding his breath, had been holding the next second at bay even while he desperately wanted to grab it with both hands.
So he did.
Thing was, Dean had always been a little bit faster.
Dean didn’t quite smile at Sam. More like he bared his teeth, a flash of white and then it was gone. His hands curled in Sam’s t-shirt, fabric twisting between fingers. He pushed Sam harder against the wall, noted the startled look in Sam’s eyes at being shoved into this position. Dean was convinced Sam didn’t really know what he was asking for, what he was getting into here.
Because Dean knew. He remembered all those fumbled moments, the feel of Sam’s weight against him while he slept. It haunted him, made his whole body ache because keeping Sam safe and near was just something he had to do. It was as essential as eating and breathing and shooting evil bastards directly between the eyes.
But if this was just Sam’s one night way to overreact to Dean’s head nearly becoming disconnected from his neck, he couldn’t have it. He shouldn’t take it. Dean had to be sure. Sam seemed confident now, but he needed to get them past the point of no return.
Dean stared into Sam’s eyes, hands loosening and sliding downwards. He could see Sam’s eyes dilate, widen as Dean’s fingers curled into Sam’s waistband. But he didn’t stop him, didn’t say a word. In fact, he swallowed, mouth parting.
He felt Sam’s breath warm on his face as he undid Sam’s jeans, shoved them down his hips, letting them fall all the way to the ground. His boxers followed right after and Sam kicked his shoes off to the side. Dean could feel Sam’s abs tense and contract under his hands and he searched his eyes quickly. There was no withdrawal there. If anything, Sam seemed to be growing more intense.
Sam’s hands wrapped around Dean’s shoulders, fingertips digging into the skin even as Dean’s hand closed firmly on his cock, hard and hot. Sam’s sharp inhale went straight to his own cock and Dean couldn’t help it the smile that twisted his lips.
“We’re going to...do this, aren’t we?” Sam’s voice was surprisingly steady, just a little rough around the edges.
Dean touched his mouth to Sam’s, testing. Warm, dry skin and it didn’t taste wrong. He went back for more, going with the non-verbal answers to questions they were both so good at tonight. Winchester boys had a tendency to choose action over words, most any night of the week.
He touched his tongue to Sam’s lips and they parted instantly. Dean pulled back, brought the hand to his mouth that had been gripping Sam’s erection and licked the palm. Sam watched. When Dean’s slick hand went back to Sam’s cock and started to slide, short and rough, Sam pulled him into a harder kiss, full of teeth and tongue.
Dean’s strokes lengthened until Sam’s hands started scrabbling over his bare arms, down his back. Sam threw himself into the wall behind him, pulling back from the kiss with a gasp.
“Jesus Christ, Dean. I’m - would you - fuck...” Sam’s head turned to the side, shadows throwing his long neck into relief.
Dean dived forward to lick it, his tongue slick, moving upward to Sam’s ear. Dean had been around, been told more times than he could count that he had the most perfect mouth ever for things sinful and fun. He had an idea what Sam might want from that mouth, but the older brother in him couldn’t resist fucking with him a little first.
“What, Sam? What do you want?” Dean’s mouth hovered over Sam’s ear, his hand stroking more slowly, then stopping altogether.
The sound, broken and wanting, Sam made right then made Dean’s own cock harden further, made his heart jump in his chest. When Sam’s fingers ghosted over his erection, he nearly threw out his making-Sam-ask plan. Nearly.
He wet his lips, kissed under Sam’s chin, sliding over to the other ear. “I’ve got you, Sammy. It’s just us, right? It’s just us.” His free hand slid up Sam’s shirt, fingers roughly pushing against muscle and firmness, moving around to coast up the groove of Sam’s back. Sam broke long enough to struggle out of his t-shirt and Dean let him. Then he was right back on him, relentless.
“We’re the only two people in the world who know what we are doing, where we are, Sammy. So, fucking spill.”
Sam swallowed several times, the heat of Dean’s body right against his fusing several of his logic centers. He knew in very serious parts of his brain that all of this was beyond wrong. He shouldn’t get off on his brother’s hand moving hot over his cock, on his brother’s sinfully lush mouth moving over his skin. But he was. He so was. As if his life wasn’t weird enough already.
Fuck. He’d given up a lot for this life. He was going to take this, goddammit.
Sam licked his lips one more time, answering into Dean’s hair. “I want you...down there, Dean. I want your mouth on me.”
Dean grinned, just like his normal self, and Sam relaxed even as his heart rate instantly tripled. He slapped Sam on the chest once and dropped to his knees. “All you had to do was ask. Was that so hard?”
Sam’s mouth opened to form a response but it turned into a moan when Dean’s mouth slid over his erection, slick and hot and where the fuck did Dean learn to do that?
He breathed, hard and deep, trying to keep from coming immediately. But Dean’s mouth was so warm and tight and he kept swirling his tongue under in just the right spot. Sam looked down over the expanse of his own bare skin and locked onto the sight of Dean’s full mouth wrapped around him. The thumb of his left hand skimmed across Dean’s bottom lip, traced across his cheek even as Dean began to move his head. Sam could feel himself through the thick skin of Dean’s cheek and he had to jerk his eyes to the ceiling to dig for some semblance of control. To keep from fucking that mouth, to fight the tension all coiled in his belly. Dean had his hips pinned hard against the wall. Sam looked down the hard line of Dean’s back, the curve of his spine surrounded by smooth muscle. His eyes moved back up his back, over Dean’s hair and returned to his face.
And he came instantly. Because Dean was watching him, eyes hot with the kind of possession, of fierce want he had never seen before. Not on Dean and not directed at him. It was like a punch in the stomach.
He groaned loudly as he pumped deep into Dean’s mouth, the orgasm nailing him to the wall even as his legs went to jelly. Dean swallowed most, wiped the rest from his chin with the back of his hand as he stood up and Sam’s head shook back and forth, sensation flooding through him.
Dean’s body was barely wet from the shower still, slick with a little sweat now in the warm room. Sam’s fingers skimmed over it, trying to steady himself. Dean’s hand closed over Sam’s and moved it downward, coasting over Dean’s abs until they reached his extremely hard cock. Dean flicked his eyes to Sam’s, some kind of question there. Actually, maybe it was an invitation.
Sam bit his lip as he wrapped his long fingers around Dean’s cock, marveling at how fucking hard he was and yet how he still seemed so much in control. He pushed his thumb over the top, finding it slick. Dean tensed, bit back a groan and Sam thought maybe he wasn’t quite so much in control as he thought.
Sam could work with that. It had been his goal to have Dean under his control somehow tonight. He thought it was all about teaching Dean to stop being a cowboy when they were on a hunt. To make Dean see how much Sam couldn’t stand the idea of losing him. To penetrate that hard shell Dean could fashion so effortlessly. The way Sam’s whole body was flashing red alerts to him told him there was a bit more to it than that. Dean was his world now. He couldn’t stand the idea of that not being true and he was just now finding new ways to feel it, to show it.
Suddenly, both of Sam’s hands took a hold of Dean’s upper arms and pushed him back. Dean stumbled, expression startled. When Sam advanced on him, eyes pushing him backwards as much as his physical self, Dean’s face relaxed into something else.
With a half-smile on his face, Sam pushed Dean backwards onto the bed and followed him, chasing him onto his elbows. He covered Dean with his body, hard muscle moving over hard muscle, eased by water and sweat. Before Dean could protest or even comment, Sam’s hand was back around Dean’s cock, stroking hard and fast. Long, firm strokes designed to make Dean’s eyes roll back in his head. Sam supported himself on one elbow, half-lying on Dean even so. He could feel his own dick stir against Dean’s hip. The sounds falling from Dean’s mouth, half-curses and choked syllables, emboldened him further.
Even as his mind threatened to spiral out of control, Dean tried to prolong this, tried to keep from rising to Sam’s touch too fast. Sam had other ideas it seemed, as he sank dull teeth into Dean’s shoulder and bit down. At the same time, he increased the pace and firmness of his hand over Dean’s cock, sending bolts of sensation up and down Dean’s body at once.
Dean’s hands flew up reflexively, fingers of one hand diving into Sam’s hair, the other curling into a fist.
“Christ, Sam. How did you -“
“Please, Dean. I know you like it hard.” Sam moved his mouth higher, dragged his bottom teeth across Dean’s jugular. Hard.
Dean didn’t ask why or how Sam knew that or even kept that fact in his mind. He was just incredibly grateful he didn’t have to ask. Harder, faster, now seemed to be a command already burned into his brother’s mind.
Sam’s hand twisted, a flick of the wrist on each stroke even as his mouth covered Dean’s in a bruising kiss. Dean’s fingers twisted in Sam’s hair, tugging. Hard. It probably hurt a little, but this wasn’t about going easy on each other. It was about finding new ways to mark each other. To tell each other it was the two of them, come hell or high water, but more specifically, hell. The hell that seemed to enter their lives on a nightly basis and threaten one or both of them.
As Sam tugged on his bottom lip, nibbling the soft skin between his teeth, Dean arched into Sam, seeking even more sensation, more contact. Seeming to read his mind, Sam let his weight rest more on Dean, extended his fingers to take both his and Dean’s cock in hand.
Dean pushed his head back into the pillow, felt the coarse hotel bedspread scrape against his back. The sensation of Sam’s rough hands and the soft skin of Sam’s cock surrounding his own was far beyond what he could have predicted.
He came, hard, his entire body tensing and pushing against Sam’s. Sam didn’t stop kissing him, pinned him down even as he pulsed his hips off the bed. He felt the warmth on his belly and reached down to take a hold of Sam’s now hard cock. Between their two hands, Sam was coming quick and dirty, swearing into Dean’s ear, breathing hard and heavy.
After a few minutes of just lying still and breathing, Dean pushed at Sam’s shoulder.
“Dude, you’re crushing me. Move your ass.”
Sam shifted his ass back and forth and Dean proceeded to punch him in the shoulder this time. “Take the rest of you with it, smartass.”
Finally, Sam shifted off Dean and rolled onto his back. They both stared at the ceiling, chests heaving with effort and some mix of emotions. Dean’s stomach had a knot of fear he was trying to ignore. But Sam was so quiet and he didn’t like that. It didn’t feel right.
A movement caught the corner of his eye. Sam sat up slightly, grabbed the edge of the bedspread in his hand. He wiped his own abs down and leaned over to clean Dean’s stomach. The carefulness of the gesture startled Dean, his cheek still sore from the earlier punch, his neck burning from Sam’s teeth.
Sam nudged him, not quite meeting his eyes. “That bed’s cleaner.” He gestured at the other bed in the room and Dean felt a sickening thud in his stomach. Sam was regretting it. Sam was pushing him away.
Dean got up, slid under the blankets of the opposite bed. The instant dip in the mattress as Sam joined him and pushed him over tripped his heart in his chest.
“Don’t fucking hog the covers, Dean.” Sam’s warmth was radiating to him and Dean fought the urge to press against him. Dean didn’t cuddle. No, he did not.
Sam flicked the light off and muttered his next words into the darkness of the motel room.
“And don’t you dare get yourself nearly killed again, or I’ll do it myself.”
Dean snorted, felt Sam’s hand brush against his arm. This thing between him and Sammy was yeah, fucked, but Dean wasn’t nearly as freaked out as the situation warranted.
Sam might be the one with visions, but truthfully, Dean had always seen this coming.
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