Author: Regala Electra
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Sam/OFC, Dean/OFC
Warnings: Explicit sexual situations (het, Wincest, kinks), language
Word Count: 5,228
Summary: These being the sex lessons bestowed upon Sam Winchester by Dean and how very useful they were in five particular situations. He’s frozen in front of her and Dean, carrying an honest-to-God pizza and this is every bad porn movie that Sam has watched when Dad and Dean were off hunting.
Author’s Notes: Beta by the lovely ignited. Thanks to netweight for helping me hash out scenes (rather: for making my porn better). Sam and Dean: they are such lovely pervy boys.
There’s no such thing as privacy, as Sam has known since forever, but there are rare times afforded to them that allow the illusion of isolation.
Dean walks in on Sam while Sam's sitting on the toilet, pants around his ankles, face flushed and Dean takes one look down at Sam's (still hard) dick and advises, flexing his hand for emphasis, "Quit the monster grip, dude. You'll lose sensation later on. Light touches. Trust me on that."
He then waggles his index finger in front of Sam's face. Close enough that he nearly pokes Sam in the nose, making Sam go cross-eyed to keep the offending digit in focus. "Plus, you gotta find all the other sweet spots that ain't directly on your cock. They’re awesome. Feels like your heart’s gonna explode."
Dean shuts the door behind him, his laugh a faint echo compared to Sam's heavy breaths as he struggles between absolute mortification and a stubborn need to finish this dammit.
Sam comes right after and much later, composing himself by actually brushing his teeth for several minutes as though minty breath is a successful deterrent against Dean’s barrage of comments on Sam’s performance, walks out of the bathroom to where Dean's splayed out on the bed. Acting like nothing’s strange, back supported by more than just his pillows – he’s commandeered Sam’s as well to recline as he flips through a gun magazine – Dean’s biding his time, there’s no question.
Sam pulls a few school books out of his backpack, the better to find an excuse to leave the apartment. Den will be fine with him heading out of there to study underneath the one still living tree in the apartment complex’s depressing little park.
"And take your time.” Dean’s gaze rises over the top of his magazine for just a moment, a back alley cat’s slink of a smile burgeoning on his face, because he’s enjoying this way too much. “Learn to build it up. Chicks don’t dig minute-man performances."
And for once in his life, Sam doesn’t have a good comeback, because there’s nothing that he can throw back that can obscure the fact that he was caught in the act with his pants around his ankles.
Sam catches (like it’s a game and not the disturbing pornographic sitcom that is his life with bonus supernatural mayhem) Dean naked on the living room floor, leaning over the cat's yawn stretch of a naked girl, his mouth deep in her ass, fingers spreading her ass cheeks apart.
And it’s Dean, naked. This isn’t just skin being exposed, but it’s Dean exposed in the middle of sex, body slicked with sweat, dick hard but he’s not touching it, just working this girl to a frenzy. And, oh, the girl – dusty cloud of blonde hair streaked with blues – there’s something about her that makes Sam think punk cheerleader. Maybe it’s the short black cherry fingernails holding onto the reclaimed wooden coffee table for dear life and Sam is seeing naked girl up close and personal for the first time in his entire life and it’s a girl his brother is...doing something to.
The girl tosses her hair and in turning her head, her eyes spy Sam between the messy locks falling over her face. He’s frozen in front of her and Dean, carrying an honest-to-God pizza and this is every bad porn movie that Sam has watched when Dad and Dean were off hunting.
Dean picks this excellent moment to get his head away from the girl’s ass (and inside Sam’s head, the place where a functioning brain used to be, the only thing he can think is oh-my-God-oh-God-oh-God). Noticing Sam, he just smiles, like this happens all the time, and says to the girl, “Kate, meet Sammy. He’s a little shy.”
And then she gets up, slowly with a languid air created by whatever she and Dean have been doing (sex obviously but things better than all the soft-core and mildly hardcore porn have ever portrayed). She’s kneeling in front of Sam, breasts round and too full, not weird like breasts in porn, defying gravity, no, hers are real, but it only lasts a flash moment, Dean pulling an arm around her, blocking Sam’s view.
Sam gapes at them, his mouth unable to decide if it wants to stay open or closed. It’s several undignified, horrifying moments before he does an about-face, pizza still in his hands, storming out of the apartment. Dinner outside of the local library (like an impromptu picnic only with the added joy of spending the entire time forcing himself to ignore the unsettling buzz in parts of his body that should not be buzzing) and then an evening in the library until they kick him out sounds like a great idea.
Dean’s waiting for Sam when he gets back in, mercifully dressed and showered so he smells like Sam’s brother and not sex and Sam’s brother. Just when Sam thinks it’s safe, Dean breaks his unusually considerate restraint with a shrug, saying, "What? Some girls love a little ass play and she sucks cock like a champ."
Sam wonders sometimes what it would have been like if Dad had taught him the bulk of his sex ed lessons. That is, if he ignores that having any kind of association with his father and sex would kill the mood for eternity. Boy, you always make sure you treat a girl right. She says no, you listen. And always wear a rubber.
Sam knows what his response would be, because he can't help it, even in a hypothesized non-reality where Dad would actually bother with expanding on his blunt birds and the bees speech that had been useless anyways. Dean had gotten there way before Dad had offered the curt lecture while they’d been driving to a haunting out in Michigan. If Dad offered his pearls of wisdom, about being nice to girls and not being foolish enough to forgo the condom, Sam would say, ever so aggrieved, God, Dad, it's not made out of rubber, it's latex. And I took Sex Ed like each time at my last three schools.
The sanctified version of Sex Ed at school is far less interesting than Dean’s field research in the matter, as Sam has been a witness to many of the aftereffects of these exploits.
Dean once entered the rented apartment one day limping and not from a hunt and Sam had known, even before he spoke, that Dean was about to scar Sam for life. Some more. Dean’s lower lip was so fat that for a moment Sam had thought Dean had a piece of meat sticking out of his mouth. But it, that awful fat lip, was on its way to an utterly vicious bruise, purpling, and Dean had said, "Don't go down on a chick if you don't have purchase on the ground. Seriously, dude. Don't eat her out on a stone staircase in the middle of a damn park either. Fuck."
For all of Dean's horn-dogging, he’s only had one STD scare. Sam thinks that even Dad, who seems to purposefully turn a blind eye to Dean’s proclivities so long as it doesn’t interrupt their day-to-day lives, is probably amazed that Dean hasn’t gotten whapped by the karma stick.
Without that one scare, Dean wouldn’t have said to Sam, when Sam had just turned all of fourteen years old, "No condoms? That's why God gave us mouths and hands. And dude, you ever give it up the ass without a fucking condom, Sammy, then you're just asking for trouble.”
And up until right now, all of Dean’s disgusting information about sex that has pointedly taken all of the mystery out of sex, have not been useful to Sam at all beyond sharpening his sex fantasies to such an extent that sometimes Sam worries he’s really not supposed to think such things and Dean’s ruined him for the rest of the normal world.
But yeah, up until now, that is.
With Trish writhing in his lap as they try to find a comfortable way to do this in her secondhand Camaro, even with the seat all the way back, Sam’s body is crammed in here and he just doesn’t care, Sam suddenly understands why Dean’s been pushing for Sam to restrain himself because this needs to last for a nice slice of forever if he can make it. And man, he has no idea if he can even make it to not that pathetic when his hand goes under skirt-and-panties to touch her there.
She nearly knocks her head against the roof in their fumbling attempt to get her shirt off (maybe he should help with both hands, but he is far too occupied, finger brushing tentatively against her slit). Her bra is all lace and wires and is maybe a size too small or something and honestly, that’s a good thing, and he hopes he tells her that out loud and not just in his head.
“Good movie, huh?” Trish says to him as she tries to unlatch her bra. She kisses his forehead and he notices that her lips are nowhere near as hot as the heat of her pussy or maybe it’s just a matter of nerve endings and he’s able to feel so much more but then she yanks his hand out from under her, drawing a breath and exhaling sharply before sucking his finger and Sam needs to think of something boring but there’s nothing that’s coming to surface, not one thing at all.
Reckless, knowing he’s probably going to wind up giving himself a concussion if he’s not careful (and he’s not), he scoots up, body all limbs and too big for her car. He kisses her (greedy smacking kisses with maybe too much saliva but she doesn’t care and neither does he) the moment his finger pops out of her mouth. In the artless kiss, he can taste her mouth and her and he needs more of this, yes, like now. His hand returns to its previous explorations under her hitched-up skirt.
Sam had hated the movie but he won't tell her that. Instead he watches as she twists herself on his two fingers inside of her. She has to pry her legs wide enough that when Sam leans back to get his fingers in deep, he can watch not just her face, but what they’re doing and it’s wonderful. It's fascinating how it feels, nothing at all what he expected and she's almost leaking onto his hand, sending a throb to his dick.
It takes some maneuvering to get his thumb aligned so he can press against her folds, to that spot that Dean has cited as the holy Mecca, the place where all men who are worth anything better know something about, but Sam succeeds. He manages to do something that makes Trish let out a moaning fuck, bending over him, her hair spilling over her shoulders, covering her face.
That won’t do. “I need to see you,” Sam says and she’s not listening, her hips rocking and inside it feels like a heartbeat away from an earthquake, the way she’s almost-trembling. “Please.”
She doesn’t go stock-still when she comes, just keeps on moving, rhythm broken up and careless, Sam has to grit his teeth and will himself not to come at the sight of it, her losing control and he strokes her inside again, meant to reassure, but she lets out this wail, and he has to say, stunned, “I’m sorry, are you–?”
“OHMYGOD,” Trish says or at least, that has to be what she says because she’s yanking herself up and off and before she dislodges, wetness rushes and Sam’s hand is soaked this time, and more than that, his jeans get hit. Before he can figure out what just happened, Trish leans back, thunking her head but good, only she doesn’t even say ow, in fact, Sam thinks she might have just whispered thank you.
“Let’s get a hotel room,” Trish says with a ragged laugh, her hand idly wiping at her pussy. She looks at her hand, now covered in her juices, amazed, and laughs again. “I was saving up for my prom dress, but I’d rather –”
She stops, like saying she’d rather use her money to find a decent place to pick up where they still are (and Sam really, really needs to relieve this now) is embarrassing.
It’s not easy at all to lean up again, but Sam does, kind of, a bendy position that will kill his back if he stays like this for too long, careful not to tangle his wet hand into her hair when he trails kisses down her exposed neck. Nipping to show he means each one, he says, “I’ve got my dad’s credit card.”
Sounds so innocent and normal and better than the reality that he’s seventeen and has a fake credit card for emergencies only (meaning if worse comes to worse when Dad and Dean are on a hunt). He’s been carrying these forgeries under formal protest with a dash of you never know when you’ll need it and now, he thinks this is a perfectly reasonable excuse and hey, at least Dean would approve.
Amazing how Trish manages to detangle and pitch herself over to the driver’s seat, only bothering to yank down her skirt and pull her shirt on backwards. Before she starts the car, she leans over, her breath hot on his zipper before he can say what or I thought you wanted to go to a hotel, she asks, “One for the road?”
The moment her mouth sucks on the head of his cock, slick fingers stroking him down, he goes. He feebly says, brain completely on the fritz, thank you to her when she sits back up, wiping the corners of her mouth, amazed that she actually swallowed and didn’t look grossed out or annoyed that he wasn’t able to last that long.
They still get a room at the hotel, she winds up sitting on top of him like it’s familiar, this time leaning as far back as she damn pleases, and when she comes, this time by her hand and his dick, he takes that as his time to shine, rolling over and asking her to beg for him to come. “Please, say you want it. Say it.”
She complies and pretty much the rest of the night is spent in a hazy afterglow, lazy touches that won’t wind up leading to the main event but are still just as fun.
The morning after, Sam experiences what Dean dubs “The Drop Off of Shame” where Trish actually insists on taking Sam home, not willing to let Sam walk part of the way back to the apartment. Dean’s sitting in the kitchen, happily munching on what appears to be the last of Sam’s cereal, if the empty box sticking out of the garbage can is any indication, whistling in approval at the flash-glimpse he gets of Trish as she backs out of the cracked concrete driveway, her Camaro making a death-rattle noise as she guns it home.
“Redhead. Nice.” Dean offers Sam a bite of Sam’s cereal, asking, “Natural?”
“Auburn,” Sam says, a random memory flitting across his mind when he’d overhead a conversation between Trish and one of her friends. She’d been saying how she hated that the school colors were red-and-white because she could never spray her hair during Spirit week without looking like her auburn hair was going prematurely grey.
Dean blinks, confused. “What?”
“It’s,” Sam begins, but he’s not going to lecture Dean about hair color variants because he’s just had sex and even a shower at the hotel doesn’t mean he isn’t still in desperate need of changing his clothes. “Never mind.”
“Told Dad you were over a friend’s house, studying. And heh, you were learnin’ something, right?”
“Like Dad cares,” Sam huffs, and grateful for small mercies, there’s still orange juice in the fridge, so he pours himself some into one of the Betty Paige mugs that Dean had impulsively bought at a trucker stop just to freak out Sam. Call it a small step in one-upping his brother, but as Sam sits down, casually moving the newspaper till it’s aligned so they can both read it, he asks, “So, from experience, what do you know about female ejaculation?”
It’s a waste of cereal but it’s priceless watching Dean choke as Sam takes him by surprise: tears running down his face, a mixture of emotions combating there until they cry uncle and stalemate, staying on the battlefield. There’s laughter, shock, and something that weirdly looks like it’s a close cousin to pride.
“Dude,” Dean wheezes, after the fit, “Don’t try to kill a guy until after his second cup of coffee.”
She sucks Dean's cock while Sam slams all the way in behind her, pushing her hair off to one side so he can see.
This is not how Sam thought his night would wind up and he is not complaining at all.
Somewhere along the way, when they’d gone to the god awful bar, they’d met her and somehow things just clicked. Dean had bought her a shot and she’d turned him down and instead she’d bought them a round of shots, insisting that Sam come up to the bar as well. Julia hadn’t smiled, not exactly, but she did crinkle her eyes when Dean tried hitting on her with one of his pathetic lines and she rolled her eyes when he tried to claim some bullshit profession.
Weird thing was, she kept on looking at both of them, not like she couldn’t decide, but that she was waiting for them to get on the same page as her. Five shots later and Dean figured it out. Sam had solved the little non-mystery around shot two, but he wanted Dean to think he was the giant perv upon realizing what she’s angling for between all three of them.
You have to see this she had said, while shot one was being set up, louder than maybe she’d wanted to, because she’d meant for a seductive purr that didn’t work when she’d tried to whisper it as she sat on the bar stool. It’s the best she could hope for in gaining some additional height, as she was barely hitting somewhere near five foot seven in low-heeled cowboy boots, leather dyed in several shades of blue and pale brown.
Dean had protested against drinking something called a Harry Potter and Sam had sighed, thinking of Pottermania across Stanford campus and he’d never gotten into the books despite Jess always praising them. But the shots were kind of good, especially because a part of the bar was lit on fire for it and okay, the bartender throwing sparks in the fire was kind of silly but, okay, look, maybe their line of work sometimes makes them a little fire-happy. And that’s okay, really, them and their streak of pyromania, because they’re working it out in a healthy environment, you know, hunting ghosts and monsters. Perfectly normal.
Julia had her hand almost under Sam’s jeans and Dean had been pressing up behind her, pushing back blunt locks cut razor-edged sharp to nibble at her ear, she wore swinging silver hoops, a throwback that just worked on her, somehow. When she’d asked if there was somewhere else they could take this, there was no hesitation, because yes, that was a great idea.
Especially because Julia had mentioned somewhere around shot four about a favorite bar trick of hers, better than just a flaming sambuca. Where you wetted your finger with sambuca and then ignited your finger (and if you can do it with two fingers, I’d be real impressed) and then extinguished the self-inflicted fire in your mouth. Dean’s eyes had actually danced at that and thank God their next shot was ready because Sam was a little curious as to how it worked and after Dean had swallowed that down, he’d said, almost giddy, Hey, you want to fuck the both of us?
Yeah, okay, alcohol is a great social lubricant and all, but damn, Dean’s lucky that most of human population thinks he’s pretty. Otherwise she’d never had hopped in the car, settling between the both of them, wisely choosing to spend the car ride with her tongue in Sam’s mouth as Dean, experienced driver though he may be, might be a little distracted when a lemon-tinged tongue fucks his mouth as though she’s been waiting for this for ages.
Shedding clothes along the way to the nearest bed, this is how they’ve found themselves here. Sam pulls gently on her hips so she pushes back, she’s not quite close enough to orgasm to tighten around him, but it’s still amazing, with Dean splayed out on the bed, his eyes half-closed but clearly eyeing where Sam and Julia meet.
His lips press together and he has to break away, a look of something on Dean’s face that Sam has and hasn’t seen before, it’s too raw, too open and Julia’s hand brushes against his dick as Sam rocks against her. She’s touching herself like crazy, and he knows he isn’t going to last, he can’t. Doesn’t, with the loud smacking noise of Julia abandoning Dean’s cock to moan out yes yes yes and Dean’s sharp intake of breath and Sam’s eyes just lock with Dean’s and he’s dead only in the way that he’s not.
Sam disentangles, landing in a sprawling heap alongside her, Dean moving over to give them room. Sam takes on the business of removing the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the nearest wastebasket.
Julia is tinged all over in a faint red, heat flushing the suntanned caramel of her skin. She gently works her way in between them, scooting a bit to get her back fully on the bed and not half-lying on Dean. She nips the tips of Sam’s fingers as she cups her pussy, exhausted but she hasn’t come yet and it’s Dean who’s all over that as he moves to the foot of the bed.
Dean parts the awkward collapse of her legs, lining her legs onto his shoulders, feet dangling there. He enters her slowly, kisses the instep of her foot, murmuring thanks when she moans.
“All you, sweetheart,” he says, holding a position that ought to collapse in a nanosecond – her ass in the air, body only staying still because of Dean’s grip and her excellent balance, arms flat on the bed for purchase.
Reverses his tenuous thrust, canting hips back and just when Sam thinks Dean’s going to fuck her into the mattress, Dean pulls out. He just dives down, sloppy openmouthed kisses down both legs, finding a ticklish spot at the angle not quite behind her knees which makes her gasp each time with honest surprise.
Dean’s noisy at this, all gusto and enthusiasm but she is not complaining and Sam, his body sending little jolts of interest to his dick, is lost in the sight of it. But he’s not aiming for another round, instead he cups Julia’s jaw, bringing her face to him so that he can kiss her when he isn’t watching Dean go to town on her. Going to town while going down, and Sam laughs a little in Julia’s mouth, not sure if it’s being slightly drunk or just sex-drunk that’s twisted his thoughts all topsy-turvy.
Dean intersperses words in his actions, asking her if it’s good and if she’s close, “I’m going to make you come, baby,” he says, and damn if he doesn’t mean it.
“And what about you, Dean?” Sam’s voice is low, as he asks, “How close are you?”
“Fuck,” Julia gasps, “I can’t–”
Dean strokes her with his fingers, moving up her body until his face is so close to Sam’s and Julia’s, his breath nearly drenched in the scent of hot pussy and alcohol and a sharp lemony bite is there as well, an extra note that amps up the spice of it all. Dean opens his mouth, tongue flicking out to taste Julia’s mouth, like he’s starving, and he’s Dean, so he probably is.
When Dean detaches to move back down, Sam seals his mouth over Julia’s just as Dean’s tongue flicks Julia’s clit and she tongue-fucks Sam as she comes, her hands pulling Sam’s hair to bring him closer.
Sam’s drunk now on the taste of girl and pussy and alcohol and Dean, Julia breaks away from Sam to catch her breath, giving Sam an ample reason to look at Dean, who’s gone all quiet. Dean’s damn near leaning back on his haunches, just waiting. Waiting, like he needs instructions for what comes next.
It’s hard not to smirk, to give it away, so Sam whispers in Julia’s ear, pushing away those dark, dark locks of hers, asking her if she’s game and she crinkles her eyes at him, not smiling, but flashing her teeth in agreement.
Sam stares at Dean, a look that isn’t one he’s ever really used before, not exasperation or empathy, but something sterner and he commands, “Come on her tits.”
“Sammy,” Dean moans, at that, at Sam’s instructions, but he’s pulling the condom off, jerking his cock, so swollen, needing this. He’s got his eyes closed fully this time, lashes that are too long, lips open in a pant and Sam knows why Dean has to close his eyes like this, because even like this, he’s too exposed. His necklace had moved at some point in the evening to around his back, so it’s just the black cord around his neck.
Right before he comes, he opens his eyes, watching his come spurting over Julia’s belly and breasts, and as he whimpers, whatever ridiculous energy that’s been keeping him moving all around is gone, wasted, and he falls off to the side, nearly falling off the bed. Sam has to grab at Dean to steady him. It’s almost hilarious, the way they’re all sandwiched together, but they’re a little too fucked out to care.
Julia spends most of the night scrunched up between them, hot like an electric blanket. She’s all breezy goodbyes in the almost-morning as Dean offers to drive her home as she pulls on her cowboy boots. “You boys are all right,” she says and actually smiles at Dean’s lame joke in response to her compliment (better than just all right).
Dean doesn't pick up the trashy brunette at the bar, sliding over to sit next to Sam, his knee bumping into Sam’s as he leans in too close.
"You're not going out tonight?"
Dean shrugs. "Sex ain't everything." He looks at Sam. "You believe that?"
Which is why they go back to the hotel room for what Dean announces is some friendly competition but Sam knows better.
Dean likes to pump slowly, like he's an engine, pistols firing but he never accelerates. It's the reverse of his driving skills. Steady hand, jacking off with a peculiar finesse as his hand nears the head of his cock.
Freckles dust the white skin of Dean's thighs but his stomach is freckle-free even though it's barely been tanned by the sun. Dean's other hand reaches beyond his splayed legs, familiar exploration of his balls, well-known territory, cupping his balls and then going further. Irritably, Dean's hands leave to get to the business of shucking his jeans further down, he winks at Sam, lying back, hands returning to their positions, spreading his legs wider and – it’s not easy to see, Dean’s pretending that he’s not doing it for Sam to see, but for his own benefit, one finger pushing in –
Sam has to squeeze the base of his cock and will himself not to come at that moment and he barely keeps it together as Dean keeps on making these noises that are too much. Ragged calling of all he has left unsaid. For all his advice on sex, it’s never been about the emotions, never been about the connections, because it’s Dean. and if he lets things matter, then his whole world’s gonna just fall apart and Sam’s got no easy answers for that, nothing keeping them but a thin stretch of hope that’s fraying day by day.
It’s when Dean starts getting a second finger in there, legs stretched wide and hand moved awkwardly so Sam gets a really good look, that’s when he’s a goner, come spurting over his belly, stroking faster and harder to bring an edge of pain that keeps his mind sharp even in the wake of orgasm.
Dean comes quietly, which is a freakin’ shock, for all of Dean’s talk, Sam expected something different. He groans sweet and deep, and it’s not pornographic that noise, it’s nothing learned, that’s natural. It’s all Dean.
“Loser,” Dean grunts, a lick to his sticky palm. Sam’s breath hitches at the sight of his brother cleaning his hand like a damn cat.
Dean gives so much of himself that Sam isn’t sure there’s anything left that’s just for Dean. Tender as he isn’t most of the time, now, with his guards down, and it’s less about him, to the point where Sam doesn’t know if any of it is ever about him – it’s about them (the girl-women of his youth, the women of today, and especially Sam), never Dean.
Every time he’s caught Dean in the act, Dean’s never been embarrassed, never been humiliated, because it’s never about privacy. It’s never his moment.
He is still teaching lessons but there is still one left they have not ever dared to act upon, a boundary that they’ve drawn since the beginning.
Spent, Sam slumps back, his shoulders barely supported by the other edge of the bed, the mattress groaning underneath his weight. He has to twist his neck awkwardly to see Dean bringing his legs up, blindly untying his boots and kicking them off along with his socks, jeans and boxer-briefs following. Sitting up, he tugs off his shirt, wiping at the mess. His shirt falls into the pile of clothes he’s deposited on the floor as he heads off to take a shower.
Pausing, Dean turns, naked and unafraid, a flash of something on his face signaling words being edited before he finally says, “Dude, you’re still whacking off with a death grip. Calm the hell down next time.”
“Yeah. I’ll make sure of it. Next time,” he promises and Dean snorts at the sincerity in Sam’s tone, but he doesn’t brush it off with a joke, smiling as he tugs off his necklace, walking into the bathroom.
“You’re lucky I was there to teach you all about the birds and the bees, man,” Dean shouts over the sound of rushing water.
Sam will never admit it, because Dean would never shut up about it, but Sam has to accept the truth: Dean’s right. Well, only about that, at the very most. He’s totally wrong about a lot more things. Dean’s bound to get something right, once in a blue moon, no big shocker that when it comes to knocking boots, Dean’s expertise has molded Sam for the better.