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Summary
No matter how bad things got, Sam always had the food. He could always go out and fetch Dean a bulging bag of junk, and Dean would always be softer and more sedate when they were done; his hair trigger safely adjusted, his rough edge dulled. Sam desperately needed to eat with him sometimes, to keep his eyes locked on Dean’s throat muscles as they worked and to taste the same stuff Dean was tasting, like they were kids and Sam didn’t have much choice in the matter, but neither did Dean.
On indulgence, restriction, and the meat paradox.