There wasn't a whole lot to be seen on John's face at the moment--certainly nothing that resembled alertness or awareness of anything but hot and tight and slick and the sight and smell and feel of her, of Kit, his Kit, and if Crowley thought for one moment that John didn't know what it was like to fall from grace or to live in Hell then he was wrong, because this right here was Heaven and he had believed with all his heart that he would never, never find his way back again. If all his body's energy hadn't been focused so intently on the matter at hand, he'd have wept. As it was, the catch at the end of his ragged moan sounded very like a sob.

Even without Crowley's subtle influence, he wasn't going to hold out very long, but he tried, imposing some control on his body as it strained to thrust too hard, too fast. Didn't want to let her down again. Didn't want, truth be told, for this to end at all, ever. His mind and heart and body were for once in perfect accord, and the note they sang out in ecstatic harmony was Kit.