Sam’s hands are never still- always moving, always doing. Tonight they work slowly, meticulously, left and right in concert and the medium they are working in is Dean.
Sam stops for a moment to study his progress- the pattern he is carving into Dean is beautiful in its complexity. Blood drips from the knives Sam holds, and he runs his tongue along one before bending to kiss his brother’s gasping mouth, the tang of blood mixing with the taste of Sam’s come.
Dean can’t manage screams anymore, but his earlier efforts still reverberate through the room, and it’s almost enough.