There's blood in his eyes. Dripping slowly. It's warm, it's his, Dean thinks it's his, could always be someone else’s; if he’s lucky, it’s Sam’s, and he rubs at his forehead, his fingertips coming back red, like omens and he puts them in his mouth.
And somewhere in front of him, Sam moans, Dean, fuck.
It's his blood, not Sam's, because even though they share everything including their blood, Sam tastes different, a little sweeter, a little more metallic, like Dean would be able to set him on fire with just a spark, which is what he tries for every time he gets his cock into his brother.
One day, he'll melt Sam and he licks at his fingertips and then Sam looms into his view.
So fucking tall, Sam's caught by the firelight, as if he's made of flame, as if he's a fucking devil-archangel come down from on high, come up from his fiery throne to tempt Dean into sin, into salvation, into some twisted mixture of the two that makes Dean smile and want so badly. Sam, with his eyes dark and his hair in sweaty strands, his hoodie giving him wings as he stares at Dean and Dean teases this creature in front of him, his brother burning up the night and Dean's heart like he's every bit of every spell cast at midnight under a full moon, in the dark, bound with blood and spit and bone and Dean wants.
Your eyes, man, oh fuck, Dean, your eyes, Sam says, falling to his knees in front of Dean, this otherworldly being Dean's brought crashing down so easily and he curls the tip of his tongue around his fingers, cleaning his blood off his skin as more of it drips over his eyes, along his cheeks until Sam catches it with his thumb, smearing it down to Dean's mouth, pushing it between his teeth and Dean sucks, Sam's head tilting back, an offering to Dean, something like myth and ritual, his heartbeat given up to Dean here on his knees, as if he's an altar and Dean surges forward to take, to bite and he's trying to pull Sam closer, wants the salt and sweat and blood on his throat, has to have because Sam's offering, Sam is his offering, Sam is grabbing him and bruising him and Dean gets to have the pain that is his birthright, all that angelic cleverness, all that black devilry poured together in the form of his baby brother.
Trembling, fucking, pulling agony from each other, with how much they want to crawl into each other, live on blood alone, because Sam's wicked with a blade, and Dean's a quick study, and they know how to make it hurt so good, like violation and profanity, like the edges of heaven turned into a battlefield, and there's nothing but this, nothing but Sam's mouth yanking Dean's blood to the surface, Dean's teeth keeping the cut open on Sam's chest, nothing but the feel of Dean moving inside Sam and his brother arching against him, perfect creation, the fallen tumbling through the sky like comets, making that insane trajectory, which is all that they will ever need, here with the incense smell of death.
Dean can't imagine how so much pleasure doesn't kill him, doesn't kill them, doesn't make them breathe their last in gasping painful ecstasy, as Sam whispers, C'mon, fuck me, so fucking beautiful, you have no fucking idea, do you, and when Dean kisses him, open-mouthed, there's blood dripping between them, on their lips, from their lips, as if they're sacrifices, bleeding all over each other's sacred places and this is how they're anointed.