Dean's standing by the wall, flush against the radiator with the thick flannel of his sleeves pulled all the way down to the tips of his fingers like he's freezing. His eyes are green as neon, like some noble gas color that shouldn't be found in nature-- just hanging off a dive bar Coors sign.
"Sam," he says, in this voice that's low and gruff, like Dad's voice had used to be, like Sam imagines Dad's voice would have been if he'd said anything to Sam after he walked out of hell. "Could you just come over here?"
Sam swallows once, feeling the motion of it, rough against his throat. He pushes up off the bed with his palms, the polyester bedspread slick on his skin. "Yeah?" he says, like it's a question, but he doesn't wait for Dean to answer it before he comes over. He doesn't know if he can wait anymore, not for Dean.
He doesn't have to. When he steps into Dean's space, his brother's arms slide right open like an automaton. He hugged Dean before, once, right after he got him back but it was different then, with Bobby's heavy gaze and Ruby in the background, quiet and knowing.
Dean smells the same, the same as when they were kids, the same as when nobody had ever come back from the dead-- just cheap laundromat detergent and clean sweat. Sam's fucked an even dozen girls, and half that many guys since Dean's been gone, and all of them were on the road, all of them smelled exactly like this, like home. Sam buries his face in Dean's neck and tightens his arms around Dean's shoulders like he expects to hold on until they come at him with a pry bar. Fuckers can try it.
Sam clings tight until the pry bar-- which is Dean twisting out of his grip like a ghost, like he hadn't just called Sam up here. Sam opens his mouth to say something, but Dean grabs him by the hand instead and Sam just stares.
"Could you do something for me?" Dean asks. He stares down at Sam's spread fingers for a moment and before Sam gets a chance to answer he pulls his hand up and presses it hard against his own shoulder. The right one, the one where an angel grabbed him and held on tight.
"Sure," Sam whispers and he can't help smiling. Thinking of angels with their hands on Dean, the place where his hand is now. If anyone deserves angels it's Dean and knowing, knowing that for once someone got what they deserved-- that Dean did, it helps. It just helps.
Dean doesn't smile back at him. Dean's mouth is tight, all twisted up and he pushes Sam's hands down harder, like he's trying to splay the fingers over the marks the angel had left. "I don't have any scars left on me, did you know?" Dean asks. "Whatever healed me up-- brought me back-- it didn't leave me anything to show for it. Other than, you know--"
Sam shakes his head blindly and looks up. Dean's eyes are almost black, green swallowed up by pupil. "I don't know. We haven't been alone. It's not like I had a chance to inspect," he mutters and that actually startles a half smirk out of Dean.
"Yeah, well you want to?" Dean asks, straight out. Sam blinks and Dean just rolls his eyes at him. "Dude, what's the point of breaking out of hell if I can't even get any victory nookie?" Dean looks so offended by the idea that Sam can't help but burst out laughing. The laughter comes out in thick and stupid guffaws, obvious ones.
"Dude, I don't know why I'm the one that had to ask!" Dean protests, but the blank look is gone and he's grinning outright. "I figured whenever you got me out of hell you'd be raring to claim the spoils."
"The spoils?" Sam splutters. He doesn't say the obvious, he doesn't say that he didn't get any spoils since, no, he didn't get Dean out of hell. He fucked up that game. Sam doesn't see the point of saying that, since they both know he failed. Since it's so fucking obvious that it might as well be spelled out in angel fingerprints on Dean's skin. "I--"
But Dean doesn't wait for him to react, to speak, to anything. Dean presses his mouth against Sam's, stubble rough and sour smelling, but good, really good. He kisses so hard it's like he's trying to suck Sam in. He kisses like no one ever taught him how, like he hasn't done it in months. Sam kisses him back with no hesitation, like everything he's been doing. No hesitation.
It leaves him choked up, sucking in air, elbows and knees shaking like he's a teenager twisted up with growing pains and muscle spasms, like he was the first time he kissed Dean and Dean kissed back. Dean's just as bad, panting like he bashed down a swarm of zombies, but grinning, still grinning. It's just the smile isn't reaching his eyes.
"I don't have any marks on me," Dean says, soft and gruff, like he's fresh from kissing. Or maybe more like someone fresh from hell. "Not from hunting. Not even from the time I cut myself sharpening your knife like a dipshit when you were thirteen. Remember how mad you got?"
"You bled all over my bed," Sam says, just as softly. "Not cool, dude."
"I let you sleep in mine," Dean says and he offers a thin, bright smile and tilts his chin up toward Sam, like he's waiting for Sam to do something, say something right. "You remember that?"
Sam bites his lower lip. He doesn't realize how hard until he tastes blood, iron heavy. He remembers that, being thirteen and the smell of Dean's blood. Smell of Dean's mouth, the way it curved and laughed and teased until Sam made him stop. Stop teasing.
Dean's hand had been big, seemed so much bigger then than it was now. Rough on Sam's dick that first time, like he'd been watching Sam jerk off and already knew exactly how to play it. Like he'd been watching Sam the way Sam had been watching him.
"I remember that," Sam says and licks the blood off his lower lip.
Dean nods. His grip on Sam's hand tightens even more, enough that it should hurt, that it would hurt if any way Dean touched him could feel like pain right now. "I didn't want to lose that scar," Dean says, soft and a little too fast. "Just over something lame like dying, I didn't want to lose something like that. I mean, not if you think it's weird, but if you think--"
Sam shrugs, like his lip isn't still bleeding, like his dick isn't starting to notice and push up for his attention. "Weird, huh? What do you want me to do?" he mutters, but he winks at Dean, easy and reassuring. The flannel of Dean's shirt feels skin hot under his palm. "Cut you a new one? Cause that's the kind of weird I expect from you."
When Sam finishes Dean's smile is bright and wickedly wide open and this time it burns all the way up, like a line from Dean's mouth, Dean's eyes, right to Sam's dick. "For someone who's supposed to be smart, Sammy, you can be really fucking slow sometimes."
"Asshole." Sam rolls his eyes and waits until Dean's too lulled to watch for it before he shoves him up against the wall. He pins Dean with his full weight pressed up hard so he can't squirm away when Sam kisses him. Not that he's trying, but fuck if he's going to get the chance.
Sam still carries his favorite knife strapped to his thigh, the one Dean had given him on his eleventh birthday. He's got better ones now, sharper edged and better balanced, steady enough that he can make it sing with his fingertips and the palms of his hands. He's got better ones, but this is the one that Dean pressed into his hands when Dad was muttering about it being time and past time that Sam learned to defend his own damn self so that Dean could go out hunting. This is Sam's favorite knife, the one Dean had cut himself with when Sam was thirteen and hungry for things he didn't really know he wasn't supposed to have.
This is the knife that Sam pulls out after he and Dean stumble their way back to the bed, pushing at each other with hands and mouths, elbows and teeth, like it might be war instead of fucking.
"You trust me?" Sam asks and he doesn't hold his breath because that would be like believing Dean has a reason not to.
Dean laughs. "No, I asked you to cut me because I think you're an incompetent asshole, Sammy. Dude."
"Fuck you," Sam says, but he still feels the warm burst of pleasure at hearing Dean say that. Dean trusts him. Dean's come out of hell-- a hell Sam didn't get him out of even if-- but Dean's here, and Dean trusts him anyway. "Get naked, then."
He doesn't move to strip his own clothes off, he just settles back in his heels, kneeling on the bed with his boots still on. Kneeling and watching Dean strip down with clean, easy motions, like he's just getting ready for a shower, not a fuck.
Dean wasn't kidding. His skin is perfect, smooth and pale and stretched over bone and muscle. No indentations of hell hound teeth or claws. Nothing from the time he'd gotten pushed off a roof by a pissed off ghost or near got his arm bitten off by a half starved ghoul. No knives or powder burns healed down to shiny smooth white lines when they'd had time for good first aid or jagged red ones when things had been lousy.
Dean's skin is canvas clean, except for the handprints of angels, which don't, can't count. Sam's fingers ache and his teeth itch, wanting to touch it, wanting to touch everywhere. "Dean," he whispers. "Hey, Dean."
Dean's mouth quirks. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he says, but he stretches out and back, sprawling open legged against the sheets so that Sam can take a good long look. Vain asshole. Sam looks his fill anyway, watches the shape of Dean's dick, the way it starts to fill under his gaze, almost like he's already touching it.
Not yet, he tells himself. Not yet.
"Come on," Dean says. "What are you waiting for, me to die again?"
"You'll just come right back," Sam says, like he never for a second doubted it. Which is true, it is. If there hadn't been angels (of course there were angels for Dean, he'd never doubted it for a second) Sam would have found Lilith and made her bring him back all on his own. He could always do that if he had to.
He didn't have to, not yet. He cradles the knife in one hand instead and waits just one moment longer, just long enough to see it reflect Dean's eyes, iris and pupil, green and black on it's well polished surface.
He tests the edge on his own fingertip first, half a second and he's bleeding before he feels the bite at all. Dean shivers visibly at the sight and rubs his tongue over his lips, like he can taste the steel and blood in the air.
Sam presses the hilt there, right there against Dean's red, parted lips. The ivory hilt that's carved with symbols Dean put there himself, a dozen names for protection and luck in a dozen dead languages Dean pretends he's too ignorant to know. "Kiss it," he says, but he doesn't have to, Dean's already doing it. Lips and tongue, like it's his lover, like it's delicious, Dean kisses it.
Sam lets him, lets him use his mouth on metal and bone, just for a moment before he takes that mouth himself one more time. Dean's lips are wet, spit slick and part so easily that Sam moans with the heat of it. Dean's fingers dig into his skin, enough that he's sure they're leaving marks right through the layers of his shirts.
It's an effort of will to draw back, but even if it's not what they want it's still what they both need. Dean's eyes are on him and his mouth is curved into that same warm, warm smile that Sam can feel the heat of without even touching.
He's kept the edge on the blade sharp, as sharp as the steel will hold. When he presses it against the place on Dean's thigh, against the spot where it had slipped out of Dean's hands and bit into flesh and muscle all those years ago. Same knife, and right now, even if he knows better, Sam can imagine that it's the same Dean, wide open and smiling. He can pretend that only he's changed enough to matter.
The blade reflects skin, flashes of Dean's pale thigh and Sam's brown hand. It moves so slowly, like it's got a life of it's own. So slowly that Sam almost doesn't see it slide along at all, just the thin line of red it leaves behind. Sam can hear Dean breathing, shallow and erratic, like it's timed to his own heartbeat.
He doesn't let it bite too deep, just wide and deep enough to scar if they give it the time. Watches Dean's face, just quick, sidelong glances. Mostly he's focused tight and watching the knife move, watching when the pain hits a few seconds after the knife pulls off and Dean draws in a quick, hissing breath. Sam's not watching Dean's dick anymore, but he doesn't have to, he can feel it pressing against his hip, flesh hot and hard even through his jeans.
"This was the shape," Sam whispers, as he creates it all over again. It's easy, he's touched that scar so many times, knows it, knows it like he knows Dean. It's easy, carving it back into Dean so that he knows him again, just the same. Like when they're done with this Dean will be the same again.
"Sammy," Dean whispers. Sam nods once, but doesn't say anything. He cleans the blade off on his jeans, like bloodstains don't matter at all, not when they're Dean's. Not when he follows the trail left by the blade with his fingers, rubbing the red lines of blood into the Dean's pale skin. Dean's skin, Dean's skin is different. He can smell it, iron and thick, he can smell it and it makes him quiver, makes him lick his lips, lean down, lean down to taste.
"Sammy," Dean repeats and then Dean's hands are in his hair, tugging and tangling, pulling hard enough to hurt, to feel it. Sam grits his teeth, and feels it way down, way down into his bones and dick and guts, like he's cracked open. He can taste Dean's blood, brother blood, his Dean.
Dean's here. Dean's moaning in his ear when Sam's tongue draws a line across his thigh. Dean's hands are relentless, iron strong and hot as a brand, pushing him down and down until he's between Dean's legs, breathing on his balls. When he licks he's tasting salt instead of blood, smelling Dean, the way Dean's alive.
When he finally, finally puts his mouth around Dean's cock he sucks like he's starving, like he's been starving to death, every second, every single second. Dean's been in hell and he'd been starving to death. But it's okay... that's okay, there are angels now, and they've put their hands on Dean and won him free when Sam's tarnished soul couldn't do it.
There are angels and Dean's one of them, bucking up into Sam's mouth, rough and thick and precious and Sam doesn't even gag, just takes it and takes it and mewls for more while Dean rides his mouth. "Sammy," Dean hisses and Sam swallows him down when he comes. He tastes the same, he tastes so clean it leaves Sam gasping and twisted up, arching against the bed underneath him, rubbing his body against that, against Dean.
After, a while after, he cleans up and bandages Dean's thigh, messy, messy so it will scar. The bleeding's all but stopped on its own, so it's easy. He kisses it there while Dean breathes in his ear and huffs a laugh. "There," Sam says. "You're still mine."
Dean's eyes are dark and when he speaks it's in that voice that's low and gruff. "Strip down for me, Sam," he promises, cajoles. "And I'll show you."