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Sam has always looked pretty when he bleeds.
Long before the Mark of Cain shook up Dean’s internal biology, he’d always had a healthy respect for the way his brother turned into a kicked puppy when hurt. Eyes wide and brimming. Shoulders slumped and defeated. His whole body turned in on itself, making him appear small and fragile, even after he’d hit his last growth spurt.
It was a talent in itself, an innocent manipulation that Sam wielded unconsciously while tugging on heartstrings. His baby face could soften law officials and tired barkeeps more effectively than a slipped $50 ever could.
Their dad had recognized it from the beginning. He’d packed it into their arsenal, counting it right next to the salt rounds and silver daggers, tucking Sam under his arm like a shotgun and pulling him out when that soft fragility proved a far more effective weapon than violence.
Dean doesn’t fault John at all for using Sam that way. Hell, it was probably the most normal thing John helped develop in his boys, arming them with the kind of surface charm and social manipulation that most college and job applicants would kill for.
Dean’s earliest memory of Sam’s innocence being used as a tool was when the kid had been six. They’d been tracking a werewolf pack for two weeks, finally managing to corner the beasts while they’d been feasting on a North Dakota high school track team. John had lost track of the team’s coach in the scuffle but was able to locate him less than an hour later in the local hospital ICU, guarded by a stern nurse who didn’t for a second believe their story about being out-of-town cousins.
After his own brand of charm proved ineffective, John went out to the Impala to pull a sleeping Sam out of the back seat. He’d slid Sam’s hands around his neck and murmured soothing sounds as Sam whimpered and buried his face in their dad’s shoulder. Despite the fact that Sam’s eyes were shining more from exhaustion after 40 hours on the road than concern for his “Uncle Rob,” the nurse had taken one look at Sam’s sleepy face and mussed Impala-head hair, and had let John right in.
That night, Sam got to rest safe and sound next to Dean in the Red Rooster Motel after a silver bullet was tucked equally safe and sound in the werewolf-infected victim’s heart.
When Dean climbs on top of Sam’s sleeping body, he can appreciate how soft and innocent Sam looks inside his bed. It doesn’t, however, elicit the same emotions that it used to: protectiveness, love. Instead, Dean feels a delicious rush as he thinks of all the ways he can defile and hurt his brother, make those puppy-dog eyes pop out as Sam begs for his life.
Dean should probably tie Sam down; it would make his plans infinitely easier. But he doesn’t. Instead, he carefully splits open the front of Sam’s soft tee with a switchblade, revealing hard muscle and smooth, tan skin that makes Dean’s cock twitch.
But that’s not why he’s here.
Placing his hand over the caged pulse of Sam’s heart, Dean softly traces his imagined design before pointing the tip of his knife right over the drum-beat cadence and getting to work.
Earlier, he’d watched Sam drink himself into a alcohol-induced coma, so it’s no surprise when the pain doesn’t immediately wake him. It’s not until Dean’s halfway through the ‘W’ that Sam jerks to life with a gasp, flailing and trying to buck Dean off.
“What are you — Dean! What —?” Sam’s neurons are having trouble connecting the events, but when Dean slides another line through his brother’s chest, Sam gasps and claws futilely at the knife in Dean’s hands. Since he’s still got one arm in a sling, Sam’s attempts to shove Dean off are laughable, and Dean easily bats Sam’s hand away.
“Wakey-wakey, eggs and bac-ey,” Dean sing-songs as Sam tries to get his bearings.
“What are you doing?” Sam finally manages to choke out.
“Paying a debt,” Dean answers calmly. He rocks his hips to balance himself better, hissing softly at the friction that puts on his cock which has grown even more excited by the small lines of blood dripping across Sam’s chest and down his stomach. After finishing his last line with a twisting flourish, he brings the knife up to Sam’s neck, causing his brother to go still and wide-eyed.
He can practically see the wheels turning in his brother’s geek brain. Dots connecting into constellations until Sam’s fox-slanted eyes widen in understanding.
Licking his lips, Sam nods — carefully — and relaxes. “Yeah. It’s ok. This is right.”
“Been a long time coming,” Dean agrees, yanking the collar of his t-shirt down low, revealing the scar-tissue over his heart — just below his anti-possession tattoo — in the shape of a crude SW that now matches the DW of Sam’s much-fresher wounds.
The scars are a leftover present from Robo-Sam. Sam had carved them into a sleeping Dean one night, after feeling irritable from a week of arguing about the ethics of using people as bait. Dean had been in the middle of a two-week bender — which was probably the reason the argument had gotten as heated as it had — and aside from punching Robo-Sam in the face, had figured it was his fault for trusting the soulless bastard in the first place.
After contemplating the scars for a minute, Sam’s eyes flick above the letters to trace the unbroken tattoo, his brow furrowing.
“You’re not possessed?”
“Nope.” Dean grins and taps the flat end of his knife against Sam’s neck just to watch his brother flinch. “S’just me in here, little brother. Well, minus all that whiny, self-loathing bullshit.”
Panic creeps into the red edges of Sam’s eyes, his fingertips twitching fitfully around the loose grip he’s got on Dean’s arm. Dean can’t resist sliding his free hand over those tapping digits, a tactile compulsion he’s surprised he still has. Unlike previous times, however, the gesture isn’t meant to comfort. Instead, Dean coaxes Sam’s hand free open so he can thread his fingers between in a too-tight grip.
Damn, Dean loves how vulnerable Sam looks. It makes him want to prod deeper, slide sharp nails into all his sore spots.
“Did your friends at Stanford know how sick you are?” Dean asks, voice dropped low as he squeezes Sam’s fingers tighter. “You ever sit around with a few beers, idly chat about girls and sex and life? Didja have to pretend you were a virgin, Sammy? Did you blush and stammer through your first time with Jess like you didn’t already know the taste of your own brother’s cock?”
“Fuck you,” Sam grits out, and Dean’s pleased to have struck a nerve — and maybe even more pleased to see that Sam hasn’t lost his tenacity, knife at his throat notwithstanding.
“Did Jess know?” And Dean’s honestly curious, has always wondered about those lost years when Sam was at college. “Did you tell her about your last night — although hell if I knew it was the last one at the time — about how you’d crawled into my bed? Begged me to fuck that hot little ass of yours? And that I’d said ‘no’?”
The answer’s pretty clear in Sam’s guilty eyes. Content with the damage done thus far, Dean leans down and licks a long stripe across the side of Sam’s neck just to feel his brother shiver.
When Dean lets go of Sam’s hand and accidentally presses into newly-sensitive torn skin, Sam hisses and tries to jerk his body away. But Dean’s always liked touching Sam. He likes it even more when Sam squirms and gasps, so he presses harder and smiles at his brother’s distress.
“Fuck, you still taste the same,” Dean marvels against Sam’s soft throat as he bites bruises into salty, tan skin, his canines pressing deepest where he can feel Sam’s pulse jump. “You know, I’d always thought I’d fucked you up royally those last couple years before Stanford. I’d been so relieved to find you with Jess, that you’d somehow been capable of finding that apple-pie Stepford normality shit you’d always wanted. But we both know better, Sammy. Our kind of fucked up doesn’t get better. It just gets shoved down underneath more and more crap.”
Sam honest-to-god yelps when Dean’s thumb shoves into the deepest cut.
“Maybe it’s time I fucked you up for good.” Dean pulls his mouth away from Sam’s neck, thumb still touching the edge of Sam’s oozing cuts. “You gonna be a good boy for me? Lie back and take it like you know you’ve always wanted to?”
The second Dean’s hands touch Sam’s boxers, Sam starts kicking and flailing, trying to buck Dean off. But Dean’s got the upperhand — demon strength plus an intimate knowledge of Sam’s fighting style. Using his brother’s own propulsion against him, Dean lets Sam struggle just enough to twist him onto his belly, boxers twisted around his ankles and Dean still straddling on top.
“We can do this with or without my knife lodged in your temporal lobe,” Dean says, and Sam goes still again. “Your choice.”
When Dean’s fingers find their way to Sam’s pucker, just testing the give, his brother whimpers but doesn’t fight this time. His forehead is pressed into the sheets, his eyes probably squeezed shut as he tries to block out what’s happening.
“Good boy, Sammy,” Dean praises with a smile in his voice.
“Don’t call me that,” Sam whispers, voice muffled into the mattress.
Dean works Sam open patiently — not because he has any real concern for his brother, but because Dean’s always been a fan of good sex. When he reaches out to fumble Sam’s drawer open, blindly groping until he finds the lube he knows his brother stores in there, he can feel Sam’s surprise. He wonders what Sam would think if he told him that it’s really just a matter of preference — Crowley’s tastes may run into sadomasochism, but Dean’ll take dirty and enthusiastic over crying and bloody any day.
His fingers crook deeper, probing and rubbing until Sam finally flinches and makes a choked sound, fists tightening into the bedcovers.
“Been watching you all summer,” Dean says with a smile. “Spreading your legs and falling to your knees behind every bar, trying to feel something maybe? Or just scratching that itch that gets more desperate when you’re all worked up and tense?”
Since Sam won’t answer, Dean punishes him by continuing to press into that spongy gland while his other hand slides lower, massaging Sam’s balls and lower shaft until he can feel Sam’s cock start to perk up. It’s surprisingly easy to coax it into full mast, and Dean has to take a moment to marvel over how fucking huge his brother’s gotten since they last did this. When Dean feels the head dripping onto the sheets, he moves his hands to fit around Sam’s hipbones, appreciative of that winged curve where his hands fit perfectly. Lining himself up, Dean pushes his dick inside, not missing the way Sam subtly presses himself back into it, spine arched deep.
“Think I can fuck us both back to hell if I go hard enough?”
There’s a long pause. Then a muffled, “Shut up, jerk,” and for a moment, Sam sounds so normal, so out of sync with the situation, that Dean has to stop and chuckle. He lets go of Sam’s hips just long enough to smack the side of his brother’s tight ass, hard enough to reverberate against the walls.
“Make me, bitch.”
It’s a strange balance of Sam not-quite-giving in, but not-quite-fighting anymore. If Dean is being honest with himself, he prefers that Sam enjoy this, wants to hear his brother’s breathy moans and feel the hot flush spread across his body.
Back before Stanford, when Sam had been a seventeen-year-old kid ripe with hormones, his favorite thing to do after a successful hunt — when John was out celebrating at a bar and Dean was on his bed, cleaning weapons — was to slide into Dean’s lap, naked and wet from a shower. Dean would grouch a bit, tell Sam he was dripping all over his newly cleaned shotgun or buck knife, but it was all show. In a matter of minutes, all the weapons and cleaning rags would be in a pile on the floor while Dean’s hands were wrapped around Sam’s needy dick.
Sam threw himself into sex in a way that Dean’s always loved and admired. His pink mouth would drop open as his breath stuttered, eyelashes fluttering wildly and hands gripping tight to Dean’s shoulders. His skinny hips would rock back and forth, half the time getting friction burns on the backs of his knees, but Sam never minded. He’d spend most of it whining for Dean to go faster — moremoremore, Dean fuckin’ please, you gotta... more — until his dick was spitting out hot and hard against Sam’s own soft, rose-flushed belly.
Then he’d go all lax and post-orgasm dopey, cuddling against Dean’s chest for a few minutes until he’d roll himself off and either reach down to bring Dean off with him or fall to his knees on the old motel carpet.
Sam had always been Dean’s favorite minx.
Sam’s only a fraction more controlled now, grunts and bitten-off cries fucked right out of him while Dean digs his fingers into Sam’s hips and rides him hard. Long before Dean’s done, Sam gasps and collapses, orgasm wrenched hard out of him, and Dean has to hold Sam up so he can finish his own fuck.
There are stars behind Dean’s eyelids as he comes, bright phosphene lights that flash as dopamine and serotonin are released, pleasure and satisfaction transmitted throughout Dean’s body. He rolls off of Sam, making sure to keep Sam in the wet spot just because he’s an awesome brother like that.
Dean’s still got most of his clothes on, the crotch of his jeans just split open and his boxers pushed low. He doesn’t bothered zipping back up yet, still deciding whether or not to stick around for a few more rounds.
“Y’ever gonna decorate this place?” Dean comments sleepily, stretching his limbs and reveling in post-orgasm bliss. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the whole Russian prison cell design scheme is absolutely spot-on, love it. But if you want something that doesn’t scream ‘serial killer,’ you might think about adding a few throw pillows, make it a bit more homey.”
“It’s not a home,” Sam corrects quietly. “And whatever it might have been, it’s even less of it since you fucking walked out on me.”
Dean shrugs, not the least bit repentant or sorry. He has to admit, though, he wouldn’t mind still having his little brother along for the ride. Although their current dynamics wouldn’t work, not with that pesky morality getting in the way of Sam’s judgement. So Dean gropes along the bed until he finds where he’d left his blade then brings it up to his forearm and slashes a quick cut.
He wonders for a moment if he looks as pretty as Sam does when he bleeds.
“That’s 100% pure, Dean-sweetened demon blood,” Dean says as he holds out his bloody arm in offering, and by the way Sam looks at his dripping red arm, Dean knows his apple-ripe temptation has got his brother’s attention. “Whadya say, Sammy?” Dean prods. “You wanna come back home?”