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Set some time after Born Under A Bad Sign.
Fire, screaming, blood. Its always the way with them. With the hunts they do, and more times that not, Sam feels like its this way between them, and he hates it. Hates it when Dean looks at him with fear in his eyes, like he doesn't know him anymore, hates it when Dean can't even bring himself to look at him, a brief flicking of his gaze, a cursory glance, just to makes sure that Sammy is still there.
But the hunt they had just done, pushing all the distrust that hung constantly between them down under skin and bone, the last hunt had left Dean hurt, a long gash running down his shoulder blade, jagged, wide and bleeding through his t-shirt and his jacket. Before Sam had insisted on getting Dean wasted on cheap whiskey Dean had commented on the fact that he was pleased he wasn't wearing his leather jacket. Then he had passed out. He's now laying face down on the motel bed, cheap, scratchy sheets tickling his cheek as he struggles to get a grip back on reality. Sam can hear him, groans coming from his throat, can feel the muscles between his legs twitching as Dean struggles.
Sam places a hand, slick with Dean's blood, on Dean's back, fingers unconsciously curling into the skin, his fingers covered with Dean's blood, mingling with Sam's blood, the small cut on Sam's palm. There was so much blood, and they have so much of each other running through their veins already, what's a little more. Dean shifts again as Sam squeezes the washcloth slightly and lets the water run over Dean's back, tiny rivulets running over his skin.
“Sammy...” Dean mumbles, voice thick with alcohol and pain. Sam lets out a small laugh.
“Yes Dean. Who else would be straddling you?” He asks. He doesn't expect an answer but he gets one anyway, and he has to lean forward to hear it, breath brushing over Dean's neck, so close that he can smell him, gun oil, leather, smoke and brandless shampoo, Dean. The smell of the Impala, the smell of home.
“A number of people Sammy.” Sam lets out another laugh again. “What are you doing to me Sammy?”
“Was planning on harvesting your kidneys. Just hold still.” Dean shifts, muscles in his back twitching.
“Funny.” He mumbles and gropes for the whiskey sitting on the floor beside the bed. Sam waits for him to take a large sip before he leans forward and takes the bottle out of Dean's hands, and takes one himself, ignoring the thought that Dean's lips had been wrapped out the spout. He takes a deep breath and pushes on Dean's back again. Dean groans but lies flat again.
“Seriously, Dean, hold still.”
“Ok Sammy.” His voice is quiet again, muffled by the motel sheets and the fact that he is probably outrageously drunk.
Sam finishes washing the wound, washing his blood off Dean's skin, washing Dean's blood off his hands. And he can't help but think that he's had too much of Dean's blood on his hands. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone. The words run through his head as he lets the cloth fall to the floor. Dean is Sam's blood, he's so far under Sam's skin that Sam doesn't know if he will ever get him out, doesn't know if he wants to either. Sam squints, lifts the needle and thread up to the light and threads it. Dean snuffles in his alcohol induced sleep and quietens.
It would be all to easy to run his hands over Dean's back, to feel the muscles under his fingers, to feel something other than the almost permanent ache, need for something else. And Sam has no idea what it is. What he aches for. Only just that it seems to dim when Dean is near, even if they are fighting, arguing over words taken the wrong way, throwing punches with fists and words and looks. Even then the hunger is dulled.
But the needle has to suffice. It goes through his skin almost too easily. But that's when Sam realises it the not the too sharp needle, its his ability. He has done this far too many times, could stitch Dean up in his sleep, with both hands tied behind his back. And the thought makes him feel sick. He, they, shouldn't be able to do that. Shouldn't have been able to sew a perfect row of stitches from the age of 12. Sam shuts his eyes for a second, and concentrates on the feel of Dean's skin under his hands.
Its only when Sam has finished, neat tiny stitches marching down Dean's back, and Sam's hands are clean of blood, only a few last stubborn bits still under his nails, that Dean stirs again. Always the heavy weight, it takes a lot more than half a bottle of whiskey to knock him out for longer than half an hour. Its probably the hunter instincts as well. Always on the ready no matter how drunk, how fucked up on pain killers and whiskey, or how tired you are.
He stirs, dragging air in through his nose as he rubs his face against the sheets. Sam is still straddled across his back, thighs gripping tighter than necessary, just to feel the heat of Dean, but he's now got some protective salve that he picked up from the last stop at Bobby's slicked on his fingers. The thick smell of oregano and basil fills his nostrils as he slicks it on Dean's back, his finger tips gently fluttering over the track of stitches and Dean hisses.
“What the hell Sammy?” He says through gritted teeth.
“It'll keep out infection.” Sam explains matter-of-factly. “Last thing we want Dean.” Sam says. Because it is. God knows what the Harpy that Sam managed to waste before she took more chunks from Dean's back was carrying on her claws. And god knows what the motel sheets are carrying. They don't want to have to take a trip to the hospital, because that means more lying, more fake credit cards, more trying to remember which fake name they are using that particular time. More remembering the last time they saw their dad.
“I know that, but it stings like a bitch.” Dean is still talking through gritted teeth. Sam's hands are still working the salve into his skin.
“Baby.” He mutters. “It'll help with the scarring too.” Dean twists and then hisses again. Sam lays a hand flat on his shoulder, just above where the gash begins and pushes, pushes Dean flat against the bed again, with a sure but gentle hand. “Don't move.”
“Help with the scarring? Thank you Doctor Quinn.” Dean says. His voice is slightly more awake that it was two minutes ago. Sam bites his bottom lip.
“Shut up.” He says. Dean scoffs but quietens. His eyes flutter closed as Sam's fingers graze his neck. Dean shivers, and whether its from the cool air in the motel room or Sam's touch, Sam has no idea, doesn't even want to hazard a guess. But Dean's skin feels hot under his hands as he smooths the salve in, paying extra care to the pink skin near the gash, his fingers take on a mind of their own and before he knows it, he's leaning forward slightly and drawing symbols on Dean's skin with the salve, unconsciously protecting his brother, but from what, he doesn't know. From himself?
“What are you doing to me Sammy?” Dean asks again. But this time his voice is quiet, not thick with alcohol, but sober and unsure, hopeful but uncertain. Sam leans forward even more, his mouth by Dean's ear, breath ghosting over Dean's skin. He feels Dean shiver underneath him.
“I...” He begins, but the words die in his throat, because he has no idea. Has no idea what the hell he's doing. But instinct seems to have taken over and he can't stop himself. His tongue flicks out, tastes the blood and sweat on Dean's skin. Dean jerks underneath him and hisses in a breath as the movement causes him pain on his shoulder.
“Sammy...” He breathes.
“Shhh.” Sam soothes in his ear. “It's ok.” He says. He feels Dean's body stiffen, muscles going taut.
“No, Sammy it's not.” He whispers, but he doesn't push Sam away, doesn't try to buck him off. And Sam can hear the conflict in his voice. No, its not ok. Its so far from ok to want to kiss your brothers neck, so far from ok to want to lick down your brothers spine. But Sam wants, and Dean isn't pushing him off. Sam shifts, moving upwards and places a tentative kiss at the corner of Dean's lips. Dean freezes, his body still in the way that Sam knows he's deciding whether to fight or not. But when Sam does it again, Dean doesn't fight. He turns his head slightly and meets Sam's kiss.
Its wrong, so many types of wrong, but its everything that Sam didn't know he wanted. Its also awkward, Dean's neck is straining and Sam knows he's putting too much pressure on his already wounded shoulder so he pulls back. And Dean whimpers slightly, a tiny sound that Sam would have missed if it hadn't been so goddam quite in the room, the only sound being their breathing.
“I've...” Sam's voice is gravelly, his throat dry and he clears it before he continues. “I've just got to...”
“Finish.” Dean completes Sam sentence. Sam nods even though Dean can't see him. And he grabs a roll of bandage from the first aid kit lying on the bed next to his knee.
Patching Dean up is second nature to Sam. But his hands are shaking slightly more than normal as he tapes the bandage over the wound. Dean's muscles are rippling under his skin, like he's desperate to move, to roll over and look at Sam, but Sam keeps his hands on his back, effectively holding him in place. He takes longer than normal, longer than necessary and Dean huffs in annoyance more than once. When Sam finally finishes, he's almost reluctant to get off Dean, the heat from Dean's body has warmed the skin of his thighs and when he does move, he feels cold.
“Sammy...” Dean says. Sam looks up from the first aid kit, and locks gaze with Dean. Dean's eyes are clear, green and gold shining out at Sam.
“Yeah?” Sam is almost disgusted with himself at the longing in his voice. Dean winces as he moves aside and pats the expanse of bed beside him, his eyes still shining, although now uncertainty has creeped into the vivid green. Sam heaves a sigh of relief as he sits down next to Dean, the bed creaks under his weight and Dean reaches out, fingering the cuff of Sam's shirt. Dean takes a shaky breath.
“Get your ass in here, you moron.” He says. Sam laughs, relief flooding through him as he stands again and toes off his shoes. He crawls into the bed next to Dean. Dean shifts, inching closer to Sam. Dean lifts his head and stares at Sam's arm expectantly. Sam smiles to himself as he worms his arm under Dean's neck and Dean settles.
“Shhh Sammy. In the morning.” He mumbles, sleep already pulling him back under. But the fingers on Sam's chest are still moving in small circles. And for the first time since they were little and curled up in the back of the Impala, Sam falls asleep wrapped up in Dean.
Blood of my blood, bone of my bone.