Fine Young Knives

Sam/Dean/John. NC-17. ~400 words.
“Your brother needs you, Sam. You’ve got to learn that.”

Sam’s fingers are cramped tight in Dean’s short hair. He can hear his heart against his ribs, flight-fight-fuck, over the deep, rasping breaths Dean struggles to drag in. A part of him aches to see his brother broken down like this, all the swagger, all the strength, peeled away to leave Dean raw on his knees. Another part, the one that flares with greedy heat and pride, wants to thumb open that crude mouth, slide his fingers between lips fucked red and wet and swollen.

“Boy,” Dad barks and Dean’s eyes, hazy and unfocused, snap upward. Sam is slower to follow, his shoulders square and jaw clenched, because he knows his role as well as Dean does his. “You never pull a stunt like that again. You understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Dean croaks, voice absolutely wrecked. It sends tight, skittering shivers deep into Sam’s belly.

Dad’s dark, heavy gaze zeros in on Sam. Sam meets it head-on, feels his pulse kick harder as he takes a deliberate step closer to his brother. Dean sways forward, one hand almost grasping at Dad’s thigh for balance, but Sam jerks him upright in time. The heat of his father’s approval is warm as the sun on his face.

Sam’s steadying grip eases. He can feel Dean’s grateful pride, feel Dean struggle to fulfil the demand that Sam’s trust places on him. It’s taken Sam a while, too long and for that he’s so much more than only sorry, to learn that this sort of taking means just as much giving.

Dad’s patiently waiting. Crisply, Sam says, “It won’t happen again.”

Steady and hard, for their own good because this is all they’ve got and they need to know it straight down to their bones, Dad says, “See that it doesn’t.” His eyes soften (always his eyes that betray him; Sam’s learned every last one of their tells). “Your brother needs you, Sam. You’ve got to learn that.”

Sam nods once, sharply, waiting for Dad’s nod in return before he wrenches Dean’s head back. Dean makes a rough noise of anticipation, almost like pain.

Sam’s never touched him, but he knows exactly what their father tastes like from the salt-sweat tang he licks from Dean’s mouth.

End

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