How Much He’d Bleed

Sam/Dean. NC-17. ~1900 words. Somnophilia.
Sam knocks the side of his fist against the basin and moves before his mind clears.

The day is sinking sluggishly into evening when Sam wakes. From outside comes the distant hush of tires on asphalt. The red glow of sunset slinks through a crack in the blinds to creep up the curve of Dean’s bare shoulder where he lays sprawled on his side amongst a mess of sheets.

There’s an aching line of bruises trekking their way across Sam’s lower back. Falling asleep in the stiff wooden chair stuck in the corner did him no favours. He stretches, wincing. No favours at all.

He quietly sets the gun he’d been cradling in a loose grip on the television stand before crossing the room to Dean’s side. The wide bandages taped to his brother’s thigh are spotted with blood. He smoothes the edge of one side back into place, knuckles grazing warm flesh.

Dean barely shifts in his sleep. On the nightstand sits an open pill bottle and a flask of whiskey toppled over on its side. Sam’s never liked the idea of mixing the two but doled them out one after the other as Dean cursed his way through the first row of stitches, too much blood already slicking both their hands.

Sitting himself carefully on the edge of the mattress, Sam presses the back of one hand close to the bandages. The skin is hot and dry, firm to the touch. In a couple of hours he’ll check the gashes themselves for infection. It’s only been about half a day since the manticore tried to take a chunk out of Dean.

Sam lets his fingers curl lightly above the bend of Dean’s knee. The skin there is soft, thin and delicate. Those claws could’ve ripped open Dean’s belly as easily as they’d laid open the vicious gashes on his thigh. Dean had called it lucky. Slurred the word at him, Lucky, like it’d only been a choice of where, not if.

Maybe this is why Sam left.

The sliver of sunlight sinks back to the floor, giving up their cramped motel room to the night. Habit spurs Sam up to check the locks, the salt lines, the runes scratched into the cracking paint. He goes to the sink installed like an afterthought and wets his hands, scrubs them over his face and back through his hair.

The mirror hung on the wall is old and pockmarked, something that once could’ve been a tropical island etched in the corner. Sam’s gaze slides to Dean’s reflection, face smooth, body lax. All traces of the pain that had set his teeth in a stubborn grin have faded. The pair of boxers he’d hauled on after Sam decimated what was left of his jeans were black once, faded and thin now. The hem of one leg has long since fallen out, frayed all along the edge, and the waistband sags away from Dean’s taut stomach.

Life taught Dean early that perception is everything. No one had every really seen their lives for what they were, too distracted, caught up, whisked away on Dean’s quick mouth. Look at this, check me out, pay no attention to the dirt and the blood and the grimy pool-hall cash.

Bright eyes, bright smiles. Carefree, Sam used to think, with a bitter taste in his mouth. Careless, he knows now.

Sam knocks the side of his fist against the basin and moves before his mind clears. He stops with his fingers digging into Dean’s arm, skin white beneath the tips, his breaths quick, shallow. Dean doesn’t stir, chest rising and falling steadily.

Heat prickling uncomfortably at his skin, Sam relaxes his grip. Being angry with Dean is about as much use as spitting curses at the tides; they’ll both go on, doing what they do regardless.

Dean’s arm slides across the pillow, settling with his hand curled loosely near his face. His lips part on a deep breath.

“You drive me crazy,” Sam says softly, half-hoping Dean will wake and he can just be angry with him despite the uselessness. The stubble dusting his face is thicker than usual, like Dean hadn’t bothered to trim it these last few mornings. It’s rough against the fingertips Sam ghosts down the line of his jaw.

A door down the hall of faceless rooms slams shut. Sam jerks guiltily, only just keeping himself from yanking his hand back as fast as if he’d stuck it in a fire. If Dean woke now, the worst he’d have to endure would be jokes about hovering like a fretful mother hen.

If Dean woke, if he stopped now, he wouldn’t have the chance to remind himself of how Dean’s skin feels beneath his palm and how he’d hated the months of training beneath the sun, Dean’s body always close, too close, not close enough. An arm flung easily around his neck, the smell of clean sweat on skin, the press of it against his face. He knew one day it’d be over, back on the road as always, and he’d be left clinging to the memory, sick with it.

Dean’s breath scorches Sam’s fingers. He curls them beneath Dean’s chin and leans close, lets their lips barely touch. Dean’s are soft, dry. Sam tastes whiskey when he takes one between his lips, lets his tongue trace the curve of it.

Shame thickens Sam’s throat. He clenches his eyes shut tight against it and kisses his brother again as his hand slides down Dean’s chest, comes to rest just above the sharpness of his hip.

A filthy, rotten thrill careens through Sam’s insides. An incredible electric buzz in his veins, a tempest rush to his head. His thumb rubs small, tight circles against Dean’s side and thinks about all the things that should stop him but there’s nothing here to stop him. Dean is lithe and pliable and Sam can touch him, just touch him.

Eyes on the flutter of Dean’s beneath closed lids, Sam edges his fingers under the sloppy waistband. The elastic is worn so thin it slips down with the tiniest nudge. Sam eases off the bed to crouch beside it, sliding his whole hand beneath the flimsy cloth to cup the curve of Dean’s ass. It fits perfectly in his palm, thick muscle and smooth skin. Heat radiates against Sam’s fingertips resting so very close to the cleft of Dean’s ass.

With the edge of his boxers pulled down so sharply, Sam can follow the trail of hair low on Dean’s belly down to where it fans out. It’s trimmed short, prickling neatly against Sam’s lips as he brushes his mouth over it. The warm bulge of Dean’s cock bumps his chin and he shivers, stills, rests there with his mouth open against Dean’s skin. His own cock is sticking to his underwear, aching so badly Sam has to stop, press the heel of his hand hard against it. Even that feels too good so he bites his lip instead, too cramped in his own skin.

Nervous, giddy excitement flips in his stomach when he opens his eyes again. Dean hasn’t moved an inch, still spread out before him. Steadying his shaking hands, Sam pushes one under Dean to hook the boxers down over his ass, carefully lifting the band out from his cock and dragging them down to his knees. Sam almost leaves them there but he wants to see Dean, just Dean, the long, clean, unbroken line of his brother’s body.

It’s easy to roll Dean onto his back. He’s heavy but boneless, unresisting as Sam tucks a wadded up blanket under his injured leg to keep strain off it. And then Sam is free to just look.

He’s no stranger to Dean’s body. Family, tight quarters, little in the way of normal socialisation. Living with Dean is like living in a locker room, or a hospital. Nudity is a fact of life. He knows which scars he’s helped heal, the one’s he’s helped cause, which are hunts that Dean will boast about and the ones that he’ll brush off, pretend don’t matter. A few months from now he’ll have three new scars that will burn themselves into Sam’s brain.

Dean’s cock is nestled soft between his legs. Pressing a hand between his thighs to spread them, Sam cups his balls. They’re warm and strangely delicate in his palm, really fucking gorgeous pushed up against Dean’s cock like that. Sam drags in a shuddering breath and scratches his nails through Dean’s pubes, circling the base with thumb and forefinger.

Tongue thick in his mouth, Sam presses a sloppy kiss against the crook of Dean’s thigh, breathing in deep. The air he drags into his lungs is heavy with sweat and Dean. His whole mouth tingles.

He closes his hand around Dean’s cock, knocked stupid for a second at how soft it is, how it looks against his thick fingers. It starts to harden in his grasp almost as soon as his fingers skim up the length. He rubs the tiny bump of Dean’s circumcision scar over and over as it fills out, stopping only when his fingers hit the tiny bit of wet leaking from Dean’s slit.

Sam swallows hard and bites back a cough over the lump stuck in his throat. He pulls his hand back, the precome slicking his fingertip barely visible as the dark closes steadily in. He brings it up to his lips without a second thought, tonguing roughly at his own skin to fill his mouth with the taste.

All Sam wants to do is crawl on top of his brother, cock to cock, nothing between them but their own sin. He rubs his hand down Dean’s firm stomach, closing his eyes again as he wraps his hand around Dean’s dick and imagines it pressed up against his own, digging into his belly, hot and wet against his face. He knows what pleasure looks twisting Dean’s face, now he wants to know what it’s like to put it there, to lick the noises Dean makes straight off his tongue. He wants to know his brother in ways he shouldn’t, ever.

And Sam knows it’s gone too far before he even takes the head of Dean’s cock between his lips. A groan boils up the back of his throat too quickly for him to hold back. The mattress dips as he rises up over Dean, one knee shoved hastily on the bed and a hand thumping into the sheets for balance.

For a second, it feels like his hearts stops. His chest constricts so tight he can’t breathe, can’t think, and then Dean’s flooding his senses, sight, taste, smell, everything.

A hand grips Sam’s hair, hard. Sam’s nostrils flare sharply, mouth still halfway to full, as Dean draws his uninjured leg up, bracing himself as he levers up on one elbow. His eyes glitter darkly in the wan bit of light tumbling in from the naked bulb outside their door.

Dean’s hand slides down to cup the side of Sam’s neck. He doesn’t know what comes next, after, later. He doesn’t really know what to do or say, only what he wants, how much he wants it.

Dean rasps, “Sammy,” and that’s all it takes. That’s all it ever took.


2 Responses to “How Much He’d Bleed”

  1. Alexa_Dean Says:

    Blushing . . . wow . . . I-ugh-I really love this (grin). A lot.

  2. Lia Says:

    Beautiful, so sensory and lovely pacing.

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