Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4708070.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage, Major_Character_Death
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Orgasm_Delay/Denial, Knifeplay, Possessive_Behavior, Dubious_Consent
  Series:
      Part 2 of Crooked_Young
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-09-01 Words: 1313
****** Blood On My Hands Covered The Holes ******
by Theboys
Summary
     Dean wants, and Sammy's there to give.
     Sequel to Crooked Young, understandable without reading the prior,
     but more relevant if you choose to do so.
Notes
     I hope this is everything you wanted lovely, and I hope it's not as
     fumbling as I'm finding it.
     Title taken from Empire (Let Em Sing) By Bring Me The Horizon.
Favorite knife.
Dean lives in favorites, got one for every major milestone in his life. He
likes the symmetry of it, can connect year to an item.
And the first knife he ever used for a close combat kill was the Bowie.
Can recite the mechanics of his blade down to the length. Without the handle.
Sleeps with it, silver-edged serpent, makes Dean’s body tremble with phantom
aches at how pretty it is, the shine.
Dad gave it to him when he was eight years old. No ceremony, curled open slim
fingers and pressed the skin-warm handle into it, grunt of acknowledgment.
Dad’s gone more often than not, now, and Dean thinks that he wouldn’t approve.
Wouldn’t understand the way Dean needs this, way it’s curled up all broken
under his skin, fingernail itch.
Sammy remembers the first time.
Dean, before any other firsts, whiskey smelling, and Dad’s on a hunt in Maine,
farthest away from them he’s been in a long while.
It’s the last shining day, and Dean remembers it like sunshine, watches the way
Sammy’s head bobs up and down on the couch, because his favorite show is on and
he’s always worried he’s gonna miss it. Like there aren’t gonna be any new
episodes of Scooby Doo on TV anymore.
Dad doesn’t come home the next day, or the day after that one, and when Dean
calls around, cause Dad never leaves that long without telling Dean why
one more day, kid, got caught up
and then there’s just nothing at all.
Sammy’s porcelain skin, drained blood from his toes and Dean’s scared, because
they’re running out of everything and he’s not been equipped for this outcome.
It’s two more days later when they tell him John’s been ripped apart by a
Wendigo and they’re still trying to piece together the limbs of his body, like
Jigsaw Jones.
Sammy doesn’t cry. He blinks real big, four times, Dean knows cause he counted,
and then holds Dean air close.
Dean’s snot-nasty and wet and it’s all over Sam’s bony collar, and he swipes at
it half-heartedly. He cries for twenty minutes and then reminds himself he’s
not allowed to do that anymore, and he should’ve remembered it sooner.
That’s the first step.
Sammy opens his little-boy legs to him, lemonade sweet, and Dean can count all
of his ribs, see how tight the skin stretches across the bone and it makes him
ache, wounded down deep.
He runs his fingers over top, reverentially, ghost of touch as he spans his
whole hand across the cage, wonders how gnawing hungry Sam must’ve been, even
though Dean gave him everything in the cabinets, cream of wheat and unsalted
peanuts.
Sam shivers, real cool in the air, pebbled nipples, and Dean arches down to
suck one, licks it like hard candy and smiles, cool teeth to nubs when Sammy
breathes out so sharp his little tummy goes concave.
gonna touch, Dean?
says it plaintively, innocence is brilliant, and Dean twitches just a little,
cause he wants to, as bad as anything, but s’not quite right, not yet.
He laps at the very tip of Sam’s dick, grunts as his brother’s hips stutter and
he takes it inadvertently in his mouth.
Sammy starts coming, all of a sudden, bright rainbow on his tongue and Dean
releases, fat-wet droplets on his eyelashes cause that wasn’t anything of what
he wanted and he can’t explain it to Sam, all pale and shivering, what’s the
matter.
Next time is different.
Sam opens pretty, as usual, tugs at his own nipples shyly, shock of dark hair
in his eyes, hiding from Dean.
Dean presses his fingertips into all that rib-skin again and his dick slaps
against his abs, and he does it once more, wants to see if that’s right.
Watches the alluring flush it makes, the way it curls under his hand, makeshift
ridges and warm blood scent.
This is step two.
Sam’s standing at attention, reaches down to touch himself gingerly and recoils
when Dean pushes his hand away, doesn’t like that. S’not part of it at all.
gonna let me try somethin’ Sammy? Just wanna see about it.
Sam nods reflexively, shiny-new, cause he’s excited, can see the pre-come
falling in thick slaps against the bedspread, way it only does when Dean’s
happy
when it’s supposed to start making sense.
Dean reaches above Sammy’s head, where it’s resting heavy on his pillow, cause
that’s where Dean keeps the Bowie, and when it’s real smooth in his palm, warm
from suffocation, Dean breathes out so big, and Sam watches, doe-eyed.
Can see the slick crown of his own dick, and Dean flushes because it’s all so
open.
Sammy squirms uncomfortably and that makes Dean sick, gets his stomach heavy
and heart low in his throat. He wants his boy still, like fresh snow.
What’s that for, Dean?
That’s the next step but he’s doing it wrong he just needs to be a little
quieter
Sammy please, I gotta think, alright
but Sam’s moving, too fast and sharp on the bed and his knees lock up a bit,
from where they’re bracketed around Dean’s and there’s no colors there, looks
dead and brittle and he needs to please stop, he just needs everything to be
silent. He didn’t ask for much.
Did he? Is it difficult?
Sammy. SammySam. Jesus, I can’t hear anything, Sam!
His brother stills, locked up too tight, tendons flexing and his eyes are so
wide they burn hot-bright, big water on his lower lashes.
Dean’s heart is beating too quickly and he’s not breathing anymore, but he
holds the blade over the soft of Sam’s belly, smooths the cool flatness across
it, just once, and Sam’s body ticks and Dean’s crying, wet and heavy.
Sam’s right leg relaxes an inch or so.
That’s step four.
Cuts heavy at the boxers surrounding Sam’s cock, from where it’s peeking out of
the makeshift slit, needy and ornamental.
Smooth snap of a gash and then the fabric falls away, tumbles free around
dagger hipbones. Sammy raises an inch so Dean can grab the discarded cloth to
throw away, and Dean smiles big at his boy, and there’s warm tears on pink
cheeks and Dean reaches the blade up, unconscious effort.
Drags it so slow against Sam’s face, watches pearl drops collect on the edge,
Sam’s entire body so taut under his there’s no air, dead silence.
Does it against both cheeks, and then moves away so fast Sammy shudders out a
small sob, and that rotten feeling is back, maggots in his brain, swarms over
exposed flesh and Dean groans so deep in his throat Sam runs quiet again.
Dean, don’t be scared. M’alright.
Dean’s not, Dean looks at how wide, ocean big Sam looks and clutches the blade
that much tighter, wood rough and burning in his palm.
He’s almost done. He’s never known before but he feels it now, regardless.
He takes the flat of the blade and runs it up and down the xylophone of Sam’s
ribs, can feel the terrain, all sharp bumps and ridges, Sam’s so still, doesn’t
even blink, not once.
Watches delicate raised scratches on the skin between the bone, sucks in all
his air so sharp and lets the damp fall of tears mix in with Sammy's flesh and
rubs the knife across that too, smooth glide.
And when he’s pressing down a little heavier than before, cause it’s so
appealing, the way he likes things sky-yawning, and Sam sucks in all of his air
at once and moans, fearful, little dick swaying with arousal, Dean removes his
hand.
Watches Sam come, untouched, violent spasms, collecting all over his stomach
and thighs like canvas.
Leans down, careful, and sets the blade beside them, on the floor, just under
the edge of the bed, no injuries.
That’s step six.
 
 
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