Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4525740.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Dean_Winchester/Sam_Winchester
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Dean_Winchester, Original_Male_Character(s), Michelangelo
      Buonarotti
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Historical, One_Shot, Corpses, Graphic_Description
      of_Corpses, Renaissance_Era, Alternate_Universe_-_Renaissance, apprentice
      Sam, Bottom_Sam, Top_Dean, Underage_Sex, Protective_Dean_Winchester,
      Artist_Sam
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-08 Words: 1507
****** Provided For ******
by compo67
Summary
     Not a night goes by that Dean doesn't commit at least one sin in
     Florence.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
It is a quiet night in Florence.
False.
It is never a quiet night in Florence.
And tonight of all nights, Florence could use more noise. More, more, more! The
wine does not pour fast enough, and the tambourines do not pound loud enough to
cover up the deeds of those who slink in darkened tunnels and quietly knock on
locked doors.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Sam whispers, his tone as sharp as the growing bones in
his still compact frame. Dean wagers there isn’t much time left before his
brother outgrows every tunic and pair of hose they own.
Muscling Sam out of the way, Dean wedges himself in front of the door. He
should never let Sam knock. Sam always does it too softly. The Old Man’s
hearing isn’t what it used to be; too much marble has been cracked and chiseled
in his presence. He’s not really that old, either, but he’s much older than
Dean, so that qualifies him for the title.
In the inky cover of midnight, under a heavy, ivory full moon, Dean raps his
knuckles against the sturdy door. Somewhere, a stray dog sniffs around for
scraps. Dean presses his ear to the thick surface before him.
Where is he?
They said midnight on this night.
“This is not our trade,” Sam insists in a breath too close to ear Dean does not
have squashed against the door. “We are merchants, Dean.”
“Father is a merchant.” One more knock. Then they will meet an end to this
night. “We will make this our trade, Sam.” He knocks and steps away. His eyes
match his brother’s. “Unless you shy away from this. Go on. Go back to bed and
wait for me there—under the blanket my ducats bought you and under the pillow I
gave you as a gift.”
Sam huffs. He shoves Dean; their tunics rustle. “You stole that pillow,” he
simpers. “I’ll stay, but only because without me, you’re worthless in there.”
“You fainted last time, I recall.”
“And your supper came out both ends. Who had the worst time?” Sam smirks and
leans against their obstacle. “I’m telling you, he’s not here. He must have
mixed up the dates. It’s a bad night for it anyway—full moon. No one does this
under a full moon.”
“No one does this at all, Sammy.”
Sighing, Sam kicks the door. “Right. Which is why we should not be here in the
first place. We should be comfortable in our bed. And I should be reading my
books and listening to your terrible snoring and—eek!”
Pitched forward, the squeal Sam lets out is no less than perfect.
The door opens.
Dean grabs his brother, pulls him back, and grins at the sight of their host.
“Took you long enough,” Dean snorts, his arm around Sam’s waist.
The Old Man scowls in response. He burns a single candle inside a cracked,
tinted lantern. The light from this candle shines a tint Dean has mixed for Sam
before—crimson.
Dirty, tattered boots make way.
Behind the brothers, the door shuts quieter than a mouse. All the proper locks
take place once more—to keep out soldiers, watchmen, thieves, and spies. These
few inches of wood and patches of metal are all that remain between them and
the noose in the piazza.
Not a neck has slipped inside that rope in a fortnight—long, by Florentine
time.
Tomorrow morning it could be their turn.
 
Two nights ago, Dean committed a repeated sin against God.
He gave his consent to have sin laid over him. It rode him, breathless, warm,
and desperate. It clung to his shoulders, gripped the muscles there, and
skimmed over the star-shaped scar above his heart, drawing out sparks of
pleasure. Every clench over the most intimate part of him produced torture so
sweet. The pressure was ecstasy. The depth exquisite. The burn and drag of
every thrust he gave was met with the fire of one who would never yield total
control.
Sam grinded their hips together, fusing them, mixing them like egg yolk and
pigment.
Sin at midnight binds them.
In more ways than one.
This year, Sam turns fifteen.
He cuts open his third body ever tonight. Yet another sin, done under moonlight
and beside Dean.
Despite what lies between them—what they do rough yet smooth—no one can ignore
the expertise in Sam’s hands over a corpse. His work is flawless. The skin
opens up for his knife, blooming easy and true, yielding the purest information
of the human form.
Tendons, muscles, tissue, organs, veins… all of it unfolds for Sam.
Two days have passed since this man drew his last breath. They know nothing of
him, except that the monks found the individual face down in an alleyway. He
must have fallen; scratches and bruises litter his face. Or maybe he was that
way to begin with.
The Old Man casts a distinct and commanding figure over them. Watchful, he
supervises.
Only the swish of his robes signals approval.
Concentrating, Sam slips his hand into the main abdominal cavity. The Old Man
presented him with a pair of black, leather gloves—the nicest thing either of
them owns—on the first night.
For now, the gloves extend up to Sam’s elbow. On a grown man they should reach
the forearm.
“Tray,” Sam murmurs, eyes closed and head turned away. “Dean, a tray.”
Something the size of a skein flops onto the bronze tray Dean holds out.
“The liver,” The Old Man announces. “Essential.”
Turned back, Sam only nods. With a squelch and a pop, something else works
loose. Sam struggles for a moment; Dean tips the tray to make it easier.
“Tumor.” Nothing fazes The Old Man. He’s done this too many times. It’s how he
knows. It’s how he does what he does in the daytime. “Likely you’ll find many
more.”
An hour before dawn, Sam takes count and documents his findings inside a thick
roll of parchment The Old Man keeps under lock and key. Whatever Sam doesn’t
write down he must memorize. Fortunately, he memorizes a great deal. Cataloging
is easy. Dean switches out his nibs and ink; The Old Man sketches them both
despite the lack of light.
To the scratch of two nibs, Dean inhales deep.
He would sneak here a thousand times over.
The solitary candle threatens to leave them.
But not before The Old Man grasps the parchment roll in his hands and holds it
up to his failing eyes.
Maybe he sees more than he does. That sounds foolish, but Dean knows. Some
people see what lingers between him and Sam; most of those people don’t say a
word. Their father may be a merchant, but he is a well-respected merchant. And
there isn’t much to see. Dean carries the supplies. He haggles with traders and
earns the ducats that buy most things they need. One or two things he may
borrow, but even Rome borrows. And just like Rome, it might be a while before
people receive anything in return.
Sam is better than trading in a stall.
He’s better than the dismal, drab leftovers of their lives.
And what Sam can do—what he sees beyond the sins they commit—makes Dean almost
believe that he might also be better than this.
“Once more,” The Old Man sighs, rolling the parchment underneath his fingers.
“Then you are done.”
Using a rag Dean handed to him, Sam cleans off his gloves, nodding.
The two talk about ligaments and muscle and joints and sockets.
All Dean can see is Sam.
 
Between Sam’s legs, Dean works.
He chisels a space inside his brother, wide, wet, and his.
Clean, tender fingers run through Dean’s hair.
Florence is never quiet.
Dean wouldn’t mind being a body cut open. He wouldn’t mind it at all if his
brother did it, or even The Old Man. They’d use every part of him; nothing
would go to waste. The outline of his liver might yield the shape of a cloak;
his heart could be the color to a background panel. Not a piece of him would go
unobserved or uncared for.
He could be those notes.
And all of his secrets could be under lock and key.
Those secrets bubble at the edge of his lip. They rustle against Sam’s jaw, hum
over the tight, pink peak of his nipple. And when he pushes into his space, one
of the secrets spills over.
Tomorrow is for carving.
The hour before morning is for consumption.  
Sam has three blank sheets of paper, pencils and nibs, wells of ink, bronze
molds and material, and above all else—he has marble.
With Dean above him, the remaining tendrils of night sweep inspiration, leaving
behind sweat and salt and the loveliest, rosy blush over the plane of Sam’s
chest.
Florence would not know how to be or stay quiet.
Not so long as Sam’s mind turns.
Not so long as Dean provides him with work.
End Notes
     one-shot experiment. :) hope you enjoyed! comments are wonderful!
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