Let it Bleed
Fandom: Supernatural
Category/Rated: NC-17
Year/Length: 2010/~3449 words
Pairing: Sam/Dean, slight mention of Castiel
Spoilers: spoilers for 5X14, 'My Bloody Valentine'
Disclaimer: Still not Kripke... making no money
Warning: Bloodplay, incest, possible dubcon
Summary: After the events of My Bloody Valentine, Sam has learned a new way to cope.
Beta: Thanks to our speedy beta and all around lovely person, titheniel
The night was oppressive. Sam paced, waiting for his brother, who'd headed out earlier muttering something about a poltergeist. There were no clouds, and the moon had long since set. The stars were holes in the black firmament, windows through which the elder gods could peer and laugh.
Lucifer walked the Earth, and nothing was going to be the same. The little run-in with Famine had proven that. Since then, Sam itched. He itched, his veins pulsing into a vacuum.
He wanted; he needed, and the thing he needed most right now was missing. He lifted his hands to bury them in his hair, yanked hard in an effort to distract himself, and almost missed the purr of the Impala as it approached their motel. When the sound finally percolated through, it sent his blood rushing south, and Sam ran to throw open the door, not caring how that looked or how much Dean would tease him for it. All he wanted was to know his brother was here, and home, and his.
The bang of the door opening startled Dean, his eyes opening wide for a split second before the customary smirk replaced his look of surprise. "Whoa, Samantha..." the rest of the smart-ass comment died in his mouth, and Sam knew what he had to look like, braced against the doorjamb and staring. Dean pressed his lips together in a thin line, making Sam's heart beat faster in his ears.
Even from here he could smell Dean. The sweat under his arms from a hard won battle, the musk of his jeans from one too many wearings between laundry days. Gun powder, motor oil, fire smoke. Home. Dean. Need. Hunger.
Yes, that's what it was. This thing that Sam never said out loud. It was not just need, not even just love.
It was hunger. An unforgiving beast that clawed at him from the inside, ripping and hollowing him; making him feel the gaping wounds that spilled an oily red slick into his own gut, while the thing laughed. When he was like this, he knew Lucifer could taste him. Dip into that seething mass of entrails and pluck at them, twisting them and making him choke. But most of all, driving him with a need to fill that hole, to give in. But after the detox from the last round of demon blood, he wouldn't. He'd found another way.
"Dean," he breathed. "Shoulda let me come with. You're bleeding."
And Dean was — a thick, dark runnel of dried blood from a gash in his forehead that had dried and caked on, almost black.
"You think I couldn't handle a lil’ ol' poltergeist on m'own, Sammy? Did me good to get out and flex the old skills. Need to practice once in a while." Dean spread his hands expansively and beamed, bruised and dirty, face alight with good humor, breath full of the scent of the JD he'd drunk afterwards.
"I think you're still trying to wrap me in cotton-wool, and you need to stop." Sam stepped closer to Dean, nostrils flaring as he drank in the scent of blood; his brother's blood, rich and full of life. Sam extended his hand to touch the wound on Dean's forehead, letting his fingers slide into the still-sticky red patch. The scent made him tremble, the feel of it sending tingles through his fingertips to raise goose-bumps along his arms.
"God, Dean..." He swayed forward, sniffed the air and inclined his neck so he could lick. "God!"
Dean caught him around the arms and held him in place, making Sam narrow his eyes and let out a frustrated grunt. Dean’s expression softened, biting his lower lip and looking like he was contemplating something, making Sam's belly lurch.
Maybe Dean would say no tonight. The thought that Dean might ever want out made Sam wither a little inside. "Whoa, whoa... Sammy. It's all good, just need to lock the door." Dean indicated the cheap, green clapboard door still hanging inward on its hinges. "Don't need anyone nosin' in."
By 'anyone', Sam knew Dean meant Castiel. Fuckin' not-angel had the worst timing, an even worse sense of propriety and no clue when it came to sex; normally. But they both knew he'd condemn this. The sex was the lesser of the two sins here. Not the part that Sam needed it, but that Dean let him have it. Gave into it.
Sam knew that Michael had a point when he said that their love was not something anyone else would understand. It always made Sam feel like someone was getting touched in a bad place.
Dean shut the door and flipped the deadbolt. Not that it would actually stop Castiel, but it was a signal. Not right now, Cas, busy.
Sam stayed still and just tracked Dean's movement with his eyes as Dean took off the worn, leather jacket and dropped it over the back of one of the threadbare chairs, before pulling off his shirt. Both so they wouldn't be ruined. Dean slowly took the short, sharp blade out of its sheath at his hip and turned the handle towards Sam.
"Okay, Sammy... it's okay." Dean's voice was gentle, like he was speaking to a spooked dog, and Sam figured that maybe that's what he looked like. Put out your hand and I might still bite you.
Sam snatched the blade from him and held it for a moment. It was still warm from being next to Dean's skin. It even smelled like Dean. The oil from his skin, his sweat. Sam sniffed it, his eyes closing slightly at the intoxicating combination, before he advanced. Dean did at least still have the common sense to back up, but never flinched, not even an eye tick.
Sam pressed him back to the wall and finally leaned in to sniff and then lick the congealed blood from Dean's forehead. But this was old. Tainted and oxidized already, tinny-tasting like a wine that had been exposed to the air too long.
Sam growled low in his throat before making the first cut. The first was always in the same place, in the raised hand-print the angel had left behind. One day, Sam would see if Dean would let him slice it right off, Dean was his, not the angel's... his.
But not now. The cut was shallow, but the blood flowed bright red from it, running over Dean's pale skin before Sam licked at it, catching it on his tongue and tracing it back up to the wound. He felt Dean's hands thread into his hair, roughly, and hold him there. "Sammy."
The tang of it on his tongue sent his own blood singing in his ears, heady pulsing that made his brother's voice sound distant. He didn't speak, licked delicately, lapping with little cat swipes of his tongue, spinning out the moment, savoring the intimacy of this primal act.
Dean was pulling his hair, fingers wound into it as he pressed himself close. He was hard. He always was by this point, and Sam knew that for Dean the offering of blood was merely something he did for him.
Dean wanted sex, he needed it. The reaffirmation that he was real, that he was not dead inside and that Dean Winchester actually meant something to someone. Someone loved him best. Temporarily filling the hole in Dean, the way Dean's blood filled the hole in him.
Famine had been wrong. Dean was very much alive inside, but what he heeded was beyond the understanding of an old demon. But Sam understood. He always had.
Sam wasn't hard yet, but he would be later, when he allowed himself to cover the wound he'd made with his lips and suck the rich, red liquid from his brother, swallowing it down in greedy, careless gulps.
He slipped one hand down to pull the zipper of Dean's fly open and sneaked inside to find and fondle the erection that throbbed there. "God, Sammy..." Dean's voice was harsh, broken, the way it always was. Idly, Sam contemplated if in this state Dean would let him slice into his cock, sucking blood and spunk from it at the same time, and suddenly found that his own cock had swollen in such a way that he gasped. Maybe later Dean would let him. He'd make it good, he would.
'I love you so much', Sam thought before his voice came out low and husky, whiskey and gravel. "I want to eat you alive. If you were inside me like that, you'd be safe from it all, safe from demons, safe from angels."
"I'd let you." The response was so quiet as to be almost inaudible. Sam shuddered as Dean found his dick and fumbled into Sam's pants after it, sliding a hand over the length as he closed his eyes.
For a moment, Sam's muscles locked, and then he gave a growl, bent to cover the wound he'd made and began to suck, avid as a baby drawing in milk from a nipple. Red ran from the corners of his mouth, and when he drew away for a moment to find and kiss Dean’s mouth there was a groan from him at the taste of his own vital fluids.
"It's not enough, Dean. I want more tonight. Can I have more?"
There was always that question. Can I have more? Dean always let him have it, of course, and that was how all of this started. Sam still hungered, could smell the blood on Dean. Dean's blood, creature blood, his own blood. Just after the last detox, Dean caught him smelling the laundry before stuffing it into the duffel to take to the laundromat. He expected Dean to rag on him, like he usually would have. Or to give him Hell and maybe even pull away again. But when he reached out to apologize, ready to listen to Dean telling him he was weak... Dean held the shirt for him, telling him he'd keep him safe. He'd always keep him safe.
The first time he tasted Dean, it was like something snapped into place. The blood was old, already congealed in the small gash on Dean's cheek. But it tasted like the sweetest nectar to him. It was even better the first time Dean took out his bowie knife and opened a vein for him. It left them both panting, hard, sweating.
That was the first night he let Dean fuck him. Giving Dean what he needed in return. Physically manifesting the love between them in ways that caused pain and relief, even if Dean would have kicked his ass from here to tomorrow for putting it that way.
Dean would kick his ass even harder if he ever let Dean know that he knew about the tears afterward.
Dean was fumbling for his knife, pulling it out of his boot as Sam sucked on the wound in his shoulder, and he lifted his head to gaze into green eyes blown opiate-wide, loving the way Dean looked, all for him.
"Let's go." Dean's voice was honey and gasoline, catching in his throat as he lifted the knife, honed and glittering in the low light from the lamp. Mesmerized, Sam watched as Dean held out his forearm and sliced across it, the new wound welling, seeping, dripping as Sam moaned and dropped to his knees to suckle from it.
He didn't need to suck. Dean had done his job well, and the rich fluid flowed readily, almost too fast for Sam to keep up with it.
Sam couldn't take his eyes away from his brother. Dean's skin seemed paler than usual, freckles stark on ivory flesh, and those eyes, wide and dark, gazed down at him as if he were the only steady thing in an unstable world. Perhaps he was. Desire curled in his belly, and he hummed his appreciation as he let Dean's essence roll across his tongue.
"Dude..." Dean was tugging, pulling his arm away. "Come on, Sammy, leave me a little for myself, will ya?"
Hard inside his jeans, cock chafing against the fabric of his underwear, Sam was close to coming. He pictured the knife sliding into Dean's flesh, parting the skin and splitting it wide, a mouth for him to kiss. He imagined carving his name on Dean's pale chest, embellishment of the beauty that pulsed and glowed beneath his skin as it pounded through the secret highways within his body, and truly owning his brother.
He could feel Dean's dick straining against his pants, and absently he shucked them down from Dean's hips to let it out, fondling it with one hand as he reluctantly drew away from the arm on which he'd been feeding. Transferring his mouth from the one part to the next was easy, the taste of Dean was watered down here, and although it was sweet enough, he couldn't help wondering how much sweeter it would be if he could just bite...
"Whoa, Sammy.. watch the teeth..." Dean chided tugging sharply at his hair in warning. Sam looked up at him, braced back against the eyesore wallpaper, legs spread so he didn't collapse. Yet. Sam smiled around Dean's dick and then scraped his teeth over the sensitive flesh on purpose, making Dean grunt and tug sharply again. Dean smirked at him this time. "Playin' rough, huh?" He gritted out, petting Sam's cheek. Before he grabbed Sam's jaw roughly and started to fuck his mouth, almost making Sam gag. "Two can do that, Sammy."
Sam's throat burned and his jaw ached, but Sam was harder now than before, picturing the bruises forming on his own tanned skin, where Dean's fingers dug in. Tears stung his eyes as he fought to breathe. This was how they wanted it. Give, take, share; fill the void for another night. Sam almost cried out when Dean pulled back, cock slipping out of Sam's mouth to rut against his cheek. "Dean..." was all he could say, and Dean cooed to him.
"I know, Sammy... I know." Dean was helping him up from his knees now. Next he helped Sam off with his shirt, pulling the worn fabric over his head and dropping it on the floor. "Gotta lie down before I fall down, baby bro." Dean yanked down Sam's jeans as well, getting him to step out of them on his way to one of the beds.
'Baby bro' should have sent Sam screaming into just how wrong this was, back off. Danger Will Robinson. But him and Dean were unique. In blood, in upbringing; and it's amazing how quickly you can push the sick feeling of 'wrong' down into that void when you remember that there really are only two of you on Earth. The last of your kind. No one else would ever understand.
Sam helped Dean discard his jeans, almost reverently, letting the tang of his brother's body fill the small, dingy room. He lay Dean out, like a sacrifice, all pale skin against dark bedspread. Sam needed to stop thinking about it now. Before he backed out, before he thought about it too long.
Sam grabbed the knife that at some point he'd dropped on the floor. Only shallow cuts would be allowed now, Dean was exhausted and had given him too much recently.
Last week, they'd needed to patch Dean up after. Sam tried to apologize, but Dean shut him up. "Whatever it takes, Sammy."
'I love you too, Dean'.
Sam crawled onto the bed and straddled Dean's hips. He traced the tip of the knife gently over Dean's chest, down to his abs. "Want..." He whined.
"Okay, it's okay..." Dean told him, before giving a sharp nod. Sam just tickled him again with the knife tip. 'Want...' he thought. And Dean had no idea what he was really asking him, but would blindly agree to it. He'd let Sam drain him, if that's what Sam wanted.
Sam fumbled into the bedside drawer for the lube, reaching back to coat Dean's cock with it, before quickly pushing back onto it, dragging a cry from him. Dean hissed and held still, concern for him seeping into those green eyes as he watched. It hurt, it burned like being split open; but Sam needed it to.
Sam could smell Dean, and he filled his lungs with the scent of him, sweat and musk and gunpowder - the scent of home and safety. Sam ground down onto him, taking him deep into his body, reasoning that if he couldn't eat him, then he would have to settle for sucking Dean deep inside of him.
He wanted to tell Dean just how much he loved him, wanted him, lusted for him. But he knew that Dean would pull away, never able to do the sharing and caring at the best of times, and even less so with his baby brother's fucked up needs. Sam settled for gazing down at Dean, his heart in his eyes as he witnessed the intent expression on Dean's handsome face.
Dean had the look of someone who thought he might just die if he couldn't get inside Sam deeper, harder, just one fraction of an inch further. Sweat stood out on his brow, and his eyes were glassy, strain evident around them. White teeth worried at his lush lower lip, and Sam felt a lurch deep inside that he thought might be his heart swelling.
Sam scratched gently over the skin of Dean's chest with the knife-point again and again now, not too much pressure, his hand moving automatically, Sam not paying attention to what was being written. The repetitive motion finally scoring the flesh over Dean's heart, tiny pearls of blood standing out to mix with the sweat and roll off.
Dean's fingers bit into the flesh of his thighs, and there would be bruises there tomorrow. Sam knew he deserved them, deserved everything Dean wanted to throw at him, his penance for ripping them apart and remaking them in this way.
Orgasm swelled. Dean began to pant, short, sharp breaths that were strident in the quiet room, and Sam groaned, his voice harsh in counterpoint. Dean was whispering, "Yes, yes, yes!" and the sheer sweetness of his love was enough to send the surge through Sam, tightening his balls as the pleasure began to snake up his spine, clamping his thighs and locking his muscles in a rigor that shook him, bearing down on Dean's invading cock as his muscles began to ripple around him, drawing out his the climax.
As usual, Dean came with Sam's name on his lips, rising to sit and grip Sam's forearms. "Oh, God, Sammy,"
"It's okay, Dean. I promise you it's okay." He'd said the words so many times, and he knew that Dean would still beat up on himself.
Easing himself off Dean's spent cock, he dropped down to cuddle up to his brother, knowing that the moments when Dean lay loose and warm and welcoming were all too fleeting. Sure enough, in the space of five minutes Dean grew restive, squirming out of Sam's warm hold to head into the dingy bathroom and leaving Sam with aftershocks still sending tingling fingers along his nerve endings to recover from his exertions.
Sam drifted in a half stupor, eyes closed. Once the itch was gone, he hated himself. He hated that he needed this and that he needed Dean to be the one to give it to him. It would have been better for everyone if he'd been left to rot in the mud of Cold Oaks. Never found. He indulged in the moment of self pity, before the scratchy feeling of a cheap motel washcloth pulled him out of it. He opened his eyes to see Dean gently cleaning him up; fresh, white bandage wrapped tightly around his forearm.
Nothing was said out loud. But their eyes met and it said it all. Shut up and let me do this. Don't ruin it, Sammy. After, Dean helped to heave him up in order to pull back the blanket and sheets, crawling in with him, space between them, but they lay in the semi dark and looked at each other. Finally Dean smirked at him and rolled to turn off the lamp on the bedside table, plunging the room in darkness.
Sam didn't dare ask about the difference tonight. Afraid Dean would wise up and run as far as he could. It was only then Dean took his hand and rested it over the scratched skin in the center of Dean's chest. Sam traced it with his fingers and understood.
SAM'S.
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