Mar. 1st, 2008 10:10 am
Warnings: Wincest, knife!kink
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Summary: Sam just wants to stick to the job. Dean...not so much.
Author's Note: First mgbutterfly asked me for some good old fashioned incest-y knife!kink. God. I don't know how I managed to snag such an awesome wife. Baby, what did I do to deserve you? Also, I'm apparently incapable of doing anything exactly as I'm asked. There's definitely knife!kink here. But it's a little bit weird. Porn with a purpose?
Dean's so pale that most of his scars show on his skin as a lacework of white lines. They're almost impossible to see, patterns and shapes that Sam has learned with his touch and not his eyes. It's just as well. Sight can lie, but Sam's fingertips never have.
Sam trails his touch across Dean's ribs now. Dean shifts, ticklish along his sides, and says, "Sam, come on, just stitch it up." Sam doesn't answer, but does drop his hand away from Dean's skin, trying to arrange the lamp so the weak light falls over more of Dean's chest.
The wound isn't bleeding that badly anymore, the five pointed star circled by the moon and the sun set below Dean's heart. Sam has already spread the mixture of witch hazel, cinchona and dahlia root over the wound, and anointed it with holy water. All that's left to do is stitch it.
This wound is not meant to fade, and Sam makes the stitches larger than he usually would. Dean's chest rises and falls beneath his hands, steady and calm, Dean's heartbeat echoing through his body, blood sliding lazily out of the wound. Sam stitches carefully and then snips the thread off, leaning back to examine his work.
Dean's skin is red and agitated, a few drops of blood dried across his chest. Sam licks his thumb, rubs the stains away and Dean rumbles. When Sam looks up Dean is watching him with dark eyes, a crooked smile on his lips. Sam rolls his eyes and says, "This isn't play time. Can't you keep your mind on the job, Dean?"
Dean shrugs, shifting up off of his elbows, putting himself in Sam's space. He's still smirking when he says, "I'm a multi-tasker. C'mon, Sammy. You know it'll get you hard anyway." There's a teasing edge to Dean's voice, but also the calm knowledge that he's right. Sam wants to hate him for it, for the way that Dean knows everything about him. Maybe he does, at least a little bit.
Sam scowls, reaching over for the knife on the bedside table and flipping it in the air towards Dean. Dean catches the blade between the tips of his index and middle fingers, twirls it down into his palm. Dean is still grinning and Sam meets his eyes, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Dean stares across at him, then licks his lips and shrugs, "Sure, Sammy. Whatever you say. We'll do it your way."
The mattress under his back is soft and lumpy. Dean pushes him down, strong callused hands on Sam's shoulders. Sam tucks his left arm behind his head, stares pointedly at the ceiling as Dean crouches over him, twirling the knife between his fingers.
The first cut, when it comes, is a surprise. Dean kisses the knife to his skin fast and sure, pressure that's more cold than anything else. The pain comes a few seconds later, along with the first flare of warmth as his blood blossoms on top of his skin. Dean twirls the knife away, leaning back and cocking his head to the side.
Sam glares up at him, because he knows what his brother is doing and is trying very hard to hang onto his righteous indignation. Dean's straddling his thighs, but not touching him, is nothing but a tease of warmth over Sam's skin. There's a trickle of blood creeping down Dean's stomach, and the light keeps reflecting off of the blade, flashing across Dean's skin.
Dean is still smirking, leaning a little bit forward and dragging the rough pad of his thumb across the cut. The burn of the pressure floods the space beneath Sam's ribs with warmth, and he has to suck in a sudden breath when Dean raises his thumb to his lips and licks at the blood staining his skin. Sam's voice is hoarse when he says, "Okay, fine."
Dean blinks at him, all innocence even as he dips the knife again, a sharp economical movement designed to do precisely what Dean wants and nothing more. Sam groans, his muscles jumping when Dean drags his fingers across the cuts. Dean says, bland as though they were talking about the weather, "'Okay' what? I'm kind of busy working here."
Dean holds his gaze, wrist moving in complicated perfect patterns, drawing the tip of the blade across Sam's skin. Sam can feel the face of the moon being graven into his chest, can see himself reflected in Dean's eyes. He shifts, trying to lift his hips up against Dean's, and Dean rocks forward, saying, "Now, Sam. Can't you keep your mind on the job?"
Not with Dean braced over him like this, he can't. Dean has an arm planted by Sam's shoulder, his knees on either side of Sam's hips but damnably not touching. Sam starts to reach for him and Dean twists the knife, the sharp top spike of the star, the bold, thick, lines of the sun.
Sam groans, tipping his head back, as Dean finally closes the pattern with a flourish. Sam doesn't have to look to know that the mark on his skin is more intricate than the one that he set in Dean's flesh. No one would ever call Dean an artist until they saw what he could do with a blade, and Sam's pretty sure he's the only one that has ever gotten to see it.
Dean rocks back, sits on Sam's thighs and after a moment Sam makes himself open an eye to glare at his brother. Dean is grinning, the very picture of the cat that got the canary as he raises the knife to his lips and licks across the flat of the blade. Sam manages a desperate sound, deep and rumbling, and Dean's smile is sharp as the knife's edge.
Sam rocks his hips, knowing Dean has to be aware of the erection straining against his jeans. Dean just keeps watching him, absently licking the other side of the knife clean. Dean's blood had been on the blade, covered by Sam's, and something about it is sending the rest of the blood in Sam's body towards his cock at top speed.
Sam grits out, "Come on," and Dean carefully places the knife on the bed beside them. Dean's lips are red, and he leans forward, elbows braced on either side of Sam's rib cage as he blows across the blood beading on Sam's chest. Sam arches his spine, feeling goose bumps rise all along his side as Dean chuckles and finally—finally—leans the rest of the way down.
Dean's mouth is wet and warm, his tongue broad and smooth over the cuts. Sam hisses, his knees drawing up automatically, his hand snaking down to wrap around the back of Dean's head. Sam can feel Dean grinning against his skin, licking at the wounds, his teeth a cool press of promise against Sam's overheated body. Sam rocks him against him, manages a ghost of pressure against one of Dean's thighs and whines because it's not enough.
Dean pulls back, just a little bit, his breath moist and hot across Sam's skin, "Can you come from this?" He sounds genuinely curious, and makes no move to return to his previous attentions until he gets an answer.
Sam shakes his head, "I need—" his voice cuts off into a surprised grunt when Dean shifts, arranging himself between Sam's thighs instead of astride them, pressing up against him in all the right places. Sam's hips buck automatically, and Dean's mouth drops back to his over sensitized flesh. Sam groans, rolling his hips as Dean licks and bites and sucks.
His orgasm is a surprise, hard and sudden. Sam curses, feeling Dean's laughter against his skin and Dean's hands, sliding up and down his sides to gentle him back down. He's warm and happily tingly, and when Dean slides out of bed Sam lets him go with little more than a muffled protest.
Sam barely even feels the stitches Dean has to put it.
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