Carve My Name

Apr. 26th, 2008 09:34 am

Fandom: Supernatural

Characters: Dean/Sam

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Wincest, language, smut, knife!kink

Disclaimer: Not mine!

Beta: mgbutterfly ran beta for her own gift-fic. I'm not sure that's completely fair to her...

Summary: The straight-edge only comes out on special occasions—or when Dean is showing off—and usually that kind of behavior would annoy the hell out of Sam. Right now, he can't really bring himself to complain.

Author's Note: This is a present for mgbutterfly, because she should have lots of them.


Sam steps out of the shower to find Dean standing by the sink, a cup in one hand and a smirk on his face. It's hardly unusual for them to share a bathroom, and so Sam throws his towel over his head and scrubs at his hair, still barely awake when he says, "Coffee?"

Dean sounds entirely too chipper when he says, "No." Sam pulls the towel off his head, blinking at his brother and wondering if Dean got into the sugar water they were saving for the brownies. Before he can ask Dean sets his cup down—it's filled with white foam—and says, "Sit your ass down, Sam."

Sam hesitates, and Dean raises his eyebrows, setting down a shaving brush beside the cup without looking. Dean's smirk creeps incrementally higher when he reaches back, drawing his straight-edge out of his back pocket and flipping it open in one smooth movement. Dean cocks his head to the side, light flashing across the face of the blade, and Sam gropes for the toilet with his heart pounding in his ears.

Dean is saying, "That scruff you're trying to grow has got to go," with just a hint of teasing in his tone. Sam barely hears the words, fumble fingered when he slams down the lid of the toilet and sits himself down, tugging his towel absently over his lap more because he doesn't want it to touch the floor than anything else. "It makes you look like an idiot."

Dean is filling the sink up, steam rising off the hot water, grousing while testing the heat with a finger, "And I have beard burn on my thighs." Sam manages a weak smile, becomes aware that he's gripping his knees so hard his knuckles have gone white and makes himself relax. It's just a shave.

"Dean—" Sam's voice cracks and Dean is smirking again, setting the razor down and palming the brush.

"Chin up." The words are an order, Dean stepping forward and making space for himself between Sam's thighs. Sam swallows hard and tilts his chin up, Dean swirling the brush in the thick shaving cream and then narrowing his eyes as he smoothes it across Sam's skin.

There's a skill to this Sam never learned. He hadn't even had to shave until he was eighteen, and by then he'd been safely ensconced at school, trying to distance himself from his father and brother as much as possible. Electric razors had been the other end of the spectrum, and Sam had gotten used to the hum of them against his skin.

Dean doesn't even shave with a straight edge, not normally. It's time they don't have to properly strop the blade after each use, and it's easier to just use a disposable. The straight-edge only comes out on special occasions—or when Dean is showing off—and usually that kind of behavior would annoy the hell out of Sam. Right now, he can't really bring himself to complain.

The brush is set back down. Dean dips a finger into the cream, smearing a line of it down the bridge of Sam's noise. Sam rolls his eyes but doesn't comment. His throat is too tight to even consider forming the words. He's barely keeping his breathing under control as it is.

Dean says, "Hold still," with a bright flash of his teeth, reaching for the blade. Sam's hands are balled up in his lap, his skin tingling when Dean's jeans brush the inside of Sam's thigh as his brother shifts his weight, taking a deep breath and staring at Sam's face like an artist inspecting his canvas.

The first kiss of the blade is low on Sam's neck, the metal warm and sharp. Sam holds his breath, eyes drifting closed, listening to the rasp of the edge across his skin. It shoots like fire down his spine and Sam clenches his jaw tight, feeling the rough pads of Dean's fingers on his neck, holding the skin taut.

In any other situation Sam would expect Dean to hum, whistle, or all out sing, obnoxiously and at the top of his voice. But Dean is silent now, no sound but the razor over Sam's skin, the occasional tap and splash when Dean rinses the blade, the too loud sound of Sam breathing. The pounding of Sam's heart might be audible, but he's praying it isn't.

Dean slides the blade over Sam's throat and Sam swallows automatically, feeling the razor shift with the movement, avoiding biting into his skin. Dean's hands are steady, always steady, and he never cuts what he doesn't intend to. Sam swallows again, his throat clicking and Dean rubs his thumb over Sam's Adam's apple, leaving it snugged there—enough pressure for Sam to feel it up his throat and down into his chest—while Dean works the other side of Sam's neck.

Sam has his eyes squeezed closed so hard he's seeing spots when the blade slides over his jaw. Dean is nothing if not thorough, tracing the curve of Sam's jaw right up to his ear. The blade sliding across the soft, sensitive skin there has Sam shivering, and the movement has the sharp edge settling firm against Sam's skin. Dean holds it there for a long moment, before working his way across Sam's cheek.

Each pass of the blade leaves behind skin that tingles and leaves Sam wanting to gasp. There's nothing cold about any of this, even the blade is leeching heat from the water in the sink and Dean's skin, but Sam feels shivery anyway, his stomach tight and trembling.

When Dean moves the razor over Sam's chin, a quick series of strokes fast enough to make Sam dizzy, each one ends with the edge of the blade kissing against Sam's lower lip. He bites his tongue to keep it in his mouth and Dean is moving, efficient and exact as he wipes away Sam's attempted mustache with a few skilled twists of his wrist.

Sam lets out a shuddering breath when Dean moves to the other side of his face. His heart is racing, and he has to lick his lips, to taste the tingle left behind by the brush of the knife's edge. A smear of shaving cream catches on his tongue, bitter, and when Sam grimaces Dean snorts on a laugh, momentarily eclipsing the song of the blade.

The last pass of the razor ends with the edge pressing into Sam's cheekbone, and Dean doesn't remove it. After a long moment Sam makes himself open his eyes, dizzy and disoriented. Dean is staring down at him, head cocked to the side, rubbing his thumb back and forth above the edge of the razor.

The corner of Dean's mouth curls up into a smile, and he says, "Smooth as a baby's bottom," before stepping aside, rinsing the straight-edge and throwing a rag at Sam. Sam catches it dumbly, only remembering after a moment to wipe the remainder of the shaving cream off of his face. He feels shaky, tingling from the water from the shower dried across his skin, drunk on the blade and Dean.

Dean rinses the shaving cream out of the cup, flashes Sam a look that would manage impatience if his eyes weren't so very dark, and says, "Rinse. Cold water. C'mon, Sammy." Sam blinks, shifts to his feet and rinses his face on autopilot, barely aware that his towel has slipped down to the ground.

When Sam looks up Dean is leaning against the doorframe, turning the straight-edge over and over in his hands. Sam's attention gets hung up on the light reflecting off the metal, and Dean says, voice low and thick, "I charge extra for a happy ending."

The leering tone of the words makes Sam look up and he flushes at the appraisal in Dean's eyes. He's suddenly very aware that he's standing naked in the middle of the bathroom, his cock so hard it's nearly flush up against his stomach. Sam has time to open his mouth, not sure what he's going to say, and then Dean is on him.

Dean gets him up against the wall and Sam starts to shove him off, instinct and habit to push when shoved. But Dean already has the flat of the knife sliding down Sam's jaw, twisting it and laying the razor's edge up against the underside of Sam's jaw. Sam can feel his pulse beating against the edge of the blade, going a million miles an hour and looking to speed up.

Dean's other hand has been just as busy, his palm cupping Sam's cock, not squeezing or sliding, just there, heavy and solid.

Sam's fingers scramble for something to hang onto, dancing across the flat plaster of the wall and settling on Dean. His fingers curl around Dean's waistband, too clumsy to worry with buttons and zippers, just holding on. Dean is radiating warmth, his breath sliding across the side of Sam's neck, his lips soft when he presses a kiss to the juncture of Sam's neck and shoulder.

Dean says, voice damnably steady, "I bet I can make you come like this."

There are too many variables for 'like this' for Sam to think of a coherent response. He just nods, agreeable and breathless, feeling Dean shift the blade with the movement. There's not even a pinch of pain, because Dean only cuts what he wants to.

The curve of Dean's smile presses against the side of Sam's neck, sharp as the blade of the razor, every bit as dangerous. Sam gasps, giving up trying to contain it, shuffling his feet further apart, trying to get Dean to step closer. Dean doesn't, just slides his mouth, tracing kisses up the line of Sam's throat, up to his jaw, and then pausing. Dean leans his forehead against Sam's cheek, dragging the edge of the blade down Sam's throat, the metal starting to chill in the air of the room, smooth right up until it's sharp, laying along the edge of Sam's collar bone.

Dean says, conversational against the side of Sam's neck, "You know, there are other places I could shave." Sam thumps his head back against the wall, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. The thought of the blade anywhere near his cock or balls should be horrifying, but this is Dean, Dean with his steady hands and easy skill. Sam grinds up into his palm, trying to pull Dean closer.

There's a brush of laughter across Sam's skin, Dean pleased with himself and not even trying to hide it. Dean says, moving the knife in lazy patterns across Sam's chest, drawing shapes that Sam can't see, "I meant your legs."

And Sam is surprised when that makes him groan, buck up into Dean's hand all over again. The sensitive skin on the insides of his thighs and his ankles is tingling suddenly, and at this exact moment Sam thinks the embarrassment of having someone besides Dean potentially find out that he shaved his legs would be totally worth it.

Sam tugs on Dean again and Dean grunts, tsking and sliding the blade out to the edge of Sam's shoulder, flipping it up until just one corner of the square tip is resting against Sam's skin. Every nerve in Sam's body seems to shut down except for that spot. Sam bites his bottom lip, doesn't move a muscle, and Dean says, "Oops."

The pressure is there and gone, the blade sharp enough that Sam doesn't even feel the cut itself. He feels the sting after the blade slides away, and the warmth of the blood that curves down, a slow thick line of heat that makes him shiver.

Dean's voice has finally lost any amusement, a rough rasp when he says, "Sorry about that," and shifts. Dean's mouth is warm, wet, the press of his tongue soft against the cut. Dean sucks, just the edges of his teeth sliding across Sam's skin, not as sharp as the straight-edge, and Sam groans, his hips jerking hard.

The knife is sliding down Sam's chest while Dean's mouth is busy. Sam holds onto Dean, trying to focus on the pressure of his mouth over the cut and the edge of the knife circling a nipple at the same time. When Dean drags the tip of the blade over the tight tip of Sam's nipple Sam bucks against him, shoulders curling off the wall before Dean shoves him back.

There's a moment of stillness, Sam strung tight, Dean grinning into his shoulder. It doesn't last. Dean is nipping at his skin and twisting his wrist, the knife opening a perfect half circle below Sam's nipple. Dean is already moving, trailing a flurry of barely there kisses across Sam's chest, twirling his tongue against the overheated flesh and then his lower lip is pressed up against the bloody half circle and Sam gets a hand off Dean's waist and into his hair.

Nothing Sam says convinces Dean to grow his hair out, even an inch or two. Sam's fingers can't find purchase in the soft strands of Dean's hair, his fingers curling against his brother's scalp, and Dean just sucks and kisses and bites.

The knife is tracing back and forth over Sam's stomach, a slow crisscross that is driving Sam insane. His hips are twitching up against Dean's hand without any control at all from him at this point. He's getting to love the curve of the heel of Dean's palm, the smooth skin on the inside of Dean's wrist that the tip of his cock just brushes over with each thrust.

Dean hums softly to himself and traces the edge of Sam's bellybutton with one corner of the tip of the knife, fast and careful before dipping down into it. Sam sucks in a breath, Dean's name falling off of his lips louder than he intended, and then the knife is moving, sliding south and leaving a thin trail of blood behind.

Sam looks down automatically, watching the red drop slide down the last few inches of his stomach. He has a brief thought about a belly-ring and then Dean is shifting, dropping down onto his knees with a grace that Sam isn't sure he could match at the moment.

Dean's tongue is warm, catching the blood and following it back, sliding inside Sam's belly button and then out again. Dean's hand is on Sam's thigh, his cock bobbing neglected at the underside of Dean's chin. The knife is pressed against the juncture of Sam's thigh and hip, holding steady there as Dean takes his sweet time relearning the sharp edges of Sam's hips before rocking back on his heels.

Sam is staring down at him helplessly, and Dean looks up at him with a wicked smile. Dean's mouth is very red, his eyes dark, cheeks flushed. Sam still has a hand in Dean's hair and tightens his fingers, making a hoarse sound because he can't seem to manage words.

That's apparently what Dean wanted to hear, because he's shifting forward, wrapping his lips around Sam's cock without teasing or preamble. Dean's mouth is hot and wet, and he sucks at the head of Sam's cock, tongue tracing patterns over the skin that Sam knows aren't half as random as they seem. Sam wants to move, wants to thrust into Dean's mouth so badly, but the blade is lying along his femoral artery, and he knows exactly how sharp it is.

Dean bobs his head, fast and shallow and Sam is panting, petting at Dean's hair and neck. Dean's thumb is rubbing comforting circles on one of Sam's hips while he uses his other hand to slide the straight-edge down, around the curve of Sam's thigh to the soft inner skin.

Sam manages to get something like Dean's name out of his throat, voice thick and desperate. Dean takes him deep without any warning at all. Sam is babbling incoherent nonsense and Dean twists the razor, flat against Sam's thigh and dragging it across skin and Sam can feel the hair that it sheers off.

Orgasm swallows Sam's voice, leaving him coming down Dean's throat, his heart pounding way too fast, his body feeling like it's burning apart. Dean pulls off with a wet pop that Sam barely hears over the soft click of the razor being closed. Sam's knees are weak and he sinks towards the floor, reaching for Dean and landing a sloppy kiss on Dean's nose, his cheek, missing his mouth entirely.

Dean laughs, throaty and hoarse, and says, "I think we need to get you another shower."

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