Fic: This New Sin (Dean/Sam)
I'm supposed to be working on my writing submission for Monday - instead I'm creating porn. Sigh.
Fandom: Supermatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: marking, angst
Summary - There's the tattoo over Sam's heart that everyone knows about. Then there's the other one.
So there's the one tattoo - the Key of Solomon over his heart - a protection that's saved their lives more than once. It was never exactly a secret, but thanks to Chuck's book, everyone who's ever heard of Sam and Dean knows about it. Not that Sam can really complain though; mostly he's just grateful Chuck never got around to mentioning the other one. Yes, the other one, the tattoo he doesn't exactly remember getting but which... well....
Sam woke up to a slash of sunlight creeping through the flimsy motel curtains searing into his retinas like an icepick to the brain. His head was trying to surgically detach itself from his body - not an idea he was opposed to at that moment - and his mouth tasted like something had not-so-recently died in it. He hated Dean.
Waking up hung over with no memory was almost uniformly Dean's fault - there was the rare exception for someone drugging or casting some kind of spell on them - but mostly it was just Dean. It was decidedly unhelpful that Dean swore he'd developed a tolerance for hangovers - or, more likely, had plied Sam with a lot more alcohol than he'd drank himself - and was goddamn fucking chipper. If Sam had had the energy he would have gone right over to where Dean was tugging on his boots and punched him in the face until he lost the physical ability to whistle. Whatever happened to cruel and unusual punishment?
Instead, Sam's bladder was not so subtly informing him that however the hell much Dean had gotten him to drink last night was way too much for it to hold, so he started to slowly drag himself out of bed, trying to jostle his tender head as little as possible.
The pain in his groin hit him so suddenly Sam screamed - immediately regretting it as that set off another wave of throbbing in his temples. He flung back the covers, gingerly sitting up to examine - holy fuck, he was naked! Why the hell was he naked?!
He was just about to yell exactly that at Dean when he saw it - a small white bandage at the top of his inner thigh, right up close to his balls. The bandage looked shiny, like it was covered in plastic, held on with medical tape. It was better job than Dean would usually do - not that he didn't care about Sam's well being, he just kind of sucked with delicate work; the same reason that Sam did all of their stitches - which meant that they'd been to a doctor or hospital some time during the night and... Oh God, just get it over with.
Carefully, Sam peeled back the bandage - more delicately than he really needed to since apparently the area had been shaved before the bandage was applied; a whole other world of what the fuck - and revealed a small black mark on his skin.
No, no, not a mark, a 'D'. He had a fucking 'D' tattooed on the inside of his thigh in dainty black script. Dean was a very dead man.
"What the hell did you do to me!" Sam shouted, trying to cover up the hot shock of pain that shot through him as his sac rubbed against the fresh wound when he shot to his feet.
Dean dragged his eyes up to Sam's - fucking lingering on the burning mark on Sam's leg - and gave him an angelically innocent look. He even goddamn fluttered his eyelashes and just as soon as Sam's head stopped trying to explode and he could work up the courage to move his leg again, he was going to walk over there and kick Dean's ass. Damn him for being on the other side of the room!
"D! D!? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His head would probably feel better faster if he stopped yelling, but that didn't seem like it was going to be happening anytime soon.
"How should I know?" Dean shrugged, "It's what you picked." He blithely went back to tying his boots, getting the laces perfectly straight and even. Maybe Dean was possessed. Except wait, he couldn't be possessed because his ONE, tattoo would prevent that. God, Sam was going to kill him - just as soon as he moved within arms reach.
"So, you becoming a nudist, Sammy, or are we gonna go get some breakfast? I'm fucking starved." Dean did absolutely nothing to hide the way his eyes roved over Sam's still exposed body and he could feel himself getting bright red all the way up his chest. Sam grabbed up the sheet quickly - the wiry prickle of hair on his balls abrading his new tattoo again - and wrapped it around himself, hobbling to the bathroom.
Once he was safely inside with the door locked - clearly Dean was not to be trusted - he carefully braced his foot on the side of the tub and leaned over to get a good look at his new mark. Yep, it was definitely a 'D', a girly kind of 'D' too, about two inches tall on the inside of his left thigh. He wasn't an idiot, he knew exactly what 'D' was supposed to mean - although why Dean thought it would be funny for Sam to walk around his brother's initial rubbing against his balls for the rest of his life was completely beyond Sam - and he knew exactly who'd talked him into getting it. Dean was a jerk, verifiable fact, this just seemed like kind of a weird thing to be a jerk with.
After a quick debate, Sam decided a shower was not in his best interests - not that he couldn't handle a little hot water on an open wound, he'd survived tons worse, it just wasn't at the top of his to do list - so he opted for getting a little relief for his protesting bladder, popping a couple of aspirin from their medical kit and applying a new bandage so he didn't make himself completely insane during the day.
Dean was sitting on the foot of his bed, scanning through the fuzzy cable channels when Sam emerged.
"Ready to go, Samantha?"
"Bite me," Sam rolled his eyes, doing his best to walk normally over to his duffle to rummage for clothes. He was usually a boxers guy, but he had one pair of cobalt blue briefs he'd ended up with after a rather awkward moment with a gay guy at this laundromat a few months ago and right now, anything that was going to keep his boys away that bandage was sounding pretty good. Dean very wisely chose not to remark on Sam's underwear choice - or, maybe he didn't notice, because why the hell would Dean be watching Sam put on underwear anyway? Weird thought - and actually managed to stay silent while Sam put on his loosest pair of jeans and a couple of shirts.
Then again, maybe he had been watching, because as soon as Sam turned around to huff that he was ready, Dean was right fucking there, less than a foot away - Dean could have mad ninja stealth skills when he put his mind to it - eyes on Sam's. He lifted his eyebrows and Sam nodded that he was ready, Dean jangling the Impala's keys inside of his jacket pocket as he slipped out the door.
***
Sam felt moderately more human with some coffee in him, though he had to give himself a mental pep talk to get through the actual eating part - 'You are a mighty paranormal hunter. You have faced down vampires and werewolves and demons and you are not about to be beaten by scrambled eggs. Formidable though they are'. Dean was insufferably happy through the whole meal, though not in the way Sam had expected.
He'd figured his brother would have worked up at least a half-hour routine about Sam being a big giant girl who wanted Dean's name tattooed on his thigh, but the older Winchester didn't say a word about it. He mentioned a supposedly haunted house downtown that might be worth checking out as long as they were here, but other than that, Dean had spent most of the meal shoveling down pork products and humming "Shook Me All Night Long" to himself. It was really starting to freak Sam out.
Dean pulling an idiotic - hello! Permanent! - joke on Sam was one thing, but to do it and then not gloat about it, not even make a big deal about it? What was the point?
Sam shuffled his legs under the table trying to get comfortable. There had only been a two-seater booth available when they came in so they'd had to do this weird interconnecting V thing with their legs that put one of Dean's knees uncomfortably close to Sam's crotch. Sam didn't trust Dean not to knee him in the balls for shits and giggles at the best of times and right now he was feeling particularly wary about his brother getting anywhere near his important parts. But even then, Dean hadn't taken the shot, just settled himself amicably and made the best of it.
Seriously, Sam was right on the edge of a major panic attack.
The waitress came by - mid-twenties, dishwater-blond, cute - and refilled their coffee. Dean gave her his usual 'I'd fuck you over the counter right now' smile and Sam eagerly gulped at his life-sustaining caffeine. She grinned at both of them, a little dimple appearing on just one side of her mouth which was sort of lopsidedly cute and made Sam grin right back - he had kind of a thing for unusual beauty - for about half a second before Dean's knee jammed right into the tender new initial on the inside of Sam's leg.
He yelped helplessly, body shooting back in the booth and then almost immediately surging forward again to try and shove his own knee so far into his big brother's balls he couldn't see straight. Dean deftly dodged and they went back and forth for a few seconds before they locked eyes and silently agreed to a shaky truce.
It wasn't until then that Sam realized the cute waitress had left. Oh well, she was probably into Dean anyway - lucky for her she'd escaped having to put up with his ass.
***
Sam may have gone just a little bit over the edge, but Dean's lack of teasing about the tattoo was getting him really worried. What if there really was something wrong with Dean? What if he’s sustained a head injury or something last night that Sam couldn’t remember? He had to find out.
It didn't take long to track down the tattoo parlor that had done Sam's work - there were only two in town and the Winchester brothers were kind of memorable even when one of them wasn't falling down drunk - and the artist had been more than happy to talk to him about it.
"Well, strictly speakin', we're not really supposed to do tattoos on you if you're drunk," she drawled - where was that adhesion to protocol when Sam needed it? - "But you seemed real sure and the two of you were just so sweet together I couldn't resist. Your boyfriend is just darlin'. All the good ones are gay, right?" She giggled at her own joke and Sam got that tightness in his chest he always had when people mistook he and Dean for a couple. He really should have been used to it by now.
"So, uh, everything seemed normal, then?" he pressed, picking at the duct-tabled lounge chair in the tattoo parlors waiting area. "I mean, nobody... said anything in a weird language? No strange colored eyes or anything like that?"
The tattoo girl clearly thought he was crazy.
"Huh!" she laughed weakly, "No, nothin' like that, hon. Just you two boys stumblin’ in, hangin' all over each other. Could barely pry you apart long enough to get the job done." She stood up and started idling back toward the work area, and Sam took his cue to leave. Her voice stopped him though as he reached for the door.
"I'm sorry if you're not happy with the work, hon, but for what it's worth, I think it's just precious. Not a lot a guys, straight or whatever, can love somebody like that. Kissed you through the whole damn thing, just sweet as can be. Didn't even get his done before you passed out; he had to come back after he put you to bed just to finish it." She gave him what he assumed was supposed to be an understanding smile and it was probably unfair of Sam to wanted to yell that she didn't understand a thing. In lieu of an unwarranted outburst, he just turned around and walked out of the shop with a ding of the bell over the door and his lungs down somewhere around his knees.
***
Sam spent most of the afternoon absently walking around town trying figure what absolutely anything meant. By sunset he'd used up about all of the time he could have feasibly been 'researching the haunted house', so with no more answers and a hell of a lot more questions than he'd started the afternoon with, Sam finally trudged back to the motel room.
Dean was laid out on his bed, the strains of what sounded suspiciously like porn eking tinnily out of the speakers of Sam's laptop before Dean slammed it shut.
"Anything you want to tell me?" Sam said slowly, trying to keep the maelstrom of emotion out of his voice.
Dean looked down at the laptop guiltily, laying it carefully aside on the mattress and grinned up at Sam.
"Your hair makes you look like a member of Hanson?"
"You need new cultural references. And not what I meant." Sam moved fast and before Dean could react he was on the bed, a thumb jammed up high on each of Dean's thighs - not sure which side Dean got done; the right, it turned out. His brother yowled and squirmed away up the bed, back pressed to the headboard.
"Dude, what the hell?!" Dean screeched, looking at Sam like he'd just sprouted claws. Well, actually, Dean would have probably handled that better.
"That's a really good question, Dean. I was kind of hoping you could tell me." Sam held his ground, still kneeling on the bed, just inches away from Dean, not really sure if he wanted to close that distance or run to the far side of the room. His stomach churned, hot and acidic, chest prickling tightly. From this angle he could see that Dean was hard - probably from the porn, not from Sam touching him and he had a sudden nostalgia for the days when there wasn’t a ‘probably’ on that sentence - the bulge in his jeans highlighted in hazy orange relief from the shards of sunset creeping through the curtains.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, man." Dean slowly edged off of the bed, losing his footing for a second and half-way falling into the wall.
"No? Sherry at the tattoo parlor seemed to know exactly what I was talking about."
Dean stopped in his tracks, not looking at Sam or anything else, really; just staring at the wall like it was a semi-truck about to mow him down. His throat clicked on a dry, heavy swallow and Sam caught himself watching the bob of his brother's Adam's apple.
"Sam, don't. It's wasn't- It was just-"
"Just!?" Sam said, louder than he'd meant to, the dam around his emotional turmoil cracking, "Come on, Dean, please, tell me what it 'just' was, because I can't seem to figure it out."
"It wasn't anything, ok?" Dean snapped back, aiming for a run at the bathroom "Just two drunk guys, you know. Crazy shit happens."
"Crazy shit like making out with your brother?" Sam stepped in his way, blocking the bathroom door with a glare. Dean pulled back with a hiss like he'd been burned.
"Jesus, Sam."
For a minute, that was all there was; the silence and the feel of this brand new sin rolling around between them, contaminating the air and leaving a slick film of it on their throats as they both heaved for breath.
"You weren't that drunk," Sam spoke softly to the discolored carpet, the firm reasoning that had made him stand out in pre-law shining through, "She said you put me to bed and then went back, so you had to have driven and you've never, ever been drunk enough to think you could drive when you couldn't; you wouldn't risk the car. I know you better than that Dean."
"Just shut up, Sam!" Dean raged, voice going jagged at the edges "This doesn't need to be a thing, we can just forget it ever happened."
Sam heard himself growl, his goddamn patience for Dean's bullshit just running the hell out. Why did it always have to be like this? Why was it always a fight?
Sam reached down and yanked open the button and zipper on his jeans, shoving them down like they'd offended him. There was a quick sting of pulled skin as he ripped the bandage off, exposing the dark lines of Dean's initial to the air. "I cannot forget this ever happened Dean. It's right there by my dick, no way around it."
He heard Dean swallow again, his fists clenched tight at his sides, but he only had eyes for the mark on Sam's leg, staring at it like it held the secret to happiness.
"I wanna see it. Yours. I wanna see," came out of Sam's mouth before he knew he was going to say it, but once it did, he knew it was true. He wanted to see that place on his brother that was all his own; not the scars Dean had earned protecting him, not the matching marks over their hearts, this was something purely them, untainted by the mire of shit they spent their lives in.
"Sam, for Christ sakes!" Dean sputtered, but it wasn't a 'no’, it was a 'please'.
"C'mon Dean," Sam pushed, suddenly wishing his pants weren't around his damn ankles so he could get closer to his brother, "you got to remember the whole thing, the least you can do is let me see it."
He could actually see Dean's resolve break, something falling to pieces behind the careful mask of his expression. The older man nodded slowly, taking as much time as possible to undo the fly of his jeans. Sam heard his brother's sharp intake of breath as the pants were lowered - served him right for wearing such tight jeans - and then reluctantly lifted the leg of his boxer briefs to show his own, misshapen bandage. For a guy who spent a good portion of his life injured one way or another, Dean was complete crap at doctoring himself up. Sam jerked his chin at it, catching Dean's eyes for only a second before his brother looked shamefully down at the carpet and peeled back the mess of medical tape on his leg.
There it was, clear black lines on pale, honeyed skin - 'S'. He didn't know what kind of effect he'd been expecting it to have on him, but the last thing he would have ever guessed was the absolute shock of need.
There was an awkward moment where he fumbled to toe out of his tennis shoes and get his legs free of his pants. Dean watched hesitantly, obviously anticipating that Sam was going to take a swing at him or something, but he didn't flinch when Sam stumbled forward those last couple of steps and sank to his knees. His big brother did try to jerk away then, attempting to pull back from Sam's proximately before the younger man wrapped a hand around the back of Dean's thigh and held it in place.
He was face to face with his own mark, stark black on his brother's skin. It was curved and slightly delicate, the same script as Sam's, and he wondered which one of them had picked that, even though he knew he'd probably never find out - Dean would say it was Sam either way. But right now he had more important things on his mind, like the silky texture of Dean's skin under his fingertip as he traced around the still-pink edges of the letter.
Dean quivered under the touch, a barely perceptible shiver running underneath the skin as he breathed Sam's name. Sam shushed him absently, running his fingertip over the rough scab of the tattoo with a feather light touch. Sometime during the argument, Dean had gone soft, but Sam felt the slight fall of his hair as Dean's cock twitched when he leaned in and breathed over the mark before pressing a soft, chaste kiss. Dean whimpered something that didn't sound like pain and Sam did it again, this time letting the very tip of his tongue press to the skin for the dull metallic tang of dried blood and ink.
Just like that, Dean's strong fingers were in his hair, not pushing or pulling, just touching, as Sam nuzzled against his brothers thigh, soaking in the heady musk of sweat and antibiotic cream and Dean - it shouldn't have been as familiar as it was.
Finally Sam forced himself to pull away, a smooth, hot ache running through his whole body as it thrummed for more. Dean was staring down at him, fingers still indolently playing in Sam's hair, impossible green worked down to just a sliver of color around wide pupils. His dick was a thick jut, trapped by the dark cotton of his underwear and so close Sam could have leaned up easily and taken the head into his mouth. And he wanted to, God, he wanted to, but he needed something else more.
He stood slowly, not missing the chance to rub his body up against Dean's - thin t-shirts and bare legs, they must have looked ridiculous but Sam couldn't feel anything beyond the want. Dean shivered again, breath hot and ragged against Sam's neck.
"What was it like? The first time?" Sam asked, cupping his palm against the curve of Dean's jaw. His brother didn't have to ask what he meant.
"Not like this," he whispered huskily. He leaned into the soft touch of Sam's hand, fighting to keep his eyes from fluttering closed.
"Should have been," is all Sam had to say, then he leaned in and that fraction of space between them disappeared.
Dean's lips were as plush as Sam could have imagined, if he'd ever let himself imagine this; slightly chapped and dry from the way his brother was always licking across them like even he couldn't get enough of the feel of them. Sam sure as hell couldn't, knew instantly that he never would, and cursed all of the years he'd stupidly wasted not kissing Dean's perfect, made for it, lips.
He heard himself moan his brother's name into the kiss, and yes, hell yes, Dean! That was it, that wass all, and fuck, how had he been this close all this time and not seen it? It was like coming apart and being put back together at the same time; amazing and terrifying and he was going to die if they stopped, just fall out and die. But that wouldn't happen; Dean would never let that happen, so he cradled the back of Sam's head in his hand, the other one sliding underneath Sam's shirt and kissed him deeper, harder, with the kind of life or death urgency that Sam felt singing through his blood.
They fumbled around, Dean's pants still around his knees, and finally founnd the bed. Dean took a moment to furiously jerk his jeans loose, tugging his shirt up and off while he was at it, before he was finally laying over Sam again.
"Have you ever?" he panted into the next kiss, teeth briefly capturing Sam's bottom lip to suck and lave it with his tongue. Sam muttered a 'nuh-uh', pawing at the hot, bare skin of Dean's back, the ridges of firm muscle under satin skin and hard scars. Dean shuddered and mouthed "Thank God," into Sam's throat, biting and sucking at a patch until Sam's knew there would be a bruise.
He hissed when Dean's legs slipped in between his, the thin hair on Dean's legs scraping the bare mark on his thigh. Dean cursed and shifted up, pulling away, and Sam scrambled for something, anything, to make that stop happening. Dean shushed against Sam's mouth, the panicked tide of hunger ebbing just enough for him to let Dean roll him over.
Sam's brain finally kicked in enough to remember that he was wearing way too many clothes for this - holy shit, he was going to have sex with Dean! - and tugged off his t-shirt. His brother was already carefully sliding Sam's underwear down, lifting it away from the fresh tattoo as he went to spare Sam - always - as much pain as he could. Then he was naked, laid out bare and burning and so fucking willing for whatever Dean wanted to give him.
He pushed up on his hands and knees, listening to the sweet choked off sound Dean made from behind him; looking at Sam, wanting Sam, and sweet holy hell if that wasn’t the best rush Sam had ever had then he didn't know what was. Dean mouthed along Sam's spine, broad hand cupping one of the cheeks of Sam's ass, whispering little curses and prayers and nothing words as he went.
There was short moment where Dean's hand and mouth disappeared, and when they came back, it was with Dean's lips pressing along the curve of Sam's shoulder and his spit-slick fingers pressing against Sam's hole.
"Next time I want to do this face to face, wanna see you," Dean whispered, one wet finger sliding inside. It was a strange feeling, sort of stretchy burn, but it matched the smolder in his chest perfectly so Sam pushed back into it, moaned for more. Dean nosed at Sam's cheek, all the encouragement he needed to turn his head into more sloppy, off-angle kisses.
Dean worked him open fast - probably too fast, given the admittedly meager amount Sam knew about this - thrusting and scissoring eagerly and Sam pushed back into it with equal fervor until he knew he was begging.
"Do it, just do it, c'mon."
Dean nodded against his skin, pulled back and Sam could hear him spitting, the slippery hot sound as he slicked up his cock. Oh God, this was going to happen, this was really going to happen. This morning Sam had never even considered this and now he was going to burn into a tiny curl of ash and bone if he didn't get it right fucking now.
The blunt pressure of Dean's dick at his hole and the air-stealing sting as his brother worked his way inside. Sam could handle the pain, pain was familiar, so he forced himself back, taking more of Dean, faster. His big brother groaned, grabbing Sam's hips hard and pumped in on quick, shallow thrusts that had his nerves pulsing like a light-show.
"Sam, Sam, Sammy," Dean moaned his name on every stroke, deep and not-quite slow, one hand still tight on Sam's hip, the other roving up and down Sam's chest. Sam's dick throbbed with need, dribbling precome onto the sheets, so he reached down to start stroking himself off along with Dean's thrusts. His brother batted Sam's hand away, smooth white teeth clamping down around the exposed nape of Sam's neck. "Mine," Dean growled, palming Sam's dick himself and a molten swell of heat flooded Sam's system.
Dean pushed into him harder, Sam rolling his hips to meet Dean stroke for bruising stroke. There was an electric current humming under his skin, flaring up in unpredictable jolts of painpleasurepainyes that had Sam moaning continuously. He was saying all sorts of things, most of which didn't make any sense at all, but they seemed to egg Dean on, made him push deeper, faster and then the screaming white-out bliss when Dean's cock skated across his prostate.
Sam muffed his shouts into the mattress as Dean pounded into that spot over and over; fast, furious snaps of his hips that left Sam writhing, forgetting his own damn name. Dean's hand was still working over Sam's cock, wringing opposing shocks of pleasure from him there too, whispering over and over again, "Come for me Sammy, come on baby, come for me".
The hand holding Sam's hip slid down and around, slipped over the sensitive join of his thigh until it pressed into the searing, tingling point at the inside of his leg where Dean would always have a hold on him.
Sam came like a lightning strike; hard, fast and blinding.
He heard Dean panting his name, the lull of warmth spreading out inside as his brother filled him. They collapsed together, sticky and sated, Sam feeling warm and alive, like every part of him was awake and tuned to Dean's frequency. Dean nuzzled into Sam's hair, taking heavy, stuttering breaths with a hint of a laugh in the exhale.
"One day, you're gonna have to tell me how this all started," Sam said forcing Dean to scoot back a little so they weren't laying directly in the mess of Sam's cooling come. He pulled his brother's arm around him tightly, laying his own hand possessively across Dean's hip. Dean grunted something that might have been assent and settled in, painting the back of Sam's neck with soft kisses.
The spot - Dean's spot - on the inside of Sam's thigh burned, throbbing in time with his pulse. Sam shifted a little, leg falling wide, and let it.
Sequel: How It Started
Fandom: Supermatural
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: marking, angst
Summary - There's the tattoo over Sam's heart that everyone knows about. Then there's the other one.
So there's the one tattoo - the Key of Solomon over his heart - a protection that's saved their lives more than once. It was never exactly a secret, but thanks to Chuck's book, everyone who's ever heard of Sam and Dean knows about it. Not that Sam can really complain though; mostly he's just grateful Chuck never got around to mentioning the other one. Yes, the other one, the tattoo he doesn't exactly remember getting but which... well....
Sam woke up to a slash of sunlight creeping through the flimsy motel curtains searing into his retinas like an icepick to the brain. His head was trying to surgically detach itself from his body - not an idea he was opposed to at that moment - and his mouth tasted like something had not-so-recently died in it. He hated Dean.
Waking up hung over with no memory was almost uniformly Dean's fault - there was the rare exception for someone drugging or casting some kind of spell on them - but mostly it was just Dean. It was decidedly unhelpful that Dean swore he'd developed a tolerance for hangovers - or, more likely, had plied Sam with a lot more alcohol than he'd drank himself - and was goddamn fucking chipper. If Sam had had the energy he would have gone right over to where Dean was tugging on his boots and punched him in the face until he lost the physical ability to whistle. Whatever happened to cruel and unusual punishment?
Instead, Sam's bladder was not so subtly informing him that however the hell much Dean had gotten him to drink last night was way too much for it to hold, so he started to slowly drag himself out of bed, trying to jostle his tender head as little as possible.
The pain in his groin hit him so suddenly Sam screamed - immediately regretting it as that set off another wave of throbbing in his temples. He flung back the covers, gingerly sitting up to examine - holy fuck, he was naked! Why the hell was he naked?!
He was just about to yell exactly that at Dean when he saw it - a small white bandage at the top of his inner thigh, right up close to his balls. The bandage looked shiny, like it was covered in plastic, held on with medical tape. It was better job than Dean would usually do - not that he didn't care about Sam's well being, he just kind of sucked with delicate work; the same reason that Sam did all of their stitches - which meant that they'd been to a doctor or hospital some time during the night and... Oh God, just get it over with.
Carefully, Sam peeled back the bandage - more delicately than he really needed to since apparently the area had been shaved before the bandage was applied; a whole other world of what the fuck - and revealed a small black mark on his skin.
No, no, not a mark, a 'D'. He had a fucking 'D' tattooed on the inside of his thigh in dainty black script. Dean was a very dead man.
"What the hell did you do to me!" Sam shouted, trying to cover up the hot shock of pain that shot through him as his sac rubbed against the fresh wound when he shot to his feet.
Dean dragged his eyes up to Sam's - fucking lingering on the burning mark on Sam's leg - and gave him an angelically innocent look. He even goddamn fluttered his eyelashes and just as soon as Sam's head stopped trying to explode and he could work up the courage to move his leg again, he was going to walk over there and kick Dean's ass. Damn him for being on the other side of the room!
"D! D!? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" His head would probably feel better faster if he stopped yelling, but that didn't seem like it was going to be happening anytime soon.
"How should I know?" Dean shrugged, "It's what you picked." He blithely went back to tying his boots, getting the laces perfectly straight and even. Maybe Dean was possessed. Except wait, he couldn't be possessed because his ONE, tattoo would prevent that. God, Sam was going to kill him - just as soon as he moved within arms reach.
"So, you becoming a nudist, Sammy, or are we gonna go get some breakfast? I'm fucking starved." Dean did absolutely nothing to hide the way his eyes roved over Sam's still exposed body and he could feel himself getting bright red all the way up his chest. Sam grabbed up the sheet quickly - the wiry prickle of hair on his balls abrading his new tattoo again - and wrapped it around himself, hobbling to the bathroom.
Once he was safely inside with the door locked - clearly Dean was not to be trusted - he carefully braced his foot on the side of the tub and leaned over to get a good look at his new mark. Yep, it was definitely a 'D', a girly kind of 'D' too, about two inches tall on the inside of his left thigh. He wasn't an idiot, he knew exactly what 'D' was supposed to mean - although why Dean thought it would be funny for Sam to walk around his brother's initial rubbing against his balls for the rest of his life was completely beyond Sam - and he knew exactly who'd talked him into getting it. Dean was a jerk, verifiable fact, this just seemed like kind of a weird thing to be a jerk with.
After a quick debate, Sam decided a shower was not in his best interests - not that he couldn't handle a little hot water on an open wound, he'd survived tons worse, it just wasn't at the top of his to do list - so he opted for getting a little relief for his protesting bladder, popping a couple of aspirin from their medical kit and applying a new bandage so he didn't make himself completely insane during the day.
Dean was sitting on the foot of his bed, scanning through the fuzzy cable channels when Sam emerged.
"Ready to go, Samantha?"
"Bite me," Sam rolled his eyes, doing his best to walk normally over to his duffle to rummage for clothes. He was usually a boxers guy, but he had one pair of cobalt blue briefs he'd ended up with after a rather awkward moment with a gay guy at this laundromat a few months ago and right now, anything that was going to keep his boys away that bandage was sounding pretty good. Dean very wisely chose not to remark on Sam's underwear choice - or, maybe he didn't notice, because why the hell would Dean be watching Sam put on underwear anyway? Weird thought - and actually managed to stay silent while Sam put on his loosest pair of jeans and a couple of shirts.
Then again, maybe he had been watching, because as soon as Sam turned around to huff that he was ready, Dean was right fucking there, less than a foot away - Dean could have mad ninja stealth skills when he put his mind to it - eyes on Sam's. He lifted his eyebrows and Sam nodded that he was ready, Dean jangling the Impala's keys inside of his jacket pocket as he slipped out the door.
***
Sam felt moderately more human with some coffee in him, though he had to give himself a mental pep talk to get through the actual eating part - 'You are a mighty paranormal hunter. You have faced down vampires and werewolves and demons and you are not about to be beaten by scrambled eggs. Formidable though they are'. Dean was insufferably happy through the whole meal, though not in the way Sam had expected.
He'd figured his brother would have worked up at least a half-hour routine about Sam being a big giant girl who wanted Dean's name tattooed on his thigh, but the older Winchester didn't say a word about it. He mentioned a supposedly haunted house downtown that might be worth checking out as long as they were here, but other than that, Dean had spent most of the meal shoveling down pork products and humming "Shook Me All Night Long" to himself. It was really starting to freak Sam out.
Dean pulling an idiotic - hello! Permanent! - joke on Sam was one thing, but to do it and then not gloat about it, not even make a big deal about it? What was the point?
Sam shuffled his legs under the table trying to get comfortable. There had only been a two-seater booth available when they came in so they'd had to do this weird interconnecting V thing with their legs that put one of Dean's knees uncomfortably close to Sam's crotch. Sam didn't trust Dean not to knee him in the balls for shits and giggles at the best of times and right now he was feeling particularly wary about his brother getting anywhere near his important parts. But even then, Dean hadn't taken the shot, just settled himself amicably and made the best of it.
Seriously, Sam was right on the edge of a major panic attack.
The waitress came by - mid-twenties, dishwater-blond, cute - and refilled their coffee. Dean gave her his usual 'I'd fuck you over the counter right now' smile and Sam eagerly gulped at his life-sustaining caffeine. She grinned at both of them, a little dimple appearing on just one side of her mouth which was sort of lopsidedly cute and made Sam grin right back - he had kind of a thing for unusual beauty - for about half a second before Dean's knee jammed right into the tender new initial on the inside of Sam's leg.
He yelped helplessly, body shooting back in the booth and then almost immediately surging forward again to try and shove his own knee so far into his big brother's balls he couldn't see straight. Dean deftly dodged and they went back and forth for a few seconds before they locked eyes and silently agreed to a shaky truce.
It wasn't until then that Sam realized the cute waitress had left. Oh well, she was probably into Dean anyway - lucky for her she'd escaped having to put up with his ass.
***
Sam may have gone just a little bit over the edge, but Dean's lack of teasing about the tattoo was getting him really worried. What if there really was something wrong with Dean? What if he’s sustained a head injury or something last night that Sam couldn’t remember? He had to find out.
It didn't take long to track down the tattoo parlor that had done Sam's work - there were only two in town and the Winchester brothers were kind of memorable even when one of them wasn't falling down drunk - and the artist had been more than happy to talk to him about it.
"Well, strictly speakin', we're not really supposed to do tattoos on you if you're drunk," she drawled - where was that adhesion to protocol when Sam needed it? - "But you seemed real sure and the two of you were just so sweet together I couldn't resist. Your boyfriend is just darlin'. All the good ones are gay, right?" She giggled at her own joke and Sam got that tightness in his chest he always had when people mistook he and Dean for a couple. He really should have been used to it by now.
"So, uh, everything seemed normal, then?" he pressed, picking at the duct-tabled lounge chair in the tattoo parlors waiting area. "I mean, nobody... said anything in a weird language? No strange colored eyes or anything like that?"
The tattoo girl clearly thought he was crazy.
"Huh!" she laughed weakly, "No, nothin' like that, hon. Just you two boys stumblin’ in, hangin' all over each other. Could barely pry you apart long enough to get the job done." She stood up and started idling back toward the work area, and Sam took his cue to leave. Her voice stopped him though as he reached for the door.
"I'm sorry if you're not happy with the work, hon, but for what it's worth, I think it's just precious. Not a lot a guys, straight or whatever, can love somebody like that. Kissed you through the whole damn thing, just sweet as can be. Didn't even get his done before you passed out; he had to come back after he put you to bed just to finish it." She gave him what he assumed was supposed to be an understanding smile and it was probably unfair of Sam to wanted to yell that she didn't understand a thing. In lieu of an unwarranted outburst, he just turned around and walked out of the shop with a ding of the bell over the door and his lungs down somewhere around his knees.
***
Sam spent most of the afternoon absently walking around town trying figure what absolutely anything meant. By sunset he'd used up about all of the time he could have feasibly been 'researching the haunted house', so with no more answers and a hell of a lot more questions than he'd started the afternoon with, Sam finally trudged back to the motel room.
Dean was laid out on his bed, the strains of what sounded suspiciously like porn eking tinnily out of the speakers of Sam's laptop before Dean slammed it shut.
"Anything you want to tell me?" Sam said slowly, trying to keep the maelstrom of emotion out of his voice.
Dean looked down at the laptop guiltily, laying it carefully aside on the mattress and grinned up at Sam.
"Your hair makes you look like a member of Hanson?"
"You need new cultural references. And not what I meant." Sam moved fast and before Dean could react he was on the bed, a thumb jammed up high on each of Dean's thighs - not sure which side Dean got done; the right, it turned out. His brother yowled and squirmed away up the bed, back pressed to the headboard.
"Dude, what the hell?!" Dean screeched, looking at Sam like he'd just sprouted claws. Well, actually, Dean would have probably handled that better.
"That's a really good question, Dean. I was kind of hoping you could tell me." Sam held his ground, still kneeling on the bed, just inches away from Dean, not really sure if he wanted to close that distance or run to the far side of the room. His stomach churned, hot and acidic, chest prickling tightly. From this angle he could see that Dean was hard - probably from the porn, not from Sam touching him and he had a sudden nostalgia for the days when there wasn’t a ‘probably’ on that sentence - the bulge in his jeans highlighted in hazy orange relief from the shards of sunset creeping through the curtains.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, man." Dean slowly edged off of the bed, losing his footing for a second and half-way falling into the wall.
"No? Sherry at the tattoo parlor seemed to know exactly what I was talking about."
Dean stopped in his tracks, not looking at Sam or anything else, really; just staring at the wall like it was a semi-truck about to mow him down. His throat clicked on a dry, heavy swallow and Sam caught himself watching the bob of his brother's Adam's apple.
"Sam, don't. It's wasn't- It was just-"
"Just!?" Sam said, louder than he'd meant to, the dam around his emotional turmoil cracking, "Come on, Dean, please, tell me what it 'just' was, because I can't seem to figure it out."
"It wasn't anything, ok?" Dean snapped back, aiming for a run at the bathroom "Just two drunk guys, you know. Crazy shit happens."
"Crazy shit like making out with your brother?" Sam stepped in his way, blocking the bathroom door with a glare. Dean pulled back with a hiss like he'd been burned.
"Jesus, Sam."
For a minute, that was all there was; the silence and the feel of this brand new sin rolling around between them, contaminating the air and leaving a slick film of it on their throats as they both heaved for breath.
"You weren't that drunk," Sam spoke softly to the discolored carpet, the firm reasoning that had made him stand out in pre-law shining through, "She said you put me to bed and then went back, so you had to have driven and you've never, ever been drunk enough to think you could drive when you couldn't; you wouldn't risk the car. I know you better than that Dean."
"Just shut up, Sam!" Dean raged, voice going jagged at the edges "This doesn't need to be a thing, we can just forget it ever happened."
Sam heard himself growl, his goddamn patience for Dean's bullshit just running the hell out. Why did it always have to be like this? Why was it always a fight?
Sam reached down and yanked open the button and zipper on his jeans, shoving them down like they'd offended him. There was a quick sting of pulled skin as he ripped the bandage off, exposing the dark lines of Dean's initial to the air. "I cannot forget this ever happened Dean. It's right there by my dick, no way around it."
He heard Dean swallow again, his fists clenched tight at his sides, but he only had eyes for the mark on Sam's leg, staring at it like it held the secret to happiness.
"I wanna see it. Yours. I wanna see," came out of Sam's mouth before he knew he was going to say it, but once it did, he knew it was true. He wanted to see that place on his brother that was all his own; not the scars Dean had earned protecting him, not the matching marks over their hearts, this was something purely them, untainted by the mire of shit they spent their lives in.
"Sam, for Christ sakes!" Dean sputtered, but it wasn't a 'no’, it was a 'please'.
"C'mon Dean," Sam pushed, suddenly wishing his pants weren't around his damn ankles so he could get closer to his brother, "you got to remember the whole thing, the least you can do is let me see it."
He could actually see Dean's resolve break, something falling to pieces behind the careful mask of his expression. The older man nodded slowly, taking as much time as possible to undo the fly of his jeans. Sam heard his brother's sharp intake of breath as the pants were lowered - served him right for wearing such tight jeans - and then reluctantly lifted the leg of his boxer briefs to show his own, misshapen bandage. For a guy who spent a good portion of his life injured one way or another, Dean was complete crap at doctoring himself up. Sam jerked his chin at it, catching Dean's eyes for only a second before his brother looked shamefully down at the carpet and peeled back the mess of medical tape on his leg.
There it was, clear black lines on pale, honeyed skin - 'S'. He didn't know what kind of effect he'd been expecting it to have on him, but the last thing he would have ever guessed was the absolute shock of need.
There was an awkward moment where he fumbled to toe out of his tennis shoes and get his legs free of his pants. Dean watched hesitantly, obviously anticipating that Sam was going to take a swing at him or something, but he didn't flinch when Sam stumbled forward those last couple of steps and sank to his knees. His big brother did try to jerk away then, attempting to pull back from Sam's proximately before the younger man wrapped a hand around the back of Dean's thigh and held it in place.
He was face to face with his own mark, stark black on his brother's skin. It was curved and slightly delicate, the same script as Sam's, and he wondered which one of them had picked that, even though he knew he'd probably never find out - Dean would say it was Sam either way. But right now he had more important things on his mind, like the silky texture of Dean's skin under his fingertip as he traced around the still-pink edges of the letter.
Dean quivered under the touch, a barely perceptible shiver running underneath the skin as he breathed Sam's name. Sam shushed him absently, running his fingertip over the rough scab of the tattoo with a feather light touch. Sometime during the argument, Dean had gone soft, but Sam felt the slight fall of his hair as Dean's cock twitched when he leaned in and breathed over the mark before pressing a soft, chaste kiss. Dean whimpered something that didn't sound like pain and Sam did it again, this time letting the very tip of his tongue press to the skin for the dull metallic tang of dried blood and ink.
Just like that, Dean's strong fingers were in his hair, not pushing or pulling, just touching, as Sam nuzzled against his brothers thigh, soaking in the heady musk of sweat and antibiotic cream and Dean - it shouldn't have been as familiar as it was.
Finally Sam forced himself to pull away, a smooth, hot ache running through his whole body as it thrummed for more. Dean was staring down at him, fingers still indolently playing in Sam's hair, impossible green worked down to just a sliver of color around wide pupils. His dick was a thick jut, trapped by the dark cotton of his underwear and so close Sam could have leaned up easily and taken the head into his mouth. And he wanted to, God, he wanted to, but he needed something else more.
He stood slowly, not missing the chance to rub his body up against Dean's - thin t-shirts and bare legs, they must have looked ridiculous but Sam couldn't feel anything beyond the want. Dean shivered again, breath hot and ragged against Sam's neck.
"What was it like? The first time?" Sam asked, cupping his palm against the curve of Dean's jaw. His brother didn't have to ask what he meant.
"Not like this," he whispered huskily. He leaned into the soft touch of Sam's hand, fighting to keep his eyes from fluttering closed.
"Should have been," is all Sam had to say, then he leaned in and that fraction of space between them disappeared.
Dean's lips were as plush as Sam could have imagined, if he'd ever let himself imagine this; slightly chapped and dry from the way his brother was always licking across them like even he couldn't get enough of the feel of them. Sam sure as hell couldn't, knew instantly that he never would, and cursed all of the years he'd stupidly wasted not kissing Dean's perfect, made for it, lips.
He heard himself moan his brother's name into the kiss, and yes, hell yes, Dean! That was it, that wass all, and fuck, how had he been this close all this time and not seen it? It was like coming apart and being put back together at the same time; amazing and terrifying and he was going to die if they stopped, just fall out and die. But that wouldn't happen; Dean would never let that happen, so he cradled the back of Sam's head in his hand, the other one sliding underneath Sam's shirt and kissed him deeper, harder, with the kind of life or death urgency that Sam felt singing through his blood.
They fumbled around, Dean's pants still around his knees, and finally founnd the bed. Dean took a moment to furiously jerk his jeans loose, tugging his shirt up and off while he was at it, before he was finally laying over Sam again.
"Have you ever?" he panted into the next kiss, teeth briefly capturing Sam's bottom lip to suck and lave it with his tongue. Sam muttered a 'nuh-uh', pawing at the hot, bare skin of Dean's back, the ridges of firm muscle under satin skin and hard scars. Dean shuddered and mouthed "Thank God," into Sam's throat, biting and sucking at a patch until Sam's knew there would be a bruise.
He hissed when Dean's legs slipped in between his, the thin hair on Dean's legs scraping the bare mark on his thigh. Dean cursed and shifted up, pulling away, and Sam scrambled for something, anything, to make that stop happening. Dean shushed against Sam's mouth, the panicked tide of hunger ebbing just enough for him to let Dean roll him over.
Sam's brain finally kicked in enough to remember that he was wearing way too many clothes for this - holy shit, he was going to have sex with Dean! - and tugged off his t-shirt. His brother was already carefully sliding Sam's underwear down, lifting it away from the fresh tattoo as he went to spare Sam - always - as much pain as he could. Then he was naked, laid out bare and burning and so fucking willing for whatever Dean wanted to give him.
He pushed up on his hands and knees, listening to the sweet choked off sound Dean made from behind him; looking at Sam, wanting Sam, and sweet holy hell if that wasn’t the best rush Sam had ever had then he didn't know what was. Dean mouthed along Sam's spine, broad hand cupping one of the cheeks of Sam's ass, whispering little curses and prayers and nothing words as he went.
There was short moment where Dean's hand and mouth disappeared, and when they came back, it was with Dean's lips pressing along the curve of Sam's shoulder and his spit-slick fingers pressing against Sam's hole.
"Next time I want to do this face to face, wanna see you," Dean whispered, one wet finger sliding inside. It was a strange feeling, sort of stretchy burn, but it matched the smolder in his chest perfectly so Sam pushed back into it, moaned for more. Dean nosed at Sam's cheek, all the encouragement he needed to turn his head into more sloppy, off-angle kisses.
Dean worked him open fast - probably too fast, given the admittedly meager amount Sam knew about this - thrusting and scissoring eagerly and Sam pushed back into it with equal fervor until he knew he was begging.
"Do it, just do it, c'mon."
Dean nodded against his skin, pulled back and Sam could hear him spitting, the slippery hot sound as he slicked up his cock. Oh God, this was going to happen, this was really going to happen. This morning Sam had never even considered this and now he was going to burn into a tiny curl of ash and bone if he didn't get it right fucking now.
The blunt pressure of Dean's dick at his hole and the air-stealing sting as his brother worked his way inside. Sam could handle the pain, pain was familiar, so he forced himself back, taking more of Dean, faster. His big brother groaned, grabbing Sam's hips hard and pumped in on quick, shallow thrusts that had his nerves pulsing like a light-show.
"Sam, Sam, Sammy," Dean moaned his name on every stroke, deep and not-quite slow, one hand still tight on Sam's hip, the other roving up and down Sam's chest. Sam's dick throbbed with need, dribbling precome onto the sheets, so he reached down to start stroking himself off along with Dean's thrusts. His brother batted Sam's hand away, smooth white teeth clamping down around the exposed nape of Sam's neck. "Mine," Dean growled, palming Sam's dick himself and a molten swell of heat flooded Sam's system.
Dean pushed into him harder, Sam rolling his hips to meet Dean stroke for bruising stroke. There was an electric current humming under his skin, flaring up in unpredictable jolts of painpleasurepainyes that had Sam moaning continuously. He was saying all sorts of things, most of which didn't make any sense at all, but they seemed to egg Dean on, made him push deeper, faster and then the screaming white-out bliss when Dean's cock skated across his prostate.
Sam muffed his shouts into the mattress as Dean pounded into that spot over and over; fast, furious snaps of his hips that left Sam writhing, forgetting his own damn name. Dean's hand was still working over Sam's cock, wringing opposing shocks of pleasure from him there too, whispering over and over again, "Come for me Sammy, come on baby, come for me".
The hand holding Sam's hip slid down and around, slipped over the sensitive join of his thigh until it pressed into the searing, tingling point at the inside of his leg where Dean would always have a hold on him.
Sam came like a lightning strike; hard, fast and blinding.
He heard Dean panting his name, the lull of warmth spreading out inside as his brother filled him. They collapsed together, sticky and sated, Sam feeling warm and alive, like every part of him was awake and tuned to Dean's frequency. Dean nuzzled into Sam's hair, taking heavy, stuttering breaths with a hint of a laugh in the exhale.
"One day, you're gonna have to tell me how this all started," Sam said forcing Dean to scoot back a little so they weren't laying directly in the mess of Sam's cooling come. He pulled his brother's arm around him tightly, laying his own hand possessively across Dean's hip. Dean grunted something that might have been assent and settled in, painting the back of Sam's neck with soft kisses.
The spot - Dean's spot - on the inside of Sam's thigh burned, throbbing in time with his pulse. Sam shifted a little, leg falling wide, and let it.
Sequel: How It Started