Non Timebo Mala
: b>username: lj user="verucasalt123">
Title: Non Timebo Mala
Rating:NC-17
Warnings: Permanent marking, references to incest.
A/N This is something I wrote for the now-defunct (it would seem) sd_lks community.
The world changed, but the Winchesters didn’t. They adapted to their new surroundings, sure. They mourned the loss of their friends. But they kept on with what they’d always done. Hunting. Fucking. Moving.
Nothing had gotten easier, especially now that they were older. Sam’s bad knee caused him trouble on hunts and in more intimate moments. Dean’s shoulder couldn’t quite take the kick of a shotgun like it used to, and hindered his ability to stay above Sam in bed for too long while he was above his brother, fucking him into next week but acutely aware of the fact that he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up for long.
One thing that never, never changed was the tendency they both had to leave marks on each other. Hell, the world was half-over, cities had fallen, people hid out in fear for their lives every day. It was not the time for the two of them to worry about what other hunters might think when they saw bite marks on their arms, finger-shaped bruises around their wrists, teenage-quality hickeys sucked into their necks. Dean and Sam were still the best at what they did, and the time for being concerned about what other people thought about their relationship had passed long ago.
And hell, there was no getting around it, they’d been marking each other up like that since they were teenagers, and neither of them could get enough of it. Just that little hint of mine, honestly, they needed it. Because who else was there? Who else did they have? Nobody, that was who. Just them. Which was motherfucking fine, because who else did they need? Same answer. Nobody.
Their tattoos had faded a bit over the years, and occasionally they talked about having them touched up, or getting another one.
Therein was the problem, though, because after all this time of just them Sam could not abide the thought of another person’s hand on Dean, and Dean felt the same way about Sam. They certainly couldn’t give each other tattoos, not having the skill or the equipment to accomplish the task.
No permanent marks, their father had once instructed them, so many years ago. Makes you easier to identify. But that wasn’t the world they were living in now. Law enforcement, what pathetic bit was left of it, was the very least of their worries.
This is how they found themselves squatting in an abandoned house chosen specifically for the wood-burning fireplace in its front room. Dean had gotten the design, tiny script, hammered out into the metal weeks before, with great care and an abundance of research. Sam had been happy to allow his brother to choose whichever image he desired, and he was thrilled with Dean’s choice, though a tiny chickenshit part of him kind of wished it had been something more compact.
They didn’t even bother with a bout of rock-paper-scissors, because Dean volunteered to go first. He probably figured he would have lost anyway. Always with the fucking scissors. Some things never changed.
Both of them sitting shirtless on the floor in front of the fireplace, Sam held the metal to the fire for as long as he thought was necessary. With the instrument still heating in the flames, he asked his brother if he was ready.
Dean nodded, eyes closed and muscles tensed. “Do it now, Sam. Come on.”
Not wanting to drag it out, Sam moved quickly. Pulling the metal from the fire, he placed it on Dean’s outstretched forearm and held it there, hearing the hiss of the contact, smelling the burn of his brother’s flesh. Dean’s breathing got heavier, his heart raced uncontrollably, and his eyes watered, but he remained silent as Sam held the metal there for at least a minute, long enough to be sure the result would be satisfactory to both of them.
Once he removed it, Sam immediately gave the handle to Dean, ready to have this overwith. He didn’t look forward to the pain he was in for, but he didn’t shy away from it, despite his instinctive urge to do so, because he knew it would be worth every second once he had what he wanted, what they both wanted.
Dean didn’t even take a second to look at his own mark, just placed the metal back into the fireplace so that he could get it ready for Sam. When it was time, he pulled it out and pressed it hard into the same place where his was, holding his brother still as best he could. While Sam managed not to move or flinch away, he was not as stoic as his brother had been. Tears fell from his eyes immediately, amidst the steady chant of “Fuck, fuck, fuck, motherfuck” falling from his lips.
But then it was over. They’d have to tend to the wounds, make sure they healed properly, there was time for that later. For just this moment, they both stared, each at the identical mark their brother would carry with them for a lifetime, however long that might happen to be.
Branded into their skin, not even in a hidden place.
NON TIMEBO MALA
A tribute to their lives. To their father. To the fight to rid the world of the demon who’d killed their mother. To their determination to keep it up. Together. No matter what else happened. There forever.
Title: Non Timebo Mala
Rating:NC-17
Warnings: Permanent marking, references to incest.
A/N This is something I wrote for the now-defunct (it would seem) sd_lks community.
The world changed, but the Winchesters didn’t. They adapted to their new surroundings, sure. They mourned the loss of their friends. But they kept on with what they’d always done. Hunting. Fucking. Moving.
Nothing had gotten easier, especially now that they were older. Sam’s bad knee caused him trouble on hunts and in more intimate moments. Dean’s shoulder couldn’t quite take the kick of a shotgun like it used to, and hindered his ability to stay above Sam in bed for too long while he was above his brother, fucking him into next week but acutely aware of the fact that he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up for long.
One thing that never, never changed was the tendency they both had to leave marks on each other. Hell, the world was half-over, cities had fallen, people hid out in fear for their lives every day. It was not the time for the two of them to worry about what other hunters might think when they saw bite marks on their arms, finger-shaped bruises around their wrists, teenage-quality hickeys sucked into their necks. Dean and Sam were still the best at what they did, and the time for being concerned about what other people thought about their relationship had passed long ago.
And hell, there was no getting around it, they’d been marking each other up like that since they were teenagers, and neither of them could get enough of it. Just that little hint of mine, honestly, they needed it. Because who else was there? Who else did they have? Nobody, that was who. Just them. Which was motherfucking fine, because who else did they need? Same answer. Nobody.
Their tattoos had faded a bit over the years, and occasionally they talked about having them touched up, or getting another one.
Therein was the problem, though, because after all this time of just them Sam could not abide the thought of another person’s hand on Dean, and Dean felt the same way about Sam. They certainly couldn’t give each other tattoos, not having the skill or the equipment to accomplish the task.
No permanent marks, their father had once instructed them, so many years ago. Makes you easier to identify. But that wasn’t the world they were living in now. Law enforcement, what pathetic bit was left of it, was the very least of their worries.
This is how they found themselves squatting in an abandoned house chosen specifically for the wood-burning fireplace in its front room. Dean had gotten the design, tiny script, hammered out into the metal weeks before, with great care and an abundance of research. Sam had been happy to allow his brother to choose whichever image he desired, and he was thrilled with Dean’s choice, though a tiny chickenshit part of him kind of wished it had been something more compact.
They didn’t even bother with a bout of rock-paper-scissors, because Dean volunteered to go first. He probably figured he would have lost anyway. Always with the fucking scissors. Some things never changed.
Both of them sitting shirtless on the floor in front of the fireplace, Sam held the metal to the fire for as long as he thought was necessary. With the instrument still heating in the flames, he asked his brother if he was ready.
Dean nodded, eyes closed and muscles tensed. “Do it now, Sam. Come on.”
Not wanting to drag it out, Sam moved quickly. Pulling the metal from the fire, he placed it on Dean’s outstretched forearm and held it there, hearing the hiss of the contact, smelling the burn of his brother’s flesh. Dean’s breathing got heavier, his heart raced uncontrollably, and his eyes watered, but he remained silent as Sam held the metal there for at least a minute, long enough to be sure the result would be satisfactory to both of them.
Once he removed it, Sam immediately gave the handle to Dean, ready to have this overwith. He didn’t look forward to the pain he was in for, but he didn’t shy away from it, despite his instinctive urge to do so, because he knew it would be worth every second once he had what he wanted, what they both wanted.
Dean didn’t even take a second to look at his own mark, just placed the metal back into the fireplace so that he could get it ready for Sam. When it was time, he pulled it out and pressed it hard into the same place where his was, holding his brother still as best he could. While Sam managed not to move or flinch away, he was not as stoic as his brother had been. Tears fell from his eyes immediately, amidst the steady chant of “Fuck, fuck, fuck, motherfuck” falling from his lips.
But then it was over. They’d have to tend to the wounds, make sure they healed properly, there was time for that later. For just this moment, they both stared, each at the identical mark their brother would carry with them for a lifetime, however long that might happen to be.
Branded into their skin, not even in a hidden place.
NON TIMEBO MALA
A tribute to their lives. To their father. To the fight to rid the world of the demon who’d killed their mother. To their determination to keep it up. Together. No matter what else happened. There forever.