Word Count: 3100
Notes: Written for this prompt over at spn_masquerade. Warning for underage. Title from Murder by Death's "Brother." This is miles outside of my comfort zone, which I suppose is what the challenge is all about. Mighty shaky on it, folks, and concrit is very welcome.
Summary: Dean gets injured on a hunt and Sam has to patch her up. Things get a little out of hand.
Sam flips on the radio, thumbs at the dial until the static resolves into gospel, some bible thumper preaching fire and brimstone. He leaves it, grateful for the way it drowns out the labored sound of his sister's panting breath and the high-pitched whine of the Impala's engine wound up too tight. Beside him, Dean doesn't say a word, just breathes out a shaky, low grunt that sounds more animal than human, and that's how Sam knows it's bad. Or if not bad, then definitely not great.
Dean's hand is pressed to her side, slow trickle of blood leaking out between her fingers. Her face is pale from the pain, dark smudges like dirty thumbprints under her eyes and her pretty, pretty mouth isn't so pretty right now, lips pulled back in a snarl and teeth chattering minutely.
He hadn't gotten a clear look at the thing that did this to her, only flashes of it between the cornstalks (and of course it had to be a cornfield, clowns and cornfields get to him, every single time). Long claws, skinny elongated arms and legs covered with mottled grey skin, its eyes glinting pale yellow. He's not sure which of them delivered the bullet that took it out, or whether they'd killed it at all. He only knows that he'd shot at it, that he'd kept shooting at it until his gun clicked empty and his wrist felt like it was about to shatter from the recoil.
The hunt was supposed to be simple: research, track it, kill it. Easy like one, two, three. It wound up getting complicated in a real big hurry.
"C'mon, Dean. Lemme see," Sam says. He pries one hand off of the steering wheel and takes her by the wrist. His fingers skid across the blood on her skin as she allows him to peel her hand away and get a quick look at the gash.
His stomach lurches. It's not the blood that gets to him. At fifteen he probably knows more about triage than a second-year nursing student. It's the feeling of her wrist under his fingers, so delicately boned and fragile, completely engulfed by his hand.
Dean is everything to Sam, his universe entire, not so much the moon and stars or anything as intangible as that, more like the bedrock beneath his feet, solid and reliable and unchanging. And Sam wonders how it happened, when it happened, that anything at all about his sister could seem so small and so frail.
The sun is fiery glow in the rearview, hazy red through the pillar of dust kicked up by the car's tires, so thick and tall that it might be visible from space. The fields roll out forever on either side of them. Sam stretches backward, reaching for the wadded mass of Dean's flannel in the backseat. The car bumps out of the wheel ruts and Dean grunts.
"Eyes on the road, Sammy," she tells him. At least she's talking. Good. That's good.
The neon hotel sign blinks, looks like salvation, a lighthouse steering sailors through dangerous water. Sam hauls Dean out of the passenger seat and she's so incredibly light, feels like nothing, and her blood looks black in the flickering blue light. Her blood turns red again once he gets her into a room, paid for with a credit card as fake as the ID in his wallet that says he's eighteen, a three year lie. She leaves a trail of it on the grimy carpet, more soaking into Sam's shirt. He spreads her out on the bed and opens the tap at the sink, full on hot, leaves it running while he goes back to the trunk of the car and finds the dinged-up ammo box that doubles as a first aid kit, and the bottle of whiskey their father doesn't think they know about that he keeps tucked under the passenger seat.
Back inside, back at the sink and steam clouds the mirror, wet towels so hot he can hardly stand to touch them.
"Are you okay?" Dean's voice, shaky from the bed. In the fogged reflection, Sam sees her struggle to sit up, hazy, like a ghost. He doesn't answer and the next time she's louder. "Sammy. Are you okay." Less of a question, more like a forceful benediction. A demand and now Sam can breathe again.
"Yeah. I'm good," he says, and Dean gives him a trembling half-smile, hands it right on over like a gift.
He feeds her a percocet with a slug of booze, pours another slug onto her wound. Liquor and blood on the sheets and she arches up, twists and turns like she's got some lesser demon down her throat.
Three cuts across her ribs, two shallow and one not so much. It'll be stitches for the middle gash. She kicks off her pants and when Sam cuts the t-shirt off of her, she becomes very still, crosses her arms over her chest, shy in a way that she usually never is.
Her skin is hot and supple under Sam's hands as he cleans her up, kneels beside the bed, elbows on the mattress like he's about to say his nighttime prayers and asks her if she's ready. She nods, licks her lips, gaze floating up toward the ceiling, exhaling through her mouth when the needle goes in.
As he stitches her, his knuckles rub against the underside of her breast, against her bra, formerly silky but now stiff with her blood. He can see the hard peaks of her nipples through it when she uncrosses her arms, grips the headboard with one hand and slides the other against his neck with an encouraging little squeeze.
Dean moves up, threads his hair through her fingers and slurs, "Pretty soon it'll be longer than mine."
And that is something Sam doesn't need right now. Both the snark and the feel of her short nails scratching across his scalp, working out the knots in his hair.
It's always there, and at fifteen Sam's resigned to the fact that it'll probably always be there, this low thrum under his skin that spikes up hot whenever he's got a hand on his sister, the way his stomach hooks whenever Dean walks out of the bathroom in nothing but her underwear and a t-shirt, the way she looks at him sometimes, like she can see every single one of his filthy secrets, like they're writ large all over his body
She's tougher than them, more stoic than Sam and their father combined, has always acted like she's got something to prove and can't seem to see that she's already proven it over and over again. She's always been one of the guys, hacks at her hair with a straight razor because she likes the choppy way it makes it look, lives in ratty cut-offs and combat boots because it's best for the job. But sometimes she'll come out of the shower smelling like strawberries, hair damp and dripping onto her back and a bottle of black nail polish that she lifted from the five and dime in her hand. She'll plop down on the bed beside Sam and shove her feet into his lap and Sam knows the drill, thankful that his pants are always a few sizes too big and even more thankful when she doesn't say anything about the flush that sets his face on fire.
But now Sam's cock is starting to thicken, grow hot and damp in his pants, and it's gotta be the tail end of his adrenaline boost that got them this far that makes it impossible to will it back down. He rubs his crotch against the side of the bed and stays there for a second as he reaches for the bandage and tapes it to her ribs.
"Looking good, brother mine," Dean says with a sweet little curve to her mouth. "I mighta done better, of course. Sure as hell coulda done it faster."
"I'd like to see you try," he shoots back, weak, but he's honestly glad to get the butt end of Dean's ego, reestablish this balance to the status quo.
Dean sits up a little, turns her back to him and winces as she tries to reach around her body to unhook her bra, the skin around her stitches pulling too tight. "Gimme a hand, would ya?"
It's like a wrecking ball just punched him in the chest. He's mostly fine with cleaning her up, fixing her where she's ripped open, but this is something else entirely. A step too far. Ten steps too far. He swallows. A dry click in his throat.
"It's not rocket science, Sam." Dean glances over her shoulder, smug and smirking. "Besides, you'll have to learn eventually. It's one of those important life skills."
"Fuck off," Sam says without heat, and his voice sounds thick and unreliable to his own ears. His fingers are unreliable too, clumsy and too big on the clasp but he gets it done, and now he's got the sight of his sister's back to deal with, all that skin with nothing to break it up. He slips the strap off of her shoulder on the injured side, the back of his fingers sliding on her skin and when he hears her breath catch, he tells himself it's just the pain. It's gotta be the pain.
"Grab me a shirt," she says as she holds up her bra, thumbs at the crusting blood then throws it on the floor.
Sam's bag is closer so he hands her one of his, his body turned away at an awkward angle. He doesn't want to see her except in all of the ways that he really, really does. Most of all, he doesn't want her to see him. It's a good plan, a self-preserving plan, but then she pulls the shirt on over her head, holds the neck of it up to her nose and breathes in deep.
Dean smells like him now and there are unexpected consequences to that. Things that Sam never could have foreseen. Sam's so hard he might very well die soon, and there's no hiding it. He expects her to give him crap, bitch about boystink or make some off color remark about a stain, but she doesn't. Instead she pulls at the collar until it's stretched enough to fall of one of her shoulders and then she pulls at Sam, a slim finger hooked through his waistband.
"What..." Sam starts, but goes with it anyway. Stubbornness is one of her defining character traits and if he doesn't, she'll only yank harder, do more damage.
Her gaze lands on his crotch then ticks up to his face. She looks at him, eyes glazed and as bright as broken bottle glass. Her mouth falls open and her tongue sneaks out to hit her lip and Sam can't move, can't look away. It's his sister, fierce and beautiful in ways that no one but Sam will ever see and he's helpless, stuck there, feeling like his chest might rip open any second so that his heart can finally, once and for all, land squarely in her hands.
"It's okay," Dean insists, makes room beside her likes she's done a thousand times before and tugs him down. "I know. I've known for a while now. You're not as smart as you think you are."
"But you're my--" Sam tries, and now Sam's stretched out beside her, and his hand is shaking as he finds her hip but hers is rock solid, steady on the side of his face, covering his ear. His heart pounds and it sounds like the ocean.
"And you're mine," she interrupts. "And it's still okay. It's always gonna be okay." To prove it, she leans in close and kisses him. It's soft, definite, gets very hot very quickly as she sets her teeth in his bottom lip then sucks on it, slicks her tongue inside. She does it like it's the easiest thing, like it's not hellfire and damnation and illegal in every single state in the union and Sam goes with it, clutches at her waist and almost loses it when she pushes him onto his back and forces his pants down, just enough to get a hand on his cock.
There's confidence in every single move she makes, as if she's planned it out for months and months, choreographed and predicted everything Sam might do. Every shiver. Every tiny hitch of his hips. She shifts on top of him and straddles him and now it's a whole new level of fucked up, the way she rocks against him, the heat between her legs as she rubs herself off on the hard line of his cock.
Sam is wrecked, amazed, not sure where to look first and can't figure out what to do with his hands but Dean seems to know precisely how she wants this to go and takes him by the wrists, draws his hands up along her thighs. So soft. Uncharted territory.
"Am I your first?" She's got his hands under her shirt now, fingers all tangled together, and she's still rocking down on him, speeding up.
"Yeah," Sam says, and there's no point in lying. There's nothing she doesn't know about him.
"Good. That's--that's fucking good."
He can see the outline of his hand through her shirt, five fingers splayed wide on her breast and it's hotter that way, somehow more intimate. Dean arches back as Sam accidentally scrapes his fingernail against her nipple, so he does it again, circles it with his thumbnail and it pushes a moan out of her, makes her slip her eyes closed and tighten her thighs on his hips.
It would take so little. She's so close, right there, so wet and hot and all Sam would need to do is push up, push in. If stubbornness is one of Dean's defining character traits, then beating Sam to the punch, doing everything first has got to be another. She doesn't even bother with her panties, just pulls them to the side and takes Sam by the base of his cock. She pauses, peers down at Sam like she's looking for some kinda answer and all Sam can do is minutely nod, hold his breath while she sinks down on him, takes him all the way in. It's hot, so fucking wet and Sam's just starting to wrap his head around it when she bears down, clenches somewhere deep inside, works herself almost all the way off then slams home again.
Nothing in his life has prepared Sam for this, for the push and pull of his sister's body as she starts to ride him hard. Sam's transfixed by the way she swallows him up, by the sight of his own cock all wet with her slick. He's taken down by it, dismantled at the sound of their skin slapping together and Dean's hushed little sighs.
Sam begins bucking up, remembers he has hands and circles his thumb around Dean's clit and her hips snap forward, a look of pure surprise on her face that melts into something almost pained and then she's trembling everywhere, clutching at Sam and getting slicker, tighter.
"Damn, Sammy," she breathes, still rocking on him. "C'mon. C'mon.."
He did that to her. He can't believe that he did that to her, and it's that thought that tips him over, makes him thrust up to meet her, hands locked down on her thighs and his whole body straining as he shoots.
His vision zeroes down, becomes basic, reduced to nothing outside of his beautiful, violent sister. She can put a bullet through a nickel at twenty paces, can field strip an automatic rifle fast enough to put any well-trained Marine to shame. Sam's timed her. She uses her looks as a weapon, every swish of her hips is an inherent dare, her smile sharper and more dangerous than a switchblade. But right now she's pliant under his hands, lets herself get pulled down by the back of her neck, her hard body soft like silk, her mouth slick as she sucks on his tongue.
One more long, lingering kiss and she rolls off of him, tucks herself along his side and jabs Sam with her knee when he goes to throw an arm across her waist. "Watch the stitches, bitch."
In the morning, Sam leaves the key to the motel room on the dresser and closes the door behind him. Dean's blood is on the carpet and Sam's spunk is on the sheets and neither of them are in the mood to talk their way out of it.
Dean wants breakfast, eggs and pancakes and four different kinds of meat, and Sam's happy to go along with that. He's happy for an excuse to sit across the table from her, tangle their legs together and stare at her until she rolls her eyes and kicks him, and then he'll stare some more.
Behind the office, the manager's teenaged son has one of the housekeepers pinned against the wall. He has his hands buried in her dark, wavy hair and she has hers up his shirt.
"Look, Sammy," Dean says, nudging his side with her elbow, "true love."
Sam kicks a loose pebble across the parking lot, ducks his head and looks away when the two kids spring apart, startled.
He knows what true love is. He knows what it looks like and how it feels. True love is an open highway and a fast car that's black as night. True love is his sister's blood under his fingernails and the crooked scar on her ribs that she'll carry for the rest of her life. True love is target practice and training, aiming at bottles and tin cans for hours and hours and running three miles every morning before school, so that when it's real he'll get there in time, and when it's real he will not miss.
Thanks for reading!