Sam Winchester knows things no man ever should. He knows what it's like to watch his insides being ripped out by bloody hands that caress and stroke his torn out guts with almost tender care. He knows what it's like to be ripped into thousands of ragged pieces — an eye here, an ear there, a pound of fatty flesh there — and still feel the meat hooks suspending his shredded pieces as if they were always parts of a single whole. He also knows what it's like to be physically taken against his will — repeatedly — and sometimes even while being devoured by both teeth and tongue.
Yes. Sam Winchester knows the pain of torture — intimately — due to his lengthy time locked in the cage, but its physical pain while in the mortal realm now that's been saving his damaged soul. Well, that and something far less straight forward: the wrongful love he feels for his brother.
However, unbeknownst to Sam, he's not the only one harboring immoral affections for his own flesh and blood. It's just that, instead of having to rely on his twisted love to keep his realities from shifting, Dean's been hiding his, shoving it deep down where he can barely feel it. Ironically, it was their separate times being flayed alive that opened their eyes to the truth. After all, demons can look into every corner of their victim's hearts and all the deep, dark places of their tainted souls.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. He hadn't asked Death to shove his brother's soul back into his body just so the guy could suffer at the hands of his own insanity. Unfortunately, Sam's head is like a nut that's been recently cracked and, worse, his recent means of coping has just been discovered. Needless to say, what Dean's found doesn't sit well with him.
"Sammy," he calls, the treasured nickname wavering in a stricken plea. Dean's eyes begin to burn as his hands shake in their stretched out place; they're hovering over the wounds, the deep cuts slashed in his unconscious brother's arms. Dean's too afraid to touch the morbid lacerations yet too afraid to completely pull away. The white sheets around Sam's long, splayed out limbs are stained an inky red-black that are already beginning to crust over at the edges, but Dean's gaze remains fixed on the letters carved deep in the top layer of his brother's skin. No matter how it's written it all reads the same.
DEAN DEAN DEAN
With his name morbidly reflecting in his watery eyes, Dean can't help but painfully croak out in sickened awe, "Sam—Sammy… Why would you do this to yourself?"
Unfortunately, Sam can't exactly answer right now what with still frothing at the mouth from yet another hell-induced seizure.
When Sam wakes, blackness greets his eyes and an off balance sense permeates his groggy system. However, the first thing his shaky fingers do is search out his own arm in the darkness. He's not even sure which one he grabs and squeezes, because he's too busy praying that the pain will feel real. He's thankful as he takes in that sudden sharp jolt throughout his body that tells him everything he needs to know.
Still relishing the hurt, Sam immediately turns to the source of the sound and his tired yet adrenaline-rushed system slowly soaks up his surroundings like a dry sponge to water. He's back in the motel room, under the covers, and that's Dean he sees through the many shades of grey that's surrounding this reality. In the same bed, the guy's lying on his side, on top of the covers, and there's that half-shadowed questioning concern Sam's become highly familiar with.
"Hey. You ok?"
After a stretch of his lids and a blown out breath, Sam swallows and then nods with the soft skin of his cheek gliding along his flattened pillow. "Yeah. I'm good. I mean—"
"For now," Dean finishes for him.
A soft snort catches Sam's attention then. When he turns to investigate, he finds Bobby asleep with his back to them, on the other side of the nightstand, in the other bed. With the man's home burnt to a crisp, Bobby's taken to traveling along on their nonstop journeys. Even though Sam's left sharing a bed with his brother, he has to admit that Bobby's constant presence makes things easier for everyone involved. For one, they don't have to worry about their father figure being all alone on his own. For another, when it comes to research, two heads are always better than one.
Sam casts a quick glance at the digital clock before he turns on his back. It's a quarter past one in the morning as he stares up at the darkened ceiling. Even so, he can feel the heat of his brother's stare; the tender skin under his new bandages is completely burning with it. He knows what Dean wants to ask before his brother even opens his mouth.
"I don't know why," Sam whispers back, speaking of the new carvings on his arms that resemble morbid tattoo sleeves. "I just … did."
After a heavy pause, Dean echoes, "You just did," in a quiet voice that doesn't hide his frustration.
At this, Sam sighs, but he merely closes his eyes and shakes his head — gathering some much needed patience. He doesn't know how to explain himself after all. How does he tell someone, especially Dean, that thoughts of him are the only thing keeping him clinging to something resembling sane? Sam doesn't know, but he's going to try. After all, he won't lie to Dean. Not anymore.
"I don't know. When I felt myself slipping… You know, when Lucifer started talking to me again, I picked up the knife and thought of you."
Dean turns to him then with a quirk of a brow. Quietly, he asks, "Let me get this straight. You thought of me and that's what made you carve yourself up like a turkey?"
"Yeah," Sam says, before quickly amending, "I mean, no. I mean… Look, I thought of you and what you said to me before. You know, how the pain in hell doesn't feel the same as the pain here and it just," —A nervous look away— "it just sort of happened."
At that, an even longer stretch of silence fills the space between them. In the end, surprisingly, it's Dean who chooses to break it.
"Scared the shit out of me," he says and he means it. Coming back and seeing Sam on the floor like that had done a number on his heart.
"Sorry," Sam whispers as he turns to regard Dean. The look on his brother's face that even the darkness can't hide prompts words from Sam that he truly believes. "Even if something happens to me ... you gotta know you don't need me."
"You don't, Dean. Not anymore."
A wild urge grips Dean then. Grips him so tight, he might even have stopped breathing. He's not really sure, because the next thing he knows, he's showing Sam just how wrong he really is with actions instead of words.
Sam's back is suddenly pressed into the mattress and Dean's just … everywhere. Licking deep into his mouth, running hands all over his body, after tugging the sheets down between them and Sam just goes with it, because Dean's mumbling things on his lips that he's secretly always wanted to hear. They're things like, "Need you", "Want you", "Can't do this shit without you," and, "Christ, Bobby, don't you dare friggin wake up right now."
Thankfully, a drunk and passed out Bobby never cracks a lid. Not even when Dean manages to wrestle both their boxers off. Not even when the bed creaks, underneath them, from Dean finally pushing his thick cock deep inside his brother's tight, slicked up hole and Sam's open-mouthed moan. No. Bobby doesn't even twitch when Sam trembles and shakes from Dean squeezing his cut up arms as he pins them above his head, on his pillow.
Head bent, suckling Sam's nipple while grinding his hips against his brother in wide yet slow circular motions — opening that sweet ass further with the deep thrust of his cock — Dean has to admit that an extremely messed up part of him is getting off on the fact that Sam needs a little pain to go along with his pleasure. There's also tendrils of sick heat curling in his gut at knowing his name is permanently etched into Sam's skin, like a brand that all but screams, "I'm Dean's. So back the fuck off."
As for Sam, he's not complaining as Dean quietly slow fucks him to an intense orgasm that leaves him shuddering and spilling warm and wet between their two melded bodies. And when Dean comes, he's entertaining ideas of cutting himself matching tattoos in the morning, because … nowadays rings are just so overrated.