SPN fic: All Blood Bleeds Red: Epilogue
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He hovers somewhere on the very edge of consciousness. He barely feels the needle as Sam stitches his chest back together, leaving the bloody bandages discarded in a pile on the floor. Sam talks, his mouth moving as he works, but his voice is distant and Dean can't make out the words, only the vague sense of comfort.
Sam's hands are warm, gentle as they patch him up. Everything else seems far away, shimmering and white.
"Sam," Dean mumbles, his voice an echo he can barely make out.
Sam smiles at him, one warm hand on Dean's thigh. He says something, but Dean can't quite hear. He's vaguely aware he's about to pass out again, and he doesn't fight it.
: : :
"Sammy?"
Dean's voice is gravely, rough and tired. It's been twelve hours of watching him sleep, listening to the quiet huff of his breath beneath the rumbling hum of the air conditioner - finally fixed, which means the room's costing them twice as much now. Still, it's worth it, because Sam's paranoid enough to worry about the effect the heat might have on his brother, even if it's cooler now than it was before the ritual.
Outside, it's still raining. Dean pushes weakly at the covers, trying to sit up. Sam's there in a second, helping him up, letting him lean against the headboard of the bed. "You okay?" he asks, and Dean shakes his head.
"Feel like shit." He's pale, nearly as white as a sheet, his freckles unusually obvious against his skin. He's almost the same colour as the gauze wrapped around his arms, although there are still smudges of blue on his cheeks and stomach. He looks like a ghost. "Thought - thought you said it was only a pint, dude." He's trembling, shifting slightly to look at Sam.
"It was," Sam says. "It's the ritual... symbolism and power, remember? The blood was just symbolism. The power..."
"Shit," Dean whispers. "Feel like death warmed over."
"You look like death," Sam says simply.
Dean shakes his head, the movement so slight it's almost imperceptible. "I'm alive. Feels like I shouldn't be, but, you know." He settles back against the headboard, reaching out to touch Sam's thigh. His hands are cold and clammy, thumb rubbing slowly over Sam's skin. "Coulda warned me though."
"I told you you'd be tired," Sam reminds him, gentle.
Dean grins, although the expression is worn, utterly exhausted. "Yeah, tired. This is beyond tired, man. Feel like I can barely move." It's not hard to see that Dean's sluggish, eyes hazy, like everything's not quite in focus. He reaches up, slow and deliberate, runs his fingers along Sam's jaw. "I'm... I'm so beyond tired." His hand falls limply into Sam's lap, not like he's put it down, but like he's run out of the energy to maintain even that simple touch.
Sam leans over him, pressing his mouth against Dean's. The kiss is soft, his brother's response slow but there, licking tentatively at Sam's lip, one hand twitching forward to tug at the bottom hem of Sam's t-shirt. Sam shifts closer, biting his way into Dean's slack, open mouth, sucking at his brother's warm tongue, kissing him deep. He's rewarded by a low, rumbling moan even though Dean's barely managing to kiss back.
Sam kisses him once more, close-mouthed and quick. "Will you be all right here for a while? I need to go get some stuff, some food, but I'll stay if-"
"Go," he murmurs. "Take your phone. Call you if I need anything. Promise."
It's stupid, but that makes him feel better. Dean won't call, Sam knows - he'll crash the second Sam's out of the room, fall back asleep within moments. Still, the promise is comforting, and he nods. "Yeah, okay," he says.
: : :
The loose afterglow fades quickly, replaced by weakness and frustration within days; he's so exhausted he can barely make it to the bathroom on his own, his knees wobbling uncontrollably when he tries to walk. He can hold his own dick to piss, but that's about it; he has to lean into the wall to keep himself upright, either that or into Sam behind him, who steadies Dean with hands on his hips and thankfully doesn't say a word. He's quiet most of the time, sometimes making cautious jokes, pretending everything's normal.
It's not all bad, although mostly it sucks. He doesn't mind the part where Sam buys a pair of rare, tender porterhouses from some Texas steakhouse, then sucks him off after dinner, soothing his fingers over the healing cuts with not even a trace of guilt. Sam's touch is reverential, pressing sleepy kisses to Dean's stitches, his lips soft and moist. Dean's so tired breathing seems like too much work, utterly spent but warm from his orgasm, his brother's head still pillowed on his stomach. He falls asleep sifting his fingers through Sam's sweaty hair and wondering if he'll be better in the morning.
Outside, it's still raining, thunder rumbling quietly in the distance.
: : :
By the end of the week, Dean's back on his feet, still tired and bitchy but moving around on his own. He ignores the looks people give him, eyeing the surgical cuts that snake around his forearms like red bracelets, looking like the remnants of some horribly misguided attempt at suicide.
They don't talk much outside of sexual favours, sharing handjobs and blowjobs but not a hell of a lot more than that. Sam's smart enough to realise that Dean's either trying to distract him or make up for what happened, like there's something to apologise for even when he can't find the words.
He leaves Dean back at the motel room to go shopping, promising to pick up lunch when he comes back.
The store is small and crowded with racks of merchandise, hunting rifles, camouflaged clothing, tents and fishing rods. An old man putters about behind the register, wiping down the glass cabinet stocked with shelves of knives. He looks up when Sam comes in, the bell on the door ringing as it swings shut behind him. His smile is broad and friendly, inviting as he welcome Sam with a simple, "Hello there, son."
Sam smiles back at him, jamming his hands deep down into his pockets as he approaches the display case, knowing exactly what he wants and hoping they've got something that'll work.
It's easier than Sam would have thought to find a knife. The man behind the counter rattles on about high-carbon steel and nitride coating, and Sam smiles and nods, appreciating each piece with the easy familiarity of someone who knows his way around a knife collection. In his head he ticks off the reasons why not; this one's too long, that one too small, the handle on another just not quite right.
"What're you lookin' for out of it?" the store owner asks.
Sam just gives his best earnest smile. He summarises it as best he can, saying, "It's a present for my big brother. He hunts." He needs the bite of that blade in his flesh, that pain, and god, Sam would do anything - but he can't explain that. Half-truths are simpler.
The one that catches his eye is a small blade on the uppermost shelf, the blade sharp and burnished silver. He points it out, and the old guy smiles, his eyes bright. "Oh, that one's a right beauty." He lifts it out of the case for Sam's inspection, smiling. "She's a gorgeous all-purpose knife, not so much for skinning or gutting, but all those little things that come up when you're out in the brush."
Sam rubs a finger over the reddish wood of the handle, thinking of how Dean's blood will soak into it, leaving dark stains in the wood grain. The heft on it is decent, and it fits perfectly into the palm of his hand. "You know, I think Dean'll like it," he says slowly, a smile spreading across his face, because he knows how much his brother will.
"Your brother's a lucky man," the old guy says. "Let me find the sheath in here for ya, and then I'll get Tommy to wrap it up to take home. You want a whetstone to go with it?"
"Thanks," Sam tells him. "That would be great."
: : :
"So," Sam says quietly, straddling Dean's thighs. "I, uh - a week ago. I kinda got you something." He presses a kiss into Dean's jaw, and his lips are warm and soft, gentle. Dean's feeling better, two weeks later with a set of new shiny-pink scars, the exhaustion finally worn off. His brother's in his lap, teasing him with kisses and quiet promises, something tender in his voice Dean wants to shrug off but can't.
"Yeah?" Dean asks, suspicious as hell and grinning anyway; there's a bad history of gifts between the Winchesters, but Sam's smiling as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. It takes him a minute to recognise the leather sheath for what it is, and he swallows hoarsely when Sam draws the blade free from the casing.
They're silent, looking at each other, Dean's eyes flitting down to the knife in his brother's hand. "Dean," Sam murmurs, his voice rough.
: : :
"The fuck's that for?" Dean asks, voice rough and gravely. He's leaning back against the headboard, head twisted to the side like he can't even look at the knife in Sam's hand, body taut and still. Dean's relaxed grin is gone, and he's practically vibrating with fear or arousal, the muscles in his neck cording as he clenches his teeth.
Sam doesn't shake as he reaches down, taking one of Dean's trembling hands on his, smoothing a thumb over his palm. "You know what it's for," he tells his brother, and Sam's steady. Beneath him, Dean trembles, his eyes wild and confused. His breathing's hoarse and uneven, and Sam hasn't even done anything yet.
"Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you thinking?" Dean's voice cracks on the last word, the protest weak. His dick's hard, the bulge in his jeans obvious; his hips stutter upwards, involuntarily thrusting up against Sam, helpless and needy. He doesn't pull his hand away.
"Shut up," Sam finally murmurs, quiet and warm, and Dean goes still beneath him as Sam presses the cool blade against the skin of Dean's palm. Dean breathes in sharply, letting it out with a muted whine, his body jerking lightly as Sam presses the knife through the layers of skin. He moans low in throat as his brother cuts in, and Sam can feel the tenseness in Dean's hips and thighs, the way his whole body is straining with need.
Sam leans over and presses another wet, open-mouthed kiss against Dean's jaw before setting the knife down on the bedspread, a tiny bead of red soaking into the white sheets. "Just shut up," Sam says again, and he brings Dean's hand up to his mouth, licking the drops of blood away from the shallow cut; his brother throws his head back and groans, bucking up beneath Sam.
What Dean says is, "Oh god," and from that tiny little nick in his palm he's reduced to that single hoarse utterance, his cock straining desperately against his zipper. Sam quiets him with a kiss, copper on his tongue, gripping Dean's hand tightly in his own.
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