Superstitious | NC-17 PWP | Sam/Dean
Superstitious. NC-17 PWP. Sam/Dean wincest. Knifeplay. 4000 words. Part of the Possession!verse. Prompted by anasuede, encouraged on by wendy, and, as always, thanks and praise go to jellybean_slash.
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Sam looks up, sees Dean's eyes fixated, pupils wide, on the slow and steady brush of knife against whetstone. Sam frowns, looks down at his hands, where he's been sharpening and polishing knives for the past hour while Dean does the guns, cleaning the tools of their trade after a weeklong hunt, listening to some cheesy teen horror movie on cable. His hands are spotted with polish, and he realizes he's been leaving silver-coloured grease spots on the handle of the knife he's sharpening.
"Shit," he mutters, and uses the rag to clean it off before testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. Not quite razor sharp, but it'll do, so Sam gives the knife a once-over wipe down and then tucks it back into the pouch, pulling out the next knife, a small knife they don't use for anything except filleting skin off of bodies pre-burning.
This knife is the smallest, perhaps the most deadly, but it's one that doesn't see a lot of action, so it's still gleaming from the last cleaning. It could use a sharpening, though, so Sam holds the whetstone in one hand and starts striking the blade back and forth, back and forth.
He hears a noise and looks up, and Dean's still staring. "Dean?"
Dean jumps, as if startled, and smiles at Sam.
It's not necessarily a nice smile, but it sends a jolt through Sam's nerves, straight to his cock. "Dean, what now?"
Dean leans back in his chair, pinning his eyes on Sam, and asks, almost casually, "You like knives, right? Better than anything else, I mean."
Sam frowns, because Dean might have been going for casual, but he missed it by a mile and Sam has no idea where this is coming from or where Dean’s trying to take it. "I guess, yeah. Ever since I was a kid. Why?"
"Which superstition do you like better?" Dean asks, still with that far-too-casual tone.
Sam's frown grows a bit deeper, and he asks, "What?" because he honestly has no idea where this is coming from and he's not sure he wants to know.
Dean leans forward in his chair, legs spread, hands clasped loose and hanging easy in the air between Dean's knees. "C'mon, Sam. Don't tell me you've never looked at the lore around knives after all the books you've stuck your nose in."
Sam huffs, grinds the blade down on the whetstone a little harder than necessary, looking down at it instead of at Dean.
Dean starts laughing. "It's just a question, Sam, Jesus. Do you believe its bad luck to draw a blade and return it without using it? Or what about letting them taste you so they belong to you? Did you do that with the knives so they always worked better for you than they did for me? That would explain a lot." He laughs again, and Sam can feel Dean watching him, but he doesn't look up.
It takes a minute, but then Dean stops laughing and the feeling of eyes watching Sam gets more piercing. Sam's mouth dries, his throat tightens, but he keeps sharpening the small knife in his hands.
"You did, didn't you," Dean says, and the tone's changed again. Sam looks up, sees pinpricks of colour in Dean's cheeks, looks down again, not answering the statement. "Fuck, you did. You cut yourself with each one. Just a prick?"
Sam mutters, "You're a prick," but then Dean slides out of his chair and kneels on the floor opposite Sam, picks up the Fairbairn-Sykes dagger, and holds it carefully, studying the blade. Sam watches cautiously, changing the grip on the knife he's holding; it's smaller, much smaller, almost like a paring knife instead of a Marine-issued weapon, but the edge is sharp and gleaming, sharp enough to cut through skin.
Sam never thumbs this one, just sharpens it and polishes, knows the edge it holds, but then Dean says, "Test it," as if he knows what thoughts are running through Sam's mind. "Show me how they tasted you."
Dean sounds, Sam's not sure how Dean sounds, voice low and breathy at the same time, both urgent and lazy. "Dean," he says, getting ready to argue, but Dean shakes his head, so Sam says, "Fine," and puts down the whetstone.
With one eye on his brother, Sam runs the flat of the blade against his arm, then, as the tip threatens to run down the curve of his arm and onto his leg, he twists it, letting it glance against his flesh. A thin white line shows up on Sam's skin, followed by an even thinner line of blood.
Dean's made some kind of noise, seeing that, and Sam looks to see Dean reach out, as if to take the knife from Sam, eyes wide as if to say he hadn't thought Sam would actually do it, but Sam says, "You wanted to see, so watch," and Dean freezes.
Sam presses the flat side of the blade against the wound, and when he lifts up, he turns the knife, sees smears of red against the gleaming silver. Sam rubs the blood into the blade, pressing the knife back to his skin when he needs to, until the entire blade has tasted him. Once he's checked to make sure, he uses a fingernail to draw out a rune on both sides of the knife's blade, one a rune of defence, the other a rune of attack.
That done, Sam lifts the knife up to the light, studies it for any visible imperfection in either blade, blood-covering, or rune, and, seeing none, he smiles. "Nihil proficiat inimicus in nobis," he murmurs, and then he brings the knife to his mouth, and licks the blood off.
He watches Dean while he licks a straight line up one side, then the other, tongue curling around the point at the top, careful not to nick his tongue beyond one tiny pinpoint prick. Dean's face has flushed, his pupils wide, and Sam raises an eyebrow when he's done.
"I did them all," he says, lifting his chin slightly, ready for Dean to go off on him, rebuke him for doing such a stupid, superstitious thing, but Dean's only looking at Sam, lips parted.
"Even your Ka-bar?" Dean asks after a moment.
Sam frowns, says, "All of our knives. All three sets." Dean doesn't say anything else, so Sam mentally shrugs his brother's odd behaviour off and picks up the polish and the rag, to finish off the knife in his hands.
Dean stops him, though, holds the wrist with the rag, and says, "Don't." Sam looks up, frowns again, and Dean says, "You have to let the taste sit," like he wasn't just mocking Sam about this a few minutes before.
"Dean, I've already," he begins, but then Dean's taking the knife away from Sam, putting it on the floor between them, staring at it, at the faint traces of crimson that Sam hadn't licked away, at the way the light bounces off of the silver, like sunlight on an oil slick.
"Dean," Sam sighs, "come on. I need to finish this one and put the set away."
Dean shakes his head, but then stops as if he's just thought of something, looks up. Sam's wary, Dean still looks captivated, but now there's a gleam in his eyes, the same gleam he had when this whole cracked-out conversation started.
"You put them away without using them?" Dean asks, and Sam's eyes widen.
"What the hell's gotten into you?" he asks, snatching the knife up off of the floor and wiping it down with the polish-soaked rag.
Dean's eyes are watching Sam's hands, but Sam ignores his brother, cleans the knife off and carefully tucks it away, then the Fairbairn-Sykes, before rolling up the kit, putting whetstone, polish, and rag to the side. He looks at Dean, then, and Dean pounces.
Sam's flat on his back, Dean straddling him, and Sam realises that Dean's hard, really hard, cock pressing a clear line into Dean's jeans.
"What the hell?" Sam asks again, though he's not making any move to change his position, instead rolling his hips upward slightly, watching with half a smile as Dean's breath catches.
"Sam, do you use them every time you draw one of them out?" Dean asks again, and leans down to lick a path up Sam's jawbone. Sam shakes his head, and Dean says, "Maybe you should start. Wouldn't want the knives to get mad at you, now, would we?"
"Dean, you've fucking lost it," Sam says, propping himself up on his elbows. It hurts; the motel carpet under them is too thin for it not to dig and scratch, but Sam's feeling completely off-balance and needs the extra leverage.
"Have not," Dean replies, and Sam knows his brother is going to stick out his tongue before it actually happens. So predictable.
Except obviously not.
"So, what. You're saying we should go out and hunt something down every time I want to polish the knives?" Sam asks, and Dean huffs, like he's disappointed in Sam. "What?"
Dean rolls his eyes, sits back on Sam's legs, and says, "You are such an idiot. I don't even know how we're related. Seriously?"
Sam gapes, pulls himself out from under Dean, and picks up the rolled set of knives, cradling them to his chest. "Seriously. What the hell are you going on about?"
Dean looks at Sam for a long minute, and just when Sam's about to start fidgeting, Dean asks, "Do you trust me?"
"Of course I do," Sam says, instant reply, blood heating up at the promise underlying those words. "You know I do."
It's another long moment before Dean nods, just once, and says softly, "Give me the knives, get undressed, and get on the bed."
Sam doesn't hesitate, not once, passing over the knives to Dean before standing up, peeling his clothes off, and lying on the bed. He can feel Dean watching, knows Dean's watching, and instead of that making him any shakier, it steadies him.
Dean's here. It's okay. Everything will be fine. Dean's here, no matter the look in his eyes.
Sam's half-hard; it doesn't take much more than a look from Dean, even now, and the room’s air is warm against his skin, but Sam still shivers, lying there, waiting. Waiting for Dean, who's sitting there, just watching.
"Dean?" Sam asks after a handful of seconds have passed, because Dean's still just sitting there, holding the knives. Dean moves, then, at the noise, and stands, stripping down to his boxers with practiced efficiency, then pulling them off and kicking them aside as well, and now it's Sam's turn to watch, to devour with hungry, aching eyes.
When Dean gets up on the bed, he brings the knives with him, and pulls out the smallest one, Sam's favourite, though he'd never admit it. Sam's eyes flick from the knife to Dean and back to the knife, and he watches as Dean presses the flat of the blade to Sam's lips.
"Kiss it," Dean murmurs, but it's no less than a command, an order. "Kiss it, and say you consent."
Sam's brows furrow, he wants to ask so many things, but in the end, he kisses the blade, and when Dean pulls it away, Sam licks his lips, looks Dean square in the eyes, and says, "I consent."
Dean's eyes gleam at the words, and Sam swallows, heart racing. He watches Dean, not the knife, when Dean's hand moves, and the sudden prick on his shoulder makes him jump, makes the tip of the blade dig in just that bit deeper. Sam doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes on Dean, watches as his brother's cheeks flush, as Dean's pupils dilate faster than Sam thought possible.
"Fuck," Dean breathes, and then leans down, laps at the skin around the cut.
It doesn't hurt, the blade is too sharp and the cut wasn't deep enough, but the rough-slow slide of Dean's tongue against his skin has Sam's muscles tensing, body straining as Sam tries not to move.
He closes his eyes, doesn't see anything except incarnadine cobwebs blooming on the inside of his eyelids when Dean presses the knife against Sam's stomach, then against Sam's thigh, then against Sam's arm. Each time, only the faintest hint of pressure, followed by Dean's tongue, licking away faint traces of pain, of startlement.
There's no rhythm, no logic underlying this, so when Dean says, "Open your eyes, Sam," it makes as much sense as anything else.
Sam opens his eyes, looks at Dean, who's leaning over him.
"I want," Dean says, before trailing off, looking as if he's struggling, as if he's trying to say something but either he has no words or there are too many, clogging up his throat.
Sam looks at Dean, then holds out his hand for the knife.
With something approaching relief, Dean passes it over.
Sam adjusts his grip on the knife without looking, without concentration, fingers curling familiar around the handle, and he looks up at Dean. Remembering what his brother did, Sam presses the flat of the blade against Dean's lips. "Kiss it," he says, "and say you consent."
Sam's not sure where that comes from, where Dean picked it up, but as he watches Dean kiss the knife, lean back and say the words, Sam thinks it's more than appropriate. It's almost sacred, that kiss, the way Dean looks at Sam over the edge of the knife, through eyelashes more golden than ebony, full of reverence and want.
And Dean's voice, when he says the words, when he closes his eyes and leans up, baring his throat, is enough to make Sam forget everything except this: his brother, above him, cold metal in his hand, the power, the trust, the need.
Sam shifts, gets Dean to open his eyes again. "Lay down," he says, softly, moving out of the way as Dean does as Sam's instructed. "Tell me if I should stop," he says, gently, kneeling between Dean's spread legs.
Dean nods, says, "I will," and then closes his eyes and smiles.
Sam takes a moment to admire the picture Dean makes, naked and spread out, looking golden-pale in the odd motel lighting, as if he's delicate. But Sam can see muscles, the thinly-coiled grace of a predator, in the way Dean's laying there. The deception, the overlay and underlay, almost makes his breath catch before he can stop himself.
He scoots forward, suddenly unsure what he's doing, holding a knife, about ready to cut into his brother. He's never done this before, never thought about it or wondered or anything, and Dean wants it, badly, it seems. What if Sam messes it up? What if he does something wrong? What if--
And then Dean's opened his eyes, is looking at Sam, nothing but trust in his eyes, trust and amazement that Sam's even willing to go this far, trust and amazement and need for more, for everything that Sam can stand to give.
So Sam swallows, licks his lips, and nods.
He leans forward and presses the blade against Dean's collarbone, lets the flat silver trace out a pattern across Dean's neck, over the curve of his shoulder and back around, and Sam flicks the tip an inch below Dean's sternum, drawing blood.
Dean arches, digs the knife-point in deeper, and Sam snaps his wrist back, snaps the knife back, watching Dean with wide eyes. There's blood on Dean's chest, and Sam can't stop looking, can't stop watching as tiny drops well to the surface of Dean's skin, held in round beads of crimson before breaking and slip-sliding around the cut.
He leans forward and presses his lips over the cut, sucking hard. One of Dean's hands fists in Sam's hair, pressing him to the skin, and Dean's hips arch up, seeking friction.
"Fuck, Sam, s’good," Dean says, and Sam flicks his eyes up, watching his brother's face while he tastes Dean's blood, lets his tongue swipe over the wound, clean the skin, clot the cut.
Dean's hand in Sam's hair goes limp when Sam presses the knife against Dean's arm, and Sam moves, sits back again, eyes tracing over Dean's body, taking in the sheen of sweat on Dean's forehead, the way Dean's muscles are tense and straining, smiling when he sees Dean's cock hard and leaking pre-come.
Sam lets the knife trail over Dean's arms, and he's trying to decide where to cut next, somewhere unobtrusive, somewhere that won't hamper the hunt, when Dean says, "Please, Sam," like he can't wait any longer.
The knife slices a trail up one shoulder, turning the skin white before the blood blooms outwards, no thicker than a slight paper cut, but Dean sighs, his whole body seems to sigh, and Sam's captivated by the sight and sound.
He cuts a matching line down the other shoulder, and really, this is strange, this is odd and weird and it probably shouldn't be turning him on as much as it.
Sam tilts his head, studies Dean's face again, then scoots down slightly on the bed, so that he's leaning over Dean's stomach, Dean's cock. He presses the flat blade against Dean's left hipbone, licks the other, and then nudges Dean's cock with his nose as Sam flicks the knife over Dean's stomach, curving out a line of blood that looks like half a protection rune.
Dean makes a noise Sam can't classify and arches his hips up, clear message in the movement. Sam smiles, licks Dean's dick at the same time he finishes the protection rune on Dean's stomach.
"Fuck," Dean says, and Sam's smile grows. He moves up, traces the rune with his tongue, nibbling at the skin around the cuts, and strokes Dean's cock at the same time, slow and rough.
"Yeah?" Sam asks. Though it's not a serious question, it settles something inside of him when Dean's eyes fly open, meet his, pupils blown.
"Fuck yeah," Dean says. "C'mon, Sam. More."
Sam nods, Dean closes his eyes again, and Sam makes two shallow scrapes of the knife on Dean's hipbones, nuzzling the bone and the blood when he's done, following with a series of small criss-crossing cuts down the trail of hair leading to Dean's cock, the handle of the knife-and Sam's hand-brushing Dean's straining erection.
"Sam," Dean says, and Sam grins again, bends down and presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Dean's thigh before trailing the knife's handle down one of Dean's legs and up the other.
"You asked if I like knives," Sam murmurs, letting the knife-point kiss Dean's thigh, dig in and draw blood. "I think you like them even better than I do."
Dean laughs, a weak, short noise, and says, "Sam. You think? God, you have no idea, when you polish them, fuck."
Sam smiles, and it's an echo of the one Dean wore when this all started, sharp edges and shadowed angles. "I'll find out," he murmurs, and pulls out the Fairbairn-Sykes dagger Dean had been holding earlier, long handle, even longer blade.
There's a moment where he almost stops, almost says that this is insane, that he's not doing this anymore, that he never should have started. But Dean said please, looked at him with those eyes, and Sam's unable to say no, wants with everything to make his brother happy, to know that Dean's happy and Sam had something to do with it, so he swallows and pushes down the hesitation.
Sam lets the dagger sit on the comforter, and he reaches for the lube on the table next to the bed. Dean's smiling when Sam looks, but the smile fades into a pleased groan when Sam lubes up his fingers and presses one into Dean's ass, slow and soft, gentle and easy.
Dean bucks up, and Sam crooks his finger, then draws it out, repeating the motion until Dean's swearing at him, and then Sam adds another finger. Then Dean's really swearing, and Sam loves to listen, to the pleading underneath the cussing, the vulnerability Dean only shows to Sam, and, even then, not very often.
When Sam thinks Dean's open enough, he bites his lip, picks up the big dagger, and covers the handle with lube, until it's practically dripping. Dean's eyes are closed, and Sam's relieved, he doesn't know how Dean's going to react, but when he positions the handle at Dean's entrance and pushes gently, Dean lets out a full-body shiver and groans.
"Fucking fuck," Dean says, and his back almost breaks when he arches, he's so far off the bed.
Sam's grinning so hard it hurts. "Damn," he says, working the handle into Dean slowly, then pulling it out again, trying to decide whether to watch Dean's face, or watch the handle of a dagger sinking in and out of his brother. "I never knew you were this kinky."
"You never asked," Dean replies, though how, Sam's not sure; it sounds as if Dean's having trouble breathing.
The next time Sam pushes the handle in, he takes the smaller knife and nicks one of Dean's calves, and Dean groans like he's being killed when Sam laps at the blood.
He's still trying to decide what it tastes like, Dean's blood; sure, he might have swallowed some before, but not like this, purposefully, for Dean's pleasure. It's different, warm and metallic, strangely Dean, rich and potent.
Sam licks again, pulling more out of Dean, and moves the handle of the knife, pulls it out of Dean at an angle. Dean whines, deep vibration in his chest, and Sam takes that as the cue it is.
He starts moving the dagger faster, in and out, careful not to let the blade get too close to any of Dean's skin. The smaller knife starts making dancing patterns over Dean's stomach, sometimes the point of the blade, sometimes the flat sides, no pattern, rhyme, or reason.
Dean's arching, thrusting, seeking friction, something to rub his cock against, finding nothing but air, filling the room with ragged breathing and low, murmured cussing.
And Sam, Sam's doing this, part of this, watching but involved, and fuck but he's hard, just as ready to come as Dean.
"Yeah, Dean," he says, watching his brother's face. "You know you wanna come, so come."
It takes three more thrusts of the dagger's handle and what seems like hours of tense, spiralling muscles, and then Dean freezes, rigid, and his cock starts to spurt.
Sam keeps making shallow thrusts with the dagger until Dean's finally still, then he takes the Fairbairn-Sykes, lets it fall on the floor along with the other knife, and crawls upwards, licking off Dean's chest, the sweat, the blood, the strands of come.
"Fuck," Dean finally says, when his chest under Sam's tongue has stopped heaving, his heart settled back into a normal rhythm. "That was, fuck."
Sam grins against Dean's skin, gives his brother's shoulder a wet, open-mouthed kiss, sucking a little before licking the redness away and moving, lying down next to Dean. He's still hard, and the barest hint of pressure against his cock has him rubbing against Dean as he says, "The things I do for you," as if he's surprised or almost ashamed.
Dean laughs, not fooled by the tone, and twists slightly, reaches down and takes Sam's dick in hand, jerks hard and rough. "The things I make you do," he murmurs, and then laughs again when Sam speaks.
"Don't mind," Sam says, hips moving, legs tangling up in Dean's. "Really. It's okay."
Dean pauses at that, flicks his thumb over the slit in Sam's cock, and he says, "You'd do it again?"
Just the thought of seeing Dean like that again, handle of the knife, Sam's knife, sliding in and out of him, panting raw and ragged under Sam, is enough to force the orgasm from Sam's bones, and he comes with a muttered, "Holy fucking hell, yes." Sam breathes, waits for his body to stop shaking, and then adds, "Just, not right now."
--
Sam looks up, sees Dean's eyes fixated, pupils wide, on the slow and steady brush of knife against whetstone. Sam frowns, looks down at his hands, where he's been sharpening and polishing knives for the past hour while Dean does the guns, cleaning the tools of their trade after a weeklong hunt, listening to some cheesy teen horror movie on cable. His hands are spotted with polish, and he realizes he's been leaving silver-coloured grease spots on the handle of the knife he's sharpening.
"Shit," he mutters, and uses the rag to clean it off before testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. Not quite razor sharp, but it'll do, so Sam gives the knife a once-over wipe down and then tucks it back into the pouch, pulling out the next knife, a small knife they don't use for anything except filleting skin off of bodies pre-burning.
This knife is the smallest, perhaps the most deadly, but it's one that doesn't see a lot of action, so it's still gleaming from the last cleaning. It could use a sharpening, though, so Sam holds the whetstone in one hand and starts striking the blade back and forth, back and forth.
He hears a noise and looks up, and Dean's still staring. "Dean?"
Dean jumps, as if startled, and smiles at Sam.
It's not necessarily a nice smile, but it sends a jolt through Sam's nerves, straight to his cock. "Dean, what now?"
Dean leans back in his chair, pinning his eyes on Sam, and asks, almost casually, "You like knives, right? Better than anything else, I mean."
Sam frowns, because Dean might have been going for casual, but he missed it by a mile and Sam has no idea where this is coming from or where Dean’s trying to take it. "I guess, yeah. Ever since I was a kid. Why?"
"Which superstition do you like better?" Dean asks, still with that far-too-casual tone.
Sam's frown grows a bit deeper, and he asks, "What?" because he honestly has no idea where this is coming from and he's not sure he wants to know.
Dean leans forward in his chair, legs spread, hands clasped loose and hanging easy in the air between Dean's knees. "C'mon, Sam. Don't tell me you've never looked at the lore around knives after all the books you've stuck your nose in."
Sam huffs, grinds the blade down on the whetstone a little harder than necessary, looking down at it instead of at Dean.
Dean starts laughing. "It's just a question, Sam, Jesus. Do you believe its bad luck to draw a blade and return it without using it? Or what about letting them taste you so they belong to you? Did you do that with the knives so they always worked better for you than they did for me? That would explain a lot." He laughs again, and Sam can feel Dean watching him, but he doesn't look up.
It takes a minute, but then Dean stops laughing and the feeling of eyes watching Sam gets more piercing. Sam's mouth dries, his throat tightens, but he keeps sharpening the small knife in his hands.
"You did, didn't you," Dean says, and the tone's changed again. Sam looks up, sees pinpricks of colour in Dean's cheeks, looks down again, not answering the statement. "Fuck, you did. You cut yourself with each one. Just a prick?"
Sam mutters, "You're a prick," but then Dean slides out of his chair and kneels on the floor opposite Sam, picks up the Fairbairn-Sykes dagger, and holds it carefully, studying the blade. Sam watches cautiously, changing the grip on the knife he's holding; it's smaller, much smaller, almost like a paring knife instead of a Marine-issued weapon, but the edge is sharp and gleaming, sharp enough to cut through skin.
Sam never thumbs this one, just sharpens it and polishes, knows the edge it holds, but then Dean says, "Test it," as if he knows what thoughts are running through Sam's mind. "Show me how they tasted you."
Dean sounds, Sam's not sure how Dean sounds, voice low and breathy at the same time, both urgent and lazy. "Dean," he says, getting ready to argue, but Dean shakes his head, so Sam says, "Fine," and puts down the whetstone.
With one eye on his brother, Sam runs the flat of the blade against his arm, then, as the tip threatens to run down the curve of his arm and onto his leg, he twists it, letting it glance against his flesh. A thin white line shows up on Sam's skin, followed by an even thinner line of blood.
Dean's made some kind of noise, seeing that, and Sam looks to see Dean reach out, as if to take the knife from Sam, eyes wide as if to say he hadn't thought Sam would actually do it, but Sam says, "You wanted to see, so watch," and Dean freezes.
Sam presses the flat side of the blade against the wound, and when he lifts up, he turns the knife, sees smears of red against the gleaming silver. Sam rubs the blood into the blade, pressing the knife back to his skin when he needs to, until the entire blade has tasted him. Once he's checked to make sure, he uses a fingernail to draw out a rune on both sides of the knife's blade, one a rune of defence, the other a rune of attack.
That done, Sam lifts the knife up to the light, studies it for any visible imperfection in either blade, blood-covering, or rune, and, seeing none, he smiles. "Nihil proficiat inimicus in nobis," he murmurs, and then he brings the knife to his mouth, and licks the blood off.
He watches Dean while he licks a straight line up one side, then the other, tongue curling around the point at the top, careful not to nick his tongue beyond one tiny pinpoint prick. Dean's face has flushed, his pupils wide, and Sam raises an eyebrow when he's done.
"I did them all," he says, lifting his chin slightly, ready for Dean to go off on him, rebuke him for doing such a stupid, superstitious thing, but Dean's only looking at Sam, lips parted.
"Even your Ka-bar?" Dean asks after a moment.
Sam frowns, says, "All of our knives. All three sets." Dean doesn't say anything else, so Sam mentally shrugs his brother's odd behaviour off and picks up the polish and the rag, to finish off the knife in his hands.
Dean stops him, though, holds the wrist with the rag, and says, "Don't." Sam looks up, frowns again, and Dean says, "You have to let the taste sit," like he wasn't just mocking Sam about this a few minutes before.
"Dean, I've already," he begins, but then Dean's taking the knife away from Sam, putting it on the floor between them, staring at it, at the faint traces of crimson that Sam hadn't licked away, at the way the light bounces off of the silver, like sunlight on an oil slick.
"Dean," Sam sighs, "come on. I need to finish this one and put the set away."
Dean shakes his head, but then stops as if he's just thought of something, looks up. Sam's wary, Dean still looks captivated, but now there's a gleam in his eyes, the same gleam he had when this whole cracked-out conversation started.
"You put them away without using them?" Dean asks, and Sam's eyes widen.
"What the hell's gotten into you?" he asks, snatching the knife up off of the floor and wiping it down with the polish-soaked rag.
Dean's eyes are watching Sam's hands, but Sam ignores his brother, cleans the knife off and carefully tucks it away, then the Fairbairn-Sykes, before rolling up the kit, putting whetstone, polish, and rag to the side. He looks at Dean, then, and Dean pounces.
Sam's flat on his back, Dean straddling him, and Sam realises that Dean's hard, really hard, cock pressing a clear line into Dean's jeans.
"What the hell?" Sam asks again, though he's not making any move to change his position, instead rolling his hips upward slightly, watching with half a smile as Dean's breath catches.
"Sam, do you use them every time you draw one of them out?" Dean asks again, and leans down to lick a path up Sam's jawbone. Sam shakes his head, and Dean says, "Maybe you should start. Wouldn't want the knives to get mad at you, now, would we?"
"Dean, you've fucking lost it," Sam says, propping himself up on his elbows. It hurts; the motel carpet under them is too thin for it not to dig and scratch, but Sam's feeling completely off-balance and needs the extra leverage.
"Have not," Dean replies, and Sam knows his brother is going to stick out his tongue before it actually happens. So predictable.
Except obviously not.
"So, what. You're saying we should go out and hunt something down every time I want to polish the knives?" Sam asks, and Dean huffs, like he's disappointed in Sam. "What?"
Dean rolls his eyes, sits back on Sam's legs, and says, "You are such an idiot. I don't even know how we're related. Seriously?"
Sam gapes, pulls himself out from under Dean, and picks up the rolled set of knives, cradling them to his chest. "Seriously. What the hell are you going on about?"
Dean looks at Sam for a long minute, and just when Sam's about to start fidgeting, Dean asks, "Do you trust me?"
"Of course I do," Sam says, instant reply, blood heating up at the promise underlying those words. "You know I do."
It's another long moment before Dean nods, just once, and says softly, "Give me the knives, get undressed, and get on the bed."
Sam doesn't hesitate, not once, passing over the knives to Dean before standing up, peeling his clothes off, and lying on the bed. He can feel Dean watching, knows Dean's watching, and instead of that making him any shakier, it steadies him.
Dean's here. It's okay. Everything will be fine. Dean's here, no matter the look in his eyes.
Sam's half-hard; it doesn't take much more than a look from Dean, even now, and the room’s air is warm against his skin, but Sam still shivers, lying there, waiting. Waiting for Dean, who's sitting there, just watching.
"Dean?" Sam asks after a handful of seconds have passed, because Dean's still just sitting there, holding the knives. Dean moves, then, at the noise, and stands, stripping down to his boxers with practiced efficiency, then pulling them off and kicking them aside as well, and now it's Sam's turn to watch, to devour with hungry, aching eyes.
When Dean gets up on the bed, he brings the knives with him, and pulls out the smallest one, Sam's favourite, though he'd never admit it. Sam's eyes flick from the knife to Dean and back to the knife, and he watches as Dean presses the flat of the blade to Sam's lips.
"Kiss it," Dean murmurs, but it's no less than a command, an order. "Kiss it, and say you consent."
Sam's brows furrow, he wants to ask so many things, but in the end, he kisses the blade, and when Dean pulls it away, Sam licks his lips, looks Dean square in the eyes, and says, "I consent."
Dean's eyes gleam at the words, and Sam swallows, heart racing. He watches Dean, not the knife, when Dean's hand moves, and the sudden prick on his shoulder makes him jump, makes the tip of the blade dig in just that bit deeper. Sam doesn't say anything, just keeps his eyes on Dean, watches as his brother's cheeks flush, as Dean's pupils dilate faster than Sam thought possible.
"Fuck," Dean breathes, and then leans down, laps at the skin around the cut.
It doesn't hurt, the blade is too sharp and the cut wasn't deep enough, but the rough-slow slide of Dean's tongue against his skin has Sam's muscles tensing, body straining as Sam tries not to move.
He closes his eyes, doesn't see anything except incarnadine cobwebs blooming on the inside of his eyelids when Dean presses the knife against Sam's stomach, then against Sam's thigh, then against Sam's arm. Each time, only the faintest hint of pressure, followed by Dean's tongue, licking away faint traces of pain, of startlement.
There's no rhythm, no logic underlying this, so when Dean says, "Open your eyes, Sam," it makes as much sense as anything else.
Sam opens his eyes, looks at Dean, who's leaning over him.
"I want," Dean says, before trailing off, looking as if he's struggling, as if he's trying to say something but either he has no words or there are too many, clogging up his throat.
Sam looks at Dean, then holds out his hand for the knife.
With something approaching relief, Dean passes it over.
Sam adjusts his grip on the knife without looking, without concentration, fingers curling familiar around the handle, and he looks up at Dean. Remembering what his brother did, Sam presses the flat of the blade against Dean's lips. "Kiss it," he says, "and say you consent."
Sam's not sure where that comes from, where Dean picked it up, but as he watches Dean kiss the knife, lean back and say the words, Sam thinks it's more than appropriate. It's almost sacred, that kiss, the way Dean looks at Sam over the edge of the knife, through eyelashes more golden than ebony, full of reverence and want.
And Dean's voice, when he says the words, when he closes his eyes and leans up, baring his throat, is enough to make Sam forget everything except this: his brother, above him, cold metal in his hand, the power, the trust, the need.
Sam shifts, gets Dean to open his eyes again. "Lay down," he says, softly, moving out of the way as Dean does as Sam's instructed. "Tell me if I should stop," he says, gently, kneeling between Dean's spread legs.
Dean nods, says, "I will," and then closes his eyes and smiles.
Sam takes a moment to admire the picture Dean makes, naked and spread out, looking golden-pale in the odd motel lighting, as if he's delicate. But Sam can see muscles, the thinly-coiled grace of a predator, in the way Dean's laying there. The deception, the overlay and underlay, almost makes his breath catch before he can stop himself.
He scoots forward, suddenly unsure what he's doing, holding a knife, about ready to cut into his brother. He's never done this before, never thought about it or wondered or anything, and Dean wants it, badly, it seems. What if Sam messes it up? What if he does something wrong? What if--
And then Dean's opened his eyes, is looking at Sam, nothing but trust in his eyes, trust and amazement that Sam's even willing to go this far, trust and amazement and need for more, for everything that Sam can stand to give.
So Sam swallows, licks his lips, and nods.
He leans forward and presses the blade against Dean's collarbone, lets the flat silver trace out a pattern across Dean's neck, over the curve of his shoulder and back around, and Sam flicks the tip an inch below Dean's sternum, drawing blood.
Dean arches, digs the knife-point in deeper, and Sam snaps his wrist back, snaps the knife back, watching Dean with wide eyes. There's blood on Dean's chest, and Sam can't stop looking, can't stop watching as tiny drops well to the surface of Dean's skin, held in round beads of crimson before breaking and slip-sliding around the cut.
He leans forward and presses his lips over the cut, sucking hard. One of Dean's hands fists in Sam's hair, pressing him to the skin, and Dean's hips arch up, seeking friction.
"Fuck, Sam, s’good," Dean says, and Sam flicks his eyes up, watching his brother's face while he tastes Dean's blood, lets his tongue swipe over the wound, clean the skin, clot the cut.
Dean's hand in Sam's hair goes limp when Sam presses the knife against Dean's arm, and Sam moves, sits back again, eyes tracing over Dean's body, taking in the sheen of sweat on Dean's forehead, the way Dean's muscles are tense and straining, smiling when he sees Dean's cock hard and leaking pre-come.
Sam lets the knife trail over Dean's arms, and he's trying to decide where to cut next, somewhere unobtrusive, somewhere that won't hamper the hunt, when Dean says, "Please, Sam," like he can't wait any longer.
The knife slices a trail up one shoulder, turning the skin white before the blood blooms outwards, no thicker than a slight paper cut, but Dean sighs, his whole body seems to sigh, and Sam's captivated by the sight and sound.
He cuts a matching line down the other shoulder, and really, this is strange, this is odd and weird and it probably shouldn't be turning him on as much as it.
Sam tilts his head, studies Dean's face again, then scoots down slightly on the bed, so that he's leaning over Dean's stomach, Dean's cock. He presses the flat blade against Dean's left hipbone, licks the other, and then nudges Dean's cock with his nose as Sam flicks the knife over Dean's stomach, curving out a line of blood that looks like half a protection rune.
Dean makes a noise Sam can't classify and arches his hips up, clear message in the movement. Sam smiles, licks Dean's dick at the same time he finishes the protection rune on Dean's stomach.
"Fuck," Dean says, and Sam's smile grows. He moves up, traces the rune with his tongue, nibbling at the skin around the cuts, and strokes Dean's cock at the same time, slow and rough.
"Yeah?" Sam asks. Though it's not a serious question, it settles something inside of him when Dean's eyes fly open, meet his, pupils blown.
"Fuck yeah," Dean says. "C'mon, Sam. More."
Sam nods, Dean closes his eyes again, and Sam makes two shallow scrapes of the knife on Dean's hipbones, nuzzling the bone and the blood when he's done, following with a series of small criss-crossing cuts down the trail of hair leading to Dean's cock, the handle of the knife-and Sam's hand-brushing Dean's straining erection.
"Sam," Dean says, and Sam grins again, bends down and presses a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to Dean's thigh before trailing the knife's handle down one of Dean's legs and up the other.
"You asked if I like knives," Sam murmurs, letting the knife-point kiss Dean's thigh, dig in and draw blood. "I think you like them even better than I do."
Dean laughs, a weak, short noise, and says, "Sam. You think? God, you have no idea, when you polish them, fuck."
Sam smiles, and it's an echo of the one Dean wore when this all started, sharp edges and shadowed angles. "I'll find out," he murmurs, and pulls out the Fairbairn-Sykes dagger Dean had been holding earlier, long handle, even longer blade.
There's a moment where he almost stops, almost says that this is insane, that he's not doing this anymore, that he never should have started. But Dean said please, looked at him with those eyes, and Sam's unable to say no, wants with everything to make his brother happy, to know that Dean's happy and Sam had something to do with it, so he swallows and pushes down the hesitation.
Sam lets the dagger sit on the comforter, and he reaches for the lube on the table next to the bed. Dean's smiling when Sam looks, but the smile fades into a pleased groan when Sam lubes up his fingers and presses one into Dean's ass, slow and soft, gentle and easy.
Dean bucks up, and Sam crooks his finger, then draws it out, repeating the motion until Dean's swearing at him, and then Sam adds another finger. Then Dean's really swearing, and Sam loves to listen, to the pleading underneath the cussing, the vulnerability Dean only shows to Sam, and, even then, not very often.
When Sam thinks Dean's open enough, he bites his lip, picks up the big dagger, and covers the handle with lube, until it's practically dripping. Dean's eyes are closed, and Sam's relieved, he doesn't know how Dean's going to react, but when he positions the handle at Dean's entrance and pushes gently, Dean lets out a full-body shiver and groans.
"Fucking fuck," Dean says, and his back almost breaks when he arches, he's so far off the bed.
Sam's grinning so hard it hurts. "Damn," he says, working the handle into Dean slowly, then pulling it out again, trying to decide whether to watch Dean's face, or watch the handle of a dagger sinking in and out of his brother. "I never knew you were this kinky."
"You never asked," Dean replies, though how, Sam's not sure; it sounds as if Dean's having trouble breathing.
The next time Sam pushes the handle in, he takes the smaller knife and nicks one of Dean's calves, and Dean groans like he's being killed when Sam laps at the blood.
He's still trying to decide what it tastes like, Dean's blood; sure, he might have swallowed some before, but not like this, purposefully, for Dean's pleasure. It's different, warm and metallic, strangely Dean, rich and potent.
Sam licks again, pulling more out of Dean, and moves the handle of the knife, pulls it out of Dean at an angle. Dean whines, deep vibration in his chest, and Sam takes that as the cue it is.
He starts moving the dagger faster, in and out, careful not to let the blade get too close to any of Dean's skin. The smaller knife starts making dancing patterns over Dean's stomach, sometimes the point of the blade, sometimes the flat sides, no pattern, rhyme, or reason.
Dean's arching, thrusting, seeking friction, something to rub his cock against, finding nothing but air, filling the room with ragged breathing and low, murmured cussing.
And Sam, Sam's doing this, part of this, watching but involved, and fuck but he's hard, just as ready to come as Dean.
"Yeah, Dean," he says, watching his brother's face. "You know you wanna come, so come."
It takes three more thrusts of the dagger's handle and what seems like hours of tense, spiralling muscles, and then Dean freezes, rigid, and his cock starts to spurt.
Sam keeps making shallow thrusts with the dagger until Dean's finally still, then he takes the Fairbairn-Sykes, lets it fall on the floor along with the other knife, and crawls upwards, licking off Dean's chest, the sweat, the blood, the strands of come.
"Fuck," Dean finally says, when his chest under Sam's tongue has stopped heaving, his heart settled back into a normal rhythm. "That was, fuck."
Sam grins against Dean's skin, gives his brother's shoulder a wet, open-mouthed kiss, sucking a little before licking the redness away and moving, lying down next to Dean. He's still hard, and the barest hint of pressure against his cock has him rubbing against Dean as he says, "The things I do for you," as if he's surprised or almost ashamed.
Dean laughs, not fooled by the tone, and twists slightly, reaches down and takes Sam's dick in hand, jerks hard and rough. "The things I make you do," he murmurs, and then laughs again when Sam speaks.
"Don't mind," Sam says, hips moving, legs tangling up in Dean's. "Really. It's okay."
Dean pauses at that, flicks his thumb over the slit in Sam's cock, and he says, "You'd do it again?"
Just the thought of seeing Dean like that again, handle of the knife, Sam's knife, sliding in and out of him, panting raw and ragged under Sam, is enough to force the orgasm from Sam's bones, and he comes with a muttered, "Holy fucking hell, yes." Sam breathes, waits for his body to stop shaking, and then adds, "Just, not right now."