Fic: Bloody Bandaids (2/3? Supernatural)
Title: Bloody Bandaids (2/3?)
Author: thefrogg
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Beta: fluffnutter
Rating: FRAO
Summary: Sam figures out what Dean needs, and insists on being the one to give it to him.
Warnings: h/c, knifeplay, BDSM, D/s, Dom!Sam, incest (duh)
Spoilers: The Benders
The storage depot was the same as he'd left it, a little more run down, the bare patches where paint had flaked off a bit bigger. Sam climbed out of the Impala, slammed the door behind him, and looked up towards the roof, shielding his eyes from the sun before turning back. "You comin' in or not?"
"You have a storage locker."
Sam cocked his head, eyes rolling. "More like a workshop, but, whatever. Now come on." He turned and sauntered away from the car, leaving Dean to curse under his breath and hurry to follow.
They made their way down too-quiet hallways, the light dim and filtering through ever-present dust. Finally Sam stopped in front of a door of chicken wire and metal pipes, a layer of fine mesh on the inside an obvious attempt at additional security.
The lock stuck. It took several tries and mild swearing for Sam to jimmy it open, but finally it did, and Sam stopped Dean from setting off the traps before he could disarm them.
Dean just snorted, waiting patiently for Sam to beckon him inside. "What is all this? You had a dorm --"
"And I couldn't keep anything there, not...really. And there was just some stuff I couldn't keep around Jessie. Too many questions."
Waiting for Sam to fumble open the inner door, Dean looked around at the sleek black metal cabinets, the dusty open shelves. "Mind if I look around?"
Sam gave him a floppy hand-wave, the tinny rattle of the door offering indifferent punctuation.
The first cabinet had nothing interesting, old textbooks, boxes of papers, binders of who-knew-what schoolwork. The second wasn't much better.
The third though--
"Sammy, what the hell are you doing with all this ammunition?" Rows of boxes stared back at him, stacks of silver, stacks of shotgun shells (marked with white x's for salt-packed), rounds for the .45, extra clips. Enough to wage a small war.
"Just because I stopped hunting things, didn't mean that things stopped hunting me. And I told you, I couldn't keep this stuff at the dorm." Sam's voice was heavy with grief and regret.
Jessica. Always Jessica.
Dean shut the cabinet, skipping the other two to join his brother. "You were a closeted hunter? And you let us believe you walked away?"
Sam's shoulders hunched. "I didn't do anything. I just -- I kept it for comfort. So I could be ready. So...so I'd have something to offer you and Dad if you needed help," he finally whispered. "All of this?" He waved at the wall display of knives, from scalpel to an honest-to-god katana, the rack of guns, the maps and drawings and scribbled sigils posted with thumbtacks and tape. "I couldn't even use it to protect myself at home, I had to sneak out and come here."
"To your workshop," Dean finished dully.
Sam rubbed one hand along the scarred tabletop, idly picking up a spool of wire to play with. "I wanted out. But...you know, you know it's impossible to unknow things. I couldn't forget. I couldn't expose everyone around me to what I knew," and he choked on the words, rubbed his cheek before continuing. "Hell, my boyfriend freaked just because I had a bunch of knives at the dorms --"
"Wait, boyfriend?"
A bitter laugh echoed through the room. "You're really...not listening to me. How do you think I learned how to use these things," and steel flashed into Sam's hand, then vanished, "for anything other than killing?"
"And he freaked."
Sam shrugged, dropping the wire and turning to a locked chest. "It's one thing to have a couple of pocket knives, a dive knife, a switchblade. Quite another to have...that."
Dean eyed Sam's knife collection; it looked fine to him, but then, he was a hunter. He wasn't exactly able to give an objective opinion. "So, what, he thought you were a nutcase?"
Sam refused to look at him. "Serial killer. Or something."
"Jesus, Sammy."
Sam flashed him a twisted smile. "Water under the bridge. Lemme get what we came here for and we can go."
Dean fidgeted at the reminder and cleared his throat. "Ya know..."
"Ye-es?" Sam didn't look at him, just unlocked the chest with practiced fingers, hinges protesting with a soft creak as the lid lifted.
"I don't need this now," Dean said softly.
"I know." Dean's gaze was hot across Sam's shoulders, confused and vulnerable. "I'm not leaving it until it becomes a problem again."
"So, what then? I have to get sharing and caring all over again?" The words came slowly, stiffly.
Sam didn't answer right away, instead taking a small duffel out of the chest and shoving items into it. "You don't have to say anything, or talk to me, or ask for it. Ever, if that's not what you want."
"Then..." The word shook, echoing off the concrete walls, trembling on the verge of a profound and delicate balance.
"Either you give me some kind of signal I can understand, or I'll use my own judgement."
Author: thefrogg
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Beta: fluffnutter
Rating: FRAO
Summary: Sam figures out what Dean needs, and insists on being the one to give it to him.
Warnings: h/c, knifeplay, BDSM, D/s, Dom!Sam, incest (duh)
Spoilers: The Benders
The storage depot was the same as he'd left it, a little more run down, the bare patches where paint had flaked off a bit bigger. Sam climbed out of the Impala, slammed the door behind him, and looked up towards the roof, shielding his eyes from the sun before turning back. "You comin' in or not?"
"You have a storage locker."
Sam cocked his head, eyes rolling. "More like a workshop, but, whatever. Now come on." He turned and sauntered away from the car, leaving Dean to curse under his breath and hurry to follow.
They made their way down too-quiet hallways, the light dim and filtering through ever-present dust. Finally Sam stopped in front of a door of chicken wire and metal pipes, a layer of fine mesh on the inside an obvious attempt at additional security.
The lock stuck. It took several tries and mild swearing for Sam to jimmy it open, but finally it did, and Sam stopped Dean from setting off the traps before he could disarm them.
Dean just snorted, waiting patiently for Sam to beckon him inside. "What is all this? You had a dorm --"
"And I couldn't keep anything there, not...really. And there was just some stuff I couldn't keep around Jessie. Too many questions."
Waiting for Sam to fumble open the inner door, Dean looked around at the sleek black metal cabinets, the dusty open shelves. "Mind if I look around?"
Sam gave him a floppy hand-wave, the tinny rattle of the door offering indifferent punctuation.
The first cabinet had nothing interesting, old textbooks, boxes of papers, binders of who-knew-what schoolwork. The second wasn't much better.
The third though--
"Sammy, what the hell are you doing with all this ammunition?" Rows of boxes stared back at him, stacks of silver, stacks of shotgun shells (marked with white x's for salt-packed), rounds for the .45, extra clips. Enough to wage a small war.
"Just because I stopped hunting things, didn't mean that things stopped hunting me. And I told you, I couldn't keep this stuff at the dorm." Sam's voice was heavy with grief and regret.
Jessica. Always Jessica.
Dean shut the cabinet, skipping the other two to join his brother. "You were a closeted hunter? And you let us believe you walked away?"
Sam's shoulders hunched. "I didn't do anything. I just -- I kept it for comfort. So I could be ready. So...so I'd have something to offer you and Dad if you needed help," he finally whispered. "All of this?" He waved at the wall display of knives, from scalpel to an honest-to-god katana, the rack of guns, the maps and drawings and scribbled sigils posted with thumbtacks and tape. "I couldn't even use it to protect myself at home, I had to sneak out and come here."
"To your workshop," Dean finished dully.
Sam rubbed one hand along the scarred tabletop, idly picking up a spool of wire to play with. "I wanted out. But...you know, you know it's impossible to unknow things. I couldn't forget. I couldn't expose everyone around me to what I knew," and he choked on the words, rubbed his cheek before continuing. "Hell, my boyfriend freaked just because I had a bunch of knives at the dorms --"
"Wait, boyfriend?"
A bitter laugh echoed through the room. "You're really...not listening to me. How do you think I learned how to use these things," and steel flashed into Sam's hand, then vanished, "for anything other than killing?"
"And he freaked."
Sam shrugged, dropping the wire and turning to a locked chest. "It's one thing to have a couple of pocket knives, a dive knife, a switchblade. Quite another to have...that."
Dean eyed Sam's knife collection; it looked fine to him, but then, he was a hunter. He wasn't exactly able to give an objective opinion. "So, what, he thought you were a nutcase?"
Sam refused to look at him. "Serial killer. Or something."
"Jesus, Sammy."
Sam flashed him a twisted smile. "Water under the bridge. Lemme get what we came here for and we can go."
Dean fidgeted at the reminder and cleared his throat. "Ya know..."
"Ye-es?" Sam didn't look at him, just unlocked the chest with practiced fingers, hinges protesting with a soft creak as the lid lifted.
"I don't need this now," Dean said softly.
"I know." Dean's gaze was hot across Sam's shoulders, confused and vulnerable. "I'm not leaving it until it becomes a problem again."
"So, what then? I have to get sharing and caring all over again?" The words came slowly, stiffly.
Sam didn't answer right away, instead taking a small duffel out of the chest and shoving items into it. "You don't have to say anything, or talk to me, or ask for it. Ever, if that's not what you want."
"Then..." The word shook, echoing off the concrete walls, trembling on the verge of a profound and delicate balance.
"Either you give me some kind of signal I can understand, or I'll use my own judgement."