Author: Lily, annabeth_fics
Pairing: Wincest (Sam/Dean)
Warnings: incest. pain!kink. (graphic) cutting. self-mutilation. language. solo sexual exploration as a child.
Spoilers: Pilot (vague)
Notes: because sgfansean reminded me I liked pain!kink when I read merihn's and I wondered why I'd never written any. So I did.
Summary: [F]or Sam it's something sought after because it fills his belly with the same sweet pulse every time.
word count: 3984
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Supernatural and I don't recommend cutting, so please don't try this at home.
A Thin Red Line
It's a thin red line, a track amongst tracks, little pin pricks of liquid seeping up over the straight edges. Sometimes, Sam thinks, the strangest thing about wanting to have sex with his brother isn't because he's related, or even because he's another guy, but because he makes Sam think of this, the little even tracks of broken skin that march in rows along his thigh.
And sometimes, Sam thinks, maybe Dean knows, kind of like he can always tell when Sam's been injured on a hunt, even when the wounds don't show; maybe Dean's known for a long time about this aspect of Sam, something he's been trying to keep hidden for about as long as he's been hiding his less-than-fraternal feelings for Dean.
Sam rubs his thumb and forefinger over the thin red line and smears the copper into his skin, pinches the surrounding area and bites down on a breath, watches the blood drip like tears. Presses the heel of his palm roughly against the erection tenting his boxers. Lifts the sharp glinting edge of the razor blade, slides it into his skin, another notch in the little fence of scars on his thigh.
It's not about the blood, and it's not about self-mutilation, and Sam would know. He's had about as many psychology courses as any self-respecting college student and he knows perfectly well why he marks up his flesh with a razor blade, and it has nothing to do with depression or anxiety or 'needing to feel alive' and everything to do with the sweet ache in his cock from the blissful burst of pain.
Sam's not really sure what Dean would think, if his brother could even understand, or if he would just take it as more solid proof that Sam's gone 'round the bend since Jess died, and there's really no way to explain how he's felt this way for as long as he can remember.
Three years old and learning for the first time that it feels good to slide his hand inside his underwear and rub against himself, learning for the first time that pinching the skin creates a pulse of pleasure that is far more intense than just his hand, and it's only grown since then.
Five years old and comparing himself to Dean every chance he gets, like in the bath together in a crappy apartment to conserve hot water, and fiercely jealous because Dean's older and gets to do anything, and he doesn't complain the water's too hot and scalding his skin because it makes him feel good in a backwards sort of way, and even then, too young to understand much, Sam understands pain. Understands that for most people pain is just pain, something that hurts enough to be avoided, but for Sam it's something sought after because it fills his belly with the same sweet pulse every time.
Seven years old and he burns his fingers in the flame of a candle in the place where they're squatting for a few days, and Dean scolds him as he puts the blisters under cold water, slathers them with vitamin E and bandages his fingers, and when he asks, Geez, Sammy, what were you thinking? Haven't I taught you anything? there's really no answer Sam can give that would make sense to his brother. Because Dean knows pain, and Sam has seen the way his brother looks when suffering from it, and he knows that Dean doesn't like it.
So Sam files that away under Dean's normal and I'm not and gets on with growing up, because there's nothing he can do about it, and it never occurs to him to feel bad about it.
Twelve years old and the kickback from the shotgun, hard against his shoulder, gives him his very first orgasm, and he's thankful for the worn dark denim and boxers underneath, because he really doesn't want to have to try and explain to Dean just what he's feeling. He manages to grab the shower first after training and once inside he experiments, and touching himself brings all kinds of pleasant feelings to the surface, but it's sharply twisting one of his nipples that brings him off for the second time in his life.
Fifteen years old and Sam realises for the first time that maybe not normal equals bad, when he asks the girl he takes on his first date to use her fingernails, and not to worry about hurting him; she gives him a funny look and demands that he take her home, and Sam starts to think maybe he's more fucked up than he thought. When they leave town two days later Sam's resolved not to let anyone else know just how much he enjoys pain, and that includes Dean.
Because fifteen years old and the one thing that gets him off faster than anything else isn't a physical pain at all, but the thought of how Dean would treat him if he knew his little brother had thought not about kissing that girl, but kissing Dean, and so Sam creams his shorts in the bed next to Dean without even touching himself.
Sam's seventeen the first time he puts razor blade to tender flesh and presses down until it bites into his skin and draws the blood out. His cock jumps against his belly and Sam tightens his fist around it until his fingernails are digging into the tender flesh, and he really only has to slide his hand down until his nails are leaving red marks and then he's coming, and Dean's out with some girl whose name he doesn't know and Dad's on a hunt, so Sam takes his time cleaning up, staring at the thin red line on his thigh and wondering.
Nineteen years old and Sam's gone away to college, and he almost winds up in the psych ward because the blood seeps through his boxers one night and it brings up all sorts of uncomfortable questions. The resident assistant wants to call his father, but Sam knows that won't fly, and he still doesn't want Dean to know about the depths of his depravity, so he blames it on shaving -- I'm sorry, I dropped the razor and it cut me on the way to the floor -- and she sighs and admonishes him to be more careful and lets him go back to his room.
When Sam turns twenty-one he's spending it with his girlfriend, Jessica, who has luckily never asked where all of the various scars on his body have come from, and he can't really explain any of them, but the little ladder of scars on his thigh are the only ones that are self-inflicted, and he really doesn't want to have to try and come up with an explanation for those, either.
She doesn't know he gets off on pain because it's not something he likes to advertise, not after the way his first date treated him, and somewhere in the good old U.S.A. Dean is hunting ghosts and monsters and Sam can't help but think about Dean when he kisses her on the mouth, wishing that his brother was around for his birthday.
That night the sex gets rough for the first time and she gouges him from his collarbone down the back of his shoulder, hard enough to draw blood, and his cock jerks and he comes unexpectedly, and she's gripping him with her thighs and thrashing on the bed, and so he bites her, losing control, and she comes convulsing underneath him.
It's not something they ever talk about, but the fingernail marks linger for days, and the teeth marks on her throat last just as long, and Sam thinks maybe he's found a kindred spirit, that maybe he's not as fucked up as he thought.
But it turns out to be anomaly, because the next time he bares his teeth she pushes him away gently -- you know, Sam, that was a bitch to explain last time, not to mention it fucking hurt -- and even though she's not careful around him, it's pretty clear she doesn't share his little fetish. It's like Jess knows that he can handle it, like she's not worried about hurting him because he's so much bigger and stronger, but it makes life a lot more difficult for Sam, because even though she's almost as tall as Dean she's still female and therefore more fragile.
He lies awake for an entire night thinking about Dean and wondering what it would be like to sink his teeth into that golden skin, wondering if Dean would be just as rough, if maybe Sam could get off without ever having to own up to his kink for pain.
Three years old and Sam remembers idolising his older brother, five years old and he remembers the way Dean looked, hair always tousled and more often than not his nose would be red, skin sunburnt across his cheeks. Seven years old and Dean's had more girlfriends than Sam can count, kissing them behind the elementary school, and coming home with all kinds of tales to share with his baby brother under the blankets in the middle of the night. Twelve years old and Sam's starting to notice the way Dean's eyes crinkle up at the corners and the way his lips curve like a male model's, but he's still too young to really understand it. Fifteen years old and Sam finally puts a name to what he feels -- lust -- and discovers that possibly the only thing worse than liking pain is liking your only brother.
Seventeen and the bite of the razor blade is just as painful as the knowledge that he's fallen in love with the one person he can never have. Nineteen and he's leaving for school because if he doesn't get away from Dean he doesn't really know what will happen, only that it won't be pretty and will probably result in a black eye for Dean and a couple of bruised ribs for himself. And then twenty-two and he's back in the Impala like he'd never left, Dean with his hand loosely on the wheel, silver ring glinting like the edge of his razor blade and making him think of carving up his skin till he comes, like maybe he can drown the lust for his brother in the blood of his pain kink.
And now, twenty-three, and there are as many scars on his thigh as years he's been alive, and Dean's out getting coffee, giving him hopefully just enough time to score one more line into his flesh until he comes. The last line is a little uneven because at the last second his hand trembles, and then Sam's spurting white over his hand, folding his fingers up until it's wet in the centre of his palm, and then he smudges it against the bloody lines on his thigh.
Sam hears the little beep of the key card in the lock and he's got barely enough time to whip the corner of the blanket over his leg before Dean enters the room, two coffees balanced in one hand, the key card hanging from the other.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean says cheerfully. He sets the coffees down, stuffs the key card back into his pocket, and then fishes around on his bed for something. He holds up his gun triumphantly and grins in Sam's general direction. "Can't believe I forgot my baby in the room," he says.
Sam waves with his clean hand, acutely conscious of the burning pain in his thigh and the come and blood, mingled together and drying on his skin.
"Gotta be less careless," Dean says absentmindedly, tucking his gun into the back of his jeans. "Listen, Sam, you want take-out tonight? Or that kinda scary-looking little diner down the street?"
"Uh, who's getting the take-out?" Sam asks, wishing he wasn't so inconveniently sloppy beneath the bedspread. Dean waggles his eyebrows and holds up his fist, indicating a rousing game of rock-paper-scissors, but Sam knows that the minute he brings out his left hand he's going to have some serious explaining to do. It's impossible that there isn't blood mixed with the come on his hand and there's no way he wants to explain that to Dean.
Just having Dean in close proximity is enough to make his dick twitch a little, almost ready for another round -- give it five more minutes -- and Sam has to figure out some way to get rid of Dean long enough to make a mad dash for the bathroom. But Dean winds up making it easy for him, because he turns around and pats down his pockets.
"Shit, I think I left my wallet in the Impala," he says. "Be right back."
As soon as the door closes behind him Sam's out of bed in a flash and throwing the latch on the bathroom door by the time he hears the door to the motel room open and close again.
"Sammy?" Dean calls out. "You're just trying to get out of picking up dinner!"
"Uh, no, I just realised I needed a shower, that's all," he shouts back. The water stings like a bitch in the fresh cuts and Sam can't control the way his hips jerk under the spray, can't keep his hands away from his cock, and he comes for the second time that day to the soundtrack of his brother singing Metallica at the top of his lungs, off-key and painful on the ears. For someone who loves music as much as Dean does, he can't carry a tune in a bucket.
Once out of the shower Sam cleans up the cuts and puts medicine on them, because if there's one thing he's learned from years of hunting it's that an infection can be very dangerous. He leaves them unbandaged though, rummages through the cabinet over the sink, and discovers a rubber band forgotten on the bottom shelf. He slips it on over his wrist, half-hidden under his jelly bracelet, and then wraps a towel around his waist.
Dean's reclining on his own bed when Sam emerges, and his eyes are half-mast and his arms are crossed. The bedspread is rumpled up underneath him and it's apparent that he's drifting off, so Sam gives him five minutes to really sink under and then discards the towel, back to Dean.
The slight scratchiness of the fabric abrades the wounds as he pulls his jeans on, but all that really does is mainline a whole lot of blood to his cock, which makes zipping up and buttoning rather difficult.
Dean's completely down for the count when he turns around, so he snakes the Impala's keys from his pocket and goes out to get the food. The skin around the cuts is tight and pulls when he moves, especially when he puts his foot on the accelerator, and he spends the entire drive aroused as hell and when he gets there he has to sit in the car for ten minutes thinking about zombies and ghouls until he's presentable enough to go inside.
He finds himself snapping the rubber band against his wrist as he waits in line, and the painful stinging feels so fucking good that he decides then and there to keep one around his wrist on a regular basis.
By the time he gets back Dean's nowhere to be seen, but the bathroom door is half-closed, so Sam arranges the fast-food on the night table and kicks off his sneakers. He's just shrugging out of his jacket when Dean comes out of the bathroom, and there's a storm cloud over Dean's features.
"Hey, Sammy," he says, and his voice is about as dark as his eyes. "Did you get hurt on that last hunt?"
"I brought dinner," Sam says first. Then tosses his jacket over the back of the desk chair. "No, why?"
"There's blood on your sheets," Dean replies. "Wanna explain that?"
"Must've cut myself shaving," Sam tries, even though he figures it's not gonna go over with Dean. Sure enough Dean's green eyes blacken even further.
"At the foot of the bed?" he inquires, bland like he's asking about what soup to buy. His eyebrow goes up in tandem with his tone.
"I slept wrong way round?" Sam says, but Dean's never been stupid and besides, he's known Sam since he was born. It's not likely he doesn't know when Sam's bullshitting and trying to get away with something.
"Sam," he says. "If you got hurt on the last hunt, you should have let me check it out--"
But his brother goes on determinedly, carrying on over the interruption. "If it's someplace embarrassing just remember I helped change--"
"Dean," Sam says urgently. "Not. helping."
"Then what's the problem?" And Dean goes over and flips back the thin blanket, revealing blood-spotted sheets, and for the first time Sam wonders what Dean was doing searching his bed in the first place.
"You know, Dean, instead of giving me the third degree, why don't you try explaining why you were in my bed, anyway?"
Dean's eyes immediately get shifty, and something slides into place in Sam's brain. Something that feels suspiciously like vindication, like maybe he's not the only one of them who's totally fucked up.
"Yeah, that's what I thought," Sam says, and turns the blanket back down. But before he can get much beyond righteous indignation Dean's crowding him back against the bed, and the backs of his calves suddenly have no place to go.
"Sam," Dean says, and Sam realises that Dean's been dissembling this entire time when his brother holds up the little straight razor. "Why the fuck would you need to hurt yourself?"
Sam deliberately widens his eyes innocently, not because he's planning on lying -- not exactly -- but to buy time, because chances are Dean's not going to believe him no matter what he says.
"It's not what you're thinking--" he starts, but Dean manages to cut him off with just a look. That look is the one that scares all of the civilians away from them whenever Dean feels like projecting just how dangerous they are, and usually it doesn't affect Sam at all, but this is different. Oh yeah, this is way fucking different than any normal circumstance.
"You have no idea what the fuck I'm thinking," Dean says, low and dangerous. "Start talking, Sam."
"Igetoffonpain." It all comes out in a rush, unexpected and fucking stupid, and Sam finds himself waiting for the inevitable fallout. Dean blinks, then blinks again, backs off a little. The razor blade drops from his fingers and lands on the threadbare carpet, forgotten.
"You-- Wait. What? You what?" Dean's capability of speech seems to have deserted him, and unfortunately, Sam can sympathise. But the look on Dean's face is no less dark, and it dawns on him that Dean can't really fathom it, that his older brother still thinks he's trying to cover something up.
"Seriously," Sam says, trying to inject as much calm into his voice as he can. "I like pain."
"Nobody likes pain," Dean says automatically, then pauses and gives Sam a once-over like he's never seen him before. "I mean. Do you? Really?"
"I don't know why," Sam says helplessly, spreading his arms wide. "I always have."
"Like, when you say always, you mean, always always?"
"Dean, come on, are you fucking kidding me? What do you think 'always' means?"
Dean still looks a little confused, until his gaze lands on the rubber band at Sam's wrist. All of a sudden Sam has an idea, a way to prove to his brother what he's saying without doing anything too drastic and making Dean crazy with worry. Very deliberately he tugs on the band, far enough out that it's really gonna fucking hurt, and lets go.
The snap of it against his wrist sounds really loud in the confined space, silent except for their harsh breathing, and then his cock is a heavy bulge in his jeans and he watches, a little smugly, as Dean's gaze travels downwards and takes in this new development.
"You-- Get off on pain." Dean shakes his head. "You weren't fucking kidding." And then before Sam can take another breath Dean's fingers are pulling the elastic away from his wrist again. Dean releases it and watches it snap back, then looks down and takes in the way Sam's dick jerks under the denim. "Amazing."
"Dude," Sam says. "It's not funny."
"Do I look to you like I'm laughing?" Dean returns. His wit definitely hasn't suffered. "Doesn't explain the blood and the straight razor, though," he says, and arches an eyebrow again.
Sam rolls his shoulders helplessly. "It's just easier," he attempts to explain.
"No. No way, forget it. You can get off on pain all you want but you're not cutting yourself anymore."
"Dean, c'mon. I always put medicine on it, and I'm really careful," Sam says, because really, the little fence of scars on his leg is something he likes to have, because even when they're not fresh anymore, when they don't hurt anymore, he can still get off just by looking at them.
"No way," Dean repeats in a whisper. Leans in close, tilts his head up, parts those lips and Dean's close enough to kiss and it's taking all of Sam's willpower not to duck down and just take what he wants, whether Dean does or not. But then Dean closes the distance between their lips and speaks, the words leaving his mouth and falling straight into Sam's own. "Let me," he breathes. And then they're kissing.
Sam's not really sure what changed, what made him really want Dean, and he has no idea why Dean would even consider wanting him back, but Dean's lips are a lot rougher than they look, and his stubble burns against Sam's chin, and it goes straight to his cock like Dean orchestrated it that way.
Sam forgets to close his eyes, finds himself staring down at the faint freckles on the bridge of Dean's nose, sweeps his eyes up and takes in the smooth high forehead, and then Dean meshes their mouths together more firmly and Sam's not thinking anymore.
Dean bites down on Sam's bottom lip and just like that he creams his jeans in a way he hasn't done since he was fifteen. Dean grins against Sam's mouth, breaks away.
"So easy, Sammy," he smirks. Sam's red and he knows it, face scorching, and he shoves against Dean's shoulder until his brother backs off.
The blood on his lip tastes bitter and it stings where Dean broke the skin, and frankly Sam remembers why it sucks to come in his clothes, so he pushes around Dean and starts stripping out of his jeans.
Dean whirls him around when the jeans are at his ankles, and Sam nearly topples over, which is why it's a lucky thing Dean's so strong, because he steadies him and then holds him in place while he studies the much abused thigh.
"Not pretty," Dean says, but he doesn't really sound angry. "But strangely compelling." He maneuvers them closer to his own bed and overbalances Sam until he falls, flailing, back onto the mattress. And then Dean's licking the scars one by one, starting with the oldest ones first; by the time he reaches the fresh marks Sam's swollen and shaking and then he digs his tongue into the wounds, hot and tender, until they bleed. Sam knows that when he's finished the peroxide is going to come out to clean away the germs from Dean's mouth, but what the hell.
It's not like he's afraid of a little pain.