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Sixteen-year-old Dean's gaze remained glued to the wet stains of fresh blood on the sheets of their shared bed. Sam was hunched over in the bathroom, waiting for his brother and father to scold him, but Dean couldn't look away. Not when the fresh burgundy stain contrasted so starkly against the white sheets, slowly spreading. There was something about this, about the smell, about the color. About the fact that this blood came from his little brother's hand. About Dean failing once again to keep an eye on Sammy like he'd promised his father he would. About catching the younger Winchester cutting himself and being unable to do anything about it.
He knew the moral solution would be to tell his father. But that wasn't an option. He wouldn't feel good complaining about Sam, and he'd feel even worse if John misunderstood and contributed even more to his brother's problem. Because Dean was almost certain their father was the culprit. Why else would a twelve-year-old boy, his twelve-year-old boy, be so brutal to himself? Yesterday's argument was the only reason Dean could think of right now. The argument from a week ago. His father's nasty remarks to Sam. Forcing Dean to treat him worse because he didn't want to go hunting two weeks ago. Although it wasn't entirely that. Sam wasn't saying he didn't want to, he was simply afraid. Two days ago, since that event, he'd experienced a series of nightmares that Dean had helped him through, but they still lingered in Sam's mind to some extent. And they had influenced his firm decision to give up hunting. Sam never says no to anything without a reason, Dean knew that, but John didn't.
Dean sighed heavily, slowly approaching the bed. The closer he got, the more he could smell the stale stench of blood, quickly assaulting his nose and the rest of his senses. He knelt down in front of the bed and, stretching out his index finger, touched the blood with his fingertip, staining it on the tip of his finger.
He didn't understand what was driving him at that moment. Where this sudden urge had come from. Still, without resisting, he licked a streak of blood from his finger, feeling that bittersweet, metallic taste on his tongue. It made him want more. He turned his head to check if Sam was still in the bathroom, not wanting him to see his older brother like this. Although Sammy would probably understand anyway. They were like two peas in a pod, despite John's constant comparisons. They understood each other everytime, no matter how strange their behavior, so theoretically, Dean shouldn't have to worry about anything. Except he couldn't bring himself to stop thinking about how messed up this was, even for him.
He leaned forward, both hands flattened against the sides of the mattress to support his weight, and slowly licked the stain still on the sheets. He closed his eyes, savoring this moment, which he knew wouldn't last long. That's what made it so special.
Various thoughts swirled in his mind, the second worse than the first. He imagined what it would be like to watch the whole process. What it would be like to sit with Sam on their shared bed, the bed that held all their secrets, and simply observe. To follow his brother's movements as he chose the sharpest razor blade with which to mutilate his body. Maybe Sam was so deep into this that he had a favorite pair? Or maybe instead of these little pieces of junk, he'd chosen something worse? A pocket knife? A hunting knife? Dean wanted to know. He also wanted to know how Sam reacted to the first cut. Did he flinch? Did he smile? Or was that perpetual grimace on his face that Dean had such a hard time reading? Was he staring at his hand after the cut, or was he looking away, or was his eyes closed the entire time, hoping that maybe this time he'd pop a vein? God, Dean secretly hoped Sam wasn't doing this to kill himself. Anything but that. Dean can't survive ten minutes without him, let alone his whole life.
Dean pressed his lips to the stain, now completely soaked into the sheets. He moved his mouth as if kissing, imagining Sam had just raised his wrist and ordered him to lick away the remnants of blood that hadn't fallen onto the bed. And Dean, being the good and obedient boy he was, obeyed almost immediately, grabbing his brother's arm a little too quickly, drawing the open wound to his warm lips. Dean remembered how Sam always liked it when Dean kissed his wounds, bruises, or scabs. Whether it was when he fell and scraped his knee, or when he caught his fingers in the window, it didn't matter. Dean was always there, close to him, ready to take all his pain and bury it deep within himself.
His thoughts raced, gently treading into darker, more intimate places. Kissing his brother's open wound, he would suddenly push his tongue between the skin, touching the flesh inside. Making Sam shudder and moan, and maybe cry a little if he'd already shed a tear. He'd feed on him like it was his last meal. As if Sam's insides were sweet and tart, like cherry pie filling. Dean would suck on the blood like the vampires he and his father hunted, watching Sam through half-lidded eyes as he did so. He'd maintain eye contact the entire time, mesmerizing and enticing.
Dean sighed again, a little heavier this time. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hips jerking, starting to move back and forth. He was chasing what he could describe as an orgasm, if only there were another body beneath him. Now, all he did was grind against the wood of the bed, still pushing his tongue into the dried blood. A few moans escaped his lips, more desperate and plaintive than ever. The image in his head was also starting to get a little steamier. He would crush Sam beneath his body, watching his face begin to show emotions other than sadness or dejection. Watching his face begin to show pleasure, the desire that had been building within them for some time. Dean grabs the tool Sam used to slice through his wrist, his other hand tugging and removing his brother's shirt, tossing it aside. His mouth still inside Sam as he begins to slowly slide the blade across his brother's flat stomach, playing and teasing. He cuts a small area until blood begins to ooze, and presses his lips to the new spot, wanting more. Wanting to take Sam inside him like the body of Christ.
Dean panted into the sheets, pulling his hands off the mattress and gripping the leather waistband of his pants. He nervously began to unzip his jeans, feeling his likely reddened cock already twitching and leaking, staining more of his boxers, ready for action. However, the sudden sound of the faucet running stopped him in his tracks. He quickly zipped his pants back up, rising from the floor on slightly unsteady legs.
His feet carried him to the bathroom door, hearing soft breathing and running water behind them. A second later, the water stopped, and he heard a new sound – clothes scraping against each other and muttered curses that Sam definitely shouldn't have used at such a young age. Dean bit his lower lip and gently knocked on the door three times, using their secret code, waiting for a response. When he didn't receive one, he entered the bathroom.
Their eyes met again that day. Although Dean's gaze didn't linger on one of the wounds on his brother's body. No, there were so many, Dean couldn't count them. On his wrists, on his thighs, on his stomach. Sam stood there, stripped to his underwear, shaking and nervous, as if he didn't trust Dean. Bullshit, of course Sam trusted Dean. That would never change.
Dean found himself staring at one particular scar on Sam's arm. Small cuts, forming the beginning of a crooked heart. Dean snorted, grabbed the doorknob, closed the door behind him, and said,
"Show me."