Title: Souvenirs
Author: liath
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Warnings: incest
Rating: NC-17
Note: Written in response to prompts I requested on LJ. Minor knife play.
Summary: Some things you never lose.


Fingertips travel every stretch, every broken ivory mile that spans Dean's skin. Sam finds each scar blindly, each ridge and depression, each measure of polished flesh like lines of blueprint. He skims some, skin torn and knitted in those four years gone. Others he can almost feel still laid open, jagged and bleeding beneath his fingers before the worry of needle and thread.

The weary November light cuts in, shatters over Dean's chest in sharp relief as Sam walks to the window.

"We should see the canyons tomorrow."


He shrugs. The moon is the color of bone.

"Come back to bed."


There's no sound, there never is. Nothing but rough air and slick-pressed skin when he covers Dean, mouth sliding down the valleys of his brother's throat, the peaks of his shoulders. His lips burn over perfect, marred skin, read stories and tear open memories. Sam pulls a thumb across Dean's mouth, slides it in at the corner to bump against his teeth. Dean licks over the pad, the nail, and Sam kisses him, tongue slipping over his brother's lips.

Sam looks up and sees blown pupils and long lashes. A white crescent slices shallow just beneath.


He traces down Dean's chest, fingers running out, over the dull percussion of his ribs. He draws first with fingertips, straddling above patterns that slide down over the jut of hipbone. Bright glint when he reaches beside him, white tang, and he drags the point of the blade over Dean's skin, records in phantom-touch pictographs.

His brother arches, chiseled muscle tense beneath skin when he presses the flat of the blade cold against the soft flesh between Dean's thigh and cock.

It's the only time Dean ever whimpers.


He sucks the salt-sweet of Dean's inner thigh, tip of his tongue tracing a thin ridge of flesh. The most careful of marks, skin now blossoming dark around it. Once. Only once. Dean had bled thinly under the knife, head canted back, Sam's teeth trailing rough over rougher jaw-line stubble, down long throat. His.

The motel sheets are harsh against Sam's knuckles, and he moves his hands, slides them up Dean's legs until his palms are hot against his hips. He's breathing quick when he mouths over Dean's balls, up along his cock, wet and slow. He takes Dean in, cheeks hollow, tongue curling around his brother's dick.

Hands slide, over, down, fingers gripping thighs. Sam brushes his thumb along the scar, sweeps upward and scrapes with nail. He presses down, at the end of the pale-fire line, and Dean comes, bitter and hot in his throat. The only sound is of breath, of fingers fisting tightly in his hair.