Okay, so I'm pretty sure that cutting into back muscles (and God forbid you get too close to the spinal cord and become crippled) is going to cause some permanent damage. Please, for you sake and mind, consider this an exercise in the suspension of disbelief. In other words, this is fiction and I do what I wanna. Oh and old butterfly bandages if I remember them right, some of them were really, really big and they were shaped more like butterflies. The closest thing to them now would be knuckle bandages.
Reviews are welcome but try to be kind.
I do not own nor am I affiliated with Supernatural, WB, CW, Kripke Enterprises, actors, or other affiliates there of. No profit is being made from this.
In the dim light of another random motel room, Sam and Dean lay in bed, clad in only boxer briefs. Even with air conditioning, the mid-August heat of the midwest seemed to seep in through the walls.
Dean ran his fingers along the scars on Sam's back. He had four horizontal ones on either side of his spine, 4 inches long, each marking where a rib was. Then he had one long scar, running down the length of his back, from the base of his neck all the way to his tail bone.
Sam never seemed very bothered by these scars but then, he hardly ever saw them. Dean saw them every day and he hated them. Not because they were horrible ugly scars. Compared to most of their scars, they weren't bad, they were thin, even, perfectly straight scars.
Dean hated them because they reminded him of how he failed his brother yet again.
Each scar on Sam's back was a scar on Dean's soul.
It happened because they had fought again. Over stupid old crap that shouldn't matter anymore but did because they never could seem to let anything go. Sam stormed out of the motel they were at to cool off and . . . well, he didn't come back.
Dean was pissed because he assumed that Sam had walked out on him yet again.
That's what Sam did, he would leave and not say anything. Being possessed by a demon, trying to find out about Azazel's other kids, being kidnapped by hillbillys, hunting down monsters that he ended up not even killing, sacrificing himself to hell, getting out of Lucifer's cage and never contacting Dean for a freakin' year, trying to go to California to find their father, not trusting himself to be around demon's blood without being tempted to drink it.
Sam left, it's what he did. Okay, so sometimes he didn't leave voluntarily, sometimes he wasn't exactly himself but he'd still leave. That was the point.
Dean was tired of chasing Sam. He felt like his life was spent chasing down his little brother, from running after his squirmy, soapy, bare ass little body as he bolted out to the motel parking lot, so he could get him back into the bathtub, to trying to track down his stupid runaway brother, to having to get him at Stanford . . . it was one long quest of trying to pin down Sam and it wasn't any use. Sam would do what Sam wanted to do and that was that.
Dean was too tired to chase after him this time.
Dean called him the day after and left a message saying if Sam didn't get his ass back right the fuck now, he was getting his ass left behind.
Sam didn't call, didn't show up and Dean, being pissed off, left. He promised himself he would not call Sam unless he didn't hear from him for a week.
That resolve lasted for an impressive 24 hours.
It wasn't like Sam not to call him after a full day and half. Now that Ruby was dead anyway. No matter how pissed Sam was, he'd at least get in touch with Dean.
Unless . . . something happened.
Dean was stubborn though, he still didn't actively look for him. Not until a solid week had passed. He resolved that if Sam was fine when he found him, Dean was going to beat the living shit out of his brother.
It took another week to find him.
Dean found him in the basement of an abandoned building being sliced up by some demon doctor with a scalpel.
Curiously enough, after each incision, the demon would plaster a giant old-fashioned butterfly bandage over the wound. It kept the skin together. That was good because each slice cut down to the bone.
Dean would never forget seeing Sam's rib through the flesh of his back.
There had never been much blood because scalpels were especially sharp, they don't tear tissue like knives do, they're made to keep blood at a minimum.
Sam wouldn't let Dean stitch them, for a long time he didn't want his back touched by anyone for any reason. It wasn't just pain, even after they had healed up into scars, he'd get very tense when some one would touch his back, even Dean.
Sam was better now though. He never ceased to amaze Dean. Sam lived through over a century in hell and he was still walking around and talking and just . . . being a person. Okay, so maybe Castiel had a little to do with that helping get rid of Sam's visions of Lucifer but still. Sam remembered hell and was able to function nevertheless.
Now Sam had been cut up by a demon and after a while, he was able to deal with that and move on.
Dean didn't know how he did it.
Because Dean was still trying to deal with it himself.
Now Sam was stretched out on his stomach, enjoying Dean's touch.
"I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean whispered, his index finger running down the scar over his spine.
"It's okay, Dean." Sam whispered back.
Dean shook his head, even though Sam's head was turned away from him.
"It's not okay," Dean said. "I didn't - I didn't look, Sam. I didn't even look for you."
His voice broke and he turned away, sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, head bowed low. He could feel the bed move as Sam adjusted. A moment later, Sam was behind him, his arms curled around Dean's waist, his legs bracketing Dean's and Sam's head on his shoulder.
"Do you remember?" Sam whispered, his lips brushing against Dean's ear, "Do you remember what I told you? How I dealt with that demon cutting me and examining my bones for his own amusement. Do you remember what I said?"
Dean closed his eyes, feeling the sting of tears behind his lids.
"I kept telling myself," Sam continued, "that you would come for me. I kept telling myself that you were out there somewhere and you'd find me."
Dean shook his head again, "I didn't"
"You did," Sam insisted.
"I didn't" Dean said forcefully, trying to pull away but Sam held him fast.
"Dean listen," Sam spoke up louder now. "I know, you didn't look at first, I know that. That's not what I said. I said, you'd find me."
Sam let Dean pull away enough to turn and look at him, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"It doesn't matter," Sam explained. "If you look or if you don't. What matters is that you'll find me, you will always find me. That's us Dean, no matter what happens, no matter who leaves, no matter if we look or don't look. We are always, always going to find each other. No matter who or what tries to keep us apart, we will find our way back to each other. That's what I knew in that basement, no matter what, I knew you'd come."
Dean looked into Sam's hazel eyes and saw the truth. They would always find each other because they belonged together. Like magnets they would gravitate towards one another, wherever they were.
Dean kissed Sam, soft and wet, not daring to break contact even as he turned in Sam's arms. He slid his arms around Sam and he felt the scars on Sam's back again.
Dean guided Sam to lay back down, on his stomach. There was something he needed to do. He knelt beside his brother and placed gentle, opened mouth kisses along the length of each scar. He'd done this only once before. When Sam was just getting used to having people touch his back. Sam had silently cried the entire time, showing that the ordeal had been a lot more traumatic then he had let on. Back then, the kisses were an apology, Dean asking forgiveness for another failure. Now, each kiss was a promise. They spoke of a bond far deeper than brothers, deeper than lovers.
Dean kissed the scar running down Sam's spine last. Sam had told him it was the first incision, the most painful one. Neither of them knew if this one cut to the bone or not, it was best to never find out.
Dean kept going, following the line down, then further down, hooking his fingers in the elastic of Sam's boxer briefs and sliding them down and off. Sam spread his legs and Dean lay between them and massaged Sam's globes before he carefully spread his cheeks apart.
Dean's tongue darted out, tasting his brother. Sam gave a small gasp and Dean ran a flat tongue over his hole. He circled Sam's hole with his tongue a few times, then started licking and sucking in earnest. After a couple minutes he started to push his tongue inside. Dean knew that he should probably spend more time working up to that part but he was impatient during this. As he wriggled his tongue into Sam tight hole, Sam started to whimper and gasp, pushing back slightly now and then.
Soon, Dean was tongue fucking his brother's ass, sucking and nipping at the rim. He worked a finger in, sliding it along his tongue, Sam started to moan and pushed back eagerly. It really didn't take much self-control on Dean's part to keep rimming Sam. He loved doing this to his brother, it turned Sam on so much, not to mention how hard Dean got during it. Dean was almost painfully hard now but he just worked in another finger, stretching Sam more.
"Dean," Sam whined, panting.
Dean withdrew his hand and after a few more sucking kisses, he detached his mouth from Sam. Dean grabbed his hip and helped him roll over. Immediately, Dean licked up the length of Sam's swollen cock and took the head into his mouth. Sam cried out and after a few seconds of sucking, Dean pulled off again.
"Fuck, Dean." Sam said, his voice low and husky.
Dean just smirked and kissed and licked his way up Sam's body, shoving off his own underwear in the process. He swirled his tongue in Sam's navel and lapped at his nipples, making sure that he tasted every part of Sam's skin. He marked Sam's neck just over the pulse point. Then Dean finally sealed his mouth over Sam's. His arm flailed inelegantly to the side, reaching for the bottle of lube that was on the nightstand, not daring to break the kiss.
Dean slicked himself up quickly, kissed Sam deeper and slid into him. Dean swallowed Sam's moan. It was far too easy given how tight Sam was but then, he always did yield under Dean.
Then he realized, it was trust that made it so easy. Sam trusted him totally, trusted him not to hurry and not to hurt him. All at once, Dean was humbled by this revelation. The complete certainty, the astonishing faith that Dean lacked in himself was here, in Sam.
Overwhelmed, Dean's head dropped to Sam's shoulder and whispered brokenly, "Sammy."
Sam wrapped his arms and his legs around Dean, kissing the side of his face, lifting his head to kiss his mouth sweetly, over and over, whispering words of comfort and love.
Dean started to move, drawing out whimpers and moans from his brother. Dean looked into Sam's eyes and saw that trust, and the need and the fierce love shining in them. Dean squeezed his own eyes shut against the onslaught of powerful emotion that washed over him.
He worked up a steady rhythm, building up slowly. Dean thrust a little harder, a little faster, and kept changing the angle slightly. Then Sam finally cried out, his back arching and Dean kept aiming for that spot. Sam gasped out a litany of Dean's name, getting louder and louder until he fairly screamed it out one last time, his muscles clamping around Dean.
"Fuck, Sammy, Sam," Dean cried as he filled his brother's tight channel with his seed.
Dean collapsed on Sam, who, for his part, didn't particularly seem bothered by it. Instead, he released a contented sigh, running his hands over Dean's back.
After a moment he whispered, "I know you carry these scars, Dean. You have them on the inside. I think you believe that if you take them on, it's less for me to bear. It's okay, Dean, you can let go of them now, they're mine to carry."
Sam lifted up Dean's head once more and looked him in the eye, "Let go, Dean. I can take it from here."
As Dean tasted the salt of his tears on Sam's lips, he could feel the scars on his soul as they dissolved.