Dean kissed a trail down Sam's chest, worshipping every bit of exposed skin. His little brother's body was blushing a lovely pink. It tasted just as sweet as he'd imagined.
When Sam arched his back as Dean swirled his tongue around a nipple, he took the opportunity to swiftly remove Sam's sleep pants, oblivious to the startled gasp and stuttered "D-Dean, wait!"
His trail of kisses drew lower and lower, reaching Sam's groin area that he fully intended to worship properly, and paused. Not believing what he was seeing, because it couldn't possibly be real. It was too cruel. No one was that heartless.
On Sam's inner thigh two letters were carefully inscribed into Sam's skin, probably by a very fine, very sharp tool like a scalpel: M. H.
Morgan Hilcox.
Already knowing what he would find, Dean slowly turned to look at Sam's left hip bone. Another pair of initials, these ones larger and rougher; not quite as well healed.
Several moments pass in tense silence before Dean's sure he's not about to retch all over the bed. A vast, icy anger spreads through his veins, taking the place of the shocked numbness from before.
"I'm going to kill him all over again," Dean grits out, nostrils flaring, barely breathing. He can barely contain the anger inside. It's so boundless, so limitless, that it's trying to escape.
Hands shaking, Sam grabs for his pants. Bangs cover his face so that Dean can't see it, but he knows Sam's crying by his trembling shoulders. And just like that, the ice in his veins thaws. He still wants to kill Morgan with his bare hands over and over again, but he knows what really matters here. Sam.
"Sammy, come back here, shhhh. It's okay. I'm not mad at you. I could never be mad at you." Dean pulls Sam into his arms before he can leave and he's sobbing into his neck, clinging like he's never going to let go. Dean doesn't want him to. "Baby Boy. I love you. Shhh."
And then he kisses every scar with tenderness.
Once again, thanks for reading, and reviews are my lifeblood. GIVE ME LIFEBLOOD PLEASE.