Balisong; no murmur.
by Maygra
Dean/Sam, NC17, breath and blades.

Notes: A balisong, or butterfly, is a folding pocket knife with two handles counter-rotating around the tang that conceal the blades within grooves in the handles.

The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored, fictional work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.

(words - 3,537)

All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
The Deserted House,  ~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Dean's almost too pissed off to do this, but it's not like Sam can do it himself. He's already made Sam shower, stepping in with him to scrub as hard as he can to loosen the buckshot that peppers Sam's left shoulder. Sam makes a couple grunts and his hand is white knuckled around the shower head but he knows as well as Dean that any bits they can't wash out, are going to have to be dug out.

Sam does hiss when Dean pours first peroxide then alcohol over his whole shoulder. Dean doesn't even feel that sorry.

There's some minor splinters and bits of bark caught in Sam's hair, and the pale lavender blossoms of wysteria are tangled in the darks strands refusing to be washed away. It was how they missed the damn thing in the first place, all viney arms and enthralling blossoms, thick and plump and fragrant like ripe grapes.

He'd told Sam to stay where he was, barely able to distinguish wood wraith from trees and he supposes it's not really Sam's fault that the damn thing had gotten behind them. Sam's just damn lucky Dean isn't going to have to pull bigger splinters out of his back in addition to iron pellets.

The blossoms had fallen from Sam's clothes and Dean's shirt, more of them had exploded across the car like a pale blood splatter. The scent of them was everywhere, sweet and cloying, and Dean's never going to be able to smell it again without seeing those dark and fibrous tendrils sliding across Sam's throat and arms.

Once they're both cleaned up and Dean's loosened as much of the shot as he can, he makes Sam lay face down on the bed. There's still about a half dozen pieces of shot -- the small black beads of iron looking like tiny round bruises under red, swollen skin.

He uses ice from the bucket to get the swelling down, so he can get at them with the edge of a knife. He stalls because his hands are shaking. A little higher and he'd have caught Sam in the face. Had Sam not twisted, he'd have taken the full round in the back instead of only catching the spray of it along the edge of his shoulder.

Figures that this would be the one time Sam had only been wearing a t-shirt on the hunt instead of that and a flannel and probably a jacket, but it was a hundred degrees outside even at midnight, and really, wood-wraiths were not that difficult to kill. Cold iron, in any form, made them dry up like driftwood. Break them into pieces, burn them -- bonus points if someone remembers to bring the chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers.

Sam shifts on the bed and tucks his good arm under the pillow. The other, he moves more carefully making all the tiny wounds bleed a little.

Dean snags the other pillow and folds it in half, using it to prop Sam's bad shoulder up. "You want something? Booze or...we've got a few vicodin left--"

"Take it longer to kick in than for you to dig them out. Just do it," Sam says and he sounds more tired than in pain. Dean's still feeling twitchy from the rush of anger and fear.

He could use tweezers for this but while not lethal, the pellets that remain are deep enough that digging for them with the clumsy things would probably hurt worse than anything else. He needs to remember to add a set of surgical forceps to the kit next time he stocks it.

Scalpel of choice is Sam's six-inch butterfly; slim blade and sharp point likely to do less damage than anything else they've got on hand. Sam watches him as he cleans the blade off with more alcohol, flipping the handles back and locking them.

Dean's so caught up in prepping the blade and wiping Sam's skin clean again, he almost misses the flush spreading across Sam's cheeks, and the shifting he does on the bed trying to get comfortable. Even when he notices, it takes a moment to sink in.

Oh. Ohh.

He didn't exactly forget, he just got distracted there for a moment. He should still be mad. "I know you're not that much into pain, Sam..." he says softly.

"Oh, shut up," Sam says and turns his face into the pillow. The red stretches to the tips of his ears and Dean chuckles and his nervousness fades. He reaches over and yanks the towel off Sam's hips. It makes Sam roll a little and swear, but Dean sees what he needs to.

Sam's dick is rigid and flushed as red as his face.

"Seriously. I thought I was kinky."

"I hate you right now," Sam says. Or at least Dean thinks so -- Sam's words are kind of muffled against the pillow.

Dean doesn't actually want to kick Sam's ass any longer, but that doesn't mean a little justified torment isn't in order. He sets it up though, setting the clean cloths and the alcohol within easy reach on the table between the beds. It's not an afterthought that makes him dig through his bag for lube, and he doesn't miss Sam's quick glance when he sets it on the table as well. He pulls his own towel off and folds it lengthwise; drapes the still damp and cool terrycloth across Sam's back below his shoulder blades to catch the inevitable streaks of blood before getting on the bed. He settles his weight on Sam's upper thighs and ass. It actually makes the angle a little better for the more serious part of this.

"Dean?" Sam almost twists around but Dean put a hand on the back of his neck and pushes his fingers up through Sam's wet hair.

"Just be still..." Dean says soothingly, but feels his pulse pick up a bit when his own dick falls naturally into the warm crack of Sam's ass. Leaning forward is definitely a test of his concentration as he find the lower-most hard lump under Sam's skin, and uses his free hand to stretch the tiny wound open a bit. "Breathe deep," he says quietly and presses the tip of the knife in lightly until he can feel the small pellet. Sam does and Dean has to watch his own breathing, watching his brother's muscled back stretch.

The pellet pops up to the surface like a grape seed, and Dean catches it to drop it on the dresser, wiping the wound down with a little rubbing alcohol. "That's one."

Sam's exhale catches him off-guard a little, Dean's dick rubbing against the smooth skin of Sam's buttocks, sending a familiar and not unwelcome rush of blood into his cock. The second one comes out as easily as the first, and Sam doesn't so much as whimper, but his breathing's unsteady when Dean leans forward again, lifting his hips slightly.

The third takes more effort and Sam tenses up as Dean has to dig a little. He rocks against Sam, wipes at the welling blood and lets his fingers slide along the back of Sam's neck again until he can feel the strong, but none-too-steady pulse in his throat.

He pulls his hand back and lets his blunt nails scrape down along Sam's spine to the curve of his waist. "Just a few more," Dean says and gets an almost imperceptible nod from Sam. He rocks forward again, dick leaving a slick line along Sam's lower back and it's Dean's turn to hiss when a shudder travels down Sam's spine from shoulders to butt.

Adrenaline's a funny thing, and when Dean puts blade to flesh again, he's pretty sure pain is not what Sam is feeling -- and the kind of pain Dean is feeling is the best kind.

The forth and fifth come out as easily as the first, but the last one is high on Sam's shoulder. Dean can feel it under his fingertips, tries to work it back along the path it entered. He grabs the other pillow and shoves it under Sam's chest to get Sam to angle up a little, give him a better approach, but the taut tendons in Sam's shoulder make it difficult and Dean knows it's got to be uncomfortable. He finally he gets it, right there, under the skin. He still ends up cutting Sam -- just a little -- fingertips slick with Sam's blood. He cleans the wound, presses his thumb down over it, hard, to stop the bleeding.

He rubs his other hand over Sam's back. "Feel any others?" he asks, moving slowly from the base of Sam's neck across his shoulder and along the blade of bone. Down to the softer skin under his arm, and along Sam's ribs, the back up, spreading his fingers wide against the wall of Sam's chest, tips just barely brushing over the hard, tight bud of Sam's nipple. "Maybe there?" he asks leaning close, pinching the small nub between the sides of his fingers and Sam groans softly.

"Maybe..." Sam's words are more breath than sound and his eyes are half closed. "Maybe you should see if you can find anything."

Dean's hand rubs across Sam's chest, reaching far to find the other small nub, and pinching it until Sam squirms and shifts and tries to roll onto his back. Dean stops him by dragging the tip of the knife along Sam's spine. The edge digs in and leaves a red line but no blood and Dean moves his other hand to grip Sam's dick, slipping along Sam's thighs until his legs are pinned between Dean's. The muscles in Sam's ass tighten when the tip of the knife slides in and along the crack of his ass and Dean jerks him harder while Sam grabs at the sheets and trembles and pants and moans under him, breathing fast and shallow. He bucks and Dean trades the tip of the knife for his thumb, pressing between the warm and still shower damp skin of Sam's ass until he finds Sam's tight little hole. He pulls his thumb back only long enough to lick it, suck it, get it wet.

When he pushes against Sam's hole again his thumb sinks in all the way past the knuckle and Sam makes a keening sound in his throat and almost bucks Dean off; jerking hard enough to force Dean to pull both hands away.

Sam swears and twists.

Dean swallows hard and rides Sam's hip as he rolls, feeling the bone rub against the underside of his cock. Sam's skin smells of alcohol and soap, the wide part of his flank pressed up hard between Dean's legs. The towel across Sam's back slips and Dean pulls it free, unfolding it and laying it on the bed at Sam's back before pushing him over.

His fingers close over the hilt of the knife just as his dick rubs up against Sam's. The flush has spread across Sam's chest now; creeps back up into his face when he wraps one hand around both their dicks and squeezes them together.

"I almost shot you in the face, you stupid bastard," Dean says.

"But you didn't," Sam says and reaches up but there's a twinge of pain across his face -- that shoulder is going to be sore for a few days.

But that 's the worst of it. That's the worst of it. Anger and arousal take a few more potshots at a each other but Dean lets them have at it, leaning in, bending down,. He leaves the knife on the pillow and catches Sam at the back of the neck pulling him up to kiss. It's rough and it's awkward, but Sam opens his mouth, invites Dean to forgive him with tongue and teeth and soft moan into his mouth. His hand tightens on their dicks and he rubs hard. Dean pushes into his hand into his mouth.

Sam drives him crazy, irritates and annoys him, scares him to death some days, makes him laugh and wonder on others. He can taste the alcohol on Sam's skin still when he nips his way along Sam's throat, bitter and biting and leaving a bad taste in his mouth or maybe it's just residual fear.

He nearly bites through his lip when he pulls Sam's hand away, presses his arms to the bed, holding him by the biceps and rutting against his dick and his belly. Sam doesn't try to wrestle control back, doesn't do anything but throw his head back and raise his hips as much as he can with Dean's weight pressing him to the bed.

There's small streaks of blood on the towel and staining Dean's fingertips, the backs of his knuckles. He lays his left hand, open-palmed, at the base of Sam's throat and pushes him down. He holds him there, hardly knowing what he's doing but Sam's eyes are glitter-bright and glazed when Dean picks up the slim blade and presses the tip into the skin of Sam sternum, just below Dean's thumb. He drags it slowly and it leave a thin red line on Sam's skin, darker than the flush of desire, but there's no blood, only a line like a scratch that starts fading to white. Dean drags the blade all the way down Sam's stomach, through the dark, curly hairs of his groin until the tip of the blade is tucked into the base of Sam's cock. Sam's dick twitches and fills, Sam hissing out a sharp breath, when Dean flips the blade flat, sliding it along Sam's dick with his forefinger on the blade and his thumb dragging along thick vein underneath.

"Dean..." Sam's eyes are huge and bright, and whatever he was going to say, gets lost under a gasp and moan around a tightly bitten lip when Dean barely presses the tip of the blade against the weeping slit at the head of Sam's cock.

"Don't move, Sam...Don't even breathe deep," Dean say's barely recognizing his own voice as he stares at the bright metal millimeters away from slipping inside his brother's cock.

He's a hair's breadth from doing real damage to his brother, and the steadiness of his own hand surprises him. Sam is totally still under, not his hands but his command, and Dean slides his finger along the blade so that he can press his fingernail into the small slit, holding Sam's dick steady with his thumb. Near clear fluid wells into the depression, and Dean wipes the flat edge of the blade through it before lifting it to his mouth and tongue. He tastes salt and uses his fingers to wipe the rest away. Sam breathes when Dean's hand leaves his dick and Dean leans forward pressing his fingers to Sam's mouth, pressing that salty taste to his brother's lips, then leans over, face hovering over Sam's, inhaling the breath his brother exhales. Sam's hands move to rest along his hips, wide palms spanning curve between bone and ribs. Dean secures his balance and never takes his eyes from Sam's as he presses the blade to the swollen fullness of Sam's lower lip, then along the underside Sam's chin and down his throat, using his thumb to guide it, going slow. Sam quivers beneath him, breath coming in short sharp pants, but he doesn't jerk away, only digs his fingers into Dean's flesh to the point where it hurts.

Dean doesn't jerk either, only takes in Sam's parted lips, the sheen of sweat along his throat, the glazed lust and desire in his eyes. The blindly guided knife blade snags against the edge of Sam's sternum again and Dean can feel the rigid column of Sam's dick pressing to his belly. He drops his hips and Sam moans and closes his eyes.

His own dick is quivering and aching and he wants to fuck Sam so bad, there's tremors in his hips from him trying to not just thrust. He's half tempted to just crawl up, grab Sam's hair and push his cock into his brother's mouth and throat, but when his fingers slide over Sam's shoulder to do just that, his hand comes away sticky with blood and for a long moment Dean can't breathe.

Sam grips his hand and brings the blade up to rest the tip in the hollow of his throat again, pressing it down, swallowing against the pressure. Dean hisses and pulls back and for a long moment they struggle in silence, strength to strength -- Sam not holding back from his willingness to cut his own flesh and Dean unwilling to spill another drop of his brother's blood.

He pushes his other hand beneath the tip of the blade, feeling it rake against his knuckles, drawing a little blood. He closes his hand around Sam's throat in warning.

His throat goes totally dry when Sam moans. Dean can feel the sound against his palm

He doesn't know if he wins or Sam surrender: maybe both. Sam lets go of the blade and spreads his arms wide, neck arched back and skin dark against Dean's paler flesh. He squeezes a little and Sam stretches into it, chest expanding as he sucks in air. Dean's not really impairing his breathing, but that's not the point, just like the kiss of the blade is not about drawing blood.

Somewhere in the back of his brain Dean knows this is about trust and control, but he's not in the frame of mind to analyze it. Not now, maybe later. He flicks the tip of the blade against Sam's left nipple, and Sam fists the sheets, hips straining upwards, his dick riding the crack of Dean's ass. He does it again, harder, pressing his lips to the tiny nick before the blood can even well.

Sam pulls his arms in, one pressed to the back of Dean's head, the other encircling his wrist. Sam's throat is too broad for Dean to strangle him one handed, though he's been tempted from time to time. He presses harder, the heel of his palm to Sam's trachea and yes...yes there is real danger there, but Sam only whimpers and croaks out his name, not to stop him...not at all.

Blood surges to Dean's dick and he thrust against Sam's belly, jerks his hand away and lunges forward. He catches Sam's mouth just as he's inhaling sharply, thrusts his tongue into Sam's mouth as he ruts against his belly.

He grabs Sam's hands and shoves them to the bed near his head, lifting his mouth long enough to see Sam's blown-wide pupils, cheeks and throat flushed red with arousal. He shifts, dick throbbing and aching, leaving pale glistening trails on Sam's pelvis. He has to let go of Sam's hands to move backwards, to go from straddling his hips to kneeling between them, using his own knees to spread Sam wide, until the bones and flat planes of his hips are distended.

Sam leaves his hands where Dean put them, dark hair still damp and mussed and he already looks fucked out and blissed like he'd taken the offered Vicodin and the whiskey.

Dean reaches for the lube, and opens it carefully, making sure to get the slick stuff on only one hand. He needs the other for the blade. "Lift up," he says and Sam plants his feet, lifts his hips so Dean can slide his greased hand along the underside of Sam's cock, leaving a slick trail that ends with two fingers in Sam's ass. Sam hisses but pushes down, squirms, and grabs the pillow under his head. Dean knows Sam's wishing there were slats on the head board.

He works his fingers and Sam bucks, twists when Dean hits the right spot. Another finger and Dean leans in and over, no warning as he fits his mouth over Sam's dick. He anticipates the thrust and Sam doesn't disappoint him. Dean just relaxes, lets Sam fuck his throat as he fucks Sam with his fingers, finding that spot over and over until Sam is moaning and cursing and straining.

There's a bitter flood of taste across Dean's tongue and he pulls off , fists Sam's dick with his greased hand and runs the blade tip along the underside of Sam's dick.

Sam's come hits him under the chin, splashes across his chest, and over Sam's belly. Before Sam's even finished coming, Dean drops the blade to the side, and pushes Sam's hips up, dick sliding into to Sam's slick ass so hard and fast Dean almost comes before his groin hits Sam's. He pushes up, using his body to leverage Sam up, to spread him wider, taking one long leg across his shoulder while Sam curves the other over his hip.

His right hand finds Sam's throat again, and he times his thrusts to the racing pulse he feels there. His fingers tighten when he feels the rush and recoil of orgasm slam through him, taking frustration and worry and anger and fear with it as he spills come into Sam's ass and feels the life of him under his fingertips. And still he pushes in, slams his dick into the soft, yielding muscle until his hips ache and his dick is soft, like there's something inherent to the act of fucking that will immunize Sam against the times when Dean's too slow, or too quick, when he's not enough, or too much. Or maybe he'd just like to literally fuck some sense into his brother.

Sam makes a sound that's too close to pain for Dean to ignore, and his body's well past the point of being able to speak for him. Sam's gripping Dean's wrist with both hands, mouth set, but he's not complaining and his body is as pliant under Dean's as is possible with Dean's dick buried in his ass still.

His hand loosens to grip Sam's shoulder, blood staining his finger again but less than before. Easing out of Sam's body is as simple as falling forward, hips and legs tangled with Sam's, Sam's hand at the back of his head again and his heart pounding under Dean's cheek.

He knows he should move, that they need to clean up, clean off. Sam's shoulder needs bandaging yet. Starts to when Sam shifts beneath him but Sam's hand smoothes across his back . "Shhh...don't move," Sam says, quiet and calm, if a little breathy, before reaching past Dean.

Dean lifts his head to watch Sam take the butterfly and drag it lightly across his tongue before swiping the blade dry on the edge of Dean's towel. He unlocks the handle and folds it, sheathing the blade and setting it on the table beside the bed.

He scoots down and Dean shifts upward, mouths meeting perfectly when they settle. "Might need that again..." Dean says, thumb brushing across Sam's nipple, dislodging the tiny scab of blood there. There are red spots that might turn to bruises on Sam's throat.

"Might use it, but we won't need it," Sam says and slides a leg between Dean's. Sam's eyes are dark and contented, but a little amused and a little concerned.

"Maybe not," Dean agrees and lets his thumb stroke along the bruises on Sam's throat and hitches his hips closer. Sam's eyes flutter closed, and his head falls back and Dean presses his lips there. Feels Sam start to firm against his belly.

Maybe not.

For now though, he settles for cutting off Sam's air with his mouth.