rivers_bend

Title: Glittering Bright in the Palm of my Hand
Words: ~1500
Rating: Adult (explicit)
Pairing: Sam/Dean (pre-series)
Enticements/Warnings: Underage, Hurt/Comfort, Blood (not blood kink), camping
A/N: thank you pixel_0 for the prompts: Hurt/Comfort and outdoor sex, and balefully for the beta and putting up with my stropping ;)



When Dad left them at their campsite to check a lead and get supplies, he said two things: "Back in two days," and "Keep an eye on your brother." Simple directions, you'd think, since it's only something Dean's been doing his whole life, but lately, Sam's like a stubborn two-year-old, grumbling every time he thinks someone's trying to tell him what to do, refusing to listen to Dad, and to Dean half the time, too. He's been sitting on a stump, all angled knees and elbows, sharpening a stick with his pocketknife since Dad hefted his pack and struck out.

"We need some more water and a fire," Dean says when the silence gets on his nerves. He's mostly thinking out loud, but Sammy takes it as Dean trying to boss him.

"Know how to camp as well as you do," Sam says, and while Dean's still registering the sudden flash of anger, Sam grabs the brace of canteens and stomps off to where the river runs quick through the woods.

Instinct to obey Dad sends Dean three or four steps after him, but Sam's just coltish-clumsy, not stupid, and he's more than old enough to look after himself a quarter mile to the creek and back. Instead of following, Dean gets out the hatchet and sets to building a fire. He's just touched flame to tinder when he hears a crack of twig and a hitched breath from behind him.

He turns and sees Sam, face twisted in ill-suppressed pain, water bottles clamped awkwardly under one bare arm, bloody t-shirt wrapped around his right hand, held tight with his left.

"Jesus!" Dean says, and with what seems like a single leap is catching the water bottles Sam's about to drop onto the ground and pulling Sam into his arms.

"What'd you— Sam, what?" Dean somehow gets them maneuvered over to an upturned log, Sam sideways on Dean's lap, so Dean can get to his hands and figure out where the blood is coming from.

Sam curls in, face tucked into Dean's neck, and Dean's grateful. He keeps waiting for Sam to decide he's too grown-up for Dean to hold him like this, but he hasn't yet, still settling into Dean's lap of his own accord—straddling Dean's thighs and grinding hungry and nipping kisses, or flopping boneless weight to nuzzle under Dean's jaw and stroke lazy patterns into his skin. Now he is pressing his forehead to Dean's pulse, panting in time with Dean's frightened breaths.

"Okay, Sam," Dean says. "Okay," and he slows himself down, willing Sam to follow suit.

Once the flutter of Sam's ribs under Dean's arm becomes a steady rise and fall, Dean moves from cradling the ball of Sam's fists in his palms, to a more active investigation.

"How bad is it?" Dean asks before he tries to unwind the shirt. "Do I need to tourniquet your wrist while I have a look?"

"I don't think—" Sam's breath shudders, and he tries again. "Maybe. Was a piece of glass, I think. Over balanced and tried to catch myself, then it—Jesus—fucking hurt and the water went bloody."

"Okay, then. Okay." Leave it to Sam to find a shard of glass in a creek miles from fucking anywhere. "I've got it. Got you." Dean caresses Sam's left hand in it's deathgrip on the t-shirt. "Hold onto your wrist, thumb tight across the pulse, okay?"

Sam does as he's told, head resting on Dean's shoulder so he can see, too.

"I've got you." Dean unwinds the shirt. It's not quite as bad as he'd expected from the amount of blood he could see. Across the meat of Sam's palm at the base of his thumb, it's deep, but at an acute angle, almost parallel to the skin, so it's going to need stitches, but he hasn't cut the tendons.

"Okay," he says again. "It's gonna be okay. Bleeding like a bitch though. Don't think butterflies are gonna cut it."

Sam makes a high, scared sound in his throat, and tries to cover it with a cough. Dean knows what he's worried about. They're a good six miles from the road, and Dad's gone with the car anyway. Stupid to be here. But Dean's not stupid, and he stocks the first aid kit every time he uses it. Dad can do what he likes with his, but Dean's kept his own since the first cut he got that a Band-Aid wasn't going to fix.

"Mean it, Sammy," Dean reassures him. "Got everything I'll need right there in the tent."

Sam nods.

"D'ja at least get the water first?" Dean makes sure his smile is in his words so Sam knows it's okay if he didn't.

"Got it." Sam nods again.

"Okay." Dean's starting to feel like a broken record, but Sam seems to calm down a little every time he says it. "Sit tight. Keep hold of your wrist. I'll be right back."

Before he shifts out from under his brother, Dean rubs a thumb along Sam's cheek and kisses him—gentle-firm promise: to take care of him, he's not mad, and later they can—later. If Sam wants.

Sam gives him a watery smile. He looks like he's been at the war paint—tears and the blood on Dean's thumb mixed to a pink smear on one cheek, eyes rimmed with red.

After getting everything ready, Dean gives Sam some pain pills and rinses his palm with some of the hard-won water and stitches it back together. He's glad for the Novocain gel he lifted from a dentist's office a few months back, but wishes he had better when Sam's left ghost-pale and shaking. Worried a little about the blood still oozing from one end of the gash, Dean wads several pieces of gauze over it and wraps Sam's whole hand in a stretchy bandage.

"Feels like a baseball mitt," Sam complains, looking mournfully at his immobilized dominant hand.

"Not having you bleed out, buddy." Dean makes sure that Sam's steady on the stump before he goes to clean up and get Sam something to eat.

While a couple cans of chili heat over the fire, Dean makes Sam drink some water. He pinks up a little once the painkillers kick in.

Dean's dishing up when he realizes that Sam's not gonna be able to balance a plate on his knee and feed himself with one clumsy hand. Settling back against a log and making room for Sam between his thighs, Dean beckons him over. Sam fits snug against his chest, and though he glares at his hand one last time, he opens his mouth when Dean holds up a spoonful of dinner. Little kisses and bites to his neck, whispers of mmm, sexy, keep him sweet.

Chewing the last bite of chili, Sam wiggles up against Dean, small of his back perfect pressure on Dean's dick.

"Kinda twisted, isn't it?" Sam says, all soft in his ear. "Getting hard spoon feeding me."

"You saying you wouldn't get hard, me leaning on your junk, opening my mouth every time you said, 'open'?"

Dropping the plate, Dean palms Sam's prick through his jeans, huffing a pleased grunt, even though he expects the hardon he finds there.

"Never said I wasn't twisted, though," Sam says and giggles like he's four, not fourteen.

"Codeine working for you there?"

"Mmmm," Sam answers, shifting so Dean's hand is more firmly on his dick. "More." He wriggles his fingers under Dean's wrist, trying to get his button open.

Dean does it for him and slides his hand inside. He loves Sam like this, heavy-soft weight, legs spread, head back, trusting and lost in the feel of Dean's hand on him. With the hand not busy grip-stroke-fondling, Dean tips Sam's head farther, angles it to kiss him. Spicy-wet as Dean licks into his mouth, and Sam groans, rumble into Dean's chest and right to his dick.

The fire is suddenly too hot, too close, but there's nowhere to go without taking his hands off Sam, and that's not going to happen. Sam's twitching, little snaps of his hips into Dean's grip, his bandaged hand heavy on Dean's thigh and his other hand twisted painfully tight in Dean's hair. Even the air feels stretched to snapping point, and everything's wet heat slippery friction pressure, Dean's cock and balls aching trapped behind his zipper, the noises Sam's making driving Dean breathless.


Sam bites when he comes, sharp nip to Dean's lip, and they both say, "Ow!" as Sam's hand jars against Dean's knee.

"Okay?" Dean asks, and Sam just nods, slumps loose against him.

Without the distraction of his hand on Sam's dick, Dean's own cock is torture, and he wedges a hand behind Sam's back to get to it. Sam twists awkwardly out of the way enough to rest his left hand on Dean's fast-working wrist, and leans in to suck a hickey into the side of Dean's neck. When Dean comes, his spunk feels almost cold on his fire-and-Sam-heated skin.

They stay where they are until it starts getting dark, when Sam finally struggles to his feet and, smiling slyly, says, "I think I'm going to need a hand taking a piss."