sam & dean & knives

[topaz119]

There's nothing Dean wouldn't do for Sam. Nothing. Sam knows that, bone-deep; it keeps his hand steady, no matter how much the knife scares him. Dean wants--needs--this; Sam's not going to let anyone else give it to him.

Sam sits back on his heels, breathes long and deep, balances the hilt in his hands. There'd been more blood the first time, deeper cuts. He's gotten it right now, though, just enough pressure on the knife to open the skin on Dean's back, each stroke giving way to a slow sheen of red.

Dean moves restlessly, strains against the ropes holding him safe; Sam leans in, quickly, before Dean loses his center.

"Shhh," he soothes. "Almost finished."

Dean stills under him, but whimpers, small sounds leaking past clenched teeth as Sam bends to taste the lines he's cut into his brother's skin, salt and copper strong on his tongue. Not random marks, but bind-runes, each one a prayer. He whispers them aloud, so Dean will know.

"Strength."

"Speed."

"Luck."

"Safety."

There's one more, one that Sam cuts low on Dean's back, at the base of his spine, not for protection, not for power, only for himself. For them.

"Mine."