Currently thinking of Dean fresh back from Hell, and Sam checking over every inch of him, learning the changes.
He used to know Dean’s body better than his own, every claw mark and bite and slash and how each of them were acquired. Even the ones from when he was at Stanford - the ones he’s spent hours on, learning by sight and feel and wishing he could speak of the regret he has, that he wasn’t there and didn’t protect him.
It’s all new now - unmarked and whole, except for the handprints.
Sam doesn’t realize at first that he’s growling, low in his throat, every time his fingers or lips skim over the raised flesh. It’s not the first time Dean’s ever been marked, even if it is the first time in his remade skin, but it is the first time a mark has felt like a claim.
And that’s not okay.
Sam spends hours, marking out every scar Dean used to have, a roadmap of memories sucked and bitten and scratched into his skin. Dean lets him, moans that send shivers down his spine, writhing on the bed beneath Sam’s hands. When every mark is recalled, recreated, Sam straddles him, sinks down on him and rides him slowly, until Dean is almost in tears, clutching at his hips and waist, gasps out “yours, God, Sammy, ‘m yours,” and they both come.
When Dean’s finally asleep, Sam slips out of his arms, grabs a marker from his bag, and gets to work.
-
Currently thinking of Dean waking up, smiling at Sam sleeping in his arms. He’s been an expert at disentangling their legs as long as he can remember, and Sam doesn’t wake up when he rolls away, walks to the bathroom.
Dean’s halfway through brushing his teeth when he sees the black scribbles on his shoulders.
Xs, in thick bold lines, cover the handprints. And across his chest, ‘MINE,’ reminding Dean of a jealous little brother who hated sharing when they were young.
It’s almost enough to make Dean believe that they’ll work it out, that the secrets they’ve both accumulated over four months (forty years) won’t break them.