Welcome 7 Wincestmas
Okay. This one got away from me. It started with the idea “Dean stitching Sam’s wound” then not only couldn’t I control it, I didn’t even try. It is also NSFW which means there’s a bunch of paragraphs dedicated to setting the scene before the PWP.
Finding an empty house wasn’t that hard. Sam and Dean sped past at least two on their way out of town before following a for sale sign up a long driveway to a foreclosed colonial. Dean idled beside the retaining wall, where the drive curved, hidden from the road, and the one house close enough to see through the surrounding trees. If they got inside without incident, he’d pull up into the garage. While finding a place wasn’t tough, they still had to get inside without calling any heat down on themselves.
“Can you make it up the rest of the way?” Dean turned towards his brother in the passenger seat.
“It’s not that bad,” Sam pulled the door open in an attempt to cut off Dean’s retort.
“Tell that to the leather!”
Sam grunted in reply, already heading towards the double garage doors. They’d scoped the place out in the day; though they hadn’t had time to get inside before they were due at the morgue, Sam still had the keypad hacker in his pocket. Despite knowing Dean’d taken a pair of wire cutters to the back, he stepped cautiously into the range of the motion-sensor flood lights. They stayed dark, thankfully. He worked by the light of his cell to get the faceplate off, and hook up the tool. It’d be at least six minutes; he knew he should head back to the car see if his brother needed help sorting gear, but neither his body nor Dean would thank him for it, so he stayed tucked close to the siding.
When the door finally lifted, Sam didn’t bother calling out, the soft growl of the Impala’s engine confirmed Dean’d heard and was on his way up. They simply had to hope the unavoidable noises wouldn’t travel, or call any curious eyes their way. Hidden hideaway didn’t always mean easy to escape.
The car pulled into the garage while Sam picked the lock on the door into the basement. Though focused, he took a moment to reach up and hit the button on the garage remote screwed to the wall. Sam grimaced, feeling the gash on his shoulder suck open with a sluggish gush of pooled blood.
“Hey!” Dean reprimanded, already laden with two duffels and the cooler. “If you tear that open more, Imma be pissed.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam muttered finally feeling the last pin give.
The basement held whatever the last tenants hadn’t deemed worth taking. Among the various piles of knick knacks and abandoned outdoor holiday decorations there were also a couple unbalanced dining room chairs with stains on the cushions, a heavy dresser with a mirror, an old flat weight bench on foam rubber, and a thirteen inch CRT TV/VCR combo that Sam was pretty sure was popular when he was in middle school.
“No hot water,” Dean tromped back downstairs after exploring the rest of the house, “but it’s clean at least.”
Dean set a jug of water next to the exercise bench then pulled the sturdiest dining chair over next to it.
“Get cozy, Big Guy, I’ve to do surgery.”
Sam abandoned his search for VHS tapes, and the vain hope the TV still worked. Dean waited for him to sit straddling the back of the chair before helping to remove his flannel, and undershirt. Despite the gash that went through both layers, Dean set them aside to be washed and mended later, as long as the blood came out, they’d be turned into rags and bandages if not. Sam figured at least the undershirt would be in the first aid kit after laundry day.
“Jesus, Sam.” Dean said getting his first close look at the wound.
“That bad?”
“Of course, it’s that bad. Don’t pretend like you didn’t know it.” Dean unpacked the first aid supplies, passing Sam a bottle of painkillers, and a bottle of vodka, after a rag had been drenched in it.
Sam knew they weren’t quite down to dental floss, but he also knew even if Dean opened a second pack of suture, the needle would get snipped off and saved for when they were, so that the first couple stitches Dean threw would barely sting, but by the last few the dull needle would be as likely to tear through flesh than cleanly puncture it, and hurt like a son of a bitch whichever it did. He took two pills with a shot of the vodka, watching Dean through the dresser mirror. His brother frowned at his back.
Dean took the vodka bottle drizzling it over the wound. Sam choked off a scream, beads of sweat forming on his lips. Dean tapped Sam’s arm with the bottle.
“Take it.”
Sam took it without thinking, any distraction welcome.
“Need help scrubbing in, dump some over my hands. I can’t be nurse and doctor.”
Sam did as instructed, but kept his eyes on Dean in the mirror. He tried to picture Dean in green scrub, waiting for his nurse to finish prepping the patient. It was a little hard with Dean whipping his hands back and forth to dry them, but it was clear enough to redden Sam’s ears, and keep his eyes glued to the mirror for the whole painful process.
Dean started by pushing at the bruised flesh, draining any blood that hadn’t escaped yet, then he pulled at the edges, assessing the depth, and best approach for healing. In another life, he’d have been a great doctor. Neither of them was bad at patching up wounds that probably should’ve been tended to by a licensed medical professional, but Dean was especially good at it, better than him, Sam could admit.
“Doesn’t look like it made it to muscle, thank fuck. We’re blown at the two nearest hospitals. Think I can improvise a drain.” He trailed off and didn’t say more to Sam for awhile, though he muttered to himself. Sam heard the occasional curse, though whether from himself or Dean, he wasn’t in a state to say.
“We’ve got enough antibiotics. Probably should hold off on a real shower, but if you ask nicely, I might be willing to help with a sponge bath.” Dean dabbed at the closed gash with a wet cloth, admiring his work.
Sam lost his patience, standing quick enough to catch his brother off guard. He pushed Dean against a stack of boxes and hoped they didn’t topple over them while he crushed their mouth together, his deft fingers making quick work of Dean’s belt and fly.
“Don’t pop your stitches!” Dean hissed, in anger and lust with Sam’s hand now in his pants, stroking him, seeking to pull him out.
“I think I need my temperature taken, Doctor.” Sam dropped to his knees, bringing Dean’s pants and boxers down to Dean’s ankles. He brought Dean’s cock to his lips, and kissed away a bead of precum. “I forget, if the stuff gets in my mouth, do I spit or swallow?”
“Fuck, Sammy.”
Sam took Dean almost to the root, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing for a minute before pulling off with a pop, and jacking Dean while he looked back up, “If you won’t tell me, I can’t risk getting it in my mouth.”
Dean bucked forward, but Sam kept control.
“Swallow. Swallow it.”
“You’re sure?” Sam unbuckled his own belt one handed, more careful with the zipper as he was already tenting his jeans.
“Jesus, yes. Swallow it all. Suck me down, Sammy.”
Sam stood, pushing his pants and boxers down just far enough for his cock to bob free.
“Maybe if you showed me it was safe.”
Dean looked up at Sam, clearly torn, and frustrated. Sam urged him to his knees. Dean tongued Sam’s slit then took him in his mouth. Sam watched him, stroking the hollow of Dean’s cheek. “Use both hands. You know you can’t take me all the way yet.” Dean’s whimper practically sent Sam over the edge.
Dean worked to get Sam off quick, no time wasted on teasing, bobbing recklessly, gagging every other stroke. It was exactly what Sam wanted. He sucked hard enough that Sam didn’t have to take over until the final few thrusts. Sam gripped Dean’s hair, and fucked in rough, feeling Dean’s throat constrict and try to force him up, he pulled back in time to flood Dean’s mouth.
“Don’t forget you have to show me it’s safe to swallow.” Sam said between pants.
Dean did with a shy blush.
Sam wasn’t cruel, and didn’t make Dean ask, “Okay, I’m ready.”
They switched positions, and Sam brought his brother off slow.
**********
HNNNNNGGGGGGG I JUST. *bites lip* *swoons*
