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Sam sipped his Starbucks latte and sighed as the rich, creamy liquid slid down his throat. His muscles loosened, zinging pleasantly after his morning run. In their life, he’d learned to appreciate the little things. First cup of the day, always after he exercised; the taste, and the caffeine hit, heightened by the eager anticipation of postponed pleasure.
He glanced over at Dean, noticed his eyes on him, green gaze oddly intense. Dean looked anticipatory too, like a cat crouched in front of a mousehole. Sam frowned slightly, tilted his head.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Dean answered with studied nonchalance, “just waiting for my coffee is all.”
“... You don’t drink coffee anymore,” Sam said with a bewildered shake of his head. “I would’ve brought you one, if you wanted…” He held his cup out in offering.
Dean waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, not that kind of coffee.” He blinked at Sam, lazy and slow, his eyelashes sweeping down coyly as the corner of his mouth quirked in a grin.
“Oh! Oh, right,” Sam thought he understood. “First hit of the day wake you up, too?” He grinned back as Dean’s tongue peeked out in a quick lick of his lips.
“Yeah, kinda,” Dean replied, sounding… wistful? His eyes were on Sam’s throat, following the bob and pulse as he swallowed. “I just like the taste. Coffee flavoured Sammy. Hits about a half hour after you’ve drunk it.”
It was Sam’s turn to blink, in surprise. “Really? You can taste it… in me?”
“Just a hint,” Dean clarified. “It’s like those fancy coffees with a shot of flavoured syrup, only in reverse. Gravy laced with espresso.”
Sam scrunched his nose up. “That sounds… gross,” he observed, knocking back the last of his latte.
Dean shrugged, smiled; waited to catch Sam’s eyes then held his gaze. “To each his own, little brother. My tastes have changed… pretty substantially.”
Sam swallowed and dropped his gaze, the familiar guilt rushing through him. He wondered if that affected how he tasted, making him bitter…
Dean’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist; he stroked his thumb across Sam’s pulse point. “Don’t,” he said, softly, but the command in his tone was unmistakable.
They’d already been through all that, no point dwelling on the past, and Sam tried; but still. If it wasn’t for him, Dean could be enjoying a real cup of coffee right now, black and scalding with two sugars, and if he remembered, Dean surely must…
“Hey.” Dean released his wrist, moved his hand up to Sam’s face. Cupped his chin, tilted his head to meet his eyes. “I said, don’t.” His fingers moved, brushing gently over the skin under Sam’s jaw. Another pulse point. Dean was drawn to them as though he had magnets under his fingertips; understandable.
Sam stared back, miserably. “I just wish…” he began, uncertain how to continue, how to put such enormity into words.
“Stop it,” Dean ordered. He leaned across the table, still gripping Sam by the chin, and kissed him. “Mmm. That tastes of coffee, too,” he murmured, and Sam couldn’t help smiling, if a little tremulously.
“Attaboy,” Dean said, satisfied. “Now maybe you should go shower. My sense of taste isn’t the only thing that’s changed, y’know.”
Sam laughed, aimed a smack at the back of Dean’s head, and went to freshen up.
A little while later, stealing frequent glances at his brother while they read through the local newspapers and surfed the ‘net looking for cases, he noticed the hungry tautening of Dean’s features, the predatory alignment of facial muscles as his body prepared, unconsciously, to feed. He would be salivating by now, and Sam saw his nostrils flare as he breathed. He knew the signs.
“Dean.” He called his attention, thrust his arm out across the table between them. “Time for your coffee hit?”
Dean’s gaze snapped up, his eyes dark with wide-blown pupils. If Sam were to take a photograph right now, those eyes would gleam with reflected light, unnaturally silver. He shivered minutely, his gaze locked with Sam’s, assessing; quick, involuntary flick of a tongue across his lips. Sam smiled, gently encouraging.
Dean reached out and grasped the proffered arm. Without taking his eyes from Sam’s, he undid the button of his shirt sleeve and rolled the fabric back, baring his forearm. Ran his thumb along the delicate skin on the underside, from wrist to elbow, still without looking; tracing the network of scars that bisected Sam’s flesh like an old fashioned cross-stitch sampler.
Now Dean’s gaze did drop, brows knitting in a frown as he searched for a clear patch of skin to make a new incision. Kept rubbing gently with his thumb, until Sam’s nerves were buzzing with sensation. Dean’s lower lip quivered.
“I can’t…” He cleared his throat, went on, his voice rough with emotion. “Can’t find a space. ‘M sorry, Sam; I’ll have to cut across old scars. Unless the other arm..?”
“That one’s worse,” Sam said gently, no shred of accusation in his tone; he was just stating a fact. “It’s fine, Dean; it’s just scar tissue, no big deal. I’ve lived through bigger injuries.” Understatement of the year; a few shallow cuts along his arms were nothing compared to the violence done by the things they hunted. To the pain and horror of the Cage.
Dean bent down, pressed his lips to the underside of Sam’s wrist. Then turned his head aside and laid his cheek against it, closing his eyes. “I know,” he said softly, his voice aching, “but I hate marking you up like this. The more I make, the longer they take to heal, and it feels… It’s like when I was in Hell, slicing up those poor souls just to keep myself off the rack…”
“Don’t.” It was Sam’s turn to protest. “Don’t you dare feel guilty over this. You have nothing to apologise for. None of this is your fault. And it’s fine, really; I hardly feel them, and you can’t even see, they’re hidden under my sleeves so it’s not like anyone will ever notice…”
That was important to him, hiding the scars from the stares of civilians, their wary shock and curious sympathy. What they did was intensely personal and private. He knew what people would think if they saw them; the natural assumptions to leap to mind. Either that he was an addict, or cutting himself. Which, in a way, he was. Letting Dean do this, assuaging his need, keeping him on the straight and narrow. With each shallow cut he helped his brother, and lanced a part of the soul-deep guilt that weighed on his conscience like a cancer. Dean could cover his entire body with scars and he still wouldn’t have begun to repay his debt of contrition. But they stuck, mostly, to his arms, because it was easy, and simple to cover up.
“I notice,” Dean whispered, and his face screwed tight with pain.
“No,” Sam said, firmly. He reached with his other hand to stroke Dean’s hair. “I told you, it’s fine. Actually…”
“What?” Dean asked, after a while, when Sam still hadn’t completed his thought. He opened his eyes and looked sideways up at his brother. Sam knew he could detect his accelerated heart rate, the flush of blood heating his cheeks; he could hide very little from Dean these days.
Sam swallowed. “Actually, I kinda like it,” he muttered, embarrassed. Dean’s eyes widened, incredulous.
“No, honestly,” Sam hastened to explain before his brother could say anything. “It… I’m helping you. Looking after you. You need it, you need… me… and it feels… It’s kinda nice.”
Close. Affectionate. Caring. Sensual, even; just a little. Which was another reason to keep it to the arms, despite the gradual deposition of scars.
Dean stared for a few heartbeats longer, then huffed a laugh over the sensitised skin of Sam’s arm. “You always were a freak,” he chuckled, and the weight of love and understanding in his tone made Sam’s throat clench.
“Yeah,” he managed, feeling a wide smile spread goofily across his face. He ruffled his hand in Dean’s hair, mussing it. “We’re a couple of freaks, but it’s all good. Now drink your coffee.”