Dean lies on his back, on his bed, plastic sheeting layered with towels beneath him. His body is completely bare, his chest rises and falls with rapid breath, and his cock lies soft against his thigh.

All the men and women, dozens, so many, over the years, who have seen him naked, who have touched his skin, who have been inside him or taken him inside them, none of them have seen this.

None of them have seen Dean afraid, but in complete surrender.

Sam reaches for the iodine, first.

It paints Dean's pale skin a sickly yellow, a line down low on his belly where it's soft, where they'll avoid doing major damage. Dean gasps as the pad slides over his skin, rasps for air like his lungs are locking up.

"Breathe," Sam says, unable, despite Dean's acquiescence, to keep the bite from his tone. It's going to take more than his silent consent to drive away the bitterness that's been eating away at Sam's heart for months, for years. "You'll bleed more if you're tense." Dean should have been his, always, but he didn't see it. He was blind, and Sam suffered until he could take no more.

Dean's breath hitches, evens out as he takes deep, slow breaths. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "So sorry. I didn't know."

Sam nods and reaches for the blade.

The scalpel feels strange in his hand, so small compared to the hunting knives he's used to, but he needs the control it will give. He can't risk going too deep, won't risk damage Dean can't heal. The one thing worse than knowing Dean's been spoiled in every other way but this, would be to lose him because of it.

The sharp edge dimples Dean's skin, but does not cut. Sam inhales, breathes out slow. Dean reaches for him, lays his hand on Sam's arm, and Sam looks up.

"It's okay," Dean whispers, and nods, once. "It's okay."

Sam slides the blade over Dean's skin, and it bites in. Dean hisses through his teeth, and blood wells up as his flesh parts. Just deep enough to go through skin and the thin layer of fat, just long enough that the wound will be tight around him when he's inside.

As he places the scalpel on the tray, Sam's heart starts to beat faster, harder, and his cock starts to stiffen. Dean's teeth are gritted tight, air hissing between them as he breathes, slow and measured. "Good," Sam says, as he skirts the edge of the slowly bleeding wound with one finger. "That's good."

Dean whimpers as Sam parts the flesh, makes it an opening he can slip a finger into. He thinks about how different this could have been, if Dean had been untouched, how he could have been dragging sounds of pleasure from his body instead of pain. Still, Dean's cries are like music as Sam separates fat from muscle, as he watches the shape of his fingers bulge beneath the skin.

Tears leak from the corners of Dean's eyes, slide down his temples and soak into the pillow. His legs twitch and jerk, and his fists clutch at the sheets. When he cries Sam's name, his voice is broken and wrecked, and it's a desperate plea.

The blood makes everything slick, and Sam wipes his hand on the bed as he rises up and covers Dean's body with his own. It's a tight fit when he nudges the head of his cock into the opening he's created, one that's pure and clean and not ruined by all the others that came before.

Dean arches up as Sam pushes in, a strangled, bubbling moan issuing forth from his mouth. His lips are full and pink, flushed with blood, and so inviting, but Sam can't bring himself to kiss him yet.

There's been too many others on those lips, in that mouth.

It's so warm, so tight, inside Dean's body, but Sam's cock is barely half-way in, and skin and muscle is adhered too close for him to go any further so easily. He pushes, feels muscle tearing away, feels the edges of the wound tear to admit his girth, and Dean's eyes fly open and his lips part on a scream as he writhes and thrashes and everything goes slick around Sam's cock as the blood starts to flow.

Only Sam's weight, Sam's hands, hold Dean down, stop him from throwing them both onto the floor. Sam pins Dean's shoulders to the bed, and he thrusts his hips, quick, hard, sinks all the way inside, ripping skin from muscle in one brief moment.

And it's a mercy to do it fast, like tearing off a bandaid. The worst is over, and yet Dean still goes limp, eyes rolling back in his head, limbs going loose and boneless, the harsh scream cutting off abruptly as he passes out from the pain.

His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack and his brow is smooth, and he's so so pretty and perfect. Sam's heart expands with love for his brother, and he knows what they have is twisted and wrong in so many ways, but this surrender, this has to go some way to heal what is so broken between them.

Sam leans down, and he presses his lips to Dean's mouth, and it's sweet, hot, intoxicating to the point of madness. He moans, and he starts to thrust.

The bitterness leaches away, and all that's left is love and lust, for Dean, for the gift he's given Sam, for this untouched part of him, for a piece that no one has ever touched and no one else ever will. Sam knows Dean would never open this way for anyone else in this world or any other.

"Wake up," he whispers, dragging at Dean's lower lip with his teeth. "Dean, wake up." As he moves inside his brother's body, and gets closer to the end, muscles tighten at the base of his spine.

Dean moans and tosses his head. Slowly, every part of him starts to rouse, and Sam can feel it in the way his body tightens, in the way his limbs jerk.

When he opens his eyes, he's already crying out, rough and rasping, a wordless expression of pain. But he doesn't fight, and he doesn't turn away, and when Sam kisses him again, he kisses back, despite the tears on his cheeks and the tight grimace he wears.

It's the perfect surrender. Blood rushes in Sam's ears, and his orgasm crashes down, hard, fast, unstoppable. He groans and jerks as his cock pulses, spilling into the wound he cut into his brother's belly.

Dean shivers beneath him, his eyes going wide and tense, and his face twisting, and then he sobs once, chokes off the rest as his chest contracts.

Sam doesn't want to leave. It's warm and alive inside Dean's body, but he's done enough. Dean's borne enough pain, and now he deserves some relief.

Slowly, Sam pulls out, feels the warm flow of fluid as it follows. He presses a chaste kiss to Dean's lips before he slides away, gives him whispered word's of comfort.

Then he's got to move. He wishes he didn't have to clean out the wound now, it'll hurt Dean more and he'd like to stitch the wound closed with his own semen inside, but the risk of infection is too great.

He allows himself only a moment to watch as blood and come mixes as it oozes from the hole in Dean's body. It's them, Dean and Sam, at the most base level. They're brothers, made of the same stuff, so different and yet nothing is so strong that it can tear them apart.

Sam drops his head, presses his lips to the edge of the wound. "No one else," he murmurs, and licks at their joined fluids.

"Only you," Dean rasps, barely a whisper.

Sam lifts his head. "I'll never have to do this again," he says, knowing it's true.

He shifts, then, and he puts a couple of strong painkillers on Dean's tongue, urges him to wash them down with water. They'll take time to kick in, and Sam spends it cleaning Dean up, wiping blood and come from the skin around the wound, changing out the blood-soaked towels from beneath him.

Dean whimpers and sobs when Sam washes out the wound. His eyes are glassy, but he stays conscious, and when Sam ties off the final stitch, he even offers a weak smile.

"It's over," Sam whispers, sliding up beside Dean on the bed. His hands move over Dean's body, finally able to touch without seeing all the other hands that have come before. "And it's just us, now."

Dean nods, biting his lip, and then he turns his head, seeking a kiss, uncertain, as though he fears being turned away. Sam grants it immediately, and he'll never have reason to push Dean away again. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Dean."

"No," Dean murmurs, and he shuts his eyes, so close to slipping into sleep. "It was my idea."

fin